Got Gal, Issue #001

Issue #001 – – – – – controlled by Keith Nixon – – – – – Credits 117

The steady drip drip was immensely irritating.

Not just because every tiny sound felt like a needle into the miasma of pain that was her head but also because it told her something that she didn’t want to know.

Got Gal felt like she had been run over with a bulldozer, which, not happy with the job on the first pass, had proceeded to reverse back over her again.  Of course, that was not what had happened.  She would be dead if that had happened.

She didn’t know what had actually happened since, most inconveniently, her entire short-term memory, plus a fair amount of her long-term memory seemed to have taken a hike for pastures unknown.  This did not worry Got Gal very much.  She was a very practical lady, when all was said and done.

What did worry Constance Toffee, the name by which she was known when she shed her superhero costume and was dressed in a bikini of an altogether different colour, was that drip drip sound.  It was a reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Sighing heavily, constance rose to her feet.  She hurt.  Everywhere.  She took stock of her injuries.  The usual.  Bruises and scratches and the general look of having been given a most thorough beating.  That was part of the superhero business though.  There was some blood too.  A deep gash on her knee and another that she couldn’t see, but could feel, up the left side of her head.

Her hair seemed okay and her outfit remained untorn (which, in itself, was a minor miracle.)  But she was going to ache for days.  The pendant was in place, thankfully, or she’d be a lot worse off than she was, it being the source of all her powers and all.

Drip, drip, drip.

Finally ready to face reality she took stock of the surroundings that were the source of that damned noise.  She was in what looked like a sewer tunnel.  Of course she was.  No memories, beaten to a pulp, and half-drowned in rat-infested slime and human waste.  An all too familiar scenario.  Joy.

“What I would like,” Got Gal said to nobody in particular.  “Just once.  Is an adventure where I get to battle evil in pleasant green fields.  Or in a nice restaurant.  Or in space.”  She thought for a moment then: “No.  Scratch that.  Not space.  Nobody can hear you scream.”

Trudging wearily along the dank, musty old pipe, her feet sloshing in the water, she tried not to dwell on what she might see when emerging from the sewer grate that a steel ladder, just ahead of her, apparently led to.

That’s the problem with selective amnesia, she mused.  You just don’t know what to expect…