You Know You Want It.

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This message You Know You Want It. was posted by on Wednesday, July 3, 2002 at 16:12.

DK: O
Embracing Oblivion
It’s coldest out here, in the wildest, widest reaches of the universe. But it’s also the most creatively productive. That’s why there’s no concrete shape to anything… it’s one massive form of chaotic energy just doing nothing but creating and being chaotic. However, in the midst of this chaos is the Shaper of Worlds… doing what she does best. The energies swirl around her in cyclic forms, as new planets never before seen solidify.

Her eyes open, as her task is completed for the moment. She constructs a platform of stardust, and rides it to The Library—home of knowledge about anything and everything one could ever hope to know. She waves her hand briefly in front of the door, which vanishes, and the platform takes her inside. There, it disintegrates, and she comes to rest gently on the floor.

She curls into an Indian-style sitting position, and goes into a quiet state of meditation, awaiting her partner. While waiting, she notices murals on the wall. They’re fuzzy, and sort of indistinct, which as The Library is largely a place that’s open to the viewers’ interpretation, is something to be expected. She walks closer to these murals, not knowing entirely what to make of them.

She places a hand on one of them, in an attempt to brush them off. This does not have the intended effect, exactly, as three ravens swoop down at her and chase her away.

She whirls around, and gets her bearings, as the lights dim and get slightly redder. A walking skeleton, with a hooded robe, enters the room from behind a massive wooden door, places the immense tome in his hands on a table, and flashes his glowing red eyes at her.

“I…I meant no harm…”
“Perhaps… perhaps it is time that you learn…”

The mists and energies of time swirl and congeal as everything goes blurry, and for an instant, it’s as if existence itself ceased to be, or at least paused. This is proven to be nothing but delusion, as time, space-time, and matter/anti-matter are all reactivated. This reactivation comes at the exact moment that a young woman is gathering flower into a crude vase, only to have to drop it and leap out of harm’s way as a knight gallops by on his steed. This knight doesn’t even bother to look her way or to apologize for his actions.

A soft ‘tsk-ing’ is heard, as she turns around to witness a scrawny young monk picking up the shattered fragments of her vase. “All action and no forethought…”

“Thank you, m’lord.”

“I am but a simple monk, m’lady. It is my duty to serve God’s finest creatures…”

The lady is greatly affected by this compliment, and takes a moment to regain her composure after blushing furiously. It’s of no avail, as the monk’s long vanished. The young woman looks in dismay at the shattered fragments of her vase, and looks as if she’s about to begin weeping. This look of dismay quickly turns into horror as her massive, abusive husband approaches her, looking disgusted that she’d managed to drop his cooking/bathing water.

“You had best rectify this, wench…”

It’s of interest to note that magical beings still walked with impunity at this time on the Earth. The terrible Elf/Fairy/Gnome/Hobbit/Sorcerer/Human/Super War that drives nearly any powered being from the planet isn’t due to happen for a good millennium, yet. The interest, then, lies in the fact that at this time in history, there still walked upon the earth something called The Formless. (Even now, the Chronicler told the Shaper, not much is known about The Formless, aside from them literally feeding off of the evil in men’s souls. How did they feed, you ask? They drained their souls of their negative energy, then used said energy to biochemically break their bodies down.) The Formless are feared because The Formless have no bodies to be defeated with. The only way to defeat a Formless is to not be anywhere near it at all. It, then, also bears some passing interest that the last thing the Chronicler shows the Shaper is a small gathering of Formless convening around the brutish husband of this young woman, and the fear in this fiend’s eyes as he realises that the last few minutes of his wretched life are about to come to a well-deserved, violent end.

The space-time energies swirl once more, and then solidify, to become The Library once again. The Chronicler waves a hand to stop the Shaper’s subsequent question, and put his hood over his face. He then lowers his hand, and raises the other, pointing towards his two most prized ravens. These ravens nod in silent agreement, and gather five feathers from long-perished doves, placed atop mantles in the Library, and place them neatly in a pile in the Library’s fireplace.

The Chronicler waves his hand once more, and the feathers burst into flame. They burn slowly, and the Shaper, as told to by a gesture from the Chronicler, peers into its flame. Inside this flame is a small oval, not unlike the magic balls used by gypsies. Inside this oval, the Shaper glances at the middle of war. Unlike most wars, this carries a heavy cost… the world at large is involved, and it will ultimately end with one of the most heinous cases of genocide in mankind’s recorded history.

The senseless tendencies of mankind rage against the backdrop of the two cosmic beings, as the Shaper views the carnage with a combined sense of disgust, disbelief, and horror. The Chronicler says nothing, shows no emotion… merely waves his hand and gesticulates as if to say, “This is the price of the knowledge we keep…the machinations of the strings we pull.” The Shaper looks at the Chronicler, stricken, and whispers, “Why?” Their vision distorts once more, and switch to viewing a secret room within the White House. Unbeknownst to even the President and the Secret Service is a young man who seems to be more hair than body, who is quietly transcribing the events that are happening and figuring out tactical methods to lessen the terrible costs that are consequences of these actions. He then leaves his secret room, to visit people scattered globally. These handfuls of people are the world’s most focused well-trained telepathic individuals. It is through their gifts that these tactics are given to the generals of this lunacy, in hopes to salve their bloodlust and resolve the terrors wrought by the manifestation of war. As with any other time in history, this advice is sometimes heeded, often times not.

The Shaper views this next scenario with the most horror, knowing without being able to repair, that the human being she’s watching prepare these counteroffensives and backup plans is destroying himself by waging an impossible war, with no chance of anything but loss…of self-mutilation.

The Shaper is beginning to understand, but for one thing. “How can this be… how can one man live so long?” The Chronicler’s subsequent smile was answer enough. The Chronicler’s smile had forced the invading armies during the Helen of Troy war to fall dead from shock, or run screaming into the night, fall down sobbing, or be forever unalterably mad. In fact, stories of that night still circulate, in some Greek families, as examples of what happens when one meddles in the affairs of the King of Tales. The Chronicler’s smile so unhinged Alexander the Greek that he thought he really had a chance of uniting the world politically and socially. The Chronicler’s smile played such a terrible havoc on the Marquis de Sade that the obsession of tales and ideas, even as sexually depraved as they were, tormented the Marquis into his grave. (And some say, these ideas torment him even in Hades…)

As a cosmic being, The Shaper can’t be harmed by the Chronicler’s power, but the smile… that terrible, soul-altering smile… if she had tears to cry, and eyes to release them, she would. If she had a voice, a true voice, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the denizens of Death at the end of time would hear her tortured anguish, even then… for it would still reverberate throughout the cosmos.

The Shaper, instead, simply nods the ethereal head of the body that she’s doomed for eternity to possess, and quietly whispers, “Go on…”
She hugs herself, or, as things go in this realm, gives the impression of hugging her non-existent body, and the energies of reality warp around her again, until she sees the Maker. The Maker’s powers are too terrible even for her kind to behold, so even they are able to see but a perspective of his true form. And The Maker, here, is in the beginning days, when things weren’t so mutated and corrupt.

The Maker, however, is planning for these days even then. His plan is simple, though morally dubious. This man, here, before him… He will be a sort of proto Christ for a universe not truly real. This man will serve as the personification of everything gone wrong. For though he fights for justice and the preservation of life, the curse placed upon him simply for existing is so great that any loved ones of his are to know just as much suffering and pain as he does. For it is through this method that his senses will remain sharp. The Maker knows that this is an unjust sentence, or it may appear to be unjust, so this man will have allies in his war. The Maker also ensures, through this man’s genetic code, that he’s not truly immortal. He can die… he just is resurrected, at cost to his psyche, and at cost to his reality perception. The Maker, then, looks upon his work, and is well pleased.

The energies of reality swirl one final time, and the Shaper and the Chronicler gaze upon each other. The Chronicler looks with some concern, though slight, at his partner. The Shaper can’t bear to hold his gaze, as she’s stricken by what she’s just seen. She wonders, though, other secrets… She knows that there’s more to this than she’s seen. She knows, ultimately, that her partner and this cursed man are one and the same, and always have been, in some form or another, but this also cannot be. It goes against every law of cosmic physics that exists. It goes against every moral law established by The Maker in the Ten Commandments of Ideological Creativity. (And one of the first thing one learns as a cosmic being is to not disturb these laws, for not only does it place the Parodyverse in jeopardy, it opens up the possibility of dimensional contamination, especially in the realms inhabited by Bad Ideas, which act as ideological viruses. These Bad Ideas are far more terrible than paradoxes, for they introduce the heinous, unalterable RetCon.)

The Shaper looked at her partner, as the King of Tales left the room, to ascend the Throne once more. “You must tell me more…”

“I must do what I must. For these are the rules… my rules, and responsibility.”

“I must know, now.”

“You will know when I allow you to know.”

“I will know, one way or another.”

The Shaper took two steps back as a murder of ravens descended upon their conversation. These ravens lined in a sort of protective shield, separating the two cosmic beings, in something like the formation of people on the sidelines of a football game. One appeared to be wearing glasses, and was a bit skinnier than the others.

“Forbidden knowledge… always the cost of such stress, such fuss…
Given to make men wonder thus
On origins long forgotten
Or cause discretion verboten
Yet it is enough to consider, in times like these
The path of greatest ease
Turn back now, young Jury
Save thyself from grievous injury.”

“No… this young man can’t have been created to bear the entropy of the universe. That’s an unalterably terrible sin… even if it was by The Maker.”

The Chronicler’s throne room doors swung open… and the Throne descended upon the room, carried by the Chronicler’s terrible mystic energies. Instead of a skeleton, the Chronicler was now in the form of an ancient man, with long stringy white hair blowing in the force of his acceleration. “YOU…WILL…BE…SILENT.”

The ravens scattered, fearing the worst. The Shaper took this cue to leave the Library, knowing that The Chronicler wasn’t truly emotionally upset at her, he was just carrying out the specifics of his role.

