Published — 7/20/26
“Ok, so like, I’m here with Marvel Maiden and as you all know she’s a bad bitch girl boss who wears tights and fights crime, and like, we’re just gonna chat about, like, what’s your love life like?”
“Oh girl, don’t you know dating is so not in right now. I deleted all the apps and I just fly around in my invisible plane to wherever I want, and do whatever I want, because men these days just give me the ick.”
John Jeffries turned off the podcast with a grunt.
I just can’t listen to this drivel anymore. He opened the news app on his phone and was met with the headline:
“Superb Guy Teams Up with Kevin Clain to Launch New Line of Crime-Fighting Themed Underwear.” When he read May Stevens on the byline, he shut the app and threw his phone on the table.
He stood up from his desk. The walls of his office were covered in framed articles he had written. Articles with headlines like “Pangolin Man Busts Basketball Bandits in Botched Bank Heist” and “Human Hose Douses Arsonist in Brave Fight to the Death”.
That was back when superheroes actually fought crime, he thought. Now all they do is post on ClikClak and negotiate brand deals.
A siren blared 23 stories below as John looked down from his apartment. From here, the people looked like tiny figurines in a diorama.
The sirens are constant these days. The crime is eating this city.
John remembered a time when he only heard sirens from the front seat of his Dive Contender. He would drive all over the city, listening to the police scanner to hear about whatever crimes were happening so he could show up mid-bust.
He could always count on at least one of the regulars being there: The Frozen Flame, the Imperceptible Woman, Beetleman—and that was just to name a few.
Back then, John used to have all the biggest names in superherodom in his Rolodex. They would give him tips on big busts that were about to go down or exclusive interviews about heroic (and sometimes tragic) events. But then the internet came out and social media followed soon after. And when the old legion of superheroes started retiring (or dying), John’s contacts mostly dried up.
There were still a few of them out there. Although, most of them stopped fighting crime long ago. John had even heard that some of them were the ones committing crimes these days.
The siren faded away into the distance.
John turned from the window, slipped a pack of smokes into his coat pocket, and grabbed his hat off the rack before heading out the door. He walked down all 23 flights of stairs.
Too much comfort is making people weak. That’s the problem with people these days.
By the time he got out onto the street, the sky was blushing. The place he was thinking of wasn’t too far away. So he lit up a smoke and walked with the sun setting behind him.
A homeless man stood on the corner with a sign: “The end is nigh.” John flipped him a quarter. The man yelled: “I don’t want your capitalist money,” and hurled the quarter back at him.
Hope the poor bastard can find a way to stay out of trouble, John thought, sidestepping the coin.
A few blocks later, John made a right at the 8/12. He thought about stopping in to grab another pack of cigarettes, but he passed by when he reminded himself he was trying to quit.
It was a Friday and the city was already bustling. Street vendors were hawking sales pitches while buskers played strange instruments. John passed a video billboard with an old man in a red latex one-piece saying: “Fart RX is the fastest way to get rid of flatulence—and I’m The Dart, so I know fast!”
The Dart used to be one of the good ones.
John took the last puff of his cigarette and found a nearby ashtray built into a trash can. He stuck the smoldering butt into the sand with a hiss. Just then a man in a suit walked by talking on his phone. He was smoking a cigarette too and threw his butt at the ash tray, but missed.
“Hey asshole, that’s littering,” John said to him.
“Yeah, well fuck you.”
John’s fist curled into a ball. He imagined himself smacking the phone out of his hand and leaving him with a black eye. But then a skinny kid ran over to pick up the still burning butt.
“You don’t have to smoke that,” John said, “here, I’ll give you one.”
John opened his pack and held out a cigarette to the youngster. The kid was like a scared animal. He slowly reached out and grabbed the cigarette from John’s hands before scurrying back in front of the 8/12. John couldn’t help but notice he took the groundscore with him. By the time the interaction was over, the man with the suit had rounded the corner and was out of sight.
John took another cigarette out of the pack and lit it. The smoke felt good in his lungs.
