SUPER F**CKING HERO

A SUPER F**CKING HERO NOVELLA

JACK BRISTOL

CONTENTS

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

About the Author

Copyright © 2014 by Jack Bristol

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For my favorite superhero

ONE

THERE'S a guy on the ledge, looks like he's about to jump. And he is. But he's got a damn good excuse.

I know, because I'm that guy.

Check out the tights and cape. Slick, right? I look a ridiculous sort of hot. Like, you'd be swooning over me if this was a superhero movie, but if you saw me riding the bus, you'd assume I got on at the Crazy Town stop. That's if you're of the female persuasion. If you're a dude you'll recognize the cool factor involved. The whole ensemble is black. Black swirly cape. Black tights and boots. Black mask and shirt.

Okay, so almost all black. There's the matter of the huge red F on my chest. Doesn't matter, I still look cool.

Seriously cool.

I'm freezing my balls off. February will do that to a man in tights.

So let's go to the excuse, the reason I'm up on a ledge in the middle of one of those cold, starless nights.

It's the girl.

But you're out there alone, Super Fucking Hero, I hear you think. And … yeah, you're right. I'm a guy in tights at the top of … whatever this building is (twenty-something stories of offices and those shitty, cramped dog kennels they call cubicles), crouched and freezing my sack off.

But there is a girl.

Or, there's about to be.

In fact, here she comes right now.

Round the corner, carrying Chinese takeout, one of those messenger bags slung across her body.

One thing you should know about me—and I'll tell you this straight up, no bullshit—I'm kind of a pig. A woman is a girl until she's old enough to be my mom. If she's fuckable … she's a girl.

Hate me for it, that's okay. I'll charm my way back into your good graces later—if you've got what it takes to stick with me for the duration of this story.

Anyway. The girl. You'd call her a woman, but … you know.

See above.

I have super-duper vision thanks to the Super part of Super Fucking Hero. We'll get to how that happened later, because in a moment that girl is about to find herself in some serious trouble. She's a brunette. Long, dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. Skinny jeans (hard to get off, but man, they look goooood). Spectacular rack hiding under the leather jacket she's zipped up to her neck. Beautiful face in an old-school Golden Age of Hollywood way.

Exactly my type.

Most beautiful women are.

How do I know to be on this exact ledge at this exact moment?

Well, like Batman, I have an Alfred. Only my Alfred is the old Greek woman who lives below me. She doesn't buttle (buttle is what butlers do), iron my clothes, make my bed, or anything else Alfred does. But sometimes she cooks for me, and she's always there when I need her.

Mrs Margarita has superpowers of her own, namely something she calls her third eye.

No anal jokes. I take anal seriously and as often as possible.

Hold on a moment. Here comes the guy. Fateful meeting in five … four … three …

The dirtbag grabs her messenger bag on the way past. He flicks out a knife with a gleaming blade, intending to slice the strap.

And that's when I swoop down off the ledge, and knock him to the ground without his prize.

The girl jumps back. Squeals.

Underneath my rubber-covered bulk, the bad guy gurgles. Then he says something that sounds like, "Get the fuck off me!"

Yes, sir.

The moment I'm off him, he—predictably—takes a swing at me. But he misses because my fist is faster.

For those of you who are into superhero sound effects, it sounds like BIFF.

My punch sends him flying into an expired parking meter. I drop a couple of coins in the meter because it's a rust-mobile. Whoever owns it, doesn't look like they can afford the ticket. I cuff the guy, throw him into the alley for safekeeping. When I'm done here I'll dump him outside the precinct house and let the cops know they've got mail.

Now for the best part: the girl.

She's looking up at me, all wide-eyed and delicious. Petite with curves. A perfect handful of tits. Full lips—the kind that look spectacular wrapped around a hard cock.

Preferably mine.

"Oh," she gasps. "Are you?…"

"Yeah, baby, I'm a superhero. The name's Super Fucking Hero."

The beautiful face crumples. I've confused the poor girl. "That's your real name?"

No more than hers is "baby."

"It is when I'm wearing the suit, baby."

"Oh." Head tilt, like a puzzled damn dog. "And when you're not?"

Okay, I'll bite. She wants conversation before we get down to the second part of business—the fucking part in Super Fucking Hero. It's tedious, but it's all part of the game. A heroic rescue, where I snatch them out of danger's savage jaws, a little light banter (if I'm really lucky the girl is witty and bright; I love a girl who gives good wit), and that always leads to grand finale, the climax of our little adventure together: the sucking and fucking.

"When I'm not wearing the suit and rescuing beautiful women from danger?"

She bites her lip. I've got her.

Of course I do. I've got a mirror. I know how girls and women have been looking at me since I grew pubes and my voice got deeper. I'm the kind of guy you don't take home to your parents, because Mom wants to fuck me, and Dad's in his La-Z-boy, questioning his sexuality.

Let me paint you a picture. My talents don't extend to art, so humor me.

I'm six feet (exactly) of hard muscle. I've got an ass like Captain America and shoulders like I punch the shit out of bad guys for a living—which I kind of do. There's not much money in the superhero gig (unless you turn to the dark side), so I've got a day job, which I'll also get to later. My hair's a wicked shade of black, my eyes are dark blue, and when I tan it comes easy. Teeth? Naturally perfect. Not-so naturally white, but I guzzle coffee. So it's a lifetime addiction to Whitestrips for me. I turn heads and I walk like I own the world—which I don't, but it's a useful skill to cultivate. I look like a bad boy, but I'm a superhero—how bad can I be?

"You think I'm beautiful?"

They almost always ask that. It got old years ago—about six months after I started this superhero gig—but I've accepted it as part of the job, along with the cape and the big red F.

"Gorgeous. Stunning. Very sexy." I give her the old up-down look. My cock follows, much like the way a cat chases a laser pointer.

"What do I owe you—for saving my life?"

"Nothing." Look deeeeep into her eyes, SFH. Make her feel like she's the only woman in the world. Which she is, temporarily, until the next damsel in distress comes along. "So beautiful. Can I kiss you?"

TEN MINUTES LATER, she's sucking on my crank ten feet away from her would-be attacker, who's still out in la-la land. The Chinese food's getting cold while she's two fingers deep in her pussy, helping herself to a little me-time while she sucks.

She's good, I'll give her that. But I'm never gonna come this way. So those two fistfuls of soft, dark brown hair I'm holding? I tighten the reins and ride her mouth until she's spluttering and gagging on the end of my cock.

Gotta stop for a second. "You okay?"

She nods on my cock. Anything for the hot guy in the costume. That's consent enough for me. I keep fucking her face until the orgasm punches me in the balls and shoots down her throat.

She swallows like a champ. Probably figures the Kung Pao chicken will neutralize the taste.

Although I've been told as far as jizz goes, mine's mild-tasting.

Must be all that pineapple I throw on my pizza.

Yeah, I make my own pizza. Surprised? I'm twenty-six-years old—been taking care of myself for a while now.

I finish her off, kiss her forehead. And now here it comes. Wait for it …

"Will I see you again?"

"Sure, baby. Next time you're walking down a dark street alone, just look up." Then I flash her my biggest smile and escort her back to the street. I loop the bag of Chinese food over her wrist, thank her, and I melt back into the night.

Actually, the alley. There's still a scumbag to deal with.

Him I dump in front of the precinct house three blocks down. No mercy for guys who get their kicks picking on women, so when I say dump, I mean dump—from about ten feet up. I'd go higher, but I'm not a killing kind of guy.

I hear you asking, Why just a blow job, Super Fucking Guy? Why not an actual, well, fuck.

Time, my friends. Time.

See there's another damsel about to shoot up a distress flare. According to Mrs Margarita (she of the third eye) a group of college football assholes are waiting on their English literature professor to show up at her usual bar, where they're going to convince her to switch their fails to passes.

Mrs Margarita tells me it's going to end badly for her if I don't step in.

Oh, and apparently she's quite the looker, too.

Down in my tights, my cock is twitching. It's asleep, yeah, but it'll leap into position once it comes time for this next little lady to say her thankyous.

Not one girl has ever said no.

Ever.

In all the years—six—I've been doing this.

I know, I know—I'm the man.

Are you seeing the writing on the wall?

I'm not. I'm all about this suit, but my ego? His favorite outfit is blinders.

TWO

GOT TIME FOR AN ORIGIN STORY?

Go grab a drink, a cookie, a slice of pie. Whatever makes you happy while you read. Me, I like Twizzlers with a good book. I bite pieces off, a fraction of an inch at a time, until it's gone and I reach for another floppy stick.

I can't speak for those other superheroes, but this guy loves books.

What kind of books?

Uh … does it matter? Books are books, right?

If you glance at my nightstand and see a pile of romance novels …

Not mine.

They belong to the cleaning lady I don't have. She can't get enough of them. Always leaving them all over my apartment. And she never listens when I tell her to get rid of the things, because she doesn't exist.

Okay, okay, they're mine.

Happy?

I love romance novels. There, I said it.

Big, tough superhero loves him some romance novels.

What can I say, I like a happy ending.

(That innuendo? Completely intentional.)

Okay—deep breath—my origin story.

Here's what Wikipedia has to say about it:

After his mother was killed by a carjacker, the man now known as Super Fucking Hero vowed to fight violent crimes against women.

So there you have it. My origin story. In a very tiny nutshell.

There's really not much more to it than that. Those are the facts. Anything else is just emotional fluff. As you may have noticed, I'm not a guy who does fluff.

Except for the romance novels.

All you need to know is what's in that nutshell: my mother was murdered by a carjacker. I swore to fight violent crimes against women.

The end.

Where do I live?

Imagine a city near you.

THREE

QUIET STREET. Bar on the corner. Occasionally someone enters or leaves, and for a moment music and light pours through the crack before the door cuts off its life signs.

My bad guys drove to the scene of their imminent crime in a red Jeep. Late model. Still got that new car smell.

Before you get envious, consider that an enhanced sense of smell isn't always your friend. Don't believe me?

Someone recently unleashed a hot stream of piss on a nearby wall. And see those weed wannabes punching up between the concrete slabs of sidewalk? No fewer than seven dogs shit on them earlier today.

If I'm starving, the tantalizing aroma of fast food can push me to insanity's brutal edge.

Sometimes superpowers can be super-annoying.

But mostly they're awesome.

The college kids slam the Jeep's doors. They're huffing and rubbing their hands together, trying to make heat. Good news, fellas. Things are about to get warmer.

There's five of them, one of me. Two of them are about my size, one smaller, which leaves the last two. They're big, brawny. Built like tanks.

My cell phone shudders. Incoming message from Mrs Margarita.

Huh. One word: No.

What's that supposed to mean? It's all Greek to me. Yuk, yuk.

No time to fire off a question mark, because here comes the professor.

The bar's door opens, and out onto the grimy street steps an angel. In a world filled with beautiful girls, she's a knockout, a goddess, a … I … I'm all out of descriptors. Whatever the pinnacle of beauty looks like to you, multiply that by a thousand. Then double it.

My knees tremble. Which isn't good news for a guy crouching on top of a building. There's a lot of air between me and the hard sidewalk, even for a man who can fly.

Her hair is long, dark, glossy. Even at this distance I can tell it's soft from the way it bounces when she walks. Big, dark eyes. Full mouth. Perfectly rounded tits. It's winter but she's wearing a knee-length dress with knee-high boots. The boots are black, the dress red. And it hugs her like she was poured into it, one delectable inch at a time.

A heart-shaped ass, with just enough meat to sink my fingers into while I'm plowing into her holes. I imagine that long, dark hair bunched in my fist as I'm shooting my load.

My cock loves the idea. In fact, he's waking up in anticipation.

The beautiful professor has no idea that around that next corner there's a posse waiting on her.

There she goes.

The football goons push away from the Jeep, two of them immediately blocking the path. She steps toward the road, but there's meathead block set up there, too.

Backwards? No dice, thanks to four and five.

Her body language switches from confident to defensive.

One of the clowns speaks. "Professor Hart? You shouldn't be out here alone. Need a ride?"

"It's very thoughtful of you, but no."

That voice. It's a perfect match to her exterior. Low, husky, but with a bright, feminine lilt.

I can't fucking wait for her to scream, "Oh, Super Fucking Hero!"

"It's not safe for … for a woman like you to be walking home in the middle of the night."

"I can take care of myself."

The two assholes at the back lunge forward, grab one arm apiece. The clown with the mouth steps closer, until he's in ball-crunching distance. Either he's wearing a cup or he's stupid. He's failing English lit—how smart can he be?

Stupid kid yanks the front of her dress open.

Yeah, not gonna let him get any further than that.

When I drop out of the sky, it's behind the idiots gripping the professor's arms. Their heads make cool cymbals. Not so much a clanging sound, though. More of a dull, satisfying THUD.

"What the fuck, man?"

"Wrong superhero. He's down in Florida. I'm Super Fucking Hero, pansy boy."

I push the professor out of the way. She's whimpering. Poor girl. I'll make it up to her in a few minutes.

Now it's one against three.

"Bring it." I crook my finger.

I'll say this about them, they put up a good fight. The stupid ones usually do. They make clumsy moves, yeah, but they make them hard. These three throw out a few accurate shots, but in the end my score is higher. Not only do I hit harder and faster, but I brought weapons and other toys to this sidewalk party.

See this cool, sleek, black canister in my hand?

Watch.

I push the button on top, and out sprays a net that covers and scoops them up. I know it looks flimsy, but it's pretty much everything-proof. Only a couple of things can cut through the netting, and one of them is in the custody of Captain Kern at the precinct house.

The other one's at home. Only a dumbass brings a problem and its solution to a fight.

So now they're bagged and squirming on the sidewalk, I turn my attention to the professor. She's up against the wall, those big eyes wide, her mouth in a loose, shocked O.

"It's okay, baby. The cops'll take care of them."

I plant myself in front of her, flash her my you're-the-only-woman-in-the-world smile. And she could be. The girl is a goddess among goddesses. She might be the most stunning creature in the universe. My cock is in raging lust with her. He's busy pumping blood so he can get a better look.

"I'm Professor Hart. Professor Amy Hart."

"It's good to meet you, Amy. Sorry it had to be like this."

My gaze traverses her body, skimming those sweet curves.

"You saved me."

"I did."

"They were going to rape me."

"Well, they won't get that chance again."

Her breathing is slowly returning to normal. "How did you know?"

"It's what I do, baby."

"Amy."

Right. "Amy."

This is the part where she's supposed to fall into my arms and onto my hard cock. Instead, she pulls a phone out of her handbag and punches a string of numbers I know belongs to the local cab company.

"Hey now, I can fly you home—gratis."

"I can't impose. You've done enough already."

"No imposition. It would be my … pleasure." And hers.

She gives the cab company her current location, then tucks the phone away.

"It's not that I'm not grateful—I am …" She gives me a meaningful look. The one that says, 'Who the hell are you, anyway?'

I'm an obliging—and confused—guy. "Super Fucking Hero."

And what does she do? Laugh. The girl laughs. It's a wonderful sound—a lot how I imagine angels trumpeting—but still. She's laughing. Not with me—at me.

"Super Fucking Hero? Really?"

"Hey, I'm the good guy here."

"I'm sure you are." She squints at me. "But … what is it that you do?"

Now I'm getting defensive. My arms fold, my stance widens. See? Defensive.

"I save girls from violent crimes."

"Girls? That's infantilizing. I'm nearly thirty, Super Fucking Hero. That makes me a woman."

Despite the bad rap I'm getting, my cock is fucking dying to leap out. He's banging his head against the suit.

Undeterred, I rest my elbow on the wall and lean in, moving my mouth closer to her ear. She shivers under the heat of my breath. Progress, at last.

"I'll call you anything you want, Professor Amy Hart. What say we get out of here, go someplace warmer?"

My free hand roams to her waist. Her breathing quickens. Those dark eyes dilate. Fuck, she smells like hot chocolate, the kind with those tiny marshmallows. Beneath the sweetness there's that musky heat every straight, sexually active male recognizes. The scent of hot, wet, cock-hungry pussy.

Oh yeah, she wants me.

"My cab."

"Cancel it."

"My cab—it's here."

She shoves me out of the way. "Thank you, Super Fucking Hero." Her lips twitch as she says it. "I do appreciate your help. Goodnight."

Then she—and the cab—vanish into the night, leaving nothing behind but the thin smoky trail of pollution.

Oh, and my blue fucking balls.

The ache is radiating up my spine. All that testosterone wants to punch something then fuck it. Even that crack in the ground is starting to look good.

My cell phone shivers.

Mrs Margarita. Another girl's about to be in a world of hurt.

Not if me and my cock can help it.

FOUR

BACK IN MY lair-slash-apartment, I'm licking my metaphorical wounds with some downtime on the couch, a beer, and a piece of Mrs Margarita's spinach-and-cheese pie.

The woman herself is the approximate age of dirt, with the fortitude of steel. Sometimes I get the feeling that she and the universe were created around the same time. She's tiny, gently rounded, and her entire wardrobe is black. Greek women turn to the dark side of the closet after their husbands die.

Right now she's giving me the third degree.

But that's cool, because I've got pie and beer.

"What did I say? I say, 'Super Fucking Hero, this girl will not do the sex with you.' That is what I say. But did you listen? No. Because here you are crying into your weak, American beer. A Greek man would never drink a Coors Light."

"What do Greek guys drink?"

"The tears of their enemies."

Is she kidding? I can't tell. That's the thing with Mrs Margarita; there's a sense of humor stuffed inside her fluffing coating, but it's often indistinguishable from her steel-clad admonishments.

"Too bad I don't have any enemies."

"Of course you have enemies. And a good thing, too. A man without enemies has not lived. Only through living—and living well—do we collect people who want to cut out our hearts and feed them to the gypsy dogs."

She walks her own road does Mrs Margarita, and I get the distinct feeling it's paved with severed body parts.

