AN-Logan's French Connection UK Shirts are real. Just Google em!
After Scott had signed the boy's stupid, stupid, comic book, he risked a peek out of his hiding place behind the bushes, slipping into military-stealth mode. He slinked into the school, silent as a government agent staking out Xavier's office. Coast is clear. Rush door at 1200.
The halls inside were empty, paper and gum wrappers being his only company. No, nothing was burning or blowing up, nothing was even whirring in a way that signaled 'The Danger Room is trying to kill your girlfriend'. He scanned the floors, jumpy though he knew no one was there.
Under a bulletin board advertising upcoming band performances and sports games, he found a black folder, bursting with messy notes and Post-it's warning of missing assignments, with two pristine copies of X-Men trade books cramped between them. Why the Professor had ever signed the deals for the books, movies, and clothing line promotionals would forever be a mystery to him, though Logan had been thrilled to know (or find out, from following Jean around at the mall, trying to be the better man, and really just staring at her legs or but, or chest) FCUK was doing a line of his shirts, rushing into the dining hall and shouting 'Hey, Summers, F**k is doin' shirts with me on them!Next, Bud Light'll put me on their beer cans!', in earshot of several hundred students.
Sighing, Scott wiped the tomato from his visor, and took note of the 'Writer- Grant Morrison' blurb on the first page before he tucked the other under his arm and delved into whatever sort of crap was paying for his food and beloved danger room.
Kitty's introduction had gone absolutely perfectly, following Wolverine's, which had recovered from the beginning, though had just gone as downhill as Ororo's markets after he'd once again bragged about his shirt deals. Bobby would be next, and last, before the beat-up DVD projector would be rolled in and the meticulously edited (as Bobby's friends on the AV club put it) 'Daily Life at The Xavier Institute for the Gifted' (as though the kids hadn't seen enough) would play for the final thirty minutes of the morning, before the lunch bells rung and the X-Men were free to go back to reading Hugh Jackman's IMdB page (what was up with the guy, anyway?), prank-calling CNN, 'supervising' the pool, or doing whatever it was big celebrity superheroes did.
'Hi, I'm Bobby Drake, The Rockin' Iceman!', he began, flashing the crowd with a movie-star grin. 'Boo!', shouted most of rows 5-8. 'What'd I do wrong?', He mused, shooting Jean a desperate look. He got an encouraging grin back and tugged on the bottom of his uniform, which, from the back resembled a pair of leather low riders. 'What's yo' deal, fo'?', he shouted. Kitty sighed looked the other way, thanking God that today wasn't White Rapper Wednesday.
Actually, the book was quite good. There'd been a bit about some riot at the school, strange little unrelated bits, some nice banter between he and Hank, good stuff. Wait, he was just at a part where....oh God, were he and Emma having telepathic sex? Jesus....was she....?...did he just?!....
Scott's jaw hit the floor as he....Oh God, Jean is Gonna kill me.
Between Vanilla Ice and Eminem, Bobby had finally figured the jocks were angry at having today's games canceled because of the damage Storm had caused to the field and thought well....ice melts, right? and offered to grab the tape from the van, though not before he'd set off on a tirade that Kitty was sure even Ice T would have gone and worked for Build-A-Bear after. Jean tapped her foot on the stage, tired of having to stand there while teenage boys ogled her and Kitty. It wasn't like she wasn't used to it, but it was irritating and slightly unnerving when it was two hundred flat human eyes, rather than a few dozen unique twists on the peepers that were at least a treat to look back at.
Scott slammed his hand into the keypad of the school's lobby pay phone. Grant Morrison, my girlfriend is gonna go Phoenix on you!That is...when I find you. Stupid New York Phone Book! This is almost as bad as the friggin' subway lines!
Scott? What is it now?No, don't tell me, you've been drenched in tomatoes by a bunch of idiot teenage boys and forced to sign comic books by some Scottish writer you're trying to find in the phone book.
Scott looked back in the hallway. Empty. God...what if the tomatoes had somehow reached his brain...what if he was...gasp...losing his grip? Shut up, Scott. Only the man who married my clone, didn't tell me, and has had at least five alternate universe children with me would forget I'm a telepath.
By the way, why have tomatoes invaded your brain?
Jean could feel shock on the other end of the psychic line. Perfect.
Bobby was rummaging around on the car floor, looking past old car magazines and emergency civvies, digging through piles of McDonald's boxes and Twizzler bags, shredded reports on the economy, and lingerie (lingerie?!), plunging his fingers in between the gaps to find the familiar sharp square edge of his DVD case. He finally pulled a case from under last week's TV Guide (could they really do that much waiting in the car?) He ran through the tape quickly on the car's DVD player, fast forwarding through the opening credits.
Oh...Crap. The more Bobby flicked through the thing the more obvious it became. Somebody (or multiple somebodies—Jamie) had taped over the original footage, instead replacing the really meticulously edited- he hadn't wanted to risk more of Jean's wrath- cut with a beautifully retouched,
crystal-clear tell-all of all that went on behind the School's gates. It was all here. Scott's secret germophobia. Ororo's Obama wall. The Professor's secret closet of color-coordinated wheelchairs and a brutal TK fight in the cafeteria. Logan being pissed at the oven and popping his claws into Jean's apple pie, then buying a replacement at Wal-Mart, going around for the rest of the day with a Magneto replica helmet on his head.
Not only was the stuff terrible, demeaning, insulting, disrespectful, and utterly rebellious, It was also...Pure Gold.