Post by DVS on Jan 18, 2015 10:14:35 GMT -5
There was something special about the James Monroe Building as it stood over downtown Richmond, Virginia, to complete the late evening skyline. No, it was not the 449 feet of man power that completed this former Powhatan landscape; it wasn't the fact that it's named after the 5th President of the United States, and last President of the Virginia dynasty. At the top of the structure stood a man perched on the ledge with his cape flapping gracefully in the wind. That's what made the 29 story structure complete on this South Atlantic winter evening.
The Super Deviant lowers himself to replicate a gargoyle as he peers down at the vast bobbing and weaving of the Richmond nightlife. He strokes his unshaven chin. His string-like curls blow with the cold gusts of wind. The Prince of Hipton dons his new threads – red leather underwear over tight blue leather pants, and a tight blue leather shirt with the super SD logo patched on the chest. The truest image of a super hero if anybody had ever seen one. The Super Deviant patiently waited to initiate vigilance, and studiously analyzed the world below.
A door swings open to the rooftop entrance of Richmond's tallest structure. The agent to the Super Deviant, David, bundled up to the gills to alleviate the less than 30 degree cold that feels much worse at this level, swings the door open and walks onto the roof. The wind tugs at David's scarf used to shield the chill from his face. His gloved hands are tucked into the pockets of his goose down parka; hood up. He slowly inches toward Dan Van Slade, the Super Deviant, his client, and the Destroyer of Jobbers.
“Dan,” David shouts in a muffle through the scarf, “what exactly are you doing up here, buddy?” He asks as he stops a few feet from the Super Deviant. The super hero's cape continues to proudly wave in the wind like the great flag of the United States, and snaps at the ends just inches from where David stands.
The Super Deviant glares through the thins of his eyes. His breathing is calm, consistent, and comfortable. His right arm rests on his right knee.
“It's pretty fucking cold up here,” David states.
“No, it's not,” Dan continues to scan a portrait of this nation's history, “it's mental. All mental,” the Super Deviant quickly, and with grace, spins around on the ledge. David takes a step back, and his heart skips a beat, but the Super Deviant is nimble and his agility perfectly tuned. “I don't feel cold, David,” Dan arrogantly states as he steps down onto the rooftop, “I only feel my inner-super hero telling me that it's arbitrary. The cold can only hold me back, but as do most of my villains,” Dan continues as he confronts his agent. “The point?” Dan asks David, but takes a shot at the question himself, “the point is – if the cold is like a villain, then I'm not going to let it affect me. I don't bow to ANYTHING!” Dan's shout echoes and is decibels louder than normal, as if he's centered an inner barbarian. He smiles and winks at his agent.
“Yep, you've lost your God damned mind,” David states as he rubs his gloved hands together and then uses them to cover his mouth for warmth.
“I'm conditioning myself,” Dan displays a confident demeanor. “If there's one thing that can defeat the weather – it's man's ability to design a concept for defeating it. Man has come so far, David. The man reached so many different pinnacles during their journey as human beings. Conquering nature is their forte,” the Super Deviant is engrossed with his passion, and adds a tad more pomp to the following, “but they've yet to conquer the UNIVERSE...” he bends forward as he emphasizes the ending term. He reveals a devious grin, a set of teeth minus three, but oddly charming nonetheless.
David bats his eyes several times with confusion, and attempts soaking in what he's witnessing. It's not every day there's an agent to athletes in this world that maintains composure with a professional wrestling client turned delusional vigilante super hero. Dan stands straight and stares with serious intent at the inferior agent.
“Man can't defeat SUPER DEVIANTS!” Dan shouts and points north toward the early evening star set. His cape whips in the wind. He smirks at David. “Our body heat rises in the winter to well over the hottest temperature on global record. That's a blazing 134 degrees Fahrenheit, mother fucker; but, that's not where we stop. We reach near combustible temperatures so that we can thrive in space. Studies are being attempted at Planet Hipton University's King Jebediah Science Center to decode the Super Deviant DNA. Research has been stalled as they've spent the last 167 years attempting to create a needle strong enough to pierce an impenetrable epidermis. So,” Dan winks at his agent, “let's just say that it'll take a lot more than ICE and Zombies to slay the most dangerous mother fucker in this Universe.”
“Well, you've proved your point,” and David begins to turn around, “so let's get the fuck back to the Country Inn...” but David stops mid-turn and realizes Dan is standing proud. The Super Deviant's cape flaps in the wind as Dan's fists are placed at his hips, and his legs spread shoulder length apart. Dan peers off into the distance.
“David,” Dan halts the departure, “I want the world to know!” He shouts loud, and the roar echoes across the night sky and throughout the city. Below – the Richmond inhabitants go about their daily lives; they're all about their next move and anticipate the future – when they think they've heard something softly overtaking the ambiance of the streets.
A young man in a black North Face jacket, newsboy cap, and gray slacks pauses on a sidewalk in the Jackson Ward district, the former 'Harlem of the South.' A young Latino business woman talks on her phone when she stops on a dime and looks over her shoulder. Taxi drivers hear the exclamation while stopped in traffic and they peer out their windows to see if they capture the source. The world suddenly stopped like a scratch the width of a hair on a vinyl record. Beat skip. Then we're back in business. Commence movement. Just another ghost of the streets. No need for alarm.
“I want the world to know,” the Super Deviant passionately continues as he slowly and methodically turns to his agent, “that mediocrity will be leveled at my hands,” then he pauses for a moment. He recollects, and strokes the coal black stubble on his chin. He points at David. “The WCF travels everywhere. Where they go – I go. With every location another mountain to climb; a building to scale; the chance to defy logic and reality. Most importantly – mediocrity will be present, and therefore I shall be there to fuck the mediocre shit right out of it with the ole' Dan Van Slade Hiptonic Fist of Fuck!” He creates a fist, moves it outward toward David, and then bends his arm to uppercut the air with authority. “I am the conquerer!” He exclaims as David takes a few steps back and starts closer for the door. “I am the definition of conquest!” He follows by mirroring the uppercut with his opposite arm, and the force of his swing may have lifted the Earth slightly.
David shakes his head after feeling the Earth tremble for a brief moment. He wants to believe what he's witnessed didn't actually happen. He'd much rather believe that Dan Van Slade could and would somehow be able to telepathically create a perception for David's mind.
“I conquer...” Dan continues as he jolts forward and gracefully slides until he stops just an inch from his agent “...the hate...” he whispers toward David's closest ear. “Let me make you a believer...” Dan smiles. David eyes the door, but turns to his client. He sighs with a deep breath.
