7 The Lamentable Tale of Edgar Fishman

Edgar Fishman was a white-collar worker.

He was 46 years of age.

Some people complained about having a resting-bitch-face, but Edgar had more of a resting-creep-face.

No matter how he tried to twist his lips into a smile, his expression was permanently set into a leer. His face was also quite pudgy, which did not complement his beady eyes, but then nothing did, really. His nose was too big, and his ears too small.

He had started balding, with a very prominent bald patch which covered the majority of his head, with a ring of greying hair around the edges of his scalp.

He was quite portly, with a paunch to rival any baseball player. A majority of his shirts had been bought before he had put on weight, and the buttons struggled to keep the stretched shirts together.

None of this had bothered Edgar in a long time, however. He had accepted that he was not getting anywhere with his looks when his crush had slapped him in the face for trying to ask her out in his sophomore year of high school.

His unfortunate looks were perfectly acceptable for who he was.

He was an analyst with a big firm. He lived alone in a small, nondescript house. He owned a Mini Cooper which he drove alone. He read comic books in his free time. He treated himself by ordering in pizza every day.

He was boring.

He was ordinary.

He was content.

But all of that changed, one fine afternoon.

Or so the expression goes, but it was actually quite a shitty afternoon for Edgar. It had been a bad day at work, and the weather was in a mood as foul as his own, the heavens choosing to open up above him, on his way back from work, despite it being the middle of summer.

Edgar checked his bag, despite knowing he did not carry an umbrella. After confirming the lack of an umbrella, he cursed something fierce and hiked his tweed jacket over his head and hurried along, waddling along as fast as he could to make it to the shelter of the bus stop where he was headed.

Coming to a crossing, our good man Edgar took a quick glance in either direction.

There were no vehicles in sight.

He set off trotting across the road.

BAM!

Edgar would swear that he did not know where the car that hit him came from.

It was an Aston Martin. An exceedingly old, but exceedingly handsome one. Edgar thought he might have seen it in a Bond movie once. Alas, he was not able to admire the beauty of the car, because he was, you know, hit by it.

He screamed in pain as the car came to an abrupt stop. A tall thin man in an impeccable suit got out of the car and quickly dragged Edgar out of the way of the car.

There was ringing in Edgar's ears and he couldn't get his eyes to focus on the man who had crashed into him and subsequently pulled him to the side of the road. Said man put his hands on Edgar's ears, they tingled, and suddenly Edgar could hear again.

"I don't have time for this," he heard his savior mutter, as he ran his hands over Edgar's body, healing him with some kind of green energy which could be nothing other than… magic.

Edgar's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of the water, but somehow still maintained its unfortunate leer.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," the man told him, "It would be ideal if you were to forget anything happened here."

"What?" Edgar croaked.

"Good man," the suited individual responded happily, before patting Edgar right on his bald spot and turning to run back to his car, which was still in the middle of the road...only to come hurtling back at Edgar, who waddled out of the way just in time to watch the man in the suit crash into the pavement.

Edgar fell over onto his bum. He looked up.

A woman stood there. A few meters in front of him, on the road, but not looking at him. Her hair was startlingly black, and her eyes startlingly blue. She wore a fabulous dress with a floral pattern.

"Anton Tyrion," she said coldly, "You were spying on me."

The now-named Anton Tyrion got himself up and brushed pieces of gravel off of himself, his suit looking none the worse for wear.

He adjusted his tie, "Yes, yes I was."

The Lady's eyes glowed blue and blue lightning crackled out of her hand, striking Tyrion in the chest, "You nearly jeopardized everything, you pathetic spy!"

He twisted in an attempt to escape the lightning, and cried out, staggering once more. Edgar found himself wanting to help Tyrion, after all, the man had just stopped in the middle of what seemed like some kind of high-stakes magic chase to heal him.

Edgar got to his feet.

The woman ignored him.

He shuffled at her as fast as he could, barrelling into her, or so he had planned, the end result was more like directed stumbling.

The woman elbowed him in the throat, as he tried to collide with her, "What are you doing, fat man?" she asked curiously, "Are you an associate of The Spy?"

Edgar gurgled.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said, and a bolt of blue lightning crackled and hit Edgar.

Edgar felt pain.

Edgar fainted.

***

He ducked underneath the spray of gunfire, his hand glowing blue, as the woman's had, and lightning shot out, striking the first of the thugs.

Deftly, he rolled and got up in a single fluid motion, wrenching the gun out of the second thug's hand and using its butt to strike the third in the middle of his temple, knocking him backwards, and quite possibly giving him a concussion.

A simple thought, and the second thug got some point-blank lightning to his overly large nose.

The thug sneezed and collapsed.

He looked at the last thug, who simply dropped his comically large bag of bank-notes, and ran.

He grinned victoriously.

Beep!

What was that?

Beep! Beep! Beep!

He heard the beeping and frowned. Had the thugs planted a bomb too?

