X: Results: Seemingly Useless Superpower

This was a good week. For the most part stories were missing just a single element to make them come together, but I didn’t dislike anything and I could certainly tell we’re in the later stages of this thing. So much talent, Survivors…so much talent. You’ll notice that I was feeling pretty kind, but hey, these amused me.

Matt Novak, nibbish and his Vogons

“It’s been a long time Sylvester.” It was Wrath. He sounded angry.
“How’d you find me?”
With flawless timing, Paulina stepped through my door, her royal purple cape spread perfectly across her shoulders.
“That was my handiwork.” She had always had a flair for the dramatic.
“Yeah, great job, you dumb bitch. Pat yourself on the back for finding bozo here. He didn’t even move apartments. You’re so vain.”
He was right. She was vain. That’s kind of Pride’s thing. Also, why the hell didn’t I move? I always meant to. Now they had found me. Wrath stepped towards me, fists raised. I was still sitting in my recliner, the TV blasting the same infomercial for the third time in a row.
I sighed. “Can’t we just do this the easy way?”
“No!” he screamed.
His first fist hit my temple. It hurt. The next one found my chin. It hurt too. The chair bore the brunt of his third punch. That one didn’t really hurt, but it knocked over my salsa, so that was kind of shitty. His fourth punch was a repeat of the second one. Finally, seeing that I wasn’t going to fight back, Wrath turned the power up on his gauntlet. A single blow knocked me out of the chair.
“Get his costume,” commanded Wrath.
“Bite me, Wes” retorted Pride, doing as she was told.
As she walked to my bedroom I lay on the floor, stunned, a single thought crossing my mind: Hey, there’s the remote.
————————————-
“What’s he supposed to be? Some sort of monkey?”
Slowly, I was starting to come back around. An unfamiliar voice had asked the question. I tried to focus on the shapes in front of me, but things were fuzzy. I was fuzzy. They had put my costume on me.
“He’s a sloth,” answered Pride.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re the stupidstthnnvemmrmnnlll,” I mumbled. It was too much work to form the words.
“Look who’s decided to join us. Nice to see you awake, Sylvester. I should probably introduce you to Gary. He’s the new Gluttony.” My vision was starting to clear, but the fat rolls in front of me made me long for the blurring effects of the concussion.
“The old Glutton died. Went on a diet. Ate a salad with some of that salmonella lettuce. Let that be a lesson. You can’t change who you are.”
She was right. I’d tried to change who I was. It didn’t go well, and I longed for my old life.
“So he’s actually a sloth? I thought we were supposed to be sins.”
“He didn’t start off like this. He used to be one of the group. But he overslept the night we were caught. With the rest of us in prison, he decided to use his super powers for good. He was too lazy to think of a new name, so he just added a pronoun. The Sloth: World’s Slowest Man.”

A new voice joined the conversation. A breathy, sexy rasp.
“Only he never did anything heroic, did he? Opportunity rose in front of him, arching towards him, presenting itself, ripe for the taking, dripping with anticipation, desiring his touch.” Acting out the words as they were spoken, David Lustfaber was one sick individual. His gyrations jolted me back to reality.

“That’s right, the most heroic thing he’s even done is oversleep.” Wrath had rejoined the group. He wasn’t the only one. Standing next to him was Greed, looking like he’d lost a battle with a bedazzler.
“We’re getting the gang back together,” Wrath continued, “What do you say Sloth?”
“Sounds good.”
“So you’ll do it?”
Of course I would.
“Of course I would.”
“Dammit! I had this big speech planned for when you said no!” The man could get mad about anything. What a pro.
Things had always been better for me as part of the group. It was like a high school projects; I always let the other kids do the work, and I still ended up with a good grade. I was eager to rejoin and reap the rewards of others’ villainy. I just had one question.
“Where’s Envy?”
A voice came echoing from the doorway across the cavernous warehouse. “Don’t you mean ‘Where’s Greed?’”
As if on cue, Envy came marching across the floor, wearing a rough approximation of Greed’s costume.
“Dammit Terry, I’m supposed to be Greed!”
“You always get Greed. I want to be Greed!”
“You two idiots had better knock it off,” screamed Wrath, as the Greeds slapped weakly at each other.
“Let’s just have two Greeds for now,” I offered, “We’ll figure it out later.”
“Right,” chimed in Pride, “We’ve got work to do. I’ve got the perfect crime.”
————————————-
It was a municipal secretary who first noticed the old factory was drawing power again. That’s why they were there that day; to shut down the power. The first cop into the building froze. The second one shouted.

“Dammit! Fuckfuckfuck!” shouted Wrath.
“Into the getaway vehicle!” It was all the way across the warehouse. We ran. Shit.
“Hurry!” someone screamed.
“Don’t forget the food!”
“Ooh, kinky!”
“Shut up David!”
Bullets whizzed by our heads as we ran. I trailed behind, gasping for breath. It was clear that The Sins would leave without me.
“Not so fast!” I shouted, trying to get them to slow down.
Turning to look at me, the New Glutton tripped on Pride’s cape and fell headlong into the rest of the group, pins crashing beneath the world’s fattest bowling ball. Limbs flew everywhere. Wrath cursed. David moaned with pleasure. I just gave up running.

I can see the cops’ confusion. It must have seemed like I was the hero, throwing out some sort of witty catch phrase. Now I’m the guy who caught the five-and-a-half deadly sins. Even got a parade. I liked it better when I was a bad guy. Being a hero is just too damn much work.

K: I thought this would crumble under the concept’s weight for some reason, but it never did. It’s thoroughly clever, amusing, and engaging. As often, I looked for a great line I wanted to repeat, but there were too many. Okay, though, I have to mention that I enjoyed the “You’re So Vain” reference. 5

DK: This is a funny idea, and I like how Sloth’s nature carries through his attitude consistently. I felt like the ending was a little abrupt for the amount of setup, though (which is kind of a concern I have with a few of these). 3

David Larson, SPOILER ALERT!

