Fish Out of Water

It was two in the morning and I was eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes while reading the Superman comic on the back of the box. Inside there was a super hero card for me, so I dug in my hand and felt it crunch through the flakes of frost. I pulled the plastic bag out of the box, but saw no card within the flakes. Finally, I peeked inside the empty box and saw the card wrapped neatly in a foil wrapper.
"Wow! I got Hawkman."
The card had a password that read ADA-597. According to the instructions on the back of the box, I could go to the Kellogg’s website and use the password to create my own original comic.
"And to think my girlfriend left me because she thought I was a loser. Wait’ll she sees that I’m making comics books now."
I had a brilliant idea for a story...
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Hawkman and Superman are eating dinner at a Japanese hibachi steakhouse. They have been seated with a family of four celebrating their parents anniversary and a matching sweater vested couple in their early twenties. Hawkman stirs his Manhattan in a dizzy swirl of self pity, squawking on about the city and his lack of recognition from the public.
"Not only can I fly, Superman, but what people don’t realize is that I could see real good too."
"No doubt. These people need to know that you got skills, Hawk. You gotta show em’ how we do up in the hawks nest," says Superman while hooting and giving Hawkman a pound followed by an intricate pattern of handshakes at a dizzying speed. Superman is wearing his trademark red and blue attire, but has added a matching blue Stetson hat and a diamond encrusted wristwatch.

Sparks from the hibachi chef’s gleaming cutlery cast a flickering light on the group as the chef ignites a stack of onions creating a sudden mini-volcano. Superman reacts to the explosion with haste, immediately blowing out the flames and transforming the volcano into a tiny Mount Everest. The chef grimaces, releases a strained sigh and presents Superman with a sardonic grin.
"My bad," says Superman, "My reflexes is too quick, y’na mean?"
"Check it out, Superman. This is my favorite part of the dinner."
A piece of shrimp flies off of the chef’s spatula in Hawkman’s direction. Hawkman jumps out of his seat, his flapping wings brush against the little children at the table. He extends his neck outward and snatches it in his gobbling mouth. Hawkman awaits his applause, but there is none. The people are picking feathers off of their clothes. The sweater-vested woman turns her head in disgust, "Gross." The little girl grabs onto her Mom pleading for protection from the strange bird man. Hawkman frowns.

The chef then prepares a slice of filet mignon for Superman. The piece looks unusually large, even for a man of steel. The meat flops in the air toward Superman as he opens his mouth and snags it like an aquarium seal. The entire restaurant roars with excitement. The chef laughs heartily, then pushes his cart back into the kitchen disappearing without a goodbye. A young couple sitting in a booth on the other side of the restaurant hold up a sign that reads, We Love You, Superman.
"You see what I mean, Superman. You did the same thing as me, but you got a standing ovation. No one cares what I do. It’s like I might as well be a bad guy, maybe then people will care."
Superman says nothing.
"Superman, you okay?"
Superman points to his throat and then in the direction of the chef who fled the scene. Hawkman realizes that Superman is choking. He springs from his chair and grabs Superman from behind to perform the heimlich maneuver. After a few abdominal thrusts the piece of filet mignon fumbles out of Superman’s mouth and the entire restaurant cheers. An echoing chant begins, ‘Hawkman, Hawkman...," and a busboy throws his towel in the air, "You rule, Hawkman."

Superman hugs Hawkman and they bow to the crowd of new Hawkman fans. The young couple hold up a new sign that reads, You’re lame, Superman. Hawkman’s the tops. Superman looks at Hawkman and shrugs, "Yo, I ain’t mad about that. I’m just happy to be alive, Hawk. Now let’s go get that crazy insane chef."
"You said it, Superman."
I tried getting onto the internet to start working on my comic, but my computer kept crashing. So, I opened my notebook and began writing the story down with the sound of the late late news buzzing in the background. A strange thing occurred when I looked up at the television and Liz Cho from ABC Eyewitness news was highlighting a story about a villainous sushi chef, "His identity is presently unknown, but investigators say that within the last two months he has worked at ten different Japanese restaurants, staying just long enough to poison his customers and disappear, but not long enough for his employers to learn anything about him."
At first, I wasn’t paying attention to what she was saying. I was in the middle of one of my Liz Cho fantasies. She and I were at the arcade and we were rolling around in mounds of prize tickets that I’d won with my sweet skee-ball stroke. That fantasy seemed too unrealistic, so I started to imagine her dressed as Catwoman doing roundhouse kicks and legs sweeps on the mystery chef. Finally, I had acknowledged what I’d heard.

It was bizarre to hear about such a character after I had just written about one in my story. The coincidence was too outrageous to ignore, so I decided I would do a little bit of investigation. I called my ex-girlfriend to see if she’d be willing to hang out with a famous comic book writer for the evening. I wasn’t surprised to hear her message. I’d heard it several times a day since our unfortunate break up three years before.
"Hi, this is Marissa. I’m not here right now, leave a message and I’ll get back to you. If this is Pete, please don’t leave a message or breath heavily on my machine. Get a life. You are a loser and I wish you would stop calling me."

