Oh no, they're feeding him alright, but it doesn't mean that it's anything close to gourmet.
Or even the slop that most fast food chains try to pawn off as being "food".
But its food, and Superwoman has ensured that there is nutritional value to it. After all, they can't have their star superhero fighting crime if he's not in top form, can they?
She freezes outside his cell and considers turning around. Superwoman hates threats of any kind, and she knows full well that he'll actually go through with the singing if he doesn't get fed.
She grimaces. She has not choice. He must be fed.
She tosses Gladiator a shirt as she enters. "Stop whining and put that on. Dinner's served."
Superwoman glares at him, her eyes glowing faintly red. "Honestly, you act more and more like a dog every day," she says. "I can practically see you drooling at the mouth, as though you were one of Pavlov's dogs."
"Food. Now. Bark bark whine," he says. "'Sides, isn't that what you all want me to be? Whose more disgusting--the person that acts like the dog or the people that treat someone else like a dog and want them to act that way?"
In the White House situation room, where only two men are present, multiple displays are showing different angles of the day's events, the day's fight. On one monitor, however, the conversation between Superwoman and Gladiator is being played out clearly thanks to high-tech surveillance. One man is sitting, making notes, the other, the tall broad-shouldered bald man with the flag pin, is watching the various monitors keenly.
"Send him a burger," the president instructs quietly. "A good one. Then make damned sure he appreciates it. We have work to do."
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Or even the slop that most fast food chains try to pawn off as being "food".
But its food, and Superwoman has ensured that there is nutritional value to it. After all, they can't have their star superhero fighting crime if he's not in top form, can they?
She freezes outside his cell and considers turning around. Superwoman hates threats of any kind, and she knows full well that he'll actually go through with the singing if he doesn't get fed.
She grimaces. She has not choice. He must be fed.
She tosses Gladiator a shirt as she enters. "Stop whining and put that on. Dinner's served."
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"Send him a burger," the president instructs quietly. "A good one. Then make damned sure he appreciates it. We have work to do."
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