Tales of the Parodyverse

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killer shrike
Sat Mar 27, 2004 at 12:04:25 pm EST
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Shattered Worlds, as it should have been posted originally
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Did you ever, ever notice, the kind of thoughts I got
Well you know I have a love, for everyone I know
And you know I have a drive, for life I won't let go
But sometimes this opposition, comes rising up in me
This terrible imposition, comes blacking through my mind

-    from I See A Darkness by Will Oldham


“Book One: The Fickle Finger of Fate”



Sarah Shepherdson propped the phone under the crook of her neck and she searched her bathroom closet.

“Paolo,” she entreated. Yet on the other end Paolo kept speaking, distracting the woman from her quest. Sarah knocked over a stack of toilet rolls that rested at the bottom of the closet. The cottony soft, fragrance free cylinders spilled out onto the linoleum floor. The young woman huffed and reset the triple-ply pyramid, and tried again.

“Paolo, listen. Please, listen. I need you there. The Galladier is looking for partners. Partners, as in two. The routine calls for it. If you don’t come the audition is shot.”

Sarah switched her search to the cabinet under the sink as Paolo explained why he could not participate.

“Well, you just tell Dane he has no reason to be jealous then. That we’re just… oh. Oh,” she stood from her crouch and blushed slightly, “I see. Well, um, that is a problem. I certainly don’t want to be responsible for breaking up such a cute couple, no. Ha ha. No,” she bent down and rummaged through the cabinet, “It’s OK. I probably couldn’t get away today anyhow. Mr. Papadopolis had to take his son to the doctor and it’s crazy here. In fact, I’m late for work, so we’ll have to continue- dinner? Well, sure, maybe. Oops, there it is,” she found the short-handled plunger underneath some rags and raised it triumphantly, “All right. Paolo, I need to go. Bye,” she hung up the portable.

The young woman examined her reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink. Right now, with her bed head and no make up, Sarah didn’t think she looked capable of getting any man to switch teams. She took off her slippers and stood in the shower. The tepid bath water was up to her ankles. Sarah affixed the plunger over the tub’s drain, and jammed the implement down and up repeatedly. After a minute of effort she managed to drench the bathmat and conk her head against the faucet, but, not clear whatever was clogging her pipes.

“Gah,” she splashed out of the tub and sat on the privy. Sarah gingerly felt the knot on the back of her head, “Gah!” she repeated with more determination, in hopes the semi-magic word might help her morning off to a better start.

No such luck. The drain remained blocked up, so Sarah was unable to finish her shower. The young woman readied herself as best she could, though the time spent on the day’s distractions kept her from drying her thick mane of wavy hair.

There was a knock on the apartment’s door. Sarah finished getting into her uniform and went to answer it.

“Shep,” it was Bernice, another morning shift waitress at the Bean and Donut Coffee Shop. Her normally cherubic face was clouded with concern, “You need to come down.”

“I’m just about ready, Bernice,” Sarah smiled, “Breakfast crowd getting antsy?”

“Mr. Epitome is downstairs,” the woman replied softly, “He says he needs to speak with you.”

“Oh, really? Did you offer him some coffee?”

Bernice blinked at the younger woman’s lack of concern over the realization that the Government’s in-house superhero had need to see her, “Uh, no. He’s standing in the corner, scaring the crap out of everyone.”

“Aw, it can’t be that bad. We get superheroes in here all the time,” Sarah adjusted her apron, “Well, let’s go see what Mr. Epitome wants.”

Mr. Epitome was, in fact, at rigid attention in one corner of the crowded diner. He had bought a copy of The Daily Trombone, and pretended to be engrossed in it. The reality was, between his computer quick mind and X-ray vision Epitome had finished the paper before he had taken it from the dispenser (He could have saved himself the fifty cents and read the news as it rested in the steel receptacle, but the Paragon of Power considered such an act stealing).

A new scent wafted into the room. Cutting through the heavy aroma of grease and burnt coffee grounds was the distinct fragrance of orange blossom. Looking up from his paper the Exemplary Man saw Sarah Shepherdson (the sound of her footfalls matched those he heard coming from upstairs) walking out from the restaurant’s kitchen. She was not what he expected; certainly not what she had been advertised as. But then, he should have known to take his source’s assessment with a grain of salt. The young woman stopped to make friendly chatter with an elderly couple before she made her way to him.

