Bush43
Issue #12
Summer In The City
by Ian Astheimer, Trevor Carrington, Alex Cook,
Matthew Downey, Derrick Ferguson, Jason Kenney
Leslie "Ciro" Lancaster and C.W. Russette

I looked at the streets below and nodded in satisfaction at the emptiness. Nothing to beat up here. I leapt and ran and kept going, stopping a couple blocks away and making another check.

Patrol can be boring as hell at times. I mean, it's a necessary evil. It's hard to just stumble across evil, you gotta look for it. But for every five minutes of action there's usually at least a few hours of searching. And seeing as how I'd only been on patrol for about half an hour, I had at least a couple left to go before statistics said I'd find something.

"BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

A high pitched squeal of a taunt decided statistics was crap and it was going to do whatever it wanted. Well, the owner of it did. That is, if he even understood the mechanics behind the creation of such an average.

Anyways, I spun around to see this... thing come bounding across rooftops heading straight for me. The way the sun was placed just over the horizon made him only a silhouette, leaping up and down from building to building.

"BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!" it shouted again, it's loud, screeching voice almost trying to taunt me.

I readied myself as it landed opposite of me on the roof of the building and charged. Then, timing it just right, I leapt into the air. Well, attempting to time it just right. You see, the idea was for him to charge at me and then I leap up while he goes through where I was and falls to the ground. Right? Yeah. Except this guy reaches up as he passes under me the grabs my leg, pulling me with him as he toppled off the edge of the building and hurled the ten stories down to the street below.

He crashed into the top of a parked car as I was brought around and face first into the pavement beyond. I barely heard the screeching of tires above the sound of my head tearing into asphalt. I pushed myself up a bit and shook my head, reaching up and pulling the bottom of my mask out slightly to let the little bits of rock that came in through the eye sockets tumble to the ground. Ugh.

I got to my hands and knees and noted my perfect impression on the road with a slight bit of admiration. Damn, I'm good.

"You should make asphalt angels," said the screeching voice behind me.

I spun around and got to my feet in one fluid movement that made my head spin. He was crouched on top of the crushed roof of the car, a wicked grin of sharpened teeth across his face. His hair was long, dark and unkempt and his clothes just as filthy and tattered. He looked like a hippie. With sharp teeth.

He leapt to the ground and started to walk towards me. Oh, this man was gonna get it.

"Oh, Bushy Busherton, I have traveled a long way to meet you. I must say that you are everything I... OOF!"

You know that whole my foot + bad guy's nuts thing I do? Yeah, insert that here.

This guy's face and body tightened up as he reached for his boys, cramming both of his hands down his pants. But he remained up right. His eyebrows arched as he seemed to be concentrating on doing something for another and after only a couple of moments his face slackened and body loosened and he sighed. He pulled his hands out of his pants and continued.

"As I was saying, you are everything I expected and... OOF!"

I kicked him in the jimmy again. The guy tensed up once more and again crammed his hands down his pants. A few moments later, voila, good as new.

"Could you please stop that?" he said in his squeal of a voice.

"What the hell are you doing down there?" I asked, trying really hard not to look down because, well, I ain't lookin' at no man's package no matter how weird the circumstances are.

"What? The gonads thing? Oh, trade secret. I came prepared, you see. As I was saying, I traveled a long way to see ya so I've studied you and I fully expected you to kick me in my private. I just didn't expect you to do it so soon. Or often."

"I can do it again for good measure."

"No, that's really not necessary. I'd rather we fight a good, clean bout. But would you mind if I finished my speech first? I've been working on it for a long time and I really think you'll like it."

"Sure, I guess," I said with a shrug.

"Great, so, uh..." He looked up in thought as he scratched his stubble covered chin. "Oh yeah. I must say you are everything I expected and more. I have been studying you, watching your ever move, and have decided that you are a worthy opponent. Today you will be graced with the glorious honor of doing battle with a champion and god among men. You will have the humble privilege of meeting your match against the undefeated defeater of those that claim to be superior. You will finally meet your doom at the hands of SCREECH!" He shouted the last couple words and punctuated it by rearing his head back and pumping his fists into the air. He looked back at me. "Eh?"

"Screech?"

He nodded.

"And you say you've been working on that for a while?"

He nodded.

"Dude, you seriously need an editor."

"No matter!" he said, his stern look trying to cover his broken heart as he wiped at the air in a sweeping gesture. "Prepare for battle!"

I planted my feet and stood ready. The man reached into his pockets and started fishing for something, his tongue between his teeth has he tried really hard to find whatever as in there. He kept searching. And searching. And searching.

I stood upright and lowered my hands while he continued to dig in his pockets.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, yeah, just gotta find..." he drifted off, concentrating. "Damn it, I know it's in here somewhere. One second..."

I looked at my watch as he continued digging. A small crowd had started to gather around us to look at this spectacle. God, this guy was embarrassing both of us.

"AH HA!" he shouted, pulling his hand out of his pocket with glee. And he popped the mouth guard between his teeth. "LETSH GU!" he slurred through the rubber guard, standing ready.

I rolled my eyes and got ready again. What an idiot.

He charged at me with a scream. I waited until he was close enough and then jabbed hard, right into his nose. I felt it give under my fist and smiled with satisfaction as he stumbled back.

"AHH! JESHUSH CRISH!" he shouted as he grasped his bleeding nose. I didn't wait for him to reorient himself, kicking him in the gut and following with a sweet ass upper cut that set him on his back.

