You know, I don't think I need a disclaimer for this story. I don't mention any trademarked names. Nonetheless, I don't own Kick-Ass.
Yes, I realize this is little more than a scene. Sure, I could have padded it to 10k words or more, but what would be the point? I'm not getting paid by the word (or at all) and the sketch version conveys the story. The point of this observation is not to make the author's note longer than the story (though that would be amusing) but to short-circuit any complaints that the story is too short, needs to be fleshed out, needs to be continued, etc. I see no need to flesh this out. In the graphic arts, too, I prefer sketches to multi-layered, infinitely detailed oils.
She sat and looked at the kitchen table. Two papers looked back at her.
The first paper was the weekly news, opened to a full two pages dedicated to the masked heroes and villains running around the city. The heroes had been getting good press for months, but a couple of bystanders caught in the crossfire last year gave an up and coming candidate for District Attorney a ready-built campaign issue. That candidate had recently been sworn in. He and the police commissioner had already changed NYPD guidelines so that a costume worn by anyone over the age of ten gave the police probable cause for a stop-and-frisk. And the police would be looking very closely at the activities of the heroes and expected to make many arrests as long as the heroes showed their faces. Or didn't show their faces, as the case may be. The newspaper profiled a few heroes who announced that they were retiring because they didn't want to fight both criminals and the police. No costumed villains or ordinary criminals seemed to care about the new policy.
The second paper continued to stare at her as she reviewed the newspaper. Finally she had to look at it. "Non-treatable". In six pages of small print, those were the only important words. That, and the doctor's estimate of three months of good health and then a rapid decline.
The heroes were starting to leave the game. She couldn't blame them. They had something to lose. Something to live for. A life expectancy.
She sat and thought. Drink some tea, ate a small meal, and thought some more. Joys, successes, regrets. All of them coming to a close within a few months.
As the daylight faded until the kitchen was too dark to see the papers, she realized that she was wasting time doing nothing. Time she didn't have to waste.
The villains were still out there. The non-costumed muggers and car thieves and rapists were still out there. The heroes were retiring. They weren't willing to give up their lives and their families and their houses and their jobs because a D.A. rode them to office.
Her unregistered shotgun was in her bedroom closet. She hadn't fired it in years, but she'd chosen this pump model for its reliability and the gauge for its near-perfect lethality. Her long brown coat would cover it with room to spare.
The next night, Mad Cow made her first appearance. Villains beware!