[WP] All superpowers come from capes. The bigger the cape, the stronger the superpower

Heron stat with her eyes closed and legs crossed, meditating in silence in the stone chambers. Sunlight poured through the open windows, illuminating her brilliant white cape which fluttered and flowed around her despite the lack of wind. Her cape was more than mere fabric; it was an extension of her soul, and as she mediated, more white threads coalesced from thin air and wove themselves into the edges of her power. The meditation chamber was normally spacious, but Heron’s cape had already flowed over the whole floor. It was starting to weave yet another layer upward when the sunlight suddenly turned to shadow and a sound like dynamite disturbed the peace.

“Heron!” a booming voice called. Heron could hear the voice both with her ears and projected directly into her mind. She ignored the voice, her regular breathing not skipping a beat.

“It is I, Gilgamesh, the Hero of Heroes!” He must have been unaware that most everyone called him Gilgamesh the Devourer. “Come out of that hut you call a fortress and join me in the glorious sky such that we may talk!”

Heron continued to not move. A single thread, about to join the rest, instead wiggled back into the air and burned slowly. The faintest whisper, “no” drifted into Gilgamesh’s surface thoughts.

A moment later, the ground rumbled, and Heron could feel Gilgamesh’s anger project through her entire body. Dust shook itself loose and swirled into the air as the quake grew stronger. There was a deafening crack accompanied by a shower of gravel and timber. Only then did Heron open her eyes.

She looked up to see the entire top half of her tower flying off into the distance. Instead of blue, a writhing, shifting canvas of gold colored the sky. A large section of it was burning away, and for a brief moment the sun was visible, but the hole quickly mended once the earth stopped shaking.

“That was a command, not a request!”

“Then let’s talk,” Heron said. She sighed and got to her feet. As soon as she did, she was caught off guard by a crushing force on her back and sholders, pushing her to her knees.

“No.” Gilgamesh voice reverberated in her mind.

Heron briefly saw another patch of gold burn before Gilgamesh forced her head to the ground. She only just caught herself before the man could give her a concussion.

“I thought you might be different from the other Capes. The gods themselves said i am the greatest. Are you like the others and you cannot hear them sing my praise even now? Can you not comprehend the sky of gold I have woven together to fulfill my destiny? It is obvious that the gods have chosen ME as a vessel to reincarnate the King of Kings. I come to your remote island to offer you the privilege of weaving your soul into mine, to harness your full potential to bring justice and unity to the world instead of just your puny Arachnine City. In the face of such opportunity, you refuse to even see me as a guest when I come to your remote island?”

Heron laughed.

“And now you mock me? Or is this just an insect coping wit htheir imminent destruction?”

“No, you were right the first time. It is mockery. There are no gods. You’re just insane.” As Heron spoke, her cape, previously pressed to the ground like its wearer, began to float again. The white fabric rolled and folded in on itself. Some of it wrapped around Heron’s body, and the rest twirled into three pillars that pushed the woman back to her feet. The body might have been too weak to resist the force of Gilgamesh’s soul, but another soul? Child’s play.

Heron continued pushing and growing her new legs, raising herself toward the human shaped speck floating in the shifting gold sky. She could see now that Gilgamesh’s cape was easily ten times the size of her own. Despite the fact that he was no longer pushing down on Heron, his cape still burned at the edges. It seemed that he was using his power to keep himself in the sky without support. A cape was just an extension of oneself, and like forming a fist, required only a thought to shape. Reshaping the world outside the body, however, required a sacrifice. Gilgamesh must have believed he had enough power to spare.

“I can see why you didn’t want to come out. You’re just an old woman, too frail to fly. The stories said you saved the city from thousands of unbound threads. I can barely believe you fought ten.”

Gilgamesh brought his arms up and at least a dozen patches of his cape flared. The ground erupted in an equal number of places, earth and stone flying into the air and swirling together to form massive spikes before hurtling toward Heron.

Heron simply moved out of the way as each approached. It wasn’t a serious attack; it was a show of force and power. Most Capes struggled to control five things at the same time, and those who could often rarely had enough fabric to burn. Gilgamesh wanted to make it clear that he had both.

“Lithium also moved too much,” Gilgamesh laughed.

