Bloody Dandelions

Paul Anderson knew from the moment he circled the ad in the paper that this was a disaster waiting to happen.  He couldn’t help it though.  He needed advice and he would go to any length to get it. 
Need help managing your super powers?  We can do it!  We’re the best of the best!  Come to 48 Newbury Street at 3:00pm every Tuesday! 
The angels had brought it to him in the form of Ariel size ten bolded in the activities section of the New York Daily.  Anyone else would roll their eyes and turn the page but not Paul.  Not after that day five years ago that left him with constant dizzy spells and a useless power.  Maybe they could help.  Maybe he could get his life back.  Maybe now he could get out of this dirty, dingy apartment and not listen to his next-door neighbors constantly bang each other every night.
Paul knew it was a long shot and now he was certain.  He stood in front of 48 Newbury Street.  It was a goddamn comic book store, Daggers and Dragons to be exact.  The second D was in fact a dragon, however it was poorly designed, and the fire it was trying to so fiercely hurl forth appeared to be shapeless vomit.  Paul wiped the sweat from his forehead, his fingers dipping into a concave depression right above his eyebrows.  Well, if anyone knew about super heroes, it would be geeks.  He opened the door and stepped inside.
A rush of cold air greeted Paul.  It was a welcome change from the hot summer sun.  Daggers and Dragons was claustrophobically tight with one window, every wall bursting with comics and game paraphernalia.  Paul shuddered, his blue eyes darting.  As a full-blooded sports fan, he had no business here. 
A nasally voice called out to him.  “Hey, blondie, you here for the super hero meeting?” 
A short, chubby teen with greasy brown hair approached Paul.  He pointed to the back of the store.  A round table next to the window where two other people sat, stared at them.  Paul nodded slowly. 
“Well, we’re meeting there.  Hurry up, we started twenty minutes ago.”  The teen returned to the table and plopped back down in his seat.
Paul approached the table.  An old man in suspenders smiled at him.  To his right sat a tall, pale man in a trench coat with long stringy black hair.  When he smiled, Paul noticed he had fangs that were whiter than the rest of his teeth.  Paul made sure to sit far away from him.  The chubby teen cleared his throat.
“It appears we have a new member.  I think we should introduce ourselves first to make him feel more welcome.”
Paul interrupted him.  “Uhm, I wouldn’t consider myself a new member.  I uh...I just...what exactly do you do?”
The man in the trench coat snorted.  “Harvey Dent, didn’t you read the ad you have in your hand, or did your brain cave in too?  We’re a self help group, idiot.”
The old man slapped the trench coated one with a shaking hand.  “Anubis, you aren’t being very kind.”  He smiled up at Paul, every wrinkle quivering.  “We help each other make the best characters possible for role playing games.  We’re all championship level players, even me, the old fart.”  He laughed, which ended in a coughing fit.
Paul lowered his eyes.  “I see.  I came the wrong place.  I apologize.  I thought…it was something different.”
Anubis leaned across the table, his red eyes, obviously contacts, hard and voice hushed.  “I’ll tell you a secret.  What Andy said is a cover.  We all have real powers that are out of control.  Andy wasn’t old last week.  I’m a Time Lord.  He pissed me off so I fucked him up.  We all need help, man.  You get it, right?  You’re like us, right?” 
Paul swallowed, his eyes wide.  He rubbed the dent in his forehead furiously, the skin chafing. 
Anubis shoved him and fell back in his seat, hysterical.  “Oh man, you really believed me?  Oh...oh God…God, that’s rich!”  His high-pitched laugh echoed throughout the empty store, mocking Paul. 
He knew all along it was a bad idea.  He needed to get out.  His head spun.  Paul threw open the doors of Daggers and Dragons, Anubis’s laughter now trapped inside.  His chest heaved and he gulped for air.  He collapsed onto the steps in front of the store, his head in his heads.  He could feel it.  It was always there.  The impression was always there.  He could never forget.
Five years ago, Paul was a college senior.  He had signed with a minor league.  Everyone knew he would be major league within two years.  Paul was known as “The Splitter.”  Only thirteen players had ever hit any of his pitches during his entire college career.
During practice for his second to last game as a college player, he threw a curveball.  Paul never threw curveballs.  His teammate hit it.  The ball shot straight back at Paul, 70mph, headed for his forehead.  He saw it coming at him, spinning in the air, the leather hanging off from the force of the hit.  This slowed the ball down and possibly saved Paul’s life.  He didn’t have time to duck and was hit square in the forehead.  He doesn’t remember anything but bloody dandelions.
Now Paul was left dizzy on the steps of Daggers and Dragons.  He can’t play ball because of the dizzy spells.  He never gets laid because of the dent in his forehead.  The only job he can get is as a street magician.  The accident left him with super sight, and it pays the bills.  He can tell you what that billboard across the Brooklyn Bridge says.  He can give you the most accurate directions to the Statue of Liberty.  He’ll spy on your cheating spouse without moving an inch.  He’d give it all up just to throw a ball in a straight line again.