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CHAPTER 3: THE DUM DUM TWINSOne of the Dum Dum twins. Humpty Dumpties with gym memberships and broadcast contracts. Buff, gross, potato-shaped, with neckbeards and chains. Popular with dumbasses across the verse.
When they were planning on having a lot of viewers, they would dress thematically for whoever they were about to jump. Their videos were popular with dumb fucks across the verse. When they killed Amaze-Woman, they had on high heels and wigs. When they had ambushed Cactus Jack, they had on hats and boots. Right now, the pale potato heads with action-figure arms, blonde pubic neck beards, wore stupid hats from teams they didn't watch, stupid gold chains, tattoos, and clothing they had culturally appropriated. Huh, these two large dumpy shits couldn't find a single burger-themed accessory? Seemed a little disrespectful. "Fuck," I thought. I quickly rolled to the side as the giant egg-shaped mutant flew from my bathroom window, his feet crushing the spiderwebbed pavement where I had just been. He created a much larger crater. SMASH! "Us?" I said. I wiped the rest of the soap away and saw Dumfrey's twin brother Deever in the middle of our street, holding Chris in the air by the throat. He was wearing the same outfit as his brother, just in complimentary colors. "What the fuck?" The vid that kid made earlier must've gotten some traction, and they knew where I was. Chris didn't even fucking do anything besides being robbed by a junkie. These assholes didn't even fucking know Troy. They were just using it as an excuse to initiate this fight! They always had some bullshit excuse. Chris still wouldn't have his hound available yet. Dammit! Deever could snap his neck without effort any second. Chris actually knew and liked these guys, always bet on them to win. He was a follower. I always told him they were assholes. I wonder what he thought about them now. Earlier I told y'all I didn't like to fight. I have made exceptions plenty of times. This was about to be fucking one of them. My mind skipped back to a moment earlier when I was thinking about the different sayings and rules I would tell Al in our home growing up. Another one just popped in my head… "DON'T START NONE, WON'T BE NONE!" I paused for only a moment to assess this situation. A gust of wind blew the shower curtain into the air behind me. I wouldn't notice it in the moment, but when the edits were released later, it would be hard to miss. Honestly, it looked pretty fucking cool. Silhouetted superhero pose with soapy drippy bubbles covering my bits just enough to keep it PG. My head and neck had ripped through when Dumfrey tossed me out the window like a bag of soapy garbage. The tweedles moved to surround me, their orbiting broadcast bots recording everything under clinical white HD spotlights. I thought of Al. I thought of my soon-to-be-born grandchild. I have only just begun to dig myself out of this fucking hole! I could feel the breath coming out of my chest. It was hot. Filled with rage. "Great, the verse is about to get a look at Burgerman's dick. This is probably gonna go systemic," I thought. I didn't risk giving them the chance to hurt Chris. I hurled the freshly sharpened shower rod through Deever's big ole midsection. He screamed out in pain and dropped Chris. "Chris! Get the fuck outta here!" Chris dropped to his feet and was already hauling ass into a nearby alley. He knew what was up. Back in my sponsorship days, everyone wanted a spectacle. Showmanship was important for views and PR. I had been trained pretty extensively on how to execute all kinds of flashy moves. Most were useless flourishes and poses I hated, but they were effective at driving up numbers and therefore driving up credit flow. I dashed at Deever and grabbed the shower rod as he was pulling it out. I was sprayed with a combination of whatever meals were being digested in his guts right now and gastric artery I had just pierced. I could taste the copper of his blood and maybe White Monster? Gross. It smelled like chitlins and Bourbon Street. I held it in place to keep him from pulling it all the way out. As Dumfrey sprinted over to help his brother, I stopped holding the rod in place and instead used Deever's pulling momentum to assist me in quickly throwing it through his quickly approaching twin. Like when you play tug-of-war and just let go of the rope. The rod went from one brother into the other. One bleeding out and spilling guts on the sidewalk. The other looking like a crockpot meatball with a toothpick sticking out of him. They were close enough now that I thought I could make this work. I quickly grabbed the rod and the back of Dumfrey's pack-of-hotdogs-lookin' neck. I pulled them right against me, as close as I could get them, and used the shower rod like a barbell bar and shoved my arms straight into the air. I was hoping it would be a clean-and-jerk-type scenario, lifting them into the air like I was an old-timey circus strongman. Maybe a cool pose and finisher at the same time. But it was just a shower rod. So instead, when I made the move, the Egg twins yelped and raged in pain as I shoved the bar up and it cut from their stomachs and up into their chests. I held the pose for a second too long, and