LIFE KICKED BACK
NOTE: This is a fan fiction, not intended for profit. The Kick-Ass characters were created and owned by Mark Millar and John Romita Jr.
I hate comic book conventions.
I also love comic book conventions. I am a very confused person. I love the conventions because I get paid to be there and meet people who, on average, idolize me to an unhealthy degree. I hate them because I have to go to them. Who am I? I'm Dave Lizewski and I'm the writer/artist of the mildly successful KICK-ASS!
Life's a funny thing. It never goes according to plan and if you're not careful you'll get swept away in currents you never imagined existed. When I first donned my now infamous green and yellow mask to battle crime in the streets of New York City, my idealistic 16-year-old mind did not intend for this to be where it ended. I honestly never thought about where it would end. Hence, me getting shawshanked by existence like an Albert Camus character when Chris Fucking D'Amico/Red Fucking Mist blew my secret identity wide open on the Internet. The prick is dead now, but I don't take any real satisfaction in it. He was a dumb kid, not that different from me, who never had a chance with that kind of a father. I don't like to dwell on these thoughts for too long.
Anyway, it's been seven years since Chris died and nine in all since Kick-Ass started. However, he was only a real-life superhero for the first two years of his existence. After my name became a top Google search, the lawsuits started piling up and despite my relative success, I'm still in quite a bit of debt. I lost my girlfriend, my best friends (one of them was taken off life support 14 months ago because of my nocturnal activities) and a lot of options. In many ways, I'm very fortunate that my alter ego has become such a cult hero to a specific subculture. I now work for Marvel Comics and Kick-Ass has been reincarnated as the newest popular edition to their pantheon. He's no Spidey or Wolverine, but he's new and he sells. Given the shape of the industry, that's good enough for them and that's good enough for me.
So, here I sit, still dressed as Kick-Ass (sans the mask), ready to sign autographs and rub elbows with my people, the common clay, the salt of the earth—the Fanboy.
"So, did you really battle Red Mist on a rocket in Times Square," asked William Mosier. William seemed like an affable chap. More than a bit rotund and in need of a shower after what appeared to be a three-week dry spell. A shave wouldn't hurt either. Still, he seemed likable enough.
"Haven't you seen the videos on Youtube?"
"Yeah, but I can't believe that was freaking you! I mean that is fucking insane."
"What would you like me to say," I asked, taking the comic book from his hands and pulling out my trusty marker.
"To my ass-kicking partner in….ass-kicking, Big Willie." I looked up at him to make sure that nickname wasn't a joke. He looked earnest, so I commenced in transcribing the message.
"And did you really team up with the Fantastic Four to save San Francisco from the Mole Man?" I couldn't help but smile at his wonderment.
"No, Will. Most of the adventures Kick-Ass has had on the page come from my imagination. I've never really had a true team-up with a real superhero."
"What about Hit-Girl? She's real. That video of her killing that hot yaoi girl while hanging on that building is sweet!"
"Couldn't say, Will. But I hope to see you here next year. We can talk about more of Kick-Ass's adventures."
As Will wandered off, the next fan showed up. He's a tall bloke. His features were inherently boyish with a pasty face and shaggy light brown hair that sprawled to the back of his neck. He seemed both eager and nervous to be in my presence.
"So, what's your name?"
"Stevie Augustus," he said with a slight accent and a slight twitch.
"That's a cool name Stevie. Where you from?"
"I was born in the Balkans, but I've grown up in the US since I was 8. Your comic has meant a lot to me," he said with all sincerity. He had to be only a year or two younger than me if he wasn't in fact older. Still, his appreciation was refreshing. We talked for a few minutes about the art of the book and my "expressionistic style" (his words).
After my session was over, I headed directly to the bathroom to change out of my attire. Part of me still loves that I get to wear the Kick-Ass outfit. It's actually not the suit I wore as a teenager. Joey Q had this designed by a professional Hollywood costumer who did one of their movies. When the book launched, I went around to all the geek hotspots dressed in it. The reaction was so positive that whenever I do an event like the Manhattan ComicCon, I have to pull it out. Some in the press call me an exhibitionist, but I prefer being called an entrepreneur. I was able to keep the intellectual property over the Kick-Ass character, so any way to raise his profile off the message boards and onto CNN was helpful. Plus, it makes sure I keep working out and maintaining that lean shape to fill it. I look way better than I did in high school.
"There's my guy," said Jack Polone as he kicked in the bathroom door with the kind of fanfare usually reserved for Susan Stroman-directed musicals. Jack has been my agent for six years. That means he's also been my biggest cheerleader and ass-kisser in the same time.
"I see you've already got the costume off," Jack said, rubbing my shoulders and the button down already over them.
"Yep," I said with a cigarette already in my mouth. "You'll see it again in San Diego."
"What're you doing tonight? We should do dinner. I know the perfect little Portuguese place down by…"
"Sorry, man. I've got plans to eat with Sam." I saw real disappointment cross Jack's face. Truthfully, Jack's been a good friend when I've had few. He's well into his 60s and is balding, but he has the energy of a man half his age. He helped turn Kick-Ass Dave into a fairly affluent comic book writer/artist. But Sam Moore is in town about two or three times a year. Since he shows up for this thing, we always get a little hammered afterwards.
"Okay. Just don't get too fucked up. He's also in town for the next few days."
