Kid Ballistic: Heartburn

The skies over Millennium City were like the flat of some dull, gray blade, stretching from horizon to horizon. The sun and blue sky were blotted out by the clouds in all directions. It was a gloomy, downcast kind of day. But Kid Ballistic was anything but.

While the denizens of Detroit’s City Center went about their business with varying levels of enthusiasm, most fell into either the hurried pace of “I’m late for work!” or the zombie-like gait of “What a crappy day”. While his fellow citizens power-walked, shuffled, and strolled, Kid Ballistic made with a strut towards his favorite place in City Center: Darren’s Pizza.

Big headphones clasped onto his noggin, sporting a sloppy blue paint job to match his costume, pouring the silver tones of Kay Kyser & His Orchestra into KB’s ears. Kid Ballistic didn’t have spurs, but he walked into the pizza joint like he had, imagining their “jingle-jangle-jingle”. Something was definitely getting everyone’s attention.

Kid Ballistic was used to getting ogled by the populace, no matter where he went. He was handsome. His costume was eye-catching. And he had a strict “never-conceal-and-carry” policy. So he was used to a few eyes following him around the room. But deep in his nerves, a bit of anxiety rested, waiting to pounce. He was going on like normal, but he knew things had been different since his last visit. Sid stood at the order counter, and removed his headphones, letting them rest around his neck, pumping a new song’s beats gently against his throat.

Over a month ago, Darren’s Pizza saw the worst sales in its illustrious, greasy existence, on account of a clash between the Progeny and a cadre of Russian mobsters from Sid’s checkered past. When the establishment played host to a firefight between the Russians and Sid’s superfriends, Darren’s suffered thousands of dollars in damage, and surely a few more in dwindling sales.

Sid had been doing his utmost to clean up the mess. He helped Darren & Co. pay for the damages, and came clean about his past to a few of his teammates. Kid Ballistic made messes, and excelled at it. Damage control, on the other hand? Not his forte. Despite the pay-off, Darren insisted that he stay away, so people could get comfortable again. After taking Sid’s money, and fixing up the place, the usual stream of pizza-craving urbanites had begun to flow again.

KB took that as a sign from the pizza gods that he could return. So here he was. Sid waited at the counter, and inspected the fruits of his slush money. Plenty of new furnishings, new windows, and a fresh coat of paint had the shop looking better than new. The clientele didn’t seem to mind; they stuffed their faces like they always did. Sid took notice of just how alone he was at the counter. There was no line ahead of or behind him. And nobody behind the counter to help.

Sid’s eyes traced the cooks in the back, and he removed a wad of twenty dollar bills from his pocket. Waving the folded greenbacks, he called out to the employees. “Hey. Hey! What am I, invisible?” A couple of the staff noticed his plea, and looked at one another. The greasemaster; the one wearing the dirtiest apron, the messiest T-shirt and long greasy hair to match, approached the counter, reluctantly.

The man, a few inches taller than Sid, and certainly a few pounds heavier, leaned on the counter, only glancing at the young gun’s money before speaking softly. “What are you doing here?”

Sid forced him to look at his money again, holding the thick bunch of twenties between them. “I’m here for some pizza. Are you doing your job, or is that another guy?” Sid peaked around the cook's shoulder.

The greasemaster shook his head slowly. His eyes shifted around the pizza parlor. “You can’t be here. Didn’t Darren talk to you? Customers think you’re trouble.”

Sid smirked, but felt the anxiety beginning to tense in his gut. “They’re right. Now is there something wrong with my money? Because I’m hungry.”

The cook sighed, glancing at the twenties in Sid’s gloved hand. “Sorry man, we aren’t supposed to serve you anymore. I have to ask you to leave. Please.”

Before KB could press his quest for pizza, it was ended, as the man left the counter, leaving the young gun alone and rejected at the register. Sid was dumbfounded, his brow knit together and his face frozen for a few moments in disbelief. His money hand dropped to the counter, and his shoulders grew lax in defeat.

As some little tune played itself against Sid’s neck, he wondered at how to proceed. He really thought the money would solve the problem. Money and time usually solved everything. He knew regular people were skittish, but to outright ban one of their best customers? Did they forget how many places like Darren’s got sacked or robbed on a yearly, even monthly basis?

That timeless fog of doubt and questions was sucked away with a tap on Sid’s naked shoulder. “Hey, Kid Ballistic!”

Sid glanced back, and turned a little on his boots. He didn’t hide his frustration well. “What? Yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”

A spindly little man, easily Sid’s age or older, raised a smartphone up into the hero’s face. Plastic and liquid crystal blocked the man’s face from Sid’s eyes, and that instinct to swat violently at things in front of one’s face was just barely contained.

“What the hell dude?” Sid gently moved electronic assault out of his face with his hand, and beheld the man responsible. That thin, weak figure was dressed in skinny jeans and flannel on top, and a purple V-Neck shirt beneath that flannel. The young man wore rectangular black-rimmed glasses and an unkempt, patchy beard. His hair was that hateful combination of classic and punk: the sides were shaved, while the top was some floppy blonde coif that just begged for a remedy. The first thing in Sid’s head was taking his combat knife and performing an emergency barber session on the man’s haircut.

“Is this you?” The annoyance held the phone up again, invading KB’s personal space without a care in the world. Sid backed up a little against the counter, moving his head to and fro like the phone was some wasp that just wouldn’t let up.

