Reality Check 8

The stage was set for my attack. Actually, it was all set for Honky Tonk and Gorilla Awesome to go into their rendition of “Hound Dog”. Someone actually threw their panties onstage at Honky Tonk Hero. I kept a photo of the guy pulling them off himself for future blackmail purposes.

That’s when Tupac walked out on stage. The music stopped dead, the whole crowd stopping and staring at what looked to real to be a hologram. “It’s got to be him,” said Honky Tonk, who gripped his guitar by the neck and swung the base around to point at me. Roughly 64.3921554% of the crowd pulled out guns of various shapes and sizes. Ensconced as I was in not only the Tupac hologram, but my armor, I just spread my arms and yelled out indignantly in the voice of the dead rapper, “It’s ‘cause I’m black, isn’t it!”

My armor is bulletproof, but it turns out that if enough cops fire at exactly the same time with good enough aim, the force can actually lift me off my feet and fling me back about a wookie’s length. Look, I don’t do measurements the same way other people do. You can tell me the numbers. I know the numbers mean something. And if you try really hard and give me something to compare them to, I can even get a rough enough idea of something to give you numbers back. As you may have noticed, my ability to put together weapons of mass destruction in no way relies upon imagining exactly what the length of a foot looks like without the aid of a sub sandwich.

Speaking of weapons of mass destruction, I landed on Gorilla Awesome’s drumset, the blow only slightly softened by the bag I had across my back that contained a number of objects that were not fun to land on. “And I bet there still won’t be a single damn witness,” I told him with a cough. He brought a drumstick down to smack me in the face once, but I dodged the second one, and as I rolled out of the way of a third hit, the drumstick smacked a cymbal. Rimshot! The stick snapped on my helmet as the rimshot rang out. Whatever you do out there, don’t try to get a job doing rimshots. It..it just doesn’t work out. Trust me on this. You don’t have the tongue for that kind of work.

Before Gorilla Awesome could use more sticks and stones to try and break my bones, Moai leapt to my rescue, landing directly on the ape and driving him through the stage, but rolling to safety on it without going down with him. When we both stood, it was to the bell ringing in the song “Hail Mary” with me Tupacced out and Moai wearing low-hanging jeans, the gun from the fanny pack now tucked in the waistband, and a bandana tied around its head.

“That blow was like a twelve gauge shotty, uhh.. ya feel me?” I said as I approached Honky Tonk Hero, making a big show of dancing, boxing style, and raising my fists. “I am a killer, so don’t push me. Revenge is the sweetest joy next to gettin’ pussy. And this here is my boy, Rapper Nui.” I motioned towards the Moai.

The gorilla, recovering quickly as always, climbed up onto the stage and advanced at the same time Honky Tonk did. Moai and I were backed up against each other soon enough, back to back. I called back to him, “Don’t worry. I’ll take the ugly one.” The Moai turned partly, almost as if to ask which one that was, but then I felt him whip me around. I flew through the air, my legs smacking into the side of Gorilla Awesome’s face and sending saliva flying. I landed on my own feet and grabbed Moai’s head. I went to lift him in a similar spin toward Honky Tonk, but the most I managed to do was roll his body towards the hero, who tried to jump over and got caught in the balls when Moai stood up. A growl from behind me reminded me of the giant primate ready to tear me limb from limb.

I guess Moai considered Gorilla Awesome to be the uglier one. Good time for the goodie bag, though. Just as he lunged for me, I whipped out a bedpan and brought it across his face with a loud, resonating bong! I dropped it in the swing and reached in with my other hand to pull out a different loud bong, this one with a tie dye paint job on it. He caught it, along with my hand, and squeezed. His unforgiving muscles were more dangerous than the glass, at least until swung the next random item out of the bag. It was a horsehoe. I avoided being caught by Gorilla Awesome’s other hand or either of his feet long enough for my blows to finally force the release of my hand. I dropped the horsehoe, which now resembled a metal ampersand. He settled for jumping on top of me and pinning my lower body to the ground.

Normally that’s the kind of time when you have to go coyote and chew your way out, but my hands went to the bag again. Out came an iron. Perfect! I wrapped the cord the stiff wires on one glove and charged it up. It was somewhat imperfect of a connection, but it did enough to rapidly heat the iron, which I pressed into gorilla’s chest. Smelling of burnt hair, the primate put a little distance between us.

Behind us, all this time, raged the epic battle between the Moai and the Honky Tonk Hero, out of sight to me at least until I was grabbed again and spun around, the arm holding the iron still out. I was brought around so that my outstretched arm held the iron to Honky Tonk Hero’s hair, setting it ablaze. “Will you stop fucking forgetting who the minion is here!” I called back to my ensorcelled partner in crime. He dropped me on my feet.

Honky Tonk raised his guitar for a devastating overhead blow, his hair going out as the oil was used up though it still maintained that perfect Elvis do. I remembered I had brought a shield to battle that would deflect even his super strong attacks. I retrieved it from the bag and held it in front of me to block the blow. He stopped on a dime, unable to risk harming the vintage vinyl Elvis debut album I held before me. “Mother of God,” he muttered, dropped the arm holding the guitar to his side, then called out to the police officers who had gotten the crowd out of the way and set up a perimeter on the ground during our melee, “Stand down, everyone. We can’t risk destroying it!”

“Now you see, white Honky, that not you AND Gorilla Awesome AND a huge crowd of Memphis’s finest stands a chance of taking me down!”

