In
the Fall of 2003, Brent Lambert issued a challenge to writers of
fanfiction - to write an arc for Marvel 2000, the
twist being that the writer would have absolutely no clue what
characters he or she would be using for the arc/story.
And why was that? Because Brent would choose the characters
that
they would be using. That was then...
Now, Brent brings that
theme
to JLU: 2001, putting that same test and twist to the characters
of the JLU...
Gotham City, as another workday draws to a
close and the happy Gothamites begin their daily trek home. For
most the day is over, but for others, the fall of darkness means that
their work is just beginning…
 |
The Twisted World of...
--The Dark Mite
Strikes!--
Part 2
|
|
Brent
Lambert
Presents
#5 |
by Curt F
|
Aristedes
Demetrios watched with barely hidden disgust as Peter Stravos sucked
another snail from its shell with a resounding SLUUURRRP… The Grecian
Ambassador to the Post-Crisis Summit was indeed a pig, laughing loudly
with grease and olive oil coating his lips and fingertips, spitting
food as he talked and belching with no excuse. The scene of the
greasy fat man eating his dinner was stomach churning at the least, but
there was nothing to do for Demetrios but stand and watch.
Oh, how he had fallen.
He had been in the Global Guardians for God’s sake! He was
the Olympian, possessor of the fabled Golden Fleece and possessed of
the powers and personalities of Jason and his fifty Argonauts. He
could call upon the strength and endurance of Hercules, the agile
skills and marksmanship of Phillipis, the tactical leadership of Jason
himself. All but for the Queen Bee…
Damn Jack and his ideas!
He had been captured and hypnotized by the Bialyan Bitch, and had lost
control of his Argonian personae in the process. And then of
course Mist had disbanded the Guardians when Ice and Fire had defected
to the League. It had been going so well.
And now, here he was; a bodyguard.
A bodyguard to a man that was probably the least likely candidate to
need one. More likely he would be in need of an attorney if he
kept his piggish and lecherous ways. Demetrios grimaced, watching
as Stravos leaned closer to his companion for the night, his slimy
fingers groping the breast of the buxom prostitute that he had chosen
to share dinner with. She merely giggled and continued to eat
with as much enthusiasm as the ambassador himself, perhaps knowing that
she would be cast aside in the morning as so many had been before
her. It was disgusting-
Kill him!
No! Cripple him maybe,
but…
Do your duty, boy. No matter
the…
Take the
woman. She wants you. I can…
Demetrios shook his head to clear the voices growing ever louder in his
head. They were always there now, on the fringes, on the edge
trying to take control. The persona of the crew of the Argos,
those brave men that had originally found the Fleece and had been
imbedded within that fabled rag. Woe the day that he had ever
found it, and damn the Queen Bee to Hell for making his life-
Demetrios watched as Stravos fell forward, face first into his
pasta. The prostitute was staring as well, her face halfway
between shock and amusement, thinking it some joke perhaps. An
odd joke for Stravos.
He turned to hear the shattering glass cascading to the floor.
Someone screamed, and the whore started vomiting half-digested snails
onto the table.
Demetrios stepped forward, staring agog as the blood started seeping
from the hole in Peter Stravos’ head, filling the plate and
overflowing the rim. The ambassador was dead obviously, face
first in his Linguini and bleeding out into the plate from the exit
wound. The prostitute was trying to scramble back, still
vomiting, gasping for breath to scream again as Demetrios checked for
pulse, scanning the restaurant, glancing to the window, staring at the
faces beyond that were draining blood in shock.
It was assassination obviously; a bullet through the brain, through the
window, probably from across the street. Third floor- maybe
second- open window directly across, sliding shut, Jason…
Failed again.
Damn Jack!
Meanwhile,
At the 1st Gotham CitiBank on Aparo
Lane, a different sort of deviltry is afoot…
The Psycho Pirate stared at the… the cackling thing before him,
a true look of astonishment twisting the usually placid features of his
own face. It was usually he that inspired, striking fear or
confusion into the hearts of others with a simple look, a casual twist
of his lip or an arched eyebrow. How strange with the shoe on the
other foot.
