Tales of the Parodyverse

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anonymous
Sat Mar 06, 2004 at 07:40:25 pm EST
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Nihilist #4
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Traffic swarmed by him…and yet, he didn’t fully register it. His mind was where it always was,
where it drove him on the nights that he was so banged up and exasperated that he came within a quark’s
diameter of giving in to his deepest psychological desire. He listened to the quiet almost-voice inside of
him in the day, as well, when the sunlight pried its way into his eye sockets with all the grace of a
jackhammer and an ice pick’s illegitimate son, when his conscious thoughts were of nothing but an all-encompassing rage, and his subconscious was a drive-in movie paused at the climatic, violent conclusion of a Man’s Man movie, where half the breathing population of Western Europe, roughly, looked as if modern day Huns had risen from the grave and decided to enact upon homo lackadaisicalness the sins of their own technological advances.

    He registered it only in a barely subconscious level, where instinct told him to dive, dodge, and weave like a demented spider’s command. To drivers, it looked, at best, as if some college student had taken one too many finals and decided to exact his frustrations upon the swarming GothaMetropolis York noon rush hour. In truth, only raw desire and incoherent screaming that only he could hear drove him further towards the now-legendary GothaMetropolis Squire headquarters, located at 42 Moore Avenue. He could only hear whispered demands, but they were enough to combat the weariness that kept eating away at his will.

In time, he hoped these feelings would fade…but he’d had them for months now. Sometimes, he could almost remember what happened to him…he could nearly see the face behind his hate, his rage, the lens that focused his prism—but another unbearable migraine engulfed this memory like a wildfire, and all he knew then was pain, and indecision, and the most basic human responses. This suffering he bore with a purpose not his own…and in time, the voice inside of him seemed to be hinting at its name. It told him, during these times of animalistic perception, that he was an accident of birth… that his hunt was against the one whose semen gave him life. It told him that this individual’s only interest in him was in his genetic structure, that even his mother was of no comparative use to him. It allowed him a moment to grasp this, to gnaw on this most unpalatable of conceptual treats. Once his self-destructive mental banquet was completed, the voice asked him one question… and with his assent, became a destructive force on par with the United States’ “life saving measure” at Hiroshima. Imperceptibly, the man being besieged by The Voice stood inside The Squire’s threshold, and watched with a nearly comatose bemusement as its Senior Editor attempted to remove…them…from the premises. Luckily for the Senior Editor of the Squire, this was a destructive force that was kept in check…barely.

    Once fully in control of its host’s body, The Voice was indescribable, the Squire’s Senior Editor would later tell others. The best he could manage was, “Imagine being a research scientist in the microbiological realm. Further imagine, then, a discovery you’ve made with your own genes, that gives undeniable proof that due to a bizarre genetic breakdown in your cells, you’ll be dead in a month. Add that feeling of dread to the realization that every close family member you have will join you in that fate. That level of dread approaches what I felt when that…entity spoke to me. It’s nowhere near close enough, but it gets you in the neighborhood…” Luckily for him, its question was easily answered by a non-verbal response.

    The…creature didn’t necessarily rush out the door, upon receiving a satisfactory answer from its prey. It simply wasn’t in the Squire, anymore…it was glancing upwards at a heated brawl that had broken out on its roof. Witnesses that were later locked in GMY’s finest mental wards would claim that the creature dematerialized through the wall. Eyes that had seen more devastation than American newscasters correspondents in Palestine could even begin to understand narrowed, and a driven, cold expression overtook the almost genocidal rage evident on its face. Its eyes were somewhat like glowing coals, if coal could glow and still retain its black coloring. Traditionally, most cultures would go on to describe the rest of its body as looking fairly humanoid, with red coloring and a forked tail, and a pitchfork… instead, it was something like one would expect what would spring forth from the product of a gargoyle’s lustful union with a gremlin. If this offspring looked like its hide was constructed from granite, that is. In compliment to its dark eyes, its hide was a mix between coffee brown and concrete gray, and its teeth and claws/nails were colorless.

