The Day Square Sharpcorner, Hero to Mankind, had his Driver’s License Renewed (in chilling Renew-O-Rama!)

"Cripes!" spewed Square Sharpcorner, noticing the calendar while thoughtfully ingesting his morning meal of cereal, toast, and several enormous steaks.

"What’s the problem, Square?" asked the squeaky yet sultry voice of Marmalade Boy from the pantry.

"Well, Marmalade Boy," retorted Square, "Today there will be no crimestopping. I have...another duty."

Marmalade Boy emerged from the pantry with three jars of his namesake. "But evil still lurks about the streets. It won’t take long, will it?"

Square arched his left eyebrow in an extremely powerful and masculine fashion and replied darkly, "It better not."

Marmalade Boy stood motionless. He had little left to add to the conversation.

Looking out the window, Square said forlornly, "But even Square Sharpcorner must renew his driver’s license."

Deep in Square’s underground lair, preparations were being made for deployment of the Squaremobile for civilian tasks. Rockets were disarmed, armor was removed, turrets were disguised to look like playful antennae. Marmalade boy had opted to stay behind for the day. It was assumed that sidekicks were of little use at the DMV anyway. Though Square was distraught over having to spend precious crimestopping and strutting time performing menial civic tasks, he knew that without license renewal, driving his mobile crimefighting unit would be illegal if he put it off any longer. He pondered whether Batman dealt with such trifles, or if he were instead granted some sort of crimefighter plates and permits by Gotham City. Using his wrist communicator, he fired off a quick e-mail to Marmalade Boy to look into it while he was away. For now, he was off...

The Squaremobile seemed clearly irritated traveling the moderate speeds he asked of it that morning, but he did achieve better gas mileage (accomplishing a sort of anonymous environmental justice, which was better than no justice at all, Square thought). Regardless, the drive was uneventful save for a brief stop at an informant’s home to get the word on the street about The Evil Dustmop, Square’s sworn archnemesis who had been recently released from prison. The Dustmop had been quiet, but was bound to strike again.

Arriving at the DMV, Square requisitioned a tab of paper upon which was printed a bold-faced number that evidently would inform him when it would be his turn to step to the service desk. Unfortunately the tab had 297 printed on it, while the service display numbered but 38. "Great gobs of fiery damnation," he whispered under his breath. His trademark slogan of disbelief and/or frustration was never needed so badly.

Square obviously had some time to kill so he spent it in the lobby scoping out the other patrons. He began taking discrete pictures of their faces and sending them to Marmalade Boy for analysis. Little turned up of interest until he came upon an old woman sitting across from him.

She seemed harmless enough. She was hunkered forward with craggy hands clenching an ancient wooden cane. Her feet dangled lazily three inches above the floor. Her white hair was stretched haphazardly towards the back of her head, where a softball-sized bun hung in a knotted mass. Round black plastic spectacles enlarged her dark eyes, wildly exaggerating each slow blink. Despite their thickness, she still seemed unable to see much as her eyes panned around the lobby.

Yet Marmalade Boy wasted no time in relaying what Interpol turned up on her: she was a known accomplice of The Evil Dustmop!

She had been staring at him for enough time now that Square begun to suspect she could actually focus on him. Worse, his chiseled jaw line and shapely pectorals were probably revealing his secret identity, despite the sweater-vest Marmalade Boy had hand-picked for him as a disguise for the day.

Square attempted to look around the lobby in the most nonchalant fashion someone as charismatic and bulging as himself could possibly manage. He could feel the piercing gaze of the old woman. She was studying him intently, he knew it. Certainly she’d connect all the mental dots and identify him as The Evil Dustmop’s archenemy. Square snatched a magazine from the poorly constructed rack nearby and brought it up in front of his face. He didn’t dare look over the top of the magazine at her, but he could still see the old woman’s legs continuing to swing comfortably above the floor so he would not lose track of her, in case her appearance betrayed any surprising speed and agility.

