Ever since the accident, I’ve wondered if I did the right thing. I mean, when you fall into a vat of toxic waste mixed with hot dog vendor water and just walk away, you want to think there’s some higher purpose at work. That you were meant for something — fighting crime, protecting the innocent — something meaningful.
It’s not even like I have any useful super-powers, either. Yeah, I can survive a long time in boiling water — whoop-dee-dingle-doo. You know how many villains in this town attack people with boiling water? Somewhere between bupkis and zip, that’s how many.
And you try having a secret identity when you’re built like a hot dog. I mean, it’s not like I can just blend in, you know? Now, Superman, he just puts on the glasses, and bing! he’s like, Mr. Normal, he can go to Starbucks, do whatever he wants. Oh, but not me. Everybody knows where I work, where I live, I got people yelling at me from their cars, harassing me at home… and not even proper death threats — at least that would be dignified. No, my big nemesis is some punk kids from down the block who leave a flaming bag of mustard on my front porch and ring the bell. Yeah, nice going, evildoers.