AWESOME-MAN

PART ONE: ENTER THE AWESOME

(I)

ALBERT Milton Sr. didn't know why he was a "senior," seeing as how he didn't have a son by the same name—shit, man; he was only twenty-three—but yet he'd had that name for as long as he'd been alive. He'd been born with it, and it made no sense.

He seemed to recall his dad had said something to him when he was a bratty little tyke, something about how "junior" and "senior" were classy name suffixes, and that they gave one an air of immense wealth, which Al could definitely agree with. Classy was cool. Classy was groovy. Classy was jive (whatever that meant; he'd heard it used on his jazz records, but didn't really know). It was almost like Dad felt a compulsion to "class up" the family, as if he felt a sense of embarrassment about the choices he'd made earlier in life, like they might be considered shameful to the memory of Granddad (who had very much been a classy man).

Al contemplated such-and-such as he loaded up the bong, one which was both made from environmentally friendly, gluten-free plastics and also lined with the hallucinogenic substance known as PBD—peanut-butter diethylamide—so you couldreally fly high. On the streets it was called acid, because of the acidic taste it had in liquid form, if you licked it off the ground or off somebody's arm. He wasn't exactly sure why somebody would lick PBD off the ground. Y'know, unless they were really fiending for a buzz, or something.

Using a knife to scrape the last of the peanut-butter oil out of the tin, he smeared it into the bowl, sliding each side of the knife against the bowl's rim to get all the oil off. He tossed the empty tin into the GreenPlanet Destruct-O-Matic 1000 EX Ultra-Destroyer Edition—the most supreme model currently on the market—and grinned as he listened to the sound of his eco-activism at work.

Al didn't exactly dig science much, but he knew whatever was inserted, jammed, smashed or gently coaxed with lubrication into the Destroyer would then be biomechanically broken down and—greenly, of course—have its atoms rearranged in such a way as to modify its molecular structure, where it would then be converted into rich, earthy black soil. The resulting soil was then fired through a series of self-sterilizing tubes leading underground and towards the closest GreenPlanet facility, where it would then be tested, before being redistributed to an area in need of fresh soil.

But again, Al didn't dig science, so he wasn't sure of the specifics.

A screech filled the apartment as the tin was converted. He could only imagine what plants and life-forms would find a home in that nutrient-rich dirt—assuming, of course, that NukeMore didn't get their grubby paws on it first. Oh, sure, they said they were striving towards a cleaner, greener planet, but Dad had some stories to tell about them. Dad claimed to have almost shut them down, years ago, when he'd been a young outlaw, living off the fat of the land out in Twin Snake Burl. Hard to believe that man ever existed, Al thought, considering now he's filthy rich with his own restaurant chain: Henry's Peanut Butter Sandwich Shop.

He fired up the bong, hearing the bubbling, watching the tube fill with swirling smoke. Holding in the hit, tendrils of the thick white smoke streamed from between his lips and jetted from his nostrils. Al switched on the GreenPlanet TV—no gamma rays coming out of this TV, no sir; just good old clean, green energy: specifically, sunshine and fecal matter. Which reminded him—he'd need to dump the dirt tray later on tonight.

Al found PTV and leaned back, already feeling the vaguely narcotic, euphoric sedation of the oil but still waiting for the PBD to kick in. It had the tendency to come on in waves: subtle at first; then a full-on, dig-your-nails-into-your-thighs-and-enjoy-the-ride kind of blast through the fabric of your own mind. What kind of trip would he take this time?

"We interrupt your drug-induced pondering for this special broadcast," said a calm voice from the TV.

Al perked up a little, with raised brows and lazy lids.

"You missed the premiere of the latest program to rivet Peburia. Now, today, you will tune in and drop out alongside your fellow Peburians. Get ready, Albert Milton Sr., because it's going to be one bumpy fucking ride."

"Cool, man."

"This. Is. AWESOME-MAN!"

A heroic-sounding song started playing. You know the song, you've heard it a million times before in a million different ways, but yet they all sounded exactly the same. We're talking an upward chord progression or harmonized horns, causing you to experience a feel-good swelling in your body. Side effects may include: goosebumps; tingling sensations; heart palpitations; sweating; chills; the sudden urge to become a vigilante and kick some criminal ass; involuntary muscle spasms in the arm, making you salute somebody, anybody.

Feeling as though he had merged with the couch into one solitary, sentient being, Al looked towards the corner of the room and saw, surrounded by a brilliant white light, a very skinny young man tapping away on a keyboard as he stared at a screen of some kind (possibly a futuristic-looking computer?), chuckling to himself, drinking a dark, carbonated beverage called "Pepsi," and eating Original-flavoured Lay's Wavy chips with a French-onion dip.

"What are you doing, man?" Al asked the stranger.

Nothing. Shut up, watch the TV and enjoy your trip.

On the screen, a furious mash of moving images and dreadful freeze-frames flashed by. A man in a suit of some kind punched people, laughed soundlessly, and stood with his elbows out and his fists firm against his hips.

In bold, shimmering letters: AWESOME-MAN.

1

i

ON planet AtomPunk, there sat a pornographic store called PornoPlex, where one could purchase movies or magazines of whatever fetish they fancied. Within that store, a very short and very frail-looking man stood at the cash register, reading a comic book as he waited for late-night porn-addicted customers to arrive, from the rowdy regulars to the nervous newbies.

Under the dismal lighting, Joey—our hero, the porn clerk—looked close to death. However, this was not due to sexually transmitted diseases, nor was it merely the result of bad lighting. With blue-green-purple veins visible on his pallid snow-white face, his weak chin, his thin shoulders and limp wrists—evidently he was not, by anyone's standards, strong. In direct sunlight he actually looked worse. And that was just what was visible to the naked eye. Take his clothes off and he had stick-thin legs, an ass that was more two pieces of bone fused together than an actual ass, a permanently present rib cage you could play like a xylophone, and a chest so boney it made him the envy of skeletons and the anorexic alike.

Joey was simply the winner of the worst possible genetic lottery. He was luckier than anyone, in the sense that bad things happened to him to a degree not only improbable, but otherwise impossible. He'd had a girlfriend once, but she'd been hit by a truck and could now be seen decorating the pavement on Windsor Street when the lighting was just right (which had the tendency to be most hours of the day). He'd had a decent job once, but his now-ex-boss had been standing nearby when Evalynn went ker-splat, staining his most favourite expensive suit. His parents had once been healthy, but they, too, had been near when the shower of gore occurred—apparently Evalynn had had some kind of horrible STD and they'd both swallowed her blood and contracted it. Though he'd thought himself unlucky before he'd learned of her condition, Joey was just lucky he'd never been intimate with her. He wasn't sure he'd survive such an illness, considering the state of his body as it already was.