that was enough for them to try to get their hands on me. Lucky for me, I was still covered in soapy residue and their greasy entrails. I was too slippery to get a hold of. I dipped, ducked, and dodged a few grabs and blows. They threw punches, headbutts, and kicks. They glanced off of me and into each other. I would've laughed if I wasn't so panicked and the smell wasn't so bad. I needed to get away from them a bit so I could-- "Whoaaaaaa!" I was finally grabbed around the waist and suplexed into the concrete. WHAM! The other leaking egg man jumped into the air. Honestly, it was impressive form and height. He let out an "Oh yeaaaaaaah!" and hit me with an elbow. I felt the sensation of broken sternum, ribs, and internal organ damage. The wind had been knocked out of me. I rolled a bit, trying to breathe, but they were on top of me going to work. Blows were coming in fast. Between the blood, limbs, and flashing lights on their broadcast drones, it was hard to see anything. I was exhausted from the fight already. WAY too out of practice for this shit. Every hit they landed felt like it *added* something. Not just pain—weight. Like I was carrying more and more, and eventually I'd just... stop being able to get back up. Their fat, heavy egg bodies were crushing the air out of me, this was not good. I was going to suffocate. But luckily for me, they knew the value of showmanship too. They threw their arms into the air in celebratory poses, walking in circles with their backs to me, facing their cameras.I gasped for air choking. "What up, Eggheads!!!!!? For those of you just joining us, boy do we have a treat for you! We found another old head out here doing dumb shit, so we brought him out of retirement to prove once again that we are the best, the beautiful, and the only DUM DUM TWINS!!!!" "What assholes," I thought. "Dumb shit? Out of retirement? You greedy shit dicks are just trying to fuck up an old supe! AND they had stolen that line from an old movie, Ghostbusters. I get that there is nothing new under the sun, but they weren't the best, the beautiful, or the only." While they were vamping, the damage they thought they did had left no traces. I was back on my feet and taking a deep breath. Popping my old joints and stretching out. Mental note: "Let's add yoga to my list for tomorrow." These two dipshits that made a career of finding old supes and picking fights when they were well beyond their prime always had the same MO. Ambush, attack, and show how "badass" they were to someone who wasn't expecting it. And now here they were again, attacking a fucking grandpa… a motherfucking grandpa… they think they can take that away from me!!!!?? They had a poll up on their feed asking their followers: "HOW SHOULD WE DO THIS?" "Fuck showmanship!" I thought. This is why I lost sponsorships back in the day. Something about taking all of the trauma of an accident at once and having it "heal" up on its own built up a feeling of rage in me. I ran and scrambled onto Deever's shoulders. I grabbed his head by the jaw on both sides and stood up, one foot on each shoulder. I let out a roar and pulled with everything I had. The events of the last couple of hours overflowed and spilled out like boiling water from a pasta pot. I held Deever's freshly removed head above my own, screaming like an unhinged lunatic into the night. It felt cathartic. Before Dumfrey could react, I sloppily leapt from his brother's slowly falling corpse and planted my knees into his collarbones. I drove him to the ground and punched. I sort of zoned out for a minute. The rhythm reminded me of a roadbreaker machine. Boom. BOOM. BOOM! My heartbeat answered in double time boomboom boomboom boomboom. It was a violent synched up polyrhythm. When I stopped, I stood breathing heavy and fast, standing between the two corpses. I noticed every window of an occupied apartment was open, and devices all around were recording. The DUM DUM bros' orbiting broadcasters had me lit up like the Fourth of July. They had caught and shared every single bit of what had happened. I could see the holographic chat next to the drones circling around me slowly. The chat was going crazy, but I didn't have my glasses. I could only make out a few of the all-caps comments flying through the feed. DAMN LOOK AT ALL THAT BLOOD! HOW IS HE STILL STANDING! OLD BALLS OUT HERE WHOOPING THAT ASS I KNEW THESE DUDES WERE FRAUDS. SUCK-ASS BITCHES! THEYRE’GONNE BE PISSED WHEN THEY RESPAWN!!!! BURGER! IT'S THAT FUCKING BURGER MAN!?! WHO'S HUNGRY? I'M GONNA LOSE MY FUCKING HOUSE MY WIFE'S GOING TO LEAVE ME! "Oh well, fuck them," I thought. Still breathing heavily, I took a moment to look around. I knew the crowd and all the fans watching wanted me to say something. I hated this. I didn't want to do PR. They just picked the wrong dude this time. Grandpa, I remembered. I'd need some additional resources if I was going to get out of this system and be of any use to my family. Their brightly colored outfits were soiled from blood and the contents of their intestines. I spit on the corpse of one of them. I couldn't really tell which was which. I made an effort to put a little extra gravel and bass in my voice. I looked up at the broadcast drones and quietly exclaimed: "Don't start none… won't be