Mighty Muskrat E:VI Melvin's Mighty Arm *****

“Hey, wait up!”

Marty and I call out to Melvin as we quickly crest the hill and start stumbling down the path to the neighbour’s yard. We are on one of the most daring rescue missions ever dared, and we need to keep up.

“Where – (gasp) – do you think *(pant)* it is?” Marty wheezes. Bent over and exhausted myself, I say,

“How am I supposed to know? *(pant)* I wasn’t watching. You’re both crazy, anyway; there’s no way he hit it this far.”

* * * * *

Melvin, the school mascot and the least athletic guy in our class, was over at my house on my birthday. If I had any choice in the matter, he wouldn’t even be living in my neighbourhood. He was always in his own little world; at recess, his wiry hands gripped a comic book, while the rest of the guys were playing baseball. And, though it wasn’t his fault, he had a December birthday, hadn’t hit a growth spurt since he was a fetus, and was the most maladjusted pre-teen that ever fell off the rope ladder in gym class. So you can understand how it seemed like social homicide when my mom told me he was going to stay in my room the week of my birthday, while his parents were on vacation in Connecticut. That’s why I only invited Marty over on my birthday, and why we were so sour about the predicament we were in.

The three of us had gone to the backyard to pitch a baseball to each other the way Marty and I did most days after school. He and I always argued over who could throw the fastest, so it was with a wide smile on his face that he handed me his birthday present.

“Open it!” he said, as impatient as if it were his present, too. He and Mel watched as I ripped open the wrapping.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the most beautiful baseball I had ever held. It had red, leather stitching on the seams, and it gleamed brighter and cleaner than any new ball I had ever seen. On the side, there was a screen, which with the help of a little micro-chip, showed how fast the ball was thrown.

“Now we’ll find out for sure who throws the fastest!” I said. With a whoop and a holler, Marty ran to the back corner of the yard, as I whipped my new ball for the fist time.

“Forty-one miles-per-hour,” he said. “Not bad, Will, but this is better!” He chucked it back.

“Forty-three,” I said, already cranking my arm for another throw. We tired ourselves in this way for a solid ten minutes, getting a little better each time. It was about then that I noticed Mel standing off to the side, gripping an old Louisville Slugger.

“Can I hit the ball?” he asked. I looked at him, and seeing how left-out he felt, I figured it wouldn’t take very much effort to entertain him, just once.

“Sure,” I said. Taking a step back, he tapped the bat against his heels, and wrenched his little body into the strangest position I had ever seen.

“I’m ready!” Mel was definitely excited. I looked at him, confused about where his strike zone might be. With a shrug, I lobbed him an easy slow-pitch, and turned to watch Marty’s expression.

To my surprise, his jaw dropped with a look of sheer disbelief. I wheeled around to look back at Mel, who had managed to fall teeth-first into the dirt. I heard a thud behind me, and I spun to look towards Marty again. I was getting dizzy.

“I don’t believe it,” Marty said.

“Believe what?”

“It’s in his yard!” I could see the raw, yellow fear in his eyes, and I knew that he meant Father Wilson.

Father Wilson was an old priest who still led mass every once in a while. He spoke Latin as though it was his first language; however, he also spoke English like it was his second. He was one of the only people at the church who wanted to keep the creepy old Gargoyles that sat at the entrance. Mom said it was because he respected tradition, but I still think it was because he liked to see children cry.

When Marty and I finally turned from our horror, we realized that Melvin had already taken off. We ran after him. We yelled for him to wait up, but he kept on running.

* * * * *

“You’re both crazy, anyway; there’s no way he hit it this far,” I say. As we come to the bottom of the path, we see Melvin disappear into Father Wilson’s yard. We stop in our tracks. It would take more guts than we have right now to go into that spooky yard, so what does Mel have that we don’t?

“Look out!” Through the dry, thin branches of the hedge, we can see the callous cleric stumble across his weed-packed patio toward Mel. With a dive and roll like I’d only ever seen in movies, Mel throws the ball out of the yard. It lands directly in my glove, and the force surprisingly tosses me backwards on the sidewalk.

Tipping my head up, I see Mel jump, almost effortlessly, over the fence bordering my yard. I look at the baseball in my hand in the shade of Father Wilson’s hedge.

“What’s it say?” asks Marty.

“A hundred and five miles per hour.”

MM E:IV *****

A cool breeze blows through the hair of a particular rodent, as his mighty claws grip to the roof of a building. The whizzing cars and bustling sidewalks hum with an unknowing gratitude to their guardian; the purple patriot, Mighty Muskrat. His sharp eyes pierce through the night as the gloomy glow of the stars above illuminates the fog as it rolls in from the bay. He leaps from his perch as unnoticed as he had stood a blink earlier, and he began his run through the unsleeping city.

The Fans stood, as the Marlborough Muskrat balanced above the endzone on the bars of the field goal. His precarious perch failed him, just as everybody hoped; a thud brought his flailing body to the ground, smooth as homemade peanut butter. The crowd laughed; entertained as the mascot stumbled a pathetic jog across the football field to start the game.

