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Crisis On Infinite Message Boards
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Started by Illiterati-migration,

1,204 posts in this topic

greggy

greggy

Posted
Posted
:applause:

 

"Not that kind of zombie. A sex zombie."

 

 

Somewhere a Canadian Tax man is shifting his collecting focus from Romance drivel to a whole new world

:) Thanks for your comments, Walloon fool
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chromium

chromium

Posted
Posted
:applause:

 

"Not that kind of zombie. A sex zombie."

 

 

Somewhere a Canadian Tax man is shifting his collecting focus from Romance drivel to a whole new world

:) Thanks for your comments, Walloon fool

 

Oh, there you are....was just thinking about you hm

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Joanna

Joanna

Posted
Posted

WoldsBestComics won the chapter in Crisis in the Raffle. He decided to give the honors to his good friend, Doc Watson. I asked Doc if he had any preferences as to what his character should be and his only reply was "villain". Therefore, without delay, here is:

 

Chapter 12, Final Chapter: Crisis in Crisis

 

Introducing:

 

The Doc – Doc Watson (consummate evil)

Hunch – WorldsBestComics (Doc's assistant)

 

Plus:

 

Everyone else.

 

 

 

 

In a cold, concrete room with no adornments mill every single member of the Crisis Team as well as several hangers-on from other eras, having been dumped there by the breastlike portals. The din of confused word balloons overlap each other, making it impossible to figure out what any one person is saying.

 

Watching them through a one-way mirror are the Time Masters. They are silent, not quite sure what to do with the massive invasion force that has rocked their ordered and generally uneventful world.

 

Through yet another one-way mirror, watching the Time Masters watch the Crisis Team is a shadowy figure known to one and all as The Archie-Moderator. He grows impatient, waiting to find out what the Time Masters' next move might be. His entire evil plan hinges on them making a move that would lend itself to disruption by an entire evil plan.

 

Through a final one-way mirror, watching The Archie-Moderator watch the Time Masters watch the Crisis Team is a heretofore unseen villain of epic proportions. He calls himself The Doc because he was once able to apply a band-aid to a cut on his finger. Where he comes from, that's an advanced medical procedure. The Doc's people are evil but a wee bit slow. Doc is a genius on a planet of moroons. That would make him a fairly average guy elsewhere, were he not so intensely evil, mean, vituperative and vile, with a fair dash of vicissitude thrown in for variety.

 

"Ah, alliteration. And with v's yet. Very impressive," says The Doc. Suddenly it becomes clear that his evility is so singularly keen he can observe not just the Archie-Moderator, the Time Masters, and the Crisis Team, but the typist of all this drek, as well.

 

"Gulp," she typed, realizing that "evility" isn't a word.

 

"Desist in your self-referencing," snarls The Doc in grim, sepulchral tones. "This is about me and I shall not be denied, especially in my debut chapter, which, by the way, is an awfully long time in coming. These inferior characters have been prancing around in this story for years but I, who can out-evil The Archie-Moderator with my bandaged finger behind my back, have to wait until this ridiculous story is nearly at an end? Pathetic."

 

The typist fades back into oblivion with only one thought on her mind. "It's near the end? About freaking time."

 

The Doc glances at the door behind him. "By the Spitting Frogs of Endor, where is my coffee?" Grumbling, he flexes his outsized muscles, counts his abs (still six, despite the deliciousness of Krispy Kreme), eyes Flying Donut, licks his lips, and flips his mane of abundant, silky hair. Catching his reflection in the mirror, he admires his coal-black cape, skin-tight spandex, and impressive physique. Part of the reason he chose evil as his profession was the uniform. It was, he had to admit, quite flattering.

 

At that moment, The Doc's hunchbacked, one-eyed, uni-browed, three toothed, yet oddly influential assistant galumphs into the room carrying a Starbucks cup. "Your Skinny Cinnamon Dolce Latte, my liege."

 

"I should remove your other eye for being so late, but as always, I tremble before your prodigious influence at the Court of Genocidal Corruption."

 

"The CGC will hear of your threat, my liege, unless, of course, you give me a backrub later. My hump is aching in this cold weather."

 

The Doc shudders, happy he remembered to bring his oven mitts to work that day. At least he wouldn't have to touch anything and risk infecting his wounded finger. "So, Hunch, what do you think I should do with this ignominious collection of garbageous riffraff?"

 

"You're making up words, my liege."

 

"As if that's my fault!" He glares at the typist who quickly turns on the spell check again. "Now answer the question, Hunch."

 

Hunch glances through the succession of one-way mirrors, rubbing his fingers on his scabrous chin. "In what do they take the most pride, my liege? If you can determine that, you can calculate their downfall."