I put my feet up on the coffee table—my coffee table!—and she has the audacity to give them a dirty look.

"All right then, who are my enemies?"

Arms folded, her mouth falls into a satisfied line. "I will tell you, smarty pants. The people you put in jail."

I wave a hand. "They're in jail."

"Some of them, yes, but not all of them stay there. It is only a matter of time until they come looking for this Super Fucking Hero."

"Okay, so that's one." By my reckoning at least. I can outwit those boneheads anyway. We're not talking major league villains, but idiots who don't have the smarts to take on real crime. If they really wanted to screw people over they'd get white collar jobs in the financial sector. "Who else?"

"These women you do the sex with. Do not tell me not one of them is bitter about being used and dumped."

"Hey, it's a reciprocal transaction!" I drag myself into an upright position, feet off the table. "I save them, they get to bump uglies with a sexy, gorgeous, mysterious superhero. How is that not awesome and fair?"

Humph! That's what she gives me: Humph! That's not even a word. It's a sound effect.

"What about your nemesis?"

"Nemesis? What nemesis?"

She pokes a finger at her bun-tortured head. "Think, boy. Think. Use your head—the one on your shoulders. You are a superhero. All superheroes have at least one nemesis."

"I don't."

"Of course you do. Nature likes balance. She does not make a superhero without also making a supervillain."

"So it's ying and yang, that's what you're saying?"

"Do I look like I speak the Chinese?"

Let's see: black dress, black shoes, black knee-high stockings. No—I'm pretty sure—bra. Shudder. Long hair dragged back into a bun. Nope, looks like an old Greek grandma to me.

I shake my head. "So you're saying I have an … an opposite? A Super Fucking Villain?"

"Somewhere, yes."

"Jesus." Horrible thought, isn't it? Out there somewhere is some asshole in whatever it is supervillains wear (probably leather), showing the ladies a bad time. "Great pie," I say, holding up the plate. Not much left of it now. A few crumbs. I'd lick them up if I was alone. But I'm not. So what do I do? Look at them mournfully and hope she gets the hint.

"You want more spanakopita?"

Head bobbing like a good doggie: "Yes, please."

"It is in the kitchen. Go and get it if you want it."

Definitely not an Alfred. That guy in the bat suit has no idea how easy he's got it. Nobody wipes my ass except me.

I get some more pie—and make Mrs Margarita a cup of Greek coffee while I'm there—then it's back to the couch with my allegedly sissified beer.

"So where is this guy, my nemesis?"

Mrs Margarita closes her eyes. This, she's told me before, is so she can open her third eye. Apparently it can't see too well if the others are open. Once I asked her if it wears sunglasses when she goes outside, but she flicked my ear with her pointer finger and thumb.

"You will meet him soon."

"Soon tomorrow? Next week? Five minutes from now?"

Please let him give me time to finish this pie and beer.

Eyes still closed, she says, "Who knows?"

"You know. You. You're my Alfred."

She glares at me.

"My Lois Lane?" Ewww, no.

The glare is softening.

"I know. You're the Brain to my Pinky."

Now the poor woman just looks confused. "Stop before you injure yourself. Women, yes, I know when they are in danger. But this different. This is a nemesis we are talking about. Also, your SuperCouncil want to see you."

Fuck. Fuuuuuuuuck.

"How do you know?"

She nods at my front door. Sure enough, someone bangs out five beats in a super-secret code.

I take the beer with me. This beer and I, we're going everywhere together until it's finished.

Let's hit the pause button for a moment. Nobody in this world—that I know of—goes superheroing alone. We may work alone, but there's still a higher power. And that power is the SuperCouncil.

Council. Very Anglo of them. When you meet them you'll understand.

They're kind of a governing entity. They assign jurisdiction (can't have too many superheroes in one place, otherwise things get weirdly competitive—go figure) and make sure we live up to our names.

Otherwise …

Let's just say there are stories. None of them end well.

Back to the situation afoot. Sometimes I can't help being an ass. It's the boy in me.

Don't look at me like that. Every guy's got the little bastard he used to be still living inside him somewhere. If you know any man intimately—not necessarily sexually—you've met his inner little bastard.

Mine leans against the door, beer in hand, and says, "Who is it?"

Silence. He's already seething, I can tell.

Who? You're about to find out.

"You know who it is," the guy on the other side of my front door says, sounding like he ate a fistful of helium-filled balloons. He didn't—that's how he always sounds.

It's like Mike Tyson. That guy is big, tough. Taking on Mike Tyson is like playing chicken with a semi-trailer when you're riding a skateboard. But when he opens his mouth? Dude sounds like a lady.

"No cookies," I say. "Thanks, though."

"Super—Super—" He lowers his voice. No doubt after furtively glancing left and right in case of foot traffic. "Fucking Hero. It's me and you know it."

"I know a lot of guys called me. I'm one of them."

"Messenger Boy," he mutters. Uh oh, sounds like he's about to go Chernobyl.

So I cut the guy some slack. I've toyed with him enough. I fling the door open, and with a big, theatrical flourish, I invite Messenger Boy into my home.

Two things.

One:

Ever see The Sound of Music? Remember that little Nazi bastard Rolf? The one who wanted to roll in the hay with the Captain Von Trapp's eldest daughter Liesl?

Messenger Boy's costume bears an uncanny resemblance to Rolf's, while he was still delivering telegrams.

Thing number two: The names we're assigned are our names for life—or until retirement. You don't get to be Wall Puncher one week, Superman the next.

A quick aside in a story filled with asides: There is, in fact, a Wall Puncher. He works for the New York Fire Department. They find him useful to have around, in case someone's trapped behind, you know, a wall.

In Messenger Boy's case, he joined the SuperCouncil's cause when he was just a kid. Now he's staring down the barrel of forty, and he's still Messenger Boy.

It's a tough break.

Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

He wafts into the room like a malodorous odor in his WW2 era telegram delivery outfit ala Rolf. Mrs Margarita, I notice, has vanished. Shows how much she thinks of Rolf—uh, Messenger Boy, too.

"I can't believe a shitstain like you lives in a place like this."

That's what he says. In my castle.

Anyone else and I'd show him the door that looks suspiciously like a window. Mostly because it is a window. A huge window. But all my windows are huge.

Oops. I haven't told you about my place, have I? I forget these things. I don't really define myself by where I live or what I do when I'm not fucking extremely grateful, beautiful girls.

It's a penthouse. Yawn. How very every story ever—right? Rich guys who live in penthouses are littering the pages of popular literature all over the place these days. You can't throw a rock in a bookstore without hitting one. Unless it's a Borders. Throw all the rocks you like in there. I can guarantee you won't hit a single book.

Anyway. Penthouse. The entire floor, natch. It belonged to my parents. After my mother was killed, my father … Let's go with "flipped out."

With Mom dead and Dad "flipped out," that left just me at home.

In fact, I still sleep in my old room. I can't bring myself to get rid of their things, no matter how many years slide by.

I buy a new TV regularly, though. And all the latest gadgets. It's harder to be a superhero without gadgets. I'm not from an alien planet like some of those guys. I need manmade things to keep in touch. Some of them come from places like Best Buy. The others … I have connections of the brilliant and innovative kind.

Mrs Margarita lives on the floor below me. The whole floor. When he was alive, her husband was carpet. Now he's gone and she's got me. Lucky woman, I know.

Honestly, I'm the lucky one.

So, my place. It's impressive. To other people, at least. To me it's just home.

"It's a hardship," I tell Messenger Boy, who, don't forget, just called moi a shitstain in my own home. "But someone has to do it. What do you want?"

Like it's killing him, he retrieves an envelope from his messenger bag. For a moment I get a quick flash back to earlier in the evening when that sweet, grateful girl was slobbering on my cock. That selfsame cock twitches at the memory.

He slaps the envelope on my chest, right where the capital F goes. "The SuperCouncil wants to see you."

"I'll call and make—"

"Ha-ha. No. Appointment's made. Seven p.m. tomorrow." Then he's gone like the fart he is.

Shit. Fuck. Piss. Goddamn SuperCouncil.

I tear into the envelope like a wild man. It's one of those fancy things made of recycled toilet paper or something equally artsy fartsy. Which means it's lumpy and chunky and probably costs more per box than a seat at the SuperBowl. Wiping with this thing now would be as comfortable as that ass bleaching some women do these days.

I don't get it. But there's a lot I don't get. As long as the hole is willing, I'm in.

Back to the letter. Sure enough, the SuperCouncil wants to see me. Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock.

Reason?

Not living up to my superhero name.

Fuck. FUCK. That professor! My first fuckless "Thank you" in … EVER, and the SuperCouncil heard about it like this. Imagine me snapping my fingers, which is exactly what I'm doing.

"What are you doing?"

Oh look, it's Mrs Margarita, and she's come out of hiding. Convenient.

"Snapping my fingers."

"I see that. Why are you snapping your fingers?"

"You make me feel like dancing?"

"Go to bed," she says. "Get some sleep. You have to work in the morning."

"Thanks, Alfred," I say. "Glad I've got you to take care of me."

She leaves, muttering, "Alfred, Alfred," as she goes.

Secretly she loves it.

Bed. Now that Mrs Margarita has put the idea in my head, I'm yawning. I drain the beer, double-check my alarm, and spent the next few hours wrestling with the bedcovers.

The SuperFuckingCouncil. They're gonna nail my cock to the wall. And that's if I'm lucky.

FIVE

THREE IN THE MORNING. Can't sleep. Television on. Channel surf.

I fucking hate this movie. Dirty Dancing.

But that's what I wind up watching. I can't help it. I love Jennifer Grey's old nose. She was cute. Fuckable. Now she's every other plastic girl with her cut-to-order nose.

And Patrick Swayze is dead, so basically fuck this movie.

I like the dancing, though.

It's been a long time since I've danced with a girl. I haven't had a girlfriend since … well, since Hannah. Don't ask. It's not one of those stories with a happy ending. Girlfriends don't mix well with being Super Fucking Hero. Some of them claim to be openminded; hell, some of them even want to join in—those delicious creatures—but sooner or later they want to be the one and only.

Sorry, ladies, but my life isn't built for one and onlys.

I'm upfront about that. Completely, brutally honest.

Thing is, honesty makes for clean, lonely living.

Not that I'm completely alone. I've got Mrs Margarita.

In fact, she's texting me right now. I can tell by the Twilight Zone chime. Must be time to slap on the suit and go.

The suit. The costume. The outfit. Whatever you want to call it.

There's a special room for it and all my superhero accessories and accoutrements. Want to see it?

Of course you do. Let's not pretend you don't.

C'mon then.

Down the hall (dove-gray walls, lots of paintings and family photos; I try not to look), to what used to be one of the guest rooms. Now it's retrofitted to befit a modern superhero's needs. Wall of guns over there, wall of grenades, knives, and other deadly knick-knacks. Suits over there. Five of them. They're custom made by that same brilliant source I mentioned earlier. They feel like rubber, but they're some kind of lab-made fiber that breathes, flexes, and protects. Excellent stuff.

Aaaaaand, a giant box of condoms. Thanks, Costco. Super Fucking Hero never leaves home without a handful. Next to those is a super-shooter full of lube my gizmo guy cooked up. Extra slippery. I said no, but he insisted. You never know, he told me. So, I took it.

Time to put on the suit. Again.

"OH, Super Fucking Hero …"

I love it when they say my superhero name. Makes me feel powerful, in control, in complete command of their bodies. Which I am.

I'm taking it slow, finger-banging her pussy while she grinds that perfect ass against my cock.

"You beautiful little bitch," I say. "I'm gonna fuck that sweet ass."

Her wet, hot insides clench around my fingers. Baby likes that, I can tell. Could be she's an ass virgin, but she's definitely digging the idea of me shoving my cock in her brown star.

Which makes two of us.

I love ass. Fuck a girl in the ass … it's the ultimate high. Nothing makes me come harder than a tight asshole wrapped around my cock, especially if the girl it's attached to is loving it. And they do, otherwise I wouldn't be balls-deep in there to begin with. I'm Super Fucking Hero, not Mrs Margarita's Super Fucking Villain.

Whoever that guy is.

Sounds like a cheap copycat to me.

Anyway, this girl. I tell her I want her ass and now she's working those tight cheeks up and down my pole. My cock's almost ready to burst out of these tights Alien-style. Minus the blood and death, of course.

"Pull your panties down." I growl the words into her ear. Her pussy clenches again. "My fingers …" Are busy. I'm not about to quit while she's loving it.

She makes a little throaty sigh and reaches up her dress for those silky strings tethered together with a stretch of fabric the size of a quarter.

I mean, why bother? That's not underwear, that's a time waster.

Anyway, they're gone now, crushed beneath my foot or hers.

"Lube?" I ask.

She reaches for her purse, pulls out a tiny pink bottle. Good girl scout, always prepared. I love a girl who's always ready for sex.

"First time?"

Headshake.

Niiiiice. My cock's getting a migraine, all this beating against my tights it's doing. The jizz is knocking in my balls, waiting on the race to start. A girl who's not an anal virgin is a guaranteed good time.

"Lube up that cock."

She pours the liquid into her hand, reaches back to work my shaft base to head. Nice. Fucking great. Makes me almost forget Professor Amy Hart and her big, fat no.

"Put it in."

That sweet girl aims my cock at her hole, then pushes back onto me. There's a moment of resistance, then I'm in.

If you've never fucked a girl in the ass, let me enlighten you.

It's tighter than pussy. And drier. Pussy brings its own lubricant to the party, but the ass isn't as generous. What this means is that there's more friction and a much tighter grip while you're sliding that cock in and out. A pussy is a warm, welcoming hole. It wants you in there, enjoying its hospitality.

Ass? It's a fucking anaconda, and it wants to swallow your cock and jizz and you.

It's a different ride, but once you've experienced it, you want go again and again and again. Every hot girl you look at from then on, you'll be fantasizing about shoving your prick up that dark hole.

Okay, back to this lovely girl. Her ass feels amazing, by the way. She grunts and squeals with every thrust, and it's not long until my cock and balls fire their load.

But my job isn't done. I always—always—make sure the girl gets hers. Unless she says no. It's all about her.

I shove my fingers up inside her stretched hole, coating my fingers in the combination of ass and lube. Then I pull my fingers back out and offer them to her. "Suck on these while I lick your cunt, baby."

She does, of course.

They always do.

See what you missed, Professor Amy?

SIX

"HEY, Hunt."

See the guy with the dumb expression on his face? Looks like an Irish Setter with a lobotomy? That's Ethan. My co-worker.

But you're rich, Super Fucking Hero, I hear you saying. You don't have to work at some shitty job. You're a superhero, for crying out loud!

I know. I don't have to.

But … I want to.

What else am I going to do with my time?

I know me. If I sat around my apartment all day, plugged into the television and Internet, collecting dust and food crumbs, I'd devolve into one of those primordial sludge beasts you find living in the basements of respectable, hard-working parents.

The Hunt he's referring to is me, Hunter Forrester. No middle name. No middle name that I'm telling you about, anyway. A man's got to have some secrets.

Also, it's embarrassing. My parents were skating along the edge anyway when they lumped Hunter and Forrester together. When they plucked a middle name out of the name book, I'm convinced they were flying high—chemically speaking.

That's the backstory I've conjured up for them, given that they're not here to defend their choice. It beats the alternative: that they knew full and well what they were doing.

Back to Ethan. Ethan, he of the dim canine expression, works with me at Mighty Fine Furniture. If you're in the market for a new bedroom set, or maybe your old couch is tired of holding your ass in the upright and comfortable position, chances are good that Ethan and I will be the guys who trek muddy footprints into your home. Well, not me—I know how to wipe. But Ethan for sure. He's not really one of those guys who gives a fuck. He's like a big, dumb, lovable dog—light on the lovable. When it comes to Ethan, he's got head and shoulders where his neck should be. The whole thing puffs out into a bloated tangle of muscles, before sharpening to a point below his waist. Ethan lifts. But does he squat or leg press or whatever else it is physically proportionate guys do in a gym?

Nope.

So he's The Rock (minus a neck) on top, with Jack Skellington's legs.

And if you haven't seen A Nightmare Before Christmas, fix that—fast. I can wait.

Cue the Muzak.

Done? Good. Now you know what Ethan's legs are like.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah. About to answer Ethan.

"What?" Anticlimactic, I know.

"You missed the turn." Ethan hooks his thumb over one of those Atlas-sized shoulders.

"I didn't miss the turn." I didn't.

"Yeah, you did."

"Nuh-uh."

"Fuckface, the turn was back there."

The GPS says he's right. Fuck.

So I turn the truck around and go back. It takes a while—tight streets, big truck. Plus I've got a clown in the passenger seat, which always helps.

Anyway, a few minutes later we're hissing to a stop outside an apartment complex where …

I'm not a snob, okay? The world is filled with people whose parents weren't—to put a blunt point on it—loaded. People do what they can with what they've got, and I respect that.

It's factual—nothing more sinister—that all of these soulless boxes combined would fit in my penthouse. And there'd still be room for the drained and leaf-filled pool.

I snatch up the delivery invoice. Check out the address.

Fuck. Third floor. Which means Ethan and I have to somehow navigate this entire living room set up those steep, narrow, twisty stairs, without scraping, denting, or otherwise damaging Rose Garcia's new purchase.

Super Fucking Hero could do it. He could fly the couch, the chairs, and the matching ottoman up to the stamp-sized balcony and into the living room.

But I'm Hunter. Hunter doesn't flaunt his superpowers. The council frowns on it from a lofty, judgmental height. Bastards.

Flaunt your super powers and your superhero identity … That way lies the madness that comes with every one of your friends moving on the same day, expecting you to help.

And stalkers.

I'm not naive. Haven't been in years. What Mrs Margarita said was kind of, sort of true. There have been a lot of women—a lot of women; no way I'm throwing out a number, but let's say once you hit three figures the number gets fuzzy. And I hit three figures a long time ago. So at least one or two or twenty of them are probably a tiny bit bitter that I humped and dumped. Doesn't matter that they were willing and I was honest about my lack of intentions beyond the moment.

