Origins 'R' Us

submitted by Cap'n Neurotic

TO: Ol’ Joe Billy Bob
Redneck Hills Mall President of Operations

FROM: Cap’n Neurotic
Origins’R’Us Regional Director

RE: Space for rent

Dear sir,

In lieu of your standard “application,” please see the attached copy of our latest promotional material from our corporate offices in Wakanda. We feel that your rustic atmosphere and “green” philosophy fit well with the aesthetic sense of our other branches, housed in abandoned railway stations, ancient castles, labyrinthine caverns, and Whataburgers across the globe; we hope you agree.

ORIGINS’R’US

Paving the way for rouge justice since the dawn of the Galactic Pax Treaty

Are you tired of getting sand kicked in your face by bullies?

Are you sick of seeing the wicked profit from their misdeeds?

Are you borderline psychotic in your need to avenge your parents’ deaths but aren’t quite sure how to do it?

If you answered “yes” to any of these, then what you need is a visit to everyone’s favorite super-power emporium ORIGINS’R’US!

Yes, ORIGINS’R’US offers a wide range of materials to give every would-be crimefighter a leg up in their never-ending battle for truth, justice, and all that jazz.

Ancient words of power?

We got ‘em!

Mystical gemstones with esoteric abilities?

We got ‘em!

Radioactive isotopes and irradiated lab animals?

We got ‘em!

Implausibly powerful bits of alien technology?

We got ‘em!

And, here at ORIGINS’R’US we do more than just hand over these items of incalculable power

willy-nilly. Each member of our highly trained staff is cloned from one of our founding partners and cybernetically implanted with all the knowledge which has not been lost in the mists of time

on each of our items. These custodians of our cosmic culture will not only help you select the life-altering item which best suits your personal needs, but will give you all the assistance you need to activate and access the powers and abilities which will make you so far above us mere mortals that you are like unto a god*!

Our patented TARDIS technology allows our store to be infinitely larger inside than it appears from without, allowing us to house our mind-staggering amount of merchandise, as well as special genetic-mutation-inducing environments such as:

• Gamma testing ranges
  
• Particle accelerators
  
• Lazarus Pits
  
• Rifts in Time and Space
  
• Terrigen Mist chambers
  
• Symbiote breeding grounds
  
• And many more!

In addition, our special three-day suspended animation waiting period with full psychic scans insures that only the most stable of vengeance-hungry vigilantes are allowed to roam free with catastrophic powers at their fingertips in order to take the law into their own hands.

And be sure to visit our sister store, SPANDEX WISHES AND CAPE-&-COWL DREAMS for all of your super-hero apparel needs.

ORIGINS’R’US: tracking down items of earth-shattering importance and universe-shaking power so that you don’t have to.

*Actual divinity not implied

Vox Oraculum

VOX ORACULUM

by

Cap'n Neurotic

The costumed hero floated gently down to the rooftop astride his unlikely cotton-colored conveyance, alighting easily and quickly sinking through the cloudlike mass as it dissipated back into the ether from which it was called until he stood firmly on the building itself. He took a few strides to the edge of the roof, glancing over the side to catch the work of a potential recruit in action; he would have had a much better vantage point from the sky, but had been afraid that one of the earth-bound players would have noticed a 6’3”, 240 lb. figure in a brightly colored costume floating over-head on what could easily be mistaken for a cumulonimbus. If he had been forced to engage in the battle below, it would have been a chaotic mélange of brute force, sonic booms, and broken bones, as opposed to the exercise in finesse being practiced by the rookie hero unknowingly under his scrutiny, the latest in a long line to adopt the costumed identity of Balance.

He grunted as he noted how long the fight was taking; the new Balance obviously outstripped her opponents in every way, and could have easily trounced the thugs in the amount of time it would take for their pilfered possessions to fall to the ground from out of their limp arms. But instead, the lithe brunette was drawing the confrontation out, content to furnish three or four lesser blows to each combatant in lieu of the finishing blows that were wide open to a super with her enhanced physicality.

It was a trait he had observed in some of the pervious Balances – the only one to actually be a member of Vox Aequitas had explained the philosophy behind it as an attempt to demoralize opponents

“If I take them out with one blow,” the middle-aged Balance had explained in a thick brogue, “then there’s every chance they’ll use their immense powers of self-delusion to talk themselves into thinking I just got in a lucky punch. But, if I prolong the battle, and outshine them at every turn, then they may finally get it through their thick skulls that they’re outmatched, and possibly be willing to forego engaging in such activity again.”

"Either that, or they’ll spend all of their time in the pen obsessing over how you humiliated them, and set out to become your new arch-nemeses.”

