I had an interesting encounter last week. I was minding my own business, sipping fine wine in a delightful little bistro when I was a approached by a burly, obviously angry brute. It was clear from the beginning that he was a member of the "cape" community. He was wearing a cape, after all.
His eyes glowed red as he pointed at me with a flourish. "Neal Emerson!" he shouted. "You are an anomaly! So declares the Monitor!" That, of course, immediately set me off. I haven't used that name in years. In fact, I sold Emerson's soul to the demon Neron for a fine price. But despite my anger, I kept my cool.
"In what way, pray tell, am I an anomaly?" I asked coolly as I sipped my wine. Despite -- or perhaps because of -- my calm demeanor the Monitor grew agitated.
"You are supposed to be dead!" he said, obviously somewhat flustered by the whole affair. I rolled my eyes. I'd been getting that a lot lately.
"I choose not to be dead," I explained as I gestured for another bottle of whine. The Monitor regained his composure, but seemed perplexed by my statement.
"You can't choose not to be dead," he said angrily. I shrugged. I was growing wearing with the conversation. And his hairstyle.
"I can do whatever I please," I said angrily, downing the last of my wine. There wasn't time to wait for the next bottle. I needed to take care of this pest. I rose ominously into the air, surrounded by a spinning circle of sharp, metallic cutlery. "I am Doctor Polaris," I roared. "And I am your doom!"
I won't bore you with the details of our epic battle. Suffice to say, that delightful little bistro is now a delightful little crater. But I'm still alive. Because I choose to be.
