March 1979

“Morning, Sunshine.”

Jag Reynolds opened his eyes to find an attractive, leggy blond lying next to him. She was naked, as was he. He lifted a hand to his face. Good. He was still wearing his mask. He was still in uniform.

“Morning, Sweetie.” Jag had learned that this type of greeting made for a more pleasant morning after experience than the more obvious ‘who the hell are you?’.

“You were the life of the party last night, handsome.”

“There was a party?” Jag studied the woman’s face as he tried to place it with a name. Didi? No, that wasn’t quite right.

The woman laughed. “Baby, you were the party. The whole casino was talking about you.”

Casino. Vegas. That’s right. He was passing through on his way to Los Angeles and he figured that one drink couldn’t hurt. A theory that is only valid if you actually do stop at one drink.

Debbie? Dodi? Nope. Still not right.

Didi/Debbie/Dodi straddled Jag giving him a nice view of her enormous, factory made tits. “Last night was amazing. My head is still reeling. I still can’t believe we did that.”

“It was special to me, too, Deirdre.” Deirdre. That’s it!

Deirdre ran her fingers through Jag’s chest hair. “Would you like me to make you some breakfast, or would you rather fuck?”

Both were tempting offers, but Jag wasn’t that hungry, and he’d apparently already fucked this girl so there didn’t seem to be much point in that. He rolled her off of him and gave her a kiss.

“Actually, Deirdre, I should get going. I have to be in LA today, but it was great fun meeting you.”

“Meeting me?” Deirdre’s eyes began to well up with tears. “You’re leaving?”

Holy hell, she‘s a clinger. “Yeah, I have to… go save the world or some shit. You know how it is.”

“But what about us?”

Super-villains never unnerved Jag, but clingy, emotional women? That was another story. “Hey, we’ll always have Vegas, right? Tell you what. Get a pen and I’ll give you an autograph. Okay?”

Deirdre grabbed a sheet of paper from her nightstand and shoved it in Jag’s face.

“I already have your autograph, prick.”

Jag looked at the paper. Sure enough his signature was right there next to hers at the bottom of the marriage certificate.

“Fuck!”

--------

12 hours later

“I can’t believe you signed your real damned name,” Colonel Whitcomb bellowed. “Are you that stupid?”

Jag was defiant. “Not stupid, drunk. There’s a difference.”

“You realize this is a legal document, don’t you? This woman has rights. This could be trouble.”

“Just make it go away,” Jag said.

“The annulment will be the easy part. She knows your name. This is going to be expensive. Do you have any idea how much we’ll have to pay her? More than she can get from a damned book deal.” Whitcomb grabbed his chest and belched. Jag wondered why the directors of the Soldier Boy Project always had indigestion. Must be the cafeteria.

“Just make it go away.”

“Aren’t you listening to me, Jag? This woman has leverage. She’s calling the shots.”

Jag angrily slapped his hand on the desk. “Listen to me, Colonel. I don’t care what steps you have to take, I don’t care what lengths you have to go to, just do whatever you have to do to make this woman go away forever.”

Colonel Whitcomb stared at Jag with disbelief. “Jag, are you really implying that we should kill her?”

“What?” Jag said, echoing the look of disbelief. “Kill her? How did you get that? No. Never. Hell no.”

Jag sat back and stewed for a moment. Then he raised an eyebrow as he considered the possibility.

“Jag!”

“What? No. Never. Hell no.”