"Superman never made any money
For saving the world from Solomon Grundy
And sometimes I despair the world will never see
Another man like him" -Superman's Song by Crash Test Dummies
I walk up the steps. Elevator's down, yet again. Just when you want an elevator, you get stuck with a few dozen flights of stairs. Not pretty stairs, either. They remind me of the phone booth. Trash everywhere. There are stains on the walls, dark reddish brown ones. Not bloodstains, Jesus those had better not be bloodstains. Not now, I can't deal with that. No more bloodstains today.
That bastard had had a gun. Shot me a few times, and the bastard still got away! Lucky it wasn't kryptonite, I suppose. Just good ole' steel bullets. Not enough to kill, just sting like all hell as they ricocheted off me. And climbing the stairs isn't making this day any better. Yeah, I know, Superman shouldn't have a problem with stairs, he should just fly, right? But guess what? Clark Kent CAN'T fly, he might be seen! Funny, huh? Even I'm not quite sure where the line is drawn between me, myself, and I anymore.
You know the saying about how crime doesn't pay? Well, neither does fighting crime. Otherwise this city-wide hero would have a much nicer bachelor pad. Yeah, bachelor pad, 'bachelor' being the key word in the phrase. Lois hardly knows I'm alive, which is just as well, I suppose. I mean, well... what DO I mean? She's never going to love Clark, never. Am I Clark?
Yeah, I think to myself as I reach the door to my apartment, fighting crime definitely does not pay. I try to keep the place looking nice, but it was not exactly in mint condition when I moved in. And I'm saying 'not exactly' to be nice. Sure, I've pretty much cleaned off the walls and ceilings, but absolutely nothing short of a flame thrower is going to get rid of those purple stains all over the floors, probably from some spilled cheap wine. What's even worse are the cigarette burns everywhere. Not mine, of course, I don't smoke. No point, my internal organs are too tough to even feel the toxins that give everyone such a kick. But that doesn't magically erase the burns.
I think by far the worst damage to the place (aside from the bathtub, but even I'M not tough enough to actually think about that thing) is the bedroom walls. A whole bunch of holes in the walls, looks like someone's head got smashed into the walls, over and over again. I think it was the guy who owned the place. I've overheard stories about him, from the other people on this floor. Apparently he had a girlfriend for a while, while he lived in this dump. She was supposedly a virgin when they started going out, real pretty and sweet. They're not going out anymore, not after whatever fight they had that put all the holes in the bedroom wall. They both moved on, I guess you could say. He moved into a five by nine cell, and she now "lives" in a pine box. Like I said before, crime doesn't pay. At least they sopped up the blood.
You must be thinking I'm heartless by now. Don't worry, I think the same thing. Better heartless than criminally insane. I guess I'm lucky to only be the former. How do you think anyone like me could keep their sanity? As if the multiple identities weren't enough, as if the spandex riding up wasn't enough, I also have to cope with death. A whole freaking lot of death. That's what happens in my line of work (the crime-fighting one). You go out there, you try and save the damsel in distress, or beat up the bad guy. Well, believe it or not, it rarely works that way. Every once in a while, far too often, you don't succeed. Then, it doesn't matter if you try, try again. You still failed, that once.'
What, you've failed, Man of Steel? How could that be? You'd be surprised. I have failed so many times, watched innocents suffer, watched innocents die. It gets to you at first. Bothers your conscience so much, you wonder if you can go on. Then, after a while, even your failures become routine. You're failures become common enough that if you don't put them aside, you go crazy. Not mildly depressed crazy, no, much worse. You become absolutely stark raving mad. Not something I look forward to, so I put the failures aside.
That doesn't mean I don't think about them. Ever wonder why Superman never shows up in his PJ's to fight the forces of evil? Has nothing to do with my sense of style. It's just because I couldn't sleep if I tried. Too many faces staring at me in the dark. Beautiful women, cherubic toddlers, wrinkly geezers, all wearing the same terrified expression. The look of fear that comes from knowing you are about to die. There are several versions of it, of course, but it's like the difference between one fast food chain's burger and the next, just twisted variations on a macabre theme. Still the same heartburn, still the same nightmares. Different sides of the same coin, fast food and death. Wonder if I could make some money off of that slogan, sell it to the American Heart Association for their campaign against clogged arteries.
I hang my coat up on the peg, throw my keys on the kitchen counter. I flip on the boob tube, and guess what? Mighty Mouse is on Channel 4. "Here I Come to Save the Day!" a masculine voice sings at me. What a laugh. Maybe that'll be my theme song from now on. I can sing it as I sneak up on a bank robber. Think the crook'll notice?
It may not be a fortress of solitude, but hey, it's home.
