Do you remember that Guy, the Honermann, that appeared in 1939? Yeah, probably not unless you are a real metahuman junkie. While he was technically the first Metahuman recorded, I can tell you that the first real metahumans started appearing after the Tunguska explosion in 1908 in Russia.

We were not exactly big-ticket superhumans at first. My folks had been Siberian Settlers, north of that big lake where the blast hit. After the world war and Russian revolution, though, a bunch of us who’d been caught discovering our powers in rather stupid ways, like not dying from getting a cannonball through your chest, were locked down by the new government so they could see what made us tick.

The tests were torturous and pretty much killed all the newly-created Russian Metahumans, except for yours truly. Mostly because nothing they could do to me, no matter how horrible, could kill me. At the time a lot of the Russians assumed I was a Vampire, and after I escape that shit and got the hell out of Mother Russia I never wanted to be force-fed blood again.

Of course, after fucking murdering all of their new metahumans, the Commies were somehow caught totally off guard by the Honermann ripping up their attempted invasion force in the Polish corridor.

After I got out of Siberia, an escape and journey I am not going to talk about, I changed my name from Vasily Cheransky to something else. It doesn’t matter what it was, because I found I had to change it pretty frequently after that every time I got a little too old to pull off the young look.

One of the reasons I ate at Mama Medina’s was because I’d been coming here since the 60s. When the Meta Laws passed in the eighties, I stopped getting questioned about my huge appetite and seemingly unchanging appearance, and Mary Medina, Mama Medina’s granddaughter, even started extending me a tab when cash was a bit tight. It’s not like I would even die to escape my debt.

I hit the ATM before going in, grabbing the 400 dollar max immediately, and then pulled off and wrung my hoodie dry, before tugging the moist, wrinkled garment back over my Van Halen Tee shirt. I smiled when I sat down at the long bar, dropping ten twenty-dollar-bills on the table to pay for past meals when I was strapped and possibly future meals when I would be strapped again, and Mary, cute even for her forty years of age, stepped over to look at me.

Yep, twenty years ago I would have given her a lot closer look, but by then I was well aware that you don’t shit where you eat. Besides, her sainted grandma, god rest her soul, would have done an even better job of trying to figure out how to end me than the commies did.

“Four Chicken Fried steaks, two burgers, a side of Bacon, and a Coke, please.” I smiled, and she scooped the cash off the counter. This is a pretty regular occurrence, and the fact that I tried to pay off any debts in advance was one of the reasons she was willing to let me hit her up when I was strapped.

“Shaw.” she drawled, the Appalachian accent much better than my own. “I take it ya lost yer job again?”

I shrugged, “Like clockwork. It was a short-term job.”

She sighed, “Why doncha work for the DMA? I mean, I thought they liked havin’ metas on staff.”

I chuckled, old conversation, only the DMA twist was new. She used to try to get me to save up the money to move out to Europe and get with the Proteus people. “Same reason as before, sweety. If I were a Meta I’d be a class G just like you and every other normal person. I don’t have the education or record to work for law enforcement, and I probably wouldn’t want to if I did… too many friends on the wrong side of the tracks.”

She shrugged and sprang a new one on me. “Wail, they supposed to be setting up a new thang out in DC, about low-powered Metas, cause a lot of them cain’t play the superhero game, but still have ta take the same shit as a cape or a cowl.”

I had actually tried to be on a superhero team once, for a couple of weeks. I wasn’t heavier than a normal human, and those ‘super strength’ guys? See, I could be strong if I got beat up, but if I tried to pick up a car by its bumper I’d be left with a piece of bumper and I wasn’t heavy enough or magical enough to punch through a steel door. My job? Bullet sponge. And not even a very good one, since unless they hit a bone, a bullet that went through me would go through whoever was standing behind me just as easily.

And I didn’t get modern technology. I didn’t want to. I couldn’t use a cellphone any better than I could program a VCR… were VCRs still a thing? I had no idea. Maybe it was all chips and implants now or something.

So I was qualified to do two things. Work for Union Carbide, which wouldn’t pay my food bills, or work for whatever local supervillain needed a not-as-disposable mook.

See, Charleston was not exactly hero central. Middle America, fly-over country. The occasional cowl that set up out here just wanted to play the game. Make a few plays, hide your money, get caught by a cape, and get sent through the revolving door legal system, and in a year or so you were out and enjoying your ill-gotten gains. The new Mask laws made it a cinch to lay low and enjoy your spoils until it was time to put on the costume again and repeat the process.

