by Jack Bristol
"Oh, one last thing," Jerry asks on the way out. "What do you do for a living?"
See that smile? That teeny tiny smile? Another guy might mistake it for sweetness and light, but I've seen one like it before, on far a more angelic face. One that's gonna age better.
Professor Amy Hart's face, in case you were wondering. But you're pretty smart, aren't you? You probably already know where this is going. No spoilers—I want to be surprised.
Anyway, I'm not saying Olivia Hamilton is a supervillain, but not everything that's evil or crazy in this world is licensed. Plain old garden-variety evil, though? It's sprinkled all over the place. Not all villains are super. And some people—like Olivia here—aren't even evil. They're just nuts. I know a manipulative, crazy bitch when I see one—most of the time.
"E-commerce."
"What do you sell?"
"Dreams. I'm a life coach," she says, hoisting the sheet up around her neck. "I teach women how to depend on themselves and no one else."
"Sounds lonely."
"All we've got in this world is ourselves."
"Like I said, it sounds lonely."
* * *
Hear that?
It's my inbox. Not my Super Fucking Hero email address. Which is not superfuckinghero at gmail dot com. Some asshole already took that one. Probably the last guy to wear the suit.
Wait, I'm the last guy.
I meant the second-to-last guy.
Anyway, the email. Anonymous sender. Wanna read it? Here goes:
A giant birdie told me you're no longer in the superhero business. If it's true, then it's too bad.
Wanna read my reply?
Of course you do.
Who is this?
Okay, I'm gonna tell you who I think it is. Amy Hart. Super Fucking Villain. Probably wants to confirm the rumor so she can switch targets to the next guy who gets my suit, my name, my cape.
My girls.
I swear to God, my cock just sighed. No, it didn't sound like a queef—Jesus.
No reply. I'm still waiting on one when Reed buzzes up again. Jerry's back.
"What are you doing sitting the dark, man?"
"You do know it's nighttime—right?"
My old buddy drops into one of the wingback chairs my mother loved. "Did you catch all that?"
"Yeah, I caught it."
"What did you make of it?"
Laptop aside. Feet on table. Feels weird not having Mrs Margarita glaring at me for putting my feet on my own coffee table.
"The attack she described?"
"What about it?"
"Exact same scenario from when I rescued her ass the other day. So either she's the world's biggest dumbass, or a lying, masochistic nutpie."
"Lying. But why?"
"I don't know," I say. "But you're gonna find out."
"Me?"
I flash my teeth at him. "You're a cop. I'm just a furniture delivery guy."
Twenty-Seven
Me and Ethan, we're on the road. Just us guys, driving around in this badass delivery truck.
"Get any last night?"
"Nope," I say.
"Me either."
"Folks get back together yet?"
"Naw."
"Who's cooking?"
"Arby's. They used to be better."
"Everything used to be better, man." Including me.
Catch all that? That's one of the riveting adventures of Hunter Forrester, furniture delivery guy. Tune in tomorrow for same shit, different day.
* * *
You're probably wondering what happened to my wannabe sidekick. Relax, he's hanging in the lobby with Reed when I knock off.
Time to deliver the bad news.
"Hunter, brah. S'up?"
We slap hands. "Not much. S'up with you?"
"Nada."
Turn my attention on Reed. "Is Detective Kern upstairs?"
"The detective left this morning and has yet to return."
"Thanks, Reed." We're on our way to the elevator when something hits me. A thought, not a physical thing. "Reed, have you seen Mrs Margarita today?"
Gets an expression on his face like he's about to deliver a death toll. That white-blue toothed clown on the news could learn a thing or two from my doorman.
There's a clenched fist in my gut. Must be how it feels to be a pregnant cow with a veterinarian poking around in there.
Then Reed says, "She went shopping today. When she came home, she was wearing a red dress."
"A red dress?"
"With matching shoes."
