I am a superhero.
Now, I'm trusting you with this information. Don't screw with me. I know where you live. I have superhuman strength.
I can see right through you.
Look, I just need someone to talk to. I confess, I'm lonely. My trusty sidekick died last week in a freak accident. How was I supposed to know she was allergic to the air on Glaxxon III? I would have arranged for some kind of suit before teleporting us there.
And things were getting good. We were just about to have that first hero/sidekick kiss. And she was your cookie-cutter super-female. Hot hot hot.
Anyway, I can't think about that right now. She's gone forever. (Unless she comes back to life somehow. It happens.)
I just need a listening ear.
Like I was saying, I'm a superhero.
You would know who I am, if those tight-wearing pretty boys and over-blessed teenage beauties at the Dome of Justice would just get my damned application processed.
Until then, I'm just a freelancer.
Not much work there, which is why I've been doing a lot of off-planet work.
The major Earth markets are already saturated, and the union doesn't allow certain kinds of work until you're holding your official Dome of Justice SuperCard, anyway. (You can get that in Visa, MasterCard, or Discover, if you like... the plain-old union ID is scoffed at.)
This is one union you don't want to piss off.
Had things gone just a little bit differently, I would probably be a member already, moving my way up the ranks, saving average (and less-than-average... let's be honest... you humans really suck sometimes) citizens from the evil machinations of [fill in the name of an evil nemesis here].
(Oh, I tried to join the Union of Evil Minions, too. Dues are lower, but job risk goes way up.)
I'll tell you something else, too.
The apprenticeship program at Hero State really sucks.
I mean, the schooling itself was totally excellent. Especially the parties. (Man, those were the days, Iceberg Woman cooling down the drinks, Fire Thrower cooking the hors d'oeuvres, Arachnid Man keeping the lawn tents free of pesky insects.)
But the apprenticeship program...
I drew the short straw and got stuck with Ass Boy. I mean, what kind of superhero finds his way to fame and fortune, butt-end first?
And what am I supposed to learn from a guy whose weakness is those cheap-ass anti-gas pills?
Whoops.
I shouldn't be telling you that.
Just remember, if that information gets to his archenemy, Dr. Archibald P. Hemorrhoid, there'll be a serious superhuman ass-kicking going on in your front yard, where the neighbors will have an excellent view of your extraordinary puniness.
Anyway, I'd better get going. I've got to put in a call to Ass Boy.
His reference letter stinks.
