“They say the highest rabbi knew the name of God. It was transcribed on a tablet in a hidden tower. As that rabbi would near his end he'd disclose the location of the tower, and give him the keys.
“They knew back then that to know someone's name is to have power over them. I know that as well.”
“Alright, sir, how big is your party, and how would you like to be called?”
“There's just me, and all you need to know is that I'm a bad guy.”
“Ok, you'll likely be seated in thirty minutes, you can wait at the bar.”
The man did so.
Another man came in soon after.
A table was being bussed as he entered, that table he was granted.
The second man was Flightplan, all adorned in blue.
He'd had a string of successful acts of heroism and a good talk with the manager at this TGFB.
Free food.
No waiting.
The anonymous man saw all of this, he gritted his teeth. Clinched his fists.
“Barkeep, when my drink is ready, send it to that table.”
He gestured to Flighplan.
The young woman nodded.
He stood, walked a confident stride to behind the hungry hero. He clubbed Flighplan in the back of the head.
“Ahhh!” The clubbed man exclaimed, he turned to face his attacker.
The unnamed man grimaced, then spoke, “I'm so sorry, I meant to knock you out.”
“Well that hurt. And why?”
The unnamed man clinched his fist a bit tighter, a pulse of light ran to his finger tips. His fist flew again, delivering the KO from the fist to Flightplan's left cheek. He pulled Flightplan from the seat, to the floor.
He took the seat.
He was approached by the hostess, “Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”
“In Celtic tribes if you best a man in battle, you forever earn a spot at his table. This spot I've earned.”
“Just go sir.”
As light flooded back into Flightplan's mind, he came to a realization, that would sweep the hero community.
There are three types of heroes, those who beat villains, the good-deed-doers, then those that do both.
Flightplan was now filled with a bit of doubt, thinking he might only amount to a good-deed-doer.
I would have responded to the assault on Flightplan, but I couldn't. I was 8770 miles away. Confronted with my own problem.
A good deed needed doing.
I was in Cape Town, South Africa.
It would likely be pretty traceable if Cow Defender did the rescue.
The screams of the tourists shook the logic from me.
I transformed and ran to the tipping taxi.
I'd watched the taxi van going more than twice the speed of traffic, watched it grind against the rail. The rail gave way. The taxi teetered over the edge.
Cars, etc, blazed by.
They were on the opposite side of the road (from what I was accustomed).
I jaywalked, as successfully as ever.
I saw a flash of unfamiliar in a window, but ignored it.
I climbed on the back of the taxi, and instinctively became heavy.
“That's new.”
The taxi stabilized; the people evacuated.
I hopped off and turned to face the rescued.
They were marveling.
A lady touched my face, “He really is a manatee man. Who are you?”
I turned and looked at the once ignored reflection.
My face was now a manatee face, “I'm Manatee Guardian.”
I faced them again.
Smiling.
The taxi toppled.
Apparently I was wearing a messenger bag.
Apparently the messenger bag had caught on the taxi's back door handle.
Basically, I toppled, too.
I fell ten feet. It would have been further, but the van stopped my fall. Then it fell over, spilling me onto the ground.
The van on its top, and me on my side. We slid down a ways.
“Ow.”
I laid on my back for a bit, mysterious messenger bag at my side.
I looked over the Cape, and breathed out real slow.
I glance at my meaty manatee-man hands, then over to Table Mountain.
“Ow.”
back to: 