So I stay in the superhero closet, most of the time. There's a lot of us in there.

Except those guys in the movies. Showoffs. The whole world knows Superman is Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne is Batman, and Tony Stark is Ironman. They've got recognition problems, and they don't even fuck the girls they save. Well, sometimes they do. But not nearly as often as me.

Imagine if it got out that I, Hunter <middle name redacted> Forrester was Super Fucking Hero?

Catastrophe.

So Ethan and I do it the hard way, one slow, painful inch at a time. Up. The. Fucking. Stairs.

I'm not even breathing hard when we get to the top, but you could refill the swimming pool with the sweat oozing out of Ethan's pores.

Rose Garcia opens the door for us. "In the living room," she says. They always say that. We've got no idea where the living room is, but still they say it like we've got a floor plan.

"Which way?"

"Oh!" She points somewhere over that-a-way. But we make it—no bumps, nicks, or scrapes.

Furniture in place, Ethan still a life support system for a sweat machine, I hold out the clipboard for Rose Garcia to scribble her John Hancock. And what does she do?

She bites her lip, looks up at me from under those long, dark, mascara-heavy lashes and says, "Have we met?"

For the record, she's never met Hunter Forrester.

But Super Fucking Man … maybe. Come on, flip (or scroll) back to the part where I tell you there have been a LOT of women. It's not just the number that gets fuzzy—it's their names and faces.

Go on, you can say it, I'm an asshole. Yeah, sometimes I am. What guy isn't? A guy who's been with ten, twenty, fifty women, yeah, he can conjure up names and faces, if there isn't a metric fuck-ton of alcohol involved.

Look. Fucking is part of the job description. It's in my name.

All I can say in my defense is that it's usually dark, and a lot of the time I'm looking at the top or back of their heads.

Maybe if she turns around …

I'm kidding!

Mostly.

So what do I say to a question like that from a pretty girl? And she is pretty, make no mistake. Veering into hot territory.

"I don't think so. I'd definitely remember you." I flash her a quick smile, and then Ethan and I, we're gone.

"CUTE," Ethan says when we get back to the truck. "Know her?"

"Nope."

3:45 p.m. One more delivery to go. Then I can start worrying about this appointment at the SuperCouncil.

"Looked like she wanted to know you."

Big, dumb, not-so-lovable dog Ethan. Anytime this guy gets a bone he refuses to let it go. So I tap on the brake. The truck—and Ethan—lurches forward.

"Asshole."

Guilty.

SEVEN

I'M NOT nervous or worried. Nope. Not me.

Are you convinced?

Me either.

The guy in the mirror is the same old cocky, arrogant, swaggering Super Fucking Hero, but me? I know the SuperCouncil. As mentioned previously, I've heard stories.

Ever hear of a guy called Bonfire Guy?

Of course you haven't. Nobody has, these days. You'd have to go wading through an old microfiche catalog to catch a glimpse of his name.

Bonfire Guy was an up-and-comer. Hot stuff in his hometown, Seattle, back in the day (which, in this case, was the fifties). Rescuing people left and right, doing good deeds, all the usual superhero stuff. Until he screwed up by pulling a dog out of a burning building while he was in his civvies.

But, I hear you crying, that was the right thing to do. And I agree.

Not the SuperCouncil, though. Rules are rules are rules. It says so in the rule book, on the very first page—I know, I've looked. It's there in italics and 12 point type.

The broken rule was one of the top ten: Superheroes must only perform superhero actions while in full costume.

Yeah, yeah, I've seen the movies, too. But those guys are different. They've got their own comics, graphic novels, movies, and—in some cases (I'm looking at you, Superman)—their own TV series. The SuperCouncil knows it can't punish its top dogs without attracting a shitload of negative press from all the fanboys. And they can't exactly deport Superman. The poor bastard lost his whole planet. Where are they going to send the guy?

But the rest of us, the bottom to middling superheroes? We're the whipping boys when the SuperCouncil gets moody.

Like me.

I didn't do anything wrong by human standards, but by SuperCouncil standards? Super Fucking Hero didn't live up to his name. Once—just once.

So now I'm standing in front of my bathroom mirror, wondering if I've got time to take a quick dump before my appointment with potential doom. I'd hate to need to go in the middle of fighting for my continued existence.

Scram.

Yeah, I'm a guy. But some of us believe what happens in the bathroom stays in the bathroom.

For—you know—the good of mankind.

Oh. What happened to Bonfire Guy?

Don't know. Nobody's seen him since.

WHERE IS THE SUPERCOUNCIL LOCATED?

Good question. If you figure it out, let me know.

I know how to get there in my own city, but I have it on good authority that it exists in every city and town simultaneously. Like, a sort of pocket dimension with portals all over the place. Kind of like McDonalds. Even if they look different on the outside, inside they're exactly the same.

As you can tell, analogies aren't my forte.

Anyway, the entrance to the SuperCouncil in my city is through a sad, shitty little bar downtown. It's one part of a rundown little threesome beside a ten-story parking garage. Flanking said shitty bar are a dry cleaner's and a Mexican joint of dubious quality. I mean it smells good, but so does Indian street food.

I land in the park where the only witnesses are drunks, homeless people, and hookers who are too busy waiting on a "date" to notice the guy in tights landing.

My landing was smooth, thank you. I've had time to perfect it. But in the beginning—in the words of an old Jewish woman—oy. No broken bones, but only because my body got kicked up the evolutionary chain a few notches when I took on this superhero gig. But the bruises … For the first few months I was a contusion with feet. And they were bruised, too. Think bellyflopping into a swimming pool from a modest height hurts? Lose the swimming pool. Replace it with concrete. Tack on a few extra dozen feet to that height.

Let me know how you're doing when you land.

Actually, don't. Leave it to the pros and other idiots. I want to see you back here for the sequel. And the sequel's sequel. That's if the SuperCouncil shows mercy.

Heh. Mercy. SuperCouncil. Heh.

So. The bar (AKA the entrance to the SuperCouncil, at least in my city). I'm not telling you what it's called, but it's so cheesy it should be on a pizza. I've given enough clues already. Last thing I want is for you to wander in there looking for superheroes and winding up getting the snot kicked out of you in the back alley.

It's dim. There's light but it's struggling through dusty bulbs. The bar itself is, well, a bar. Picture a long stretch of polished wood, scattered with glasses and bottles holding the remnants of Dutch courage. Butts in the bar stools. Not many, but they're regulars who keep the business afloat. They all share the same defeated posture, like they're waiting on the next of life's whacking sticks. The band only knows one song. Either that or there's some conspiracy to fire up Hotel California whenever they see me coming.

Hey, fellas, here comes Super Fucking Hero. Cue the Eagles.

And by the way, not one of these guys has talent or anything that could be misconstrued as an ear for music.

"Haven't seen you in a while," the bartender calls out. Ted, that's the bartender's name, is basically Bigfoot with a sharp razor. Left unchecked, he'd be a giant fuzzball in no time. Rumor is he's a retired superhero, which I believe. I've seen him take out the trash when the trash gets unruly.

"Just passing through."

We both laugh. Inside joke, which—hopefully—you understood. If I have to explain it …

The entrance to the SuperCouncil can be found in what passes for a janitor's closet, between the doors with a stick figure wearing a triangle skirt and the stick figure wearing no skirt. Glancing around, I check that no one's watching. Then I pull the door shut behind me.

The bottom falls out of the closet almost immediately—and me along with it, hanging on for dear life. It's a lot like being flushed, I imagine.

Allegedly—the source was unreliable at best—this doesn't happen if you're not a superhero. But the bucket, that same source told me, makes a decent head.

It sucks, but that's how you get to Wonderland in my city.

Would it hurt them to install a Labyrinth type arrangement? Remember that one? Back in the day when Jennifer Connelly had enough meat on her bones to make her a delicious meal, she was in a kick-ass movie with a tights-wearing, codpiece-stuffed David Bowie. When Jennifer fell down an Alice-like hole, these Helping Hands popped out of the darkness and gave her a choice: Up or down?

I could use some of those hands.

Thirty seconds later (or a week, which is how it feels when you're falling), the floor and I hit bottom. The second I roll off, the floor zooms back into its regular position in the closet.

Let the guy with no artistic talent paint you another picture.

Big room. Enormous. Cavernous. Lots of marble or swirly, polished granite. I don't know the difference. Think one of those big ornate train stations or an airport, right down to the surly security guards. Wherever the SuperCouncil is actually located, it's a sunny day. Definitely not night time. It's full dark at home by five-thirty, at least in February.

People coming and going everywhere. Stepping through walls, falling through the ceiling, shooting up out of the floor.

If you ever find yourself here—which is less likely than fucking a nun—watch where you step. You never know where the next body part is going to punch you.

You'd think the SuperCouncil would have a better arrivals and departures system, but … no.

I think they watch from up high through their little security systems and laugh. Assholes. Not saying I wouldn't do the same thing in their position. Still … assholes.

Puffing out my chest and shoulders, doing my I-own-the-fucking-world walk, I head toward the security gate. It's manned by a couple of human pit bulls. They don't look it. In fact, they're deceptively diminutive, with their slight builds and just-below-average height. I stand in front of the screening station, hands on hips, legs akimbo, and wait for the wall-to-wall, floor to ceiling forcefield to approve me.

Now you know why you see a lot of superheroes in that same pose.

"Super Fucking Hero?"

I don't look at the female pit bull. It interferes with the security check. Eyes straight ahead—always.

"Yes," I say.

There's a beep and the security forcefield flashes green.

If I wasn't me, the beep would be a screech and there wouldn't be time to see the red flash because I'd be evaporated.

That's right, Star Trek got its phaser idea from the SuperCouncil. Someone on the production team must be one of us.

I step through the bright green forcefield. A door to the left swings open and I walk through it. Because that's what I'm supposed to do.

Long hallway. Long, long, long. Tedious. Nothing to look at on the walls. The floor and ceiling are repetitive.

Walk …

And walk …

And waaaaalk …

Until I reach another door. This is where it gets confusing. On the other side of the door there's one of those greeters who points you in the right direction. Her name tag tells everyone she's Belinda.

Where's the confusion?

On her chest. She's sporting the most magnificent rack I've ever seen in my life—and I've seen (and touched) a lot. They're not huge but they're … perfect. They're held in place not with a bra (I can tell) but some kind of invisible forcefield. There's no other explanation for their natural perk.

On the one hand I want to stand here and admire the view, on the other, time's ticking while I gape at her tits.

Go ahead and oink. I'm oinking at myself.

"Name?"

"Super Fucking Hero."

She scans the list. "The English Tea Room. Have a good day."

Dismissed—by Belinda and her gorgeous tits.

EIGHT

WHO IS THE SUPERCOUNCIL?

I've got this one.

They're a group of fifty retired superheroes and another assorted goody-goodies. I know a couple of faces from the history books (I was an honor roll student—surprised?), people with a reputation for performing good deeds for mankind. But mostly they're retired superheroes.

Not that we all make it that far.

Some of us Fall. It's catastrophic when we do, because with us we take all the information we've gathered on the sunny side of the street.

Others … They're not really SuperCouncil material. Like, oh, me.

You can say it—I did. And it's true. I'm not SuperCouncil material. Aside from Mrs Margarita and—during daylight hours, five days a week—Ethan, I'm a loner.

There's no Super Fucking Hero in team.

Nature of the beast, my friends.

Which is why there's always so much squabbling between SuperCouncil members. Shoving a bunch of people into one room and expecting them to agree, when each of them is used to being right and just, is like …

Like …

Like shoving a bunch of people into one room and expecting them to agree.

The difference between them and me (besides my devastatingly good looks and my youth) is that I'm honest about my weaknesses.

So that's the audience this rubber-wearing monkey has to entertain.

The English Tea Room is set up like a living room. Comfortable couches, overstuffed chairs, tiered trays of little cakes, sandwiches (cucumber, by the looks of their pallor), and a fancy teapot that fell out of that British show everyone is watching these days. The wallpaper is flowery, the carpet something sedate in the region of beige.

Serious Anglophiles, this bunch. Don't ask me why. It's reason number nine hundred and ninety-nine why I'd never be invited to sit on the SuperCouncil.

The seats are all butt-filled, except one. It's one of those spindly, mean-looking chairs that's exactly the wrong height for anyone. But it's fancy and probably cost somebody a trust fund.

"Ah, Super Fucking Hero. Come, have a seat. Sandwich? Tea?"

That's Viola Crowe, the former Blonde Bane. This one saw her heyday in the seventies. Now all she's fit for is a muumuu and that beehive. Oh, and apparently the SuperCouncil. She's a direct contrast to the woman beside her, Clarissa Westlake. Clarissa resembles an uptight elderly British woman, right down to the sensible brogues and lace-edged cardigan.

The council is a clear demonstration of contrasts, but they've got one thing in common: they've all got that faint mothball stench.

I was right about the chair, by the way. Fire is the only thing that could make it less comfortable. I wave away the offer of tea and sandwiches. I'm a coffee and burgers kind of guy.

Viola's beehived head says, "We have a problem, Mr Forrester."

Uh oh. Things are bad if they're using my real name. It's like when you're a kid and your mother uses your full name—that's when you know shit's going down.

Also, what's with the royal "we"?

I have a problem called the SuperCouncil. There's no "we" in that equation.

"Let me guess. You mean the professor?"

All fifty aged heads nod. Definitely not good. The SuperCouncil normally squabbles its way through a meeting. But on the subject of me, they're all in comfortable cahoots.

"We mean the professor," Viola Crowe says.

"I can explain."

No, I can't.

But they're all waiting patiently on my explanation. And here I am without one.

"Uh …"

Viola Crowe speaks up again. "It seems you failed to live up to your superhero title—a title that's gone unsullied for two generations now."

"I'm still super." Great defense—no?

No.

"But we're not ogres, Mr Forrester. We're giving you a chance to rectify the problem. To seal the deal, if you will. If after that time Professor Amy Hart won't—pardon my French—fuck you, then you'll be neutralized."

My world caves in. And it's a big, beautiful world filled with cool gadgets and gorgeous women. Who am I if I'm not Super Fucking Hero?

Not Hunter Forrester. He's an okay guy, but he delivers furniture, for Christ's sake. Furniture!

"You have forty-eight hours," she continues.

"Forty-eight hours!"

Is she gloating? Because it looks like she's gloating from where I'm sitting. Granted, this chair is coloring my attitude a shitty shade of brown.

"Forty-eight hours is ample time for a man who usually entices a woman into his bed in minutes."

She's got it wrong. I never invite a woman into my bed. Bring a woman into your place and she has a way of setting down roots and instigating a coup. Like ivy. Poison ivy.

Not to be confused with Poison Ivy, eco-terrorist.

You'd think they whacked me over the nose with a rolled-up newspaper, the way I slink out of there.

How bad is it?

So bad I don't even check out Belinda's spectacular boobs on the way out.

NINE

NEUTRALIZED¸ Super Fucking Hero? What does that even mean?

That's what you want to know, right?

Okay, here's the 411 on neutralizing a superhero.

Hand over the cape, the shirt, the tights, the boots. The guns and other toys? Buh-bye. They've got to go. If you're hoarding those and you're not a superhero? You're going down—and not in a good way.

Super strength, speed, whatever the superhero's special skills are?

Wiped.

Ability to fly?

Grounded.

You're stripped back to what you were before you were a superhero. In most cases, that's—you guessed it—human.

Not cool.

Being vanilla human is okay, I guess. For other people.

But I've been extraordinary for far too long to go back.

PICTURE me as a cute little puppy, perking one ear. Because that's how I feel. Yeah, they punched me in the scrotum with their neutralizing threat. BUT …

The good news is they're giving me a chance to fix things.

Right?

Right.

Very good news.

So somehow, I've got to convince the stunning, gorgeous, boner-inducing Professor Hart to pony up the pussy. Or either of her other holes. Any of the three is enough to yank me out of the danger zone.

How hard could that be?

Uh …

OKAY, full confession time. At least on this particular subject.

Are you ready?

I don't know how to seduce a girl. More than one quarter of my life I've been Super Fucking Hero, which means I show up, BANG, CRASH, SLAM the bad guys, then wait on the girls to rain their sweet, wet gratitude all over my cock.

Convincing a woman to fuck me through the art of seduction and being a generally awesome dude?

No idea.

It's been years since I randomly hit on a girl. Hannah was the last one, and I don't even remember who seduced who.

So I'm starting over.

Time to call in the experts and ask them how to seduce a girl who's already turned me—me—down.

ETHAN—he of the absent neck—is looking at me like I dropped my pants and took a shit in front of him.

For the record, I'd never do that. I have trouble going anyplace but home.

Then he says, eloquently, "Huh?"

"Never mind. Let's tilt this fucker left."

The fucker in question is a bookcase.

MRS MARGARITA IS full of good ideas.

"First you go to her father …"

Yeah, that's not one of them.

FUCK IT.

I'm direct.

Most guys are.

We say what we want, we want what we say. We don't do hints and guessing, and we don't read between the lines unless we've run out of reading material in the bathroom.

I want to fuck Miss Professor. Need to. This isn't just my cock we're talking about, or even my ego. It's life as I know it.

So, how do I find her?

The tinny Twilight Zone theme song jangles out of my phone. Text message from Mrs Margarita.

It reads: How should I know?

That third eye of hers is really something. Too bad it's completely fucking useless when it comes to finding the professor.

Lunch break time. Nothing to do but wallow while I eat this limp sandwich.

Wait. English literature is what Mrs Margarita originally said. So all I need to do is hike it to every college in the area, checking out their faculty members.

Or, even better, Google.

Two minutes later, I'm flying out the window. Destination: College

A BIT OF BACKSTORY.

