sidekicks part 1
as some of you may already know and some not, here is a partially hashed out story on what it is like to truly be a sidekick.
I am a sidekick. A professional sidekick. Think you know about sidekicks? Truth is you probably do. Sorta. I’d like to pretend we are some big secret but thanks to certain folks, Robin, Q , the word is out. There is, however, a side to us sidekicks you may be unaware of, a less glamorous side. That’s where my merry men and I come in. I suppose I shouldn’t say men as there are women in the group and we aren’t all that rare. Yet the title "merry men" amuses me and I like the allusion. Merry persons really doesn’t have the same ring to it.
A sidekick’s job is simple– simple not easy, keep that in mind it’s a very important distinction. What is our job? To keep the super-heroes alive so they can do their job. Do you really think Mr. Wayne is always in top shape. Hell no! I have it straight from Rob (that’s shortened if you hadn’t caught that) that he has a penchant for Yoohoos, Cheetos, and potato Vodka, fortunately not all at the same time, that would take out a horse. I don’t really understand why he specifically likes potato vodka, I thought it was supposed to be particularly nasty, but he really has a secret love of it or something. Anyhow Rob and Alfred routinely have to search the house on seek and destroy missions to clean it out. I do not envy them the task. Mr. Wayne has a big house. I’ve been there.
They also have a years supply of Asprin and Starbucks coffee to ease Mr. Grumpy back into the suit. And considering he’s one of the world’s best martial artists that can be a bruising ordeal.
Then there’s Spiderman; the supposedly neighborhood radioactive super-genius with a knack for finding Schizos in cheesy Halloween costumes, an uncanny skill for yoga, and next to no money. Just how do you think he got and maintains that spiffy spandex suit? Do you really think he took up sewing in his non-existent spare time and whipped that outfit up. That’s not counting the half dozen others he always needs in reserve to replace the ones he’s just turned to tatters. Oh please. That man has no home-ec in him. Well, unless you consider cooking up slightly volatile concoctions at a moments notice.
Spidey’s what we declare a pro-bono case. We being the sidekicks if you’ve already forgotten. He has no money to do what he does, unlike Bat or Quest, but he is still one of the hardest working super-heroes you’ll ever meet. He’s also a genuinely good guy and that is a peculiarity among the rush-n-rescue set.
Despite the fact that I am rather good at whining and classifying people, as you can see, I don’t like it. Every time I do it it irritates me. My job is wonderful, truly it is. I get paid far more than I should be, never have to work regular hours, have fantastic health benefits, and get to go on regular trips around the world. All I have to do is run around like a headless chicken soften landings, maintain equipment, sooth ruffled feathers (both real and figurative), and anything else the great spandex legion needs to stay alive to do their jobs. I don’t have to worry about the crazies trying to come after me, I don’t have to constantly work out and watch what I eat. And my personal favorite perk of being a sidekick– that would be the not being in perpetual danger of dying bit. Yay! I get to stay alive. Woo!
Now about me. This is hard. Really hard. I don’t know how to be objective about myself. I don’t know how to be objective about much unless it falls under the title "possible world destruction" or "possible world takeover", I can also handle invasions pretty well. I am moody, sarcastic, snippy, competent, inconsistent, and never forget, downright odd. That’s what I’m told at least. Ok what else– um, my hair is brown, wavy if it’s down which it rarely is, and waist-length. I don’t notice it much because I find it irritating and therefore always have it in a bun or ponytail. Buns, I say, are for old ladies and lazy young women. My eyes are also brown. I find them unremarkable. They are on my face, I have two of them, and they are at the same general level. I am overweight but eating more fruit and therefore losing some of it. Overweight is really underwritten, damn my conscience!, I’m just over 200 pounds. Happy now? I’m not. I want you to think I look like a super-model, but I don’t. On to knew things. I am 5'6". Usually you will find me in old, worn, quite possibly stained, t-shirts and jeans. I hate to shop for clothes so I wear what I have until obvious holes emerge. I wear no make-up. And I have pimples.
