Half Hero ⚡️ {Superhero Adventure Scifi}

Chapter 14: Chips to Cash

I snatched up a book of matches and a microfiber rag that was dangling off a shelf. Using a mop that smelled like old vomit, I drooped the shammy over the damp fibers of its head and struck a match.

"This is either going to be genius," I murmured. "Or stone cold stupid."

Whatever chemical was soaking the rag caught quickly, sending up a muted fireball that flashed a little too close to my eyebrows.

"Stupid!" I coughed as a cloud of purplish smoke filled the cramped space and my lungs. "So stupid!"

I thrust the mop upward towards the sprinkler to get it out of my face. The vile fumes sent me into a coughing fit trying to expel the poisons soaking into my tissue.

A sharp click in the ceiling stole my attention and the sprinkler nozzle began spouting a brownish colored liquid not found in nature.

"Ugh, gross!" I cried, scraping at my tongue with my nails to get rid of the taste.

The mop clattered to the ground, hissing as the tainted water snuffed out the pernicious flames.

From beyond the door, I could hear panicked shouting and objects being dropped to flee the potential danger. When the noise abated, I peeked around the door to slip back into the hallway.

The kitchen was cramped and full of brazen health code violations that would make a stray dog gag. Skidding haphazardly over the oily tiles, I smacked against the wall to keep myself upright.

Creeping along with the yellowed stucco hallway and cursing my own pigheaded stupidity, I tried to ignore the fact that I was soaked through.

I ducked behind the swinging saloon doors marked for 'kitchen staff only' that opened into the main gambling hall. From there I could watch the wrinkled gamblers on Rascal scooters rushing in a disorderly fashion for the lobby. None of the able-bodied employees bothered helping them.

When the last scooter puttered behind a row of video slot machines, I tiptoed out into the large, poorly lit room. The mucky carpeting squished under my feet, which somehow amplified the smell of rotten nicotine and shame clinging to the fibers.

The old-timey western façade that decorated the casino's interior was tackier than the matted swamp-carpet.

With a soggy running leap, I cleared the octagonal glass partition around the chip-cashing station at the back of the gambling hall. The space was poky and my feet slipped on the plastic countertop, slamming my tailbone into the edge of the Formica as I dropped to the floor.

Tears sprang to my eyes. The sharp pain in my bootie was dazzling. After days of starvation, I didn't have a lot of junk in my trunk for padding, and that was going to leave a mark. Blinking to clear my vision, I staggered to my knees and lifted up a hand, aiming it at one of the registers.

Nothing happened.

"Oh, c'mon!" I complained out loud. "Seriously?"

I tried a few more dramatic flourishes without any results. Frustration amassed in my chest until it radiated through my pores. My exposed skin emanated a low pulse that sparked and danced in erratic patterns.

Not that I'd had much control of the lightning bolts that came out of my body up until that point, but I lost what little cool I had after that. Out of sheer frustration, I punched the machine, crumpling the metal exterior in on itself.

"Mother butler!" I spat, realizing that I'd inadvertently sealed the cash shelf shut with my lightning fingers.

I karate-chopped a second register until it split open at the seams with a satisfying ka-ching sound like you hear in cartoons.