[ WP ] You wakeup to discover you 've developed an underwhelming but oddly applicable superpower .

The room was nothing like I imagined. With shadows scurrying around in the twilight emitting from the huge screens. A military decorated man among them gives me a look and then as expected... `` Do n't tell me Dr. Croat that this is the man who's going to save my men. I can smell the liquor from here''. *Fine by me*. `` If you allow me to explain General. He's the Signpost-man''. Half the room bursts into laughter. I've *a name*, you know, but what the heck, if it gets me paid, you can call me Barbie. I used to love my so called `` superpower'' once, do n't laugh yet until you hear it all. 
 
 One day, a long time ago. I was dating this super hot girl, lost among the hot girl seas. I drove her home one night, just when I exit the car, she looks at me with disgust and looks around, then walks home. I was stuck and stood there for a while, a car drove past me honking. How *humiliating* it was. I later found out I turned into a signpost saying `` gon na get laid tonight''. Apparently my ego lied. 
 
 Anyway, short story, I became *the king* of parties. I could turn into anything I wanted. That did get me popular with the ladies. It did n't take me long before figuring out I could turn the power into profit. At first small P.I. stuff, nobody suspects a signpost in the bed room. Then `` The Mona Lisa'', `` Luke, I'm your father'', `` Jesus saves'' double the size of the statue in Rio if you're paying, I can become your papa. They even flew me over Saigon, I've no idea what I said. I was rubbing shoulder to shoulder with Sinatra, The King ( take your pick ), the rich and famous. 
 
 Then technology screwed it all for me with their projectors and digital diarrhea. The very screens in this room, I ca n't imitate the fancy lights. I do n't know what I've been doing the last ten years or so, but it has n't been exactly the penthouse views I was staring at. 
 
 `` He can save your men and women on Mars'', *Dr Goat* says. `` Yeah, Signpost-man saves'', I reply. They seem like stuck-up people, except for the giggling pretty attaché, oh yeah, I saw that. The good Dr continues, `` You see, Signpost-man here, can in his transformed state sustain himself through the rescue operation, with no need for sustenance or risking hypoxia. He's the perfect candidate for this expedition''. 
 
 They threw me into a rocket and launched me into space. What they forgot to tell me was that the rocket could malfunction. I hope somebody said, is that a rocket, an alien, no it's the fucking Signpost-man. I've been floating in space for ages now, I'm pretty sure I caught a glimpse of the Voyager once, screw you Carl Sagan. At least it gave me the idea of learning how to emit music, singing *My Way*, in case something is listening. I flipped off, planet sized, to that goat and the rest of the world ever since. Guess what my best masterpiece is all about, I'll give you a hint, a goat. *Sigh*, but I think it's time to change back the sign into S.O.S. 
 
 If I'm not responding to contact from whoever is reading this, then grant an old man his last wish. Set me on fire and blow me. 
 

