Posts Tagged ‘ #PursuitOfAwesome ’

The “Talk”.

Hey all. Just a quick peek at something I’ve been working on when I’m not slaving at Home Depot. Please give a read and enjoy when you can.

***
“Now, son,” began Tony Smith, glancing around the room awkwardly.

 

Jameson stared at him for a moment. “Yes—Dad.”

“Jameson—my son—the time has come—” Tony coughed nervously, and looked up at the ceiling, before beginning again. “Jameson—your mother and I have noticed some—changes in your lifestyle.” He bit his lip, and then stared at his feet. “For example—well, like—”

 

“You have friends,” noted Martha Smith bluntly.

 

“—Which is a good thing,” appended Tony hastily. “A very good thing. In some ways. However, the sheer—amount of changes in your lifestyle causes us to wonder if you have had—certain other changes. Now—Jameson—at your age, change is normal. But sometimes—some changes indicate—things.” Toshiro looked his son in the eyes, desperation obvious on his face. “You do get what I mean, don’t you?”

Jameson blinked. “I believe so, and trust me—there’s no need to talk to me about puberty. I’ve experienced its deforming touch.”

Tony stared at his son quietly for a moment, then glanced at his chuckling wife. “This isn’t funny, Martha.”

Martha snorted. “You’re right—it’s actually hilarious.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “You know, you’re the one who wanted to have this talk…”

“Yeah, yeah…” said Martha in forced repentance. “I would have been just as happy not to have this talk.”

“I know, I know.”

“In fact, if you’re going to act like this, I’ll just leave, and we won’t have the talk.”

“No, no—I’m cool.”

“So can we get back to it?”

“Go ahead. No one’s stopping you.” The couple suddenly winced at the sound of a rap on the table. They glanced up at their son, who nervously glanced at his hand, which was resting uneasily atop the tabletop.

“Flies,” said Jameson apologetically.

Tony coughed, then looked earnestly at his son. “Now, Jameson—are—have you ever—do you—”

Martha groaned to herself, then turned to Jameson. “Yo, son. Are you downing any reds?”

Jameson blinked. “Say what?”

“Doing any snow? Horse? Weed? Crystal? Bennies? Downers? Acid? Angel Dust? Anything like that at all?”

Jameson’s hand slapped several times against the table. “Boy, lot of pesky insects around, aren’t there?”

Martha frowned. “Not really. Now, answer the question?”

Jameson laughed nervously. “Ahh, yes. The question. The important question.” He coughed. “Could I—get a translation? A version of it that makes sense?”

“Are you doing drugs?” said Martha bluntly.

“No,” answered Jameson with a reassured nod.

“Because if you are, we don’t necessarily look down on that,” she finished.

“What?” said Jameson blankly, his clenched fist nervously slamming into the table.

“I think what your mother’s trying to say is that she and I feel that certain substances declared dangerous by the government have legitimate recreational uses,” explained Tony.

“Damn straight,” agreed Martha. “And as long as you use them responsibly and in moderation, we have nothing against you using those substances,” continued Tony.

“Also, make sure you’re dealing with reputable dealers,” added Martha. “Some of these guys are rip­off artists, and others are just animals.”

Jameson nodded, nervously, rubbing his hand. “It’s—nice to know you’re concerned.” He began to knock on the table again.

Martha pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket. “Actually, I’ve got a list of ones you can trust with me…”

Jameson began to inch his chair away. “I’m really not interested.” He smiled broadly. “Thanks for the offer.” He swatted the table. “You sure?” his mother asked. “Because I can assure you these are men and women you can trust. Actually, some might be willing to give you a discount if you mention my name…”

Jameson’s rapping took on a frantic edge. “I’m still going to pass, mom.” “I think we should respect Jameson’s wishes on this one,” said Toshiro quietly.

Martha frowned. “But Tony! You know I don’t want my baby burning out his soul and endangering his health with unsafe, inferior products!”

Tony took a deep breath. “I knew this was going to wind up like this…” “Oh, like your ‘touchy­feely’ approach was getting us anywhere.”

Martha glared at her husband. “We could have been talking for the next seven years the rate you were going.”

Quick Action Scene

So, it’s raining outside and I stopped to work on a scene before I headed to work. Hope you all enjoy!

*******

Visible anger and contempt played over Akiko’s features.

“What do YOU know about Lord Forsythe?  You are but NOTHING to him!

He–”

A faint sound had cut through the din of the air conditioning and the dull humming of the machines in the room. It sounded like gravel being stepped on, or popping corn.

Or submachinegun fire.

“They’re here,” Akiko said, returning to a state of calm.

Bullet ricochets whined off steel from just outside. Garbled screams and louder weapons fire drowned out every other noise completely.

James rose swiftly from his seat, brow creased. He rushed to the door and yanked it open to see three men in black reloading from the opposite end of the corridor. They spotted James as he dove for the overturned desk.

“Shit, there’s someone else in there,” James heard one curse. “There were only supposed to be three guards–”

Lyle was lying face down on the floor, and blood was staining his shirt.

One of the guards had slumped over the chair, while the other was leaning against the wall, staring lifelessly at the ceiling. A large red smear, stark against the white of the walls, was spread behind his hair. James fought down an urge to gag.

He shoved Lyle’s body aside and found what he was looking for.

“WHO GIVES A FUCK!?” came the roar from another of the men.  “He’s–”

“Hey, shitheads.”

James was standing in full view behind the desk.  His cigarette was lit.

In his hands he held a cocked and ready Ingram Mac-10.

“Not exactly standard issue,” he drawled, blowing out a plume of smoke from between his pressed lips. “But it works.”

