Posted by The latest leg of the superhero walkabout continues with this deitic ditty from... the Hooded Hood on April 20, 2001 at 15:18:47:
#70: Untold Tales of the Lair Legion World Tour: The Chariots of the Gods Have All Got Wheelclamped
Imagine an era before stories were trapped in gross matter and time/space. This was an era of pure theology, when things were just getting over being moulded from the void and a few celestial beings were getting quite upset over their Creator’s plans to form little fleshy creatures with a spark of the divine inside them. Imagine a rebellion, and a war, and a fall. “Another one,” Degenerus of the Greek pantheon complained. “How many suitors does the little slut have?” He dropped Troia in the sand and strode over to pull Chronic’s head off. The Parodyverse is made of stories – quite literally. It dwells at the very far end of the probability curve because somewhere has to, and it was created to act as a place where lots of improbable, stupid, or just plain embarrassing things happen so they wouldn’t mess up other more respectable universes. That’s why creatures like the Hero Feeders can devour all memory of the people they capture by shredding the very storylines that once gave heroes their reality. That’s why somebody or something appoints the Triumverate of Shaper, Chronicler, and Destroyer and lots of minor Office Holders to keep things going, because every story needs editors and proofreaders. And that’s why the Parodyverse has so many gods. “Why are all these people bowing?” Nats worried as he climbed down from the red London double-decker bus the Lair Legion were using for their World Tour. “Thanks for the lift, Amy!” Dancer called as the Greek contingent of the Lair Legion got dropped off at Calcutta International Airport. “See you later!” “So they are in India, and they have incurred the wrath of the Rakshasas?” the shadowy villain noted, looking up from the report he had been handed by the Minion, his minion. The massive dragon swooped low over the Gangetic plain then rode the updrafts to alight on a ridge of the Rajmahal Hills overlooking the fertile river valley. The sun shone red in the Western sky painting the water and fields around it in scarlet hues. “And it is most important to smite most verily any Frosting Giants, ringwraiths, Norn queenes, and ur-Trolls which thou see-est,” Donar advised Visionary on his new status as a god. “Also any dwarfs which doth look at you a little funny.” “Excuse me,” Miss Framlicker asked Melanie Hastings, a.k.a. Action Figure, a.k.a. Meggan Foxxx, a.k.a. CrazySugarFreakBoy’s mom. “Are you alright?” The SPUD agent tried to pull his weapon but the silly string entangled him before he could even open his holster. “Just stay down,” CrazySugarFreakBoy! advised him. “I’m not kidding!” It was an almost windowless chamber the size of a standard living room. Thirty children and one old woman were crowded into the stuffy darkness assembling plastic toys for more fortunate children in America. There they worked from dawn to dusk and then they were released to do their other chores. Next door was the brothel where the children were transferred as they got a little older. The three Rakshasas were dressed in conservative business suits as they entered the Lair Legion’s bus, and they looked like any other respectable high-caste Indian gentlemen. It was only when they were out of view of the worshipping crowds that they allowed the illusion to fall, appearing as three eight-foot tall armoured bipedal tigers. Next issue: A Few Random Scenes Setting Up the Following Chapter, where the Lair Legion make preparations to gamble with demons, the new pantheon gains a Trickster, Finny and Ziles define the meaning of justice, Dancer discovers the pitfalls of stardom, and the Dark Knight calls in a guest star. Also, it’s Amy Racecar’s turn for a nude scene, Exile’s turn for a bedroom scene, and the Hooded Hood pays a visit to Lisette. Don’t miss it!
Now imagine the place formed by the shadow of this a newly created world, where a former archangel nurses his scorched wings and plans his revenge and becomes the opposite of everything his Creator is. Imagine him demanding that his minions pay him homage as the divine hosts sing the praises of their master. And imagine his reaction when he’s told that he doesn’t have any good tunes.
Next, imagine what kind of musical instrument this creature of evil, this second-most-powerful-thing-in-existence might create that his praises might be sung. It’s black, with strings of tortured steel, and the lightning of the apocalypse throbbing through it. When it’s strummed it makes a noise that sounds like “Whauuuuueuuuuuuaaaaaaauuuuuummmmmmm! Skreeeeeeeeeaaaaiiiiiiaaaaaaaaannng!” It is the Devil’s music.
