Tag Archives: Optimal Outer Control

Bananarama 8

Such a nice pleasant day. That’s what I thought. Normally I hate Tuesdays as much as anybody who wears a lot of orange and hates lasagna, but I was enjoying myself, now that a guy like me can just walk around Memphis again (OOC’s Note: Psycho Gecko doesn’t actually read Garfield). Shut up, OOC, yes I do! Anyway, this was starting to become quite the hostile city to a guy who enjoys a fine, cheap, stolen wine and a nice bubble bloodbath. With Venus out of the way, all this “hey, maybe we should stop the colorful thieves and murderers” business is just water under the bridge. Water under a bridge where you dump the bodies with a weight tied to them.

Didn’t even have to scramble to get my stuff back from the cops. They were probably a bit confused when they got into the lair and realized that the tech villain didn’t have a whole lot of junk around for his reputation. The junk, in fact, was in my trunk, which was at the end of our escape tunnel to facilitate my getaway.

Now, it’s not that I think the people of this or any other city have no right to defend themselves. The problem is when they defend themselves against me. I mean, if everyone I ever wrong is going to start taking a stand against me, I’m just going to have to go back to killing rather than maiming.

It’s become a disturbing trend lately. I’ve been going a lot easier on people ever since right after the space marine ship.

For instance, there I was, chowing down on some Chicken Teriyaki at a Chinese place that probably got really annoyed of people asking them for Japanese food. The part that gets to me is why the FUCK did they put onions in my fried rice when I told them not to. I know what you’re thinking. Jump up, terrify some poor immigrants, play with them a bit, and maybe toss the chef’s ass onto the grill, with the added benefit of frying up his egg roll and sperm sack.

Instead, I picked my helmet off the flimsy wood folding table with its underside of discarded gum and boogers and stood, causing the already-terrified man with his body between myself and his family to set his face. Determined. Fatalistically so. I was quite a sight in my full armor, complete with a pair of machetes strapped to my back and all sorts of improvised weaponry hanging off my belt. Throwing knives. A potato peeler. Rubber chickens. A ballistic knife. Those he recognized. The cans attached to spikes and the spheres with levers on them, not so much, and we all know how people fear the unknown. I came loaded up with all sorts of toys thanks to actually taking a few days to throw things together, and me with a plan or preparation also seems to be something to worry about. Plus, you know, I was a murderer who had bounded in happily asking for NO FUCKING ONIONS in my food.

I slipped my helmet on and got it properly latched and attached. Always important to keep your head properly protected. Don’t believe me? A few years back, I saw in the news about a biker driving around to protest helmet laws. Lost control of his bike, put on the breaks, flew over his own handles. Would have survived if he’d been wearing his helmet.

I showed up at the service dressed to blend in. Big fake beard, flannel shirt. Jeans. Ok, so the blood on the lap of the jeans had them on edge. They also didn’t like when I muscled my way up to the front of the bar to say something by the casket. The straw that finally broke the camel’s back was when I told them all that their buddy was a great inspiration to me in my struggle against the metal cup regulations in my day job as the supervisor of a team of child lumberjacks. I too knew the pain of losing a head in my protest. To this date, that is the only time I ever got into a bar brawl while giving a eulogy, though I hope to change that some day.

Nearly got caught graverobbing too, because I dug his dumb ass back up that night just to laugh at him some more. And Mix N’ Max needed a body for something. I don’t ask many questions about that sort of thing.

He edged closer as I walked over right in front of the man to the boxes on the counter and grabbed a bunch of soy sauce packets. I held them up and told the man, “I like this stuff. It’s mind blowing. It opens doors to other worlds, man,” before working them into one of the pouches on my belt Then I projected a cowboy hat on my head and gave the man a tip of my hat.

Rather than take the door, with its simple paper sign saying “Try our new Kung Pao Chicken!”, I threw myself out the window. Just for the hell of it. Seriously, you guys should try it the next time you’re encased in armor.

