Worst. Superhero. Ever.

And other odd short stories

By Scott Baron

Table of Contents

Worst. Superhero. Ever.

One Last Fix

The Lesbian Farmers of Quagshire

Huh

Worst. Superhero. Ever.

Tyler Wilkes was having a particularly bad evening. Not lost-my-keys or clogged-the-toilet bad. Tyler was on fire, and he couldn’t seem to put himself out. Mind you, he was fireproof (at least most of the time), but a lot of good that did the rest of the building.

“Shit, this is so not good,” he cursed as he tried to maneuver out of the jewelry store without accidentally igniting anything else with his touch.

A lithe auburn-haired woman in a catsuit teased from a safe distance, “If I’d known you were so hot for me I would have brought marshmallows and chocolate. We could’ve made s’mores!” She wore a mask, but her eyes sparkled with amusement as she watched the bumbling hero’s plight.

“Please, just toss me that fire extinguisher! You may be a thief, but I know you’re not some evil nutjob bent on destruction. Throw it to me, and I promise I’ll let you go.”

“Not like you have much choice about that,” she quipped with a haughty laugh.

“Come on, you got your shiny things. There’s no need to let the whole building go up in flames.”

She thought about it for a minute. Doing good? Not on her to-do list, but the poor guy seemed to be having a particularly bad go of it today.

“Oh, alright,” she finally relented, pulling the canister from the wall and tossing it to the blazing man.

He snatched it from the air, but before he could even aim the nozzle, he was engulfed in a powdery explosion as his hands melted right through the pressurized container, releasing its contents with a dusty boom.

Luck was on his side for a change, and the majority of the flames were extinguished in the detonation, the lingering suppressant providing him a tiny window of opportunity to get the hell out of the building, and hopefully not cause any more damage.

He dove out the front door and hit the pavement with a thud before rolling to a stop against a parked Mercedes, which, of course, immediately burst into flames.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” he lamented as he pulled free of the smoldering car and dashed to the nearby fire hydrant. Unfortunately on this particular day, his super strength was a no-show yet again.

A small shockwave and gust of wind fanned his flames when Captain Stupendous landed on the pavement beside him. All down the street, car alarms shrieked, triggered by the impact. He could have touched down gently, but that wasn’t his style. Flashy. He opted instead for the incredibly cliché superhero landing: knee and fist on the ground, an arm up in the air.

Despite being on fire, Tyler Wilkes, aka The Protector, couldn’t help but roll his eyes behind his flaming mask.

“Well well, it seems The Protector needs help from a real hero yet again,” the Captain said with a smirk, his pearly-white teeth glistening in the glow of the fire.

Captain Stupendous was the most respected and successful superhero in the entire region. He was also an insufferable prick.

“Help me!” The Protector begged. “I can’t put myself out!”

“Powers not working again?” The square-jawed hero chuckled. “God, you’re such a loser.”

With just two fingers, he spun the cover free from the hydrant and opened the sturdy iron valve as easily as turning a faucet. A huge gush of water sprayed out, and in short order, The Protector’s flames were finally extinguished.

“You’ve got to get her out of there,” he sputtered, water dripping from every inch of his body. Well, at least it burned outside of my costume this time, he thought. Once he had found himself smoldering and nude, forced to streak through the city with super-speed as his costume went up in smoke, ass cheeks flapping in the wind as he raced back to his secret hideout. He was thankful to not have a repeat of that event.

“A damsel you say? Captain Stupendous is on it!”

“Did you seriously just say damsel?”

The Captain took a single powerful step forward to swoop in and save the day, but stopped abruptly in his tracks when he heard the sound. A dulcet wave of a woman’s song floated through the air, just barely tickling his ears.

Frozen mid-stride, like a magnificent, hero-shaped statue, he managed with great effort to cast an angry eye on The Protector, unaffected, as the Captain struggled with all his might to turn and flee.

“I’m going to get you for this!” he managed to growl at the soggy hero through his frozen-shut teeth.

“Hiya, Captain!” The Siren sang out as she exited the smoldering jewelry store. “So nice to see you again!” The dulcet rhythm of her voice floated through the air, just within earshot of the distressed hero.

With every ounce of his strength, the mighty captain somehow forced his muscles to obey his will, and in the blink of an eye, he leapt high in the air, landing several blocks away and well out of earshot, safe from the song against which he had no defense.

The Siren stopped her little tune and gave the drenched hero a once-over. “You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah,” The Protector replied, slowly getting to his feet.

The wailing of the fire trucks was getting closer.

“Well, you’d better get going,” he grumbled.

“What, you’re not going to try to catch me again?”

“I gave you my word.”

“That doesn’t stop most men.”

“I’m not most men.”

“True, you are rather unique. I still don’t know why my song doesn’t affect you. Of all the heroes I’ve ever met, you’re still the only one immune to it. Lucky for me, you just can’t seem to catch me.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“You know, I’m starting to think you just keep letting me escape because you’re sweet on me.”

“In your dreams.”

“Speaking of which, it’s getting late, wouldn’t want to miss my beauty sleep, and you really should go back to your lair and get out of that soggy super suit before you catch a cold.”

“It’s a hideout,” he sighed. “Only villains have lairs.”

“Whatever you say. See you around, Protector.”

“Until next time, Siren. Until next time.”

“Aww, that’s so cute, you sound so dramatic, just like a comic book hero!” she laughed, then turned on her heel and disappeared into the night.

The Protector waved a greeting to the firemen rushing to close the hydrant flooding the street so they could attach their hoses and douse the remaining flames.

“Hi fellas.”

“Should have known it was you again. Hey Captain, it’s the Protractor.”

“Protector.”

“Whatever.”

“The captain will want a statement from you,” the fireman said. “I’m sure the police will want one too.” He surveyed the smoking building a moment, taking in the destruction. “Well, at least you didn’t take the whole place down, this time,” he said as he trotted off to fight the blaze.

The captain grabbed his clipboard from the rig and strode to the hero while his crew hurriedly set to knocking down the remaining blaze, throwing annoyed looks at The Protector as they did.

“Worst. Superhero. Ever.” the captain muttered, shaking his head in disgust.

Tyler hadn’t always been a superhero. Not so long ago, he was just an average guy. Painfully average. So much so that if he were a color, Tyler would have been beige.

Then, one otherwise ordinary day in his mid-twenties, it happened.

He wasn’t bitten by a radioactive spider, there’d been no Gamma radiation, nor massive beams of light from an alien craft. He was even too far past puberty for some far-fetched mutant coming-of-age story. Nope, he simply woke up that day and was different.

The vision had been the first thing he noticed. Or didn’t notice, as the case may be. When he rolled out of bed still half-asleep, he slipped on his glasses and trudged to the bathroom. Only when the spattering of urine on the tile floor splashed his bare feet, did he realize his vision, and aim, were off.

“Shit! What the hell?” he blurted as he quickly clenched up, uncomfortably stopping his morning piss mid-stream.

He blinked repeatedly, but his eyes wouldn’t clear.

What did I get on my lenses? he wondered as he removed his glasses to wipe them on a towel. The world immediately sharpened into focus. He did a double take. Having relied on glasses most of his teen and adult life, he was startled to find that for whatever reason, now he did not. He was lucky with his new vision; at least that one power had remained consistent. The rest? Not so much.

He had been more than a little freaked out when he accidentally ripped his door from its hinges as easily as tearing open an envelope, while crushing the solid brass knob like it was Play-Doh. Strength had never been his strong suit, but it appeared to now be something he had in abundance.

Until he didn’t.

That was the problem with his powers. They had a mind of their own.

Tyler had just been getting used to his newfound strength, reveling in the feeling of confidence it gave him, when he discovered his gifts’ fickle nature the hard way.

It was late that night when he stepped in front of a handful of drunken hooligans harassing a woman waiting for the bus. Tyler knew he could take them easily, relishing the thought that, for once, the bullies would learn a lesson.

He grabbed the ringleader by his shirt, ready to make an example of him. His arms strained and tugged, but he realized (with a sinking feeling) that he couldn’t budge the brawny man.

Two words flooded his mind in tandem with his massive adrenaline rush: Oh shit.

It took weeks for his ribs to heal from the beating.

Other powers continued to appear over time. Not gradually, mind you, but simply springing into being without warning.

The X-ray vision he had thought would be a cool power, but rather than seeing through women’s clothing for a cheap thrill, he found himself instead gazing at their half-digested meals.

The laser vision, on the other hand, was just as cool as one would expect, but once he summoned it up (which fortunately required quite a bit of effort), he couldn’t always shut it off. It had been years since he last tried to use that one, the memory of the accidental destruction of a wide swath of the park (roasting the duck population of the little pond, accompanied by the wailing of the poor children who’d witnessed it) was a painful one. It would be a very long time before he’d dare try to use that power again.

Physically, he was more or less impervious to serious damage, most notably from fire and cold, but for whatever reason, he could bruise and bleed just like anyone else. At least most of the time.

Once, a piece of a crumbling building landed on him as he attempted to rescue a trapped child. He was pleasantly surprised to find his body intact as the massive concrete block bounced off him harmlessly as if it were styrofoam.

He would have been a hero that day, saving a kid like that, but the building was collapsing because of him. An uncontrolled burst of super-speed had taken him straight through the entire ground floor when his powers once again betrayed him.

He was brand new to the superhero game that day, and had just donned his home-stitched super suit for the very first time. “The Protector”, that would be his moniker, because that was what he intended to do for the people of the city.

Eager to get started, and with the best intentions, he headed out into the night to make a difference.

The Protector was poised to become a force to be reckoned with, but he was also a rookie, still learning what he could do with his many powers.

