He's been bald since birth and not ashamed to say a little proud of it.
Chicks dig smooth, shiny pates; or so they'd always crooned in his ear. He breathes in deep, the fresh air stinging his nostrils as he leans over the sink, glaring intently at himself in the barely reflective mirror. It distorts his features making his chin look too big, his forehead stretches to infinity...oh wait, that was real.
They always said he'd gotten his mother's mischevious looks. Those eyes. Those black eyes, permanently grinning, permanently improper.
In all social settings, those damn grin-and-thank-you-very-much functions, those were the eyes that always got him Trouble...
Different words, same meaning to
Extraordinaire. His destiny was to Save the World but S.H.E. was conflicted. Too much pressure.
"And for what?", he asked himself between moody gulps of Jim Bean.
The World never noticed and truth be told, neither did he.
That is until the day that he almost lost his voice. And mine.
January 20, 1934
(Dry air. Unusual for this time of year. Cold. Bookshelves stocked to the max and I'm in a disheveled bed. Only 7:30 and Mr. Conscience leaves me wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. A body stirs and stretches next to me.)
"Penny for your thoughts," Liz murmurs behind him into his ear. Slides a red laquered hand over his adorable pot-belly and strokes his naked scalp with the other.
"Dang women! Send you to hell in a handbasket if they thought it would help!" charmed as he always is to give voice to his musings.
Naughty Thumb reaches for his glass of morning water and SHAZAAM!!! the glass explodes into killer fragments slicing themselves purposefully into his tender flesh.
"Jeesus, Mary and Joseph!!"
Too late, he was bleeding profusely from his bone deep slash.
"@#%#Glass!" he cries out in mass amounts of pain.
Liz lets out a dull whimper and passes out with the sight of blood fresh on the counter top. Clutching his squirting wound in both hands, Naughty Boy maneuvers himself to a more comfortable position -- sitting with his oozing wound at a more presentable distance, the Thumb of Fury calculates his strategy.
He sits still, knowing his fate rests on his own ability not to panic.
Help comes in the form of Masking Tape and a roughly splintered Twig. All that can be aquired under the circumstances.
Naughty Thumb is used to roughing it.
'For the next couple days I stay sharply alert. Glass has his cronies everywhere and I am not in top form. God, I hate feeling handicapped. I used to be so strong, so cocksure and now I'm reduced to this dependent "strapped to a board" halflife.
Or am I?'
(Cue Suspense in overwhelming doses)
Our next encounter comes swiftly and not without consequences.
Naughty Boy, Super Hero Extraordinaire is lounging, Pina Colada in hand, not unwary but not particularly vigilant when out of left field, Harmless Looking Wine Goblet attacks:
'Thank God I've honed my reflexes to razor-sharp edges. It was a subconcious move, granted, and my arm was flinging wildly but best recognize how ONE flick of the wrist and that cup is a Goner. I hope no one catches on that I am in FACT a Super Thumb.'
Naughty Boy curls his lip upwards in a sneer, yet tries to look nonchalant as he struts his stuff..
Man. This is going to get him laid at LEAST .05 times.
He uncocks his Beretta .45 and shoves the cold metal between belt and skin.
"Rainy day blues", he sighs to no one in particular and wipes the sweat off his neverending forehead.
Chicks dig that.
Something's amiss. He can smell that as soon his genuine leather Penny Loafers step into the apartment.
That smell of Glass and Chinese food.
"Sesame Chicken...my favorite. I wonder if there's any..."
Too late for thought of Teriyaki as Glass's acomplice RotorWasher opens fire and busts Naughty Boy's gash right open, faucet frikin Open.
Blood pours and Liz faints again in a senseless heap. (Witnesses discover her twitching in a pool of her own blood as she collapsed -- apparently with the noble intentions of staunching Naughty Boy's gory torrent but failing miserably)
"Dang woman!" groans Naughty Boy as he too, slips into unconscious fervor.
Upon reawakening, The Thumb is filled with a new sense of purpose and Trust, having narrowly escaped death and decapitation.
There IS suffering in life, and there are defeats.
No one can avoid them.
But it's better to lose some of the battles in the struggles for your dreams than to be defeated without ever knowing what you're fighting for.
(Hmm..I'm not sure what I'm trying to get at here)
Pablo Picasso recollected: (Who was in fact a VERY ordinary painter before he stepped out of the box, became UN ordinary, and rocked the socks off of convention)
'My mother said to me, "If you become a soldier, you'll be a general; if you become a monk, you'll end up as the Pope." Instead, I became a painter and wound up as Picasso.'
Hot damn if I don't devote myself to greatness. For what is happiness but to be dissolved into something completely great?
Naughty Thumb signing out.
End of log.