The Adventures of Don Wan Tu.

[Mr. Coffee]

Ok, this is something I've been working on and off on for a while. I posted it a long while back on SuperDudes.net (Yeah, I got real bored and started playing it). I tried to clean it up a little and rework it a bit. Any constructive critisism or help with general writing tips would be appreciated greatly. Thanks for reading, hope you like it.


The Adventures of Don Wan Tu!

Chapter One: Coffee Good, Spandex Bad.

In a land of full of Super Heroes, one man stood guard against the forces of stupidity. Waging a one-man war against abject boredom, surrounded by people in caped spandex, low on coffee, and down to his last pack of smokes…

This is his tale.

My alarm clock hit the wall across from me with a crash of splintering plastic and cheap Taiwanese circuit board. I never will understand this fascination with getting up before noon that a good portion of the world’s population seemed to enjoy. I slipped my feet off the bed, wincing slightly as they touched the cold floor. Still half asleep, I reached out blindly to grab my smokes, lighting up and coughing up a lung with the first drag of the day. I’ve been meaning to quit for time, but actually getting anything accomplished is kind of against my religion.

Yup, it’s against MY religion. See, like most of the population of this great big ball O’ mud we call home, I’m not “normal”. Sure, I put my pants on one leg at a time like most folks, I got to eat, and sometimes I forget to put the toilet seat back down (Which annoys my girlfriend to no end. But I digress). I’m a god. More specifically I’m the current incarnation of Dun Wanna, Lord of Procrastination. Name’s Don Wan Tu. Don’t bother asking me to perform any miracles or walk on water or levitate while chanting in some ancient and forgotten language. That’s not my style. When the rest of the Pantheon decided to create this giant carnival of meat puppets hurtling through space, I was the guy that came up with the concept of “And then they looked upon their creation, saw that it was good, and they vegged out to Saturday morning cartoons with a big bowl of Lucky Charms”. I’m not big on that whole effort thing. Too much work involved in it.

“Great, another wonderful day in Metropolis. Superman had Lois, I’ve got Juan Valdez,” I muttered as I slipped on my flip flops and trundled to my apartment’s kitchen to start a pot of what I considered to the true nectar of the God’s. Coffee. Did I mention that I invented coffee? Long story, maybe I’ll tell it to you some other time. I reached into the fridge and immediately noticed something was horribly wrong. I had just enough java to brew half a pot, and it normally takes at least a pot and a half to even get my brain to fire on seven out of eight cylinders. This was not good. In fact, this was a situation that both sucked and blew at the same time.

I stood there for a moment, scratching myself, half burnt cigarette dangling from my mouth as I pondered this latest attempt by those bastards at Evil Inc. Galactic Headquarters to screw up an otherwise good week. For Superman they send a candy gram full of Kryptonite, me, they dick around with my Goofy Juice. Absolutely insidious I tell you, but that’s the Forces of Evil, always hitting a guy below the utility belt. I shrugged and set the little coffee I had to brewing, figuring I could always get my fix at O’Leary’s.

I went back across the apartment to my room and set about donning my “costume”. Costumes… To me that was just another notch on the checklist of monotony that dominated a world populated with “Super Heroes”. Honestly, what’s so super about leaping over tall buildings in a single bound when most ever Tom, Dick, and Harriet on Earth could do it too? And what is the deal with this spandex fetish most every other freakiod on this planet has? Yo, Clark! The Funderoos go UNDER the pants, my man.

Most Hero’s liked masks, capes, and form hugging spandex. I don’t. The masks give me raccoon eyes, I tend to trip over capes, and spandex has a real bad tendency to creep up the up the old crack of doom if you know what I mean. Besides, all that really does is make you stand out like a sore thumb. I prefer the incognito approach, Levi’s, a black t-shirt, an old St. Louis Blues jersey, and a battered green ball cap I call “Fred”. Fred’s been with me for years. He covers my unruly hair, keeps the sun off my melon, and above all he’s comfy. So I’m a little odd. Sue me.

After dressing I went back towards the kitchen, stuffing my wallet into my pants along with my keys. I snagged a steaming mug of the Juice Of Life and proceeded out into the wonderful world. St. Louis in spring is a nice enough town, little on the rainy side, but like the locals will tell you, “Don’t like the weather? Wait five minutes, it’ll change”. And when it changes to sunny and warm, there sure is a lots of babes running around to ogle at. And living in the Central West End right off of Forrest park gave me many an opportunity get in my daily ogle.

