Twins in Death: Chapter Two – Part One
Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay
Chapter Two: Love Lost
March 27th, 2002
9:24 a.m.
The Weirdo was happy, there was really no other way to describe his mood, at least no way that wouldn’t spoil the perfection of the moment. The moment had that kind of simplistic perfection that was like making a single perfect brush stroke. You couldn’t and shouldn’t add to it, for that would ruin it. If one tried poetry the words would fall flat and ultimately destroy the simplicity of the moment. There are times when heavy handed words should be pushed aside and the most flowing verses should be told to go flow somewhere else.
There was no other way possible to explain The Weirdo’s state at that moment, he was simply happy. His eyes opened as the late March sun shone into his room, Shannon’s head on his shoulder. There was hardly any weight to her and what weight that was there was the confidence building sort of weight. It was a weight that told him he wasn’t in a dream; he was in a stark reality. It was a weight he could believe in and belief in her was all he’d ever need. He smelled her hair and felt her warmth against him. He held her tight, squeezing her.
March 27th, 2002
9:25 a.m.
He was dressed in gray, and stood outside, watching the man with the machine gun. He thought, for a fleeting moment about leaving, but he had to be here, it was part of the narrative that he was entwined in. He could feel his insides gathering up, tightening. He knew what was to come, and it broke his heart to even consider the idea. However, he had a part to play, and he would play it. He watched as the other man checked the breach on the small sub-machine gun. He looked at the piece of jewelry in his hand, and considered again what he was about to do. He wondered if perhaps he hadn’t gone too far.
There was no time to think about that now though. He had a job to do, a part to play. This wicked playlet would unravel itself, as it had to. He could almost hear the gun clinking against the extra clip of ammunition. He knew that the story was moving unrelentingly forward now. He would play his part as the directors had planed for him to do. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, and began to move to his position.
March 27th, 2002
9:26 a.m.
“Morning.” She said, a smile on her face.
“Morning.” He said.
“How did you sleep?”
“Well.” He said. “I actually slept well.”
It was then that the question he had been tossing back and forth in his mind came to him again. He hadn’t been stalling on this question because he was afraid of the answer, because he knew the answer. If anything he was worried about the effect asking this question could have on him. The existence of the question and her observation of it could change both himself and the question.
He could feel two paths open before him, like waveforms of probability. On one hand he could ask this question, lay down his arms and walk into the glorious sunlight. The other path was much darker, lonelier, and would eventually lead to his ruin. Either was possible, indeed many were possible, but these were probable. He postulated the probability matrix in his head because he was a very odd person and he felt like doing it. He could make his way down either path, but he preferred the one of light. He began to walk towards the lighted path.
“Darling.”
“Yeah?”
“Would you like to get married?”
“What?” She propped herself up on one arm, exposing a breast.
“I mean it. Do you wanna get married?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” He said, “That’s settled then.”
He fell onto his back and proceeded to stare at the ceiling with his hands crossed humming an old harvest tune from the 15th century. At least it was a song they sang during the harvest of 1432. He didn’t move, simply stared at the ceiling and looked at the ceiling and hummed his tune. It was a happy tune and about eighty percent of the words were double entendre, which he liked. There was something about singing a song and having people wonder, when you say lets thrash the wheat, what you mean by that. She looked at him, and looked at his crossed hands. She knew his little game; he was doing this so that she’d ask him why he was doing it. She’d ask why he was doing it and he’d respond that he was doing it to see how long it would take her to ask him what the hell he was doing. It was one of the things he did to be obnoxiously cute.
However, Shannon was not going to play his little game today. After all it was she who had the shocker, and it she who was going to get to see the look on his face. She was going to win point match and set. For now though, she was going to defeat his little game, by not playing. It was the best way to win against him anyway. The best way to win was to change the game.
“You want breakfast?” She asked.
