Nobody Gets the Girl Read online

  NOBODY GETS THE GIRL

  A Superhero Novel

  by

  JAMES MAXEY

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2003 by James Maxey

  For Tony St. Clair,

  even though he's wrong about Thor being stronger than the Hulk.

  Nobody Gets the Girl now has a soundtrack!

  Singer/songwriter Jonah Knight has recorded an EP of six songs inspired by the novel.

  For links to the songs and more information about Jonah, visit his website, www.jonahofthesea.com.

  PROLOGUE

  A DAMN FINE ACT OF TERROR

  SEATTLE BURNED. The night sky smoldered a hellish red, as flames reflected off dust and steam. The horrible smoke rendered most senses useless. People stumbled over debris on the sidewalk, unable to see through teary eyes. The fumes burned their lungs, and filled their mouths and noses with a sickening chemical stench of burning carpet. There were too many noises. People were screaming, sirens and alarms blared over the waterfall roar of the inferno. Glass shattered and crashed upon the city streets.

  And above it all, explosions. Just when the roar of the last blast fell silent, another would follow, throwing people to the sidewalk. The Earth shook as if a giant were stamping its feet.

  Which, in fact, was exactly what was happening. Those people who through luck, good or bad, had a vantage point above the smoke and destruction were greeted with a disturbing sight this night. Waddling through downtown Seattle, with a swaying, tottering rhythm, was a one-hundred-foot-tall baby doll. Where the doll's head should have been was a pistol, a gleaming Saturday night special the size of school bus. The doll would toddle forward a few blocks, knocking down walls and shattering glass as it swayed, then, bracing itself, would turn its gun-gaze on a nearby skyscraper and let fly with an enormous bullet.

  The doll had been wandering the streets for half an hour. It seemed to have no plan or purpose other than destruction. It was impossible to say whether it was by chance or design that it arrived at the most famous structure of the Seattle skyline, the Space Needle. For a moment, it waddled past the Needle, seemingly oblivious to its presence. Then it turned its horrible muzzle toward the structure.

  Half a world away, a man with his feet kicked up on the coffee table chuckled with pleasure as the Needle tumbled to the ground. His name was Rex Monday.

  "That, my friend, is a damn fine act of terror if I do say so myself," said Monday, waving toward the TV.

  His "friend" was an old man, very thin, dressed in clothes so worn and dirty any civilized person would have burned them. The old man watched the carnage playing out on the screen as he crunched on the unpopped kernels he’d dug from the bottom of the bag of popcorn in his hand. "I reckon. Sure. But what's in it for you? I'm grateful for the job, Mr. Monday. Not much work for a carny geek these days. But, as long as you're going to be tearing up buildings, shouldn't you be stealing stuff? Send me in. I bet I can find a bank to chew into or something."

  "You think small, friend," said Monday. "What's in it for me is that he hates it. He hates that he can't outthink me, that he can't predict me, that he can't protect the world from me."

  "Who?"

  "Dr. Know. Haven't you been paying attention?"

  "Oh yeah," said the old man, who held the bag up to make sure he'd finished the contents. Seeing that he had, he wadded up the bag, and ate it in one mouthful. As he chewed, he said, "Your, uh, enemy. Still think it couldn't hurt to scoop up some jewelry or something."

  "Petty baubles," said Monday. "Worthless. Meaningless. There's a grander prize at stake in this game."

  "What's that?" asked the old man.

  "The world."

  NONE OF THIS had anything to do with Richard Rogers. Richard would read about the rampage in Seattle on the internet tomorrow, just like the rest of the world. The news these days sometimes seemed like an unending chain of tragedy and despair. But by lunch he’d be firing off e-mail jokes about it to his friends, feeling only a little guilty. He was the first to admit there was nothing funny about it, nothing at all. Richard knew that in the wake of these attacks there were people left homeless, spouses widowed, children orphaned. Only an insensitive clod would be writing jokes before the dust settled. Still, gee whiz, how could you not laugh at the idea of a freakin' giant doll tearing down the Space Needle? It helped that these things always seemed to happen far away, in cities a lot bigger than his. They didn't touch his life directly.

  At least, not yet.

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOBODY HOME

  "YEAH, ALL MY life I've been lucky," Richard said, transitioning from driving jokes into current events jokes. "Lucky I don't live in D.C., for one thing. You been following this? The Dome?"

  There were maybe twelve people in the audience now. A few were still laughing from the last punch line. A handful nodded their heads at the mention of the Dome.

  "I mean, talk about a waste of money," said Richard. "Seventeen billion dollars this thing's costing. Gonna put a big old dome over the entire city. Climate control year round. There's, what? Two million people living under this thing? Three million? You could buy umbrellas for everybody for a lot less than seventeen billion. Or maybe not, if the Pentagon was in charge of it. Then we'd be buying the XJ-11 combat ready umbrella. Not only rainproof but bulletproof. They'd weigh forty-five pounds each."

  He wielded the mike-stand like a very heavy umbrella and staggered a few feet across the stage, grunting under its weight. The audience laughed hard. One of the first lessons Richard had learned about stand-up comedy was that he could make anything seem funny if he attached it to a silly walk.