none." "Huh," I thought. "Well, that could've gone worse." Probably will when they show back up at some point. Odds are high that they had resurrection insurance. Their DNA and memories up to that point were probably being reconstituted right now. No doubt fully funded by thier idiot fans from across the verse. Whatever. I’ll fuck em again. I walked back inside my place to the sound of applause and shouts from the block, through I barely heard it, I was sort of in my head and sort of coming back from an adrenaline dump/ The sounds of the block were muted with a layer of buzz like tinnitus over them. Time to take a shower and go the fuck to sleep. When I got back inside the apartment, Ziggy had brewed me a tea and patched up the window. I realized I no longer had a shower curtain or rod, and I was NOT taking a bath covered in this. I saw my reflection in the mirror. "Good god," I thought. Not an hour ago, I had seen a completely different person in that mirror. Now I saw a student double from the movie Carrie staring back. I annoyingly stared at my reflection, running through my options in my head as slop continued to slip off me and onto the floor. "COME ON, MAN! WHAT THE (moo cow) ARE YOU DOING TO ME HERE!!!! GO THE (chicken cluck) OUTSIDE! GOOD GOD (ding dong), DUDE, you think my only (duck quack) job is to clean up after yo ass. I have other responsibilities!" Ziggy continued bleeping at me. I looked down and had accidentally tracked remnants of Dumfrey and Deever from the street all the way back up here. Whoops. "Sorry, Ziggs. My bad." I grabbed an old BM (Burger Man) hoodie from the hall tree and wrapped it around my waist and headed out the door. My neighbor Anton was a Mechanical Intuitionist. He could look at machines and some technology and understand how to improve it almost instantly. He also worked VERY quickly. Unfortunately, MIs often got into contracts early on that sunset their earnings until later. That way, corps could forcibly hold onto them for years before they received any of the dividends from their patents. In a couple more years, his contract would end and he would be owed a middle-sized fortune. Enough for him, Dulce (his wife), and their kids to leave this place and retire somewhere nice. Dulce's ability mirrored Tony's well. Same as him, she could taste any dish then make a better version. She could literally make your mom's best recipe better than her. I loved going over and sharing dinner with them from time to time. Currently, Dulce and the kiddos were away getting their Space Ed implants updated. They'd be old enough to fly System 1's soon. SYS1's were little training vehicles only really large enough to sustain travel inside of a single system—that's a large generalization, though, and with Tony as their dad, he would most certainly modify it enough for them to be able to do much more. I knocked on his door. Tony answered wearing a no-ghost logo T-shirt, eating a slice of what looked like the best pizza I've ever seen. Dulce probably made it and left it for him. His eyes widened looking at me, cheese pull frozen briefly in time. "Uhhhhhh," Tony paused. "Hey, man, my shower's broken. Can I borrow yours?" I asked. "Yeah. You okay?" "Yeah. Just give me a couple minutes," I said as I tried to give him a tired smile. I waited for Tony to wave his index finger like he usually did to disable his security system. He stared at me before it clicked. "Oh," he said. "Wife and kids are outta town. I didn't turn the whole thing on. You're good." Tony must've really been in the zone on whatever he was working on. He's not usually that careless. I'd be lying if I wasn't blown away by Tony's shower. I knew about his skills and saw tons of his inventions and improvements, but I never really thought about his day-to-day use of them. When I got into the round marble cylinder, a calm relaxing voice with a thick north Mexico accent said: MOOD DETECTED. VITALS DETECTED. CLEANLINESS LEVEL DETECTED. SCENT CHOSEN. INITIATING. It was Dulce's voice. "That's so cute of them," I thought. "I'm gonna give him shit about his wife talking to me in the shower." I slightly chuckled at the immaturity of my own thoughts. Messing with someone the way a sibling would just to get a bit of a rise. The shower walls appeared to turn translucent, and it looked like I was in the middle of a Pacific coast forest. Sounds and all. I knew it was an optical illusion he had preprogrammed, but it was hard to convince my brain of that. A lemon-scented mist sprayed from all directions at different pressures until the refuse on my body was gone. Like a morning truck on the streets of New Orleans. The shower changed its temperature and pressures automatically while it read my vitals. Robotic massaging tentacles came out of the floor and ceiling. In the place where suction cups would be were vibrating soap-dispensing loofahs. The tentacles massaged and scrubbed me clean. It chose eucalyptus and mint for my scent. I hadn't been this relaxed in a bit. I had completely forgotten I just murdered two giant egg guys in self-defense. I had forgotten… Al. It came back to me. Grandfather. Way too young to be a grandpa. I thought I was barely even fifty. Well, I was barely even fifty-five. Where did those years go? Focus. I finished the