Technically, it was/is the UK's national flash fiction day today. I don't really do flash fiction (I can't remember the last thing shorter than a novel) but I thought I'd get into the spirit of things with a brief offering. And yes, I still have seven minutes left:
If there was one thing William Abhrams hated, more than evildoers, more than the tendency of the public to demand superhero assistance after hours, more even than the inability of the police to take on the most minor of robot armies without help, it was the part where people always asked him where his costume was.
Every single time. Like they’d never heard of him. Like they hadn’t seen him stop Doctor Unpleasant with a single well placed tax query. Like he hadn’t saved more citizens from The Great Hilda’s Ponzi scheme than all the other heroes had saved in their entire career.
From his base in the office over Leeds, William looked down on the city. He’d had enough. If people couldn’t even recognise a proper superhero when they saw one, he wasn’t going to do it anymore. In fact… yes, that would show them. He’d probably have more fun too. Supervillainy here we come.
The world would rue the day it laughed at Accountant Man.