“Hey Theo,” John said to me. His voice was slow and nasal. It sounded like he was mentally challenged. I knew he was not. I had a couple of classes with him and had been in study groups with him. Whatever was wrong with him physically did not affect him mentally. Because of his appearance, most people treated John like he had leprosy or something. Not me. I knew what it was like to be different than the people around you. I made it a point to be nice to him. John and I weren’t exactly friends, but we were friendly. I figured that those of us who lived on the Island of Misfit Toys had to stick together.
“Hey John.” I glanced down at his shirt. It was identical to mine, grey with a big stylized red A on the front—the colors of Avatar’s costume and the A that he had on his chest. I grinned. “Nice shirt,” I said.
John’s mouth widened into what was supposed to be a smile. It looked more like he was in pain. “Thanks. You too,” he said in his slow, slightly slurred voice. “Shame what happened to him. I still can’t believe it.”
I nodded my head in agreement. “I know, right? The world’s greatest Hero, shot and killed. I never thought the day would come Avatar would be killed, and certainly not killed by a bullet. I always heard he was invulnerable.” Avatar had been murdered a couple of months ago. The world still mourned for him. I had seen more Avatar shirts in the past two months than I had seen before in my whole life. I thought of most of those shirt-wearers as Johnny-come-latelies. I had been a fan of Heroes like Avatar and Amazing Man and of licensed superheroes in general for as long as I could remember. They were everything I was not—beloved, strong, confident, and fearless.
“I met him once,” John said. “He shook my hand. Greatest moment of my life.” He shook his head at the thought, though it looked like more of a muscle spasm than anything else. John shuffled slowly off. He went to stand in front of one of the urinals.
My hands were still hot. I turned on the cold water again and put my hands under the stream. Though running water over my hands had not made the burning feeling go away, it did make me feel a little better.
The bathroom door opened again. Three guys walked in, laughing and talking loudly. I glanced at them. I immediately looked away. I willed myself to be invisible. I wondered if this was how a deer who had spotted three approaching lions felt. Guys like me were the natural prey of the guys who had come in. They were Donovan Byrd, Marcus Leverette, and a guy I only knew as Bubba. They were upperclassmen, star football players, very popular, strong as bulls, and not shy about reminding you of all of the above. They hung out together all the time; you rarely saw one without the other two. They called themselves the Three Horsemen. The Three Jackasses was more like it. I knew better than to say that aloud. I did not have a death wish. If you were a pretty girl, the Three Horsemen tried to sleep with you; if you were an ugly girl they made fun of you; and if you were a guy who was not an athlete like them, they pushed you around. They were bullies. I did not like them. The fact I did not like them did not mean I was dismissive of them. I respected them the way a mouse must respect a snake.
The Three Horsemen ignored me like a king ignores a peasant. They strode past me and the sinks to the urinals behind me. I sighed slightly in relief. Though my hands still hurt, I pulled them out of the water and shut the faucet off. This was no longer a good place to linger. The Three Horsemen might suddenly decide my mere presence somehow offended them. I got the sudden mental image of them pounding me into the floor of the bathroom like I was a nail. I suppressed a shudder at the thought. I hastily pulled out paper towels from the dispenser and started to dry my hands.
From the mirror in front of me, I could see that Marcus and Bubba went to stand in front of two empty urinals. Donovan stood in front of John’s back. Donovan was a tall, good-looking, light-skinned black guy with a shaved head. He was the football team’s star running back. He did not walk so much as he flowed, like a big cat. Bubba and Marcus were defensive linemen. Bubba was white, Marcus was black. Bubba had a head like a doorknob, a brain that was probably the size of a walnut, and a body like a side of beef. Marcus was equally imposing, though his head was more proportionate to the rest of his body than Bubba’s was. They were a bit shorter than Donovan, but much bulkier.
“Move out of the way, gimp,” Donovan said to John. “I gotta take a piss.” There was a fourth empty urinal he could have used, not to mention three empty stalls. Donovan was being an ass again. Big shock.
