| WD Fragments |
| For every hero, there is a villain. For every man that strives to create Chaos, there is a man who moves to retain Order. This is the story of one of these men. Take it or leave it, like it or hate it, remember: two plus two only equals four if you�re absolutely sure that that second two is an actual number. Got it? The desert. Of all the places that are glorified in the human conscience, (Most often by various Frank Herbert Novels) there are none more so than the endless desert. This was a land of mystery and spirituality. Bad hallucinogens connected with religion and folklore started here, and ended here. Usually with dry, bleached bones covered by a thin layer of hot sand, and the occasional container of peyote. And there was no desert larger than those of Khazan�s. Quite frankly, our protagonist didn�t give a crap. What he was wondering was how most people talked of the relatively comfortable �dry heat�. He had felt dry heat before. This was not a dry heat. This was simply too goddamn hot. Oh sure, he wasn�t sweating like a pig like he�d be out in the US northeast during the summer, but anything is too goddamn hot when your wearing a jet-black cloak. Though our hero could understand the mystique involved, not to mention the amazing level of coolness a cloak gave, he couldn�t help but wonder if they were actually just being idiots. After all, he certainly didn�t FEEL cool right now. He was a tall man, obviously skinny. The cloak obscured his features, but not enough to keep a well trained mind from noticing some details. Namely the fact that he was one of the most dangerous men on Khazan (arguably of course, but while anyone who knows too much for his own good can be a danger, very few can keep themselves dangerous for very long. After all, dangerous isn�t the same as immortal, and firepower ain�t cheap�) The facts remains, he was a somewhat awkward (yet dangerous) teenager who was in one hell of a hurry. The last thing he wanted was the others to start without him. Swiftly moving over the sands, he spotted his target: a historically inaccurate recreation of an Egyptian pyramid. His disgust was easily readable. Pyramids were ornate burial mounds, pure and simple. They weren�t bases of operation, they weren�t fortresses, and the people running the show for these bastards kinda forgot the whole thing about trust in deal making. They were going to pay dearly for their crimes. There were some things you just didn�t do. You did not tug on Superman�s cape. You did not tear the mask off a random folk hero. You did not piss into the wind. You did not shoot down a member of the Demolition Duck Squadron, You did not pass go, and you did not collect two-hundred dollars. You go directly to jail. Our hero spotted two similarly cloaked figures waited at its base. One looked short and skinny, despite the cloak, the other seemed about the original lone figure�s height, but seemed a bit overweight. Good, everybody was assembled. The figure approached his two partners, tearing off his hood as he did. His teenage face seemed just slightly angular, and his nose was slightly pointed, with a messy rag of dark brown hair. The most distinguishing feature on his face were the twin fuzzy caterpillars known as �eyebrows� which were thick, bushy, equipped with a thin set of hairs between to give the illusion of a unibrow. His voice came out as a somewhat slow drawl, revealing the dry sense of humor beneath, along with the dry tongue within. This however, was no ordinary teenager. He was the Bringer of Common Sense. The Comedic Master Baiter. A trained master of Verbal Judo and Mind-numbing conundrums with a bit on military tactics in between. He was first and foremost among them, for he was Wiseass Dave, and he was (that damn) good. �Gee. Black cloaks. We�ll fit it fine in f�king black cloaks. Dan, what were you thinking?� The relatively tall, portly figure took off his hood, revealing a slightly chubby face with a mop of black hair. This was another uncommon figure. There was no One of him. At one point, he might have been simply Dan. But he could also be The Devouring One. An insane, homicidal creature that searched for death and hungered for human flesh and generally found it. Whether not he would eat it was a different story, after all, Dan WAS still inside. This was the Second among them. Intelligent, lethal�the Strongman, and the multi-purpose tool of death. No one was ever quite sure how many of �him� was inside him�so everyone just called him by his two dominant personas. Dan/The Devouring One. �You gotta admit. We DO look cool.� The tall, thin teenager gave out a �hmph.� He thought for a moment and added, �Okay, I guess I gotta give you that one.� The third, smaller figure flipped off his hood. He was a short, freckled, red-head with an incredibly disturbed toothy grin. His mouth opened, his hated voice-box unleashed a loud, slow, long, nasal stream of sound that was generally believed to be �speech.� Most countries preferred calling it a weapon of mass destruction, which is generally why you don�t usually see him walking around without a half a dozen Hans Blix clones chasing around him attempting to disarm the illegal weaponry within. He was Will, the Joke Assassin. The infamous death of all comedians, the Harbinger of Unfunny. The Assassin Whom No Lock Will Hold, For Fear of Catching A Rather Nasty Disease. �What. If Weee. Also. Wore. Sunglasses. And. Coats. Like. What. Neo. Wore. In�� �Shut up Will.� Both Dan and Dave said at once. The three began walking toward the opening in the enormous, out of place Pyramid. All three of them put their hoods over their heads as one. It was showtime. Silence reigned for several tense seconds as the dreaded question lay hanging in the air. Dan decided, better to ask now than later. �Hey Dave�� Dan seemed uncertain, �How�re things?