So there's a scheduling issue...

"So you've double booked yourself. Does this happen often?"

You ask this as you wrench open the rear passenger door of the beat up Studebaker Lark Wagonaire with a metallic squeal and gingerly settle a heavy, clanking duffel bag into the foot well.

What was in that bag anyway? You hadn't had the courage to ask when she had shoved it in your arms with a peremptory "Here, carry this." But it was Krystal so you decided to handle the battered old duffel as though it contained active land mines... because that might well be the case.

"Sometimes... it's not, like, ideal but we need the extra exposure to maintain high market visibility as Temp-Henches." Your looney lover replies helping a fully morphed and armored Rhino Crash into the back of the vintage station wagon.

The ancient suspension groans beneath over three hundred pounds of hard muscle and steel body armor, the rear end of the car sinking alarmingly but Krystal either doesn't notice or doesn't care as she gives her partner's big booted foot a reassuring pat and hands him a large paper-bag stuffed with warm microwave pizza pockets.

Shifting forms was a calorie expensive process, she would later explain.

The last thirty minutes had been a flurry of action. After the bodaciously beautiful Betty (aka Rhino Crash) had interrupted your mid-air bathroom tryst with the news that she had received a phone notification that they were due at another "Job" in an hour... well, shit had got busy.

Krystal had pushed off of you then somersaulted out of your anti-grav sphere with the swan-like grace a pro diver, landing on her feet all wet and sticky for her efforts. Spinning and grabbing your towel she had briskly wiped herself off, told you to "get a handle on your superpower - quicksmart" and ducked out of pond-scum green bathroom with Betty trailing mutely after her.

The powers "thing" had been surprisingly straight forward, which was fortunate because Krystal seemed intent to bring you on this job even if she had to leash and collar you then tow you around behind her like a big dumb balloon person. She had even suggested as much! The conjured mental image had provided more than enough motivation.

The power was there, resting like a knotted ball in your belly ...oh shit but you really hoped all this alien green fire business wasn't giving you a stomach ulcer or worse, a tumour!... but after a little experimentation you found that you could kind of twist and flex it a little. You knew about phantom limb syndrome, so you imagined this was something like how some amputees felt, having an invisible, intangible fist you can feel clenching and unclenching except this limb was buried deep in your abdomen.

In the end unclenching the phantom muscle had resulted in you and everything floating in the bubble around you dropping ignominiously down into the bathtub, slipping on the your own slick semen as you tried to stick the landing and banging your elbow painfully on the faucet on your way down. It is still sore and you can feel a pretty dark bruise is forming, not that anyone will be able to see it.

Okay... so here's the sensitive part. The reason no-one is going to see your awesome new bruise or any of your growing list of petty injuries is because... ummm, well...

It's because you are black.

To be clear it's not a melanin black or back-in-black but, like, covered from waistline to hairline in black latex body paint kind of black. Every inch of your front, back, arms, fingers, face and neck it covered in a stretchy layer of the shining black cosmetic material and frankly it looks very offensive. Oh and you are wearing a matching dark satin bandana to cover your head of hair.

Just imagine if the dread pirate Roberts got into performing full body black-face in a big way, that's what you look like. So yeah... you are feeling super fucking uncomfortable right now.

It had been Krystal's idea, obvi. She had been pleased with the swiftness you had demonstrated in mastering your power but also been fast to point out you didn't have a stitch to wear beyond your slacks and sneakers. Your t-shirt was torn rags and unless you wanted to borrow a dress, halter top or sports bra (all of which she had seriously considered in her own crazy manner) she didn't have anything else for you to wear - never mind actively disguising your identity.

So here you are looking like a half and half human who had been dangled upside down and dipped partway into a vat of molten midnight rubber then left to air-dry while she looked goddamn great!

That candy stripper mini dress from earlier was making a reappearance and it looked good on her. Of course it did, Krystal had the spectacular looks of a pink haired 1950's pin-up model with curves for days and a brilliant smile that could light up an entire ESPN sports arena. The dress looked painted on, the vibrant red and white material clinging lovingly to her curvy hips and full, prominent breasts while still showcasing her slender limbs, hugging tight to her flat belly and hourglass small waistline, barely reaching the tops of her thick, toned thighs.

It rides up a little as she leans down from the waist to latch the back hatch of the Studebaker flashing the briefest tantalizing peek of her perfect, globular ass cheeks and making you question whether, present evidence taken into consideration, if she is wearing any underwear at all? You feel like you can burst into green flames again right here and now until she turns around and shoots you a playful wink. Oh, she knows what she is doing to you. The shameless, gorgeous minx!

"Okay Cutie, get in. We need to burn rubber and it doesn't do us any favors to keep important clients waiting." She says in an authoritative fashion grabbing up a six foot tall, spiral lollipop headed maul off the roof of the car and sliding it in through the passenger window. This version of Krystal is all serious minded business.

"So what is the job and who is your client?" You ask sliding onto the passenger side of the front bench seat with twice the usual amount of vinyl squeak thanks to... you know... the awful latex black-face getup.

"It's a daylight federal bank robbery and with none other than William Wonker; the Confectionery King of Crime!" She replies excitedly, "Super high profile stuff and a really big deal for us!"