James’s first volley hit one of the men below the knees, making the man fall screaming to the ground. After a moment’s shock however, the other two quickly brought their weapons to bear and began firing.  Even the fellow on the floor wasn’t completely out of commission– from his place, he tried his best to aim at James and managed to get a few bursts out, forcing James to retreat.

“Fuckers’re pros,” James muttered under his breath, forcing the door closed behind him.  He looked in Akiko’s direction as he changed his weapon’s clip.  “Friends of yours?”

New Snippet

Hey guys, I’m back to writing again. School is out and looks like work may lighten up for a bit so I’ll be able to share a bit more of what’s been going on in my mind.

*************

Whether it the dead of night or the calm of morning, it didn’t matter much to Icy. Morals and scruples became meaningless when you allow yourself to truly attempt and justify their continued use.  In the end, it boiled down to the desire and emotion that one held on to, be it a fleeting moment, or the span of a lifetime.  Those who held on to their morals often operated in the light of the morn, while the opposition dwelled within the refined shadow of evening.

Icy preferred neither and both at once.  She was a creature of time, not recognizing any supreme value in either day or night.

Her time was now.

A deliberate caution hindered somewhat by protesting muscles, Alice “Icy” Rodgers shifted her arm from the warmth of the expansive chest of Jordan Woodson, reaching for the cold grip of her P .38 handgun she’d kept hidden underneath her purse nearby.

“So soon?” a gruff voice queried.

Her face did not betray the surprise she felt, she turned her vision to the jaded, demanding eyes of the Demon.

“You’re supposed to be asleep.”

A light accusation, considering the severity of the situation.

“You should know better than that,” he replied, his tone quite a bit lighter than Icy knew it should be.

“We finally stopped only twenty minutes ago.  It’s going to be sunrise soon.”  In the darkness of Woodson’s bedroom, Alice’s fine-honed vision caught the moonlight confessing the position of her gun, in Jordan’s hand. His grip was light, but she could tell his every sinew was taught, waiting for her movement to be the slightest bit unfavorable to him.

“Looks like the Riot wore you out.  Now you know why I don’t dance.  This was kind of interesting when Nells attempted it on me.”

Icy couldn’t help her smile, then.  The story of the wannabe toppler of Jordan Woodson, Nells was quite the tale among his lieutenants. What wasn’t quite clear was how she was caught.  What was crystal clear was how she had paid for her treachery.

“You’d put me in the same room as her?” Alice asked with indignance.

“You put yourself there, Icy.  I’m just finally lettin’ you see that.”  He stifled a yawn, a movement that flustered Alice, despite herself.  “Why don’t you get some sleep, darlin’?  I’m gonna start breakfast.”

He rose without another word, stopping only to throw on a lavender robe and don some fuzzy slippers.  Alice’s patience broke in those moments of silence.

“What do you mean?” They were quiet words, but well-reinforced with a deadly venom.

“If you have to ask, you’ll never know.  It’s good to see you still have ambition; it means that the guvs didn’t get to you.”

Once his presence was gone, Alice allowed herself to wrap the sleeping bag around her naked body and shiver.  She was very aware that she wasn’t cold, and more aware that Woodson was perhaps the sickest, craftiest man she had ever come across, and attempted to cross.  Questions began spinning in her head about the past, about the day the Demon was taken down, but the most prominent question that played with her psyche like a finely tuned harp was thus:

Why did she love that man so much more, even now?

04/13/15 Snippet and Update

Hey all, how’ve you been doing?

Been a while since I checked in so I thought I’d post an update out into the universe and let you all know I’ve been well. Things have slowed down a bit with my writing the past 2 weeks with work picking up due to the spring season. Writing will slow down a bit more these next 5 weeks as i’m taking more classes for this semester of class. In the mean time, if you need something to read that I’m working on or want to support me please drop by here and do the following in some way:

Share a link to the blog, send me art to potentially post and go along with my stories, email me (Majinwiru@gmail.com), comment on my blog posts! Tweet or share the links on facebook!

 

Anything you guys can do to share or create word of mouth is certainly appreciated it. In m y journey as an author I’m trying to maximize my potential and become the best I can be. Part of that journey is not only working my tail off to become an excellent writer but developing support and a community to support that hard work!
In other news, one of my favorite people in the world Sammus has restocked more of her gear! Show some support by going over here

Sammus in her new Red tee

The new Red Sammus Tee

and buying a few things! Enough of my yammering though, here’s the snippet!

 

*********

 

“Hurry it up,” muttered Cross, glancing around at the relatively empty back street the van was creeping down.

“I’m keeping it at precisely the speed limit,” replied Exposition. “Are you asking me to break the law?”

“Yes!” replied Cross. “I have a date!”

“Really?” Exposition stated conversationally. “Who with?”

“Cindy in R&D!” Cross growled. He pointed to the back of the van. “I’d like to get there before that damn thing kills us!”

“Relax,” said Henry calmly. “It’s sitting in a six-inch casing of negatanium. That should mute all such energies to next-to-nothing. Why do you think Akamatsu was able to finish the U-ray without incident?”

Michael considered it more important to ask why Akamatsu Industries Ltd. had immediately had a Buddhist Monk and a Shinto Priest on the premises to exorcise them. Or why they had broken out into a celebration as the van rolled out of sight. “I’d call spontaneous combustion an incident,” he muttered.

“No scientific method at all,” Exposition stated disdainfully. “Would you rather we not build a U-ray?”

“Of course not,” Cross stated uncertainly. “The cause of peace demands it. I know that.”

