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This message #102: Untold Tales of the Lair Legion: Black Hearts was posted by The Hooded Hood's Hallowe'en harvest continues. However, you are NOT ALLOWED to read this story until you have read (and commented) on #101 below, lest something unspeakable crawls round your u-bend and grabs you as you sit there on the toilet. Trust me, you'd prefer to read #101 and reply to it. on Monday, October 28, 2002 at 11:54.
#102: Untold Tales of the Lair Legion: Black Hearts
NOTE: This is part two of the narrative begun in Untold Tales #101. The story won’t make sense unless you’ve read that first. This is meant to be a horror tale, so don’t read it at all if you get disturbed by that kind of thing.
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***
“Frank Curry wasn’t from round here,” Mr Turner from the Human Resources Division of Black Plastics Corporation told Andy and Ziles. “He came from Ohio originally, I think. Moved here in ’91, took on the job of Assistant Mouldings Manager. Did quite well at first. But I understand he had some family trouble.”
“Family Trouble?” Foom checked.
“Yeah. His girlfriend or fiancée of whatever. She didn’t want to move here. Didn’t like the town. In the end they split up. That seemed to depress him.”
“I can’t think why she wouldn’t want to be here,” Ziles muttered.
“Do you think that’s why he took his life, Mr Turner?” Andy persisted.
“I don’t know,” the administrator shrugged. “Shame, really. He could have had a future with us. The Board of Directors had noticed him. He could have gone far.”
“Who does own the factory?” Ziles wondered.
“It’s a consortium,” Turner replied, “but it was founded in 1905 by Mr Jubilee Black, and chairmanship of the board remains in the Black family to this day.”
“Can we see Mr Black?” Andy wondered.
“I can consult with his secretary, if you like,” Turner offered. “He’s a busy man, but I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you.”
***
Jay pulled off the mortarboard thinking cap and stepped away from the microscope feeling exhausted. He checked back with the medical files about Paulo Yansen faxed down from the Safe penitentiary. Somehow the inkjet printer had blotted, obliterating the grainy black and white face on the top of the report just like the real Gluegun lay on the pathology slab. It was a gruesome irony. Jay remembered that somehow the wanted flyer that Ziles carried with them had also got wet during the visit to the farm and that the printing there had blurred across Gluegun’s features too.
He stumbled out into the corridor to see whether Whitney was back from talking to Frank Curry’s workmates and almost literally stumbled into Chief Gadler. “Sorry,” he told the police officer. “Long day, and using some of my hats really takes it out of me. I’ve been checking the samples from Gluegun’s wounds. Whatever that DNA stuff in there is it’s not human.”
Gadler took a step back and looked worriedly at the hero. “I never knew this stuff was so hard for you guys,” he admitted. “Does using those powers of yours always make your eyes and ears bleed?”
***
“Yeah, we dated a few times after he got over Maggie,” Linda Simpson admitted over a coffee in the Black Plastics canteen during her break. “Nothing serious, y’know, but he was a nice enough guy. He had all these big ideas when he came here, but after a while he learned the ropes and became just another of us poor worker shlubs.”
“What do you mean?” Whitney wondered. “He was depressed because his girlfriend broke off their engagement and then he… gave up?”
Maggie was thirty but she looked forty. “We all give up here, honey,” she explained wearily. “There’s no reason not to. We come to work and we spend a ten hour shift on minimum wage doing the same production line thing over and over and over again. We go back to our company houses and shop in the company store and there’s the money gone. Then we go to bed and dream about being on the production line and doing what we do all day anyway. And then we wake up and its another grey day and the factory’s waiting.”
“But you could leave,” suggested the Sorceress. “Go and start fresh somewhere else.”
“Oh yeah, with no money and no qualifications and no friends in a strange town. Some folks do go though. Just up and leave in the night. They never come back.”
Whitney shuddered. “Really.”
“Some say goodbye, I suppose. But we never hear from them again. I guess I’d want to forget about this place too.”
“Do they leave forwarding addresses or anything like that?”
“Nah. They just vanish away to their new lives,” Maggie sighed. “But I couldn’t do that. Too old. Too tired. I was born here. I’ll work here till I’m too old to go on. I know I’m going to die here. And that’s my life. That’s all our lives.”
***
Darkness smudged its way towards Lair Island over the Atlantic horizon past the gloomy dusk with its promise of more snow. Nats was on monitor duty when the first call came in.
