[story] refuse
author: jsg (rijsg)
"What happened to all the heroes?"
It's a good question. To say the world's a shithole with no one left to save is being a little optimistic. "There are no heroes left," I tell him, "There were never any to begin with."
The kid looks at me, the crazy lady that answered his idle question to no one. His eyes widen, star-struck at the sight of me. I'm not used to getting that look much these days. "But aren't you one?" he asks. I really hate being recognized. "You're Karen Kursch."
"I know who I am, kid," I bark, and I probably sound a little harsh, but whatever. Ask me if I care. "And I'm no hero." One day, people will stop thinking I am.
Who am I kidding? These assholes will never stop wanting me to save them. Sure, I stopped that annoying mad scientist a few years back, and yeah, I saved the world from an alien invasion, but I'm not a fucking hero. No one is. Being a real hero requires giving a shit, and I sure as hell don't.
"Why did you disappear?"
"Because I'm not a Goddamn hero." It's the truth. I'm an easily-angered, irritable bitch who yells at kids, as it turns out. Sure doesn't sound heroic to me. "Save yourself if you need saving. I don't want to."
He must be only eleven or twelve, and with his striped shirt, baseball cap, and dirty blonde hair, he's about as all-American as apple pie, conspiracy nuts, and pardoning rapists. I can't help feeling like I just crushed his dreams or something. Oh well. That'll teach him to pin his dreams on me. I almost feel sorry for the kid, having to grow up in this shit-sack of a world. Even without any super villains trying to take over or destroy everything, the regular people are doing a good enough job of it themselves. He really does just want someone to make things better. Everyone does, but no one will ever fucking do anything about it.
Who am I to break the trend of waiting and wishing? Just because I'm Karen Kursch, bad-ass action woman, doesn't mean I can do much. Fly, withstand bullets, punch like a wrecking ball on steroids after four cycles of P90X, sure, but I don't see how that makes me special. I guess I can be a superhero, but I already tried that and it didn't work out. I got fired from it years ago. Fucking government. One day I'll get around to tearing down the Pentagon or something for what they did to me.
The kid looks heartbroken, which makes him seem even more like all of America. That's what you get for thinking all of the public image PR horseshit is the real Karen. Whatever, though. Everybody's got to learn about disappointment and being let down sometime. I figure who better to learn it from than me, so I tell him to fuck off and go about my shitty day.
I use the little bit of cash in my pocket to buy a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Unfortunately, I don't have the money to pay for all of the bottles I break when I try to pick them up. (Fuck you, super strength.) The shopkeeper tries to make me work it off by cleaning the store for a few hours. Fortunately, I get kicked out after fifteen minutes because I keep breaking everything. (Thank you, super strength.)
The glory days, I think as I take a long swig of that sweet, burning whiskey, are over.Then I grab the bottleneck just a tiny bit too hard and it shatters from the pressure, drenching my face and shirt in whiskey and broken glass. Or maybe I should say broken dreams instead.
Oh yeah. The glory days are very, very over.
I throw what's left of the bottle into the stratosphere and walk off, reeking of Jack. (It's probably the best I've smelled in weeks.) I think about stealing some more, because I don't have the money and Goddamn it I want to get drunk, but robbing a liquor store is low even for me. Those places sell sunshine and happiness, and far be it from me to attack them for all the good they do for the world. I'll just worry about things like rent and booze money later. Maybe some demolition work will turn up soon. I smash a $2.00 newspaper stand, take about a dozen copies, and head home.
Once upon a time, I used to be a superhero.
My bitchy landlady, Miss Kenner, doesn't let me open the front door to the building myself. And she doesn't let me knock, either. We both know how that one turns out. So instead, I yell. "Hey! It's Karen! Let me the fuck in!" I see her through the glass, sighing like it's such a fucking chore to walk twenty feet and open a door to let me in. Then I think, I wouldn't be happy if I was staying in my building, either. I float up to the fourth floor, feet a few inches above the stairs. Miss Kenner follows me and opens the door to my apartment for me. She leaves and mumbles something in an irritated voice, thinking I don't hear her. Bitch.
