Boredom sucks.
I am one of the most badass human women in Los Angeles. I make enough money from bounties and rewards to only have to complain if I consider a jacuzzi to be a baseline home appliance ; which I don’t. I just kicked ten wannabe gangsters into submission today. What the hell else must I do to avoid being friggin’ BORED?!
Ahem, hi. I’m Iris Palmer, female vigilante. Not the spandex kind, although those kind of attention-craved jackoffs do fuck up the place. No superpowers for me, just a sixth dan black belt, dedication and some serious intolerance to taking your shit. Physically, well, I’m an athlete but of the lightweight category. I’m small, but lean, mean and I have a hell of a sting. But in this world of superheroes, being a near-perfect fighter just doesn’t cut it. Nobody watches martial arts tournaments now that they can get a blockbuster action scene just by watching the news. So I’m left with hunting criminals too small to earn the metahumans’ notice. Which leaves, unfortunately, still a shitload of dickheads.
Because I sure as shit don’t play vigilante for the ideals. I’m not a nice gal, see. I don’t really believe I’m making any difference in this fucked up city either. But I am hard, strong, violent, and I’d much rather use my strength to punch wolves than sheep.
In short, I’m an asshole, but I go after bigger assholes because that’s where the challenge is. Some hunts pay, some don’t. Like I said, I’m not asking for a personal villa so it kinda works out for everybody. Except the bad guys, of course, but it’s not like anybody is crying them a river. Sure, some folks are just desperate, but in LA, most of them are gang members who think they’re in goddamn Saints Row or something. They end up lucky enough to be among the strong, and they attack the weak for shits and giggles? Pathetic. Have a punch in the throat.
But, yeah, I’m bored. Nobody important’s coming for me, I’m just a street-level ass kicker occasionally doubling as bounty hunter. I even have a no-kill policy, so no bloody vendettas here either. I need more than just punk-ass kids harassing co-eds, which is all that shows up these days...And desperate times call for desperate measures. To the e-mail box with me I guess.
And what do you know...One whoopin’ email. I mostly deal with clients by phone, granted, but it still stings a bit to see just one email on a business day. And what does it say? Huh... “Come to the Toy Room!” So basically, fuck this thing already. But I am, as we’ve established, bored, so I open the mail anyway.
Surprisingly, it looks nothing like a spam mail. There’s not a single typed character in the mail—just a big picture of a kid’s playing room. However, on the velvety carpet stands some sort of doll. A regular female doll with a top-model body and blonde hair tied in pigtails. Nothing too weird, except she’s holding a sign, and that’s where the crazy begins, because it reads :
“This room is for you, Iris! Come play!”
Slack jawed, arms hanging down and face uncomfortably close to the monitor, I can say only one thing.
“What.”
For starters, there is no possible way that’s spam. Someone purposefully sent this to me. Well, to a Iris at least. Can’t rule out a mix-up. The text is clearly handwritten, and fairly badly at that. This is most likely sent by a little girl who’s inviting a friend with my name to her party or something. Yeah. And here I was, thinking straight away about something creepy. You’ve got too much hatred in you, girl.
Still...What if it was destined to me? I’d have some kind of creepy stalker. Maybe I’m insane for thinking that...but it would be kind of awesome. And a cartoonish villain going after little old me instead of the metahumans for a change makes for a muuuch better evening that a kid doing a mistake.
“Aight, you’re on, bitch.”
There’s another thing written on the sign, under the text that jumped to my attention. Expectedly enough, it’s an address. I type it in Google Earth and the mix-up hypothesis goes out the window in a hurry. It’s a self-storage building. You know, the kind of joint when you can rent a room to store stuff. I dealt with enough gangs abusing these things for shady shit to know this affair is only whimsy on the outside. In fact, now that I think about it, the mail is probably just a gang getting cute in their quest to get back at me. Occam’s razor and all that.
No matter. Ambushed or not, Iris Palmer can take some punks. Beating up people who came up with a plan this gay is probably a hate crime, but whatever. I get off my ass and step into the night.
