The business of being a super-hero is a popular thing these days – from the mainstream Superman, Batman, and Spiderman to the more esoteric Tick, Dog Welder, or Squirrel Girl – everyone has a secret desire to don a suit and fight crime. Actually, some of the suits are a crime, but that is something I’ll leave to Edna Mode to sort out.
In my case I have to adapt my ambitions to my resources. I have not got big muscles or eyes that send out laser rays – not even the ability to cloud men’s minds with a hypnotic gesture. The best I can do is grin and bear it and get revenge later. ( Revengeman? The Nemesis? Schadenfreuder? All possibilities…) I need to reduce the idea of super to a manageable commodity.
I can write. That I’ll admit to. It was not always thus, and I daresay it will go again one day, but right now I can spit out copy like a teenager regurgitating pizza. I can fight crime and injustice by writing biting little articles and slipping them under the doors of the guilty. Or I can slip them onto WordPress and hope that the veiled references are going to work. I regret that no-one will let me near the keyboard controls of the scoreboard at the sports stadium…
Or I could promote myself as The Backstabber. I’ve been the head of the Backstabber’s Guild of Australia for decades and there is no-one more qualified than I to tell your friends exactly what I found out about you with one simple credit check. I wonder if I could have a super-hero costume with a cape?
No, Edna? Well, you’re the boss. Not too tight around the shorts, please – I have no ambitions.
CatskillMan? Only if I can work with a snare drummer at the supper show. Tish-boom…Try the veal.