Okay, sorry for keeping you all in the dark so long. My company is here and I've not had much time for patrol or for writing.
I found Nicholas, completely by accident.
Saturday night, I was out doing the patrol/detective thing and I was coming up with nothing. I'd been ding-donging around town for three hours and was starting to get depressed due to the lack of action when I noticed a banner outside of one of the bars downtown. It was karaoke and open mic night. Since I wasn't going to get my name in the paper for saving anyone, I might as well get my name in the paper for making a spectacle of myself, so I barged into the bar, intent on singing something ridiculous like "Love Shack" or "What's New Pussycat?".
Wanna hear a great joke?
Ever heard the one about the super hero who walks into a bar and trips over a corpse?
Well, not a corpse yet. The guy was still breathing. I was being dramatic.
My shoes slide in blood on the floor and I almost fall. I grab the door frame and I'm suddenly aware of a very shaky, unpracticed version of Malaguena coming in over the bar's speaker system.
The floor is littered with a multitude of young people. There are the farmer boys in their trucker caps with the big fish hook on the bill. There are gangly, skanky girls in low-cut tops. There are college kids in polo shirts. People are slumped over the bar. They've all got one thing in common: Their ears are bleeding.
The music stops and a voice comes from the other end of the bar, light and smoky and infinately sad:
"Did you come to hear me play?"
My eyes fall upon a young man, my age, with his hair down in his eyes. He's sitting in a stool with his black Converse All-Stars hanging over the edge of one of the footrests. His shirt and his pants are both a size too small and he's got an electric guitar on his lap.
"They all came to hear me play... SHE came to hear me play... But they all ended up the same way..."
"Are you Nicholas Freeman?"
He sighs at the end of every phrase, every sentence, and each one ends like he's got something more to say after that, "I was... But not anymore..."
He stands from the stool and lets his guitar slip down from his lap. It hangs on a long strap, to just above his knees. "I'm not Nicholas Freeman anymore..."
"I'm SCREAM-O."
"You know, I fought a gloomy kid not too long ago," I tell him, "And you both had really stupid supervillain names."
"That hurts..." His voice seriously almost breaks my heart. I'm about to apologize when he fiddles with one of the knobs on his guitar and strums a chord. My teeth rattle in their sockets. My bones feel like they're shaking apart. My head lights on fire and I feel something hot rushing down the sides of my neck. Jesus Christ, it's his guitar! The reverb on the amp keeps the feeling going, but it fades away soon enough and I get my bearings.
You can't punch sound.
I've got my hands over my ears and SCREAM-O is wearing a humorless smile under his wild mass of dyed-black hair. "That was just E-Minor... Imagine if I played a major chord."
"I'm not going to give you the chance." Imperceptively, my foot slides so I can spring at him if he tries to strum again. I'm not taking any chances.
"You should hear me sing," His arm goes up and I spring forward. I draw my fist back and I spin through the air at him like a missile.
The guitar roars to life again and his voice erupts out in a disgusting whine, "SO CUT MY WRISTS AND BLACK MY EEEEYYYESS!!"
Instantly I'm blind and searing hot pokers slap across my wrists, I'm distracted and I slam harmlessly into the wall somewhere near him. I can hear his footsteps as he's moving away from me. I force my eyes open as I'm getting up. The feel swollen. I look down at my arms and blood is quickly collecting in my armbands.
Oh, this is bad.
"So I can sleep tonight..." he continues and my eyelids get heavy. It's crunch time, Now or never.
Lazily my hand wraps around the base of a steel bar stool and I rip it out of the bolts in the floor and hurl it at him. I'm so tired I just fall to the floor and hope.
"Or d--" The cracking sound I hear, I think, is his jaw. I claw myself up off the floor, holding onto the bar and I look at him, and sure enough, he's screaming, his hands on his face, the bar stool on top of him. He can't get to his guitar with the stool there, so I dive at him, trying to shake the sleepy cobwebs. I'm too slow. The bar stool rolls off and he hits the guitar again, not strumming any notes. I'm knocked out of the air. It feels like a train just hit me.
I'm not feeling sleepy anymore. Whatever this kid does, it doesn't last long, but these people on the floor aren't superhuman. I need to get the guitar away from him, but I can't get close enough. Desperately I scramble across the floor and hide behind the karaoke DJ's booth. I need time to think.
SCREAM-O has gotten to his feet. In the confusion, I think, he's lost me. He's spinning around, looking for me. I catch the cord on his guitar. It runs from the guitar... to an amplifier about 15 feet away. That's all I need. I kick off of the wall and slide across the floor on my back. He hears me and his fingers slide up the neck of the guitar. He takes a deep breath and his right arm goes up, all the way to his shoulder. My hand stretches out toward the amp. If he strums now, I'm dead. His hand crashes down into the strings and I slide past the amp, yanking the cord out and his guitar makes a sad, impotent little plunking sound.
I feel nothing. "M-MY AMP!" he yells. I'm on my feet before he can do anything and I yank on the cord. His guitar strap pulls him to the ground and I reel him in. He kicks and screams all the way across the floor. I drop to my knees, landing right on his chest.
"Curtain call, kid," I say and my fist is ripping through the air, just when he screams right in my face. My head snaps back like a balloon on a string hit by a hard breeze and I'm thrown off of him, doing a backwards somersalt in air. I hit the wall and slide, upside down to the floor where I land directly on my head, crushing my neck. I can't breathe. He's crawling across the floor now, his guitar clattering on the hard wood between his hands and knees. He grabs me by the collar of my shirt and pulls my face up to his. He inhales for another scream just as I headbutt him in the teeth. He pulls his hands over his mouth as he screams and I roll out of the way. I see his fingers bend backwards with the force of the scream and break.
That about does it for his guitar playing days.
I roll far enough away from him that I'm behind the DJ booth again.
This is when I have an awesome idea. That amplifier is the key to all this...
I stand up and go to the computer console that controls the Karaoke machine. I type in the name of a song. I unplug the computer from the DJ's amp and cross the floor in long strides to where SCREAM-O is wallowing on the floor, trying to rub his hands together for comfort, but it's just making things worse. He's screaming so loud I can't think. The building is shaking and holes are being ripped in the walls as he twists his head this way and that, screaming through what's left of his bloody teeth.
I plug the computer into SCREAM-O's amp and I go back to the computer console. I hit play.
Trumpets...
It's powerful. It builds. There's a fanfare. I jump over the table and pick up a stray microphone off the floor and I pray that it still works. I take a deep breath and as the fanfare peaks, I sing, as loudly and as best I can:
"YOUNG MAN! There's no need to feel down!
I said, EVERYBODY!! Pick yourself off the ground!"
Everyone in the bar starts moving all at once. It's working. The bloodied and bruised people start getting up, looking around as though they just woke up from a bad dream. Suddenly all eyes are on me. I get a little bit of stage fright as they all stand up, including SCREAM-O, all as one.
"I said, YOUNG MAN! 'Cause you're in a new town
There's now NEED!"
"TO"
"BE"
"UNHAPPY!"
Smiles spread through the crowd and everyone starts to get in the groove.
Well at least everyone agrees with what I'm doing.
I'm really playing the crowd now, singing, waiting for the chorus to make my move.
"... You can stay there! And I'm sure you will find
Many ways."
"To."
"Have."
"A GOOD TIME!"
ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE!
"It's fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A!"
Everybody's doing the dance, including SCREAM-O. His broken fingers flop worthlessly at the ends of his hands and he's smiling wider than he probably has ever smiled in his life.
"IT'S FUN TO STAY AT THE --"
SCREAM-O's arms go up over his head for the Y and that's when I make my move. I fly across the bar and I slug him in the throat with the microphone still in my hand. He makes a weak rasping sound and he hits the floor, grabbing at his throat. The microphone explodes in my hands and instantly everyone stops dancing and just looks horrified.
With any luck I ruptured his larynx, and he'll never sing again.
Then, above the music, I hear sirens.
That's my cue to go.
I shove through the crowd and get out the back door of the bar and waiting for me is an awful surprise.
Three squad cars.
"FIRE!" screams one of the policemen, and then there are gunshots.
I hate, hate, HATE getting shot. Bullets rip through my shirt and pound into my skin, not doing much more than scratching or bruising me, but GOD it sucks. I charge the nearest car and jump right over the officers' heads. I jump in the air, trying to fly, but I can't, so I just run, run, run until I'm downtown.
I spend a few hours hanging out under the bridge that goes to Illinois, catching my breath, looking myself over.
I'm a total mess...
But thank God for the Village People.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
SCREAM-O (Prelude)
What is it with gloomy high school kids that want to kill me?
First the Grim Creeper and now SCREAM-O. I can't believe this crap.
I hate getting shot.
Ow ow ow.
Ow.
My wrists are too sore to type much right now. My eyes are almost swollen shut and I can barely see the damn computer screen. It hurts to breathe because I have a bruise the size of my face right over my heart. Damn that cop was a good shot.
Ow.
Rest assured, for those of you who hate suspense, I found the Nicholas kid, and he WAS a supervillain.
Karaoke saved my life tonight.
But now I have to sleep so my healing factor will kick in and I can get rid of all these telltale bruises and wounds before I have to pick up my friend at the train station at midnight. I've got about 17 hours to get this crap done with.
Crap crap crap.
Ow.
First the Grim Creeper and now SCREAM-O. I can't believe this crap.
I hate getting shot.
Ow ow ow.
Ow.
My wrists are too sore to type much right now. My eyes are almost swollen shut and I can barely see the damn computer screen. It hurts to breathe because I have a bruise the size of my face right over my heart. Damn that cop was a good shot.
Ow.
Rest assured, for those of you who hate suspense, I found the Nicholas kid, and he WAS a supervillain.
Karaoke saved my life tonight.
But now I have to sleep so my healing factor will kick in and I can get rid of all these telltale bruises and wounds before I have to pick up my friend at the train station at midnight. I've got about 17 hours to get this crap done with.