  He straightened up and put the mike back into the stand. "Thanks! You've been a great audience! I'm Richard Rogers! I'll be back here next month!"

  He bounded from the stage and shook a few hands. He felt wired, buzzing, full of the same manic energy that always hit him after a set. The charge was the same with twelve people in the audience as with a hundred. This is why he'd drive four hours on a weeknight to perform at the Stokesville Ramada's comedy club’s open mike.

  Making his way through the small crowd, he arrived at the bar.

  "Good set," said Billy the bartender, who was already filling a glass with Richard's usual beer.

  "Thanks," said Richard as he took the glass. "Small crowd though."

  "Eh," said Billy. "It's raining. Never a big crowd when it's nasty out."

  "Maybe I'll start driving to D.C.," said Richard. "Not many nasty nights there anymore."

  "Thought you didn't like the Dome," said Billy.

  "Ah, who cares. It's too weird to get really worked up about. Every day I watch the news and think, 'They're just making this stuff up.' They've got a bunch of ex–comic book writers sitting in the back room cranking out these crazy stories. Probably cheaper than hiring reporters. I mean, right now the government is telling us that the most wanted terrorist in the world is somebody named Rex Monday. Excuse me, but didn't he fight Dick Tracey?"

  Richard grew aware of a presence behind him stepping a little too much into his personal space. He looked over his shoulder. It was a woman. She’d caught his eye a few times when he was onstage. She was tall, good looking, maybe a few years older than him, but very attractive.

  "You were good up there," she said, taking the stool next to him. "My name's Rose."

  "Thanks," he said. "I'm Richard."

  "So what are you doing here on an open mike night?" she asked. "You're better than most of the pros I've seen in here. You should be paid for this."

  "Thanks again," said Richard. "I don't suppose you'd happen to be an agent, would you?"

  "No. I'm the district sales rep for Oxford Financial. I travel a lot. When I'm in town I usually come here. Really, I've seen a lot of comedians, and you're very talented."

  Richard shrugged. "I've thought about turning pro, but it's not likely to happen."

  "Why not?"

  "Oh, you know. I didn't really discover I enjoyed doing this until I was already neck deep in something else. I head a tech support unit at FirstSouth. I can't afford to quit that and hit the circuits in hope of some big break. For the time being, the Stokesville Ramada's as far as I travel."

  "I wish this was as far as I traveled," said Rose. "My counterpart in the Carolinas quit so I'm covering four states now. But it's not all bad. Some parts of life on the road I really like."

  "Such as?"

  "Meeting new people," said Rose, moving even closer to Richard. "I feel more like who I want to be when I'm talking to someone for the first time."

  "Hmm," said Richard.

  "You must understand," said Rose, lightly touching his arm. "You're a different person when you're onstage? On the road, you can be anyone you want to be."

  Richard nodded. "Yeah. I do feel like a different person up there. Only it's not really different. It's like who I really am. It's everywhere else in my life I feel a bit out of place."

  She touched his arm again. "So you do understand. Funny people are often the most insightful."

  Richard looked at her hand which was lingering on his arm. He suddenly felt rather warm.

  "So," she said. "Do you have a room here?"

  "Um," said Richard. "No. Actually I have to work in the morning. I'm driving home tonight."

  "In this weather?" she asked. "Wouldn't you rather spend the night in a warm bed than out in that mess?"

  Richard placed his left hand on the bar, making sure his wedding ring was visible. "My wife wou
ld be worried," he said.

  "Call her and tell you you're staying over because of the weather," said Rose.

  "I'd never hear the end of it. You don't know my wife," said Richard.

  "And you don't know my husband," said Rose with a sly grin, leaning closer. "Isn't it marvelous we have so much in common?"

  She was looking directly into his eyes. Richard had a strong sense of déjà vu. This was a fantasy he'd played in his head many times over, being approached by a beautiful woman after he'd finished a set, a woman who found him sexy based purely on his ten minute routine. Now here his fantasy was, in the very attractive flesh.

  He looked down at his wedding ring.

  OUT ON THE interstate, Richard kept thinking he should turn the car around. Maybe Rose would still be at the bar. Maybe she’d find it charming that he’d changed his mind and come back.

  He kept driving. He did have to work tomorrow. And Veronica, well, Veronica already hated his late nights. Affair or no, she would hold it over his head for a month if he didn't come home. A month if he was lucky.

  When it's pouring rain and you're the only car on the interstate, it's difficult not to feel a little introspective. Was his life so terrible? He had a good job, a nice house, a devoted wife. Why did he feel this craving to throw all that away and live on the road, traveling state to state, bar to bar, just to have people laugh at him?

  As he got off the exit near his house he kept thinking he should turn back. Rose would be gone by now, but what did that matter? He didn't think he could take another day of watching the clock at work. He knew he would snap if Veronica complained about his being out an hour later than he’d promised.

  He’d made his decision by the time he pulled into his driveway. He would go inside and write Veronica a letter. He'd been composing it in his head for some time now. "I'm sorry," it would start. "I'm not happy anymore. I'm living the life I wanted five years ago, but five years ago I was an idiot." He would pack his toothbrush and hit the road.

