“Mayo Nip.” No, too blatant. I sighed softly, staring at the door of the bank across the street while rubbing my nipples tenderly. I’d been sitting in my hotel for three months now, patiently waiting for something to happen. I hadn’t been a super hero for too long yet, but I knew I was ready. I knew I had what it took to stop crime and bring peace to New York. All I needed was a bit of crime, specifically a bank robbery.

I didn’t want to start small. I wanted to make a name for myself right off the bat. Sure I could walk around at night, stalking the vulnerable and saving them from the shadows. That was little league stuff, though. Guys in tights with no powers other than minor training could do that. I wanted Mayo to become synonymous with bravery, with valor; I wanted to be something more than a “vigilante.” Running head-first into a bank robbery, subduing the criminals, and saving everyone—now that was the way to do it.

“The Mayonator.” Maybe. I scribbled down the name onto the pad of paper beside me, then resumed rubbing my nipples.

I had chosen the bank on the corner of 300 West 125th street following a chain of robberies in the area. It was the only bank not yet hit. I figured it could only be a matter of time. Plus, it had a relatively nice hotel right across the street with several rooms that peered straight into the bank. I got ahold of one with a great view of the tellers, got comfortable, and began watching. The only time I left my perch was to use the bathroom—never to shower, I didn’t have time for that—and to order in more Chinese food. Usually they were simultaneous. Sometimes I’d eat the Chinese from within the bathroom. Whatever the case, there was always Chinese food.

My powers were relatively new, both in terms of time and originality. As far as I was aware, no one else had anything quite like my gift, although my experience with them was rather limited. I’d received them just a little over six months ago, back when I worked a civilian job. I had been a security guard, working 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. by the docks in Chelsea. I spent most of my time eating mayonnaise sandwiches and scooting around the perimeter on my security-chair.

I wasn’t the best security guard, I can admit that. I spent most of my shifts napping or watching anime, the remainder of which on very quick patrols around the immediate area. I never went onto the actual docks, only to the catwalk just outside the security office and directly above the docks. My genetics made it a bit difficult to walk up or down slight inclines without becoming short of breath, which I did not want to exacerbate by working too hard. I weighed a solid 373lbs at 5’9’’, the direct result of an undiagnosed thyroid condition. My doctors had claimed it had more to do with how I ate—enjoying one or fifty mayonnaise sandwiches a day—but they were just fat shaming shitlords. Even still, I was a bit surprised when I received the offer to work the docks.

The night of the accident began as a typical evening. I had been sliding around the above-dock catwalk in my security-chair, a rolling chair I had adapted for surveillance so as to avoid having to walk around. Several young children were spray painting a boat nearby, but I decided to let them continue. Not only was it almost a hundred yards away, but they were just young teenagers. I did not want to ruin a good time.

It was a quiet, clear night, the wind and moon both absent, but the stars seemingly limitless. A freighter had come in just an hour before and docked right below my perch, several large vats of white liquid on its deck. Men in yellow hazmat suits were carefully opening them and placing hoses—attached to trucks—within. I had a feeling it might have been illegal, but I was in the middle of my hourly snack time. I watched from my chair, slowly swiveling back and forth while eating a mayonnaise sandwich. It was hot, I took off my shirt as I watched, wiping the sweat off my face with my sandwich hand.

I didn’t realize that the previous night’s storm had loosened the railings and left the catwalk with a slight slant to it. If I had, I would’ve locked the wheels in place. I took another bite of my mayonnaise sandwich, my chair slowly inching toward the loose railing without my knowledge. If I had noticed the slow rolling, I surely had brushed it off as the return of the wind. I lifted the sandwich to my mouth once more, just as the catwalk abruptly tilted forward. The sandwich fell from my hand, mayonnaise splattering onto my nipples. I could have dove off, I could have saved myself, but I needed my security-chair—it was the only way to keep me from having to walk. I tumbled over the railing and into the vat below, sandwich still in hand.

I woke up in a hospital some time later, my bed sheets soaked in what I later learned was mayonnaise. Man-made mayonnaise.

Something was different in the bank. I wobbled forward and back until I could lift myself up from the edge of the hotel bed and stepped closer to the window. A man was at the counter, his arm tucked into his jacket’s inside pocket. The teller looked scared. I felt my heartbeat quicken as I crushed my face against the glass, watching intently, waiting to be sure it was finally my time to strike. The man turned and mouthed something inaudible to a customer behind him, who responded by laying down and out of my view. I was sure.

I always did my surveillance in my superhero outfit. I knew I wouldn’t have time to change when the moment arrived, even though it couldn’t have been easier to put on. I’d bought the suit at a dance and fitness store, simple white tights that I’d customized by adding pink circle onto its knees and donning a black fedora. That was to be my branding, once I became a famous hero. The tights were a bit more form-fitting than I would have liked, my fat folds pouring out the waistline and frantically reaching for the ground, but that didn’t matter. The suit was unrestrictive and freeing, and I knew my abilities could still work while wearing it. Plus, it made my package look pretty good.

I ran out of my hotel room and through the hall, stumbling down the stairs toward the lobby. I had no time to wait for the elevator, even though I’d long since sworn off taking stairs. The lobby was empty, save for one woman behind the front desk, allowing me to waddle in a half-sprint, half-tumble out the door. I stopped at the street, checking both directions for traffic before continuing in what had deteriorated into a half-jog, half-gaging stride to the front of the bank. I stopped, doubling over and wheezing heavily in an attempt to slow my heart rate before vomiting violently onto a bush by the door. I knew I should have considered doing a bit of cardio in preparation, but it was too late now. I stood back up and peered into the bank, breath forming a fine mist on the window.

