Tales of the Parodyverse

A Killer Khristmas Karol


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killer shrike
Wed Dec 24, 2003 at 02:14:16 pm EST
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“A Killer Khristmas Karol”



Simon Maddicks landed in the alley behind The Rock Bottom Lounge. After taking a moment to smooth down his top knot, he knocked on the bar’s door. A waitress let him in.

“Merry Christmas,” she said mechanically.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Maddicks headed over to the bar, where his contact sat nursing a gin and tonic, talking to a man in a minister’s garb.

“Hey, this sounds like the opening to a bad joke,” Killer Shrike smirked, “A supervillain, a priest, and an a****** walk into a bar…..”

“And?” Con Johnstantine asked, looking at Maddicks expectantly.

“And… that’s it. Finish it yourself,” Shrike continued with his routine after a dismissive snort from the Englishman, “So, you gonna convert this close to the holidays? That won’t keep you off the naughty list.”

“Did you do it?” was all Johnstantine said in reply.

Shrike nodded, “I found the guy sellin’the bunyip meat and…. persuaded him to stop. He had a couple of pixies tied up in the back of the shop that I set free. I figure that’s got to be worth somethin’.”

“’Fraid not, sport. The job was to who find who was passing ‘round the cursed brisket. Nothing more, nothing less. What you did was an act of charity,” Johnstantine dashed his lackey’s hopes.

“Well, f*** that. At the very least you can buy me a drink.”

“Speaking of charity,” the Reverend Mac Fleetwood interrupted, “I wanted to thank you again for the generous donation, Con.”

“Hush, padre’,” Johnstantine mumbled, as he saw the evil grin creep across Killer Shrike’s cowled face.

“And if you need to talk anymore about your troubles, the door at the mission is always open to you,” Fleetwood looked over to the hulking super-criminal, “And you as well,” the reverend stood to leave, “Merry Christmas to you both.”

“Merry Xmas, father. Stay away from the choir boys. Heh Heh.”

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that Shrike?”

Simon Maddicks grunted, “What’s your problem? You going soft on me?” he raised a finger for a drink.

“Just not in the mood. There’s somebody who’s not here for the holidays that should be.”

“A broad, right?” the Butcher Bird quaffed down what was offered him.

Johnstantine paused before replying, “Yeah.”

“That’s the life of the globe-trotting scoundrel, Johnstantine,” Shrike ordered a refill, “I know it well.”

“Really?” the Englishman said casually to the mark as he fell deeper into his trap, “Tell me about it.”

*****


It was four hours later when Con Johnstantine and Killer Shrike stumbled into the former’s Seedy Town flat.

“Youshure sit’sOK for me to shpend the night?” Maddicks slurred.

“Of course, squire. You’re in no condition to fly. Here, let’s get you to bed,” Johnstantine ushered the man to his futon.

“Hey!” Shrike grabbed the smaller man by the collar and hoisted him to eye level, “Where are you schleeping?”

“Bathtub. Don’t worry about it,” he said calmly. The costumed villain acquiesced and dropped Johnstantine, “OK, let’s take off your booties.”

“Y’know, Joshnshtantine, you’re alright.”

“Yes, I know. And the cowl.”

“I mean, you’re my besht friend in the Parodyversh.”

“Damn, that’s pathetic. Now, put on this nightshirt and cap.”

“OK. They’re a little tight.”

“Right. Now lie down and get some rest,” the magician watched as the drunken mercenary complied. Soon the apartment was filled the raucous blaring of Shrike’s snores.

It was then that Con Johnstantine knew it was safe to leave, “Sorry about this, blagger, but better you than me.”

*****


“Connnnn Johnstantineeeee,” the spirit wailed, waking Killer Shrike from his slumber.

“Huh? Whozzat?!”

“It is I, your ollllld partner Wiiiiehderman,” Wiehderman rattled his translucent chains, “I am hear to warn you, Connnnn Johnstantineeeee, tonight you will be visited by-“

Killer Shrike grabbed a boot a hurled it through the ethereal figure, “Shut the f*** up! I’m not Johnstantine!”

“You’re not?!”

“No!” Shrike sat up and removed the night cap, “I’m Killer Shrike!”

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

“You’re wearing his clothes, and sleeping in his bed. It was an honest mistake. Damn, he did it to us again! That prick!”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” the villain tried to rub the numbness out of his face.

“Every f****** year he finds some patsy to throw us off…. wait, did you say your name was Killer Shrike?” the ghost asked, pulling out his PDA.

“Yeah,” he answered hesitantly.

“Welp, you’re on the list,” the specter’s voice became more sepulchral, “Killllller Shrike, I am here to warn you: tonight you will be visited by threeeeee spirits-“

“Oh, crap. This can’t be good,” the Avian Assassin fell back into unconsciousness.

*****


Simon Maddicks woke up to the sensation of somebody tapping his forehead, “Wake up, Mr. Shrike,” the chirpy voice said. When the villain opened his eyes he saw a terrifying sight.

