Flyover City! A Novel (with Superheroes)

7. Greyraven VS. TW-K

"Dude, please. I hate to insult your delicate sense of aesthetics, but Tsunami Warrior K would completely annihilate Greyraven. It's un-fucking-deniable."

Tuesday night: The bowling alley's packed, so Spliff and I are up in the loft, shooting some pool. Gwen had to stay late at work for some reason, so it's just the two of us. Which, frankly, is fine by me. When she's around, I'm a lot less likely to tackle these conversations with the level of intensity they deserve. Obsessive speculation over hypothetical neohuman match-ups falls somewhere between fantasy football and stamp collecting in the "How Likely is Joel To Get Laid?" equation. If we ever do get married, that's when I'll let her in on some of my less appealing personality traits. I'm keeping it for when she reveals to me that she went down on an entire frat house in one night, or that she's a compulsive booger-eater, or whatever. It's good to save some things for marriage.

Spliff stalks the table, calculating his next shot. I have to admit, for all his girth and general clumsiness, and especially considering he's had twice as many beers as me, when Spliff plays pool, it's a thing of beauty. And that's saying something, seeing as he's recently taken to sweeping the brillo-y tuft of hair atop his head into a makeshift faux-hawk, and he's wearing a hot pink bowling shirt with his name embroidered on his chest. This is not a guy you want to argue "aesthetics" with.

"See, man," I say, trying to sap his concentration, "that's just the difference between you and me. You base everything on powers, malphysical traits. The ability to shoot cosmic energy from your fingertips. Whatever. But Greyraven's fought alongside the Agency for his entire career, facing all manner of inter-dimensional and extra-planetary threats. That takes a certain level of finesse. There are plenty of other heroes out there who are less 'gifted'..."

"Joust," he grants.

"Exactly. Joust, for instance, who are thrilled to watch those kind of battles from the comfort of their secret headquarters. But Greyraven is right in the thick of things, right up in there where the action is."

Spliff deflects my point, sinking it with the eight ball into the corner pocket. He steps back from the table for a long pull from his beer. "Dude, come on; this isn't a value judgement, okay?" he reconsiders for a millisecond. "Actually, yes, it is. He's a badass on the streets. I'm not sayin' I'd want to face him without the benefit of a cosmic aether converter. But the guy plots strategy, he pilots the Argojet. But if he steps out from the driver-seat on to the surface of the moon, there's ain't nothing in his utility belt that's as useful as diamond-tough skin or a telekinetic force field. Face it, you're like a chick who chooses her favorite sports team based on who has the best mascot."

"Me? You just like TWK because he's Japanese. Just what the hell kind of name is that, anyway?"

"Lost in the translation. And he's from the sovereign city-state of Seatopia, if you wanna get all pedantic about it."

I've struck a chord, pulled back the curtain and kicked the wizard right in the nut-sack. Spliff hates it when somebody calls him on his "All-Things-Asian" fetish. This is a guy who does all his grocery shopping at at the ethnic markets in Aurora, stocking up on freeze-dried ramen noodle bowls and Hello, Boss canned coffee beverages. He'd put his yen on TWK, cosmic prism converter or not. Aesthetics.

"All right," I demure (he is buying my drinks, after all), "Maybe not all of them. But Greyraven III, circa 1955. He could hold his own, for sure."

"Bitch, unless he's driving Alphamale to the fight..." he starts to get up to steel himself for round two, but he stops short, stifling a burp coming up from behind his last shot. "Yeah. All right, 'III'. Maybe. But that guy was one lucky sucker."

We head out front for some fresh air and smokes, and so I can check to make sure my scooter is still safe where I left it. If you don't know anything about scooters, you'd be amazed how often they don't get stolen, especially considering the amount of time they spend parked outside places where a bunch of unsavory characters are drinking themselves into a stupor. But the thing is, scooters are more than just a simple form of transportation. They're a reflection - an extension, really - of the owner's soul. Doubly so, if we're talking about my baby-blue, 1975 Vespa Sprint Veloce. If somebody's cruising down the street on Joel Wyatt's soul, well, someone out there's gonna notice it.

Spliff leans against the outside wall and lights his cigarette. "So, where's the wife, tonight, anyway?"

"Workin' late, I guess. Yours?"

"Oh, har-dee-fucking-har. You know, I probably would've told Kyle to come down, if I didn't think you'd be such a dick about it." He's drunker than I thought. He's not usually this confrontational.

We do this, Spliff and I. This verbal sparring and back and forth. Antagonizing him, for me, is like shooting pool for him. And I don't lose. It's why I'm such a good phone-service agent.

"I'm a dick? Look, I just don't think the guy merits my best 'Grandma's house on Easter Sunday' behavior. You think Mr. I Spent My Whole Life in New York City can't take it?"

"Why don't you get off the guy's case. It's not like he acts like he's from the streets, like he's Vanilla Ice. Just give him a chance. He's a pretty cool guy, if you'd just give him a chance."

"Whatever. He's cool, okay? He's great. I kowtow to his awesomeness. I'm just surprised, you know; a courier and a office building security guard? He storms the gates, and you keep people from seeing the wizard. You realize your relationship is an abomination, don't you?"

My verbal jab is lost on him, as he catches another burp. Maybe more solid this time. "Ooh, man. I think I'm done. Lemme go settle our tab."

"Cool, thanks. I gotta finish up my article, anyways."

"I don't think I'm okay to drive, man. You cool if I ride cupcake?"

Not, hey, can you give me a ride?, not, you mind if I hop on the back of your scoot? But, "cupcake".

If I hadn't convinced myself that that wasn't, in fact, a thinly veiled dig, he'd still be sleeping it off in the pokey right now.