Last night I got some gliding practice in, swooping from one high rise to the other in Midtown.
I’m getting much better at it, the flying thing, but the winds in the artificial canyons of the city can be unpredicatble*. At one point during the night a rogue thermal carries me off course and right into a high rise condo. I smash into the metal railing of somebody's balcony with a horrible noise, scaring the hell out of some poor woman inside making dinner in a wok. She screams, obviously startled to see some dude with goggles and a cowl outside her condo, twenty floors above Sixth Avenue.
I untangle myself from the railing with a groan. I can smell the food cooking inside. Mmm, hoisin sauce...
The lady in the kitchen is backing away from her wok, eyes wide with fear, one arm searching for the phone somewhere behind her.
"Sorry," I call, smiling and waving. "Updraft." Like that explains anything.
The woman just stands there staring at me. She's about 40, perky haircut, red gingham apron.
"That smells great, by the way. What is that, Mongolian Beef?"
She turns around and dives for her telephone. Hey, I'd call 911 too.
"Sorry!" I yell and launch myself off the balcony.
Well, that will give her something to tell the gals. Or her therapist.
Let's see, what else? Later that night I push a stalled vehicle out of an intersection and bust up a fistfight in Queen's Row - two guys fighting over a taxi. Dicks.
All in all, a pretty average night.
*"Unpredicatble" is an accepted alternative spelling of "unpredictable" and I stand by my usage of it here.
January 09, 2005
January 08, 2005
My shower rituals
I have a couple of little rituals that I do involving the shower. Nothing obscene.
The first one is a Tony Robbins-type power move called The Terminator. I use it to get psyched, you know, to seize the day and shit. Here's how it works:
You know how in the Terminator movies, when a Terminator comes back through time and he appears all naked in this big glowing ball of energy? That's the visual here. We're focusing on an image of power, of potency.
After I'm done with the soap, shampoo, and conditioner, I kneel down in the shower in my Terminator-travelling-through-time pose. I visualize the more svelte Robert Patrick T-1000 from Terminator 2. Anyway, I'm kneeling down and in my head the Terminator music starts.
Dah-duh-duh-duhduh
I raise my head slowly. I'm the T-1000.
Dah-duh-duh-duhduh
The water pounds down on me as I slowly rise, a single-minded, goal-oriented killing machine.
Dah-duh-duh-duhduh
I rise up in the shower, feeling powerful. The music crescendoes. I am ready to Terminate.
Dah-duh-duh-duhduh! Dah-duh-duh-duhduh!
I'm not saying I do that every morning, but if I want to give myself the edge, if I've got a big presentation I like to bust a little Terminator and start the day off right.
The other ritual I do is, after I shave, I look at myself in the mirror and say, "The Connor Mackenzie Machine: zero defects!" Then I slap myself.
I ripped that off from Innerspace; Dennis Quaid does that in one scene and I always thought it was cool.
The first one is a Tony Robbins-type power move called The Terminator. I use it to get psyched, you know, to seize the day and shit. Here's how it works:
You know how in the Terminator movies, when a Terminator comes back through time and he appears all naked in this big glowing ball of energy? That's the visual here. We're focusing on an image of power, of potency.
After I'm done with the soap, shampoo, and conditioner, I kneel down in the shower in my Terminator-travelling-through-time pose. I visualize the more svelte Robert Patrick T-1000 from Terminator 2. Anyway, I'm kneeling down and in my head the Terminator music starts.
){kind=link}
Dah-duh-duh-duhduh
I raise my head slowly. I'm the T-1000.
Dah-duh-duh-duhduh
The water pounds down on me as I slowly rise, a single-minded, goal-oriented killing machine.
Dah-duh-duh-duhduh
I rise up in the shower, feeling powerful. The music crescendoes. I am ready to Terminate.
Dah-duh-duh-duhduh! Dah-duh-duh-duhduh!
I'm not saying I do that every morning, but if I want to give myself the edge, if I've got a big presentation I like to bust a little Terminator and start the day off right.
The other ritual I do is, after I shave, I look at myself in the mirror and say, "The Connor Mackenzie Machine: zero defects!" Then I slap myself.
I ripped that off from Innerspace; Dennis Quaid does that in one scene and I always thought it was cool.
January 07, 2005
My Meeting with The Supervillains Who Run My Company
So today the troika of mysterious executives - Clarke, Bradbury, and Quentin - wanted me to do an initial presentation of brand image/strategy ideas. (see posts The Ninth Floor, 11/28/04, and Situation: Uncool, 11/30/04
I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off all morning, putting the last touches on my PowerPoint presentation and my display cards. The printer screwed up and got the color wrong on one of my logo placards, so I made my bitch Chad run back down there and have them reprint it -- and to get me a soy mocha, of course. He is my bitch, after all.
At one point during the morning I stop and wonder for a moment if I'm just jumping through hoops for the amusement of my supervillain masters. I mean, the QuantumWorks project is a huge deal - it's a search engine that can somehow find any internet content that has ever been published, ever - and under normal circumstances, a company our size would have a whole team of people working on it. But no, they just have me. Margo says it's because they want to keep the whole thing under wraps until they clear some hurdles with the Justice Department, but I'm not so sure. Maybe Margo is in bed with the supervillain guys, figuratively speaking. Maybe she's in on it. Chad, too. He might be a spy they put in place to keep tabs on me. But then, why would you risk bringing a superhero into your Evil Plan in the first place? I mean, why not just kill me?
I enter the board room twitching with paranoia. Margo is in there, as well as the scholarly Aaron Clarke, the aging jock Ted Bradbury, and the suave and inscrutable John Quentin, who runs the QuantumWorks project. There are a few other suits in there as well.