Crap crap crap.
Ow.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Investigation Details and Poisoned Darts
So I'm out on patrol last night, taking it easy because I had to work the dayshift today, and a growing super hero needs his sleep. I didn't come across anything, or anything really noteworthy, as far as that goes. I broke into the high school and I checked out the kid's records. Low attendance, lots of visitors to the counselour, minor scrapes with other kids. I checked the kids out that he got into scrapes with and the majority of those kids are thugs and bullies.
My guess is he's somehow acting out against past violence or something. Boo hoo. I'll show him violence.
Anyways, I'm leaving the school when something hits me in the back of the neck. Instantly, I'm furious. I reach back to see what it is, and it's a freaking DART! One of those little ones with the feathers on the end. I tug on it and it feels like it's stuck in the bone.
Great.
"PUNCHERNAUT!" A voice shouts, "YOUR TIME HAS COME!"
"Oh for pity's sake," I yank the dart out with a grimace as a dark figure jumps off the roof of the high school, sails over my head, and lands in the street in front of me. One of the lamps from the parking lot illuminates a young man, my age or a little younger, with olive skin and thick, dark hair. He's wearing some kind of ridiculous Kung Fu getup. He's got one of those Rising-Sun headbands over his eyes like a blindfold.
His voice is calm and steady, "You've disgraced my master, and I'm here to collect your head."
I get a bit of a headrush. I feel drunk. I'm rubbing the little dot on the back of my neck and frowning. "Disgraced your master?"
"You turned down his tutleage years ago, and since that dark day, he's trained his best fighers to be strong enough to compete with you. That day has come, and I am to be the one to end you." And just as I figure out what he's talking about and remember that "dark day," the kid rushes me.
The drunken feeling starts to feel like fire ants running through my veins. This sucks. So uncomforta --The kid slams into me and tackles me into the pavement. Well, my reaction time's considerably slowed down, but I'm not too badly hurt as a result. Probably got some dirt on the back of the unif -- I've got a knee in my groin and the Kung Fu Kid smashes both fists, hammer-style, into my ribcage. Ow. Right, slowed reaction time.
Thankfully, my jeans are baggy enough he misses anything important with his knee. My head shoots up off the pavement like a battering ram and I crack him in the chin. This knocks him off balance and he blinks his eyes fast. His hands come up to his chin and he cries out in surprise. My fists grab at the fabric of his shirt and I kick my legs up, throwing him over my head. I suppress the urge to grunt, "Ally-oop!" and he crashes into the flagpole behind us.
I have a lot of trouble getting to my feet, and when I do, I have that unsteady feeling you get when you're walking on your bed. The slightest shift in balance can send you sprawling, but unfortunately for me I'm not going to be landing on a pillowtop mattress. I'll be landing on concrete with a wild Kung Fu guy who wants to beat me up. The world distorts and wavers like looking through the haze over a fire and my eyes feel like they're cro -- The heel of Kung Fu Kid's foot connects with the small of my back. Slowed reaction time.
Before he can bring his foot around, I twirl around and grab him by the ankle. With another spin, he's airborn and flying across the parking lot. He crashes into the semi that the marching band transports their instruments and equipment in and falls like a ragdoll to the pavement. The momentum I get from spinning around sends me crashing to the ground again. The pavement actually cracks. I crawl around for a minute before remembering how to stand up. I'm in no shape to fight, so running is the best option.
The details of my escape involve me falling down more and a couple stumbles into thorn bushes, but are otherwise completely uneventful. Kung Fu Kid didn't chase me. I finally find my way home and lay down on the floor in my room. It's everything I can do to get my costume off before I fall asleep. No sense in mother walking in on me and discovering a drugged-out super hero laying in the floor. I shove my white shirt, tie, and eyepatch under the bed and take my bionic eye out of the case in my back pocket. I push it in and then I'm out like a light.
The next morning I wake up with the taste of raw sewage in my mouth. This is worse than the day after my 21st birthday...
Why is something I did 200 years ago coming back to haunt me?
My guess is he's somehow acting out against past violence or something. Boo hoo. I'll show him violence.
Anyways, I'm leaving the school when something hits me in the back of the neck. Instantly, I'm furious. I reach back to see what it is, and it's a freaking DART! One of those little ones with the feathers on the end. I tug on it and it feels like it's stuck in the bone.
Great.
"PUNCHERNAUT!" A voice shouts, "YOUR TIME HAS COME!"
"Oh for pity's sake," I yank the dart out with a grimace as a dark figure jumps off the roof of the high school, sails over my head, and lands in the street in front of me. One of the lamps from the parking lot illuminates a young man, my age or a little younger, with olive skin and thick, dark hair. He's wearing some kind of ridiculous Kung Fu getup. He's got one of those Rising-Sun headbands over his eyes like a blindfold.
His voice is calm and steady, "You've disgraced my master, and I'm here to collect your head."
I get a bit of a headrush. I feel drunk. I'm rubbing the little dot on the back of my neck and frowning. "Disgraced your master?"
"You turned down his tutleage years ago, and since that dark day, he's trained his best fighers to be strong enough to compete with you. That day has come, and I am to be the one to end you." And just as I figure out what he's talking about and remember that "dark day," the kid rushes me.
The drunken feeling starts to feel like fire ants running through my veins. This sucks. So uncomforta --The kid slams into me and tackles me into the pavement. Well, my reaction time's considerably slowed down, but I'm not too badly hurt as a result. Probably got some dirt on the back of the unif -- I've got a knee in my groin and the Kung Fu Kid smashes both fists, hammer-style, into my ribcage. Ow. Right, slowed reaction time.
Thankfully, my jeans are baggy enough he misses anything important with his knee. My head shoots up off the pavement like a battering ram and I crack him in the chin. This knocks him off balance and he blinks his eyes fast. His hands come up to his chin and he cries out in surprise. My fists grab at the fabric of his shirt and I kick my legs up, throwing him over my head. I suppress the urge to grunt, "Ally-oop!" and he crashes into the flagpole behind us.
I have a lot of trouble getting to my feet, and when I do, I have that unsteady feeling you get when you're walking on your bed. The slightest shift in balance can send you sprawling, but unfortunately for me I'm not going to be landing on a pillowtop mattress. I'll be landing on concrete with a wild Kung Fu guy who wants to beat me up. The world distorts and wavers like looking through the haze over a fire and my eyes feel like they're cro -- The heel of Kung Fu Kid's foot connects with the small of my back. Slowed reaction time.
Before he can bring his foot around, I twirl around and grab him by the ankle. With another spin, he's airborn and flying across the parking lot. He crashes into the semi that the marching band transports their instruments and equipment in and falls like a ragdoll to the pavement. The momentum I get from spinning around sends me crashing to the ground again. The pavement actually cracks. I crawl around for a minute before remembering how to stand up. I'm in no shape to fight, so running is the best option.
The details of my escape involve me falling down more and a couple stumbles into thorn bushes, but are otherwise completely uneventful. Kung Fu Kid didn't chase me. I finally find my way home and lay down on the floor in my room. It's everything I can do to get my costume off before I fall asleep. No sense in mother walking in on me and discovering a drugged-out super hero laying in the floor. I shove my white shirt, tie, and eyepatch under the bed and take my bionic eye out of the case in my back pocket. I push it in and then I'm out like a light.
The next morning I wake up with the taste of raw sewage in my mouth. This is worse than the day after my 21st birthday...
Why is something I did 200 years ago coming back to haunt me?
Sunday, March 18, 2007
A New Challenger Approaches!
So the night after I had some stimulating conversation with an old friend, I was going through local news. I always check the police beat section, for obvious reasons, and I came across this little gem.
The other morning, a young girl was found in the bedroom of her boyfriend, Nicholas Freeman, dead. She had blood coming out of her ears, nose, and mouth. The paper from yesterday said that the autopsy revealed her brain had essentially been expanded, then like, melted.
Crushed into goop, almost.
Nicholas was missing, and has been since. The only thing he took with him before he disappeared was his electric guitar and his amplifier.
I don't know much, but I do know a new super villain when I see one.
I've been going on patrol the last few nights, and haven't come across any leads. I helped an old woman get her bedroom window shut, and I gave a middle school bully a noogie for picking on some fat kid.
Don't pick on the fat kids, especially when the super hero in your town was the fat kid that got picked on in school.
So anyway, I'm out on patrol tonight, and I'm getting a little chilled, so I swing into the Huck's on 15th street to warm up and maybe grab something to drink. Walking into a business late at night in costume is one of my favorite things to do. I grabbed a can of Soup At Hand and a Red Bull and threw the soup in the dingy microwave over by the coffee pots.
The cashier is this guy about my age. I've been in here tons of times out of costume, and he's always really cool about things. I always think he's flirting with me, though, which is cool. I mean, to each his own, and female or not, it's always flattering. He's staring at me with his mouth open, gawking at me like I'm some kind of six-armed space octopus man. Come on. Haven't you seen a man with an eyepatch before?
I love this way too much. I try to hide that I'm grinning. I bet he's scared out of his mind.
The microwave beeps and I take my soup up to the counter.
"That going to be all for you?"
"Yeah."
"You're not..."
"I am."
"Should I um... I don't know... Be worried?"
"No, I'm just getting something to warm up."
"Yeah, freezing out there... are you like... worried about me calling the cops?"
"Think it would do you any good? I'd just knock you out and steal this stuff instead of paying for it."
"I wasn't going to call anyway. I think what you do is, like, pretty cool."
I suddenly hear sirens approaching. That bastard!!
"You didn't trip the silent alarm, didja?"
"N-no! I said I wasn't going to call the cops!"
I'm starting to get mad, but lucky for the cashier, the squad car whizzes by the gas station without slowing down.
"Oh! That's my cue! Keep the change." I slam a 10 down on the counter and take off before he can say anything else to me, running, but not so fast I spill my soup.
It's really cold out here.
