Brat Man

Brat Man lived in his little superhero costume. Once elementary school was over, the uniform came off and the superhero outfit replaced it. Playing in the streets with his buddies kept him smiling, energetic, and happy in his young days. The more he played, the more he would fantasize about what being a superhero was truly all about. Why just arrest his Penguin and Joker-like friends when he could play in the big leagues? One Saturday night past Brat Man’s bedtime, he tiptoed out of the covers, put on his black leather uniform and mask, and sneaked out of the house through his window.

The night air felt refreshing against Brat Man’s honey brown skin. He took a deep breath, twirled his cape around him, and ventured out into the streets with a high and mighty swagger. So far, everything in the neighborhood was peaceful and quiet. Not one soul walking the streets this late at night. But then Brat Man strutted deeper into the streets and could hear the faint sounds of hip-hop music off in the distance. There was nothing wrong with that particular genre of music, but Brat Man imagined people in the neighborhood were trying to sleep.

The further the little superhero explored the streets, the less it felt like the safety of home. Barbed wire fences surrounded broken down buildings with spray-painted curse words on them. Smashed up cars with no wheels were parked on lawns and sidewalks every which way. Brat Man’s anxious chills multiplied throughout his body when he found a dead cat in the middle of the road. He reached down and petted the poor little thing, whose body had been pancaked by a careless driver. He wiped the blood on his cape and closed the precious baby’s eyes for good. He knew his services were needed now more than ever.

Brat Man snapped out of his animal-loving trance when a pair of combat boots stood in front of him. He slowly panned his head up to see a baldheaded white male with a swastika carved into his forehead and a Resting Bitch Face that could strike fear in the hearts of ferocious jungle beasts. The man wore a leather vest with several racist symbols on it as well as a pair of blue jeans that were several sizes too big. He also had the name “T-Money” tattooed across his neck with the T looking distinctively like another swastika.

The little superhero swallowed a huge gulp of saliva, but put on a brave front as he swirled his cape around him and said, “Give it up, T-Money! Your days of evildoing are over!”

The racist smiled a slimy-toothed smile before grabbing Brat Man by the chest and pulling the shivering young man him face-to-face. “Let me guess: you want to know what that hip-hop bullshit is playing in the background. Me too, buddy. In fact, if you’re such a fucking superhero, why don’t you go out there an see what those niggers are up to. Get them before they get away. Halloween’s over, but they’ll probably give you some candy anyways.” T-Money threw Brat Man to the ground and snickered at him.

The small child wiped the dirt off of his uniform and stood back up with his hands on his hips, defiant until the very end. In a godlike voice, he boomed, “Any last words before I take you to the authorities?”

T-Money shook his head before delivering a thudding knee to Brat Man’s stomach and dropping him to his knees. While the small fry gasped for air and whined in pain, the skinhead pulled Brat Man’s puffy until they were nose-to-nose yet again. “This ain’t no Marvel Comics bullshit, little guy. The hero ain’t going to win in the end. I tried being nice and letting you leave, but I guess your welfare momma spoiled your ass, so I’m probably going to have school you tonight.”

Brat Man threw the world’s weakest punch and only managed to hit something in T-Money’s pocket and bruise his own knuckles. The child cried and shook out his hand. The racist smiled and pulled out the object of Brat Man’s blind attack: a smart phone with a solid steel protection case. “You see this, you little bitch?” he said. “When you actually work for a living instead of lazing around on tax dollars, you can afford shit like this. Look at how strong this thing is!” The last sentence was punctuated by T-Money smashing the steel case against Brat Man’s temple, knocking him down and bringing tears to his eyes.

“Please, Mr. Money,” whined Brat Man. “No more. I just want to go home. I won’t read anymore comic books, I swear!” He held up his hands defensively to show that his begging was sincere.

“Nah, man, you ain’t going home tonight,” said T-Money. “If I let you go home, your welfare momma’s just going to spoil your ass some more. No more free rides, motherfucker. No more nigger money. No more of those geeky ass comic books.” He leaned down and whispered angrily, “Welcome to the real world, buddy. There are no heroes here. Just bad guys. Lots and lots of bad guys. In case there’s any confusion…”

T-Money pulled out a hypodermic needle filled with a mysterious substance and grabbed Brat Man firmly by the wrist, leaving purple marks in his wake. The little guy yelled, “No!” as loud as he could and squirmed around like a cat avoiding a flea bath. This was not the way he imagined his superhero life to be. Superman never had to worry about getting beaten to death by skinheads. Wonder Woman could break any sexist man with her warrior spirit alone. The Flash could run circles around even the biggest and baddest motherfuckers. Brat Man wanted all of that, but instead got a dose of heroin stabbed into his arm like a murderer’s knife.