Finally, imagine what might happen if this instrument somehow got to the mortal world and fell into the hands of a problem teenager who would sell his soul to be able to play Stairway to Heaven like it should be played.
The teenager’s name is Chronic. He calls the guitar Steve.
A strum of the guitar hurled the god twenty yards back along the beach. “Well actually,” Chronic admitted, “I’m not exactly a suitor, but I do want to kill her. Does that count?”
“I am not going to be saved by Chronic!” complained Troia. “I’d prefer Degenerus and the thing with the goats.”
“Hush,” Sorceress told the angry Amazon. “Dancer went to a lot of trouble to fix this coincidence up. Now stay quiet and watch. If Jay’s done his part right then there’s something that Degenerus doesn’t know.”
“That’s it!” Degenerus snarled, rising up and letting lightning lance around his body. “You’re going to Tartarus, mortal.”
“Been there. Got the T-shirt,” Chronic answered, flattening his opponent again with another chord. “You know, I really don’t like gods.”
“It shows,” admitted Pegasus, watching the contest with the attitude of a referee. “What a fine instrument you have there.”
“Thanks,” Chronic answered.
“Nice guitar as well,” Pegasus added.
Degenerus gestured, and a dozen sand elementals sprang up around the young musician. Chronic vaporised them with Bat Out of Hell. “Give up, toga boy,” he advised. “Don’t make me resort to Whitesnake. Or ZZTop.”
Degenerus loosed his divine wrath. The skies blackened, hurricane force winds bent the trees along the shoreline. It took all Sorceress’ control of the elements to shield the fallen Dancer, Hatman, and ManMan from the tempest. Lightning sprayed down onto Chronic, lancing through him and through Steve; and that allowed him to crank up the volume.
The next chord set glasses rattling in Athens.
Degenerus picked himself up for a third time, wiped the ichor from his nose, and loosed entropy upon the world. “Die now, frail mortal!” he gloated. “Nothing but a god can prevail against the winds of decay, and you are nothing but a sad, pointless human.”
Chronic cleaved his way through the black clouds surrounded by St Elmo’s fire and swung Steve round in an arc to slam into Degenerus’ head.
The god of vice and corruption vanished. “This isn’t over,” he promised Troia as he went.
Chronic looked confused. “What did I just do?” he puzzled.
“You just stopped Degenerus,” Pegasus told him. “Although he has staked his claim on Troia. He will be back.”
“By then I’ll have had some religious guidance,” muttered Troia. “Is it too late to become Jewish?”
“I saved Troia,” Chronic worried. “I want to kill her now. I’ve got the power. But I can’t. Why?”
Sorceress had taken the Donar helmet off Hatman and the capped crusader was waking. “Put the guitar down and step back and we’ll explain,” he offered.
Against his will, Chronic found himself doffing Steve and walking backwards.
“So you did contact him,” Sorceress realised. “Well done, Jay.”
“Contact who?” Chronic puzzled.
Then he felt his sweat turn cold, slide in a sheen off his body, and form up into another man in a toga. “Contact me of course,” said Elqsqueevio, the Greek God of Small Waters. “Ooh I have a headache. Possessing humans through their body fluids always gives me a migraine. I don’t think I’ve done it since the Renaissance.”
“I was possessed?”
“Why else do you think Degenerus’ entropy blasts couldn’t hurt you?” Sorceress suggested. “It was Elsqueevio inside you who lent you the immortality to resist.”
“You killed me,” Troia scowled at Chronic, referring to an earlier incident. “But I guess I won’t kill you back. Just yet.” She turned away then spun to point a finger at him, “But if you ever save me again I will gut you like a herring, clear?”
“Er, yeah,” Chronic agreed. “Really clear.”
“Urrrgghhh!” ManMan groaned. He had taken a pretty severe beating in combat with Troia’s divine would-be lover.
“Oh, Joe!” Troia gasped, suddenly remembering what he had done for her. She splashed out into the shallows to cradle him to her breast. “Joe,” she called.