“I can't say I've seen everything,” David looks his client up and down, “I guess you gotta do what you gotta do. But, really?” His question pertains to the abnormally large bulge presented in the Super Deviant's trunks. David points, but maintains eye contact with the deviant. “Is that necessary?” Dan retains the question, but takes a gander south toward the genital burial mound that identifies the Super Deviant as a purebred breed of masculinity – hung like Troyer's Trail Bologna and stout like a soda pop can. The specie of Super Deviants were once referred to as 'Crotchiximus Rightesousness'.
“Well, it's no double barrell crotch cannon, but -” and Dan winks at his agent, “-my species were gifted with an extra lung stuffed tight behind the thick epidermis and beside the urethra of my gigantic Hiptonicock. The ole' Universal Interstellar Deviant Driver – if ya'know what I is sayin'...” and he gives David the thumbs up, “it's a back-up in case things get crazy, plus it does everything else your stupid little human pecker can do. The only downside is that our sperm is ridiculously potent and sexual encounters tend to result in quintuplets. It's part of the reason why I wrestle, David. I owe back child support to 3 Hiptonian babes – for FIFTEEN FUCKIN' DEVIANT CHILDREN!” He shouts, slams his boot onto the roof of the building, and then continues. “I can simply transfer this currency into Hiptonopoly money. We've got great transfer rates, and your money is worth more in space,” Dan stands proud once more – donning his fat bulbous crotch, his cape snaps in the wind, his fists are on his hips and he's glowing in the night sky.
“OK,” David says, “let's get you back to the Country Intergalactic Sleep Depot,” David mocks as he ignores Dan's momentous pause by walking to the door. Dan looks annoyed with his agent and slowly shakes his head.
“Fuckin' assholes,” Dan says to himself, “but, that's OK,” he continues, “they can think I'm playin'. But this guy aint playin',” he shakes his head and lowers his brow, “nuh-uh, I don't play around. Oh no, can't do those fuckin' play games. I DON'T FUCKIN' PLAY!” He screams, huffs, and then tightens his muscles for a brief flex of emotion.
[Close your eyes for two seconds.]
Cue The Deviant Zone theme song.
Rod Serling: There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Deviant Zone.
The Super Deviant stands in a room with walls made of crystal. The floors at his feet are pieced together using planks of ground bone from enemies he's defeated over time. Solid bone-ground pillars rise from the floor and stretch to the diamond bejeweled ceiling for support. The room is like a trophy display of battles won over the centuries. The heads of neanderthals are lined in rows on solid Hiptonian Crystal shelves. There are jars filled with creatures, and torn limbs, suspended in a liquid, displayed for all to see in glass cases throughout the room. The look of fail on the faces of beheaded enemies are mounted and displayed on a back wall above a beautifully large Hiptonian Marble fireplace that stretches the length of the wall over ten feet. The fireplace is for show, and that's considering the Super Deviant's bodily ability to hold scorching heat without combustion.
This is the Fortress of Magnitude, located on an island within the planet of Hipton. The island sits on a rotating plate that slowly pulls the royal land across the Hiptonian Sea that separates two masses of Deviant continents. This island rotates around the planet annually for omnipresent Super Deviant rule. The Slade Island is the only place in the universe where any creature may thrive, where there is everlasting life and eternal deviance. It is the home to the Super Deviant royal family; ruling the Universe since before the dawn of human existence.
Dan has to match the room, of course. Dressed to impress – he hosts wearing an Hiptonian tailored suit with the SD super logo patched on the right breast above the pocket, and an SD super logo pin on his left lapel. His tie is a plain red complimenting a light blue button-up dress shirt, and both are blanketed by a navy blue sports jacket matching with the slacks. His unshaven visage, capped with a mess of wet curly hair, is focused on the giant curved flat panel monitor where hundreds of videos make an intriguing collage. Below the screen is a board filled with technological vomit – buttons, levers, switches, keyboards, illustration tables, scanners, 3D image displays, rows of scan disk slots, driver ports, and certain objects that can't be defined using our global lexicon.
A hologram appears to the Super Deviant's right. He turns and stands at attention for the holographic image of his father, the omnipotent bastion of Universal order, The King of Hipton, Jebediah Von Super Deviant. The King, wearing a crown made of gold barbed wire, and dressed in the most precious of Hiptonian linen, adjusts his royal robe, and then slams his staff made of Giant's fibula onto the floor. His great black beard glistens. His deep blue eyes pierce his Prince.
“I've been advised to speak with you about your mission,” the King eagerly states with a sense of irritation revealed in his deep and hollow voice, “since it's become more than obvious you're unable to defeat the dastardly Malicious Stromination,” the King gives the Super Deviant Prince a disappointed glare.
“I flattened over four hundred Strominites and sodomized Malicious Stromination's robot anus with his own arm!” The Super Deviant defends. “I removed his head using two fingers! I did all that I could to derail the Son of a Bitch, but those S.C.U.M. F.U.C.K.E.R.S. continue to give him more life!” The Super Deviant doesn't understand why the King needs to interfere, but his father continues.
“Then you take your vengeance to the source,” the Almighty states. “Leth Lercher, the human puppet master, has given the S.C.U.M. and the Super Deviant's a run for their Hiptonopoly money. Forget about Malicious Stromination and the chaos he's created. You need to focus on destroying the brain. Destroy...Leth Lercher,” the King emphasizes the name, and it rolls off his tongue with a great distaste.
“That bitch-ass mother fucker,” the Super Deviant childishly rants, “if he thinks he can defeat the Super Deviants using the human weapon of arrogance then he can think again! How DARE HE!? Well, dad, I guess I'm just going to have to rip that faggot's head off...” and the Super Deviant begins to unbutton his suit jacket. “But,” and he turns to the giant collage of existence and ponders. Silence blankets the room. His vast Royalness, Jebediah, also studies the videos.
One – a hoarde of zombies led by the infamously undead Zombince McMahon have attacked an embassy in Southern Africa as millions of South Africans have been mauled by the Great Zombie Virus sweeping the Earthly mass. Another – a map of the western hemisphere showing the villainous Iceman Glen Beckman's current spread across the hottest area of the planet; the new ICE Age. A third shows an African American man, the Galactic Ladyboy – Svenigra Orbitch-Romanagro, the silent right hand behind the stroking of Leth Lercher's ego, dressed in shiny purple glitter, and shoving cattle prods through the temples of young children to inject their brains with a serum dedicated to brainwash them into a sexually deviant and drug addled lifestyle. Then there's the image of Malicious Stromination, now calling itself Malignus Stromboli V.1-23,000, blasting his wrecking ball fists through the enlarged walls of the Willis Center in Chicago; and surrounding buildings come tumbling down to the congregation of celebrating Strominite cybernetic organisms waving their assembly of arsenal in a dust of concrete and black smoke.