    It shrugged its shoulders, then, and its wings rose to compliment them at a nearly 45 degree angle. Its wingspan rivaled that of the Wright Brothers’ legendary craft, and that’s where the comparison to modern aircraft ended…its wings flapped twice, and it rose four stories in the air soundlessly. In front of it, and a bit to its right, the two men battled as feverishly as before. In a bit of almost-ironic humor, chemical weaponry that would’ve incapacitated 85% of America’s ground troops was split between one of the combatant’s face and its own face.

    The thin man, who had his back to the wall, narrowed his eyes, and said nothing. He was aware of the fact that cameras around him everywhere were taping this, and that federal agents were already plotting legal moves to ferret out his other identities. This was why he was breaking out the heavy artillery now… why the square-jawed man in front of him who resembled, a bit, a walking American flag was now battling a fast-acting epidermic cancer and something that looked like a gargoyle that hadn’t had a good cup of coffee in three years started rumbling from somewhere deep in his throat.

    In front of him, Mr Epitome, one of the few competent agents under American control, was having a decidedly…interesting…afternoon. Last he remembered, he was flying to compliment a speech or something along those lines, and then some alluring, trampy Native American woman had done something to his head. It ached, now, and with the pain brought clarity, which brought a primal self-defensive, fear-based shock. He reacted the way any other human faced with his own impending mortality brought upon by a catalyst what wasn’t entirely trustworthy would…he shoulder-blocked his adversary thirty yards into the wall.

    Behind him, a rumbling turned into a nearly supersonic explosion…65 million years ago, it would’ve resembled one of the largest scavengers this planet has ever known. Now, it was the precursor to a nuclear explosion that would, even with the genetically modified diversity that dwelled here, reduce ‘York to an inhospitable toxic sludge. Epitome turned to his right, and looked directly at a presence that unnerved even him. Though its breath disturbed him more than its words, they still held their power…”Leave him.”

    On another man’s face, Epitome’s expression would’ve been a smirk. In the face of this beast, it was more of a statement. It wasn’t the most well-advised statement that one could make, perhaps, but Epitome wanted to know exactly what was going on, here—he vaguely remembered coming into contact with the woman, and having heard something along the lines of her description mentioned by his superiors during a briefing of some kind a few months back. He also recalled The Dark Knight being a topic, obviously, of much discussion, especially over the last 48 to 72 hours.

    He further recalled notes of skepticism over the veracity of the revelation of the Knight’s secret identity, though he’d known, or at least had vague hints, about the identity even before that. He also had a feeling that the Knight knew more about Psyche than even he was aware of, and wanted to investigate that lead further. To accomplish that…apparently, he’d literally have to go through hell. And that’s when a voice that sounded like it was still vacationing there uttered something that sounded like a meat grinder being pulverized by gravel.

    The voice, accounting for hacking up vital internal blood now and again, said something along the lines of “You’ll…notice…that…you’re…feeling…a…bit…drained…that’s another…benefit…of…the cancer…you…two…have…you’ll…soon…start…feeling…feverish…and…begin…hacking…like…you…have…twenty…year….smoking…habits…that’s…the…Ebola…”

    Epitome blanched then glared at the hole in the wall from where the voice came. “What do you want?”

    “You…two…to…start…acting…like…mature…adults…”

    Epitome snapped, “And if we don’t?” He then promptly fell over.
    
    “Your…answer…is…staring…you…in…the…face…”

    The Man Of Might stared, improbably, at his own internal blood gazing up at him from his palms, and at the man who didn’t look much older than 18…the man who’d reduced him to this mess.

    His cheekbones were fractured, and the stabbing pain in his right shoulder was a good indication that his scapula was broken in at least two places. In addition, he was having problems breathing on his right side, and that bitter coppery taste in his mouth hinted at internal bleeding. He knew that his healing, as rapid as it was, would take at least two hours to recover fully from this beating, and he knew that resting would make that easier. He also knew that he didn’t have the time to waste being careful about his own well being, especially if events kept progressing the way he theorized.

