Tales of the Parodyverse

Mr. Epitome #11, another chapter in the story that keeps going and going.....


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killer shrike
Mon Sep 08, 2003 at 06:28:06 pm EST
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Mr. Epitome #11


The Gauntlet



Rising from his chair onboard the C-130 Hercules plane, Mr. Epitome hit the intercom to speak with the pilot, “What’s our ETA, Major?”

A voice crackled back, “About four minutes. Are you sure you want to make the jump from this high up?”

“Yes. We don’t have enough intel on the range of the creature’s distance attack to risk you coming in closer. And we need to clear Ritopli Bay before the troops from Naples can be moved in. We all saw what it did to the Abraham Lincoln and its destroyer escorts.”

“Yes,” the Major had friends aboard the aircraft carrier. They were dead now, along with the other 6,000 plus soldiers and sailors who had been ambushed by the beast, “Where did Emperor Scorpion get that thing, anyway?”

The Paragon of Power slung a long, curved sword into a makeshift scabbard across his back, “Kaibutisu Kojima. Monstrous Island.”

The island had been the haven for a score of giant, genetically engineered creatures. Sunken into the Earth after a visit by the Lair Legion, it was another loose end Factor X was now using to his advantage.

“Mr. Epitome, we will be over the drop point in 60 seconds,” the Air Force pilot announced. The hero went over to the aircraft’s side hatch. He waited for the go signal. When it was given, the hero used his remarkable strength and speed to yank the door open, push himself through the tremendous air currents and out into the open air. It would be a 45,000 freefall to the battle site below.

Once past the cloud cover Epitome had an excellent view of the Sybian war zone. The monster, easily thirty stories high, stalked the debris-strewn cove that was Ritopli Bay like some prehistoric sentry. The city itself was burning in numerous places. The American forces there had been routed by Mr. Epitome’s own airship the Epitome Express. News reports from embedded reporters had shown the high-tech craft firing on the central command headquarters, leveling it with seismic force rays known as “Rubble Rousers.” Then the rogue machine attacked and destroyed several army hangers before finally being blasted apart by artillery fire. Epitome had no explanation how the Express had been turned against him: the machine could only be flown by him and two OPS pilots whose engrams had been programmed into the cybernetic control helmet. Had X figured out some way to manipulate Agent Robert Pallasieri, the man left behind to fly the Express if it was needed? Dr. Vasillych had prepared for everything else, it seemed. He had convinced Emperor Scorpion to hold his troops in reserve, waiting for American forces, and Epitome himself, to be distracted. Then, when the Exemplary Man left the field-again, because of the machinations of Factor X- they struck.

Thousands of armored soldiers rushed from the Pashad Mountains, covered by flying platforms that resembled the Emperor’s namesake. Robotic scorpions the size of Bradley tanks skittered down the mountainsides to charge the Americans stationed at the base of them. Enormous digging machines built like Myrmeleontidae (ant-lion) larvae had tunneled up through the desert behind them, disgorging more soldiers and scorpion tanks from their bloated hulls. The American troops were trapped.

Lebask, Sybia’s capital, was under assault as well. Men on the “skypion” flyers buzzed the streets, in a hit and run battle against the U.S. forces there. Even from high above Mr. Epitome could hear the recorded exultations of Unskar Kufadalla, the Emperor himself, encouraging his people to take up arms against the heathen invaders.

The Star Spangled Splendor’s descent soon narrowed the view of the task ahead of him. The monster had to be dealt with first. Then he would enter Lebask and take out the forces there. The Americans in the city could then regroup to mount a defense against the bulk of the Emperor’s army, which had devastated the infantry, artillery, and mechanized cavalry units caught in its pincer movement. It was going to be a long, bloody fight.

Mister Epitome grew up Catholic. He did not normally attend services: the community aspect of the church was lost to someone so reserved. However, he drew a great deal of strength from the rituals and iconography of Catholicism. One prayer in particular was especially comforting.

“St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in the Day of Battle; Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke Him, we humbly pray, and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the Power of God, cast into Hell, Satan and all the other evil spirits, who prowl through the world, seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”

Mr. Epitome waited until he was a half a mile before his target before pulling the ripcord on his NTU patented “Unnpredictable Molecules” parachute. The wondrous Mylar-like material spread and held against the incredible wind shears, braking the hero’s fall to the point that crashing into the giant mutated dinosaur’s head didn’t shatter every bone in his body.