The British Balance had merely laughed at his teammate’s gruff prognosis. “A ray of sunshine as always, my friend, a ray of sunshine.”

The hero closed his eyes in regret; it hurt to think of the former Balance, just as it hurt to think of any of the long gone members of the Vox. But he had spent too much time in regret, too much time wallowing in seclusion, a fact he had recently had his nose rubbed in thanks to some tough love from the vigilante known as Bloodstain. Now, he was determined to reform Vox Aequitas and wipe away the shame and disappointment which had accumulated

"Shame, shame, Cloudburst. I’m disappointed; very disappointed.”

Startled by the words which seemed to echo his thoughts so closely, the hero whirled around, instinctively sheathing his fists in miniature storm clouds crackling with energy instants away from blasting the figure hidden in the shadows.

“I mean, I can’t believe you’re getting the band back together and haven’t asked me!”

As a tall, lanky figure in a motley costume ambled from the shadows into the light, Cloudburst allowed the energy encircling his fists to discharge harmlessly around him; he was all too familiar with this character.

“Ooo, shiny!” the wiry man exclaimed at the light show produced by Cloudburst’s energy release.

“What do you want, Gremlin?”

“Um, I believe I’ve already established that I’m here to lodge a complaint about not being asked to be a part of the Vox reunion tour.” Gremlin cooked his head quizzically. “Now, is it deafness or senility to blame for you missing that? I know how spotty you old folks can be.”

Cloudburst silently gritted his teeth and counted to twenty – getting irked by Gremlin’s antics served no purpose, but it was nearly impossible for him to control his temper around the wisecracker. Choosing to ignore the senior citizen crack (especially since, from what he had gleaned, Gremlin had probably been around for the signing of the Magna Carta), Cloudburst addressed the complaint directly.

“First of all, it would be hard to ask you to be part of a reunion since you were never on the original team –“

“True, but then again, neither are ¾ of the group you’ve recruited so far.” Gremlin flashed his bizarrely wide grin, which Cloudburst strove to ignore; he wasn’t about to fall into the trap of pondering how Gremlin knew about the reformation of Vox Aequitas, let alone who had been selected. The pest popped up in the most unlikely of places, equipped with information as infallible as it was esoteric, making him both an indispensable aid and an infuriating nuisance.

“Second of all,” Cloudburst continued, “when you actually were invited to join Vox you refused membership, claiming that you didn’t, and I quote, ‘play well with others’.”

Gremlin gasped in exaggerated shock. “Will wonders never cease . . . you actually do listen to what I say.”

“Well, for once, I agreed.”

Gremlin smirked. “I’m sure you did. And, I hope that you’ll agree with what I’m about to tell you now, because you definitely need to listen this time, ‘Burst; a lot of lives depend on it.”

Cloudburst’s jaw tightened as he heard Gremlin’s voice take on the sonorous tone which signaled the quirky crime had been overtaken by the power of prophecy.

“Heed your instincts, ‘Burst,” Gremlin intoned, “for the Voice of Justice has rarely been needed as sorely as it soon shall be. But remember that lesson once hard taught, that few are what they seem, and mysteries reside within us all, whether we acknowledge them or not; the new chords added to your symphony might sound pure and true at first, but if not carefully tuned, your harmony will breed cacophony, which then will spell calamity.”

Cloudburst shook his head, flummoxed by the windings of Gremlin’s pronouncement. He had once been told by the occult adventurer Mister Myster that those with the mystical gift of prophecy (as opposed to the more mundane gift of precognition) were slaves to whatever forces spoke through them, so he couldn’t very well blame Gremlin for the words which had just escaped his lips. But at the same time, Cloudburst had always had a strong, almost primal, distaste for all things connected with magic and mysticism, and any encounter with such supernatural forces instantly set his teeth on edge.

“And what, pray tell, does that mean?”

Gremlin’s eyes lost their thousand-yard star, and regained their normal twinkle. “It means this, my literal minded friend: Some serve as a boon / some serve as a curse / some secrets for better / still others for worse.”

Cloudburst allowed a small growl to escape his lips; the initial prophecy may have been the product of some larger guiding force, but that last bit of doggerel was all Gremlin. “You realize that you’ve just given me reason to doubt every single member of the team; I’m going to be second-guessing each of them every step of the way.”

The enigmatic hero nodded sadly. “True enough, I’m afraid, but ask yourself this: would not the old Vox have benefited from such questioning?” The question left Cloudburst momentarily speechless; it was difficult to refute Gremlin’s point. In many ways, it reflected thoughts that had dwelled in Cloudburst’s head ever since the unfortunate events which marked the final adventure of the previous incarnation of Vox Aequitas – reflected the thoughts so well in fact that, not for the first time, Cloudburst wondered if, despite frequent claims to the contrary, telepathy was included in the large back of tricks wielded by Gremlin.

