The world is red and dripping.
Whatever this thing is that you might call my costume looks more like Deadpool’s suit, and I assure you it wasn’t that color sixteen hours ago.
I’m asking myself what Superman would do and I’m realizing that it’s a dumb fucking question.
I’m thinking about the view. I’m thinking about the flowers. I’m thinking about the note that I saw.
I’m thinking about the fact that you’re wondering why I didn’t sweat the messenger. Why I didn’t put my fists into his stomach and wrap my fingers around his spine and yank it like a fucking wishbone.
I’ve seen enough Homles vs. Moriarty to know better.
This isn’t a fucking comic book, Sunshine.
Superman knew that Lex Luther was fucking with him, but he held himself back because he was a fucking cad. He played the same one-note song that all the good guys want to play. The lyrics of “we don’t stoop to their level”.
Words that echo back in bloodshed when assholes don’t get dealt with, so they come back again and again and again.
Take some fucking responsibility.
Not killing an asshole means that the next person he kills is on you just as much as it is him.
So now I’m walking through a hallway with my focus making sure my steps don’t pulverize reality. It’s raining indoors like that scene in Akira where Tetsuo turns a few idiot henchmen into the equivalent of overfilled water balloons.
Much like that scene, I’d done pretty much the same. I just didn’t do it telepathically. I used my hands. I hit so hard that nerves can barely register what just happened. Blood vessels rupture.
Imagine the force of a semi coalesced into the size of a man’s fist and then imagine that speeding toward a human body with the equivalent speed of a B-2 bomber. What’s left is fine liquid mist and drips like thick red molasses that’s been mixed with very fine sand.
I’m tuning out the screaming while I’m trying to figure out how to track this cocksucker down. People are getting over their idiotic “I gotta do what I was told to do” complex. They’re scattering and hiding now. They’re not trying to shoot anymore, and I never understand why they waste time in the first place.
At the end of the hall, I take the door off the hinges with all the delicate grace of a sumo wrestler doing a belly-flop into a pool. It hits someone and I see red-stained clothes smashed against the wall where it comes to a stop.
Some sad sack of a man is in front of me crying and pissing himself.
I feel like shit. I don’t even know this asshole.
Some jackhole, businessman for a company named Rylan Industrial.
I’m not an idiot. My mind knows that it’s a clue to whoever is pulling my strings.
I’m thinking about the guy who came to my home the last time and gave me the name of the target. And yeah, yeah, I followed him. No shit, Sherlock.
Dead end city – population: me.
Nothing but dead drops.
Two days later the messenger dies in a fucking traffic accident. So yeah, now I got that shit on my hands too. Whoever it is isn’t playing fast and loose.
I want to tell Rylan What’s-his-face that, at the very least, I’m gonna make it quick. I’m gonna make it painless.
Problem is…that’s not what I was told to do. I’m the flip-side of the previous henchmen, coming face-to-face with “I gotta do what I was told to do”.
I’ve heard a lot of people scream over the years, but this guy goes for longer than I wish he would’ve. He doesn’t pass out as fast as I was hoping. He keeps screaming. He begs. He promises me money. He says he’ll do anything.
The sound of bones and ligaments ripping and popping reminds me of how it sounds when you pull a drumstick off a turkey that’s still raw. But on a human, it’s louder. It’s worse. It’s bloody as hell.
What would Superman do if Lois was in danger? What if Lois was his yellow sun? What if she was his kryptonite? What if she was all those things at the same time?
I’m listening to this guy gurgle out his last syllables. They’re a slur of blood-soaked vowels.
I feel the phone that I was given start to vibrate. I answer it with blood-slick hands.
“Good job,” the voice says. It’s got some weird filter on it so it sounds like his voice-box fucked a robotic goat.
“Fuck you,” I tell him.
He just laughs.
The line goes dead.