"The monster has been effectively neutralized."

One reporter stood, raising his recorder as if it was a torch of justice. Without waiting for acknowledgement, he inquired, "Mr. President, what are the chances that the creature will return?"

"There is no chance that this thing will return," the president answered with a sentence not much different from his past twenty-seven sentences.

A reporter in the back now stood. "Are there preventative measures to ensure that it stays gone?"

The president heaved a sigh, and he could feel his nostrils flare with the magnitude of the breath. "Preventative measures are unnecessary because the creature is terminated. It's dead." He struggled to keep his voice even, but the last two words bore the irritated edge to his tone. He believed for just a moment that his response would satisfy the press, but then one more reporter rose from his seat.

"Mr. President, what are your plans for when the creature returns?"

President Stuntcastin exhaled slowly, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides. Composing his words carefully, he concocted a response that he anticipated would appease the crowd. His resulting statement came out tensely, and his voice cracked within its restraints. "We will make certain that the monster will not attack again." He turned and, ignoring the persistent voices of the press, exited the platform and shut the conference room door. In the safety of the empty room, he yanked off the curly dark wig and tossed it on a nearby table, muttering in irritation the entire time. His long blue braid thumped against his back with each heavy step.

"Those idiots," he grumbled. "Don't know a job well done when they see one." He paced to the wall, slapped it with one hand, and turned. Just before he stepped out of the pivot, he halted as he narrowly avoided collision with his wife.

Mrs. Stuntcastin gave him a sympathetic look, but she only remarked, "The meeting was longer than I expected."

He let the woman lead him to a rolling chair, and he made no protest as she gently pushed him into the faux leather padding. She reached over the back of the chair and began to unbraid her husband's hair.

"How can those reporters not believe that the monster's gone for good?" he complained incredulously. "I vaporized that thing completely. The Power Band spares nothing."

"You know reporters," the Mrs. stated as she worked at a tangle. "They always have to find a place to be skeptical."

"I see no room for skepticism here!" His voice rose and cracked, and he nearly rose from the chair, only for the First Lady to pull him back. "How does expect something to appear that has been removed from existence? Seriously!"

Mrs. Stuntcastin combed her fingers through the man's now free hair, pulling some of the locks to fall over his shoulders. Leaning over the back of the chair, she draped her arms around him in a loose embrace. "They don't know any better. They have to get their pay from somewhere."

He huffed at this. "By being annoying and redundant?"

"Exactly. It's their job. We'll get used to it, I'm sure. It is your job to deal with the pesky matters, is it?

Sighing, he answered, "Yeah." He leaned back into the hug, pressing his cheek to one of the slender arms about him. Suddenly, a maniacal cackle erupted from outside, followed immediately by many a panicked scream. SuperMagic PowerMan looked up at his partner, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Speaking of jobs," Lanolin Lady remarked.

The man nodded with a near-mischievous arch of his vibrant eyebrows. "Duty calls."

In a blur, the superhero duo dashed off, their only trace being a suit jacket and a blazer in the chair.