Conceptfan's Shorts

No. 9 - "The List"

(Written for the SGI Workshop 2.1)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: All of my stories have been written for an exclusively adult audience. They contain descriptions of violence, some of it of a sexual nature. They also include other sexually explicit depictions. They are in no way suitable for minors. Furthermore it is against the law in many parts of the world for this type of material to be read, either by minors or by minors and adults. Please make sure you are not acting contrary to local legislation before reading on and please do not read any further if you find this type of material offensive in any way. This is a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters and events depicted and any people/events in real-life, past or present, is purely co-incidence. A number of the characters and events portrayed are inspired by, or based upon, existing works of fiction. Although I have made every effort to keep plagiarism to a minimum, I must acknowledge a debt of thanks to the many artists and writers who have shared their talents with the public. I've released my stories to the public domain to make sure that as many people as possible who share my interest in this type of fiction can enjoy them. Please feel free to re-distribute them by whatever means you like, provided you respect the following points: (1) The stories will be re-distributed exactly as they are - unchanged and unedited. (2) No other person will claim authorship of any of these stories or any part of them. (3) The stories will not be distributed for profit, either on their own or as part of a group of other works. Lastly, thank you for your interest in this story. I hope you enjoy it!

I didn't ask to become superhuman. I just happened to stagger into the wrong bar and pick up the wrong glass and drink it. Actually - the RIGHT bar and the RIGHT drink - I love all these great powers I now have…

It's wonderful being so much stronger than anyone else and it's even better being completely immune to harm. Perhaps my accidental empowerment was some kind of cosmic payback for all the horrid things that happened to me in the years before. All the guys that had mistreated me. Taken advantage. Abused me. Betrayed me. Hurt me.

After I'd drained that wrong/right glass, and the seven foot guy with bluish skin had raised his fist shouting "You stole my elixir, you stupid Earth bimbo!" I thought I was in for yet another beating. I'll never forget that moment when he hit me: his hand going "Crunch!" and his screaming. I wasn't sure what was going on so I kicked him between the legs. When he lifted off the floor and bounced off the ceiling, I started to realize things had changed.

I was still too freaked out by everything to fully understand it all - the green blood all around me didn’t help - but I soon pieced it together. That "elixir" had made me super: stronger than fifty men, quicker than a racing car, and completely bullet-proof.

What I haven't mentioned is that I'm a real looker. That's partly why I was always getting into bad situations with guys. I can’t help it, that’s just the way I look. Long, dark, straight hair, large brown eyes, a cute nose, thick red lips, great teeth. And my body ain’t bad either: fabulous legs, flared hips, a flat stomach - the works. ‘Course, what the guys really like are my big, firm and very round breasts. Yeah, I’m the thousand-watt bulb that moths think is the moon.

Being addicted to heroin made things all the more complicated. I had to make "compromises". The kind of compromises I regretted even before I made them. Those were bad days, alright. The elixir changed all that. It made me super and took away the need for drugs. But the memories of those times are still clear. Really, really clear, in fact, because now I have perfect recall.

One of the first things I did when I came to terms with being super, was sit down and write a list of names - all the guys who had ever done me wrong. Dealers. Landlords. So-called lovers. And, yes, pimps and clients too. I'm not proud of my past.

There were eighty-seven names on that list. I started to work my way down it. Tracking down each name and putting right some of the bad that he'd done. You might call it revenge. I call it closure. The first time I put a line through one of the names on the list, I felt as if a load had been lifted from my mind. The second, third, fourth and fifth times were just as rewarding.

Probably the most satisfying name to cross out was the fifty-third one: Eric the Fixer. He fixed things: if a girl like me needed some stuff, he provided it. Once, that is, he's slapped her around a little, screwed her and made her open her legs for a couple of his low-life associates. Seventeen times Eric "fixed" things for me. Like I said, those were bad, bad days. He called me his "Number One bitch", told me that he hated it when the other guys went with me ‘cos he wanted me all to himself, but, "business was business".

He was easy to find. Still hanging around the same crappy apartments. "Remember me?" I asked him when I walked up to him.

"Hey, I could never forget tits like those, babe." he said. "Do you want me to fix you? How about a roll, for old times' sake?" He was already reaching up to grope my breasts. I caught his wrists and held them immovably before he made contact.

"Ouch, bitch! You're hurting me." he yelled.

"I haven't even started yet." I told him as I slowly squeezed his wrists until I heard a couple of bones crunching.

"Aagh! What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

"I'm fixing you, Eric." I told him. "Fixing you good and proper. For old times' sake." I pushed his wrists back, letting go so that he fell onto his ass. Before he could get up I put my foot on his chest, pinning him down and squeezing all the air out of him. I pressed the toe of my boot down until his face turned purple. Then I pressed some more and listened to the muffled pops as his ribs snapped one by one. When I lifted my foot, he frantically tried to gulp down air.

"You'll.... pay.... for..... this." he wheezed, painfully. I lowered myself over him, placing one hand either side of his head and my knees by his hips. I was wearing a low-cut top so he would have had a good view of my generous cleavage and the breasts he was so fond of as I leant over him, my face close to his.

"You're the only one paying today, Eric." I whispered. I drew my knees together, slowly squeezing his pelvis until he screamed. I silenced him by forcefully kissing him and continued to press his hips inwards until his bones gave way. Forcing my tongue through his teeth, I used it to crush his tongue so he couldn't yell.

He was still just about conscious when I broke the embrace and stood up. We both knew he was done for. I blew him a good-bye kiss, turned and slowly walked away, leaving him to a slow, painful death.

At home I took out my list and put a line through Eric's name.

The next day, I began hunting down number fifty-four.


Conceptfan, Aug. 2005.