-the bell rang, and the challenger threw a mammoth punch that impacted directly against Crank Boy's jaw. Unfortunately the so-called challenger hadn't counted on the fact that Crank Boy's bones were actually laced with adamantium, one of the strongest substances known to humanity. The man's poor fist shattered into a bunch of itty bitty pieces, and then Crank Boy pointed off in the distance behind the man and said, "Oh look, your mom's here!" The man turned to look, failed to spot his mother, and turned back to find Crank Boy's fist smashing his nose into a bloody smear of silly putty. The man dropped to the floor, and Crank Boy turned back to his beer, still unbeaten.
He thought back as far his memory would allow… before he had woken up one afternoon to find himself enrolled in freshman classes at the University of Northern Iowa. He could remember nothing of his childhood or adolescence, nor even his real name. The only things he could remember came to him in flashes of distorted memory: the awful military men drinking cocktails and laughing amongst themselves, the vivid pain he felt deep inside while suspended in some kind of strange amniotic fluid, the desperation he felt as he realized he was signed up for some kind of calculus course. Why, oh why, could he not remember his past? Who had taken advantage of his miraculous healing powers to create such a fighting machine out of him? Why did the name on his dog tags have to say "Crank Boy" and not something cool? Was it because he was missing the sideburns, was that it? Damn.
As the bar closed and the regulars streamed out, he collected his winnings and sidled up to the bar. He ordered a beer and pondered his college days, those carefree days when he threw himself into the inherent nihilism that accompanied friendship with Laurel and me…
Indeed, I still remember the day I first met Crank Boy as vividly as the day I discovered the thrill of wearing women's underwear in public. (Admittedly, the thrill was a bit reduced when people informed me I should try wearing it under my clothes, but hey, it was my kink, dammit.) Laurel and I were drinking Long Island iced teas at Pour Richard's, the local pub of ill repute, when Crank Boy stumbled in, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that said "I'm Fucking Your Mom Behind Your Dad's Back," which explained a lot about my mom's weird behavior once I started to think about it.
"Oh hey," Laurel said, noticing Crank Boy's arrival, "I have that kid in my History of Grain Alcohol class. He's a real wise ass. You should meet him."
Laurel waved him over, and after he had secured a tray of Long Island iced teas for himself, he sat down next to Laurel at our booth.
"Crank Boy," she said, "this is my friend, Scotto. Scotto, this is Crank Boy."
"What kind of a name is Scotto?" he asked.
"What kind of a name is Crank Boy?" I replied.
"It's this thing called a nickname, maybe you've heard of it," said he.
"Ah, so is Scotto as it turns out," I told him.
"What's your real name?" he asked.
"Scott O.," I said.
He nodded.
"What's yours?" I asked.
"Crank Boy," he replied.
I nodded.
A silence fell across the table.
"Where you from?" he asked.
"Waterloo," I told him. Waterloo, Iowa, was to Cedar Falls, Iowa, what Minneapolis was to St. Paul, except that Waterloo was a stinking cesspool, while Cedar Falls was a haven for vampires, interdimensional travelers, and renegade fallen angels. But that's another story. "How about you?"
"I don't remember," he said.
I nodded.
A silence fell from across the table.
"Say, do you guys wanna get extremely high on Hawaiian baby woodrose seeds?" he asked.
My eyes lit up, and a magical friendship was instantly formed.
Eventually it was time for Crank Boy to leave the seedy bar and head back home to continue packing for the trip to the Emerald City. As he attempted to leave, however, he found himself suddenly surrounded by four or five of the idiots he had pummeled into submission earlier that night. It was pretty clear what they wanted.
"We want our money back," one of them said.
"That's pretty clear," Crank Boy replied.
"Nobody takes a beating like you did and stays standing," another one said. "What are you… some kind of mutant?"
Crank Boy paused, then said, "Yeah, actually, that's what I am."
A long pause followed, as several confused stares spread around the group. Then, their leader kind of shrugged and said, "Oh. Oh, well… well, that explains it, I guess."
"Yeah," another one said, "a mutant could totally take a beating like that."
"Sorry about the confusion," the leader said.
"No problem," Crank Boy replied.
And with that, they dispersed into the night….
A few days later, Crank Boy met up with Laurel to pack the Winnebago and prepare to leave town. They had the requisite argument about how much space they really needed to dedicate to Laurel's antique vibrator collection, decided it really was worth leaving all their furniture out on the curb for it, and then they hit the road. He avoided making eye contact with her as much as possible as they steered the Winnebago into traffic. He could tell no one about his secret powers, he knew, not even Laurel.
And when they reached Seattle and he finally saw me for the first time in years, he didn't tell me, either, not at first. But when a common threat suddenly reared its Ugly head, I would soon learn all about his secret powers….