The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 22 — SUPER

Posted: August 18, 2013 in The NERVOUS STOMACH Series

Monday, March 03, 2008

The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 22 — SUPER

I’m twenty-two (twice as fun as eleven) and sipping my first martini.  I always thought they would be skanky, like something Darrin Stevens would serve Larry Tate from that crappy little wet bar they had next to the stairs.  But, to my overwhelming surprise, martinis made from vodka and fruit juice with a little plastic body of an elephant hanging from his trunk on the edge of my curvy glass are not only fun — they are tasty.  

I check out the crowd at this martini bar — The Vodka Volcano it’s called, because of the large, gas-fed fireplace in the center of the room — which recently opened so close to my apartment I can walk (or stumble, depending on how many of these overly expensive, non-skanky drinks I can afford) home.  Not only are the blazing fireplace and the martini warming my world (it’s about twelve degrees outside), but so is the guy in the corner seat, near the bowl of salty goldfish crackers.  I check out his Eighties hair and his semi-sad, just-needs-a-hug appeal and consider introducing myself.  

That’s when the bottles behind the bar begin to launch themselves at us. 

I’m thinking it’s an earthquake, but we don’t have them here on the East Coast.  Instead of debating the possibility, I dive under the bench where I’ve been sitting.  Incidentally, right next to Eighties-Hair Guy. 

The bottles explode against the far wall, spraying alcohol in every direction.  Over the screams from the bar patrons, I hear a low, evil chuckling.  

It’s not an earthquake.  It’s our city’s most notorious supercriminal, GlassArt, one of those really obnoxious villains who makes humorous quips while they chop up doggies or pulverize little old ladies.  He’s got all the powers a supercriminal needs: the ability to control anything made of glass.  I’m grateful I wore my thin-plastic contacts instead of my Coke-bottle lenses.

“So who wants to be part of the martini special tonight?” GlassArt laughs, pointing toward the dessert display case.  It shatters without hesitation, embedding chunks of clear death into the Chocolate Mousse, the Lemon-Swirl Cake, and the Raspberry Truffle. 

I’ve read about his dastardly pursuits, the stories of senseless violence toward gay men and women, small animals, and cub scouts.  But to witness this absolute destruction of sweet, sweet desserts caused something in my head to audibly snap. 

“What was that?” Eighties-Hair squeaks out.

“It’s the sound of ENOUGH,” I spit out, standing from beneath the bench.  I face the villainous creep, rage emanating from my pores like lime juice from a lime press.

“Hey, GlassFart, why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?  Except I don’t know if we have anybody around here who qualifies,” I smirk, waving my pinky in front of my face. 

The air in the room changes; it’s something everybody — the lady bartender, the six-odd couples in the dining area, and the Eighties-hair Guy — feels.  Almost like the electricity before a lightning bolt. 

“Say your last prayer, queer boy,” the supervillain rasps, as he slowly raises both of his arms. 

That’s when I laugh.  A quick, bold sound. “Do you know that glass turns to liquid at approximately 2400 degrees Fareheit?” I yell and leap at the same time, landing both feet in the center of his chest, driving him backwards into the volcano fireplace.  I slam the gas feed value up to the highest setting marked “Danger, May Melt Glass.” 

As GlassArt screams, I grab a bottle of Absolut and sprinkle it into the inferno.  It makes a pretty blue flame. 

Later, after the restaurant patrons give me a standing ovations, after the City Newspaper takes my picture next to the fireplace (holding the empty bottle of Absolut), after our city’s ineffective superhero, ButterCup, shakes my hand and whispers in my ear ‘You’ve saved a lot of lives tonight, Greg,’ I get ready to head home to my apartment. 

That’s when the Eighties-Hair Guy stops in front of me.  “Hey, man, that was pretty brave.  Can I buy you a martini?” 

Of course I agree.  In just a short time, more than the soothing vodka we’re soon sipping, more than the reactivated volcano fireplace, it’s his toothy smile that warms my heart.

For FUN, I put my stuff at
For SERIOUS, I put my stuff at 
I invite you to visit my stuff.


Currently   listening :
  Mary Poppins (2005   Original London Cast)
  By Richard M. Sherman
  Release date: 13 September, 2005     

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