Once T-Money pressed down on the plunger, Brat Man convulsed violently on the ground and coughed hard enough to bloody his mouth. He gasped for air while clutching the B symbol on his chest. Visions of T-Money blurred around him with a sadistic, devilish grin. The words, “Welcome to the real world” echoed like a schizophrenic demon in Brat Man’s head. The obtrusive sounds of sirens blaring caused Brat Man’s ears to pulsate with agony. The veins in his brains thumped and pumped to where they almost exploded. His vision grew dark and fuzzy until all that remained was cold silence.

In his nightmare, he huddled up for warmth while the bandages around his body did nothing to toast him up. The entire Justice League along with the Legion of Doom gathered in a circle around him, pointed, and laughed like horses at his “stupidity”. Tears flowed from Brat Man’s bloodshot eyes while he mouthed the words, “I’m sorry!” over and over again. No matter how many times he wiped his tears away, they just kept coming back stronger until they were more viscous than pipeline oil. Comic books formed a wall around him, but all he wanted to do was burn them all. With matches in hand, he struck the whole book and set the wall of paper ablaze while screaming, “I hate you! I hate you all!”

“Hey!” shouted a masculine voice, which jolted Brat Man out of his drug-induced nightmare. Except he wasn’t Brat Man anymore, not in those hospital bandages. The fact that he was lying in bed sicker than Superman around kryptonite made him even less of a hero on his mind. More tears were to come.

The trench coat and fedora-wearing detective standing over Brat Man’s bed patted him on the arm and said, “No more tears, young man. If you hadn’t dialed 9-1-1 when you did, we would have never caught that skinhead. We’ve been looking for him forever.”

Brat Man wiped his tears away and stuttered, “But…but…I didn’t call 9-1-1.”

“Maybe not on purpose, but somebody dialed 9-1-1 on T-Money’s phone,” explained the detective. Even in a drug-induced haze, Brat Man vaguely remembered accidentally striking T-Money’s phone. He pocket dialed the cops and they heard the entire conversation that night. Brat Man chalked this up to luck instead of having any real superhero potential.

“Make no mistake about it, young man,” said the detective. “Going out there in that silly superhero outfit at that time of night was dangerous. You may have done the right thing, but there’s always that chance that you could have died out there. Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

“I promise I won’t, sir,” sobbed Brat Man. “I hate being a superhero.”

“Funny you should mention that, sonny,” said the detective while ruffling Brat Man’s puffy locks. He pulled out his badge and showed it to the wide-eyed vigilante. “You see this? This is what a real superhero carries around with him. No kryptonite can ever take away this kind of power. But it takes a lot of work to get one of these. That includes doing well in school and training hard before you graduate. If you ever decide to be a superhero again, consider having this on your new uniform…when you’re old enough, that is.”

The cop left the room and gave Brat Man some privacy. He didn’t that much thinking time in order to know that the Brat Man gimmick was dead in the water. There was no way anybody could be that invincible. But with a police badge waiting for him at graduation, it was a good start. For the first time since being mauled by T-Money, Brat Man, or rather Officer Brat Man, formed a tiny smile on his face. But before he could take on the role of a real hero, he had to detox this poisonous drug out of his system. Beating withdrawal was a tough challenge worthy of a superhero’s might. He could do it. He had to do it!

Nail Bomb

Riding public transportation can be a daunting task all by itself, judging from the peculiar characters who occupy those bus seats. On this particular day in cyberpunk city, it was downright dangerous. The city bus had its usual colorful characters such as the war veteran with a loud voice, the old man who wanted to know how everybody’s “trading stock” was doing, the mentally ill woman who was talking to herself, and the overweight mother of a baby she never made any effort to keep calm while the little one screamed like a demon.

The only person on that bus who wasn’t bothering anybody and was only minding his own business was the black hoodie-donning Psymon Nordonus. The only movement he made was with his head bobbing back and forth to “Killpop” by Slipknot on his MP3 player. Such aggressive heavy metal was sure to block out the cacophony of weirdoes, all of which were being ignored by the hefty bus driver.

