The Indifference League by Richard Scarsbrook

Author:Richard Scarsbrook
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Dundurn
Published: 2014-08-27T16:00:00+00:00

SECRET IDENTITIES

“That’s one trouble with dual identities, Robin. Dual responsibilities.”

— Batman, from the TV series Batman, 1966–1968

The Statistician wakes up and smells the coffee. Literally.

He rubs his eyes and glances at his watch on the bedside table. 6:11 a.m. It is unlikely that any of the other Not-So-Super Friends are awake this early on a Sunday morning. Who could possibly be brewing coffee already? Maybe Mr. Nice Guy has one of those coffee makers with a timer on it.

Regardless, The Statistician’s foggy brain sure could use some caffeine. He didn’t get much sleep last night, with The Perfect Pair banging their headboard against the wall in the adjacent room, over and over and over again, making at least four separate attempts to start a baby growing inside SuperBarbie. He was also pretty sure he also heard soft moans of pleasure emanating from Hippie Avenger’s room down the hall.

These nocturnal noises did nothing to put Time Bomb in the mood for similar exertions. Neither did his whispering in her ear, “Hey, sweetie, do you want to have a baby?”

She responded by snorting, “After all the work I’ve put into getting my abs in shape? Yeah, right!”

And thus they set a new record for marital abstinence: fifty-seven consecutive nights.

The Statistician rolls out from under the covers, staggers through the door, and pauses in the hallway at the top of the open staircase. The dark aroma of the coffee wafts up from the kitchen, and triggers a vague memory in his waking brain: it smells like the inside of The Protégée’s apartment. He remembers the warm, slick feel of her lips around him, and his erection surges against his biplane-patterned pajama pants.

He can’t go downstairs in this state, so The Statistician tiptoes back into the wood-panelled bedroom, and he holds his breath to avoid waking Time Bomb. When he has finally saturated the Kleenex plucked from the box on the dresser, he allows himself to exhale, slowly, quietly. The Kleenex lands with a wet slap inside the metal trashcan beside the bed.

Time Bomb stirs, but does not wake.

The Statistician rebuttons the fly of his pajama pants and tiptoes down the creaky cottage stairs. Coffee time.

When he is halfway down, he sees her standing at the kitchen counter, pouring the black liquid from an aluminum carafe into an assortment of mugs. His feet fly out from under him, and there is a racket like an off-tempo Saturday-morning-cartoon drum roll — bumpBUMPbumpBUMP bangBANGkaTHUMP! — as The Statistician descends the rest of the staircase on his ass.

She spins away from the counter, rushes toward him, stops halfway. The aluminum carafe slips from her grip, clattering on the floor. Coffee splatters everywhere.

The Statistician is sprawled on the tile floor at the bottom of the steps, heart pounding, adrenalized. He sees her stoplight-yellow panties under her short black skirt. Proceed with Caution. Prepare to Stop.

“What are you doing here?” she says to him.

“What are you doing here?” he says to her.

“Hey, bro,” The Drifter says as he wanders into the kitchen.

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