shower, and my soiled hoodie lay clean and folded with some shorts and underwear next to the shower. Tony was a good dude. I dried off and walked out, joining Tony in his living room. He was playing a game with his feet up. When he heard me open the door, he just pointed to a glass of bourbon waiting for me on the table. Tony was a good dude. He was finishing up something from the inside of some VR room. I could see the light and hear faint sounds from around his visor. I plopped down and took a deep breath, relaxing. Tony pointed to the table in the middle of the room at an unmarked pizza box. Hell yeah. It was Dulce's. I grabbed a slice and watched a bit of the RFL. The idea was we could watch a more violent version of football, but without sentient life. Eventually, the robots became sentient, and now you felt bad for them sometimes too. It was still entertaining, though. I watched a robotic bull gore a robotic ninja for a turnover and a loss of downs while I slurped down the whiskey and pizza. Anton finished his work for now and checked in. "You're everywhere right now, man," Tony said, referring to trending posts and edits he had just seen in his visor. "I just wanted to get caught up while you showered." "Everywhere like, ha that's funny, or everywhere like this is about to be viral in a bad way?" "Most people would say viral in a good way," Tony quipped back, trying to get me to crack a little grin. "But it's neither, man," Tony said. "It already IS viral. Galactic." I closed my eyes and let out an exhale of frustration. Back in the Earth 21st century, when human content first started spreading like wildfire, there was only the term "viral." Post-Tumble, we learned there were levels of viral things could go. Galactic was near the top. I would be hounded daily now by people wanting to capitalize on the trend. Shit. I’m gonna need to find someone to help me blend in. I added that to the list for tomorrow on my holodeck. My holodeck bleeped at me as soon as I finished the entry.. It was Chris. "Hey, man, when I got to the corner, I made a bet on you to win! After seeing what you did this morning, I just felt it! Anyway, I've got a cut for you!" Damn, Chris always shows up in the clutch. The combo of the Dum Dum bros broadcasting their own demise and the post of me kicking Troy's ass an hour earlier. The current edits were showing me saying "never lost it…" and "don't start none, won't be none." I had a mentor once. I could hear him: "When the universe brings you a wave, ride it." He didn't even surf.
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CHAPTER 2: THE CALLI closed the holo-deck and leaned back into my couch, mouth slightly agape, breathing slowed. The gelato was dripping out of my pint onto the floor—to the absolute delight of Ziggy.
"Hell yes! Oh, mmmmmm, mmmmmm!" she exclaimed, way too loud for something her size. "That's exciting, right! Al moving on up, kicking ass, taking names, and now a little baby!? I'm so proud! Oooooooo. I'm gonna decorate a nursery!" She was one of Al's first projects—early AI in a mini cleaning bot. About the size and shape of a cantaloupe, pale pink, covered in old stickers we'd slapped on her over the years. Bands. Cartoons. Some demon baby thing with sharp teeth Al used to love. La Poopoo's or something like that. Ziggy's voice was based on one of Al's old educational assistants—back when schools had aides instead of full-blown AI packages. Loud, aggressive, a little country, a little hood. Al didn't need her, really. She was always too smart for school regardless of the era. But Ziggy soaked that personality right up and never let it go. Ziggy wasn't the fanciest model anymore—hell, you could buy bots now that cleaned, cooked, babysat, and wrote your memoirs for you—but for me, Ziggy was perfect. Right now, she was finishing up slurping the stracciatella I'd dripped. She rolled back, big blue monitor eyes looking up at me, reading my vitals, reading my face. Al had given her that ability too. Ziggy chirped, tilted her head, and asked: "You okay, big guy? Or do you need to poop? Wanna help clean out the old junk outta this guest room and set up a nursery?" I laughed, but only a little. Because the truth had just hit me like a dump truck: I was going to be a grandpa. "Grandpa Burger." Fuck. I realized I didn't even know if it was a boy or girl. Or who the other parent was. Or if there even WAS another parent. Al had said so little. But that was Al—tell you just enough to get you moving, figure out the rest later. I'd ask her next time we talked. The weight of it sat heavy like a pile of bricks on my chest. My place was clean but deteriorating. Littered with miscellaneous TLC repairs that needed to be done. My appearance, worse. A beard filled with refuse and melted cream stuck, scratched-up glasses sliding down my face, and a balding Albert Einstein wig. I looked like a half-shaved testicle with bifocals. I handed my glasses down to Ziggy for a buff and polish and shuffled toward the shower. Steam was already filling the room when I finally took a long look at myself in the mirror. When had I last done any self-care? "Self-care." Always sounded like a concept invented by people with too much free time. But staring at the man in that mirror? I felt guilty. I