“Hi, Mr. Epitome. I’m Sarah. Sorry there isn’t any place to sit, but our regular cook is out and we’re really backed up in the kitchen. Things aren’t running the way they should,” she offered her hand and a polite smile.

Epitome shook her hand and smiled back, “That’s all right, Miss Shepherdson. Perhaps I should come back at a later time?”

“No, no. I’m sure you’ve got other things to do than talk to little ol’ me.”

“This won’t take long,” the costumed man admitted. Before he could continue the slender waitress walked away and began taking orders from a party of four.

“As you know,” he said as Sarah scribbled on her note pad, “your sister Kerry is part of the Lair Legion’s Junior Auxiliary.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“And Glory, my partner, is also a member.”

“Glory seems like such a sweetie,” Sarah dreaded what was coming next. She went to put in the table’s order.

“Looks can be deceiving sometimes. Glory lives under a unique set of circumstances. She has a superhuman IQ, but her instincts are still that of a canine. A young canine.”

“Mr. Epitome,” Sarah turned and looked up at the man, “Did Kerry do something to Glory? Try to set her on fire or something?”

“No. Not at all. I’m not blaming your sister for what happened. She’s a teenager and teenagers are prone to do and say things that are improper. I just felt that as her guardian-”

“Visionary is Kerry’s legal guardian now. You probably want to talk to him about this. I have the condo’s phone number upstairs,” she got ready to pass the buck.

“I’ve spoken with Visionary about this matter,” Epitome explained. He had never seen someone literally bang his head against a wall before, “but since you are her relative I thought you would like to know.”

“How … considerate,” Sarah thought about letting Epitome talk to her mother about Kerry, but feared that confrontation might lead to war between America and Ireland. She sighed, “OK.”

Under his cowl Epitome cocked an eyebrow at the woman’s resignation, but chose not to comment on it. Instead he removed a folded set of papers from his belt pouch, “These are print outs of internet chats between Glory, your sister, and several as yet unidentified individuals. The subject matter and language is wholly inappropriate for individuals of their age,” he tried to hand the papers to Sarah. She looked at them like they were radioactive.

“Internet chats?”

“Yes. Glory has her own computer, and your sister must have access to one at Visionary’s home, and-”

“And you eavesdropped on their conversations?!” Sarah was dumbfounded.

“I don’t consider it eavesdropping. Glory lives in my home and there are rules she needs to follow. Believe me, we have spoken about it. But I thought you might want to be aware of the situation. It might just be chatter now, but it could lead to further inappropriate behavior.”

The young woman nodded, “You’re right. Who knows what those two could get involved in,” she gasped, “You don’t think they might be smoking?

Epitome was taken aback by her sarcasm, “This is serious, Miss Shepherdson.”

“It sure is. I’m talking to a man who took time out from hunting Osama bin Laden to tell me that his dog and my sister are discussing boys and using curse words in a private conversation. Is there some secret provision of the Patriot Act that lets you spy on people like that?”

The populace of the diner quieted and looked up to watch the spectacle of the coffee shop waitress rip into one of the most powerful beings on the planet.

“It’s not spying,” Epitome said with determination as he pocketed the wad of papers, “I’m just concerned for their well beings.”

Sarah was about ready to continue her scolding when she realized the man was being absolutely sincere. She shook her head and smiled.

“You don’t have a lot of experience with teenage girls, do you?”

The question struck a deeper nerve in the Paragon of Power, but he did not show it, “I suppose not.”

“Well, they like their space. And I know Glory isn’t a typical teen, but she probably feels the same way. I mean, you trust her, don’t you?”

“With my life.”

“Then you should trust her over something like this,” Sarah opined, “It’s difficult, I bet. There isn’t a lot of information out there on how to raise a dog who’s smarter than Einstein.”

Epitome, who was not one to admit weakness, shrugged, “Not any more difficult than what everyone else in the world has to deal with. You seem to have cut the back of your head, for example.”

“What? Oh, yeah. I coshed myself good trying to unstop my shower drain,” she touched the area and checked her finger for blood.

“You may want to see a doctor.”

