This past week I began a six week run of radiation for a health issue. No biggie. Only the thing is, in comic books all the people who get exposed to radiation—or radioactive stuff—get superpowers. Like, they fall into a vat down at the treatment plant and wake up with the ability to shoot flaming twinkies out of a secret compartment of twinkanyte in their arms, perfectly placed so that a pair of stylish aubergine gloves, for instance, could be worn to both enhance the twinkie fire power, but also conceal the twinkpockets of doom.
Yaknow… stuff like that.
So far the only things radiation, chemotherapy, cytoxan, and similar chemical experiences have granted me are the abilities to make my hair disappear and my lunch reappear. Not to complain, but there are no marketable crime fighting skills there. I mean I really don’t want to be Baldy the Puke Crusader or Vomitta, Mistress of Hurl. I can’t imagine the get-up would be in a flattering color range. Something in a puse and pea-green spandex/lycra blend? Not so much.
Plus sometimes I think the way the radioactive stuff manifests is bunk. Peter Parker? I think not. Ever seen a spider that skinny? Or both red and blue? Red, maybe, but blue? No. And spiders are NOT skinny. They’re ARACHNIDS. Helloooo? Round bulbous critters, those. So Spidey is full of something other than webbing, if you know what I mean.
Come to think of it… that’s a look I could totally pull off. I have the bulbous thing going on. Plus I think I could spin a web of any size and quite possibly catch thieves just like flies. And if you’re going to toss up gross stuff, why not work that into a venom angle, right?
Don’t make me shoot silly string at you, dude. I’m serious.