Although he thought he knew what the answer would be, Cloudburst still felt compelled to ask the question. “How do I know that you’re telling the truth?”

The wiry hero drew himself ramrod straight, puffing out his chest and fixing his face into a rictus of outrage. “How dare you question The Great Gremlini!” he exclaimed, twirling around and sweeping his arms around his head with a theatrical flourish. “Am I not the Jester of Justice?” he cried, suddenly bounding through the air over Cloudburst’s head, then springing off sideways to the northern edge of the roof. “Am I not the one chosen to wield the Wrench of the Monkey?” he asked, his long arm sweeping out to graze the rooftop AC unit, which instantly began to stutter and hiss, a victim of Gremlin’s innate anti-technological nature. “Am I not –“

Cloudburst drew in a deep breath, tuning out the indignant rant. He knew that once his mercurial companion had slipped into such histrionics, there was only one way to put a stop to it: sink to his level.

“Am you not done yet?” he barked as his overly dramatic companion launched himself into the air yet again. At Cloudburst’s outburst, Gremlin clutched at his chest, let out an agonized groan, and slammed into the ground.

“Bad . . . grammar . . . my only . . . weakness . . . how . . . did you . . . know . . .”

Cloudburst squeezed his eyes shut, reaching up to fiercely massage the bridge of his nose before letting out an exasperated “Grem . . .”

Gremlin – who had drawn himself into a fetal position, twitching frantically – rose to his feet in a fluid motion, affixing Cloudburst with a mischievous grin.

“Well done with the grammar-bomb, ‘Burst; there might be hope for you yet. You really need to laugh more; it’ll add years to your life.”

“Is that prophecy or platitude?”

“Can’t it be both?” Gremlin asked earnestly before shaking his head. “No, ‘tis not one of my plethora of prophecies, I’m afraid, just some advice from a long-time ally.” Gremlin paused, as if carefully weighing his words. “’Burst, I know we have our differences, but you know I’ve never steered you or any of the others wrong in the past. Take my words with a grain of salt if you must, but do think on them; I promise it’s important.”

“But you have no idea why it’s important?”

Gremlin just shrugged; most of his power worked more on instinct than anything else.

“Besides,” Gremlin continued as he began to move back towards the shadows, “pondering that might take your mind off of other things.”

“What other things?” Cloudburst asked, regretting the question as soon as it escaped his lips.

“Oh, you know, things like the fact that you still don’t know why, 25 years ago, you suddenly manifested super-powers, almost like . . . well, magic.”

Cloudburst’s jaw dropped, but before he could utter a word his impish companion let out a maniacal giggle, burst into a double back handspring, and launched himself into the dark corners of the roof. Cloudburst didn’t even attempt to follow; long experience taught him that once Gremlin wanted to disappear, he was gone, and no tracker alive could find him.

The hero’s attention was diverted from the shadows which had swallowed the soothsayer by the sound of police sirens below; he walked back to his original post overlooking the alleyway where he could now see Balance’s easily bested prey, trussed up in immaculate knots awaiting their impending arrest. Cloudburst allowed himself a moment to admire her handiwork before the question set in: “What’s her secret? Is it a boon or a curse?” He tried to shake it off, but Gremlin’s words held fast in his mind.

“He said everyone had a secret,” he thought glumly. “Does that include me?”

As the uniformed officers swooped in to corral the helpless offenders, Cloudburst turned away from the roof’s edge, conjuring forth his once pristine conveyance, now dark and stormy to match his mood, and rode it into the sky, oblivious to all but the echoes of the voice of prophecy ringing in his ears, his head lost in the clouds.

Memories at the Monkey-Hog Saloon

by Cap'n Neurotic

Genre: Western
Pop Culture: Tickle Me Elmo, MTV, Rosie O'Donnell

-------------------------------

“Well tickle me Elmo and call me Spanky!” slurred the drunk who had just collapsed at Ford’s feet. The gunslinger did a double-take, shaken by the sot’s turn of phrase.

“You okay, pardner?” the dealer asked, and Ford waved the concern away.

