“Okay,” Jim said, “I’ll start. Batman.”
Faster than a speeding bullet, Mark responded with, “Superman. There, I win.”
“Hey,” Jim protested, “that’s not how it’s played.” Mark sat in front of the fire, poking at the burning slates they’d torn off the walls. They’d been lucky to find a squat with a fireplace.
“Sure it is,” Mark said. “You pick a super hero, and then I pick one that can kick his ass. So, unless Batbitch has a kryptonite boomerang in his utility belt, Superman wins, every time.”
“The idea is to stretch it out, take different tacks. Kill time. It’s not like we can go anywhere.”
“I’m tired of this game,” Mark said, giving the fire another poke. Sparks shot up the chimney.
“You got a better idea,” Jim said. “Talking keeps us awake and we ran out of actual shit to talk about weeks ago.”
“Alright,” Mark said. Then he smiled. “I know. Blade. Blade could take Batman.”
“Blade,” Jim said, obviously impressed. And so back and forth they went, rifling through the various superhero universes, even pulling names from old TV shows.
“Can I choose the Fantastic Four?” Mark asked. “No, wait. The Hulk.”
“The Hulk? That leaves me no choice,” Jim said, almost gleefully. “Superman.”
“You are such a punk,” Mark said, ‘but you haven’t won. Silver. Surfer.”
“Silver Surfer? Are you high? Silver Surfer couldn’t take Superman.”
“Maybe not,” Mark said smiling, “but where Silver Surfer goes, Colossus can’t be far behind.”