The creature was a towering, misshapen monstrosity, not that that made
much of an impression to someone who had run with the likes of Solomon
Grundy and Block Buster. Still, the thing’s upper body was
overly out of proportion. It had muscles layered on muscles that
would have left a normal man immobile and gasping for breath. Its
chest seemed almost as wide as the hulking creature’s height, and
there were burgeoning mounds billowing up like thunderclouds about the
beast’s head. It had no neck; just a sloping, lantern-jawed
head topped with its long, blue pointed ears. It would have been
imposing indeed, if not for two minor details: its tiny, spindly, bowed
legs that could not realistically have supported the hulk’s mass,
and the shrill and high-pitched voice that could not control its fit of
giggles.
It was absurd, thus eliciting the vacant look of confusion from the
Psycho Pirate’s usually bland visage. Well, that and the
obvious ‘Bat motif’ that the creature had adopted: blue
cape and cowl, boots and gloves with the boring gray jumpsuit and the
bright yellow belt and target on his chest. The Psycho Pirate
sneered with distaste as he took in the monstrosity’s ensemble,
blinking as his gaze fell on the ‘bat symbol’ within the
yellow oval on the poser’s chest. The little black bat
within almost seemed to move with life, the huge wings seemingly
aflutter. Psycho Pirate sighed, shaking his head.
Whoever… whatever this
thing was, he was NOT the
Batman. The Psycho Pirate had met the Batman, knew the Batman and
despite the obvious apparel, this was NOT he. But who then?
The Wizard perhaps, up to one of his illusory tricks? Maybe he
was out to steal from the Psycho Pirate’s ill-gotten booty.
Gods, maybe it was Plastic Man, that annoying Pliable Paladin. He would be
bold enough to disguise himself as some radioactively freakish mutation
of the Dark Knight. And that laugh…
What if it was Sentinel?
The Psycho Pirate bit his lower lip with sudden worry. Did
Sentinel still operate in Gotham? He thought that that damnable
ex-Green Lantern had moved to Manhattan, but he was not certain.
Plasmus could probably take him, but…
The Psycho Pirate glanced back at the bubbling, oozing mass that was
his erstwhile ally and mind-controlled accomplice, Otto Von Furth, once
a member of the defunct Brotherhood of Evil, now simply Plasmus,
enthralled thug. It had been sheer chance happening upon Von
Furth in his barely contained human guise. With little effort the
Psycho Pirate had enraptured the already unstable German ex-patriot,
using a bit of guile and hope, and playing on his already questionable
psyche. Not that the Psycho Pirate could blame the man,
really. He could only imagine the horrors of having a body that
exploded like an over-ripe pimple into an oozing mass of acidic flesh
that burned and melted anything that it touched; wood, metal,
flesh. It was disgusting and horrible, but oh, so
effective. Still-
“Hellloooo…”
The Psycho Pirate winced, turning back to the heaving, bat-like figure
still looming sort of ominously in the vault. The creature
swiftly flexed, striking a pose half between heroic, half to clownish
given his disproportional stature. Still, he did give a rather
menacing look as his oblong head spun slowly to face the Pirate once
more. His eyes glowed red.
“Your battle- ahem…” Psycho Pirate grimaced at the
shrieking voice, as the creature cleared its throat. “Your
battle is here, villain!”
The Psycho Pirate cocked an eyebrow at the suddenly deep and voluminous
voice that echoed about the bank’s vault. “Who are
you?” he asked again, and the creature seemed momentarily taken
aback.
“I- I’m Batman!” the monster said, the slightest
quiver in his voice. Definitely not Scott. “I told
you that, evil cur!”
“You are not.” The Psycho Pirate folded his arms
across his chest in defiance, a stern look on his face that was spoiled
with the slightest wince of pain. In the excitement of the moment
he had completely forgotten the grazing flesh wound that he had
received from the bank’s security guard’s stray bullet.
“I am,” the bat-creature said with a whine. His
bottom lip was quivering slightly, and the Pirate saw tears well up in
the red-glowing eyes, as though he were about to cry. What was
this thing? Rather, who cared? It was not Batman.
“No, you’re not.” The Psycho Pirate turned with
a sneer of contempt, his cape flowing in his wake as he donned the
Medusa Mask once again. The mask sparkled and he felt aglow with
the spark of power once more as he looked to Plasmus, waiting.