As I walked down the block to O’Leary’s I noticed another spandex clad mutant violate some poor dumb would be mugger’s civil rights while defending some little old lady against the forces of inner city crime. Don’t ask me what the guy’s name was, all these bozo’s start to blend together into one massive Freudian nightmare of neon colored leotards and heroic posturing. I seriously think most of these guys are crotch stuffers too, but that’s an entirely different rant.

I walked into O’Leary’s, pausing for a few seconds while my eyes and lungs adjusted to the dark, smoke hazed environment of the place. O’Leary’s was an old Irish pub that served heroic servings of beer and greasy food. Just the kind of place I liked. I’m a god, people, so unlike Captain Stupendous over there, I don’t have to worry about my cholesterol intake. Mike O’Leary presided over this wondrous microcosm of fried foods, reasonably priced pints, and single malted goodness.

Mike used to be called “The Dublin Kid” a couple decades back, his former super self now giving way to a paunch induced by 20 some odd years of retirement. But don’t let old age fool you. Old Mike there is just as able to take your funderoos and give you the wedgie of death as he is at serving a pint with practiced efficiency. I saddled on up to the bar and gave Mike a wave and set my now empty mug on the counter, fishing out another smoke from my rapidly dwindling pack as Mike came by with a pot full of steaming black caffienated goodness.

“Morning, lad. You’re looking a wee bit under the weather,” Mike said with a little hint of old world Eire in his voice.

“Nothing a few cups of the house blend won’t cure, Mike. Anything going on in the world worth knowing about,” I replied, nodding towards the TV over Mike’s shoulder.

“Oh, the usual things, Donnie, almost ending of the worlds, thwarted attempts to take over the planet, and that blond pop singer lass is up to here usual shenanigans,” Mike told me, “Tis hardly worth even turning on the idiot box anymore. Always the same, some evil genius spends years planning out some highly convoluted plot to corner the global market on frozen TV dinners in an attempt to force the UN to hand over control of the world, and some batch of overachieving supers go off and save the day in the nick of time, don’t ya know.”

I grunted at that “revelation”. To be honest, living in a world where every other person can fly, lift cars with their minds, or shoot death rays from their armpits tends to make for a pretty boring front page in the local paper. You know the concept of the “End Of The World” is getting clichéd when Professor Doomsday’s latest plot doesn’t even rate the fourth page, much less the front. Who knows? Maybe someday real live crisis level type stuff’ll happen and the world might be worth saving again. But then, what is there that a planet whose census forms have “Super Mutant” under race have to fear?

[Mr. Coffee]

Wow, got a few hits, so I guese someone's reading this. Any comments, cunstructive critisism, or general writing tips would be greatly appreciated.

Chapter Two: Is This A Joke...

"Ya Canna Have Me Lucky Charms, Ya Wee Rat Bastards!" - Lucky the Leprechaun before AA

So a Midget in green sequined satin, a Ninja, and seven-foot tall mutant with four arms walk into a bar. Sounds like a joke, right? Well, that’s what I thought the first time I came to O’Leary’s for a pint or three. Turned out that was just the run of the mill crowd for this place. See what I mean about life in a world full of superheroes?

The “little person” in green was Blarney. At least that’s what he usually answered to. Turns out he’s an honest to Gods leprechaun. That set piece from “The Wizard of Oz” he calls a costume is a little form fitting, so who knows where Blarney hides his Pot O’ Gold at. Tell you the truth I’d be a little frightened to find out. Blarney’s been involved in what I swear has to be the longest running lawsuit in history. Back in the eighties some cereal company back east put this leprechaun on a cereal box that bore a very striking resemblance to Blarney. Whatever you do around him, never, I’ll repeat this for the slower folks out there; NEVER mention anything about “Lucky Charms” around this guy. You ever see a three foot, four inch tall dwarf beat the living snot out of a pro NFL linebacker? I have, and the dwarf in question is sitting not three bar stools to my right.

I sure hope that guy recovers in time for football season. The Rams need all the help they can get.

Now look back behind Mike. See that really tall drink of four-armed water in the Led Zeppelin shirt and the hair net? That’s Barry “Rimshot” Williams. Barry works here at O’Leary’s as a short order cook by day, and by night he fight’s the good fight against the forces of corporate rock as the drummer in a local band called the Wonderboys. Think a four-armed drummer with superhuman reflexes is cool? You should hear their two-headed singer do her own backup vocals.

