Tales of the Parodyverse

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Messenger
Sat Jan 07, 2006 at 02:42:32 am EST
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'Sunshine Days' Part One: Dues Ex Machina... The Beginning of the End starts here...
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“… Reports flooding in… scores believed dead after an explosion rocked--….”

“… transformer exploded… or it could be an accident… we don’t have any information indicating it was a…”

“… Apparent terrorist attack … that’s all we have at this time…”

“..Another one?!”

“… I’m here and … Oh God… I can’t… excuse me… I’m sorry… please go to commercial…”

“How many…?”

“… Scores…”

“…. Hundreds…”

“…. At this time, we believe thousands…”

“… Recapping what we know so far, at 8:00 this morning numerous bombs were simultaneously detonated in at least half a dozen different locations … this morning of carnage started at Parody Plaza when a ‘First Paradiopolis’ bank burst into flames… we spoke to Sarah Shepherdson who waits at a nearby diner and--…”

“… Rocket Man High, luckily school had not started when the suicide bomber casually strutted through the entrance and detonated the high-powered explosive, so no students are believed to have been killed. Unfortunately, some faculty and maintenance were present at the time and could not be accounted for…”

“… bomb exploded next as a man boarded the no.4 bus at a stop just outside the Municipal Library… at this time we have no reports that there were any survivors… wait… we’re just getting word that a little girl is in critical condition… My God, ladies and gentlemen… a little girl…”

“… the Shelton Bay Bridge, cars literally plunged into the river below as a gasoline truck swerved and exploded… severing Paradiopolis from Gothametropolis York for the first time in a hundred years…”

“… Busiek Bay Aquarium… exotic fish flapping among the debris and bodies… one of the most surreal, disturbing images I’ll ever see…”

“… My God… Phantom Hawk Memorial… a hospital… these monsters attacked the sick, the infirm, the dying… innocents who had nothing to do with foreign policy or anything else… My God… they-… they bombed it so there would be nowhere to bring the victims…”

“… One of the worst terrorist attacks in Paradiopolis’ history…”

A ray of sunlight showers Messenger as he kneels on his floorboards. He clutches his whiskey bottle as if it’s the last thing in this world that matters. He puts the bottleneck to his lips and lets its incendiary contents drain into his throat. He wasn’t around to save them. He was so preoccupied with his own problems, he never saw it coming. And the scream of every ghost echoes inside his brain, punishing him for his negligence. He could be helping the injured right now, ferrying them to whatever emergency centers remain. But he doesn’t. He’s paralyzed, stuck in place by some invisible force.

When the bombings were occurring, he wasn’t patrolling the streets. He was doing the same thing he had done for the last ten months… drinking. After all the insanity and pain he had encountered, Messenger endeavored to finally shield himself from it. He became a recluse, only ever leaving his apartment to get groceries or more alcohol. He disconnected his phone, hung up his trench-coat and immersed himself in memories of what soon felt like another life. For the first couple weeks, he would alternate between meditating, exercising, sleeping, watching television and trying to forget. The isolation would prove too much for him to handle however. After a while, his paranoia started to get the better of him. The meditating and exercising stopped; the drinking intensified, and at the slightest sound he would glare through the peephole expecting an old enemy to bust through his door and try to kill him… but no one ever came.

At first his drinking would help him pass out, but even that lost its effect. He found he could no longer sleep, spending long nights twisting and turning as the wind howled by his curtained windows. The street lights cast menacing shadows all over his apartment, keeping him up… haunting him. Everyone he’s failed to save in this life would scream for him late at night. It’s no wonder he couldn’t sleep. When he did dream, he was drowning. When he woke, he couldn’t breathe. He would feel the sheets next to him and they were cold and empty. Sometimes he felt as if his dead lover was still there. Sometimes he felt as if the Devil were by the foot of the bed, watching him and grinning at his torment… It was only shadows.

After growing gradually more disconnected over the past year, reality has now come back to bite him in the ass. Perhaps if he hadn’t selfishly given up the costume, those who were killed today could have been saved. Perhaps he could have stopped this. He could have gotten in touch with the Dark Knight like old times, unraveled the plot before it became too late, and maybe redeemed himself in the public eye. Now, there is no possibility for redemption or even justice; just vengeance.

“Get up…” he instructs himself. In his mind’s eye the apartment shifts from side to side like a blurry kaleidoscope of shapes and colors. Under normal circumstances he would be too drunk to stand, but today that will not stop him … Not today.