I stood up, made a show of brushing myself off, and began to walk away. Just walk away. You’d almost think I was learning to be a more patient person. This time, feel free to imagine I was walking in slow motion as the shop went up courtesy of the bomb I left in the soy sauce box. Why did the improvised explosive device go in the Chinese restaurant? Because the cooks there would have spotted the chicken grenade. Ba dum tish!

The mental image would be slightly distorted by me running back afterward and grabbing the sign out of the shattered glass from their door. When I taped it back to the door frame, it read, “Try our new Kung Pao Chicken! Now with 80% more pao!”

Yep, nice pleasant day outside too. Distant smoke. Police sirens in the distance. The blazing sails of the Pompeii’s Revenge floating over Downtown as Flamebeard attacked another bank. Those corporate raiders can be a vicious lot. I’m not quite sure what the other two guys are doing. All I know for sure is that Snowblower has covered the big glass pyramid in ice. If he had enough time, I’d suggest making an igloo, but it’s summer here right now and ice is not allowed to exist outside by law in the South during summer. Unlike most laws in the South, though, this one is based on science. Something to do with temperature, to be specific.

Currently, the legislature of Tennessee is working on a bill making it illegal to even mention the word “ice” outside, in the hopes that not saying something means people won’t even notice anything about its existence. They tried the same thing with the word “gay” but then were forced to pass yet another of these bills regarding the existence of the bill to not say “gay”.

Between the supervillains and the Tennessee State Legislature, there was more than enough criminal actions and criminal idiocy going on without me. But why not pile on? After all, I want things in Memphis to be intolerable. Make life miserable enough to get the city right where I want them. Operation Troll the Fuck out of Memphis is a go.

I guess that’s why I started with the good food places first. I’m trying to work away from that though.

I walked down the road. Radio Chic, good place for spare parts. I chucked in a chicken and lit that motherclucker up. Even better place for spare parts now.

Autozone. I pulled out a throwing knife and tossed it at the window. It exploded and took out the door, but that’s not the best part. The best part came when I pulled out one of the lever grenades, jammed the levers all the way to the opposite side, and threw it into the doorway. The resulting explosion was followed by the sound of tires all over the shop deflating from the nail pieces now embedded in them Autopwned.

ATT phone store. I left it alone. Do you know how hard it is in this day and age to chase victims who have terrible phone reception while trying to call for help? There are these masked killers out there who do nothing but murder teenagers and they absolutely love that company.

Nah, I’m just kidding. I hauled open the door and sprayed down the place in hot latte, scorching people and cheap phones alike in the unrighteous coffee of evil.

It was getting boring just hitting up whatever crossed my path. I don’t want to get stuck as the food guy, but restaurants have a lot of people in them and interesting projectiles. Hmmm. It would fuck with Memphis on a cultural, financial, and religious level. Luckily, I know a place that’s even better about projectile weaponry and screwing with Memphis. I opened a channel back to my temporary lodging at a dirty little Motel 6.

“Moai, bring me the Minstrel cycle. We’re going house hunting.”

***

Go ahead, take a look at the giant memorial they built to Elvis’s house and his nearby grave and tell me it doesn’t fit. You don’t just drive up to the house on your own, though. You are supposed to stop off across the street at the visitor center and take a small shuttle through the gates. Did I mention the street itself was called Elvis Presley Boulevard? Ever heard of overkill? Neither have the people at Graceland. However, I don’t need a shuttle to get through a simple gate. I scooted up, took aim, and fired a rocket from behind the headlight of my Minstrel cycle. I like my vehicles to carry a lot of ordinance.

In the aftermath of the explosion, sirens approached. Two patrol cars coming at me from each direction on the boulevard. “Hold on, I’ll choke their point,” I said to my passenger in his new sidecar. Moai had his helmet on too. It had flames surrounding a scene of that statue, Aphrodite of Milos, laying on towel by the beach. I let Moai pick it out, the horndog. Then again, have you seen that statue? I’d fuck that rock.

