Psychonomous Gex!: The Rise of Psycho Gecko, Part Deuce, or “A Hot, Steamy Night on the Town.”
Mr. Morden steps into his office, wearing a scowl. It’s 11 and he got called away from a very expensive dinner with the mayor about removing those unsightly protestors. The plates alone cost $400, not counting the money he had hidden underneath and woven into the napkins. Those homeless, good-for-nothing hippies, wearing the same dirty clothes they bought years ago as if they can’t afford any new ones. Why don’t they shut up until they get their trust money or talk on tv for money, like normal people?
But that isn’t what has him really pissed off tonight. He puts two of his best men (and his sister’s son) on a simple scheme to wiretap and spy on supervillains for gossip, and now he can’t even get a straight answer on what they know except that Harlon’s in his office, Morden’s own office, demanding he get up there.
“Harlon,” he starts as he barge in, “what the hell are y-” The office is completely black. Even the blinds are closed. If those security guards lied to them, he’ll send their jobs to China so fast the uniforms will be made out of lead and asbestos before they can even get them off. “Lights on,” he calls out, swinging the door closed and stepping towards his desk.
Instead of a pleasant glow suffusing the entire office, a much less purple-prosed single light over his chair comes on. It is facing away, with someone in it.
“There you are, Harlon. What is the matter with you boy?”
The chair swings around, revealing a man in black and orange power armor. The visor of his helmet is one solid piece, though the top curves downward in the middle, evoking the image of a glare. At the mouth is what appears to be some sort of rebreather, softening the image somewhat until Morden notices the gloves that feature barbed wire coming out and wrapping around the hands. Hands that are holding Harlon on this freak’s lap, stroking the bound fat man’s back like a cat.
“Good evening, Double-O Douchenozzle.”
Morden slips his hands into his pockets, deciding to play this out business-like. He hits his personal panic button, signaling the super-security guards. They are always on call to come to his personal aid, though it would take them a little while to arrive. He just needs to stall for time. He answers back at the taunting, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, and Harlon as well, Mister…?”
“The name’s Gecko. Psycho Gecko. Harlon here is a bit shaken, not stirred. I’m here in regards to that story your people were so desperate to obtain about me.”
Mr. Morden chuckles, “Cutting out the middle men? A man after my own heart.”
“I’d save such an assumption until after the story.”
“And I would be fascinated to hear it, then we can call up a notary, is that fine? You supervillains handle things differently than my people.”
Gecko leans back in the chair, putting one foot up on Morden’s desk and being careful not to tip over with Harlon still on his lap.
“I guess you could say I’ve really been a supervillain ever since my public failure to assassinate this one emissary on my home earth. For the first time in their laughable existence, the Phenomenal Fighting Justice Rangers had actually left the country and, quite unfortunately, were there to muck things up. My handlers burned me, first figuratively, by disavowing me, then literally, with some C4 cleverly hidden in a role of toilet paper. I will admit, that was a good try. So there I was, directionless, penniless, homeless, and toilet paperless. I already had a first version of my armor then, but I decided to revise it and head home for the first time in quite awhile. For one thing, I was pretty angry about the C4. No doubt my former handlers suspected as much when the Hexagon was toilet papered with no clue as to who did it, but I think when the TP exploded really gave them an insight into how deep the feelings of betrayal ran.
I actually managed to kill most of the high-level members of the Psychopomp project before some junior ones decided to trick everybody’s favorite semi-competent heroes, the Justice Rangers, into trying to save them from me. The first time, they really did get lucky. Top notch equipment and funding, bottom-rung experience. They had suits that could protect them by dispersing most incoming attacks into blunt-forced trauma, with the side effect of causing sparks to fly. Their strength was enhanced, even their balance was better calibrated through those things. Idiotically, they took advantage of that to perform multiple flips every time they jumped. I once slammed the door behind one just to see what would happen. Two and three-quarter flips before I choked him to death. The whole thing had a depressing ending, though, when the Rangers themselves uncovered the truth about the Psychopomp project and exposed it to everyone.
Now, this still didn’t make me a big hero to most people, seeing as I’d still done some pretty despicable things, like this one hit involving running a garden hose into a target’s ass and out his mouth so I could shove it against his nostrils and drown him. I couldn’t help but spice up a “natural causes” job.
Still, to many other disaffected young Homo Machina, I became some sort of odd, heroic figure. I was like some sort of magnetic personality, attracting the disenfranchised of my species to me. They didn’t have many options. They wanted to attain equal rights violently, I wanted to kill the Justice Rangers and cause widespread destruction and chaos. Win-win. Until the Botphodkers Building fiasco. Did that ever leave me feeling sore in the morning. I guess stealing transdimensional technology and assembling it into a bomb that would destroy the whole city we were in just came across as counterproductive to them. Especially that part where it might take the rest of the continent with it. There we were, force shield still up, Justice Rangers unable to stop us and unwilling to escape, when they turned on me.