hadn't done him a single favor. And there he was, still showing up. A wave of emotion came hard. Eyes welled. But I did what I always did: caught it, shoved it down. "Don't feel sorry for yourself, you stupid fuck. This is why they left. This is why they always leave. You deserve it." The words were familiar, but the guy staring back didn't deserve it. I said them so many times they didn't even hurt anymore. That was good right? Not feeling it didn’t matter…right? He deserved help. He needed it. Why wouldn't I treat myself the way I treated a stray shopping cart? Put it back. Make it easier. Why not do that for myself? What would I tell Al? The house rules. The sayings. "Make a list, knock it out. Start small. Six easy things. If you don't get them all done? Move them to tomorrow." "You're not doing a chore. You're helping your future self. Tomorrow you'll say: thanks, past me!" "Don't put it down. Put it away. Save yourself the trouble later." "Every time you get up, do two things before you sit back down." "Bravery isn't not being afraid. Bravery is being afraid and doing it anyway." "You don't have to. You get to." Al had listened when she was younger. Maybe I should, too. I muttered to myself: Be like Al. Got the clippers. Shaved off the Gallagher wig I'd been unknowingly growing. Trimmed the beard down—not too close; no need to unleash the double chin. Food bits fell out. Gross. Hair in the sink, hair on the floor. Ziggy started vacuuming it up immediately, chirping: "'Bout damn time. Big man was starting to look rough." Didn't like hearing it. But she was right. She always was, when I was ready. She hummed "Affirmations" by Flippa T while she worked, throwing in her usual "HYPE ME UP! HYPE ME UP!" between beats. The steam, the shampoo, the running water—it calmed me down. I thought of Al. Of being a grandfather. Of what that meant. My grandfather hadn't been around. Cold. Distant. That wouldn't be me. Intrusive thoughts hit anyway. This apartment was my prison. When was the last time I did anything for joy? Where were my friends now? Breathing went shallow. Fast. Panic coming on. Box breathing. Four in. Hold. Six out. Hold. Focus on the water. On the steam. On the sound. Slowly, my chest unclenched. And when I finally calmed, I thought: I'm gonna be awesome at this. Smiled. Rinsed the soap away. Then I heard Ziggy scream, "HEY! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" I didn't have time to react before something grabbed me—shower curtain and all—and threw me through the window. One second, calm steam and eucalyptus. Next: glass exploding, humid night air, body twisting in freefall, wrapped in my vinyl curtain. Adrenaline spiked. Stick the landing, I thought. Just stick the-- WHAM. CRUNCH. Street cracked beneath me. Spiderweb of concrete. Pain lanced through every nerve—my resilience kept me alive, but it never kept me from feeling it. I screamed. Vision blurry without my glasses. Soap stung my eyes. Vinyl wrapped my limbs. I couldn't see, but I heard the voice. "You're gonna fucking pay for what you guys did to TROY!" That voice. Dumfrey. CHAPTER 1: THE ROBBERYBlueberry City. Inner-city gas station. Small-time robbery in progress.
Fluorescent lights hummed over the cracked asphalt lot, painting the dusk in sickly yellow. Everyone's been in one of these places—the kind of gas station you only pull into when you're lost, on fumes, or one bad burrito away from disaster, because you sure as hell wouldn't stop to go number one. Ads plastered every window, some corporate slick, others Sharpie-scrawled on water damaged neon poster board. Trash littered the concrete. Inside, the products were old, the aisles were narrow, like the store had been designed by a sadist who hated claustrophobics. They had good burgers, though. Tonight, Chris was getting robbed by Troy. Everyone on the block knew Troy. Called himself T-ROY—real clever, right? He was Acid Class, the lowest rung of the ladder. Spit, smoke, jets of burning green—you know, acid guys. Odds were he was after cash to score some boom sticks or maybe a neutralizing inhaler to calm the reflux. Troy was lucky. If Chris hadn't already used his summon earlier in the day, he would've been nothing but an acid stain in the parking lot. Chris could call up one hellhound per day—weak compared to other summoners, who could stack creatures like Pokémon trainers on meth. But this morning, someone mouthed off to him on the subway, and he burned his summon chasing them back underground. He laughed it off then. Now, not so funny. Troy hadn't seen me yet. Good for me. Good for Chris. Bad for Troy. Normally we all kept it cool, but sometimes people were assholes and emotions are messy. Tonight's real problem? I hadn't eaten since yesterday. This whole "intermittent fasting" thing wasn't working. Chris's gas station might've been a dump, but he made a decent burger for cheap, and it was right down the street from my place. Now here I was: starving, cranky, and watching a friend get robbed by an acid-spitting "acquaintance." I wasn't going to enjoy this. First, I didn't hate Troy, but you don't shit where you eat. Second, he looked like he was using. Acid leaked around him in a green, smoky haze, dripping down his chin like he'd bitten into a radioactive