“I’m fine. I really need to see a plumber, specifically one who can get my tub working again while keeping his pants from dipping below the Equator.”

Epitome thought a moment, “I might be able to help you with that. Fix your shower, that is.”

“Really?” she eyed him faux-suspiciously, “You’re not just saying that in order to plant wiretaps in my apartment, are you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Promise? Cross your heart?”

The big man shifted uncomfortably, “Yes.”

Sarah grinned and picked up a pair of breakfast plates from the counter, “Well, give me a few minutes to get everybody settled, and I’ll take you up.”

A little while later the two made their way upstairs and into Sarah’s loft. The rooms were done in muted pastels, and there was a paucity of tchotchkes that Epitome found refreshing: too many people went overboard when it came to displaying their individuality with the purchase of needless bric-a-brac. Miss Shepherdson must have better things to spend her money on.

The bathroom was a bit disorderly, which was expected. Women certainly had more detailed ablutions than men. Mr. Epitome looked in the tub at the shallow level of water still in it.

“So, how are you going to fix it? Zap the clog with your heat vision? Vacuum it out with super breath?” Sarah asked, leaning against the doorjamb and studying his back muscles.

“No. I think I can cobble together a makeshift snake and root the obstruction out.”

“My hero. Say, if you know how to pas de deux there’s another problem you- what’s wrong?”

Mr. Epitome finished performing a rudimentary scan on the bathroom’s pipes with his X-ray vision. What he saw made him turn and regard the young brunette severely.

“Miss Shepherdson, I think you may want to call your attorney at this time.”

To the Star Spangled Splendor - a deputized law enforcement agent - that would be the most logical course of action for someone who had a perfectly intact human finger lodged in her plumbing.



The Paradopolis CSI unit had to close down The Bean and Donut Diner in order to remove the finger from Sarah Shepherdson’s shower drain. They went in through the drywall in the back of the restaurant’s kitchen, and were forced to use a blowtorch to take out the rusted segment of pipe. Then it was a matter of delicately manipulating the digit out from the bend it was lodged in.

Mr. Epitome watched them work. Once the evidence had been wiped clean of grime he took a flat strip of metal from his belt pouch. The man’s gauntleted hands unfolded it until the strip had octupled in area and then pressed a small tab. The laptop’s neon keyboard etched onto the metal, and a holographic screen bearing the symbol of the Office of Paranormal Security flickered to life.

One of the police techies whistled appreciatively, “Very nice. Is it remote wired?”

“To the OPS satellite, yes,” Epitome pulled a smaller pad out and unspooled a thread-sized cable from it. He plugged this unit into the computer. The electronic fingerprint program began running.

“May I?” Mr. Epitome asked one of the detectives for the finger. She reluctantly acquiesced.

The Paragon of Power took the evidence and gently pressed it against the sensor. Its electronic eye sketched out a computer model of the digit’s lines and whorls, and transmitted the image to the online database. It took the program eight seconds to report there was no existing match on file in any government agency.

“Hm,” he noted. That complicated matters. The finger belonged to a woman, Caucasian, between the ages of twenty and forty. The nail had been cut close, but still a substance had managed to wedge itself underneath. A quick scan of its molecular structure revealed it to be rosin.

Then there was the wedding ring. A 14 Karat band of white gold rested just above where the finger had been surgically removed. Mr. Epitome pulled the jewelry off and checked the inside for an inscription. Again, he was disappointed.

“Hey, uh,” one of the bolder police officers objected, “You shouldn’t be doing that.”

Epitome produced a pair of vacuum-sealing evidence bags and placed the items inside. He pocketed the evidence and smiled.

“It’s OK. Trust me; I’m with the Government,” he walked out to where the others were questioning Miss Shepherdson.

The young woman looked ready to cry, “Mr. Papadopolis, I’m so sorry,” she told her employer, “For you to have to close the diner on the day Mikos is in the hospital with the croup and-”

“Sarah, please. Don’t worry about me,” the old man said kindly, “Much more important we get this ridiculous mess cleared up,” he turned to the lead investigator, “Is bunch of crap, this charge,” he spat.

“No one is being charged with anything, sir,” Detective Morris Skylar replied, “We just have some general questions for Shep here.”

The congregation of police that hovered protectively around the young waitress all nodded.