See, Superman's a lie. If you want to know what super strength is really like, just stand a dime on its edge and then poke it repeatedly without knocking it over. That's me with doors and glasses and everything else that I used to take for granted. There's no reining it in, not really. The story that says Superman can just drink a glass of milk or open a door or fuck his wife is all a load of bullshit. I shatter glasses, most doors I try to open get torn off their hinges, and the last time I tried to get laid we never got past the foreplay. Poor guy went to the emergency room with a severely fractured skull.
Back when I worked for the government, I had people to do that shit for me, or build things strong enough for me to handle, which the bastards kept after they fired me. Bastards just threw me out with all the other refuse. It's been years and I'll admit it, I'm still fucking bitter.
Refuse... Now there's a good way to describe my life at this point. I live in an apartment I can't afford that isn't even furnished because I'd just break everything. To call this place a piece of shit would be a compliment. It looks kind of like a run-down crack house, but half as pretty. I haven't been kicked out because Miss Kenner's scared of me. That's understandable, considering I could throw her into the ocean from here.
I sigh and plop down on the dusty mattress (no bed frame), sending a gray cloud dispersing into the air, and stare at the spinning ceiling fan. It's on low, which is nowhere near cool enough for this summer, especially since my window's broken, but I'm not about to try and pull that little string to change the speed.
I tear the first of my stolen newspapers in half trying to open it, then the second and the third. After four more, I rip another two just out of frustration. Too many tries later and I finally manage to get the classified ads. There's nothing I'm qualified for, of course. Everything requires a delicate touch, like garbage collector or jackhammer operator. It doesn't look like there are any real demo jobs, at least not in this paper. I begin to wonder when City Hall will get off its ass and condemn some more projects so I can tear them down. I think my building is first on the list, and if you ask me it's overdue.
I used to be the most beloved woman in America and now I'm out of work and everyone's too scared of me to help me out. I mean, I did rip someone in half in front of a large crowd, but a job's a job.
Sometimes I regret that one, even though he had it coming. He was the last super villain and I killed him. Maybe if I still had someone to punch so that people could feel safe and cozy, I wouldn't be in this situation. But no, pull one guy apart like a wishbone and suddenly you're a scary, crazy bitch instead of a real life superhero. They all forgot about the time I saved this whole planet from an alien invasion. Now it's just "She can't take people's lives into her own hands like that!" (And for the record, that was an order from higher up, fuck you very much.)
Well, whatever. The fact is that I'm not a hero anymore. I'm just an angry, jaded bitch far removed from the best days of her life.
I used to think that maybe tomorrow will be a better day, but I gave up on that one a long time ago. Every day's exactly the same. Tomorrow will be just like today, and so will the next day, and so will the next one. Only I probably won't have any booze, so I guess technically that means tomorrow will be a worse day.
Fuck my life.
Yep. Today's the same as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. I wake up to a world of shit every morning, except for the times when I wake up to a world of shit in the afternoon. This time it's morning; I can tell by the way that big yellow bastard in the sky laughs at me through the window. God, I hate the sun in my eyes when I wake up, so of course my window fucking stares wide-eyed right at it. I always try to sleep until noon to avoid the fucker, but it doesn't always work.
I yawn, stretch, and when I'm feeling almost like a human being I pull open my translucent white curtains and try to enjoy the morning breeze on my skin. I also take the time to give the sun two middle fingers and a hearty "fuck you!" at the top of my lungs. I sleep without a shirt so standing at my window like this should bother me, but concepts like giving a shit joined everyone else in abandoning me a few years ago. Besides, it might even give some enterprising paparazzo a dumb tabloid scoop. I imagine the headline in big red print: "Bad-Ass Bruiser Bares Bulletproof Boobs." It is very sad.
