I was sitting at a bar, nursing a tumbler full of some vodka that cost way too much for how shitty it tasted, mixed with not nearly enough cranberry juice when the first news report rolled in.
The words “Breaking News” popped up on the TV I’d been trying to watch tonight’s football game on. I groaned, and not just because I had some money riding on this game (it wasn’t much, just a grand or two.. or three… okay, fourty five hundred, sheesh, gimme a break). Breaking news all too often means that I would have to get up off my ass and go save the day. Hoping for the best, but fearing the worst, I beckoned the bartender over and put in my order for a half dozen shots of whatever had the highest proof behind the bar just in time to turn my attention to the attractive blond reporter who’d appeared in the screen.
“An explosion has just rocked the financial district, destroying two buildings. We have reporters en route to the scene as we speak. According to a report phoned into our news room, witnesses have reported seeing a dark clad figure standing amidst the ruins of one building. We’re turning this over now to Maria Gonzalez Baptista LaGuerta, currently making her way to the scene. Maria?”
I tuned out the rest and slammed my shots down. For good measure, I finished my vodka and whatever the two guys on either side of me were drinking before stumbling towards the door. I distantly heard the bartender covering for me, under the shouts of my two robbery victims as I stepped outside.
There, in the trunk of my car, was my costume. Not really much of a costume, really. A pair of jeans, dyed black multiple times. A black T-shirt bearing my logo; a stylized white Y that only vaguely looked like a martini glass when you squint and tilt your head to one side. (I really should have ponied up the money for a professional logo designer.) A leather jacket with a larger version of the logo painted on the back in high gloss latex house paint. A pair of goggles for when I take to the skies, and last but not least; my utility belt.
Well, okay, it was a toolbelt spray painted black. But it had a lot of utility to me. Each pouch was stuffed full of hip flasks, and each flask held a good couple swigs of 180 proof moonshine.
I changed right there in the parking lot. I didn’t really need to, as everyone who was interested pretty much knew who I was. I had no real use for a secret identity. I had no close family, no girlfriend, and no-one in their right mind would ever show up at my front door looking for payback. Not anymore, anyways. Not after what happened to the head of the Concertino crime family. There are still teeth embedded in the sidewalk in front of my house, and the word is that his top bodyguard, Frankie-No-Neck still screams every time someone says “Stan.”
A few hookers catcalled me once I got down to my bare butt (It’s not that I choose to go commando, it’s that I keep forgetting to wash my underwear), then started offering me freebies once they saw the outfit I was changing into. I eyed them over as I considered the offers. The blonde one was kinda cute, but she looked young, and a little too clean to be a junkie. Looking closer, I could see the edge of a bruise peeking out from the bottom of her halter top. I sighed. I’d have to follow her home and lay a beatdown on her pimp soon. Fucking scumbags, taking advantage of young girls like that. Maybe if I burned off enough alcohol dealing with this mysterious explosion figure, I’d remember not to rape him.
Yeah, I get a little rapey with the bad guys sometimes. I have no idea where it comes from. I’m not even gay.
Fully dressed now, I slipped my goggles on and launched myself into the sky. The wind beat against my face, probably making me look stupid. Once I got some altitude going, I could see the fires off in the distance, right where two skyscrapers used to be. I pointed myself in that direction and shot through the night air.
By the time I arrived, the first responders, reporters and insurance adjusters had been joined by throngs of nosy passers by. The police were busy keeping the crowds back while the fireman combed through the rubble, looking for survivors. At this time of night, I’d be surprised if there were more than a single security guard or two in each of the three buildings. Off to one side, I could see about 5 grey figures being treated by paramedics. There were some survivors, at least.
I ignored the cops (I used to try to get together with them as much as possible, but their answers to the question “How can I help?” tended to range from “Go home and sleep it off” to “For fuck’s sake, eat a goddamn breathmint!” so eventually I stopped). I ignored the rubble, too. Instead, I focused my attention on the rooftops of the surviving buildings nearby. If there were a mysterious figure, they’d be up there, eyeing their handiwork. I may get annoyed at how cliched some of these villains can be, but it sure makes it easier on me when trying to figure out what to do next.
There. On top of the City Bank building. A normal set of eyes would never have spotted the silhouette way up there, but mine were superchanged by six shots of something that tasted vaguely like juniper and an equal number of vodka cranberries (easy on the cranberry). Okay, fine, you caught me. Twice that many vodka cranberries. And a few beers before that. Oh, and whatever those two guys at the bar were drinking.
And maybe a long island iced tea before I left the house. And a flask of 180 proof during the flight over. Shut up. It’s Drunk Stan, not Sober Stan.
I launched myself up quickly. You see, this is the point where you expect the villain to run away. I’d pursue them through the building and down a couple of blocks, then lose them in a crowd and stand there, looking pensive and dramatic for a few seconds before running off to do some research in my hideout to try and suss out their identity. And I’ve done exactly that, more than once. Which is how I knew not to pursue them at normal human speeds. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on.. Shame… Well, I won’t get fooled again.
I covered the distance between where I’d been standing and the rooftop where the figure stood in about 1/1000th of a second. One instant, I was on the ground, the next I was towering over her, giving her my best scowl.
