That was all ancient history, though, long since forgotten in a murky, multi-colored haze of swirling geometric patterns and steadily receding short term memory. We had thought the matter sealed, but clearly Dr. Ugly had escaped his captors and fled into the world. I wondered how long I could keep the terrible news from Laurel and Crank Boy, who even now were attempting to squeeze the remains of my omelette into the fridge, which was actively rebelling, spitting condiment bottles, tubs of margarine, and gallons of milk out at them in a kind of major appliance kamikaze effort. The acid we had munched when the two of them showed up was starting to come on, a feeling as familiar to me as a warm shower in the morning or a cool breeze across my face or a cheese grater rubbing across a baby's bottom – it was quite familiar, in other words, and I luxuriated in the sensation, even as the creeping realization that Dr. Ugly was on the loose sank deep within my cell membranes.

But there were more surprises in store for me that day. For I would soon learn that Laurel had hardly left Chicago unscathed….

---

Indeed, once Laurel realized it was time to blow that enormous Popsicle stand known as the Windy City, her last few days in town became a whirlwind of last minute sightseeing and saying goodbyes. She hopped on the Red Line train and headed south. After a couple stops, the transit cops told her to get off the top of the train and ride on the inside, which made for a slightly less exciting trip. There were old haunts to visit: that tiny little movie theatre she always went to whenever a heartwarming new Robin Williams film came out, that diner she always went to where the waitresses carried sidearms, that neighborhood bar she always went to that had her face print in the permamuck on the floor.

Yes, she would miss the glorious sprawl of Chicago, the delightful accumulation of decades of filth and decay, the rampant crime and racism, the dead fish that filled Lake Michigan to the brim and gave it that extry special flavor of home. She would miss dodging the enormous chunks of ice that fell from the skyscrapers downtown in winter, killing the unwary in hilarious displays of comic pathos. She would miss the unbearable heat waves that cooked the elderly in their tenements like potatoes in a microwave oven, and she would miss the way the blisteringly cold wind ripping off the lake in winter tore her epidermis right off each morning as she tried to leave her apartment.

But mostly, she would miss the people: the small time thugs who recognized her well enough not to rob her on major holidays, the crazy homeless people who kept misplacing their artificial limbs, the zany drug dealers who didn't realize she actually liked the bleach they were selling her. And the cops… oh, how she would miss the cops, with their charming uniforms, and their dedication to duty, and their commitment to making sure you got your money's worth when you paid for "protection." These were her people, and she would think of them fondly for as long as it took her to get that Winnebago past the fookin city limits.

But there was one last place she absolutely needed to visit before leaving: the Chicago Field Museum of natural history. She longed to wander among the giant dinosaur bones, the ancient mummies, the artifacts of cultures long lost one last time before she split town for the theoretically greener pastures of the Emerald City. And, she longed to finally sneak through that door marked "Staff Only – Top Secret" and find out just what exactly went on behind the scenes at this mysterious museum. As she paid her admission in counterfeit ones (nobody expects a good counterfeit one, after all), she marveled at the immensity before her for approximately ten or eleven seconds before immediately knocking an old lady down in her haste to charge down into the basement and stake out the Top Secret door. The old lady shouted, "Watch where you're going!" to which she replied, "I was watching, bitch, I did that on purpose!" as she moseyed on down the stairs. Of course, the old lady had snagged Laurel's watch in the exchange, but in the meantime, Laurel had snagged the old lady's artificial leg – which would fetch a lot more money than that watch would, that was for sure.

The Top Secret door was tucked away at the end of a long dark hallway, near an exhibit called Enemas of the Ancient World that had long been a favorite of hers. Hours passed, and no one came in or out of the Top Secret door – and the only museum patrons who came down were too engrossed by ancient enema techniques to even notice her as she slid up to the door, and utilized her years of breaking and entering experience to convince the electronic lock it was actually a small game of Tetris, which she handily beat. Once inside, she descended a long stairwell into a deserted underground laboratory. She wondered at first why such a mammoth laboratory was deserted – and then realized today was a national holiday, and heaven knows no self-respecting scientist could work on Botulism Day.

The lights in the laboratory were dim, and she could hardly see as she stumbled through the lab, searching for some kind of clue as to just what the hell was going on down here. In the center of the room was a large aquarium, and a chill ran up her spine as she peered inside and realized the entire thing was filled with spiders… and these weren't just any spiders, she would soon learn, as a small spider suddenly descended from the ceiling and bit her on the hand.

"Oh no!" she exclaimed, as she smashed the little arachnoid. "I've been bitten by a radioactive super spider!"

---

A few days later, Laurel met up with Crank Boy to pack the Winnebago and prepare to leave town. They had the requisite argument about how much space they really needed to dedicate to Crank Boy's antique girdle collection, decided it really was worth leaving all their furniture out on the curb for it, and then they hit the road. If Crank Boy noticed the change in Laurel's demeanor, he didn't mention it; he probably just thought she was hopped up on goofballs like usual, mistaking her twitchiness for typical speed jitters instead of her slowly adjusting to the dramatic increase in strength, acuity, and agility she was now experiencing. She avoided making eye contact with him as much as possible as she steered the Winnebago into traffic. She could tell no one, she decided, not even Crank Boy.

And when they reached Seattle and she finally saw me for the first time in years, she didn't tell me, either, not at first. But when a common threat suddenly reared its Ugly head, I would soon learn all about her secret powers….