 

The Doc nods his head slowly, flexing his muscles for a full-page splash that can later be sold for beaucoup bux at the San Diego Con.

 

Meanwhile...

 

The din of agitated voices echoes off the walls of the concrete room. Adding to the cacophony are the harmonizing voices of Spelling Bee, Mylite, Flying Donut, and Runt as they sing "Like a Virgin" in Barbershop style simply because the acoustics are just so damn good.

 

"Shut up!" shouts Sgt. Rocky. Slowly, some of the voices fade until the only sound is that of Snowball making out with his Neanderthal girlfriend.

 

"That means you, too, Snowball!"

 

Reluctantly he pulls away from his hairy squeeze. "Sorry. You were saying?"

 

"I was saying 'Shut up', but that was not my primary message."

 

"What we need to do," says Uranus, "is come up with a plan to escape this infernal prison."

 

"I would appreciate it if you did not interrupt me when I am about to impart my primary message," says Sgt. Rocky, menacingly.

 

Uranus rolls his eyes, shoots a little noxious scent in Rocky's direction and says, "Whatever."

 

With lungs burning and eyes watering from the aroma, Sgt. Rocky bravely fights to speak. "We need to escape this infernal prison!" he says. "And for that, we need a plan."

 

Uranus blasts another one to protest the stealing of his own primary message. It has the added advantage of giving him a little elbowroom as well.

 

"I think we should storm the mirror. I don't trust mirrors. Never have," says Fruit Pie.

 

A murmur of "Yeah, mirrors suck" undulates around the room, if it can be said that short sentences undulate.

 

Mylite steps forward, emboldened by his sweet, sweet tenor voice having been roundly admired during the barbershop song. "I will make myself attractive to the mirror. This will disarm it so it doesn't see the attack coming."

 

"Excellent," says Sgt. Rocky amid admiring gasps as Mylite ramps up his attractability quotient. "For the rest of you, anyone with non-lame powers – that eliminates you, Damp Dude – get ready to attack!"

 

Damp Dude hangs his head and goes to the corner farthest away from the mirror. "They'll be sorry if there's a puddle on the other side."

 

The Crisis Team lines up, bristling with non-lame powers, ready to blast at Sgt. Rocky's command.

 

Meanwhile...

 

"Um, should we move back or something?" asks Second Guy.

 

"We're powerful enough to counteract their non-lame powers," says Millenium Guy. "At the ready, Time Masters!"

 

Meanwhile...

 

The Archi-Moderator frowns. "There'd better not be some sort of vortex formed by the clash of non-lame powers with time powers or I could be in trouble. I'd best radiate my own powers just in case."

 

Meanwhile...

 

"I'm out of ideas," says Hunch. "You've rejected every plan I've proposed."

 

"They all included you running out for snacks while I was killed. I do not consider those viable suggestions."

 

"I'm hungry."

 

"Finish my coffee. I, however, have a real plan. I have found their source of pride! I know their Achilles' Heel! I shall be triumphant and ruin this mob of riffraff and pond scum in a single blast of my depraved soul! I shall PILFER THEIR POWERS!"

 

"Ooh, cool," says Hunch, standing back.

 

"OH ZEPHYR WINDS WHICH BLOW ON HIGH, LIFT ME NOW SO I CAN—"

 

"That's Isis," whispers Hunch.

 

"SHAZAM!"

 

"That would be Captain Marvel."

 

"DA DOO RON RON, DA DOO RON RON!"

 

"That's the one!"

 

Immediately, the room fills with a fetid stench, the walls quiver, smoke billows, and in a most dramatic fashion, the one-way mirror shatters, causing a chain-reaction shattering of all the mirrors. Suddenly, everyone can see everyone. It is a horrifying site. The costumes are gone. The powers are gone. The copies of Action 1 that Mylite had been hoarding are gone. There is left only a crowd of no-longer spectacularly heroic or villainous people. Rather, they are simply people again.

 

Unsure of how to react to this new development, they mumble about pressing, TV shows, and Steve Borock's ponytail.

 

In the blink of an eye, Doc sends them from the room back into the threads of the CGC messageboard, doomed once again to be faceless screen names and shills. Sheepishly, they try to forget the horrors they once perpetrated, the boasts they'd made, and the way they looked in spandex.

 

The Doc stands alone, Hunch having left for a beer run to 7-11. He surveys the destruction, the whisper of a smile on his lips. "Damn, I'm good," he mutters, knowing that today, he ruined everyone's fun by ending the Crisis on Infinite Message Boards.

 

 

 

:sorry:

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