J's Intro

Hmmm. . . . so IS anyone reading these? lol I only got five of these done for my original posting, a comicbook fanfiction "universe" that ended up closing down after lack of interest. Though I did manage to get covers for the first four of my titles, and most the other titles we did. =)

For anyone wondering, it's supposed to be a new universe for the heroes. If people are reading, I might bother to continue it past what's already been written.

So, anyone wanna review?

Ownership notes: Obviously, like everyone ELSE here, I don't own the X-Men. "Stefan," "Mickey D," and Timmy Fantastico (and Dan McDowell who only has a small ring announcer part) are friend's characters, used here with total permission. Wilde and Rebecca are mine. Everyone else should be Marvel's.

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(The focus of this small circus slash amusement part had, for the most part, turned to this somewhat make shaft ring positioned in the middle of a few rows of steel folding chairs. Yeah, there were other things going around. A young couple played a game of chance in the background. The arcade was a forth full. Pretty good considering the age of most of it's games. The ring held most people's attention. Nothing was happening right yet, though. Two matches and already gone down, and there was gonna be one more. Those matches weren't noteworthy in any way. This next one, though, was supposed to make it all worth it. Two promising rookies, a freak of sorts, and a former big time wrestler.

(Yeah, out around these parts, it's not gonna get any bigger than that. so it caught a few people's attention. The first one, that'd be the one we'll focus on now. A youngster, just turned 17 not long ago. Grey streaked hair set him out, although he had a hooded jacket this night, just in case he decided he didn't want that noticed. Willend O'Tanque, his birth name. People called him Wilde. Right now, it was just him, and his older sister. She actually stood about five inches taller than Wilde. Not that he was short, but she was six foot two inches.

(Yeah, she about stood out too, especially with that flaming dark red hair. She was a powerhouse. Wilde was kinda skinny, but the effects of his training showed in some pretty rippled bicep and stomach muscles. Still, cutest thing about Wilde, most the girls agreed, was that round, cute face, and the devilish smile that about seemed to dance on that face.

(Wilde spoke, his voice giving a hint's impression of an old scratched record at times.)

Wilde: Think dis'll suck too?

Rebecca: I doubt it. I've heard good things about these rookies, Wilde. And Crusher's pretty big. Wonder how he ended up here?

Wilde: Extreme bad luck, Ah'd say.

(Wilde looked around the tent. As circus tents go, it could hardly be called spacious, but it seemed to do the job well enough. The tent was starting to fill to the degree to immediately make Wilde reconsider his statement of a moment ago. He could feel it in the air. Of course he could feel it. Anyone could, and Wilde was attuned to such things.

(This wasn't the first time he sensed something might get his interest before he saw what he was looking for. This was definitely not something he was expecting.)

Wilde: Whoa.

Rebecca: What now?

Wilde: Look who I see . . . Dat's Timmy Fantastico. He's a *huge* star.

Rebecca: For real? Where?

(Rebecca spun around, quickly spotting Fantastico a few feet away. Not that it'd be easy to miss him, of course, with silver and black wrestling shorts and a t-shirt with a tuxedo pattern on it. Currently, he was ducking under an extra sized slushy being hurled at him by an annoyed female.)

Rebecca: Wow, he's .. . . ugly.

(Wilde laughed.)

Wilde: Yeah, Ah guess havin' ya nose broken about forty times'll do that to you.

(Fantastico's ears popped up. Overhearing people talk about breaking your nose repeatedly was about the same as screaming out his name, after all. He quickly sauntered towards Wilde and Rebecca. "Sauntered" meaning in a more or less masculine way.)

Wilde: Um. . . whoa. Hi!

(Timmy ignored Wilde, focusing instead on his powerhouse of a sister.)

Timmy: What Joo doing with this gringo when you could be hangin' with dat superstar Timmy Fantastico?

Rebecca: Hey! This 'loser' is my brother!

Wilde: Yea . . . hey!

