Tag Archives: Elita the Warrior Woman

And Introducing… 3

There was a flat, incredulous “What?” from behind me accompanied by the whine as the gun charged up, then exploded. Kaplooey! His head asplode. Ok, so it wasn’t just his head. The shockwave threw me forward and back to the ground, but I held onto the transdimensional vloggy thingy I stole from the late Jetbomb. I stashed it in the van. I had to be ready in case more people needed distracting, and there was always the chance of getting taken in.

Ok, so let me stop and address some concerns. Was Jetbomb really killed? Yes. Do superheroes really come back to life all the time? Depends. Jetbomb was blown up by a combination of my gun’s power source and the power source for his jetpack. Supposing anybody felt like doing some magical or high tech wammy on him, they’d have difficulty doing so with a body in that many pieces and they’d have to put some of the flame broiled ones out first.

What I’m trying to say is, they’d have to resurrect a pulled pork sandwich. An overcooked one.

Now, the problem with blowing something up in public is that it definitely brings a response. Firefighters, police, heroes. Shoot a gun in public all day and there’s no problem, but the moment one tiny fission explosion goes off everybody loses their minds. Even worse, my phone rang. I’d left it in the van due to my lack of pants pockets, but it was probably better I just grab it and the camera and vamoose.

Turns out Elita had the same idea. “What did you do?” she asked as soon as I answered.

“You heard that, eh?”

“Yeah. They’re going to close this up now that there’s been an attack nearby.”

I needed a good way to hide from the cops and possibly from Elita too. I headed behind a strip of stores nearby. “Did you at least get to meet him, or am I going to have to buy you more cheesesticks?”

“Yeah, I got to meet him. It was awesome! I got his autograph and ev-“

“Good to hear that, I’ll talk to you later when it’s time to get paid, gotta go, bye.”

With that, I opened up one of the dumpsters nearby and threw myself in. It was not one of mine or the nearby taco place’s finest hours, I’ll tell you that much. Grabbed a couple of plastic bags and some old salsa while I was in there, too. After a quick makeover with a few other ingredients, I crawled out of there and found myself face to face with a pair of the first officers on the scene.

“Hey, hold up. You see what caused all this?” one of them asked me. I shook my head no, my blond hair matted with what I’m fairly certain was old beer. It’s difficult to tell because I’ve noticed every dumpster smells like old beer. That, or every beer smells like fresh dumpster. Either way, I played the homeless drunk.

“No, I was taking a siesta back there. You guys want some nachos?” I held out the double bagged salsa to them, causing the younger-looking of the pair to gag.

It was the older one who threatened me, “You can’t be sleeping back here. And how could you with something going on right there? Maybe I should run you in.”

His partner stopped him, “Come on, no. You see what that looks like over there. We arrest this guy for anything right here, Homeland Security’s going to drop him off in Cuba just because he was too close.”

“I’m sorry, officers, I didn’t know something was happening. I’m no terrorist! Just a drunk.”

The senior partner pondered the situation for a minute, then motioned off behind him. “You get out of here and you find yourself some pants as soon as possible, alright?”

“Thank you, officer. I will officer. Have a good morning!”

It was one hell of a long trip back to the hideout, though it was aided immensely when I was far enough away to toss the bag with the salsa in it and then pawn the phone for enough quick cash to pick up pants off the Goodwill.

In retrospect, this may not have been the best story to tell y’all to start off this whole mess. It’s nowhere near as impressive as the time I saved Christmas. Then again, I got my butt whooped on that one. And then there was that one time with the news… but then I wound up sticking my hand right up…

Anyway, after 15 showers in a row and an extensive and rough shampooing, I met Elita back at the bar. She was concerned about how I’d lost so much hair but I’m not about to share some embarrassing private story about a dumpster, ha ha. I took my payment and got back here to examine the vloggy thingy. What, you thought I did this out of the goodness of my heart? Ha! I do not dumpster dive for free. You want some compassion and good feelings then you stay your ass out of the free market, because money is a cold, heartless gold-digging bitch who wears a green dress every night better than your woman can.

I’ve gotten over the dumpster thing by now.

That’s how I got a hold of the gadgetry that’s making this possible. See, Jetbomb was trying to do streaming video and audio in real time. Hardly any of his stuff got out. I’ve crossed through dimensions before. I have some idea about the frequencies and power concerns needed to get stuff through there. Me, I’m keeping the power requirements low. Works better sending just text and I don’t have to worry about getting caught due to a blog. Or because of people reading me on the internet, like some people who shall not be- Neil Patrick Harris –named after this point.

Nobody said it’s easy, though. Can’t do this every day. There’s also a data limit, so don’t expect me to just leave this thing running and philosophize. Trust me, I can philosophize the hell out of stuff. I’ll philosophize so hard, you will drink hemlock.