apple. I'd feel a little guilty blindsiding him—not much, but a little. The real problem was fighting acid still burns. My resilience doesn't mean I don't feel pain. Punch acid? Feels like punching acid. I could kick him, but I didn't want to ruin my slippers. I crept in just out of his eyeline. But I forgot the dumb convex mirror in the corner. He didn't. Troy turned. I reacted. Goodbye, slippers. They were replicas from that old True Genius movie with Val Kilmer—little pink bunny flats. Well, now one flat. I Spartan-kicked Troy away from the register, through the doors, past the pumps, and into the street. Bad timing. A dump truck nailed him, and a street sweeper pushed the smoking mess into the gutter. He'd probably re-congeal later. A kid at the door live-streamed the whole thing. "Fuck me, not again," I muttered, burger in hand. Before the kid even said it, I knew the words. "MR CHEESEBURGER!" It's been three generations since "The Tumble." Nobody agrees on what caused it. Particle reactors? Fusion? The Singularity? Some say it was spiritual, some say cosmic—doesn't matter. The gist is, EVERYTHING is real. Your favorite cartoon character? Yup, here, now, tangible, exists. Then just apply that idea toward everything. Every food, every god, every device, every imaginative force, parallel versions of you, teleportation, interstellar travel, low-interest banking, all-you-can-eat buffets. All of it. As far as how people manifest powers, we aren't really sure about that either. No observables could explain abilities or biological changes. Some people say it's "purpose." Others say it's random. Not that it really matters, because if you can get the means, you can be changed into anything you want. Find a wish, or get a djinn to grant you one—although that's usually a monkey's paw sort of thing. You could find a bio-engineer or robotics care center and have yourself operated on to achieve the same effect. So really, anyone could become anything with enough luck and opportunity. For me, it is what it is. My defined class was hero. I can lift a ton or so, probably more if I worked out, but that wasn't really my thing. There were guilds and ranks all around the planet and verse, but I was never really interested. I liked to teach. History specifically. I had been doing it for almost two decades. From what I read, teachers used to be paid very little back before the overhaul. Compared to what they were paid now, it was a fortune. Makes sense. Information uploads were relatively cheap. Especially the universal basic. A week of uploads to your brain and implants and you'd be good to go. I really enjoyed the storytelling portion of it. I always felt like context was lost by relying only on uploads. "Ayyyy! Cheeseburger!" Ah fuck. Another "fan." Through a set of circumstantial coincidental horseshit, my name had become "Mr. Cheeseburger." Mr. Hamburger. Cheeburger. Cheesy Burgers. Hamburgers. Burgerman… you get the idea. Most of the population streams everything. Attention and sharing is something that sort of keeps the cosmos spinning. After the overhaul, Earth was now on the universal map. New and entertaining beings from all over tuned in. In the grand scheme of things, we were still the new kids on the block, so attention was relatively easy if you wanted some. I never liked the idea of fifteen minutes of fame. I wished I could find fifteen minutes of peace. As for the burger moniker—when I was more of an active hero, a streamer created an edit and realized more times than not there was a burger present somewhere. A sign, in my hand, someone else happened to be eating one. After they created the edit and pushed it out, no one remembered my superhero name anymore. I just became Burger Man. I hated it at first. But once people started buying me lunch and I got a corporate sponsor, it wasn't so bad. Turns out I wasn't the corporate type. I was let go from my contracts after violating their "code of conduct." Whatever, fuck them. Back then I was better about going to a gravity gym. Really, the most effective way for supes to push strength training. I could bench over two tons then, but there is very little use for benching in peacekeeping. Some people used the term "crime fighting." But I liked the idea of avoiding fighting altogether. You only have to misjudge how strong you are once to realize the far-reaching impact of the power you have. I was a fairly low-tier strength supe compared to the big dogs. But to normal people, I might as well have been Captain America. Not to be disrespectful, but I met him once. I think I could take him... Punk-ass cop wannabe. I always felt my real strength was my resilience. If I was Captain America-tier at strength, there was basically no limit to the damage I could take. Downside was I could still feel all of the pain associated with an injury and the healing aftereffects. So if I was hit with something that would break someone's leg, my pain receptors would feel the break, the swelling, the mending, and whatever else came along with it all at once. It sucks, but it makes me indestructible, so I guess my real power is that I can get back up more times than anyone else. Other than that, everything about me seemed to function normally. No crazy improved memory, I still need