John looked over his shoulder at Donovan. “I-I-I’m not finished,” he said, stuttering a bit. He was obviously intimidated by Donovan and his friends. I was too. “That one is open,” John said, nodding his head to the available urinal next to him. John was being bolder than I would have been.
“I don’t wanna use that one, retard,” Donovan said. “The one you’re at is my favorite.” He unzipped his pants. “Now move out of the way before I piss all over you.” Bubba and Marcus laughed.
I hated bullies. I myself had been bullied more times than I wanted to remember, so I knew how it felt. And, John was not even able-bodied, making picking on him even more despicable. I wanted to say something. You keep your big mouth shut, my mind said firmly. Who do you think you are, Avatar? The fact you’re wearing a Hero’s tee shirt doesn’t make you one. Mind your own business, pick up your bookbag, and leave.
“Why don’t you leave him alone, Donovan?” my mouth said before my brain could stop it. “Why do you always have to be such an ass?”
My brain and my mouth needed to have a serious talk later about getting on the same page. Assuming there was a later.
As I watched through the mirror, Donovan turned to me. He looked stunned. “What did you just say to me?” he demanded.
I turned to face him. I had already put my big fat foot in my mouth. Might as well try to swallow the whole leg. “I said leave him alone. He’s not bothering you.” I said it more firmly than I felt. Inside, I was quaking. At least I had the good sense to not call Donovan an ass again. What in the world had come over me? Maybe my hands were hot because I had a fever and was delirious.
Donovan strode over to me. He loomed over me like a mountain. He was trying to intimidate me. He was succeeding. “Why don’t you mind your own business?” he said. “Or maybe the retard is your business. Maybe he’s your boyfriend. I see you are wearing the same stupid shirt he is. You two are the retard twins. Is your retard twin also your boyfriend, faggot?”
“No,” I said. Words flashed through my mind. I knew it was stupid to voice them. But, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Just because you walk around with your boyfriends all the time, that doesn’t mean everyone else does. How does your threesome work, anyway? Are you always the bottom, or do you guys alternate? Maybe you draw straws. Does the short straw get the,” I paused, moving my index finger back and forth suggestively, “long straw?” It felt good to talk back to a bully for once.
That good feeling only lasted an instant. Donovan grabbed me by the front of my shirt. With a single arm, he pulled me up, almost off my feet. My tiptoes dangled on the linoleum. Donovan leaned down and put his face right into mine.
“I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re talking to,” he snarled. His breath was hot against my face. “I’m going to punch your loser faggot ass into next month.” His free arm reared back. I pulled at his arm holding me up. It was like trying to uproot a tree. I turned my head away in fear. I was about to get my stupid head knocked off my stupid body. I did not want to watch the blow land. Feeling it land would be bad enough.
Suddenly Bubba and Marcus were standing on either side of me.
“Don’t hit him,” Bubba said, grabbing Donovan’s arm. I could have kissed him. “The coach said the next time you got into a fight, he’d have to bench you. We’ve got some big games coming up. We need you on the field.”
From behind the Three Horsemen, I saw John creeping up. Though I did not know how much help he would be, it was good to see I was not in this pickle alone.
John continued right past
where the Three Horsemen were clustered around me. Moving as quickly as his legs would let him, he opened the door. John fled the bathroom without so much as a backwards glance at me.
Huh. I guess what they said was true—no good deed went unpunished. So much for the idea of all for one and one for all. Maybe that was only true in books.
Nobody other than me seemed to notice John was gone. The Three Horsemen were too focused on me. Lucky me.
“You’re right Bubba,” Donovan said after a long hesitation during which I anxiously visualized my head being knocked off my body like a golf ball driven off a tee. Donovan lowered his clenched fist reluctantly. He still held me up by my shirt. “I’m not going to risk getting benched over this loser. Can’t let him get away with talking to me like that, though. Tell you what, faggot,” he said to me, “since you’re so concerned about where I pee at, how about I pee on you?”