The Shaper rides upon her platform of stardust once more, wondering at the mental state of her partner. There are few that would dare take the path that she rides…

Now, for consideration, let us travel to Earth, to the mortal realms. It’s of some minor note to this story that we examine the gothic metropolis home to some of the Parodyverse’s more bizarre, magical denizens. It’s here, in the midst of this cataclysmic madness that two lovers stand atop a skyscraper, noting with irony various things and sundry. Most notably, how unlikely it is that they’ve come to together, and how intricately their lives fit together, seamlessly. It’s also worth pondering that amidst alien invasions, undead vigilantes and serial killers trashing their apartment, and the new mayor being an apparent sociopath, how these youngsters are still alive, let alone together. The Deans are a sturdy sort, though… and they’ll live long enough to give this world one of its greatest heroes. Now, they’re content to simply embrace, and kiss…

In a schoolyard three blocks away, a few years later, a young, scrawny lad tries to bravely hide the tears falling down his face. His face is a battered useless thing… Its flesh hangs from it, almost as if it’s been severed. Were that the case; instead, it’s a testament to how often this child’s been beaten. The authorities and teachers would intervene, but it’s interesting how money offered in certain circles causes a certain sort of moral blindness. This young man is only beginning to learn how unreliable other people are. This young man is learning life’s finest lessons. He’s learning life’s finest hate. He waits, and listens, and prepares, always keeping to himself, going years without saying a word. It could be said that there are fractures, or indentations on his face that are almost tear-like. It could be said that these fractures are reminiscent of his psyche. Or it could be simply said that there are no limits to the depth of human cruelty; and there are no limits to how far the thirst for revenge lurks within even the most timid, silent of souls. There will come a reckoning for the sins committed against this young man, and this reckoning will not be of God, for God would be too merciful. For, especially in this young man’s eyes, there either is no God, or God is the most pitiful, pathetic coward that ever gained sentience. If this young man has to eradicate everything that ever existed or will exist, he will give comeuppance to even God Himself, and his blasphemy just may be damned.

The Chronicler sat upon his throne. His eyes were tuned to his Book, though his thoughts were elsewhere…

And the Chronicler read. And it was good.

“Invasion of the Gods-Wave One: Everything Falls.”
WEEK ONE
“I am the Chronicler of Stories. It is not my way to reveal events before they occur, for that task is left to beings with more power than I. But what I can tell you is that before this tale is told, a Chronicler shall cease to exist, a Dark Knight shall fall, and that Dark Knights shall arise to battle the ultimate evil. But this is a tale that has been told.”
A cloaked figure closes a book, its ‘arms’ chained to the book’s massive form, and the figure gestures towards an insignificant hole in the cosmos. This hole is the Library. More specifically, it’s the Library’s gateway.

In the Library, there are beings of pure knowledge and beings that are the mistress of dream energies. There are ravens of uncertain origin, who serve these aforementioned superior beings, and formless, shapeless, soulless beings who serve as caterers and this realm’s defense/assassins. Unfortunately, after today, most of these will cease to exist.

This realm’s current master deduced the integration of John “Lucifer” Byrne into the Parodyverse before the ‘verse’s own heroes had, so he sacrificed his life to thwart Byrne’s nefarious efforts. Byrne soon arose, and took over the mind of the equally-as-malevolent-but-far-more-moronic-Todd McFarlane, becoming John Byrnefarlane, but in his new guise as the Chronicler, the former Dark Knight sent Mr. Byrne to Hell. However, prior to becoming the Chronicler of Stories, the former superhero had a few adventures.

(Most of which constituted defeating various dukes of Hell in interdimensional chess...

“I believe, you terrible little gnat, that that’s checkmate.”
“Damn you to HELL! You beat ME, Lucifer’s choice demon!”

“*Sigh*...Well, this is a change of pace...I’ve defeated another of you sluggish, horn-headed fools. May I go and pummel Beezlebub about the head and shoulders now?”
*Sound of demon sobbing* “Fine! Fine! Just stuh-stay away from muh-me! Waaaaaaaaaaah!”

Beezlebub was rather displeased. So he sent in his son, Mefrotho, to stop the Knight’s success.

Mefrotho roared, “Pitiful fool! You dare challenge the Prince of Hell? Dead hero or not, I’ll enjoy breaking you into atomic bits and spitting you out like volcanic dust!”

The Dark Knight rolled his ghostly eyes, then returned, “I see. Firstly, I should warn you that demons are notoriously poor hand-to-hand-combatants, as all you brainless worms rely on are pitchforks, which really are terrible self defense weapons. Secondly, your brimstone blasts won’t affect me in the slightest. I’m dead, Horn-Boy. Thirdly...”

The Dark Knight kicked Mefrotho in the groin, then proceeded to tap dance on his forehead, stomach, and spleenular region as well.

Mefrotho blubbered, “Yuh-yuh-you duh-duh-don’t fuh-fight faaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrr...”

The Dark Knight shrugged, “Of course not. I fight to exist, or to preserve justice or liberty. I really don’t need to be fair.”

Beezlebub shook his head sadly. “Fine. You won. Just get the hell out of Hell.”

The Dark Knight then awoke, shrieking, in the body of a 25 year old freedom fighter caught somewhere in the Andromeda Galaxy, badly needing a shave, an emotionally stable, patient, intellectually adept woman (which he lost all hope for in roughly the span of 3.224 seconds), a hair cut, and various deodorizing and sanitary baths.

The only thing he remembered about his previous life was the fact that most people on the Earth seemed to hate him/have caused him deep emotional pain through betrayal/insults/or poor choice of parking, so he linked up with the gods of every religion, seeing as how they were out on tour and would stop at nothing less than the complete subjugation of every man, being, woman, android, HTML Goddess, genderless being, alien, or Frenchman...or, if that wasn’t feasible, the eradication of everything.

This he did for roughly five or six years... but during that time, it became apparent to his shattered and very unstable mind (This last little line has no bearing on reality, dammit. Those who say so are now in incarceration and awaiting execution via titanium-enhanced baseball bats and golf clubs.) that he was *not* just a vengeance-driven, badly groomed warrior with a fetish for golf clubs and baseball bats. Oh no. He was a gothic, mysterious, vengeance-driven, badly groomed slain superhero with a fetish for golf clubs, baseball bats, and Truth, Justice, and the destruction of All Who Suck.

Through a rather complicated series of events (involving everything from Jimmy Hoffa’s zombified body to Area 51’s toilet plunger, alien taxi service, and the true assassin of JFK), the Dark Knight managed to foil the Gods’ plans to arrive near Earth long enough for him to steal one of their craft, badly beat about the head, shoulders, and kidney those foolish underling Gods who dared to stand against him, ‘borrow’ some of their military technology, and warn Earth. He also discovered that without ambrosia, the Gods were very much mortal.)

Now, ten years have passed. And the Gods aren’t happy. The Andromeda Galaxy and, well...pretty much every other galaxy in the Parodyverse have fallen before them, and they’re taking no prisoners. Except those who willingly become slaves, after having discussions with the Gods’ laser and ionic weaponry. Somehow, having a death ray that can disintegrate something as fine as your sperm’s (or egg’s, whichever you happen to have) cellular structure *at the core* serves as a wonderful way to convince someone.
There’s only one galaxy that hasn’t fallen before their immoral, for-all-intents-and-purposes immortal wrath. Earth’s.
That’s just because they want to enjoy their revenge a little...

The Chronicler neatly tucked his robes behind the Throne of Knowledge, removed his robe, and prepared himself for one final trek to Earth.

The original Dark Knight materialized, as he had from time to time since his original death, and nodded solemnly towards the sky.

The Library imploded...and if the Chronicler (now Dark Knight) hadn’t told the female Shaper to evacuate it, the fate of the Parodyverse would’ve been irrevocably lost.

The Gods, in one fell swoop, took over everything. Galaxies, star systems, and nations fell like snowflakes before their wrath.

In the interests of showing the kind of examples that’s always so important in storytelling, let’s visit Zeus demanding “tribute” from a fallen alien freedom fighter.

“Greetings, good sir... would you kindly allow me to have all your planet’s resources, as we must continue to maintain our stranglehold on you?”

“Sod...off...”

Due to the rather graphic nature of this next scene, the august Guardians of Purity have recommended that we edit this out and move on. You see, if spiffy ever read something so graphic, his parents would threaten to sue the BZL Entertainment Establishment, and we’d simply all be f**ked over.

Banjooo, King of the Sea monkeys, was in shock and quite pissed. His kingdom was smashed like a grape, and his subjects were in more disarray than Lisa’s clothing after a night of partying. Oh, Banjooo would have revenge all right. And it would be revenge of a most violent nature.

Baron Zemo entered his transport craft to the moon with something akin to triumph in his nefarious, diabolical eyes. He’d caused the utter destruction of everything, and the Lair Legion simply hadn’t even had an inkling of what had happened...

Dr. Moo was quite pleased. She got to do the most wonderful experiments to human and alien subjects as a result of this “petty little war. Rather pointless, if you ask me- apparently the Gods are no better than mortal man; needing their little pissing contests and their penis comparisons. Ah, well... science is always so wonderfully enhanced during warfare...”

Starseed rolled over in the rather large bed he was sleeping in, took one glance at the nude (and quite attractive) sleeping bodies of Catherine Zeta-Jones and Jennifer Lopez and told the world, once again, “Go f**k yourself. It’s vital that I get six hours of uninterrupted sex, and I’m like five months overdue.” It didn’t matter to him in the slightest that his bed was now under the ruins of the Statue of Liberty, or that roughly 55.5% of the world’s population had died instantaneously when the Gods took over. No, the only thing that mattered to him was making both Ms. Zeta-Jones and Ms. Lopez reach orgasm again.

Cheryl wasn’t enjoying herself. But then, being dressed in something that made the outfit that Leia wore in “Return of the Jedi” look like a bridal gown wouldn’t tend to make anyone feel good about themselves.
Especially when a drunken lout of a Greek God kept staring at her...chest...