“You've got your hands tied, my son,” the King tells the Prince as the Super Deviant turns to his father and smirks.
“The Universe has gone to shit,” the Super Deviant states as he turns to study the atrocious actions of the vile creatures manifested from distant galaxies. “The planet Earth has no idea what they're up against, and that's why it's time that I take control. The S.C.U.M. F.U.C.K.E.R.S. And Leth Lercher have done enough damage to our vast void, and I won't allow them to control another planet just to leach their resources,” and he turns to his father. “I will not let mediocrity prevail, father!” He shouts with pride. “I've already wasted enough time allowing the subconscious of the American dream rot away at it's base. The floor has fallen through, and their deepest-darkest desires are becoming surreal reality,” and the Super Deviant removes his suit jacket, and then rips the buttons away from his light blue dress shirt. Underneath, and proudly displayed across his chest, is the SD super logo applied to a tight blue leather outfit. “That's where I come in.”
“No, my son,” the King responds, “that's where WE come in...” and he points at the SD super logo that's presented across his powerful breast. “The Super Deviants of Planet Hipton have been bending at the beckoning call of the Universe since the first explosion of matter, and we will not cease until our rule is uncontested. End them. All of them. It is your duty, and mission, to finish the slaughter; and WHEN you've accomplished the task – you'll wear this crown proud and sit upon the throne of our great enemies skulls feared by the majority of a Universe that will be within the palm of your Godly grip...” the King opens his hand, and then tightly closes it.
“I will drop an Hiptomic Bomb on South Africa. I'll melt the ice that's shrouding hope in the Western Hemisphere. I'm going to gut Svenigra Orbitch and then have a taxidermist create me another trophy for the corner of our Fortress,” the Super Deviant rips the dress shirt and dark blue slacks from his body and his cape proudly drapes down his back to the heels of his red boots. “Most of all – I'll melt down the limbs of Malignus Stromboli V.1-23,000 and turn him into a gigantic steel building block for a pedestal in the center of the Fortress where I'll proudly display all the victorious belts I'll be given by the Collective of Universal Control and Kingdom, the C.O.C.K. The gold will shine, and my legacy will thrive as the Super Deviant's of Hipton continue their dominance across the galaxies. There's no stopping us,” he glares at the large screen, and a video of Leth Lercher behind a wooden podium and before the flag of the United Nations, as he pounds his fist like a gavel and delivers a speech, “not even that fucking turd pile that controls the name of the game...”
All of the videos on the screen instantly dissolve and the numbers 8:00 flash in a bright green like the time on an alarm clock. The Super Deviant turns to his father, and the King begins to speak but the only sound heard is that of an alarm.
The Super Deviant is awakened.
From the Office of Dr. Perciful Lee
4223 Benjamin Harrison Parkway
Lincoln, NE 68542
4223 Benjamin Harrison Parkway
Lincoln, NE 68542
There are moments during my sessions with Dan Van Slade where there appears to be a civilized and ethical soul hiding deep within a dark and depressing past. His can't give up, and won't give up, attitude sends him surpassing the stage of dwelling and surmounting the present – which at it's current stage is a mighty emphasis on a large middle finger. Dan Van Slade has become a man trapped in the limelight, and engulfed by the flame of stardom. He's destroyed any inkling that he's determined to settle within humanity, and begun embracing the abnormal. He's stuck in a dream state, and entitled to bring justice to the mediocrity induced by the human race.
He's created an entirely new life, and a reality that bends the fabric of our existence and settles somewhere deep within the Lynchian netherworld. It's complex and elaborate. It's complete with memories, names, dates – and he's so clever witted and unbelievably genius that he's capable of transforming these details on the spot without prior knowledge or script. It's an unbelievable act, and it's the heart that beats blood into this analysis.
The Super Deviant is Dan Van Slade's alter-ego, or current manifestation. He's a super hero, whom I've been told from the source, that hails from the far distant planet of Hipton. There's no further details of the planet, albeit there's a King, and an obvious form of extraterrestrial life. There's no information regarding the planet's placement within the Universe, but this whets our appetite. There's more to this than the planet. This is about the rest of the story. The combination of what's become, and the emergence of an idea that will turn his career into another epic adventure that will land in the hall of heroes. In this case – the WCF Hall of Fame, I'm certain.
The key words for the last two graphs are complex, and elaborate. Sure, Daniel is in denial to believe he's anything more than a Hiptonian Prince. We've discussed his career ad nauseum. What could make it better? Who would make it worse? Are we absolutely-100% certain that professional wrestling was the career for Dan to choose? These questions were often met with anger, frustration, and a form of aggression that would make anybody believe there's no place but the squared circle for the man who calls himself the Super Deviant. We've discussed other routes, but he's in full drive now. I don't know if anybody can stop the force on the rise; except Dan Van Slade.
However, it became apparent in session #0204 that my client fully understood his dilemma within, and could address it. This is a huge improvement. Dan has chosen to ride the beast into the sunset. It doesn't matter how contradictory or ridiculous his story may be. Dan is fully capable of understanding that his dream will never actually see reality, but he is always able to enjoy his own twist. That's the best part about living – the choices. He made his choice to be a professional wrestler – and he's going to stick with it.
During a prior session it was revealed that Dan is an avid comic book fan. This should be a given considering his character within the Wrestling Championship Federation. Attached to this document is a sheet of comic strips that Dan butchered during the session. The resemblance to the WCF comic strip artist is uncanny. It's obvious that Dan's momentum is in his force toward the upper card where he seems entitled to big, really big things. He's more than happy to speak his mind and direct it toward some of the most infamous men of WCF lore. His voice will be heard.
Seth Lerch's intervention in Dan's plans seems to have sparked a sudden interest. Suddenly my client has no recollection of his want to quit the game and join the unemployment line. Once the top dog barked his orders and rearranged the hardcore title picture – Dan Van Slade was all ears. His focus became Maelstrom, and not Steve Orbit. Maelstrom is Dan Van Slade's new foe. The Super Deviant tends to refer to him as either Malicious Stromination, or Malignus Stromboli V.1-23,000. There's a well-developed and fully detailed back story to that, but I won't get into it. Nonetheless – even if Lerch's announcement was unjustified – Dan Van Slade has an entirely new reason to keep beating a lot of ass. Steve Orbit is still on the radar, but now Maelstrom has to feel the stiff beat down at the hands of my client.