The comic he was reading was the debut issue of a new superhero—The Human Butthole, an exotic spelunker-type who exacted vengeance with the same subtlety his name implied. Joey wasn't particularly fascinated by the character, whose origin story went as follows: Sucked into a mysterious, power-giving black hole while engaging in some hardcore back-door lovin', Maximus Gluteus is no longer an explorer of caves and derrières but an explorer of the crime-rich night. He beats off friend and foe alike with his super-powerful grip, imbued with the power of the black hole that birthed him. Pretty lame stuff, but PornoPlex were attempting to branch out from bukkake and trying to capitalize on the burgeoning superhero craze. Joey was only reading it because he couldn't afford a new real comic yet, not until he got paid.

Even then, with Ma and Pa both sick in bed all day, most of his paycheques went towards buying them the medicine they so dearly needed in order to keep on living their meagre lives. Of course, he'd have to pay a visit to the local food bank, beg for extras, then hit up the local soup kitchen, beg for extras, then go dumpster-diving behind every single bakery, fast-food and slow-food restaurant in AtomPunk City. But such were the lengths he'd go to in order to keep his parents around.

Joey sighed and held a hand to his forehead. The headaches were getting worse. They seemed to start when he took a job at this place, which was located right beside a nuclear power plant. But Nuke-A-Lot claimed they'd gone green! They couldn't possibly be the reason for his headaches! Could they?

A regular by the name of McGurney, a fat man who had the bad habit of belching and tooting a lot, emerged from the red-curtain-shrouded viewing room at the rear of the store. Toilet paper was stuck to his hands and to the bottom of his shoes. A roll of it, seemingly tethered to the puny organ within his jeans, was in the process of unwinding behind him as he traversed the shop on his way to the door.

Feeling impotent, Joey watched McGurney leave, but didn't say a word. That two-dollar roll of environmentally friendly, gluten-free toilet paper would be taken out of Joey's next pay cheque. He massaged his temples and willed the pain away.

Not long after, a man came in wearing a long tan trenchcoat, a bent-at-the-brim tan fedora and large black sunglasses. He stopped at the entrance, stood still, stared forwards. The door clanked shut behind him. His getup wasn't exactly uncommon amongst the patrons of PornoPlex, and his demeanour was actually a bit more normal than Joey was used to.

Joey continued to read The Human Butthole #1, keeping an eye on the tan-clad man as he browsed through the store. Sometimes these guys with trenchcoats liked to try and steal. Other times they would attempt to pleasure themselves—which was perfectly fine... in the viewing room.

The man stopped for a moment in the very popular Midget Bike-Riders section. Seemed to study what was available. Then he came straight towards Joey.

"Yes, sir, how can I help you today? Here at PornoPlex, it is our pleasure to help you pleasure yourself. Our goal is to get you off," Joey said, rattling off the speech he knew better than his parents' birthdays.

The man brought his head forward over the counter, until it was practically up against Joey's ear. "Yes," he said softly, like he didn't want to be overheard. "Do you... have... Midget Ride Bike With Horsey, Volume 35?" His manner of speech was terse and deliberate, like every syllable of every word had to be spoken with absolute clarity.

"I believe Volume 35 is due to arrive at the beginning of next month, sir. But, if you'd like, I can rent you Volume 34, which has received rave reviews thanks to the acclaimed direction of Mack L. Moorehead, and the immense talent of Lil' Lucy Tinytits."

"No, no... That will not do." He was silent for a moment, then: "Do you... have... Going Apeshit, Volume 4?"

"Again, that is next month's volume of the Going Apeshit series of coprophilic films. However, as you can see"—Joey waved one hand to the opposite side of the store, where the whole wall was filled with various Defecation videos and magazines—"Volume 1–3 are in stock, alongside director Terry Turd's award-winning predecessor series, Shit4Brains. Can I interest you in any of those, sir?"

"No, no... Say, what is that you are reading?"

"This? This is the first issue of The Human Butthole, a new superhero created by PornoPlex. He has a bike-riding, coprophilic midget for a sidekick, so it might be right down your alley. Or up it. Sir."

The man suddenly removed a card from his coat pocket and laid it flat on the counter. At first, Joey thought that maybe he'd been arrested for something—he had no idea what—but then he read what was on the card.

The man took off his sunglasses and his whole demeanour changed. "Talent scout for Nuke-A-Lot. I'm in R&D, searching for suitable volunteers for a groundbreaking new project we're undertaking." He looked Joey up and down. "You seem perfect for the gig. Sorry about the questions earlier, kid, but I had to be certain you weren't a spy. You know your way around a porn shop, kid. You're the guy we want. You're the guy we need."

Joey was speechless. They wanted him? For R&D? Hold on. They needed him? "Um. Okay?"

"Okay?" The man smiled. "Name's O'Dooley, by the way. Come with me. We need to start right away. Oh, and you'll be greatly compensated for this. Financially speaking, of course. With money."

O'Dooley grabbed him by the collar and they rushed out the store.

"B-But where are we going? What are we doing?" Joey asked, looking back and seeing the unmanned counter, the unlocked door, the lights still on, the We're Open sign still hanging out front as if that were the case.

O'Dooley didn't answer, just took him deep into the dark of night.

They walked next door. Past the armed guard who nodded like he knew. And into the Nuke-A-Lot facility.

ii

THE scientist behind the project—one Dr. Maniak—explained the procedure to Joey in very technical terms. Much of this explanation was comprised of polysyllabic words—usually in the ten- to twelve-syllable range, but sometimes dipping as low as seven syllables; Joey noticed the latter words would be used after he expressed confusion regarding the procedure, and he got the strange impression Dr. Maniak thought him to be an imbecile. Eventually the doctor left in a huff, ranting and raving about the stupidity of today's generation, and how it was the loud, delinquent music ravaging their brains. Joey didn't have the chance to point out that he didn't listen to music.

Joey was all alone now. He was sitting on a table in the middle of an empty, grimy laboratory. Pools of grease, piles of dust and smears of dried blood decorated the room. He thought he saw an ear in the corner, sitting atop a pile of dust like a king sitting on a throne. Some kind of stand-up chamber was positioned off to his right, hooked up to a complicated series of glass tubes and nuclear-powered computers. They glowed green.

A cat slunk into view. It meowed and Joey was able to rub him, gently stroking what looked to be tumours growing all over its body. The furry skin that covered each of the cancerous growths split open, widening, revealing numerous eyes. The cat was covered in eyeballs! They blinked and focused on him.

The cat suddenly stood on its back legs with its head cocked at an angle, ears twitching all around as if it heard some noise undetectable to Joey's ears.

"Eyeballs!" somebody shouted from outside the lab.

The cat's many eyes widened, and the lids slid closed as it raced off towards the voice.

A few moments later, a pimple-faced geek in a lab coat ten sizes too big for him entered the room. He had a chart in his hands. "Hi. You're the new patient?"

Joey looked to the ear and gulped. "New patient?"

A nod. "I'm Dr. Soandso," the geek said. "Well, I'm not technically a doctor, but I will be! If I can pass the exams this time!"

"This time?"

"Now, um, Mister... Hotshit?"

Joey nodded.

"Is that your real name?"

Another nod.

