 Headache-Girl bolted from her superhero hideout after the police scanner reported an ongoing bank robbery. Some people might call her hideout a toolshed. Headache-Girl would never say such a thing. She found her sidekick and husband, Potato-Boy, sitting on the couch in the living room in his boxers eating a bowl of cereal. “There’s a bank robbery,” said Headache-Girl. “Let’s suit up and stop it.” Potato-Boy gave her the same look he gave her when she asked him to mow the lawn or do the dishes or put on a baby bonnet during sex. “I saw it on the news. They have assault rifles. We should let the police handle it.” Headache-Girl’s eye twitched as it often did when she became frustrated. Conversations with Potato-Boy usually made it twitch. The corrupt Cleveland police couldn’t do anything to stop crime. Divine Providence gave powers to Headache-Girl and Potato-Boy. They had a responsibility to use those powers to fight crime in this dark, disgusting, dystopian city. Some people might say Divine Providence didn’t give them powers, but actually toxic dyes Chinese manufacturers used in the bedsheets they slept on did. Headache-Girl would never say such a thing. Headache-Girl found it annoying Potato-Boy didn’t understand how lucky they were. They received something they could use to help people. She couldn’t be more thankful for the power to give people minor headaches telepathically. Not a migraine. Not even a severe headache. But a headache which would make someone say, “Oh man, I could really use some ibuprofen right now.” Potato-Boy developed the power to form potatoes from the air and launch them. He couldn’t shoot them at a velocity which could be considered deadly or even damaging, but instead more of a gentle lob. A spud thrown at a speed which would make someone say, “Who just tossed a potato at me underhanded?” Some people might say these weren’t superpowers, but actually useless powers. Headache-Girl would never say such a thing. “The bank robbers are holding people hostage,” said Headache-Girl. “We can help them. I must be a role model for young girls everywhere.” Sarah Clarke, Headache-Girl’s secret identity, prided herself on being a feminist which was why she refused to take her husband’s last name. She wouldn’t give in to the belittling traditions of the patriarchy. Brandon Clarke, Potato-Boy’s secret identity, also prided himself on being a feminist which was why he took no offense when Sarah told him she didn’t want to take his last name. He often asked why he must forgo his last name of “Meeks.” Whenever he did Sarah’s eye twitched. She told him if he didn’t understand then he wasn’t a feminist and supported the patriarchy. The discussion always ended when it got to this point. “But we don’t have real…” Potato-Boy sighed. “Yes, dear. Can I finish my cereal?” “No.” She often wondered why she married him. Maybe it was the way he looked at her. Maybe it was his calm demeanor. Maybe it was how he droned about his disapproving mother during their entire first date, and she knew she could emotionally manipulate him forever. Maybe it was a combination of all three. Who could be sure? Headache-Girl and Potato-Boy donned their latex super suits and climbed into their black SUV. They lived in the suburbs. The drive downtown took about twenty-five to thirty minutes. Slipknot and Slipknot only blasted through the speakers. They pulled up to the bank. Flashing red and blue lights of cop cars surrounded the building. Headache-Girl hated going downtown. Parking could be a bitch and a half to find, especially when there was a Browns’ game. After ten minutes they found a lot, paid for their parking, and walked for another fifteen back to the bank. Headache-Girl moved past the police barriers into the swarm of squad cars. Potato-Boy dragged his feet as he followed. They approached the policewoman in charge wearing a bulletproof vest who was giving orders to the other officers. “What’s the situation Annie?” asked Headache-Girl. Annie looked up at Headache-Girl and Potato-Boy. She pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. “Jesus Christ. These motherfuckers.” Deputy Commissioner Annie McCarther was next in line for Commissioner of the Cleveland Police Department. She would take the mantle after the current commissioner retired in six months which would make her the first African American woman to hold the position. Headache-Girl harbored a visceral hatred for Annie. Every interaction with this crooked cop caused her blood to boil, but she had a gift when it came to hiding her emotions. She investigated her and found within all the corruption of the police Annie was clean. Too clean. By