A Boy’s Tail III: Planning Ahead

A Boy’s Tail III: Planning Ahead

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Shawn’s eyes flickered open, the large man letting out a groan as the pale light of dawn hit his face through the slats of his shabby blinds. Damn, need to get those blinds fixed, he thought, sitting up slowly and stretching his arms out wide as a yawn fell from his mouth. He scratched his back thoughtlessly, his tail rising up and scratching at his neck as he swung his legs out to the side, his feet already touching the floor.

Three old mattresses rested on the floor with no frame, all that he could afford for now, and honestly, he didn’t need much more. He cast his eyes around his room, rays of sunlight slicing through the dimness to paint jagged stripes across his empty space. The place wasn’t much—a cramped one-bedroom apartment that had seen better days, but it was his, at least. Better than being out on the street, he mused, pushing himself off the mattresses with a grunt.

As the sounds of traffic and city life blared outside his broken window, Shawn was already powering through his morning regimen. Two thousand push-ups first, each one sharp and crisp, his muscles straining with each repetition. 1001, two, three… He counted in his head, focusing on the burn in his arms and chest. Then came two thousand crunches, his large stomach constantly getting in the way each time he sat up. Gotta do something about this gut, he thought, grimacing as he pushed through the discomfort.

It wasn’t really doing much, not like the actual exercise he needed some real space for, the kind that made him drip with sweat and his muscles ache, but it got his blood pumping a little, and that was enough. Better than nothing, I guess, he mused, wiping the slight sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

An hour later, he was done and on his feet again, barely winded despite the intense workout. “Now for the real highlight of the morning,” he muttered to himself, a grin spreading across his face. “Breakie.”

Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and Shawn always did it up in a way that only felt right. 

The demi-Saiyan cracked eggs with one hand, the yolks splattering into the pan like tiny sunbursts as his tail swung happily behind him. Twelve squares of American cheese melted into a gooey lake amidst the scrambled eggs, while two whole onions diced and sizzled in another pan with butter, their aroma a sharp contrast to the fat from six potatoes frying nearby. The room filled with the scents of twenty-four sausage links and strips of bacon mixed with the eggs, onions, and potatoes in one big mixing bowl, all washed down with a gallon of whey protein shake.

Sixteen thousand calories, he mused, shoveling the food into his mouth with gusto. Eating like this is mad expensive, but gotta keep the engine running anyway.

While he shoveled the food down, sitting on a futon in his barely furnished living room, his eyes went out to his open window. The view from his apartment was bleak, rooftops full of debris along with streets and alleyways that were barely any better. One of those alleys he knew well, considering he’d left four Italian mobsters groaning on top of trash bags two nights ago.

That night, man, that whole day — It had been something else, honestly.

The memory was still fresh in his mind, the way his fists had connected with their faces, the sickening crunches of bone and cartilage, the way their bodies had crumpled to the ground like discarded rag dolls. While he occasionally went up against some loudmouths who thought he was soft ’cause of his bright blue gi, fighting on behalf of other people just felt… different.

It wasn’t just about the thrill of the fight or proving his strength; it was about something more, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Is this what it feels like to be a hero? he wondered, the thought a little funny. 

Shawn narrowed his eyes after a moment, his slight smile vanishing in place of a scowl forming on his face as he slowly realized something he really didn’t like. “…oh my god, is this that anime ‘fighting for someone else’ bullshit?”

He let out a long groan, throwing his head back against the futon. “Is this shit genetic? Like, does it come with the tail too? Are Saiyans secretly like weak to being nice deep down?”

Fuckin’ furry Viltrumites, he thought, pushing the idea aside. But as he sat there, staring at the cracked ceiling, another thought began to take shape in his mind. If the mob could bleed a community dry with threats and violence, why couldn’t he turn that model on its head?

Offer protection, sure, but protection that actually protected. 

Not for free, though. 

Definitely not.

No, he could make a living out of this. 

A good one. 