“Just need to stretch my legs for a minute,” he said, pushing away from the card table. He knew the other players in the saloon would assume he was answering the call of nature again, but that was fine; better they think he had the bladder of an octogenarian spinster than they realize that the ramblings of the town drunkard could put him into such a state. He quickly strode out of the Monkey-Hog Saloon, so named for the rare creature rumored to live in the badlands surrounding the town of Chadwyck, although Ford suspected that its name came less from the fact that the creature was fabled to resemble some weird hybrid of a chimp and a sow than the fact that the whole idea was monkeyshines and hogwash. Still, the usual cynical thoughts which would flash through his mind at shenanigans like the obviously fake stuffed monkey-hog topping the saloon’s entrance were nowhere to be found, drowned out by the tumult conjured by his encounter with the drunk Pacing down the dusty street, he struggled to purge his mind of the images from that night 15 years previous when his youthful quest for enlightenment had led instead to nightmares.

As a young boy, Ford had always felt that he had a special destiny awaiting him, and after the massacre which had robbed him of his family he had set off to discover what that destiny could be. He eventually followed tales of a nomadic Indian tribe whose true name was unknown to all and whose shaman possessed the power to pierce the veils of time. It had taken him months to find the tribe, and then over a year of living with them to prove himself worthy to consult the shaman for guidance. The ceremony itself was cloaked in the fog of memory, with brief snatches surfacing from time to time: he remembered the sweat lodge; remembered the strange incense whose smoke flooded his lungs; remembered the rhythmic chanting which lulled him into a trance; and then, more than anything else, he remembered the visions that followed, terrible visions of another place and time: a shivering, red-haired monstrosity with its deafening high-pitched giggles; a box filled with images of young girls decked out in skimpy clothes and performing lewd gyrations that would have made Ms. Posey, the local madam, blush; a loud-mouthed harridan assailing a handsome mustachioed man about his right to bear arms; these sights and sounds filled his mind, and did many more, some more horrible than others.

When he had regained consciousness, he had found himself alone, abandoned in the middle of the now-deserted field where the tribe had last encamped. Even with the considerable tracking skills he had learned in his year with them, Ford was unable to find a trace that they had ever been there; indeed, in the many years since then the mysterious tribe had remained as elusive as their ineffable name. His only souvenirs were the frequent nightmares fueled by the strange visions, and the odd stares from many a companion over the years who, after having to listen to a night of his restless mumblings, would ask him questions such as “What is this ‘emteevee’ and why do you want it so bad?” or “I hope I never meet this Rosie O’Donnell of yours, boy, it sounds like she hurt you but good.”

After a few minutes, Ford was able to shake the uneasy feelings the drunkard had inadvertently caused, and he returned to the Monkey-Hog Saloon to reclaim his place at the card table and, he hoped, reclaim some of his money as well.

“Feeling better, friend?” asked Blonde John, the dandified card sharp to Ford’s left, whose faux geniality failed to conceal the condescension which dripped from every syllable that dropped from his mouth. From the instant Ford had met Blonde John, he had detested him; the slick-haired so-called gentleman’s clothes reeked of too much privilege, his vocabulary reeked of too much education, and his tendency to use both to intimidate others reeked of too little class. Having to play against him had set Ford’s teeth on edge earlier; now that his concentration was shaken, he was afraid he was going to need to swipe a horse tranquilizer off of the doc just to keep from losing his cool.

“So, what is it you do?” Blonde John asked, absentmindedly fingering his daffodil cufflinks as the next hand was dealt.

Ford had witnessed the cocky player weasel his way into the heads of the other players over the course of the evening, and decided he wasn’t going to provide the forked-tongued devil any ammo to shake Ford’s game. “Me? I’m just a student of the human condition,” Ford said with an air of distraction.

Blonde John snorted. “Oh, yes, I see, I haven’t just stumbled into any old saloon,” he snarked. “Why, it’s really just a psychiatric experiment in disguise, and you’re part of its Byzantine ruse.” The snobbish dandy grew more agitated as Ford studiously ignored his ribbing. “So, let’s see-- you’re a ‘student of the human condition,’ disguised as a pugnacious scofflaw, with no one the wiser. I’m sure our dealer here is a trained alienist, using our betting habits to write his thesis. And Ms. Posey over there, well, obviously she is secretly an erudite sexologist, and not just a common tram--”

His comment was cut short as Ford’s fist shot out, knocking the loudmouth backwards onto the ground; dazed, Blonde John reached for his gun, only to stop when he realized that the barrel of Ford’s revolver was inches away from his forehead.

“You really need to watch your mouth,” Ford said in a toneless voice.

“Ah, yes, in retrospect, I suppose I should,” Blonde John said carefully, obviously reassessing his position and not wanting to exacerbate the situation. “I suppose when I reminisce about this with my grandchildren one day, I shall describe it as the day a student of the human condition taught me something, eh?” Ford recognized the battered man’s feeble attempt to save face, and slowly put his gun back in its holster; there was a small corner of his mind that still hated resorting to such behavior, but over the years as his quest for a greater purpose in life had brought him nothing but pain and misery, he had come to accept that such actions were the only way to get along in this world.

