Jack Jack’s Unspeakable Shame

 Got censored on DeviantArt (literally 1984) but it seems like a shame to let all this text go to waste so here it is.

On a subway beneath urban Boston, a pale, blue-eyed, blond man was smoldering with anger. Quite literally, he was boiling with rage, his skin hot enough to turn water to steam nearly instantly. This was a common enough occurrence for him, though, that he was prepared; he wore layer upon layer of heavy winterwear, all intentionally chosen to be extremely fire-retardant, so that he neither spontaneously combusted, not even radiated substantially to his fellow passengers. This man was John ‘Jack-Jack’ Parr, the last of The Incredibles.

After all these years, his powers—whatever those may be—were still not under his control. Every once in a while, he had outbursts: punching straight through a vending machine with unanticipated super strength, hovering for days an inch or two off the ground, or accidentally melting to a puddle while touring the Grand Canyon. Thankfully, the Agency understood; after the unfortunate accident involving the dynamite-laden laser-sharks, John had neither mother nor father, brother nor sister to train him in the use (or lack there of) of his powers. Instead, his superpowers remained inflexibly tied to his emotion, and so, John was forced to master his emotions, becoming a stoic to minimize unfortunate mishaps.

Still, every once in a while, an occasion came up that challenged his mastery of his emotions. Like that morning, when he was so nervous for a job interview that he began shaking at supersonic speed. Which then led to getting so embarrassed from his own lack of control that he accidentally turned himself invisible and had to hide in the bathroom, becoming late for his interview. Which led to an hour and a half later finally managing to turn himself visible again, only to be declined the interview for being so late, causing his boiling rage actually make his hair catch fire and his ears vent steam. 

He’d managed to calm down some on the commute back home. Well, maybe ‘calm’ was the wrong word—he converted his white-hot rage into comparatively placid smoldering frustration. Frustration at himself for his own ineptitude, frustration at his parents for cursing him with their own misfortunate lot,  frustration for society for shunning him and his gift, forcing him to pretend to be normal. By the time he came to his station, he was not visibly upset, but the falling snowflakes still sizzled on his exposed skin.

He walked the cold streets to his apartment quickly, and soon found himself at the door. Opening it, he was greeted by the familiar musty scent of decay. A decade and a half after the rest of his family died, and he was still sorting through their assorted possessions, selling what memrobelia he could for a quick buck or two. Frankly, it wasn’t a bad inheritance; in sifting through their things, he’d gotten to know his family better than he ever did in life. He was too young when they’d died to remember their faces outright, but seeing them in the glossy photographs he found sparked happy feelings, whether they were wearing a mask or not. He even had a personal collection, a sort of shrine of all the best, most personal photos and possessions that he refused to sell to collectors. 

Collectors—just thinking the word made John red-hot with anger once more. These low-lifes, these scum bags, they treated his family members like comic book characters instead of people. They  traded and collected their photos and personal effects, never once thinking of the person behind the mask—or worse still, obsessed with the person behind the mask, fixating on every facet of their civilian life. Still, they were the only way to turn this pile of junk, this monolith of memories, into a living. Hell, maybe even a fortune, if John was unscrupulous enough. There were even a few creeps—a few very rich creeps, mind you—that were fascinated specifically with Mrs. Incredible for less than wholesome reasons. One even offered five thousand dollars for a pair of her used panties. John declined. Then the air conditioning in his car broke, in August. In Phoenix, Arizona. He sold the underwear. 

Of course, the five thousand was gone almost instantly. The only natural gifts John had, the government seemed determined to suppress, so despite being superhuman, he was destined to a life of poverty. Food barely fit for human consumption, apartments too small for even one person, and cars that were broken as often as not, these were the trappings of his life, not the nets and energy-fields of the rest of his clan.  

Almost mechanically, John began to sift through the rubble of his family, looking for something to sell for this month’s rent. The pile he was going though was his mom’s, but most of it was worthless: a travel pillow, a ceramic mug that said ‘Incredible mom,’ a zucchini slicer. Junk that could have belonged to anyone. But then, towards the bottom of the pile, he spied something that looked to be of hard leather. He grasped it and yanked, freeing the object from the pile: a boot. 

That wasn’t particularly odd; she had a bunch, both for hero work and personal use. If nothing else, it was genuine leather, and could be pawned for a decent price. But, picking it up, he felt an odd weight in it. Reaching in, he felt something glossy, and paper like: Polaroids. At seeing the first one, John nearly choked. 

