“You bring your arch nemesis into my house? And then you fuck him on my kitchen island?” the lady on the small television said, while Anne bleached the carpet, getting rid of the sight of blood. “You’re nasty, but more than that, you’re disrespectful.”
Real Miami Superheroes wasn’t a show she paid all that much attention to. Some days she just kept it on in the background: the petty conflicts between superheroes comforted her. Given the alcohol content in their blood streams, it felt like watching two bottles of vodka get into a fight.
But today was different. It seemed like the lady had a point. Respect was important in the superhero community. All these powerful people had to respect each other, to an extent. Even when they were bickering, they had to remember that a real altercation could level cities.
“Tyler reformed,” the other lady on the TV set responded. “He’s better now. And I don’t appreciate you bringing his past into every damn conversation. So how about you stop bossing me around?”
The whole show was catharsis. Fake fights, then catharsis. If the fights had been real, the impact would’ve been terrible. But it was comforting to see these super ‘heroes’ pretend to let loose.
“You want me to stop bringing up his past? He’s a Cajun assassin who killed people with marbles. How fucked up do you have to be to do that? I have three children, chica. I don’t like it when assassins get that close to my children. I hope you understand.”
Anne sighed. The bleached parts of the carpet were a little whiter than the non-bleached parts, but she didn’t have the energy to do anything about it. If anyone asked, she could say she was doing some science in her room — that she had spilled the wrong chemicals.
She turned off the TV, looking around. For the first time after the murder, she had nothing to do.