Unfortunately he had about as much control of them as a fifteen-year-old virgin tossed in bed with an oiled-up porn star.

None.

It was only natural that on his first real outing as a superhero he was amped up and full of adrenaline. He had been in a hurry to get to the scene of the crisis unfolding downtown when he took off running, eager to help the other heroes battle the giant mutant sewer rats that had spilled forth from the pipes beneath the secret lair of Doctor Malice.

Then he lost control and plowed into a wall. Well, through a wall, actually.

He had waded into the big leagues that night, and as he raced to his first battle, he couldn’t help wondering why supervillains always seemed to go by ‘Doctor’ something? It’s not like they had a diploma on their wall touting their PhD in destruction. He mused it was probably just an evil version of the same reason the good guys usually opted for ‘Captain’ or ‘Commander,’ namely feeding their latent desire to belong to some fraternal order of testosterone-fueled bonding.

Daydreaming isn’t the wisest thing when running at super-speeds.

The newly-dubbed Protector’s collision had torn right through the foundation of the building adjacent to Doctor Malice’s lab. This led to a very hasty diversion of resources away from capturing the villain, focusing instead on the impromptu rescue operation led by none other than his super-idols, Captain Stupendous and his team of heroes.

Mister Cool was there, putting out fires with icy blasts while The Torch melted the bent steel that was blocking the path and preventing people’s escape from the building. Then there was Bird Girl.

If Captain Stupendous was a grade-A prick, she was the team’s mean-girl Alpha-bitch.

She could fly, which a few other heroes could do as well, but she also had the ability to command birds to do her bidding, which on far too many occasions since that first meeting to be mere coincidence, included pooping en-masse on Tyler’s super suit, leaving him looking like a man-shaped Jackson Pollock painting.

She swooped in the upper windows, hauling people to safety while the rest of the team ran through the structure.

Inspired watching his heroes in action up close, The Protector tried to use his powers to help.

Did I mention the lack of control thing?

The fire spread when his ice blasts accidentally froze the hose of the firemen trying to extinguish the blaze.

His telekinesis carried trapped men and women to safety, but not before going a bit wide, tearing out load-bearing chunks of the building with them in the process.

Up until that night, he didn’t even know he could summon squirrels, but when hundreds of chittering fur balls ran into the building, the pandemonium was taken to a whole new level, especially when their fluffy tails caught fire, sending a swarm of flaming critters out into the night, lighting the better part of the neighborhood trees ablaze in the process.

With all the chaos he’d caused, once the fires were contained and the civilians were safely out of harm’s way, the heroes had swooped in and delivered quite a beat down before they realized he was one of the good guys.

Trying to be, at least.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Bird Girl shrieked, as she threw him up against a dumpster in a rage. A spiraling whirlwind of crows and jackdaws cawed their displeasure as they spun in an angry mass above her head.

“I’m The Protector. I’m the new hero in town. I’m here to help.”

“Help? You call this help? Look at this mess!” She was losing her cool, hovering several feet above the ground. “Doctor Malice got away because of you, moron!”

“She’s right,” Mister Cool agreed, his eerily calm voice in direct opposition to his angry gaze. Tyler shifted uncomfortably in his super suit. “You caused a lot of problems today, kid. Stay out of the way and let the professionals do their job.”

“But I can do things. I have powers.”

“We saw, and believe me, we’re not impressed,” growled Captain Stupendous. “Come here, I have something very important to tell you,” Tyler’s superhero man-crush said.

Rather than a pep-talk, he grabbed the newbie in a headlock and gave him a rough noogie, then shoved him into a muddy puddle by the curb. It was as humiliating as high school all over again.

“Stay out of our turf, nerd,” he spat snarkily. “We don’t need any half-assed wannabes here. This is our city.”

And with that, they dispersed, leaving the despondent new superhero alone in their wake.

Tyler knew in his gut he couldn’t give up on his dream of being a superhero, but he admitted to himself that maybe they were right, at least somewhat. He’d tried too much too soon. He would protect the city from danger on a smaller scale, leaving the supervillains and their grand schemes for the other heroes, at least until he had more practice.

The Protector began patrolling the streets by night, sticking to the shadows, ears open for sounds of distress. After only a few nights, he got his chance.

“Help! Help!” a man’s voice called out from a dimly lit alley by an all-night Chinese take-out place, its flickering neon casting an unnatural glow as it reflected from the filthy water pooled on the ground.

At last, he thought with excitement, running toward the sounds of a scuffle.

“Take your hands off him!” he bellowed in his most authoritative voice. With a flourish, he jumped into the alleyway, landing with his hands on his hips in a classic superhero pose.

If you’re going to be a hero, he figured, you should make a hero’s entrance.

“What the fuck you say to me?” the gangbanger asked, dropping his bloodied prey to the filthy pavement as he spun toward his unwanted guest.

“I am The Protector, and I’m warning you, let this man go.”

“The Protector, huh? I ain’t never heard of you. You supposed to be some kind of superhero, is that it?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I ain’t afraid of no low-rent wannabe hero. Let’s see what you got, bitch. Come on!” With a shark’s malicious grin, he pulled a pipe from his belt and began slowly swinging it as he moved closer and closer.

“I don’t want to harm you, but you leave me no choice,” Tyler said as he raised his hands and focused his newly discovered ice powers at the approaching criminal.

A flash of cool, blue light filled the alleyway, and The Protector smiled.

Then he realized he couldn’t move.

His icy blast had misfired, hitting the puddle he’d been standing in, freezing his own feet in place.

Typical.

“Oh, now you fucked up,” was the last thing he remembered hearing before the steel pipe rang out across his skull. Fortunately his durability powers were mostly functional that day, though he still wound up with a black eye, bloody lip, and two cracked ribs.

As he limped back to his secret hideout, a flashlight beam dancing through the check cashing shop down the street caught his eye. After midnight? The place was most certainly not open for business.

He was sore, not to mention humiliated, but duty called. Still, just to be safe, he dialed 9-1-1 on his cell phone.

“And who did you say you are?” the operator asked.

“The Protector.”

“Is this some kind of joke? Who names themselves after a geometry tool?”

“No, Protector.” He sighed. “Look, I told you there’s a crime in progress. Just send a car, alright?” he said, then hung up.

As stealthily as he could, he stepped through the shattered glass façade to confront the criminal lurking inside. A loud metal bang made him jump, just as the perpetrator came into view.

“Hey!” he shouted to the lean girl in the catsuit as she smashed away at the safe behind the counter with a sledgehammer. “Step away from the safe and put your hands up!” He could hear the wail of police cars in the distance. This would make up for earlier. He’d be a hero yet.

The Siren smiled.

“Oh honey,” she cooed, “you’re new here aren’t you?”

“I’m The Protector,” his voice boomed in the close space, “and your days of crime are over.”

She laughed.

“Seriously? Wow, that’s like straight out of a bad movie. Come on, I’m sure you have something better. Try again.”

“What?” he replied, confused. “Perhaps you didn’t understand me, I’m The Protector, and—”

“Hi Protector, I’m The Siren.”

“Don’t interrupt, it’s—”

“Rude to interrupt? Yeah, my mom always used to tell me that.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“You know what. You keep inte—”

“Interrupting you? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Stop it!”

She flashed an amused grin, her gaze shifting to the pair of police cruisers screeching to a halt in front of the building. It was pretty, in a smashy-smashy sort of way, the strobing lights illuminating hero and villain alike in a glittering wash of color reflected from the broken glass.

“You invited civvies to our party? You really are new, aren’t you?”

“Freeze!” the approaching cops shouted, guns drawn. “Put your hands up and step out onto the sidewalk.”

The Siren flashed a mischievous smile.

“Don’t you even want to know why they call me The Siren?” she asked, then began singing a sweet melody, the dulcet notes flowing in the wind to the street outside.

The officers froze in place, eyes glazed over in a trance. Tyler just stood there, confused, as he looked at the motionless men, then the supervillain.

“Cool trick,” he said.

“Huh, that’s weird,” The Siren mused, then turned her full attention on her new interloper.

Her song blasted out, wave after wave buffeting The Protector, its paralyzing energy spreading farther than before, flooding the whole street, stunning the poor squirrels in the tree above as they were just about to enjoy some plump acorns. One frozen critter fell to the sidewalk with a tiny thud.

Again, The Protector just stood there.

“I appreciate the tune, you do have a lovely voice, but like I said, you’re coming with me.”

The Siren was flummoxed. “It doesn’t work on you.” A faint note of actual distress tinged her voice. “It works on everyone, why not on you?”

“I told you, I’m a superhero. Now, if you’ll—”

“It works on superheroes, it works on everyone,” she blurted, concerned.

“There you go, interrupting again,” he chuckled. “Now, I believe it’s time to take you to jail.”

He bent at the knees, intending to fly across the room and scoop her up in his arms, carrying her to justice, just like in the movies.

Unfortunately, his powers once again had a different idea.

“Um, what are you doing?” she asked the half-buried hero, firmly embedded in the ground up to his chest.

“I was trying to fly.”

“You went the wrong way.”

“Gee, ya think?”

“You’re not very good at this hero thing are you?”

“Shut up. You’re still my prisoner.”

“Says you,” she laughed. “See ya around Protector!” she taunted, dashing out of the storefront and into the night.

“This has got to get easier,” he muttered to himself.

It didn’t.

Tyler worked hard, trying his best to rein in and manage his nascent abilities. He spent months holed up in his secret hideout, training, practicing, gradually discovering the multitude of powers he possessed, as well as how little he could control them.

Of all his skills, he found that with great concentration, he could focus his freezing power, but only if he meditated first, channeling that force to his hands. It was far from perfect, but he could somewhat reliably direct a blast of freezing ice more or less in the direction he wanted. Of course, in the real world, how would that work mid-battle?

