Seeing Red chap. 8
I hate getting pulled. I've always hated the feeling of being forced to go somewhere, do something, without it being my decision. Getting dragged down into an undersea canyon was no different. At least I could look forward to more face time with the living plasmid billboard.
He was no prettier when agitated, the little head squirming on their fleshy tethers, snapping at me in turn. After he had calmed down (or at least put his rational mind back in control of his body) he wasn't much more pleasant either.
"ahright, tin garl, pahaps ah didn't make mahself kleer ahnough" he punctuated this remark by putting me in his large (train sized) hand and giving me a good (tectonic) squeezing."WHERE'S DA DAC?!"
It's times like these when you take a step back and appreciate how much people have messed up your life. I was going to get crushed to death by an abomination because some moron back in product development decided to MESS WITH MY VOCAL CHORDS!
"Ok, think 5-a, how would tin man get out of this?" I wondered. Seeing as the old rust bucket had managed to take me (ME!) out about three times now, it seemed like a good idea to take a page out of his book. And then it came to me. I had to get him unconscious.
Ignoring the groaning of metal as my suit bent under the pressure of 10 elephants bearing down on it, I looked around. The rocks above us were loose; all I had to do was use my telekinesis to move it. Of course, it did weigh about ten tons. No pressure.
So after about ten tries and about half my blood getting internally bled out, I finally managed to tear through five feet of rock with my mind and a piece of metal. Did I mention I'm awesome? I need to give myself more credit.
At this point the attentive listeners among you are wondering "5-a, it's great that you can cut boulders and all, but how come the freak show holding you captive just sat on his duff waiting patiently for you to drop rocks on his head?" The answer is quite simple my friend; he didn't. Instead, he found out a way to work out his pent up aggression: me.
During my entire little psychic escapade, he was ranting on and on about decoys and daddies and some girl named Cindy. He must have been some sort of genius, because he started reciting from memory some high level mental triggers that made it nearly impossible for me to resist doing a traditional Irish jig.
After he was finally unconscious, I freed myself from his fleshy grip and began repairing my suit. Through the pleasure I tried to think of who this man had been. He certainly didn't ring a bell with me
Authors note: Bad madlink007! Mommy Anon says you shouldn't be up at 1:00 Am.! You should be studying! Or sleeping or…(snicker)...nope, couldn't keep a straight face. Especially since I'm writing right now. Anyway, horrible parenting aside, who is our little hydra? Madlink007, don't fail me now!