Disclaimer: They're not mine. If they were, I'd be even more annoyingly happy than I already am.
Author's Mad Rantings: This is all in an alternate universe. As long as you get that, the rest will come in time.
The American Way
"...You remember those old heroes? From the comics? You know the ones. They lived forver, fought the good fight and never lost. Yeah, well, that was us. We lived for a long time, believing for a lone time in our own mortality. We only realized how wrong we were when friends started to die...fall from grace all around us. It caught up with us the day he was taken from us...and of course, by then, it was too late. By then, the end had already begun..."
Chapter One
The Job
Oh, man, his head pounded. Like a drum at a Fourth of July parade. He groaned again (louder this time) and raised his face from his hands.
"Cindy, hey, Cindy!" He flagged her down. "Be a doll and get me a bottle of Aspirin, would ya?"
The honey-blond intern laughed, her curls bouncing around her shoulders in the process. "Another rough night, Bookie?" He nodded, rubbing his temples in hopes to banish the dull pain. "I take it you're lookin' for Extra Strength, then?"
He attempted a smile. "You're too good to me, baby." She left, carrying the day's mail. Bookie settled into the peace and quiet.
Which lasted about three seconds, considering he was sitting in the heart of a thriving newspaper office.
"BOOKIE!" With a shudder he recognized the voice. He inclined his head to see his worst nightmare stalking down the aisle.
"Yeah, Brenda, I'm here. No need to yell." He raised his eyes to look at her. "What's cookin'?"
"Your ass, most likely." Brenda, with her chin length black hair and cheap knock off Gucci threads, came closer to a smile than Bookie had ever seen her. "Boss Man wants to see you. Probably to bawl you out for coming to work with a hangover."
"Thanks a bunch, Brenda," he mustered, sliding out of his chair and predicting she was right. But how she ever got to be floor manager he'd never know.
He deftly manoeuvred through the constant calamity he'd grown used to in the years he'd worked here, wishing he'd waited for Cindy to come back with his pills. Jack Reynolds' office loomed at the other side of the floor.
More than a few people he knew from around gazed at him sympathetically, since they'd probably seen it coming more than Bookie had. This wasn't the first time he'd come in after a wild night. And not the worst time, either. Once he hadn't even waited for the hangover, and just stumbled in drunk one morning.
Yeah, so he deserved whatever he was getting.
Bookie quietly knocked on the huge oak door, hoping he could walk away claiming no one had been in. No such luck. A large voice boomed out an invitation to come in. Jack Reynolds was on the phone, flapping off to a distributor, most likely. Bookie poked his head inside and was soon followed by the rest of his body.
Jack covered the receiver with a fat hand and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit down," he spat, and immediately went right back to his argument on the phone.
Bookie obeyed, taking his place in the chair.
Jack wrapped up his call, not without a few hefty curses. "My wife," he explained, squeezing into his seat.
Bookie only nodded, not sure of what else he could do at the moment.
"You smoke?" Jack inquired as he placed a cigarette in his mouth and held up the box to Bookie.
"Yeah, thanks." Bookie leaned forward and grabbed one. "I was tryin' to wait till lunch."
"Nah, don't bother," Jack said as he lit his and Bookie's smoke. "It ain't the nicotine, it's the waiting that kills ya."
Bookie allowed himself to chuckle, forgetting about the bowling ball-sized pain slamming into the sides of his head. He held back a wince and rubbed his temples.
"Johnson," the impeding man before him finally said, letting out a puff of smoke as he did. "Lemme get right to the point. I got a job for you."
Bookie almost sagged with relief. Looks like he'd live to screw up another day. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," Jack repeated. "You got anything under your belt now?"
Bookie thought for a moment, his memory deserting him. "One piece about the stadium downtown. And that little one about the Public Transit I've been nursing for about a year."
"Yeah," Jack muttered almost thoughtfully. "Well, toss them on to some other poor slob; what I got for you is a little more important than who's driving the buses around town."
He jumped from his seat over to close the door, no easy feat for a man of Jack's considerable build. He walked around again, pausing, and then perching himself on his desk. It creaked and groaned with the weight.