Barry finished cooking up my order of deep fried starch with a side order of bacon just as I snubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray next to my mug. Talk about timing. Behold the wonders of a pub that’s staffed by superheroes. Mike took the plate from Barry and set it down in front of me before topping off my coffee.

“Hey, Mike… Do me a favor, will ya? Change the channel over to the ‘Toon network. That League of Superheros show’s coming on,” I asked Mike around a forkful of eggs. So my manners aren’t the greatest in the world.

Now some of you might be wondering why the incarnation of an ancient god that was around to make sarcastic play-by-play commentary while the rest of the Pantheon was creating the planet we’re all sitting on wants to watch a cartoon about a bunch of superheroes. Especially since I derive so much of my personal entertainment by making fun of my fellow supers. That’s easily answered, gentle reader.

First, besides coffee I also invented the concept of cartoons. Why? It’s a great way to kill time and it’s a lot less stressful then say… Saving the world, maybe? Second, the show while slightly corny, teaches some good morals, promotes kids to grow up to be productive little superheroes, and the animation is pretty darned good. Not Akira or Ghost in the Shell level stuff, but several cuts above the sub-standard Korean crapamation that serves as entertainment for kids these days.

But mostly I watch because I’m a kid at heart. That’s me, an 8 year old with severe ADHD trapped in an ancient god’s body.

After Mike changed the channel over I continued to chow down, I glanced over, reaching for my coffee and almost choked to death when I noticed that Shiro sitting in the bar stool right next to me. I heroically managed to not aspirate a large mouthful of fried spuds. Shiro was like that. Never knew when or where that guy would pop up next. One second the room is completely empty and you’re looking right at the door. Blink and Shiro’s tapping you on the shoulder. He also had a habit of wearing a bright blue ninja outfit. How he manages to perform that “Art of Invisibility” shtick while dressed up like an Oriental Smurf is something that’s stumped both the badguys and Physicists for years. I heard tell that Steven Hawkings was working on a theory that showed how Shiro did it, but so far that remains a rumor.

“God’s above and below, Shiro! Give a guy a warning when you sit down next to him,” I sputtered out while reaching for my coffee.

Shiro sat there with that Cheshire Cat smirk of his as he lit a Lucky Strike, with my lucky Zippo no less. Not only could this cat sneak up on a god, he could snatch his lighter right out from in front of him without said god noticing. Shiro slide my light back to me remarking to me, “If I were evil, you’d be in deep shit...”

“If you were evil, then I’d have to go all Gargamel on you’re Smurf lookin’ ass,” I grumbled back at him. After a second Shiro gave a grin and started laughing, and I couldn’t help but laugh with him. Shiro’s that kind of guy. You just can’t stay mad at him.

Now some of you are probably saying “But, Don, you’re a god! How could he sneak up on you? What about all the omniscience stuff you god types are supposed to have?” Well, when the Big Wheel O’ Fantastic Cosmic Powers was spun some got the omniscience, some got the ability to bend space and time to there will. I got stuck with the ability to create new and interesting ways to waste people’s time. Well, I never said I was all that high up on the Pantheon’s food chain. But let’s see you damned near collapse the world’s economy by creating Solitare for Windows. BooYAH!

I lit a smoke and took a swig from my coffee, giving Shiro the bird as League of Superheros was interrupted by some sort of emergency news brief from Super League World Head Quarters…

[Singular Quartet]

It's an interesting take on the superhero mess. I like Dun Wan Tu's commentary on Superhero costuming, and you have an excellent setup for whatever's going to happen... unless somebody else deals with it.

[Mr. Coffee]

Chapter Three: This looks like a job for... Someone else!

So there I was, a violent Irish dwarf to my right, a pathologically stealthy Ninja to my left, and the “Big Head” on the TV in front of me. What’s the Big Head? That’s what I like to call the Super League HQ Spokesman. He manifests as a giant disembodied head on the news. Hell, he even does it in person. Not sure what his superpower really is other then “Being a disembodied giant head”. No wonder the guy is working for the Super League’s PR department. Can’t really imagine how manifesting as a giant disembodied head can be that useful at fighting crime or the forces of evil.

“We regret to inform you that Evil Inc. has somehow managed to steal the Scepter of Rathsgard from the Super League Historical Museum in New York. The theft causes some alarm as it,” Big head went on for sometime about the history of the Scepter.