I started college. I meant to finish, but then my mother was murdered. Then my father lost the plot and there was no way I was staying in school after that.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the fledgling superhero.

Okay, so what was a guy like me studying? A bit of this, a bit of that. I was like a coin circling a wishing well. Round and round and round. I figured eventually something would suck me in. Then I'd be that.

Something turned out to be murder. Which you already know, because I just told you.

Anyway, I've been back to college a lot—strictly as Super Fucking Hero. Maybe one day I'll go back for the education, but I find I learn more on my own. I'm what they call self-taught.

Colleges attract a lot of girls who do dumb things because they're young and lovely and they think the world is ponies and parades.

Truth is, ponies poop. A lot. And parades are shabby things when you get close up. Parades are that one sad, older woman at the bar—you know the one, she's been there since you were a kid—squeezing herself into something new and sexy all the hot girls are wearing. A parade is like Bedazzling a wino's blanket.

So I spend too much time on college rooftops.

Which sounds kind of creepy, I know, but remember: I'm the good guy.

Don't ask if I fuck them after I save them. You know I do.

College girls are insanely grateful, especially when their rescuer looks like, well, me.

Zoom in on the back row of Professor Amy Hart's English Literature 101 class. See the handsome bastard sitting in the aisle?

I'm waving. Wave back.

Good to know you're still with me. Hopefully I'll give you a happy ending.

Unless I fail and wind up … snip, snip. Superhero castrated.

If the lovely creature at the front of the room has noticed me, she isn't giving anything away. She's strolling back and forth on spindly heels, in a tight pencil skirt that does magical things to her ass. If there's a girl alive who doesn't look better in heels, I want to meet her, because I don't believe you.

She's not just beautiful, she's smart. Sounds like she knows everything about Byron.

Yes, I know a thing or two about poetry. I read romance novels, remember?

Shh, it's our little secret.

A couple of girls turn around and wave. Have we met? Hard to say. I'm too busy trying to convince my cock that now's not the time. It's a struggle but I've almost got him convinced, when the professor reaches across her desk to grab a book.

You know what I'm talking about—physics. She bends over, the skirt rides up and tightens over that luscious ass, then my cock starts rattling its cage, demanding some of that sweet sugar.

My prick and I, we're shameless sugar addicts.

Could be worse. At least sex makes people happy. Endorphins.

Quick, SFH, do something. I need a boner slayer and I need it fast.

Not the girls—no college girl deserves to be used as an instrument against a hard cock. Girls these days have enough problems. But the boys …

The big guy over there. Mr Happy Meal. I conjure up a mental image of him twerking against his acne-dotted neighbor.

Instant hard-on killer.

My cock goes back to sleep, but there's a dull ache in my balls that says they want to douse Professor Amy's throat in a thick coating of juice.

I know the feeling, fellas.

Time's up. Everybody pours out the lecture hall's back spout. After a minute, it's just me and that fuckable, delicious girl in the high heels.

I put everything into making the walk down there a performance for her eyes only. Chest out, gaze locked onto hers, an alpha-male swagger. I'm the sexiest man she'll ever meet, and I want her to know it.

It's working. She's backing up to her desk, lips parted, breathing shallow, pulse gaining speed, those dark pupils dilating. She wants what she missed out on the other night—the best, wildest, most life-altering fuck she'll ever have, with Super Fucking Hero.

And. I. Will. Deliver.

"We meet again," I say, in the low voice that has never—except that one time with this very girl—failed to peel away a pair of panties.

I move in close. Her perfume is a combination of sugar and orange and some kind of flowers, layered over chocolate. Lust rolls off her in waves. Her pussy is pumping its own perfume into the air; hot, wet, intoxicating. I want to bury my face between her legs and make her scream.

But not until I've tortured and teased her.

Hey, fair's fair.

By the way, ladies. If you want a man to fuck you, skip the perfume. Think of your dream guy, get that cunt nice and wet, the dab those slick juices on pulse points.

Pheromones, baby. Pheromones.

Few straight guys are going to resist the allure of clean, sweet pussy if they find you even remotely attractive.

God, I want to shove my—

No time for the rest of the thought, because she's laughing. Not a with me kind of laughing, but at me. AGAIN.

At me! Super Fucking Hero! Sexiest bastard in the skies and on the streets.

The way I jump back, you'd think a snake bit me. I'd prefer the snake over the laughter.

Except, she has the most beautiful laugh. It's like a wet finger tracing circles around a crystal rim. Only huskier. How's that for poetic?

"What's so funny?" Jesus, listen to me. I sound like a petulant kid.

"You are," she says, turning away. "Does that actually work?"

"Which part?"

"All of it." She scoops up a pile of books, waves a hand at my everything. "The costume, the name, the swagger, the cheesy lines."

"Hey, I don't do cheese."

More laughter. All that seismic activity in her thoracic cavity is making those beautiful tits shake. Let me just revel …

I'm not alone. My cock props himself up for a look, too.

Oink. It's okay.

The laughing stops. The mirth, however, remains. "Why exactly are you here?"

Oh, to fuck you so I don't get tossed out of the super-secret superhero club. That's all.

"I wanted to see if you were okay. Is that a crime?"

"Do I look okay?"

More than okay. Edible, fuckable. "I guess."

One perfectly arched eyebrow hikes north. "Oh?"

Hey lady, you just kicked me in the metaphorical balls. What do you expect? No way am I opening a vein and bleeding compliments all over her.

Still, I do need to get laid. It's a matter of life or lesser life.

I KNOW what you're thinking: it's the sex I don't want to give up.

Look at me. I can get laid without the costume. I was in double digits long before … Before my mother's incident. Yeah, I won't deny it. The sex is fucking GREAT. How many guys would turn that gig down? Not many.

But the reason I do it, the reason I want to keep the cape, the F shirt, the tights, boots, and toys? Not to mention all the super skills?

Let me bottom line it for you: Scumbags. I don't want them on the streets.

It's that simple.

Now let's get back to the girl.

"YOU'RE beautiful and you know it."

Approximately ninety-nine percent of the time, when I tell a woman she's beautiful, she either: a. argues with me, or, b. denies it.

That one percent though, they purr like a cat with a mouthful of your pet parakeet. They know they're beautiful. They've been hearing that particular fairytale all their lives, so it must be true.

Not this one, though. Miss Amy Hart, Professor of English Literature, sets her lips in a hard line and says, "So they tell me. But I find people so unreliable."

It's very Homer Simpson the way I'm standing here, mouth sagging open, a thin stream of drool—

Okay, no drool. But I've got the Homer duuuuuuuh look going on.

C'mon, SFH, snap out of it. Comeback—pronto!

"Why so cynical, baby?"

She laughs. What a sound. "I'm not your baby."

"I call everyone baby."

"Sure you do. Because it saves having to remember names—am I right?"

What can I say, she's got me. Fact is, 'baby' is one of these things guys call girls when they've forgotten their names or can't be bothered knowing it to begin with. It's a placeholder, because we've got to call you something. Maybe some guys can work up to an orgasm wordlessly, but not me. I like to talk dirty. And when you talk dirty to a girl, you've got to call her something.

So. Baby.

This conversation is already taking sharp turn down a dirt road.

Not that dirt road—an actual dirt road.

She turns around. My gaze snaps to her ass. Ug—me want.

"What can I say, I meet a lot of girls. Do you remember everyone's name?"

"I try to."

"How's that working out for you?"

A smile tugs at her mouth's perfect pink corners. "Some days are better than others."

"Do you have a method?"

"For remembering names?" She gives me a funny look. One that says I'm a couple of beers short of a six-pack.

"Just curious. Some people have systems for remembering things. The old My Very Excellent Mother Just Sent Us Nine Pizzas."

She tilts her head.

"You never heard that one? What planet have you been on?"

Remember this moment, folks. It's going to be important one day soon.

"Enlighten me," she says, folding her arms. They build a perfect frame for those squeezable, suckable tits. My cock agrees enthusiastically.

"The order of the planets in our solar system." I tick them off my fingers. "Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto."

I say Uranus the old way, because inside every man is the boy he used to be. And that boy finds Uranus funny. This whole you-ra-nus is a buzzkill.

"Pluto isn't a planet."

I shrug. "So they tell me. I'm not buying it. But that's cool. The world needs people like me."

"Wow, a man who's okay with being wrong? There's a first."

Uh oh … "Are you … a lesbian?"

A sharp gasp. Those big, brown eyes get round, those eyebrows high. "God," she says, "you're such a pig. I turned you down, so now you're calling me a lesbian? Typical. No—stereotypical."

My mouth is known for doing its own thing. Sometimes it likes to hurl me into boiling hot water. Take right now, for instance. It opens right up and says, "You don't have to call me God when it's just the two of us, baby."

Those big, shiny baby browns shrink to wicked slits. "Time for you to leave, Mr Hero."

"What's the matter? Can't handle the witty repartee?"

"Only one of us finds you witty and amusing, Mr Hero, and it's not me."

Game over. I'm never getting in her panties. If she's even wearing any. Now that I think about it, there's a distinct lack of lines under that tight skirt.

"We're not done, you and me."

"Yes," she says, "We are. It's nice that you saved me, and I'm grateful. Now move on."

In the distance, there's a reluctant stampede approaching. Must be her next class.

Time for the last word, then a quick flight back to the furniture store before lunch is over. What to say, what to say …

Got it.

"She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies."

"Byron, Mr Hero?"

I fling my biggest grin in her face. Never let them see you freaking out, my friends. Suffer behind a happy mask while you plot your next move. If you're going to mope, do it at home.

Then I leap out the window.

Yes, it's open. I always check. Because that one time you don't …

TEN

"WHY'D you ask that thing earlier?"

That's Ethan. It's taken him this long to formulate a question longer than "Huh?"

"Just curious, man."

He snorts. "Woman turn you down?"

I shrug. "It happens." Like, never.

"Yeah, right."

"I'm just like any other poor bastard."

"She a dyke?"

Never did answer that, did she? But I'm guessing no. My gaydar is highly calibrated to eliminate all the ladies who prefer ladies. That's another superhero's bailiwick. I'm arrogant and I'm a pig, but I'm not stupid. I'm not asshole enough to think my cock is magic. Okay, it kind of is magical when it comes to straight and bi girls, but I like to think some of that sparkly dust is me, Super Fucking Hero—not just my pole.

Sorry, big fella.

"Nope. Just not that into me."

"Bitch," he says. Standard response from guys like Ethan. Anyone who won't bend over and surrender the pink is a bitch or a lesbian. Which is later modified to the ever-so-charming "whore" if the girl in question bats those eyelashes at a guy higher on the evolutionary chain than the Ethan-type.

"Nah. Just one of those things, man. It's cool. She wasn't anything special."

BAM! Another standard man defense. Girl doesn't want you, kick her down a notch. She wasn't all that. You were horny and she was there. Nothing more.

Ethan bobs his combination head-shoulders. "Word."

I'M down to twenty-seven hours.

Hey, I had to sleep on the problem, then work. I'm not one to ditch work unless I'm sick.

I never get sick. Part of the superhero perks package.

At the moment, I'm facedown on the couch, feeling sorry for myself. Be honest: I'm good at it, aren't I? Have you ever seen a more pitiful creature? All I'm missing are the snot bubbles and REM's greatest hits on replay.

If that doesn't make a guy slash his wrists, nothing will.

Anyway, Mrs Margarita's third eye must have x-ray vision, because next thing I know she's bustling through my front door carrying a tureen of soup.

"Get up, Super Fucking Hero. I bring soup."

"I don't want to get up," I tell the couch cushion.

"It is my avgolemono soup."

"I'll be right back," I tell the cushion.

Not just anything could leverage me off the couch, but Mrs Margarita's egg and lemon soup? I'm not sure which wonder of the world it is, but it's definitely one of them.

I follow her into the kitchen, hangdog expression hounding my face. She's helping herself to my kitchen, which is a-okay with me. The old Greek woman is the closest thing I've got to family. There are others—family members, that is. But they quit sniffing around when they realized not only were not going to score any of my parents' money, but I wasn't going to use it, either. To them I'm a dumbass loser.

Suits me. They suck, anyway. If you met them you'd understand.

Who knows, maybe you will.

"What happened to you?" Mrs Margarita says, ladling her miracle soup into one of my mother's fine china bowls. "What did the SuperCouncil say?"

"They gave me forty-eight hours to bone the professor chick or they're stripping away my superhero suit and powers."

"How many hours left?"

"Twenty-six. And a half."

Bowl, spoon, napkin. My Alfred has got me covered. I'd hug her but we don't do hugs.

"Did you see her?"

I give her the abridged version, leaving out the glorious descriptions of the professor's rack and ass.

"And she did not fall into your arms? Who can believe it?" The old woman shakes her head, but her lips are all lit up with a smile. "You think you know women because doing the sex with them comes easy, but you know nothing."

"Nothing? Like, at all?"

"Okay." She measures an inch in the air with her thumb and finger. "Maybe a little. But not much."

"So what should I do?"

The soup is already putting me in a better mood. I'm see the tunnel now. There's no light at the end—yet. But it's slightly less gloomy.

"Maybe you should be honest with the poor woman. Tell her your problem."

I feel my jaw fall into the dumbfounded, mildly horrified position. "But, then she'd screw me because she feels sorry for me. That's a … a … a pity fuck! Super Fucking Hero doesn't do pity fucks."

"Okay, so let them take your fancy costume and your magic. Your choice. You will be Hunter Forrester, furniture delivery boy."

"I guess I could get a different job."

"Ha! You did not go to college, remember?"

Wrong. I went to college. Just not for long, that's all. "So, telling her. That would work?"

"It is better than tricking the poor woman into bed with you."

Inside my head, something that looks like a Rubik's Cube—but isn't—starts to twist and turn. This is me formulating a plan. Cool, huh?

"We don't usually make it to the bed," I mumble.

"I know. This is the very bad thing about having the third eye. Too often I see things that I can never unsee."

"Do I at least look good while I'm doing it?"

"Ugh. Enough. Eat your soup."

Pig. I know.

So. My plan. I'm going to march right up to Miss Professor's front door and say—

ELEVEN

"ARE you even kidding me right now?"

No, that's not me saying that. It's her. The professor.

I'm standing on the doorstep of her townhouse in my full Super Fucking Hero regalia, pouring out my tale of woe, and she's looking at me like I told her my dog ate a year's worth of homework assignments.

Well, he did. But that was in high school. And he was more like a pet monkey.

Rusty has moved on to a better place now. He's part of a Las Vegas comedy act. I taught him things that aren't fit for decent people—so Vegas it was.

It beats euthanasia.

"It's true, I swear." Hear the whine in my voice? That's not me at all. I don't whine—ever. But this girl is driving me up crazy street. Did you ever watch that kids' show Caillou? That little bald fucker whines his way through the whole show—and it works! One hundred percent of the time, whining pays off for that asshole.

But it's not working for me. This girl really knows blatant attempts at manipulation when she sees them.

Something I've learned about her in the past five minutes: As soon as she gets home from work, she changes into pajamas. She's wearing these cow print winter pajamas that somehow manage to do insanely hot things to her body. When she leans against the doorjamb, the shirt rides up, giving me a good look at the curve of her waist. She's slender, perfectly toned, and somehow—even though it's winter—she's lightly tanned.

If I were a foodie, I'd liken her to a perfectly baked bread loaf.

But I'm just a regular horny bastard with a cock that's dying to take her to Pound Town.

No, that's not on a map.

I take it back. Google tells me there's a town in Wisconsin called Pound.

"Don't get me wrong," she says, "you're very entertaining. I especially love the part where you're putting all the blame on me. That's just great. I teach English literature, and yet I'm responsible for the fall of a superhero? Yeah, right."

"Not the Fall. A Fallen superhero is something else entirely. But the neutralizing? That's all on you, baby. You said no. You started this."

"So you're here to coerce me into changing my mind?"

"You make it sound so … rapey."

She quirks an eyebrow. "That's because it is."

Jesus Christ. This girl. I would never.

"No. No. If you say no, that's it. I go home and wait to be neutralized. End of story. I would never cross that line. I'm Super Fucking Hero, not Super Fucking Villain."

"Okay," she says passively. "Go and do that then."

The door slams in my face.

Shit.

TWELVE

MY NEXT MISSION IS A PROBLEM. Not just because neutralizing is certain, thanks to a combination of the professor's stubbornness and my inability to seduce a woman in any normal, real life way.

See me sitting up on that light post, chin balanced on my hand? If I remind you of that sculpture by Auguste Rodin, that's not accident. Like Rodin's Thinker, I'm thinking.

Below me at the intersection of those two narrow city streets, there's about to be a carjacking.

Well, there won't be, because I'll be flying in to save the day. But still, there's about to be an almost-carjacking.

The carjacker isn't much more than a kid. He's the runt of the gang. Skinny white kid. Keeps hoisting his pants up. Those tattoos he's sporting look peel-off. They're designed for a man, not this brat. Stuffed down the back of his pants is a gun I'm not sure he knows how to use.

I followed him here as soon as Mrs Margarita gave me the heads up. For him, this is an initiation. Scare the girl, steal the car, earn the respect of his fellow bottom-feeding scumbags. But if I don't intervene, two people are leaving the scene in body bags.

See, the girl's toting her own gun, at least according to Mrs Margarita's third eye. And she's gonna blow this kid's head off—but not until after his own weapon discharges.

Nasty business.

I hate carjackings. Every single time, they drag me back to that night.

Seven years ago. Late June. Hot evening, so the windows should have been up, the air conditioning on, but Mom being a woman who preferred fresh, warm air to the artificial spring, insisted her driver roll the windows down.

They pulled up to an intersection a lot like this one, and waited for the red light to flash green.

What they got was the flash from the muzzle of some asshole's shotgun. He wanted the limo, they were in the way. Eyewitnesses said he didn't give them the opportunity to bail.