At that, sharpshooters and SWAT teams on the roofs stood up and made their presence known, effectively doubling the police presence in the area. “Wooooooooooo! I’m going to have to kill twice as many people than I planned. You all want to form a nice, orderly line facing away from me?” I looked back to Honky Tonk then, “I normally take pride in my asskickery, but this looks like it’ll be a doozy of a rush job.” I shook the album in front of me to reiterate the fact that he didn’t want it damaged.

“Alright, I understand. Everyone, I said stand down! What are your demands? Do you want the city?” he asked, the air tense. I could almost hear the building up of what was essentially a Mexican standoff involving an Elvis album.

“I hadn’t much thought of it. I practically control everything already. I mean, if I ruled the city, what would I do, delegate the day to day responsibilities to experienced people like the mayor and city council? And if I needed money, I suppose I’d just walk into a bank and take it. And if I wanted to do something drastic, like shut down all the TVs, I’d just go ahead and do it without anyone’s input. You know, it’s almost like I’m already dominating your world. No, what I want…is…to know what the hell that noise is.” I said, looking around. What I thought was the sound of a Mexican standoff had turned out to be a real noise, approaching. Jets fly over Memphis all the time, but generally not this low over Beale Street.

The jet was all white, with neon lights running along it with sharp, precise angles. It was bulky, but moved slowly as it flew overhead and in the direction of the station I’d attacked the day before, thrusters rotating to slow it and allow it to hover. A gleaming white figure flew out of the top of it.

Ok, so Honky Tonk Hero and Gorilla Awesome and a gaggle of undercover cops and rooftop snipers and SWAT teams and the Kingscrow hero team (The Whatever-They’re-Calleds) AND Forcelight. Ok, that oughta do it.

I watched Forcelight as she flew closer, her otherwise delicate-featured face holding onto a look of determination that marred the beauty of her thick lips and eyes that drew your gaze enough to make you feel they are too wide for her pretty little face. It’s amazing how much you pay attention to someone after they’ve shown they are capable of taking your head off with a punch. She almost looked terrible and threatening to me, except she had her chance and used it to try and put me in cuffs. I dropped the record, whipped out more salmon than you could shake a bear at, and armed the stink grenades. The front row cops, Gorilla Awesome, and Honky Tonk were all engulfed in pink clouds of stinky exploded fish mist, which obscured the view of those on the roof tops. From out of the mist, I chucked one final fish right into that pretty face of Forcelight. I like to imagine it got close enough to smooch its little fishy lips against hers before it poofed into rotten fluid.

Moai and I made our escape then, with him rolling out of there. I jumped on top and ran backwards, feeling that despite all my rage I am still, in some ways, a rat in a cage.

Later on, back at my hideout, I was hosing down my suit and my Moai. Still had my helmet on, though, as I had to make a call.

“Kavorkian Pharmaceuticals, this is Elmira speaking,” said the voice on the other end.

“Hey, Holly, it’s everyone’s favorite homicidal maniac,” I said and heard a click. Yep, sounds like I called the right place. I was going to redial, but it turned out I was only transferred.

“Gecko, it’s not been long enough, how are you?” came the voice of Mix N’ Max.

“I’m doing just fine for a guy in Memphis facing down a load of heroes out of Kingscrow. Figured I’d call you up and let you know they were out of town. You know, just in case you ever went to a bar full of criminals with superhuman abilities who were looking for an excuse to run wild on the place.”

“I’ll pass along the message for you. Oh, Sam wanted me to tell you, and I quote, ‘If I ever get my hands on you, I will wring your neck until your brain pops out, then shove it up your dick.’”

“She watches Idol, doesn’t she?”

“She did until you started blowing up satellites and TVs.”

“Oooh, that reminds me,” I opened up a connection to the device I’d planted. I didn’t know where it was at, or if it had been disconnected. So I guess, to be more accurate, the connection was just to the bomb I’d planted. There, in 10 seconds that loose end will be tied up. “Alright, got that taken care of.”

So after a brief conversation in which Max teased that my next big terrifying act would be to destroy all deodorant in the country, I settled down while people lost their shit outside. TVs were being imported and bought as fast as anyone could grab them, like Black Friday horribly wrong. The police were even less effective at stopping crimes because the precincts had to either go on break while they cleaned themselves and their gear, or go out while the criminals could smell them coming a mile away. Forcelight was looking all over for me, but she didn’t know a thing about the city or its hiding spots, or about the people in this ratty old building that were more than willing to hide Tupac in their basement. All in all, not a bad round of violence. I have a bag of valuable loot from the pawn shop, a bit more publicity, and one tiny regret: I didn’t buy any stock in consumer electronics companies before I started knocking televisions out of commission. And I settled in, catching the news, entertaining myself, and doing a lot of reading on the nice, wholesome world wide web.

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Reality Check 7

When we last left off, I was eagerly awaiting my foes while stringing up traps in a TV station. They would attack, I would smite them, so on and so forth.

That’s what you’d expect, but we were all wrong. I began to suspect as much as the hours passed without even a siren. At the very least the police would be legally obligated to storm the place.

Nope.

Moai, Ricky, and I just sat there all night long. That was not real fun. Moai, my companion of late, is not real talkative. Ricky, some guy I don’t know and don’t care to know, is.

