Description: 9780345539892 excerpt Birmingham / RESISTANCE 01 The Chairman''s Suite at the Bellagio was a great place for a hangover, or it would have been if Dave had one, which he didn''t. And that was just awesome. Sure as hell he''d made a champion effort to get himself a hangover, but despite his best efforts--or maybe his worst--here he was in this expensive hotel suite, on this enormous and bouncy bed, atop this small but even bouncier Saudi princess, while he chugged a superstrong Belgian beer and scarfed down a really excellent breakfast burrito. The beer, his fourth, could probably fuel a ride-on lawn mower. But the princess, his first, was a much better ride and a hell of a lot more fun than any goddamn lawn mower. "America! Fuck yeah," he roared for no particular reason beyond the dizzying joy of being alive as he bucked away in time to AC/DC''s "Shoot to Thrill." The music pounded from a massive TV that loomed over them like the screen of a drive-in movie theater. The Chairman''s Suite had two bedrooms, but one had been an early casualty of some superpowered romping. Kneeling on the second bed, the unbroken one in the second bedroom, Dave did his best to take a bit more care. "I fucking love this movie," he yelled after swallowing a mouthful of burrito, ordered by the suite''s own full-time, by now exhausted bartender, who was herself a significant hottie and the reason the Bellagio was going to need to do some repairs to the sunken bar. Structural repairs. "Fuck yeah! A classic of American cinema!" Ostensibly he was commenting on the Dukes of Hazzard YouTube clip they were watching--or rather he was watching, the princess being indisposed and somewhat facedown at that moment--but Dave Hooper could just as easily have been making a larger comment on the strange turn his life had taken this past wild week. To be sure, he was not a guy who was entirely unfamiliar with jungle sex in hotel rooms and beer and burritos for breakfast. But to be fair to the historical record, he was more familiar with the Motel 7 end of the market, the kind of hookers you took to Motel 7, and six-packs of 7-Eleven Game Day Ice to wash away the sour taste of existential defeat afterward. Maybe, if he was really flush, he sprang for a Big Mac. But there had not been much to spring for in his middling stage of life. Not until a few days ago. Now, however, he was permanently sprung. "Sprung," he chuckled through the mouthful of meat and cheese. The burrito was a step up in quality, too. Some kind of tasty Italian ham and bacon in there, they told him, "they" being the accommodating management and ever-friendly staff of the Bellagio, who insisted on comping him into the Chairman''s Suite lest he have to drag ass back to the budget dive the government had rented for him when he was stranded in Vegas at the last minute. Dave Hooper was a hero, a superhero even, and the Bellagio did not turn away genuine American superheroes just because Uncle Sugar was too fucking cheap to pony up for anything better than a three-and-a-half-star flophouse a couple of blocks beyond the frayed edge of downtown. No, the Bellagio did not do that, not when genuine superheroes were so goddamned good for business, it didn''t. And there was no question that having Dave at your tables was good for business. Half the city had crowded in to get a little touch of him last night once word got out he was there--and the Bellagio''s hardworking PR flacks made damn sure that word got out. It seemed the other half of the city had dropped by to get a look at Lucille, currently resting on a hastily built display in the main entrance to the hotel. There was no chance of anyone stealing his enchanted sledgehammer. Only Dave had been able to lift her up there onto the black satin cushions, and only Dave would ever be able to take her down. In his hands she seemed to weigh less than the factory-specified twelve pounds of American steel. To anyone else, Lucille was heavier than the superdense mass at the core of a neutron star. It bothered him only slightly that he seemed to be able to hear her whining to him about being abandoned. Stupid enchanted hammer was as bad as his ex-wife. Thoughts of Annie were enough to wilt him slightly, forcing Dave to refocus on the princess. A few moments of concentrated effort and she started moaning all over again, causing him to harden and a happy mindless grin to reappear on his face. "Sprung," he giggled again. "Totally sprung." This end of the world shit had all turned out so well. For him, at least. Dave had rolled into Vegas quietly, modestly, around chow time yesterday, a couple of hours after their flight to 51, or Nellis, or whatever the fuck they called it, had been forced down by the dragons . . . Well, okay, back it up again, he conceded while enjoying the vision of Jessica Simpson backin'' it up toward the camera and while Princess--er, Mulan?