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July 2, 2007


You're a bird, you're a plane... you're Superman.

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David: For The Greater Good

Most people don’t realize I have a secret identity. It never enters their mind. They assume I’m out saving the world 24/7.

It’s not like I encourage such thinking, obviously. That’s kind of the point of a secret identity. Telling people I have one would be like revealing my one true weakness in a major metropolitan newspaper. Only a few have ever come up with the idea that I live among them in between crises.

No one’s ever guessed the lengths I go to misleading those people into suspecting someone they know. Take that poor bastard Clark Kent, for instance.

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Michele: Superman's Dead

"You think it’s easy? Well…It's not."
Jimmy knows that’s my cue to go into a bitter, slurred rant. As a bartender, he's pretty fluent in Slurred Speech, especially my particular dialect.

"I think it's cab time, buddy."
"Superman doesn't need a cab, man. Superman can fly."
"You're retired, Clark. No flying."
"I'm not retired. Those damn Teen Titans forced me out of work!"
He looks at me with pity and disgust. "Not tonight, Clark. Go home."

I sigh, leave a ten on the bar and start the long walk home.

I used to be able to fly.

Forced retirement sucks.

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Dave: Up, up and away!

The hostility between the federal government and Superman came to a head in late 2005 when the FAA began requiring the superhero to file flight plans, respect no-fly zones, and maintain tower contact at all times when aloft.  "As they say," FAA chairman Lloyd Gusward says, "He's 'a plane.'  That puts him under our jurisdiction."

Fortunately for truth, justice, and the American Way, lawyers were able to use Chairman Gusward's words against him, noting that if Superman were "a plane," he was also "a bird," and so (as the last survivor of Krypton) fell under the protection of the Endangered Species Act.

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Stacy: Not a Bird, Not a Plane

Naw, that ain’t Superman, that’s just Edgar. He built himself some wings outta some junk he had layin’ out in the yard, jest took off flyin’ one day. Scares the chickens somethin’ awful. I tole him t’ quit it, but he’s a dadblame fool.

I kept tellin’ him I’s gonna pepper his ass with birdshot if’n he didn’t cut it out. Chickens won’t lay aigs if they’s afraid. Start losin’ alla their feathers, too. But he jest kept flyin’ and flyin’, swoopin’ over top of my house alla time.

I tole him, I did.

Taxidermist owes me a favor, ennyway.

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Jim: Down Time

Hidden deep in the Arctic Circle, the Fortress of Solitude is an astounding place. Built with lost Krypton crystal technology, its icy walls would survive a nuclear attack.

Inside, the rare visitor sees row upon row of wondrous artifacts recovered in Superman’s long career against galactic evildoers. Most of these items are too dangerous for him to share with the human race.

But in the deep basements, where guests never go, two machines stand against a dark wall. Mechanically humming, the rightmost one vibrates while Superman, sitting naked on a stool, waits for his only superhero costume to finish drying.

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Ted: First Steps

Surveying around the tree house, little Clark Kensington made sure there was no one watching. There wasn't of course. His tree house was a good ten yards into the woods behind his house. Not so much of a tree house really... more like an elevated lean-to built with scraps easily transported by a rather frail ten year old boy.

But when he put on his 'supersuit' (in actuality his underoos and red beach towel for a cape), Clark Kensington felt just like Clark Kent.

Today was the day, he just knew it.

He climbed out on a branch and leapt.

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