"Good." The geek scribbled something down. "So you're going to be awesome today, are you?" He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "I guess it's tonight. Huh."

"I think it's this morning by now."

"Really? Huh. Time sure flies when you're mutating creatures."

"So... what exactly will you be doing to me?" Joey asked. He kept glancing at the ear. "How does this work? What does 'awesome' mean?"

The geek opened his mouth wide and audibly thought for a second. "Uhhh. Well. You're not awesome now. So we're going to make you awesome." He closed his mouth and smiled, obviously satisfied with the explanation he'd provided. "Now, Mr. Hotshit, we are going to inject you with a substance. Don't worry. We believe it's most likely probably harmless."

"Substance? Most likely probably? And who's we?"

Dr. Soandso looked around and scratched the pus-filled sores on his face. "Oh. I'm the only one here. Okay. I thought Dr. Maniak was supposed to be looking over my shoulder... The last patient— Uh. Well. Things didn't work out so good."

The ear. Oh God. The ear.

Dr. Pustules went to the computers and started flipping switches and pushing buttons seemingly at random. The computers glowed a brighter green, a hair-raising hum filled the room, and some kind of acid-green fluid or gas, or something, flowed through the glass tubes. "Let's just wait a few minutes for it to warm up."

Wiping sweat from his forehead and wringing out his soaked-wet shirt, Joey said, "Warm up?"

"Uh. Good. You already took your shirt off. Now, Mr. Hotshit, take off your pants. And, uh, your underwear."

Already in the process of doing just that, Joey kicked off his shoes and socks, and did his best to cover his modest-sized private areas.

The Doctor-to-be opened the door of the chamber. "Uhh. Step inside. Okay?"

Joey did as he'd been asked and felt a pang of anxiety in his gut as the door crashed shut. It was dark in the chamber, despite the smeared-and-smudged rectangle of glass that allowed him to almost see out.

An enormous, low-frequency groan sounded within the chamber, rattling his ribcage. He doubled over, feeling like he'd been punched in the chest. He knew this pain. His lung had spontaneously collapsed from all the bass. A green light filled the chamber. Vision blurry from all the tears, Joey was able to make out some writing that had been scratched into the metal interior from a previous occupant.

It read: I'M GONNA DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE.

iii

JOEY didn't die, of course. But he did feel like he was about to—for about two seconds.

Dr. Soandso threw switches and pushed buttons.

The neon-green light departed the chamber. Smoke or steam or something equally cool streamed out from the door as it opened. Joey emerged looking as frail as always. Except now he had a spray-on tan.

"Was it a success?" he asked. He had to admit, he did feel good. His chest felt perfectly healed.

"Uh. Better go in for another round," the geek said, studying the healthy orange glow that was now Joey's body. "I'll really crank it this time."

They repeated the process. Joey's lung collapsed again. He thought he was about to die. Then he didn't. He screamed as his arms and legs and groin swelled. It felt like his skull was expanding somehow. He felt taller.

The door opened and a hunky, muscular, definitely taller man with chiselled good looks emerged amidst smoke, fog, steam, and other cool, expensive-to-describe stuff.

"Dear God..." Dr. Soandso crossed himself. "It worked! It worked!" He jumped up and down as cheerleaders do for boys they have crushes on.

"I feel..." Joey said, and he had to pause, as the voice he'd heard in no way resembled the voice he'd lived with throughout his entire adult years thus far. It sounded deeper. Manly. "I feel awesome!" He flexed his biceps, contorted his body and flexed his triceps, arched his back and flexed his ass. He pistoned his fist forward, catching the dork in the belly.

Flying backwards like he was riding a missile, Dr. Soandso crashed through multiple walls, becoming bloodier and more bruised with every wall he smashed through. The man disappeared into a cloud of dust.

Stepping through each hole, Joey found the never-going-to-be-a-doctor dead on the floor, his bones powdered and his skin rubbery from the beating it'd taken.

This was some kind of power. He'd never known anything like it, not in all his years. He could get lots of money for Ma and Pa... But it should only be used for good! "From this moment forward," he said, "I am Joey Hotshit no more! I am now..." He paused as he thought up an appropriate name. "...Awesome-Man!"

The janitor went mopping by, making sure to slide the corpse into an out-of-the-way corner. "You might want to throw on some underwear while you're at it." He shrugged. "Just a thought."

2

"THIS is important, man," Tim Darlag said.

"How?" Joey asked. "Why?"

"This is make-or-break, my man. You gotta have the freedom to be yourself. To be your own man."

"So you're saying you need to pee in the pool?"

"Yes. Some pools take special offense to it. But this pool?" Tim spread his arms as if presenting greatness. "I've seen the girls in this pool, man." He lifted a leg and waved his arms around, like he was swirling invisible water. "All of them. It's so easy."

"What are you talking about?" Joey was two steps away from getting annoyed. When his only friend, Tim, had asked him to come shop around for honeymoon pools, he thought it would be simple. They'd come look at a pool and sign-off on it, and Tim would be able to marry his sweetheart and go on their honeymoon and swim in peace. But apparently not. Tim was standing before the pool of the Chateau De Frontenback, miming pool urination and the proceeding clearing-away motions. All Joey wanted to do was kick some criminal ass with his newfangled powers.

"I'm saying, wittle winnocent Joseph, that the girls who swim in this pool don't mind a little golden shower, if you catch my drift." He winked with both eyes—which, to a stranger, might be mistaken for an exaggerated blink.

"You need help," Joey said, truly regretting befriending a regular of PornoPlex.

Tim shook his head and air-kissed at some passing ladies. "What I need is a girl who likes to wake up to a little ammonia in the morning. A little copper-coloured chlorine in the eyes."

"Why are you getting married if you're just going to cheat? Better yet, why are you even in a relationship?"

Laughing, Tim said, "Peeing on a girl isn't cheating, not even close. Boy, are you green, Joey! Watersports is really more of an enthusiast's hobby, like stamp-collecting or stargazing."

"I think you're the one who's out of the stratosphere on this, Tim. What does Geraldina think of all this?"

"Geraldina didn't work out, my man. This is Julianna. I met her last night and popped the question. She said yes! Can you believe it?"

"Not really, no."

"I just need to settle down, Joey. Y'know, pee on some chicks." Tim nodded at what Joey was wearing. "Say, what's with the suit? Costume party later?"

Joey glanced down at his skin-tight rubber outfit, which he'd somehow managed to make last night; it took all of two minutes. It was red and yellow, with a full-face mask, and on his chest was a yellow A surrounded by a yellow circle. "No, I'm a superhero now."

"Right on, man. Roleplaying. I knew you had a kink." He winked with both eyes.

Joey sighed. "It's not a kink. Everything's a kink with you. I've got powers now, Tim. Nuke-A-Lot gave me them in some experiment."

"Ah. 'The Human A-Hole.' Not a bad name. A smidgen too close to that exciting new comic character I've been reading... But, y'know, just a little. Say, you do look stronger, now that I care to notice. You been working out? How much can you bench? And your voice does sound different. Deeper. You been taking supplements?"

