The Mask - What if?
…Tina forced herself to look away from the chaos as men – and dog – fought over The Mask. She worried about Stanley but right now, freeing herself was top priority. At the very least, she couldn't let Stanley worry over her safety while his own life was on the line. More than that though she wanted to be useful and not be a burden. Thanks to Sweet's shoddy work, she had been successful with getting her other leg loose, but on testing the fastness of the binding tape…well, that proved to be another matter entirely. She'd found it almost impossible to even wriggle her wrists, let alone flex her blood-starved fingers to get a good grip on anything. Geez, why couldn't the man be more consistently incompetent? She was racking her brain for solutions when she caught sight of a man in a white blazer snooping about two tables away. If she remembered correctly, wasn't that Stanley's colleague, the guy who was practically drooling all over her when she was scouting out the bank's layout? "Hey! Hey Stanley's pal! Over here, hey!" She cried. It was no use; she could barely hear herself in the midst of all that racket. She watched as he tried to move towards the third table from her but was forced to retreat in her direction instead when several stray shots nearly hit him, his eyes darting back and forth between the exit and the gunmen. Thinking quickly, she slipped a foot from the heel that she was wearing and took aim, judging that it shouldn't be a problem from this distance.
Charlie Schumacher was still eyeing the exit which seemed so near yet so far when he felt something hit the back of his head. On instinct, he whipped around and fired with his eyes screwed shut, shots going wide of his intended target. As the dust settled, he opened an eye and snuck a peek and…wait a second, was that…was the person who hit him who he thought it was? Her face was averted even after he'd stopped firing. But that's her all right, no two ways about it. The most beautiful flower of the Coco Bongo in the flesh, Miss Tina Carlyle herself. What the heck was going on here? It took him another moment fully before the pieces started falling in place: Tina missing a footwear, her furious look as she mouthed the words 'get over here!' and a high heel lying within arm's reach. He signaled an 'OK' back at her before moving over.
"What the hell's wrong with you!? You almost killed me!" Tina yelled.
"Hey what did you expect me to do in a situation like this, lady?" Charlie yelled back, gesturing at the chaos all around. "Everyone's nerves are running a little high in case you didn't notice. Not to mention that you started it, Cinderella. Look, I'd love to stay and chat but if you'll excuse me I need to go call in the cavalry for all our sakes. This little detour is taking up enough time as it is, so TTYL."
"Wait! Please, wait! Okay, fine, you have a point there, I'll admit. But can you at least free me? I don't want to be target practice for live firing," she said.
"Don't worry m'am, they don't look like they're coming this way anytime soon, so why don't you stay here like a good girl instead of being a bother? Look, I really have to – Oh crap – "
Tina's eyes followed Charlie's towards the club entrance that he had been keeping in sight; two of Dorian's goons had just lumbered over to the spot and stationed themselves there with guns drawn.
"Thank you very much, Miss Carlyle. Now look what you've done by distracting me," Charlie hissed. "I just blew my best chance."
"No, you didn't. I'm your best chance."
"You? What can you do?"
"Create a distraction."
"What?"
"I just distracted you didn't I? Let me do it again. I'll create a diversion and lure them away," she said. "I want to help Stanley too."
Charlie looked at her as if she'd blown a fuse up her attic.
"What, are you crazy? Do you even know how dangerous that is? They have guns, Tina, REAL guns. I mean, why would you even go that far?"
"Because I want to help Stanley," she repeated, steel in her voice. "Please."
Charlie could see from her eyes that she meant everything that she said and wasn't about to take no for an answer. He opened his mouth to say something, but for the first time, found himself at a loss for words. His shoulders slumped. "Man, can't believe I'd ever say this but I'm jealous of Stan," he sighed and clambered up to cut her loose. Tina rubbed her wrists to get the life flowing in them again as she hopped down from the tree.
"Can you remove that as well?" she pointed at the bomb strapped to its base. "Take it somewhere away from these people?"
"Whoa, whoa! You're not seriously expecting me to go the full mile are you? I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself. We're not out of hot soup yet in case you didn't notice, why worry about others? Let the cops deal with it. Besides, I don't think that's possible given how much tape he was laying on," Charlie said.
"Fine, let's leave the bomb alone then. Timer says that we have less than 20 minutes to move our asses; let's hope that everything'll turn out peachy keen. If you don't mind, can I borrow that?" She indicated the switchblade which Charlie had used to free her.
"Oh this? Handy little thing, isn't it? Filched it from Niko's body earlier, heh. Well, here you go."
Charlie turned the handle over to her and she took it and got to work. She tore into her dress from the skirt down, figuring that she needed that slit for practical movement. He was about to say something regarding her modesty, but thought better of it. He knew when to shut up, especially if treating himself to an eyeful of legs became numero uno.
"You're getting saliva all over my feet," she commented dryly.
"Sorry, can't help it as long as I've got one of these between my legs," he patted the front of his trousers. Tina chose to ignore that comment.
"Get ready. Anytime now," she lifted her foot and took off her other heel. Charlie ducked behind a table.
"Hey you morons! Dorian find you fit only for guard duty?" She hurled her heel at one of the goons, striking him in the forehead.
