“Sorry, Captain Freedom’s Already Taken.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the winner of “Search For A Super Hero” – Tad Adams!” Tad lunged on to the stage groin first, like a well-endowed ballet dancer.
This grand entrance certainly got the ladies’ attention.
But psychiatrists recommended children under five be moved back a row.

The crowd gasped with wonder at their new hero’s turquoise body stocking. It was tight.
And shiny.
But mostly tight.
And with good reason. Tad had a body to die for.
Hans, Gunther and Erik had in fact paid that price. Three Swiss mountaineers who od’ed on steroids. Tad found the bodies and took the parts he liked. The rest he left for the wild she-goats.
“Hello good citizens!!” Tad boomed. He had a deep voice, like a burp in a wind tunnel.
“Thank you for your well placed adoration! Who would like to ask me a question?”
Little Timmy put his only hand in the air. He kept it in his pocket for occasions such as this. How he managed to hold it up can not accurately be described here.
“Yes, my amputee admirer – what would you like to know?”
“Umm…why do you wear your underwear on the outside, Mr Tad…sir?”
“Good question, little boy. Well – for exactly the same reason you do.”
“Spillage?” Timmy enquired.
“No, my soggy supporter. Let’s just say that when you fly at 180 k’s an hour, windburn is worth taking seriously. – I would also like to take this opportunity to thank my sponsors, KillCrime Technologies –‘Where evil is jabbed in the eye with a hot needle’ and Gnome Dome – “The largest emporium of life-size garden gnomes in the state.’ “
“Tad – Johnny Fountain here, from ‘Action Weekly.’ What do you say to the feminist groups who believe you’re just an over sexed adrenaline junkie who preys on vulnerable women?”
“Well, Mr Fountain, I would tell them that I respect their opinion and gratefully thank them for their comments. – Then I would ask if they had younger sisters.”
This gave the entire crowd of four hundred and twelve a buzz. They all cheered and laughed. Except the mutes at the back.

University activist Julie Saunders, however, was not happy.
She still couldn’t find her car keys. But no-one noticed her. Julie was frumpy and somewhat dowdy. That’s right, she was frowdy. Barely noticeable in this crowd. Like an epileptic at a disco.
Next to her was Frankie Jr. Plump and pimply. Or, plimply. Frankie stood out like an epileptic at a monastery.
“Hello, Mista Adams. You’re my faverit supeyhewo of them all. Can I plees be your sidekick?”
Tad shifted his gaze towards the awkward voice. Frankie had a sheepish grin. The kind sheep have on April Fool’s Day.
Frankie loved Tad so much he even wore a souvenir tea towel for a cape, but in his haste, he forgot to wear anything else.
Frankie was 47.
Security asked him to leave.

Seeing Frankie’s plimply buttocks jiggle toward the car park conjured questions Tad had never considered.
“Did he have room in his life for a sidekick? Could he safely take a young man into battle? Did he remember to tape Idol?” These mysteries swam round his mind like a goldfish corpse in a flushing toilet bowl.

“Excuse me, Tad! Graham Hayes – ‘The National Inquisitor.’ Some have suggested that this city isn’t big enough for both you and Captain Freedom. The government have even suggested a roster system for the both of you. Any comments?”
“A roster? Never! This city has more than enough crime for everyone! I’m sure we’ll both be very busy. Remember, folks, evil doesn’t have a snooze button!”

The questions and photos continued. Until they ended. Tad’s focus began to wander. As it usually did around afternoon tea time. Vegemite crumpets were his favourite. They reminded him of his two greatest passions – crumpets, and Vegemite.

Aahh, the photos. The adoring autograph hunters. The free cheese. This was the life he always dreamed of. Ever since he received super powers, when that family of mutant cockroaches laid eggs in his ear.

Reality TV had been his salvation. He narrowly beat Senor Spatula, a Mexican chef who blinded criminals with chilli, and X-Ray Lass, the girl who could smell through walls. He was now glad he taught his Mum how to SMS. She was a great encouragement to Tad, and always had been. He never forgot those special words she spoke when he won the competition; “Tad, can you grab some yams on your way home?”
Yeah, his Mum was the coolest.
Now all he had to do was smile a lot and fight the occasional bad dude. A far cry from his early days of vigilantism. He couldn’t afford a costume back then – only the coloured jocks. Not exactly heroic, but he did have great abs, and rather pert buttocks, like two peaches in Glad-Wrap.

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” his Grandpa would always say. He was an 84 year old nudist. The only one, in fact, at the Golden Pond Senior’s Village. The nurses weren’t too bothered though, as all the other residents were blind.
Tad did advance to woollen boxers during the winter months though. He was all too aware of shrinkage, and the damage it could do to his manly image.