“We are now getting word that a previously unknown group called ‘Lamb of God’ has taken responsibility for the attacks. In a pre-written statement sent to the press corps this morning they indicated that these attacks were in response to actions taken by the US military overseas…”

The man stumbles over to his wardrobe and pulls out a dusty coat. He slides it over his shoulders and then grabs a satchel of Razor-edged letters and explosive packages. Finally he pulls a gun out from under his pillow, and places it in a holster. It’s the one memento he had slept with for the past year, always expecting to use it during the night… either on others or himself. Now he has an outlet for his aggression. Now he can make someone else feel pain.

“… is at large! An apparent terrorist cell is believed to have laid siege to the ‘Daily Trombone’, taking many hostages including editor J. Jonah Jerkson. They are believed to be armed and dangerous. The building is surrounded by police and negotiations are underway… A man calling himself Ahmed Naseem has identified himself as the ring-leader and he is demanding safe-passage out of the country by helicopter…”

He pulls back the curtains that have stayed in place for just as long, and dives head-first into the morning air.

“Everyone we interviewed on the street had the same question! Where is the Lair Legion? Where is Donar? Nats? Hatman? …Where is Messenger?”



Sunshine Days

Part One: DUES EX MACHINA


It’s been so long since he’s been exposed to the sun, that it burns his eyes. He bounds from rooftop to rooftop. His muscles are sore, his breathing is labored and he is misjudging his jumps. “Uhnf!” he grunts as he almost misses the ledge, slamming into the side of a building. His arms hang over the side and he digs into the concrete with his fingernails, hanging on for dear life as his legs flail several hundred feet above the ground. He looks down and the street is so small, that the people seem to be nothing more than ants. They start to spin and he feels bile coming up. It’s like a faucet as it spills out of his mouth, falling to the sidewalks below. He shakes off this vertigo and manages to pull himself up over the ledge. “Sloppy… almost got myself killed.” He is drunk, but more importantly he is out of practice, untrained and unfit for anything resembling combat.

In the distance he can see the giant trombone cut-out perched on a roof, like a beacon guiding him to his final destination. As he glides across streets, he sees the chaos below him. Cop cars streak down the roads and people are screaming for him to stop and help.

He hops off a roof, slides down a drain-pipe, and lands in front of the Daily Trombone. The building is unlit and SWAT vehicles wait patiently outside. A man in a ruffled suit with a loudspeaker runs up to him. “What do ya think you’re doing here? We have this situation under control!” spittle flies in Messenger’s face as he solemnly stands there and doesn’t say a word. “One of you super-fucks…” the negotiator continues “… gets involved and more people could die. Stay out of this. This is a police matter! I’m warning you!”

Messenger ignores him and walks towards the building.

“Stop him!” the negotiator screams.

Several SWAT officers point their guns at his back. Messenger keeps walking towards the entrance, confident he isn’t in danger. “If you shoot me…” he warns them without looking back. “… you kill the one chance you have of getting those people out alive.”

He pushes the glass doors open and enters the lobby. His boots squeak against the marble floor. He casually walks through the metal detector and it begins to frantically beep.

Twenty yards away, a man with a machine-gun whirls around. He reaches for a walkie-talkie and Messenger shoots it out of his hand. The first thing that strikes Messenger is that this man isn’t some terrorist stereotype with a long beard and a turban. It’s just a scared man with a leather jacket, jeans and a five o’ clock shadow.

“Why are you doing this?” the Postman demands.

Without answering, the man sprays machine gun bullets across the lobby. The postman dives for cover beneath a counter, as it’s continually pock-marked with fire. Messenger waits for the gun to run out of bullets. As soon as he hears the click, he springs up from his hiding spot and lets a Razor Letter fly out of his hand. It sinks into the man’s head, spurting red blood all over the pristine white lobby floor. His body collapses against the elevator door, still twitching. The Postman walks over the bloody mess by his feet and into a waiting elevator.

*DING*

“Trombone offices are on the 5th floor….”

He leans against the elevator, catching his breath and holding his side. Another dribble of puke escapes his lips. He swallows the rest. “God… how much did I drink?”

