[This story is set shortly after the events of Avengers # 500. This is my first attempt at fan fiction on this site; constructive criticism is appreciated].
Not for the first time that day, Bob Russo lit a cigarette. Thirty years ago, he would never have even considered smoking, but the world had turned upside down and this seemed to be the only way for him to keep his nerves steady. His father’s eyes stared at him from the obituary Bob had clipped from The Daily Bugle thirteen years before. The paper had started to yellow with age and from the nicotine clouds that hung heavy in the barroom air, but the picture had not lost its power to make him feel inferior.
“Hey, can I get another pitcher over here?”
A cute twenty-something with one side of her head shaved—what was that hairstyle called?—watched him from the other end of the bar. Bob couldn’t name any songs by Panic at the Disco!, but she apparently liked them enough to wear their t-shirt. The girl seemed out of place in his bar, but who was he to judge? Ten years ago and he would have handed her his phone number with the pitcher and done his damnedest to see that shirt on his bedroom floor. Now he just gave her the beer, took her money, and wrote it off as another meaningless interaction among the dozens he had each day. She returned to an empty booth in the corner.
It was all over the news: The Avengers had disbanded. Details were a little sketchy, but Bob’s heart had felt as heavy seeing the footage of smoke rising from Avengers Mansion as he had on 9/11. There had been an attack: Janet van Dyne had gone to the hospital, Tony Stark had made drunken threats at the UN, and Hawkeye was dead. So, the team broke up. Bob wondered how long it would be before the stars aligned themselves just right so that the Fantastic Four was saving the universe in another dimension and some megalomaniac decided to rain fiery hell down on Manhattan again. Who would save New York then? Spider-Man?
The barroom was starting to fill up. Melody was his only server that night, which was good because she was also his best. Bears pennants hung on the wall, as well as photos of all the greats. His own rookie card and another photo of him pitching were framed on the wall behind the bar. The patrons and barflys didn’t care about his baseball obsession, though. They came because his beer was cheap and fights rarely ever broke out.
“Hey, Captain America!”
Malcolm Moore had graduated from high school with Bob. They had played baseball together. Malcolm was the only one who got away with calling Bob Captain America. Melody, out of routine, sat a sweating bottle of Budweiser in front of Malcolm.
“Thanks, girl,” he said, his eyes fixed on her cleavage.
“You can thank me by leaving me a decent tip this time,” she retorted, grinning playfully as she loaded a tray to take to Table Six.
Bob stubbed out his cigarette and leaned across the bar to talk to Malcolm.
“Hey, should I know that girl in the booth?”
Malcolm peered towards where Bob had nodded, at the booth where the girl in the Panic at the Disco! shirt continued to sit alone.
“Nah, man. Cute, though. Why you sweatin’ her?”
“I don’t want what happened in Ohio to happen here.”
Malcolm smiled at him grimly, “Dude, Captain America—the real Captain America—took care of that dude years ago.”
Years ago, the President of the United States had committed suicide, and Captain America had apparently witnessed it firsthand and retired. Bob had quit his career in the pros to step up and become the new Captain America, but things hadn’t worked out. His pitching arm had not been the same, so he invested his savings in buying into a bar franchise and getting set up. Malcolm had been his first customer.
“She bought a pitcher, but she’s drinking alone. Look at the size of her. There’s no way it’s all for her. I don’t like it.”
“Maybe she’s celebrating because the Avengers are gone.”
Bob narrowed his eyes at Malcolm, who looked surprised.
“What? ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes’ were cool to watch on TV, but more’n half of your regulars are doing a happy dance on the inside.”
Bob surveyed his customers. Boomerang was sipping from a frosty mug as he admired some of the baseball photos; the Grizzly was talking wrestling with Unus the Untouchable in one of the corner booths; the Vulture was nursing a beer at the next booth, and Bruto the Strongman and Poundcakes had returned for a second date. None of them were heavy hitters, but all of them probably were happy that the Avengers were done. They didn’t have to look over their shoulders as often as they walked to the Bar with No Name.
To Be Continued…
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