When I’m not a superhero (or a rapist), my nocturnal alter-ego of choice is alien, as another explanation for the flying. I was driving away with the real me, the human whose body and life I had assumed while here on Earth, in a well-preserved old-fashioned convertible, either a Thunderbird or the Sunbeam from the Get Smart movie the other night, which flew off the highway as I floated beside it. Turns out I didn’t need to worry about the thin tires absorbing the impact as my Ford Prefect-like extraterrestrial buddy traveling with us had made the requisite modifications to the car. We were taking my unsuspecting host on one last romp, as the corner turned and the familiar spire of a casino hotel appeared, to Las Vegas. We set the car down, returned in a little while to say good-bye, re-outfitted as ourselves in casual striped shirts, and left “me” with thousands of dollars to enjoy the town and the ladies. The earth exploded with the sounds of my debauchery.
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