
AUTHOR'S NOTES: The idea of doing some kind of comic
book/superhero story fermented for about a year. My
first whack at it was this, which quickly seemed to
be turning into some kind of reminiscence about
father-daughter relationships. I have no idea how
that would have paralleled with the guy with the
super-pheromones.

Eventually, I wrote "Unmasked," which you can read
on my web site, and which obviously shares the same
universe as this one. This one contains some things
I like, which I may recycle elsewhere.

JS

GOOD-BYES

Copyright 1998, 1999 Jordan Shelbourne


The city smelled different, you know? I'd been away
at college for two years when I came back for Dad's
funeral.

After the service -- it was held at night so some
of Dad's odder friends could attend -- I said the
hellos I had to say and then I went for a tour around
town, since Dad would have liked that. A girl's
gotta do what a girl's gotta do, you understand.

I hadn't gone through the motions for a while and
there was a kind of comfort in the routine:  Examine
the uniform (to Dad it was always the uniform) for
holes.  Make sure it fits snugly without binding.
Make sure everything's there: lockpicks and thermite
and smoke grenades and flares and flashlight.  Check
the batteries in the flashlight.  Check the cord
for frays or worn spots; make sure the mechanics on
the reel and return are ship-shape. Stretch out,
get loose.

You understand, I wasn't going out to fight crime.
It was more a tribute to my Dad. Plus, I hadn't put
on the costume for a couple of years and I was
curious to see if it still fit.

It did. Guess I didn't get too sloppy away at school.

I pulled on motorcycle leathers and a helmet and
took the bike.  Modified Ninja. Plenty of speed if
you need it. Drawback is no bulletproofing and it's
easier to steal.

I never understood why some people in the business
travel into town *in* uniform *on* a motorcycle.
Why not design the costume with a target, too? I
think about a handful of caltrops on the road or
even rusty nails and broken glass as you're coming
in one of the main roads -- or about the sniper at
the intersection -- and I get all squeamish. Lost
two childhood friends that way.  If you can avoid
it, avoid it.

I drove around town for a while but it wasn't enough.
I guess I'd known that, or I wouldn't have put on
the costume. Parked in a garage owned by a family
friend -- he used to be police commissioner -- and
left the motorcycle gear there.

That was when I noticed the smell. It was ripe,
almost over-ripe, under the oil and the sewer stink.
It made me think vaguely of sweaty men -- and for
some reason, of pigs.

The *chuff* and kick of the grappling gun was familiar
in my arms and I tugged to make sure the hook had
engaged. It was an easy climb to the top of the
building, and I headed east, towards the city center.
Always something going on in the city center.

I stuck to the rooftops for the first little while.
The air was thick and humid and still, just waiting
for a storm to break. It made me sweat in the uniform.
Kevlar doesn't breathe at all. Gore-Tex does, but
it doesn't stop bullets.

Life's all about priorities, you know?

			      * * *

Last time we talked about the family business, Dad
mentioned he wasn't seeing many muggers any more.
They'd taken to working the foyers of apartment
buildings. Can't spot those while lurking on the
roof.

Part of his solution was to eliminate the cape: he
could throw on a trenchcoat and a fedora and not
look terribly out of place on the ground.  No cape
dragging on his heels, and you'd be surprised how
few people notice a domino mask.

That was when I told him I wasn't going to be a
costumed crime-fighter.  He wasn't too happy. It
had been his life. It was all he had except for Mom
and me.

I said a lot of hurtful things to him that day. I
told him he didn't make a real difference. I told
him he was outdated. I told him he couldn't run my
life any more.

I might as well have told him I didn't love him.

			      * * *

The smell was stronger near the city center. The
air was still, very still: the calm before the storm.
With the air this still, whatever-it-was didn't have
to stink a lot, but I was willing to bet it did.

And I had my first odd datum outside the Pinup
Palace, a strip club.

She bulged out of her crop top and spandex shorts.
Her hair was big and her makeup was heavy.  She was
standing outside a strip club.  Hooker, right? Right.
A working girl, and sex was just a job.

Customer came out and I heard the following dialogue:

"Looking for a date?" She was standing funny, her
legs squeezed together.

"Maybe. How much?"

"Forty for a blow. Sixty for more."

He copped a pose, some collegiate asshole looking
for fun by bargaining.  "A dollar to do you against
the wall."

"You got it."

And she grabbed his hand and practically dragged
him around the side of the building. I watched. A
girl's gotta do, etc.  I'm willing to say she
*enjoyed* it. She tried to make him last longer.

For a *dollar*.

Odd. Unless maybe she was secretly his girlfriend
and it was some fantasy kick they were doing. But
she was easily ten years older than he was.

And I got my second odd datum of the evening:

I was horny.

			      * * *

One of the things I loved about college was dating.
And sex.  A real life?  Dating guys and possibly
sleeping with them?  I tried that once at home.
Dad did a background check and staked out his house.
"Do you know he reads pornography, Kelly?  He's also
a compulsive masturbator."

Well, gee, Dad.  Andy was a teenage boy.  I think
that's synonymous with compulsive masturbator.

But not to Dad, I suppose. He had a holy mission.

			      * * *

I briefly considered calling Andy up just to show
him what I'd learned.  That was odd datum number
three.

Look: At college I got a reputation. I wasn't easy,
but I was fast.  I had a lot of catching up to do.
My motto was basically try everything a dozen times,
just in case.

But I was always safe, and I never took stupid risks.
I never thought with my crotch.

Now I was on a rooftop three hours after my father's
funeral and I was considering calling a boy I hadn't
seen for three years so I could jump his bones.

I'd call that odd.

			      * * *

Two clues as to how seriously this had affected my
ability to think:

First, I was strongly considering masturbation in
costume on a roof; only the strictest conditioning
kept me from that.

Second, it took me almost four blocks to think of
the word "pheromones."

Pheromones: like hormones, but released into the
environment, they're chemical messengers. Existence
in humans is debated but there was some research
indicating that not every human being was equipped
to detect them -- maybe one or two thirds of the
population -- and that sensitivity would vary with
those individuals.

Lucky me:  My nipples ached.  I swear I was making
squelching noises as I ran.

At least I didn't have to try to run with a hard-on.

			      * * *

Dad saw his parents killed when he was seven. I
checked once; they were the first deaths due to a
costumed criminal in our city. The guy was dressed
like Death, with a scythe and all. Called himself
Charon and demanded a fee from Dad's folks -- my
grandparents. They didn't pay. He sliced them down.

Nowadays, you'd see a therapist or get that popular
self-help book or call a radio-show psychiatrist.
Maybe you'd even sue the villain for mental anguish.
They didn't do that stuff when Dad was a kid.

So he became a costumed crime-fighter.

God only knows what it did to his sex life; I never
asked Mom.

			 * * *

	 ---And it ended here---

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Read Jordan Shelbourne's completed stories at:
http://www.compu-diva.com/IvoryGates/index.htm