About one hour later, I’m in the self storage facility. Grey and bland, just the way I like my ultra-violence environments. Red looks great on concrete. I mean, I’m no murderer, but that doesn’t mean a dude won’t get a brutal nosebleed if he takes me for a moron.
And what do you know, it looks like I’ll illustrate that point pretty soon.
“So there are guys silly enough to lure me with a cutesy doll. What are you, jealous of supervillains?”
A self storage hallway should just be lined by heavy metal curtains, but this one also comes with a bunch of ethnically diverse twats. Wife beaters, backwards caps, overly large pants...They wear the perfect douchebag uniform. I see chains, spiked knuckles and knives in their hands, and wade right in the middle of their group. That’s how not impressed I am.
“What’s that about a doll, zorra?” Says a latino. “We were just told the bitch who keeps beating our homies would come here tonight.”
“And why does a cunt like you come in a place like this at midnight?” Queries a white dude. “Except to get fucked, of course.”
“Yeah, you act tough but you’re a cute piece of ass. And all cuties are sluts, am I right hombres?”
“Word!” The others clamor.
Okay, so I am small and cute. What else is new? I just keep hearing how it’s a shame I’m so violent. Whatever. Adrenaline is the only hormone I need.
“See that?” I say, pointing to my waist. “Sixth dan Kyokushin karate black belt. I didn’t get that lying on my back.”
“Yeah, right!” Scoffs another caucasian. “We all saw Penn and Teller’s Bullshit! on martial arts, bitch. You’re crazy if you think you’re getting out of here unsexed.”
“Yeah, because a fat guy on TV is definite authority on beating people. I mowed through 87 people in a hyakunin kumite, bitches. You ain’t even a snack.”
They look at each other and decide it’s time to get floored. They charge, and I smirk. Right in the middle of twelve guys who all want to rape me, I feel at home. The smackdown happens quickly. Too quickly for words. My body is a finely tuned war machine, and fighting feels less like a battle of wits and agility than floating down a river. Expert combat is a melody. You go with the rhythm, dodge, deflect and strike before your mind even knows what the fuck. That’s not philosophical bullshit, that’s just how it goes. To surpass other people, you have to bypass your oafish brain and train until you can dodge and counterattack without even thinking.
By the time I’m done, all of them have something broken inside and stars somewhere in their field of vision. They were your typical barking punks, but heh, it was worth it. It’s a bit weird that the guy who sent me that weird-ass email also called them here, but hey, if he wants to harass me by way of entertainment, I ain’t gonna stop him.
Anyway, I’m done here. I place a quick call to the fuzz so that they van those idiots, and I’m on my...wait what?
One of the metallic curtains has disappeared. In its place is a normal-sized door made out of some sort of reddish wood. There’s a plate on it, and it reads :
“Congratulations Iris! You can come play now.”
Ooookay. Instantly appearing doors. That’s it. The email left me with some suspicions, but now I’m certain. I’m being dragged into the metahuman bullshit. And whoever is pulling the strings is much too train-stoppingly insane to be a superhero. Which means...
“Aaaalright!”
I thrust my fist to the heavens. Technically, I’m in deep shit. I know that...But I love it!
“Take that, Commander Freedom! A normal girl can get super-powered sickos to hate her too! Fuck your magical armor, skill and dedication does work!”
Hell yes. Just HELL YES. Just how painful do you think it is to be a regular badass in a world when cars are considered acceptable collateral in some duels? To be close to the pinnacle of human discipline and knowing you don’t matter shit compared to some unimaginable dickhead who got himself trapped inside a physics experiment? Well it’s pretty fucking painful. So getting my own supervillain is a bit like being featured on Time magazine, back when it still mattered.
So sure, it would be stupid to think the toy room guy desires any less but my complete ruin. And it’s also a pretty good assumption that he’s too powerful for me. All the same, fear has no hold over my heart. This is my path. The heavens are taunting me, and I’m sure as hell not going to run. Not if I want my life to have any meaning.
“It’s on, motherfucker.”
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