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So I'm writing this relatively short story for creative writing and I rather need some ideas/help on it. It's mostly just needing a bit of nit picking, but any glaring errors pointed out would be helpful to. If anyone feels like giving any suggestions or nits, feel free to just leave a comment, or even email me if it's really terribly bad. And if anyone just wants to read it and have a good laugh, well then have at it. :D
Spartan City, home of the deranged, the relatively normal, and at times, those with general malaise. Fictional only in the minds of half of the population, Spartan City is truly a masterpiece of creation. A sprawling mix of general greenery and bustling metropolis battling for survival, the city appears as a spastic child of any number of such cities in the class of Seattle, San Francisco, and even New York, albeit much cleaner.
In the exact center of this city, and two feet to the left, lies a large estate — one so large that entire fleets of neighborhood children must be conscripted weekly in order to mow the grounds. In the center of this large estate, and not two feet to either side, resides a mansion; a mansion that looks so disjointed and twisted that it becomes clear, to any casual observer with children, that copious amounts of silly putty and play-doh were used in the design process. Possibly in the actual creation as well, judging from the various odd colors.
Within this large mockery of nature and physics dwells a team of heroes like no other. Men and woman with a purpose — a purpose unknown and uncared for, but a purpose nonetheless. These astounding banes of destiny are at every moment ready for any evil that may befall them.
We join our intrepid heroes in the amazingly large and boring library of solitude, within which the very knowledge of the universe as we don’t know it resides, looking up the word intrepid.
“I’m not sure about this, Cheesy. I see us more as resolutely courageous, or fearless maybe.”
The voice echoes lightly, lost among the rows of two story bookshelves, musty and unreadable books, and the unnoticed, lone butler dashing frantically from one row to the next with a large dust broom.
The courageously bold, and slightly curdled smelling man turns in disbelief at the response. His large slab of hair-shaped cheese curling with anger, twisting about his well-chiseled, non-dairy features, the Cheese Lord fixes his gaze upon the clearly oblivious, metallic looking figure peering over his shoulder.
“Are you completely deficient TRL? I told you to stop calling me Cheesy! It’s Cheese Lord! Cheese Lord, dammit!”
Continuing to look somewhat oblivious, albeit with a hint of a boyish grin, the shiny metal lad known only as TRL, or the Token Robot Lad, winks at Cheese Lord.
“Oh, just relax, Captain Curd. It’s not like the kid’s hurting anyone,” responds Target Woman quickly as she enters, her emerald cape flowing determinedly behind her. She averts disaster before the self-absorbed Cheese Lord can do more than look somewhat offended. Always the voice of reason, she continues so “Besides, if you stop paying attention to him, he’ll stop doing…TRL!!! I told you to stop staring at my chest!!!” The well-formed, tall brunette woman glares angrily at the less than shiny robot smirking at her.
As Cheese Lord attempts furiously to calm himself, a glimmering of light, like space folding under water, all while a disco ball spins, settles over him in a haze. Tendrils of watery memories invade slowly around Cheese Lord as he continues fuming. Images play in and out of his sight as TRL and Target Woman quickly edge away from the bookshelf Cheese Lord is leaning against.
*****
The highly polished mirror gleams in the buttery sunshine and reflects a smug grin emanating from a much younger looking Cheese Lord. Son of the wealthy and world-renowned heroes of old, he enjoys every moment of his inheritance. He cockily strides fro and back in front of the mirror, his newly shined and glaring ruby boots sparkling in time with his golden, cheese-colored spandex suit. His smirk grows as his glance rises past his perfect physique and to his handsome face. His strong chin and jaw, his just right nose, his green eyes that turn gold when he uses his abilities, and then there’s his hair. His face falls suddenly and hard at the half gone jet-black hair. He turns suddenly, and storms over to a block of cheese resting on his nightstand. He stands stock still, gazing with intensity, his eyes flashing yellow. A small curl, like that of immaculate hair, begins to form from the block. The cheese and nightstand begin to swirl, and disappear, as a ticking like that of an unholy clock is lightly heard…
*****
“Are you okay?”
Cheese Lord shakes himself lucid, and gazes about worriedly, wondering at the cause of the errant flashback he has just experienced.
“What just…”
A loud, swinging thump momentarily distracts the three heroes as it echoes through the vast storeroom of useless and unread knowledge. A follow up oof, and subsequent pile of superhero on the rather hard and cold floor is heard. The heap of black spandex inlaid with red veins is quickly identified before Token Robot Lad can mockingly ask, “Who?”
“Vein!” Target Woman exclaims in delight, the nature of her abilities causing her to quickly topple over due to overbalance. Picking herself up, she continues, “where have you been? We’ve been waiting ages for you guys to get back!”
The Vein wheezes slightly and tries to regain some semblance of mental clarity, although, as he’s never really had a semblance of mental clarity before on any significant scale, fails miserably.
“Say, where are the others anyway?” Target Woman suddenly posits, her bright, lavender costume moving just enough to distract TRL once more. Another boisterous crash as TRL’s already badly dented body hits the floor soon follows. In a vain attempt to bring attention to himself, Cheese Lord summons forth a cheese beanbag for the barely lucid Vein. The name ‘Cheese Lord’ engraves itself over the bag repeatedly. The Vein attempts to speak once more, as the newly vertical Target Woman passes some juice and cookies over to him.