ISSUE #13: A Bit of a Deathwish

As Ben ducked next to one of the one-story warehouses that laid in rows within the compound, he instinctively knew that the terrorists were starting to take notice of him. In the darkness, the sounds of gunfire and explosions were getting closer, and now a man with a flamethrower up ahead was turning in his direction. Although he couldn’t hear the cursing from this distance, he knew the flood of filth dropping onto flamethrower guy was the work of Potty Mouth from his position on the roof. Suddenly from somewhere to his left, projectiles ripped into the corrugated metal of the wall above him.

“I’ve had enough!” shouted Ben angrily as he stormed into the office of his superior, Nick Chopper. “I’m tired of being the center of attention.”

Nick looked up, unfazed. He’d heard it before. “You chose to serve with The Infiltrators instead of standard military service, and you will be completing your term of enlistment with us. What you do with your life after that, well, I don’t care.

“Listen, you have an outstanding power. Someday you could be an actor – imagine all eyes constantly focused on you! Hell, companies would love to have you in their booth at trade shows. But more importantly, right now you are a key component of our team.”

The exasperation and sadness could be heard in Ben’s voice. “No, you don’t get it! I’m not an extrovert — doing those things would kill me. Imagine wanting to play football and be a wide receiver, and ALWAYS being triple-teamed. Attending your first class at law school, and the professor ONLY calls on you. Entering an armed conflict, and every gun is trained on you!”

Ben dove for a nearby doorway and through a door partly ajar. He took shelter between several stacked cardboard boxes. He could barely make out the muffled sound of Traumatize outside slamming a couple victims against one of the other warehouse walls. Looking between a couple columns of boxes, as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw several bound men seated on the floor. Son of a…he wasn’t supposed to find the UN hostages; he was supposed to attract attention away so that the others could find them. The handful of men with weapons who were guarding them began looking around — more than one of them in his direction. Damn!

He broke for an exit at the other end of the stacked boxes, knowing that Dream Police would be reading his thoughts and forwarding the newfound whereabouts of the hostages to the rest of the team. He knew Dream Police would be reading his thoughts, because she couldn’t help but focus on what he was thinking. Annoying as hell, but of course she would know he thought that as well.

Nick got up from his chair and retrieved a framed photograph off of the corner shelf. He placed a metallic hand on Ben’s shoulder and handed him the picture with the other. “Here, take a look at this.”

In the photo Ben saw a dozen or so people dressed in typical Infiltrators garb, some of them obviously mutants and others undoubtedly with hidden powers. Nick pointed out a mousy looking guy on the end of the front row. “This…is Lee Harvey Deathwish.” His voice almost broke as he said it.

“Lee had a latent, very potent ability. Just his presence on Infiltrator missions was enough to end conflicts with no shots fired. MANY lives were saved thanks to him. And then one mission, his options exhausted, Deathwish made the supreme sacrifice for his team and for his country. You see, he had the power to explode.”

Crouching low, Ben broke for a row of equipment parked along the wall near him. He could hear the goons from inside impulsively following him out of the same exit, but his eyes were fixed on the dim outlines of Full Frontal, Tarpo, and The Wailer carefully approaching from the opposite side of the parked equipment. With their appearance, the tide was sure to shift. As Full Frontal shielded The Wailer, Dream Police’s voice whispered in the back of their minds instructing them to engage their auditory desensitizers now. A flurry of bullets ricocheted among the machinery around Ben just as Tarpo joined him. “Heads up,” the wiry demon mouthed at him.

“WHAT?!” Ben said, incredulous. “How does someone even find out they have a power like that?”

“It’s hereditary. Lee’s is the sixth Medal of Honor in his family. See, he could have just ignored his power, lived an ordinary life, raised a family in the suburbs…but he didn’t. He chose to help fight tyranny and evil as best he could, and I’m damn glad to have known him.”

Ben saw his superior covertly wipe his eyes before any damage was done. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re a vital member of our team. And it’s not all about you!”

The Wailer had the armed terrorists flopping to the ground from his concentrated sonic blast. Dream Police informed the team that Potty Mouth had reached the hostages — they were unharmed. With a jerk of his thumb, Ben directed Tarpo to go help, while the rest of them would sweep up, but from the looks of it there were no others in a position to harass his team: the hostages were secured, and the night was theirs.

Ben sat still for several minutes, then nodded his head and rose from his chair. He opened the door, careful not to knock over Chopper’s large axe leaning against the door frame, and exiting the office and reception area, he continued out across the courtyard.

Nick returned to his seat, and after a few moments of introspection he thumbed the intercom on his desk. “Irene, let’s give Squeaky Wheel a couple days to himself. He’s earned it.”

K: It blows my mind how much this feels like a real comic book. The action and character is there, and the writing style just frigging nails it, right up to the boldface, all caps and italics peppered throughout. It’s got so much damned style. 4

DK: I like the tone of the prose, but I actually felt like this was one of the less inherently useful superpowers on display here, and the way the scenes intercut is somewhat jarring (I realize I’ve had this problem before, so this may just be an issue of mine). 3

Colin Woolston, SPOILER ALERT!

