PLEASE, SAVE US!
(Or: How To Use a Big Chainsaw For Fun And Profit)
TWO: MUTANT BABES & HEAVY METAL!
By Davide Briganti
DISCLAIMER: All the X-Men depicted in this story are copyright of the
Marvel guys, and are used without their permission. No profits are made by
posting this story, which is written only for entertainment purposes.
"The Insane Guy" is a copyrights of me......well, actually 'IS' me, or at
least a parody of me.
Will and Mike are also mine.
NOTE: * phrase * is a telepathic dialogue.
***
In dark, smoke-filled room buried deep in the recesses of the Marvel Comics
main building, the Writer and the Editor-In-Chief were sitting around a small
table, preoccupiedly looking at a small blue screen hanging from the ceiling.
"You know what _this_ mean, don't you?" the Chief said in a harsh whisper.
"Oh, yeah. Far too well, I fear." was the response. Nonchalantly, the Writer
lighted another cigarette and turned away from the screen, spinning his office
chair. "And now, they're out to get us. Very funny."
The Chief's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by 'funny', you idiot?! If they
manage to get there, we're dead meat! Or you feel so strong you can survive
their attacks?!"
The Writer shrugged. "Well, maybe if it was that Jubilee kid.....but you need
not to fear. They won't lay a finger on us, just because of....THIS!" and
with that, he drew out a pencil from his pocket with a world-dominating-tyrant
(and definitely exaggerated) gesture.
The Editor shook his head. "Poor boy. I knew he was workin' way too much." he
whispered, then smiled at his companion. "Sure, boy. Now, what about something
to drink?" he said in a friendly voice, trying to calm him down.
Ignoring him, the other continued: "See, if they show their faces here, we
just have to point out that their very existences depend on us. A few sentences
written down in a piece of paper, and BANG! They're all dead!"
The Chief's face lightened up in relief. "Oh, what a genius you are! I didn't
think about that But still, we ought to do something 'bout the two babes here."
The Writer grinned as he put the pencil away. "Don't worry, Boss. Two of our
best agents are already on the case: you can bet they're already on the way
back here with their prey!"
"Agents? What agents? We don't have any agents here!"
He leaned over the table as he replied in a whisper. "That's what _you_ believe,
oh my dear Boss. Since I started writing their stories, I did foresee this day.
So, I trained a few selected people here at Marvel and made them my elite force
for the battle, equipped with the most advaned technology money can buy in re
bellious comic-characters dealing. And so......"
Throwing away his black cape, he raised a closed fist to the skies and looked
upward in a regal posture with a dreamy but fierce look in his eyes: as the
intro theme of Star Wars echoed in the room, he yelled: "THE ANGST SQUAD WAS
BORN!!"
The roar of a cheering crowd assaulted the poor Editor-In-Chief's ears as the
black-caped guy put on his gem-adorned gold crown and quickly stepped out.
* * *
"Let's face it, Jean. We _have_ to do it. So, stop acting like a child and
enter that pub." Storm said with her usual commanding tone to Jean, who was
hiding behind a van in front of the pub in which their chosen ambassador in
the real world, The Insane Guy, was. It was half past midnight and it was
cold. Very, very cold. Especially for two women dressed such as them.
"Oh, yeah? And then, why don't _you_ go into this cockroack-infested hellhole?
I'm married! What do you expect me to do?!" she snapped back.
"First, my looks are odd enough for everyone to notice, and it's better for us
if we keep a low profile. Second, doing persuasion work doesn't include you
have to sleep with him."
Jean sighed. "That's what you think. But what about his opinion on the subject?"
"You'll never know if you just stand there. Come on, go inside. I shall wait
for you."
Wiping away her tears, the red-haired telepath entered the pub: smoke and speed
metal were filling the air, and ape-like brutes were sitting at almost every
table, casting hungry glances at her. Damn it, she thought, if only that
skirt was just _a bit_ longer....
She looked around for a few moments, then her gaze fell on a rather skinny guy
with brown hair and "nerd" glasses, wrapped in a worn Highlander-style black
trenchcoat and with a melancholic look. A cigarette was dangling at the edge
of his mouth as he slightly headbanged looking at the TV screen, which was
showing a live Obituary concert, and a half-empty mug of beer was resting on
a table in front of him, just beside an almost finished hamburger.
Jean's eyes widened in shock: this was far more worse than anything she could
imagine. Silently, she sent a telepathic 'call' to her teammate out of the
place.
* No way, Ororo. I'm quitting right NOW! *
* Why? Is he so bad? *
* He's a sort of crossbreed between a nerd and a Metal Guy! That's too much! *
* Jean.... *
* Oh, okay, okay, I'll do it, I'll do it. Damn you all.....I'd betted have
stayed dead if that's the life I have to live! *
* Jean, I don't think we have time to discuss this.... *
* Stop 'Jean'ing, for Heaven's sake! I'm going, I'm going! And besides, do you
think it's cool being Scott's wife? Or, more precisely, 'angst container'?!
