Heroes Archives

May 16, 2005

Stacy: Justice

The small, grizzled man huddled in a corner of the alley I'd chased him into. His thin chest heaved as he gasped for breath, his wispy hair flew around his face.

"Please," he begged between gasps.

I just looked at him, remembering what he did to that little girl. Wonder if he remembers her begging, her pain, tears, fear. Wonder if he regrets anything.

"What did I ever do to you?!" he screams, half rising against the crumbling wall.

"Nothing," I say, squeezing the trigger on the Glock until the slide hangs open on an empty clip.

"Nothing at all."

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July 11, 2005

Stacy: That's What You Get

The knife blade inched towards her eye, and she gripped his arm harder, struggling to maintain the lock. Suddenly she let go of his arm, and in one swift motion, jammed her thumb deep into his eye.

He rolled off her, screaming, the knife lost. She scrambled to her feet, walked over to the writhing man, and precisely kicked in his left temple with her heel.

Thanks to Señor Violador, her dress was beyond salvage. She stripped off his shirt, disdained the now-stained trousers, and collected his weapons and valuables. They might fetch a decent price in the next village.

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December 6, 2006

Stacy: The Ballad of Dirtbag Jimmy

Screams echoed through the Las Vegas night. Just another hooker, having a good time, everyone thought.

No one noticed Dirtbag Jimmy was missing from the poker room. But then no one really ever noticed Dirtbag Jimmy, until he owed them money.

Dirtbag Jimmy just happened to owe Papa Vincetti about 50K. Dirtbag Jimmy wasn’t good at poker.

This is how Dirtbag Jimmy came to be dangling off a 30th floor balcony, secured by Papa Vincetti’s boy Primo, and doing his best hooker-having-a-good-time impression.

Dirtbag Jimmy didn’t have 50K, so Primo set him free. Dirtbag Jimmy wasn’t good at flying either.

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June 12, 2007

Stacy: Aaaand Advocate Boy!

I am poetry in motion, a death machine on two legs, blue steel and sex appeal.

I plan my approach, moving soundlessly through the trash-strewn alley. There are three perps, crouched over a recently stolen woman’s handbag. I signal my partner on the other end of the alley, and as one, we strike.

He moves too fast, though, the glory hound. He takes out the first two with one blow, as I take aim at the third. I slip and land mask-down in a pool of something vile.

Captain Defender looks at me disgustedly, swishes his cape, and stalks away.

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