JSW Prompt 10-11-2015 response
“Well, it should be,” he gruffed, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, ignoring the fact the’d just thrown up on Superman’s spiffy shoes. Rolled his eyes as the Super Hero dragged on with his lecture. Blah blah blah blah blah blab blab.
Who’s idea had it been to pair budding Heroes with those more mature? If mature could be an appropriate label for the man in blue tights poised before him. It wouldn’t have been so bad with Batman. The Batman was all that and an awesome outfit, too. Or Wolverine. Anybody capable of shooting claws out of his knuckles had to be whiz-bang.
But no, he had to get the fop of Super Herodom, parading around in his tights and cape, big read S on his chest. As if anybody wouldn’t know just by his outfit. Who’d designed that anyway? GayMan?
Now there would be a cool Super Hero. Gayman! Able to leap clothes racks with a single bound. Sure to win Best Dressed Hero every year unless Barman was in the competition and then it would just be Brightest Outfit? Tightest Leather?
He suppressed a laugh, barely managing to keep a straight face to avoid the lecture he’d get for that faux pas. So he threw up sometimes. All the time. Throwing up was the only ‘power’ he seemed to possess. God forbid, if he earned the name of Vomit Man he was quitting.
Vomiter. Vomitish. Upchuch Man. He of Blowing Chunks. Yackman. Cookie Tossing Man. And then the worse – Vomit Boy.
His entire life consisted of being teased for his propensity for tossing his cookies. Why? He didn’t know. His Mom said he’d been that way as a baby and there’s a loving picture from Mom if he ever saw one.
“Ed,” Superman snapped. “Are you listening to me?”
Ed looked back at the Super Hero. “Yeah sure, Sup.” Ed. What a dorky name for a Super Hero. Just once he’d like to be the cool one. Just once.
Superman scowled. He lifted one leg, opposite fist raised in the air and took off, snotty as shit with his perfect pose flying.
“If you won’t trying flying, Ed, you’ll never learn to conquer your fears.”
“I can’t fly,” he shot back, stupidly glancing down from the sixty story building. Immediately, his throat tightened, bile rose, vomit shooting out of his mouth and nose, slapping wet onto the edge of the roof. He hated when vomit came out of his nose. It was just gross. Grosser than gross.
Wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. How many bones had he broken jumping off the roof as a child, convinced he could fly. Not so said Br’er Rabbit, not so.
Something hit him from behind and he fell forward, over the edge of the building, arms spread like an angels, mouth opened in a scream of terror and stream of vomit….