The Unlucky Me

Some heroes talk of the cities or planets they've saved, the princesses they rescued, the monsters they've slain, and the times they danced with death and pulled off feats of impossible agility and strength to triumph over the forces of gamemastery evil.

Then there's my characters.  They ... um ... don't often live up to "hero" expectations.

I've had gun-toting muscle giants suddenly -- accidentally -- set on fire.  I've had superheroes fall out of bathroom windows.  I had a vampire in the "World of Darkness" series fumble so epically I make the cast of Twilight look like the next Expendables team.  You see, my vampire's name was Cosmo, a former British boy-band member turned drug addict before being turned into a vampire.  In a word, pathetic -- but fitting with my overall opinion on vampires.  Anyway, you'd think being transformed into a superhuman predator of the night would improve his chances of survival -- but you'd be mistaken.  The others were investigating an apartment building by flying or whatever to the roof of the building in order to sneak in.  I was ordered to wait with the car.  As predicted, I disobeyed and walked in through the front door.  My goal was to simply sneak up through the front entrance.  The apartment had one of those managers dressed in a red uniform who greets residents and guests.  I attempt to charm him a bit, but that fails miserably.  So I attempt to beat him over the head with the telephone on the desk, not realizing it was cheap plastic.  I also didn't realize the apartment manager was actually Chuck Norris at his night-job.  The phone breaks over his head.  I freak, he starts yelling, I start screaming and hissing, ...he produces a shot gun from under the counter!  I start screaming like a little girl, and he shoots me.  BLAM!  I go soaring out through the front door in an explosion of glass and blood and teeth.  I'm running with a limp to try and get away, screaming "I'm a vampire, damnit!  I'm a creature of the night and-- NO!  Get away from me!  Somebody save me!!!"  He shoots me again in the leg, stalks towards me like it's just another day of taking out the trash, and starts beating me in the face with the butt of his gun until I'm nice and still.  It's at that point he turns around to go back and call the coroner.

Later, my friends scoop me up with a shovel, toss me into the back of the "get-away car", and take me home to heal.  Because, well, I AM an immortal creature of darkness and... aw, phooey.

More recently for a superhero campaign I made a scientist who was akin to The Rocketeer.  Cool jacket.  Super-cool jet pack.  Somewhat dorky but necessary helmet.  Great in theory -- unless you're flying at nearly 200 mph like, well, a rocket, and then some random thug shoots you and knocks you unconscious.  You plummet back to the earth like a meteor.  That's bad enough, but after digging a nice-size crater with my limp and broken body, my super-cool jet pack malfunctions and fires up!  My helmet has a fin on it like the Rocketeer, which now doubles as a very effective jet-propelled farm plow.  I dig a mile-long trench with my head along the compact dirt near the edge of a forest before exploding like a cheap Star Wars prop against a tree.  This act does not impress the bad guys and it's up to the rest of my superhero team to finish saving the world.  Mostly because they have cool powers that don't suck...

Nice helmet, douchebag.

Later, my friends scoop me up with a shovel, toss me into the back of the "super-hero car", and take me home to heal.  Because, well, I AM a comic book super hero and... eh, whatever.