“Plasmus, my good man, dispose of that creature within and we can
be on our way, there’s a dear fellow.”
The Psycho Pirate hesitated for only a moment as Plasmus shambled
towards the vault before he scooped up the gathered bags of money and
he himself stalked towards the doors. He glanced towards the
tellers that remained and saw that a few had actually run off while he
had been distracted. Those that remained, including the most
helpful Sheila were watching as their superior, Mister Jordan continued
to roll about on the carpeting, straining to achieve orgasm. A
most disgusting display- and one that would wear out, or off, as soon
as the Pirate left the vicinity, but no more than the sniveling bank
exec deserved. Once the wave of passion and lust abated, Jordan
would be embarrassed beyond endurance, lying there half-naked and
exposed amidst a circle of his grinning, feminine peers. Again,
no more than the little bastard des-
The Pirate slammed right into something, like a column of stone no
doubt supporting the high-vaulted ceiling of the bank. His own
fault for not watching where he was…
“Going somewhere, scum?”
Psycho Pirate glanced up and up at the towering figure of the Bat-thing
looming above him, the glowing eyes now ablaze with scarlet fire.
The creature’s face was a churning snarl of horror, intimidating,
or would be to a man not in total control of his emotions. Just
how had the creature gotten out of the vault and in front of him
though? One might almost believe he WAS the Batman with a trick
like that. Almost…
“Yes,” the Pirate hissed, focusing on the powers of the
Medusa Mask. For the most part he used his own Meta, the ability
to alter emotions in others triggered by the simple change of his own
countenance. This thing however was obviously not normal, and
whether Meta or Demon or something else, the pirate knew that he would
need the amplifying abilities of the Mask to manipulate it…
him… whatever. “Yes, I am taking my leave, and you
my good Bat… thing are going to hold the door open for me and
wave goodbye, both happy and eager to please.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” the Psycho Pirate said, feeling the old
familiar tingle as the Medusa Mask shimmered and shifted the blank
golden plate of the mask morphing to the contours of his face and
amplifying his inborn powers- his Meta. The Pirate smiled beneath
the mask, his face aglow with hopeful cheer, the promise of possible
praise and the chance to do the right thing. He could feel the
mask slithering across his flesh, eager to conform and confer his
emotions on the recipient Bat-thing. He could feel the tingle of
power as he raised his eyebrows hopefully, his eyes sparkling.
“No. I’m not.”
The Psycho Pirate did not even see the blow; the ham-sized fist of blue
as it smashed into the Medusa Mask and consequently, his face
beneath. He did not feel his grip loosen on the bags of money as
he flew backwards, stars exploding in his vision. He did feel his
head as it bounced upon the polished floor as he landed and slid up
onto the carpet, rolling just a bit to slam up against the wall of the
teller’s windows. He blinked, trying to focus, to clear his
blurring, graying vision and saw Sheila staring down at him, the oddest
cross of curiosity and amusement playing at her lips.
Then everything went black.
Meanwhile,
Just up Aparo Lane…
Tommy Monaghan hurried up the street, not running but walking just fast
enough to appear late for some destination, but no more so than anyone
else rushing home late from work. He tried to appear unhurried,
simply eager to get to the trains maybe, or at least home. He
struggled to resist the urge to glance back over his shoulder as he
weaved through the evening’s rush hour traffic.
The ‘Hit’ had been a success of course; he was the Hitman
after all, though it had been awhile. Stravos had fell with one
shot, right through the head and face first into his linguini like a
good boy. Panic had ensued of course, which was exactly what
Tommy Monaghan had wanted and expected. Cries of fear from the
restaurant’s patrons, a growing crowd of rubber-neckers gathering
on the side walk and clogging the street forcing vehicular traffic to a
standstill, thus jamming up the police and delaying them. It had
been almost perfect.
He had taken the time to drop the acid pellet into the barrel of the
rifle, then bending the thing with leverage on the radiator before
jamming the chamber with a tube of crazy glue and shattering the stock
with his Meta strength, such as it was. It had all been planned,
and even though the gun was unmarked and registered- he had checked- he
still took those extra precautions that made him the best. He did
not need the Batman on his ass again. It took seconds only, and
he quickly scanned the area with his X-Ray Vision and Telepathy as he
gathered his things, his few essentials, back into the pockets of his
black leather blazer.
