The Create-A-Post Thread

With a strained heave, I pull myself through the window. Every inch of my body aches. I collapse on the floor with a loud thud. Wincing, I struggle to pull myself to my feet. Tonight wasn't the most productive of nights. My arms and legs are marked with multiple knife wounds, and a bullet is lodged in my side. In short, I took a beating - my first of this campaign. I don't know what hurts more: the pain or the fact that they now know I can be hurt.

My thoughts are interrupted by hurried footsteps. I scramble frantically, but my body is too sore to move quickly. I'm kneeling when the door swings open. Alfred is standing in the doorway, frying pan in hand. It would almost be laughable if I wasn't in such a compromising position. "Who the blazes are you?" he asks angrily. His eyes are filled with the same terror I recognize in the eyes of my opponents.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I growl as I remove my cowl. I drop the reinforced piece of cloth to the carpeted floor as I stand up. Alfred is speechless. I don't blame him. "Tell me," I begin, "How much of your first aid training do you remember?"

Alfred lowers the frying pan. "Bruce?" His eyes dart back and forth, searching for an explanation other than the obvious one. Failing to find it, he asks, "You're this Bat character? I...I don't believe it."

"I'll explain everything in a minute, Alfred," I promise. I remove my hand from my side to let him see the blood staining my costume. His eyes widen at the sight. "Right now, I could really use some help." My knees begin to buckle.

"Of course." Alfred drops the frying pan and dashes off into the hallway. I fall to the floor, groaning in pain. Each time I close my eyes, I picture my parents. I roll over pointedly, and stinging sensations run up and down my torso. A moment later, Alfred reappears holding a small metal box. He kneels by my side and begins cleaning my gunshot wound.

As he works, I ask, "Have you ever felt like you had to do something - no matter how crazy it sounded?" Alfred tugs on my costume's seam and rips it open. The blood flows more freely from my wound. I roll my head around, trying my best to remain conscious.

"As a matter of fact, I have," Alfred answers honestly. He sticks his finger into the wound, and I groan involuntarily. Alfred continues cleaning it out with a handkerchief. "Joining the war," he explains. "But don't try to tell me this is the same as that." He begins wetting a cotton ball with alcohol.

"Can't you see that they are, though, Alfred?" I plead. Regardless of how it may seem at times, no one understands how crazy this "mission" of mine seems more than me. I scream as Alfred presses the cotton ball against the wound. "I'm fighting a war here. It's just as real as the War in Europe. And, like the war, certain tactics must be employed to guarantee victory."

Alfred rolls his eyes and searches the first aid kit. My heart drops when I see him examining a pair of tweezers in the light. "So, in order to fight crime, you have to dress up like a giant bat?" he asks skeptically.

"Well, it didn't necessarily have to be a bat, but I thought the imagery was fitting." I wince as Alfred digs the tweezers into my wound. Nothing in this world could possibly prepare you for that feeling. "You said it yourself: Gotham is crazy. Sometimes you have to accept that if you can't beat 'em--" I pause as the pain and discomfort makes it impossible to continue. Alfred twists the tweezers a different way, and I stop seeing spots. "--you have to join them."

With a grunt, Alfred tugs on the tweezers and yanks them out of my side. He managed to pull out the bullet. He immediately puts pressure on my wound, which had started to bleed more profusely. "Don't you think this is taking it a little far? I mean, look at yourself!"

Obeying, I lift my head and examine my battered body. It is a hefty price to pay.

"Look, your business is your business," Alfred announces, freeing himself from liability. "But a few more nights like this, and you'll be lying dead in an alley." He points to my bleeding wound. "You're damned lucky that bullet didn't nick your spleen, or you'd be explaining it to a doctor in the emergency room right now."

I laugh, and it causes me to wince once more. "Well, Alfred, you did say that you wanted a way to repay me for my hospitality."

 

Jeremiah Arkham's Asylum is located on the far outskirts of Gotham. It was originally a sanatorium during a major tuberculosis scare in the late nineteenth century. After being closed, the sanatorium and accompanying land were purchased by Jeremiah Arkham. His sister, Elizabeth, suffered from mental illness for much of her life. Jeremiah converted the old sanatorium into a place where people like Elizabeth could seek treatment. It is more popular now as a comfortable alternative to prison.

In a place like the Asylum - where half the inmates actually are insane, and the other half are mobsters pretending to be - a man like Carmine Falcone is king. Even the staff respects and, to a certain extent, fears Falcone's power. That is why, on days like today, if Falcone requests time alone with Johnny Viti - one of his most trusted lieutenants - no one dares object.

"What's the word?" Falcone grumbles. The dark circles under his eyes testify to the lack of sleep he's gotten in the Asylum. His time inside has been more trying than he expected. Had he known how draining the "crazies" could be, he might have given more thought to going to Blackgate.

Viti shifts in his chair, a coy smile on his lips. He's happy with himself, and he can't wait to see how Falcone responds. "I found someone that can help us with our Bat problem," Viti explains excitedly. The Bat-Man had only been around a few weeks, but he was already systematically tearing through the Falcone crime family. It was giving everyone a headache.

Falcone leans forward interestedly. "You found someone?" He was surprised. Johnny Viti was a great many things, but he seemed to lack ambition. He never went out and did things for himself. His dedication to getting rid of the Bat-Man was promising.

"Well, he found me," Viti admits. He licks his lips excitedly. "This guy, he has quite the résumé. And - for the kind of reward he's asking for - it's a steal!" Admittedly, Viti was initially skeptical about this assassin's willingness to work for almost nothing. He had assured Viti, however, that it wasn't about the money. It was about the bragging rights that would come with killing the Bat-Man.

Falcone hesitated. "I want to know he's legitimate," he explains cautiously. "If we hire some dumb mook, and he gets himself caught, that could look very bad for us." The last thing Falcone needed was an "attempted murder" charge on his rap sheet. He was having a hard enough time wiggling out of this situation as it was. "You find him, and you tell him I want proof."

***

Johnny Viti couldn't get to Falcone's cell fast enough. Rounding the corner, he nearly runs into a guard. Viti explains that he was going to see Falcone, and the guard steps out of his way. Viti continues his hurried pace down the corridor, folded newspaper in hand. Finally, he finds himself at the door to Falcone's cell. "Roman! Roman! He did it," Viti announces through shortened breaths.