I won't bore you with details, but the presentation goes well. By the end of the meeting, everybody seems to be leaning towards keeping the QuantumWorks name for the product.
"Nice work, Connor," Quentin says, peering at me from behind steepled fingers. "I can see we've made the right choice in recruiting you."
"Thanks," I say unenthusiastically.
"Something wrong, Mr. Mackenzie?" Aaron Clarke says.
Yeah. You guys are fucking villains, that's what's wrong.
"No... yeah. Yeah. Can I speak to you three in private for a moment?" I say.
It's a major breach of corporate protocol, and everybody seems taken aback. But Quentin nods to the other suits and Margo, who get up and shuffle out. I catch Margo's eye as she walks out. She looks concerned.
The door shuts behind them.
"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Mackenzie?" Clarke says. Bradbury is glaring at me.
"I'd like to step down," I say.
Quentin cocks an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because I don't know what you guys are doing up here, but I don't like it. All this secrecy shit. The QuantumWorks engine? What's that about? I'm not a tech guy, but I do know this is a big deal. Like, change-the-face-of-modern-information-technology kind of big deal. But you guys have, what? A couple dozen people working on it? And I'm the only brand management guy? It doesn't make sense."
"We're just asking for a little patience and faith, Connor," Quentin says.
"I'm fresh out of both, John," I say. I don't know how smart this is. They probably have hidden death rays trained on me right now.
Bradbury bristles. "I don't think I like your tone of voice, Connor."
"So fire me, Ted."
We all sit in silence for a few seconds, staring at each other.
I stand up. "I'll pack my things."
Quentin holds up a hand. "Just a minute, Connor," he says. "I can appreciate your skepticism, and your raise some good points. But we're on the ground level here of something huge, and I think you'd be a fool to walk away now. Think of the stock options."
"I don't care about the money."
Quentin writes down something on a piece of paper and slides it towards me. "We appreciate the work you've done for us so far and we'd hate to lose you. I understand your reservations; I would have similar concerns were I in your position. I'd like you to accept my assurances that we're not involved in anything unethical. We can't tell you all the details of the project yet - there are some legal and proprietary issues involved. You understand. I would like to keep you working for us for, say, another two months. You will receive a bonus for working for us during that two month period -- I've written the figure down on that card. At the end of the two month period, you're free to resign and keep the bonus, with no hard feelings."
They're all looking at me. I slowly reach for the piece of paper. The shadow of a smile flickers across Clarke's mouth.
I turn the paper over. There's a monetary figure written on it.
It's a lot.
Shit. Superhero or not, it's hard to walk away from cash like that. Then I think to myself, what better way to bring down this supervillain conspiracy than working from the inside? I could use the next two months to poke around on the Ninth Floor and gather evidence. Then I could call in the Storm Riders or the feds. And the beauty of it? These clowns would be paying me handsomely to destroy them.
"Fine," I say. "Fine. Two months."
Margo and the other suits file back in and we continue the meeting. Ted Bradbury can't stop staring at me. He looks like he'd just like to throw me out the Ninth Floor window.
For some reason during the rest of the meeting I keep on thinking of the carnivorous pitcher plant. I have a bad feeling about this.
I'm running around like a chicken with my head cut off all morning, putting the last touches on my PowerPoint presentation and my display cards. The printer screwed up and got the color wrong on one of my logo placards, so I made my bitch Chad run back down there and have them reprint it -- and to get me a soy mocha, of course. He is my bitch, after all.
At one point during the morning I stop and wonder for a moment if I'm just jumping through hoops for the amusement of my supervillain masters. I mean, the QuantumWorks project is a huge deal - it's a search engine that can somehow find any internet content that has ever been published, ever - and under normal circumstances, a company our size would have a whole team of people working on it. But no, they just have me. Margo says it's because they want to keep the whole thing under wraps until they clear some hurdles with the Justice Department, but I'm not so sure. Maybe Margo is in bed with the supervillain guys, figuratively speaking. Maybe she's in on it. Chad, too. He might be a spy they put in place to keep tabs on me. But then, why would you risk bringing a superhero into your Evil Plan in the first place? I mean, why not just kill me?
I enter the board room twitching with paranoia. Margo is in there, as well as the scholarly Aaron Clarke, the aging jock Ted Bradbury, and the suave and inscrutable John Quentin, who runs the QuantumWorks project. There are a few other suits in there as well.
I won't bore you with details, but the presentation goes well. By the end of the meeting, everybody seems to be leaning towards keeping the QuantumWorks name for the product.
"Nice work, Connor," Quentin says, peering at me from behind steepled fingers. "I can see we've made the right choice in recruiting you."
"Thanks," I say unenthusiastically.
"Something wrong, Mr. Mackenzie?" Aaron Clarke says.
Yeah. You guys are fucking villains, that's what's wrong.
"No... yeah. Yeah. Can I speak to you three in private for a moment?" I say.
It's a major breach of corporate protocol, and everybody seems taken aback. But Quentin nods to the other suits and Margo, who get up and shuffle out. I catch Margo's eye as she walks out. She looks concerned.
The door shuts behind them.
"What seems to be the problem, Mr. Mackenzie?" Clarke says. Bradbury is glaring at me.
"I'd like to step down," I say.
Quentin cocks an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because I don't know what you guys are doing up here, but I don't like it. All this secrecy shit. The QuantumWorks engine? What's that about? I'm not a tech guy, but I do know this is a big deal. Like, change-the-face-of-modern-information-technology kind of big deal. But you guys have, what? A couple dozen people working on it? And I'm the only brand management guy? It doesn't make sense."
