Tales of the Parodyverse

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anonymous
Mon Mar 22, 2004 at 09:35:32 am EST
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Nihilist #5
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Nihilist 5
It’s the Devil’s Night, Now

How Can You See Into My Eyes
Like Open Doors
Leading You Down Into My Core
Where I’ve Become So Numb…

Frozen Inside Without Your Touch Without Your Love
Darling Only You Are The Life Among The Dead

…Don’t Let Me Die Here There Must Be Something More…

Bring Me To Life, Evanescence

She’d never been so tired. It was like she’d taken the place of Christ, for a day, and the universe had been powered by her life force. Her head throbbed…and the last thing in the world she needed was to look at a computer screen. The last thing she needed…was to be away from her children.

She snapped at herself, then; professionalism was the only thing that’d get her through the hectic maze that had become her life. …Even when she was staring into the face of the ex-wife of her boss…a woman that many whispered had MPD, or at the very least schizophrenia.

The petite blonde looking back at her snapped, “Don’t you have something better to do…like…say…writing about those absurd urban legends? Find any Martians in the sewers this week, Bree—annn-uh?”

To her left, Cora Eislen bristled, but knew she was powerless—rumors abounded that the ex Mrs. Burch had been sleeping with the owner of the paper, which explained why she’d been absent from the paper for at least a year and a half, and was still employed.

In response, Brianna bit down on her tongue so hard that it drew blood, and stared bitterly at her screen. The plastic surgery didn’t take well, you Barbie-lite troglodyte…

Sharon Rogers/Burch took her leave, then, clearly satisfied that she’d put another peon in their place, and Brianna reflected over what’d happened to her the past three months. In three months’ time, she’d started working as a movie critic for the Squire (which may as well have been volunteer work for how well it paid), and her life had exploded in insanity since then.

Most people would consider working for one of the world’s most dangerous newspapers to be exciting enough, but she’d been nearly killed, twice, by what looked like a humanoid demon battling another humanoid demon, and then she calculated at least five separate instances of being nearly shot at by random psychopaths (Killer Shrike, anyone? What kind of a loser named himself after a lesser avian?).

…and then, there was the day her life crashed like falling china. She’d never felt so shattered as when she’d come to, at her desk, seemingly hours after she’d released the biggest story in Squire history. She’d betrayed the closest thing to a friend she had, here. He was silent, and moody, and had the look in his eyes of a man who’d been emotionally dropped off of a cliff and then hit by a semi, but…during the moments he wasn’t raving like a hurricane on PCP and causing more damage than Bush in the White House, he was almost sweet. Well, as sweet as someone who apparently didn’t bathe more than three times a decade could be.

She furrowed her brow, attempting to look engrossed in an article as she considered what’d happened to make her lose her memory like that. She vaguely recalled some strange woman she’d never seen before, but nothing specific about her…she only recalled certain ways she moved, how she carried herself. Very professional…almost sterile or robotic. Suddenly, she recalled a former Lair Legion leader who was rumored to be an android. Could it have been his wife?

She attempted to consider this matter further, but then had a migraine. Anyone trying to track the genealogy or, frankly, sanity of the Lair Legion usually had this problem. Why else would Cheryl have taken such an early retirement from being the director of PR for the only facet of social/political leadership capable of making modern Democrats look competent?



November 16th, 2005. 7:30 am.

The Third Day Mission was threatening to become a popular haven for the hopeless. Mallory sipped her second coffee of the day, and was almost questioning the scripture condemning drug use, as coffee just wasn’t gonna get rid her memory of having to talk down the day’s third coming-down-off-of-an-experimental-PCP/LSD-derivative transient. Ranting lunatics were one thing, but listening to a guy scream about demons come to earth was pushing it. Days like this made her want to test the drugs these poor souls were hooked on with the people who’d created them.

Sighing, she entered the basement, where she looked directly into a masked face as terrifying as Satan, and as emotional as granite. She promptly nearly dropped her coffee cup in surprise.

“…we really gotta get you to take off that mask.” She dug into her purse, and tried to brush some coherence into the madness that had become her hair. She tried to keep a neat appearance generally, but her neck-length red hair was beginning to resemble a wildfire.

Alternatively, Michael McKinley was adding together the pieces of information he’d gained about Nicolae, and tying it together in conjunction with theories he had about the movers and shakers in GothaMetropolis York. He was also wondering if he’d employed sound strategy in enlisting the aid of the Dark Knight, who was…not in the best psychological condition presently.

McKinley didn’t really care about that, but watching an already stressed-out woman flip out over what he was doing to himself was not exactly how he wanted to start out the rest of this morning.

He asked her the first question that came to mind.

“So, uh…thoughts on the Catholic Altar Boy scandal that’s been in the papers recently…?”


November 16th, 7:29 am.
It was as cathartic as anything you couldn’t feel could be…he watched the resulting trickle fall into the sink like it symbolized the lies and the self-doubt that kept him ever awake at night as if it’d redeem him for the mistakes he made. Somehow, the life it “gave” him kept him focused on the greater picture, but it also reminded him of the fact that the one time someone in his life demanded absolute emotional perfection, he’d failed like an unprepared rookie.

