#448: The Green Revenger (Ret.) Remembers the Incident that Ended His Career

When you've been wearing tights as long as me
you know just by the model of their boots
if it's a joy ride or a killing spree.
You read it in the bloodstains on their suits.

This guy--the long black gloves, that leather mask?
He really meant it. No role-playing games.
No banter--stayed relentlessly on-task.
He didn't bother coming up with names.

My sidekick at the time, Flag Wavin' Kid,
tried some big action-hero kind of kick.
He never knew what hit him, but I did.
I saw it, and it made me kind of sick.

He laughed--a chilling sound--and leapt the fence;
and worst of all: nobody's seen him since.

#437: Hidden Talent

His tryout was disastrous, I recall.
He took the test like everyone, you know.
His fighting skills were zero, none at all;
His strength not super--average or below.

No water skills--he couldn't swim a stroke,
much less communicate with octopi.
His foot-speed was a kind of running joke,
forgive the pun. He couldn't even fly.

We broke the news as gently as we could:
"Thank you for coming in," that sort of stuff.
But told him, though we knew his heart was good,
The rest of him was not quite good enough.

He rose and thanked us, fighting back the tears,
then BANG! The modest bastard disappears!

#335: March 24, 2007

Down in my secret lair, bathed in the lights
of databanks that mark these final hours,
imagining my doomsday satellites
that ring the planet like a crown of flowers,

With squads of henchmen ready to command
who at my word will terrorize and kill,
and every government in every land
moments away from crumbling to my will,

I think of how my grandma said to me,
"Though life is long, its greatnesses are few;
and of all men, most fortunate is he
who dreamed and did just what he hoped to do."

The countdown starts, the crypto-failsafes buzz--
and I can't help but think how right she was.

#51: June 13, 2006

"You'll never get away!" the mayor cried
(the gag had slipped), "The Crimson Bombadier
will track you down wherever you may hide
and send you back to prison, never fear!"

A shiver jittered down the Cutter's spine
and his ribs rattled with an evil laugh
as he took out his Negaforce Turbine™
and sliced the shocked mayor neatly in half.

"The Bombadier is dead!" the villain hissed
(to no one in particular, it seemed),
"For even your hero could not resist
my cyanide-laced triple-fudge ice cream!"

So what's the moral? (Grandpa Richie said)
'Don't take treats from strangers.' Now go to bed.

#31: May 24, 2006

He stands unmoving, more shadow than man,
Against a skyline pointillized with light;
His cape spreads out behind him like a fan,
Serrated silver, billowing in the night.
Below, the humans' screams are like a prayer
And he, their gargoyle god, waits on his perch
Deciding which to bless; his black hole stare
A benediction, the city his church.

Somewhere behind his mask the memories stir
Of past wrongs unforgiven, loved ones dead,
And sins as yet unpunished, unredeemed.
He wishes things could be the way they were
Before--but so does everyone, it seems.
He leaps into the city's heart like lead.