Paul McMahon
Every face in the room smiled at him, save one. Even the beefy guards enforcing the two hundred-person capacity rule grinned at him like idiots. Meanwhile, the reporter’s question hung in the air like a slow pitch. As the press awaited his answer, he braced his feet against the pull of their anticipation and cleared his throat.
“Standard police procedure required that Officer Gentile detain me.” Condescension dripped from his words. He couldn’t help it, but he knew these fools would hear only genuine respect. “How can I bear ill-will against an officer who executed the requirements of his job with such . . . professionalism?”
They sighed as one, their smiles widened, and even the lone holdout, Officer Gentile himself, threw off his sulk and beamed at him like a first grader with a gold star on his spelling quiz. A murmur rose, and phrases like “awesome,” “wonderful,” and “sainthood” broke free of the din to gouge at him like nails.
“Captain Compassion,” a reporter barked. “How do you respond to those who call you a vigilante and say you pose more of a danger to the city than you’re worth?”
He wanted to shout, “You’re the only one saying that,” but a month ago he’d backhanded a similar question that way and the press beat the reporter bloody in the ten point six seconds it took for Captain Compassion to realize what was happening and rescue him.
Instead, he forced another smile. “I didn’t hear anyone say that. Did you hear someone say that?” He shot his gaze around the room, pausing for a thousandth of a second on each pair of eyes before lifting his gaze to the all-inclusive spot just over the crowd. “WHO SAID THAT?” he shouted, then let his smile widen as he brought his gloved hands up to signal that he was joking. Laughter filled the room.
When it quieted, the reporter apologized. “It’s my editor, sir. If I don’t ask, I don’t get the byline.”
“To answer your editor more precisely, I want you to define the term ‘vigilante’ for me.” He gazed over the bank of microphones, making his expression as stern as he dared under his trademarked turquoise cowl. An explosion of flashbulbs ensured this expression would appear on every front page in the city.
“It’s, um . . . it’s um . . .” The woman next to him, tall, blonde, and with enough makeup to ensure her plain looks would be noticed, held her cell phone where the stammering reporter could see it. “It’s . . . someone who avenges a crime by taking the law into his or her own hands.”
Captain Compassion smiled. “Great reading. Three cheers for our public schools!” He held his hands up to great gales of laughter. It seemed that each person tried to laugh loudest in an effort to gain his attention.
“‘Someone who avenges a crime’,” Captain Compassion repeated. He took a moment to let that sink in. “I avenge nothing. I simply stop criminals before they can escape the scene of their crimes. I never seek to ‘re-pay’.” He used finger quotes to emphasize the word and flashbulbs exploded again. “Nor do I ever take the law into my own hands.”
The room thundered with applause.
When the din wound down, another reporter raised his hand. “How did the young man you helped apprehend this morning suffer a broken shoulder?”
Captain Compassion paused. The ‘young man’ had been a twenty-seven year old meth-head with an escalating record of robbery and assault. Before he could respond, Officer Gentile raised his hand. “The suspect made a statement in the ambulance. He refuses to press charges. In fact, he offered a heartfelt apology to Captain Compassion for causing him undue distress.” Another wave of applause swept through the crowd. Captain Compassion forced a smile and nodded to Officer Gentile. The man beamed. Don’t make yourself pass out, Captain Compassion thought.
He turned his attention to the opposite side of the room, called on a mousy-looking woman wearing cartoonishly large glasses.
“Do you have any plans for retirement?” she asked.
The Captain laughed. “Retirement is something people earn by working and saving their whole lives. I don’t profit from stopping criminals. While I do receive the occasional reward if a perpetrator has garnered a criminal record, it is hardly enough to retire on. As far as my hanging up the mask, that day isn’t coming any time soon. I haven’t even attracted an arch enemy yet!” He held his hands out to emphasize his point, forgetting that doing so would make the press laugh. He bit back a snarl and placed his hands on his lap. “Who ever heard of a super-hero without an arch-enemy?”
Reporters called and waved and shook pens in the air to get his attention, but he didn’t feel like sweet-talking any more idiotic questions. Besides, he had to leave now if he was going to make the appointment with his shrink.
“If you’ll excuse me, my secret identity will be in trouble if I don’t get a move on. Change of shift and all that.”
Less than four seconds later, Cody Charles stood on a subway platform a full block away. He wore a cotton tee shirt depicting the Joker laughing maniacally, along with worn denim pants and jacket. His hair was slicked back. Small clusters of zits collected at the corners of his mouth. The backpack slung over his shoulder solidified the look of a college student. He squeezed onto the first downtown train, barely getting in far enough for the doors to close. A redhead with real zits bumped him, but her look of annoyance stretched into a smile when their eyes met. When he nodded, she blushed and lowered her gaze.
