John came back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer, each in one hand. He handed me one with a grin, and I took it, examining the label.
"Cheers, bro." He clinked his bottle against mine and then tilted his head back, downing half the thing in one go.
I watched him with a mixture of awe and disgust.
"...Show-off."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let out a satisfied "Ahh!" like he was in a commercial. "Good stuff. You should try it."
I took a sip.
"...Eugh."
It tasted like someone had mixed carbonated water with battery acid and then left it out in the sun for three days. How the fuck did people drink this voluntarily? It was bitter, flat, and had this weird aftertaste that clung to the inside of my mouth like a bad memory.
John laughed at my expression. "First time?"
"...Yeah."
"You'll get used to it. It's an acquired taste." He took another swig, then settled back into the couch, his eyes drifting to the TV. The football game was still going on, some team making a desperate attempt at a comeback.
We sat in silence for a while. John was absorbed in the game, occasionally shouting things at the screen like the players could hear him. I nursed my beer slowly, taking tiny sips and trying not to grimace.
"So, uh..." John turned to me, a casual grin on his face. "Your stepmom. She, like... cool with stuff?"
"...?"
"I mean, uh... Your stepmom. She, like... single?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"You know. Like..." He made a vague gesture that could've meant anything. "She's hot, bro. Like, legit hot. And she's always coming home late, dressed up, no guy around. I'm just saying. Is she the type that—"
"The type that what?"
"Let me hit again."
I choked on my beer.
"... What?" Again?
"Not like that, bro! Not like that!" He held up his hands defensively. "I mean like— dates. Goes out. Sees people. That's all I'm saying."
"...She's upstairs."
"Yeah, I know she's upstairs, that's why I'm whispering." He squinted at me. "What did you think I meant?"
"Nothing. Forget it."
"Bro, you're weird." He shook his head, laughing. "I'm just saying, she gave me this whole lecture last time about not fucking around. But the way she was looking at me while she said it... I dunno, man."
"She was looking at me."
"She wasn't."
"Whatever." He sighed. "Sylvie's worth it, though. She's a handful, but..."
I really didn't like where this chat was heading. In fact can I beat him? I don't know...
He trailed off, a dreamy look crossing his face. I took another sip of my beer and tried not to think about what Bethany had said about his dick size this morning.
"Hey, you mind if I change the channel?" John asked, gesturing at the TV. "This game is killing my mood. My team's getting destroyed."
"Go ahead."
He grabbed the remote and started flipping through channels. Sports, cartoons, cooking shows, reality TV—nothing caught his interest until he landed on a news channel.
"-and we'll have more on that story later, but first, let's check in with our top story tonight."
The anchor was a blonde woman. Mid-thirties, maybe. She had on a fitted blue blouse that was unbuttoned one button too many, showing off a frankly ridiculous amount of cleavage. Her tits were massive—easily D-cups, maybe bigger—straining against the fabric of her blouse with every breath she took. The camera angle was... questionable. It was positioned in such a way that her chest was front and center, like the director had specifically told the cameraman to frame her boobs in every shot.
"Whoa," John said, leaning forward. "That's Tiffany Wells. She's fine as hell."
"...Sure."
The blonde anchor—Tiffany—smiled at the camera, her perfectly glossed lips curving into a practiced expression of concern. "Good evening, I'm Tiffany Wells, and this is Calvin Bright with your evening news."
Her co-host was a guy in his forties with a receding hairline and glasses. He nodded at the camera. "Good evening, Tiffany."
"Let's start with breaking news out of the Gate District," Tiffany said, her voice shifting to that serious, journalistic tone. "Earlier today, at approximately 10 AM, a violent incident occurred at the Pink Heels Lounge, a nightclub located on the edge of the Gate District."
The screen cut to footage of the strip club—or what was left of it. The building was a smoking ruin, surrounded by police tape and emergency vehicles. Firefighters were still hosing down the wreckage, and I could see bodies being carried out on stretchers.
"According to witnesses, a fight broke out between two groups of individuals, resulting in multiple explosions and widespread destruction. The perpetrator has been identified as Flint, a known B-rank villain affiliated with the Alleyway Boys gang."