The monster paid no heed to the miniscule creature that alighted on his horned skull. It took a great deal of stimulus to earn a response from the thing’s primitive brain. Epitome had counted on that. He unsheathed the six foot impenitrium scimitar once wielded by his old foe, the shark pirate known as Thresh. Between the unbreakable alloy and his own raw strength it was an easy task to drive the blade into the monster’s head up to the hilt. Then the Exemplary Man twisted the blade in a circular motion, cutting a manhole-sized divot. Grabbing the chunk of skin and bone he wrested it free, exposing an open cavity that would bring the hero closer to his target.
The giant reptile roared in pain as Mr. Epitome continued his burrowing. It shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the source of discomfort. Too bad for the creature Evolution had not seen fit to grant it forearms long enough to reach higher than its mouth, because then it might have been able to stop the Paragon of Power from digging his way to the beast’s tiny-in-proportion-to-its-body brain and lobotomizing it.

Crawling from the gash he had made, the gore-smeared Epitome activated his communicator, “This is E-1 to fleet. The force at Ritopli has been neutralized. Continue on your course. I’m going in,” and with that he leapt from the once-sentient giant and bounced from flotsam to jetsam to the beaches of Sybia itself.

*****


OPS Agents Lester Dawes and Abby Germain were watching the events unfold in Sybia from the television in Lester’s hotel room. It was well past midnight in Litchfield, Connecticut, seven time zones to the west of the African nation. When the counter-offensive began some time around 9pm EST, the four major networks and all the cable news outlets had gone to round the clock coverage, gathering what information they could from their reporters still operating in the country.

The visuals were horrific. A giant mutated T-rex capsizing one battleship and reducing another to molten slag with its breath weapon. Robotic insects and soldiers marching unyieldingly into American fire, overrunning their positions. OPS’s own flagship, the Epitome Express, destroying entire buildings with its weaponry.

“God damn, where is he?” Abby Germain asked for what seemed the fifth time. ‘He’ was Mr. Epitome, their boss.

“Epitome can’t be dead. Emperor Scorpion would have bragged about it if he were,” Lester offered. The news networks were broadcasting Unskar Kuffadala’s demagogueries as well.

“Maybe he’s dead and nobody’s found the body.”

There was a knock from the outside. The duo reflexively jumped off their positions at the edge of the bed, as if their casual proximity was some kind of carnal crime. Lester went to the dresser to get his gun before walking to the door. A quick check at the peephole revealed a short, hunched over figure in a cleaning uniform.

“The hell?” Lester drew slid back the dead-bolt and opened the door, “Um, can I help you?”

Once the woman shuffled her way in she straightened, pulled off her wig and prosthetic hump, and flashed a pair of dazzling green (?) eyes at the OPS agents.

“Ciao, comrades. Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Natalia Romanza smiled. Their SPUD contact had arrived.

“Uh, hey,” Abby sat back down.

“Contessa Romanza, what are you doing here?” Lester holstered his gun.

The European (?) super-spy shrugged her way out of the drab grey smock and skirt ensemble, revealing a skin tight cat suit, “I’ve brought information about our case. I know it’s not the best time, but we have some decisions to make.”

“Such as?” Abby used the TV’s remote to mute Peter Jennings.

“What are we going to do with this?” Romanza held up a computer disc, “Unencrypted emails between Howard Gittes and executives of Zoxxon Oil, Armordyne Munitions, and the Banc de Badripoor.”

“How? We don’t have any warrant to look at Gittes’s correspondence,” Lester felt a bit squeamish.

“Oh, I know,” Natalia waved off the man’s concern, “But they don’t say they’re from Gittes. Though the laptop that sent them was in a false bottom of his office’s desk.”

“So you broke into his office while we were interrogating him and down-loaded his files?” Abby Germain asked slowly.

“Did I say that? Look, darlings, I hate to adopt the tone of world weary intelligence operative, but now is the time to tell you this investigation is not about upholding the law, but administering justice. Do you still want to be involved?”

The partners looked at each other, then back at the svelte super spy.

“Tell us more about the emails,” Abby answered for the both of them.

*****


Lebask was in chaos. The American troops stationed there were caught in a running battle between loyalists of the Sybian army who had waited for a moment like this to strike and the forces of Emperor Scorpion. While the latter were easy enough to identify: armored men flying through the streets of the capital on high-tech hover platforms shaped like poisonous arachnids, the former were impossible to spot. A charging crowd could be innocent civilians running for their lives or a guerilla force waiting for the right moment to draw their weapons and fire.

Captain Josephine Simon was in one of the Army’s command bunkers, watching as the officers attempted to coordinate a response to the hostile fire that would not lead to gross civilian casualties.

“Sir, we’ve got confirmation that the creature outside Ritopli has been killed!” one communications officer told the acting commander of the American forces in Lebask.

“Are they sure? Last time we tried to move troops from Ritopli that thing nuked them,” Colonel Jeremy Weir needed reinforcements, but he did not want to risk losing what was left of his men.

“Yes, sir! The creature just collapsed!”

“How the hell did that happen?” Weir asked to no one in particular, “All right, tell whoever is in charge they need to get ready to mobilize. We’re going to need them to protect the city.”

“I doubt they’ll be able to get here in time before Scorpion’s detachment arrives,” one of his fellow officers made the observation.

