Sweat Man (the worst superhero ever) [flash fiction]

I wrote this after seeing a prompt on a writing community. Prompt: “You have THE most useless superpower. Write about a day in your failed / hilarious / successful / ludicrous attempts at heroism.” Here is the result.

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“So, you’re telling me you woke up yesterday morning with a new superhuman ability, and your power is that you get sweaty?”

“Yep, but there’s more to it than that. I can do it regardless of my physical state. Lounging in bed, riding in the elevator, standing in line at the grocer, I can sweat during the most mundane tasks you can imagine, even ones requiring no physical effort. I can stand in a walk-in freezer and sweat as if I just completed a triathlon.”

“That is so dumb,” my friend Keith replied, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. “What’s the point?”

“The point? Watch this,” I said. I closed my eyes and felt the perspiration manifest on my forehead. I wiped my hand across the expanse of skin, gathering a handful of my salty excretion, and slapped Keith in the face.

“OW!” Keith exclaimed. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his button-up shirt. “Dude, what the fuck?”

I smirked. “That’s right, bitch. Don’t diss the Sweat Nap.”

I was surprised by the volume of Keith’s laughter. After he stopped laughing he said, “Sweat Nap? Is that your superhero name? Wow, man.”

“Yeah, it’s like wet nap, but with swea–”

“No, I get it,” he interrupted. “Still stupid.”

“Look, it’s still a work in progress. Think you can come up with anything better?” I demanded.

Keith looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his chin with his hand. “Hmmm,” he said. “Sweat is salty, right? Like sodium chloride? How about ‘The Psycho Sochlo’? Or maybe ‘Lean Mean Saline’?”

“Jesus, Keith,” I said, pounding the countertop of the bar. “I want villains to be scared of me, not seek me out when they need to clean their contacts. Come the fuck on, dude.”

Keith opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak there was a slam from the front of the bar. Both of us turned to see the door resting against the wall, open. In the entryway stood two men dressed entirely in black, wearing balaclavas and long jackets. “Shit,” Keith whispered. “Anarchists.”

“Oy mate, we’re the black blocheads,” the taller of the two said. He swung his arm out from under his coat. He held a sawed off shotgun in his hand. “And we’re here to free you from the bonds of your capitalist oppression.” The shorter man standing next to him grinned lecherously and brandished a knife.

“Uhhh,” I said, unsure of how to respond. “We’re both unemployed, guys, so we’ve pretty much already been freed from our capitalist fat cat overlords.”

Keith laughed. “Yeah, what he said. Plus, we already spent most of our money at the bar.” He motioned across the wood platform that separated us from the rows of bottles. We all looked, but the bartender who’d been standing there was nowhere to be seen.

The taller man stomped over to Keith and slammed the barrel of the shotgun against the back of his head. “Shut the fuck up, cunt, and give us your wallets!” he yelled.

Keith rubbed the back of his head. He glanced at me pleadingly. It was then that I knew I had to make an attempt to save us with my new-found power. I closed my eyes and began to summon the sweat. I could feel it gathering on my forehead, on my upper lip, even under my eyes. It began to run down my face, but I knew I’d have to do something more drastic if Keith and I would make it through this night alive. Focusing all my concentration on the liquid that was sliding toward my chin, I began to imagine it as a stream–no, a mighty river–springing from my forehead.

I opened my eyes and felt my head forcefully jerk back as a stream of sweat with the diameter of my forearm burst from face. It washed over the two men, drenching them with liquid. Thinking quickly, I aimed the stream at the eyes of the taller man, then those of his shorter companion. The two men started screaming and rubbing at their faces.

“It burns!” squealed the shorter man. He dropped his knife with a clatter and hopped around, rubbing his eyes with both hands.

The taller anarchist grunted and started shaking his head wildly. I stood up and smacked the shotgun from his hands, then bent over and grabbed it. The two men rubbed at their faces for another minute, and when they opened their eyes they were staring down the short barrel of the shotgun. They looked at me with shock and I said, “You two are all washed up.”

“You’re so bad at this,” Keith groaned from behind me. “But, uh, thanks for saving me.”

I turned to him and replied, “Of course, man . . . don’t sweat it.”

 

Stay tuned for the next episode of Sweat Man, wherein our intrepid hero is trapped in a box of silica gel by his newfound arch-enemy.

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