The Hidden Costs of Heroism

(Or: Why Your Roof Is on Fire and Your Insurance Doesn’t Cover Thunder Gods)

Ever Wonder What Happens to Batman’s Grappling Hooks?

There’s no way The Goddamn Batman is yanking on a grappling hook, wiggling it around like some doofus trying to get his kite out of a tree. 

That would be beneath him. Unseemly.

He fires that thing, gets the job done, and then snip. That line’s not coming back.

That’s a sunk cost, baby.

You just know Alfred has a monthly line item in the Bat-spreadsheet just labeled “grapple waste.” It’s probably higher than Gotham PD’s entire fuel spend.

And you know they track it.

There’s a guy,  maybe some poor WayneTech intern with a clipboard – who has to log every time one of those $299 WayneTech GX-TacLine V3s gets left behind on a smokestack or stuck in a rooftop vent.

I’m picturing this quiet little moment mid-chase, rooftop to rooftop, guy in a ski mask bolting ahead – and Batman just pauses for a millisecond:

“Hmm. That’s a $299 WayneTech GX-TacLine V3 with carbon coil and silent anchor head… Do I really care if the Joker’s henchman #4 gets away?”

“Justice deals mercy this night” And he turns and glides off like a brooding accountant.

That’s discipline.

That’s financial literacy.

That’s Batman.

And when the hook doesn’t stick?

What does he do — shame-reel it back in? Jiggle at it like a guy trying to fix the blinds?

Come on. BAT MAN.

He just stands there for a second. Maybe sighs. Maybe just glares at the sky.

And walks off like, “The night has rejected me.”

Also –  and this never gets talked about; where is all this gear going?

There’s gotta be a warehouse in Gotham filled with recovered grapples, snapped lines, smoke pellets with one puff left in them. Just rows and rows of bat-stuff that didn’t make it home.

Lucius Fox has probably got a whole intern program dedicated to combing rooftops with grappling hook magnets. Like metal detectors.

Batman doesn’t recycle.

But Wayne Enterprises? Oh, they have a bottom line to keep.

And don’t even get me started on the batarangs.

They’re not toys.

They’re precision-forged, high-density, WayneTech Series IV aero-shuriken.

Eighty-seven bucks a pop at least.

He throws three at a guy who dodges. That’s $261 embedded in the side of a dumpster.

And the best part? Kids can find this stuff. They always do.

Gotham is full of 11-year-olds tossing real batarangs around like it’s gym class.

You think that doesn’t end in someone getting clocked in the eye and going viral?

Emergency rooms in Gotham probably have a “Bat-Related Injury” checkbox right next to “gunshot” and “fell in hole.”

They have that pain level chart; 1-10, and ten is an image of Butters from South Park with a batarang in his eye.

That’s the part of being a superhero nobody talks about.

The gear waste.

The accounting.

The quiet moments where justice takes a backseat to basic cost-benefit analysis.

It’s the little things.

Meanwhile…. Spider-Man Is Webbing Up the Whole Damn City

Spider-Man’s broke. Like “eats cereal for dinner” broke.

But somehow he’s out here swinging around Manhattan like he’s got a Stark tech stipend and a NASA-grade lab under his bed.

The web fluid?

He makes it himself. 

In an apartment.

Next to the microwave. Probably in Tupperware.

Each cartridge costs, what? Like forty bucks in lab-grade goop?

Silicate binders, protein polymers, volatile solvents –  stuff that screams “science project or felony.”

And he’s burning through ten a day like he’s on deadline.

How’s he getting it?

Amazon Subscribe & Save I am sure, for that sweet sweet 10% discount.

He’s got gallons and gallons of cyclohexanol and tensile mesh showing up at his door monthly.

Someone at Amazon HQ is staring at his account like:

“Okay… industrial solvent, tensile binders, molecular stirrer… Queens again. Should we flag it?”

“Depends. Is he a Prime subscriber?”

“Yeah.”

“Let him be.”

And the mess?

Don’t even start.

