Tales of the Parodyverse

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killer shrike
Mon Nov 14, 2005 at 01:32:27 am EST
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Bring on the Bad Guys! Part One
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“Bring on the Bad Guys!”


April Alice Apple pointed to the large glass cylinder with the viscous florescent globs suspended within, “What’s that Lava Lamp looking thing, Dreamie?”

After putting the brakes on the golf cart that they were using to tour the vast tesseract chamber that was the Lair Legion Trophy Hall, Dreamcatcher Kokopelli Foxglove replied, “That is the inert remains of the Super Celluloid. Jay and Epitome found it at a BALD storage facility last year. It’s made of some weird Impossibilitish-type material that didn’t react well while in close contact to the Serious Matter in Hatty’s head, so it used its power to become any movie villain to try and kill them both.”

The zaftig redhead took a moment to take in what her boyfriend had exposited, “Well, it obviously picked the wrong bad guys,” she finally adjudged.

“Yeah! If it was smart it could have been Darth Vader or even the Emperor though I suppose since the third movie wasn’t out yet it wouldn’t have known how totally hardcore Palpatine is but hey I wonder if it could have become Satan because he’s like been the heavy in so many films-“

“I wonder if it could become Sharon Stone from ‘Basic Instinct.’ Now there was a fun villain.”

CSFB! caught on fast, Grinning lasciviously, he replied, “We’ll have to see if Al B. can program it for that part. Only, she can leave the ice pick at home this time.”

*****


The deft and hardened hands of the Parodyverse’s Sorcerer Supreme completed drawing the scrying circle on the table top in the back of his store. Putting the chalk aside he dropped the moon-faced coin into the sigil’s center, completing the incantation that would summon Eclipsinox’s imprisoned spirit.

“I have some questions for you,” Xander the Improbable bluntly told the creature.

“What has happened to me? Why am I so small?” Eclipsinox gawped at his surroundings. His stance was barely wide enough to straddle the artifact that held him.

“I assume it’s the Primal Forces at work revealing you as what you truly are. Tiny. Insignificant.”

Eclipsinox’s face knotted with rage, “You dare address me this way?! I am a god, mortal: a being of such power that you can’t comprehend. My revels have destroyed empires. My resolve shall cast a shadow over the world.”

Xander waited for his prisoner to finish his soliloquy before responding, “You’re no god. You’re a demonic entity shat up from the lower realms who was lucky enough to hoodwink a tribe of South American aboriginals into believing you were a god. That scam wouldn’t work today, thank goodness. One quick search on the Internet would have revealed you as the fraud you are.”

Eclipsinox began to curse in his native infernal tongue. Xander held up a finger for quiet.

“What you do have, however, is some talent in the field of bad omens and portents. That’s why I’ve summoned you. What do you know about these recent events with the Parody Master?”

The demon laughed, “As if I would help you! Prepare to watch your entire race be suborned to a will nearly as great as my own. Unless, of course, you give me a vessel so I may fully manifest myself. Only I possess the- what are you doing?! No!!”

Xander reached into the drawer of his workbench and produced a tack hammer. With one casual swipe he crushed the ancient stone that held Eclipsinox’s essence, casting it back to its hellish home dimension.

Then the magician went to look for a dustpan.

*****


The meeting room for the Contest of Killers could be found in the back of Bates’s Hotel, a hostel for those costumed villains who dared try their luck in Paradopolis. The building was a façade: a crumbling exterior that hid an ultra-modern sanctuary designed to keep ignorant to the goings on within.

The room itself resembled the lounge of a turn of the century gentleman’s club, with polished mahogany walls and floors with brass trim and fixtures. Assortments of animal heads were displayed on the walls, in addition to the weapons used to slay them. The tables were large, round, and surrounded by plush, velvet upholstered chairs.

“This place is so gay,” Bloodspurt objected, “Its like where Sherlock Holmes would hang out.”

Crosshairs considered the comment, “How does that make it gay?”

The big man with the bullet-laden bandoliers criss-crossing his bare chest stubbed out his cigar, “Its queer. Fruity.”

“I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘precious,” Crosshairs rubbed the eye that had his namesake tattooed over it, “and I agree.”

“Yeah. This is the freakin’ twentieth century. This room needs some neon lights, and those tubes that got the water running through them. And a stripper pole.”

“And strippers,” Acid Wash agreed.

“Hell, yeah,” Bloodspurt leered at the slight woman in the pancake make-up and snow-white robes, “What do ya say, babe: want to earn some extra dough before the shooting starts?”

Ginsu Geisha scowled, “Shut your hole, Bloodspurt, before I carve you some new ones.”

The man laughed,“C’mon: its not like you got a chance of winning this thing,” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, “This is a man’s game. You notice Gamona hasn’t shown her fine behind here.”

Acid Wash did his best to impress his new best friend, “Yeah. Too bad. I bet she gives a sweet lap dance.”