glasses for things far away, and male pattern baldness is still a thing. After my fall-off years ago, I took up teaching full-time trying to escape the burger mania. I dress down and try to blend in. It works most of the time. Sometimes I still get recognized like a celebrity past their prime, but usually it takes the correct context. Like Spartan-kicking an ODing acid class 150 feet into a gutter while holding a hamburger. I sighed to myself frustratingly. I pursed my lips and smiled at Chris. "Fuck yeah, dude! Thanks for the assist. This one's on me!" Chris proclaimed, gifting me the burger as a thank-you. "Why do you like these things so much? They aren't even that good." He was right. They weren't. His burgers tasted like the old Cisco burgers from grade school. Precooked, mostly steamed, probably some soy and liquid smoke in 'em. But the seasoning of nostalgia goes a long way. I liked 'em, and I didn't mind a free dinner from a buddy for helping him out. "I just do, man. I'm gonna go catch up with Al. I'll holler at you later!" Al was my daughter. Alexandra. But I had called her Al since she was born. Taking care of her got me through a lot. She was very smart. A side effect of her class, but I always thought she would be that smart anyway. After I went back to teaching, Al had grown old enough to make her way in the verse, and she tired of Earth. I couldn't blame her. The rest of the Verse seemed cool, and the world—or kosmos, or whatever—was her oyster. Universal instant communication existed, but calling plans were cheaper and easier for family members. I had become too clingy a couple of years ago, and she changed her plan. Now I had to call her using a holodeck. It was about the size of a deck of cards and could project holographic images into a space in your proximity. The size and color of the projection could be altered and edited depending on which model deck you had. She was right to put me at arm's length for a while. I was a bit too intrusive and involved in her life and not enough in my own. She tried to explain it to me many times. It wasn't that I didn't listen. I was just dumber than her. It's like she had a giant box of crayons and showed me the lime green color, and I only had yellow and green. It took me a few years of self-reflection and understanding before I got it. She was independent now, and she loved me, but her life was her own now. And mine was mine. Still, catching up with her on our monthly call was always the best part of my month. My favorite 12 days of the year. I headed back to my apartment, picking up trash as I went. There were plenty of street cleaning robots and creatures, but it always just seemed like I should help pick up anyway. You know what I mean? Leave it cleaner than you found it, like the Boy Scout saying. It always just made sense to me. If you like a place, treat it well and it will treat you well. I picked up a trash can, threw in my wrapper, then picked up the little cleaner bot, set him right, and sent it on his way. The overhaul had given opportunities and resources to everyone who had neither before. Housing was affordable, and homelessness could be gone entirely. Though some rejected the idea of homes and liked living outdoors for a whole variety of reasons, and they were allowed to. Why wouldn't they be? Whole universe full of possibilities, but not everyone wants adventure. Some people just want to be left alone and chill out. So they did. Mostly. My place was an old Brownstone. It reminded me of old pictures of New York or a Sesame Street set or that one Sherlock show that was in New York with Lucy Liu. Nothing crazy with today's resources, but I loved it. I got a pint of ice cream out of the freezer, grabbed a quick shower, put on my jammies and a show, and waited for Al's call. Ziggy blared "Hey Jessie!"—the theme from a classic old TV show Al used to like for some reason. Maybe because she was motherly and organized, she always liked the idea of taking care of others. It's the real reason she joined LifeUnited™.Anyways. The theme was her ringtone. She preferred using Ziggy’s custom communicator versus the holodeck. Something about her using two photons that moved the same way made it better. Al had what was called Advanced Hyper Focus. For all of the abilities that existed out there, hers was rare. After the reconditioning, civilizations from all over were able to make contact, establish contact, or fully discover other civilizations and life forms they were previously unaware of. Because of the introduction of previously fictional means of travel into reality, there really was a place somewhere for everyone. But different races and cultures had different priorities. Some always knew where to go, others (like us here on Earth) had a more difficult time understanding purpose and meaning. Eh, we were working on it. We were a millennia behind others out there. Give us a break. LifeUnited™ was basically a galactic Peace Corps with better funding and occasionally controversial methods. They'd existed long before the Tumble. After, they had more resources and personnel available than ever. They would find planets and systems that needed help and deliver medicine, set up transportation, technology, education. They were really cool in theory. Al's