It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s…
Jesus, when are you people going to buy binoculars or something?

He’s a bullet! He’s riding on the wind!
Look, there he goes!
“He’s amazing, isn’t he, Dad?”
“Of course he is, son. He’s our Hero.”

Boy Scout- patriot of America.
All salute the savior of America.
It’s like the words are still blasting through the speakers on every rooftop, but nowadays they only ring inside your head. A flag wrapped around your waist, girls faint around you...why do they even bother anymore? That chick’s Canadian, for Pete’s sake, you met her in a bar last week. She rejected you.

The man flying beside you flicks a mediocre thumbs-up to the crowd, drawing screams and shrill shrieks. How devilishly attractive he is...isn’t he? He never has to think of what he’s doing, just throw in some smart-assery now and then and follow you around.
“It’s Sidekick!” they cry. Fangirls.
Everyone sees him as young, fresh, innocent. Do any of them think of how he’s actually three years older than you? Didn’t think so.

“The Villain!”
“Here he comes!”
Screaming, guys? Really? We know how this one plays out every single time.
What exactly did Villain do wrong? No one knows, but he’s definitely not wearing red white and blue. He used to be Russia, but nobody gets that anymore. He’s like, evil personified, or something...
You’re really tired of chasing him away. You just want him to leave you alone.

You’ve got the wind now, don’t fall- they say girls love this look...hair flying, surfing on the breeze.
Who cares.
You are so out of shape...flabby old man. You’re not a teenager anymore, why is no one picking up on this?
Your metabolism’s such crap.
Do they realize what you actually do most of the time?
You have a passion for collecting candles. You love to bake. Watch endless television with Sidekick. You like that...you like Sidekick. You sense danger, but it’s nothing to do with Villain at all.

You really wish these outfits weren’t so tight.

Villain’s hanging onto the top of the skyscraper, his spandex glistening in the sun

You look up- you’ve never really looked at Villain, have you?
In one hand he holds his “death ray” or something
What a terrifying mustache…
What terrifying eyes…
...He’s crazy, isn’t he?
Why else would he just keep coming back
WHY?
You’re so tired.
Why can’t they leave you alone?
The crowds stretch out below. They’re always there
They say you bring them hope. Hope of what
Hope of trying again and again and again and getting nowhere
Hope of keeping truth concealed, for standing in a suit all day
Someone else’s suit
Why…

You’ve stopped. The people have silenced. You sit down, your legs dangling off the side of the building
You’re delicately balanced on the edge of a windowsill
The city’s so beautiful, isn’t it? It’s evening. The sun plays with the glass and metal of the buildings, turning their generic greys and greens into its own painting, full of fire and water and wind, playing with your feet and hair.
It’s been a long time since you’ve felt thrills from flying. You miss that.
Villain won’t do anything. He’s waiting for you. His favorite playmate. You basically grew up together.
How horrifying.
The National Anthem that was playing peeters out, in a rude grunting of horns.
The people are quiet. Finally guys, what the hell. They look up at you, their faces a giant mosaic of anxiety, frustration, impatience. No fear. You’ve taken the fear away...they gave you this job to do, forever and forever and whatever, you didn’t have any choice anyways.
You look in the metallic, mirroring side of the building, your red white and blue, the burnt skin that used to hold lean muscles, your blonde mess of hair, uncut.

Boy Scout- patriot of America.
All salute the savior of America.

You follow the popping veins, the occasional freckle, up your shoulders and to your neck, the curve and arc of your neck and chin to your face.
No face. Smooth and featureless as the mirror before you.
You wonder what your soul would look like if you had a life of your own, anyways. American boy.

Bang.

The silence is shattered. Shards of sound cascade around your ears.
You watch as Sidekick’s body falls past you.
...So this is what death looks like, you think, as you watch his eyes. He’s right there, next to you, suspended in air, close enough to touch.
Then he’s gone.


You look up at Villain. He’s smiling...hesitantly, the corners, draped in dirty lipstick, turning up in hopeful expectation. He wants your attention, he’s a puppy.

No.
That’s enough.

You pull out a gun.
Bang.

Yeah, you shot him. F*** you, beloved American citizens.

“I’m going home,” you say, turning to the crowd.
And you do.