"Gah. Whatever. I'm out of here. You and this pool seem perfect for each other." Joey turned and stormed off. He'd made it back inside when he heard foreign-sounding shouting from behind.

"Prepare to die, Judenskis!" Then the rattling of machine-gun fire, high-pitched wails and dying screams.

Joey turned to see a pool of blood-red water. A pile of bodies. Soldiers in red-and-black uniforms dumping them into the pool. And a shirtless man with a toothbrush moustache, black hair parted to the side, and enormous muscles. His arms were disgustingly veiny, and the veins glowed green. The man held Tim—still alive, thankfully, though unconscious—by his hair.

"You, with the rubber sex suit! You want this man alive, ja?" He threw his head back and laughed maniacally. "Then come get him!" A fireball flew from his hand and sparked an inferno over the pool. He threw Tim into the fire and Joey's only friend disappeared. The man with the moustache turned to Joey and sneered before jumping into the blaze himself.

"TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIM!!!!!!" Joey yelled.

The soldiers turned to him.

"Why is he shouting? Stop shouting. I don't like when people shout. Mommy and Daddy shouted."

"Do we jump in, too?" one asked, scratching the top of his helmet and pricking his finger on the spike. He winced and sucked on the blood-gushing stub.

"I think we kill this guy here," another said.

"But The Dark Master ordered him to follow into The Pit."

"Oh, okay. Then we should allow him to pass first...? Or...?"

"Da, I think so."

Joey punched holes into every soldier before him. He left behind a group of generic minions, gasping on the ground, as he jumped in the fire. Joey vanished, heading after Tim and the one they called The Dark Master.

3

DOWN in a world of fire and brimstone, of red-orange rock, of pungent black smoke, of molten-hot lava and bubbling liquid.Joey emerged from the fire and saw a horrific world before him. Green-veined deposits snaked their way through the hellish landscape, obviously some kind of natural resource. Naked, emaciated men and women were being whipped as they hammered, chiselled and pickaxed their way into the rock, exposing a glowing green substance, which was then extracted with a mysterious vacuum-like device.

A whip-wielding woman jumped around excitedly. "We have hit the jackpot, baby!" She pushed a button on her tight-fitting suit.

One nearby grunt raised his scimitar. "For Mother Russia!"

Another grunt beside him curled his lip and growled. "No, for the Fatherland!"

Mother Russia sucker-punched Fatherland. "Mother Russia!"

Fatherland massaged his jaw and kicked Mother Russia. "Fatherland!"

Mother Russia limp-danced away the pain in his knee and stabbed Fatherland. "Mother Russia!"

Fatherland held in his innards with a look of deep regret on his face and, in a stroke of brilliance, kept quiet.

A sort of small off-road vehicle, driven by a severe-looking blonde woman in uniform, pulled up next to the arguing grunts.

The Dark Master—the toothbrush-moustached man, with the big arms that glowed like the rocks down there in The Pit—got out of the vehicle and clonked their heads together. "Idiot Judenskis! Hell is where the party is at!" A sick grin worked its way across his face. He flexed and roared, spittle flying from his mouth and striking the dazed grunts in the face. They shrieked as their skin melted and they died. He laughed maniacally and noticed Joey for the first time. "Oh, good! You made it, da? You like this place, ja? You must be wondering where your friend is, da? Enter my vehicle and I will show you. Ja?"

Joey obliged when the driver showed him her pistol and ordered: "Get in, anti-capitalist dog."

He sat down on the seat being slapped by The Dark Master. They started driving. Easy-listening corporate crap-rock was playing at a pleasant volume: just loud enough to not be silent.

The man beside said, "My name is Josedolf Hitlerstalin—or, as I prefer to be called: Satan. It is my mission to bring nuclear power to the world. As you can tell, ja, nuclear power comes from here, within my domain. And then we sell it to the highest bidder up top, in your precious world."

They left behind the enslaved miners and entered a guarded community called Herr Chevolek, where great towers reached into the smoggy red sky, and where every house had a miniature power plant puking out radioactive waste into the ditches. Kids with third and fourth arms growing out of their heads were playing in the ditchwater, throwing it into the air and letting it rain down on their arms/heads, drinking it, etc. Joey didn't like this place, not one bit.

Satan noticed the horrified expression on Joey's face. "Like what you see, da?"

"No. Not at all."

"Aha. Good."

They parked outside of what looked to be a hulking metal barn.

"Come, come," Satan said to Joey as he exited the vehicle.

The driver nodded with both her head and her pistol.

Joey got out and helped Satan with the screeching door. They went inside.

Tim was hanging by his dick from the ceiling, turning back and forth in lazy half-circles. His dick was stretched to a degree no dick should suffer. Joey felt Satan's hand pat his shoulder.

"You like what you see?"

"No. I don't." He chanced another look at Tim. His friend's arms and legs hung limp. "Is he still alive?"

"Oh nein. Of course not. He died hours ago—Hell Standard Time is different from your time above—but we loved the way he decorated the place, so we let him hang around."

"There's nothing here. Just Tim hanging by his dick."

Satan stepped away, smiling all white teeth. "Ja, because we brought you here to die, foolish Judenski!"

Five identical-looking, angry blonde women marched onto the scene. They stood around Satan, guns out and ready.

"My personal armed guard!" Satan was saying. "I call them..." He inhaled deeply and exhaled fire. "Feminazis!"

In sync, the Feminazis grunted and ripped open their uniforms at the front, exposing their wrinkly, clementine-sized tits. Evidently, they'd spent many hours in training to perfect such a routine. "Heil Hitlerstalin!"

"Beg for mercy, fool!" Satan yelled, arms looking about ready to explode. His biceps had biceps of their own.

Joey showed off his own guns. "No. And you miscalculated something, Satan."

"Oh?" He pulled out a calculator, ready to be schooled. "And what's that?"

"I've got the power of radiation, too." Joey—Awesome-Man—shot off like a bolt of lightning, feeling the energy flowing through him, guiding him, enhancing his body beyond the levels of normal men. He whipped around the barn, punching holes through and kicking limbs off the Feminazis. They fired their weapons, but they only hit the walls and Tim—because, yes, Awesome-Man was even faster than speeding bullets.

A stray bullet cut Tim down. He hit the floor and broke in half.

Awesome-Man punched left and right. His fists a blur, they moved so quickly. His opponents tried and failed to dodge his attacks, no match for the Awesome. A head came clean off, bouncing off a wall and landing in a trash bin. Blunt trauma to the abdomen and chest took care of a pair of others. A roundhouse kick to the face put one into a coma for about half a second, then death swept them away.

Now it was just Satan and one of his whores.

Awesome-Man took a flying leap and decided he'd rather fly around the room. Around and around, picking up speed until he reached Mach 69, he smashed through the last Feminazi, turning her to Jell-O in a uniform. She jiggled and trembled—but very much dead.

