Tag citizen prime

By DAVE MASTERS

This Spandex-clad chap is one of a growing number of Clark Kent wannabes battling bad guys on America’s mean streets.
And the amateur crime fighting craze is taking off faster than a speeding bullet across the Pond.
There’s Mr Invisible, who patrols Los Angeles dressed in a homemade grey “invisibility” suit, and Dark Guardian, who dons a black cape to target New York nasties.
Red-caped superheroine Terrifica manhandles drunken girls away from heavy-handed dates in the nocturnal Big Apple.
Meanwhile, The Eye doesn’t blink in his quest to conquer crime in California and The Queen Of Hearts patrols Michigan.
An online World Superhero Registry has even been set up with almost 300 members – or “Reals” as they call themselves.
Volunteers must shun guns and knives to avoid being arrested as vigilantes. Some don body armour, while others just wear a smile.
It is up to each individual how they use their powers, from a citizen’s arrest to just helping old ladies across the road.
But like all good superheroes, the true identities of those taking part remain a closely-guarded secret.
To become a Real you must come up with a brand new superhero character for yourself and then design and make an outfit.
One businessman in Arizona who transforms himself into Citizen Prime spent £2,700 on his get up.
He says: “This is a more serious business than it looks.”
But taking to the streets can be dangerous. One Real called Black Owl was thrown into a psychiatric ward when cops got the wrong end of the stick.

Swelled

And Mr Invisible came under attack himself – from a young girl.
He revealed: “This tiny girl did not like me trying to calm down her screaming boyfriend. She blindsided me, I’m still bruised. It’s dangerous out there.”
The Reals movement was born in reaction to the 9/11 attacks but recruitment has swelled recently with many pointing to Barack Obama’s calls for “active citizenry”.
Dark Guardian says: “Some may call me a hero, a superhero, a vigilante or a nut job.
“But I fight for all that’s right and just. I will drive myself into the ground to make this world a better place.”
The peaceful vigilantes are determined to make a difference and promise they won’t be going up, up and away any time soon.
http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/features/article2084827.ece

Reported by: Jenn Burgess
Email: [email protected]
It’s dusk in the Valley. A shadow moves among the downtown Phoenix buildings. Though this masked man doesn’t seem to want his real identity fully known, his mission is made clear: stop social injustice and bring peace to the streets.
How do I know this? It’s right there on his MySpace page.
The masked man, known as ‘Citizen Prime’, is part of a growing ring of citizen superheroes. You may see him around town since his region of concentration is listed as Arizona.
But he’s not the only one — another superhero, ‘Green Scorpion’, can also be found in Arizona and New Mexico.
This handful of gold-hearted, masked men and women have their own MySpace pages. Collectively, they even have their own websites: worldsuperheroregistry.com and citizenheroes.com.
They may look wacky, but according to an article in the Times Online, the superhero community was, in part, born in the embers of the 9/11 terrorist attacks when ordinary people wanted to do something short of enlisting.
To even be considered for the Registry, a real-life superhero must meet certain criteria, according to the website.
Three of the primary requirements are wearing a costume, doing heroic deeds, and operating solely by personal motivation, rather than financial gain.
According to Citizen Prime’s MySpace page, he’s married and a proud father. Last year, he was part of an operation to drop off toys to Banner Children’s Hospital.
A blurb on Prime’s MySpace page tells a little more about his mission: “I strive to be a inspirational symbol of hope. We need to stop social injustice – by approaching the heart of the matter – and finding the hero inside every man, woman and child and priming their true greatness. You can be as much hero as I am. Heroes are needed in this life and no cape is required to help change the world.”

John Harlow in Los Angeles
For Mr Invisible, the first and last blow to his burgeoning career as a superhero was an unexpected punch that flattened his nose.
“After months of designing my costume, getting my street moves just right, it was my first week out as a Real Life Superhero – and probably my last. This tiny, tiny girl did not like me trying to calm down her screaming boyfriend. She blindsided me, I’m still bruised. It’s dangerous out there,” said the deflated would-be crime fighter last week.
Mr Invisible is cheered that at least his grey one-piece “invisibility suit” works, proven when a drunk urinated on him in an alley. But he is weary of lurking in dark, down-town Los Angeles after dark.
The 29-year-old graduate is “refocusing” on his day job as an insurance salesman. His farewell appearance will be at a New Year’s Eve party.
Mr Invisible may be living up to his name but his spray-painted “supershoes” will quickly be filled by another Real Life Superhero eager to save America from itself. There are, according to the recently launched World Superhero Registry, more than 200 men and a few women who are willing to dress up as comic book heroes and patrol the urban streets in search of, if not super-villains, then pickpockets and bullies.
They may look wacky, but the superhero community was born in the embers of the 9/11 terrorist attacks when ordinary people wanted to do something short of enlisting. They were boosted by a glut of Hollywood superhero movies.
In recent weeks, prompted by heady buzz words such as “active citizenry” during the Barack Obama campaign, the pace of enrolment has speeded up. Up to 20 new “Reals”, as they call themselves, have materialised in the past month.
The Real rules are simple. They must stand for unambiguous and unsponsored good. They must create their own Spandex and rubber costumes without infringing Marvel or DC Comics copyrights, but match them with exotic names – Green Scorpion in Arizona, Terrifica in New York, Mr Xtreme in San Diego and Mr Silent in Indianapolis.
They must shun guns or knives to avoid being arrested as vigilantes, even if their nemeses may be armed. Their best weapon is not muscle but the internet – an essential tool in their war on crime is a homepage stating the message of doom for super-villains.
This is more than bravado, say veterans. It may help as evidence after a Real has been arrested or even committed to a mental health hospital for evaluation. That happened to Mr Invisible’s equally short-lived predecessor, Black Owl, who last summer had to be sprung from a psychiatric ward by his teenage daughter who told doctors: “Dad forgot for a moment, when faced with police, just for a moment, that he did not have real superpowers. He could not just fly away.”
“This is a more serious business than it looks,” said Citizen Prime, whose $4,000 (£2,700) costume disguises an Arizona businessman and father of a toddler who thinks his cape, mask and stun-gun are cool.
Prime patrols some of the most dangerous streets in Phoenix but, like most Reals, is reluctant to speak about the villains he has dispatched with a blow from his martial arts-honed forearm. He does admit helping a motorist change a flat tyre.
“Kids love the costume, so I seek to keep them out of the gangs today rather than take them on tomorrow,” said Prime who, at 41, regards himself as on the mature wing of the Real community.
He is worried about lunatics and hotheads. He says he would never act like the Black Monday Society in Salt Lake City who interrupt drug deals in public parks and face off against armed thugs.
Utah police officers say they appreciate Ghost, a 33-year-old concrete worker, and his colourfully costumed cohorts Insignis, Oni, Ha! and Silver Dragon. But other police departments recall that America’s most feared gangs, the Crips and the Bloods, were also born as idealistic “community defenders”.
It can be dangerous. Master Legend of Florida, who arms himself with a pepper-spraying cannon powered by cans of antiperspirant, was attacked by a man with a hammer.
There is a high burn-out rate. Terrifica, a 5ft 9in redcaped superheroine, who would manhandle drunken girls away from heavy-handed dates in nocturnal New York, spoke about how she despised her “weak, needy and dumped” alter-ego Sarah.
Artemis of San Diego reported on his blog that he had heard a woman screaming outside his home but by the time he had dressed up in his costume the police were already there. Kevlex, 47, who runs the Superhero Registry, says he patrols more in winter than summer in Arizona, when his Kevlar and Spandex kit itches. But the deadliest kryptonite against a superhero is boredom.
“I was out every night, 8pm until 2am, hanging about all the bad corners and nothing happened, nada, zip,” recalled Mr Invisible. “It was raining: even the drug dealers were at home. And often cops are just too good at their jobs.”
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/us_and_americas/article5404186.ece