“Tha…thanks,” The Vein gasps out, his pale skin and deep green eyes sticking out against his short jet-black locks. “The…the Invincible Irate Mm-mm-Morte should be along shortly, a-and Narcolepto a bi-bit later.. We, we ran into,” he passes out for a moment, only to resume where he left off once he regains consciousness, “some road construction.” Token Robot Lad giggles in a metallic sounding way, as only a token robot can, his dark-green metallic body creaking. Our intrepid, pardon, fearless and resolutely courageous, heroes roll their eyes in unison; TRL picks his golden blue orbs used for seeing off the spot on the floor from where they rolled, and pops them back in, causing a loud squelching noise. Suddenly, and without warning, save many previous ignored warnings, the door leading to The Invincible Morte’s room of secrecy slides open with a bang. Although, to be fair to those just joining us, The Invincible Morte’s room isn’t really all that secretive, it just happens that Morte is always so irate that only TRL ever cares to venture in, and that is, consequently, why The Invincible Morte keeps a large electromagnet over his door.
“What the hell was that?!” Morte growls irately, attempting to be menacing. “You lied to me Vein! ‘The guy with the jackhammer is evil,’ you said! ‘He must be stopped,’ you said. ‘He won’t be a threat,’ you said! Well, I died again, thanks to you!!! I hit him once, and he gets me with the jackhammer!” TRL makes a glib comment about phoenixes needing to look for a less contrarian spokes model.
The Vein looks up wearily from his cheese bag to the grumbling visage of The Invincible Morte. His gaze slides upward, past the scuffed pale-green boots, past the light-red spandex with the ironically cheerful smiley face on the chest. His gaze rises all the more; past the sky blue cape, past the scowling, and badly chiseled face, past even the shelves full of books filled with knowledge about universes that had never existed, then back again to the scowling face, as he realizes he went too far. As he lingers on the piercing, mud colored eyes, he attempts to remember what was just said, and who all these people are. In his half conscious state, he is taken back to the time when things used to be different. TRL, Cheese Lord, and Target Girl leap for safety, narrowly avoiding a crushing death by shimmering flashback that begins settling upon The Vein. Morte stubbornly faces it and is flattened beneath shiny glimmerings and years worth of memories.
*****
Flashes of better days, fun conversations, and less fuming comments play themselves quickly in front of the Vein. Times when he had just joined the newly formed, and tragically named Poo Squad (the result of a coin toss won by the newly built TRL). Flashes of the days of old, at least four or five years ago tops, when the Vein had been the Pimpled Vein and The Invincible Morte had been Captain Cliché, swim by. The day when he discovered that just like the fictional Spider-man, he could shoot fluid from his wrists like webbing, unfortunately with said fluid being the very blood needed to contain consciousness. Even such fond memories of his arguments with Captain Cliché over the use of the word ‘Jordash’ as a battle cry, or why the dark haired Cliché always had to take one step to the left and punch with his right cross in every battle; all such flashes join into the barrage of liquid light-filled images.
The not so fond memories glide past in a swish of remorseful sounding swooshes too. The final flashback to zoom by the Vein, in conjunction with the ephemeral sound of an ominous ticking clock, is of the tragic, yet bizarrely humorous day when, a trapdoor to a vat of boiling banana pudding was set a single step to the left. This much to the delight of the villain, The Bumbler, who, through a completely accidentally set trap, was successful for once in his career. The Cliché, being the cliché hero, mysteriously returned after his delicious demise, but with an altered memory of the events, and a new propensity towards the contrary and fatal. In his last blinking moments, before a fit nap of exactly 7.32 hours brought on by massive blood loss common to him, The Vein wonders as to why in the heck such pointless and well-known events of his life would play out in front of him.
*****
Somewhere, beyond the strands of time, a clock devoid of color ticks menacingly on.
*****
Meanwhile, across town, in the nefarious, yet immaculately dusted and abandoned cheese factory, The Bumbler is hard at work devising some devious scheme.
“Gah!” he erupts in momentary anger, beating mercilessly on his malfunctioning hyper death ray standing in the only space unfilled with large and unused machinery. “Why does this thing keep randomly shooting flashbacks out the window?!”
“AaaaaaaAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa….” responds the quickly passing Repressed Man, caught up in some newly found and disturbing memory. The Bumbler ponders how he got so lucky to get such quality henchmen, catching suddenly a glimpse of day glo orange flash from behind a ten-foot tall cheese skinner. He turns brightly, his simple face and golden locks beaming simultaneously, momentarily forgetting about being angry over the malfunctioning death ray, and calls over The Lurker from his hiding spot in the beam of light. Surprise showing on white painted visage, The Lurker lurks forward.
“You bellowed?” he asks as sarcastically as he can manage, squinting down at the man slightly from the glare given off by the dark plaid uniform worn by the Bungler.
“What’s wrong with my hyper death ray? Did you or Repressed Man mess with it??” The Bumbler glares ominously up at the hulking, six foot something Lurker, but quickly gives up as the neon orange suit gives him a splitting headache. He resolutely attempts to glare with his hands across his eyes, but gives that up just as quickly. He takes an Advil and waits for the Lurker to explain himself as the Lurker looks on in interest at his antics.