The cause of peace had in fact demanded that SHIELD build some of the most terrifyingly deadly and destructive weapons in the world, thus serving it by reducing the number of pesky living people who could be at times less than peaceable.

Exposition turned down a road. “Hmm,” he muttered. “Road block up ahead…”

Cross started. “In a warehouse district?”

Exposition shrugged. “Accidents happen everywhere.” He slowed the van into a stop, and leaned out the window. A pair of policemen stood there. “Pardon me, gentlemen,” Exposition stated calmly. “May I ask why you’ve set up a road block here?”

“Certainly,” said an apparent policeman. “To stop you SHIELD dogs!” At that moment, a horde of men in green and yellow bodysuits surrounded the van. The two policeman quickly removed their uniforms, revealing similar outfits. “Well, well. It seems our information has panned out beautifully,” said one. “Now, hand over the U-ray so it may used for the glorification of HYDRA!” He raised his fist, an action imitated by his fellows. “Hail HYDRA! If you cut off one head—”

At that moment a large vehicle that looked like a corkscrew on wheels burrowed out of the ground. A group of men and women wearing rather bulky brown environmental suits topped by funnel-shaped helmets emerged. “Halt inferiors!” said one. “The U-ray will be claimed not by SHIELD or HYDRA, but by Advanced Idea Mechanics! Hail, AIM! The future shall be ours through tech—”

“Oh give it a rest, science boy!” muttered a HYDRA member. “Everyone knows you AIM flunkies are useless in a fight.”

Another one snorted. “Right. Just go back to your slide rule, flathead, and leave world-conquering to the professionals.”

“And what will you do, squidman?” asked an AIM member loudly. “Hold some nation hostage? ‘Cause that’s gotten such great results! At least we’ll be able to do something with the U-ray!”

“Hey, don’t knock our methods!” cried the first HYDRA member. “We’ve just been having a run of bad luck…”

“For sixty years? That’s some run!” shouted the AIM member. “Why do you think we left? We got sick of nothing getting done.”

“I thought you left because the giant head told you to,” muttered the second HYDRA member.

“Hey, don’t make fun of MODOK!” cried the AIM member. “He’s not just a giant head! He’s got arms—and legs too!” He stepped forward, looking ready to swing.

Another member grabbed him lightly by the shoulder. “Let it go, Dwight.”

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “It just really, REALLY annoys me when they make fun of MODOK like that…”

“I know Dwight. I know.”

Dwight appeared to recover his equilibrium. “Anyway, your opinion of our illustrious and not really just a giant head at all leader doesn’t matter! AIM is getting the U-ray!”

“Nuh-uh!” shouted a HYDRA member. “It’s going to HYDRA.”

“Sadly,” said a quiet voice, “you are all wrong.” The HYDRA and AIM agents turned. A group of ninjas emerged from the shadows. “The U-ray has been claimed by the Hand, whose reach is as—”

“Oh, screw you ninja boy,” muttered an AIM agent. “You guys can boast all you want—you’re still packing knives to a gun fight.”

“The way of the warrior is a far greater weapon than your pitiful technology,” said one ninja loftily. “Our skills allow us to—”

A HYDRA agent shot him in the arm. The ninja collapsed in agony. “You were saying?” asked the HYDRA agent.

“Oh—oh God! I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding!” screamed the ninja. “I—I think that one chipped a bone!”

“Face it!” chortled another HYDRA agent. “You guys and the funnelheads are going to get slaughtered.”

“Hey, don’t make fun of our costumes!” cried an AIM agent. “They may be bulky, and they don’t look too flashy, but they double our strength.”

“So,” muttered a Hand ninja, “you can lift two whole pounds now?”

This statement led to more unpleasantness, and so all those present were shouting when the helicopter landed.

“Squabbling, eh?” A man wearing a bisecting suit stepped out, followed by a bunch of lackeys, and a woman clad in flowing robes, and holding a bow. “Typical of rank amateurs.”

“Oh, hell,” muttered a HYDRA agent. “Zodiac…” The other criminals grumbled in agreement. Zodiac was one of the most universally resented gangs in the criminal underworld. On the one hand, they got their hands on more technology, and loot then most other crime syndicates even dreamed of. On the other hand, such things were soon wasted on Byzantine plots that didn’t even make much sense.

“Let’s see—Gemini—and Sagittarius,” noted an AIM member. “Is this the real you—or is a set of robotic duplicates?”

“Maybe yes,” said Gemini, “maybe no.” With that he and Sagittarius chuckled.

“Hand over the U-ray,” said Sagittarius in a dark whisper, “and when the Zodiac rules over all the—”

A large truck pulled in behind them, toppling over the helicopter.

“Son of a—” shouted Gemini, as he backed away.

“Looks like things aren’t going your way…” muttered Dwight the AIM agent.

“And we do have that little—numeric advantage thing,” pointed out a HYDRA agent.

“With our skills, it won’t help you,” stated Sagittarius confidently. “Besides it’s not like you losers could ever unite against us.”

“Don’t bet on it, lady,” muttered the wounded Hand ninja. Everyone present turned to look at the truck.

It was a large truck, with a rather tasteless picture of a beautiful woman cradling a bowling pin. A group of scowling men in purple and green bodysuits with a patch showing a bowling ball striking a pin on their foreheads emerged from it. Finally a man clad in what appeared to be mechanized body armor stepped out. “I am Hardstrike. My men and I make up the ideological organization known as Stick and Balls.”

“Yes,” shouted his men in unison. “That is our name. It is what we are called.”

“We will take the U-ray, and use it to restore bowling to its proper place in the world,” continued Hardstrike.

