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Um.... Monday, 07-Jun-1999 18:35:15
Um... apparently people thought I was serious. I'd never leave here, permanently. Not after I've invested so much time here. Lisa- congrats on the kid. Suggestion for the name: Victor Grayson Waltz, if he/she's male. C'mon. It fits. And, uh, here's a few stories I've written. The Instance of the Great Mock “I never forget a face, but in your case, I’ll make an exception.--Groucho Marx. “If I look like this, I need the trip.” Gloria Swanson, in regards to her passport photo “An indecent mind is a perpetual feast.”--Old Saying. (No, really. I’ve got it in a damn book of quotes. Harper Book of Quotations, Third Edition. Page 384.) “Lisa L. Waltz, attorney favored by supervillains and other societal challenged ethnic groups at large, at your service. How may I simultaneously financially and physically screw you over?” The former member of the Lair Legion wasn’t surprised by many things. Being, among others, a mother, a nymphomaniacal lawyer, and a former superheroine-turned supervillainess, she was used to everything. She thought. Seeing a cosmic being manifest itself through her phone was something she would have to get used to. She decided to do so, after she got the hang of fainting. She thought she was pretty good at it; but, hell, she’d had a long day and this insensitive bastard coming through her line looked a) scary and b) homelier than Visionary. Lisa’s head hit the floor, sounding like a college student struggling with the after effects of Taco Bell, or, a nuclear bomb in the midst of being rather angry about being detonated in the middle of France. Everyone knows that France’ll surrender at the mere sight of a firecracker. Nuclear bombs world-wide take great offense at being detonated anywhere near France, as they become laughingstocks according to their peers. Samhain, Destroyer of Ideas, wasn’t happy. He’d just been notified that AT&T was closing off his interstellar phone service, simply because that rat-bastard Hooded Hood had called him collect, forgetting to use one of the interstellar 10-10-Who-Bloody-Cares telephone numbers/services. The cosmic embodiment of destruction and hate manifested itself into a more aesthetically pleasing form- that of Marilyn Manson. Samhain figured this was the only form it could get away with wearing on Earth, while still feeling appropriately hateful. It just so happened that Pallas, Quoth, Nevermore, and Nebula had been given the night off from the Chronicler’s library. Pallas, like the Chronicler, was...antisocial...and remained at his post with his master. Nevermore, a brooding fellow, went in search of the Interstellar Multi-Dimensional Link to the Destruction of Life, the Universe, Everything, and Hell, Even France. There, the raven planned on getting thoroughly drunk on celestial wine and insulting the creators of the universe. “Hell, immortal beings never die. They just get insulted a lot.” Nevermore repeated this to himself on the few occasions he felt depressed. Quoth felt an affinity with the new Shaper of Worlds- and spent her night off with the female Shaper. “Madame Shaper, Quoth, Raven Junior Class, reporting for Slack-Off Time, Ma’am!” The female Shaper smiled. “Do shut up. I’m not nearly as freaking anal as our Master is. Here- observe. Pluto. He plans on moving the Library there...if he so gets around to it.” Nebula poked his head through the door. “Oh, Ms. Shaper. You look SO divine, girlfriend. And Quoth? Those feathers are just looking the BOMB, dearie. Kiss-kiss, let’s all go find some men and have fun tonight, eh?” Quoth and the female Shaper froze in terror. The Shaper cleared her throat. “Um...that will be all, Nebula.” Nebula returned, “Aw...but you just DON’T know what you’re missing.” Nebula vanished into the Zemo Tube. The Shaper looked, astonished, at Quoth. “What....the....hell?” The Chronicler entered the Shaper’s realm, his trademark expression of no emotion on his face. “I see Nebula has issues once more.” Quoth couldn’t handle this. First Nebula’s...problems...had arisen again, and now the Chronicler was being aloof. Like any good Raven: Junior Class, she did what ravens of her ranking did. She excreted, then passed out. The Shaper wrinkled her cosmic nose in disgust. “And with the Council due in a few minutes...” The Chronicler nodded. “Servant. Dispose of this mess.” The former Jupiter grudgingly went about his Master’s commands. “Yes, my master.” Earth-side, Nebula was busy getting his ass kicked by a bunch of drunken mimes. “Ooh...aren’t YOU just the delightful little dish? All broad-shouldered, and you know just WHERE I like people to touch me...” Mimes rarely make any noise. If they do, it’s usually under instances of extreme stress, pain, torture, or heavy dosages of the Backstreet Boys, N Sync, 98 Degrees, We Have No Musical Talent, But, Damn It, 14 Year Old Girls Like Us So We’re Going To Sing, Anyway; Five, Nine, Eighty Two, and... We Suck Musically, And, By God’s Grace, We’re Damned Proud Of The Fact We’re Damned, We Suck, And The Fact That We Resemble Every Other Band In The Genre Physically. They also don’t tend to hold