He thought about this for a moment, trying to see if he could get her to play but figured that in an instance like this he should cut his losses. He considered carefully because even though his manhood could easily survive the loss, it didn’t mean he necessarily wanted her to know that. He thought about this as he did about everything, he was a carefully thought out person. He was also thinking about what to have for dinner and would he shoot a bull elephant if he was being charged by one. It might seem odd to consider such a thing but The Weirdo thought about everything in advance, just in case the situation ever came up. He decided that he would simply try to find cover in the case of the bull elephant, after carefully considering the options that he could see before him.
What he was considering even more was that Shannon was still leaning over him, her blue eyes piercing into his mind, looking for the nugget that was thinking about her. There was always a bit of his mind considering her, as it was impossible for any one thing to hold his attention, and that part was considering the idea of her naked covered with maple syrup. This was a silly and sticky thing to consider, but he was enjoying the image. It was one he thought he might try to arrange at breakfast if no one else was awake. He wondered what her reaction would be if he tossed her up on the counter and began to pour the syrup on her while lifting her nightgown. The idea he finally came to was this, he should stop acting silly and just get on with his life. This would include answering her question, which meant he would loose this round, and have to admit his adversary a clever one, but what the hell. If you going to loose to someone, it might as well be the best.
“Yeah.” He said.
“You wait here then, I’ll go make some.” She stood from the bed, dressing barely in a silk dressing gown.
“I love you.” He said.
“I know.” She said smiling; she walked out of the room and began down the stairs. “I’ve got a surprise for you, something very important to tell you about.”
She floated out of the room like a leaf on the breeze, at least the way a leaf would if it had hips like hers. His heart ached as he watched her walk away from him. Actually, yes it did. It may sound silly to us but he did actually experience a momentary ache in his chest while watching her leave. This is because, as I stated earlier, he was happy. The Weirdo was also in love and love is something that is difficult to discuss on any rational level. Any discussion in which love, real love, enters into becomes very embarrassing, sickening, and uncomfortable for anyone who is not directly part of the love that is being pontificated. There is no other way to put this really. We all know what love is like but when we are not part of that love we all tend to have the same thought i.e. “Is that what I look like when I’m that in love?”
Besides, all that could be said about the greater points of love has been said on a thousand pop records. The great poetry of love, that was once so important that it seemed that was all anyone sang about, has been sung about so often by so many prepubescent idiots who don’t know the first thing about it that to speak of it has become trite. It has reached the point where to speak of the most important subject makes it the least important subject and an embarrassment to all.
So since we already know how embarrassing the pontification of love can be and we already understand that The Weirdo and Shannon were very much in love perhaps we should move on. In fact perhaps we should make some attempt to stick to the facts, the true events, and go no further into the perhaps or those sticky subjects than we must. Feelings, emotions and syrup will be discussed later but for now perhaps we should simply let the moment lie.
The Weirdo was getting up, about to follow her down the stairs, when he caught sight of a figure on the balcony. He stopped cold and looked at the shadow of the figure that was cast on the floor. Usually The Weirdo could sense the approach of anyone, and he wasn’t the sort of person to not observe someone’s approach. He began to stretch his legs to the floor, thinking of how many steps it was to the nearest weapon, and realizing he’d probably just grab the side chair that sat next to the balcony’s door if nothing else. He stood and looked at the figure, watching it with the careful movement of a hunting tiger. The figure didn’t seem to move at all, just stood where it was.
He walked toward the balcony slowly, making a detour towards the desk instead of directly towards the doors. He reached towards the desk, picking up a pocketknife from the desk where he had carelessly tossed it preceding night. His hand reached out and he noticed for a moment how his fingers looked against the gauze curtain that fluttered ever so gently in the wind. He took hold of them, feeling the smooth soft texture of these particular curtains, which he had chosen for their softness rather than durability. The Weirdo was not someone who could put up with synthetic or particularly rough fabrics.
