ORIGINAL FICTION: "Superheroes are Gay" (Part 7)

PLEASE NOTE: This is Part 7 of the story.
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We’re near the end of our journey, one way or another. Win or loose, it ends very soon, maybe today, maybe tomorrow. I think it through: Basically, if we’re going to win - and ‘win’ is a very relative term for what we’re attempting here - then we’ll have to do it very soon. If we’re going to loose, then any longer period of time will do.

But we’re near our destination, and the things Vox Inhumana said last night make it clear that the Superheroes still haven’t figured out what Deadpan’s plan for us was. So we’ve still got that going for us. The “Good Guys” seem to think we’re running at random, but we’re not.

I hoped and prayed that we’d be able to make it downtown before anyone noticed us, but we didn’t even make it out of Buckhead.

The music stopped, and Clarion was there, hovering in front of me. A lifetime of heterosexual reflexes were barely enough to keep me from throwing myself at Superjunge, now that same lifetime of reflexes were drawing me to her. She was hopelessly beautiful. No, beautiful is too perfunctory a word: she was gloriously, preternaturally lovely beyond belief. She had those yummy long legs, that ass that really did make grown men cry, the firm, pouting bosom, long, swan-like neck, olive skin, piercing green eyes, and the kind of long, flowing jet-black hair that you dream about wrapping yourself in. Her costume was quite flattering, and really more revealing than any simple nakedness could ever be. I tried not to look at the siren, tried not to meet her eyes, but it wasn’t working. I could smell her, feel her fatal loveliness casually wafting through my brain. I heard a chorus of low moans from among the refugees, which I recognized was them spontaneously climaxing - men and women both - simply from the sight of her. I realized belatedly that I had, too.

The funny thing is that while everyone has seen here, in pictures, in movies, in real life, hundreds of times, no one can ever seem to really remember what her face looks like.

My head is muddy with hormones released by my unexpected orgasm. I have trouble thinking. I tighten my grip on my umbrella, and my other hand goes to Blacknight’s utility belt, which I took off him when he died, and which I’ve been wearing since we left the comic book shop. This is going to end badly. The refugees are moving towards her, excepting Homer who’s babbling about not understanding what’s going on. I have some brilliant kill-o-zap weapon in my hand, freshly taken from the belt, but I can’t think of what to do with it.

“You’ve led us on a merry chase,” she says in a mellifluously silky voice that defies description, “And now your reward: A goodbye kiss.”

A kiss? That sounds good, I’d gladly sell my life for the touch of her lips. I move in closer, closer. I know she’s strong enough to topple a building, to a lift an ocean liner, but I don’t care. I know she’ll snap my neck with just the slightest of finger twitches from her tapered hands, but I don’t care. She is my whole world at this moment, and all that matters is the feel of her hot breath on my neck. It is worth it. It is a good death, a fine way to go, in service of my divine mistress. I go closer, closer, and I become distantly aware of something, a noise far off that I notice only because it isn’t her, only because it clashes with the sheets of sex appeal pouring off of her in all directions.

It bothers me, and I focus on it, trying to define it so as to better tune it out, but of course that just makes it worse. It’s a human voice, coming from a long way off, getting louder, moving fast. What the…”

“Yoooooooooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuu Bitch!” Superjunge screams as he flies in to her, slamming her body at barely-subsonic speed. I wasn’t touching her, but I was close, very close, and the force of the impact knocks me ass-over-teakettle. The refugees freak out and scatter, and several of them actually were touching her when the alien boy struck. Two of them were killed outright, another lost both arms, and bled to death before we could do anything about it. I screamed at them to run, and we scrambled off in to an old, half-collapsed apartment complex on the intersection of Peachtree and Peachtree.

Inside, we heard the battle raging. Their fists made noises like thunder when they struck, our hovel shuddered several times from the force of the nearby blows. The ground shook when one or another of them piled in to the pavement. The windows shattered. There were screams and curses and sobs from both sides of their battle, and we huddled together and prayed for deliverance to any real, non-profane God who might be out there, and we quaked with fear, and one of the refugees freaked out and ran off, and we never saw him again. Gradually, though the grunts from the warring gods became progressively higher pitched, and the sobs became more constant, then becoming a wracking cry which was more horrible than even the sounds of the battle itself had been. A woman’s terrified wail, a teenaged boy screaming profanity and punctuating it with body blows and cuts, and finally Clarion screaming over and over again “Just end it, just end it, I beg you please just kill me,” in an unhinged, gurgling fashion, and eventually, after a long time, Superjunge did. Then the wracking cry returned, but it was him this time, not the woman he’d killed, and somehow that was even worse. This went on for a long time in the distance, until finally we heard the sonic boom of him flying away.

We quickly left the apartment complex, and stumbled across her body. She wasn’t lovely no more.

To Be Continued...
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