As he left the gaggle of gals behind, Alex chuckled to himself in the only way a sentient viral being could. He was remembering a joke from one of the people he had consumed, something about Mitt Romney, cows, global nuclear annihilation and yellow cheese. Actually, looking back on it, the man had been drunk, and it really wasn t all that funny.
Just when Mercer finally figured out what the pickle had to do with all of it, a hellfire missile slammed into his head, knocking him off course and sending him sprawling into a nearby women's fashion boutique. Well that certainly got your attention, right? You see, here the author was going on about dead guys who probably won t show up later and small magically friendly equestrians and-
After peeling himself off the far wall and flicking away the odd piece of lingerie that had been caught on him, Alex raced out of the gaping hole created by his impact, biomass spiraling and shifting, enlarging his musscles and forming his hands into massive fists, perfectly suited for crushing and grinding whatever had shot him into dust.
But there was no tank or helicopter waiting outside for him. Instead, a lone man floated up, propelled by rocket boots with jagged purple lightning decals on them.
"Phwoaarrr, yer back fer mo , ya two eaded drongo?" he said in what the author hoped was an Australian accent. "Hurrhurr, Ah got anotha few ah those whar tha came from!"
This new arrival was so unsettlingly manly that the author will now spend a precious paragraph describing him in detail.
Accents aside, he sported a mullet, full beard, and permanently smelled like Old Spice. On one hand, he had a wrist mounted missile launcher with a bayonet and laser firing capabilities, and on the other a metallic fist with a kung-fu grip of doom. Blood red wisps of Blacklight occasionally flowed across his body, and above all, he was more muscular than the Hulk on a bad day. Further driving the Hulk thing home, he was wearing only black boxers with pieces of bacon sewed on. It was real, crispity crunchity bacon, not a pattern or any sissy crap like that. This guy meant serious business.
"And what the hell are you supposed to be?" asked Alex, annoyed that he had no fourth-wall breaking abilities, which could have enabled him to read the paragraph above, instead of being forced to stare at this brutish mess of a man to glean away details about him.
"Oi m Gen ral Marty Stu Robert Randall McTaggart, or Gen'ral Awesomepants if ya prefer, 'ead of Blackwartch, an I've come ta wipe yer dorty face off tha map!"
Marty's nickname was not just so much hot air. I mean, do YOU have pants with pieces of REAL BACON sewed on? I thought not. You'd probably have eaten them anyways. The pants, not the bacon.
It was then that Alex realized he was dealing with the bane of what could have been a decent story. Immediately after, he plummeted to the street, having forgotten that he could only float about for so long. A couple of omnipresent taxis were sent flying into other taxis from the force of the crash, conveniently setting the stage for some sort of street brawl, whilst creating a kind of cool domino effect. By sheer coincidence, the few inhabitants on that side of Manhattan had been partaking in a heavy metal appreciation parade, blaring earsplitting, adrenaline-pumping music.
General Awesomepants fired a few more missles in the general direction that Alex had landed, and then dove down to confront ZEUS in hand-to-hand combat, just as the author decided to be a jerk and cut the chapter short.