    Gingerly, he pried himself out of the wall, and proceeded to collapse like a tinfoil-folding chair. Epitome almost went to his side, to demand answers from him, when a telltale clacking a few yards away, to his left, told him to get his wounded adversary out of the way. Unfortunately, the creature behind them apparently didn't hear the noise, or care, as it leapt towards Epitome with the grace of a cougar.
    
    “You…will learn to heed…my desires…”, his assailant snarled, as it bit into his shoulder with teeth that felt like scalpels. To pierce Epitome’s skin, they must’ve been government-issue scalpels…

    At that point, the federal agents who’d been following Dark Knight-related leads had simply had enough of this melee, and unloaded artillery worthy of an army platoon. Shells bounced off of the creature’s hide that would’ve pierced a tank’s covering, and as it surprised the creature, apparently, Epitome took that moment to slug his attacker in the face with a concussion blow that would’ve stunned a tank. Again, it only managed to catch the creature off guard, though it released its grip, and Epitome marveled at the possibility that he may have broken his knuckles.

    Three federal agents leapt into the midst of things, with high-velocity rifles pointed at the brawling beings, and tried to regain order. They wondered about the third man, who’d vanished by the time they arrived…especially as they’d seen him crawl his way out of a substantial hole in the wall. Their wonderment turned to fear, then unconsciousness, as an unidentified black smoke filled their area and made their larynxes feel as if pillows were smothering them. As a complimentary gift, three grenades struck the creature square in the face, unleashing a star-like reddish orange glow and causing Epitome to take a step away from the creature as well.

    In response, the nearly eight foot tall gargoyle-like humanoid teetered on the edge of the roof, screamed in an inhuman rage, and plummeted, buoyed slightly by its wings’ muscle mass. The pitch of the creature’s rage shattered the federal agents’ sighting scopes, nearby windows, and the eardrums of those closest to it. Though he could still hear, Epitome had a massive headache, and upon a quick survey of the fallen agents, he hypothesized that he could save their hearing if he got them to a nearby hospital in time. Cursing under his breath, America’s Last Best Chance Against Terrorists scooped up the three men who were only doing their job and took to the air, trying to shield them from his velocity as much as possible. His sight dimmed as he approached the hospital, and he managed to barely land in front of the hospital door before he succumbed to the rapidly-accelerating cancer/ebola combination within him. Nurses and EMTs forced the back door open, glanced at the pile of victims, and shrugged. The most experienced nurse among them shook his head. “This is going to be one of those George Clooney nights, isn’t it?”

    In response, the EMTs around him walked back to their vehicle in protest. The partners looked at each other, then back at him. “Expect us to find respect for George Bush before we find respect for you.” With that, they took the next call, which involved an elderly gentleman who’d had a heart attack while dodging out of the way of a Balefire-led shootout with rookie policemen.

    The nurse, in response, looked to his younger companion, a slight redhead just out of nursing school. “Is there anyone else that’s free right now?”
    
    She shrugged, looked back at the hospital, and back at the ground. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, she answered “I…think we’re probably screwed.”

    In response, the elder nurse rushed back into the hospital, and pushed out a gurney. He forced the door open, all the while screaming “If you’re all quite done discussing the pros and cons of tonight’s Friends, we could use some help out here!”, and then proceeded to guide his partner through the process of lifting an unconscious patient onto a gurney. Finally, with this accomplished, he turned around and prepared to guide the first federal agent into the hospital’s back door, only to nearly be run over by another gurney. “Finally! Something other than drug overdoses. …I hate those losers!”, enthused another young nurse who looked like he’d just completed school. Unfortunately, the redhead looked and acted a bit more intelligent; he was pretty much just in the business of nursing to appease some long-hidden nurse complex that he’d had since he saw Jack Nicholson’s One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.

