"Super Human" by Michael Carroll

BOOK TITLE: Super Human

AUTHOR: Michael Carroll

YEAR: 2010

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Superhero Sci-Fi

GRADE: C

It feels weird reading a book about a worldwide virus in the year 2022. The difference between this book and the real world is that not only are people actually receptive to the idea of vaccines, but there’s a ragtag group of teenaged superheroes (and Lance) who genuinely want to see the world recover from this. But they can’t achieve those goals without dishing out some violence on the bad guys responsible for this sickness. Their enhanced strength, sonic abilities, and telekinesis can only be used as a means to an end rather than be the one-size-fits all solution. That’s a part of superhero fiction not a lot of authors get, but Michael Carroll pulled it off rather effectively. It also helps that Lance (the normie) is a slick thief who can smooth-talk his way out of any situation. Using brains to solve problems will be more relatable to the audience than using superhuman violence.

But unfortunately, we don’t always get the best use of the characters’ brains. Lance does all the intellectual heavy lifting with his gift for gab. The rest of the characters, both good and evil, don’t always make the smartest decisions and I’m surprised it hadn’t come back to bite them in the worst ways. Freeing supervillain prisoners to combat even more powerful supervillains? Dumb. Driving a military jeep like a speed demon and being surprised when it hits one of the allies? Also dumb. Sparing a powerful villain’s life because, “We don’t kill?” Yeah, we’re past the point of being civil now that there’s a deadly virus causing the adults to vomit inside out. The villains are no better when it comes to cartoonishly-stupid decision-making. Resurrecting an ancient king who might kill them off and is not immune to the virus himself? Beyond stupid. Toying with the heroes instead of finishing them off instantly? Reckless. Revealing the entire plan to the heroes and even going so far as to keep records of their allies’ social security numbers and base coordinates? Colossal fail. Am I reading a superhero book or watching a Three Stooges routine?

The writing itself is, ironically, nothing to write home about. The dialogue between the heroes sounds so similar that I couldn’t tell the characters apart without tags. The characters in general are introduced to the audience via telling instead of showing. Some of the dialogue sounds awkward and clumsy, especially when the characters try to make analogies sound cool, though they wouldn’t sound much better as prose, either. The one character in the story who’s immune to such clunky writing? Krodin, the ancient king the villains are trying to resurrect. He comes off like a total stud, whether he’s conquering entire countries by himself, enslaving everyone he meets, or talking down to his enemies like a godlike king should. He could come off like a Gary-Stu villain, but he’s written so convincingly that I don’t mind him being overpowered. The action scenes in general are well-done since they move quickly and hit hard.

But none of the praise I’ve given this book is enough to elevate the grade above a C, or three out of five stars. I was able to finish it. I even enjoyed it in a lot of places. But this book is cheesier than a dairy farm, which is an analogy Michael Carroll can use for free, but it wouldn’t be a good idea since that’s one of the things I criticized this novel for. Everything just felt so…average. Even the superpowers seemed mediocre and hastily thrown together. This wasn’t a good book, it wasn’t a bad book, it was just sort of…there.