It was like a river of baptism for the damned, because no matter what god he prayed to, what he’d done was unforgivable. No wonder she hated him now. No wonder he’d never again be able to have feeling. He wasn’t worthy. He wasn’t fucking worthy enough…

It’d be ok, really, if she hadn’t come back…and even then, if he’d known she was back and had never seen her. But, somehow…the explosion had changed more than her connection to the mortal plane (albeit only for a time.) It’d also changed her. The woman who’d been supporting and loving and motherly almost to the point of being self-neglectful had become selfish, materialistic, and…

…and it was all his goddamn fault. He sliced again. Idiot.

It flowed more freely, now, and he knew he’d have to stop soon. It was about to get to the point of no control, and no one else must know about his way of dealing with his problems. It was bad enough being wanted by every criminal organization and the US government…but having the people who should trust him most view him as fragmentary and insane was bad for the mission.

…and at that moment, Mallory entered the room, took stock of the situation, and slapped the razor from his hand. Both lost their balance, and in the ensuing confusion, ended up kissing.

In the other room, Michael could do nothing but sigh. He was almost better off hitting the streets and breaking fingers…


Well, he would’ve been, had he not stumbled over the badly taped, bruised body of Szandor. Almost instinctively, his suit went into defensive mode, but a quick scan of the slumbering man’s body revealed that it was effectively catatonic and of no major concern.

Still…Michael unsheathed his gun, and placed it on the table next to him. It made him feel a bit more comfortable.

That was, until Mallory came back out of the room she’d disappeared to, flushed and giggling.

Distorted though his voice was by his mask, even she could hear the sarcasm. “Oh, Romeo…”

Mallory went perhaps the deepest shade of red she’d ever been. “It…it was an accident. It meant nothing.”

She turned on her heel, forgetting her coffee, and fled into the upper regions of the Mission.

The Dark Knight entered the room, still bleeding in some areas, to Michael chuckling.

A voice that almost didn’t sound human asked “Having fun?”

In response, Michael kept chuckling. DK turned his attentions to the still-slumbering human atomic bomb beside him…

In front of them both, Szandor Anton struggled mightily within his subconscious to pierce together the hybrid entities that were within him. The bazooka’s blast had rattled his ability to keep certain memories suppressed, and…and mommy was alive again…the sickness hadn’t claimed her yet and she was still so vital and loving and as warm as freshly brewed coffee but as pleasantly fragrant as three dozen roses and…

…and he awoke to look at two masked faces that must’ve inspired Dante.

“…the hell…”?

“We’ve heard rumors you may have…problems…with your father.”

“…may…”?

“We plan on removing him like a boil from someone’s ass.”

Michael, in response, checked his gun. And cocked it. And checked it again.

“Your friend has a gun pointed at me…”

The Dark Knight stepped forward, helping the man off of the table. Szandor’s red hair fell in his face, and his tattered black clothing did nothing to hide the seriousness of his wounds. He pressed a small button on the left side of his headgear, and spoke directly to Mallory. “There’s a duffel bag hidden under the coffee table in the kitchen. If you have a moment, I’d appreciate you bringing it down here.”

Michael sighed. “You really haven’t been laid in a long time, have you?” Supercriminal Royale’s orphan son had never taken on social niceties or friendships, as they distracted him from his goals. Still…mocking the one man alive who may be more psychologically shattered than him kept him feeling almost normal. Almost.

Unimpressed, the Dark Knight depressed a portion of the right side of his headgear with his right hand, as he tried to steady the much larger Szandor with his left. “You know what they’re saying in the media is false about me, right? That the government’s demands are smokescreens to hide their financial involvement with our prey?”

In answer, a draconian voice sighed. “I haven’t much choice, I’m afraid…I can give you 24 hours to gather the information you need. Otherwise…we face overwhelming financial difficulty from what happened a year and a half ago…the Island has almost been rebuilt, and training regiments have ensured that nothing like that will ever happen again…but we can’t afford sanctions being levied against us by the government and their allies. Your stunt with Epitome really didn’t help, there.”

The Dark Knight sighed. “I’m not in a secure location…but…you have to give me the credit of knowing what was going on there.”

The Makluan shapeshifter with a penchant for fettuccini and thongs (on women, dammit) responded, “Yes, but I could also legitimately give you the smacking of a lifetime, and you’d deserve it. I know you hate the soulless, vapid monstrosities that superheroes have become, but even you have to respect the overall message of Miller’s D: KR.”

Had the Dark Knight been alone, he’d’ve taken his mask off and thrown it across the room in frustration. Instead, he ended the conversation and scowled. Even with his features being hidden by the mask, Michael could sense enough hostility to refrain from further comment.

Between them, the scrawny-yet-tall Szandor began growling and shaking. Quickly, DK asked, “Can you fully control the transformation? It’d help if you handled this in human form…”

In response, Szandor crawled into a nearly fetal position, screamed like a cross between a pterodactyl and a banshee, and briefly became an almost amorphous fleshy mixture. Michael pointed his gun at the mass before him, muttered “It’s on your head, Cape Boy”, and nearly pulled the trigger before Szandor regained his true form.

