Dallas Preston muddled mint into a glass at his bar in front of the couch where Marco and Clay were held at gunpoint. The cold night breeze of Texas flowing in through the open sliding door where they had entered the home from the yard.
"I'll tell ya what, these Cubans don't know how to run a country, but they came up with a damn fine cocktail. You want one, boy?" Dallas said, uncorking a bottle of white rum.
"No thanks, I'm only eighteen. And my name is Marco, not 'boy'." Marco seethed. The talk show host continued to prepare his drink, ignoring Marco.
"Look," Marco barked, and Dallas looked up, "let kid go, at least. He's only here cuz'uh me, this ain't his problem." and an inspiration came to Marco. "Mattter'uh fact, let him go, send yer guards away, and you'n me handle this like men."
Big idiot like him'll bite on that, I ain't got a chance two on one, 'specially when one of 'em got a gun, but I can whoop that cave man no problem one-on-one. I dragged the kid in'tah this, least I can do is get 'im out.
Marco's plotting was interrupted when Dallas laughed.
"Hot damn, we got a live one here, a lil' Mexican jumping bean!" Dallas finished making his drink and sat on the grand leather chair opposite the couch where the boys were being held. "'Course I should've expected it, given your...abilities. But I think I tlike my boys right where they are, and never you mind little Clay here, I'd never hurt a hair on his head"
"Unc, he ain't do nothin' wrong! He just—" Clay began before being cut off by Dallas.
"Hush up now, boy! He's one of them. You seen it with your own eyes, he can't be trusted. Neither can you, considering you was helpin' him. What I say on the program 'bout his kind?" Dallas gestured with his drink at Marco, the ice tinkling in his glass.
"...'bout Mexicans?" Clay started nervously.
"No, boy, Superhumans!" Dallas said, his voice and flailing hands expressing his exasperation.
"Oh...well, you say the government is makin' 'em in labs as a way to Trojan Horse Americans into'uh police state." Clay said in the hushed tone of a child being scolded.
He finally sounds like a kid for once. Poor feller. Marco thought, looking over at Clay who was staring at the coffee table rather than Dallas' eyes.
"You're goddamn right, son. They've been working on this for years, drip-droppin' sightings and whispers to start the rumors among people like you and me, then they're gonna do a false flag Op, some Superman type will save a bus uh'schoolgirls from fallin' off a cliff or somethin', 'course, it'll be the government that cut the brake lines to that bus;and the damn mainstream media'll fawn all over'em. Government will punish him, make it seem like they don't like vigilantes, a call back to how the Masks of the good ol' days got stamped out. Then, they'll go and make it legal, but only under direct federal government supervision. And BAM, Superman turns into Stalin." Dallas finished his rant with a clap of his hands. He retrieved his mojito and sat back on his chair, sipping expectantly, waiting for the boys to say something.
"Masked existed, sure, but ain't no way Superhumans're real! They're a myth. An urban legend, like UFOs or Bigfoot. There were only ever Masked Adventurers, like The Golden Eagle or Samaritan. And they were just military mascot types, or vigilantes in halloween costumes." Marco said chuckling, forgetting for a moment that there was a gun at the back of his head.
"Oh? So what does that make you? S'pose all Mexicans can go around shooting balls'uh light out they hands?" Dallas asked mockingly.
"No, I'm not a superhuman, I'm....I'm just...just Marco." Marco explained, shaking his head to try and knock loose the cognitive dissonance.
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SUPERWORLD
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