superheroine_by_night's Xanga

About Rufus the Red

Thu, 28 Sep 2006 20:37:06 GMT

Everyone's asking me during the night shift, "What's up with you and Rufus the Red? Are you guys, like, you know? A thing?" Or "Is he the one you were talking about before? The guy you work with who you were crushing on? You know, the one whose name you wouldn't mention."

Like I've told my friend, I'm not exactly going to answer that question. I am not going to tell you who it is until I'm readly (if I ever am). What I will tell you is this: Rufus and I have known each other for a long time now. Longer than I've known any of the other masks. (Although I'd like to take this oppurtunity that Rufus, unlike most of us, doesn't wear a mask.)

Rufus is one of the one best guys I've ever met. He's funny and loyal and good to have with you during a shift. Rufus and I have a lot in common, too. We're both unsure about where we're going, and who we're going with. He has feeling for someone and isn't sure if she knows. I have feelings for someone and I'm pretty sure he doesn't know.

So I hope that cleared things up I'm not going to tell you Rufus is the one I've talked about or that he isn't (you can bug him, too, but I'm confident he'll give you a similiar answer). All I'm going to say is I couldn't ask for a better friend, even if we're going in opposite directions.

I Got My Picture in the Paper -- HA!

Wed, 13 Sep 2006 16:41:01 GMT

Last week, I saved a guy. It was nothing big, really, no bad guys involved. Just a normal twenty-something guy with long greasy dark hair who forgot to look while crossing the street. I flew down and picked him up, setting him out of harm's way.

He was so cute and apologetic, big eyes behind his glasses. He'd been listening to Tool or something too loud on his ipod and hadn't heard the semi honking his horn. I set him back down and bid him good luck crossing the street. I didn't spend any time talking to him and so I never found out that he was an artist. Not just any artist, but a comic book artist.

So what do I find in the paper this morning? A picture of the superheroine who saved his life. Kind of.

Look at it! It looks NOTHING like me. First of all, my boobs aren't that big and my waist isn't that small (and I hate to say it, but I think it's gonna stay that way, folks). Second, I don't wear skintight leather. Don't comic book artists realize how long it would take to get into that kind of thing. Finally, the little diamond showing off my belly? Please! I'd have to cut back on the beer, and that's just not something I'm willing to do yet. Beer helps me through the long lonely nights. Beer is good. Beer is my friend. So is whine, which is what I'm doing right now.

But I dunno. For some reason that picture makes me laugh. I guess it's something about people's perceptions of you and how very different they are from who you really are. So for now, it stays.

What an Incredible Smell You've Discovered!

Wed, 28 Jun 2006 22:00:45 GMT

Rooftop patrol last night with my friend Trap. Trap, he's super strong. People can beat him up and he just gets better. It hurts him, sometimes. But most of the time it doesn't. Don't get any ideas. He's a married man and a new father.

And gorgeous. Hispanic. Long dark hair. Great physique. Geeky sense of humor. God, I love working with him.

*sigh*

Hot night, last night, kind of humid. Made me think of Texas. I hate Texas. At least Trap was sweating, too. It's small comforts that get me through the evenings.

I'd heard that the Skunk was back in LA, selling inhalants. With a name like the Skunk, you gotta know he's a b-level bad guy, and taking him down isn't gonna be a problem. And normally it wouldn't be.

So Trap and I, we follow him to the warehouse. It's always a warehouse with guys like Skunk. No creativity. Anyway, he's got his crew there, fixing up the inhalants with his special sniffing potions to get all the rich kids in the OC to go wild. So Trap and I watching all this go down from the rafters, waiting for the right moment to reveal ourselves.

And then Trap cell phone rings.

I just stared at him and watched his face go red. We dropped in on the Skunk and his friends and still cleaned them up without any real problems. But unfortunately we got sprayed. And I've taken about half-a-dozen bubble baths.

Dammit.

All because Trap forgot to turn off his cell phone. Trap's wife was worried about him. Isn't that sweet?

So here's to you, Trap! Nah-nah-nah-nah. I still love working with you. Most of the time. Just please remember to turn off your cell phone next time out!

Maybe I'm giving poor Trap a hard time. I'm sure his wife's going to be far more pissed once she gets a whiff of him.

A Belated Introduction

Mon, 26 Jun 2006 19:13:17 GMT

Why am I writing this to you, my little diary of a superheroine? Why do you get to read it?

That's a tough question. You know my name. Danni. You might've heard of my other name. Vox.

That's right, you guessed it: I'm a superheroine. As in saving the world. As in vigilante. As in I need to get a dayjob. I can pick someone out of a crowd and amplify a sound (something I say or something I've heard), making it as loud as I want. Or I can completely strip ALL sound from their ears and leave them alone in their silence. I can actually hit a group of people with this. So far the record's 15. I'm not sure exactly how it works. Some form of telepathy, I would guess. But that doesn't really explain the flying, does it? And that's defintely the best part of the job.

So now you know my names but you don't really know me. No one does. Yes, I'm a superheroine, and part of the deal is that I have to keep my identity secret. You know my first name? Google Danni, cross reference LA and the OC. Good luck. Work on your tan, while you're at it.

The secret identity is for my family and friend's protection. I think it's for my own protection, too, but I'm not really sure. And although I'm protecting my family and friends, am I hurting them, too? Because the thing is, no one knows who I really am. My family and friends, they know Danni. They don't know some of the things I do, this double-life I read (and they are WAY too scared of the internet to find out). My superhero friends, they know Temple. Some of them know my name's Danni, too. But that's all they know. I'm too afraid to let them in any closer, even though they might be the only ones who understand.

