I, Superhero!! :: We Wear Tights So You Won't Have To

By Mike McMullen

Evildoers, Take Heed!

Justice has a new face, and it wears a mask. Who are we talking about? Ordinary folk like Mike McMullen, a.k.a. The Amazing Whitebread, who become something entirely new and occasionally borderline pathological: Real-Life Superheroes (RLSHs).

"Being a singing superheroine is a way for me to not only pay the bills, it also helps me give the baddies such a headache." --Danger Woman

Complete with costumes and all the gadgetry they can afford from selling old copies of Action Comics on eBay, RLSHs dish out their own brand of justice--while criminals go about their business and law enforcers roll their eyes.

"Me and Shadowhare were walking past a bank and we stopped to make a phone call. As soon as we started walking away, the police came up and said, 'Do you know why we stopped you? Because you guys are wearing masks standing in front of a bank.'" --Mr. Xtreme

McMullen spans the country, coach class, seeking to develop his own RLSH identity and address such weighty issues as:

Sidekicks: Faithful wards or CPS bait?
Bad Guys: Where the hell are they all hiding?
Super-tights: How snug is too snug?

So don your mask, suck in your gut, and join us.

"Hey, you're with a superhero. . .what could go wrong?" --Geist, the Emerald Cowboy

Michael McMullen, a.k.a. The Amazing Whitebread, was born in Wichita Falls, Texas. He earned an undergraduate degree in history and philosophy, and subsequently took the only employment option open to someone with the resultant lack of marketable skills: government service. He's worked as an intelligence analyst for the U.S. Department of Justice for just over a decade and currently lives in Arlington, Texas, with his wife, Lauren, and their children, Grant and Gracie. His hobbies include aspiring to get some woodworking done, thinking about learning a musical instrument, and trying to get interested in any computer game other than Text Twist. He has had short pieces published in various science fiction/fantasy magazines and currently holds the record for "Worst-Kept Secret Identity."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Citadel Press
• Release date: Nov 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9780806534350

Book preview

proceeding.

CHAPTER 1

IN WHICH I PUT EVERYTHING THAT WOULD NORMALLY GO IN THE INTRODUCTION

But No One Ever Reads Those, or at Least

I Don’t, So I’m Putting It Here

Let me tell you a quick story.

A few years ago, two German men—Arnim Meiwes and Bernd Brandes—met in an Internet chat room called Gay Cannibals and came to the joint decision that for their mutual sexual pleasure Meiwes would kill and eat Brandes. The meal would climax, if you’ll pardon my diction, with Meiwes eating Brandes’ penis. At trial, Meiwes told the court that he’d been looking for someone slim and blonde to eat like Sandy from the Flipper films.

This short story, completely true, brings three important facts to light:

1. An Internet chat room exists called Gay Cannibals—dear holy God.

2. The actor, Luke Halpin, who played Sandy Ricks in Flipper, is apparently some sort of fetish figure among at least some of the aforementioned homosexual flesh eaters.

3. Some people are crazy as all hell and will do anything.

So why the living crap did I just disgust and horrify you with that story? For one, How to Write Non-Fiction That Sells, the book I skimmed just prior to sitting down to write, says you want an attention grabber at the beginning of your book to hook the audience. In addition, and almost just as important, I included it because this was the story that got me thinking about heroes. To be specific: superheroes. Those guys and gals in comics and movies and occasionally TV who run around in inappropriately tight costumes catching criminals and causing, on average, an estimated $3.2 million in property damage for every $1,000 in stolen property recovered. In a world where gay (no judgment implied) cannibals willingly offer themselves up so that other gay (no judgment implied) cannibals can eat their penises while watching Flipper, Why, dear Lord, why has no one yet put on a cape and cavorted through the city primeval, saving damsels from falling bits of building and punching carjackers in their coin purses? There are people who will put on a leather hood and yell at you while you lick their shoes, but no one wants to put on a mask and yell a snappy catchphrase before swinging down from a rooftop and jerking an old woman out from in front of a bus full of toxic chemicals barreling down on her like the dark specter of hell itself.

Is that too much to ask?

