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The Diary of Spider-Bat by Martin Ott
by Martin Ott

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About Martin Ott

A former U.S. Army interrogator, Martin Ott is the author of six books of poetry and fiction, including the forthcoming books Underdays, University of Notre Dame Press and Interrogations, Fomite Press. More at www.martinottwriter.com

Part 3 of 6

 

 

Wednesday

OK, so now that my carefully crafted backstory was ironclad I figured that it would be easy to gather a crowd. What tourist or child of a tourist wouldn’t want to hear the story about how Spiderman and Batman left their homes to join together on a mission to save every known universe from a time traveling villain. Yes, they did succeed. We’re all alive, aren’t we? No, they did not get to return home as their forms were caught in a black hole, molded into a single entity, and sent to the one place that needed a hero more than anywhere else in the cosmos. Yes, our earth!

At my appointed spot, on one of the few empty stars, I passionately shared my genesis and soon ran into a language barrier. Even the tourists who understood English didn’t quite get the science behind my epic genesis. It was impossible to pitch it in the second or two it took to get their attention before they passed by.

It was then that Jack Sparrow, of all people, came to my rescue. Even though his character (in the movies) was a bit selfish, he gave me a high five and began the most amazing Spidey-Bat rap: “Two heroes in one suit, with red mask and black boots, this cat is where it’s at, the amazing Spidey-Bat!” I know the actual words might sound lame, but Jack had a booming voice and a great way of drawing attention to my alcove. So what did I do? Well, I danced...kind of. I attacked the air with some pretty choice moves, and some bear of a dude wearing a much-too-small Harley Davidson T-shirt put his arm around me while his three kids posed for photos, dancing with me and punching the air to the rap.

I started singing the words to my own song, as I stashed the crumpled bill in my utility belt. I only had $995 to go to make rent before Monday! But now, it totally seemed possible. Jack Sparrow ended up being a pretty good dude and insisted we didn’t reveal our names just like real heroes. It was his first week, too. He was an aspiring actor (shocking I know) and was doing this as a way to get extra spending money to go on a rafting trip to Thailand. He drew in crowds for me with his rapping and banter, and I lined up girls for him by pretending I was scared of him and his “big sword” (OK a bit phallic perhaps).

It became obvious that we were now a force to be reckoned with. Batman and little Batman came by to show off their choreographed fake fight sequence and to call us amateurs and posers. Storm Trooper hid behind a trashcan and pointed his weapon at us, making a pshew pshew sound that could have been a laser gun I suppose. Marilyn hit on Jack, and that caused him to take off to use the bathroom a few times in order to ditch her advances as she might have been born in the same year as the actual Marilyn Monroe.

During one of Jack’s absences, Zorro came by with the rose that he brandished like a sword to draw in the women and slapped me upside my mask to get my attention. Dirty Bert nodded from the gym entrance where he was talking to a bodybuilder, and I was having a hard time figuring out what was going on until Zorro said: “That will be twenty percent.”

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Jesus, you’re dense. Here’s the lowdown—all the regulars give me and Bert a cut of everything they make. It keeps things peaceful and provides you with protection. For example, Disney characters just tend to disappear. Your friend is the fifth Jack Sparrow this month to show up…and none of them have returned.”

“You must think I’m some sort of asshole,” I said, and got mad when Zorro grinned in response. My pal Jack appeared on the scene sipping a bottled water from the Fresh and Easy Mart and Zorro sneered, “There’s only room for one dashing swashbuckler here!” before joining Dirty Bert at the gym entrance. What a nut job this guy was thinking he could muscle us out of a percentage of our tips.

Still, for some reason, I didn’t tell Jack about the incident. He was on fire drawing in the crowds…and I didn’t want to mess with the mojo. We made bank that day—after twelve hours I’d managed to rake in four hundred bucks. Even better, Jack explained how the good ones pair up on the strip, and to treat the experience like prison, to avoid the warring cliques.

That, of course, was my cue to ask him what he went to prison for. I think I figured it out later that night when he took me out to a downtown loft party in my Spidey-Bat costume to see some of his customers. He was an E dealer, and convinced me to join him and a group of strangers to drop a tab together. Now this sounded a bit dangerous, but I was a super hero after all.

It was weird to be rolling with a bunch of strangers nearly half my age, but the narcotic had its desired affect and anonymous strangers became anonymous friends. I didn’t seem out of place in my costume as many of the people there had gone to art school or were musicians…I even got one girl (at least I hope it was a girl) to take me into a broom closet.

The night got hazy after that as I drank too much. I remembered laughing at some point when I passed out condoms and lube from the bat utility belt that my pal must have left in there. I think we blew up the condoms like balloons and everyone got a bit sticky with the bat lube. Did we end up somewhere eating waffles? Not sure. Finally, I felt the light stabbing into my eyes as a pirate dropped me back at my apartment and into my bed.

 

to be continue...

 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6