all accounts, Annie McCarther was a hardworking and dedicated police officer. Annie took the misogynistic laden police department in stride. She knew how to play the game and played it well. Never did she lose her integrity though. As she rose through the ranks, she used her position to expose all those crooked cops and did wonderful work cleaning up the force. Everything pointed to Annie McCarther being a genuine individual who did her best to make the world a better place. A real person who solved real problems and showed real results. As a woman who prided herself on being a feminist, Headache-Girl knew this wasn’t the kind of person young girls should look up to. She had to be corrupt. Lack of evidence was in and of itself evidence. Headache-Girl was a much better role model. A woman who received powers through a one in a million chance. A woman who felt the need to skirt the laws and undermine the police at every opportunity. A woman who wore a skin-tight latex suit which heightened her sexuality and looked like it was designed by a greasy thirty-five-year-old virgin with a rubber fetish who spent all his free time jerking off in his mom’s basement. That was the kind of woman a young girl should look up to. “What’s the situation, Annie?” Headache-Girl asked again. “Listen,” said Annie, “this is a dangerous situation. There’re thirty hostages with families and friends. It’s tricky, but we have it handled.” Headache-Girl’s eye twitched. “We should listen to her,” said Potato-Boy. “People could lose their lives.” Headache-Girl glared at him the same way she glared at him when he told her he didn’t want to masturbate in front of her and her therapist. “You know what. Forget I said anything.” “Don’t worry, Annie,” said Headache-Girl. “We will get everybody out safe and sound.” Headache-Girl sprinted toward the entrance of the bank. Potato-Boy followed unenthusiastically. “Stop them!” shouted Annie. An officer tried to grab them as they ran by. Headache-Girl put two fingers to one of her temples and focused on the officer. The guy pulled his hand back and said, “Oh man, I could really use some ibuprofen.” Other cops moved to stop them, but it was too late. Headache-Girl and Potato-Boy made it to the doors. She beamed with pride as she outsmarted those crooked police. Her power stretched far beyond anything they could ever imagine. Headache-Girl and Potato-Boy entered the bank. Two robbers, one wearing a Richard Nixon rubber mask, and another wearing a John F Kennedy rubber mask, walked among hostages lying face down with their hands behind their heads. The criminals carried assault rifles. Clanging and banging noises came from the bank’s vault. They snuck in and ducked behind a small counter that had deposit and withdrawal slips and pens attached to little, metal chains. This would be the biggest crime they stopped to date. Headache-Girl could hardly contain her excitement. She ignored Potato-Boy’s inability to contain his displeasure. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay,” she said, “here’s what we are going to do. On the count of three, I am going to hit JFK with a headache, and you are going to hit Nixon with a potato. Got it?” Potato-Boy’s bottom lip trembled. “Sarah, they are going to shoot us,” he said. “They didn’t see us. We can still get out.” Headache-Girl glared at him the same way she glared at him when he told her he didn’t want to discuss his sexual insecurities with her mother and her sister. Potato-Boy sighed. “Yes, dear.” “Okay,” Headache-Girl said, “One. Two… Three!” They rocketed from behind the small counter. Headache-Girl put two fingers to her temple and focused on John F Kennedy. Potato-Boy pulled an Idahoan russet out of thin air and launched it at Richard Nixon. “Oh man, I could really use some ibuprofen,” said John F Kennedy. “Who just tossed a potato at me underhanded?” said Richard Nixon. A wide grin formed on Headache-Girl’s face as she glided across the tile floor. She stopped and did a power pose with her hands on her hips. Headache-Girl had them exactly where she wanted them. Potato-Boy looked like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh as he trudged from behind the counter. He pulled two zip ties from his suit and handed them to Headache-Girl. “Lay down your weapons,” said Headache-Girl. “And we will take you into custody. No need for anyone to get hurt here.” Richard Nixon and John F Kennedy exchanged a look. They raised their assault rifles and aimed at Headache-Girl and Potato-Boy. Potato-Boy dropped to the floor like… well… like a sack of potatoes. “Please don’t shoot!” he screamed. “I’m sorry! Continue with your day!” Headache-Girl’s