Superman From Super-Earth Meets Doom At Hands Of Wheat Farmers
By Michael Breckenridge
Lake Wobegon, Minnesota — Local residents Barb and Jim found a superman in blue tights, 14 times the size of a normal man, from a planet 14 times the size of Earth, lying in a scorched patch of ground in their wheat field. Unsure what to do with their strange guest, they dragged him by his red flowing cape into their barn with a tractor.
When the superman came to his senses, he saw they had set up a card table with coffee and the trimmings for a light meal. Jim began to address him.
“These are the good years for Barb and me. The kids have all moved away, the mortgage is paid, and the pets are finally dead. And yet, something just hasn’t been right.”
“What’s troubling you, Jim,” Barb said.
“I felt a disturbance in the Force, Barb. As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened.”
“Oh, your spidey-sense is tingling again. Have you taken the gamma radiation pills the doctor gave you for that?”
“No, dear, I haven’t. They were causing a startling metamorphosis, making my skin turn green and my whole body to grow into a hulking creature every time I grew angry or outraged,” Jim said. “Frankly, I was tired of waking up in alleys with my clothes in rags and not knowing how I got there, not to mention always hearing sad piano music while I was hitchhiking back home.”
“That’s true. I had to call Ghostbusters several times to go rescue you.”
“Barb, that’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why did you always call Ghostbusters?”
“People knew there was something strange in the neighborhood. When your husband has turned green, busted out of his clothes and gone running off again, who ya gonna call?”
“Of course, dear. They’re accustomed to chasing green spectres. Better them and avoid a sting operation by the police.”
“Speaking of the police, what shall we do with our guest?” Barb said.
“You’re right. I’ve been so rude. Why don’t you put on Synchronicity. Mr. Superman - I don’t really know what to call you - do you like The Police?”
“If they are for truth, justice, and the American way,” the superman said. “And when you call me, you can call me Al. Al Ice from Gliese 876 d, a Super-Earth in a red dwarf solar system far, far away.”
“Charmed,” Barb said, extending her small hand. “Isn’t that the one with the orange colored sky?”
Al stuck out a finger which she touched with her own. Then he picked up the cup of coffee she had served him and ate it.
“It is difficult to be precise, Barb,” Al said. “I should say approximately, an orange-colored, purple-striped, pretty green polka-dot sky.”
“Difficult to be precise?” Jim said. “An orange-colored, purple-striped, polka-dot sky?”
“An orange-colored, purple-striped, pretty green polka-dot sky.”
“That’s a pretty close approximation.”
“I endeavor to be accurate.”
“You do quite well.”
“Do you smell fish?” Barb said.
“The burgers! They must be ready.” With a flick of his wrist, Jim retrieved a plate of meat patties for the three to enjoy with his spidey-webbing. “I’d offer you some asbestos to sprinkle on your burger - it tastes kinda funky - but my friend Clarence Washington told me it gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Is that right?” Al said.
“Yeah. I can’t sprinkle it on eggs in the morning or my Dutch Masters cigars either. For a while, I didn’t know what I was gonna eat.”
“So now, we’ve switched to ketchup,” Barb said, handing Al a super-sized bottle with the words “DRINK ME” beautifully printed on it in large letters.
“Ketchup has natural mellowing agents,” Jim said. “It makes a person more normal. Isn’t that super?”
Al picked up the tiny burger, tossed it in his mouth, then squeezed out the entire contents of the ketchup bottle on to his tongue with one super-pinch and ate it.
“This burger was a really wonderful idea. What an incredible taste you’ve discovered,” Al said.
“It’s a mixture of cherry tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast,” Barb said. “And one special ingredient from my brother: kryptonite.”
“What a curious feeling,” Al said. “I must be shutting up like a telescope.” The superman began to shrink to the size of a normal human. “What does your brother do?”
“He works for Lex Luthier. They make guitars.”
“How did you say they came into possession of kryptonite again?” Jim said.
“Because they couldn’t get moon rocks for their ultra high-end guitar picks. People love the Krypto-Picks™, shaped like a dog’s paw. They have the added benefit of providing adequate protection against caped crusaders from space with superhuman strength, in case one wants to break up your death metal concert right in the middle of a gnarly solo. It’s a good thing.”
“It’s a wonderful story, and it makes me feel charitable. Come on, Barb, let’s go down to the Red Cross and give blood for the Hurricane Katrina victims. Want to go with us, Al?”
“No thanks, I’d best be, uh, you know.” Al stood up, adjusted his tights and made an up, up and away gesture with his hands. “I believe I can fly.”
“Well, suit yourself. If you change your mind, there’s a phone booth down at the corner.”
Al climbed up to the roof of the barn and spread his arms. As Barb and Jim headed for the car, they heard a resounding thud as Al hit the ground.
“He’s dead, Jim,” Barb said. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled.
“Sounds like rain. When we get back we’ll bury him out on the lone prairie,” Jim said. “That’ll be the end of it.” They looked with melancholy at the fallen hero, then drove away.
The unsteady folkie voice of Rich Dworsky permeated the air with a wistful little song.
“Here in Minnesota / Al Ice and wheat fields / Here people know / The power kryptonite wields / Life is flowing like ketchup on steering wheels / Ketchup! Ketchup!”