And it was a her. It was, ahem, very obviously a her. She wore a dark purple and black get up that would have looked at home in a fantasy video game, or on the set of a porn shoot. The top covered her shoulders and the sides of her tits, leaving her cleavage and underboobs exposed for my viewing pleasure. Her boots came up to the middle of her thighs, and a cloak and cowl fluttered behind her in the breeze. She wore an old-fashioned robber’s mask (the kind the Lone Ranger used to wear), and her bikini bottom was cut so low that I could see she’d gone with the “landing strip” style.
Nice.
I shook all the dirty thoughts from my head (and wiped some drool off my chin) and asked her “Who da fug are you?”
“I’m the… I’m, uh…” she stammered for a moment, before screwing herself up and meeting my gaze. “I’m the Purple Wing,”. She then blushed as if I’d been the one wearing her get up. “D’you do dis?”
“I did.” She blushed again and looked down. Seriously, woman, if you’re that shy, why the hell did you pick that outfit?
“Well, you’re coming with me, then.” I wrapped one arm around her and leapt off the building. I could have sworn I heard her giggling as we dropped. I arrested our fall a few dozen feet off the ground, and brought us to a gentle-ish landing next to a knot of cops. “Ocifers?” I called. They turned to face me. “I jes’ foun’ dis one up on d’roof of the Shitty Bank buildin’. She tole me she did dis.”
The woman turned to look at me, a frown on her face and disappointment in her eyes “Don’t… Don’t you want to bring me in?”
“No,” I said as one of the cops took her by the arm. Why would I take her to the police station? I’m a superhero, not a cop. I turned and headed towards a group of firemen to offer my services shifting rubble. “Bye, Stan!” she called behind me. “It was nice meeting you!”
What the fuck?
I’ve encountered a lot of villains in my day. Some of them had powers, some didn’t. Some were calm, Machiavellian schemers, others raving lunatics. Some were unfailingly polite, and others made non-stop threats. But this was the first time I’d ever encountered one who’d just been… Nice.
And why the hell had she blown up these buildings? This was the financial district, but there wasn’t any money in them. And blowing them up to get at any money that might have been there seemed… Well, dumb.
We dug through the rubble for three or four hours. We didn’t find any bodies, or any suspicious stains (for once). After the sun rose, I was taking a break by a water- cooler the fire department had set up and sipping at my flask (did you really think I was gonna drink water? Water?!) when one of the paramedics told us that they’d heard from the survivors that everyone was accounted for hours ago. Fucking hell, man. I said goodbye to everyone who’d been polite to me (except for the hot girl, who was sitting in a booking cell downtown by then. What was her name again? Red wings? Ewww…) and said an extra-friendly goodbye to those who’d been acting scared of me (of whom there were distressingly many) and headed back to the bar to retrieve my car.
I arrived, changed, and headed into the diner across the street for some breakfast before making my way home to sleep off the rest of my buzz. I was halfway through a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon when “Breaking News” interrupted the morning show interview with Justin Beiber I’d been watching. Shit, I’d just started to get interested in the story behind “Baby Baby”.
My collar from the previous night, oh she of such little fabric had incapacitated three police officers and escaped custody. A booking picture of her with a police department T-shirt thrown over her outfit popped up. Apparently, they’d gotten her booked alright, but when they brought her breakfast, she’d overpowered the cop delivering it and made good her escape.
Part of me groaned at the frustration of it. Another part of me panted in anticipation of catching her again. Maybe she’d fight me this time, and her outfit would slip… Another part of me narrowed its eyes at how easy she’d been to capture the first time, and wondered if she’d planned it out that way, to do something to me. Like poison me, or take a blood sample or stick a tracking device on me. Another part of me listened half-heartedly to the rest of the story. Apparently, she was Alyssa Carvotti, a PhD student from upstate. Shy and introverted, but a genius, according to her peers. No priors, no personal tragedies that the reporters could dig up in time for the story. No explanation of how she turned to villainy. Another part of me tried to recall the way she’d looked in the moonlight on that rooftop. A certain part of me filled up with blood.
Shut up. When you drink as much as I do, you learn to appreciate the little things in life, like not having whiskey dick.
Well, not that little. Not little at all. That’s not what I meant- goddamnit, shut up!
Anyways, my point was that nothing in the news explained her actions. Why she’d blown up two buildings downtown, then just waited there where I was sure to spot her. Why she let me take her to the cops, but then escaped at the first opportunity. It was a mystery, and it was bothering me. I liked it better when the villains acted predictably.
I payed for my food and left, driving home slowly in the morning traffic. When I got there, I stopped the car in the middle of the street. The houses on either side of me were ruined. Ed and Clara lived to my left, with their two little kids. Bill and Sam lived to my right. Both couple’s houses were nothing but piles of smoking rubble. I quickly clocked the driveways, but the cars were all gone. It was almost 10, so Ed and Clara’s kids would be in school, and all the adults at work.
I got out of my car, surveying the scene. My house was more or less untouched. There was some damage to the stucco, but it wasn’t bad. I walked up and down the sidewalk (mind the teeth!), eyeing the rubble for some hint. I chugged one flask and started sipping another as I walked across the rubble of Bill and Sam’s house to get a view of my backyard.
There she was. Sitting on my rear stoop, twirling her hair and smiling at me. Her cheeks flushed red again when she saw me. I narrowed my eyes and opened my mouth to ask what the fuck her problem was when it suddenly hit me.
“Jezzus fuggin chrise, woh-men. Y’ever heard a jes askin a guy on a date?”