He stirred for a bit, trying to get up, but then passed out, collapsing on the ground and ending that.

Christ, how lame.

A look at the watch said it was 8:30, Australia time. I knew I was forgetting something I'd had planned for eight tonight... what was it...

Beating bad-guys... check.

Hitting on the chicas... check.

Change underwear... After a quick look I realized I couldn't check that and moved on.

Pick up new masks... check.

My mental powers being what they are, I was stumped. You know the feeling, that one where you are positive you've forgotten something but you have your wallet, cell-phone, and inflatable doll all with you. So what could it be?

"DANCE DANCE REVOLUTION Tournament starts in FIVE MINUTES!"

My hand found its way to my forehead with a loud smacking sound. Of COURSE! It was time to own all the youngins at DDR!!

Dance Dance Revolution is a godsend. I'm a cheap bastard, taken after the man I've crafted my super-heroic persona around, so it's not like I own a gym membership or anything. Sure, I sent away for the Bowflex, same as you, but sent it right back after reading the two hundred page instruction manual. Well, first I did a few curls with that damnable manual, THEN I returned the blasted thing. So, obviously, I was lacking the means to perfect these chiseled abs that make the girlies go gah-gah.

While contemplating that very same dilemma one day I'd wandered across the local PacCity arcade. Thing even had Pac-Man as part of it's logo, a fact I'm sure Midway would love to hear about. Anyways, the blinking lights and wondrous sounds attracted me for a time, and I began to wander the aisles of pressboard cabinets and sweating teenagers. There was this game, and that, but none seemed to perk my refined palate. None of the graphics whisked me away to far-off lands of wonder, none of the fight sims forced me to pump quarter after quarter into the machine. Frankly, I was bored. How the hell did the manufacturers make money off these things? I knew I was missing some point along the way, but didn't feel the need to pursue it much further. Screw this, I'd thought, I got bad-guys to make my prison bitch.

Then the techno beats hit my ears. My head turned, and witnessed for the first time that beautiful creation, Dance Dance Revolution.

An Asian teen, no more then thirteen, was flaying about as if he were having a seizure, something the game seemed to appreciate as perfect after perfect was awarded to the young chap. Damn, I flay with the best of em. I had to try.

Fifty bucks later I realized I'd never had such an amazing workout. The answer to my problems had arrived, as if it were a gift from Shangri-La itself. DDR and I fell in love that day, and I'd been seeing her ever since.

And now, the time had come to prove my love to her, to DDR. It was time to smoke some fools while shaking my money-maker. I adjusted my mask, cracked my knuckles, and took my place in line.

The first match-up wasn't anything to speak of. The kid tripped on his first spin, falling on top of someone I assumed to be his mother due to all the fuss she made over him. I'm sure she cussed out President Bush in Cantonese as they departed.

The second match was a little harder, but not by much. I owned the boy, a city-dwelling Aborigine. I swear I saw tears in his eyes when I busted out the double splits maneuver I'd been perfecting. DDR couldn't tell I'd been adding my own flair to the production, but I'm sure she felt the love I was sending her way as I nearly had a hernia doing it.

Riding high on the endorphins and feeling that burn so many weightlifters speak of, I wondered if there was any competition within the masses gathered inside the arcade.

Then, she came forward. The pubescent crowd parted like the red sea as she glided toward the machine. She stood a head shorter then me, with close cropped black hair down to just below her ears. A button nose, along with heart shaped lips, sat on top a face of pale perfection. My eyes trailed down, noticing the raver type clothing she wore. Fuzzy pink pants complimented her tight black shirt, on which the pink letters GOT THONG questioned. The clothes were secondary however, cause good GAWD was this girl stacked. Boom, pow, bang, she was smoking. Being the suave piece of meat I am, I saddled up to the little lady and laid down my best rap.

"So, play here often?"

With a pierced lip curled in a sneer she replied.

"Yes."

Her foot slammed down hard on the game pad, signaling the beginning of the match. I, caught off-guard, had to catch up quick. With my right foot out I tapped away, hitting perfect combo after perfect combo. My hips swiveled this way and that, my legs snapped outward in each of the four directions, while my eyes watching the rapidly increasing score as yet another combination was performed to perfection. I quickly glanced at my opponents screen... and nearly chocked when I saw her score.

She was beating me. By a lot.

Oh HELL no, I riled. This would NOT do. Resolved, I sped up my gyrations. Too bad she seemed to see the same thing and stepped up her maneuvers as well.

Our movements became a blur. My hand shot out to the right, followed by hers as well. My leg arched for the right back square, and lo and behold so did hers. I spun, and she spun. We moved identically, each trying to do the impossible and move faster then the laws of physics would allow us. I would OWN this girl, I promised myself, as yet again we stomped and jumped at the exact same moment. The mask started to slip due to the copious amount of sweat I was producing, but secret identities be damned. No one, and I mean NO ONE, was going to beat me at DDR.

The music was at its apex, the thumping bass pushing me farther. I'd always had to watch my strength before while playing, and this time that concentration waned. She would NOT out do me!

Cause, as I slammed my leg down in the final move, I broke the damn machine. In fact, I broke the floor.

"Ummm... can someone give me a hand here?" I asked the crowd, struggling to pull my lodged foot out of the dismantled dance machine and the concrete beneath it. No one seemed too amped to step forward however. No one except the arcade manager.