There were computers, though, but that’s not so fun with this guy insisting that you HAVE to play one of his favorite games. Some piece of shit browser game that screws your graphics up and can’t be won unless you’re dropping real money into it. It was bad enough it was called Legacy of Heroes, but apparently they’ve created a game so horribly balanced, players have gotten used to opponents being able to play 5 to 12 times as many cards as they are allowed to. To each his own, I guess. Some people play games because they have no sense of quality and want something to throw their money at futilely. I play a few because they are fun and there is a sense of accomplishment. You know, if you spend days on end working to become a big enough badass, the game doesn’t squash you by giving a regular street punk an unfair advantage.

Ah well, just something to pencil in the next time I go after scum sucking asswipes.

No games and fun that night. Next day, we all wake about noon. It’s then that I forced Ricky to find me a radio. There had to be some sort of news out there. Oh boy was there.

Blackoutfest.

Due to a certain handsome and devious supervillain’s plan, the city didn’t have their TV or their dancing with washed up famous people or their watching of that show “Shitting on Musicians Who Actually Pay Dues” so the Honky Tonk Hero and Gorilla Awesome were inviting everyone to Beale Street to have a good time with an impromptu music festival.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think these guys had some intelligence. They were luring me out. It’s obvious they didn’t want to take a chance walking into a spot that I had time to fortify when they have no clue what to expect. Too bad for them that as long as I’m involved, they’ll never know what to expect.

So Moai and I left in order to go deal with a couple of smartass heroes and their smartass plan. We didn’t go straight to where my enemies waited. No, instead I made my way to that pawn shop, the one from whatever that show was called. Assholes Ripping You Off With Sex Name To Catch Dumb Pervs. Something like that. Yes, I returned to the scene of the crime. The classic “first mistake you make” as a criminal, except everyone already knows I wrecked the place the first time. That time I wasn’t in a bad mood, though.

Didn’t bother with the door this time. Threw myself through the window. Tripped up a mannequin showing off an old white Zoot suit. A security guy in their dark, semi-button up shirt, drew a gun, but I grabbed the mannequin I landed on and smacked him with it. He dropped the gun, then he held up his arms to shield himself. Then he fell back down as I continued. Eventually he stopped moving at all. Took longer to beat him to death with a mannequin than I thought it would. Must be the suit. That’s a lot of fabric. Next time I hit someone with a fake person, I’ll make sure they’re naked first. That’s sound advice for living. Go ahead, try that sentence out next time you’re asked a profound question like “What is the meaning of life?” or “Why do good things happen to bad people?”

The suit looked better with a little blood on it too.

The place was good as new. Shelves with gleaming appliances. The katana hanging back on the wall behind the counter. Same old security guards for the most part, but just a little bit smarter from the way they were cowering with everyone else around.

There was that girl behind the counter, some one as before. Same screaming as before. Grabbed her by the back of the head and shoved her face into the cash register. “You are a three dollar moron dealing with a hundred dollar badass. Let’s make some change,” I told her as I punched in the transaction using her head. Just for good measure, the drawer shot out, smacked her in the throat, and shut her up.

Don’t think too hard on that three dollar moron and making change bit. I don’t know why I said that, but it sounded great.

Somebody tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around to find a husky Indian woman with red, white, and blue hair. “Excuse me sir, can I get my money from the register? The man there bought my priceless gold thong of the god Shiva made for a Rajput king.”

I don’t believe she understood the full meaning of the actions I had just performed to another human being. “How much do you need?”

She shook her head, “I made $400. It is good, a lot of American dollars.”

I looked for the man she had talked about, pretty sure I’d seen something out of my peripheral vision. Scrammed through the door to the back already, most likely. He unscrammed in a hurry, backed up through that door again by Moai, who had stealthily snuck in the rear of the dwelling with a giant hockey mask on. I just looked at the rotund fellow skeptically and tilted my head towards the Indian woman who was happily collecting her pittance. He shrugged, then moved the fingers of his right hand closer to me, palm up. I rolled my eyes, shook my head, cracked my fingers, looked at him, and raised my eyebrow. He sighed, resignedly, and punched himself in the balls. He sank to the floor, holding his painfully vibrating sack.

They say that what goes around comes around. Whenever the day comes that I’m faced with the penance for all my ball shots, I may have to consider castration.

Done putting up with any resistance, I looked around at the store and held out a hand toward Moai, who had brought the duffle bags. “Alright, Mo, let’s fill our sacks.”

I bring up Beale Street a lot as if it’s the center of Memphis. Some people wonder about the pyramid, other people figure there’s got to be a good business district. There are some good places near Beale Street, but at the end of the day, it’s the fixture people care about. It has bars and stages and shops for tourists. It’s not too far from that fancy hotel with the ducks that walk to the fountain and I think the Orpheum is a bit further along the place. Parts of it are closed off from driving as well, so that the acrobats that do flips don’t have to worry about dodging cars. I think that would add to their tips, but that’s me.

And yes, given all the stages set up along it and the Beale Street Music Fest held every year, it is the ideal choice for a huge crowd of people to get drunk and have fun without television. A guy like me can sneak up on it easy. Even easier if I’m “delivering” a Moai statue to the local voodoo store. It’s one of those tourist places as far as most people are concerned. It doesn’t work as a hideaway, though. The thing that opens the doors to it is very much against letting people in who are the subject of hot pursuit.

It was late afternoon when I got there and was making my move. Honky Tonk Hero was on stage, starting on “An American Trilogy” with Gorilla Awesome sitting behind the drums, useless during the song’s opening. People crowded around, watching, or buying merchandise from tables, or just swigging beer out of red plastic cups. There were a lot fewer drinking than I’d have thought, actually.