JOSHUA BEARMAN
Everyone has the opportunity to awaken and become who they always wanted to be.
—Green Scorpion
Master Legend races out the door of his secret hide-out, fires up the Battle Truck and summons his trusty sidekick. “Come on, Ace!” he yells. “Time to head into the shadows!”
The Ace appears wearing his flame-accented mask and leather vest; Master Legend is costumed in his signature silver and black regalia. “This is puncture-resistant rubber,” Master Legend says proudly, pointing at his homemade breastplate. His arms are covered with soccer shinguards that have been painted silver to match his mask. “It won’t stop a bullet,” he says, “but it will deflect knives.”
“Not that any villain’s knives have ever gotten that close!” the Ace chimes in.
When Master Legend bursts into a sprint, as he often does, his long, unruly hair flows behind him. His mane is also in motion when he’s behind the wheel of the Battle Truck, a 1986 Nissan pickup with a missing rear window and “ML” spray-painted on the hood. He and the Ace head off to patrol their neighborhood on the outskirts of Orlando, scanning the street for evildoers. “I don’t go looking for trouble,” Master Legend shouts above the engine. “But if you want some, you’ll get it!”
Then he hands me his business card, which says:
Master Legend
Real Life Super Hero
“At Your Service”
Like other real life super-heroes, Master Legend is not an orphan from a distant dying sun or the mutated product of a gamma-ray experiment gone awry. He is not an eccentric billionaire moonlighting as a crime fighter. He is, as he puts it, “just a man hellbent on battling evil.” Although Master Legend was one of the first to call himself a Real Life Superhero, in recent years a growing network of similarly homespun caped crusaders has emerged across the country. Some were inspired by 9/11. If malevolent individuals can threaten the world, the argument goes, why can’t other individuals step up to save it? “What is Osama bin Laden if not a supervillain, off in his cave, scheming to destroy us?” asks Green Scorpion, a masked avenger in Arizona. True to comic-book tradition, each superhero has his own aesthetic. Green Scorpion’s name is derived from his desert home, from which he recently issued a proclamation to “the criminals of Arizona and beyond,” warning that to continue illegal activities is to risk the “Sting of the Green Scorpion!” The Eye takes his cue from the primordial era of Detective Comics, prowling Mountain View, California, in a trench coat, goggles and a black fedora featuring a self-designed logo: the “all-seeing” Eye of Horus. Superhero — his full name — is a former wrestler from Clearwater, Florida, who wears red and blue spandex and a burgundy helicopter helmet, and drives a 1975 Corvette Stingray customized with license plates that read SUPRHRO.
Most Real Life Superheroes are listed on the World Superhero Registry, a recently assembled online roster. (“I can’t say if I will ever fight an army of giant robots or a criminal mastermind,” an Indianapolis superhero called Mr. Silent notes in his entry. “I just don’t know.”) Some superheroes have joined forces in local crime-fighting syndicates: the Black Monday Society in Salt Lake City, the Artemis National Consortium in San Diego and the tautologically titled Justice Society of Justice in Indianapolis. Attempting to unite all the superheroes under one banner are groups like the World Heroes Organization and Heroes Network, which hosts an online forum where more than 200 crime fighters trade tactics (should I wear a mask?), patrolling tips (how do I identify a street gang?) and advice/feedback (can you get bulletproof vests on eBay?).
The Justice Force is Master Legend’s own crime-fighting syndicate, a rotating cast of ad hoc superheroes that seems to include everyone he knows. There’s the Disabler, Genius Jim, the Black Panther and a duo named Fire and Brimstone. At his right hand is the Ace, so named because he always needs “an ace up my sleeve!” The Ace lives with Master Legend at the team’s secret hide-out, a dilapidated clapboard house in a seedy neighborhood outside Orlando. In the back is Master Legend’s workshop, a converted garage where he develops various weapons, like the Master Blaster: a six-foot-long silver cannon fueled by cans of Right Guard that can shoot “a variety of projectiles,” including stun pellets made from plastic Easter eggs filled with cayenne pepper and rock salt. As the superheroes see it, the fact that they can’t project energy bolts or summon force fields only adds to the purity of their commitment. Their heroism, in a sense, derives from their lack of powers. What they have instead is the power to craft themselves anew. “This whole movement is more than just fat guys in spandex,” insists Superhero, himself a brawny guy in head-to-toe spandex.
Once you take on a secret identity, there’s the problem of maintaining it. Many Real Life Superheroes shun press. Some are difficult to reach even by phone. Others allow interviews, but will meet only in costume and in public. The first time I meet Master Legend face-to-mask, for example, it is carefully choreographed by him to occur on the neutral turf of a restaurant in downtown Orlando. “I can’t show you my face,” he says as we meet in front of Gino’s Pizza and Brew, which he has designated as a safe zone. “And there are only a couple places that will let me in with my uniform and mask on. But here they know all about me!”
Why all the secrecy? Compromised methods, safety of loved ones — the “usual issues,” according to Master Legend, that are confronted by superheroes. Don’t forget, he warns, that the public can be ambivalent toward masked avengers. Consider lovable Spider-Man, constantly facing exposure by his own boss, the irascible J. Jonah Jameson. Real Life Superheroes were alarmed by the sad case of Captain Jackson, a “police-sanctioned” hero in Jackson, Michigan — until his DUI arrest and the resulting Jackson Citizen Patriot headline: “Crime Fighter Busted for Drunken Driving.” The article went on to unmask Jackson and his sidekicks, the Queen of Hearts and CrimeFighter Girl. Superheroes nationwide were aghast that a town would turn on its heroes like that, and the incident drove skittish superheroes deeper underground. “You can see why I have to be careful,” says Master Legend.
Behind the counter, the cashier giggles as Master Legend orders a beer. “Master Legend thanks you,” he says, reaching out a gauntleted hand for the beer. When we go upstairs to the small dining room, the young couple at a nearby table stop eating and eye us nervously. Master Legend gestures wildly as he shows me the scar from the time he was shot while saving an old lady being mugged. “They got me here,” he says. “But it was small-caliber. Not enough to take down a superhero!” This is how Master Legend recounts his life, always punctuated with exclamation points, as if every moment is a high-stakes ordeal that ends with some deserving offender getting an “all-night tour of Fist City!” or the business end of his “trusty ol’ Steel Toes!”
If there existed a Master Legend Issue 1, it would flash back 26 years to his origin story in New Orleans, where the teenage hero’s identity was forged in poverty and abuse. “My momma and daddy were not good people,” he says. “Through them, I saw how cruel the world can be.” At age 15, Master Legend began looking after his grandma, a caring Creole woman from the bayou who showed him “the goodness of things.” When Master Legend found some comics in a neighbor’s trash, they became his blueprint. As early as third grade, he used a T-shirt, a magic marker and some old shoelaces to fashion a rudimentary costume, which he donned while protecting classmates from the school bully. He also found a mentor named Master Ray, from whom he learned “kindness and kung fu.”
Master Legend was 16 when fate whispered in his ear. One day he was playing guitar in Jackson Square — “just jamming, you know, picking up some change” — when a purse snatcher appeared. Master Legend instinctively tore after him through the alleys of the French Quarter, where he retrieved the purse. Later that night, he was recognized by the criminal and fought him off again. “That’s when I knew I had to wear a mask,” he says. Being in New Orleans made it easier: “I would dress up in a costume and walk the streets, and no one would notice. I fit right in.” The next day, Master Legend’s grandma ran across a story on the news: “Masked Man Saves Woman.” “The Legend,” he says, “was born.”
At Gino’s, after a few more beers, Master Legend announces that he must attend to some business back at the secret hide-out. After paying, we cross the street. It is early evening. The sun has dipped below Florida’s afternoon cloud cover, and Master Legend’s silver uniform reflects the warm glow of the horizon. He turns and strikes an inadvertently dramatic pose. A passing taxi stops, and the driver cranes his neck to see the spectacle of Master Legend shining at sunset. Then the driver leans out of the window and yells, “Master Legend! How you doing? Say hello to the Ace!”
The next day, I persuade Master Legend to let me visit his secret hide-out. He gives me directions. Or rather, he gives me directions to a nearby liquor store, and in one last step of cloak-and-dagger maneuvering, he pilots me the final few blocks in the Battle Truck, its rear window destroyed during an attack by a hammer-wielding enemy.
When we arrive, the Ace walks out to greet us. Compared to the Fortress of Solitude with its alien zoo or the Batcave’s techno-enhanced crime lab, theirs is a modestly appointed superheadquarters. The pleasant tropical afternoon can’t quite conceal the state of the neighborhood, with its crumbling houses on the verge of being reclaimed by swampland. Inside the hide-out, a TV is propped up in the corner on cinder blocks. Master Legend’s mattress is on the floor. The wall is bare other than a Halloween decoration of a skull. Against one wall is a folding card table covered with a pile of papers and some ninja stars. I pick one up, inciting a gleeful demonstration. “Just a snap of the wrist!” Master Legend says, sending one flying straight into the far wall. “Catch this!” yells the Ace, joining in. “Takedown!” Master Legend says with a clap when I land one successfully. Eventually, Master Legend announces that “ninja time is over,” but not before he freestyles a final behind-the-back throw, nailing the skull on the wall right between the eyes.
Most Real Life Superheroes compensate for their lack of Adamantium skeletons or solar-fueled extraterrestrial strength by claiming extensive martial-arts abilities. Master Legend’s own personal fighting style is called “The Way of the Diamond Spirit,” which he says represents “an evolution of hand-to-hand combat.” As if to demonstrate, he sends a few jabs into the air. “One place you don’t want to be,” he says, tightening his gloved hand into a clenched fist, “is on the receiving end of the No Mercy Punch!”
The No Mercy Punch makes many appearances in the annals of Justice Force history. There was the time Master Legend and the Ace shut down a crack den; the drug kingpin they put out of business; the money Master Legend forcibly retrieved from a thief who stole from a handicapped Vietnam vet; and the recent mission when the Justice Force had to “put the stomp on a child molester and his gang of crackheads.” They had a plan, but things went awry when Master Legend’s brother was captured in the thick of battle by the child molester, whom they call Tree Man Roy. “That’s when we went into chaos mode,” Master Legend says. But they got his brother free and “cut that big ol’ Tree down.”
Master Legend has many more florid tales of adventure, some plausible, like retrieving a friend’s stolen money, others quite outlandish, like the child molester and his gang of crackheads. (For starters, doesn’t it seem like you would have to be one charismatic child molester to attract an entire gang of crackheads to do your bidding?) On the folding table in the hide-out, I notice a police report. It documents the incident with the hammer and the Battle Truck. Sure enough, it describes how two men were taken into custody for attacking the inhabitants of the house at this address. Master Legend provided a statement, below which the officer wrote, “The hammer was placed into evidence.”
Real Life Superheroes have a conflicted relationship with law enforcement. The hardcore types have a somewhat dated, Death Wish-era worldview, as if the cities are overrun by chain-saw-wielding clown gangs and the cops just can’t control the streets anymore. The more civic-minded superheroes imagine themselves as informal police adjuncts, a secret society of costumed McGruffs. One of Master Legend’s most prized possessions is a framed certificate of commendation from the Orange County Sheriff’s Department, for the time he and the Disabler snapped into action after Hurricane Charley, helping to clear the roads and rescue people from the wreckage. “We were on the news and everything,” Master Legend says. “The police recognized what we did.”
Since then, Master Legend claims that he has developed a police contact on the inside, his “very own Commissioner Gordon.” To prove it, he gives me a phone number. I immediately call and leave a message; I’ve tried to confirm tales from other superheroes, only to discover that the police have never heard of them.
“I have friends in high places,” Master Legend promises. “When they see the silver and black, they know who’s coming.”
As a means of establishing a superhero identity, it is difficult to overstate the importance of the costume. Real Life Superheroes devote much of their time to researching, procuring, making, comparing, fine-tuning and otherwise fetishizing their looks. The costume itself is the radioactive-spider bite, the source of their abilities. Without a costume, after all, you’re just another do-gooder schmuck. “Anyone can have this power,” Superhero says. “All you need to do is tie a towel around your neck and put a sock over your head and run out the door.”
Master Legend often apologizes for the state of his own uniform. It’s getting worn, the mask peeling in places, and feels unpresentable, like someone getting married in shorts. He tells me that he’s ordered new outfits from Hero Gear, a custom supplier in Minneapolis, but high demand is causing a delay. “If only they were here,” Master Legend says with regret. “You’d see a whole new upgrade for the Justice Force!”
Such upgrading can get expensive. Citizen Prime, a superhero based in Utah, spent $4,000 hiring an armorer to forge a sci-fi suit out of plate mail (with canary-yellow accents). Green Scorpion has a tailored mask from Professor Widget, an ultraclandestine supplier of custom equipment who mysteriously appeared online not too long ago. “No one knows who Professor Widget is, where he lives or how he operates,” says Green Scorpion, whose mask is supposedly formed from a ballistic alloy that Widget pioneered called Mongreltanium. (It is advertised as bulletproof, which is why Green Scorpion paid so much for it, although he would like to do his own “ballistics testing” before official deployment.)
Professor Widget also provides pricey tailored gear, like the steel cane with modular nonlethal attachments that Green Scorpion purchased with last year’s tax rebate. Slightly cheaper are catalogs, which Superhero has used to turn himself into a mail-order Batman; his utility belt bristles with pellet guns, bear mace, a tactical baton and the Arma 100, a nitrogen-powered, 37mm personal cannon.
“A lot of those guys have quite the arsenal,” Master Legend says in admiration as he gives me a tour of his own weapons lab, housed in a converted garage out back. This is where Master Legend tinkers with do-it-yourself creations, like the Master Blaster and the Iron Fist, a nasty-looking metal truncheon he made to fit over his hand and deliver “the good old throat slam.” These days, budgetary constraints limit him to more basic gear: a staff, a sword, a good old-fashioned chain and whatever else he can buy cheaply and modify.
I notice some thick sheaves of foam on the wall of the lab. “Soundproofing,” Master Legend says. “For keeping down the volume.”
“During practice,” says the Ace.
“What kind of practice?” I ask.