“Thanks, Morris, but I don’t know how much help I can be. How could a human finger have wound up in my shower drain?”

“It is physically impossible, Miss Shepherdson,” Epitome answered as he joined the group, “There is no way it could have traveled down the pipe, as it is too large to fit past the catch basin and there are no signs the basin had been tampered with. And the finger doesn’t show any tissue damage that would result from moving through such a rough conduit.”

Detective Skylar looked at Epitome and frowned, “The finger’s out?”

“I have it.”

“What? Look, Mr. Epitome, I appreciate you aiding this investigation, but we’re dealing with a case that falls under local jurisdiction here.”

The Exemplary Man disagreed, “Metacrime automatically falls under the mandate of the Office of Paranormal Security, Detective. Article 2, Section 7. I can involve myself in any investigation that meets that standard.”

Skylar looked ready to strangle the costumed hero, “Paradopolis has a Special Crimes Division,” he countered.

“Then you need to call them. Please let them know I’ll be in touch.”

“How about I call my boss, Commissioner Graham, instead, and tell him you’re impeding my investigation?”

Epitome’s cowled visage broke into a self-satisfied grin, “There are three people in this country I answer to, Detective Skylar: the Secretary of Paranormal Security, the Attorney General, and the President. I can give you their numbers, if you wish,” he took a step closer to the middle aged policeman and lowered his voice, “It’s a mistake to fight me on this.”

The sixteen year veteran of Paradopolis Homicide blanched. Mr. Epitome wasn’t a frequent visitor to the city, but he had a reputation of brutal bureaucratic efficiency against those who got in his way.

“I don’t want to see this girl put through the wringer over something she clearly isn’t part of,” he muttered back.

“Excuse me,” Sarah interrupted, “if you two are quite done beating your chests, could someone tell me how much trouble I’m in?”

They turned to the brunette, who sat by the counter with a look of fierce purpose.

Mr. Epitome spoke first, “I’m afraid it’s more a matter of inconvenience than actual trouble, Miss Shepherdson. What you’ll need to do for us is put together a list of people who might wish you harm.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“And your sister as well.”

“Oh, pooh.”

Epitome handed her a card, “When you finish, please call me. I’m sorry you got swept up in this. The worst part of my job is watching innocents suffer from the idiocies people in my line of work are capable of,” he sounded encouraging, “But this will be resolved.”

“Thanks. I’ll see what I can do to help.”

Mr. Epitome exchanged goodbyes and left for his car. The events of the morning had set him back about two hours. He postponed his meeting with the OPS Field Director of Paradopolis/GMY. He also had planned a flight to Guantanamo to interrogate a suspected agent of Factor X, but it looked like that would have to be changed to a video conference. Things got worse when the Focus’s battery died on the first turn of its key. It took Mr. Epitome five minutes to locate, pay for, and install a new one: coincidentally, just enough time for the Probability Dancer to track him down.

“Having car trouble?” she asked Mr. Epitome as he slammed down the car’s hood. The man jumped: there were very few entities in existence that should be able to sneak on him like that.

The heroine stifled a giggle, “Sorry. That was completely unintentional.”

Epitome watched the Legionnaire come up the parking garage’s stairwell. Dancer was an athletic woman with dark eyes and fair skin. These characteristics along with her slight brogue made the Paragon of Power aware he would have been quite disposed to make a fool of himself over her in his younger days, long ago.

“You’re here about the incident with Sarah Shepherdson,” he surmised.

“Right. Shep took your advice and called a lawyer. Guess who?”

“I’m assuming Miss Waltz.”

“Right again. Lisa was ready to track you down and “give that Nosy Parker the spanking he deserves”- her words, not mine- but I convinced Lisa you probably wouldn’t go for that.”

Epitome folded his arms, “Ah, the Lair Legion: professional as ever.”

“You know you love us,” Dancer smiled, “Or at least tolerate us. And you’re certainly capable of putting aside your differences with us to work towards helping people. So, do you have any leads?”

“Not really. I have a few tests I want to run on the finger back at the Epitome Division.”

Dancer nodded, “I think I know someone who can help. He’s an expert at this sort of thing.”

“Forensic science?”

“No, plumbing. Let’s go,” she walked back to the stairs.

“Where are you going? The car’s here.”