“Uh, that’s not a death ray per se boss,” he says, his voice slow and steady, like an ancient glacier rumbling down a mountain over time. “More of a combination flashback machine and toaster, with a few lights here and there tossed on.”
Leaping into deep thought, the Bumbler immediately latches onto the most important question one should ask when one has just discovered the hyper death ray bought, at the discount weapons emporium of 42 Black Market Road and Fuzzy Bunny Avenue, is really a combination toaster and flashback machine, with lights.
“And you’re sure the death ray makes toast?” he asks, reaching into a nearby satchel, conveniently placed for just such an occasion, for some butter and jam.
“Yes sir,” the hulking henchman booms quietly. “Just put in some fresh bread this morning.”
A loud scream of, “Why Daddy?! Why don’t you love me??” echoes lazily across the large cheese factory, the source, Repressed Man, lost amongst the looming machinery.
“Excellent, excellent,” The Bumbler mumbles through a mouth of crumbs, as his newly acquired and buttered toast is quickly devoured. “Now, as soon as you’ve finished your toast, go find Repressed Man and see about aiming this toasty weapon of doom at some tall buildings. We have a strict schedule to keep to here before the ‘Time’.”
Looking nervously at his completely normal toast, The Lurker about faces swiftly and marches off to find his charge, as well as some butter that doesn’t look so dark and sickly to his off-colored eyes.
*****
The sky darkens almost mysteriously in the later hours of the afternoon as a the sun’s warming glow of glowiness retreats from the form of a man hunched over in sleep; him looking as if he has been dropped suddenly on the street corner he currently resides on. A snore escapes suddenly from the man as if in relief. The fleeing sun awakens the disheveled, yet still very well kempt man, who stands, oblivious to the odd stares of passersby, and straightens out his cloak covered tweed jacket, and ghastly puce tie. Pulling a rather plain, gray handkerchief from an inner pocket, Narcolepto pats down the spot of drool darkening his rumpled gray cloak, and turns toward home with a slightly annoyed, yet dull, look playing across his long features. He sighs in a monotone voice, causing a small bird, flying overhead, to fall asleep and crash into a soft and cheerful feline nearby. With another dreary sigh, Narcolepto makes his dreary way home. A droning voice lacklusterly follows behind, ranting about the injustice of Morte dying and leaving him to walk back alone with a very dire warning that no one will hear. The resultant drooping people as he passes goes unnoticed, as does the sun that appears to completely fall off the face of the sky. Narcolepto wilts slowly as his voice drones on, his footsteps falter, and he slumps unconscious to the sidewalk, only feet away from the headquarters where seven hours earlier, an errant flashback squashed flat the Invincible Morte, his important message lost to any who would heed it.
*****
“I can’t believe this!” Sitting at the decagonal Table of Justice, used mostly for eating and propping feet up on, the roguish Cheese Lord ignores the latest growl, as it emanates from the newly re-alive Invincible Morte, and focuses intently upon a saucer of milk lying serenely in front of him. The source of the irate bellowing soon arrives through the sliding doors leading to the sleeping area — the doors, unfortunately, not presently working. After pulling himself from the remains of sliding door, without help from any of the other occupants seated around the food Table of Justice, and swearing heavily all the while, Morte continues his tirade.
“There I was, helping all of you so called heroes out,” he grumps, throwing himself into an unoccupied chair, “and suddenly this death beam from above comes out of nowhere. I wanted to leap for safety, but no! ‘It’s not dangerous at all,’ you said! ‘Why not go take a look at it,’ you said! I go look, and meanwhile you all dive for safety! I can’t believe I stick around with you lunatics.”
The Vein twitches slightly from his blood loss related sleep, and falls with a loud thump from the chair he has been precariously perched upon. This precarious perch due to having been strewn there earlier by Target Woman, after our heroes decided that the repository of completely useless knowledge was too dangerous to the process of living; too many flashback attacks they decided. We have since joined them near the end of a most exquisite meal, as any meal obtained by Target walking into a crowded restaurant and simply existing, in bright and distracting spandex, tends to be. TRL cackles at the sight of the flopped Vein, his sides groaning with the sweet melodic torture of twisting metal. His jaw unhinges momentarily as one of the pieces of duct tape comes loose. Target Woman sighs and shakes her head, mild distaste crinkling her nose. She leans back, and falls flat with the sudden, and unwanted, use of her power, causing her bust to grow several sizes in seconds. TRL gurgles with glee, and promptly loses his jaw’s battle with gravity, and the duct tape, with a clang. The Intrepid Cheese Lord continues to stare avidly at the saucer of milk before him.
One by one, our nearly fearless heroes pick themselves up and sit back down, quieting as they begin to realize the importance of whatever it happens to be that Cheese Lord is so engrossed in.
“What, what is it?” The Vein queries fearfully, but not enough to lose his near fearless status.
“Gasp of horror here people, Cheesy head’s discovered the lost city of Cheeselantis, buried deep within the curdled milk that is the gift of the great cheese god. He who even now graces Mr. Curdled with his vast gifts of scrutiny.” TRL turns a cheeky grin to all, his grin widening as he sees a large yellowish vein throbbing on the otherwise blemish free forehead of the Cheese Lord. A tightening of his squared jaw the only other sign of recognition, he continues to gaze deeply into the saucer of apparent milk.