"We're just asking for a little patience and faith, Connor," Quentin says.
"I'm fresh out of both, John," I say. I don't know how smart this is. They probably have hidden death rays trained on me right now.
Bradbury bristles. "I don't think I like your tone of voice, Connor."
"So fire me, Ted."
We all sit in silence for a few seconds, staring at each other.
I stand up. "I'll pack my things."
Quentin holds up a hand. "Just a minute, Connor," he says. "I can appreciate your skepticism, and your raise some good points. But we're on the ground level here of something huge, and I think you'd be a fool to walk away now. Think of the stock options."
"I don't care about the money."
Quentin writes down something on a piece of paper and slides it towards me. "We appreciate the work you've done for us so far and we'd hate to lose you. I understand your reservations; I would have similar concerns were I in your position. I'd like you to accept my assurances that we're not involved in anything unethical. We can't tell you all the details of the project yet - there are some legal and proprietary issues involved. You understand. I would like to keep you working for us for, say, another two months. You will receive a bonus for working for us during that two month period -- I've written the figure down on that card. At the end of the two month period, you're free to resign and keep the bonus, with no hard feelings."
They're all looking at me. I slowly reach for the piece of paper. The shadow of a smile flickers across Clarke's mouth.
I turn the paper over. There's a monetary figure written on it.
It's a lot.
Shit. Superhero or not, it's hard to walk away from cash like that. Then I think to myself, what better way to bring down this supervillain conspiracy than working from the inside? I could use the next two months to poke around on the Ninth Floor and gather evidence. Then I could call in the Storm Riders or the feds. And the beauty of it? These clowns would be paying me handsomely to destroy them.
"Fine," I say. "Fine. Two months."
Margo and the other suits file back in and we continue the meeting. Ted Bradbury can't stop staring at me. He looks like he'd just like to throw me out the Ninth Floor window.
For some reason during the rest of the meeting I keep on thinking of the carnivorous pitcher plant. I have a bad feeling about this.
Mo' Wombat
It feels good to bounce around the E.C. again.
I head out on patrol under a cloudless night sky. It’s fucking cold. Plumes of steam rise from rooftop vents into the winter air above Old Town. The whole city is covered in a thin coat of frost. Every ledge and roof is slick with black ice, and I slip a couple times despite my cleated boots.
Just to stoke my paranoia I swing by the Interbionics West building and stare at it from the shadows of a nearby rooftop. No ninja. I briefly consider breaking into the building, then think better of it, and move on.
Wombat is waiting for me on top of the Masonic Temple.
Just to show off I leap off a nearby building, snap my glider wings into place, then soar over to the top of the Masonic Temple. I alight on the roof, skidding to a halt on icy shingles right in front of Wombat.
“Hey, that’s pretty cool,” Wombat says. “Are those new?”
“Pretty bad ass, huh? I decided I needed to upgrade. Our mutual friend set me up.”
Wombat inspects the wings, makes appropriately impressed noises.
“Hey, check this out,” Wombat says, and one of his switchblade shovels pops out of his gauntlet. The edge of the shovel blade gleams. “New shovels. Diamond edge, baby.”
I guess to demonstrate the sharpness of the shovels he takes a swipe at a nearby pipe, slicing it cleanly in two. Steam hisses out of the severed pipe.
“Dude, stop! I hang out up here, you can’t just fuck shit up like that.”
Wombat laughs at me. “You’re such an old woman!”
Wombat is a strange cat; a hyperactive Peter Pan with a maniacal streak. He’s good at heart, I just think he needs to be medicated. Because I’m lazy, I’ll just post a description of Wombat from a previous post:
Wombat does not conform to the Western superhero archetype.
He is a squat little American dude, a good two inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than me. He wears a suit of body armor covered in a fine brown fur (fake rabbit fur treated with fireproof material) and a helmet/cowl that tapers into a snubby little nose. His stupid grin is the only part of his face visible. Wombat has big furry mittens that hide spring-loaded spades that pop out of his wrist – sort of like Wolverine, but with shovel blades instead of adamantium claws.
Instead of a utility belt Wombat has a utility pouch, a marsupial pocket full of gadgets and weaponry. My Guy makes Wombat’s armor and weaponry. As a matter of fact, Wombat introduced me to My Guy when I was first starting out in the hero game.
Wombat’s powers are similar to mine: mid-range super strength, tough skin, dense bones, super-leaping, etc. Wombat has “seismic sense,” a radar based on ground vibrations. He can dig like a motherfucker with those spades of his, too.
There you go, that’s Wombat. See post Wombat, Part One and Wombat, Part Two, 10/21/04 for more.
We bounce around Old Town and Midtown playing “got you last” on the icy rooftops for a while, until Wombat slips on a fire escape and plummets twenty feet into a dumpster. That sort of takes the wind out of his sails. He makes the “time out” gesture as I drop with catlike grace into the alley.
“Okay, time out,” Wombat says, panting. “I got a smashed crotch here. Oh, that smarts. That smarts.”
We walk down into Chinatown through the back alleys. Wombat is walking bow legged and making a big deal about his groin pain. A pack of Judo Boys abandons their dice game and scatter as we approach. Pussies.
It’s my experience that whenever superheroes meet, they either a) fight b) gossip like little girls. Wombat and I usually do both. Last time we destroyed somebody’s Cabriolet. We talk about how Kestrel always gets the good press, how people seem to think that I’m gay, who is behind bars and who has escaped, et cetera. The conversation swings around to health care.
