The Create-A-Post Thread

The beginning of what we think of as 'the Golden Age of Heroes' started really with one man; Superman. Some may say that there were heroes before him, some cite the Batman as revealing himself before Big Blue. They may well be right. But nonetheless Superman was the first one to really embed himself into the public consciousness. The first documented heroics of Superman are reletively unremarkable. Junior reporter Lois Lane was kidnapped by a small time mobster when investigating a corrupt senator. Superman rescued her, hospitalising a number of petty crooks and dropping the mobster off at the police station, complete with a pile of evidence.

It's strange to think that these humble beginnings mark the start of the Golden Age. When we think of the exploits of Superman these days, they normally concern aliens, robots, and eldritch demi-gods. But this is the first of many, and does not tell of the things to come, and not just for Superman. In time, others arrived, and events began to snow-ball. When Superman punched that first crook I doubt he could have predicted how everything would end. I doubt that anyone could have.
- From The Golden Age: The First Heroes, J. L. Gaddis, 2004

How did it start? That's a really good question. One that I kept asking myself, all the way through it. I think it started as a whole when a young man left his small-town farm and saw the corruption at work in the big city. Of course, I know more than most do about this, so it's kind of unfair on the real historians who spend their life doing this, y'know? Well some of it the man himself told me, some of it I worked out myself. Either way, that's not how it started for me. I've lived in Gotham all my life. It was a real dump back then, not like it is now. So when you see someone cleaning up the streets like he did...well, can you see how a ten year old might get inspired, can't you?
- T. Drake, quoted in Clash Of The Titans: Teenagers In The Age Of Heroes, by Walter Thompson

It was stupid. That's what it was. This wasn't the first time it all happened, and it all went badly before. Me and the Society...it didn't go so well is all I mean. So the idea that they could just start putting masks on again, and forget all about the stuff that we went through...the stuff that we did? That really got my goat. I remember I was talking to Ted Grant, Wildcat, when the news started breaking about Superman, Batman, the new Green Lantern, god even Wonder Woman. Teddy was real fond of the newsreels of Wonder Woman. I remember I said "Doesn't this seem like a real bad idea to you?"

Ted just shrugged it off. He was that kind of guy, you would really have liked him. Everyone always did. Then a while later he said "Maybe they can be better than us?"

Like they could unwrite our wrongs, y'know? Anyway, real bad idea. 'Course Ted had worked it out already. I'll be honest, that surprised me. I always figured that I was smarter than Ted. Anyway, "God dammit, they're only kids!" I said. God, I was so high on my own smoke.

Ted knew I was. He just looked at me, real cool like, and said "We were kids once. And we should help 'em out. Lord knows they're going to need it,"

And that's when I figured it out too. How this was all going to end up. I looked at that helmet again for the first time in years...Sorry, that's not what you wanted to talk about is it? You want me to talk to you about the Faultless Four, and Eclipso and all that stuff, don't you?
- "Man of Mercury", Flash Magazine v.1 issue 15

MASKED VIGILANTE BURNS DOWN WAREHOUSE DISTRICT

HUB CITY - A man who witnesses claim "had no face" was seen fleeing from the burning wreckage of Hub City's warehouse district late last night. Often a hideout for various street gangs, the district is becoming known as the place that the police department feared to tread. A dozen burnt bodies have been pulled from the warehouse where the fire started, all with a single bullet hole in the head. Sources from within the police department have mentioned that a substantial quantity of cocaine has been taken into evidence. So who is this faceless man? Is he a hero to rival Gotham's caped crusader? Or is he a serial killer who managed to do society a favour by accident? Unfortunately this is a question that may never be answered.
- Hub City Times, Vic Sage 18th November 1992

And with the heroes come the villains. Perhaps it is telling of the American psyche that the emergence of costumed heroes demands the creation of foes to match them. Could these vigilantes sate themselves on the organised crime of the various cities they inhabit forever? Unlikely in the extreme. Street level heroes such as the Green Arrow, or Batman in his formatitive stage maybe. The more human amongst them, perhaps, could have coped with fighting human evils. But the superhumans? The metahumans? How long could they last against the mobsters and the petty thiefs before they started pounding them to a fine paste? No, supervillains were inevitable. As such, should they not be seen in a more sympathetic light? Are they not the yin to Superman's yang? They provide society with a much needed commodity. If they are to be feared, then they are to be feared just as much as the so-called heroes who walk amongst us.
- Preface of Dr. Harleen Quinzell's essay 'Ubermensch', published prior to her committal to Arkham Asylum

 

I liked that

I've always loved history and read a few oral biographies That'd be cool to see that approach to superheroes.

