I was feeling immortal, transfixed at the wheel of my 1941 Dystopia. The hood gleamed in the Autumn light with celestial menace. The sky was on fire with polychromatic hues of fuschia and sapphire. As I sped down the ashphalt road, I could hear sirens echo in the recesses of the city, sound ricocheting through the sepulchral veins of urban sprawl. Even now the harsh glare of bright lights, alternating between red and blue, perforated the faint glow of the October sunset. I pushed down on the gas pedal further, trembling with the profane exhilaration that accompanied my line of work.
Allow me to clarify: I'm not evil. I'm merely an oppurtunist with a healthy subscription to capitalist philosophy. It's this economic compulsion that lends context to the situation I find myself in, bolting past the city limits in a chrome black Dystopia with fifty thousand dollars in the trunk and a dead hero in the sleeping metropolis. Even now the tumultuous drone of the sirens is fading in the distance as I abandon my pursuers in a cloud of dust. A well placed match thrown accurately out of the open window creates a barricade of flame that ensures my comfortable escape.
The sun has long since descended when I arrive at my sanctuary, a palatial abode situated at the peak of a jagged mountain. As I stumble wearily into my quarters, I divest myself of the leather trenchcoat, the red goggles, the black mask. I observe my scars in the mirror, the bruises over my broken ribs, the crooked gash where The Angel had sliced at me desperately. I could still see an aura of light on my hands from where I had broken The Angel's halo with my bare hands, and I savoured the expression of vulnerable shock that I could still picture on his typically impervious face.
I walk onto the balcony, striding over the subtle stonemasonry with the hint of a smirk upon my face. In the tentative embrace of the moonlight. The city glares at me in defensive slumber, and I meet its gaze with obstinate reciprocity. The moonlight envelops me as my wounds slowly heal. I look to the night sky in silent thanks, look at the city in a final declaration of smug dominion, and look at my glowing hands with grim satisfaction. I am Herr Von Blitzkrieg, and I kill superheroes.