Surely this state of affairs is not right. There’s a Batman-shaped void in society calling out to be filled. Specifically, I feel it’s calling out to me, a lifetime devotee to all things superhero. And why shouldn’t I be the one to step up? I’ve read almost every issue of Daredevil ever published.* I once lovingly hand-crafted a statue of no less a third-stringer than the Absorbing Man out of Super Sculpey, and when I was a boy, I used to run around the house with my tighty whities on my head playing Spider-Man. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize there’s really only one obstacle, albeit a big one, in the way of becoming the world’s first superhero, and l’obstacle, c’est moi. Specifically, the obstacle is my body and the plethora of superhuman, or even reasonablyathletichuman, abilities it utterly fails to support. For example, I’m not (and this is something only a few people know about me) impervious to pain. I’m actually quite pervious to it. I also can’t become invisible. I don’t have superspeed and can’t even run particularly fast. I’m a bit (read: a lot) overweight, and while my legs are strong, I have the upper body strength of a nine-year-old girl—a malnourished nine-year-old girl.

A malnourished 9-year-old girl who’s contracted malaria just as she’s coming off a bad case of mono. I’m not strong, is what I’m saying.

A natural by-product of my out of shapeness is that my stamina isn’t what it used to be. One could also say I never had much in the way of stamina in the first place, but I like the way I say it better. For example, I just finished installing a new light fixture in the entryway of my house. And I swear the strain brought on by twisting some wires together and driving in about three screws, all while holding my hands above my head for approximately two minutes, kicked my ass so hard that I’d dialed the 9 and a 1, before my wife talked me down, or rather up, because by that point I was lying on the floor with one hand on the phone and the other on my pulse, making sure it was still there.

As if all that weren’t enough to disqualify me, I also slouch, say good when I mean well, and don’t call my mother as often as I should. Long story short, I’m beginning to think I need to find a way to do the superhero gig without being born with awesome physical might beyond the ken of mere mortals, although that would have been nifty too. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

After some contemplation and drawing upon the accumulated knowledge gained from a lifetime of reading, watching, talking, and thinking about superheroes, I’ve realized very few are actually born with their powers. In fact, I’ve narrowed the origins of superpowers down to the following six:

1. Aliens. Either being one (Superman) or by coming into contact with them (The Greatest American Hero—remember that show?—that was a great show). This seems to my mind the easiest and, relatively speaking, safest way of becoming superpowered. The only drawback here is that I’m not, in fact, an alien, and I have yet to see one. I was probed once, but that had less to do with creatures from other worlds than with a little curiosity and a lot of cheap booze.

2. Exposure to radiation. This can happen either directly (the Incredible Hulk) or via animal and insect bites (Spider-Man). I’m ruling out this method for two reasons: First, I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for any type of radiation more powerful than a malfunctioning tanning bed. I don’t recall seeing barrels of toxic sludge on special at Wal-Mart, although I could be wrong. Second, I have equally little knowledge re: locating an irradiated creature. Plus, that might hurt a bit. I’m not willing to suffer for my art as of yet. Refer back to my statements regarding perviousness to pain.

3. Methods involving the supernatural. These methods come into play either by practicing magic (Dr. Strange) or by being some sort of unnatural creature (werewolf, vampire). I can easily discount the first half of this option just by observing people who claim to be able to perform magic. They all share the same traits:

Worldview of a neo-hippie

Names like Madame Maleficent and Impious Wolfsbane

Over 10,000 hours Dungeons & Dragons (D&J)

Pot-reek

Children named Starchild, the Explorer, and Chad

None of these traits automatically falsify their claims of the ability to perform magic; I simply refuse to associate with such people. Plus, Doug Henning claimed to perform real magic. Remember him? Neither does anyone else.

4. Pseudoscience (Iron Man). This method can be logically eliminated simply by considering the ratio of real-world practitioners of pseudoscience to real-world superheroes, which works out to something in the vicinity of eleventy gazillion to goose egg.

5. Results of genetic mutation (X-Men). This option is a nonstarter, as the only noticeable genetic mutations I’m aware of generally take the form of webbed feet, vestigial tails, or, at best, double jointedness. I was blessed with none of these characteristics, although I can do a mean belly roll. Not being naturally mutated, if I desired to effect an aftermarket modification to my genes, I’d be left holding the bag back at Option 2.

This leaves me with only one option, which I call Option 6, what with it coming after Option 5 and all.

