Chapter One of my super-hero story.

[Roy_D_Mylote]

It's called Hero. Go ahead, flame away. I like the criticism.

Begin story:

CHAPTER ONE: Nice work, Barry.

Tim O’Reilly sat on his bed in the cramped apartment. A whiskey bottle was forced out from under the bed and made a grand roll for freedom, but was stopped when it hit a chair.

His phone rang and he grabbed it. “Hello?” he said in a raspy voice.

“Mr. O’Reilly? This is the credit-card company—,” the voice on the phone began.

“No, no,” Tim said in a Mexican-Jewish-French accent blend. “Dis is not ‘Tim’. Dis is…uh…Abin. Abin…Matthews.”

“Are you sure? You sound like Tim faking an outrageous accent.”

“You dare make fun of my accent?” Tim-Abin shouted, mock-furious.

“No, no, no sir, I’m sorry—“

“In all my years in dis country, I never been insulted so much!”

“But—“

“Good day, sir!” Tim-Abin yelled. He slammed the phone down onto the receiver.

Tim did not like the credit card company. The reason he did not like them was this: His debt to them could be expressed as the Age of God times the length of the Universe. As you can no doubt tell (unless you do not believe in God or the Universe, as is the case with a cult located in southern California), this was a lot of money. More money than in fact exists on the Earth. Thus, payment wasn’t exactly an option.

“Bloody telemarketers,” Tim muttered. He had found an unopened bottle of whiskey and drank from it. “Ah, that’s better.”

*

He fell asleep watching Star Trek. The alarm clock next to his bed went off at exactly five-seventeen AM. With a jerk that knocked four bottles of alcohol off his bed, Tim got up out of bed. He ran to the bathroom and got in the shower. In his haste, he neglected to take off his sock. After realizing this, he shouted an expletive that, if reproduced, would cause my mother to weep.

Tim finished his shower and got dressed. He ran out of his apartment towards his car. The Irishman was off to work. With a hangover. Joy.

The office building was located on West Turtle Street, ten blocks away from the nearest restaurant, which hopelessly complicated Tim’s lunchtime schedule, but no-one really cares about that and anyway it has no bearing on the story, so let’s focus on something that does, okay?

Tim entered the office at exactly seven-oh-three, or two minutes early. He made a mad dash to his cubicle, only to hear a call of “Tim, you’re late.”

He began speaking before he even turned around. “I’m two minutes early!” And then he saw all of his workmates and his boss sitting at a conference table. “What?”

“You’re late for our early meeting,” his boss said.

“And when did we schedule this meeting?” Tim asked.

“Uh…last Monday.”

“I was sick last Monday.”

“I had Jeff tell you about it!”

“You fired Jeff a month ago,” Tim said, running his hand through his hair.

“Oh, I’m sure someone told you.”

“But no-one did.”

“You should’ve known.”

Tim grunted. “Oh, yes, I should’ve used my telepathy.”

His boss glared at him. “I don’t like that tone you have all the time. And you’re always running off without a moment’s notice. Like last week when that plane was about to crash, you ran off like a scaredy little girl and didn’t come back until it had been saved."

Now Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have time for this…”

“You don’t have time to listen to your boss?”

“Exactly.”

“Wha—wha—when—you have a bad attitude.”

“You have a lack of intelligence!”

“You’re mean.”

“You are a terrible manager!”

“You are ugly!”

“You’re awkward!”

“You’re fired!”

“YOU’RE…what?”

“You. Are. Fired.”

“That isn’t how the game works, Barry!” Tim protested.

Tim’s boss lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Tim, I just can’t keep someone around who keeps running off or showing up late to meetings all the time. You’re fired.”

“You can’t…You’re just gonna…But…But…Seven years of work I’ve done, here!” Tim said, upset and confused.

His boss said, “But you haven’t actually done that much work.”

Tim thought back to his conversation on the phone. “In all my years working for this company, I have never been insulted so much!” He shouted, and ran out of the building.

"Oh yeah?” his boss yelled behind him. “You’ve also never been this ugly!” Tim’s coworkers gave the manager a strange look. “Oh shut up!”

*

Now Tim stood in line at a pizza restaurant three streets from his former workplace, which was a shame because it was all going to start there at about the time he would touch his pizza.

The line moved forward and so did he. He heard a customer in front of him ask for a hamburger. When the cashier tried to explain that they did not in fact serve hamburgers at that particular dining establishment, the customer became furious. He ranted about the poor service in America these days and how he wished there was someone who could just get it right for once.

“Look, pal,” the zit-faced cashier said, “pizza places ain’t known for theys burgers, yeah? So I says you just either orders a pizza, or takes your money overs to Burger Czar!”

“I’ll report you to the manager, young man,” the customer with a burger craving roared.

“Excuse me, I’m the manager,” Tim lied, “and I don’t like the way you were treating young Ernie--”

“Er…Joey, sir,” the cashier said.

“—Poor Joey there. Now, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

The angry and ignorant customer muttered to himself as he left the pizza place. “Thanks, mister,” Joey said. “Now whats can I get for yous?”

“Uh…large pepperoni pizza please.’

“Seven-fifteen.”

Tim handed over the money, took a number, and sat down at a booth. Can’t believe I got fired, me and Barry’ve been playing that game for years. I shout at him, he shouts back, he locks himself in his office and pretends like it never happened. What makes today so different? Tim thought.

"Number 42?” Joey called out. Tim stood up and took his pizza tray from the cashier.

And it started.

*edit* Must...insert...extra lines...between paragraphs.