eventually the fbi director got tired of beating the shit out of me.

dammnit man, wont you ever go down?

his fists were raw and throbbing. stained with my blood; scarred and uglied with my spit and my hair. his manly paws rested on his slacks, damp from sweat and he gasped for air. it had always amazed me how little management knew about those who they judged and gave orders to. dumbass.

sir, it's my superpower.

the director had delivered a solid hour of violent and malicious harm to my thin frame and though i grunted occasionally, i never made much noise for the exception of the sick snap of a bone - or a rib.

what did you say?

of course there was blood everywhere, but since now that it was coming from his worn knuckles, and not just from my pathetic form, he felt that it was best to find out why i hadnt crumbled into a heap, as i should have.

i said it is my superpower, sir. it was tough to talk with my newly broken jaw and matching split lip. but the message was delivered.

what fucking superpower?

sir, i am in department c.


i trained at "isla vista"...

i could almost see the synapse spark within his being.

your superpower, of course. which one do you have? he asked while freeing the brick from the white towel - a towel that he then used to wipe his sore knuckles with - a fruitless exercise, if you ask me, since the majority of the ripped cloth was soaked with my blood.

feels no pain.

what the hell sort of power is that? you're bullshitting me.

my body can be injured, but i wont feel it. it allows me to be shot even beaten... im surprised you arent aware of this. agent cc tells me it's why ive been able to stay in the agency despite my write-ups and my relationship with your daughter.

are you telling me that i could have killed you just then and you wouldnt have even made a sound?

i would have told you if you were killing me. the brick in the towel did accomplish some damage, but i wouldnt have allowed you to commit murder.

the director winced at that word. he paused, hoping that perhaps with my fucked up tongue and swelling lips that i had said something that maybe rhymed with murder, but failed, sadly.

son, i know when im killing a man. or in your case a boy. i would like for you to stop being friendly with my daughter, and all the other communications that i have sent to you via various individuals have failed to work. so tell me, how i can be more effective.

a laundry center and a bedroom set.

pardon me, agent?

director, i will stop all contact with ashley if i can get a washer/dryer and dishwasher for my new apartment and a bedroom set.

(when i told ashley this part of the story she yelled "whore!" i said, i didnt have sex to get these things, i asked for them, still she repeated the word and scoffed in her very best valley girl "tck! im sure!")

and if you get these things you wont write to her, or call, or date, or whatever it is that you are doing?

that's correct sir. i just want to work hard here at the agency and have a normal life.

i see.

i will take this in consideration. this isnt done, you know.

i know.

and if i ever find out that she was ... on this "bedroom set" ... or even sees what it is that youre looking for ... we will find a way to make you feel pain.

i know, sir. and if i may, the appliances can be black or white, but the furniture should be mahogany. like the diana ross movie.