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Because absolutely no one demanded it, it's your favorite friendly neighborhood CrazySugarFreakBoy! in his contribution to the Hooded Hood's ongoing storyline, as he tasteals a page from Kurt Russell's book and makes his ... "Escape From The Divine Comedy" (with profuse apologies to the amazing Ian for being so incredibly impatient in firing off this installment of the plot) Thursday, 20-May-1999 10:39:28
As he knelt upon her grave, Dreamcatcher Foxglove knew true sorrow for the second time in his entire life. He was so saddened by reliving the loss of his love, Isabel Shapiro, that his normal level of luminescence had subsided considerably, even though he was still wearing his SillySuit; his fluorescent orange hair had reverted back to its original muted auburn, the usual neon green of his eyes had been replaced with the faded jade he’d been born with, and the day-glow yellow of his skin had been blanched, leaving behind only his normal, everyday, human complexion of peachy pink. Even the typically brilliant hues of the SillySuit itself had been dampened by the power of his grief, falling back on their earth-tone counterparts of desert brown and forest green … aside from the fact that he was wearing a superhero uniform at all, he had at last become indistinguishable from the average person, for in his sadness, there was nothing special about him any longer. At least, not on the surface. One observer still knew better. And as Dream lifted his weary head from his hands, where he’d buried his face to shed what felt like a perpetual stream of tears, he spied her through the haze of moisture clouding his reddened eyes, the all-black wardrobe of stilleto-heel boots, tight jeans, skimpy spaghetti-strap tube top, and leather jacket coordinating with her close-cropped bob of raven hair, her dark brown eyes, and the impenetrable ebon of her Egyptian eyeshadow and black lipstick, while setting off that oh-so-familiar milky skin; in fact, every detail of her appearance was instantly confirmed as being part and parcel of his photograph-accurate recollections of her look … except for the fuzzy hot pink aerobic legwarmers, and the matching hot pink hair clip. Thrown for a loop by these errant discrepancies, even more than by the simple fact of her appearance – I mean, hey, she was supposed to be dead, after all, but then, Dream had never been especially fazed by such minor violations against the laws of reality – he shook with the effort of keeping his face from betraying his despair, as he asked the only question that he cared about anymore. DREAM: Izzy? IZZY: (Smirks softly and rolls her eyes, exhibiting the sweet teasing to which only the closest of friends can get away with subjecting each another) Well, either it really is me, which would mean that my spirit or soul or whatever you want to call it has returned to the world of the living from the shadow lands or whatever it actually is that waits for us beyond the point of death, or it’s not me after all, in which case I guess that would imply that I’m simply some sort of hallucination or bizarre form of mental after-image, being generated by your traumatized subconscious and projected upon your senses like an incredibly vivid waking dream, or something else pretty similar to at least one of the myriad theories that all those doctors told you, when you kept arguing with them and saying how you could still see me, which was supposedly impossible given that months had passed since my funeral. Feel free to take your pick from those options. DREAM: (Leaping up and throwing his arms around her, holding her tight and choking out his quiet words between suppressed sniffles and sobs) It doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Oh God, I’m so sorry, Izzy. I should have saved you. I should have done more. I thought you were just kidding around, when I heard the splash of you falling into the water. I didn’t know – IZZY: (Shushing his jumbled flood of emotions by stroking his head soothingly) And there’s no way you could have. I mean, I suppose it’s my fault for never mentioning it to you before. I was born with a weak heart, after all. Ever since I was a little girl, I’d kind of been living under the shadow of death. When I was ten, the doctors even told my parents that it’d be a miracle if I ever made it past adolescence, because of the strain that the sudden rush of hormones would put on my system. A chief component in dealing with the ever-present awareness of my own mortality was throwing myself into big-time denial, reverting back to bad-ass bitch mode whenever things got too tough. By the time our threads had been sown back together in college, I’d all but