“Lair Legion? You got a problem?” Bill Reed checked the monitor board to see where the signal feed was coming from but there was nothing but garbage on the monitor.
“Help! Help us! It’s coming! No! Noooo!” The shrill woman’s shriek was cut off in an ugly insect buzz of static and the link went down.
“What the…?” Nats muttered, reaching for the internal line to check with Goldeneyed.
Before he could punch the button the second help signal came in. “Help! Do something!” And the third: “Please! Save us! We’re dying here!”
Nats scanned the board. Again, no authentication code. No idea where the signals originated.
Three more monitors lit up as emergency protocols cut in. “Help! Where are you? We’re dying here!” “Somebody… rescue us!” “Help us. It’s coming!”
Bill Reed punched at the communications board buttons trying to work out what was happening. His initial reaction was that it was a hoax, some bizarre sick prank, but as the calls piled up and voices multiplied he somehow knew that he was hearing the genuine article. The screaming got louder.
“Where are you?” Nats called back. “We can’t save you if we can’t find you!”
One by one the voices faded to silence, the screens monitoring them darkening to black. And Nats knew that all those people were dead. Then he realised that they hadn’t been speaking English, hadn’t been calling out in any language ever spoken on Earth, yet he had understood them perfectly.
Then he realised that his fingernails were bleeding.
***
“There’s something in this town,” Whitney Darkness warned her companions as they met in the cheerless drawing room of Mrs MacGrath’s boarding house. The framed photographs of long-dead relatives of the landlady covered every wall and surface and peered at the four visitors as if outraged by their intrusion. “We’ve all felt it but it’s not like the usual sort of attacks we cope with. This is more… psychic.”
“DK and I have electronic shields against mind control,” Andrew Dean argued.
“And yet you’ve still been twitchy,” Ziles observed. “We all have. And I don’t think it’s what is in this town that’s doing it. I think it’s what’s missing. There’s no hope.”
“I know what you mean,” admitted Jay Boaz, holding a reddened handkerchief at his still-oozing eyes. “Everyone here stumbles around like a zombie. Everyone looks so old. Even the children don’t laugh much. It’s like all the life and joy has been sucked out.”
“As if somebody ripped Black’s Crossing’s heart after it became frozen,” shuddered Whitney. “Look, I really think we’ve stumbled across some kind of psychic sinkhole, a bad place.”
“Then it must have been like this for years,” said Ziles. “The suicide rate at the motel…”
“It might be more than that,” considered Andy. “What if this town was founded here because it was a bad place?”
“Founded as in built by that Jubilee Black to put his manufacturing plant in the early days of the production line?” Jay reasoned. “And maintained to this day by that mysterious Board of Directors?”
“That’s why we’re going to dinner with them tonight,” Andy concluded. “Ziles and Whitney will surreptitiously scan our food electronically and magically before we eat of course. But we can’t just run away and leave things like this. We fight evil, dammit, and there’s something nasty here, even if it doesn’t wear a costume and rape old ladies.”
Jay suppressed a shiver. “No, it collects the hearts of people like that. Did I show you the picture of Gluegun that we brought with us?” He rummaged in his jacket and pulled out the printout with Paulo Yansen’s image on it. “It must have got wet in the storm last night or something.” Even Jay didn’t really believe that was how the features of the face had somehow become erased.
***
“Did you hear that?” Dancer asked Lisette.
“What?” the Lair Legion’s legal adviser asked.
“A whispering? In the kitchen.”
“Nobody’s home except Nats on monitor,” Laurie Leyton reported. “Bry’s out patrolling with Frog Man, CSFB!’s shuttling to Seattle to meet up with Sydney St Sylvain. Even Flapjack’s off doing whatever disgusting stuff he does on his night off.”
“Line dancing, I think,” Dancer answered absently. “He tries to keep it quiet. I’m sure there’s a noise coming from in there.”
Lisette followed her towards the darkened breakfast area. “You don’t think… Space Ghost is back?” she worried.
“It is whispering,” Dancer insisted. “You must hear it.”
Laurie cocked an ear and strained to listen. “No, I still can’t hear anything.”
“Lots of voices,” Dancer shuddered, taking an involuntary step backwards. Lisette had never seen her so pale. “All accusing. No… No, it wasn’t me. I didn’t bring him upon you… I didn’t mean to do it…!”