They were of another super, a villain by the name of ‘Miss Happ.’ She was one of Mrs. Incredible’s arch nemeses, back before she married Mr. incredible, when she went by Elastigirl. If John’s memory served him well, her powers revolved around luck, particularly misfortune for her enemies. In these photos, though, it seemed Miss Happ was the victim of bad luck, namely wardrobe malfunctions. Each photo was a new compromising position, some nude, some half-clothed, some fully clothed, all wearing the mask, all excessively erotic. John thumbed through them disbelievingly, growing increasingly aroused. He flipped one over and found big, loopy handwriting: “To my biggest fan, friend, and playmate, Mrs. Incredible. XOXO, Miss Happ.” 

John could barely comprehend what he was seeing. He just kept flipping through the photos, questions running through his head at twice the speed of sound: why did his mom have these photos? Were she and Miss Happ lovers before she was married? After? How much could he sell them for? He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he almost didn’t notice when the green suit and platinum blonde hair of Miss Happ was replaced by the red spandex and equally red hair of his mother. There she was, Mrs. Incredible, tied to the four posts of a king-sized bed, gagged with her own costume. Trying to look at as little of the picture as possible, he flipped it over, reading on the back, “I know you told me to burn all of these, but I couldn’t help but save a few. If you ever get bored with that hunk of a husband, call me.” Then a phone number.

John ran to the bathroom, gagging. He didn’t vomit, but just kneeled in front of the toilet, mouth agape. He wasn’t there long, though. Soon enough, he was on his feet, pacing and thinking. 

This was a payday, obviously. The Miss Happ photos alone could sell for a thousand bucks each. That was rent settled for a while. But Miss Happ was, frankly, a nobody. She had no fans, hell, John had struggled to even remember her name. The photo with the writing on it—that was worth more than the rest just because it had Mrs. Incredible’s name on it, not to mention the fact that it alluded to a relationship that absolutely no one knew about; selling that one to the papers could net a couple grand, easy, maybe even five digits. If John was willing to violate his mother’s memory like that. And speaking of violating his mother’s memory, there was the last photo. That was as good as gold; better, even. There were collectors who’d pay ungodly sums for that picture, and creeps that would kill for it. He wasn’t aware of it, but his emotions had gotten the better of him: his hope was quite literally inflating his head like a baloon, so that it hung huge and weightless over his shoulders. And why shouldn’t it? That picture was a ticket to a new car, a new house, a new life! 

But he knew he had to play it smart. One picture was great, yeah, but there was an issue. The text referenced ‘a few.’ In all likelihood, Mrs. Incredible had shredded the rest, as she had asked Miss Happ to do, but the idea that there could be more pictures out there, pictures that could show up and ruin a collector’s monopoly—that little fact could very well knock a zero or two off the price tag. No, if John was going to sell this, he would have to remove the sharpie on its back or come up with the missing pictures. But removing the sharpie would destroy the value of the picture, not to mention if he messed up and destroyed the thing! It simply wasn’t a chance he could take. No, he would simply have to find the other pictures. 

He eyed the boot in which he found this treasure trove, his head still massive with hope. Hurriedly, he ran to the pile of junk next to it and clawed through it, desperatly searching for the matching one. It didn’t take long to find it, crumpled in the corner of the same box. Eagerly,  he stuck his hand in and found something hard and square and made of plastic. Confused, he reached in and pulled out an ancient looking camera, covered in dust. Probably the one from Miss Happ’s photoshoot. Still hopeful, and still with the enlarged head, he stuck his hand in again, and found the same feeling as the first time: glossy paper squares. Practically bursting with excitement—quite literally, his head was the size of a beach ball—he pulled them out and… they were unused. Blank. Worthless.

Defeated, John laid on the hardwood floor, crushed by his own disappointment. The baloon of hope in his head deflated and, in fact, his hole body deflated, until he was a puddle, the extremes of his emotion rendering him liquid even as his hand was still inside the boot.

 It was perhaps an hour before he even started to try to pull himself together. Slowly, he began to master his emotions as he always had, calming down enough to congeal back into a solid, first in his head, then his torso, then his feet, then his hand—wait, hand, singular? One hand?! John sat up like a rocket. His left hand was solid again, as it should be, but his right was still concealed within the boot. From its leather prison, though, it felt strange, like it somehow didn’t belong to him, or if it did, it certainly didn’t belong there. Afraid to what his emotions might’ve done to his hand—or to the boots that might’ve sold for hundreds at auction—John hesitantly peeled the leather footwear off his arm. For the second time that day, he gagged. 

