We Don't Need Another Hero

My brother and I were driving down a residential street when we spotted Britney Spears running into one of the houses. We stopped the car and my brother went after her. I sat there, pissed off that he had given up on our original plan and was wasting time hanging out with Britney. A small party was taking place at the house, with only VIP guests allowed in.

My brother was in a room in the cellar, talking to a young man with wavy black hair. I said something rude to my brother, then pointed my finger at the young man and prophesied his early death. He followed me out of the house, angrily demanding how I knew this and what gave me the right to say such things to people. Our argument was interrupted by a loud crash from the street; a piece of rocket had slammed the concrete and skidded away.

We looked at the sky and saw more rocket pieces raining down, hitting the street and nearby houses. People panicked and ran away. I watched those giant pieces of fuselage in horror, realizing it was a matter of time before one of them killed me. Far in the distance, a miniature figure approached, flying towards us: it was Evil Superwoman.

I ran into a park and found a telephone box. I entered the box and spun until I was transformed into Superman. Evil Superwoman was too busy attacking the street to notice me flying towards her. I slammed my fists into her body. She flew back, disoriented. But soon she was back, ready for a fight.