Hate Ball #3 (of 4)
Our hero, Russell Barnett, stood with his heavy boots at the throat of an angry, balding man in a crimson robe, the anti-gravitational field emitters in them that make them fly apparently not enough to ease his discomfort any. The tall, wiry man is brushing his long red hair out of his face, and rubbing his thumbs expectantly along the handles of his concussion blasters, motioning to several other jerks in blue robes as if daring them to make a move.
(That should do for a 'cover', shouldn't it?)
Notice: for those of you that are faint of heart, the following tale isn't exactly what one would call G-rated in nature. It contains a plethora of bad language, excessive violence, sexual innuendo, and of course, things that would get this story burned, were it in a printed form, by the more fanatical elements of just about any religion on earth. In other words, if these things offend you - you've been warned.
(That should do for a 'disclaimer', shouldn't it?)
Russell threw the bag down onto the ground.
It was full of scrap metal of various types, picked up on the way to the electronics supply shop he'd just arrived in. Before a salesman could even bother him, Russel almost tackled one and thrust the list into his hand. "Tell me you have all of this." Annoyed at first, the salesman read list a few times, and then looked back at Russell. He scratched his shiny bald head and nodded.
"Well of course. It'll take a few minutes to gather up, but it'll cost you a few grand, at least." The salesman than took the opportunity to derisively look him up and down, scowling at his long hair, his worn down clothes. The man apparently had a particular problem with his banged up boots. "And I'm afraid we don't take checks, young man. Or used cardboard. In fact..."
Of course, the salesman didn't manage to complete his insult, because he had a face full of fist at that point. Screaming as he fell to the ground, his nose broken, the salesman waved frantically at his boss to come to his aid. Seeing the managerial type stomping towards him, Russell just rolled his eyes, and forcibly retrieved the list from the fallen clerk. Before the overweight man could open his greasy-looking mouth, Russell shoved the list at him, too.
"As I told your obnoxious friend here, I need all of this stuff. And I need it yesterday. He preferred to be an elitist jerk instead of helping me, apparently assuming I don't have these big, shiny credit cards to pay for what I want. Can you help me, or do I just need to kick the crap out of every gigantic ass in here and ring it up myself?" Russell realized that he was holding the man up off the ground at this point, having torn his suit jacket a bit in the process.
He gently put the man back on the ground.
He then dusted the coat off, not that it would really help.
He finally handed the man two credit cards. "Well?"
While his subordinate kept pestering him to call the police, the manager of Enos' Electronics Emporium did no such thing. He was fascinated with the young man before him, who was literally inventing things faster than his eyes could follow. He didn't quite understand just what was going on, but the kid was clearly years beyond anything else on earth that he'd ever seen - at least, technologically. While he didn't understand it, he could definitely appreciate it.
Russell could care less that the two were watching him, he had a job to do. He wanted to create a specific arsenal and the technology simply didn't exist on this world. Luckily, he had sampled it before on... whatever planet he'd wound up on with that jerk, Clarence Davidson. * He liked the elegance of it all, even if he had to invent the tools to invent the tools to invent the tools to invent the tools to invent the tools to build such things.
Half an hour later, Russell was on the final iteration of his advancement curve, and at long last had produced a working anti-gravity generator. This caused a few 'oohs' and 'aahs' amongst the crowd that was slowly assembling around him, and any thoughts of calling the police on him had long-since evaporated. The manager of Enos' had his minion plug up his nose and sell people things as they watched, and most of the geeks and tech enthusiasts were encouraged enough to spend. A lot.
Quickly duplicating the work, Russell dedicated two generators to his boots, linked to a device which could use to control them via subtle eye movements - which he installed in a slick red visor he nabbed off the shop's counter. It was the kind that is designed to fit over someone's existing glasses, but Russell found they were roomy enough to hold all kinds of circuitry. A lot of other display circuitry would go in there as well.
Like the things that would tell him how much power the new concussion cannons he'd built - which were powered by his anti-g devices - had left. Not to mention other controls for his force field belt, a thing he'd tried to get going for years but now found almost childishly simple to create. Were he anyone else, Russell might be concerned that such a negative emotion was being used to create things for him, but meh. All he cared about were results now. And some payback.