I can get that they’d want to lure me out, but what I can’t understand is why they think they can take me, and why they’d risk this crowd of people. I had a hunch though. I mean, part of my disguise was a big hump on my back. I also had a suspicion. It was a sneaking suspicion, but I caught it because I know a little more than most people about deceiving people.

I saw an overly enthusiastic fan break away from deeper in the crowd around the stage and calm down a little before heading into a bar, looking around, and heading off to a dark and smelly corner of the place.

I feigned stopping to enjoy the music to wait on the person to get back. When he did so, I maneuvered myself into his path as he stepped out the door so that he knocked into me. “Woopth, thorry thir,” I thaid.

He raised his hands up in a placative gesture and continued on. I did as well, pushing my Moai along with one hand while flipping open the man’s wallet in the other. Yep, a badge. Distracted, I didn’t avoid a woman in a sundress that went from pink to a soft blue down the length of it. She spilled her purse and I stopped to help her, “Tho thorry, madam. Let me help with that.”

She smiled at, “Thank you, it was just an accident though, so don’t feel bad.”

Too nice of a response. I felt around a little as I helped her put stuff back into her purse and found another badge. After I finished helping the undercover police officer, I took my Moai down a back alley next to the voodoo shop. There, I loosened up the bungee cords that tied him to the dolly and stripped off the jacket I was wearing so I could undo the straps under my shirt. My hump, my hump, my lovely lethal lump fell out the back, a duffle bag full of whatever I wanted to hit the heroes with. Moai and I were in position and ready to go. Just a few dozen extra enemies in my way, but I’ve never had a problem handling more sweaty men than I can shake my stick at.

 

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Reality Check 4

I got all prepared for that cake show. Seems like it’s just a bakery having to make an assload of cakes. Nothing where people eagerly watch to see themselves get ripped off. They just aren’t as important as my stuff. It’s like Carlin said, your shit is stuff and their stuff is shit. Which, if you think about it, gives an interesting new meaning to the food called stuffing. I’ll make sure to remind y’all all about that one come Thanksgiving or Christmas. Those are good holidays for eating stuffing until you’re stuffed and then stuffing up the toilet bowl. Which isn’t the same thing as what’s on TV with the football players nailing each other, bringing each other down to the ground. You know, full body contact with other sweaty men, televised, just in time for some guy on a news channel somewhere to act baffled that some of these men, who are checking out the man upfield to see if he’s open, might prefer the unfairer sex.

Needless to say, I always keep a loaded weapon close at hand at large meals. In some cases, said weapon was someone else’s hand. That damn mac and cheese is MINE!

Where were we? Oh yes, the cake show. Can’t have a cake show without cakes. Me, I wheeled up with my own supply of cakes. Yep, a variety of little cake robots. Buzzsaw cakes, exploding cakes, flamethrower candle cakes.

I was all set up to unleash my glorious cake rebellion upon the frosted heretics of whatever ridiculous reality show they had with a name reminiscent of sex. I found the place ok. Brick building. There was a sign for Caking Orgasms, the show, but a smaller one than I expected.

This time, my assault began from behind. I parked in the oddly-popular rear loading area. I knocked on the door, fully suited up, but with the illusion of normalcy upon me. Just, less metaphorically than most people.

You Freudian bastards.

My invasion of the autonomous baked goods was halted, however, by the guy at the door who declared that “I’m to tell everyone this, but we’ve been watching what’s going on. If you’re actually the supervillain, we’d ask that you please come in and get your stuff. But please, until you prove you’re the right guy, we’re not letting you in.” He pointed over to a few groups of loitering people that I hadn’t looked closely at before. Some were in civilian clothes, some were in makeshift costumes. There was even what looked like a midget dressed as a duck. I say midget because it’s the term I’m most used to. Dwarf doesn’t sound right. Too much like a fantasy critter, though I expect most of them would like that. Well, not the women. You know how dwarven women are about their beards, so that’s some unpleasant implications there.

So I’m there in a bit of a dilemma, unsure what to call midgets, when I dropped the illusion and unleashed the robots upon the unsuspecting masses, mwahahahaha! It was great. This guy in a bull costume was smoking, but those blackened lungs were exercised at a bad time as a cake with candles all over the top spewed fire at him. He really shouldn’t smoke around all those people, but you can’t help it so much when your face is on fire. A guy dressed up in some weird uniform that said “Black Mesa” was set upon by a cake that hopped 8 feet into the air and landed on his head. He’s not going to be happy about the woodchipper in that one. Whew, glad he didn’t have a boner. That wood would not take a chipping kindly. How much wood would a woodchipper chip if a woodchipper chipped your woody?

The Moai hopped out of the back of the truck when they were done, Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” blasting from it. I adjusted the giant poofy chef’s hat on its head, then turned to the guy at the door.

“Come on in,” he said, and held the door open. Finally, about time I get some respect around here. I walked in and the Moai ducked its head to follow. The doorman actually showed me to a table with my machines set beside it. One was a large, gunmetal grey elliptical container with a panel on the front portion, which is where it swings open at. I ran my hands over it, checking it for damage, then popped it open. Everything seemed ok. There was where I put the suit, and the multitude of small, tool-equipped arms capable of repairing damaged portions of my armor. Incredibly useful for upgrades and it can throw together a new suit entirely given enough time.