There seemed to be a lot of police in the area, though that was to be
expected with the Post-Crisis Conference being held down the street at
the Gotham International Towers. That’s where Stravos would
have been tomorrow but for the gaping hole in his head and sudden lack
of gray matter.
Tommy smirked as he glanced back towards the window. There was
still that bodyguard to take into account, the big man with no
gun. Probably a Meta and a question mark in the least.
Better safe than sorry, Tommy Monaghan always said. That was why
he was the best, and why his hits were near perfect and untraceable
save for sheer chance and bad luck or timing. There was no such
thing as a perfect murder after all, but Tommy was damn close-
Case in point as the window and a good portion of the wall exploded
inwards as a black, Gucci suited man came smashing through. It
was Tommy’s own Meta-enhanced body that saved him as he leaped
backwards with amazing grace and speed, his natural abilities magnified
to the best that a normal man might achieve, and maybe a little bit
more. It had been a gift from Glonth years before, and Neron had
returned the same with his rebirth just months ago. Still, it was
a sort of love/hate thing most of the time. As Tommy landed in a
crouch unhurt however, the emphasis was definitely on the love.
He stared over the tops of his dark Raybans at the big man that had
just crashed his party. He was huge and heaving, looking a little
strained as his muscles bulged against the expensive fabric of his
suit. Definitely a Meta though. The give-away was the fact
that he had either leapt or flown up to the third story window and
beaten down the wall of the building. Too, there was the weird,
golden goat’s head mask and curly cape he was wearing.
Where had that come from?
Tommy tried to act cool as he stood- slowly- his hands straying
cautiously towards his concealed hand guns as he smiled at the intruder
innocently. He eased a probe telepathically, trying to get a line
on just who the geek in the goat suit was, but all he got was some odd
gibberish screeching back into his brain. Maybe if he was the
goddamn Martian Multi-linguist he could understand it, but it was all
Greek to Tommy Monaghan.
“Hey pal,” he said, flashing his best shit-eating grin,
"let’s not be rash, hunh?”
“You shall be a rash!” the guy bellowed, flexing and Tommy
heard his suit jacket shred in the back. That’s gotta smart
in the pocket book. “You shall be a smear on the sole of my
boot, assassin!”
“Yeah, right,” Tommy said, his hand swiftly dipping into
his own jacket pocket, his fist deftly slipping about his weapon as he
lunged forward a step in a fencer’s deep thrust. He whipped
his arm out, his hand up as his finger depressed the nozzle of his slim
can of mace.
Mister Goat Head screamed as the spray shot into his eyes and billowed
about his face. The big man immediately started hacking and
coughing and foolishly rubbing his eyes, grinding the chemicals in even
deeper. Tommy hoped that the guy washed his hands before using
the john next time. Hell, he didn’t want to kill the poor
sap, just distract him. And again, a job well done.
Tommy Monaghan knew when he was outclassed however- at least in the
strength category. Not being stupid, he had chosen the better
part of valor and got his ass out of dodge.
And so it was that he was running up the street when he started to pass
the police; one or two at first running in the opposite
direction. Then came a mass of them, some dressed in riot gear,
but all of them on foot and all of them with a look of sheer terror on
their faces. There did seem to be a blockade up ahead, but all
the cops were scattering.
“What the hell?”
Tommy stopped dead in his tracks as a stream of purple sludge came
spewing out of the 1st Gotham Citibank’s shattered front windows,
hitting the street just a few yards ahead of him and sending up a cloud
of corrosive steam. The goop, whatever it was, was eating right
through the street’s blacktop.
And of course it was right about then when Mister Goat Head slammed
hard and square into his back.
Meanwhile,
In the bank…
Plasmus had been shambling towards the bank vault as the Psycho Pirate
had commanded, but when he finally reached the huge, gaping doorway he
had found the tiny room beyond empty of any
‘bat-thing’. Plasmus stared, confused at the
conflicting orders smashing together in his brain. Why was it so
hard to think? He wanted to please his master, but it was just so
hard sometimes.