 

Very cool, Cats. Reminds me of the additional material at the end of each chapter in Watchmen.

 

Quite fun to write as well. May carry this on.

 

(Credit goes to SuperFerret for the original idea behind this.)

SPECTACULAR
By: E. Brock

Part I

Springtime in New York City. After another long, bitter winter, everything's coming back to life. Everything except me. While the last traces of snow melt and the trees begin to bud, the cancer cells inside of me continue to grow. The doctors put on a brave face, but the implication is clear. This will probably be my last spring. I didn't even get to finish high school. Cafeteria food looks like caviar and champagne compared to hospital food. It's a strange thing, dying. Before I was diagnosed, all I ever wanted to do was get away from high school. Now? I'd give anything to have it all back.

With a sigh, I close the shades on the window. I can't bear to look outside anymore. I shift uncomfortably in my hospital gown. Well, if this is my last year, there's no reason I can't enjoy it. I cross the room to my nightstand and pick up my newest toy. A camera. A Nikon 10.2-Megapixel D3000, to be exact. I cycle through the pictures I've already taken - shots of the hospital, the staff, the view from my window. I come to my favorite picture and stop.

Gwen Stacy. I met her the week after I was first admitted. She's a medical student at NYU, and she's in the first year of her internship. Between my general insomnia and her working the night shift, we saw a lot of each other in those first few weeks. She's a real saint. I was having such a hard time with my diagnosis, and she was always there for me. It didn't matter that I was just some nerdy teenager. Gwen never saw me like that. I think she probably knows me better than anyone.

"Hey, tiger."

Mary Jane Watson. My attendant nurse. Also a total fox. MJ's been a big help in her own way, too. She has a personality as fiery as her hair color, and her constant energy always helps me stay upbeat.

"Cool camera. When'd you get it?"

"Two weeks ago, on my birthday," I explain. I hold the camera lovingly, knowing what Uncle Ben and Aunt May must've paid for it. I appreciate the gesture, but I really wish they had saved the money for themselves. I'm already enough of a drain on them with all these hospital bills. The last thing they need to be spending their money on is a $600 camera.

"Mind if I see?" MJ asks, holding out her hand. I give her the camera, and she looks through my pictures. As she does, I see her smile. "Wow! These are really good, Pete." She looks up at me. "You've got a real talent for this."

I give a little shrug. "I always liked photography. Ansel Adams, I think, once said, 'A great photograph is a full expression of what one feels about what is being photographed in the deepest sense, and is, thereby, a true expression of what one feels about life in its entirety.'" MJ hands the camera back to me, and I suggest, "Hey, why don't I get a picture of you?"

MJ laughs softly. "Okay, but don't make me look bad."

CLICK!

"Well, what's the verdict?"

I study the display screen and smile. "Gorgeous," I reply. I save the picture, putting it right next to Gwen's. "You could be a supermodel," I insist.

MJ blushes slightly, an unusual sight. "Oh, Peter. You're such a smooth talker. If only you were a little older." She winks before checking all the equipment around my bed. All the machines make this place look more like a laboratory than a hospital room. Once MJ is done checking everything, she asks, "Are your aunt and uncle coming to visit today?"

"Same time every day," I answer.

"Alright. See you around, tiger."

***

Every night, I have the same dream. I'm a superhero, and I'm flying high above the streets. The people look up, and they see me in my red and blue tights, and they shout, "There he goes!" And I look down, and I smile and wave. There's no cancer, no hospital. It's just me among the skyscrapers, and I'm free.

That night, I dream about Gwen and MJ. In the dream, the two ladies are fighting over me. I swoop in, in my superhero costume, and I calm them down. Ladies, please. Don't fight - least of all over me, I plead. And I wrap my left arm around Gwen, my right arm around MJ, and I take off into the skies with them - each girl wrapping her arms around my neck as we fly over the city.

And that's when I wake up.
​

 

Well, I'm ****ing depressed.

Thanks Eddie.

 

lol my friend and I had the same idea but we turned it into a comedy sketch. Two friends are bitten by a radioactive spider, one gets superpowers and the other gets cancer.

 

I won't consider this a success until I drive at least one person to alcoholism.

 

Damn powerful there, Eddie.

I like it.

 

I have three open bottles of tequilla and an open bottle of brandy next to my bed.


Just trying to decide where to start.

 

SPECTACULAR
By: E. Brock

Part II

"Good morning, Peter." Dr. Curt Connors, my doctor. I feel bad, but every time he walks into a room, my eyes are immediately drawn to his stump. He lost his right arm serving overseas. "An arm for the army," he said with a laugh when I first met him. No matter how many times I see it, I can't help but glance that way, wondering what it's like to lose a limb. If Dr. Connors notices, he doesn't say anything. "How are you feeling today? Any nausea?"

