Aberrant. Chapter I
Title: Aberrant (1/2)
Author: ignited
Rating: R
Summary: Sands muses on the cocky bastard that entered the CIA so many years before.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue
Dedication: Thanks to circe_tigana for motivating me to write this.
Author’s Note: A sequel of sorts to ‘Productivity’. You really don’t have to had read that in order to read this. Just going with a guess on Sands’ age being 33 for dates here. Also, the drug is of my own invention, unless it exists and there’s something we don’t know about it. Ooh. Scary.
--
When the elevator doors slide open, Sands has been standing very rigid. He feels his fingers grip the walking stick harder, a small grin, before he exits the elevator. The irony of the stick is not lost on him, though he chooses not to pull any more pranks for the night. Sure, maybe he had a little fun with that agent downstairs. Maybe the agent did choke to death. But could you honestly blame the debonair, ah, hell, let’s just say it, good looking blind man sitting across from him?
“Just an innocent citizen,” Sands murmurs under his breath, counting numbers in his head. Nineteen steps, four to the right, and it is his suite. He fumbles in his pockets for his key, realizes that he doesn’t have one. No, it’s one of those credit card sort of things. So he jostles his pockets, fumbles with blind hands to unlock the door. It does.
He nearly stumbles into the room, but at least he is inside. This is what he knows.
Sands locks the door behind him, turning around again. He slips his jacket off, throwing the item of clothing onto the chair nearby. He has been here for around a week, but has memorized the layout of this room in half the time. It is required when one has gone through the excessive amount of training he has. Learn how to disassemble and reassemble weapons. Learn how to move around in the dark…
Granted, this was eternal dark but somehow he’d deal with it.
So for now he feels his fingers move, he feels his legs do the same, but is gloriously detached from it all. It is amusing how things work. People spoke, some in jest, some in pity, and Sands would either listen or tune them out. Without eyes, people did not know if he listened. He only chose to. In the darkness he knows he has turned on the radio. He knows he has made himself more comfortable, collar loosened.
His body makes movements that his mind does not care for. Legs bring him to the window, and he can only tell it is night by the sounds of horns and humanity below.
It is Broadway.
Sands sighs. He takes one careful step back, turns his body to the right. Another step back, and his calves hits the low seat. Falling into it with a grunt, Sands fumbles in his pocket. Cell…cell… Did he leave it in his jacket?
Yes. Yes, I did.
He looks over at it with no eyes.
“Ah, fuck it.”
He promptly falls asleep
--
It is night, and Sands has woken up. He drifts in and out, but is painfully aware of the sounds around him. One cannot tell if he is sleeping, other than the soft breathing, the random grunting. Legs sprawl, shirt twisted around his chest. His sunglasses have fallen off, and the first thing he wonders is if something has crawled into his eye sockets. It is a disturbing thought, though not surprising - it is New York City after all, and roaches do not ignore hotels.
He doesn’t want to find out.
Sands bolts upward, shaking his head, messy strands of black hair falling this way and that.
He considers the feeling of panic to be less immense than waking in the complete dark for the first time. Right after his eyes were fucking gouged out.
But then, that dark? It wasn’t the first time.
--
Ten Years Ago
“You’re gonna get us both fucking fired, man.”
“Oh, do shut up. Eight millimeter, strangulation, kidnapping…it’s all you’re ever good for. Don’t add talking to the list.”
His partner - if one could call the young man seated nearby tapping his foot and squirming like he had the runs, a ‘partner’ - wasn’t far off from the truth. Sheldon Sands wouldn’t give his partner the satisfaction of a downward glance and admission of defeat. No. Of course not. That wasn’t in the cards.
More tapping his foot. Sands ponders what would happen if he shot a federal officer inside of the main building for the CIA.
He knew it wouldn’t be very good.
So he turns the page of his reading material. Catwoman #3. Sands gently holds the right side and looks at it lengthwise, as if it were a pornographic magazine, admiring the view.
“’Do what you can. Get in, find the info, get out’. Nowhere did he say ‘kick a couple of security guards asses and have fun with some Molotovs’,” the partner says. Sands had been paired up with him two weeks before. Two weeks, and he did nothing but annoy Sands. His name was Gregory.
He keeps on tapping. Which is very annoying.
“It’s ‘assi’.”
“What?”
“Not ‘asses’. ‘Assi’,” Sands points out. He is indifferent when Gregory raises his finger in response.
