Category Archives: 03. The Death of Holdout

One of these days, you shorts wearing teen sidekick, one of these days!

The Death of a Feud (Special Almost Double Size Update!)

I wasn’t even causing any trouble. I know that’s hard to believe, but it was the night before Mr. Rogers Day. Yes, I’m planning to be a good neighbor on Mr. Rogers Day. Or I would have, if I was going to have neighbors anymore. I’ll get to that.

I was watching Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon, a fun documentary, when I dropped my remote. I bent over to pick it up and missed the bullet that shattered my big screen. I dove for the side, my popcorn spilling into the air. More shots tracked me, probably near misses, and I landed behind the workbench with my latest rocket assembled on it.

“I appreciate bringing me lead to eat, but I ordered Italian take out!” I called out to my attacker. If you can multitask, I suggest talking to someone while you face them. Some people can get mixed up if they have to do something while listening to someone else.

A gruff voice with a Southern drawl answered back, “From now on you’re gonna take your meals in the pokey or not at all.”

I reached for a plastic sack full of white capsules hanging on the wall. “In the pokey? Listen buddy, I’m as wild as the next guy, but I really don’t care for food to be shoved up my-“

“In the hoosegow!”

“…right, I hope you brought lube along.”

With that, I leapt across to the other side of my workshop. This time, no mere bullets were fired my way. Instead, flames licked at me as fireballs barely missed me. As I settled against the tough metal cabinet and counter, I yelled to my assailant, “That’s one hell of a gun, Quickdraw McGraw!”

“It’s not Quickdraw, it’s Sixgun!” That explained it. The man with the empathic gun of interchangeable ammo, even ammunition like fireballs that shouldn’t exist. I wondered if he had anything like what that big fucking gun shot back on the space marine ship.

“Shouldn’t you be promoting mass shootings to impressionable middle schoolers?” I asked. Regardless of my stance on the issues I bring up, a good verbal kick in the balls always helps. Mwahaha, that’s right, fear what my mouth will do to your balls!

Wait a tick, that’s not right. Also, the wall is on fire. See THIS is why people go for metal or concrete construction right here.

I reached up without looking and found my utility belt on the countertop and dragged it down. I slipped it on and clicked the buckle when I heard him respond, “Guns are perfectly safe when used by properly trained individuals with no mental problems!”

Not sure where he got the idea most people who had them count as properly trained AND sane. “I’m sure that comforts a lot of grieving parents. ‘Oh, geez, sorry your kid got shot with a legal killmachine, but it’s ok because most of the rest of us probably aren’t going to do that. Now if you’ll excuse me, there was an incident at an elementary school today and I need to go reassure more people they won’t be limited to just 5 killmachines.’”

“You’re a real bastard, Psycho. You don’t have the right to lecture anybody about weaponry. Besides, I’m here to deal with your continuous assassination attempts on my sidekick.”

I tore open the bag, pressed on the caps of a few white capsules, and threw them towards the doorway Sixgun appeared to be taking cover behind. They burst into flames in midair not too far away, prompting him to pop out of cover long enough to fire back in response while holding his white cowboy hat onto his head. Lightning flashed out of the end of his gun’s barrel and cracked against the TV. One line went wide and wrecked the top of the workbench I hid behind earlier, blasting my rocket apart.

See, this is why I can’t have good things. And where are my knives?

“Took you long enough. I wonder how long he kept begging for a chance to not have his life put in danger before he kicked the bucket!” I said, changing tracks.

“He might ask me the same thing when I’m finished with you.”

Ah, in all the lightning and fire and bullets, somehow my explosive throwing knife belt wound up on the ground right in the middle of the room. “Now that was a stupid thing to say for someone trying to protect him. You know he started this, right?”

“You captured him! You tried to kill him!”

“He’s a teenager whose first instinct upon seeing a murdering psychopath was to follow him and try to sneak up on him!”

“You poured vegetable oil on him and beat him over the head with a salami. Don’t you know how wrong that was?”

“Yes, I know. I should have used knockwurst!” I heard the sound of metal smacking against flesh. Facepalm. I took the opportunity to slide out on the floor and grab a knife. I armed it and threw it towards the doorway with no particular aim. It was hard to hear anything over the explosion and the spreading flames, so I just had to risk it and rush the door.