“Yes,” shouted his men. “That is what we will do. It is the action we will be taking.”

The general response to Stick and Balls arrival was close to the reaction that happens when a man in a clown costume arrives at a formal dress party.

“Stick and Balls,” muttered an AIM member. “Unfortunate name.”

“I know,” said a ninja. “I always thought we had it bad. The ‘Hand’ and all that…”

“So how are you—going to promote bowling…?” asked a HYDRA agent. “With the—U-ray.”

“Easy,” snorted Hardstrike confidently. “First, we will use the U-ray to destroy all opposing sports. Then, we will demand that bowling be made the national sport—of the world!” He raised his arms in triumph. “We will triumph by the strength of our magnificent sticks, and glorious balls!”

Most of the criminals winced at this—master plan.

With one exception.

“An intriguing plot,” said Gemini. “Do you plan to involve robots in it?”

“No,” said Hardstrike. “That would be silly.”

Back at the SHIELD van, Cross was panicking. “Damn it—how did so many get here?”

“There must be a leak,” said Exposition calmly.

“A leak?” cried Michael. “A leak would be one of them knowing about it. This is a freakin’ gouge!” He glanced outside. “Okay, they’re still debating salvage rights. Let’s run for it. We can make it to the rendezvous point, and alert SHIELD security.”

“I think you’re forgetting the first duty of every SHIELD agent,” said Exposition, patriotism dripping from his voice. “To die in the line of duty, so that Nick Fury looks more impressive.”

Cross stared at him, dumbfounded. “You know, Henry, I always knew you were crazy, but I never thought you were insane.” He got out of the van, and started to run. A shot rang out. Michael looked up weakly, to see Exposition holding a smoking pistol. “Y-you betrayed me…” he muttered, startled.

“Actually, by running you betrayed both me and SHIELD, you pinko rat bastard,” corrected Exposition.

This point apparently so mortified Cross, that he died.

Henry turned to the criminals. “Terribly sorry about that. He just wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. Now then, shall we get this over with?” He raised his pistol. “For SHIELD!” With that, Henry Exposition charged forward.

In five seconds, he took sixteen gun shots, five shuriken, and a bowling ball to the head.

“Good shot,” commented a ninja to Hardstrike.

“Thank you,” replied Hardstrike. “I pride myself on my aim. If I cannot perfect my skills, then I am not worthy of my magnificent Stick and Balls.”

 

***

 

Stick and Balls henchmen

Stick and Balls

03/11/2015 #TheDefenders Snippet, In The Mix, and a bit of tea.

Pastepot Pete!

Pastepot Pete

 

Hello all! How’ve you been since the last update?

 

After a lot of reviewing and reading I’ve finally been able to get this blog post up and live for consumption. Before I get into talking about the story two things: Today’s blog post is brought to you courtesy of two of the podcasts I follow: In the Mix with Shoom and Tea with Queen and J. If you guys could do me a favor and follow them/like them on their social media accounts then I’d really appreciate it. I definitely think everyone should take the time to support them as they are part of the #InsomniacFamily as far as I’m concerned.  I have also included links to the latest episodes of the two series along with today’s blog post, I hope you enjoy!

 

One of my favorite people in the universe, Sammus, is currently embarking on her very first tour with the incomparable Mega Ran! Tonight’s show is in Yellow Springs, Ohio! If you have the time and are in the area, please drop by and check them out tonight! Below is the full list of appearances and dates on the tour!

 

 

RSVP here on Mega Ran’s FB page

 

In the mix w/Shoom

In the mix w/Shoom

Like on Facebook!

https://www.facebook.com/inthemixwithshoom

Follow on Twitter!

http://www.twitter.com/Inthemixshoom

 

Tea with Queen + J

Tea with Queen and J

Like on facebook!

https://www.facebook.com/TeawithQueenandJ

follow on twitter!

https://twitter.com/TeawithQJ

 

Alright, after you guys follow these links and “Like” these pages I hope you enjoy today’s snippet! 🙂 Please don’t forget to drop me feedback after you’ve read!

 

 

****

 

Jameson, after foiling six attempted invasions of the Earth by demonic entities of various stripes, was really getting tired of his new job.

 

 

Maybe it was because the only pay he received was a sense of satisfaction of job well done, or at least done. Well, that and his continued existence. Which might be a plus, he admitted.

 

 

Maybe it was because the average demon was a grotesque mockery of all life. With absolutely no taste, and even less of a sense of humor. He’d had to raid several demonic dimensions, all of which featured flowing rivers of blood, strobe lighting, and “You Don’t Have to Be Damned to Work Here—But It Helps!” signs on the walls.

 

Jameson took a deep sip of his rather indifferent, lukewarm latte. A paper airplane that had been painstakingly folded from a napkin struck him on the back of the head.

 

 

Or perhaps, he appended, it was all the mockery his outfit was attracting as he paused to get refreshed at an all-night café.

 

 

Jameson turned abruptly. “All right you creep, I seem to recall that this is a free country, where a man can stop for a cup of coffee, and not have to worry about persecution based on the way he dresses.”

 

 

The entire clientele of the café glanced at him, and then glanced pointedly away.

 

 

“I’ll have you know I have a perfectly good reason for wearing this outfit!” Jameson began to wave his fist. “I am a SUPERHERO!”

 

 

The crowd continued to pointedly glance away.

 

 

Jameson sat back down. “Ingrates,” he muttered under his breath. Maybe he should just let the N’Gai toast a city district. That would show them…

 

 

The café’s waitress approached him. “Anything else?”

