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Rated: E · Fiction · Comedy · #1759828
A bit of fun, humor and superhero parodies.
He didn’t dodge bullets. That was for weird people in sunglasses and leather coats that went around blowing things up. And plus, it was incredibly boring. Why dodge them?
Instead, he danced around them. Whatever the music in his head gave him to work with, he used. He wasn’t extraordinary, or even had any special power. He wasn’t your average superhero. He hadn’t been bitten by a radioactive pest, been dumped in acid, had family members killed, been trained by ninjas, discovered alien heritage or even been submitted to experiments by a weird secret sect. He just had an amazing sense of timing.
And now, here he was, with a bandana on his eyes, underwear and jeans (the underwear under his pants, not over) a light blue sweater and a baseball cap.
He admitted he did not look like much, but really, was saving people a fashion statement?
He hadn’t even picked a superhero name. His friends had tried to stick a few to him; Cassandra had even gone as far as to sewing “Tornado Toes” on his sweater one morning.
He had however removed it as soon as he had left the house. Tornado toes indeed, people would think he was some kind of deadly foot assassin. Or somebody that could twirl his extremities very quickly in a certain direction, thereby causing air to move and sweep up farmhouses. Ridiculous.
He wasn’t exactly convinced of “Dancedude” either. It was the name that some blond reporter with a big smile and blue eyes had thought up (rumor had it she hung out with most of the superheroes in *Insert synonym for “center” here* city) and it had stuck.
And now, here he was battling criminals on a daily basis.
Well, not exactly “battling”. That would have required him to punch them, or…do something vaguely manly and probably quite violent, like whack a stick on them, set them on fire or make their heads explode (so messy!).
He would quite simply dance away from their bullets, skip to the side, and when they had finished shooting sweep them off their feet and dance.
It really was not his fault that the average criminal couldn’t dance. It wasn’t his fault that most of them trod on their own feet and tripped, conveniently knocking themselves out. It wasn’t his fault that King Bookworm, one of the most dangerous (and learned) criminals in the city just didn’t have the legs to dance the foxtrot. Or that he slipped and fell out of a conveniently located window.
In short, life was good for Dancedude. He defeated any criminal he chanced upon with ease, saved all the pretty girls and he had so many keys of the city he could become a locksmith. Even his normal life was great. Waltzer Tango was a very happy man: he had many friends, a girlfriend, a dog (a pug by the name of Bubbles) and a good job.
Sadly, his happiness was destined to be short lived.
One day, as he was sweeping over the rooftops of the city, he heard a scream come from a warehouse, just below him. With a stylish leap, he reached the roof of the building and entered via a broken window.
As he crept down a staircase, a light exploded into life. Beneath him lay a dark room. In the center, illuminated by a beam of light stood a woman in an evening dress. She was chained to the ceiling and she was crying.
“Oh, help me. Can’t anybody hear? Oh, help! HELP!”
With an exquisite bound, the hero was by her side.
“Don’t worry ma’am. I’m a professional superhero. I’ll have you out of these chains in a jiffy.”
With that, he pulled the chainsaw he always kept hidden on himself at all times, and set to work.
In two minutes, she was free, but her tearful face had now distorted in an expression of malicious triumph. Dancedude didn’t notice: he was thinking of what he was having for dinner that evening. A rustic salad with beacon and cheese, pork chops with mashed potatoes and peas, and a fruit salad for dessert. Then maybe…
He whipped around, startled at the sudden yell. Where had the girl gone?
Then, he saw something glint in the shadows, and he took a step back.
From the dark emerged twenty gunmen, each cradling an automatic rifle.
The voice was coming from behind the circle of gunmen, deep in he shadows.
“Who are you? What do you want?” asked the great hero calmly.
“We are your greatest enemies, and the people who will have the pleasure of destroying you once and for all.” said a different voice from the same shadows.
“You know, I hear these threats on a daily basis. Bring it on, scoundrels!”
“Scoundrels?” asked another voice in the shadows.
“I think it’s a fancy expression that posh people use to mean bastards”
“Really? How rude! I mean, he is a super hero, and we are bad guys, but I mean…that is quite hurtful…”
“Oh, don’t dwell on it Jean-Luc my dear, he’s just doing his job. Come on, give me a hug.”
“Thanks Charlie *sniff*. You’re always so kind to me…oh is that a satin vest?”
“Cashmere actually. Do you like it?”
“Yes, it is simply divine! Were did you get it?”
“You know the little shop on the corner by the takeaway?”
“No, really? Fancy that…tucked away in that little shop…well I never…”
Dancedude was slightly confused. So after about five minutes of conversation he courageously raised his voice.
“Ehmm…excuse me, but…err…didn’t you, like, want to destroy me…or something?” 
“Oh yes! Quite right, thank you! Hem-hem! Commander? Proceed!”
The soldiers aimed at Dancedude and began firing. He danced as he had never danced before: tango, salsa, foxtrot, waltz, rock, anything that crossed his mind. He was everywhere at once, and for all the effort the soldiers put in trying to kill him, not a bullet so much as grazed his skin.
Ten minutes later, the soldiers left having exhausted their supply of ammunition.
Dancedude looked around in surprise. “Is that all?” he asked the shadows.
“Oh no, we have just begun!”
And with that, another light smote the darkness, and the hero could now see the faces of his enemies. He was taken aback by what he saw before him.
There was to begin with, a desk. It was black, and had a shiny wood top. Behind it, four people sat. On the left where two men, one of which he recognized as the owner of the cashmere vest. On the right was the lady he had freed from the chains, a cigarette alight in her hand. And in the center, gently reclined in her chair, was a woman. But oh, the horror! She bore on her brow the horrible Glasses of Pop, an ocular device that made it’s wearer dead to anyone who had any sense of taste. Luckily for our hero, he had none. I mean, come on, a light blue sweater with jeans? Seriously.
“I am immune to your weapon, hag. I advise you to come with me to the police station where you shall be tried, put in prison, and probably released for frivolous reasons.”
“Oh I don’t think so young man. Shall we begin, Charlie, Jean-Luc, Sheila?”
“Ok boss.”
Slowly and purposefully, the four people lifted four cards up from under the table.
“I’m supposed to be afraid of…numbers?” asked Dancedude perplexedly.
“Oh but these aren’t just numbers dear boy. They are votes!”
“Wha…but, but, but! They are all under five!” said Dancedude, terror now etched on his face.
“Yes, well you see darling, I didn’t feel you were up to scratch. I mean the rhythm is good, and the timing wasn’t bad, but the movements were graceless. It was like seeing a blind T-Rex on roller skates. All in all, a three from me darling” said Jean-Luc.
“Well, I didn’t think your rhythm was bad” started Charlie, giving Dancedude a momentary flutter of hope. Crushed by what followed: “I thought it was appalling! Had there been music you would have been out of tempo. Furthermore: your clothes? Are we trying for a ghetto look? Seriously, try something different.
Dancedude was starting to feel uncomfortable. He was sweating profusely and an odd pressure seemed to be building up in his skull.
“I’m sooo sorry Dudie,” said Sheila with tears streaming down her eyes, “I wish I could help you, I really could. But that was a horrible performance.  I’m forced to give you a two.”
Finally, the coup de grace.
“Well, I’m sorry to say Mr. Dancedude that you were really below standard. And I’m afraid I have to give you a three, thus disqualifying you from the competition. You are a poor dancer and I never wish to see your like again.”
That was when the dancer’s kryptonite caused Dancedude’s head to blow up.
Thus ends the story of a peculiar superhero, who met his demise in a peculiar way. 
© Copyright 2011 Wanderer (wanderer at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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