“And you simply talk too much.” Heron scowled. Lithium had been somewhat of a protege several years ago. Heron was now close enough to Gilgamesh to make out the seams in his cape where other lengths of fabric had been sloppily patched in. Though its brilliant blues had been dyed gold by Gilgamesh’s power, one patch clearly had the embroidery of Lithium’s cape.

Gilgamesh laughed even harder and flared his cape in a hundred different places.

The featureless grey sky began tinting blue as dawn approached. A chill breeze blew across the mountain’s bare rock. Besides the wind and a young man’s footsteps, nothing stirred. The evening insects had gone silent, and the morning birds didn’t dare fly in the territory of an iron dragon.

Marcus, on the other hand, paced nervously in this silence. He had tracked the dragon to these cliffs the day before, and he had snuck to his current vantage point above the creature’s nest during the night while it hunted. He pulled his cloak around himself to fight the early spring air, but loosened it only a moment later as he felt himself sweat. It seemed like a good time to pee.

Before he could contemplate emptying his bladder, his ears picked up a distant rumbling. Relief that his wait was finally over was quickly replaced with anxiety over the same reason. Marcus dropped to the ground and let his cloak fall around himself. His heart raced as the dragon’s whirring propellers grew louder. From previous hunts with his clan, he knew his cloak would keep him hidden from the iron dragon’s eyes, but logic rarely quieted emotion.

It’s an old one, on its last legs, Marcus told himself. It was the only beast he’d seen in the past few days besides his horse, but even his poor girl had run out of fuel a day ago. THis is why he was here: dragon’s blood. Even a rusted over, hole-filled dragon would have enough left in the tank to get him across the wastes.

The whirring crescendo suddenly became a roar as the dragon crested a snow capped peak. Marcus watched it fly low over the mountains, its gigantic wings held straight out to keep it aloft. It approached the valley and began circling in descent. Marcus could almost feel the spinning engines vibrating in his bones.

The iron beast had to take wide circles to lower itself, with part of the arc passing underneath Marcus’ perch. He had to time this perfectly. First, he had to jump such that the dragon would catch his fall. That was the easy part. Second, Marcus had to judge how high he wanted to the dragon to be. His heart raced faster. Too low and he would break something landing on the metal exoskeleton. Too high, and he wouldn’t have a chance of surviving the crash.

Each lazy circle brought the dragon closer to the ground. Beads of sweat formed on Marcus’ brow. This was insane. Hunts always happened with at least two people. One would distract and lead the dragon on predictable paths while the other could use a glider to have some measure of control. Without a living friend, Marcus had to rely on surprise. The chances weren’t good, but still, they were marginally higher than surviving in the wastes.

Marcus’ eyes narrowed. The dragon was circling close to the cliff face for the fifth time. This was it. He slowly brought himself off his belly and into a crouch, carefully watching for any deviation in his target’s path. He gripped his spear tightly, knuckles turning white with anticipation. Then he jumped.

Marcus’ cloak flailed around him, but the hunger managed to keep his eyes focused on his quarry. His stomach turned, and the initial rush of the fall was immediately replaced with adrenaline fueled clarity. Marcus thrust his spear down.

There was the not yet familiar crunch and screech of tearing metal as the hunter’s spear coroded and pierced the dragon’s head. Marcus landed hard. He would feel that tomorrow, but the dragon had the worst of it.

The creature’s engines roared into higher gear, and it began swerving to throw the hunter off. Marcus held onto the spear for dear life. The beast had been rusted before, but corrosion spread like a blight from the impact point. All Marcus had to do was maintain his grip long enough for the poison to work.

The seconds felt like hours as the beast bucked and banked. But soon, the engines stopped roaring and quieted to a purr of defeat. The left side failed, then the right. The two bodies began accelerating toward the ground.
Marcus braced himself but didn’t dare close his eyes. The dragon’s wings kept them in a steep dive rather than a free fall, but the ground was still approaching entirely too fast.

And then metal met stone, sending showers of dirt and gravel into the air. Marcus managed to hold his spear for only a few moments before being violently thrown off. He screamed as he hit the ground shoulder first, but his voice was drowned out by the thundering crash.

Almost as quickly as it had begun, silence returned to the valley. Marcus blinked tears out of his eyes, and as the dust settled, he saw the dragon broken in two, though its precious silver blood was only trickling out. Marcus untied a leather skin from his waist, took a few breaths, and began his work. He’d be out of here soon.

[WP] Something unusual is raining from the skies.

