Cajones

by Floyd Largent

You'd think a superhero wouldn't have any trouble making a living, but since my Breakthrough, I've barely been getting by. My folks, who are proud of my new status, are happy to lend me money between bounties, which is how I normally accumulate dollars. But I don't get the big skips. I've even had to stoop to looting my dead bounties before turning them in. Sometimes I find a few bucks or a credit card I can spoof. 

I've applied to all the official Supe teams, even trying out twice for the pathetic Federal Super-Abled Persons Registry. In every case, I've been laughed out of their offices once I've demonstrated my abilities. Turns out being a nice guy with the strength of a hundred normal men, someone who can smash the baddies into paste in seconds, isn't enough. Doesn't matter that I once blocked a beam from Straight Razor that could have sliced a crowd into pieces, or that I knocked Übermensch halfway to the moon when he tried to kidnap the mayor that time. The squads, guilds, unions, and agencies all have their reputations to worry about, you see—and in our business, perception is everything. 

It got worse when the SuperPowered News Service did a segment of Rising Stars about my unique way of taking care of business. Even the name they chose for me, while ostensibly innocuous, just contributed to the problem. I mean, there were other Supe names I would rather have gotten branded with. I wanted Big Baller, and I would've accepted Hydrocele. But the first was taken by a Vegas luchero, and by the time I tried to trademark the second, someone had already snatched it up—and purchased the SPNS name for me as a gift. Yay. 

I haven't had much work since then.  

I can't even have a regular job since my Breakthrough, and all the spandex I need now is hella expensive. I mean, I could probably work in a call center or do some kind of at-home job, but I can't exactly sit for long periods, and most chairs don't fit anymore, even when my powers aren't active. So here I am, a lone wolf, picking off the low-hanging fruit through no choice of my own, earning chump change at best. I'd probably make more money working as a carnie—and believe me, I've thought about it. I mean, they pay big women for being fat, and toothpicks for being tall. Why not me? Why not advertise my unique physical characteristics? 

I mean, I'm kind of a big deal. How many other guys out there can inflate their testicles a thousandfold, making them harder than steel, and swing 'em around with enough precision and power to crush their enemies or send 'em into orbit? 

Do I seem bitter? I'm not bitter. Okay, maybe a little. You'd think that being 31-0 on the me-versus-bad-guys board might matter. But it's not my record that matters to people, just my incredibly huge balls. Nobody cares about my super-speed, super-vision, or my ability to fly. I tell ya, it's enough to make a man go supervillain.  

But I won't! Perception is reality, so I'm gonna lean into my public persona and accept my media-branded moniker. I'm not the only one out there with superpowers the public finds less than appealing. I know for a fact that there's one guy who uses weaponized puke to fight the 'vills. I've heard rumors of a woman who generates and spits a stream of teeth, and someone whose disembodied super-innards fight alongside them. And there are more of us, I'm sure. 

So, I'm calling on all you weirdo Supes who have odd or embarrassing powers but still want to fight the bad guys to join me. Let's form a team of misfits so powerful that no one can dismiss us or treat us as laughingstocks. Let's make them stand up and take notice! 

I'm eager to hear from you. 

WreckingBallz, signing off.