Pieces of Purpose - 2. Chapter 2: Leroy Dillon; SuperGut Avenger of the Dead

GURGLE. Not many superheroes have a gut. Smooth, hairless, bulging muscles, yes. But no gut. And if they did have one, they'd be way too cool to do anything remotely lame as to name it.

But my gut was the proud effort of two beers every night for ten years, then three for the last eight, after 206 failed attempts to off myself. The bulge was a comfort—something that kept me in the realm of the 'normal'.

I slapped my belly, PAT-A-PAT-PAT. "Ready for another one, Master L?" I cracked open another beer as the Cheerios kid on TV saved his village from yet another natural disaster. "He's got go power."

And so did I. I got 'IT' power. Think of me as Blue Beetle without the pecs. Or Iron Man without the need of a suit. POW. KA-POW. BOOM.

As if I'd summoned it, Master L stirred, and it had nothing to do with the beer or the half pizza from earlier, and everything to do with IT. A victim was calling out to be avenged.

I switched off the TV and concentrated on the pull, listening to the man's voice, anger, pain. He sounded familiar. He wasn't far from here.

SLAM, I raced out the door. Maybe this time it'd go wrong. Maybe as I ripped the murderer apart, he'd be kind enough to do me, too. Maybe 207 was my lucky number and I could join my brother in the after.

CRUNCH. I stepped over shattered glass, deeper into the narrow alley. The tinny smell of death hit my nose, and, as always I fought down the threatening bile. Leroy Dillon, Supergut Avenger of the Dead, blood made him squeamish.

The body was unceremoniously dumped into the open dumpster. I glanced at his cut face for a second, and then shoved his foot further in. CLUNK, I shut the lid. He was familiar, all right. He'd been there the night IT had first come to me.

I came home after a tiring day at work, grunts broke the silence of the town-house, and I followed them to the kitchen. My wife of nine years lay ass-up on the kitchen floor, taking it hard from behind. I stared for a moment, then grabbed a butcher's knife from the top of the counter. "Need some help with that piece of salami?"

Now that piece of salami was dead, a bullet in his heart. Guess two people would be avenged tonight.

A female screeeeeeaaaam came from the back corner, and I made out two people struggling behind a second dumpster. CLATTER, CRASH. Two trash cans were tipped over.

ZOOM. I was there within the moment, pulling off a man wearing a mask. I entered his mind as I threw him against the side of the brick building. He wanted money, had killed the guy for his wallet. The woman he wanted for a quick fuck. He planned to kill her after, too.

One glance at the woman cowering in a ball behind me, and something more than IT worked itself into my system. I turned as the lid of a garbage can came careening towards my head. WHOOSH. I raised my arm, in time to push it back toward him. WAM, it hit his face. SCHLONK, I threw a follow-up fist. For all that I'd never make for a good comic, I was a good fight.

"Get outta here," I yelled to the woman. SCAMPER, WHINE, she crawled away. "Now it's just you and I," I said to the murderer. "Give me the best you've got."

He reached behind one of the trash cans and came back with a pistol, a grin edging his bloody face.

BANG-BANG. SPLATTER. The bullets tore through my chest, blood spurting in a fine spray. "More," I grunted.

His eyes widened. "You fat son-of-a-bitch, what are you?"

"Any other day, your worst nightmare. Today, your fucking dream-come-true. Shoot, again, in the head."

The gun shook in his hand. I whirled closer to him, grabbed his arm, steadying the gun and rested the butt on my forehead. I fought against IT, needing me to twist the guy's head, destroy him. I didn't care for Mr. Salami's peace. He'd ruined my life. He would have to wait for someone else to get it for him. "Pull the trigger."

POP. POP. POP.

Three hits to the head. Dizzy, I slumped to my knees, but it was nothing more than a killer headache. Already, I could feel my wound closing, pushing out the shrapnel.

"Fuck this," the murderer spat and darted toward the street.

"No. Try again!"

STOMP, stomp, stomp.

IT roared inside of me, combined with desperation and anger. I wanted to die, goddammit. Would nothing kill me? WHIZ. I caught up with him. Lifted him off the ground and shook him. Somehow both my hands had found the sides of his head. SNAAAAP. Shit.

THUD. I dropped him to the ground. IT was satisfied, and the pull dissipated. I spun and kicked at the dumpster. Lifted and slammed the lid once more. Fuck, would nothing work? Was I going to have to strap myself with explosives to get the job done? SHUDDER. I'd save that option, surely there was another way.

Sirens screamed in the distance. Time to get out of here. I cloaked myself in shadow and slunk towards home.

TAP-TAP, I beat out on my belly. "Maybe next week, Mister L, 208 sounds like a good number. Until then, at least we have beer."