 

 

Jameson glanced at her. “Tell me, if I order another latte, would it actually be hot?”

 

 

The waitress shrugged. “Miracles have been known to happen.”

 

 

Jameson frowned. “That’s what I thought…” He handed her a few bills. “Keep the change…” The waitress nodded and headed out. Jameson sighed. He shouldn’t have flown off the handle like that. After all, it was just a paper airplane. He’d dealt with worse his entire life. At least right now, he was having a quiet moment, after an eventful stress-filled night.

 

 

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Well, night owls, prepare for a stick-up of the most figurative kind! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

 

 

Jameson’s head slumped down to the countertop. Well, at least his luck was holding out. All bad. Righting himself, he turned to look at this new threat.

 

 

Jameson blinked. Then he blinked again, to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Then he blinked a third time, in the desperate hope that he was. However, it appeared he wasn’t. The café really was about to be robbed by a man dressed largely in purple spandex—right up to the cowl on his rather vulpine face. The man’s gloves and boots were both a light red in color, and in his left hand, he held what looked for all the world like a military attempt at designing a squirt gun.

 

 

“Tremble, yes tremble fools at my awesome might! It will consume you! Quail before my power! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

 

 

Jameson’s teeth ground together at the apparent supervillain’s high-pitched laughter. Maybe if I just sit here quietly, this will blow over, he thought. I mean, it’s not like I owe these people anything. I’ve already saved their sorry carcasses tonight, and I’m going to do it again. I can sit this one out. Might teach them a lesson. That was when he caught a desperate glance from the waitress. “Damn social conscience…” muttered Jameson, standing up.

 

 

“Attention, supervillain!” he stated in his best attempt at a loud commanding voice. “Before you stands Dr. Strange, self appointed nemesis to unpleasantness. Now cease your criminal activities and inordinate cackling or face my completely justifiable wrath.”

 

 

“Oh, really?” snorted the villain. “And tell me, Doctor are you ready to face the uncanny power of—PASTE-POT PETE?”

 

 

Jameson’s face went slack. “What?”

 

 

“I said, ‘are you ready to face the uncanny power of Paste-pot Pete’?” His opponent frowned. “What are you, deaf?”

 

 

Jameson buried his face in his hands. The universe, he felt, was an unjustifiably silly place, sometimes.

 

 

Paste-pot Pete (who was known to family and—well, acquaintances, as Jake Jennings) smiled to himself. His first act of supervillainy was already a roaring success. His superhero opponent had been reduced to quivering terror at the very mention of his name! Soon, very soon, Jerry Jenkins would be defeated!

 

 

All right—so technically, this was his second act of supervillainy. His first, an attempted bank robbery, had derailed fairly quickly. He’d handed a note saying “Prepare to get sticky” to a teller, and then had waited half an hour, at which point a pair of muscular security guards had shown up, and forcibly hauled him off, explaining as they did so that the bank didn’t want perverts intent on monkey business hanging around the premises.

 

 

Fortunately, no one had noted the beginning of his career in crime, and Jake had been able to take away two very important lessons.

 

 

Firstly, banks are far too heavily protected to be robbed with impunity. It would be wiser to go for a place that wasn’t expecting it.

 

 

Secondly, his impromptu costume of an artist’s smock and dark glasses just didn’t seem to grab people’s attention, at least, not in a way that screamed ‘supervillain’.

 

 

Jake gave a satisfied nod. Purple spandex had definitely been the way to go.

 

 

Jameson, after a couple of deep breaths, glanced up. “Okay,” he announced. “My burst of existential horror is over. I accept the terrifying fact that a man may want to dress in spandex and call himself Pasty Pete—”

 

 

“That’s Paste-Pot Pete!” cried Jake, menacingly waving his gun around.

 

 

“Right,” said Jameson in the calm cool tone that is generally used by men of extraordinary patience on children of remarkable intransigence. “As I was saying, it’s the sort of thinking that gives the world quite a few rock stars.” Jameson’s toe was starting to tap impatiently on the floor. “But what puzzles me is what superpowers a man called Post-Haste Pete—”

 

 

“I said, that’s Paste-Pot Pete!” screamed Jake.

 

 

“Dear me,” said Jameson. “Did I misspeak myself? Must be the lateness of the hour. To continue, what powers might he possess?”

 

 

“A worthy question,” cackled Jake. “My power comes from my brilliant invention, the paste pistol!” Jake glanced at his creation lovingly. Well, truthfully it was that bastard Jenkins’s invention, which Jake had… liberated from his lab, but still, his nemesis had been blind to its more advanced applications. In fact, he had built it for nothing more than to fix a few loose tiles on the school roof, showing as usual the inferiority of his so-called genius in comparison to the incomparable mind of Jake Jenkins. “With this I shall become one of the leading lights of the criminal world! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

 

 

Jameson seemed to be staring at him rather strangely. “I’m happy for you. So—your—paste pistol…” Jameson bit his lip, in apparent frustration. “It shoots—paste, I’m guessing?”

 

 

Jake snickered. “That’s right! A very sticky paste! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

 

 

Jameson nodded. “That’s what I thought.” He nodded some more. “Would you just—give me a second…?” Jameson turned around, glanced at the café’s patrons, and screamed. “All right people!” he shouted. “Would a reasonably fit man care to take a chair to the back of Pastel Pete’s head?”

 

 

“That’s Paste-Pot Pete!” cried Jake.

 

 

“Shut up!” said Jameson forcibly. He glanced back at the crowd. “Come on! He’s a scrawny young man who is trying to hold you up with a glue gun! Am I the only one here who realizes the inherent absurdity of this fact?”