The hallway is sparse: two chairs against the wall near a doorway. Gregory and Sands sit near each other. Not particularly busy; people would walk by once in a while. Someone with folders, someone running off. There is always movement.
Sands crosses his arms, suit jacket twisting. The comic is clenched loosely in his hand. He wears his black suit slightly baggy, covering a rumpled white dress shirt underneath, a wrinkled black tie. It’d taken him a while to cobble it together. Hell, it’d taken him a while not to just say ‘fuck it’ and ditch the meeting. Nearly sprained himself falling out of the bed. Floors had to be so damn hard.
His companion wears a suit, but the opposite style: clean cut, pressed and neat. Almost made you want to gag. Terrible, it was. Just terrible. Sands considered asking his sister in Miami to send over some extra t-shirts. But then that’d risk having Gregory moan about dress code and the like, and Sands couldn’t have that.
Lips purse for a moment, and Sands tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling. This is when the door near him opens, and a secretary beckons for the two men.
Inside the office sunlight glares through yellow blinds, the room done in natural and artificial yellow, green, and blue hues. There is a big desk that occupies more than half of the space. It is a monstrous shape of metal, stubby feet and bare back. An imposing gentleman all done up in a crisp collar, pressed suit, years of work on his face and eyes sits behind it. He seems calm, but that state will fade within the next few minutes, Sands estimates, as he sinks into a seat. Gregory follows suit.
He hears the man start into the usual CIA spiel. Covert, elite, and all that sort of junk. Sands understands the message, but doesn’t adhere to it. This guy makes it seem like a job. A profession.
It is only a way of life to Sands. He doesn’t label it as a ‘job’. Because really, that would make it boring.
“Sheldon. Sheldon, are you even paying attention?”
Sands flinches and shakes out of his reverie. The name. His name. “…Yeah. Yeah.”
Sighing exaggeratedly, the man shakes his head. Fingers flex in his pocket and Sands would like to kick this man. Perhaps try out that trick he was learning and voila! Death by pencil. His patience is thinning.
Those digits flex more and instead he pulls out a tattered box of Lucky Strikes. A cigarette perches on the edge of his lip, and the talking fades. Sands glances over at the shiny nameplate. ‘Rush’.
It seems familiar but he can’t quite place it.
“Not one for regulations, are you, Sheldon?” Rush asks, leaning forward in his chair. He nods his head towards the door.
The ‘No Smoking’ sign.
Sands’ eyebrows shoot up, and he starts to reply, unlit cigarette bobbing up and down. “No, never have been.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Sir.”
“No. You clearly haven’t. Look at you. You’re barely awake, you look like you just got out of bed, and you’re already chain smoking at such a young age. That’s not something to be proud of, son.”
He has just woken up early - on his day off, mind you-to be lectured by a man nearly three times his age, twice as cranky, and not as good looking. Sands runs a hand through his hair - short, though long enough to run his fingers through - trying to straighten it.
“It seems that you don’t care. And with that attitude, you never will. Now…”
Here it comes.
“Gregory, on the other hand, he knows the regulations.” Rush lets this hang in the air, having waved a hand in Gregory’s direction. The man in question smiles, sits up straighter, almost smirking. Suit, slicked back hair, everything in place. Not a mark, not a scratch.
Sands thinks about this for a moment, an eyebrow raised, leaning in Gregory’s direction. He turns to look at Rush once more, leaning back. A pause.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know the CIA commended ass kissers. Thought we had to report those.” Sands scrunches his nose, waving a finger in a circular motion around his face. “Blurred eyes and all. Could be dangerous for the vision.”
It is perfect. Gregory has a look of abject horror on his face, and Rush only smiles thinly.
Sands doesn’t care. He’d rather read his Catwoman.
--
After the meeting, the nine to five paperwork, fake apologies to the copying girl - she had a nice package, and he needed to use the machine. Decision time, it was - Sands finds himself driving up to his building. It is a two-story dump, with white stucco walls, fake plants, and dirty tiles. There are screams and bullets at night, and Sands always goes to bed with a smile on his face.
Or, for the past two months, a girl on his crotch.
So it isn’t a bad situation, really. Here he is, fresh out of college, cranky, and already being yelled at in his job. Things are going well. Almost.
Sands locks his car door, hefting a backpack and a bag. The smell of white rice, noodles, and other greasy yet tasty fuel in the afternoon. Brown paper wrapped in white plastic, a smiley face on the side. ‘Have a nice day!’ it says.