A guard opens the door for Viti, and he bursts into the cell. Falcone, who was sitting on his bed, stands up alertly. "What? What is it?" Falcone asks irritably. Another night of limited sleep has made him cranky. He walks up to Viti and takes the newspaper from his hands. "What's this?"

"He did it!" Viti repeats once more. Falcone looks down and notices the headline. His head jerks back up and he stares Viti in the eyes. "I spoke to him yesterday. I told him everything you said, and he did it. He gave you proof."

"MAYOR HILL MURDERED!"

Falcone is at a loss for words. Viti leans over the paper and points frantically at a circled section. "He left a calling card to prove it was him. The cops don't know what it means, but he's talking to us!" Viti's beaming broadly. Falcone looks at him, then back at the paper.

"...the only piece of evidence the police were able to obtain from the crime scene was a small playing card - a Joker, to be specific. On the face of the card, an inscription was written in a barely legible font. It read:

'BELIEVE ME NOW?"

The police were unable to comment on the message's meaning."

Falcone lowers the paper in disbelief. This assassin that Viti had found, he had managed to kill the Mayor of Gotham without getting caught - without even being noticed! Falcone hadn't seen such precision and expertise before. It was breathtaking. It also left him with an ominous chill. From the moment the words left his mouth, Falcone regretted saying, "Hire him."
​

 

So I was trawling through the old threads up here and, well...this occured. For those that don't know, A.J.Raffles was the opposite of Holmes, a gentleman thief if you will.

The year is 1916 and Europe is in the throws of war. The British Empire, ruled by the old and wise Queen Victoria, battles Germany on it's Western Front. France has already fallen to the vicious Hun, although the Americas and Russia's strange new government have declined to intervene. Amongst the chaos of the war, a group of British citizens disguised as Germans, make their way through Berlin.


"That's the second patrol of Frankenstein's...abominations that we have passed this hour," Van Helsing muttered "I'm sure that we are discovered,"

"Hush, my dear doctor," Elizabeth hissed, brushing her long hair out of her eyes, and trying desperately not to raise her voice.

"Miss Lavensa, Doctor Van Helsing, if the two of you don't remain quiet and calm then I shall be forced to gag you for the remainder of this trip," Mr. Raffles said, inspecting the lock on the door.

"I still can't quite believe it, even now. Such creatures as these littering the world," Elizabeth said.

"Indeed, it is a most fascinating occurance, and they are becoming even more apparant as of late," Van Helsing enthused "Though I can only claim to be a talented amateur,"

"Well Mrs Harker certainly thought that we were the most appropriate people for the job," Raffles said, his voice muffled due to one of the many picks that were currently held in his teeth "Mr. Hyde was certainly very disappointed to to be accompanying you Elizabeth,"

Lavensa sniffed and tilted her head a measure "I'm not entirely sure what use I can be on this quest of ours,"

"Oh, I'm sure Mrs Harker has some idea. She certainly seems like a woman who's very aware of all the facts," Raffles said, a trace of bitterness in his voice, as the door swung inwards.

Van Helsing picked up his doctor's bag, bringing up the rear as the trio entered the dark caverns of the Reichstag.

"Oh yes, whatever happened to that...travelling companion of yours?" Van Helsing asked with a smirk on his face.

"That would be my business, and none of your concern," Raffles said through gritted teeth.

"You seem to have picked the single most dusty and ill-used part of the entire building, Mr. Raffles," Elizabeth said, traces of her accent obvious in her voice.

"That was entirely the point," Raffles said witheringly.

The small group walked through the cavernous cellars of the Reichstag in compartive silence. Twice they were almost caught by patrolling German soldiers, although both times Raffles ensured that they were hidden behind certain objects. Using the light from a match, Elizabeth Lavensa looked through the door into every room that they passed. Eventually she let out something between a sigh and a sob and burst into the room. Sharing a confused look the two men followed her.

"Oh my dear Victor," she cried "What have they done to you?"

The thing that she referred to as Victor was a sallow, skeleton of a man, naked save for a ragged piece of cloth that was wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl. His filthy frame shook as Elizabeth held him against her breast.

"I didn't know," he whispered "I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know,"

He said it over and over again, a mantra to his own insanity. He looked into her face and there was a brief spark of recognition.

"How could I know? I didn't mean to-Oh God I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." he sobbed, tears making clean tracks through his dirt encrusted face.

"Hush my darling," Elizabeth said soothingly, her own eyes tearful now.

"I wanted to create life, I wanted to make it better. I thought I could save people, I thought I could, I thought I could," he muttered, a muscle under his eye twitching "It's alive. It's alive! IT'S ALIVE!"

The madman started screaming, and the two men span around at the sound of footsteps hammering down on the corridor outside.

"Die zelle des ungeheuers!"

"What did they say?" Van Helsing asked, panicked.

"I don't speak bloody Hun!" Raffles growled, trying to drag Elizabeth away from the madman. Instead she merely shook off his hands, rocking backwards and forwards with Victor's head in her lap.

Giving up, the two men sped out of the cell, hiding in an alcove a few short steps away as the German guards made their way into the cell. There were two short rifle retorts and the screaming stopped.

"My God," Van Helsing breathed after the guards walked away, dragging a body with them.

"Let's not give up now Abraham," Raffles said sincerely "Orlok's room must be here somewhere,"

"But they'll be turned into those...monsters," the Dutchman whispered.

"Yes, and it is up to us to prevent another breed of monsters from taking roost here, like Russia," Raffles said as the pair hurried down the corridor, lighting another match.

"So it's true," Van Helsing said "Count Dracula is really the creature behind Rasputin's party,"

Raffles raised an eyebrow.

"You know Dracula?" he asked. Van Helsing waved a hand.

"We've met once," he muttered.

Eventually they came to Count Orlok's room. The windows were boarded up and in the centre, just a little away from the desk, was an oak wood coffin. Van Helsing opened up his doctor's bag, pulling out a hammer that he passed to Raffles. He himself held a large wooden stake. Between the two of them, they lifted the lid off the coffin and set it gently on the ground.