*DING*

The elevator slides open and the Postman finds himself face to face with a man pointing a Desert Eagle at him. He screams in Arabic and starts shooting wildly. Bullets ricochet around him as he lunges towards the terrorist bringing him to the carpet. He snatches the man’s gun out of his hand and then starts pistol-whipping him with it as he keeps him pinned to the ground.

“Stop… Stop…” the man screams in broken English, shielding his bloodied face. “I have… bomb…”

“Fuck… I knew I should have taken the stairs… Where?! Where is the bomb?!?”

“I am not afraid to die…” he spits blood in Messenger’s face. “… You see… bomb…” he lifts his shirt and there lies crudely taped plastic explosives along his waist-line.

“Jesus Christ…”

“In my hand… dead-man’s switch… if you kill me, I will drop it and we will all die. Including them…”

“Farooq!” another man comes running towards them with a gun. He has a baseball cap pulled past his eyes, but long locks of curly black hair flows from underneath it. Behind him are at least two dozen civilians bound and gagged with duct-tape. Even the once boisterous and antagonistic J. Jonah Jerkson has been silenced, and as he cowers there he doesn’t resemble a newspaper tycoon, but a timid dog scared for his life. He doesn’t seem any happier that his life now depends of a vigilante he has written scathing editorials about. He tries to say something, anything, but all that will escape his lips is a pathetic whimper.

“Let him go!” the man with the cap screams as the gun shakes in his hand.

Messenger gestures for him to lower the weapon. “Okay… look, who are you?”

“Ahmed Naseem. Who the Hell are you?”

“Your English is very good, Ahmed,” Messenger backs away from Farooq.

“I went to Paradiopolis University. I was born here… but I answered the call to Jihad when--…”

“Look…” Messenger wipes sweat from his brow. “… Ahmed… these people here… they’re civilians… they have nothing to do with your Jihad or your grievances with this country.”

“This?! You call these infidels innocent?” Ahmed waves his gun at them. “They are the media! They help perpetuate the American propaganda! In the build-up to the war, they were only too happy to beat the war-drums and offer hoorah encouragement. Encouragement to kill more Arabs!”

J. Jonah starts rocking back and forth and veins pop out on his forehead. He tries to shout something, but all that comes out is a muffled tirade… something about dirty underwear, Islam and lawsuits.

“Shut up, Jonah! Okay… Okay… But why don’t we let them go, huh? At least some of them... why don’t we let them go. Would you consider that, Ahmed?”

“Stop calling me by my name like you know me! I already told you! No one is going anywhere! Including you!”

Farooq picks up his bloody gun and staggers to Ahmed’s side.

“Come! Come over! You are one of our hostages! If you try anything, this whole fucking place goes to smithereens!”

Messenger raises his hands in the air and walks over to the hostages. He glances down at a mother cradling a shivering child. The boy looks up at the Postman as tears roll down his cherub cheeks and over the tape that covers his mouth.

“Hey, kid… everything’s gonna be okay?” Messenger reassures him in a faint whisper. “You believe in magic?”

The boy nods.

“Well, I’m going to make the bad men disappear. I promise.”

“NO TALKING!” Ahmed cracks Messenger over the head with his gun. He stumbles back, groaning in pain.

“My name is Messenger…” the Postman tells them as he wipes blood from his lip. “Have you heard of me?”

Farooq whispers into Ahmed’s ear.

“If you know me, you will know that I’m wanted by the police as well. I’m not a cop… I’m not some government-sanctioned superhero… If I get arrested I’m in as much shit as you are… so maybe we can talk… work something out… I can find safe passage for you to escape, and you can let these people go.”

Farooq and Ahmed talk to each other in Arabic briefly, and then look back towards the Postman.

“We don’t trust you! You stay… the people stay… and… what is that?”


*Whup-Whup-Whup-Whup-Whup*


A Helicopter appears against the backdrop of the blue sky. A man leans out and yells into a loud-speaker.

“Drop your weapons and put your hands on your head…”

Ahmed and Farooq whirl around with their guns pointed toward the chopper. They begin to shout and wave their weapons, while the hostages huddle below them and cry.

“Oh shit… just what we need … cowboys…” Messenger whispers, as he takes advantage of the momentary distraction to pull out two Razor Letters and inch towards the two hostage-takers.


“SHOOT THEM!! WE SHALL DIE AS MARTYRS!!” Ahmed screams as the window panes of the Daily Trombone shatter and bullets start ricocheting off the SWAT chopper.

“No!”