“I can see it now,” he chuckled to himself. “ ‘Excuse me Mr. Villain, would you mind stopping your evil onslaught for a few minutes while I sit here and meditate so I can power up to defeat you?’ ‘Of course Protector, take your time, no rush.’ ”

He’d had a good laugh over that one.

Flying was far more sporadic. He could sometimes hover in place for a few seconds and very rarely attain up to twenty seconds or so of poorly controlled flight. Otherwise, he was pretty much grounded.

The super-strength and imperviousness were totally out of his control. When they’d work and when they’d crap out on him were completely random, so he gave up even trying to control those.

He had also discovered, quite unintentionally, that he could breathe underwater. Sometimes. When it did work, he took to submerging himself in the old cast-iron bathtub in his hideout. It was relaxing, lying underwater for long stretches, and even if he didn’t think it was the most useful of powers, it was still more than a lot of other heroes could do.

There were many other powers in his quiver. Super speed, super hearing, telekinesis, to name just a few. He had more raw abilities than any super team combined, but try as he might, he simply couldn’t control them.

Tyler needed help and he knew it. He believed in his heart that with mentoring and care, he could one day become a valued member of the superhero community, but the next step would be the hardest. He needed to be accepted and taken in as a new recruit.

It had been several months since their first meeting. Captain Stupendous and a few of his team had just finished rounding up a group of would-be bank robbers when The Protector approached them.

“Hey guys, it’s the dork again,” the Captain said to his fellow heroes with a snide guffaw.

Bird Girl’s presence was preceded by the splatter of poop landing on The Protector’s head.

“Oops, sorry.” She laughed as she glided effortlessly to the ground beside him. “I don’t know why they did that. Wasn’t me, promise.” The jeers from the rest of the team didn’t make it any easier, but The Protector swallowed his pride and did what had to be done.

“Captain,” he began, wiping the mess from his head, “I’ve been trying to teach myself, but on my own I don’t think I’ll ever become a real superhero, not without help. I want to be like you. To become one of you. Please, will you help me? Teach me? I’ll do anything, just let me try.”

The Captain glanced at the mirthful looks of his companions.

“Anything?” He flashed that gleaming trademark smile.

“Anything, just give me a chance.”

“So that’s a double mocha for Mister Cool, a soy Frappuccino for Bird Girl, non-fat latte for The Torch, iced tea, no sugar, for Commander Smackdown, black coffee for Mistress Lightning, and a Quad Espresso for the Captain.”

“Alright scrub, get moving,” Captain Stupendous chuckled. “And don’t forget to buff my super-boots when you get back.”

The Protector had been doing menial tasks for the super team for over a month. Sure, it sucked, but aside from the occasional noogie from the Captain and periodic bird poop attacks from Bird Girl’s asshole friends, he didn’t think it was all that bad.

Like Daniel-San, I need to wax on, wax off, he had told himself. Unfortunately, the Captain was no Mr. Miyagi, and any villain he faced would do far worse than sweep the leg.

“I’ll be back in ten!” he called out.

“Run faster, dork,” Mistress Lightning barked. “I don’t want my coffee to get cold.”

“Ah, yeah, but if I do a super-run I might spill, and besides, um, it’s still kind of hard to—”

The blaring alarm went off on all the heroes’ team wristbands at once.

“Doctor Malice is back! He’s assaulting the secret government weapons testing facility in the warehouse district. Team, let’s go!”

“Can I come?” The Protector asked, hopeful. “I promise, I can help. I’ve been practicing!”

The Captain thought for a minute. “Alright. I want you to take up a position behind the tire factory building. It’s of the utmost importance you prevent anyone from escaping, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir, you can count on me!” He turned to take off at a fast run.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“You said to—”

“Get the coffee first, dumb-ass. We’ll be thirsty when we’re through.”

The Captain and his team flew to confront their nemesis, and right behind them The Protector ran off into the night to take part in his first real superhero operation.

After getting their coffee.

He arrived behind the tire factory twenty minutes later (there had been a line at Starbucks), the beverages securely stashed atop a nearby storage tank well out of the way of any possible conflict.

Okay, this is it, gotta get ready, he thought excitedly.

He focused his gaze on the back door, readying himself for anything as he began to slowly breathe in and out, channeling his ice power as he’d been practicing. Fortune had smiled on him. Amazingly, it appeared there’d actually be time to prepare for this fight.

Five blocks away, where the real action was taking place, Captain Stupendous and his team were battling the giant laser-shooting robot horde controlled by Doctor Malice, trying to reach the man himself as he scurried off with his booty, a prototype disruptor ray stolen from the now-smoldering remains of the secret government facility.

“Stop him!” the Captain bellowed as he ripped the massive steel arm from his robotic foe. “Don’t let him get away!”

The team was up to their necks in robots, and the Doctor was making a rapid escape on his fusion-powered motorcycle. He darted down the block, then made a sharp turn before hitting the accelerator. This most certainly was not part of the Captain’s plan.

“Team, follow me!” the Captain yelled out.

The superheroes delivered massive blows to their opponents in unison, smashing them into one another before they turned and pursued their quarry.

“He’s too far ahead!” shouted Bird Girl.

“Shortcut! Through here!” Mister Cool called out. “We can cut him off!”

The Protector had heard the fierce battle, but had remained focused. It was up to him to be the last line of defense, and he was not going to blow it. His super hearing (why it chose that moment to work was a mystery to him) picked up a speeding motorcycle a few blocks to his east, but the real commotion was thundering right toward him through the cavernous warehouse in front of him.

“This is it,” he muttered as he focused his energy and unleashed the full force of the power he’d been mustering for the past ten minutes.

The heroes burst through the back door just as the wave of freezing ice burst from The Protector’s hands.

“I did it!” he yelped, jumping for joy at the sight of the frozen villains encased in snow and ice. It hadn’t been pretty, but The Protector had finally (more or less) controlled his power and done good.

“You moron!” Captain Stupendous’s muffled voice cursed.

“Captain?”

The enraged hero burst free from the ice. “What the hell were you thinking? You’re supposed to be on our side idiot!”

“But Captain…” The horror of realization struck him as the other heroes freed themselves from the frosty blast aftermath. “But, but you said to guard the back door. You said—”

“Oh come on, do you think we’d really give you an important job to do? You’re useless. No, scratch that, you’re worse than useless. You might as well be playing for the other team. I swear, you can’t do anything right.”

“Incompetent ass!” Bird Girl screamed in frustration.

The Protector hung his head as he trudged away, leaving the team bitterly bitching among themselves. He returned moments later with the heroes’ drinks.

“I got these for you,” he said meekly.

Captain Stupendous slapped the tray, the contents of the cups sent flying, drenching The Protector head to toe. With barely contained rage, the Captain grabbed him by the back of his coffee-soaked super suit and dragged him to the tire factory.

“Bird Girl!” he barked.

She swooped down, the Captain grabbing her ankle as she hauled him and The Protector effortlessly into the air.

They left him up there, hanging by his underwear from the side of the warehouse.

“Stay the hell out of our way nerd. You’ll never be a superhero!” His once-idol spat at him in disgust, then turned and left, the rest of his super team in tow.

“But Captain? Guys?” he called after them.

Bird Girl was the only one who seemed to hear, turning her angry gaze upon him for a moment before continuing away.

“Guys? Please?…” He heard a sound and looked up. “Oh no.”

The barrage of bird shit was unrelenting, and by the time they were done, The Protector resembled a feces-covered statue abandoned to disrepair.

Soiled and humiliated, he dragged himself back to his hideout and licked his wounds in solitude. He was down, most certainly, but he was not out. Despite the abuse he was nevertheless determined to make a difference. The first step was planning how best to co-exist in a world where the other heroes didn’t want him around.

Those months of solitary crime fighting turned into years, and though new powers would still periodically manifest, The Protector had resigned himself to not using any but the few he could more or less control in his crime fighting endeavors.

It was just too risky.

It could also be too costly.

The thing about accidentally causing damage and destruction in the pursuit of justice is, he was still protected by the Good Samaritan law, even though he happened to be a superhero. At least that used to be the case. Things started to change after the bills from The Protector’s repeated disasters began adding up, and it wasn’t just the city that was dragging its feet in paying out.

Citizens were upset, but insurance companies balked at covering acts of a superhero, some going so far as to claim that a meta-human could be considered a deity in some eyes, thus their actions technically being “Acts of God” and not covered under most policies.

When a group of citizens filed a class-action lawsuit against the city for protecting the actions of one particularly destructive resident (even if he didn’t mean to cause harm), the City Council was finally forced to begin drafting legislation to exempt one superhero in particular from the Good Samaritan provisions.

The final straw had been when an old woman had asked The Protector to rescue her cat from the tall oak tree outside City Hall. It seemed innocent enough. A simple task. Something that he could do without difficulty at all.

What could possibly go wrong?

He should have known better.

The cat, by the way, survived without a scratch, but the half-dozen smashed cars and the high-voltage lines taken out in the process hadn’t fared so well. It might not have caused quite such a stir if the cars destroyed in the process hadn’t belonged to the mayor, the district attorney, and several of the city’s powerful elite who were attending a charity function that day.

Captain Stupendous had stood beside Mayor Parker when he gave a press conference from the steps of City Hall. The mayor was not only supporting the new legislation put forth by the City Council, but was adding to it, calling for a new ordinance to be drafted to protect the city from the clumsy hero who seemed to do far more harm than good.

The Protector would cease damaging property in his crime fighting endeavors or the mayor would see to it, with the Captain and his team’s assistance no less, that The Protector would be locked up behind bars and held accountable for any damage he had caused.

