Tigra: My Take On The Feline Avenger Who Took Down A Super-Skrull

Holy crap there's an editorial on here. It must be years since the last! Keep up the good work. I'm tired of seeing rumors and Marvel fanboys

Some characters are just a bit too much to translate to live action, She-Hulk was one of them. It just doesn't connect with audiences as well.

THANK YOU for putting some respect on her name! Love Tigers, would love to see her in the MCU

I'm sorry; you are...?

The greatest story ever written, you are welcome.
The Sorrow of Detonatus
Before the world knew him as Detonatus, the man with the power of explosive diarrhea, he was simply a boy named Oliver Finch.
Oliver was born during a thunderstorm in a tiny coastal village. The doctor who delivered him died moments later when the hospital roof collapsed. His mother spent her last breath naming him. His father, a fisherman, vanished at sea before ever seeing his son's face.
Raised by his grandmother, Oliver grew up kind, hopeful, and impossibly unlucky. Every stray dog he adopted passed away. Every friend he made moved away. Every birthday cake somehow ended up on the floor before he could blow out the candles.
Yet he endured.
At seventeen, he met the love of his life, Clara. They spent years dreaming of a future together: a small house, a garden, perhaps children. On the day Oliver planned to propose, a freak meteor struck the café where they were supposed to meet.
Clara survived.
Oliver did not make it there in time.
For years he blamed himself.
Seeking purpose, he became a humanitarian aid worker, traveling to disaster zones and helping strangers rebuild their lives. People called him "the man who could find hope anywhere."
Then came the accident.
While delivering supplies to a secret research facility, Oliver was exposed to an experimental particle reactor, twelve unstable chemicals, and a genetically modified probiotic yogurt that had been banned in forty-three countries.
The explosion should have killed him.
Instead, it transformed him.
For three days he lay unconscious.
On the fourth day, he awoke in a hospital bed and accidentally unleashed a blast from his bowels so powerful that it shattered windows three blocks away, launched an ambulance into a river, and altered local weather patterns.
The doctors fled.
The government classified him as a biological catastrophe.
His grandmother, the last family he had, died before he could explain what had happened.
The world laughed.
News channels mocked him.
Children pointed and giggled.
Villains didn't fear him—they made fart noises whenever he appeared.
Yet every time disaster struck, Oliver showed up.
When meteors fell from the sky, he propelled them off course.
When alien warships invaded, he rocketed into orbit using forces no physicist could explain.
When a volcano threatened a city, he redirected the lava flow through an act historians would later describe only as "deeply unfortunate."
He saved millions.
Nobody took him seriously.
Statues were never built.
Songs were never sung.
The only thing the public remembered was the smell.
One winter evening, after saving the world for the hundredth time, Oliver stood alone atop a skyscraper overlooking the city.
Below him, families laughed together.
Couples walked hand in hand.
Life continued because of sacrifices nobody knew he had made.
A child looked up, recognized him, and shouted:
"Hey! Poop Man!"
The crowd erupted in laughter.
Oliver smiled anyway.
Not because it didn't hurt.
Because after a lifetime of losing everything, he had learned that being a hero was never about recognition.
It was about carrying the burden no one else could.
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
Then a pigeon hit him in the face.
And somewhere in the distance, a toilet flushed ominously.
Duty called once more.
The saddest part isn't the power. It's that he genuinely became one of Earth's greatest heroes, and history still remembers him as "Poop Man."