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Subject: Storm Warning (Tie-In to Untold Tales of the Parody War #318: Brides of the Parody Master, or The Wedding March) In Reply To: #318: Untold Tales of the Parody War: Brides of the Parody Master, or The Wedding March |
Storm Warning (Tie-In to Untold Tales of the Parody War #318: Brides of the Parody Master, or The Wedding March) “The first thing my father taught me was how to be raped,” the Priestess Pelopia, the Disciple of Logos, informed the Parody Master with a deliberately casual indifference. “After I learned to endure that experience, he employed sensory manipulation and neural stimulation to simulate the effects of disfigurement and dismemberment. The lessons that followed were far less pleasant.” She had been stripped nude and whipped until her flesh was covered in blood and sweat, but in spite of her red-rimmed eyes and the tears that had spilled down her cheeks, due to reflexes she could no longer control, she had not cried out once. The reports he’d received of her relatively passive, but nonetheless persistent, resistance had inspired him to make a personal appearance. “There’s no need for any of this,” the Parody Master shifted his approach, offering the shivering Pelopia a moistened washcloth to clean the wounds that covered her back. “My mistake before was in sending my Doomherald, a former Agent of Chaos, to recruit your father, a Force of Order. Like your father, you’re a Force of Order, and as such, you require reason to persuade you.” “You possess no reason,” Pelopia snorted, managing not to wince as she methodically scrubbed the congealed blood and filth-soaked sweat out of the raw red lashes that ribboned her skin, from her shoulders and upper arms down to her buttocks and thighs. “You are an Agent of the worst kind of Chaos, that of senseless, empty Destruction.” “I possess both reason and unreason,” the Parody Master countered confidently. “I am not limited, like you or your lover, whom you seek to rationalize as being better than me, merely because he is an Agent of the Chaos of Creation. When I am met with reasonable acquiescence, I am capable of being reasonable, but when I am met with unreasonable resistance, I am equally capable of being … unreasonable, as you’ve already learned.” “You believe … that is why I contend that Dream is better than you?” Pelopia curled the corners of her mouth, in what might have been the first hints of a condescending smirk. She recalled one of the myriad DVDs to which she had been subjected, by her former lover and the woman who became his wife, and finally allowed herself to smile, as she shook her head and paraphrased a line of dialogue. “He is far more than just another Time Lord.” The Parody Master scowled at these signs of lingering hope, in one who should have been rational enough to recognize that all hope was lost. “You are a realist,” he reminded her, a low growl creeping into his previously calm voice. “You have been trained since birth to disregard your own desires, to recognize and respond to reality as it is, unclouded by the distractions of dreams. Your upbringing has rendered you inherently incapable of deceiving yourself with wishes. Honestly, what do you think will happen?” Pelopia frowned as her eyes unfocused, her attention turning inward with intense assessment of the current situation. When her gaze returned to her surroundings, she opened her mouth, but her voice was barely audible, and cracked before she’d even uttered a word. The Parody Master sneered smugly, taking this fracture in her impassive façade to mean that he’d broken her will to resist at last, until the Priestess Pelopia, the Disciple of Logos, did something that she’d never done before in her life. She laughed. Pelopia burst into loud, long, braying laughter that left her breathless, gasping out mocking guffaws as she literally doubled over and clutched her own sides. As seemingly hysterical tears rolled unrestrained down her cheeks, the Parody Master slowly backed away from her, until she fixed him with a penetrating, inescapable stare. “You want to know what will happen?” Pelopia challenged. “Dream will come for you. He will come at the most inopportune and demoralizing moment for you, the one moment when you will be most assured of the inevitability of your own victory. He will make a grandiosely melodramatic entrance, subjecting you to a ceaseless stream of immature invective, peppered with dozens of unnecessary references to popular culture. He will enter with an accompanying soundtrack, selected from his favorite movies and television programs. I calculate a 75-percent likelihood that the first song will be ‘Dare to Be Stupid,’ by musical artist ‘Weird Al’ Yankovic, which was featured in the original Transformers movie.” “That’s impossible,” the Parody Master hissed, his back against the wall of her cell. “Yes,” Pelopia agreed, almost as though she was struggling to explain it to herself. “And that is precisely why he will be able to do it. He should not be able to, but he has consistently proven his ability to do so. He is a walking obscenity in the face of everything that should be allowed to exist, and while you draw your powers from formidable external forces, he is … terrifying, simply by being himself.” “You’ve gone mad,” the Parody Master snarled, as he hastened to exit the cell. “He will end you,” Pelopia ignored his diagnosis. Indeed, her earlier displays of emotion had completely subsided, leaving her current demeanor as coldly composed as ever. “His joy will equal your despair. By championing all that he holds dear, he will take away everything you have ever cared about. For all the horrors you have faced and forged yourself, without being fazed … you could not withstand my laughter.” This sudden realization gave her awed pause. “Such an irrational weakness … and a fatal one at that, given that he is made of laughter. He has become far more than a mere Agent of Chaos. He is a wholly unnatural force of nature. He is the Eye of the Storm,” here, she paused again, taking care to choose what Dream himself would consider the most appropriate metaphor, “and he will make you play Elmer Fudd to his Bugs Bunny.” Even after he’d left her cell, the memory of her cackling laughter still haunted him. |
In Reply To Back from holiday, the Hooded Hood drops this double-sized dollop of pre-nuptial peregrinations on the Parodyverse Fri Jul 27, 2007 at 04:05:39 pm EDT |
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