“It was ’45, just before the end of the war. This Nazi cape, Der PanzerTigerhai, shows up in Washington and goes after the Whitehouse. A couple local capes go after him and there’s a big brawl, half the Whitehouse gets crushed, the Washington Monument almost falls, general mayhem all around.”
“And I mean confusion and such, not General Mayhem. He was in Europe.”
“Anyway, PanzerTigerhai finally goes down in a big fireball and everyone rushes in. Turns out, one of the capes, Liberty Gal or something, got caught in the blast and her outfit is completely disintegrated. She’s standing there in a daze and stark naked and there’s forty newsmen snapping pictures. Huge, major scandal.”
“And I mean a really big controversy, not Major Scandal, though he was just a Captain Scandal at the time.”
“I think I read about that in history class.”
The Major took a sip of Guinness. “Probably,” he agreed. “So some congressmen get together and pass a law making it illegal for capes to lose their uniforms or otherwise appear in their birthday suits.”
There was a pause, as the Street Urchin considered what he’d just heard. “Are you drunk?” he finally asked.
“What?”
“Congress passes a law and magically, our uniforms will always cover our naughty bits?”
“Yeah.” The Major shrugged. “I didn’t say it made sense.”
“That’s just . . . stupid!”
“You shoot spines out of your body. I give people migraines. Vicious here,” the Major glanced down at Vicious, who was still asleep on the floor. “Actually, I don’t know what he does.”
Urchin looked down as well. “Y’know, I’ve always wondered. Is he a Hero or a Villain?”
“I think he’s a Drunk.
“Huh.” Urchin finished off his beer and stared into the bottom of his glass for a moment. “Act of Congress, eh?”
“Yep.”
“Weird.”
“Yep.”
“Another beer?”
“Absolutely.”
Below them, Kid Vicious began to snore.
Cheers,
-Jason
Showing posts with label cape. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cape. Show all posts
Friday, March 14, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Stories from the Cape and Cowl: Costumes: Part 1
It was 2 am and Major Headache was at his usual spot in the Cape and Cowl, half a pint of Guinness resting in front of him. The only other cape in the place was Kid Vicious, who was already passed out and snoring loudly in one of the back booths. Steve the Destroyer and Miss Anthrope had drawn a mustache and glasses on him as they left.
The door banged open and Street Urchin walked in, though ‘limped’ might be a better description. His outfit, normally tattered and full of holes, was now sporting copious burn marks as well.
“Hey, kid,” called out the Major. He gave the Urchin a long look. “Don’t we look like hell.”
“Yeah,” Urchin said, as he limped over to take a seat by the older hero. “Me an’ the Pink Valkyrie tore it up with Lord Kelvin.”
“Ah, that would explain the burns.”
“Yeah. I officially hate heat rays, by the way.” Urchin waved at Lloyd. “A Guinness, please.”
Lloyd nodded and drew a beer for the young hero, placing it before him on a stained deckle.
“Thanks.” Urchin took a sip and sighed. “Man, I needed that.”
“So, did you nab him?” asked the Major.
“Nah, he had a fail-safe. Valkryie almost had him, but then he blew up the building.”
The Major raised an eyebrow. “Is she okay?”
“Oh, she’s fine. Pissed, but fine.” Urchin took another pull. “Which reminds me. I wanted to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“So, Valkryie gets blown up, right?”
“Right.”
“And most of her uniform is incinerated.”
“Yeah.”
“How come all that was left of her outfit was a strip over her chest and hot pants?” Urchin raised his hands, as if imploring the sky for an answer. “I mean, it makes no sense. Logically, shouldn’t ALL of her uniform go?”
“I see your point.” The Major paused and considered his pint. “You ever lose your uniform?”
“Well, there was this one time when Bile Boy puked on me. Most of it was gone.”
“Did you end up wearing shorts and nothing else?”
“Oi!” Kid Vicious suddenly appeared in the mirror behind them. “Where’d everybody go?” He half-collapsed on the Major’s shoulder, tried to steady himself by grabbing the Urchin, missed and fell heavily to the floor.
“Actually,” said the Urchin. “Yeah, now that you mention it.”