Finishing up, he developed a completely different device, one he found useful when he cobbled it together out in space. * This thing, a translation unit, would help him to talk with most anyone else that he encountered, once it could determine the nature of their linguistics. It came in handy before, and hey - these Ologyologists were talking about summonings and whatever, so they may be dealing with demons. Or maybe just aliens. Who knows with cultists, really?
Jamming the tiny device in his ear, Russell had no real way of knowing it worked - at least, until someone spoke a different language around him - but he called it good. He did make two duplicates of the device though, and threw one to each of the employees. "Here, now you can insult people no matter what language they speak." Well, the devices wouldn't really let them talk in other languages, but at the very least, it made for a good insult.
Once he was done with his work, Russell then caused his newly invented tools to melt down into the slag from which he built them. Not that anyone here would actually understand how to operate them, but you never know when someone would get lucky, and then he'd have another super-villain whack-job to deal with...
Armed thus, Russell left Enos' Electronics Emporium in Queens, and made his way towards the Ologyology center, deep in the heart of Manhattan. Leave it to these clowns to pay ridiculous amounts of cash on unnecessarily gaudy real estate. Probably taken from innocents they duped with their wacky philosophy. Hell, their madness worked on him, and he usually considered himself a sensible sort, so he could only imagine how many others were taken in by Ologyology.
He could've taken a taxi, or just walked. But the man now had flight boots, and they sort of needed a shake-down flight. Feeling nothing else for it, Russell took off, much to the delight of the crowd that was watching him Create, and overshot his target by a few miles. And by 'over', think 'way too high'. Adjusting the power as he went, he came back down out of the upper atmosphere - before he could start to have serious trouble breathing - and returned to the city.
Landing in front of the Foundation of Ologyology headquarters, Russell walked in as if he owned the place. The hate came easier to him now, and his heightened thought processes helped him to better remember his time spent here. Ol' Clarence laid it on pretty thick, that's for sure, but as suicidal as he was at the time, Russell bought into it hook, line and sinker. He remembered liking the marble tiling out here in the lobby, the weird Pi symbol, which was actually upside down.
Not that you'd know that, without REALLY knowing what Ologyology is intended for.
When a Foundation minion approached him, Russell kicked him full-on in the groin, causing him to crumple. "No, you can't help me." He then started opening fire indiscriminately, smashing up the marble floor, the walls to the lobby, the stairwell, the elevators. Anything inanimate he gazed upon, Russell blasted with his concussion cannons, seriously dropping the property values and causing an out and out panic. Which was the intention.
Floating above one wrecked stairwell that curved around the circular lobby, Russell made his way to the upper floors, where inductees to Ologyology were taught the meaning of meaning. He could recall how his instructors implored him to meditate on the idea of meditation, the meaning of meaning, and the truth of truth, guiding him around in pointless logical circles until his brain turned to mush. When that finally happened, he was theirs.
Kicking in the door of each induction room, Russell fired one shot into each, snapping most of the new recruits out of their stupors and causing them to flee. Of course with the stairs wrecked, they were forced to jump for their freedom, and Russell was hoping the added pain and possible broken bones would teach them a lesson. You know, the kind about not trusting your lives to a bunch of creepy jerks in robes who claim to have the Answer.
Once he was satisfied that he'd cleared the decks of any innocents, Russell went back to the lobby. After landing, he walked down the other flight of stairs, the one which curved around the other side of the lobby and went into the basements. He could hear sirens approaching in the distance, but he didn't care; nothing the police could produce would penetrate his force field. He wasn't sure any of the Ologyologists could either, but then they had magic on their side.
Creeps. At the bottom of the stairwell, Russell found a door, boarded up from the other side. He seemed to recall hacking that up with Davidson's mystic blade upon his escape from this place a bit back, and grinned. Blasting it with his cannons, he laughed as the boards barring his egress exploded away from him, some fragments of which embedded themselves within waiting Ologyologists beyond. Remembering what they did to him last time, Russell backed up and waited for them to charge.