“You!!!” he screamed at what he thought was Sarah Shepardson, aka ‘The source of all his troubles since he came to the Parodyverse,’ “What are you doing here!?!” he asked after falling out of bed.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past-”

“No you’re not. You’re that damned waitress!”

“No cursing in front of the conceptual entity, please. I am, in fact, the Ghost of Christmas Past, here to remind you of days when your heart was not so blackened. Now get up, we’ve got a time warp to catch.”

Killer Shrike reluctantly stood and put on his mask, “You know your hair is on fire, right?”

“Yes, it’s de rigueur for all Ghosts of Christmas Past to have burning tresses and a sprig of holly,” she waggled the holly under Shrike’s nose, “Now, take my hand and let’s journey to the past, to the year of your most memorable Christmas.”

December 25, 1958

“This is your most memorable Christmas?” the spirit asked Killer Shrike, looking around the threadbare living room. A peaked tree stood shamefaced in the center of the room, with a handful of newsprint-wrapped presents underneath. Young Simon Maddicks, age nine, tore open one exuberantly.

“Yay!!” he held up the Marshall Tito Action Figure to his dour mother, “Now I only need François Duvalier and I’ll have the whole Strong Man Series.”

“That’s nice Simon,” Mrs. Maddicks said between puffs on her cigarette, “Go show your father.”

“Keep him away from me, woman,” Mr. Maddicks warned as he shook he transistor radio, “I’m trying to get the game here!”

“But, Dad, you said we were going to make a snowman!!”

“Shaddap, before I give you a nose redder than Rudoph’s!”

Killer Shrike couldn’t tear away from the tableau before him, “Yeah,” he finally answered the spirit, “This was the night Dad got drunk and fell off the roof trying to take down the lights. It took him hours to freeze to death.”

“We need to go,” the Ghost of Christmas Past said quickly after an involuntary shudder.

“Do you have to? I always wanted to see him bounce off the car port,” the villain looked wistful.

“Now.”

*****


The vision provided by the Ghost of Christmas Present was more sobering to Killer Shrike.

“I can’t believe they all went to Atlantic City for Christmas and didn’t bring me,” he told the garland wearing apparition, who had taken the form of Nats, if only because I never use the character in my stories.

“Well, that’s evil for you,” the Ghost said.

“Professor Manyarms, Savagetooth, Grit, Anvil-Man…. All the guys went. And they didn’t invite me.”

“They did think about it, though. But then they realized they wanted to have a good time,” the spirit reminded him with a smirk.

“They’re all just jealous of my costume.”

“Sure, that must be it,” ‘Nats’ looked at his watch, “Well, I have to fly. You-know-who is showing up and I would rather not be here when he did.”

“The Ghost of Christmas Future. Right, I remember. He’s the guy who’s going to show me my horrible, ultimate fate.”

“Indeed,” said the cultured, menacing voice with the Latverian accent from behind him.

Killer Shrike turned and acknowledged the grey cloaked oracle of possible futures. He gulped, “Well, let’s get this over with.”

*****


“You know, this is not what I expected,” he told the Ghost of Christmas Future. The duo was in a bright, sunny snow-capped glade in Off Central Park, “Where’s the gothicivity?”

“The future is often unpredictable, though if one has the will and intellect, it can be manipulated.”

“Is that your way of implying I can change, and alter whatever horror my life becomes?”

“Certainly not. I was talking about myself, of course. Now, if you will please round that corner there so you can learn your fate.”

Simon Maddicks complied, and stopped dead in his tracks, “No,” he said, softly. “No!!!”

There, in the clearing, surrounded by benches and other (smaller) statues, stood a monument to Killer Shrike himself. The granite figure had his chest out, his chin raised, and his hands at his hips. A plaque bore the dedication: “Killer Shrike: Hero.”

“This can’t be!!! A hero?! I become a superhero.”

“You die saving the Parodyverse from… well that’s not important, but yes, you do join the ranks of costumed do-gooders.”

Killer Shrike fell to his knees, “I don’t believe it. I’m too evil.”

“Evil, you say? Does evil help stem the tide of supernatural malfeasance that eats away at our reality, as you do? Is evil shunned by its own kind, as you are?”

“My, God, you’re right! What, what have I become?” the villain turned and crawled over to the spirit, “Please, tell me that this can all be undone.”

“Remember my words, Killer Shrike. Because therein lies the key….”

The next thing Simon Maddicks knew he was in bed. With a strangled cry he tore off the bed sheets and vaulted through the loft’s window.

“You, there!” he shouted to the driver of the car he crashed down on, “What day is it?!”

“December 30th, sir,” the man squeaked out.

Killer Shrike pulled him through the windshield and took his watch and wallet, “Hm, I overslept. No matter,” he dropkicked the civilian into a snow bank, “I’ll just get an early start on my New Year’s Resolutions, is all. Screw Christmas, a*******.”

Screw Christmas, everyone.



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