The Dark Knight and Michael averted their eyes, then, as his transformation had…caused his clothing to malfunction. So, naturally, it was good timing that Mallory chose to arrive, then, with the duffel bag fully in hand (well, slung over her shoulder, but, same difference.)

“Oh, geez…you should’ve warned me…”

Szandor chortled. “Please…like you’re the first woman who’s gawked at me.”

Michael dryly remarking “…Sugar Puff…” before bursting into laughter saved Szandor from being smacked.

In answer, the Dark Knight nodded to Mallory, walked up to her, took the duffel bag from her shoulder, and hit Szandor in the gut with it. “My punching bag and I will be waiting outside for you. You have five minutes.”

Michael holstered his gun, and followed the Knight’s lead. Punching bag…who’re you kidding? You’re too busy staring at her…

Indeed, the living phantom did seem to be occupied as both fugitives from the law hid themselves in appropriate shadows…but Michael didn’t need to know that his mask’s left eye covering held a tiny computer that had a tracking system for the Legion’s jets at all times. Nor did he especially need to know that one of these jets would be in their general area in about twenty minutes.

Unfortunately, it was then that the intercom in his mask began screaming, as he realised the one situation that could bring this on. Someone’s actually bombed Pluto.




Three blocks away, and a good number of stories up, in the Morrisonian Building, Senator John Carlson raised a shot glass to his successes of the day. He’d managed to pass a bill guaranteeing rights to robot/human marriage, and a separate bill to galactic alien suffrage. He’d also managed to draft an initiative to begin the process of yet another attempt at overturning Roe v Wade, and was now enjoying the invisible to the naked eye fireball in the sky.

The Dark Knight was someone to fear, was he? There’s a way to fix this…you take away someone’s home, and you take away their resolve…

John turned his attentions to the woman now standing in his office. She was wearing a black feather boa, and a yellow, loose miniskirt that was practically a non-existent nightgown. “Miss Roberts…or is it Roberts-Burch? I get so easily confused with matters of divorce…”

In response, she undid the ponytail that held her hair back and she smiled seductively. “I know something that’s far less stressful…”

John closed his eyes, and sighed in delight as she began doing what came so naturally to her. But then, that was the nature of women like her…they served their purpose greedily, as long as they were given what they craved in return…




As John lived out both fantasy and desire, Sharon’s ex husband became a man once again entangled in the orchestra of isolation…of responsibility…in the grand opera that is misery. He was the solo violinist, and the strings of his violin were the veins in his own right arm.

Before Michael’s eyes, and before the emerging Szandor, who bumped his forehead on the ceiling as he left the Mission and was now hurriedly cursing, he began playing his own damned solo…even as both men tried to knock the razors out of his hands.

Szandor growled, “Damn it…I knew getting involved with a couple of ‘shroomheads with messianic complexes larger than Ohio was a bad idea..."”

In response, Michael simply switched gears, and hit the Knight’s hands with his revolver. The Knight began softly muttering, “You don’t get it…this whole thing…all this tragedy…it’s my fault…I’m not good enough to do what they demand of me…what you demand of me…”

In response, Michael cocked his gun, and pointed it at the Knight’s head.

Szandor lifted the Knight by a shoulder, and snarled in his ear, “Look. You have information the two of us need. You have more files on people than the IrfuckingS and the CIA combined. How do I know you have information that The Grim Bastard wants? He wouldn’t be here, otherwise.”

Michael almost betrayed his surprise by lowering his gun slightly.

Szandor pulled two bandannas out of his pockets, carried The Dark Knight like a child, and wrapped a bandanna around each of his bleeding wrists. “I’ll put you down when you start acting like a man.”

Seconds later, the Dark Knight backflipped out of Szandor’s grasp, and depressed a tiny button on his watch. A circular aircraft appeared out of nowhere next to Michael, who took two steps backwards, feeling very grateful it hadn’t materialized on his foot.
“…sorry. I have…moments.”

“’Moments’. You were whining like a god damn soccer mom.”

Michael narrowed his eyes, determined not to let his two babbling associates distract him from the more important matter at hand. He entered the jet, and gripped the handhold.

Szandor joined him, and the Dark Knight entered the pilot’s seat.

“I take it that Stealth that your radar’s showing isn’t here to ask for an autograph”, noted Szandor.

In response, the Dark Knight piloted the jet into the air, and began evasive maneuvering…



Always watchful…always-prepared…Psyche watched, smiling to herself, as the last obstacle to her assignment evaporated with the jet’s ascension to the heavens. She got to embrace the thrill of the hunt, now…her pheromones were already searching for their next victim. It was almost orgasmic how it felt to make contact with another human being’s intelligence, their motivation, their perspective, and their soul…

Indeed, within her eyes, the forgotten soul of a once-proud nation danced in the fearful, weeping tears of their victims…within her eyes roared that nation’s frustration at being forgotten, at being cast aside like buffalo hide by arrogant, proud white hunters.