“Now is not the time, tin boy,” he grinds out intently. Slowly, as the Cheese Lord’s eyes seem to be devoured in the very essence of that substance — that which comes from the teats of a large animal that chews it’s own cud — something like a small disturbance begins to make its way to the surface. Fearing the worst for their stalwart-seeming companion in heroing, our three heroes swiftly leap into action…and under the table for safety; The Invincible Morte, of course, moves in closer. The moment arrives, and in a move more bold than daring, Cheese Lord lunges forward, pulling from the now bubbling frothy milk a small strip of something very mysterious.
TRL exclaims from underneath the table, in as close to a nervous voice as he is capable of, “Wha, what is it cheesy? Is it a bomb? A bug from the evildoers bent on doing evil? Invitation to a clam bake?” A loud smack of hand on metal is heard, as TRL takes advantage of the close proximity underneath the table and brushes against Target. As it is useless for TRL to feel anything without touch censors, Target’s slap does nothing save cause him to grin in a leery manner.
His face untightening and jaw unclenching with relief, Cheese Lord finally responds as he grips firmly onto the mysterious object, “No no, nothing so pedestrian as all that. I had to save a part of my hair from getting soggy.” Gazing in his reflection coming up from the Table of Just Desserts, the Cheese Lord ever so slightly arranges the thin slice of newly reacquired cheese back on to his highly coiffed head of cheese hair.
“I had to sit under a table, with TRL trying to grope me, for CHEESE!?!” The look that emerges attached to Target Woman’s face, as she quickly pulls herself out from underneath the table, is enough to kill thirty-seven water buffalo in heat, if any were nearby, that is. Luckily, there being no water buffalo about, as they have all been eaten for dinner, only the Invincible Morte dies from the look. Just as quickly as she just pulled herself from underneath the table, Target Woman turns and pries Token Robot Lad’s grip on her legs, giving him another smack for good measure. TRL chuckles metallically and sits on the newly deceased Morte. “Cheese!!” Target yells once more for good measure of daily recommended requirement of yelling, “Cheese!!” in an outraged voice.
“Yeah fromage face,” TRL queries in a voice not unlike his own. “What was the big deal? It’s just a toupee.” He grins as Cheese Lord turns rapidly to glare, his green metallic cheeks creaking pointlessly in protest. A yellow vein twitches rapidly on Cheese Lord’s forehead. The Vein smartly remains hidden under the Table, staying as relatively quiet as possible, knowing a lost battle when he sees one.
“It’s not a toupee!!” Cheese Lord screeches in protest, his cheese hair waving wildly as if also enraged.
“Fine fine, cheese toupee,” TRL replies, a smirk detectable on his twisted features, the golden blue orbs used for eyes glowing quietly in laughter. The Vein begins to slowly crawl for the remains of sliding door, his eyes wide and searching rapidly from side to side for means of escape.
A shadow of a grin slides over Target’s face, her lips twitching ever so slightly, as an enraged Cheese Lord leaps after a smirking TRL, his suit becoming a red and gold blur as he chases the errant robot lad around the Table of Justice. A thrown piece of cheese smacks Target in the nostril, causing the laughing woman to quickly join in the fleeing fray.
In an instant, the brawl of cheese, duct tape, and flying robot body parts is brought to a halt, as a loud and ominous shaking, as if the very heavens themselves are falling, rumbles through the building. Target Woman is lost beneath a rapidly congealing flashback. The air warms and shimmers.
*****
It is the happiest day of her life for Target Woman, the day when every part of her life has come together. A relatively plain looking girl, tall and gangly with unruly hair, she has, until today, resigned herself to living a mediocre life as something non-descript, such as a mechanic or technician of some sort. Her affinity for caring for people has been repressed by severe shyness. But on this day, the day in which her powers have begun to show themselves, she has grown to fill a costume, and this new and wonderful man calling himself Captain Cliché has entered her life. She has become one of a team. With merely a glance, she can bring an evildoer down, and with an accuracy beyond compare. The images swirl and twist suddenly, like quicksilver releasing.
Now is the day of horror; the day when Target’s worse fears have been realized. A new more odd power has emerged. Her bust has begun to change size without cause, imbalance and embarrassment abound. Villains now gawk openly, bringing an ironic new twist to her name. And now Captain Cliché has died a horribly funny death, and has been replaced with a banana pudding soul. The sun shines sadly on as an odd ticking emanates from it.
A more average day now surrounds her, a day of laughter and cheese jokes. She continues on bravely, despite an ominous feeling causing her chest to grow.
*****
Target Woman keels over and the flashback evaporates into air, leaving behind a slightly acrid smell of burnt feet. Another rapid succession of rumbling causes the already warped headquarters to not change at all.
“What was that?” TRL asks, stopped midway in duct taping someone’s leg to the wall.
“I don’t know,” Cheese Lord responds forcefully, his hair hanging askew of his head, “but we’d better find out fast.”
*****
“Excellent! Represso, more power to the hyper death ray! Those buildings won’t know what hit them!”
“I never got to go camping! Why mommy, why won’t you let me camp?”
“Um, yes I see… Lurker! More bread, I’m almost out of toast! I must be fully toasty when the Time arrives!”
“Shouldn’t we worry about the heroes, sir?”
“What heroes are these now?”
“Never mind, I shall get more bread for the ray.”