"Hey! You pay for that! You broke, you pay!" The oriental gentlemen shouted in broken English. I figured the award money form the tournament could pay for it, so I glanced at the scores while formulating my words.

My jaw literately hit the ground when I saw she'd beaten me by ten points. She smirked down at me with big blue eyes full of innocence, taking a gander at my current predicament.

"If this were prison, you'd be my bitch." She remarked, walking away as cool as a cucumber to collect her winnings.

There goes THAT workout regiment.

I am a killer. It's what I do, for a living and to maintain my existence on this damn planet. I'm good at what I do. Not the best but in the top quarter of my class for sure. I better be, I've been doing this for eighty years. So, there I was, on the job, my first on the continent - country (whatever it is) of Australia about to earn my bacon when that half - wit Bush 43 crashes down on me like a VW bug full of clowns.

"Drop the gun and take your beat down, sucka," the man in the rubber mask demanded.

That was all the proof I needed to see that he was indeed a fool that had to have stumbled into his supernatural abilities somehow. Maybe like me but I doubt it. Now there were four of us in the alley. It was entirely too damn crowded. Who says sucka anymore?

I had stowed away on a freighter from Hong Kong to Australia after one of my meal tickets let me in on a possible gig here. I didn't see any problems with it. I was going to come here eventually. The work was mob related, something I was used to, and I knew that the Bastiano family had an operation in both Pacific City and Lorrington. They were my real marks but this sounded like an easy way to start earning a rep on the continent before I started smearing Bastiano blood in Lorrington.

The other Italian family in Lorrington, the Grimaldi's, were having a distribution problem in Pacific City. A couple of supers were mugging the mules that brought their Asian heroin from the processing plant in Lorrington. The Grimaldi's didn't have their own supers on retainer so they called me. I've taken down supers before, along with just about any other kind of super- normal being that would serve my Maker's taste. The Inevitable comes to us all in time, I just get to speed things up on occasion and make some dough on the side. Bullets cost money.

I agree to play mule for the Grimaldi's in return for a lot of cash. Nailin' supers isn't easy or safe after all. I had dressed like some of the pushers I'd seen in the past so no one might remember me just in case. The alley was without windows but you couldn't be too careful. Black, ripped, denim pants and a jacket, a dark tee shirt, a black wig tied back and sunglasses under a ball cap did the job. I had taken the prescribed route, everything was a secret like it had been on the last three failed runs (there had to be a leak somewhere in the family) and five minutes away from the meet I was stopped in the alley. There was a lot of noise coming from the building on my left. It had to have been a club or an arcade or something. The Beretta tucked into the back of my jeans was silenced anyway but every bit of interference helped.

"Listen, you fuckin' scab, give us the goddamned stuff and we'll let you live," a voice behind me said.

I turned around to see Vince Vortex and his sister standing with their fuck- you faces on like I was a bug seconds from getting stepped on. Vortex's sister, Virginia Vandal, taller and more under control of her mouth, stood behind him in the near shade of the alley. Dion Valachi, my contact for the Grimaldi's, had given me a file on the low level supers that might be hurting the family business. His intel was good. There must be a couple of PI's on the payroll in Pacific City.

"Who are you guys?" I asked. I tried the scared human approach. Super baddies like to have their ego's stroked.

"Give us the shit and you don't ever need to know." Virginia said.

"You don't wanna do this, man. You know whose stuff this is?" I asked motioning to my backpack.

"Bloody, Alf. Course we do. Belt up and hand it over. Virgi, get it," Vince Vortex said.

Virgi was very good looking, the kind of woman we would've called a hot dame back in the day. All curves, blond hair, blue eyes and dressed in tight spandex jogging top and shorts, it made me want to toss the mission and roll the dice on her and I... They were both dressed like they were out for a jog.

She was coming to kill me. According to the file Virginia was some kind of human leech; drain the life right out of you with a touch. Sort of a walking metaphor for what all women do to men.

"Easy, mate, won't hurt a bit," She cooed as she slinked towards me.

"It might," I said.

I let her get in close, pretending (mostly) to check out her gorgeous body. Neither of them knew me or what I was. Good information on the objective is paramount to success. She gave me the hungry eyes and I expressed an encouraging smile. I bet she was a beast in the sack but that would never be proven. She moved in close, inches from me and eased her hand up, caressing my face. Her touch was soft, like we were already old lovers. She tried to use her ability on me. I felt the spark, like the shock from shuffling around on a wool carpet, then the flow. It was calming really, like a release of stress after a hit or stiff shot of old bourbon at the end of the day. I watched Virginia's eyes widen and her pupils dilate while her jaw slackened. She took her last deep breath of sanity and screamed.

The howling was permeated with dread and loss as though some part of her knew what she had tapped into. This was a primal release that had to go back evolutionary levels that her conscious mind could not know. Virginia's body locked up and shuddered as though she was being electrocuted. Arterial arcs of black lightning surfaced wherever her skin was exposed.

"Virginia!" Vince shouted.

