Eye, eye, eye, eye, eye. Eye carumba. Other eye puns. I’m feeling a lot better now that I can browse the world’s information networks at my leisure. I spent a couple of hours upgrading my eyes. Their ability to wirelessly network with my brain was incredibly useful for looking into rooms without going in myself. Just pop an eye out and roll it in somewhere. I had to make a few physical adjustments to the eyes themselves, then mess around with some drivers and other software updates.
It all sounds pleasant enough, until you remember I was holding thin, long pliers and a soldering iron in my eye. And then into my other eye. It’s really hard to find enough tape to hold my eyelids back, even using duct tape. It’d be easier if I still had my natural-born abilities. I’d normally take the eye out for this kind of thing. With me having been turned into a human by those damn, dirty apes at Master Academy, I doubt I could reconnect the eyes. There’s not a lot of crossover between eye surgery and wiring. I’ve already observed my own inability to connect to electronic devices as I used to, so I’m not going to bet on it being different this one time with my eyes.
Once again, my brain is on the internet. I’ve seen things, dear readers, that you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. I saw a porn parody of Blade Runner. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to wank.
The universe… it’s full of porn.
With that issue taken care of, it was time to work on dimensional teleportation. I already know I can teleport to another dimension using the power of a full bomb. That’s a bit wasteful. I don’t want to strap two more entire bombs to the main bomb. So I’ve decided to look into that transdimensional blogging device that’s a part of me. In the past, I’ve used it to triangulate my position and even send messages back through it with a little help from the other side.
So I set about building, coding, and modeling. Had to grab a computer for that part, but I’m just about ready to send in my thong shots to Vanity Fair. Oh, also modeling how the code will work. If I can send and receive ones and zeroes through compatible internets, I don’t see any reason I can’t program something to interpret some sort of cross-dimensional longitude and latitude stuff so that a warps it through the divide into a different area, probably with the aid of the transmitter I installed in myself. And because I don’t see any reason to, I’m probably doing a much better job at it than if I new the multitude of ways in which this was impossible.
It doesn’t hurt that I’m the authority on transdimensional travel on this planet. Not sure if my lack of knowing what I’m doing makes that more or less scary to people. Probably depends on if those people face accidental erasure from my experiments. Oh well.
So in addition to working on my eye, I’ve been recalling and absolutely inhaling every ounce of knowledge about the D-bomb and the theory behind it. There’s a lot of data locked away in this skull of mine, but that doesn’t mean I’ve looked at it all. Even a quick skim wouldn’t mean I understand all of it. I feel like I got skullfucked by Feynman. Horny old bastard would probably have done it, too.
I didn’t let a lack of theory hold me back. After a night of mind-numbing study, I decided to handle this a different way. With state-of-the-art identity theft technology, I analyzed celebrity voices and used them to narrate the audio version of all these notes and papers I had concerning dimensional technology. First up, James Earl Jones. It’s like inviting Darth Vader over to tutor me on building a Death Star while I built a miniature working model.
Oh, yeah, that’s why I went with the audio version. I built bomb casings of various sizes to be assembled. Unfortunately, this printer isn’t some magic automatic bomb builder. Still saved me a lot of time, but it’s still up to me to get the core right and wire everything up in such a way that it doesn’t go off whenever random jackasses answer phones around me.
The soothing tones of James Earl Jones accompanied me as I headed out into the world, scouting the materials I need. I could tell y’all all about them, but then y’all would blow up your own world with dimensional bombs. Who would lavish me with praise then? More realistically, who would feign mild interest in my general direction?
Trust me to know what to do to put this bomb together. I’m theoretically a physicist. In fact, let’s just use euphemisms. So I’d already assembled the waffle cone, but I needed to fill it with the good stuff. And I ain’t talkin’ delicious chocolate pudding here, folks. Ice cream. Chocolate would do, or strawberry. I’m fond of banana. Unfortunately, Vancouver is a really green city. It’s easy to find ice cream in most major port cities in the United States, but Canada’s a whole different animal. It’s a yak that reeks of trees.
So I went ice cream hunting. I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream. I got funny looks as I walked around in my armor, but what were they going to do about it? Call Rouge? He’s on a farm upstate. Despite my initial assumption otherwise, I haven’t seen any other heroes around this city. I don’t know if they’re that busy with crime, or if they just don’t have that many heroes up here.