The other was a shorter cylinder, about big enough to shove a human head in, as I know from practice. By the way, it might be inferred that I like large cylindrical objects based on how much I use them. All I can tell you on that front is that sometimes a cigar is just a penis. I mean a cigar! That was just a Freudian tongue slip over my cylinder. That line of conversation is over! Gah, this talking is hard, too long, and just gives me a throbbing headache. Anyway, that’s the nanite generator, in that it generates my regenerative nanites. I need more word variety.

Needless to say, such delicate tasks take some time and nom materials like it’s nobody’s business.

A pair of men approached with carts, “Is it ok if we get this loaded up for you?”

“Sure, go ahead. I’m not really used to someone being reasonable. While we’re at it, anyone know why they wanted this stuff?” I pulled a chair out at the table and sat. And motioned to my Moai to take one too. I turned back to the workers. They looked bug-eyed past me to the Moai as wood scraped over the cement floor. Civilians, you know? They act like they’d never seen a limbless magic Moai pull out a chair before.

“Uh, one of them got this crazy idea using the little tank to make a cake with real small layers of frosting or something,” Said the chunkier of the two, a fellow with a soul patch.

His buddy was taller and thinner and spoke up then, “Yeah, get this? The pawn shop guy made them buy these as a package deal. He heard some nutjo- I mean you were going after some stolen supervillain stuff. Guess no one was crazy enough to buy the suit.”

“Yes, you must be this crazy to wear this suit,” I said, trying to sound ominous and failing hard from the looks of the guys. Tell the truth, my mind was busy at the time. I was aglow with whirling, transient nodes of thought careening through a cosmic vapor of inventions. Sometimes I just get lost like that and a blender suddenly becomes a pressurized liquid food spewer. It’s kind of like when people forget birth control and 9 months later out pops a pressurized liquid food spewer.

The fat man dressed up with a top hat got my attention though. I guess they were serious with that blurb about trying to be a rock and roll cake experience. Behind him were some women carrying a cake replica of my helmet on it in grey and orange frosting. They set it down on the table in front of me along with a small plate and some utensils.

“Mr. Gecko,” the man said “or Psycho Gecko, whatever you prefer. I’m the owner here. Allow me to offer my apologies and this token of our good intentions in returning your property.” The bakers set the cake on the table and carved me out a large slice. “We hope this will prevent any unfortunate violence from breaking out and destroying the place,” he said. I think. I had unclasped my helmet and was uvula deep in my slice of cake, so I might have misheard a word.

I was as caught off guard as any of them when Honky Tonk Hero, this time in a powder blue jumpsuit with a fringed minicape, blasted in the wall and marched in, a mess of destroyed cakebots left behind him outside the building. “In the name of the King, I demand to know what travesty has been wrought here!”

Dammit, doesn’t that guy know how much I…scuse me, this cake is good. Mmm. Oh yeah, baby, that’s the frosting I like. What was I even…oh yeah, robots. Actually, I just grabbed a bunch of those little fighting robots they build, like from Battle Bots and Robot Wars, and stuck frosting and decorations on them.

That’s when the host walked right over, yanked his guitar away, and pointed to a chair at the table, “You, sit! You guys aren’t destroying my bakery today.” Would have been a good time to play AC/DC’s song about big balls.

So, our truce enforced by bakery’s rockin’ boss, Honky Tonk and I sat and had a bite of cake.

“So…how’s the family? Wife and kids or something?” I asked, making awkward small talk. He stiffened though. Guess there’s something offputting about a guy like me asking after your loved ones.

“…Good,” came his reluctant response. “While I have you here, I just wanna know, man, why you kill people left and right like you do?”

I shrugged, “Shit happens when you like to party with a loaded madman. Why’s that such a big deal, anyway? Don’t other villains kill plenty?”

“No, you horrendous hound dog. No one makes it a point as much as you do, and almost no one kills other supers.”

“That’s ridiculous. People blow up banks and skyscrapers and try to carve up the White House with space lasers but I’m the one killing too many people?”

“There aren’t many unnecessary civilian deaths at the White House and few actually succeed at that sort of thing,” he answered, glaring at me through his sunglasses.

“White House tour groups with old people and kids don’t count, eh? Whatever. So this is really because even after all that I pull, I still succeed? That’s got to suck. Ridiculous, cheesy guy like me. Fanboyish delight as I shout ‘This time the world will be mine!’ No matter how little you want to fear me, I’m the one filling the morgues and even if you capture me, it just looks like you stopped some old snack cake villain.” Lightbulb! I looked up at Honky Tonk, excited, “Hey, I got a great idea, work with me on this.”

45 minutes later, I flew though the wall into the parking lot, brick scattering all around me. I engaged in epic hand shaking at Honky Tonk and declared, “Curse you and your amazing cake, hero! We’ll meet again!”

Honky Tonk stepped out over the rubble, rubbing his fists, “And I’ll be there to stop you with the delicious might of Caking Orgasm’s next amazing creation. Only on Channel 3 after the 5 o’clock news.”

“Cut, that’s a wrap!”

I stood up and brushed myself off as Honky Tonk shot the cameraman a winning smile.

“Now!” I called out to the guys on the second story. More cakes, the show’s stale leftovers, rained down upon him. He was buried under all the cakes when I ran to the truck that roared to life. Good old Moai covering my escape. He was waiting for me in the back with the loaded up fabrication machines, so I hauled ass out of there while Honky Tonk was held up shooting another light-hearted commercial that I and the crew set up.