Rebecca: Oops, sorry, Wilde. (Rebecca turned her attention back to Fantastico) Sorry, not interested.

Timmy: (Flashing a wolfish smile) Ah, but I think I could get your interest if I show you what's in my pants.

(Rebecca's eyes suddenly flared up.)

Rebecca: EX scuse me?!

Timmy: (Panicking, realizing what he'd said) I mean, what I mean is . . .

Rebecca: What you meant is, "Good bye . . ."

(She stepped closer, towering over the superstar wrestler in the same menacing way she'd done over her brother so many times)

Rebecca: Right?

Timmy: I . . . but . . . (meekly) Firestorm tickets? (Putting his hands up defensively) Aw, fine. I never didj'n't like redheads anyway.

(Timmy turned, and sulked off and Rebecca and her brother went back to enjoying the pre match noise. He muttered a little to himself as he wondered over the dirt circus floor, which naturally lead him to the entrance . . . and young Jean Grey. She looked a bit different, dressed up in an overgrown sweatshirt, her hair tied up in a bun, almost. Probably to keep her from being noticed so quickly by Scott and Bobby. Timmy quickly eyed her.)

Timmy: Oh, look at dat, esse. I always did like redheads.

(He strode up to her, somehow confident in spite his chinless, piggish face.)

Timmy: Hey, chica, you wanna dump this dump and see what's under the ireal/i big top tent?

(Jean actually smiled, then made eye contact with him. A split second after Timmy's eyes finished glazing over, he walked off.)

Timmy: Maybe I should hit on her before takin' dis random job home . . . nah, two states ain't that far, eeshe . . . Ah'll . . . . (He was starting to slur his words a little.)

(Jean giggled, watching him walk off. Granted, the professor didn't approve of that use of her powers, but he wasn't here. Sides, the guy probably deserved it, anyway. Jean scanned the area with her mind and eyes. She was using a little trick Xavier taught her in their early lessons to keep attention as off her as possible without actually drawing attention to herself. Still, it was hardly a guarantee. With so many people around here, it really would be in her best interests to scout out somewhere she could keep an eye on almost everyone while being seen by virtually no one.

(Jean suddenly sighed, realizing it was too late even before the voice called out to her. She quickly spun around to see Scott Summers, starring at her. He didn't look very pleased.)

Scott: You know if you hadn't detected me, I could have blasted you into the next state. If I wanted.

(Jean did herself proud, managing to keep her composure.)

Jean: And if I had, I could have mind-wiped you into a comatose state. If I wanted.

Scott: Yeah, I figured.

Jean: Me, too. .

(An awkward pause followed, as the two's eyes almost met, before darting away. Jean decided to try a more friendly approach.)

Jean: Guess that's a pretty good reason to be friends, huh? I mean . . . (She looked around) Looks like they already got a match here. So . . . mind if I . . .

(Scott didn't answer right away. He was a bit busy making sure his cheeks didn't blush the same color of his Ruby Quartz sunglasses)

Scott: It'd be cool, if you wanted to that is. I mean, if you wanted to join us, that'd be cool. If it's just you, that is.

(Jean smiled.)

Jean: Just me. I'm just here to talk. If it's cool. Where's Bobby?

(Scott turned around, looking out of the tent's entrance, then casually pointed towards one of the tents.)

Scott: Over there, trying to win something in case he runs across a cute girl. Which, if he joins us, would make . . .

(Scott's mouth suddenly felt dry. He felt too self conscious to finish the thought. Jean seemed to figure out the sentiment, though.)

Jean: Why, thank you. Maybe we better have a seat. Looks like something's about to happen.

(People were still coming in, half casually, but there was a chubby man in the middle of the ring. The audience, Jean and Scott included, started to shift into finding somewhere to sit to take the action in, as the various popcorn and cotton candy salesmen made their quick final rounds. Jean quickly grabbed Scott's hand, leading him towards a first row seat. It wasn't long before the elderly ring leader, ring announcer, whatever, cracked a meaty hand against the brown microphone, obviously ready to start any second.)

