The Revengers
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
An excerpt from my new work, The Revengers.
AWESOME POWERS OF THE PURPLE GOON
The hyper jet sat perched on spidery metal legs. Hot metal ticked as it cooled. It was the silent hour before dawn. The Revengers stood on a low hill overlooking a small but depressing industrial town in southern New Jersey. The town seemed dead. There was not a Starbucks to be seen. On the main street a red neon sign blinked on and off, buzzing and spitting electricity. It said "Jerry's Place" and "Good Food - Spirits". It was an invitation for alcoholics to come inside and drink alcohol, and to feel better about things in general, if they possibly could.
"Pretty shitty town," observed Bi-Polarman. "Not the sort of place I would have chosen for my secret underground headquarters, if I were the Anti-Justice League."
"It was probably quite different," said Rubber Woman. "Back in the day."
"Yes. Whatever. Who gives a shit?" said Mopy. He was so jittery it looked like he was trying to tap dance or something. He was beginning to emot dangerous levels of psychotic waves, so the others were standing a little apart from him to avoid being lobotomized or have their brainstems snapped off.
"Let's just do it," said the Purple Goon nervously. "Before I chicken out or wet my pants or something."
Bi-Polarman threw him an devastatingly sarcastic look, which was completely wasted because The Purple Goon wasn't looking.
"What is your power, anyway?" said Despairo, who was smoking a mentholated cigarette and trying to look tough. "I forget what your power is."
"It's mostly web design-based," explained The Purple Goon. "Like when people are looking at one of my web pages, I can feed them false information and stuff, and mess with their minds a little bit. But for infighting I use a short club."
"That's fantastic," said Bi-Polarman.
"Also I'm completely impervious to sarcasm," said The Purple Goon.
The Schismatic Man stood on the very edge of the hill, apparently lost in thought and looking as though he had a lonely destiny to fulfill. It was, perhaps, a destiny none of the others could understand but definitely respected him for having. Their hearts were so crammed full of admiration for The Schismatic Man there was precious little room for blood sometimes.
"Okay," he said. "It's time."
AWESOME POWERS OF THE PURPLE GOON
The hyper jet sat perched on spidery metal legs. Hot metal ticked as it cooled. It was the silent hour before dawn. The Revengers stood on a low hill overlooking a small but depressing industrial town in southern New Jersey. The town seemed dead. There was not a Starbucks to be seen. On the main street a red neon sign blinked on and off, buzzing and spitting electricity. It said "Jerry's Place" and "Good Food - Spirits". It was an invitation for alcoholics to come inside and drink alcohol, and to feel better about things in general, if they possibly could.
"Pretty shitty town," observed Bi-Polarman. "Not the sort of place I would have chosen for my secret underground headquarters, if I were the Anti-Justice League."
"It was probably quite different," said Rubber Woman. "Back in the day."
"Yes. Whatever. Who gives a shit?" said Mopy. He was so jittery it looked like he was trying to tap dance or something. He was beginning to emot dangerous levels of psychotic waves, so the others were standing a little apart from him to avoid being lobotomized or have their brainstems snapped off.
"Let's just do it," said the Purple Goon nervously. "Before I chicken out or wet my pants or something."
Bi-Polarman threw him an devastatingly sarcastic look, which was completely wasted because The Purple Goon wasn't looking.
"What is your power, anyway?" said Despairo, who was smoking a mentholated cigarette and trying to look tough. "I forget what your power is."
"It's mostly web design-based," explained The Purple Goon. "Like when people are looking at one of my web pages, I can feed them false information and stuff, and mess with their minds a little bit. But for infighting I use a short club."
"That's fantastic," said Bi-Polarman.
"Also I'm completely impervious to sarcasm," said The Purple Goon.
The Schismatic Man stood on the very edge of the hill, apparently lost in thought and looking as though he had a lonely destiny to fulfill. It was, perhaps, a destiny none of the others could understand but definitely respected him for having. Their hearts were so crammed full of admiration for The Schismatic Man there was precious little room for blood sometimes.
"Okay," he said. "It's time."
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