Oh, sorry, message from OOC saying I forgot to introduce myself.

Hello world, my name is Psycho Gecko.



And Introducing…

Testing, 1, 10, 11. Alright, according to Optimal Outer Control, we have signal. Greetings, people of whichever Earth this reaches. Hopefully not that pirate one where Nixon is still president. This is supposed to be a world with no superheroes that receives this. I myself am a supervillain. That’s right, costume, powers, plans to wreak evil on the world, that sort of thing. Trust me, I do a lot of wreaking. Usually in bathrooms. In fact, this one time I didn’t even bother getting close to the toilet. I just stood in the middle of the bathroom, put my arm up, and went “ch ch ch, chchchchchch!” while rotating in place. You should have seen the faces on the other guys in that airport bathroom. I have it on good authority that that more than anything is why they put me on the no-fly list.

You know, on the one hand, I’m glad for you. I’m sure a planet without so much power in the hands of so few has a lot fewer problems. After all, then you’d need a whole lot of jerkwad people to be supportive of the kind of crap they pull over here. What’s that? Got an email from OOC here on this subject.

…so, in a topic that is in no way meant to change the subject, you might be wondering what I’m doing communicating with your planet now. The answer to that is simple. I don’t know. I got the idea and technology from this hero I fought the other day. Guy by the name of Jetbomb or something. A teenager with more fashion sense than situational awareness.

I was running interference for a client. Elita the Warrior Woman, to be specific. Quite the Amazonian beauty. One of the types that can throw a car at people. She is one of the bigger names just because she can go mano a womano with the big name heroes in a straight up fight. I find you shouldn’t ever bother with a fair fight unless you’re unable to kick your opponent in the balls. Anyway, I’m in the bar about a week back and she’s got a crowd over there, except suddenly a bunch of them start laughing. Not the nice laughter either. Knowing that and noticing who they’re laughing at, I figured I was about to see somebody’s head shoved through a wall. She threatened it and they backed off, to my disappointment, but then I noticed her slump down in her barstool.

I shouldn’t have been staring, but that’s when I saw the handbill. Bleh, archaic term. We use a lot less paper where I come from you know. Or they did. I’m fairly certain I didn’t blow up the planet when I left. Anyway, handbill. This author was in town promoting a book called Master and Margarita 2: Chinese Takeout. That’s when I got the idea to walk over there and just be myself to the large muscular woman who was upset over being made fun of.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. I walked up the bar and called to the bartender for another White Russian and cheesesticks. It’s not really a bad guy bar without ways to kill people all over the place. My favorite are the cheesesticks. Then, acting all nonchalant, I’m like, “Hello Elita the Warrior Woman. I see you are sitting here. How are you today that is causing you to be despondent?” I don’t remember the actual backhand. After pulling myself out of the table’s wreckage, I walked back over to the bar to pick up my ready food. I lingered a second and had my mouth open, so she grabbed me by the collar of my jacket.

“Listen, I don’t feel like being made fun of, so why don’t you get out of here you little blond bumfucker.”

My response had to wait until I’d reset my jaw from the previous blow.  Ow.

“First of all, that was probably offensive to gay people. Second of all, I wasn’t intending to make fun of your carpet-munching ass at all.”

“I meant bumfuck like the middle of bumfuck, nowhere.”

“Oh. Ew, I hope they don’t do a lot of ranching out there.”

“It’s a saying!”

“I hope that’s all it is. Listen, I saw you were sad and I was naturally curious as to how anyone could actually possess a pair big enough to laugh at you. Also, would you care for a cheesestick?” I held it out for her. If you’re wondering why the specifics on the dialogue now, it’s because of some playback I’ve got built in. I started recording a little after realizing I had no idea how I got from the bar to the middle of a broken table across the room. It’s the kind of thing that piques one’s curiosity.

She took that cheesestick and we sat down and had ourselves a small talk about her favorite author who was coming in town in the next few days. She wanted to go see him at the book signing but there was a big problem. Her rather distinctive size. Publishers like to keep an eye out for anyone unusual to prevent kidnappings. Not like they’d have any security present capable of taking out a woman of Elita’s stature, but they’d make a call requesting superhuman assistance at the place.

For someone just wanting to peacefully see her favorite author, it was indeed a problem. She didn’t want to kidnap him either, and I don’t blame her. I find it’s tough to get the chain around their necks tight enough to hold them but not so tight it chokes them. There are a lot of technical matters like that involved in supervillainy. Most people don’t realize that we work very hard to create the terrifying experiences we unleash upon the world.

Actually, Elita is one of those who usually doesn’t bother, which was part of her problem. Right away I knew what to do. See, what Elita needed was a decoy.