 

 

The other patrons made it a point of order to avoid looking at Jameson.

 

 

“You all suck,” muttered Jameson. “I want you to realize that…”

 

 

“What to do you mean ‘inherent absurdity’? Are you insulting me, you cape-wearing lunatic?”

 

 

“Yes, I’m insulting you because you are probably one of the most intrinsically incompetent supervillains in existence,” seethed Jameson. “Have you ever considered the obvious limitations of your ‘power’? Suppose, for example, that you are robbing a bank. The manager knows the combination to the safe. He won’t open it. What do you do?”

 

 

“Simple,” snickered Jake. “I’d tell him to do it, or face a blast from my paste pistol.”

 

 

“And what would that do?”

 

 

“It would—make him very sticky…” stated Jake, a touch of uncertainty trailing into his voice.

 

 

“And why would that be threatening?” Jameson asked quietly.

 

 

“He—really doesn’t like being sticky…” Jake’s expression was now openly confused.

 

 

“It’s not threatening at all!” Jameson shouted. “If you’d have thought about it, you’d have known it! You’d have seen your only superpower is using a gun that’s less effective than a normal gun!”

 

 

“It—it makes people sticky!” Jake muttered defensively.

 

 

“A normal gun makes people dead,” replied Jameson. “Being dead is much worse than being sticky.”

 

 

“Oh—oh, shut up!” screamed Jake raising his paste pistol. “No one insults my reign of supervilliany…” He pulled the trigger.

 

 

A trickle of brownish fluid leaked out of the muzzle. “What—? ” Jake muttered in shock.

 

 

“Oh, yes,” said Jameson in a rather amused tone. “While we were chatting, I transformed your glue to molasses.”

 

 

Jake stared at him in dull surprise.

 

 

“Or maybe treacle.” Jameson began to tap his chin, in speculation. “Actually, those might be the same thing…”

 

 

“You’re working for him, aren’t you?” Jake stated hatefully. “You’re working for Jerry Jenkins!”

 

 

Jameson glanced at Jake, baffled. “Who?”

 

 

“Don’t play dumb with me!” screamed Jake. “This is just another one of that bastard’s attempts to bring me down! Well, Paste-Pot Pete is not as easy to defeat as Jake Jennings!” He triumphantly pulled out a greenish cylinder from his back pocket. “Behold! A second load of ammunition!”

 

 

Jameson sighed. “You really take too much relish in even the smallest triumphs, you know that?”

 

 

Jake changed his canisters quickly, then leveled the gun at Jameson. “Let’s see you get out of this one!”

 

 

Jameson stared at him forcibly.

 

 

Jake blinked. “Gettin’ sleepy…” he muttered. “Go night-night now…” With that he crashed to the floor and within minutes was laying there in a fetal position, snoring.

 

 

“Had to keep at it, didn’t you?” Jameson shook his head. He turned to the café patrons. “And thus was the scary Potboy Pete, wielder of the mighty glue gun, vanquished.” He walked out. “Don’t expect me to be so helpful next time…”

 

 

Shortly after he left the patrons glanced at each other. “Well, it seems that shrill, ugly fellow really was a superhero!”

 

 

“Yes. We’re all in his debt it seems.”

 

 

“What was his name again?” asked one.

 

 

“Ummmm… I think it was “Professor Weird, or something…” said another, uncertainly.

 

 

“No, daddy, I’m a good boy…” whimpered an unconscious Jake from the floor. “It was Natalie…” He began to suck his thumb nervously.

 

****

 

 

And here’s the podcast updates, as promised!

 

 

 

More from #TheDefenders

Sup guys? This blog was ‘sposed to drop earlier today while I was still in my coffin recovering from an overnight yet for some reason it never posted. I guess it wasn’t meant to be? Anywho, had something really exciting happen from me yesterday when I had an actual writer from Marvel comment on one of my tweets!

 

Took me completely off guard! I guess this means I might be a bit closer to being acknowledged on a bigger scale? …or maybe he just stumbled across it. Eh, anywho, I’ll be using today’s post to introduce two more characters into the world of Jameson Smith aka Dr Strange. Please read on below and then give me some feedback when you’re finished!

 

*************

 

 

Charles Kerekes, when introduced to attractive women at parties, usually gave his profession as “monetary distribution agent”.

 

This was a fancy way of saying “thief”, which is precisely what he was. However, one generally doesn’t say that to people at parties, especially when one is trying to get into their pants.

 

Of course, Charles had other reasons not to state his real profession—he wasn’t very good at it, for one. For example, just last week, while robbing a bank in Kennesaw, he’d miscalculated the night watchman’s schedule, and had been spotted at the very beginning of the job. He’d been forced to run with what little money he had already gotten, which turned out to be only five thousand dollars. Even worse, the bank had turned out to be yakuza owned, and so soon he was on the run not only from the law, but from a group of very large, menacing men, most of whom had chopped off their own pinky fingers at some point or another, and were thus eager to share the experience.

 

Charles had made the very sane decision to leave Kennesaw for Terra, but had blown most of his haul doing this, and so now was in dire straits. Lacking the resources for a big job, and not wanting to draw to much attention to himself, he was now reduced to petty stick-ups.

 

Such as the young couple he was presently holding at gunpoint. The pair stared at Charles in shock, since they, like many young people, thought of crime as something that happened to other people, usually in other cities, or even landmasses.

 

“Just hand me the money,” Charles explained, in a slow, calm voice. “There’s no need to try anything heroic.”

