They had lied to him. He wasn’t insured. He wasn’t even FedEx’ed. Remmie found himself with two days to kill in the parcel bin of some Snail Mail semi-trailer.

What had Mel said about his journey being “a bunch of Joseph Campbell bullshit” and what made that so valid anyway? Where was he going and who would be playing with him? If he was no longer a Super Hero, was he going to become a Bad Guy?

Heroes and Villains: they both wore masks, didn’t they? If he had no mask, what did that make him? An ordinary guy? Who would want to play with an ordinary guy?

His dreams, at first merely troubled, gave way to hideous nightmares.

He knew one thing: he needed a drink. He clutched the bottle of Dos Equis that Cubby had given him. Too bad Cubby hadn’t given him a bottle opener, too. So this was what Hell was like—trapped in a dirty parcel bin with a Dos Equis and no bottle opener. He thought of all the drinks he knew that had twist-off caps or pull tabs. MD 20/20. Schmidt Ice. Milwaukee’s Beast. Jack Daniels. Popov Vodka. Vick’s Nyquil.

Then he remembered his disfigured face and his lack of identity. Not even a knockoff Barbie would give him a second glance.

Remmie knew what kind of therapy he really needed, and it didn’t come in books or bottles.