From beneath the stools, Kid Vicious began to snore again.
The Major finished off his beer and gestured to Lloyd for another one. “Well, kid, let me tell you a story.”
The door banged open and Street Urchin walked in, though ‘limped’ might be a better description. His outfit, normally tattered and full of holes, was now sporting copious burn marks as well.
“Hey, kid,” called out the Major. He gave the Urchin a long look. “Don’t we look like hell.”
“Yeah,” Urchin said, as he limped over to take a seat by the older hero. “Me an’ the Pink Valkyrie tore it up with Lord Kelvin.”
“Ah, that would explain the burns.”
“Yeah. I officially hate heat rays, by the way.” Urchin waved at Lloyd. “A Guinness, please.”
Lloyd nodded and drew a beer for the young hero, placing it before him on a stained deckle.
“Thanks.” Urchin took a sip and sighed. “Man, I needed that.”
“So, did you nab him?” asked the Major.
“Nah, he had a fail-safe. Valkryie almost had him, but then he blew up the building.”
The Major raised an eyebrow. “Is she okay?”
“Oh, she’s fine. Pissed, but fine.” Urchin took another pull. “Which reminds me. I wanted to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“So, Valkryie gets blown up, right?”
“Right.”
“And most of her uniform is incinerated.”
“Yeah.”
“How come all that was left of her outfit was a strip over her chest and hot pants?” Urchin raised his hands, as if imploring the sky for an answer. “I mean, it makes no sense. Logically, shouldn’t ALL of her uniform go?”
“I see your point.” The Major paused and considered his pint. “You ever lose your uniform?”
“Well, there was this one time when Bile Boy puked on me. Most of it was gone.”
“Did you end up wearing shorts and nothing else?”
“Oi!” Kid Vicious suddenly appeared in the mirror behind them. “Where’d everybody go?” He half-collapsed on the Major’s shoulder, tried to steady himself by grabbing the Urchin, missed and fell heavily to the floor.
“Actually,” said the Urchin. “Yeah, now that you mention it.”
From beneath the stools, Kid Vicious began to snore again.
The Major finished off his beer and gestured to Lloyd for another one. “Well, kid, let me tell you a story.”
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Stories of the Cape and Cowl: Origins: Part 2
The Major waited for his next beer, as the Urchin spun back and forth on the barstool. Lloyd deposited the fresh Guinness and took away the empty glass, as the Major took a sip.
“Kid,” said the Major. “That was the single worst, most convoluted origin story I’ve ever heard. What’d you do? Take the top ten origins and mash them together?”
“But . . . no! It’s totally true!”
“C’mon? You were raised by hyper-intelligent sea urchins? Both your parents were amazingly athletic research scientists? A rogue government agency?”
“Yes!” the Street Urchin half-rose. “It’s all completely . . . “ He looked at the Major, who was shaking his head. “Completely made up.” The Urchin sat back down with an audible thump.
“It’s okay, kid. Everybody lies about their origin. The trick is to lie just enough.” The Major patted the young man on the shoulder. “Look, what’s my origin?”
“Uh, you developed your amazing mental power at puberty and then traveled to Tibet, where you were trained by an obscure sect of ninja-monks.”
“I stuck a fork in a plugged-in toaster when I was 12 while holding a Speak-and-Spell.”
The Urchin’s mouth dropped open. “No way!”
“I did go to Tibet, though.”
“Did you train with ninja-priests?”
“Well, I was on a tour and saw some priests, but no, not really.” The Major shrugged. “I did see a movie about some ninja-priests once though.”
“Was that American Ninja-Priest in Paris? That movie totally rocked!”
“Uh, yeah, I think so. But that’s not the point. You need to tone down your origin a bit. What really happened?”
“When I was nineteen, I had some bad sushi and a couple beers. Well, fourteen-odd beers. And some shots. And a couple pieces of week-old pizza. And then I passed out. In a swamp.”
The Major nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do it.” He thought for a moment. “How about this? Your parents were research scientists working on irradiated sea urchins. You fell into the tank, got stung, and presto, instant powers.” The Major paused. “So, what are your powers anyway?”