“No thanks. I’ve been peed on twice today already. I’ve had my fill.” I was trying to joke my way out of this. No one laughed.
“Hold him down,” Donovan said to Bubba and Marcus.
Oh my God, he was serious! I started to kick and struggle. It was already too late. Bubba had me by my legs; Marcus had me by my arms. Donovan let go of my shirt. Grinning like kids on Christmas Day, Bubba and Marcus separated until I stretched out lengthwise between the two of them.
Looking up at the tiled bathroom ceiling, I twisted and bucked, trying to free myself. If the viselike grips of the two loosened even slightly, it was not enough to notice. They put me down on the cold floor. Already much taller than I, Donovan now stood over me like a giant. I continued to struggle, succeeding only in banging the back of my head against the hard floor. I saw stars.
“Get me go!” I shouted.
Donovan reached into the fly of his pants. “As soon as my bladder is empty, we’ll let you go,” he said. He laughed a short sadistic bark that made me want to punch his lights out. He aimed. A stream of wetness hit my face. I turned my face away from it.
“Let me go, let me go, let me go!” I screamed over and over. I tasted urine in my mouth. Some of it got into my eyes. I tried to blink it away. I snorted as some of the urine went up my nose. I bucked violently, still trying to free myself. Marcus and Bubba held me down as easily as holding down a child. I felt a combination of anger, impotence, and humiliation. Especially humiliation. I started to cry tears of frustration. Crying made me feel even worse about myself. I was nothing but a big baby who could not even defend himself. And, like a wet baby, I stank of urine. What if Mom was looking down at me and saw me like this? I was filled with shame at the thought.
The sounds of the Three Horsemen’s laughter and the splashing of liquid against my face and neck filled my ears. I bucked even harder in Bubba’s and Marcus’ grasp. My heart pounded, harder and harder, until it seemed it would explode right out of my chest. My hands now felt even hotter than before, as if they had been thrust into the hot coals of a fireplace.
I had the sudden mental image of being strong enough to pull Bubba and Marcus off of me and flinging them against the wall. Donovan I would shove backwards into the stall behind us, stuffing him into the toilet. I saw it clearly in my mind’s eye like I was looking at a vivid photograph.
“GET OFF OF ME!” I shouted yet again. The words felt like they came from the depths of my soul. The burning sensation of my hands, already intense, moved up to a whole new level of pain, as if they had been left in the hot coals long enough to catch fire themselves.
Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Both Bubba’s and Marcus’ hands were pulled off of me. They both launched into the air, as if they had been picked up by an invisible giant and thrown. They cried out in surprise and confusion. They sailed through the air. They slammed into opposite walls of the bathroom with a loud crash. Bubba bounced off the wall a bit, landing face-first on the tile floor. The tile cracked where Bubba’s face slammed into it. He did not move. As for Marcus, he slid like a wet towel down the wall he had been thrown into. He slid until he landed hard on his butt, with his legs splayed out in front of him. His head lolled a little from side to side.
Donovan was not immune from whatever was happening. He flew back into the partially closed door of the stall behind him like he was a cannonball shot out of a cannon. The stall door flew all the way open, crashing into the stall wall. The crash sounded like a shotgun blast. Donovan landed butt-first in the open toilet. He went down deep into the bowl, like a dunked basketball. His legs dangled from the toilet, with his feet barely touching the floor.
There was dead silence for a moment, as if the entire world was stunned by what had just happened. The silence was then broken by the sound of the automatic toilet flushing. Water sprayed up, hitting Donovan in the face.
I might have laughed at the sudden turnabout had I not been so astonished.
I sat up. I turned my head repeatedly from side to side like a crazy person, frantically looking to see who had done whatever had just happened. I saw no one. Other than the groans of Marcus and Donovan, I heard no one. The Three Horsemen and I were still alone in the bathroom.
