Spotlighted in a dark room, I white the night like incandescent flour, 8000Kelvin of light pollution I scare all the critters away.
"Kill that before I put both your lights out."
"Sorry I'm sorry!" a frightened woman says, and the room goes solid again.
I partly make her out, a darkened shape crouched against the wall.
"Who you?" I says.
"Lois, Lois Lane. I write for The Planet."
"The what?"
"The newspaper here, I'm on assignment. It's not safe, Ms. Quinn."
Oh? She knows me, that so? And I'm not safe!
We hang out in silence while her heart beats her chest. My anxiety levels are flat today, of course. It's my day off!
"Can I turn the light on? Please I'm . . . scared. I don't want any trouble."
"Point it down," I says.
Highlighted concrete, she on her haunches. Got a gun believe it or not in the other hand, a camera over her shoulder.
"Cute lil pocket pistol you got there. Obviously you didn't come to a gunfight, but if somebody's got a stick? I'd bet on you."
"Do, um, you have a stick?"
"If I need a weapon I'll just take yours!" The bird rises. "People here don't usually know me. This city got its own non-compliants."
"Non-compliants."
"Yeppers. Those feeding off the system. A system perpetuated by you and your news. Defining, confining everything. Stroking the power structures, reminding folks their relation to them."
"People have a right, arguably an obligation, to know the world around them. You disagree?"
"As a child," I says, "every adult you came in contact with informed you. Formed in your mind. Until you became capable of perceiving their shared worldview." I tighten my pigtails. "Yeah, I'm HQ. How you know me?"
As for me—-thanks for asking—-Ivy dyed me red Thursday night. 1/2 red. And she couldn't stop flirting. She'd her toes up in the seat of my chair before my dinner even came out the oven.
"I've read your stories," Lane says. "I'm a fan. Not of everything, you've made some unsavory choices but I—"
"OH? You the righteous type, huh? That kind of news is good eatin. You gonna show me religion too?"
"No. I'm just saying that—-"
"Because I'm already Catolick," I says.
I saunter in, her head about waist-height. I put my hands in her hair—-she gasps—-then get a glide in my stride and a dip in my hip.
🎶Meow meow meow / Purr purr purr / Guide my whiskers / Pet my fur🎶
I gyrate, give her pelvis like Elvis. But it aint infectious bc she stiff. Wearing all black like some commando housewife. Me, I'm naked, I'm always naked, and don't you forget it.
"Rise, cease your worship."
She slides up the wall. Hesitant. Her lightbeam jitters on the floor.
"Ma'am, if—-?"
I interject. Wait a second . . . okay:
"Call me that again I'll squash you."
"I'm sorry. Um . . . can I?"
"What?!"
"Can I ask you a question?"
"I don't know, can you?"
🎶Applause / I live for the applause / The way that you cheer and scream for me / The applause applause🎶
My accolades, I absorb them, pacing around the room until it quiets down again. Ya know, so her subsequent dialogue isn't inaudible.
Her line: "So . . . why, why do you break the fourth wall?"
"Whazzat?"
"You start addressing me directly. Me, the reader."
Like this?
"I don't like that type of writing."
The so-called /reader/ thereaderemptyvessel #gulliblestravels. Hello? Either you're mum, or when you talk or think back an answer, I never get the memo. Now's your chance!
. . .
"Lane, you exclude most everyone from 'what's happening'. Leaves em feeling disconnected, simply a watcher with no say in the destiny of the world. You got this flying space-alien-thing dominating your news, for example. How are people supposed to feel relevant to that?"
"His name is Superman."
"What a dumb name!"
"You have a problem with Superman?"
I slap her face. She was starting to cop an attitude. And I don't like cops.
And I says: "When you read my stories, you hear me speaking to you."
Shyly: "Yes. It's called narration."
"Or is it you hear my words spoken in your inner voice?" Her brow scrunches. Like this particular story, you are the provider of my voice and the mental construction of my image. In real life I talk in such highpitch as if I just administered nitrous-oxide. Are you recreating accurately? It's like—-whoopsie daisies! "It's like you're wearing a spacesuit, a spacesuit of my lusciousness. Touch myself for me, would you? Far out."
