Nohbody
08-06-2009, 11:08 PM
Hi. I wrote a short novella a while ago, and I'm considering getting back into it and finishing it. But I'd like some help from other writers in the way of critique and opinion. Here's chapter 1, go crazy, but don't make me cry, please.
9:41 AM. September 7, 2XXX
Rudy pulled into the parking lot which was already over three-quarters full. Of course, the last quarter of open lot was the furthest from the building. Rudy sulked as he engaged the parking brake.
He'd been up all night.
He'd over-slept.
He had barely the time to pick up a shitty cup of coffee and a cruller. Now he had to walk. This almost wasn't worth it.
Rudy slammed the neon orange door of his "modified" 1972 Volkswagen Bug. Modified is put into the quotation marks because the technologies used in modifying said bug do not strictly exist today as we understand them. Here, in this story - at this particular time they did. More about that later.
The licensing department already sported a line that was winding past the door. Rudy was happy that at least he'd called ahead. With a little luck, he wouldn't be standing in line like the rest of these two-bit jugglers and circus freaks. Rudy adjusted his mask; finished his scalding cup of coffee (which burned the living shit out of his uvula) pushed back his shoulders and stuck out his chest. He was Rudy Spidowski: Wonder-lad was coming the fuck through.
As Rudy Marched up the line of men (and a few women, he was happy to ogle) with costumes adhering to well muscled, lean and toned, or at least well tanned physiques that marked the rookie super-wannabe, Rudy couldn't help but snicker on the inside. They'd lose all that soon enough. You can't spend 12 hours a day in a gym or on the beach soaking up the rays when there was evil to battle.
No, you spent your 12 hours a day sitting in a fucking alley on the wrong side of town waiting for your signal to be shone from the highest rooftop, all while trying to avoid the wino piss that occasionally showered your "covert" position. All too often after six months of active Supering, a set of guns and a six-pack melted away like that fat kid who’d been invited to torch-boy’s birthday party back in ’88.
Which reminded him; he still needed to send a card.
A few of the hard-bodies in line looked him up and down with at least a vague sign of contempt. Rudy was sure it was as much because he was cutting as much as it was that he, with his two-day stubble coming out from under his mask, his "slight" beer paunch, and general lack of rippling bulge, didn't fit the "image" of a Super.
Yeah. Fuck them.
He was Wonder Lad, boy prodigy and Licensed Kick. He'd done his fucking time.
He'd payed his dues in full.
Rudy could still remember the first time he'd put on the mask (he'd worn a cape back then... looking back now he could only shudder in disgust, but at 12 he was the coolest kid in school). He'd just gotten his "Boy Genius" credential from Central Middle School, so he didn't have to go anymore. With all that free time his parents were urging him to become a doctor... or a robotic engineer. Rudy went out and applied for his Professional Superpowered Protection License. He was succinctly rejected. Boy genius did not, after all, meet the criteria for super-powered.
But Rudy read the trades, he knew what was what. There was a loop-hole: Apprenticeship.
So he checked the classifieds. In a week he was bonded and officially working under the Super License of The Agrofarian as a functioning Side-Kick.
That lasted about six months until Aggy got busted for “accidentally” growing pot in the basement of his rental. Plant powers not-withstanding, (his defense having been built on the idea that plants just “loved him”) drug crime was drug crime - but Rudy didn't give a shit about any of that. He'd begun to build cred. His next Super was better. And the Next better still.
Nine years later, including a brief hiatus to get his Criminal Justice AA at CCC, and here Rudy was. One of the longest-running Kicks in the biz. When he'd come back they were knocking on his door to sign him on. Mecha-man, Hydro-babe, RadIator... these weren't some two-bit guys in tights, these were some heavies. These were one step down from the big-times, (who usually didn't work with kicks, on account that when the kick inevitably gets devoured by giant worms or gets a fatal dose of radiation rectally it tends to bring bad press on the Super involved)
Rudy had beat all the odds. Now it was time to pick up HIS card.
****
When he got to the window he reached behind him and dramatically produced his Side-Kick License. The old woman behind the window looked like Truckzilla could burst its way into the building and take a shit in the atrium and she'd still move like people her age were reported to fuck. She adjusted her spectacles and turned to the file cabinet.
"Spidowski, spidowski... here we are."