William Wonker? That had to be a major intellectual property rights violation for sure but you are already flipping through your comic book nerd mental filofax for anything you know about the villain of the hour...

William E. Wonker; the Confectionery King of Crime. A high level B-rank super villian with a candy store gimmick who seems to commit very public crimes out of a **** need for attention as much as to push any sort of nefarious agenda or simply enriching himself monetarily. He isn't stupid per se but in fact, possesses a cunning, devious mind that keeps him on the very cusp of the big leagues with the aid of some impressive super-tech and sound tactical thinking... for the most part. Though it is no secret that the guy is murderously ruthless and totally belongs in a straight jacket.

Oh great, this is going to end well...

"...thus my outfit, on theme and on brand as advertised." Krystal says starting the beat up vehicles engine with a bestial turbo-charged roar before dropping it into gear. For the second time today you are reminded that for all this old clunkers humble appearance, a lot of work has gone in underneath the bonnet.

"Oh... good." You mutter lamely as she pulls out into the sorry streets of downtown Libertine city before lapsing into an awkward silence filled only with the strong purring of the engine, the distant bustle of city traffic and the sound of Rhino Crash loudly chewing in the back behind you.

"I'm sorry Nick, you seemed so interested in all this before. Is it too much too soon?"

Krystal is looking at you with some concern and an unexpected somber note in her question. Yeah, it has been a lot... you have been in the Wonder Comics universe for less than twelve hours at your best guess, almost died a few times, had sex twice and you are already rushing headlong into more danger, much, much more.

Like a foolhardy, love-sick idiot chasing after a hair-brained career criminal who looks amazing in a short skirt and high heels. You have to say something and stop all the madness now...

"Uuum, well... it's about the costume Krystal. I feel a bit..."

Goddam it! You fucking cop out!

"Awesome? Kick-ass? Like a killer ninja gimp??"

"Racially insensitive!" You blurt out before she can get on a roll.

She stares at you blankly for a long minute as though you had just spoken a dirty word in an alien tongue. A long ass-clenching minute of her staring straight at you and not once looking at where she was driving, for you at least.

"Bah! Grab the wheel for a sec, Cutie. I need to show you something..."

With that she releases the steering wheel and half climbs over the back of the drivers bench to rummage about in the rear seats. You cry out and lunge sideways to grab the steering wheel as the station wagon begins to drift across the center line towards oncoming traffic. Turning yourselves back onto a straight course you end up stretched across the bench at an odd angle, gripping the wheel, face to cheek with Krystal's firm bubbly ass and trying desperately to keep your eyes on the road ahead.

"Here, take this..." Krystal says in a strained voice, reaching her arm back to drop shiny nickel-plated gun into your latex laden lap, you almost leap right out of your skin at the sudden weight of it! "That's a Walther P88; a ten round capacity, 9mm double action pistol. Pick it up, Nick."

Her voice is as serious as you have ever heard and your body complies without asking your brain for permission. Krystal continues in her flat, unwavering, unerring tone as though she was going to say this once and either you would get it or you would get out.

"Nick, we are about to be complicate in robbing a fully secured, federal bank during daylight business hours. There are going to be people in there, lots of people. Lots of people who you will be pointing that gun at- all with the unspoken, implied threat that you can and will shoot them with it..."

Holy shit! This isn't what you signed up for, was it? Wait, you never signed anything anyway!

"...which of course you won't, because killing innocent bystanders is simply a bad business practice for us Henches. However if any of them question my costume choices, mine or or your own, I'll beat them to within an inch of their lives with my sweet-ass lollipop because we both look totally bad-ass right now!"

Hold the phone... what is going on here? So meat was back off the menu now? Oh thank god...

"I mean, what sort of entitled idiot is going to stare down the barrel of a loaded gun and decide their next best life choice is to criticize the fashion or aesthetic choices of the person behind the trigger? Taking advantage of teaching moments like those is performing a public service if you ask me. People should know better and not to repeat myself, Cutie..."

Her playful tone has returned now as she leans over to kiss you on a black shiny cheek before whispering warmly in your midnight ear...

"...We're the bad guys remember? We can get away with a certain amount of insensitivity as long as we spin it right and don't make a habit of it."

You grunt in half-hearted assent before very gingerly resting the Walther on the seat between the two you. You are familiar with handling guns if not entirely comfortable with pointing them at people ..._you are _still a nerd here, capiche?

"So what do you want to call yourself? What is going to be your supervilliany online handle, your nome de sinistre?" Your bubblegum haired get-away driver asks, deftly changing the subject as easily as she simultaneously changes gears.

"I haven't given it any thought, what did you call me before... Killer Ninja Gimp?"

Krystal lets out a wild giggle before looking back at you with that lunatic fire burning bright behind her dark chocolate eyes.

"You are worried about being racist but won't hesitate in alienating a large portion of the BDSM community? You are a riot Baby! ...but no, I was thinking of something that works more with your particular super powers."

Urgh, you weren't here to yuck anyone's yum and all this was clearly much harder than it initially looked. Maybe you hadn't given the creators of Wonder Comics enough credit, they've been doing it for decades after-all and you aren't even through day one yet.

Gravity Guy? Floaty Fellow? Mr A.O.E?

"Wait, I have it..."

Oh hurray, Krystal to the rescue.

"...The G-Spot!"