The bank robbers wore sheer pantyhose over their heads to hide their features, as if they did their bank robbing prep at an underfunded public library with like, really old outdated books. Their guns, though, were brand spanking new. Big fat ones. Guns that made unfunny people say stuff like “Oh my! Two tickets to the gunshow” when they saw them. With big fat bullets. Bullets laced with terrible contractable diseases. Bullets that had hand-drawn mean words on them, like “suck,” and “damn.” Bullets that made those same people from before say things like “You want some guns with those bullets,” as if they were talking about ketchup on eggs. These robbers were some bad bad hombres. 

“Fork ‘em over, lady”

“Please please! Not my medication! ”

“Keep runnin’ your mouth and I’ll punch you in it”

And when he said this even his robber buddies were like “dude not cool.”

POW! 

The glass by the entrance way shattered. The mood on the room changed. There was an energy and everybody could feel it. The faces of the hostages lit up. Except the bank manager, because he knew what a hassle it would be to replace the custom bank glass.

“Hold it right there, my friends.” 

You could see fear start to materialize on all three of the robbers’ faces, even through the sheer pantyhose. 

“Mommy mommy! It’s Mr. Atomic! When he was fifteen his friends put his hand in a cup of warm radioactive waste to try and get him to pee, and ever since, he’s been using his powers to fight crime!”

“That’s right little boy! And every day I wake up and I th—……… I think I jus—….Oh my God I’m gonna blow my lunch” 

“BLURGHHHHHHHHHH” He puked and puked. I won’t describe it in detail because that would be gross.

“Uhhh boss, what’s going on?”One of the lowlier robbers asked. You could tell he was lower on the totem pole because he was wearing sketchers, and that’s not really something top banana would ever wear to a bank robbery.

“I’m not exactly sure”

By this time Mr. Atomic had composed himself. He looked to have regained his strength, and just as he was beginning to speak again: 

“Gentlema—…… Oh My Go-“

“BLURRHGGGG” 

This round lasted tens of seconds, which is a long time to be puking in a full room while nobody else is talking. With the glass and now all the carpeting ruined, the bank manager is far more stressed than he’d be by just a robbing of their vaults. I mean, they have insurance for that at least. 

It looked like Mr. Atomic’s gastrointestinal well might finally be tapped. He took wiped his mouth, took two steps forward, landing both feet square with his shoulders, began to point one finger up to strike a heroic pose, and just as the hostages and robbers thought this show might be on the road, one more time he commenced to his regularly scheduled program of puking. 

“Say, Mr. Atomic,” little Billy asked of the superhero, “remind me of your super powers again?” 

He held one finger up in that way that people who are chewing too much food do before they can answer a question. He ran the other finger through his hair and it was obvious that there were heavy strands of shedded hair left in his fingers by the time they had gone all the way through. The way the barfing gave view to the top of his head, you could see this was no aberration either. 

At this point, it became clear viz. Occam’s Razor to everybody in the bank that the primary result of Mr. Atomic’s run-in with radioactive material is a case of intensive radioactive poisoning. Luckily, the robbers felt bad and left. 

Another succesful crime stopping by the one, the only, the inimtable, MR. ATOMIC! 

THE END!