Tales of the Parodyverse

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killer shrike
Sun Mar 26, 2006 at 07:12:57 pm EST
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All of Me (And a Little Too Much of Him) Part One
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All of Me (And a Little Too Much of Him)


Part One: The Set Up


Note: I have no idea where this story fits in continuity, or even if it can be considered canon. But it seemed like a fun tale to tell, and it’s done in honor of a certain poster’s birthday that’s coming up.

It was 3:27 when the phone rang. A pale, slender arm shot out from the cocoon of blankets it had been comfortably enshrouded in to answer it.

“Shep, luv, it’s me,” a familiar voice chirped from the receiver, “Come downstairs and let me in, won’t you? I’ve got a bit of a rummy situation on my hands, and could use your help.”

Sarah Shepherdson blinked her bleary eyes into focus, “Con? What’s wrong?”

“Just the usual: something wicked this way comes, and its got its mojo working overtime to doom the Parodyverse,” Con Johnstantine said wryly, “Oh, and could you bring down a tenner? I need to tip the taxi man.”

*****


Sarah and Con considered one another from across the tiny table set in the former’s kitchen.

“How’ve you been, luv?” the seamy young Englishman asked.

The tired brunette snorted and swaddled herself snugger in her robe, “Con, it’s barely 4am. Already you’ve woken me up, borrowed money, and drunk the last of my tea. I’m in no mood for small talk. Get to the point.”

Con grinned and ran a hand through his frosted blonde hair, “It’s the Apocalypse. Damn thing’s on our doorstep, and only we can stop it.”

“If that’s true, it wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve found loitering outside this day,” Shep countered, but a shadow of concern crossed her face, “What’s happening?”

“The gist of it is some major wanker is attempting to use the Prophetical Narratives to achieve apotheosis, claiming the errant powers of the various Parodyverse death gods as his own and bringing an end to the whole barmy place,” the Heckblazer produced a small bag of stones from his trenchcoat and spilled them onto the table, “And the only way we can stop it is by phoning up one of your old chums currently in the Great Beyond. Remember Killer Shrike?”

“Big guy in a bird suit? Sure. But, Shrike's dead, is he? I mean, there’s been all sorts of conflicting stories….”

“Exactly,” Con said exultantly as he arranged the rune-etched stones in a circular pattern between himself and Sarah, “The Parodyverse is made of stories, and Shrike’s is all effed up. He gets killed fighting the Hellraisers a couple years back, but a while later he’s spotted trashing his own statue in Hero Park. And later Shrike comes after you.”

“Me and Hallie,” Sarah said in correction, “Only, that wasn’t the real KS. And, after Hallie beat him up, he vanishes.”

“Right. So I do some sleuthing, and find out there are other Shrike sightings. There’s one where he’s teaming up with a bunch of other members of the pajama police for undisclosed reasons, then he’s taking part in some competition to off that oik Trickshot, then he’s a ghost in the bayous of Louisiana, then last Christmas he shows up as a damn bird!”

“Huh. You really put a lot of effort in tracking KS down. He’d be flattered,” Sarah picked up one of the stones to examine it.

“Don’t touch, luv: the runes’ positioning has to be spot on, or the ritual won’t work,” Con advised, “Believe me, it wasn’t out of any sense of fellowship I went out looking for him. The nutter owes me. But back on point, this is happening because the Parodyverse needs Killer Shrike to exist. Scary thought, I know, but there it is.”

“Needs him to check the Apocalypse?”

As if it were possible, Con’s smile grew even more unctuous, “Beauty and brains. I knew I hooked up with you for a reason. Yes, KS was brought here because according to a passage in the Prophetical, Albeit Possibly Apocryphal Narrative Scrolls, he is destined to assume the powers of all the retired Death Gods.”

“That would be bad,” Sarah observed.

