Now, we take a break from the Fugitive Nine storyline (and the related 'Dr. Nathan' plot) and get a proper introduction to the Nasty Boys. You've already seen Gorgeous George and briefly met Ramrod, but now you get to meet the remaining members: Hairbag and Slab, as well as observe their own team dynamic. This is a short one- only two chapters. This is as close as I'll come to a filler chapter. Oh, and excuse the grammar.
It was a beautiful Tuesday morning in downtown Bayville, or at least, beautiful by most peoples' standards. Sunny and warm, with only a few clouds in the sky. Personally, that kind of weather disgusts me, but I'm breaking some kind of wall at this point, so let's return to the narrative. A few people were bustling about, beginning their daily business. Shopkeepers were opening their shops while trucks unloaded new shipments. Also, there was an unusually strong breeze, but by now, everyone was getting used to it.
Pietro Maximoff's favorite part of his morning routine was his daily jog. Part of it was because it gave him an excuse to wear bicycle shorts and a tight spandex shirt, but it also let him warm up his powers. Typically, he would run around a city block twice before moving on to another one. His reflexes were sharp enough that he could zip by any bystanders without disturbing their own routines. Today, he slipped slightly, and accidentally bumped a businessman's shoulder. He turned back, picked up a falling suitcase, and placed it back in the man's hand. The businessman was more startled by this than the initial impact. He would probably drink more than the usual amount of his stashed Scotch when he got to the office.
Back at the Brotherhood's building, the rest of the gang was also going through the usual morning routine. Fred was pouring himself a bowl of cereal, dressed only in his oversized boxers and a large bathrobe. Wanda was already dressed and reading the newspaper in the kitchen with a glass of orange juice. She spat into the sink when she saw Toad jump in and snag a cockroach from beneath the fridge. Lance yawned and poured himself some of the coffee he had started brewing.
Pyro did not join in the festivities- he was hung over from his own self-celebrated 'welcome home' party, and remained in his room, hugging an empty bottle.
"Okay, that does it for my workout," Pietro said, zipping into the living area. "Time to go hit that first shower." Being the vain, image-conscious narcissist he was, Pietro tended to take more than one shower per day.
"Let us know if you ever get that bleach out of your hair," Toad snarked. At the sound of the doorbell, Toad headed downstairs to see who was visiting them. Standing at the door was a shaggy-haired young man with a black t-shirt, a blue hooded sweatshirt (with the sleeves that looked torn, though were actually just cut that way on closer inspection) and black gloves, carrying a wooden baseball bat. This was no stranger: this was the unfortunately named Ramrod.
"Hey there, shitface," Ramrod said, pointing his bat at an unfazed Toad. "We heard you guys think you're the toughest mutant team in Bayville. I got news for you faggots, the Nasty Boys rule this town, and if you mess with us, you're going down. Big time. So don't try to muscle in on our turf. Got it?"
Toad blinked a few times.
"Yeah, the decision-maker of th' house ain't home." Toad slammed the door. "Just when you think you've seen th' weirdest encyclopedia salesman..." Ramrod knocked on the door again, and Toad hopped back to answer. "What now?"
"Nobody slams a door in my face," Ramrod said indignantly. He pointed his bat at Toad and showed him that wooden spikes were growing on all sides. "Just remember what I told you. Don't mess with the Nasty Boys."
"I don't," Toad said to him. "You must be lookin' for Pietro."
Ramrod glared at him.
"Yeah, I forgot you probably don't know who that is... actually, it ain't as funny if he ain't here to get offended."
--
Brotherhood Five
"Modern Villainy"
--
Chapter 01
"So, the Nasty Boys say we gotta stay out of their turf," Toad reported, jumping back into the living area. "I think we kicked their asses once, didn't we?"
"Yeah, I guess they're back on their feet," Lance said. "Well, whatever. If they try to start something, we'll just kick their asses again."
