Routine

arryl McFaddon cursed, crumpled the now-damp rejection letter into a tight ball, and threw it at the wastepaper basket. It bounced off the rim and fell to the stained, dirt-rimmed white tile. He sighed. Darryl's gray-green eyes were dull and bloodshot from drinking the night before -- which was pretty routine for Darryl, as of late. Darryl lay back in his scratched porcelain tub, stretched, and let the soothing hot water soak into his limbs. He ran his hand through his auburn curls, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander. Darryl had missed a few days at Martin's Cafeteria while crime-fighting, and combined with the days he called in sick (usually sleeping off hangovers, like today), he was in danger of being laid off. The VCR clock beside the towels on the rickety metal shelf above the toilet had read 10:27, or had a few moments ago before Darryl closed his eyes. Darryl dreaded going in to work, just like he did every day he was scheduled. Busing tables, reporting tips, kissing customers' asses, mopping, sidework, general shit-catching. It wasn't hard work, just monotonous and spirit-crushing and dead-end. Despite the trouble he'd probably make for himself, he decided he'd call in sick this morning.
The Aegis was the best gig in town for a super hero. That's what Darryl needed to be doing. They got funding from private, federal and even international sources, and thus had an insane budget for promoting the cause of goodness and freedom and all that jazz. The heroes that ran with the Aegis lived in the Hall of Heroes, their own private mansion/ fortress/ meeting hall. Lame name, but awesome perks. None of the Aegis' heroes ever had to worry about working some stupid job, scrape for change, or even deal with the public if they didn't want to. No more of this secret identity crap. No rent, free food, access to a near-infinite supply of high-tech gizmos, vehicles and costumes. All you have to do was go out with the rest of the crew and bust heads when the Doom Brigade and other baddies got out of line. And that's right up the Shark's alley.
But the elitist sons of bitches wouldn't let him into their little group. This was his third application he held in his hand. We have enough members, we don't have enough money, blah-blah, yadda-yadda. He sat up, fished the bar of soap out of the dusky water, and lathered up his armpits and chest.
Darryl figured the main reason he was so consistently snubbed was that he hadn't made a big enough name for himself. He busted a few small-time crooks here and there, and one super villain that could shapeshift into a variety of animals, but no one big or especially notorious. Darryl in his guise as the Shark had gotten his name on the local news once for untangling a dolphin from a fishing net two years back. After this he was paid some paltry sums to speak at grade schools about water safety -- hey, money was money. During one of those speaking engagements some little punk had thrown a pencil at him and called him "fish-face." At the time Darryl thought that was the low point of his super hero career. He knew better now. At least back then people knew who the Shark was, even if it was "that dolphin-lovin' guy."
Also, Ryu the Dragon probably voted against his membership. Darryl never liked that showboating Kung Fu prick, and he wasn't shy about that fact.
Darryl had learned it took more than a little superhuman strength and some minor powers to make it as a renowned crime fighter. It took influence, connections and the right type of fame. He had to make a name for himself, somehow.
He sighed as he looked around and realized he had forgotten to pick up shampoo at Ivy's Drug Store. He tossed the paper away, debated lathering up his hair with hand soap for a few moments, then instead pulled the plug and got out of the tub. As he reached for a towel, Darryl thought he would give Craig a call, to see if he could swing by. He didn't want to hang out by himself in his apartment all day.

That afternoon, Craig Patrolowski was at Darryl's place, several boxes of pizza and some two-liters in tow. He was wearing tan slacks, Nikes and button-up shirt. The two men often hung out on Tuesday mornings, before Darryl's late shift at Martin's and and Craig's Economics class at the university.
"How's that computer class of yours?" Darryl asked. "Ever get that program goin'?" Craig nodded absently, his brown hair waving slightly. He was practically swallowing pieces of pizza whole.
"Having a bit of a problem with looping," he said through a mouth half full. "A computer science major is harder than I thought it was gonna be. I'm thinking about changing my major to tax accounting, and just apply what computer skills I have in that area." Darryl scowled. "Why ya want to go and do that? You wanna be an accountant? Bor-ring. It's a good thing to be up on tech nowadays. Just look at what Mad Genius and Synthetus do with it. Imagine how much butt you could kick with gizmos like that."
Craig looked at Darryl as if had sprouted a second head. "There's a big difference between building laser guns and writing code, Darry."
Darryl responded, "Well, I guess. If nothin' else, you could design video games for Sony. And don't call me 'Derry'. I ain't no cow."
Craig gave his signature lopsided grin. "Whatever, man. I'll be okay without all the gadgets." They sat without talking for a few minutes, during which Craig ate both of his pizzas and half of Darryl's, washing it down with a two liter of Nehi. It never ceased to amaze Darryl to watch that boy eat. He ate enough for three or four lumberjacks and was as lean as a basketball player.
Craig was also the Shark's sometime-partner, Locust. He was a good kid and all, but the only super power he had was really strong legs. He could jump really far, and could kick the shit out of someone... and that was about it. Darryl felt Craig was on the short end of the stick when it came to super powers, though he would never say so. Craig had a lot of heart, for what it was worth, and Darryl preferred his company to working alone. But he was afraid the boy was going to get seriously hurt one of these days by one of the really powerful baddies, who have little tolerance for someone in a flashy costume who can't fight.
Darryl started to say something, then cut himself short. Craig looked at him, eyebrows raised.
Darryl resumed: "I was thinkin'. You ever took any martial arts classes? I mean, like kick boxin' or somethin'? To complement your strong points." He could see a tiny reflection of himself in Craig's glasses, his naturally prominent jaws an enormous bulb with lips.
Craig stared at him a moment, then said, "What, do want me to be like Street Fighter or something now? You think I can't take care of myself?"
"No, that's not what I meant, Craig." Darryl sighed. "I just think you, or anybody, should take advantage of all the resources available to him, that's all. It's a tough business we're in."
"I've done pretty well so far, I think. And I don't see you going out and learning Shark Style Kung-Fu or any shit like that."
Darryl, indignantly: "As a matter of fact, I was thinkin' about doing something that." He hoped his lie wasn't as transparent as it felt it was.
"Yeah, right." Craig said. They sat quietly again for a while.

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