The Helicopter swings around and the guns attached to it start to return fire.

“Jesus Christ… NO!”

As bullets whip around Messenger and the hostages, he leaps over to where Farooq is and grabs his hand tight, just as hot lead start to rip him apart. Even as Farooq dies, he tries to pull away from Messenger.

“You’re not dropping that switch…” he grunts as he severs Farooq’s fist with a Razor Letter. “… Even if I have to take matters into my own hand… Or your hand as it may be…” he holds on to the closed fist tightly as he rips it away from the rest of Farooq’s arm. The blood of severed arteries and veins sprays across his face. Farooq falls to the ground screaming, makes a gurgling sound and then is silent.

Ahmed stares in horror at Messenger holding his dead friend’s stump of a hand.

“You- You butcher! Let that go!” he cries, putting the muzzle of his gun to the Postman’s hand.

“If I let this go, we all die!” he screams back.

Canisters of tear-gas hit the glass strewn carpet and black lines descending from the helicopter spill through the shattered windows. Men in flak uniform holding sub machine-guns slide into the Daily Trombone.

“It’s over, Ahmed! Game’s up! Do not Jihad! Do not pass ‘Go’… Do not collect… no…” Through the fog of the gas, the Postman sees Ahmed swing his jacket open.

A single cry rings out… “Allah Ackbar!”

“BOMB!” Messenger screams as he propels his body behind a copy-machine.

…………

There’s a sucking sound, as if all the air has suddenly disappeared out of the room. Everything freezes for a moment… like a snap-shot in time…When time resumes, it comes with a Heavenly white light that floods the building, blinding everyone’s eyes… It burns to the touch… It sends desks, cubicles and people flying across the office like so much debris.

There is no sound, save for a deafening roar. You don’t feel the pain, until the light is replaced by suffocating darkness… until the deafening roar has been replaced with an incessant ringing.

Messenger stirs among the shrapnel and pools of ink from the shattered copy-machine. He coughs as the deadly cocktail of grey bomb smoke mingled with tear gas fills his lungs. His trench-coat is on fire and he can barely stand, throwing up blood with every step he takes.

“Gotta … gotta get out of here… what happened…?”

He walks over charred and flaming wreckage, towards fresh air. He lets himself fall out the window…

He twists and turns in the sky, like a ballerina…

The cool rush of air brings him to his senses.

“… Can’t let it end like this… have to do something… If I land just right I may have a chance…”

He veers his weight to one side, and arches his back as he hurtles towards a SWAT van.


*Fwump*

As soon as he hits the roof, it caves in and the windows blow out.

“JESUS!” he hears a voice. “SOMEONE JUST FELL!”

He groans…. He can fill his insides filling up with blood… His ears are still ringing and the varied voices around him sound muffled and indistinct…

“Gotta… get out of here… gotta remember what went wrong… what happened… those people… all those people…” he looks up and sees black smoke billowing from the offices of the Daily Trombone.

He rolls off the van and onto the pavement with a thud.

“Sternum broken… shoulder dislocated… lung feels collapsed… possible concussion… whole body feels like it’s on fire… Agh!*” he cries as he tries to hobble away. “Ankle probably shattered… awesome… what a fucking triumphant comeback…”

“FREEZE!”

He looks up to see SWAT members pointing their guns at him.

For a brief moment he considers trying to get away. But his body is crushed. And what is the point? Today is the worst day of his life. Everyone is dead because he failed, because he wasn’t fit enough, fast enough, and sober enough to stop Ahmed from detonating his bomb.

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks: It’s over.

He considers suicide by cop, but the fact is that would be getting off easy. He should suffer with this failure for the rest of his life. He raises his arms in defeat.

They throw him against the crushed van and cuff him.

“Shouldn’t this guy get some medical attention first? I’m surprised he’s even alive…”

“You know who this is, rookie? This is fuckin’ Messenger! One of the most wanted vigilantes out there! We’re not taking a chance! Doncha read the ‘Daily Trombone’?”

The rookie glances up at the shattered remnants of the Daily Trombone offices. “Not anymore.”


………………………….


‘In the back of a SWAT van… (One of the uncrushed variety)’

Messenger sits, gasping for breath with his hands cuffed behind him as the van speeds past red-lights and over bumps.