"Oww! Look Eddy, it's the bitch!" the goon who was hit cried while cradling his head.
"Bitch now, am I? Guess watchdogs can never view people as anything but canine!" She retorted.
"Quit yappin, Lou. Let's get her 'fore the boss tears us a new one!" The other goon said and opened fire. Tina half-ran, half-skidded for cover on stockinged feet.
Crap, maybe that wasn't the wisest move. She watched the entrance from behind a statue as the goons cleared the coast and came after her. The last thing that she saw before being forced behind a potted plant by several shots was Charlie hightailing it out of the Coco Bongo. He managed a backward glance at her and the briefest of salutes before disappearing from sight. She hoped that Charlie, fool though he was, would get them the help that he'd promised. Putting that aside, she began to move again. This time, towards the slot machines where she thought Stanley would be.
"Stanley! Stanley, where are you?" Tina's voice was barely above a whisper as she shuffled along on hands and knees. She snuck a peek around the corner of a slot machine then pulled back as a bottle of champagne smashed into the floor not two feet from her. To her credit, she had been able to lose the two thugs who were after her when she entered the maze of slot machines…or maybe she hadn't been too far off the mark when she said that they weren't good enough for anything but security. Still, she wasn't about to take her serendipity for granted and cast about for something, anything at all, to defend herself with. She almost regretted returning the switchblade to Charlie without a second thought. Fat lot of good the knife could do against their firearms that much she was aware, but it was better than nothing. For all she knew, one of them might have already spotted her, or thought he did, and that would explain where the champagne bottle had come from. She'd pricked up her ears at the bottle's shattering, but heard no footsteps following. There were the occasional sounds of gunshot punctuated by barking – Milo's – and incessant shouting, but no sign of Stanley anywhere. The next words that she heard however nearly stopped her heart cold.
"Boss, I have it!" It was one of the old boys, Sweet, who cried, holding The Mask above his head.
"Watch it, idiot!" The warning came a tad too late as a chair flew into him, knocking the Mask from his grasp.
The artifact clattered along the floor spinning under some tables, then it hit a chair leg and bounded off the side of a slot machine…
…Before coming to rest in front of Tina. For a moment, she blinked stupidly at it. Then the significance of what she was looking at registered and she thought she would hyperventilate. The Mask! It was right before her, no, in her hands now! As she snatched it off the ground and made a dash for the slot machines. Gotta get this to Stanley! She notion had no sooner crossed her mind than she saw Dorian's goons rounding on her, cutting off her route and opening fire. She lunged sideways in the nick of time, clearing the bullet-riddled ground she had been standing on. Close one. She scrambled to her feet and took a right turn down an alley lined with animal totems, then left again through a narrow aisle that had been created when a totem was toppled. Straight ahead she ran, figuring that unless more of them joined in, the four thugs who had fired at her earlier would be spread too thin in the pursuit to pinpoint her exact location. She had just run past the jungle themed section when she heard Milo's barking down one of the corridors and backtracked, praying that Stanley would be with him. And Bingo! Right on her money, there was the man himself, crawling between some potted plants, dog tucked under an arm, looking the worse for wear. She stole a glance behind and saw that her luck had run out; more thugs had joined in the chase and were now pointing and yelling in her direction. Fuck. No time to lose.
To his left, Stanley heard the ruckus and lifted his head, pushing aside some potted plants for a better look. "Tina?" She was running towards him from a distance, hugging The Mask to her chest. "Stanley, catch!" She lifted The Mask to pitch it at him when a gun fired. A beat later, she realized that she was holding onto thin air. A bullet had caught The Mask dead on, and as it sailed over the bar, Tina could have sworn that The Mask's descent slowed – just enough for her to see its amused smirk – before resuming its fall. "Fuken cheapskate!" One of Dorian's boys, the one who had hit The Mask, was cussing to the clicking of a spent revolver. Apparently, his ammo supplies were limited. Okay, so maybe her luck hadn't completely run out after all and not all the thugs were armed with enough firepower. That's a good thing too or she'd be lying in a pool of her own blood right about now when the guy had pulled the trigger again. Knowing Dorian, maybe he thought that The Mask was all he needed and skimped on arming his people. The fact that no one else from that group was shooting confirmed her hunch, and she knew that she's got to make this one silver lining count. She calculated that her odds of reclaiming The Mask were the highest since she was the closest person to it and went after the artifact, confident that there was nothing to fear from behind. But the moment she broke cover, all hell broke loose. Bullets flew everywhere, in her path and overhead. She tried to stay as low as possible to avoid the incoming gunfire, and the distance of ten feet that lay between The Mask and herself felt like a stretch of eternity as she closed the gap. "Seven feet…six feet…" she counted down, her focus on nothing but the hurdle before her. Picking up speed as she hit four feet, she felt a bullet clip her shoulder and took that as her cue. She dived over the counter.
"Tina! Get back!" Stanley screamed as she disappeared.