That would have been bad enough, but behind the perfect hair and dazzling smile, Captain Stupendous was a vindictive man, and the new legislation gave him carte blanche to ramp up his harassment of the low-rent superhero.

The Captain didn’t go out and physically harm him, that would have been frowned on even in the press, but with Bird Girl and the others egging him on, he took to making The Protector’s life hell whenever he came across him. Soon the rest of his cohorts joined in, and in no time at all, the poor hero found himself barely able to leave his hideout in costume without being harassed, taunted, and even pooped on by Bird Girl’s avian minions at every turn.

Just ignore them, he would tell himself after every incident. You’re doing good, it doesn’t matter what those bullies say. Unfortunately, he was finding it harder and harder to let it go.

Having the milkshake dropped on his head that night hadn’t hurt, even though it had fallen seven stories when the Captain let it loose. The only thing injured was his pride. The shake made a mess, as did the defecating crows that chased him for three blocks, but they didn’t cause any real damage, though their cackling barrage nevertheless made the sting of yet another prank by the Captain and his friends hurt just that much more.

The Protector stepped out of the gas station restroom, cleaned up, but quite frankly, over it.

Screw this, he thought. I’m going home.

Heading for his hideout to change into his street clothes and maybe goof around on his PlayStation seemed like a great plan. Crime fighting could wait, this just wasn’t the night for it.

He had been walking in a funk for a while when he took a seat on a dark bus bench, reflecting on the night’s humiliation. The incessant harassment he had to endure was just the icing on the shitty cake that was his life as a superhero, and he didn’t even like icing.

The crash startled him. His super hearing was apparently on the fritz that night, and he hadn’t heard it coming. He just wanted to go home, but the heroic nature in him tugged at his conscience, and grudgingly, he obeyed, rising to his feet and jogging around the corner, just in case a citizen needed his help.

“Hello?” he called out into the electronics store. “Is everyone alright?”

The car had smashed right through the front window, but the driver’s seat was empty. The engine was still running, and the stereo, he noted, was playing AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.”

“Oh no, it’s The Protector!” The Siren cried out from across the store as she leapt atop a counter. “Whatever will I do?” She held the back of her hand to her head like a swooning damsel in distress, waiting patiently for his snarky reply.

Over the years of cat and mouse, she’d actually come to enjoy the banter they traded, and as he was the only hero willing to stand up to her (and the only one not affected by her song), she eventually found herself heading off on each new crime spree wondering if he’d show up.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes, it is I, your nemesis!” she said, striking a ridiculous pose. “What amazing powers will you unleash upon me this time? Laser rays? Maybe electromagnetic ESP? I tremble in my boots! What’ll it be, Protector?”

He looked at her, amped up and ready to scrap. Not tonight, was his immediate thought.

“Fuck it,” he sighed, then turned to walk away.

“What?” Siren called after him, confused. “Not even going to try?”

“What’s the point?” he replied, then trudged off into the night.

Three blocks later, he took a seat on a dark bus bench. It was well past operating hours, no conveyance would be passing by for quite some time. Resting his masked head in his hands, he thought back on all the time spent trying to do good, to help people, and how everything, his own body included, just never seemed to go his way.

“Whatcha doin’?” a voice asked.

It was The Siren, watching him from across the street.

“Go away,” he grumbled, his head returning to his hands.

A strange thing happened in The Siren’s chest. She actually felt a twinge of sympathy.

“Hey, you alright?”

“Look, I’m not chasing you tonight. Why don’t you just go torment some other hero?”

She studied his body language. With the slump to his shoulders, he seemed, well, defeated. The twinge hit again, this time harder.

“For reals, you’re not going to try to catch me?”

“Nope, go do your worst, I really don’t care.”

She stared at him for a good long moment, then made a decision.

“If you’re really not going to chase me, I have a proposition.”

He paused a moment, then looked up at his nemesis through damp eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I propose a truce. But just for tonight,” she quickly added.

“A truce? Why? I already told you I’m not coming after you.”

“I know. Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

That answer took him by surprise. He sat up straighter and studied her a moment, but sensed no trickery or guile. He was so over it at that moment, he likely wouldn’t have cared if there were. Still, a drink with The Siren…

“Why?”

“Because, well, you look like you’ve had one of those days.”

“But you’re my nemesis.”

“Really? Aww, you’re so sweet! So come on, how often does a fella get to have a drink with his archenemy?”

He thought about it a minute.

“Okay, you can buy me a drink, not steal me one.”

She scrunched up her face (what you could see of it under her mask) in mock disgust, then smiled. “Oh, alright. No stealing.”

The dark little bar was used to the patronage of the freaks who roamed the streets when everyone else was sound asleep, so two strangely clad twenty-somethings was in no way out of the ordinary.

Good-looking couple, the doorman thought as the pair took a booth way in the back.

They had made an agreement as they walked there that night, something neither could believe they were about to do.

They were going to remove their masks.

Sure, they could go with them on, but people would talk. A villain and a hero together in a bar? What would happen next? So they both swore on their honor (or in The Siren’s case, her lack of honor) that whatever happened, they would abide by the terms of the truce and never reveal each other’s identity. Oddly enough, neither of them thought the other would break the agreement.

“Wow,” she said when The Protector slid his mask from his face.

“What?” he asked, self-conscious.

“Nothing, it’s just… you’re really cute.”

He blushed, and his arch-nemesis thought that made him even cuter.

“Your turn,” he said.

With a flourish, she pulled her mask free, shaking out her long auburn hair.

“Voila!”

He was silent.

“Well? Say something, dork,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable.

“You…” He was flummoxed. “You’re beautiful.”

“Good save lover-boy. Come on, I know just the place to go.”

So it came to pass that the archenemies found themselves sitting in the deep red vinyl booth, tucked way in the back of the bar, just two young people having  a drink. Conversation flowed smoothly (and the alcohol didn’t hurt). All those years of banter had given them something of a personal shorthand. Several drinks later, they both admitted that, despite their feigned annoyances, they had actually looked forward to their encounters, even if one of them was trying to capture the other.

“I mean, I had to try,” he said, “but maybe, and I’m just saying maybe here, but maybe I didn’t really want to lock you up.”

She smiled at him. “And I didn’t want to be, though I kinda hoped you wouldn’t stop trying.”

They were sharing a moment, something interesting and unexpected building between them, when a loud group of hipsters out to slum it in a dive bar burst through the front doors, their raucous hollering and drunken tirades ruining the ambiance.

“Great, the idiots have arrived. God, I miss when this place was off the hipster radar,” The Siren lamented.

“Tell me about it,” The Protector commiserated. “Hey, I know this is kinda strange to ask, but do you maybe want to get out of here and hang out at my place for a bit? It’s pretty close by.”

“Seriously, you’re offering to show me your secret lair?” she asked, intrigued.

“It’s a hideout,” he replied. “Only villains have lairs. One thing, though, you have to promise that no matter what happens, you’ll never reveal it to anyone or use it against me. Consider it part of tonight’s truce.”

She thought it over a few moments (though she only needed a second) and agreed with a smile.

The hideout was something Tyler had stumbled upon when he was just a teenager. One afternoon, his penchant for urban exploring had led him deep beneath the old fire station on Mission Street. It had been shuttered for years, so naturally it was far too tempting for a curious kid to pass up.

A few days after he’d begun exploring the building, Tyler noticed an innocuous little panel under the staircase, one that was just a little different from the others. He had a feeling something interesting was about to happen. Call it intuition, call it a super sense, whatever it was, that day was destiny.

He ran his fingers along the panel’s edges, fingertips feeling a slight indentation at the top right corner. He gave it a push, and after a moment’s resistance, the panel slid open with a rusty screech, revealing a long-forgotten staircase leading to the pitch-black depths below the building.

He was terrified and quickly slammed the secret door shut, but later that night, he found himself thinking about the mysterious discovery, until finally, powerful flashlight in hand, he returned to explore the frightening yet oddly tempting darkness beneath the old firehouse.

It was incredible. A network of tunnels and rooms below the old building that no one had set foot in for decades. Best of all, Tyler found that the system possessed multiple exit points throughout the neighborhood, the tunnels apparently once serving as a rapid response accessway for the long-forgotten firemen living above.

He had slowly cleaned it up during high school, scrubbing away the grime on weekends, even painting the walls a more appealing color than “filth.” When he later became The Protector, he installed internet from a long cable bootlegged off a neighboring office building and even got the old water pipes working. The furniture was a bit more difficult to sneak in, but in time he had made a perfectly habitable hideout, bed, couch, tables and chairs included.

“This is amazing!” The Siren gasped when he turned on the strings of Edison bulbs that illuminated the space in a cozy amber glow. “You live here?”

“Nah, this is just my hideout, but I do spend a lot of time here.”

“This is amazing. You’re full of surprises, Protector. Color me impressed.”

“And here I thought it took far more than that to impress the great Siren.”

She looked at him quietly. It had been by far the nicest non-date she’d been on in years, and she wasn’t looking forward to it ending.

“Sherri,” she said at last, holding out her hand.

“Tyler,” he replied, clasping her warm palm in his.

“Hey Tyler,” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I want to tell you.”

“What?”

Sherri The Siren lunged at him, their mouths mashing together fiercely, her tongue dancing tantalizingly across his. A pale orange spark leapt between their moistened lips as she broke the embrace.

“Whoa, what was that?” she asked, pupils wide with a surge of desire.

“I don’t know,” he replied huskily, thundering pulse visible in his neck.

They stared at one another a long moment, then fell into each other’s arms, pulling desperately at their layered costumes as passions flared.

“Why do you have so many damn buckles?” he lamented.

“It’s a supervillain suit, what did you expect?”

