There I was, standing before my criminal peers, as well as the bosses, the dons, the capos, the crime lords, the masterminds, and the world conquerors. My objective is to convince them that I am most worthy to kill our greatest enemy, Aquaman®. I had to call upon all the eloquence Mama Killer Brick taught me. I had to call upon the conviction of every pastor and rabbi I had ever mugged. I don’t want to come off entitled, but my hatred for Aquaman® was humongous. So humongous, there is no term yet invented. If I had to invent that word, gazillious or googolnormous.
Up front sat Aquaman’s Rogue Gallery®. They were all there, a collective of half-man, half-fish combined with hooks, scuba gear, gaudy sunken treasures, tridents, harpoons and seaweed. I was very surprised and concerned to see Master Baiter® out of ICU so soon after his vicious head trauma with Hammerhead Shark®. Villains have a very different protocol when it comes to concussions than the wimpy NFL™.
These gatherings tend to be the same washed-up faces, so it was nice to see unfamiliar ones like Gill Man® and Gelman, yeah, that guy from The Regis Show, yeah, the guy who has a “wife”. Just when you’re about to think that organized crime will expire with our generation, it’s good to see Baby Galactus® and Kid Cudi in attendance. Master Gator®, who has no powers per se, nor is the ruler of alligators, was only there looking for some shag carpet to rub one out on. Walking in, fashionably late, The Big Goombah® and his Goombots®, who are under heavy scrutiny, especially after the whole Chief Wahoo fiasco with the Cleveland Indians, looked uniformly dour.
I straightened out my index cards by tapping on the podium. With two hands, I took a sip of water. I’ve seen too many criminals of late, literally choke from dehydration. “Ladies and gentlemen of the class of ’97: Wear sunscreen.”
To my dismay, I was booed and immediately escorted off the stage by The Sandman® of Showtime At The Apollo®. I was offended, yet at the same time, honored. This was The Sandman®.