Vince Vortex was thirty feet away but his hands were already on the rise to try and do his thing. Peripherally I tracked movement well behind Vince, some hundred feet off, behind the dumpster at the end of the alley. Vortex was the more immediate threat. I drew my piece and popped Virginia twice in the abdomen. She was taking far too long to let go of me. Without the Virginia- obstruction I took a two handed grip on the Beretta, aimed and fired. I was trying to hit Vince's shoulder to disable the arm because I know what Vortex does. If I was Bruce Willis or Clint Eastwood I could have made the shot looking over my shoulder with one hand. This isn't Hollywood though. Ask any cop and they'll tell you that in a real firefight anything shot over thirty feet will generally miss. I overshot his damn shoulder but I did blow off a finger. It would have to do.

"Fuckin' Drongo! They will bury you for doin' us!" Vince bellowed holding his hand.

"Who would they be?" I asked.

That's when it got complicated. I recognized what the motion at the end of the alley was.

"Drop the gun and take your beat down, sucka,"

Bush43.

Give me peace.

One of the good guys. A life-saver. The opposite of what I am and supposedly my prey if the Inevitable gets its way.

It doesn't. I take out who ever I want, IT gets bodies, I keep going until I find what I'm looking for. That's the deal. IT's rules, IT has to go by them.

"Walk away, Mr. President," I said aiming my gun at him. I had a file on him too but it was sparse. Real strong, hard to hurt, not bright; nothing else. I didn't have the right ammo on me to fight him.

"That can't hurt me, I'm Bush... um... 43. I didn't mean for that to rhyme," Bush43 said.

I couldn't believe he paraded around dressed like that. He sounded American too. I wondered how many suits he went through a week. The rubber mask had to be hot and hard to see through.

"See, I'll show you," Bush43 said and charged at me.

"Vince, Do your thing under Bush when I say so or you're both dead," I said.

"Get knotted," Vince said looking at his bleeding hand.

I fired a shot into his thigh. He dropped to the ground howling.

"Hey!" Bush43 yelled.

"Think about it," I said.

At forty feet I took a good firing stance and unloaded the remainder of my clip into Bush43's face. He stopped running and brought his hands up stopping that last few bullets. It was reflex, like a swarm of moths went mad around your head, you'd swat them away even though there was no threat.

"Ha! I told you bullets don't hurt me," Bush43 said.

"Yep, you were right. Well done. I wasn't aiming for your head so much as your mask though. You don't look near as stupid as I figured you would."

"Eep!" Bush43's hands went to face to discover that it was quite exposed.

I thought he was worried about some kind of secret identity otherwise why wear the mask? I had no idea who he was and didn't really care. That wasn't the job.

"Vince?"

Vince Vortex raised both arms from his position against the wall. Papers began swirling around the alley as the wind picked up. Bush43 was frantically trying to hide his face with one hand while reaching inside his jacket with the other. I noticed Virginia was moaning something inaudible from her fetal position nearby.

"Wait a second, hang on," Bush43 said.

Bush43 pulled out a duplicate of the mask (where was he buying these things? Something to check out later if I ever need to track him down) when an energy- forged whirlpool of some kind opened up a whole beneath him and he dropped through with a shriek. Vince dropped his arms in exhaustion and hole closed just as quickly..

I turned to Vince and loaded a fresh clip into the Beretta and shot him in the other leg. "Who hired you?"

Vince screamed.

"I ain't tellin' you--"

I shot him in the left foot. He squealed again but only cursed me. This was getting risky. Someone was going to investigate the screaming soon. I walked over to the prone and likely in-shock Virginia. She moaned softly in the fetal position.

"...there's no end to him... so cold... so cold..." Virginia mumbled.

I aimed my Beretta at Virgi's head and looked at Vince.

"No, come on, man. They'll kill us both," Vince begged.

I pulled back the hammer on the Beretta.

"...endless blackness... empty..."

"The Japs, man. It was the Japs in Lorrington, okay?"

"Yes," I said and shot Virginia twice in the head.

"The fuck, man? You said you'd let us live!" Vince roared.

"I was hired to kill you, not keep my word to murderers."

I fired twice, the rounds exited the back of his head painting the brickwork behind him red. I slid the gun into the backpack.

In ten minutes I was black bagging the disguise for the dumpster and dressing up in the next one for the delivery of this small heroin shipment. After that I'd head back to Lorrington and see what trouble I could get into there. I don't like the Yakuza manipulating whites because they think they're better than us.

Lots to do in Lorrington.

I wonder where Vince sent Bush43...

YOU try getting shoved through a shimmering, swirling hole that made noises like a rhino with a bad gas attack and see how YOU like it. Me, I wasn't impressed at all. Oh, the noises were irritating but the colors were kinda pretty and even soothing in a sorta 60's psychedelic way. But the spinning really sucked and I was glad I hadn't eaten a full meal before this really crazy night had begun; especially when it seemed like it was in no hurry to end.

The spinning suddenly stopped and I landed right on my tailbone. I stood up and looked around, figuring that I had been spit out on the other side of whatever that swirly thingus was. Hah. I pushed up my mask, rubbed my eyes and pulled down the mask. Even though there was nobody here, it was the whole idea, y'know? You're a superhero, you keep your mask on even when there's not a living soul around. And there definitely wasn't a soul in this cavern. That's right, I was standing inside a cave that looked like set right outta a SINBAD movie (not the comedian, you uncultured ass...the Arabian Nights guy) I looked around. Pacific City was gone and I was in a friggin' cave. I could go out or I could go further in. One look outside and I mentally pissed on that idea. The outside looked as black as the inside of a potbelly stove while I could see a light coming from deeper inside the cave.

No contest. I started heading for the light, Carol Ann.