Tina bit back a cry as she felt the searing pain from where the bullet tore into her flesh, her fingers wrapping around The Mask at the same time. At once, an electric current raced up her fingertips in contact with The Mask and crossed the bridge of her forearm, then fired straight into her brain. And there in her mind's eye, the current translated itself into several flashbacks. "How does it work?" She had asked Stanley in the first image. A flash. Her question was answered in the next image when she saw Dorian put The Mask on up close. Drawn to Stanley's masked persona as she was, had she never thought about wearing it even once? She found herself asking. She'd had the fleeting thought to engage Dorian in a tug of war over it, but dropped the notion almost immediately only because she knew that her chances of success were next to zero…and then felt a twinge of regret after at not having seized the best opportunity to sate her curiosity. And why shouldn't she? Nothing's stopping her now but her own hesitation. And yet, it was not so simple. Something told her that this was an effect of The Mask's influence, that it was in the artifact's nature to tempt its possessor and to ignore it. Right now, her focus should be on keeping Stanley out of harm's way, and only The Mask could do that. This wasn't the time to be indulging in selfish curiosities. If only she could deliver it –
Oh you silly girl, I've had quite enough, a voice interrupted her train of thoughts. Why not you save him yourself? I mean, all you have to do is like, gee, I dunno, WEAR THE MASK? It practically screamed the words aloud.
The revelation hit her like a cold-water shower, and it felt as if a fog that had been present all her life had suddenly been lifted from her vision and she was now looking at a whole new world. Of course! The solution had been so incredibly simple that she couldn't help but feel like an idiot. Why hadn't she thought of that? She wondered. She'd been too myopic in her quest, that's why. So much so that she'd nearly missed the forest for the tree.
What's more, the voice added, weren't you the one who wanted to be useful? So make yourself useful. BE The Mask.
…Should she? It all made so much sense, yet why was she still having reservations?
Admit it Tina, you want to know what it's like too doncha? There's not a more convenient excuse than this to justify wearing The Mask. It's killing two birds with the proverbial stone.
The idea, put so plainly across, disturbed her. She'd told herself that she needed to get The Mask to Stanley for the greater good. It was all for his sake, so what was that disappointment that she had been feeling till the option of donning The Mask herself had been presented to her? Necessity aside, perhaps she had wanted to wear it more than she had wanted anything as noble as saving Stanley if she was to be completely honest with herself.
No matter. Whether it's to protect Stanley or to satisfy a personal desire, the decision had already been made for her. There's only one path left to take now.
"Please…don't let this be a mistake," she whispered and pressed The Mask to her face.
As she did, alarm bells rang in her head and her eyes snapped wide open. Her sense of caution, lulled into a state of false security by some mystic quality of The Mask's no doubt, woke too late to full attention, recalling the reason that she had pushed so hard against the idea of wearing it in the first place. It was out of a fear that had far outweighed her curiosity. "And what did I have to fear?" She asked. The answer was obvious now as The Mask fused with her face. She was terrified of not knowing what she would become.
The roar of multiple guns firing in unison drowned out all other sounds in the Coco Bongo Club. Against the backdrop of deafening noise, wood exploded and glass shattered in silence, filling the air with shards and splinters. Stanley watched slack-jawed as the gangsters unloaded round after round, screaming voicelessly like a scene from out of a thirties Chaplin film, intent upon making a honeycomb out of the bar. The barrage of gunfire seemed to go on forever, and then just as suddenly, it ceased. The silence in the aftermath was punctuated by the discharge of empty magazines clattering onto the floor.
Orlando and his boys grinned their guns still smoking. No one can survive that, Orlando thought and was almost sorry to have reduced Tina to a bloody pulp. The girl was gorgeous, the perfect ten babe. Too bad the boss' orders were absolute, and there's not a damn thing that could've been done about it. But man, his private fantasy had been to enjoy her at least once when Dorian got tired of her, and it looks like that dream's down the gutter.
…Or not. He gulped as a slender hand reached up from behind the bar and gripped its edge, pulling a svelte figure into view. The figure, a woman's they could all see clearly now, boosted herself onto the bar top and landed her rump weightlessly, reclining lengthwise along the bar with an arm propped up behind her for support, the hem of her dress swishing and spilling over the counter in a luxurious cascade, side profile to the world. To Stanley's relief, the figure was Tina's, and she didn't seem to be hurt in any way. Yet at the same time, there was something not quite right about her. The red and black pattern of her dress had been reconfigured into a harlequin checkered motif, and touches of alteration here and there redefined her image – the makeshift vent that she had hacked into the side of her dress haphazardly now appeared to be torn into it as part of its design, lending her a 'gal who likes it rough' vibe. Instead of the uneven edges from her crude hack job, the ragged edges were now more streamlined, more even. The front of her dress, too, had been similarly ripped open in a deep 'V' neck, yet in such a measured fashion as to display her generous cleavage and nothing else unintended. The liberation of her dress from the tyranny of its previous cutting was too symmetrical to be anything other than by design. The only question was whose? To top it off, a wide-brimmed black fedora with a crimson hatband now graced her crown, and she reached up to adjust it, pulling it low over her features. Rather than hiding, the dark colors merely served to accentuate the hint of green peeking out from beneath.
