Don't Be a Cosplaya Hata

Ahoy, bitches! I'm a (mildly) superpowered and half-robotic 30th Century fashion designer and space pirate captain, so my life is pretty hectic. As one would imagine. So I jumped at Superman's offer to get away from the hubbub and foofarah of my job and enjoy some fun 'n' games.

I arrived in style, on the shoulders of the dinosaur I'd selected for my room.

It's a real beaut, too! It looks just like the one from that old Robotman story I'd read, only mechanical. I had my dear friend Storm Boy whip it up for me in between alcohol blackouts. And the best part is, it doubles as a valet! It can fit up to three of my steamer trunks in its mouth!

My room looked pretty good already. Sweet view, and it had a state-of-the-art sound system. Mostly subwoofers for some reason. But I'll take what I can get. (That's the pirate motto!) I just had to move the two giant earwig statues out of the way to make room for my dinosaur.

Alas, the fun ended when my preselected costume designer walked through the door. His hair looked like three different toupees battling from supremacy atop his scalp, and his outfit featured Roman sandals, fingerless gloves, a monocle, and terry cloth parachute pants. But what really gave me pause was his t-shirt. On the front it read "I Luv Firebrand." And on the back: "(No, the other one.)"

"I have your new costume all ready, Captain Blockade Boy, sir!" he gushed.

I patted his shoulder magnanimously. "At ease, sailor. Let's see what you whipped up for me."

He retrieved a suit bag from the closet. He was so flustered he kept dropped it a couple of times before he could get the zipper open. "Well, I figured since you're a pirate and all I should stick with a maritime theme..."

I nodded and smiled, trying to put the poor starstruck kid at ease. "Sounds good. Go on."

"And I heard about how you use a cane now because your robot legs are kind of stiff and clanky."

"The cane's mostly for looks, but yeah, the ol' gears do freeze up sometimes."

"Right! So I thought of something for that, too, plus it doubles as a weapon."

"Sounds good," I repeated, but this time I actually meant it. It occurred to me there was a glint of intelligence in his eyes. My concerns about his abilities began to fade.

He continued babbling: "And I heard that you've time-traveled to the 1940's, and I just happen to think that was the best time ever for superhero fashion... that and the 1990's, of course--!"

That's when I realized I was totally screwed. And sure enough, in the clumsy hands of that weirdo hack, ol' Brigadier Blockade -- the most feared high-fashion space pirate in the Seven Galaxies -- went from this:

To this:

Note the baggy, see-thru top! (Very 1940's.) And if that's not bad enough enough, the fit is atrocious. The crotch binds like a mofo (I was tempted to remove my magnetic codpiece but nobody wants to see that) and the left shoe is about two sizes bigger than the right. If I ever meet that kid again I'm going to straight up murder his ass.

But my first concern was completing this challenge. So I rolled up most of my fifty-foot-long ribbed cape into a ball and tucked it under my arm and shuffled (so my shoe wouldn't fall off) through Satan's embassy on Earth, a.k.a. "House Depot." (But the prices are amazing!)

The jeering started in the parking lot. "Nice beard, jackass!" I could hear a man holler. A woman's voice chimed in with "Yeah, who're you supposed to be, anyway?! C. Everett Koop?" I whipped my head around to see a couple loading their packages into a van with a license plate reading "HECKLE1". So they were two of the professional hecklers Superman had mentioned. Still, I thought it was odd that neither one had mentioned anything about my costume. I shuffled onward.

As I dragged myself past the paint counter, a young woman gave my mechanical legs a withering look. "Hey, jerk! When you get your legs caught in some foil dryer hose you're supposed to go a hospital, not a hardware store!" I was about to give her a piece of my mind when I noticed her name badge read "Hi! I am A Professional Heckler." But why hadn't she said anything about my costume?

I hobbled about the perimeter of the garden center. A trio of bikers who were appreciating an especially lush hydrangea glanced over at me. "Aw, hell!" guffawed the fattest one. "It's the Great Grape Ape!"

"It's got purple chest hair, too!" the shortest one giggled. "Or is that a bath mat?"

The youngest one snorted. "It stinks, dudes. Like dookie. Look, look, I think it's got a dingleberry caught in one o' them chest hairs."

I coolly appraised them. The first wore a t-shirt that read "Heckle's Angels", the second had a patch on his denim vest that read "Heckle Before Dishonor", and the third had jailhouse tattoos on all six(!) fingers of one hand, spelling out H-E-C-K-L-E.

The bikers stared back at me. "You got a problem?" the shortest one growled.

My cheeks were crimson with fury but I had my eyes on the prize. Although the contest rules were rather nebulous, I took this whole ordeal to be along the lines of a hazing and I was determined to keep my composure with these professional hecklers. "...Carry on," I said through gritted teeth.

And that's how the rest of my journey through the mega-store went, with the professional hecklers calling me out on everything but the costume and me trying to be all manful by just taking it when I really wanted to punch their faces in.

My nerves were on edge as I made it out the door, but I felt a small sense of accomplishment and the tension began to ebb from my neck. Just then another voice called out, "Excuse me, may I get your autograph?" I spun around and saw a strapping young man standing there, brandishing a small journal and a ballpoint pen. He held it out for me, eagerly. I couldn't see the word "heckle" anywhere.

I took the book and the pen. "You know who I am?"

"Oh, yeah! You're my favorite superhero! I have the comic books you appeared in! It's just a shame they didn't put your name in the title. If you ask me, you were the real star."

I jotted my signature down in his journal. "That's really nice of you. I've been having kind of a rough night here before you came along. Thanks, really!"

He gave me an aw-shucks grin and said, "No, thank you, Neptune Perkins!"

All the air went out of me. I squinted at him. "Are you a professional heckler?" I asked.

Apparently baffled, he answered, "Well, I've never even heard of one of those."

"That's what I was hoping you'd say," I told him. And then I clobbered him into the sidewalk.

I managed to lam it back to the Hall of Justice, although I did lose my shoe about two seconds after I started running.

Can I take this stupid thing off now?