2. New Jobs and Odd Friends
I guess walking out on a family that could have easily paid for any and every thing I ever wanted wasn't the brightest decision, but truth be told I had wanted to do just that for years, being gay just gave me a reason that my father at least wouldn't fight. I try not to think about how upset my mom was when I walked out… I don't have anything against her, but I can't stand my father and it just seemed easier to hurt her by walking out then to make her watch us fight all the time. It really doesn't matter how stupid anyone thinks it was, I did it and I'm happier now then I've ever been before, but there I go getting off track again. You'd think a guy that got a master's in journalism would have learned, then again I never did take most lessons to heart until I had to learn first hand.
I left home and didn't look back. I took a job at the Daily Bugle, stayed there for a few years until I got it in my head that news should be the truth, not something to feed the masses. I started writing positive stories about Spidey, The X-Men, and the rest of the super heroes… Jameson fired me practically on the spot…none of the articles ever got published. I ended up working for the only kind of paper that would print what I had to say…tabloids. You'd be amazed how much of what's written in the National Inquirer is actually true but the "real news" plays it down because it's not what most people want to hear. No one wanted to hear that a group of mutant's was doing more to keep them safe then the local police…they wanted to hear about whenever a mutant's powers got out of hand and they ended up causing major havoc.
But it meant I could do pretty much any story I wanted…and with my degree the paper was glad to have me. I never had to pay for any of the expenses when I was on the job, no matter how far out the job seemed. I haven't written a false work in my entire career as a journalist…hard to believe I know. All reporters are supposed to be evil, lying, scheming sacks of pond scum covered shit, but I never did like conforming to what people expected of me. If someone I was interviewing said that they didn't want something they had said in the interview in the article…then it didn't go in the article. I gave readers the truth without invading the privacy of others any more then they gave me permission to…But DAMN there were a few times I wanted to.
I'd only been at the Inquirer for a little over a year when I decided I needed something to print other then super hero stories. So I started hunting so called Urban Legends. I'm not talking about things like crocodiles in the sewer, but things like local myths. I just put at the end of every article that if someone had something they could give adequate information on, to send it to me and I'd see what I could do. Most of what I got was complete bullshit, but I'd get something solid once in a while, and I'd follow through and see what I could find about it, and fill the space in between with the expected hero blurbs.
I hit it big when I got a call about someone called "heart of the flame". The guy that left the tip only gave his first name, Brian, but it sounded cool, if slightly wishy-washy. So I checked it out, not really expecting to find anything. Supposedly Heart of The Flame was a racer in the illegal street-racing ring, a girl, and she had shown up all over the globe. Brian didn't say how he knew it, but I figured I'd check it out for my own curiosity, and started keeping my ear to the ground. When I started getting reports from across the country about a "ghost racer" that seemed to only frequent high stakes races I decided I try to track them down. It wasn't easy, there was no face to go with the stories, just a car…and copycats had started to spring up all over, it wasn't hard to model a car after one you'd seen.
It took me over six months to try to track her down, There was no pattern, she just appeared sporadically and by the time I knew she'd been at a race the race was over and she was long gone. The only reason I finally caught her was a cryptic message left on my machine at the office, I recognized the voice as Brian's, giving me a street address in Germany. Being the obsessive idiot I am I followed the tip, and have never regretted it. I wasn't disappointed when I saw her race, and as soon as it was over I figured out why there was no face to go with the reports…she raced wearing a full helmet that was tinted so darkly there was no hope of seeing her face. It was a wonder she could see through the thing at all seeing as she raced mainly at night. The only reason I could tell she was female was that suit she wore was full body, skin-tight black leather that zipped up and left very little to the imagination, she may as well have worn a coating of paint.
I worked my way to the front of the crowed that had gathered, babbling in German, around her car at the end of the race…It wasn't an easy task. I had no way to tell, but I got the feeling that through her visor she met my eyes. Looking back I can't believe I used the typical reporter question of, "Can I get a few words?" I could hear the smirk in her voice when she responded with, "Can you catch me?" I'm still not sure if she didn't know what she was getting into…or if I didn't.
"Ready set go." She said with a laugh I'm sure would have wrapped most guys around her little finger and thrown them off for at least a few seconds. To bad for her I wasn't interested, so was ready to dash back to my car and start the engine. I wasn't surprised to find the way clear. She'd said the last in German. It had been a few years since I'd raced, but it's not something you forget or loose the hang of. I didn't bite back my laugh as I pushed the accelerator to the floorboard and took off after her; she'd had a bit of a head start…she'd been right by her car.
She ran me around in circles…and I found myself wondering what the hell she'd done to that car so that even with my own racer I never managed to catch up. I resigned myself to hoping she'd run out of gas, after all…I had a full tank and she'd just run three circuits of a street race. I was more then a little surprised when she suddenly turned down a street that was clearly marked as "No outlet" but I didn't complain. I fishtailed the car and stopped in front of the exit, effectively blocking her in. I couldn't suppress a grin as I got out of the car and went to lean on the hood. "Let me guess," I said exaggeratedly, "That doesn't count."
She surprised me by pulling off her helmet, shaking out her long baby blue hair, and smiling brightly at me. "It counts, I made a stupid mistake, but you still caught me. So…what do you want to know, but if you put a picture of me in your article I will personally hunt you down and strangle you in your sleep." Her laughter made it where I wasn't sure if she was joking or not. Even I had to admit she looked good, she looked like a sculpture come to life. We did lunch; well technically a midnight snack, and I got my story. No picture, and the only way she'd give me a name was if I swore not to put it in the story. Like I said, I've never put something in a story that I was told not to by the person I interviewed. So Damia's story was published with me calling her the same thing everyone else at the tracks did, Heat of The Flame.
I'm still not sure how Damia and I ended up becoming friends; I never got more than her cell number, and when I looked that one up there was no record of it. She may as well have been the ghost the street racers had named her. Somehow along the way she became one of the most reliable resources I had. I have no clue how she did it, She still hasn't told me how she got her information, but her tips never left me dry. We met for lunch, or dinner, or anything she'd set up and she'd give me a new story to follow. Sometimes they weren't things where I could meet the actual person, but still had enough that I could get the truth out without an in-person interview. I'm still not sure if she was a godsend…or a cruel joke bordering on curse that the Powers That Be inflicted on me just for the hell of it.