Hers was the patience of stars, of pagan gods…and finally, her prey left the Mission, en route to the local Albertson’s for a quick grocery run. At that point, it was merely a formality to unsheathe her sword. She walked as one with the wind, a soldier accompanied by the beats of her own destiny… and her eyes glittered in joy as her pheromonic spores made contact with Mallory Bell.

The redhead, two blocks in front of her, grasped at her head, feeling as if someone had begun drilling into it… and then she collapsed to her knees. It took everything she had to keep breathing, because it felt like someone had shoved quicksand into her lungs, and it was expanding at an ever-increasing exponential rate. Her red and white blood cells leapt into defensive mode, but they were as overmatched as an ant against a hurricane.

And then…the peace began. Mallory didn’t understand it, and frankly didn’t like it, but it was like she’d been given the worst concussion of her life—she knew what was going on around her, and passersby walked by without so much as a glance—but it seemed like she was in a movie, and this was the edited, slow-motion sequence for penultimate dramatic effect. Her body felt like it was soaking in a hot tub, at its most comfortable level, and what concentration she wasn’t using on breathing was being used to try to force her lackadaisical body into motion.

A ceremonial sword shined in the sunlight above her glance, and she knew, then, that as powerless as she was to move, she’d have nothing to fear. While her religion dictated that being a good person did not necessarily save Mallory, she felt confident that her generally sweet disposition would get her brownie points. Besides…no one filled out denim quite the way she did.

It was with a silent prayer of thanks to God for the blessings she’d been given during her short time on Earth that she closed her eyes, and awaited her decapitation, that kept her from noticing the silhouette that’d rapidly closed its distance between itself and Psyche…

She only opened her eyes when the gunshot rang out, when Psyche’s control over her vanished due to an understandable loss of focus (and who wouldn’t be scared shitless when a gunshot knocks a sword out of your hand?), when wanted murderer Messenger stood before her like every young girl’s fantasy of Prince Charming viewed through Louis Carol’s looking glass?

Messenger emptied the clip, looked down momentarily to make sure the next clip was secure, and kicked himself mentally as when he looked back up, the assassin was gone.

“Not many people could say I’m an answer for their prayers…”



By now, Ke’s willpower was shot. Whatever the government agent had contracted…whomever he’d pissed off…he’d be dead by nightfall. This didn’t entirely please her. She hated losing her patients. She viewed it as an extreme disgrace, and it made her feel like she’d disgraced her family legacy.

The diminutive Asian nurse hadn’t smoked in ten years, but within three hours, she’d already gone through three packs. Stupid, perhaps, but it was a way of feeling like she was accomplishing something, even if it was only her impending demise.

It was all for the best, really, that she never heard the circular jet alight atop the hospital. It was all for the best that she never saw Michael McKinley break into Epitome’s room and place a teleportation device on his chest (after injecting him with the sedative that DK’d given him), and await the impending teleportation with a sort of sense of awe and fear, as he’d never been teleported before.

As a result, she only had to wonder if aliens or religious right members making a sort of political statement had abducted him.

She inhaled the remnants of the blessed, savage drug… and had she looked up only seconds before, she’d’ve noticed the aforementioned circular craft being absorbed by the ebony beauty that was the GothaMetropolis skyline.

That was the way of people in this city, though…you buried your head in your job, you threw your soul into whatever distraction you could find…and you prayed. You prayed that you had one more day to spend with your spouse, or your children, or your cat…you prayed that it wasn’t your turn.

Reminded of why she’d quit in the first place, Ke looked at the half-smoked packet of cigarettes in her hand…and she stepped on it. Nicotine, tar, and ash were caught by the wind, and proceeded to blow into the parking lot, and Ke began shaking just watching it. Even as she knew that her actions had corrupted the air just a little more, she took solace…she knew that if she could quit this most difficult of addictions, that maybe she could get her daughter back…that maybe the judge would give her clemency.

That was the funny thing about GothaMetropolis York…as much as it crushed hope and cursed decency…in as much as it applauded depravity and awarded incompetence (Mark Hopkins as mayor, anyone?), it still made a habit of rewarding faith, no matter how tiny faith’s spark was. It had a habit…of restoring life when it was nothing more than a smoldering ember. Even people like Ke and Brianna Anderson could retain hope when they’d lost everything that’d ever mattered in any conceivable way.

It was why Ke could deal with the loss of yet another patient…because she’d given her best, and ultimately, that was the only way to give hope the foothold it needed to take root, to bloom into full-on optimism…to possibly make GMY livable, after a while. It may be the dark, abandoned, mutated, forgotten sister of Parodiopolis…but its citizens, for all the hell it put them through, still loved it for the same reasons people loved New York—it housed the worst crimes in the world. People not fit to breathe walked its streets. Sins unworthy of Las Vegas and too terrible for Hell lurked in every shadow, in every alley way…but hope was restored upon looking the faces of Brianna’s children, on the grateful smile of the hundreds Ke had helped to save.