Cypress Gallant spread another layer of oil on her disassembled rifle’s bolt carrier to stop her hands from shaking. She adjusted a dirty rag in her dirtier hands and started working the bolt carrier’s other side. Twenty five days in this hellhole. Twenty five days listening to moans of the dying get louder.Twenty five days too scared to light a candle after an unfamiliar sun set. Twenty five fucking days waiting for the cavalry that was supposed to be here in two.

A muffled explosion rattled through the abandoned office’s walls. Cypress stopped cleaning and focused on her hearing. Above the sniffling of refugees around her, she heard another explosion, smaller this time, followed by a rattle of gunfire. Not alarmingly close, but not too far, either. Cypress hurriedly shoved the bolt carrier back into place and put her gun back together. Her hands were shaking again.

“Lietenant!” a hoarse voice shouted. Cypress turned her head as she twisted the last pin into place. “We need all guns to the north! Now!”

“Yes, sir!” Cypress responded. Her heart was racing. They had just moved yesterday! How had the worms figured out their new position so quickly?

Cypress scrambled to her feet and ran toward the northern wall, knuckles white while clenching her rifle. In moments, she was pressed up against an exterior facing wall, eyes stealing glances outside the window like the other dozen soldiers around her.

Movement. Cypress raised her rifle to point at a humanoid shambling down the street, but it flopped to the ground after a resounding crack from someone else’s shot. Cypress was quietly thankful for the night; in the darkness, she couldn’t see the worms wriggling away from its dying, human host.

Several more hosts emerged, and the soldiers took them down with veteran efficiency. After a minute, other than the bodies, the street was clear once more. Everyone kept their guns out for several more minutes before breathing a sigh of relief. Just a scout party. They’d have to move, though.

Just as Cypress lowered her rifle, she heard a low rumble in the distance. The other soldiers started to notice as the thunder rose in volume. Then it stopped.

A blood curdling scream pierced the night air, then the sound of hundreds of footsteps came again. Moments after, a crowd, no, a sea of humanoids surged from around the corner.

Cypress started firing immediately, as did everyone else. The bodies piled up, but the obstacles did little to slow the worms. Cypress released her spent magazine and slammed a new one inside.

The worms broke upon the lower floor like a wave crashing on the shore. The door was barricaded, but who knew how long that would hold…

“Fire Team Omega, do you read me?” came a voice from Cypress’ radio through static. “Fire Team Omega, do you read me? This is the SSV Everest. Over.”

Cypress grabbed the radio and hit a button. “SSV Everest, Fire Team Omega reads you. We’re pinned down! Where are you?”

“Straight overhead. We see the worms. Beginning deployment.”

Cypress just dropped the radio and started firing into the crowd again. Suddenly, something in the night sky flared. She looked up to see a flaming shape emerge from the thick clouds and slam into the ground. The first pod was followed by hundreds more, all raining onto the city. Drop pods, with fresh troops and more guns.

“It’s finally raining, men. Halleluja.”

[WP] You are a drug dealer who deals in drugs nobody else can get. But instead of money, you want books. Rare books. The rarer, the better.

“Martin Alexander Smith, what in all the Endless Hells did you do with my book?” I glared at my nephew. He was hitting that awkward phase of adolescence where he wanted to puff out his chest, but not quite rebellious enough to stop his lanky, pimply frame from shrinking at my every word.

“I, um, don’t know what—”

“Then explain why you have an entire can of himalayan sea salt in your backpack—which was full this morning yet is now mysteriously half empty—and squirrel blood on your hands.”

“Aunt Veronica, I just, um, my friends—”

“Oh, it was your friends’ fault?” Gods above and below, I wished my sister and her husband hadn’t run off with that succubus. I told her kids were a bad idea, and now here I am, four years later, dealing with it. I had come home to find that my copy—no, copy is the wrong word—the singular instance of the *Bow of the Eternal* was missing from my library along with my nephew. He had tried to sneak in after midnight stinking of brimstone.

“I wanted Jessica to like me!” Martin blurted out. “She’s kinda getting into the whole goth thing, and I was like, ‘well, my aunt knows magic,’ and she was like ‘no way,’ and we were like hanging out yesterday and remembered that today was—”

Martin stopped speaking, probably a combination of realizing that he was just digging a deeper hole and further realizing that whatever he was about to say would make it deeper. His face was stretched into that nervous, side-eyed expression I almost recognized from my sister. I waited for him to continue. The black cat clock on the wall ticked, mocking his silence. After enough time passed that even I was getting uncomfortable, I said “Today was…?”

