Tales of the Parodyverse

Killer Shrike Flies Again, Part Two


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killer shrike
Mon Jul 21, 2003 at 12:41:50 pm EST
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Killer Shrike Flies Again, Part the Second


So I’m flying top speed at the glassed-in foyer to the First Bank of Paradopolis, ready to make a spectacular entrance and earn some cash, when the surgically-implanted anti-gravity generator located at the base of my spine shorts out. This sends me crashing to the ground like a bag of wet cement.

“Watch where you’re going, jerk!” a future corpse tells me. I start to stand, when it becomes painfully obvious I’ve wrenched something in my back. So here I lay, cheeks up to the world in my villain suit, easy pickings for whatever hero calls this “Paradopolis” (I think it’s in Greece) home.

“Are you OK?” a new person, female and way too happy, asks.

“I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

“Say,” Happy Voice keeps going, “You wouldn’t happen to be a super criminal, by any chance? Trying to fly through the window of the bank to rob it? Without any regard for the safety of those inside?”

Great, a talker, “Guilty. I’m Killer Shrike, the Butcher Bird.”

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

“Those are awfully grim names for a person with such festive headwear.”

I lift my arm up in the general direction of Happy Voice, ready to use the power blaster housed in my costume’s wrist to show her how grim I am. Nothing happens though. Whatever took out my implant affected my weapons too. And moving like that really hurt, “Ow.”

“It’s probably your back. You might want to turn over.”

“Mind your own business,” but she’s right. It takes as much effort to roll off my stomach as it normally would for me to lift a car. Apparently whatever reality the Jones Brothers sent me to makes me a wuss. Very f****** funny. I’m finally able to get a good look at the mental patient that’s been chatting me up.

OK, she’s really hot, even in the waitress outfit. I’ve seen a lot of good-looking women in my time, mostly while on the Job, but this one is amazing. It’s like no matter what your type is, you’d find something attractive about her.

I think I just rolled onto some gum.

“Stay back, miss. Look at those talons. He’s obviously dangerous.”

Got that straight, rube. I can’t be in Greece: everybody is speaking English. Maybe Paradopolis is in Jersey.

“He seems pretty helpless to me,” the woman tells her would be savior. Then she looks at me, “You’re new at this villain thing, aren’t you?”

“No. I mean yes,” if I do get caught, it doesn’t make much sense admitting I’ve got priors in another dimension. This place might have one of those “three-strikes and you’re convicted for life” sentencing laws.

By now a crowd has gathered to watch Happy Voiced Dream Waitress lecture me, “You know, Shrike, a lot of people like you come into where I work, talking about how hard the life is. Hard on them and their families. Are you sure you want to go through with it?”

“Uh-”

“What did you need to rob the bank for, anyway?”

“Money, obviously,” I spit. I really should be thinking about taking hostages here, but this broad’s throwing off my game.

“How much?” she starts rummaging through her purse.

“Miss, don’t give that man anything. It will only encourage him to beg for more.”

“I’m not begging!!”

“You’re lying on the street complaining like a panhandler.”

“I blame Mayor spiffy. His administration is soft on the issue of vagrancy.”

“Damn straight. Liberal twit. He doesn’t care about the little guy, just his chi-chi Hollywood friends.”

“When are we going to get someone in charge who is willing to take back the streets?!”

“Wait, spiffy isn’t the mayor.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”

Paradopolis is a giant insane asylum, I decide. All the states in the Union must be allowed to export their crazies here.

The woman hands me an envelope filled with cash. Almost all of it is dollar bills, but it’s more than what I got on me, which is nothing. That’s when I make up my mind.

This heist is not going down. Not without it getting messy. I can hear sirens in the distance. I need to get out of here, find a place to stash my gear, and learn more about this place. Then I can make my move. So I take the money.

The waitress (“Sarah,” by her name tag), along with two of the less rabid anti-panhandlers in the crowd, help me struggle to my feet.

“That’s $188. I know it’s less than what you wanted, but it should be able to help you out,” she says sweetly.

“Right,” I start to limp off. I feel the anti-gravity implant charging. Soon I’ll be able to fly out of here.

“We’ll have to figure out some way for you to pay me back later. I work at the Bean and Donut Coffee Shop. Be sure to stop by when you feel better. But leave the claws at home.”

Waving over my shoulder, I hobble off. This woman doesn’t know when to quit. She’s lucky to have survived an encounter with Killer Shrike, now she expects me to pay her back?

I mean, what are the odds of that ever happening?

Next: Killer Shrike does actually get to kill someone, and regrets it almost immediately.




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