Ally: standard (rank 1)
He wasn't quite sure how he got into this position, and even less sure about why he stayed.
Still, Ghost Writer hammered away at the laptop keyboard, desperately trying to complete weeks worth of formal paperwork and applications in one night. He had been at it for three hours straight, with his employer pacing impatiently behind him.
“Sober, can I at least take off the costume,” he inquired, “the spandex is getting really itchy.”
“That itch isn't perspiration, old chum – it's INSPIRATION,” responded Soberguy, quite impressed with his own rhyming wisdom.
With a sigh, Ghost Writer continued his work. He had to wear the costume while writing all of Soberguy's books. It was ridiculous and uncomfortable – not unlike the books themselves. The memoirs. The tell-all biographies. The TV movie screenplay. The vegetarian cookbook. The compilation of dirty limericks. Even the teen fiction series in which he was a sexy vampire AND (as inexplicably revealed in the final installment) a robot from the future. Every one written by Ghost Writer. Every one credited to Soberguy. Every one excruciatingly editorialized and picked apart by the raving lunatic who demanded them. Every one complete, unmitigated tripe. Every one a best seller.
What started out as a quick buck for an unemployed novelist had ballooned into a co-dependent spiral from which Ghost Writer seemed unable to extricate himself.
“Come on, man – type!” goaded Soberguy, posing dramatically. “Destiny awaits!”
Look! Up in the Sky!
Flight: standard (rank 1)
Soberguy zoomed over the city below, skimming rooftops only recently illuminated by the rising sun.
“Ha-HA!” he shouted with bold enthusiasm, “can you smell it, old chum? The city smells like VICTORY!”
Ghost Writer couldn't smell the victory. The parts of his brain which process sensory data were far too busy trying to cope with being twenty stories off the ground and rocketing through the air with only the casual grip of a mentally unhinged superhero keeping him from falling to his death. No matter how many times they traveled this way, it didn't seem to get any less terrifying.
“Captain Johnny's Rum!” exclaimed Soberguy, “Only 10 minutes until the registrar's office opens! Don't worry, I know a shortcut!”
Ghost Writer's screams were barely audible over Soberguy's triumphant battle-cry: “EXCELSIOR!”
Iron Will: standard (rank 1)
The doors to the registrar's office were barely visible behind the throng of protesters angrily blocking the entrance. They waved hastily-prepared signs and chanted poorly-rhyming slogans:
“HEY HEY! HEY HO! SOBERGUY HAS GOT TO LEAVE!”
Soberguy faced the mob defiantly, but turned to Ghost Writer before addressing them. “Make sure you get all this, and play up how cool I look.”
Ghost Writer tapped furiously on the laptop, laying down some of the initial chapters of their next book, “President Soberguy: The Audacity of Cape”. Still, he had a bad feeling about what might happen next.
“Citizens,” shouted Soberguy to the crowd, “I know you are excited about my upcoming presidential campaign, but if you don't stand aside I can't submit my registration.”
“That's why we're blocking the door, you idiot,” yelled one of the protestors into a megaphone. “We're here to make sure you stay OUT of this race!”
“Wait, wait, wait,” said Ghost Writer, “he only decided to run a few hours ago. How did you even know?”
“He tweeted it this morning,” buzzed the protestor into his megaphone.
Soberguy smiled and shrugged innocently. Ghost Writer rolled his eyes. The crowd grew angrier.
“Sober,” whispered Ghost Writer, “maybe we should just come back later.”
Soberguy raised a single finger and espoused dramatically, “Never, my cowardly ward. Justice never quits!”
Chateau Latour Pauillac 1990
Concussive Weapon: superior (rank 2)
- Ranged Attack
Ghost Writer looked up from the laptop and noticed the mob had surrounded them. At some point, torches had been distributed, though he wasn't sure when. They began shouting in unison “GO HOME! GO HOME! GO HOME!”
As the crowd's hatred began to sink in, Soberguy's confusion started to slowly grow, which was not terribly unusual. Sensing this, the crowd began shouting their reasons for being there all at once:
“He's nothing but a charlatan!”
“He called Khazan a 'continent full of cross-eyed foreigners'!”
“His action figure was covered in lead paint and filled with asbestos!”
“He punched my sister in the neck!”
“He threw up in my baby's stroller!”
Soberguy stepped forward and stared at the protesters with the same 'intimidating yet just' expression he had practiced in the mirror that morning. His presence was such that the mob drifted quickly into a quiet murmur. All eyes were upon him. Everyone waited to hear what he had to say. Everyone wondered what his response would be.
Then Soberguy hit an old man in the face with a wine bottle.
The Ancient Art of Bottle Fu
Marksman: standard (rank 1)
The ancient and mystical art of Bottle Fu has been somewhat of an enigma since the release of Soberguy's best selling book, “Chinese Bottle Fu: The Philosophical Art of Throwing Glassware”. People who read the book usually fall into one of two main camps. Some believe that Bottle Fu is an ancient Chinese tradition known only to warrior monks in a remote temple in the mountains of China and taught to Soberguy after he was rescued from a plane crash as a baby and raised there as one of their own. Others believe that it is a complete load of bull – a poorly-constructed fiction Soberguy cobbled together from several action movies most easily disproved by both his inability to speak Chinese or locate China on a map.
Back at the registry office, Soberguy gracefully twirled about the street, pulling empty bottles from the magical depths of his Glittery Cape of Justice (tm) and hurling them into the faces of terrified protestors. Shattered glass and barely conscious victims littered the ground as more bottles flew through the air above them. The fleeing of the protesters did not seem to curb Soberguy's enthusiasm for justice, as he continued to rain empty beer and liquor bottles upon the civic-minded citizenry.
“Last call, pinkos,” he cried defiantly as the crowd finally dispersed out of sight.
Ghost Writer huddled behind him, holding the laptop over his head for protection and shaking like a leaf.
“Come on, chum,” said Soberguy, offering his hand to his terrified sidekick, “democracy's on tap, and I'm buying the first round!”