Fuck you, Cody Charles thought.
* * *
The waiting room had six chairs and all of them were occupied. As usual, though, he arrived exactly on time and was able to stroll right through, ignoring the fawning grins as everyone watched him pass.
Dr. Brecht beamed at him from behind his desk.
“Don’t grin at me like that,” Cody Charles said. “You know I hate it.” Cody sat. Took a slow breath. “It’s getting so I want to punch every smile I see.”
“You haven’t, though,” Dr. Brecht said. A statement. One of the things Cody liked about him was that the man never asked questions.
Cody sighed. “No. I haven’t.”
“That’s good.” Dr. Brecht leaned back and steepled his fingers under his chin.
“Everybody I meet . . . absolutely everybody . . . smiles at me, loves me, wants to make me happy.”
Dr. Brecht nodded. “People’s infatuation makes you uncomfortable.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me more about that.”
“More? It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“Tell me the obvious.”
“I’m a super-hero, Doc. Who ever heard of a super-hero without an arch enemy?”
“You want to have an arch enemy.”
“Yeah. I want some hate-filled freak to concoct schemes and puzzles to challenge me and make my life difficult.”
“You want your life to be difficult.”
“Yes. When I show up criminals lay down their guns and surrender. I never get to do anything.”
“You don’t have to earn people’s adoration.”
“Exactly. It’s embarrassing. Today I even tried to make someone hate me.”
Dr. Brecht dropped his hands, sat up straight.
“I broke a criminal’s shoulder this morning. I hauled off and pounded my fist through the socket as hard as I could.”
Dr. Brecht said nothing.
“One officer cuffed me and started to read me my rights, but his partner let me go and apologized for him.”
“He thought it was an accident.”
“No way,” Cody said. “I did it right in front of them. And now the bastard criminal won’t press charges. He even apologized for causing me ‘undue distress.’“
“Interesting,” Dr. Brecht said.
“People are smiling at me even when I’m out of costume. Girls grin and look away, guys smile and nod. If I drop a penny on a crowded sidewalk, there’s practically a riot over who gets to pick it up for me.”
“Interesting,” Dr. Brecht said again.
“Tonight they won’t like me, though.”
Dr. Brecht stared at him for a moment. “You’re planning to anger people.”
Cody nodded. “I put in for a . . . promotion . . . at work. A new job. Guaranteed to make people hate me.”
Dr. Brecht frowned. “You’re not talking terrorist activity.”
“No, no. Nothing so irreversible.”
“You don’t mean something dangerous.”
“It’s perfectly safe.”
“Because I’m required to report things—”
Cody held his hands out, and even without the turquoise gloves Dr. Brecht relaxed and chuckled a little bit. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to overreact.”
Cody waited for the doctor to collect his thoughts.
“Cody, I’m going to ask you a question.”
Cody froze at the change in pattern, but the doctor’s look of adoration had dulled, and that peaked his interest. “Go ahead.”
Dr. Brecht stood and turned toward the window. “You told me your primary power is speed, and your secondary power is that people automatically like you.”
“Yes.”
“What if you have a tertiary power?”
“Tertiary?”
“It means ‘third.’ What if you have a supernatural ambition?”
Cody stared at the back of the doctor’s head. “You think that’s a superpower?”
“You’re a superhero, a college student, you take care of your invalid brother and you have another job you won’t tell me about. I’d say it’s a possibility.”
“A supernatural ambition,” Cody said. It would explain a few things. “But how can I succeed with no arch enemy, though?”
“That might be where your dissatisfaction is coming from.”
Cody glanced at his watch. He was due two states east in twenty minutes. He could be there in eight. “That’s something to think about. Let’s talk about that next week.” He stood and was gone before the doctor could turn from the window.
* * *
Charleston Cote stood on the ring apron and watched his tag team partner take a fourth suplex in a row. He was a beautiful man, Charleston. His hair was perfectly coiffed despite his earlier time in the ring, not a blemish on his face. He and Darnell DiMaggio were The Angels, and tonight they defended their tag team belts against the loathed team of Tiger-Boy and The Leopard, The Big Cats. Tiger slammed Darnell in one last bone-crushing suplex, stood up, and mocked The Angels by blowing kisses to the fans, as The Angels did every time they entered the ring.
Charleston Cote’s anticipation grew. His big moment loomed. Soon, Darnell would get time off to have surgery on the damaged hip he’d been fighting through for months, and Charleston would get his first run as a heel.
Charleston leaned over the top rope, stretching for the tag while Darnell slowly crawled toward him. He couldn’t wait to hear the arena boo him. He glanced up. The Big Cats argued with a group of fans on the far side of the ring, oblivious to how close The Angels were to tagging.