The Ace smiles and pantomimes air guitar.
The weapons lab doubles as the practice room for Master Legend’s band, which is also called the Justice Force. “The Ace plays the drums,” says Master Legend. “I play guitar and sing.” The drums are in storage at the moment, but the Ace assures me that the Justice Force has a tight set.
“This guy’s wicked on the strings,” he says, pointing at Master Legend. “There’s not a Steely Dan song that me and him can’t play.”
The Justice Force perform originals, too — more than 100 songs, all written by Master Legend. They recorded a single, with their friend, another associate known as the Pain. It’s called “Epic of the Sunrise.” “Want to hear it?” Master Legend asks.
Back at his computer, Master Legend plays the song and takes me through the verses — a Manichaean tale of near-apocalypse wherein Master Legend is an agent of redemption. “I put how I feel into music,” he says, bobbing along with the riffs he composed to accompany the grand opera of his life. “There is a good world out there, and it’s waiting to be restored. That’s what I’m all about. I really hope I can save the world.”
Saving the world, of course,requires personal sacrifice. Few Real Life Superheroes have families. And those with women in their lives often find that their higher calling can cause rifts. Master Legend has seen a lot of relationships go sour, starting with his wife, who divorced him 10 years ago. “She never believed in what I did,” he says. Then there was his last girlfriend. “She left because she wanted to sit around on the couch and hold hands. Well, that’s not in the cards for Master Legend.”
Another casualty of the superhero lifestyle is career advancement. Unlike Peter Parker, Master Legend has no cover job. He can’t hold down a nine-to-five, he says, because a life on the precipice of action means always being available to answer the call. “I’ll walk right out the door if someone needs me,” he says with a laugh. Three years of trade school exposed Master Legend to electronics, welding and other “skills” he drew on while dabbling in odd jobs over the years: shrimp fishing, tree trimming, roofing, salvage work. Lately, he’s been working as an assistant to elderly people. Here again, Master Legend finds himself locked in a battle between good and evil. “All these people are waiting to kick out the old folks, put them in the old-folks’ home,” he says, working himself up with indignation. “But as long as I’m there, they can’t! And they hate me for that.” For Master Legend, it’s all just another type of superheroing. “These are the two sides of my life, which is really one side,” he says, “and that’s the side of making things right.”
The Ace tells me about his conversion to the cause one night as we fetch some Chinese takeout to bring back to the secret hide-out. (Master Legend can’t come with us, because he still won’t remove his mask in my presence.) “I met Master Legend a long time ago,” the Ace says. They hit it off at a party, bonding over music, and discovered that they had a lot of mutual friends. “Before that,” the Ace says, “I was married. Had a good job.” The Ace made good money setting up stage shows — Nickelodeon events, Blue Man Group, that sort of thing. The Ace used to be a performer himself. In a surprising digression, he tells me he once led a “dance revue” called Male Factor. “This was before Chippendales,” he reminds me. “Not like they do now, with just bump and grind, and no imagination. We had choreographers, like in Vegas. In fact, we even did Vegas! Movies, too. Ever heard of Spring Fever? 1982. Starring Susan Anton. Check it out.”
But that was years ago, before the divorce. And the brief stint in jail last year. I didn’t ask exactly how bad things got for the Ace, but eventually his wife’s boss moved into his house, and he moved in with Master Legend. “That’s when I got sucked into the whole Justice Force thing,” says the Ace. He’d helped Master Legend before, but at a distance and never in costume. “I was getting more and more involved. Then M.L. got me a mask and convinced me to put it on. And that’s when I saw the light. It’s a powerful thing.”
Late last year, when the Ace made his first public appearance, he worried what other people might think. But in the protective warmth of the costume, he says, the fear is quickly overcome. “There’s the flawed you and the good you,” he says, striking a philosophical note. “And this” — he holds up the mask — “gives us the chance to make up for our flaws.”
The windows are rolled down, letting in the sound of cicadas from the dark stand of trees across the empty parking lot. “I know it sounds silly,” he says. “But once you change someone else’s life, even in a small way, it makes you realize you can change things in your own life.”
Back at the secret hide-out, as we lay out the Chinese feast on the table, a friend stops by for a quick conversation with Master Legend. It is dusk, and I watch two silhouettes against the twilight out on the porch, conferring quietly.
“That was the Black Panther,” Master Legend says when the friend leaves. The Black Panther “doesn’t want to get caught up with the press,” so Master Legend didn’t introduce him to me, but make no mistake: Black Panther is a Justice Force fellow traveler. Besides sometimes jamming with the band — Black Panther is known to introduce a “reggae vibe” — he helps out on missions. Not too long ago, Black Panther told Master Legend about a local family that was having financial trouble and was in danger of being evicted. So Master Legend helped raise money to cover their rent. “Sometimes that’s all people need,” he says. “A little boost.”
One day last year, Fire alerted Master Legend to a controversial freeway extension up near Apopka, where the state was clashing with activists over the plight of the gopher tortoises living on the site. “I couldn’t believe it,” Master Legend says. “These are beautiful prehistoric creatures, and they wanted to bury them alive with cement. It’s crazy, but that’s the way of the world. That’s why the world needs us.” The Justice Force joined the protest, costumes and all, and the state was forced to relocate the tortoises. “That was a great mission,” Master Legend says. “Those tortoises are the nicest little guys you’d ever want to meet. They look like living cartoons, just eating their lettuce. They’re adorable.”
But nothing is more satisfying to Master Legend than helping those who are less fortunate. On their last big Christmas mission, he and the Ace filled the Battle Truck with supplies they bought, having pooled funds from the Justice Force, and headed to skid row. When they arrived, they were mobbed. Master Legend reckons that they gave something to every single homeless person in Orlando: toothbrushes, razors, soap, blankets, canned goods, cigarettes, candy. When the bags were empty, he and the Ace headed back to the secret hide-out to celebrate with a few beers.
“We aren’t that much better off than the people we’re helping,” the Ace notes, gesturing to the squalor of the hide-out. Neither Master Legend nor the Ace received any Christmas gifts themselves, but neither of them is complaining. “A lot of people talk about doing right by other people,” says the Ace. “But what are they really doing?”
Despite their successes, things have been hard for the Justice Force lately. “These are bad times,” Master Legend says, opening a few “thirst quenchers” after dinner. I’ve already noticed there are always a few empty twelvers laying around the secret hide-out. Outside the front door, a mountainous pile of crushed cans suggests that Busch is the Justice Force brand of choice.
“This is our one vice,” Master Legend says, “the ol’ brewski.”
“That’s right,” adds the Ace.
“With all our aches and pains from fighting off so many criminals, we gotta have our beers,” Master Legend says.
“Hear, hear!” The Ace hoists his can.
With that, Master Legend unloads about his troubles. It’s tough being a superhero, he says, because your whole life must be lived to a certain standard. Looking out for everyone in the Justice Force involves a lot of thankless work. And then there’s the wider superhero community, which has succumbed to rival factions and bitter accusations over who the real superheroes are and who should lead them to greatness. A superhero named Tothian, who lives with his parents in an undisclosed part of New Jersey, serves as president of the Heroes Network — the self-proclaimed “United Nations of Superheroes.” Tothian has tried to excommunicate several members, including his former partner, Chris Guardian, who then co-founded the Worldwide Heroes Organization. More than a few Real Life Superheroes seem like they’re just one splash of acid in the face away from tormented supervillainy. Several superheroes once suggested kidnapping foreign leaders to make a statement on Darfur. Others pointed out that this was (a) illegal and (b) dangerously unheroic. As a universally respected veteran, Master Legend often plays a diplomatic role, moderating between sides. “I don’t need any more problems from the superheroes out there,” he says. “I have plenty right here.”
Case in point is the secret hide-out. “I mean, look at this place!” Master Legend complains, acknowledging the disarray. “It’s a disaster!” The reason, Master Legend confides, is that he’s being evicted. This is the dominant battle in his life at the moment, one he didn’t choose to fight. The secret hide-out, it turns out, is a rental. The state Department of Transportation has invoked eminent domain to widen the freeway, causing a protracted battle. This is why the place is empty. “They’re gonna tear down the secret headquarters!” Master Legend says, pounding his beer can on the table. “We have to be ready to leave in a moment’s notice.”
Master Legend notes the irony: Having defended the gopher tortoises against a freeway, Master Legend must now fight the very same cunning villain again, this time in his own backyard. “It’s like they’re getting back at me,” he says. “And believe me, they’re coming full force. I’d rather face a dozen men with chains in an alley than deal with the bureaucracy of the state of Florida.” It’s a sobering thing, he says, for a superhero to be constrained by the demands of real life. “I want to be out there taking care of criminals, not packing my stuff in boxes.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Master Legend dispirited. He’s hardly eaten. But he brightens when talking about the new secret hide-out he just lined up. It’s a house right on the next block. The Ace will move with him. They have to wait to get their displacement check from the state, and pay back some people for storage, and then move their stuff in, but if all goes well, they’ll be up and running soon.
Master Legend decides we should take a tour of the new secret hide-out. When we get there, the place is empty except for a single ninja star Master Legend placed in the center of the floor as a good-luck talisman. We see the bedrooms, the hallway trapdoor (handy in case the duo are surrounded by “an enemy attack”) and the garage that will be transformed into the new weapons workshop and band-practice room. “I know this is a shabby, old place,” he says. “But there is a lot of potential here.” He’s already got big plans for a van outfitted to allow Master Legend to emerge from the back on a motorcycle — the Legend Cycle — while the van is moving, like Knight Rider. Genius Jim, the mechanic, is already scouring his contacts for the van and the Enduro two-stroke that he will turn into the Legend Cycle.
“Can you imagine what that will be like?” Master Legend says. “If everything works out as planned, there will be no stopping us.” Together, he and the Ace admire the empty house with satisfaction. Then we go back to their current empty house, where the Ace offers a toast. And we all drink to the new secret hide-out.
I‘ve forgotten all about Master Legend’s police contact by the time he returns my call, several weeks after my message. “This is the Sergeant,” he says, asking that his name not be revealed. “I was fishing down in the Keys. What do you want to know about Master Legend?”
The Sergeant tells me that one of his patrol officers came across Master Legend running through the bushes in costume one night. The encounter wound up in a report, and that report wound up on the Sergeant’s desk. The officer recorded Master Legend’s describing how he “fights evil” in the streets, and the Sergeant, who’s in charge of vice investigations, took a chance and tracked Master Legend down. Based on the neighborhood, he figured, Master Legend might be a good local contact. “And sure enough,” the Sergeant tells me, “I start getting calls from Master Legend with information. And it checks out. Master Legend has helped put away a few criminals.”
I call Master Legend to tell him I reached the Sergeant. He’s not surprised. “I knew he would come through,” Master Legend says. “He’s a good guy. I’m in the process of gathering evidence against someone else for him. Master Legend does the recon, and the police strike! Just how it ought to be!”
When I ask how things are going otherwise, Master Legend drops some bad news: The Ace moved out. He just wasn’t pulling his weight anymore. “He was depressed because of his personal stuff,” Master Legend says. “I wanted him to start pitching in. That’s part of getting back to normal. It would be good for him. But he was doing less and less, just hanging around all day.”
The situation worsened when the Ace didn’t show up for a few Justice Force missions. Suddenly, he wasn’t fulfilling his duties as a roommate or as a sidekick. “I wasn’t mad,” Master Legend says. “I just tried to talk to him. We all did. The Third Eye gave me good advice about how to approach the situation. But we wound up getting in a fight, and the Ace up and moved out. Just like that. Being here was helping for a while, but I guess he just needs to sort things out by himself.”
The Ace took his drums, technically disbanding the sonic wing of the Justice Force, but Master Legend has already found some new music partners. Among them is Ace Gauge, the new sidekick who has assumed the role of the Ace. The old Justice Force band, Master Legend says, turned out to be “more of a studio project,” whereas this new venture will mean performing again.
“There is just too much going on,” Master Legend says, “to worry about the past.” The costume upgrades finally showed up, for one thing, and the two-tone bodysuit, improved mask and World War II helmet come together strangely well. Master Legend also found a suitable van and located a motorcycle. In preparation for deployment, he had a magnet made for the van door that says Justice Force Special Operations Unit. On the world-saving front, the team is preparing to mount a new type of mission, a public-relations campaign to raise awareness about a strain of staph infection that’s spreading among the homeless in the Orlando area. “It will be like the gopher-tortoise mission,” Master Legend says, “but bigger!” The van will be pressed into service, and Superhero might come in from Clearwater with his Corvette.
This may be the real reason Master Legend inhabits a never-ending comic book in his mind, assigning everyone a character in the grand narrative. His roommate turns into the Ace, his mechanic into Genius Jim, and a friend with some recording equipment into the Pain. And so the reality of Master Legend, a guy who has no job and lives in a run-down house in a crummy neighborhood in Orlando, is transmuted via secret decoder ring into an everlasting tale of heroic outsiders, overcoming the odds and vanquishing enemies.
To the outside world, this makes Master Legend seem like a lunatic. But to the people around him, he is the charismatic center of an inviting universe. “It sounds a little silly,” Superhero says, “but we all want to be part of a better tomorrow.” Or, for that matter, a better today. Being a Real Life Superhero means that Master Legend can get in his Nissan pickup and call it the Battle Truck. He can tape together a potato gun and call it the Master Blaster. He can stand in the porch light of a disintegrating clapboard house, a beer in his hand, and behold a glorious clandestine citadel. And who are we to tell him otherwise?
http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/25020634/the_legend_of_master_legend