"Guess the jail's still got a revolving door," Fred added. "Hey, remember when we used to get arrested, and then we'd be back home by the following week? How did that happen?"
"Actually, I have no idea," Lance replied, scratching his head.
--
Professor Xavier put down the Cerebro helmet and sighed. Scott and Jean waited nearby for any news, but they could already tell there was nothing new to report.
"I thought I caught a glimpse of Gambit, but he disappeared," Xavier explained. "I can only guess that he must have acquired some of Magneto's cloaking technology."
"I can't take this anymore, Professor," Scott said. "We should be out looking for them!"
"I want to look for them, too, Scott, but our priority remains with our students. There are already whispers among them that if the teachers here can disappear, then the students aren't much safer. We must keep them calm and assure them that they are safe."
"We can do that by showing that if anything goes wrong, we can quickly solve it," Scott argued.
"But Scott, what is there to do? We have no clues. Gambit has shielded himself from Cerebro. I've even tried contacting Logan, but I can't find him, either. I wish we could do more, but Gambit- or more precisely, whoever Gambit is working for- has covered his angles far too well."
"But the Brotherhood must know something," Jean argued. "We've waited too long to talk to them."
"They don't know any more than we do," Professor Xavier explained. "I know this, because I've looked into their minds." Scott and Jean looked at him, slightly surprised. "Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't resort to such a thing. But yesterday, I used Cerebro to search their minds."
"What did you learn?"
"Omega Red was hired to capture Rogue," Xavier explained. "But he did so when the stranger promised him a cure for his weakening condition. He never received it, and tried to turn on him. The Brotherhood captured him, but let him go after he told them what he knew. The stranger's name is Nathan. And he's from England."
"That's not very helpful," Scott said.
"I know, and that's why this is so difficult. I've had Hank research the name, but it's too vague. We need a last name, a title... something to trace him. But until then, I'm afraid all we can do is wait for more clues."
"Do you think there's a reason it was Kurt and Rogue?" Jean asked. "Maybe..."
"Yes, I've considered that... but it could be a coincidence. Even she would not be so cruel."
--
"It's not working," Ramrod complained, waiting in an alley near the Brotherhood building. Nearby, Gorgeous George shook his putty-like hand and stretched it out, then shrunk it back to normal and repeated the process, apparently to amuse himself. The rest of the Nasty Boys joined them, including Slab, a short but muscular teenager with a maroon wifebeater and stocking cap, along with long, caterpillar-like eyebrows and a gold chain on his neck with the word "STAB"; and Hairbag, a hairy black boy wearing his bristly fur like a thin coat, as his hands, feet, and face were entirely hairless (though they featured sharp claws and teeth, where applicable), though he also had torn jeans, a denim vest, and wore his natural black head-hair in cornrows. "George, you said they'd show up if we challenged them."
"Fuck, I ain't no expert," George responded. "You always say I never say nothin' good, why the fuck did you start listening to me today? Fuck."
"Which one did you talk to?" Slab asked.
"The little guy, froggy piece of shit," Ramrod replied.
"No, stupid, you wanted the white-haired metro guy," Hairbag said, slapping his forehead. "That's where you fucked up!"
"Hey, I didn't see you coming up with any plans, wolfboy," Ramrod said, raising his bat. Hairbag kept his ground, and the two stared each other down. Their staring contest was interrupted when Slab suggested, "So why don't you just go again, brah?"
"I already went," Ramrod complained. "You go."
"I hate talking to people," Slab said. "Make George go."
"Fuck that shit!" George said, standing up. "I've been waiting for this shit all my motherfucking life!" The others watched, confused, as George went ahead and crossed the street to the Brotherhood's building.
"Is it just me, or does he make less sense every day?" Hairbag asked. Across the street, George rang the doorbell. This time, Fred answered.
"You're fat!" George yelled.
