The Few Deaths of Holdout

Okay, took care of Holdout. I just had to hang out in one of the nastier parts of town for awhile on stakeout. It isn’t always easy to hunt down a hero, as they’re better about those secret identities. Holdout isn’t the one winding up in jail with his mask yanked off, after all.

No, I had to crash somewhere he’d likely be looking and set a trap. I was real subtle about leaving my challenge. He and Sixgun had taken down a group of Triads and their boss, Sha Moke. Moke is more mid management, but his nifty smoke powers made it a little bit of a story. Even if the regular news passes on the story, the Supers journalists will run on it.

It’s a whole subculture, like videogames and wrestling. And like those two industries, it entertains a lot of people. Think about it. Most of the well-known villains aren’t mugging some nobody on the street or just going around killing up a storm. They have a vendetta against one or two people, like a hero, or they steal from someone who makes it worth their while, or they just want to conquer the world. Either way, most of them are not a danger to the general public. Well, not until the heroes show up, but even then they aren’t targeting the regular Joes and Joe-ettes.

Like Sha Moke and his boys. Just doing their thing with smuggling and drugs, barely causing anyone any harm until those masked thugs showed up and beat, shot, and/or hogtied them for the cops. Do you see us just waltzing into your place of business to hogtie you?

Oh right, we do. Scratch that.

Anyway, I puttered up to the scene on my pink scooter. That’s one of my rides for when I need to get around in a hurry. Bright pink, so I don’t confuse the color with some sort of purple as I’m wont to do, it features a wide-brimmed hat with a plume sticking out of it and a lute underneath it. It has “The Minstrel” between the hat and lute with some swirls and curls on the ends of the letter to make them look awesome and stuff.

Before you ask, I had it made for me and then heavily modified it. Some might analyze my choice to ride a pink scooter. They may even start pulling out symbolism, like the plume being indicative of a male bird, like a peacock, or that the lute means something about either my mother or my phat loot. Those people are thinking too hard.

I rode right up on my Minstrel cycle, wearing a bright red and white target on my chest for the cameras to see. I skidded to a stop driving my fist into the cheek of the reporter and knocking him on his ass. In my other hand was a knife. Pressed against the knife’s blade was a homeless man’s throat. The man was in my lap, which barely helped circumstances, but not all my victims can be nubile teenage boys. “You’re on,” I told him.

The homeless man looked right into the camera and said, “We’ll see you in an hour with even more great hits like that. You know the place. We’ll be starting off a nonstop commercial free session of killer tunes with ‘Holding out for Hero’ unless a special guest saves me with a request.” Then I zoomed off with him.

I let him go under a bridge 10 minutes later, and handed him $20. “You really do have an amazing radio voice. Thanks for the help.”

“You’re welcome and God bless,” he told me. I started to go, but then I looked down at the knife in my hand, then at the back of the man as he walked away.

“Wait!” I called out. He stopped and turned, eyebrow raised. “You forgot your mugging knife,” I reminded him as I held it out for him by the blade.

The man shrugged with an embarrassed smile on his face and took it, “I swear, I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t attached. Thank you kindly.”

“No problem.”

When the hour was up, I just had to hope the reporters figured out what I was doing. Innuendo is difficult to do, you know. Almost as difficult as jacking off a rhino. Not that I know anything about that. I’m just saying, it is as difficult as I imagine jacking off a rhino would be. I assure you I do not think about that kind of thing often. Or rarely. Or at all.

Moving on, I had to hope the reporters figured things out and got the message out either live or really quickly and conspicuously to draw my target to me. My hard work, cleverness, and rhinoceros masturbation paid off when I saw Holdout arrive at my former lair and enter the building by himself. It was, after all, something he had to do alone. That’s not true, but it doesn’t matter to me either way. I suppose it’s also possible he and Sixgun valued human life and figured I meant to come alone, but that’s just crazy talk at this point.

He found a coffin nailed to the floor with padlocks on it and box on top. The rhino handjob of that, in case you’re wondering, is that the person was trapped in there. One side of the box featured a timer. Just to be more of a dick, it was counting down in Roman numerals.

I saw him disable the bomb by cutting the red wires. This stopped the timer, but started the grandfather clock I had had delivered earlier in the day. Inside of it was another box. He cut those wires as well.

I saw all of this happen from safely outside via a surveillance camera. I pulled out a remote detonator. Originally I wanted to just have the bombs go off anyway, but I decided it lacked style, dignity, and fun. Instead, I pressed the button, launching the porta-potty next to me into the air while the coffin in the lair began to play “Ride of the Valkyries”.

The song was tragically cut very short when the porta-potty arced overhead from my position to slam into the building and erupt in an explosion that got even worse when experienced at the speed of smell. Ew. I was going go over and roast some marshmallows on the burning building right after I did this, but I passed on it.

Like I said, now that I’ve finished with the boy I need to go get Screwhaul. Tomorrow, though. I’m spent after giving that teenage boy one hell of an eruption. I really blew him away.

 

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8 thoughts on “The Few Deaths of Holdout

  1. Scrambles

    If someone comes back once, don’t you think it’s possible they might come back again? I heard about this lady with psychic powers (and occasionally cosmic fire powers) who dies all the time, but it never seems to stick.

    Reply
    1. Psycho Gecko Post author

      Shoving a soft white “treat” down an oiled teenager’s throat hole has always been successful for me before.

      I mean, it would have been if I was into that sort of thing.

      Reply
  2. Pingback: The Death(s) of Holdout | World Domination in Retrospect

  3. Pingback: The Many Deaths of Holdout | World Domination in Retrospect

  4. farmerbob1

    Wow, did you really reference the news article that I’m remembering where a radio host from years ago was identified as a homeless man, and convinced to do an interview? I don’t remember anything else about it but as I was reading the post, the memory returned.

    Reply

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