Inside Straight

“Look, this isn’t about who would be the best hero. It’s about being good TV. When Rupert won a million in an online poll on Survivor, no one complained. He couldn’t cut it in the game, but the audience loved him. There’s nothing wrong with that. This is America. We vote on things—that’s the way we do it.”

She smiled at the camera again.

“I know I’m not the most powerful ace here. My power is goofy. I can turn my skin into a diamond-hard substance. That and three bucks will get you a latte at Starbucks. And yes, I know what Starbucks is. I may be a hick from West Virginia, but those things are everywhere.

“Anyway, I would be a great American Hero because I have ‘The Package.’ I’m pretty. I have the whole rags-to-riches angle. My power looks cool, but it’s non-threatening.”

A voice came from offscreen. I recognized it. Ink’s voice. “What about Bubbles?”

Tiffani shrugged. “I know that Michelle likes me. And I like her, too, just not in ‘that’ way. And besides, Michelle takes this all way too seriously. She actually believes in the whole ‘hero’ thing. What a goober.”

“Anyone you would like to be involved with?”

Tiffani blushed. “DB. I admit it. He’s gorgeous. He’s famous. He’s rich. What’s not to like?

“Look, I’m playing the game. In the beginning, I allied myself with a strong player who I knew would be loyal to me. That was Bubbles. But she’s too powerful, and I knew eventually I would have to get rid of her. So, when we had the chance to add DB to the Diamonds, well, I just combined the thing I wanted with the thing I needed.”

I hit the pause button. I didn’t want to see any more. Had she been making a fool out of me the entire time?

Ink took me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. “Look, Tiff didn’t care about being a hero. You did. But the show wouldn’t have made you a hero. You’re going to make yourself one.”

“How?” I felt stupid and used, and anything but heroic.

She put her arms around me. “Well, we’ve gotten tons of e-mails from gay and lesbian teenagers sent care of AH to you. Most of them thanking you for being such a great role model—and some suggesting things that I’m pretty sure are illegal in all fifty states. They love the fact that you didn’t hide the fact that you’re gay. And that you didn’t hide the fact that you were interested in Tiff. That’s being a role model. That’s pretty heroic.

“And then there were the big girls, gay and straight, who wrote in saying that you made them realize any size could be beautiful as well as powerful.”

She let go of me and gave my hair a playful yank.

“And there are also all kinds of offers to endorse products, and plenty of agencies that want to represent you, if you decide to get back on the modeling merry-go-round. But I know you, and that’s not what you’re about. Now sit here, read these e-mails, and stop feeling sorry for yourself.” She marched out of the room.

So I spent the next couple of hours doing what she said. And she was right. I could do something to make a difference.

I opened my hand and concentrated on bubbling. A grape-size bubble appeared, and I let it float to the ceiling.

I needed to get fat again. One of the Discards would no doubt be happy to pound the heck out of me until I plumped up. And after that, well…

The future was bubbling up.

Daniel Abraham Jonathan Hive

All the best stories start “This one time we were really drunk, and…”

“Seriously,” Jonathan said, “is there nothing going on in the whole fucking world besides this show?”

“Probably,” Gardener said as she leaned down to get another beer from the cooler on the coffee table, “but who really cares?”

The Discard Pile was getting more and more crowded with each passing week. With every new addition, Jonathan was more and more grateful he’d lost early and gotten his pick of bedrooms. Earlier this week, Spades had won their challenge, foiling Detroit Steel and his gang of bogus bank robbers, but Golden Boy and henchmen had handled the Diamonds. The Hearts had yet to face their own rogue ace, but the evening’s entertainment was watching the daily footage of Clubs getting their collective clock cleaned by the Aryan poster boy, Lohengrin. The studio was even providing the pizza.

It wasn’t a formal party, just a bunch of failures drinking cheap beer and talking smack about people who’d already done better than they had, and getting filmed so that every shitty thing they said could be used as a voiceover for the home audience.

“Here it comes,” King Cobalt said, pointing at the big plasma screen. “Watch this part.”

It was the same fake bank that Detroit Steel had failed to rob the day before, or one so much like it as to make no difference.

Lohengrin stood in the entrance in glowing white armor. The sword in his hand looked cheesy by comparison. The studio had made him use some kind of special effects prop instead of the actual force sword he could conjure from nothing.