He was dressed in a black sleeveless shirt with a black leather jacket and black jogging pants, with black laceless sneakers. His socks were navy, just because he felt like it.
The man sitting next to him, on his right, happened to be wearing a longsleeve dress shirt which was untucked, but only in the back. He wore black dress pants to match, with white socks and black shoes. His left shoe was untied. His tie, which had a picture of Bart Simpson on it, was loosened from his neck, and he fingered it often, when he wasn't picking up the glass in front of him to drink. He was quite eccentric, or at least, that's what he said about himself.
The two men were sitting next to each other at the bar, on stools with cushioned maroon seats perched upon gold poles. The eccentric man liked these stools very much.
The younger man that was dressed in black sipped his drink, which appeared to also be gold. He swished it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing it, at which point he sighed.
"Life seems pointless to you too, huh?" the eccentric man next to him asked. "I feel that way a lot. Did you ever feel like you didn't exist? Or just part of you...sometimes, it feels like I don't have arms."
The younger man passed this off as drunk talk, but the other man persisted.
"Sorry to babble, I'm just a bit...what's the word again? ...eccentric, that's it. I'm a bit eccentric, but I'm not weird. Well, people call me weird, but I like to think of myself as a normal guy." He chuckled at his own sentences, and continued doing that after the things he said that he personally thought were funny.
The younger man thought he might've been a flood victim of some kind. Then he remembered there hadn't been any floods around the area for a long time. Then he thought the man might be a well-dressed homeless man. Maybe he hadn't been homeless for two long.
"I mean, I have degrees in math and computer science, right? And I work for a computer that produces tech, you know? And all I do all day is sit in a cubicle. *chuckle* When I get tired of designing circuits, I write stories and post them on the internet. *chuckle*"
The younger man sighed again, wanting to get up and walk away but too tired to do so. Besides, he wanted a few more drinks before he left. And maybe, on some level, he realized he felt a bit sorry for the guy, and decided to listen to his story for a little while longer.
The eccentric man finished off his glass of scotch and then turned back to the younger man. "But yeah, life is pretty pointless. We're born, we do a bunch of stuff, we die. And the bunch of stuff we do is usually pretty boring. I mean, sometimes, I hate the person I am, because it's not the way I want to be. But it's hard to change that. I've given up trying to get a date with a woman. I'm either too shy, and if I manage to work up the courage eventually, I get rejected. Sometimes I think I respect them too much. Other guys, they have no problem with them, but they don't seem to treat them the way I think they should really be treated, y'know? *chuckle*"
The younger man nodded and then signalled the man behind the bar to give him another gin and tonic.
"There was this one girl...really special." He fiddled with his tie some more and then pushed his wavy brown hair forward with his hand. "Her name was Kate, and uh...it didn't work."
This time, the younger man finally spoke. "Sorry."
The older man smiled. "Thanks, but, I guess it just wasn't meant to happen, or whatever they say. I figure I might write a thesis or something on my view of the universe, but it could be too depressing. *chuckle* Maybe I should've been a psychiatrist, or at least go to one. *chuckle*"
The edge of the younger man's mouth curled into a slight smile.
"Anyway, I gotta get home. I need some sleep, y'know. *chuckle* Maybe I can fit in time to listen to Billy Joel, which I usually do when I'm depressed, which is most of the time. *chuckle* Anyway, I'll seeya."
"Seeya," the younger man replied. Just then, part of the tip of his finger fell into his drink. He tried to cover it up without being too conspicuous. However, the eccentric man was gone.
Within a few minutes, a heavyset biker sat next to the young man on his left. "Hey," the large bearded man grunted. "Hey. You an albino or something?"
This may be a good time to mention that the young man had very pale skin, and stringy black hair. The young man's teeth were slightly yellow. Then again, so were the biker's.
The young man sighed again, got up, and left the bar.
The bartender waited a few seconds, and then took the glass that the young man was drinking from and went into the back room.
Kate Mills pulled the rubber gloves off her hands and walked over to the reception counter of the emergency room at Phantomhawk Memorial Hospital.
"Slow night?" she asked the woman behind the desk, as she poured a cup of coffee.
"Yep," said Uuanda.
Kate sipped her coffee, one cream, two sugars. "Good. I've been waiting for a decent break...but there's been a lull recently. No big super-hero fights. No massive casualties."
"Amen to that," the black receptionist smiled.