“Dancer? Are you okay.”
“They hate me,” Sarah Shepherdson gasped. “I can feel their hate. They blame me. There are millions of them dead, millions more never born. And they’re whispering their hate to me.”
Suddenly Laurie felt the cold, and knew that there was something with them in the darkened kitchen.
Dancer fell to her knees and covered her ears. “I didn’t mean to summon him!” she shouted.
Laurie saw Sarah Shepherdson’s head jerk back and the first five gashes open up on her flesh from shoulder to chest. Dancer struggled as if pinned down by invisible assailants and screamed.
Then there was a shriek so loud it knocked both women to the floor. The whispering was drowned in the ululation that reached down into the primitive hind-brain and clawed at the oldest, deepest instincts of humanity . Glassware shattered across the kitchen. The wail started in subvocal pitch and rose to a searing crescendo. There was the sound of a struggle and something hitting the floor. There was a buzzing of insects for a moment.
The light came on. Goldeneyed was in the doorway. “What’s going on?” he asked. “I was…”
They all saw the same thing together for one moment: a woman in Victorian dress standing bloody but triumphant over something red and unrecognisable, her bruised scratched face twisted into a mask of anger. Then Marie Murcheson was gone.
Dancer rolled over gasping, clutching at the scratches that ribboned her flesh in five neat parallel lines.
G-Eyed touched the wall communications panel. “Nats,” he called. “Get us Xander here. Stat.”
***
The snow had begun to drift down again as Andy, Ziles, and Whitney drove to the gates of the Black Estate. The iron skies has turned darker with the coming night. Everything seemed choked and dead.
The gates swung open automatically to allow the 4x4 to enter. Ziles chauffeured the vehicle up to the ugly stone mansion that squatted behind the plastics factory overlooking the town it dominated. A flunky arrived to park the vehicle while another led Mr Black’s guests out of the bad weather into the hall.
The house was surprisingly spartan. The staircase inside was of sterile marble. The floors were polished wood. The furniture was antique and well kept. It was an old man’s house.
“Well now, this is a pleasure,” Mr Black told them, wheeling himself into the room in an antique bath-chair. “It isn’t every day I get to meet some genuine heroes.”
Ziles’ headache got worse.
“We just do our job,” Andy murmured. “That’s what brought us to Black’s Crossing.”
“Yes. Chief Gadler told me all about it,” Black admitted. “The villain’s black heart was taken, his cruel face was removed, and you want to know why, and by whom.”
“We do,” agreed Whitney. “There are some nasty uses such things could be put to by an occult practitioner.”
Black seemed interested. “Indeed? Such as?”
“Best not to speak of them,” the Sorceress evaded.
`
Mr Black peered into the snow behind them. “I understood there were four or you?”
“Hatman extends his apologies,” Whitney answered. “He wasn’t feeling well. A little eye-strain.” The Sorceress had at last found the courage to tell her lover why she was flinching from his touch. Whitney’s occult training developed strong mental barriers against psychic invasion. Jay Boaz’ power to assume the metaphorical powers of the owner of any headgear he wore left him wide open by definition. Ziles and Finny might have been plagued with whispering ghosts but Jay had been targeted more directly. He was safer away from the Black Estate.
“A shame,” Mr Black said sincerely. “It so disrupts my dining arrangements. Still, I’m sure he’ll find something for himself.”
Their host led them along an echoing corridor to a dining room covered in old-fashioned flock wallpaper. A formal dinner was laid out for four.
“I thought you said you were expecting all of us,” Andy frowned as the grey-clad servants showed them to their places around the long table.
“That’s right,” Black agreed. “I regret that my medical condition does not allow me to eat conventional food. I am very old, and require a specialised diet.”
“Und I do not drink… vine,” Andy muttered under his breath. Then louder he said, “I understood that your Board would be joining us too.”
“They will be with us after you have supped,” the host promised.
A nasty thought came to Whitney. “How many members of your board are there?”
“Including myself? Five.” Mr Black advised them. “Please, sit. I am anxious to hear where your investigations have led you. And to discover where they will lead you next”
The three visitors sat down to dine and the cold snow settled over the roofs of the estate, shrouding everything in chill dead whiteness.
***
Xander the Improbable, master of the mystic crafts and sorcerer supreme, put away his tuning fork with a worried expression.