The most powerful thing was the stench. It was impossible to tell if it was the slightly damp earth that lay at the bottom of the coffin, or the skeletal thing that lay there in deep sleep. It resembled something between a rat and a spider, spindly fingers splayed across it's chest, beady eyes closed. Van Helsing pressed the tip of the stake against it's heart and nodded to Raffles, closing his eyes slightly. The gentleman theif slammed the hammer down, knocking it through his heart. The monster's eyes opened and it screamed something unearthly. For a second it seemed as though it was covered entirely in a sickly flame, and it's spiderlike hands clawed at Van Helsing's face. The Dutch doctor dutifully held the stake in place, and eventually the monster turned to dust and ashes.

The pair were silent for a second, though the doctor was visibly shaking.

"I'm getting far too old for this," he whispered.

"Let's get going Doctor," Raffles said "Hook said he'd be waiting when we're done,"

 

Prelude​

"Parker? Parker, wake the f*** up!"

"Hnn... 5 more minutes, Aunt May..."

"Parker, get up before I put a damn bullet through your head..."

"Wh-what? What happened?"

"On your feet, Parker. We need your help..."

My body. It was so racked with pain. After a few seconds, my vision started to become less blurred and began to focus. I noticed that I was lying on the ground. New York was in shambles, and there was smoke and fire all around me.

Then it all started to come back to me. The Hulk... Dr. Strange... That Dormammu thing... A huge explosion. Then black.

As the pain started subsiding, I heaved myself back up and stood upright.

I turned around and saw Strange's house burnt to a cinder. Guess that stuff about Hulk making Strange's house blow up wasn't a dream. But then it hit me...

"Wait... Fury!?! How the hell did you escape that alternate dimension!?!"

"I'll explain all that later, kid... For now, we need your help. We're gonna bring the fight back to Magneto." Fury said as he handed me back my mask before I put it back on.

"Whose 'we'?"

"That'd be us..."

​

Looking at Captain America, Iron Man, Hawkeye and Fury all standing before me amongst the rubble, I could only say one thing.

"Hmm... A nut, a drunk and an emo. Looks like you've assembled a crack team, chief..."

"Can it, Parker. The X-Men and Fantastic Four are already en route to the Citadel. In the meantime, we're gonna storm through Magneto's defenses and take back that f***in' hammer."

"Barging into the home of one of the world's most powerful muatnts armed with a weapon created by the gods themselves? Great. Sounds like a typical Sunday to me..."

"Sorry to interrupt, Gentlemen, but can we finish up the pleasantries here and get going?"

Just then a giant jet landed down behind them. On the side, the word "Quinjet" was emblazoned above it's wing.

Looks like I'm gonna have to follow the yellow brick road on this one...

"Lead the way, Tin Man..."

Blacklight presents The Ultimate Universe in​

ULTIMATUM: HOW IT SHOULD'VE ENDED...​

 

Didn't know this thread existed. Anyways, I mentioned in the FtPo recruitment thread that I had at one point considered joining as Frank N. Furter (for laughs more than anything else), after being kind of inspired by my avy. I was gonna have this gimmick where each of my posts would contain at least 1 song, since Rocky Horror is a musical and all. Anyways, I typed up a sample post that I was to use for my application but I never filled out the rest of the app after I decided not to join. This would have been my sample and opening post:

OOC: Green = Narrator/Criminologist, Gold= Rocky Horror, a creation, Black = Phantoms (omnipresent ghosts that provide harmonies & backup vocals)

IC:
The two bodies were anchored to the bottom of the swimming pool, entombed in a mountain of rubble. The corpses were dressed similarly—tattered, soggy, flamboyant corsets, fishnet stockings, and high heels—but the bodies themselves were very different. One was a hideous, molding, water-logged corpse. It’s dark, drenched, frizzy hair flowed wildly in the water, like thousands of thin black tendrils twirling and swaying in every which direction. It was a man of slight build, with pasty, decaying flesh beginning to drip off the slender muscles. The other body, despite being blasted, crushed and drowned, was at the pith of perfection—bulging, perfect muscles, bronze skin, and silky golden hair. One would never guess he had been dead for quite some time. Then something happened. The body that would make Atlas himself envious…twitched. Then, splashed. Then, thrashed...

…and opened its eyes.

“huuhhhhhh…..Oooh!
I knooow how it feels
To be… coolin’ my hee-eels
I’ve been down on them…
Long enough!

But if I taaake to them na-how,
Then may-be somehow-ow
You’ll see through the bluff.
I’m not plaaay-ying it tough!!!

I’ve been a lifetime on deposit,
And that’s a long time in the closet!!!
And if you say to me:”

“HOW WAS IT?”

“It was hard- taking
That heart-breaking,
God forsaken route!
But I’m:”

“BUH BUH BUH BUH BA-DUH”

“BREAKING OUT!

You may say that you’d chose
To be…in my shoes
But look what it…did for me!
I got buried ali-ive!
And I don’t thrive for that jive!
Look and you’ll see
THAT THE SPIKES DON’T FIT ME!!!

I’ve been a lifetime on deposit,
And that’s a long time in the closet!!!
And if you say to me:”

“HOW WAS IT?”

“It was hard-taking
That heart-breaking,
God forsaken route!
But I’m:”

“BUH BUH BUH BUH BA-DUH”

“BREAKING OUT!”

“BREAKING OUT!”

“BREAKING OUT!!!”

“BREAKING OUT!!”

“BREAKING OUT!”

“BREAKING OUT!!”

“Iiiii’mmm BRRREEEAKING OOOUUUT!!!”

The Olympian figure leapt out of the pool, the moldy corpse of his creator slung over his back, and ran off into the night.

OOC: Here is a rendition of the song in my post: [YT]_kIZSv3MJnM[/YT]

 

The creation of the All Star Marvel RPG kind of coincided with me reflecting, from a narrative standpoint, on reboots and "ultimizations." I sort of reached a conclusion about them, specifically about how I felt about them. I like them. I like them a lot. But I don't like it when they're sole purpose is to make older characters hip and extreme. I see their purpose, what they should be trying to accomplish, as something similar to what T.H. White did with Aurthurian lore on The Once and Future King: Taking a character and mythos who's stories, by virtue of having been made by hundreds of writers over the years, are all over the place in terms of tone and often quite contradictory, and condensing it into one, concise narrative with a central thematic arc that stays true to the essence of the character and the mythos. With that in mind, I worked on an idea for an All Star Spider-Man with Wonder Years style narration. This is a revised version of my sample post, which serves as the prologue:

It's winter. The dry, cold, windy kind of winter New York often has in the weeks after New Years, much more reminiscent of a grave than of Christmas trees and roasting chestnuts. Fully aware of this, Sarah Bishop climbs up to the roof of her apartment building and embraces the pain.

