Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

Chapter 70: Chapter 70: The Difference Between Reality and Memory

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”You mean that junior actor who played in Chaplin and His Lovers? Heard he’s got a Hollywood dad, kind of a legacy baby, right? Funny you’re the one asking me about him.”

”You know him?” Henry blinked in surprise.

”Well, I was curious about which actors today are cast to play the Golden Age starlets, so I watched it. Gotta say, I was a little let down. But the Chaplin kid’s acting wasn’t bad. I could see the skill.”

”So... do you think Robert Downey Jr. looks or feels like Tony Stark?”

At that, Big Al’s eyes bulged like brass bells. He lowered his voice, leaned in, and asked, ”Wait—you got insider gossip? Like they’re half-brothers or something?”

Henry laughed. ”No, nothing like that. I just want to know... in your eyes, do they seem similar? In looks, personality, vibe—whatever.”

Big Al pondered for a moment before shaking his head. ”Nah. Not at all. Especially if you put them side by side. That Hollywood kid wouldn’t stand a chance next to the Stark heir. He’d be crushed by the man’s presence alone.”

That answer was enough to give Henry a reality check. He couldn’t rely on familiar faces or actors to identify superheroes.

Because here, actors were actors, and heroes were heroes—separate, distinct individuals.

And knowing how comic book canon rewrites itself constantly, even Henry’s encyclopedic memory of Marvel lore might not be reliable. Who knew how this version of Earth worked?

Take Nick Fury for example. Was he going to be white or Black in this world?

Was Tony really Howard Stark’s biological son? Would he become Iron Man... or Sorcerer Supreme?

And when they finally thawed out Captain America from the ice, would he wake up and say, ”Hail Hydra”?

He couldn’t even be sure if this was the real MCU. After all, there were mutants everywhere—that alone ruled out the classic film universe.

Hell, there might even be stuff here beyond Marvel canon. Henry could guarantee that last one—because he himself was the strangest anomaly of all.

A suspected Kryptonian dropped into what might be the Marvel Universe, with no idea how the hell he got here.

This meant one thing: the moment S.H.I.E.L.D. or any intelligence agency started nosing around, he wouldn’t be able to identify agents by face alone.

No ”hey, that shiny-headed guy must be Agent Coulson” shortcuts.

No assuming the Latin American-looking bald dude with top clearance but low-level assignments was part of the snake division of HYDRA.

It was all too much. Henry’s brain felt like it was overheating. Once again, he reaffirmed his golden rule: if you can keep a low profile, for the love of God, do it.

Just because you meet a Black actor with a sailor mouth doesn’t mean you’ve bumped into Nick Fury. No need to have a PTSD flashback.

Maybe it was Henry’s sudden silence that made Big Al nervous. Even though it was just a few seconds, the chef asked, ”Hey man, want me to talk to Tony Stark for you? Try to smooth things over?”

Henry was surprised, but he quickly shook his head with a smile. ”Thanks, Big Al, but no need. It’s just a job. No film crew lasts forever, right? Ending this one early just means I get a head start on the next.”

He continued, ”And like you said, Tony Stark didn’t press charges. I’ll take his word on that. I figure the firing came from the bootlickers trying to curry favor. Asking Tony to step in would just make things awkward.”

Besides, Henry didn’t think Big Al’s clout would be enough to sway those kinds of people. And if things backfired, Big Al might end up looking bad—possibly even blaming Henry for it. That’d be the end of their friendship.

After wrapping up their talk, Henry stood up to leave. But Big Al grinned and asked sheepishly, ”Hey, uh... that burger recipe?”

Henry chuckled. ”Use it however you like. Publish it with your name, whatever. You helped come up with it, and you supplied all the ingredients. I’ve mooched enough free meals off you to call it even.”

”Thanks, brother. And hey—if you ever get tired of acting, give me a call. My offer still stands, and I’ll pay even better next time.”

”Appreciate it.” Henry shook hands with the chef—whose size was nearly double his own. A fist bump, a shoulder bump, a couple back slaps, and Henry was off.

That’s the thing about working in Hollywood—you’re always meeting new people... and always saying goodbye.

The California summer was just starting to settle in. Henry drove his second-hand Cadillac with the windows rolled down, letting the breeze bring just the right amount of cool air.

He pointed the car north.

Sure, he’d gotten fired—but he’d spent nearly a month in San Diego. And Los Angeles was just a couple hours away by car. No rush.

Henry cruised along the highway, relaxed and whistling to himself.

Getting canned didn’t bother him much. If someone tried to steal his food again—Stark, Doom, didn’t matter—he’d still throw a punch. That was non-negotiable.

Looking back, there’d been some wins. Seagal’s compliment (likely just for show), and more tangibly, real offers from several stunt teams. Those guys had tried to recruit him before the firing, not after.

Henry had declined. At the time, it had just felt too soon to commit.

Now? Those same teams were probably thanking their lucky stars he didn’t say yes. If they’d picked up someone who’d clashed with Tony Stark, they’d be sweating bullets right now.

Lost in his own drama, Henry grinned and whistled along with the wind as he cruised toward Los Angeles.

First stop? A hearty meal at Aunt Saria’s Italian restaurant.

That place was his favorite. He couldn’t say if the food was authentically Italian—but it was damn tasty. Plus, every visit was a chance to practice his Italian.

Sometimes he’d test out cheesy pickup lines with Saria’s husband—straight from the Italian playbook—then try them on Auntie herself.

It sounded absurd, but yes, that really happened in the middle of the restaurant.

And the old couple didn’t mind at all. In fact, every time Henry complimented Saria’s beauty or cooking, her husband just beamed with pride.

What could he say? Italian romance—he still had a lot to learn.

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