Ke picked herself up off the ground, and entered Phantomhawk Memorial Hospital not with a renewed sense of purpose, or a new appreciation for life…but a new philosophy: life was like a mathematics equation. Best solved a step at a time…


Her long brown hair, had it existed centuries before, would’ve likely been the catalyst for the Trojan War. Her blue eyes were as mesmerizing as diamonds, and as clear as a summer’s sky. Most thought of her as a flirtatious, innocent, seductive, party girl…but she had her intellectual side. How else had she survived a battle of wits with a shapeshifting entity powerful enough to defeat a Sherman tank in battle? Lania stepped out of her limousine, dashed across the busy street to the building containing the GothaMetropolis Squire, and prepared for her personal interview with Cora Eislen.


She was confident in crossing a busy street because of how men reacted to her—she’d calculated the amount of men in the city, to a percentile, and expected that they’d at least be gentlemen enough to stop, if not flat out bowled over by her beauty. It wasn’t like she wasn’t thankful, either, as the smile she flashed was worthy of Greek myth.

She was confident in the positive effect this interview would have, because of how she was viewed as a sort of Madonna to the spandex-wearer (which was all the more ironic as Lania wasn’t known for either her talents, exactly, or her wild behavior—flirtation was one thing, kissing another woman publicly was something else…). It seemed obvious to her that this would finally begin to breach the wall between super and normal human, that this stupid, pointless war would finally be over. She pulled her light blue-splotched-with-white skirt down over her thighs as she walked into the building, as sitting in the car had caused static cling, and the last thing she wanted to give off was a sense of impropriety.

If the paparazzi that surrounded her had any idea what she was thinking, they’d be millionaires by selling it in their papers. Lania’s thoughts were anything but the confident veneer she gave off in public, for she held the fate of an entire half, easily, of the world’s population in her hands, or more aptly, her words. Legislation by most of the world’s leaders were pushing for registration of powered humans (as if they were nothing more than walking atomic bombs) or even worse, continued funding into research as to how to de-power them. It all reminded her of the stories her mother had read to her as a child. Stories of how once faced with insurmountable odds, the heroine of the story faced borderline misogyny and social isolation for daring to take up a sword and doing something as audacious as fighting alongside her male compatriots.

It wasn’t even so much that she was nervous, per se. She was just very…very cautious about how she phrased her words, in her head, as she rode the elevator to the third floor, which is where the Squire’s main office was. Her hands opened and closed and opened and closed in an absent-minded manner, and she tapped her left foot, anxiously, as the door opened. She closed her eyes, sighed, and left the elevator, only to open her eyes as she heard “Lania…how very good it is to see you again.”

Lania closed her eyes, and winced. God, I hate editors…



The man they called Mr. Epitome opened his eyes, and the first thought he had was “Note to self: go Italian Unruly Mob on the Guy Who Invented Tequila’s Mussolini Ass.” He then remembered an especially unpleasant altercation with the Dark Knight and something that looked like a gargoyle on steroids, and kicked himself mentally for choosing really stupid fights.

Granted, it wasn’t so much that he chose his last fight, but he didn’t exactly recall why he’d gotten involved in exchanging fisticuffs with someone who apparently felt no pain. The madman’s eyes were obscured by his hair, but…Epitome, remembering, could sense an almost Faustian persecution in his soul… and America’s Last, Best Chance Against Terrorists knew something about Faustian deals, and souls. Sometimes, his choice weighed on him, heavily…he never really slept at night, and it seemed sometimes like nothing he decided was ever proper. No matter what he did, someone died. He was Sisyphus, only with better fashion sense, and with perhaps the world’s most amazing canine. He was a superman for a world without miracles. Yet most importantly…he was a man without true peace.

Still, none of this mattered. He looked down, near his chest, to find himself strapped to a sort of makeshift gurney, surrounded by a man who had to be at least 8 feet tall and built like a twig, and the masked individual from before who he’d not had the pleasure of being introduced to. The individual in question appeared to be doing nothing but glancing at the floor, almost trance-like, but Epitome gathered he was at least keeping surveillance on him, if nothing else.

Ahead of him, he could see the chair which the Dark Knight sat in, whilst he piloted the plane. Epitome took this opportunity to lighten the mood.

“I guess you’re wondering why I called you all here…” was all he got out before his weakened larynx gave out on him.

In response, the redheaded man to his left took out a cigarette from his left coat pocket and lit it. Directly above him, sprinklers went off, and the Dark Knight’s voice came on over the intercom.

“I’m trying to pretend this is a hospital, at least for the moment. Please don’t make me question involving you anymore than I already have…”

The other masked figure spoke, with a detached coldness that perhaps even surpassed DK’s. “How long until we reach our destination?”

Almost immediately, he regretted asking, as the jet began its slow decline (after re-adopting its camouflage, as military aircraft had increased in number, generally, in GothaMetropolis York after the September 11th attacks. Who was more dangerous than the press, after all?) and glancing out of the window told him they were landing near the Third Day Mission, again.

