Razor Blade Smile sneered. “You were supposed to hit the exchange and get out before the mask showed up. What slowed you down?”

The guy standing next to him, dressed in a balaclava and black sweater just like the rest of us, stammered a little, “But Boss, Nighthawk showed up way sooner than we expected..”

Razor Blade Smile shook his head, “That’s why I gave you the fusion cutter. Did it miraculously stop cutting?”

The guy, I think his name was Pete, shook his head. “No Boss, but it took longer than we expected to set up.” he looked around frantically, spotting me. “Jim was carrying the battery. That delayed us…”

Pete, you soul-selling son of a bitch. The worst part was, I knew this was supposed to happen. The Diamond exchange was just a feint, a way to draw attention from what was happening next door. Smile was not an amateur. What was a couple of million in hard-to-sell diamonds compared to the blackmail material he was getting on certain highly-placed spooks? I actually thought that we were lucky to have gotten away while Nighthawk chased the escape chopper, and the foul-smelling liquid soaking my boots and the bottom of my pants was evidence enough of our escape route.

Still. I mean, I had drinks with Pete and his wife two nights ago, they had tried to hook me up with one of her college girlfriends. And the moment things got rough? He turned me over to a stone-cold killer like Razor Blade Smile.

Still, Thugs like us, henchmen, minions, mooks, whatever you wanted to call us were not known for our bravery. We were courageous enough when we were holding shotguns and making scary noises at helpless bystanders, but most of my chosen companions were in it for the quick cash, and hopes of getting out of the life quickly to spend that cash.

I wouldn't necessarily disagree with the quick cash part, I had rent to pay and I ate a ton of food, but getting out of the life wasn’t very likely.

Smile looked at me, leering. “Is that true?” he asked me, loudly enough for the rest of the boys to hear as he flashed razor-edged fangs at me and small spikes started growing from his skin, penetrating the poorly-chosen scarlet suit jacket and purple shirt he wore as his unofficial supervillain costume.

I nodded, doing my best to look afraid, “Yeah, but there was a cat, and a little girl and I almost hit her…”

Razor Blade Smile scowled at me, his trademark grin slipping from his face as the rest of the minions began to back away from him. “You have failed me, Jim. Do you know what I do to people who fail me, Jim?” He asked, his hissing voice climbing in rage. Damn. He was really selling it.

I looked frantically around at the other guys, and gulped, “You take it out of our pay?”

He shook his head, starting to smile again, and I let out a visible sigh of relief. “This!” He said, opening his hands and shooting dozens of razor-sharp barbs into my chest. The sharp spines smashed into my stomach and chest, blood spraying out from my front as the sheer force knocked me backward, right out of the abandoned tenement’s 8th-floor window, which shattered the remaining glass and spread the rotten pieces of plywood in the air almost like a halo around me as I flew outward and started falling towards the unforgiving and empty street below me.

Man, is this really what I have come to? I thought to myself as I watched the pieces of wreckage flying away from me as my much greater mass tugged me toward the ground ahead of them. They were actually kind of pretty, the wood catching the moonlight and the bits of glass sparkling in the rain above me.

And then I slammed into the unforgiving concrete and asphalt head-first, crumpling into a lifeless, bloody ball on the street, the sound of my own body impacting the only musical accompaniment to my ignominious death.

After a few minutes, a panel van pulled up to my lifeless corpse in between me and the tenement I had been murdered in. I tilted my head a little bit, looked around to make sure no one had seen me, and slowly rolled, crouched over, blowing out pieces of broken glass that had gotten stuck in my mouth, and brushing off the now completely ruined sweater as well as tugging out the bony shreds of Smile’s spurs from my skin. I slipped into the side door of the van, grunting a little, and then slide the door closed.

“Ow,” I said out loud, as I kept spitting out pieces of glass, and tugging bits of… things out of my skin.

“How’d it go?” My heartless assistant, Mickey asked. “I was pretty impressed with that fall. You landed almost head-first this time. I was wondering if someone had finally figured out how to kill the great Jim Webb.”

I shook my head, cracking my neck a little as I eased some of the stress out of my bruised shoulder and neck muscles. “Not a chance. Did I tell you I got shot out of a plane once?”

“Thirty thousand feet onto a mountainside. Yeah, I heard it.” He replied. “And also the car crusher. You think he impressed his minions?”

I nodded, “Yep. Pete practically pointed a finger at me, So I am figuring he’s going to be back at unemployment soon. I know he wants his boys fearful and loyal, and I appreciate the pay, but I am getting a little tired of being the designated example. Did he pay?”

Mickey glanced back a little as he drove, and held up his cell phone, where it showed our joint numbered account, which now had an extra five grand in it. “That he did. I should be good until my next contract comes in without overloading Vicky, but with the way you eat, that should hold you over for about a month.”