“I thought it’d be fun to do the old jump-from-rooftop-to-rooftop-across-the-city chestnut. We’ve got the perfect weather for it.”

He did not move.

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Mr. Epitome. Come see how the other half lives,” Dancer winked, and ascended the stairwell towards the roof.

Against his better judgment, Epitome went to join her.


The Probability Dancer was a conundrum to the Office of Paranormal Security. The agency had been unable to piece together her origin, her true identity, or how her powers worked. The Idiom once sent Mr. Epitome a 300 page thesis that posited Dancer controlled the “Law of Requisite Narrative,” which she described as the circumstances that determined the most necessary outcome of a sequence of events; only the imprisoned genius used a lot more math. For Epitome, what mattered was that there was another force in the Parodyverse he had no way of countering. That made Dancer potentially the most dangerous Legionnaire of all.

It was hard to imagine her as such, however, as she leapt across the buildings of Hell’s Bathroom.

“This is great cardio,” Dancer laughed, sliding across the concave satellite dish that rested atop one roof and performed a text book triple lutz, “And much more fun than the Stairmaster.”

“If you manage to avoid the bird droppings, yes,” Epitome agreed as he followed her in a more traditional gait, “Where are we headed?”

“There,” she pointed downward to a storefront whose sign identified it as “Xander’s Plumbing and Clock Repair Shop.”

“You were serious about seeking the help of a plumber?!”

“Well, Xander is more than a handyman. He knows a lot about the strange and obscure things that happen in the Parodyverse,” Dancer dropped down, hit a flagpole sticking from the high rise’s foundation, and did a jack knife dive onto the sidewalk across the shop. Epitome got there much less spectacularly, but still in time to open the door for his temporary partner.

“Thanks. Hello, Xander,” the young woman said to the store’s proprietor, who sat on a stool before the counter. A small black and white TV rested next to him, showing what Epitome recognized as Bringing Up Baby.

“Out for your morning constitutional, Dancer?” the shabby looking man in red robes asked, “Or do you and Mr. Epitome have more pressing business?” He shut off the set just as the leopard makes its entrance to menace Cary Grant.

Mr. Epitome and the Master of the Mystic Crafts regarded each other. Neither seemed impressed.

“A little bit of both. Mr. E here found a finger with a wedding ring lodged in the shower drain of Sarah Shepherdson, and we’re trying to identify the owner. Among other things.”

“Interesting,” the magician rubbed his face, “As I’m sure you know, Mr. Epitome, the early Christians believed that the ring finger symbolizes justice. Justice for the self and for the conscience.”

“I don’t see-”

“The ring is the circle. You will find that this journey will end where it began, though I imagine none involved will truly call it an ending. And then there is the plumbing. What goes through pipes? Waste,” Xander answered his own question, “That which is harmful to the body. The plumbing represents catharsis,” Xander hopped from his stool, “I hoped that helped. Let me go tally your bill,” and the man shuffled off to find his abacus.

“What an absolute waste of time,” Epitome shook his head.

Dancer looked into the shop’s display case at a collection of women’s watches, “I thought it was interesting. Hey look, that one was worn by Catherine of Aragorn.”

“Preposterous. Wristwatches weren’t invented until 1904, half a millennium after she died. This just proves this Xander is an ill-kempt crank,” The Paragon of Power snorted with disgust, “What kind of man is still in his pajamas in the middle of the day?”

Dancer suddenly stood up and faced Epitome, “Why are you always attacking my friends?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Finny, DBS, spiffy, DK, now Xander. You have it in for all of us and it’s so unnecessary.”

“Now is not….” Epitome’s rebuttal trailed off as he spied a smudge Dancer had left on the glass top counter. The print matched the one he had taken from the crime scene.

The severed finger was Dancer’s.

“Figure it out yet?” Xander came from the back of his store with a tattered scrap of paper in one hand and a watercress sandwich in the other.

“It’s hers,” Mr. Epitome said, before turning to Dancer, “It’s yours. The finger.”

“What?” Sarah was thunderstruck.

“Ah, good,” the mage rang up the tab on his antique cash register, “Then I assume you know what to do next. Thank you so much for your business. Now, good day.”


To Be Continued in Shattered Worlds, Book Two: These Earths We Have Made






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