6. Cultivation of powers through training, study, and effort (Batman). Really, this route can be summarized with one word—exercise.

After this realization that I might have to put forth regular, extended physical effort to achieve my newly minted life’s dream of becoming the world’s first superhero, I get online to find the number for Home Depot’s Toxic Sludge department, using the one source of wisdom and infallibly accurate knowledge regarding all things in existence or yet to exist: Google. Just as I’m about to hit the I’m Feeling Lucky button, I have another realization, the second one today and fifth overall for my entire life: I’d better check and make sure I actually would be the world’s first real superhero before I go through all this trouble. I delete the words Home Depot radioactive from the search bar and replace them with real-life superhero.

Crap on a cracker, I get so many results you’d think I’d planned it. I scan down the search results and there, third one down, is a Wikipedia article filed under real-life superhero, and it’s filled with stories about people calling themselves things like Angle-Grinder Man, Terrifica, and Superbarrio. I’m a little let down that once again, I’m not as original as I thought, but fascinated that someone else not only had the same idea but also the nerve or lack of self-awareness actually to follow through with it. This realization, at least, offsets my disappointment.

I page back to my search results. Just a few entries below the Wikipedia article is a link to a site that dares call itself, without a hint of sarcasm or even a Monty Pythonesque wink, wink, nudge, nudge, The World Superhero Registry. I click, and mere seconds later (slow connection), I’m confronted by the grimacing faces of no less than 29 active real-life superheroes (RLSHs) and 121 heroes in training and unconfirmed heroes, which I can only assume is a hero who hasn’t done his or her catechism.

The first one that catches my eye is Entomo, the Italian Insect-Man.

To try to relate anything about Entomo and his mission myself would be a grievous disservice to you, dear reader, when he expresses it so eloquently himself (on his MySpace page, of course. Where else would you go to learn about a real-life superhero?:)

A stylized SIGMA is my symbol.* SIGMA, because I sum up all the powerful, silent and venomous small creatures inhabiting this world. SIGMA, because I’m a synthesis, the humanlike swansong of millions of races. From investigation to crime-fighting to activism, I stand for the biggest conundrum of the known universe: balance between enthalpy and entropy. To be a Real Life Superhero is truly the greatest deed a man can accomplish in a backward world like this, where fiction is truer to reality than reality itself. On the other hand, the chance to fight for such a stunning planet is too significant to be turned down. Hear my buzz, fear my bite: I inject justice.

Holy freakin’ crap, did that guy just say he injects justice? Excuse me while I go back and read that one more time.

Uh, yeah, he did. Sweet, sweet Lord, there are so many jokes I can’t even think of one to put down here. It’s like a Three Stooges episode in my head, when Larry, Moe, and Curly all try to go through a door at the same time and they’re lodged in there so tight none of them can get through.

Excited by the prospect of who else may be a member of the World Justice Academy of Superheroes or whatever the crap this is called, I scan down the page. They fly at me, one after another. I finally stop at Amazonia.

According to the World Superhero Registry, Amazonia patrols the streets of Ocala, FL and Lowell, MA, protecting the innocent and seeking to keep order, which makes it sound like she’s the world’s first retiree superhero, tripping up and down the coast as the weather changes. However, a closer reading reveals she’s just thirty-eight, so maybe calling her the migrant worker of superheroes is slightly more accurate.

Speaking of retirees, a little further down the pages is the Queen of Hearts, from Jackson, Michigan, who looks to be at least late fifties, and that’s my Southern politeness coming through. I skim over her blurb and initially think it says she frequently does volunteer work in her community as well as assaulting local children, and I think, Well good Lord, woman. You just can’t do that. Turns out it actually says assisting local charities. My bad. Sorry, Ms. of Hearts.

And then there’s Shadow Hare, who says, It was the best of times and the worst of times. I’ve stopped many evil doers…such as drug dealers, muggers, rapists, and crazy hobos with pipes.

Sooo freakin’ awesome. Between the Dickens quote and the image of crazy hobos—the old kind, who hopped trains and wore greasy old fedoras and chewed unlit, half-smoked cigars—coming at the vicious looking yet named for a rabbit superhero with lead pipes, I want to giggle and giggle like a two-year-old at the tickle factory until I fall off the Pilates ball I use as a desk chair.