NTU-150 screamed with heartfelt anguish towards the unforgiving, blacker-than-coal sky. His friends and his way of life had been attacked... and he had no way of knowing if the others had survived. And what was worse...Tina lay beside him, unconscious and bleeding, and with what little medical training he had, and what little medical equipment his armor carried, he had no way of knowing if she was even still alive.
“Tins...”

Visionary awoke in an underground cavern, surrounded by thousands of cloaked individuals that looked very much like the Dark Knight.
“Um...”

Interdimensional rifts popped open throughout the Parodyverse, like popcorn but without that infernal burning smell.

And costumed beings of all egoes, moralities, and persuasions poured forth, an overflowing of superpowered good and evil.
It just so happened that one of them had trained the Dark Knight in combat skill...

Hatman, Jarvis, Lisa, Messenger, and Space Ghost removed themselves from the rubble of Lair Legion Mansion... shuddering with fear and wondering where in the name of Hell the sodding basement entrance was.
They just managed to reach the basement entrance when... the alien squadrons hit.

Mostly mercenaries employed by the Gods (read: “You fight for us, and we won’t kill you”), these alien fighter pilots were quite good at picking out other races’ most dangerous buildings and targets and turning them into harmless non-gatherings of atoms and quarks. Unfortunately, it also meant that they pretty much also de-atomized the living beings within a million mile radius, but, “What the hell”, they said. “It’s just war.”

When the squadrons had gone ‘round the Earth, the Milky Way and Andromeda Galaxies, and the other star systems and galaxies, from a military standpoint the Parodyverse was screwed.

It was then, that underneath GothamMetropolisYork, a group of cowled beings and one supposed fake man began plotting a massive, coordinated counter-strike.

While all this happened, something rather rash went down like a drunken Prom Date on Prom Night. Yo, the Lair Legion’s genderless being-comprised of Pure Thought Energy-decided that she/he’d enlist the aid of Galactivac, the Living Death That Sucks in his/her battle against “Those uncute Gods who are terrifying Yo’s cute bunnies and Yo-Friends very badly and Yo is not liking cute bunnies and Yo-Friends to be being scared, so would Mr. Galactivac, the Living Death That Is Sucking please be being helping?”

It was then that Samhain, the Destroyer of Ideas forced his way out of an interdimensional black hole/space time continuum rift, and announced to everyone that he was quite pissed.

And then the Hooded Hood also arrived, kicked Samhain in the cosmic being equivalent of the groin, and made his way towards Earth.

spiffy was found huddled beneath the wreckage of Lincolon’s Memorial-claiming to have been raped by overly hormonal vampires. Jarvis, the unfortunate man who found him, knew otherwise. spiffy muttered, “Curses. Foiled once again by female minds...”

Donar smashed Mjalcom (TM) into the magical barriers erected around Asguard...to no effect. The former LLer was trapped...

Darkhwk seemed to have really offended this obstinate tree... it was larger than three Californian Sequoias, and its branches seemed to be actual arms.
It was then that he noticed that the Norse God, Thor, had him in his clutches... and his amulet was nearly completely out of power...
Zane muttered, “D’oh...”

It was then that Visionary Jr decided to inform his father that he had diaper rash. “Waaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuugh!”
Visionary stormed out of the strategy session muttering, “Dammit, why can’t Cheryl watch the damn kid just once in her damn life?”

TO BE CONTINUED.
Note: No, this isn’t as long as I wanted it to be. I was shooting for like 12/13 pages, but the sodding disk (the whole damn thing) crashed that I had the original on, so I really don’t want to hear about it.
Anything you people specifically wanna see in “Wave Two?” Just ask- oh, and, like, please leave suggestions on how to make “WT” better than “WO” was... keeping in mind that I didn’t have enough time to make “WO” as long as I wanted to (and originally had it). Like Enty asked a while back when he posted his wave of pics, please don’t respond in the subject line to this story-gimme some, if only a lil’, text to read.

In Wave Two:
Visionary creates a viable battle plan.
The ruins of Earth get divided up.
Starseed’s Gah! powers protect him from the evilness of Fatherhood.
Space Ghost is actually sober for a battle.
The Living Death That Sucks versus the gods of pretty much damn near every religion. Save the Christian God, ‘cause there ain’t no way in Hell I’m introducing Him into this one.
More people get lines.
spiffy still gets mocked.
And if I have time, Starhawk gets written in a story of mine for the first time.
“That is all.”

“Invasion of the Gods, Wave Two.
“To Be Fake, Or To Be Real; Is That Not The Question?”

“These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country, but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.”--Thomas Payne

“Everything is funny as long as it’s happening to someone else.”--Will Rogers

“We are all in this together--by ourselves.”--Lily Tomlin

(Note: While the premise of this story is that all the Gods of all the major religions *save Christianity, since I happen to be of that religion and, uh, wouldn’t feel comfortable using that one*, I’m primarily going to use the Greek Gods, since I know them best. Stupid college classes that don’t teach nearly enough what they’re supposed to...)

The Duck, that lovable two-ton egg-producing bird of destruction, was sucked into an evil dimension full of blue, fun-loving beings calling themselves “Smurfs.” Hera, in a fit of pathetic ego, ordered the dimension’s vaporization. So for all the ‘Duck’ fans out there, he’s not with us now. Appropriate donations in memory of the Duck may be left with the Dark Knight, who serves as the Duck’s only living trustee.

The Drug Lord Squirrels were swiftly exterminated after the Gods invaded... seeing as how the Squirrels were the only beings ever able to defeat the Parodyverse’s heroes to the point that they were actually able to control a significant portion of the universe. Their leader, Lord Clintulon, was the last to die... ambrosia gas burst his lungs like pathetic little helium-filled balloons.

Things looked rather desolate in the underground dwelling of GothamMetropolisYork’s surviving heroes. Coffee poured like water in drought-infested deserts. Due to the Dark Knight’s strict orders, there were no women permitted near his chambers, nor where he conducted his training regiments and especially anywhere near briefing rooms.
And it was always so blasted abysmally dark in here- trainees wondered if their sensei was blind, a vampire, or just hated cheerful thoughts. They then remembered that Visionary, the Lair Legion’s supposed android, was here and served to be comic relief, if nothing more.

It was then jokingly wondered by one of his trainees why Visionary was allowed anywhere near the “more manly aspects of our mission. Ain’t the only good thing he’s good at is taking care of that blasted kid of his and the occasional complaint?”

The Dark Knight silenced the jeering with a glare that, were it converted to energy beam form, would easily have turned half of Earth into an immovable ice ball.
“This is the conclusion to a favor I owe him. Besides, I know far more than people would think what it’s like to be mocked and mistrusted. And Visionary deserves the chance to gain some respect.”

Visionary, JR broke the silence with a teething wail. Visionary’s answer resounded throughout the cavern. “Shut up! Just bite down on the blasted pacifier! You’re making me look worse than usual! And I don’t particularly care if you’ve got red marks near your behind! That’s more CHERYL’S department...or spiffy, since that’s apparently the only way he can get chicks to notice him... diaper changing...”

Fleabot “tsked” his disapproval from atop Visionary’s left shoulder. “Are you really sure this is the best way to get him to remain pacified? And what kind of lesson are you teaching your son about anger management? Really, Visionary, I could loan you some books on proper parenting techniques...”

Visionary glared at him. “Not one more word, buddy, or YOU get to babysit Prince Charming over here. And does anyone know what happened to Cheryl? She should have rendezvoused with us by now...”

A shadow standing next to them cleared his throat. It was a man in a Dark Knight costume, though in the poorly lit Cave, it was difficult to tell if this was the original or not.

“Hurry up. The Knight wants you to give your opinion on how we should handle the counter-offensive.”

“He’s really serious about that, huh? Well... hey, you look like a fairly capable chap- how’s about taking care of my darling baby boy here for a moment? That’s a good boy... if I come back and he’s hurt, I WILL kick the living crap out of you...nah, actually, I’ll have Cheryl beat you within an inch of your life...”

The man in the altered Dark Knight costume didn’t appear to be threatened in the slightest by Visionary’s comment.

Four more appeared behind Visionary. “We’re to be your escorts.”

“What the hell? What am I, some kind of public enemy?”

“Don’t delude yourself. We’re wearing nightvision lenses. And you’re not. You don’t know where you’re stepping”, one of the masked men on his right said as he lifted Visionary in his arms like a child, “or what you’re stepping into.” The cloaked man wrinkled his nose in disgust as he and his companions side-stepped the dung on the floor. Had he the time or interest, he’d have noticed that the dung was most likely from the plethora of bats hanging on the stalactites, and that the bat suffered from some severe intestinal infection, which gave its spoor that hideous smell.

Visionary closed his eyes and tried to daydream of what he would be doing, right now on a normally peaceful Sunday evening, if the Gods hadn’t invaded.

Fleabot disgruntledly, frustratingly fluttered near the four Knight-costumed wearing men, muttering, “So whatever happened to the concept of free choice, of men’s rights in this world? Shouldn’t Visionary, and more importantly, I, have a right to express our views on what’s happening to us? Namely, that we REALLY don’t want anything to do with this whole cockamamie plot? Besides, this is Visionary’s quote-MIND-en-quote we’re talking about. It’s not exactly as if he’s a military genius.”

Visionary opened his eyes, as it became apparent that he was placed as gently as a feather upon the floor. The floor was cold, and rocky, and somewhat uncomfortable, but at least all the sharper rocks had been removed. This was a start.

It was then that the lights were activated... The Knightcave exploded into its full technological glory before Visionary’s wondering eye, a veritable chain reaction of industrial supernovas.

Fleabot was convinced that he was in the Robotic-Flea version of Heaven...or, knowing some of his adventures with Visionary, in Robotic-Flea Hell.

Fleabot squeaked, “Visionary? Please don’t do anything inane...um...anything more inane than usual. I’d really like to look at some of this stuff...”