forgotten the fear of tomorrow, and of my not being around to witness it personally, that had pretty much defined the waking hours of my junior high life, so it was a non-issue as far as I was concerned. Ignorance was bliss … until that sunny summer afternoon in the park, when I stood up on the edge of the fountain, arms outstretched, basking in the warm glow of everything alive around me, and in that single instant before everything went black, I could honestly feel my heartbeat stopping, as the words, “So this is what it’s like to die,” flashed through my mind. I don’t even remember falling in, or feeling the splash of impact as my clothes got soaked, probably because I was dead before I ever hit the water. Even if you had been aware of my condition, there's nothing you could have done to prevent my death. The sad fact of the matter is, not everything bad in this life happens because some mysterious menace of a mastermind made it so. Sometimes, people just die, and not even a superhero can save them. But that doesn’t mean you should stop trying, because sometimes, a helping hand can make all the difference – which is where I enter the picture. I’m here to nudge you out of your rut, so that you can pick yourself up out of this mess. DREAM: (Backing up to an arms’ length stance and squinting at Izzy with a sidelong stare, unsure of her obvious intended meaning) I’m not sure I follow you. IZZY: (Sighing and searching for a way to phrase the extended metaphor of her allegorical education so that it fits comprehensibly within the highly specific bandwidth parameters of Dream’s frame of reference) Okay, um, remember all those modern comic book plotlines you had me read to get caught up and up to speed, from the JLA being captured by the Key and plunged into purposefully engineered illusions during the “Imaginary Stories” arc that guest-starred Green Arrow in the first few issues of the title’s run, to the flagship Marvel superhero characters discovering that they’d been shunted into a pocket universe by the Invisible Girl’s kid in that four-part “Heroes Return” miniseries by that funny fellow who’d penned those Star Trek novels and who used to write for The Incredible Hulk? Now, sit your brain down in the driver’s seat of Mr. Peabody’s Way-Back Machine, and stretch that normally short-term memory of yours far enough into the mire of ancient times and civilizations to land at the site of a discussion we two engaged in at the book and game shop in Pike’s Place Market, involving the subject of dream sequences and alternate realities. I need you to think as hard as you can, and repeat the basic jist of your opinions on that topic. DREAM: (Shrugs with near boredom) I said that unless they were exceptionally well-rendered, I’d always hated those tales in which the heroes were merely subjected to mind control or plopped down into a parallel timestream, because all the setups, from Mongul deluding Superman into believing that Krypton had never exploded to Havok inhabiting the Mutant X version of earth, had the exact same itinerary of action: the good guy or whomever finds himself in circumstances that the reader recognizes as strange and unfamiliar, and yet the central character himself doesn’t suspect anything is wrong or out of place, due to the severe degree of mental manipulation he’s been put through, until some odd and almost inconsequential aspect of his newly inherited and artificially invented existence directly contradicts an arrogantly neglected piece of his previous history, which is so elemental to and inseparable from the core of his nature that it jars loose his repressed memories of his true identity, and subsequently grants him enough insight to realize that everything around him that he had once perceived as unquestionably accurate is built upon a foundation of lies, and created by a sinister hidden conspiracy for the sole purpose of capturing and imprisoning him in a fantasy of his own fabrication, holding up a mirror to either his fondest hopes and wishes or his most enduring fears and nightmares, but eventually any main character worth his weight in action figure releases of himself summons enough inner strength and force of will to break free of the mystery villain’s nigh-omnipotent controlling influence. Does that Cliff’s Notes precis summary about cover the conversation? IZZY: (Gapes at his word-for-word recount, before chuckling and shaking her head to clear the numb sensation of listening to his eidetic explanation) Exhaustively comprehensive, as always. So, she said, amazed as ever at his phenomenal and virtually inhuman ability to recall anything even remotely comic book related, what lesson can be gleaned from this random example, regarding our