Superhero Origin Story

I used to pass the nuclear waste storage warehouse on my way home from work. One day I stepped into a deep puddle of a viscous, glowing substance. My left foot got covered before I could free it from the surprisingly strong grasp of the plasma-like puddle. A few days later, my foot started to smell like burning rubber. Then it started to itch. When I scratched it, sheets of skin came off under my fingernails and revealed a shiny, metallic surface. My foot was now hard and impenetrable. I began by hitting it with a wooden spoon, then moved on to increasingly heavier kitchen implements—rolling pin, pizza stone—and finally shot it with my hunting rifle. Nothing damaged it.

I went back to the nuclear waste storage warehouse and rolled my entire body in the puddle. I was going to be a superhero and fight crime. I waited excitedly for the burning rubber smell. My whole body started to itch and I impatiently scratched away. But instead of revealing a bulletproof new self, the sheets of skin were accompanied by my muscles and bones on their journey to my bathroom floor. My flesh was disintegrating, leper-like, in chunks and hunks. After a few agonizing hours, my transformation was complete. My left foot was all that was left. My entire self was a single foot.

Now, I wouldn’t call myself a superhero, not exactly. But I let strangers shoot me. And while it’s not crime-fighting, it seems to make people feel better.