Rudy leaned in. After all these years, against all odds... he might not have been born with powers, but by christ he'd done his time. He'd been shot at, irradiated (and deradiated), crashed a car, crashed a plane, almost drowned, and nearly killed in every conceivable (or inconceivable) fashion. It had all been worth it for this....
"I'm sorry sir. You failed to record your social security number in box 15A as per instructions." The old woman's mouth was moving in slow motion, and Rudy's jaw tightened. He felt his saliva begin flowing uncontrollably.
He was speechless as she continued saying the words that he now knew she'd say. It was like a dream. A very bad dream.
"You will have to sign back up for the Super-Powered Protector Seminar, and you can re-take the test in 9 months.." she handed Rudy his rejection slip. "Thank you sir, and have a nice..."
Rudy stared at her
"Day."
Rudy heard muted chuckling in the waiting room off to his right. He didn't even turn to look as the caped and nyloned douche-bags sat, four times the size of god and twice as fucking idiotic. This was unbelievable. This was a fucking catastrophe.
Rudy's feet felt like they were made of depleted Uranium, and he trudged through the air-conditioned building back out to the parking lot. Then he stopped.
There. He saw it. A small pamphlet addressing itself to Criminal Justice majors with experience. Rudy's eyes widened at the sudden thought.
Fuck this. Rudy growled and pushed past a girl in an insulated suit, whose glare followed him, crackling with muted electricity.
Supers. Rudy thought as he climbed into his "Modified" Volkswagen, flipping the anti-grav switch and waited as the wheels turned inward and up. He felt the propulsion system come online and he drifted up, and then hit the accelerator as Ionized radiation rocketed him up and out. "Fuck Them" He said.
Two days later he was sitting down at the test-area of the chamber of commerce. His Kicking days had given him a little pull, (saving a building a half-dozen times in as many years tends to generate gratis), he'd been able to schedule the earliest date to take the exam. This time he didn't skip box 15FUCKINGA. When he handed in his test, he couldn't help but smile. He'd show those fuckers a thing or two. Costumed fucking douche bags.
Rudy Spidowski was through Kicking It for the man.
Rudy Crumpled up the pamphlet he'd found earlier and threw it in the garbage. He walked out.
If this were a movie... which it clearly isn't, we'd bring in a tight shot of the trash-can as the paper unfolded enough for us to read the white-emboldened lettering....
"Consider your future: Become a Private Dick" The second D was written over in harsh, repeated strokes of a pen - and now it resembled the letter K.
9:41 AM. September 7, 2XXX
Rudy pulled into the parking lot which was already over three-quarters full. Of course, the last quarter of open lot was the furthest from the building. Rudy sulked as he engaged the parking brake.
He'd been up all night.
He'd over-slept.
He had barely the time to pick up a shitty cup of coffee and a cruller. Now he had to walk. This almost wasn't worth it.
Rudy slammed the neon orange door of his "modified" 1972 Volkswagen Bug. Modified is put into the quotation marks because the technologies used in modifying said bug do not strictly exist today as we understand them. Here, in this story - at this particular time they did. More about that later.
The licensing department already sported a line that was winding past the door. Rudy was happy that at least he'd called ahead. With a little luck, he wouldn't be standing in line like the rest of these two-bit jugglers and circus freaks. Rudy adjusted his mask; finished his scalding cup of coffee (which burned the living shit out of his uvula) pushed back his shoulders and stuck out his chest. He was Rudy Spidowski: Wonder-lad was coming the fuck through.
As Rudy Marched up the line of men (and a few women, he was happy to ogle) with costumes adhering to well muscled, lean and toned, or at least well tanned physiques that marked the rookie super-wannabe, Rudy couldn't help but snicker on the inside. They'd lose all that soon enough. You can't spend 12 hours a day in a gym or on the beach soaking up the rays when there was evil to battle.
No, you spent your 12 hours a day sitting in a fucking alley on the wrong side of town waiting for your signal to be shone from the highest rooftop, all while trying to avoid the wino piss that occasionally showered your "covert" position. All too often after six months of active Supering, a set of guns and a six-pack melted away like that fat kid who’d been invited to torch-boy’s birthday party back in ’88.
Which reminded him; he still needed to send a card.
A few of the hard-bodies in line looked him up and down with at least a vague sign of contempt. Rudy was sure it was as much because he was cutting as much as it was that he, with his two-day stubble coming out from under his mask, his "slight" beer paunch, and general lack of rippling bulge, didn't fit the "image" of a Super.
Yeah. Fuck them.