inspirational Porn Star

VERSE 1

I was born with one finger, no other body parts

My cancer cell count was off the fucking charts

I got run over by a Karen and her shopping cart

Left to bleed and break on the floor of Wal-Mart

But I kept pushing on, as cliché as that sounds

I can now bench press a thousand fucking pounds

A got a hot wife, hot life, and a new sports car

You call me lucky; I’m an inspirational porn star

VERSE 2

I was born with a negative bank account balance

A million dollar debt to a loan shark in Dallas

The streets were the place where I slept and shit

Not in that order, but the timeline still fits

I kept soldiering on, got a college education

Got a bunch of D-pluses at my graduation

It’s clearly your fault if you don’t go far

Not mine; I’m an inspirational porn star

VERSE 3

I never once took a check from the welfare office

Never once begged the forces of evil to stop it

I’m so tough I floss my teeth with barbed wire

Wipe my ass with sandpaper ‘til it burns like fire

Shave my face with a chainsaw until I’m raw

Clip my nails with a shark’s disembodied jaw

If I can do it, you have no reason not to start

Your lifelong journey, be an inspirational porn star

VERSE 4

Of course you all know that I’m full of shit

Only a bunch of sheep believe my rhetoric

Everything has nuance, even life itself

Not as easy as a bible on a library shelf

Not as easy as watching a You Tube video

Not as easy as imagining a new scenario

I want more for me, so I move the goal post

Inspirational porn stars are just hollow boasts

Give It Back

Give me back my money, give me back my mind

These priceless treasures were never yours to find

Give me back my freedom, take away my demons

Give me back my house keys to the Garden of Eden

Give me back my beauty so people can still use me

Give me back my rights in case they want to sue me

Give me back my toys, give me back my animals

Give me back the snacks you feast on like cannibals

Give me back my life, give me back my dreams

Give me back my art and turn STEM into STEAM

Give me back my story in all its rough draft glory

Give me back my creativity so I won’t be boring

Give me back my energy, give me back my health

Give me back my teenage clothes, a new notch in my belt

Give me back my hopes, give me back my jokes

Give me back my career so I don’t have to be broke

Give me back my passport so I can go on adventures

Give me back my courage so I can be an avenger

Give me back my strength so I can be a badass

Not a puddle of pudding and a fucking sad-ass

Give me back everything that you took from me

Before I make you suffer, before I make you bleed

Torture you for information, torture you for fun

Torture you with a whip, maybe even a loaded gun

You drove me to this and gave me no other choice

This is heavy ass metal, not cacophonic noise

Give me back my innocence, let me walk the streets

Without cuffs on my wrists and shackles on my feet

I had the right to rage for my very last page

Now you’ll never live beyond your final age

The Beautiful Scars

CHORUS 1

These are the beautiful scars

They define who you are

The bloody bruise, the purple hues

The dynamite with a short fuse

VERSE 1

It’s your mission, it’s your decision

To carry on strong and to live long

To use the shattered pieces of the past

To change the world and kick some ass

CHORUS 1

These are the beautiful scars

They define who you are

The bloody bruise, the purple hues

The dynamite with a short fuse

VERSE 2

What happened to you wasn’t right

But even so, you still have to fight

For the ones who share your wounds

Who never walked out of the hospital room

CHORUS 1

These are the beautiful scars

They define who you are

The bloody bruise, the purple hues

The dynamite with a short fuse

BRIDGE

It hurt like hell when you finally fell

But still you answered the final bell

This is your story to write and tell

Because the best revenge is living well

CHORUS 2

These are the beautiful scars

It’s time to raise the fucking bar

The blackest eyes, tearful cries

The trauma that tells you lies

The shattered bones, broken home

The many nights you spent alone

Now is the time to bite the bullet

Now is the time to fuck all the bullshit

Battleground

Charles McLean was a lucky man, either because of his Irish heritage or the fact that he could very well have a golden horseshoe up his ass. Only someone of his luck could say he was allowed to train at Battleground MMA Gym despite constantly knocking out and injuring his sparring partners. Did he even know the proper rules for sparring? Was he even dimly aware that knockouts and injuries weren’t supposed to happen? Did he already lose sight of the fact that it was all supposed to be practice and not an actual fight?

Ignorance wasn’t much of an excuse these days, because the only way the light heavyweight cage warrior could ever have access to the gym was after it was closed, which meant a screwed up sleep schedule and nobody would be there to return the favor of knocking him out. Believe it or not, this was the head coaches’ idea of being charitable to someone who deserved no charity at all.

It was ten o’clock at night and the red Mohawked Irish-American entered the gym in preparation for a light heavyweight championship match he had coming up. With nobody there to help him train or to coach him, he was all on his own. Charles seemed to be taking isolation a little better than most would. He went around to the various treadmills, stair steppers, and Jacob’s Ladder machines and beefed up his cardio like the super athlete he was. In a five-round championship match, cardio was the key to success.

Charles had spent two hours in the gym just working on his strength and conditioning. By the time he ran his final few steps on the treadmill, he was a sweaty mess. His bare chest was covered in perspiration, his black MMA shorts were damp, and his shoes and socks smelled like a bus station bathroom. Despite all of the hard work he put in, he stood proudly with his hands on his hips as opposed to huffing and puffing on the floor ready to pass out.

But there’s a reason why the sport was called mixed-martial arts and not cardiovascular arts: because beating the shit out of your opponent was the only way to win. Without a sparring partner, Charles thought he was going to have to clock out early. And then he noticed the boxing ring in the center of the gym had a black body bag mounted against one of the turnbuckles.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” yelled Charles to no one in particular. “What, am I supposed to fight with a dead body now? Cute, guys! Really fucking cute!” He stomped his way to the ring and stepped between the ropes to investigate this special package. Charles even gave the bag a sniff to make sure it was really a corpse. The odor was horrendous, but then he realized it was his own swampy armpits. He was definitely getting in the showers after this was over.

With mild trepidation, Charles McLean unzipped the body bag from head to toe and found something that put a whacked out smile on his face. “No way. No fucking way. Are you guys serious?” The object in the body bag was a 6’11” tall robot dressed in black gothic attire from his trench coat to his boots. Even the spiky black hair and black and white makeup was enough to give away the chilling appearance. Charles wasn’t chilled. He was thrilled.

He pulled the robot out of the bag and tossed the bag aside with excitement, for this was like opening presents at Christmastime. He looked the warrior up and down with wide-eyed excitement and heart-beating amazement. The name “Floyd” was written across the robot’s black tank top in the creepiest font imaginable.