Funny thing about this cave. The further I got, the more things changed. The rocky floor of the cavern was changing, shifting. The curving walls were straightening themselves out, slowly turning into oak paneled walls. Quite soon I was walking down a carpeted staircase that was well lighted by a row of bulbs on the slanted ceiling. But y'know what? I think I was taking all this quite well. That's what being a superhero will do for you. Make you as blasé as a traffic cop in the middle of rush hour.

At the bottom of the staircase was an oak door with a brass knob that I turned and opened. And the weird took a step to the right into bizarre.

The room I was standing in was spacious and bright as high noon from the sunlight pouring in through three rectangular windows. The carpeting under my feet was thick enough for me to have taken a comfortable nap on and a genuine Wurlitzer jukebox stood in a corner playing "Eres Tu" of all things. Two armchairs flanked a swanky looking beige couch. A black guy was sitting at a large desk, tapping away furiously at a keyboard and only glancing up at the screen every so often. I just stood there taking this all in while being eyed by the pair of German Shepherds who lay near the feet of the black guy.

Suddenly he stopped his manic typing and swiveled around in his high backed chair like he was Captain Kirk about to give somebody on the Enterprise bridge some shit. I sized him up. He looked like he would be about six four standing up and he wore jeans, work boots and an oversized black T-shirt with the word FRONTIER across the chest in red letters. He peered at me with hyperthyroid eyes through round-framed glasses. "Have a seat and stay quiet. I'm in the middle of some heavy stuff here and I don't need you buggin' me."

"Hey, let's get something straight, bud. I didn't ask to come here."

The black guy looked mad enough to drink gasoline and piss fire as he snapped back, "Well, I didn't ask for you to come here, either! I got my hands full with Dillon, Diamondback and half a dozen others! I'm just doing a favor for a friend and babysitting you for an hour but that doesn't mean I've got to talk to you, now does it? So just sit down and listen to the music and we'll get along just fine."

There's also another good thing about being a superhero, especially when you've got powers like mine: you don't haveta take shit from anybody you don't wanna. I crossed the room and bitch snatched the black guy right outta his chair. The German Shepards leaped to their feet, snarling and snapping, but the black guy waved at them, yelling, "Hamlet! Najee! Sit! Sit! It's okay!"

"Smart move, four-eyes. I'd have hated to hurt your pooches. Now, who are you and why did you bring me here and where the hell IS here?"

The black guy looked down at me as if I were something he'd found on the bottom of his shoe. He had the look of one of those wise asses who likes to use big words he just knew you wouldn't understand. I got the feeling this guy used that look on a lot of people. I decided I didn't like him and his next words confirmed it.

"If you don't put me down right now, I'm gonna have Jason retcon you out of continuity so fuckin' fast-"

Well, you know what comes next, dontcha?

Yup.

I gave it to the arrogant cocksucker right in the nuts.

He lay on the floor holding himself and gasping for air as I stepped over him. The dogs were licking his face as he struggled to sit up. I headed for the windows. There seemed to be a city out there....

The black guy was waving a hand and yelling, "No! Not that way, you dumbass! Nobody goes out THAT way!"

I looked over my shoulder and said, "Yeah but I'm not nobody."

And I pushed open the window and stepped out.

The chocolate and vanilla ice cream dribbled down onto the pavement.

“C’mon, poochie! C’mon! You know you want it.” Bush43 prodded with his ice cream-drenched hand toward the steel cage where a small monkey was watching him intently. Afar in the corner of the cage, another observed, mouth open and curious. What will he do? the monkey thought. Is it a trap? I wonder what it tastes like! I bet it’s awesome, like bananas but cold and delicious!

Or, at least, that’s what Jeffery assumed they would be thinking. Who can resist wonderful ice cream? Especially when it’s chocolate and vanilla swirl! Who? WHO?! Because if you know who, then you should report them! They can’t be human. Unless they’re lactose, but then they could have the option of dairy-free ice cream. Yes, it exists, and is almost just as tasty. Perhaps you should test these ice cream haters with a choice, and if they choose neither, then truly they are a monster that must be burned. Or frozen, because ice cream is cold and that would be an ironic fate, especially if they were frozen in a block of ice cream. But then there may be the temptation of licking said giant ice cream block. Hmm.

Jeffery’s train of thought was suddenly interrupted when the monkey reached out and snatched the cone from his hand. “Hey! You little bastard!” he shouted and grabbed for the delicious ice cream, but the monkey had already gorged itself, slamming the melting treat into its maw and getting chocolate and vanilla all over its fur in the process. It looked ridiculous, but admirably pleased with itself.

“Rassumfrassum monkeys. Why, I oughtta—”

B43 stopped in his tracks when a gleaming shuriken flew by his face and stabbed into the ground beside his foot. He blinked and looked behind him from where the weapon came from. The sight before him caused a myriad of emotions, but mostly shock, horror, and “aww!”

Standing on the brick wall that surrounded the zoo was a trio of what appeared to be 12 year olds, dressed in all-too-familiar costumes to Bush43.

“Unhand that monkey, Mr. President!” the one in the middle shouted with a blinding toothy smile and clenched hands on his hips.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” B43 said, his expression of disgust hidden by the constipated face of George Dubya.

“I’m afraid this is no joke, sir! Monkeys are endangered and stuff and must be protected, which is why they’re in a zoo!”

Jeffery rolled his eyes. “You don’t say.”