She swiveled round to face her audience and dropped to the floor lightly, then flexed an arm and popped a joint, a lit cigarette sitting between her fingers when she pulled her arm back. Instead of sticking it between her lips as any sane human would, she tore the fag in half, tossed it into her mouth and swallowed; wisps of smoke began to seep out from the numerous invisible bullet holes in her body, curling upwards. She breathed deeply as though taking a long drag on a cigarette and the smoke died to a trickle, then she looked at the boys, blew them a kiss, and the dozen bullet holes exhaled in unison, venting jets of steam while sounding like a dozen train whistles blowing the tops off their engines. Incredible! It was like smoking through all her wounds at the same time! Hot damn, she could even feel the smoke's passage tickling her as it exited the places where she'd been perforated by bullets!
"You boys sure know how to make a girl feel whole," she said while spreading whipped cream over her bullet holes with a trowel. Hold on. Where had that come from? She regarded the trowel quizzically. Well, who cared? It didn't really matter did it? She chucked the tool aside. Hmm, her voice had changed too she realized. It was now deeper and sexier though it didn't sound very human. She liked what she heard and grinned. "Hold on to that willya Milo? Momma's got some baaad eggs to crack tonight," she took off her hat and tossed it away. With flawless timing, the mutt bounded forward and leapt, catching it between his teeth like a Frisbee. And for the first time since her reappearance, they could now see her face. Other than the portion of her hair that was pinned up elaborately, just like when Stanley had first met her outside the Club, this Tina was completely bald, and The Mask had left the complexion of her entire head a bright lime-green. Where her ears should have been, a layer of the same green skin covering the rest of her skull was smoothed over each side instead, those protrusions of flesh deemed unnecessary by her new look seemingly planed flat to the sides of her head. "Holy smokes…" Stanley whispered under his breath, cringing at the reveal. And so did Orlando and his boys. It wasn't too much of a stretch to believe, at that point, that that was a face that could sour milk. Not by virtue of it being ugly, which truth be told it wasn't. Well, not completely anyways, but it's just that there was something off about her look, something that was more fey than human. It was by no means natural, her appearance, but as far as The Mask was concerned, who the hell needed natural when you could be supernatural? Orlando and his boys, startled into action, began loading up their AK47s and Uzis. Her mug had a most sobering effect on them.
"Uhh, don't you think you boys are overreacting?" She ventured.
They pointed their weapons at her in answer.
"Fine, wanna play rough huh?" She arched an eyebrow and –
Drew her revolver, popped the cylinder, checked the ammo, gave it a spin, popped it back, twirled it, and cocked it – all in the blink of an eye – then pointed it at Orlando and fired. The shot missed him completely but left his heart pounding; he couldn't even respond to that even if he had wanted to. Then he heard one of the boys laughing. "Whatcha gonna do to us with that baby gun ya lousy shot? Missed by a mile haha!" And it was true. On closer look, the gun in her hand was no larger than a playing card, one of the smallest Orlando'd ever seen, and she looked like a dame from one of them forties noir flick holding it. The absurdity of this caught on and Orlando too started to laugh; soon, they were all laughing along with him, slapping their thighs hysterically as they pointed at her. That is, until something whizzed past Orlando from behind him and grazed his cheek. He had only time enough to let out a yelp, realizing that the round that The Mask had fired had arced back –
Before the bullet proceeded to tear up their surroundings. It hit the wall opposite Orlando then back again, nearly taking his toe off, and shot from foot to ceiling, putting a hole in it. Then it began ricocheting in random directions, cutting the air in white-hot streaks as it obliterated the boys' weapons, firing at the rate of a GPMG. The sound of a thousand bullets punching out a tattoo filled the Club, accomplished by that single bullet as holes appeared in walls, floors and doors in its way, the thugs standing as still as they could, screaming for their mommies. The zigzagging slug missed them all impeccably; it shot past by a hair's breadth each time, shredding clothing and dignity in its wake. A guy or two even pissed their pants out of fear. At last, the bullet shot back towards The Mask and she clipped it out of the air between index and middle finger. She palmed it, flipped it like a coin, caught it then opened her fingers slowly to reveal that the bullet had vanished. And right on cue, Orlando and his boys fainted.
"Here's a tip, boys. It's not size that matters but technique," she re-strapped the gun to her thigh holster. "And now, for the main event," she was about to zip off towards the bomb when she arrested her arms mid-swing, her eyes locked on Stanley; the guy had been so fascinated watching her turn from classy to crazy that he'd failed to notice three of Dorian's personal bodyguards sneaking up with their guns trained on him. Stanley heard a 'whoosh' as The Mask blurred into a streak of colors and then he chose that moment to turn around and noticed too late the danger he was in. The thugs fired as a tornado of all things slammed into the ground before him, knocking the bullets off course.