The heavy evening air settled onto every surface like a morbidly obese woman into an office chair, things unseen creaked and groaned with the tension. A young, slender woman stood on an empty sidewalk, her small black heart feeling as if it would burst with fury at any moment, her fists clenched at her sides and her eyes set to the horizon. She felt like covering her ears against the silence. Two thoughts kept her anchored to the moment; the memory of the day she had discovered her gift, and the destruction that gift would deliver to the world someday.
***
Claribell Des Planques was born to Eleanor and Clifford Des Planques of Morgan City Louisiana, and at the time had been considered a blessing to a family that had been cursed with only idiot boys to that point. Because of the obvious love and devotion that her parent’s showered her with, Claribell’s nine brothers regarded her with disdain, and treated her with contempt and cruelty. As early as the age of five she began to understand that hers was a darker path in life, and she began to search for a way to exact her revenge on her brothers, her parents, and the world. She became a master of deception, breaking what she could and laying the blame on her brothers, pitting the brothers against each other in turn. And then one day she found herself trapped by her two eldest brothers, Clive and Jimmy Bo, in the sprinkler shed behind the Chevy pile. She had been pinned down, Clive’s knees on her thighs and Jimmy Bo’s fleshy hands holding her slender shoulders. The white hot anger she felt had triggered something deep in her brain, and she felt a shift inside her as energy, warm and pulsating, began to pool in her chest and then spread down her arms to her hands. Her hands had begun to glow, and immediately Clive and Jimmy Bo had leaped backwards. Words she had never heard formed in her head and spilled from her lips, and her mind went black.
When she came to herself, a triumphant smile upon her lips, her fists raised and her stance wide and defiant, she witnessed her two brothers, still standing, staring at her with their mouths hanging open and their brows furrowed in total confusion. In other words, nothing had changed from their normal expression.
“What the hell was that, fartmouth?”
“Yeah, you gone crazy like the DesChantes woman now? Man, why am I all itchy?”
“Jimmy Bo your face is kinda red-like. You feelin’ ok?”
“Yeah yours is too. You good?”
“Yeah I’m good. Let’s beat the shit outta psycho-nerd here and go throw some salamanders at the Carneys.”
The boys had taken their turns kicking her in the stomach until they were bored, and then they had left her there lying among the piles of sprinklers in their fathers long forgotten collection. Normally at a time like this she would cry and curse their names, but Claribell knew she was changed forever; she had been given the gift of cursing others with an affliction she knew and hated above anything in life. The curse of dry skin. She slowly gathered herself, pausing occasionally against the pain – but she did not wince, she did not cry out. Claribell Des Planques was a woman now, and she knew she would one day be the supervillain to conquer the world.
***
Claribell had spent ten years refining her talent, and where before she could only afflict the skin of those that angered
her, she could now choose victims at will. She had taken a job at large law firm in Baton Rouge, and had enjoyed the anonymity that city life and corporate culture provided. Her favorite day became Friday, when during her lunch hour she would ride the elevators of the high-rise building that her firm occupied, and she would choose someone to curse. Each time the gentle pulse of the warm energy leaving her hands aroused her, and on two occasions she had climaxed watching her victim squirm. She had then learned that she could afflict multiple targets at once, and eventually that there were no boundaries to how many she could make Itch!
***
The culmination of her years of training had led her to this day, the day she had chosen to be her Black Friday.
She had chosen this Friday to give the entire world the Claribell Itch, and now her moment of glory was being stolen by a force that was truly inconceivable. Finally, on the horizon, the now familiar dark shapes began to appear, making their slow advance on the city. The gigantic mutations could be seen on every television screen at any time in the world, wreaking havoc on the cities and towns and villages of the southern United States, eastern Central America and the island nations in between. Claribell narrowed her eyes and began her ritual to summon the energy for the Big Itch. It felt a waste to help save the very people she wished to dominate, but deep in her heart she understood that the world needed to be there to be dominated by people like her. She wasn’t about to let these monsters steal the opportunity she had waited her entire life for. She raised her her head and the runic words poured forth, and energy burst from her raised fists.
***
As the last of the giant slugs twitched it’s final bit of life away, it’s skin crusted and cracked, Claribell turned to face the city. She saw the people begin to emerge from their shelters, their homes and businesses. Slowly, and in starts, they all came to see the carnage; to stare at Claribell. They all eventually wanted to touch her, their superhero. Some began to sing.

Amazing Grace, thought Claribell, dryly. Pathetic.
Someday they will all cower before me.
Soon they will all feel the sting of my Itch.
Someday I will rule the world!

K: Well, hell. Here’s another great story, this time about the nature of evil, and the seemingly useless superpower is pretty damned useful in the end despite truly seeming useless, which is about all I can ask for. It could really have used a proofread, though, so: 4

DK: This is a really funny idea, and I like the way it sells Claribell’s insanity throughout the piece. I sure wish I could use dry skin as a superpower somehow… 4

Beau, nibbish and his Vogons

“So. Martin.” The cold, direct voice of The Administrator filled his office. “You know why I called you in here?”

Martin remained erect, but frozen, in the steel guest chair.

“Of course you do,” he lamented. “You know, they told me that you weren’t cut out for this. That your psychological profile was…unsatisfactory. But I saw something in you. Perhaps I was blinded by your striking resemblance to me. Perhaps my instincts have softened in my old age. Regardless, it turns out they were right.”

The Administrator approached from the shadows, his jet black shoes clapping against the limestone floor. His chiseled face revealed less emotion than his tailored suit. Towering over him, his thumb and index finger cupped Martin’s chin. He let go.

“I thought I could prove your worth to us. You know, start you off slow.”

Martin stared blankly at him, watching him place a cigarette between his lips.

“After all, we couldn’t give you the ability to start the world on fire until we were sure of you.” On cue, the cigarette lit itself.

“The ability to make someone else sneeze seemed pretty innocuous. Easy to keep hidden. And a quite effective tool at extending someone’s life. Have to admit, you impressed us when you saved the Senator, delaying his first step into the crosswalk.” The Administrator turned his back to Martin, resting his hands on his desk.

“But you couldn’t help yourself. You had to play with your new toy. Showing it off at parties, placing bets on who would sneeze first. Making the President embarrass himself at his own inauguration. All fun and games, I know. But telling your wife was the last straw. This organization has the power to make this world a better place, but only if our secret is kept.” The Administrator paused, then turned around. “We’re now half way to keeping that secret.”

Martin’s eyes darted at his boss, rage masking the pain behind them. He kept quiet.

“It’s a shame, really.” He put the cigarette out. “I don’t like killing anyone, even for the greater good. Even though I’ll gain your power when you die.” The Administrator laughed. “Now, do you have any last words before you spontaneously combust?”