That's when the doors burst open, and two EMTs bolted in with a man lying on a stretcher.
"Better hurry with this one, doc," one of the EMTs, named Jake Olavson, told her.
Kate sighed and put down her coffee. She remembered the rule: There are no breaks. After years of doing this, she could easily settle into the routine. Breaks were far and few between, especially in this city. She hardly had time for a meaningful relationship.
"What's the what?"
The second EMT, Damarian Collins, spoke up, as the three doctors, plus the man on the gurney, hurried down the hall to an operating room.
"Gunshot wound, not to mention the few stab wounds, old gunshot wounds, and other scars which never appear to have been treated."
"Treated it a bit in the field and on the way over," said Olavson. "I caught a weak heartbeat, but it seemed sporadic. He was stirring though."
"Where'd you find him?" Kate asked.
"Around the docks, near Dempsey's pub," Collins noted. "Police were there checking on a disturbance. Probably a drug deal. Apparently, this guy tried to stop 'em and they plugged him."
Olavson continued. "Some guy named Dent that was returning to the bar because he forgot his coat phoned it in."
"Rick Dent?" Kate ventured.
"Yeah, he came in the ambulance. How'd you..."
"Used to date him," the doctor replied as they entered the operating room.
The two EMTs quickly picked the pale man up off the stretcher and placed him on the table. They hung around to help, since there were hardly any nurses working night shift.
The paramedics had cut the man's shirt off in the ambulance, enabling Kate to get to work right away.
The eccentric man from earlier popped in the door. "Hey, I don't know if anyone else is around, so I figured I should tell you that there's some more ambulances showing up with...Kate?"
The doctor turned around to face the man. "Hi, Rick, long time no see," she said through the mask over her mouth. "You can't be back here. Not a good time."
"I know, but I wanted to tell you...."
"You heard her, pal. Get out," Collins ordered.
"Story of my life," Rick grumbled. A few more doctors and nurses hurried past him to greet the new batch of patients.
"Wait out there," Olavson told him.
Kate wiped her brow. "Got the bullet. Still, looks bad."
Rick stood outside in the hallway, leaning against the wall. He fumbled with his tie and then ran his fingers through his hair. He just met the guy currently under the knife, but the young man seemed like an old friend already.
He heard Kate's voice from inside the room. "What? This isn't possible..."
Rick gulped. The woman he still loved was fighting for his new friend's life. The prognosis didn't sound good.
Rick stuffed what the EMTs told him. He yanked off his tie and threw it into a nearby trash can, and then went back into the room. No one had noticed him.
Kate was bent over the young man. "This can't be right."
"What is it?" Collins asked.
Rick remained in nervous silence. His collar suddenly felt too tight, so he opened the top button of his shirt.
Kate took a few deep breaths. "This guy must've been dead for a few days, if not a few weeks or so."
Rick spoke. "What? I was talking to him in the bar! We had drinks together! He can't be dead! I saw him! I saw..."
The EMTs were about to forcefully remove him, but Kate held up her arm, and they stopped. "I...don't know what to say," she stated. "But all the signs point to the fact that he's been dead a few weeks, maybe. His body's showing signs of rotting. You met a walking, talking, corpse."
"But..."
"There's been odder things in this city."
Rick held his hand up to his face and sighed. "Geez...dead..."
"Not sure how he died. Could've been many things. He has a lot of wounds and scars..."
"Battle scars," said a voice.
Kate whirled around, and Rick tried to get a good look.
The dead man was sitting up on the bed. "Hi," he greeted them.
The two paramedics were astonished, and said nothing.
"How...?" Rick mumbled.
"No, impossible," said Kate. "You were dead. There was no pulse. No breathing. You're cold to the touch."
"Not 'were', doctor," the pale man began. "Am."
Rick chuckled nervously.
"I'm a walking corpse," he went on. "Most of these scars were inflicted post-mortem. I think."
"And the fight at the docks?" the doctor asked.
"I'm...not really sure. I want to fight the good fight. I've been helping people, since I died. Protecting them, getting into the mix with gangs..."
"Why?"
"There's not many people that would fight for them."
"There are super-heroes."
"Sure, they protect the world. The country. I've been helping out nearby. I don't really have a place to stay, but they let me stay with them. I got into a fight trying to keep them from getting hurt by gangs. It got me these," he said, referring to his scars.
"Now, if you'll excuse me," he said.