 

That was when the arrow shot past, inches away from his face, and buried itself in the wall behind him. “There’s ALWAYS a need to try something heroic!” shouted a clear, high female voice. Charles turned.

 

She stood there, silhouetted in the lamplight. She wasn’t very tall, and looked to be quite young. She wore a yellow jumpsuit, with a blue cowl with cat’s ears, her long black hair flowing behind her. A bow was in her hand, arrows held in a quiver tied around her waist.

 

Charles gulped. He was definitely not in any condition to take on a superhero.

 

The girl glanced quickly at the couple. “Just get away! I’ll take care of this crook. There’s no way the likes of him can stand up to the claws of Hellcat—and SON OF SATAN!”

 

As the couple took her up on her advice, the apparent Hellcat looked eagerly to her side. After roughly a minute, she hissed loudly. “Son of Satan! Don’t leave me hanging here…!”

 

A loud groan emanated from the shadows. “Do I have to do this?”

 

Hellcat pouted in a rather sulky fashion. “Yes!”

 

With a long sigh, Son of Satan slouched into view. He was a young man, clad in a rather archaic red kimono that someone had seen fit to scrawl a rather crude pentagram on. He wore no shoes, which was odd—he also had dog-ears, which was odder. Silky white hair hung down to his waist while a samurai sword hung at his side. He regarded Charles with a look that combined resignation with sheer boredom. “I am Son of Satan,” he announced in a dull monotone. “Tremble, before my wrath, evildoer.”

 

Hellcat glanced at him in a reproaching manner. “You could at least put some feeling into it.”

 

Son of Satan rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms. “Look, Karen, I just think this really stupid, is all…”

 

The girl’s eyes went wide. “HEY! We talked about this! It’s Hellcat! I have a secret identity to protect!”

 

“Oh, no!” Son of Satan shouted in mock horror. “Now he knows your one of the million or so girls in Terra called Karen! Whatever shall we do?”

 

“Junichiro…” snarled Karen—then brought her free hand up to her face in shock. “I meant, Son of Satan…”

 

Charles felt a sudden sense of relief.

 

“Oh, wow, you’re really stickin’ with this ‘no names mentioned’ rule of yours,” laughed Junichiro. “Man, why’d I ever agree to this…?” He began to walk away.

 

“Hey! Don’t you walk out on me!” shouted Karen. “I’ll remind you who’s got the upper hand here!”

 

“Right, right…” muttered Junichiro, walking away.

 

“Umm, excuse me…” interjected Charles.

 

“Oh you keep out of this!” Karen stated forcibly. “You’re not worried, Junichiro? Not worried in the slightest that I’ll say, si—”

 

At that moment, Charles fired his pistol in the air. “I’d just like to say,” he began calmly, as he pointed the pistol at them, “That I really seem to have the tactical advantage here. After all, I’m a man with a gun, while you’re a girl with a bow, and a freak with a sword.” He smiled at them. “So please hand over all your money.”

 

“That’s what you think!” shouted Karen. With surprising speed and grace, she fit an arrow to her bow, and released it. The arrow sped quickly over Charles’s shoulder, and buried itself in the wall behind him.

 

Charles’s smile turned into a grin. “Missed.”

 

It was at precisely that moment that the wall behind him exploded, tossing him to the ground, and causing his gun to fall out of his hand and skid away.

 

“Umm, did I do that?” Karen asked quietly in a tone not unlike that of Jaleel White’s.

 

Junichiro gave a slight nod. “Yep.”

 

There was an awkward silence for a moment. Finally, Karen coughed slightly. “Oops.”

 

Junichiro glanced at her oddly. “That sort of thing never used to bother you.”

 

“I never used to worry about getting sued.”

 

Junichiro gave an understanding nod. “Right. Lawyers. You mentioned them once…” He scratched his chin. “Don’t they suck blood, or somethin’?”

 

Karen blinked, then thought it over. “More or less.”

 

While the pair chatted, Charles crept forward to grab his gun.

 

Unfortunately for him, Junichiro noticed him.

 

In the amount of time it takes a man to blink then cough, Charles found himself being hoisted into the air, by a very angry would-be superhero. “You don’t learn, do you, creep?”

 

Charles gulped. He hadn’t noticed it before, but Junichiro had claws. And fangs. And a rather unpleasant glint in his eyes. “PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T KILL ME—I’LL DO WHATEVER YOU WANT!”

 

Junichiro laughed darkly. “Oh, yeah, like you’re not goin’ to just turn around and try to get us some other way if I let you go…”

 

“Son of Satan!” chirped Karen disapprovingly. “You can’t kill him!”

 

Charles sniffled. Listen to the girl, listen to the girl, god, oh god, listen to the girl…

 

Junichiro gave a snort. “It’ll save us a lot of trouble.”

 

Karen raised a finger, and started to admonish him. “Superheroes can’t kill people. Not unless the villain has killed somebody, and then they have to make it happen by accident.”

 

Junichiro stared at her, puzzled. “How can you do that?”

 

“Well, like, you fight on a mountainside, and they pull out a super weapon to beat your weapon, only they misjudge how powerful it is, and the mountainside collapses, burying them in rubble.” Karen explained helpfully.

 

Junichiro scratched his head. “That seems like a pretty complicated way a handling things…”

 

A blissful smile appeared on Karen’s face. “It’s the way of the superhero, who strongly respects life enough to bludgeon people into unconsciousness, instead of simply killing them.”

 

Junichiro narrowed his eyes. “Right.”

 

Karen glared at him. “Just take care of the bad guy!”

 

Junichiro gave a hasty nod. “Sure thing.” He raised his fist, and drew back his arm in preparation for a terrific uppercut.