“4/20.”

I pushed my glasses up to rub my temples in an attempt to massage away the stupid that had just entered my head. That’s what I was smelling underneath the brimstone. “Jesus Christ, Martin.”

“I thought it would look really cool if I like, did the whole warlock thing and got us some weed. Weed’s not that big of a deal, Aunt Veronica!”

I breathed out a long, long sigh. “No, Martin, it’s not that big of a deal. You could have just asked me, Martin.”

“You smoke?” Martin’s eyes were wide.

“Are you kidding me? Me and Sophie would sneak out of the house all the time to get high when we were barely older than you.”

“Mom smoked?!?”

“You have a lot to learn about adults, but that’s besides the point. Now what happened to my book?”

“Well, um,” Martin looked askance again, “I needed to do the exchange in front Jessica, you know, but I didn’t remember the steps so I *borrowed* your book. One thing led to another and, well, I ended up trading the book for an ounce.”

“You WHAT?!?” I was fighting an intense rise of anger now. Before this high teenager could react, I pinched his wrist and bit the inside of my lip, just enough to taste the barest hint of copper. In my other hand, there was a puff of dank smoke as I conjured a single nugget of Golden Kushala. I might have pinched him harder than necessary.

“The Contract of Equivalence, Martin! Did I not teach you anything? I know a guy in the First Layer who only needs two tiny sacrifices of pain so our deal can satisfy the barest minimum letter of the Contract. The *Bow of the Eternal* is a one-of-a-kind book, not just on Earth but in the entire multiverse! It literally cannot be copied because of all the elder amethyst in its ink, and you thought it was only worth an ounce of weed?”

Martin was silent. It was enough time for me to realize that the summonings in that book were not exactly for novices either. As Martin grew older, I had more and more gotten used to this weird feeling of combined pride in his abilities and absolute disappointment at his stupidity. The trade must have happened with at least one of the marquises. I took another deep breath before I could yell at him again. Patience, Veronica. I suppose I’d done some dumb trades in the past, as well… I shivered slightly remembering what I had offered to get rid of my acne once. Of course I wouldn’t tell him that story until he had learned from this mistake. Had to keep the pretense of responsibility.

“Who did you trade with?”

“Sarzallon from the 86th sphere.”

“Good God. Sarzallon? Really? That motherfucker—don’t smirk at my language—has been after my collection for years. Of course it was him.”

I started pacing around the room, taking mental inventory of what I needed to open a portal to the 86th. Couldn’t do this over the phone—Sarzallon wouldn’t take that as an insult, but from my dealings he was easier to work with face to face. I was rummaging around in the minifridge to find that last bag of AB+ blood I knew was in there when I caught Martin trying to slowly back out of the room.

“Stop right there, young man.”

He froze.

“You’re not off the hook. Fill the camelbak with water. It’s hot in Hell and we need to stay hydrated.”

“We?” There was a quiver to his voice. He hadn’t been down there before. “You’re… not going to trade me for your book, are you?”

I cackled. “No, of course not. Well, the thought crossed my mind. A human soul would *probably* be a good enough trade to get back the *Bow of the Eternal*, but no, I wouldn’t do that to you. We’re related, and having part of the bloodline bound to a demon is usually not great.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Of course not. Now go fill the camelbak.”

Martin uneasily grabbed the bag and left the room, and I opened my third eye to make sure his aura was headed toward the kitchen, not up the stairs. Once I saw him standing at the sink and heard water rushing through the pipes, I pulled out one of my tarot decks and began shuffling, guiding The Chariot—no, The Wheel of Fortune would be better for the 86th—to the top. I threw the bloodbag onto the floor and stomped on it, muttering a quick spell so that the splatter would form into a heptagram. I tore up the card and threw it in the air, and almost as soon as I had done that, my office wall opened 86 human eyes of various colors. They all blinked spastically before all erupting into hot, orange flame and coalescing into a single, burning portal. I waved a hand, willing the window open and a blanket over the fire detector as thick smoke billowed out of the rift.

Martin came back into the room, though he came to a dead stop at the sight of the portal. I walked over to him and took his hand, gently but firmly, then went guided him over.

“Nothing really prepares a first timer for the screams, so—” I just stepped into the portal, pulling Martin along with me.