I dropped a chicken. I gunned it up the driveway a short distance, popped a wheelie and loosed a stream off the Minstrel’s flamethrower into the air as the explosion went off. It caught one car attempting to turn in after me and stopped it there, the engine block smoking. Another one was part of the way up the driveway, having made it in time. They had braked when the grenade blocked off the entrance and probably killed a buddy of theirs. Now the engine roared and it shot forward for me. I angled the scooter around to face them, giving it gas as well, but not moving in any direction as they played a game of chicken that I was meant to lose.

The headlight on my scooter shifted out and lowered as a rocket extended out of the hole it had just occupied in the frame. “I play chicken to win, motherfuckers!” I yelled out at them as I fired it. The cops saw the flames and tried to swerve and put on the brakes, anything. The rocket crashed through the windshield and exploded.

I enlisted the help of my new hostages to help Moai push the burning police car into place at the gate. On my orders, they were released with a message for the police and the city of Memphis before the burning car sealed up the entranceway of the house.

I told them to tell all the official types that I have officially stolen Graceland mansion. Mine. If anyone attempts to take it from me, I will totally wreck Elvis’s shit and crap in the bushes. I am also rigging Elvis’s grave and parts of the mansion to blow by remote detonator if anyone gets any ideas of trespassing while I’m out buying groceries or something. If the family and Elvis Presley Enterprises want it back, they’re going to have to pony up a hell of a lot of cash.

I didn’t actually tell them how much cash. I know they’ve made a lot off the place, but the real reason for being so vague is so I can spend even more time here while we negotiate. I’ve never had my own mansion before. Life is looking up. Women are just going to fall into my lap now.

It’s almost a shame the whole place will have to go when Honky Tonk Hero drags the out of town heroes and Gorilla Awesome back and into the middle of my plan. I very much want a lot of heroes back here for this next part.

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Valentine’s Special 2013

I know it’s not the normal scheduled update, but OOC insisted I do something for Valentine’s, even if I got around to it late due to some business in Vatican City that I can’t talk about right now. So I figured I would tell a story about love. Knowing me, you can probably figure out this won’t have a happy ending. We were able to overcharge the connection to get this through to your universe by plugging a capacitor bank into a nearby motel tonight and charging it up on the power of love. It required one of those European outlet adapters.

It’s not my story. I heard it from a hero named Slapstick. Not really man or woman, or perhaps both at the same time, Slapstick is a shapeshifter and a very skilled one. We ran into each other one day around some Middle Eastern country. Can’t remember which, but it had a lot of rioting and neither of us much felt like taking any side in it. Normally I’d love to riot and cause a ruckus, but not in that heat. It’s just too much. Besides, I was done with my business there. Slapstick had been the mole who sold out the people I had worked for, but I had finished my part and they paid me already so I had no beef with him or her.

So over a bottle of brandy he told me this tale:

I have actually been in love before. I was still Slapstick, just a younger Slapstick. A more idealistic Slapstick. A hornier Slapstick. She was Selene, after the moon goddess. We met in South America.

I was a mercenary working with this gang of guerillas out of a mountain. They did things like smuggling, drugs, and human trafficking. They only did a little human trafficking. It paid well. She busted in and handed the guerillas their asses. The other powered mercs didn’t do so well either. The money was dead or captured and I was neither at threat nor highly motivated.

We had a rocky start but a passionate and fiery one. We began to work together before long. I became something of a reserve member of her team.

It was wonderful. I was a college student with an amazing secret. I was in love with someone. We lived far apart, but I knew then I wanted her in my life for as long as she would have me. It did not matter one bit that she had twins by an ex. It made me smile sometimes just knowing that she was out there somewhere. That happens when you know you’re truly loved.

One day I was hanging out at her team’s base when I saw someone there who, I’ll admit, looked pretty hot. Her name was Crystal. We got to talking, but not that way, and in the course of events my girlfriend came up. Crystal knew Selene. Crystal knew Selene very well. Selene was Crystal’s girlfriend and submissive.