‘All these years, all the death, carnage and destruction I’ve witnessed… and I’ve never felt as responsible for it as I do today. I could have stopped that guy. At the very least I could have tackled him out the window. It would have still been the end of me, but at least I wouldn’t have thirty lives on my conscious. But instead I ran, and saved my own life at the expense of everyone else’s…’

He has a sudden painful flashback to the promise he made to a frightened, rosy-cheeked youth.

“How could I have fucked up this badly? Was it age? Sloppiness? Indifference? I was drunk… I was drunk when I--… when I--…. Christ… there’s no one to blame for this but myself. Those people relied on me to rescue them and I let them down. I let them all down…

I wish I could take it all back. I wish!” Messenger screams as tears start to well up in his red, irritated eyes.

“Keep it down back there!” one of the officers shout from the front of the van.

“What have I become…? Who else have I led to their death? Crimson Courier…Prize-Fighter…Amber…Black Ghost…Blood-Lust…… Poisyn…

All those people in the Daily Trombone… All their ghosts haunt me. All their ghosts haunt me. Please… PLEASE, I WOULD DO ANYTHING TO TAKE IT BACK!!” The Postman screams hysterically.


“Anything…?

A gold-plated man follows a brilliant flash of blue light. He stands there in the SWAT van, in front of an awe-struck Messenger.

“My god…” he whispers, slack-jawed.

“You remember me?” the golden man asks.

“Millennia, the time-God… what--… but you’re…”

“Dead? You forget that time heals all wounds.”

His eyes glow red as he puts a cool, metallic hand on Messenger’s forehead.

The Postman’s dire wounds heal as if he were touched by a miracle-worker. Blood flows backwards into his orifices, his bones correct themselves with a mind of their own, and the fog in his mind is lifted giving him undamaged clarity of the events that just transpired.

“What if I gave you the chance to take back all those years of pain…? What if you could undo everything that’s gone wrong in your life…? Re-live your failed life and avoid the mistakes and pitfalls that plagued you the first time around?”

“What are you talking about…? And why should I trust you? Mailman told me about your ties with Prophetic Genesis.”

“Mailman’s mind was addled with drugs and syphilis. Half of what he told you at any time was misinformation. I’m talking about a chance to undo all the damage you’ve done to yourself… and others.”

Messenger looks down at his feet. He sighs and after a minute he gives his reply. “No... I remember what happened the first time. You think I’m going to trust you?”

“You hesitate because you think I’ll deceive you; somehow make matters worse for you. But look around, Postman. Can they possibly get any worse than this?”

Messenger surveys his surroundings. His hands are in bound together and he sits in a SWAT van, probably on his way to a life sentence if lucky and a death sentence if he’s not. The deaths of so many weigh on his soul. As much as it pains him to admit, Millennia is right; he’s living through Hell right now. Even while he realizes that he’s walking into a trap, he also realizes that this self-ascribed God can’t do anything to him that hasn’t already been done.

“… You could stop these terrorists before they ever hatched these attacks. Not just the ones who took over the Daily Trombone, but all the ones involved in today’s attacks. You can save everyone you’ve lost… Jarvis, your clone, your lover, civilians that you’ve failed over the years… you have the gift of knowledge. You will know every mistake before it has a chance to occur. You can kill Energizer, Mailman, Puritan… you can kill all of them before they have the chance to harm one hair on anyone’s head. You can undo the damage and start over. So is it worth it… Is it worth making one more deal with me in order to cleanse your soul and stop the screams that keep you up at night?”

“Where would you be sending me…?” Messenger asks with trepidation and no small amount of suspicion.

“Spring of 1999… a time of rebirth and also wariness and uncertainty of what the new millennium will bring. But you know what it will bring, and you can make sure it’s a bright future. You will be with the Lair Legion again… You will know your enemy’s moves before they make them… You will be with Poisyn… Isn’t that better than this horrific alternative? Are you in… or are you ready to whither and die?”

Messenger looks down at his boots.

“A second chance… huh?”

He looks up.

“I’m in.”


NEXT: Party like its 1999 (hopefully not Big Willy style). Messenger goes back to the beginning in a desperate attempt to reverse the course of his life. But can you ever go home again? We will see the original incarnation of the Lair Legion in all their glory… How will the Messenger of today react to the Messenger and the LL of yesteryear? Will he take advantage of this second chance or just fuck things up even worse? And what game is Millennia playing at…? ‘Sunshine Days’ continues soon…



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