“What do you do about it, do you have a doctor or somebody you go to?” I say. “I mean, I get fucked up a lot, and I can’t exactly go into a hospital. My chiropractor is just a puny little hippy, he can’t do anything.”
“I’ve got a guy up in Vancouver,” Wombat says.
“In Canada?”
“Yeah, Kestrel hooked me up with him. He’s a doctor at UBC’s medical center, he specializes in parahuman medicine. Very confidential.”
“Really? Do you think you could hook me up?”
“Sure, I can refer you. His name is Arman Naghib. I’m heading up to B.C. this week, and I’ll probably see him. I think Kestrel has staked out Vancouver as his new turf – ever since Northguard got killed by that – what was that thing called?”
“Kraken.”
“Right,” he says. “Kraken. Ever since Northguard got killed by Kraken, Vancouver hasn’t had a resident superhero. I hear he’s going over really well.”
“Whoop-de-doo for him.”
“Catty!” he says. “Okay, my groin’s feeling better.”
“Thanks for sharing that.”
“I’m gonna split. I’m hunting down a Yiff sighting. I think he may have crossed over into Canada.” (see post Yiff, Part One and Yiff, Part Two, 10/5/04)
Wombat hops up on a window sill, springs across the alley, rebounds off one wall, then another until he’s up on the edge of the roof. He tosses a jaunty salute.
“See ya pal! I’ll email you after I talk to the doctor.”
He disappears.
“Vaya con dios.”
I like saying shit like that.
I head out on patrol under a cloudless night sky. It’s fucking cold. Plumes of steam rise from rooftop vents into the winter air above Old Town. The whole city is covered in a thin coat of frost. Every ledge and roof is slick with black ice, and I slip a couple times despite my cleated boots.
Just to stoke my paranoia I swing by the Interbionics West building and stare at it from the shadows of a nearby rooftop. No ninja. I briefly consider breaking into the building, then think better of it, and move on.
Wombat is waiting for me on top of the Masonic Temple.
Just to show off I leap off a nearby building, snap my glider wings into place, then soar over to the top of the Masonic Temple. I alight on the roof, skidding to a halt on icy shingles right in front of Wombat.
“Hey, that’s pretty cool,” Wombat says. “Are those new?”
“Pretty bad ass, huh? I decided I needed to upgrade. Our mutual friend set me up.”
Wombat inspects the wings, makes appropriately impressed noises.
“Hey, check this out,” Wombat says, and one of his switchblade shovels pops out of his gauntlet. The edge of the shovel blade gleams. “New shovels. Diamond edge, baby.”
I guess to demonstrate the sharpness of the shovels he takes a swipe at a nearby pipe, slicing it cleanly in two. Steam hisses out of the severed pipe.
“Dude, stop! I hang out up here, you can’t just fuck shit up like that.”
Wombat laughs at me. “You’re such an old woman!”
Wombat is a strange cat; a hyperactive Peter Pan with a maniacal streak. He’s good at heart, I just think he needs to be medicated. Because I’m lazy, I’ll just post a description of Wombat from a previous post:
Wombat does not conform to the Western superhero archetype.
He is a squat little American dude, a good two inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than me. He wears a suit of body armor covered in a fine brown fur (fake rabbit fur treated with fireproof material) and a helmet/cowl that tapers into a snubby little nose. His stupid grin is the only part of his face visible. Wombat has big furry mittens that hide spring-loaded spades that pop out of his wrist – sort of like Wolverine, but with shovel blades instead of adamantium claws.
Instead of a utility belt Wombat has a utility pouch, a marsupial pocket full of gadgets and weaponry. My Guy makes Wombat’s armor and weaponry. As a matter of fact, Wombat introduced me to My Guy when I was first starting out in the hero game.
Wombat’s powers are similar to mine: mid-range super strength, tough skin, dense bones, super-leaping, etc. Wombat has “seismic sense,” a radar based on ground vibrations. He can dig like a motherfucker with those spades of his, too.
There you go, that’s Wombat. See post Wombat, Part One and Wombat, Part Two, 10/21/04 for more.
We bounce around Old Town and Midtown playing “got you last” on the icy rooftops for a while, until Wombat slips on a fire escape and plummets twenty feet into a dumpster. That sort of takes the wind out of his sails. He makes the “time out” gesture as I drop with catlike grace into the alley.
“Okay, time out,” Wombat says, panting. “I got a smashed crotch here. Oh, that smarts. That smarts.”
We walk down into Chinatown through the back alleys. Wombat is walking bow legged and making a big deal about his groin pain. A pack of Judo Boys abandons their dice game and scatter as we approach. Pussies.
It’s my experience that whenever superheroes meet, they either a) fight b) gossip like little girls. Wombat and I usually do both. Last time we destroyed somebody’s Cabriolet. We talk about how Kestrel always gets the good press, how people seem to think that I’m gay, who is behind bars and who has escaped, et cetera. The conversation swings around to health care.
“What do you do about it, do you have a doctor or somebody you go to?” I say. “I mean, I get fucked up a lot, and I can’t exactly go into a hospital. My chiropractor is just a puny little hippy, he can’t do anything.”
“I’ve got a guy up in Vancouver,” Wombat says.
“In Canada?”
“Yeah, Kestrel hooked me up with him. He’s a doctor at UBC’s medical center, he specializes in parahuman medicine. Very confidential.”
“Really? Do you think you could hook me up?”
“Sure, I can refer you. His name is Arman Naghib. I’m heading up to B.C. this week, and I’ll probably see him. I think Kestrel has staked out Vancouver as his new turf – ever since Northguard got killed by that – what was that thing called?”