Slowly Plasmus turned, hoping for guidance. Maybe the Psycho
Pirate would give him new orders, something that he could actually
carry out. It had been no problem killing that fat guard.
Give him a command like that before-
Otto Von Furth blinked as he stared, clearly seeing the unconscious
form of the Psycho Pirate lying on the floor across the lobby of the
bank. It was as though a fog had lifted as he stared at the
villain, the psychotic bastard that loved to toy with the emotions of
others for his own ends, manipulating them, enslaving them.
Otto had met the man in Helsinki, at one of those bars in the south
quarter where true men did not go. It was a nasty place that Von
Furth had called his home away from home for some time, getting drunk
and piddling away the last of the fortunes he had gained from his time
with the Brotherhood. There were no women there, thankfully as
they made him shrivel in fear now. That bitch Phobia had seen to
that. Too, he was far too ugly for the men that frequented the
bars in that particular district. He had been handsome once, or
at least not ugly, but his Meta had taken toll. His hair was
thinning, so shaved to the scalp. His skin sagged, his muscles
flabby and drooping and even his once tall frame was twisted as though
diseased. He was a mess.
It did not matter though. Damned if he would surrender to the
urges and become Plasmus again. Better to die, as that was a
state worse than death.
He had not recognized the Psycho Pirate when the man had sat beside him
and struck up a conversation, offering a cigarette. He had seemed
casual and congenial enough at first, with a winning, trusting smile,
attentive as Von Furth had warmed and told his tale of woe. Otto
Von Furth had felt them old friends instantly, had trusted the man
immediately and quickly called him friend. It was only later that
he had learned it was all a part of the villain’s Meta, and
before he could even try to resist he had been ensnared.
The Pirate had gotten them back to America before he had willed the
change, forcing Von Furth to release his mental restraints and become
once more the horror that was Plasmus. Then the two had started
their spree, robbing banks and gathering wealth, of which Plasmus saw
nothing.
And now, there was the Psycho Pirate sprawled and unconscious just a
few feet away, ready for revenge. Plasmus knew what he had to do-
what he wanted to do as he shambled towards the villain’s prone,
waiting body.
“Hold, villain!”
The Bat-thing was in front of him suddenly, holding out a hand for him
to stop. Plasmus stared at the twisted form of the creature,
obviously warped from radiation exposure. Maybe it was the
Batman- maybe not. Plasmus did not care as he raised his arms and
cut loose.
He inundated the creature with his corrosive excrement, blowing him
back and directing him towards the front of the bank. Plasmus
smiled beneath the constantly dripping goop that covered his face,
surprised at the creature’s squeals that were not of pain but
astonishment, but happy at some reaction none the less.
The creature righted itself near the shattered windows however,
standing firm as Plasmus blasted away. He saw the
creature’s form seem to melt under the onslaught, dwindling as
the acidic sludge ate away at its huge body, the excess of the deluge
spewing out into the street.
Plasmus stopped the torrent, staring at the queer little thing that
remained once the gargantuan façade had been washed away.
It was small, floating there near the window- floating! It had a
huge balloon-like head and body with tiny arms and legs. Too, the
Bat motif remained, complete with boots, cape and cowl with ears that
seemed to droop a bit. The tiny creature scowled, wiping away the
corrosive sludge that dripped from its hovering form, flicking it aside.
“Eeeww…” it said, wrinkling its pert nose and
sticking out its tongue in disgust. “That was nasty.
Let’s have no more of that.”
The little creature zipped forward and drew up, almost considering as
Plasmus raised his hands for another blast. Then the little
Bat-mite simply snapped his fingers.
Otto Von Furth gasped, feeling a strange surge of electricity coursing
though his body. He shivered as a chill raced along his spine,
shuddering as he felt a hardening within him. He shrugged, simply
shrugged and the dried and decaying sludge fell from his form leaving
him standing naked and pink-skinned in the middle of the bank’s
lobby. He blinked, trembling as he raised his hands, staring at
them as his eyes grew wide. He could feel his heart beating
madly. He could feel the air-conditioning within the bank as his
skin bubbled up with goose-bumps. He felt his legs grow weak
beneath him as he fell back onto his ass, staring up at the tiny,
grinning creature.