I know I don’t have as comprehensive of knowledge about foreign supers as I do American ones, but I always assumed that was due to the bias of being in the States, watching things on American TV, reading American news, and browsing on America’s internet. Same reason I couldn’t find much information on why Canada changed its milk-import policies until it became big news to the U.S. Milk goes great with ice cream, but they charge a bit more up here. Something about quotas that don’t incentivize a huge glut while lacking subsidies that minimize losses to larger refining companies. That’s important knowledge to have if I ever want to hold the country’s dairy supply hostage or make a bunch of fast money with cow-seeking deathbots and unscrupulous market speculation.
Perhaps there’s something to the United States’s unique lack of basic health and safety regulations, relative high technology, pollution, and scientific exploration. Maybe it’s something in the milk.
I think I got mixed up there. Hold up. Reset. I was busy using my armor and regained wireless capability to rob myself some ice cream-onium. It’s not completely necessary, but it works really well for these purposes.
I took a chance and looked up the nearest Radio Shack, in case the same mercenaries hiding crap in the United States kept things in the frozen white north. It’d be a good plan.
I found The Source. It sounds dramatic, but it’s just Canada’s version of the same crappy store. I ran into the store, still in my armor, but with a balaclava pulled over my helmet and carrying a branch off a tree that had been knocked over outside. “Nobody move, this is a stick!”
There were three people working, two men and one woman. When one guy reached down and seemed to press something under the counter, I jumped over it, threw him onto the counter, and turned it into a stick up his ass. At that point, I saw one dude had already run out the door, while the dudette was in the process of exiting. She stepped outside the store, only to be pulled back inside by her hair. “Shave and a haircut, you bitch,” I joked as I dragged her back, not stopping when she fell to the floor behind me.
“Listen here and listen good if you want to survive,” I said. I wondered if I was going to let her survive. I’d flip a coin, but that’s more of a Batman villain thing. Stupid Two-Face, stealing all the best ways to decide if people die. “You got a bathroom here that’s out of order all the time?”
She nodded and pointed to a door off to the side. I checked to make sure no one would bother us. Yep, the store’s name was still displayed. I carried her over my shoulder and kicked the door down. She’s all whining and crying about “Please don’t hurt me,” while I’m trying to be impressive. Figures.
I tossed her back over my shoulder, focusing more on charging my gauntlets than however she landed. It took a lot of pounding before I found a hatch underneath where the toilet would be. They probably had an easy way to access it, but oh well. The hatch took some tugging as well, but I was able to go all “Friday the 13th” on it with my gloves and broke through like a badass who can’t use doorknobs. Or hatch knobs. Fuck it, man, I’ll tear anybody’s knob off who wants a piece!
So I tore my way through the hatch and found myself taking some stairs down to the what better be a well-stocked repository, lest whoever I find gets a fisty suppository. What I found was a long, narrow corridor with siding doors on either side. A door down the way slid open and a guy poked his head out. “I don’t know what you’re here for, but you’re not going to get it. Um, that’s not bravado. We don’t have much here at all.”
“Dude, seriously?” I asked.
“I’m one guy and I watch a bunch of cameras. You think they’d leave me all alone here if we had anything worth guarding?”
“Tell you what, let’s go over the inventory,” I said.
“Are you going to kill me no matter what I do?”
“If you help me find what I need, I’ll just rough you up a bit.”
So, with the help of my newfound, camo-clad friend, we perused the inventory for a few special items. I didn’t find my ideal flavor of ice cream, but I found a stockpile of workable material. For being so reasonable, I also told the lone guard to go ahead and pick out something nice for me to have stolen. Evidently, the private military company that ran the storage depot had gotten hold of some platinum coins somewhere that the guard figured he could sell. When it was all said and done, we both had a laugh and I broke both of his legs. Lifted him up by the thighs and tried to see if I could fold his legs to his armpits. He’ll live.
He probably would have objected to that if I’d told him about it ahead of time, but he’ll probably thank me when his superiors start wondering if he really tried to put up a fight.
So ended my brain’s break from the mind-number monotony of listening to James Earl Jones talk about the energy ratios needed to move different amounts of mass through the barrier of reality and into another dimension. That is where the damage comes from, essentially. You don’t have to move an entire planet to another dimension. Just half. Hell, a quarter would do a fantastic job of getting rid of all the pesky life on it.
And it occurred to me that if I can figure out how to move something only the size of a bomb, I can figure out how to move something the size of myself consistently. Then I’ll finally have an ability I’ve wanted for so long: the ability to automatically put my boot up any ass I want.