The police never caught the guy. The witnesses were all the same shade of vague (male, early twenties, backwards cap, gold chain. The usual thug costume that year), so all they had was a description of a large chunk of the young guys in the city.

They found the limo abandoned in the suburbs. A nice area filled with young upwardly mobile families. My mother was dead in the back seat. Her driver in the passenger side.

Case never closed, only abandoned.

I've tried to pick up the threads, but there's nothing. And that nothing leads to more nothing.

If I ever find him …

Dead meat is just his first stop to hell.

The SuperCouncil—of COURSE—have their own guidelines regarding revenge. It goes something like …

No. Never ever. Don't. Revenge means instant neutralizing.

That's if the revenge-taker doesn't Fall first.

Usual disclaimer: It's different if you're one of the big dogs, one of the guys with their own movie/television/comic book franchise.

Maybe I need to see somebody about putting my story down on paper, along with colorful illustrations. I'd look goooood on that page.

Hey, just being honest.

Anyway, two lives are about to intersect in five … four … three … two …

Here comes the red Chevy. It jerks to a stop at the red light.

Cue the Eminem wannabe's entrance.

"Get out of the car, bitch!"

"What did you just call me? You did not just call me bitch, motherfucker!"

Oooo … she's got a mouth on her. My cock is suddenly aching to stuff those words back down her throat. I love a girl who isn't afraid to reel out a string of filthy words while I'm fucking her. Tell me my cock is huge and how your pussy can barely take it; tell me you're my ass-whore, my cunt, my cum-guzzling suck-slut. Describe what you want me to do to you in grimy, descriptive—

Fuck. My cock and balls need to shoot something. The professor's got them all riled up.

Time to get this party started before the bullets fly.

From the top of the light pole I dive-bomb the scrawny bastard, knock him to the ground. Now he looks like roadkill, minus the tire tracks.

Easy pickings. Zero challenge.

Within seconds, I've got him cuffed and dumped on the police station's doorstep, two blocks away. Then it's back to give the grateful girl a chance to thank me properly.

She's beautiful in that I-just-fell-off-a-stripper-pole way. Big, fake boobs. Lashes wearing a winter coat of mascara. Full war paint. Calling her skirt a mini would be a serious understatement. It's more like a belt with ambition. And she's wearing thigh-high boots with heels tall enough and sharp enough to stab a man through the heart.

I want her on my cock ten minutes ago, because man, she looks like the filthiest kind of fun.

"Are you a superhero?" she purrs.

"Sure am, baby."

"Cool. I've never met a superhero before." Her fingers are dancing up the front of my suit. They linger on the F. "What's the F stand for?"

So I tell her.

She reaches down and grabs a handful of cock. "Mmm, you're a big boy."

And getting bigger by the minute.

Take that, SuperCouncil.

Take that, Professor Amy.

THIRTEEN

EXCEPT I'M NOT FUCKING the girl I'm fucking. My dick is pounding the shit out of Sally Stripper's ass, but my head puts me balls deep in the professor. Balls deep in her hot, sweet mouth, if you must know.

One, because I want to see Professor Amy shut up and suck. Two, because I want to see those dark, bottomless, frigging beautiful eyes looking up at me while I bang the bottom out of her throat.

And I want her to enjoy it.

No—to love it. To crave my cock on those lonely nights when sleep won't come.

But first, I want to play with her pussy, lick and tease until she's a wet, happy mess. I'm going to make it so good for her that she'll wish she'd fallen into my arms that first night.

Ruin her for all other men. No more nameless, faceless guy for Professor Amy (yeah, I know lots of you girls and women fuck the guy with no face or name in your fantasies). All her fantasies will be built around me, Super Fucking Hero.

The serious, all-consuming pressure in my balls is reaching critical mass.

"Come in my mouth," Sally Stripper says. Is that her name? Who cares. What the girl wants, the girl gets. So far she's been barking commands, but not one of them has involved diddling her clit. That's cool; like I said: what she wants she gets.

My dick pulls out of her tight ass with a pop, and stripper girl sinks immediately to her knees, waiting to receive. I don't look down.

Think of it like a fear of heights. If I look down I'll see it's not the professor.

I'm not saying my cock would quit on me and I'd lose my boner, but why mess with the fantasy and risk it?

Don't forget, right now none of my blood is in my head. So whatever I'm saying?

Gibberish.

This load is about to blow. I sound the warning horn for Sally Stripper in case she's the type who'd rather finish me off with her hand.

Which—it turns out—she is.

"Changed my mind," she says. "I want you on my face."

Let me tell you, girls almost never say that. Even to me. So when a girl offers?

There's no way I'm saying no.

But really, painting a girl's face is one of those things that's hot to think about while you're doing a load by hand, but in reality? It's hot, but not that hot. Not nearly as satisfying as shooting down a warm, wet throat. Or pussy. Or ass.

Holes trump hands.

Whatever makes her happy, though. My goal is always for both parties to walk away satisfied and riding that endorphin high.

So I come, unleash all over her pretty face, but I don't look down.

Why, Super Fucking Hero? I hear you screaming. Why? That's the whole idea. Admire your—well, her—handiwork. You think Michelangelo didn't step back, look up at a Sistine Chapel's ceiling and go, "Daaaaayum! That's some might fine brushwork"?

Lucky Michelangelo had the luxury of not wishing he'd painted some other ceiling. At the time there was no bigger fish. No more-important holy structure telling him no, he couldn't touch it with his brush.

God damn. Professor Amy is making me—and my dick—nuts.

Sally Stripper makes a satisfied purring noise. Then she rises from the ground the way I imagine the kraken bursting out of the water. She grabs my shoulders, starts shoving me onto my knees. Oooo, I love a dirty woman who knows what she wants and takes it. It, in this scenario, being me.

"Now do me," she says.

Happy to, baby.

Right up to the point where she lifts her belt-skirt for the second time that night, and I get a look at what's tucked up inside those slinky black panties she's wearing.

A thick roll of salami.

She might be a girl now, but she started out as a boy.

Well played, you twisted, fucked-up universe. Well played.

FOURTEEN

DON'T ASK.

Fine. The answer is no.

I've got nothing against cross-dressers, the transgendered, or anyone of a fluid or ambiguous sexual nature. Rock on. Be yo-self.

It's just not my thing, that's all.

If I want to play with a dick, I've got my own right here.

I'm attracted to what I don't have: the almighty pussy. My opposite turns me on. Softness to my hardness. Feminine to my masculine. Breasts to my pecs. Cunt to my cock.

I'm a simple guy. Very binary. You're either my kind of girl or you're not. And anyone who used to be a guy isn't my kind of girl.

If I've offended you … really, it took this long?

So I walk her back to her car, stamp a kiss on her forehead, and she drives off into the sunset—alone.

My phone rings.

"Is this one of yours?"

Hear that gravel-flecked voice? It belongs to Captain Kern at the local PD. It's on his front doorstep that I dump these sorry bastards.

"Yep."

"What did he do? Wait—what did he almost do?"

It's a game we always play. He doesn't fully believe in superheroes, and I don't fully believe the police department is a decent organization, capable of capturing criminals and dispensing adequate and appropriate justice.

That's me walking you the long way around to one of my truths. The police suck. They suck or they'd have caught my mother's killer.

Childish?

You bet. But I was a child—mentally, at least—when she was killed. I'm stunted. Freud would dish out some analysis involving wanting to have intimate relations with my mother (eww …) and my own fears of inadequacy.

About the latter … Yeah he'd be right.

Any decent superhero would have found the guy by now. Instead, I'm standing in the middle of the street, having a conversation with Captain Kern, leader of the idiots and other worthless creatures.

Need them to find a donut?

They're on it. They're on it several times a day—at least until the donut shop closes.

Pizza?

Try and stop that stampede on buffet day.

Coffee?

They're trying to charm it out of the baristas as I narrate.

They know food and beverages, but crime?

Okay, so they do their share, but I'm the one out there fighting crime, killing it at the source.

Back to Captain Kern. He's okay. For a fuckwit.

I spill the details on the carjacking. Facts only. No need to let the boys in blue live vicariously through the sordid, thrilling details of my sex life. They get donuts. That's plenty.

"Is the woman willing to testify?"

"Yep."

"Are you? Because you've bagged a few lately. They're piling up."

"I already did my part."

"Hunter …"

Notice how he uses my real name? That's because: a. He can't bring himself to call me Super Fucking Hero; b. Because we superheroes have to register with the local PD using our real names; and c. Because Jerry Kern was my best friend.

Was. My entire childhood. We were Velcro.

If you must know, I was the prickly side.

Until I ran off to do this superhero gig and he married a prison warden. Well, Shelly isn't a real prison warden, but she's got a death grip on the keys to Jerry's cell. She rattles them occasionally, lets him think he has a shot at going out, being something other than whipped and hosed.

Hahaha-No.

Not Shelly. She makes a ball and chain look flimsy.

"Fine," I say.

It's not fine. I hate going to court.

Lawyers. Judges. Juries. Reminds me too much of the SuperCouncil. All that subjectivity.

"Good," Captain Jerry Kern says.

Sheesh. It's not good. It's fine—at best.

"Wanna go grab a beer?"

He sighs like I'm stabbing him through the heart. Got no idea it could be my last night as Super Fucking Hero. "Yeah, I want a beer …"

Wait for it. Here it comes …

"… but Shelly's got plans for us."

Know what those plans are? Let me enlighten you.

Reality TV. Shelly's a junkie for the scripted, falsified, bullshit that is Reality TV. She's non-discriminatory, too. Meaning she loves it aaaaaall.

Picture me casting my arm in a wide arc as I say that.

Aaaaaaaall.

Seven nights a week, Jerry is her date to the couch and television. She loves to pick them apart, Shelly does. Analyze. This person won't win because this, that person won't win because that.

That's Jerry's life. No beer for him.

Poor bastard.

"She ever lets you out of the cage, call me."

He laughs. "What can I say, I love my wife."

Sure you do, Jerry. Ever hear of Stockholm syndrome?

I end the call with a promise to be in court.

Not looking like I can keep that promise, though. Not as Super Fucking Hero. And what's Hunter Forrester done lately to impress people?

Nada.

Exactly.

CUE THE ERIC CARMEN version of All By Myself.

It's old, I know. But it's that kind of night.

I'd prefer Eye of the Tiger, but …

Twenty-two hours to go until they cut off my superhero head.

And where am I?

If you guessed a lowlife bar, you'd be wrong. Close, but wrong.

Where I am is under a bridge in the park. I'm hanging with my new buddy Sam the Bottle Man. Yeah, he's a wino. Yeah, he's homeless. Yeah, he smells like the city dump met a public toilet. But he's good company. We're contemplating the meaning of life.

By the light of burning newspaper, he points his bottle my way. "To be or not to be. That is the question."

See what I mean? Brilliant. To be or not to be is definitely the question.

To be Super Fucking Hero, or just plain Hunter Forrester.

Been a long time since I was Hunter 24/7.

What would Hunter do?

I suppose I could keep working at Mighty Fine Furniture, maybe do some good deeds with my inheritance. Open a battered women's shelter. Nurse crack babies back to health. Send some dogs to a real farm—not that farm your parents lied about.

Yes they lied. There was no farm.

And there's no Santa Claus.

Tooth Fairy? Nope.

Maybe there's an opening for those jobs …

A philanthropist. Very Bruce Wayne of me.

"You a smart man, Sam. What are you doing under a bridge?"

He takes a short swig of whatever's in the bottle, then smacks his lips. "Fermenting. Getting better with age."

I'm formulating a response when I hear that Twilight Zone twang.

It's the professor.

She's about to be in trouble.

Again.

FIFTEEN

FUCK HER.

SIXTEEN

NOT BUYING IT? Smart.

It's good you know I've got a silver lining beneath the grimy, sexually voracious exterior. Trust is good. You're trusting me to do the decent, just, right thing.

I won't let you down.

Sure, in my head I'm going fuck her—and not in a good way. But I'm currently soaring through the sky with every intention of CLANG, SLAMming the bad guys and dumping them into Captain Kern's sissy hands.

It's the kids again. Those football assholes. They're back for do-overs because—I'm guessing—the sexy professor still won't change their grades.

Fuck, it's cold up here.

Just so you know, I'm several inches more impressive in summer.

You're welcome.

I LAND LIKE A BUTTERFLY—a hundred and eighty pound butterfly—in the neat, suburban street. Yeah, I can Tinker Bell it and float gently to the ground like an autumn leaf, but I'm in a hurry.

No dark street this time. The boys decided a house call was in order.

What a coincidence, me too.

The front door to the professor's townhouse is locked, the lights downstairs dark. But when I tune in to my super-sensitive hearing channel there's no missing the sounds of a struggle.

I've heard enough of them to know.

Knocking isn't something I'm about to waste to my time doing. With my superhero-booted foot I give the wood slab a love tap, and BAM. No more door.

Imagine if I'd put serious effort into it.

I'm not Wall Puncher calibre, but I'm hell on doors and flimsy walls.

Nice place. Feminine without being girly. Gender neutral enough that I don't feel the sudden urge to eat chocolate and adopt some cats. Too many knick knacks, though. What is it with knick knacks? Mom was the same way. Little things that require regular dusting.

No, don't even go there. My superhero room is different. Every item in there has a specific purpose. And it gets used. Regularly.

I have favorites, like my one-of-a-kind net gun. Predictably, it shoots nets, as you've already seen. And a gravity gun, for those times when you really need to rivet someone to the ground.

My guy hooks me up with all kinds of cool toys.

Okay … kitchen …. kitchen …

Over there. It's one of those floor plans where the kitchen is its own dedicated room. Great place for mommy to hide and take a nip of cooking sherry, while the kids torture each other in the living room.

Not that the professor has kids. But if she did … cooking sherry.

The kitchen door swings both ways, unlike me. There's someone standing on the other side, directly in the line of fire.

CRASH. SMACK.

Not anymore.

"How's it going?" I ask the professor.

They've got her tied up on the butcher's block-slash-island, which normally I'd find arousing, but she doesn't look like this was her idea. She's still in those adorable cow print pajamas, and her feet are ankle deep in fluffy slippers.

Somehow she makes the whole thing work. Rawr!

"Great. Just hanging out with these cunt-juggling thunder-cocks," she says.

"Wordsworth?"

"A parody of Blade 3."

"Huh. Haven't seen that one." I crack my knuckles. Sounds like bubble wrap. One of the pansy football boys winces. "Say, weren't there five of you last time?"

They pass a look around. The big, stupid-looking one (which is all of them, really) on the end says, "That candy-ass motherfucker is in his dorm room studying."

"Got through to one of them." I nod to the professor. "Good job."

"Thanks. I try."

"Too bad the rest of them are happy to sit at the head of the class at moron school. So, boys—" I rub my hands together, flash them a friendly smile. "Who wants to go first?

This time? They all step forward.

Amateurs.

Watch this.

SEVENTEEN

KA-POW!

Smack!

Craaaaash!

EIGHTEEN

"COMFORTABLE, boys?"

I'm guessing no, but who cares?

They're stacked four-high on the clean curb outside the professor's townhouse. Like the knots? In the early Super Fucking Hero days, I spent hours practicing.

Hey, they asked for it. I'm tired of putting the same trash out.

Captain Kern is sending some guys over to collect them. I'm not popular right now because these boys are college football around here.

But they started it.

Yeah, I sound like a preschooler, but it's true. The sexy professor gave them a choice: flunk or pass. They picked the road that doesn't lead to football.

A couple of cop cars inch up to the curb. We exchange looks (their are dirty, mine is innocent) and I help the boys into the back seats.

Or I throw them.

Something like that. Hopefully it's a night they'll always remember fondly.

Then it's back to the professor, who's huddled on the couch under a blanket, sipping hot chocolate.

Notice she didn't offer me any?

Me too.

That's how I know I'm not about to get my fairytale ending.

"I guess I'll just go." I point to the unhappy-looking front door. "Sorry about your door."

"Sit down."

"Okay."

No way do I go for the couch. This chair over here looks fine, though. It's directly across from her—a respectable distance and a coffee table between us.

"Thanks," she says. "Can I ask you something."

"Shoot."

What? Think I was going to say something else? The answer to that question is eight-point-five inches.

"How do you know?"

"That someone's in danger?"

She nods.

"Superhero secret. The mothership beams me the information."

Why not just tell her the truth, that my old Greek neighbor with a third eye is tapped into the cosmic fortune-telling network?

I don't know.

I guess I could, but—and this is going to sound clichéd—there's a voice inside me telling me to keep Mrs Margarita a secret from the world.

See the look she's giving me? Those raised eyebrows, the disappointed moue? She's pissed that I'm not telling her the truth.

What makes her think she's earned a peek into my inner sanctum? Nothing, that's what.

Then her lips flatten out and start a slow ascent. "It doesn't really matter, I guess. You saved me, and I'm glad."

But not that glad, I'm betting. Which is okay.

Really.

I'm not man-sulking, I swear.

A quick glance at that clock on her wall tells me I'm down to twenty hours. Time flies when you're running out.

"That's what I do. Save people."

"Not all people."

"Well, no. Girls."

"Why just women?"

No, I'm not going to tell her it's just hot girls of a legally fuckable age. Something tells me that wouldn't help my cause. But I'm not flat-out lying either when I say, "Ask the SuperCouncil. They're the ones who dole out the superhero roles."

"Well, why Super Fucking Hero?"

"Why not? There was an opening, so I took it."

"Was there another name available, or was Super Fucking Hero the SuperCouncil's decision?"

"Mine."

Hey, they gave me a choice. Believe me, I took the better deal. As SFH I get to stay in my own city, in my childhood home. But Snake Man?

No. There was no way I was moving to El Paso to wear a snakeskin suit. I hear the water unhinges people down there.

"Ah." She wraps those lips around the edge of her mug. Sips.

Lucky mug.