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Reality Check 3

Alright, lots of fun, had myself a good couple of days. First up, Gorilla Awesome didn’t manage to track me down again. Don’t know how he found me the first time, as I know little about gorilla physiology. I also don’t know a whole lot about advanced gorilla technology. I suppose I should take a more proactive role in discovering the secrets of this world. After all, if there is some sort of, I don’t know, hidden advanced society of talking gorilla geniuses, I owe it to myself to find it and steal their most vaunted of knowledge. They must have truly kickass shampoo.

You won’t believe how hard it is to keep a moving Moai hidden in the middle of a city, but you’d also not believe how little people want to see when it could be dangerous to them. There was this one time a cop asked about it, but I played dumb and slipped some money to a beggar. Did such a good job, the cop went on psychological leave and the beggar got a tip. I know he wanted a full cup, but something tells me a bottle works just as well when it’s Mad Dog 20/20.

But you didn’t show up here to read about me bribing a war veteran with liquor, now did you? You wanted to read about that, you could have looked in your own newspaper to find out how your royalty, your monarchy, those kings and queens elected and hereditary, were treating you sad sacks in real life.

You can probably tell by now I’m a little pumped. It was good times.

The good times started rolling when I had stepped through the door of the forgettable pawn shop that only got famous because someone put a TV show on them. Triple X Dirty Pawn or something like that. Tile floors, a counter on the far wall with display cases running alongside it and a door to the back nearby. Shelves of merchandise and furniture forming aisles. Right from the start, people sensed trouble. Maybe it was the smile. Do you ever smile when you’re about to really hurt someone? I do sometimes.

First up was the security guard near the door. Not your standard uniformed rental either, this guy was more like a bouncer. I didn’t have anything fancy on me to hit him with so instead I whipped a chain across his face and caught the end in my fingers, then give him a second taste with a punch. Why the chain? As you can tell from the way I chained the door closed with his throat caught in the chain, it was to prevent people getting away easily. Customers started to get all screamy like “Oh my god, I want to live!” You hear one mob of terrified people, you’ve heard them all, know what I mean?

Another guard bullrushed me as I got to the end of the aisle, slamming me into a bunch of shelves. I grabbed the nearest thing at hand, a DVD of Mary Poppins. Poppins, you fool, you were no help whatsoever! Neither was the DVD of The Man with the Golden Gun when I tried to chop the guy across the neck with it. A punch from him sent me to a little better area where I grabbed a blender and beat him across the face with it. I took advantage of the moment to plug in the blender and set it to mulch some vegetables which meant the guard’s following punch was an ill-timed maneuver on his part.

The guys behind the counter tried to make a break for it through the back. They found their way blocked by my magic Moai, who was sporting a giant balaclava over its head. Due to a slight spelling error, I nearly had a hell of a time at a bakery trying to find him a pasty that fit. This time I had him accompanied by the song “Bad Boys”.

Bad boys, bad boys, whatchu gonna do, whatchu gonna do when we come for you?

If you’re this one thicker dude with a leather jacket and receding hair, you apparently pull out some old katana hanging on the wall and come after me with it. I was hit or miss on the improvised weapons so far, so I slammed the blender into a darkened glass case near me. The man with his hand stopping up the blade screamed as it was also put through the glass. With all that whine, you’d think I hadn’t paid off the homeless man yet. I found something with a grip inside and whipped it out.

In my hand was a vibrator. I could work with that. Ladies.

I slapped the blade out of the way as he charged and threw the humming piece of metal and rubber straight into his eye. I grabbed the sword’s hilt with both hands, put my leg behind his, and threw him over, taking the sword away. He crawled back, trying to get away, but wound up right by “Fingers Mahoney” or whatever that guy was going to go by now.

Still, I maybe needed him. I only ran the sword through his jacket sleeve to pin him to the base of the display. Unfortunately for Fingers Mahoney, he was between the sleeve and the display. Congratulations, red shirt, you’ve been rendered Jewish. Lehaim!

The woman behind the counter was screaming her head off, so I tried to snap my fingers and failed but pointed to the woman anyway. A relatively gentle headbutt from my main man the Moai sent her sprawling over the counter.

“Who in the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?” asked the guy with the receding hair below me.

“Me? I’m just someone looking for my stolen property. Power armor, some odd machinery, I doubt you have the scraps that were with it all though. Aside from that, I don’t give a fuck about your store…or the people in it,” I said, feeling a roll coming on, “I don’t give a fuck about you. I don’t give a fuck about this toaster here,” I grabbed a toaster off a shelf, “I don’t give a fuck about these gems,” I tossed the toaster through the glass of another display case. “I don’t give a fuck about your couch,” I jumped onto a couch for sale and stepped all over, “Seriously, fuck your couch!” I scraped my boots off on it then hopped down. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone approach, something in hand, so I stared intently at a microwave on a nearby shelf. “See this lovely piece of electronics? I could turn this into a weapon. It could be a heat ray or a death ray or a guy named T-Ray, but you know what?” I grabbed it and whirled around, smashing it on the head of the guy sneaking up on me. He was down, the gun falling out of his hand, “I don’t give a fuck! Hey buddy, the only way to stop an idiot with a gun is a competent guy with an appliance. Now, where was I?” I raised my hand up as if to read off the palm, “Oh right, speech about not presenting intercourse…”

“I don’t give a fuck about your employees,” I turned and slapped the waking woman laying on the counter across the face. She was out again, “Don’t give a fuck about your security,” I ran over and gave a particularly loud slap to the struggling guard chained to the door. Then I pointed at a shocked old woman nearby who was holding a yap dog in her hands, “I don’t even give a fuck about this old granny!” I stepped over to her and grabbed the Chihuahua out of her hands, “Hey granny!” Then I did my best impression of my favorite natural wonder, Slap Granny Falls. Well, it was more like Yip! Granny Falls with the dog in my hand. And just for good measure I threw the dog in the trash. “That dog? Don’t give a fuck.”