Let me beak it down Barney style for those of you in TV land. The Scepter was the last creation of the great wizard Rathelian the Misunderstood. Old Rathy wasn’t the most stable of people to begin with, add to that a propensity to make up for various short comings nature had given him (He was shorter then Blarney and wasn’t a Leprechaun), a thirst for being recognized by anyone within eyesight, and enough raw magic power to rearrange the Himalayas, and that’s Rathy in a nutshell. Amusing guy, but very unstable. Basically Rathy finally figured out that no one in their right mind is going to pay attention to a meglomaniacal midget no matter how powerful said midget was. So Rathy decided to infuse a scepter with all of his power. Shortly before he did a spell that involved his suicide to permanently infuse the scepter with such mind-boggling force, old Rathy was quoted as saying “This’ll show the fuckers…”

To give you the short answer, the Scepter of Rathsgard was some heavy hitting Mojo infused hardware indeed. We’re talking Emperor Palatine style “Behold the firepower of this fully functional battlestation” level of sheer whoop-ass. This was indeed bad news of a cosmic level.

Now some of the brighter people out there are probably wondering exactly why SLHQ would store such a potent weapon in a frigging museum where anyone with a few brain cells and a big enough budget could steal it. Chalk that up to the Basic Superman Complex. SLHQ, like the bulk of the spandex clad morons on this ball of rock, are secure in the “fact” that they can overcome any and all obstacles that Evil Inc. tosses in their general direction. Me, well… I think that’s a pretty dumb way of doing business, but what the hell… I’m only a FRIGGIN GOD, right? What the hell do I know about the apocalypse?

“This looks like a job for…” Mike said in his Irish brogue. “Someone else.”

That pretty much summed things up for me as well. I mean, why in the names of all the Gods would anyone in their right mind go up against that level of power? But then I also remembered that as much as I make fun of this ball of rock and all the spandex clad mutants that live on it, a lot of “Mom and Pop” type normal humans live here too. And as much as it violates my religion of not doing anything productive, I was really looking forward to what Ubisoft was going to do for the sequel to Ghost Recon. So I guess it was up to me and whomever I could find that was dumb enough to follow the ancient God of Procrastination into battle. May the Pantheon help us, because this was gonna be a Mofo of a task.

“Any information leading to the recovery of the Scepter of Rathsgard and the capture of the villains responsible should be reported to SLHQ,” Big Head continued on the TV. I really wasn’t paying that much attention to the rest of the news brief, mostly it was just contact information for SLHQ. They even had an 800 number listed, but considering the number of telepaths working for SLHQ, that was kind of redundant. After all, why tell a friend or telephone when you can telepath. Get it? Tell a path, telepath… One of these days the Pantheon is going to have me brought up on charges for blatant use of bad puns.

There was a flash of bright blue light as the door to O’Leary’s opened. I didn’t bother to look, figuring it was just Shiro playing Smurf-Ryu Ninja Kung Fu Theater again. Except the blue light wasn’t dimming and Shiro usually didn’t go for pyrotechnic displays. So curiosity got the best of me, again. I turned around on my barstool and there was Paradigm, aka “Big Head”.

“Donnie, we got some big problems,” Paradigm said without preamble.

“Gee, whatever happened to ‘Hey, Don, how ya doing,” I replied, lighting a smoke. “Let me guess, Diggy, it involves a supernatural stick of wood created by three foot tall sorcerer with an inferiority complex?”

Now some of you are questioning the wisdom of calling a high power mentalist that could fry your melon with a stray thought ‘Diggy’. Well, his name’s actually Paradigm and since 99.999% of the population thinks his name is pronounced ‘pair-ah-dig-em’ (That’s because people are ‘in-DUH-vid-u-alls’), a lot of people just call him ‘Diggem’. I call him ‘Diggy’ or ‘Dig’. Can you “Dig” it? AH! I kill me, and so will someone else if I don’t knock it off with the puns. Besides, he called me ‘Donnie’. I hate that. Only two people get to call me that without me getting eighty different kinds of sarcastic, Mike O’Leary and my girlfriend. Mike gets too because he keeps me in free coffee. My girlfriend gets to because, well… Um, never mind, small children might read this.

I glanced back up at the TV, seeing him still fielding questions from the press, so I had to ask, “Let me guess, you’re astral projecting here again, right?”

“No, Don-O,” he replied. “That was recorded yesterday. We tried to hold back the public knowledge of the Scepter’s theft from the general public, but some greedy smartass leaked it to the Times.”