The figure was looking at the ground, when the curtain was tugged away, his eyes lifted and the two men locked gazes. The Weirdo’s eyes fix on the sad gray eyes of his visitor, the eyes looked as though they may begin to cry at any moment. They were not gray as in a very light blue, but gray as in the color of a battle ship or the clouds on the prairies of North Dakota. They were the lack of color, or of joy. There was something profoundly sad about the color of those eyes.
His hair was also gray, not white nor silver but a dull gray. His entire outfit was also gray. Not one single shade that made him look like some sort of computer villain from a late 80’s TV show but rather a colorless panorama of shades, ranging from one shade of gray to another. The colors ranged from a gray blue to a charcoal near black. It was as if some great stress had taken the pigment from not only his hair but also his eyes and clothes. It was like they had turned the color down on a television screen, yet his face and hands still had their flesh tones. There was certainly the sadness enough to suggest that, such a profound sadness.
“Good morning.” The gray man looked at The Weirdo as they came face to face.
“You again?” The Weirdo asked. They had met on a few occasions, but this time The Weirdo could feel a difference.
The man’s gray eyes had a particular sorrow in them. His gray hair was disheveled and his gray clothes looked as though he had slept in them. He wasn’t as well pressed as usual and looked as if he’d had a bad night, not as if he’d slept in a gutter, but simply he’d tried to sleep in his clothes and failed several times. The sleeping had obviously not gone well because along with the sadness was an incredible exhaustion.
“You lost this.” The gray man said extending his hand, a small diamond broach in it.
The stones, in their invisible style settings, were like teardrops that had been collected in his hand, shinning and shimmering as his hand moved. The stones glistened like tears plucked from a young child and frozen in time. A million years of pressure and a volcano’s fire had turned the coal into the sparkling crystals before him.
“I don’t recognize it.” The Weirdo
“It belonged to your mother.” The Gray man said. “You should have it.”
“Ah.” The Weirdo said.
There was a moment when The Weirdo thought if he reached for it something horrific might happen. It was a sort of precognition, but not like he usually had. This crawled like a worm under his skin, wriggling as it moved through his body. If he reached his hand out towards it the crawling feeling grew, and his stomach tightened. He could feel something emanating from the thing. It was as if there was something evil within the broach.
There was an unaccountable feeling of dread attached to the broach, like a memory he couldn’t quite get at, or a memory of something yet to happen. He could only think that there was a terrible event attached to the thing. Grandma had put the idea in his head. He couldn’t stop his hand from reaching though. Grandma commanded him and she wouldn’t take any excuses. The Gray Man looked at The Weirdo’s hand as it reached slowly out for the thing. It seemed to be taking him forever to take the broach, but it was time well spent.
© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions
Twins in Death: Chapter One – Part Five
Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay
Chapter One: The Ballad of Captain Scourge
March 10th, 2002
12:08 p.m.
The Weirdo arrived in Time Square just as Tommy did, and they noticed each other almost immediately. Thomas Gunner was about five foot ten and dressed in a royal blue suit. With the suit he also wore a blue fedora, which covered his blue eyes from the sun. If someone was looking to form a description of Tommy, you could do worse than to combine Archie Goodwin with Sam Spade; or possibly Nick Charles.
You might even remark that he looked a great deal like the sometimes masked adventurer from the thirties who shared the same name. If you didn’t know certain facts, you might think his resemblance was positively uncanny. The fact that he still to this day wore the same royal blue suit that the same figure wore all those years ago should have been a tip that something was up, but it was amazing how few people noticed it.
He waved to The Weirdo as he walked into the war zone that Times Square had become. The area was littered with shattered glass and pieces of advertisements. The street looked worse than it did after New Years Eve. The Weirdo’s gray trench coat and fedora made him fairly easy to find, particularly since he usually wore them with whatever outfit he happened to have on. Of course finding The Weirdo was particularly easy for Tommy, as he always knew where The Weirdo was.
