Ah, Massage Sundays. That’s one way to mellow out: take a scantily-clad superhero out to get our backs smooshed by people not afraid to really dig those elbows in there. Nothing too crazy. Just maintaining my friendly facade with Wildflower, with a friendly massage where we were both nude under towels. Then a dinner.
It all started innocently enough. I woke up to find her watching me, vine-like tail twitching behind her. And me without a bra on. Unfortunately, nothing happened worth writing to Penthouse about. “Morning, sunshine,” she said, spinning a bra around in her hands. Rifling through underwear is generally a good sign. Otherwise, the person wouldn’t let themselves get caught at it. Crash has yet to find out how much I know about her panty choices, for instance.
“Mornin’ glory.” I yawned and stretched. Ya know, just giving a nice view of the girls. Just in case she needed help making decisions about…anything, really. How to wear her hair. What her favorite food is. Her sexuality. Just making sure she knew her options.
She tossed the bra at my head. “Looks like you need this.”
I winked at her as I put it on. “Still took you awhile to suggest that. What brings you into my bedroom and dresser drawer?”
“I have a free day, so I finally visited. ” she said, hopping off my dresser. “Things are crazy lately. You have to tell me what you think of this Misrule Lord.”
“Lord of Misrule. Kind of a tradition from the Romans for December. They had a king or emperor who presided over this week of feasting, drinking, gift-giving, and social disorder. Slaves were allowed to talk back to masters who had to serve them dinner. One of the traditions pre-Christianity winter celebrations, that happened to end on December 23rd. During the Middle Ages, various European countries celebrated this big Feast of Fools in roughly the same time period, like New Year’s. Feasting, reversal of social order, that sort of thing, with a Lord of Misrule appointed to head it all up. Or an Abbot of Unreason, if you’re Scottish. I thought that was funny.”
“So he’s one of you?” Wildflower pointed at me.
I shrugged. “The villains don’t know who he is either. We didn’t appoint him, but he’s generally been fighting crime.”
She scoffed. “In the worst way.”
“Oh yeah? What guarantee does anyone have that y’all aren’t planting drugs and weapons? Ooh, or how about when you bring in some beaten villain. How do we know you didn’t beat a guy up, shove them into some spandex, and say they did it?”
Wildflower eyed me, then picked up the edge of my covers and threw them over me.
“You’re a poor loser,” I told her, looking in the direction I’d last seen her. Then she hit me in the face with a pillow.
After that was the shower, then the impromptu decision to loosen her up good by taking Wildflower to a masseuse. Then, dinner. Like, with clothes on and everything, instead of her normal, skimpy superhero clothing.
There’s actually a somewhat good reason for that, if I haven’t mentioned it already. If a person doesn’t rely on armor for protection, then it’s useful to wear clothing that provides good range of motion and better aerodynamics for speed. Obviously, those sorts of outfits lend themselves to the imagination, and some people are either victims of that mentality or use it to get one up on the enemy.
Maybe I should be cautious about how it’s impairing my own judgment of the heroine.
We went out for some Japanese food. She had to stop and take a call while we dined on hibachi. I didn’t mind. I had to stuff myself with delicious vegetables. Remember, children, eat right if you want to grow up big and strong enough to tear a man’s heart out through his anus. Vegetables, meat, a glass of cold milk, and even a helping of dietary fiber. Trust me, the fiber helps a lot on the anal decapitation. That’s a really bad time for the victim to get constipated. And it’ll help keep you regular so that you don’t have to walk around in brown tights to save your dignity.
I heard her laugh on her way back. “That was so stupid,” she mentioned when she got back to her seat beside me.
I raised my eyebrows, sucking down some chow mein noodles. When I finished, I asked, “What?”
“The Lord of Misrule struck again,” she stopped and looked at me while easing down.
I cocked my head over toward her. “You can tell me. If I’m involved, I’d already know and there’d be no harm telling me. If I’m not, there’s no reason not to tell me.”
Such is the impeccable logic of Psycho Gecko.
“So,” she began, “he broke into city hall. Tore the door off its hinges. Responders didn’t know what to expect. Every room is decorated. There is Christmas and Kwanzaa stuff. I heard there’s a giant menorah on top of the mayor’s desk.”
I gently slammed my fist onto the counter. “That evil, holiday-loving bastard! When will they ever bring him to justice!”
Wildflower screwed up her face, trying to be serious while holding back a laugh. “This is serious.”
“I thought it was stupid?”
“You know what I mean. He broke in.”
“Did he steal anything or break anything but the door?” I asked her, picking out a delicious mushroom to chew on. “Or are you going to arrest the Lord of Misrule for a flaunting Empyreal City’s interior decorating regulations? What do you think they’ll get him for, illegal use of sprinkles? Tell me, did he have pure Columbian snow in there?”
One of the animals Wildflower had mixed in with her must have been a pig from the way she snorted at that one.
We didn’t spend the entire time discussing supervillainy, though. I got to try out the backstory I’d come up with for Norma Mortenson. Or at least the one I stole in a hurry when Wildflower asked me about my money and how I got to Empyreal City. How I’d married young to a writer who, while researching Jesus, had written a book that proved unpopular with very religious local authorities.
“He and his work were threatened until they forcibly checked him into a psychiatric ward as an alleged paranoid schizophrenic. They burned the manuscript, too.”