I don’t think highly of all that dominant and submissive bullshit these days.

Next time I talked to Selene, she was with Crystal. She was also with Crystal in a different way. She broke up with me. According to Crystal and Selene, the whole relationship with me was just a way to play me and keep me from being an enemy then and in later times.

I was devastated. I found my way back to my dorm room and just collapsed into a salty wet puddle of goop for awhile. Despite not having a heart, I could still feel phantom pains where it should have been.

As a side note, it proved wrong the English professor I had who referred to a broken heart as purely metaphorical.

I did get my act together some, and I did help with the team some more. I was around Selene some in the process. I didn’t care for this at all and I refused to speak to her. I did help save her for what little it was worth.

I didn’t like Crystal and it turned out my spurned lover instincts were correct. She was obsessed. I found this out due to a new romance that formed in the wake of the one with Selene. An old friend and former lover of Selene’s who had taken up with me out of some sympathy and understanding. Together we uncovered that Crystal was obsessive and dangerous. Selene found it out too and wanted help. Together, we were able to make Crystal back off and go her own way.

Through a sort of default, Selene and I were kind of back together. This was a problem for me because I was still together with our mutual friend and because I didn’t care for Selene any more. It was nice she and Crystal were broken up and I could still remember the good times, but I didn’t love her any more.

I let other things take precedence and we lost track of each other. That is easy to do when you just stop going out as a superhuman like I did.

It changed me. I lost that spark to do good, but I couldn’t go back to being what I was before. And I became a lot more cynical. Especially about my feelings. I began to second guess them and I refused to ever put them out there so fully. I felt ashamed of the way I had been, thinking I had been in love with someone who up and left me for some psycho bitch who was willing to put a collar on her.

Time passed. I moved on.

Until I ran into her again, four years later.

She acted like nothing had changed. She thought it was wonderful seeing me again. All lovey dovey. She even told me she loved me. I felt awkward. I had always felt bad for our relationship just petering out, but now I had to find some way to make it known to her that I didn’t love her.

Since I had decided to get more active in costume again, I ran into her more and more. It was one time when I had a few more beers than I should have that I began to talk some shit about dominating her better than Crystal. It was some sort of macho BS.

That’s when she told me possibly the only thing that could still hurt me about our breakup.

It wasn’t real. She didn’t even remember Crystal or that whole incident until I mentioned her. As far as Selene knew, the breakup was faked and so was her relationship with Crystal. It was all done to go undercover around Crystal and her group to find out what they were all pulling. She even avoided having sex with Crystal all that time, despite Crystal’s bragging around me.

She thought I knew this. Somehow. Hell if I know how I was supposed to know that. She couldn’t very well tell me afterwards because I was refusing to talk to her. To me, the person who was just broken up with out of nowhere for a D/s dominant, this course of action makes sense. It’s Selene’s actions I can’t wrap my head around. All just faked but she never bothered to let me know before, during, or after.

The original breakup changed the course of my life. I went from wanting to marry this woman despite my youth to just kind of drifting. I wanted her by my side and then the whole scenario was blown up. I had one of the worst days of my life, but she didn’t even remember it happened because that day was a game to her.

I tried to maintain that conversation and let her know how I felt, but she just insisted that the past was the past and we should just move on from here. Move on from here what? I don’t have any feelings for her. Not ones of love, anyway. I had four years of moving on without even considering her a part of my life anymore. Four years of going off in some other direction with a small personality change due to her actions. And excuse me, but I see no reason to ignore my very righteous and rational feelings of anger towards all of that.

I didn’t tell her that last part. After her talk about moving on from here, I got out of there. The next time I see her, we need to have a serious talk and I need her to realize there is nothing between us.

I don’t remember how many months ago it was since I talked to her and then walked away in baffled disgust over her actions and her wanting to continue what we had. I have yet to have that talk with her. How many months, five, six?

The idea of never seeing her again doesn’t bother me.

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.

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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.

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