The blotches on Mr. Barton’s face got redder. He stood up and pointed at the front door.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” he ordered.
The devil in me wanted to say “Make me.” Mr. Barton was a big, strong-looking guy. But, if I was right about him having played high school football, that had been years ago. I was no nerdy high school student who was intimidated by a jock. Mr. Barton’s size had fooled him over the years into believing he was a tough guy. Maybe he was in some circles. I, on the other hand, was a licensed superhero and a former mixed martial arts fighter. I was a professional tough guy in every circle imaginable. If Mr. Barton tried to physically throw me out, he was in for a nasty shock.
But, I was a guest in his home. I believed in the adage that a man’s home was his castle. Plus, as much as I disliked Mr. Barton, I was unwilling to embarrass him in front of his wife by manhandling him. Embarrassing a guy in front of his wife was about the worst thing you could do to a man.
So, I stood and took the high road.
“I’m very glad to have met you Mrs. Barton,” I said to her. “I hope you find your daughter.”
I got my jacket from the back of the chair I had been sitting in, turned, and walked toward the front door. I put my jacket on. Once I reached the door, I considered turning to stick my tongue out at Mr. Barton. I realized in the nick of time that would be beneath my superheroic dignity. Plus, Mr. Barton might have thought I was making an offer of fellatio, confirming his conviction that Metahumans were filthy degenerates. I did not want to add any fuel to the fire of his bigotry.
So instead I simply opened the front door, and walked out. I did not exactly slam the door behind me, but I did close it firmly.
That would show him.
The second book in the Superhero Detective Series about Truman Lord can be found here:
THE MISSING EXPLODING GIRL
Turn the page for an excerpt from Caped, Book One of the Omega Superhero Series.
EXCERPT FROM CAPED
I never wanted to be a superhero. I admired them, sure. I followed their adventures, absolutely. But be one? No thanks. Superheroes got punched, tortured, shot at, cut up, plotted against, and had buildings and other insanely heavy things dropped on them. And that was if you were lucky. If you were unlucky, you were killed like Avatar was. If it could happen to Avatar, the world’s greatest and most powerful Metahuman and licensed Hero, it could happen to anyone. I had no interest in being one of those anyones. If it was up to me, I would have stayed a nobody and a no one. Being a nobody was no fun and God knew it would not get you laid, but at least it gave you the chance to die at home in bed instead of at the hands of some bloodthirsty supervillain. Being a licensed Hero was super dangerous, not to mention super scary. Uh, no pun intended, I guess.
So no, I never wanted to be a superhero. But, like Dad always said, you had to play the cards you were dealt. I found out what kind of cards fate had in store for me the day I got into a fight in the men’s bathroom at my college.
If I had known about all the crazy and deadly stuff that encounter would lead to, I never would have gone to the bathroom that day. I would have just held it. Or, peed my pants. Gross and unsanitary, maybe. Safer though.
***
I washed my hands after using the urinal. I was in the bathroom of the Student Activities Center at my school, the University of South Carolina at Aiken. My hands still were hot, as if they were being held too close to a fire. I held them under the faucet’s stream of cold water for a while. The water felt great, but did not solve the problem. My hands still felt hot.
I was starting to get worried. Maybe I needed to go to the doctor, or at least to USCA’s health clinic. Though I had been inside of air-conditioned classrooms most of today, I had spent a lot of time earlier this week working outside on my dad’s farm. Maybe what I was experiencing was heat stroke. It was very hot outside. It was August in South Carolina, after all. It was supposed to be hot out. I had never heard of heat stroke affecting just one part of your body, though. Nor had I ever heard of it setting in long after someone had gotten out of the heat.
My hands had felt weird the past several days. The feeling had started as a tingle, as if my hands had fallen asleep and circulation was being restored to them. A couple of days later the tingling had become pins and needles. The pins and needles had then transformed into a dull ache, like the ache of underused muscles that had been worked out hard at the gym. Now my hands were hot, like they were in an oven set on low. They were not in pain, but if whatever was going on with them got worse, I could see them getting painful. They had been distracting me in class all day, like an annoying itch you could not quite reach to scratch.