For months ManMan and Troia has been sporadically dating. Troia’s father, the Hooded Hood, had put a serious spoke in the relationship by commanding her to breed with ManMan, which was a real passion-killer. But Joe had fought for her again and again, against alien and demon and now against a god. This time when Troia called his name there was a new tone in it.
And an implicit promise.
The stunned ManMan looked up through bleary blackened eyes. “Stacy?” he moaned.
Something inside Troia went icy cold.
She dropped ManMan into the water, kicked him soundly in the groin, and stalked away down the beach. She never looked back.
That’s gods, with the small g. Don’t confuse them with God, because that’s like confusing Spider-Man and Stan Lee. It’s just that the Parodyverse is made up of stories, and stories involve belief, and in a place that near impossible belief tends to accrete into shape and action. If enough people at the dawn of time believe in a family of deities living on a mountaintop and committing incest with each other then in the Parodyverse at least that’s what you’ll get. And because people then believe that these gods created them then the obliging buggers will go back to the beginning and actually do it. The Parodyverse has at least twenty thousand origins and counting.
Because people can’t imagine perfection these gods aren’t perfect. People can imagine what people would be like if they could move mountains, change shape, heave lightning bolts at other people, and sink continents, so the gods are like that instead. That’s why so many pantheons have all-fathers, all-mothers, lusty young warriors, sneaky brothers, and of course irritating deaf aunties who come round at the winter solstice. And they have enemies.
Every pantheon worth its worship has them: the bad guys. Their job is to rebel and get beaten. Again and again and again. If there are no bad guys the story can’t work. So there are always titans, and frost giants, and Formorians, and demons, so that the gods have somebody to kick.
At least that’s how it usually works. In India the Vedas tell of the Rakshasas, who scholars will explain were probably historically a slightly more civilised race occupying Ceylon who went to war with the early Indo-European culture and were eventually conquered. The Indian gods however point out that no, actually rakshasas are animal-headed screaming maniacs with immense magic powers and fierce combat skills who spend their time ripping the heads off mortals to see how far the blood squirts. Any scholars with doubts are most welcome to have the Rakshasas’ fax number and get in touch themselves.
But unlike most mythologies, the Rakshasas aren’t dumber than the gods they fight (for example it is often possible to beat a Frosting Giant by asking them to count their legs). In fact Rakshasas are pretty smart. So when they worked out that the old Indian gods were feeling the pinch with the onset of cable TV and other worldly distractions they picked their moment, made an offer, and simply bought their enemies out. The gods accepted lucrative screen roles in epic mythological sagas about their adventures on prime-time Asian TV, went into the movie industry, and were never heard of again. The Rakshahas bought business suits, ate their nations’ drug barons and porn lords, and carried on business as usual.
This worried the few ancient monks who were spiritually adept enough to work out what was going on. After lots of spins of the prayer wheel they finally decided to seek advice from the sorcerer supreme of the Parodyverse about what to do. After fasting and penance a chosen delegation traversed the great oceans to the land where the master of the mystic crafts dwelled. They braved the horrors of the city wherein he studied and finally found his sanctum disguised as a humble plumbers and watch-repairers shop.
“What shall we do?” they asked Xander the Improbable, once they had negotiated a price.
“Appoint a new pantheon,” the little man in the dusty red robes advised them. “Start with a new head deity and work on it from there.”
“Where can we find a god who would accept such a task?” the holy men worried.
Xander wrote a name on a piece of paper and handed it to them grinning.
“Perhaps people are just very polite here in Calcutta?” Lisette speculated.
“And about twenty thousand of them just showed up to say hello?” Exile asked sceptically. “I don’t think so.”
“It art good to see proper respect for heroes for the nonce,” Donar approved.
“Uh, one of them is coming forward with a garland of flowers,” Goldeneyed noticed. “Watch out. It may be a trap.”
“Yo is thinking that nice people are just being nice,” Yo suggested.
“Oh yeah. Like that happens,” Trickshot snorted.
“Welcome to India, most honoured ones,” the Old Monk bade them.
“Uh, thanks,” Finny answered. “Why the big turnout?”
“Not that we don’t deserve it, natch,” interjected Trickshot.
“We are here to welcome our new god,” the old Monk explained.
