You’d never guess it to look at me, but I’m totally a badass, butt-kicking superhero.
“You?” you’d say, “Superhero?”
Okay, well, technically superheroine if we’re being all gender-specific about it. The point is that all it takes is one dose of Power Serum to transform me from boring old Laura Lerner with ratty hair and chewed up fingernails, too many freckles and a flat chest they don’t even bother manufacturing bras for into a buff, stacked, bronzed goddess with enough raw might to kick any supervillain’s ass halfway across Centralia City.
“Beer,” he ordered, lifting his chin up from the iPhone in his right hand as it continued to spill sound into his ear. His eyes didn’t make contact with the bartender, but rather some space above her head for a moment before lowering to the bar in front on him. “No, nothing,” he explained to the voice on the other line. “I’m just ordering a drink.”
She entered forcefully, flinging open the door to my office and sauntering in as if she owned the building. Her three-inch black heels were clicking and clacking against the linoleum floor like an orgy of sap sucking woodpeckers penetrating a virginally willow.
This dame was classic, textbook material. Blonde hair in a bun, cute white top, short black skirt, makeup covering her face like a Halloween mask, red lipstick, the whole shebang. The kind of gal that hangs out on Fifth Avenue with her eighty-year-old hubby, flashing her credit cards around like a proud Fed showing off his shiny badge.
Yep. You know the type.
Joleen the stripper is swaying back and forth to an old Metallica song, pinching her soft nipples in an effort to get aroused and lackadaisically swinging around a big shiny brass pole in the center of a half-circle stage when she sees me and a silent gasp sneaks out between her fat, collagen-injected lips. As she approaches, I try to stay cool, to just stare at those massive silicone tits like everybody else, but I can’t help it. I look her in the face and smile.