Punisher

Greetings, WYMOP readers!

I'm currently working on cleaning up a new novella so I can start shopping it around, and I'd love to tell you about it, but even while I'm working on that I still have this funny kid . . .

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“So! What do you think?”

I stood by the foot of my son’s bed in the classic Superman pose: feet spread wide, fists knuckling firmly into hips, chest outthrust, chin up with face turned slightly to the side and a grin; all that was missing was the stray ray of light to glint off my pearly whites with an audible ting. It’s a heroic pose, meant for heroic men. I’m a mailman/writer who’s pushing 48, though I could easily pass for 50. I did my best.

“What?”

“That’s what I want to know,” I said. “What you think. So?” I shifted slightly, spreading wider, knuckling firmer, and outthrusting, uh, thrustier. I think I even heard a faint ting. “Well?”

“Dad, what are you talking about?”

I deflated somewhat and cast a hand across my body, a self-absorbed Vanna White. Well, even more self-absorbed. “The shirt, man. What do you think?”

I wore a very thin, long-sleeved shirt done in black, gray and off-white, the colors forming a long-toothed skull that covered my torso. Anyone who knows a thing about comics or has even a passing knowledge of NetFlix at the moment knows the image means one thing, and I practically shouted it:

“Punisher, man!”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “The shirt is cool, but, uh . . .”

“What?”

“Well, those.” He pointed a finger toward my waist.

“What?”

“That.” He pointed closer.

“Do you mean—”

The pointing finger actually stabbed me, sinking in past the nail.

“Ow! You mean—dude, I think the phrase you’re looking for is muffin top. You evil ass.”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “But it only shows ’cause you’re wearing a belt and have the shirt tucked in. Why do you have the shirt tucked in?”

“I’m going to put a short-sleeved shirt over it, and I don’t want it to hang out the bottom. But that one will cover.”

“Well . . . well . . .” He waved his arms the gesture encompassing me from head to foot. “If you’re going to wear another shirt over that one, why are you showing me that one?”

“Because dude!” I struck the pose again. Ting. “Punisher!”

He leaned back on his bed again. “Looks like the only punishment is being handed out by that belt.”

First reaction: Ow.

Second reaction: Well, at least I know he inherited my smart-assedness.

Third reaction: Ow!

Final reaction: “You know I want to be mad, but that’s too . . . I just . . . evil ass!”

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The moral of the story: I gotta buy some shirts that fit.

Ting.

Talk to you later!