Saturday, June 02, 2007
Call Me Kal
Between seasons 2 and 3, expansion of "Sojourn" (SV Comic #5, written by Mark Verheiden and Clint Carpenter)
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Call me Kal.
I don't have a family, or a hometown, or friends. At least that's what I'll tell you if you ask. As far as anyone knows, I just showed up in Metropolis one day. People suspect I might not be quite as old as I claim, but no one's really sure. And no one really dares ask me, not since I put a bouncer at Atlantis through a wall.
I spend my nights in Atlantis, drinking whiskey and dancing close with women. Most of them are willing to screw, but I'm not. Not with them. I'm not sure why, because I think about sex all the time. I want to get laid.
Just not by them.
For two weeks, I've spent my nights in Atlantis, looking for a girl who looks like her. The girl I fantasize about at night. Not the girl I'm in love with, but the girl I straight-up want to fuck. But I haven't seen one that reminds me of her. Not enough, anyway.
Tonight I'm riding my Harley down a narrow road in Metropolis. I see a bunch of bikes parked outside a rundown joint called the Blue Rose, and I decide to take a look inside. What the hell. I'm tired of all the beautiful plastic people who hang out in Atlantis, and I know all the regulars, anyway. I've scoped out the women a thousand times, and none of them are doing it for me. Maybe I might find what I'm looking for at a redneck biker bar. Who knows?
So I park my Harley and head for the door. It has a little "Members Only" sign, but I throw it open anyway, because I don't pay attention to people telling me what to do any more. If a lock can't keep me out, a stupid little sign sure as hell can't.
I pull off my sunglasses, roll my eyes, and speak loudly to be heard over the country western music. "What a hole."
I take a few steps in, letting the door bang shut behind me, and look around with that teenager disdain that used to drive Jonathan Kent crazy, on the rare occasions I used it on him. "Do I need shots before I come in here?"
A big guy in a white undershirt, whose beer belly droops over his jeans in a really gross way, steps toward me. "Getting sick's the least of your worries, kid. This is a private club."
I don't take orders from older men. Not anymore. But I'm not looking at him and his ugly fat gut anyway. There's a blonde woman sitting at the bar, wearing a tight-fitting, midriff-baring black top and jeans that look like they've been painted on. And God, she's exactly what I've been looking for. Her hair's the right color, she's slim, and her tits are perfect, and something about the snarky amusement on her face...
I go hard in an instant, just looking at her. She looks back.
"He's with me, Stick," she says.
I'm assuming Stick got his nickname from the pool cue he's holding, rather than his physique, which is not even remotely sticklike. Stick hesitates a minute, then shrugs and heads back to the pool table. I shove my sunglasses in my pocket and swagger toward the bar.
"You didn't have to do that," I say, leaning on the bar next to her. I'm way too close, totally invading her personal space, but she doesn't seem to mind. "I could have handled them."
"You think so?" Up close, I think she's a little older than the girl I want her to be. Not old, though, not at all. Early twenties, maybe. I take a deep breath, drawing in her scent. Despite all the cigarette smoke that hangs in the air like a foul-smelling cloud, I can tell that she isn't wearing a lot of perfume. She doesn't reek of too-strong artificial fragrance like a lot of women do. She just smells like clean feminine skin.
She looks me over, from too-long hair to black leather boots, and I can tell she likes what she sees. She lifts an eyebrow. "Aren't you a little young for a tough place like this?"
I'm a little stung by the words. I don't think I look all that young, and I sure as hell don't think these guys look all that tough. "Aren't you a little hot for fat losers like them?"
A smile spreads over her face. It reminds me of her, makes me think of the way she always snarked at me when I got out of line.
God, I miss that.
"So you're a charmer, then."
I give her my most insolent grin. "My mom brought me up to respect my elders, ma'am."
"Which would explain why you're not at home tonight."
"Exactly." The bartender, a tall thin bald guy, brings me a beer, and I take a swig. Disgusting. I'm not a big beer fan-- I like whiskey a lot better-- but this is far and away the worst I've tasted since I got to Metropolis. I stare at her over the bottle. "Look, let's not play games here. I saw the way you were looking at me."
She stares right back at me without flinching or blushing. Hazel eyes, the gold irises shot through with green, framed by long, dark lashes. Perfect. "How exactly do you think I was looking at you?"
"Like a cat looks at cream."
She shifts on her stool, straightening her shoulders, so that her boobs stick out more than before. Like she's afraid maybe I'd missed them before. Fat chance. "You're looking at me the same way."
"No shit. I may be young, but I'm not blind." I put down the bottle and look her over, slowly, insolently, in the way that's generally referred to as "undressing her with my eyes." Except I actually am, because I can see right through clothing, and I go ahead and take a look at the goods.
Nice. Really nice. And all-natural. No implants, nothing that shouldn't be there. Just a nice, toned, well-rounded female body.
Just like her.
I try to shake off the image of another blonde in a small town I left behind, and let my mouth curve a little. "If all I wanted was a warm beer that tasted like piss, I'd find a place that didn't stink."
She doesn't say anything, just looks at me like she's waiting for me to make the first move. So I do. There was a time when just thinking about kissing a girl scared the hell out of me. But all that insecurity disappeared when I put a red kryptonite ring on.
