Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

Chapter 17: Chapter 17: The Shaving Problem

”Wait, you can actually do that?” Henry blinked, genuinely surprised.

He didn’t know the full scope of how identity documents were forged or, in this case, ”retroactively assembled” but one thing was obvious: he didn’t have a legal identity. No birth certificate. No social security number. No driver’s license. Hell, no last name. Getting official paperwork, even fake, felt like black magic.

Tom grinned, like he got this reaction a lot. ”Kid, this is Alaska. As long as you’re not on a federal wanted list, it’s all just paperwork.”

He paused, then leaned in and dropped his voice like they were in a spy thriller. ”And even if you are on that list... well, let’s just say I’ve seen worse. You’re not, right?”

Henry raised both hands. ”No! Definitely not.”

”Good,” Tom said, instantly reverting to his laid-back swagger. ”Makes my job easier.”

A few turns later, they pulled into a small office building with sun-faded signage that read:

TOM’S EMPLOYMENT AGENCY & CONSULTING

(”We Make You Legal” in smaller print below.)

Inside, a middle-aged woman was shuffling papers behind the front desk. She didn’t look up, didn’t say hello just gave off that seasoned government worker with zero patience energy. Her desk was scattered with a few odd, gold-toned coins.

When George’s name came up, though, she wordlessly swept the coins into a drawer and finally acknowledged them with a disinterested grunt.

As Henry passed her desk, she gave him a sharp side-eye, then theatrically waved a hand in front of her nose. ”Jeez. Where’d you drag this one out from, Tom? A sewer?”

”George’s crew,” Tom said casually. ”Just got off the boat.”

”Oh.” Her tone shifted, just a bit. She knew what just got off the boat meant crab blood, diesel, and desperation.

She didn’t smile, but she didn’t kick them out either. In Alaska, a wallet full of fish-season money had a way of covering a lot of social sins. No matter how ripe you smelled.

Henry didn’t take offense. He looked and smelled like hell, and he knew it. Besides, the woman’s snark wasn’t aggressive, just... habitual. The kind of sass you earned by surviving too many years in a small-town office full of weirdos and strangers.

And she wasn’t wrong.

Henry’s Kryptonian body didn’t sweat like a normal human’s, but he had marinated for days in sea brine, crab guts, and wet wool. Add freezing wind and engine oil, and the smell was a Frankenstein of funk—somewhere between old anchovies and burnt rubber.

Tom tossed him a clean set of clothes and pointed to the back. ”Shower’s in the corner. Use as much soap as you want. You’re gonna need it.”

Henry made his way through the cluttered office toward the bathroom. As he passed a room with a single, saggy mattress and a mirror with a crack down the middle, he couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

A bed in the office? Classy, Tom.

He resisted the urge to comment though his imagination painted a picture of Tom playing HR consultant by day and hopeful bachelor by night. Judging by the dust on the sheets, though, that bed hadn’t seen action in a long time.

The shower was small but hot, and Henry took full advantage. He scrubbed like he was trying to erase the memory of the Bering Sea from his skin. The dirt came off easily enough.

The hair, though that was a different problem.

The beard growth on his chin had gotten unruly, and his hair was halfway to covering his eyes. He grabbed a pair of scissors from the sink and tried trimming it.

The scissors didn’t cut.

He pressed harder. Still nothing.

Well. That confirmed it. His hair was just as invulnerable as the rest of him.

Which meant...

Henry groaned, closing his eyes as a ridiculous memory surfaced.

In some old Superman animated series, Clark Kent would shave by bouncing laser vision off a mirror to trim his beard. It was played off like a cute gag, but now Henry realized—it was probably canon.

”Do I even have heat vision?” he muttered to himself.

He hadn’t tried. Hell, he hadn’t even known he could fly until recently.

To play it safe, he raised his palm and aimed at his own hand. If it worked, at least he wouldn’t burn a hole in Tom’s office wall.

He focused, narrowed his eyes, and... nothing.

He clenched like he was trying to pass a kidney stone. Still nothing.

”I want to shoot heat vision,” he muttered like a lunatic. Nada.

Then he remembered something. In Smallville, young Clark Kent’s first brush with heat vision came during an unexpected rush of hormones—specifically, while ogling a hot teacher.

Henry sighed.

”No way,” he said to himself. ”That can’t be it.”

Still, for science...

He closed his eyes and dredged up old, long-buried mental files—the kind filed away under ’Definitely Clear Your Browser History’. His superbrain helpfully replayed vivid scenes, complete with dialogue, music, and—for some godforsaken reason—video resolution metadata.

...A familiar tingle started to climb up his spine. Then his neck. Then—

WHAM.

A sudden surge hit his eyes. He gasped and instinctively opened them—just in time to see a flash of red and feel a sudden sizzle in his palm.

”Whoa—!” he yelped, shaking his hand.

It stung. Not badly, but... it stung. The first real pain he’d felt since waking up on that beach. His palm had two faint scorch marks where the beam had hit.

Henry stared at them, awed.

He’d dunked his hand in boiling water before without flinching. This? This left a mark.

It felt like flipping a switch. He could feel the power now waiting just behind his eyes, ready to surge again at will. All he had to do was think the right way, like flexing a mental muscle.

So. Heat vision check.

But now came the hard part.

How the hell was he supposed to shave with it?

Using heat vision on hair that was tougher than steel was one thing. But bouncing that same beam off a mirror at the perfect angle, without melting the mirror or your face was another.

Superman made it look easy. But the more Henry thought about it, the more impossible it seemed.

”Sure,” he muttered, glaring at his reflection, ”because that’s realistic. Just point a laser cannon at your own face and hope for the best.”

He examined the cracked mirror in Tom’s office bathroom and laughed. ”Yeah. This’ll definitely reflect a sun-powered death ray. No problem.”

It was official: physics in the Superman universe didn’t make a damn lick of sense. If anyone ever tried to explain how laser vision + cheap glass = perfect shave, they deserved a Nobel Prize in Fictional Science.

But hey, if Clark Kent could pull it off every morning, so could he.

...Eventually.

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