A writing variation based on an illustration by Stu Mead.
Not only was The Alchemist bored, she was restless, thus twitchy and itchy, reticent as hell, buzzed on heroin, and drunk on cooking sherry, perhaps the most under-rated high. It must be noted, she had more liquor on her breath than most taverns stock. Worst of all, she was lonely; as lonely as all the recurrent overwrought characters in a Sting song.
Courtroom artist rendering of the alleged superhero fighting crime in Chicago.
Dr. Cornelius Hamilton took a deep breath and paused, as if waiting for logic to kick him squarely in the behind and bring him back down to earth. He was more than surprised that his hands were trembling. He was actually nervous. He flexed his muscles and liked what he saw. It gave the blue and red unitard credibility to be filled out with such a sheer hard body. All the hours at the gym paid off, but not as much as the steroids. Yet, he was still filled with trepidation.
Even with an obvious mustache, people confused Aguaman with Aquaman. This had to change.
Aguaman, not to be confused with the slightly more popular, Aquaman, was on the brink of a tantrum. He was in a meeting with Makeover Schlatz & Sons 2.0™, a P.R. firm known only for their untimely destruction of Mayor McCheese® and the accidental birth and branding of Chester Cheetah™. He wanted a new identity, one not associated with being called Mexico’s Aquaman. In fact, he wanted Aquaman to be called the American Aguaman.
I am Uatu. I am the Watcher. As my name implies, I watch. Since time out of mind, I have observed the rise and fall of civilizations of worlds—of galaxies. I know all that is – most that has been and much of what will be. Yet, I watch, never interfering. To do so would be to step on the Interferer’s duties, and as any civil person knows, never mess with another’s duty. Another word of advice, never look at Uranus too long.
I have also many windows into the strange parallel worlds of what might have been. For, none save a watcher, me, can truly know what could have happened. But for the invisible workings of an incomprehensible fate! For instance…
What if Stan Lee still wrote Stan’s Soapbox in 2018?