Psymon was barely looking out of the corner of his eye at the large mother and the war veteran arguing with each other. At least one time during that conversation, both parties reminded each other that America was a “free country”. No, Psymon didn’t actually hear that, but he had been around those kinds of people before. Pathetic, he thought to himself.

The verbal spat turned into a shoving match and the baby in the stroller was even more obnoxious to listen to than before. Once the woman was shoved into her seat again, a baldheaded baby doll dropped out of the stroller and started coming to life. The sudden animation put everyone back in their seats as they watched on in terror. This doll was jerking around like it was being electrocuted and then started dancing like a creepy ballerina.

When the little guy in the stroller refused to stop crying, the doll sprayed him with green gas and knocked him into unconsciousness, to which the mother also passed out due to the fright of it all. “Ah, that’s much better!” the baby doll said to itself. The mechanical nightmare started yelling “booga-booga-booga” at everyone and causing them to jump out of their seats. Things really got horrifying when the doll revealed it had a bomb strapped to its back and a dead man switch in his hand.

“Alright, you disgusting cretins, listen up!” screamed the doll. “My name is Baby and I’m here for one reason: to collect all of your wallets and gadgets! You hand them over to me and you can all go home happy! If not, I can let go of this goddamn switch and send a rainstorm of nails flying in every direction! Ooo, the thought of that much blood splattering all over the place gives me the chills! It must be one of those ASMR things!”

The war veteran, whose voice suddenly dropped a few octaves, said, “Listen here, Baby. I don’t keep a wallet on me. I’m just a beggar trying to make enough to get by. It took an entire tin can full of coins just to get on this damn bus.”

Baby’s neon red eyes shot up in mock surprise before the wicked doll pretended to cry like his namesake suggested. He even rolled around on the floor and kicked his legs for added dramatic effect. When the homeless veteran knelt down to see what was up, he was greeted with a metallic head butt to the skull, opening a gash on his forehead and knocking him into a deep slumber.

“You little scumbag!” shouted the doll. “I don’t give two shits if you’re a bum off the streets or a ghetto whore living on welfare! You’re handing your belongings over to me or I’m going to take my thumb off of this goddamn button!”

The bus driver had no idea what to do but to keep driving, as if any release from the acceleration pedal was going to aggravate this terrorist doll some more. He barely had the strength to softly say, “That gentleman needs to see a doctor. He could die.”

“Keep driving, you donut-munching lard-ass! If you even think about going to a hospital or anywhere else where there’re cops waiting, I’m turning this entire bus into a reverse porcupine! Hell, there are already enough pricks on the inside, so I guess it doesn’t matter what I do with the dead man switch!” threatened the evil doll.

One by one, the bus patrons threw their wallets, change, and electronic devices on the floor without further resistance. Baby laughed like a wicked hyena as he went around collecting these items to put in a garbage bag. While he was scooping up his riches, he felt a sudden jolt that bounced his head in all directions and shot out a few sparks. This only lasted seconds and he was back to his old form in no time.

As soon as he recovered from that shock, Baby had eyeballs on the one man he neglected to extort: Psymon Nordonus, who continued to rock out to his heavy metal like it was just another day on the bus.

“Son of a bitch…” said Baby to himself as he walked over to Psymon and kicked him in the ankle to get his attention. The mysterious passenger shook off the slight pain, pulled his hood backwards, and took off his headsets.

“Can I help you with something?”

Baby smiled sarcastically and said, “Yes, I would like something. I want two pieces of chicken, a buttermilk biscuit with extra butter, a large order of French fries, and an extra large Diet Coke to wash all of that down. I can only do so much to watch my weight.” The cuteness was over when Baby screamed, “What do you think I want?! Didn’t you hear a damn thing I said?! Are you crazy?! Have you been listening to that god-awful music this whole time?!”

Psymon said, “Hey, don’t diss Slipknot, okay? They may look like a bunch of serial killers with those masks, but those guys know how to rock. Take a listen and judge for yourself.”

Baby ripped the MP3 player from Psymon’s hands and pressed the volume all the way down so that he didn’t have to listen to the “god-awful” music. “Word of advice, shit head: the next time you try to be a smart-ass to someone with a nail bomb attached to his back could be your last! Seriously, there’s nothing stopping me from letting go of this button right now! I could just lift my thumb and bam, you’re all dead!”