Immediately, all thoughts besides the cold vanish. Annoyance would normally follow soon after, but she is far too nervous to be annoyed. Here she is, with only two years as a journalist and one book under her belt, about to meet, to work with, one of the most famous men in the city.

She looks at her watch, anxiously, and pulls out her papers, checking over her notes and research. She wants to be ready when he...

She jumps and falls on her back in the snow when she hears a soft thud behind her.

She hears a man's voice, muffled by a thin layer of fabric.

"I'm sorry, didn't mean to startle you,"

A gloved hand reaches down for hers and helps her to her feet.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine..." she says, her voice trailing off. She doesn't know what to say. She barely knows what to think, other than it's him.

"Web swinging's not always exact. Can't always land right where you want to. Or very gently. Again, I'm really sorry."

"It's... it's alright."

She can't help but notice that, up close, his costume looks obviously home made. In the pictures, where he's moving, right in the thick of things, it looks appropriately superhuman. But in person, she can see the stitching, that it's made of what looks like pretty cheap cotton, and that the lenses appear to have been cannibalized from a pair of ski goggles.

"So," he asks, "where do we begin?"

She remains silent as she thinks that over for a few seconds.

"Why are we on the roof?"

"Well, that..." he says. He wanders over to the edge of the roof.

"Come over here" he calls back to her.

She slowly moves herself over to the side, increasingly mindful of the height.

"Look down," he says.

"I'd rather not."

"The reason I wanted to meet up here is... it's about perspective. You're not going to be able to help me write the book is you don't know what things are like from my point of view. And some things I can't explain to you. Look down."

She peeks over the edge. She's very quickly hit by a sense of vertigo and begin to lose her balance, the panic that causes only making things worse.

"Woah there," he says, steadying her with his right hand. "It's scary at first. You get used to it. That's the point."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"I have a question, sir."

"Oh, Jesus, you're making me feel old."

"I'm sorry..."

"I mean, I am old, but you don't have to draw attention to it."

"Heh. Right. But, I'm curious... why do you need me?"

"I like how you write."

"Thank you. But what I'm asking is... there have been dozens of biographies made about you. You've given hundreds of interviews. And you've said that more than a few of them are accurate."

"Yes..." he says. For a brief moment, he stares down at the street below, quietly. He seems like he's looking for words somewhere out in the city.

"I have a story to tell."

"But..."

"They got the facts right. But it was never my story, it was always a story about me. Everyone was focused on figuring me out and explaining all the ways I changed New York forever. I don't like that. My story isn't about me, it's about what I've witnessed and the people who made me who I am. No one knows about so many great people who are apart of that story. It doesn't belong to me. It belongs to New York if anything. The old gal's been through a lot and I just happened to be there for some of it and helped out where I could."

"Oh..." she says, not sure how to respond.

"And I picked you because the way you write... you focus on the small details that make things happen. You understand how everything's connected and how it's not just about the major players. You see the web, pardon the pun."

She smiles.

"Thank you," she says.

"You're welcome. I don't give compliments I don't mean. So what should we talk about first?"

"Well... I mean, I've never helped someone write an autobiography before, but I guess you should figure out a good place to start the book from. I'll take notes if you want to just talk for a while."

"Alright," he says. "Good place to start. Huh."

His gaze drifts towards the city streets again. The pause is shorter this time.

"I did a decade and a half of living before I became a super hero. But... well, I guess when things got interesting, at least from my point of view... where the real story starts... well, it all started when I was fifteen years old..."

 

I might revise and repost this again. Just some minor tweaks in word choice.

 

I must say, that is very impressive. I would love to do something similar, but I'd feel like I was utterly plagarising you.

 

I'm assuming that that particular Spider-Man is towards the end of his career, right?

 

Yeah. The idea is that it's the story of a 15 year old Spider-Man when he first starts out being narrated by a 60 year old Spider-Man, who's identity is public and who's a member of The Avengers.

 

Nice idea.

 

So this is an idea Andy and I discussed during a late-night (late for me) bull session. Most of the credit goes to Andy, but I helped, dammit!

Hulk and Brainiac at The Oscars

"Good evening, film fans of Earth. It is the eve of the presentation of the academy awards and, as always, I am here with my partner Hulk to deliver our picks as to who will bring home the Oscar. Welcome, Hulk. How are you this evening?

"HULK FINE!"

"Excellent. Let's begin things with the top category of Best Picture. We have ten nominees this year, quite a change from last year. I will say that my pick goes to The Hurt Locker, a tense well made movie about the dealings of a bomb disposal unit in Iraq. Very engaging movie and my favorite of 2009...Hulk?"

"HULK LIKE AVATAR'S GRAPHICS! PRETTY BLUE MEN MAKE HULK LAUGH!"

"Quite right, Hulk. Moving on to the next category. For Best Actor, we have the traditional five picks. My pick goes to Clooney. In Up in The Air his turn as a man at the crossroads of his life is excellent. It seems the character he plays mirrors Clooneys life to some extent, and his performance shows his true acting skills."

"HULK LIKE MORGAN FREEMAN!!!"


"I see your point, old friend. For Lead Actress For me, the award is Gaboruey Sidibie's to lose. In Precious, she really makes you feel that she has so much to overcome. It is an emotional, heartfelt and uplifting story of epic magnitude....if I had emotions, I am sure I would cry. Hulk?"

"HULK LIKES SANDRA BULLOCK'S BOOBS!"

"What a thrilling upset. Hulk is picking that a body part will win the award. The closest we've had to something like that was last year when Heath Ledger's corpse was awarded the prize. For Best Supporting Male, I will choose Christoph Waltz from Inglorious Basterds. One of the most revolting characters in cinema in past few years, but Waltz makes the Jew Hunter likable and charming."

"I believe my pick will be for Christopher Plummer in The Last Station. He plays Leo Tolstoy effectively and convincingly. The 80 year old Plummer has gained his first Oscar nomination, and I believe it should be his first win as well."

"Interesting...insight...are you alright?"

"I'm as right as rain, chum."

"Well, what's your pick for Best Supporting Actress?"

"HULK LIKE MO'NIQUE!"