“I don’t know, maybe a zipper or something. All these buckles just—”

“Boys don’t understand fashion, I swear, you—” She gasped as he pulled her breast free, cupping it firmly in his hand.

“It’s rude to interrupt,” he whispered intensely as he squeezed her nipple, sending sparks and electric tingles coursing through her body as he lay her down in his bed.

“How do you do that?” she asked, watching the small flame dancing in his palm as she lay curled in his arms some time later.

“Don’t know. Never done it before.”

She nestled her head on his chest and watched the flickering light.

“What else can you do?”

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“Try something.”

Ice sculptures, delicate and detailed, pulled from the thin air with his glowing hands.

Telekinesis-powered floating mobiles circled the room in a lazy arc.

A delicate laser-vision sketched portrait of The Siren, burned into the solid cement walls of his den.

“I thought you couldn’t control your powers.”

“I couldn’t, at least not before. Something changed.”

Sherri propped up on her elbow, eyebrow arched wickedly high.

“Are you saying I screwed you into becoming quite possibly the greatest superpower the world has ever seen?” she asked, running her hand across his bare chest. “More powerful than even Captain Stupendous and his obnoxious friends?”

He thought about that for a moment. The countless times they’d humiliated him rather than help him. Of all things, it was his nemesis, a villain against whom he’d battled for years no less, who had finally unlocked his potential.

“Something like that,” he finally said with a thoughtful little grin.

“Wow. Now that’s a power I didn’t know I had. You know, I should get a little cape or something for my panties. I mean, if I wore any.”

His face flushed as he pulled her close.

“Let’s put that power to good use then, shall we?” he said in a raspy voice.

“For good or evil?” she asked with a wink.

“Just shut up and kiss me.”

Hours later (let’s hear it for Super Stamina), they finally pulled their clothes on and headed back for the surface, the sun high in the sky, the city blissfully unaware of the power unleashed within its confines just hours before.

“So, I guess our truce is just about over,” Sherri said, her fingers reluctantly sliding from Tyler’s as she started to walk away.

“I’d rather it wasn’t,” he replied.

She felt her heart skip a beat, then turned back to him, with a questioning gaze.

“So what are you saying?” she asked, her heartbeat quickening. “You want me to become a good guy now? To stay with you? Maybe even move in to your hideout?” She realized the thought of that last bit suddenly didn’t sound so bad.

He pulled her close and gently took her face in his hands before planting a solid kiss as he looked deeply into her glistening eyes.

“Honey,” he said with a mischievous grin. “It’s not a hideout, it’s a lair.”

One Last Fix

The shakes had taken hold something fierce rather early this particular morning, and Jeremy found even the simple act of holding his lukewarm begged-for cup of coffee steady to his lips to require something of an effort.

It had been bad in the days prior, the shakes, the cravings, but this time the discomfort of withdrawal just seemed so much stronger.

The hint of wildness to his eyes as he scanned the morning commuter crowd for a friendly face kind enough to drop some change in his battered handout bowl was off-putting to the people as they passed him by.

He was a man on edge, and everyone could sense it, the way animals somehow instinctively know to shy away from a sick member of the herd to avoid an unseen contagion.

By nightfall Jeremy was feeling even worse, but a glimmer of hope flashed in his desperate eyes as he counted out the massive roll of grubby bills, pulled from the depths of his filthy pockets. After weeks of saving, he might finally have enough.

Jeremy hadn’t always been on the streets.

His clothes were once laundered and pressed with regularity, his hair cut stylishly at a pricy salon, his shoes polished to a glossy mirror shine. He was coming up through the ranks as a first-year trader with one of the small boutique hedge funds, and if things had continued on track, he would have been sitting pretty in just a few short years.

Then Derek happened.

Derek Voyavich was the hotshot top gun at the fund. He never missed a financial target, and subsequently, he was raking it in hand over fist. He was their golden boy, and his investors trusted him implicitly.

As far as management was concerned, his shit most certainly did not stink. Unfortunately, as is often the case with those who achieve wealth a little too fast and too easily, he was also something of an entitled tool. Why he took a shine to Jeremy was anyone’s guess, but ultimately, it would be his new friend’s undoing.

When Derek first invited Jeremy out clubbing, the pair had done the usual “new money guy” things; thrown money at strippers, done lines of blow, finally ending the night with a pair of scantily clad women, though Jeremy still wasn’t sure if they were professionals or not. Then again, he really didn’t care, because even if they were, Derek was footing the bill.

They became something of a partying team and had a ball together, and it went on like that, until Derek approached him a few weeks later with an excited and mysterious look in his eye.

“Hey man, you wanna try something really different tonight?” he asked with a mysterious grin.

Does the Pope shit in the woods? Jeremy thought. “Damn right I do,” was his eager reply.

Derek’s jet-black Bentley pulled up in front of the nondescript building at 10:30 pm, the steady glow of the sodium vapor lamps dotting the street reflecting off its glossy hood. The only soul present was a very sturdy-looking man in a black sport coat, his buzz-cut hair standing straight at attention. A noticeable bulge in his coat clearly defined his role as gatekeeper as he stood vigilantly by the door.

The duo exited the vehicle and approached the building. A look of recognition flashed ever so slightly across the huge man’s face as they neared, replacing his do-not-fuck-with-me glare for an instant.

“Nice to see you again, sir,” his deep baritone rumbled as he lifted his hand to his mouth, speaking quietly into a concealed microphone. “Two inbound.”

“Nice to see you as well,” Derek said, shaking his hand with a smile, leaving a few crisp Benjamins in the burly man’s palm.

The heavy steel door buzzed open, revealing another equally large man inside, a well-maintained submachine gun visible hanging across his torso inside his blazer.

“Gentlemen, this way please,” he said, then led them into the depths of the dark building.

The space was dimly lit with an amber hue, and while the exterior had been nondescript, the overall feel of the interior was quite lush, if a bit old-fashioned and small.

Some might even call it intimate.

Blissed-out men and women alike were sprawled across deep red velvet divans as attendants saw to their needs. They all seemed quite high, their shiny wide-pupiled eyes just partly visible beneath half-closed lids. Their air of pure ecstasy and contentment was almost tangible. Jeremy had never seen anything like it, and he seriously doubted that had he not been so fortunate in befriending his wealthy new cohort, he likely never would have.

“Jeremy, come on,” Derek hissed. “This isn’t it. Not yet.”

The armed man led them through a thick metal door, then down a short hallway to an even sturdier one mounted on a steel frame. He paused at the sealed threshold, standing there motionless like an imposing statue.

What’s he doing? Jeremy thought before noticing the small camera mounted high above the door. A moment later, the door swung open with a rumble.

Jeremy and Derek were given a seat on a small, plushly cushioned sofa and offered refreshments by the stocky attendant. Jeremy noticed none of the staff were women, and all had a distinctive ex-military or perhaps mercenary vibe to them.

“So what exactly is this place?” Jeremy asked, a slight hint of concern tinting his query.

“Something new,” was Derek’s reply. “Something wonderful.” He was subconsciously licking his lips in anticipation. In the relatively short time Jeremy had known him, he had never seen Derek’s veneer of cool slip. Whatever it was, this was going to be good; he could feel it in his blood.

Blood. What an appropriate choice of words.

A deep red door, thick with soundproofing, opened, and a gray-suited man, tie askew and eyes glazed, was gently led out by yet another large, armed man. The difference was this attendant was wearing chain mail gauntlets on his arms and a biohazard respirator. Jeremy looked at Derek, concerned, but his friend didn’t even notice him in his anticipation.

Derek anxiously got to his feet to meet his attendant, likewise dressed in metal sleeves and respirator, and stepped towards the door.

“See ya on the other side,” he said to Jeremy, then stepped through the threshold, the door closing solidly behind him. Only five minutes had passed when he was led staggering from the room, pupils wide, eyes glazed, a look of sheer bliss on his face. He didn’t even notice his friend as a stocky man guided him out of the waiting room to one of the divans in the gallery.

A muscled attendant stood at the door, waiting. Hesitant at first, Jeremy finally rose to his feet.

Hell, you only live once, right? he thought. Game face firmly affixed, he followed the man into the next room, the door locking solidly behind him.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The oddly textured walls were painted black, and after a moment, he realized it was soundproofing material, though for what purpose he had no idea. The room, he soon noticed, was empty but for a tall, metal coffin-like box bolted upright to the far wall. The attendant double-checked his mask, then slipped a thick harness around Jeremy’s torso.

“First time?” he asked, his voice muffled through the respirator.

Jeremy nodded.

“Don’t get too close,” the man intoned. “If you do, I’ve got you with this.” He tugged the rope fastened to the harness. “But let’s not have that happen, alright?”

Jeremy had no idea what he’d gotten himself into, but he nodded once more and was led toward the shiny silver box, stopping a few paces behind a thick red line painted on the floor nine feet back. He noticed some fine metalwork on the lid now that he was close to it. An ornate crucifix, delicately carved into the metal. He also thought it looked like actual silver, not steel, though why anyone would spend that much on a box that size out of a material much less sturdy than stainless was beyond him. Then the attendant nodded to a camera on the wall and the lid slid open.

The creature’s eyes burned with an unnatural fire. Her pale skin was smooth as an alabaster sculpture but pulsed with vitality and a barely restrained energy. Her hair was pale blonde, and her firm breasts strained to be admired through the thin muslin she wore, accentuated by the sturdy chains binding her in place. Jeremy felt blood rush to his groin, a surge of desire washing over him as he took in the sight of the woman. Her intense eyes, her delectable pale white skin, her lustrous hair, her deep red lips… and the fine pointed fangs peeping out from between them.

