Jennifer's Story Pick, Week 11

Oh boy.  Choosing one story was really hard this week.  I liked everything that I read.  Even better, all of them seemed to have the potential to feed into a series or a larger work.  As someone who tends to get attached to characters, ending with the words 'to be continued' is like promising me chocolate.

I'm going to post Michael's Secret Identity.  That's the name of his story, not that I actually know his secret identity.  I'm not sure that he even has a secret identity.  Somehow, I don't think that's something he'd be willing to share with the group.

Anyway.  Tell me if you can totally see the part of Susan being played by Allison Hannigan.

It was all physics to him. Wonderful, beautiful, so-cool-you-just-can’t-stand it-physics. He watched the thug’s wrench as it ticked upward in a sweep that was intended by said thug to smack into his head and render him unconscious. He could calculate the exact position of the wrench and its projected arc, and thus he knew precisely where his head should not be. More importantly, he knew exactly when and where to dodge underneath the thug’s arm and deliver a precisely controlled bunch to a certain spot on the goon’s jaw. The goon, already resting well and dreaming of goon women, began to crumple to the ground. The man who had so elegantly disabled him was already moving away to deal with the goon’s friend, whose hand was moving in a draw that wasn’t quite lightning-fast. A red-and-silver metal claw-like shape sang through the air, striking the weapon from the unlucky gunman’s hand. Then a boot heel slammed into his head in an equally precise location. He hit the ground only a second or so after his partner.

Some vigilantes liked to tie up their captured goons and leave them for the police to find. That wasn’t the Wild Weasel’s style. He bent down and riffled through their wallets, depriving them of their cash, credit cards, and other pertinent information, then he left them sprawled there in the alleyway. The Wild Weasel was more pragmatic than most superheroes, and less wealthier. He viewed any financial benefit he got from his escapades as spoils of war. Besides, who would the bad guys report the theft to? The police who showed up to arrest them? Honestly.

Having collected his bounty, he turned to face the gaping young woman whom the goons had been on the point of robbing. The Wild Weasel saluted. “Ma’am.” Then he pressed a button on his belt. A jetpack flared to life, and the Wild Weasel soared dramatically into the sky.

“WAHOOOOOOO!” he yelled. Some superheroes liked to disappear into the dark, perhaps when their rescuees weren’t looking. The Wild Weasel didn’t much see the point in that. It wasn’t fun. Why bother to do superhero work if you couldn’t have fun with it? Besides, that sort of thing took time, and he was running late. She was probably on her way to the restaurant now, which gave him maybe fifteen minutes to change into civvies and zip over there. He patted the little box in his pocket. The Wild Weasel already had a really good feeling about tonight.  He’d already rounded up seventeen goons, and garnered over a thousand bucks in immediate cash, not to mention the credit cards. And the best was yet to come. Oh boy, was it ever.

Thirty minutes later, Sam McElroy was sitting happily across from her (he always thought about her in italics), deep in a discussion about local politics. She had the most unique way of reaching her hand behind her head and fiddling with her ever-present ponytail when she was agitated, which she certainly seemed tonight. “The police say they’re increasing the Wild Weasel task force again,” she said, her brow furrowing. “Honestly, don’t they get it? The guy’s done so much good for the city, I don’t understand why they’re after him!”

Sam, his heart singing on the inside, nevertheless made a perfunctory effort at playing devil’s advocate. “Well, he does make off with evidence, or so I’ve heard. Stealing money from-”
“From the criminals?” she finished, her eyebrows quirking. “I fail to see the problem. Most of them wanted to rob people anyway; they can’t complain if someone does it to them. You know, the Wild Weasel saved my life once.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, making up his mind. The time was right, the atmosphere was perfect, and he had never been happier. No way she would say no. How could anyone say no to the Wild Weasel?

She paused. “How..exactly do you know? I’ve never told you this story before.”

“Can you keep a secret?” he said, lowering his voice. No one was sitting remotely near them in their part of the restaurant, and even the waiters were momentarily busy elsewhere; still, a whisper seemed more effective.

“What’s in it for me?” she asked coyly.

“You’ll know in a minute. See…I am the Wild Weasel.”

Her reaction was exactly as he hoped: a look of wide-eyed awe spread over her face.

“REALLY?” she gasped.

“Yep. And seriously, you can’t tell anyone. I’ve got dangerous enemies. Like the Special Forces of Plaznik, for example. The Plaznikis are still upset about my vacation over there last year.

Tossing their prince into a moat of alligators will do that, I expect. So if you see anyone around with a P and two stars tattooed on ‘em, you should start runnin’. That’s their insignia, you know.”

She nodded. “Wow. You’ve got enemies. Enemies with special logos and stuff. That is so cool. Plus, you’ve saved people! You saved me!”

Then Sam, seizing the moment, slid out of his chair and dropped to one knee, digging the little box out of his pocket. “Yeah, I did. Because you’re the most wonderful person in the whole world. And that’s why I wanted to ask…” he paused, letting the drama of the moment build, “Susan, will you marry me?”

She smiled brilliantly. “Of course!”

They kissed with a loud smerp. A small collection of waiters had drifted back into their general area, and they proceeded to give a rather weak round of applause. As Sam and Susan clung together, the Wild Weasel feeling like the luckiest guy ever, he didn’t notice that her ponytail had fallen loose, obscuring the back of her neck, on which was inscribed in spidery lines a small P with two little stars. Susan’s left hand slid towards a shining steel weapon hidden in her jacket.

“Of course,” she murmured again, as soon as her mouth was free to speak again, “…not.”

***

The Wild Weasel was given a hero’s funeral by the city, though the police commissioner was conspicuously absent. Susan, who hadn’t even tried to get away, was arraigned the day after and remanded without bail. On the night before her trial, she vanished from her cell, leaving behind only a silver-red metal claw embedded in a crack. The police officer on duty that night disappeared as well; it turned out later that his mother had immigrated to the country from Plaznik. Neither one was ever found. And that leads to the moral of our story: never, ever, ever trust people named Susan. Because they’re just bad news all around.