Marissa sounded happier than usual. I thought she might finally be coming around to my pleas for her love again. I was lonely without her. She was the only girl that didn’t mind that I collected ceramic figurines from boxes of Red Rose tea. I think her problem with me was that I didn’t have a job or any friends, and maybe the fact that I spent most of our time together playing video games. I was beyond that now. I had beaten Grand Theft Auto IV and was ready to spend some quality time together. Plus, I had a steady income flowing in from my new job at Blockbuster.
"Hey, Marissa, it’s Pete. Just wanted to see what you were doing tonight for dinner. I’ve been so busy writing for DC Comics that I need to take a break and unwind. Give me a call when you get this message."
The next day at around noon I received a call, "Pete?"
"Yeah, hey. Wow, you called."
"I got your message at like four in the morning."
"Sorry, I’ve been so busy, I don’t keep regular hours anymore."
"So, what’s this about you writing for DC Comics?"

We went to a Japanese restaurant on the south side of town called Nara Ichiban. The place was small, but comforting. Other than the overwhelming stink of fish, I was impressed. I pulled out Marissa’s chair for her as we sat down at the sushi bar. Initially, I thought that the sushi chef was sweating, but then I decided he was just wet; like he had been standing under someone’s lawn sprinklers for a few minutes. Water was dripping from his hair and onto the California rolls he was molding with his bamboo mat. I thought he had to go to the bathroom, because he was wiggling uncontrollably. His big blank eyes leered at me without blinking.
"Could this be the guy?" I thought.
I was checking out the menu for any dangerous sounding dishes. "I think I’ll stay away from the spicy dynamite. And just to be on the safe side, I’ll pass on the dragon roll," I mumbled to myself.
"So how much money are they paying you to write comics?" said Marissa.

"Well the thing is, I’m not actually getting paid yet."
So I told her about the cereal box and my idea to write a comic book. She didn’t seem to like the sound of it too much, so then I went into my Hawkman story and I thought that that might win her over.
"I can’t believe that I’m here right now with the same loser I dated three years ago. You told me you were working for DC Comics. How could I fall for this?"
"All right, so I’m not famous yet, but I’m being honest with you right now. Now I want you to be honest. What’d you think about my story?"
"It’s retarded. Who the hell is Hawkman? And why does Superman sound like he’s Snoop Dogg?"
"What?! I need to lend you some of my Hawkman trades.
"No, you don’t."
"And okay, I can see how Superman’s vernacular could be a bit disconcerting, but that’s because I didn’t tell you about the prequels."

"I don’t want to hear it."
"It’s quite simple."
"I’m not listening."
"Superman decided to investigate the murders of local rappers while disguising himself as a street thug drug lord. It took five years of drug dealing and gangsta talk, but he was able to solve each mystery. The only bad part was that he spent so much time in the underworld, that he became delusional and forgot why he was there in the first place. It’s kinda like Donnie Brasco only the catch phrase is, "Whut’s good?"
"You’re a moron."
The sushi chef was splashing water from the faucet onto his face. He was holding two knives and bumbling around on his own unstable ground. His nervous motion tic made him seem even more menacing when he held sharp instruments.

"She’ll have the spicy dynamite and the dragon roll," I said, "And I’m okay for now, thanks."
"You’re no hungry? Order some sushi. I make it good."
"So, he wants me to order sushi?" I thought.
"You know what, I’ll just have a bowl of fried rice. That’s it. I just want the rice and the fried. No special ingredients for me, thank you."
The dinner went by fast and surprisingly Marissa wasn’t poisoned. The restaurant was closing up as we were leaving. I grabbed some of those complimentary mints on the way out, as well as some of those minted toothpicks. I made some friendly conversation to Marissa’s cold shoulder as we walked to the car.
"You know, Marissa, you never can get too much mint. There are some things where I say, that’s just too much, but I never say that about mint. I wouldn’t mind if had the taste of mint in my mouth all day long."

"Can you not talk?"
I was ready to pull out of the parking lot when I saw the sushi chef shimmying into his white BMW. His hair was wet again as were his clothes and I understood at that moment that the man was insane and probably would kill someone one day; if he hadn’t already; but he was not the killer I was looking for. He revved his engine for a second, then left us in a puffy cloud of dirt smoke. I hardly noticed the exhaust. My mind stilled on an image of his license plate. ACU-864. "Boy, does that sound familiar. The Hawkman card!!"
I pulled out my wallet and found that the card’s password was ADA-597. I was awestruck to find that card’s password and the license plate both started with the letter A. I didn’t mention anything to Marissa about it, but she was examining me curiously while I held the card in my hand and read Hawkman’s bio out loud. "There must be some kind of connection," I thought.