“Let me guess, Dig,” I said, pausing to take a drag from my cigarette. “You’re hunting for some poor fool to go recover the Scepter, bring the bad guys into the light of justice, blah, blah, blah…? Not my style, man.”

“Don, we need you, man. You’re the only being around that actually knew Rathsgard and probably the only super registered with SLHQ that has any clue about the real capabilities of the Scepter,” he said. This got my attention right away. Only time he ever called me Don was when he was serious about something. Remember when I was talking about serious “End of the World” time stuff? Yeah…

I gave a long sigh, snubbing out my smoke. Mike must be a telepath, because he came right over and added a generous dollop of Bushmill’s to my coffee before I could even say anything. I took a long drink from my mug before looking Paradigm in the eyes, “Dig, I knew Rathsgard. He was probably one of the most demented beings in history, and probably one of the more powerful. You want me and which ever unlucky schmucks I can talk into this to go chase after someone with a device that rivals black holes for sheer time-space rending force?”

“That is the general idea we had in mind, Don,” he said to me.

“Well, do me a favor, will ya,” I said, glancing back at Mike and nodding at my coffee.

“What’s that, Don,” He asked was a hint of a laugh creeping into his voice. He’s a mentalist, so he probably had an idea of what I was going to ask.

“Crank down your inner eye a bit, man. You’re glaring the TV,” I said looking back at him and giving a grin. Hell, he knew I was going to go after the Scepter, no matter how much I pretended I didn’t want to. Like I said before, I got a responsibility to the “Mom and Pop” types of this big ball of mud we call home.

Paradigm flashed back a smile at me, the bright azure light emanating from his forhead dimmed. Then with flourish, he blinked the light and settled it over his left eye like some sort of metaphysical pirate eye patch. Say what you will about Paradigm, but the man’s got style, and that’s what counts.

“That better, Donnie,” he said with the grin of a natural born smartass.

“Arrrrr, Matey, that be fine indeed. Avast and arrrrr, and words to that effect,” I laughed back. “Buy you a cup of the house blend?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he replied, floating to the bar and hovering above the stool to my right. Mike sat down a mug of steaming black caffienated goodness in front of him. So how does a giant floating head drink coffee with no arms? Easy, he’s also a telekinetic.

So for good or ill, the die was cast, the course was set, and any other overused clichés you can think of. Now all I needed was a good plan. A really, really, really good plan. This was going to be a big job, so I had to figure out who I could count on to lend a hand. This was going to require a lot of good guy type super mojo to counteract the big, bad evil mojo of the Scepter. And wouldn’t you know it… I’m almost out of smokes too.

[The Guid]

Lovely. I particularly liked the way you described the various people in the bar using the "You see..." technique, not something I have seen done before but it was very effective.

Patent it quick!

[LadyTevar]

I'm gonna sent this to a couple friends of mine who play City of Heros... they'll get a good laugh outta it.

You did a great job with this, I really like how you're spooling out the background, giving us just enough that we get the idea of how things work in this Hero-World. The little asides are a cute touch, like the two-headed vocalist you mentioned. They really let my imagination take over and picture these things without spelling them out for us.

[Mr. Coffee]

Wow... Thanks for the favorable reviews, guys. Means a lot to this here SDN newby.

Singular Quartet, the whole customing thing in most comic books annoys the hell out of me. I think it had something to do with my pop always going on about how he couldn't take Superman seriously since the guy always wore his underwear on the outside of his pants. The whole skin tight brightly colored spandex thing is silly at best, and in some cases outright ridiculous (Anyone remember Wolverines old Blue and Yellow costume? Color coordinate much there, Logan?). A lot of the things that annoy me about superhero's show up in this. While I love reading comics, I love making fun of them even more sometimes.

The Guid, well, it's either one of to things that makes me write like that. Sometimes I have a problem with keeping things in either a first person/present time perspective so I try and narrate from the point of view that the reader is standing next to the character. Almost like Don is literally pointing someone out as if you were their with him. The only other excuse I can think of for it is I slept a lot during high school english.

LadyTevar, by all means, send it off to your friends. If you could, ask if they would be willing to give me any feedback they have on it. As to the background thing, well... Part of it is that taking the time to explain everything about the background of the world I'm trying to create would be tedious and take away from the pace I'm trying to set. The other part is I'm lazy and don't want to actually sit down and come up with a massive detailed back story explaining every nook and craney of the world. I have no idea how people get super powers in Don Wan Tu's world. I guess take you're pick on genetic mutations, radioactive spider bites, and cosmic radiation.