"There he is. Will take this chance to go to break. When we come back, we'll go over our picks for the rest of the Oscar field, including Best Director."

"HULK LIKE QUENTIN TARANTINO!"

"Hulk! Don't give it away, yet! We'll back after this..."
​

 

Heath Ledger's corpse.

 

So this thread's alive again? Mh...I feel the urge for Episode 2 of Everybody hates Arthur...

 

This is a scene that's been kicking around in my head ever since the inception of All-Star Marvel, one I've been dying to write. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be usable for the game until somewhere around Season 4 or 5, and given the relative lifespans of the games, I doubt the game will last quite that long. So taken a little bit out of context, here's a glimpse of life for Spider-Man in the far future of the game:

Date Night:​

"I hate this place," I mutter to myself as I slick back my hair in a futile gesture to make myself presentable. And it's absolutely true; I've hated this place for as long as I can remember. Sure, the scenery is beautiful, especially this time of year, but this place is full of painful things. Memories I'd rather not remember, people I'd rather not see.

Yet here I am, cheap suit and bad cologne. I may hate this place, but I always come. It's a special occasion, after all. Tonight is date night.

I sheepishly approach her, smiling weakly. Mary Jane Watson is undoubtedly my life and my heart, but there's still a little room in my soul for the girl I'm seeing tonight. I'm still a little amazed that MJ is cool with this; I won't lie and say I don't feel a little guilty about it. But like she said, I need this.

"H--...hey, um, long time no see," I say nervously as I sit down on the grass beside her. I always did have trouble starting a conversation with her- once we got started we could go on for hours, but at the start I was always all sputters and false starts. Today's no different.

"I bought some flowers to bring, but, ermm...Scorpion decided today was a good day to go Spider-Slaying with his crew. I managed to prove them wrong, but well, the flowers didn't make it. I guess it's for the best- I never did find out which ones were your favorite, so I just grabbed a bunch of random ones and figured the right one would be in there somewhere. Typical Parker logic, huh?"

I laugh at my own little bit of self-deprecation.

"Anyway, lot of stuff has been going on since our last date night, so I guess I oughta get you caught up. The Bugle offered me a full-time contract, freaking finally. Guess being nominated for a Pulitzer was enough to convince Jonah that I'm worth the cash. I didn't win it, but hey, nice to be nominated, right?

"I'm still doing the Spider-Man thing, too, and I actually am starting to make a name for myself. I'm even on the Avengers now!...as a reserve member, but still. Beats the days of knocking around Marko and O'Hirn with my stupid ski goggles. They're still around, too, same superpowers and everything. At least they're thinking like small-timers. Not like Octavius, or that Hobgoblin guy. I really don't like Hobgoblin. Reminds me of someone I liked even less...

"Oh, speaking of, I ran into Harry last week. He's....well, he's still pretty messed up. Saw him at some Oscorp event, and not ten minutes later he's in his old man's costume trying to kill me. I don't know how to help him, I just- ...poor guy was my best friend next to you, and now he's so screwed that I doubt I can ever really get him back. At least Eddie's coma keeps him unconscious so he doesn't know about all the awful things Venom is doing. Everyone from the old days is just....even me, I mean...

"Oh, I didn't tell you, did I? There's, like, a fifty-fifty chance that I'm not even the real Peter Parker. You remember Dr. Warren, the Jackal? Y'know, the guy who made..the kids. They're doing better, by the way. Sarah even paused for a second before trying to kill me last time, so I guess that's progress. I wish you could see them: screwed up and wrong as they are, they're still beautiful. They've both got your face, and my eyes. Just a shame they've got the hearts and minds of a vengeance-crazed mad scientist. I know I shouldn't enjoy hurting people, but I got a lot of satisfaction from beating the crap out of Warren."

There's a little bit of an edge to my voice when I think about the Jackal. Sure, Venom and Doc Ock have hurt me way more phsyically, and the Green Goblin and this new Hobgoblin guy have damaged my life in more ways than I can count, but Miles Warren actually screwed with my genetics...and more. He took the one perfect night my date and I had together, and turned it into something evil. And when that wasn't enough, he stole and copied my identity down to every level. Or at least, he copied Peter Parker's. And that's the thing that messes with me the most.

"Sorry, got a little off topic. So yeah, after Jackal finds out Spidey's on his trail, what does he do? Clones Peter Parker. Completely identical, same powers, only he goes one step further. He copies Peter's brainwave patterns, recreates the chemical pathways and neural connections that store memory and emotion. The clone has the same memories, same personality, same everything. We have a fight, and the whole place comes down around us. I survived, but the other one....didn't. And I don't know which one I am.

"Needless to say, it's been screwing with me ever since, but I've tried to come to terms with it. Like everything else, Mary Jane has been a huge help in keeping me halfway sane. At the very least, I don't wake up screaming in the dead of night quite as often anymore...

"...Well, I guess it's getting pretty late, and I need to get going," I say after a few minutes of just lying quietly with her, "Mary Jane said she's gonna try her hand at cooking tonight, so that should be...interesting. I know, you probably don't want to hear about me and MJ, but honestly, who else can I talk to about it? Things between me and her are still kinda...weird. I mean, mask and tights stuff aside, there's always the big elephaant in the room, the fact that this really isn't what either of us wanted. Still, I'm determined to make it work, because, well...I think I love her. I just didn't wanna admit it, because I thought it wouldn't be fair to you...but by doing that, I wasn't being fair to her either. Or to myself.

"I haven't forgotten my promise, though. Every time I put on my mask, every time I sling a web...I think about you. Every time.

"Anyway, I really do need to get going, but hey, it was...really great to talk to you again."

I stand up, place a kiss on my fingertips, then touch them to her headstone.

"Happy birthday, Gwen. Miss you. Love you. Always."

I wipe the tears from my eyes, swallow the lump in my throat, and start walking towards home.

 

Inspired AGAIN by a chat I had with Master Bruce.

"Everybody Hates Arthur"

Part II




Justice League Watchtower

Gathered within the meeting room of the intergalactic headquarters of the justice league watchtower, Earth's greatest heroes take their seats aroung the large table at the center of the room.