“Hahaha, that tickles!” The voice of one of Posey’s girls flirting with a flush prospector sent chills down Ford’s spine as he was once again plagued by the high-pitched echoing cries of a strange creature from another time and place.

Round 6 - Au lieu et place d'une vacances d'été, laissez-nous tout écrit des histoires

Don't ask me what it means. Ask Elizabeth.

Here are The Words for this round:

pontificate
frivolity
scantily
leisure
swarthy
hedonism


I'm publishing the genres this time because I don't want to sit here and email everyone individually. I'm lazy like that.

Hillbilly Mom - Science Fiction
Cap'n Neurotic - Mystery
Jusdealem - Teen romance
Cazzie - Horror
Elizabeth - Western
Redneck Diva - Soap Opera
Maverick - Historical Romance
Pigpen - Fantasy
Bubblegum Tate - Comedy
Li'l Random - Drama
Mrs. E. - Action

Some are those listed above are from the last round and didn't write, so I just listed them with what they had last time.

Okay, now you know The Words and your genre. You have until Friday, June 29th at 10pm to submit your stories.


Voulez vous couchet avec moi ce soir?



(Yeah, I'm pretty sure I just propositioned y'all, but hey, I'm trying to keep the theme going here.)

And the winner is....

It's 10:23pm and frankly, I'm tired as all get out, so I'm officially closing the polls and declaring Cap'n Neurotic to be the winner of Writing Challenge Numero Uno with his story "A Gentlemen's Agreement"!!!

(Wild applause here)

He takes home the imaginary trophy with a whopping 32% of the votes, but Bubblegum Tate was trailing not far behind with 27%.

So now, Cap'n, it's up to you to provide us with a title for the next round and a list of The Words for the next challenge.

The next round opens Thursday!!

A Gentlemen’s Agreement

by Cap'n Neurotic of Crisis of Infinite Monkeys


A Gentlemen’s Agreement

“All right, Chris,” Len began tentatively, “I know you’re wondering why I asked you to come over tonight”

“Yeah, a bit,” Chris agreed warily; the day had been filled with last minute wedding arrangements, and the last minute call from Len was worrisome to say the least.

“The guys and I have been talking about some stuff, and, well, after a lot of thought, I asked Barry to draw up a prenuptial agreement.”

”You what?” Chris’s voice rose several octaves, causing Len to flinch.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking --”

"You’re crazy, is what I’m thinking; there’s no way I’m asking Sarah to sign a prenup!” Indignant, Chris turned his glare from Len to the rest of his friends who were gathered closely by, content to let Len take the brunt of Chris’s anger. “Prenups are for rich old men who are afraid their fiancé is going to turn out to be a gold-digging parasite, and I’m not about to insult Sarah like that.”

“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” said Len, “the prenup’s not for Sarah.”

“Huh?” Chris

“Blood and ashes, bro,” Chris’s younger brother Gary exclaimed, “if you’re dumb enough to let that girl go you deserve to lose half your stuff,”

“Then, I don’t underst—“

“It’s a prenuptial agreement between you and us,” legal eagle Barry explained.
Chris stared at his friends blankly, unable to pierce the fog that had settled on his brain.

“It’s to make sure that things don’t change between us after you get married,” Len said.
Barely aware of his repetitive responses, Chris reiterated “I don’t understand what you mean.” Gary jumped in. “Look, bro, it’s like this: we’ve seen too many guys flake out on us after they tied the knot, and we figured that we’d better make a preemptive strike before you got sucked into the same trap.”

“That’s crazy talk; you guys know that nothing’s going to change between us after Sarah and I get married.”

“Yeah, that’s what Dirk said,” Barry countered, “and then two months later he backed out of our annual skiing trip for good because the little lady didn’t want her ‘oogum-woogums to hurt his widdle heady-weddy’.”

Chris rolled his eyes at Barry’s exaggerated impression. “Sure, but Dirk was whipped before he even met Judith –“

“And then there’s Brad,” said Gary, jumping into the fray again, “who went from cussin’ like a sailor to not even being able to say ‘poop’ without looking over his shoulder.”

“Well, some would say that’s an improvement –“

“Dude, that’s not keys you hear jingle in Karen’s purse, it’s Brad’s –“

“Okay, okay, I get the idea!”

“Are you sure? Because we got a ton more examples.” Gary’s evil little grin told Chris his little brother was enjoying this far too much.

“Thanks, bratling, but I think I’ve got the gist.”

