Previously: Part 1
I’m looking out at the world. On the other side of the window is a thing of beauty, but not for the reasons you think. That’s neither here nor there and neither am I once I head back home.
Let me dispell your hopes and dreams, cupcake.
My lair is a dark place under the city. It’s damp and I hear rats for more hours than anyone should have to. I don’t have lights. There’s running water, but not for the reasons there should be.
Your little cotton brain is asking why I don’t go for something better. Put on a fucking disguise to blend in. Go all Clark Kent on life.
You’re fucking stupid, did you know that?
You know how I know that? Because you don’t understand physics. I didn’t either until I got a crash course in it. Words like density, force, and inertia. I don’t have a fucking Ph.D., sunshine, so I’m not gonna walk you through Newton’s laws, but I can tell you a few things you need to understand.
You don’t get to be strong enough to crush a car and interact with normal life anymore – it’s like trying to play with ants. There’s no amount of careful that stops you from killing them eventually.
You can’t stop a fucking freight train just because you’re strong. You have to push back with the force of another fucking freight train. That force comes from somewhere. Put it like this, buttercup, you don’t want me walking on your roof.
Not being a whirlwind of carnage is more exhausting than any criminal mastermind on the fucking planet. I gotta tip-toe through life just to make sure I don’t crush everything, kill everything…ruin everything.
Know what people call me on the street? Shit Storm. Yeah. Warm fucking receptions abound.
Fuck it, though, right?
I was at that crossroad. I had god’s own brand of dynamite in my hand and the universe said, “The fuck you gonna do with that, precious?”
I could’ve been a right git. I could’ve put it in the center of the fucking earth. I could have made my little throne of blood and skulls and hooker tears and drank the dreams of humanity from the skulls of your world leaders.
Maybe I should’ve. It would’ve been easier.
You didn’t hear it, but I did. The sound of trouble. And no, I don’t mean that trouble has some neat little frequency. I’m not a fucking trouble bloodhound, but I can damn near hear the wheels in your head grinding from deep in the sewers. I hear the hammer of the gun cock back. I hear the bullets leaving chambers. I hear the sound of a knife when it screeches against bone. I hear you all crying like babies because the schoolyard bully took your fucking teddy bear away.
It’s a gift and a curse. Mostly it’s a curse.
I dash out. Putrid water on my feet. I use lift to keep my body from acting like an army of atom bombs marching through the underbelly of the city. I move so fast that rats don’t even startle when I move past them, but know they will when the thunderclap hits them when sound catches up to my fury.
My front door is a big pipe that flows water out into the great basin. I’m out it and up with the speed of a chimpanzee on crack. Up the broken, rotted earth and rock that clings to my door like a pile of shit from a titan who eats cluttered garages and failed gardens.
I’m moving down streets and, if only for a second, I stop. It’s a second for me, but you wouldn’t even realize I was there yet. I stop and take in the scenery of life and feel my teeth clench. Not for the reasons you probably think.
I continue on. I’m over scaffolds, and around moving cars.
As much as I destroy, you’d be surprised at just how fucking graceful I really am. My destruction is the exception, not the rule, but no one cares how many bullets you stop – they only count the ones you didn’t.
I’m on the top of a building. I’m focusing more on lift than I want to so that I don’t sink into the interior like a fucking anchor in an ocean of beanie babies.
He has a gun to her head. He being some shitbag with a gun. Her being some lady I don’t know who’s crying because some shitbag has a gun to her head.
“You got a fucking death wish, sunshine?” I say.
“Just a messenger,” the man says.
I only barely see it, with so much focus on not making the building implode like a god damn star gone supernova, but this fuck is scared. I mean, yeah, duh…he’s fucking scared. He’s him and I’m me. But no…this isn’t that.
“Why don’t you go ahead and let the nice lady go and let me have that message then, sweetheart”
I’m faster than a bullet. Believe that shit.
But when it’s put to the back of someone’s head, it’s a short path from Click-Town to Bang-City.
I’m dashing forward. I see the blood in slow motion. His hand is literal putty when I grab it. I can hear the bones and flesh rupturing. It’s happening so fast he doesn’t even know he’s in pain yet. I’m faster than your fucking synapses in some ways.
I hear her body finally fall with a thud. My own force has this scum bag down on his back with so much force I hear a crack from his spine and the stone beneath him. He’s dead and doesn’t know it yet.
“He knows,” the man says.
I don’t wanna know what he means, but I instantly know what he means.
I’m focusing so much on lift, on not being a warhead. Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed anyway. But I notice it now. I feel it now. The force of the exploding C4 on this cocksucker’s back tied to a dead man’s trigger on the gun.
I feel a wave of heat like god’s fury. It’s a volcano vomiting last nights drinking binge. It’s enough to punch a hole through stone with the best of them. It’s enough to make me flinch – to lose focus. I don’t think about lift so much when there’s a hurricane of fire and brimstone in my god damn eyes.
I sink through the hole in the building like a meteor from outer space. I don’t stop until I’m in the basement.
The building doesn’t even realize it’s fucked yet. No one inside realizes they’re dead yet.
I do. I know it immediately. I know the reason why.
Because I’m a fucking atom bomb and someone just found my god damn trigger.