Tales of the Parodyverse

Trying something new....


Post By

killer shrike
Sat Jul 19, 2003 at 04:49:46 pm EST
[ New ] [ Tales of the Parodyverse ]

Killer Shrike Flies Again


The fact I’m riding to the rendezvous in a stolen Ford Focus is a sign of how much I’ve lost it. Before, I would have grabbed something flashier- a Mustang, maybe. But I didn’t have the patience to creep around until there was an opportunity to lift something with at least a V-6 engine and a leather interior.

I’m willing to compromise on my sense of flash. For a supervillain that’s bad news. Please allow me to introduce myself: Killer Shrike.

http://www.marveldirectory.com/individuals/k/killershrike.htm

Not bad, huh? I’ve got good powers and a great costume. I know some people goof on the top-knot, but screw them. The top-knot is cool. Never understood why Mark Scarlotti got rid of his and went with the “Helmut Newton S+M Special” before he wound up getting killed. Hopefully when Mikey gets off his a** and picks up the whips in order to avenge his dead brother he goes back to the older duds.

I pull my crappy car into the strip mall’s parking lot and get out (I don’t bother to lock it, obviously). The building has seen better days. The particular shop I want has a faded sign that reads Pilgrim’s Progress, which I know is the name of a famous book and probably has some significance to why I’m here but I was killing VC while others went off to college and learned about the great works of Western Civilization so sorry I can’t help you with the theme there, sport.

The storefront’s window blinds are down and dusty, but the sign says “OPEN,” so I go in. The place as a small waiting area of three straight-backed chairs facing a secretary’s desk. Behind the desk is one of those portable partitions that don’t quite reach the ceiling. The entire room, including the secretary, screamed low rent.

“I’m Simon Maddicks. I have an appointment to see Mr. Jones,” I say before she gets out whatever lame, tired greeting she was going to hit me with.

“Which Mister Jones? There are two of them,” she replied, not really caring if I knew the answer or not.

“He’s here to see both of us, Myrna. Send him in,” came a booming voice from behind the makeshift wall. I skirt around Miss Congeniality and through the opening.

On the other side was a room maybe twice as big as the reception area. Two desks stood on opposite sides of it. The desks, and their owners, were almost identical.

Both desks were made of red stained oak with gold-leaf inlaid. Both had an overstuffed chair in front of them. Both were covered with papers, but while the one on the left had reams of rolled and unrolled maps on them, the desk on the right was piled high with thick, hardbound books.

As for the men, the only way you could tell the two hulking (and this is coming from a guy who’s 6’5” and weighs 250lbs) black men apart was that one had a full salt and pepper beard, while the other wore his chin as clean-shaved as both their scalps.

“Mr. Maddicks,” Giant Negro on the Left stood up and offered his hand, “I’m Atlas Jones. This is my brother Census.”

I shook the man’s hand. If I was feeling my oats I would have put some muscle behind it, but I think these two give me some real trouble if we decided to throw down, even if they dressed like my old high school English teacher, with their whale wide corduroy jackets with the elbow patches and blue jeans.

Census stayed at his desk. I wondered if I was supposed to go over there and give him some dap too. Atlas seemed to know my thoughts.

“Don’t mind my brother. He’s a bit of an introvert.”

“Hardly. I’m just reading Mr. Maddicks’s story here,” Census tapped the page of the book in front of him, “And I don’t feel like shaking the hand of a contract killer.”

“That’s your problem, Census. You spend so much time reading about people and passing judgment instead of going out and meeting them to see for yourselves what they are like.”

Census waved his hand dismissively, “Don’t point out my flaws in front of the clients, brother dear. Bad for business.”

“Can we get back to me here? I didn’t come for The Atlas and Census Show,” I got a double barrel of the stink-eye and figured it might be a good idea to back-track, “Uh, no offense to your culturally heritage, or anything.”

“Of course not. Have a seat, Mr. Maddicks. You can put the bag down anywhere. I’m assuming your costume is inside?” Atlas fell back into his chair.

“Yeah, and the papers I told you about.”

“Ah, yes, the compact. Tell us how you came about it,” Atlas sounded concerned.

“Well, I was doing some bodyguard work for a businessman named TB Smithson-”

Census snorted, “Businessman? Smithson is a Maggia family member.”

“Yeah, right. Forgot who I’m talking to here,” Census Jones was supposed to know everything about everybody in the Multiverse, “You want to tell the rest of the story, professor?”

“Let’s hear it from you, Shrike,” Atlas said forcefully. I don’t know if he was mad at me or his brother, and I didn’t want to find out.

“Smithson went to an auction in attempt to show his latest girlfriend he was a refined gentleman, instead of the searing pig that he is. I tagged along. One of the things up for bid was this letter. It was part of a lot that featured correspondence between Bloodstone and a guy named Anthony Druid.”

“Ulysses Bloodstone, your old adversary,” Atlas nodded.

“And along, with Dr. Druid, one of the original Monster Hunters,” Census put down his book and scooted his rolling chair around his desk. Now he seemed interested.