Pit-pat-pit-pat. The pads of feet fly furiously, connecting with their metallic hosts with perilous precision. A streak of brown fur and purple cape shoots through the streets, until, quite to his surprise, his stiff ears catch a shrill cry. “HELP! That man stole my purse!”

At half-time, the mascot took an uncoordinated trip through the stands. A ball of brown fur and purple cape rolled down the stairs, and the kid in the costume made an awkward recovery. Finding his feet, he listened to the crowd’s laughter. Among the cheers, he happened to hear a small cry. “HELP! That man stole my purse!”

The chase began. Hundreds of eyes turned in amazement, as the blundering mascot suddenly found some sense of athleticism that even he hadn’t ever known before. The thief made his best dash, but he was soon overtaken by a heap of cotton.

Violet Vengeance tears through every muscle in his body. His mask forms to a concentrated scowl, and this petty thief knows with once glance backward that his time is up. Before adrenaline can even run its course through his veins, he is apprehended by the tense paws of a very large muskrat, and within seconds, the handbag is returned to the smitten citizen.

The Principal stood from his seat and walked to where the exhausted Melvin Morale stood. taking the microphone, he announced the valour of the panting adolescent. “Son,” he said, “in a small way, you’ve been a hero today. Why don’t you take off your mask and show us who you are?”
“No,” came a feeble reply, “I’d prefer not, sir.”

On most occasions, Mighty Muskrat leaves the scene before he can receive any praise for his worthy efforts. But, today, the Mayor steps from the crowd, having been at the right place at the right time. “Mighty Muskrat,” he says, “in a big way, you’ve been a hero today. Why don’t you take off your mask and show us who you are?”
“No,” booms a deep voice in reply, “I’d prefer not, sir.” Before the Mayor can protest, the robust rat leaves the crowd below. With little success, each looks into the sky to catch a lucky glimpse of his rippling cape before he is out of sight for good.

At least, until the next time a crook makes the mistake of messing with...
MIGHTYMUSKRAT!

PB's of Superheroes

While planting with the wonderful Sarah Haveman, who puts up with my singing and terrible conversation, i devised a list of the PB's (personal best) of various superheroes if they were planters, based on their powers.

Jordan- 3 750 trees.

Superman- 245 000. Superman is able to fly, and coupled with x-ray vision and telescopic vision, he can organize his land in seconds. his top speed is slightly faster than a speeding bullet, which moves at an average of 9 500 km/h. compared to an average PB of 4 000, and an average human top speed of 20 km/h, he can plant 200 000 trees, and with an added handicap provided by his x-ray vision, super endurance because of the power of the yellow sun of the Earth, he could likely plant an additional 45 000 trees.

Wonder Woman- 6 000. She has her lasso of truth, which does nothing for her advantage. besides being generally in better shape than a normal person, she has the power of flight. I give her an above average, but not amazing PB.

The Wonder Twins- 2 400. Zan can turn into anything made of water or ice, which is entirely useless. Jayna can turn into any animal, which as far as I can see, also helps her little. plus, they suck.

Batman- 12 000. Batman is the world's greatest detective, but although he knows who's stashing trees, it does not help his planting rate. However, he is learned in numerous martial arts, and has almost complete control of his body. plus, he has many wicked cool gadgets. (note, I am referring to the Christian Bail batman, not the Adam West batman. I give him 1500)

The Incredible Hulk- 9 000. This is difficult to judge, because as normal, everyday Bruce Banner, he can't plant trees, he's a lame scientist. if he gets too angry, he will be unable to hold the tiny trees. However, I believe that with some minor annoyances, usually those provided by the gong-show life of the tree planter, he could grow to a maximum of 9 feet and still be able to use his powers to advance his planting ability.

Aquaman- 0. He talks to fish, people!

The Green Lantern- 35 000. The Green lantern can create an additional eight shovels before he cannot concentrate on all of then at the same time. using this, he can couple his multiplicity with his ability to fly, and organize his land well. note: this would have to be any green lantern except for Alan Scott, since his ring was useless on wood.)

The Flash- uncountable. He can go at the speed of light! Barry Allen reached the speed of light and met the speedsters, who give him his powers. he would demolish every other hero.

Mighty Muskrat- 100 000. Mighty Muskrat cannot fly, but he uses small round discs which do fly to use his super speed ability to fly through the sky. these are yet unnamed, so feel free to make a suggestion. otherwise, he has keen vision in order to spy out the best microsites, but since this is a PB, I'm assuming he's in cream.

MM E:III *****

As the bell rang its announcement of freedom, Mel walked with a grin into the hallway. The Ontario school flooded with students on their way to watch the football game, but Mel went somewhere else. He went to the changeroom.

Mel’s career in sports had only materialised the previous year, but it was this fulfilling vocation that kept him hanging on. You see, with a name like Mel, it was virtually impossible for a person to lead even a meagre resemblance of a social life. It was the other half of his name he employed on the field, and his success at the game garnered the respect of each and every student at Marlborough High. The trouble was, nobody knew it was him on that field. This is because Melvin Morale was not a quarterback or a star running-back.