“Oh, my apologies, Mr. President. Allow us to introduce ourselves!” He pointed a thumb at his chest with great pride, his big white teeth still gleaming in a smile. “I am… the Millennium Kid!” Indeed, he was draped in a similar red and white outfit as the hero Millennium Man, complete with a domino mask and a cape that appeared far too long, but nonetheless looked impressive whenever the wind blew enough.

The girl to his right beamed and lifted her arms. “Mysti, at your service!” the blonde girl said with a twirl, spinning in her deep purple swimsuit-like outfit, her cloak held at her lower neck by a plastic beetle.

The boy to Millennium Kid’s left stepped forward on the wall dramatically then went into a fighting pose, holding out his nunchuku in front of him with a wry smile, the upper half of his face hidden by the dark hood of his costume. “And I’m… Shadow Boy!”

Millennium Kid’s arms dropped to his sides. “Dude!” he shouted at Shadow Boy.

He turned toward the other young hero. “What?”

“You can’t be ‘Shadow Boy.’”

He looked perplexed. Mysti sighed and crossed her arms.

“Why not?” he asked with a slight shrill in his voice.

“Because I’m Millennium Kid. It’s, like, been done.”

“So? Lots of people are called whatever-man. Like Millennium Man, He-Man, uhm… Hyper Man, and… Sea… Man…”

The Kid threw his hands up in the air and his eyes went wide. “You made that one up!”

Shadow Boy scoffed and crossed his arms. “Whatever, man. Did not.”

“Did so!” he shouted back.

SB shook his head. “Nuh-uh. I have his action figure at home. He’s got Kung-Fu grip… like me!” he held out a clenched fist with a determined toothy grin on his face.

Millennium Kid paused for a moment, considering this. “Really?”

Shadow Boy nodded smugly. “Yup.”

“Whoa, awesome. Well, hey, let’s get out of here. You got any other cool toys? Oh, see ya later, Mr. President!” The two of them started walking the length of the wall. An annoyed Mysti rolled her eyes and followed a few steps behind.

Back in grown-up land, Bush43 looked as perplexed under that mask as the monkey in the cage did. He cleared his throat.

“Uh, I’m not really the president. But thanks, kid.”

The Millennium Kid stopped dead in his tracks, causing Shadow Boy and Mysti behind him to bump into each other.

“What did you just say,” the Kid stated in a quiet voice of disbelief.

“I said I’m not the president. It’s like a costume, you know?” Bush43 scratched his butt idly.

Suddenly, Millennium Kid shot around and sprung into action, jumping towards B43 at blinding (well, for a 12 year old) speed.

“IMPOSTERRRRRRRRR!” he shouted.

Bush43’s eyes flew wide open in shock and he found himself frozen for the first time in quite a while. Should he just karate kick this kid into next week? Or would that be morally wrong? Hell, he could kill this twerp, unless he has powers, which he probably doesn’t. He’s just playing dress-up. So, in that case, he can’t really do any damage.

Jeffery’s deduction made perfect sense to him. He knew what to do in this unusual situation.

He stood there and got punched in the face by a Middle Schooler.

Really hard.

B43 was knocked to the ground, his face tingling and the back of his head throbbing from the steel bar of the cage that he fell against.

“Team, formation 36-D! We must apprehend this phony, for the sake of the United States President of America!”

Shadow Boy jumped off the wall, swinging his nunchuku all around him in a dizzying display of mastery over the weapon. Once in a while his eye twitched when his mastery sucked and he smacked himself.

He landed on the ground heroically, with a loud “HA!” accompanying his arrival.

Mysti merely stood there, straightening her cloak, which looked far more impressive than Millennium Kid’s, even in the wind.

“Ah-hem,” the Kid noised. Mysti looked up with a “huh?” expression. “Come on, Mysti.”

“What? I don’t do anything besides look cute.”

“But Mystiiiiiiii! We gotta beat up the assassin guy!” Shadow Boy whined.

“Hmph!” Mysti declared. “Fighting’s for boys.”

Millennium Kid sighed and looked to Shadow Boy. “Guess it’s up to me and you.”

Shadow Boy nodded. “Just means more pummeling for us!”

This made the Kid grin again.

Bush43 blinked from behind his mask, confused as to how he could have just gotten his ass kicked by a couple prepubescent punks.

Millennium Kid pulled his fist back, ready to strike, and Shadow Boy followed suit with his nunchuku in one hand and a shuriken in the other. They shouted a war cry and jumped in the air, coming down hard and fast on Bush43.

But they never made it. B43’s eyes remained clenched, waiting for his beating. When it didn’t come, one eye opened, cautiously looking around. The other followed suit. For a moment, all was quiet. He sat up and saw the two young “heroes” moaning in pain on the ground.

“What the fu--”

“Fudge!”

Bush43’s attention shifted to the brick wall where a pint-sized him stood, dressed in a similar suit and tie and George W. Bush mask.

“Watch the language in front of a lady, chum!” Mysti was looking up at the newly arrived boy with an open smile and clenched hands in front of her, awe-stricken with a pounding heart.

Jeffery’s jaw was dropped open and, unbelievably, he was rendered speechless once again. At this rate, he was going to have to make up for tonight’s lack of jabber tomorrow.

“Bush43-And-A-Half at your service!” He said with a wink.

“He’s so dreamy…” Mysti cooed quietly.