After catching my breath, I look over the galaxy of RLSHs and notice one common thread (two, if you count abject lunacy): none of them have any, you know, superpowers. Some claim to have special psychic facilities or the ability to talk to animals or plants, but really, if they’re anything, they’re mostly low-level Option 6s (Batman). It seems, not only does it not take a rocket scientist to be a superhero, it doesn’t take superpowers or even, in some cases, a modicum of physical prowess.

Score.

That really takes a lot of the pressure off. Of course, that means I’ll still have to exercise because, powers or not, the current fat state of my ass isn’t going to play in skintight spandex unless I call myself The Supersizer or Fatty Fantastico or something of that ilk.*

But before I go through all that trouble, I have to ask, is there even a point to my becoming a superhero anymore, when I can’t be the first, the innovator, the man or superman as the case may be? Is there a point to becoming one of the very proud, very ridiculous, proudly ridiculous and/or ridiculously proud people who, daily and with benevolence aforethought, leave their homes to fight the scum of society with nothing between them and the criminal element but a layer of red spandex, an overblown sense of justice, and a grappling hook? Why join the ranks of those who spend long, lonely nights on patrol, saving potential assault victims, thwarting mugging attempts, foiling bank robberies, and queering, dare I say it, plots (it’s so reassuring to me to know that things still get queered and foiled. You have no idea), when I can just stay home and watch reruns of Project Runway? Not that I watch Project Runway.

I take a break to get a cookie, turn on the TV, and think about whether to pursue my ten-minute-old dream of superherodom, when I hear a familiar screeching upstairs. The baby’s up from his nap and mommy’s at the store, so I pause Iron Chef and head upstairs to the nursery. My Spidey sense starts tingling just outside the door, warning me I’m about to face a dirty diaper of epic proportions. I shove the rest of the cookie into my mouth to preserve it from being tainted by the odor, lift the collar of my T-shirt over my nose, and head in.

I get the little one, you can call him Biscuit, and give him a big good afternoon hug before flopping him down on the changing table. I open the diaper and have to swallow the chunk of cookie in my mouth to force the vomit back down. At this point one thing is abundantly clear: feeding a fourteen-month-old fish sticks at every meal for a week, no matter how much he likes them, was a grievous strategic error. It’s what I would imagine a fishing boat would smell like if the entire crew had died of dysentery and drifted a few weeks before being found. If fatherhood can be compared to a war, this diaper is Normandy, and like all traumatized soldiers, I know I’ll be having flashbacks of this changing until I die, jumping under a table and covering my nose every time a Huggies commercial comes on. I stuff the offending diaper into the airtight, diaper-eating trash can, say a quick prayer of thanks for its odor-stopping ability, and take the Biscuit downstairs with me.

I turn on his favorite show, one with puppets playing kid-friendly pseudorock songs, and get him his traditional postnap Graham cracker and box of apple juice. He climbs onto my lap, and I watch him while he watches the TV. I was never that into kids before I had one of my own. It’s amazing how parenthood changes you. I just stare at him, watching the way his eyes crinkle up when he smiles at something on the show, the way his six teeth—four on top, two on bottom—crunch down on the cracker, and the way he searches for the straw with his mouth and tongue without taking his eyes off the puppets on TV.

Then it hits me. This is the reason. This is why I need to be a hero. Do it for the Biscuit. I realize most dads are kinda their sons’ default hero, but in my case, I think I’m going to have to do a little more to earn it than most. For you to understand why, I should tell you a little about where I come from.

I was born and raised in Wichita Falls, Texas, a town that has since been declared The Most Average Town in America, which should tell you volumes about me in and of itself. The designation didn’t surprise anyone who lived there, merely confirmed our universal yet unspoken suspicions. Our first clue something wasn’t right with the town was a 1978 Texas Monthly article about the worst jobs in Texas that ranked being a resident of Wichita Falls sixth, just after handling dead animals.* Also, there were no actual waterfalls in Wichita Falls. The city leaders corrected this after a massive fund-raising campaign to pay for installing fake ones, making it the Pam Anderson of midsized northern Texas towns.

I was also born into a long line of, if not outright heroic, at least god-awful tough men. My grandfather, who was so tough they actually called him Tuffy, wrestled professionally in the 1920s. He went by the nom de spandex The Dragon of the Mat, making him the first official superhero in my family.