So the burden falls to you, my dear reader. You get to know all of me. Well, all that I'm willing to share, of course. In this virtual world, you can write things here that anyone can read. Everyone can see you, but does anyone really know who you are? Do you even know who you are? Or are you just making yourself over to be who you want everyone to think you are? See, you have a secret identity, too. Whether your handle is Vox, Marrow Black, or the Toothpick Kid. That's why you write, that's why you read. So it seems fitting to me, since you and I have have soooooooooooo much in common, that I write these posts just for you. That I confide in you. Because I need someone who I can trust. Someone who won't let me down.

And if you start singing that I need a hero song, I've got some friends who are going to fly over there and kick your ass.

So welcome to my blog. Welcome to my life. It's nowhere near as glamorous or adventurous as you might think, but I hope you stick around for a little while.

You're easy to talk to.

Coming Down is the Hardest Thing

Fri, 16 Jun 2006 18:24:59 GMT

Up in the sky at 3 am, there's nothing to keep you company but the occasional 747 thundering by. Even in LA, those start to become more sparse at that time in the morning. The lights from the city below twinkle up at me, the lights from the stars above flash. It's the most beautiful thing in the world I've ever witnessed and at the same time it makes me feel more lonely than everything else. After nights like last Tuesday, it also makes me feel very afraid about messing everything up.

I wish there was someone I could share this with, gliding over the coast, tracing the line where the ocean meets the beach. But there's no one that I trust that much. Or maybe I'm just too scared. I do care about people. I think that's why I do what I do. But I don't think I can let somebody else into this world. I have my "friends," the other superpowers, have their own mess of problems. Spouses, children, jobs (or lack thereof).

Some of them try and keep their identies a secret, saying they're protecting the ones they love. And for some of them, that's probably true. But I know some of them play it for all it's worth and live the double life up as much as they can. A girlfriend or boyfriend in every port.

There are some of my friends who tried to open and honest with the ones closest to them. One of my friend's wife thinks I'm having an affair with him.

Then there's the third option, a relationship with one of these friends. Someone who understands what I do, because they do it, too. But how can they understand me? I don't.

I've seen all the different sides of these relationships and often I think the heartbreak outweighs the good. So why is it, I find myself dreaming about someone? Why is it, I want to share all this with him? Why can't I get his smile out of his head? Why can't I even talk to him about any of this?

These are the thoughts that fly through my head as I soar the air. All I hear is the wind in my face, horns blaring on PCH, waves crashing on the shore, birds beginning to sing their morning hymns. Weeping in loneliness, I trace the coastline below, waiting to come back down as the sun begins to rise.

The Playboy

Tue, 13 Jun 2006 20:44:43 GMT

I beat the shit out of a guy tonight. So much so that when I got back tonight, I found one of his teeth buried in my bloodied knuckles. If I was a cop, I would've been suspended. Maybe even fired, especially since the guy was some kind of millionare. I guess I'm lucky. I guess.

Me and a friend had heard about a millionare living in Pasadena who'd never worked a day in his life and inherited all his money. The American dream. I've heard people say that too much free time all to yourself is a dangerous thing. I guess that was part of this playboy's problem. This guy purchased some film equipment and created his own home studio. My friend found out this playboy had some friends in customs. So he solicited illegal immigrants to come to his house and be in his movies to perform for a live audience, parties he threw for his friends. I guess there's a lot of money in a business where young Mexican girls have sex with each other. The biggest stars of the evening were paid with passports.

Welcome to the land of the free and the home of the brave, chicas.

So my friend and I went in. Everyone scattered pretty quick, except the playboy and one of his starlets. He laughed when he saw us and offered us money to screw each other on film. He could get a lot of money for superhero sex.

I bitch-slapped him and he fell to the floor laughing, grabbed his crotch and said some other things he'd like to film us doing. My friend, trying to be machismo or something, told him he could make all the videos he wanted with his future cellmate. The playboy laughed even harder at that. I looked at the girl he'd been filming, the age of my little sister, big brown eyes and covering her naked body with a sheet. I told her she should leave before the police came. The playboy asked why I thought the police hadn't come yet. Then he told the girl not to go anywhere, he wasn't finished with her yet. I saw her lips tremble right before she dropped the sheet and started walking toward him.

That's when I lost it, hitting him, hard. Stripping away every sound in the room but my fists connecting against his bloated body. Splattered blood all over his kashmir carpet. He snarled and said he was going to find out who we were, and he was going to fuck us one way or another.

I don't know what happened to me. I've never lost it like that before. I hit him over and over and over and over again. One of the big film lights fell down on top of him, burning the side of his face. I tried to strangle him with film cable.

My friend pulled me off of him and told me to take off. I could see the playboy staring at me, his eyes wide, his face bloodied. I flew off into the sky, high above the city. So high I could see the stars over LA. All alone, with only my thoughts.

What have I done?

Some of my friends, some of the people I work with, they might say he deserved it. Not the guy I went with tonight, but some of the others. I don't know. That's not why I'm doing this. I don't put this mask on to hurt people. I put it on to make people feel better, to protect them. But tonight made me wonder: am I really helping anyone? Is getting dressed up every night for another evening on the town doing any good? That Mexican girl, she disappeared by the time my friend pulled me off the playboy. I don't know what happened to her. She's running down Colorado Blvd wrapped in a sheet probably. What's it all for?

Am I making a difference?