A little-known tale of how a woman became the most read newspaperwoman in the world

What am I to do? I am a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner and can't type a lick. I am a newspaper reporter for the largest newspaper in the world.

My boss entered my office and said, "Look, Lola, I know you have many accolades, including your Pulitzer Prizes. I have put you on four stories over the last month, and you have not returned a word. If you can't come up with something soon, I am just going to have to let you go. Do I make myself clear?"

I said, "Yes, boss. I am trying so hard. I just have this writer's block. I started typing, and the most I have been able to do is four words. I need inspiration. The stories you sent me out to do left me flat and uninspired."

He said, "That's too bad, Lola, but this is my last warning. So, get it together. You have two weeks."   

I thought only two weeks. Might as well be two years I just can’t write anymore.

I was about to leave the office and go home. Then Jimbo stopped me and said, "What's wrong, Lola? Have you been crying?"

I said, "Nothing is wrong. Can't you tell?"

He said, "Now Lola, I have known you for a long time. You can tell me." 

I told him, "I don't want to talk about it. I can't write anymore. I don't know what's wrong. I need inspiration of some sort. I must get out of here. See you later." 

I could tell others in the office heard me as I stormed out. 

.............................

That night I sat on my balcony, which overlooked the city that never sleeps, and wondered why I could not write anymore about all that happens in this city.

I heard sirens and went to the edge of my tenth-story balcony and saw the police throwing another criminal into the police car. 

I thought I should run down there and see what happened. Then I thought it would just be another mugger or purse snatcher. It seemed there were millions of those each day. That would not inspire me.

I went back inside and sat in front of my typewriter, just hoping something would pop into my mind. Nothing, my mind was blank.

I went to close my blinds, and suddenly, there was a silhouette of a man standing there on my balcony. I ran and got my mace out of my purse. This guy was not going to rob me.

I peeked out the window and saw this man. He was wearing a red cape, blue tights, and had a letter on his chest I could not make out.

I thought it was just my luck, and I got a crazy person standing outside. 

I then heard him say, "Lola, it is okay. I am a friend."

I stepped outside and said, "How do you know my name? Who are you? What do you want? Why are you dressed like that?"

He said, "I am just a friend. I mean you no harm." 

I said, "But, but, but how did you get here?"

He said, "I flew up here. Let me show you." 

He took my hand, and the next thing I knew I was flying over the city. Once I stopped shaking and trembling, I realized what a spectacular view I had.

We landed back on my balcony, and he told me a little about himself then said, "Now you should have something to write about."

Then he just flew away.

I thought, how did he know I could not write? The next thought is, who cares? Now I can write.

I went to work the following day and was burning up my typewriter. I was typing so fast.

Then my boss Pary came into my office and said, "Did you hear about that man who stopped three robberies and caught two muggers last night? The crazy part is he was wearing a cape."

I said, "No, I did not hear that. But I may know something about him."

Pary looked down at my typewriter, saw that I had typed five pages, and asked, "What inspired you? Was it him?"

I said, "Let me finish here. Then you can read it, and then you will know. Please shut the door on your way out."

I had my inspiration, but I was struggling with what to call the stranger.

I heard a knock on my door and yelled, "Who is it, and what do you want? I am busy here."

My door opened slowly, and it was Cluck the new dork we hired.

He said, "I heard you had some trouble writing and wanted to know If I could help you in any way."

I replied, "I am not having trouble anymore. I am writing a story about that caped man. The only problem I have is what to call him."

Cluck asked, “What did he look like? What was he wearing?"

I said, “He was devastatingly handsome and had the bluest eyes. He wore a red cape and blue tights and had a big letter on his chest."

Cluck asked, "A big Letter?”

I said, "Yes. Now I have it, I will call him a "Strong Guy. No, wait, maybe "Stud." That won't work."

Cluck said, "Keep his name simple.”   

I said, "He was super nice. I will think of something. Thanks for the help, Cluck. Now get out so I can finish here."

I was so proud to hand Pary my new article for the paper. 

Pary read the article and said, “This should get you another Pulitzer Prize. Well, done, Lola."

I went home that night, and that super nice guy was on my balcony again, asking, “Where would you like to fly tonight, Lola?"

I said, “Now I see that letter on your chest it is a ”S”. I hear Paris is nice this time of year."