Tales of the Parodyverse

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killer shrike
Sat Aug 06, 2005 at 11:28:19 am EDT
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Another unfinished story: "Mr Epitome: Paragon of Power"
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Note: One of the ideas I toyed with a while back when I was trying to figure out a way to escape the narrative mess I was in with Mr. Epitome was sending him and most of his cast back to the original reality they were from and starting over. Sort of like what DC did with Superman and Wonder Woman after Crisis. This Epitome would be from the Parodyverse since the start and would have been a character more in line to what you would expect from a reality that has genderless thought beings and teenagers with ferns growing out of their heads. After I introduced the new Epitome, who was going to be sort of an over-the-top ultra-patriot with a very high sense of self-worth (think of US Agent meets pro-wrestler Kurt Angle if you want to mix genres), I would have made new versions of the rest of his cast (Agents Dawes and St. Germain, Factor X, the Idiom, etc). The only holdover would have been Glory, with the rationalization that she actually was from the Parodyverse and really didn’t need to be tweaked as a character.

At any rate, after writing a few pages I decided not to go with “Mr. Epitome: Chapter One” and went with the current “Mind-wipe” parody as a way to change the character’s status quo. However, since I haven’t posting anything in a while (and don’t know if I will get the time to write anything new this week) here’s the unfinished text from the original idea.


“Mr. Vice President?”

“What is it, Devonshire?”

“This just came in sir, from Garrick’s office, marked ‘For VPOTUS Eyes Only.’”

“What does it say?”

“Well, sir, it appears that, uh-”


“One of Our Super Soldiers is Missing!”



“Really? Which one?”

“The big one, sir.”

“Crap!” the Vice President scrambled for his nitroglycerine pills, “Do we know what happened?!”

“No, sir. He’s just…. gone, along with a lot of his infrastructure and backstory. Its like he was never here.”

“Crap!!! This is a Hood thing, I just know it!! Crap Crap Crap!!!”

The aide shifted uneasily, unaccustomed to witnessing his superior demonstrate such stark terror, “We don’t think so, sir. The White House was delivered a written statement from the Hooded Hood, denying any involvement in the matter. In fact, it arrived exactly one hour before Garrick’s communiqué. And we all know the Hooded Hood doesn’t lie.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure. Never trust a man who doesn’t lie, Devonshire. They’re the most dishonest people of all.”

Devonshire chose not to comment on the nonsensical platitude, passing it off as an another attempt by the pol to get into Bartlett’s, “So what now, sir?”

“Well, obviously we need to ready a replacement,” the Vice President spat, “Somebody who will help us defend the country against her enemies, both foreign and domestic.”

“Should I contact Zone Zero, sir?”

“Those contemptuous fucktards? Hell, no. We need a guy that appeals to our base: a hero that looks like he belongs on a box of Wheaties. No, when you get up you need to put in a call to Aldrich Grey. I want him taking point on this.”

“When I get up, sir?”

The VPOTUS hit the button necessary to stun Devonshire with the wall-mounted tasers.

“That’s for reading my mail, twerp,” he scolded as his aide went into spasms.




HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR FLAG TODAY?





Aldrich Grey’s office was significantly larger than any other room in the building that housed the Department of Exotic Expedients. The Congressional Budget Office had actually sent an email to the agency criticizing the room, seeing it as a misappropriation of valuable Washington real estate. The missive was forwarded to the Vice President, who responded to the CBO in such a way it made his treatment of Devonshire seem tender. Then the Veep sent Grey some porterhouse steaks.

Because he, like all the canny power brokers in the city, knew what Aldrich Grey was: The Prime Mover. The Go-To Guy. When the shooting started, They always send for the sons of bitches, but Grey was the man to send for when the sons of bitches were drowning in their own bodily fluids.

“Reggie Bar?” he offered to Devonshire.

“No thank you, sir.”

Grey kept on, “Are you sure? I bet you never even had one: they stopped making them while you were still supping at your mother’s nipple.”

“I’d rather not eat a candy bar that is over twenty years old, sir.”

“Me neither. I know a guy who knows a guy who owns a time machine. These candies are right off the line.”

Devonshire watched as Grey bite into the chocolate covered, peanut encrusted candy with the chewy nougat center, “Time machine? Who do-”

“A certain sock-wearing Conqueror who almost wound up being his own Grandpa, if it weren’t for my help,” the bureaucrat answered before Devonshire could finish, “So, your boss wants a Super Soldier, to replace the one that’s gone missing?”

“Yes, sir. Here’s a dossier describing certain parameters the VPOTUS would like your assignment to follow.”

Grey thumbed through the file and nodded, “Yeah, OK. Got just the guy.”

“Uh, really?”

“Sure. Pack a bag, Devonshire, we’re going to Iowa.”




THE VAST RIGHT WING CONSPIRACY WANTS YOU!!!




Looking at him, it was hard to believe Doctor Alexander Hamilton Cutter was ninety years old. In fact, when he sat next to Grey, one would think he was the younger of the two. But that might have something to do with their respective diets.

“Nothing but fruits and vegetables,” Cutter explained as he drove the cart down the shiny steel subterranean passage, “Organically grown by one of my subsidiaries. No chemical fertilizers or pesticides.”

“Sounds very granola, Doc,” Aldrich Grey noted as he clutched at the sides of his seat. The man drove awfully fast for a geezer, “Next you’re gonna tell me that being a Vegan helps align your chakra.”

The seemingly ageless man smiled, his perfectly white teeth contrasting against his near onyx skin, “No, that’s the yoga.”

The cart pulled up to a guard station. Cutter turned the vehicle over to a sentry, and then escorted his guests past the automated security and to FarmCo’s top secret labs.

“We’re in time to watch his work out,” Dr. Cutter told the men from Washington as they entered a dimly lit monitor room, “Right after his morning creed.”

Devonshire saw the subject come into view on the bathroom monitor. Earlier Dr. Cutter had called the man in question his son, but if that were the case he was either adopted or he took after his mother. Because what Devonshire saw was an obscenely muscled white man with a crew cut and cobalt blue eyes staring straight at him.


























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