“Well?” Goldeneyed demanded. “What’s the diagnosis?”
“It’s a good news bad news joke,” the little man in the faded red gown told him. “The good news is that the invading presence in your home is gone. The Lair Mansion is old. It has defences of which you know little. In this instance it seems as though one of the unquiet spirits in the house, your banshee Marie Murcheson, has drawn upon some of the Celestian energies infused into the place to become powerful enough to battle the intruder.”
“So we were attacked,” Nats determined. His hands were still shaking as he sipped his coffee.
“Oh yes. Something ancient and malevolent was here,” Xander agreed. “It dredged up the dead to torment you.”
“I heard people calling for help,” Nats admitted.
“They’re on the storage tapes,” Goldeneyed assured him, “but they’re not speaking any language out translators can handle.”
“I very much doubt even your translators will ever have come across that tongue,” commented the mage. “The Second Oldest Race was extinct before this planet even formed.”
Bill Reed felt a shudder run down his spine. “Wait! We’ve heard of them. They were the people who…”
“Who created your psychostave, yes,” Xander agreed. “And who died because of it. But that’s a matter for another day.”
“Dancer heard voices too,” interrupted Lisette. She was anxious for Sarah, who seemed very shaken by her experience in the kitchen.
“They accused me,” the Probability Dancer whispered. “I killed them.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Goldeneyed snorted. “You’re the last person to ever kill anyone, Dancer.”
“They were the people of Skree-Lump, Homeworld of an alien civilisation,” Xander explained. “I believe the Supreme Interference tricked Dancer into summoning Galactivac to devour the planet? In fact, Dancer is technically the herald of the Living Death that Sucks.”
“They did die because of me,” Dancer shuddered. “They hate me, and I deserve it.” She stared wildly around the familiar room as if watching for invading entities returned to accuse her once more
“Are you saying something… opened a gate to these spirits?” G-Eyed demanded
The master of the mystic crafts nodded. “I’ve been trying to discern how it got in here. As I said, this place is defended, so it would have had to be clever. My best guess would be that it came here via one of your communications signals.”
“I can get a list of incoming signals,” Lisette offered. “Here, this was the last transmission, from Finny at Black’s Crossing.”
Xander looked up sharply. “From where?” he demanded.
***
Jay spent a frustrating half hour fiddling with the Lair Legion comm-card that should have been able to put him in contact with the Lair Mansion from anywhere in the world. All he got was remorseless static with the snatch of hissing conversation like the voices of the dead. “I could just put on my Torpedoes hat and be in Paradopolis in five minutes,” he told himself aloud, as much to hear a human voice as anything. But that would feel like running away, like deserting Whitney and the others to whatever lurked in Black’s Crossing.
He considered a patrol, but the worsening weather had cut down visibility again rendering such activity futile. He reviewed the strange things that were happening and tried to sort them into some rational order. “Gluegun sits down in the middle of an open field in a blizzard and dies of hypothermia. It’s just about possible, if he was struggling with the cold already. Then somebody – or according to the forensic evidence, something – comes along and literally rips out his frozen heart. How quickly does a body freeze through, I wonder?”
He considered dragging on his surgeon’s cap and finding out but he wanted to pursue his chain of thought. Outside in the corridor Mrs MacGrath clattered noisily as she rattled her dirty plates into the kitchen.
“This happens in a depressing factory town where lots of people kill themselves in the local motel and others just up and disappear. When we arrive we find rooms booked for us, and later witnesses claim to have been questioned by us before we ever met them. Finny hears dead Makluans, Ziles hears suicides, and Whitney hears an old, dry voice speaking through my lips. Nasty.”
Mrs MacGrath turned on the tap and the ancient plumbing knocked and groaned as cold water sprayed into the stone sink.
“When we investigate I get some kind of… stigmata or something when I do a scientific analysis. Whitney suspects that…” Jay’s reverie was interrupted by a crashing of plates in the kitchen. “Mrs MacGrath?!”
He leapt from his chair and fumbled for the door. It wouldn’t open. The mock-pearl knob felt icy to the touch. He dragged on his Steelers cap and shattered the door to fragments. He knew – knew - that there was something terribly wrong happening in the kitchen.
A wave of force picked him up and hammered him against the front door, pinning him there. Mrs MacGrath screamed.
