by Jack Bristol
When Mrs Margarita comes, it's with a cake-shaped olive branch.
"That better be for me," I say.
"No, I love to walk around with cake. I am trying to cultivate diabetes." Her sarcasm falls away. "I could not do it, Hunter. I could not go down there and say terrible things about you. I am so sorry I turned against you."
"Don't worry about it. You weren't exactly steering your own wheel."
She doesn't look convinced. "I am too old for such stupidity."
"Not gonna argue with that."
"Shut up and cut the cake."
Cake and Mrs Margarita. Good times.
"You better get put on the costume," she says, when I stick the knife in the cake. "There is a girl …"
Thirty-Seven
There is a girl. A sexy little thing on her way home from her friend's place. See that guy she's flipping off, the one who's rolling through the STOP sign? He's about to stop and stab some manners into her.
Not if I can help it.
And I can help it.
My first rescue in days. Feels good, man. Feels good. I'm going this one alone until Sidekick is all suited up.
"Hey, asshole," I shout.
KAPOW! Straight into his chin. Guy goes flying, lands on the hood of his shitheadmobile. He rolls off, but I'm there with my BIFF and my BAM.
My uppercase sound effects are BACK.
I tie up the trash, throw him in the trunk, call the cops.
Now it's just me and this adorable brunette.
"My hero," she says, trailing a finger down my chest.
Yeah, I'm her hero—her Super Fucking Hero.
At least for the next few minutes.
* * *
My cock's a happy guy. The girl drained him and his two buddies, first with her mouth, then with her sweet, tight pussy. Been a busy few days. I'm almost too tired to fly, but I do a victory lap around the city, and do my best Tinker Bell landing on my balcony.
Someone's inside. I know it the moment I land.
Mostly because I can see his outline sitting on the couch, eating a wedge of cake—my cake—in the gloom.
Inevitability sucks.
"Hey, Dad …”
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About the Author
Jack Bristol is not a superhero, but he’s been trying to be since his five-year-old self jumped off the roof with a sheet tied around his neck.
Thanks to that ultimately traumatic experience, the only thing he’s fit for now is writing. This is the end result.
Got something to say? Contact Jack at:
@TheJackBristol
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