Tales of the Parodyverse

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killer shrike
Thu Jun 15, 2006 at 12:45:57 am EDT
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Opportunities
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Opportunities


Doctor Gregor Vassillych awoke at the usual time and began the day with one of his six allotted unfiltered cigarettes. He then put on his robe and slippers and shuffled over to the breakfast nook for the already percolated coffee. Having satisfied two of his vices the reed thin Russian sat at his desk and began his day as Factor X, the Middleman of Metacrime.

Wanting to avoid any possible electronic data trail, the ex-KGB master-spy chose to receive his morning briefing telepathically. His second in command, the powerful mentalist known as the Mind’s Eye, took the reports gathered by their network of agents and compiled a summary that Vassillych could study by thinking of a subliminal trigger word. For Factor X, however, the major news of the day was hardly news: he already knew the Lair Legion had effectively conquered the world.

Details were still coming in, but the outcome was indisputable: a team of less than twenty metahumans had resisted the united efforts of the world governments in tandem with the criminal underclass to subjugate them to their will. Over four hundred “supervillains” had failed to lay siege to Lair Island. The “superheroes” had beaten this army, broke the power of the supposedly unbreakable “Obedience Brands” that controlled them, exposed the conspiracy behind the brands and rallied the world against the Parody Master himself.

Clearly, the “heroes” were becoming far too big for their britches.

Factor X took up a legal pad and his Monte Blanc pen and made a list:

Zemo = Retconned
Devil Doctor = Deceased
Count Armageddon = Deceased
Ultizon = Missing
Camellia of the Fey = Deceased
Lynchpin = Imprisoned
Thugos = Deceased
Apostate = Nonexistent
Balefire = Missing
Hellraisers = Deceased or Imprisoned
Hell Lords = Destroyed
Morbido = Depowered
Baroness = Missing
Fokker = Senile (Even more so!)
Machine Shop = Dismantled
Dr. Moo = Compromised
Masamune = Compromised
Hooded Hood = Compromised

It was a sobering litany of failure for “his” side. There seemed to be no viable alternative to stand up and resist the Parodyverse’s “heroes.”

Flipping the page, Gregor began sketching out a plan to create his own alternative.

*****


“We want you back,” Director Aaron Soames told Mr. Epitome.

The two men were seated in the Washington headquarters of the Office of Paranormal Security, the national metacrisis response agency. It was a group Epitome had helped found nearly a decade ago, time now lost to the man after he had undergone an inexplicable age regression.

Still, the Paragon of Power was savvy enough to know an opportunity when he saw it, “What would be my duties?”

“You and Glory will head up a small team within the department, structured somewhat similarly to what you had with the Epitome Division before your… transformation. You can have your pick of cases, and full access to all OPS resources,” the former federal judge explained.

“Who would I answer to?”

“I would be your immediate superior.”

Dominic nodded. He currently only knew Soames by reputation, which was sterling. He didn’t seem involved in the treasonous plot to turn Earth over to the Parody Master. The Man of Might wondered if the stocky gentleman with the dewlap was connected to the Grey Eminence. The urban legend/ power broker had vanished after their encounter in the Oval Office, and no word had been forthcoming.

“I must admit, sir, it is a tempting offer. I have concerns about the structure of my current assignment,” which was as polite a way Epitome knew of saying he recoiled at the idea of taking orders from a sanctimonious hothead and his spastic, panty-sniffing sidekick, “However, for the moment, I feel I can best serve my country by remaining with the Legion.”

“The United States is facing more than just an external crisis, Mr. Epitome: the people have lost faith in its government, and justifiably so,” Director Soames leaned across his desk, “Our credibility has been destroyed by 1066. It will take years to sort out who was in on the conspiracy, if ever. But you’re untainted by that. The people trust you. Speaking frankly, they trust you more now than they ever did when you were running OPS. It and the country would benefit greatly if you chose to return to your old position.”

“I understand, sir, and it is indeed an honor to be held in such high esteem by my countrymen. But I am going to respectfully decline;” the big man rose and strapped on his mask, “For now, my place is back at Lair Mansion. Good afternoon.”

*****


Katarina Allen had just finished packing when a fuzzy, black and white muzzle poked open her bedroom door.

“Glory!” the young woman called to the Border Collie. She picked up the device Dominic had left her and placed it on her ear. The machine would translate the Dog Dynamo’s unique language of growls and body movements into colloquial English, “Good to see you! And without a microscope.”

Glory gave a genuine bark of laughter and trotted over for a pat, “I am happy to see you and to be back at normal size,” the dog and her fellow members of the Lair Legion Junior Auxiliary had been miniaturized by a convergence of Narrative forces while protecting the Pacific nation of Badripoor from invasion, “Where is Dominic?” she asked for the room’s other occupant.

“Dom’s in Washington at a meeting.”

“Are you leaving to see him?”

“What?” the slender blonde followed Glory’s gaze to her luggage, “Oh, no. I’m, um, moving out.”