Especially since no one even cares enough to camp outside my window for pictures.
I decide that breakfast is more important than getting dressed and hassle with that instead. I've long since given up on things like cooking real food, so I eat some bread and mixed nuts. I break the jar and they spill everywhere. A quick, desperate search confirms my fears that I don't have any booze left.
I hear a knock at the door, and a few seconds later another, louder one. I ignore them both. They obviously have the wrong place. I mean, who the hell wants to see me of all people?
Then the knob turns and the door opens, its hinges creaking loudly. I never bother locking my door because it's not like anyone can shoot or stab or kidnap me, and I don't have anything worth stealing. Someone broke in here to steal from me once and left what he'd already looted here with me. He said I needed it way more than he did. Plus, trying to work that little twisty lock would just ruin the doorknob, and after the last six doorknobs I'm not allowed to touch it.
"Hey? Karen?" someone says as she opens the door just in time to see me mostly naked picking almonds off the dirty floor and putting them in my mouth. I wasn't kidding with that refuse comment. "What the hell?"
"Who the fuck are you?" I snap. Embarrassment is for the weak. Also, I seem to be making her a little uncomfortable. This makes me happy. Eating off a floor that hasn't been vacuumed in about six months will get that reaction from people. Or it could be my bulletproof boobs that do it. Either way works for me.
She cocks an eyebrow and folds her arms, like I'm the one who did something wrong. "You really don't remember me?" She has to take a pause so she can gag at the smell. I smell like an old homeless man who spent every handout he ever got on the hardest liquor available, and the only way my apartment could smell worse is if I smoked-a habit I was forced to give up due to an inability to hold cigarettes without my fingers cutting them in half like a pair of scissors.
"I just asked who the fuck you are, didn't I?" I say in a deadpan voice.
"Anna Hernandez?" she says. "We only went to college together for two years."
"Oh, shit. Yeah, now I'm starting to see it." I never would have recognized Anna if she hadn't told me. She's a lot thinner than she used to be, and her wild brown mop of art student hair is now a tight, businesslike ponytail. I don't think I've ever seen her dressed nicely, but she's wearing a pressed black suit and some stylish glasses that make her look very professional. She's clearly moved up in the world since our days of hard partying, weed smoking, and class skipping.
Compare to one Karen Kursh, eating off of the floor, naked, with messy, unwashed blonde hair. I can't remember what nicely pressed clothes even feel like. When I stand up I can instantly feel that my ass is covered in dust.
"Well, welcome to my mansion." I spread my arms wide and spin around like I was inviting her into the Playboy Mansion or something. I make sure to show off the dirty pile of clothes in the corner, and the spilled food, and the broken furniture. There's a rat hole in the wall, but I haven't seen that furry little monster in weeks. I think it starved to death. "Being the most famous woman in the world has some pretty nice perks."
I think she would have laughed, but seeing my one-bedroom shithole, the world's foremost theatre of dust and grime, she just gives me this sad look of pity. I'm pretty sure that's the correct response to meeting me these days.
"You're not the most famous woman in the world," she says.
"I used to be," I remind her. This time she does laugh-it's fake-and she starts to give me a hug like an old friend, but I can tell it's awkward for her. I think she's scared of getting her clothes dirty by touching me. I make it even more awkward by not reciprocating, which is far better than if I did and broke her in half, so whatever. "I should probably get dressed, huh?"
"Couldn't hurt."
It takes a few tries. I rip a pair of jeans in half trying to get them on, but the second pair goes better. I break some new holes in three t-shirts before Anna offers to help. I feel a little embarrassed from all this. I know, I'm surprised, too. I'm not supposed to have any dignity left. My plain white t-shirt has a big stain on it. It smells like whiskey. It's the cleanest shirt I have. "Sorry," I say.
"It's fine," she says in the most uncomfortable voice I've ever heard.
