Disclaimer: I own nothing but the lesbian bartender. She is mine. I keep her locked in a cage in the basement. Anyway, everything is and will always be the property of the nice people at Marvel, no matter what we do to change that. And I'm not making any damned money off of this, although it would be cool if I did. This is all in bad taste and humor. If there are any errors, or anything in particular that you do not like, yell at my beta, Delilah. She's the bible whore and thus takes criticism well! Enjoy!
Tangy: Well here it is, folks, what you've been waiting for!
Delilah: Or not.
Tangy: What exactly are you saying?
Delilah: We'll this is the start of the story. How can they have possibly been anticipating it if they didn't know it even existed?
Tangy: Maybe they are telepaths.
Delilah: Doubtful.
Tangy: Oh, shut up! Bad, Beta, bad! *fwaps the naughty little beta*
Delilah: *fwaps the naughty little author back* Either way, here's the story.
Tangy: That hurt ;_;
Delilah: Oh!!!! Remember to review. Tangy gets all cranky if you don't and then the nice men in the white coats have to take her away. And electroshock therapy is so bad for the skin.
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April 19th, 10:48 and 17 seconds to the dot.
After six minutes nonstop clicking and 'interest' in the button that magically made his watch glow a sinister green, the remnants of the once proud Nathaniel Essex pried his bloodshot eyes from the face of his replica James Bond style timepiece.
He had added the eerie glow effect to it after seeing a young child who had the extreme luck of owning his very own Target brand glow watch. Rather than attract attention to himself while undercover as a fashion consultant for Ralph Lauren by stealing it from the boy, he contained his desire and customized his own. He later concluded that his watch was much cooler due the 'life-like' explosion simulations it created, and he was thus rid of his jealousy for the child.
Once the satisfactory memory of believing he was better than somebody else (even if they were under the age of 10) wore off, he slid back into his slump of depression. Every single night for the past month, excepting the 5th when he had attended a musical on Broadway, he had found his familiar corner chair at the counter of "The Beannact Drunk" and washed away all feeling with numerous rounds of virgin Piña Coladas.
Mr.
Sinister, as he had been referring to himself and threatening others to do so
as well under penalty of death, was going through what would be equivalent to a
mid-life crisis. He even had the cherry red Mercedes to prove it. However, his
situation wasn't brought on merely by boredom in the humdrum nine to five hour
five weekly routines in which he normally commenced. Sinister was going through
what is now commonly known as "a decline in detestable deeds".
Not that his working for a major fashion corporation wasn't evil. In fact, that morning he had for a moment been able to remember what it was like to be horrible when he told a size double zero model that she was a fat stinking cow and proceeded to throw coffee in his assistant's face.
However, the brief and happy moments were generally outlived by countless hours of playing nice. It had been years since his last truly malicious act, and he needed to rekindle the fire of evil in his blackened and hollow heart.
He became aware
of group of women, not past twenty-seven he guessed, pointing at something by
his feet and giggling senselessly. Looking down to examine his shoes, as it
would have been just his luck to emerge from the men's room with a strip of
toilet paper glued to the soles, he caught sight of his "shoulder bag." Truth
be told it rather looked like a large, leather, women's purse (he considered it
fashionable, and that was all that mattered to him). There was no doubt in his
mind that was what they found to be highly entertaining, but took pride in the
fact that at least he could afford Prada and wasn't
some cheap slut in a cutoff skirt waiting to make money off of some man in a
trashy bar in downtown Manhattan. Although, just meeting a man in the trashy
bar wouldn't be so bad.
"I hate
women," he grumbled under his breath, scowling at the flock of mindless bimbos
still cracking jokes at his expense. He thought about how nice it would be to
wring their necks and kill them on the spot, but how would that look on the
news? "Fashion show cancelled due to lack of a murderous consultant."? He shook
the idea out of his head.
"Ah, I dun'
know abou' tha', they
certainly 'ave their uses when ye train 'em right."
Sinister lifted his head, aware that the
bartender had overheard his meant-to-be-quiet comment. He supposed alcohol
altered your hearing, and he had misjudged his volume. Then, considering the
fact that he was drinking "virgin" concoctions, jumped to the conclusion that
she was just another nosy bartender.
"Uhn," was his reply, not really caring for the company. He bet with himself that in approximately 5.7 seconds she would begin rambling on about herself.
5.6 seconds passed. He lost the bet--It was 5.8.
"Ah, but
don' ye worry about those girls. They trouble fer
anyone who looks. I'd know." She was obviously Irish, seeing as how nobody else
could have an accent that thick and overtly drunk. He stared at her, taking
note of her nametag. Kimberly. He gave her the once over. Dark, nearly black
hair, and a face spotted with strategically placed freckles.