I got a message tonight from a young lady who wanted me to give her some advice, as her fiance wanted to become a real life superhero..  Unfortunately, she only accepts messages from friends and only allows people to be her friend if they know her last name.  MySpace is funny sometimes.
None the less, I wanted to respond and, maybe this creates an interesting opportunity to share this response with others.  So whereever Ahna is, I hope she gets a chance to read this blog.
________________________
Hello Ahna,
First, don’t panic.  For many men, this is an evolution of their desire to help the world. So, the good news is, your fiance has a good and giving heart.
The second thing is … well … maybe it would be better if my wife just told you how she feels and lives with me.
Hi, I’m CP’s wife… I have to admit, I take it all with a grain of salt.  I love my husband and I want him to be happy and this helps him achieve that.  Mind you, he doesn’t dress up in tights, lurk inalleys and go fight crime. No one should be doing that in real life.  He is more about social awareness, creating programs for community awareness (like a neighborhood watch type thing) and using the costume to gain awareness to his pro social message.  When it comes to the whole “Real Lifer’s” who go out every night looking for trouble I sort of ignore it all.  CP does volunteer with the local police force so he seems to have found a great way to do it all.  For me, as long as he is safe and always comes home to his family.  I support him. 😉 Wishing you the best.
Prime again.
So there you go.  Have your fiance contact me if you’d like.  If you are worried about his safety, well then he does need to talk to me.  RLSHers are not about lurking in dark alleys and taking down drug dealers.  They should be the eyes and ears for law enforcement.  They are not law enforcement officials. Best they/he/we always remember that..  We are about (well, the good ones anyway) finding ways to wake up the world and sending out a message that the heart of a hero lies in everyone.
I hope that helps.  Good luck and write back if you’d liek to hear more.
Best,
Prime
 

