I’m gonna tell you a fun superhero story.
She is beautiful in her spandex uniform that creaks and groans under the weight of overflowing — almost but not quite superabundant — curves. The cold Pacific sparkles calmly back and forth beneath a northern sun early in May. She’s underneath, in the secret undersea fortress — in chains anchored to the sea floor. But her high-tech jailers misunderstand themselves; they’re wrong to think they’re keeping her there. What’s holding her there in a clammy silty-visioned stupor is that she can’t find the direction of her partner. She reaches out for him with a wide, conically-expanding infinitely-bright Soullight. She feels out for him in all possible directions, but she does not find him.
You don’t understand! They’re two love birds! Disconnected from one another, their thoughts muddle and exhaust themselves — never forming a whole. I guess it’s romantic, but it is also causing a lot of trouble right now. How easy it would be for her to disappear from these drab gray confines! How effortlessly she’d pass through twenty feet of steel and a thousand feet of high-pressure, pitch-black, near-freezing waters! But she’s a sad old character befuddled in her slippers and dementia, unable to shape the jumbles of vague notions and sharp longings up into coherent thoughts like healthy people do. She’s been sitting there in woolly chalky scribbly half-thoughts while nervous scientists read medical charts they can’t fathom and pompous security chiefs clackety clack up and down the metal walkways, imagining their procedures and technologies exceeding excellent.
Then one day she gets a sliver of him. So faint that the first thought she has is “pill bug; rolly polly; armoured ball-beetle; little silver bug tank; what??” But then recognition like electricity zaps all through her and she’s awake again. She opens her eyes. Her captors don’t notice. She looks around her small square cell and feels the cold steel links and concrete floor. She’s very beautiful. They’re both like that: eternally youthful, trim, athletic — she with full bosom, thigh and seat; he with the classic umbrella-back, narrow hips, sprinter’s thighs. All this with no effort on their parts, I might add. Anyway, there she is luscious gorgeous in unbreakable adamantine cell, heaps of inescapable chains shackled to her ankles, wrists, waist, neck, and so on; there she is waking up to 40F naked and alone (the spandex part comes in a minute). She bounces her mind throughout the oceanfloor fortress; sees the stern-faced military thinkers in full uniform leaning over wide-spread hands, hunched forceful-shoulders-forward over their war tables; inspects the scientists and their miles of cages, trapped rats, clipboards, computer models, and cross-eyeglass glances (of all sorts); watches the hearty beefcake soldiers at their push-ups, mess halls, card tables, frogman drills, bathroom breaks. Hmmph.
Now she’s vanished from her adamantine chains and emerges, clothed in her signature blue and white Olympic-style form-fitting suit. If her hair is long and naturally curling, or short straight and pert, or a spherical afro-mane: that’s up to your imagination. My point is the suppleness of her form and the fullness of her womanhood. And how easily she passes through metal, concrete and water; how she walks now upon the water and now, with an easy flick of spandex-stockinged toes (it isn’t really spandex! it’s some indestructible-ish fabric they invented years ago), flings herself into the sky.
One of their super tricks is modulating mass at will. They can make anything (including themselves) as heavy and/or large as a sun or as light and/or small as an electron. This ability alone allows them pretty much any physical feat. For example, she didn’t have to jump off a little cowlicked wave into the pale blue sky of the North Pacific at round about 65 degrees north. She could’ve just slid basically instantly to anywhere on the planet. But it is fun to leap about in the physical world, especially when you’re infinitely good at it and never experience fatigue, soreness, or other standard human complaints.
Too Cool For School
Oh my god!
Such a duder!
Caught in that addle-minded, lonely torpor beneath miles of gritty dirt and cold sharp stone for so many years, his body broke-back bent over a granite boulder like a rag doll; and what’s his first order of business? Flung back into the merry, white-haloing sunlight via a heavenly jolt of truest love; and what’s his first move? Does he salute the sun and thank God and friend for his delivery? Does he dance and sing, skip upon the calm bay waters? Does he exultantly toss his able body from one skyscraper to another? Does he go seeking for his mate who’s recalled him to life with the world-bounding pulse of her love?
He’s all like, “Oh, good, she’s coming here. Let me grab an iced tea and cigarettes and gaze out at the sprawling climbing glinting city, full-lost in vague, vapory, half-conscious contemplations.”
He casts his mind about; he teleports a freshly made iced tea from some hapless coffee shop (simultaneously — this is what passes for morality with this guy — transferring $4.00 to the company’s account and $2.00 to that of the dumbfounded kid who is so sure she had already made that large iced tea with extra ice and lemon), undertakes a similar maneuver with a pack of full-flavors and a lighter, and tosses himself onto the wide concrete parapet of a nondescript Midtown Manhattan building top — where perspiring drink and eager smokes await him.
She yells to him, her hands upon fine hips in an elegantly simple crime fighting one-piece. Hey!, what are you doing!?
He swivels around on his blue jean butt — my how good the clear morning light feels! His bare feet dangle now a few feet above the graying-white concrete rooftop instead of a thousand feet over the morning melee of Midtown Manhattan on a sunshiny springtime Tuesday.
He yells to her, cigarette and plastic tea flung wide as his open arms.
“What are you doing!?”
She demands again, having stopped ten feet short of their reunion, her eyes large with annoyance beneath a swirled-mad brow.
“I’m, you know — I’m hanging out, waiting for you!”
“We haven’t seen each other in sixty years!”
“I know! Right!?”
“What is wrong with you!?”
“Nothing. Why? I’m just, you know — relaxing a quick sec, admiring the city as she heats up, embroiled already in the interwoven struggles.”
“I’ve missed you with my whole being!”
“I you too!”
“I you too?! That’s the story? I you too?! And a cigarette?! A cigarette before flying to meet me?! You should never smoke, but to stop for a cigarette in this moment!? Do you understand?! What am I to do?! I can’t find another man as super as you. I’m stuck with you. Anyone else would be inappropriate! Don’t you want love and relationship?!”
“Of course! Totally! I totally do!”
“Then put out the cigarette, magic-brush your teeth, and make me feel welcome!”
So I dunno; it’s their own private affair and not really our business telling them how to run their show; but it’s pretty hard not to think he basically sucks and she’s in a hard spot — having to choose between men who can’t fling themselves at will throughout timespace, going alone, and this jerk.
[Editor’s Note: Please keep in mind that the Hero & Heroine just woke up from the Fall of 1959, where cigarette smoking was more common and had different connotations than in the Summer of 2019.]
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