On the other side, I saw Sixgun, laying there, staring up at nothing through a pair of holes cut out in a tied strip around his face. I slipped another knife off the belt as I stood over him. I dropped to my knees, pinning his arms down under them, grabbed the back of his head, and raised the blade in the air.

“Hehehe, gunslinger. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.”
Unfortunately, I lost the base. My next step, with all the smoke going everywhere, was to change into my armor and get out of there. Was grabbing as many remote hologram discs when I saw the flames had reached the box of rubber chickens. Fire trucks arrived in time to see me fleeing a clutch of chicken grenades all walking towards the street before exploding, sending my latest lair and me flying.

It wasn’t too much better at the apartment. I was learning here. What I was learning was I was being followed. I had an idea who as well. I also had the advantage of keeping some nifty explosives in my apartment for intruders.

But I couldn’t do that.

See, now I’m at my apartment, staring down a wounded Holdout. He walked in, one arm in a sling, to find me standing there in the dark.

“Still at it? Can’t get enough pain, or are you just suicidal?” I say to him.

He pulls a gun out of thin air. Literally, empty air, then a gun, and his sleeves aren’t that long. Guess that’s why he’s called Holdout.

“You killed my-…you killed Sixgun. You have been trying to kill me. You’re not walking out of here alive.”

“Then I’ll walk out dead.” He cocks the hammer. “Oh come on, you think that’s going to hurt me?”

“It’s built like Sixgun’s. Yeah, I can shoot through that armor.”

“How’d you find me, by the way?” I’m curious. Best to correct for that next time.

“The truck. I memorized the license plate number when you had me tied up and covered in oil. I followed it on the day you tried to crash into me and that confirmed who it was. Sixgun was able to pull together trips it had made from examining the minions you killed and that led us to your new base. And after…you did what you did, I followed you here.”

“I guess you CAN do a little more than pull a trigger, huh? Are you good for anything useful aside from that? I bet you can’t feed a hungry orphan or remove a lump of cancer. Just track down and try to shoot lil ole me, the evil molester of pandas and weapon master of the deli section.”

“Shut up! I don’t have any real power, but at least I can do a little good in all this. Even if it is just a little, it’s better than nothing.” Whoa. He looks shaky. Looking closer, I can see scars and burns. My handiwork by now. “You can’t talk your way out of this. I have to do this and even if I fail, I’ve led the cops right to you.”


“Crap. With all these bombs I keep in here, that’s going to get real messy, real quick.” He stiffens at that. “Or I let you evacuate the good people of this building before folks charge in here after me.”

“You’re going to kill me if I turn around to do that.”

“I take pity on you.” He nearly shoots me right there. I stand there, stoic as a guy can be in armor that doesn’t show his face. After a minute, hearing sirens approach, he eases out the doorway and speaks into something at his shoulder, alerting the cops to a bomb in the building, in my apartment. I just close the door, catching a glimpse of my neighbors and their little girl being helped out of there by the wounded sidekick.

They manage to get them all out in 20 minutes. I’ve fortified the doorway pretty well in that time and there I am, standing at the window as helicopters illuminate me with the floodlight. It doesn’t shine off my armor but it does off the window, making it a little harder for sharpshooters to take a whack at me. I know the SWAT are getting close, so I press a button.

The apartment explodes outward as the bombs go off, raining burning debris over the assembled cops and a few onlookers too close to the scene. More of the blast was directed away from the interior than I figured.

Me? Oh, I’m watching from a couple of buildings over. Wish I had a drink with me. Yep, I barricaded the door and the interior walls, set one of the hologram discs down with an image of myself, and hightailed it out of there. Before you start with the “Oh Mr. Gecko, you’re so handsome but sooo cowardly,” let me just add that I was trying to avoid blowing up the little girl next door. That’s why I couldn’t just lead Holdout in and blow it all up right then and there.

She’s a former client. That sounds really wrong, but it’s the truth. Looks like the fire trucks will get most of the damage since they were called along as well.

Holdout? Maybe I’ll kill him, maybe I won’t. Let’s just say the kid showed some balls and some good decision-making skills. He gets a part in taking me down as far as anyone knows, I killed his boss. And almost killed him a lot of times. And murdered supervillain support staff. And I struck out with Dave’s wife. I suppose we’re roughly even if I go easy on NEEDING him dead.