A few minutes later, John found himself outside The Rusty Bucket. Or as the regulars called it, The Bucket. It was one of the few places regular folks could rub shoulders with superheroes back then. He used to come here all the time to celebrate big busts or just unwind.
He finished his cigarette, but before he walked in, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. The caller ID read “May Stevens”. He silenced the call and walked inside.
It was dark in The Bucket. John remembered it being rustic and homegrown. Now there were cobwebs in the corners and dust on counters that used to be polished daily. There were only a few people inside and one of them was the bartender. He greeted John.
“Now there’s a face I haven’t seen in years. What have you been up to, old man?”
“You’re one to talk, Barry. You look like you must be 100 years old by now.” John felt his mood lighten.
“Not quite, but not too far off either. Hey George, look what the cat dragged in.”
John looked over and saw a bulky man in a frayed flannel at the bar drooped over a half-drunk glass of beer. The man looked up.
“Ish it… it cannn’t be… John Jeffreesh ish that choo or am I dreaming?”
The irony of the question wasn’t lost on John. George Rogers, better known as The Somnolist, was a highly trained hypnotist who used his powers to make criminals fall asleep.
“Hey George, it’s—,” John paused for a moment, looking at the spit coming out of the corner of the drunk man’s mouth. “How you doing, old friend?”
The Somnolist was one of the most powerful and feared superheroes of his time. But he got to be too powerful. He was on top of the world until he accidentally made a crowd of bystanders fall asleep while hypnotising a criminal. Some people fell and got hurt, so a high-profile lawyer created a class action against him for “emotional and physical damages” and sued poor George into bankruptcy.
“Come here, letsh me buy you a driiink, Johnny boy.”
“I’m ok, George, I just stopped by to see who was around. It feels different out there these days. So I thought it would be good to see some old faces. I was hoping to hear some of you were still out there keeping things safe.”
George waved him away like he was had asked if Santa Claus was still delivering presents to good boys and girls.
“Oh shtop it, shtop it. Thoshe daysh are over. Everyone from back then ish dead or retired or, well, drunk like me,” he held up his half-empty mug before draining it.
“Another, pleash, Barry.”
Barry grabbed refilled his empty glass.
“Here, Barry, it’s on me.” John dropped a $5 bill on the table.
“Thank ya, thank ya kindly,” George said
“Well, like I said, I was just passing by, so I best be going. Take care of yourself George. You too Barry.”
“Take care, John, don’t be a stranger,” Barry said.
I don’t know what I was thinking coming here, John thought. But before he made it out of the door, George stumbled off his stool.
“Waitsh, waitsh,” George said, his eyes looking clearer now. He walked up to John and put his beer-stenched face inches from his own. “I know your thoughts. I know what you want and I want the same thing, Johnny boy. But times are different now. And my time has passed. If you want the world to change, it’s time to find new heroes.”
For a moment, John was in a trance. All he could see were George’s eyes, peering through him.
But then George’s chapped lips split into a smile, and John smelled German sausage and stale beer. George sat back down at his stool and licked his lips before draining a third of his beer.
“Take care, Johnny boy, it wassh nicshe to shee you.”
Outside, the sun had set and the street lights were gleaming. A breeze came in from the East and John was grateful for the fresh air. He lit up another cigarette and started walking. He thought about going home, but he figured there was one stop he should make on the way.
A few minutes later, he found himself at an empanada shop owned by a Guatemalan immigrant he had read about in the paper. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew someone who probably was.
When he got to the front of the line and was about to order, the man in the suit from earlier burst in, talking on his phone. What are the fucking chances? John thought. The man was talking over the din of the restaurant about short selling stock, and cut straight to the front of the line. John’s fists curled into a ball.
“I want 3 carne asada empanadas to go and make them fast,” the man said before going back to his phone conversation.
“Oh no sir, you have to go to the back of the line, I have customers waiting,” the sweet woman at the counter pleaded. The man stared at her. Please sir, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Hold on, I have to deal with that empanada bitch again,” he said into his phone.