Hello, boggled mind. If there's one thing old Greek widows don't do it's wear red. It's like the Indian sati, but they toss the widow's wardrobe in a vat of black dye, instead of throwing the widow herself on top of a bonfire. At least that's how Mrs Margarita described it.
Reed's not done with me yet. "There is something very wrong in this city, Mr Forrester. It's a super big problem."
Either that was a reference to my former superhero status, or my doorman has a thing for Super Why.
What? Adults can watch kids' shows, too.
"I know, Reed. Good thing we've got Jerry Kern out there, fighting the good fight."
His face—not including the mouth part—is saying that's not what he meant and we both know it.
Ten seconds later: Whoosh!
That's the elevator. It's speedy, which is good.
"What's going on?" Mario asks.
"Bad news. You can't be my sidekick—not now, not ever. The good news is that I don't need a sidekick anymore. As of last night, I'm no longer Super Fucking Hero."
He rubs that bald head of his any harder it's gonna shine. "Shiiiiit."
"I hear you, man. Shit."
"So what now?"
"Nothing, my friend. If you know any other superheroes, you're welcome to see if they need a sidekick. But unless you're petitioning the top dogs, there's no way the SuperCouncil will approve it."
"Gotta say it. Don't like this SuperCouncil. I know they're your peeps and all, but their rules blow."
I laugh because I know that feeling. The elevator cuts me off with its shrill ding.
"They're not my peeps. Not anymore."
* * *
Check out the apron. Gift from Mrs Margarita a few Christmases ago. It reads: I wish I was Greek.
Funny woman.
Did I mention I miss her?
Sorry. Don't want to get all emo on you. But I can't complain about it to Mario. Don't want him thinking I'm a sissy.
Okay, so on the menu tonight it's pizza. And beer. Lots of beer.
But first, pizza. Made it myself.
"Holy shit," Mario is saying. "Nobody ever made me pizza before, except Domino's."
Half an hour later, the guy is a believer.
Half an hour after that, we're still knocking back brewskis. For the record, I never say that last word out loud. Don't want anyone thinking I'm a dinosaur from the 80s. Huntersaurus Rex. Good looking animal. Previously considered dangerous, but evolution rendered him extinct. In reality, I was still pissing my pants in the 80s. But in the early 90s, Pauly Shaw was my favorite actor, long before I was old enough to realize he wasn't funny.
We're watching the news with the sound off. Don't need it on to know shit's going down out in the city streets.
"It's bad, man. Bad."
I know. I know. On the TV it's a constant parade of fresh attacks. Not good guys going bad. More like Bad Guys Gone Wild. Police are doing what they can, but they're stretched thinner than the skin on Kim Jong Un's chubby ass—and that is one thin-skinned mofo. No curfew, but they're strongly suggesting girls and women stay home until they've contained the problem.
Which is like saying, BRB. Gotta go box up the Pacific Ocean. Because right now there's a couple of Marvin's girls on the TV, shaking their fingers at the reporter, talking about how they Ain't gonna let no men tell them what they can and can't do.
Mario shakes his head. "You gotta do something, man."
"No c
an do. They took the suit, the superpowers, and the name."
"So? Maybe you were wearing the Super Fucking Hero suit, but underneath you were still Hunter Forrester, you know what I'm saying?"
My forehead crumples up like toilet paper—if you're the scrunching kind. And no I can't see my face to describe it, but I can feel the puckering. "Not really."
"I'm saying you should get out there—we should get out there—start putting the hurt on the bad guys."
"Go vigilante?"
"Yeah."
"Without superpowers?"
"Yeah."
"You ever punch a guy?"
"Lots of times. We used to beat the shit out of each other for fun in my 'hood."
"Hurts, doesn't it?"
"Fuck yeah, it hurts."
"When I was Super Fucking Hero it didn't hurt."
I click the TV off. The news is a serious downer, and right now I feel like one impotent fuck.
"Pussy," Mario mutters.