“Sheldon! You fucking bastard!”
He wonders if he could get a refund from the Chinese restaurant based solely on the bag’s corny message.
Sands winces, mouth opening in protest. But his jaw hangs there, his eyes widen, and he looks up at the second floor balcony.
His girlfriend looks awfully happy with cutting up his comic book collection.
“What the fuck-Val, VAL! What the hell are you doin’?!”
“I’m ‘doin’’ what I should’ve done a long, long time ago, college boy. Leaving you,” Val responds, stuffing the scraps of shiny printed paper into a dilapidated shoebox. It is full of comics she did not reach yet, though that doesn’t matter really. No, it doesn’t matter, as she chucks the box over the side of the balcony, papers fluttering down onto the sidewalk. Sands sticks his jaw forward before he snarls, fumbling to pick up the discarded comics.
“You come home at God knows what hours in the night without an excuse, looking like shit - do you think I’m gonna stick up for this? I stuck with it for two MONTHS, like the dipshit you made me!”
Sands doesn’t look up, gracefully balancing the backpack on his shoulder, the bag of food, and the handfuls of Hulk, Punisher, and Jughead.
“I never made you a dipshit - that just came with the package, sugarplum,” Sands growls through clenched teeth, standing up straight. And the brown eyes widen again when he sees the new pile of items in her hands.
His records.
She throws them with the finesse of an Olympian, wild and concentrated, discus lunging and bouncing into walls, cars, and poles. There goes the Clockwork Orange soundtrack, lodged into a shrub. Bob Dylan found himself nicking a mailbox and clattering on the street. Thriller nearly missed thwacking Sands in the forehead. At least she didn’t start-too late. She was breaking the records on her knee now.
Sands always knew her karate classes would come in handy for something.
Now she has reached his clothes. The t-shirts from Florida, the jeans from New York City, everything was thrown. A myriad of colors comes falling down, ornamenting Sands in its tacky glory.
“Look at you! What a fucking loser - comic books, all this shit you collect! You fill up the place with shit and you disappear for weeks at a time! And you smell like you’ve been in bed with other women! At least have some sense to wash off the damn fucking lipstick!” Val shouts, fingers clenching the railing.
Frankly, if she hadn’t been complaining so damn loudly, he’d had her clenching the headboard instead, but apparently things were not going that smoothly.
She was a pretty thing though. Dark hair, eyes, nice ass, strong chin, boobs, everything. Her eyes are wild with anger and frustration, shouting words at him in English and Spanish.
At least he took classes and courses in college. Though they didn’t really teach what had to inevitably be curses pouring from her mouth.
“Do you think we can talk this over without having objects being - thrown at me?” Sands asks, frowning at the stray passersby. Damn nosy bastards. There they were - on the right, the next-door neighbors. Always complaining about loud noises.
Sands is twenty-three, has - had, had - a girlfriend, and stays away for weeks at a time. Of course there would be noises when he comes back.
“No. This isn’t your apartment!”
“The last time I checked the rent it was.”
“I live here more than you do, cabron!”
“Hey! Hey.” Sands holds his hands up in front of him, then points. “Foul language looks best only through me.”
Val shakes her head, messy makeshift ponytail sliding about her shoulders. “And so does my foot up your ass.”
“For one thing-“ Sands pauses, looking left and right. There are stray people staring, and it is the afternoon. Not exactly a time for a shouting match, but he does it anyway. His back and neck muscles tense, reaching to pick up his things. “You’re messing with the system.”
“What?”
“System. The system!” Sands smacks Hulk #171 - now that was a story - for emphasis. “You’re the steady fuck. The reliable fuck. You throw a wrench in that machine and its bye bye free world, hello tyrannical despots. It’s a matter of serving those who stand up for the whole... truth… and.. justice!”
That’s it. Justice. The American Way. Sands was never a big fan of Superman, but you take what you can get.
Val’s eyebrows shoot up. “Steady? I’M the steady fu-“
“Do you honestly think I’m going to put up with your crap during the non fuck mode times? Fucking. It’s all we do. I’m not looking for a serious relationship because hey, not that kind of picket fence, two kids, and comical family dog type of guy. So if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll be in my room pretending to lament our loss. The food and reruns are just swell at this time of night,” Sands says, sarcastic but calm.
Val nods, then picks up a brick from the balcony, throwing it square at Sands’ forehead.