It was clearly a robbery. All of the customers were lying face down, arms crossed behind their heads, the man I had seen upstairs now pacing nervously back and forth between them. He seemed to be shouting to the teller, who was frantically fidgeting with whatever was on her desk. It was my time to shine. I took a deep breath, lungs still burning from the sort-of-run, and silently pulled open the door.

The tiled ground was cold against my feet. I glanced down, abruptly realizing that I’d forgotten to put on shoes in my haste. I turned back toward the hotel, briefly considering jogging back to my room and grabbing my Velcro New Balance sneakers, but that would have involved more running. My chest was already burning, as if I had been sucking in mustard gas all afternoon. I would have to do this barefoot like Bruce Willis.

The bank itself was frigid, the air conditioner clearly set in a way to keep homeless people out. I had once learned that homeless people hated air conditioning and loved pretzels. I glanced at the coffee table: no pretzels to be found, only lollipops and coffee pots. My theory had been confirmed, but I knew I had little time to dwell on my victory. A robbery was still underway, I needed to refocus my attention.

The criminal was no more than twenty feet away, his back to me as he waved and murmured incomprehensibly to the teller. I could have ran over and tackled him then, crushed him and brought the wrath of my powers upon him, but I wanted everyone to know who I was. I wanted the security cameras to see me in the act. I softly squished my left nipple, then my right nipple, a feeling of fullness shivering down my body. I knew what I had to do.

“Stop,” I shouted, both hands now slightly pinched down upon my nipples as if I were aiming them. I had been planning on saying something a bit more intimidating and was rather underwhelmed by what I ended up going with.

“The fuck are you?” said the man, turning toward me. His hand was still in his jacket. I couldn’t be sure he had a weapon in there, but, if he did, it was aimed right at me.

“I’m Mayoman, and I’m about to make your day a bit more tangy,” I said, tipping my fedora. I’d been working on a superhero name for a while. Mayoman had been my top choice thus far, but I still wasn’t positive. The catch phrase, though, that was perfect.

“Is this a fucking joke?” the man shifted his jacket slightly, as if tightening his grip on a pistol that may or may not be there. He seemed to glance down at my nipples. “Get the fuck on the ground with the rest of these idiots, you disgusting piece of shit.”

“I will be doing no such thing.” If he really did have a weapon, he would’ve shown it by now. Plus, I had a feeling that one of my powers from the accident was super-human guessing abilities. I took a step forward. “You’re under citizen’s arrest.”

“Fuck you,” said the man. He pulled his hand out of his jacket, a small black pistol now clearly visible. I took a step backwards as he lifted it toward my head, removing my hands from my nipples and lifting them into the air. I could now fully confirm that my guessing abilities had not been affected by the accident, which explained why I had lost the lottery so many times. “Get the fuck on the ground.”

I’d planned this whole scenario out in my head for so long. If the culprit did have a weapon, I would simply charge him and tackle it out of his hand, using my powers to subdue him. However, upon further thought, I decided that plan of action needed to be improved slightly. I decided to lower myself down onto the floor, but only because I wanted to. The ground was cold against my naked chest.

“Good,” he said, pistol still pointed at me. He turned his head toward the teller, who was no longer fidgeting but instead watching our dialogue. “Where’s my fucking money you whore? Do you want to die?” He lifted the weapon and pointed it at her. She did not look like she wanted to die, but I never was a very good judge of character.

I slowly lifted my left hand to my right nipple and squeezed down on it. It felt full, like a new mother of octuplets. The criminal was still facing the teller, the gun no longer pointed at me but in a random direction a few feet away. I slowly rocked myself onto my feet like a turtle on its back, careful not to make too much noise. I wished that I’d had my security-chair, but knew the rolling wheels might give away my movement. I’d have to use my feet again.

I finally got myself off the ground, using a table beside me to balance myself. The criminal was now reaching over the counter and pulling stacks of cash back toward him. I quickly pinched my nipples again. They were firm, like a water balloon filled almost to the point of breaking. It was time.

I rushed toward the man, my bare feet crashing against the ground like a slightly overweight rhinoceros mid-charge. He immediately swung his pistol in my direction, confirming my suspicion that I may have been a significantly slower runner than I had thought. He would have ample time to aim the gun at me and fire. He took a step back instead, bringing his hand toward his face as if to protect it. Our bodies collided, the pistol flipping out of his hand and skipping across the floor with a plastic slap. We both tumbled onto the ground, my body landing heavily on top of his.

“Get the fuck off of me!” he shouted, arms flailing for escape. I grabbed both of his wrists and pinned him to the floor, bringing my naked chest up toward his face.

“You’re under citizen’s arrest,” I said, getting my body into position. “Let it be known that you were stopped by the Mayor.” That was another name I had been considering, the Mayor. I didn’t like it as much, I didn’t think people would understand that I meant mayo-er. “Wait, no, the Mayo Nippler.” Even worse. “Nipponnaise.” That one sounded racist. “Captain Mayo Nips.” That one was pretty good, I’d have to remember to write it down later.

“Get the fuck off!” I closed my eyes, a rush of warmth spreading over my body and exploding out of my nipples. “What the fuck!” he said, gagging. I glanced down at him, his face coated in a fine layer of warm mayonnaise.

“Looks like you’ve found yourself in a tangy situation,” I said, another catchphrase I had been working on.

“What is this? What the fuck did you squirt on me? Is this mayo? It’s so fucking warm!”

I allowed myself to get a bit more comfortable as he struggled beneath me, a fine stream of mayonnaise erupting from my nipples and spilling out onto his face. It would be a while before the police arrived.