"Sorry," the Soviet Superwoman said, turning the wheel of the Chevrolet Silverado too late to avoid a pothole. They were north of the West End Industrial Park, traveling down a road in a dilapidated part of the city, and the pavement was in need of maintenance. "When someone has the ability to fly, the ability to drive becomes rusty."
"You've put me through worse," came a voice from the back of the truck. "Remember when you dropped that bus on my head?" the Crimson Conservative asked, opening the window that connected the front of the vehicle to the enclosed bed wider.
"Which time?" the driver asked.
"I was thinkin' about when you showe