Donar looked worried. “Ah. Well I art most honoured by thy reverence, but the Ausgardians art retired by ancient pact with the Celestians and…”
“No,” the old Monk gently corrected him. “Our new god.” He moved forward and placed the garland around Visionary’s neck. “Most holy one, “ he bowed.
“It’ll be good to get back to the others,” Hatman smiled. “We can catch up on how the criminal investigation into whoever freed Magnetic Techbird is getting on.”
“I think on the whole I could have left that to DK a while longer and worked on my all over tan,” suggested Sorceress. “You didn’t seem to mind working on my all over tan, Jay.”
“What did he say?” Pegasus wondered as the capped crusader responded by blushing furiously.
“I think it was ‘Aargle’,” Dancer replied. “Bit it might have been ‘Aaargkle.’
“Is that Canadian for ‘Yes very much?”’ ManMan wondered.
“It’ll be good to get back to people we like,” Troia noted, turning her back on the Elvis impersonator. Then she glared at Chronic, whom Dancer had insisted on dragging along. “And I don’t see why we didn’t just leave him on Slakos.”
“Because he saved us all,” Dancer reminded her. “And we are reforming him.”
“He doesn’t look reformed to me,” Hatman admitted sourly. “And I don’t trust him with that guitar now Elsqueevio isn’t possessing him.”
“I’m watching you too, buster,” Knifey declared.
“Oh. A talking knife is watching me. I’m worried.” Chronic shrugged.
“I’m not talking to you,” Knifey replied. “I’m warning the devil’s guitar.”
“All but Dark Knight,” complained the Minion. “He’s been tearing up Geneva trying to find out how I smuggled that restraint dampener to Magentic Techbird that made him go bananas. He already knows someone did it, and it’s only a matter of time before he traces the tech back to B.A.L.D. They won’t be able to stand up to him since Blofish was taken out of the picture, and that’ll put him onto the Tokyo connection, and then…”
“The Dark Knight is one man. He can be distracted. He can be killed.”
“Oh yeah! And then he comes back to life more psychopathic than ever!” complained the Minion.
“Not if we do it right,” promised the Minion’s master. “There are things which can destroy him – destroy anything – utterly. Now listen carefully…”
“It is beautiful,” sighed Ziles. “They have a very beautiful planet when they don’t screw it up.”
“We,” the Makluan urged her, setting her down gently and assuming his human form as Amdrew Dean. “We have a beautiful planet. We may be adopted, but it’s our home now too.”
The Xnylonian shook her head. “It might be yours, but I’m still an alien here. I’ve never stayed as long in one place since I was exiled from home, but now it’s becoming clear that I don’t really belong here. That business with the Magnetic Techbird confirmed it for me. I have no place in your Lair Legion.”
“You’ve been a great addition,” Finny argued.
“I only joined because I had nowhere else to go, nowhere better to be. And you people were so nice to me. But I don’t live for the LL like you do, Andy. And I can’t stay here any longer.” She almost told the Makluan about the Death Warranters as well, but that was her own personal nightmare and she intended to be far away from here when that doom caught up with her.
“Fighting for what’s right is my life, Ziles,” the dragon told her. “The LL is a means to that end. I was trained from being a kid to use my powers responsibly, to use them to benefit the world. Everybody should use their gifts to make things better, to put things straight.”
“And that’s all your life, is it?” the silver-suited girl asked him. “Isn’t that how Dan Drury got to be how he is today, and why he couldn’t stay with Meggan?”
Andrew Dean looked out over the glittering expanse of water below. “It’s an important part of my life. And the LL are my friends, almost my family I guess. Leading them is the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve got to get it right because if I make a mistake one of them dies or maybe the world dies.”
Ziles turned away. “Well, you have one less legionnaire to worry about now.”
“Ziles, wait!” Finny called. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“Because I’d leave a big hole in your roster?” she challenged. “Induct Dancer. She’d be a popular choice. She deserves her shot.”
“Because… I’d miss you,” Finny admitted. “And because if you go now you won’t have really understood me, or what being a legionnaire is all about.”
Ziles listened.
“Give me twenty-four hours to show you,” Finny asked her. “Just come with me for twenty-four hours, okay?”
“Okay,” smiled the alien girl, “but you’d better buy me dinner.”