"Now here's the important question: Why are you here? And I'm sure as shit not going to believe you just want to catch up with an old friend. People only come to me if they have a reason."
She folds her arms and leans against the wall. Then she realizes my dusty wall and her clean black jacket shouldn't even be in the same time zone as one another so she pushes off and pats down what she can reach of her back. She doesn't want to be here. Not one little bit. I can understand the feeling, because I don't want to be here one little bit either.
"You've gotten really cynical since college," she says.
"Yep. Now why are you here?"
"All right, all right." She pulls out a badge. "We need your help."
Well then. The assholes want me back, and they send my old college friend as an olive branch. "With what?"
"Classified. You have to say yes before I can tell you. It's big, though. National security big."
I used to work for the government. I know exactly what "classified" means. It means they fucked up and they need me to clean up their mess. If it was somebody else's mess they'd be at least a little up front about it so I'd know what I was getting into.
"I need more details than that," I tell her, mostly because I know she can't give me more details than that.
Anna keeps quiet, just like I expected. I match her silence, and her gaze. She's the first one to speak. "Karen, yes or no? You can stop living like this, you know."
Well, there it is. I can get out of this life I hate and start doing some good again. It's the chance I've been waiting years for but never expected would come. It's pretty fucking hard to hold back a smile at the thought of climbing up out of all the refuse.
"Fine," I say. "No."
"What?"
"No. Forget it. Fuck you. Clean up your own damn mess." I want to make some big gesture, slam my hand on a table or something, but I can't. "You motherfuckers threw me away once. I'm not some old toy you can just put away and take out when you need it."
"Karen," she yells, "This is bigger than you. This concerns-"
"-Everyone? Public safety? A bunch of people I've saved time and time again who won't even give me the time of day anymore?" Fuck them all, I say. Like I said, I used to be a hero.
Now, I just don't care.
"Stop waiting for a hero and just help yourself. I'm done with this shit.
"I refuse."
the end
"What happened to all the heroes?"
It's a good question. To say the world's a shithole with no one left to save is being a little optimistic. "There are no heroes left," I tell him, "There were never any to begin with."
The kid looks at me, the crazy lady that answered his idle question to no one. His eyes widen, star-struck at the sight of me. I'm not used to getting that look much these days. "But aren't you one?" he asks. I really hate being recognized. "You're Karen Kursch."
"I know who I am, kid," I bark, and I probably sound a little harsh, but whatever. Ask me if I care. "And I'm no hero." One day, people will stop thinking I am.
Who am I kidding? These assholes will never stop wanting me to save them. Sure, I stopped that annoying mad scientist a few years back, and yeah, I saved the world from an alien invasion, but I'm not a fucking hero. No one is. Being a real hero requires giving a shit, and I sure as hell don't.
"Why did you disappear?"
"Because I'm not a Goddamn hero." It's the truth. I'm an easily-angered, irritable bitch who yells at kids, as it turns out. Sure doesn't sound heroic to me. "Save yourself if you need saving. I don't want to."
He must be only eleven or twelve, and with his striped shirt, baseball cap, and dirty blonde hair, he's about as all-American as apple pie, conspiracy nuts, and pardoning rapists. I can't help feeling like I just crushed his dreams or something. Oh well. That'll teach him to pin his dreams on me. I almost feel sorry for the kid, having to grow up in this shit-sack of a world. Even without any super villains trying to take over or destroy everything, the regular people are doing a good enough job of it themselves. He really does just want someone to make things better. Everyone does, but no one will ever fucking do anything about it.
Who am I to break the trend of waiting and wishing? Just because I'm Karen Kursch, bad-ass action woman, doesn't mean I can do much. Fly, withstand bullets, punch like a wrecking ball on steroids after four cycles of P90X, sure, but I don't see how that makes me special. I guess I can be a superhero, but I already tried that and it didn't work out. I got fired from it years ago. Fucking government. One day I'll get around to tearing down the Pentagon or something for what they did to me.