Instead of his right hand, there was a foot. Not John’s foot, either. It was a women’s size 8, given that it perfectly fit his mother’s boot, and it was manicured to perfection. He wiggled the clean, dainty toes and noticed that the nails were painted red. Where his wrist ought to have been, there was the ankle, and creeping up his forearm was the svelte but powerful calf, naturally terminating where the boot terminated, at his elbow. Equal parts revolted and impressed with his own powers, John used all three of his legs to get up. This was becoming too strange for him.

Two hours and a six-pack less sober, John was less sure of what to do as ever. Thankfully, the alcohol had so numbed his body and mind that his right hand had reverted to its natural state. He simply paced, just as before, albeit a little less steady on his feet, back and forth and back and forth his tiny apartment, ‘round and ’round in circles.

 Around his thirtieth rotation, a noise startled him, something like the creaking of a floorboard. His inebriated mind concluded that it could only mean one thing: an intruder come to steal his priceless photographs, though in reality it was nothing but his upstairs neighbor arriving home from work. Still, John held his arms in front of him, palms open, in a fighting stance (though he’d never actually been trained in such things), patrolling for the interloper. Noiselessly, he creeped around his furniture and piles of junk, stumbling occasionally until—WHAM! He whipped out from behind a couch and, seeing a humanoid figure, was so startled that an arc of lighting shot from his hands into the stationary silhouette. It was not an intruder, but the costume of Mrs. Incredible, displayed for future sale on a headless mannequin, the mask suspended above the neck-stump by a length of wire. Realizing what he’d hit, John rushed to the mannequin’s aid, quickly assessing the damage, of which, thankfully, there was nothing substantial. But as John rubbed the seared ozone off the front of the suit, making it picture-perfect once more, he had an idea. He looked at the suit. He looked at the boots. He looked at the hand that, not two hours before, had perfectly fit the boot, in shape and style. And then he looked around, and saw that his mind had been so illuminated by the idea, that his head was beginning to literally glow, casting long, phantom-like shadows across the room. His drunken mind, perhaps more creative than his sober one, or perhaps less scrupulous, had formulated a plan that might just make him a millionaire. Still teetering drunkenly, he ran to get the camera.

As luck would have it, John already had a satisfactory stage for a photoshoot: a tripod, lights, an orange photography background had been set up months before to take photos of his various pieces of memrobelia before they went to auction. All he had to do was mount the ancient Kodak and figure out its timer feature. Soon, he had it all set up, and set about the trickier part: replicating his accident with the boot.

Logically, the first step would be to secure a mold. As his foot had complied with the mold of the boot, so did he figure that his entire body might comply with a larger mold. Thankfully, he had just the thing sitting on a mannequin. Hastily, but carefully, lest he mar the valuable outfit, he disrobed the mannequin, mask, boot, gloves, suit and all. One by one, he replaced them on his own body, and then—nothing. 

He sat on the floor in front of a mirror, watching intently, waiting for the miracle with the boot to repeat itself. Nothing. He tried lying down, relaxing every muscle in his body to coax himself into a puddle. Nothing. He tried shutting his eyes tightly, straining and flexing with all his might, attempting to eek out just an ounce of power. Nothing. He opened his eyes and saw himself in the mirror, his hands awkwardly shoved into the too-small gloves, his feet in the legs of the boots because they were too small to fit into the heel, the suit itself stretched and contorted hideously across his masculine form. What really caught his eye though, was the mask. His mother’s mask, despite having no reason not to fit, hung awkwardly from his nose. He simply was not his mother. Not a super. The absurdity, the embarrassment, the impropriety of the situation washed over him. Bitterly, he began to weep. And still, with this surge of emotion, nothing. There on the floor, he fell into a pained, fitful sleep.

When again he rose, it was technically morning, but his windows reported that morning’s light had not yet risen.   Through John’s hangover, the last night’s events seemed dreams, or distant memories. The report of the tight leather gloves against his hands, however, proved otherwise. John staggered to his leather-clad feet and began to walk, but the boots flopped around awkwardly, so he kicked them off before resuming his stroll. He wasn’t sure where to, but lying on the floor seemed unsustainable, so he walked, weaving his way about the cluttered junk that filled his home, until eventually his feet took him to a stack of entirely too-familiar Polaroids. 

