Super Gus and the Big Crush

By John Leatherman

“It’s all over, Psycho-Metric! Drop the kilobomb!” I practice the command sotto voce as I scan the harbor, searching for the crimson lights of the mad mastermind’s speedboat.
Bloodbath Bridge looms above the dark water, a line of gold lamps tracing the gentle arcs of its suspension cables. Psycho-Metric has commandeered the six-lane crossing, and his goons are stacking thousands of kilobombs across it, networking them into megabombs to detonate at midnight. But that work will be worthless without widgets to weave the weapons into one woeful gigabomb. So I’m hiding on the docks among stacks of Worldwide Widget crates, awaiting the weasel’s latest withdrawal.

I deliver the dictum again. Hmm… Kilobomb has kill right there in the name. Not to mention bomb.

Maybe he shouldn’t drop it.

This is why we superheroes practice things.

A shadow flits past my crate. I leap out onto the dock. “It’s all over, Psycho-Metric! Gently set down the kilobomb!”

The red-and-blue-clad figure turns, cape flowing in a breeze suddenly fragrant with a sweet vanilla scent. The dock’s halogen lamps illumine her rosy cheeks and sapphire eyes.

She smirks. “I’d be careful what you demand of Adver City’s top dead-man’s switch enthusiast. But what do I know? I’m only—”

“Comet-Woman!” I raise my arms as if hailing a goddess. “Mice to neat you, I’m Arnold Montes. Wait—I mean Super Gus. Wait—why did I reveal my secret identity? Wait—you wouldn’t tell anyone, right? It’s against the superhero code! Wait—is there a superhero code?” My face flops into my palm. This introduction isn’t going how I imagined it during puberty.

Comet-Woman tosses a stray blonde lock behind her ear. “Arnold Montes? From the fan club?”

I gasp. “You—you got my letters?”

She nods. “And your drawings and photos… and, I believe, a marriage proposal?”

I grimace. “Oh, yeah, that. See, that was… uh…”

“I’ll tell you what it was. It was very sweet.”

Suddenly my superpowers exclude speech.

“I’m sure my office sent you a reply, but you deserve to hear it personally.” She clears her throat and assumes an official tone. “Though flattered by your kind request, Comet-Woman regrets to inform you she is…”

Having memorized it in ninth grade, I complete the sentence. “…already married—to crime.”

We finish in unison. “And it’s an abusive relationship!”

She laughs. “Well, you’ve handled rejection Comet-terrifically. Look at you now!” She tosses my purple cape, wafting more giga-mega-kilo-vanilla my way. “All suited up and ready to save the day!”

I hold up my hands and back away. “Comet-Woman, I’d never steal your save. Psycho-Metric is all yours.”

Comet-Woman lowers her tone. “I’m not so sure.” She gazes across the bay, eyes glassy. “See, Psycho-Metric knows me. When I show up, he might panic and hit the detonator. I need recon he doesn’t recognize.”

I gulp. “Comet-Woman… needs my help?”

Her eyes glow, just like her soldering finger as she leans down and etches a diagram into the dock. “Let’s make a high, fast approach from the southwest. Stay on my six, and two klicks out, you’ll swoop in and grab him. I’ll be right behind you, and Comet-teamwork will save the day!” She raises her fists.

I match her posture. “Great idea, except…” My fists fall. “I don’t fly.”

Comet-Woman’s jaw drops. “You don’t?”

I shrug. “Sorry.”

“But… you’ve got the cape! What terrestrial wears a freaking… ?” She groans. “Okay, what are your superpowers?”

Wow, so forward! Shouldn’t she buy me a drink first? I square my shoulders in the I’ll-handle-this stance. “I’m indestructible! I can get smashed, squashed, blown up, whatever, and survive.”

“We can use that.” She reaches into her left boot and produces a black lighter-sized device with a red button. “This is a common de-bomb-inator. It will neutralize kilobombs, but only if activated close enough.” Setting it in my hand, she swivels and starts scorching another schematic into the dock. “Since they’re networked together in a giant pyramid, I’ll fly you above the bombs, then drop you from a half-mile up onto the pyramid’s peak. You’ll push the button just before impact, and at that velocity, your momentum will topple the whole thing!”

Studying all the downward arrows in her drawing, I gulp. “Onto me.”

“Yes. Disarmed, of course.”

“But still really heavy.”

“Absolutely. And that will distract the goons so I can—”

“It still hurts, you know.”

She frowns. “What?”

“Falling. Getting crushed. It hurts. So bad I can’t remember anything for a while after it.” I cringe. Admitting your weakness has got to be against the superhero code. “Okay, I know you’re invulnerable, but try to imagine a lot of ows. And ouches. And…”

Comet-Woman sighs. “I may not feel physical pain, but I do get hurt.”

“Comet-Woman gets hurt?”

She looks down, hands folded. “It hurts me when people die because I was too afraid to help.” A tear drips along her cheek.

I swallow hard. I’d always dreamed of making Comet-Woman cry, but not like this.

Gripping the de-bomb-inator, I shout, “Let’s Comet-take ’em down!”

The fall hurts like a mother. A mother elephant walking all over me. Jumbolina’s still stepping on my head when I awaken on the sleeper sofa in Comet-Woman’s Fortress of Friendlessness. She’s brought aspirin, but opening my mouth that wide hurts too much.

She kneels sofa-side and recounts our adventure. “… and then I swooped in and grabbed Psycho-Metric. The cringing coward commanded his whole crew to concede just so I’d promise not to kill him. We saved the city, partner! When I dug you out of the kilobombs, the mayor was already there to congratulate us.”

“I don’t… ow-ow-ow… remember any… ow-ow-ow… of that.”

“Don’t worry, wham-nesia is never permanent. It’ll all come back to you.”

I struggle to prop myself up on my elbows. “Until then… ow-ow-ow… could you at least tell me… ow-ow-ow… who am I?”

She sighs. “Sorry, it’s against the superhero code.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Leatherman is a longtime member and former officer of Word Weavers International (Orlando chapter) who has won multiple awards from the Florida-Georgia chapter’s annual Tapestry contest. He has written book reviews for Christian Retailing and word games for International Puzzle Syndicate. A freelance writer, editor, cartoonist, and cruciverbalist, Mr. Leatherman maintains a secret identity as a software consultant with two kids.

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