"Bulk Smash"

Any similarity between Bulk and superpowered characters created by popular comic book companies is purely in the imagination of the reader. Oh, and apparently I'm on a brief superhero jag...

The mighty muscled Bulk, blue skinned and ever-angry, slammed his 22-pound-Thanksgiving-turkey-sized fists into the roof of a purple Honda Accord, smashing the vehicle into a now impractical V-shape. Bulk grabbed the car's two bumpers and folded it in half, crumpled it impossibly into a jagged metal ball and tossed it like a first draft into the alley.

Bulk roared at the sky.

But the helicopters didn't come.

Where are the helicopters? thought Bulk. There always were helicopters.

Bulk made a prodigious leap, 20 feet into the air, and landed in the center of 6th Avenue, pavement sinking and cracking at his feet. He uprooted a traffic light and swung it like a baseball bat at a Volkswagon Beetle, the new kind. The Beetle skidded down 6th Avenue and popped over the sidewalk, crashing snugly as a cork stopper into an underground subway entrance.

Bulk roared again at the sky.

Still no helicopters. Or police cars. No bullets bouncing off his chest. No rockets from the sky. No bullhorns warning him to give up. No giant Bulkbuster Robots with innovative but ultimately futile weapons designed specifically to overcome Bulk's limitless strength and immunity to pain and injury.

Bulk hurled the lightpost like a javelin, one that embedded itself into a newspaper stand, scattering newsprint in 16 languages across the sidewalk. Bulk leapt and stomped to the stand, swept up a pile of papers in his massive hands, threw them into the sky like confetti and shouted, "Happy New Year!"

He stood impassively as the papers floated over him, some brushing his hair, others caressing his brutish blue cheek.

"Bulk go now," Bulk said.

And Bulk smiled.