When we last saw our hero, she bravely faced made a cartoon-silhouette-exit through the wall of the cabin fearing an impending bat attack, as lover boy swooped in with a tennis racket to save her from a lifetime of wearing garlic necklaces.
When the chaotic scene drew to a close, Stick Chick cleared the dinner dishes, scraping the fragmented remains into one of two metal trash cans outside, tied the lids on with the ropes, and knotted them tighter than a skeeter’s ass in a nose dive.
Later that night, when the moon was nearly setting, and only the nocturnal animals moved about, Stick Chick snoozed comfortably in the second floor alcove she had claimed as her sleeping quarters. Startled awake by a clattering of epic proportion outside, just beneath her window, she was certain that bears had located her whereabouts, and broken into the cabin. She pulled the sheets and blankets over her head, sure she could remain silent and unbreathing shaking uncontrollably.
When she summoned the courage to peer out into the night, she discovered the noise was a couple of neighborhood scavengers looking for a late dinner. The ropes used to tie the lids were no match for these bandits.
Stick Chick was relieved that they were not bears, though the beasts had not done much to disguise themselves. Like a tattoo or birthmark, their masks served to definitively prove their identity. So “why,” she wondered, “do superheroes take their cues from raccoons?”
Batman and Spiderman had half and full face masks respectively, but she had to wonder. Didn’t Lois Lane even once look at Superman and say, “Really, Clark, that’s the best you could come up with for a disguise?”
Didn’t Batman or even the butler Alfred ever take a look at Robin and ask, “Was the Spy Shop all out of full face disguises again?”