A Craving For Toxic Waste

Where can I find some toxic waste? This stupid city has to have some somewhere. I’ll show them! But first, I need an incredible superpower. Wait a minute! The old plastic factory. It’s bound to have some lying around. Perhaps it will give me the ability to stretch. No, not that. It could make me a super powerful plastic surgeon. That would be so much better.

I drove to the abandoned factory. It looked like a mangy old dog that needed to be put out of its misery: windows broken, doors removed from hinges, and car-sized holes in the roof. Decopolis City was ashamed of Old Town and did its best to ignore it. The righteously sophisticated city refused to acknowledge its history as an old barge town with more brothels than churches and more bars than any other type of building. But I love it. 

I searched for anything that looked toxic. I was careful to step around holes in the floor and over debris. I grabbed a broken mop handle and whacked through gigantic webs. I found large stainless steel vats, and my heart skipped a beat, but they were empty. I got excited over a few drums lying around, but none contained toxic waste. What’s wrong with this place? Didn’t they haphazardly leave toxic waste behind?

I poked my head into a promising-looking room. Suddenly, screeching and beating wings assaulted me. A flock of birds scattered. A few flew inches above my head. I jumped back and tripped, hitting my head on something solid. I lay there for a minute, trying to ascertain the damage. Was I still conscious? Check. Was I able to move? Check. Was I bleeding? I placed my hand on my forehead, where I felt the most pain. Check. My hand was covered in blood.

I recovered and rose to my feet. I’ve had enough for tonight. I placed my arm over the wound, using my shirt sleeve to stanch the bleeding, and went home.

The following day, I took a shower and bandaged my forehead. I dressed and left for work. I was halfway to the office before realizing I no longer work. The freaking city took my license. Yesterday’s events cleared the fog in my head, and I remembered my newfound goal of finding toxic waste.

I returned to Old Town, but I didn’t fare any better than I did last night. I hopped back into my car, driving aimlessly and trying to collect my thoughts. Why punish me? I only wanted to make the world a better place by giving those ugly, big-nosed women a cute nose. I didn’t charge them extra. I should have been given a medal for all my pro bono work. Instead, I’m facing lawsuits and possible criminal charges. Well, if it’s a criminal they want, then I think they found it. Assuming I get my hands on some toxic waste. I’d even settle for some questionable ooze or slime.

A week passed without finding toxic waste, ooze, or slime. However, my forehead developed an infection, which forced me to go to the emergency room. While the nurse wrapped my forehead and instructed me to apply the medicine, I fell into a funk. I’m not going to find a superpower. I’m doomed to live out my life as a misunderstood, disgraced former plastic surgeon. I just wanted women to have a cute nose. What’s so wrong with that?

The nurse told me to change the bandage in two or three days. The two days came, and I removed the wrapping. I shouted in horror. A hideous scar stared at me from the mirror. A one-inch, bright red, slightly arched line marred my once flawless forehead. I almost cried. Then I thought of Two-Face—a severely scarred man who gained notoriety from his disfigurement. An idea hit me. If that mild acid burn made Two-Face famous, then my brutally mangled forehead will make me the most famous scarred villain of all time. I just need the right custom.

Locked in my apartment, I cut my shirts, pants, and ties into pieces and sewed them together to create my first supervillain outfit: a three-piece suit made from a glorious mix of colors and patterns unlike anything seen. The center of my shirt displayed a blown-up copy of my scar. My symbol! All the great superheroes and supervillains have one. I dug through a box of winter gear and found an orange gator I used during the COVID-19 pandemic. Now that I have a mask, my ensemble is complete. It’s time for a test run.

I lurked in a back alley not far from my apartment building, hoping to spy an ugly, large-nosed woman. One finally showed. I jumped out and shouted, “Ta-Da!” like a magician. I hadn’t thought about my presentation.

At first, she was startled, but when I did not move, she grew bolder. “What are you supposed to be? Joker?”

“I’m the Scar!” I shouted. It sounded hollow.

The lady stifled a laugh, “The Scar, Huh? Why the Scar?”

I was flabbergasted. Wasn’t it obvious? “Because of my hideous, infected scar.”

She looked intensely at me, “Where?”

“What do you mean?” I pointed to my forehead. “This one!”

She leaned closer, “I don’t see it.”

“What’s wrong with you? This one.” I pointed again. “The grotesque, red scar in the middle of my forehead.”

She tried even harder to see my scar. I can tell she wanted to see it. “Sorry, I don’t see it. Maybe it’s the lighting?”

“The lighting? I can’t believe this!”

“It’s probably because I don’t have my reading glasses. Anyway, what’s your deal? Is your superpower scaring helpless women with your scar?”

Her question caught me off guard. What was my superpower? I was so excited to be mutated that I forgot to ask what power it gave me.

“I’m not entirely sure,” I said.

“Well, how am I supposed to take you seriously if you don’t even know your power?”

I admit she had a reasonable point.

She reached into her purse, “I tell you what. I’m about to spray you with mace. Now, after you regain your sight, go home and don’t try this again until you discover your superpower. Got it?”

I nodded. Then she sprayed me squarely in the eyes.

After writhing in pain for a while, I went home and did as she suggested. I took inventory. First, I know who I am: The Scar. Check. Second, I know my purpose: to get revenge against Decopolis City for revoking my license. Check. Third, My power is? I thought. And I thought. And I thought some more. I pictured the ugly, large-nosed woman holding her can of mace. I guess my superpower is empowering women.