Charleston reached. The ref leaned in, ready to call it. The fans caught on and their jeers turned to cheers. They hungered for Charleston to tear the Big Cats limb from limb.
Darnell tensed. The capacity crowd held its breath.
Darnell lunged.
At the last instant, Charleston Cote yanked his hand away and ran it through his hair.
The crowd quieted, unsure what they’d just seen.
Darnell started to pull himself up, using the turnbuckles for leverage, rope by rope. He reached his feet, battered, out-of-breath, exhausted, and reached for the tag again.
Charleston Cote dropped off the ring apron and shoved the camera guy, yelling at him for standing too close. Out of the corner of his eye, Charleston saw Darnell still reaching for the tag, his bewildered look echoed thousand-fold on the faces of the fans. He fought not to giggle with excitement. He thought he could continue as Captain Compassion, superhero without an arch-enemy, if he himself could be the arch enemy under this tertiary identity.
Charleston marched halfway to the back, turned, and watched the ring with his arms folded in front of him. The Big Cats spun Darnell in the corner and pummeled him with their fists, throwing glances at Charleston the whole time. When the ref forced The Leopard away, he immediately climbed to the top turnbuckle in the opposite corner. Tiger-Boy scooped Darnell for a powerbomb while Leopard leaped to squash him in a “Jungle Splash.” Charleston ignored the fans’ frenzied gestures toward the ring. He watched stoically while the referee’s hand struck the mat. One. Two. Three.
The arena fell silent.
A sulking referee handed the title belts to the loathed Big Cats.
Charleston remained still while the Cats celebrated and made their way to the back, giving him a wide berth.
Darnell rolled onto his belly and tried to stand. He looked sore and exhausted and dazed. Every person in the arena felt his pain, felt his rage at Charleston’s betrayal. Any moment now, the boos would start.
On the huge TV screen opposite the ring, the graphic depicting “The Big Cats—New Tag Team Champions!” warbled and swam as if affected by heat rising off an asphalt street. The buzz of cicadas, cranked to a tooth-rattling volume, shook the arena. More than half the capacity crowd clapped hands over their ears. They knew what that sound heralded. Introductory vignettes over past month showed a lean, vicious wrestler in a black mask painted with a dagger-toothed grin, tearing through sparring partners, each of them being loaded onto a waiting ambulance.
This was the sound of The Chupacabra.
Charleston Cote leaped onto the ring apron and eased through the ropes. He glared around the arena, meeting a few fans’ eyes without giving away his super speed.
No boos, though. Probably still trying to figure out what was going on. Charleston would clarify in a minute.
Darnell’s hands came up, seized Charleston’s kneepads for support. Charleston reached into the back of his tights and removed something small and black. He shook it out, and then pulled the mask over his head.
The crowd began to stir.
Darnell used Charleston’s body to pull himself up. Charleston crossed his arms and waited. When Darnell finally made it to his feet he found himself staring into a painted, dagger-toothed grin.
The Chupacabra drove a forearm across Darnell’s jaw once, twice, three times. Darnell stepped backwards with every blow, as scripted, and then fell with his shoulders across the top rope. Chupacabra reached over and yanked up the middle rope, pulling it around Darnell’s arms, trapping him.
Immediately the referee tried to free him, but Chupacabra grabbed the little man by the neck, bit his head, then clotheslined him so hard he rolled out of the ring. Chupacabra went to the corner where Charleston Cote had stood during the match, fell to his knees and tore up the ring apron.
He stood, brandishing a hammer. The fans were too tense to boo.
Chupacabra raised the hammer. Using his super-speed to pull back at the last instant in order to make the shots look devastating, he went crazy on his former partner, working him over for almost a minute as the area around the ring filled with baby faces and referees and uniformed officials, none of them brave enough to enter the ring.
Suddenly Chupacabra stopped. He looked around the arena.
Still no boos.
He brought the hammer down toward Darnell’s face, stopping at the last micro-instant and pulling back, so it looked like a particularly killing shot.
A few fans cheered. Someone in the upper west corner started chanting. “Chu-pa-ca-bra! Chu-pa-ca-bra!” An instant later the chant filled the auditorium.
Charleston let the hammer slip out of his grip.
Slowly, he climbed out of the ring.
All the way back to the dressing rooms, fans shoved pens and papers at him, begging for autographs, begging to touch him, loving him, loving him, loving him.
Less than an hour later, Cody Charles left the arena alone, backpack in place, zits returned to the corners of his mouth. He climbed onto a crowded bus bound for home, and a tired old lady got up to offer him her seat.
