I half-expect to find Fizz Dixon dead. Things seem to be heading in that direction.
But he's alive and kicking and burning the midnight oil in his storefront office down on Claremont Street. He doesn't look up when we walk in, but that's not because he's dead; it's because he's sitting behind his big, red desk hunched over his smartphone, texting like a lunatic with his mangled fingers.
"Fizz?" I weave around the boxes of memorabilia stacked all over the floor. Dixon's got a hot sideline selling souvenirs online from the bouts he promotes--bullets that have bounced off chests, gun barrels twisted into pretzels, that sort of thing. When it comes to super-heroes, he's got all the angles figured out.
Which he should. Because ol' Fizz Dixon used to be a hero himself before the acciden