“I can project spikes out of every part of my body.”
“Well, that explains the outfit.”
“Yeah. I don’t actually like dressing like this, but when you shred your clothes once a week, you gotta make do.” Urchin made a face. “I don’t know about that origin. It’s kinda . . . dull.”
“But it’s easy to remember and it’ll keep nutjobs from trying to help you find your parents.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You see Madame Mystery over there?” The young man nodded. “She made up a bit about her parents being murdered and she’s got no fewer than three crazed fans trying to find the killers. Trust me, you don’t want the headache.”
“Huh.” Urchin took a sip of beer. “So, does everyone lie?”
“Pretty much. I mean, how many people are hit with omega rays, were raised by aliens, or witnessed their parents deaths at the hands of a crazed rodeo clown? Not everyone gets a dramatic story, kid.”
The door banged open both of them glanced over. An almost skeletal man with a distinctive green tinge to his skin, a lot of old stitches, and what looked like robot parts bolted to his body shuffled in, hanging up his coat and hat with an immense robotic arm that would have looked more at home in a car plant.
“Hey, Bill.” Said the Major, as he passed. “How’re the kids?”
“GOOD. AND HOW IS MARGE?” He replied, in a deep, mechanical voice.
“She’s great.”
“GLAD TO HEAR IT. EXCUSE ME, I MUST DRAIN THE LIZARD. AT LEAST, WHAT IS LEFT OF IT. HA HA HA.”
The Major nodded. “Funny.”
Street Urchin stared at the man as he moved away, mouth agape. “That was Zombot!” he finally stammered.
“Yeah.”
“But . . .you two are mortal enemies!”
“This is the Cape and Cowl, kid. Neutral ground. No fighting or powers inside. Besides, you battle someone long enough, you get to know them. Hell, our kids had play-dates.”
“Wow.” The Urchin turned back. “So, I never did hear what his origin was.”
“Zombot? Oh, he was the result of a horrible experiment where a necromancer and a mad scientist tried to create the perfect killing machine. The scrounged together a bunch of body parts and machinery, put them together and reanimated the whole thing. Thing is, the process drove ol’ Zombo mad and he butchered them both before embarking on a reign of terror.”
“Ah. So what’s his real origin?”
“That is his real origin. That’s exactly what happened.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” The Major sighed. “Man, I’d kill for an origin that good.”
Cheers,
-Jason
“Kid,” said the Major. “That was the single worst, most convoluted origin story I’ve ever heard. What’d you do? Take the top ten origins and mash them together?”
“But . . . no! It’s totally true!”
“C’mon? You were raised by hyper-intelligent sea urchins? Both your parents were amazingly athletic research scientists? A rogue government agency?”
“Yes!” the Street Urchin half-rose. “It’s all completely . . . “ He looked at the Major, who was shaking his head. “Completely made up.” The Urchin sat back down with an audible thump.
“It’s okay, kid. Everybody lies about their origin. The trick is to lie just enough.” The Major patted the young man on the shoulder. “Look, what’s my origin?”
“Uh, you developed your amazing mental power at puberty and then traveled to Tibet, where you were trained by an obscure sect of ninja-monks.”
“I stuck a fork in a plugged-in toaster when I was 12 while holding a Speak-and-Spell.”
The Urchin’s mouth dropped open. “No way!”
“I did go to Tibet, though.”
“Did you train with ninja-priests?”
“Well, I was on a tour and saw some priests, but no, not really.” The Major shrugged. “I did see a movie about some ninja-priests once though.”
“Was that American Ninja-Priest in Paris? That movie totally rocked!”
“Uh, yeah, I think so. But that’s not the point. You need to tone down your origin a bit. What really happened?”
“When I was nineteen, I had some bad sushi and a couple beers. Well, fourteen-odd beers. And some shots. And a couple pieces of week-old pizza. And then I passed out. In a swamp.”
The Major nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do it.” He thought for a moment. “How about this? Your parents were research scientists working on irradiated sea urchins. You fell into the tank, got stung, and presto, instant powers.” The Major paused. “So, what are your powers anyway?”
“I can project spikes out of every part of my body.”
