The Chronicles of the Spectaculars

Times Goes By

 The next month was the most exasperating one the world had facepalmed at since humankind was trying to figure out fire. Almost every day, somewhere in the city, crime would meekly peek out from under the floorboards and promptly have its nose kicked by the rivalling heroes. Heroes who would then split off with scarcely a civil word or an exchanged rude gesture. Every day, a new crime would pop up, and every day the swift metaphorical hammer of justice would bang it on the head in some metaphorical game of Whack-A-Mole. Some of the gossip-prone citizens that populate every metropolis even claimed to have seen heroes causing crime, if only so they would be first there and first to claim credit. But who puts share by their words anyway? They're wrong of course.

...Right?

Deathwind sat comfortably atop the Knights and Ladies Hotel, in a hideout he had constructed for the sole purpose of watching for crime. It was decked out with all the modern hero could ever need. Lawn chair, cooler of 7-Up and sandwich making supplies, reference material in the form of well-loved comics, and, of course, a gaming console that could support all the necessary games for the modern hero with too much time and too much orphanism. This great, modern hero stood majestic, surveying his domain with the confidence of a lion lacking a brother named Scar.

Well, when I say standing, I mean the chap was lounging in his lawn chair and eating a somewhat sloppily constructed sandwich and reading a book by some dead guy.

He was shirking his duty, exactly, but he was rather trying to divert its attention via a metaphorical platter of toothpicked food so that he could have enough time to get in another chapter of his book. At appropriate intervals, he would glance up to make sure no giants robots or building-climbing ape monsters were trying to make a move on his territory. Turns out, if you don't live in a place with a suitable number of Rockettes and hot dogs, you are likely doomed to a rather slower career of body-slamming petty thieves wearing the overly-obvious but deeply traditional striped shirt and beanie.

As he dwelt on his sandwich-fueled rumination, Oscar glanced lazily up to check again for aliens (or whatever). A streak of light had just zipped over the Wrigley Building. A rather pompous and straight-laced streak of light, by the look of it. Deathwind sighed, standing up and ruffling his hair. He brushed the sandwich crumbs off his white shirt and jumped off the hotel's edge.

He must have expected the winds to pick him up. Luckily, they decided to play along this time. This time. A somewhat exasperated wind picked him up and carried him after the bolt of magisterial light, lecturing him the whole time in a voice normally subscribed to Charlie Brown's parents or a static-tuned television. In other worlds, very easy to ignore but very annoying nonetheless.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Thanks," Oscar said in a browbeaten tone as the wind dropped him unceremoniously on the tarmac near the battle. He quickly got to work by punching some rando in the face. An obviously criminal rando, because he had a beanie. He managed to duck the next bloke's swing. The last month of intense competition with the other heroes had helped somewhat with his reaction time.

Smack

I mean, or not.

Oscar got back up, wiping some dirt off his cheek and getting back into the battle. A few more well placed elbows, a small incident with a corncob (don't ask), and a few well-timed dirty looks at the starry guy, and the battle was over. Oscar flipped his admittedly shaggy hair in the most distasteful way he could manage.then turned and strode off, waving his hand so the winds would pick him up. Just as they started to lift him, he felt a sharp, stinging slap on his shoulder. When he turned, however, no one was there.

No one was there...

...well, excepting the sticky note with the cheerful invitation.

(680 words)