M.RYAN ARNOLD

Written by M. Ryan Arnold (based on the character created by Richard E. Hughes and Don Gabrielson…..it’s in the public domain….I can totally get away with this now…)

Bob Benton didn’t set out to become the city’s greatest hero. He set out to impress a woman. Specifically, Carol, his upstairs neighbor who always rolled her eyes when he said hello. The woman who once responded to his dinner invitation by saying, “Oh, I’d love to, but I just remembered I have to wash my cat that day.”

So yeah, he was already off to a bad start.

It all began when Bob discovered Formula X in the cluttered backroom of his pharmacy-slash-lab-slash-fire-code-violation. The label read WARNING: DO NOT DRINK, but when has that ever stopped anyone? Bob, ever the optimist-slash-idiot, thought, This is it. Fame, fortune, Carol’s number in my phone.

Then he drank it, because of course he did.

The taste was like licking a battery that had been marinated in regret. His entire body felt like it had been shoved through a car wash made of static electricity. He blacked out, and when he came to, he wasn’t Bob Benton anymore. He was the Black Terror: a grim, skull-emblazoned superhero with glowing red eyes, a billowing cape, and the raw charisma of someone who had just escaped from a heavy metal album cover.

At first, he thought, This is it! I’m finally cool! But then the city happened.

Fast forward a few months, and Bob was staring at his own statue. Well, it was supposed to be a statue. It looked more like someone had commissioned a middle school art class to build it out of leftover gum and disappointment.

The plaque read: In Honor of the Black Terror: Protector of the City, Master of the Faceplant.

Bob squinted at it. “The hell is this? I save the city fifty times, and they make me look like I’m melting?” He kicked the base of the statue, immediately regretting it because kicking concrete is a dumb idea.

The city around him bustled as usual, which in this place meant it looked like a Salvador Dalí painting had thrown up on a Michael Bay movie. There was a guy with a toaster for a head arguing with a traffic cone that might have been sentient. A flock of telepathic pigeons dive-bombed a hotdog cart while screaming, “FREEDOM!” And somewhere in the distance, a blimp with a face was broadcasting unintelligible gibberish.

For Bob, this was just Tuesday.

The ground started shaking, and Bob immediately thought, Oh, great, what now? Earthquake? Giant robot invasion? Spontaneous dance-off? He’d learned not to rule anything out.

Above him, the sky cracked open like someone was peeling the lid off reality. Light poured through, and a voice boomed: “BENTON, WE NEED TO TALK.”

It was Dr. Eldritch, the world’s most pretentious supervillain. His head was a fishbowl filled with swirling galaxies, and his whole vibe screamed, I read too much Nietzsche in college.

“Eldritch,” Bob said, rolling his eyes. “Can’t you just send an email like a normal person?”

Eldritch floated down, radiating smugness. “Bob, do you even know what you are? What you’ve become?”

“A guy with a killer cape and no health insurance?”

“You’re not the hero you think you are.” Eldritch raised a hand, and the city around them began to twist and warp. Buildings stretched like taffy, the sky turned into a kaleidoscope, and a nearby hotdog stand started chanting ominously.

Bob sighed. “Let me guess. You’re about to tell me I’m not the chosen one, or reality’s an illusion, or I’ve been in a coma this whole time.”

Eldritch smirked. “Close. You’re not the Black Terror. The mask is.”

Bob blinked. “The… mask?”

“Yes. The mask is an ancient, sentient artifact using you as its puppet to enact its will.”

Bob stared at him for a long moment. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Eldritch gestured, and a portal appeared, showing Bob’s “heroic” exploits. There he was, punching clouds, negotiating with vending machines, and fighting telepathic ferrets. But in every reflection—windows, puddles, a guy’s sunglasses—the Black Terror stared back, like a creepy stalker at a Halloween party.

“Oh,” Bob said. “That’s… concerning.”

The world snapped back to normal, and Eldritch floated away, his voice echoing ominously: “Think about it, Benton. Who’s really wearing who?”

Bob stood there, staring at the now-ordinary city. The pigeons were back to crapping on statues, and the guy with the toaster head was making out with the sentient traffic cone.

“Am I the mask?” Bob muttered to himself. “Is the mask me? Is any of this real?” He paused. “Wait. Does this mean Carol was right about me being a weirdo?”

Behind him, a shadow flickered—his shadow, but not quite. The faint outline of the Black Terror lingered for just a moment, watching, waiting.

Bob shook his head and started walking. Whatever the truth was, it could wait. Right now, he had a city to save and a statue committee to complain to.

As he turned the corner, he muttered under his breath, “Maybe next time I’ll figure it out.”

The shadow followed, silent and patient.

Because some masks never truly disappear.