� The trio was silent for a moment. The emotion that was coming off Wiseass Dave was strong enough that, if the proper equipment was found, and one Magnus Jiggler was present, it could have been brewed into something decidedly stronger than Japanese sake. Whenever a level of anger that strong occurred, Dave made it a point to channel it into something more productive. Like sarcasm. Wiseass Dave shrugged, �Well�no. A goddamn evil uber-ninja has taken my position as First Stooge, the majority of my powers are stripped of me, and I�m out of Jolly Ranchers. Despite this, I�ve feeling absolutely wonderful. The knife in my back not withstanding. � He looked straight up toward the heavens as he spoke, �Yeah, I�m looking at you, random paper-pushing angel number thirty-six.� He motioned toward the sky for someone to come down, as though daring someone to smite him on the spot, �Am I even allowed to be here thanks to that sonovabitch?� Will was about to speak, when Dan raised his hand to quiet him. Will�s voice would be the absolute worst thing that could happen in this situation. �Look man. Lets get something straight here, that bastard isn�t a stooge. He has no right to be a stooge besides that he managed to do a little better than you in a fighting game. What kind of bullshit is THAT? Besides, we ain�t doing this as the Three. We�re doing this as Willie�s Angels.� Willie�s Angels, the unofficial nickname they had gained for acting as troubleshooters for the FUBAR organization. Rather than be offended by this, the stooges had long since decided to wear it as a badge of honor. How often did you get a name like that, and a rep to match? They had long since become the Chief non-ninja FUBAR assassins. Normally there would not even BE other assassins, but the chaotic membership had long since learned a very simple lesson. Sometimes, when a thousand rusty butter-knives striking in unison wouldn�t do the trick you had to resort to a nuclear powered pogo-stick. Anyone wondering as to the weapons used had long since learned a FUBAR hit squad really was the equivalent of a platoon of rusty-butter knives�just sharpened a bit. �Besides Dave,� Dan continued, �What the hell sort of right does HE have to be in our story?� It was true. Their story was singular amongst the Khazan community. For their story did not start because of some ancient ritual, or cosmic power trip, or some endowment caused by genetics or radioactivity. Well, it started because of fate, but that�s besides the point. The function of the Three Stooges of the Apocalypse is to follow behind the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse so as to make all the survivors feel a little better about their demise right before the end. The only problem was, that they were late. The apocalypse had been two years before their arrival. Dark LotFU Master Dave had absolutely no relation whatsoever to the stooges that they knew of. He only had one reason, one purpose. The destruction of Wiseass Dave. It wasn�t something they liked to talk about. Dan smiled, �Look, it doesn�t matter right now. Lets go in there, kick some ass and have fun like good little technically nonexistent entities.� �THAT�S. RIGHT! WE�RE. WICKED. FICTITIOUS!� The trio stopped moving. Dave turned to look at Will, �Nya ah. I don�t think we can get away with that one. Copyrighted I think.� �Yeah, not nice to steal other peoples lines.� �OOOOOH. COME. ON!� �So Dan, usual plan?� Dave said as they stopped outside the large stone slab at the pyramid entrance. �Of course.� Dave ran around to the other side of the pyramid, readying his weapons. He heard a feral roar, and the high-pitched whine of a small annoying little bastard being used as a body shield. In his professional opinion, Will�s body would probably hold out against a good twenty minutes worth of onslaught. Plenty of time. He pulled out his Gameboy and flicked on the power�after all, if he was going to do this, he was going to do this right. ------------------- Before this series can continue, One thing should be made clear. Things might not make sense, things might be weird, and people might spontaneously combust like fertilizer bomb-encrusted chickens. But this is the world of Wiseass Dave, so lets get one thing straight. Anyone who takes this story seriously will be shot. Anyone who doesn�t take it seriously will have their arm shoved down a working garbage disposal for about thirty seconds. You have been warned. ------------------- Empires rise and empires fall. Legends live, breathe, and die. Episode One comes out, and everyone screams for the blood of the Flannelled Director. A Global Power decimates a foreign country, accidentally forgetting to make a convincing reason as to WHY. A sequel to The Matrix is released, and everyone cries foul. But no matter how bad things get, there�s always a Wiseass waiting in the wings, ready to make all those that would be assholes repent. Time was relative and Wiseass Dave was a patient man. It was always the organizational meetings. The location was a small SLJ Sub base just inside the Uptown area, mostly used by Support Personnel and new recruits. The Personnel worked on damaged equipment as it came in from any crisis spots that might pop up in the area, and the recruits were sent out to train. Various heroes sat in their accustomed places as the Wiseass Leaned against the wall by the entrance of the tiny briefing room, clad in his usual blood-red light jacket, green T-shirt and tan cargo pants. It was his standard uniform, and all it needed to become casual work clothes would be to remove the badge that was attached inside it. He shifted his position slightly as various things were discussed. The gunman to the left was spraying and praying too much, and was going over his ammunition quota. The android on the right was asking if they could try and put his recharging station nearer to the battleground�but with little success. And Argyle was acting as ringmaster for this specific circus, trying to run the show as best he could. It wasn�t his usual job, but the usual SLJer on the shift was out on a personal day, and the Clumsy Grenadier had