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The Lavender Menace

Page 3

by Tom Cardamone


  The Web

  Steven Bereznai

  Steven Bereznai is the author of the gay teen super hero book Queeroes, the gay dating bible Gay and Single… Forever? 10 Things Every Gay Guy Looking for Love (and Not Finding It) Needs to Know, and the children’s picture book The Adventures of Philippe. He can be reached online at stevenbereznai.com.

  Daytripper stood outside the mesh fence, trying to grapple his fear. Daytripper was not the name on the young man’s birth certificate, but he insisted it was his real name. His curly reddish-blond hair was clipped short, ready for action. White sporty sunglasses hid his blue eyes, pale as pastel. He wore a white shirt, but barely. It was cut off at the sleeves, exposing his impressive delts and arms. A deep V exposed the cleft of his chest, and he’d snipped off the shirt’s midriff, revealing his washboard abs coiling in and out with every breath, and leaving his nipples poking out every time he moved.

  A bright orange sunburst was stitched onto what was left of the fabric. It was his crest—also not his by birth. The symbol was as made up as his name, but he would earn both, no matter what it took. Orange racing stripes descended on either side of his white shorts, wrapping around his firm bubble butt. The fabric stretched tight around his impressive thighs. Tear drop calves descended into a pair of sneakers as sleek as his hairless skin, each with a tangerine Puma crouching at the outer toe.

  Daytripper had grown up with the burden of banality. He was Richard to Mom, Dick to Dad. As the pawn in their bitter marriage and corrosive divorce, he had failed to live up to both the short and long version of his name. Even now, standing alone on the precipice of changing his life forever, he could feel them trying to pull him apart in an endless tug of war.

  “I have a new home now,” he whispered to himself, trying to distance himself from the sound of his father’s belches and farts, the stink of his wife beater shirts, and his mom’s shrill voice, burnt Thanksgiving dinners, and the continual clatter of ice in her martini shaker. Daytripper exhaled slowly, trying to detach from the memories that were seeped into every fiber of his muscular form, no matter how far he might trip to. No matter what his parents called him, he was neither a Richard, nor a Dick.

  “Not a boy,” he murmured, “Not yet a man.”

  Like the infamous chanteuse whose words he’d taken for his own, he’d rise like a phoenix, downing a double shot of fierceness, with a chaser of can’t touch this. Daytripper may have been a baby the year that iconic song hit the charts, but he knew a motto when he heard one.

  He stared at the polished sign attached to the fence one last time, and then at a piece of paper just below it.

  “All right Daytripper,” he said to himself, “Let’s do this thing.”

  A flare of swirling orange light and he was gone. The fence remained, and the sign, which read, “Academy of Super Heroic Excellence.” On the piece of paper were the words, “Tryouts begin at 8:00am in the Arena. No latecomers admitted.”

  Five hours later there was a flare of swirling orange light in a little visited storage room off the Arena of the Academy of Super Heroic Excellence. The room was cluttered with an array of training equipment. A broken swivel machine was shoved into a corner, it’s once flailing tentacles hung limply, covered in patched padding that was frayed and in need of stuffing to keep from killing newbie speedsters and flyers as they practiced whizzing around it. Damsels and dudes in distress mannequins were lined up along the wall, as if for a firing squad. Many of their faces were melted beneath singed wigs, arms ripped off, torsos slashed by claws. At their feet lazed old issues of Superhero Weeklyin, bundled and ready for recycling.

  The orange light died down, and in its wake stood Daytripper—barely. He swayed on his feet, and flopped onto a wrestling mat. His panting echoed off the warehouse ceiling.

  He’d survived tryouts, but barely.

  His clothes, what was left of them, were torn and shredded, practically falling off his muscular frame. He was drenched in sweat, covered in scratches and bruises, and streaked with dried blood, some of it his own.

  Curling into a ball, he held his stomach. Now that he was alone, it was Okay to puke. That’s why he’d teleported into the storage area, safe from prying eyes. He was not going to be known as Vomit Guy. Of course the telepaths might rat him out, but they were probably so frazzled by their own tryouts they wouldn’t even notice he was gone. He doubted they had enough psychic energy to pinpoint what was left of their own egos. He took several more ragged breaths. His lungs burned, but the nausea eased off, if only a bit.