The kid looks heartbroken, which makes him seem even more like all of America. That's what you get for thinking all of the public image PR horseshit is the real Karen. Whatever, though. Everybody's got to learn about disappointment and being let down sometime. I figure who better to learn it from than me, so I tell him to fuck off and go about my shitty day.
I use the little bit of cash in my pocket to buy a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Unfortunately, I don't have the money to pay for all of the bottles I break when I try to pick them up. (Fuck you, super strength.) The shopkeeper tries to make me work it off by cleaning the store for a few hours. Fortunately, I get kicked out after fifteen minutes because I keep breaking everything. (Thank you, super strength.)
The glory days, I think as I take a long swig of that sweet, burning whiskey, are over.Then I grab the bottleneck just a tiny bit too hard and it shatters from the pressure, drenching my face and shirt in whiskey and broken glass. Or maybe I should say broken dreams instead.
Oh yeah. The glory days are very, very over.
I throw what's left of the bottle into the stratosphere and walk off, reeking of Jack. (It's probably the best I've smelled in weeks.) I think about stealing some more, because I don't have the money and Goddamn it I want to get drunk, but robbing a liquor store is low even for me. Those places sell sunshine and happiness, and far be it from me to attack them for all the good they do for the world. I'll just worry about things like rent and booze money later. Maybe some demolition work will turn up soon. I smash a $2.00 newspaper stand, take about a dozen copies, and head home.
Once upon a time, I used to be a superhero.
My bitchy landlady, Miss Kenner, doesn't let me open the front door to the building myself. And she doesn't let me knock, either. We both know how that one turns out. So instead, I yell. "Hey! It's Karen! Let me the fuck in!" I see her through the glass, sighing like it's such a fucking chore to walk twenty feet and open a door to let me in. Then I think, I wouldn't be happy if I was staying in my building, either. I float up to the fourth floor, feet a few inches above the stairs. Miss Kenner follows me and opens the door to my apartment for me. She leaves and mumbles something in an irritated voice, thinking I don't hear her. Bitch.
See, Superman's a lie. If you want to know what super strength is really like, just stand a dime on its edge and then poke it repeatedly without knocking it over. That's me with doors and glasses and everything else that I used to take for granted. There's no reining it in, not really. The story that says Superman can just drink a glass of milk or open a door or fuck his wife is all a load of bullshit. I shatter glasses, most doors I try to open get torn off their hinges, and the last time I tried to get laid we never got past the foreplay. Poor guy went to the emergency room with a severely fractured skull.
Back when I worked for the government, I had people to do that shit for me, or build things strong enough for me to handle, which the bastards kept after they fired me. Bastards just threw me out with all the other refuse. It's been years and I'll admit it, I'm still fucking bitter.
Refuse... Now there's a good way to describe my life at this point. I live in an apartment I can't afford that isn't even furnished because I'd just break everything. To call this place a piece of shit would be a compliment. It looks kind of like a run-down crack house, but half as pretty. I haven't been kicked out because Miss Kenner's scared of me. That's understandable, considering I could throw her into the ocean from here.
I sigh and plop down on the dusty mattress (no bed frame), sending a gray cloud dispersing into the air, and stare at the spinning ceiling fan. It's on low, which is nowhere near cool enough for this summer, especially since my window's broken, but I'm not about to try and pull that little string to change the speed.
I tear the first of my stolen newspapers in half trying to open it, then the second and the third. After four more, I rip another two just out of frustration. Too many tries later and I finally manage to get the classified ads. There's nothing I'm qualified for, of course. Everything requires a delicate touch, like garbage collector or jackhammer operator. It doesn't look like there are any real demo jobs, at least not in this paper. I begin to wonder when City Hall will get off its ass and condemn some more projects so I can tear them down. I think my building is first on the list, and if you ask me it's overdue.