up, emotionally or psychologically, when obviously homosexual, undersexed ravens hit on them. Encyclopedia Galactica, Entry No. 12233445569 B: Mime stampedes are often a rare occurrence in nature, but on the evening of Thursday, May 20, 1999, the last reported mime stampede occurred in the middle of Parodiopolis (or New Parody City- historians are a mite confused, as continuity from that time is literal Hell to wade through and editorial jobs at galactic encyclopedias just don’t pay enough for that sort of thing), and strangely enough, the cause wasn’t another “Boy Band” concert- it was a homosexual, undersexed, possibly intoxicated raven from another dimension, possibly the same dimension that the French invaded from. Most historians disbelieve the official claims that the fact that France was atomically erased from the Earth’s surface the next day had anything to do with the ‘disturbance.’ But then, historians are much like pastors, and scientists, and politicians- many times, you can’t trust what they say- they’re only in it for the money. Hell, I should know. Aside from editing this damn thing, I’m also a pastor. A damn good one. And if you don’t believe me, you’ll burn in Hell. Ironically enough, this same band of drunken mimes encountered a bunch of disgruntled former postal workers- who happened to have migrated from France. Blaming everything on some poor guy named “Visionary”, they continued to riot, encountering even Lisa’s new office in the twenty-third and one half dimension, where they unleashed an insignificant invasion force of seemingly pacifistic, Bible-thumping, automatic-weaponry carrying squirrels into the space-time continuum. The most intelligent of them attempted a horribly maniacal laugh, but unfortunately tore out his larynx in the process. Lord Clintulon, in need of something to kill and the world’s most powerful pain reliever, dove for Lisa. Three seconds into his assault, he realized that she’d slept with everything on Earth that could pass for male, with a few exceptions (paranoids like Fin Fang Foom and the Dark Knight were too crafty for her to catch and married men were simply too stupid to even bother trying-besides, Visionary’s reputation for being slow applied in more ways than one), and she quite possibly had every STD in her body known to man, alien, the French, and the disgruntled, undead Jimmy Hoffa, who’d taken over the West Side of the Andromeda Galaxy and had now declared war on the peanut market. Cap, of the SMB Squad, wasn’t thrilled. Inflation on peanuts was terrible. Not that it mattered to a bloodlusting, disrespected, telepathic, alien squirrel with designs on galaxial destruction and, hopefully in the process, humiliating Lisa by letting the universe know that the current President had declined her ...favors... in favor of a homosexual raven. This really could hurt Lisa’s long-term reputation, and the squirrel-who-would-kill-all wanted to make sure that the timing was perfect before it sprung its trap. The squirrel settled for chewing Lisa’s left earlobe off, and hiding her car keys in the Nexus of All Realities. Her pack of condoms was fed to the dog who guarded the gates of Hell. It, from time to time, also gained great amounts of personal gratification from injecting increasing amounts of the McFarlane Virus into Visionary. An unforeseen effect happened during the first time this’d happened... apparently, the supposed android had either been telling the truth all along, or, the McFarlane Virus had turned the fake man real. For now, when a squirrel jabbed its three-meter-long needle into Visionary’s arm, his arm bled. Of course, this also meant that Lord Clintulon had to send squirrels who were willing to go on kamikaze missions, as obviously Visionary would then whip out a titanium baseball bat and turn the offending rodent into tomato paste and bits and pieces of bone, no stronger than memory and dream. Unrelated completely, Donar and Nevermore got into a dimension-destroying barroom brawl over something insignificant-something along the lines of some Earth-based butler named Jarvis who, according to Nevermore, truly loved something named “Utau” and Donar insisted that Nevermore didn’t know what he was talking about and that Jarvis loved something named “Melissa”. Visionary simply poked his head out of his car, noted that the sky appeared to be angry, getting drunk, and cannibalizing itself with a large amount of ketchup, flipped off his car stereo, rolled back up his window, and went back to sleep. It was at this point in time that the Council of Destiny met in the Chronicler’s Library. The Council was displeased with the actions of the Hooded Hood, who’d caused this massive amount of mayhem. The chairbeing, Shaper in this case, had called for the assistance of two knowledgeable Earth-dwelling beings. Yo. And Dr. Moo. Moo snorted. “This better be damn good. My little sister’s gone off again, something about running away with the Hooded Hood. I’m outta it for a little while, and everyone gets delusions of grandeur.” General Unpronounceable-Name stood. “Let the meeting begin.” Something looking like a duckbilled dinosaur teleported into the