“No!” Jay shouted. He pulled out his Rockets cap and powered himself down the hallway in defiance of the psychic wind, ricocheting off the walls and crashing through the kitchen door.
The old woman was sprawled unmoving on the floor. Every wall and worksurface was covered with frost. Gluegun looked up from his work and his loosely-attached face gave a bubbling laugh that gurgled from the depths of hell. “They’re so good when they’re old and helpless,” he boasted.
Hatman dragged himself to his feet despite the sudden wave of exhaustion that washed over him. He reached for his Steelers cap once more, feeling the need for the invulnerability of a metallic form right now. Gluegun was dead and autopsied. The villain’s face was loosely stapled to his head covering the gristly ruin beneath. The hole where his heart had been was clearly visible.
The black heart was beating in the exposed cavity.
Jay knew he faced something far worse than the petty murderer they had chased to this place twenty-four hours earlier. He dragged his hat on and went forward to wrestle with Evil.
Gluegun laughed; and suddenly Jay felt very strange. He reached up and found an unfamiliar hood over his face and cranium. With a sick horror he knew it to be Gluegun’s bloody detached caul-skin.
“Mine!” the villain exalted, reaching forward and surging into Jay Boaz’ ice-chilled form.
When Jay rose from the floor again it was to pick up the carving knife and shuffle over toward the unconscious form of Mrs MacGrath. He was giggling as he went.
***
“There are… places,” Xander the Improbable said, his eyes sunken and haunted. “Places where this old reality has been torn or has worn thin. This Parodyverse was rather cobbled together, you see, and it has suffered all kinds of reality upheavals and retcons over the years. And that leaves… cracks. And they attract certain kinds of entities.”
“Like the Hero Feeders,” Nats suggested.
“And worse things that are rather less tangible,” the mage answered. “Entities whose sentience is not based on matter, and whose motivations are not even remotely human.”
“Demons,” Dancer whispered. “I once fought Blackhurt…”
“Not pretend demons in pantomime costumes in a stage set hell,” Xander snapped. “Real evil. Real, heart-stopping, soul-rending, plotting-our-downfall-since-before-the-dawn-of-time, brilliant-in-their-dark-intelligence-and-eternal-in-their-patience, powerful-beyond-our-conception-and-malevolent-beyond-all-sanity evil. It doesn’t attack you with horns and claws and power-blasts of hellfire. It attacks you with disappointment and betrayals and words you say hastily and regret forever. It comes into your life and it uses the things you love to hurt you, and it drives you to become everything you dread, and it laughs at the result as you weep amidst the ruins of your dreams.”
“And Black’s Crossing is one of these places of evil,” Goldeneyed summarised impatiently. “So let’s get there. I can’t teleport there because I’ve not seen it to visualise it but we could crank up a Lairjet and…”
“And you wouldn’t get there,” Xander advised him. “This isn’t like your usual cases. You won’t struggle through. You’ll end up elsewhere. You’ll walk into a trap. You’ll find your flight instruments fail you and the blizzard surrounds you and suddenly you’ll be somewhere else. And just like that the world’s heroes are snuffed out.”
“But we have people in there,” Dancer argued. “Friends. We can’t leave Finny and Whitney and Ziles and Hat. Whitney’s your daughter, for goodness’ sake!”
Xander closed his eyes. “I know. But this is their fight. They have to win it or lose it on their own, however much we might wish to save them. The foray against you was just a little bit of added amusement, a test of your defences and a chance to gather more information about the people who are the focus of the game.”
“Like the intrusion at Finny’s flat,” Dancer surmised.
“A game?” Nats scowled. He remembered how he had felt as the dying voices screamed out to him. it didn’t feel like a game to him.
“Everyone gets a little bored sometimes,” the mage repeated the words spoken by Jay to Whitney the night before. “Even Evil. It seems as though as a diversion from its everyday malice it has decided to take down some heroes.”
“You knew about Black’s Crossing?” Lisette accused. “And you didn’t deal with it? Or alert the LL?”
“That’s right,” the sorcerer supreme answered. “What does that tell you about it?”
The sleet drummed on the windows of the Lair Mansion, and outside it was very dark.
***
Mr Black watched his guests eat in the uncomfortable silence of the musty dining hall. “Not what you’re used to?” he asked at last.
Andy knew that he wasn’t referring to the meal, which was eatable but a little dry. “We’re more used to just bursting in and smacking the villain,” he replied.