“Look, I’m not a god,” Visionary protested. “I’m mortal dammit!”
“They seem to think you’re a god,” Exile pointed out, gesturing to the crowds beyond the bus. “They’ve even got a name for you – Koor Darson.”
“What does that mean?” Vizh asked suspiciously.
“I think it’s Hindi for something like ‘False Man’” Cheryl admitted.
“Yo thinks Visi makes good deity,” Yo decided. “Is perhaps to be god of bunnies?”
“Er, no.” Visionary insisted. “I’ve just got to explain that this is all a mistake and then…”
“They had a note from Xander suggesting you,” Meggan Foxxx pointed out. “It said you owed him a favour.”
“Well yeah, but…”
“Thou wilt make a most fine god for the nonce once I hast taught you to reave, smite, and chunder,” Donar promised the stricken possibly fake deity.
Cheryl smiled. “Look, don’t take this so seriously, Visionary. They just want to give you flowers and have a celebration. We’re only here a couple of days. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Mr Visionary, there is a delegation of Rakshasas outside wishing to discuss arranging a holy war,” Valeria announced politely.
Meg looked out of her hotel room window and smiled a thin bitter smile. “Sure honey. It’s just girl troubles, an’ I don’t mean the monthly ones.”
“Ah. You mean the strange pains you get from living on a planet with men,” Miss Framlicker answered with a surprising amount of emotion.
Meg looked up. “Sound like you’ve had a few goodbye-an’-keep-in-touches yourself, kiddo.”
“Only one,” replied Miss Framlicker “One was enough. Never again.”
“I’ve stopped countin’ how often I’ve said never again,” Meggan sighed. “But I was with Dan longer than anybody I can remember since… well, since Dream’s dad I guess. And Dan was a good guy. Too good for me.”
“As I understand it, you survived childhood abuse and an at-risk lifestyle and raised your son as a single parent despite claims he had learning disabilities,” Miss Framlicker pointed out. “That suggests that you are more ‘good’ than you attribute yourself to be.”
“Ah, don’t mind me,” Meg shrugged. “An thanks for asking. Most of the gals here are just too intimidated because I’m an older, more experienced woman to come and talk when it’s me that’s got the blues. Thanks.”
“So you’re okay?”
“I will be hon. I’m smarting a bit just now, but as soon as I find one of these dusky Indian studs to burn off some energy with I’ll be just fine. It’s Dream I’m more worried about.”
“What do you mean?” Miss Framlicker wondered.
“Aw, he don’t like anything upsetting me,” Meggan explained. “I think he’s stormed off to have a word with Colonel Drury.”
“You don’t think we’re just going to let you waltz into a SPUD installation and let you do what you want do you?” a SPUD operative in Sentinoid armour challenged him. “This is the big leagues, kid.”
When CSFB! has finished gluing the SPUD agent to the wall he went over to the monitor, checked the carrier frequency, and used his wired watch to contact the SPUD helicarrier. “Drury!” he shouted. “I wanna talk to you!”
“Of course ya do,” a voice from behind him said. Dream swing round to find the cigar-chomping head of the Super-menace Principal Undercover Division glaring at him. “Didya think you could bull yer way into one of my installations and I’d not get to hear about it? So what’s bunchin’ yer underwear?”
“You!” shouted Dreamcatcher Foxglove. “You hurt my mom!”
Drury took a long draw on his stogie. “We split up, kid. It happens. Now I know you must be feeling a little sore right now, and I’m sorry I wus never able to be the father you needed but…”
“Father? I have a father.”
“Sure. The guy whut walked on your mom when you were an infant an’ never looked back. But I know what’s that’s like, cause my own stepdad wuz…”
“You aren’t my father! And as far as I’m concerned, Louis Laughing Fox was always there for me! He was never gone for me. Did you think you could buy me with stupid ball game tickets and trying to take me fishing? I don’t even like sports.”
“I was… it was just that… well, you’re a real big part of you mom’s life, and I figgered whut kind of man would I be if I didn’t try an’…”
Dream took a long deep breath. “Look, Dan ... you're not a bad guy, so I hate to have to be harsh and break it to you like this, but I don't WANT to have to go through this trying-to-be-father-and-son bullshit with you, because, well, I really don't NEED a dad, okay? I already HAVE a fucking dad. And you know what? He ain't YOU. So stop trying to BE HIM.”