“Hearing of my plight, a man named Victor Faland approached me with a deal. I didn’t understand exactly what took place, but his attendants anointed me, injected me, and ultimately dressed me for a ball where I stood at his side as hostess. I met strange men and women, feeling worse all the while from whatever they did to me. I survived the event and found my voice can paralyze. I used my powers to quietly liberate my husband alongside Fiello, one of Faland’s underlings. “
“We succeeded, and Fiello led us in a victory toast with wine. I blacked out and awoke on the ground, next to my husband. Whatever we’d been a part of, Faland had tried to end us. The money from my husband’s insurance aided a lawsuit against the city and hospital that falsely imprisoned him and somehow poisoned him to death.”
“Now I’m in Empyreal City, helping others who have lost a part of themselves, hoping to find out more about the confusing events that empowered me.”
It’s a nice story. Wish I’d come up with it, but then a skillful adaptation can often be just as creative.
After dinner, we took a swing on the wild side, courtesy of her and one of Venus’s complementary grappling hooks. Wildflower swung me through the skyline, working off dinner. I offered to pay for dessert, but she said she felt full enough already. Instead, we sat and talked, staring out over the harbor, giving me all sorts of naughty ideas.
I fulfilled one of them that very evening. I mean, if Wildflower had stuck around, I probably wouldn’t have been able to slip away. The fact that she left after seagazing is why I had time to pull off my next trick.
I met Wildflower out on one of the roof sections of Double Cross HQ the next day, laying out a light picnic while viewing a very specific part of the harbor. When she flipped into view and landed softly beside me, I handed her a sub sandwich and nodded toward the Statue of Liberty. “The new look is hot, don’t you think?”
“You like what Misrule did to it?” she asked.
“Oh yeah. It’s got a Dr. Frank N. Furter look to it now, and I like Rocky Horror Picture Show.” I smiled, noting the ships surrounding it full of tourists, police, forensics, newsies, and architectural crews who aimed to examine the structure. Said statue now lacked its robe. In its place, Lady Liberty donned a corset, panties, garter, and stockings. Depending on your definition, I feel it counts as gay apparel.
Thank you, thank you, I’m very proud of what I’ve pulled off.
That’s what she said.
See, I find that the longer nights give villains like myself more time to pull off our capers. These cold nights especially. Who wants to hang around outside and witness a crime when it’s cozy and warm inside?
Sadly, Wildflower couldn’t stick around. I know, I know. Aside from shoving exciting new things up people’s asses, y’all’s favorite parts are the romance. But I had another lady desperate for my attention. That lady is Lady Luck, though she goes by the name Fortune Cookie. Her text wasn’t very long. “Sum 1 nose who u r.”
I sent back, “How?”
“Tell me where.”
I had a crime or two for daylight hours, it seemed.
When I stepped in the door of the lab, I wore a ski mask and trenchcoat that covered most of my body.
“Excuse me,” the receptionist said, standing up. She knew something was up, especially with my apparent lack of pants. I wasn’t a complete mannerless barbarian, though. I had shoes on. “Are you here to see someone?”
She stopped reaching for the phone when I spoke, my voice scrambled so as to hide my gender. “Yes, you could say I’m here to see men.”
I whipped open the coat, revealing several things. First, my new tank top that hid my tied-down boobs. Second, a pair of briefs. Third, a fire hose nozzle that stuck out of the briefs, pointed right at the receptionist. I tugged on the assault nozzle’s handle, unleashing a blast of fluid that knocked both me and the receptionist back. She hit the wall behind her desk, screaming. I hit the partially-opened door, laughing. Difference was, I was smart enough to make sure nothing got in my mouth when the creamy white fluid shooting between my legs splashed anywhere near me.
I fought my way to my feet with a little bit of help from one of the obedient buzzkills manning the tanker truck in the street. She helped brace me as I made my way through the place, doing an enormous amount of damage as I hosed down the lab with the stolen contents of one of the most busiest sperm banks in Empyreal City.
On my wanted poster, feel free to find the charge of “bank robbery” and pencil in “sperm bank robbery” after that. And if the receptionist gets pregnant, y’all might get to add a different sort of “assault with intent” in there.
The computer monitors were fun to send flying, but being a supervillain is really about being a people person, and I sprayed those motherfuckers from head to toe on my way to find their evidence samples.
I eased the handle back down when I got into the records section. I needed that computer. I penetrated their security and loosed a nasty load on the entirety of their records, soon replicating with their boxes and filing cabinets what I’d done to their electronic records. Unfortunately, time was too short and my ammo too limited to risk a full blown confrontation with responsive capes. No, I had to push in fast, unload, and slip out in a hurry.
I know it sucks, but I didn’t want to blow this subtle maneuver to hide my real identity. And even though I had to give the hose a tug from time to time and work out some kinks, my performance seemed perfectly adequate. Indeed, I strutted out with the limp hose hanging between my legs, proudly singing to myself in celebration of the job I’d just pulled off. “Oh I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…”
As much as I liked keeping Norma’s record clean, working that closely with bodily fluids left a bad taste in my mouth. It made me feel dirty. Just to be on the safe side, I scrubbed myself down in the shower for two straight hours and requested that Crash get rid of my pearl necklaces.