Comic book story
He snuck a flask from his pocket and drained it. It was the wrong medium for a brandy of this caliber, but it made the harsh light of the midday sun tolerable. Nearly, a treat. There was a young Korean woman, snapping gum and listening to some sort of glitchy, electronic dance music on an iPod. He could trace it all back to stuff he used to love, Neu! and Kraftwerk, Lisbon in the '70s, but it all sounded like noise. He couldn't remember the last time he didn't feel old.
He plugged a couple quarters into the machine, and it dropped a single serving of Tide. He peeled the box and rubbed the dust between his fingers. He opened the washer and dumped his bag. A grey shirt with a picture of a robot. Tokyo '92. A Jersey from the World Cup in Chicago. The pair of socks he wore across the Trans-Siberian Rail god only knows how long ago. The faded shirt his students made him when he was acting headmaster: Erik, there's no one like you. 86! For a man of suits, he had a lot of cotton crap, and it all got dirty so fast. He closed his eyes and the lid shut itself. He felt the water circling the belly of the maching as if it were his own brain. Temples throbbed as he floated to the table without opening his eyes.
The Korean girl- as a younger man he would've been dreaming about her, rubbing his legs together and taking her over the humming row of dryers. In his more troubled days, even in his fantasies she would have resisted, just so he could take her by force. Lock the doors and take her hostage, make the proprieter and the police and the newsmen all watch as she succumbed to his animal virility. Make them all accountable, for their own failures and just for being at all.
She lookedlike someone he had known but, no, she would've been older by now. He wondered if he had killed someone close to her. No, best not to think about that right now. Pick up the paper, pull up the Knicks score, try not to look at World or Family or Mutant. He licked off the last bit of brandy carmelizing on his teeth, tongued the caps, popped a Certs and chased it with Pepto. The washer switched cycles. Life sucks for a supervillain on laundry day.
He plugged a couple quarters into the machine, and it dropped a single serving of Tide. He peeled the box and rubbed the dust between his fingers. He opened the washer and dumped his bag. A grey shirt with a picture of a robot. Tokyo '92. A Jersey from the World Cup in Chicago. The pair of socks he wore across the Trans-Siberian Rail god only knows how long ago. The faded shirt his students made him when he was acting headmaster: Erik, there's no one like you. 86! For a man of suits, he had a lot of cotton crap, and it all got dirty so fast. He closed his eyes and the lid shut itself. He felt the water circling the belly of the maching as if it were his own brain. Temples throbbed as he floated to the table without opening his eyes.
The Korean girl- as a younger man he would've been dreaming about her, rubbing his legs together and taking her over the humming row of dryers. In his more troubled days, even in his fantasies she would have resisted, just so he could take her by force. Lock the doors and take her hostage, make the proprieter and the police and the newsmen all watch as she succumbed to his animal virility. Make them all accountable, for their own failures and just for being at all.
She lookedlike someone he had known but, no, she would've been older by now. He wondered if he had killed someone close to her. No, best not to think about that right now. Pick up the paper, pull up the Knicks score, try not to look at World or Family or Mutant. He licked off the last bit of brandy carmelizing on his teeth, tongued the caps, popped a Certs and chased it with Pepto. The washer switched cycles. Life sucks for a supervillain on laundry day.
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