Well, my apartment’s kablooey, my lair got blown up, most of my equipment is destroyed or seized, a hero is dead, I appear to be dead too, it was all done rather publicly, and it is now Mr. Rogers Day, when I shall do no harm. I’m not a really good neighbor to have, though. Would you be mine? Could you be mine?

Hmm…now there’s an idea.

Road trip!



The Many Deaths of Holdout


“Alright, let’s have a word here, gentlemen, while we have time. I’d just like you folks to get a sense of me and the kind of man I am. I just want you all to know that this is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt me.”

*Muffled mumbling*

“You might be wondering why I called you all here together to day. If you are, I’m doing the world a favor by keeping you from having children. Don’t bother struggling. You aren’t going to be able to break free of that adhesive. It’s amazing the things you can do with peanut butter. Now, if anyone here feels they have been unfairly beaten over the head with a bat and restrained, I am willing to field some questions. Give you a few last words. Now, who wants their gag off first? You there, with the broken nose.”

“You better let me go or so help me God I’ll-“

“Shut the hell up, that’s what you’ll do. Next!”

“Please, man, you don’t have to do this,” “Why?” “come on, it’s… it- it, it’s Dave’s birthday!”

“Oh is that true? Shut the facehole! There.” *Footsteps* “You’re Dave? Happy Birthday Dave. You know, birthdays are a happy time for some, usually youngsters, or young’uns to use the vernacular. Not to be confused with onions, which, unlike teenagers, make you cry when you cut them. What I find when I think about a birthday is that it’s this one day where you have to admit you’re older. That, or a good time for your wife to go ‘Sure, why not stick it in my ass?’ Which I don’t have to tell you is rhetorical question. Do you have a wife?”

*Muffled affirmation*

“Oh yeah, good to know. The other thing about birthdays is that people contemplate mortality on their birthday. You’re lucky. You get a consultation with an expert in mortality. Um, by the way here pal. Hey, cut that out, what am I going to do, squeeze your shoulders until you die? Anyway, I wanted to ask you something, man to man, buddy to buddy. It’s a delicate subject, but…how long after you die can I start nailing your wife?”

*Muffled yelling*

“I take it you don’t approve of my plans to bend her over your washing machine while she’s got whipped cream on her knees and a cucumber shoved up her tailpipe. That’s what women have, right, tailpipes?”

*Banging of a human head on a metal wall accompanied by frantic noises of struggle*

“I’ll take that as an ‘Over my dead body’ so, you know it’s not really specific after today. I’ll be more subtle about it and see if it grows in her, on her, I meant on her.”

*More gagged screaming*

“Hell, you’ve all been spreading rumors about me. Maybe I ought to just whip it out here and go to town. What’s that? You look like you have something to say. Here, let me get that.”

“You aren’t going to rape us are you? Please, don’t-“

*Something fleshy slams against metal.*

“IT IS TOO LATE TO ‘PLEASE’ ME! Frankly I’m offended you think this can all be avoided by a bunch of guys in a van pleasing me. If you wanted to say please, it should have been ‘Please, sir, can we shut up really hard rather than blab to everyone around about you looking like you were banging a teen sidekick with a nice ass that you were killing. Killing the sidekick, that is, not the sweet, sweet ass.’ But you didn’t. You who work in the business of moving secret equipment for known criminals to secret lairs didn’t keep a secret. This can only mean one thing.”

*Paper crinkling*

“Now, let’s put your thought processes down on paper, shall we? ‘Dear friends, loved ones, and Dave’s soon-to-be-wheelchair-bound-from-excessive-fucking wife.’ Calm down Dave! ‘We, the bodies you are about to find, have grown weary of this life. There is only so many great works of literature you can read, so many impressive artworks to contemplate, so many vampire killer stories of dead presidents you can snub for the Oscars, and so many things you can shove up your ass and enjoy the funny feelings. Not for you, Dave’s wife, but for everyone else. We have reached our limit on all of these things and more. Now that we have lived life to its fullest, we have taken it on ourselves to commit suicide. Suicide by Gecko. To this end, we have spread some COMPLETELY false rumors about him and a certain teen sidekick. We would ask that you disregard those rumors. We also ask that you remember us not as the assholes we were, but as the full blown raging assholes we secretly were online. P.S. Dave’s wife, medically speaking, it’s healthier to do it up the butt.’”