Looking left and right for backup but not finding it, Satan fell to Awesome-Man's feet and held his hands up, begging for mercy. "P-Please, Awesome-Man. Don't k-kill me. I'll be your b-best friend, da? I'll— I'll s-s-service you, ja? Would you like that?"

Awesome-Man shook away the monster. "I don't befriend demonic creeps with toothbrush moustaches. And I certainly don't accept blowjobs from them, either."

"W-Will you at least spare me...?" Satan asked, wiping the snot from his nose with his forearm.

"Did you spare Tim?"

Satan glanced at the naked, elastic-dicked corpse. His head sagged. "N-Nyet."

Suddenly, the ground shook. A great rumbling filled the barn, and it seemed as though the whole place was going to come down.

"AHAHAHA!" Satan bounced up on his feet. "YOU FOOLISH JUDENSKI! YOU SHOULD HAVE KILLED ME WHEN YOU HAD THE CHANCE! SAY HELLO TO THE GREAT MOTHER!"

"Your mother's in town?"

The floor broke beside Tim's dead body, and the corpse slid in and out of sight. Dirt sprayed up from the newly created pit, piling up around it, like it a hole being dug from beneath the ground instead of from above.

Awesome-Man didn't know what was coming. The Great Mother? It sounded hardcore. He pumped up his muscles and prepared himself.

What emerged, however, was beyond his wildest nightmares.

4

i

SHE had sixteen hundred nipples running up and down her serpentine body, made all the more horrible by the sixteen hundred nipple rings dangling from each blue-black teat. She had an inflated hood like a cobra, and her forked tongue slithered in and out, testing the air. The Great Mother was a highly evolved snake-creature.

"M-Mother," Satan said, scurrying to her belly to suck on a nipple. His next words were lost amidst slurping moans. Milk ran down his chin, painted his moustache.

The Great Mother looked down at Awesome-Man with slitted eyes. Her tongue flicked. "Who issss thisssss one?"

There was something about those nipple rings that made Awesome-Man get a little hot under the collar. "Name's Awesome-Man, baby. What say you and me skedaddle and ditch this loser son of yours?"

"Ssssoundsss good to me." Her tail wrapped around Satan's neck and crushed every single vertebrae within it. She threw his corpse against the wall like a squash ball. He landed on his back with his lips pooched out and a comical expression of death frozen on his face, toothbrush moustache covered in milk.

The Great Mother slithered over to Awesome-Man. "My name'sssss Ssssandy."

"Mine's Joey," he replied, and then he ripped out all her nipple rings. He watched her bleed out, uncertain as to why he was doing the obscene things he was doing.

When she was dead, he lugged her body out of the barn and dragged her to the nearest chapel. He handed twenty bucks to the Hell Priest and asked him to marry them.

It was a private ceremony, and the only guest was the janitor who swept in the background.

ii

AWESOME-MAN was lying in bed with his wife Sandy's carcass. He smoked a cigarette, always a pleasure to savour after banging your dead wife. He had a theory as to what was making him so crazy. It was possible the radiation that'd given him his powers was also eating away at his brain, possibly creating many tumours inside his skull, slowly killing him but quickly turning him insane.

Just something to think about.

He stubbed-out the smoke and climbed aboard Sandy, The Great Mother. She was getting kinda smelly, and he wanted to get a few more rounds in before she became too rancid to tolerate.

Then he'd bury her.

Maybe.

PART TWO: MR. NO-MAN

(II)

ALBERT Milton Sr. turned off the TV, shaking his head and massaging his eyelids. "This TV stuff is off the cob, maaan. Talk about corny shit." He grabbed his bong and fired it up, too fucked-up on the PBD to realize the bowl was still empty. All the colours were swirling around, sparkling and flashing, disorienting him. When he did realize, he laughed groggily to himself, and then grabbed a tin of fresh oil from his stash. This was a new strain, from a new company. Ultra-Fly. He'd never heard of them before, never smoked their stuff—so he was curious as to how it would smoke, whether it would compare at all to the dank product of SoHigh.

It was a struggle to get the tin open, but he finally did. The rich, nutty smell filled the room, and he could actually see brown-and-green stink lines rising off the oil. He filled his nostrils with closed eyes and saw the creation of the universe behind his eyelids. First: nothingness; then: a big bang of colour, energy, matter. Suns being born. Worlds being built. Peburia, orbiting around a fiery star, brown tides flowing this way and that. He saw Glasomil, the god of Light, float out of the cave and start shaping the world. His brother Pebusa, the god of Shadow, followed shortly thereafter. He saw amoebae swimming in a primordial peanut-butter sea, increasing their numbers and evolving through cellular division. A meteor struck, bringing oxygen to the planet. He saw algae, then plants, flowers, trees, fruit. He saw creatures being birthed, some of them swimming ashore, mutating into a diverse collection of life-forms. Insects buzzed, creeped, crawled. Dinosaurs emerged, then mammals, then man. Man and dinosaurs walked together, formed a friendship. Civilization was founded. Cities built, destroyed, built again. The world changed. Technology changed with it. From bone computers to nuclear-powered ones. The world had changed and would continue to change.

"Shit, that stuff smells good," Al said, opening his eyes at last. He packed a fat bowl with the entire contents of the tin and then tossed the empty tin over his shoulder.

As the tin flipped through the air, one could read on its bottom: PRODUCT OF NUKEMORE. It landed in the Destroyer and was converted into dirt.

Al ripped from the bong. He got high.

But that wasn't all he got...

5

HE woke the next morning feeling absolutely miserable. There was a heaviness in his chest. His throat felt tight and sore, made it hard to get a decent breath. As he rolled out of bed, he tried to clear his airways but that only seemed to make things worse, made Al gasp and wheeze. Panicking, he let out a series of increasingly deep coughs—really digging down into the depths of his lungs to try and get whatever crap was in there out—and ended up coughing thick, foul-smelling old blood into his palm. Revolted, he found some toilet paper and used it to wipe away the smear.

The hell is going on, man? he asked himself, staring at his reflection in the mirror, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the heavy black stubble on his face and neck. Only shaved yesterday. Shouldn't be back so thick, so soon. And those dark circles don't look healthy, either. Al did some more coughing and felt a bit better when he'd cleared out all the black blood. Now he was just coughing for the sake of coughing.

It seemed like he'd started feeling crappy after smoking the Ultra-Fly oil. Could that have caused this—whatever this was? He went out to the den and checked his peanut-butter-oil tins. Most of his stuff was SoHigh, but he did have a couple Ultra-Fly left. He started reading the fine print on each brand, comparing them, looking for details—any kinds of details—that might shed light on his situation. Maybe the oil was manufactured in a different, less-clean facility. Or maybe one had a different list of ingredients than the other.

That was when he saw—

"NukeMore!?" he shouted to the room. Stared with his mouth hanging open. "Are you joshing me, man?" The hell was NukeMore doing making peanut-butter oil, anyway? And why wasn't it better advertised than that? Jesus. Al could just imagine the kind of radiation they used in producing their oil. No wonder he felt like crap. "Practically smoked radiation," he muttered.