"Alright," Superman says, pausing for a moment as the heroes come to attention. "We've just recieved word from Black Canary and Green Arrow. After responding to the emergency alarm from Cadmus, they discovered Toyman and Mirror Master trying to steal the new geothermic techtonic stimulator. Mirror Master got away with the device, but they were able to apprehend Toyman."
"Uh, Superman?" Flash interjects, raising his hand high above his head.
"Yes?"
"What's a geothermic techtonic stimulator?"
"Due to the increase in earthquakes worldwide, Proffessor Kirby developed the machine to regulate the techtonic plates by causing opposing vibrations through the Earth's crust to stop the affects of aftershocks."
"So, essentially, it creates an earthquake to stop an earthquake?"
"Yes, exactly."
"But...that doesn't even make sense. You'd still be sending tremors in the other three directions, causing more destruction than the original quake would've. ... Who the hell would fund this?"

"Lex Luthor." Batman says in a grisly bellow. Flash leans back in his chair, slouching slightly as he folds his arms over his chest.
"Figures. Guess I owe Question an apology."
"Why?" Hal Jordon, the Green Lantern, asks curiously.
"He told me scientists were working on an earthquake machine. I thought it was just another one of his conspiracy theories. Guess I should listen to him more often."
"...you do know he thinks Hannah Montanna is Intergang's new leader, right?"
"Yes, Flash. Even a broken clock is right twice a day," Batman remarks objectively.
"Who taught you that one, Two Face?"

"Anyway," Superman shouts as he tries to restore order to the meeting. "Canary and Arrow interrogated Toyman and discovered the motive behind the theft. Apparently Black Manta has gathered a small group of villains together in the South Pacific. They're plotting to use the device to generate tsunamis that will wipe out the coastal cities of the world. Justice League, we have a situation." Superman takes a slight pause as his demeanor changes to a more stern and serious manner. "We have to call Aquaman."

The group suddenly errupts in a loud groan of disappointment.
"Aw, come on."
"No way, man. No."
"Yeah, Supes, why do we have to call Arthur?"
"We face a dire marine emergency, Flash. Aquaman's powers are water based, he's an invaluable asset."
"Yeah, in this instance." Hawkman grumbles under his breath.

"Yeah, but just because he's an asset doesn't mean we need him. We can handle this without him."
"Yes," Red Tornado agrees. "While Aquaman could provide constructive assistance, his presence is not required to achieve victory."
"See? SEE! Even the robot doesn't want him."
"Android."
"Android, whatever."

"Look, Arthur's a member of this team and he can be a great help in this current threat."
"But I don't want to call Aquaman," Flash whines childishly.
"Trust me," Batman starts, leaning forward slightly. "No one wants to call him."
"Oh, Come on, Arthur's not that bad."
"Clark, I'd rather have a picnic with the Joker than work with Aquaman."
"Well I can appreciate that," Flash says with a grin. "At least Joker would tell some funny jokes."
"Yes, that last joke he told about the mollusk and the anemonie was astoundingly terrible."
"What do you expect? The man talks to fish all day."

"Enough," Superman says, pounding his fist down on the table. "We're calling Aquaman and that's final." The sound of disgruntled mummbling circles the room as the group reluctantly complies. Superman puts his finger to the device resting inside his ear, opening a comlink with the network. "Oracle, patch me through to Aquaman."

The line begins to ring as Superman awaits a response from his aquatic ally. "Hello?" A voice says through the rough static on the other end.
"Arthur, it's Superman. We-"
"SUPERMAN!" Aquaman shouts loudly, cutting the man of steel off mid sentence. "How good it is to hear from you. How goes Metropolis?"
"Fine. Listen, Arthur-"
"Ah, good news. All goes well here in Atlantis. I've been teaching Blue Beetle in the ways of proper protocol here in the mighty seas of Posiedon."
"Wait, Jaime is with you?"
"Why, yes. He told me the League sent him here to apprentice under my tutelage for a month as part of his initiation."
"What? Who told him that?"

Flash bites his lip as he struggles to stiffle his aproarious laughter. Superman catches the sight out of the corner of his eye and lets out a heavy sigh. "Nevermind ... Anyway, the League needs your help."
"Great! I've been craving some action. What's the situation, old chum?"
"Black Manta's stolen a machine that generates earthquakes and plans to wipe out the coasts of the world. He's hiding somewhere in the ocean and we've got to stop him immediately. We'll rendezvous with you at Atlantis' gates in ten minutes."
"Black Manta! That nefarious fiend. Why, I remember the last time I fought him. It was in the chilled waters of the arctic, and there I was, all alone with-
"Right, gotta go, Arthur, see you there." Superman takes his finger off the earpiece and severs the comlink quickly.

Taking in a deep breath, he lowers his arm to his side and turns back toward the heroes at the table. "Alright, team, you know what we've got to do. We'll go to the teleporters and meet up with Arthur down on earth." The group rises to their feet and make their way toward the large automatic doors at the room's rear.
"Alright, I'll go..." Flash says reluctantly. Suddenly, he bolts across the room in a red haze, disappearing as he moves at speeds too fast for normal eyes to comprehend. He stops abruptly next to Batman, slowing his vibration as he reaches toward the caped crusaders belt. "But I'm borrowing your shark repellent spray, Bats." Batman's arm quickly flairs out, grabbing the Flash's arm before his fingers could touch the belt strapped tightly around his waist.
"Don't touch." Batman says sternly, crushing Flash's arm within his grasp.
"Ow, ow, ow." He whimpers, shaking his arm violently as he breaks free from the hold. "Alright, alright. Jeez, Bats, lighten up a bit."
"Maybe you should get serious, Wally."
"Okay, I'll make you a deal. I'll cut down on the jokes if you let me ride with you in your submarine."
"...why?" He asks suspiciously.
"The hull's pretty tight in there, right? You can't communicate with anyone except through your comlink." Flash grins, staring at Batman with a look of appreciation. "That means you can cut Arthur's comlink during the mission." Suddenly, Batman smiles, his expression catching the Flash by surprise.
"You know how the water interferes with our communicators."

"I knew there was a lot I could learn from you." The two heroes walk side by side as they head down the hallway after the rest of the group making their way toward the hanger as the rest of the group heads for the teleporters. "By the way," Flash says, breaking the silence. "Did I ever tell you how terrifying it is when you smile?"
"Once."
"Yeah, I'm gonna need a new suit."
"I think I have one of Robin's old suits in the ship."
"...you know, on second thought, I think I'm okay. ... Wait, Dick's or Tim's?"
"Dick's."
"...yeah, nevermind."