"No. You can't. I mean...there are forms to fill out, and..."
"Sorry, can't," he told her. "Oh, and by the way...Rick's a great guy. I think you should go out with him again."
And then the dead man left.
Kate looked around the room, astounded. "Do you believe that?"
"No," Rick Dent said. "No, I don't. So, Kate..." he began, chuckling.
The dead young man perched on a rooftop, now clad in a dark hooded sweatshirt, given to him by a friend in the neighborhood.
He was deceased. He didn't really know how. Nor did he know how or why he came back from the dead. But he had a feeling that he should continue to help out, while he still could. He knew he'd soon rot away to such an extent that he couldn't keep being out and about.
"I can help you," someone said from behind him.
The young man turned his head. A tall man in a black suit stood several feet away from him, with his hands behind his back. He wore sunglasses, even though it was night.
"Who are you?"
"I work for the government," the suited man replied. "If you help us, we can help you."
"Oh yeah? How?"
The man smiled. "I think you'll find my proposition very interesting indeed..."
Continued...
Dead Boy #2 Contractual Obligations
The helicopter was large, and very very black.
So black, that it was truly darker than the night, with was illuminated slightly by a sliver of moon hanging precariously in the sky.
The young man was seated in the rear cabin of the helicopter. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, black spandex-like pants, and black metal boots which ended just under his knee, but supported by kneepads.
He fitted fingerless black gloves onto his hands, and strapped goggles with red lenses on top of his head, resting them at his hairline.
The helicopter travelled silently through the night, only making a dim humming sound.
The interior of the vehicle was mostly black leather and carpeting, except for the control panels in the cockpit, which were mahogany wood grain.
The pilot descended slightly over Carrington and continued on through the skies.
A caucasian man in a black suit and purple tie sat next to the pilot, and smiled.
The young man remained in the spacious back cabin alone.
The helicopter descended more, over Pierce Heights.
Pierce Heights is described in The Guide to Parodiopolis as a luxurious village where some of the richest people in the world live and work. Donald Trump and Bill Gates have summer homes there that they rarely frequent. The former mansion of Mark Hopkins, also known as spiffy, who happens to be mayor of pretty much every city in America, is located there, but no one has gone near it in years, for fear of the beavers. There is also the McKinley home, which has since been abandoned, on account of all its owners dead or in prison.
The more higher-up businesses are based in Pierce Heights, instead of Carrington, which is the major financial district of Parodiopolis.
Also, the more sophisticated person(read: filthy stinking rich person) may find such places as The Auburn Camel Masseuses, M, a post-modern bar, The Willow Nightclub, or The Fancy Sherpa laundromat very relaxing and enjoyable.
There are also high-society clubs, for the rich, richer, and stinking rich to socialize at, and brag about their wealth. Some of these include The Royal Magistrate Banquet Hall, The Leyland Reed Memorial Country Club, The McAllister Tavern on the Hill, and The Englehart Hunt & Game Club.
However, the most exclusive, secretive, and downright spookiest society has to be The Heckfire Club. Spoken about only in whispers, the Heckfire Club is a seclusive society composed of only a precious few members.
Little is truly known about the Heckfire Club. Going back to the days that Parodiopolis was first founded, the Heckfire Club has been around, and only the oldest and richest families in the city are a part of it. Many believe it to be some kind of cult, or perhaps a group devoted to sex. Still others think it is a secret society that imports foreign taxidermy.
No one is right.
The Heckfire Club is truly an old society, and its members are those of the richest and oldest families in Parodiopolis. Still, no one knows their true origin.
The true sinister secret of the Heckfire Club, is that they are actually other-dimensional beings known as Hero Feeders. They thrive on the energy of super-heroes, devouring it like energy parasites. The current members of the Heckfire Club are not descendants of the original members; they *are* the original members.
Currently, they have a visitor.
Leoff Marlowe was a distinguished lawyer. That is, only if lawyers could be considered distinguished. He lived in one of the ritzier hotels in Carrington, and commuted daily to Pierce Heights, for he represented many rich people there, including the Heckfire Club.
He was currently inside the building, chatting calmly with Simonides Slaughter, the Black Emperor of the Heckfire Club. Leoff, of course, did not know that the Club was composed of cosmic Hero Feeders, but instead thought that it was just a ritzy social group with a penchant for fancy dress. This means that he didn't know about the dungeons underground with kept several lesser-known heroes captive.