Visionary had thousands of thoughts filter through his head as to what he wanted to do to Fleabot for saying that. But seeing as how nothing else in the universe respected him, Visionary decided to let Fleabot live.

Who else could put up with the constant denials and the wacky misadventures that seemed to follow the possible android and microscopic, fake flea like body odor on a drifter? Besides, Fleabot on occasion treated Visionary as if he was an intelligent human being...something that not even Cheryl really did.

While Visionary sulked on the floor, Cheryl was battling for her pride and modesty against a rather lustful Greek King God named Zeus, who happened to have most of her “Princess Leia”-esque costume ripped off from her body and resting in his hands. Cheryl had managed to cover most of her naughty bits by laying stomach-down on the floor, and firing a misplaced, forgotten grappling hook at Zeus’ groin.
Needless to say, Zeus folded like an aluminum pop can. Cheryl, grabbing what remained of her costume, noticed blood flowing from the supposed god’s testicular region. Like any good woman, she knew what to do then. After kicking him...there...a few hundred times, she then went in search of some kind of closet, where she could change. And the nearest baseball bat, so that she could go bash the writer of this story’s brains in.

While this titanic battle is going on (And Zeus is in EXTREME agony) let’s examine the Gods’ place of operations. Powered by the escaping energy of a thousand dying universes, surrounded by impregnable force fields humanity’s science fiction epics had never even conceived of, and energy beams capable of disintegrating even the quarks and atoms in Visionary’s comparatively small brain, the Gods had a fairly decent place with which to call home and rape unsuspecting women.
Structurally, it’s roughly the size of Paris, France, -all compressed around the area of Washington DC’s wreckage. Architecturally, it puts the Sistine Chapel and the Tower of Babel to shame...humanity’s most gifted architectural geniuses could’ve never conceived of something so grand. And in keeping with all villains’ color schemes, the Fortress of the Gods is the darkest gray, as if erected from the fears and hatreds of mortal man.

Instead of your typical force-field protection devices, its energy fields are designed to render asunder-at the atomic level-those who are foolish enough to trespass. Suffice to say, very few mortals chose to venture near the Gods’ fortress after their takeover.

The assembled Academy of the Knights, even for a group of master martial artists, were rather silent. The possible (and most likely) fake man had outlined his idea for counter-assault... and it happened to be the most overrated, overused strategy in battle-planning.
For what it’s worth, their leader said nothing.
And in the gloomy depths of the Knightcave (or Dark Cave, if you listen to spiffy), it was hard to tell the Dark Knight’s emotional response.

“Hey. I think it’s a damn fine idea. And just in case you caped clods didn’t catch it, I say we hit ‘em right where they live, at their stronghold in DC. They won’t expect us to hit there. And besides, you guys are supposed to be the ‘best of the best...SIR!;, right? That means you oughta be able to get outta this without killing anyone or dying. Right?
Though your leader seems to know a thing or two about dying...”

The Dark Knight’s cape swirled behind him, a storm cloud of action and anger. “You are a guest here. You would do well to remember that. Still, as I say, I do owe you for past insults. We will, as I promised, use your idea. Frankly, in most respects, I agree. We SHOULD be able to minimize the losses that way. However, has anyone been able to locate the Lair Legion?”

It was then that an apparent crashing meteor knocked out half of the Cave’s power. And shouts arose from outside, human shouts, female and male shouts, and kinetic energy explosions.

Freedom International was here. They’d lost some of their friends and would no longer put up with the shabby crap called ‘life’. And none would quench their vile thirst for revenge...

Convex, the bitter brown-haired, black-trenchcoat wearing dark-blue-nearly-black-eyed British teenager with the ability to cast ‘psionic mirrors’, which really were what they suggested. Though he could only create one at a time, he could cause it to become as large, or as small, as he wished. The same applied to its density... He could also pierce someone’s soul, and determine their true intentions, be they evil or benevolent.

Carrier, the weapons-carrying, wisecracking robot of Wreckage. R2-D2 with an attitude, and vocal capability. None of that trilling. The unfortunate thing was that he looked a great deal like a Frisbee.

Ozone, a middle-aged, Caucasian, balding blond haired, sky-blue eyed man with the ability to project ozone-containing clouds into his opponents’ lungs and cause them to, well, pass out.

And their apparent quarry, Fallout, a being composed entirely of radioactive energy.

Their only means of self defense? Convex’s weakening ‘physical’ mirror, and Ozone’s shabby attempts at causing Fallout to choke to death, all-the-while forgetting that Fallout had no physical body in his energy form.

This was when the Knights hit.

Fallout’s radiation causing temporary havoc with their technology, the Knights deduced that radiation just might possibly be involved in that rather nasty battle outside, and donned radiation-proof garb and started handing out more beatings than one would see at an anti-John Byrne fan club convention, with the so-called “guest of honor” attending.

The five Knights made one fatal error. You can’t physically kick someone who doesn’t have a body. Radiation beams more powerful than a nuclear meltdown smashed into the wastelands of GothamMetropolisYork, and the Dark Knight launched the KnightJet from deep within the Knightcave.

He’d had enough of this shabby crap... and then noticed that Jean Paul Claremont, his former stand-in and sidekick, had just become another harmless gathering of atoms and nuclei.
The Dark Knight wanted to scream, wanted to leap from his craft and cause his own death. But more lives were at stake. Lives were ALWAYS at stake.

Fallout screamed, “WHO are YOU? Do you have a suicide wish? I CAN destroy you, if that’s what you really want.”

The Dark Knight answered, “I’m what causes children to awaken at night, terrified of creatures that occupy the nocturnal world. I’m the nebulous force of Justice that evil things like MURDER and RAPE can never quite quench.

Let me assure you- I know your kind well enough to know your next move before your synapses in your brain begin to formulate it. I’m more than able to stop you from killing again. But you may never feel anything ever again. Stop now; and I won’t hurt you.

I’m the Dark Knight. And let these people live.”

Fallout answered, “You’re kidding, right? Buddy, prepare to get VAPORIZED.”

The Dark Knight stepped out of his spacecraft, and placed a small, ovular object on the ground. After the object activated itself, everything that ever had been, ever was, and ever would be Fallout disintegrated, and a muscular, apparently Latino man lay flat on his face in his stead.
“Kidding is insincere. And for someone who rules by fear, it’s inappropriate. I NEVER kid. I can’t afford to.”

The Dark Knight thought that his trusty little machine, no smaller than a credit card, would be sufficient enough to end the threat of Fallout eternally. He thought wrong.

He forgot to take in account solar radiation... which, as the slumped human radiation bomb was taken into the Knight’s detention chamber, slowly seeped into the fallen Fallout’s body. Fallout would be back; and the results would be devastating.

The Dark Knight activated his ship’s comlink. “Come back inside. He’s done. You other three; join us. I want to talk with you.”

Barely kept alive by the integrity of their suits, the neophyte Knights followed in his stead... all the while wondering if they stood a chance of saving the world. Never had the stakes been so high.

On the moon: Baron Zemo, Monarch of the Moon, erected nuclear warheads and activated the special force fields that the Gods had given him. He, too, would launch an attack upon the Earth. And none would defeat him.

Jupiter: Samhain, Destroyer of Ideas, was hiding out from the Hooded Hood, seeing as how the Hooded Hood had far more power than Samhain could ever dream of, and Samhain was convinced that the Hood wanted to annihilate him.

In all actuality, all the Hood wanted was to return to Earth, so that he could exact his terrible revenge upon the Lair Legion and at least gain some small nation on Earth that wasn’t too terribly mangled by the Gods’ vicious takeover. The Hood, more than anything else, just wanted to return stability to a rather unstable world; and what was wrong with that? He figured the easiest way to accomplish that was via one country at a time. He then realized that he sounded like a bad political campaign (“Saving the world through supervillainy”) so he just decided to shut the hell up and go about his business.

So in a stolen spaceship, the Hood returned to Earth, and settled on starting his base of operations from the more-or-less intact Philippines.

He’d forgotten that NTU and Tina lived there when they weren’t on Lair Legion business... and that NTU was rather...angry.

Tina, five minutes before the Hood arrived, had stopped breathing.
“YOU. You...YOU will help me get her breathing. Or I’m...I’m...I’m going to do terrible technological things to your spacecraft. And you definitely won’t be going back home.”

The Hood sighed. Superheroes were often so emotional, especially when the love of their life was lying before them, in a pool of their own blood, tears, and sweat, and apparently on their way to where heroes went when they died.
“Don’t be TOO concerned... the Dark Knight returned from Hell, and he didn’t even have powers. I mean, really... my own Purveyors of Peril defeated that cape-wearing buffoon rather easily. Of course, he was heavily shackled at the time, but, that’s surely of no consequence.”
The Hood knelt before Tina, wondering why the gods had forsaken him...and contacted various employees and supervillains under his command. Telepathy bounced off satellites worked wonders in circumstances like these...

Dr. Moo strapped in her newest ‘catch’ to her stereotypical, yet-oh,so-effective torture device, including straps, various needles, and even that cool little machine with millions of dials and buttons on it, that only the most insane ‘mad’ scientists have...

“I’m the best assassin on three continents. When I get outta here, sister, you c’n look for more pain than your grandparents’ children dreamt of”, the helmeted assassin known as Jet threatened.

Moo (or Daio, to her friends) quietly chuckled. “Ah... I see someone wants me to combine a little Tyrannosaur DNA with theirs...”

Jet whined, “Um... T-Rexes are dead. And stuff.”

Moo filled a syringe. “Ah...time machines are such WONDERful creations...”

Darkhwk didn’t care that Thor had him in his grasp. Thousands of miles above earth (the ground, not the planet), Zane let the Donar wannabe have it right between the eyes, with the remaining drops of power from his amulet. The result? Darkhwk fell like, well, a hawk swooping, almost assuredly to his doom.

