We here at PopCultureSquad are sad to report that regular columnist Marc Alan Fishman’s normal weekly piece was not turned in this week, and in its place was the following letter left in his submission inbox. Please take caution when reading. Thank you.

–The Management

Dear Flash and the downtrodden dopes of Central City,

Tis I, Mark Mardon, more often known to you as Weather Wizard. I know all too many of you are already rolling your eyes. “What’s this? Yet-another plot hatched by our city’s rogue’s gallery by way of a stolen opinion column?!” Nay, cretins. Firstly? It’s “Rogues Gallery”, capitalized. We’re trademarking it soon. Secondly? I didn’t steal this column you’re reading today. The yutz missed his deadline, and luckily I happened to be strolling past his open laptop. Since his bearded bouffant was nowhere to be found, I did him a favor and filled in for him while he was off doing whatever columnists on this site do when they aren’t pontificating on pop culture. He was probably doomscrolling on the john, with his boxers round his ankles. HA! And lastly? I don’t hatch plots. In the past, perhaps, I’ve been known to steal, snipe, jaywalk, trespass, vandalize, or (on occasion) participate in some light(ning) tomfoolery. 

But not this time. No.

It dawned on me that I have been woefully pedantic in the use of my most amazing weather wand. In the past, I have attempted in vain to gain monetary dispensation through the wizardry of my brother’s infallible invention — may he rest in peace. But alas, versus my slain sibling, my mind has more oft than not been lured by the simplest answers to life’s biggest questions. With great power should come great reward, no? Well, based on my frequent jaunts at Iron Heights, I’ve grown weary at the shallow depths of my depravity. In short? I’m done with the short-cons. They simply don’t pay!

Henceforth, I will be utilizing my climate conjuring merely to make you all miserable. That’s right. For the indefinite future, I will be unleashing wave after wave of unpleasant meteorological mishaps. The dog days of August will swelter til you’ve never been sweatier. And just as you get used to the heatwave (Sorry, Mick, I had to!), the next day will come with a cold front that would make Leonard Snart shart. And with the rapid pressure pressing down on you all, the storm clouds coming in between will rain cats and dogs for days on end. Maybe a tornado will hit your sleepy suburb. Maybe it’ll happen again only three weeks later. You’ll never know until the National Weather Service is pinging your cellphone — before the storm kills your power, and strains the cell network to its breaking point. Nothing would be more delicious to me than knowing hundreds of thousands of sycophants furiously refreshing their phones to be left staring at the same unchanging screens.

And while I’m no clairvoyant, it would not take Grodd’s mental acuity to ascertain what you’re all thinking right now. But NO. This isn’t a blackmail scheme. Reread me, muggles. My goal isn’t financial. It’s merely in mirth earned at the inertia of your collective ire. My reward need not be in bank notes, crypto, jewels, or gold. Simply knowing the denizens of this dive we call Central City will soon be known as the most miserable lot since the bastards in Blüdhaven, forever living under a cloud… literally, not figuratively. 

“But Flash will save us!” you chortle. Except, no. He won’t. You see, your scarlet speedster upholds a pretty well-versed code of ethics. He’ll absolutely stop a crime in progress. He’ll save a citizen in peril. He’ll shake hands, kiss babies, and be the do-gooder you desire! Here’s the rub, rubes. My weather wand, if used simply to make the weather wicked — not placing a single one of you in harm’s way — is no more illegal than the lot of you running to AI bots to waste precious environmental resources all to produce engagement bait on your social media streams. Were I to make it dreary day-in and day-out… your gardens may not bloom beautifully, but nature always finds a way. And therein is the beauty of my tumultuous transgression. It is merely my stated plan to make you all miserable. No law exists that would prevent it, and your local legislature is as muddy as the ground Matt Hagan lumbers on. Even if some heroic alderman figured out the legalese necessary to compel me to cease and desist? My merry Rogues are lawyered up pretty well. So, expect a lengthy court battle whilst my climate chaos continues unabated. BWA HA HA HA HA!

So, prep yourselves, for the Weather Wizard will soon be the bane of the barometer. Winter is coming. Or maybe double summer. Or maybe both in the same day. And rain. Oh man am I going to make it rain. And hail sometimes. Just enough to dent your car and make you weigh the options of filing a claim or just giving up when you have to trade it in. Oooh man. And then maybe for like five or six days, I’ll make it seventy-two and sunny. Not a cloud in the sky. Lull you into a false sense that it’s all over. Then? Boom! Three weeks of grey days, greyer nights, and moody mornings full of rain jags, whipping wind, and the kind of temperature that makes you pack a jacket, but never sure if it’s the right one. Hoo baby, I feel alive!

Oh, crap. That bearded idiot is coming back in the office. Better send this off before he has a cha—