He was the school mascot.

When Mel donned the heavy suit and mask, he did not simply become the face of the Marlborough Muskrats franchise. He became Mighty Muskrat, defender of the defenceless; or at least, the weakly fortified. He commanded an army of nimbly minded adolescents, whose cry could be heard at his explicit command! A cartwheel and an extended arm could unleash the lusty moans and jealous groans of every co-ed in the stands! And what was more, like a true hero, he did not do it for his own glory, as he might easily do. He did it entirely for the team he represented; for the team who was nothing without the home team’s cheer- who was nothing without HIM.

You might call this excessive. In fact, it is excessive. It is nothing short of sheer insanity. Melvin Morale was the epitome of a card-carrying lunatic. “What could possibly have driven our hero so fully over the edge?” you may wonder. Clearly, this was the product of a long process, but there was one moment where his invented identity and his neglected reality crossed paths. I witnessed this moment first hand, and it is with terrifying clarity I will disclose this history to you, my esteemed reader, in the next episode. Don’t miss it; it’s sure to be worth five stars.

TO BE CONTINUED

MM E:II *****

The frantic clerk struggles with the combination dial of the vault. His second chin flushes red as another drop of sweat rolls off of his bald head. The thief shields his eyes from the glare. A shot rings off the solid alloy door (ting!) as he grows increasingly impatient.

“Give me the money!”

The pudgy plutocrat cracks the code, and the prehensile pilferer bags the bills, and bounds out of the bank. He tumbles into a dilapidated jalopy, and his wheel man burns rubber,

They hear the faint whine of sirens heading in the wrong direction and exchange high-fives, but their celebration will be short lived. They begin to hear the rushed sweep of a cape and the pit-pat of speeding feet on pavement.

CLUNK! “What was that?” The car screeches around a corner, and the fated fugitives notice that it is a little top-heavy. A set of clawed feet slam into the hood, and in an amazing feat of strength, rat-like talons tear the roof off, as if it were a tin can.

“Oh no! It’s MIGHTY MUSKRAT!”

The robust, enraged rodent jumps backward, slams his toes into the asphalt, and the car comes to a dead stop. Twin human bullets shoot from their seats, but the merciful muskrat makes a swift spring, and spares the stunned scalawags from their deaths. A quick twist transforms a near-by bike rack into make-shift shackles, and the Amethyst Avenger’s blurring speed prints a victorious purple streak in the sky.

*SLAM* A ruler cracks down on the desk of the day-dreaming Melvin Morale, sophomore student at Marlborough High.

“Is the material boring you, Mr. Morale, or is my voice particularly soothing this morning?”

Mel mumbles a meek reply, and Mr. Stafford is satisfied. Our groggy protagonist wipes the sleep from his eyes and the drool off his notes, lifts his pen, and masquerades as a student for the final five minutes of class.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Prelude: MM E:I (Mighty Muskrat episode roman numeral one) *****

What follows is a tale of daring; a nonfictional, auto-biographical, exhilarating tale of intensity. A rousing plot with new, unexpected entanglements around every corner will leave my esteemed reader begging for more, holding his breath at the end of every episode. I know what some of you are thinking; this is extremely dangerous. Well, I assure you, it is strictly metaphorical, and I suspect nobody will suffocate themselves because of a gripping conclusion to a Mighty Muskrat episode. However, if it is an especially tragic episode, anybody within the reader's violently melancholic path should consult "Enter the Dragon", "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", "Dragon's Bane", "Rush Hour", or any other movie which features a martial artist or the word 'Dragon' in its title, for tips on self-defense. However, barring time restraints, the best advice might be to run.
Excessive cliche's and my thesaurus aside, this blog is unlike any blog in the history of blogs. For instance, I will make an effort to refer to it with its original, more proper title: "web log". In addition, this blog, or rather, web log, will include very minimal entries based on my opinion on things, my feelings about life, or my meditations on life. The reasoning behind this is that you, the reader, still have the benefit of a face-to-face conversation with me, and while scholars may be frustrated with the lack of literature based on these things after my death, I hope that this rule will benefit my real-time social life.
Instead, this web log will include different episodes in the folklore behind the infamous super hero extroardinare, Mighty Muskrat. His story will hopefully inspire those without hope, those whose life is on the brink of disaster, those in Dire Straits (hopefully all four members), and those doing a blog search for poodles, since that is one of the tags for this web log.
What you can expect as a reader and non-contributer is a dose of entertainment to start your week, intense character development, and a star rating out of five in the title of each entry, so that you can distinguish a good episode from a bad one.

Of course, there is much more to come, but instead of waiting by your computer for the next week getting your sustenance from an IV machine, I encourage you to continue in daily activities, and conduct yourself with a level of patience and self-control. See Galatians 5 for more instructions.

Enjoy!
-Jordan Burgsma