For a moment John was timeless. He was transported back to The Bucket, to George’s eyes peering through him.
He heard his voice: “If you want the world to change, it’s time to find new heroes.”
“She said to the back of the line, asshole.”
The man turned around. “Oh so now you—” When he saw John he stopped. “Huh, you’re the old guy from earlier. What do you think you’re some sort of hero?”
“No, I’m just sick of the scum like you that thinks you’re better than everyone. You’re the problem with the world these days. Now come on, you’re holding up the line for everyone.”
The man thought about it for a second, but the gleam in John eye’s changed his mind.
“Fine, the food here sucks anyway.”
The man walked out and John walked up to the register.
“Oh thank you, sir, thank you. He’s come in here before and he’s so rude. I never thought I’d have a hero come in here and save me. Thank you sir.”
John smiled. “Really, it’s nothing. I’ll take 3 carne asada empanadas please.” She grabbed a bag and started packing them up. “Actually make it four.” The woman tried to give them to John for free but he refused.
“No I’d like to pay, really, it was the least I could do. John paid and the woman threw an Empanada de Fruta in his bag with a thank you.
That’s how John arrived with a grease-stained bag back near the 8/12 where he’d originally seen the man in the suit. Just as he expected, the skinny kid was still there. John walked up to him and held out the bag.
“Here, kid, got you some dinner.”
John sat down and ate a carne asada empanada while the kid tore through the other three. John asked him some questions, like did he go to school, where were his parents, how’d he end up on the streets.
The kid didn’t talk much, his eyes darted around between taking mouthfuls. By the time John split the Empanada de Fruta and handed him half, the kid seemed to relax a bit. And when John asked him if he needed anything else, the kid said he could really use some new socks.
“Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” the kid said, “I’m here every day.”
“I’ll bring you some socks then. Keep an eye out for me.”
“Thanks. Sorry if I seemed standoffish earlier. It’s just, you’re different than most people in this city. You’re the first person I met around here that’s wanted to help.”
John wiped his hands on his pants, lit two cigarettes, and offered one to the kid.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Until then, try to stay out of trouble, alright kid?”
“Sure. You too, I guess.” John began walking away, but the kid called out after him. “Uhh, by the way, my name is Gary.”
John turned around. “I’m John. Nice to meet you, Gary.” When John got back to his apartment, he took the elevator.
He looked at the street 23 floors down from his window. His phone buzzed again. As he suspected, it was May Stevens.
“What do you want?”
“Is that any way to greet your old writing partner?” The cheery voice on the other side of the line answered, “Let alone your ex-wife?”
“That was a long time ago, May. You know things are different now. After… after what you did? You’re lucky I answered at all.”
“I know, John. You know I wish things had worked out differently. But that’s the past now. And look, I have an opportunity for you. I have a big magazine project I just landed that I want to bring you in on. Come on, it will be just like old times.”
“Magazine project? Is that what you call the thinly-veiled marketing spiels you write now?”
“Oh come on John, we used to dream about landing deals like this. Plus, it will be easy to write. It’s about a new documentary they’re making following the Fabulous 5 on a press tour all over the country. We’ll get to meet celebrities and—”
“Not interested in that propaganda.”
The voice on the other end paused.
“Come on, John, you don’t have to always try to be the hero.”
“Drop it May. It’s not happening.”
“Fine. I knew it would be hard to convince you. But I had to try.”
“You had to try for yourself. To clear your conscience.”
There was no pause this time.
“Look John, I hate to have to be the one to say this, but things have changed. I know your sense of justice won’t let you accept that, but It’s just the way the world is. You can embrace it. Or you can fight it. But if you fight it, the world is going to chew you up and spit you out.”
John looked at his walls adorned with the men and women he used to idolize. People that were chewed up and spit out by society.
“Maybe that’s the case, May. Maybe the world has passed me by. But I’m not like you. Even if I get chewed up, I’ll still fight.”
John hung up the phone and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He walked over to the window and tried to find something worth fighting for.
Tomorrow I’ll get the kid some socks, he thought. It’s the least I can do.
The End.