Used to Be: The Kid Rapscallion Story (20 page)

Jason turns away, cold sweat beading up all over his body.

10

“Our boy resisted,” Livinia says over a com link back to Zen from the window of a nearby building.

“A pity,” the captain says. “Once he gets back on the blow, he’ll want to tell us where that stash of coke he stole from Joey Vamps is.”

“We should just force him back on the powder train,” Livinia suggests.

“If we do, he’ll be less likely to give up the location,” Zen reminds her. “Stay on him. We need him to crash on his own so he can offer the location of the coke in exchange for letting him stay”

“He’s headed Tribold’s way,” she tells him. “He can babysit for a while.”

“If it wasn’t for me,” Tribold cuts in, “we wouldn’t even know he stashed that coke in the Blood Zone where no one else can get it.”

Livinia scoffs. “Well, it’s good to know your obsession with reading superhero autobiographies is finally paying off.”

“I almost feel bad for him,” Tribold says philosophically. “
The Good We Did
presents a much better picture of Earth’s superheroes than
Sex, Drugs, and Capes
ever did. Too bad nobody bought it.”

“Save your book review for the spinsters,” Zen snaps. “Keep me updated.”

11

“Kid Rapscallion!” a friendly, if mischievous voice, calls to Jason from a doorway.

“No!” Jason shouts, shaking his head. “Whatever you’ve got for me, I don’t want it!”

“Your words wound me,” the man says without losing his smile as he saunters over to Jason through the bustling crowd around them. “Do you have no love for the Coincidence Man?”

Jason can’t help but look at a man he once described as “that cosmic Robin Hood-looking motherfucker,” which is a crude, if not incorrect, description of the smiling man dressed in green and brown leathers, that was now kissing him on each cheek.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Jason says, smiling despite himself as he pushes Coincidence away from him. “Jesus,” he says, looking the man up and down, “you would think a Primal Narrative God would dress better than that.”

“Ah,” Coincidence smiles, snapping his fingers and transforming his Robin Hood-inspired garb into a bright green business suit with a white shirt and brown tie and shoes. “Is this better?”

“You going away would be better,” Jason grumbles. “Just tell me, are you here to connect me with a good coincidence or a bad coincidence?”

Coincidence Man looked shocked. “I am but a humble servant of the universe, my old friend, not a manipulator of all living things.”

“From my experience, those are the same things.”

“Life would be boring for you without the PNG.”

“Is that what you’re calling yourself now? The PNG?”

Coincidence Man shrugs through a laugh. “What do you say you buy me a drink?”

“You were formed into existence by the eruption of the Big Bang,” Jason reminds him. “Why do you need me to buy you a drink?”

“Alas,” he smiles, touching his chest with both hands, “while it is true I am as old as the universe itself, I am terrible at saving currency. Buy me a drink at …” he looks around at the various neon signs lining the street before settling on a flashing red and purple horseshoe sign two blocks away, “… yes, at the Pony Show.”

Jason shakes his head. “Given what I’ve seen tonight, I am not going to the Pony Show.”

“Oh, posh,” Coincidence Man smiles, putting an arm around Jason’s shoulder and leading him in that direction, “it’s not what you think.”

12

It wasn’t.

The bar that Coincidence Man leads Jason into would have looked right at home anywhere in the American south: cowboys, cheap beer, pool tables, a dance floor, a mechanical bull, and live country-pop being played by a man in tight jeans and a baseball hat and singing about how awesome it was in high school drinking beer under the bleachers or some shit that Jason immediately tunes out.

“One good thing about my parents being creeps,” Jason mumbles, “is that I didn’t have to grow up listening to this like everyone else did.”

“Why did everyone else listen to it?”

“I was born in Mississippi.”

Coincidence Man blinks, not caring, and says, “I’ll get a table, you get the beer.”

“What kind?”

“Wet,” he smiles, heading off to find a table.

Jason shakes his head but admits to himself that he’s glad he ran into someone he knows; it makes it easier to resist temptation, though he cautions himself to not go overboard on the beer. Pushing himself to the bar, Baseball Hat finishes, thanks the crowd, and announcers, “Stay tuned for our next performer, Beautiful Rose!”

