(This is not poetry and more of a short super hero story. Copyright. Do not use this without permission)


As he sits in silence, trying hard not to breathe; as every breath pains him even more. The darkness begins to calm and relax him, but this is not good because it is allowing him to think. His skin begins to harden, body starts to grow, and flings his fifty onto his shoulder. The emotions tell him to do one thing, but the pain tells him to stop. After walking several feet towards the entrance, to his home, he stops. Letting go of his only weapon, Mad Men collapses to the ground.

“Something does not feel right, “ he told himself. He tries to get up, but something is holding him down. He feels no more pain, but that was replaced with uncertainty. Mad Men continues to push and push and until finally he gives up and realizes that he hasn't been moving at all. He thinks that he was drugged, but how? He did not feel anything puncture his skin. “How long have I been out?” The last day he remembers was Friday. According to the clock that hung only a few feet away, it was the still Friday. Little did he know that it was the next Friday and that someone/something had been watching and waiting for him to wake….