I grab her, yanking her right off her barstool, and pull her toward me. She comes to me willingly enough. I yank her up right between my parted knees and kiss her. Hard, not subtly. I don't do subtle any more.
I stick my tongue right into her mouth. She tastes good. A lot better than the beer did, for sure. Her tongue is soft and warm against mine, and all of a sudden the stale odor of cigarettes and spilled beer and dried puke fades, and I'm surrounded by the sweet natural fragrance of her skin. I reach down and catch her hips, so her soft body is pressed right up against my hard-on.
That feels good. Damned good.
I remember making out with the other girl I'm thinking of, her body moving against mine exactly that way. It was only a couple of months ago, and we were interrupted before we could finish what we started, and I've ached for her ever since.
This isn't her, but she looks like her and smells like her and feels like her. And all of a sudden I need release so badly I can't stand it.
I've never made love to a woman, never come inside a woman, but I want to. Right now.
She seems to like it, too, because she's making little moaning sounds deep in her throat, and her body is arching against my dick, making me feel so good I've almost forgotten we're in public. At least until something grabs me by the back of my jacket.
"Take your fucking hands off her!"
Stick's a big guy, and he yanks me right off the barstool, because I wasn't well balanced. I let go of the blonde so as not to pull her over, land on my feet even though any human would have fallen on his ass, and spin around just in time to see a pool cue heading in my direction.
I don't bother to duck, and it shatters against my skull. Stick looks at me as I straighten up, his eyes wide with surprise, and I casually pick up the beer bottle, turn it over, and break the bottom with my hand. Beer spills all over the bar and floor.
I lift the broken bottle, and he stares at my other hand. He can see it's not bleeding, and his eyes go wider than before. "How did you..."
"Simple." I give him a nasty grin. "I'm an alien."
Of course he doesn't believe me, but he's scared, because he's not really sure what I am. I whip the bottle toward his throat, really fast, and he yells and cringes in fear.
I'm just trying to scare him. I'm not going to hurt him, even though he did grab me by the scruff of the neck like I was a disobedient puppy. Even though I seriously hate old guys telling me what to do.
But even though I'm pissed, I'm not going to slice his neck open. Not because I really care what happens to a fat, obnoxious redneck, but because I'm trying to get laid here, and girls tend to lose the mood when they see a lot of blood.
But I guess I look mad, because the bartender dashes up behind me and wraps a thin cord around my neck.
"Gotcha, you little bastard!"
He's got a tight grip on both ends of the cord, so I bend at the waist abruptly, throwing him over my head like a rodeo rider being thrown off a bronco. He slams into Stick, and the two of them go down in a tangle.
Two more guys are charging me with pool cues. These guys are younger and tougher-looking, and I can see they mean business. I don't really feel like having another cue shatter over my head, so I turn my head in their direction, very casually, and use my heat vision.
Both their cues catch fire. They fling them down, yelling in fear and shock.
And then I turn back a little and see the double barrels of a shotgun, almost right up against my head.
The blonde gives a little whimper and drops to the ground, holding her head and clenching her eyes shut like she thinks she's going to see my brains blown out. The gun goes off, but my brains stay firmly in my skull, because I'm bulletproof. I knock the guy to the ground casually.
The rest of the guys in the bar just stare at me. No one moves.
Jesus, I'm just trying to get laid. I wasn't even trying to cause trouble. It's like I'm a trouble magnet these days, ever since I put the ring on.
I don't want to wait around for someone to call the cops-- although watching these guys try to explain to the cops that I'm bulletproof and can shoot fire out of my eyes might actually be amusing-- so I spin on my heel and stalk toward the door.
Settling onto my Harley, I put my shades on. I don't wear a helmet, because helmets are for humans. I'm not fragile or weak like they are, so I don't need one.
The door of the Blue Rose opens, spilling light onto the street, and the blonde emerges, her hair glowing in the light. Despite all those weird abilities I displayed in there, she's coming toward me.
I remember another pair of hazel eyes watching me show off, then looking at me with admiration. I remember a feminine voice: Oh, my God. This is so cool. I always knew there was something special about you, Clark Kent.
Yeah. This one is definitely perfect.
"Wait!" she calls, running toward me. "You didn't even tell me your name."
I look at her, and I say the words I've said repeatedly since I got to Metropolis.
"Call me Kal."
It is my real name, after all. Yeah, it was given to me by an evil man who tried to force me to do what he wanted to, who wanted to use me to take over the world, who left me with a terrible, disfiguring scar on my chest.
But as much as I hate that man, I also hate the one who gave me my other name, because he turned his back on me when I was grieving. He shut me out at the moment I most wanted to be there for him and my mom, and the moment I most needed them to be there for me.
I think I hate that man even more. And I won't use the name he gave me any more, damn it. Never again.
"Kal." She puts her hand on my shoulder. Even through the jacket, I can feel my skin tingling. I think about what it would be like to feel her hands all over my body, against my bare skin, and suddenly my hard-on's back, bigger than before. "My name's Chastity."
"Really." That is not at all what I want to hear. "Your parents have an ironic streak or something?"
She sits down on the seat behind me, slides her arms around my waist, and whispers in my ear.
"Only one way to find out."
Read Chapter 2 here.
Posted by Meg at 10:00 PM