Above the bar is a wide array of cheap American beers: Pabst, Schlitz, Bud Light, Miller High Life, Natural Light, Coors, and Stag. It makes him homesick for Earth, even though he was never much of a beer drinker.

“Can I help you, pardoner?” a beautiful blonde with her shirt tied up to reveal her stomach asks.

“Two bottles of Coors,” Jason smiles back.

“It’s the Banquet Beer,” cowgirl says cheerfully.

“That’s what the commercials say,” Jason says, trying to remember what it was like to flirt.

“We’ve got it on tap,” the bartender informs him.

“Bottles are fine,” he says. Behind him on the stage, Beautiful Rose starts singing, “Raindrops are Falling on My Head.”

“Eight credits,” the bartender says, bringing his bottles, and Jason gives her his credit card, telling her to charge him 15.

“Thanks, kindly,” she smiles. “Love the outfit, too,” she adds as she runs his credit card through her machine. “I’ve got a weak spot for superhero cosplayers.” She hands the card back and leans in, whispering, “Or I should say, a ‘wet spot,’ stud.” She points across the bar, past the stage where Beautiful Rose is singing, and to the mechanical bull. “When you see me riding that beast, you’ll know my shift is over. Don't be a stranger.”

Jason doesn’t hear her.

He is staring at Beautiful Rose.

Her knows her by another name.

Belle Flower.

13

The Coincidence Man is, of course, nowhere to be found now that his work is finished, and so Jason sits at a booth in the back and watches Belle sing and drinks his beer and tries to keep his heartbeat from acting like it’s snorted all the blue powder in that mountain back down the street.

14

Beautiful Rose sings three songs after “Raindrops”: “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before,” “Walkin’ After Midnight,” and “Islands in the Steam.”

Jason barely hears them because his heart is beating too loudly inside of his chest. All he really processes is that she looks tired and beautiful and her red dress and cowboy boots make him yearn for something he was never good enough to have.

15

Belle finishes, thanks the audience, tells them live music will be back in thirty minutes, suggests they try the new chicken and jalapeño poppers, and exits the stage.

Jason does not know what to do. There is what he wants to do, but that stands in direct opposition to what he knows he should do, which is to stay right here and leave Belle the hell alone.

He looks back across the bar to the bartender, who’s busy giving her spiel to a new customer, and doesn’t see Belle until his first crush is sitting across from him.

16

“I saw Coincidence Man,” she says in a harsh whisper, “which is the only reason I’m not having a bouncer throw you out. Not that I couldn’t do it, myself. No, not a word, Jason. Not a word.”

“Belle —”

“It’s Beautiful Rose,” she says, slapping his face and rising to her feet. “The name is Beautiful Rose!” she shouts, drawing the attention of nearby customers. “Security!” she yells, apparently changing her mind. “I want this man removed from my sight!”

A large, dark-haired man, dressed like a viking warrior and carrying a massive long axe appears by Belle’s side. “Want me to rough him up?”

“As much as I want to say, ‘yes,’” she admits, “don’t hurt him unless he puts up a struggle. Then you can snap his neck, for all I care.”

Jason says nothing as Belle walks away from him.

17

The viking leads Jason out through the back, moving from the dance floor to the pool room to the mechanical bull room to kitchen.

Jason does not put up a fight and wonders if it matters.

18

Halfway across the small kitchen Jason sees a door open to an alleyway out back. He decides to make a run for it.

A decade ago, he would have jumped up and kicked the viking, then scattered over the kitchen counters to grab a weapon or five, then tossed them at the viking before blitzing out the door and to safety.

Now, without his powers, all he does is run straight for the door. The viking gives off an agitated, “You idiot!” yell. The last syllable still rings in the air as Jason’s feet exit the kitchen and hit the paved alleyway.

“Hey, stud,” the bartender from inside says from the middle of the pavement to his left. She waits for him to turn to her before knocking him out cold.

1998

1

He comes home via police escort one too many times.

“Where is Mr. Flack?” the SFPD patrol officer asks Winton at the door to Flack Mansion.

“I believe Mr. Flack is currently … entertaining a supermodel at a downtown hotel.”

“Which one?”

“Which supermodel?” Winton asks. “It is so hard to keep them straight.”

“Which hotel?”

“The answer is the same,” Winton says, his intense eyes burning a hole through Jason’s downturned face.