 

God, it's good to see this thread back to life.

Major props to Byrd for actually writing out the Brainiac and Hulk at the Movies thing, we should totally do a collab and make that a regular thing. And Everybody Hates Arthur is quickly becoming how I wish the actual JLA comics were written, so to Syn for that.





Now I expect the ****suckery to be repaid in full, so everyone tell me how great my last post was! I have a very fragile ego that thirsts for acknowledgement!

 

All those long hours of brain-icaining finally paid off, my friend.

My only nitpick is you didn't reveal MJ's secret identity

 

She was just a small town girl, not cut out for the big city. It was midnight in New York and Cindy Reynolds was sick of living in her own lonely world. So she took the first train leaving the tracks, she didn’t care where it was going. To her, it was just the midnight train going anywhere.

The train left the station and the doors rattled. “I’m sorry, is this seat taken?” She shook her head and he sat across from her. They started talking, as travellers do. “I’m just a city boy, raised in South Detroit”, said Jason Rusch. “Where are you going?” she asked. “To me, this is just the midnight train going anywhere.”

Hours later, the train stropped, end of the line. Gotham City. Together, they stepped out onto the streets. In just one bar, the lights were still on. When they stepped in, there was only a singer in a smoky room. There was a smell of wine and cheap perfume. “For a smile, you can spend the night”, the barman said, pointing to the stairs, leading to rooms.

The singer kept singing: “And it goes on and on and on.”

Out of the single window in their room, Jason and Cindy could see the strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard. Two shadows were searching in the night. One dressed in all black, the other in bright green and red. For a second, the streetlight shone on these heroes, these people.
“Why are they out and about?” Jason asked.
“They’re living just to find emotion”, Cindy replied, closing the curtains.
“To me, it just looks like they’re hiding, somewhere in the night.”

The men outside watched as the lights went out. Then they returned their attentions to the men they held by their throats. Their fists were cocked back. The thieves were caught red-handed and were now pleading to be released.
“I was just working hard to get my fill”, the first crook said.
“Everybody wants a thrill”, the second added, between gasps.
“We’d pay anything to roll the dice again.”
“Just one more time.”
“Some will win, some will lose”, the dark avenger replied.
“And some, some were born to sing the blues.” His side-kick belted his captive.
“He’s right”, the larger man agreed. “The movie never ends.”
“And it goes on and on and on”, the boy said as they swung away.
“Don’t stop believing.”

 

Because I didn't get a chance earlier:

Byrd: hilarious
Question: I liked your perspective when you threw up your app for All star, so I'd like to see you continue with this style. It's kinda how I always imagined Peter's inner dialogue in the rpgs - as if he were telling you the story past tense. You just took it to a whole nother level with your idea, so nice job.
Andy: Great post, hoping that All star DOES get to season 4 or 5 so you can do that. (Or, maybe you could do it in season 3, where I believe the rpg will still be alive.)
Harlekin: That was pretty sweet. I didn't know where it was going at first, but then I got it and I was all "" so nice work.
Blacklight: Look forward to seeing Ultimatum done where it doesn't suck.

 

Inspired by Andy (and a means of testing the waters with Norman post breakdown):

Night.

A white hallway, saturated with the smell of cleaning products. Walls lined with transparent doors that look into padded rooms inhabited by broken men and women.

A young man in a red and blue costume knocks on the glass of one of the cells. The patient he is here to see turns. The expression on his face is conflicted; a slight smirk along with a look of dread in his eyes.

"Peter Parker," he says quietly.

"Hello Norman," says the young man. There is a hint of disgust in his voice.

"Hello..." says Norman, his voice cracking slightly. He smiles.

"I'm sorry, I feel like I should offer your something, but..."

He gestures to the rest of his barren cell.

"I need your help, Norman."

"Having a spat with the missus, are we?"

"I need your help with The Hobgoblin," says Peter, ignoring the comment.

"I really am sorry, you know," says Norman.

"I just have a few questions to ask..."

"About Gwen, I mean."

Peter stops.

"What?" he asks.

"About Gwen, I'm sorry. Well, I'm not really. I mean I am, but... I'm sorry I hurt you. And I'm sorry that she died. The game had to be played. We had our roles to play and you weren't playing fair. It was business. Monkey on my back kept screaming and screaming, no that's not right. I am the Goblin. And I must say the sound of her neck going crack was positively orgasmic... you meddling little ****."

Norman's demeanor changes. He's filled with a manic, sickly energy, and the smile on his face could cause women to miscarriage just by looking at it.

"I apologize, at times I can't seem to keep myself together. You'd think I should be committed," he says, and then laughs. "I'm, so... well, what, not funny? Oh, you look so angry. Poor little Peter. This is why you do not **** with a man's business. It was nothing personal IT WAS COMPLETELY PERSONAL you spineless ****, that was the point!" says Norman, his head jerking from left to right as he addresses Peter and himself.

He becomes very still, and looks Peter directly in the eyes.

"I really am sorry, boy. I love you like a son, you know that."

Norman frowns.

"And I deprived you... oh my God I took away..."

Norman smiles.

"... what I mean is, she looked like she had legs that would not quit."

"SHUT UP!" Peter yells at the top of his lungs, no longer able to restrain himself.

"And that little bum of hers... I do recall she looked absolutely sinful in a skirt and knee high socks..."

Peter slams his hand against the glass.

"SHUT UP!" he shouts again.

Norman glances out into the hall.

"Nuh-uh, not allowed," he says, pointing at a security camera.

"The guards are taken care of," says Peter, coldly and quietly. "Behave."

Norman smiles, gently this time, beaming with pride.

"So how can I help you?" he asks.

"The Hobgoblin. He's Roderick Kingsley."

"Well that makes a lot of sense..."

"I need you to help me find him."

Norman raises his eyebrow.

"Who do you think I am, Hannibal Lecter?" he asks, amused.

"Kingsley's been downing your formula for over a year. He's as far gone as you are by this point. You think like him."

"I really don't."

"Don't try and tell me you're not crazy."

"Mad as a hatter, my boy. Kingsley and I may share a neurological disorder, but they're not going to manifest the same way. He's not me. His brain chemistry and his personality and upbringing are all different."

"So you're basically useless. Well, I wasn't wrong about something."

