"Those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch about it on the Internet." -Simon, from The Book of Simon
Some bios list credentials, such as: Education BFA in Illustration, Massachusetts College of Art Occupation Former Production Slave, Ballantine Books Comics Credits Columnist, Writer, Artist, Editor Etc…
And some bios tell a story, such as: I can remember sitting in front of my television one morning, watching the old Batman show, when Julie Newmar appeared in that skintight black leather outfit as Catwoman. It was my first boy/girl thing. >A year later I was in kindergarten telling Katherine Burke that I loved her. It’s pretty much been a string of stupid mistakes ever since…
Still other bios state an intent, such as: This is a series of essays illustrating the life of one particular struggling artist as he plods through the world and occasionally bumps into some interesting shit.
But most bios just sit to the right of the column and are never looked at. So ignore this space and just read the damn column already…
It was gone. He reached out his hand, pointed it at the cinder block target, and nothing happened. What had once been as simple as lifting a leg or blinking an eye was now something impossible. There was no way to escape that crippling fact. The power was gone.
Tubes were dug into his skin like burrowing worms; wires attached to his body with circular adhesives. He didn’t know what exactly they did, but he believed that each had a specific purpose. The man on the other side of the protective glass told him so. Doctor Friedkin sat behind the clear divider, his head down, feverishly analyzing instantaneous readouts; data collected from the latest round of tests. Even though the blur of the glass obscured the full details of his expression, Eddie already knew in his mind and in his heart what the room of high tech machines and gizmos was relaying to the good doctor. There was no need for Friedkin to disguise the results with his face; the hero always knows.
They say that memories begin to form around age four. Eddie Sanchez couldn’t remember anything before his fifth birthday. That was the year he got his powers. It was also the year that his parents died. The two incidents were not mutually exclusive. In point of fact it was the same accident that killed Morris and Lillian Sanchez that also granted their son the extraordinary gifts that would define his life.
Eddie was a superhero. A simple career choice, considering his unique aptitudes. The accident had turned him into a sort of diminutive star. Energy absorbed into his system and was transformed due to the peculiar metamorphosis to his cellular structure. With this energy he could fire beams of heat and force from his eyes and hands; he could generate a protective field around his body that very little could penetrate; and, most wondrously, he could fly.
The way he spoke of his powers was very matter-of-fact. Having had them for so long they stopped being anything special to him. The awe of unassisted flight wore off long before his seventh birthday. By the time he was eleven he was monitored with less rigidity and being instructed how to best use his powers in positive ways. Doctor Friedkin had helped him along the way. While other kids were getting paper routes, Eddie was making his public debut as a superhero.
Someone from the press gave him the name Corona, because of the way he reminded her of the sun. She wasn’t far from the truth.
Those were the glory days. Some people have their finest moment scoring the winning touch down or being school valedictorian. For Eddie his finest moment was protracted over years. His business was saving people and stopping crime. And he got to do it on a daily basis.
It never felt like a job, though. A job is something you have to do to pay the bills, something most people usually don’t like; a means to an ends. But Eddie loved being a superhero. He loved being superior to his opponents, stopping them from a distance with a point of his finger. It was a world in which he had total control. There was nothing better.
And it was all over.
“Full test results are in, Eddie,” Doctor Friedkin said into a microphone that transmitted his voice into the testing chamber.
“I already know what you’re going to say,” Eddie replied, speaking into the air and not looking at the booth behind the window.
“Why don’t we call it a day? We can do the final battery tomorrow,” Friedkin suggested, trying to inject a touch of hope to the moment.
“Now,” Eddie ordered.
“Tomorrow, Eddie,” Friedkin begged.
“Now, Doc,” Eddie was a raw nerve. “I can’t spend another night sitting at home, wondering if I’ll ever be the same again. So let’s just get it over with.”
