Bordering on a dangerous obsession. Chapter 35

I hastened to explain what I meant, before Dave gave me his whole superhero back story. I needed specifics after all.

He chewed on that while his eyes swept the alleyways looking for targets, like he should. Like I'd beaten into his numb skull. After a couple of blocks he tried his best to explain.

Oo0oO

Shop class was full in his first semester due to laziness on his part, but Drama had some spots left. His teacher, a little mousy woman named Miss Lemon, was very firm on using "order and method" to get into character. And she showed many videos of Actors getting into their roles by many methods.

One of his favorites involved a little English man, barely five foot four, with an egg shaped head. For him all it took was an elaborate moustache placed on his lip and he became a French ("Belgium!" Miss Lemon would howl.) Detective with an odd little walk.

And Dave did the same thing, but with his mask instead of a moustache . When his vision had his edges obscured by his mask he stepped into Kick-Ass.

So, now I knew, but I've already tried taking my mask off. Hell, I've taken everything off. But Hit Girl stayed put.

What more could I take off?

Oo0oO

That night when I refused to take the superpill before I crashed, I was expecting pain. Throbbing from the needle marks, my hand when I was testing things, maybe my ass where I smacked it.

What I got instead was a sensation overload.

I went from feeling very little to feeling everything. The back of my elbows, my teeth, my eyebrows, you know, all those places that the brain typically ignores until something draws it's attention to it. I felt the blanket against my skin in seventeen distinct places, but when I tossed it off, I felt the cool air everywhere instead which was even more distracting. The blanket stayed on.

I felt pain as well, that certainly hadn't gone away, but it was past the worst of it. And it was just a few spikey balls in the big ol' ball pit o' sensation.

Since I wasn't going to sleep for a bit, I tried to think about matters, but that proved impossible. Distractions!

Eventually I slept, exhausted and feeling everything everywhere.

Oo0oO

Monday sucked balls. Monday had a revelation for me. Ergo. Revelations sucked balls. QED.

It was really really hard not to snap at the teachers, my classmates, my friends...

I was incredibly sleepy and incredibly itchy at the same time thanks to the fat suit and the leftover effects of coming off the superpill, and, sitting in a desk listening to someone drone on and on about some war with some guys centuries ago was taxing in ways I hadn't even imagined.

I think I understand why kids skip school now.

Oo0oO

I actually ran the laps in gym class, much to the surprise and joy of the teacher who no doubt chalked me up as just another fat kid. Anything to get the blood moving and help me ignore this.

It helped... for about half of gym class.

But it also accidentally solved nearly everything.

Man, I wish I could take credit for it. Or not.

Oo0oO

After running my laps, barely broke a sweat despite twenty of them in the May weather, I sat out and let the rest play volleyball.

As I said it helped for a little while, then I marched off early and went to the locker room.

Maybe another shower would wake me up?

Oo0oO

Sadly, no dice. I was on zombie autopilot at the end there, towel wrapped around me.

Tromp, tromp, tromp. Locker. Grab clothes. Tromp, tromp, tromp. Bathroom. Change.

Tromp, tromp, Wedgie.

Wait... these weren't my clothes.

It's a sign you really really need more sleep when you can get in the state I was in.

Now Jessi's locker was right next to mine, and, like me, she didn't throw a lock on hers. With me, the others knew, or used to know, that I'd stomp anyone messing with mine, and with Jessi, I dunno, maybe she wanted her clothes to be stolen? We really shouldn't need locks but fucking perverts are out there, rooting through girls lockers for their panties to sniff.

Speaking of which, that explained the wedgie. The shorts made it easy to reach in and dig that out.

I shuffled carefully over towards the mirror to take a look at myself. It was already on, no sense not taking a look.

My first thought could be summed up in one word: Skank-o-Rama. And yes, that is one word, hyphens do that.

How the fuck did Jessi wear this and not feel like a two-dollar whore? The T-shirt was tight, you'd think I'd painted it on yet it left a gap showing my belly button, the bra was more of an invitation than a support structure, and the damn underwear, a silk thong, it arced high on my hips out of the shorts, advertising it's existence like a banner saying "easy access, just move the string, or not, I don't impede much", and the shorts were slipping off my hips with an ease that was worry-some.