“Kraken.”
“Right,” he says. “Kraken. Ever since Northguard got killed by Kraken, Vancouver hasn’t had a resident superhero. I hear he’s going over really well.”
“Whoop-de-doo for him.”
“Catty!” he says. “Okay, my groin’s feeling better.”
“Thanks for sharing that.”
“I’m gonna split. I’m hunting down a Yiff sighting. I think he may have crossed over into Canada.” (see post Yiff, Part One and Yiff, Part Two, 10/5/04)
Wombat hops up on a window sill, springs across the alley, rebounds off one wall, then another until he’s up on the edge of the roof. He tosses a jaunty salute.
“See ya pal! I’ll email you after I talk to the doctor.”
He disappears.
“Vaya con dios.”
I like saying shit like that.
January 05, 2005
Dead Elf
So I forgot to do a post about the media reaction to the chaos at the Interbionics West gala.
You'll recall that I fought a super-strong-elf-caterer-assassin on a balcony for a canister of mysterious fluid as a reception full of Evergreen City VIPs carried on in the lobby below. I threw the elf guy off the balcony and into a huge Chihuly hanging glass sculpture, interrupting the gala in a spectacular way. It’s a good thing, too, because Margo and Mayor McChesney and a whole bunch of VIPs were about to drink champagne spiked with the mysterious fluid during the evil Jason Delacroix’s toast. (see post The Interbionics Thing, 12/24/04)
They take the elf guy to Bayview Hospital in critical condition, and somebody “leaked” to the news that the elf, Daniel Fronz, was an Interbionics security officer with a long history of depression. An Aryan spokesperson for Interbionics implies that Fronz was a disgruntled employee and that he may have intentionally jumped on to the sculpture in an attempt to kill himself.
There’s no mention of a fight or a mysterious badass in a tux, which is good news for me.
Daniel Fronz dies in the ambulance en route to Bayview and they end up dropping him in the hospital’s morgue. Wouldn’t you know it? That night a propane tank "accidentally" explodes in a lab and a catastrophic fire sweeps through the morgue, destroying everything, including Daniel Fronz’s body.
Do I feel bad that he died? I guess. He was a bad guy, though. How worked up am I supposed to get? Anyway, I don't think I killed him. He was superhumanly tough, and as far as I know he was alive when he went into that ambulance. I'm guessing they didn't want doctors checking him out or cops asking questions, so they killed him in the ambulance and whitewash the whole thing, call it a suicide.
Looks like Interbionics knows how to cover their ass.
You'll recall that I fought a super-strong-elf-caterer-assassin on a balcony for a canister of mysterious fluid as a reception full of Evergreen City VIPs carried on in the lobby below. I threw the elf guy off the balcony and into a huge Chihuly hanging glass sculpture, interrupting the gala in a spectacular way. It’s a good thing, too, because Margo and Mayor McChesney and a whole bunch of VIPs were about to drink champagne spiked with the mysterious fluid during the evil Jason Delacroix’s toast. (see post The Interbionics Thing, 12/24/04)
They take the elf guy to Bayview Hospital in critical condition, and somebody “leaked” to the news that the elf, Daniel Fronz, was an Interbionics security officer with a long history of depression. An Aryan spokesperson for Interbionics implies that Fronz was a disgruntled employee and that he may have intentionally jumped on to the sculpture in an attempt to kill himself.
There’s no mention of a fight or a mysterious badass in a tux, which is good news for me.
Daniel Fronz dies in the ambulance en route to Bayview and they end up dropping him in the hospital’s morgue. Wouldn’t you know it? That night a propane tank "accidentally" explodes in a lab and a catastrophic fire sweeps through the morgue, destroying everything, including Daniel Fronz’s body.
Do I feel bad that he died? I guess. He was a bad guy, though. How worked up am I supposed to get? Anyway, I don't think I killed him. He was superhumanly tough, and as far as I know he was alive when he went into that ambulance. I'm guessing they didn't want doctors checking him out or cops asking questions, so they killed him in the ambulance and whitewash the whole thing, call it a suicide.
Looks like Interbionics knows how to cover their ass.
January 04, 2005
Margo Report
Margo ducks her head into my office this morning.
"Hey you," she says. I hate it when people say "hey you" in that cute way. I blame Jennifer Aniston, who always said "hey you" on Friends. Margo can say it without incurring my scorn because she is otherwise perfect.
"Margo!" I say, a little too eagerly. Tone it down, dude. "Uh, how's it going? You have a good Christmas? New Year's?"
She slips into my office and leans against the wall. Margo is wearing a black 3/4 sleeve V-neck sweater with a matching skirt and is carrying her usual Odwalla.
"Christmas was great," she said. "New Year's sucked."
"Well, that's no good."
She blows a stray lock of hair out of her face. It's an adorable gesture. I hope I'm not staring.
"Yeah, Brett and I broke up on New Year's," she says.
Who? Oh, she means Evil Val Kilmer, her dick boyfriend. (see post Evil Val Kilmer Must Die, 10/8/04)
"Oh. I'm sorry, Margo. Is that a bad thing?"
She looks at me for a second, then smiles thinly. "No. No, it's not a bad thing. People should be with people who want to be with them. Right? Does that make sense?"
"Absolutely. Life's too short. For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Liar.
"Thanks, Mackenzie." She switches gears. "Hey, you getting ramped up for the presentation on Friday?"