Drury shook his head. “I’m way better at taking out B.A.L.D. strongholds than this stuff,” he admitted. “Look, I’m sorry your mom’s hurt. I’m a bit bruised too, an’ I guess so are you. An’ I’m sorry if I got I got the wrong idea about you. I just thought…”
“You could ‘grow me up’ and ‘make a man of me’?” CSFB! asked. “Nah, I’m being unfair here. You’re catching it for all the parade of weedy pencil-dicks who dated mom while I was growing up and felt they’d better take an interest in Meggan Foxxx’s nerdy kid. And I guess you and mom are both grown-ups and can make your own decisions. I just…”
“I can’t fault you for carin’ fer your mom, Dream. I care fer her too. And I guess I care ‘bout you too in my own clumsy neanderthal way. But we need some distance alright?”
“I guess,” Dreamcatcher admitted.
“See ya around, kid. An’ don’t bust into any more SPUD bases, cause next time I’ll bust yer ass.”
“This place is certainly full of life,” Lisette admitted as they pushed their way through the crowded streets of the night market, “but such contrasts as well. So many beautiful things and buildings, but all these people sleeping rough and living by begging.”
“You really know how to put a dampener on a night on the town, Laurie,” ManMan muttered. He was unhappy because he was still in a wheelchair after his recent battle with Degenerus, because Troia was still not speaking to him after he inadvertently said Stacy Gwen’s name instead of hers at the end of the battle, and because people kept on dropping rupees into his lap thinking he was a mendicant.
“Oh come on, Joe,” Dancer chided him. “We couldn’t really have enjoyed dinner at a restaurant with all these folks starving out here, could we? It was really nice of G-Eyed to use his money to feed them instead.”
“Sure,” Bry Katz shrugged weakly. “I, er, didn’t need all my travelling money anyway.”
“Aw, I feel happier prowlin’ the streets anyhow,” Karl Bastion told them. “This way we get a feel fer the real city, good an’ bad.”
“Let’s eat in there,” Dancer suggested, stopping at a tiny street café which was indistinguishable to the other heroes from the thousand other tiny street cafés they had passed. It was just a mom-and-pop affair with a few tables crowded round a front room kitchen.
“Why here?” Lisette wondered.
“I guess it’s just my café-sense,” Sarah Shepherdson told them, not explaining how a seasoned waitress could pick up a feel for a good place to eat from the way things were ordered and the attitude of the customers.”
They found a table, the waiter brought them some naan bread to munch while they ordered, and looked at the menu. "Foreign food,” Trickshot complained.
“It’s not foreign here.” Goldeneyed pointed out. “They’ve got chicken curry, vegetable curry, pork curry, prawn curry, and meat curry. What’s in the meat curry?”
“Meat,” Dancer warned them. “Of some sort.”
Vegetarian Lisette shuddered.
“What does ‘Vindaloo’ mean?” G-Eyed checked.
“It’s Indian for ‘so hot we only feed it to stupid tourists’,” Dancer translated.
“I’ll have that then,” the annoying archer decided.
Dancer did the ordering. It took twenty minutes, because she found out the waiter’s name, met his father and sister, discussed the price of spices and how difficult it was to get good roti these days, was introduced to the regular customers, and settled a bitter dispute about whether an old man’s grand-daughter should be disinherited for secretly wearing lipstick. On the other hand when the food appeared in humble wooden bowls accompanied by piles of streaming chuppatis it was absolutely excellent and on the house.
A man sitting in the corner in a Western business suit rose and came over to the table. “Excuse me?” he asked politely, proffering a business card to ManMan, “May I speak to this young woman?”
“Huh?” Joe Pepper asked, uncertainly.
“He wants to talk to Dancer,” Knifey explained. “An’ he’s checking with her menfolk that it’s okay.”
“But I’m not…”
“What is it?” Dancer asked kindly.
“He’s from Mogul Studios,” Trickshot read from the card. “Mr Chapachandranashpateem, Casting Director.”
