It was 2:17 on a Wednesday afternoon — one of those stifling Montreal summer days that clung to your skin like plastic wrap.
The shop was dead quiet. Outside, the sidewalks shimmered under the heat and the buzz of construction on Saint-Denis. Damien was perched behind the counter, sketching half-formed sigils in his book, the hum of the floor fan fighting a losing battle. He heard the door jangle open — way too loud in the stillness — and didn’t even have to look up to know trouble had just strutted in.
The guy was young, maybe twenty-two, with that cocky swagger only good bone structure and youth can buy. He wore a tight blue tank top, denim cutoffs, and a pair of battered Vans that looked like they’d survived Osheaga two years running. Long dirty-blond hair pushed back under a backwards cap. He didn’t bother taking off his sunglasses. Of course he didn’t.
He plunked a piece of paper on the counter — sweat already bleeding through the edges.
“Hey man,” he said, grinning wide, “I want the Superman logo. Right here.”
He hooked a thumb into his waistband, pointing just above his crotch like he was advertising a sale. Damien leaned back in his chair, pencil still in hand, and just blinked at him. Then he looked at the paper again — classic Superman ‘S’, bright red and blue, perfect for a Saturday morning cartoon. He tried not to laugh.
“Wait,” Damien said. “Hold up. You want Superman… there?”
The guy nodded, deadly serious but with a cocky smile. “Yeah, bro — just above the goods. Like a power belt buckle.”
Damien let out a soft snort, sat up straighter. “Alright. Bare with me for a sec. Close your eyes — picture yourself, sixty-five years old. Beer gut like a majestic donut, your metabolism long gone, your last gym day a vague memory.”
The kid cracked a grin but didn’t interrupt. Damien kept going.
“Now imagine your partner’s pulling your pants down for a bit of sexy nostalgia. The lights are low. The mood’s right. But instead of fireworks, they get a half-deflated Superman logo, stretched like soggy pizza dough over your personal Fortress of Solitude. Y’a feel me?”
Basically, at this point you are... Clark Can’t.”
The guy barked a laugh. “Clark Can’t?!”, then leaned into the counter like he’d just heard the best bar story. “Dude — that’s savage.”
Damien shrugged. “It’s the truth, man. When the cape stops flying, nobody wants a half-baked Clark Kent hanging out down there.”
The kid wiped his eyes, still grinning. “So you think it’s a no?”
“A hard no.” Damien quipped quick deep voice.
The kid sighed, scratching at the back of his neck. “Damn. Come on man, don’t you think it be cool, i think the ladies would dig it.
Damien raised his eyebrows. “Look, you can do whatever you want. I’m not your mom. But trust me — some tattoos haunt you worse than student loans. You’ll be back here in forty years begging me to cover it up wit God knows what to mask your red pizza of shame.”
The kid laughed again, the sharp edge gone. “Alright, you win. I’ll stick with a sticker for now.”
He pushed off the counter, scooping up the sweaty piece of paper. “You always talk people outta dumb ideas?”
“Only the ones that’d look worse than they already sound,” Damien said. “I got standards, even for bad ideas.”
The kid gave him a playful salute, pushing out the door into the heat. Damien watched him go, shook his head, and flipped his sketchbook back open. He muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the walls to hear:
“Not all heroes wear capes… but thank God this one didn’t drop his pants.”
