Tales of the Parodyverse

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killer shrike
Sun Oct 29, 2006 at 12:31:54 am EST
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"Balls Out," Part Three
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“Balls Out,” Part Three



“Holá, Señor Epitome. I am Xatroc, the Atomic Footballer. On behalf of my countrymen I challenge you to single combat at the Off-Central Park Recreational Grounds.”

The Paragon of Power pressed several buttons on the monitor room’s main console in an effort to trace the call. The Legion’s advanced surveillance technology quickly identified the speaker’s location, “Who are you, and why are you wasting my time?”

“Are you making jokes? Surely you have heard of Xatroc!” there was a long sigh, “Ah, of course: you have lost much of your memory. That is what makes you ignorant of my identity. I am Argentina’s greatest hero, both on and off the field. Your brazen attack on my homeland cries for vengeance. Vengeance that I am honor bound to seek, and deliver.”

Things were now becoming clearer, though no less absurd, “Listen to me, Xatroc. When I fight, it’s not for honor or any of that other schoolyard shit. I don’t play games. If you have a valid reason to call me out, let’s hear it. Otherwise, I have important-“

“Well,” El Futbolista Atomico noted coyly, “there is the matter of a missing stewardess. One Gwendolyn Marshall. She disappeared from Paradopolis Airport yesterday. It caused a huge, ah, ¿Cómo usted dice?…. Ruckus? Si, si, a huge ruckus when she missed her flight.”

Epitome did recall the event in question from this morning’s security briefing. There were reports of her leaving the airport with a foreign-looking man in a white suit, “So you’re saying you’ve kidnapped Miss Marshall.”

“Kidnapped is such an ugly word. Let us just say I have taken her into my care. However, if you refuse to meet me on the field of honor, Gwen will be given treatment that you would find disgusting.”

“Fine.”

Dominic put down the phone and started running.

*****


The Atomic Footballer had attracted a considerable throng of onlookers by the time Mr. Epitome had reached Off Central Park. Tall and athletic, the loose electric blue jersey and shorts Xatroc wore did not hide his physique. His shirt’s insignia was the universal symbol for a carbon atom, with a soccer ball substituting for its nucleus. The only part of his uniform that belied his true identity was the gizmo-laden cleats (complete with radiation hazard emblems) he wore.

“Look, its Xatroc!” Epitome heard from the crowd.

“Xatroc is boss! He owns Ronaldinho.”

“Xatroc, I love you!”

“Forget him, where’s his sister? Ella es un diquera!”

Dominic took note of the harsh glare the Argentinean gave in the direction of the last comment, “Where’s Miss Marhsall?” he demanded once he stopped moving at super speed.

“She is near, and for the moment, safe,” Xatroc tapped the ground with his heel. A whirring sound came from his sneakers, followed by a pop. A soccer ball materialized under his raised foot. He deftly scooped it up without using his hands and began bouncing the glowing sphere off his knee, “All you have to do to get her back, Señor Epitome, is take the ball from me.”

Epitome turned to the people that surrounded them, “Move clear,” he ordered.

“Si, listen to your Star Spangled Splendor, friends. I do not want any of you to be harmed as we duel,” Xatroc gave his opponent his best Cheshire smile and made a beckoning head bob.

As the spectators scattered Dominic punched him in the face.

At least, he tried to. The Footballer deftly fell backward, away from the blow, while simultaneously kicking the soccer ball just as it reached the apogee of its bounce. It struck Epitome in the chest with tremendous force.

“Whughf!” was the sound the Paragon of Power made when he finally landed twenty yards from where he had left his feet. Angrily, he grabbed the ball with the intention of hurling it back at Xatroc’s face. What he got instead was several hundred thousand volts of electricity surging through his body.

Xatroc was at Epitome’s side in a blur, “Hands,” he cautioned smarmily before taking the ball and passing it back and forth to himself, “Don’t you know the rules?”

