Heroes



Title: Heroes Author: Tesserae "I bet your heroes were always cowboys." Late night, loud bar, and Lindsey paused for a moment before he looked at the woman who was almost-but-not-quite leaning over his right shoulder. It wasn't a bad line, but it was a line, and he was surprised until he remembered that the street outside the bar was Santa Monica Boulevard and not Main Street or Elm Street or Rural Route fifty-whatever. It was L.A., and even pretty blond girls needed lines here. He blinked, trying to focus in the dimly-lit bar. She was smiling at him, he thought, and so he tried to smile back. Judging from the fear that surfaced in her eyes, he didn't quite succeed. Time to try another approach. She was cute, he reasoned, and although he was supposed to be meeting someone the clock over the cash register read nearly one a.m. and he was fairly sure he'd been stood up. Figured. Wrong day, wrong week, wrong answer, wrong whatever. Now the wrong girl. "Do you want a drink?" When she nodded, he congratulated himself. A little tequila and the fear would start to fade. He knew this. "So, cowboys," she said after the waitress deposited a margarita large enough to raise goldfish in on the table in front of her, and set a new plate of lime wedges in front of Lindsey and his bottle of Herradura. "Cowboys." "Cowboys. Weren't your heroes cowboys when you were little? You know, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood – cowboys." "Heroes." He felt stupid. Heroes. What? "Superheroes, then. Spider Man, Superman, super secret space detective, super private eye..." Oh. Heroes. He closed his eyes, trying to remember who'd been on his walls, on his sheets, on his lunchbox when he was eight. "Luke Skywalker. Indiana Jones." When he opened his eyes, she was looking directly at him, her smile fixed and a tense look to her jaw. Was she flirting with him or was this some kind of secret code he was supposed to complete? Had the email that brought him back to L.A. two days earlier said anything about Star Wars? He'd tried to print it out but when he clicked on print he'd crashed out of Explorer, and when he'd gotten back to his mail the message was gone. Maybe it was Star Trek? Maybe another shot would help. Salt, tequila, lime, and when he was done he thought about heroes some more, because she seemed to want him to. Had he even carried a lunchbox to school? Didn't his mother just give him money every morning? "When I was fourteen I wanted to be Eddie Van Halen. Or Duff Kagen." He had saved up that year for a Guns 'n Roses cassette tape, a special offer in a magazine that came with a poster, Axl snarling and Slash in his hat with his hair hanging down in his eyes. He'd surprised himself dreaming more than once of parting that heavy mass and touching his lips to that mouth. Saul Hudson, who he'd heard just that morning was expecting a baby with his wife. Isn't it true of heroes, that they have what you don't? He decided not to tell her that part. She looked at him impatiently. "No. Not musicians. Heroes," she said firmly. "They put on a disguise, they've got super powers, they go out and save the world. They could be any one of fifty different guys, but they're not – you know, heroes." Okay, yeah, maybe he did know. But how on earth did she? "Look, I don't know who you are – " he began, and she cut him off. "Sure you do, Lindsey." She reached for his right hand and turned it over so that it lay palm up on the damp and sticky wood of the bar, traced her finger over the line that ended just as it reached the fleshy pad of his thumb, ran it down over the veins in his wrist and onto the fine silvery scar that circled his arm. "At least, you know where I work." He could feel his pulse in the scar, hers a half a beat behind. "What are you doing here?" Had she been the one who sent him that email? He'd half expected to see Lilah Morgan or that scientist girl, the one that showed up on the company website looking too insubstantial to be fighting off demons. Although they weren't so much fighting the demons anymore, he supposed; it was more like they were representing them, like he had done. And everybody knew Lindsey McDonald was nobody's hero. "We'd like to make you an offer." He flexed his wrist, felt her hand close around it. For a small woman her fingers were long, and he could feel her fingertips meet below his bones. Underneath them, his skin started to tingle. When she released his arm he wasn't surprised see the shapes appear, pale pink darkening to red, to indigo, then violet and swiftly to black below the blond hair of his arm. He watched, transfixed, as she repeated the process on his other arm. When she bent her head to the hollow at the base of his throat he stopped her. "What do