He should have been terrified. Somewhere in the depths of his animal mind, he knew that he was the tiniest of prey in the presence of an apex predator, but by then the pheromones had taken hold.

The ancient stories of vampires hypnotizing their victims to do their bidding were not all that far from the truth when you got right down to it. Sure, it was a chemical process rather than actual hypnosis, but like the venom of a certain species of spider, so was the pheromone emitted by a vampire when it needed to feed. It calmed the prey into a docile meal, one which need not be killed or damaged in a struggle, but rather utilized for a meal, then turned loose again. It was a highly efficient system, evolved over millennia to preserve a food source rather than wipe it out with every feast.

Jeremy felt himself awash in wave after wave of pure ecstasy as he stumbled closer to the beautiful yet deadly woman. His pulse raced so hard he could feel it pounding against his chest, his manhood fully engorged and rock-hard, throbbing with desire and increasing bliss. This was all he would ever need, all he ever wanted. Perfection, if only he could just get a little closer…

The sharp yank across his abdomen nearly took him off his feet.

With a nod to the camera, the attendant pulled Jeremy toward the exit while silent pneumatics slowly closed the lid to the silver box.

Before it shut, Jeremy turned and caught a final look, a glimpse of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen as she stared at him longingly, then was gone once more into her metal tomb.

It had taken hours for him to come down, and as Derek silently drove him back toward his condo, Jeremy could still feel the lingering effects of the woman’s presence.

The first visit had been Derek’s treat, and since he knew the owners, he had arranged a discounted rate for Jeremy should he want to return.

Should he want to return?

That was a laugh. It was far better than any drug imaginable. He would have sold his mother to feel the powerful flood of the mysterious woman’s energy again, even if but for a minute. Soon he was a regular, spending several nights a week recovering on the plush divans after seeing the woman, the creature he was quite sure he loved. Unfortunately, he also started burning through his resources far faster than he was earning. As he quickly discovered, to experience such a rare high, the price was extraordinarily steep. But he was already hooked.

Soon he began selling off assets to pay for his visits. First some artwork, then his watch collection, then, finally, he liquidated his retirement account. The line was crossed when he was caught skimming from trades to pay for his fix. It was an embarrassment, one that could hurt the hedge fund’s public reputation, so it was decided it would be kept quiet just this once, swept under the rug to save face for the company, but that reprieve came with a cost. With his now-former friend watching his disgraceful banishment, Jeremy was escorted from the building and told never to return again, lest he face criminal charges and imprisonment.

The rest of his story is pretty typical for an addict. He borrowed from anyone he could, burning many bridges and ruining many friendships in the search for enough money for just one more fix. He stole when he had to, sinking lower and lower, eventually winding up on the streets, where he scraped and scrounged until finally, he found himself where he stood today.

The building was nestled in the bad part of a bad part of town, but so long as the heavily tattooed doorman was at his post, that would be all the security the establishment needed. The neighborhood toughs knew better.

Jeremy had paid a pretty penny to acquire this address. The secret was guarded. Closely guarded and very costly to come by, but it would be worth it. There was no way he could remotely afford to see his true love, not in his current state, but if he could just get one more fix, just enough to get him through, he knew he could get back on his feet and find a proper job, one that would pay him handsomely for his skills. Enough to see her once more.

For now, this would have to suffice.

Jeremy shuffled to the door, hands in plain sight as he approached the deadly looking gatekeeper.

“Whatchoo want motherfucker?” the man challenged, his hand slipping under his coat, fingers tickling what Jeremy knew was surely a weapon of deadly caliber and bloody history.

“I’m here for a lemonade.”

The man’s posture changed. “You know lemonade don’t come cheap.”

Jeremy slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of cash. The doorman sized him up silently. Jeremy felt the adrenaline leaking into his bloodstream as the man stared at him. What’s to stop him from just killing me and taking… He didn’t get to finish the thought when the man gave him a nod, reached out and peeled a hundred off the roll, and stuck it in his pocket, then opened the door for him.

“Don’t you go making no fuss now.”

And with that he was in.

Unlike the high-end digs he was accustomed to, this place was a shithole. Filthy walls, floors sticky with Lord knows what nastiness, several strung-out looking men and women flopped down on the leaking beanbag chairs and threadbare couches haphazardly spread about the room.

At the far end was a man watching a football game on a small TV propped on the desk next to a metal door. There was a hole in the door, no bigger than a fist, with a rope running through it.

“You just gonna stand there?” the annoyed man called out to Jeremy. “Come on, halftime’s almost over. I ain’t got all day.”

Jeremy stepped over a blissed-out woman with gold teeth and made his way to the sweaty man.

“Cash money, up front. Let’s see it.”

He forked over the wad and watched as the man counted it out. It had taken him weeks of borrowing, begging, and even thieving to scrape up enough, and for the briefest of moments, the thought entered his mind that he should take the money and use it to get back on his feet again. It was a sizable enough amount, but his primal, addict brain overruled that fleeting thought.

“Okay, you’re good to go,” the man said, rising to tie a rope around Jeremy’s waist. “Don’t make me yank your ass outta there.”

The door opened with a squeal as the old hinges protested the strain, then he was in the room alone. The rope around his waist fed out through the hole in the door, held by the attendant as he watched through a narrow metal slit at eye level. No fancy respirators here, they were doing it old-school.

“Come on motherfucker, get it over with. Games’s starting back up,” the attendant impatiently urged.

Jeremy smelled the man before he saw him.

Across the room, chained to the wall.

No beautiful silver box.

No perfectly dimmed mood lights.

Just a foul creature standing in its own filth. Soiled rags dangled from his emaciated frame, wild, unfocused eyes darted about the room, peering out from under the greasy hair hanging in front of his face. Jeremy took a step forward. His foot made a sickening sticky peeling sound as it moved. He steeled himself and took another step.

“Yeah, that’s right!” the man outside the door shouted at the TV, startling him. “First down, bitches!”

The rope went tight around Jeremy’s waist as he took another step. “Hey, some slack here!” he called out to the preoccupied man.

The rope loosened.

Eight steps in, it hit him, the first warm rumbling in his groin, his face flushing with that familiar sensation. “Oh God, yes,” was all he could manage to say. He knew he couldn’t get too close, but it just felt so good.

Just a little closer, he thought as he took another step. The sensations strengthened, his pulse pounded, and all worries began to melt away like a piece of ice dropped on a hot desert highway.

“Come on, pass the damn ball!” Jeremy barely noticed the man’s voice from the other side of the door. He also failed to notice the lack of tension on the rope around his waist.

One step closer. Too close. The rope was still slack, but he didn’t care as wave after wave of bliss rushed over him, bathing him in indescribable pleasure. He’d never been this close, felt this good. It was perfection. He never wanted to leave.

The emaciated creature’s distant gaze shifted, his randomly darting eyes settling down, narrowing as they focused on the man in front of him. A spark flickered behind them as Jeremy met his gaze. Yellowed fangs peeked out as a smile slowly spread across the creature’s face.

“Yes, okay,” Jeremy mumbled as he took one more step. “Just one last fix.”

The Lesbian Farmers of Quagshire

Far from the gleaming and cramped cities, packed hundreds of stories high and chock-full of humanity in all its many forms, was the quiet throwback to the past, the Township of Quagshire.

Out in the distant hills of Quag, near an area that was once known as Wales, the air lacked that visceral electric buzz the big city folk had long ago ceased to even notice. No airships or hover-cars buzzed the skies, nor did trip-hopping youth blare out their psych-fusion rock from embedded media devices. Indeed, for all intents and purposes, it appeared that way out in Quag, the wheels of progress seemed to lack the basic social-technological lubricant needed to keep up with the rest of society. While the throwback way of life had certain benefits, it had several drawbacks as well.

The day was like most others in the region this time of year; the skies dotted with clouds, the weather cool and a wee bit damp, but not particularly rainy.

Tamara Baird was minding her own business, as was her way, working the land that had been in her family for more than two-dozen generations. On this particular day, she eschewed her usual flowery dress in favor of a pair of well-worn dungarees, the faded denim rippling gently against her curves as the smooth material easily shifted to fit her familiar shape, the fibers softened over many years of wear and hand-washing.

The faint hum reached her ears while she dug in the modest carrot patch out back of the main house, a smudge of loamy soil decorating her cheek like an old-time soldier’s war paint. The hum grew louder, and Tamara put down her small shovel and stood tall, her hands on her hips as she watched the shiny black hover car approach.

   Only a few people in the area had them, most preferring (or only able to afford) terrestrial means of transport, but as the vehicle drew near, she didn’t even need to see the license plates to know full well that this particular conveyance belonged to the firm of local developer Rutherford Corning.

The blowhard foreigner was nothing if not persistent in his attempts at her familial plot, his repeated legal assaults and character attacks not gaining traction in a region none too fond of interlopers. Still, his money was much coveted by some on the Township Council, and that made him dangerous. Dangerous, connected, and wealthy. Just the sort of challenge she welcomed.

On this particular occasion, she noted as the passengers exited the vehicle hovering inches above the ground, he appeared to be joined by none other than the local Council Chairman and moral busybody, Reverend Donagh Howell.

This should be interesting, she thought.

“Ms. Baird,” Corning called out as the men approached, treading carefully in their expensive shoes as they walked over the damp soil. “I’m back, and before you do anything foolish, I’ll have you know that this is official Council business, conducted with full backing of the Council, and the parish as well, I might add,” he said, gesturing to the frocked man at his side.

“Aye, and what new business have ye here this time, ye toupéed twally?” she asked, throwing him some shade in broad tones for a laugh.

“You know why we’re here, Ms. Baird,” he replied. “You are living in an amoral state, in direct violation of local parish rules. As such, your lands are subject to forfeiture and seizure by the Township under the local moral turpitude provisions.”