And me looking like this was dredging up all sorts of ugly feelings. I wasn't even sure Dave could get me to wear this for him.

I had to take it off before I tore it to shreds.

The shorts fell off with a wiggle of my hips but the shirt took some wrangling. Looking down at the bra, I noted with bemusement that, even two months ago, it would have looked absolutely comical. Now, it looked like a hand-me-down that I was well on the way to filling. It was a silky, see through sort of number, and my eyes flicked to my reflection.

I froze.

I wasn't there any more.

Hit Girl wasn't there.

A girlish little thing in a sheer bra and a teeny white thong was in my place. She had muscles, yes, but she was not bulky, her skin was smooth and unblemished, her hips weren't bony anymore, and she was filling in nicely.

I felt flushed. She blushed cutely.

I touched the mirror in wonder. She did the same.

Was this me? I turned my face this way and that. Even my face felt different, delicate. Her lips were inviting...

I was nearly squirming now and as she wiggled cutely my eyes were drawn to her hips.

There was a tiny stain on her thong.

Her hand crept down and dipped into her underwear. She touched herself and came back with fingers glistening. Her nipples were hardening as my gaze swept past the see through fabric.

So did mine.

She even smelled better than I did somehow.

It was hard to turn away from the mirror. Even harder to take the rest of it off.

When I did and turned back to the mirror, she was gone.

Nothing but a red-faced me with a leaky cunt holding onto some skankware.

It was then I understood. I had found my moustache.

And then my eyes widened in no small amount of terror.

I had found my moustache and I had less than fifteen minutes to wipe it clean with toilet paper before it's owner came back to her locker and found the damn crotch stain.

And the Hit Girl that is I would rather take on an entire floor of a medium security prison naked armed with a rusty butterknife than do that.

Oo0oO

I wasn't sleepy in the afternoon, I couldn't be, I was way to fucking busy chanting my new mantra in my head.

Don't notice, don't notice. Do NOT notice. Please don't notice.

I was praying to every god and spirit I'd ever heard people beg to stop me. But since all those people were dead I had my doubts.

I must've rubbed it with half the toilet paper in the stall.

Had I put everything back in the right order?

I couldn't look at Jessi, I just couldn't.

Finally the last class ended and I carefully tried to escape. No dice, Angela and Jessi were closer to the door.

There are no words for my terror that I could describe, barring what a coyote could say after having a paw caught in a trap. Yowls, yips and gnawing their fucking paw off to escape.

They were waiting for me. They wanted to talk to me. Did they know?

There is a scene, well several scenes, in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, where the protagonist Raoul Duke is tripping hard and hitting levels of mind boggling paranoia. Oh, how I knew his suffering now.

Fuck Tyler Durden, I'm Raoul Duke right now!

"Hey Mindy, we gotta ask you something."

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck...

"Yeah?" I winced at how high my voice was...

Jessi was frowning and peering at me. I could feel the sweat bead on my face.

I was Duking real hard. I declare that my new verb.

"Are you all right? You look all sweaty and flushed. Do you feel ok?"

Oh yeah my face was sweaty, and sticky, like that goddamn crotch stain I made...

"I feel like a crotch stain."

I did not just say that.

My eyes snapped to Jessi and then Angela.

I did.

Fuck.

Angela cracked up at that. Jessi just flushed.

Not exactly my finest hour.

Oo0oO

I agreed to whatever it was they asked me about, but I couldn't stay. I had to go real fast, kthxbye!

I'd agree to hold a banner at a fucking Klan rally tomorrow if it meant I could escape today. I'd figure out what I agreed to later.

And then I was home, alone, and dearly wanting to punch a brick wall down without gloves. I don't recall how I got home, nor did I care.

I needed another shower, there hadn't been time at the locker room, and some sort of brain bleach so I could forget this day.

What the fuck was wrong with me?!

Oo0oO

When there is a Big Problem, capital B, Daddy used to say, break it down and look at the bits you've taken off.

It works for handguns, it works for interrogations, it'll work for me.

Hokay. Here goes.