Superman crashed to his death. The second time today and he wasn't dying the way I had imagined. His cape kept catching on my finger and he wasn't falling to the traumatic death that would make the papers.
"'Chopper One, do you see the guy?' Thump thump thump thump.
'Chopper Dave, I think he's gonna jump!' GASP! I could hear the crowd below the Daily Planet. Lois would be so upset. I wonder who'd be at the funeral.
But, it's not as if his end could be poetic, since he is only an action figure.
He was in a happy meal, fists clamped in a tight flight up into the sky. The blue tights and red skivvies were "hand painted" on and his patent leather boots and a yellow utility belt were textured into the plastic. There was extreme detail for a child's play thing. My mother dug him out of the bag, opened the plastic, and gave him to me mentioning curl on his forehead being the thing that turned her on. She mumbled something about his buff muscles protecting her from our father.
To me, my father