Now I'm the one hanging my eyebrow on a hook. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugs a slender shoulder. The blankets slides away, revealing several inches of her cow print pajamas. Underneath that, I just know she's naked. Very astute of me, right?

"What's your origin story?"

"Who says I have one?"

"Superheroes always have an origin story. They get their superpowers somehow."

"Maybe I was born with them."

"Are you an alien?"

"Do I look like an alien?"

"You look like a man in a rubber suit."

"Like the suit?"

Her lips twitch. "I've seen worse. Some of the things my students wear …" She fakes a shudder.

I nod at her mug. "Why didn't you offer me any?"

"Hot chocolate?"

"Yeah, hot chocolate. I love hot chocolate."

She drags that dark, gorgeous gaze over me, giving the big red F an extra second of attention. Below the belt, my better half twitches. He's waiting. Poor guy knows not to get his hopes up with this one. "You don't look like a hot chocolate kind of guy."

"What kind of guy do I look like?"

"Like a guy used to getting his way."

"Nope." I fold my arms, lean back. My legs are apart. Maybe some guys cross their legs, but I'm not one of them. "Some things come easy, yeah, but not everything goes my way."

"Name one thing. Apart from me," she adds.

Too bad. That was going to be my one thing.

She's watching me expectantly over the mug's rim.

Ha! I've got one. Are you ready for this?

"I asked an old buddy out for a beer earlier. He said no."

"Why did he say no?"

"His wife. She's a hosebeast."

"I can't imagine why she doesn't want him out drinking with you," she says dryly.

"It's not a me thing, it's an everybody thing. He works, and when he comes home he's shackled to the couch while she watches Reality TV shows."

A light comes on in her eyes. Now she gets it.

"Yikes. Poor guy."

My head bobs. The top one—jeez. The head in my tights is lying there like a dog under the dinner table, waiting on someone to drop a crumb. It's pathetic. Seriously.

"So are they really going to … What did you call it?"

"Neutralize. They're going to neutralize me."

"Will they really neutralize you?"

"You bet."

"That's drastic."

"That's the SuperCouncil. They're mostly retired superheroes, so they seize any opportunity to be melodramatic and exciting. Relive the old days by living vicariously through our pain."

"I'm sorry."

She looks up at me from under long, thick lashes. Around her eyes are the remnants of the day's makeup. It's slightly smudged, smokey. The effect softens her features. Somewhere in my chest, my heart skips a beat or two. She's … breathtaking.

"Don't be."

"I can't believe I'm the first and only to turn you down."

"Hey!"

Her cheeks pinken. Is she … blushing? Now there's something I don't see every day. Or ever.

"I didn't mean it like that," she says quickly. "What I meant was, all those women … Are you saying I'm the only one who doesn't jump into bed with strangers?"

"I am tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome."

"You are, but—"

"Also, superhero here. You're underestimating the allure of a man in a tight suit."

"The only one? Really?"

Even squinting, she's disarmingly beautiful. There's gentle music in the air as she delicately tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

I hold up my hand. "Superhero's honor."

"Wow."

"It had to happen sooner or later, right?"

"Do you think … Do you think they'll keep the boys this time?"

"Truthfully? No. Someone sprung them out quickly and easily last time. The college, I'm guessing."

"Bastards. All they care about is their precious football."

"You've got that right."

Her laugh is sweet, tentative. "Did you play football?"

"Some." I shrug. "In high school. But football and I never clicked."

"I figured you for a football player. The whole …" She waves a hand up and down. "The muscles. That build. You look born to tackle and keep them down."

"It's true, I'm beefcake."

Now her laugh is full and rich. "Yes," she says. "You certainly are."

Keep talking, baby. Both heads are thinking there might be hope. My cock just wants ram itself into her holes, but I want the girl and the cape.

Go on, say it. You like her, Super Fucking Hero.

It's true, I like her. The repartee comes easy. She's smart. She doesn't fall for the bullshit.

She's a rare find—in my experience.

"Is there any other way out of this neutralizing?"

"Nope. They were crystal clear. If I can't live up to the name and the job, I'm done."

"Then what happens? Who are you when you're not Super Fucking Hero?"

"Super Fucking Boring."

She gives me the stink eye.

"Hunter. My name's Hunter."

"It's a good name. Very strong. Kind of sexy." Untangling her legs, she leans forward, sets her mug on the coffee table. On a coaster, of course. The professor doesn't strike me as the kind of girl who goes through life leaving damp rings on tables. There's a precision and economy to the way she moves, as though each movement is part of a bigger, intentional whole.

The effect is arousing. Want to bet she fucks that same deliberate way? I want to change that. Make a cautious girl go wild, for me and only me.

"Hunter." She speaks with a hint of a smile on her lips and in her mouth. "That's the guy I'd like to know. Maybe we could get coffee sometime soon?"

"Sounds good."

"Doesn't it? Maybe you can share some more Byron with me. I love Byron. So romantic, so naughty. The consummate bad boy."

My little head perks up. He knows everything there is to know about being bad.

We're so in.

Trouble is, not tonight.

So we're simultaneously in and doomed.

And now I have to find a 24-hour supermarket. I need hot chocolate.

NINETEEN

"DID YOU BANG HER YET?"

That's Ethan, the slow responder. We're cruising through a residential area, huge entertainment center in truck's rear. Lucky us, we get to reconstruct it in the room of the customer's choice.

"Nope."

"Damn. That sucks, man."

Tell me about it. Still, the night wasn't a total waste. We had a good time. Amy is smart, funny, honest in a knee-capping, ball-kicking way.

But that's not the story Ethan wants to hear. So I tell him about the carjacker—minus the carjacking and the superhero. And I say it happened to a buddy of mine. An old one, from college.

Nothing but a string of damns from Ethan (I can tell he thinks my imaginary buddy is the luckiest bastard ever), until I get to the part with the man-sausage neatly strapped into Sally Stripper's sexy panties.

Then he just about bursts out of the truck's cab with a yelp. "No fucking way, man. No fucking WAY!"

"Way. Fucking way."

"Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck." Then he looks over at me. "So did your buddy suck him off?"

"No. Jesus. No. Not that he's phobic about it or anything. But … just no, man."

Good old Ethan, he glances out the window. What comes out of his mouth next shocks the shit out of me. "Probably I would've."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Naw. It's dark, he looks like a chick … Who'd know?"

"Uh, you?"

He shakes his head. "It's been a while. I'd fuck that mailbox over there if I knew I wouldn't get caught. Or that gnome." He sticks his head out the window. "Hey, sexy gnome. Show us your tits."

For the record, that's a boy gnome. The beard is a giveaway.

Unless they're like Tolkien's dwarves.

Not up to date on what's what in Middle Earth? Beards weren't limited to the males of the race.

"You are one sad bastard," I say

I'm not sure if I'm talking to Ethan or myself. Works for both of us, don't you think?

SO HERE I AM, with … oh, an hour to go.

And what happens?

Go on, guess.

Okay, okay. Someone rings the doorbell. Which doesn't happen too often, let me tell you. Mrs Margarita has her own key, and if there's a delivery, the doorman buzzes up. Last time the doorbell rang it was that twerp Rolf … uh, Messenger Boy.

Look how that turned out.

Not well.

In full superhero regalia, I answer the door.

You could knock me down with something light. A feather or a fingertip. Because standing there, in skintight red pants, boots, and a black, curve-skimming, puffy winter coat, is the professor. Amy.

She flips a little wave. "Hi."

Do I look confused? Because I'm confused. I gave her my name, but only the first one.

"How did you know who I was?"

"I know someone who knows a lot of things."

"How did you know where I live?"

"The same someone I just mentioned. Is it okay? That I'm here, I mean."

My cock launches a protest on her behalf. He wants her to stay. Me, I feel mildly violated. Like someone squeezed my buns on public transport.

Yeah, I get that it's more than a mild violation for girls. But hey, guy here. A piece of us (the cock piece) would welcome an ass-squeezing from a cute girl, in a messed up, conflicting way.

"Sure. What's up?"

She steps past me, into my domain. "I … I'm not here to have sex with you. But maybe I can help."

"Help how?"

"I was thinking I could come with you, to your meeting. I could explain my side to your SuperCouncil and maybe they'd understand that it's not you—it's all me."

It's sweet. I can't say no. Probably, it won't work, but ….

"You'd do that for me?"

She nods. "Call it a thank you for saving me—twice."

"Want a drink?"

She rises on tip toes, checks out the view over my shoulder. Her eyes widen, her lips form a small O. It's impressive, I know.

"How long until takeoff?"

"Less than an hour."

"Time for one drink. Hot chocolate?"

Thanks to my late-night jaunt to the supermarket I can fulfill her drink order. So I usher her into the living room, where the view is superlative, and hike my ass into the kitchen.

It's not empty. Mrs Margarita is behind the big island, motioning me to come closer.

"I must talk to you," she says.

"Can't it wait?"

"Waiting is for unimportant things. This is very important."

"Okay, okay. I'm listening. What's wrong?"

"That woman." She's wringing her hands. Very unusual for her. Usually she punches her way through life.

"Amy?"

"Yes. She will not help you. Make her leave now while you can."

"Why? She said she'd talk to the SuperCouncil. Are you saying they won't listen?"

"I am saying she will not help you."

I put on a goofy smile. "Aww, Mrs Margarita. It's not like you to be jealous."

She slaps my arm. "Who is jealous? I am not jealous. But the third eye tells me there is more to her than what you see in your living room."

"Ooooh, I hope so," I say. "Is she a bad girl? Does she like to be spanked?"

"I will spank you if you are not careful."

Don't worry, I see it too. The ravines in her skin are deeper, the downturn of her mouth steeper. She's genuinely perturbed.

She's not a hot young thing, but I hate seeing anyone of the female persuasion in distress. Particularly someone who is as close to family as it gets without involving marriage or blood. Resting my hands on her shoulders, I pitch my neck so that I'm looking down at her. The distance between the top of her head and mine is mighty. I'm winning by a long foot.

"Mrs Margarita, it's okay. We'll go, she'll talk to them, and then I'll be back. Hopefully as Super Fucking Hero, not just Hunter Forrester."

"You are a fool. All men are the same. You follow that thing between your legs as if it is a compass. It is not a compass. It is a sign always pointing towards trouble!"

The thing is, she's kind of right. But what can I do?

Down in my gut there's a storm gathering. No, I didn't eat Mexican. It's the SuperCouncil thing. Before, everything hinged on me persuading Amy to—as Mrs Margarita puts it—to do the sex with me. She wouldn't. Doom was certain.

Now Amy's giving me a new hinge. Sure it's not as shiny as the old one, but a hinge is a hinge. Her plan is a long-shot (no, not Longshot, he of the Marvel fame—lucky asshole), but it could work. Those old crusts on the SuperCouncil are still mostly male (sexist, I know, but there are more male superheroes. That's a fact), which means I'm banking on their old—what's the British word?—tallywackers perking up for Amy. They'll listen to her.

I hope.

"You are all the family I have, Mrs Margarita. We're not blood, but who cares? I'm doing this for the girls of this city, so they have a chance to grow older and maybe one day make soup for a charming, intelligent, gorgeous man like myself. The streets are safer with Super Fucking Hero out there, watching over them. I'm doing what needs to be done to preserve that."

Tender moment, right? Are you tearing up? That's cool, there's something in my eye, too. Must be a lash. Or dust. I better have a word with my housekeeper.

Yes, I have a housekeeper. You honestly didn't think ghosts keep this whole place clean, did you? It's huge. In the immortal (thanks to the power of the Internet) words of that one woman on YouTube: Ain't nobody got time fo' that.

Oh. Right. I am my housekeeper.

What? I live in grand total of five rooms—max. It's easy work picking up after one person.

"It'll be fine," I continue. "I'll be fine. When I get back, how's about I take you out for dinner? Anywhere you want to go. Lady's choice."

Although it's illogical and physically impossible, her hand really does come out of nowhere. It rushes from right to left in a wide arc, taking my face with it.

Ouch!

"What was that for?"

"You are what my country calls a vlakas!"

"What's that?"

"Stupid!"

I've been called worse. A lot.

HOT CHOCOLATE. Got it. One for her, none for me. The churn in my gut is killing my appetite.

Professor Amy's standing at the window, hands clasped behind her back, legs apart. When she turns, her smile is so big and full that she could be the sun.

See, my appreciation for the female form isn't limited to tits and ass. Although hers are spectacular. I could sink my teeth into that ass right here.

"Is everything okay?" she asks.

No. But I'm hoping I come out of this meeting wearing a huge smile—and the costume, of course.

"Sure." Like my lie? Concise, isn't it? I'm proud of that one. Took me all of no seconds to think of it, too. "Drink up. Almost time to go."

"How are we getting there?"

I grin.

TWENTY

THE FLYING NEVER GETS OLD, even in the middle of February, when there's a chance of ice and snow in every forecast.

You know what I need? A wooly cock sock.

Mental note to self: Acquire a cock sock.

That's if they don't demote me to mere mortal.

The girl in my arms is loving this. She's smarter than me 'cause she's dressed for the flight in a thick winter coat that somehow manages to be warm and clingy. I could wear a coat, but it messes with the look. Ever see the big names flying the skies or scaling buildings wearing winter fashions?

Yeah, didn't think so.

Now I'm gonna do something stupid. You're gonna slap your foreheads and scream, "No, Super Fucking Hero! Remember the virgin and dark basement and how she (or he) always dies? Always! Dies!"

I hear you, but I'm temporarily blinded by the beauty in my arms. She's a rare find, a woman who says no and can hold a conversation in which I feel like we're on equal footing.

Okay, and she's smoking hot. But not merely hot—beautiful. Trot her out onto the runway and all the other models are going to grab their undergarments and flee the scene. They'd know they're outgunned.

She's the kind of woman you can take home to meet the parents. All right, so your dad would want to nail her, but he'd feel bad about it. And your mother? She'd be wary at first, but she'd come around when she realized just how stunning and smart all those grandbabies would be.

That's all a moot point for me, given my parental situation, but still. Professor Amy is really something.

So when I perform my rare Tinker Bell landing in the park across from the bar, I don't stop to blindfold her. My mind is on the girl, the SuperCouncil, the possibility of taking her on that date—as Hunter Forrester—if everything shakes out in my favor.

Go on, say it. I'm a fucking dumbass.

"Downtown?" she purrs, when as I float us down to the ground. The whole setup would be romantic if not for the winos, the homeless, and the impending doom. "I figured your super-secret council would be somewhere in the middle of nowhere."

"It is—but not in this city."

She answers with a head tilt. It's adorable—really. Makes me want to tweak her nose, then throw her on the ground and fuck her.

"The SuperCouncil is everywhere. In every city, every town—even the podunks. That's part of what makes them Super."

"But where is it? The central hub must exist somewhere."

"No idea. It's not in the handbook, and I never cared enough to ask."

"You're not curious?"

"Sure. About lots of things. But not about this. Probably because every meeting with the SuperCouncil winds up being as comfortable as a chancre on my ass."

"You have quite the way with words."

"I read a lot."

"You?" There she goes with the eyebrows again. You know what they say: If the wind changes direction, she could be stuck like that forever.

Pity. But she's lovely, even when she's surprised in an are-you-fucking-kidding-me? way.

"You didn't see my library."

"You have a library?"

"I have a library."

"What else do you have?"

A hard-on. Well, the beginning of one. But it's evolving fast.

"It's a big place, I've got lots of things."

"A superhero stash?"

"You mean with weapons and stuff, a room where I keep the suit?" She nods. "Yeah, baby." She throws me an evil look. "I mean, yeah, Amy."

"That's better," she says. "Shall we?"

You know how sometimes you wrench the top off a beer and it spurts foam all over the place? That's what's going on in my gut right now—only the foam's got nowhere to go. So it's just busting its beer nut all over my insides.

I can't fucking wait until this is over.

Silly me, I offer Amy my hand just, you know, to do the gentlemanly thing and escort her across the road. She looks at my open palm like it's cancer.

"Just trying to be nice."

She tucks her hands into her coat pockets. "I know how to cross a road."

Jesus. She's one tough nut. But I bet she's sweeter than candy on the inside.

Did you see the completely moronic, idiotic, stupid thing I completely failed to do?

Everything that happens next is my own stupid fault.

TWO PEOPLE WALK INTO A BAR—one drop-dead gorgeous girl and one smoking hot superhero. And the bartender says, "Date?"

The superhero says, "No, but I can hook you up with my co-worker. Because apparently, he's desperate and not all that picky."

Funny?

I didn't think so either.

Ted the bartender just looks at me in his signature cardboard cutout way. His attention turns to the girl. "Who's that?"

"This is Amy," I tell him, waving a hand in her direction. "She's a professor."

"She going with you?"

"Looks like."

"That a good idea?"

What's with tonight's grilling? Do I look like a guy who's got all the answers? Because I don't.

"It's an idea. I'll let you know if it's good or not." Then, whether she likes it or not, I grab Amy's gloved hand and drag her out back to the janitor's closet.

For the record, the shitty band is playing Hotel California. If you can call that playing.

Just thought you should know.

"In here." Same as last time—and every other time—I yank open the closet door, after glancing around to make sure no one has followed us out here.

No witnesses. Come to think of it, there never are.

Now I'm wondering if those poor sods drowning what's left of their hopes and dreams in the bottom of a grimy glass at the bar are even alive. Could be they're window dressing. Ditto the band and their setlist of one.

Amy's beautiful mouth has a confused twist. "You want me to get in that closet with you?"

"You ever hear of seven minutes in heaven?"

"Who hasn't?"

If you're that one person who doesn't know about seven minutes in heaven, this is for you.

You're thirteen or fourteen—maybe twelve or fifteen—one of those notoriously moist ages. Yes, I said moist. Get over it. I hate the word too, but if you've ever been that age you'll know it's the perfect descriptor. So you're one of the above ages and you're at a party. Maybe one of the first mixed parties you've been to since you were seven. And someone has the bright idea about throwing names into two hats—boys in one, girls in the other. You pull out a name or someone pulls out yours, and then you're sent into a closet for seven minutes.

