Imogen Always Wins

I was slightly above average. 5'10". IQ 108. B average. Second string in sports, chorus in plays. If only I hadn't lived next to Imogen, I might have been better.

Our mothers were friends. They always paired us for naps, meals, play, study, babysitters.

The problem was, Imogen is exceptional. Beyond exceptional. She rarely needed naps and kept me from getting mine. She was quicker, cleverer, took the best food, grew faster and stronger, won every game, pushed, tickled and pinned me. Her grades were tops. She loved rubbing it in. "Aren't boys supposed to be stronger, Clark? Faster? Better at sports? At chess? At math? And you're three months older. But can you beat me at anything, Clark? Anything? Noooooo."

Was it the sleep and food she took from me that made me average? Low self-esteem from losing? Maybe if I had other playmates, other study pals. More love from my parents. But they loved Imogen and wanted her around. Mom loved her brightness and style. Dad couldn't resist her smiles, having her crawl onto his lap while he read the paper. It wasn't a "complex". My parents loved their only child less than the girl next door.

***

In school, Imogen starred in plays and aced everything while I forgot lines, tripped in races, and sank in rankings. Had she torn out a page from my script, untied my laces, given me the wrong homework, a flawed equation, the wrong test date? Or was I just destined to fail while she soared?

Then my luck turned. Imogen was invited to an elite LA school. She left, the fog lifted. I remembered my lines, finished homework, rose in class rank and even got a girlfriend, Marie. Not the prettiest, a touch overweight, but a real girl. Nice too.

I graduated top third and attended the State's best college. Not Harvard, like Imogen. I didn't, like Imogen, win the US Open singles from ages 17-20, play Supergirl in the biggest film of the year and two blockbuster sequels, build a massive Instagram following or sell 49% of her GRWM app to Meta for billions. But at 21 I had an internship at the second best Indianapolis accounting firm. Marie and I planned a September wedding.

Naturally, in June, Imogen got back in touch.

***

Suggestive messages from "IM" popped up when Marie and I were together, continually overpowering my no-notifications setting. Imogen's images filled my Instagram feed. A new exercise app displaying her body in impossible, sexy positions installed itself and reappeared whenever I deleted it. Marie was jealous and suspicious, naturally, but her own phone caused her pain too. She wasn't sleeping and rapidly gained weight, surrendering to vast junkfood discounts just for her.

I was assigned to IM Prime Enterprises, a new client, the largest the firm had ever won. But the assignments kept changing, the deadlines accelerated, the data was inconsistent, unreliable and suggesting illegality. The client had insisted on me, but I had too much responsibility for an intern and they turned harshly critical. My internship ended early and disastrously, with a letter to the licensing board and a "suggestion" I find another career.

As I exited work Imogen was waiting, smiling, sitting atop a chauffeur-driven Lambo, license "IM Prime 7". "Still got it, eh Clark? Dear old failing, flailing Clark." Her photos, videos and apps hadn't prepared me for her presence, charisma, size and energy, the way she glowed with health and strength. She had three inches on me, but it felt like ten.

"Mousy Marie was perfect for you, even more so weighing another 18 lbs., and packing on more daily, as she confides to my app. You'll have your hands full, Clark, and I'm not just talking about that flabby flesh. How will you support her, the junkfood she's addicted to, the doctors and therapy she'll need, now that your accounting career has ended, before it even began?"

"Y-you. Why?" I sputtered. "My life was—"

"—just coming together, yes. The fall is even more painful when you thought you were rising. Right?" Her delight made her sing. "Your failures thrill me, Clark. Always have."

We arrived at Signature Aviation, the private terminal.

"Where are you taking me?"

"I'm flying myself home to LA, in my plane. You, Clark, are going nowhere." The driver opened the door. Imogen yanked me out, sending me careering into a mudhole. "This was your one way trip, Clark, down as usual."

***

Seven months later I was going nowhere working the floor at Walmart. Out of nowhere the game, "Aladdin's Cave", appeared on my phone. I had dumped Marie; my life had nothing. I maniacally completed all the levels in two days. Then The Message: "As the 742nd person to complete The Game, you earn three wishes."

Bored, I read the boilerplate, spotting two unusual clauses.

"Ambiguity will be interpreted within your world. Wish clearly."

"To avoid contradiction and interpretive disputes, later wishes take priority over earlier. Plan well."

Why not try? My first wish was for Imogen to lose her wealth. The app conjured crooked investment managers and a Chinese competitor. NEWSFLASH: She was broke.

I believed!

My second was for her to lose her fame. The app conjured a sex scandal. Presto! No movie contract, no sponsorships. Follows dropped 99.8%.

My third wish, the cruelest, would be to destroy her health and make her as wrinkly, stooped, vulnerable and weak as my 82 year old grandmother.

But first, I texted her a sneering emoji and the words, "STILL got it?"

In 20 minutes she replied, "Oh yes I do. Maybe not rich, famous or beloved, but still mighty strong. Coming for payback Clark."

Oh no you won't, I thought smugly, enjoying the vision of her fighting her way onto a budget airline, mocked by former fans, pilloried by moral superiors. My enfeebling final wish would come right before she struck.

