Tales of the Parodyverse

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killer shrike
Sun Jul 03, 2005 at 01:32:08 am EDT
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It's Unfinshed Story Time, AKA Killer Shrike cleans out his hard drive.
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A tie-in to the WeirdSciCon from Untold Tales #213


I didn’t finish this bit because I wasn’t sure of the characterizations and also what direction the entire Hallie/Vizh/Miiri plotline was going to go. But I liked a couple of the lines and the idea of a snarky… ok bitchy Mr. Epitome, so I got this far at least.



“Having Miiri serve as Vizh’s nurse is a bad idea. He’s recovering from a heart attack, for Pete’s sake. He should be in the care of a qualified, licensed health care professional,” Hallie performed a quick survey of Monster.com, “There are 387 RNs in the city limits currently looking for employment. The Legion should be calling on them.”

Mr. Epitome came to a halt and looked down at the holographic woman, “You should be addressing your concerns to Visionary.”

“Yes, well,” the green hued AI was taken aback by the bluntness of the observation, “I don’t want it to seem as though I’m attacking Miiri personally. And that’s how Vizh would take it. I think he’s having Miiri help him as a way to boost her sense of self-worth. Visionary’s compassion can be endearing, but not when he’s willing to risk his own health.”

“Or perhaps he just likes having a buxom young woman, one who up until recently was quite comfortable calling him “Master,” at his beck and call,” Dominic posited. He began to move again through the convention crowd in a casual, ambling gait, his hands clasped behind his back.

Hallie walked after him, “Vizh isn’t like that. And I think its wrong for you to suggest such a thing.”

The Paragon of Power shrugged, “Why not? Visionary is a man, after all. Possibly.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Hallie blocked his path.

“I’m just tired of watching you pine away over Visionary because, quite frankly, it’s distressing to see you act all moon-faced. Find some courage and tell him how you feel.”

The pixels in Hallie’s cheeks darkened from embarrassment, “It’s not that simple.”

“It is actually,” Dominic’s voice softened slightly, “You might be afraid





This one is a bit longer and I like it better, but it takes place around Untold Tales #210, which is too far back in my opinion for me to make an effort to finish it. Also, what I planned to do in this story, ah, contradicts my overall plans for certain characters. It would have been mixing messages, so to speak.


Hell’s Bathroom, 3 AM


Georgie’s Food Mart was open 24 hours, though using the term “open” to describe the convenience store was an exaggeration. To enter one had to be buzzed in by Georgie, who sat at a counter top behind 2 inches of bullet-proof glass. Once inside the grey painted foyer a customer placed his order via intercom, out their cash in a slot, and waited while Georgie picked his way around the narrow aisles of his store to gather the customer’s purchase. Normally the man did not have to travel far: cigarettes, liquor, and lottery tickets were set right by his stool, along with a sawed-off shotgun in case someone managed to force their way through the corrugated-steel security door and into what Georgie thought was his safe haven.

There was a knock on the outside door. Georgie checked his external cameras. The fuzzy, black and white image was of a pair of men who were very dangerous. Georgie let them in anyway.

“Georgie! Long time no see,” Fancy Stan gave the proprietor an oily grin as he entered the foyer. Stan wore a chalkstripe suit and matching grey fedora, both of which managed to stay creased despite the early morning humidity. Since the enforcer was on the diminutive side, there was enough room in the alcove for his partner as well.

Lasher was rakishly thin, and tall as Stan was compact. He wore a long leather duster and a Stetson hat, a bull-whip coiled in his gloved hand.

“What can I do for you?” Georgie asked in a tone that was equal parts politeness and lassitude. The question was academic; the man already knew the answer, and since he would be unable to accede to their wishes, what the resultant consequences would be.

Stan explained, “We just got done talking to Christopher. He said you begged off when he came by to collect this evening, and that you were a rude little @#$% to boot.”

“Not that we blame you,” Lasher drawled.

“Right. I mean Christopher is, and I say this out of love, a colossal @#$%!. A pissant when compared to the, ah, institution that is Georgie Manswell,” Stan’s tone went from conversational to severe, “But what needs to be remembered, Georgie, is who Christopher represents.”

“I don’t have the money,” the grocer said flatly.

“Us. He represents us.”

“Stan, I know-“

“It’s Fancy Stan,” he barked, “And I’m not going to take any $%&* excuses from some %$@*& grocery clerk. You owe, you pay!”

Georgie stared stone-faced at the hoodlum from behind the pane of bullet-proof glass. He sighed, “Fancy Stan, Lasher, I’m sorry. I don’t have the money. Nobody does. Since the riots, everybody is feeling the pinch.”

“Yeah, right. Things are tough all over,” Stan sneered and shook his head in mock commiseration, “Though not so tough that you can’t send the missus on a little vacation.”

“That was sweet,” Lasher said to Georgie, who became deathly pale.

“Wasn’t it though? Georgie working to keep his wife safe and sound while he tries to use the recent tragedy to, what, renegotiate his contract with us?” Stan shook his head and chuckled, “Didn’t work.”

“Where’s my wife?” the shopkeeper whispered fearfully.

“Speak up, Georgie. Can’t hear ya over the static.”

“My wife, he asked again.

“She’s close, Georgie. So close you could almost touch her. Don’t worry, though: Mona’s not out alone. Bull’s serving as her, heh, escort.”

Georgie winced at the mention of Stan’s brutish enforcer.

The gangster smiled at the gesture, “So, here’s the score, you miserable hump: not only are you going to pay us what you owe, you’re going to turn over your book too. Christopher will be handling your accounts from now on.”

Georgie Manswell had run numbers in Hell’s Bathroom for twenty years; before that punk Christopher was born, before Fancy Stan and his crew were out of grade school, even before the current Lynchpin of Crime had had the power and ruthlessness to ascend to that inherited position. And now Georgie was about to lose that racket, and with it his source of security in the neighborhood. Now he was going to become the worst thing you could be in Hell’s Bathroom: a civilian. Because here a civilian translated to being something else:

A victim.

*****


The man known even by his closest confidants only as Bull dipped into his pouch of smokeless tobacco and jammed a cheekful into his open mouth. He chewed absently, wiping his massive sepia-stained fingers on his dungarees.

“Want some?” he held out the bag to a middle-aged woman who sat opposite him in the van.

Mona Manswell shook her head frantically. Her refusal seemed unnecessary, since the offer was made in jest. Unless the enormous thug intended on removing her gag, which Mona thought unlikely.

Bull shrugged and went back to his mastication. It shouldn’t be much longer, he mused, before Fancy Stan sent word on what to do with his hostage. Bull hoped it could be done quickly: torturing the elderly hurt his self-esteem.

The sound of rending metal filled the van as a garishly costumed figure peeled away the side panel door. Before Bull even had the opportunity to raise his hands in defense the man grabbed him by the front of his muscle shirt and hauled him outside.

With casual effort Mr. Epitome tossed the enforcer across the alleyway the van had been parked in. There was still sufficient force behind the action to render Bull unconscious after crashing headlong into the brick and mortar wall.

“I’m going to arrest the other two,” Epitome said over his shoulder, “if you would see to her please.”

“That’s a Roger Wilco,” the Probability Dancer replied jauntily. She reached into the van and removed Mona’s gag, “Are you OK, Mrs. Manswell?”

Mona gasped and gulped down several mouthfuls of fresh unobstructed air.

“My husband-“ she finally began.

“Is fine,” Dancer assured her, “Now let’s see about getting these ropes off.”

*****










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