Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

Chapter 67: Chapter 67: Junk Food

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Henry was on a mission—a culinary mission.

He rummaged through the ”premium” supply shelf like a man with purpose, collecting ingredients that would make any high-end chef nod in approval: fresh butter lettuce, vibrant kale, thick-cut heirloom tomatoes, and a brick of aged Parmesan he shaved down himself. Finally, he grabbed a massive, soft white bun—big enough to serve as a flotation device—sliced it cleanly in half, and laid it all out like he was about to perform a sacred ritual.

Big Al, watching from across the kitchen with a look of betrayal, choked on his own disbelief. ”No. No, no, no, no! Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

Henry grinned. ”Oh, I absolutely am.”

”You’re desecrating the ingredients, man! This is a hate crime against flavor!”

”I prefer to think of it as democratizing gourmet. Look—protein, vegetables, dairy, carbs. It’s basically a complete, balanced meal. Ask any nutritionist.”

Big Al looked like he was experiencing an existential crisis in real time. ”I mean... technically, yes.”

With zero shame, Henry stacked the burger like a mad architect—beef patty sizzling with juices, crisp greens, roasted tomato, molten Parmesan—and finished with the pillowy bun. The whole thing looked like it belonged on a magazine cover titled ’Burgers for Billionaires.’

Lifting it up proudly, Henry said, ”But isn’t it weird? Stack all this gourmet stuff into a burger and suddenly everyone calls it junk food. Why?”

Al opened his mouth to argue... and closed it again. He had no comeback. His soul was conflicted.

And truth be told, part of him was already thinking about how to sneak this onto a private event menu as a limited-run novelty.

Meanwhile, Henry grabbed a pristine white ceramic plate, plated his masterpiece with all the grace of a Food Network star, and found a spot in the mess area. He didn’t bother with a knife and fork. Burgers were meant to be eaten by hand, damn it. Still, something felt incomplete.

He looked at the lonely burger.

”...Fries? Nah. But you can’t eat a burger like this without a soda. That’s sacrilege.”

With the solemnity of a sommelier picking the perfect wine, Henry returned to the bar fridge and pulled out a can of Coca-Cola. Sure, there were other options—Pepsi, Fanta—but when it came to pairing with artery-clogging joy, nothing beat Coke.

Al spotted the soda and grimaced like he’d just seen someone dip a croissant in ketchup.

”That’s exactly why burgers get a bad rap! Pairing it with that is culinary blasphemy!”

Henry popped the can with a hiss, shrugged, and said, ”Come on, it’s just like pairing wine with French cuisine. The right drink makes the meal. Don’t look at me like that.”

Al crossed his arms. ”Coke is not wine.”

”It’s... emotional wine.”

”Coke is diabetic napalm.”

”Not my problem. Kryptonian metabolism, remember? One sunbath and I’m back to factory settings.”

Henry turned to head back to his table—only to stop dead.

His burger. His glorious, custom-built, handcrafted burger... was in someone else’s hands.

And a quarter of it was already gone.

The guy munching on it looked way too pleased with himself.

”MOTHER—” Henry let out the most American of curses. ”Are you outta your goddamn mind?! You just grabbed my food off the table and started chomping like some mangy raccoon?! What if I’d laced that thing with testosterone gel or poison, huh?! You’d be halfway to growing a second pair before you even noticed!”

The guy blinked. ”Relax, I checked. No gardenia scent—definitely not a hormone binder. But there is rosemary. So whatever crap you’re spewing is just to scare me off.”

He gave Henry a smug look, lifted the burger, and took another massive bite. Then moaned like he was doing a food commercial in hell.

Henry detonated.

”THAT. WAS. MY. LUNCH!”

The guy licked his fingers and smirked. ”Worth it.”

For a moment, Henry’s Kryptonian fists itched for action. Punching someone into the sun had never sounded so tempting. He’d spent weeks keeping a low profile, never showing off, never letting anyone even suspect he wasn’t just another background extra. And now this... this jackass had awakened something primal.

Deep breath.

He narrowed his eyes. ”You’re not with the production team. I haven’t seen your face around here before.”

That jogged a memory. ”Wait a second... weren’t you with that dumbass from Caltech? The one who asked the director if the ship’s radar was real? Don’t tell me this is what passes for top talent at a world-class university now.”

The burger thief didn’t react. He just kept chewing, one hand scooping up gooey strands of Parmesan and slapping them back into the bun.

Henry stepped closer. ”Let me guess. You snuck into set to fanboy over someone? What’s next, hiding in a laundry cart? I can have security boot your Ivy League ass off this ship before you finish that last bite.”

The guy blinked and asked, with zero irony, ”Wait. You seriously don’t know who I am?”

Henry blinked back. ”Oh, spare me. You think you’re green Franklin Roosevelt or something? Nobody gives a crap.”

The rich kid looked wounded—like Henry had just slapped him with a gold-plated credit card. ”I may not look like Franklin, but I’ve got enough Franklins to crush you like a soda can. You will remember this.”

Henry scoffed. ”Wow. Threatening someone with wealth. Original. Are you gonna rain money on me until I drown? Will you tip me to death?”

The guy shook his head, puffing up his chest.

Henry smirked. ”Exactly. You’re not giving me a cent, so why should I pretend to care? I don’t owe you flattery, I don’t owe you respect, and I sure as hell don’t owe you my lunch.”

He leaned in, voice low and cutting.

”You think because you’re rich, I’m gonna treat you like some sugar daddy? Buddy, you’ve got the wrong actor. I don’t dance for free.”

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