eye twitched more rapidly than it ever had before. “Get up,” she hissed. Potato-Boy didn’t say anything. He rolled into the fetal position and cried. Unbeknown to Headache-Girl, she was a descendant of Julius Caesar. Typical conversations with Potato-Boy simply made her eye twitch. Sometimes though, he would throw her into such a rage (like the time he told her he didn’t want to be in a relationship where she was allowed to sleep with other people, and he wasn’t). She would have an overwhelming urge to cross the Rubicon and turn the Roman republic into a dictatorship. Headache-Girl didn’t understand why, but as she stood over a weeping Potato-Boy, she had such an urge. “Fine,” Headache-Girl whispered. “You be a whiny, little baby like you always are. I’ll take care of this.” She turned back to face the two bank robbers. Unfazed by the odd display they witnessed, Richard Nixon aimed his gun at Potato-Boy, and John F Kennedy trained his gun on Headache-Girl. “Now, as I said before.” Headache-Girl plastered on a fake smile. Her mother forced her into several beauty pageants throughout her childhood. She had one of the best fake smiles in the circuit. As she experienced the horrors which regularly took place at child beauty pageants, she smiled through it all. Before she became Headache-Girl, Sarah Clarke’s real superpower had been convincing herself everything was fine when it most certainly was not. “Lay down your weapons, and we will take you crooks into custody.” “What… what did you just call me?” asked Richard Nixon in a feminine voice. “Don’t lose your cool,” said John F Kennedy. “I am not a crook!” Richard Nixon began to sob and convulse. Headache-Girl watched the woman cry and utter some unintelligible noises. Her eye stopped twitching. She no longer had an overwhelming urge to cross the Rubicon and turn the Roman republic into dictatorship. All that was left was confusion and a fake smile. “Get it together,” said John F Kennedy. “Oh, shut up, Tom,” said Richard Nixon, “This bitch.” She pointed a finger to Headache-Girl. “This bitch thinks she can come in here and call me a crook. Like she knows me. Like she knows what I’ve been through. Do you think I want to rob banks and hold people hostage? Huh? Do you? I’m a high school English teacher for fuck’s sake.” Headache-Girl stood there smiling with her hands on her hips. This was the last thing she expected. Her eyes darted all around the bank lobby. “Can you just stop and keep it together?” asked John F Kennedy or… Tom. Apparently. “I have been keeping together for three years,” said Richard Nixon. “Three, long, dark years. My husband gets prostate cancer due to some toxic dyes in these cheap bedsheets we bought from China, and not only does he have to stop working, but the medical bills are ungodly expensive. The insurance company won’t pay for them until our claims get approved, but those con artists have so much bureaucratic red tape it’s nearly impossible to get money from them. The class action lawsuit against the sheet manufacturer is stuck in appeals hell. “I am supporting a sick husband and three children on a high school teacher’s salary. We are about to lose the house, and this stupid ass, goddamn, annoying, little bitch has the audacity to call me a crook. “What else am I supposed to do? What?” Headache-Girl tried to find the words, but all that came out was, “Guh… we… we… um…” Not a single crack in that fake smile though. Richard Nixon sobbed. One of the hostages lying face down turned his head toward the woman. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My son was diagnosed with leukemia about five years ago. I understand how difficult it is.” “I appreciate your sympathy,” said Richard Nixon. “I hope your son is okay.” “He just turned thirteen and has been cancer-free for two years.” “Oh, that’s wonderful.” “Yeah. It is. You are going to get through this. You are strong.” Headache-Girl’s eye twitched. “Thank you for saying that. It’s been hard, you know? You live your life and always try to do the right thing, and no matter how hard you work sometimes—” “Hit ‘em again Potato-Boy!” yelled Headache-Girl. Potato-Boy pulled a Yukon Gold out of thin air and gently lobbed it at Headache-Girl. The urge to cross the Rubicon and turn the Roman republic into a dictatorship took hold of her again. Headache-Girl put two fingers to her temple and focused on Richard Nixon. “God, that’s really annoying,” said Richard Nixon. Her hand slipped on the trigger during the minor disorientation. A round fired from the assault rifle. “Fuck me!” croaked Potato-Boy. He clutched his abdomen. Blood oozed between his fingers and pooled on