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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1491470
Rated: 18+ · Serial · Sci-fi · #1491470
Vol 1, Ep 1: A young man develops super powers after being raised from the dead.
My mother never thought I'd change the world. Sad as it sounds, I must admit that neither did I. I wasn't ever one to want to change the world, if the truth is to be told. I just wanted to grow old on some deserted beach somewhere, surrounded by beautiful, naked women and lots of booze. Of course, I suppose that's every man's dream. So where does my story become less like a porno and more like an epic fantasy? That's a good question.

I guess it all started when I took the job at Retail Mart. It was a cold day made colder by the fact that they were having an outday sale my first day and we were incredibly short handed. Instead of the comfy, cozy first day most people get, I was running back and forth between the arctic front that had obviously settled on our parking lot and the building being heated by the blast furnace of hell. What can I say, I'm hard to please.

Well, okay, so here's the meat of what happened. I'm about to walk out the door for about the twelvth time in the last twenty seconds. My face is numb, blood has rushed from my fingers and my brain, and there is such an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach telling me that I need to go outside and wait by the shoes. Don't ask me why, but I'm a bit of a slave to my gut.

Okay, here's where things get a little weird. I'm at the shoes and I see this tall, slender woman pull a small perfume bottle out of her purse and she sprays some on a pair of crushed velvet pumps. Mauve colored, to beat all. Ugliest pair of shoes I've ever seen, seriously. I really didn't think perfume would help them but it just didn't make sense to me so I approached the young woman. She took off running as soon as she saw me approach, so I grabbed the pumps and put them in a box. I had a funny feeling about those shoes, especially since I wasn't smelling any perfume in the air.

"Ma'am!" I called as I gave chase, dodging a Lincoln as it raced by me with a decrepit, upright middle finger attached to the hand of the Cryptkeeper's mother. I tried to pay no heed to the old woman as I continued on towards the other.

"Ma'am, you forgot your shoes!" I called out. The young woman looked back at me, delivering a cold, icy glare as she Bo Duked her way into the driver's side of a '67 'vette with a finish as shiny black as its new driver's hair. I was amazed. For a moment, the thought that I was on the set of the latest Jolie flick ran through my head before I realized I was still holding a pair of shoes that got sprayed with something from someone afraid I was going to catch her.

The 'vette peeled out of its spot laying down a thick, black layer of rubber as it did. I was so close to the 'vette I couldn't help myself. I leapt forward in what I can only describe as a better long jump takeoff than I've ever seen in Olympic history in an attempt to grab hold of the back window. Unfortunately, my memory is far kinder to me than actual history is, as I remember slamming my head on the rear fin.

Everything kinda faded out at that point. Next thing I know I'm laying in some hospital bed with some annoying geek staring into my eyes from a distance of 2.543 inches (I still have no idea how I knew the distance that exactly, it's simply a talent I woke up with) and calling out in a voice I can only compare to Chris Rock about three octaves higher screaming "Dude! You died!"

"Well, I obviously got better. Thanks for the medical attention, send the bill to Retail Mart. To hell with this retail crap, I'm finding something else to do." I got up from the bed and was shocked to realize I was actually in a morgue.

"Maybe you could sell shoes," came a sultry voice that in the movies is a sure sign of some woman that is going to be hot as hell but someone you should stay away from if you have any desire to live longer than two more minutes. I glanced over and sure enough, that same tall, slender brunette from Retail Mart.

"Really? I'd thought mauve wasn't your color, but I suppose if you want your feet to look like crap, who am I to judge?" I thought I was quite witty, but she didn't even smile. There's so much about this stuff the movies leave out.

"Shut up and listen, kid. You did a really stupid thing today, and now there's really only one choice you have unless you want to die and stay dead this time. You're going to play nice and do everything I tell you to do." Okay, now this was sounding incredibly cliche. Seriously, I think Doug might have been messing with me.

"Oo, I bet you do," I figured if Doug was messing with me, I'd mess right back, "and what do you want me to do first, Mistress?" I let my voice sound as lascivious as I could so as to get my point across, if you know what I mean, wink, wink.

She curled her lip in a way that told me too late I'd crossed a line and repulsed her in ways nobody ever had before as she answered, "Bleed."

I'm pretty sure she only got about three hits in before I hit the ground, but I think she got one in just above my temple. Now I admit, I'm a little out of shape, but if I'm being completely honest, I'm not some fluff. I was co-captain of the varsity basketball team last year and would be playing at a college this year if I hadn't blown out my knee. I'm pretty much a jock. So the fact that I layed there crying on the floor should really say something. At least I hope it does since I've just admitted it.

"Now get up," she called after she'd heard enough of my blubbering. She pulled me up by the waist of my pants and threw (yes, threw is appropriate) me into a nearby chair.

"Shut up and listen, you gorgeous hunk of a man!" Okay. She didn't really call me that but I figured it would be easier on everyone's eyes, as well as polite, to replace what she did call me with that. Additionally, it makes me feel better to remember this conversation that way, so there.

"You screwed up a beautiful plan and now there's only one option left."

"Oh?" I asked oblivious to the fact I was still bleeding.

"You're going to have to assassinate Jean Reno." Seriously, that's what I heard. I don't know what that actor ever did to piss people off, but now it sounded like people wanted him dead. Probably that movie he did with Natalie Portman.

"Why do I need to kill a French actor?" Seriously, that look was getting old.

"What do you mean?"

"Why do I have to assassinate Jean Reno?" I asked.

"You do not have to assassinate," she paused a moment then continued, "That's your ears. They're taking some time to get used to the new accoustics and how your mind's processing the sounds. You don't have to assassinate Jean Reno. His name is John Rioux. He's an underground terrorist who just happens to be your manager at Retail Mart."

"No kidding? I knew they were bloodsuckers, always trying to get the extra penny out of everyone, but really? A terrorist at Retail Mart?" I was amazed.

"Yes. Now our friend Kelly here will attest that it was a mistake, you weren't really dead. Happens often enough here as this town can't afford to keep good doctors. Your story will be that you were chasing after me because you thought I stole something," I had to interrupt.
"That won't work. I'll lose my job. Policy is that you don't chase thieves, just record and report."

"You just rose from the dead and you're worried about keeping your job?"

"Well, yeah. Unless I get a death certificate, I still have bills to pay." I said.

"Incredible."

"Yeah," I beamed, puffing out my chest. "I get that alot."

She, since she was rude and hadn't introduced herself at this time, rolled her eyes and tried a sucker punch to my ribs. Much to my surprise I was able to bring both of my arms over in time to block her punch with my crossed wrists. Of course, the more I look back on it, she didn't really throw all that great a punch. Anyone could've seen it coming, enhanced senses or not.

"Good," she smiled, which was far more beautiful than I imagined. "The serum is working. Looks like we can be friends, after all. My name is Ashley, and I'll be your handler."
© Copyright 2008 J. L. Ford loves the Cubs! (jlford at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1491470