“True, but you’ve met the man. He’s not bright or ambitious enough to make such a play. Which is why he was brought here from that other dimension. Because if he’s not around, the real, Parodyverse born version of Killer Shrike will manifest, and he’ll take up the torch and reality is doomed. So we have to make sure our Shrike is back with us, flapping his pinions and his gums.”

“This plot sounds a lot like what is supposed to start the Resolution War. And how Visionary is the placeholder for the Apostate. And how Nats had to take over Hell to keep that power away from other, nastier people,” the Probability Dancer eyed him shrewdly, “Is this all just some scam to get me to sleep with you?”

“No!” Con seemed upset by the accusation, “Look, its derivative, I’ll grant you. But find a bleeding prophesy that isn’t nowadays. They’re all ‘only the Chosen Bloke can put the Kibosh on the Great Galumphing Evil before the whole world goes Off It’s Rocker,’” his face soured, “Sorry I couldn’t come up with a more original Doomsday Scenario for you.”

“OK, OK. My mistake. I apologize for doubting you.”

“That’s swell, luv. Now, if you want to discuss a good luck toss before we get down to business-“

Sarah’s voice became very grave, “What do we have to do?”

“A séance,” Con held out his hands, “To summon his spirit.”

“And that will do the job?”

“It’ll be a start,” the occult investigator prevaricated before hitting the young woman with the hard sell, “See, Shep, I needed you to be part of this ritual on account that not only is Shrike under a geas to you, but also you’re the only living soul in the Parodyverse that’s shown him a lick of kindness.”

“Really? That’s so sad,” Sarah empathized.

“Isn’t it, though?” Con waggled his hands expectantly, “Ready?”

She was.

*****


After thirty minutes of chanting had produced no results, Sarah grew impatient; “Con?” she began.

“Sh. I can sense him… it’s as if he’s hovering right out of reach…”

“Con, I have to start getting ready for work. It’s my turn to-“

“There!” Johnstantine let go of Sarah’s fingers and pointed, “Behind the toaster.”

As expected, the young lady turned, giving Con the opportunity to surreptiously adjust one of the rune stones so the ritual’s true purpose could be fulfilled.

“I don’t see anything.”

“You’re right. My fault,” again he put out his palms, “One more go at it, then?”

The young woman huffed, but relented. She took hold of Con’s hands….

… and nearly fell out of her chair. It felt like a current of electricity had run through her body. Up and down every limb until it stopped and nestled in the back of her brain.

“Whooo!” she exhaled feebly as she wobbled. Con turned over his own chair getting to her, holding her protectively by the forearms.

“Are you all right, Sarah?”

“I… feel… Where the Hell am I?”

Sarah Shepherdson blanched at the words coming from her mouth. They were not her own. She craned her neck to look back at Johnstantine who was hovering behind her, a sickly smirk on his face and demanded:

“What did you do? Johnstantine! You Limey SOB! What the f*** did you do?”!

“Aheh,” the Heckblazer stepped back and raised his hands, “Now take it easy you two. This was necessary. All in service to the greater Good. For Queen and Country, and all that rot.”

Sarah frantically began searching around the kitchen, “Two? What do you mean, wait! Wait!” she stooped to examine her reflection in the oven’s glass door, “Holy s***, I’m a broad again!!”

“Again? Didn’t know you had previous experience, Simon,” Con quipped.

“Simon? But that’s-- You brought me back as a woman! I’ll…no!! I’m HER!! You turned me into her!!” Sarah/Simon rose wrathfully, “I’ll kill you!!!!”

“Sarah, you in there, pet?" the occultist inquired nervously, "Any time you want to take control-urk!”

The young woman grabbed Con by the throat and lifted him off the ground so that his Doc Martens dangled comically in the air, “DIE!”

“No! Shrike, let go!” it was Sarah’s voice now, and Sarah’s will that forced her body to obey. Johnstantine collapsed to the ground and began gasping for breath.

“Thanks, Shep, I- agk!!!!”

