A work in progress which I recently read at an open mic. The main gag in the story is Holly being hypnotized into thinking she is Harry Headbutt, and then the real Harry shows up, and they yell into each other’s faces, “YOU NOT HARRY! ME HARRY!!!” This is the end of the story.
SURFVILLE, CALIFORNIA. NEAR THE BEACH. 7:48 P.M.
Our red and black capes intertwined in an ocean breeze.
Holly and I hugged at the front door of her small but cozy mobile home. A hedge on one side and a cliff on the other gave it privacy. And loneliness. After the onset of her superpowers, she had to hide at home for over two years. She still wouldn’t talk about that.
She kissed my cheek. “Good night, Cal. I have a story to write.”
“Holly. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
She looked past me, to the ocean where waves lapped and the sun lowered. “No. Except for what I did on stage.”
I reared up, dark and grim.
Holly nibbled her lip, she liked when I did the Batman thing.
I declared her post-hypnotic command: “REMEMBER!”
She cocked her head. And smiled. “So that’s how I performed. Just like at my old open mics. Except I did real people. I was Flex.” She did a bodybuilding pose. “And I was Kittygirl. Rowr!” She pawed my face. “And I was Harry.” She laughed and took a hulking bully pose. “Harry smash!” Then her dark eyebrows knotted. “And I was also … I …”
I braced myself.
A frown thunderstormed onto her face. Her right hand vised onto my black body armor, just below my collarbone. She hoisted me up like that starship navigator was in ‘Star Crusade: The Wrath of Don,’ except Holly used far less effort and far more wrath.
My feet dangled 11 inches off the ground. I did not often look down upon Holly, her being 2.8 percent taller. “Your grip would be 52 percent more efficient if it were 4 inches lower.”
“YOU!” Holly’s eyes were blue supernovas, her teeth were flashing fangs. “You turned me into Bunni. Into that … BIMBO!“
I nodded. “And you know why.”
She ground sentence fragments through gritted teeth. “I. Pranced around. Like a stripper.”
I did not waver from her gun barrel gaze. “I’m particularly sorry about that. I miscalculated how characters can possess a writer.”
Holly placed me on Terra Firma with just enough super-strength to rattle my teeth. “If ANYONE caught the least glimpse of my cleavage, I will be VERY angry.”
Some people did not like Holly when she was angry. I liked how her crooked, eagle beak nose increased her facial fierceness by 78 percent. “No one did,” I said. “Except for my unexpectedly smothering view. Now, will you please let me build your mental defenses? I’d rather no one make a bimbo out of you, ever again.”
Holly let me go with her hand, but not with her eyes. “I’d tear off your head and yell down your neck, except that I know you’re right.” Well, well. She had picked number one on the death threat list.
She opened her front door, revealing a messy writing den that I could tidy in 18 minutes, 23 seconds. Zero chance of that happening. “We’ll start in three weeks. Until then, Svengali,” she snorted steam out her nose, “STAY OUT OF MY SIGHT!”
WHAM! Her door had not shattered. Her anger management had improved.
Gloom and doom seeped into my brain’s every neuron. I hung my head. Every one of the 1,814,400 seconds of the next 3 weeks, I would miss her. I shuffled to my Intellecta-car.
WHAM! Holly’s door again. I turned. A blue missile with a blonde warhead zoomed at me.
A triple-D cushioned impact. A loving embrace. A whooshing rise of 52 feet. An ariel view of the ocean sunset.
Holly’s tears moistened a part of my face not armored by my cowl. She was trembling. “You. You stood between me and Harry. He was going to smash you! I don’t want you turned into an Intellecta-pancake!” Her sobbing gasp filled my ear. “When are you going to stop risking your life for me?”
Except for spiders slightly creeping her out, I had never before sensed fear in Holly. I kissed her cheek. “Batman always saves Superman. You taught me that.”
Without loosening her grip on me—although I was in no danger, my cape could convert to Intellecta-glider at a millisecond’s notice—she shifted her hug to face me.
Those blue ocean eyes. That sunset glow in her flowing blonde hair. Those strawberry-scented lips. That diamond-hard proboscis I had better dodge if I did not want a bloody nose.
We kissed, long, loving, soul deep. No tongues needed.
2 minutes, 32 seconds later, Holly sighed contentedly. “Brunch tomorrow?”
“Yes.” She landed us on her driveway, next to my Intellecta-car. She stroked it with her gaze. She loved the feel of a black kevlar car seat in the morning. “You’ll drive, bat boy.”
She marched to her home, her strong stride a vast improvement on her previous Bunni boomp-a-doomps.
I drove into the darkening night. I set my subconscious mental countdown to the 53,111 seconds till I saw her again.
53,110, 53,109, 53,108, I love you Holly, 53,106 …