For saving the world from Solomon Grundy
And sometimes I despair the world will never see
Another man like him" -Superman's Song by Crash Test Dummies
I walk up the steps. Elevator's down, yet again. Just when you want an elevator, you get stuck with a few dozen flights of stairs. Not pretty stairs, either. They remind me of the phone booth. Trash everywhere. There are stains on the walls, dark reddish brown ones. Not bloodstains, Jesus those had better not be bloodstains. Not now, I can't deal with that. No more bloodstains today.
That bastard had had a gun. Shot me a few times, and the bastard still got away! Lucky it wasn't kryptonite, I suppose. Just good ole' steel bullets. Not enough to kill, just sting like all hell as they ricocheted off me. And climbing the stairs isn't making this day any better. Yeah, I know, Superman shouldn't have a problem with stairs, he should just fly, right? But guess what? Clark Kent CAN'T fly, he might be seen! Funny, huh? Even I'm not quite sure where the line is drawn between me, myself, and I anymore.
You know the saying about how crime doesn't pay? Well, neither does fighting crime. Otherwise this city-wide hero would have a much nicer bachelor pad. Yeah, bachelor pad, 'bachelor' being the key word in the phrase. Lois hardly knows I'm alive, which is just as well, I suppose. I mean, well... what DO I mean? She's never going to love Clark, never. Am I Clark?
Yeah, I think to myself as I reach the door to my apartment, fighting crime definitely does not pay. I try to keep the place looking nice, but it was not exactly in mint condition when I moved in. And I'm saying 'not exactly' to be nice. Sure, I've pretty much cleaned off the walls and ceilings, but absolutely nothing short of a flame thrower is going to get rid of those purple stains all over the floors, probably from some spilled cheap wine. What's even worse are the cigarette burns everywhere. Not mine, of course, I don't smoke. No point, my internal organs are too tough to even feel the toxins that give everyone such a kick. But that doesn't magically erase the burns.
I think by far the worst damage to the place (aside from the bathtub, but even I'M not tough enough to actually think about that thing) is the bedroom walls. A whole bunch of holes in the walls, looks like someone's head got smashed into the walls, over and over again. I think it was the guy who owned the place. I've overheard stories about him, from the other people on this floor. Apparently he had a girlfriend for a while, while he lived in this dump. She was supposedly a virgin when they started going out, real pretty and sweet. They're not going out anymore, not after whatever fight they had that put all the holes in the bedroom wall. They both moved on, I guess you could say. He moved into a five by nine cell, and she now "lives" in a pine box. Like I said before, crime doesn't pay. At least they sopped up the blood.
You must be thinking I'm heartless by now. Don't worry, I think the same thing. Better heartless than criminally insane. I guess I'm lucky to only be the former. How do you think anyone like me could keep their sanity? As if the multiple identities weren't enough, as if the spandex riding up wasn't enough, I also have to cope with death. A whole freaking lot of death. That's what happens in my line of work (the crime-fighting one). You go out there, you try and save the damsel in distress, or beat up the bad guy. Well, believe it or not, it rarely works that way. Every once in a while, far too often, you don't succeed. Then, it doesn't matter if you try, try again. You still failed, that once.'
What, you've failed, Man of Steel? How could that be? You'd be surprised. I have failed so many times, watched innocents suffer, watched innocents die. It gets to you at first. Bothers your conscience so much, you wonder if you can go on. Then, after a while, even your failures become routine. You're failures become common enough that if you don't put them aside, you go crazy. Not mildly depressed crazy, no, much worse. You become absolutely stark raving mad. Not something I look forward to, so I put the failures aside.
That doesn't mean I don't think about them. Ever wonder why Superman never shows up in his PJ's to fight the forces of evil? Has nothing to do with my sense of style. It's just because I couldn't sleep if I tried. Too many faces staring at me in the dark. Beautiful women, cherubic toddlers, wrinkly geezers, all wearing the same terrified expression. The look of fear that comes from knowing you are about to die. There are several versions of it, of course, but it's like the difference between one fast food chain's burger and the next, just twisted variations on a macabre theme. Still the same heartburn, still the same nightmares. Different sides of the same coin, fast food and death. Wonder if I could make some money off of that slogan, sell it to the American Heart Association for their campaign against clogged arteries.
I hang my coat up on the peg, throw my keys on the kitchen counter. I flip on the boob tube, and guess what? Mighty Mouse is on Channel 4. "Here I Come to Save the Day!" a masculine voice sings at me. What a laugh. Maybe that'll be my theme song from now on. I can sing it as I sneak up on a bank robber. Think the crook'll notice?
It may not be a fortress of solitude, but hey, it's home.