Short Superman doesn’t know his own strength. He stands in the mirror stretching himself to his full height and wonders why his cape hangs limp across his shoulders. It should billow behind him. There should be wind beneath it and in his blue-black hair, and this room with its worn carpet should be the mountaintop of his achievement and glory. Short Superman has a job to do. He would rather have a calling. Does his super hearing detect the commuter train in the distance, or does the train run past his window? Either way, he’ll be late again unless he does some super hurrying. My project is late, Short Superman, can you help me? This report needs your special touch, Short Superman. Short Superman! Hold that elevator door! His hand darts faster than thought. With no apparent effort, he halts the progress of the powerful steel door. But wait, the opening is too narrow. With a wink to the other passengers, Short Superman collapses the door back onto itself. Thanks, SS! We’re going for drinks. Wanna come? Certain beverages are kryptonite to Short Superman, but camaraderie is part of his credo, and who knows, these good citizens may have clues to the riddle of his identity. Of course he’ll join them. On the street, though, Short Superman senses danger like a question mark in the air and dashes off toward perils unknown. And now his cape does billow with the urgency of his mission. Good luck, Short Superman! Be careful! Not long after, at the Fortress of Solitude on K Street, a sloppy Short Superman tosses back shots and bores the bartender with comic book tales of his exploits. You know that stuff is poison, Short Superman. Why are you here again? Don’t you have short super-villains to catch?

Copyright © March 7, 2007 David Hodges

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