The squad cars stop outside of a house in the North End. The cops I followed in were just more to add to the four cars that are already here. Something big's going down. Among the cop cars is a firetruck two ambulances. I'm sitting on the roof of a house down the block and across the street, drinking my cream of broccoli and sipping Red Bull. My police scanner tells me it's a suicide. Cops pour in and out of the house. I overhear one saying "Damndest thing, we can't find what he did it with."
I notice a light shining on the tree in the back yard, so I quietly move to a house across the alleyway, keeping my distance until I'm there.
Two officers are standing in the bedroom in the back. Band posters line the walls, most of which I've never heard. All the people in the posters have long black hair and tight pants. That's why I haven't heard of them. That crap sucks.
One cop says to the other "You haven't touched anything?"
"Nothing, man."
"He had to use something. I mean, he didn't CHEW through his wrists, did he?"
The two clueless heroes kick around in the room for a while as I formulate my own theory. This was no suicide.
It was murder.
And how did I come to that conclusion?
I can hear the cops so well from outside because the bedroom window is open. When the officers talk, I can see their breath come out in plumes of steam.
I've got a lead.
Eat your heart out, Batman.
The other morning, a young girl was found in the bedroom of her boyfriend, Nicholas Freeman, dead. She had blood coming out of her ears, nose, and mouth. The paper from yesterday said that the autopsy revealed her brain had essentially been expanded, then like, melted.
Crushed into goop, almost.
Nicholas was missing, and has been since. The only thing he took with him before he disappeared was his electric guitar and his amplifier.
I don't know much, but I do know a new super villain when I see one.
I've been going on patrol the last few nights, and haven't come across any leads. I helped an old woman get her bedroom window shut, and I gave a middle school bully a noogie for picking on some fat kid.
Don't pick on the fat kids, especially when the super hero in your town was the fat kid that got picked on in school.
So anyway, I'm out on patrol tonight, and I'm getting a little chilled, so I swing into the Huck's on 15th street to warm up and maybe grab something to drink. Walking into a business late at night in costume is one of my favorite things to do. I grabbed a can of Soup At Hand and a Red Bull and threw the soup in the dingy microwave over by the coffee pots.
The cashier is this guy about my age. I've been in here tons of times out of costume, and he's always really cool about things. I always think he's flirting with me, though, which is cool. I mean, to each his own, and female or not, it's always flattering. He's staring at me with his mouth open, gawking at me like I'm some kind of six-armed space octopus man. Come on. Haven't you seen a man with an eyepatch before?
I love this way too much. I try to hide that I'm grinning. I bet he's scared out of his mind.
The microwave beeps and I take my soup up to the counter.
"That going to be all for you?"
"Yeah."
"You're not..."
"I am."
"Should I um... I don't know... Be worried?"
"No, I'm just getting something to warm up."
"Yeah, freezing out there... are you like... worried about me calling the cops?"
"Think it would do you any good? I'd just knock you out and steal this stuff instead of paying for it."
"I wasn't going to call anyway. I think what you do is, like, pretty cool."
I suddenly hear sirens approaching. That bastard!!
"You didn't trip the silent alarm, didja?"
"N-no! I said I wasn't going to call the cops!"
I'm starting to get mad, but lucky for the cashier, the squad car whizzes by the gas station without slowing down.
"Oh! That's my cue! Keep the change." I slam a 10 down on the counter and take off before he can say anything else to me, running, but not so fast I spill my soup.
It's really cold out here.
The squad cars stop outside of a house in the North End. The cops I followed in were just more to add to the four cars that are already here. Something big's going down. Among the cop cars is a firetruck two ambulances. I'm sitting on the roof of a house down the block and across the street, drinking my cream of broccoli and sipping Red Bull. My police scanner tells me it's a suicide. Cops pour in and out of the house. I overhear one saying "Damndest thing, we can't find what he did it with."
I notice a light shining on the tree in the back yard, so I quietly move to a house across the alleyway, keeping my distance until I'm there.
Two officers are standing in the bedroom in the back. Band posters line the walls, most of which I've never heard. All the people in the posters have long black hair and tight pants. That's why I haven't heard of them. That crap sucks.
One cop says to the other "You haven't touched anything?"
"Nothing, man."
"He had to use something. I mean, he didn't CHEW through his wrists, did he?"
The two clueless heroes kick around in the room for a while as I formulate my own theory. This was no suicide.
It was murder.
And how did I come to that conclusion?
I can hear the cops so well from outside because the bedroom window is open. When the officers talk, I can see their breath come out in plumes of steam.
I've got a lead.
Eat your heart out, Batman.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Being A Super Hero...
Skipped patrol tonight. Just had some fun with my friends.
This post is going to be short. I don't want to go into too much detail.
It's just that sometimes you don't need to wear a costume to feel like a super hero.
Sometimes all you need are good friends, a heart-to-heart talk, and a singing cat puppet.
This post is going to be short. I don't want to go into too much detail.
It's just that sometimes you don't need to wear a costume to feel like a super hero.
Sometimes all you need are good friends, a heart-to-heart talk, and a singing cat puppet.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Duke
Okay, I realize the Neighborhood Watch is supposed to be a good thing. It helps out large communites with a lot of crime. It's kind of a nice feeling, knowing your fellow man is watching out for you.
It is not a requirement in Vincennes.
Granted, we have our share of super villains, but seriously, all the Neighborhood Watch would do is this:
They get this little police radio and they go "Dispatch, Neighborhood Watch has sighted suspected super villain activity in the viscinity of Gregg Park. Neighborhood Watch on scene."
Then, they put on this goofy little amber-colored light and park a safe distance away and wait for the police to show up. Then I show up and they get back on their radio and squawk "SUPER HERO SIGHTED!" and start talking about how they're "Requesting backup" because they saw Bobby Goren say that on Law and Order.
The cops show up, get beaten, I beat up the super villain, and then the Neighborhood Watch runs away while the paramedics take away the injured cops and the super villain.
They basically just snoop around and then puss out at any sign of trouble when the cops show up.
But there's one Neighborhood Watch guy who I think might also be a super human.
They call him Duke.
Duke drives around in an ancient Cadillac. I've seen him all hours of the day and night, cruising around with the big NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH decal magnet sign stuck to the door. I don't think he sleeps.
Duke stands well over six feet tall. He's maybe 60. His face is long and his mouth is always scowling behind his jowels. His hands are enormous. They almost wrap around themselves when he's holding the wheel of his car.
He's always wearing a flat-bill trucker hat that reads "#1 Grandpa" and he always wears mirrored aviator sunglasses: State cop style. He even wears these at night.
Duke and I have butted heads so many times, I've lost count. Despite this, I've never seen his eyes. I imagine he's got that intimidating squint like Clint Eastwood, though.
Tonight, he interrupted me intervening in a domestic dispute.
One thing that really gets my goat is when man is beating around on a woman. I mean, there's no excuse for it. Granted, I'm a super hero, and I probably have better things to be doing, but every hero needs to rescue the occasional damsel in distress.
So I'm out on patrol in a fairly nice little neighborhood and I hear yelling. Naturally, I jump over back fences and through lawns and stuff until I get to the house. A tall, slender woman charges out of the house. There's something very business-like about her, despite the fact she's wearing flannel pajamas - pink with duckies - and no shoes or socks whatsoever. She's walking so fast her blonde hair nearly sticks straight out of the back of her head. In her arms is what appears to be an entire load of laundry.
"I knew I should never have trusted you!" she's screaming. Parked in the street is a brand new Scion. She throws the door open and then stuffs the clothes into the back seat.
As she's doing this, a smart-dressed man follows her out of the house. He's got a strong jaw and dark hair. He's got one of those stupid dress shirts on. One of those blue ones with the white collar. Something about those things just naturally pisses me off. A blue tie hangs loose around his neck. On the white collar is a telltale spot of lipstick.
Busted.
"Diane, just listen to me!" he protests, "It's not what you think." He sounds drunk.
He grabs her by the shoulders and he spins her around. She tries to shove him off, and that's when he rears his fist back and he hits her. His fist makes a sickening thump against her skull and she tumbles out of his arms and falls over the hood of the Scion. Her eyes go wide and her mouth works up and down like a fish out of water.
He looks at his hand and he looks at her, "Now look what you made me d--"
I know it's rude to interrupt, but I hate when guys say that after he slugs a chick. So, as politely as I could, I dislocate his jaw with a left hook.
He spins like a top and falls into the car, right next to his wife. I grab him by the front of the shirt and I shake him.
"STUUHH," he pleads, "STUUHH!"
"I can't understand you," I say. Then I grab his jaw and roughly relocate it. He wails like a cat and holds his face. His wife is now standing away from us, hands clasped over her mouth, watching the whole scene. The guy starts trying to stumble away from me, but as confused and drunk as he is, he trips over the curb and lands face-down in the grass. His wife makes a desperate moaning sound, and I realize how scared she must be. I decide a good clock to the jaw is enough for the guy. One good turn deserves another, I guess. Besides, I don't want to scare this poor woman any more than I have to. I'm supposed to be saving her, not terrifying her into a coma. I cautiously make my way over to her, holding my hands up to show her I'm not a threat.
She just stares at me, catatonic almost. I move her hands away from her face and turn her head by pushing on her chin with my fingertips. She's got a big red spot on her cheek bone that might turn out to be a pretty good bruise.
"You're the Punchernaut..." She says this in a shaky voice, barely above a whisper.
"Mmhmm. You okay, ma'am?"
"You... You saved me."
"Yeah, you all right?"
"He... He hit me and you... you hit him."
"I figured I could probably get the job done better than you. You all right?"
She kisses me on the cheek.
This happens a lot when you rescue a shell-shocked wife who just got slapped around by her husband.
I give her my best super hero smile and I back up into the street, ready to fly off, because I feel like I can. Super heroes always fly off after they rescue a pretty woman.
It's almost too late when I notice the flashing amber light and the roar of an engine. I brace myself just before Duke's Cadillac slams into me and I roll up over the hood and into the windshield.