"And you're ugly," Fred replied without missing a beat. He closed the door, leaving a stunned George with his mouth hanging open. He furiously rang the doorbell again. Fred reappeared, telling him, "We already got the bat kid here. We don't care."
"What do you MEAN you don't care? Motherfucker doesn't know who he's dealing with! We're the fucking NASTY BOYS, son! We fucking dare you to fight us! But you won't, 'cuz you're scared! You can't run against us! We don't give a fuck who you are, we're the god damn Nasty Boys!"
Fred watched him in silence for a moment, and then punched Gorgeous George, forcing his torso to stretch back and hit a fire hydrant. Before George could pull himself together, Fred had already closed the door.
"Don't you know who I am?!" George screamed at the door. "He must not know who I am!"
"Hey! Get your gooey ass back here!" Ramrod yelled. Evading traffic, George ran across the street. "What'd he say?"
"Bitch, weren't you looking? Motherfucker walloped me right in the face! Fucker ain't got no respect!"
"The direct approach isn't working," Ramrod said, rubbing his chin. The others could tell he was thinking of a scheme, as he always did. "Let's try... the indirect approach."
"This'll be brilliant," Hairbag muttered.
--
Wearing the black bodysuit of an Xavier Institute trainee, Ellie Harsaw stood with a group of about thirty other students in the field behind the Institute's learning annex, waiting for her daily mutant training class to begin. Ordinarily, Ellie was assigned to a group of twenty, but after her instructor Rogue's impromptu vacation to Mississippi (as the students had been told), her group had been split in two, with each half being added to another group. Now, Ellie and the rest of her group were absorbed into Iceman's group. Ellie had made friends among her original training group; unfortunately, they were all in the half that was given over to Cyclops. At least she would be able to catch up with them next period.
"Okay class," Bobby Drake addressed them, wearing his X-Men uniform, "Today we're going to start with some basic warmups. We're going to take turns hitting targets." Iceman took a remote control from his belt, and six red-and-white X-shaped targets rose up from the grass. Though similar to the X-Men's combat training, the exercises were designed to help the students adjust to their powers. "Alright, guys, line up. Single file. Let the Iceman show you how it's done."
Covering himself in a layer of frost, Iceman pointed at each of the six targets and fired a series of quick ice beams in rapid succession, hitting all targets in the span of three seconds. The students (particularly those from Iceman's original group), all ooh-ed and aah-ed at his performance. He took a bow.
"Nothing to it!" Iceman declared. "Alright, who's first? Monet, want to show the newbies why you're the highest-scorer in the class?"
"Oh, alright," a mocha-skinned girl replied half-sarcastically, stepping forward with something of a runway strut, drawing attention to how well the black bodysuit conformed to her supermodel body. Ellie already hated her. She began to levitate, then flew at the targets, striking two with her hands, then kicking another before spinning and kicking the remaining two. She gently set herself down with the grace of a dancer who had just given a star performance. "That's what you have to compete with," she said, throwing her silky black hair over her shoulder.
"Well done," Iceman said, clapping and smiling, clearly enjoying what he was seeing. "Alright, next in line!"
Ellie had intentionally gone to the end of the line, hoping to prolong her turn. Already, she was nervously playing with her slightly curly, light purple hair. She found the spandex training suits to be cruelly form-fitting, and it didn't help that Iceman's star pupil filled it out much better than she did. Ellie took comfort in the fact that she could tell others were similarly uncomfortable, and that it wasn't just the girls who had to wear them. Monet, the group's teen queen, walked past Ellie and took her place in line behind her.
"Well hi there," the girl said. "You must be one of the new kids. I'm Monet."
"I'm Ellie," she replied meekly.
"I don't know if you heard Bobby from back here, but I have the highest performance record among the squad," she boasted. At seemed strange to Ellie that she had referred to her instructor by his first name.
"That's impressive," Ellie said, constantly looking forward and hoping the girl would take the hint and end the conversation.
