Once upon a time, there was a fat girl who wanted to save the world, and-- No, that's not quite it.

Once upon a time, there were no superheroes, and then there were, and then--

No.

New York, that's where to begin. The day I came to New York. The day I got famous. The day I quote-unquote "earned" my name, as you put it.

Despite what you might think, it was a good day. A great day. There are like a thousand people walking around, drinking five-dollar coffees, texting pictures of their dinners to each other, complaining about the traffic and the weather and how their kids don't listen to them, all because of me. Without me they would be dead, or worse, and that fucking idiot Joachim Krieg, who I will not dignify by using the name he gave himself--I mean, "The Nextromancre"? What the fuck, dude--that fucking idiot would still be free.

So fuck the rest of it.

I got off the bus at the Port Authority, as one does. I was wearing pink. It was a dress I actually really liked, which I am still kind of pissed about. It had ruffles. Brains do not come out of taffeta. I had done my hair in the same color. I looked fucking awesome.

I didn't have any luggage but my handbag. Or any money for a cab. You know. So I walked. Times Square. Uptown. A beautiful fall morning. I could not get this big country grin off of my face. Could not stop looking up at the buildings. New York! Finally! No more flying around stopping kids from tipping cows for this girl.

(You may be wondering, Beth, if you can fly, why did you take the fucking bus? Let me ask you in return: do you run everywhere you go? No? But you have legs, right?)

(Shit, no offense meant if you don't have legs. I'm just trying to make a point. Sorry!)

Anyway. New York. Gotham, and I was going to be fucking Batman. Not--not fucking Batman, like fucking him. There is no Batman. Batman is a comic book. I was going to fucking be Batman. I did not expect to fucking be Batman before lunch, though.

Central Park was where it happened. I always wanted to have a picnic in Central Park. Run barefoot in the grass. Well, I got to do one of those, that day. It was colder than I expected. Probably more of a summer thing.

I was walking across that stone bridge at the pond, you know the one, looking up at the leaves, which were fucking amazing, and not looking where I was going, and I bumped into this kid. Little kid, like nine years old. Knocked him down. I felt like shit, like a big fat clumsy piece of not-looking-where-I-was-going shit.

Then he got up and bit me and I saw that most of his head was missing.

I have never been so grateful for this impenetrable skin. Not even that time I didn't get this farmer's shotgun away in time and he shot me in the boob. Birdshot is one thing. Zombie bites? Something else.

It was too late for the kid. I put him out of his misery, then popped up in the air to have a look around. Where there is one there are always more, right? And some shit-head who thinks he is the Master of Death or something. They all do. I tell you, there is nothing more fucking predictable than zombies.

So from up there I can see that shit is going down all over. There are packs of people roaming around in that kind of fucked-up zombie shamble way. But there are lots of civilians around, too. Moms with strollers. Dudes jacking each other in the bushes. Innocent people. So I'm like, fuck, I guess the picnic is off, and I get moving, trying to A, whack as many zombies as I can before they get it on with the living, and B, find the guy (it's always a guy) dressed all in black (ditto) waving his arms around and chanting some kind of made-up creole bullshit.

And it turns out there is a big concert going on. Symphony. All of these people are sitting on blankets and getting Brahmed. Like a thousand people. And the dude in black is up on the stage. Waving his arms. He's the fucking conductor, right? Perfect disguise. Only, I can see the death magic streaming out of him with every wiggle of his wand. Can't fool these eyes.

People in the crowd--old people, sick people--are starting to drop, and what's worse, get back up again.

There's no time to be subtle about it. I fly up and sock him in the back of the head. He goes down. I snap the wand. People start to wake up.

When people wake up and find themselves about to be chewed on by grandpa, they scream one fucking hell of a lot. Super hearing? Does not make that shit easier to listen to.

With that incentive in mind, I flew all around popping heads off as quick as I could. It was hard work and, yes, I was sweating--like a pig, ha ha--by the time I was done. Lost my shoes, too, somehow. Thus the walk in the grass.

The police came, and the EMTs, and they were as always awesome to me and everyone. Then I was catching my breath by the pond. This one cop was asking another one what happened, and cop two was explaining about the zombies and how I saved the day (because I am fucking Batman, right?) and she points at me and cop one goes, "Holy shit, it's the Pink Elephant!"

And, you know, it stuck. People use it. Like, people that I fucking save their lives call me that.

And you know what? Fuck them. And fuck you for asking. That good enough? Put that on the air, motherfucker.