The Swiss Army Henchwoman
by Jean Cabot
5% of the population of St. Genevieve, is, has, or will be heroes.
Conversely, they say that 1 in 7 citizens will be in ‘villain’ group.
This is wrong. My name is Patrice, and I am the outlier that should not
have been counted.
I’m
what you’d call an extra body for the gangs and ne’er do wells. A hench
for hire. I dress up in their team colours and I do what I can for a
fee. If I’ve got a superpower, it’s not getting caught.
This week was pretty busy.
Monday
I’m part of an army of insurgents (something Italian, I never caught
it. Newspaper will tell me in a few weeks anyway) that have been hanging
out on the moon for the last three decades. Someone told them I was
looking for work. No idea who. The uniforms we get to wear are spiffy,
but the army boys keep getting freaked out by today’s modern standards
for heroic costumes. The money they pay me with at the end of the day
when I get the survivors to their base in the sewers is old, but good.
No dates above the 70s.
Tuesday
is the Goodguy Associates. The movers and shakers of the city when
they’re not bitching at each other in the back of their favourite money
laundering operations, and they needed someone to move and shake for
them. I catch up on the ins and outs on the cab drive over. For these
guys you wear a bowler, a nice suit, and a pack a day.
It’s
easy work. We (the Goodguys) are making a move. They’re always making a
move. I’m there to add a body and muscle if someone gets any ideas. I’m
also there because I take great meeting notes. Post-it on the back of
the file says don’t get attached to Tony, he’s got a real estate
appointment at the bottom of the bay later this week. There’s usually a
note like that.
Weds I’m a ninja. Not much to say, which is kind of the point. The two-toe socks ride up on my feet and itch like hell.
Thursday,
I’m an techno-anarchist with this new group, the Digital Rights
Movement. I almost mix it up with Friday’s ancient cult job and wear
robes to a steel-studded event. Caught my calendar just in time and faux
pas avoided. We (the DRM) blow up a memorial to those lost in the ’98
Space Invaders invasion. Heroes arrive. I’m gone. Jason, the metal freak
in charge, gave me shit for just gluing on my piercings. I’m not
risking my skin for someone who thinks that his shit is worth that much
commitment for a one-time gig.
Friday
IS the cult meeting. Group called the Children of the Lost City. I
practice my chants in front of the mirror. It cracks. Ellen from my
sorority hooked me up with this gig. She told me she remembered I had
amazing enunciation. I’m being paid 500 for this song and dance. Way
better pay than the DRM. They spend so much money on cyber-replacements,
they don’t have enough to spend on what’s important.
We summon a demon. It eats the leader’s soul and takes over the group. Asks me if I want to stay on, but I say I’m just a temp.
Saturday’s
my day off. Pizza in my underwear and DVR. Sunday I’m part of a string
of artisanal arsons, so I’m relaxing while I can.