The Mask could feel the bullets deflecting off her body as they struck her arms, legs and back, but felt no pain at all, only a slight tickle. Oh boy! So this was what it's like to be…
…A Superhero! The tornado stopped spinning. The Mask now sported a head full of flowing black hair and a tiara with a miniature of her pre-worn face set at the center of it. She had on a plated corset and knee-high greaves, a skirt of overlapping leather strips, and a girdle with a stylized double 'M' across the front, one 'M' overlaying the other. On her right arm, she had a disc, or maybe it was a dinner plate, strapped on, decorated with a ten-point star emblem and she brandished the bladeless hilt of what seemed to be a butter knife with her left hand. Well, she did figure that a ten-point star was double the points of his regular one anyway, so her shield, if it can be called that, ought to be better. Right now though, the only thing that Stanley thought might be remotely useful was the coil of silver whip hanging at her hip. The problem was, it was only hanging there. She sure as hell didn't show any intention of using it as the three thugs began to advance, unconvinced with her display. She stepped forward to meet them in battle and activated her gear; immediately, the hilt emitted a blade of laser while a fan of blades erupted along the edges of the disc. She flipped another switch and the plates began spinning at high speed, making a threatening whirring noise. The thugs started backing away.
"Now who's up for some lovin?" She invited.
The thugs, appearing doubtful now, eyed one another.
"Well?" She tapped her foot impatiently.
No one made a move.
"I said," she sucked in a deep breath. "COME AND GET YOUR LOVE!"
No questions asked, the thugs turned and fled. "Please, citizen, no need for thanks…" she stopped Stanley with an upraised hand before he could open his mouth and then sheathed her light saber. She'd failed to notice however that there was no sheathe at her side in the first place – that and she'd forgotten to switch off the laser when thrusting it into her belt. "…This is, after all, a job for…the Masked Maiden!" She struck a pose as the laser blade severed her belt and her skirt fell away, revealing her blue underwear covered with silver crescent moons. She looked down at that moment and saw that the waistband of her knickers was being cut through as well, and was hanging on by a fraying thread. Which snapped. The Mask let out a shriek and moved her arm with its fan of spinning blades just in time to shield her snatch from view.
"Ehh, give me a moment, I'll be right back!" She sent herself into a spin and a few seconds later, emerged in biker leathers. A black and white striped choker adorned her neck, and its design Stanley noted, was identical to her underwear's – and boy, was he relieved that she was wearing some now – which were showing above her tight pants. To complement the punk rock theme, she'd gone completely bald and metallic nodes reminiscent of The Mask's rivet-cap design had popped up and lined the bridge of her nose, not unlike those piercings that the neighborhood gangs had taken to for being 'badass'. The shoulders of her jacket grew spiked studs too while the top buttons of her pants were unfastened, putting the final touches on her bad girl look. The response that greeted her wardrobe change however, was hardly one that she had expected from Stanley. For the briefest of moments she saw fear flicker across his face.
"Tina, look out!" Stanley cried as she felt an arm slipping around her neck from behind.
Dorian had been waiting for an opportunity to get close and he couldn't have asked for a better timing than that moment. This little bit of 'problem-solving' as he liked to call it, took guts and action, both requirements of a man in Dorian's line of work. Disarm – or in this case, de-face her – and she'd be powerless. It was all in that Mask after all, and he'd sworn to recover it by any means necessary. To that end, he'd crept away and hidden himself while The Mask took on his thugs, watching and biding his time until he saw his chance.
She had just stepped out of the tornado with her guard down when he struck from a blind spot and put the chokehold on her. The Mask's expression was a deadpan as his hand crawled all over her face, his fingers depressing the nodes along her nose. Positioned behind her, he couldn't see that her eyes had turned from the usual blue to a dangerous shade of red even as he found what he was looking for: the crease at the base of her skull marking where the edges of The Mask met.
"Why must this guy. Always. Push. My. Buttons?" She spat, addressing no one in particular. His face was pressed so closely to her scalp that she could – literally – feel him breathing down her neck and that only ticked her off more.
He was digging into the spot roughly, unconcerned that he might be hurting her in the process when, all of a sudden, he felt something give. The crease that he was worrying at had parted and was deepening into a furrow that extended all the way upwards, reaching the top of her head. His fingers sank up to their joints into the resulting gap. Like an overripe peach, the back of her head was splitting right down the middle and breaking out into two fleshy portions before his very eyes. He watched with a mix of horror and intrigue as it kept on swelling and swelling…till it morphed with a boing! Into a set of firm, well-rounded buttocks! "What the fuck!" He jerked his fingers from the crack. The bum, green and bare, wriggled playfully; then it tensed and gave a loud, musical –
POOOOOT!
The blast of foul wind caught Dorian smack in the face and he was knocked off his feet and thrown backward, eyes watering from the smell of stale ideas and banal imagination.
"'Scuse me fellas, just had a brain fart there," The Mask said as the back of her head began to close up again, returning back to normal.
Dorian coughed and sputtered, trying to get the nasty taste out of his nose and mouth.
"How dare you!" He roared, livid with rage. In response, The Mask shot out a hand and choked him, cutting him off.
"Like what you found?" She taunted. "Thought I should give you an opening since you were searching so badly for one," she grinned savagely and threw him across the room. Dorian crashed into a row of tables and skidded along the floor. He went on sliding till he was stopped by a foot that The Mask had put out; she was already there at the other end of the room waiting for him even before he had hit the ground. "You…how dare…" He wheezed. She picked him up by the collar and backhanded him by way of a reply, sending him in the direction from whence he came. He was still in a daze when he felt something flat smack him in the face and he was airborne once more, a glimpse of The Mask showing that she's now dressed in a polo shirt and exercise shorts with her hair done up in two Chinese style buns, ping-pong bat in hand, eyes slitted in concentration.