“Now that that’s out of the way, I would like to show you men this. To the naked eye, this appears to be a banana. Those of you who served in the military had to learn how to defend yourself from one of these in basic hand to hand. What makes this one different is, you guessed it, an incendiary device. Smart crowd. I’m just going to leave this here, and when I push this little button on the device in my hand, your bananas are going to fry.”

*Struggling, rustling, and gagged pleas for help*

“Huh…any of the rest of y’all see that motorcycle back there? That guy there looks familiar. Here, I’ll tell you guys what. I’m going to leave Mr. Banana back here with you guys. You take good care of it. And I’m going to hop in the driver’s seat and take a little drive over Holdout. I don’t know how he keeps surviving, but I know I have a moving van here. As we all well know, vans are dangerous to underage people.”

*Engine starts up and radio turns on. Psycho Gecko sings along*

“There’s a path running under the city, where the stones and the hills divide. There’s a path we can walk through the loss and the pity…good song, you don’t usually hear these guys on the radio. Appropriate band for the occasion, Dave! Alright, chums up, let’s do this, Leerooooooooy-!”

*Squealing tires*

*Transcript Ends*

Took care of that damn Holdout. Again. A truck to the face ought to finish what the potty rocket apparently didn’t. Either he was following me or he tracked the license plate number of the moving van. Now I know how curiosity felt.

Oh, and the Screwhaul guys are taken care of. I’m thinking of going to Dave’s funeral and comforting his widow, but we’ll see if I’m going to be busy killing Holdout again.




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.




The Death(s) of Holdout

Fuuuuuuck fucking piece of fucking fuck fucker fuck fuckity fuck poop fuck!

I didn’t care about killing that kid. You know that assuming you were paying attention last time. That’s one thing that made it hard for me. Properly motivated, I could kill someone with a tomato. A motherfucking tomato.

I’m motivated now.

Holdout survived. Barely dressed piece of shit with that those big, needy eyes.

Last time was about convention. You capture the hero’s sidekick, you tie them up, you rough them up a little bit, and then you try to kill them. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have the time to spend on overly elaborate deathtraps. If I throw a refrigerator on your head, you damn well better stay on ice. Even if I don’t care about killing someone, they stay dead. That goes double for any necromancers out there thinking of raising some zombies. You summon up their bodies to do your earthly bidding, you and I are going to have words. Words with fists attached to them.

That’s right, motherfucker, I’ll fist your earholes until your brains pop out. And then everyone will know to beware Psycho Gecko, Fister of Teen Boys.

There needs to be more cusswords.

I found out just recently. Got moved into the new base, a former icecream place this time. Headed out to celebrate out at the bar. There was a big guy just inside the door this time. Looked like he had a crocodile head. I think. Possibly an alligator head. Not that I’m going to voice either one near the guy. Not like I want to offend the guy, you know?

Anyway, Crocofucker actually tried to stop me. Something about me not wearing a mask. I like my armor. In fact, I love my armor. It’s just hard to drink in it. Crocofucker was just trying to enforce the bar’s mask policy.

“It’s alright, just check with the bartender,” I told him as I turned and pointed to him. The barkeep’s eyes went wide as Crocofucker looked. Probably because he also saw my other fist driving up into the bouncer’s stomach. He doubled over and grabbed on to me. On top of the desire for retaliation, he probably wanted some support. He of course turned to look back at me, so he didn’t see the hand I pointed with coming back around to punch him in the throat.

Basic lesson about various enemies. They need to breath. Even giant crocodile men. I slipped out of his grasp while he focused on drawing air, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and told him, “Walk it off, biggun.”

The bartender held up his hands to ward off my wrath. I just told him to get me some hot wings. Also, that the new bouncer better watch his ass. “I guarantee you he’s going to wind up through a table.”

It didn’t take long for him to bring me some. Not that I was going to hurt him for the slight with the bouncer. If that guy wants to keep up that whole “mask rule” business, I’ll simply keep beating him up. I’ve got tenure at the university of ass kicking. Mess with me and I’ll start handing out degrees.