“What I do give a fuck about is my armor. I am death with a smile, I am the retroactive cause of your mother’s migraines, I am the puta punter,” I am a huge ham with lots of cheese, “I make nightmares wet the bed, and I will shatter your world with this leafblower if your will doesn’t get bent to my desires right now!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, already. The armor is in the safe in back. I can get you the keys.”

“No need. Moai, you know what to do!” I said to my faithful companion. It dipped forward and back to nod at me, then rotated and hopped into the back.

“What about the rest of it?”

“Ok, we sold the belt separate to these guys looking for a prop for their trucking show. Truck Your Mother. The rest of it, the machines that were like little factories, some cooking show, Christ, they bought those since they’re in town. They’re called Caking Orgasms.”

“You ever think that if you had a show that was really interesting, you guys on reality TV wouldn’t have to use porn names to get people to watch?”

Just then, a wail that could induce vomiting shattered the glass on the door, then the windows next to it, then everything made of glass in the shop in a line toward and past me. I didn’t care about covering up. Shards of glass bit into my face and drew blood, but I saw my enemy clearly as he stepped through a window with his blue suede shoes and the green jumpsuit with a sequin tiger on the back.

The Honky Tonk Hero had arrived, magic guitar in hand.

“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog. Now it’s time to give it up. You can’t beat me, baby. The Honky Tonk Hero is here to take care of business, in a flash!” And he sounded exactly like you’re imagining. Well, not whichever one of you is thinking Scottish for some strange reason. Come on, man, have some dignity!

I threw the leafblower I was holding at him and then I grabbed the trashcan nearby and tossed that as well. He knocked the blower aside lazily with his guitar, then tipped his shades down to light the trashcan with heat vision. It caught fire with a yipping sound. The can itself fell away, leaving the burning yap dog to fall into Honky’s hands. The old lady woke up right around that time as well. Seeing the burning dog, she teared up and clutched at him. I made a run for the back, sliding over the counter and smacking the reawakening woman across the face again and causing her to remember to scream.

My suit and helmet came flying at me from the side. I caught both, turned, and saw Moai hopping towards me, a crushed and warped safe in the corner of the room. “Good going! Now let’s get before he puts out that spicy taco dog!”

And now, for my next impression, Jesse Owens.

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Reality Check 2

It’s been busy the past few days. Sunday, I paid a visit to the Back Alley Beale Street Voodoo Bar. Good place. To get there, you have to go to the Voodoo store on Beale Street and head around back. Make sure you’ve brought some good liquor for the doorman. I brought him rum, as I always do. Hopped down the steps and left the bottle next to a man-sized chalk drawing of a guy with a tophat. I turned away for a second so neither was in view and heard the ordinary metal door’s lock click for me. Me being me, I couldn’t resist turning around to see the chalk drawing now sitting in a chair, bottle raised to its mouth, with the rum missing from where I set it. I egged him on for a second with “Chug, chug, chug, chug!” but he didn’t move while I was watching. As I opened the door and walked in, I heard laughter echo from thin air.

The bar was bathed in dark blue light. At times, the walls shimmered, like crystals, with occasional white lights flashing into place randomly or chasing each other through the walls and ceiling. Masks of various cultures decorated the walls. Don’t ask me to explain the lights. These eyes of mine aren’t just whited out. They provide me with what you call augmented reality and a nifty little HUD. I’m thinking about adding a picture of the front of my face in one area that looks around constantly and gets bloodier as more things hit me. Anyway, this nifty system is helpful for identifying people, but it has a huge problem here. Can’t identify very much if I ask it to, and especially not those lights. Magic, man.

The bartender looked like a woman. I say looked because I’ve seen all types stand behind that bar and each one had the same tics and habits. That and you can’t see her eyes or the eyes of any other bartender. They always seem to be just a little too shadowed in this lighting, though something gleams from back there. I told her I needed a man who could find some people for me. She directed me to a booth where man sat, looking around at the place and sipping a beer. As I approached, he snapped his fingers and a small glowing orb of light appeared to better light his booth.

“Not used to the lighting?” I asked as I neared.

He shook his head. “Not a problem is it?“

I slid into the opposite seat, “Probably not. Say, I needed someone to find me some people and the barkeep seems to think you are some guy for that.”

“That I am. Name’s Harry Kiri. Now who are you looking for, stranger?”

“None stranger than me. Call me Psycho Gecko. I’m looking for the crew of the TV show Storage Genocide. Apparently these people worth hundreds of thousands or millions of dollars go around buying the stuff from poor people who can’t afford to keep the storage unit paid up. I can’t wait for them to make a show about people who snatch candy from babies. Anyway, you find me those guys and you’ll also find yourself with some more money.”

While I had been talking, he pulled out a scrap of paper and began to draw something. A magical incantation, ritual symbols, I couldn’t tell. When he held it up, it turned out to be the name and address of another self storage place in town, “They’ll be editing on Monday, but Tuesday you can find them here.”

“Oh, you’re good. And fast. I expected you to do some fancy hand gestures at least,” I told him as I took the scrap of paper.