I used to be the most beloved woman in America and now I'm out of work and everyone's too scared of me to help me out. I mean, I did rip someone in half in front of a large crowd, but a job's a job.
Sometimes I regret that one, even though he had it coming. He was the last super villain and I killed him. Maybe if I still had someone to punch so that people could feel safe and cozy, I wouldn't be in this situation. But no, pull one guy apart like a wishbone and suddenly you're a scary, crazy bitch instead of a real life superhero. They all forgot about the time I saved this whole planet from an alien invasion. Now it's just "She can't take people's lives into her own hands like that!" (And for the record, that was an order from higher up, fuck you very much.)
Well, whatever. The fact is that I'm not a hero anymore. I'm just an angry, jaded bitch far removed from the best days of her life.
I used to think that maybe tomorrow will be a better day, but I gave up on that one a long time ago. Every day's exactly the same. Tomorrow will be just like today, and so will the next day, and so will the next one. Only I probably won't have any booze, so I guess technically that means tomorrow will be a worse day.
Fuck my life.
Yep. Today's the same as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. I wake up to a world of shit every morning, except for the times when I wake up to a world of shit in the afternoon. This time it's morning; I can tell by the way that big yellow bastard in the sky laughs at me through the window. God, I hate the sun in my eyes when I wake up, so of course my window fucking stares wide-eyed right at it. I always try to sleep until noon to avoid the fucker, but it doesn't always work.
I yawn, stretch, and when I'm feeling almost like a human being I pull open my translucent white curtains and try to enjoy the morning breeze on my skin. I also take the time to give the sun two middle fingers and a hearty "fuck you!" at the top of my lungs. I sleep without a shirt so standing at my window like this should bother me, but concepts like giving a shit joined everyone else in abandoning me a few years ago. Besides, it might even give some enterprising paparazzo a dumb tabloid scoop. I imagine the headline in big red print: "Bad-Ass Bruiser Bares Bulletproof Boobs." It is very sad.
Especially since no one even cares enough to camp outside my window for pictures.
I decide that breakfast is more important than getting dressed and hassle with that instead. I've long since given up on things like cooking real food, so I eat some bread and mixed nuts. I break the jar and they spill everywhere. A quick, desperate search confirms my fears that I don't have any booze left.
I hear a knock at the door, and a few seconds later another, louder one. I ignore them both. They obviously have the wrong place. I mean, who the hell wants to see me of all people?
Then the knob turns and the door opens, its hinges creaking loudly. I never bother locking my door because it's not like anyone can shoot or stab or kidnap me, and I don't have anything worth stealing. Someone broke in here to steal from me once and left what he'd already looted here with me. He said I needed it way more than he did. Plus, trying to work that little twisty lock would just ruin the doorknob, and after the last six doorknobs I'm not allowed to touch it.
"Hey? Karen?" someone says as she opens the door just in time to see me mostly naked picking almonds off the dirty floor and putting them in my mouth. I wasn't kidding with that refuse comment. "What the hell?"
"Who the fuck are you?" I snap. Embarrassment is for the weak. Also, I seem to be making her a little uncomfortable. This makes me happy. Eating off a floor that hasn't been vacuumed in about six months will get that reaction from people. Or it could be my bulletproof boobs that do it. Either way works for me.
She cocks an eyebrow and folds her arms, like I'm the one who did something wrong. "You really don't remember me?" She has to take a pause so she can gag at the smell. I smell like an old homeless man who spent every handout he ever got on the hardest liquor available, and the only way my apartment could smell worse is if I smoked-a habit I was forced to give up due to an inability to hold cigarettes without my fingers cutting them in half like a pair of scissors.
"I just asked who the fuck you are, didn't I?" I say in a deadpan voice.
"Anna Hernandez?" she says. "We only went to college together for two years."
