I had a moment where I thought I might dive into comic book writing. I know so many talented comic artists but this project just never got off the ground. It’s still a fun story, though. I just HAVE to share it with you guys for Free Fiction Friday!
I’m tired of being the only one who still fights. Not the “proverbial” fight the good fight bullshit. The real deal. Fisticuffs.
It’s 2 a.m. and I’m wide awake again. I’ve never needed much sleep. This is conducive to my situation. A couple of hours and I’m recharged.
“Ready to keep the streets safe,” I lie to myself.
Everyone else gave up a long time ago. There have always been others like me, but they have their own internal struggles. Despite insane amounts of strength and skill in combat, most are drunks, child molesters; you name it.
It is a thankless job. I’m once again listening to my own heartbeat sync with the footfalls of an adversary. That’s what I do. I can feel them long before they know I’m even here. I get to take my time and wander the darkened streets. Play with the shadows.
Daytime is easier. The false comfort of sunlight and bustling life allows people to offer unknown hiding. I’ve seen TV shows where super heroes dress in all black and walk around unseen.
That never worked for me.
If you want to look inconspicuous, it’s a mini-skirt and leggings. No one suspects a chick with her hair done. Dress up like I’m going on a date and no one notices anything but my tits, which is ridiculous because they’re not even that big.
Whatever. It works.
Doesn’t matter. Everyone else gave up. I’m the only one who chooses to keep fighting. I used to get lonely, but not anymore. I’ve been taking care of myself so long I doubt I’d trust a companion. No one is more reliable than myself.
Had a partner once. We split up the area and really let the crime lords know we wouldn’t let them run things. But like I said, everyone else gave up. Abilities are useless when you’re a coward on the inside, and most people are.
People are quick to assume that the strong will protect the innocent. But in my experiences, the seemingly strong hide behind their anger. They use their inner-demons as fuel until they burn out. And when the fire’s gone, all that’s left is a bitter lunatic drowning in self-pity.
I know because I’ve been there. Don’t know why I didn’t just off myself. Guess my sense of duty outweighs my personal battles. Yeah right. I’m a coward like the rest.
Fuck! Thinking it alone makes me sound like a douche-bag. Duty, what the fuck is that anyway?
No one asks me to do what I do. I do it because no one else will, and I feel like I have to. I’m not a Hollywood heroine. I had a song written about me once, but it sucked. Like everything else.
“Oh shit. Here he comes.” I brace myself.
This motherfucker calls himself “The Snuffer.” I know, stupid as hell, right? Like a snuff story or some shit like that.
This is my favorite part. Duty, honor, I’m just another addict. I get off on this shit. Hell, there are worse vices a girl could fall victim to.
He comes around the corner surrounded by about a dozen of his cronies. What the fuck is this, mobster times? So cliché. He’s a cop by day and a media mogul by night, but I know what he’s really been up to.
I feel it. Instead of going into shock like the family he just tortured before finally offing, I feed off of the adrenaline that fuels my powers.
The sheer energy of my sensitivity does something to me. Flips a switch in my brain, and instead of shutting down or freaking out, things become clearer. I know more, can do more.
I’ve been working to take Mr. Snuffer down for months now. Let every bit of knowledge accumulate to this point. Every weak spot, every joint in his body is mine to work over, if I can get through the huddle of Meat Heads who worship this son of a bitch. (Yes his cronies actually call themselves The Meat heads, stupid assholes.)
Stealth is a woman’s best friend. I’m strong, but not exactly super-human. Most people aren’t really strong at all. My body does have heightened abilities. I’m more flexible than the average contortionist. I never do yoga. Didn’t grow up in a circus. Just part of whatever the fuck this is.
I never questioned it. I was bounced around from house to house as a kid. My mom hated being a parent. Blamed my father for everything that went wrong in her life. Blamed me.
You learn survival skills at whatever age you need them if you’re truly meant to live. I have little sympathy for people who allow themselves to become victims, idiots who’d rather pretend the world’s a peachy place and all that fifties bullshit than open their eyes and deal with what’s really going on.
Too many sons-of-bitches are like that nowadays. They’d rather rot in front of a screen distracting themselves from their problems than get off their fat asses and do something about it.
“You’re no fucking hero,” I remind myself.
Heroes died with the old fashioned writers who dreamed them up. They never really existed. Anyone painted as a selfless individual is an image made for manipulation.
I’m as selfish as everyone else. But I was made to defend. It’s a contradictory life. Who cares?
No one cares anymore.
Makes my job easy. I blend in and do this.
The flock of Meat Heads walks by me and don’t even see me pressed against the side of the tall brick building. Good. I hike up my skirt and pull a gag from my knee-high boot’s pocket. I trip the last one and catch him, stuffing his mouth. His neck is too easy. I kick one pressure-point and clock him in the side of the head for fun.
His body goes limp. He won’t remember me, but the pain will stay with him.
I’d like to have fancy gadgets and high grade shit, but I’m not rich. I’m nobody and that’s the way I like it.
I leave muscle moron number one on the ground and let the shadows guide me up a fire escape. My lace gloves slide over the rail. I caress the moldings when I reach the roof.
“Hey, someone snatched, Rick,” one of the goons shouts.
“Rick?” I laugh to myself. These guys are boring. They don’t even have cool code names or anything. No originality.
He glances around but I’m too quick. Vanish from site and keep running.