“Why do I feel like… I’m in Arizona?”

Martin loudly slurped from the water on his back as we continued walking down a deserted street. It wasn’t just a comment about the dry heat–not to say that Duchess Azamach didn’t do the usual thing other Princes did of turning their little slice of the 86th into a literal convection oven, efficient air flow and all. His question, I think, was more due to the fact that we were surrounded by two story townhouses repeating as far as the eye could see–which was pretty far given that the entire plane was flat. Ignoring the orange glow from the eternal fire blanketing the sky, and ignoring that the cacti had veins, and ignoring that the tumbleweed screamed as it rolled by, I could be convinced that we were in some desert suburbia.

“Demons are a weird bunch.” I shrugged as I applied some chapstick before all this heat could crack my lips. This was the sixth time already. “A lot of fascination with the hells we humans make for ourselves in the mortal plane.”

“I was expecting…”

“Torture, depravity, people crawling all over like something out of Caligula’s wet dreams?”

“Who’s Caligula?”

“I thought you were taking Latin this year.”

“I, uh, may have missed that day.”

I hadn’t had to write any notes to the school nurse this year… though that could have explained the pile of feathers I found in the trash a month back. “Did you use Usiwyn’s or Ekey’s forgery spell?”

“… Ekey’s.”

“Good.” Usiwyn was a hack. “Anyway, the depravity you’re thinking of exists in places. Everything you can think of and everything you can’t pretty much exists in the Endless Hells. Ever wonder what demons actually do with the sacrifices they collect?”

“I’ve tried not to.”

“It’s all a game. Everything about Hell is about status. People think it’s about domination, but really, domination is just one way to establish that you are higher on the pecking order. The difference between status in the mortal plane and status in Hell is that status in Hell actually gives demons the power to make and shape things.”

“Uh huh.”

I was losing him. “Martin, the point of all this is that demons have been doing deals for a long time. There’s a whole complex economy based purely on hierarchy, promises, and wishes down here, so once we start talking to anyone, just keep quiet. Especially since you forgot how the Contract of Equivalence works.”

“I know how it works, Aunt Veronica.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

Martin sighed. “Humans and demons may exchange goods and services that are equal in value. Nothing can be given or taken freely.”

I waited for him to continue. He didn’t. “Equal as defined as? Value as defined as? Free as defined as?”

Martin looked askance. “Um.”

“As defined by a third party arbitrator and witness, agreed upon by all parties prior to signing.” This was usually the part where demons took advantage of folks not familiar with dealings since a “third party” wasn’t necessarily someone who wouldn’t benefit. That loophole and all the fine print were always an adventure. Given that Martin completely forgot about the arbitrator clause, I wasn’t holding my breath on if he understood the full terms. He didn’t even have a copy of the contract, which is why we were passing through Azamach’s offices first.

My dowsing bracelet gave a gentle tug toward a house on the right. Finally. The streets were entirely empty; there were no cars nor were there people. There was the occasional screaming tumbleweed that bounced by, but one seemed to come on an interval like clockwork. Every single house looked exactly the same, with the same arrangement of veiny cacti on the front yard. It was as if we were walking through an agonizing facsimile of Groundhog Day, except the loops happened at every mailbox. Couldn’t even get a full day to breathe. Gods, Azamach was good at her job.

“Over there. Remember, don’t speak to anyone except me. Last thing we need is another accidental contract.”

Martin just nodded before wiping sweat from his face using the front of his shirt. I was glad that Sophie instilled enough responsibility in him to do his own laundry before she absconded. Teenage boys stink, and his hellspawned sweat stains were not inspiring confidence. Though the only reason I seemed to be fairing better than him was because I was wearing all black. Cliche for a witch, sure, but black doesn’t show sweat or ink or blood.

I knocked on the door and waited for a moment before it swung open accompanied by a rattling of metal on metal. Standing behind the doorway was what was likely the source of the sound: a humanoid shaped pile of what seemed like animated chains.

“Veronica?” the chains said. I recognized that voice.

“Suzy?”