After all, Baltimore was his city, and the few supes he could see around here were pretty shit, on the whole. Honestly, they weren’t all that impressive, and the few that he wasn’t sure he could take one-on-one generally stuck to their local neighborhoods, advertising for car dealers or chicken and waffle places, not really protecting the people. I mean, with no official supe in this town, that role’s gotta fall to someone, right? He doubted the city was really getting any use out of shithead supes like Juke, Flex, and Graffix. Might as well be me.

The idea… it could work. It really could. His muscles weren’t just for show, after all. He’d proven that the other night, taking down those mobsters like they were nothing. There’s money in this, protecting folks. Baltimore’s streets don’t look after themselves. With no real “heroes” to speak of in the city, Shawn knew he could carve out a space for himself, a niche that nobody else was filling.

He tried to ignore the small part of him that was Shugesh, the part that felt oddly at home with the mercenary concept of charging to keep people safe. Just because a sociopath agrees with it, doesn’t make it bad… right? 

He nodded to himself, his mind already racing with the possibilities. Right.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Shawn left his apartment by his window, the frame creaking as he pushed it open and stepped out onto the rusted fire escape. The metal groaned under his weight, but he paid it no mind. His feet landed with deceptive softness on the filthy alleyway three floors down, his knees slightly bent to absorb the shock.

Lazy landlord’s never gonna fix that shit, he thought, glancing up at the dilapidated structure. Place is falling apart.

Dusting off his hands, he walked out, taking in the familiar sights and sounds of his neighborhood. The building he called home was old, the brick facade worn and crumbling in places. Graffiti tags battled for dominance on every available surface, a chaotic mix of colors and styles that seemed to change daily. The air was thick with the smells of the city—exhaust fumes, cooking oil, and the faint tang of garbage that never quite went away.

As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, the neighborhood was already moving. People milled about, some heading to work, others just starting their day. A group of old-timers sat on the stoop of the building next door, playing dominos and talking shit. They nodded at Shawn as he passed, a mix of respect and caution in their eyes. They know what’s up, he thought, returning the nod.

His walk took him past the usual spots in the area—the corner store with its barred windows and faded signs, the laundromat that always seemed to be packed, the small diner where the owner, Mrs. Luu, was already prepping for the morning rush. 

He paused at Mrs. Luu’s door, the bell tinkling overhead as he entered. The diner was small but clean, the green vinyl booths and grey floors shining bright in the morning light. The smells of coffee and bacon filled the air, making his stomach growl despite the massive breakfast he’d just put away.

“Morning, Mrs. Luu,” he said, his voice low and steady.

“Shawn,” she greeted, the older Vietnamese woman’s smile tight but genuine. She was a tiny thing, barely coming up to his chest, but he knew better than to underestimate her. “Coffee?”

“Nah, I’m good. Just checking in.”

As he spoke, a couple of young punks sauntered past the window, their eyes darting inside. They were teenagers, sixteen or seventeen at most, but they carried themselves with a swagger that spoke of a hard life on the streets. Mrs. Luu followed his gaze, a flicker of worry crossing her weathered features.

“They been back?” he asked, already knowing the answer. He’d seen them around the neighborhood, always up to no good.

“Last night. Making threats, asking for protection money,” she replied, her hands busy wiping down the already spotless counter. The worry in her voice was palpable, the fear of losing everything she’d worked so hard for.

Shawn’s jaw tightened. Protection money. Right. The idea soured in his gut, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He wasn’t about to start extorting people for cash, but he could offer something those losers couldn’t—real protection without the strings.

“Tell you what,” he said slowly, the plan forming as he spoke, “I’ll handle them. No charge. Just… have a snack ready when I’m done.”

Mrs. Luu stared at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Snack… A snack, he says,” the Viet-Chinese woman spit out some curses in a language he couldn’t bother to understand, before rolling her eyes.

Finally, she nodded, a small, relieved sigh escaping her lips, as she looked back at him again. “Sure, a snack.”

Shawn grinned at the woman, fist pounding into his palm with a sound like a gunshot. “Pack my plate high, I’ll be right back.”