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Nonsuch was the sort of person to double-dip.

When she ate French fries, the fries were just a delivery mechanism for the ketchup. When she ate cookies, the cookies were tastier on the second soaking of milk. When she ate nachos, it only made sense to get both ends of the tortilla chip ladened with salsa, once all was said and done. Of course, she wasn’t a [i]psychopath[/i]. Sushi avoided her two-dip clause.

Miseria and humanity did not.

High on the overpass, the paragon watched, a brash wind toying with her golden locks. Shadows writhed and rose, bubbling from the depths of an evil bog, bursting out. They seeped deep into the consciousness of those salarymen driving home after another late night spent overworking and then overdrinking. A miracle, indeed, that even to this day, people would drive home buzzed, on the precipice of collapse. She hefted her hammer, awaiting the telltale swell, the gradual sway. What must it feel like, to be so thoroughly consumed by a monster, when one was already consumed by society itself? What must it feel like, to be suddenly plunged into the depths of despair, plummeting into a pit that offered only self-termination? What must it be like then, to see a singular ray of light shining through, saving you from that brink?

The Miseria swelled, gorging itself upon the balding man’s regrets and ineptitudes, his day of humiliations and disappointment providing ample fuel. It ballooned out of proportion, shadows stretching further and further, before…

[i]Pop![/i]

A hammer smashed through its corpulent form and buried itself in the car’s hood. Thoroughly crushed, the engine didn’t even let out a whimper before the car grinded to a stop, any errant flames smothered by the sheer invisible mass of a Sweet Arm.

And, as for the man inside?

His airbags were deployed upon that freak accident, his nose broken against those inflatable bags. No mercy for the drunk drivers, after all! And, on the topic of double-dipping…

[b]“Hello, this the police? I’d like to report a traffic accident west of 182.”[/b]

…she ended the call before the dispatcher could ask any more questions. Dropped the burner phone, allowing the truck underneath to crush it flat.

Now, drained of all happiness, having lost their own car, about to face a drunk driving charge, and likely going to enjoy their tenure in the hospital, with all the fees that their insurance wouldn’t cover, where would that man go? Nonsuch let out a cheery whistle, her tune mixing with the roar of traffic, the distance hymn of sirens.

They would go, seeking the help of a hero.

And she would be waiting, offering them the chance to reclaim their ideal.