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Dancer via HH
Fri May 06, 2005 at 10:40:13 am EDT
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Dancer Presents: Confusingly Bad Crossovers #4: "Let’s press on anyhow, even though two of my three special guest stars didn’t even reply to my previous chapter."
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Dancer Presents: Confusingly Bad Crossovers #4: "Let’s press on anyhow, even though two of my three special guest stars didn’t even reply to my previous chapter."


[The Story So Far: In an attempt to show Nitz the Bloody, Nats the Annoying, and Messenger the Also Bloody the true meaning of Christmas, Dancer has taken the boys to the sleepy town of Goth Haven to be slaughtered by the Heralds of Galactivac. Okay, it wasn’t the true meaning of Christmas, but the bit about being slaughtered is right. Those Herald guys are powerful. Just listen...]

Terrorox the Traumatic: This is what this puny world sends against us? One feeble girl, a broken angel, a feckless psionic, and a child with his head stuck in a bean tin? I can control bone and dead matter across a whole planet, making the very depths of the world churn with seething…

Messenger: Time out, freaky. Did you just call me feeble?

Nats: No. He said Dancer was feeble. I think you were broken.

Dancer: Yeah. I’m feeble, Nats is feckless.

Nitz: I do not have a bean can on my head. This is the sacred helmet of Zeku.

Nats: And Zeku really likes his beans, right?

Dancer: I don’t think beans and ectoplasmic rhinoceroses really go together. Honestly.

Nats: What does feckless mean anyway? I’m pretty sure I can feck. I can feck plenty.

Nitz: Rhinoceri. The plural of rhinoceros is rhinoceri. The plural of ectoplasmic rhinoceros is ectoplasmic rhinoceri.

Terrorox the Tormentor: Hello? I’m just threatening you with horrible death here. Could you focus please, brief mortals?

Dancer: Sorry. There you were doing your big expositionary speech and we got into the bickering. You’d think after two whole chapters where nothing happened but the bickering the boys would have had enough, but no...

Messenger: I do not bicker. I might glower sometimes, but not bicker.

Terrorox the Treacherous: I can command the very bones in your body to tear out of your flesh, I can have the ground drag you down and entomb you alive under a mile of rock...

Nats: Could you explain what feckless means?

Dancer: No really, we’re very intimidated, Terrorox. But could you just hold off with the tearing flesh thing and the rock tomb stuff long enough for the Cyclist and Undermind to introduce themselves? Just so we know how really doomed we are, okay? Please?

Crimson Cyclist: I’m not going to doom you, Dancer. I didn’t even want to be here. There’s a yard sale in the Horseshoe Nebula and I wanted to get a new horn for my cosmic cycle.

Nitz: I’d like to say for the record that I am no longer the most unlikely character in this story, okay?

Dancer: Don’t be horrid to Norrid. Just because he’s coated in shiny red plastic that means he hasn’t been able to go to the bathroom for eons and has to ride through space on a cosmic velocipede doesn’t make him totally lame. At least he’s not feckless.

Nats: Hey!

Messenger: Okay, so Terrorox is a big stony guy that pushes bone around and he sounds like he’s talking down a drainpipe, and the Cyclist controls velocity and has the assertiveness of a dishrag. What can the spooky chick with the googly eyes do?

Nats: You could probably win by dating her so she dies horribly.

Messenger: Or you could date her and then she’d just have to kill herself.

Undermind Obscura: Dolts! I am the mistress of terror, able to plunge deep into your fears and make them manifest as reality. I can drive whole worlds insane!

Nitz: Well Nats can do that just by standing around jabbering about Grant Morrison.

Dancer: We still have to work on this supportive camaraderie thing, don’t we? But Cyclist, if you don’t want to be here why don’t you just go? You could probably make the end of the fleamarket if you really pedal.

Crimson Cyclist: Because then Undermind will scowl at me? Also, we haven’t found the thing we came to Earth to look for, even though I’ve shifted all the humans in this city out of vibrational phase so they don’t get in the way of our search.

Nitz: So that’s why the whole place is empty, and why we haven’t had any sudden guest appearances from Semi-Transparent Lad or someone! Nice catch!

Undermind Obscura: Shut up, Cyclist. We’re here for two reasons only, to find the Galactic Nobbler and to wipe Dancer and every one of her ape-race off the face of this planet.

Nats: The Galactic Nobbler? As in the doohicky that Galactivac had that we set off to blow him out of existence? *catches look from Terrorox the Troublesome* Um, not that we were in any way responsible for your boss blowing up, nosiree.

Crimson Cyclist: I tracked it here but then it got swept up into some kind of confusing multi-part crossover event and I couldn’t follow it any more. I don’t even know how that storyline turned out.

Dancer: I think everybody lived happily ever after, except the people in the Marvel Universe. So why do you need the Nobbler, Norrid?

Cyclist: Well, if we...

Terrorox the Tumultuous: Silence, fool! There is no reason to reveal to these Earthlings that we seek the device to reverse its energies and thus reconstitute our master! Er, did I say that out loud?

Undermind Obscura: You see what I have to work with, don’t you?

Messenger: Okay, so it’s the standard beat-the-villains-to-the-power-object scenario, right? Scavenger hunt in Goth Haven.

Terrorox the Traumatic (have we done Traumatic yet?): No. It’s the standard crush-the-local-champions-then-use-their-splintered-bodies-to-search-for-the-thing-we’re-looking-for-scenario. *raises his battleaxe and causes two big cliffs of bone to smack shut on Messy, Nitz, and Nats*

Nats: Ouch. *telekinetically fragments the bones he’s shielded the others from and causes the ground around Terrorox to explode*

Crimson Cyclist, zooming down on Nitz: I’m sorry about this, but it seems I’m going to have to rip your head off a little bit. Sorry.

Nitz: Punctureku!

Undermind Obscura: Let all the terrors of your mind well forth, broken angel!

Messenger, smiling grittily: Okay.

Disco Hitler: Heil!

Mailman: Ha ha!

Mr Lucifer: Hmm.

Messenger: Facing my old fears and old foes? I do that about three times a month. Eat razor letter, herald.

Nats, expositionally: We’re holding them at bay, Dancer. Now you jump in and zap ‘em down with your probability mojo. We can’t keep them busy for long. Er, Dancer? Dancer?

Nitz, getting pounded with a bicycle pump: Dancer?

Messenger, being attacked by around thirty of his dead girlfriends: Dancer?

Nats: She’s run. She’s left us to die!

Nitz: I’d probably have gotten round to replying to her last chapter sometime.

Terrorox the Terminal, crushing our heroes under piles of bones: Bwa-hah-hah! Say goodnight, brief mortals.

Nats: I’d prefer to say To be Continued.... Please?




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