Council’s main chamber. “Jar Jar, Jar Jar, Jar Jar”, it kept babbling. The LiteratureKorps, kept around for such an occasion, tore it to shreds, eviscerating it much like a pack of velociraptors. The shapeless, formless, soulless beings hated annoying things. And they swore to launch an attack on the nation of France as soon as their once-a-day-in-a-millenium vacation came. They figured France an easy target- its current leadership happened to consist of Paste Pot Pete, Jam-who led when he wasn’t involved with the Scourge of the Baron Zemo’s Lair, and the ashes of spiffy, who was rumored to be moving around-this time in the ethereal form of a little girl. This prompted the President of the United States to sit up in bed, screaming, “Hey! spiffy’s a little girl, damn it!” before the Secret Service tackled him, and shot him in the head, dead, for the inexcusable crime of being an immoral idiot. A nearly completely bald, insane, trench coat wearing man stood up in the middle of Times Square, looked passerby in the eye and said, “Lo, it is written, and it has come to pass. I am Hollywood V, and I am colorblind, damn it.” It was at this point in time that NTU-150 noticed that the Dark Knight was spotted in downtown Parodiopolis, riding a gigantic triceratops bareback and screaming something about, “You will all be up against the wall when the revolution comes!” Fin Fang Foom, on the other hand, happened to have been trapped by the maniacal, irresistible Ring of Eternal Commitment, which Jami had placed on his hand. Foom, needless to say, was trapped in his interdimensional closet and kept mumbling something about “Make the bad woman go away! Copulation is sinful!” It was at this point in time that the insanely intoxicated Nebula arrived at Visionary and Cheryl’s condo-though Visionary was still on road trip and Cheryl happened to be home. Hearing a small, pathetic knock, Cheryl thought her husband was home. “Bring spare batteries?” Cheryl was greeted to the sight of a raven barely able to stand. “Like, those clothes are soooooo last season. Don’t ya know that black is, like, totally the way to go, girlfriend? And that white lab coat thing just ain’t cuttin’ it. How do ya expect the guys to go for you like that?” Cheryl snorted. “I’m MARRIED, not that it’s ANY business of yours.” The raven drunkenly smiled. “Androids don’t count, bitch. *Hic* Just feel lucky I’m, like, totally smashed, or I’d, like, be kicking your asssshhhhh....” Nebula passed out. Cheryl put her hands over her head. “Of ALL the...” She thought back to all the times that Space Ghost had insulted her. An evil grin grew over her face. Cheryl kicked the raven directly in what she assumed were his/its testicles. Hard. With golf shoes. The Council’s meeting was over with-Jar Jar’s body parts were fed to Pallas, who complimented Servant’s cooking abilities, and the Chronicler put his ghostly foot up Samhain’s ass, who was responsible for the immature behavior of both rampaging ravens. Samhain grumbled an apology, and asked for a quarter, as interstellar taxi rates were legendary for being Hell. “Samhain phone home.” Both Nevermore and Nebula were automatically teleported home, and both were reprimanded for acting completely irresponsibly. The Chronicler reminded them that the true war wasn’t with allies, or with normal humans, it was with Frenchmen and mimes and politicians. At that point, Jarvis found out about what the raven said. Uatu died a painful, squirrel-filled death. Lisa turned in her resignation to the Intergalactic Lawyers Association, saying that though Earth based work sucked, it beat having her ears chewed off by disgruntled, insane squirrels. The squirrels, in the midst of all the confusion, succeeded in taking over the universe, all of its dimensions, and managed to get the number of Shania Twain, whose number had eluded Jarvis, Fin Fang Foom, Visionary, and Space Ghost for years. The butler, the dragon, and the alcoholic always managed to blame their lack of success on Visionary, who seemed to become the brunt of every joke, every bad day, every bad hair day, and so on. Visionary was somewhat comforted by the fact that during his time as the Chronicler, it was revealed that he was the direct personification (or androidification, whichever way you prefer to look at it) of every foiled plan, bad day, or so on. This explained a great deal about many things- especially why Visionary always seemed to cause massive mistakes in brilliant tactical, mastermind plans. Space Ghost was found beaten nearly to death by Mutt, Shania’s husband. Baseball bats are quite easy to commit bodily damage with... And Baron Zemo unwrapped his newest gift-the Lair Legion’s own Hallie, supercomputer extraordinaire. He then took Blofish’s head from around his neck and placed it on a small, spider-like robotic body. He used it for a trashcan, mocking the still-living Blofish. Blofish muttered, “I’ll get you, Zemo... you and your damn cow-headed henchwoman, too! I’d’ve gotten away with it, if it wasn’t for you and your damn kids!” Children’s Services managed to locate Lisa. There was Hell to pay. Luckily for Lisa, Hell had a McDonald’s. “Would you like