It's like Bridget Jones' Diary, but with a super-powered vigilante.

August 25, 2004


So last night my car gets exploded by Exploder.

My fucking car gets exploded by fucking Exploder.

I have this little unofficial parking spot next to the train yards I use when I’m patrolling the south end or Chinatown. I was heading back to my spot, ready to pack it in after an uneventful patrol when this maniac shows up. He must have been hiding between the train cars, waiting. Exploder.

I fought Exploder once during the Villain Revolt event last year. He explodes and screams a lot. The trick is to wait until he’s recharging, you know, after he blows up.

During the Revolt I dropped him with a brick. I just picked up a brick and fucking brained him from 50 yards. My dad would have been proud, it was a perfect throw. Now Exploder’s pretty tough, but I’ve got what they call “mid-range super strength.” If I throw a brick at your head I don’t care who you are, you’re going down.

But last night I was tired and not ready for a full-on supervillain fight and what can I say, he caught me off-guard. The guy runs towards me, flaming and screaming something about his revenge and death, and then he explodes. He fucking explodes.

The blast lifts me up and smashes me into a warehouse. I tear through the corner of the building, taking out a big main support beam with the small of my back.

I’m on fire and half-buried in rubble when the corner of the roof collapses on me. The armor protects me from serious damage, but trust me, it still hurts to get exploded into a building.

Under the rubble I can hear Exploder going on about his revenge and me reaping the whirlwind or some shit. I test the debris – I’m pretty sure I can lift it off me but he’ll just blow up again as soon as I make my move.

But what am I gonna do? I have to take the hit. My hand wraps around a metal beam and I tense – I try to judge where he is from his ranting. He starts raving on about how power must be used for betterment of the self. What an asshole. I burst up through the debris and swing the metal beam as hard as I can at his head.

Amazingly, the guy doesn’t explode. I think he was so wrapped up in his soliloquy that he couldn’t react in time. I swat his head with the beam and he goes flying.

The thing is, he lands on my car.

It’s not like I’m in love with my car or anything – it’s a 95 Civic – but it’s my car. It crumples under the impact. The windows blow out in a spray of glass.

“Fuck!” I say. It’s all I can manage frequently.

My car is a burning slag heap. Exploder laughs, engulfed in flames.

There was an episode of Miami Vice where Crockett and Tubbs were undercover buying weapons from this arms dealer. They drive out to this gravel quarry and Crockett parks his Ferrari or whatever and they walk over to the arms dealer’s van. Have you seen this one? Crockett has an attitude and asks the arms dealer how they can be sure his shit is any good, so the pulls out a rocket launcher and shoots Crockett’s Ferrari. The music starts throbbing -- we pull in on Don Johnson’s mirrored shades and the reflection of his burning car. He’s just devastated.

I felt like Don Johnson right then.

Pulling myself together, I run towards him. His eyes start glowing and smoking. I leap into the air into one of my bad-ass 20 yard Bruce Lee flying kicks. He’s glowing hotter. I’m mid-flight, aimed right at his face--

He blows up. Again.

The shockwave hits me and I get tossed like a cat into the same damn warehouse. Once again, the armor saves my ass. I’m quasi-bulletproof, but I don’t want to burn.

The death of my Honda fills me with rage and power. I pop to my feet. I think I actually snarl. I snarl. I’m not about to let this dick explode again. Wow, did I type that? Call Dr Freud.

I would pay good money for a picture of the look on Exploder’s face when I slam into him. I basically run at him full speed and when I’m about twenty feet away, I leap into the air and drive my fist into the side of his head. Boo-wah. I’m thinking about giving that move a name.

Exploder smashes back into the burning wreckage of my car and stops moving. Good.

Sirens wail in the distance. Time for me to vanish into the night -- only I can’t, because my fucking car got exploded.

So there I was, stuck eight miles from my house, no car. I can’t take a cab – Velvet Marauder doesn’t take cabs. Reluctantly I start jogging. I can run pretty fast when I have to, but I’m more of a running-on-rooftops guy than a distance runner.

My body’s starting to stiffen up when I get home around 2 AM. I’m going to have some big-ass bruises.

I warm up the rest of the spaghetti and watch some TV. Force 10 from Navaronne. There’s this funny scene where Harrison Ford is urging his team to hurry by yelling, “Come on you guys, hurry up! Shag it! Shag it!” I don’t know, I think it’s funny.

I resist the temptation to switch to the news and see if they have any coverage of my fight.

I take a shower and lay down in bed, but I can’t sleep.

In the morning I’ve got to report my car stolen.

I’ve got a presentation at work tomorrow.