“Excellent! Now, let’s get more of those dastardly buildings to fear our might! Spartan City, you will be mine to…uh….do something with!”
“No! The kitty is eating that bunny! Stop! Noooo!”
*****
bum bum bummmm
Spartan City, home of the deranged, the relatively normal, and at times, those with general malaise. Fictional only in the minds of half of the population, Spartan City is truly a masterpiece of creation. A sprawling mix of general greenery and bustling metropolis battling for survival, the city appears as a spastic child of any number of such cities in the class of Seattle, San Francisco, and even New York, albeit much cleaner.
In the exact center of this city, and two feet to the left, lies a large estate — one so large that entire fleets of neighborhood children must be conscripted weekly in order to mow the grounds. In the center of this large estate, and not two feet to either side, resides a mansion; a mansion that looks so disjointed and twisted that it becomes clear, to any casual observer with children, that copious amounts of silly putty and play-doh were used in the design process. Possibly in the actual creation as well, judging from the various odd colors.
Within this large mockery of nature and physics dwells a team of heroes like no other. Men and woman with a purpose — a purpose unknown and uncared for, but a purpose nonetheless. These astounding banes of destiny are at every moment ready for any evil that may befall them.
We join our intrepid heroes in the amazingly large and boring library of solitude, within which the very knowledge of the universe as we don’t know it resides, looking up the word intrepid.
“I’m not sure about this, Cheesy. I see us more as resolutely courageous, or fearless maybe.”
The voice echoes lightly, lost among the rows of two story bookshelves, musty and unreadable books, and the unnoticed, lone butler dashing frantically from one row to the next with a large dust broom.
The courageously bold, and slightly curdled smelling man turns in disbelief at the response. His large slab of hair-shaped cheese curling with anger, twisting about his well-chiseled, non-dairy features, the Cheese Lord fixes his gaze upon the clearly oblivious, metallic looking figure peering over his shoulder.
“Are you completely deficient TRL? I told you to stop calling me Cheesy! It’s Cheese Lord! Cheese Lord, dammit!”
Continuing to look somewhat oblivious, albeit with a hint of a boyish grin, the shiny metal lad known only as TRL, or the Token Robot Lad, winks at Cheese Lord.
“Oh, just relax, Captain Curd. It’s not like the kid’s hurting anyone,” responds Target Woman quickly as she enters, her emerald cape flowing determinedly behind her. She averts disaster before the self-absorbed Cheese Lord can do more than look somewhat offended. Always the voice of reason, she continues so “Besides, if you stop paying attention to him, he’ll stop doing…TRL!!! I told you to stop staring at my chest!!!” The well-formed, tall brunette woman glares angrily at the less than shiny robot smirking at her.
As Cheese Lord attempts furiously to calm himself, a glimmering of light, like space folding under water, all while a disco ball spins, settles over him in a haze. Tendrils of watery memories invade slowly around Cheese Lord as he continues fuming. Images play in and out of his sight as TRL and Target Woman quickly edge away from the bookshelf Cheese Lord is leaning against.
*****
The highly polished mirror gleams in the buttery sunshine and reflects a smug grin emanating from a much younger looking Cheese Lord. Son of the wealthy and world-renowned heroes of old, he enjoys every moment of his inheritance. He cockily strides fro and back in front of the mirror, his newly shined and glaring ruby boots sparkling in time with his golden, cheese-colored spandex suit. His smirk grows as his glance rises past his perfect physique and to his handsome face. His strong chin and jaw, his just right nose, his green eyes that turn gold when he uses his abilities, and then there’s his hair. His face falls suddenly and hard at the half gone jet-black hair. He turns suddenly, and storms over to a block of cheese resting on his nightstand. He stands stock still, gazing with intensity, his eyes flashing yellow. A small curl, like that of immaculate hair, begins to form from the block. The cheese and nightstand begin to swirl, and disappear, as a ticking like that of an unholy clock is lightly heard…
*****
“Are you okay?”
Cheese Lord shakes himself lucid, and gazes about worriedly, wondering at the cause of the errant flashback he has just experienced.
“What just…”
A loud, swinging thump momentarily distracts the three heroes as it echoes through the vast storeroom of useless and unread knowledge. A follow up oof, and subsequent pile of superhero on the rather hard and cold floor is heard. The heap of black spandex inlaid with red veins is quickly identified before Token Robot Lad can mockingly ask, “Who?”
“Vein!” Target Woman exclaims in delight, the nature of her abilities causing her to quickly topple over due to overbalance. Picking herself up, she continues, “where have you been? We’ve been waiting ages for you guys to get back!”
The Vein wheezes slightly and tries to regain some semblance of mental clarity, although, as he’s never really had a semblance of mental clarity before on any significant scale, fails miserably.
“Say, where are the others anyway?” Target Woman suddenly posits, her bright, lavender costume moving just enough to distract TRL once more. Another boisterous crash as TRL’s already badly dented body hits the floor soon follows. In a vain attempt to bring attention to himself, Cheese Lord summons forth a cheese beanbag for the barely lucid Vein. The name ‘Cheese Lord’ engraves itself over the bag repeatedly. The Vein attempts to speak once more, as the newly vertical Target Woman passes some juice and cookies over to him.