Right now I am in-between soups. Oh, I should probably tell you that I use a lot of nicknames, jargon, and abbreviations, and acronyms I think they are called, I use those too. Personal lingo is just one of my personal faults. Usually what I say should be obvious. If it isn’t I will try to explain. If I don’t– sorry. You’ll just have to think for once and try to figure it out on your own. Oh, and a "soup" is a super-hero. There are jokes involved. We also call them, mega/mighty men, thong-busters, shock-absorbers, the spandex legion, and many other slightly embarrassing things as I am sure you will find out. And no we do not call them these things to their faces. They tend to be very touchy about the costumes– and they can kill us.
Anyhow I am in between soups. You would think this would mean that I was in between jobs and would get a nice soothing break wouldn’t you. Well you’d be wrong. As I said I am a professional sidekick. It isn’t just a job title– it’s a guild. Yup, a guild. There was a recent movement to turn it into a Union but that was declared risky as it would allow too much independence and free-thinking (My words not the guild's). The guild is old. I don’t know when we were founded exactly, part of that cloak-and-dagger bull that guilds always seem to pull, but I think it was sometime around the 12th century when Robinhood was running about in pre-spandex tights and a cocky cap. Someone also gave us a lot of money at one point. Another of those "dark secrets" everyone but me cares about.
Anyhow the guild is a pretty intense thing. Once you’re in you’re in. Lifetime membership, excellent benefits, excitement and employment guaranteed; just promise your soul in exchange for the promise of eternal silence upon the subject of the guild and all guild related topics and allow small explosive devices to planted in delicate and important spots all over your body. The guild doesn’t take chances.
Since I am in the guild I am guaranteed continuous employment. I have a fair amount of sidekicking experience, therefore my employment is now in the training of new recruits. Until I am reassigned at least. We try to cull from the family, i.e. the people born to guild members or who are somehow directly related. Unfortunately not everyone is up to standards. And everyone is screened before they enter the guild. That soul for silence bit wasn’t that much of an exaggeration. You can’t talk to anyone non-guild about the guild, family and friends included. When they turn 16 all guild-babies are screened. Those accepted are trained, those who fail go on to lived the same screwed lives as us; just without the "I am a secret sidekick" sign hanging from their necks. To fill the gaps recruiters roam various places, like high-schools, universities, zoos, for people who look like they might work. If they can be tackled or flirted with or otherwise generally contacted they too are screened.
That is how I was found.
I am a sidekick. A professional sidekick. Think you know about sidekicks? Truth is you probably do. Sorta. I’d like to pretend we are some big secret but thanks to certain folks, Robin, Q , the word is out. There is, however, a side to us sidekicks you may be unaware of, a less glamorous side. That’s where my merry men and I come in. I suppose I shouldn’t say men as there are women in the group and we aren’t all that rare. Yet the title "merry men" amuses me and I like the allusion. Merry persons really doesn’t have the same ring to it.
A sidekick’s job is simple– simple not easy, keep that in mind it’s a very important distinction. What is our job? To keep the super-heroes alive so they can do their job. Do you really think Mr. Wayne is always in top shape. Hell no! I have it straight from Rob (that’s shortened if you hadn’t caught that) that he has a penchant for Yoohoos, Cheetos, and potato Vodka, fortunately not all at the same time, that would take out a horse. I don’t really understand why he specifically likes potato vodka, I thought it was supposed to be particularly nasty, but he really has a secret love of it or something. Anyhow Rob and Alfred routinely have to search the house on seek and destroy missions to clean it out. I do not envy them the task. Mr. Wayne has a big house. I’ve been there.
They also have a years supply of Asprin and Starbucks coffee to ease Mr. Grumpy back into the suit. And considering he’s one of the world’s best martial artists that can be a bruising ordeal.
Then there’s Spiderman; the supposedly neighborhood radioactive super-genius with a knack for finding Schizos in cheesy Halloween costumes, an uncanny skill for yoga, and next to no money. Just how do you think he got and maintains that spiffy spandex suit? Do you really think he took up sewing in his non-existent spare time and whipped that outfit up. That’s not counting the half dozen others he always needs in reserve to replace the ones he’s just turned to tatters. Oh please. That man has no home-ec in him. Well, unless you consider cooking up slightly volatile concoctions at a moments notice.
Spidey’s what we declare a pro-bono case. We being the sidekicks if you’ve already forgotten. He has no money to do what he does, unlike Bat or Quest, but he is still one of the hardest working super-heroes you’ll ever meet. He’s also a genuinely good guy and that is a peculiarity among the rush-n-rescue set.