I pulled my hands from under the stream of cold water. I examined them carefully. Other than them being wet, they looked perfectly normal, like they always did. I held them up to my cheeks, like I was checking for a fever. They did not feel hot against my cheeks. Maybe the heat was entirely in my head. Maybe what I needed was a shrink, not a doctor. I grimacing in distaste at the idea of going to a shrink again. I had been to one when my mother had died from brain cancer five years ago. My school counselor had recommended to Dad that I go, so go I did despite the fact I didn’t want to. Even at the age of twelve, going to that shrink to talk about my feelings had seemed like a huge waste of time. My mother was dead, and no amount of talking was going to change that fact. When that knuckleheaded shrink had suggested I was secretly glad Mom was dead because I was tired of dealing with her lingering illness, I had gotten up and taken a swing at that know-nothing dummy. Dad had been mad at me until I had told him what the shrink had suggested. Dad never made me go back. I had thought at the time he kind of wanted to take a swing at the shrink too.
I grimaced yet again when I looked up to see myself in the mirror. I did not think I was ugly, so that was not the reason for the grimace. Brown hair, brown eyes, average height, average-looking face. If you did a Google search for “average white guy,” I would not be the top result—I was too much of a nobody to turn up in an Internet search—but I felt like the poster boy for “nothing special.” I had grimaced at myself because I was struck again by how skinny I was. Though it seemed like my stomach was a bottomless pit, I never could gain weight. Whenever I said that to a girl, she always said she wished she was like me. Not being able to put on weight might be awesome if you were a girl, but it sucked when you were a seventeen-year-old college freshman who was trying to attract girls. Girls went for big dudes who were athletic, dressed well, drove nice cars, and were into sports, not a skinny farmer’s son who read all the time, wore clothes from Walmart, drove a hand-me-down powder blue Chevy Cavalier the inside of which leaked like a colander when it rained hard, and who knew more about actual falcons than he did about the Atlanta Falcons. It was probably why I was a virgin. I desperately did not want to be. I had never heard of someone dying from lack of sex, but it often felt like I would be the first to pull it off. What a way to make it into the history books. If my name were Mary instead of Theodore Conley, at least then I could put “The Virgin Mary” on my tombstone. On second thought, I would be a boy named Mary. I doubted that would help my virginity problem.
My hot hands forgotten for the moment, I rolled up the right sleeve of my Avatar tee shirt a bit and flexed. My bicep barely moved. Ugh. I really needed to go to the gym more. The problem was, every time I went, I felt like a weak baby in comparison to the meatheads who seemed to live there. It was demoralizing. I was only seventeen, though. I prayed I was not finished growing yet. Thanks to my bookworm tendencies, I had graduated high school early and was a year or two younger than most of my classmates here at USCA. I had always been scrawny compared to other guys my age, and being around older guys here at college made the size difference worse. Maybe I would have another growth spurt and catch up to my larger classmates. And, maybe pigs would sprout wings and start calling themselves pigeons. I was not optimistic about either prospect occurring.
T
he bathroom door swung open. Startled, I jumped a little. I pretended like I was scratching my arm instead of feeling myself up. Too many of my fellow students thought I was a weirdo as it was.
John Shockey slowly entered. His left foot dragged a little on the floor as he came in. He was blonde, and shorter than I with a slightly hunched back and severely bowed legs. His right hand was twisted around at a weird angle, and the fingers on that hand pointed out in several different directions. He had a big overbite, so much so his mouth was never completely closed. His upper front teeth, yellow and angled like collapsing tombstones, were exposed a little. He always looked like he was grimacing, even when he was not.
“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 John. “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?” Donovan 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 u
p. 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.
Superhero Detective Series (Book 1): Superhero Detective For Hire Page 17