Regardless of what the Vapor Kings have to say, or any WCF superstar for that matter, it's conclusive that Dan Van Slade will stop at nothing to prove that he's the biggest, baddest, most ruthless superstar the company has seen in years. His talent unfolds every week, and with every week a new reason for most of the WCF roster to hate him. He's not shy. He's not going to flake out. If anything – what the WCF has offered Dan Van Slade is an outlet for his insanity. Throughout our sessions I've come to learn that Dan isn't going to stop. It's going to take a lot of pain and suffering to end the Super Deviant. Somebody will have to kill him, and I'm certain that it'll eventually become a scenario; especially if he steps into the ring with a monster like Oblivion.
But, when Dan is victorious at Slam, it's pretty obvious that even IT won't have a chance. Nobody will. It's 100% certain that nobody in the WCF is safe from the Super Deviant's diatribe and athleticism. There's not a honey badger or ice harvest in this world that can vanquish the goals of Dan Van Slade. His eyes are set on becoming the greatest superstar in the business. He's out of control, and nobody can stop him. Not even Dan Van Slade. Not Maelstrom or Steve Orbit.
There's no stopping him.
Attachment
File No. 0639 | Illustrations by the Super Deviant, Dan Van Slade | Deviant Art | January 15, 2015
File No. 0639 | Illustrations by the Super Deviant, Dan Van Slade | Deviant Art | January 15, 2015
Transcript From the Office of Dr. Perciful Lee
Session #0204 | Client: The Super Deviant, Dan Van Slade | 023 | January 15, 2015
Session #0204 | Client: The Super Deviant, Dan Van Slade | 023 | January 15, 2015
The Super Deviant: “A man stopped me yesterday to tell me I was a fucking weirdo because I was walking the streets of Richmond dressed ready to go fisticuffs with the melting world of mediocrity...”
Perciful Lee: “You were dressed as the Super Deviant...”
The Super Deviant: “Yes.”
Perciful Lee: “Well, can you blame him?”
The Super Deviant: “Fuck that asshole – he doesn't know me. He doesn't know the Prince of Hipton! Nobody on this stupid fragile planet understands the sheer power that's boiling deep within my reigns. Fuckin' puppets – they'll understand. Eventually everybody will understand. I was prepared for this. I knew people would react a certain way, and it's not surprising. None of these pathetic fucks see the other side of the picture. That fuckin' jerk notices the uniqueness of my being, and twists it, but doesn't step back to see the reflection of the overweight image of a human being that binds his DNA; constantly hungry and thirsty to consume. He soaks it all up like a sponge. Sure, I'm a God damned weirdo – that's beyond the point. The point is – he's the REAL problem. The judge, the jury and the motherfuckin' executioner rolled into one, and for what? I don't give a shit about your opinion, guy. I wasn't sent to your planet to decipher your stupidity and the solve the riddle of your condition. Fuck off! I'm the Greatest Galactic Being this side of the Universe. I don't ask anybody to bow or call me God; but – whatever. I embrace the weird, so fuck you fella.”
Perciful Lee: “Fair enough.”
The Super Deviant: “The same reaction was had at Slam. It's as if the radical curveball I've pitched has taken a strange and suspicious turn. The Super Deviant was met without the grace of applause, or call of positive cheer. The fans – the men backstage – they mocked me. They booed me. Now, now that I did NOT expect...”
Perciful Lee: “No? Now, imagine if you will that YOU are one of these individuals. Don't you think that you'd be estranged by a man dressed as a super hero? Wouldn't you immediately jump to berating him? Calling him names? Destroying his image? Isn't that what you'd normally do?”
The Super Deviant: “Don't turn this on me, Percy. Don't you dare turn this shit around and tell me that there's nothing wrong with their reaction. I'm a GOD DAMNED SUPER HERO! THESE COCKSUCKERS WILL SOON FIND OUT WHY I AM THE BEST!”
Perciful Lee: “Calm down, Dan.”
The Super Deviant: “The Super Deviant is always calm, just passionate. I suppose at least one person would have understood, but I was terribly wrong. That's my issue, but I'll leave it in the past. I don't have time to dwell on the fact that I'm confusing the entire nation with my ridiculously nonsensical character. I have a lot of ass to beat on my plate.”
Perciful Lee: “Let's just hope you don't eat the ass.”
The Super Deviant: “Touche, salesman.”
Perciful Lee: “Regardless of opinion, I felt you did well on Slam. You worked well with Maelstrom, but I know that wasn't a guarantee.”
The Super Deviant: “The only guarantee is that HE ends at Payback. Man – what the fuck was that all about anyway? Seriously, Seth? Really? Co-contender? WHAT THE FUCK.”
Perciful Lee: “These twists are often because the hierarchy are intimidated by your talent. They don't want you to be successful, so they do whatever it takes to bend the rules. In this case – there was no rule stopping this, especially when it's coming from the top brass. You just have to roll with it. On the other hand – this could also be due to the fact Maelstrom has been doing very well as of late. He did get the pin at Slam. He got you the win. Although we know this isn't true since Maelstrom is the bastard child of Awful. Do remind yourself who took the losing pin a few weeks ago...”
The Super Deviant: “Don't be an asshole, Percy. This is an obvious attempt to attack the Super Deviant's modus operandi. I did slightly complain last week and state I was tired of the middle card. Suddenly Maelstrom is thrown into my winning agenda, and I have to dominate two superstars at Payback. Then – he books me against the Vapor Kings? Please. If all I have to do is complain in order to deconstruct the best professionals in this sport – then SO BE IT. Fuck you, Seth Lerch. I've got this shit on lock.”
Perciful Lee: “It's a wonderful feeling when I can see you say these things about Seth Lerch and you somehow will still have a job.”
The Super Deviant: “I'll always have a job. Seth Lerch can't get rid of me. Hell – he may be the only believer. There's a reason he's doing this, Percy, and it's a simple mystery solved. He has faith that I'll win. So, not everybody believes I've got what it takes – atleast I've got the head honcho waving competition in front of my face like steak on a string tied to a stick. Thanks for the faith, boss – it's much appreciated. I'm more than happy to destroy what you've worked so hard to build. So, while you're fucking yourself – do remember – there's absolutely zero possible ways to stop the Super Deviant. Bring ICE Beckman. Bring Zombie McMorris. Bring Maelstrom and Steve Orbit. Jayson Price, or Corey Black. Bring that dirty rotten slut Chelsea Armstrong. Bring the entire Legion of Mediocrity! BRING IT, motherfucker!”
Perciful Lee: “Beware – ask and you shall receive...”