  “Come on Daytripper,” he said to himself, forcing himself to his shaking feet, “You can do this.”

  Leaning on his knees, he reached within, pulling forth his power as he prepared to teleport back into the Arena. Time to see if he’d made the cut, and if this grueling day had been worth it. His signature orange swirl of light started up, heralding both his departures and his arrivals, when someone called to him from above.

  “Going so soon, handsome?”

  The swirl of light disappeared and Daytripper stayed put. He peered up into the cavernous darkness of the warehouse space. Silent as creeping death, a figure dropped from seemingly nowhere to land with an acrobat’s grace.

  “Hey blondie,” he said, pulling out a glowing green sphere from inside his leather vest. He let it go, and the glowing ball bobbed in the air like a tied off balloon.

  “Snagged it after my duel with Firefly. Man is she a bitch,” the stranger explained.

  Daytripper recognized him now.

  “Arachnid,” he said.

  In the dim glow of the floating sphere, Daytripper examined the other youth. He was the taller of the two, with jet black hair, matching black irises, and eerie white pupils.

  Daytripper couldn’t help but stare.

  Arachnid blushed, and despite his bravado, glanced away.

  “They freak some people out,” he said, shielding his eyes as if he stood in the noonday sun.

  “I like them,” Daytripper said, though he wasn’t altogether sure if he did. Still, it was the nice thing to say, and he felt bad for making the other newbie feel self-conscious. Tryouts were hard enough as it was.

  “Yeah?” Arachnid asked. “Well let’s see your Betty Davis’.”

  He reached forward and gently removed Daytripper’s sunglasses. They stood arm distance apart now, neither of them saying anything, just looking at each other quietly. Freak eyes or not, Arachnid was undeniably handsome, with defined cheekbones, a Romanesque nose, and a strong chin. He was broader than the blond teen, with more muscle, clearly built by many hours in the gym. He wore a black leather vest, with a white spider on the front and back. It stretched tight across his body. A matching spider was tattooed onto one of his knuckles. The two young men were the same age, but from the neck down, Arachnid looked very much a man.

  The smaller boy found his breath quickening. He turned, not even trying to get his sunglasses back. One of the lenses was cracked anyway.

  “I should go, the announcements…”

  “Are at least half-an-hour away,” Arachnid countered, “Plenty of time.”

  Daytripper didn’t dare ask for what, and the dark-haired super entity, with leather gear and defined arms, didn’t wait before giving clarity. He slid one hand under the blond’s torn shirt, stroking the firm chest. From each digit spread a warm ripple. Daytripper smiled with wonder at the mild yet firm suctioning sensation.

  He wasn’t called Arachnid for nothing.

  He lips played with one of the arms of Daytripper’s sunglasses, smirking oh-so slightly. Arachnid’s arm drew back, bunching his biceps into a ball, and pulled Daytripper into the taller teen’s hunky body. The leather vest radiated heat against the blond’s exposed abdomen.

  “You were pretty awesome against Armadillo Boy,” Arachnid said. “Who knew he could be so fast with tha
t shell.”

  “Right?” Daytripper agreed. “And that tail!”

  Arachnid stroked the blond’s tanned face. The suctioning of his spider fingers turned on and off in controlled pulses, sending soothing waves into Daytripper’s scalp. It was like being immersed in a gentle pool of water. Daytripper forced himself to exhale. Arachnid pulled back, and Daytripper’s chest went cold as the taller youth’s hand unsuctioned from above his heart.

  “Let’s chill for a bit,” the spider powered young man said.

  He pointed his wrist towards the rafters and squeezed his fingers to his palms. The spider tattoo on his knuckle undulated , and translucent gobs shot out of his forearm, casting a web that shimmered like crystal in the soothing light of Firefly’s globe.