Martin did not.

“Alright, then. I admit this will take a few seconds longer than my cigarette. You seem to like parlor tricks. How about we end this with a magic word? Shazam? Presto-chango?”

Martin’s expression remained unchanged.

“Oh, I got it. Here we go.” His splayed his hands out in front of him as if it were necessary. “Abracada…ah! Ah! Ah-CHOO! Abracachoo!”

Martin rose from the chair, watching The Administrator clumsily stumble with an endless sneezing fit. Walking behind his former boss, he waited for him to rise from his latest attack. In one motion, he cradled his head and snapped his neck. The lifeless body slumped to the floor.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. “Come in!” called Martin, finishing the last button on his new suit.

“Sir!” barked the young man as he entered. “Are you done in here?”

Martin nodded.

“Good. We may not have much time. Talks are breaking down between the U.S. and China. And both sides have their bombs aimed and ready.”

“Well then,” Martin replied, looking down at the body. “It looks like we’ve got a fire to put out.”

“Sir?”

Martin looked up. “So to speak, son.” He approached the young man, putting his arm around him as they exited his office. “So to speak.”

K: Hot damn, all y’all. Another thorough beatdown of the challenge’s parameters, and although the ending was apparent enough, it was still satisfying as hell to get there. 4

DK: I think I appreciate inherent cheesiness more in this challenge than most of the others. The line about the striking resemblance really, really got me for some reason, but again, this is a fun power too. 4

Andy Rustleund, I’m With Stupid

Language is power. At least, according to Mrs. Henry’s third and fourth period Language Arts block it was. For Jimmy, it was more of a major pain in the ass. For you see, James Jingleheimer Codswallop never mispronounced a word.
Jimmy’s parents were worried. Most kids start to explore making sounds, and eventually words, before they’re even one year old. Jimmy was pushing four before he made a peep. But when he did, oh the wonder! No voiceless glottal stop, no pulmonic egressive, no retroflex nasal was too difficult for Jimmy. While his friends struggled with plosives and diphthongs, Jimmy was making bilabial clicks that would make a Batswana weep.
One might think that a parent of such a child would be prouder than a koala that won the eucalyptus lottery. But Jimmy’s parents just took him to specialist after specialist.
“Mrs. Codswallop, why are you worried?” they’d bleat. “Forget the lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue! This is the most glorious, fully developed alveolar ridge I’ve ever seen in a child! I must contact Dr. Heinsenfurber immediately!”
By the time Jimmy made it a high school, he’d been poked, prodded, questioned, and scanned more than any child deserved. But his parents had finally, gratefully, accepted him for who he was. His fellow students, on the other hand…
“Hey Codswallop! How do you pronounce ‘loser’?” yelled Lane Sanderson, the captain of the varsity football team. “Maybe you should go record some audiobooks, nerd!”
“Good one, Lane!” Jimmy called back. “Maybe I will!”
When the teasing had started, Jimmy had tried to stop being so good at pronouncing things. He had opened a book in his room one night and tried making a mistake. But no matter how many times he mispronounced something in his head, when it came out his mouth: perfect.
Jimmy started to think that maybe his whole life was a big joke. A mistake. Why was this happening to him? Why couldn’t he just be a normal kid?
It all changed the day the aliens arrived.

Five million had already died before the powers that be finally admitted that they simply could not communicate with the creatures. On the day of first contact, the aliens had given the government a primer of sorts, intended to facilitate communication. The only problem was that no one in the government had the ability to pronounce many of the alien phonemes.
Jimmy watched the President’s speech in awe with the rest of the country. Then he turned to his parents.
“Mom? Dad? Can I borrow the car?”

After a series of brief tests at the Pentagon, Jimmy was flown to the Cheyenne Mountain Directorate outside Colorado Springs.
“James J. Coldswallop? General Charles H. Jacoby, United States Army. God knows we need your help, son. We’ve had every translator and language specialist in the entire damned Armed Forces in here, and those green bastards up there only seem to respond with more death from the sky. I hope to hell you’re as good as the fellas down at the Pentagon say you are.”
“I hope so too, sir. I hope so too.”
The primer left by aliens turned out to be a large, blue book with golden lining around the edges. Jimmy turned to the first page. Inside was a list of phrases under the heading “Getting Around”, starting with “Excuse me. Where is the library?” all the way through, “No, I’m not joking. I really do need to use the restroom.” In the left column was the phrase written in English, directly across from this in the right column was the same phrase in the alien language. The alien language was written using Latin characters, but there was no pronunciation guide.
“There’s no pronunciation guide,” said Jimmy. “How I am I…” Jimmy froze. Could this be it? The reason for his gift? Would just trying to read the words aloud be all he needed to do?
Sounds he had made before, and sounds no human had ever made began to flow from Jimmy’s mouth. Everyone in the room stood in awe as James Codswallop spoke the first alien words heard by mankind.
“I think I just said, ‘I’ve been assaulted by a rabid crab-eating macaque. Could you please point me in the direction of the nearest hospital and/or monkey catcher?’” Jimmy said sheepishly.
“Well, whatever the hell you said, son, it sounded fine to us,” said General Jacoby with a huge grin.

And so, using phrases from the section entitled, “Avoiding Genocide”, Jimmy saved the world from certain destruction. After being personally thanked by the President and several other heads of state, Jimmy was made head of the newly created Department of Oral Relations, where he served with distinction until his retirement.

K: I love the language here, which is handy since it’s about language. I think what I didn’t quite love here was the fact that the enemy was alien, which seems like an easy way to sidestep the challenge. A lot of humor makes it okay, though. 4

DK: Okay, this one had me laughing the whole way through. Pulling out all those obscure terms? A section entitled “Avoiding Genocide”? This hit the spot. 5

Bret Highum, I’m With Stupid

Jerry Goldberg was a very easygoing fellow, who had an unformed desire to do something amazing.