  "Never look back," he whispered as he closed the door behind him and stepped into his darkened living room.

  But he knew that 3 in the morning is a terrible time to contemplate such things. He tossed his coat on the couch. Not hanging it up was a minor act of rebellion. He looked around at the carefully groomed living room, with the throw pillows thrown to millimeter accuracy and the single large art magazine sitting on the coffee table at a carefully calculated angle to convey casual intellectualism. He sighed, picked up his coat, and placed it in the closet. He pulled off his shoes and crept into the bedroom. He undressed by the dim LED light of his alarm clock. He could still get four hours sleep. Four and half if he went to work unshaved and slightly rumpled. Or, he could put his clothes back on and

  But before he could even finish the thought he was in bed and Veronica's warmth and smell was the only thing he was aware of in the darkness. Would Rose have felt as warm? What would she have smelled like? He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose very, very slowly. He had to put this out of his head. He would be the same person tomorrow that he was tonight. These fantasies of walking out of his life, a life that had grown so comfortable and familiar that it bored him, and into a new, exciting unknown future, would never do him any good.

  Then again, these fantasies also did no harm. Richard knew in his heart he would never act on them. Whether that represented courage or cowardice on his part he could not say. He was too drowsy to think about it anymore. He scooted closer to Veronica, till his back touched hers, and fell into sleep.

  THE ALARM WENT off. Richard rolled from his bed groggily, reaching out to click off the alarm. But the alarm clock wasn't there. It was ringing behind him, on the other side of the bed. He looked over his shoulder. A man's hairy arm slipped from the covers on the far side of the bed and slapped the snooze button.

  Richard leapt up and spun around. Who the hell…? he thought. There were two strangers in his bed. Only it wasn't his bed. Veronica and he shared a queen-size bed, and he was now standing at the foot of a king-size one. He froze, afraid even to breath, as he studied the room in the pale morning light.

  The room had a spooky familiarity to it. The closet, the windows, the hall door… in fact, every single architectural element of this room was an exact match of his own bedroom. Except the furniture, the paint, the curtains—those were all different. He was in someone else's house.

  In the bed was an old man of considerable girth and a skinny old woman, their snores resuming in the aftermath of the alarm.

  OK, he thought. This is plain weird.

  Was this his house, or wasn't it? Should he be outraged at the intruders, or was he the intruder?

  His head hurt. Rubbing his temples, he realized what was happening. He was dreaming. He had done this before, dreaming that he was awake, growing increasingly confused and panicky before truly waking. There was even a name for this: hypnagogic sleep. His comedian's mind held onto little bits of trivia like that. But this level of awareness of his dream state gave him a chill. It was almost magical.

  He laughed. Loudly. The sleeping couple didn't stir.

  "Ain't this a hoot," he said. The couple continued to snore. He was very aware of the sound of his own voice. It seemed so real.

  "Am I dreaming?" he said. "I must be dreaming."

  He turned and looked in the dresser mirror. His hair was messed up from sleep, his eyes baggy and dark. He needed a shave.

  "You can wake up now," he said.

  He closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, he was still in the strange room.

  So maybe he couldn't wake up. His heart raced as he swallowed hard. No, no, no, he thought. He was already awake. Which meant he was in some stranger's house. How?

  The alarm went off again. The man smacked it into silence, and slowly rolled his great bulk into a sitting position. He rose, and lumbered off toward the bathroom, never even looking in Richard's direction.

  Richard silently let out a long, slow breath and tiptoed toward the hall door. He opened it gently, and stepped out of the bedroom. The hall was exactly like the one in his house. Richard scratched his head.

  He could rule out the dream thing. His senses were fully engaged. His legs were cold, standing in the hallway in only his underwear and socks. With every breath, he could tell that the residents of this house smoked, and weren't particularly fastidious in cleaning their cat's litter box. In the bathroom, the old man was making sounds on the toilet that Richard hoped were real, and not emanating from some dark and disgusting part of his subconscious.

  He left the hall and entered the living room, now prepared for the sense of déjà vu. The house, structurally, was a perfect match.

  Weird, but not impossible, he thought. Suburban architecture wasn't exactly known for individuality. But what were the odds that he had gone sleepwalking and wound up in a different house built on exactly the same plan?

  Then it hit him. This must be Bert's revenge. About a month ago, he had played a semi-harmless prank on the guy at work. He had loaded a gag font onto Bert's system, one where all the letters were reversed. Then he'd set that to be the default system font on Bert's machine. Bert had spent hours trying to discover what kind of killer virus had wrecked his computer before figuring it out. Bert had been to his house before. What if Bert had a friend with a house built to the same plan? Bert could get his friends in on it, could get Veronica to play along, could . . .

  Richard stared at the fireplace. When he and Veronica had moved into the house, they had discovered a small heart carved into the mantelpiece by some previous occupant. Richard took a step closer. The heart was there. This was his house.

  He had seen enough. He stormed back down the hallway and slammed opened the door.

  "Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" he yelled.

  The old woman sat up with a start, staring at the door. She looked as confused as Richard felt.

  "Henry!" she called out.