Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

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It was a universal truth that old men loved to talk about the past—but even so, John didn’t often bring up his war stories. When he did, it usually meant he was in an especially good mood.

He never told those stories expecting a response. Didn’t want validation. Didn’t need feedback.

He was used to talking into silence. Years of living alone had made conversation a one-man show.

Sometimes he’d talk about the heroes he fought beside—how many fascists they took down, how many lives they saved. Other times, it was about meeting his wife during the war and marrying her after.

He’d speak of her with quiet reverence. The little moments, the quiet days, the warmth she brought into a time when the world was falling apart.

Henry didn’t interrupt. Didn’t chime in with questions or nods or the usual listener cues.

Just sat there, eating, occasionally getting up to cook more, then returning to listen.

John, half-drunk and drifting in and out of memories, kept rambling like he was dreaming out loud. It was almost peaceful.

By the time he passed out, slumped over like a collapsed tree, it was already after 7 a.m. But in an Alaskan winter, it might as well have still been midnight—pitch black outside, the bar lit by nothing but soft interior lights.

Henry carried the old man to bed, tucked him in, and then got to work cleaning the place.

John did clean up after closing each night, but dust had a way of accumulating faster than you noticed. And the old man’s philosophy was: if it ain’t completely broken, don’t fix it.

Henry disagreed.

Preventative maintenance—tightening screws, oiling hinges, patching up things before they failed—was just common sense. John’s avoidance was less about laziness and more about age. The kind of physical upkeep Henry took for granted just wasn’t viable for someone pushing seventy with a bad back.

Once everything was in order, he flipped the bar’s front sign from CLOSED to OPEN, even though everyone in town knew it didn’t actually mean open.

No one came to drink in the daytime. Not unless they wanted a verbal gut-punch from John.

Like:

> "Only drunks and dirtbags drink before noon. Even leeches know to hustle in daylight. You show up here day-drinking, you’re doing your dad a disservice."

Or:

> "The only people I serve before dark either got cheated on last night, or walked in on it. If that’s you, drink away. Otherwise, take your sad ass back to work."

Or his personal favorite:

> "Gotta be a special kind of idiot to get drunk this early. Oh hey—it’s you. Makes sense now."

Basically, John had shamed the entire town into not day-drinking.

With everything ready and no real customers to serve, Henry made himself comfortable by the window, where the winter sun finally peeked through. He turned on the TV, flipped to a classic movie channel, and soaked up some rays while enjoying the peace.

This was the life.

At least, until the front door opened.

A blast of cold air cut through the bar like a knife, making Henry shiver involuntarily. He looked up, expecting some clueless tourist.

Instead, a large, bear-shaped man in a police uniform stepped inside. Big shoulders. Bigger gut. Standard-issue mustache.

Sheriff.

Henry recognized him immediately—small town, not many faces to learn.

Well, John might’ve gotten away with cracking jokes at this guy, but Henry wasn’t planning on testing his Second Amendment immunity just yet.

He stood. "Morning, Sheriff."

The man wandered casually toward the bar. "Just water, Henry."

"Coming right up."

Technically, the water was lemon water—meant for rinsing after drinks—but no one ever paid for it. Henry poured a glass and placed it in front of him.

"Word is you were out at sea," the Sheriff said, eyes scanning the bar like he expected contraband to jump out at him. "When’d you get back?"

"Docked on the 16th. Came back that night." Henry shrugged. "I’m not sure how long I slept, but... I’m guessing a while."

"Today’s the 18th. So yeah—over a full day."

"Good thing I didn’t miss much, then."

The Sheriff chuckled.

"What about John? This is about the time he usually stumbles out front. He still asleep?"

"He woke up when I did. Talked with me for a while. Then crashed again. You want me to wake him?"

"Nah."

The Sheriff walked toward the back without waiting for permission. "Mind if I check on him?"

Henry gestured toward the hallway. "Be my guest."

The Sheriff eased open the bedroom door—

—and immediately slammed it shut again.

"Jesus, John!" he barked. "That man could clear a room with that one."

Henry winced and offered a helpless shrug. He wasn’t exactly in a position to preempt a surprise nap-fart.

The Sheriff returned to the bar and pointed out the window.

"That Cadillac out front. Yours?"

"Sort of. Got it from Old Tom. He said I could use it until the paperwork’s finalized."

"Tom? Which one?"

"The one from the next town over. Runs a consulting gig. Real loud guy, likes to pretend he’s subtle."

"Ah, that Tom," the Sheriff said with a knowing nod. "I thought I recognized that car."

He gave Henry a sideways glance. "You were on... which boat, again?"

"Old George’s. Annie-II. Got the gig through the Pole."

"Right, right. That’s a rough run. I worked the Bering once, years ago. Winter season. Froze my balls off. Never went back."

Henry grimaced. "Yeah. The boat never stops rocking. I thought I’d be able to squeeze in a nap here and there to stay sharp. Turns out, no one sleeps. Everyone just powers through like lunatics."

"Exactly!" The Sheriff grinned. "Misery loves company, I guess."

Then, more casually, he added, "Heard you’re planning a trip to Hollywood?"

Henry blinked. "News travels fast, huh?"

"In a town this size? There’s no news, just shared gossip."

Henry laughed. "Well... yeah. Thinking of going to see the place. Not chasing a dream or anything—just wanna see what all the fuss is about."

"You and me both," the Sheriff said with a faraway look. "When I was young, I had this fantasy: red carpet, flashing lights, every starlet begging for my attention."

Henry’s eyes lit up. "And...?"

"Didn’t even make it past the bus station," he said flatly. "Spent two weeks fighting for dishwashing gigs, sleeping on a couch that wasn’t mine, and blowing through every cent I had. Came back with less hair and more regrets."

"Oof. Okay, that definitely makes me want to squeeze in another crab run before I go."

"Smart man."

The Sheriff finished his water and stood up, brushing imaginary lint off his jacket.

"Time to get back on patrol. You know how to reach me if anything comes up."

"Got it, Sheriff. Take care."

Henry walked him to the door, watched him disappear into the cold.

Then he went back to his seat, sunlight still pouring in, movie still playing, the peace settling again like snow on the windowsill.

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