It gave him quite a surprise to see that he, indeed, was rescued- and that he was rescued by a rather attractive green-eyed blonde, wearing a form-fitting gray jumpsuit, who’d stopped his fall via some sort of telekinetic ‘net’. Apparently, the (for lack of a better term, Zane thought of that being standing next to her as a man) man in the black/dark green costume didn’t appear to like him much.

“You have five seconds to inform us why you’re here. And then I show you new avenues of pain.”

Zane gulped. “Um...”

Starseed, on riot control in both Parodiopolis and Washington DC, was in a fairly pacifistic mood. His Gah! powers had once again had unexpected results.

The first was that he’d managed to transform the God Hermes into a chain-smoking eggplant.

The second was that his Gah! powers had apparently counter-acted the powers of his semen and he had escaped fathering children with Katherine Zeta-Jones and Jennifer Lopez.
Thus, the Gah! Lord was in a rather good mood.

“Boo-ya! Step right up, you cretins! I’ll knock ya down like bowling balls! And if any of the rest of you bastard Gods wanna tango with me, I’ll transform your *bleep*ing testicles into *bleep*!
And that goes double for your women.”

It was unconfirmed by the few remaining Lair Legion satellites if the Gods were hiding, or just laughing themselves unconscious.

Starhawk, the newest BZLer, had decided that he was going to hide out in the Dark Knight’s cave and, well, just see where this insane plot was going, since he had no idea what the hell half the BZL continuity meant, and, well, he really didn’t want to risk his life for continuity he didn’t understand. This was why he’d sworn off anything ‘Byrne’ long ago...

Banjooo looked proudly out amongst his subjects... the sea monkeys were armed (literally) to the teeth with photon cannons, forgotten nuclear warheads, and contraceptive bombs. They also had managed to mutate their own pheromones to the point that the pheromones became thousands of various North American, South American, and African venereal diseases. They were ready for war. And none would stand against them.

spiffy watched in awe as Space Ghost fired the infamous “Spank Ray” at the looting, revolting people they were supposed to be ‘protecting.’ But then, spiffy marveled at the irony of the situation long enough to be kicked in the, well, you know, by some fairly attractive girl that appeared to be taller than the Eiffel Tower.

“SPAAAAAAAAAAAAAANK RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”, the sober Ghost screamed. “I’m not gonna go get wasted tonight, ‘cause I figure what’s the fun in seeing Armageddon and not rememberin’ it? Am I right, spiff? Am I right?”

spiffy groaned his assent, as his mind whined at the rest of his body how this was the only way women would seem to want to touch him...

And Galactivac, the Living Death That Sucks, descended upon the Gods’ headquarters, visibly angry since they’d stolen basically the life energies of thousands of planets, and Galactivac really was quite hungry. So he’d just take it out of their uncaring, unsharing asses.

The Shaperette emerged from her realm, having transformed Servant into a form not seen in a while.

And the Library was reborn...with a Chronicler sitting upon the Throne of Knowledge. And though a neophyte, the Chronicler had the powers of the Book of Time and the Ravens of Destiny behind him.

His realm had been shattered. He would have revenge. And none, not even a scheming, possible fake man would stand against him.

For it was written in the Book of Time that “on that day that the Dark Knight falls for good, those responsible shall be consumed by the evil known as the Gods.”

And the Ravens of Destiny gathered the Book of Time from the Chronicler’s ‘hands’, placing it in its sacred spot.

Donar crouched, an Ausgardian feline of war, ready, willing, and more than able to kick pretender god ass after he figured out a way to get past this “damn magical barrier.”

CrazySugarFreakBoy! re-entered the wreckage of Lair Legion Manor, carrying as many boxes of Jolt Cola as he could, and proclaiming a moral victory against the Gods.

“I stole their Jolt! Ha! Smug bastards! Let them do what they will... I’ve got the planet’s last shipment of caffeine!”

Lisa dove towards CSFB! with a panicked look on her face. “For the love of GOD. Don’t let that get ANYWHERE near GothamMetropolisYork.”

CSFB! grunted(due to the fact that Lisa’s head bounced into his like a torpedo. There’s nothing sexual meant by this. Get your collective heads out of the gutter, dammit), “Why?”

Lisa hissed, “Dark. Knight. Caffeine. Mixture very bad. And if you even think about it, I’ll willingly infect you with more STDs than even I knew I had... and we’re talking nasty stuff here. Stuff that’ll make your balls turn into sugar cubes. Stuff that’ll turn your semen into radioactive dust. Are we clear on this?”

Jarvis, walking in just as Lisa had broken out the STD gun (TM), waddled happily towards NTU’s Happy Place machine. “Idon’twannaknowIdon’twannaknowIdon’twannaknowIdon’twannaknow...”

It was then that the alien armadas were unleashed, almost as if the Gods were saying, “Puny pathetic mortals- as if they could ever TRULY best us...”

Wasp-shaped and faster than lightspeed on speed, the spacecrafts blew to atoms anything that even remotely resembled a threat.

Bob, the possibly homosexual neighbor of Visionary and the guy who’d had a minor crush on Jarvis, never stood a chance, the poor, confused, sick soul.
But, as the newspapers will read, “Perhaps it was better this way. He was two-hundred and fifty pounds of flab that did nothing but offend people. He’s better off.” Of course, this is hoping that the newspapers are eventually reincarnated...seeing as how technology and electricity are in more demand here than common sense at an N Sync concert.

(For clarification purposes, if there happen to be any N Sync fans in the crowd, there really isn’t much technology or electricity. Life sucks here. Get out while you still can.)

Almost as if the Dark Knight had an appreciation for irony, it was then that thousands of bat-shaped, force-shielded aircraft disengaged their cloaking devices and began hammering the Gods’ citadel.

Visionary yelled, “Ha! Can a fake man do THIS?” He wasted $2,500,000 worth of nuclear warheads on the mountains near the Gods’ citadel, well short of their intended mark.
Fleabot answered, “Well, actually, a well designed android could fire nuclear weapons at a mountain...”

Visionary sighed. “Fine. I’ll just prove my worth by taking out the major reasons why I can’t watch Monday Night Football anymore...or the Colorado Avalanche...or, come to think of it, ANYTHING...

These bastards just HAD to enter our atmosphere acting all bad-ass and wanting our NATURAL RESOURCES... eat this, you OLYMPIAN BASTARDS!”

Visionary promptly emptied his airplane’s arsenal at the Gods’ fortress.

And the Gods’ force-fields VANISHED...

Fleabot gulped, “Um...you’re real, dammit?”

Beneath the ruins of GothamMetropolisYork, Starhawk and a masked man we’ve all become quite familiar with took turns babysitting Visionary JR. The masked legend watched with some amusement as the newest BZLer read Alan Moore’s “League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen”, and as the infant child of Visionary (supposedly, though rumors abounded that Cheryl’s HTML abilities had somehow created the child-but these were merely rumors, and weak ones at that. Most folks, not wanting to get into such convoluted thoughts, were happy to think that Visionary JR was, in fact, the child of Visionary and Cheryl) and Cheryl occasionally cried...but mostly at the entrances of Mr. Hyde.

And what of cute Yo-Being? Why, our favorite genderless being was at this very moment launching an assault of her/his/its own on the Gods’ fortress, in hopes of finding a few live bunnies.
“Hello, uncute God-beings! Yo is here to be regaining Yo’s bunny friends, and uncute God-beings will be giving Yo Yo’s cute bunny friends NOW!”

It’s of little circumstance, obviously, that Cheryl’s escape from Zeus had anything to do with Yo’s entrance into the Gods’ lair...

TO BE CONTINUED.

Next:
More of the same. Perhaps a few more glorifying-Visionary scenes. Usual fare. Nothing to see here. Move along.

Oh, yes- the rest of the creative team thought I should mention the fact that apparently, Wave Three sees the death of a few of our cast.”

And the Chronicler continued to read…

“Lair Legion #6
You bleed my compassion dry…

One may be the loneliest number, but hate is the most ostracized feeling. Tell me…how many times have you truly hated someone, or some thing, for something truly insignificant they’ve done? Now, hold that in…and imagine what it’s like to live my life, for once. I’m a powerful, feared businessman. I’ve defeated and slain one of the world’s most renowned heroes (as enigmatic as he may have been). But…still. To walk alone is something I can’t honestly say I enjoy. But burdens and responsibilities are what make us human. They are the cellular templates that tie us together. Very well. If I must know no love, then you know no peace. For today, I no longer stoop to blow up post offices. Today, I am a joke no more. Your effrontery’s price is annihilation. And I only accept one currency: your ceased breathing.

To fly above the clouds is partially my gifts…to shape shift another… and to be a part of the grandest team of heroes ever assembled is a blessing I’ll never forget nor be able to comprehend. I, a mere Makulan/human hybrid, am one of my world’s most lauded ‘gods’. But none of them ever see behind my draconic features…the secret guilts, desires, which drive me. I admit it to few, but leading a normal life, knowing love and acceptance instead of constant brutality, would be divine. Yet, I learned a while back that wishing for the past only erodes at your present and future, and that such things are best put behind you. Yes, I may never stop crying inside…but they’ll always breathe…they are my children, my legacy. And humanity deserves only the best. May God help me to be that best.

I love it here. I make a difference. I am Whitney Darkness. I am the Sorceress. I am a proud member of the most significant heroes of our era. And I only pray that what I do makes more of a difference than a damage…and as I look at Jay sleeping, I hope that in more ways than one.

I can’t…I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m the guy who flies. What am I thinking? I’m on a team with a shapeshifting dragon that can take a direct hit from a nuke and blink it off, a living Norse God, and an undead freakish lunatic that’s widely considered one of the best tacticians on the planet. I fly. That’s it. I don’t belong here. I’m a joke. What do I offer to this team? This is stupid. I’m gonna get myself killed, and everyone else… but then I remember that it’s not about being perfect, it’s about getting better. And…I guess I can keep trying that.

Hi-eth. I art Donar. I smasheth stuff. Now sod off and grabbeth me ale, wench.