PHOTO COURTESY BILL AND SYLVIA MCMULLEN

One Tough Mother

After Tuffy died, my grandmother married Al, a World War II veteran. This alone makes him a hero in my book, and it should make him one in yours as well, unless you’re some kinda pinko comm’nist sympathizer or something.

My dad was in the navy during Vietnam and then served as a police officer, earning two gold stars on the big heroism wall chart for those of you keeping score at home. My grandfather Tuffy was a rough and tough man in addition to being a hero of one stripe or another, as were my dad and other grandfather. I mean, Tuffy’s been dead for fifty years, but he’s probably still tougher than you.

PHOTO COURTESY BILL AND SYLVIA MCMULLEN

Then came me. My apple fell a ways from the tree. In fact, the tree is on a steep hill, and my apple fell, rolled down, and landed in a creek that carried it off to be eaten eventually by beavers somewhere downstream.

As a child, for instance, I threatened to call Child Protective Services because I didn’t want to help my dad with a roofing job. As a teenager, I skipped out on athletics to compete for awards for drawing pictures and decorating cakes (I don’t want to brag, but I was the first person to win two first-place ribbons at one Faith Baptist Church youth group bake off). As an adult, I have avoided sports, hard work, confrontation, and community service like they’re the four horsemen. Combine the social compassion of Marie Antoinette with the Okay! Okay! I give up! of the rest of France, and you’ll have a good handle on my disposition.

The worst of it is my self-centeredness. I don’t mean in a vain, preening-in-the-mirror kinda way, but in an "I’d reeeeally like to go down to the mission today and help them serve lunch, but I’m really tired/my back hurts/there’s a new episode of Batman: The Animated Series on this morning" kinda way. I know, deep down, that I should volunteer; it’s just that, like a lot of people, I get so caught up in what’s going on in my tiny corner of the world that I get lost in it. That’s not who I want to be for my son. The Biscuit deserves better than that, and I’m going to give it to him. Daddy’s going to be a superhero. All that stands in my way is being a morbidly obese, out of shape, lazy, inveterate coward with a trick knee.

I know, however, I can overcome all that through hard work and determination. Maybe. To help me out and provide inspiration, maybe I’ll even pay a visit to some of the already established superheroes to see what they’re all about and learn how they work.

I’m sure I can do this. For once in my life, I’m going to finish something.

Or at least make a valiant effort.

Or at least make a half-assed effort and church it up enough to seem valiant. I haven’t decided yet.

Don’t rush me. Flipper’s on.

CHAPTER 2

COWBOY SECRET SPACE DETECTIVE: GEIST

Cowboy secret space detective true love

Super villain two-in-one

The bad guys have taken over Washington

Don’t be scared cause I’m prepared

There’s an emergency but I’m ready

Cause fortunately I’m a super hero too

I got super powers just like you

—Ookla the Mok, Superpowers

Before I fully committed to transforming myself into a real-life superhero, I decided to try to meet a few, talk to them, find out what the life’s like. I made contact with a number of what seemed to be the more established RLSHs, and, after some consideration, chose Geist, a green-clad do-gooder from Minnesota, to be my first superhero playdate. Not only had he shown the most openness with me in our previous communications, but his focus was as much or more on charitable work as crime-fighting, which is the kind of hero I think I’d like to be.

Geist responded to my request for a simple interview by offering to spend an entire Saturday with me, taking me along on charity missions during the day and a crime patrol that night. I recently took him up on this offer, making the fifteen-hour drive from Dallas, Texas, to the Minneapolis, Minnesota, area to meet with Reginald No, Of Course This Isn’t My Real Name Rausch, aka Geist.

PHOTO COURTESY OF GEIST

The drive itself was a beat down. Traveling up I-35 from Texas to Minnesota is like being in a sensory deprivation tank that’s moving eighty miles an hour. My notes from the drive:

Oklahoma

Brown.

Flat.

Kansas

Green.

Flat.

Nice rest stations.

Iowa

Barn.

Silo.

Barn.

Barn.

Silo.

Barn.

Silo.

Holy crap, another barn.

Minnesota

Green.

Slightly undulating.