The Super Deviant: “Whooooooooooooooooo CARES!? There's only one person stopping me from absolute victory, and that's me allowing all of this to happen. All I have to do is subjugate my power into a central location and I'll explode and destroy this entire world; but – that's an official guaranteed final sacrifice for if all else fails. Nothing that I do will fail. Everybody I face...will.”
Perciful Lee: “It's come to my attention that you're taking your character to other levels. He's becoming a real addition to society. Is character acting the best way to keep you on a focused playing field?”
The Super Deviant: “Character....act...what? This isn't an act, Percy. This is the whole sha-bang, the grand POO-BAH – the motherfucking epitome of human existence right before your very eyes. I'm a walkin'-talkin' X-Files episode. And, YOU KNOW THIS! So, why are you asking me such a fucking stupid question?”
Perciful Lee: “Let's get back on track and discuss the conversation you had earlier today with David about...what did you call it? Leveling up?”
The Super Deviant: “The Super Deviant species begin building enormous strength by the age of five, and with every success comes a new level of super power. The win at Slam contributed to a new level that produced a great burst of electricity that increased my stamina by quite a bit. The Super Deviant blood factory has a few select back-up generators now, and there's absolutely no reason for my stamina to fail me in the ring. I'm now a level 25 Super Deviant. Superb stamina. I'm like a motherfuckin' Energizer Buddy.”
Perciful Lee: “You absolutely believe this is true?”
The Super Deviant: “As blue as the sky on a Summer day.”
Perciful Lee: “Intriguing. May I ask you to prove these super powers to me?”
The Super Deviant: “Are you calling me a liar, Percy?”
Perciful Lee: “No? I'm a fan, so – as any true fan would – I'd like to see what you can do. Go ahead and lift something obnoxious heavy that's in this room. Use heat rays from your eyes to burn that chair over there. Or, freeze that rose on the window sill with an ice storm that you breath out. I'm anxious to finally see it...”
The Super Deviant: “I can't do that, Percy – it's against regulation.”
Perciful Lee: “And – what regulation may that be?”
The Super Deviant: “Hiptonians can only use their powers when threatened.”
Perciful Lee: “I see.”
The Super Deviant: “Not that you don't deserve to see it, Percy – I'd definitely show you a couple of my favorites – but, that's a no-can-do, sir.”
Perciful Lee: “Damn, so what if I pulled a 12 gauge shotgun on you and placed the barrel in your mouth? Cocked'n'locked. Would I be able to see a few super powers?”
The Super Deviant: “I'd say that's a no-brainer.”
Perciful Lee: “If you weren't capable of showing me powers – yes, that's a no-brainer.”
The Super Deviant: “One – you're not going to do that. Two – my epidermis is impenetrable. Three – fuck you, and this conversation.”
Perciful Lee: “You may need to tone it down on the whole super hero gig when you're not in the ring. Prancing around these mean streets could get you killed. There's a lot of psychopaths out there who are willing to take their chances against a guy challenging all human beings to a deadly quarrel against a self-proclaimed God of another galaxy. Who wouldn't want to be the one to defeat a creature from a different planet? I know I would.”
The Super Deviant: “Get to the fuckin' point already, Poindexter.”
Perciful Lee: “I understand that I am the one person who initially accepted this. I told you it was right to go with your intuition, and your dream. However, I never once imagined you'd take it this far. I would have never believed you'd allow the dream to erase reality.”
The Super Deviant: “I...”
Perciful Lee: “Give me a minute, Dan. I want to be simple, and real with you. I've already acknowledged that I'm partially to blame for what you've become. I'm not going to dwell on what's brought us to this point in our journey, but I'd like to help you fix it.”
The Super Deviant: “There's nothing to fuckin' fix...”
Perciful Lee: “Oh, there's so much wrong with this and so much to fix. You're not capable of making these decisions right now. You need to listen to reason, and realize that there are other routes to take that will improve your position with the company. I'm not going to advise that you carry on with this fallacy because I won't condone any more of your strange behavior. If you want to fight crime – be a police officer, or a detective.”
The Super Deviant: “...A detective? I kind of like it. The Deviant Detective. Quite a fuckin' ring to it!”
Perciful Lee: “But – that's not why we're here, Dan. We're here because you're struggling with your choice in life. I'm supposed to be your voice of reason that patches the holes in the wall and re-configures the structure. This isn't a debate about who you are – because that's obviously apparent on an every-day basis. You can still be the Super Deviant, a man who WANTS to be a super hero; but at the end of the day – you're just another professional wrestler with an acting crisis.”
The Super Deviant: “Call David and tell him to tack another hundo onto your hourly rate. You're a God damned MADMAN and I fuckin' love you. I love it, absolutely love it, when people tell me how it really is. It's wonderful. That's why I can't wait util ICE opens his dicksuckin' mouth and releases all these diatribes and witty beats that turn me into a Sunday funny in a bullshit newspaper. I'm on the edge of my seat waiting for Zombie McMorris' blistered tongue to whip my ears with intelligent nonsense that in the end becomes a bounced check. I'm not going to worry about Maelstrom, because I've got my eyes on bigger and better things.
I appreciate the analysis, Doc. You're a true witch doctor, and a son of a bitchin' primary source for inspiration. What decisions will I not be making again? Listen – guy – I've got some reasoning for you. I know what I am. I know what I'm capable of. Every inch, every fiber in my being, it craves for this moment when I reveal who I really am. A man willing to stand before ICE Beckman, before the ICE Age, prepared and virtually uncontested to stand face-to-face with the Vapor Kings. Sights set on Steve Orbit; but my soul is set on autopilot and will stop at the almighty absolute zero, nothing, before I take down the structure and find myself on top of the world. That's where I belong, and that's where I'll be.
That's all about professional wrestling. Not once, NOT ONCE, did I mention anything pertaining to the story that's attempting to claim some fame. No – my focus is my career. You've done your job, and now I need to carry on with mine. Sure, I understand what I'm doing. I'm fully conscious. I know that at any moment - What you see before you – that's what you're gonna fuckin' get. If you don't like it? Fuck you. Plain and simple. There's nothing to it. Literally – nothing, and I make it look easy. But – I come to you with one of the most awe-inspiring characters – and you FUCK ME? YOU...FUCK...ME...? NO! I FUCK YOU! Let me rephrase everything so that I can make it clear: I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK, WILL NOT GIVE A FUCK, AND SHALL NEVER GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ANYTHING THAT ANY OF YOU SAY, OR DO. So, go fuck yourself. Amen.”
