Highest Rank: #144 in Adventure. He was 18-years-old when his father died. He was also 18-years-old when he received his powers, one of which was the ability to manipulate metal.
After running into the city of Politum, Tyzon Foster is kidnapped by...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
After the background exposition, he made a depressing remark about his love life, "Your mother, see, I think she did not like the life that her and I had together for there was not much 'excitement', if you know what I mean, but I never knew that she was that desperate," he finished. I was lucky enough for George to tell me that story through his breaking point.
After his telling of the sickening story, that sloppy joe in my stomach soon realized it had been out of place. Anxious that I could lose my dinner at any second in the form of a projectile, I asked George if he could wheel me into the bathroom, for the constant pushing of my arms would be enough to trigger my vomiting.
As a brief silence followed, to which I assumed was for his thinking about his own struggles with my mother, George eventually decided to ignore his problems to focus on mine, like a real father would. By helping to carry me into the bathroom, the sloppy joe was ejected out of my belly into the toilet in time for I was at the peak of my spewing point.
While I emptied my stomach as well as what felt like my intestines, my father walked away after a moment of staring at his own son barfing up a meal his ex wife made. Wheeling my vulnerable self into the bathroom was an act I appreciated like no other, for I knew at the back of my mind that this was the last thing that he would ever do for me. While I pulled myself out of the stinking toilet bowl, I had not bothered to even refill my empty stomach and slept in my room contemplating how the next day would turn out.
The worst of my predictions came true after I was roused by my alarm, which had woken me up on the wrong day. The alarm was intended to wake me up for the days I had to attend rehab, which was every two days, but that day was not the day. My prediction was that his miniaturized drinking problem would be amplified by this stress, and unfortunately my estimate was true and this turned him into an alcoholic. He also shut out all natural light sources from penetrating our home and so I was beginning to question his stability and sanity.
For three whole days, George had sat on his couch next to a table with bottles and bottles of differing alcohol. Each bottle being stronger than the last, as he was saving the grandest bottles for the end and chugged down the cheap beers first, so driving me to rehab was not an option despite numerous calls. Hanging up on the center was the only thing I could do.
There were only two tutors during that three day period for it included the weekend, which was supposed to be the days of celebration and the happiness of our family, but it had been the complete opposite. I shamefully sent both of the tutors off for I could not concentrate knowing my father was in the next room slowly killing himself, but I had given each tutor their greedily wanted tip for the trip they had to take in order to reach their destination.
When I focused on George, I began to worry about why he did not vomit at all. I took a second to think about all of the chemicals building up in his body and how his liver was decaying by the second. I was surprised George was actually still alive but I did not know what to do with or without him. This thought will be revisited once he has died as well.