The four heroes looked at each other warily from their vantage points in their meeting room. Things were getting strange. Their assets were all frozen, overnight. They’d been audited by the IRS. The government had withdrawn official support from them. And a madman was making a play for the Senator’s seat in their state, which’d only make things far, far worse.

The draconian leader paced nervously, and glanced at Nats. “You’re the quiet one, the one that people rarely notice but confide in. Where’s G-Eyed? Exile?” Nats shrugged. “I wish I knew… people are disappearing, right and left, and it’s disturbing, honestly.”

The Sorceress covered Hatman with a blanket, and put her hand on Finny’s shoulder, who promptly blaunched and stepped back five steps, obliterating the southern wall. “Hun, you’ve gotta relax…this is a different scenario than we’ve faced before. We can’t lash out and smack this one. It’s like an virus of the brain, almost…something’s gone weird, we’re under attack socially this time.”

Donar tapped Mjalcom ™ patiently. “Verily. As always, we art to smite this vermin mightly, but intelligently.”

A shrieking meteor acted as if it was going to smash into the Lair Island with roughly the force of Mach 3, but then miraculously stopped.

Finny smirked. “Showoff.”

The KnightJet, a circular discus of a vehicle that defied description, in that it had no conventional energy source, and no discernible material (fashioned from something that those who heard the Dark Knight’s quiet, terse mumbling voice only heard as ‘concentrated knowledge’), was otherwise physically unremarkable. It looked much like the flying saucers of legend, though if one were to see its insides, one would have mild problems with that definition. The plush, black leather interior, for one. The onboard Starbucks franchise. The computer system that was funded by Bill Gates himself, after…outside influence. The art pieces dating back all the way to the fourteenth century.

Goldeneyed and Exile stepped out of the craft, to be followed by the walking car-wreck that spoke rarely and thought rapidly.

Finny bowed his head. “Well. It appears we have corporate issues.”

The Dark Knight pointed to the television screen on his wrist-watch. “We have bigger issues than that.”

The screen blurted out, “Shocking news, today, as GothaMetropolis York businessman Crying Clown was elected to the United States Senate… a historical first, as no one holding office without a proper name has ever been allowed in our nation’s history. A stunning occasion, especially considering the secret whispers that taint this man’s name…”

Nats’ jaw dropped. “We’re kinda screwed, aren’t we?”

Sorceress screamed, “Get out of here! Get out of here NOW!”

Black, unmarked helicopters fashioned something like giant wasps swarmed Lair Island, and bombed it back into the Mesozoic.

Amidst the smoking rubble, it was difficult to see the extent of the damage, but human legs and arms told the story eloquently enough…”

” Lair Legion #7
And consequences that are rendered
I stretch myself beyond my means

It was something that the IRS didn’t think they’d ever have to face.
In their defense, it’s not generally something that one encounters a great deal. Standing outside of the local branch in Parodiopolis was an apparently intoxicated Norse God with approximately enough pennies to…fill a very large space.

Chester McCracker had been in the taxing business for over twenty years, and he’d never seen such brazen audacity. “Just…just doing my job, man…” The mammoth hairy thing in front of him belched and growled, “Aye. As art we, filth.” “How many pennies is there, man? I’m not sure we can accept that.” An oddly shaped hammer flying at approximately escape velocity obliterated…well, let’s just say most of his office. “Enough.” The agent jumped at the God’s nearly feral order, and happily accepted the pennies. “We’ll get back to you…” He wiped the God’s answer off of his face, and nearly gagged at its pungency…

Above restricted military air space, a misshapen, otherworldly craft waged war with a small squadron of US Stealth Bombers, who wanted nothing more than to slow down the craft that made the pride of the American people look like sluggish cretins. This was, perhaps, slightly difficult due to the several-ton dragon appearing seemingly out of nowhere, attempting to eat their very craft. Colonel Ellisian quietly commanded, “Get out of here. There’s absolutely no way we can stand up to that.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, the dragon opened its mouth and obliterated Ellisian and his crew. Its roar was one of confusion, one of rage, and one of genocidal intent… it had been bothered enough, this day, and it would know no more strife.

In a quiet bar, a thickly built, small in stature man with grayish/white hair smiles at his companion. His plan is nearly as flawless as a diamond, which reflects itself nicely with the wardrobe he’s sporting—a tuxedo made only of the finest silk, and as white as heaven’s glow. For it was in his previous life that he had blood on his hands, and now, with his current actions, he’s seen to the downfall of this world’s gods. One has already fallen…

Before the misshapen craft could spin around, to rescue its comrade, another squadron of Stealth Bombers, far more vengeful than the last, swarmed in on the seemingly out-of-control dragon. Their leader snarled, “Those were my friends, my brothers…you inhuman waste of scales…I now relieve you of your need to draw breath.” Megaton after megaton of nuclear warhead slammed into the draconic beast, who quickly lost consciousness and plummeted towards Parodiopolis…

The Norse God sat with his head between his knees, moping over the loss of his friends’ island home…but only long enough for a living black hole to abscond with him to a detention center.

Above the oddly alien craft, the young hero Nats piloted, as Sorceress tried to hold her boyfriend together…Jay’s powers involving his headgear hadn’t saved him this time, as falling debris had removed his left leg, and part of his left arm. The unseen last member of this voyage bustled around the ship, trying to pump Jay full of enough drugs for him to survive until they found a suitable place to land.

The Dark Knight raced to the copilot’s seat to begin the invasive action too late, as energy beams traveling faster than the speed of light slammed into his craft, and while no physical damage was done, it was enough to veer it off course, and send it veering after the crater that the dragon had left.

And once again, in that very same bar, the white-suited pit-bull of a man smiled happily, if psychotically. “And all the king’s horses…and all the king’s men…” The barkeep, always happy to have celebrities in his bar, approached him. “Mind if I give you a drink on the house, Senator Carlson?”

The Crying Clown rose, to look the much taller redheaded man in the face. “By all means. For it is the will of the people that I’m served by them.”

“LL #8
The Beautiful People
Look into the sky. They’re right there, in front of you. Just a little to the left. See that? That one, right there? Sorceress. She’s hope and love and warmth and goodness. She’s got enough power by herself to obliterate a galaxy. Good morning, John Carlson, who the media calls Crying Clown. If you don’t handle this well, it’ll be your last.

“I suppose you think your recent problems are my doing.”

“Yeah, and I want them stopped, right god damn now.”

“Such harsh language from a lady… But no. They are not of my doing. You have no proof, no reason to think so. So I’d appreciate discussing more civil matters.”

The dragon swoops forward, rage and bitterness inside. “Maiming our people…lying to our face…it’s true…senators really are the devil’s jackals.”

The demigod glares at me, tapping his massive hammer. He needs say nothing. His bulging anger does so quite eloquently.

The witch…excuse me…sorceress…raises her arms, has her eyes glow and her hair fly…she doesn’t look happy. But I care nothing about these matters. For I have power that these peons cannot imagine.

For, you see, political office offers me things that common men could never imagine.

And they storm out of my office, and I smile. It’s a good day.

Sure, the dragon survived my poison nuclear attack. It only stunned him, and the Thunder God was freed from jail after having it pointed out to the arresting officers that there’s simply no jail on Earth powerful enough to hold him.

The Knight’s jet’s crash didn’t affect it at all, seemingly, since that brazen witch is still alive. Pity her boyfriend survived, though. I could use another concubine. No matter.

Having taken to the sewers, the embittered Lair Legion plotted their next move miles underground. Sorceress looked at her friends, and held hands with Donar and CrazySugarFreakBoy!in a group prayer. Nats stood triumphant but weary in a corner, and the concern and fear on his face was so palpable that even Exile’s eyes started to tear.

Goldeneyed started pacing, and looked gravely at Fin Fang Foom. “We need something big, and we need it now. We’ve lost our money, our food, and our home. This has gotta stop, man.”

Trickshot was visibly weeping. “Poor Jay… I never thought I’d see one of us go down like that.. this is terrible…”

The dragon spoke. “He’s not dead. And he won’t be just because he lost a couple limbs. But, you’re right. We’ve taken a tremendous hit. We need to stop reacting, we need to stop looking for physical answers. Because they’re fighting like a virus…they’re destroying us from within. Look at our group as a white blood cell, if you like…if we have something to attack, we’re easily able to consume it. But we’re up against a foe that’s like the HIV of the human species. It attacks defense systems. It corrupts things that are meant to only be there to help. In short, ladies and gentlemen, we’re at war.”

The Xylonian telepath Ziles placed her tiny hand in the air, raising it for permission to speak. The dragon nodded.
“My scannings are telling me that this is well planned…it’s gone on for more than years, perhaps even beyond decades. I suggest not going out in public for a while. I just get an uneasy reading about this.”
Exile snorted. “Nah. Fuck this shit. We’re the best there ever was. We’re being called out. I know you guys wanna play it cold and cool, and collected, and that’s cool. I get that. I just wanna hit something.”
As quickly as a thought, Exile flew out of the sewer, and the dragon shook his head quietly and with exasperation. “Not good.”

The cameras hush, and Congressman John Carlson takes the podium.
“People ask me what it’s like to have just won a seat in our government. It’s humbling. It’s awe-inspiring. But it’s not something you let intimidate you. You just go out there and grab the dragon by the throat. People’ve been wondering what exactly I’m gonna do… and, well, I’ve always thought that we rely too much on our gods. So I’ve been sending away for the best damn private eyes and the best damn police force one can find in our great country, and let me tell you that I’m the first man to appreciate what our heroes do for us. They fight with interstellar freaks all day long. But they deserve a vacation! So my friends I mentioned are gonna pick up the slack a bit.”

“Where did you come from, Senator? What’s your background? “

“Well, let’s just say I wasn’t the most popular kid in school. I mean, hell, you get acid thrown on your skin, that’s not a good way to make friends, y’know? Mom died while she was giving birth to me, and Dad was a junkie, and od’d. I pulled myself up out of the gutter, and now I’m just ready to help build other people up. And I won’t let anything stand in the way of my goals.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I must be getting on with other things.”