"What an excellent smash by Beijing's Li Ping Wan! If she keeps up her game, I think China's set to bag the table tennis championship this year!" A sports announcer's voice broadcasted through the PA systems.
Another smack – he saw her now in a tank top, skirt and visor, her hair in dreadlocks, tennis racquet in hand –
"Aaaannnnd Melena Millions goes on the offense! My god, what a shot! I bet she felt like a million – nay – a billion bucks right there! Now that's what I call a money shot!"
Whack – she's in her baseball getup now, consisting of a pinstriped shirt prominent with the number '3', matching trousers, cap and bat.
"…I think she might have hit a home run!"
Crack – Dorian was losing consciousness at this point but he thought she was a badminton player –
"You know what, he's right! And that's why we call it a baaaaad-minton match!"
Klang! – The Mask, now dressed in wrestler's tights, luchadora mask over her green face, was holding onto a dented folding chair with an imprint of Dorian's face on it –
As he crashed to the floor finally and went limp. As The Mask stood there waiting for him to get up, an awkward silence fell over the scene; his complete lack of movement was met with the shocked gasps of unseen spectators and murmurs began spreading throughout the room. The commentator cleared his throat, seemingly at a loss for what to say. Then his voice boomed.
"Well, that shot didn't cost a cent anyways, no reason not to take it hey!"
There was a pause as the audience seemed to consider his words; then the hall went up in a roar of applause and cheers. The Mask, back in her biker's leathers now, bowed and waved to the invisible crowd.
"Tina, forget about him! The bomb!" Stanley yelled over the noise. It didn't seem to get through to her, though. She was too caught up in her bloodlust oblivious to everything else. No choice now. He'd better see what he can do while The Mask handled, or rather, manhandled Dorian and made his way over to the bomb.
He stared at the timer as it ticked away serenely, and a lump started forming in his throat.
They had a mere minute left.
God help us all.
The Mask's latest smack had the wind knocked out of Dorian leaving him folded up on the floor. She walked up to him and prodded him with the toe of her boot.
"Any last words?" She asked, dragging him to unsteady feet.
"Yea…I think…you might be…forgetting something," Dorian pointed a trembling hand in the direction of the bomb.
At that, The Mask's eyes widened and jumped back to their usual blue.
"Oh crap," she turned towards where he'd indicated and dropped him. Steel spikes, curved and deadly, sprouted from the nodes along her nose and ran down her spine as she shot into the air in a superhuman somersault accelerating herself into a blur. As she hit the pinnacle of her trajectory, the left and right sides of her body flattened towards its center where the invisible line dividing the human body into bilateral halves supposedly lay, and she dropped to the floor spinning, a perfect buzz saw slicing edgewise towards Stanley.
And what a time of her life she was having! So, this was what it's like to be so…impossible. If it was always gonna be such tremendous fun, she sure as hell didn't mind wearing The Mask more often! Yeah, just remember, it's all fun and games till someone loses an eye, her rational self, lurking in a corner of her mind, reminded her. Geez, had she always been such a spoilsport? She shoved the thought back and as she did, a bazillion other questions surged forth and took its place instead, and she found herself tuning in to them. For starters, here she was, compressed into a two-dimensional disc for Pete's sake, so how the hell was she, somehow, still alive? Let alone functioning? And how was she even maintaining her regular vision without the world dissolving into dizzying streaks given her current state of locomotion? She didn't want to start thinking about the logic of those three-foot long spikes that made her look like Godzilla, or how she'd managed to balance on her razor edge – it just came to her intuitively – as she plowed up the floor trailing a cloud of dust behind her or she might risk losing even that foothold of reason.
As these thoughts ran in her head, she ground to a screeching halt in front of the bomb and unfurled herself, her flattened spikes looking like a Mohawk of shark fins. Wasting no time, she re-inflated her compressed form, retracted her spikes then tore the explosive away. Her mouth expanded into a gigantic 'O', and she stuck one end of those deathsticks inside and clamped down hard with her chompers.
"Got a light?" She managed to ask as the bomb went off, and Stanley winced at the last thing that he'd ever see in his life. Or so he thought. The ends of the dynamite jutting out of the corner of her mouth like an oversized cigar ignited, but the detonation went no further than a foot from its origin. And Stanley could see why now. It turned out that The Mask was sucking away at the bomb, the rate of her puffing outpacing the spread of the explosion! Stanley watched, wide-eyed as the chain reaction was trapped in a self-contained bubble, the bomb disintegrating piecemeal from the tips as she smoked it down to nothing.