“Well, that explains the outfit.”
“Yeah. I don’t actually like dressing like this, but when you shred your clothes once a week, you gotta make do.” Urchin made a face. “I don’t know about that origin. It’s kinda . . . dull.”
“But it’s easy to remember and it’ll keep nutjobs from trying to help you find your parents.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You see Madame Mystery over there?” The young man nodded. “She made up a bit about her parents being murdered and she’s got no fewer than three crazed fans trying to find the killers. Trust me, you don’t want the headache.”
“Huh.” Urchin took a sip of beer. “So, does everyone lie?”
“Pretty much. I mean, how many people are hit with omega rays, were raised by aliens, or witnessed their parents deaths at the hands of a crazed rodeo clown? Not everyone gets a dramatic story, kid.”
The door banged open both of them glanced over. An almost skeletal man with a distinctive green tinge to his skin, a lot of old stitches, and what looked like robot parts bolted to his body shuffled in, hanging up his coat and hat with an immense robotic arm that would have looked more at home in a car plant.
“Hey, Bill.” Said the Major, as he passed. “How’re the kids?”
“GOOD. AND HOW IS MARGE?” He replied, in a deep, mechanical voice.
“She’s great.”
“GLAD TO HEAR IT. EXCUSE ME, I MUST DRAIN THE LIZARD. AT LEAST, WHAT IS LEFT OF IT. HA HA HA.”
The Major nodded. “Funny.”
Street Urchin stared at the man as he moved away, mouth agape. “That was Zombot!” he finally stammered.
“Yeah.”
“But . . .you two are mortal enemies!”
“This is the Cape and Cowl, kid. Neutral ground. No fighting or powers inside. Besides, you battle someone long enough, you get to know them. Hell, our kids had play-dates.”
“Wow.” The Urchin turned back. “So, I never did hear what his origin was.”
“Zombot? Oh, he was the result of a horrible experiment where a necromancer and a mad scientist tried to create the perfect killing machine. The scrounged together a bunch of body parts and machinery, put them together and reanimated the whole thing. Thing is, the process drove ol’ Zombo mad and he butchered them both before embarking on a reign of terror.”
“Ah. So what’s his real origin?”
“That is his real origin. That’s exactly what happened.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” The Major sighed. “Man, I’d kill for an origin that good.”
Cheers,
-Jason
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Stories of the Cape and Cowl: Origins: Part 1
Major Headache walked into the Cape and Cowl and shook off his wet overcoat, letting the door swing shut behind him. He waved to The Punter and Madame Mystery as he hung up his coat and flipped off Kid Vicious, who returned the gesture with both hands. He walked over to the heavy oak bar, leaving a small trail of wet footprints on the worn tile floor.
“Evenin’, Major” said the bartender, glancing up from the mail.
Major Headache nodded and sat down. “Hey, Lloyd. How’re things?”
“Not bad. You missed the excitement. Red Hot got sick in the corner booth.”
The Major glanced over. The corner booth was taped off with an ‘Out of Order’ sign. The worn red leather on the left-hand bench was scorched and twisted and a burn mark extended almost six-feet up the oak-paneled wall, completely obliterating an old, framed newspaper clipping, one of the many pieces of hero and villain memorabilia that decorated the bar.
“Ice Queen put it out pretty quickly,” Lloyd continued. “But then she wanted me to wipe her tab.”
“Villains,” said the Major, shaking his head. “What’d you do?”
“I gave her a free Cosmopolitan. She was happy with that. The usual, Major?”
“Sure thing.”
As Lloyd turned to draw a Guinness, the door opened again and a young man in a black leather jacket, jeans and combat boots entered. His entire outfit was tattered, as if he’d been rolled on by a spastic porcupine. He hesitated, as most everyone in the bar turned to look at him. The Major looked at Lloyd, who shrugged.
“Hey, kid,” said the Major. “Who’re you?”
“Uh, I’m the Street Urchin.” The Urchin suddenly focused on the Major. “Whoa! You’re Major Headache!”
“Yep.” The Major waved him over. “C’mere, have a seat.”