Doesn't matter if you're hot for them or if they're a wildebeest in your opinion, into the closet you go. Making out isn't required, but hey, when in the closet …

"This is more like thirty seconds of hell," I tell her.

"I trust you." Her hand slips into mine.

Now she trusts me? Girls! I understand them, but I sure as fuck don't "get" them. And this one? She's more mysterious than the first season of Lost.

I don't know what her deal is. But I'm gonna guess … aliens.

(That's the guy with the big poofy hair's stock answer.)

Hopefully this will work. Since I only have the aforementioned source to work with, I have no idea if the floor will refuse to budge or—

Whoosh!

The bottom drops out of the closet like it always does, so that answers that question. Beside me, Amy gasps.

I know the feeling, sugar tits. It never goes away.

Third seconds later, we land in the middle of a light and noise show. All that's missing are the pyrotechnics. And surrounding us?

Guns.

Some of this world and some not.

What the—

TWENTY-ONE

—FUCK.

The whole place is on some kind of red alert. And the whole freakin' circus seems to be aimed right at us.

Did I say seems?

It's aimed right at us. Up close and in our faces. In fact, the muzzle of some kind of ray gun is resting on the tip of my nose. If I sneeze I'm a dead man—guaranteed. Looks like something out of those Men in Black movies. I never said all our specialists and weapons providers originated on Earth.

The actual superheroes—the guys and girls who work on the streets—are standing back, letting Security do their jobs. Security has formed a uniformed ring around us. Very monotonous in their blue and gray threads. Easy to pick them out, I guess. Sure, I've got a tasteful costume (can't go wrong with black on black), but some of the others? Blinding. I'm talking pink paired with green, neon yellow butted up to neon purple.

"What the hell?" See me dialing down the curse words for these guys? Nice of me—right? Okay, so it's partly niceness, partly a survival tactic; why piss them off more? "I'm here for a follow-up hearing with the SuperCouncil."

Click-click.

"Get up slowly. Hands behind your heads. Weapons on the ground."

Nice flow of logic. When I point it out, they're unamused.

"Get up slowly. Weapons on the ground. Hands behind your heads."

Amy's hand is still tucked in mine (it's a miracle!), so I pull her up with me. Then I get down to the business of ditching the weaponry. The guns, the grenades, the hidden knives. Can't throw myself on the ground though, can I? Even unarmed I'm lethal, if I put my mind and fists to it.

But I'm standing in superhero central. I'm one pair of fists. They're dozens—maybe hundreds.

"It's okay," I tell the professor.

I'm lying. It's not okay. And I can't guarantee it'll be okay thirty seconds from now. Or thirty minutes. We could be a couple of grease stains on the floor any second now. Not that either of us is carrying much body fat.

"Her, too," the wannabe TSA agent barks.

"She's not armed, you doofuses."

That's when Amy laughs. Remember how I compared her laugh to the glorious peal of a wet finger around a crystal rim? I'd like to change my answer. Same crystal, only now it sound like someone's slamming it with a hammer, and those tiny, sharp shards are burrowing into my skin, slicing through the thin membranes inside my ears.

It's joyful—in a mentally deranged way.

"Uh …" That's my way of asking what the fucking FUCK is going on. Eloquent, I know, but I feel like that one idiot who doesn't get the joke, so he's forced to either laugh along to save face, or stand there not laughing, hoping someone will clue him in.

Lucky me, Amy clues me in.

"Super Fucking Hero," she purrs. She places her finger on my shoulder, circles me, looking me over like I'm what's for dinner.

Maybe she doesn't know the difference between beef and beefcake.

"That's my name, baby. Don't wear it out."

That finger dances across my shoulders, then comes to roost on my chest. Any other time? Arousing. But see the guy below my belt, my partner in fighting crime? He's playing dead.

Smart.

"You brought me right here." She holds her hands up, turns in a tight circle. "The SuperCouncil building. I've been dying to get in here for years, so I can destroy the whole thing."

You were all slapping your foreheads several pages back, but the light is only just now coming on in my head. It's on a dimmer switch, so it's a slow process.

I should have blindfolded her.

Or left her behind.

Or, I dunno, kept my mouth shut.

"But …" The pearls keep rolling off my tongue.

"What?" She looks me up and down, assessing me like she's in the market for a horse. "But we only just met? But how could I know about this place? But, but, but." That wicked wench reaches around, squeezes my buns. Both hands.

Saucy.

"But I rescued you. Twice. You didn't even believe I was a superhero at first."

"I was counting on you showing up, Super Fucking Hero. Don't you feel special? Out of all these superheroes, I picked you to be my key to the SuperCouncil."

She. Used. Me.

Oh, and she's apparently evil.

I wasn't starting to like her. Seriously.

Okay, you got me. Yeah, I was starting to like her—a lot.

The penised half of the human population doesn't take rejection well.

Case in point:

"Yeah, I feel special. But you? You're just a common cunt."

Cue the horrified expression on Amy's face. Calling a woman a cunt is a call to battle. Unless it's part of your kinky domination and submission game.

Let's slo-mo it. Otherwise, the scene's going to sprint by and you'll get nothing but a blur. Then you'll feel all ripped off when you're done reading.

I don't want you to feel ripped off. I want you back here to read my continuing adventures.

Big things planned, my friends. Big things.

But first I've got two problems on my hands: the SuperCouncil and this … villain. She's the immediate problem, so let's start there.

I would never hit a girl or a woman. Ever. It's not cool. If I struck a woman, I know my mother would leap up out of the grave and have me retroactively aborted.

Yeah, I'd give anything to see her again, but not like that.

Plus, I love girls. It's not just the sex—it's the everything. Is there anything more wonderful that the female of our species? They're everything we're not—and then some.

But the professor? She's shaping up to be a whole bag of bitches.

She swings at me. It's a good jab. Too bad I'm not there to catch it. I'm already whirling away, tapping her on the shoulder before she's pulled that arm all the way back.

"Yoohoo. I'll make you famous."

The fist drops. She throws on a disgusted expression. "Young Guns? Really? Did you just quote Young Guns?"

"Nope. Young Guns II."

"Ugh."

"What can I say? I'm your huckleberry."

Somebody in the crowd chuckles. Naturally, I bow. Amy catches me not in a weak moment, but in a polite one. While I'm bending low, she puts her foot up my ass and shoves.

Nice marble tile. Clean. Recently waxed. Doesn't taste so good though.

Immediate recovery. I zip into the air, perform a somersault, land on my feet behind her.

"That wasn't nice."

"It wasn't meant to be nice," she says.

"Keep it up and I'll show you why God put your two holes so close together."

"Sex jokes, Super Fucking Hero? At a time like this?"

"Sex joke? No, no, no. I was going to pick you up like an empty six-pack and throw you out with the rest of the garbage."

Her eyes widen. Her mouth makes a big O.

"That's right, sweetheart," I continue, because I can't help myself. "I dodged a bullet when you refused to fuck me. For a while there I forgot I don't stick my favorite body part in trash."

There's a collective intake of breath.

Aren't they supposed to be on my side? Why aren't they helping?

Figures. They're enjoying the show.

That big, round O settles into an unnerving smile. What's she got to be happy about? I'm insulting her and we're surrounded by guns. She should be pooping those skin-tight pants.

"You have no idea who I am, do you?" That voice, it's silk. Poison-laced silk, but silk. She nods at the crowd. "They know. But not poor, pathetic, sex-addicted Super Fucking Hero. You're like a big, dumb dog. And I'm going to make sure you're neutered. Or euthanized. Whichever. I'm not picky."

She tilts her gaze up, and like a circus monkey, mine follows.

The janitor's closet floor is falling—fast. It's coming right for us. Leaping out of its path, I pull Amy to safety with me. Okay, we land in a heap at the feet of some angry-looking people with guns, but at least the closet floor won't land on our heads.

Stupid, Super Fucking Hero, I hear you saying. Why save the professor? She's a real bitch.

I can't help it. A girl in danger is a girl in danger, even when she's Godzilla with tits.

That fizzing beer in my gut? It's a twelve-pack now. In fact, there's a full-scale Fourth of July party happening in there, right down to the fireworks. And let tell you, folks—nothing good comes of shooting bottle rockets in a confined space. Ask Captain Kern. He and I know, man. We know.

This doesn't feel good.

When the floor lands. I blink.

And blink.

And then I say, "What the fuck?"

"Surprise, motherfucker."

That intelligent bit of speech just popped out of one of those football assholes. The same assholes I've bundled up twice now and shipped off to the cops. All five bozos this time.

"You look like a pack of tampons," I say. "Used ones."

Not that I know what that looks like, but I can guess it looks like these guys in their blood red uniforms. They're all dressed in the same red T-shirts (in February? Really?) and red cargo pants. Even the boots are red. The only thing out of place are the goggles dangling around their necks.

"Good news," I tell them. "I hear Cirque du Soleil is hiring. You clowns are gonna need a plan B when you flunk."

There goes that loony laugh again. "They're not flunking college," Amy says as the goons steps off the floor and it rockets back to the closet upstairs.

"But—"

"Oh, come on. How stupid are you? I mean I know you're an idiot, but you're a whole new level of moronic. You interrupted our little … game. Twice. My boys and I do enjoy a good game of hide and go fuck."

Have you figured it out yet? Because I haven't.

Until she rips away that fetching winter coat, revealing her surprise.

I'm a moron, I admit it. When she showed up in her thick coat over red pants and red boots, I assumed, hey, here's a girl who digs red. Red's great. It's a powerful color. Want to intimidate in a meeting? Show you're ruthless? Confident? Red's your color. But when it comes to Amy, I missed what she squished in my face. Her top is red, too. And on the front?

A big, black F.

"Fuck." I stagger backwards. "You're Super Fucking Villain. My nemesis!"

"Gotcha," she says. "But let's face it, you were an easy target. A sitting duck. All I had to do was not fuck you. Which … wasn't easy to do." She wipes that gaze all over my body. It makes me feel a fizzy combination of cheap, dirty, and horny. "You are a tasty boy. That body, that face, that Super Fucking Hero charm …"

"I am charming."

Hey, humility isn't one of my strengths.

"M'am, you'll have to come with us," one of the Security guys barks. That's the good guys, for those of you keeping score.

And by the way, what took them so long?

Oh. Now I get it. It's her. Amy. The professor. Super Fucking Villain. She's me with a wondrous rack and a face handcrafted by angels. To me she's sizzling hot, but to them, the guys without my superpowers? One word: devastating.

I have good deeds on my side. Nothing wins the ladies over like a dashing superhero who risks himself to save them from certain death or injury.

But Super Fucking Villain, what's she got in her arsenal?

Okay, aside from the spectacular breasts and an ass every straight guy on the planet would kill to see spread wide in front of him.

No acts of heroism, that's for sure. So must be some kind of perfume she's oozing, a pheromone designed to suck men into her vagina vortex—but to what end?

"Say, what's a Super Fucking Villain do? 'Cause besides being a pain in my ass, your job sounds pretty pointless."

"Oh, you don't like a little pain in the ass? I'll remember that," she says. "I figured you for an open-minded boy. My other boys certainly are." She waves her hand at her meathead minions.

Do they flinch? Nope.

"I'm not your boy, Super Fucking Villain. That won't change."

She throws her head back, unleashes another maniacal laugh. Yeah, she's certifiable—not to mention evil—but that laugh still has one sexy, jagged edge. "Oh, it will. It might take time, but you'll be mine. After I'm finished here, of course."

"What do you want?"

A voice steps out of the crowd. "To destroy the SuperCouncil, of course. What does any supervillain want?"

By the way, that's Clarissa Westlake. Remember her from my prior meeting with the SuperCouncil? She's the one in the cardigan with the fussy lace around the collar. She always reminds of me of cats, doilies, and overstuffed couches stamped with cabbage roses.

"First the SuperCouncil," Clarissa continues. "And eventually the world."

"The SuperCouncil," Super Fucking Villain says, "yes. I'm going to put you out of business—permanently. Tonight. The world? No, no, no. I've got plans for the world."

I hold up my hands. "I still don't know what she does."

Clarissa threads a path through Security, stopping on my side of the manmade ring. "She leads men to their doom, of course. She drains them dry, financially, emotionally, physically …"

Hey, it's nothing to do with me when my cock stirs. It wants to hear more about this physical draining. Idiot. Doesn't know what's good for him.

"… and they wind up homeless, in the morgue, in psychiatric facilities—"

"They have the power to say no," Super Fucking Villain says her in own lame defense.

"—and the lives they leave behind them are left in ruins. Families permanently broken, corporations plundered, need I go on?"

"Oh do," Super Fucking Villain gushes. "And maybe you want to tell everyone how you know, while you're at it."

"My history is no secret, Amy Hart."

My hand shoots up. "I don't know. Someone want to enlighten me?"

Clarissa stays fixed on Amy. "What the professor is referring to is that I am the former Super Fucking Villain."

My mouth gapes. Looks like I've been fisted in the kisser, I know.

Clarissa pats my arm. "Superheroes are not the only ones who can Fall, Mr Forrester. Many a villain has switched sides." She turns her attention back to Amy. "Now is your chance to redeem yourself. We were hoping you'd come so we could offer you that opportunity."

Hang on a minute … "You engineered this?"

"To some degree." Clarissa throws me a tiny shrug-shaped bone. "The world runs more smoothly when we leave as little as possible to chance."

The bad girl's face is slathered with disbelief. "You want to offer me the opportunity to be—what—one of the good guys?"

Oh, God. She's one of those people. You know the ones. An air-quoter. And the phrase she air quotes this time is "good guys."

I hate air-quoters. Pet peeve. I can't believe Mr Happy wanted to dive into an air-quoter. He and I need to talk.

"It's that or imprisonment." Clarissa, the former Super Fucking Villain is circling us now. "Not a civilian prison, but our prison. No one has ever escaped a SuperCell. They're made to contain even the best, most skillful of us, and the most cunning and powerful of the supervillains. Once we put you there, you'll never know daylight again."

The current Super Fucking Villain grins. "I'll take my chances. Boys?" She tosses that last word over her shoulder, along with her ponytail, like she's pitching spare change into a fountain.

I hope her wish is a good one. She's going to need it here in superhero central. Because me and my brothers and sisters are loaded for the apocalypse.

Yeah, we're gonna pound some supervillain ass. Bring it, bitch.

Then the lights flicker and die, plunging the lobby into darkness.

It's an unnatural death, because I guarantee this place is generator-ed out the wazoo. And what does everyone do?

The worst thing possible: panic.

Grown men are squealing like little girls. All the bellowing? Women. They're outmanning the men. I'm cutting through the crowd in what I think is a beeline directly for where Super Fucking Villain was last standing, but she and her football goons came prepared. Those googles had to be night vision—and who knows what else. They could be anywhere, watching us flail in the night.

Where's that guy with the light in his chest when we need him?

Oh. Yeah. Probably at his latest movie premiere.

Fuck that guy. We can kick ass without him. Too bad SuperCouncil Security demanded I kick over all my weapons—I had a flashlight. Well, a gun with a light in the pistol grip.

With no light to work with, I'm trying to remember what Amy smells like. Triumph, probably.

Stop, Super Fucking Hero. Hunter—middle name redacted—Forrester.

Think.

The little voice inside me has a point. So I stop. Yeah, it's darker than pitch, but my eyes close and the world becomes more colorful. Ever close your eyes and see all those swirls and whorls of color and light? That's where I am, in my own little kaleidoscope world.

The panic continues around me, but I'm turning the dial, tuning it out. I pull in a long stream of air. I'm like one of those oenophile douche-bags, swooshing a high-dollar wine around my mouth, only I'm doing that with air and my nose. I drag the air down deep, to where my nose and throat connect to the same pipe. What I'm searching for is that note of her. The smell of a traitorous fucking harpy.

I don't know what exactly she's planning after turning out the lights, but I won't let her unspool her evil. She destroys the SuperCouncil, who's going to keep the streets safe? This is as completely fucking personal as it gets.

On the other side of my eyelids, someone sends up a flare. It sprays the room in orange-pink stars.

That's when I catch a whiff of her. It's the hot chocolate she can't seem to quit; it's warm, sweet, marshmallowy.

Eyes closed, I elbow my way through the freak-out zone. I can't tell where her moron minions are, but her chocolate perfume is headed towards the security checkpoint. That post was abandoned when we landed on the janitor's closet floor. The forcefield's still in place, but she's a clever girl. There must be more than flawless, lightly tanned skin up her sleeves.

That's when the gunfire starts. Short, precise bursts. A woman screams. Must be the goons firing—not us. The only women here are ours—except the supervillain herself.

I'm a man torn in two. Stay and help defend what's ours, or follow the sweet scent of chocolate-covered bitch?

Track the supervillain. For better or worse.

Springing up off the ground, I take flight. Thanks to the flare I see the wall the exact second before it leaps out to grope my face.

No time for pain. Gotta run.

The forcefield blips and burps.

"It's Super Fucking Hero," I hiss at it. Too many seconds zip by before it flashes green. I bolt through, take the door that's open. There's light in the hallway but it's thin and intermittent.

Still, it's enough to see Belinda when I reach the end. She of the magnificent tits is slumped over on the floor. Sliding to a stop, I check her pulse (the one on her wrist, okay? Jesus).

Alive. Thank you.

"Hey." I tap her on the cheek. Her eyelids flutter. Her bountiful chest heaves. Inside the suit, my cock perks up. "Where did the girl in red go?"

She feels around for her clipboard. I hold it up for her.

"The Garden Room," she says.

"Which room am I supposed to be in?"

She squints at me. "Who are you?"

Oof. Right in the ego. "It's me—Super Fucking Hero."

Back to the list. "The Garden Room."

