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The List

Written by conceptfan :: [Friday, 19 August 2005 10:36] Last updated by :: [Thursday, 27 December 2012 09:40]

The List

by Conceptfan


I didn't ask to become superhuman. I just happened to stagger into the wrong bar and pick up the wrong glass and drink it. Actually – the RIGHT bar and the RIGHT drink – I love all these great powers I now have …

It's wonderful being so much stronger than anyone else and it's even better being completely immune to harm. Perhaps my accidental empowerment was some kind of cosmic payback for all the horrid things that happened to me in the years before. All the guys that had mistreated me. Taken advantage. Abused me. Betrayed me. Hurt me.

After I'd drained that wrong/right glass, and the seven foot guy with bluish skin had raised his fist shouting "You stole my elixir, you stupid Earth bimbo!" I thought I was in for yet another beating. I'll never forget that moment when he hit me: his hand going "Crunch!" and his screaming. I wasn't sure what was going on so I kicked him between the legs. When he lifted off the floor and bounced off the ceiling, I started to realize things had changed.

I was still too freaked out by everything to fully understand it all – the green blood all around me didn’t help – but I soon pieced it together. That "elixir" had made me super:  stronger than fifty men, quicker than a racing car, and completely bullet-proof.

What I haven't mentioned is that I'm a real looker. That's partly why I was always getting into bad situations with guys. I can’t help it, that’s just the way I look. Long, dark, straight hair, large brown eyes, a cute nose, thick red lips, great teeth. And my body ain’t bad either: fabulous legs, flared hips, a flat stomach – the works. ‘Course, what the guys really like are my big, firm and very round breasts. Yeah, I’m the thousand-watt bulb that moths think is the moon.

Being addicted to heroin made things all the more complicated. I had to make "compromises". The kind of compromises I regretted even before I made them. Those were bad days, alright. The elixir changed all that. It made me super and took away the need for drugs. But the memories of those times are still clear. Really, really clear, in fact, because now I have perfect recall.

One of the first things I did when I came to terms with being super, was sit down and write a list of names – all the guys who had ever done me wrong. Dealers. Landlords. So-called lovers. And, yes, pimps and clients too. I'm not proud of my past.

There were eighty-seven names on that list. I started to work my way down it. Tracking down each name and putting right some of the bad that he'd done. You might call it revenge. I call it closure. The first time I put a line through one of the names on the list, I felt as if a load had been lifted from my mind. The second, third, fourth and fifth times were just as rewarding.

Probably the most satisfying name to cross out was the fifty-third one:  Eric the Fixer. He fixed things: if a girl like me needed some stuff, he provided it. Once, that is, he's slapped her around a little, screwed her and made her open her legs for a couple of his low-life associates. Seventeen times Eric "fixed" things for me. Like I said, those were bad, bad days. He called me his "Number One bitch", told me that he hated it when the other guys went with me ‘cos he wanted me all to himself, but, "business was business".

He was easy to find. Still hanging around the same crappy apartments. "Remember me?" I asked him when I walked up to him.

"Hey, I could never forget tits like those, babe." he said. "Do you want me to fix you?  How about a roll, for old times' sake?"  He was already reaching up to grope my breasts. I caught his wrists and held them immovably before he made contact.

"Ouch, bitch! You're hurting me." he yelled.

"I haven't even started yet." I told him as I slowly squeezed his wrists until I heard a couple of bones crunching.

"Aagh! What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

"I'm fixing you, Eric." I told him. "Fixing you good and proper. For old times' sake."  I pushed his wrists back, letting go so that he fell onto his ass. Before he could get up I put my foot on his chest, pinning him down and squeezing all the air out of him. I pressed the toe of my boot down until his face turned purple. Then I pressed some more and listened to the muffled pops as his ribs snapped one by one. When I lifted my foot, he frantically tried to gulp down air.

"You'll … pay … for … this." he wheezed, painfully. I lowered myself over him, placing one hand either side of his head and my knees by his hips. I was wearing a low-cut top so he would have had a good view of my generous cleavage and the breasts he was so fond of as I leant over him, my face close to his.

"You're the only one paying today, Eric." I whispered. I drew my knees together, slowly squeezing his pelvis until he screamed. I silenced him by forcefully kissing him and continued to press his hips inwards until his bones gave way. Forcing my tongue through his teeth, I used it to crush his tongue so he couldn't yell.

He was still just about conscious when I broke the embrace and stood up. We both knew he was done for. I blew him a good-bye kiss, turned and slowly walked away, leaving him to a slow, painful death.

At home I took out my list and put a line through Eric's name.

The next day, I began hunting down number fifty-four.

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