“Tha…thanks,” The Vein gasps out, his pale skin and deep green eyes sticking out against his short jet-black locks. “The…the Invincible Irate Mm-mm-Morte should be along shortly, a-and Narcolepto a bi-bit later.. We, we ran into,” he passes out for a moment, only to resume where he left off once he regains consciousness, “some road construction.” Token Robot Lad giggles in a metallic sounding way, as only a token robot can, his dark-green metallic body creaking. Our intrepid, pardon, fearless and resolutely courageous, heroes roll their eyes in unison; TRL picks his golden blue orbs used for seeing off the spot on the floor from where they rolled, and pops them back in, causing a loud squelching noise. Suddenly, and without warning, save many previous ignored warnings, the door leading to The Invincible Morte’s room of secrecy slides open with a bang. Although, to be fair to those just joining us, The Invincible Morte’s room isn’t really all that secretive, it just happens that Morte is always so irate that only TRL ever cares to venture in, and that is, consequently, why The Invincible Morte keeps a large electromagnet over his door.
“What the hell was that?!” Morte growls irately, attempting to be menacing. “You lied to me Vein! ‘The guy with the jackhammer is evil,’ you said! ‘He must be stopped,’ you said. ‘He won’t be a threat,’ you said! Well, I died again, thanks to you!!! I hit him once, and he gets me with the jackhammer!” TRL makes a glib comment about phoenixes needing to look for a less contrarian spokes model.
The Vein looks up wearily from his cheese bag to the grumbling visage of The Invincible Morte. His gaze slides upward, past the scuffed pale-green boots, past the light-red spandex with the ironically cheerful smiley face on the chest. His gaze rises all the more; past the sky blue cape, past the scowling, and badly chiseled face, past even the shelves full of books filled with knowledge about universes that had never existed, then back again to the scowling face, as he realizes he went too far. As he lingers on the piercing, mud colored eyes, he attempts to remember what was just said, and who all these people are. In his half conscious state, he is taken back to the time when things used to be different. TRL, Cheese Lord, and Target Girl leap for safety, narrowly avoiding a crushing death by shimmering flashback that begins settling upon The Vein. Morte stubbornly faces it and is flattened beneath shiny glimmerings and years worth of memories.
*****
Flashes of better days, fun conversations, and less fuming comments play themselves quickly in front of the Vein. Times when he had just joined the newly formed, and tragically named Poo Squad (the result of a coin toss won by the newly built TRL). Flashes of the days of old, at least four or five years ago tops, when the Vein had been the Pimpled Vein and The Invincible Morte had been Captain Cliché, swim by. The day when he discovered that just like the fictional Spider-man, he could shoot fluid from his wrists like webbing, unfortunately with said fluid being the very blood needed to contain consciousness. Even such fond memories of his arguments with Captain Cliché over the use of the word ‘Jordash’ as a battle cry, or why the dark haired Cliché always had to take one step to the left and punch with his right cross in every battle; all such flashes join into the barrage of liquid light-filled images.
The not so fond memories glide past in a swish of remorseful sounding swooshes too. The final flashback to zoom by the Vein, in conjunction with the ephemeral sound of an ominous ticking clock, is of the tragic, yet bizarrely humorous day when, a trapdoor to a vat of boiling banana pudding was set a single step to the left. This much to the delight of the villain, The Bumbler, who, through a completely accidentally set trap, was successful for once in his career. The Cliché, being the cliché hero, mysteriously returned after his delicious demise, but with an altered memory of the events, and a new propensity towards the contrary and fatal. In his last blinking moments, before a fit nap of exactly 7.32 hours brought on by massive blood loss common to him, The Vein wonders as to why in the heck such pointless and well-known events of his life would play out in front of him.
*****
Somewhere, beyond the strands of time, a clock devoid of color ticks menacingly on.
*****
Meanwhile, across town, in the nefarious, yet immaculately dusted and abandoned cheese factory, The Bumbler is hard at work devising some devious scheme.
“Gah!” he erupts in momentary anger, beating mercilessly on his malfunctioning hyper death ray standing in the only space unfilled with large and unused machinery. “Why does this thing keep randomly shooting flashbacks out the window?!”
“AaaaaaaAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa….” responds the quickly passing Repressed Man, caught up in some newly found and disturbing memory. The Bumbler ponders how he got so lucky to get such quality henchmen, catching suddenly a glimpse of day glo orange flash from behind a ten-foot tall cheese skinner. He turns brightly, his simple face and golden locks beaming simultaneously, momentarily forgetting about being angry over the malfunctioning death ray, and calls over The Lurker from his hiding spot in the beam of light. Surprise showing on white painted visage, The Lurker lurks forward.
“You bellowed?” he asks as sarcastically as he can manage, squinting down at the man slightly from the glare given off by the dark plaid uniform worn by the Bungler.
“What’s wrong with my hyper death ray? Did you or Repressed Man mess with it??” The Bumbler glares ominously up at the hulking, six foot something Lurker, but quickly gives up as the neon orange suit gives him a splitting headache. He resolutely attempts to glare with his hands across his eyes, but gives that up just as quickly. He takes an Advil and waits for the Lurker to explain himself as the Lurker looks on in interest at his antics.
“Uh, that’s not a death ray per se boss,” he says, his voice slow and steady, like an ancient glacier rumbling down a mountain over time. “More of a combination flashback machine and toaster, with a few lights here and there tossed on.”
