Superhero With a Bad Back
I take another hit because I can’t throw no more punches. I mean, I haven’t officially retired or anything, but I will never again be called back into action. Of this much I am certain.
Once a week, some ungrateful civic servant comes and checks on me. She asks some questions and ticks some boxes. When she leaves I pick off the gum she sticks under the coffee table, put it in a plastic baggie and place it in the fridge. I don’t know what I plan to do with the evidence, confront her maybe?
Anyway, I can’t fly like I used to anymore, but sometimes hookers will sleep with me for free if I promise I will take them up for a cruise. I tell them to get on my back and then I jump off the bed, then we float about a foot or so off the floor. In all honesty, the jumping (and I guess the sex) has taken its toll on me.
When they discover that I am impotent all round, they leave all pissed off, unfulfilled by a man once again.
Most of the week is spent on the couch or in bed on some relaxants or, when I’m in the mood, some prescription weed. No one hassles me about it, enough of my neighbours are old enough to remember what I did for the city, but the kids are becoming a concern.
They’ll be starting to outnumber this generation soon.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and die (if I can) before I’m completely out of my stash.
I look out from my sixth floor window. Should I just go ahead and jump?
It seems I don’t have that much of a choice, as none of mankind’s weapons have ever worked against me. In the old days, falling would be nothing, but I’m old now, so who knows..?
I’m relaxed about it, y’know? I’ll let gravity do its thing and maybe we’ll meet in mutual agreement.
The window opens, I exit and hover.