(no subject)

[moon_custafer]

Enough, I think, to post an excerpt. At the moment this probably qualifies as Chapter 2:

Amanda was getting off the subway, trying not to knock anyone over, when she noticed the wallet. Though not technically freaks, few in Amanda’s family were average-sized, and decades ago, some of her more enterprising aunts and uncles had taken gigs with the smaller circuses unable to hire real giants, fat ladies and midgets. Aunt Lizzie, who was healthy as a horse but looked like a broom handle, had made a living for years off different sleazy tabloids by dressing up as different celebrities ostensibly at death’s door or detoxing. In the late ‘eighties Amanda’s sisters, who resembled each other except for a difference of ninety pounds or so, had successfully scammed several diet companies by sending in “before” and “after” pictures, then, after the photos had run in advertisements, blackmailing them with the truth. The diet companies had eventually wised up and now demanded documentation, signed and dated by a doctor, and a face-to-face audition from anyone applying to be a poster girl for shrinking, and Maisie and Drew had lapsed into bitterness and Bailey’s and now both weighed the same. Lizzie was trying to get them a gig as blimped-out Olsen twins. Amanda belonged to another of the family phenotypes, and had spent much of her life feeling that she was in everyone’s way.



The wallet held $22.63, two credit cards, a driver’s license, ID and several business cards. The owner was evidently named Victor K. Papiavek but there were several conflicting addresses and the phone numbers were disconnected or reached overfull voice-mail boxes. Two of the business cards, however, were for a restaurant called Murray’s – they appeared to have been retained for the notes scribbled on their backs and while one had worn edges the other was brand new. Deducing that Papiavek was a regular customer, and that the restaurant might be a more stable locale, Amanda went to see if the staff could tell her which address was correct.
Murray’s proved to be a large, generic family restaurant – Amanda had half-feared, half-hoped for an old-school dive with a cigar-chomping bartender - but the waitresses recognized Papiavek’s name, though he usually paid cash. He was a regular, but they didn’t know where he lived. He’d just been there for breakfast this morning, so he probably wouldn’t be by again that day, but they could give him her number when he did return, if she were willing to leave it. Amanda hesitated (despite, or because of her size, she’d been raised to be very cautious) then wrote down her work number and went on her way.

Although Victor had not been really inconvenienced by the loss of one of his wallets, it irked him that it was the one with his oldest and realest identity. He’d been a fool to take it out at all, but when he’d first arrived in Gradient City, he’d been careless enough to let a waitress at Murray’s get a glimpse of his driver’s license; he couldn’t switch names on them; and the place made a great omelette. Reminding himself that people lost and reclaimed wallets all the time and acting too nervous in everyday situations would make him as conspicuous as if he were wearing El Hazard’s infamous “firespray” costume, Victor set out to retrace his path. Having tried the bus stop, the park, the military-surplus store where he’d been browsing for haz-mat suits, he arrived at Murray’s with the certainty that it must be there or stolen, and was told that a “huge”
woman had come by with it and left her number. Pleased his wallet was safe, irritated it wasn’t actually at the restaurant, and curious as to what the staff of an urban diner would consider huge, Victor made the call. After a trip through the usual phone maze, he was answered by a pleasant contralto.
“”
“Hi, this is Victor Papiavek, I believe you have my wallet?” He tried to sound smooth but unhurried.
“Oh good,” said the voice, “ I was worried about you. It. Er, you without it. Where shall I meet you to return it?”
“Well, I’m at Murray’s now. I could buy you lunch for your honesty.”
“Oh. I work across town. Would – would it be too much trouble if we met for dinner instead? I could be there by five-thirty.”
“Of course.” He had a few more errands to run, but nothing that would take more than a few hours, and the haz-mat suit could wait a day or two. “I’ll be by the window.”
“You’ll – you’ll know me when you see me,” and she hung up, thanking him, although she was the one doing him a favour.



Supervillain names rejected by Victor:

Destroyer names: The Annihilator, the Eradicator, Destroy-o. All faintly risible, and moreover innaccurate. He didn’t want to destroy things, just mess around with them a little.

Academic titles: These fell into the “protesting too much” category. Victor was pretty sure that calling himself “Professor Evil” would just convince everyone he hadn’t finished high school.

The Mover/The Remover: He’d liked these but hadn’t been able to choose between them. He’d spent the better part of a night muttering “Mover, Remover” under his breath until he almost went mad.

Salamander: Tempting, but not enough people would get it; besides there were already enough pyro-villains, and he saw himself as more of a gentleman-burglar type.

Obscurio: Close, but too pseudo-Shakesperian. As noted earlier, Victor didn’t do masks or tights.

The Obscurant: Perfect - not an everyday word, but not unpronounceable. He liked the solidity of the ‘the’ announcing a name. Powerful, but unobtrusive, the way he liked to think he could be.



At four-forty-five Victor was sitting in the booth nearest the kitchen, unobtrusively watching the early dinner crowd flow in, when a woman entered who he knew at once must be the one who had his wallet. The waitress had been laconic in her description. She was average, perhaps even pleasing in her proportions - it was hard to tell through the shapeless, parachute-like outfit - but vast in scale: a rolling landscape at least six-foot-two, probably almost six-four if she weren’t slouching. He rose to his feet and waved her over.
“Victor Papiavek,” he shook her hand , which was easily as large as his, though smoother, and small by comparison to the rest of her - he was already starting to adjust his sense of proportion to her scale - “are you the one I have to thank for returning my wallet?” She looked down at him, hoisted the purse from her shoulder and fished out his property.
“Amanda Doppler. You dropped it at the bus stop, actually. I came here because you had more than one card from this place so I thought you must be a regular.” She was clever, too - he really had to get a grip on himself. Putting away his wallet without opening it (he wouldn’t have been so rude, even if she’d been a scrawny, mustached man named Earl ), he gestured to the booth. Amanda blushed.
“Um, could we get a table?”
“Oh - of course.” Stupid of him. Murray’s little booths - she would never have fit in one of them, not comfortably, anyhow. My god. He transferred his orange juice to a nearby table and pulled out a chair for her. Seated, she was scarcely shorter than an average woman standing. She really should brush her hair back from her face, her thought, as he took a seat across from her.

He wondered if she could fight.