"Who?" I said with fake curiosity while I lit my cancer stick.
"Don't be a schmuck. Harvey Francis is in Manhattan and he wants to talk to you."
"We've done a lot of talking for the last three years. He bought the rights. It's up to him to decide if he makes it or not."
"David, I love you, but you're acting like a dickhead," Jack said as he held both my shoulders. "The heat on a Kick-Ass movie has cooled and he still wants to talk to you. If this happens, we see one percent of its domestic gross. Did you see how well the Iron Man reboot did?"
"Why's Francis even in New York?"
"Some Madison Avenue crap. I don't care. Just see him first thing tomorrow morning and go fuck around with your sketches for the rest of the day."
I sighed while I blew smoke in his face.
"I'll call you tomorrow morning and tell you how it went," I said.
Sam and I were on our third round of beers at our favorite brewery. Our dinner consisted of a few assorted appetizers and large quantities of alcohol.
"So, why didn't you bring anyone, Dave?" Sam said with a raised eyebrow. Sam knew in past years I enjoyed bringing fangirls I'd meet on the convention floor to dinner and home afterwards.
"I don't know. Just didn't feel like it today."
"Andrew have something against elves coming into your loft, now?" Sam was referring to my roommate and occasional conscience, Andrew Jones.
"Andrew's not even in town this week. He's with his girlfriend in Barbados." This peaked Sam's interest.
"No, shit?" It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. "How'd you get so lucky to be sharing a place with a day trader?" Sam of course knew that, like most in my circle these days, Andrew had been inspired by Kick-Ass to get into the superhero game. By the time he reached New York though, the superhero fad had gone out of style following the gang fight in Times Square.
"You know the answer. Rooming with Kick-Ass has its appeal for some. You literally wrote the book on it."
"I needed something to do with my English Degree and there didn't seem to be much future in bludgeoning people with a pipe," smirked Sam. I first met Sam when we were both wearing costumes. I was Kick-Ass and he was the physically imposing Doctor Gravity. Kick-Ass got murdered in the press, and the definitive book on the superhero subculture was published by this guy.
"Again though, you've dodged my question. Why no girl, Dave?"
"I'm just tired, man." I am tired. Tired of girls dressed like elves, vampires and Queen Amidala staring at me in wide-eyed rapture. Those weren't relationships. They were groupies. Six years ago they were cool. Two years ago they were cool. Yet, the times are a-changing.
"You're sick of this, aren't you?" Sam asked pointedly.
"Are you?"
"I'm an expert on the subject. I'm not the fucking subject."
"All I know is I've got a movie about me to salvage tomorrow morning," I said to change the subject.
"What's the hold up?" Sam said to play along.
"The studio thinks Kick-Ass's popularity is waning. It's been a while since I broke someone's jaw. I have to go convince the CEO there's still potential left untouched."
"You could always talk about putting Hit-Girl in the movie."
Our eyes met. Sam knew this was a sore spot for me. I welcomed his book and helped him in every way I could when he needed to ask questions. But Hit-Girl remained the one thing I stayed cagey on. In over half a decade, a myth has grown around the little girl who once famously said, "Show's over motherfuckers." I never put Hit-Girl in the comic and sure was not going to put her in a movie I didn't even care about.
"I'm just pulling your chain, Dave." Samlooked around and leaned forward. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. It was a short, simple message:
TELL ME WHO HIT-GIRL IS TOMORROW OR ELSE.
I raised my head and looked at my old friend.
"What is this?" I finally said.
"Some prick left this outside the apartment I rent this morning. They must've known I was meeting with you." I remained silent for a while.
"Probably just an asshole fan. Besides who would fuck with Doctor Gravity? He's black!" There was a momentary pause before we burst out laughing.
"One more round?" asked Sam.
"Remember," I said. Sam feigned ignorance. "Head of the studio? Tomorrow?"
"One more round?"
"One more round."
As I staggered out of the Taxi I breathed in the fine air of SoHo. I picked the loft here. Andrew couldn't care less about where he lived as long as it had space and a decent view. But for me, SoHo reminded me of being an artist. I only drew comic books, but for a few months after the unmasking, I toyed with the idea of being a painter. I still draw in my spare time. The legacy of this part of town soothes my soul.
As I walked towards home I noticed a large man hiding in the bushes.
"Hi, William," I said. He didn't move. "William? Willaim Mosier?" He jumped out of the bushes and went running down the street. My adoring public.
Inside the lobby sat Bob Tucci. He is the doorman of the building, a definite upgrade in status to their history from the 1960s and '70s. Bob's also a decent friend. We'd always have pleasant small talk when I came in.
"Mr. Lizewski," he said as I passed.
"Yeah, Bob?"
"There's somebody I thought you might want to see waiting upstairs." I gave him a funny look. He knew I didn't like him to let fans come up to the loft.
"Trust me," he said with a smile and went back to his work.
I walked up the stairs and saw someone standing in front of my door. As I got closer, I realized she was gorgeous. A bit young, but she had stunning legs filling her designer jeans and long, straight blond hair. Just from behind, I could tell she was perfect. Why can't all my fans look like this? I need to listen to Bob's advice more.
She turned around showing an equally disarming face. It was then my jaw dropped.
"Hi, Dave."
Mindy Macready was standing in my doorway. All grown up.