"None more than I'd expect after months of hospital food," I smile. As Dr. Connors checks my chart, I continue fiddling with my camera. I still have the pictures of Gwen and Mary Jane saved. Man, what I wouldn't give to show ol' Flash Thompson the kind of ladies "Puny Parker" surrounds himself with now.

"And you have Otto's group therapy to attend today?"

I sigh. "Yes, unfortunately."

Dr. Connors smiles a little, making a few notes on my chart. "Look, I know Otto's not the most personable guy in the world, but he is a genius. Give him a chance." He finishes with my chart and hangs it at the foot of my bed. "Well, Peter, it looks like you don't need me here right now, so I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay. See you around, Doc." I glance up at the clock. I've still got three hours until group therapy. I put down my camera and pick up the TV remote.

***

Group therapy. With basically no other options, I signed myself up as a guinea pig for this little experimental treatment. We meet every week to discuss the results. It's not the worst thing in the world, I guess. The thing is that the doctor in charge of the study, Dr. Otto Octavius, gives me the heebie-jeebies. I can't explain it. Maybe it's those thick-rimmed glasses he wears which hide his pupils. Maybe it's his accented monotone. Maybe it's just his general coldness. Whatever it is, I get bad vibes from the guy - despite Dr. Connors' insistence to the contrary.

"Good afternoon, everyone," Dr. Octavius - whom I once called "Dr. Octopus," much to his chagrin - announces in his aforementioned monotone.

I look around the room at the "Sinister Six," as I've so proudly dubbed them. We're a colorful bunch to be sure. First, there's Flint Marko. He used to be a construction worker, I think? He always wears that same damn green striped shirt, week in and week out. Next to him is Quentin Beck. He's a nice enough guy, if a little "out there." When I met him, he tried to do this magic trick. It was really lame. Then, there's Adrian Toomes. I can't help but feel bad for the guy. He looks a lot older than he is because his body's really worn down. Max Dillon was an electrical engineer before he was diagnosed. He claims he was once struck by lightning.

The last member of the group is perhaps the most interesting to me. Harry Osborn. He's only a year older than me, so he and I are pretty close. His dad's some kind of hotshot businessman or something. I don't know exactly, but I know they're loaded. Harry's dad comes to all the meetings and sits in the back, constantly on his Blackberry. Today's no different. I feel bad for Harry. I get the feeling that he and his dad aren't that close.

"Hey, Pete," Harry whispers. "Did you hear about 'Daredevil?'"

I shake my head.

"The police caught him last night. Turns out he was some lawyer or something. Can you believe that? A lawyer hunting down all those criminals." Harry laughs to himself. "Everybody's a hero, right?"

***

That night, I have another vivid dream. I'm flying above the city when I'm suddenly tackled from above. I look up and see Adrian Toomes, dressed like a bird, sneering at me. Before I can say a word, he throws me into the waiting arms of Max Dillon. Dillon squeezes me, and I feel electrocuted. I break free from Dillon before stumbling into Flint Marko. I try to punch him, but my hand goes right through him. Marko smirks and picks me up, tossing me across the street. Quentin Beck appears before me, surrounded by an army of other Quentin Becks. I stand up to face them when they all disappear in a cloud of smoke.

What's going on? I demand.

Isn't it obvious, Peter? Mr. Osborn stands at the far end of the street, smiling darkly. His hand in on Harry's shoulder, and Harry won't look up at me. We're here for you.

Harry? Harry, look at me!

I'm sorry, Pete. Harry mutters.

Just then, the ground opens up between us. Dr. Octavius steps out of the hole - only now he's got six arms. Doctor Octopus? Very funny, Mr. Parker!

Toomes, Dillon, Marko, Beck, and Octavius surround me, drawing closer. Over Octavius' shoulder, I can see Mr. Osborn still smiling. Harry! Harry, do something! The men are getting nearer now. Everything starts to go dark. Harry!

Harry finally looks at me, and I wake up.
​

 

Looks like I'm starting with the tequilla

 

Pour me a shot while you're at it....

 

Just wait 'til Part III where I describe Peter's death scene in excruciating detail!

Spoiler

Spoiler

 

The sad thing is, I was hearing the theme of RENT in my head while reading those posts; Spidey's musical flopped so bad it can't even be his own soundtrack.

But seriously, fecking awesome job EBJ.

 

I was dreaming that I had gone emo...and it wouldn't stop!