“I hate these fuck rags,” I say to myself. They all shave their heads the same way, wear the same stupid-ass dress pants and wife beaters like it’s a uniform. It’s really just a horrific fashion statement. They all reek of the same overpowering cologne. If I didn’t know everything they’ve done, I’d think they were an asshole cult.
I’ve dealt with those before. That shit’s the worst. Fucking crazy ass morons running around preying off of each other because they can’t get their shit together. I can’t stand it.
At least these motherfuckers are the usual brand of faux alphas. They think they’re all big and bad because they follow some well-known jerk who isn’t broke ass poor like the rest of us. They’re just another troop of poor lost little boys looking for someone to tell them what to do.
It makes my vagina shrivel. I mean, I know these guys get some play from the dumbest chicks, and they love it, but anyone with real sense wouldn’t touch these bastards with their big toe.
Hell I wouldn’t with my pinkie toe if I didn’t have to keep them in line. But that’s what I do. It’s my fix. My vice.
I’m as high as shit from just knocking out the one Meat Head. I’d call it a night and enjoy the ride if I didn’t want The Snuffer so bad. When I take him out it’ll be better. The worse they are, the more I get out of it.
And, maybe… I give a shit. I don’t know.
That little girl he had killed only a few hours ago really got to me. He stood over her as she cried for her dead parents. The blood reached her feet. Stained the hem of her pajamas.
I hate monsters in the shape of men.
I climb onto the roof and study the assholes as they decide to keep moving. They glance around. Paranoia is my best friend.
I jump to the next building and land on my toes. My feet are quick and my knees are ready. I run to the roof access and slip down inside. In the hall an old lady stares. I take this moment to reapply my lipstick and blow her a kiss. “Catch me if you can.” I laugh.
I’m out the door before she can blink. Back on their tail, I pull one aside and wrap my leg around his body.
He grasps my ass. “You got something for me?”
“Always.” I reach back and pull a small knife from my knotted hair. I drive it into his neck and laugh. “Sexy.”
I cut the jugular so he can’t say anything. His blood hits me and I can’t be coy anymore.
I take them all out one by one. Slow, but with a statement.
But I’m high and angry. Angry and high don’t mix well.
I turn into a park and let the bushes conceal my movement. The forestry jogging path is no longer for recreation but a plot long-coming. Bird claws are louder than my feet.
I keep pace with the goons. When I run out of park I slink to the nearest building.
“Back to the rooftops.” I giggle to myself. “I’m just a cliché with breasts. Hooray for gender swaps.”
I leap to the city buildings until just before the few remaining Meat Heads get to the club they frequent. Then I stop and control my breathing. In. Out. Nice and slow. My pulse steadies.
I’m tired. Tired of being the only one who gives a damn. If I’m alone in this, I may as well take my chances.
I’ve got about six stories to descend. Whoever invented fire escapes is a mother-fucking genius. Wonder if they knew these things would be used less due to fires and more for murder, play, and public fucking.
I get to a one story jump and fling myself at Mr. Snuff. (Not my most graceful moment, but surprising enough.)
I wrap my legs around his throat and squeeze. Leaning backwards, I drape myself upside down over his back and knock the few guys who aren’t bewildered into stupidity with my fists. There’s only three of them left. Like deformed triplets. They all look the fucking same.
My head spins.
The Snuff asshole falls backward. “Get the fuck off.” He wants to crush me, but I let up and flip down. He head-butts one of his own.
I kick him in the ribs and do a running kick off the remaining twin morons. The third shakes his head and blinks. I elbow him and he drops to the ground.
I gouge The Snuff’s eyes. He blindly chops at the air.
“Get the fuck back!” His two dumb asses listen like trained poodles.
Okay, maybe some people would call this “super human strength,” but honestly, it’s just a proper use of leverage, balance. Anyone can do most of what I do, they just don’t.
The Meat Heads each draw a set of guns.
“Shit, barrel blowers? I hate those fucking things.” I roll behind Mr. Snuff (I know, bullet blowers might sound weird to everyone else but I like it better than guns. More accurate.) His brilliant twins fire.
I love timing. I smirk.
I turn back to back with Mr. Snuff, wrap my double-joined arms around his neck and flip him over me. Slamming his body onto the ground I perch on his bullet wounds. “Not bad, guys.”
I leap off and rush the goons. They’re dumbstruck at killing their great leader, but not too much to fire again. I duck, dodge, and knock into their legs.
My elbow gets nicked and my thighs burn, but that makes me higher. All I feel is the rush.
The thing about street crews is that they never stop shooting. They get so caught up in the feel of pulling the trigger that they keep pumping that shit. By the time I get up, the clicks and bangs stop. They’re out of lead.
My face is cut up from hitting the pavement. I scratch the little tears in my skin and smile. I’m flying high under the death of The Snuffer. Not literally. I’ve never met anyone who can actually fly.
The idiot Meat Heads go to collect Mr. Snuffer’s bloody body. I push myself up and pull wispies from my face. “I’m game for more, if you want?”
Their gaping faces indicate nothing. I may as well being talking to a brain-damaged parrot.
“Guess not.” I shrug and jog down the street. They won’t follow me. I’m good now. Got all I needed. Expect they’ve seen my face. But I don’t care about that right now. I can take them if they make a thing of it.
“Time to go get a bagel.” I stretch and look for the nearest public restroom.