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.  ~Anatole France
A “Change Expert” (yes, people actually have titles like these in the business world) told me once, “People only have so much change they can handle at one time.  Some people have more, some less.  Eventually, everyone kind of pauses and says, yea, that’s enough for now.”
I never really thought much about it as changes – big changes – seemed a part of my life.  In fact, if I was not going through some sort of deep, life changing event, I was waiting for the next to occur.
Well, the next has occurred.  Citizen Prime has moved to Utah.

See, I talk so much about living a life full of heroic essence and finding the joy in life, yet I found myself slowly pulled into a life of struggle and obsessive goals and objectives; ignoring, for a time, the best route to my message for myself and my family. And as I live each day for my wife and son, as well as myself, I find their happiness is critical.  And they’re happiness – and mine, I discover each day – resides best in Utah.
Does this somehow affect the existence of Citizen Prime?  Yes and no.  I am always growing, I hope.  And, at the same time, I hold firm to the values that I feel make this country and this world great.  In fact, I’m rather proud of the fact that I am constantly searching for ways to make Citizen Prime relevant in our culture and send a message that people can become the hero in their own story and lead fulfilling, exciting lives.
Yet, along the way, there have been so many ruts to fall into.  It’s almost as if (and maybe it is) I am being tested. Not that I am in the same ballpark as he, but a story comes to mind of Buddha as he was tempted by a series of worldly traps.  He passed by each one successfully only to become more enlightened.  In my own small way, I hope I am on a path that carries the same message.  To evolve is to grow.  I saw another quote that reminded me of this.
It is not necessary to change.  Survival is not mandatory. ~W. Edwards Deming
So why Utah?  Well, both my wife and I are from Utah.  We have a great deal of family and many friends in Utah. And whether I’m Citizen Prime or not, my family always comes first – although I need reminding of that sometimes.  As for Prime and The League of Citizen Heroes, there is much to do to establish a presence here in Utah.  It’s a great time to apply some of the lessons I’ve learned over the last three years.  I’m looking forward to the challenge of starting anew.
And we’re coming out swinging.  A few people might remember the BlogTalkRadio show I hosted called, Are You Primed?.  Well, we’re producing new episodes and they’ll be as informative and interesting as ever. I’ll be producing a weekly vlog, as well, sharing thoughts and lessons on how to live a heroic life.  I got this idea as people were contacting me wanting to do more with there lives.  People have always had challenges with perception and reality when it comes to what I do and what I stand for, so I thought I would discuss how I reconcile that desire to do good and keep my feet firmly planted in reality – a lofty goal indeed and I don’t always succeed!
In my life, for example, in the last year, my wife and I had a baby, we got robbed, we moved states, I changed jobs, we lost three dear canine companions, I lost the Prime Armor in an airport (briefly), had an honorary patrol with both The Black Monday Society and Geist, and continued to build both The League of Citizen heroes, my “alter ego” career and, most importantly, keep my family safe, happy and whole.  And that’s nothing compared to what other people have had to endure; people who have contacted me and shared their stories of good and bad.  And you know what’s most amazing about those people.  They don’t give up or give in.  Those people still keep on looking to do Good and find Good in the world.  I know, from all this, that people can handle much change.
As to that Change Expert’s advice.  She may be right, but I know our limits are so far beyond what we think they are. It’s about staying in the groove, and moving forward.
Until next time, stay strong and stay heroes.
This blog is also available at www.Prime.Vox.com with additional content.

