Part 2: Better Dead than Maglev
Glenn-El, the last son of Crypto-Con, walked the streets of planet Earth under the human name Farren Fox. Adopted as an infant by Ma and Pa Fox, Glenn-El had grown to manhood unaware of his heritage, until his unearthly powers had begun to manifest themselves. That was when his parents had revealed the small spaceship in which he had fallen to Earth seventeen years before. Within it, he had discovered the sweat-soaked cape of his true father Rush-El, bearing a strange semicircular character that he now knew was the ancient crest of his Crypto-conian family.
Also within the spaceship he had uncovered a strange device that proved to be a voice recorder holding his father's last message: "Glenn-El, my son, remember this. Conservativism did not fail us -- we failed conservatism. We weren't conservative enough. I've given you a chance to avoid the mistakes we made. Remember -- government isn't the solution, government is the problem. And taxes are always bad. Always, always, always! Goodbye, my son, and good luck!"
Inspired by his father's words, Farren Fox -- Glenn-El -- had donned his father's cape, along with a costume of leotards and tights that was totally not gay, no matter what anybody said, and appeared before the world to champion conservatism. The Liberal Media, fearful of his conservative awesomeness, had named him Supercon, and he had proudly born that name.
There was much for him to do on this dark planet Earth -- government regulations, government subsidies, and worst of all -- worst of all! -- taxes! More taxes than even Rush-El's worst nightmares could have conceived.
Flying across the Mojave Desert, Supercon's attention was drawn to a dark line drawn across the dessicated landscape as though with a straightedge. A line a railroad cars moved across it at a speed of hundreds of miles an hour. Supercon nodded in approval -- good, old-fashioned rail technology, the kind that had opened the west, a tribute to the power of unfetterd free enterprise.
Suddenly, his superpowered vision noticed something amiss. There was a sign next to the railroad, and as he read it, his blood ran cold: MAGLEV TRAIN - YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK. A government-subsidized maglev train -- and it was headed straight for Las Vegas!
As quick as thought, Supercon was roaring through the sky, arrowing down to the desert floor beneath. Approaching the train from behind, he grabbed ahold of it, then set down on the railbed. A gout of dust erupted behind him as his feet gouged into the hard rock. He could feel the friction with the ground heating his boots, and his feet . . . his legs . . . .
But it was working! The train was slowing down. Slower and slower they went, until the maglev train was resting motionless on the tracks. Staring down at the rails, Supercon let his x-ray vision heat them up until they were white-hot. The rails softened like wax, then spread across the ground in two molten lines across the desert as they liquefied.
His work complete, Supercon lifted his eyes to find a crowd of passengers glaring at him from the train.
"What the hell are you doing?" one of them asked.
"This maglev train was wrong," Supercon explained. "Government subsidized, creeping socialism. Next time you want to go to Vegas, take the highway -- in your own private car. That's the way to preserve freedom! Now, up, up, and away!"
"But the government subsidizes highways, too, you dumbass!" the passenger called out. "And now we're stranded here!"
But there was no one to hear. Fast as a second-amendment-approved speeding bullet, Supercon was gone.
(to be continued)