“For Christ’s sake man.” Sid sighed, and stopped jerking his head around to finally just look at the phone. The doofus had his tumblr app open, and this particular site played a silent, low quality video of that shootout that had cost KB a couple grand and his beloved Firebreather pizza. Sid watched for a few, silent moments as the images, shot from across the street on some crummy camera phone, played a ballet of action. Sid and his team, flying, flipping, and flinging magic about, serving justice to their Russian foes.

“Yeah, that guy with guns? You got eyes behind those glasses? Of course it's me.”

The young man nodded and took the phone away from Sid’s face. It was like he had removed a whole mess of flies that had been buzzing around. He was calm again, for now. The young man swiped down a few times before holding the phone at the superhero again. This time the phone played a video of Sid rolling a minivan, in neutral, towards a few escaped prisoners holding out behind their own vehicles. Silently, the video depicted their firefight, as KB and his rolling cover approached. Suddenly, the boy in blue dived from the protection of the minivan, as it rolled downhill towards the prisoner’s cover, gaining speed.

Sid’s smile was involuntary when the minivan exploded in flames upon crashing against the prisoner’s holdout. It smoked them from cover, and Sid proceeded to tag them each with a painful dose of rubber ballistics.

“You think that’s funny?” Sid shook his head, waving the phone out of his face again. “No, it’s a goddamn tragedy. I love minivans.”

“That was somebody’s property, you know. Darren’s Pizza is somebody’s property.”

“I know that, but -”

“You don’t care. Your kind is just in it for the publicity.”

Sid couldn’t believe his ears. Again. “Well it worked, didn’t it? I’m on your little phone.”

“Uh-huh. Now you’re in the Hall of Shame. And everyone knows what kind of ‘hero’ you really are.”

“Hall of Shame?” Sid said with no small measure of condescension.

“That’s right. A real hero put together this website so we could see what you’re really up to.”

Sid glared at his verbal assailant. His quick-draw hands snatched the phone from the man, and Sid began swiping through the entries. “Hey!” Kid Ballistic held out a hand at the young man’s chest, which put a rest to any attempt to get his phone back. Though younger, Sid was still bigger, and far better armed than this guy.

On the screen, Sid saw plenty of videos, pictures, and descriptions of heroes’ “misconduct” in public. He didn’t always identify with his peers, but now he was being roped in with them. And on wrongful charges. A burning lit behind Sid’s forehead as he slapped the phone into the young man’s chest, a look of disbelief crossing KB’s features. Sid got up in this guy's personal space now.

“Listen, maybe you’ve never stepped out of a coffee shop, you floppy-haired moron, but when people with guns, or worse come a-knockin’, you need people like me to shoot back.”

The young man clutched his precious device to his chest, taken aback by Sid’s tirade. The young gun continued, that fuse having lit a cauldron of frustration and anxiety. Sid got closer to the man. He hoped he hated the smell of tobacco, because he was probably getting a nosefull of it right about now.

“That minivan trick? Probably prevented a prolonged firefight. And you can bet, the only reason Darren’s is still standing is because me and my teammates were here!” Of course, Sid knowingly omitted the fact that the Russians only came to Darren’s for him. But he wasn’t lying.

“You’re a punk!” That voice came from another person, much older and much taller than Sid; a patron, silver haired and wrinkled, enjoying a pepperoni supreme with what must have been his grandchildren. Sid’s quick eyes darted to the man. “Cool it gramps -”

“Get out of here, now.” That grease-apron spoke firmly from behind Sid. He was leaning forward, insistently, on the counter again when KB glanced behind him. “You’re upsetting everyone.”

Sid took a good look around. Everyone was watching, probably a dozen souls, warm and well-fed with pizza and soft drinks. And none of them seemed to be on his side. Kid Ballistic swallowed, and took a final look at the instigator, the idiot with the smartphone. From behind his glasses, he narrowed his eyes as Sid, still holding his phone against his chest.

“Fine.” Sid was storming out from the first step, and he shoved past the dork with the phone. “See if I care next time this place gets shot up.”

The bell above the entrance signaled his angry departure, flinging about violently as Sid swatted the door open. The patrons’ eyes followed the boy in blue-orange as he left the premises. Fuming, Kid Ballistic took a straight line to the street, cutting through the grass and the shade beneath its large, oak tree.

Hall of Shame? What kind of asshole wastes his time with that? Still, Sid wouldn’t admit it, but there was shame welling up inside him, and it fought his frustration tooth and nail for primacy in Sid’s rapid-fire brain. He was used to leaving Darren's with a full, raw set of guts, but this was altogether different.

Kid Ballistic stood on the street corner, beneath that gloomy autumn sky. Now he could relate to his fellow citizens. It was not looking to be a good day at all. And yet, he felt alone, manning that intersection. He could feel the stares of the patrons of Darren’s Pizza still stinging him from behind. Sid wondered who else looked at him that way. Who else, at this very moment, looked at him with suspicion and disgust? Did anyone on the team see him that way? Would they, once they knew about this Hall of Shame, and everything else?

In a brief frenzy, Sid grasped for and lit himself a cigarillo, snapping his black zippo shut and heatedly slapping his headphones back onto his ears.

He took a pull of smoke, blowing out with a scowl as the wind carried it away. Screw ‘em. I’ll eat falafel from now on.