“I actually watch the show. That’s why I want one last episode before you do whatever you do to them,” he said.

“Oh. Ok then. That was easy,” I said.

“And the money? I don’t see a briefcase or a sack or anything on you?”

“It’s rude to look for a man’s sack. But here,” I tossed a prepaid credit card to him. “Ta da, the wonders of technology.” That’s no measly $25 or $50 either.

“Ah, that was also easy.”

I left then, intent on killing some time. First, however, I decided to ask around to see if there was anybody who could give me a fun little surprise for my reality TV debut. I found a conjurer, or perhaps it was a sorcerer or shaman. Anyway, she helped me put together a little something on short notice.

I wasted the rest of the day hanging around Beale Street, listening to the musicians, watching the street performers, and making sure I wasn’t recognized when the Honky Tonk Hero flew by overhead in his rhinestone-studded white jumpsuit, pulled along by his glowing guitar.

On Tuesday, I got to the place early. The staff was a teeny bit uncooperative about which lockers were being bid on, but the guy came around after the 14th swirly in the toilet. I personally think my clever and frustrated use of the plunger is what brought him around. I also made him fully aware I’d drag him to a portapotty for another round of swirlies if he warned anyone I was there.

He promptly quit his job.

I got my surprise magical guest into position and made sure he knew the code phrase. When the crew finally got there, I was coming around to walk up from the same direction they had come.

“Greetings, y’all! You’ll all be happy to know that stealing a supervillain’s stuff is about to get you higher ratings! Now, anyone want to tell me what happened to my gear before I have to get my boots covered in ass?”

This one bald guy who was a little thick didn’t take me seriously. He and some of the other guys who wanted to seem hard stood up to me, “You think you can take us on? You don’t even have your power costume, idiot.”

“I don’t need one. I take care of all of you without even getting my hands dirty.”

“Oh yeah?” asked baldy.

“Oh yeaaaaaah!” I said, prompting a crashing noise from the unit we were all in front of. They turned to look as a Moai burst through the door to the unit. It rocked from side to side to move forward, scattering them. I hit the button on a music player strapped to its back, so it chased them to the tune of Peter Tosh’s “Walking Razor,” because I could only come up with reggae as appropriate Moai chasing music. I don’t know, maybe Spanish would have been better?

Anyway, the Moai chased off the buyers while I grabbed hold of a man and woman who seemed to be the hosts. A panicky and loud lot, I’ll give them that. “Alright, folks, come here. You had your chance to be nice and civilized about this, but like someone eating fast food tacos, you’ve made a decision that will obliterate your anus.” I threw the guy against the warped door of the unit and reached in for whatever was close at hand.

“Wait, they sold it!” The guy shouted at me as he saw me pull out a kayak.

“You don’t have to do this!” The woman joined in the conversation. I began to hum that little la la, lalala la Smurf song because there was nothing good on TV last night and that happened to be on. I hate when that happens. A real pet peeve, you know. Not the end of the world, by any means, but I should never be tempted to watch History Channel’s “Secrets of the Nazi Alien Sex Experiments” just because movie channels can’t play good movies. Ah well, back to the matter at hand. I brushed off my hands and let the grunting man sink to the ground as best as he could. He couldn’t really bend so much at that point.

I looked over to the woman who so helpfully volunteered information before. She blurted out, “They took it to Triple X Dirty Pawn!”

“Hmm. Odd name for a shop,” I said, grabbing hold of her shoulder with one hand and reaching into the locker with the other. “Let’s see…nope, can’t use that. Too skinny. Too slick. Woops, whatever that was was alive. Ah, here we go.” I pulled out a vase full of plastic petunias.

“It’s a pawn shop reality show,” said the woman in my grip, then added in a smaller voice, “Please don’t hurt me.”

I was about to tell her it goes a little easier if you’re going commando, but a roar cut me off.

I let her go and ran to the nearest lane between the rows so I could work my way around to the source of the roar. What I found was a gorilla in a jet pack fighting my Moai. The gorilla just full on bitchslapped the Moai, but my Moai came right back at him with headbutt. Considering that he is just part of a torso and a giant head, the Moai’s options for attack are limited. The gorilla had to brace himself against the ground after the blow, and thus I was spotted.

“You!” he said. Or just grunted to sound enough like “you” for me to interpret it as such. Nope, my mind wasn’t messing with me. He followed up with “You defiled my home, you cad!”

“Is this about the zoo?” I asked as I threw the vase at him.

“Yes. I had put my life of violence behind me, but now I, Gorilla Awesome, will avenge your despicable intrusion into my peaceful existence!” He raised his left hand, which was covered in a metal gauntlet. A grappling hook fire from on top of it, no doubt to grapple with me. I kicked that shit to the side. He then raised his other hand, a thick metal armband on his forearm. A barrel rose out of the top and fired a laser at me. It singed my shoulder pretty bad, but I threw myself back out of the way.

Before Gorilla Awesome could correct his aim, the Moai dropped on top of him. Awesome’s head smacked the pavement and he was so out cold so bad, you’d think he was a gay eskimo.

“Good boy, Moai. Come, let’s away!” I said and ran over to my magically animated minion, hopping on top of his large stone head to be carried off, rocking back and forth to the sounds of Peter Tosh. Now I just have to hunt down a pawn shop in another reality show.

On the plus side, there’s bound to be power tools and someone who could use a Three-Speed Adjustable Craftsman Enema.

 

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