Bookie waited a minute before the silence started to annoy him. "So, what is it?"
"Bookie Johnson...I remember when you first came here. You little shit. I didn't like you from the minute you walked in here. You're arrogant, you're sloppy..." He paused, leaning in a little closer, "but you're good. So I keep you around."
"Is that why I get the worst jobs, Jack? 'Cause I'm too good?" Bookie sat back, and crossed his arms, hoping the sarcasm was heard in his voice.
"No, that's because I don't like ya." He was dead serious. "And because you're a pompous little fool who knows he's got the goods, and thinks that's all you need."
"Isn't it?"
"No, you little...you gotta have the story." His eyes almost lit up from behind his thick glasses. "A reporter, no matter how good, ain't got shit if he don't got a story worth dying for."
"Which I haven't."
Jack nodded in agreement. "Not till now." He hoisted himself off the desk and around to his chair again, taking a long pause before he spoke again.
"You remember a guy named Xavier?"
"Sounds familiar...who was he?"
Jack poked around the papers on his desk until he found the picture he was looking for. He passed it to Bookie. "That's him. He was...a activist, sorta, for mutants."
"Oh yeah, I think I remember. Dead, right?"
"Yep. Unknown assassin or some shit...research that, will ya?" Bookie nodded and slipped his notebook out of his pocket, scribbling furiously. "Anyway, that was about nine, ten years ago."
"Yeah, I remember. That was a big fuckin' deal back then."
"Huge. It was right before the election, remember? Anyway, after a while all the buzz died down, and certain information came forward that..." Jack paused and sifted through the papers on his desk, again pulling out a thick folder. "That Xavier had been the head of...get this...the almighty X-Men."
"You're kidding, right?" Bookie looked up from his scribbles. "Why didn't the story break?"
"Nobody cared," Jack said bluntly. "They spilt up a year before it was came out. Half of them were dead, anyway. It just wasn't news anymore. It did run...in a couple of small local papers, I think...check the folder, it's got everything. But when it came down to it, nobody remembered the X-Men."
Bookie allowed for a short silence before speaking up. "So what's the job?"
Jack snapped into concentration. "What? Oh, right." Jack rubbed his hands together, a wide grin on his face. "You, my friend, are going to track down the remaining X-Men."
"For what, an interview? Are you joking?"
"Nope. I need you to find out the story behind the story...nobody actually know why Xavier got taken out, or who did the deed. And think about it, who else would know better than his faithful little lapdogs?"
"Nobody cares, Jack. You said it yourself."
"They will."
"Okay, well, even if I do, by some miracle, manage to find even one member...who says they'll talk?"
Jack scratched his chin. "The way I see it, it's been almost a decade. If I kept quiet for ten years about something like that, I'd be just about ready to spill to the checkout guy at Wendy's." He grinned lazily. "Makes sense, don't ya think?"
Bookie hated to admit it, but it did.
"Look, either you want the job, or ya don't. I got other people who would jump out a window for a chance like this."
A chance? Bookie thought to himself. For what? More work, probably. "What do I get?"
"Travel expenses, spending money, freedom of speech...and an office when you come back. With a view. And a little nameplate outside on the wall." Jack laughed, stretching his hands in a sweeping gesture. "Just think of it: Bookie Johnson, reporter at large."
Bookie thought for a moment. He could turn this into another vacation...which was, coincidentally, just what he needed. It wasn't a bad job either...might even take up to a year, all depending...
"Alright, Jack, you got yourself a reporter," Bookie said, offering his hand for a shake.
Jack let out a laugh and shook Bookie's hand with enough force to shatter bones. "That's what I like to hear. Now, officially, you start this coming Thursday, but I want your research to at least be started by then. Now, get out of here, you son of a bitch." Bookie started to leave, but Jack called out yet again.
"One more thing, Johnson," Jack bellowed, tossing something over, which Bookie barely managed to catch. It was a small bottle. He turned it around and read the label: Aspirin.
"No more hangovers on the job."
Me Again: So...? What do we think? Face it people, I don't know these things, I'm not psychic...yet.