Tommy had driven The Weirdo’s car which was a midnight blue sedan that looked very much like a cross between a nineteen thirty one Packard and a Ferrari. It was also the most protected thing in the square at the moment. It was for this reason that Tommy was reluctant to get out of the car. The sedan had a certain magic about it, like it had attained sentience though some arcane process. The car would protect you, it would save you if you needed saving. If you left the safety of the car though, it couldn’t do anything for you.
Time Square is never empty, but it was emptyish at the moment. The two streets that made most of what is really a sort of sliced off triangle had cars and people, but they were running and the cars were driving through very fast. The Weirdo often thought that the average New Yorker had all the preservation instincts of a lemming. Though he knew that to be a misnomer, as lemmings don’t actually commit suicide and the Disney movie where they are shown killing themselves was faked.
Still a metaphor is kind of killed if you explain the truth behind people’s prejudices.
The Weirdo looked at the flailing ball of lightning that was blasting overhead. The ball of lightning had caused a sort of surging wind that instead of blowing down on them, caused air to be pulled up towards it. Bits of paper flew into the air until they flew out of the eddies of air and spiraled back down to the street.
People banged into The Weirdo in their rush to get to and from their appointments that were apparently more important than their lives, which showed how rushed they were. New Yorkers bump into each other, this is a fact, but they don’t bump a certain class of person. The Weirdo belonged to the class of people you don’t bump, along with hobos, drunks, and Mafioso. Of course because of his actions, there was no mafia left in New York, so it kind of made him feel like a bum or hobo.
Nevertheless, they were banging into him in their panic. They ran to and fro, keeping their eyes up toward the sky and nearly being killed by the cars, whose drivers also had their heads looking towards the sky. Toward the figure who was at the center of the long fingers of lightning that bolted all about them.
Two police helicopters where trying to threaten the figure, their lights shining uselessly at him in an attempt to distract his attention. There were people on bullhorns trying to tell him to surrender. He simply blasted at the helicopters and sent them spiraling for a moment. The pilots managed to regain control, though one got a runner caught on a building’s railing and took the railing along with it. Fires were breaking out all over the place and the man in the boiling rage of electricity was dashing back and forth blasting emergency vehicles as they came to try and help the situation.
No one was dead though, and only a few people got more than a nasty shock from the maelstrom of rage above. The person above was angry, and wanted to hurt people, but he wasn’t murderous. He might hurt people quite badly and he might kill someone on accident, but that wasn’t his plan. He was just lashing out like a wounded animal. He had no plan, just a wish to be top dog for a while.
The Weirdo looked at the situation and came to a conclusion- someone had to do something. He waited for a moment for someone to leap into the air and do something. He continued to wait because he didn’t want some superhero to claim he was horning in on their turf. He was a crime fighter, not a super hero. This person with the lightning and the nearly shooting down helicopters was clearly a super villain. The Weirdo would have gone so far as to pull out his contract, which stated he was only to tangle with insane immortals and the mob. He didn’t have a contract though, and thus nothing to point to. He wondered if there was a Superhero union manual that he could point to. There could be union rules here.
He thought suddenly of an old castle in Paris. It was a museum now, but it had been a castle. He had visited the place when it was still being used as a castle, and had been there when it was a museum. The Weirdo had done an awful lot of time traveling during the near seventy years he was gone, and this place suddenly came to mind. It was an inexplicable thought, but there it was. He found that he could make a map of the place in his head during both its castle and museum days. He compared the differences between the two and came to conclusion that the reason this place was suddenly in his mind was because that was one place where he would rather be than here.
He waited for that someone to do something, a superhero of some variety. Maybe a mutant with metal claws coming from his knuckles, or a kid who sticks to walls would do. Maybe a fellow dressed up like a flying rodent or something, he’d even settle for a blind lawyer if he had to. It would take a while for a blind lawyer to get here, so he should be patient.
