Article: 178973 of talk.bizarre From: pv@MCS.COM (Paul Vader) Newsgroups: talk.bizarre Subject: Superhero lite V Date: 1 Dec 1994 15:57:35 -0600 Organization: Inline Software Creations Lines: 87 Message-ID: <3blgsf$qan@Mars.mcs.com> Summary: Just when you thought it was safe to put on your cape... X-Voting-info: Want to vote? Send a message with "SCORES: info" as the subject. X-Scores-Web-page: <a href="http://www.mcs.net/~pv/home.html">Click here</a> X-Warning: Really toxic name pun in the last sentence Status: O I often wish I was invisible, had long-distance telepathy, or could do stakeouts via out-of-body experience. It's simply impossible to sit in a bar for several hours without attracting unwanted male attention. Just as the conversation from a nearby table was becoming interesting, this prime-A specimen of Dickus Headus Americanus (or is that dickum headum? I can never keep my latin declensions straight) hits on me. "So baby, what brings you here?" Baby? Oh, it is to hurl. "It's a bar, figure it out." "But you're not drinking." Dammit, my glass is bone dry. I have to pay better attention. "I guess I got absorbed in the television." He signaled to the bartender, who brought over a double screwdriver and refilled my tonic water. "That'll be," The register makes a pained beeping noise. "Six hundred seventy-four dollars even?" He smacked the register in the side in frustration. Oops. DH laughs. "Maybe I'll get the next round. You follow Lacrosse?" "Yeah. Lacrosse. I live for it." World 3, Linda 0. What's next on ESPN anyway? Full-contact sheep shearing? I am graced with a moment of quiet while he communes with his drink. One of the people at the table makes a comment about 'the final meeting' in a few minutes, at 'the usual place'. Best news I've had tonight. "What do you do for a living, anyway?" He put a clammy hand on my arm, which I extracted gingerly with a thumb and forefinger and plopped on the table with a sweaty splat. "I do component testing for Intel." "Isn't that the company that's having all those problems with their new computer chip or something?" "Rub it in." "Sorry." My targets paid their bill and headed for the door. "It's been nice talking to you. I have to leave." "But I just got here!" He grabs my arm again. That's it, he asked for it! Ah, the barstool. Such sloppy construction... One of the welds failed with a snap, and DH is dumped to the floor. She scores! "So sorry." I dropped some extra bucks on the bartop and grabbed my coat. *BZZT* I'm crackling with power tonight, and it's not exactly helping my stealthiness. *ZAP* About one streetlight in ten is burning out as I skulk under them, and I'm not even trying. Quite the opposite, in fact. *SNAP* Fortunately, the folks I'm tailing are far enough ahead and deep enough in furtive conversation not to notice anything out of the ordinary. The slightly stroboscopic trip ended a few minutes later, when my targets entered a vacant storefront I have become quite familiar with in the last few days. Another point for me, I've had bugs placed and a listening post prepared in the basement. As I tiptoed into the alley, one last lamp suffered from a flaw in the sodium element and burned out with a *POP*, throwing the rear entrance into deep shadow. And that evens the score. Crap! There's a padlock on the basement door that I've never seen before. It's not a cheap one either, so it's going to take several minutes to pick it or find a defect my power can exploit. I just about had it open when something cold was pressed into my back, and I heard an especially unpleasant clicking noise. "Turn around, 'baby'." It's my pal DH from the bar. I was afraid that this was one game that I was going to lose, until I looked at the gun he was holding on me. I switched on my most winning smile, and demurely knitted my hands over my head as I turned to face him. "Oh dear, that's a most dangerous weapon you have there." "And the pistol is quite threating as well." DH is too kind a label for him. "You have that right, but not in the manner you think. A cheap revolver like that is much more likely to kill you than me." "Shut up, you bitch. We're going inside." He pushed me back towards the alley with his other hand. No further words were required, as he had used the one that pushes my big button. I lunged as he pulled the trigger, and as I expected, the cylinder didn't advance all the way and the gun misfired. DH never got a chance to try again, as I connected with a kick to his forehead that would have scandalized my ballet teacher, even as she praised my extension. And the crowd goes crazy! ... The morning paper's headline reads "ASSASSINATION PLOT FOILED". From an anonomous tip, police found evidence in a vacant downtown building of a plan to kill the state's attourney. Expensive automated equipment in the basement (I have to use the best; anything else tends to suffer from infant mortality before I even remove the styrofoam) recorded a meeting which described the plot in complete detail, and everyone involved was found trapped in the front office with the door locks seized shut, all the circuit breakers blown, and most of the drop ceiling wrapped around their heads. I couldn't help laughing out loud as I read about the accomplice who was found semi-conscious near the scene, ranting about being attacked by a "terrifying masked man at least seven feet tall." I guess the heels I was wearing (even with them on I don't top five feet six) made quite an impression on him. Count this one in the record books, It's another come from behind victory for The GremLynn. * -- * PV this article has no next sibling.