On the south side of Sector 1,

on the corner of Bliss Ave and 435th,

not far from where Tif

ate her dinner,

is a bodega owned by an

obese

middle-aged insect-man

named Eizerbetz.

That night,

while She-What dines

with the elite of the city,

and Tif entertains her first client

of the night,

Eizerbetz the Insect Man

hunches his bloated body

over his counter,

one of his arms

mechanically feeding his mouth

candied pretzels,

while he absent-mindedly

rings up a customer,

and yells at the hammerball game

flickering in green monochrome

on a small TV

hanging directly in front

of his face.

There is nothing Eizerbetz cares about

more than hammerball.

It is not just his greatest love,

but it is his escape —

from his nagging mate,

from his twenty-six children,

from the bullshit that walks into his shop

every twenty seconds —

hammerball is the one thing

in the Black Hemisphere

that remains untouched

by rot.

It is a ridiculously humid night,

and Eizerbetz has the air conditioning

cranked to its highest setting,

fogging up the store’s front windows

to complete opaqueness.

So the fat insect does not see

the mercenary with the yellow hair

and massive sword

approaching his store.

The door rings open,

and the tall, muscular merc

swoops into the bodega

on heavy footsteps.

The merc is tall,

his yellow hair splashed upon his head

like a spilled box of pencils.

His sword has to be five feet long,

at least,

hanging silently from his back

like a tamed beast.

The merc quickly manuevers

through the store,

selecting an insta-dinner

and a can of soda,

which he sets on the counter

before reaching into his pocket

for his moneycard.

Eizerbetz, whose eyes have not left

the hammerball game,

rings up the order.

“Who’s winning?” the merc asks.

Despite his fierce appearance,

his voice is soft.

“The Tigers,” Eizerbetz answers.

“Shit,” the merc says.

Eizerbetz checks his security monitors

and the mirrors

in the top corners of his shop,

and,

seeing no other customers are present,

he reaches beneath his counter

and pulls out a stuffed plastic bag

knotted at the top.

“Here is the merchandise,” he says.

The merc nods, taking a futile look

through the fogged windows.

As he reaches for the bag,

the insect-man speaks again.

“But...

getting ahold of these

was more expensive than I anticipated.

The cost

has gone up.”

The merc frowns.

“You had a deal with Carlo.”

“Life is unpredictable, my friend.

Surely, you and your associates

can appreciate that.”

“I represent a nonprofit organization,”

the merc says,

without a smile.

Eizerbetz laughs.

“That may be so, but I’m running a business,

and in order to safeguard

our future relationship,

I need to have my expenses

paid for.”

Now the merc grimaces.

“I can bring you the money tonight.

I only have what was

agreed upon.”

“That will be fine,” says Eizerbetz.

“Of course,” says the merc,

“Carlo might become agitated

if this becomes a habit.”

“I assure you, it won’t,”

says Eizerbetz.

“How much?” the merc asks.

“Ten thousand more.”

“You know, Eizerbetz,” says the merc,

“Thunder Corporation’s

Special Situations Department

taught me a lot of different ways to kill

your kind.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” grunts Eizerbetz.

“You’re not SSD.”

“Would you like me to demonstrate

how fast

I can separate your head

from your thorax?”

Eizerbetz doesn’t flinch.

“Ten thousand more.

Take it or leave it.”

Our eyes focus in on

the merc’s fingers,

trembling in anger.

It’s only money, Eizerbetz thinks.

But, he has to protect himself —

the merc and his friends

are crazy.

“Fine,” the merc says.

The Tigers score again.

Crowd noise bursts out of the TV

like squeezed static.

“I’ll bring the rest later tonight,” the merc says.

He lays a stuffed envelope

on the counter.

Eizerbetz smoothly slides it

into his pocket,

and turns his eyes back

to the hammerball game.

The merc takes the package,

and goes out the door,

just as another customer comes in.

Outside,

the city is rushing with people and traffic —

on the street, on the sidewalks,

overhead.

The merc clenches the stuffed bag

in his fingers.

His eyes lock with those of Carlo,

who is sitting outside the Tanoorian pizza shop

across the street,

watching.

The merc nods at Carlo,

and begins a meandering path

to the rendevue point.

We watch as his spiky hair

disappears into the crowds,

and our eyes lift up,

over the heads of the people,

up into the neon skeins of light

blasting out of signs and ads,

up into the air,

rising up between the buildings,

up, up,

into the sky,

and we see the burning reactor,

shooting pillars of flame

out of its roof

in geysers of furious heat.

Fire-fighting vehicles and personnel

from all eight sectors of the city

now fight the conflagation,

but the black sky is infinite —

the massive, eye-searing,

crimson color of the fire

is swallowed up by the night

like a peasant

into the maw

of a giant dragon.

to be continued...

Thanks for reading. If you like She-What, please like, comment, or follow. It means a lot more to me than you might imagine.