The problem with waiting for a hero to show up was that so often, they didn’t. You waited for someone to do something and no one did. The heroes had all pretty much vanished in the late fifties. They had come back during the eighties, but most of them had died or left the game by the mid nineties. There were a few costumed heroes who tried to fight crime, but many of them were as localized in their neighborhoods as the street gangs. The heavy hitters that had come back were mostly working the international circuit or possibly off fighting in one of those secret alien wars that Jack had mentioned once or twice. There had been a few who appeared for a short time since The Weirdo’s return, but they mostly lived in other cities. New York had once been the center of Super Heroics, and it was starting again, but it wasn’t ready for this guy yet. He thought that in another year they probably wouldn’t be able to turn a corner without seeing protectors in tights. Right now though, there weren’t any heroes. Still, someone had to do something pretty soon. He began to strongly suspect that the someone was him, and possibly Tommy.
“Omega’s taking his damn sweet time, isn’t he?” The Weirdo asked aloud.
“Omega’s in Siam.”
“Is he?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah, shitmonkeys.” The Weirdo said walking towards the car.
He opened the trunk of the sedan and drew out two Thompson submachine guns. The antiques were the preferred weapon for these two when it came to automatic fire. Others might have their MP 5’s, their TEC 9s and their eight hundred rounds per minute, but not these two. They liked the slow rhythm the Thompson’s offered as well as a forty five round which was larger than most submachine guns were willing to fire these days. Also the slower speed meant they didn’t rip right through people and into the person behind them. Besides, there was a maximum of about eighty bullets in the MP5. You’d be done shooting before you even could tell if you’d gotten the bugger.
“We gonna try and gun him down?” Tommy asked, a little incredulously.
“Not really.” The Weirdo said as he slid the drum magazine into place. “I mean it’s a place to start but I think it’s going to come to more than that. These should get his attention though.”
“Oh, good.” Tommy said. “I was afraid you had a plan or something.”
“Gimme time.” The Weirdo said. “I haven’t dealt with someone shooting lightning from their fingers before. Immortals yes, lightning, no.”
The two men ran out from the alley they were standing in and moved into the street. Captain Scourge was sweeping low to the ground and causing explosions of glass from the windows. As Captain Scourge flew over them, they aimed and fired their machine guns. The distinctive slow clack, clack, clack of the submachine guns made all those who weren’t already watching with amazement stop and watch. This included Captain Scourge, who stopped flying and hung in the air, his ball of electricity sending the bullets flying away before they could get near him due to the change in his electromagnetic field.
They stopped firing once it was obvious that they had his attention, but they had no idea what to do after that though. He hung in the air for a moment and then lowered to the ground. They saw how thin he was, how very young he looked. He might not have been more than fifteen or so. The young man looked at them with astonishment as he came towards them. The Weirdo could see a single red spot on the boy’s forehead with a white center, the pimple looked ready to burst at any moment.
“You’re The Weirdo.” He said.
“Yeah.” The Weirdo said, the gun still held tightly in both hands, ready to come up and fire.
“I attracted The Weirdo.” He said. “I really am a super villain then.”
He smiled wide and put his fists on his hips, threw his head back and laughed. The Weirdo and Tommy stood, mouths agape, they had no idea what to do with him. What does one do with a person who actually puts their fists on their hips and throws back their head to laugh? Not only that, but this was just a kid. A super powered kid, but a kid nonetheless. They looked at him, as he laughed and Tommy blinked. He took in the lighting bolt shirt, the flowing pants, and of course the cape.
“Boy been shopping at International Male or something.”
“Weak joke.” The Weirdo said.
“Best I could do under the circumstances.”
“I know who you are.” The young man said. “And now you’ll know me!” He flew into the air and screamed with joy.
“What the riotous fuck is going on?” The Weirdo asked.
“I am Captain Scourge!” He said firing lightning bolts from his hands and causing the glass in the building above them to explode and shower them with bits of safety glass. Bits of glass bounced as they hit the ground and broke into even smaller pieces than they had before.