That was when Sarah put her foot down where she thought it would do the most good.

“I. Can’t. Believe. You. Did. This!” each word was punctuated by a little bounce from the hopping mad waitress.

“Ahhh!! Shrike, get her to stop! Ow!! If she kills me you’ll never get out of there!” Johnstantine warned as he tried to cover up.

(Where do you keep all the knives in this kitchen! I’m going to slice that smug face right offa him!)

“Use the cheese grater. It’s in the sink,” Sarah said aloud.

“What? Use the cheese grater for what?” Johnstantine asked as he scurried under the kitchen table for protection.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Sarah snapped angrily, but in truth most of her rage had bled out of her. She picked up one of the overturned chairs and plopped down in it, “I was talking to Simon. He’s in my head now, isn’t he?”

(What are you stopping for? Finish him!!)

Con cautiously poked his head out, “Yes. Sorry about this, Shep. But fooling you was the only way for the possession ritual to work. And we need Shrike up and about if we’re to keep the Real Big Nasty from doing You Know What.”

(What’s he talking about? What Big Nasty? Hooded Hood? Chain Knight? I wanna know who I have to kill to get out of here!)

“Hush, Simon. Why did you pick me then? Couldn’t think of any other mark who’d let Killer Shrike squat in her subconscious?”

Con stood and began gathering up the scattered runestones, “It’s not like that, luv. Really, all the other stuff I said was true. You are an ideal host because of your connection to the man. Plus, you have other qualities that lend themselves to the situation.”

(What other qualities? Being an annoyingly chirpy busy body who’s ruined my entire f****** life?!)

Sarah knew what the occultist meant: that she was in addition to being Sarah Shepherdson, struggling thespian and assiduous food service employee, she was also the Probability Dancer, one of the most powerful beings in the Parodyverse. However, there was no way she planned on sharing that nugget of information with her hopefully temporary houseguest, “So what now?”

“Dunno,” Johnstantine shrugged, “I’m going to have to consult the tea leaves. Or, dove entrails, if you want to be literal. Don’t have any on hand, do you?”

“No, fresh out,” Sarah joked.

There was a beeping sound coming from the other room.

“My alarm,” the young woman explained as she stood, “Time to get up. Oh, wait, I already am.”

(Are you two ignoring me?! I know you can hear me! Explain to me what’s going on, right now, or I swear-)

“Doesn’t seem like there’s much you can do at this point besides swear, KS, what with not having a body to call your own,” Shep said tiredly, “In summary, Con stuck you here to keep you safe while he tries to stop some magic bad guy from using your name to destroy the Parodyverse. While he does that, I’m going to get ready for work.”

“Work? You sure that’s wise, luv? Maybe it be best if you stay in, given your, uh, condition?” Con worried.

“I can’t. I have people counting on me,” Sarah gave the man a rueful smile, “Besides, I’m used to an angry voice in the back of my head nagging me. It usually sounds more like mum, though.”

(Ha ha ha. Very funny. I’m moving you up the List, you dingy broad. And Johnstantine, if you can hear me, you better pray the Big Nasty Whoever gets to you before I do, ‘cause I swear there’s no one bigger or nastier than me when you get on my bad side!)

“KS says good luck,” Sarah told the Englishman, “Good luck from me too.”

(The Hell I did!)

Con Johnstantine gave the pair his patented roguish smile, “What, no kiss?”

(Don’t you dare, woman!)

“You know, I just sharpened the cheese grater…”

“OK, Ok,” he held up his hands, “I’m going. You two have fun.”

(Quick! While his back is turned! Stab him with that fondue skewer! Six inches below the left shoulder, and he’ll bleed out like Ol’ Faithful.)

“You certainly full of useful information, KS,” Sarah Shepherdson quipped as she headed for her bathroom, “What do you know about waiting tables?”

Next: Dancer’s Deeply Difficult Day


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