For I am only this for him....just a shoulder to cry on..... *
* Uh, Jean.... *
* ....not even caring about how I feel..... *
* Jean..... *
* ....Only talks about the Prof., the Dream, the teams..... *
* JEAN! *
* ....it's been at least six months since he.... *
* JEEEEAN!!! STOP RANTING AND GO TALK WITH HIM, BY THE GODDESS !! WE HAVEN'T
ALL NIGHT TO SPEND !!!! *
* Oh, sorry, 'Ro. I'm a little stressed these days. *
* Ooh, really? I hadn't noticed. * This last thought was filled with irony.
Closing the link, Phoenix walked towards the table and reached the guy's side.
"Hello. Is this chair taken?" she said with a charming smile, but the guy mere
ly shrugged, not moving his eyes from the screen. "Suit yerself" he replied in
a "I don't care if you live or die" voice.
"Uh...waiting for someone?" she asked, trying again to strike up a conversation.
The Guy's eyes narrowed a bit. "No." he whispered, still looking at the screen
"Just enjoin' a bit o' solitude."
Jean raised an eyebrow, but perfectly imitated a sorrow-filled voice as she an
swered: "Oh. Excuse me, I believed you were seeking company as I do."
The young man sighed. "Listen up, Miss. I had a bad day, I'm _having_ a worse
evening and an even worse headache. So why...." at this point he turned to
face her and his voice faded in a senseless muttering.
He remained still, his jaw hovering just a few centimeters over the dirty floor
and his eyes unable to move away from hers. When she smiled, he felt like no
one smiled at him until that moment.
"W-wooow" he uttered as the fragrance of her perfume reached him. His anger
and depression instantly vanished, and even his headache was nothing but a
bad memory.
She looked at him like a cat looks at a cornered mouse, and slightly leaned
forward to give him a "better view". He tried to smile, and coughed up a couple
of times before his voice returned to normalcy. "Well, for sure you got a nice
pair of...er...eyes, Miss..?"
"Jean. Thank you." She smiled, but inside her the desire to cry was overwhelming.
"Now, what were you saying....?"
Frantically trying to light a cigarette, the Guy nearly choked himself to death:
after regaining his breath, he asked "Uh, would you like something to drink
Miss Jean?"
"Oh please. Just Jean will be fine. And your name is...?"
He distractely waved a hand, and grinned. "Dave. Just...Dave."
"Well Dave, orange juice 'll be fine for me."
"And orange juice shall be.....well, when the damn waitress shows up, I think."
Meanwhile, in the typical Black Car of the Evil Henchmen that every good story
must have, two black-clad figures with sunglasses were watching Storm hanging
near the pub, and sometimes sticking her head through the door. The one who
was not driving grinned. "Gotcha." he whispered, then he turned to his compa-
nion, who was almost identical to him just as all the expendable troops of the
evil leader are, made a quick gesture with the hand that meant "get out of the
car" in their secret code.
The other immediately understood: with an athletic and graceful movement, he
opened the car door and jumped out. With a gong-like sound, he violently ban
ged his nose against a steel pole who was near the car and slumped to the
floor, half whining and half cursing.
His companion promptly helped him on his feet. "What do you think you're doin',
you dolt?! We've got an assignment to carry on!" he said in a fatherly voice.
"Oh yeah! Maybe You _like_ wearing sunglasses even in the middle of the night,
don't you?!" the other snapped back, still massaging his nose with two fingers.
The first man sighed and shrugged, cleaning his companion's clothing of dirt
and trash. "I'm not sayin' I like it, neither it's an intelligent idea. But
I remind you we're under contract, and as Followers of the Villain we have
to dress in black and wear sunglasses EVERYWHERE and EVERYTIME. Got it, Will?"
The man named Will put his black hat on his head with an irate gesture. "Stupid
stereotypes, pah! And they wonder how the villain gets beaten every time...."
he grunted as both men drew a pen from under their jackets and prepared to
approach their target.
"Target acquired, Sir." he whispered at his wristwatch "Attempting capture."
"_I_ have the comlink hidden in the watch, not _you_, you idiot!" the other
one whispered with a freezing glance as he saw him.
"Sorry, Mike. I keep forgotting it."
"Let's go. I'm getting tired."
"Yeah. What about Chinese food for dinner?"
"I've got to think about it. Now, shut up."
The theme from "Mission: Impossible" started playing as the two men slipped
into the shadows near their unaware prey......
** END OF PART TWO **
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