Nov. 21st, 2011

Dear Doctor Angstrom-

My name is Billy and I am 9. I have lived in New York City all my life and it is awesome here. I hope you will get this letter. I am writing because it will be Christmass soon. What I would really like to have is super powers. If you can make this happen I would like it a lot. OK bye.


I have received your 'Christmass' letter (remember: spelling is important.) The United States Postal Service unfailingly delivers letters from youthful supplicants such as yourself, because they remember one night in 1977 when I caused the adhesive securing postage stamps to exude a powerful pheromone that excited a savage rage in all dogs. Since then, any letter from a child such as you is delivered to my Pan-Dimensional Fortress in northern Greenland, free of charge, courtesy of the American taxpayer. Consider this a valuable lesson in power, Billy.

On to your request: granting 'super powers', a term with tremendous breadth of possibility, to an extant person is a tricky matter. It will be a more elegant solution for me to go back in time, locate newborns named 'Billy', 'William' or 'Bill' born in New York City in or around 2002, and embed a cortex RNA virus that rapidly rewrites your genetic code within a 48-hour period in early 2012. Now, not knowing what your super powers will be, or when they'll come, is all part of the super powers experience. I suspect, frankly, that at least 90% of New York City's Billy's will have the 'super power' of extremely fast-spreading tumors. You may also be able to fly, or at least hover, using lighter-than-air gasbags that will grow out of your lymphatic system. Or you might turn into a God. A GOD, BILLY.

Best of luck with your new superpowers; even now the cortex bomb coils tightly against your pituitary gland and silently ticks away your last few moments of normalcy. OK bye!

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