    His more experienced partner followed a few steps behind him—she was a slight, short Japanese woman who’d cared for wounded almost as long as she was alive. It was never really clear if she only knew broken, fragmentary English or if she just didn’t care to speak much, but her non-verbal communication was more than clear enough. She started a bit, as she was lost in planning her approach to mending the agent’s wounds in front of her, when her partner spoke to her.

    “Ke…I…I think we have a Super, here…”

    Her eyes narrowed, and she glanced at the fragments of the man’s costume. Her eyes then widened, and then fully opened in shock. She looked at her partner quizzically, then, which was no small feat as he approached 6’5”, and ordered with a hand’s gesture the victim’s immediate treatment.

    It was almost a family trait to serve the wounded…her mother had been a field nurse during the first Gulf War…her grandfather had met her grandmother during the tragedy of World War II. While it gave her compassion for victims, it also gave her a deep distrust of people, as she knew that no matter how much they strove to change or combat their darker nature, there would be some element that would be retained, and that humans didn’t differ that greatly from animals after all.
.
    She sighed, and fingered her left shirt pocket; it’d been ten years, but the habit never fully went away. She nodded to her partner, and they went about the business of bringing Epitome into the hospital. Knowing full well her boss would ask her about her problem, she continued fingering her pocket—nights like this only made the cravings worse.

Nihilist #4:
The Laws, We Have Changed Them

At first light lay proud foundations.

Sense the greatness that before you unfolds.

Seek no more for hollow answers.

Answers that lay within you all along.

Farewell to dawns seen through saddened eyes.

Farewell to pasts to sorrows chained.

Forget your fears and want no more.

You will be strong and want no more.

You'll be adored. You will have everything.

You will be strong and want no more.


Forget your fears. You will have everything.

And want no more.

Arclight, VNV Nation


He held the skull close to his forehead—the process was least corrupted this way. Sure, it was probably a bit bizarre…there was possibly some psychological necrophilia at work, if one really wanted to stretch what he was doing to its fullest extreme. Yet as the enzymes in his brain began extracting the extant DNA from the skull in his hands, the energy that flowed into his soul became something like the best herbal tea he’d ever drank…the best kiss he’d ever had…the culmination of every dream and desire he’d ever secretly held.

    Inside his mind, the dying screams of a one-proud civilization roared, again, and he walked once more amongst one of the most feared races in the universe—a group capable of assuming any physical form, a group effectively impervious to his race’s most advanced technological assaults. While this appealed to the primal side of his ego, he wanted more… he dove, deeper, into the memories that this DNA presented him (as limited as it was, taking into account corruption of the DNA by time, elements exposure, and so forth)

    He struggled to translate the memories that were cascading into his brain with all the gentleness of a dying star, but he’d failed to account for the severe English-Makluan lingual bridge. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride, as apparently this skull had belonged to someone possessing regal status within their society—and with that regal status came knowledge of their scientific achievement. Nicolae’s head bobbed, his red hair almost covering his eyes, and a near chuckle escaped his throat, unconsciously; he was a step closer to his goal.

    It was then that this moment of nirvana was superceded by a flash of memory—this time, of this particular Makluan’s life-mate. His emotions churned, feeling both sexually attracted and revolted by this other being, and his “human” side reacted, defensively, by recalling Marjorie…damn her, anyway, and her weakness…if she’d really loved him, she wouldn’t have become so frail, so dependent on the never-ending stream of drugs and medical bills and withdrawing into her world of private pain when he clearly needed her so fucking much and it was then that he was screaming, and weeping, and his Makluan side embraced the tortured demon within…

    A demon-Makluan hybrid took to the air, crying, roaring, and vomiting black, ethereal flame all at once—it managed to control itself to the point that it remained under heavy cloud cover near Nicolae’s isolated GothaMetropolis York mansion, but Nicolae’s human aspect swore to itself to never lose this much control again…and then it was devoured by another tidal wave of memory…this time, of a Makluan life-mate ceremony. God…you bastard…she was so…perfect…I…I now know why Jesus wept, motherfucker…


You’re my everything…and I’m only doing this because I know you rely on me… but I…I can’t do this anymore…you have to understand…sometimes, mommies and daddies do things for reasons they can’t properly explain. I know you love it at the school you go to…I know you love going to the park around the corner more than anything in the world…but I have to quit my job… I have to take us out of this neighborhood, because we’ll be homeless…my life is over, baby. I…I betrayed a good man.