Leaping into deep thought, the Bumbler immediately latches onto the most important question one should ask when one has just discovered the hyper death ray bought, at the discount weapons emporium of 42 Black Market Road and Fuzzy Bunny Avenue, is really a combination toaster and flashback machine, with lights.
“And you’re sure the death ray makes toast?” he asks, reaching into a nearby satchel, conveniently placed for just such an occasion, for some butter and jam.
“Yes sir,” the hulking henchman booms quietly. “Just put in some fresh bread this morning.”
A loud scream of, “Why Daddy?! Why don’t you love me??” echoes lazily across the large cheese factory, the source, Repressed Man, lost amongst the looming machinery.
“Excellent, excellent,” The Bumbler mumbles through a mouth of crumbs, as his newly acquired and buttered toast is quickly devoured. “Now, as soon as you’ve finished your toast, go find Repressed Man and see about aiming this toasty weapon of doom at some tall buildings. We have a strict schedule to keep to here before the ‘Time’.”
Looking nervously at his completely normal toast, The Lurker about faces swiftly and marches off to find his charge, as well as some butter that doesn’t look so dark and sickly to his off-colored eyes.
*****
The sky darkens almost mysteriously in the later hours of the afternoon as a the sun’s warming glow of glowiness retreats from the form of a man hunched over in sleep; him looking as if he has been dropped suddenly on the street corner he currently resides on. A snore escapes suddenly from the man as if in relief. The fleeing sun awakens the disheveled, yet still very well kempt man, who stands, oblivious to the odd stares of passersby, and straightens out his cloak covered tweed jacket, and ghastly puce tie. Pulling a rather plain, gray handkerchief from an inner pocket, Narcolepto pats down the spot of drool darkening his rumpled gray cloak, and turns toward home with a slightly annoyed, yet dull, look playing across his long features. He sighs in a monotone voice, causing a small bird, flying overhead, to fall asleep and crash into a soft and cheerful feline nearby. With another dreary sigh, Narcolepto makes his dreary way home. A droning voice lacklusterly follows behind, ranting about the injustice of Morte dying and leaving him to walk back alone with a very dire warning that no one will hear. The resultant drooping people as he passes goes unnoticed, as does the sun that appears to completely fall off the face of the sky. Narcolepto wilts slowly as his voice drones on, his footsteps falter, and he slumps unconscious to the sidewalk, only feet away from the headquarters where seven hours earlier, an errant flashback squashed flat the Invincible Morte, his important message lost to any who would heed it.
*****
“I can’t believe this!” Sitting at the decagonal Table of Justice, used mostly for eating and propping feet up on, the roguish Cheese Lord ignores the latest growl, as it emanates from the newly re-alive Invincible Morte, and focuses intently upon a saucer of milk lying serenely in front of him. The source of the irate bellowing soon arrives through the sliding doors leading to the sleeping area — the doors, unfortunately, not presently working. After pulling himself from the remains of sliding door, without help from any of the other occupants seated around the food Table of Justice, and swearing heavily all the while, Morte continues his tirade.
“There I was, helping all of you so called heroes out,” he grumps, throwing himself into an unoccupied chair, “and suddenly this death beam from above comes out of nowhere. I wanted to leap for safety, but no! ‘It’s not dangerous at all,’ you said! ‘Why not go take a look at it,’ you said! I go look, and meanwhile you all dive for safety! I can’t believe I stick around with you lunatics.”
The Vein twitches slightly from his blood loss related sleep, and falls with a loud thump from the chair he has been precariously perched upon. This precarious perch due to having been strewn there earlier by Target Woman, after our heroes decided that the repository of completely useless knowledge was too dangerous to the process of living; too many flashback attacks they decided. We have since joined them near the end of a most exquisite meal, as any meal obtained by Target walking into a crowded restaurant and simply existing, in bright and distracting spandex, tends to be. TRL cackles at the sight of the flopped Vein, his sides groaning with the sweet melodic torture of twisting metal. His jaw unhinges momentarily as one of the pieces of duct tape comes loose. Target Woman sighs and shakes her head, mild distaste crinkling her nose. She leans back, and falls flat with the sudden, and unwanted, use of her power, causing her bust to grow several sizes in seconds. TRL gurgles with glee, and promptly loses his jaw’s battle with gravity, and the duct tape, with a clang. The Intrepid Cheese Lord continues to stare avidly at the saucer of milk before him.
One by one, our nearly fearless heroes pick themselves up and sit back down, quieting as they begin to realize the importance of whatever it happens to be that Cheese Lord is so engrossed in.
“What, what is it?” The Vein queries fearfully, but not enough to lose his near fearless status.
“Gasp of horror here people, Cheesy head’s discovered the lost city of Cheeselantis, buried deep within the curdled milk that is the gift of the great cheese god. He who even now graces Mr. Curdled with his vast gifts of scrutiny.” TRL turns a cheeky grin to all, his grin widening as he sees a large yellowish vein throbbing on the otherwise blemish free forehead of the Cheese Lord. A tightening of his squared jaw the only other sign of recognition, he continues to gaze deeply into the saucer of apparent milk.