you need me to do?" His voice roared in his ears, as if he hadn't spoken for a long time. "To kill a superhero, of course." "But I can't – I don't have -" "We all have heroes, Lindsey. Just like we all have mortal enemies. Yours just happen to be the same, well, person. So to speak. "Now let me finish this." Lips and teeth and tongue and he wanted to put his head back and howl as she took his throat into her mouth, as the colors flowed over his chest and stomach and down his back, around his hips and down his legs and back up to coil around his spine and his sex, solidifying and settling into his flesh. He opened his eyes and wondered if she was gone. But her glass still sat there, lipstick and salt on the rim, a crumpled napkin slowly soaking up melting ice and margarita mix. Real then, and he knew from the fizzing in his skin that the tattoos were too. When he looked around she was coming out of the ladies room, lipstick freshly red on her mouth, raising one hand as if she were drinking from an invisible glass. "Order me another drink," she mouthed at him. He could do that, and get himself some more lime wedges while he was at it. The bar had gotten crowded, and it took her longer to reach him than he thought it would. And when she got there, she slipped in on his left side and smiled up at him, put her arm around his waist. "Listen," she said. And the jukebox started to play some country number, Toby Keith or Brooks and Dunn, he could never tell any of those new guys apart; but he smiled back down at her. Let it reach his eyes, dropped his chin so that his hair fell forward just a bit. "Oh yeah," he murmured. "Love this. What's your name again, darlin'?" "Eve." "Pleased to meet you," he replied, with a gesture that suggested that a cowboy hat had just been tipped. And raising his arms made the soft cuffs of his shirt fall away from his wrists, and when that happened he knew she could see the tattoos on his forearms. And he was proud of those, and of the muscles that defined his shoulders now after two year of hard work on the ranch. Put together, it worked every time. Because guys always needed a line if they wanted to get the girl, whether it was Austin or El Paso or Los Angeles. Just like superheroes needed a cape. Das Uber Tuber, or the Mystery of Mr. P by Ookla the Mok Mr. Potato Head, master of disguise He can turn into over fifty completely different guys Is he a blonde or is his hair red? You never know with Mr. Potato Head He's hot, he's out of control Who's that repelling down the side of the evil villain's secret lair? Who's that over there with the countess sipping sherry with such understated flair? He's cooking when he's behind the wheel of the Mr. Potato Head-Mobile When he goes out for a ride (he changes into some other guy) Everybody waits for him to arrive (we're all waiting) He's going straight ahead then all at once he turns into a drive Mr. Potato Head super secret spy Cowboy secret space detective super private eye He puts on a disguise and then He could be anyone of a dozen other potato-headed men He's not really out of control He's just a man (he's not even really a man) Okay true but he's doing the best that he can All he wants is what anybody wants Just a simple life with his loving wife But it's hard to give his family a home When he's always battling Hugo Who's that hiding in enormous vases? Who's that kid with corn stuck in his braces? Who's all genders, creed, and races? Hugo, Man of a Thousand Faces! Who's been schooled in all the social graces? Who's that parked in all the handicapped spaces? Who can draw anything as long as he traces? Hugo, Man of a Thousand Faces! It had to happen someday He's the natural enemy They both knew this was the way Of our heroic Mr. P They'd trained for this their whole lives There can only be one master of disguise They hugged their kids and kissed their wives So one will live the other dies Hugo pulls out a knife (Mr. Potato Head narrows his eyes) He says, "I'm gonna cut you down to size into french fries" Mr. Potato Head just grins and says, "Well, go ahead and try!" Hugo pulls out his Tater Grater He says, "Prepare to meet your creator, tater" Mr. Potato Head whips out his detonator He says, "This is the last time you will try To rule the world you evil guy You know I'm not afraid to die" And then let's the Spud Missle fly There's silence as the smoke clears It looks like this could be the end A pile of noses and ears Of our carbohydrate-laden friend In a gigantic crater He stopped his mortal enemy Lies our beloved tater Now he'll forever rest in peas Mr. Potato Head opens up his eyes Now he's the undisputed master of disguise Is he alive or is he dead? It's hard to tell with Mr. Potato Head All hail Mr. Potato Head