Leoff was currently pushing several papers in front of the esteemed Mr. Slaughter for him to sign. These papers involved such matters as the breaking of new ground for a possible new Heckfire compound, and the purchase of a restaurant in Manga Town, all standard procedure, of course.
Little did Leoff currently know, but just as Simonides Slaughter was signing a contract for increased security of his property, a certain pale-skinned living corpse had entered the trophy room.
With the goggles over his eyes, the young man was viewing the room in infra-red, which told him that the cases that covered the walls were protected by heat-sensitive lasers. If these lasers detected enough body heat, they would activate the alarms.
However, having already bypassed the cameras and alarms up to this point, the young man continued to scan the walls until he came upon what it is he came for in the first place.
Leoff was a graduate of Harvard, towards the middle of his class, yet with enough flair to land him the high-paying jobs. As he left the Heckfire Club throne room with a manila envelope under his arm and a wad of cash stuffed in his pocket, he throughly declared to himself that it truly was a good day to be him.
He'd change his mind soon enough.
The young man casually stepped through the heat-sensitive barrier and broke the trophy case open with his fist. The lasers, looking for heat, would find none in his cold dead body.
The prize he had come for dropped into his hands. It was a small gold box, and looked like it would hold jewelry or a few small trinkets. He sniffed, wondering why his employers would want this. Still, it wasn't up to him.
He turned to leave.
Then he saw Leoff Marlowe, attorney, taking a shortcut exit through the trophy room.
The young man rolled his eyes and sighed softly. He didn't figure there was any way to get out of there without the odd redheaded man in the green suit noticing him.
He turned around and looked for another exit.
Yale Lee was lost hopelessly in despair.
You see, Yale was a minor super-hero from China known as the Star. He had the ability to mimic the abilities of animals on the Chinese zodiac. As the rabbit, he could leap high. As the rat, he could move fast. As the dragon, he could unleash powerful force blasts.
Of course, the power-dampener burrowed in one of his left molars disabled his powers. This seriously affected whether or not he would still be imprisoned in order to remain on next Wednesday's menu.
There were others with him, yes: Bus-Stop, Waterfall, Shelf, Unicorn, Ralph...but they all had power-dampeners. There was no chance of an escape.
That is, until Yale saw the pale man wander into the dungeon hall.
He hurriedly picked himself up out of the dirt and dust he was lying in an ran towards the cell gate, banging furiously on it.
The young man turned to look at him. He inspected the lock on the gate.
Yale went to speak, but the young man held a finger up to his lips, urging Yale to be quiet. The young man kicked the gate as hard as he could. It didn't budge.
Then the man pulled a pistol out from his jacket and slipped a silencer on it. Then he shot the lock. Then he kicked it again. It burst open.
Yale ran out and excitedly shook the young man hands.
Then he pointed to the other prisoners.
The young man sighed.
As the pale man with the gun strode over to the other cells, Yale worked on pulling out one of his left molars.
Leoff Marlowe ambled down one of the many hallways, whistling to himself.
He enjoyed his job. He had the good life.
Getting paid more cash than people could even dream of by having rich people sign papers and talking the IRS out of suing them for tax evasion.
Leoff was a fast talker, a smoot walker, and a thoroughly dirty scumbag.
Still, he loved his life.
He stopped loving it shortly after the wall next to him exploded outward, sending him flying across the hallway and into the opposite wall.
Then Yale Lee, the Star, having recently self-removed the power dampener inhibiting his abilites, stepped into the hallway, followed by the rest of the former prisoners.
Leoff gulped. He was suddenly filled with fear, dread, and despair.
Yale grinned. He suddenly felt like he had the good life.
The helicopter picked the young dead man up in the backyard.
The dead man climbed in and sat down, tossing the small gold box to the man in the black suit, who grinned.
"Good work, Dead Boy," he said.
The dead man spoke, and it seemed like he hadn't used his vocal chords in years. "I hate that name," he replied.
"Well, you *do* need a code name, because we really don't have anything else to call you." The man in the suit tossed a small device to the young man.
'Dead Boy' caught it. It was silver, and gun shaped, but had a small syringe filled with a green liquid inside of it. The man pressed the point against his neck and pulled the trigger. The green chemical emptied out of the syringe and flowed into him.
"So why do you need the box?" he asked.
"You'll see," stated the man in the suit. "Your job gets bigger."
Continued.
Nats
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