I spin so I can look the old bastard in the face. "Evening, Duke." I nearly have to shout over the roar of the engine.
"Punchernaut." He slams on the breaks and I slide down the hood of the car and roll into the street. I hear him chattering into his car radio: "Dispatch, Duke. I've spotted a domestic disturbance on Parkinson and 15th with super hero intervention. Subject in question is the Punchernaut, over."
The police dispather squawks something back, and just as I'm getting to my feet, Duke puts the pedal to the metal. The old Cadillac roars and tears down the street toward me, but I'm ready this time. I jump up and kick my feet out so that I slide over the hood and through the windshield.
This is the third time I've done this to Duke's car. It's a game we play.
The police department always pays to have it repaired, so I don't feel too bad.
"What in the SAM HILL are you doing, boy!?" Duke swerves into somebody's yard, swatting broken glass off the front of his shirt with one hand. He takes out their mailbox which bounces over the hood and into the cab with us. Once we've stopped, he starts to say something else into the radio, but again, I interrupt. Once more, as politely as I can, I rip the CB radio out of the car and toss into the street where it practically explodes into pieces.
We stare at each other for a minute and then we get out of the car, both of us fast, and somehow he's able to keep up with me. Once we're out of the car, we slowly make our way into the street, side-stepping and moving backwards, eyes locked, waiting for the other to make some kind of move.
"You got a lot of nerve, kid." He steps past his ruined radio backwards, and his old cowboy boots somehow find their way around any of the bigger chunks he might trip over. This guy is incredible.
"And you don't? I was in the middle of something."
"That ain't nothing the police can't handle."
"I didn't see any police around, old man."
"I was around."
"Like I said, pops. No police."
"You got a lot of nerve, kid."
"We've been through this."
We stare each other down, both of us standing in the middle of the street, about 20 paces apart. Any minute now, a tumblweed should roll between us to complete the scene. The only noise is the steady crescendo of police sirens, coming from the north end of town.
"You're lucky, pops," I say. "I'm not in the mood to embarass an old man in front of his police buddies by knocking the living crap out of him."
"You knock the crap out of me? Son, I've scraped better than you off the bottom of my boots."
The sirens are too close. I can see the lights in the fog. Time for me to split. I don't feel like getting shot tonight. "Hate to leave good company, Duke, but I better get out of here."
"One of these days, Punchernaut..."
"One of these days, Duke..."
I run at him. I get within arm's reach and pull my fist back like I'm going to slug him, but instead I just take off, flying right over his head.
He never flinches.
What is this guy?
It is not a requirement in Vincennes.
Granted, we have our share of super villains, but seriously, all the Neighborhood Watch would do is this:
They get this little police radio and they go "Dispatch, Neighborhood Watch has sighted suspected super villain activity in the viscinity of Gregg Park. Neighborhood Watch on scene."
Then, they put on this goofy little amber-colored light and park a safe distance away and wait for the police to show up. Then I show up and they get back on their radio and squawk "SUPER HERO SIGHTED!" and start talking about how they're "Requesting backup" because they saw Bobby Goren say that on Law and Order.
The cops show up, get beaten, I beat up the super villain, and then the Neighborhood Watch runs away while the paramedics take away the injured cops and the super villain.
They basically just snoop around and then puss out at any sign of trouble when the cops show up.
But there's one Neighborhood Watch guy who I think might also be a super human.
They call him Duke.
Duke drives around in an ancient Cadillac. I've seen him all hours of the day and night, cruising around with the big NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH decal magnet sign stuck to the door. I don't think he sleeps.
Duke stands well over six feet tall. He's maybe 60. His face is long and his mouth is always scowling behind his jowels. His hands are enormous. They almost wrap around themselves when he's holding the wheel of his car.
He's always wearing a flat-bill trucker hat that reads "#1 Grandpa" and he always wears mirrored aviator sunglasses: State cop style. He even wears these at night.
Duke and I have butted heads so many times, I've lost count. Despite this, I've never seen his eyes. I imagine he's got that intimidating squint like Clint Eastwood, though.
Tonight, he interrupted me intervening in a domestic dispute.
One thing that really gets my goat is when man is beating around on a woman. I mean, there's no excuse for it. Granted, I'm a super hero, and I probably have better things to be doing, but every hero needs to rescue the occasional damsel in distress.
So I'm out on patrol in a fairly nice little neighborhood and I hear yelling. Naturally, I jump over back fences and through lawns and stuff until I get to the house. A tall, slender woman charges out of the house. There's something very business-like about her, despite the fact she's wearing flannel pajamas - pink with duckies - and no shoes or socks whatsoever. She's walking so fast her blonde hair nearly sticks straight out of the back of her head. In her arms is what appears to be an entire load of laundry.
"I knew I should never have trusted you!" she's screaming. Parked in the street is a brand new Scion. She throws the door open and then stuffs the clothes into the back seat.
As she's doing this, a smart-dressed man follows her out of the house. He's got a strong jaw and dark hair. He's got one of those stupid dress shirts on. One of those blue ones with the white collar. Something about those things just naturally pisses me off. A blue tie hangs loose around his neck. On the white collar is a telltale spot of lipstick.
Busted.
"Diane, just listen to me!" he protests, "It's not what you think." He sounds drunk.
He grabs her by the shoulders and he spins her around. She tries to shove him off, and that's when he rears his fist back and he hits her. His fist makes a sickening thump against her skull and she tumbles out of his arms and falls over the hood of the Scion. Her eyes go wide and her mouth works up and down like a fish out of water.
He looks at his hand and he looks at her, "Now look what you made me d--"
I know it's rude to interrupt, but I hate when guys say that after he slugs a chick. So, as politely as I could, I dislocate his jaw with a left hook.
He spins like a top and falls into the car, right next to his wife. I grab him by the front of the shirt and I shake him.
"STUUHH," he pleads, "STUUHH!"
"I can't understand you," I say. Then I grab his jaw and roughly relocate it. He wails like a cat and holds his face. His wife is now standing away from us, hands clasped over her mouth, watching the whole scene. The guy starts trying to stumble away from me, but as confused and drunk as he is, he trips over the curb and lands face-down in the grass. His wife makes a desperate moaning sound, and I realize how scared she must be. I decide a good clock to the jaw is enough for the guy. One good turn deserves another, I guess. Besides, I don't want to scare this poor woman any more than I have to. I'm supposed to be saving her, not terrifying her into a coma. I cautiously make my way over to her, holding my hands up to show her I'm not a threat.
She just stares at me, catatonic almost. I move her hands away from her face and turn her head by pushing on her chin with my fingertips. She's got a big red spot on her cheek bone that might turn out to be a pretty good bruise.
"You're the Punchernaut..." She says this in a shaky voice, barely above a whisper.
"Mmhmm. You okay, ma'am?"
"You... You saved me."
"Yeah, you all right?"
"He... He hit me and you... you hit him."
"I figured I could probably get the job done better than you. You all right?"
She kisses me on the cheek.
This happens a lot when you rescue a shell-shocked wife who just got slapped around by her husband.
I give her my best super hero smile and I back up into the street, ready to fly off, because I feel like I can. Super heroes always fly off after they rescue a pretty woman.
It's almost too late when I notice the flashing amber light and the roar of an engine. I brace myself just before Duke's Cadillac slams into me and I roll up over the hood and into the windshield.
I spin so I can look the old bastard in the face. "Evening, Duke." I nearly have to shout over the roar of the engine.
"Punchernaut." He slams on the breaks and I slide down the hood of the car and roll into the street. I hear him chattering into his car radio: "Dispatch, Duke. I've spotted a domestic disturbance on Parkinson and 15th with super hero intervention. Subject in question is the Punchernaut, over."
The police dispather squawks something back, and just as I'm getting to my feet, Duke puts the pedal to the metal. The old Cadillac roars and tears down the street toward me, but I'm ready this time. I jump up and kick my feet out so that I slide over the hood and through the windshield.
This is the third time I've done this to Duke's car. It's a game we play.
The police department always pays to have it repaired, so I don't feel too bad.
"What in the SAM HILL are you doing, boy!?" Duke swerves into somebody's yard, swatting broken glass off the front of his shirt with one hand. He takes out their mailbox which bounces over the hood and into the cab with us. Once we've stopped, he starts to say something else into the radio, but again, I interrupt. Once more, as politely as I can, I rip the CB radio out of the car and toss into the street where it practically explodes into pieces.
We stare at each other for a minute and then we get out of the car, both of us fast, and somehow he's able to keep up with me. Once we're out of the car, we slowly make our way into the street, side-stepping and moving backwards, eyes locked, waiting for the other to make some kind of move.
"You got a lot of nerve, kid." He steps past his ruined radio backwards, and his old cowboy boots somehow find their way around any of the bigger chunks he might trip over. This guy is incredible.
"And you don't? I was in the middle of something."
"That ain't nothing the police can't handle."
"I didn't see any police around, old man."
"I was around."
"Like I said, pops. No police."
"You got a lot of nerve, kid."
"We've been through this."
We stare each other down, both of us standing in the middle of the street, about 20 paces apart. Any minute now, a tumblweed should roll between us to complete the scene. The only noise is the steady crescendo of police sirens, coming from the north end of town.
"You're lucky, pops," I say. "I'm not in the mood to embarass an old man in front of his police buddies by knocking the living crap out of him."
"You knock the crap out of me? Son, I've scraped better than you off the bottom of my boots."
The sirens are too close. I can see the lights in the fog. Time for me to split. I don't feel like getting shot tonight. "Hate to leave good company, Duke, but I better get out of here."
"One of these days, Punchernaut..."
"One of these days, Duke..."
I run at him. I get within arm's reach and pull my fist back like I'm going to slug him, but instead I just take off, flying right over his head.
He never flinches.
What is this guy?