* * *
Cody Charles stopped on the street and glowered at his house. The blue glow of the television flickered in the front window. It was the only light. Biff hadn’t so much as flicked on the outside lamp. Cody sagged under the day’s disappointments. As he took a step towards the house, though, Biff barked a laugh inside. The sound stretched into a long string of guffaws punctuated by his nickname for Cody. ‘Captain Dumbass.’
He straightened, clenched his fists, and an instant later, the television was off, every light in the house blasted full, and Cody stood over Biff, who held his arm over his eyes, blinking in the sudden brightness. His laughter continued, though. “What a fail!” He wiped tears away with the heel of his hand. “What the hell did you think would happen, Chupacabra? Or should I call you ‘Chupey?”
“You’ve done nothing all day,” Cody said.
Biff smiled hugely. “I’ve been following your busybody ass from channel to channel, Captain Dumbass.” His expression twisted into one of pure disdain. “You are such a loser.” Biff felt the couch beside him, didn’t find the TV remote. “Okay, what did you do with it?”
Cody smiled innocently. “Do with what?”
Biff scowled. His eyes rolled back in his head. The remote flew up from under the welcome mat inside the door where Cody had hidden it. Cody sidestepped its trajectory and it slapped nicely in Biff’s hand.
“Lame hiding spot.” Biff clicked a button and the TV provided a laugh track to emphasize his words.
“You stole the cable service again.”
“They should make it harder to do.”
Cody shook his head. “You would accomplish so much if you put your mind to it.”
“Why should I work so hard?” Biff blinked at the blank TV screen, looked at his empty hand, and then patted the couch next to him. “Jeez, you’re in a foul mood.”
“You know what kind of day I’ve had if you’ve been following along.”
“You really break that guy’s arm?”
“Shoulder.”
“Excuse me. Shoulder. Did you do it?”
Cody dropped his eyes. “Yes.”
“Did he kiss you for it?”
“No, he didn’t kiss me!”
“Bet he wanted to, though.” Rage overpowered him, but before he could pull back a fist, his shirt hardened and yanked him back against the wall. Cody tried to move and couldn’t. As he struggled, Biff’s smile grew.
“You bastard,” Cody said.
“Why are you hitting yourself?”
“Don’t—” Cody yelped as his sleeve pulled his arm off the wall and slammed his wrist against his head three times, quickly.
The TV snapped on to the sounds of sirens on a cop show. The remote rested in Biff’s hand again.
“The gutter, Cody? You actually hid this in the gutter? You’re lucky it’s not raining, you could’ve ruined it.”
“I wouldn’t know which stage of grief to suffer first.” Cody pushed against his shirt, but it kept its shape as if it were made of steel. Biff kept it immobile without even looking at it.
“You’ve got such an awesome ability,” Cody said. “You could do so much.”
“Like what? Help John Q. Officer apprehend the bad guys? Work toward global peace?”
“You don’t have to do anything like that,” Cody said quietly.
“Not this again.”
“You could be tremendous. Rob banks. Crack safes. Steal bombs and activate them in populated cities. You could have the entire country eating out of your hand within a week.”
“And you could hunt me down and play the big hero. I ain’t interested.”
“God damn you. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
“Forget it. I ain’t playing your stupid games.”
“It’s not a game! It’s the natural order! How do you think I feel, being a superhero with no enemies?”
Biff flicked a channel. Laugh track. “I don’t care how you feel.”
Cody glared at Biff. He tried to move, tried to shove himself off the wall, but his shirt remained inflexible. In the comic books, heroes with super-speed could vibrate their bodies fast enough that their molecules could pass through solid matter. Despite years of attempting this, that ability continued to elude him. He strained to move, doubling his efforts when Biff glanced at him.
“Ain’t you learned anything yet, Captain Dumbass?”
Cody glowered and let his body sag.
“I’m going to kill you one of these days,” Cody said.
“Give it a rest. The press would paint me as the innocent victim of a dangerous vigilante, and you’d spend the rest of your days in prison, being loved and adored by everyone behind bars.”
“Maybe I could learn to live with that.”
Biff looked at him then. Studied him. “Naw. You’d never murder the one person on Earth who hates your guts. Having an arch-enemy is too important to you. Even if you’re the only one who knows it.”
Cody glared at him. He wanted to refute Biff’s logic, but the argument wouldn’t come. Damned if he’d admit the asshole was right, though.
Cody’s sleeve jerked and his own hand cracked across his face. “Stop hitting yourself,” Biff said.
Cody struggled to free himself until he couldn’t catch his breath. He held his head up, slowed his breathing. He would not let himself cry in front of Biff. Never again.
Eventually Biff would tire of holding him and let him go. The sooner, the better. Cody intended for Captain Compassion to be out on the streets again tomorrow, stopping criminals and hunting for someone, anyone, who could resist loving him.