“Now is not the time, tin boy,” he grinds out intently. Slowly, as the Cheese Lord’s eyes seem to be devoured in the very essence of that substance — that which comes from the teats of a large animal that chews it’s own cud — something like a small disturbance begins to make its way to the surface. Fearing the worst for their stalwart-seeming companion in heroing, our three heroes swiftly leap into action…and under the table for safety; The Invincible Morte, of course, moves in closer. The moment arrives, and in a move more bold than daring, Cheese Lord lunges forward, pulling from the now bubbling frothy milk a small strip of something very mysterious.
TRL exclaims from underneath the table, in as close to a nervous voice as he is capable of, “Wha, what is it cheesy? Is it a bomb? A bug from the evildoers bent on doing evil? Invitation to a clam bake?” A loud smack of hand on metal is heard, as TRL takes advantage of the close proximity underneath the table and brushes against Target. As it is useless for TRL to feel anything without touch censors, Target’s slap does nothing save cause him to grin in a leery manner.
His face untightening and jaw unclenching with relief, Cheese Lord finally responds as he grips firmly onto the mysterious object, “No no, nothing so pedestrian as all that. I had to save a part of my hair from getting soggy.” Gazing in his reflection coming up from the Table of Just Desserts, the Cheese Lord ever so slightly arranges the thin slice of newly reacquired cheese back on to his highly coiffed head of cheese hair.
“I had to sit under a table, with TRL trying to grope me, for CHEESE!?!” The look that emerges attached to Target Woman’s face, as she quickly pulls herself out from underneath the table, is enough to kill thirty-seven water buffalo in heat, if any were nearby, that is. Luckily, there being no water buffalo about, as they have all been eaten for dinner, only the Invincible Morte dies from the look. Just as quickly as she just pulled herself from underneath the table, Target Woman turns and pries Token Robot Lad’s grip on her legs, giving him another smack for good measure. TRL chuckles metallically and sits on the newly deceased Morte. “Cheese!!” Target yells once more for good measure of daily recommended requirement of yelling, “Cheese!!” in an outraged voice.
“Yeah fromage face,” TRL queries in a voice not unlike his own. “What was the big deal? It’s just a toupee.” He grins as Cheese Lord turns rapidly to glare, his green metallic cheeks creaking pointlessly in protest. A yellow vein twitches rapidly on Cheese Lord’s forehead. The Vein smartly remains hidden under the Table, staying as relatively quiet as possible, knowing a lost battle when he sees one.
“It’s not a toupee!!” Cheese Lord screeches in protest, his cheese hair waving wildly as if also enraged.
“Fine fine, cheese toupee,” TRL replies, a smirk detectable on his twisted features, the golden blue orbs used for eyes glowing quietly in laughter. The Vein begins to slowly crawl for the remains of sliding door, his eyes wide and searching rapidly from side to side for means of escape.
A shadow of a grin slides over Target’s face, her lips twitching ever so slightly, as an enraged Cheese Lord leaps after a smirking TRL, his suit becoming a red and gold blur as he chases the errant robot lad around the Table of Justice. A thrown piece of cheese smacks Target in the nostril, causing the laughing woman to quickly join in the fleeing fray.
In an instant, the brawl of cheese, duct tape, and flying robot body parts is brought to a halt, as a loud and ominous shaking, as if the very heavens themselves are falling, rumbles through the building. Target Woman is lost beneath a rapidly congealing flashback. The air warms and shimmers.
*****
It is the happiest day of her life for Target Woman, the day when every part of her life has come together. A relatively plain looking girl, tall and gangly with unruly hair, she has, until today, resigned herself to living a mediocre life as something non-descript, such as a mechanic or technician of some sort. Her affinity for caring for people has been repressed by severe shyness. But on this day, the day in which her powers have begun to show themselves, she has grown to fill a costume, and this new and wonderful man calling himself Captain Cliché has entered her life. She has become one of a team. With merely a glance, she can bring an evildoer down, and with an accuracy beyond compare. The images swirl and twist suddenly, like quicksilver releasing.
Now is the day of horror; the day when Target’s worse fears have been realized. A new more odd power has emerged. Her bust has begun to change size without cause, imbalance and embarrassment abound. Villains now gawk openly, bringing an ironic new twist to her name. And now Captain Cliché has died a horribly funny death, and has been replaced with a banana pudding soul. The sun shines sadly on as an odd ticking emanates from it.
A more average day now surrounds her, a day of laughter and cheese jokes. She continues on bravely, despite an ominous feeling causing her chest to grow.
*****
Target Woman keels over and the flashback evaporates into air, leaving behind a slightly acrid smell of burnt feet. Another rapid succession of rumbling causes the already warped headquarters to not change at all.
“What was that?” TRL asks, stopped midway in duct taping someone’s leg to the wall.
“I don’t know,” Cheese Lord responds forcefully, his hair hanging askew of his head, “but we’d better find out fast.”
*****
“Excellent! Represso, more power to the hyper death ray! Those buildings won’t know what hit them!”
“I never got to go camping! Why mommy, why won’t you let me camp?”
“Um, yes I see… Lurker! More bread, I’m almost out of toast! I must be fully toasty when the Time arrives!”
“Shouldn’t we worry about the heroes, sir?”
“What heroes are these now?”
“Never mind, I shall get more bread for the ray.”
“Excellent! Now, let’s get more of those dastardly buildings to fear our might! Spartan City, you will be mine to…uh….do something with!”
“No! The kitty is eating that bunny! Stop! Noooo!”
*****
bum bum bummmm