Monday, March 12, 2007
Strange, Troubling Dreams
I'm in the bathroom. Some rest stop between here and somewhere. So technically I'm nowhere.
I step out of the bathroom stall. Some other guy is at the urinal between me and the sinks.
I'm washing my hands when he clears his throat and he says: "They call you the Punchernaut..."
I'm not in uniform. I turn to him. I can't see his face. He's hidden behind one of those cheap aluminum privacy walls between urinals.
"Who are you?" I shake the water off my hands.
"They call you the Punchernaut," he says again... He zips his jeans and then he steps back and I see his face.
He's me.
He's me, but he's a sick gray-green color. There are stitches going down the side of his face, down his neck, and under his shirt. There are stitches around his wrists. Something about him smells wrong. He's got that odd, comforting smell of fresh dirt. That smell that's somehow old and dirty, but clean and refreshing at the same time. His voice sounds the same, dry and scratching and forgotten for ages.
"So, Punchernaut... So let's see how you punch."
My hands clench into fists, and so do his, and then we're running at each other.
Before my fist connects I wake up, the sheets clinging to the film of cold sweat that covers my entire body. My right arm jerks forward so fast, there's a sound like a whip cracking. I'm out of breath. My eyes go wide and scan the room.
Why am I dreaming about that again?
I don't like this.
I step out of the bathroom stall. Some other guy is at the urinal between me and the sinks.
I'm washing my hands when he clears his throat and he says: "They call you the Punchernaut..."
I'm not in uniform. I turn to him. I can't see his face. He's hidden behind one of those cheap aluminum privacy walls between urinals.
"Who are you?" I shake the water off my hands.
"They call you the Punchernaut," he says again... He zips his jeans and then he steps back and I see his face.
He's me.
He's me, but he's a sick gray-green color. There are stitches going down the side of his face, down his neck, and under his shirt. There are stitches around his wrists. Something about him smells wrong. He's got that odd, comforting smell of fresh dirt. That smell that's somehow old and dirty, but clean and refreshing at the same time. His voice sounds the same, dry and scratching and forgotten for ages.
"So, Punchernaut... So let's see how you punch."
My hands clench into fists, and so do his, and then we're running at each other.
Before my fist connects I wake up, the sheets clinging to the film of cold sweat that covers my entire body. My right arm jerks forward so fast, there's a sound like a whip cracking. I'm out of breath. My eyes go wide and scan the room.
Why am I dreaming about that again?
I don't like this.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Media Attention, Iris Pirate
There was seriously a video of me on the news and I missed it. It's a video of me FLYING. All Superman style. I wish I'd have seen it. Somebody at work was talking about it.
This is the first time I've ever been on television. I mean, it was just the local news, but the PUNCHERNAUT IS ON TV!!
After I heard this, I spent the rest of the evening looking up stuff about the Iris Pirate on Google, just to see if she was getting better press than me. I found some stuff in the Post-Crescent, their local newspaper.
She stopped a damn BANK ROBBERY! I've never stopped a bank robbery! I just fight super villains and shit! I stop the occasional mugging or liquor store robbery, but never a BANK ROBBERY!
Oh that burns my biscuits.
When my friend from Appleton gets here, I'm going to drill her on this eyepatched floozie calling herself a super hero.
I'm a super hero! Not some fancy girl waving her butt around in front of news reporters!
Total attention whore. TOTAL.
I AM THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN WEAR AN EYE PATCH
Haven't had time to go on patrol lately. Getting home too late to spend the night out. I'm off tonight, so after I take my cousin home from work, I think I might go on a midnight run.
Well, it's after midnight, but you know what I mean.
God damn Iris Pirate.
This is the first time I've ever been on television. I mean, it was just the local news, but the PUNCHERNAUT IS ON TV!!
After I heard this, I spent the rest of the evening looking up stuff about the Iris Pirate on Google, just to see if she was getting better press than me. I found some stuff in the Post-Crescent, their local newspaper.
She stopped a damn BANK ROBBERY! I've never stopped a bank robbery! I just fight super villains and shit! I stop the occasional mugging or liquor store robbery, but never a BANK ROBBERY!
Oh that burns my biscuits.
When my friend from Appleton gets here, I'm going to drill her on this eyepatched floozie calling herself a super hero.
I'm a super hero! Not some fancy girl waving her butt around in front of news reporters!
Total attention whore. TOTAL.
I AM THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN WEAR AN EYE PATCH
Haven't had time to go on patrol lately. Getting home too late to spend the night out. I'm off tonight, so after I take my cousin home from work, I think I might go on a midnight run.
Well, it's after midnight, but you know what I mean.
God damn Iris Pirate.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Ridiculous
I was running late for work and forgot to grab my costume on the way out. I've got my eyepatch in my pocket, though. That's SOMETHING, and I guess it's all I need.
Normally it's not such a big deal. I've gone on emergencies from the grocery store in a t-shirt and jeans tons of times. As long as I've got the eyepatch, I'm solid.
But today I'm wearing this horrible Hawaiian shirt and a lei. If I have to run out of work to save the world, or at least the town, I'll look absolutely ridiculous.
It's too early in my career to be a laughingstock.
For once in my life I'm hoping I don't have to fight.
Anybody who'd want to figh me tonight probably wouldn't need it.
They'd just die laughing.
Mahalo.
Normally it's not such a big deal. I've gone on emergencies from the grocery store in a t-shirt and jeans tons of times. As long as I've got the eyepatch, I'm solid.
But today I'm wearing this horrible Hawaiian shirt and a lei. If I have to run out of work to save the world, or at least the town, I'll look absolutely ridiculous.
It's too early in my career to be a laughingstock.
For once in my life I'm hoping I don't have to fight.
Anybody who'd want to figh me tonight probably wouldn't need it.
They'd just die laughing.
Mahalo.
Recovering
I've been taking it easy on patrols the last few days. The scratches on my back have closed up, but I'm still a bit tender back there.
Right now I'm worried. I've got a girl coming to visit me. I'm interested in her, she's interested in me.
The problem is, she doesn't know I'm the Punchernaut. She just knows like... the real me. The regular me.
I can't just neglect my duties while she's here, but I can't let her catch me, either.
She's from pretty far away, so she's probably never even heard of the Punchernaut. She does seem interested in super humans because sometimes she mentions the super hero in her town.
The Iris Pirate.
She showed me a picture of her once. The Iris Pirate. She wears an eyepatch.
I friggin' hate that. She probably doesn't even need it. I hate ANYBODY in the super hero business that wears an eye patch.
If Nick Fury were real, I'd rip his other eye out.
If I ever go to visit this girl... I'll hunt down that Iris Pirate and make it so she DOES need that eyepatch. I'll suck her eyeball right out of her head and pop it with my teeth.
I HATE OTHER HEROES WITH EYEPATCHES!!
Right now I'm worried. I've got a girl coming to visit me. I'm interested in her, she's interested in me.
The problem is, she doesn't know I'm the Punchernaut. She just knows like... the real me. The regular me.
I can't just neglect my duties while she's here, but I can't let her catch me, either.
She's from pretty far away, so she's probably never even heard of the Punchernaut. She does seem interested in super humans because sometimes she mentions the super hero in her town.
The Iris Pirate.
She showed me a picture of her once. The Iris Pirate. She wears an eyepatch.
I friggin' hate that. She probably doesn't even need it. I hate ANYBODY in the super hero business that wears an eye patch.
If Nick Fury were real, I'd rip his other eye out.
If I ever go to visit this girl... I'll hunt down that Iris Pirate and make it so she DOES need that eyepatch. I'll suck her eyeball right out of her head and pop it with my teeth.
I HATE OTHER HEROES WITH EYEPATCHES!!
I am strong!!
Thursday, March 8, 2007
The Grim Creeper (Part Two)
The following is a continuation from my previous post. If you haven't read it yet, I suggest you do, because you won't know what the heck I'm talking about.
-----
He stands and straightens his dark coat he's wearing over his NIN t-shirt (I swear to God, a new supervillain wearing a Nine Inch Nails shirt), and says, in his best Bela Lugosi impersonation, I'm sure, "They call me... The Grim Creeper."
Daintily, he wipes a spot of chewed meat off his lip with his thumb...
I wait for him to laugh, and he doesn't.
"You're... you're serious?"
"Serious?"
"You call yourself the Grim Creeper?"
"What's wrong with that?"
I laugh, "What comic books do you read?"
"None."
"It's obvious! You realize if I were Spider-Man, I'd have some pun about that, right?"
"You're not Spider-Man," he says.
"You're right," He barely has enough time to look surprised before I close the 15 feet between us and my fist collides with his sternum, "I'm the Punchernaut!"
His ribcage bends like a plastic coat hanger and he seems to spring off of my fist, flying back with his arms and legs flapping in front of him like little pale flags with black fingernail polish on them. He smashes through a concrete wall and into the slaughterhouse refrigeration room. I follow him, taking my time. He's going to need a minute to stand up.
Two bare lightbulbs hang from thick black cables in the cooler. They're swinging from the building shaking as the Creeper broke through the wall. Huge sides of beef hang from hooks, all of them swinging. It's almost too late for me to throw a punch when I realize one of the swinging cows is flying at me.
My fist hits it just below the ribcage. It vibrates like a drum before exploding into hamburger. I've got beef juices all over my shirt. Why do I have to wear white?
On the other side of the beef, I see no creeper. Shadows of cow carcasses dance on the walls and then I hear a single footstep behind me. I spin around just in time to feel those black fingernails rip into my cheek. I curse and pull back to throw a punch, but he's not there anymore.
Behind me again. I don't have time to spin around. Clawed fingers rake down my back, ripping my shirts, tearing into my flesh. The claws go in deep, all the way to his fingers. Then I'm not being cut. My flesh is just being ripped. After a confused yalp, I'm stumbling away, swinging my fists in any direction, looking around, hoping I hit something.
That's when I notice a shadow that shouldn't be there, slipping around on the walls and along the floors.
The bastard can move in shadows.
