And now, my latest attempt to paste in an excerpt from the third chapter of long-defunct prose experiment I Am Empowered, a Year-One-ish first-person account from Emp in 140-character Twitter format detailing her earliest days as a superheroine; note that this chapter is an especially long one exploring the art and science of superheroic roofjumping, with these current excerpts depicting at some length one of Emp’s more disastrous efforts along those lines.

ABOMINABLEMENT DIFFICILE (part 7)

Roofjumping without my superpowers has—go figure—completely shattered my nerves. I haven’t wet myself yet, but the evening is young.

Stripped of my powers’ safety net, I’ve slid from confident invulnerability to abject fright, my life in the shaky hands of an idiot drunk.

I’m shivering miserably in the rooftop wind, naked but for a (retro) bikini’s worth of tattered hypermembrane and a whole lotta goosebumps.

(Good news, though: The stiff, bone-chilling gusts up here have blown most of the sheetrock gypsum dust off my skin, which is a nice bonus.)

Every landing drives Quasarmodo’s shoulder into my belly and knocks the wind out of me—I’m expecting that my lunch will soon follow.

But between jumps, when my mind isn’t blanking out with sheer terror, I’m wrenching my fear-scrambled thoughts back to clever-ish scheming.

I’m distracted, howeva, by exceedingly dark, bloody, PETA-offending speculation about that stupid pigeon that ruined my initial roofjump.

If not for Homer Simpson Pigeon, I’d have still had my superpowers when I confronted these dolts, and major asswhuppery would have ensued. 

Instead, I’m reluctantly forced to use my Feminine Wiles to outwit them, when I’d much rather use my Feminine Uppercut to out-knock them.

Wellp, it’s Feminine Wiles—SIGH—to the main stage ten minutes later, when the reckless, reeling jump-for-joyride pauses for some refueling.

Time out on a Westside rooftop for a few more Hard Lemonades, icy-cold from the built-in cooler on the back of Troll’s exoskeleton. (Srsly.)

The boys are drunkenly exhilarated, all pumped and jacked to bro-tastic heights—hitherto unknown to Bro Science—from the thrill of R2Ring.

(You haven’t truly lived until you’ve witnessed a troll-shaped powersuit and a 7-foot-tall hunchback trying to give each other high fives.)

TT’s fuzzy, low-fi bray: “Dude, we gotta do thish mo’ often.” Q-Modo’s yawp: “Bro, we been totally missin’ out on th’ R2R experience, yo.”

Kneeling trussed and semi-naked on the asphalt at their feet, I’m similarly swilling from a Hard Lemonade clutched in trembly, bound hands.

I glance down at the image of the late superheroine Plutonium Blonde on the bottle’s label, looking all sexy and swaggery and badass. 

Feeling none too sexy or swaggery or badass myself, I whisper, “Gimme strength, PB,” before taking one more pull of her Hard Lemonade.

Then I gaze out over the city’s early-evening panorama, the setting sun sinking behind the looming mass of the Hirsch-Rockwell Building.

Gosh, we just happen to have wound up between 1st and 3rd Avenues, site of the toughest R2R path in the city. Who’d have thunk it? (I did.)

Took me long enough—and cost me enough pride and dignity—to maneuver these lemonade-lit-up losers where I needed, but here we are at last.

“Check it out, my newfound R2R studs,” I coo with blatantly fake drunkenness. (Oh, like they can tell—they’re far more hammered themselves.)

“From here, crosstown east t’ the Purple Paladin Memorial Hospital, that’s th’ gnarliest R2R route hereabouts,” I explain, lemonade-slurred.

“Not an easy route, I’ll tell you that,” I confide. “Phallik and Major Havoc run it all th’ time, but they’re, like, hardcore rooftoppers.”

Trigger Troll and Quasarmodo stare blearily out in the direction I’m gesturing at with bound hands. Q-Modo: “Yeah? S’up with that, yo?”

Fake burp, then I honey-sweetly suggest, “Well, you boys maybe wanna consider a li’l wager? Like, a li’l rooftop race between all y’all?” 

TT and Q-Modo glance at each other. “First one to R2R crosstown over to th’ Purple Paladin and back wins,” I announce, with a demure hiccup.

“Pretty sure y’all could do it, ’cause y’all seem like naturals,” I drawl, accidentally sliding my affect from Fake Tipsy to Fake Southern.

I hastily—and figuratively!—lower my voice’s Fake Southern Accent Level to zero, before its truly laughable bogosity can raise any flags.

(One of my many character flaws: A tragic fondness for a Fake Southern Accent godawful beyond belief.)

“I’d be SUPER impressed if you fellas righteously daredeviled that route, first time out,” I gush, bobblehead-nodding sincere affirmation.

“And I’d be super-DUPER impressed with the winner, especially.” I’m head-tilted and smiling, inwardly seething at having to play this card.

Extra credit for my extra-sexy voice, rendered all throaty and husky and whiskey-drinking-ish by the last half hour’s incessant screaming.

I might possibly be the lousiest flirt in the history of Blonde Womanhood, but even I can pull off the “Who knows what might happen?” vibe.

Plus, um, it’s awfully cold up on this roof, and parts of me are, y’know, standing at attention, drawing THEIR attention in the process.

And both have just drunk-blurted how much they too—like Bro Office Drone—liked my stupid butt GIF. (I’ll explain that ref later, I promise.)

The vills take pensive swigs of Platinum Blonde, look at each other, look down at me, all kneeling and flirty and fleshy at their feet.  

Trigger Troll and Quasarmodo: Girly-drink drunk, adrenalized from R2R, testosteronal from showing off for a chica. FISH IN A BARREL, Y’ALL.

Fast-forward blur-montage of the two morons trash-talking, downing one more round of SuperHard Lemonades, preening for smiling li’l me.

Then they’re starter-crouched forty feet from the rooftop’s edge, me kneeling submissively—and seethingly—between ’em. I drawl, “GO, Y’ALL!”

Churned-up asphalt peppers my goosebumpy skin, and they’re charging off, the hunchback galumphing madly, the trollsuit clanging merrily.

PARAPET ALERT at the roof’s end, but they negotiate it with inebriated aplomb—cue my pang of envy—and launch themselves into urban airspace.

I’ve seen that Trigger Troll’s jump jets allow him a little more range than my full-power superleaps. Quasarmodo’s strength, a little less.

Thus, in my qualified opinion as A Noted If Not Eminent Rooftopping Pundit, these two doofi have no chance whatsoever of making this run.

<END OF EXCERPT>

Wellp, if this actually worked, webcomic readers, I’ll try again shortly with another excerpt from I Am Empowered, continuing this very long and, eventually, action-packed chapter about superheroic rooftop shenanigans.

Today’s Patreon update: Originally done as a means of scratching out more worktime to complete the long-gestating Empowered vol. 12, I've switched over to a Monday/ Wednesday/ Friday Patreon posting schedule that won't feature the fixed content format I previously used. However, my vast archive of years of Patreon posts—extensive Empowered previews, vintage con sketches, work stages on covers, "damsel in distress" commissions, life drawings & much, much more—remains available for Patrons' perusal.

-Adam Warren