How I Met Hathian

4 mins read

Submission by Nobu.

Dear Readers of the Hathian Observer,

This is probably not what you expect to see in your issue of Hathian: A foreigner’s look at Hathian. Please allow me though to create a mirror in letters before you use this issue to pack your fresh landing of fish in it. Or even wipe your derriere in lack of better paper.

And no, this is not a report on, how half an hour into the fun, the first guest at the 24HR Pawn & Comiquities next to The Clam already retched on the street. And also not how delicious the steaks were that my help brought me from the stand that was tended by about the tallest man I have seen.

This is a report on how I met Hathian.

My identity shall remain a secret until the day I can step out in the light for various reasons outside my powers. Until then, you may know me as Nobu.

I am the guy, you probably have often mistaken for being ‘Batman’, the tall and brawny figure clad in tight pajamas, a cowl with pointy ears and a cape, of whom you have seen a couple of pictures in this very publication. If you looked closer at me, you will see the difference. I am much less a man physically than him. My powers lay not in the fist fight, even though I can take a person lighter than me over the shoulder and know one or another trick to temporarily disable an opponent heavier than me.

Except for now, for I am wheelchair bound for now. The only power I have is in my eyes and in my hands. And this is why you read this column.

As so many before me, I have come to Hathian, because it held an image of promise to a wayfarer, emerging like a mirage in the horizon on a hot, humid Louisiana day on the hobo tracks. It was a wide view of blocks promising a cold shower and a bed to sleep in. I walked a little faster towards the mirage, hoping it would not disappear as so many mirages have before for men through history.

The contrast to the vision almost knocked me out. The town had a ragged appearance, there were skinny dogs looking in trash cans, and the street cleaners were not those with the machines cleaning the tarmac with rotating brushes. They were ‘cleaners’ like Leon the Professional was a cleaner. Food had to be stolen. Sleep had to be had together with rats and cockroaches. I made friends with the rats and ate some cockroaches, and stole my food at that burger joint near the hospital called Gein’s.

Then, finally I somehow broke through while I also almost broke my nose. A citizen of Hathian had arranged a type of food fight event. I decided to show up early to maybe steal some food that wasn’t a soggy, half-eaten burger.

If you want to read about how I got very introduced to a couple of Hathians possibly known to you, read the next part of this serial in the next issue of the Hathian Observer.

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