The world went hazy. A chemical weapon, perhaps?

"Mr. Fishman?" he heard in the distance.

And then Edgar woke up.

He looked up at a white ceiling, then to the left at a white wall, and then finally to the right, where he saw a beeping machine of some kind.

"Mr. Fishman?" he heard again.

He slurred back an affirmative response.

"Ah, good to see you're with us again, Mr. Fishman. I regret to inform you that you have had a spot of remarkably bad luck, you see, you were struck by lightning, caused by this freak storm we've been having."

"Oh," Edgar said.

"I am Doctor Stein. You were brought in over one day ago by a charming gentleman in a suit. He said he witnessed the accident and brought you here."

"Am I a superhero?" Edgar asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Am I a superhero?"

"I, uh, do not believe so."

"But I remember being a superhero," Edgar insisted.

"I think you may have been dreaming?" the doctor offered.

"Frank!" a voice in the distance called, "You're needed here!"

The doctor smiled apologetically, "Please stay here, you're still in critical need of medical care, I'll be back soon, in the meanwhile, I'll send a nurse to check on you."

The doctor walked off, leaving Edgar's mind in turmoil.

He hadn't just been struck by lightning, he had been struck by destiny! He was destined for something greater, and he wouldn't let some doctor tell him otherwise.

'Destiny has called me,' he thought, 'Destiny needs me. This world needs me.'

"I must become a superhero." he realized out loud, "The doctor called it a dream, but what does he know, it must have been a premonition."

He looked around. The Mighty Edgar could not stay cooped up in a hospital!

He was wrapped in bandages but was not hooked up to any machines as he'd seen in all the movies.

He slung his legs over the side of the bed. Pain lanced through his legs as soon as he tried to put his weight on them.

The Mighty Edgar yelped like a little girl.

Still, he was nothing if not determined. Edgar took to his feet gingerly and hobbled out of the room, some of his bandages coming undone as he moved, squealing with each shift of his weight.

"Mr. Fishman?" he heard a nurse call out in a concerned tone, "You're going to have to get back in bed, you are in no condition to leave the hospital, not to mention the bill, you don't appear to be covered under medical insurance."

The Mighty Edgar could not be defeated here, at his very first obstacle. What kind of superhero would he be then? With great pain, he lifted a hand and tried to shove the nurse, who was quite slight and about a foot shorter than him, out of his way.

The nurse did not budge.

Edgar howled in pain and tried to suck his thumb to reduce the pain, only to taste the bandage, and the antiseptic it was soaked in.

The nurse's patience was wearing out, she held Edgar by his shoulder, turning him around, "Come." she said shortly, "You are not leaving without paying your bill."

The Mighty Edgar was desperate. His first challenge was indeed a mighty one.

He'd almost admitted defeat when he had a thought. If his premonition was truly a premonition then...could he shoot lightning like he had seen himself do?

He clenched his fist, ignoring the pain in his hand, and thought really hard about trying to produce lightning.

This had looked easier in his premonition.

"Are you feeling constipated?" the nurse asked, "It is perfectly normal for some of your systems to, for lack of a better phrase, take a while coming back online, after a shock like the one you've had."

"I am not constipated," he snapped, maybe the bandages were preventing the conduction of magic, or something like that.

The nurse nodded, showing a little sympathy, "I know it can be embarrassing to admit, but it's perfectly normal."

Edgar ripped the wrapping off of his hands, whimpering at the pain.

The nurse's eyes widened before she spun her head away from him, looking in the opposite direction and seemingly unconsciously moving a few steps in that direction.

Edgar stared.

It looked like he did not have the blue-lightning power of that woman.

His power seemed to be the ability to go unnoticed, to be able to sneak, to be able to creep. It was obvious that that power, that magic, which was affecting the nurse, causing her to ignore him.

***

Amelia White had been a nurse for over a decade, and she had seen (and smelt) plenty in her time. Nothing, however, could have prepared her for the stench of her portly patient's burnt flesh.

As he undid the wrapping on his hand, she gagged at the smell, and instinctively turned around, her body automatically taking her a few steps away from the horrendous smell.

***

"Eureka!" The Might Edgar said, "Not all heroes get a piece of the glory. Some have to fight the good fight just for the sake of the world. People like that Tyrion fellow fight the flashy fights and partake in the glory, but my job is to rescue the innocent with my power of creeping!"

Triumphant, Edgar marched out of the hospital. The moment he was approached by hospital staff, he raised his magical hand and every single one turned around, brought down by his power.

Finally, he walked out of the front door, and he was free.

He could see hospital staff beginning to come to their senses behind him, he had to leave quickly. He waddled his way to a taxi, wrapping his hand back up, he didn't want to use his powers unintentionally after all. It was a good half hour ride to his home, and Edgar had plenty to think about in that time. He would need a superhero name, he decided, as well as a game plan. It always seemed like there was a ton of crime around, but, to be honest, his incident with Tyrion and that woman was the first bit of excitement he had ever seen in his life, and he wanted more.