“I’m cured…” he whispered, staring at his
normal-looking hands once again, turning them over. He reached up
and back, raking his fingers through his full head of hair. His
skin seemed fresh and new, unblemished and free of the abrasions and
pestules that he had developed over the years. His lungs were
clear. “I’m cured.”
“Let that be a lesson
to you,” the tiny creature said and Von Furth looked up, tears in
his eyes. “Don’t mess with the BAT!”
Otto Von Furth nodded, returning his attention to his unblemished
hands, trying to hold back the tears of joy swelling to get out.
“Mein Gott…”
“No. Bat-Mite!”
And Outside…
Tommy Monaghan shook his head, trying to clear the fuzziness as he
struggled to rise from the spot that he had tumbled to. Mister
Goat Head had hit him hard and sent him flying. It was his own
fault of course for letting himself get distracted, but still he did
not have to like it. He drew his guns, looking up to see the big
man striding his way.
“You’ll pay, villain, for all you’ve done,” the
Goat Man snarled, his bulging and muscular arms swinging with every
step. “Thus swears the Olympian!”
PING!
“Okay…” Tommy whispered, finally
understanding. Olympian, Global Guardian, Greek Hero with the
powers of the Argonauts if his files were right- Hercules
included. All with a big, fat target in the shape of a
ram’s head draped over his shoulders; the mythical Golden Fleece
if you believed the hype of Doctor Mist’s PR people. Only
one way to find out.
Hitman raised his guns and fired.
Twenty-odd bullets later, a cloud of acrid smoke in the air about him
Tommy saw the Olympian finally stagger back and fall. The big ass
had batted away a few of the slugs just out of defensive reaction,
though those that had hit had bounced away as well. It was not
like he was trying to kill the guy though- though of course he would
not have snubbed his nose at that result.
Every shot had been well-placed and dead on the money. Those that
Olympian had batted away had been figured into the equation, his goal
to get a few through and strike the Goat Head Helmet, hit the clasp
that held the alleged ‘Fleece’ about the big man’s
shoulders. Can you say focus?
Tommy ran forward, popping clips and reloading as the big man stirred
on the ground. The fleece was still in contact, but it was simple
enough to kick the guy in the head with enough force to knock the
helmet and cape out of reach. Tommy planted a boot heel in the
man’s chest and bent to put the barrel of one gun to the
man’s forehead. He pointed the other at the fleece and
waited for the man’s eyes to focus.
“I got no beef with you, pal. Let it go.” Tommy
cocked the gun for emphasis, not that he needed to. Dramatic
effect did wonders however.
“Kill me then,” the big man said. “I’ve
had enough failure in this life.” He reached for the fleece
and Tommy fired, the bullets inching the ram’s head further away.
“Stravos was a worm, man,” Tommy said pressing the barrel a
bit harder into the man’s brow. “He deserved to
die. There’s a lotta little kids that’ll sleep easier
now. Take your loss and try harder next time. Don’t
be hard headed.”
The man stared up at him and Tommy saw him finally relax, the tension
draining from his body. He nodded and Tommy Monaghan
‘sensed’ that it was over. He stepped back, but kept
his gun trained.
“Good enough. I’m out.” Hitman glanced at
the bank and saw some commotion within, but ignored it. That was
someone else’s problem. He backed away.
“Looks like they need a hero over there man. You can
probably pull somethin’ outta this.” Tommy smiled,
slipping his guns back into his pockets as he turned, then
hesitated. “Do the right thing, pal.” Tommy
Monaghan gave a slight grin and a quick salute before disappearing into
the crowd.
Aristedes Demetrios scrambled for the fleece…
And back in the bank…
The Psycho Pirate opened his eyes and still saw Sheila staring down at
him. She was smiling and looking quite fine. The Pirate
felt a pressure between his legs as he struggled to sit up.
“You okay?” Sheila asked as the Psycho Pirate shook his
head, trying to regain his composure. He saw Mister Jordan to his
left, wailing like a child as the other remaining women laughed at him
and his humiliation. Not so far away he saw Otto Von Furth
kneeling in the middle of the bank’s lobby and crying in his own
right. Otto, not Plasmus. The Pirate glanced up.