  “See you up there stud,” Arachnid said, leaping to the wall, crawling up it, somersaulting onto a stack of crates, then leaping off the silent swivel machine and into the net. In a flash of orange light, Daytripper was already there, waiting for him.

  The young blond tried to recline in the web and look cool and seductive without seeming trampy. But what a red-headed actress, a green screen, and a team of CGI experts pulled off for the big screen, was tougher to fake in real life. It was like trying to be sexy in a hammock. Daytripper went to lean on his hand and it went right through a gap in the web. His arm shot through right up to his arm pit. His cheek was smushed against the webbing and he could feel a bit of drool coming out his lip. This was not the soft-porn look he’d been going for. He tried to get up but his other hand was stuck to the gooey strands. From the corner of one eye, Daytripper looked up at Arachnid.

  “You look adorable,” he said, stripping off his leather vest and tossing it onto the defunct swivel machine. His muscular chest glistened in the light of Firefly’s globe. The fingertips of one hand suctioned onto Daytripper’s delt. With a strength that more than matched his physique, Arachnid deftly pulled Daytripper into the air. An exhilarating moment, a fraction of a second where his flight stopped but gravity had not yet had a chance to pull him down, and then Arachnid gently lowered Daytripper on top of him.

  His fingers unsuctioned, and then just as quickly stuck like glue to Daytripper’s measly shirt, pulling it over his head. It fluttered through the air and landed atop Arachnid’s vest, just as Daytripper lay atop Arachnid, bare chest to bare chest, abdomen to abdomen, crotch to crotch.

  Daytripper was instantly aroused, and his erection pressed against his shorts into the impressive mound hidden inside Arachnid’s tight jeans.

  Arachnid cupped Daytripper’s firm ass.

  He stared into the blond’s blue eyes, and Daytripper stared back. Arachnid’s groin slowly ground into him, and Daytripper matched the pelvic rhythm.

  “You’re really cool, you know that?” Arachnid said.

  Daytripper had waited so long to hear those words, from someone like this that he’d almost given up on it ever happening. Hearing it now made his chest swell—it was like a peach pit had caught in his throat.

  Please don’t make fun of me, was what Daytripper wanted to say, but he swallowed the words, terrified of ruining this stolen moment. His inner voice whispered with wonder, he thinks you’re cool. Arachnid arched his neck, bringing his lips a breath away from Daytripper’s own. The blond’s heart pounded, and their dry humping slowed to a barely perceptible pulse. The crackle of a loudspeaker made them both freeze.

  “All applicants are called to the Arena for final grades. You have five minutes.”

  “I… I have to go,” Daytripper murmured, though the words barely came out, gripping his heart like a cold fist.

  “Well so do I,” Arachnid playfully whispered back.

  Their gaze never broke, and Arachnid kissed Daytripper gently. The suction of his lips was unlike anything the young man had ever experienced. And his tongue. It seemed to stop time. He stroked the blond’s cheek, and before Daytripper even knew what was happening he was tossed over a muscular shoulder and Arachnid was bounding nimbly out of the web, grabbing his vest and Daytripper’s shirt, then crawling down the wall, before flipping onto the floor. He set Daytripper safely onto his feet. His muscular legs trembled.

  “I guess it’s time to see if you made the cut,” Arachnid winked, sliding back into his leather vest and strutting out into the Arena.

  Daytripper breathed heavily, his erection aching inside his shorts.

  That night it was easy to see who had been accepted into the Academy, and who had not. Music blared at the Caped Crusader, an all night dance club frequented by those with enhanced abilities. The rustic haven was made from rough hewn stones salvaged from the Aztec-style volcano lair of Doctor Centipede, whose evil conglomerate had gone into receivership after the housing market collapsed. During an interview with Take Over the World Times, he’d claimed that contributing to the destruction of the free market was a success in and of itself for any evil genius, but he lost credibility when a gossip site posted cell phone video of him bawling into his cape as his yacht was repossessed.

  The title gamely read, Centless Centipede.

  There were many this night who could share his pain.