“Oh my God, so good to see you!” Suzy shuffled forward and wrapped an uncomfortable hug around me. I hugged her back. Suzy Ford was a friend of a friend of a friend I’d met a couple times; the kind of person that I had absolutely no positive or negative feelings about. The best way I could describe her was that she was just kinda… there. Last I saw her, she’d broken some fine print and had to serve her punishment in Hell. From what I knew, the punishment itself should have been over, but I guess she stuck around to serve a few more years as a kind of investment. It was a pretty common thing. Since demons and humans couldn’t do even the most basic things for free for each other–such as opening a door–demons would use indentured humans to do such things for them. If it wasn’t part of some punishment, then it was usually in exchange for flexibility in future contracts or other kinds of power access. Kinda like a shitty internship.

“You too,” I lied. “Can we come in?”

Suzy stepped to the side. “Yes, please, Veronica, and–“

“My nephew, Martin.”

“Martin, are invited and welcome inside. So, what brings you in town?”

I stepped through the threshold, feeling a familiar shiver as two things happened simultaneously. First was the feeling of a hospitality charm washing over me. Second was the air conditioning. Gods. Putting that here was pure evil, knowing that anyone who came in to this momentary oasis would have to step back outside to the literal hellscape.

“Well, my nephew made his first deal and, you know how it goes, it wasn’t great. So I was hoping to see the boss?”

Suzy let out a sardonic laugh. “Oh, I know that feeling. Unfortunately, though, Azamach’s busy leading a battalion against Broglamoth.”

“Of course she is.” Azamach was merciful at times, and was usually one of the fair ones when trading favors. Given that Sarzallon swore fealty to her, I was hoping to speak with her and get some leverage. Alas. “Can we at least get a copy of the contract?”

“I remember forgetting to get a copy of my first contract, too,” Suzy said. “Follow me.”

The foyer of the townhouse was almost exactly what you would expect from seeing it on the outside: standard, suburban America decor. Suzy led us past some stairs and into what could have been a living room, except where a coffee table would be was a stone altar with an 8ft tall demon standing behind it. They looked more like a fallen angel than a demon born here: no horns, completely androgynous features, alabaster skin. Bright crimson veins crawled like spiderwebs over their skin, though, and their eyes were pure black. Atop the altar was one of those old spaceship-looking iMacs that the demon was currently using to scroll through Twitter.

“Hey Tabris,” Suzy said. “Got some folks with a contract request.”

Tabris looked up. “Go on.” Their voice had a deep velvet and caramel feel.

“Just me,” I said. “Martin, will you witness this deal?”

“What?” Martin asked.

“Just say ‘yes.'”

“Uh. Yes.”

I fished around in my purse to pull out a notebook, pen, and some cash, then set them all on the altar. I flipped open the notebook and started writing as I spoke. “I, Veronica Morgan, wish to trade this $10 bill for a copy of the contract between Martin Smith and Lord Sarzallon, made yesterday trading the Bow of the Eternal for an ounce of weed. Martin, do you find the terms of my trade equivalent?”

“$10?”

Before Martin could start speculating out loud in front of Tabris, I explained. “They’re both printed pieces of paper that encode a promise backed by the full authority of some nebulous entity.”

Martin tilted his head. “I guess that makes sense?”

“Tabris, do you agree to the terms?”

“I do,” they said without any hesitation.

I signed my name on the piece of paper and pushed it over to Tabril. They did the same then turned to the computer. They typed some things, clicked a few more things, and about three minutes later, I had a print out of Sarzallon’s contract. Without asking, I plopped down on an empty couch, pulled out my reading glasses, and started going over the fine print.

[WP] You’re homeless, sleeping on the street in NYC. You have no family, no friends, and no where to go. After 5 years living like this, a man in a fancy black suit walks by where you’re begging and hands you a blank check. Then he says “Knock yourself out, kid.”

You blink, astonished. The man smiles, holding out a neat rectangle of paper. In the dim grey of 5AM, you can still recognize what a check looks like, and a second glance confirms your suspicion: a signature is scrawled where a signature should go, but nothing is written where the dollars should go. Five years may as well be an eternity, but an eternity isn’t long enough to forget the last check you wrote, that damn bounced check that your shithead of a landlord called “the final straw,” yet the straw broke your back, not his.

You’ve never seen this man before. He’s handsome: sharp cheeks, twin shocks of grey touching the sides of slicked black hair, a suit so perfectly tailored it passes beauty and almost disgusts you. Sure, you were hoping for the generosity of a stranger wreathed in so much wealth, but a blank check?

“What?” is all you manage to say.

“A blank check, that much should be obvious.” His voice is like caramel. “Pick a bank, fill in some numbers, and act out your heart’s desires.”

