I wish I could say I deserved it.
Had this been a year ago, I would
have deserved it, absolutely.
The man I was then—arrogant, confident, marinated in alcohol
and impervious to the word ‘no’ would have
justified this death-strike in the form of the patently potent Potts
patella.
Noooo doubt about it, from any of the involved parties. Would have
deserved it.
But not now. I have been, for all purposes if not intent, a Good Boy.
No major liquor binges, though God knows I’ve wanted them
once or twice. No cheerleader/starlet/’famous for being
famous’ ingénue sandwiches with a studly Stark
center, thankyouverymuch and let me tell you that’s
been a serious frustration.
Other vices, you ask?
Overspending? Please—that’s not a lifestyle choice,
that’s genetic to the family name, and anyway, the percent
going to charitable contributions is wayyyy up.
Drugs? Been there, done that, not really in the mood for memory lane
sloppy seconds.
Outrageous behavior in public? I still keep a hand in, and a moon out
when the occasion merits it. My cheeks have graced more than a few
tabloids and I’m good at making an ass of myself, literally
as well as metaphorically. Potts can vouch for that. Hell, the greater
population of North America can vouch for that.
Congress certainly can.
But on the whole, I have kept the shenanigans down because
I’ve been just
a tad busy what with SAVING THE WORLD so getting Rochamboued was NOT in
the damned game plan.
Particularly from Pepper—the woman has legs to die for, and I
should know, having studied them so thoroughly I could probably sketch
the schematics for them from memory. As legs go, from toes to tushie,
hers are streamlined perfection. Many a business meeting or conference
have I spent time fantasizing about those legs and how nicely
they’d fit around my waist.
Or my shoulders.
Hey, totally male prerogative here, okay? I know Pepper would be
furious if she knew what I spent my time thinking, but I’m
not telling and I’m not alone; that much I know.
In any case, I’m paying for it now as I hunch over here,
wishing for death to wipe away the unrelenting surge of hot, pulsing
pain that saturates every Goddamn nerve in my body.
Knee to the nuts. Groin hit. Racked and wracked.
Ka-BOOM.
Did I ever mention that personally, I think human male anatomic design
is a joke? Putting the most sensitive organs outside the body and
between the legs is bad planning all around. Sure the display factor is
impressive, and that counts for something, but leaving the goose eggs
loitering along the underside of the Love Gargoyle is just asking for
trouble. Anything we straddle, be it bikes, fences, horses or women are
in a position to fold us menfolk up like rickety lawn chairs with the
slightest tap.
And what Potts just gave me was NOT a tap.
I wish she’d stop babbling. I wish she’d just stop
talking altogether and looking at me with those big babyblue
‘OhmyGODIjustslammedmyboss’scrotch!’ eyes
and give me a moment to breathe.
Not going to fire you, Potts, but don’t touch me right now.
I wish I could breathe. MORE pain, oh yeah, lots more running
from my sinuses over the top of my skill and down my spine in a nice
long freight train ‘o agony, whooo, whoooo----
Been hit before of course. Once, when I was fourteen, sailing with my
dad in the Bahamas a wave surge raised the gunnel as I was stepping
into the catamaran. I spent the next hour lying on the floor of the
boat while dad kept handing me cold beers to apply to my swollen . . .
ego. One of my first instances using alcohol to deaden pain, although
back then it was only the outside of the bottle and not the content.
Another time I got into a little physical altercation of one of the
rent-a-thugs outside a nightclub in Paris, back in my wilder days.
I’d been roughed up before, but this Silverback knew exactly
how to nut bust and proceeded to demonstrate La Technique on the Stark
Zamboni and Hat Trick Twins right outside Montmartre . . .
Hurting. Deep hurting. See, this
is why the codpiece of the Suit is lined with three inches of gel
cushioning inside a titanium casing. One protects what is of
value.
Oh God, no, she did not
just ask me if I’m all right. Damn it, not with
those big wide baby lamb eyes!
Fuck.
What am I supposed to say? Has Pepper gone fucking blind?
I’m about to give her Astrabella four inchers a nice
half-digested Jackson Pollock treatment and she wants to know if
I’m all right?