The Street Urchin practically leapt the 10-feet to take the stool next to the Major. “This so cool!” he said, “I used to have a poster of you in my bedroom!”
“That’s nice,” said the Major, as he took a pull of his Guinness.
“Wow! I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to you!”
“Kid?”
“Yes?”
“Calm down. We’re all capes here.” The Major gestured at the bottles at the back of the bar. “Let me buy you a beer.”
“Yeah, right. Sure.”
“Another beer, Lloyd.”
The bartender nodded and drew a Guinness, placing it down in front of the Urchin.
“So, kid, how’d you get into the hero game?”
The Street Urchin half-choked on his beer. The Major waited patiently for him to regain his composure. “Well,” began the Urchin. “My parents were marine biologists who were experimenting with the neurotoxins found in sea urchins. When I was just an infant, a rogue government agency broke in one night to steal their research and surprised my folks. My dad happens to be an ex-Navy Seal and my mom was an Olympic kick-boxer and sharpshooter, so in the ensuing fight, there was an explosion which released deadly delta radiation that infected the urchins, making them super-intelligent. My parents were eventually captured by the government agents, but the urchins, realizing the danger, hid me and raised me as their own, teaching me the way of the Urchin so that I could one day find my parents and avenge them.”
“Ah,” said the Major. “I’m gonna need another Guinness after that one. Lloyd?”
Tomorrow: Forks and Toasters
“Evenin’, Major” said the bartender, glancing up from the mail.
Major Headache nodded and sat down. “Hey, Lloyd. How’re things?”
“Not bad. You missed the excitement. Red Hot got sick in the corner booth.”
The Major glanced over. The corner booth was taped off with an ‘Out of Order’ sign. The worn red leather on the left-hand bench was scorched and twisted and a burn mark extended almost six-feet up the oak-paneled wall, completely obliterating an old, framed newspaper clipping, one of the many pieces of hero and villain memorabilia that decorated the bar.
“Ice Queen put it out pretty quickly,” Lloyd continued. “But then she wanted me to wipe her tab.”
“Villains,” said the Major, shaking his head. “What’d you do?”
“I gave her a free Cosmopolitan. She was happy with that. The usual, Major?”
“Sure thing.”
As Lloyd turned to draw a Guinness, the door opened again and a young man in a black leather jacket, jeans and combat boots entered. His entire outfit was tattered, as if he’d been rolled on by a spastic porcupine. He hesitated, as most everyone in the bar turned to look at him. The Major looked at Lloyd, who shrugged.
“Hey, kid,” said the Major. “Who’re you?”
“Uh, I’m the Street Urchin.” The Urchin suddenly focused on the Major. “Whoa! You’re Major Headache!”
“Yep.” The Major waved him over. “C’mere, have a seat.”
The Street Urchin practically leapt the 10-feet to take the stool next to the Major. “This so cool!” he said, “I used to have a poster of you in my bedroom!”
“That’s nice,” said the Major, as he took a pull of his Guinness.
“Wow! I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to you!”
“Kid?”
“Yes?”
“Calm down. We’re all capes here.” The Major gestured at the bottles at the back of the bar. “Let me buy you a beer.”
“Yeah, right. Sure.”
“Another beer, Lloyd.”
The bartender nodded and drew a Guinness, placing it down in front of the Urchin.
“So, kid, how’d you get into the hero game?”
The Street Urchin half-choked on his beer. The Major waited patiently for him to regain his composure. “Well,” began the Urchin. “My parents were marine biologists who were experimenting with the neurotoxins found in sea urchins. When I was just an infant, a rogue government agency broke in one night to steal their research and surprised my folks. My dad happens to be an ex-Navy Seal and my mom was an Olympic kick-boxer and sharpshooter, so in the ensuing fight, there was an explosion which released deadly delta radiation that infected the urchins, making them super-intelligent. My parents were eventually captured by the government agents, but the urchins, realizing the danger, hid me and raised me as their own, teaching me the way of the Urchin so that I could one day find my parents and avenge them.”
“Ah,” said the Major. “I’m gonna need another Guinness after that one. Lloyd?”
Tomorrow: Forks and Toasters
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