He had been a perfectly normal child until puberty, when his mother’s overbearing intensity had driven his nose deep into books and his over-strained genetic makeup misfired badly enough to give him a strange psionic power. Luckily, it didn’t turn him funny colors or blow up cars or anything so overdone, so Jerry made it through high school with a B+ average, some minor neuroses and no knowledge that he had developed a superpower.

In his third year of college, when he had his career path fixed in his mind (advertising executive by 40!) and was dating a sophomore girl named Mandy (brunette, pleasingly plump!), he sprained his ankle badly playing pick-up basketball. When the doctor tried to get an x-ray, all that came out was an outline of Jerry’s foot, like it was made of metal. Since his ankle was swelled up to the size of a squash, it obviously wasn’t. The doctor assumed his X-ray machine was malfunctioning, and treated Jerry for a sprain.

A year and a half later, while browsing engagement rings for Mandy, he saw one he really liked. With his nose and two fingers on the bulletproof glass separating him from thousands of dollars’ worth of rings, he felt a strange rush of adrenaline and warmth throughout his body as he wished that he could give Mandy that ring. The ring sprang across two feet of empty space and smacked the glass hard enough to chip it. Jerry leaped backwards, almost falling, and hurried away, sure there was a practical joker with a hidden camera messing with him.

Over the next three years , Jerry got married to Mandy and managed to figure out he had a superpower. He was able to control gold, the most malleable and ductile of all the metals! He could pull it towards him, fling it away from him, and make it float in midair. He had the powers of a precious-metals Magneto! He made a shiny gold suit, and started thinking seriously about how he could use his golden powers to combat crime. His abilities being somewhat limited, Jerry knew he’d have to bring his own gold with him. There are trace amounts of gold that exist in odd places, such as the human body and in seawater, but not enough that he could use. Jerry knew he needed larger amounts to be effective, so he ended up taking out a small second mortgage on the house to buy twenty gold coins.

Jerry settled into his crime-fighting routine. Two or three nights a week after the pregnant Mandy and their precocious two-year old daughter had gone to bed, he would flatten two of the coins and form them around the bottom of his gold suede boots. Then, wavering slightly, he would lift himself into the air, and zoom off to the poor areas of town, where as everyone knows, the criminal organizations hang out. After a couple months of this, where the most interesting thing he did was knock down a couple of muggers with a few ounces of gold so that the cops chasing them could catch them more easily, he finally realized that he should try the dock district. There had to be some villains down there.

He floated from warehouse to guard shack to the dock offices, sticking to the shadows and looking for something nefarious, like he’d done for the last several weeks with so little to show for it. Imagine Jerry’s delight when he found something illegal going on next to a just offloaded shipping container! Three men, standing around an opened wooden crate full of military-style guns, talking in a foreign language, obviously up to no good. Jerry’s smile grew wider.

“Halt, villains!” he thundered, sliding forward into the sickly yellow light of a sodium vapor lamp. “I am Double Eagle, and you are under arrest!”

Predictably, the three men did not halt. Two of them took off running, and the third clutched at a pistol holstered under his arm. Jerry flung out his arm, flinging two gold coins out towards the men. The gold coin he flipped at the gunman accelerated until it impacted with a dull *smack* flat on the man’s forehead. Too hard- the man’s skull fractured and his left eye bulged from its socket as he flopped over. The other coin expanded in midair into two sets of bands, wrapping around one of the runner’s body to slam him to the ground. Jerry zoomed forward, touching down on the ground next to the twitching man, kneeling next to him to see if there was any chance the poor fellow was going to make it. He was stricken with guilt – his first true crime fighting and he had killed someone!

The other gunrunner hadn’t gone far. Stepping back out of the murky shadows, he clipped Jerry neatly behind the ear with a lead-weighted sap. Then he stripped Jerry of all his gold, tied him up, and deposited him in the back of the van they were loading the guns into.

Jerry woke up in an alley, and eventually managed to squirm free of his bindings. All he had left was his shiny gold outfit, one sleeve torn away and the rest badly soiled with grease and tar from his adventure. Jerry stumbled out to the street, head aching, wondering how he was going to explain to Mandy that he’d lost all his gold. Stepping out into the early morning light, he saw a sign. It said “National Pawn- buy/trade your gold and silver here!” Jerry, his thoughts crystallizing in an instant, paused only long enough to draw his mask up over his face before kicking the door of the pawn shop open.

Jerry was going to do something amazing with his gift.

K: The ending saved this one to some extent. The idea is gold (I swear I didn’t mean to do that just now) but it plays out dryly until this dark turn of events in the end, though the writing is strong throughout. 3

DK: I like this tack on exactly how a superpower is useless – I mean, this guy isn’t exactly Magneto, but he could be, almost…good thing he’s not giving up, though! 4

Brooks Maki, nibbish and his Vogons

“What are you going–”

I shut down my ears. He had already asked that question too many times. The answer was so obvious that it necessitated no response. I had to pay him back five-fold for what his experiment had wreaked upon me.

Unfortunately, to give up hearing meant I regained touch. The bullet hole in my shoulder screamed and burned, but it was still less painful than listening to my enemy blubber and squall meaninglessly from the back seat. He had shot me, knowing I could ignore the pain. That was the moment I realized our most fundamental difference. He never saw the consequences, I felt it was my duty to carry things through to their most logical conclusion, 20% of something was abhorrent to me, it was all or nothing.

The bridge loomed ahead. I shut off my eyes and yanked the wheel hard to the right. For the entire descent into the river, I relished his screams.

