“Old-Fashioned” super-hero (I’m not)

The day I lost my powers, I had my first Old-Fashion. That landed. I had three more and two glasses of frosty beer. I think it was a little past midnight when I got home. I was weary and I couldn’t stand much less go to the bathroom without my knees buckling.

That was my first clue that my powers either were weakened or something was wrong. Alcohol never affected me before.

My best friend Maya, gave me that last and my first Old-Fashioned, I told her that I was the orange peel and she was the maraschino cherry.

My arch-nemesis was a loquacious sort, a very curvy little minx called The Dreamer. She was the Sandman of our generation, putting her foes in a position of influence that made them instantly go to sleep.

“It’s your talking that makes us fall asleep, Dreamer,” I taunted. Her bright blonde curls glittered like the moon.

At the bar with Maya, I knew something was wrong.

“Why even bother to fight these over the top villians? Why be a vigilante?”

Her questions were an annoying fly in my ear that I knew personally. I didn’t always choose the hero type of thing to do when it came to my vices, my arrogance and my lack of control in life, love and money.

“I’m not really a hero, May, I’m a jackass in disguise.”

Maya laughed. It sounded like the twinkling Tinkerbell did when she was angry.

She eyed the busy bartender, and he smiled at her. She was a beautiful woman, but we’re friends.

“Old-Fashioned, plenty of ice,” she ordered.

I wasn’t a hero, that was true. I used my powers for selfishness. The night my powers left me, I never felt more free to try to be a real hero.