Again, he's behind me. I spin around with my arm out and luckily for me, I catch him in the shoulder, just as he makes a swipe at my neck. He spins on his heels so he's facing away from me. I give him a stiff kick right in the ass and he sails through the door to the cooler and into the other room. Before he hits the floor, he flattens out and melts into the shadows, vanishing again.
That's when the lights go out.
"KHSSSS," he says, "I'm not just strong and fast," he's whispering, but it's loud enough to hurt my ears. I make my way out of the cooler and I feel the gashes in my back scabbing over. Gotta love that healing factor.
"Not just strong and fast..." He's repeating himself.
"I control shadows!" He says.
I've seen a lot in my time as a super hero. I've faced a lot of scary stuff. Giant dogs, Frankensteins, loved ones in big trouble, madmen in robotic suits. That kinda stuff turns blood to steel. Not a lot scares you.
But when a man made of shadows is talking to you in an ear-splittingly loud whisper in a dark room, I dare you to tell me you're not shivering a little.
I'm about to tell him to shut up when something dreadful happens. I'm sure you've been punched in the face before, dear reader. Imagine that happening, suddenly, over every square inch of your body. Now imagine it's Superman doing it.
I squish.
I SQUISH.
It lets up and something bubbles up my throat and out of my mouth. I hope I just threw up.
"Brute strength..."
SQUISH - I fall to my knees. I'm trying to get up.
"Might work with those thugs you usually deal with..."
SQUISH - I'm on my hands and knees and more hot liquid falls out of my mouth. It tastes and smells like old pennies.
"But tell me..."
SQUISH - My arms give out and I'm face-down on the floor. My legs fall under me and I'm gasping for air. I try to inhale.
"You can't punch a shadow..."
SQUISH - The wind is knocked out of me again. If it wasn't already dark, things would be getting that way.
"Can you, Punchernaut!?"
SQUISH - That's enough.
Kids, here's some advice from your old pal, the Punchernaut. When things are as bad as they can be, with death being the only thing worse (Like say, you're in a slaughterhouse covered in beef juices and your own blood as a living shadow crushes the life out of you), things can only get better if you just try. That's right, kids, never get up.
SQUISH - I get up to one knee. I wait.
"CAN YOU!?"
SQUISH - This guy's good at super villain banter. I'm on my feet. I pull up my right arm. I wait.
"TELL ME!"
SQUISH - Suck it up. You can take it, big guy. Let's do this.
It's time to turn on some lights.
Super strength was somethign I was born with. The circumstantial badass power was something I was born with. My fighting skills I had to learn.
You can learn karate, tai kwon do, and jujitsu from a dojo.
You can learn Jeet Kune Do from watching too many Bruce Lee movies.
You can learn Bushido by watching the Seven Samurai.
But you can only learn the Divine Art of the Punching Fist from Bijorik Baldursdóttir of Iceland (Not the one on Earth. Long story).
My right arm fires straight downward so fast that the friction from the air around it burns the hair right off my arm. There's a sound like a gunshot and the bloodstained concrete floor below me bends like pudding. I'm standing in a hole. I feel another SQUISH coming on, but it lets up. I'm pushing back now. The shockwave from my arm has a (very cool) delayed reaction. The walls around us quiver and shake, just as I was seconds ago, and then they crumble like dry brownies.
The glass in the windows shatters to dust.
The ceiling catches the wind and it's gone.
I'm now standing in a hole in a concrete floor in the middle of a field, next to a cow pasture. All around me are piles of sand and pebbles that were once walls and bits of ceiling. Various instruments of slaughter are laying about, most of them pushed about 20 yards away in a near perfect circle from where I'm standing.
10 yards away from me is a very confused goth kid with a stupid haircut.
50 yards around away, arranged in a neat semi-circle, are city and state police cars, blue and red lights still flashing. Behind each car are several very confused police officers.
Aside from the wind, the only sound is my angry panting, and the confused stuttering of the Grim Creeper.
Finally, he breaks the relative silence with "THE LIGHT!"
"THE LIGHT IT BURNS!"
He begins clawing at his face, looking for somewhere to hide. There's no smoke coming from his skin. He's play-acting. I march straight up to him, stepping out of the hole I've made for myself, every muscle in my body aching from strain, and from the desire to knock this kid's lights right out.
Which is what I do. He sails the distance between us and the police cars. He crashes into one of it and flips like a rag doll over the top, ripping the lights off with him.
He's incoherant now, babbling about light and burning. He's crawling along the grass now, hooting like an idiot.
Within seconds, I'm pushing my way through the throng of police officers crowding around the boy. I grab the kid by the back of his coat and haul him to his feet. I spin him around and look him in the eye before cold cocking him right in the jaw.
I hit him hard enough that he sails up over the heads of the surrounding officers and lands on the hood of a squad car. It buckles like wax paper and steam hisses out of the running engine. I shove through the cops again to see what I've done to the kid.
His eyes roll aimlessly in their sockets, opening and closing at different times. I might have caused brain damage. His head lolls to one side and he spits out two teeth, mottled with blood, before throwing up on the hood of the car. It rolls down the bent steel and gets all over his jacket. He looks at me lazily and his eyes widen.
"Remember this face, Grim Creeper," I say. "And when you get to prison," I grab his shirt and pull him up so we're nose-to-nose "Tell them the Punchernaut sent you."
I headbutt the kid for good measure, smashing his nose like it's made of Play Doh, and he's out like a light.
The police are now standing behind me, wide-eyed, open-mouthed.
One with a shinier badge and a big hat puts his hand on my shoulder from behind. "You better get out of here, son. We called for more backup."
I don't look at him. "I'm not under arrest?"
"You escaped in the confusion. Right boys?"
The other cops nod dumbly. I see them in the reflection of the squad car's windshield. One says, "Yeah, Captain. Escaped."
Another says, "Holy shit."
Without another word, I launch straight up, the Captain's hand still on my shoulder. He jerks it away and they all watch me as I expode across the sky.
I didn't even have to run to fly.
Awesome.
The wind is fast today, and I'm flying faster. The sun's bright. It's a little brisk, but I'm shaking with adrenaline, and I barely feel it. I feel alive. I throw my hands out in front of me, Superman style, and I let out a feral roar.
"HELL YES!"
I'm brought down from this high as I crash in my back yard, rolling ass over applecart along the grass, through some dog poop, and into the big tree in that stands in the middle of the yard. My dog comes over and curiously cocks his head to one side as he sits and licks my chin just once.
I pat him on the head as I get up.
I sneak through the back door and go to my room to clean up.
Mom and I are going to a movie in 20 minutes.
-----
He stands and straightens his dark coat he's wearing over his NIN t-shirt (I swear to God, a new supervillain wearing a Nine Inch Nails shirt), and says, in his best Bela Lugosi impersonation, I'm sure, "They call me... The Grim Creeper."
Daintily, he wipes a spot of chewed meat off his lip with his thumb...
I wait for him to laugh, and he doesn't.
"You're... you're serious?"
"Serious?"
"You call yourself the Grim Creeper?"
"What's wrong with that?"
I laugh, "What comic books do you read?"
"None."
"It's obvious! You realize if I were Spider-Man, I'd have some pun about that, right?"
"You're not Spider-Man," he says.
"You're right," He barely has enough time to look surprised before I close the 15 feet between us and my fist collides with his sternum, "I'm the Punchernaut!"
His ribcage bends like a plastic coat hanger and he seems to spring off of my fist, flying back with his arms and legs flapping in front of him like little pale flags with black fingernail polish on them. He smashes through a concrete wall and into the slaughterhouse refrigeration room. I follow him, taking my time. He's going to need a minute to stand up.
Two bare lightbulbs hang from thick black cables in the cooler. They're swinging from the building shaking as the Creeper broke through the wall. Huge sides of beef hang from hooks, all of them swinging. It's almost too late for me to throw a punch when I realize one of the swinging cows is flying at me.
My fist hits it just below the ribcage. It vibrates like a drum before exploding into hamburger. I've got beef juices all over my shirt. Why do I have to wear white?
On the other side of the beef, I see no creeper. Shadows of cow carcasses dance on the walls and then I hear a single footstep behind me. I spin around just in time to feel those black fingernails rip into my cheek. I curse and pull back to throw a punch, but he's not there anymore.
Behind me again. I don't have time to spin around. Clawed fingers rake down my back, ripping my shirts, tearing into my flesh. The claws go in deep, all the way to his fingers. Then I'm not being cut. My flesh is just being ripped. After a confused yalp, I'm stumbling away, swinging my fists in any direction, looking around, hoping I hit something.
That's when I notice a shadow that shouldn't be there, slipping around on the walls and along the floors.
The bastard can move in shadows.
Again, he's behind me. I spin around with my arm out and luckily for me, I catch him in the shoulder, just as he makes a swipe at my neck. He spins on his heels so he's facing away from me. I give him a stiff kick right in the ass and he sails through the door to the cooler and into the other room. Before he hits the floor, he flattens out and melts into the shadows, vanishing again.
That's when the lights go out.
"KHSSSS," he says, "I'm not just strong and fast," he's whispering, but it's loud enough to hurt my ears. I make my way out of the cooler and I feel the gashes in my back scabbing over. Gotta love that healing factor.
"Not just strong and fast..." He's repeating himself.
"I control shadows!" He says.
I've seen a lot in my time as a super hero. I've faced a lot of scary stuff. Giant dogs, Frankensteins, loved ones in big trouble, madmen in robotic suits. That kinda stuff turns blood to steel. Not a lot scares you.
But when a man made of shadows is talking to you in an ear-splittingly loud whisper in a dark room, I dare you to tell me you're not shivering a little.
I'm about to tell him to shut up when something dreadful happens. I'm sure you've been punched in the face before, dear reader. Imagine that happening, suddenly, over every square inch of your body. Now imagine it's Superman doing it.
I squish.
I SQUISH.
It lets up and something bubbles up my throat and out of my mouth. I hope I just threw up.