“Och, you’re going to use outdated laws to take my farm, are you?”

“Indeed.” The man flashed a smug and smarmy grin. “We know you’ve been living in sin with another woman,” he said, pausing to see the shock register on her face. To his disappointment, she batted nary an eyelash. “As I was saying, the practice of sapphic acts is explicitly forbidden in local ordinances, not to mention being an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.”

She looked him over coolly.

“You don’t strike me as much of a moral man, Mr. Corning. In fact, I seem to recall hearing something about your most recent trophy wife having been in some racy photo sessions back in her modeling days. Of course that’s why you pick the ones from the Slavic areas, eh? Getting gold-digging foreigners to do the jobs none of your country’s own women want, I suppose.”

   “Now that’s quite enough!” Reverend Howell hissed, his cheeks red with indignation. “Mr. Corning is a valuable investor in our Township, and his plans will be a boon to the region!” The nasty little man took a breath, then changed his tone. “Look, this doesn’t have to be such a difficult process. I’m sure it’s trying on you. This sort of thing can ruin a person’s reputation, so perhaps you’d be happier foregoing this unpleasantness and simply accepting Mr. Corning’s generous offer for your land. We needn’t dig into your personal life any further, but if you force us to proceed, any results of this inquest will be immediately binding and public record for all to see.”

“How you manage to remain the one parish still adhering to those backward and astoundingly outdated laws when the rest of the country has long been inclusive to people regardless of persuasion truly astounds me,” she said, disgusted with both men. “Join the rest of the country, why don’t you? There are far more important issues than people’s sexuality for you to deal with. The low-income children, for example, or homelessness…”

“We told you before,” Corning interrupted, “we’d be back with Council warrant for Truth Validation and National DNA Identity Confirmation to back it.” The man flashed a serpent’s smile.

“You already know my thoughts on that,” she coolly replied.

“Yes, but I see you don’t have your shotgun with you this afternoon.”

She smiled at him. Behind her calm façade, he noted there was something a little scary in her eyes.

“I left it in the house, but to be fair it, was only loaded with rock salt last time,” she said, studying the men. “Just because you may fancy yourself a big man out here in the country, you should know my kin in London are quite well connected and won’t take kindly to your meddling in our family land.”

“If you’ve violated the local laws, it will no longer be your family land, and there will be nothing you, your family, or anyone can do about it,” Corning gloated, cocksure and arrogant. “The results of this test are validated by your DNA, are one hundred percent accurate, are completely irrefutable, and are immediately binding under the law.”

“I’m fully aware,” she said, still looking quite calm.

The Reverend removed a small bright metal device from the folds of his cloak and held it out for her.

“Ms. Baird, if you’d be so kind as to hold this in your palm. Please place your thumb here and answer the questions asked.”

She took the device, feeling the smooth metal hum slightly as it tracked her emotions, pulse, and blood pressure. There was a tiny prick as the fine needle sampled her blood and retracted back into the device, running it wirelessly through the DNA validation databases. She watched as a green light flashed on the screen next to her name. “Tamara Baird, DNA confirmed,” the machine chirped in a thin metallic voice.

“So,” began Corning, “this is your family farm?”

“Yes, it is,” she replied.

The Reverent looked at the read-out tablet in his hands, “Baseline established for true answers,” he said.

“Well let’s not dilly-dally then, shall we? Are you a lesbian, Ms. Baird?” Corning asked, expectant glee in his eyes.

“No, I am not.”

A broad smile grew as the developer felt his plan coming together. Soon the land would be his, and without having to spend any credits at all.

“It’s illegal to lie,” he chuckled, “so thank you for that. This land will very soon be mine.”

A puzzled look crossed the Reverend’s face as he scrutinized the machine. “It says she is telling the truth.”

 “Impossible,” Corning blurted, his face reddening. “Ms. Baird, have you ever been intimate with a member of the same sex?”

“No, I have not.”

“True again,” said the Reverend.

A vein started throbbing visibly on Corning’s forehead as the shocked man studied her, truly baffled. A flash of a small, wicked smile flickered behind Tamara’s eyes, and, much to his consternation, he realized she was actually enjoying this.

“We have multiple reports of you consorting with a female farmhand. Do you deny this?” he continued, determined to catch her in a falsehood.

“Yes,” she replied.

“She’s telling the truth.”

“Wait, ‘yes’ you deny it, or ‘yes’ you have consorted with a female farmhand?”

“Yes I deny it. I have never been with a female farmhand. In fact, I’ll make this easy for you. I have never been with a woman, never been attracted to women, and am happily involved in a relationship with a man, with whom I have intimate relations on a regular basis. There, does that clear things up for you?”

They looked at her, stunned. The machine lit up green and pinged.

“True,” said the Reverend.

Corning’s face began to turn crimson, the veins on his forehead commencing to throb with renewed might as he saw his grand plans for this plot of land going up in smoke.

“The machine must be broken,” he stammered.

“No, it’s working,” replied the Reverend. “The scan confirms DNA identity, Tamara Baird, female, owner of the Baird Family Farm, has answered all questions truthfully.”

The men looked at one another, confused.

“Excuse me,” interrupted Tamara. “You did say the results were now public record and immediately and fully legally binding, did you not? Well then, I do believe at this point it is time for you gentlemen to get off my family land.”

Corning gave her a scorching look, but the cool gaze she returned immediately extinguished any heat he tried to throw her way.

“This isn’t over,” he growled.

“Actually, according to your own laws, it is,” she gloated. “And gentlemen,” she said as she fixed them with a somewhat unsettling stare, “the next time you trespass, the shotgun won’t be loaded with salt.”

The defeated men sulked as they piled into their vehicle and headed back to the Corning offices, leaving the Baird Farm in their hover car’s dusty magneto field wake. As they rounded the bend and passed out of view, a voice came from the cellar door.

“Are they gone?”

“Aye, you two can come out now.”

Emerging from the cellar hand in hand climbed Dana, a lovely and rather zaftig farmhand, her auburn hair in a tight ponytail, along with her girlfriend, a woman in a floral dress and pigtails, who just so happened to be the spitting image of the woman in dungarees. The real Tamara Baird.

“Clara, that was brilliant!” Tamara gushed as she scooped up her twin in a massive hug.

“Yeah, we really can’t thank you enough,” Dana agreed, gratitude shining in her big blue eyes.

Clara smiled at them both as she shed her dungarees in favor of the stylish workout tights underneath them,

“Hey, you mess with my sister, you mess with me,” she laughed. It was a light and airy sound, but the fiercely protective look in her eye conveyed the impression she might not have been joking about the shotgun after all.

“Can you stay for supper?” Tamara asked.

“I wish I could, but Brian and the boys are waiting for me to get back. Maybe you two can come to London next week?”

“We’d love to. Send them our love in the meantime.”

“Will do.”

Moments later, Clara’s shiny new hover car emerged from the barn and turned southwest as she headed back to the hustle and bustle of the big city, knowing that, for the time being at least, the lesbian farmers of Quagshire were once more safe in their home.

Huh

As she emerged from the bright fluorescent glare of the hospital’s lobby, the first thing that really struck her was how fresh the air smelled. Okay, technically that was the second thing that struck her that day, the first being the large piece of decorative plaster façade that had come loose from the old bank building downtown and smacked her something good on her noggin earlier that morning. So the second thing that struck her was the fresh air.

Oh my, she thought as she breathed in deep, filling her nose and lungs with the crisp air, that’s a whole lot better than that horrid antiseptic stink!

Madeline Dunleavy could have taken a cab home straightaway, at least now that she knew where home was, but she felt the urge to just be. To walk the streets for a bit. To let her mind and body relax. For someone who had a moderate concussion and a rather disturbing case of amnesia, it was a somewhat unlikely choice, but off she went, straight from the hospital to enjoy an afternoon stroll.

They had told her that she had been doing nothing at all when passersby called out a warning just before she took a chunk of building to the head. Really, they were surprised she hadn’t been more seriously hurt.

“You’re one lucky lady!” they’d told her when she woke up, finding strangers in white coats icing her head. Fortunately, there was no need for stitches, the skin only mildly bruised. “Now tell us, honey, what’s your name? Is there someone we can call?”

“Uh…” was all Madeline could manage.

“Oh dear,” the nurse replied.

They spent the next several hours checking in on her to see if she remembered anything, but to no avail. It seemed she was brought in unconscious and simply didn’t have the slightest clue who she was.

“Wait a minute,” she blurted. “Don’t I have a purse or something?”

“Well yes, but I checked it already. There was nothing in it but an uneaten croissant and a few napkins. You must’ve just picked it up for breakfast when you took that knock.”

Madeline scrunched her brow. That didn’t seem right.

“Let me take a look,” she requested.

“Alright, but I told you, I already checked.” The nurse opened the drawer next to the bed and pulled out a large white plastic bag for personal possessions. “Here ya go,” she said as she handed over the purse from within.

Madeline hefted the bag, feeling the weight in her grip. It seemed far too light. There had to be something in it, why would she go out with so little? And a croissant? Sure they’re a tasty treat, but how had she paid for it? She dug her hands through the purse. Nope, nothing. Frustrated, she was about to zip it closed when she noticed a tear in the fabric liner.

“Hmm, I wonder…” she muttered as she stuck her fingers into the gap. They brushed against a small wallet.

“Hey, look what I found,” she chirped, triumphantly.

“That’s so weird, I know I searched every inch of that thing.”

Madeline wasn’t listening, but instead had the wallet open in her lap, examining the contents. It contained exactly what she had expected. A driver’s license and a key tucked into one of the small card pockets.