By Paul Constant
They hide their true identities behind elaborate masks and costumes, patrolling the streets of downtown Salt Lake City in groups of two and three. People react to them in various ways: Older folks tend to ignore them. Drunken young adults want to pose with them for photos. Teenagers tend to hiss, growl and shout in their general direction, while children walk right up to them and ask what they are doing. Despite the masks and secret identities, they’re completely open about their purpose.
“Inferno,” one of the newest members of the group, is unfazed by the evening chill. He passes by a group of teens. One of them shouts: “Halloween’s not over!” Inferno winces, rolls his eyes, and responds, in the bored tone of someone who’s tired of hearing the same joke over and over again, “Nope, it’s not.” A girl of about 14 breaks from the mass of tittering boys and bravely approaches Inferno. He’s wearing a red hood and tunic, thigh-high pleather boots, and a matching black pleather mask that covers his eyes and nose. She breaks the awkward silence: “Can I ask about your costume?”
Inferno nods, unconsciously touches his red goatee and answers: “I’m part of the Black Monday Society.”
The girl cocks her head. “The Black Monday Society?”
“Yeah,” Inferno begins, a little more comfortable now, getting into a well-worn groove, “We just walk around, you know, patrol the streets.”
“Like Citizens on Patrol?” adds the girl, invoking the title of the fourth Police Academy movie. Her friends seem to get the reference and break into laughter.
Inferno brightens. “Yeah. “Citizens on patrol.”
“Cool!” says the girl, and despite the fact that her male friends are still hanging back—way back—and giggling, she seems to be genuinely happy about the idea. Inferno smiles and hands her a business card.
“We have a Website,” he says. “Look us up, it’ll tell you more about what we do. That’s pretty much what it’s about. It’s a lot of fun.”
“OK,” she says, waving goodbye with the card and running back to her friends, “Have fun!”
“You, too,” Inferno says. “Bye.”
And then he goes back to patrolling the streets, keeping his eye out for danger, wherever it lurks.
We Need Another Hero

The Black Monday Society started five years ago, when a Salt Lake City-area tattoo artist and lifelong comic-book fan named Dave went exploring on MySpace. “I always told my wife, even before we got married, that if I ever see a real superhero, I’m so going to be one,” he says. “Come on, just the idea of wearing a mask, going out, doing something good? Being somebody else for a little bit? Doesn’t that sound a little enthralling to you?”
After doing a search for comic-book-related fan groups, Dave happened upon the Web pages of two Indianapolis men who go by the names “Mr. Silent” and “Doktor DiscorD.” They called themselves Real Life Superheroes, and they went on patrol on the Indianapolis streets searching for wrongs to right.
“So,” Dave says, “I set up a MySpace page, made an identity for myself, just to talk to them, and it kind of evolved from there. It was really inspiring.”
Dave couldn’t believe this was happening, that his childhood obsession was taking shape, and that people all over the world were a part of it. “I went home to my wife and told her about it and she said, ‘Wow,’ and then she said, ‘Is this for real?’ and I said, ‘Yeah,’ and she said, ‘So, when do you go out?’ and I said, ‘As soon as possible.’”
Like all Real Life Superheroes, Dave, 37, uses only his first name, and he’d rather go by his character’s name anyway. His first superhero identity was “The American Corpse.” He dressed in an Israeli army gas mask, fedora and a suit and tie, much like classic DC Comics superhero The Sandman. Dave’s good friend, a very tall man with a lazy Johnny Cash drawl, says he’s “always been fascinated by ghosts and goblins and demons and things of that nature,” so he decided to call himself “Ghost.” He made a costume of a rubber Halloween skeleton mask adorned with a shock of white hair and a matching ribcage on his chest. Ghost is 32 and works in real life as a concrete finisher. Quiet and unassuming, he explains his unusual hobby by saying, “It’s every little boy’s fantasy to be a real life superhero.”
Ghost sums up his passion for the street with a comment on his blog: “Doesn’t matter how many people snicker at us. What matters is we are out there doin’ our duty for justice.”
Recounting their first night out on patrol in 2001, American Corpse and Ghost say they were standing by their car on a city street having a smoke. A Salt Lake City cop on patrol approached them and pulled over. American Corpse says he decided to slowly approach her to explain their costumes and superheroic intent. She firmly told them, “Please stand by the hood of the car.” American Corpse kept walking toward the officer, then reached into his jacket to pull out his wallet and identification. Reacting to Corpse’s decision to keep moving, the officer put her hand on her revolver and shouted, “Stand by the hood of the car, now!” American Corpse says he wasn’t even really thinking but decided to try and calm the situation by saying, “It’s OK, ma’am, don’t worry. Relax; I’m a superhero.”
The cop eventually let them move on, but the heroes claim the Black Monday Society is on the Salt Lake City Police Department’s official list of street gangs. A spokesman for the SLCPD would not confirm that statement.
When Flats Need Fixing

