Blindside Read Free

set.
     
    ***
     
    New York, present day ….
     
    The dirty lights above the urinals bounced off the needle Mac held at his neck. A quick plunge of his thumb would freeze his blood with poison. A quick shove, a quiet painful kiss. This cocktail of herbs, muscle relaxants, and inhibitors would drown his powers and ensure his “fans” didn’t regret spending their money watching a has-been hero fight.
    Yeah, he was real super, shooting up over the cracked sinks, listening to the boos and whistles from the audience waiting for him outside the john. The dives and cities changed, but the syringes and the groupies didn’t. Ten grand a night, with the only stipulation that the fight was “fair.”
    His dead parents would have been so proud seeing their one and only on the news, his stats up for the world to memorize. Can shield himself from bullets. Can push himself off the ground or solid surfaces to give the illusion of flight. Projects a form of energy as a result of the adrenal glands fused with an unclassified functioning similar to blood sugar .
    The whole world knew his real name. He’d been offered millions so governments could probe him. And some nights, when the alcohol couldn’t drown out the aches and pains of busted joints, Mac wondered if he should give those scientists a call.
    “Are you ready to Rrrrock!” The drawn out R had fans chanting for blood. With a long steady plunge, his focus cold in the cracked mirror, Mac Gamble, Narc, San Michael’s unmasked hero, thrust the needle into his neck.
    Seconds ticked by. He waited for the heat to shrivel up and die inside a fresh doze of the poison, a relic from the Cold War he bought with money left over from each fight.
    “Let’s bring him out then. You know him as Narc, San Michael’s Superhero, or Mac Gamble. And on his last day here, he’s ready to take on the baddest of New York. Shall we give him something to worry about?”
    The answer was a resounding roar.
    His neck stinging from the needle, Mac pushed through the double doors to make his way through the sweaty, alcohol-drenched crowd. The cage with its bright lights loomed ahead.
    “I can’t hear you, New York.” The bold voice rolled over the tightly packed arena, rattling the mesh cupping the stage. “Ready to take on Narc?”
    The noise shot up in volume, whistles and boos and screams like fists beating him down. Watch an ex hero fight —a damned good tagline. No one to save, no innocents to choose from.
    “The first challenger is an MMA fighter from New Jersey.” Everyone and their mother claimed to be MMA. “Weighting at two hundred pounds. Welcome the Hammer!”
    The first “client” bounced already center stage, knuckles taped up, lights glistening off a recently shaved head.
    “Now, ladies and gentlemen. Before each match, Narc must prove he has no powers.” Translation: a free sucker punch in the gut.
    “I saw him on TV. Didn’t he kill a bunch of people outside San Michael?” Voices floated around him. The wired cage rose up behind the pile of bodies in his way.
    “No, it was their harbor. He sat fire to the docks. And didn’t he blind a cop?”
    Clenched fists, guilt a familiar potent bile in his mouth. Mac pushed away the memory of her still form, a broken doll sprawled on the burning planks, blood coloring her sunshine hair crimson.
    His screams for her roaring in his head, he made his way through the tunnel of fans to lean a hand against the cage and down the standard pre-fight shot of whiskey. The client stared daggers from above with wide determined eyes, his taped hands convulsing in an attempt to shadow box.
    Lights flashed then dimmed, the stands went wild. Whiskey sloshed in the greasy pit that was Mac’s gut when he vaulted up into the cage and closed the door cut out of steel behind him.
    “Whenever you’re ready, son.”
    Three years ago, he used to taunt them. These days, he didn’t give a shit. Win or lose, he still got enough money to pay old debts and