I say to my friends, “Tell me why, what am I missing? Enlighten me.” They are stunned by such a strange and thoughtless question, and they show me a series of explanatory YouTube videos involving a young bearded man in a darkened room, whispering covertly about capes. “Oh, please!” I say, offering my friends cigarettes from my pack. They say, “Superman doesn’t indulge, neither shall we.” One friend of mine has Hulk bed sheets, Spider-Man wallpaper, Captain America socks and cinema stubs pinned to a noticeboard charting the dozens of times he’s seen Black Panther. “One day you’ll surrender to the cold grip of the Marvel universe,” he says over a burrito and a portion of cheesy fries. I snort and inhale some authentic Mexican cola. I say, “You should be more aware of your mental state — swim more, or bake.” “Wakanda forever,” he replies.
One day I meet my friends in town to get drinks and see life in its decrepit grandeur. My stance on Marvel movies hasn’t greased the wheels for me with the Man upstairs — I mean a decent looking girl would be nice. I tell my friends this. “You believe in god!?” they cry. “That explains your Marvel vendetta. Listen, faith is such a dangerous notion and Black Panther’s still out.”
So, we get bladdered and watch a Marvel film. I scream as the opening credits roll, then I fall asleep. It’s a good night.