“You…really have hormonal imbalances, don’t you?” McKinley closed his right hand into a fist in frustration. Yes, trusting another emotionally imbalanced, miserable hermit in a mask was the best idea I’ve had since letting Samantha have her freedom…really it was…I’m seriously wondering where people give me this genius reputation…

The Dark Knight, in answer, opened the top of the cockpit, exited, and unloaded the gurney from the jet. He pressed a button, and it sprang hover devices underneath, and he pushed it with ease into the basement.

Before he left, he placed a note on Epitome’s chest: “Don’t let him leave for an hour, yet. If he does, he’ll counter-act the anti-microbial agents I’ve established in his immune system.”

On the way out, DK told Epitome over his shoulder “Next time…be more prepared.”

Epitome weakly coughed “Prepared?…I’ll muh-make the Boy Scouts look like the Democratic Presidential Campaign of 2000.”

With the witty banter at an end, DK entered the jet once more, and looked at his passengers.

“You remember what today means for our plans…we can’t afford any deviation or distraction. Therefore…I’m going to ask you to go with our masked companion, Szandor. Both of your presence will prove more beneficial than either of you going by yourself.”

Szandor still had a sulking glare in DK’s general direction. “Yeah, yeah…save the best job for yourself.”

McKinley, in response, began viewing satellite footage of his assignment. Politicians…only thing in the world worse than his father. There was no sugarcoating such a generalization, either…even the somewhat benevolent ones were somewhat corrupted.

It was moments like this that made McKinley proud of his darker nature, where he knew that the only law that mattered was his intellect and its symbol. Even if it meant this symbol was slowly causing his damnation.

Still…he’d gladly give up heaven, if Hell meant he could personally see his father tortured for eternity. He’d long ago stopped considering himself a good person, but he knew unequivocally that his father was one of the most evil men he’d ever known. And he knew that the person he was about to confront had information on his father. The only question was if he could get this information without stopping the slug-that-looked-like-a-man’s heart…


4:50, pm. November 17th. 2005.

The tiny display in Michael McKinley’s head reminded him of what time it was. It’d been ten minutes since the Dark Knight had dropped them at their rendezvous point with their intended target, and Szandor had already had to fight the urge to transform three times. “See, my tranquil friend…this is why I smoke. The ‘fits’ are worse than anything nicotine could ever cause you to do.”

Michael sighed. Again with the unimportant gibberish. “I wouldn’t know. I pride myself on my self control.”

Szandor took another drag. “Ah, that’s why two superhumans met their demise at your hand, then…”

McKinley’s heart practically exploded with fear, then…To say that now, in front of so many people…

“I…don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. But, then, you ain’t ever met my friend.”

Szandor stood outside the office of Mark Hopkins, momentarily, as he finished the last of his cigarette, and smiled brazenly at the secretary who came to greet them. “Epiphany…darling…it’s been ages…”

McKinley discreetly put away his revolver. For now.

Images flashed into his head, just then, of his masked face on top of a chicken’s body, with the usual Looney Tunes-derived comic effect as well.

Szandor chuckled. “She’s, well, a mute, and as you can see, she isn’t. She’s from a…special subculture of empathic telepaths. It’s very rare that an empath can read thoughts, or a telepath emotions… but then, as I’m sure you can tell by looking at her, she’s not normal.”

“I’d appreciate getting on with our…appointment.”

Epiphany’s light red hair bounced off of her shoulders as she returned to her desk, and her skirt flapped against her legs, buoyed by the friction of her motion. Szandor did his best not to stare, as McKinley dragged him quickly into Hopkins’ office.

“I’m beginning to agree with Darkie…someone mark the calendar…”

Szandor practically giggled. “I’m telling him you said that.”

Their conversation stopped dead in its tracks, as they managed to catch the mayor at an off-moment, which most would say he had many of.

“Do you guys mind? I have Banjooo’s people protesting Shrimp Night at the Hilton, I have the Christians up in arms again over the Asfaraxian custom of eating their firstborn as their culture’s way of redeeming their sins, and worst of all, I have a date with a pyromaniac who has a sister who has a habit of bending reality to her will. Strangely, I haven’t figured out how she does it yet.

Oh, and you guys have the worst fashion sense of anyone this side of Donald Trump.”

McKinley’d heard enough. He depressed the hologram-projection device on his watch, so that he no longer looked like a suave businessman in a suit that was five years’-worth- of- salary too expensive for him, and he pointed his revolver at Hopkins’ head.

Szandor took it as his cue to observe.

An electronically disguised voice as cold as a cryogenic deep freeze quietly asked Hopkins, “We know you’ve had dealings with Senator Carlson and a genetics weaponry dealer named Nicolae Anton. We want to know if you’ve had any dealings with them over the past year, and if you’ve noticed anything unusual about them.

We also want to know if you ever say anything sensible.”

Hopkins opened his mouth to spout something dignified (or at least he hoped so), but was shocked into silence by the arrival of a giggling puddle of something that looked like melted rubber, which promptly assumed the shape of a man. It covered Hopkins (leaving only his mouth and nose free), and proceeded to leap out the window.

McKinley groaned. “Dammit. They’re already on to us.”