 

“Hang him up on the fire escape!” shouted Karen. “The one near the bakery!”

 

Junichiro sighed, then jogged over to fire escape, and leaped up onto it. He glanced at Charles. “You trust this suit?”

 

Charles gulped. “It’s hand-tailored.”

 

Junichiro nodded. “Good.” He hung Charles up on the side of the fire escape, using the jacket as a snag. “Hope you trust your tailor.” He leapt away.

 

Karen gave a triumphant grin as he landed before her. “Well, now we just go to a phone booth, and inform the police, and then—this looks like another job well done by—HELLCAT and SON OF SATAN!”

 

Junichiro gave a slight cough. “You know—this the first time we did this.”

 

Karen visibly deflated. “Umm—right.”

 

The pair walked off together.

 

“And it wasn’t that well done,” added Junichiro.

 

“Shut up, already!” cried Karen.

 

*************

 

 

 

Newest defenders

Hellcat and Son of Satan

 

….please don’t sue me Marvel or Rumiko Takahashi. :). I acknowledge that these characters are not mine and do not own them i’m just making use of them in a work of fiction.

 

Please drop some feedback!

The Defenders Snippet: Return of the Emissaries of Evil

I’m a big fan of the “after credits” scenes in movies. As a result of that I spend a lot of time editing and trying to create awesome cliffhangers in writing. This scene is actually the end of the third chapter of “The Defenders” story based on Jameson Smith and his friends. Take a read and drop me some feedback below!

 

The first appearance of the #EmissariesOfEvil on the blog can be found here

The Emissaries of Evil

****

 

The Emissaries of Evil made their way slowly to Elihas Starr’s stateroom.

“Well guys,” said Jim, “I’m really glad you got me my spare power cell…”

“Shut up,” said Ray.

 

Egghead had to pay their bail (the whole affair would almost certainly never reach trial due to a lack of witnesses—at least witnesses who’d be willing to come forward). That would put their boss in a bad mood, and when Mr. Starr was in a bad mood, he made certain *you* were in a bad mood. Ray was just having his prematurely.

 

*That Dr. Strange and his flunkies will pay for this,*  he thought. *I swear it.* “We’re here boss,” he announced as they entered Egghead’s office.

“Come in, come in,” said a calm, slightly jovial voice.

Ray stopped in his tracks. That wasn’t Mr. Starr.

For a start, the voice was too high.

Also, it was a bit too happy.
And then, his boss had never seemed that fond of red.

The figure leaning back in Egghead’s chair was clad in a voluminous red cloak, ending in a cowl that completely obscured its face. A half-finished glass of brandy was in its left hand, undoubtedly poured from the bottle Mr. Starr kept on his desk. On the desk’s ashtray, the remains of a cigar rested.

“Gentlemen,” said the mystery man, a touch amused. “Pleased to meet you.”  He popped open a box. “Cigars? They’re quite good.”

“Sure, I—” began Jim stepping forward.

Ray motioned him to stop. “Who are you? What happened to Mr. Starr?”

The man shook his head. “Questions, questions, always questions,” he muttered. “No time to appreciate the finer things.” He shut the box. “To answer your queries, I am called the Crimson Cowl. As to your employer—we were discussing matters and he couldn’t see things my way.” The Crimson Cowl spread his red-gloved hands. “You see, I happen to run my own team of super-criminals. Mine’s the *Masters* of Evil, and well, I didn’t appreciate the similarities between the names.” He took a sip of brandy. “I thought it might cause confusion. Or even lead to all sorts of unfortunate mixups. Mr. Starr didn’t quite agree with me, lost his temper, and fell to pieces.”

“Pieces?” said Jim, nervously.

“Yep—pieces. Arms, legs, internal organs—I’d never seen a man strewn about so.” He
opened a mini fridge by the desk. “His head’s right here, if you want to see it…”

“You killed him,” whispered Bruce.

The Crimson Cowl shrugged. “Well—yes.” He sighed. “We’re criminal masterminds. These things happen.” He shut the fridge. “Now, I’m willing to offer some of you employment with my agency. Personally, I think you’ll love it—Starr was using you as glorified enforcers. Stick with me, and I’ll have you doing the real supervillainy.” He leaned further back in his chair. “I’m talking earth-shattering stuff here…”

“YOU BASTARD!” screamed Bruce, charging forwards buzz saws blaring. This was a move he would regret the rest of his life, which was the five seconds it took for the sickle to reach his neck.

“Unfortunate,” murmured Crimson Cowl, taking another sip of brandy. “Dispose of the rest.”

Ray and Ken turned around immediately. In Ken’s case this was to take a blast of
energy straight to the head.
In Ray’s it was a giant boomerang to the mid-section.

Jim immediately fell to his knees. “I-I’ll work for you!” He gulped. “You could use a guy with radiation powers! I know you could!”

The Crimson Cowl rose slowly, and walked towards Jim, regarding him quietly. Reaching the cowering supervillain, he leaned forward. “Would you believe,” he stated calmly, “that I turned down one just last week?” Then with one sudden motion, he snapped Cobalt Man’s neck.

The Crimson Cowl walked back to the desk, refilled his glass, and lit himself another cigar. As he puffed contentedly, three figures stepped out of the shadows—two women, and one man. One of the women spoke. “We should not stay here. It is unwise to do so.”

The Crimson Cowl chuckled. “Honestly. Don’t you know my personal creed?” He sipped the brandy. “One should always enjoy a good glass of spirits, and a fine cigar.” He took another long puff. “Ahh. Nothing burns like a Havana…”

 

***

 

 

 

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