“So, you’ll sign it, then?” Len asked, pushing the document across the table.

Chris resignedly picked up the papers, deciding that reading over Barry’s handiwork would at least give him a respite from the haranguing of the others. After scanning through the legalese, he just shook his head wearily. “You guys are crazy, you know that, right?”

“Don’t act like that’s a surprise,” Barry retorted.

“And what happens if I don’t sign?” Chris queried. “I mean, it’s not like you can call off my wedding.”

“That sounds like a challenge to me . . .” quipped Gary.

“Zip it, squirt,” Len tossed back over his shoulder, before turning his attention back to Chris.


“No threats here, bud; no coercion, no duress. Sign it if you want, trash it if you don’t.”
Chris locked gazes with Len, weighing his best man’s sincerity. He finally leaned back with a sigh. “You know if you had pushed, I would have dug in my heels.”

Len smiled and shrugged.

“Oh, don’t give me that ‘aw, shucks’ routine; I’m half tempted to file thirteen this thing just for the ‘good cop/bad cop’ routine alone.”

Len’s grin widened, and Chris knew that his best friend had read him like a book as usual. No use dragging it out, he thought to himself as he grabbed the pen and signed on the dotted line.

It wasn’t until he heard Gary’s evil little laugh that he thought hit him that he probably should have read the fine print . . .

Deprecations on the Themed

Deprecations on the Themed by Cap'n Neurotic


Panic fell from the sky.

As he fell, Panic loudly cursed Miitrian’s over-zealous cronies for jumpstarting his powers in mid-air, sending him sidestepping into yet another dimension, sans airship. Or, at least, he would have been cursing loudly if his mouth had been able to act on the signals it was receiving from his higher brain functions. Unfortunately, as was generally true in Panic’s life, all higher brain functions were powerless before his more primal instincts, which, in this case, demonstrated themselves in the form of a continuous incoherent bellow of terror. Never before had his “fight or flight” response wished for a more literal translation of “flight” so powerfully.

He was distracted from his impending doom by a voice faintly calling his name from a distance.
Dumbfounded as to how he could hear the soft voice over the rushing wind roaring in his ears, he suddenly realized that this deadly plummet was taking an awfully long time, with no ground in sight . . .

“You really need to find yourself a new dream cycle to ride; that one’s getting old.”

The young man known as Panic awoke from his dream to find Taps, the source of the mysterious voice, standing above him. “You’re telling me,” he replied, pushing himself upright in the recliner which had lulled him into sleep. He wasn’t in the least surprised that Taps had known that his recurring dream had been playing out yet again; her Talent (although they don’t call it that here he reminded himself) allowed her to “tap” into a wide variety of information, from computers to telepathic hive-minds to the collective unconscious zeitgeist – sometimes whether she wanted to or not. “Was my dream so bad that you had to wake me to get some peace?”

Taps shook her head, her long unkempt hair obscuring her plump features. “I wouldn’t have bothered you for that; your subconscious needs to work that stuff out.” She brushed her hair back out of her face to give him a meaningful look; the infopath (as she had dubbed herself) had been after Panic to confront the root cause of his dreams ever since she had accidentally tapped into one a couple of weeks earlier. After pausing long enough to allow Panic a chance to agree -- a chance he, once again, ignored -- Taps carried on. “No, I just sensed a good old fashioned rant brewing on the horizon and didn’t want you to miss out.” And with that she grabbed the groggy teen by his skinny wrist, pulling him out of the recliner and dragging him down the hallway and into the meeting room populated by figures decked out in costumes straight out of the comic books his friend Burn used to smuggle into the orphanage .

“Superheroes,” he thought, still not quite believing it despite having lived among them for the better part of a month. As a “Traveler-with-a-capital-T” (as his one-time would-be mentor Cutter would say) Panic had visited a wide array of worlds and seen some unusual things – heck, his home world was filled with people displaying Talents ranging from telepathy to telekinesis to Panic’s purview, teleportation -- but even alternate Earths populated by dragons, cyborgs, or sentient slime molds paled in comparison to a world where people willingly slapped on capes and cowls in order to stop crimes - - or commit them, as the case may be. Taps’ fellow team-members were seated in a semi-circle, facing towards their gruff leader, who had apparently finished his diatribe just moments before.

“Oh, darn, did we miss the rant-storm?” Taps asked, crestfallen.

“Afraid so,” the stocky hero known as Heavyweight said, “although we might just be sitting in the eye; you know how easily these things can flare up.”

Taps nodded sagely. “True enough; but I hate that we missed the initial wave. Catching the aftershocks just isn’t the same, is it, Panic?”