K: Less is more, bitches. A little more might have been more here too, but I’m thrilled by the fact that I get the entire story in this amount of space. 4

DK: The concept is good, but I really came away wishing there was more story here, cause I would have liked to see this power developed further. Thank you for submitting something, though, and hopefully this shouldn’t matter too much. 2

John Wreisner, nibbish and his Vogons

It all started while I was doing laundry. No radioactive insects, no tragic childhood. I was checking the pocket of a pair of my Dickies before I threw them in the wash and I felt something in the right pocket. When I reached in, I discovered a travel size bottle of mouthwash. I couldn’t remember buying it, or even putting it in my pocket, so I set it on a shelf in the laundry room and forgot all about it, at least until it was time to switch loads.

The next pair of pants were blue jeans, and this time it was the left pocket. I found a collapsible travel sized toothbrush, the kind where the head can be inserted into the handle, protecting the bristles. The similarity of the objects (both for oral hygiene) led me to believe that maybe I was the victim of some absurd prank. However, I lived alone, so no one could have done this from inside my house, and if it happened at work, certainly I would have noticed someone putting things into my pockets, right? Thinking about it was making my head hurt so I put it out of my mind and went to the grocery store.

Standing at the register at the grocery store, I reached into my left pocket for change, but instead my fingers encountered a small plastic bottle of some sort. I must have visibly recoiled, because the cashier looked at me with suspicion, as if maybe I was on an afternoon furlough from a halfway house and meant to do her harm. I pulled the object out, discovering it to be a one- ounce bottle of baby powder. I pretended not to notice, put it in my jacket pocket, paid for my groceries, and left.

Once inside my car, I began to panic a little. It sounds ridiculous, I know; panicking at the sudden realization that one has the power to withdraw random travel sized toiletries from one’s pants pockets. But at that stage in the game, I just assumed some unknown assailant was waging a decidedly unorthodox psychological battle against me.

Sitting there in my car, I tried an experiment. I tried my right pocket this time. I knew there was nothing in it; the pair of pants having just come from the wash. Bingo. A miniature stick of deodorant. Reaching into my left pocket revealed a single-use bottle of shampoo, lavender scented. I began to panic in earnest.

I returned home and performed a series of tests. I discovered that I needn’t even be wearing the pants; as long as they were mine (and not someone else’s, a discovery I made while using a pair of pants that had been left at my house by an ex-girlfriend) I could stick my hand in one of the pockets and find, by some arcane sorcery, a travel sized toiletry item. I could not reach into both pockets simultaneously; the objects appeared only one at a time, and in seemingly random pockets. A few dozen attempts seemed to support the conclusion that chance favored the right hand pocket. As far as the items themselves, there seemed to be no order. I once withdrew three successive travel sized tubes of toothpaste, but they were all different brands. After several hours I had dozens of soaps, shampoos and conditioners, razors, toothbrushes, single serving cold and flu remedies, and even some individually packaged condoms.

The ensuing months passed as normally as ever, save for the toiletries. I learned how to perform a sort of rough prestidigitation, when putting my hand in my pockets for change or my car keys, I would maneuver my fingers around whatever object had therein materialized. This saved me from a score of embarrassing situations, as more than once I had accidentally proffered to a mystified store clerk a small package of sanitary napkins or over-the-counter diarrhea remedies.

To say that life “returned to normal” after having come to terms with this newfound ability is mildly inaccurate. It wasn’t too difficult to adapt to such a benign anomaly. It was not entirely dissimilar to waking up one day with the sudden ability to recite all fifty state capitols in alphabetical order. A neat trick, but largely useless, unless circumstances conspired to make it otherwise. Which they did, after I asked a girl who worked at my bank on a date and she accepted.

If the gradient scale of the success of a date is measured on one end by a flat refusal of the offer, and on the other by the woman in question spending the night of your first date at your home, and in the same bed, then my date was a resounding success. Formulaic, perhaps, dinner and a movie; but after retiring to my house I positively scintillated. I was a gracious host, I was a thrilling conversationalist, her wine glass refilled seemingly of its own accord, I respected boundaries, I did not hover or become oppressive. Our biological imperatives were fulfilled, attempting all the obligatory positions, and when morning came and she wished glumly aloud that she had brought her tooth- brush, I was poised to deliver the coup de grace.

I rose to put on pants. “No, don’t go out to buy me a tooth brush!” she said, coquettishly pulling the bed sheet over her breasts. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere.” I smiled at her, patting the outside of my pants pocket to discern the rough shape of whatever might have materialized within. Fortune appeared to shine on me that morning, finding, as I did, an elongated shape that could only be a tooth- brush. I reached in with great flourish and aplomb, ready to thrill her with my seemingly psychic ability to preemptively prepare for her needs. I knelt by the bed -side and proffered her an individually packaged tampon, as if it were an engagement ring.

There was no second date.

K: I would have loved to dive a little bit more into the action here, but the superpower was so asinine I enjoyed it anyway. I didn’t see what was coming at the end, either (I was afraid it would just be another condom, which was a bullet that had already been fired). 4

DK: This is probably my favorite power of all of them this time around. The strength of the writing is really great, too, and the payoff is fantastic. 5

Will Young, I’m With Stupid

Esther nibbled on her popcorn during the previews. She always appreciated the December was movies when the studios finally released thought-provoking, creative movies rather than the action and comedy tripe it churned out during the spring and summer months. Of course, those shallow movies drew much larger audiences, so Esther could never begrudge the studios for actually filling seats. After the final preview, the theater played the short snippet warning patrons not too use their cell phones. Despite knowing it was coming, Esther smirked as usual.

Esther’s parents were not particularly tech-savvy, and neither had a cell phone while she was a young girl. When she turned fourteen shortly after entering high school, she made it extremely clear that a cell phone was the only birthday present she would accept.

When she first flipped open the phone and tried to call Melanie to tell her about the present, the phone had no reception. Esther could not understand how her parents’ home could be a dead-zone. She brought her phone with her to the mall the next day and learned it had no reception there either. Her father, quickly worn down by the vocal complaints of a teenage daughter unable to talk with her friends in the privacy of her bedroom, brought the phone to the Verizon store in the mall the following week while Melanie was at tennis. To his surprise, the phone worked flawlessly when he tried to demonstrate its problems to the support staff.