He was Wonder Lad, boy prodigy and Licensed Kick. He'd done his fucking time.
He'd payed his dues in full.
Rudy could still remember the first time he'd put on the mask (he'd worn a cape back then... looking back now he could only shudder in disgust, but at 12 he was the coolest kid in school). He'd just gotten his "Boy Genius" credential from Central Middle School, so he didn't have to go anymore. With all that free time his parents were urging him to become a doctor... or a robotic engineer. Rudy went out and applied for his Professional Superpowered Protection License. He was succinctly rejected. Boy genius did not, after all, meet the criteria for super-powered.
But Rudy read the trades, he knew what was what. There was a loop-hole: Apprenticeship.
So he checked the classifieds. In a week he was bonded and officially working under the Super License of The Agrofarian as a functioning Side-Kick.
That lasted about six months until Aggy got busted for “accidentally” growing pot in the basement of his rental. Plant powers not-withstanding, (his defense having been built on the idea that plants just “loved him”) drug crime was drug crime - but Rudy didn't give a shit about any of that. He'd begun to build cred. His next Super was better. And the Next better still.
Nine years later, including a brief hiatus to get his Criminal Justice AA at CCC, and here Rudy was. One of the longest-running Kicks in the biz. When he'd come back they were knocking on his door to sign him on. Mecha-man, Hydro-babe, RadIator... these weren't some two-bit guys in tights, these were some heavies. These were one step down from the big-times, (who usually didn't work with kicks, on account that when the kick inevitably gets devoured by giant worms or gets a fatal dose of radiation rectally it tends to bring bad press on the Super involved)
Rudy had beat all the odds. Now it was time to pick up HIS card.
****
When he got to the window he reached behind him and dramatically produced his Side-Kick License. The old woman behind the window looked like Truckzilla could burst its way into the building and take a shit in the atrium and she'd still move like people her age were reported to fuck. She adjusted her spectacles and turned to the file cabinet.
"Spidowski, spidowski... here we are."
Rudy leaned in. After all these years, against all odds... he might not have been born with powers, but by christ he'd done his time. He'd been shot at, irradiated (and deradiated), crashed a car, crashed a plane, almost drowned, and nearly killed in every conceivable (or inconceivable) fashion. It had all been worth it for this....
"I'm sorry sir. You failed to record your social security number in box 15A as per instructions." The old woman's mouth was moving in slow motion, and Rudy's jaw tightened. He felt his saliva begin flowing uncontrollably.
He was speechless as she continued saying the words that he now knew she'd say. It was like a dream. A very bad dream.
"You will have to sign back up for the Super-Powered Protector Seminar, and you can re-take the test in 9 months.." she handed Rudy his rejection slip. "Thank you sir, and have a nice..."
Rudy stared at her
"Day."
Rudy heard muted chuckling in the waiting room off to his right. He didn't even turn to look as the caped and nyloned douche-bags sat, four times the size of god and twice as fucking idiotic. This was unbelievable. This was a fucking catastrophe.
Rudy's feet felt like they were made of depleted Uranium, and he trudged through the air-conditioned building back out to the parking lot. Then he stopped.
There. He saw it. A small pamphlet addressing itself to Criminal Justice majors with experience. Rudy's eyes widened at the sudden thought.
Fuck this. Rudy growled and pushed past a girl in an insulated suit, whose glare followed him, crackling with muted electricity.
Supers. Rudy thought as he climbed into his "Modified" Volkswagen, flipping the anti-grav switch and waited as the wheels turned inward and up. He felt the propulsion system come online and he drifted up, and then hit the accelerator as Ionized radiation rocketed him up and out. "Fuck Them" He said.
Two days later he was sitting down at the test-area of the chamber of commerce. His Kicking days had given him a little pull, (saving a building a half-dozen times in as many years tends to generate gratis), he'd been able to schedule the earliest date to take the exam. This time he didn't skip box 15FUCKINGA. When he handed in his test, he couldn't help but smile. He'd show those fuckers a thing or two. Costumed fucking douche bags.
Rudy Spidowski was through Kicking It for the man.
Rudy Crumpled up the pamphlet he'd found earlier and threw it in the garbage. He walked out.
If this were a movie... which it clearly isn't, we'd bring in a tight shot of the trash-can as the paper unfolded enough for us to read the white-emboldened lettering....
"Consider your future: Become a Private Dick" The second D was written over in harsh, repeated strokes of a pen - and now it resembled the letter K.