I spent the next hour resisting the urge to call up Dee and ask what exactly had happened after we parted ways the night before. My curiosity was considerable, but so was my conviction that I should not feed her superhero delusion. She had obviously done a really good thing last night, but what sort of danger had she put herself in? Had she engaged in some sort of risky vigilante-ism when a simple call to 911 might have sufficed?
As I sat down next to Jake in our Theory of Computing class, these questions were still running dizzying laps around the inside of my skull.
“Hey dude,” Jake greeted me, “how'd things go last night after I left? Did you and your babe close the place?”
“No, we didn't actually stay much after that.”
“Oh, I see,” he answered with a wise-ass grin, “Relocated someplace more private. I got ya. Nudge nudge say no more.”
I rolled my eyes. “It wasn't like that,” I insisted, “I barely know her.”
Jake shook his head in mock disappointment and said, “Barry my boy, do you and I have to have a little talk about the birds and the bees and what grownups do when they really really like each other?”
I didn't answer. He was just trying to get a rise out of me. Jake grew up with older brothers, and this sort of teasing seemed to be a twisted sign of affection in his family. Or maybe it was some sort of dominance ritual, like dogs tussling to assert their position in the pack. God only knows, but I had learned it was best to just ignore his verbal jabs. I really didn't have his skill or experience at it.
Still, he was a good friend. I considered giving him the whole story. Unload every bizarre detail and get his opinion. Was I right to be worried about Dee, or was I taking the situation too seriously? I started to form the words... but they wouldn't come.
It felt like it would be a betrayal.
This made no sense. Dee hadn't sworn me to any sort of secrecy that I could remember. But somehow it didn't seem right, sharing the whole superhero thing with someone else. I mean, there is an implied confidence to be kept, right? Superhero. Secret identity. Heck, its got secret right in the name.
My quandary receded into the background with the arrival of Professor Perdowski. The next hour flew past in a flurry of note taking. As the class wrapped up, Jake made me promise to attend the Friday study session, then he left for his next class before I was even done packing up. If I was going to talk to him about all this, it would have to wait.
I was barely out the classroom door when I ran into The Mook.
OK, I realize that might be an insulting thing to call someone... but that really was the first impression that slammed into my brain as I set eyes on this guy. The term Mook has a few different definitions. It can mean a slow witted ruffian. It might refer to an organized crime enforcer. To me, it mostly means a particular card in the hilarious role playing game Munchkin, and I'll admit the graphics on that card shaped my perception in this case. This guy was huge. He had military buzz cut hair, tinted glasses, and an ill-fitting suit that barely contained his over-muscled frame. I couldn't really know, but I imagined his suit jacket concealed some sort of hand gun. Something black and shiny, chosen as much for its intimidating aesthetics as its efficiency at dealing death. What really frightened me, however, was what he held in his hand.