Yep, my own followers turned on me. One in particular, a mean little lady, knocked me out. Cold, too. I was out, but I have some good recording equipment on this thing. She had her doubts some time back, and was just looking for a good enough scheme to turn on me, save the day, and win the praise of everyone that way. And so I hear they did. Some later contact between our dimensions, sporadic as it is, revealed that they escaped with me left propped against my precious bomb, reversed the shields, and hooked it up to the city’s power array. I bet they burned out half the nation’s power grid, but in the end it was enough to contain the effect. But what they forgot is that my subconscious has an ego too. A super ego, you might say, given my powers. I knew that bomb better than anyone at that time, and was in physical contact. A little quick instinctive rewiring and instead of a void, I wound up on some random other earth. I’d tear a dimension a new one in my sleep to stay alive. Hello world, meet Gecko.”
Mr. Morden nods, worried to hear the end of this meandering tale of idiocy and strangely familiar pop-culture references. Those guards should have been here before he could even finish this tho-
Two hulking men in suits burst in, quickly assess the situation, and come at Gecko from either side of the desk. Gecko spins the chair to the side, jumps up, and awkwardly hands Harlon to guard #1, whose hands are on fire, with a “Yo dawg, hold my cat,” then kicks back, sending the chair rolling into guard #2, slowing him down. Then he disappears.
When he next appears, he’s in the air in front of the guard #2, wrapping one glowing hand around the guard’s neck. He then grinds his other fist over the eyes of the guard, the motion of the barbed wire opening the eyelids and allowing the energy concentrated on the points to finish the blinding.
Gecko holds on, watching the man’s face as he screams. “You’re lucky, you get ALL the eyescream.”
Meanwhile, Morden has rushed over to guard #1, who has had to douse his flames, insisting on having Harlon handed over to him so the guard can help his partner. The guard complies, causing Morden to collapse onto his back under Harlon’s weight. The guard pulls back for a punch, his fist a ball of flame, then aims it right for Gecko. Luckily, every set of Psycho Gecko power armor comes with leather interior, surround sound, power windows, an owner’s manual written entirely in Mongolian, fake fangs, a few birds, a pogo stick, donkey ears, extending tongue gag, rubber chicken (you can’t even get these anymore), lucky whale tooth, and a giant clam that opens to reveal an American flag held by a mermaid and her normal brother Richard, and a rearview mirror. Gecko drops down onto his rear as guard #1 throws the punch, dropping guard #2. Gecko rolls back, bringing his legs over him in a kick to #1′s knee. The guard stumbles and falls to his knee. Balanced on his back as if to kip up, Gecko wraps his legs around the man’s neck and his arms around the man’s leg, yanking the man to the ground and squirming out from under him.
The guard rises quickly, then stops, disbelieving this latest assault, too close as it is to risk lots of flames. He can almost hear the villain grin behind him as he speaks, “Now I’m going to demonstrate a move I fondly call ’63ing your ass.’ It’s pretty simple. Just insert your hand into the enemy’s rectum, then rotate 63 degrees on a random axis and let go.” Short story mercifully shorter in this case, the guard’s head hits the CEO’s desk hard and he is thankfully out before any other orifices can be invaded by Gecko’s other or, as an even worse thought, same hand.
Gecko turns towards Morden, speaking genially, “Picked up that move during the conflict on Uranus. Now, we still have,” only to be interrupted by the growls of Guard #2 behind him. Sighing, Gecko turns, noticing the man’s eyes have completely regenerated and that he possesses abnormally long and sharp nails. Gecko grabs him by the bottom of his mouth, the guard biting at his fingers. Gecko quickly leans in, speaking in a low growl the most evil, menacing words of perhaps his entire supervillain career, “Smell. My. Finger.”
The guard begins to puke as he tastes just which hand Gecko shoved into his mouth. Off balance, his head is easily yanked down into Gecko’s knee, and he too is mercifully out.
Gecko opens a window to let a little of the smell out, undoes that particular glove, fishes a grenade off of his belt, sets it inside, and lets it drop. Then, he bends low, balancing on the balls of his feet as he addresses the still-trapped Mr. Morden. “Now, we still have one last bit of business to discuss, and that took far too long.” Gecko pulls out a small spray canister from his belt and sprays it into the air in front of his breather. “Mmm, lemony fresh.” He turns it on Morden and gives it a squeeze.
For Mr. Morden, CEO of the largest news and media corporation on earth, things go drowsy and black.