This has been a really bad day.
TBC
Author: ignited
Rating: R
Summary: Sands muses on the cocky bastard that entered the CIA so many years before.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue
Dedication: Thanks to circe_tigana for motivating me to write this.
Author’s Note: A sequel of sorts to ‘Productivity’. You really don’t have to had read that in order to read this. Just going with a guess on Sands’ age being 33 for dates here. Also, the drug is of my own invention, unless it exists and there’s something we don’t know about it. Ooh. Scary.
--
When the elevator doors slide open, Sands has been standing very rigid. He feels his fingers grip the walking stick harder, a small grin, before he exits the elevator. The irony of the stick is not lost on him, though he chooses not to pull any more pranks for the night. Sure, maybe he had a little fun with that agent downstairs. Maybe the agent did choke to death. But could you honestly blame the debonair, ah, hell, let’s just say it, good looking blind man sitting across from him?
“Just an innocent citizen,” Sands murmurs under his breath, counting numbers in his head. Nineteen steps, four to the right, and it is his suite. He fumbles in his pockets for his key, realizes that he doesn’t have one. No, it’s one of those credit card sort of things. So he jostles his pockets, fumbles with blind hands to unlock the door. It does.
He nearly stumbles into the room, but at least he is inside. This is what he knows.
Sands locks the door behind him, turning around again. He slips his jacket off, throwing the item of clothing onto the chair nearby. He has been here for around a week, but has memorized the layout of this room in half the time. It is required when one has gone through the excessive amount of training he has. Learn how to disassemble and reassemble weapons. Learn how to move around in the dark…
Granted, this was eternal dark but somehow he’d deal with it.
So for now he feels his fingers move, he feels his legs do the same, but is gloriously detached from it all. It is amusing how things work. People spoke, some in jest, some in pity, and Sands would either listen or tune them out. Without eyes, people did not know if he listened. He only chose to. In the darkness he knows he has turned on the radio. He knows he has made himself more comfortable, collar loosened.
His body makes movements that his mind does not care for. Legs bring him to the window, and he can only tell it is night by the sounds of horns and humanity below.
It is Broadway.
Sands sighs. He takes one careful step back, turns his body to the right. Another step back, and his calves hits the low seat. Falling into it with a grunt, Sands fumbles in his pocket. Cell…cell… Did he leave it in his jacket?
Yes. Yes, I did.
He looks over at it with no eyes.
“Ah, fuck it.”
He promptly falls asleep
--
It is night, and Sands has woken up. He drifts in and out, but is painfully aware of the sounds around him. One cannot tell if he is sleeping, other than the soft breathing, the random grunting. Legs sprawl, shirt twisted around his chest. His sunglasses have fallen off, and the first thing he wonders is if something has crawled into his eye sockets. It is a disturbing thought, though not surprising - it is New York City after all, and roaches do not ignore hotels.
He doesn’t want to find out.
Sands bolts upward, shaking his head, messy strands of black hair falling this way and that.
He considers the feeling of panic to be less immense than waking in the complete dark for the first time. Right after his eyes were fucking gouged out.
But then, that dark? It wasn’t the first time.
--
Ten Years Ago
“You’re gonna get us both fucking fired, man.”
“Oh, do shut up. Eight millimeter, strangulation, kidnapping…it’s all you’re ever good for. Don’t add talking to the list.”
His partner - if one could call the young man seated nearby tapping his foot and squirming like he had the runs, a ‘partner’ - wasn’t far off from the truth. Sheldon Sands wouldn’t give his partner the satisfaction of a downward glance and admission of defeat. No. Of course not. That wasn’t in the cards.
More tapping his foot. Sands ponders what would happen if he shot a federal officer inside of the main building for the CIA.
He knew it wouldn’t be very good.
So he turns the page of his reading material. Catwoman #3. Sands gently holds the right side and looks at it lengthwise, as if it were a pornographic magazine, admiring the view.
“’Do what you can. Get in, find the info, get out’. Nowhere did he say ‘kick a couple of security guards asses and have fun with some Molotovs’,” the partner says. Sands had been paired up with him two weeks before. Two weeks, and he did nothing but annoy Sands. His name was Gregory.
He keeps on tapping. Which is very annoying.
“It’s ‘assi’.”
“What?”
“Not ‘asses’. ‘Assi’,” Sands points out. He is indifferent when Gregory raises his finger in response.