No I am not ‘all right.’ I’m in
knee-to-nut agony here, Potts, baby, and while I’m not
generally a man to hold grudges against my near and dear, you are pushing it by
hovering.
“Iiiiiiice.”
That will get her moving . . . yes, there she goes, bless her sweet
little heinie. None in the mini-fridge, so out the door with you Pep,
that’s right, give me some privacy . . .
O-kay, lunch lost, I’ll get someone in building maintenance
to hose out that bottom drawer later. God, I don’t know
what’s throbbing more, my balls or my temples.
Luckily there’s a little water left in the sports bottle to
rinse my mouth.
For those of you unfamiliar with the after-hurt, it’s like
having a hangover in your crotch. A hangover that no drugs are going to
touch, ever. Women can bitch and moan all they want about having a
baby; at least there’s a nifty door-prize at the end. Here,
it’s just torture, abating by degrees.
Curling over, breathing deep. I might
be able to straighten up in, oh, say . . . an hour.
I can taste blood, because I’ve been chewing the inside of my
lip, and it’s starting to leak out now. Gotta clean that up
before Pepper---
Look up and right on cue: big, worried Bambi orbs.
Yep, she’s back, and still skittering around like she thinks
I’m going to bite her.
Now--how to take the ice and apply it suavely?
“Turnaround.”
Good girl. At least she can still take directions; although given
Pepper’s aim and accuracy I’m betting she could put
the Ten Rings out of commission all by herself. Forget armored Suits
and rockets, I could just launch this woman’s knee and have them
down for the count and then some.
Wonder if I could design a Potts patella rocket . . . .
Shit. Being numb would be great. Getting
numb hurts. Lots. And it sucks to have an audience because
I’d really, really
like to singe the air with a whole lotta four-letter words, but Pepper
would take it personally, and I canNOT take the quivering lip thing
from her.
Not on top of crushed cojones.
I close my eyes and let the apologies roll on over me. It’s
just noise right now, although I know Potts means every trembling word
of it. Of course she does—she’s Potts: Miss
Sincerity, eight years running. She didn’t mean to ram me in
the nuts, although I’m sure she’s fantasized about
doing it on a daily basis.
Hell, hourly
on some of my wilder days.
Revenge daydreams aside, though, the woman wouldn’t hurt my fly.
Get it? Heh, humor. It’s supposed to help.
Humor is overrated. I need a few Motrin, washed down with say, a dose
of heroin right now.
Oh, she just found my little surprise package in the bottom drawer.
Sorry, Pepper, I hope those files weren’t important----
Ah. Confidential personnel files. Single copies.
Yeah, I’m batting a thousand right at the moment. Maybe the
best thing would be to—
No! No doctor, Pepper. He’s not going to tell me anything I
don’t already know, and there’s nothing
he’d do that I’m not already doing. Ice, rest,
time. This is me shaking my head, Miss Potts, so put down the phone and
just . . . leave me alone for a bit. Allow me to recover my mangled
dignity and at least pretend you understand.
And if you go down the hall far enough, I won’t hear your
giggles, I promise.
You’re trying not to laugh; it’s okay.
I’m not taking it personally, believe me. Guy gets slammed in
the bojangles, everyone yucks it up except him. Nature of humanity.
I’ve laughed at Platypus, he’s laughed at me,
we’ve both done our share of wincing and snickering through
Jackass . . . day in the life, Potts.
Can’t keep it in forever . . . . She’s getting an
interesting shade of magenta there . . . . starting to splutter like a
duckling in a blender---
Annnnd she loses it. I lied. I can
hear her in the hallway, snorting and trying to smother it while I
hunch over here and count the throbs.
Laugh it up, Pepper. Seriously; I’m almost laughing myself.
Did you know you snort like a wombat when you’re fighting the
giggles?
Okay I made that up. I have no idea if a wombat snorts or not.
I think I’m going to just stay here with my ice pack until
it’s time to go home and Happy can help get me into the limo.
I’m pretty sure the Golden Globes will be nicely anesthetized
by then, and I’ll try to sleep, praying that there is no
mission before morning.
And forgive me if for the next few days, I put a little more space
between us, Miss Potts? It’s nothing personal, really.
I’ve always respected you, totally, and now---
Well,
I respect certain parts of you
so much more.
end