drawn the short stick. Dave didn�t care about whatever manpower and resources the field guys had to worry about. He was SLJ: Investigations. He went to crime scenes and figured out whodunit, while simultaneously dueling with the KPD in a constant Turf War. At the professional level, after the fighting was over, things worked pretty well. But the fighting itself was a bitter struggle to find out who would get responsibility on the case�and who would be blamed if someone f�ked up. What he really wanted to do was declare that he wanted the KPDers to quit bitching and accept his help without slamming his nose into the dirt�but his ground in the SLJ was shaky enough as is, and he willing to let things slide. But there were a few select people who never ceased to get on his nerves. His ears perked up as the holographic projector�a scene from what looked to be the insides of an old stone building. They looked ancient, and the symbols on the walls made it seem like an Egyptian tomb. But nobody really noticed that, as they were too busy grinning at the large blob of shaving cream that appeared to hold a set of struggling shapes inside, with cardboard signs splattered all around it. Dave couldn�t help but feel proud of his handiwork as he saw the sign that said, � WD 1:1, �Thine ass be smote verily upon a cliff, Numb nuts.� He tuned back into the briefing at that time, catching the rest of what Argyle said, ��and that�s all she said. Then, we got an anonymous call to come pick the bastards up some time this morning. Now, we had heard that the Brotherhood of the Flaming Ankh had double-crossed a FUBAR member at some point, but details are still sketchy, and we aren�t quite sure who, if any FUBAR members were involved.� Everyone slowly moved to look at Dave, trying hard not to be obvious about it. Dave was quick to dispel any doubts as to the situation. �I had absolutely no knowledge of this. Not even while I was hitting one of them with that rubber chicken as Dan nailed one over the head with the steel chair in the corner of the image.� Light laughter rippled through the audience. Some people frowned and let their faces show what they were thinking, others looked at each other with nervous glances. Some others smiled actually smiled. It was expected that the audience would be like that. When Wiseass Dave had first joined, the SLJ had made a few things very clear. First, under no circumstance was he to take part in any illicit activities as a member of FUBAR. Second, that if Wiseass Dave was spotted aiding and abetting a Wanted Fugitive (I.E. The Nihilist, Banquo, etc.) He would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Third, if any large criminal organizations were suddenly torn asunder by a large number of pissed-off Ninja, he would be given�a stern talking to, and a wink. It wasn�t a surprise. The SLJ had used the lesser evil against the greater evil for a long time to great success. Why stop now? The fact that they got an incredibly cynical yet effective agent was merely a bonus to the package. Through Wiseass Dave, the SLJ could keep closer tabs on the �Nutbars�. And it wasn�t as though he complained. After all, knocking heads for the sake of Truth, Justice, and the Way of the Wiseass was always worth doing. It just irked him sometimes though. Everyone would look at him, and either avoid eye contact, or smile as though he were a prize poodle. A strange, funny looking oddity that looked like it was a good enough concept to consider in everyday life, and might even fetch a stick for you if you gave the order. He tuned out the rest of the briefing, after all, he had made his token appearance at this meeting. The Screwballs had spoken, and now business was underway. As was his life. Somewhere, he knew that an imbecile in a Karate Gi was watching him, SLJ defenses or no SLJ defenses. Somewhere, he knew shady dealings were taking place. Off in the distance, a gong sounded once. And that was all he needed to know. It wasn�t like he cared about this stuff anyway. It was just something he had to do. The fact of the matter was that he needed to do this in order to keep the illusion of his membership on the �Team� while he worked in the SLJ. His simple nature prevented otherwise. Apathy, Cynicism and Sarcasm were his three great philosophies. Not out of need, nor out of desire. It had simply happened. He didn�t care simply because there was nothing that he really wanted to care about. No passion, no conviction, just another floating pile of the brown stuff in a toilet bowl. People would look at him and see a slightly depressed �Nice guy�. The accommodating sort that was friendly enough�but different somehow. It was close to the mark, yet completely and irrevocably Wrong. So Wrong, it deserved a capital �W.� Because all of this would change once the battle began. He would change, transform, the words and ideas would roll off his tongue as he became a masterful comedian. But more than a comedian, he was a fighter, born to be a fighter, living as a fighter. It was all he knew really, and anywhere else he felt like just another apathetic sack of the brown stuff. And so, his position in the SLJ was assured, simply because of this one weakness which instantly became the greatest of strengths, and his position in Real Life was�not worth mentioning. But that half of the coin is not important on Khazan. The fact that he somehow managed to be an effective SLJer was. A lot of people didn�t like that though. He was still FUBAR. At best, he was Different. Italics, or pronunciation would say everything that would not be noted in polite company. But Dave was used to that. And so there he stood, knowing full well that his story was barely beyond the introduction. Wordlessly taking a Blow-pop Lollypop from his jacket, he completed a ritual that seemed almost similar to a proto-typical �tough-guy� lighting a cigarette as he dropped the lollypop in his mouth. Life was mediocre, as always. Later, he would regret thinking that. |
| by DMOD |