“Madeline Dunleavy,” she said, getting the feel for the name, rolling it in her mouth like a nice smoky whiskey. “I’m Madeline Dunleavy. Nice to meet you.”

The nurse took her hand and shook it.

“Nice to make your acquaintance Madeline. Does that have an address for you? I looked for a phone to call someone in your contacts, but you don’t seem to have one. How weird is that? I guess it must’ve gotten lost when you were hurt.”

“Must’ve,” Madeline replied.

With the patient seeming in perfect health aside from her steadily retreating amnesia, the doctors felt it was reasonable for her to be released to her own home, now that she had an address to return to.

“If you have any blurred vision, dizziness, vomiting, or unusual physical issues, check back with us tomorrow,” they said as she exited the hospital.

“Will do,” she replied as she slipped on her light coat and walked out of the bright fluorescent lights and into the fresh air.

A breath of fresh air.

In this case it actually was as breath of fresh air that was a breath of fresh air, and with her lungs happily filled with some choice O2, Madeline began strolling in the general direction of her apartment (at least that’s what the nice man with the smartphone told her).

The day seemed so vibrant, the colors popped, the smells resonated in her nose, captivating her with their myriad aromas as she passed bakeries, flower stores, and cafes. Of course, she thought, it might just be the head injury, but the afternoon really seemed special. She almost felt as if she hadn’t experienced a day like this in a long, long time, and it was hitting the spot perfectly.

The small park she decided to take a meandering long-way-home stroll through had the wonderful, earthy fragrance of fresh grass and slightly damp soil. The good parts of nature filled the air with awesome, and as she looked at the trees gently swaying in the cool breeze, she noticed a flock of birds flying high above.

Such beautiful creatures, birds, she marveled as she watched them soar. I wish they’d fly lower so I could get a better look at them. No sooner had the thought passed her mind than she noticed a brightly colored parrot nestled on a branch, it’s green and yellow feathers almost invisible among the leaves.

“Hey little fella, what are you doing up there?” she asked the bird.

He (or she, you really can’t tell with parrots, so let’s just call it a boy for the sake of convenience) noticed the human talking to him and fluffed up his feathers a moment, then flew down toward her, landing on a water fountain nearby.

“Aren’t you adorable,” she cooed.

“Pretty bird!” he replied.

“And you speak! Aww, you must’ve flown out of someone’s window. Polly want a cracker?” she asked with a little grin. “Well, I don’t actually have any crackers, but I can give you a piece of my croissant. I don’t know if birds like French pastry, though.”

“Oui, oui, for me!” the bird replied.

“Oh my, you’re a clever little thing, aren’t you?”

She dug in her purse and held out the crispy end for the bird to nibble on. Rather than cautiously snatching it from her hand, as she expected, he hopped up on her arm and happily chewed her offering before walking up to her shoulder and settling in.

“You’re a friendly one. I think I’m going to take you home, it wouldn’t be right to leave you out here to fend for yourself. Would you like that?”

“Like that!” the bird said.

“Such an odd little guy. Okay, off we go. I think I’ll call you Walter. That seems like a good name for now.”

Apparently, having a parrot on your shoulder, especially a rather chatty one, makes you a lot of friends on the street, and Madeline found herself engaged in conversations with just about everyone she passed. The grizzled biker softened when she walked by, telling her of the time his parrot had a heart attack and he made the paramedics do mouth-to-beak resuscitation at knifepoint. The kids on skateboards tried talking shit to the bird, only to find her winged minion had a far fouler vocabulary than they could ever hope to acquire.

“And who taught you that?” she had asked, both amused and slightly abash at Walter’s sailor-like rant.

Passing a small farm-stand shop, Walter flapped his wings and leapt into an open barrel of peanuts, happier than a proverbial pig in shit (or parrot in peanuts, as the case may be).

“Walter, get out of there!” she chided the bird. He fixed his glossy eye on her a moment, looked back at the mountain of edible treasure, then having made up his bird mind, snatched one last nut and flew to her shoulder.

“Now that’s something I don’t see every day,” the shopkeeper said, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. Ultimately, he settled on a combination of both.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll pay for those, of course. In fact, I should buy him some for later anyway. He can’t go on eating French pastry every meal after all. I’ll take a pound, please.”

The shopkeeper gave her an odd look, then bagged up the nuts for her.

“That’ll be $2.50, tax included.”

She dug in her wallet, only to realize there was no money in it. She’d noticed that when she first discovered it but that inconvenient little fact had slipped her mind entirely.

“I’m sorry, hang on, maybe I have some change somewhere,” she said, fishing around in her light coat’s hip pockets. She pulled out lint, a rubber band, and some pocket sand. She was about to give up when her fingertip grazed a balled-up piece of paper.

“Can you break this?” she asked as she unfolded the hundred-dollar bill.

Stepping into her apartment, she found the place was everything she would have expected her apartment to be. She may have lost her memory, but apparently her taste was exquisite.

Beautiful artwork graced the walls, classic lined furniture tied the rooms together, and her fridge was stocked with much more than just shelves of condiments. When she walked through her bedroom, she noted a man’s button-down shirt, crumpled from obvious use as a nightgown.

“What do you think, Walter?” she said, walking back to the kitchen and putting the bird on the kitchen counter. “Do I have a boyfriend?”

As if on cue, a key turned in the lock, and a dark-haired man with a sexy five o’clock shadow shouldered the door open. His sleeves were rolled up and his tie was askew as he carried in armloads of takeout Italian food, a bouquet of flowers, and a bottle of wine.

“Oh, you’re home!” he said, startled. “I guess I’m busted. I was going to surprise you with Italian tonight.”

“Who’s the boy? Who’s the boy?” Walter chimed in, saying out loud what Madeline was thinking. It’s kind of embarrassing after all, having to ask your boyfriend his name.

“You got a parrot?”

“Yeah, I found him on the way home. His name’s Walter.”

“Hi Walter, I’m Donovan.”

Donovan, she ran the name through her mind. I like the sound of that. He seems like a good fella, even brought me food. I wonder how good he is in the sack.

After dinner, she found out.

She was most certainly not disappointed.

Once he cleared the table and did the dishes (he insisted she not raise a finger), he slowly undressed her as he led her to the queen-sized bed, pausing as her shed articles of clothing left swaths of delectable flesh exposed and longing for attention.

He caressed her body, both gentle yet rough, sensing what she wanted and responding in perfect synchronicity. When, after several wonderfully torturous minutes, their naked bodies finally became enmeshed in her luxurious bed, things only got hotter from there.

Donovan was relentless, bringing her to the brink of climax over and over, Madeline savoring every glorious moment until finally, her bed slamming fiercely, she came, bucking so hard the bed jumped from the floor, banging into the wall with a crash.

As they lay there sweaty in each other’s arms, she noticed the cracks in her wall, and ceiling.

Damn, she thought with a chuckle, came so hard we broke the place!

Shortly thereafter they fell into a sound (and well-deserved) sleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

The voices were what woke her up.

Madeline was comfortably resting when she heard the first of them. It was ever so faint, almost like a buzzing insect just out of reach.

What is that? She rolled to her side and put the pillow over her head.

No good.

The voices continued regardless, apparently immune to the muffling powers of feather down pillows.

“Hey,” she said, nudging Donovan.

“Hmm? What is it?” he asked groggily. “It’s Sunday, I don’t have to get up.”

“Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It sounds like voices.”

“Honey, go back to sleep, okay?” he said, curling back up and slipping once more into blissful unconsciousness.

Madeline, on the other hand, could do no such thing. She got to her feet and hopped in the shower. The voices followed her. In fact, they stayed with her as she poured a bowl of cereal, and got a little louder when she gave a small pile of Cheerios to Walter.

“You can hear them, can’t you Walter?”

“Talkie talkie,” said the bird.

“Good bird.”

Walking the streets at such an early hour on a Sunday, Madeline couldn’t help but feel relaxed by the lack of traffic noise in the air. Or at least she would have felt relaxed if not for the increasing clamor of voices. What had started as just a few faintly speaking in the distance had grown to what must have been at least a dozen, all talking at the same time, just beyond her ability to comprehend.

When she stopped to get a cappuccino, she asked the barista if she heard them. The answer was no, which was disconcerting. Adding insult to injury, Madeline was not amused when she saw the name that had been penned on her to-go cup.

“Crazy Bird Lady.”

“Crazy lady! Crazy lady!” Walter had opined just as she was ordering. Thanks Walter, she thought as she sipped the piping hot drink and stepped outside.

“Well,” she said out loud to no one in particular, “if I can’t get away from them…” With that, she started off down the street, using the voices as a sort of compass, following the sound as it got louder and louder.

By the time she had reached the front of the old church, the voices were in the dozens, and the volume was downright annoying.

“Seems to be coming from in there,” she said to her feathered friend. “Should we go in?”

“Going home! Going home!” Walter chirped.

Madeline stepped from the sidewalk onto the church grounds and stopped in her tracks. The voices, all seventy-eight of them she suddenly knew, were perfectly clear. Not only that, she could make out what each and every one of them was saying. All at once.

“Oh,” she said as things slammed into focus. She knew what had happened, her memory crystal clear.

Several blocks away, Madeline Dunleavy’s apartment disappeared.

As did her boyfriend.

As did every trace of her ever existing.

With a ruffle of his feathers, Walter too disappeared.

“Huh,” God said with an amused little shrug as she faded, albeit reluctantly, into the ether, heading back to work after her first real vacation in Lord knows how many millennia.

***

Many Thanks

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If you enjoyed my odd little tales, I humbly ask you to please take a moment of your time to rate this book, leave a review, or recommend it to a friend. Feedback from readers like you helps indie authors reach new audiences, and your support is greatly appreciated!

Thank you!

~ Scott ~

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