Lord Allo
Squad Stories: Marvels 1/5
Michael Patten enjoys his job. He enjoys it more than he ever enjoyed attempting to think up death traps, and he never enjoyed confronting Batman. It was a loveless marriage, that. Marred by flaccid lovemaking and a mutual repulsion. He didn’t have the fire or the passion for that sort of rivalry with a man in a cape. Not like those other jilted freaks, vying for his attention like almost-brides, abandoned at the altar.
No, when Amanda Waller approached him with this job, he couldn’t help but to say yes. To have access to the entire network of one of the nation’s most notorious prisons? Why, he’d be absolutely mental to turn it down. This was a portal to the nation’s secrets, and he’d uncover them soon enough.
What Michael Patten did not enjoy, was the two reprobates, smoking at his desk.
Digger: Alright, alright, here’s one: Aquaman or Cyborg?
Floyd: Aquaman.
Digger: Naw, mate! That’s looney in the head, that is! One shot from Cyborg and Blammo, y’got yerself fish and chips. Just add lemon and beer-batter.
Floyd: Cyborg’s half robot. Aquaman swoops in, takes him out with one wave. Zap.
Digger, taking a sip of his tea: Bullshite. S’your turn.
Answer clacks rapidly away at his keyboard, doing nothing in particular. He just wishes to drown out this insufferable chatter. He lifts the bottom of his mask, raises a bottle of wild turkey to his lips and downs the whole thing in four gulps. The electronic inmates are silent.
Floyd, exhaling smoke: Okay, Martian Manhunter . . . Or man of steel?
Digger: Ooh, tough one. Well ole Greeny’s weakness is fire, yeah? And Superbloke’s got heat-vision so one nice slice down the middle and y’got two Martian slices.
Floyd: Can’t argue there.
Digger: Bilateral Symmetry. How about er . . . Starman versus Steel, eh?
Floyd: Who?
Digger: Starman! He’s some bloke in red underpants that shoots light out of a wand, and Steel’s a big metal gallah with a huge fock-off hammer!
Floyd: Sounds like Steel’s got the advantage.
The Answer mutters something incoherent to himself, then reaches over to where a fresh orchid lays on the monitor. Next to it is a thin shaker of salt. The Answer reaches past the orchid, lifts the shaker, and pours just a small amount on his hand. His mask still lifted, he rapidly huffs the powder into his nose. An involuntary, high pitched noise escapes his throat, then dies. The conversation around him gets temporarily quicker, and his focus gets sped up right along with it.
Digger, leaning over to Answer: Uh, hey mate, got a little extra to spare?
Answer: No dice, Bob Keeshan, get your own goddamn pixie sticks.
Digger, backing off: Alright mate, just curious.
Floyd: Real question is, Digger, Flash or Bats?
Digger: Aw it’s Flash, no contest.
Floyd: You sure?
Digger: Course I’m sure! Flashie runs faster’n the speed of sound. Bats is just a bloke who throws bat-shaped boomera—Oy, hold on a minute!
Floyd chuckles humorlessly and finishes his cigarette, flicking it into the garbage can across the room. There’s blood on the floor.
Answer’s feet move around under the table. They slither like snakes until they bump into course brown paper. His feet wrap around it like tentacles and he drags the bag bodily towards himself. Mid-typing he reaches into the bag and withdraws a grapefruit. Nonchalantly, he bites into it like an apple. Something catches his eye on one of the countless, glowing monitors.
Digger, finishing his tea: What about, heh, Power Girl versus Wonder Woman, eh?
Floyd, twirling an unlit cigarette in his fingers: Hm. Wonder Woman has the advantage. Not as strong, but better equipped.
Digger: Oh they’re both bloody well equipped if ye get my meaning. My opinion, no matter which one loses, whoever’s watchin wins! Ahahaha!
Floyd allows himself a smirk, but he’s not in a jovial mood today. Every person he’s passed in the hallway today was walking dead. A bullet in their forehead, their eyes glassed over, blood running down their face, into their lips, and dripping off their chins. He’s been looking at the far wall, and not at Digger for this same reason. It’s one of those days. It will pass. It always passes.
Digger: Now I know we gave him guff before f’r tryin, but I’ll give him credit; Bend’s got good taste. That Black Orchid Sheila’s a bit of all right, eh? Surprised you hadn’t tried to move in there alrea-
Answer, standing up and punching the monitor he’d been staring at, half-eaten grapefruit in his other hand: Grodd’s Balls, you filthy chain-smoking Layabouts! Get down to detention block S immediately!
Digger: Jaysus, what the hell for?
Answer: Some flaming asshole is trying to jail-break a prisoner!