Tossing the two Ultra-Flys aside—didn't dare to make polluted soil out of them—he packed a pipe bowl of SoHigh and flipped on the TV. Sure enough, NukeMore's CEO, Jürgen Frauenhöschen, was discussing recent developments with the company's fleet of nuclear-powered automatons. The grey-haired man kept wiggling in his seat and smiling when he did so. Al didn't know whether it was his disdain for the company's philosophy influencing his opinion of the man, but Jürgen gave him the creeps. There was something about the way he'd do a little gasp when he shifted in his chair that made Al think the bastard was harbouring some deep secret.

He didn't think anything was awry as he smoked his pipe—that is, until he realized he hadn't actually lit the bowl. And yet it was burning as if he had. Al looked around his coffee table, convinced he'd find his lighter there, somewhere, and that he simply hadn't been paying attention when he'd used it. But it wasn't on the coffee table. He searched around the house and found the lighter sitting in the utensil drawer. Why the hell would it be there?

In the kitchen, Al shook his head and stared at the TV. He was really tired of the crap this Jürgen guy was selling. He wanted to be rid of the man.

The TV suddenly turned off. The remote was sitting on the coffee table. Al still stood in the kitchen.

This was really bizarre. Al thought he needed some fresh air. First he needed to get his shoes on.

A clip-clop filled the room. He turned to see his shoes stepping towards him, marching footless towards his feet. He stepped into them.

His eyes became slits. He thought: Boy, I could sure use some television.

The TV turned on.

No TV, he thought.

The TV turned off.

I want oil.

A tin of peanut-butter oil floated through the air and settled into Al's waiting palm. 

"Holy hell," Al said. "This is like that outrageous show last night. Awesome-Man." Maybe I'll get that fresh air, he thought, and the door opened for him. He laughed and stepped outside.

6

THE suburb Al lived in, located just outside of Peburia City, would make any housewife who dreamed of living the perfect life blush. Birds seemed to chirp together more than they seemed to compete, which made it sound as though a heavenly orchestra played daily, from sunrise to sunset. Stoned men and women rode their bikes in the nude, but there wasn't anything sexual about it, because they were old, wrinkly and gross, which meant children didn't need their eyes covered out of protection from the natural horrors of the world.

He took a deep breath of the clean, green air. Windmills and solar panels adorned the roof of each house in the neighbourhood. This was a pro-GreenPlanet area, and Al wouldn't live anywhere else. In the more rural parts of Peburia—where people were generally poorer, less educated and longed for vast sums of money they had no hope of ever seeing—support for NukeMore and more conservative values was higher. But this was a middle-class, college-educated area; people here had the tendency to place the needs of their planet over the wants of their wallet.

It was such a nice day for walking that Al decided he would do just that. He puffed on his pipe and waved to the friendly neighbours. The Rutherfords from down the street rode by on a two-seat bicycle, Mrs. Rutherford's boobs swaying with the gentle left–right rocking of the bike. The Watchers—the current jargon for the massive ship in the sky—sat as they always did, seemingly frozen up there with the clouds drifting past. Al wondered who was in there, and why. There were rumours—stupid stories, mostly—that they were abducting people, but those who claimed such things didn't seem the most reliable sort of people. They always seemed to own twenty thousand cats, or live in a house filled with empty soup cans they hadn't bothered to dispose of.

Maybe we'll solve that mystery in my lifetime, he thought to himself, staring up at the ship, getting lost in the rhythmic blinking of its lights.

Al had almost reached the end of his street when a man-sized shape flashed by, from right to left. He stopped and tried to process what he'd just seen. Was it the oil? No. Nonsense. He continued walking, turning his head to the left to maybe catch a glimpse of what he'd seen blur past. But nothing was there. And then the blur popped out of a hedge and came shooting towards him. Al was too stoned to move. The blur turned into a person—a well-muscled man—wearing a red-and-yellow rubber suit, and he stopped two feet away from Al. On the man's chest was a yellow letter A and it was encircled with a yellow ring.

"Hey, kid, can you help me out a minute?" the man said.

Al couldn't believe his eyes. He looked at his pipe again, then back at the man. "Awesome-Man!? But you're a fictional TV character."

Awesome-Man shook his head like he was annoyed. "Yeah, yeah. It's mostly a scripted reality show. But whatever. I need your help. I'm being chased by the dastardly Mr. No-Man, and I need a place to lie low."

"Who's Mr. No-Man?"

"It's not important, but he's only the worst, evilest supervillain around."

"So whaddya wanna do? Where d'ya wanna go, daddy-o? I've got a huge collection of hip jazz records we can snap our fingers and get experienced to. That would be a gas."

"Jazz sucks."

"Yeah, it does, but it's still pretty cool."

"You're right, it is, but I don't want to listen to jazz right now," Awesome-Man said. His eyes went wide as he saw something over Al's shoulder. "Oh, shit!"

Al turned to see a man in a pinstripe suit, levitating with his arms wide like Glasomil on the cross. The man wore a plain white mask of some kind, which made him look as though he lacked a distinguishable face. A long red wig sat on his head. The man lowered himself to the ground.

"Ahawhawhaw," the man said more than laughed. If it was laughter, it sounded phoned-in to Al's ears. "We meet again, Awesome-Man!" His voice was muffled by the mask.

"Fuck off, Mr. No-Man," Awesome-Man replied. "And take your capitalist wank-stories and shove them up your ass where they belong."

"My ass only takes one thing!" Mr. No-Man retorted—though Al wasn't exactly sure it could be considered a proper retort, more of a self-deprecating admission than anything. "Ahawhaw," he added, as if to save face.

"What's going on?" Al asked, wondering what he was in the middle of.

Awesome-Man turned to him. "Kid, go. Save yourself. Before it's too late."

Mr. No-Man laughed again. "What's going on, boy, is the death of your precious Awesome-Man. And with his death, capitalism will run amok and unchecked. Zero regulations. Zero accountability. As it was meant to be! Ahawhawhaw!"

"Run, kid. Go. Don't get caught up in this bull—" Awesome-Man choked on his last words, and then began puking up rolls of one-dollar bills. Blood and bile followed the first few rolls, then the man's organs themselves. He dropped to the pavement, twitching and shaking, speaking almost-silent words as he foamed at the mouth.

Al stared in shock at the stomach and intestines on the ground, at the money Mr. No-Man sucked up like a vacuum into the sleeves of his suit.

"No sense keeping you around," the villain spat, before raising his arms towards Al.

Al shot out his pipe-free hand and let out a battle cry. A stream of peanut butter blasted out from his palm and drenched Mr. No-Man.

"M-My new suit! Y-You'll pay for this, hero! With dividends! Prepare to cash in your last cheque someday soon! Ahawhawhaw!" The villain levitated into the air again, and flew away.

Awesome-Man coughed. "I don't believe it, kid... You— You're the chosen one..."

Al rushed to the man's side. "What? What are you talking about?"