"It really is. Everyone here wants to join the X-Men someday, but only a few of us really have what it takes. Seeing us in action, it gives the others false hope. It's almost unfair to the other students to have me in the same group." Ellie didn't even reply to her, and sure enough, Monet stopped talking to her, and instead to a girl behind her in line. More and more people walked past Ellie to the end of the line, and before she knew it, she was only three students away.
She could feel butterflies in her stomach, and sweat on her hands. She didn't want to have to show off her powers in front of the class. She knew she would be laughed at. She knew that perfect little Monet would taunt her. She guessed even Iceman would make some inconsiderate remark at her expense.
"Okay, you're next... Ellie, right?" Ellie nodded. "Show us what Rogue's taught you."
"Um, okay." Ellie pointed her hands at the targets (which by now had burn marks, dents, chipped edges, and even traces of purple slime) and concentrated. She could feel the electrical charge stored inside her body, but the question was how well she could release it. Her hands were faucets that had to be gauged and controlled, and she still wasn't entirely used to it. She could just let it all flow out, but she risked hurting everyone around her, including herself. So, little by little, she turned the faucet key.
Purple bolts gathered around her hands and joined together to form a single electrical stream, zapping one of the targets. Ellie aimed the pulsating, chaotic beam upwards to the next one... and slipped.
The electrical chain began to swerve widely out of control, hitting a target, and then a tree, and nearly hitting Iceman.
"Monet, grab her!" Iceman commanded, and Monet took Ellie by the shoulders. Iceman shot a frosty beam at Ellie's hands, containing the spark long enough for Ellie to re-absorb it. Her hands were still hot enough to melt and break the ice after only a few seconds. The rest of the class looked on, stunned. Iceman finally declared, "Looks like you need a surge protector!" The rest of the group laughed with him, among them Monet. Humiliated, Ellie swiftly retreated to the back of the line, her head lowered, hoping to avoid eye contact with the students laughing at her.
--
The Nasty Boys returned to their lair, which was actually just a Burger King that had gone out of business years earlier, apparently neglected by whoever happened to own the building (the 'for lease' sign had been torn off long before the Nasty Boys arrived). The doors and windows were boarded up, but Ramrod could let them in: he put his hand on the boarded door, and the wood began to steadily peel back, allowing them access. Once Hairbag, Slab, and Gorgeous George were inside, Ramrod followed, putting his hand back on the wood and warping it back into shape.
Inside the filthy, graffiti-covered interior, Slab went to a small CD player and turned up his favorite song, some crappy repetitive track from some no-name hip hop artist, being that we're in the age where all you need to have a successful hip hop career is a steady beat, half-assed lyrics about how much money you have, and the occasional 'ho' here and there. Whatever happened to real hip hop, anyway?
This was, of course, the kind of music that appealed to the Nasty Boys. On the outside, they appeared to be much like the Brotherhood- trouble teens with less than ideal social backgrounds, brought together by forces beyond their control, but remaining together as much out of necessity as choice.
In actuality, the Nasty Boys were not necessarily troubled. They mostly came from middle-class families, and were not forced together by anyone- rather, they met in high school (they still attended Bayville High), brought together by their common love for the idealized criminal lifestyle sold to them by movies, television, and modern hip hop. Like their ideals, they came up with names for themselves, and almost never referred to each other by their real names. Whenever possible, they also insisted that nobody else call them by their real names.
Slab had chosen his name due to its association with a morgue, and presumably, where his victims would end up. Of course he'd never killed anyone. As a matter of fact, he had the cleanest record among the Nasty Boys, with only some vandalism charges that he worked off through community service (after profusely apologizing to his parents). Slab's father was an accountant, and his mother was an active PTA member. Slab's sister was in Bayville's marching band. Slab, however, rejected the suburban lifestyle and instead embraced the street life he in actuality knew essentially nothing about- sometimes, the others wondered if he wasn't better off trying to be a frat boy.
