Part 4: Thrown Under the Bus
Glenn-El, last son of the lost planet Crypto-con, walked the streets of Municipality. To the people of the city he was Farren Fox, mild-mannered stooge of the Liberal Media. Little did they know that Farren Fox was merely the secret identity of Supercon, defender of truthiness, property, and the conservative way.
Farren Fox didn't particularly like Municipality. He had been raised in a small town called Littleton, and he knew without having to think about it that being from a small town made him morally superior to the city dwellers around him. That was how his adoptive parents, Ma and Pa Fox, had raised him, and nothing he had seen in Municipality had inclined him to change his mind.
He could still remember the day before he finally left home for the big city, with a freshly minted journalism degree from Billy Bob University and the promise of a cub reporter's position at the Daily Globe. His adoptive father had sat him down and warned him about what he would find in Municipality.
"Niggers," Pa Fox told him.
"Well, duh," Farren had responded.
"You sassin' me, boy?"
"But that ain't all. They got faggots there too, and Moozlims, and Jews."
"But I thought the Jews were good guys."
"Only when they're over in th' Middle East fightin' Ay-rabs. They ain't Christians, so they're goin' straight to Hell, jus' like all the other heathen."
"An' ya gotta watch out fer the spics, too. Comin' up from Messico, takin' jobs from hardworkin' Americans an' livin' on welfare, never learnin' a word of English. Damn country would be better off if we could just get all them spics to go back where they damn well came from!"
Fox's musings were interrupted by the growling sound of a bus as it came to a halt at a nearby bus stop. Fox himself hadn't ridden a bus since graduating from high school, and his lip curled as it always did when he saw any form of public transportation. Why should his taxes go to subsidize some welfare queen on her way to see her crack dealer?
He turned away and was about to resume walking when the door to the bus opened and he found himself frozen to the spot in horror. The people in that bus were speaking Spanish! It was full of illegal immigrants!
For some reason, an image flashed in his mind of the spaceship that had brought him from Crypto-con to Earth, but he quickly dismissed it. The momentary horror gave way to grim resolve. "This looks like a job . . . for Supercon!"
Spotting a nearby ATM booth, he hurried over and slipped a debit card into the slot. The door unlocked, and no sooner had it closed behind him than he was out of his street clothes and into his cape and tights.
Fast as a streak of light, Supercon was out the door of the ATM booth and swooping down underneath the bus full of illegal immigrants. With a single mighty heave, he lifted the bus above his head. "Up, up, and away!" he cried out as he rose from the city street.
The landscape below him was a blur as Supercon flew to the southwest. In five minutes, he was across the Mexican border with the Sonoran Desert spread out below him. He let himself drop to the ground, then set the bus down atop the burning desert sand.
The door to the bus opened and a man in a business suit leaned out. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.
"Bringing you back home, Pedro," Supercon said.
"I'm an American, you dumbass!"
"Tell it to the Border Patrol, Paco. Up, up, and away!" And with that, Supercon was soaring back into the sky.