The worst part of the drive was that all the nothing gave my mind plenty of downtime to go where it wanted, and I usually don’t like where that leaves me. I tend to focus on the negatives in my life, and thoughts of bills; of home repairs that we desperately need but just can’t afford; and of how much I was missing Wife and Biscuit assaulted me the entire time.

Finally, mercifully, I reached Geist’s stomping grounds of Rochester, home of the Mayo Clinic. It was 9 p.m., and I’d been on the road since six o’clock that morning. I pulled off the interstate and, eyes bleeding, turned into my hotel’s parking lot. My first thought after having to cruise around the lot four or five times before finding a spot was, Gee, this place is a lot sketchier in person than on its website. What the hell is going on that this place is full up?

I checked in with a desk clerk who looked like the lead singer for Flock of Seagulls after being victimized by a drive-by face piercer. He asked whether I was there for the Jehovah’s Witness convention, which explained the parking situation. My first response to his question was to worry about hearing polite yet insistent knocks on my door throughout the night and tripping over stacks of The Watchtower left outside my door. Then I decided that, as far as these things go, sharing a hotel with a few dozen Jehovah’s Witnesses is probably better than a biker convention or a dozen soccer teams in town for the under-sixteen state championship.

I lugged my bags up to Room 427 and called Geist, letting him know I’d arrived safely. That done, my only thought between collapsing onto the bed and passing out was, This better be worth it.

Notes from My Day with Geist

11:00 A.M.—GEIST’S HOUSE

My first impression as I sit down across from Geist is Gosh, this guy’s older than I imagined.

I’m in the second half of my forties, is the way he puts it.

We’re sitting at a table on a screened-in back porch on a pleasantly warm late-summer day. Reginald, a fairly average-looking guy who’s in pretty good shape for someone in the second half of his forties, is having a cigarette, a vice not too common among comic book superheroes. But then, apart from the costume, Geist doesn’t have all that much in common with the superheroes most people know. For one thing, he’s not rich. He’s firmly entrenched in the middle class, even complaining at times of the difficulty paying bills every month, putting him much more in the vein of Peter Parker than Bruce Wayne, Tony Stark, Oliver Queen, or any of the dozens of other superwealthy superheroes.

I try to pay most of my Geisting expenses out of the Geist Fund, he tells me. My first hint that he uses his chosen name in much the way the Smurfs used theirs. How does Geist make money? I ask.

Well, I used to have a pretty extensive comic book collection, but I’ve sold most of them through the years to pay for Geist-stuff. I still have a few valuable ones, but they’re tucked away in a safe-deposit box. I’m trying not to touch those if I don’t have to.

Reginald stubs out his smoke and leads me back into his house, a nondescript wooden single-story decorated with an eclectic mix of art deco pieces and African masks and weaponry, resulting in the general impression that Jay Gatsby and the Black Panther both went broke and had to move in together.

I take a seat on the couch and a black cat approaches me, warily.

That’s Sheba. She bites.

Undaunted, I extend a hand in friendship and immediately learn to listen when a person tells me something about his or her cat.

Sheba…bad girl.

That’s okay, I say. You warned me.

I’m going to go Geist-up. Here’s my jacket, if you want to check it out while I’m getting ready, he says, handing me a full-length coat in standard army-issue green. It feels like it weighs fifty pounds.

I probably won’t be wearing it today since it’s so warm, but you can check out the pockets and get an idea of what I usually carry with me, Reginald says, before heading into the other room to Geist himself.

I pick up the coat, but I’m hesitant to rifle through a stranger’s pockets. That’s usually frowned on in polite society, and if there’s one thing my mother taught me, it’s to be polite. After a few seconds, and for some reason checking to make sure Geist isn’t about to return and catch me doing exactly what he’s just explicitly told me to do, I slide a hand into a side pocket. It’s surprisingly deep, and after getting in about halfway up my forearm, I finally feel something not unlike a can of soup. I pull it out, and it’s a large smoke bomb. Green, of course. I soon discover there are a surprising number of pockets in the jacket, all filled with random superhero accoutrement: a slingshot with metal ammo; miniature strobe lights, a flashlight (with three settings: regular, laser pointer, and a very we’re trying to simulate night vision on a budget shade of green); more smoke bombs; and random bits of white paper, all blank.

Having exhausted the pockets, I inspect the outside of the jacket: there’s an aftermarket collar—large, round, and opalescent