Hi, my name is Rain and I can fire laser beams from my chest. One on each side. The left beam comes out of the nipple, which seems sensical, but the right one seems to emit from a random point nearer the sternum. I went to the superhero doctor to see if I couldn’t get that remedied.

“What’s the problem,” said the doc.

“Check it out,” I said, ripping my shirt off and releasing a salvo of smoking hot laser might. The blast from my left nipple burned cleanly through the sheetrock of his office while the right blast went wide, obliterating a Nagel print framed above the water cooler.

“Goddammit,” he yelled.

“Sorry,” I said.

“When was the last time you had those calibrated?” he asked, stepping forward to examine the smoking remnants of the Nagel print. “Were they ever accurate?”

“Accurate?” I said. “Hey Doc, I’m not trying to do Lasik with these motherfuckers. I’m a superhero, man. I burn bitches up with these bad boys.”

“Define ‘bitches,’” he said, poking at the melted frame lying on top of the water cooler.

“You know, like, bank robbers and shit.”

“Please,” he said, giving me a look of disdain. “You are so 1960s-DC-Comics. When was the last time you saw someone rob a bank? Don’t tell me--did they wear one of those masks, like the fucking Hamburgler?”

“Look, I’m sorry about the print,” I said. “If I ever see Patrick Nagel I’ll get you another one.”

“I am Patrick Nagel,” he said, taking his glasses off, as if I’d recognize him.

“Bullshit!” I exclaimed. “Says ‘Dr. Angel’ on the door.”

“S’a fucking typo,” he muttered. “Anyways, if not accuracy, what’s the problem with your lasers? Let me guess, you smoke and you’re worried they have bronchitis.”

“Fuck you,” I said. “The problem is the left one comes out of the nipple and the right one just shoots out of here,” I said, jabbing the spot with my finger.

“So,” he said, unimpressed.

“So I want the right one to come out of my nipple too!”

“You want them both to come out of the same nipple?”

“Jesus,” I said, scratching my head. “What kind of a maniac wants two laser beams coming out of the same nipple? What the hell kind of superhero doctor are you?”

“I am Patrick Nagel, superhero doctor and painter of grey-skinned two-dimensional eighties women,” he asserted.

“I want the right friggin’ laser to come out of my right friggin’ nipple,” I yelled.

“And I want my goddamn 24-by-36 Commemorative #9 Serigraph of Venus In A Loose Sweater And Tight Bikini back,” he yelled.

“If you don’t want to help me, fine, I’ll take my business elsewhere,” I sighed, and went to put my shirt back on, before realizing I’d ripped it off for the demo. Dr. Nagel sat down at his desk, facing away from me.

I picked up the tatters of my shirt. “Um...” I said, looking around. “By any chance you got a shirt I can borrow?”

“There’s a box under the receptionist’s desk,” he muttered, waving dismissively.

In the waiting room I located the box with little difficulty. “Don’t take the smalls,” said the receptionist. “I’m saving them for my nephews.”

“I don’t want the smalls,” I said, digging through the box. All of the t-shirts within had iron-ons of Jim Henson characters on the front.

“Good because you can’t have them,” she said. I selected an aqua-colored XXL that had a picture of, I think his name is ‘Gonzo,’ on the front. I pulled it on hastily. It was a little big.

“Good day sir,” said the receptionist, sarcastically. For some reason that really burned me up so I stole a magazine on the way out. It was just an issue of McCall’s but in this world, you’ve got to take what you can get.