“You two are imbeciles,” Spoilsport, the Killer with a Hole where his Heart should Be, intoned, “Gamona is one of the most skilled assassins on the planet.”

“Even if her recent track record shows otherwise,” Crosshairs drank his brandy.

“If she chose to take part in the Contest Gamona would have been one of the favorites.”

“Then why isn’t she here?” Acid Wash asked not unreasonably.

“Because,” Spoilsport cast a significant look Crosshairs’s way, “She, like a lot of the other pros, feels the same way as Bloodspurt. This Contest is precious. A silly, pointless exercise that proves nothing.”

“Then why are you here, if it’s such a waste of time?” Ginsu Geisha demanded of Spoilsport.

“To keep him from winning it.”

The other three assassins looked to Crosshairs.

“I slept with his wife,” he explained with an oily grin, “and his sister. Simultaneously and repeatedly.”

“Hmph,” Geisha sipped at her plum wine, “We’re all one big happy family, it seems.”

“You know what would make me happy?” Bloodspurt leaned over to the trim young woman and soused her with his boozy breath, “If you and me went into the back room and ‘you love me long-urk!”

Quickly, smoothly, the Ginsu Geisha slid one of her knives from the sleeves of her kimono and buried it into the back of Bloodspurt’s hand. The killer screamed wildly and stood from his chair. As he yanked at the blade in an attempt to free himself Geisha used the pommel of her second knife to strike at Bloodspurt where he was most vulnerable. The man in the dark red skullcap slumped over, upsetting the table.

Ginsu Geisha pulled free her blade and wiped it clean on the seat of her victim’s pants.

“Bad form, bitch,” Acid Wash had his spray gun up and aimed at the woman.

Crosshairs pointed his twin .45s at the Geisha as well, “I hate to agree with Urkel here, but he’s right. No violence in the house. It’s the rule.”

Even Spoilsport was armed, having pulled a SPUD Needler from the null-space that hung in his chest cavity. The Geisha knew she wouldn’t be fast enough to take out all three. As she was mentally deciding which man would be her last victim a rough voice called from the entry way:

“The body shoots her is gonna to answer to me.”

He was tall, and the topknot made him look even taller. The reinforced Kevlar costume fit snugly over his thick, muscled body. His wrist blades he wore were razor sharp and forged from titanium and the shock gauntlets were crackling with electric energy.

Spoilsport was nonplussed, “Killer Shrike. I heard you were dead.”

“Yeah? So?” the Butcher Bird strode up to the table and hauled Bloodspurt aside in order to claim his seat, “Oh, no need to thank me for saving your life, Stabbypants.”

Ginsu Geisha looked at the stranger dourly, “I wasn’t planning to.”

“So what did you bring us?” Crosshairs smirked as he holstered his guns.

“I got somethin’ for Spoilsport’s mom, or did Crosshairs already beat me to her?” Shrike nodded his head at Acid Wash, “Who’s this?”

“The guy we needed to make quorum, which you’ve ruined, unless you’re interested in joining the Contest of Killers.”

“I’m Acid Wash!” the villain protested lamely.

“Yeah? Well, go get me a beer, Acid Wash, and let the Crime Surgeon know he’s got a patient. Bloodspurt’s bleeding like a stuck pig here.”

“Hence the name,” Crosshairs observed, “So are you in or are you out, KS?”

“Mebbee. Who’s the target?”

Spoilsport removed the dossier from his the void in his chest, “A superhero, believe it or not. Fond of calling himself ‘the World’s Greatest Marksman.’”

“Which signs his death warrant right there,” Crosshairs, whose confidence in his own aim was legendary, sneered.

Acid Wash stared at the photo that was clipped to the file, “Trickshot? We’re hunting Trickshot?!”

“Yes. One hundred grand and the right to title yourself the premier hitman-“

“Or hitwoman,” Ginsu Geisha interrupted.

“- of the Parodyverse to whoever kills Trickshot of the Lair Legion,” Spoilsport explained the stakes of the Contest, “What do you think of that, Shrike?”

The Avian Assassin’s eyes squinted in cold fury, “I think it’s a start.”

*****


A tall woman with thick, curly hair pushed open the door to Katarina Allen’s hand-dyed cloth shop, “Hello,” she smiled at Kat.

The recently transplanted Louisianan put down the programming instructions for her latest purchase: a computerized cash register, “Hello. I’m sorry we’re not open; not for a couple weeks yet.”

“That’s OK. I’m more of a denim gal anyway: unless I’m working. Then it’s strictly purple and green.”

Katarina’s smile wavered slightly, a sign she failed to get the joke. It was clear she was new to the Life if that quip went over her head. The stranger tried again:

“Actually, I’ve done some fabric design myself. I loaded my costume with nanoware that allows me to psychometrically generate scrolling text. I could send you the pattern, if you like.”

“Costume? You’re a super- you, ah, you are a superhero, right?”

“Hero to some, nuisance to others. I’m the Idiom.”