“Is there a villain then?” Mr Black wondered. “Where?”
“How about right here?” Ziles accused. “You keep the people of this town in economic slavery, in this grey horrible place where they work and grow old and die.”
“I provide much-needed employment for a deprived area,” the businessman countered. “I put my talents and resources to work and receive an appropriate remuneration for my efforts. It’s the American way.”
“And the ghosts and the suicides?” demanded Whitney. “This place is thick with unquiet spirits.”
“Really?” Black queried. “I don’t know that the courts yet recognise the supernatural as a motive for killing oneself. Or others.”
Andy felt as if their host was tormenting them, probing at their weaknesses, digging for their despair. “We usually bring the bad guy to justice in the end though,” he warned.
Mr Black snorted. “What a wonderfully naive worldview, Mr Foom. Allow me to test it. Let us posit that there was a ‘villain’ as you call it active in this area. Let us suppose it is I. Imagine if you will that I am not human. Ancient. Malevolent. Imagine that I am, say, some kind of vampire.”
“Not much of a stretch,” muttered Ziles.
“Vampires in media seem to rather do things the hard way. Surely the most secure means of existing would be to establish a little nursery in some needy, forgotten bywater where a man with money and influence would be welcomed, where special consideration would be given to an investor’s foibles by a community desperate to survive at any cost. There the vampire could establish a business and farm humans like sheep – no, like trained harnessed oxen, shaping their lives to promote the tedious, monotonous, mindless docility required of livestock.”
Whitney gripped her knife tighter. She noticed it was made of pewter, not silver.
“In such a community there would always be someone leaving for a ‘better life’, never to be missed. And there would always be openings for bright young prospects to move in, bringing fresh blood to the area, if I may use the colloquial expression.,” Black continued. “So the vampire could amuse himself however he liked, from gross acts of slaughter to daily mundane cruelties upon the dull, hopeless cattle who worked in his plant, lived in his housing, shopped in his stores. And all the while his livestock slave their lives away to increase his fortune and power, and the laws of this fine nation protect him from harm because they do not recognise even his existence.”
“Until we come along,” Fin Fang Foom warned. “Until we happen in to your… this vampire’s cosy little set-up and…”
“Happen? What if you were brought here?” Mr Black looked up and stared into Whitney’s eyes. “Everyone gets a little bored sometimes.”
Whitney choked on the food she was chewing as she recognised the old dry voice that had come from Jay as he fondled her; and she recognised the eyes.
“But of course, we speak hypothetically, do we not?” Mr Black concluded, licking his dry lips and settling back in his chair. “There is no great evil to fight here in Black’s Crossing. The only chains that hold people here are the ones they forge themselves. The only ghosts are the ones they carry with them. So I wonder what you are going to do now?”
Andrew Dean had no answer for him.
Mr Black smiled humourlessly. “I think it’s time I introduced you to the Board.”
***
Next Issue: Our horror trilogy concludes as very unpleasant things happen and the Lair Legion ignores Xander’s advice. The nightmare concludes in Fade to Black
This poster posed from 195.92.67.72 when they posted
Message Thread
- #102: Untold Tales of the Lair Legion: Black Hearts - The Hooded Hood's Hallowe'en harvest continues. However, you are NOT ALLOWED to read this story until you have read (and commented) on #101 below, lest something unspeakable crawls round your u-bend and grabs you as you sit there on the toilet. Trust me, you'd prefer to read #101 and reply to it. - 11:54 on October 28, 2002
- - (nt) - 11:55 on October 28, 2002
- Really quite eerie. - (nt) - 20:42 on October 28, 2002
- That's the idea. I started writing this the night I saw The Mothman Prophesies - (nt) HH - 03:25 on October 29, 2002
- And when I read this, I thought to myself, "Hey, it's just like in The Mothman Prophecies, when Will Patton tells Richard Gere that he's been knocking on his door for the past three nights running, even though Richard Gere had only just arrived there." And big, fat, unshaven, jowly, dead-eyed, slack-jawed, scary bastard Brian Cox, from The Ring, needs to play Mr. Black. After all, he's already going to be playing William Stryker, in Bryan Singer's X-Men 2. - (nt) CrazySugarFreakBoy! finally has some time to start replying to stories, and has enjoyed this one so far. - 10:50 on October 29, 2002
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