Perciful Lee: “Well, I can see that we're as close to being on the same page as anything. I admire that you're willing to see outside the box, rather than continue this tremendous act of defiance and simply shatter reality.”
The Super Deviant: “It's a black hole. As soon as anybody steps foot into the WCF – they're warped within a mainframe of wild debauchery, sadistic shenanigans, and a bouillabaisse of irrelevance and nonsense. Yet, somehow all of this combines to make sense and in the long run – does it ever really matter? I was a concept of surreal fiction as soon as I signed on the dotted lines. The people can shit all over what I do, but I do it fuckin' well – and if you can't get down with my pretentious arrogance then you know what I'm going to say next – and it'll contain a lot of FUCK YOUS and GO FUCK YOURSELVES. I fuckin' love it, and I'm going to continue to be a toxic irritation that boils your skin every week. I'll produce bullshit at any rate, and I'll make it work. I'll do it all wearing a cape, and proudly brandishing my Hiptonian SUPER COCK in a Brando-esque manner that immediately becomes the pose of my statue in the hallowed halls of WCF stardom...”
Perciful Lee: “The Wrestling Championship Federation does settle alone in the vast pool of wrestling promotions. There's nothing like it. I wouldn't mind a trip to this...Poon Guinea...sometime in the near future.”
The Super Deviant: “You'll need a golden ticket for that one, Percy. When you get there – let me know so that I can fly my happy ass over there and beat the autism out of Kaz Mazy, while simultaneousy roasting Bobby Cairo into a Poon Sausage with my heat vision. Odin Balfore? Heart attack as soon as he sees the Super Deviant within five feet of his Poon presence. Fags. But, yeah – shit show, but you gotta go with the flow. That's my game.”
Perciful Lee: “You're taking shots at a lot of big names, my friend. That's a dangerous game you're playing.”
The Super Deviant: “They don't ever respond, though. What the fuck does it matter? This is my big chance to throw my name out there. Trust me when I say that nobody sees me winning this match. NOBODY. It's all...VAPOR KINGS THIS, and the VAPOR KINGS THAT. Boooooooooo, just a great big disgusting BOO. You're SO yesterday's news. Ya'wildcard is RIGHT HERE. This is 2015, ya'bitches – and I'm pretty sure the ole' Zodeviac states this the year of the DEVIANT. But, of course – they'll ignore the message. Pussies. Dirty rotten vag. Old, ink smudged news. But, I can't wait to win!”
Perciful Lee: “You've already done a lot of damage to get to this point, Dan. Let's return to something for a brief moment. It's clear that you grasp the idea your career is professional wrestling, and that you're super hero gig is an act. OK – so, you're a super hero, right?”
The Super Deviant: “White as snow...”
Perciful Lee: “But, you're a wreckless, careless, idiotic, pretentious, narcissistic asshole.”
The Super Deviant: “Come on, man, you've gotta start getting to the point faster.”
Perciful Lee: “That doesn't sound like a great super hero. That sounds like a super villain. Are you sure the Super Deviant is a super hero?”
The Super Deviant: “You know – to some people – the villain IS the super hero.”
Perciful Lee: “Well, OK. However, your actions are less heroic and more relentless aggression mixed with malicious intent. Plus – you're attacking good people. Maelstrom is a good guy. People like him. He's sometimes funny, albeit cheesy and sometimes retarded.”
The Super Deviant: “I is what I is; a starving cliché, the topic of the next pretentious conversation between hipster smarks sharing a Starbucks while walking down the aisle at GameStop. I'm a gigantic douchebag, and I have no problem with it. So, yes, I'm a Super Hero. But, yes, I am a Super Villain. I am all these things, and will still conquer the fuckin' world. Oh, and Maelstrom's a BITCH.”
Perciful Lee: “So, you're well aware of the sense none of it really makes?”
The Super Deviant: “It makes sense. To me – it certainly makes sense. But, once again, I'd have to return to shouting out how much I don't give a fuck, etcetera, amongst other really bad metaphors and remarkably odd structure. Look – none of this matters anymore. The shit's fucked up, and I've got a lot of work to do before having to deal with the ridiculous thought that I'm some hack who can't go toe-to-toe with the best this business has to offer. I've got nothing but confidence, and the factual evidence that I am the finest athlete to step into the WCF ring since...well...the dawn of the Millennium. Wanna talk about sense? Wait until I beat it into all of these so-called bad asses and legends...”
Perciful Lee: “It doesn't seem like it's taking all that long for you to be able to do that.”
The Super Deviant: “No, but that's because I'm damn good. No, I'm great. Actually – I'm fucking brilliant. Seth Lerch sees that. He's having no problem challenging me. Every move he makes only strengthens me. I have no issue with Maelstrom being involved in MY match at Payback. None. I appreciate giving us something to warm up against before Steve and I tear into each other. The addition of a jobber into the Hardcore Title Match enhances the battlefront. There's no telling what Steve and I will do to each other once Maelstrom's been eliminated from the picture. You see, Seth, I'm not going to come after you like some of these idiots. I don't have time to deal with nonathletic politicians who have no right to be working in this industry. Just keep throwing them at me. Gimme your best shot. I eat that shit for breakfast, vomit it up at lunch and stir-fry it, shit it out for dinner and deep fry it, grind it into mush, mix it with rat poison, and feed it to you through an I-V. I don't need Remus Micayle – Dr. Deviant will be taking care of you after the Super Deviant's rise to stardom chokes you with your own tears slowly and over a torturous long period of time. My ass-fucking comes deviously, and methodically slow; passionate...and often romantic like being butt-raped by the ghost of Patrick Swayze.
And, I'm not stopping there.
Sunday, once I've shown the world what I do when I go toe-to-toe with two of the best in WCF history, I'm going to get my big red Santa bag filled with violent weapons and I'm heading to Payback. I'm going to fuck Steve Orbit's world ALL UP. I'm going to teach that beat up wet dog Maelstrom a whole library full of new tricks. Roll over – so that he knows how to get pinned. Speak – since the only language he currently speaks is a bark-filled voice about losing. Shake – since the only shaking he does are the tremors caused from the fear that he has to fight the Super Deviant for a second time. Toss a stick and that hairless Jobber Retriever will fetch it. I'm all about teachin' an old dog new tricks; sometimes I just teach it how to kill itself since the old dog has gone blind with a skin disease. In this case – after Payback – we're puttin' Maelstrom down. I don't think there's enough energy drinks in this world that will get you back into the game, old man. I can't wait for Payback so that I can fuck him up another time, and I simply can't wait to get these Hiptonian hands around Steve Orbit's neck.
