My Secret Superpower.
In the beginning, there was the cloud. It was odourless, colourless and deadly—Like a giant radioactive fart—and spread all over Europe. In the days and weeks after the disaster. It floated as far north as Sweden and as far west as France, and blanketed the landscape with 400 times more toxic dust that what fell on Hiroshima.
In response to the fallout, most governments told their citizens to stay away from milk, mushrooms, and green vegetables. Children were plucked from sandpits, lest they eat radioactive dirt pies; farmers burnt fields of contaminated crops; and ordinary citizens wrung their hands gnawed their lips. The world was coming to an end and everyone was worried. Everyone except for my mom.
In the months following the disaster, there were pictures of me playing in sandpits gleefully, drinking BIG cups of milk, and munching away on mushrooms. Heck, there’s probably a picture of me doing all three things at once. My mom was never the one for worrying about silly little things, like certain, immediate and excruciating death. Ha. No. As if. Won’t Happen.
And, to be fair, I didn’t die, go bald, or grow an extra leg. My mom was right. But I also didn’t escape the fallout. Radiation, you see, Just does not cause death. It also causes mild-mannered nerdy types to transform into leotard-wearing superhero types. Trust me, I know these things. I read Wikipedia for funnies.
Unfortunately, I was never radioactive enough to become the next Incredible Hulk, Mr Fantastic or Captain Atom. Instead, after another accident, I morphed into lame-ass superhero with the super crappiest of superpowers.
Shortly, after being let loose in a wonderland of radioactive goodness, someone stabbed me with a pencil. I provoke this sort of a senseless rage on a semi-regular basis, so I wasn’t too surprised. After crying to my mom and being consoled by a lollipop, I went back to my crayons. Everything was A-Ok.
It was only that I grabbed a pen when I started to notice my gifts. Unlike the children around me who could make their pens write, I could only make mine move. The ink was trapped in its viscous state and wouldn’t budge. I thought the pen was broken. I thought wrong.
As the years passed, and the pens continued to dry up, I realised what was going on: I had been cursed by the pen Gods. Every biro I touched dried up and crapped out. I filled my first Job Application In three different coloured pens. Unsurprisingly, McDonald’s still hired me. In school I would have to buy HUGE boxes of pens, I would go through 3 every week. My superpower wasn’t only lame it was becoming increasingly expensive.
Naturally, I became resentful and considered a professional career as a super villain. At night I would close my eyes and imagine the global havoc I could wreak on the community. Most of the scenarios I dreamt of involved the United Nations.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Today is a historic day.” the secretary general would beam. “I am so glad you all could be here to witness the signing of the treaty.” the respective leaders would then shake hands and reach for their pens. They would start to sign their name until…
“My pen doesn’t work!” The fat one would growl. “Mine either!” The sweaty one would reply. “What an insult! I will DESTROY you!”
Then the room would be filled with deafening cackle and I would descend from the ceiling dressed as a permanent marker.
Whilst I can only dream about joining the Axis Of Evil, for now I am stuck with being the only person on this Earth who can destroy a pen after a single use. Who am I? Why I am the Malfunctioning Pen Girl.
If the pen is mightier than the sword, then I am the Goddamn Atom Bomb.