 

Family Ties​

Gotham City, City Hall - Courthouse

Gotham Police Commissioner Jim Gordon sits on a bench outside the courtroom, his head held tightly in his hands. As he slumps over in his seat, he stares at the floor – gazing off into space as he wrestles with the painful thoughts clouding his every feeling deep inside his mind. The struggle inside him is primal – instinct conflicting with reason. Twenty –four years he’s been on the force; facing off with the deepest, most malevolent creatures the city could throw at him. For years he thought he had beaten it – thought he had risen above whatever the city could conjure to tear him down. But nothing prepared him for this; nothing ever could.

“Jim?” a man’s voice speaks sensitively. He looks up to see the District Attorney, Adrian Chase, standing over him. A frown comes over Adrian’s face as a sensation of guilt begins to rise within him. “Jim,” he asks again, tilting his head slightly.

“Yes,” Gordon speaks, running his fingers through his thick gray hair. Jim wipes his face in a rough manner, caressing his moustache as his hand makes its way down his face. In a calculated and slow manner, he rises from the bench, grunting audibly as his joints pop. “I’m getting too old for this,” he laments, adjusting the glasses on his nose.

“It’ll be over soon,” Adrian tells him, trying to inspire even the slightest bit of hope within his old friend.
“I know that,” Jim agrees as he begins walking toward the doors to the courtroom. He opens the door and extends his arm, motioning for Adrian to enter first. “But for who?” Jim asks as the DA passes by. “Him … or me?”

The two men make their way down the aisle, passing by the rows of seats packed in tight with spectators eager to watch the impending case. Many recognizable people fill the audience; but most noticeably is the figure sitting at the end of the back row - Bruce Wayne – billionaire, socialite, and heir to the famed Wayne fortune. At his side, his loyal butler Alfred Pennyworth sits, sitting erect in his seat – his sophisticated manners always about him. Next to Wayne at the pew’s end sits Barbara Gordon, nervously waiting in her wheel chair. Her eyes stay on her step father as he walks past her and through the gate ahead. A look of discomfort comes over her face, her eyes seeming to glaze over with a tear. Bruce extends his hand to hers, taking it within his grip as he gently strokes her arm.

At the front of the room, Jim and Adrian take their seats at their table. Adjacent across the aisle sits the defendant dressed in the standard orange jumpsuit. The chains binding his ankles and wrists together jingle as he shifts in his seat, looking over at Jim with an eerie smile. The corners of his lips seem to rise up to his eyes – his brown tightening with an unsettling tension. The man’s ivory eyes seem to pierce the air of the room, an odd contrast to the pale white skin of his face. He lets out a small laugh, chuckling to himself in surprisingly jovial manner for someone in his predicament. But, then again, he’s always laughing – always finding something humorous to laugh at – even during the most inappropriate of times. After all, he’s the reason that everyone has gathered here today – he’s the reason all of Gotham has come to watch the spectacle. He is the Joker.

“JAMESY!” He snickers, the pitch of his voice high. “I didn’t think you’d show! Good for you.” Jim remains silent, failing to even look at the man, lest he grant him some form of merit. “And look, gang’s all here, buddy. I’ll even bet the BAT’S in attendance right now, heehee. It’s a good old family reunion! I feel so wanted and loved, hoohehehehehe!”He giggles, the sound sending a tingle down the Commissioner’s smile.

“Just ignore him, Jim,” Adrian whispers, trying to console his friend. “He’s just trying to get you riled up. Just relax, okay? Take a deep breath and relax, can you do that?”


Before Gordon can speak, the doors to the back of the room open, and a new figure enters the fray. A single man walks confidently down the path, dressed finely in an expensive suit fitting his every angle and curve. A look of fierce determination is fixed on his face – a look of passion and confidence. “Oooooh!” The Joker muses, clapping loudly with a grin. “My lawyer’s finally arrived! Hahahaha.” The Joker’s tone suddenly shifts, his voice dropping down to a low octave – a bellow so striking it seems to rattle the very windows of the walls. “Now the fun can really begin.”

As the defense attorney walks through the gate, he turns to the Commissioner – locking eyes with the elderly man as he looks up from his seat. The two seem to stare in silence for an eternity – each failing to blink or utter a sound. After a period of minutes, Gordon finally speaks up, beginning with a grunt as he clears his throat. “Hello there, Jimmy,”Gordon says simply, his voice nearly trembling.

“Good afternoon,” the man begins, his face void of emotion as he speaks. “Dad.”
“You decided to go through with it then,” Jim starts, his tone reflecting the deep dismay inside him. “You decided to represent this … madman.”
“He’s just another defendant,” Jim junior replies, staring at his father with stark intensity. “Another man who deserves due process to prove his innocence.” The Commissioner frowns, his mustache ruffling over his lip as his face contorts.

