If anyone asks, normie, you came to me with this, right? The secret to achieving fame, in my business at least, is to pretend you’re indifferent to it. Want is weakness, humility shines brightest. The suckers need to root for you or identify with you or buy into some form of existential bullshit. So, this interview was your idea. That’s the deal. Agreed?

First, I’m not a superhero per se. We prefer to call ourselves “bonus persons.” I’m exactly like you, except better. Just a regular guy with awesome unnatural abilities. Second, if the crisis or mission at hand demands a service provider who is, say, bulletproof or has a laser karate chop or shoots sparks out of their butthole, you’ve booked the wrong dude. I get bigger or smaller. I’m Mr. Different-Size Man. I have a job to do, same as all of you wage slaves.

I don’t thwart the malign intentions of planet-destroying supervillains. Hell, no. Dreamed about it when I was Different-Size Boy, but when I grew up (the regular way) I embraced my destiny. I fight unexceptional evildoers, the offenders you normies battle daily. People who cut in line at the coffee shop; expired-food-selling grocers; advertising copywriters; internet influencers. Assholes whose illegal fireworks scare neighbors’ pets. More politicians than you care to admit. The work is dirty and dangerous, but so am I.

No, I’ve never tested the limits of my power. The smallest I could be? Probably able to hop on an ant and ride it bareback. If I attempted anything so moronic, I’d risk being eaten by a cockroach! For real. Thinking about such a stunt gives me bubble-guts. The largest I’ve been? I once stood in the street and peeped into a seventh-floor bedroom window. 

The ladies dig it when you can make yourself 15% bigger. Ignore the shrimpy vigilante crusaders, the runts who say size doesn’t matter. Hey, I’m a married man but groupies are part of the gig. Categorize them as important elements of a grassroots fan base.

How did I come to be so remarkable? I expend as much energy pondering my so-called “origin story” as I might if I were a gifted goddamned genius Einstein or Michelangelo or Neil Diamond. Introspection tops the list of Unwished-for Superpowers. What I am is all I have. I become bigger or smaller. You got any more cigarettes? Thanks.

Fact: I possess amazing attributes. Give away my talent for free? No way. If, in your opinion, I’m not entitled to compensation for performing impossible feats, get your cat out of the tree all by your fucking self. Wait, turn off the recorder for a minute.

Well, apparently I owe the IRS $135,000 in taxes, penalties, and interest on unreported earnings. I was unaware the tax code says I’m obligated to claim money bestowed upon me in gratitude for saving people’s asses. Sorry! Maybe I should’ve consulted with my buddy, Super Certified Public Accountant?

Okay, turn it back on again. Does the red light mean your recorder is “on,” or is it telling you the battery is dying? 

Anyway, the jacked-up cape-and-leotards Halloween vibe sickens me. You love clown costumes? Go to the kiddie circus. My wardrobe is business casual: khaki slacks, a powder blue polo shirt with “Mr. Different-Size Man” stitched above the left breast, and comfortable loafers. Classy. Incidentally, those shirts are available for purchase, please visit my website for details. You’re putting the link in here somewhere, right? Self-appointed champion of justice that I am, I always tried to stamp out those obnoxious “QR codes” but then I started using them for myself, they work.

My clothing does change size when I do. How? Beats me, I couldn’t care less. Depend on normies to obsess over stuff they can’t understand. You’re the writer, feed the nerds. They’ll reach peak orgasm if you add incomprehensible diagrams to your article. Pseudo-science, inexpert analysis, amateur artist’s renderings, easily digestible brain candy.

I work alone. No sidekick, comedic or otherwise. Yes, I’ve tried! On separate occasions I brought in a teenager, a dog, a second teenager even dumber than both the first one and the dog, and then this crusty old geezer who had memorable catch phrases, like “time to big up!” and “uh-oh, see what I done now!” Everyone left me. Who knows why? No matter how often or loudly I screamed at them, they didn’t improve. Lazy and stupid. My work is lonely but I’m not. Normies slow me down and all they do is whine about how much it sucks to be normal. Shut up, losers! I have my own problems, except, uh, I don’t have any problems. None that are my fault, only the…forget it. Cut this part, alright?

So, I did say you’d get a chance to check out my crib. Might as well, I’m working up an epic number two. We’ll grab a sack of burgers and you can meet my smokin’ hot better half. How did I happen to shack up with a sex goddess? I’m Mr. Different-Size Man, dipstick! She and I look great together!

Hell, yeah—she’s a bonus person, too! You sure are clueless about the who’s who of heroically-enhanced people. She’s Trophy Wife, Woman of Mystery and Overextended Credit. Will she tell you her powers? You’re an idiot! “You must guess what I desire, and keep spending money on me until you figure out the answer!” I’ve heard her say it a million times and it’s not as funny as it used to be. 

Pause your recorder again. Is it off? I’ll give you a heads-up, there’s tension at home. I suspect my old lady has some action on the side, which on her part is a big mistake. Hero-hopping because you’re bored or restless doesn’t pay off. She’ll find out it’s true! God, she’d better not be banging a normie. Anything but that.

---

Michael Grant Smith wears sleeveless T-shirts, weather permitting. His writing appears in elimae, The Airgonaut, Ellipsis Zine, Bending Genres, Okay Donkey, trampset, New World Writing, and elsewhere. Michael resides in Ohio. He has traveled to Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Cincinnati. For more Michael, go to @michaelgrantsmith.bsky.social or @MGSatMGScom.