The Garden Room. Exactly where I'm supposed to be. That can't be a coincidence. All the SuperCouncil, minus the former Super Fucking Villain, must be there. Amy's alter ego did say she wanted to wipe out the council. She must have meant it literally, as in she intends to snuff them all. I assumed she wanted to demolish the building. As smart as I am, there are still times when I'm not the brightest star in the sky.

Shocking, huh?

The flaky light continues down the next hallway. No running—I fly. I land with a thud outside the tall doors that lead to the Garden Room.

Dead quiet. Either the soundproof is exceptional, or …

You know. They're dead.

Which would let me off the hook. But—as you've already figured out—I can be an idiot. I'd rather be on the hook with the SuperCouncil alive than off the hook with them dead. Love 'em or hate 'em, the work they do is for the good of mankind.

The door's polished knob yields to my yanking. I open it just a crack before I slide in.

The Garden Room is exactly what it sounds like. It's a garden. In a room. But the room is approximately the size of about four football fields smushed together. The roof is high, domed, made of glass and steel. Think one of those conservatories, but on an epic scale. The Garden Room is what the SuperCouncil uses for unpleasant tasks such as condemning some poor bastard who was set up to permanent neutralizing. I guess if they have to get their hands dirty, they feel happier doing it in a huge-ass garden.

Oh, look. They're alive. Phew!

Super Fucking Villain's got them all penned in behind some kind of mobile forcefield. Chicken wire made of glowing blue threads. She's standing on the outside, arms folded. Got serious gloat-face going on.

If you're wondering how she trapped them, these are retired superheroes, remember? Part of the retirement package is the loss of powers—unless you're from off-planet and they're congenital. And we're not talking men and women in their prime, either. They retired for a reason.

"Hey, crazy lady," I bark. "Back the fuck off."

"What?" The sides of her lips twitch. "Are you going to make me?"

"Wow. It's like you read my mind."

"Not really. I just know your type."

"What type is that?"

"Superheroes. You're all little lost lambs searching for some way to redeem yourselves, to atone for something that wasn't your fault. You're all so … emo."

"What's your malfunction? Daddy issues?"

"What's yours? Oedipal complex? Did you hate competing with your father for blowjobs?"

Ugh. Just no.

She's on a roll. "Would you hurt a woman, Super Fucking Hero—Hunter? What would your dead, dead mother say?"

"She'd probably say I was stupid, you know, mistaking you for a woman."

There's a satisfying crunch as my fist collides with her nose. Now I'm wearing a Jackson Pollock knock-off on my shirt, painted in blood.

"Asshole."

The butt of her palm catches me on the chin, shooting me across the room backwards, like a falling star.

"Daddy issues—I knew it." Yes, I'm goading her. There's a method to my madness, and it boils down to this one simple fact: angry people do dumb shit. I'm counting on it. "Didn't he love you? Or—" I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively—I'm an asshole and a pig, I know. But these are dark times, my friends. Well, dark time. Hopefully things will lighten up after I wipe out Psycho Sugar Tits here. "—did he love you too much?"

Things get slo-mo and super-fast after that.

She pulls out what looks like a tiny bullet vibrator.

Really? She's going to do this in front of all these people? Kinky. Super Fucking Villain indeed.

But it's not a vibrator. Dozens of ultra-thin cables shoot out, all of them aimed at me. Very taser-like.

I leap, intending to land on her far side, but the cables slither around to hook their barbed fingers into my suit.

"Lights on," she says, smiling. Then she pushes a button and electricity shoots me up like I'm a junkie for Nikola Tesla's beloved current.

For the record, it fucking hurts. My bowels are liquifying. If she keeps this up I'm gonna shit my suit. I've never shit my suit.

"Arrrrrggggghhh."

Hear that? That's me. Totally involuntary. My blood is steaming and hissing in my veins, my kidneys are hoping they won't be overcooked, and my liver is wondering if she brought along a nice chianti and some fava beans.

Then the current dies and I flop into a rocky bed of succulents and cacti, somewhere on the far side of Eden.

Let's not argue whether or not a cactus is a succulent. Bottom line: now there are prickles in my prick. The chest and back plates are the only bulletproof parts to this suit. The rest is completely permeable, as you can see.

"Hey, Professor Hart? You on the rag?"

Oh no, you di'n't, Super Fucking Hero.

Yes. Yes, I did.

That question is a rare gift from the gods who watch over men. It has the power to unglue a girl or woman and shoot her up in a giant mushroom cloud.

I'm trying to piss her off, remember? I would never say it to anyone I cared about, and neither should you.

Except I miscalculated. Amy isn't an ordinary girl. She's Super Fucking Villain. And that line about her period? She probably hears that a lot from the other poor bastards she subjugates. So when she saunters around the giant cactus—the kind you see in cartoon westerns—those delectable hips swaying like an erotic pendulum, it's with a big, dangerous smile.

"Why yes, actually. Fancy some crime-scene fucking?"

Crime-scene fucking, for those who don't know, is menstruation sex. Blood everywhere. Looks like a crime scene.

You're welcome.

Then she nails me in the frank 'n' beans with the toe of her boot.

It's not a total loss. When I puke I manage to spray it all over her red suit.

Now if I can just stand …

Ooof.

Give me a moment … to wrench this cactus out of the ground and slam it into her crotch.

Booyah, bitch!

From the delightful sounds of her screaming, I'm guessing she never took that many pricks at once.

"I'm going to fucking KILL you," she howls.

I stagger to my feet. "Bring it, sister."

Shouldn't have said that. The next thing out of her supervillain arsenal is the arrival of her five asshole amigos.

"It's done," one of them says. They're all the same asshole, so who cares which one said it.

"What's done?"

She glances at me. "My boys set in motion the destruction of this entire facility, with all of you in it. Well, you'll be dead, but everyone else will suffer on their way to superhero heaven."

"Why?"

She laughs, flicks back her ponytail. "You're right about the daddy issues, Hunter. He loved me—fiercely, but not in any sicko way. Until your cronies killed him."

"Your father was a supervillain, too? Figures."

"No, he was one of you. A superhero."

My expression rearranges itself into the surprised position. "Who?"

"It's irrelevant. What matters is that the SuperCouncil is responsible for my father's death. And now they—and you—have to die." She flips me a tiny wave. "Buh-bye! It's too bad we never got to fuck, but oh well."

Something shoots out of another gizmo she's brought to this shitty party. A personal-sized version of the forcefield surrounding the members of the SuperCouncil. I touch it with my gloved fingertip because—hey—I was that kid. And that kid grew up into that man. Tell me it's hot and I'm gonna touch it, because I want to make sure. Oh, the paint is wet? Here, let me see if it's wet.

You know—that guy.

Maybe you're one yourself. I bet you are.

The forcefield, predictably, zaps me until I'm long past al dente.

TWENTY-TWO

I'M out for all of ten seconds, but that's long enough for an epiphany.

Want to guess what it is?

Okay. Super Fucking Villain, she of the whizz-bang educational background is, first and foremost, an academic type. Now I'm not going to slap paint on all academics with the same sticky brush, but the whole absent-minded professor stereotype comes from somewhere.

Still with me?

That's the thing about stereotypes. They occur because sometimes a particular group of people act the same way, wear the same clothes, go crazy for the same things, in a noticeably quantifiable way.

So Amy is an academic, which means she's not entirely tuned in when it comes to common sense. See this forcefield? Tight quarters. Just enough room for me to pass out for ten seconds. The walls are high, the ceiling—

Oh, that's right—there's no goddamned ceiling!

There's nothing above me but sunshine and glass and freshly processed air.

Smart girl, but not always sensible.

Pushing off from the ground, I zoom up out of that electrical cage and into freedom.

Now comes the tricky part. Amy and her football freaks are currently over on the far side of the garden room where they've got a whole bunch of council-shaped rats still in that same cage. Engaging my super stealth (I'm tiptoeing, okay?) I cross the the room, hiding behind shrubs and trees.

Yes, trees. This room is huge. Imagine botanical gardens, but with separate little ecosystems. I'm crossing into cooler air, away from the moisture-stripped environment where the cacti thrive. I peek out from behind a puffball of a bush. Flat, wide leaves, flowers clumped together in mini bouquets. A hydrangea—that's it. Hey, I'm a guy, we don't really do flowers. There's a small tag in the dirt with the name on it. It's not like I dredged it up from some once-lost memory. I'm good—but not that good.

Anyway Amy's still running off at the mouth about how she's going to let her boys shoot fish in the barrel. The SuperCouncil, of course, are the fish in that scenario. The five apes raise their weapons and fire.

Except that absent-minded professor thing has kicked in again. That forcefield of hers is a two-way roadblock. Nothing gets in or out. In fact, one of her "boys" suddenly goes, "Ooof," and drops.

Yeah, that bullet bounced right off the forcefield at back at him. From the amount of blood he's losing I'd say he's a goner.

Lay down with dogs, folks, you get up with fleas. Or in his case, you don't get up at all.

Amy rolls her eyes at the ceiling, zaps the forcefield down, then she shoots into the small crowd. Someone collapses. Not a one of them looks like a superhero now; they're bedraggled, old, worried. It's as if someone threw the fire alarm in the wee hours at an old folks home.

Not cool, Super Fucking Villain. Not cool.

Yeah, the SuperCouncil is a pain in the ass, but they're my pain in the ass.

Okay, time to separate the men from the boys. Or, in this case, the goodies from the baddies.

I've got a plan.

Actually, what I've got is a weapon I didn't hand over. C'mon, would you have left yourself defenseless if you were me? Didn't think so.

I'm just about to unleash the hurt when a boom rattles the glass. That must be part of her destroy-the-building plan. Which part? It sounded big, but distant.

Heads whip around. Crazy lady laughs. "That's your precious council building imploding."

Boys, men, never stick your dick in that kind of crazy. It'll get you killed.

Time to change the game.

The bottle's small but it's full. And when I put my superhero strength into the squeeze, its contents shoot across the room. You could say it ejaculates. That would be apt.

Amy draws in her breath hard and sharp. "You!"

She takes one step toward me—or she tries. And her world slips away. I've doused her and her goons with the equivalent of banana peels on steroids.

"Lube." I flash her a 'ha-ha-ha, I'm the winner smile.' "A special blend. And to think I almost turned it down."

Her ass-monkeys could be playing naked Twister with baby oil, the way they're slithering and sliding around.

"You're dead, Super Fucking Hero," she yells.

I swagger—hey, I've earned it—over to where she's flopping around in that wet puddle. "Apparently not. You want a hand?" I dangle a pair of handcuffs from one finger.

"Fuck you."

"Not if I can help it. I try to avoid bitter, evil bitches with daddy issues. You're just a bunny boiler waiting to happen. I'm sure you understand."

Her face says she wants me dead, preferably by some excruciating method involving a funnel and boiling oil. Then she presses a button on her watch and disappears.

Cool trick. It's officially on my to-get list.

The not-so cool part is that she's gone. Escaped. Fled the chicken coop.

Several feet away, her minions are realizing they're the equivalent of a human sacrifice. Without their boss they seem smaller, younger. I kinda feel sorry for them.

Okay, I know they picked their team—but still.

They're kids, you know?

"Drop the weapons. Kick them over."

It's not easy as greased up as they are, but it's not long before all their weapons are whooshing my way.

The door to this room swings open, and a couple of our guys bust in. Security, it seems, has managed to dislodge its head from its ass. They take the goon squad into custody and begin the quick march away.

"What's going to happen to them?"

One of the Security guys hurls a few words over his shoulder. "That's not for you to worry about."

Except I am worried. I feel bad for those kids. One of them is dying. The other four could lose their friend.

Most guys over a certain age have got at least one story about an insanely hot chick who turned out to be poison. Girls and women aren't exempt. I bet a lot of you have got stories, too. The jealous, wall-punching guy, the emo, suicidal guy, and—my personal favorite—friendzone guy.

They fuck with your head, then spit you out, mangled and bruised, confidence shaken. So yeah, I sympathize with Super Fucking Villain's minions.

She used them, then she dumped them.

I swing back around to look at the SuperCouncil. They're getting over the evening's events quickly. Already they're stepping back into their smug shoes, sharpening their tongues. Readying their gardening shears for the big snip. Even with one member down, but not—by the looks of it—out.

Sam Johnson detaches from the group. He's one of the oldest members—which is saying something. Once upon a time, he soared through the skies as Traction Man. Now he's liver-spotted and what's left of his hair is an unforgiving combover.

"What's gonna happen to them?"

"They'll go down to processing, where we'll extract any information they know about Super Fucking Villain's setup and plans. Along with anything else we deem pertinent. After that, incarceration."

"But they're just kids."

"Mercy, Mr Forrester? They tried to kill you."

Straight into superhero position I go. Hands on hips, legs apart. Standing my ground.

"That's what separates us from them—the supervillains."

Viola Crowe—and her beehive—steps forward to join her molding, mildewing compadre. "The boy has a point. Unfortunately—" She turns to me. "—while this particular Super Fucking Villain is out there, we can't risk putting them back on the streets. Once she's defeated … they're free to go. Every Super Fucking Villain has a way of bonding with her minions. It goes with the suit and the title, I'm afraid." Her smile is pale. "Not our jurisdiction. Excuse me."

She blends back into the crowd of her SuperCouncil peers.

Sam coughs. "Under the circumstances, we … uh … we've decided your record is to be expunged. As of right now, actually. It is evident that the woman known as Super Fucking Villain manipulated the system in an attempt to destroy us."

"She used me."

"Uh, yes. You could say that."

"And you used me. I heard what the former Super Fucking Villain told her. You wanted her to come here—to flip her."

"Oh." He scratches his head. Got a guilty expression on his face like he just pissed on the floor. "Well, we do what we can to gain and maintain the advantage over evil. Sometimes that's unorthodox. I apologize."

"She got away."

"For now."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't hunt her down and kill her."

"You could." Sam clasps my shoulder, steers me toward the door, away from his brethren. "But they're like us, the supervillains. Cut off one head and another rises in its place to pull on the old hat."

"Nothing new under the sun."

"Nothing new at all." He sticks out his hand. I accept the gesture. I just saved them, after all. "You saved us. Thank you, Super Fucking Hero—Hunter Forrester."

"I'm the one who brought her here. Ultimately, I'm responsible."

"Yes, but you overcame. No harm done."

Except one kid who'll never play football again. And the SuperCouncil's injured member. "What about the lobby? There was an explosion …"

"Ah. That. Every room in the SuperCouncil building exists in a different time zone, and sometimes in a different dimension. Like the supervillains, cut off one of our heads, we still have others. In the precise moment the lobby imploded, it was automatically replaced with one of its backups."

"Huh," I say. "That sounds like something you guys would do."

"It does, doesn't it?"

TWENTY-THREE

LET it be known that I didn't expect the SuperCouncil to give thanks in the customary way. That would be just so … ugh … wrong.

TWENTY-FOUR

BELINDA IS STANDING at her post when I leave, clipboard in hand, rack firmly, beautifully in place. She smiles, but it's the general, impersonal smile she wears for everyone. "Have a good day!

"Thanks. You too."

Then she moves on to the next face.

Dismissed.

The lobby—sure enough—is unscathed. There's nothing to suggest there was an explosion or an implosion or whatever it is Super Fucking Villain did. Everyone is rushing about their business, as though they weren't freaking the fuck out not too long ago.

Kind of creepy, if you ask me.

Right. Time to bail.

Through the turnstile at the far end.

Predictably, the other side leads to the janitor's closest inside the bar, where the band is still playing my song. A paranoid guy would be wondering if the song is a metaphor for his life.

Good thing I'm not paranoid.

Ted raises his mop cloth. "Be seeing you."

I nod. "Count on it.

And he can. Because it's time I took more of an interest in what goes on in the SuperCouncil. I'm not enamored with the way they're doing business.

Yes, little Super Fucking Hero is growing up.

MRS MARGARITA SLAPS a plate of steaming moussaka down on the table, directly in front of me. For those of you who don't know, it's heaven on a plate. Layers of meat and vegetables, smothered in white sauce and lightly browned cheese.

What's a famished man to do?

Start digging with his fork. There's a mountain of this stuff to be conquered.

"What did I tell you?"

Mrs Margarita folds her arms, glares at me across the table. But the glare is all in her mouth—her eyes are soft and watery. Aww, she's glad I'm alive.

Makes two of us.

When shit goes down, it's nice to know someone cares.

"I don't remember. You say a lot of things." I remember, but this is part of the game.

"I said, 'Super Fucking Hero, that woman is not what she seems.' And I was right! Women know. Women know."

A heaped fork takes its virgin voyage to my mouth, with a second one in pursuit.

Did I mention this woman can cook? I could die a happy guy right now, with a mouth crammed full of this meaty, cheesy, saucy mess.

"You were right, Mrs Margarita. I admit it."

"Good. Do not speak with your mouth full. Bad manners are for gypsies and Turks."

Yes, m'am. "She's still out there somewhere."

"Yes, but you will catch her. I know it."

"Third eye?"

"No. I know Hunter and I know Super Fucking Hero. Both of you will catch her."

And that's the end of that.

Well, almost.

TWENTY-FIVE

THERE'S a guy on the bridge and he's about to jump.

I know because that's me. Still freezing my nuts off—come on, spring! But damn, I look good in this superhero suit.

The location is a park on the expensive side—my side—of town. One path runs under the bridge, and bifurcates on the other side. In about two minutes you'll see a girl jogging along that one path. On one of the path's other legs there's a mugger scheduled to intersect. He's some downtrodden low-life with a penchant for meth, and he's all out of cash and rocks.

Aaaaand, here they come …

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jack Bristol is not a superhero, but he’s been trying to be since his five-year-old self jumped off the roof with a sheet tied around his neck.

Thanks to that ultimately traumatic experience, the only thing he’s fit for now is writing. This is the end result.

Got something to say? Contact Jack at:

jackbristolbooks@gmail.com