The screen showed a grainy photo of Flint—his hockey mask, his leather jacket, his massive frame. I felt my stomach tighten.
"Flint was reportedly pursued by a vigilante known as Sonic Stryker, a former licensed hero who left the Paragon Group agency three years ago and has been operating as an unlicensed vigilante since."
Another photo—this one of David Collins in his ridiculous red costume, standing on a rooftop with his arms crossed.
"According to sources, Sonic Stryker was present at the Pink Heels Lounge during the incident and engaged Flint in a chase that caused significant property damage across several city blocks. The pursuit ended in an industrial area on the outskirts of the city, where both individuals are believed to have... vanished."
Gulp.
Tiffany shook her head, her expression dripping with disapproval. "Calvin, I have to say, this is exactly the kind of incident that highlights the danger of vigilantes. This Sonic character—"
"Actually, Tiffany, I think it's worth noting that Sonic Stryker was likely trying to stop Flint from causing even more damage. Eyewitnesses say he was evacuating civilians during the fight—"
"How dare you defend a vigilante, Calvin?" Tiffany's voice sharpened, her perfectly shaped eyebrows drawing together. "This man was operating without a license, without oversight, and without any accountability. He was present at what was clearly a drug deal gone wrong—"
"We don't know that, Tiffany. The police haven't confirmed—"
"It's obvious! Why else would a vigilante be at a strip club in the Gate District at 10 AM? He was probably involved in the deal himself! These vigilantes are all the same—thugs with powers who think they're above the law."
"Now wait a minute, Tiffany. That's a serious accusation—" The source of this chapter is g.com.
"Is it? Because I seem to remember the incident downtown last year where a vigilante caused three million dollars in property damage while 'apprehending' a shoplifter. Or the time that so-called hero in the Heights accidentally killed a civilian during a 'rescue.' These people are dangerous, Calvin. They're untrained, unregulated, and they cause more harm than good."
"Those are isolated incidents, Tiffany. You can't paint all vigilantes with the same brush—"
"Can't I? Because the data says otherwise. According to a study conducted by the DAA last year, vigilante-related property damage has increased by forty percent since 2024. Forty percent! And that's not even counting the civilian casualties—"
"The DAA also acknowledged that vigilantes have saved an estimated two thousand lives in the same period. You can't just ignore—"
"I'm not ignoring anything, Calvin! I'm stating facts! Facts that you seem determined to overlook in your crusade to defend these lawless—"
"Speaking of facts, Tiffany, maybe we should talk about your crusade. Like how all you seem to do on this show is push your own agenda while promoting your OnlyFans account during commercial breaks."
Tiffany's face went red.
"EXCUSE me?!"
"You heard me. I've seen the ads, Tiffany. 'Tiffany Wells, after dark. Subscribe for exclusive content.' With all due respect, maybe if you spent less time selling pictures of your boobs online and more time actually researching the stories you report on, you'd have a better understanding of the issues."
"HOW DARE YOU! I am a JOURNALIST! I have a DEGREE in—"
"A degree you got from the same university that gave us such esteemed alumni as the guy who invented the left-handed screwdriver—"
"GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY STUDIO!"
"This is a shared desk, Tiffany—"
"I WILL END YOUR FUCKING CAREER, CALVIN!"
John burst out laughing beside me, nearly spilling his beer. "Oh man, this is great. This is better than the game."
He leaned forward, staring at the screen with a huge grin. "I'm telling you, bro, she's got a great OF. I'm subscribed. Best ten bucks I spend every month."
"..."
I looked at him. Then at the screen, where Tiffany was now physically trying to shove Calvin out of his chair while the camera feed cut to a "technical difficulties" screen.
"...You subscribe to the news anchor's OnlyFans?"
"Dude, she's stacked. Like, ridiculously stacked. Her OF content is fire. She does this thing where she—"
"I don't want to know."
"Your loss, bro." He took another swig of beer. "Your loss."
Can I kill him now?
Whatever, this removes any guilt I possibly had from what's going to happen next.
I grinned.
Well, not that I had any to begin with.