"Brute strength..."
SQUISH - I fall to my knees. I'm trying to get up.
"Might work with those thugs you usually deal with..."
SQUISH - I'm on my hands and knees and more hot liquid falls out of my mouth. It tastes and smells like old pennies.
"But tell me..."
SQUISH - My arms give out and I'm face-down on the floor. My legs fall under me and I'm gasping for air. I try to inhale.
"You can't punch a shadow..."
SQUISH - The wind is knocked out of me again. If it wasn't already dark, things would be getting that way.
"Can you, Punchernaut!?"
SQUISH - That's enough.
Kids, here's some advice from your old pal, the Punchernaut. When things are as bad as they can be, with death being the only thing worse (Like say, you're in a slaughterhouse covered in beef juices and your own blood as a living shadow crushes the life out of you), things can only get better if you just try. That's right, kids, never get up.
SQUISH - I get up to one knee. I wait.
"CAN YOU!?"
SQUISH - This guy's good at super villain banter. I'm on my feet. I pull up my right arm. I wait.
"TELL ME!"
SQUISH - Suck it up. You can take it, big guy. Let's do this.
It's time to turn on some lights.
Super strength was somethign I was born with. The circumstantial badass power was something I was born with. My fighting skills I had to learn.
You can learn karate, tai kwon do, and jujitsu from a dojo.
You can learn Jeet Kune Do from watching too many Bruce Lee movies.
You can learn Bushido by watching the Seven Samurai.
But you can only learn the Divine Art of the Punching Fist from Bijorik Baldursdóttir of Iceland (Not the one on Earth. Long story).
My right arm fires straight downward so fast that the friction from the air around it burns the hair right off my arm. There's a sound like a gunshot and the bloodstained concrete floor below me bends like pudding. I'm standing in a hole. I feel another SQUISH coming on, but it lets up. I'm pushing back now. The shockwave from my arm has a (very cool) delayed reaction. The walls around us quiver and shake, just as I was seconds ago, and then they crumble like dry brownies.
The glass in the windows shatters to dust.
The ceiling catches the wind and it's gone.
I'm now standing in a hole in a concrete floor in the middle of a field, next to a cow pasture. All around me are piles of sand and pebbles that were once walls and bits of ceiling. Various instruments of slaughter are laying about, most of them pushed about 20 yards away in a near perfect circle from where I'm standing.
10 yards away from me is a very confused goth kid with a stupid haircut.
50 yards around away, arranged in a neat semi-circle, are city and state police cars, blue and red lights still flashing. Behind each car are several very confused police officers.
Aside from the wind, the only sound is my angry panting, and the confused stuttering of the Grim Creeper.
Finally, he breaks the relative silence with "THE LIGHT!"
"THE LIGHT IT BURNS!"
He begins clawing at his face, looking for somewhere to hide. There's no smoke coming from his skin. He's play-acting. I march straight up to him, stepping out of the hole I've made for myself, every muscle in my body aching from strain, and from the desire to knock this kid's lights right out.
Which is what I do. He sails the distance between us and the police cars. He crashes into one of it and flips like a rag doll over the top, ripping the lights off with him.
He's incoherant now, babbling about light and burning. He's crawling along the grass now, hooting like an idiot.
Within seconds, I'm pushing my way through the throng of police officers crowding around the boy. I grab the kid by the back of his coat and haul him to his feet. I spin him around and look him in the eye before cold cocking him right in the jaw.
I hit him hard enough that he sails up over the heads of the surrounding officers and lands on the hood of a squad car. It buckles like wax paper and steam hisses out of the running engine. I shove through the cops again to see what I've done to the kid.
His eyes roll aimlessly in their sockets, opening and closing at different times. I might have caused brain damage. His head lolls to one side and he spits out two teeth, mottled with blood, before throwing up on the hood of the car. It rolls down the bent steel and gets all over his jacket. He looks at me lazily and his eyes widen.
"Remember this face, Grim Creeper," I say. "And when you get to prison," I grab his shirt and pull him up so we're nose-to-nose "Tell them the Punchernaut sent you."
I headbutt the kid for good measure, smashing his nose like it's made of Play Doh, and he's out like a light.
The police are now standing behind me, wide-eyed, open-mouthed.
One with a shinier badge and a big hat puts his hand on my shoulder from behind. "You better get out of here, son. We called for more backup."
I don't look at him. "I'm not under arrest?"
"You escaped in the confusion. Right boys?"
The other cops nod dumbly. I see them in the reflection of the squad car's windshield. One says, "Yeah, Captain. Escaped."
Another says, "Holy shit."
Without another word, I launch straight up, the Captain's hand still on my shoulder. He jerks it away and they all watch me as I expode across the sky.
I didn't even have to run to fly.
Awesome.
The wind is fast today, and I'm flying faster. The sun's bright. It's a little brisk, but I'm shaking with adrenaline, and I barely feel it. I feel alive. I throw my hands out in front of me, Superman style, and I let out a feral roar.
"HELL YES!"
I'm brought down from this high as I crash in my back yard, rolling ass over applecart along the grass, through some dog poop, and into the big tree in that stands in the middle of the yard. My dog comes over and curiously cocks his head to one side as he sits and licks my chin just once.
I pat him on the head as I get up.
I sneak through the back door and go to my room to clean up.
Mom and I are going to a movie in 20 minutes.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
The Grim Creeper
I went on a brief midday patrol this afternoon. Told my mother I was going to straighten some things up at work, took off in my car, ditched it downtown, then took to running rooftops.
Long story short, I end up in a fight with an aspiring supervillain in a slaughterhouse.
I swear I can't make this stuff up.
The call came out over the police scanner and I took off toward this slaughterhouse and butcher shop way out in the county. What he was doing there, I have no idea, but apparently sides of beef have made contact with policemen and police cars.
Yes, a madman throwing meat.
This is my favorite type of fight. Battling another dude with super strength always gets me in a great mood because I just love to brawl like hell.
Luckily for me, the best entrance was to fly in over the cop cars, so I was able to fly. This is always great for me. Since, for some reason, everything in my life goes back to video games, I have to run really fast for a little bit. Then, invariably, my feet lift up off the ground, EXACTLY like in Super Mario Bros. 3. I always imagine as I'm running that at some point there's a high-pitched trill and I have a raccoon tail.
The few people who know who and what I am always ask me what it's like to fly. I describe it as such:
Imagine being eight years old and you wake up on the first day of winter break and you realize it's been snowing all night. Good, solid, wet snow. The first thing you do after your mom makes you eat breakfast is you throw on your boots, your coat, and your hat, and you rush outside toward the biggest hill in town. At the top you throw your sled down and dive onto it, belly first, letting your momentum push the sled down the hill.
It's a lot like that only it's not always cold, it's not always wet, and you're going up instead of down, and also you're not laying on anything.
So I'm flying above the city of Vincennes following the cop cars out because I forget exactly where the abbatoir in question is. I spot the squad cars in the distance and speed up because now I know where I'm going. One car is nearly bent in half and there's a big hunk of meat sticking out of it.
This is going to be awesome.
I'm starting to descend in my flight now, and I think it's time to come back to the sled analogy.
The biggest hill in my town is an old Indian burial mound, and I've been sledding on it many times in my life. It's pretty steep, and I'd say a good 20 feet above regular ground level.
The ground does not level out gradually. It's pretty abrupt.
Imagine you're on your little plastic sled, speeding down the side of the Indian mound, and you're getting close to the bottom. The wind is whipping through your hair and the cold stings your cheeks and you're hooting and hollaring and carrying on like kids do. Suddenly you get to the bottom of the hill and the sled stops. Again, your momentum works on you, but not in your favor this time. You fly off the sled and hit your head and decide to just go home because that REALLY sucked.
That's what landing is like for me. I don't know how it is for other super heroes, but for me, I can only fly when I have to. That means I don't get much practice landing.
I can hear an officer shouting through the loudspeaker in his squad car, "Put down the meat and come outside! We aren't going to hurt you. We just need to take you into custodWHAT THE HELL IS THAT !?"
I'm probably flying about 80 miles per hour as I whip over the heads of the police and crash through one of the factory windows of the slaughterhouse. I hit a concrete wall on the other side and crash onto a table covered in saw blades.
I'm so glad super strength comes as a package deal with resiliance. I think I'd have broken my neck otherwise.
I shake off the cobwebs (literally) and the concrete dust and get to my feet. There's some odd noise somewhere nearby and I start poking around. This is what I came across:
On the floor is some goy crouched on his haunches with his legs akimbo. He's greedily shoving things into his mouth. His hair is styled in three vertical spikes and for a moment, I fear it's the vengeful spirit of Klaus Nomi.
I do not want to fight an undead 80's pop/opera singer.
Otherwise he's dressed all in black with a coat that's got little dips in it like Batman's cape.
He didn't hear me break the window or crash into the wall, so I clear my throat and say "Before I pound your face into hamburger, you should tell me what you want to be called so they can get it right in the papers."
Then (again, I can't make this stuff up), he spins around to face me. He opens his mouth wide, revealing rows of filed, sharpened teeth behind black-lipsticked lips. He's got heavy eyeshadow on, and under one eye he's painted the Eye of Osiris. I'm unnerved by his eyes for a moment before I realize they're those expensive yellow cat-eye effect contacts.
Then, I swear to God, he hisses at me. Like a vampire in a bad movie. Here's an artist's (my) depiction of the scene:
He didn't say that last thing, but it wouldn't have surprised me.
In front of him, the stuff he was eating, is a pile of ripped and torn meat with bones sticking out of it. He stands and straightens his dark coat he's wearing over his NIN t-shirt (I swear to God, a new supervillain wearing a Nine Inch Nails shirt), and says, in his best Bela Lugosi impersonation, I'm sure, "They call me... The Grim Creeper."
Daintily, he wipes a spot of chewed meat off his lip with his thumb...
(TO BE CONTINUED!)