I lifted my hands up. They still felt like they were on fire. They also looked different than they normally did. As I looked at them, twisting them from side to side, waves of energy radiated from them, like waves of heat coming off a hot highway. I tore my eyes off of them and looked down at my wet Avatar tee shirt.
I could scarcely believe it, though it was as obvious as the big A that was on my chest and the stench of urine that filled my nostrils.
I had superpowers. Like Avatar, I was a Metahuman.
Holy crap!
CAPED
EXCERPT FROM SUPERHERO DETECTIVE FOR HIRE
Late one afternoon about a week and a half after David Hoff was killed, I returned to my office building after standing up for truth, justice, and the American way. Actually, that’s not true. Upholding truth, justice, and the American way was above my pay grade. I let world-renowned Heroes like the Sentinels and the other Heroes who flew around in tights worry about such things. My daily concerns were a lot more prosaic: doing the things my clients hired me to do. If truth and justice were a side effect of that, so much the better. What were truth and justice anyway? I might not recognize them if I tripped over them. I was a Hero, not a philosopher.
Unfortunately, as far as my client Eileen Rothbury was concerned, I was doing a pretty lousy job so far of doing what she was paying me to do. I still had no idea of who killed George Chase. By that point I had spoken to a slew of the women George had slept with and blackmailed. I had not even gotten to all of them yet. George had been quite prolific in his bedmates, and there were still women I needed to interview. I had also interviewed some of their husbands and the people who could attest to their alibis. The ones who had alibis, that is. I had also spoken to some of my contacts in the underworld to see if they knew anything about George’s death. I had consulted with the police. I had a bunch of facts and leads and things to follow up on. It was times like this I wished I had a staff to help me. Or, at least a young male sidekick who wore tights, exclaimed “Holy Toledo Truman!” periodically, and with whom I could have homoerotic tension.
I knew a lot, but not the thing I was most concerned about: Who had shot George Chase? I had so many details and facts from so many different people I felt like I was drowning in them. The more I learned, the less I knew. But, that was how it was in an investigation. You gathered information and facts and eventually, patterns began to emerge, and what you were looking for fitfully revealed itself. I hoped for my sake this would happen in George’s case before I was old and grey.
The frustration I was feeling almost made me put my key into my office door without consciously registering what my powers were telling me. But, before I slipped the key into the lock, I became aware of what my powers were saying: someone was in my office. No, not just a someone. Two someones.
The hand my key was in froze. I concentrated and confirmed it—there was th
e unmistakable water signature of two people in my office. Based on the amount of water, it was two men. One of them was on the far side of my office across from the door. The other was on the left, unhinged side of the door, leaning against the wall.
I had locked the office door as usual when I had left hours before. Without moving, I examined the door and lock. Everything looked normal. I was tempted to try the door to see if it was still locked, but I did not want to alert the men to my presence if they did not already know I was on the other side of the door.
Maybe the men were door-to-door salesmen of burglar alarms who had entered my locked office to demonstrate how easy it was to defeat a lock. Maybe they were especially pushy religious missionaries who knew how to pick locks. Maybe they were cops waiting to give me a Crimebuster of the Year award. Maybe the men were friends of mine who were surprising me for my birthday. But, my birthday was months away, and I did not have any friends stupid enough to break into my office to surprise me. Lurking in my office for the purpose of surprising me was a good way to get shot by me.
It seemed more likely the men were in my office awaiting my return with the intent to cause me harm. The fact anyone would bear me ill will showed exceedingly poor taste. Unfortunately, a lot of people had poor taste.
Or, maybe I was being paranoid. But, as I have said before, even paranoids had enemies.
Information was power. I needed to know who the men were in my office so I could act accordingly. I turned away from my door and walked back down the hallway to the flight of stairs. I went down to the ground floor and out of the front of my building. I stopped at my car and grabbed a small pair of binoculars I kept in the glove compartment. I also kept a spare gun in there, but I already had one holstered under my shoulder concealed by my jacket.
Sorceress Super Hero Page 26