She means the preliminary brand strategy meeting where I have to throw some concepts at the QuantumWorks steering committee - Bradbury, Clarke, and Quentin - and see if anything sticks. Curiously, I am devoid of my usual pre-presentation anxiety. Maybe it's because the steering committee are all a bunch of fucking supervillains.
"I'm fully ramped," I say.
"I don't know what that means," she says.
"Yeah, me either."
She sighs. "Allright, back to work for me."
As she's leaving I call her name and she stops. She looks back at me and arches her eyebrow a little, which I find really sexy. "Yes?" she says.
"Guys are dicks," I say.
Margo smiles a little sadly and leaves.
So. Evil Val Kilmer is out of the picture. This is good news for me.
"Hey you," she says. I hate it when people say "hey you" in that cute way. I blame Jennifer Aniston, who always said "hey you" on Friends. Margo can say it without incurring my scorn because she is otherwise perfect.
"Margo!" I say, a little too eagerly. Tone it down, dude. "Uh, how's it going? You have a good Christmas? New Year's?"
She slips into my office and leans against the wall. Margo is wearing a black 3/4 sleeve V-neck sweater with a matching skirt and is carrying her usual Odwalla.
"Christmas was great," she said. "New Year's sucked."
"Well, that's no good."
She blows a stray lock of hair out of her face. It's an adorable gesture. I hope I'm not staring.
"Yeah, Brett and I broke up on New Year's," she says.
Who? Oh, she means Evil Val Kilmer, her dick boyfriend. (see post Evil Val Kilmer Must Die, 10/8/04)
"Oh. I'm sorry, Margo. Is that a bad thing?"
She looks at me for a second, then smiles thinly. "No. No, it's not a bad thing. People should be with people who want to be with them. Right? Does that make sense?"
"Absolutely. Life's too short. For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Liar.
"Thanks, Mackenzie." She switches gears. "Hey, you getting ramped up for the presentation on Friday?"
She means the preliminary brand strategy meeting where I have to throw some concepts at the QuantumWorks steering committee - Bradbury, Clarke, and Quentin - and see if anything sticks. Curiously, I am devoid of my usual pre-presentation anxiety. Maybe it's because the steering committee are all a bunch of fucking supervillains.
"I'm fully ramped," I say.
"I don't know what that means," she says.
"Yeah, me either."
She sighs. "Allright, back to work for me."
As she's leaving I call her name and she stops. She looks back at me and arches her eyebrow a little, which I find really sexy. "Yes?" she says.
"Guys are dicks," I say.
Margo smiles a little sadly and leaves.
So. Evil Val Kilmer is out of the picture. This is good news for me.
Jet Pack Mafia Update
It's tough to find any good news about the Jet Pack Mafia goons that I defeated a few weeks ago. (see posts Holliday Hellzone! Part One and Part Two, 12/19/04)
The goons are being held in The Catacombs, where the Feds like to keep parahuman prisoners. True, these guys aren't much of a threat without their body armor and jet packs, but if they were held in a regular prison it would be that much easier for other Jet Pack Mafia to break them out. A number of different states are currently squabbling overthe right to extradite them, but it looks like they'll face federal charges.
The Feds think there are more Jet Pack Mafia out there. Details are sketchy, but it looks like the founding members of the gang were all in the same Army unit and were all involved in testing out a personal battle system, code name Dragonfly. They thought it would be a good idea to use the Dragonfly armor to go into business for themselves. I don't know where the whole Roaring 20's gangster motif came from.
Anyway, one side benefit of the Jet Pack Mafia story is that I'm getting a lot of play in the national media, which is good for me.
It's all about me, isn't it? That was a rhetorical question, but the answer is "yes."
The goons are being held in The Catacombs, where the Feds like to keep parahuman prisoners. True, these guys aren't much of a threat without their body armor and jet packs, but if they were held in a regular prison it would be that much easier for other Jet Pack Mafia to break them out. A number of different states are currently squabbling overthe right to extradite them, but it looks like they'll face federal charges.
The Feds think there are more Jet Pack Mafia out there. Details are sketchy, but it looks like the founding members of the gang were all in the same Army unit and were all involved in testing out a personal battle system, code name Dragonfly. They thought it would be a good idea to use the Dragonfly armor to go into business for themselves. I don't know where the whole Roaring 20's gangster motif came from.
Anyway, one side benefit of the Jet Pack Mafia story is that I'm getting a lot of play in the national media, which is good for me.
It's all about me, isn't it? That was a rhetorical question, but the answer is "yes."
January 03, 2005
My thermos! It's gone!
So I get back from my holiday in New Avalon and find that somebody has broken into my house.
Nothing is obviously out of place or missing, but I have this feeling when I come in the house. Because I'm paranoid I systematically check every room and hiding spot in the house for ninja. Satisfied that I'm alone, I enter the Secret Chamber. I'll review the surveillance camera feeds and see if they record any intruders.
You can imagine my surprise when I find the safe in the Chamber wide open. It's missing; the thermos cylinder I got from the Interbionics soiree is gone. (see post The Interbionics Thing, 12/24/04)
Fuck. And I was going to get that analyzed and see what was in it. I had to fight a superpowered elf martial artist to get that fucking cylinder! He said that inside the cannister was "Perfection." Then I threw him off the balcony. Now I wish I had gotten a little more specific info from the guy.
I check the surveillance camera files. They've been erased, of course.
Did Interbionics send one of their Aryan ubermensch in here? Or was it somebody from The Company? Maybe it was a ninja, I don't know. Hey, and who was the guy that gave me the DON'T DRINK THE CHAMPAGNE note, anyway? What was that all about?
Somebody know my secret identity.
Fuck.
