I find myself standing in my living room, caught in my underwear, between the blue glow of my television, and the thin yellow light of morning, screaming into the phone while thousands die. I have this urge.

I am dressed for the part, I have the requisite righteous fury, in a pinch I could scrape up a sidekick. I want to yell "To the batmobile!" and run out into the street, my face set in a mask of grim determination.

Even after I can see clearly again, and my heart has dropped back into my chest, I still feel unusually powerful. I still want to float invincible over the enemy, watching him dance as my heat-vision scorches his feet. I want to see the fear in the eyes of his lackeys as I bend their guns into pretzels. SOCK! POW! ZAP! I want to fly into outer space and circle the Earth, reversing time. I know I can do it.

I am ashamed of this irrational fantasy. I am ashamed to be caught at my desk daydreaming. I have to fight it.

This has been a nodeshell rescue.

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