Senator John Carlson walked away from the conference rapidly, lost in memories of his childhood. Yes, people were cruel—classmates would break his bones, just because he was skinny and they could. They’d force him to go days without eating. After graduating high school by the tiniest slimmer of luck, they gave him a beating that hospitalized him for three months. But John Carlson’s bad life wasn’t even begun, yet.

One of his classmates became an enforcer for the mob, and told his godfather that Carlson was a stooge for the police. So Carlson had to endure nightly harassment (dogs’ heads in his bed, constant anal raping, glass in his food), and plotted quietly against his tormentors.

He studied under the tutelage of a retired penmanship expert, and it was with that skill that he learned to forge the godfather’s handwriting. He turned in written confessions to the police of murders that the godfather had committed years before, and the godfather was arrested and strangled to death in jail by one of his fellow inmates.

Carlson smiled as he stood on the streets, lost in memory… He loved seeing Redderick Jameson receive his comeuppance.

Strangely, Carlson was able to take over the power void when the godfather’s top lieutenants were busted in similar raids…

Carlson ran his mob with a much more subtle edge than Jameson had… no one ever knew who ultimately ran the show. He ran it much like a terrorist organization—there were independent cells, and all were capable of running on their own. They swore allegiance, ultimately, to an underlying cause: that of greed, of power, and of money, and of fear of Carlson himself.

And now, the godfather was a Senator. This pleased Carlson mightily… for he had been badly burnt by the Lair Legion’s Dark Knight financially. It pleased him to know that they were suffering, by the hand of one of his independent cells. He’d never had to make the attack order, for they’d simply done so because they were drunk. Apparently, most of that cell was wiped out in that bombing raid, anyway…

On the rubble of Lair Legion Island, a cadre of silent architects worked feverishly, long into the night. Their task was to rebuild something that was lost…something that was of great hope and awe to millions.

And the night was never more silent and never more like a tomb than when the Dark Knight sat outside Carlson’s office window. Unseen by all but the most trained eye, the living phantom smirked at Carlson’s arrogance. “Abandon all hope, ye who enter…”

Though the Chronicler was sorely troubled, he read, and remembered, and reminisced. The reminiscing did him some good, though it ultimately got him nowhere. In the midst of his reminiscing, he fashioned a rabbit that was in tune with the quantum mechanics of several alien civilizations for Yo, who was a favorite of the Chronicler’s, even if Yo’s sexuality issue disturbed him slightly. It was to be noted, though, that the Chronicler couldn’t deny Yo’s sexiness. This offering to Yo did much to raise the Chronicler’s spirits, and there are some ravens that have gone on the record to some intergalactic/dimensional reporters that the Chronicler was heard singing various and obscure Smashing Pumpkins and Nine Inch Nails songs. Though denizens of The Library were forever horribly deafened, life seemed to improve, or at least brighten. For as one suspects, the mood of the Chronicler establishes the mood of The Library.

However, the Chronicler continued to read, and brood…

“(Two titles work for this: either “Confrontation” or “Written Words.”)
Greg Burch
Creative Writing
His world was cramped and lonely. His cell reminded him of a shoebox, very small and confining. He blamed no one but himself for his living quarters or his current situation. He brought this all upon himself. His gray sweater reflected his mood, which was dark and dreary. “But, at least it’s finally all over, today" he told himself. He looked in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, a pale and grave countenance and a generally miserable soul looked back at him. He was comfortable and familiar with his horrible visage. The guilt of his mistake, knowing the humiliation his father had to endure, and the pained expression of his mother every time her eyes bored into his humiliated soul made him regret his mistake even more. In the darkness of his quiet, cramped cell, a tranquil candle's light seemed blinding to him. Its acrid smell reminded him of where he was about to end up in just a short time.
He wept, as all the pain washed over him. Wiry and spry, he wasn’t used to showing his emotions. Instead of recreation, he forced himself to remember the past; he felt that someday, maybe going through all this guilt would help redeem his rotten soul. He knew better than to weep for himself; all his self-pity died when he looked into the eyes of her family. He never realized that such an immature, one-time action could cause so much pain in people he didn’t know. He’d always hated being teased, and eventually, his hatred drove him to insanely violent acts.
But, still, even though everyone he ever met teased him, it didn’t excuse what he’d done. People just don’t act that vilely towards each other. While he’d sat in this cell these long months, he had time to reflect upon what he’d done to his family, her family, and that poor girl herself. He realized that he’s not a very stable person; he’s dealt with issues of anger for many years, without resolving that anger.
Her death was proof positive of that fact; he’d taken his anger out on innocent people for so many years that he’d ruined his reputation. Out of some shameful whim, he simultaneously bared and buried his soul in poetry. He removed his mind from his morbid reverie, and sat upon his bed, removing a petite notebook from under it. The notebook’s cover’s color was as full of noir as was his soul. Taking pen to paper, he released some anguish with written words. Poetry was his only escape from the prison his actions had created for him.

Two hours later he finally finished knowing better than to show his poetry to his psychologist. That hateful woman would publish it, while trying to show people his pathetic excuses for his bizarre rages. Her red hair reminded him of all the legends about Hell that he’s heard; surely, telling her of all the times his father threatened his mother’s life was his penance for his crime. He’s lost the respect of everyone, and surely, he’s suffered enough. His psychologist wouldn’t tolerate that kind of attitude towards his mistake. Her name was Sharon. With nothing better to do, he reflected upon the first time they met; just three short months ago. While remembering his past, he escaped the dreariness of the colorless, inanimate cell. He recollected things more easily if his eyes were closed; and there was no concern about light in the cell. His candle burnt out long ago.

“If I wasn’t paid for dealing with bizarre jerks like you, I wouldn’t even bother coming here. Let’s understand this right now. What you did was completely inexcusable, and I’ve noticed that you’ve pitied yourself a lot. You don’t deserve any pity, sir, just to make sure you understand that. You deserve nothing but punishment.” Her sky blue eyes looked so beautiful to him . . . her flushed complexion attracted him almost as much as her anger. The man wasn’t even six feet tall, and Sharon was only five feet, four inches tall. Still, she grabbed the front of his sweater with ease. Those incredible eyes gored into his soul; and his tortured brown eyes couldn’t answer her rage. Her perfume assaulted his nostrils, disorienting and distorting his perception of what was happening.

“Do you have any idea of what her family has gone through? Their lives won’t ever revert to normal; and it’s all because of your rage-driven idiocy. You have a lot to atone for; and it might be easier if the court decides against you being able to return to society, or even survive this. You won’t suffer anymore, and neither will either of the families involved in this, if this works out the way we all want it to. You’ve got a lot to think about, and pray about.”

She shoved him back into the unyielding, lifeless wall. Her gaze burned into his soul; and as much as he’d have liked to have avert his gaze, the sheer power of her anger kept his eyes on hers. His disorientation kept him unable to move; it seemed to him that they stayed in that position for millenia. Finally, she released her grip, looked at him disgustedly, and left. As she walked out the door, he noticed the simple black dress she’d worn; somehow, even with the guilt he felt he was able to note the irony of her outfit. He’d started thinking about all of the pain he’d caused; the first few weeks, he’d just been mad at himself. But after meeting Sharon, his thoughts turned to the others he’d harmed. Sharon had unknowingly caused him to cry for the first time since he’d graduated; and she’d also initiated the first serious poetry he’d written. Depressed, he slowly brought himself back to what passed for reality. He’d long ago forgotten what day, week, or even month it was, and he noted how little he cared.

He opened his eyes. While remembering his meeting with Sharon, he’d heard a rapping at his cell door. He met with her on Thursday, and today’s Wednesday. Wednesday’s the day he’s dreaded. It’s the day he’d officially meet with his victim’s mother. They still hadn’t met; she and her husband had wanted him to be mentally cured, or close to being cured, when they first met. His psychologist told them about his improvements, so they now felt comfortable talking to him. Lost in his recollections, he never realized that officers were escorting him. It wasn’t until he sat down that he became aware of where he was.

He entered the visitation room with a thudding heart; he felt miserable, and her mother’s anguished, incensed visage didn’t ease his trepidation. He could only guess at how she felt, and how she must hate him. She, like Sharon, was dressed in black; however, she wore a black trench coat and carried an expensive black purse, as well. “It’s appropriate; it’s just another example of the kind of pain I’ve caused these people.” He was used to being stared at by now; it was a consequence of being a killer and one of those insane people who incessantly muttered poetic nonsense to themselves.

Across from him, Jessica looked at the man who murdered her daughter. She cried all of her tears long ago. She noted how horribly gaunt he looked; he looked so sad, so regretful. She almost pitied him; her tiny frame weighted down by an incomprehensible understanding of his suffering. She twirled her brown hair, and averted his gaze.
It also unnerved her that he’d muttered something under his breath while sitting down; she wondered if he’d truly been cured of his rages. Finally, she motioned for him to sit. Her confusion rendered her speechless. She’s hated this man for the last two years; but she’s had time to come to grips with this. Still, her understanding didn’t dull her pain. She sat there for a while, uncomfortable and unable to express her thoughts. Finally, she decided to begin with a simple question.

“What’s your name?”

“Mrs. Stevenson, I . . . I can’t express how sorry I am.”

“What’s your name, you pathetic little worm?”

“John.”

“John, do you realize how important she was to me?”

“Yes. Every day I see her in my dreams, and I wish to God I wasn’t so hot-tempered.”

“That’s just it, John. I came to tell you I forgive you for your sin; it doesn’t mean I won’t hate you for a long, long time. But I can forgive you for your drunken rage.
But you killed her, John. I can’t forget that. I honestly hope that you pray to God, because I do wish that you get the death penalty.“

John bobbed his head, reminding Jessica of one of those water-drinking toy birds she’s seen for so many years; and Jessica wondered if John’s as soulless as those birds. She’s just told this man she wants him to die, and all he could do was bob his head.