Panic, true to his name, froze up at being drawn into the conversation; the others teased their leader about his tendency to rant up a storm constantly, but the grizzled hero had made Panic nervous from the first time they met. He wasn’t sure if joining in the ridicule and alienating the target or staying silent and alienating the rest would be the bigger faux pas in the long run, but then again, long run thinking had never been Panic’s strong suit; for most of his life, short-term survival was all his uncontrollable Talent had allowed for.

A feminine voice rang out, saving him from having to decide. ““Don’t worry, Taps,” the speaker said with an inhuman undertone which always reminded Panic of Theremin music, “I can fill you in.” With that, the slender figure with skin of polished glass pushed past the formerly ranting hero with a wink. Much to Panic’s surprise, the older hero just rolled his eyes and took a seat with no protest. A strange ripple flowed across the body of Mirrorgirl as she transformed herself into a virtual doppelganger of the now seated and mildly scowling leader of Vox Aequitas, Cloudburst.

“Do you know what I hate more than anything in the world?” Mirror-Burst called out stridently in a near perfect imitation of the real Cloudburst’s voice, the imitation marred only by how over-the-top the performance was. “Criminals. Law-breakers. Nasty little vermin. Need to be shipped off to Cloud Cuckoo Land and never heard from again.”

Panic -- who wondered briefly if Cloud Cuckoo Land was a real place in this world or not -- couldn’t help from glancing at the real ‘Burst, whose face was fixed in a purposefully neutral pose.

“But you know the one thing I hate more than criminals?” Mirror-Burst continued, beginning to pace around the room. “Super-villains. Take a two-bit hood, add a death ray or two, and you’ve suddenly gone from having a nuisance to having a deadly nuisance.”

Panic’s unease was gradually dissipating as he was drawn into Mirror-Burst’s performance, although he couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at the real ‘Burst occasionally. He could almost swear there was the tiniest hint of a smile on the care-worn face.

“And if there’s one thing I hate more than super-villains,” Mirror-Burst continued, now gesticulating wildly to emphasize his/her points, “it’s super-villain teams! Bad enough dealing with them one on one, but get two or more of those maniacal pests together, and everything goes to hell in a handbasket. And if there’s one thing I hate more than super-villain teams –“

“It’s using clichés like ‘hell in a handbasket?” Heavyweight called out, laughing.

Mirror-Burst met this comment with nothing less than Cloudburst’s patented we’ll-talk-later glare. “No, you sorry excuse for a sorry excuse, it’s super-villain teams . . . with a theme!”

Mirror-Burst’s whole body shuddered in such melodramatic disgust at this last statement that it generated a ripple of laughter among the audience.

Puzzled by the reference, Panic was compelled to ask, “What’s wrong with themed groups?”

“What’s wrong with them? What’s wrong with them?” Mirror-Burst bellowed incredulously.

“Why they’re just so . . . so . . . silly!” he/she said scathingly.

“Oh, come on!” Panic flinched at the outburst from the real Cloudburst; if the journey to this world hadn’t temporarily burned out his Talent, that jolt would have been enough to trigger a fight-or-flight teleport jaunt across town. “’Silly’? Seriously, that’s supposed to sum up my argument? That they’re ‘silly’?” He sighed. “Okay, folks, the next time I recommend sending the Lillian Gish of the looking-glass set here out on an infiltration mission, would one of you please remind me of this scenery chewing fiasco?”

“I happen to think that it was a very accurate portrayal,” Mirror-Burst said, shifting back into the form of Mirrorgirl halfway through the sentence. Cloudburst merely snorted a laugh in reply. Although partially transfixed by the fact that ‘Burst was actually demonstrating a sense of humor, Panic’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Sorry, but new-to-your-dimension guy here still wondering what’s the deal?”

Cloudburst turned towards him, a crooked smile playing across his face. “It’s a bit hard for me to articulate,” he began, flashing a dirty look towards Heavyweight to forestall any smartass comment, “but basically there’s something about these groups which form around arbitrarily chosen schema that really chaps my hide. You want to form a gang based on how their powers and abilities are going to help you in your latest scam -- that I can understand. You want to form a gang based on how their powers and abilities relate to chess pieces or playing cards or computer terminology – that’s just a product of unbalanced minds, and it makes me want to punch them even harder than usual.”

“I don’t know,” Mirrorgirl countered, “I find some of them highly entertaining.” Another shimmer ran across her surface as she transformed into a rapid succession of monstrous shapes, some familiar (werewolf, nosferatu), some less so (a being seemingly made of cornstalks; another made of black ooze), and some surreal (a clown and a car?). “Beware, Panic!” the mirror-menagerie called out, its voice shifting with each new form, alternately growling, burbling, and (oddly enough) honking, “for you now face the incomparable power of The Kingsmen, each wielding a power based on the works of Stephen King!”