AHF ability allowed her to see things in most subjects others could literally only imagine. She had created many useful devices to help us when she was young. Most of them still worked. Before she left a few years back to run the universe with LifeUnited™, she’d created a gift for me. Everything she did was over my head. Once she studied something, she had a photographic copy of the concepts, which she could refocus toward other subjects and connect missing bridges in information. Well, that's how she explained it to me once. It basically meant she was so smart that she could create anything. The gift was a small box, that through some mix of science, tech, and/or magic (she studied everything—books, kinetics, you name it) had the ability to give you back an object you had lost at some point. The box was small. About the size of a regular tissue box, not the cube kind. She was very clear with me not to waste it. That I would need it someday. Hyper intelligence was technically a "side effect" of her AHF, but the real side effects weren't given the same attention. Anxiety. Depression. Social isolation. And sometimes bipolar mood swings. To me, those were the real side effects. Al had found ways to mitigate those through various means and had essentially cured herself with her own inventions. Tech, magic, medicine, combos of both. She couldn't fully get rid of them, or her AHF wouldn't be as strong. Or so she said, and who was I to argue. I knew she knew more than me, and she had made that clear. Oh well, not much I can do about that. "Hey, girl! What's up? Gimme the deets!" "Hey, Dad! It's all good here. We spent the last month out in Peles—one of many Dungeons & Dragons-themed worlds that had appeared from the Tumble. My data was correct, and they needed help stopping a lich from trying to ruin the universe. Every step of our plan went off without a hitch.” She looked tired. More than tired—wired. Like she'd been awake for days and was running on adrenaline and caffeine. Her eyes kept flicking to something off-screen. "You okay, kiddo?" I asked. "Yeah, yeah. Just... long mission. We're wrapping up soon." She forced a smile. "How are you?" It felt rehearsed. But I let it go. Having an AHF class on an exploration vessel was basically the safest, most efficient way to operate in the galaxy. Having one on a combat vessel was bad news for everyone. There's this one book from the 20th century on Earth about a boy that commits a genocide on an entire alien race because of his advanced intelligence. It was pretty much the same thing here. Luckily Al wasn't a psychopathic lunatic and instead wanted to help people. She probably got that from her mom… me too, I guess. I didn't like thinking about her mom. She had fallen off a cliff in a car. She died. I stalled on that thought for a moment. Nope. That's just what I had wanted to happen. The truth is she left because I wasn't available. Emotionally. Physically. But she had started that through years of neglect and... I caught myself starting a spiral. We just weren't supposed to be together. Didn't fit. She was a teacher too and had chosen someone else..After the Tumble, they left. Chased their purpose somewhere else. I didn't ask where. Didn't need to know. Big universe out there. "Proud of you, girl! Always am! You look great!" "What happened to your slipper?" I looked toward the door at my one pink slipper intact and the other had almost finished melting into a glop of sludge. "Oh. Acid class. It was over quick. I was just helping out Chris." "Tell Chris I said hey! Were you over there getting one of his gross burgers again?" "…No." "Dad." "What? I like 'em!" "When you have a heart attack, your power is really gonna make you feel it." I shrugged. "Oh well." "Dad. You need to take better care of yourself. Have you found a job?" I, uh... "I'm still looking. I substitute teach sometimes." (That was a lie.) "And I still have plenty left from the burger franchises." (Also a lie.) "Plenty?" "Yeah." (Lie.) The truth was I picked up odd jobs when I needed scratch. Sometimes people just needed some muscle. Never anything nefarious, usually like moving heavy things or standing guard somewhere. I really liked reading at the public library, but that didn't pay, and it was rare people showed up anymore. When I was younger, it was still a thing. Now about halfway through life, culture had changed, and the world didn't look like it used to post-Tumble. And I DID like to substitute teach, but the market for teachers was so small, opportunities no longer really existed. I could've tried streaming and monetized myself, but that seemed like a fate worse than death. "Well, I have some news…" |
AuthorVoice actor, art history teacher, and storyteller from Houston, Texas. I've spent 15 years in classrooms teaching everything from Renaissance masters to AP Art History, while building a voice acting career working with clients like Nike and Disney. When I'm not grading papers or recording characters, I'm writing sci-fi, creating fantasy audio dramas set in the world of Mersad, or painting Houston landmarks. This blog is where I share thoughts on art, creativity, voice work, teaching, and the stories that shape us. ArchivesCategories |
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