Nothing is obviously out of place or missing, but I have this feeling when I come in the house. Because I'm paranoid I systematically check every room and hiding spot in the house for ninja. Satisfied that I'm alone, I enter the Secret Chamber. I'll review the surveillance camera feeds and see if they record any intruders.
You can imagine my surprise when I find the safe in the Chamber wide open. It's missing; the thermos cylinder I got from the Interbionics soiree is gone. (see post The Interbionics Thing, 12/24/04)
Fuck. And I was going to get that analyzed and see what was in it. I had to fight a superpowered elf martial artist to get that fucking cylinder! He said that inside the cannister was "Perfection." Then I threw him off the balcony. Now I wish I had gotten a little more specific info from the guy.
I check the surveillance camera files. They've been erased, of course.
Did Interbionics send one of their Aryan ubermensch in here? Or was it somebody from The Company? Maybe it was a ninja, I don't know. Hey, and who was the guy that gave me the DON'T DRINK THE CHAMPAGNE note, anyway? What was that all about?
Somebody know my secret identity.
Fuck.
January 02, 2005
Our Story So Far...
Okay, since it's the New Year and all I thought I'd do a quick recap to bring everybody up to speed.
My name's Connor Mackenzie, and I'm a superhero. I live in Evergreen City, WA, where by day I am a brand management project manager (aka marketing guy) for a large and unnamed software company, but at night I prowl the misty urban jungle as The Velvet Marauder.
A couple of years ago a bizarre accident gave me powers beyond the ken of mortal man. I'm not sure what that really means, but it sounds good. I have what we call mid-range super powers, like Spider-Man. Of course, Spider-Man is a fictional character whereas I am real. Anyway, I can pick up and throw (small) cars, run at about 50 mph, and leap a city block. My reflexes and sense of balance are uncanny. I never get cold. My skin is bulletproof and my bones are as hard as steel. I have to say that bulletproof or not, getting shot still hurts like a bitch and can leave an ugly bruise, so I try to avoid it. I also heal very quickly, which is good because I am accident prone and get beat up a lot.
To supplement my super powers I wear a suit of black body armor with some custom mods, like infrared goggles, gauntlet-launched mini-boomerangs, and an MP3 player. Recently I had these kick-ass retractable glider wings added to my armor by My Guy, the anonymous weapons-and-gadget contractor that provides me and other superhero types with gear. My buddy and fellow vigilante Wombat hooked me up with My Guy, who as I've discovered over the past year also sells gear to supervillains. At least, I think so.
Let's see, what else do you need to know? I have an unhealthy affection for Margo Thompson, a foxy project manager at work. She's spunky and retro, sort of a 21st century Mary Tyler Moore. I want her to be my Lois Lane, but she's going out with Evil Val Kilmer (I forget his real name), a handsome dickhead who works for a pharmaceuticals giant. I think he's a superhero. Anyway, Margo and I currently work on the Ninth Floor together on the QuantumWorks project.
What a nice segue. The QuantumWorks project is an ultra top secret program spearheaded by a mysterious group of executives in The Company, who I think are supervillains. I know, I sound paranoid, but I'm usually right about these things. QuantumWorks is a revolutionary search engine that can retrieve any data, any material that has ever been posted on the Internet, ever. I'm not sure how something like that works, but I'm just a marketing guy. The whole project is under the control of three executives; Ted Bradbury, Aaron Clarke, and the mysterious John Quentin. They seem to know that I'm the Velvet Marauder, and I have no idea why they haven't tried to kill me yet. They're supervillains - who understands how these people think?
Another evil company with a mysterious agenda is Interbionics, who just opened their west coast office here in Evergreen City. My company is very cozy with Interbionics, who I am sure is a front for a secret empire or something. Their west coast division is led by the satanic and impeccably groomed Jason Delacroix and Ingrid Vanderwaal, the ultra hot Ice Queen. If they aren't supervillains I don't know who is.
Do I sound paranoid? Consider this: at the gala opening ceremony for the Interbionics West building right before Christmas, I thwarted a plot to poison all the VIPs present with spiked champagne. It was kick ass: I had a big kung fu fight in my tuxedo with an assassin dressed like an elf (don't ask) that ended badly for him and the huge glass sculpture that was hanging in the building's lobby. I managed to grab a sample of whatever they were putting in the drink - hopefully that will give me an idea as to what these bastards are up to.
Speaking of bastards, our new mayor Chip McChesney has pledged to crack down on illegal metahuman vigilantes in Evergreen City, namely me. To this end, he's hired a new police chief, Taylor Ryczek, the "Motor City Madman." Ryczek appears to have assembled an Anti-Hero squad of SWAT guys. We'll see how serious this gets.
I've had a good track record this year as far as high-profile fights go. It always helps to get your name on the news. I recently laid the smack down on The Jet Pack Mafia, stopping their bank robbing spree and bad Jimmy Cagney dialogue. People are bitching about all the property damage during the fight, like the collapsed construction crane and all the destroyed cars. I try to help some people out and look what I get. I can't win.
Earlier this year I defeated the super-strong, super-creepy Yiff, a drug-adled freak in a bear suit who went on a rampage in Waterfront Park. He got away, though, but not before humping my leg and throwing a Prius on top of me. Yiff is still out there, somewhere.
Also at large is Exploder, who ambushed me this summer and blew up my car. Are you starting to see a trend, here, with the cars? I pumelled Exploder and the cops got him, but he escaped from federal custody and is now on the loose.
I occasionally team up with other hero types. Nothing big league like the Storm Riders or the Minute Men, but I'm working on it. I occasionally run into my buddy Wombat, the only hero I know who has attention defecit disorder. I also run into Kestrel, this suave British guy with big angel wings who steals my press.