Your hand starts to move from underneath your itchy, hole-ridden blanket, but you hesitate. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch?” He laughs, booming, too loud for this hour in Central Park. “Just knock yourself out, kid.”

He gently thrusts the check forward and, this time, you don’t hesitate to snatch your ticket out of here. You stare at him, waiting for the dream to end, and when it doesn’t, you stare down. The check is still blank. The signature is still there. The company name and address, Mephistopheles Inc, doesn’t change into jibberish. That coarse feel of paper in your hand is real.

You don’t know how long you’ve been staring down, but when you look up, the sky is brighter and the man seem to have walked away. There’s a black pen on the ground, same company branding. How accommodating.

Ten thousand. That should be enough to get you out of this dump and on your way. As pen approaches paper, a knot in your stomach forms. What if it bounces? Then you’ll have nothing. Maybe just a thousand… you mark the one, then the zero, then another, then stop again.

Maybe this is just a joke. Maybe there’s a camera waiting to see what you do. Maybe in that case… you mark two zeroes and smirk. You have nothing now, if it’s a joke, then might as well make something of it. If it’s not, that man’s suit could easily handle ten grand.

But then maybe…. was ten thousand enough to really do much besides a couple weeks of pampering? You could probably get yourself on your feet if you really focused, kept everything as lean as you’d done for the last five years. Five years. Don’t you deserve at least a little bit of runway, and a little bit of fun? Knock youreslf out, kid. Ah, what the hell. You mark an extra zero.

The teller at the bank gives you a funny look when you approach, but doesn’t blink when she looks at the check, nor when you ask for cash. You’re confident that it truly is a joke at this point, so you go all in. When she hands you a neat pile of 100s, you both smile, and you wait for the other shoe to drop. It doesn’t, and a line is forming behind you so you leave.

You push open the bank’s doors. Surely they’ll come now. Nothing happens while you look around. It’s morning, and the wave of people starting their 9–5 shift around you, as uncaring of you as they are of the lamp post behind you. You almost feel disappointment, then anxiety. There is so much money under your shaggy clothes. You hurry back to the park. The man will be there to laugh at you, he will take most of his money back but maybe leave you some, and it will all go on youtube or whatever the kids use these days.

Day turns to night and no one comes. The money burns a hole in your pocket. Paranoia turns to a need for shelter, so you decide to book a cheap motel room. It feels good to have a roof over you while you sleep. It feels good to luxuriate in a hot shower.

Another day comes and no one comes. Then another. And another. By this point, you’ve cleaned your hair, bought new clothes, and moved to a 5 star hotel. To hell with it. This $100k is yours, and you’re gonna use it.

Steak dinner. Brunch with a rooftop view of manhattan. $20 cocktails don’t mean anything to you. Carousing with beautiful people feels easy within a few weeks of opening up your pocket book. Doing drugs with them in the bathroom falls into place as just another regularity.

One night, the two flings you meet convince you pull out your phone and rent something fast and something hot, and that line of coke says that’s a great idea. It’s amazing what technology has done in the last five years, and within moments, the three of you are making noise down 2nd.

Knock yourself out, kid.

Your drug addled eyes spot the light changing in time, but your drug addled senses say go go go and there’s the gnashing of metal and crunching of glass and bone and—

You blink, astonished. The man smiles, holding out a neat rectangle of paper. In the dim grey of 5AM, you can still recognize what a check looks like, and a second glance confirms your suspicion: a signature is scrawled where a signature should go, but nothing is written where the dollars should go. Five years may as well be an eternity, but an eternity isn’t long enough to forget the last check you wrote, that damn bounced check that your shithead of a landlord called “the final straw,” yet the straw broke your back, not his.

You’ve never seen this man before. He’s handsome: sharp cheeks, twin shocks of grey touching the sides of slicked black hair, a suit so perfectly tailored it passes beauty and almost disgusts you. Sure, you were hoping for the generosity of a stranger wreathed in so much wealth, but a blank check?

“What?” is all you manage to say.

“A blank check, that much should be obvious.” His voice is like caramel. “Pick a bank, fill in some numbers, and act out your heart’s desires.”

Your hand starts to move from underneath your itchy, hole-ridden blanket, but you hesitate. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch?” He laughs, booming, too loud for this hour in Central Park. “Just knock yourself out, kid.”