If a healthy number of Websites and blogs are any indication, there are hundreds of Real Life Superheroes around the world, mainly operating out of urban areas. One of the best known is “Citizen Prime,” an RLS from Phoenix. Prime is a husband, father and office worker who puts on a costume (or uniform, as the RLS community prefers) with intent to fight crime. Though Prime does carry a pair of intriguingly named “stun-knuckles” in case he has to protect himself or others, most of the work he does fits neatly within the category of good Samaritanism—flat-tire repair and making speeches to elementary-school students about the dangers of drug use. But in the past year, buoyed by increased media attention, Prime has also started a successful toy drive to help needy children.
Prime, an office worker in his 40s, has a certain charisma, the kind usually seen in community organizers and old-fashioned politicians. In conversations, he’s prone to wholesome expressions like, “Oh, my gosh,” and “Gee,” sounding like a real-life Jimmy Stewart. He vouches for the Black Monday Society, implicitly. “They’re really good guys. I’ve had contact with them for a while now, and they seem like the real deal.” Prime visited the Black Monday Society over the long winter, but—human as they were—the heroes decided it was too cold to patrol. Still, one hero wrote on his blog that “we did suit up and take some photos,” and that “more team-ups will happen when it gets a little warmer.”
New Real Life Superheroes seem to appear every day. They add their photos and biographies to Websites like RealLifeSuperheroes.com and share their thoughts on weaponry, good deeds and other topics on blogs such as Heroes Network. There’s the Justice Society of Justice, based in Indianapolis; The Boise Brigade, and, from Washington, D.C., the Capitol City Super Squad. “Zetaman” patrols the streets of Portland, Ore., wearing a utility belt loaded with a first-aid kit, a baton and a Taser, among other gadgets.
Polarman shovels the snow-covered sidewalks of Iqalulit, the capital city of Canada’s youngest province, Nunavut—located north of Quebec on Baffin Island. Entomo the Insect Man claims to protect Naples, Italy, and frequents superhero message boards with hilariously Roberto Benigni-esque broken English comments. His MySpace page boasts a mission statement: “To be a Real Life Superhero is truly the greatest deed a man can accomplish in a backwards world like this, where fiction is truer to reality than reality itself. On the other hand, the chance to fight for such a stunning planet is too significant to be turned down. Hear my buzz, fear my bite,” and it ends, as all his posts do, with his tagline: “I inject justice!”
Whole businesses have sprung up around the RLS life. Hero-Gear.net deals in costumes for Real Life Superheroes. Armories that produce chain mail and weapons for Renaissance fair actors have started to sell to the RLS community, as well. Dressing up like a superhero and going on patrol seems to be looking less like a bizarre pastime than it does a lifestyle choice, according to some of the heroes. Think teenagers going goth or animal-rights activists fervently volunteering for PETA.
The media is giddily spreading the word about RLS. Some television stations have struck a gold mine in covering regional “superteams,” packing their reports with references to Batmobiles and “Pow! Bang! Boom!” sound effects. A reporter from Rolling Stone went on patrol with the Black Monday Society last fall (though the magazine has yet to publish the story) and several filmmakers are rushing to finish documentaries about the Real Life Superhero movement. Members of The Black Monday Society claim one documentary maker told them that, to be featured in his film, they’d have to sign the rights to their superhero identities away to him. They declined. Another filmmaker and his subjects hosted a Times Square publicity stunt covered in The New York Times last October. Your Friendly Neighborhood Superhero, a recently completed documentary, is scheduled for various film festivals this spring. See RealLifeSuperhero.com for a snippet of the film.
Internet reaction to the RLS movement is mixed. RLS and superhero fans are continuously posting words of encouragement on each other’s blogs. But, as soon as a non-RLS site notices them, the general public, hidden securely behind a guise of anonymity, tears them to shreds. After a story about Silent and DiscorD appeared on comic-book writer Warren Ellis’s blog, the posters unanimously decided that RLSs were endangering themselves, if not others. One commenter, Monk Eastman, summed up the feelings this way: “I predict the following headline: ‘Oddly Dressed Virgin Found Shot 1,123 Times.’”
“A Little Gimmicky?”

Dave quickly dropped the American Corpse persona for another identity: a tights-wearing street fighter named Ferox. Ferox is reserved for Dave’s patrols farther north in Ogden. When in Salt Lake City, Dave is Insignis, a robed figure with a giant white cross across his chest. “The most easily recognizable symbol in the world is the cross,” he explains, “So what better symbol to have?” (The two names are derived from a large tattoo across his back that reads “Insignis Ferox,” Latin for “Mark of the Wild One.”)
After those first few patrols with Ghost, Insignis’ friends were quick to join them. The team grew to 13 members strong in a matter of months. The group originally patrolled on Mondays—hence the name—but “things are much more likely to happen on Fridays and Saturdays, so the Monday thing didn’t last long,” Insignis says. They stuck with the name primarily because “it sounds cool.”
New identities are common with the Black Monday Society: Inferno took his name because of a fiery temper he admits used to get him in trouble before becoming a RLS. But the 33-year-old recently decided to focus on his sense of humor by becoming “Ha!,” a clown-themed superhero.
Oni, 36, based his identity on a Japanese demon. He’s married to a woman the team calls “Mother One.” She creates most of their costumes by hand. “She’s very supportive of this,” Oni says. Most of the team, including 38-year-old occasional member “Silver Dragon,” a thin man with a thick Southern accent, are married. They say their wives are proud of them but balked at a reporter’s request to speak with the women. Earlier this year, Oni went on his first patrol with his daughter, who will take the name “Frost” as soon as she has a costume. “I was very nervous and excited at the same time;” he wrote on his blog. “I hoped that nothing would happen on her first time out. I am proud that she wants to give back to the community and help people that need it.”
The heroes say they have been spending more time in Ogden lately because of what they perceive as increased gang activity. Ogden Mayor Matthew Godfrey takes issue with that claim: “We have had a seven-year decline of crime in Ogden and one of the keys to that is getting the community involved. Having neighbors be vigilant and engaged is a critical ingredient to safer neighborhoods.” Godfrey adds that the Black Monday Society “fits in” with this push for community involvement. Although he finds them “a little gimmicky,” Godfrey allows that, “We will take their participation any way we can get it.” The Salt Lake City Police Department had no comment on the Black Monday Society. Lt. Paul Jaroscak, spokesman for the Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Department, says he has “no knowledge or comment” regarding the group.
If the local cops are sketchy on their knowledge of the superheroes, it might be due to the group’s lack of clarity. What, exactly, does the Black Monday Society do? They talk about “helping people” and “helping the homeless.” But, on one evening this past November, the patrol’s big events included a photo session with a gaggle of drunken college students, some heckling from passersby and a thumbs-up from an enthusiastic tourist from Minneapolis, who wished there was something like this “back home.” The patrol also handed out a couple of dollars to a homeless man with the telltale facial scabs of heavy meth use.
The team contends the patrols are its work, and that members curb crime simply by being seen. And Silver Dragon says there’s proof: “I’ve heard from friends that, after we patrol a particular neighborhood, there’s no crime there for the rest of the night.” That November patrol was one of the last crime-fighting excursions of 2007. The team has laid low for the winter, declaring Salt Lake City’s long, harsh winter too cold to patrol. But they plan on taking to the streets again, now that spring has arrived.
Oni, the only member of the Black Monday Society with extensive martial-arts training, recalls one time when he confronted a drug-addled man who was abusing his mother in a city park. “The first thing we do is call the cops,” he says, “in any situation.” Most superheroes will, in fact, say the same thing. They strongly advise against getting directly involved in police calls.
After calling 911, Oni and Ghost approached the man. They say he promptly relented when confronted with men dressed as demons. Insignis also recalls a time they chased after a drunk man who was standing by the side of the road, trying to punch passing cars. The man got away, but Insignis says, laughing, “He probably won’t be doing that again anytime soon.”
Outside Salt Lake City, the superhero action is getting a little more feverish and a lot less law abiding. Rumors have spread in the RLS community that one of their own, a man known as “Nostrum,” based in Louisiana, has lost an eye doing battle with a criminal. An RLS from Florida known as “Master Legend” claims to attack evildoers, bashing garbage cans over the heads of crack fiends and kicking others with his steel-toe boots. Another man, known as “Hero,” has quit fighting crime and is taking up ultimate fighting. “There is only one thing I can always count on, one thing that will always be there and that is the fight. The fight is all I have,” he recently blogged.
The Black Monday Society has set up an office, and Oni says they are working to gain legal status as a non-profit organization. “As soon as we do that, it’ll open up a lot more doorways for us so we can start receiving money and we can help more people,” he says, adding that “I’d like to do more than just help the homeless. I’d like to start helping abused and battered women. Things like that.”
In a parking lot after the patrol, the team gathers to smoke cigarettes and share a laugh or two. Inferno refers to Insignis as “Father O’Malley,” and asks him if his sidekick’s name is “Altar Boy.” Insignis laughs it off but then snaps back on message, insisting that the Black Monday Society is seeking more than fun and fame: “Instead of being the guy on the couch saying ‘God, I wish somebody would do something,’ I get to be the guy on the couch who says, ‘Yeah, I did something!’ or, ‘At least I tried.’ No regrets, no nothing. Just pure do.”
http://www.cityweekly.net/utah/article-6056-feature-slc-superheroes-the-black-monday-society-keeps-an-eye-out-for-street-crime-so-you-donrst-have-to.htm