pitchforks with that?” Sersi, since she’d been rumored to have been involved in various...encounters...with Donar, had been placed on Monitor Duty. Hell, it wasn’t every day that you got to have a beautiful goddess on Monitor Duty. It surely was no coincidence that Hatman and Messenger made many (and pathetic) excuses to...visit...the Monitor portion of the Lair. Visionary continued to deny the fact that he used to be, or was, fake. The squirrels, and a biological examination by NTU-150, proved that Visionary did appear to be formerly an android. “I don’t care, dammit! It’s all a lie! That damn Chronicler’s behind this!” Donar simply sat in bed. His head hurt. Drinking an something called an “Interstellar Supernova” usually MADE your head hurt. Banjooo enjoyed the shock he saw on both Jarvis’ and Donar’s face as he sent a rather infamous nurse to take care of them. “Oh, Nurse Byyyyyrne?” *Note: Jarvis is suffering from a relapse of the McFarlane Virus-this particular symptom makes him crave...affection...from something called “Utau.”* Both superheroes passed out. “Nurse Byrne” happened to be none other than Cheryl, who enjoyed making Jarvis’ life miserable. She’d never forgiven him for wearing her husband’s body. She knew damn well that it wasn’t his fault- but hell, she had to blame something on someone other than Visionary. Even HE had feelings, damn it. It then became apparent that someone had offended the higher powers of the Parodyverse, namely the Parody Master and something called “Barry, Supreme Sovereign of All That Sucks.” Jarvis awoke, somehow instinctively knowing that Visionary was to blame for this, and yelled, “Damn you, fake man! Your incompetence has foiled us again!” Starseed, feeling pity for the battered butler, merely shot him in the head. With a stun beam. This accomplished, Starseed went in search of his harem, which had somehow survived reality’s hangover. Donar rolled over, with strange visions of a ghost-like, female spiffy in his head. “Verily… I must layeth off yonder mead. Such visions canst not be healthful.” Sersi was discovering inventive ways to incorporate the monitor into…greeting…rituals. The Ravens of Time gathered where they slept…if it’s possible for immortal, parthenogenistic, anthropomorphic ravens to sleep… and began insulting each other. Pallas snorted. “Reached my ears it has, that Nebula and Nevermore have again themselves made asses. Such insults are degrading, and yet, somehow, humorously engaging and not at all plain. I am wondering if someone would care to explain, as my life is obviously quite mundane.” There was a moment of silence as the hungover ravens deciphered this. Quoth merely stuck her head under what appeared to be a table, but what in actuality was the transcendental projection of France. Nebula grinned. “Like, boss man, I was totally out scopin’ out those awesome males- them big ol’ shoulders and rock hard biceps… It was, like, totally heaven, babe. Ya just don’t know what you’re missin’. It’s more than lil’ ol’ me can handle, sometimes.” Pallas nodded at Quoth, who timidly batted Nebula in the head with her delicate, rather transparent wing. Nevermore snapped, “Oh, hell, let me do it.” Nevermore kicked Nebula in the head-an impressive feat for a raven-who-isn’t-quite-a-raven- and then backwinged the…confused…raven in the face. “Shut up. Just shut the hell up. You’re more annoying than Visionary.” Across space and time, against all definable odds, Visionary knew he was being mocked, once again, by avian minds. “Shut up! I’m real, damn it!” Pallas turned away from the Shaper’s viewing globe. Nevermore realized that the commanding raven wasn’t pleased. Nevermore, hangover and all, didn’t bloody care. “Shut up, you damn tightwad. I admit it. I went out and got f---ing drunk. If you’ve got a problem with it, talk to the bird, cause the...um...bird, I guess...ain’t listenin’.” Nevermore then attempted to flip Pallas off, but shamefully realized that he didn’t have a finger. Pallas shook his head with an undetermined emotion. “Fine with me-but the price for such insubordination isn’t easy. I think you shall learn your place, admit that you’re wrong, were I to send you somewhere less funny. Perhaps your manners shall improve were you to go to Germany.” Nevermore returned, “Hell, go back to the mortal realm? Too damn easy... you’re getting soft, old man.” Pallas smiled grimly. “Perhaps, perhaps... perhaps I neglected to mention that France is Germany’s new ruling power. And when you return, insolent little bird, you’ll bow before me and cower.” It was then that the Ruling Powers of the Galaxy sent their emissaries to the Parodyverse. The Chronicler, sensing this, withdrew his Ravens and the Shaper to the inner sanctum of his library. Foom was also granted a means of escape- as the teleportation rift known as a Zemo Tube popped open near his last known location-something called “Action Comics.” Named “Sal” and “Uncl’ Billy Bob Thorton, Esquire”, the Emissaries of the Ruling Powers of the Parodyverse were sent to clean up the moral depravity of 99.999999% percent of its denizens. They also hoped to help Visionary deal with his problem of denial, in