He typed messages rapidly to Marmalade Boy on his wrist communicator, which was hard to do while simultaneously holding the magazine in front of his face. It became clear to him why so many of his brethren had constructed extra artificial limbs. Up until now he had assumed it would only make showering quicker, but he made a mental note to look into the matter more when he wasn’t in danger of having his identity discovered and his career ended years before the JLA would even remotely consider him for admission. Worse, if the old woman got wise there might be an unsightly brawl in another public facility, which would also cause the JLA to red-stamp him. It was better to find out who she was and if she was still involved with The Evil Dustmop. If necessary, he would confront her outside after ditching the ridiculous sweater-vest.

Marmalade Boy replied with word that he was checking into it further, but hadn’t established the connection between the woman and The Dustmop yet. The crime servers were running slowly but he was working as fast as he could.

"Great gobs of fiery damnation," Square muttered again, cursing himself for ever installing Windows 2000 on the servers over Marmalade Boy’s Linux-laden protests.

Square had nothing to do but wait. He formulated some basic conversation he might have with the woman to cull out her identity, but wasn’t certain she wouldn’t guess who he was before he established anything. Plus the fans were running in the lobby and she probably couldn’t have heard him unless he talked unnaturally loudly, which would not only embarrass him but reveal his identity to the entire DMV staff via his signature baritone parlance.

He suddenly became aware that the magazine he hastily grabbed was none other than Highlights for Children, and he’d had it open to Goofus and Gallant a little too long already. As much as he admired the humble Gallant, he was forced to discard the magazine to avoid further attention. He instead began to obsessively scratch his forehead, peering stealthily through his fingers to steal glances at the woman. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he just couldn’t identify her.

Time stretched on, as it often does at the DMV. Square had to sum up all of his powers of concentration to appear as cool as possible while his own memory and Marmalade Boy’s Windows-choked servers furiously tried to establish the link between Square’s most dreaded enemy and this innocent-looking woman. Square was boiling inside. His fists ached from clenching the chair and repeatedly scratching himself, his sharp reflexes dulling with exhaustion. Beads of sweat ran ickily down his back. He was unconsciously tapping the William Tell Overture with his left foot, to the annoyance of nearly everyone else in the lobby. The old woman remained outwardly calm, oblivious to Square’s approximation of Rossini as well as most every other visual and audible object around her.

Finally a number was called that got her out of her chair. She dropped the short distance to the floor and slowly ambled to the service counter. Square tried desperately to hear the conversation, but only picked up snippets of it. It sounded like regular DMV stuff, but had it been secret code orders from The Evil Dustmop himself, Square would have not been prepared.

After further ambling, as well as shuffling, the woman left the counter and headed outside. She boarded the largest unmilitarized vehicle Square had ever seen and disappeared behind the dashboard. Without further information, Square was helpless to take action. The service number was also creeping steadily towards Square’s 297 and he could not miss his turn or he’d have to go through this all again tomorrow.

Suddenly, a message from Marmalade Boy came through.

She was The Evil Dustmop’s estranged mother!

Relief! Square unbuttoned his sweater-vest and slunk down in his chair. The Evil Dustmop’s mother was a friend to justice. She had abandoned The Dustmop last year, kicking him out of her basement at the tender age of 37 after his scheme to fix numerous Detroit Tigers games was discovered. Since it was ruled that his actions had no discernable effect given that the Tigers were likely to have lost most of their games anyway, he went on a rage-induced crime spree, knocking off numerous arts and crafts stores before his mother tipped off the police regarding an upcoming Ben Franklin heist. Thanks to her help, Square himself apprehended The Evil Dustmop through a cunning lavender aisle stakeout. Whatever new plans The Dustmop might be hatching would no longer have involved his mother. She was free to return home in peace with her freshly renewed driver’s license and gargantuan land cruiser.

Shortly afterwards, Square’s number was called and he completed his civic duty, hindered only by the revelation that he’d have to start wearing prescription lenses when driving.

"Great gobs of fiery damnation," he grunted once more, realizing he’d also have to go to the optometrist on this dark day. Justice would have to wait for his new frames as well.

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