Idly, John flipped through them again, if only to confirm in his mind that they were real. Sure enough, there they were, photograph after photograph of Miss Happ, posed, it seemed, with the express intent of arousal, and there was Mrs. Incredible—his mother—tied to a bed, costume in mouth, eyes pleading to be ravished. Against John’s will and modesty, his member began to rise, pitching a tent in the red spandex that clothed his body—his mother’s costume, perhaps the same one that was in her mouth in that very photo. Inside John, the twin serpents of arousal and shame crept up within him, and eventually shame won, the combined embarrassment of his continual lack of employment, inability to control his powers, arousal at pornography staring his mother, even his own ludicrous form standing there in her suit like some kind of perverse mockery; it was all too much. He dropped the photos in disgust, equally at them and himself, and flopped onto the couch. Desperatly, he wished he could be someone else, someone with a more fortunate lot than he. Then he just lay there, inconsolable.

The snakes within him, though, still seemed to be very much active and still fighting, perhaps now more than ever. He could feel them in his abdomen, writhing and slithering endlessly as unseen changes transformed the anatomy of his torso, organs shifting, sliding, and germinating anew. John had no way of knowing it, but his emotions were finally doing what his mind could not.

Beneath the second skin of latex, waves of hot and cold were running down John’s skin. Dully, he guessed it might’ve been the beginnings of a fever.

“Just my luck,” he bemoaned, even as his very skin began to change like sand dunes in the wind. Every hair on it withered and shriveled like trees in a drought, and like trees in a drought, were soon reduced to naught but ash. The various pimples, moles, scars and imperfections that dotted his body like a constellation of so many stars, too, winked out of existence, swallowed in a tide of newly-paled skin, the color of fresh cream, that seemed to spread with every chill and every shiver. The only imperfection—if it can be said to be an imperfection—in the new coat of skin were the wrinkles, less like markers of age and more like signs of lived experience. They crowded around the mouth and eyes, only just enough to give the impression of a slightly-advanced adulthood, filled with the smiles and laughter that make such an age worth attaining. But despite these wrinkles, the skin still felt…tight? Small? John pulled at the latex, thinking it was the suit that still hung awkwardly on his body that caused the sensation, when in reality, his very skin—or, rather, the skin that now covered him, though it could hardly be called ‘his’—was too small. 

That particular issue was soon to be remedied, though. John’s mind, dulled with drink and grief and lack of sleep, just barely managed to register a far-off cracking sound, like TV static, or a carbonated beverage held close to the ear. In reality, it was the very marrow of his bones, each slowly and dutifully contracting more and more every second. Despite doing nothing more strenuous than laying on the couch, John’s breathing began to quicken and shallow as though he’d just ran a mile—the direct result of his rib cage contracting upon his lungs, making his torso a good deal smaller. Similar, less noticeable changes were happening all around: vertebrae shrinking by the millimeter, joints dwindling in their sockets, his very skeleton waning beneath his flesh, all to the tune of nothing more dramatic than a dull fizzing.

When his skull popped two sizes smaller, though, that at least rang consequential in its owner's ears. Lazily, John got up to look out his solitary, grimy window, wondering if it had been illegal fireworks, gunshots, or a car backfiring that had made the offending noise. As he shuffled to the pane, though, he got the impression that something was wrong. His apartment felt strange, somehow, like he was looking at it from a different perspective. A distinctly shorter perspective, given by how much bigger everything in it seemed. What’s more, it felt as though he were walking on bubble-wrap, or maybe pop rocks as right under his nose the dozens of bones in his feet shrank and popped into a smaller, more delicate form. Still unaware, John reached the window, and struggling slightly because of the comically small gloves on his hands, threw it open. Placing said gloved hands on the sill to support his weight, he  poked his head out and surveyed the street, only to find nothing but an old tomcat bathed in the light of the yellow street lamps to justify the noise. Surely it had to be his imagination, a hallucination brought on by the fever which had now brought the tingling, popping sensations to his hands as well as his feet. He withdrew from his perch and drew back his hands, shutting and locking the window with practiced ease. He was about half way back to his couch when he realized that, on the second time round, his mother’s gloves hadn’t been an impediment. In fact, they rather felt like his own skin. They fit, well, like a glove. 

Excited as a kid opening presents on Christmas morning, he peeled it off. Sure enough, beneath the carbon-fiber woven latex was an unassuming, dainty hand, as soft and slender as you please, terminating in long, manicured nails. In awe, John turned it to and fro, articulating the fingers, proving that they were, in fact, his. Of course, they were, as far as being attached to and controlled by his body, but, like the skin, it was hard to call them ‘his’—his late mother was the rightful owner. 