I sighed and leaned back against the seat, and then leaned forward and started rummaging around on the floor. After a minute I pulled the bandages and spare sweatshirt out of the black plastic bag, and then peeled off and started stuffing my ruined sweater, balaclava, gloves, and tee-shirt into the bag.

“Hey, be careful. Last time it took me two hours to get your blood out of the seats. Try to drip over the bag, okay?”

I snorted and started wrapping the bandages around my torso, using a whole box of wet wipes to clean up my hands and other places my blood had sprayed, although it was barely leaking from the shallow scrapes now. “Oh no. Two Grand for a fifteen-minute car ride and two hours of cleaning a seat. I am such a monster for putting you through that level of abuse.”

Mickey chuckled a little, and at a light, started tapping at his phone, transferring two grand to his account and three to mine. “Hey, it was still pretty gross. I still haven’t been able to figure out if you are like a metahuman or a zombie.”

I shrugged and after dumping the rest of the wet wipes in the bag, started pulling on the tee shirt and hoodie. “Tell you what, when I figure it out, you will be the first to know.” The next time he stopped at a light, I opened the door and slid out into the rotten weather of a Charleston October.

“Hey are you sure you are okay?” he asked, rolling down the window as I closed the back door. “You know I can drive you back to your place if you need it.

I shook my head, “Naww, thanks, man. You know I get hungry afterward. I am gonna stop at Mama Medina’s and grab a couple of chicken-fried steaks, and then run home.”

Mickey laughed, “I still haven’t figured out what’s weirder. You walking away from getting murdered, or polishing off a couple of pounds of meat and then exercising like you are trying out for the Olympics afterward.”

I shrugged “Probably my willingness to eat anything from Mama Medina’s.”

Mickey grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. “Peace out, man.” before rolling up his windows and driving off into the rain.

I guess I shouldn’t have to say this, but don’t try this at home. I honestly had no idea if I was a zombie or a Metahuman, although the Metahuman test I had taken back in the 40s had come up negative, I had never gotten another one even though they might have improved in the last 80 years.

I wasn’t gross or anything. My bones were pretty much unbreakable, and by pretty much I mean that nothing had ever succeeded in doing so, including the aforementioned plane fall and Car crusher. My skin wasn’t particularly tough or anything, but whatever tended to happen to my soft parts eventually healed. Including getting into a burning inferno of a car crash that left me looking for a couple of weeks like something from a ‘fast zombie’ flick.

Being some kind of undead would explain a lot, but I didn’t FEEL dead. My heart still beat except when it was too messed up and then started again when I healed. I sprayed blood just like anyone else when I got stabbed, and I healed anything, eventually.

Not cool like Wolverine or Deadpool, It took me hours or days to heal, which wasn’t that useful for a metahuman. And if I got torn up badly enough, well, even if my skeleton was indestructible, you know those ligaments and things you use to walk? They don’t work when they aren’t there. I sat in that stupid burning car for hours until it went out and they dragged me out and stuck me in a morgue. Two weeks later, I was finally able to beat my way out of the cheap coffin they’d stuck me in when the incinerator hadn’t worked.

Of course, one more check mark in the zombie category was the fact that I needed to eat meat. Lots of meat. Not brains or blood or anything, but when my body was wrecked it took massive amounts of protein to rebuild my muscles and blood.

I spent a little quality time in an alley working off the excess buildup from getting completely fucked up. Oh, that was one more thing, the more energy impacts from like getting knocked around, thrown off a building, or torched in a fire the stronger I got… right up until I was too damaged to do anything at all.

The worst part is, it still hurts. Getting shredded by smile’s spikes and thrown off a building felt just about like you’d expect. And for the next few minutes, I had a bunch of extra strength to burn, which I spent by lifting a half-full dumpster until the boost finally eased.

Again, not a superhero. Getting impaled and tossed off a building gave me about as much strength as two guys my size. Of course, having to work off excess strength so I don’t break hands instead of shaking them or smash silverware meant I was in really good shape, but I wouldn’t even come close to superhero levels of strength unless someone were to spend a solid six hours punching me before a fight started.

But as far as I know, I couldn’t die. I couldn’t even get older, which has a truly shitty effect on long-term relationships. I had been married three times before I finally gave up on the institution, having two divorces and one wife I put in the ground of cancer. I had outlived them all, including my own kids, most of my grandkids, and two of my great grandkids… Not that I could keep in touch looking young enough to be their siblings.

I finally jogged to Mama Medina’s Cafe, a beat-to-hell Diner in the better part of South Charleston. It had a majestic view of the mountains we locals called ‘hills’, but that did nothing to make the vintage architecture, and even more vintage beat-up furniture, look particularly stunning.