“After all he’s done to this city – to our family – you can still say that with a clean conscience?” Jim junior laughs, rolling his eyes as his head leans backward.

“You never did get it, did you?” He says in an aggravated tone, walking over to his seat next to the Joker. “It’s about justice, dad – not about personal vendettas and prejudice.” The door behind the judge’s desk, the bench, creeks open, and a man cloaked in a black robe takes his seat. “Oh, and Barbara and Sarah? They’re not my family,” he states harshly. “They’re yours.”

The bailiff beside the desk shouts aloud in a booming voice, “All rise, the honorably judge Robert Kane presiding.” Everyone stands, complying with the traditional request.

“You may be seated,” the judge speaks, leaning forward in his chair. “The case of the Joker vs. Gotham City will now be heard. Mr. Joker, you stand guilty of multiple homicide, kidnapping, and extortion, how do you plea?”

Jim Jr. rises, straightening his tie as he inhales a quick breath. “My client pleas guilty by reason of insanity your honor.”
“And can you prove that your client is, indeed, mentally ill?”
“Yes, your honor. In fact, that was going to be part of my opening statement. May I?”
“Proceed.”

“Your honor, members of the jury, citizens of Gotham City, I stand before you as a man – someone just like you who believes in doing what is right. Our court system is designed to administer justice – punishing those who are guilty, protecting the innocent, and restoring those who are wronged. But, in order for a man to be guilty, he must have a guilty mind – a mind free from corruption or ailment that could otherwise disrupt his or her thought process, causing them to do something they would not ordinarily do were they able to have the lucid, uninhibited, mental capacity. I hope to prove to this court that my client is indeed mentally handicapped, and that he is not responsible for his actions, but is in desperate need of help to overcome his multiple disorders so that, one day, he may return to society a changed man – cured, and free from his inner demons.” Jim Jr. takes his seat, turning to his father and shooting him a cocky smirk.

The judge turns to Adrian, “Prosecutor, your opening statement.” Adrian nods and rises to his feet.
“Thank you your honor. Ladies and gentlemen, I do not intend to fill your minds with sweet nothings – little vignettes and anecdotes to please your minds and manipulate your thinking. I, instead, wish to show you the truth – prove, without a reasonable doubt, that the Joker is not mentally ill and is in fact fully cognizant of his actions, and therefore, responsible. And, in addition, I intend to ensure that he is exposed to the full extent of the law, and that justice, truly is, served.”

The Joker lowers his head, leaning over to his lawyer at his side. “Seems rather gung ho, don’t you think?”
“Don’t worry,” Jim Jr. tells him calmly, opening the manila folder before him as he prepares his defense. “They can’t prove you’re sane – we have multiple records proving your insanity. By the end of the day, you’ll be back in a padded cell in Arkham – safe from the Batman and the other unlawful denizens this city chooses to protect.”

“Fabulous!” He squeals in glee. “How are you going to do it? Tell the jury a sad story of how I was beaten as a child by a wretched, drunken father who never learned to love himself? Or, perhaps, the story of a man who’s family was torn apart by tragedy – leaving him to watch as his wife and children are ripped from the mortal coil grounding them to this plane?” He snickers, tapping his fingers together evilly as he licks his lips. “I’ve got a million stories, Jimmy … you just tell me which one to go with and I’ll put on a show like you’ve never seen.” Jim Jr. smiles wide as he stares at the Joker, struggling to stifle his own laughter.

“You keep this act up? There’s no way they can prove you're not crazy.” The Joker suddenly frowns, put off by his ‘ally’s’ words.
“You know I’m not crazy, Jimmy,” he says in a serious voice, nearly growling. “Not. Crazy.”
“Sure you aren’t,” he smirks.

“Mr. Chase,” the judge speaks, drawing everyone’s attention. “You may begin.”
“I would like to call my first, and surprise, witness to the stand,” he begins, turning to face the crowd behind him. “Former Doctor, now resident, of Arkham Asylum; Harleen Quinzel.”

 

What an ungrateful little prick. Johnny Vitti should have killed him back in Year One.

 

What if he did?

*runs off to write post*

 

I know I've drifted out of the games and all, but would it be okay for me to post stuff here from time to time?

 

No.

 

You get one little award, and you think you own the place.

 

I do own it. MB mortgaged the deed to the RPGs for me for a tiny loan. ****er has lapsed so I'm foreclosing.

 

Only if you promise to give us more of those Wonder Years Spidey posts.

 

This. ^