The name didn’t generate any reaction. Letitia was starting to feel humbled.

“About eight years ago I tried launching the Pentagon into outer space. You were probably in high school at the time.”

“Wait. Yes, you- you were arrested. There was a big trial,” Kat’s eyes widened with the realization of who was standing in her store.

“Bingo. Do you remember who caught me? Our mutual friend: Mr. Epitome. And I’m not being facetious when I say friend, so don’t think me being here is part of some twisted revenge scheme where you’re the bait or the hostage or somesuch tomfoolery. That’s not how I roll,” Letitia Gahagan stuck out her hand, “Nice to meet you, Kat.”

The young blonde stared at the proffered limb as if it were a blood-stained hook, “Then what are you here for?”

“To say hi. And to get out of the lab for a little bit. I needed a breather from helping prep Badripoor for the inevitable siege when the rest of the world realizes President spiffy isn’t going to play ball and go along with the latest attempt to control the meta-humans of the Parodyverse.”

Katarina understood some of what the woman said. She accepted Letitia’s handshake, “Isn’t Badripoor in Asia? You’re a long way from home.”

“Not when you can take a shortcut through the higher dimensions,” the Idiom’s face became slightly concerned, “The US has some anti-teleportation barricades in place, which is new. But the system still has some bugs in it; easy to exploit, if you’re an evil genius.”

“Like you,” Kat supposed. It was an unusual declaration: the people who made up Miles’s coterie of friends made the man himself seem positively mundane, “Can I get you something? I’ve never traveled across the higher dimensions personally, but I imagine that could take a lot out of you.”

“No, I’m good. Ate a power bar before I crossed the Narrative Horizon,” the Idiom grinned, “Not the kind of small talk you’re used to, I’m betting.”

“I’m on a bit of a learning curve: just yesterday I found out what a ‘retcon’ is. So, you used to fight Dominic, but now you’re friends. Does he remember all of that?”

Letitia leaned on the counter and twisted absently at her rings, “I prefer ‘match wits’ to ‘fight.’ And no, he doesn’t remember. In fact, if you called him he’d probably try to arrest me for being on US soil.”

“Why chance coming here then?”

The Idiom shrugged, “Not much of a risk these days what with E’s memory loss and age regression. He’s a shadow of his old self.”

Kat thought back to the carnage Miles inflicted on their tormentors from Apocalyspe and shuddered inwardly at what an older, cannier version of the same man might be capable of, “That doesn’t sound like something a ‘friend’ would say.”

“Well, there are different kinds of friends. I’m the type who tells the unvarnished truth because that’s what he needs to hear. Hopefully, you’re the type who stands by him no matter what self-destructive trip he goes on. Together, maybe we can save E from himself.”

“I see myself more as the friend who doesn’t throw Dominic’s past in his face at every given chance,” Katarina retorted with considerable steel in her voice, “And Dominic doesn’t need saving. He’s a hero. He saves other people. He saved me.”

Tisha was impressed by the fire in Kat’s reply. She had assumed there had to be more to the woman than her bee-stung lips and sloe eyes and it was nice to be vindicated. The mad scientist pushed away from the counter-top to leave, “You may have a point there,” she paused, and gave Katarina her most encouraging smile, “It seems I’ve worn out my welcome. Good luck with the store.”

“Thanks. Have a safe trip home.”

Katarina Allen reciprocated the jaunty wave the Idiom gave her as she exited the shop with a bit less vim. An odd encounter in a long line of odd encounters, she thought. Kat went back to what she was working on before the self-proclaimed evil genius had arrived, and was surprised to learn that somehow, someway, the register had programmed itself.

*****


Next: The Fearsome Foes hold auditions. Factor X plots. A sinister not-quite six gets ready to rumble. The Parody Master invades paradise. The Race Warriors resurface. And the Omni Competent gets a new body. Out soon.

Footnotes:

I could have gone back and referenced every appearance for every villain that shows up in this tale, but the fact is that’s just too much effort for someone with my work ethic. I figure if anybody has specific questions they can ask ‘em. So what I did instead was come up with a roll of characters that did not put in an appearance in this or the next part of the story (and even this list is incomplete!):

Efficienado, the Scourge of the Parodyverse, Penny Blood, Pillbug, the Soloist, Cyrus Honig, the Bipolar Buccaneer, Magmire, the inmates of Herringcarp Asylum, the Apocalyspian villains (excluding Thugos and Granny Grimness), Thresh, the Magnificent Blastard, Doc Toxic, Der Puppe Macher, Make Out King, Captain Marble (aka Aggie), Disco Tech, Smellhound, Thrum, the Yakuza Spider Cult, Tech Spectre, the Nescience, Musk Ox, the Camorra Machina, Crushed Velvet, Supremacister, Guy Trebellino, and Run Gunner. And then there are the villains who were mentioned by name only, but I’m not going to be so anal as to try and catalog them. Though someday I must think of a story that uses ToFu Manchu.




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