"Ladies and gentleman . . . I'm Dan McDowell, enjoying my unpaid vacation, and WELCOME to another match! WELCOME to our FINAL match! I hope you're all enjoying the night, and the best part is, it's time for the main event! Your referee . . . Jack Shade."

(A fairly elderly referee, looking rather serious and grim looking, walks from the beer stand and clumsily slides into the ring. His long gray hair only shows a tint of it's formerly dirt ugly sandy brown roots these days, as, in the stands, Jean and Scott quickly found a spot. Not that it was hard to find one; place was still maybe a half full.)

Scott: Let me guess. You were in the neighborhood, right? Just happened to run by me.

Jean: It's hard to explain.

Scott: Try me.

(Jean looked directly into his eyes, or at least, the best she could with those ruby visors he had on.)

Jean: First, you should know I have a feeling something is going to happen tonight.

Scott: Oh, really?

Jean: Yeah, but it's more than that.

(A rumbling music starts playing over the circus's somewhat limited public announce speakers. It wasn't recognizable due to the low quality, but it sounded like some rock band out of the early 80's, with most of the words unprofessionally replaced by a rank armature college student. The lights went down, too, although since it was still late afternoonish, it wasn't that dark. Everyone's eyes shifted towards the entrance, as he wondered in.

(Him. Fred J. Dukes was quite a sight for the small crowd, with the spiked blond hair, and the huge, if somewhat overweight, frame. He towered way over the six foot mark, too. Dressed up in an oversized, dirty as hell overhauls over an equally unclean shirt.)

Ring Announcer: This is a three on one match, our MAIN EVENT!! Making his way to the ring, from parts unknown, standing at six foot, six inches, and weighing in at five hundred eighty pounds . . . THE BLOB!!!

(Fred winced. This was his fifth match, and they called him that two matches ago. He got upset, alright, and made the stupid old ring announcer call him his proper name. Unfortunately, the stupid ringmaster screamed his head off for that, so Dukes didn't do it again. Tempted as he was. Still, not really in the mood to get fired just yet, he instead slid into the ring, and threw his arms up into the air, surveying the crowd. He walked back and forth, from one side of the ring, to the other, just like he was told to do. How stupid. He didn't come here for dance lessons!

(As he did the routine, his music died down. He could hear 'em boo'ing already, but whatever. Another set of music popped up. The Boyzsaband remix of "Rock This Town," highly popular among teenagers and preteen girls, rears it's ugly head over the PA Audio system. Some of the regulars are clapping along with it. Jean joins in, as Scott twists his nose up in disgust, probably weighing the consequences of blasting the PA speakers into oblivion.

(Something gets his attention, however. Stevie steps through the curtains first, dressed up in bright green tights, compete with small black tiger stripes. The shorts end just below Stevie's knees. He's also got on a confident smirk. Next out is Mike. Scott of course had met both of them earlier in the evening. Mike has no shirt on, and simple black tights. He's also got a short wooden cane in one hand. The two have just entered through a side door . . .

(And they're not alone, either, as we see a very familiar face next. On the fans 'benches,' Scott turned to Jean, probably lifting an eyelid in surprise. Not that we could tell from looking at him.)

Jean: Isn't that Bobby?

Scott: Um. .yeah.

Jean: Why's he with those two wrestlers.

Scott: Good question.

(He's also got on a one piece blue outfit, by the way, with a large white 'streak' down the center. Probably got the outfit from the circus props. The three quickly huddle, as they reach the ring.)

Stevie: I just thought of something, Bobby. You need a nickname.

Mickey D: Forget that! We need a plan.

Bobby: Nickname, huh? Already took care of that.

Stevie: We got a plan, remember?

Mickey D: What plan? You're telling me you think we can really trust this Crusher idiot to work with us . . .

Stevie: Good point. What's your nick, Bobby?