"The... The one destined to replace me..." Cough. "Take— Take the suit off me. Wear it. And, Al—"

"How do you know my name?"

He half-shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Pebusa told me." Awesome-Man smiled weakly beneath his mask. "Al, listen closely... Find. Tim." And then he collapsed, dead. A single blood-stained bill unrolled from his mouth.

"Awesome-Man?" Al shook him. "Awesome-Man!" He wiped a tear from his eye. This wasn't right. Murder wasn't right. And Mr. No-Man would come for Al, too, because Al had powers now. Awesome-Man had told him to wear the suit—why? To become Awesome-Man? To keep the hope alive for all his beloved fans? Because Awesome-Man wasn't just a person, but a message. A statement. An idea. Fine. He would do that.

Al tugged at the material around Awesome-Man's ankles. It was easier than expected, taking off the suit, since the guy wasn't wearing any shoes.

7

i

FEELING more than a little self-conscious, Al strolled through the streets, asking random passersby if they knew where to find Tim from Awesome-Man. Most people took one look at the outfit he wore and either laughed or rolled their eyes. Some people backed away as if they were frightened and told him no. One man actually sprinted away, shouting, "Fuck away from me, weirdo!" over his shoulder as he ran.

Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, loitered outside of the beer store, playing with their yo-yos. Both wore fashionably expensive suits. They saw Al coming and laughed.

The girl said as she walked the dog, "Quick, hold on to your sandwiches. Awesomely Fat–Man is here to save the day."

Al looked down at his potbelly and felt a pang of hurt.

The boy added as he went around the world, "No, mister, we don't actually have sandwiches. Sorry to crush your dreams." He rolled his eyes and the girl smacked him lightly on the arm. They both laughed and high-fived.

"Hey, very funny," Al said. "Do you two by any chance know where I can find Tim?"

"Um, he's your sidekick." The girl snorted and made a cat's cradle.

"Did you check your ass?" the boy asked as he pulled off a sleeper, which brought on more laughter from the two.

Al sighed. "Do you know or not, you little shitheads."

They gave each other stunned expressions. The girl put her hands on her hips, letting her yoyo die. "Maybe check behind the beer store, asshole."

Al nodded and rushed past them, into the alley that led behind the place. From behind, he heard the boy shout: "You're lucky we don't get our parents to sue you, you stupid costumed fag!"

Ignoring that noise, Al looked around the relatively empty rear parking lot. Aside from a single NukeMore car—no doubt the store-owner's vehicle—there was nothing back there except two dumpsters overflowing with garbage. Thinking the two had been putting him on, Al turned and started heading back through the alley.

He stopped when he heard a loud grunt and a burp from behind. He spun around and raced over to the dumpsters at the speed of light. Lying on a flattened cardboard box, he saw a grizzled, worn-down man who possibly might have been the same guy who played Tim on the first episode of the show, but it was hard to say. The guy had holes in his ratty track pants, and his dick was hanging out. Shattered beer bottles were all around him. The guy looked worse than Al had when he'd gotten up that morning.

"The hell d'ya want, Hotshit." The man dug around in his ear and his finger was bloody when it came out. "Aw, shit. I'm dying again."

"Are you the cool cat who played Tim on Awesome-Man?" Al asked.

"Yeah, that's me. Don't recognize me, Joey?"

"Uh, no. Listen, Awesome-Man is dead. Mr. No-Man killed him and tried to kill me, too, but I fought back. Awesome-Man told me to find you, just before he died."

Tim struggled to get up, fell back onto the cardboard. He grabbed the side of the dumpster for support and pulled himself to a standing position. His hands shook. "No-Man took out Joey? That motherfucker. I guess it's time I came out of retirement. Let's put a stop to that bastard. You and me."

"Wait— You have powers?"

"Of course I have goddamn powers. I take it you didn't watch episode two?"

"Nope."

"Awesome-Man resurrects my character with radiation crystals and I become his sidekick, The Whizz-Kid."

"So what happened to you?"

"People complained that my character took things 'too far,' so those fuckin' execs booted me off the show. Pricks... I haven't exactly taken their decision easy, as you can tell..." Tim scratched his brown-grey beard. "Suit doesn't exactly fit your figure, does it?"

Al kicked the ground in embarrassment. "I didn't exactly pick it."

"Oh, no, no. It looks good. Yeah." Pause. "So your name's Al, right?"

"How does everyone know my name?"

"Pebusa. I've been waiting for you, Al. You're gonna need to brush-up on your superpowers, I think. Actually, me, too." Tim started walking towards the alley. "Come on. Let's test them out on these stupid fucking kids. They could use a good taking down a peg or two."

ii

AFTER the two rich kids were unconscious and covered with peanut butter and piss, Tim took Al to his place, which he shared with a couple roommates. He said his roomies held the secret to beating Mr. No-Man.

Tim's place was located in the shitty part of town, where gunshots were more common to hear than birds, where the houses looked about as comfortable as a flattened cardboard box behind a dumpster behind a beer store. Al didn't say any of this, though. They went inside the house.

"Mind the broken needles," Tim warned him as they waded through the filthy house. Used condoms were everywhere. Piles of tattered clothes sat here and there, reeking of sex, sweat and mildew.

They headed downstairs.

In a dingy, black light–decorated basement, two long-bearded twenty-year-olds sat spaced-out on the couch, drinking beer, rolling joints and whipping out the colourful cartoon-character-addled sheets of high-powered blotter acid. There were suspicious fluorescent stains everywhere: on the couch, the walls, the ceiling, the individual blades of the ceiling fan. There was an open box of pizza on the table, with five slices left. It didn't look very appetizing under the black lights.

"Heeeeey," one of the roomies sounded, keeping his mouth wide open.

The other stared at the floor, either dead or catatonic.

"Listen, Raj, I need you to contact Them. It's important."

The catatonic one looked up. First his eyes rolled upwards and then his head followed.

"Okay?"

Raj stared.

"Raj says yeah," the other one said.

"I still don't understand that telepathic shit, Darnell." Tim shook his head and sat down beside them. He grabbed a slice of pizza. "Hey, Al, take a load off, buddy. Eat some pizza. Raj is gonna work his magik."

"Just gonna take a leak," Al said, and left for the bathroom. He packed and smoked a quick bowl, then flushed the toilet. He didn't trust the oil these guys no doubt had.

When he came back, he saw a single suspicious stain on the sole remaining slice of pizza. He sat down on the couch, which was now quite full. He didn't eat any pizza. "So how long will this take?" he asked.

Tim shrugged. "Could take minutes. Could take days."

8

IT took about an hour.

A lightheadedness overtook Al. He found it hard to recall if it had come on suddenly, or if it had been a gradual rise of sensation. Like PBD, it seemed you really only knew it was happening when you were finally launched into hyperspace.

And that was similar to what had happened here.

