Mister Suppernatural
John A. Ward
Cooder wondered why he only had his power for breakfast and lunch, but not the evening meal.  It never occurred to anyone that there might have been a typo in the order issued by the Intergalactic Federation of Superheroes.   
 
Those were the rules and he always obeyed the rules, ever since Captain Moody told him, “If the Marine Corps didn’t need that report, they wouldn’t ask for it.”  It was irrelevant that he was no longer a rifleman.  He was 72 years old and applying for a job as a cook.
 
“I’ll need two eggs,” he said.
 
The manager opened the refrigerator and took two from the 12 dozen industrial sized Styrofoam carton and handed them to Cooder.  “What else?” asked the manager.
 
“Nothing,” said Cooder.  “A good cook can do anything with an egg.  I’m going to make a chicken omelet.”
 
The manager opened the freezer. “One chicken patty, coming up.”
 
“Don’t need it,” said Cooder.  Ever since he stepped on a land mine in the war, he could transform time.  He could go forward or back until he was in a safe place.  In a matter of seconds he went back to before the land mine was planted, then moved on and back to the present.  He became a human mine sweeper, went out in the morning, marked all the mines for ordinance disposal, and was done before dark.
 
Cooder took the first egg and set it aside, cradled the second egg in the palm of his hand, and closed his eyes.
 
“What are you doing?” asked the manager.
 
“Making a chicken,” said Cooder.
 
“Those are not fertile eggs,” said the manager.
 
“It doesn’t matter,” said Cooder. “I can do it by parthenogenesis.”
 
“Right,” said the manager.  He checked the exits.  He knew now that Cooder was crazy.  He hoped he wasn’t violent.
 
Cooder took the egg back to the chicken’s ovary and made the original cell divide spontaneously, then brought it forward again.   The next thing the manager saw was Cooder swinging a live chicken over his head to break the neck. 
 
“How did you do that?” asked the manager.
 
“Do what?” asked Cooder, because by then he was holding a handful of cooked chicken fingers in one hand and breaking the remaining egg into the skillet with the other. 
 
When it was done, the manager took a forkful right from the pan and tasted it.  “Delicious.  Can you work the night shift?”
 
“I can work the night shift,” said Cooder, “but I can’t transform time on the night shift.”
 
“Why not?”
 
“I don’t know.  Maybe it’s because the sun is hidden at night and the sun is how we tell time.”

First published: November, 2013
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