As years passed and cell phones became more ubiquitous, Melanie grew more appreciative of her gift. At first, she was furious as neither she, nor her friends, could use their cell phones when she was nearby. She gradually learned the scope of her abilities, and would often honk her car when she was one hundred feet away from a friend’s house and stay there for two minutes to allow any last-minute texts to be sent and to prevent any calls from being dropped upon her arrival.

Yes, she was unable to receive text messages, but her friends and family could still call and speak with her over a landline whenever necessary. Of course, she could not take her landline with her everywhere, but she was felt liberated knowing she could truly get “off the grid” whenever she pleased in a way she frequently heard people claiming to wanting. Plus, her part-time work for the various movie theaters in the area paid her well and allowed her to see any movie she wanted (of course, with the caveat that the theater needed to be at least half-full because the theaters had no need avoid distracting the fifteen people willing to see the latest Nicholas Cage movie).

After the movie ended, Esther remained in her seat during the closing credits. She watched members of the audience filing out slowly. Like Pavlovian programmed animals, many reached into their pockets to check their cell phones. Like always, the movie had run uninterrupted by any calls. The audience members had been drawn into the film and somehow managed to escape the distraction of their cell phones for a couple of hours. Now, they seemed hungry to reacquaint themselves with the outside world and all of the trivial things they had missed.

On most days, Esther simply left the theater a few minutes after the audience and drove home. Today, however, she needed to run through the mall to finish her holiday shopping. As she crossed the lobby, she observed a man shouting and laughing manically near Brookstone. Esther walked past him and heard him shout, “And now your year will end just as badly as mine!” She tried to ignore him, but heard him continue, “And I’ll see you all in hell!”

Just then, he yanked open his overcoat. Esther observed two canisters attached to the man’s sweater and connected to a series of wires. He reached into his pocket and yanked out his cell phone. He began typing furiously, but nothing happened. At that point, the man started tapping the canister attached to his right side. Esther looked closely, and noticed a makeshift timer. As she continued to stare, she realized the timer was not working. The man continued to tap away at his cell phone while growing increasingly more exasperated.

“Why won’t this goddamn thing work?” he wondered as Esther looked away and pretended to windowshop at Foot Locker. While most shoppers moved away to give the raving lunatic more room, Esther inconspicuously remained within about twenty-five yards until the bomb squad arrived.

K: Here’s yet another one that could have dove straight into the action, but I suppose a lot of exposition is par for the course. I again didn’t see the use of her condition coming, and considering how shitty her condition was (though it did tell a nice story about our over-reliance on the trivial) that’s pretty impressive. 4

DK: It didn’t quite reach the heighest enjoyment level for me as I was going through it, but I like the way it ultimately pays off a lot, enough to balance that out somewhat. 4

Shawn Ashley, SPOILER ALERT!

One wouldn’t think that the President of the United States had superpowers. But, indeed, this one does.
It all started when John Michaels was a child. His parents didn’t catch on until he was around seven or eight years old. They couldn’t really be sure that a child of that age could even detect sarcasm. But John did. He would always do a preemptive strike, cut the speaker off with great intent to combat the sarcasm escaping from their lips. He could detect all sarcasm five seconds before a sarcastic comment was made.
It always worked. Marty and Melanie Michaels were at first, understandably, taken aback. I mean, how peculiar! They found it rather amusing after awhile. Then they started taking him with them to parties and he was always a hit.
This propelled John onto the Debate Team in high school and he won the State Championship three years in a row. His last year, he was up against a really tough competitor, Don Wahlberg (no relation) from Poughkeepsie High.
The debate was the amount of salaries paid to pro athletes and John was on the “pro” side of the debate. He had just finished stating that America needed entertainment, that the athletes getting paid a certain sum was like our budget for people to be happy, such as we, ourselves, made budgets to see movies and go out to dinner.
It appeared as if Don was going to retaliate with a snarky comment such as, “Yeah, being entertained at the expense of feeding our people, really great,” but John cut him off with the statement that there could possibly be a free hamburger or hot dog along with the purchase of a ticket to these sporting events, as no one should go hungry. One solution to our hunger problem.
On and on it went, earning him friends along the way. He excelled in college, became one of the top leaders on campus. His parents were so proud of him; they couldn’t believe that a gift such as his could benefit him so well!
It was only natural that politics came calling. He was the youngest Mayor ever elected in his town, and from there he just moved up the ranks, barely stopping to take a break. He, somehow, married a lovely woman named Joyce along the way who, ironically, didn’t have a bone of sarcasm in her body.
When it came time to elect another President, John was thrust into the limelight yet again. His people worked wonders to keep his secret superpower out of the papers. No one could know that he wasn’t this smart or witty all on his own. His parents tried to stress that God had made him special and it was all on his own, but he couldn’t believe that. Like Superman, he was given these powers but there was ALWAYS something that can bring him down.
And it was true. He found out one day as he walked through the White House in preparation for a meeting with the leaders from a country that shall remain nameless. A country that is known for their sarcasm.
As he entered the conference room and took his place beside the leader, one of his aides entered with a fresh box of bagels.
“Everything” bagels. With jalapeño schmear.
All of a sudden, John felt the room start to spin as the other leader started to speak. John tried to respond, to cut him off with his usual ability to slice through the sarcasm and found himself unable to do so.
Frantically, he looked for an advisor, a consultant, somebody who could stall this meeting. The man was sarcasm-ing him out of the place. He felt himself stammer and his Vice-President looked at him in alarm.
“Uh, I think what President Michaels is trying to say is that we need to come to a decision based on fact, sir. Not based solely on what you feel like doing with your weekend.” The Vice-President gave Michaels a look as if to say, “What is wrong with you??”
He wasn’t sure what stumped him, ruined him, until he noticed the bagels.
“I’m sorry, can we take pause a moment here?” He looked around for his assistant. “Gladys? Can you remove these bagels and schmear? My tummy hurts from the smell of them.”
“Certainly, sir,” Gladys responded, her eyes full of questions.
President Michaels sighed a deep sigh of relief once the bagels were gone. He felt himself return to normal, the sarcasm flowing through his head like a dream; witty remarks this way and that.
Quickly, he turned the negotiations around and made a deal the American people re-elected him for the next election.
Saving the world yet again with his superpowers.