“Let’s try shooting him again.” Tommy said.
“No good.” The Weirdo said.
“Please?”
“Sorry.”
“We could run away and hide under the bed until the world makes sense again.”
There was a pause. During this pause The Weirdo actually considered this option, which was not an odd thing. He considered all options Tommy gave him with equal gravity. There was certain attractiveness to the idea of going to hide under the bed until the world made sense. The problem was that The Weirdo suspected that if they were prepared to wait till the world made sense they might never come out again.
He looked around for the other heroes, but of course they still hadn’t shown. He was not going to take away some young superhero’s chance to take down this super villain. He was very much in favor of a new glut of costumed heroes. Every time one of them beat up a street punk, it was one less for him to take care of. The problem was, no heroes made themselves known, and he felt he knew why. He looked around and thought that perhaps they had met the hero and they were them.
“No, I think we’ve got to deal with this.” The Weirdo said finally.
“Shit.” Tommy grumbled.
“Sorry man.”
“It’s okay.” Tommy said.
“Jack where the hell are you?” The Weirdo asked into the small pen like device.
“Target International Male boy about twenty feet up?”
“That joke has already been made.” The Weirdo said testily into the microphone.
The bolt of blue hit Captain Scourge like a genetically enhanced alien wearing a thin but incredibly powerful suit of armor that was built form parts of the ship that brought him to this planet. It seemed a lot more accurate than a ton of bricks, okay? Jack Uniton was known the world over as The Paladin, an armor wearing superhero who had been part of England’s hero project.
Jack’s body flew through the air with such force and struck the young man with such power that he forced him down to the ground before Captain Scourge knew what had hit him. Jack had begun to roll as they hit the pavement, shielding the young man from the impact. He didn’t want to kill him after all, just stop him and he had no idea what the guy could take.
The Weirdo ran towards the two of them as Captain Scourge swung a fist into Jack’s solar plexus. The fist itself offered no damage but it was tipped with a bolt of lightning which was powerful enough to throw Jack ten feet into the air and give Captain Scourge a momentary look and feel of an anime character using their recognized attack. Jack sailed into the air and spiraled around to catch himself before he struck the ground.
“Yeah!” Captain Scourge flew into the air and pumped his fist, wildly excited. “I just flattened The Paladin out!”
“Oh… we are going to fight now.” Jack said pulling the helmet off and spitting out a mouthful of blood.
For an alien, Jack Uniton looked incredibly like the perfect image of the Aryan male. His physique was perfection itself; his blue eyes and blonde hair were clean and well placed. He acted much like a properly raised English gentleman, which isn’t so odd as he had spent most of his life there, but then that explanation will come later. He struck the chest of his suit, and cracked his knuckles, sliding the helmet back on quickly.
“Not yet Jack.” The Weirdo said.
Tommy Gunner was leaning back and watching the young man spiral and loop through the air and was picking up information from his mind. Tommy being one of the world’s foremost mind readers was still having a tough time reading the disorganized thoughts. Mind reading isn’t the simple thing people think it is. Few people think in the organized way most of us like to think they do. If we had to read our own minds, we’d find they’re pretty disorganized places really. He was trying to find a place where he could strike the boy’s mind but the damn kid wouldn’t sit still. His mind was a swirling excited mass of jelly.
Jack flew into the air again and hit the youth like a linebacker might if they could fly and had the strength of twenty men. Or at least that was the plan, what actually happened was he got near the kid but then a lot of electricity ran into his body and seemed to give him one big body spasm, and he tumbled to the earth. It wasn’t the pain the bothered him, it was the moment of paralysis that bothered him.
This would be a time, in a comic book or a movie, that The Weirdo would likely make a quip or some sort of comment. Comic book heroes and movie stars have an amazing ability to have a conversation while fighting. Unfortunately if you’re really fighting, conversation doesn’t come that easily, and thus The Weirdo didn’t say anything as Captain Scourge spun through the air in joy.