Cue unbuttoning, if this is a hands-free read. Or we can pretend I do it: apply some Fenty Uncensored then massage a banana my tongue viscous down the underside my mouth my hand then it slides glistening from inside of me. Ivy says many fruits are high in potassium, not just bananas.
"What are you talking about, Harley? I'm standing in the same room with you?"
At this point, you've become me. That voice you hear of 'mine" narrating this story? It's, um, yours. So who is breaking this so-called fourth wall?"
"The audience is expected to see through the fourth wall. The storyteller, is not," you say. Har!
Guess I just broke through your skull.
"But Lane you're looking through the fourth wall, my present-tense prose, while I may actually be at the beach maybe I'm peeing in the ocean you do it too in the company of others don't lie! Red herring my whole caboodle.":O"But someone should remind Gooberman about his fourth wall general etiquette because he wears a speedo over his mother's leotard blatantly showing the world—-what? It don't look so super to me, Honey."
"Superman is a protector of the people. His values reflect what is best and noble in mankind. Didn't you . . . sleep with your college professor to get ahead, Harley?"
"Such an astute audience you are, bravo! I mentioned 'boinkering my way to a doctorate' with Collingsworth, that's right, I got some head." re-eddit, props. "Did I also mention I took his housekey?" I unholster the handgun from my boot. It has bright-orange highlights, you can't miss it.
"Familiar with don Juan Matus?" I says.
"What?"
"The Nagual. He said: 'Nothing should be taken for granted, until nothing is any longer for sure, or real. Your problem now? It's that you're too real. Your endeavors are too real, your moods are too real.'"
"But you are real, Harley. I know who you are. You share time between Gotham and New York. You've got family in New York, in Florida."
"My affirmed lifestory. And I was once at the beck and call of some man, right?" I smile real big, show my matching-set of teeth&skintone. "You're in the truth business, really? And this is a reliable face to you?":P
"I'm recording this whole conversation," she says.
"Hashtagdebunkme." I smash her camera beneath my foot. She disbelieves it's missing from her shoulder aghast!"
"Wait," I says. "Were there nudes?"
She's quiet, and looks guilty. What a hussy.
"You got a photo of me?" I says. "No, I don't think so. I do drinks with Margo on occasion but that bitch aint me. Oh wait, but you got some cartoon drawings? Please." I cock the hammer. "I took your cellphone five minutes ago and you still aint noticed."
She feels her butt. "No you didn't."
"And I'll take your man unabashedly. But he's probably a loser anyway."
Finally, she points her little weapon at me. And that damn flashlight.
"Toucy-touchy," I says, now leveling my weapon with her face. "Are you married, Lane?"
BangScream.
I shake my gun, feeling depressed from this outcome, then point it at my own face. The barrel, tangled up, the flag never ejected. "Junk," I says, throw it into the corner, the clacking sound of plastic. "What I tell you about that damn light?"
The blinding beam shifts away. But she still looks down her extended arm at me. Most people take aim one-eyed—-but benefit of the doubt, sure. "Squeeze on that pistol grip, Girl. Maybe try the trigger before everything goes limp."
"What do you want from me?!" she screeches.
"'The vast assembly of beams and boards you cling to are used by me as a mere climbing frame and plaything on which to perform my tricks.' Now there's a Superman I wanna $# !" With closed fists I feint, the last of my spOOk posturing. Cause this is boring.
Exit the room, walk down a hallway. I only wanna meet up with my girlfriend and talk the latest drama—-we share all the secrets—-but wind up getting too distracted. I pass through a doorway and someone takes a swing at me. I duck and quack then literally break his kneecap. He crumples to the floor.
"Hey, Fella, you seen a woman in a white ballet outfit? With a window-to-eternity cut-out on the chest? Cape?"
What's it matter? She got supersonic hearing. I unload seven bullets into this guy's torso. Damn. All that rehearsing a minute ago got me charged up. Too much sex and you're sluttin, but a woman who shoots to kill? Effin hot! If you're male you ignore your religious upbringing and like em both! PG ain't gonna be happy about this though. Dude is leaking blood like it's my time of the month. I'm serious, I have never known spotting.
"Peej, you hear me?" This was her idea all along they had a squabble Thanksgiving. "Hey, let's just meet outside, okay?"