The rush of discovery was not dimmed by such petty trifles as that, though. No sooner had he confirmed the miracle of his new hands when he turned his gaze to his feet and, seeing the same manicured, red-painted nails adorning those petite appendages as his hands, rushed to where he’d kicked off the boots earlier. They fit perfectly. 

Now fully aware of what was going on, John rushed to a nearby mirror to take stock of what had happened so far. He was disappointed by what he saw. He fit the suit now, at least nominally; the boots and gloves comfortably covering his extremities while the spandex suit no longer had to stretch to fit his wide shoulders and lanky frame, but it was still clearly not made for him. The rear and the chest hung limp and deflated, like balloons left out too long after a party, the legs loose and billowy, and waist still entirely too tight. What was worse, though, was his face. Underneath the mask, not only was he still masculine, he was still twenty year’s Mrs. Incredible’s junior; he didn’t have the lust for battle in his eyes or the taste of justice on his lips. Without it, he just looked like a kid playing pretend in his dad’s suit—or, in this case, his mom’s.

Luckily, his excitement—or perhaps disappointment in how far he had to go—spurred on the changes. His blondish, slightly curled hair fell out by the fistful, quickly replaced by cascaded of auburn locks sprouting out of his scalp and cascading down the sides of his head in neat waves until it ended neatly at the neck in a tight, stylaized bob that probably would require an entire bottle of hairspray to attain any other way. 

At the same time, John could feel his face reforming like Hawaii after an eruption. Unlike Hawaii, though, the mountain centered in his face—his nose—actually began to shrink, receding into his face until it was as cute as a button. His eyes widened under the mask, gaining both feminine innocence and super heroine mystique while his cheekbones raised and sharpened, the hollow of his cheek becoming slightly more pronounced as they were dusted with a little makeup—contour, blush, concealment, and the rest that suited his blossoming features wonderfully, if subtly. The last, but perhaps most important were the lips: the pair of green-bean like lines lining his mouth bloomed into two juicy, cherry-red pillows that added the only hint of color to his face, perfectly matching the suit. Watching his face in the mirror, John couldn’t help but be slightly startled at the visage of the dead woman staring back at him. Startled, but also… nostalgic? Jealous? Lonely? The emotions were welling up inside of him faster than he could identify. On a whim, he bit his lip, and the phiz in front of him did the same in a manner that was undeniably erotic. Erotic fervor, that’s what he was feeling. Carnal desire at the doppelgänger of his dead mother. Once more, the old snakes of shame and arousal were fighting in his gut.

This time, though, they were a bit more tangibly visible. Python-like robins of flesh, fat and muscle alike, were detaching from John’s core, and slithered, wormlike, down, down, down. Rapidly, the uncomfortably tight grip of the suit around his waist and belly loosened as it lost its mass to these seemingly self-possessed worms and, equally rapidly, they began to regroup in their various new homes: John’s legs, thighs and butt. 

John, meanwhile, was more or less overwhelmed. He’d done a lot of things before: conducted thousands of volts of electricity, moved objects with his mind, shot fire from his fingertips; none of that compared to the feeling of power surging through him as fat and muscle banded together and surged down his legs, his very skin seeming to stretch and quiver with the suit as they expanded.

A grunt welled up within him, prompted by the alien sensation, but when John’s new lips parted, a soft, breathy moan escaped him instead, and in a distinctly feminine voice—his mother’s. Had he been any less thoroughly enraptured in the transformation, he might have been moved to hear it, but as things stood the new voice only served as a testament to the raw ecstasy coursing through his veins. His boner strained awkwardly against the suit, trembling slightly in the still-slightly loose fabric, but he ignored it. Instead, his delicate hands explored the new landscape of his lower body. He clutched at his expanding thighs, feeling the soft flesh yield to his touch, each inch sending shivers of pleasure down his spine as they grew. He was in awe.

Then, a sudden jolt of pain served to wake him from his rapture. It seemed as though a bolt of lightning had come down from the heavens, and smites him for his Oedipus-like ecstasy. But it was not so. Instead, John’s hips had cracked apart, widening to accommodate the burgeoning beauty of his increasingly powerful thighs. 

All the while, a tightness was forming in John’s behind: his butt, like his thighs, were growing; inflating, really, like a pair of alluring balloons, inch by inch. Slowly, they filled out the suit’s posterior and then some, stretching the latex slightly with a heavenly blend of juicy flesh and prime muscle, adding voluptuous girth and irresistible jiggle until it was 100% USDA prime Milf-Meat, and a wedgie had formed in the black spandex that encased it. Greedily, his hands found this, too, touching and caressing its supple curves and tight texture, appreciating it like it belonged to someone else, someone other than him, someone other than his mother. 

