Protected by his energy field, Magneto’s
on another rampage, using his bioelectrical
mega-powers to reverse the blood flow
of his helpless victims, lifting cars, busses,
semis from the street and into stores
and cafés, projecting electromagnetic pulses
against quivering police and guardsmen.
He scrambles radio waves and satellite signals
and reshapes fire hydrants into cannon balls
he sends in all directions. “Could be trouble,”
mutters Oldguy, who’s been shopping
for some new flannel slippers. When he
wanders between Magneto and the next victim,
Magneto thinks his enemies, the entire
human race, have resorted to mockery
as a weapon: sending out a diapered codger
to confront his near-omnipotence. Self-doubt
whispers into his genius brain: Does his
red leather costume make him look clownish?
Is it too tight? Does his penis show underneath?
Why can’t he ever relax? Anxiety shorts
Magneto’s invisible shield, which descends
around his ankles. He feels naked, teensy,
which gives Oldguy an opening to shuffle
behind him and, with his slightly-bent blowpipe,
plant two out of four laxative-tipped darts,
maxi-strength, in his voltaic keister. As Magneto
bolts for the nearest toilet, Oldguy holsters
his weapon, boogies two up, two back,
and peacocks off to Macy’s basement sale.