Great, he's playing the pussy card, challenging my manhood. My manhood's fine. I'm comfortable with my newer, lesser self.
"All right. Let's go. You want to fight crime, let's do it."
"Where we going, boss?"
I show him all my teeth, but he can't see them because it's dark in here and—fuck—I really need to turn on a light. "Out to kick some bad-guy ass."
Twenty-Eight
Ding!
That's the elevator opening on the bottom floor. Can't fly, so we've got to do this old school: on foot.
Reed, the perennial doorman, wishes us a good night. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
I hope he's not a vegan, because after this I'm gonna need a burger.
Out on these mean and perpetually wet streets—
Kidding. This is a book, not a movie. Here our streets are dry unless there's a good reason for them to be wet.
—light and dark are battling for dominance. It's nighttime, yeah, but we've got streetlights. Suck it, nature.
On the way down, we debated the starting point of Operation Flying Blind, and decided we'd start with the clubs downtown, mostly those that advertise Ladies Night. A hefty percentage of my previous rescues took place near clubs. Scantily clad girls. Guys with testosterone dialed up to eleven. Splash enough liquor on them and most of those guys are gonna be cool. But that one douche bag?
He's the one we're looking for.
Normally I'd take the high ground, perch on top of a building and swoop down at the first sign of trouble. Do that tonight and I'm gonna wind up as a Hunter-shaped stain on the sidewalk. Which is why we're standing in the shadows at the mouth of an alleyway near the nearest clump of clubs. Reeks of piss and an overflowing dumpster, and that's without my super sniffer.
Not even that late and already the clubs are packed. Wouldn't know there was a city-wide violence problem. Gaggles of girls teeter into the club of their choice. A lot of them are hot, yeah, but I'm not window shopping. Without superpowers as backup, I've got to …
Man, those legs on that brunette! I want to throw them over my shoulders and—
Where was I?
Oh yeah. To quote the LOLcats: Focus—I haz it.
Incoming email on my phone. A reply to my reply to my anonymous message from last night.
I'm your huckleberry.
Super Fucking Villain, for sure. I pelted her with a couple of Young Guns 2 and Tombstone quotes last time.
What do you want?
That's my reply to her reply to my—you know.
"Check it out," I say, nodding to a girl walking in our direction.
Thought I wasn't paying attention, didn't you? Wrong. I've had my eyes on the girl since she stormed out of the club, string bean dogging her heels. She's the generic kind of pretty that boys go crazy for in high school. The kind of pretty that wins sashes in small towns. Too bad she's covering it all up with an inch of Kim Kardashian-grade spackle.
For the record, I'm pro make-up if it makes girls happy. But the Kardashian look isn't making anyone happy—not even the Kardashians.
And that's way more column space than I ever wanted to devote to pointless air-suckers.
Oh God, what if I've caught Shelly cooties from Jerry?
Anyway. The girl and the tapeworm. He's begging her to stop, but she's not stopping.
"Not interested," she flings over her shoulder.
"Sure seemed like you were interested back there."
"It was a dance. One dance."
"You were dry humping me."
"Dancing," she says. "Now take a hint and fuck off."
Wait for it …
"You know why bitches like you get raped? Because you deserve it. Fucking cock tease." That skinny arm snaps out, his hand clamps around her neck, jerking her backwards.
"Now," I say. Me and my sidekick (take that, SuperCouncil) catapult out of the alley.
biff
pow
oof
snap
That last one was the guy's pinkie. I had to bend it backwards to win—can you believe that shit? And the sound effects?
All lower case.
This time last week, I was a guy who used to fight in all caps.
We're doubled over, panting, while the tapeworm writhes on the ground. This is the part where the girl should be thrilled her safety has been secured.
But is she?
It won't come as any surprise to you that she opens her mouth and starts to scream.
Time to fly—uh, run.
Twenty-Nine
"Hey, Hunt, where are you?"