Squad Stories: Marvels 1/5
Michael Patten enjoys his job. He enjoys it more than he ever enjoyed attempting to think up death traps, and he never enjoyed confronting Batman. It was a loveless marriage, that. Marred by flaccid lovemaking and a mutual repulsion. He didn’t have the fire or the passion for that sort of rivalry with a man in a cape. Not like those other jilted freaks, vying for his attention like almost-brides, abandoned at the altar.
No, when Amanda Waller approached him with this job, he couldn’t help but to say yes. To have access to the entire network of one of the nation’s most notorious prisons? Why, he’d be absolutely mental to turn it down. This was a portal to the nation’s secrets, and he’d uncover them soon enough.
What Michael Patten did not enjoy, was the two reprobates, smoking at his desk.
Digger: Alright, alright, here’s one: Aquaman or Cyborg?
Floyd: Aquaman.
Digger: Naw, mate! That’s looney in the head, that is! One shot from Cyborg and Blammo, y’got yerself fish and chips. Just add lemon and beer-batter.
Floyd: Cyborg’s half robot. Aquaman swoops in, takes him out with one wave. Zap.
Digger, taking a sip of his tea: Bullshite. S’your turn.
Answer clacks rapidly away at his keyboard, doing nothing in particular. He just wishes to drown out this insufferable chatter. He lifts the bottom of his mask, raises a bottle of wild turkey to his lips and downs the whole thing in four gulps. The electronic inmates are silent.
Floyd, exhaling smoke: Okay, Martian Manhunter . . . Or man of steel?
Digger: Ooh, tough one. Well ole Greeny’s weakness is fire, yeah? And Superbloke’s got heat-vision so one nice slice down the middle and y’got two Martian slices.
Floyd: Can’t argue there.
Digger: Bilateral Symmetry. How about er . . . Starman versus Steel, eh?
Floyd: Who?
Digger: Starman! He’s some bloke in red underpants that shoots light out of a wand, and Steel’s a big metal gallah with a huge fock-off hammer!
Floyd: Sounds like Steel’s got the advantage.
The Answer mutters something incoherent to himself, then reaches over to where a fresh orchid lays on the monitor. Next to it is a thin shaker of salt. The Answer reaches past the orchid, lifts the shaker, and pours just a small amount on his hand. His mask still lifted, he rapidly huffs the powder into his nose. An involuntary, high pitched noise escapes his throat, then dies. The conversation around him gets temporarily quicker, and his focus gets sped up right along with it.
Digger, leaning over to Answer: Uh, hey mate, got a little extra to spare?
Answer: No dice, Bob Keeshan, get your own goddamn pixie sticks.
Digger, backing off: Alright mate, just curious.
Floyd: Real question is, Digger, Flash or Bats?
Digger: Aw it’s Flash, no contest.
Floyd: You sure?
Digger: Course I’m sure! Flashie runs faster’n the speed of sound. Bats is just a bloke who throws bat-shaped boomera—Oy, hold on a minute!
Floyd chuckles humorlessly and finishes his cigarette, flicking it into the garbage can across the room. There’s blood on the floor.
Answer’s feet move around under the table. They slither like snakes until they bump into course brown paper. His feet wrap around it like tentacles and he drags the bag bodily towards himself. Mid-typing he reaches into the bag and withdraws a grapefruit. Nonchalantly, he bites into it like an apple. Something catches his eye on one of the countless, glowing monitors.
Digger, finishing his tea: What about, heh, Power Girl versus Wonder Woman, eh?
Floyd, twirling an unlit cigarette in his fingers: Hm. Wonder Woman has the advantage. Not as strong, but better equipped.
Digger: Oh they’re both bloody well equipped if ye get my meaning. My opinion, no matter which one loses, whoever’s watchin wins! Ahahaha!
Floyd allows himself a smirk, but he’s not in a jovial mood today. Every person he’s passed in the hallway today was walking dead. A bullet in their forehead, their eyes glassed over, blood running down their face, into their lips, and dripping off their chins. He’s been looking at the far wall, and not at Digger for this same reason. It’s one of those days. It will pass. It always passes.
Digger: Now I know we gave him guff before f’r tryin, but I’ll give him credit; Bend’s got good taste. That Black Orchid Sheila’s a bit of all right, eh? Surprised you hadn’t tried to move in there alrea-
Answer, standing up and punching the monitor he’d been staring at, half-eaten grapefruit in his other hand: Grodd’s Balls, you filthy chain-smoking Layabouts! Get down to detention block S immediately!
Digger: Jaysus, what the hell for?
Answer: Some flaming asshole is trying to jail-break a prisoner!