regards to his true self identity. “We’re here to help you. We know you have a problem, and you must realize that the first step to dealing with your problem of denial is realizing that you do, indeed, have a problem.” Visionary had, by this time, had quite enough of this. “Damn it, what the hell are you talking about? I’m REAL, damn it. That guy’s nothing more than a drunken nut.” Uncl’ Billy Bob Thorton, Esquire then removed DNA from Visionary’s arm, which proved to be a robotic/human hybrid. Visionary screamed, “LIES! LIES! EVIL LIES!” Sal removed DNA from Cheryl’s arm, which also proved to be a robotic/human hybrid. Cheryl snorted. “Ok, someone give me a bat. This’s gone WAY too far.” *Note: They just teleported Visionary home for this. He’ll awaken in the cornfields, remembering none of this.* Sal replied, “Sorry, ma’am, just reporting the facts. Unfortunately, you’re both fake. And your denials are ripping apart the space-time continuum.” Visionary laughed. “After all the times you people’ve mocked Cheryl and I, we’re supposed to believe that the fate of the Parodyverse lies on our shoulders?” Uncl’ Billy Bob Thorton, Esquire, shook his head. “No. Not at all. We just have to stop the Squirrels, or, kill you.” For the first time, Visionary noticed how frail and effeminate Sal looked. And how freakin’ HUGE Uncl’ Billy Bob Thorton, Esquire, looked. Visionary did one of the smartest things in his life. He passed out. Cheryl, still partly in shock, trying not to laugh, and wondering why the hell today was “Intergalactic Pick-On Cheryl Day”, did the smartest thing she’d done in life. She kicked Sal in the head. And then passed out. Sal whined, “Ow. That hurt.” Uncl’ Billy Bob Thorton, Esquire morphed into a smaller, more familiar shape. He then kicked Sal in the head. “Quiet, fool. Now’s our chance. The Legion doesn’t have the slightest clue- and the Infinite Golf Club is within our grasp!” Two dramatically smaller figures darted over the fallen bodies of Cheryl and Visionary, who dreamt that they were in some kind of interdimensional courtroom of law, justice, and donuts, denying that they played any role in the destruction of the universe, and proclaiming that Visionary was, once and for all, real. Lord Clintulon and his right hand squirrel, Esterro Skittero, sat upon the Throne. And were happy. And both laughed in triumph as the Infinite Golf Club was wrested away from the bowels of the Duck via a rather messy invention comprised of the skeleton of Elder, Visionary’s toupee`, various chemicals ‘borrowed’ from Dr. Moo, Yo’s Purple Thought Bunny, and as far as scientists have been able to determine, part of New Hampshire and Manhattan, as well as various and sundry technologies ‘borrowed’ from Baron Zemo. The Duck was teleported into a strange dimension where little blue beings lived, whose leader seemed to be called something called “Papa Smurf”, and where most critics, editors, and politicians were banished to. Jean Paul Claremont still reluctantly performed in his role as the new Dark Knight-and continued to ride around downtown screaming various anarchical rantings. The Emissaries, having accomplished what they needed and wanted to do, left. The Parodyverse returned to ‘normal.’ And Visionary awoke to one of the greatest surprises of his life. Cheryl, on the other hand, found it to be quite natural, motherly, and romantic. “Adam? I have something to tell you...” Nine months later, Visionary Jr. was born. Or, so claimed both Cheryl and Visionary. It seemed rather odd that one of the world’s foremost robotic engineers also happened to be at their condo the night of the so-called ‘birth.’ And a memorial for a fallen Legionnaire was constructed- the Carrington Jones Memorial Planetarium. And Lisa was mocked most severely by a drunken, possibly homosexual raven. And then, the raven defecated upon her, in a most disgusting and profane fashion. The interdimensional Library of Time was assaulted by angry Lair Legion members, specifically Jarvis and Lisa, who were threatening various acts of atomic violence against the Chronicler. For their efforts, the Ravens gave them a ‘white-washing.’ And the Hooded Hood was left to go cursing, blindly, in the darkness, as Samhain had gained revenge by causing his interdimensional electrical power to be deactivated. Life was good. Author’s note: Yeah. I wrote a story. Quite a long one, actually. Hopefully this’ll keep certain posters (rhyming with Visionary) from haranguing me about writing. “Hey! I’m writing, damn it!” Speaking of which, I suppose I should congratulate the new father. “Hey! Visionary’s a father, damn it!” Y’see, Vis, there are always ways to ridicule BZL characters. Or at least, put them in...uncomfortable...positions. And you had to know that your turn for parenting was coming, after Lisa had six (?) children. With this in mind, let’s take a look at another, somewhat shorter, story. “Adam and Greg have a little chat.” Adam already wanted to turn back. This coffee shop looked like something out of that supernatural early 90’s thriller, the Crow. And the skinny kid with somewhat long hair and glasses didn’t exactly appease his fears much. Before