Instead of letting the blue-robed cultists overwhelm him with sheer numbers, Russell just blasted them as a few at a time passed through the narrow space the doorway presented. After he'd rendered at least half of them senseless or broken, the others got the hint and backed off, allowing him full access to the basement. Sneering at them, Russell picked off a few more as they ducked into unknown doorways and taunted the rest with a litany of curses.
With the mad-on he had going, they came quite naturally.
Satisfied with the carnage he had wrought, Russell made his way to the big wooden double doors. They were not barred from either side, so he could have simply opened them the normal way. But Russell was all about making a point today, so he blasted each door simultaneously with his concussion cannons, causing them to fly open wildly. They didn't explode like the wooden blockade behind him did, much to his regret, but he definitely announced his arrival.
"You're too late, Barnett. Or 8-Ball, or whatever you're calling yourself now. Behold!" Looking on in horror, Russel saw another youth who looked much like he did on the altar there just a few days back. ** Spying the youth, Russell saw that he'd already driven Clarence's sword through the girl - not the one he'd rescued previously, but still - there was a dead girl there on the altar. And now, whatever hare-brained scheme that Clarence was trying to pull off had succeeded.
Looking back at Clarence, who had gloated at him mere moments before, Russell began to walk at him - only to see a human wall of Ologyologists block his way. Russell was okay with this though, and opened fire on the mass of idiots thinking that, somehow, their being in the way would stop him from shooting. As blue-cloaked cretins flew to and fro thanks to the repellent property of his anti-gravitational concussion cannons, Clarence himself was knocked to the ground in the hub-bub.
Walking over to him, Russell planted one of his flight boots on the man's throat, all the while pointing his concussion cannons at the man's head. "Gimme one reason. Just one reason. Explain it to me in small words, though, 'cause I'm really, really itching to kill you right now, and higher thought processes aren't cutting it at the moment." Clarence wasn't having any of that, however, and laughed at Russel. A seriously bad thing to do at this point in time.
"I won't even use a single word, how's that? I'll just point."
And he did.
At the altar.
So Russell looked.
The formerly wiry kid that these maniacs had brainwashed into killing some poor, innocent woman, he didn't look all that wiry. He'd changed color too, shifting from a pale, almost white flesh tone to crimson in hue. And he was bulging! The kid had at least doubled in size, and... something was wrong with his arms. They were... splitting! Each limb split into four separate strands of flesh, spraying the area in blood as they did so. But they weren't done yet.
The loose strands of flesh, all four of them, were writhing as if their owner was in unbelievable pain. And that wasn't too hard to imagine, truth be told. But in addition to their twitching, they were swelling, slowly transforming from the ruined components of formerly human arms into large, octopus-like tentacles - complete with suckers on the bottom! Pressing his throat down on Clarence's neck, Russell hissed through clenched teeth. "What did you DO?"
Clarence, however, just started laughing. The bad laugh, you know, when someone's gone completely off their rocker. "As I said earlier... behold! Ocpatex!"
Looking back at the poor, misguided youth who's body was rapidly being changed beyond recognition, he saw his head bulging, as though something inside were... growing within. Which was, in fact, the case. Before Russell could say or do anything, the youth's head detonated, leaving a mass of bone, blood and brains scattered about his body. An oversized, almost ridiculous looking eye was swelling in the space formerly occupied by said head.
The body then swelled to match, growing to almost eight feet in height. Flexing its eight tentacular arms, the entity identified as Ocpatex roared into the air around it, even though it had no apparent means of emitting sound. "I am Ocpatex! Fear me, mewling mortals!"
Russell lifted his boot up off of Clarence momentarily, if only long enough to bring it back down again on his face - hard. He then spit on the man's broken nose as he lie there unconscious, and gave Ocpatex the hairy eyeball.
Russell is facing down a terrible tentacular creature from who-knows-where with naught but a raging mad-on and two concussion cannons... and he's running low on the juice he needs to run the things. Can he put the beastly beastie down and tear the Ologyology foundation apart before the other shoe drops, or is the man about to learn the bad side about being a hero? Tune in next time for the definitely grisly conclusion to our epic. But grisly for who...?
Hate Ball #3 (of 4) - Rearmeded
© 2009, 2012 Denny Hill 2, All rights reserved and so forth.