the tile floor. Headache-Girl pondered why he always needed to make everything about himself. “Oh shit! I’m so sorry!” said Richard Nixon. She ran over and knelt next to Potato-Boy. “I am so, so, so sorry!” “Get up,” said Headache-Girl. “You’re fine.” Potato-Boy groaned. The sanguine pool spread farther and farther across the ground. He always had to ruin everything for her. Outside the bank. “Shots fired! Move! Move! Move!” yelled Annie McArther. The glass doors swung open, and multiple rifles were trained on Richard Nixon and John F Kennedy. Swarms of police officers in bullet proof vests moved into the bank. Great. Now Headache-Girl wouldn’t get her moment of glory all because of Potato-Boy. It was like he didn’t even love her. “Drop your weapons! Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head!” shouted a police officer. Richard Nixon and John F Kennedy did as they were told. “It was an accident,” said Richard Nixon. “I swear it was an accident. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. I swear! I swear!” Headache-Girl sighed and blew a lock of hair out of her face. She wondered why Richard Nixon was such a drama-queen. “We’ve got someone wounded!” yelled another officer. “Bring in the EMTs! Quick!” The police officers apprehended Richard Nixon and John F Kennedy. A different group of officers positioned behind the bank stopped Bill Clinton and Ronald Reagan as they tried to flee. Paramedics strapped Potato-Boy on a stretcher and loaded him into the back of an ambulance. They allowed Headache-Girl to ride with her husband to the closest emergency room. Nothing went as Headache-Girl expected. She cried as she rode to the hospital. Some people might say she cried out of fear for her husband. Headache-Girl would never say such a thing. Potato-Boy turned a shade of white few people thought possible. Drama-king. “Cold… so cold…” said Potato-Boy. “Ma’am,” said an EMT. “Your husband has lost a lot of blood. We don’t… Um… He will need to go to surgery when he gets to the hospital. He might not be conscious for much longer. If you have anything you’d like to say to him, I suggest you say it now.” Great. Potato-Boy ruined everything. He always ruined everything. Today was supposed to be Headache-Girl’s big opportunity to break out as a true superhero. A symbol of justice. The perfect role model for young girls across America. But no. Potato-Boy had to go and get himself shot. Headache-Girl snarled and stared deep into Potato-Boy’s fear-filled eyes. “I never loved you.” A few months passed. Potato-Boy made a miraculous recovery, and the only sign of his ordeal was the three-inch long scar on his abdomen. The paramedics berated Headache-Girl after she told him she never loved him. They thought it would be the final nail in his coffin, but it ended up being his will to go on. As soon as the words left her mouth, he pulled a fingerling potato out of thin air and gently lobbed it at her. Once Potato-Boy recovered, he filed for divorce and moved out. Headache-Girl asked him where he was going, but he refused to tell her. She didn’t mind. Headache-Girl gave up on the superhero life and embraced the supervillain life. This world was too far gone for someone like her to make a difference. Young girls would never look up to her when the likes of Annie McArther existed, and the likes of Annie McArther always existed. If Headache-Girl couldn’t save the world from corruption, then the only logical thing she could do was quicken its descent. She stood by a suburban street and hid in the bushes. Two cars approached each other. Headache-Girl put two fingers to her temples. One of the cars swerved over the middle of the road and hit the other one with a crunch. A man got out from each vehicle. “I’m so sorry about that,” said the man from the car that swerved, “I got a slight headache out of nowhere and it caused my hand to slip.” “Oh, no big deal,” said the man from the other car, “Just a little fender-bender. Can you give me your insurance information though? I will need to get the scratch fixed.” “Absolutely. So, sorry about that.” “It’s all good. It was just an accident.” Not just an accident. A plan. A plan which might start with minor car accidents, but would end with pure, chaotic destruction. Headache-Girl cackled into the night sky and ran off into the darkness. THE END Julius is a writer located in Cleveland, Ohio. He loves three things in this world more than anything else, his wife, his dog, and writing, in that order. Although, his wife argues the dog comes first.
YouTube Channel: https://www.youtube.com/@FinnedUp Image by Jez Timms
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