If John did think of his mother, it wasn’t for long. How could he? A pounding, like the best of a drum, was building in his chest. His hands instinctively moved upward to investigate, their touch gentle as they probed the red spandex above, till they found the nipples below. Pink, firm, and rapidly growing nipples, full to bursting with sensitivity, the gentlest brush of the suit or touch of the hand eliciting goosebumps across his feminine form. Drops of pleasure began to drip into his mind from these new sources, until they began to form a torrent of ecstasy to drown out any thought but further exploration. 

Thankfully, his body provided. His breathing grew heavy, and his chest, adorned with budding breasts, rose and fell like the tide with each deep inhale. Slowly,  little bits of fat began to migrate from parts unknown, or maybe appear from thin air, mingling with his pectoral muscles beneath his nipples. The combined force of this pushed the delicate mounds of flesh away from his body ever so slightly. Ounce by ounce, the weight in his hands continued to grow, John’s mouth agape in awe and eyes shut in ecstasy as he teased and toyed with the ripening melons. They strained the suit and to near bursting before they were done, their colloidal weight and incessant jiggling almost an impediment to just standing up. It was then that John finally learned the answer to the debate he’d long tried to ignore: Elastigirl never used her peers to stretch her own ass, but she sure as hell used them to shrink her tits when convenient. 

Weak in the knees with pleasure, John opened his eyes. The last few loose ends of his transformation were wrapping up all around him: a mole here, some freckles there, some minor scars from tussles with evildoers everywhere. Thanks to his new assets, the suit was skin-tight in all places, including the crotch, so a small outline could be seen indicating his manhood or, at least, what was left of his manhood. Soundlessly and numbly, it had been retracting into his torso, so sensationless that its owner didn’t even notice until it was almost entirely gone. Within the minute, it wasted away completely, until nothing was left but a suggestive cameltoe in the skin-tight latex. Hesitantly, he inched a gloved hand towards it and rubbed. Instinctively, he bit his lip; it was all he could do to keep himself from falling on the floor right there in sheer erotic rapture. Tingles of pleasure tan from the nape of his neck to his tailbone like boots of lightning, and he wondered how anyone could get anything done with an organ as sensitive as this between their legs. He picked up the stack of erotic photos, fuel for the fire between his legs, and began flipping through them, appreciating the curves and contours of Miss Happ’s body as surely as he enjoyed his own. 

But as quickly as his hand had found the slit, he drew it away. These were not his photos. This was not his body. Like a tidal wave, the realization of what he had done, of what he had felt, of what he was trying to do in his mother’s skin hit him. Red-hot shame washed over him, stifling him, practically drowning him. How could he defile his mother’s memory like this? But equally, how could he turn down a ticket out of the squalor in which he lived. After a moment’s reflection, he clenched his jaw and stiffened his lip and, looking into the mirror at his mother’s reflection, breathed deeply, mastering his emotions as he had to do a thousand times before. Slowly but surely, his red blush, the evidence of his embarrassment, receded from his cheeks. Though the shame would live on in his breast for now, and perhaps forever, it would not be visible in his face. That would ruin the pictures. 

EPILOGUE

“Fifty, do I hear fifty thousand dollars for the never-before seen photos of Mrs. Incredible?” The auctioneer called out. John sat in the back of the auction house, numbered sign in-hand, though he couldn’t afford a thing in there. He simply wanted to watch. Before the auctioneer even finished his sentence, signs were rising.

“Seventy-five, do I hear seventy-five?”

A few signs lowered, but mostly it seemed these bidders were a wealthy crowd.

“One hundred thousand dollars? Can I get one hundred thousand dollars for these lewd photos of Mrs. Incredible?”

“One million!” One voice cried out. Apparently one bidder was impatient.

“One point two five!” Another chimed in, yelling to be heard.

“One point two-five! One million, two hundred and fifty thousand buckaroos for the lewd pictures of Mrs. Incredible, do I hear—“

“Two million.” The voice was quiet, but commanded attention. John recognized the voice. It was the panty buyer.

“Two million! Two million going once, two million going twice, SOLD, to the short man with the toupe!” John was awoken from a sort of trance by the smack of the gavel. He was a millionaire now. The only question was would he have the stomach to touch any of the money he’d just made.