This will be

the conclusion of the tale of Jason Retrograde Turnwhistle.

When we last

left our antihero of sorts, he had decided to become a supervillain and

pain the town red, literally. For Turnwhistle, it was simply much easier

to become a supervillain. A supervillain does not need to have superpowers,

nor does he need to have a particularly strong motive, he only desires

attention, and really, that was what Turnwhistle wanted more than anything,

though he didn't realize this.

On Monday morning,

he called in to work and told them he would be out of town for the week.

It was the first lie he told since 1985 and was probably the most evil

thing he had done since he pushed Randy Townsend off the slide in third

grade. He left the house at the same time as usual, so as not to draw

suspicion from his wife, and went to the Fix Up Hut, a mega store filled

with building needs.

"I need

red paint," he told the surly teenage clerk that stood behind the

paint counter.

"How much,"

muttered the clerk unintelligibly beneath the shaking of the paint mixer.

"A lot."

Turnwhistle answered and started filling out an application for a Fix

Up Hut credit card. He filled out the application using a fake name but

his financial information. The card was approved and he had established

close to $10,000 worth of credit. He then purchased $9,000 worth of paint

and $1,000 worth of paint supplies. His heart pounded as he exited the

store, thinking at any moment some manager or security guard would stop

him and question him about his odd purchase.

That never

happened.

He made it

to his car and drove home. He decided that he would start painting the

town tonight, beginning with City Hall. From there, he would paint the

bank, the bakery, Doc's Pharmacy and finally, the police station. The

next night he would be across town, painting the school, the shoe factory,

and the beauty college. On the third and final night, he would paint his

villainous name in the middle of the street and would have the town, bowing

to him and his genius. He couldn't be stopped. The plan was too ingenious.

Keep moving and never paint the same place twice.

Turnwhistle

ate dinner with his wife and watched a rerun of ALF before turning in

that evening. He feigned illness and his wife came in to comfort him.

After she had fallen asleep, he crawled out of bed and snuck downstairs

to the garage. He began to drive to the center of town.

This isn't

right, he thought. I will surely be arrested and prosecuted and convicted.

What could I possibly gain from all of this? What will my family think?

He continued

to drive.

I'm sick of

doing everything right, he thought. My life was supposed to be more exciting

than this. I was destined for greater things than working in a plastic

factory and crunching numbers. Wasn't I?

He drove around

town some more.

Finally, he

stopped. His car had run out of gasoline, probably due to the excessive

weight of the paint in his trunk. He was stranded in the middle of a rural

stretch of town. It was a balmy evening and all of the plotting, thinking

and driving had made Turnwhistle tired. His exhaustion led to frustration

and eventually, Turnwhistle cracked open a can of paint and poured it

over his car.

That felt good.

He opened several

more cans and drenched every part of his car with the paint. Now, the

inside. Turnwhistle did his best to delicately paint the seats red. He

also made sure to wipe paint off the windows and the lights outside. Now

for the finale, he thought, and dumped a can of paint over himself. When

he was sure that he was covered in the paint, and in no danger of suffocation

, he collapsed to the ground and fell asleep.

He awoke the

next day to the blaring of car horns, as people passed by the red scene

on the side of the road. A reporter from the local newspaper came out,

took his picture and interviewed him. They were followed by the local

television news crews. Turnwhistle drove back home that afternoon and

realized that news of the Red Man had traveled like wildfire. He had become

famous and had done nothing wrong and, for a little while, everybody knew

his name.

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