But then came the Invasion. An interstellar armada, with energy weapons that sliced through fighter planes like scissors cutting paper, their spaceships impervious to missiles, even nuclear warheads. In hours Washington, Beijing and Moscow were destroyed, the Internet non-functioning except to broadcast their demand: slaughtered to feed them, slavery on their planet Markon or slavery here.

With regret, to preserve humanity and myself, my third wish was: vanquish the alien enemy. Within the hour, their ships were destroyed, the aliens vaporised. Mankind survives!

But how? No nation took credit. No new technology appeared. Well, not my problem. Indianapolis slowly normalised. And with a baseball bat, a knife and a gun I prepared a defense against Imelda's return.

***

The bell rang at 7:42am, two months later. The Ring camera showed she still had it: tall, strong, vigorous and gorgeous as ever. I mourned my altruistic use of my last wish. Baseball bat ready I let her in.

"Prepared for payback, Clark?"

"We can talk, but step closer and I'll use the bat."

"Just try." Lightning fast she whipped out her leg and sent me flying with a single kick. The bat flew out of my hand and rolled to the opposite wall.

She stood tall, hands on hips. "My terms are: death or slavery. I won't eat you."

"What? You're crazy!" The knife was strapped to my hip, and I extracted it and pointed it at her. "Get out of here now, Imogen."

"Not a chance."

I pointed the knife at her, but unbearable pain filled my hand and I couldn't hold it. It fell to the floor, scorching the wood.

"Have you chosen? I recommend slavery."

My hand throbbed. "Never."

"Oh well. I suppose there'll be a gun next? There's always a gun."

I grabbed it from the bureau behind me and aimed. "Don't make me use it."

"You'll regret it, Clark. Just be my slave. It's what you were meant to be. I won't pretend it won't be bad. But, that's life. Your life, that is. Mine was great and then got unbelievably better."

"Sorry Imogen." I fired. Six bullets. A tight pattern around her heart, ripping her top to shreds, but leaving the skin of her outrageously beautiful breast wholly intact, unmarked, and Imogen very much alive. I stared. "B-but how?"

The gun was in her hand, and then it wasn't a gun, just a lump of metal.

"Washington was destroyed, the internet went down, so I didn't know what else was happening, but I saw the ships overhead, ready to blast LA, and me, when I suddenly felt indescribably GOOD. I mean, I ALWAYS feel good, but this was exponentially better. Their energy beams proceeded to level the city, yet left ME unaffected. But they'd obliterated the little I still owned and I was MAD. The next thing I knew, beams shot out of my eyes at their ships and they were GONE! I felt overwhelming satisfaction, and energy, and suddenly I was flying! FUCK YEAH! I zipped all around the world, zapping every one of their ships, and wherever those ugly slimy things had landed, in Washington, Beijing and Moscow, and elsewhere, I vaporised them too. I kept one, encased in ice with my "freezebreath", as a trophy. And for good measure I flew to their home world, Markon, 742 light years away – I KNOW! – and blew it up, Deathstar-like, with my EYES. I took my time coming back – plenty of phenomena to explore in the galaxy – but I had a score to settle, Clark. With you!"

"Nononononono!" My eyes went wide. "You…? the way… to vanquish…"

Imogen raised an eyebrow. She floated into the air. "Tell me more. Oh, don't bother." She had taken my phone. It was face-locked, but she morphed her face into mine for a moment and it was all open to her. She perused it at super-speed. "Aladdin's Cave? Hahahaha! I couldn't be bothered with THAT crap game! Just the thing you'd waste time on. So the prizes were REAL?! It was YOU who took away my money and fame! And you I should 'thank' for becoming a goddess! Just look!"

In a flash she replaced her clothes with a super costume showing off her incredible body, the insignia SGI across each magnificent breast.

"SGI. SuperGirl Imogen. Still Got It!"

"You're thanking me? No hard feelings? No payback?"

She laughed in my face. "You weren't just revelling in my misfortune. You CAUSED it!"

"But you always ....

"That's our relationship, Clark! You never win. There won't be payback, no. There will be SUPER Payback."

She stared at me intently.

"What are you going to do, Imogen? Vaporise me?"

"Oh, no! Far too painless. Call it a deep scan. Your organ and bone structure, your biochemical composition. Your genetic map. Done."

"Step one." She made a fist. I put up my hands to defend myself, but she powered her fist straight through into my midsection. The punch turned me inside out. All my strength drained away. "That was your liver. You'll never feel well again, Clark. No energy, no stamina. Even a little drinking will kill you."

"Step two." She bared her breast.  It was so beautiful I was in awe, the scent, irresistible.  She pulled me close, and her nipple invaded my mouth.  She didn't have to tell me what to do.  Oh, the taste!  I wanted more, and more.  But the more I sucked the stranger I felt.  Achey, tetchey, weirdly weepy.

"That's super oestrogen flooding you, telling your balls it's lights out. No more erections, Clark. Your muscles will turn soft, never to return. Feeling kind of emotional? And that tenderness in your chest? Those will be C cups, and a big, fat ass to come.

"And last, step three." A punch to the side of my head I couldn't even start to block. I didn't see stars; I saw a galaxy. "Brain damage. You WERE slightly smart. Now you're majorly stupid."

I tried to speak but the words wouldn't form.

"I'll say it FOR you, Clark. I still got it. And you don't."