I'm not afraid of the Vapor Kings. I'm stoked. I'm inspired. I'M SO FUCKIN' HAPPY. I've got these assholes calling me a member of the Devious Males, and all this other nonsense about being soft. HA, SOFT...SOFT...there's not a soft spot on this body. I've got fists harder than an ICE shoot. I've got boots harder than ZMAC's crotch when Steve Orbit walks into a room. Well, anything can be harder than ZMAC's crotch considering it's about as soft as a rotten spot on an apple; an old tomato, cotton underwear, marshmallows floating atop hot chocolate, a fresh poop, a Macho Man wrestle buddy, the FUPA of Buddy Roman, a newborn's skull, a cloud, the brain of Seth Lerch, the entire list of names on the WCF roster, and other words synonymous with being a member of the Vapor Kings. There's nothing this Legion of Doom can do to stop what's prepared for them – an almighty ass whoopin' from the Galactic Prince of Payback. I'm not going to let some fuckin' idiot step in my way and ruin my chances at pinning ICE Beckman. That's my goal for Sunday night. Fuck Zombie McBoring. It won't take long to pacify his remarkable lack of in-ring talent so that I can focus on doing what Steeltoe Joe, and Bobby Cairo couldn't do in the passing weeks. Sure, I may not hold the WCF World Heavyweight title Sunday night – but you better damn sure believe that it won't be far within my reach once I've pinned ICE and silenced the masses.
There's nothing cool about an ICE Age. The best thing that's ever happened to a character that was named after the cold was when Arnold Schwarzeneggar played Mr. Freeze. Holy ice nipples, Batman, that movie was filled with Austrian one-liners that made Popsicle stick jokes better than they already were. Speaking of a Popsicle stick joke – let's talk about ICE Beckman before this session ends. Look – I'm certain that you're thinking to yourself – who the FUCK is the Super Deviant and Maelstrom? Well – I don't really have to go into this derogatory explanation about how we're two of the greatest superstars that you've EVER faced, but I will state that we're just a microcosm of the bigger problem. What the Vapor Kings and ICE Beckman don't see, nor do they notice due to tunnel vision, is the great flood of talent that's honing in on their stronghold. These wannabe gangster thugs have such a pansy-ass grip on this company. Yet – with a roster that does nothing but talk-talk-talk there's not a single one of you bitch-ass cocksuckers who can muster the strength to beat these piles of fuck. That's where WE, ME...and MAELSTROM....that's where we come in. Albeit – I don't need that bald idiot getting in my way – but if I can use him to distract Zombie McBitchAssMotherFucker then so be it. We'll let the cripples fight so that ICE and I can take this to another level.
Steve Orbit – Sunday night – watch what I do to your world champion. STEELTOE JOE – take notes. BOBBY CAIRO – scribble some of this down onto a sticky poon note. ODIN BALFORE – go fuck yourself. ICE BECKMAN – I hope that you've polished that belt and you're getting it ready for me. When I finish the month defeating you, ZMAC and Orbit in one final swoop – I'm calling for the demolition of the Vapor Kings. The end. We don't need you anymore. The ICE Age is OVER. If you guys think that I was going to hold back and be silent up to Slam...you better think again. I made that mistake against the Poondock Saints, and I'll NEVER make the same mistake twice. I've learned from it, and I'm going to roast the fuck out of you.”
Perciful Lee: “This session is coming deathly close to finalizing, and I still have a few questions to ask you, and a few items to cover.”
The Super Deviant: “Don't worry about it. I pay you top fuckin' dollar, twice over, so that I can sit here and vent. Just listen to me. That's something the world doesn't want to do until I step into the ring and unleash a furious arsenal that's ended the careers of several superstars already. I just got my Honey Badger huntin' license and a whole lot of napalm. Keep the questions and analysis for another session so that I can continue speaking in tongues and slicin' these fuckers up with my rhetoric.
There's not a single man, or bitch-ass female, in this company that has the testicles or ovaries big enough to end me. The Vapor Kings. Fuck'em. The only words synonymous with the Vapor Kings will be what Kyle Steel says once the referee is holding my arm high in the air when I'm victorious after SLAM.
AND THE WINNER IS...not you. Not ICE Beckman. Not Maelstrom. Not Seth Lerch. Me. The Super Deviant. So, while the Vapor Kings lift Buddy Roman's dinky doo and play his clit as a fiddle – while Maelstrom stands alone in a janitor's closet looking for a mop to clean up the puddle of piss he calls a career – I'm ascending the mountain of victory. There's not a Poon nugget backstage, a Joey Flash, a Polar Phantasm or shit-eating Cartel big enough to conquer this hate. Bring your A game. BRING ANY GAME. I'm not going to be done calling out EVERY SINGLE PATHETIC FUCK BACK THERE. This is the year of the Deviant. This is the year when everybody watches Dan Van MOTHERFUCKIN' Slade take home the big one.
If you've got a problem with that....well, you'll just have to take it up with my fist. Since my fist will be shoved so far up ICE Beckman's ass – all you'll have to do is find him if you've got a problem with me. So, to the faggot ass niggas out there who think I'm soft – think again.
I'M GOIN' FUCKIN' HARD. SUPER...HARD."
“This sight is absolutely unbelievable,” A busty blond bombshell in a red dress stands before a trampling horde of citizens and anxiously speaks into the microphone. “Gentlemen, I don't think we've ever seen anything like this before,” Static. Static. “There's a...” Static. Static. “...it's a violent mess!” She shouts as there's more screams heard in bits and pieces as the intense loudness drowns a boom mic with static. Men, women, children, and animals flee passed the news correspondent as she clings on to her ear mic, and attempts to listen to the station. “I...I can't hear...” Static. Static.
ICE.
The news correspondent, as well as majority of the chaos parade, is frozen by a wave of ice that takes over. A giant creature, an Ice Titan, wielding the largest can of Natural Ice beer, takes a huge swig and then spits out another ice storm among the ruins of a popular American city.
“FUCK YOU ALL...” Ice Glenn Beckman states. He stands 250 feet in the air, with a beard and head of hair made of ice. His body is comprised mostly of bulging ice crystals and icicles. He's a terrifying and intimidating creature that wears the great Gold belt of the Universe strapped across his waist – the one item never successfully captured by the Super Deviants of Planet Hipton. Behind him, floating on a gigantic rug with five cosmic sluts is Svenigra Orbitch-Romanagro; the Galactic Subjugator and Universal Prince of Pimpolonius. Not far from the two villains is a band of the undead gnawing away at the mound of flesh the infamous Malignus Stromboli V.1-23,000 has provided them. This nasty group is led by Zombince McMahon, whom along with Stromboli maimed and mauled an entire community.
