This is a short story I wrote for a writing contest back in 2020. Although it is technically “finished,” I know what happens next and haven’t written it, yet—which makes this also very, very unfinished. Or maybe possibly a Part One?

Warning: Rated “R”

My Monster Wingman

"It's safe, now," I whisper, leaning over the bed.

My monster sticks his head out. "Really? You mean it? I don't have to go back?"

"Never again," I reassure him. "It's popsicles and strippers from here on out."

He growls with displeasure. "You know that doesn't do anything for me, right? Too few arms, not enough eyes."

"...Gross."

"You're gross."

I pat my bed. "Come on, hop up. Be my wingman." I hold out my phone and show him the violently pink heart bubbles floating on the screen. "She keeps sending me 'likes,' but ignoring my messages."

Lucinda stretches, luxuriating in the heat rising up from the volcanic lair’s floor.

Life as a super-villain’s beloved cat is good: treats and snuggles flow freely, and Lucinda gets to menacingly purr from the cradle of her mistress’ arms during big speeches.

“Hello, and welcome to Supers Anonymous, where we help each other recover from the trauma of being Overpowered Beings.”

Anthony, an apartment building superintendent, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Contrary to what he had believed upon seeing the sign, he would not find himself in the warm bosom of like-minded brethren, swapping horror stories about clogged toilets and nightmare tenants.

A man wearing comically-large oven mitts stands up. “Hi, I’m Mega Mitts, and this morning a tenant of mine clogged up her toilet like she was angry at it.”

Huh. Or maybe I will.