--backed it up toward Dave. Only he''d said they were flying to Area 51. Heath and Ashbury and that puckered ass Compton just called it "the base." (Dead giveaway in Dave''s opinion. Had to be a cover for something X-Filey with a name like that.) And no dragons--or Drakon, as Urgon the daemon in his head reminded him--had come anywhere near their slow-moving transport plane on the uncomfortable haul up from New Orleans. It was just that every flight all over the damned country was grounded now because a bunch of big-ass fire-breathing lizards had dropped out of the sky on top of half a dozen planes, some big, some small, and one of them Air Force fucking Two no less. That particular dragon hadn''t flame grilled old Joe Biden. He''d been waiting to pick up his ride at the other end. But long story short, millions of angry, frightened travelers were stuck wherever Homeland Security and their freaked-out air traffic controllers had ordered them to put down. Hence the cheap hotel room. Las Vegas was full, according to Compton. Everywhere was full. Including, for once, Dave Hooper. He tossed the remains of the burrito aside, and as AC/DC gave way to Motrhead ("Fuck yeah!"), Dave Hooper turned his full attention back to Princess Mulan or Pocahontas or whatever her name was. "Holy shit!" another voice cried out. "What time is it?" Dave plowed on with just a bit too much enthusiasm, collapsing the bed frame. Wrapping his arms around the Saudi princess as they rolled out of bed in a hurricane of sheets and comforters, he found he could keep the beat going while getting to his feet. "Damn," he said happily, taking in yet another broken bed. A second female voice, light, corn-fed. A blond and breezy American voice. Midwestern charming despite the discernible edge of panic. The sort of voice Dave Hooper was familiar with from an unknowable number of titty bars. The anonymously pretty blond girl emerging from beneath the rumpled sheets of Dave''s ginormous bed could easily have been asking him if he wanted "more Buffalo wings with the next jug, honey." But instead she was cursing in a very focused and unfriendly fashion, putting up her little fists and punching him on the shoulder while the princess ignored them both, continuing to grind her ass back into him. "You promised me. You promised that you''d give me an exclusive this morning. A live fucking cross. And I promised New York, Dave. I promised them." But Dave was laughing, and Mulan was moaning, and Motrhead was not much interested in any live cross. He flipped Mulan over to get another look at her pretty face, and walked back to the bar and the snoring barmaid, carrying the princess in front of him. She laughed and gasped in Arabic that Dave didn''t understand, but it was hawt if you asked him about it. Hawt enough to make him want another beer and perhaps more if the full-time bartender was willing. "Darlin''," he said, "I dunno why our two cultures can''t get on like this all the time." But Foxy--because she said she worked for Fox News, Dave had insisted on calling her "Foxy" all night--was not to be put off. She would be reporting, and America would be deciding, and there was no way known she was letting any reprobate fucking superhero ruin this chance for her. "Come on, Dave! Hurry up." Dave just grinned at her as he woke up the bartender to ask for a beer. She smiled slowly and happily when she saw him. He got his beer, winked, and turned around to head back to the bedroom, ignoring the shattered dining room table behind him. It lay under piles of sweet, sweet swag that had started showing up from folks wanting Dave to say just a few nice things about their fine products. "Can''t hurry the superhero, darlin''," he said, still plowing into the princess, her legs locked around his back while her long black hair thrashed back and forth. "It wasn''t just my ass-kickin'' skills got a power up in N''Orleans. They call me Captain Stamina now." He favored Foxy with an exaggerated wink before making his point by ever so slightly hyperaccelerating while he held on to Mulan. Two seconds of Captain Stamina going at it like the Flash was enough to send Her Royal Hotness over the edge. Quite literally. When Dave let go on his final thrust, she flew off him for a soft landing on the ruins of their bed, shrieking and laughing. "Great, you''re done, think you can get your pants on now, Captain?" said Foxy. It was more of an order than a question. "Oh, baby." He chugged his beer while admiring her. There was something about frustrated, angry blondes that really excited him. No idea

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