Thank you all for taking the time to read this and thank you for the input as well. I really appreciate it.

[Mr. Coffee]

Chapter Four... THOUSAND!: A Dwarf is a Dwarf a Dwarf a Dwarf and no on can talk to a Dwarf of course...

So there I was almost out of smokes and trying to figure out how to A. find out who stole the Scepter, B. where said miscreant/s were, and C. how to get the Scepter back when I heard the soft booming noise of air being displaced. Someone had teleported into O’Leary’s, which wasn’t all that uncommon a thing. Hell, as far as I know half the people on this planet can teleport. Then I heard the rattling crash of a chair falling over along with a very feminine voice letting off a string of profanity that would make a Navy Command Master Chief Blush. Paradigm and I both turned around, I on my barstool and Digger on his… Well, he just kind of floated around I guess, being a Big Head and all that.

“Babe, how many times I gotta tell ya… Don’t teleport into solid objects,” I said to my Girlfriend, Imalazi. I’m the God of Procrastination; ‘Dizzy’ there is the Goddess of Wasting Peoples Time. We kind of complimented each other’s work within the pantheon.

“But you forgot your spare pack, Donnie,” She said, sliding her leg out of the chair she’d teleported into. She stumble a bit before casually sauntering over to where Digger and I had set up our impromptu “War Council”. She slide her petite frame up and perched on my right leg, planting a noisy kiss on my check and dropping the smokes on the counter. “How much ya love me, Donnie?”

“You’re the best, Dizzy,” I said, giving a mental shout of joy as I pocketed the fresh magazine of lungbombs. “Dizzy, this is Paradigm. Dig, this is my better half, Dizzy.”

“Hi ya’s, Diggy,” Dizzy said with that ever-cheerful smile of hers. In five eons I’ve only seen Dizzy frown twice. Remember the dinosaurs and that whole meteorite impact about 65 million odd years back? PMS is bad enough with mortal chicks, but with full power Goddesses… I still kinda miss the Diplodocus. Bye bye, big duck-lizard.

“Nice to meet you, Dizzy,” Paradigm said while somehow transferring that million candle power third eye into a charming smile that’d turn James Bond green with envy. “I was just explaining to Don here about the little problem where’re having with theft of the Scepter of Rathsgard.”

“Rathsgard… Donnie, wasn’t he that nasty little dwarf I had to spank back in the Fourth Century,” Dizzy asked. That was the other time I’ve seen Izzy frown. Poor Rathy couldn’t sit down for a whole decade after that. I think it’s also part of what prompted the crazy little gnome to break down and make the Scepter.

“Yeah, Diz, that’d be the evil minded little dwarf in question,” I said, lighting a fresh smoke. “Big, Glowing, and Bodiless here seems to be under the impression that I’d be the best bet to retrieve it and head off whatever plots the thieves have in mind.”

Dizzy’s smile somehow got bigger a moment before she laughed. Long and hard. At my expense no less. She finally calmed down enough to give Paradigm an incredulous look saying; “You mean you want Donnie here to actually do something PRODUCTIVE?”

“Well… Yeah,” Paradigm replied with the look of a man left outside of a great cosmic joke. This of course sent Dizzy into another fit of laughter, again at my expense.

“Wow… That’s a good one, Diggy. Donnie, why didn’t you tell me you had such funny people for friends,” she said, whipping tears of laughter from her face. “And better yet, why don’t you two just ask that angry looking dwarf at the booth over there why he’s glaring at you both. Or better yet, why he’s chanting to that goofy looking stick?”

Paradigm and I looked behind us. Well, I looked behind me; Paradigm just shifted his third eye around to face aft.

“Don, is that what I think it is,” Paradigm asked in a slightly awed voice as the stick began to glow with an ominous purple light.

“Yup,” I replied, taking a drag from what I thought might actually be my last cigarette.

“And is that malevolent midget who I think it is?”

“You’re two for two so far, Dig.”

“Oh shit…” we both muttered as Rathsgard himself jumped up onto the table of his booth, leveling the Scepter in our and most of St. Louis’ general direction.

[JME2]

I...mere words cannot describe this. I haven't laughed so hard while browsing the Fanfic forum in a quite a while. Here are the lines that almost sent me on the floor:

I sure hope that guy recovers in time for football season. The Rams need all the help they can get.

...and...

We’re talking Emperor Palatine style “Behold the firepower of this fully functional battlestation” level of sheer whoop-ass.

