Today’s story is about Bob, the slacker superman from these old threads. Bob has the powers of a post-Crisis Kryptonian, with no kryptonite factor he knows of. He’s the only known super in his world. Though he’ll rescue disaster victims, stop in-progress terrorist attacks, and intervene in other such emergencies, he refuses to wear a costume, intervene in geo-politics, or fight crime.
One day, while at his favorite coffeeshop (splitting his attention between reading White Butterfly and watching Lolo Jones compete in a track meet a thousand miles away), Bob finds someone placing an extra-large redeye on his table. Looking up, he sees an insanely attractive, vaguely familiar, and seemingly Middle-Eastern woman smiling at him.
“I didn’t pay for that,” Bob says.
“And I did,” the IAVFSMEW replies. “My name is Yalda–and you’re Bob X, aren’t you? The superhero?”
“It’s Bob Exeter, and I’m not a superhero. Anyway–”
“Of course you’re a superhero…when you choose to be. I was on that cruise liner you saved in the Mediterranean last month. The ship was sinking, but you picked it up with your bare hands and carried us all to safety. I want to thank you, and if you wish–”
“Hold it right there. You’re, like, the hottest woman I’ve seen in a year–and I have telescopic x-ray vision–but I don’t date people I rescue. Just never ends well, particularly when they’re obviously stalking me. So thanks for the coffee, but–”
“Just give me two minutes, I beg you,” Yalda says, helping herself to a seat. “I’m not here to offer you romance … not unless you insist. I’m here to ask you to please be the superhero we both know you can be. Just for an afternoon, and just for my homeland–for Syria.”
“What do you mean?”
“Please don’t be obtuse, X. It does not become you. The civil war in my country has gone on for years now, and the butcher Ḥafiz al-Assad has slaughtered tens of thousands of my countrymen–and neither the United Nations or the United States does anything. Now I do not say that the typical American should be blamed for their government’s inaction–but you are not the typical American. You’re a demigod; every despot on this planet exists at your sufferance. I’m asking you to stop suffering just one–”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Please let me finish. It’s eleven a.m. Chicago time. You could fly to Damascus, dispatch Assad, disarm the Syrian military, and be back here loafing by sunset. Now I know you are not evil or callous or jingoistic. You saved hundreds of thousands of lives in Japan, Haiti, and Mumbai. How is the rape of my country any different? Tell me what I must do to persuade you to intervene, and I will do it.”
“Here’s the thing–” Bob begins.
And that’s where the hypothetical ends and the responses begin. What should Bob say to Yalda? Do you want him to go curb-stomp Assad? If not, why should he forbear?