So it was time to check the news. I have got to hand it to the civilians. They really don’t care. I’ve seen huge hulking masses of muscle on so much pot they have a Mexican cartel named after them give more of a fuck than people out there making a national crisis out of a singer lip syncing to her own song at an inauguration. We work so hard to get respect at times and instead Joe Schmo out there is too busy watching a con artist on Oprah try to tell people they can quantum heal their cancer with the power of positive thinking as taught in this one specific $49.99 book he sells.

Which, frankly, is insulting considering all the money he makes off it. At least I’m upfront and honest about robbing people blind. I don’t even trick them into thinking it is for their own good, except for this one time. I had a really good reason though. Really.

The major networks don’t have too much to interest me though. Figures. You want good information about technological advances or rare artwork coming to town, you’ve got to go with NPR or BBC. I switch to the local news, though. Never know when they’ll have something.

This time, it was talking about how Sixgun and Holdout took down a drug ring. I was surprised Holdout was back on his feet so quick, but it was him. The bruises were distinctive, especially the one from the spoon on his nose. Plus, as much as I don’t care to acknowledge it, I recognized his ass.

If I cared about you judging me maybe I wouldn’t be killing people all over the place.
Like I’m going to do to Holdout.

I ordered a beer real quick, something crappy. The bartender asked me to narrow it down among domestic beers, but I glared at him until he brought me something. Then I turned and threw it at the far wall with a cry of “MotherFUCKER!”

The bouncer started to move, then started to stop, then reluctantly started to move toward me again. He looked relieved when Elita the Warrior Woman walked into the bar. He had to stop her since she wasn’t wearing a mask. She put him through a table with a backhand. How does a crocodile reset its jaw? Do they ever need to?

It was entertaining but I just wanted to stew and plot. A different story was on when I turned back. Advances in asteroid tracking technology at a local research lab. I made a note of it as Elita stepped up to the bar. “Anything interesting?”

“Holdout is alive.”

“Oh yeah? Thought you’d be happy about that?”

“The fuck’s that mean?”

“I heard all about you oiling him up and choking him out from the ScrewHaul.”

I hopped off that stool and onto the bar, and then backflipped over Elita. I grabbed her by the collar and waistline, pulled her onto my shoulders while ducking, then threw her over me where she broke through the table next to Crocofucker.

First, I rekill Holdout. Then I kill those movers.




The Death of Holdout

Nope, didn’t get credit for disabling the ship and saving the day. Boohoo, cry me a river, heroes save the day, parades all around. I didn’t even get to keep my transport ship. They towed it. Something about being double parked on top of a building.

What have I been doing in the meantime? Some business in the Vatican, dealing with the Pope. Nothing for y’all to worry about, as the story will be old news soon enough. Just some useless pop culture drivel associated with a situation that last happened a few hundred years ago. Also means there’s no use telling it later because, hey, who the hell’s going to remember it later to give a crap?

Instead of leaving whoever is reading this a little behind on the timeline, I’m just going to catch you up. Let’s see. Built a new eye. The nanites regrew my hand and that part of my leg. Still haven’t broken in the hand though. Trying to take the relationship slow with this one.

Anyway, I’ve been working on my rocket again.

That’s not completely honest. Work on the rocket has stalled right now because I am changing lairs. Now, I don’t have any dedicated minions of my own, but I know a few good movers. That’s right, villains have movers. They charge extra too. They’re transporting dangerous or illicit objects. If they get caught, or decide to turn them in, or push a wrong button, something bad might happen. They could be vaporized, arrested, maybe even have their skin turned hot pink. Not that I have anything against pink people. Just don’t call them the P word. You know which one.

Why do I have to move? A sidekick found me. Holdout is what he calls himself. His boss, Sixgun, has a Lone Ranger vibe to him. That doesn’t explain why Holdout’s tights are shorter than shorts. It’s an…interesting…image when combined with the cowboy hat and full face mask. Not judging here. Who am I to talk about how hard it is to resist the charms of a young teen in skin tight short shorts and cowboy boots.

I’m resisting them just fine, though, don’t you think otherwise. I have him tied up and covered with oil. Wait, let me explain. The idiot actually recognized me while I was out and followed me back to my lair. I work hard to change my face every once in awhile just to keep this kind of thing from happening. Fuck if I know how he figured it out.

So, my “lair”…yeah. Hoo boy.