This past Halloween I teamed up with Hydrangea, mistress of mysticism, to fight an evil reincarnated Tibetan llama and a bunch of zombies. That was really cool, fighting the zombies. I saved Hydrangea's life and she was... grateful, if you know what I mean and I think you do. After a brief affair, Hydrangea split, and I went back to being alone and masturbating a lot. Kidding, I'm kidding.
Okay, you're now up to date. I'm looking forward to smashing evil in 2005. That, and less typoes.
My name's Connor Mackenzie, and I'm a superhero. I live in Evergreen City, WA, where by day I am a brand management project manager (aka marketing guy) for a large and unnamed software company, but at night I prowl the misty urban jungle as The Velvet Marauder.
A couple of years ago a bizarre accident gave me powers beyond the ken of mortal man. I'm not sure what that really means, but it sounds good. I have what we call mid-range super powers, like Spider-Man. Of course, Spider-Man is a fictional character whereas I am real. Anyway, I can pick up and throw (small) cars, run at about 50 mph, and leap a city block. My reflexes and sense of balance are uncanny. I never get cold. My skin is bulletproof and my bones are as hard as steel. I have to say that bulletproof or not, getting shot still hurts like a bitch and can leave an ugly bruise, so I try to avoid it. I also heal very quickly, which is good because I am accident prone and get beat up a lot.
To supplement my super powers I wear a suit of black body armor with some custom mods, like infrared goggles, gauntlet-launched mini-boomerangs, and an MP3 player. Recently I had these kick-ass retractable glider wings added to my armor by My Guy, the anonymous weapons-and-gadget contractor that provides me and other superhero types with gear. My buddy and fellow vigilante Wombat hooked me up with My Guy, who as I've discovered over the past year also sells gear to supervillains. At least, I think so.
Let's see, what else do you need to know? I have an unhealthy affection for Margo Thompson, a foxy project manager at work. She's spunky and retro, sort of a 21st century Mary Tyler Moore. I want her to be my Lois Lane, but she's going out with Evil Val Kilmer (I forget his real name), a handsome dickhead who works for a pharmaceuticals giant. I think he's a superhero. Anyway, Margo and I currently work on the Ninth Floor together on the QuantumWorks project.
What a nice segue. The QuantumWorks project is an ultra top secret program spearheaded by a mysterious group of executives in The Company, who I think are supervillains. I know, I sound paranoid, but I'm usually right about these things. QuantumWorks is a revolutionary search engine that can retrieve any data, any material that has ever been posted on the Internet, ever. I'm not sure how something like that works, but I'm just a marketing guy. The whole project is under the control of three executives; Ted Bradbury, Aaron Clarke, and the mysterious John Quentin. They seem to know that I'm the Velvet Marauder, and I have no idea why they haven't tried to kill me yet. They're supervillains - who understands how these people think?
Another evil company with a mysterious agenda is Interbionics, who just opened their west coast office here in Evergreen City. My company is very cozy with Interbionics, who I am sure is a front for a secret empire or something. Their west coast division is led by the satanic and impeccably groomed Jason Delacroix and Ingrid Vanderwaal, the ultra hot Ice Queen. If they aren't supervillains I don't know who is.
Do I sound paranoid? Consider this: at the gala opening ceremony for the Interbionics West building right before Christmas, I thwarted a plot to poison all the VIPs present with spiked champagne. It was kick ass: I had a big kung fu fight in my tuxedo with an assassin dressed like an elf (don't ask) that ended badly for him and the huge glass sculpture that was hanging in the building's lobby. I managed to grab a sample of whatever they were putting in the drink - hopefully that will give me an idea as to what these bastards are up to.
Speaking of bastards, our new mayor Chip McChesney has pledged to crack down on illegal metahuman vigilantes in Evergreen City, namely me. To this end, he's hired a new police chief, Taylor Ryczek, the "Motor City Madman." Ryczek appears to have assembled an Anti-Hero squad of SWAT guys. We'll see how serious this gets.
I've had a good track record this year as far as high-profile fights go. It always helps to get your name on the news. I recently laid the smack down on The Jet Pack Mafia, stopping their bank robbing spree and bad Jimmy Cagney dialogue. People are bitching about all the property damage during the fight, like the collapsed construction crane and all the destroyed cars. I try to help some people out and look what I get. I can't win.
Earlier this year I defeated the super-strong, super-creepy Yiff, a drug-adled freak in a bear suit who went on a rampage in Waterfront Park. He got away, though, but not before humping my leg and throwing a Prius on top of me. Yiff is still out there, somewhere.
Also at large is Exploder, who ambushed me this summer and blew up my car. Are you starting to see a trend, here, with the cars? I pumelled Exploder and the cops got him, but he escaped from federal custody and is now on the loose.
I occasionally team up with other hero types. Nothing big league like the Storm Riders or the Minute Men, but I'm working on it. I occasionally run into my buddy Wombat, the only hero I know who has attention defecit disorder. I also run into Kestrel, this suave British guy with big angel wings who steals my press.
This past Halloween I teamed up with Hydrangea, mistress of mysticism, to fight an evil reincarnated Tibetan llama and a bunch of zombies. That was really cool, fighting the zombies. I saved Hydrangea's life and she was... grateful, if you know what I mean and I think you do. After a brief affair, Hydrangea split, and I went back to being alone and masturbating a lot. Kidding, I'm kidding.
Okay, you're now up to date. I'm looking forward to smashing evil in 2005. That, and less typoes.
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