The metal head cleared his throat and said, “Well, that seems to be our situation. I have no idea what being blasted with a nail bomb feels like and I don’t care to find out. But seriously, man, you should try that music sometime. It’ll set your soul on fire, bitch.”

“I’m warning you!” yelled Baby as he raised the MP3 player with his good hand. He was about to lash out at Psymon when he finally saw what was on the device’s screen. Coding. Lots and lots of coding, particularly of the zeros and ones variety. “What the hell? Were you trying to hack into my system? Is that what the jolt was? Oh, that’s it! I’m taking this bus to hell right here and now!”

Before Baby could lift his thumb off of the dead man switch, Psymon made a split second move to hold onto the detonator with one cyber arm and tap the screen on his so-called MP3 player with the other. The last thing Baby saw before dancing and jolting into oblivion was the fact that Psymon Nordonus was a true cyberpunk in every sense of the word. This bus was only supposed to be full of “losers” and “wash-ups” who gave up on their dreams. A vigilante hacker? Not in a thousand years would Baby have anticipated that.

With one square-toed boot, Psymon kicked out the window and threw the thrashing Baby out with his hand on the detonator. When he released it, the storm of sharp metal nails exploded all over the outside of the bus. They dented nearby cars on the highway and cracked a few windows. The drivers were pissed off as evidenced by their obnoxious honking, but otherwise unharmed.

“Driver, get this thing to a hospital. That guy still needs your help,” ordered Psymon, to which the driver complied. Everyone on the bus was in silent shock. The most fearful response in this entire vehicle was traumatic shaking. The real baby started to come around and was crying painfully yet again. The mother? She was snoring the ride away while other people were tending to the unconscious veteran’s wounds.

Going back to his usual introverted self, Psymon didn’t lose himself in an MP3 player this time, but to the computer chip he snagged from Baby’s body before throwing him out of the window. It was marked as property of the DX-Corporation, a fact which made Psymon smile to himself and say, “Oh, the fun I’m going to have with this thing when I get home. You bitches are dead.”

"Kick-Ass 1 & 2" by Mark Millar

Have you ever felt like putting on a superhero costume and going around fighting villains in brutal street wars? Buy copies of “Kick-Ass” and “Kick-Ass 2” before you make any sudden decisions. What can you expect from the two-part series? Brutality. Lots and lots of brutality. These kids (Kick-Ass and Hit-Girl) are barely old enough to know how to drive a car and already they’re engaging in hellacious fights with villains who aren’t afraid to die. Broken bones, electrocuted genitals, torn flesh, massive bleeding, gigantic bruises, and a litany of other monstrously violent battle scars cover the bodies of every pubescent superhero who tries to make a name for himself. But it’s all in a day’s work for Kick-Ass and crew. You’d think that he would get used to all of these beatings by now, but as the story progresses from part one to part two, the brutality multiplies to greater volumes. The worst of the beatings happen to people that Kick-Ass and Hit-Girl care about such as parents, friends, love interests, etc. It was almost enough to make them want to quit being superheroes until the villains pushed a little too hard a little too much. With this cluster-fuck of violent behavior going on in these beautifully drawn graphic novels, you’re bound to have some critic out there complaining that they “normalize” all of the adult content that takes place. I remember reading a review that complained about Hit-Girl swearing at such a young age in the Kick-Ass movie. I see these reviews and wonder if these critics even know the difference between fantasy and reality. In the fantasy world, violence, swearing, sex, and drug use are beautiful things. They have to be in order to keep the reader’s attention. In the real world, martial arts violence is brutal and upsetting. This kind of debate was going on with “A Clockwork Orange” and the same arguments could be made in that conversation. Reading comic books like “Kick-Ass” and “Kick-Ass 2” is a form of escapism. We escape from one world of dullness and enter a world of fantasy and wonder. That’s how fiction works. If people tried being superheroes in real life, the pain that Kick-Ass felt after having his balls electrocuted would pail in comparison to what the would-be heroes would feel. In some ways, “Kick-Ass” is a fair representation of what vigilantes can expect if they become too independent of the police and military. It’s an ugly world out there, I agree. But it’s not worth having fried balls over. Leave that to Kick-Ass and his crew of head-stomping superheroes!

　

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What’s it called when the earth shits itself?
A: Gaia-Ria.