Coffee, do not stop writing. I'm loving every bit of this.

[Mr. Coffee]

Coming from the author of one of my favorite fics on this site, that's high praise indeed, JME2. Thanks for reading and taking the time to comment.

[Mr. Coffee]

Chapter Five: Revenge of the Ugly Stick

Now, as most of you know, I’m a chain-smoking fool. I love my cancer sticks (partly due to me being a God and being immune to things like cancer). I light one up and it’s either in my hand being waved about at a talk or it’s between my lips getting sucked for all the nicotine goodness I can get. I rarely ever drop a cigarette once it’s lit. Much like stoners look upon dropping the joint when it’s passed to you, I consider dropping a perfectly good cigarette as being a form of “drug abuse”.

Then I smelled something burning. Then I felt a slight burning sensation in my lap.

“FUCK ME,” I exclaimed, slapping at my thigh. I hastily lit another smoke, trying like hell to think of a plan to escape my current predicament. For those of you that skimmed past the last few bits of the story, here’s the Cliff Notes version of what’s happening. I’m a God and the cute chick with the deceptively vapid stare is my girlfriend, Dizzy. She’s a Goddess. The Floating head is Paradigm, he’s a giant floating head (duh). And the violent looking dwarf in the corner booth holding the stick that’s glowing with a sickly purple light is Rathsgard the Misunderstood, apparently back from the dead and about have his vengeance against me and Dizzy for spanking him back in the fourth century (Probably didn’t help that we did that in front of his minions… Holy embarrassing situations, Batman!).

“Oh, you’re fucked for sure, Donny,” Rathy spat at me. “You and that air headed bimbo are about to become my personal playthings. When I unleash the power of my Scepter, all will tremble before me, Rathsgard the Mighty!”

“Come one, Rathy, let’s not do anything to hasty here,” I said, still franticly trying to come up with something, ANYTHING, to extract our collective asses from this pint sized yet enormously powerful sling.

“Hasty, Don? Hasty would be obliterating you, the dimwit, and the rest of these freaks,” Rathy said with a slight smile. People, this is what happens if you don’t hug your kids enough. They become demented little dwarves inside. “No, I’m going to take my time with this…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Rathy, you’re not still pissed about Dizzy spanking you,” I said, slightly exasperated.

“I know this guy’s wielding a stick that could blow us all clear to Canada and all,” Paradigm thought at me. “But is it just me or does he look like a friggin’ Oompa Loompa gone horribly wrong?”

“No way,” Dizzy exclaimed. “He so totally looks like a cheerleader with that baton!”

I did my best not to laugh while giving Dizzy and Paradigm my best “please shut the hell up” look. She ignored me, of course. What else is new? But Paradigm was right. Rathy did look a lot like a reject from Charley and the Chocolate Factory. All he needed was white overalls and brown shirt to go with that silly assed green hair. Rathy here decided that the best thing to complement his green hair was what looked like a Barney purple leisure suit with orange trim. And you think the hero’s on this planet dress like colorblind retards with a spandex fetish. At least the superheroes don’t try to look like overdone stereotypical Hollywood pimps or effeminate bald wankers in Nehru jackets and fake Brit accents.

While Rathy continued his long-winded diatribe about how he was going to slow roast me over a Bic lighter for the next millennia, a plan started to form. See, my powers were manifesting. Ever wonder why bad guys always take the time to gloat when they’ve got the good guy types cornered? Why they always have to bore the living shit out of us with the complex details of their evil schemes? Yup, you guessed it. I am the God of Procrastination, after all.

What was that about a plan? Oh yeah… See, I figured I’d just ask Rathy nicely if he’d hand me the Scepter and have a beer. Well, it seems like a good idea to me at least. You got a better idea? I’m listening, but make it quick like.

‘Uh, Rathy, how about I buy you a beer, you hand me the Scepter, and we’ll talk this out like reasonable adults,” I said in my most sincere nice guy tone.

“I’LL NEVER GIVE YOU MY LUCKY CHARM,” Rathy screamed with a voice that shook the walls.

Right about then I heard a low whistle followed by the sight of a beer bottle flying throw space towards Rathy’s melon. Ever had one of those moments where time seemed to slow down and you noticed all the little details? Right now I could see the bottle, spinning end over end, bright flecks of beer glistening in the light as they were flung from the bottle, and Mike really needs to get an estimate on having this place’s wallpaper redone.

