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$>
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="">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."
  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

  *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
  "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.