“I don't think you'll be doing any fucking tonight, Ice,” says a voice in the distance. Ice Glenn Beckman opens his arms and his face turns to anger. His eyes glow blue. He growls, snarls, and smacks his icy fist upon a hardened glass chest.
“You motherfucker,” Ice's voice is cold and echoes, “you think you can stop US from taking over the world?” The Ice Titan states as he prepares to chug his beer. Floating before him the Super Deviant, 250 feet in the air, with his cape flapping and his curls gracefully flowing in the wind.
“This motherfucka' be crazy if he think he gon'put an end to the most dangerous galactic band of brothas this side of the fuckin' Jedi,” says Svenigra Orbitch as he guides his ridiculously large magic carpet toward the Super Deviant, “ya'feel me?”
Three of five of his cosmic whores say “we feel you!”
“Fuck Star Wars, and FUCK YOU!” Shouts the Super Deviant. His eyes glow red. He clenches his muscles.
Malignus Stromboli V.1-23,000 turns his head toward Zombince McMahon. The Queen of the Undead bats his grotesque red eyes and smirks with a mouth covered in rotten bits of flesh and dried blood. His teeth are a decayed brown, and green.
“What music should I play?” Malignus points to his chest where there is a small touch screen monitor. He taps on Pandora and the application emerges. Zombince blankly stares.
“Ugh-nug-uhhhh-grr-narrrrr-UNG-uggghhhh,” Zombince responds, and then lifts a severed arm to his mouth and removes a morbid hunk of flesh from the forearm as muscle and tendon tear from bone by what is left of his teeth. Blood and a bit of flesh fall from his mouth. He blankly stares at Stromboli and aggressively chews.
“Wow,” Malignus responds, “that was fucking awe-inspiring. You're a God damned genius, ZMAC,” Malignus states as he presses a link on his touch-screen chest monitor. Suddenly - a Man of Steel dubstep fight theme begins to play in surround sound and it engulfs the entire battle field.
But, before the Super Deviant and ICE Glenn can go balls-wild and fuck the world up, the entire scene is interrupted by the gigantic big screen monitor on a large building. All eyes are on Leth Lercher, the U.S. Diplomat turned radical Space Pioneer, who is to blame for the Armageddon ensuing on the world; and not Steeltoe Joe or Gonzo Murdock. This was Alpha and Omega's Kingdom Come.
“Gentlemen, your attention please,” Leth speaks in a rather feminine voice. “I wanted to get one final word before you all tear the Deviant limb from limb and lift me high into ascension atop the Hiptonian Throne,” Leth snickers. The Super Deviant slowly shakes his head as Ice Glenn and Svenigra creep closer toward the distracted Galactic Bad Ass. “I want nothing more than to see you crucified on a missile that's sent through a time warp somewhere far and deep within a black void,” Leth continues. He strokes his oddly phallic shaped bald head. “However – I'd rather see these extraterrestrial retards make you suffer. One way or the other – you're gonna be doing quite a bit of dyin'...”
“FUCK YOU,” and the Super Deviant releases a heat ray from his eyes that blasts the giant tower monitor. Leth Lercher's transmission has faded, and smoke billows from a great burn hole in the center of the screen. The Super Deviant turns his attention to Ice Glenn Beckman, and Svenigra Orbitch as they are just about ten feet away. “I'm going to beat the living fuck out of every single one of you...” the Super Deviant grins wide. He clutches his fist. A horde of zombies have made their way below the Super Deviant as they patiently wait for the Ice Titan and carpet glider to take action.
“UNNNNNGGGGGGGG” shouts Zombince McMahon from the ground below as he waves a female severed leg in the air.
Malignus Stromboli V.1-23,000 leaps to the top of a nearby building using only his trusty pair of clown shoes that seem to have powerful springs built in the soles. These shoes are developed by Zombince McMahon at a warehouse where he and other zombies find their way through a dull life by developing clown shoes. The behemoth cybernetic organism heaves his mighty robotic crotch toward the Super Deviant's direction as a double barrel cannon is distributed from a port built into organism's crotchial region. The cannon unfolds, is erect, and aims directly at the Super Deviant. Stromboli fist pumps, and grunts.
“That's...it?” The Super Deviant questions, and is stunned by the size, or lackthereof, of Malignus' phallic arsenal. “C'mon, Strommy-ole' chum...we all know you could have done a lot better than that...”
Ice Glenn Beckman is about to put the Super Deviant through a big freeze.
Svenigra Orbitch-Romanagro loads his STD launcher which propels grenades filled with random sexually transmitted diseases; some of which come from the far corners of a naughty galaxy. His whoreiors wield pick-axes covered in aids blood.
“Look at you piles of fuck,” the Super Deviant proudly grins. “When this is all over – remember who took you down...” and he pauses to put his hands on his hips. He points at his chest. His face turns serious. He slowly nods. The Super Deviant immediately reveals a can of Mega Toryu Energy Beverage. He pops the tab, and instead of drinking it he pours the entire can to the Earthly ground below. The caffeinated energy drink from the Land of the Rising sun rains liquid sugar all over the infantry of zombies below. The Super Deviant crushes the can in one hand and smiles. “This bad ass mother fucker,” and he throws up his fists.
“LADIES!” Shouts the Orbitch. “AIDS!” Svenigra points at the Super Deviant as the flying carpet speeds ahead. One-eighth of the Pimpolonius Red Star District is ready to slay into the Super Deviant with pick-axes covered in liquid Magic Johnson.
“IN THE HOLY NAME OF BRUDDY OMAN,” shouts the Ice Titan, “FUUUUUUUCKHIIIIIIIMMMMMM UUUUUUUUUUP!” His voice echoes, and resonates. He takes a rather large swig of the abnormally large can of Natural Ice Beer. Then – it begins.
“FUCKIN' TEXT MESSAGE!” The Galaxy S5 shouts.
All the villains suddenly pause their attack as the Super Deviant looks down at his cell phone strapped to his waist.
Dan Van Slade wakes up to a text message from David, his agent.
The Super Deviant:
Sent: 1:14 A.M. Jan. 18
Agent David:
Damn right. Now, get up and get ready. You've got some King Slayin' to do.
Sent: 8:00 A.M. Jan. 18
Sent: 1:14 A.M. Jan. 18
Agent David:
Damn right. Now, get up and get ready. You've got some King Slayin' to do.
Sent: 8:00 A.M. Jan. 18
To be continued.
Rod Serling: You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension—a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into the Deviant Zone.