Yello, folksies! I've got somethin' for ya's. KPK's funky word for the day: Befuggled (bee-FU-gold. Rhymes with Google). Definition: see confused. Isn't it great? But anyways. Last chapter was pretty boring, so I apologize. I'm working on pacing myself with stories, a talent I do not possess. Whatever.

"Hello, Ma'am. My name's Robert Parr, I'm here for a job interview."

"Let's see, Robert Parr was it? (hum hum hum) Ah, here we go! Yes, you want to go up the elevator to the sixth floor. When you get there, take a left. It's the third door on your right from there. Don't worry, you'll see it."

"Thank you." Bob walked to the elevators, hit the up button, and waited patiently. He looked at his watch. Eleven forty-seven. He had just under half an hour until his scheduled appointment. The super looked around the lobby area while he waited for the elevator. There were bright, golden lights hanging from the ceiling, making the blue marble-like walls look like water. Already he liked the place better than Insuricare. It reminded him of that one mission he'd done in the Glory Days chasing Baron von Ruthless. Stepping into the elevator, he chuckled to himself, reminiscing over the strange events that led to that excursion. "Heh heh. Never again."

The elevator beeped, and Bob stepped out into the hallway. He turned to the left and started counting doors on his right. He stopped in front of the third one. The burly man heaved a relaxing sigh, saying, "Showtime," and stepped into the room. His face dropped.

It was a kind of waiting room- obviously this section of the building was designated specifically for job interviews. The room was packed with other potentials. The ceiling fan squeaked incessantly above. Bob felt his stomach drop. What were his chances against so many other people? As he walked to the secretary's desk, he couldn't help but notice that some of these men looked like they needed this job a lot more than he did. Other men were dressed in much finer suits than his.

"Here for a job interview?" the secretary asked, placing her magazine down.

"Yes, Ma'am, I am."

"Name, please?" the young woman asked, taking out a pen and clipboard.

"Parr. Robert Parr."

"Lessee…Okay, you're interviewing for the middle management job, I see. Most of these guys are in for that one. You can have a seat over there; Mr. Moscowitz will be with you shortly."

"Thank you," Bob said, turning to the side of the room the secretary had designated. He walked over to the chairs, only to find they'd all been taken. Some potentials had taken to sitting on floor. Bob wasn't too keen on that, so he just stood next to the chairs, watching the news on the TV suspended off the ceiling like the others.

Apparently, the city's baseball team had just lost the fifth game in a row. Abruptly, the news switched to footage of the day before outside of the track stadium. It seemed that they were having a 'Super scientific specialist' in as a guest speaker to talk about, not only how supers got their superpowers scientifically, but apparently the guy was a psychologist as well.

The footage seemed to be focusing on the last moments of the battle; a zoom in on Dash being strangled by the Underminer. The more Bob watched the footage and listened to the psychologist in the background, the more guilty he felt about letting Dash get into that situation. Then he noticed that the Underminer was saying something to Dash under his breath, just loud enough for Dash to hear. The psycholo-dude pointed this out as well, noting how the threats made by super villains to younger superheroes could be potentially devastating. And the more Bob watched the repeated footage, the more discomforted Dash seemed.

"Funky stuff," the fancy-suit man in the chair next to Bob said.

"What do you mean?"

"That psychologist, I mean. He's a little odd."

"How so?"

"Well," the man said, turning to look up at Bob, "he's arguing that 'supers' have the same kind of stress and problems as the rest of us to go along with stress directly related to their powers. He's saying they probably have hard, maybe harder, lives like us 'normals.'"

"Yes, that is an original take on 'supers,' compared to what other psychologists have been like in the past," Bob answered politely, turning back to the TV. Fancy-Suit did the same.

"You know what I think. I think supers have super-amplified mindsets. Makes sense, doesn't it?"

"That's a little old-fashioned thinking, if you ask me."

"Old fashioned?" a younger man in a weather-beaten suit said. "That's being very polite."

"Oh?" Fancy-Suit asked.

"Yeah," Ick-Suit answered. "Think about it. They've been in hiding for fifteen years. Don't you think after that much time, even if they did have heightened personalities, or whatever, don't you think they would've become pretty 'normal' after fifteen years of…" Ick-Suit looked as though he didn't know how to put his ideas into words.

"Well, what do you think?" Fancy-Suit asked, turning back up to Bob. It was hard for Bob to believe he used to be fatter than this guy.

Bob leaned his arm against the wall. "Well, I think-" Kashunk! Bob's hand was now holding his weight up against the piping, which was squirting at him. The room was staring at him. He turned to the wide-eyed secretary. "I…I…I'll pay for that…"

Meanwhile…

"Thanks for taking Jack-Jack while I do errands, Honey."

"No problem, girl," Honey said.

"Anyway I can make it up to you?" Helen asked, standing outside of Luscious and Honey's apartment.

"Yeah. Don't tell my husband."

"Deal." Helen kissed Jack-Jack goodbye and hurried down the stairs.

"Say bye-bye, Mommy!" Honey cooed to Jack-Jack, helping him wave. As soon as Helen was out of his view, the baby started bawling. And caught flame. "Say hurry home, Mommy!"

"Guys!" Helen scolded, running over to the car Violet and Dash were seated in. "This is a rental!" she said, taking the squirt bottles full of soda away from the kids (you can imagine what they were doing).

"So?" Violet shrugged as her mother climbed into the front seat. "You got that weird insurance stuff. We could get hit by a eighteen-wheeler in this thing and wouldn't have to pay a dime."

Helen stopped a second, then looked over at her daughter in the passenger seat, a small grin creeping along her face. "Are you sure about that?"

Violet gave her mother a look of slight befugglement. "Ye-aaah…"

(time skip)

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"

"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Helen whopped as the car 'flew' off the hill at record speeds. Speeds most NASCAR drivers wouldn't even flirt with.

"Mom, you're insane!" Violet screamed, holding onto her seat as tightly as possible as her mother burnt rubber in order to make the left turn."

"You know it!" Helen shouted back.

"Imagine what she was like fifteen years ago!" Dash said as he was slammed into the side of the car.

"Hold on to your hats!"

"Mom, we're not wearing- WHOA!"

SCREECH, reeeeev, VROOOOOM, ERRRRR, screeeeeeech, wobble wobble wobble, "Mom, lil old lady, 12 o' clock!" SKID, Honk honk, screeeee, spin spin spin spin spin, errrrRRRRRRRRR,… wham, veeeerrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRR, BAM!

Dash was thrown into the back of the driver's seat by the sudden stop, and Violet was practically hyperventilating, her hands glued to the dashboard in front of her, while Helen calmly exited the vehicle as though she'd been driving the way she always had. When she realized her kids weren't moving, she opened the driver side door.

"What're waiting for?"

"W-w-wow, Mom!" Dash laughed, un-embedding his face from the back of his mother's seat. "That was amazing!"

Violet did not budge.

"Vi?"

"When I turn fifteen in October, Dad is teaching me how to drive!"

"Oh please," Helen said, "If you think I'm a reckless driver, you two should've seen your grandmother."

This is sad. This is the fourth chapter, and I haven't gotten twenty four hours into this thing. That's just sad. All well.

Review…?