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Twins in Death: Chapter One – Part Three

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Chapter One: The Ballad of Captain Scourge

 

 

March 10th, 2002

11:52 a.m.

           

            Captain Scourge was floating high above the city. His mind was rattling around inside his head like a dry split pea in a pop can. His heart was thumping like a fist-sized muscle made up of four valves designed to pump blood throughout the body, which it was. He was flying over the city, he had his outfit on, and there was something amazing about that. There was a feeling in having the costume that he hadn’t quite expected.

 

            He had sort of believed, deep in his heart, that he would just feel like a dork in a mask. He had thought that he would feel like he expected to be exposed at any moment, that people would just laugh at him. No one was laughing though, and he didn’t feel that way. He felt like some kind of God, about to descend and dispense justice from his fingers.

 

            Who was going to laugh at him now? Who was going to make fun of his clothes, or the way he walked? No one, that’s who. They couldn’t fly, they couldn’t make electricity dance from their fingers. They were tiny ordinary soft mortals, and he was flying above the clouds. This wasn’t a bad feeling for a person to have, particularly when one has had to walk amongst the petty, tiny mortals every day of their life.

 

            He looked down on the city and wondered what to do. He could begin anywhere, really anywhere. He didn’t see anyone else flying, he was alone up here and even as he lowered himself towards the street, the only people who were up this high, needed towers to stand as high as he did. He thought that there would be at least some other super hero flying through the air. A single green clad person did zip past somewhere over New Jersey, but he could only just barely see it. It might have even been a small plane of some variety; he couldn’t really tell from here, it was probably a hero though.

 

            It was an advertisement for designer jeans that started him off. It was stupid and insipid and degrading towards both women and men. A woman wearing only a pair of jeans so low you could see what his mother always called ‘The Crack of Dawn’ just poking out the back of the jeans. She had one arm draped over her breasts, which had probably been enlarged on a computer. A man in jeans hanging nearly as low stood behind her, looking out with the sort of vacant stare that men in fashion photographs had. There was nothing going on in his head, the lights weren’t even on. It assumed all women had as small a waist as the girl in the ad, and that all men wanted that in a woman and nothing else.

 

            In a nutshell, it was everything that was wrong with the world. It foretold that if a woman wasn’t as thin and promiscuous as the woman in the photo they would never be happy. It told young men that they had to be muscular and vacuous as well, or they’d never land a chick like that. It told everyone that this was what they had to live up to, and if they deviated, they would be shunned.

 

            The people who looked like the people in these ads had shunned him from their company for years. His hand extended and the bolts danced from his fingers. The tendrils slid across the paper, causing the faces to blacken and smoke. The ad caught fire after a few seconds and he swept down into time square, his heart thumping from the thrill of destruction. The huge TV screen that had been put in Time Square was showing an ad for a movie, a bad remake of a pretty bad movie that was a lousy book to begin with. Yellow electricity crackled around him and with a sudden thrust of his arm, the huge screen exploded. He sailed into the air and rained the thunder of his rage down upon them.

 

            The people had been standing in line, waiting to see an RTV V.J., and it was a bad time for something like that. Captain Scourge hated RTV, hated the fact that they played less than twenty songs and played them over and over again, when they played music at all that was. Lord knows that it would really be a killer if Rock Television played music, it might be enough to take us back up to Orange Alert. After all, there were episodes of the Real Planet to play and those stupid cartoon characters that just sat around laughing like they had power tools shoved up their rectums. His hands directed down as he spiraled through the air, and eighty-five people, most of them teenagers, received a sudden and nasty shock.

           

            Oddly, no one actually died by his hands, not then at any rate. Their hairs stood up on end, and then duparoh and other synthetic clothes began to crackle between people. Cell phone’s screens blinked randomly before snapping and shattering in their plastic cases. When the bolts flew between them, people were thrown several feet. When he shattered glass some people got cut pretty badly.

 

            One girl took a shock and suffered a sudden bought of paralysis. Her body slumped into the street and was struck by a taxi. She suffered a broken wrist and a concussion, but she didn’t actually die. She spent the next two years in physical therapy, and was phobic about lightning for the rest of her life, but she didn’t die from the attack. Her not dying meant that her injuries would be forgotten, while a sudden death would have been remembered. If there had actually been deaths, Captain Scourge might have been better remembered. As it was, several of his victims never even learned his name.