“Well, look,” the cop says, “this is the fourth time this month we’ve had to pull Jason off of someone. He can’t keep doing this.”

“Oh?” Winton raises an eyebrow. “Was young Mr. Kitmore in another fight? Because he does not look like he was in a fight. A bit sweaty, yes, and there is a small rip in his shirt, but who was he fighting that put up so little of a fight? A child?”

The cop frowns. “He was engaged in fisticuffs with DeMarcus Connick.”

Winton looks around, as if the answer were hanging in the air. “I do not know who this is. Is he a child?”

“No, he’s not a damn child!” the officer snaps. “He’s a football player! For the Niners!”

“You mean to tell me that this sixteen-year old boy engaged in fisticuffs with a professional football player and he looks no worse for wear than if he went for a bike ride? Is Mr. Connick the punter?”

“No, he’s not the punter,” the officer scowls. “He’s an offensive lineman. Damn near weighs 350 pounds.”

“And you say Mr. Kitmore was winning? I find that hard to believe.”

“My guess,” the cop says, shoving Jason inside, “is that you don’t find it hard to believe at all.”

“Is Mr. Connick pressing charges, then?” Winton asks as Jason slinks past.

“Oh, yes,” the officer says, rolling his eyes, “the starting right guard for the Niners wants to press charges against a high school junior for beating the shit out of him.”

2

“What did he do?” Winton asks.

“He called this guy a faggot,” Jason says, “and then slapped him in the face before —”

“Did you hit him in the face?”

“Yes.”

“Will he be able to play this Sunday?”

“What do you care?”

“About football?” Winton asks. “I don’t, but the rest of this city might. If you hurt him to the point where he cannot play, people will ask questions.”

“So I shouldn’t have hit him?”

“You shouldn’t have hit him in the face,” Winton corrects, putting a hand on Jason’s shoulder. Sternly, he says, “I am afraid Master Flack is failing in his duties as your mentor. I made it clear to him that if he was going to give you the Peak solution and teach you how to be a superhero after that Domina Tricks and Mrs. Overing affair, he needed to take the teaching seriously.”

Jason scowls. “He’s a terrible teacher, but I suppose I can’t blame him for fucking a supermodel instead of teaching me.”

Winton slaps Jason in the face. “Your language,” he grunts. “Watch it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Given how many times the police have brought you home after events similar to tonight, I highly doubt you have learned that lesson so quickly,” Winton says. “For the record, Mr. Flack is not with a supermodel. He is downstairs.”

“He is always downstairs.”

“Nonetheless, you are in need of new instruction,” Winton declares. “Go upstairs and pack your bags. You are transferring to a new school first thing in the morning.”

3

Francis does not see Jason off in the morning.

Nor does he ride with him and Winton to the airport.

Nor does he ride with him on his private jet.

4

The private plane lands twice for refueling before finally touching down in Zurich, Switzerland. Jason spends the entire time alone, without anyone to talk to or anything to do. The pilot keeps the door closed. There are no computers to use, no games to play, no books to read, no notebooks to write on. His luggage is stowed away. There is no stewardess. Jason is restless, tries to sleep as much as possible, but he is on edge and can’t settle down.

No one has told him anything about anything.

5

When the plane lands, the door to the cockpit opens but the pilot does not exit.

After waiting a whole fifteen, maybe twenty seconds, Jason moves to the cabin and discovers there is no pilot.

“Hello, Jason,” a male voice says over the radio. “You’re training begins now.”

Smoke is pumped into the cabin. Jason exits back into the plane and tries to open the door. He fails.

The smoke overcomes him and he collapses, falling into darkness.

6

He wakes up to find himself sitting in a chair in the middle of a gigantic gymnasium. All around him, teenagers and working out on a wide variety of equipment, and he guesses there must be 100 students and nearly twenty instructors.

“Oh, hey, the new guys is awake!” a young woman calls to the nearest instructor before turning to look at Jason. “Hi!” she says cheerfully as she starts walking towards him.

She is older than him, he sees. College aged, with a beautiful round face and golden hair that falls to her shoulders. She is wearing a white gi that draws his eyes to the edges of her chest. She is the most beautiful girl he has ever seen and she seems to move in slow motion.

“My name is Belle,” she smiles. “Belle Flower. How do you do?”