"Does he talk less?" asks Norman.

"... yes." said Peter.

"Well I'll be... I was never much for psychology, but I guess I'm picking up a few things round here... Kingsley was never repressed. Heart on his sleeve. Heart was selfish and arrogant, but still... he loves control. Like me, but different. The paranoia, mood swings, and hallucinations that come with will scare him. He wrapped himself up like a blanket. Probably only wears the costume because he feels exposed without it."

"That makes a lot of sense," says Peter. "He is different. He's quiet, obsessive, completely unreasonable. He's..."

"... like a ghost?" says Norman, smiling.

The smile is warm, affectionate, a seeming attempt at connection. Peter feels sick looking at him.

"Anyway," he says, "I think he's using your little goblin caves around the city as hideouts. The police only found four of them, but couldn't have gotten around like you did with just four."

"I had around thirty," says Norman.

"Fully stocked?"

"Last time I checked. I could tell someone had been sleeping in my bed, but she was never there."

"Tell me where they are."

"Can't remember all of them," says Norman. "Couldn't possibly."

"Try."

Norman thinks, and then smiles like a trouble making schoolboy.

"A deal."

"What?"

"Let's make a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"You come and visit me more often. Promise. And I'll tell you where you can find a safehouse."

"Give me the list."

"No. I'll give you one each time you come and see me. But only when you leave. After we have a nice chat."

"Damn it Osborn..."

"It gets lonely in here, Peter. I think the other people here are crazy." says Norman with a wry smile.

"... fine."

"Promise?"

"I promise. But give me one now. Sign of good faith."

"Yes... I remember those... 34th street. Abandoned subway tunnel. I would steal nick knacks from Macy's when it struck my fancy."

Spider-Man bolted down the hall towards the window he entered through. Norman looks on as he leaves.

"Be seeing you," he whispers.

 

Very nice, Q. I'm assuming that's after Stormin' Norman returns from the grave?

 

Yes.

 

Me and a friend were joking one night and came up with this scenario--I decided to turn it into a post (or series of posts depending on the reception)






The young Rebel opened his package of processed food and took a seat in his make-shift campsite. He took a bite of food and nervously looked around the foreboding, swampy jungle. Something was not right.

“…Still…there’s something familiar about this place…” he said to his mechanical friend as he chewed his meal.

“…I feel like…I don’t know…”

“Feel like what?” a mysterious voice immediately responded.

Luke jumped out of his skin and instinctively went for the blaster at his belt.

Artoo screeched as he spun around, aiming the gun at the mysterious speaker.

“Like we’re being watched!”

The speaker—tall, grimy, dressed in rags, and leaning on a walking stick—
was not shaken by Luke’s weapon and returned his threat with a stern glare.

“I don’t mean to shatter your ego but this ain’t the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me. Now, normally, in this situation your ass would be as dead as ****in’ fried chicken. But you happened to pull this **** while I’m in a transitional period and I don’t wanna kill ya. I wanna help ya. Now put the gun down and tell me what you’re pasty ass is doing here.”

“…I’m looking for someone,” Luke responded, reluctantly putting his blaster away.

“Well, I guess you’ve found someone.”

“Right.”

“I can help you.”

“I don’t think so. I’m looking for a great warrior.”

“Oh, well, ****. A great warrior. Damn, I guess I can’t help ya then. I know every nook and cranny on the entire ****in’ planet but since you’re looking for a great warrior, I guess that means I can’t help ya. I mean, what the **** do I know? I’ve just lived here for the past twenty-two standard years.”

As the mysterious speaker went on his angry tirade, he slowly inched towards Luke’s meal tray. The mysterious figure eyed the food with interest and knelt down beside the tray.

“I’m so sorry to bother you. Especially during your meal. Whatcha eatin’?”

“A burger.”

“A burger. The cornerstone of any nutritious diet. What kinda burger?”

“Cheeseburger.”

“No, I mean what’s it from—nerf, ronto, bantha?”

“Bantha.”

“Bantha burgers. From Tatooine, I’m guessing? I’ve heard they’re pretty tasty. I ain’t never had one myself. How are they?”

“They’re good…”

“Mind if I try yours?” the mysterious figure said, reaching for the sandwich before Luke could respond. The mysterious figure took a big bite and gave a nod of approval.

“Hey! That’s my dinner!”

“Mmm-MMM, that’s a tasty burger!” the mysterious man replied, ignoring Luke’s protests. He looked down and took notice of a cup of liquid. He picked the cup up and sniffed its contents.

“What’s in this?”

“Corellian Ale.”

“Mind if I have some of your tasty beverage to wash this burger down with?”

“No…” Luke said in a defeated tone, knowing his response wouldn’t have made much difference. The man greedily gulped the drink down and gave a heavy sigh of satisfaction.

“Mmmm! Hits the spot! ?” the mysterious man said as he began to rummage through Luke’s supplies. After tossing several pieces of equipment about, he came upon something of interest—a small flashlight. The mysterious man rapidly switched it on and off, flickering the light in Luke’s eyes.

“Hey, give me that!”

The man laughed.

“Ah-ah. It’s mine now. Unless of course, you don’t want my help.”

“I don’t’ want your help, I want my light back! I’ll need it to get out of this slimy mud hole.”

“Mud hole? Slimy?! *****, this is my home! If you don’t like it you can get the **** out!”

“Our ship is stuck in that puddle. If he could get it out, we would, but we can’t, so why don’t you just move along and please let us be? We’ve got a lot of work to do and--”

Artoo chirped defiantly and extended a small mechanical arm that attempted to wrestle the flashlight of the man’s hand. The man gave Artoo a swift kick and sent the poor droid toppling over.

“Don’t think so. I think I’m gonna stick around give you guys a hand finding your friend. Who exactly are you looking for, anyway?”

Artoo began to beep frantically, trying to answer the man’s question.

“I DON’T REMEMBER ASKING YOU A DAMN THING!” the man snapped back.

“I’m not looking for a friend…I’m looking for a Jedi Master.”

“****, man, why didn’t ya say so? Mace. You seek Mace.”

“You know him?!” Skywalker asked excitedly.

“Yeah, I know ‘im. I’ll take you guys to him right now. But first, we’re headin’ to my place for some grub.”

 

Oh yeah. Luke's gonna learn how to use the mother****in' Force!


I may have to steal this...