 

            It would surprise people later that Captain Scourge was just another kid, about the age of his first victims. That what he had needed was a hug and possibly not living in a world of constant inane commercials. He had just been another kid, angry at the world. What was depressing is that after learning this, many schools implemented a policy of persecution of anyone that didn’t fit in that would guarantee more violence. Indeed it would have caused a great deal of violence if other events hadn’t prevailed.

 

 

March 10th, 2002

11:57 a.m.

 

            The Weirdo had a small device that was about the size and shape of a bic pen. This was not a bic pen you under stand, but a pen shaped device. So much was this device pen shaped that we may just continue to call it the pen shaped device. This pen shaped device was more like a star trek style communicator. It was a homing beacon, person-to-person communicator, and locator all in one. So ingenious was the micro technology involved that it actually had room in certain models for a ballpoint pen to be placed in side. The Weirdo had opted for a flashlight to be in his though, a small bright LED.

 

            The reason I bring this up now was to explain that just as The Weirdo was perusing the menu, and thinking about what he might like to order, a single sharp beep came from the pen shaped device and a voice carried from it. The sharp beep made his entire body freeze, and he went rigid before the voice came a second later. To say he was displeased to hear the sharp beep would be an understatement akin to saying that Hitler didn’t have the greatest love for all the Jewish people of the world.

 

            “Rubber Duck? This is Pig Pen, you got a copy on me c’mon?”

 

            The Weirdo did not sigh, did not look at Shannon with an apologetic smile. He didn’t wince or groan, or do any of the things people in movies tend to do when business calls.  He simply sat rigid for a long moment, and internally threw a short savage temper tantrum. He’d expected it, because he believed in an all mighty force. He believed strongly in a great and powerful force that bent the universe to its will, and he was sure that force hated him. He believed in this like the Pope believes that being a small minded bigot is the best way to attract converts or that Detroit fans believe the Lions really will make it this year. He knew that God, if you wish to dignify the idea with a name, hated him. God hated him and wanted to see him suffer, and thus his meal would once again be interrupted.

 

             The Weirdo had told everyone that the person who interrupted his meal would die a horrible death if it weren’t an absolute emergency involving life or death.  Actually to be perfectly frank he told them that the life or death of the person who called would be the life or death in question.  It might be thought that perhaps The Weirdo was trying to be colorful when threatening to kill the person who caused him to miss yet another lunch. The Weirdo was not, per se, a colorful person. He usually got around the “irony” and sarcasm of the day by simply telling the truth in a dead pan way that made people wonder if he was telling the truth or being ironic or sarcastic. It would, therefore, be a very dangerous thing, not taking what he said seriously.

 

            It was for this reason that he didn’t wince, or apologize, or groan. After a moment of perfect stillness that let Shannon know he was kicking over the furniture in his mind, he let his hand move. He simply reached into his coat and drew the device out quickly, pressing the send button and sending a message back. His voice conveyed that he was well prepared to kill the entire world to get some peace and quiet, if that was what it took.

 

            “Ten four Pig Pen.” He said in a way that made it sound as if he were letting the most obscene profanities fly, by keeping a perfectly calm and level voice. “What’s your twenty?”

 

            “I’m on my way to Times Square, someone’s doing, well something.”

 

            “Is that the best description you can offer?” The Weirdo asked. “You know what today is?”

 

            “They said something about a guy shooting lightning from his fingers.” Tommy said. “Frying the innocent civilians and things.”

 

            “Ah.” The Weirdo said. “I see.”

 

            “Yeah.”

 

            “I’m near enough, I’ll be there in a bit.”

 

            He stood up and looked at Shannon, worry crossed her face, but nothing else. No anger, nor frustration. There would be other lunches, and other dinners, this had to be important. She smiled at him weakly as he looked at her. She wasn’t really worried, he’d always come back before, but there was the chance so she had to say what she had to say.

 

            “You be careful.” She said.

 

            “Okay.” He said and walked out of the cave like restaurant and into the relatively bright light of day.

 

 

© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

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March 25, 2012 Posted by | Fiction | , | Leave a comment