“They don’t have to. We’re going to hold off his men so our troops can outflank them,” Weir looked at his subordinate, “It’s the best chance we’ve got.”

Captain Simon turned away from the commanders and watched one of the bunker’s tactical monitors. An assault team had been deployed to the rooftop of one of Lebask’s apartment complexes and was preparing an attack on one of the “Skypion” platforms that had been harrying the American’s efforts to prepare for the onrushing siege.

The strange-shaped vehicle came into view, but before the men could launch their SAMs at it a form moving almost too quick for the eye vaulted onto the machine, knocking the pilot off and steering it closer to the soldiers.

“Concentrate on the conventional forces!” Mr. Epitome told their sergeant, “The flyers are mine!” and then he barrel-rolled the platform westward.

“It’s Epitome. He’s in Lebask,” Captain Simon announced to the rest of the room.

“About damn time he showed,” Weir answered, grabbing a comm.-set to give his men new orders.

*****


The “Skypions” were powered by an anti-gravity generator and given thrust by a series of turbines hidden under their carapaces. Steering, acceleration, and braking were controlled by a pair of foot pedals built into their backs. Apparently the tail-mounted laser and chain guns were activated by something in the pilot’s armor, because Epitome was having no luck with these. Still, the device served its purpose. He veered through the city, looking for other aerialists with his enhanced hearing or X-ray vision. When he encountered one he would use his superior reflexes to outmaneuver his foe and then destroy it with a swipe of his sword. Within ten minutes he had knocked 36 of them out of commission.

At one point he passed a supposedly abandoned office building. Epitome sensed a squad of technicians and broadcasting gear within. He had found the hiding hole of the Scorpion’s propagandists.

Abandoning his current mission, the Star Spangled Splendor crashed through one of the building’s windows and swiftly disabled the men. He then made a pronouncement of his own.

“People of Lebask, this is Mr. Epitome. Please, return to your homes. Unskar Kufadalla is using you. Do not listen to his lies. The force he wants to invade the city with does not care if you live or die.

“And to the soldiers of Emperor Scorpion, I’d advise you to lay down your arms now. Those troops you hear are coming will not arrive. Now that the army is out in the open, they are as good as defeated.”

Mr. Epitome was tempted to say that soon the stomachs of the Scorpion and his followers would be roasting and bursting in the flaming pits of Hell, but realized the humor in such a statement would be lost on its audience.

*****


“I’m sorry if I disrupted the normal chain of command, Colonel,” Mr. Epitome apologized to Weir later.

“Forget it, Epitome. At this point everything is being done on the fly.”

The colonel, his immediate staff, and Epitome were looking over what intelligence they had gathered. Things were looking better than they had half an hour ago, but not by much.

The British aircraft carrier HMS Invincible was en route, joining the American flotilla heading from Naples. Their long range bombers would be able to strike positions outside of Lebask in two hours. The armored divisions in Ritopli would arrive in another four. Scorpion’s strike force, estimated at 5,000 armored foot soldiers and another 500 scorpion tanks, were due in about 45 minutes.

Then there was the matter of the prisoners. The bulk of Emperor Scorpion’s army had formed a ring around the American soldiers stationed at the Pashads. They weren’t attacking yet, but if they did the depleted force of 15,000 would be at the mercy of their better-equipped enemy.

“The Emperor is using BALD technology, but at a scale previously unseen. They never have had the resources to construct so many weapons before. They’ve supplied gangs in the past, not entire armies,” Epitome explained, “and Emperor Scorpion’s pockets aren’t deep enough to finance such a force. Factor X must be willing to take a loss for this operation.”

“Why? I mean, even if they briefly retake the city what do any of them gain?” Captain Josephine Simon asked the obvious. As a liaison officer, she wasn’t sure why she was involved in a strategy session, but both the colonel and Epitome had requested her presence.

“Proof that we’re not invulnerable, ma’am. Every rogue nation from Iran to Candia is watching to see how long Emperor Scorpion lasts against us. The better he does, the more interested our enemies will be in Factor X’s services.”

“You’re saying this is all a demonstration?” Colonel Weir looked disgusted.

“Yes, sir. That’s why we need to hit fast and hard. I’m recommending that you let me go out and face the attack force before they get too close to the city. Then we march out of Lebask and take the fight to the bulk of his troops. When his assault on the city fails Scorpion is going to turn on our soldiers outside the mountain range. He’ll butcher them all if we can’t get there fast enough.”

Weir considered, “You think you can take out nearly 6,000 hostiles by yourself?”

“I won’t be alone. Glory’s been following them for a while now, waiting for my cue to attack.”

“All right, go to it. Let’s hope being half as powerful as Superman is enough.”

There was an awkward moment when the group wasn’t sure if they should salute each other, shake hands, or just split up. Then Mr. Epitome was off.

Next time: Comes the Cavalry



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