“Indeed,” Mr Chapachandranashpateem admitted. “I was wondering if the young lady here could sing and dance at all?”
“Dancer?” ManMan snorted. “You work it out, buddy.”
“Er yes. I can,” Shep answered, her heart suddenly fluttering.
“Then I would like to offer you a contract, miss. India has the largest movie industry outside of Hollywood. I would like to make you a star.”
“This place is… is evil,” Ziles fumed. “How could anyone…?” She found it hard to continue.
“Yes,” Fin Fang Foom agreed. “This place is evil. And it’s coming down. And the man behind it is coming down. And his boss. And his boss. All the way to the top.” He glanced at the livid Xnylonian. “We have twenty-four hours,” he told her.
“By the bowel-movements of Boromir!” smiled Donar, “A challenge at last.”
“Watch it guys,” Nats warned. “Miss Framlicker will kill me if the bus gets messed up.”
“Those are the Rakshasas all right,” Pegasus admitted.
“Oh, hello horsey,” one of them grinned toothily. “We didn’t know you were still slinking around on Earth or we’d have come for you as well.”
“Anytime, anyplace,” the Pegasus promised them. “Where do you want the bits sending?”
“I believe you wanted to speak with us,” Cheryl asked the visitors pointedly. “What did you want to say?”
“Ah, fair moon of our desire, we are seeking the one those sad little priests outside wish to declare a god,” the lead Rakshahsa, Prince Ravada, answered. “You see we have gone to some trouble here in Calcutta to create something of a god-free zone, the better to pursue our enterprises.”
“Chasing furry toys? Cornering the kitty-litter market?” Exile suggested.
“Being masters of all we survey. Gutting any opposition who dares to be insolent to us. So you can imagine our chagrin when a new would-be deity tries to set up shop here. It interferes with business.”
“So you’ve come to make us an offer we can’t refuse?” Nats asked.
“We came to issue a friendly little warning. Get out. If you’re still here by sunrise it will be war.”
“The Lair Legion doesn’t back off from threats,” Hatman answered. “Frankly, even if Vizh does want to go away now I’m going to stick around and whup your asses.”
“Ahhh!” the Rakshasa leader growled appreciatively. “A proper challenge. How splendid. Then we shall set up the trials and see how good this new god of yours is.”
“Wait a minute,” Vizh objected. “Tests? War?”
“The Rakshasas like these things to be done with style,” Pegagsus admitted. “There are all kinds of godly contests to determine who the winners are. I shall be pleased to be one of the referees.”
“I have to take all the tests?” Vizh worried.
“I shalt be happy to loan myself to thy pantheon for the nonce, and to partake of yon tests gainst these mangy felons,” Donar promised, happily stroking his enchanted baseball bat Mjalcolm.
“A pantheon of two,” snickered a Rakshasa. “This will be easy meat.”
“We will all help,” Sorceress announced. “Visionary, deputise us as gods for the duration.”
The possibly fake man flinched. “Er, can I do that?”
“You’re a god dear,” Cheryl advised him. “You can do anything you want. As long as I say it’s okay.”
“Then I appoint all the people here gods,” Vizh proclaimed. “Donar is god of, um, smiting things. Cheryl is goddess of HTML, naturally. Yo is god and or goddess of…”
“Fuzzy bunnies,” the pure thought being beamed happily.
“Nats, you’re god of messengers,” Vizh suggested.
“Cool! I’ll get some razor letters,” the flying phenomenon grinned.
“Sorcy, goddess of magic, Hatty, god of…”
“Hats?” Sorceress suggested pertly.
“Troia, goddess of, well, stabbing things.”
“Sounds good to me,” the Amazon administrator agreed. “Can I practise on Chronic?”
“Exile, god of, er…”
“Kicking Rakshasa butt?” suggested Derek Foreman, glaring at the demon emissaries.
“Whatever,” Vizh conceded. “There. A pantheon.”
“We’re ready for these contests whenever you are,” Hatman warned the Rakshasas.
The three Rakshasas grinned their feline grins. “Then we shall make our preparations. It will be a splendid bloodbath. Let the Game of the Rakshasas begin!”
For previous episodes, consult the Hooded Hood's Homepage of Doom.