The Bat-Thing was gone, at least the one that he had fought and rather
lop-sidedly. In the monstrosity’s place hovered a tiny
imp-like creature still dressed like the Batman but obviously
skewed. It was floating over Von Furth with a wide, satisfied
grin, ignoring the Pirate foolishly. The Psycho Pirate looked
back to Sheila, allowing her to help him to his feet.
The Psycho Pirate shook his head again as he scanned the bank’s
lobby. It was a queer scene of passion and lust playing out
wherever he looked. Jordan was on the ground still and at the
mercy of his peers that seemed to delight in torturing him in his
vulnerable, half-naked state. Just what had the man done to
deserve that, them and their tender ministrations? Not that he
cared. Sheila was looking to him with an unbridled lust- one that
he had not instilled in her. She was actually attracted to him,
why he had no idea? Von Furth was a babbling mass of pathetic
gratitude, and the little Bat-mite was simply beyond his ability to
fathom. Time to cut losses and go. He had been unconscious,
so the police would be back soon.
“I- I don’t…” Sheila held out a small card of
cardboard. “My card,” she said with a smile, brushing
her hair back from her face. “Call me,” she said,
glancing at Jordan again.
“I…” The Psycho Pirate stuck the card in his
belt and dashed towards the door. He stepped over the skeletal
remains of the security guard, ignoring the high-pitched squeals of the
little bat-thing, ignoring the bags of money that he had left
behind. This was way too weird, almost as bizarre as that whole
Crisis thing with the Flash- a bad dream. Better to cut his
losses and live free to plan for another day. He dashed out into
the street-
And collapsed as the Herculean fist smashed into his nose. He
remained conscious just long enough to moan as the pain set in.
His last sight was of the big goat-headed man that stepped over his
prone body. He looked vaguely familiar the Psycho Pirate thought
as his consciousness faded away once again.
Outside…
Olympian had recognized the Psycho Pirate of course. The villain
was one of the old Injustice Society, or League, or Gang. They
were hard to keep straight sometimes, but he was a villain
regardless. And he was distracted.
The Olympian simply stood there, his fist cocked and waiting until the
Pirate ran to him. Olympian struck, a resounding blow that
actually seemed to dent the golden mask that the villain wore.
The Psycho Pirate went down like a sack of potatoes, collapsing to the
street. No struggle or strife involved. The Olympian
scowled and reached down, gathering the villain and ripping his golden
mask free before turning to the gathering crowd and media. The
man with the guns had been right.
“I have caught the bank robber,” he said in a booming,
authoritative voice, “and probably the killer of Peter
Stravos. I am the Olympian!”
There was a flurry of activity as the crowd cheered and surged
forward. The media surrounded him, asking him questions:
Who are you? What happened? How did you know? Who’s
that, the Psycho Pirate? The police moved in to secure the bank
as well, taking out the two naked men and the hostages. He had no
idea what that was about, nor did he care.
The Olympian puffed up his chest, handing his catch over to the Gotham
Police and their SCU. He turned then to the Press, ready to
answer their questions. This all might work out after all.
“Wow!”
Aristedes Demetrios glanced up to see the strange creature hovering
overhead. It was dressed in some facsimile of the Batman, though
poorly, and as Aristedes stared, about to speak he saw the little
creature shimmer and swirl, his costume changing.
He wore now a sparkling ram’s head and golden fleece as a cape,
his costume a toga of sorts with sandals on his oblong feet. He
bobbed there in the air overhead, his face wide with a huge grin,
obviously awash with heroic worship as the creature stared at the
Olympian. Demetrios shivered to see the lustful look in the
little creature’s eyes. No one else seemed to notice him,
but Demetrios just had to know.
“Who are you?” he asked, and the little imp grinned.
“I’m your biggest fan!” the imp said, floating
closer. You can call me Olympian-Mite!”
Aristedes Demetrios stared at the grinning little creature dressed like
him and shivered with a wave of unaccustomed fear.
This could not be a good thing…
END
Next Issue: Another writer takes the
reins of Brent Lambert Presents!
It Could be You!
Story © 2005 Curt Fernlund and may
not
be reproduced without permission.
Brent Lambert Presents Logo and opening (in part) © David Wheatley