One second everything seemed fine, maybe a little dizziness. Then: Al and Tim were both floating up off the couch, up through the basement's ceiling, up through the house's roof, up, up into the sky. They picked up speed, and no matter how much Al desired to get away—which, admittedly, wasn't much; a narcotic feeling had overtaken him—he couldn't seem to move. He was stuck. They were stuck. And they were whipping through the air towards the ship of the Watchers.

Why were they going to them? What would they do?

Questions in Al's mind, but oddly enough, the asking of them didn't seem to generate any anxiety. It was like he was drugged—and maybe he was, though this wasn't the oil. Of that, Al was certain.

They didn't lose speed at all when they neared the ship. They didn't collide with it, either, just passed through like they had in the basement. When they'd reached what looked to be some kind of control centre—aglow with buttons, dials, and screens—they stopped on a dime. Their feet touched the floor of the ship and they were free to move now. Oddly enough, Al still felt no anxiety, only blissfulness.

"Have you been here before?" he asked Tim.

Tim nodded. "Once. With Joey."

Before Al could say any more, two white-skinned giants wearing plain robes stepped through whooshing doors. One had a very serene, emotionless expression and long, untied blond hair. The other was grinning and wore a brown ponytail.

"Howdy, strangers," said the one with the ponytail.

"Gadrean," said the other, raising a hand.

"Sorry, boss," Gadrean said, grinning.

"My name is Godrean," the other said to Al, looking calm and full of wisdom. "You have been expected for quite a while. We have anticipated your arrival, Albert Milton Sr. Gadrean, if you would please take a sample."

"On it," Gadrean said. He rolled up Al's sleeve and pressed a device to his forearm. It seemed like it should've hurt, as it made a noise and Al felt it stab him, but it didn't. "Done like dinner."

"Your destiny is almost at hand," Godrean continued. "This is good. Normally we do not wish to take sides in these petty squabbles your species participate in, but I am afraid this is one battle we cannot"—he punctuated the word with a swift headshake—"stand idly by and watch. Your bloodline is fated for greatness. That much is Foreseen. How such a fate might transpire, that much is not. It is our choices that make us who we are, as I am sure you know too well, Albert Milton Sr. Do not you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "The question you must ask yourself is: Do you wish to take part in this war? But I can sense your answer, so you need not speak. You both will forget this encounter when you leave, and perhaps we will meet again. Perhaps not. It has not been Foreseen. Your destiny is in your own hands."

Godrean came and placed his palm against Al's forehead. He felt a warmth enter his mind. Something changed inside him, but he couldn't yet say what.

"Can I get an upgrade?" Tim asked. "My powers suck."

Godrean turned to him. "No." He left the room.

Gadrean said as he, too, exited: "Stay safe, kids."

And then it was like the floor had fallen out from beneath their feet. Al and Tim were both falling from the ship, rushing down to meet the pavement below.

Al felt something in him awaken. He could fly. He knew it. And he shot off and grabbed Tim, feeling an immense strength he hadn't previously possessed, as well. They whipped through the skies, doing circles around the NukeMore cooling towers, which seemed to belch steam twenty-four hours a day.

Al could get used to this.

If only he could remember how and why he had these powers.

9

i

"WHO the hell is that, doing loops around my cooling towers?" Jürgen Frauenhöschen, CEO of NukeMore, asked his waif of an assistant, Angela Angelson. "Push the button and alert Mr. No-Man, please. I'd like this taken care of pronto." He stood scowling at the window, watching the bastard flying around like he wasn't insured and couldn't care less.

Jürgen rearranged his willy so it was tucked into his anus the way he liked and turned to Angela, who was currently dragging herself on the shiny, just-polished floors in yet another bout of post-lunchtime starvation. She was so like her good-for-nothing mother, who had been one of Jürgen's previous assistants. "Gah! You idiot! I'll do it myself! And eat a fucking sandwich already! Why do all you stupid Angelsons starve yourselves like it's a stupid sport!?"

He pushed the glowing green button and thought of his daughter's panties. He decided he would wear her pink thong when he got home as a reward for having to deal with this bullshit.

ii

MR. No-Man levitated out of one of the cooling towers and landed in the parking lot, where Al and Tim were smoking a joint.

NukeMore automatons had been malfunctioning all day and were currently bumping into the walls of the central office building over and over.

"Ahawhawhaw," No-Man said, marching towards Al and Tim. "Nice suit. Does it come in men's?"

Al looked down at his now-ripped body. "I am a man."

"I know that! You foolish, anti-capitalist turd! It was a joke about how only women wear leotards, and how real men like me wear pinstripe suits, because business is a man's trade, and women are only allowed to look pretty."

"Men wear leotards, too. There are lots of male dancers and gymnasts. And the feminist movement is rightfully fighting for women to be allowed in the workplace among men, so pretty soon you'll be seeing more women wearing suits and working in business."

No-Man growled and tried to turn it into a laugh: "Grrrahawhawhaw. This ends today, you foolish Awesome-Man wannabe. Prepare to sell all your shares in Life."

Cracking his knuckles, Al passed the joint to Tim. "Only two hits on that, 'cause I'm coming back to hit it in a minute or two."

No-Man and Al squared off, circling each other. No-Man was in his dying-on-the-cross position, while Al had his fists up and ready to strike if necessary.

Suddenly, urine sprayed all over No-Man's expensive suit. He growled as he saw it was Tim—"The Whizz-Kid"—pissing on him. "GRAAAAAAAAH!!! NOT ANOTHER SUIT! WHY DO YOU TWO SCUMBAGS INSIST ON RUINING EVERY ONE OF MY FUCKING SUITS!?"

Al rocketed forwards—and he was pretty sure he had flames coming out of his feet—and smashed into Mr. No-Man. The blank white mask came flying off, rattling off the pavement, and No-Man slid across the parking lot.

Al and Tim went over to see how the villain was doing.

"Jürgen Frauenhöschen! I should've known it was you!" Al slammed him back down to the pavement when the bastard tried to get up. "No, no. You're staying here until the pigs come 'round. Tim, call them."

Tim nodded and ran off to find a phone.

"I charge you with polluting the planet, you piece of money-making trash. You're going away for a looong time..."

iii

JÜRGEN Frauenhöschen sat in his jail cell, looking morose as the TV showed more of the heroic exploits of Awesome-Man and The Whizz-Kid. The pair had started saving cats from trees and pissing out house fires. Those two shitters would pay. With dividends. One day.

The cell was nowhere near large enough. His cellmate farted too much and talked in his sleep. But at least he had a daily re-up of panties to wear, brought in by his wife. The other inmates liked to smell them, convinced they'd last been worn by a beautiful woman.

Fools.

One day Jürgen would be out again. As Mr. No-Man once more. And he would get his revenge. He only hoped such a day would come sooner rather than later. He rearranged himself downstairs. Sat and waited. With patience, like how one treated their stock portfolio.

Then: At the window, a great ball of light squeezed through the bars, filling the room with a yellow-white glow.

"Jürgen," it said. "You are of no use to me here."

A ten-foot-tall, five-foot-wide chunk of the wall disintegrated.

Jürgen had an easy escape.