My mother is dead, my father is nuts, but now I've got Jerry to play Mister Mom. He's on the other end of the line.
"I'm in my room doing my homework."
"Ha-ha. Don't suppose you were anywhere near downtown thirty minutes ago?"
"Who me? Nope. Why?"
"Some guy got jumped by a couple of clowns. The girl he was with said they leaped out of an alley and attacked him."
"Huh."
"And one of those guys just happened to look like you."
"Huh."
"Last thing I need right now is a vigilante. Your heart's in the right place, Hunt, but leave this to us."
"Doesn't seem like the police are too effective."
Harsh, Hunt. Harsh. An asshole thing to say, even if it's true. But Jerry takes it like man. I'd forgotten what a good guy he is.
Makes me miss our friendship.
"I know, I know. You've been picking up our slack for a long time. We've gotten lazy. So what's happening now, it's growing pains. But we'll get there. Just …" He trails off. "This is the B plan, but we've got to make it work. Stay home. Don't make it harder for us to separate the good guys from the bad."
* * *
Short conversation. Intense, though.
He's got a point.
So back I go, invisible tail tucked between my legs. Reed opens his mouth. No—don't want to hear it. He means well, but …
"Not now, Reed. It's been than kind of night."
The doorman nods. "Sleep on it, Mr Forrester."
So I do that.
Thirty
Things always look better in the morning.
Except this morning. Lucky fuckin' me.
When I get up, a mob is howling for my blood. Not in my apartment, but on the television. Jerry and Mario are sitting on the couch, watching what looks like half the city's women and girls clogging the street outside the precinct house. They've got signs. Big signs.
Ugh, these are bad. Let me read some of them to you. Share the love.
I Piss on Super Fucking Hero! (Golden showers. Kinky.)
We Hate You, Super Fucking Hero!
Super Fucking Hero Sucks Balls! (Not even once, lady.)
Where is Our Superhero?
Give Him Back, NSA! (The tinfoil hat contingent.)
I'm editing as I go, because Holy Shitty Grammar!
"They like me. They really like me," I say, floating up de river Nile. Then I snatch up
my phone. Go back to bed. Pull the fluffy bogeyman shield over my head. Check messages.
New email from Anonymous.
Waaaaait a minute.
Back into the living room. "Gimme that." I snatch the remote out of Jerry's hand, hit rewind. Pause.
"There."
"What?" my two amigos ask.
"Starfish."
"Where?"
Finger jabbing the screen: "Everywhere. Starfish pins on every woman and girl's top."
"What's it mean?" Mario asks, glancing from me to Jerry, like we've got all the answers.
"It means," I tell him, "we don't have lots of problems, we have one."
"That's good—right?"
"Not good. It probably means we've got a new supervillain in town."
"And no superhero," Jerry finishes.
I flick on my phone, check that message. Good thing, because it's a doozy.
The bar. Pronto.
Curiouser and curiouser.
"And no Super Fucking Hero," I murmur.
Thirty-One
Good news: the band learned a new song.
Bad news: It's A Horse with No Name.
You don't know what pain is until you've heard this band grinding out every excruciating, dull note.
"New song on the playlist?"
Ted blinks at me. For a moment I think the guy doesn't recognize me, until he says, "Bad business out there, Forrester."
"Bad business," I agree. "I'm meeting someone. They here?"
"Bathroom. The one with the skirt."
Got to be Professor Hart, that wretched, gorgeous bitch.
And sure enough, it is. When I barge into the little girls' room she's standing there in full Super Fucking Villain regalia. Red suit, red boots, red cape, and a big black F painted over her tits. My cock stands up; he wants to shake hands, preferably with her mouth.
Shit. Now that I'm flying—so to speak—without the superhero immunity to her, uh, charms, it's probable that I'm vulnerable to whatever supervillain pheromones she douses her victims in. Eau de Evil Cunt.
"Relax, Hunter. I'm not going to bite—unless you beg."