    Brianna stroked her daughter’s face as she thought this, and other thoughts, to herself… it was something of a buffer, emotionally, to know that she didn’t remember exactly why she did what she did. But to have the entire Squire turn against probably one of the most professional editors she’d ever met… it was disgraceful. No, it wasn’t even disgraceful…it was a sad commentary on where priorities really lay. So their boss dressed in black kevlar and dropped people off of buildings… he was still after what they were supposed to be, at the end of the day; the truth, and if at all possible, justice.

    It was 48 hours later, and she still questioned herself over what she’d done… she felt a bizarre amalgamation of emotions—from confusion, due to the swamp-like memories that choked the coherence from her brain, that kept her an unwilling prisoner of the self loathing and the disgust that rocked her body like a tempest… to the suicidal depression that kept her from getting out of bed…to the rare moments that she felt almost human again, where she realized that she still had a chance to get out of this abyss

    It was then, at her lowest moment as a human being, that Brianna pressed the knife against her wrist, that she looked again at the sleeping face of the only reason she kept herself alive, that she came to realize that sometimes, principles aren’t where you live, or how much money you make, or, really, even a promise kept to a child if they lead you to better the world. Trembling, she placed the knife back in the drawer, closed her eyes tightly so the tears wouldn’t flow, and she brought her child to her bosom…adding another revolution to the circle of femininity that both were a part of. She knew, ultimately, that she’d have to figure out a way to make what she needed to do a reality, but she also knew that she needed comfort more than anything in the world, right now… and the only person who could do that was 1/3rd her size.

“If we could get someone with a cell phone, now, and get that poor bastard out of that car…”

“No, I’m serious. He’s not moving. Get over your aversion to blood for a moment and get over here.”

“Oh, my God, he’s standing.”

“How in the hell…”

“He’s on drugs. Has to be.”

“Look at his leg…it’s dangling like a carrot on a string…”

“…has to be affiliated with the Lair Legion, or the Abandoned Legion, or…”

“Hey, wait…”

Everything went blank, then, as what appeared to be some kind of percussion bomb went off, and spewed blinding light and gray smoke. Later eyewitness reports would reveal that they may have seen some sort of masked figure amidst the chaos, but they were proven to be largely unsubstantiated and probably the result of dehydration.

Downtown GothaMetropolis York. November 15th, 2005.. 9:45 pm. Underground…possibly an abandoned subway system or a previously undiscovered cave.

“Where…what’ve you done to me?”

“I put you up at the Hilton.”

“Why are all these tubes…”

“…feel that coppery taste in your mouth? That’s internal bleeding. They’re keeping you from doing more of it.”

“You…you’re…”

The previously speaking figure ceased as a bazooka discharged in his face. Drastic, yes, but when the person performing the operation has a shattered right scapula and a largely destroyed mandible, they’re possibly not going to be in what could be considered a social mood.

Nicolae awoke in his bathtub, badly scraped and bruised, with his “intern” looking extremely displeased. “This kinda shit’s gonna bring down the media on your head, man…”

In response, Nicolae groaned.

“You can’t keep emotionally wigging out every time you think about how badly you fucked up your marriage, or how badly God’s done this or Mommy and Daddy didn’t do this. I mean, I know you know all of this, and I know you don’t give a fuck what I think, but… I dunno, boss. You pay me to basically keep everything on the up and up while you get, well, stoned off of these injections, and, it ain’t enough.”

Nicolae forced himself out of the bathtub.

“You’re abso…lutely…right. Make sure I am undisturbed for the rest of this evening. I have to arrange a meeting with, well, a potential student of mine. Let me just say that we share a common interest in history.”