The hallway is sparse: two chairs against the wall near a doorway. Gregory and Sands sit near each other. Not particularly busy; people would walk by once in a while. Someone with folders, someone running off. There is always movement.
Sands crosses his arms, suit jacket twisting. The comic is clenched loosely in his hand. He wears his black suit slightly baggy, covering a rumpled white dress shirt underneath, a wrinkled black tie. It’d taken him a while to cobble it together. Hell, it’d taken him a while not to just say ‘fuck it’ and ditch the meeting. Nearly sprained himself falling out of the bed. Floors had to be so damn hard.
His companion wears a suit, but the opposite style: clean cut, pressed and neat. Almost made you want to gag. Terrible, it was. Just terrible. Sands considered asking his sister in Miami to send over some extra t-shirts. But then that’d risk having Gregory moan about dress code and the like, and Sands couldn’t have that.
Lips purse for a moment, and Sands tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling. This is when the door near him opens, and a secretary beckons for the two men.
Inside the office sunlight glares through yellow blinds, the room done in natural and artificial yellow, green, and blue hues. There is a big desk that occupies more than half of the space. It is a monstrous shape of metal, stubby feet and bare back. An imposing gentleman all done up in a crisp collar, pressed suit, years of work on his face and eyes sits behind it. He seems calm, but that state will fade within the next few minutes, Sands estimates, as he sinks into a seat. Gregory follows suit.
He hears the man start into the usual CIA spiel. Covert, elite, and all that sort of junk. Sands understands the message, but doesn’t adhere to it. This guy makes it seem like a job. A profession.
It is only a way of life to Sands. He doesn’t label it as a ‘job’. Because really, that would make it boring.
“Sheldon. Sheldon, are you even paying attention?”
Sands flinches and shakes out of his reverie. The name. His name. “…Yeah. Yeah.”
Sighing exaggeratedly, the man shakes his head. Fingers flex in his pocket and Sands would like to kick this man. Perhaps try out that trick he was learning and voila! Death by pencil. His patience is thinning.
Those digits flex more and instead he pulls out a tattered box of Lucky Strikes. A cigarette perches on the edge of his lip, and the talking fades. Sands glances over at the shiny nameplate. ‘Rush’.
It seems familiar but he can’t quite place it.
“Not one for regulations, are you, Sheldon?” Rush asks, leaning forward in his chair. He nods his head towards the door.
The ‘No Smoking’ sign.
Sands’ eyebrows shoot up, and he starts to reply, unlit cigarette bobbing up and down. “No, never have been.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Sir.”
“No. You clearly haven’t. Look at you. You’re barely awake, you look like you just got out of bed, and you’re already chain smoking at such a young age. That’s not something to be proud of, son.”
He has just woken up early - on his day off, mind you-to be lectured by a man nearly three times his age, twice as cranky, and not as good looking. Sands runs a hand through his hair - short, though long enough to run his fingers through - trying to straighten it.
“It seems that you don’t care. And with that attitude, you never will. Now…”
Here it comes.
“Gregory, on the other hand, he knows the regulations.” Rush lets this hang in the air, having waved a hand in Gregory’s direction. The man in question smiles, sits up straighter, almost smirking. Suit, slicked back hair, everything in place. Not a mark, not a scratch.
Sands thinks about this for a moment, an eyebrow raised, leaning in Gregory’s direction. He turns to look at Rush once more, leaning back. A pause.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know the CIA commended ass kissers. Thought we had to report those.” Sands scrunches his nose, waving a finger in a circular motion around his face. “Blurred eyes and all. Could be dangerous for the vision.”
It is perfect. Gregory has a look of abject horror on his face, and Rush only smiles thinly.
Sands doesn’t care. He’d rather read his Catwoman.
--
After the meeting, the nine to five paperwork, fake apologies to the copying girl - she had a nice package, and he needed to use the machine. Decision time, it was - Sands finds himself driving up to his building. It is a two-story dump, with white stucco walls, fake plants, and dirty tiles. There are screams and bullets at night, and Sands always goes to bed with a smile on his face.
Or, for the past two months, a girl on his crotch.
So it isn’t a bad situation, really. Here he is, fresh out of college, cranky, and already being yelled at in his job. Things are going well. Almost.
Sands locks his car door, hefting a backpack and a bag. The smell of white rice, noodles, and other greasy yet tasty fuel in the afternoon. Brown paper wrapped in white plastic, a smiley face on the side. ‘Have a nice day!’ it says.