Hairbag was the son of Jamaican immigrants, and though not as wealthy as Slab's family, they got by well enough. Hairbag's parents had raised him to believe that his physical mutations were nothing to be ashamed of, which had the unintended negative effect of making Hairbag arrogant and overly critical (even if he often had no alternative solution to the ideas he mocked), something his parents tried unsuccessfully to curb.
Not much was known about Gorgeous George. What the other boys did know was that his given name was George, he was from New York and had family there that he sometimes visited, that he didn't seem to realize or care just how weird he looked, tended to get overly excited and liked to talk. A lot.
And then there was Ramrod, the unofficial leader of the gang. He was probably the only one who'd actually been in a real fight before joining the gang. Whether he won any fights was another matter. Most of the Nasty Boys' plans were his idea, and the others (with the possible exception of Hairbag) tended to follow his lead. He carried a wooden bat wherever he went (but traded it for a few pencils when he went to class), in order to increase the effectiveness of his wood-shaping powers.
"So what's the plan, Ramrod?" Hairbag asked, leaning against the wall.
"We find a couple of them when they leave, and make them fight us," Ramrod explained. "Separate them from the group and pick them off. Right out of Art of War."
"When did you read Art of War?" Hairbag asked.
"When did YOU?" Hairbag realized that he couldn't rightly call him on his bullshit if he hadn't read it either, and pouted. "That's right, bitch. You wear that shame."
"So, like, which ones do we go after?" Slab asked. "'Cuz I was thinking we could take that Pyro guy. He's kinda skinny."
"You scared of the other guys?" Hairbag asked.
"Naw, foo!" Slab yelled, flexing his muscles. "I'm just saying we're too strong for the other guys!" He punched the wall to demonstrate his strength. Immediately, he gripped his fist and turned away from the others, trying to hide the fact that he was about to cry.
"Pyro doesn't count," Ramrod said. "He's the team bitch. He'll be lucky if they even let him fight. We need to get one of the heavy hitters out. That should be easy, since the only ones that aren't are Pyro and Toad."
"Silly bitch's got a fucking flamethrower," George noted. "I ain't got time for that shit! I gotta go to the fucking cleaners and get my coat cleaned. You see all this ooze on my coat? That's my fucking skin, bitch, I'm fucking shedding all over my clothes. That ain't sanitary. Thought you should know."
The conversation was interrupted by Slab's cell phone, with 50 Cent's "Candy Shop" set as his ringtone. "Yo. Huh?" Slab immediately adopted a more submissive posture, lowering his head slightly, putting his hand behind his neck and shuffling his feet. "No, mom. I'm with the guys. Yes, mom. Yes, mom. Awwwwwww. I don't want to go. I hate band. C'mon, mom. Tell Kristina I'll go next time. Please? C'mon, mom. Really? Awesome. You're the best. I love you, mom. Bye." After hanging up, Slab pocketed his phone and posed against the wall with his arms crossed, trying to look tough.
"Hey, you should've asked her if we could use the Explorer," Hairbag said.
"I don't have to ask nobody for anything," Slab said, his upper lip scrunched in what he assumed was a tough expression. "So we got a plan, bros?"
"Yeah," Ramrod said. "We wait for them to leave, then we tail them. We'll teach them that we own this town. That reminds me, and of you guys do history assignment? I need to copy off of someone and I can't afford another C."
They're not exact analogues of the Brotherhood, but in case you're wondering, these are the approximate parallels:
Ramrod Avalanche (with some Pietro traits)
Hairbag Quicksilver (with some Lance traits)
Slab Blob (with some Toad traits)
Gorgeous George Toad (with some Blob traits and yes, there's some Juggernaut Bitch thrown in)
Given that the Brotherhood has matured since the old days, the Nasty Boys don't really match up against the "modern" team.
Incidentally... they have nothing to do with 'Mr. S', despite their 616 history.