(They're cut off, suddenly, as an explosion rocks the tent! Well, kind of. More of a semi acceptable version of an explosion over some rather strained sound systems. The crowd shoots to their feet. After all, he was a superstar. As "Paradise City" by Guns and Roses (the urban street myth legend remix) start straining the speakers almost to the point of absurdity, a couple of the die hard fans start up a chant of "Mega Powers! Mega Powers!" A nod to Crusher's once and recent tag team partnership with Bonesaw in the major leagues. There's not much special effects to spare in this particular circuit, but the circus has apparently popped for the appropriate color spotlights to shine weakly on the crowd. Blue, gold, and silver.

(The man himself appears from somewhere. He's got on his rather well known black and silver ring jacket, with simple black tights. No words run up either, but the vest itself does have a large "C" on the back. Neon red lettering. Glows in the dark, ever so subtly. He quickly plows through his own team mates, sending them flying to the side. Mike and Stevie look at each other, wondering if this guy's for real, then slide into the ring. Bobby stands at ringside, not really looking like he quite knows what he should be doing. Scott for his part, is making it rather clear he doesn't know what Bobby's doing there either. The audience is quieting down a little now . . The elderly ring announcer looks a bit nervous. The referee is pacing between the combatants. Crusher and Dukes are starring each other down, while Stevie and Mike are having a last second conversation. The ring announcer continues . . .)

Ring announcer: Their opponents . . . first, standing five foot eleven inches, weighing in at two hundred and seven pounds, from Boston, Massachusetts. . . . STEFAN!!

(At the sound of his ring name, Stefan breaks from the conversation with Mike, and strides over to hop up a random set of turnbuckles, leaning his weight on the ropes, leaning over just enough to avoid taking a spill. He throws his arms up, then hops down, and bounces off the ropes.)

Ring Announcer: His partner . . . . from the Deep South, standing five foot six inches tall . . . . two hundred twenty six pounds . . . . MICKEY D!!!

(Mike doesn't seem to have liked the name quite so much. Maybe he's just nervous. Or embarrassed. He only shows it for a flash, before throwing an arm up, in acknowledgement of his name. He walks around, eyeing that short wooden stick he'd left with Bobby. He turns back, then walks to the center of the ring, and throws a solitary fist into the air. Half a second later, he's rudely brushed aside by Crusher, who stands in the middle of the ring, demanding the attention for himself.)

Ring Announcer: Their partner is a special guest, MAIN ATTRACTION!!! He's a former multiple time world singles and tag team champion in several major federations worldwide . . . . six foot five, three hundred twenty one pounds . . . CRUSHER HOOOOOOOOOOGAN!!!!!

(The "Crush 'em" signs are apparent even among the half full tent. There's even some Bonesaw merchandise. Crusher doesn't move much, but does kind of flex. He turns, shoving Stefan out of his way for good measure. Mickey, obviously having had enough, gives Crusher a shove, and lets him know he doesn't appreciate Crusher's attitude. Meanwhile, Stefan recovers from the shove by getting up, and starring down Dukes . . . from a safe distance, of course. Finally, Crusher turns to yell something at his partners. Probably hoping he'll get some humility beat into him, Stefan and Mickey quickly leave the ring, leaving Dukes starring the legendary Crusher Hogan down in the middle of the ring . . .

(Everyone's eyes are intently on the stare down . . . . our last image for this month, set to the traditional start of the match, the sound of three bells.

(Continued next issue)

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(J's Note: Obviously, continued next issue. =0) I am sorry it ended up being so short, but turning out a 'normal' sized issue would have been too much work, and I would have only got partly into the match, anyway. So I guess just think of this one as a set up issue.

(I am desperately waiting for some new blood to show up for Conundrum. We have a few things expected soon, but we still need more issues! Please, please get in touch if you're interested in writing for Conundrum. Even though it's kind of strange putting this under an X-Men series, I think it'll help develop the Blob well, and be entertaining to boot. I'm looking forward to putting the next issue up, next month!

(That's it; I'll save the rest of my comments for our new message board. Joshua)