Midtown looks like a Spirit store window. Web scraps everywhere.

Bus doors sealed shut. Pigeons stuck to bike racks.

That “dissolves in an hour” lie?

 It just slowly becomes part of the city.

He means well. He really does.

But he’s not a clean hero…

He’s a chemical incident with decent upper body strength.

Superman Is Probably Giving Everyone Cancer

You ever actually think about Superman?

Not like, “Wow, so inspiring.” I mean think. About what this guy’s doing to people.

This dude’s walking around with x-ray vision. Real, ionizing radiation blasting out of his eyeballs.

And he’s scanning crowds like it’s nothing.

Every time he glances at a building, somebody’s DNA gets slightly worse.

Every time he spots a “suspicious briefcase,” three bystanders just had their internal organs slow-roasted.

It’s a wonder Lois Lane hasn’t died of breast cancer while working with Clark.

And then there’s the freeze breath.

He sees a fire, blows a friggin’ glacier on it. Everyone cheers.

Yeah, he saved the day. But he also just gave the building traumatic frostbite.

Pretty sure concrete doesn’t  like being flash-frozen in the middle of an inferno.

You microwave a burrito and it’s hot on the outside and ice in the middle? That’s the entire building.

And a few months later?

Boom. Floor caves in. Some guy on the fifth floor of an law firm gets pancaked because Superman “saved” it with mouth ice and spit.

And when he’s not freezing stuff, he’s welding it.

Spot-welding steel beams with his heat vision. No helmet. No gear. No tech-institute degree. Just retina lasers and confidence.

It works. Kinda. For a while. Until it doesn’t.

“What happened to the bridge?”

“Superman fixed it.”

“So… it collapsed?”

“Yeah.”

Then there’s the hearing.

This guy hears everything. Every whisper. Every personal moment.

You think your therapist appointment is private?

Superman knows about your insomnia.

Your awkward fantasies.

Your weird humming sound when you clean the kitchen.

Think Alexa, but worse.

He means well. He’s trying.

But Metropolis is slowly becoming the world capital of cracked ceilings, tumors, and low-grade anxiety caused by orbital supervision.

Thor Is a Walking Insurance Disaster

You ever get your roof vaporized because a Norse god had feelings?

That’s what it’s like living with Thor.

He shows up, eyes glowing, hammer spinning, yelling in Old Norse and boom. Your chimney is dust.

And insurance? Forget it.

Read that  “Act of God” clause. 

It meant a tree fell on your garage or a bad storm blew down your mailbox.

Now it means “Thor got dramatic near your zip code.”

“So I’m covered?”

“No. No, you’re not. Act of Asgard.”

You try to file a claim that says “my porch exploded because of a hammer,” they just send you a PDF titled So Your Neighborhood Was Hit by a Celestial Event.

And let’s talk lightning.

Not regular lightning. No.

Targeted divine lightning.

It fries trees. Melts pavement. Destroys Wi-Fi.

Then leaves your house smelling like burnt goat hair and ozone.

And Thor doesn’t clean up.

He just spins the hammer, yells something like “Skraeljorn!” and flies off like none of this is his problem.

Because to him, it ain’t.

To you?

It’s a $12,000 roof replacement and a raccoon in your open attic.

You gonna sue him? Good luck.

You gonna subpoena a guy who lives on a rainbow bridge and solves conflict with sky lasers?

“I don’t recognize your jurisdiction.”

“Cool. My house is gone.”

Thor is the kind of guy who destroys your chimney, kills your lawn, and gets a statue for his efforts.

Being saved by a superhero sounds cool until you’re stuck in traffic because someone vaporized the overpass with a thunder hammer.

The villains? Yeah, they’re a problem.

But the heroes — they’re a recurring cost.

They don’t file paperwork.

They don’t clean up.

They save the day, then leave behind the mess — and somehow, we thank them for it.

No hard feelings. But next time someone punches a hole through your kitchen wall and calls it justice, maybe ask:

“Is this covered?”