Orignially posted: http://technology.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/tech_and_web/article3652004.ece
Worried that the world is going to hell? Why not slip on a pair of tights and a mask and do something about it?
By Michael Moran
April 5, 2008
Many of us bemoan the weakening of social cohesion that has led to an explosion of petty crime on our streets. Very few complainants, though, are inspired to don a superhero costume and patrol our cities to combat the burgeoning unpleasantness.
However, that might be about to change, with the advent of the real-life superheroes. Citizen Prime (above) is the most convincing of the bunch, patrolling the streets of Phoenix, Arizona, in his impressive custom-made armour. Further down the budgetary scale come Terrifica, who offers safe-sex advice to tipsy female clubgoers in New York, and the Big O, from Tunbridge Wells, who stops hooligans vandalising hanging baskets or defacing tea-shop frontages.
Hundreds of costumed crime fighters are listed on The World Heroics Database and the World Superhero Registry – but their biggest problem is that not one of them currently has an arch-enemy listed on their profile.
Sadly, without a stock of supervillains, real-life superheroes are little more than a particularly flamboyant Neighbourhood Watch
 

Examiner 01 PDF
Examiner 02 PDF
April 04, 2008
By Dan Rafter
Holy Batman! People are taking a page from the Caped Crusader’s comic book and turning themselves into superheroes- even though they don’t have any special powers!
Donning eye-catching costumes, real-life superheroes with names like Squeegeeman, Dark Guardian and Entomo the Insect Man have begun appearing across the United States and around the globe- in a movement to make the world a better place. But these crusaders for justice- estimated at 225 around the world, include about 175 in the United States- are often less concerned with bashing heads than feeding the homeless, saving the environment or just doing good.
Squeegeeman has vowed to clean up New York City, one windshied or city block at a time. New Yorkers who don’t get mugged while walking n a clean street should probably praise the caped cleaner.
Martial arts expert Geist of Rochester, Minn., confronts evildoers with a wide-brimmed hat, reflective sunglasses, a scarf-like mask and a array of non-lethal weapons, including smoke grenades and a 6-inch fighting stick.
Citizen Prime of Phoenix spent $4,000 on a custom-made costume- including a steel helmet and breast-plate and yellow cape. And when his foot patrols don’t find enough crime, he volunteers for crime-prevention causes and children’s charities.
A secretive martial arts instructor patrols New York City’s Staten Island as Dark Guardian, while wearing spandex fit for a professional wrestler. The 23-year-old hero recently held a convenience store robber at bay until the cops arrived.
Hardwire, 20 of Greensboro-Durham, N.C., describes himself as a “tech hero, like Batman with the attitude,” while Entomo the Insect Man give Spider-Man a run for his bugged-out reputation in Naples, Italy, declaring: “I inject justice.”
In Portland, Ore., the needy can count on Zetaman to make regular rounds distributing free food and clothing. To protect himself and those he serves, Zetaman carries pepper spray, an extendable steel baton and a Taser packing 30,000 volts.

I seldom talk about my private life.  There is so much going on in the world that its hard to find time to write, period.  Over the last month, I’ve been getting ready for the launch of The League of Citizen Heroes, being a guest at the Phoenix Comicon, preparing to patrol during Superbowl weekend, organize the programs housed under the League, etc, so on and so forth.  During the last month, I’ve kept the following secret under my hat.  None the less, I feel this is important so I’m going to “spill the beans.”
On January 4th, my house … was robbed.
Yep.  Citizen Prime’s lair was ransacked!  It was random, street crime.  The burglars  had no idea who I was.  I was just another cased joint.  And it is the last one they’ll be robbing for a long time.  Allow me to explain.
See, we were not home for the holidays.  We were visiting family and friends (including The Black Monday Society) during the end of December and beginning of January.  A wonderful elderly woman watches our house when we are away.  On Friday, January, 4th, we received a phone call.
“Hello, Jim.  I hope you’re sitting down.  I’ve got some bad news,” said the concerned voice of our house sitter on the other end of the phone,  “Over the last few days, someone broke in and took quite a few of your things.” She continued listing the items she thought were stolen.
If you’ve ever received news that your house has been robbed, it’s a surreal experience.  The irony of Citizen Prime being robbed did not escape me either.  Counting myself lucky for having my armor, laptop and cell phones with me, I listened while our house sitter recounted all the things she thought they took.  It ended up being about $15,000 dollars worth of stuff including the desktop computer where all the Citizen Prime info and projects are listed.  Among the “stuff” (and it is just stuff, mostly), what was most disheartening was the loss of photos (a 1000 honeymoon photos among them), Prime projects, and the like.  Theft is an emotional violation, don’t let anyone tell you differently.
While reeling from the news she was delivering on my cell, I was conducting a business call on a land line, pacing furiously, and trying to keep myself in check.  When I hung up both phones. I packed up wife, child and our remaining stuff and raced back to Arizona to survey the damage.
Now, I tell you all this to make the following point.
Crime does not pay.
Without going into details, last week, the thieves were caught!  Working with the local detectives, we are putting a case together to lock these low lifes away for a long time.  And what I feel for the criminals can be boiled down to one word:
Pity.
Seeing the single wide trailer they live in and the old beat up car they use to rob people, how do these geniuses think that crime pays?  Now, its not a crime to be poor, nor is money the symbol of clean living.  That being so, if you could see their living room, bedroom, kitchen, everywhere and all the junk that they live amongst in their quest to hit the big score, you’d agree – these guys did not get rich while they were on their crime spree.  I say “spree” as the authorities estimate they have robbed about 20 houses in the last couple of years.  So what did there life of crime get them?  Not any richer – we saw that.  Instead, it got them years behind bars.  Years away from their kids.  Its just plain stupid.
Looking through the list of evidence and photos from the search warrant, it saddens me even more to see the “stuff”  these petty thugs tried to take away from others.  We saw an irreplaceable World War II photo stolen because the crooks liked the box it was in.  Jewelry, like my wife’s, is often passed down from mother to daughter to granddaughter.  And these guys chop up heirlooms and sell it for the metal.  Theft takes memories and emotions along with the “stuff.”
In this case, all these things, or as much as is able, will go back to the families, while these two short sighted, greedy thieves (and hopefully their accomplices, if the investigation pans out) go away for a long time.  Time they will not get back.  Time that will put their lives that much farther behind the eight ball.  Time that will further ruin their eroded lives.  Its sad.
Crime does not pay.
So to all you budding criminal geniuses out there.  You never know when you will rob the wrong house or the wrong guy.  And when you do, rest assured, the next house you’ll see will be the Big House, or in Arizona, Sheriff Joe’s “Tent City”.  A place you do not want to end up.  You can and will get caught.  The police are sharper than you think, they have allies – seen and unseen – in the community, and there sole desire is to put criminals like these in prison.
And what do I want?  As a victim of random crime, I want my pictures, projects and irreplaceable stuff back.  In large part, I’m going to get that, while these poor souls do hard time.
As Citizen Prime, I want it never to come to this.  I want everyone to fly right! Look. The math is simple.  Don’t do the crime and you won’t do the time.  Its not worth it.  Instead, join me in living a full life in the free world.  Have the guts, strength and the courage to forge your own life – not steal it from others.
Crime does not pay.