“That’s what the letters talked about. I bought them, figuring I might learn something useful. And I did,” I smiled, “I learned that Atlas Jones, the Cartographer of Reality, owed my buddy Bloodstone a favor.”

“True,” the bearded man looked apologetically at his brother, “That time in Stockholm, with The Rostrum Infernal.”

Not wanting to listen to these two go off on another tangent, I continued, “Bloodstone’s letter said how to contact you, and that if I needed anything from you, do it.”

“You mean if Druid needed anything,” Census corrected.

This was where I sprang my trap, “No: it says you, meaning whoever was reading the letter. Which was, and is, me. So you owe me a favor,” I knew how these weird supernatural bargains worked.

Atlas and Census looked at each other for a second; then they started laughing. Big, boisterous, condescending gales of laughter. I was about to get out my razor gauntlets and slit some throats when Census finally spoke:

“Well, he’s got us there, brother,” he announced in between wheezes.

“Mr. Maddicks, do we look like demons to you?” Atlas composed himself.

“Shape shifting demons, maybe.”

“No. We are not demons, Mr. Maddicks. Or any being that can be forced to comply with some specious interpretation of a quasi-legal agreement. Sorry,” Census wiped his eyes free of tears.

“Whatever your request was, it must have been important to you, to try something so bold to get it,” Atlas Jones said thoughtfully, “What was it?”

The last thing I wanted was to listen to these two s**** laughing at me again, but since I was here, maybe I could still get something out of them, “I want to leave this world. I want to start over.”

“Try killing yourself. Reincarnation may work out for you.”

“Census,” Atlas hushed his brother, “Go on.”

So I told him. I told him how I didn’t mind my lot in life, to fight and lose to guys like Bloodstone and Spider-Man and even that putz Black Knight with his fairy sword. My problem was I felt like I was being….misused.

First came the time I was supposedly dead, killed in a fight delivering humanitarian aid to some toilet of a country in Africa. Like I would ever do that. Turns out it wasn’t me, but some guy (or girl) named Tanager (or Oriole). Even I don’t know the full story behind that one.

Then there was time I fought the Hulk. That should have been a brawl that made my rep, even if he laid me out. I mean, Schlichting got work for years based on the knowledge that he once went toe to toe with the ugly freak. But that little mishap involved me robbing a crackhouse in some s*** stain of a town with my wife along for the ride, nagging me to get out of the business.

Problem One: My name is Killer Shrike, not Crack Den Busting Shrike. That kind of stuff is beneath me.

Problem Two: Last time I checked I wasn’t married. Really. I’ve gone on some drunken binges in Vegas, but always managed to leave there without getting roped into some quickee wedding, especially to some whiner who doesn’t appreciate the life style of a super villain. Because I’m telling you right now, kids, there no better thing to be. Screw the Avengers. Tell your Mom when you grow up you want to join the Legion of Doom.

Problem Three: My “wife” Nadine winds up dying after my pointless, needless, WITNESSLESS fight with the Hulk. I think her death was supposed to have some kind of deep meaning, but you know what it meant for me?

I had to do my own laundry again.

(Sorry if I sound sociopathic, but I can’t work up too much grief for a woman who isn’t supposed to exist).

The Job has changed too. People are tossing their outfits into the trash and putting on leather or business suits or ritually scarring themselves. Someone needs to tell me why that’s cool. They will have to pry my costume away with my cold dead hands.

I’ve been blabbing away for nearly twenty minutes before Atlas stops me, “So you want to find a place where things are more to your liking. What do you think, Census?”

Census looked severe, “I find the gaffs in the narrative disturbing. You don’t think-”

“Doubtful. It is probably just Coincidence.”

“Hey, stop being so damn cryptic. Are you going to help me or not?”

The two of them slowly nodded, more to each other than to me. Both had smug grins on their faces.

“Where to?” Atlas pondered.

“Carter Hall’s rogues’ gallery is a little weak….” Census pondered back.

“I don’t want to be another villain in someone else’s story. I just want to do some crimes, meet some loose women, and have a few laughs.”

“Oh, then, that settles it,” Atlas smiled. He and his twin stared at me, their eyes glowing as bright as tiny suns. Soon the whole room flooded with light, blinding me. I lose all sense of balance for a second, and then I’ve arrived.

It’s a smelly, rat-infested alley, across from a bank. First Bank of Paradopolis is carved on its edifice. I dig through my rucksack for my costume: a chance for a bank job. A good old, fashioned robbery. What a way to start a new career in my new world.

*****


I hope that link works.
This is my attempt at trying something different. There are several motives at work here, but it boils down to I wanted to write a story about a villain (my namesake) in the first person narrative that is hopefully kind of funny. There are some references to events that took place in Marvel Comics which explain the story better if you know about them but they really aren’t necessary (again, hopefully). I was thinking of adding footnotes to explain some of them like HH does but I’m lazy, though not so lazy that I won’t answer questions if somebody has one (or several). Anyways, I hope you like it.

Coming soon, Killer Shrike robs a bank and meets the most powerful hero in the Parodyverse.




























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