“Sheldon! You fucking bastard!”
He wonders if he could get a refund from the Chinese restaurant based solely on the bag’s corny message.
Sands winces, mouth opening in protest. But his jaw hangs there, his eyes widen, and he looks up at the second floor balcony.
His girlfriend looks awfully happy with cutting up his comic book collection.
“What the fuck-Val, VAL! What the hell are you doin’?!”
“I’m ‘doin’’ what I should’ve done a long, long time ago, college boy. Leaving you,” Val responds, stuffing the scraps of shiny printed paper into a dilapidated shoebox. It is full of comics she did not reach yet, though that doesn’t matter really. No, it doesn’t matter, as she chucks the box over the side of the balcony, papers fluttering down onto the sidewalk. Sands sticks his jaw forward before he snarls, fumbling to pick up the discarded comics.
“You come home at God knows what hours in the night without an excuse, looking like shit - do you think I’m gonna stick up for this? I stuck with it for two MONTHS, like the dipshit you made me!”
Sands doesn’t look up, gracefully balancing the backpack on his shoulder, the bag of food, and the handfuls of Hulk, Punisher, and Jughead.
“I never made you a dipshit - that just came with the package, sugarplum,” Sands growls through clenched teeth, standing up straight. And the brown eyes widen again when he sees the new pile of items in her hands.
His records.
She throws them with the finesse of an Olympian, wild and concentrated, discus lunging and bouncing into walls, cars, and poles. There goes the Clockwork Orange soundtrack, lodged into a shrub. Bob Dylan found himself nicking a mailbox and clattering on the street. Thriller nearly missed thwacking Sands in the forehead. At least she didn’t start-too late. She was breaking the records on her knee now.
Sands always knew her karate classes would come in handy for something.
Now she has reached his clothes. The t-shirts from Florida, the jeans from New York City, everything was thrown. A myriad of colors comes falling down, ornamenting Sands in its tacky glory.
“Look at you! What a fucking loser - comic books, all this shit you collect! You fill up the place with shit and you disappear for weeks at a time! And you smell like you’ve been in bed with other women! At least have some sense to wash off the damn fucking lipstick!” Val shouts, fingers clenching the railing.
Frankly, if she hadn’t been complaining so damn loudly, he’d had her clenching the headboard instead, but apparently things were not going that smoothly.
She was a pretty thing though. Dark hair, eyes, nice ass, strong chin, boobs, everything. Her eyes are wild with anger and frustration, shouting words at him in English and Spanish.
At least he took classes and courses in college. Though they didn’t really teach what had to inevitably be curses pouring from her mouth.
“Do you think we can talk this over without having objects being - thrown at me?” Sands asks, frowning at the stray passersby. Damn nosy bastards. There they were - on the right, the next-door neighbors. Always complaining about loud noises.
Sands is twenty-three, has - had, had - a girlfriend, and stays away for weeks at a time. Of course there would be noises when he comes back.
“No. This isn’t your apartment!”
“The last time I checked the rent it was.”
“I live here more than you do, cabron!”
“Hey! Hey.” Sands holds his hands up in front of him, then points. “Foul language looks best only through me.”
Val shakes her head, messy makeshift ponytail sliding about her shoulders. “And so does my foot up your ass.”
“For one thing-“ Sands pauses, looking left and right. There are stray people staring, and it is the afternoon. Not exactly a time for a shouting match, but he does it anyway. His back and neck muscles tense, reaching to pick up his things. “You’re messing with the system.”
“What?”
“System. The system!” Sands smacks Hulk #171 - now that was a story - for emphasis. “You’re the steady fuck. The reliable fuck. You throw a wrench in that machine and its bye bye free world, hello tyrannical despots. It’s a matter of serving those who stand up for the whole... truth… and.. justice!”
That’s it. Justice. The American Way. Sands was never a big fan of Superman, but you take what you can get.
Val’s eyebrows shoot up. “Steady? I’M the steady fu-“
“Do you honestly think I’m going to put up with your crap during the non fuck mode times? Fucking. It’s all we do. I’m not looking for a serious relationship because hey, not that kind of picket fence, two kids, and comical family dog type of guy. So if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll be in my room pretending to lament our loss. The food and reruns are just swell at this time of night,” Sands says, sarcastic but calm.
Val nods, then picks up a brick from the balcony, throwing it square at Sands’ forehead.
This has been a really bad day.
TBC