B43 ½ glanced at the fallen assailants, Millennium Kid moaning “ag, my nads!” and Shadow Boy just rocking back and forth.

“Well, it looks like my job is done here! Come, fair maiden, and I shall treat you to a McSwishy!”

He held out a hand and the girl slowly took it in disbelief. Holding hands, they jumped off the wall and left the vicinity of the zoo.

“That… didn’t just happen…” Bush43 said. He looked around the area and saw the monkey as the only thing that remained normal, hanging upside down from a branch within his cage. He stuck out his tongue at Jeffery, who sighed and pulled out a bag of peanuts from his pocket and threw it inside.

“I think I lost my snack-etite,” he murmured and jumped onto the wall opposite the one that got all the attention, exiting the zoo.

This night couldn’t get more weird, Bush43 thought, rubbing the bump on the back of his head.

With his stomach growling like a horny Tasmanian Devil, our hero paused to cradle his empty belly. Fortunately, Pacific City didn't roll up the sidewalks at 2:00 a.m. There were meal options as long as he wasn't terribly picky.

Which he wasn't. Which was a good thing. Home of the Whopping Big Case of Fatburgers made from mouse entrails and kangaroo testicles which would be followed by a long course of antacids for the rest of the night. If he was lucky, all this superhero shit would only result in an ulcer from too much fast food.

"Can I take your order, sir?" the teenaged, war-bosomed countergirl asked, eyeing him like a midnight flasher. She wasn't the only one. He was getting the pointed eye from everybody in the place, including the oh-so-experienced-at-age-22 manager.

"Yeah. I'd like a superburger or whatever you call it meal, but no onions" the masked man said, quickly scanning the grease-spattered menu board. Late at night, when the manager wasn't around, the employees placed bets on their accuracy in throwing grease blobs at the pictures. Bush was so involved in extrapolating the nocturnal games that he didn't notice the manager gliding up on panthered feet, the better to surprise the hapless adolescents under his barely post-juvenile command.

"I'm very sorry, sir," the manager said, mentally substituting 'asshole' for 'sir', "We're not able to do special orders after 3:00 a.m. Might I recommend the fish?"

"I don't want fish," Bush said testily. The pimply manager grew a fast paranoia for this nutball standing in a suit and a rubber mask.

"Sir, we have the right to refuse service to anyone we deem unsuitable...." The fucker's words fell on deaf ears as the doors swung closed. Bush43 fled back into the safety of the night to do battle with less dangerous aliens and mutants. Fighting them was one thing. Waging a war against a corporation was quite another matter.

Pacific City. A vibrant metropolis that pulsated with life. It’s not alive in the way that you and I are. It doesn’t eat, breathe, sleep, pay taxes, or go to work. But it is alive. It is its own microcosm, teeming with people, birds, cats, dogs, grass, trees, and plants. The streets and sidewalks are alive, too. Bearing the weight of traffic, both automotive and afoot, it keeps the cities inhabitants and buildings on a firm base. The buildings have a sense of life as well. All throughout the city, a network of rooftops come together to form the upper boundaries, protecting it from the sky above. It too bears weight, but not nearly the amount of its younger brothers down below. It provides footing for more than that of the multitude of birds and occasional repairman. Men travel the rooftops, in the dead of night, overlooking the city and watching out for it. And the network of rooftops watches out for them.

One person in particular travels across this raised terrain tonight. The rooftops focus on him as he jumps from building to building, looking for any sign of trouble. They like him. He doesn’t fly around, taunting the city’s ceiling with his presence hovering only a foot above its sheltering hand. And he routinely leaps from it, causing holes and cracks to form in its siblings. It finds this highly amusing, and always gives a small chuckle when it happens.

The rooftops watch their masked friend this night as he protects the innocent and the weak: stopping a robbery here, saving a woman from assault there, and even helping an elderly lady cross the street. And the canopy is only too happy to provide solace for its friend when he needs to depart hastily, helping him along his way and hindering his pursuers. The city is alive, and watching. And for this man, at least, it likes what it sees.

Damn, was it early. Or late. Or whatever it is when you've been up for a day and a half and don't really know if you're seeing a sunrise or sunset because you're tired as balls on a hot day and twice as sweaty. Sweet baby Jesus licking a pudding pop in the Sahara, do I ever need a Mountain Dew IV and a nice, long nap in a hammock -- not necessarily in that order.

As my mind drifted and thoughts of warm chocolate milk and warmer chocolate lesbians -- mmm, lesbian goodness -- filled my head, my eyes wandered to a nearby building where a blonde who was clearly a yoga instructor was doing her morning... er... evening... er... whatever the Hell exercises. Who knew a thighmaster could get any sexier?

Not the Amish, that's for sure.

But, maybe Snoop Dogg. He seems like the kind of guy who's up on the latest late-night infomercial trends. I mean, what else do you do at five in the morning when you're so out of it you can't remember if you're wearing underwear despite just checking two minutes ago?

Oh, right...

You patrol rooftops in a vain attempt to stop earlybird criminals from catching the worm purses and bags of bank money that weave in and out of the soily earth known as Pacific City.

As I wiped mucus from the running nose under my mask (the nose was mine, of course, just to clarify), I saw it coming: a wave of black jumping across the city's canopy and coming right toward me.