Long story short, I end up in a fight with an aspiring supervillain in a slaughterhouse.
I swear I can't make this stuff up.
The call came out over the police scanner and I took off toward this slaughterhouse and butcher shop way out in the county. What he was doing there, I have no idea, but apparently sides of beef have made contact with policemen and police cars.
Yes, a madman throwing meat.
This is my favorite type of fight. Battling another dude with super strength always gets me in a great mood because I just love to brawl like hell.
Luckily for me, the best entrance was to fly in over the cop cars, so I was able to fly. This is always great for me. Since, for some reason, everything in my life goes back to video games, I have to run really fast for a little bit. Then, invariably, my feet lift up off the ground, EXACTLY like in Super Mario Bros. 3. I always imagine as I'm running that at some point there's a high-pitched trill and I have a raccoon tail.
The few people who know who and what I am always ask me what it's like to fly. I describe it as such:
Imagine being eight years old and you wake up on the first day of winter break and you realize it's been snowing all night. Good, solid, wet snow. The first thing you do after your mom makes you eat breakfast is you throw on your boots, your coat, and your hat, and you rush outside toward the biggest hill in town. At the top you throw your sled down and dive onto it, belly first, letting your momentum push the sled down the hill.
It's a lot like that only it's not always cold, it's not always wet, and you're going up instead of down, and also you're not laying on anything.
So I'm flying above the city of Vincennes following the cop cars out because I forget exactly where the abbatoir in question is. I spot the squad cars in the distance and speed up because now I know where I'm going. One car is nearly bent in half and there's a big hunk of meat sticking out of it.
This is going to be awesome.
I'm starting to descend in my flight now, and I think it's time to come back to the sled analogy.
The biggest hill in my town is an old Indian burial mound, and I've been sledding on it many times in my life. It's pretty steep, and I'd say a good 20 feet above regular ground level.
The ground does not level out gradually. It's pretty abrupt.
Imagine you're on your little plastic sled, speeding down the side of the Indian mound, and you're getting close to the bottom. The wind is whipping through your hair and the cold stings your cheeks and you're hooting and hollaring and carrying on like kids do. Suddenly you get to the bottom of the hill and the sled stops. Again, your momentum works on you, but not in your favor this time. You fly off the sled and hit your head and decide to just go home because that REALLY sucked.
That's what landing is like for me. I don't know how it is for other super heroes, but for me, I can only fly when I have to. That means I don't get much practice landing.
I can hear an officer shouting through the loudspeaker in his squad car, "Put down the meat and come outside! We aren't going to hurt you. We just need to take you into custodWHAT THE HELL IS THAT !?"
I'm probably flying about 80 miles per hour as I whip over the heads of the police and crash through one of the factory windows of the slaughterhouse. I hit a concrete wall on the other side and crash onto a table covered in saw blades.
I'm so glad super strength comes as a package deal with resiliance. I think I'd have broken my neck otherwise.
I shake off the cobwebs (literally) and the concrete dust and get to my feet. There's some odd noise somewhere nearby and I start poking around. This is what I came across:
On the floor is some goy crouched on his haunches with his legs akimbo. He's greedily shoving things into his mouth. His hair is styled in three vertical spikes and for a moment, I fear it's the vengeful spirit of Klaus Nomi.
I do not want to fight an undead 80's pop/opera singer.
Otherwise he's dressed all in black with a coat that's got little dips in it like Batman's cape.
He didn't hear me break the window or crash into the wall, so I clear my throat and say "Before I pound your face into hamburger, you should tell me what you want to be called so they can get it right in the papers."
Then (again, I can't make this stuff up), he spins around to face me. He opens his mouth wide, revealing rows of filed, sharpened teeth behind black-lipsticked lips. He's got heavy eyeshadow on, and under one eye he's painted the Eye of Osiris. I'm unnerved by his eyes for a moment before I realize they're those expensive yellow cat-eye effect contacts.
Then, I swear to God, he hisses at me. Like a vampire in a bad movie. Here's an artist's (my) depiction of the scene:
He didn't say that last thing, but it wouldn't have surprised me.
In front of him, the stuff he was eating, is a pile of ripped and torn meat with bones sticking out of it. He stands and straightens his dark coat he's wearing over his NIN t-shirt (I swear to God, a new supervillain wearing a Nine Inch Nails shirt), and says, in his best Bela Lugosi impersonation, I'm sure, "They call me... The Grim Creeper."
Daintily, he wipes a spot of chewed meat off his lip with his thumb...
(TO BE CONTINUED!)
"I'm the Punchernaut, Bitch!"
I swear to God I yelled that at a guy tonight.
For a small town, you'd be surprised at how many people try to work their way up the crime ladder to supervillain status. I mean, it's small-town Indiana. You'd figure the most evil folks around here were mean drunks with shotguns.
I should be so lucky.
I said I'd describe my powers a little better, so I better get that out of the way before I go into some of my adventures and stuff. I don't want any lame surprises. Here's the best way to put it. I'm always strong. That's my main thing. I can punch the hell out of things, which is why I call myself The Punchernaut. I can kick things and headbutt things pretty hard, too, but "The Punchkickheadbutternaut" doesn't have the same ring to it, and the "-butternaut" part of that sounds like some expensive German candy I'd get for my Grandma for Christmas.
I'm pretty fast, for a fat guy. I mean, I outrun speeding police cars most of the time. That's just because of the strength in my legs, though. I crack concrete sometimes. I feel like the Hulk.
And speaking of which, the angrier I get, the stronger I seem to get. It's probably adrenaline, but I think there's seriously a connection. I also get stronger during and after I take a good beating. It's perfect because I have a talent not only for punching, but also for being punched.
A lot.
By big guys.
I've got a little bit of Wolverine going on, too, because I heal faster than most people should. Not as fast as Wolverine, I mean. He's like, immediately. I take a few days. Once, a couple years back before I got the superhero gig, I fell down a long road on a very steep hill at band camp. At the bottom my head bounced like a basketball off this big concrete gutter that went down the side of the hill. Big gash, blood everywhere. The camp nurse said I was lucky to be alive. That was the third day of camp. By the end of the week, when we were packing to go home, my buddy Tony pointed out that all I had left was a white line.
Two days later and even that was gone.
But then, aside from the superhuman strength and the handy Marvel "healing factor," I've got this other power that's totally circumstantial. If, for some reason, I absolutely need to fly, I can. And I do. But if I don't NEED to, I can't.
It also depends on this: If it's cool to do at the time or not.
For example, it's always cool to walk through fire and come out unscathed. Herr Explodiert blows up an oil rig going through town? Guess who dives through the flames and tackles him into the gutter before knocking his Kraut brains out?
That's right. Me.
I'll even be on fire, but I don't feel anything. Makes an awesome picture in the newspaper, too. Me standing there in my tie looking all stoic with my shoulder on fire. People eat that crap up.
But say I'm lighting a candle in my office at work, I can burn myself with the match. It's a mad world.
It's a real bitch, but I guess it's my gift...
And my curse.
I love being cheesey like that. They should make comics about me.
Nothing's been happening on my patrols lately. There was a liquor store robbery last night and the cops found two very confused men with money stuffed in their mouths thrown up into a tree.
No need to thank me.
I'm just your friendly neighborhood Punchernaut.
For a small town, you'd be surprised at how many people try to work their way up the crime ladder to supervillain status. I mean, it's small-town Indiana. You'd figure the most evil folks around here were mean drunks with shotguns.
I should be so lucky.
I said I'd describe my powers a little better, so I better get that out of the way before I go into some of my adventures and stuff. I don't want any lame surprises. Here's the best way to put it. I'm always strong. That's my main thing. I can punch the hell out of things, which is why I call myself The Punchernaut. I can kick things and headbutt things pretty hard, too, but "The Punchkickheadbutternaut" doesn't have the same ring to it, and the "-butternaut" part of that sounds like some expensive German candy I'd get for my Grandma for Christmas.
I'm pretty fast, for a fat guy. I mean, I outrun speeding police cars most of the time. That's just because of the strength in my legs, though. I crack concrete sometimes. I feel like the Hulk.
And speaking of which, the angrier I get, the stronger I seem to get. It's probably adrenaline, but I think there's seriously a connection. I also get stronger during and after I take a good beating. It's perfect because I have a talent not only for punching, but also for being punched.
A lot.
By big guys.
I've got a little bit of Wolverine going on, too, because I heal faster than most people should. Not as fast as Wolverine, I mean. He's like, immediately. I take a few days. Once, a couple years back before I got the superhero gig, I fell down a long road on a very steep hill at band camp. At the bottom my head bounced like a basketball off this big concrete gutter that went down the side of the hill. Big gash, blood everywhere. The camp nurse said I was lucky to be alive. That was the third day of camp. By the end of the week, when we were packing to go home, my buddy Tony pointed out that all I had left was a white line.
Two days later and even that was gone.
But then, aside from the superhuman strength and the handy Marvel "healing factor," I've got this other power that's totally circumstantial. If, for some reason, I absolutely need to fly, I can. And I do. But if I don't NEED to, I can't.
It also depends on this: If it's cool to do at the time or not.
For example, it's always cool to walk through fire and come out unscathed. Herr Explodiert blows up an oil rig going through town? Guess who dives through the flames and tackles him into the gutter before knocking his Kraut brains out?
That's right. Me.
I'll even be on fire, but I don't feel anything. Makes an awesome picture in the newspaper, too. Me standing there in my tie looking all stoic with my shoulder on fire. People eat that crap up.
But say I'm lighting a candle in my office at work, I can burn myself with the match. It's a mad world.
It's a real bitch, but I guess it's my gift...
And my curse.
I love being cheesey like that. They should make comics about me.
Nothing's been happening on my patrols lately. There was a liquor store robbery last night and the cops found two very confused men with money stuffed in their mouths thrown up into a tree.
No need to thank me.
I'm just your friendly neighborhood Punchernaut.
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