  The rejects from this year’s tryouts were slouched over at the bar. Among those drowning their sorrows at the Caped Crusader was the voluptuous Lard Ass, who overflowed three bar stools shoved together. Next to her sat Manorexic, who pushed away a bowl of peanuts with his paper thin hand. He turned in profile and thinking the seat was free, the jockish One Eyed Serpent nearly sat right on top of him.

  “What up, what up!” he flirted with the purple barmaid, his gold visor glinting in the torchlight.

  “Watch it!” Manorexic growled, his body rippling like a vibrating saw, the sound making the Serpent cover his tiny ears.

  “Peace man, peace,” the hero offered, downing a shot, his forked tongue darting in and out. He was known for being a happy drunk.

  Manorexic slammed his shot glass onto the bar and gave the muscular jock one translucent finger.

  “Well excuse me for lacking depth perception,” the One Eyed Serpent slurred.

  And then there was Daytripper.

  His face was downcast as he watched the handsome youth with a giant eye in the middle of his head swagger away to hit on the “triplet” blond bombshells known as Multeepla. She never had to worry about showing up alone, and guaranteed there’d be even more of her duplicates once the night got going. The “triplets” each took a Tequila shot. They rubbed lemon chasers on one another’s breasts and licked, pouty lips sour and seductive all at once. Suddenly three became six. Girl could not hold her liquor. The bouncers were pissed. Multeepla invariably threw off the head count. But she sure as shit put on a show. A Lady GouGou song came on and Multeepla’s duplicates began grinding against each other and making out. The twincest vibe was off the charts, to the delight of ogling hormonal heroes.

  Daytripper took it all in shyly, waiting nervously for the multi-tentacled barmaid to notice him. Torches were rammed into the walls, firelight flickering off her purple scales. Her three red eyes moved right over him as she started serving The Towering Toledo. He dwarfed the stocky blond, and made him want to shrink inward.

  Daytripper was not, however, invisible. Nor did he go completely unnoticed.

  A skeletal man with a wide brimmed hat and fluttering cloak stared at him, and the youngster quickly averted his gaze. Daytripper focused on his feet, occasionally glancing up to see the shadowy figure move amongst the rejects, putting a comforting hand on Discus Debbie as she tapped a cigarette into her weapon of choice and used it as an ashtray.

  The barmaid rapped one tentacle in front of her and pointed at the sign of a red circle with a slash through the silhouette of a figure shooting laser beams from its eyes.

  “What?” D.D. asked.

  The barmaid realized her mistake and tapped on the no smoking sign nex
t to the “no shooting death rays” warning.

  “Seriously?” D.D. demanded. “This is a bar.”

  A bouncer with the head of a rhino and armor to match glared at her.

  “Fine, fine,” she muttered, stabbing the butt into her discus. “You know, I could kick Captain Freedom’s butt,” she seethed to anyone who would listen, wiping the tears rising in her eyes, “I just need a fair chance!”

  “Of course you do,” the skeletal man with the wide brimmed hat agreed, leaving a measly tip as he took a pitcher and poured a round of beer for the outcasts. He was a known recruiter for the Institute of Evil World Domination, which was not to be confused with the smaller, boutique Ecole de L’Alliance Cauchemar.

  It was a Parisian export, and thought very highly of itself.

  “Ok Twinkie,” the barmaid said to Daytripper, noticing him at last. “Let me guess. A dirty eyeball to drown your sorrows and herald your first step onto the spiraling staircase of villainy. I’m going to need some I.D.”

  He pulled his license out of his tight jeans.

  “I was thinking a Velvet Vault or Ruby Slipper,” Daytripper said.

  The barmaid shrugged.

  “You’re never going to be more than a lisping henchman with girlie drinks, but suit yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m not going to be a villain,” Daytripper said quickly, “I’m going to be a hero.”

  She looked up from his driver’s license with surprise.

  “No shit. You passed tryouts?”

  “Yeah,” he blushed proudly, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

  “Right on junior. But I gotta tell ya, no one would know it by looking at ya. You’re all hunched up and defeated like. You should be celebrating.”

  “I am,” he defended himself, “It’s just, I don’t really know anyone in my class, and the one person I do know hasn’t shown up.”

 

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