November 16th, 2005. 4:45 am.

    The glasses fell from Brianna’s nose…but it didn’t matter. There was no hair to get in her face, because she’d trimmed it the night before—an obvious foreshadowing of the radical overhaul her life was about to undergo. Indeed, at the moment, nothing mattered…

Five feet behind her, and to the left, sat the article that would cost her everything she’d spent ten years working on…

9:30 am. Movement behind her startled her awake… and she realized she’d fallen asleep. She could spend time feeling obvious regret, but, really… did showering matter, when facing the loss of your job? Slowly, she opened her eyes, and looked into the faces of supporting coworkers, whose names she couldn’t quite place, but that was the nature of this business… your identity wasn’t as important as your productivity, and even then, that was sometimes questionable. Just ask the poor souls at the Times.

Not surprisingly, one of her staunchest supporters at the moment appeared to be Cora Eislen. Most days, the young black woman seemed to be on a mission to get herself fired, as she thrived on pushing editorial to the brink of violence. No doubt she’d made the call to the newspaper’s public defender, James Larson, who was probably already in editorial’s office, reminding them how the First Amendment could be pursued in this country.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, within five minutes, she was called into Editorial’s office, with a look of approval from Larson…

Interestingly, she could still taste the blood on the knife’s blade, even after it’d long been dried. Psyche was like that—she never used the same knife twice, and her victim’s blood was sort of a trophy, an everlasting offering to her ever-vengeful gods.

True, she’d not always had just one name, or a single mission in life, but…certain attitudes she’d embraced, people she’d met (and killed, or eaten, depending on her mood), and directions she’d been given had led her to…interesting life choices. Most people would consider a mute telepath’s chances at being a schoolteacher to be, well, slim to none, at best. It wasn’t that she hadn’t succeeded at it, it was that the nimrod who signed her checks had expected her to teach his way. And, well, Psyche only ever followed orders from the voices in her head.

Anything else would be lunacy…

She stopped remembering a truly joyful point in her life long enough to realize that she was looking at two members of the Lair Legion, face to face…and that if she’d always wanted to kill one person, irrespective of her debt to…her current employer… she’d always wanted to stifle that incessant babbling of the Freakboy!

“I’m telling you, man…Morrison’s NXM is just uninspired drivel. It’s far from his best work.”

“Dude…the leather is so much better looking than the spandex. And Beast looks actually bestial. New X-Men is the most readable it’s been…well…ever.”

“No way, man…Claremont’s 80’s run totally defines the team… …and I can’t believe I’m talking to you after you ragged on the JLA cartoon.”

“…I’m trying not to remember that monstrosity…”

CrazySugarFreakBoy! chuckled. “Oh, Nats…one day you’ll look beyond your Whedon and realize the importance of classic superheroes…”

“And on that day…I shall kill myself…slowly…with nails…”

“And…hello, who do we have here?” CFSB! had, well, the normal reaction to Psyche.

Nats shrugged. “Ehh, Gellar has better tits.”

Psyche hissed. I will feed him his testicles, rectally, for that one. The mute telepath unsheathed her knife from behind her back and smiled (albeit extremely reluctantly) at the two heroes.

Fortunately for the men, dull thud happened to careen off of Nats, as bouncers adjacent to the alley way our trio are standing in have taken some offense at his methods of attracting the attention of women.
“Aye, and yer ma taught me Hoover to suck, yeh bollix”, belched the Scottish garage rocker. Cressida “voiced” her disapproval. ~Poetic.~

“And ‘oo ‘ave we here?” Cressida seized this moment to play havoc with thud’s intestines, in the hopes of shutting him up for five seconds.

Psyche slid the knife back into her pants, and wisely chose to run away. Wanting to kill a hero with a louder fashion sense than Liberace on crack was one thing; simply being around these lunatics was something else entirely. Besides…she had an appointment…

Kirk shrugged. “Women…”

thud moaned, again, as Cressida scratched her displeasure at Kirk’s comment in his pancreas.