Panic wasn’t sure which was odder; the fact that there were apparently super-villains who were inspired by Stephen King – an idea that Brother Staple, the headmaster of Panic’s former school at the Order of the Infinite would have gleefully accepted as proof that King’s work was the source of all corruption – or that Stephen King was a common touching stone across dimensions.

“So, seriously – they based themselves on Stephen King novels? It, Christine, ‘Salems Lot, all that?”

“Well, actually,” Taps answered, “their founder wasn’t the most literate villain around, so he mainly recruited based on Stephen King movies and mini-series. So, ‘sleepwalkers,” yes, ‘gunslingers’, no. Luckily, as a team they’re even worse than most of those films were, so they weren’t much of a threat -- outside of giving ‘Burst an aneurism, that is.”

“Too true,” said ‘Burst, “although they were nothing compared to that stupid bunch of doofuses that The Immortal Bard threw at us a while back . . . what were their names . . .”

“Oh, you mean Bad Poetry,” Taps chimed in. “What a bunch of losers: Blank Verse, Poetic Conceit, The Rhyme Schemer, that mouthy punk Limerick.” She scrunched up her nose at the last name, her voice dripping with venom. Panic looked at her quizzically; Taps was strictly behind-the-scenes support, not a field agent, so rarely had enough direct contact with the criminal element to warrant such an obvious personal distaste. “The Immortal Bard kidnapped me as leverage,” she explained, “and that Irish brat taunted me mercilessly while he guarded me.”

The sound of a throat clearing caught their attention, and Taps groaned as she watched Mirrorgirl (who was clearly enjoying her chance to play the cut-up) morph into a short, scrawny, red-headed figured decked out in horribly ugly green pantaloons.

“There once was a techie named Taps
Who used lots of computer apps
But then at her peak
Zorg made her a freak
And now her whole life turns up craps.”

Taps mock-glared at the mock-Limerick. “Horrible little brat, he was; glad to see the end of him. Still don’t know how he knew about Zorg giving me my powers, though . . .” This last sentence she mumbled so that only Panic could hear her.

“Hey, ‘Burst, just thought of something,” said Heavyweight with a wicked grin. “What about super-hero groups with themes? Y’know like – The Weather Front?”

‘Burst glowered at him. “First of all, I think building a team around a common thematic element is just a ludicrous for heroes as it is for villains, although possibly less indicative of insanity . . . possibly. And second of all, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of The Weather Front.”

“That’s not what their by-laws say . . .”

‘Burst sighed. “Look, I got sucked into their first adventure, and when they did the obligatory ‘Gee, everything must happen for a reason, let’s stick together and fight crime with our eerily similar weather based powers’ shtick, I only got out of it by allowing them to browbeat me into being an ‘honorary founding member’.”

“Like Superman and Batman in the Justice Society,” Panic chimed in, earning himself a wall of blank stares that told him that, while Stephen King may be universal (or, more accurately, multiversal), DC comics, apparently, were not.

The round that shall remain nameless

...until she sends me a title, that is.

Elizabeth has sent me her list of The Words and as soon as she titles the round, we'll get started.

So far, these are the entrants that have for sure told me they'll be participating in this round:

Hillbilly Mom
Cap'n Neurotic
Jusdealem
Cazzie
Elizabeth

If you were given a genre last round and didn't write, you can keep that genre if you want. If you want a new one, you need to let me know today. The Accounting Firm of Paul didn't get to draw new genres yesterday because my internet decided to be a big poopyhead and wouldn't connect. Sooo.....you've got until this evening to let me know.

To Exacerbate Exasperation: The Byzantine and Ineffable Shenanigans of the Pugnacious, Yet Erudite Scofflaw, "Daffodil" Dean Weslington

by Cap'n Neurotic

The red-head walked into the corner store, glancing at his list before making a bee-line for the dairy products. After a brief scan of the meager selection, he grabbed a half gallon 2% with an expiration date a little over a week away. "Guess this will have to do," he thought before heading to the counter, paying his money, and walking home, marking off yet one more item on his list as he did so.

THE END?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Oh, wait, yeah, it is. Sorry to get y'all's hopes up.

The End

(tap tap) Is this thing on?

Because the Cap'n and I are both slightly neurotic, we both check the voting results at Write in the Thick of It quite often and today, during my many checks, I've noticed that the numbers aren't going up. Anybody having issues with the poll? Or are you just not voting?