'Maybe,' he thought, 'I should go back to the scene of the crime to investigate. That sounds like a good starting point. Not before a nice long bath, though'

Satisfied with his planning, Edgar took to looking out at the drab city out of his window until he arrived at his house.

Then he arrived.

He paid the driver and entered his home. It was nicely, if plainly, decorated. He flicked his light switch at the entrance, but nothing turned on. Edgar frowned, and tried a different light switch, but none of them worked.

Odd.

Edgar made his way to the mains switches in the dark, and flicked them on and off, which usually fixed such a problem.

It did not fix the problem.

"Confused?" Edgar heard a voice, "Don't be, I can have that effect on electronics."

Edgar whirled around to see...nothing. It was still dark.

He felt a bit stupid.

Then a pair of blue eyes opened, blindingly bright. He could see them despite the darkness.

"It's no fun if you can't see me," the voice spoke again. As the voice spoke, the electronics in the house hummed back to life, the lights flickering on.

The woman who had struck him with lightning was sitting on his kitchen counter, no longer dressed in the beautiful dress, but rather a far more practical set of plain black combat clothes.

"Edgar Fishman, 46, son of Alaine and Alan Fishman, Information Security Analyst at Star incorporated," she recited, "Spies really do have strange associates."

"I'm not a spy," Edgar said.

The lady snorted, "Of course you aren't, even they don't have this kind of incompetence, but you are of some value to Anton Tyrion, nonetheless."

"I'm really not."

"He endangered himself to save your life. Twice. Not to mention your pathetic attempt to help him. Don't think me stupid, boy."

"I'm older than you," he replied automatically.

"Don't be ridiculous," she laughed, but did not elaborate further.

Edgar tried to edge away slowly.

"You're not getting away," she said sharply, "You will bring Tyrion to me."

Edgar hesitated, "I cannot do that."

She rolled her eyes, "Don't be noble," she said, "Nobility gets you nowhere, it just gets you hurt."

Edgar took a breath, if he was to be a hero, this was to be his moment. It had to be his moment.

"If it has to be like that," he began, "Then let me reveal my special power."

She raised her eyebrows, "Oho, so there is something about you that I'm missing," she sat up, her interest suddenly peaked, "Very well then, let's see it, I want you beaten before I have to tackle The Spy. He's enough of a handful all on his own."

Edgar began to undo the bandages on his left arm, letting out a shrill scream at the pain which he still felt.

"Your power is screeching?" she asked, doubtfully.

"Just wait," he gritted his teeth, undoing the bandage, and lifting his charred hand, clenching it into a fist.

She wrinkled her nose, "Does your special power have to be this smelly?" she complained.

"Smelly?" Edgar asked in confusion, "Why does my power not work on you?"

She shrugged, "I don't think you're doing anything."

"I know! You must be using your magic to counteract mine!"

"I'm not doing anything," she said flatly, "Now, if that is all, please get to summoning Tyrion before I have to hurt you."

"Now, see here," Edgar said nervously, as she moved closer to him.

Her hands crackled with real magic.

Edgar could see it.

He could feel it.

In his heart of hearts, he had known he wasn't magic all along, but he had been able to fool himself. He had seen truly special people and deluded himself into thinking he could be like them, and now it would end. He would be ended by exactly such a power.

Edgar felt the overwhelming need to run, but he held his ground.

"I-I don't need magic to be a hero," he stammered out.

His opponent raised an eyebrow, "Yes, you really do," she said, "At least if you want to be any good at it."

"But," Edgar continued, ignoring her outright, "What is a hero if not stupidly brave and stubborn?"

"Alive?" she suggested.

He ignored her once more, raising his chin defiantly, "Do your worst."

She blinked.

Edgar crunched his fist into her nose, actually landing the blow amidst her confusion.

Edgar's hand stung.

Fat tears of pain fell down his face.

She growled, "You are going to pay for that."

She charged at Edgar, who closed his eyes and held his ground, waiting for the inevitable pain.

A second passed.

Another second.

And another.

Edgar peeked open one eye.

The woman was pushed up against a wall, with her hands cuffed and held behind her back by Anton Tyrion.

Edgar's knees felt like jelly.

He collapsed.

"Good job distracting her," The Spy told Edgar.

"Who is she?"

"Bromophela Blue. One of the world's preeminent assassins."

"So I helped stop a bad guy?"

"Woman," Tyrion corrected, "and, yes, I suppose you did."

Edgar grinned, "So I'm a hero!"

Tyrion tilted his head, "I wouldn't go that far."

"Oh," Edgar's expression grew miserable, in danger of breaking into tears again, his lower lip quivering.

"On second thought," Tyrion added hastily, "I would go that far, in fact I would go further, you are a big hero. A huge hero."

"You mean it?" Edgar asked hopefully.

"...Yes."

"Edgar Fishman is a hero," Edgar tested the word on his tongue.

"I am a hero."