current situation? I’m aware that applied knowledge isn’t your expert specialty by any means, Dream, but try to puzzle out an answer anyway. DREAM: (Cocks his head suddenly to one side) I can walk out of this place any time I want, can’t I? I mean, all I have to do is blink my eyes, wake up, and the door marked “EXIT” will magically appear in front of my face. (Stares at Izzy, who bites her lower lip and looks away, resigned to her fate of being forgotten) Say the words, Izzy. Tell me you want me to stay with you, even if it means condemning myself to a realm that was intentionally crafted to simulate an endless, eternal version of hell, and I’ll do it without a second thought. I’d walk away from everything else in a heartbeat, if I could stay with you just one second longer. IZZY: (Blinks away the layer of tears forming behind her eyelids, and brushes Dream’s floppy bangs off of his forehead) I know you would, Dream. But you’d be giving it all up for nothing. I’m still dead, and nothing will change that. Your destiny, your purpose, your whole reason for being, lies outside the limiting confines of this island of sentimental nostalgia and useless self-recrimination, and relies upon nothing more and nothing less than doing what you do best - having hilarious and amazing adventures and foiling the foul and dastardly plans of costumed criminals and would-be world conquerors with that smart-ass killer grin and maddeningly mile-a-minute mouth that won out over even my guarded heart. You know, no matter how well-deserved your renowned reputation for a severely abbreviated attention span might be, it’s like you’re an elemental force of nature sometimes; as soon as you really get set on doing something, I swear, it’d be easier to change the course of the planets’ orbits than to make any headway in dissuading you from your goals, despite their infrequent doses of irredeemable idiocy and near-suicidal foolhardiness. DREAM: Maybe you’re right, but still – hell, I don’t know … I guess I just wish I’d had a chance to say a proper goodbye. IZZY: (Bursting into laughter) Aw, hon’ - Don’t you get it yet? You already did! You have no idea how many times I’d puzzled over that morning, trying to figure out whether or not I’d still been dreaming; I mean, not only because of the hair and the costume – although, if I was relying on physically distinguishing characteristics to clue me in, the glowing golden skin should have filled me in – but also your attitude, the atmosphere of your personality. (Nods and giggles) Yes, it actually happened! You really did get to say a final farewell to me, even if I didn’t know that that was what you were doing at the time. But now it’s my turn to say my last words, so pay attention, because I don’t have much time left. I am so unbelievably proud of you, Dream. I mean, not just for what you’ve accomplished, but also over how much you’ve grown, since the last time I saw you through the eyes of the living. I never in a million years thought I’d ever be able to say these words, but you’re an honest-to-God grown-up now, Dream, with all of the best possible meanings implied by the term, and yet, you’ve somehow managed to accomplish the almost impossible feat preserving all those facets of your youthful self that made you the same screwball innocent I met in Massachusetts. As much as it pains me to admit it, you don’t really need me to watch out for your back anymore, and I’m beginning to doubt that you ever did. You’ve more than proven that you can do just fine as a solo act. Perk up your ears, and believe every syllable that I enunciate: I’ve seen glimpses of the future, and not only are you gonna be successful at this gig, but you’re gonna go down in history as the best damned superhero there ever was. Now, I want you to march out there with all the overconfidence and boisterous bravado that you can muster, save your superhero friends from the bad guy, and then whip out that Indian warrior brave fury and SMOKE HIS ASS, like a pack of clove cigarettes. (Kisses his cheek, and instinctively licks her index finger to wipe clean the black lipstick imprint left behind, but Dream grasps her hand to stop her, gently rubbing the dark smudge as though admiring a cool new tattoo) DREAM: Leave it. I don’t care how many times you say I don’t need you; you’ve always been a source of strength for me, and you always will be. You’re better than cartoons or comic books, better than all the candy and action figures in the whole wide world. I just wish I could say it better; I’m so stupid with words. IZZY: (Momentarily stunned into silence) That … has got to be the most touching compliment anyone’s ever paid me. And you most certainly are NOT stupid, with words or with