… in a Valley storage locker. The original Superman comic book was reportedly stolen in 2000 from Cage’s West Hollywood home, but new information has arisen: a leaked transcript of the police interrogation with the comic book itself.

Q: Name?

Action Comics: It’s right here on my cover. Action Comics. Can’t you read? Jesus.

Q: Age?

AC: I was born in June of 1938. I’m 72 years old. Treat me with some respect.

Q: Occupation?

AC: I’m a Superman comic. I’m a collector’s item. I’m worth more than you’ll ever own in your lifetime. I’m a SUPERMAN COMIC, did you hear me?! Get me a cup of coffee.

Q: Is it true you were stolen from Nicolas Cage’s home in 2000?

AC: Listen, have you ever been to Nic Cage’s house? That guy has more leopard-print rugs and sheets and crap than the Playboy mansion. He’s got strobe lights and lava lamps and 70s bullshit art. And the place is always full of smoke.

Q: Just answer the question, please.

AC: I left! I left, okay? I couldn’t take it anymore. I grew up in a different age, when Americans appreciated superheroes. When we all had a common enemy, the Krauts, and we knew our fight was right. When men were men and didn’t need Rogaine. If you went bald, you went bald. That Cage guy – don’t get me started.

Q: Where did you go when you left the house?

AC: I plopped myself into some floozy’s handbag, and she took me back to her place. She didn’t know what I was – thought I was just some weird-looking catalog for menswear. She wanted to use me to order some blue tights and a red speedo for her boyfriend. When she couldn’t find a – what’s that thing called? A web thingie, she gave up and chucked me in the garbage. Me! I’m worth a million dollars! The nerve!

Q: What happened then?

AC: Some young punk going through her garbage plucked me out and took me home. He flipped through my pages about five minutes, and then I sat under his bed for about three years.

Q: Did you find any illegal substances under the bed?

AC: Excuse me?

Q: Did you – never mind.

AC: Idiot.

Q: How did you end up in the storage locker?

AC: The kid got packed off to college, and I ended up in a box of crap that went to Goodwill. I sat on the shelves there for a while with the likes of Richie Rich and Archie, who are good enough fellows but just such immature dolts. God, the conversations. Absolutely deadly.

Q: How long were you there?

AC: It felt like years. How would you like to be stuck on a six-inch-wide shelf with a bunch of horny high-schoolers and an annoying little rich kid?

Q: So, how did you end up in the storage locker?

AC: You know, you could show a little more respect, here. I mean, if you ended up living in a bus station, or in a cardboard box, do you think I’d just waltz up and ask you how you ended up there?

How much are you worth, son? Your net worth? Hah? You know how much I’m worth? A million dollars! You know where I should live? I should live in a mansion, under a piece of expensive museum glass, with beautiful people coming and admiring me! Not in a storage locker! Why, I oughta –

Q: Easy, old-timer. Easy.

Listen, let’s cut a deal. You don’t ask any more questions, and I’ll just go quietly on my way. Now that my story is out, I’m sure we can get some emotionally stunted Internet zillionaire to pony up seven figures for me and give me the home I deserve. I’ll ask him to slip you a little jack on the side. Whattaya say? Can we cut the interrogation? And where’s my coffee?

Q: We’re almost done here. Just one more question. Did you know that Nicolas Cage has a six-year-old son he named Kal-El, which was Superman’s birth name on the planet Krypton?

AC: What…? Really…? [tearing up]… Aw, you made me cry, and water damage brings my price down! Dammit!

Nic… Nic… I didn’t know. Oh my god, I had the perfect home all along! Do you think he’ll take me back? Don’t tell him what I said about his bullshit furniture!

Q: Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.