They sat in another uncomfortable silence, and then Jessica simply couldn’t take it anymore. She released an explosion of emotion, something that felt as if it came from the darkest recesses of her soul.

“Didn’t you hear me? I just told you that I hope you die. Don’t you care?”

Jessica realized her voice became hysterical; the law enforcement officer returned, dragging the man who took her only daughter’s life back to the only place where he had any kind of refuge. She wished she could stop him from taking John away, but no words came. She felt as if she were an outside observer, callously observing the events of her life; and she couldn’t do anything but observe.

Their eyes met one last time; and John mouths, “I’m so sorry.”

Jessica slowly sat back down at the table, and started to think about the last two years of her life. She’s cried too many times; but her heart shattered for John’s family, and for John.

“He knew he was wrong; and I treated him like a cur. And his mother and father are heartbroken . . . How could he have been so stupid?”

She removed a pen from her purse, as well as a notebook. She barely felt the pen in her hand; the failed confrontation kept ran through her mind rapidly, almost as if she were editing a documentary via fast forward. She was more frustrated by her inability to truly confront him than by her uncomfortable feeling about being near John. She sat there, unable to think about anything other than her failure, and finally, she became inspired enough to do something to cope with it. She wished she were talented enough to write a poem; the best she could do was to create a chaotic, disjointed babbling.

The pen’s impact with the ground sounded as if a gong had been struck. Her ability to even function fled from her; she couldn’t decide if she was emotionally that fatigued or so wounded that she was no longer able to cry. Grabbing her trench coat, she somehow left, somehow kept from stumbling.

As she walked past the jail, she realized something; today was the day he was supposed to have been executed. She sat down on the sidewalk, her head seeking comfort from her knees. Her prayer to God was a prayer of emotion, not coherent thought. She hoped that God would understand. The prayer cleansed her soul, making her feel as if she’d absolved herself of whatever sin she may have committed. As soon as she thought this, images of her slain daughter returned to her mind, almost as if some malignant force pasted them there.
Slowly, it began to dawn upon her that if her daughter hadn’t dressed as a vigilante all those years, being scorned at by those in authority, she might never have been able to confront the man who slew her heroic, inspirational daughter. Almost as if looking at a sacred remnant of Christ’s cross, or something equally holy, she examined the crumpled photograph of her daughter once again. She began to walk in a circle, if only to try and clear her mind. Strangely, seeing her daughter’s picture eased her pain, if she remembered the positive things her daughter had taught her. Disoriented, she spoke to herself. “God . . . why did you have to take her away from me to make me stronger? Why?” In minutes, she’d exhausted herself again, so she sat down. Emotionally drained and weary, Jessica stared at the jail. Bizarrely, looking at the jail soothed her . . . for reasons she couldn’t understand. Her thoughts returned to John, and she could only wish that John wouldn’t suffer anymore.

John knew as soon as he was taken from the visitation room that he was finished. Knowing that he deserved what would happen, he relaxed his body and tried to clear his mind. He didn’t bother praying for himself; he didn’t feel that God’s grace extended to people who were nothing but pathetic wastes of skin.

Unaware of the physical world, John was busy trying to make his peace with her soul that he never felt the penetration of the needle.
“Jessica must have prayed for me.”
Finally, the rest of John’s candle, the only thing lighting his darkened cell, died out.”

It was just as well that the Chronicler was overwhelmed with reading The Book, for the Shaper was disregarding his wishes once more. The Shaper had fashioned a sort of gypsy’s ball with her power, and as he read, the Shaper was viewing the actions of the young man she’d seen before. It fascinated her how someone could brave the evils of the world for as long as he had without ever allowing himself emotional vulnerability. Until, of course, she came across the story of his wife.

And the Shaper wept…
“Tried to save myself but myself keeps slipping away

Talking to myself all the way to the station

Pictures in my head of the final destination

All lined up

(All the ones that aren’t allowed to stay)

Tried to save myself but myself keeps slipping away

Tried to save a place from the cuts and the scratches

Tried to overcome the complications and the catches

Nothing ever grows and the sun doesn’t shine all day

Tried to save myself but myself keeps slipping away

Tried to save myself but myself keeps slipping away”

Nine Inch Nails, Into The Void, The Fragile

It begins in terror. Does it also involve sadness? I hope so, but it’s not important. I’m above them, massive and triumphant. I am everything you ever wanted to be, in your infantile, idealistic days. It begins in terror… but ends in death. And that’s alright with me.”

It began with hate. So it’s not too surprising that I see the love splattered all over the wall… You should be here, darling. Emotion this strong was meant to be shared, by soulmates.

You know… You know I can hear you. The sociopath leader and the naïve detective. You disgust me, for I am the Destroyer of Tales. And Fallen One… I Am Your God, Now.

The detective and the Crying Clown watch in horror as the building they’re sharing physical space with (while they share lead projectiles) ceases to be. The detective ponders her husband’s fate, as she twirls her long brown hair thoughtfully, with a finger. She snaps herself out of her reverie as she rushes down the ruins of a corridor, trying to avoid the fallout and/or the damage of the attacks. Her trench coat flaps in the wind, something like a cape, as she ducks behind a trash container, and she withdraws her revolver. She knows it’s ultimately meaningless, but she feels she may as well try something.

John Carlson, the Crying Clown, doesn’t bother trying to avoid ruins or people. The ruins he treats as any other obstacle in life. He just runs over them. As for the people, they’re easily dispatched with a bullet to the head. He’s successful in life, as far as his definition of success goes. He’s finally coming to grips with the inhuman cruelty that plagued him so in childhood… and his confidence is allowing him to rise to power in ways that, possibly, even he never suspected. Most of all, he realizes that the common man (and woman)’s obsession with confidence is meaningless. You can have all the confidence in the world, and it means nothing. Action is everything, as is thought. Nothing else matters. Outside of hate. Yes, hate. Hate and fear. Fear and bullets… they are for the enemy, always and forever. For they’ll never be repaid the vast wrong that they wrought. Death would be far too merciful, and paralysis far too simple. Be that as it may, even the bitterness of the Clown must take a backseat as Samhain has arrived.

Their horror deepens as the Destroyer of Tales, Samhain, arrives in all his glory. They know of his impact… they know of his power. However, it is his megalomaniac insanity they fear most of all…

Another man wrestles with his inner demons this night. He and Carlson might just have this in common, most of all. They’re two sides of the same horribly mangled coin, though Carlson’s scars are much less subtle. Not to say that a man who witnessed firsthand the systematic near-utter eradication of a race is necessarily subtle in terms of scar tissue, but his scars are less concrete. It would be hard for a man who witnessed knights in… well, that’s getting too graphic for so early in this tale. You see, it’s in sleep that his past is reborn, like some terrible zombie with a craving for what little there remains of his soul. It can never be satiated… it will never alleviate its torture on his warped psyche. He twists and turns in his bed, but it's much like trying to surf a raging torrent of a river. It’s an exercise in futility… perhaps a metaphor for his life. Perhaps it's a meaningless connection. But as far as he’s concerned, there’s no saving him… he’s tried to save himself, but he kept slipping away. He knows that that’s not entirely his fault… he knows that there’s something ancient and ghastly and powerful that created him. He feels it in the lowest parts of his ego, his id… he’s so close to deciphering it that he can almost taste it on a molecular level. He walks, nightly, the thin line of the damned and the sainted… and there are those that would say that this is perhaps the thinnest line that one can ever walk. So thin, in fact, that there isn’t a true distinction, particularly after you view the line for some time.

In between the cuts and the scratches, the confusion and the catches, one sees the tears and the tears in his psyche and his worldview, his soul and his emotions. As the nightmares churn like rotting butter and worm their way under any possibility of happiness he ever may have had, his humanity crumbles in microscopic tatters, overrun by the bacteriophages of childhood and innocence being ruptured by the sadism of optimism. Like parasites with personal vendettas, rejections and humiliations only add to the rotting of his core, decomposing portions of his memory itself.

In a high-rise apartment overlooking the GothaMetropolis Squire, Natasha Goddard glances briefly at the river flowing beneath her window, stirs her coffee, and closes her eyes. It’s not quite time, yet… but when it is, no one will be able to deny, though they won’t be able to fully understand, the actions she’s about to undergo. This isn’t to say that they won’t be studied and puzzled over for years to come…

In DK: O part II:
Less of ‘the world’, more of ‘the man.’

This poster posed from 150.131.160.15 when they posted

Message Thread

You Know You Want It. - - 16:12 on July 3, 2002

This'll take me forever to read. But I'm sure it's excellent. Keep it coming. - (nt) Nats is determined to finish - 19:02 on July 3, 2002

......................wow. - (nt) Finny - 19:39 on July 3, 2002

ummm, that looks gorgeous, but it has to wait. Will read it at home later - (nt) Yo - 09:09 on July 4, 2002

That was a fine collection of previous works. I await more... - (nt) Nats - 13:11 on July 4, 2002

And interwoven with the Chroniclers pieces, woo. Everybody, read this. - (nt) Nats, again... - 13:11 on July 4, 2002

hrm....i know whose not going to see Lilo and Stitch this Fourth of July Weekend.... - (nt) s. ghost - 16:17 on July 4, 2002

Boy there's alot in here! Still reading! - (nt) ag never read these the 1st time. - 09:04 on July 6, 2002

Hey, finally read it all. Sheesh.. that was Finny/HH epic length. :) But, very good. I didn't realize how connected your stories were before this. - (nt) Messenger - 13:19 on July 6, 2002

*awed silence* - (nt) dull thud : eventually manages a "...whoa." - 13:37 on July 6, 2002

Finally read it. And this was great.!!! - (nt) Yo likes to disturbe beings - 12:47 on July 10, 2002

Splendid post-modern summary of the condition of the Chronicler and the condition of G. Burch. - (nt) HH - 20:06 on July 22, 2002

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