“Howie Thomson, Tad. From ‘Daily Nightly.’ Captain Freedom has been defending this city from corruption and giant moths for fifteen years. What can you offer that he can’t?”
“I have long admired Captain Freedom and his excellent work, Howie. However, I believe my twelve years in the Justice Department will be of great aid.”
“Didn’t you just work in the cafeteria at the Justice Department?”
“Only for the first eleven and a half years, my well informed friend.”

This wasn’t the first time comparisons had been made between Captain Freedom and Tad. It was the eighth. Granted, Freedom had a big cape, his own talk show and a thick moustache. Tad had none of those things. Well, he did have a pencil thin moustache in his teen years, but that was only because he drew it with a pencil.
No matter. Tad was a vibrant, powerful young man who didn’t know the meaning of fear. Or several other words. But what he lacked in vocabulary, he made up for in good, clean super hero work.
This work began with his first battle. It was against a rather oily super villain called Garbo. Garbo was a disgruntled sanitation worker who tried to poison the city’s sewerage. Bit of a waste of time really. Tad took him out with one punch. Straight to Garbo’s double chin. He flew backwards in to a Chinese restaurant. It made a sound like a brick hitting a caravan. I don’t know what sort of brick. Probably a red one.
Garbo went in to a coma after that.
For six months.
Then he died.

Tad was determined to last longer than Garbo in this business. He had the powers, the cleft chin and the product endorsements. He just needed a better moniker. All the good names were already under copyright. Manuel Mann, the Man’s Man. The Lard Kid. Lazy Eyed Susan. All gone. He really wanted Captain Freedom, but that was already taken. (By Captain Freedom) Tad wasn’t a name that brought awe and fear, but he had no choice. He could always kill Captain Freedom so the name would be free, but Freedom had a dangerous reputation. He was known for attacking his opponents with all the relentless savagery of a bull elephant eating a baby seal.

Suddenly – a female shriek! Two blocks away. The mysterious woman cried as if she had found a nose in her Caesar’s salad. Not her nose. Aunt Ruth’s. The throng of Tad lovers swivelled their heads from the scream, to Tad, and back again. Tad did his groin lunge thing and raised his finger in the air.
“Don’t panic, friends! Tad is here to rescue this damsel from her distress! I will bring swift vengeance upon the culprit in a most brutal, yet artistic, fashion! Then all shall tremble at the mention of…”
The screaming stopped.
Then the gurgling began.
Then that stopped.
Silence fell upon those gathered, but no-one was hurt.
Tad subtlely adjusted his groin to its standard position and slowly lowered his hand.
“So – who wants to see me lift a bus?”
Once more, the crowd cheered.

——–

“His World”

His was a dark world. Devoid of all the good things that gentlemen and educated women often discussed.

No friends. Nor family meetings. Only whatever social contact was necessary to achieve the task.

Few could live this way. Few have.

A predator amongst men. Anything with breath; a potential target. As long as they breathed evil. He would have no part in erasing good. It was a rarity in his experience. Something to be valued, protected. A smile to a stranger. A tip for an earnest waiter. These were valid attempts. He went further. He fought the encroaching evil. RO 12:9 “Cling to the good. Avoid every kind of evil.” The book of Romans. Chapter 12. Verse 9. His only distinguishable feature. A seemingly insignificant tattoo on his right palm. His gun hand. His motivation, his mantra. To be etched on his tombstone , if he were allowed one. No matter. Recognition was a weakness. It was necessary neither in death nor life. Invisibility was perhaps his greatest ally.

——–

“The Rebel”

He made his mark alone on the wall he’d spied on for quite some time. How many people passed this wall? How many minds ready for rebellion? It surprised him that no-one had exploited this brick canvas before. Or, maybe someone had. The cops quelled any anti-United Earth sentiment with brutal efficiency. He wanted to take the chance. That’s why he came here. These streets offered some cover at nightfall, but the feeling of the city remained the same during waking hours. It wasn’t what it used to be. It was far worse, and not because of the constant patrols and intrusive surveillance. Big Brother was semi-welcome here. The people were desperate for peace. But now that they had it, they questioned its price. Not publicly of course. The facade could never be questioned. One doubtful, fearful voice could quite possibly ensnare others. Then where would it end? Everyone knew the city could easily revert to what it once was. An ugly place. A mass of hate and danger. Humanity was at a loss here.

——–

“Emily Ross”

Emily Ross is 9 years old. She had a party planned. All her friends from school and netball were going to be there. At least her 8th birthday was fun.

Here, the nurses were nice. Her Mum bought her dinner each night. Spaghetti. Her Mum always made the best spaghetti.

Strangely, she did miss school. Not the homework, but Miss Fanelli, her Italian teacher. And playing at lunch-time.

She could sit up and watch netball on TV though.

Whenever she had visitors from school, she put her wig back on. It was itchy, but she felt weird without out. Emily Ross likes netball, and spaghetti, and Italian.

Emily Ross was 9 years old.

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