Despite the fact that I am rather good at whining and classifying people, as you can see, I don’t like it. Every time I do it it irritates me. My job is wonderful, truly it is. I get paid far more than I should be, never have to work regular hours, have fantastic health benefits, and get to go on regular trips around the world. All I have to do is run around like a headless chicken soften landings, maintain equipment, sooth ruffled feathers (both real and figurative), and anything else the great spandex legion needs to stay alive to do their jobs. I don’t have to worry about the crazies trying to come after me, I don’t have to constantly work out and watch what I eat. And my personal favorite perk of being a sidekick– that would be the not being in perpetual danger of dying bit. Yay! I get to stay alive. Woo!
Now about me. This is hard. Really hard. I don’t know how to be objective about myself. I don’t know how to be objective about much unless it falls under the title "possible world destruction" or "possible world takeover", I can also handle invasions pretty well. I am moody, sarcastic, snippy, competent, inconsistent, and never forget, downright odd. That’s what I’m told at least. Ok what else– um, my hair is brown, wavy if it’s down which it rarely is, and waist-length. I don’t notice it much because I find it irritating and therefore always have it in a bun or ponytail. Buns, I say, are for old ladies and lazy young women. My eyes are also brown. I find them unremarkable. They are on my face, I have two of them, and they are at the same general level. I am overweight but eating more fruit and therefore losing some of it. Overweight is really underwritten, damn my conscience!, I’m just over 200 pounds. Happy now? I’m not. I want you to think I look like a super-model, but I don’t. On to knew things. I am 5'6". Usually you will find me in old, worn, quite possibly stained, t-shirts and jeans. I hate to shop for clothes so I wear what I have until obvious holes emerge. I wear no make-up. And I have pimples.
Right now I am in-between soups. Oh, I should probably tell you that I use a lot of nicknames, jargon, and abbreviations, and acronyms I think they are called, I use those too. Personal lingo is just one of my personal faults. Usually what I say should be obvious. If it isn’t I will try to explain. If I don’t– sorry. You’ll just have to think for once and try to figure it out on your own. Oh, and a "soup" is a super-hero. There are jokes involved. We also call them, mega/mighty men, thong-busters, shock-absorbers, the spandex legion, and many other slightly embarrassing things as I am sure you will find out. And no we do not call them these things to their faces. They tend to be very touchy about the costumes– and they can kill us.
Anyhow I am in between soups. You would think this would mean that I was in between jobs and would get a nice soothing break wouldn’t you. Well you’d be wrong. As I said I am a professional sidekick. It isn’t just a job title– it’s a guild. Yup, a guild. There was a recent movement to turn it into a Union but that was declared risky as it would allow too much independence and free-thinking (My words not the guild's). The guild is old. I don’t know when we were founded exactly, part of that cloak-and-dagger bull that guilds always seem to pull, but I think it was sometime around the 12th century when Robinhood was running about in pre-spandex tights and a cocky cap. Someone also gave us a lot of money at one point. Another of those "dark secrets" everyone but me cares about.
Anyhow the guild is a pretty intense thing. Once you’re in you’re in. Lifetime membership, excellent benefits, excitement and employment guaranteed; just promise your soul in exchange for the promise of eternal silence upon the subject of the guild and all guild related topics and allow small explosive devices to planted in delicate and important spots all over your body. The guild doesn’t take chances.
Since I am in the guild I am guaranteed continuous employment. I have a fair amount of sidekicking experience, therefore my employment is now in the training of new recruits. Until I am reassigned at least. We try to cull from the family, i.e. the people born to guild members or who are somehow directly related. Unfortunately not everyone is up to standards. And everyone is screened before they enter the guild. That soul for silence bit wasn’t that much of an exaggeration. You can’t talk to anyone non-guild about the guild, family and friends included. When they turn 16 all guild-babies are screened. Those accepted are trained, those who fail go on to lived the same screwed lives as us; just without the "I am a secret sidekick" sign hanging from their necks. To fill the gaps recruiters roam various places, like high-schools, universities, zoos, for people who look like they might work. If they can be tackled or flirted with or otherwise generally contacted they too are screened.
That is how I was found.
posted by Nancy | 10:05 PM
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