"Oh, shit. Yeah, now I'm starting to see it." I never would have recognized Anna if she hadn't told me. She's a lot thinner than she used to be, and her wild brown mop of art student hair is now a tight, businesslike ponytail. I don't think I've ever seen her dressed nicely, but she's wearing a pressed black suit and some stylish glasses that make her look very professional. She's clearly moved up in the world since our days of hard partying, weed smoking, and class skipping.
Compare to one Karen Kursh, eating off of the floor, naked, with messy, unwashed blonde hair. I can't remember what nicely pressed clothes even feel like. When I stand up I can instantly feel that my ass is covered in dust.
"Well, welcome to my mansion." I spread my arms wide and spin around like I was inviting her into the Playboy Mansion or something. I make sure to show off the dirty pile of clothes in the corner, and the spilled food, and the broken furniture. There's a rat hole in the wall, but I haven't seen that furry little monster in weeks. I think it starved to death. "Being the most famous woman in the world has some pretty nice perks."
I think she would have laughed, but seeing my one-bedroom shithole, the world's foremost theatre of dust and grime, she just gives me this sad look of pity. I'm pretty sure that's the correct response to meeting me these days.
"You're not the most famous woman in the world," she says.
"I used to be," I remind her. This time she does laugh-it's fake-and she starts to give me a hug like an old friend, but I can tell it's awkward for her. I think she's scared of getting her clothes dirty by touching me. I make it even more awkward by not reciprocating, which is far better than if I did and broke her in half, so whatever. "I should probably get dressed, huh?"
"Couldn't hurt."
It takes a few tries. I rip a pair of jeans in half trying to get them on, but the second pair goes better. I break some new holes in three t-shirts before Anna offers to help. I feel a little embarrassed from all this. I know, I'm surprised, too. I'm not supposed to have any dignity left. My plain white t-shirt has a big stain on it. It smells like whiskey. It's the cleanest shirt I have. "Sorry," I say.
"It's fine," she says in the most uncomfortable voice I've ever heard.
"Now here's the important question: Why are you here? And I'm sure as shit not going to believe you just want to catch up with an old friend. People only come to me if they have a reason."
She folds her arms and leans against the wall. Then she realizes my dusty wall and her clean black jacket shouldn't even be in the same time zone as one another so she pushes off and pats down what she can reach of her back. She doesn't want to be here. Not one little bit. I can understand the feeling, because I don't want to be here one little bit either.
"You've gotten really cynical since college," she says.
"Yep. Now why are you here?"
"All right, all right." She pulls out a badge. "We need your help."
Well then. The assholes want me back, and they send my old college friend as an olive branch. "With what?"
"Classified. You have to say yes before I can tell you. It's big, though. National security big."
I used to work for the government. I know exactly what "classified" means. It means they fucked up and they need me to clean up their mess. If it was somebody else's mess they'd be at least a little up front about it so I'd know what I was getting into.
"I need more details than that," I tell her, mostly because I know she can't give me more details than that.
Anna keeps quiet, just like I expected. I match her silence, and her gaze. She's the first one to speak. "Karen, yes or no? You can stop living like this, you know."
Well, there it is. I can get out of this life I hate and start doing some good again. It's the chance I've been waiting years for but never expected would come. It's pretty fucking hard to hold back a smile at the thought of climbing up out of all the refuse.
"Fine," I say. "No."
"What?"
"No. Forget it. Fuck you. Clean up your own damn mess." I want to make some big gesture, slam my hand on a table or something, but I can't. "You motherfuckers threw me away once. I'm not some old toy you can just put away and take out when you need it."
"Karen," she yells, "This is bigger than you. This concerns-"
"-Everyone? Public safety? A bunch of people I've saved time and time again who won't even give me the time of day anymore?" Fuck them all, I say. Like I said, I used to be a hero.
Now, I just don't care.
"Stop waiting for a hero and just help yourself. I'm done with this shit.
"I refuse."
the end