Glory’s ears pricked up, “I did not know you had moved in!”

“Yes, well,” Katarina explained, “For a while there, while you were away helping with the evacuation of America’s superhumans to Badripoor, ah, Dominic and me, shared the room.”

“And the bed,” the Dog of Destiny didn’t even have to sniff the sheets to know that.

“Ummhmm,” Kat picked at one of the nits on her cardigan, “Yeah. But it always meant to be a temporary thing, once you came back… I mean, it’s your room as well, and you know what they say about three being a crowd?”

“Yes, I do. But I do not think you should leave, not unless,” Glory’s eyes blinked in realization, “You do not want to stay in the room if I am here?”

“No!” Kat protested reaching down to Glory to stroke her head, “No no! We just thought, well, Dom said, maybe it would be awkward. Since this would be the first time you ever shared, uh, a room.”

“Experts say a couple moving in together is a very significant step in a relationship, and it would be wrong to delay that step because of the potential for unease.”

The young lady blanched a bit at the reference to the word relationship, “I suppose….”

“And, to be selfish, I would not want you to leave because I would like for you to be around as much as possible.”

Kat smiled, “That’s very sweet of you to say. Why don’t I just,” she stowed her suitcases in the closet, “wait until Dominic gets back and we can all discuss it then?”

“That is a good idea,” the Pooch of Power wagged her tail happily. Glory quite liked the friendly young weaver; she trusted her and, more importantly, she trusted Dominic.

Kat was a fine mate for her friend: much better than the others would have been.

*****


Several solidly built yet stubby figures sat around the cable spool that doubled as their dining room table and had a conversation.

“What is this?”

“It’s hash, Goofus.”

“What’s hash?”

“A dish of chopped meat and potatoes or other vegetables, usually sautéed, then baked or browned.”

“Thanks, Canny. Uh, what’s sautéed?”

“By Gimli’s Beard, Goofus, how stupid are you?”

“Give it a rest, Contentious.”

“No, I really want to know: has your imbecility ever been quantified? Has anyone ever timed you to see how long it takes to come in from the rain? Or put you in a round room and told you to piss in the corner, just to see what would happen?”

“Leave him alone!! You know Goofus’s father dropped him on his head constantly. That’s what happens when Cyclopses play “Catapult” with their children. No depth perception.”

“The plural of Cyclops is Cyclopsi, Enabling.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong, Canny.”

“No, I’m not.”

“We can look it up on the computing machine.”

“You stay away from the computing machine! I’m using it to download nude Katie Couric Jay Pegs off the Interweb.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Lay off Prurient, Reactionary! He can’t help his perverse fixation on women’s, uh, womanly parts. His mother nursed him until he was eleventy four.”

“Does that explain Prurient’s other perverse fixations?”

“That computing machine is a contraption of Old Scratch. It promotes deviance and sloth. Whatever happened to looking something up in a book?”

“Hey, I got books. Well, magazines, really.”

“Teeny Tiny Heinies does not count as appropriate reading material!”

“The latest issue had a Robert Reich interview.”

“Stop it! Stop the shouting!! Goofus is having trouble keeping up with who is saying what.”

“Sorry, Goofus.”

There was an extended lull to the conversation as the group finished their dinner. Then, finally, the one who had been long silent spoke:

“You know, we left the Mythlands in pursuit of a better life. We spun seven bushels of dross into gold to pay for our escape. And look what we’ve run to: repairing Mundane buildings by day while hiding out in a cramped cellar at night with only Canny’s computing machine for entertainment.”

“Don’t forget Prurient’s magazines.”

“Is there a point to your rant, Maudlin?”

“No, of course not, Reactionary. There’s never a point. To anything. Ever.”

“By Thumbelina’s Garter, I’m tired of your nihilistic whining! We have the thing that matters most in life, Maudlin: we have our liberty! I’ll leave it to Contentious to argue with you whether or not squatting in some Mundane’s basement between scab work is truly freedom, because I’m not going to waste my time!”

There was a bang on the bulkhead door. Then several armed and armored men tore it aside and shined powerful beams of light on the seven men clad in their traditional doublets and jerkins. Smaller, redder, pin-pricks of light danced across their now sweating brows as the intruders scurried down the steps and pointed their high velocity projectile weapons at them .

“Freeze, Muthasteppers!! INS!”

All seven stood stock still. They were artisans, not warriors, which was why they fled their homeland to begin with. As the agents of the Immigration and Naturalization Service descended upon them and shackled their well callused hand behind their broad backs, their leader, Canny, cast a silent prayer that the humans would not learn their secret.

“Damn, Sarge, this guy’s only got four fingers on each hand!”

“One.. two.. Holy Cats, so does this one!”

“They all do! These guys ain’t Mexicans; they’re real aliens!”

That’s when Canny realized it was safe to swear in Dwarvish.


Next: A Fractured Fairy Tale.


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