“I took out The Paladin!” Captain Scourge yelled as he spiraled into the air, lighting leaping off his body in careless bolts.
He seemed to have no regard for what he was doing and was only blasting the birds out the air by accident. The electricity though, strung itself out, looking for something to kill. It lapped up the small souls and sucked them into the boy who was growing progressively stronger.
The Weirdo watched him spiral and jump and then he himself flew into the air. The Weirdo didn’t have any armor, or fancy alien DNA to help him fly, so his movement in the air was a little erratic, thus that made him incredibly hard for Captain Scourge to blast. The purple white blasts zipped past inches away from The Weirdo who was spiraling and weaving through the air because unless he was traveling at great speed, a straight line was neigh impossible for him. He’d never gotten that good at flight, and he found it incredibly difficult as well as overly tiring, but he could manage it from time to time.
The upshot was that The Weirdo was about three feet away before Captain Scourge could get a good bead on our hero, and by that time The Weirdo kicked him in the head, which provided a satisfyingly loud crack. Captain Scourge’s head spun and the thin rubber band on his mask snapped. The Weirdo’s foot had caught the mask and yanked it away when he hit the young villain. There was nothing particularly special about the face under the mask. It wasn’t remarkable in any way really. The Weirdo then came in suddenly with a fist in the stomach and a knee in the face. This was followed by another sharp kick and everything went black for the young man known as Captain Scourge.
© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions
Still out there
Do you ever get the feeling that the Pillar of Cheese in the Shape of Jane Austen is still out there somewhere?
That pillar of cheese has got the Space Nazis back under control, they’re sharpening their knives again. Bringing the zombies back, turning this whole story upside down again? Oh yes friends and neighbors, the Pillar of Cheese in the Shape of Jane Austen is still out there, still waiting, consolidating its evil.
We’re gonna hafta stay frosty, you and I, oh dear and constant reader.
Don’t mind them really.
You know why I don’t mind the Twilight movies?
The Olsen Twins.
I never found them in the least bit attractive, but lots of guys who were my age and older were drooling for the day they’d be legal. The argument was that then it would be okay to want to have sex with them. However, my argument was that they’d wanted to do these two when since they were 15 and no amount of “but they’re legal now” made a 30 or 40 year old guy wanting to bang a 15 year old okay. No one complained much about it though, they just sort of accepted a bunch of Countdown to Legal timers and shrugged. Same thing with Britney Spears and Emma Watson and a bunch of other teen idols.
And I don’t mind girls drooling over a young guy with a hot body, because of Megan Fox. Another girl I find strangely uninteresting, but seems to be the new hotness. Seriously, why can’t we fall in love with chicks like Myrna Loy again? I know Myrna is dead, I know Gene Tierney’s dead too. Damn it all to hell though, when will it be okay to love again?
Point is that women are getting to a point where they can objectify young men the way men have been objectifying young women for some considerable amount of time. We’re beginning to reach a point of equilibrium. In another ten years it’ll be okay for guys to admit they like needle point and that they don’t think porn is awesome. Yes, some guys can admit to knitting now, but we know what kind of guys those are and they already think crying like a little girl during that scene in Bambi when his mother gets shot* is acceptable. You’ve gotta man up during that scene. That’s what separates the tough guys like me from the whiny girls like you. We’re working towards a place though, and this is an important step. Girls can be more aggressive, guys can be a bit more passive, and we’ll all soon just be people.
Mind you, I still hate the books. I’ve read a little about them and the pillar of cheese in the shape of Jane Austen wishes it could come up with something that evil and profane. I want to get Gloria Steinem, Susan B. Anthony, and Boadicea to go stomp on her every time I hear about how she thinks females should act.
*OMG! SPOILERS! Snape kills Bambi’s Mom and Vader turns out to be his dad!
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