Friedkin disengaged the microphone button and conferred with his colleagues. They were the finest scientists Biotron International had to offer and they were all determined to resolve the Eddie Sanchez situation. Thirty years ago it was Eddie who put Biotron on the map. Then a fledgling laboratory specializing in radical biophysics, the training of a nuclear-powered kindergartner had been instrumental in the anonymous company’s rapid emergence as a world leader in the field of super powered studies. Three decades later numerous competitors were nipping at Biotron’s heels to become the new forerunner. Their position of dominance was suddenly in question. Restoring Corona’s powers would be a swift way to leave any contenders far back in the dust.
Gentler tests had proven fruitless and the collective of minds agreed to comply with Eddie’s wishes if it meant bringing them closer to renewing his heroic career and boosting their public profile.
Friedkin entered instructions into his computer while three assistants followed his direction exactly and programmed their own machines. Other assistants scurried about, adjusting levers and knobs like modern day Frankenstein’s. The door to the test chamber opened and two men in radiation suits entered. They checked the existing tubes and wires and added a few more. For the final round of tests they placed gloves of woven nanite micro-fibers over Eddie’s hands and a helmet that might have once been someone’s salad bowl over his head. Thanks to these new articles of pseudo-clothing he was no longer completely naked, although he’d long ago grown used to the nudity involved with the testing of his powers.
As he stood there, mostly undressed, awaiting the next test to begin, he said a little prayer. Eddie didn’t believe in God. After all he’d seen, the experiences of a superhero, it was hard to rationalize praying to an omnipotent invisible man conjured by humans thousands of years ago. As Corona he’d fought alongside gods, he knew they walked the Earth. So praying to a figurehead used to solicit money and control people through shame felt ridiculous. But he did it anyway. And for that instant he hoped that everything he’d seen was bullshit.
“System coming online now,” Friedkin announced. “We’ve upped the gain for the final round. It’s going to be a lot to take. But we need you to stand on your own for as long as possible. The second you touch the bars you disengage the energy feed.”
Eddie waved his hands around to remind himself where the support bars were. To his left and right, twelve inches from his body on each side, were two bent tubes of titanium. Whatever happens he thought to himself, whatever pain I feel, I will not grab those bars.
“Counting down to first cycle,” Friedkin reported.
The sound of the doctor’s voice grew distant as Eddie centered himself, mustering his strength. The countdown was a muffled observation in the distance as all his will turned inward. Every atom of his body tensed in readiness. In the booth a computer file was opened, a switch clicked on, and then…
Pain. Pain like he’d never felt before. Pain ripping his soul apart. It began at his toes— at least that’s where his could mind first isolate the sensation. A hellish surge erupted at the ends of his feet, seemingly pulling, flaying, and torching his extremities all at once. And then it traveled upward. His legs felt like every bone was being slowly pulverized into dust, healed in an instant of agonizing rebirth, and then smashed again. When it reached his pelvis it was like a thousand simultaneous kicks to the groin, the trail of anguish flowing from his testicles into his stomach, where the acids boiled and threatened to eat through the layers of skin separating them from outside air. He could feel his heart still beating, only it was no longer pumping blood. In place of the liquid were bundles of irradiated barbed wire, tearing and searing through his veins and arteries. His neck seemed to twist and rotate independent of his body. His tongue turned to poison and his eyes were tiny spheres of fire.
For three minutes he endured the horror of the test. Behind the safety provided by the glass a handful of emotionally remote scientists quietly cheered for another two minutes to complete the cycle. Doctor Friedkin could only watch his monitor, the sight of his former charge in such agony too much for him to bear. If he looked up he knew he would be swayed by emotion and cancel the test. The three minutes of suffering thus far would be for nothing.
At four minutes and forty-two seconds Eddie finally succumbed to the limits of his endurance. He reached for the bars to give his weary flesh relief, though they only served to halt the energy flow. By then he was too weak to hold himself up. Eighteen seconds shy of completion, Eddie Sanchez collapsed onto the floor of Testing Cell 9-B in a sub-basement of Biotron International.