Szandor roared, in frustration, and that roaring became demonic.

Even the coldhearted McKinley took a step back, secretly in awe at the sheer, untapped power that the Anton family’s only child had.

Without so much as a thought, Szandor scooped McKinley up in his arms, and placed him on his back, and took flight himself. Unfortunately, by the time they’d hit the streets, the elastic (for lack of a better term) individual had vanished.)

Again, all McKinley had to say was “Dammit, dammit, dammit…”





Feeling like she’d forgotten something, Mallory Bell returned to the basement of the Third Day Mission, to discover the Dark Knight’s present.

“Again? I didn’t think I was related to Mother Theresa…”

Epitome had already begun trying to free himself from his bonds. Compassionately, Mallory took his hand and explained “It looks like he’s got you bound by some kind of chemical…it won’t wear off until he wants it to.”

Above her, the television began showing images of Hopkins’ capture, and the attempted chase by McKinley and his winged companion. Mallory whistled. “You guys sure know how to get the media’s attention.”

Epitome sighed. “You should’ve been around the day I knocked Savagetooth into a permanent coma. I had more human rights’ activists on me than Bush’s gay marriage stance.”

Mallory chuckled, and suddenly stopped, as outside, a car exploded, and Messenger rushed back inside. “We’ve all got to leave.”

Epitome’s bonds weakened, and he stood up, somewhat gingerly. “Oh, no—not if there’s civilians in danger, and not while I still have a federal warrant for your arrest…”

Messenger grunted. “Jesus, get with the times…I’m kinda a federal agent, now, only you don’t have the clearance to know that. I’m only helping out today because I owe DK…a lot.”

“I still don’t—“

“We don’t have time for this, dipshit. If you have a cell phone, or a hidden headset, or whatever, I suggest you get on the line, and call in whatever favors you need to. I would, but Drury kind of wants to feed my head to the proverbial lion, and, well…”

“How many innocents are inside this place, still?”

Mallory’s face whitened. “Oh, god…they’re all still upstairs…”

Messenger grabbed her by the hand, and pulled her out the door. “God damn it, Epitome…get on that phone, now!”

Epitome touched a tiny device near his ear, and spoke directly to what amounted to his supervisor.

“I need transport for upwards of anywhere from 25 to 50 civilians immediately. Activate the Miracle Clause, if you have to.”

Outside, Mallory tugged at Messenger’s grip. “Get over your damsel complex, dammit…I can’t let those people die…”

“We have people…”

“They won’t get here in time…”

Perhaps in answer, a rushing wave of humanity exploded from the door closest to the arguing duo, and Mallory’s spirits rose slightly. “That…it looks like about 3/4ths of them…”

Epitome entered carrying two more, and sighed. “You wasted my time, you fool…look behind you.”

A LairJet had landed, and Nats and what appeared to be a grandfather in tights were using their telekinetic powers to hold together what they could of the building. CFSB! was handing out carbonated beverages to the terrified crowd, speaking in his usual three-hundred-words-a-minute manner to try to ease their fears as well.

Beside them (in as much as he could be), the Leaping Phantom saved those who were trapped, though he collapsed in exhaustion carrying the last of them. “Maybe…I really…*kaff*…should’ve…stayed…*kaff*…retired…”

Just as Nats and the Incredible Stop Sign had almost repaired most of the building’s damage, the elderly gentlemen fell over, and promptly stopped breathing.

The Phantom wheezed, “Gerry!”, and dull thud took this moment to considerately drink a shot of whiskey, chased by three shots of vodka, and complimented by something called Fingy’s Super Schlong. This charming drink’s name did nothing to take away from his current T-shirt, which asked Have you kissed your punk rocker, today? I also accept mindless, drunken sex that shames even Bill Clinton.

~~If you don’t get in there, I’m going to make you regret that last drink.~~

thud groaned. “Aye, believe yeh me…me liver already hates me…” thud proceeded to offer what assistance he could, being more than slightly intoxicated and having the approximate weight of a housefly. So what if it meant that he was still huffing and puffing trying to carry two toddlers while the others were carrying adults twice as fast as he was?

thud’s earpiece beeped. “You have to keep him off of my trail for a few more hours.” The Scottish rocker sighed, again. Always wit’ th’ bloody demands…all he wanted to do tonight was catch Flint Michigan’s cover band at the Devil’s Necklace, where all the really liberal women hung out…

It wasn’t until fifteen minutes later, when everyone was crammed into the LairJet (with barely even standing room), that Finny’s voice came on over the intercom. “You do intend on bringing those people elsewhere, right?”

Nats took it upon himself to respond. “Oh, no…see…I decided that I’d bring them to the Island, where they’d be safest, and we could keep them entertained by you telling them of your glorious adventures hitting people into walls and chasing women…”

The dragon’s nostrils flared smoke. “Nats…I’d consider being silent.”

“But you tell the best stories…”

In the confusion, no one noticed that Messenger hadn’t boarded, or that he’d vanished just as the LairJet had landed.