“Alright then, Floyd. Let’s see what you’ve got!” said Charles as he looked for the on switch to this robot, which ended up being on its asshole. “That’s right, guys, laugh it up! Because this motherfucker is going to the scrap yard!” The light heavyweight brawler flicked the switch and sparks shot out of its crevices, sending the hulking brute backwards several feet.

Once Floyd the training robot stopped showering sparks, he began to look around the arena like this was all new to him. The mechanical nightmare looked across the ring at a bewildered Charles McLean with disdain and disgust. Once both combatants put their dukes up and got in their fighting stances, it was time to go to war.

Charles was the early aggressor in this sparring session as he rushed up to Floyd and threw haymaker after haymaker, each punch easily bobbed and weaved by the mechanical drone. Floyd threw one quick and stiff jab and caught Charles on the jaw, back him up a little, but doing not too much damage.

“You want to screw around with me, Floyd? Heh. Floyd. What kind of name is that for a badass robot?!” taunted Charles, an action which almost got him knocked out with a barely dodged head kick. Floyd started throwing other kicks to the hamstring, shin, and ribcage. Being made of metal allowed the pissed off robot to inflict sharp amounts of pain to the normally rough and tough Charles McLean, who was stacked from head to toe with muscles and tone.

Charles threw a few kicks and punches of his own, but Floyd kept him at bay with his height advantage, quick jabs, and leg kicks. After a while of being smacked around with metal parts, Charles was beginning to bruise up. He had a mouse under his right eye, a slash on his left thigh, and a lump on his ribcage.

But if Floyd thought for a minute that Charles was learning his lesson about treating his sparring partners better, he was dead wrong. Out of frustration, the MMA contender threw a blatant kick between Floyd’s legs and brought the mighty giant to his knees. Charles followed it up with an illegal knee to the skull that landed Floyd on his back, seemingly unconscious.

“Yeah! Who’s the man now, bitch?! I’m the goddamn man around here! Woo!” cheered Charles McLean as he danced around the ring holding his fists up in victory. His ego was inflated to the size of a hot air balloon.

And then Floyd nipped up in an attempt to deflate that ego forever. Charles turned around and immediately stopped celebrating his ill-gotten “victory” when he saw the mighty robot staring down at him with even more venom than before. Sparks were flying from his crevices like they were before, but in even greater volume and with even more rage.

Charles looked on at this angry display with paralyzing fear. If one of the sparks touched him, he would need to be rushed to a burn ward. With nobody here to call 9-1-1, it was a deathtrap in the making. Just when the final spark was about to touch the frightened combatant’s foot, the showers stopped instantly and were replaced with a good old fashioned blitz.

Floyd bolted up to Charles with superhuman speed and clutched him around the throat with one powerful hand before hoisting him to the sky and putting a spiked blade to his throat. Not even the mighty number one contender could deal with this kind of punishment and started kicking and squealing in pain to prove it.

The gothic robot put his face in Charles’ reddening face and said, “Please exit the MMA business, punk!” With one arm, Floyd tossed the 205 lb. Charles over the ropes and watched him crash land through one of the metal benches. The normally cocky fighter was rolling around on the ground clutching his back and screaming like a girl.

Such a pathetic display got no sympathy from the cold and calculating Floyd, who proceeded to slowly step outside the ring and kneel down to where Charles was writhing and squealing. With one fist held high, Floyd said in his demonic voice, “This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me!” All it took was one stiff punch to the jaw and Charles was out like a light. No more writing, no more growling, only silence and sleep remained.

By the time Charles woke up, which wouldn’t be until the very next morning, his head and body were pulsating with dull pain and he didn’t want to make any effort to move his body. He thought he was in the afterlife after taking a beating like that, but he was right back where he was when he was knocked out: on the floor of Battleground MMA Gym. The only difference was that there were people there who were happy to see him broken and bruised.

One of the head coaches of the gym looked over Charles’ glassy and wet eyes and said, “You have a 13-0 MMA record, which means you don’t know what it’s like to be knocked unconscious or submitted. And then you ran into Floyd and hopefully he did more damage to your ego than he did to your body.”

“Wha…wha…what about my match? What about my championship match?” said Charles with an aching jaw.

“Your match has been cancelled due to your injured state,” explained the coach. “But it’s probably for the best anyways. I hope you learned something from all of this, Charles. Be nice to your sparring partners and they’ll be nice to you. You’re probably too out of it right now to digest all of that, so maybe you’ll learn it eventually when I make you spar with Floyd again.”

The coach patted Charles on his painful shoulder and allowed the EMT’s t take him away. There was only one thing the Irish-American could say to having his ego deflated and his body broken at the same time: “Fuck!”