March Hare

I'm slipping and sliding through the day, colliding with things, grasping nothing: moist and tired. I feel like I don't have any bones.

I could do with some purpose. A crusade of some kind (without the Muslim-killing).

Protesting about the closure of 6Music is one thing. I've already written a passionate email to the BBC and signed some petitions. But I can't see myself chaining myself to anything. Not about that.

I've considered becoming a vigilante of some sort. I'd need to decide on weaponry. Obviously, guns would be difficult to come by (and I wouldn't want to step on The Punisher's toes). Knives are boring. Maybe I could use acid of some kind?

I could carry it in balloons. As long as the balloons didn't dissolve. Which they almost certainly would.

I could be known as Kid Corrosive.

Or maybe the more alliterative Kid Korrosive.

Or Kidd Korrozivv.

But I'm probably too old to have the prefix 'Kid'.

In any case, I'd probably resent it. I bet the both Two-Gun Kid and Kid Flash had reservations about the inevitable goat speculation.

If I was a woman, I could be called Dissolva. But I'm not a woman. And not even self-inflicted acid-spillage could change that.

I think I'd be too scared to fight mob bosses and bank robbers and supervillains. I'd probably go after people who commit white-collar crime. Or litter.

I hate littering.

And if a few people need to have their faces melted off to learn a lesson... well... that's justice. Justice with a capital Letter.

***

I came up with the title of this post before writing it.

There wasn't anything about a March Hare in it.

But it is March. And I am faster than the average tortoise.

And smarter than the average hare (but not the clever ones).