Nats joined thud in moaning as his eyes partook in what quite possibly was the closest thing to visual rape that a male could experience. Two balding, paunchy men (approximately in their 70’s) were approaching them, and they were strangely exuberant. This was almost forgivable, if it wasn’t for the fact they were dressed up in spandex that looked like it had been savaged by the frat boy, colorblind, deranged clown brethren of stop signs.

Fin Fing Foom chose this moment to contact Nats on his Lair Legion communicator. “Tell me you two are closer to figuring out what happened to Lania.”

He then saw what Nats saw. “BY SPIRO T AGNEW… WHAT ABOMINATIONS IN THE EYES OF LATETIA CASTA ARE THOSE?”

CFSB! waved, enthusiastically. “Oh, man…it’s the Leaping Phantom and the Incredible Stop Sign…AG told me all about those guys! They fought Hitler, way back when…”

Cressida released her hold on thud. ~thud…I’m sorry I mocked you for hitting on that coatrack. That wasn’t nearly as painful as this is about to be.~

Thud sighed. “No drinkin’ me way outter this’n, then, aye?”

Fortunately, Foom regained his senses long enough to commandeer an LL jet, largely for the purposes of ending the visual pain perpetrated by the two…senile crimefighters. For their part, the rest of the Lair Legion at the scene bravely tried to ignore what they were experiencing, which was a vital part of their job description.

“God truly moves in mysterious ways.”

Mallory Bell sighed. Again with the mysterious entrances. Again with the masked vigilantes.

At least this time, she knew them by name. Kindasorta.

“So, Guy…”

Michael McKinley silenced her introduction with a look.

“It was this or Mercy Hospital.”

Mallory tried again. “Yeah, but, um…I don’t have much in the way of medical training, hon…and he looks like he got hit by a hummer…”

Michael crossed his arms, and, as usual, said nothing else.

In response, Mallory gingerly touched the masked face of the unconscious Dark Knight. “I suppose I shouldn’t take the mask off, because of all that controversy…”

A copy of the GMY Squire lay on the table next to the Knight; vague, out-of-focus pictures of both Messenger and McKinley were now being used as attempts to refute the earlier claim that Burch, Crime Correspondent for the Squire, was actually the Dark Knight.

To his credit, Michael found the situation amusing, if rather ingenious. A reporter as a superhero…no sane person would ever buy that, or try that. Also to his credit, he didn’t flinch when the man who should be dead groaned, and moved.

“Hand me a scalpel”, demanded a voice that sounded like it was either dead, or should be.

    Mallory raised an eyebrow. “Well…I see you’re not as injured as I thought…” She then stepped back, and gasped, in awe, as a man with broken…oh, well, hell, again, he really should be dead raised himself on trembling legs and sighed. “I hate it when they throw me into buildings.”

    A sound came from Michael’s general direction that could’ve been a chuckle, had it not been entirely out of character for him.

    Concerned, Mallory helped DK stand as much as possible, and handed him the requested scalpel. Of course, she shut her eyes as he began slicing…
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
    The last thing he remembered, he was in a car crash. Strangely, he was able to walk out alive…at least until a blur swept out of the sky and carried him somewhere. This was where his recollection ended, as he’d passed out by then.

    He’d heard about the guy he was looking at…papers like the Squire and the Trombone gave him verbal beatings daily for his taste in…eccentric living, but, as Gerald Richardson was concerned, he really didn’t judge people until he met them.

    Sure, the fact the guy was a bit larger than most men he’d met was disconcerting…but he carried himself like a gentleman.

    It wasn’t until Gerald realized that his legs were behaving like they were made out of some bizarre rubber that he started screaming.

    “Oh, now…when you signed the waver three years ago, you knew full well what it meant to be involved in my debt…I’ve just called it in a little sooner than expected.”

    And Gerald screamed, more, as Nicolae began drinking a ’76 Chardonnay dismissively…

That’s me in the corner…that’s me in the spotlight…choosing my confession…
Losing My Religion, REM (choose an album, really)



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