he could decide that he wanted to postpone this meeting, a bespectacled, brunette waitress (replete with pigtails and kung-fu grip) dragged him inside. “Oh, we’re so happy to have you as a customer, sir. Please, anything you want, we’ll be more than happy to do. IF, ya know what I mean, that is.” Smiling suggestively, the waitress went off to...serve...other customers. Adam barely had time to collect his thoughts when that skinny Caucasian in black clothing tackled him. “Into the shadows! Now! Before she gets you again!” Adam knew, from this point on, that his morning would suck. “Um....” Adam furtively sat down at the booth, amazed at the sheer insanity and intensity of the paranoid sitting across from him. “Bad life. If there’s one thing in life I’ve learned, it’s that you trust few people. Least of all women. It’s not a chauvinistic thing at all-I happen to trust more women than men. But all the women I know and trust are odd. Chrisie is one of the more ‘normal’ ones. Believe me. Much odder than I am.” Adam nodded, his head caught in the syrupy quicksand of shock. “No. I’m serious. I know a bloody Satanist who thinks that Manson’s serious in his beliefs about everything he sings about. And he’s obviously a prima donna, with little belief in his own message, save that he makes millions out of being a fake.” Adam snapped out of it. “Hey! I’m real, damn it! And what was up with giving Visionary a kid?” His companion smiled. “Well... I actually had no plans as far as doing that. It just happened.” Adam snorted. “I see. You do realize I’ll mostly retcon that, right?” His companion shrugged. “Fine with me. Your ‘White-Out’ incident can easily be removed-the Chronicler’s powers work most effectively with strong beliefs. And right now, most BZLers believe Visionary to be fake. And so, he is.” Adam’s eyebrows raised. “Ah; but I haven’t finished the ‘Viz as Chronicler’ story yet.” Again, his slight companion shrugged. “Ah; but I never completely revealed everything about the Book of Time.” Adam replied, “You must be Hell to beat in Chess.” “I don’t play chess, actually. Never really taken the time to learn. Writer’s duels I’m quite deadly at, though.” Adam tapped his fingers on the surface of the table. “Well... what else do you do with yourself? Outside of workout, bike, and write?” “I play flute. Though I’m never going to be wonderful at it. It’s a form of meditation. Not that I’m a New-Age, witchcraft-loving type. It’s just either that, or I walk around constantly flipping my lid. I feel meditation or music’s easier.” “And what’s up with all of your ‘women are evil’ rants?” “Well, as I’ve stated in ICQ chats, most of that’s hyperbole. If you really want honesty, so’s my so-called ‘adverse affects to caffeine.’ All caffeine really, truly does to me is wake me up, to an extent, or help me get more outlandish in my writing.” “Um...any television shows?” The bespectacled human hairball froze in fear. “Good sacred and most holy Zot; she’s back. I...dropped my fork, and now must pick it up. I shall be gone for at least five minutes. If I’m not back, I’m dead, or I escaped.” The waitress had a bewildered expression on her face. “Where’d your friend go?” Adam’s face paled as something stabbed him in the shin. “Um... he had to go to the bathroom.” The waitress shook her head (and her hips) as she walked off. Adam’s face turned blood red with anger, and dipped his head under the table. He then saw that a pencil, attached to the table with gum, had jabbed into his shin. The skin hadn’t been punctured, but it still hurt, damn it. He doubted ‘the Chronicler’ had anything to do with it. He wasn’t violent, just incurably insane. He then hit his head on the table, trying to return to his original position. He was then treated to the sight of Greg dancing on top the table, in time to a rare playing of John Williams’ main ‘Star Wars’ theme. “Shut up and dance, man; shut up and dance! This is Williams! You must dance! Or verily, the squirrels will kill you!” The other denizens of the coffee shop quickly moved the farthest approximate distance they could from the...energetic...table, and as soon as he noticed this, Greg calmed down. “Do you know, I thought that might not work...” Adam shook his head. “You’re odd. You’re just odd.” Greg smiled-odd in itself, as he usually had a stone faced expression. “That’s supposed to bother me?” Greg looked at the clock, then tapped the table’s surface with his palm. “Well... must be off. Lovely chatting with you.” Having already paid his bill, the wraith-like unpublished science fiction writer blended into the shadows and was gone. Adam shook his head, again, and started to feel a sense of vertigo. “Check, please?” One more, you say, since it’s been quite a while? Fine. I’ll see what I can do... “Of Dates, And Other Various And Sundry Things.” With the new powers at her command, she could change the color of her hair, if she so wished. While she didn’t remember much about her past, she did remember being a brunette, and this bothered her- she’d always wanted to try being a blonde. Besides, she’d noticed that once she got to know him, he wasn’t that bad. He might be a little moody, a little standoffish, and perhaps even a little shy, but she found that he wasn’t a bad sort, all things considered. Someone who liked his job that much obviously had to have passion, and this passion she could use against him. It was seemingly forever since she last went out on a date. She remembered that there was someone who’d always shown her a good time while she was alive, someone who she couldn’t quite forget, and yet, someone that she couldn’t quite remember. Sometimes, at night, tears would flow gently from her soul, as if freed by a mechanic’s tools. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- He, on the other hand, had decided to take the day off from his responsibilities and make an attempt at hanging out with the normal people. Unfortunately, normal types rarely hang out at coffee houses. Especially not in the BZL. And especially not when one of the clientele is a former superhero-turned major cosmic power named “the Chronicler of Stories.” Sometimes, he’ll admit to missing being alive- being able to interact even with common working people, and even the exhilaration of moving through the air via cables and grapple hooks. He made sure to stay in contact with his successor, Jean Paul Claremont... who, though lacking in deductive prowess, had done an admirable job of aiding the Lair Legion on occasion. But such aloofness is rarely the subsitute for real interaction. Often, Fin Fang Foom would contact the Interdimensional Library for assistance, and at times, so would NTU-150 (who still had the book on Telepathic/Neurogical Interfaces out, still, dammit).... but mostly, the Chronicler seemed ignored by the greater majority of both the Lair Legion and the Scourge of the BZL (though Zemo was fascinated by Chronicler’s and Shaper’s essays on effective supervillainry). So, while musing over such ideas in his coffee haven, the Chronicler (in human form) struck upon an idea. He would take the Shaperess to Earth, and mingle with the other denizens of the BZL. For today was the anniversary of the day that ‘Visionary’ was crafted by the United States Government (or so said Visionary’s own memories), and what kind of ally would the Chronicler be if he didn’t attend? He only wondered what proper attire cosmic beings wore, and once again, he silently cursed Carrington for vanishing. The Chronicler sighed. “I suppose I should go consult Pallas.” With that, the Chronicler imagined his lair. And was there. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Shaperess greeted him in a rough approximation of her human form... with strikingly shoulder-length blonde hair. “Hello. I see you’ve been doing some thinking.” The Chronicler once more donned his robes. “I have decided to attend the celebration of Visionary’s...birth. You may join me, at my side, if you wish.” Three pairs of avian eyes cast shocked looks at each other, from their perches located at the Library’s roof. Shadows, lies, betrayals, and denials all began life where the Ravens dwelled... The three elder Ravens flew off in search of Quoth. Nevermore shrieked, “Hey! Quoth! Get your ass down to Shaperette’s! She and Boss-Man are gonna screw tonight!” Nebula smirked. “Doubtful. If I know that luscious, dreamy boss of ours, he’ll never have passion for anything but his work. Besides, you know full well his fear of dating women. Every time he tries, he gets betrayed.” Pallas snorted. “Nebula, do you good it would to be silent. I must aid the Chronicler in donning formal attire, lest he become violent.” And with that, the chief Raven flew to his master’s quarters, and though he’d never admit it, Pallas was proud of his master. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Quoth, stunned, teleported from the Interstellar Raven Academy. “Oh, jeez... this is SO against regulations. The leaders never date... they’re never supposed to even really be cordial... oh, man, the Spacial Continuum Union is going to be SO pissed...” Nevermore bowed to Shaperette, as he flew out the window. “Hey, congrats on snaggin’ him. It’s about time you two wised up and shagged.” The female Shaper of Worlds did the cosmic being equivalent of a blush, and smiled. “No, it’s nothing like that. We’re merely going to a birthday party together.” Meanwhile, the Chronicler was seated upon the Throne of Knowledge, wondering what the Book of Time’s revelations would be in the future. Pallas was silently placing different robes at the Chronicler’s feet; but before the Chronicler could decide, Pallas would then take them away in favor of newer, slightly more cheerful attire. “Y’know, Sire, you really ought to go with a benevolent look as this IS a birthday. Might I suggest the “Chieftan” robe? Perhaps then, your days of morbidity may cease, and you might partake in a mirthday?” The Chronicler’s red orbs looked at the raven with amusement. “The white one? You aren’t, perchance, trying to suggest something?” Pallas bowed. “Never, Sire, your future is only what your wishes can make of it. In retrospect, all I can do is give respectful advice, and hopefully save you from looking like a twit.” The Chronicler nodded his head at the raven. “I see. Well, young avian friend, did you know that before my death I never got into dating or really had much to do with the opposite sex? It occurred to me that everyone could flirt... and that everyone could fall in love and live ‘happily ever after.’ However, I realized that this would always be a lie until justice was distributed fairly amongst humanity- and until evil was choked out of existance. So I devoted myself to developing the finest deductive mind the world had or would ever see... and I also made sure that I was at my best physical shape. At that point, I was unbeatable by conventional forces. However, John Byrne’s arrival was something that I knew would happen- and in order to combat it, I had to become an agent of a higher power... gaining new abilities in the process.” Pallas nodded his head. “Sire... rarely do you ever speak, and this is the most I have been exposed to. Are you nervous, do you think, or simply excited-or a combination of the two?” The Chronicler stood from the Throne, donned the robe, and said softly, “It is time.” ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Earthside, Banjooo and spiffy both seated themselves at the birthday party’s table. “Wonder if the Chronicler’ll come?” “Who cares? I hope that new Shaper comes. MAN, is she HOT.” Nevermore the raven alighted next to them. “You’ll be surprised, boys...you’ll be surprised. All I’m saying is that your ‘hottie’is taken for the evening.” Fin Fang Foom was so shocked that he morphed into human form. “You don’t POSSIBLY mean...” Within five minutes, news of the Chronicler’s and Shaperette’s supposed engagement had broken out. Just before the white cake was presented to Visionary (complete with giant red letters reading “Happy Birthday, Fake Man!”), a Zemo Tube opened, and the Chronicler and Shaperette emerged. Perhaps appropriately, her gown was as bright yellow as a thousand suns, and every bit as light. The Chronicler led her to her ‘seat’, performed the usual gentleman’s routine, then wondered what everyone was staring at? “Yes?” After a thunderous five minute question session, the Chronicler merely nodded his head. “I see.” With that, he ‘sat’ down and said, “No. We’re not. This is merely a show of respect to Visionary. Anything else is merely a rumor, and absurd.” The Shaperette agreed. “Really, people, you’re making a fuss out of nothing.” spiffy coughed. “Story-Boy’s gonna get some.” Banjooo coughed. “Story-Boy’s gonna score!” Donar coughed. “Tee-hee. Story-Boy scored.” And then, the coffee was distributed. The Shaperette watched, amused, as over thirty members of the BZL dove towards the Chronicler, in hopes of diverting him from caffeine. They failed. All of Chronicler’s nobility vanished. “Hey. Visionary. I hear you’re fake. Any truth to that?” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” The Shaperette’s ‘eyes’ twinkled. “Adam. You’re fake. Stop denying it.” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “Adam. You’re fake. Stop denying it.” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “Adam. You’re fake. Stop denying it.” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “Adam. You’re fake. Stop denying it.” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “Adam. You’re fake. Stop denying it.” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “Adam. You’re fake. Stop denying it.” “I’m real, dammit!” “You’re fake, dammit!” “Adam. You’re fake. Stop denying it.” With that, the Chronicler assaulted the kitchen crew. “More caffeine! Now! This, I command!” Various LiteratureKorps members managed to contain their master’s caffeine fury and ‘assist’ him back to his chair. Yo leaned over to Shaperette. “So, how is it that you are being able to control his caffeine rages? Is it being difficult, or is it being somewhat easy?” Shaperette shrugged. “Honestly, he never does it around me or the lair. He always visits the mortal realm to go bonkers in.” Pallas, Quoth, and Nebula joined the merrymakers, mocking Visionary, complimenting Cheryl on her wonderful cooking (though not being alive, they couldn’t taste it) and commenting to themselves and others how adorable the Shaperette and Chronicler were together. Glares from both cosmic beings quickly silenced them. For a while, anyway. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Visionary had to admit that his party had done rather well. He’d even managed to have the...antisocial...new Dark Knight attend, and he thought that the young man had conducted himself rather well. Even AFTER kicking Jarvis in the ‘slats.’ And for once in his existance, he’d had a few minutes of enjoyment mocking the Chronicler. It may have been a moment or two, but the Chronicler’s inexperience with anything involving the word “women” had finally caught up to him. It was only after both cosmic beings left that Visionary noticed the unmistakable smell... of raven dung. “Damn you, Chronicler!” Chronicler just meant that he was sick of reading the *same* posts over and over. That's all he meant. |
| Um.... (Chronicler just meant that he was sick of reading the *same* posts over and over. That's all he meant.) (07-Jun-1999 18:35:15) |
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