It’s more like one of the shops at a strip mall. I don’t do a lot of security because this thing rarely happens. It happened this time, though. What little security I do have proved more than adequate to capture Holdout once I saw him on the cameras. Yep, I bonked him on the head with a baseball bat when he walked in the door. But it’s fancy security. This time the bat was aluminum.

Doesn’t sound too threatening, right? You’re forgetting that heroes always find out who has their sidekick. That’s one reason I never kidnap them. Kid might have a tracking gizmo on him, or checked in along the way, or someone else saw the boy wonder in booty shorts.

Right, I got sidetracked away from the oil. I called the movers as soon as I could, so they took most of the stuff already, but I got the idea to have some fun with the kid. But not that kind of fun, dammit. I’m not sexing up the sidekick.

This is just torture. Or I’m trying to make it torture. Most of the stuff is gone, though, so I’m not exactly working with a car battery or paint thinner here. All I’ve got is a few things left from the kitchenette, so I can’t even get any penetration on this kid.

For fuck’s sake, I hate teen sidekicks already, especially talking about them.

Ok, I’m back. Just smacked him in the nose with a spoon. It was very satisfying. Bam, there we go again. You know, I think I heard some guy used nothing but spoons to kill a guy. I don’t have the time for that. Trust me, it takes a long time to carve a heart out that way. That’s why the Aztecs never had spoons, you know. The closest they ever had to them were obsidian utensils that were somewhat rounded, but with sharpened points on them. They called these fearsome weapons “sporqueatualpoctli” and they were the bane of Spanish conquistadors.

Or it would have been, but the Spanish are notorious for having food that does not require the use of utensils. The Aztec warriors greatly feared the coming of a conquistador mess wagon, whose dinner bell struck fear into their hearts. Their sporks were useless against such cuisine. To this day, the heart-craving Aztecs are kept out of the United States by a chain of restaurants that utilize the fear-inducing warning of a conquistador chuck wagon.

In your universe, I believe they’re called Taco Bell.

The only sporqueatualpoctlis I have are made of plastic, though, and they just broke when I tried to stab Holdout in the head with them. I may have drawn blood. Or ketchup. I’m not tasting to find out. The last thing we need after me oiling him up is putting my lips on him.

Alright, so let’s check the fridge. You know, I like bratwurst. Good stuff, especially the ones with some cheese in them. The only problem is you feel like you’re going to be sick a little bit after you eat them. They’re the only thing I eat mustard on, so don’t feel bad when I tell you I poured mustard in the kid’s eyes and rubbed it in. Not too much of an effect. Pow, frozen salami to the head!

Aaaand he’s out. I told the guys at the deli that I needed Genoa salami, not hard salami.

This is almost turning into more work than it’s worth. I don’t usually use guns, but I’m thinking I might need to ask the movers for one of theirs. It’s just disappointing, you know? I had a very simple dream of executing an annoying sidekick and getting away with it. But now the getting away with it part is messing with the execution. What kind of a world are we in when you just can’t slay a person with whatever you have in your refrigerator?

Ok, you’ll be glad to know that I’m getting out of here. Mission accomplished. I threw the fridge on him. Now, that didn’t actually kill him the first time. Not the second time, third time, fourth time, or the fifth of vodka. So I wound up sticking his head in the ice storage, shoving marshmallows in his mouth, and gave him the biggest wedgie until the struggling stopped.

That’s when I heard someone say “What the fuck?!” and found the movers had returned.

I tried to tell them it wasn’t what it looked like. “No, it’s ok, I’m trying to make him choke! You can’t see it, but I’ve shoved something in his mouth.”

Needless to say, they got the wrong idea, but when they wiped the horrified expressions off their faces they were able to finish their job and take the refrigerator. Then I activated the device I built in under the sink. By the way, if anyone is ever in an old store, warehouse, or apartment that I may have stayed in and finds some weird machinery under the sink that they don’t recognize, you might want to carefully remove it, take it to the backyard or an empty lot or even a lonely desert somewhere, and set it off in a controlled and safe demolition. If the resulting mushroom cloud is blue, then you’ll know it was really one of mine. Or tie it to the tail of a cat, I don’t care.

No, no, no, that’s wrong. Strap it to a Chihuahua. Yap yap yap ba-BOOM! Woosh!

All in all, I’ve had better torture sessions where I was the victim.