After giving himself about a 10 second time slot to make a guess about her personality, it was somewhat of a game with him, he concluded one thing. Lesbian. It had been evident by her previous statement, but he wasn't paying much attention to her. He just knew homosexuality when he saw it, having a certain degree of experience in the matter himself.
She had been rambling all the while, and once he tuned in again he caught something about her owning the bar. He decided to take the opportunity to inquire about the name of the bar, which had been puzzling him for days now.
"Th' name? Ah, 's simple, really. 'S Gaelic for 'The Blessed
Drunk Woman.' Well, at least part of it's Gaelic. Mah
girl, Amie's her name, righ'
pretty she is, she came up with it. Thought it was clever. She's a clever girl,
she is-"
"The Gaelic
word for blessed woman is bean-act?" He had cut her off purposefully, having no
interest to hear the tales and praises of her lesbian love-slave, Amie, who was more likely than not sweeping the floor of
some filthy flat in Queens. However, the butchering of the pronunciation was
not really intended.
"Nae, th' sign shop fergot a letter. It's suppost'ah
say 'B-e-a-n-n-a-H-c-t.'"
"Well that makes loads more sense," he scoffed under his breath, careful not to let her hear. He had now lost any and all interest he had in the girl. Even silently mocking her. As she rambled on, mixing him another drink, he looked up at a television screen flashing brightly lit adds through the hazy smoke settled in the bar.
"The Muppets, as you've already seen them before! The same lame sketches, the same lame puppets, and the same lame musical guests! Watch ABC's
'Muppet 50th anniversary!' thought Sinister as he glared at the screen.
He had always resented the Muppets, because while they allowed Alice Cooper and the Artist Formerly Known as Prince to join the cast, Boy George was never even considered. He narrowed his eyes at the entertainment system, but still paid attention.
The television set was now showing a movie preview for yet another Bruce Willis film: as usual, it involved a building blowing up in about 5 massive explosions, causing his heart to pine for the days that evil came so naturally.
This got him to planning, really planning. He couldn't stand this any longer. He had to stop being a respectable man and do something downright despicable. But what would he do?
Some advertisements for yet another FOX
produced (which Sinister took to mean one thing-Crap) reality T.V. show blared cheesy
graphics and bad attempts at suspenseful one liners.
"Will Mary-Sue cheat on her ugly hacker boyfriend for this Calvin Klein model in the midst of the Caribbean? Tune in Monday nights at seven to find out!" the announcer's voiced blared.
Sinister
personally thought the answer was painfully obvious (who wouldn't want the hunk
in the underwear?) but the entire bar seemed enthralled by the trailer.
"Why
are people so attached to those shows? They are just trashy ways for an overly
evil corporation to make money." Again, his heart twanged at the mention of
evil.
"We interrupt the broadcast of FOX's nifty trailer to bring you some really boring news."
Sinister,
being a man of more than a little intelligence, cocked his head in interest at
the upcoming news bulletin.
"The X-Men have yet again saved the small suburban area of Salem Center when they miraculously rescued a cute tabby kitten from a tree in the park," The bleach-blonde reporter smiled at the camera and straightened her papers. "The rescue attempt reportedly took a few hours, but the kitten is now safe at home with it's family. Here is a sickening display of cutesy stuff to satisfy your small minds."
Images of a tiny girl snuggling her cat posed next to the X-Men, all striking heroic stances, was brought up on the screen. Nobody seemed to notice the angry scowl the cat was giving the mutant saviors, and an automated chorus of "awes" came from the television speakers.
The first thing the former scientist thought after prying his attention from the disgusting happy pictures was that New York seriously needed to look into some new reporters. And better stories.
The
X-Men saving a cat was hardly worth---the X-Men? Had that story mentioned the X-Men?
He smacked himself on the forehead in punishment for his apparent stupidity.
"Of course!" He laughed maniacally, while still hushed enough not to draw too many spectators. "That's it! A plan of cunning genius and large evil proportions! Muahahahaha—Ack!" After clearing his airways of Pina Colada, he resumed his evil laughter.
It was decided.
The next day he would march upon FOX's conveniently and redundantly named branch in NYC, Evil Corp. Inc., and propose an offer that they couldn't refuse.
Delilah: Well, we really don't have anything to say except PLEASE REVIEW!
Tangy: We sound so pathetic when you say it like that.
Delilah: How would you like me to say it?
Tangy: Threaten to cut their hair off or something.
Delilah: You're never going to let go of that, are you?
Tangy: Nope.
Delilah:*Sigh*The things I do for you. REVIEW OR I'LL CHOP YOUR HAIR OFF!
Tangy: ^.^;