Insurance companies were used to it, the cops were used to it, and as long as you never did too much damage or actually maim or kill someone, the jails were made of tinfoil. It was a lot like the old heel-face game in professional wrestling. Rivalries were manufactured, sometimes sides were switched, and all the bonafide super types were guaranteed regular publicity, sponsorship deals, and a comfortable retirement.

That was actually my greatest source of income… As a disposable Mook, I could be ‘disposed of’ in order to make a villain seem scary. No body, no fuss, and if there was ever any evidence left behind, I was always around for DNA testing or whatever they used nowadays to wreck a murder case… without also wrecking the rep of whatever newly-incarcerated villain needed to be the big man for his 6 months in prison.

This job was worth 5 grand, but I had made as much as 12 before when someone wanted to do something particularly messy. Yes, it was painful, and yes, it was humiliating, but I was the only person I knew that bought black balaclavas in lots of a dozen. It probably helped that even though I was only 6’1”, I was built like a linebacker or a comic book hero.

“Okay, I have no past, no training, and no real skills that I can think of. I also have no metahuman superpowers, no legal identity, and I eat like three horses. What on Earth could I possibly do other than what I am doing right now? I mean, I could move to a bigger city and maybe find more work, but at least here the cops know me and know I don’t rough anyone up too badly.”

Mary was silent for a few minutes, really thinking about it. For once, I was the only customer in the place, but I didn’t usually come in this late, and I was probably keeping her from closing up for the night. She took the night shift and had a couple of other girls that took days and weekends, but I still felt a little guilty as she turned and gave my order to the current grill man, Gil.

She smiled, “Actually, I could think of a couple of thangs.” She might at that, she knew the new ‘internet’ thing that was closing libraries right and left, so she might have a better information network than I did.

Great.

“You could go into modeling?”

I shrugged, “Not with this face I couldn’t.”

She chuckled, “Yeah, you ain’t exactly Fabio, but you could do like, underwear modeling or something. Or maybe join one of them stunt companies out of Hollywood, although I hear those are drying up as more and more movies do CG stunts.”

“What’s CG stunts? Maybe I could do that.”

She chuckled, “Not unless you suddenly turned into a robot. CG stunts are computer graphics. Why risk a living person falling off a building when they could get a computer model to do it that looks better, sharper, and don’t have to worry about guild rates or insurance?”

Yeah, I already had falling off buildings pretty well sewn up. “Pass. Moving someplace to model or act would cost more than I would ever make, and I can do that here.”

She chuckled, “If you could learn computers you could go anywhere.”

I nodded, “Yep, and the last time I touched a computer at the library, it threw some kind of bug that wrecked the entire system, and that was before internet viruses. For a while anytime the computers went crazy they’d say that they were ‘Jimerized’.”

I actually did know how to use some high-tech equipment, mostly tools that were used in an industry where displaying such knowledge would put you on the shortlist for the cop’s ‘on suspicion’ pick-ups.

She slowly whistled. “Well, since I figure you ain’t interested in becoming a male hooker, I know there’s one job you could definitely take. The entire time I've known you you have never been anything but uhh… I think they call it swole, now.”

“Swole?”

“Short for swollen, kinda like jacked or cut used to mean.”

I nodded. Honestly, if I had a regular income and didn’t get fucked up so often, I probably would go to seed a bit, but sometimes I gained a bit of extra energy from something as silly as being out in the sun for too long or riding around in a fast car. I think I had some sort of super minor energy absorption, but since it didn’t seem to actually stop the energy from hitting me, it was mostly just another problem to deal with, inconsistent strength.

“You could get a job as… umm. A front man.”

“Like a con man?” I asked.

She shook her head, “No. Supertypes are really getting popular now. Even the cowls are getting pestered for talk shows, product placement, and twitch tube cameos. You have the right build to play it up while they go and do superpower people stuff.”

I nodded, digging into my food. That could be a possible new opportunity for income. I had been the fall guy before, playing a cowl’s role for the cops to catch until they figured out it was just me and sent me back through the revolving door, but I hadn’t ever really done it as a serious job.

When I got back to my crappy apartment, I dug my old Iron Rook costume out of the back of the closet. It was made of fibers that were supposed to resist damage but didn’t do that great a job of it when I wasn’t that bullet-resistant underneath it. It still fit, even though bits of it were fraying to pieces, which was not unexpected… It wasn’t like I had changed.