In fact, not even Psyche noticed Messenger as the fallen angel witnessed her walk calmly up behind the editor in chief of the GMY Squire and behead him, and stop momentarily to drink from his disembodied head like some sort of bizarre chalice.

Or at least, Messenger didn’t think she’d noticed him, until he glanced down, and found a six-inch blade sticking into his gun hand. He winced in pain, as he felt poison spreading into his circulatory system, and that’s when he blacked out.

Across the street, where she’d noticed him, Psyche waved mockingly, wrapped herself in the fallen editor’s trenchcoat, and sneaked onto the city bus. It was so…gratifying how no one reacted to what had just happened. That was the way of this city…if you saw a crime being committed, you kept your mouth shut, because anything in the way of rebuttal would fall back upon you tenfold. It was almost biblical, if it wasn’t so twisted.

And that’s why Psyche loved it here…the uninhibited socio-moral restraint, as you had to be extremely blatant to be convicted of sin in this town. And no one ever complained about a sword-carrying assassin, as the only people who ever truly saw her ended up being victims…

She laughed, silently, as she watched a federal van pull up to the fallen Messenger and carry the unconscious killing machine inside. Ah, the folly of challenging what you do not understand.


Nicolae Anton walked briskly through the horrid crowd. He had an appointment with an old friend, and he wanted to make sure that his reputation for timeliness didn’t suffer needlessly. His piercing, intense, dark blue eyes dared anyone to stare at him…and it was a dare others lost, frequently. He almost smiled, as he saw his friend’s building in the distance…ah, how he’d appreciate what he’d accomplished today.




John Carlson sat alone in his senatorial office, his latest sexual toy long having gone home to her current lover, the editor in chief of the newspaper her ex husband worked at. Others may have shied away from sleeping with someone who’d returned from the dead, but he found it liberating to be with someone who feared death even less than he did—because he’d already achieved heaven, on earth. He had everything he wanted.

His governmental contacts had proceeded to make it impossible for Burch to appear in public without being hounded by paparazzi, bounty hunters, or other lower forms of life.

He did have to wonder why he suddenly heard a rumbling, like a chainsaw, in the distance.

He then turned his attention to the window, which is where a motorcycle impossibly exploded through, and a grappling hook extended from its center, piercing his left shoulder. The bike’s owner pushed it back towards the roof, and Carlson was taken for the ride of his life, unwillingly.

The bike stopped, then, at the edge of the roof, and Carlson looked up into the costumed Dark Knight, who was showing emotion while wearing the suit for the first time either could recall.

The grappling hook began losing its grip in Carlson’s shoulder, and DK’s audio-visual equipment began recording the affair that Carlson had been carrying on with his wife.

He’d never been able to touch this wretch, for lack of evidence…but he had to give him a warning that his time was almost up.

He had to believe that what he was doing was right.

And that’s when the recording stopped, and the video equipment shredded the last nobility he possessed—his belief that somehow, he could work things out with Sharon, no matter how she’d changed or how pathetic he felt.

The pleasure in her eyes as she injected herself with more genetic treatments ripped at his head, at his soul, at his psyche, as he bent to a knee and almost tore his mask/helmet off to scream out his pain…

…and in his hysteria, he edged ever-closer to the roof’s edge, and it appeared, momentarily, that he reached out for Carlson…

…only to be wracked by another insurmountable wave of sadness, and that’s when the grappling hook finally submitted to gravity, and John Carlson looked into a dark orange-and-black avatar of despair, of horror, of a reminder that even tragedy defies death… and he too began screaming as he realized he was doomed.

The Dark Knight watched his archenemy fall, make contact with the pavement, practically bounce, and then he continued sobbing…not for what he’d done, but for what he’d lost…


Seven stories below, Nicolae Anton gazed, in horror, at the masked figure atop the building. He muttered, “This thing is even more unstable than I thought…I may have to consult The Elders again, tonight, for further guidance…”

With that, he wrapped his trenchcoat around himself, to protect him from the wind that was building up, and approached his friend’s body. He placed a single white rose, according to their agreement, and signaled to his limousine driver to bring the car forward. He whispered, “Goodbye, John…I hope Hell isn’t what they say it is…”

With that, as the car drove away, Anton raised one specific figure in the general direction of the Dark Knight. The caped nightmare’s life hadn’t begun to be miserable…not in comparison with what Anton planned to do, now.

He smiled, finally. Those who compared GothaMetropolis York to Hell come to Earth would soon, very soon, prove to much more prophetic than they could have ever realized.
…cut you like they want me to…
I used to be a little boy, so old in my shoes…
What I choose is my choice…
What’s a boy supposed to do?
The killer in me, is the killer in you…my love…

Leave you like they left me here,
To whither in denial
The bitterness of one who’s left alone
Oh, he is burned…burned…burned…




Smashing Pumpkins, “Disarm”

…today is the greatest day…that I have ever…really…known…
Smashing Pumpkins, “Today”

Next: Szandor takes the first major step against his power-mad father, and the Dark Knight tries to keep his grasp on a reality that’s gone far-too-out-of-control…




and, incidentally, I'm quietly considering this the best thing I've ever written.





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