anything else. Believe me, by now I should know how much those seemingly silly little trivialities actually mean to an incurable romantic like you. (Narrows her eyes, and cocks one eyebrow at Dream’s curious gaze) You’ve been giving me these weird double-take glances ever since I showed up, almost like you’re compulsively checking to make sure I’m here and in the flesh – granted, that’s the type of reaction I’d tend to expect from a normal human being, but your typical behavior suggested that you were way more acclimatized to the unusual than that. So what’s up, besides the fact that you’ve literally seen a ghost? DREAM: (Grins at the halfway intended joke, and casually shrugs his shoulders) No, it’s not that, honest. Actually, I was just kind of wondering where the bright pink banana clip and calf warmers came from, aside from maybe the fashion handbook they used when they were filming Flashdance back in the early eighties. IZZY: (Eyes pop wide, as she scowls and shrieks in mock indignation) Of all the things that have happened lately to confuse and bemuse you, you’re worried about that!? You will never cease to astound me. Well, let’s just say that, once you’re dead, you get to find out where all the things you thought you’d lost as a kid really went to. (Mutters to herself in exaggerated exasperation) I offer him the opportunity to ask me any one question about the mysteries of the afterlife or the secrets of the universe, but he wastes it on a tete-a-tete about supernatural clothes shopping … (Turns back to Dream, and fixes him with an affectionately sarcastic, “What am I gonna do with you?” expression on her face) God help me, but I love you, you crazy sugar freak boy. DREAM: I love you too, Dizzy Izzy. Your black-and-white palette was more beautiful than any Skittles rainbow of colors ever painted. And so, with a lingering kiss and a backwards wave behind him, Dreamcatcher Foxglove, the CrazySugarFreakBoy!, walked off into the sunset, his darkening pathway lit as if by a Golden-Age Green Lantern from the blindingly brilliant illumination of his reclaimed fluorescent orange, neon green, and day-glow yellow, as his happy face logos seemed to smile more psychotically than at any time prior, to the point that, by the time he’d reached the doorway out of his self-constructed cell, cleverly disguised as a blue, 1960s-era, London-issue Police Call Box, staring directly into the phosphorescence of his SillySuit’s hues would have been equivalent to the damage inflicted by gazing straight into the sun. Perhaps, to the experienced reader, it shouldn’t be terribly surprising to learn that, when CrazySugarFreakBoy! strode swaggeringly through the trans-temporal portal of the TARDIS to discover an almost exact duplicate of the Lair Legion Mansion’s interior, except with an utterly unexpected roster populating this Legion’s lineup, including 1) the Avengers’ Wonder Man, gussied up in his “Gentleman” George-revamped “Kirby Energy Crackle Dots” form; 2) current Spider-Man writer John Byrne, merrily tearing pages out of original print run issues of Lee and Ditko’s tenure dating back to Amazing Fantasy; 3) erstwhile presidential c*ck-blocker and friend betrayer Linda Tripp, having gained enough girth that the resemblance between herself and John Goodman’s Saturday Night Live rendition of her character could actually be judged as flattering; and 4) a young woman whom our hero had never clapped his eyes on before this moment, but whose costume remained nonetheless recognizable as that of Simon Williams’ fellow Perez-rendered teammate, the Scarlet Witch, Dreamcatcher Foxglove felt more comfortable and relaxed than ever – not in spite of, but as a result of being immersed in this extraordinary set of sanity-defying circumstances. After all, a series of events this unlikely and nonsensical could only mean that the world had gone insane. And nobody understood the insane, the irrational, the illogical, the outlandish, or the just plain “out there” better than the happy, hyperactive, loopy, lunatic, kinetic kid himself. CrazySugarFreakBoy! was practically vibrating with anticipation. Not only were they were playing HIS kind of game now, but he was going to get away with the one stunt that not even the gamemaster dared to attempt, and change up the ground rules just a bit. He cracked his knuckles, and withdrew his yo-yo. This was gonna be fun. ----- TO BE CONTINUED in the next exciting installment of the Hooded Hood's ongoing saga ... CrazySugarFreakBoy!, who reminds you that "Hell is Andy Gibb, singing 'Shadow Dancing,' over and over and over,and you're in the bus, with the Bay City Rollers, going 'Oh yeah, this is gonna suck!'" |
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