K: Huh…I don’t know about these bagels. I would have really dug a “kryptonite” that had more to do with sarcasm somehow, but instead it’s more like kryptonite – just a weak device to make our hero fallible. Otherwise, some fun stuff here. 3

DK: This is another one that seems a little too useful in the long-term, to me; but really, I think I was expecting a little more bite with the power’s setup than I ended up getting. 3

Peter Bruzek, nibbish and his Vogons

The spectral blade sliced effortlessly through the Crimson Crusader, instantly cleaving his boyish, yet devilishly handsome face from his perfectly chiseled torso. With that, Baron Parallax surveyed the scene. The heroes all lay dead – most of them in several pieces. “Perfect” he said to Bludgeoner, “just in time for the summoning.”

“Boss, there’s another one here. He’s just hiding behind the table.” replied Bludgeoner.

“Bring him to me.”

Bludgeoner shoved the hero toward the Baron.

“And just who might y…”

“I AM THE INTERJECTION!” cried the now-named hero.

“Why were you cowering behind the table. Why would they even bother bringing you if you w…”

“I MAKE NON-CONTEXTUAL COMMENTS AT INOPPORTUNE TIMES!!!”

“Excellent! A speech-themed super. You’re certain that you don’t turn into a hulking behemoth if expos…”

“I HAVE THE POWER OF MAKING NON-CONTEX…”

“Yes, yes… Now, believe it or not, I’m actually glad you showed up today. Bludgeoner and I are going to need a blood sacrifice to properly awaken the demon lord. Your friends are volunteered, but got a little excited and started things early, and Kil’zumall likes his sacr…”

“SUMMONING THE DEMON LORD KIL’ZUMAL, ARE YOU? I’VE PIECED TOGETHER YOUR NEFARIOUS PLOT!”

“Anyway, the urge to murder you is only going up by the second, but we’ve got to wait for the proper time. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work…”

“I WILL FOIL YOUR SCHEMES, VILE WARLOCK!”

“That I doubt, but I’m eager to see how you try. Let’s begin.”

Parallax placed the spectral blade on the unholy altar as Bludgeoner tied The Interjection to an obelisk. The Baron sprinkled some red liquid in a circle around himself, then began to chant the dark rituals.

“Aggras… tolifas…. Arvelan…”

“YOUR ANCIENT DARK SPEECH ACCENT IS ALMOST AS ABSURD AS YOUR SINISTER DESIGNS, FIEND!”

“Tos vali Kil’Zumall, arvas belias Kil’Zumall”

“EVIL WILL ALWAYS END IN RUIN, YOU KOOKY CLAIRVOYANT!”

“Arved, scho’il…”

“YOUR CABAL…”

“Arved, scho’il… varmas scho’il… Kil’zumall varithras a… SHUT THE FUCK UP.” Baron Tiberon snapped at The Interjection, “wait… where was I?? Oh…”

Indeed, The Interjection had broken the sorcerer’s concentration just as he was specifying the target for the blood sacrifice. An enormous black cloud began to pour into the room from both doors.

“Bludgeoner, you might want to make your exit…”

The cloud materialized into a massive demon. Kil’zumall picked up the blade from the altar and instantly jumped across the room, killing Bludgeoner instantly. He began to walk toward the now terrified warlock.

“No no no no no no no… come on, the pronunciation wasn’t even all that close. I meant ‘shut the fuck up’, not ‘shada faku’. See? Nothing alike! For fuck’s sake, listen to him… you’d be doing the same thing within…”

“HA, SILLY SORCERER, YOUR MACHINATIONS ARE ALL IN VAIN!”

“Interjection, so help me if one of my followers figured how to resurrect me. I will…”

“I’LL BE WAITING, YOU BATTY OLD WIZARD.”

“…Plankton won’t even be able to find any part of you to…” Baron Parallax’ words were cut off, along with his head, which rolled up to The Interjection’s feet. Kil’Zumall turned and approached The Interjection.

“NOW IT’S JUST THE TWO OF US, DEMON LORD. I WILL DEFEAT YOU.”

The abomination paused a moment, likely considering the fact that if he killed the bizarrely confident motormouth standing before him, that there was a good chance that his soul would be permanently bound to him. Kil’Zumall turned and trudged back up to the altar, before disappearing into a cloud of black smoke once more.

K: This one peaks early. I thought it was going to be the challenge of the week, but instead, it was just pretty good. This is a bit of a cheat, I suppose, since interrupting people is something that anyone can do, but I was amused enough to give it a break. 4

DK: I laughed almost as much as I did at the pronunciation one, but especially at the “pieced together” line. Dude’s not just non-contextual, he’s Captain Obvious. 5

—–

Sadly, we weren’t done with the non-submission portion of the proceedings, even here at the halfway point, as JG Berwald missed this one for some reason (you probably saw this coming, since we Netflix-scored this thing). Things like this really make me feel for the guy who got voted out in favor of him, you know? I mean, I don’t know what was up with JG this week or anything, but it’s still a bummer.

NAHV, you have until Tuesday at noon Central to cast votes.

Scores don’t matter much, but here they are:

SPOILER ALERT!: 3/3.5/4 = 10.5/3 = 3.50
nibbish and his Vogons: -1/4.5/3/4/4/4.5 = 19/6 = 3.17
I’m With Stupid: 3.5/4.5/4 = 12/3 = 4.00

Yes, this is a bummer of a thing, but we still have a pretty exciting game to play here, given the strength of every team.

Cheers, Survivors.