"Oh my God, Tina," he began just as she was done drawing the explosion into herself, but went no further when he heard a thunder booming from deep within her. Two of her teeth blasted outwards, missing Stanley's head by mere inches. One buried itself in front of a screaming Orlando; the other lodged itself in the space between Sweet's legs and he fainted, yet again. Then The Mask's face switched colors faster than Stanley's eye could follow; from pink to orange to several shades of purple in rapid succession. An eye turned red, then blue and red again even as the other went blue, then red and back, with each eye stuck in a different color when they finally stopped changing. And then, with no warning whatsoever, her left eye soared into the roof of her cranium while her right eye sank past the rim of its socket, her eyes beginning to wheel in endless cycles within her head as though it were a hollow container. Round and round they went, switching places as they chased each other and exposing the darkness between vacant sockets in their constant motion. Stanley, worried that this might go on forever, clapped his hands over the sides of The Mask's head. At once, her eyes parked themselves back in place, and their colors went back to normal. But even as he stopped her eyes, the nodes on her nose began. They were flipping open and close alternately like kettle lids on spring hinges, each hole concealed underneath each rivet-cap shooting fireworks into the air whenever they lifted open. Then the pyrotechnics eventually died away as the bomb ran its course.
"WeeHeeeEeew, what a hit! Are there more where that came from? If you don't mind, gentlemen, I'd like to have another!" She said, just as a final explosion went off.
The Mask's head expanded like a puffer fish's and deflated, throbbing fiercely as smoke poured out of her nose and mouth while she gave Stanley a shaky thumbs-up.
"Uhh Tina, you might wanna look behind you," Stanley pointed. Dorian was staggering to his feet, battered but still alive, and he was glaring daggers at her. "It's not over yet, freak," he spat, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Oh reaaaally?" She waggled her eyebrows and a spin later, was garbed in painter's frock, a clutch of paintbrushes in one hand, a palette in the other. A black snap-brim sat atop her head, and she wore a monocle in her right eye, stroking the handsome brown moustache that she now sported.
"So. This jolly old fellow's playing the tough guy now is he? A fine act, if I do say so myself. But heed my advice, dear boy. Drop it while you still can. It's over."
Dorian flipped his switchblade.
"Oh my, showing persistence now, are we? It's a good quality to have in show business, I'll say. Always a pleasure to meet an actor who's dedicated to his craft. Are you perhaps after one of those?"
"...The fuck you goin on about? Cut the bullshit and bring it on. I ain't afraid of no broad."
"Well, you know what they say. All the world's a stage…ahh, but I digress. Maybe it's better to show than to tell, yeeesss?" She didn't give him a chance to answer. A slap across his cheek sent him reeling and he felt something wet, there. Blood? Had she cut him? He investigated the spot with his fingers, and they came away covered in gold paint. He looked up to see her flourishing a paintbrush tipped with the very same. Another slap took him from the left; then right; then up; then down; then across the front of his face and rinse and repeat, a flurry of slaps carrying his head every which way. Stanley watched agape as The Mask worked Dorian over with a single hand, the arm that was doing all that work moving so fast that it became a blur. As she was creating her art, her eyes were fixed on the pages of The Gentle Art of Making Enemies that she was holding in the other hand while she hummed the Ride of the Valkyries – all at the same time. For Dorian, there was only a moment of brief respite when she stopped suddenly, during which he heard the whistling of blades as they sliced the air and felt his hair sliding off like a wig, parted cleanly in the middle. Then he lost control of the movement of his head once more as the smacking resumed. He felt slaps across the top of his head, felt himself being flipped around, and felt the strokes going over the back of his head. Then he was spun around so quickly the paint hardened and dried. When he regained his senses at last, Dorian found himself staring into a mirror that The Mask had brought up to his face. In it his head was as clean-shaven as a baby's and coated in a layer of gold. In fact, his current look resembled a very familiar statuette.
"I'm talking about one of these babies of course," she nudged and winked at him. He swiped at her with his switchblade and she dodged by sliding five feet backwards then backflipping out of range, all the while hooting like a maniac.
This cannot be happening, Dorian thought. He was ruined. All his men were beaten, and all his plans gone to pieces; the empire that he had dreamed about was lost forever. And it was all her fault, this thing before him which he refused to accept was Tina. The real Tina was knowable because he defined her. He could pin her with his gaze, and fix her in place and she wouldn't even dare to squirm if he did not give his permission. It was true that she might put up a tough front at times, but that's all it was, a front. Yes, the real Tina would never have the guts to rebel. He was sure of that the more he thought about it and yet…when he stared at the green face blowing him a raspberry, he saw nothing but traces of the past in them. He remembered the first time that he took her. She'd looked brave, but her lips quivered. He knew better. He'd undressed her with his knife, cutting through the straps and layers of fabric as she stood there shivering. Then the rest as they say, was history. And how they'd made love! He remembered the soft sighs and silky skin, that seductive way in which she talked. But most of all, he remembered her best for her maddening perfume, her feminine scent – at this, he flushed at the memory of that…that stink that he'd suffered moments ago and was brought back to the present. The only thing, he recalled, that he truly hated about Tina was that look in her eyes whenever she defied him. Those eyes could be so hard and…unwavering when he hurt her that it only made him want to – and sometimes, he actually did – hurt her more. Eyes that identified with the creature standing there now with a beckoning finger. He couldn't take it anymore.
"Ynngarrhhh!" He bellowed something unintelligible and charged.