Then he kicked Epitome in the jaw, sending him sprawling. Before Dominic could recover the Footballer struck again, this time to the side of his head, all the while continuing to dribble the soccer ball.

The Man of Might finally rose and tried a snap kick of his own, but El Futbolista Atomico evaded once again. Dominic noted his opponent fought in a style that was a blend of Brazilian Capoeira and French Savate-

The soccer ball caromed off Epitome’s skull yet again, knocking back through a set of outdoor bleachers.

- with a bit of FIFA thrown in.

Dominic decided to do some throwing of his own, hefting the remains of the seats and hurling it at the Footballer.

Xatroc rapidly slammed his heel down on the ground several time, each time causing another glowing soccer ball to appear. Before the next one was summoned its predecessor was kicked into the looming mass of wood and metal, reducing the bleachers to fragments. Then, just to show he could have just as easily avoided Epitome’s attack as destroy it, Xatroc zoomed around at super-speed, collecting the errant balls into one clutch.

“I think this is not your game, Señor Epitome,” he smirked.

“You’re right. It’s not,” Dominic trudged towards the Footballer as he elaborated, “A game. This is you threatening innocents and taking me away from important things that need to be done. And for that I’m going to rip off your frigging head and kick it around the block a few times.”

The Atomic Footballer gave a mock gasp of concern, “Such rage! You must learn to relax, Señor, and not take life too seriously.”

Epitome warily closed in, “You called me out; remember, Pretty Boy? If anyone is acting like they have a stick up their ass, its you.”

“I do this for my countrymen, and for my president, all of whom you attacked most criminally.”

“Because your country was kow-towing to a alien thug and a dictator.”

“Kow-towing?” El Futbolista Atomico was unsure of the word, but didn’t like its implication. He also was tired of talking. With a shrug he kicked into the pile of balls he accumulated. The spheres scattered like they would for the opening break shot in billiards. The ricocheted off trees, lamposts, parked cars, anything solid enough to withstand the collison, again and again, forming a barrier between Epitome and his target.

“So, Señor, do you think you can run my gauntlet?” he offered his own idiom over the sounds of impact.

Dominic sneered but gave no reply. He studied the balls’ trajectories for several moments, then leapt forward.

“¡Mierda santa!” Xatroc breathed appreciatively as the American Archetype crossed his Ricochet Rubicon, springing from ball to ball as they streaked through the air.

Mr. Epitome landed in front of Xatroc. Quickly rising from his crouch, he hammered the Footballer with an uppercut that knocked him back into the ground.

But Xatroc could take a punch as well as give them. In a flash he was up with a counter-attack, striking at Epitome with his feet, knees, and shins.

Dominic blocked what shots he could and tried to ignore the ones that got past him. More concerning was the fact that the villain was forcing him back towards the still-active “wall of balls.”

Xatroc was smiling, but it was clear he was pushing himself, his body literally glowing from his sweat. The Man of Might decided it was time to use a time-honored tradition to make the Footballer more heated.

“Cuando aquí me hacen iré cogida su hermana,” he vowed as he knocked aside a roundhouse kick.

The villain’s eyes narrowed dangerously and he launched himself forward, striking Epitome flush on the bridge of his nose with a wicked headbutt.

Epitome leaned back and returned the favor; only his head was a lot harder than Xatroc’s. The soccer star went down like a house of cards.

Now it was Dominic’s turn to smile. As the blood trickled down the exposed part of his face he asked the scrabbling Xatroc, “Ready for some real football?”

Grabbing Xatroc by the leg Epitome whipped him towards the cascade of careening spheres. The Footballer had enough sense to deactivate the projectiles before they bashed him to pieces, and landed on his feet, but was not able to get out of the way of his foe’s clothesline tackle.

Again Epitome pounced, ramming his knees into Xatroc’s midsection as he punched away at his face and chest. After the tenth such blow El Futbolista Atomic was finished.

“No… Más,” he wheezed before passing out, leaving Epitome alone in his victory.



To Be Concluded


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