I wouldn't have minded if the wave hadn't blocked my view of the majestic sun...uh...let's just leave it at "sun" and the super-sexy (but not as sexy as yours truly, 'natch) yoga chick. I vowed then and there that I would bring the person behind the darkness to justice, and a Bush -- well, okay, just this Bush really -- always makes good on a promise or vow or solemn oath or any other synonym that comes to mind.

Two feet in front of me, the blackness stopped, and I realized it wasn't really a wave of shadow.

No, it was a wave of ninjas!

No, it was really a band of monkeys! (Note: Not the band The Monkees because, man, that would've just been weird.)

No! It was a band of monkey ninjas, who must've been mind-controlled because why else would monkeys dress up as ninjas?

Then again, this was Pacific City, Home to Crazies of All Types (patent pending).

"At least they aren't armed," I mumbled to myself, figuring a bunch of ninja monkeys wouldn't be so hard to beat.

Oh, but I was wrong, and they were armed...with shurikens (that's "Japanese throwing stars" for those not in the know, you poor, poor fools of illiteracy).

"At least the shurikens aren't made of shit," commented I of the no brain, for, of course, the shurikens were composed of the very feces simians usually toss in the random chaos of their wild homelands.

Whoa, damn, sorry for going all Shakespeare there. Kind of got caught up in the moment.

Which was not a good thing since these apes were flinging poo like it was going out of style, and for all I knew, it was.

Once again, ask Snoop. He'd know.

Back in the real world -- rather than that of the Mind of the Never-to-be-Married Man -- I yelped, "At least you aren't all sexy super models, who are bi-curious and have a thing for men in plastic masks...!" It didn't work. The mindless monkeys, ignoring my need for some lady lovin', just kept firing their missiles of defecation.

"Eh, it was worth a shot," I added with a shrug.

Then, I did my hero thing.

Dodging projectile crap like I was Keanu and the damn dirty apes were a dozen Agent Smiths, I flipped forward (and may have pulled my groin in the process -- time will tell) and landed right in front of the bastards. Before they knew what hit them, the monkey whores were doubled over, nursing swollen scrotums. It was inhumane, sure, but it had to be done.

"You crack nuts as if you worked in a Planters factory," a voice said from behind. Turning around, I saw a tall Asian man, complete with Fu Manchu mustache, dressed to the nines in -- what else? -- a monkey suit.

"And you would be?" I questioned, catching my breath. (Note to self: kicking chimp ass takes a lot out of a guy.)

"I am Woo," the tuxedoed bald man spoke. In a monotone voice that didn't quite match his lips, I might add.

"Woo who?"

"Please, hold all applause until after my performance."

"You gonna dance?"

"If, by 'dance,' you mean, 'annihilate the self-assured leader of the free world,' then yes," the Tang-less Woo cackled, as all villainous archetypes did.

"Um, dude, you do realize I'm not the real Bush, right?" In hindsight, trying to reason with a madman was probably a waste of my time.

"Don't play coy with me, Mr. Bush. I can see through your hapless ploys to save your own hide."

"Okay, okay you got me." I raised my hands in mock defense. "I know what this is all about: you want to date one of my alcoholic twin daughters, right? I mean, who doesn't? Even I want to see them naked, which is one reason I wanted to move the White House to West Virginia." That was a joke. Don't send hate mail. Or do. It's not like I'd read it anyway. Ha! Suckers.

Woo looked confused, kind of like a baby who'd found her foot for the first time and had no idea what to do with it, so she put it in her mouth, only, you know, Fu Manwoo wasn't about to suck foot.

Or so he thought.

As my foe pondered, I jumped up in the air (he was a good half-meter taller than I was, after all) and kicked him square in the face. His jaw popped out as he fell to the ground, clearly unconscious.

Turned out I was right about the mind-control thing. As soon as The Woo Woo Kid (I could go for a hamburger sandwich, come to think of it...) was out like a light, the monkeys went back to their monkey ways. I left it to them to decide what to do with his sorry ass.

I had more important things to do.

Like watch the yo--Christ, she was gone.

I really needed some sleep.

Or some Mountain Dew.

Or a Blizzard.

Yeah, a Blizzard's always good.

Good and cold and good and... there goes my sanity.

As if I had any to begin with.

Alfonse opened the door and stepped aside as I dragged my butt into Burke Manor.

"Long day?" he asked as I pulled my mask off.

"You don't know the half of it."

"I do know you are treading mud onto my clean floors," he said. I stopped and looked back on the floor at my tracks.

"That's not mud," I said with a shake of my head. Damn monkeys.

"Then I suggest you remove your shoes and get a mop and a bucket, Jeffery."

Alfonse just walked right by me and I sighed. All I wanted to do was sleep.

Mmmmm..... sleep.....

God damn monkeys...

Ian Astheimer shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. Then he shot another one. After that he urinated on a hooker and stole another man's woman in an effort to show everyone who's boss. But everyone already knew. It's Tony Danza.

Trevor Carrington's personal obsession with monkeys comes from his rebelling against his family who have a deep seated, ancient hatred of monkeys that began due to a bad experience with a banana way back when.

Alex Cook rules the world. Some folks just don't know it yet.

Matthew Downey is the result of a secret government project to build a better apricot. The project failed.

Derrick Ferguson poops like everyone else.

Jason Kenney was once 'the bitch that wore the same dress'. There are pictures and no one will ever be allowed to see them.

Leslie "Ciro" Lancaster likes men too big for their britches.

C.W. Russette likes long walks on the beach, poetry, women that laugh at everything he says, and alcohol.