The steel-gray and blue outfit with the stylized crenelations and the full mask still looked okay, although it was a lot louder and more obnoxious than I remembered. Maybe the blue had faded to a brighter, more pale blue, or maybe it was just a different style for a different era. Cowls still wore outfits like it, and in this era, it screamed more like ‘I am here to break you’ rather than ‘I am here to save you’.

It had been almost 40 years since the last time I had worn it, but unlike some old retired heroes, I didn’t look back with fondness at my crime-fighting days. In fact, along the left hip seam of the suit, there was a rather distinct dark stain that I figured might have been poorly-cleaned blood from one of my crime-fighting attempts. Probably the last time before I gave up wearing it forever.

I peeled the thing back off and refolded it. If I did play the body double game, it’s not like I would ever need it again. It was time to call Mickey. By the clock it was barely ten, so he should be awake still doing some kind of computer gaming shit.

I had a rotary phone. Yes, laugh all you want, but the landlines were still set up around Charlotte to accept rotary calling, and by my standards, it was still close to high-tech. I had an answering machine too, but I think it was computer-powered cause I had never seen a tape and never had to do the rewinding thing to erase the messages. It accepted incoming text messages, I think since I had gotten messages from people on the little glowing screen before, even though I couldn’t send anything back. Or maybe I could with the number pad, but I had no idea how.

“Yullo Jim,” Mickey answered. I sometimes got names on my answering machine when someone called, but usually, I had to answer the phone to know who it was… one of the reasons I hated the idea of hauling a portable around with me everywhere.

“Hey, Mick. Mary had a decent idea for how I could stop bleeding all over your back seat. Got a minute?”

“yeah, hold on,” he answered, and I heard several rapid clicks, like typing or something, and the music I heard in the background stopped. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“Well, she said that like tubawitches and CG heroes were popular with videos or something, I didn’t really understand it. But she said that it’s getting pretty hard for them to talk to the reporters or something, and Maybe I could offer my services as a body double or something like that.”

“Twitchtube?” he asked.

“Yeah, I kinda don’t know if I like that word, it sounds like a male sex toy.”

Mickey laughed and I started hearing the tapping noises again. “You know, there’s nothing on the darknet in the area about that, but I could float your name out there? MookJoe is pretty well known by both the cape and cowl set, even though you are still dark with the henchperson set, for good reasons. Want me to set things in motion and maybe see if we can get some hits? I bet it would pay better than minion number 6 which gets killed by a bad guy for being stupid. I might have to throw out a swimsuit pic or something, though.”

“Yeah, if you cut the head off, go for it. I know you got some pictures at your daughter’s birthday party. White-out the pool though, it’s distinctive.” I had no idea what the darknet was, but it sounded cool and evil spidery, and Mickey had mentioned it before. I’d gotten more work since he’d started talking about it.

“Right. I am going to float a spoofed ad. Headless picture, should I just use my imagination for the text?”

“Yeah, I guess so. My specialty is more getting my ass kicked than advertising.”

“Right on,” Mickey replied. Oh my god! He used slang I was familiar with.

“Okay, here we go. Real-damage Immortal, 6’1”, looking for bodywork for decent gratis. Mugging, thugging, and cameos on demand. No spark, G class, known as Mookjoe, Bigjoe, and Deadjoe for references. Low-key record, no traceable felonies during jobs, hundreds of satisfied customers. Appalachia. Guaranteed silence.”

I was a little confused, “Mugging and thugging? I sound like a hitman.”

Mickey chuckled, “Mugging means making nice for photos, not sticking people up, like a mugshot? Although you might need to do that for the cameras. Thugging means to make gang signs for the connected cowls, or to show off weapons in the mask.”

“What does no spark mean? I get the class G, they won’t be expecting me to duplicate their powers, right?”

“Yep,” Mickey replied. “Basically you are letting them know that they can use you as a hostile body double with the real-damage immortal tag, and won’t have to worry about payouts or felony charges. That could mean a HUGE payoff, especially if someone needs to fake their death on camera. You can't duplicate their powers and refuse to use any other weird powers you might have while wearing their cowl. Or possibly even a cape, you have no idea how many masks of both types use this. If they want you to clone their look, they will have to find the tech themselves.”

He chuckled, “It should get you some decent feedback. The fact that you won’t show visible power even in an emergency could be a big deal, as is the fact that you can be used as a security double. Man, I am totally digging this, with that ad people might even fly you across the country to mug for them!”

“So why didn’t you think of this before? You know I still have my head stuck in the last century.” I asked Mickey.

He chuckled, “Because I am not Mary, constantly staring at your body and wondering how to use it.”