“Ya fookin’ coont! I’ll show ye a fookin’ looky charm, ya son of a bitch,” a shrill voice cried out from the end of the bar as the beer bottle impacted on Rathy’s skull. Blarney had heard the evil slogan and man was he pissed.

Blarney leapt off his barstool, charging Rathy like… Well… Like an extremely pissed off drunken leprechaun would. Rathy barely had time to squeak out something about “Wait, us little people gotta stick together” before Blarney started pounding into him with his fists, his stubby little arms moving like a windmill in a hurricane. The rest of us sat there and watched this with a look of bewilderment.

“What… the.. fuck, over,” Dizzy, Paradigm, Mike, Shiro, and Barry and I said as one voice.

Mike was the first to recover, busily pouring a stiff drink for everyone and calling a bookie to place odds on just how far up Rathy’s butt Blarney would manage to lodge that Scepter. I did what I always do in times of stress and crisis. I lit another smoke, taking a deep inhalation as I marveled at the spontaneous midget wrestling match we were now witness to. Rathy had recovered enough to start hitting back, but it wasn’t doing him much good. Blarney was drunk and he’s Irish. Not a good idea to piss off an Irishman when he’s tanked. I turned away from the scene as Blarney busied himself with beating Rathy about the head with his own Scepter.

“Hey, Mike,” I said, trying to be heard over the ruckus behind me. “Turn the volume up and change it to Channel 11, I hear there’s a Three Stooges marathon on.”

Dizzy took up her perch on my lap again, and Digger levitated his coffee. All was right in the world once more. The forces of Evil had been thwarted not by a rag tag team of plucky do-gooder youngsters and their talking dog. Instead a lazy chain-smoking schmuck of a God (that’d be me for the slow witted out there in TV land), and a severely inebriated leprechaun saved the day. Gotta love the universe sense of humor sometimes. Anyways, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a very lovely blond on my lap, a pint of Mike’s finest, and Larry, Moe and Curly on the idiot box (Yeah, I invented TV as well, but that is another tale).

And that concludes this tale of The Adventures of Don Wan Tu, Lord of Procrastination.





Ok, I'm currently working on the next adventure. If any of you that took the time out of your day to read my scribblings would be be kind enough to let me inflict, er... Would like to volunteer to read over my rough drafts and give me some feedback before I post the final version here, I'd really appreciate it.

Thank you, Guid, Lady Tevar, Singular Quartet, and JME2 for taking the time to comment on this travesty against all that is good and pure about comic book superheroes.

Thanks everyone for reading my lame excuse of a parody, and thank you to Mr. Wong for giving me a place to post it.

[The Guid]

I'd love to volunteer my services as a rough draft reader though I don't know what I would have added/amended/suggested on this one but if it makes you feel better I would love to.

Very much enjoyed the ending of this adventure, beautifully set up.

And I don't know much about superheroes at all so the fic. does transcend all levels of knowledge.

[JME2]

...

Coffee, You did it again.

Everything was fine on my end until Rathy said:

“I’LL NEVER GIVE YOU MY LUCKY CHARM,”

The second I read the last two words, I knew exactly what was coming in the following paragraph and that didn't stop me from spitting out my mineral water and laughing my ass off (note to self -- never drink/eat while reading Coffee's stories ).

Anyway, yeah, I'd be interested in helping out.

[LadyTevar]

That was just too damn funny... especially the Monologue that got Rathy-boy the Irish Beatdown.

[Mr. Coffee]

JME2, I appologize for any damage to your keyboard as a result of my scribblings. Maybe I should include a legal disclaimer about incidental damage or destruction caused by laughter induced nasal liquid launch incident.

Lady Tevar, it brightens my day to know that I could bring a smile to you're day with my scribbling. Thank you for reading and taking the time to comment.

[JME2]

JME2, I appologize for any damage to your keyboard as a result of my scribblings. Maybe I should include a legal disclaimer about incidental damage or destruction caused by laughter induced nasal liquid launch incident.

Trust me, I do far more damage to my keyboard on my own.

[Singular Quartet]

Fucking great, man. Excellent. Now hurry up and work out the next adventure.

[Setesh]

This feels deja vous-ish to me but that could be the Mutants & Masterminds game I'm running. Or the copy of Stormwatch team achillies in my bathroom.

(p.s. if someone doesn't comment on the 2 new chapters of legacy soon I'm going nucking futs, its on 3 boards, 2 fanfic archieves and my live journel with a total of 83 veiws and no ones made a single comment good or bad aaaaaahhhhhh.}