But The Mask was ready for him. Her hands blurred as she painted a lever onto a canvas and materialized it. But Dorian was no slouch either. He'd perceived the not-so-well-disguised pitfall lying ahead of him, and leapt over it, smooth as clockwork, right as The Mask pulled the lever. The trapdoor fell open. "Dumb blonde, sif' I'd fall for such an obvious tra – " He never finished his sentence. His feet had landed on a spring-loaded tile, and it threw him backwards into the air twenty feet high and down the trap hole.
He screamed as he plummeted into the unknown. Together, Stanley and The Mask held up a hand to their ears – well, in The Mask's case, to where her ear ought to be anyways – and strained to follow the fading scream as Dorian disappeared down the tunnel. There was a loud splash at the end and The Mask straightened and nodded, satisfied.
"Oh but you will, Oscar, you will!" She returned. And now that the nuisance was finally out of the way, she turned her full attention onto Stanley. With a riiip! She tore away the painter's outfit and tossed it aside, now back in her leathers, her former moustache shedded. She licked her lips and snapped her teeth at him ravenously, an animalistic growl emanating from her throat as she stalked towards him in catwalk, backing him into the coconut tree. He turned left – but she'd anticipated his attempt to flee and slapped a hand to the trunk of the tree, barring his escape. She leaned in close, breathing heavily, and blew dynamite smoke into his face. Stanley coughed and choked.
"Umm, if you don't mind, can I have the old Tina back?" He asked in a squeak.
"Uh-uh-uh, you didn't say the magic word, darling!"
"Oh. Umm. Pretty please?"
"Hmm," The Mask seemed to consider his proposition. Then, "No."
"What? But why?"
"Because I'm already as pretty as it gets, handsome. There's no turning back, ha ha ha!"
Stanley slapped his forehead when he realized the unintentional pun that he'd made as she returned one of her own.
"This," The Mask pointed at her face, "is not good enough for ya? Be honest now, looks are all you care about isn't it?"
"Wha…I…no! Hell, no, of course not!"
"Yeah? Then prove it."
"Huh?"
"Prove that looks are not everyth – Mmpf! Mmmpf, Mmmpf!...Mmm. Mmmm. Mm ~ Mmmm."
Before she could finish her sentence, Stanley had flung his arms around her neck and brought himself into, quite literally, the hottest, most passionate kiss that he'd ever performed in his life. His tongue burned and his lips scalded; the kiss tasted of gunpowder from the bomb and it stung. But Stanley didn't mind it at all. It was the price of being in love. As they kissed, she took his hands into hers and guided them to the crease where the edges of The Mask met. Then together, they dug into it and pulled. Thunder pealed and lightning flashed as The Mask came apart. Tina's eyes rolled skywards, showing their whites. The Mask caught her expression in petrified wood as it fought to stay on; wood clung to skin and skin to wood, impossible to tell where the one began and the other ended. With a final tug, The Mask separated from Tina's face and Stanley found himself kissing its dry wooden lips. He spat and wiped his mouth vigorously as Tina giggled. Her leathers were gone now, rewoven back into her dress of black and red.
Emboldened by that kiss, Stanley circled her waist with his arm and pulled her close. Then he picked up the thread of conversation where they'd left off.
"When you were wearing The Mask, Tina, I'm not sure that that you…was the Tina that I know, the Tina that accepted me for who I am. I wanted to be sure. I rejected you – you as The Mask – because I had to. It's never been about your looks, honest."
"I don't know Stan," she turned away, her back facing him. He couldn't see her smiling.
"Look, Tina, I would never make you do something against your will, okay? I just…just don't want you to have any regrets," he said as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
"I'm afraid you lost me," she said, turning back to face him.
"What I'm saying is this: if there's even the slightest chance that you're not in full possession of your faculties, and trust me, I know what that Mask does to you – then you can't simply expect me to roll with that, can you? What if you took The Mask off and decided that you'd made a colossal mistake? That you were 'not yourself' when you opted for a quick fix?" He wetted his lips with his tongue as he said this. Tina reached out to squeeze his shoulder but stopped herself at the last second, opting to let her hand drop instead. She offered him no words of comfort though she ached to do so, letting the silence linger. After awhile, he spoke.
"It's not all about you I guess. Not really. It's also about me," he said. "I want what we have between us…to be something more, I suppose. Something better than skin deep. I mean, if…if you were just…just using me to scratch an itch today, then I'd rather not begin something that would be painful for me in the long run. I would never hurt you, Tina, and that's the truth. But at the same time, I'm learning not to let myself be hurt too."
"Why Stanley…" She started to speak, but he hushed her with a finger to her lips.
"My heart is in your hands now," he closed his fist around hers. "And promise me one thing, please. Never doubt yourself again. Ever. You are more than your looks, Tina, and I'll love you no matter what happens. With or without The Mask," he whispered, stroking her face. "Because they are both one…and the same…beautiful person," he concluded and sealed her mouth once more with a kiss.
They didn't have very long to enjoy their intimacy however, as shouts of 'police!' and 'freeze!' interrupted their moment and they were forced to separate. To the lovers however, the intrusion didn't feel too unpleasant. Nor did it feel too out of place after the ordeal that they'd just been through. In fact, they thought that it was a rather reassuring closure to the entire business, and if the curtains were to fall now, it would surely be a fitting
*END*