Current
A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing
Bio
So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
Hey folks, is this still a thing? i had an idea for a Supe I'm calling Everyman, basically he has a poo-ton of powers, but has a few separate personalities and a bunch of weaknesses (a few of which being 1- His own sweat is his Kryptonite, he's claustrophobic, the more people he's around, the weaker his powers are, and he has performance anxiety so he deals with a lot of self doubt) the caveat though is that he duplicates himself so his "Clark Kent" is separate from his "Superman". Would this idea fit into the world at all?
It very much is still a thing... I'll be working on something this week myself,in fact, as we wrap this event up and find out the new status quo moving forward...
...stay tuned.
As for your character, feel free to put together an application.
I will probably be too swamped to post for the next week or so: the play I'm directing opens in 7 days, so my free time between now and closing night is basically zero. I'll try to squeeze in another Logan post to make sure I don't go past the two-week limit, but i may need an extension.
Looking forward to whatever we get. Been great stuff so far!
"Well, that's not what it looked like..." Her response prim, cold, closed off. Disappointed.
"Well it wouldn't, would it?" He held his hands out, as if his reasoning was self-evident.
"I don't get it. This isn't another of those stupid toxic masculinity macho--"
"No, no, no-- well, maybe, yes. It's one of those blurred line things. I mean... it probably factors in somewhere if you really think about it..."
She looked completely unimpressed.
"Where I grew up, I got the shit beat out of me a lot. Even when I was old enough and my powers kicked in to the point where I could have been putting kids into hospital." He tried to explain.
"And in these places where I grew up, the two easiest ways to protect yourself were to be a psychopath who throws his fists at everything... and believe me, I knew a lot of them... or have everyone believe you were a psycho who would throw his fists at everything."
"So you were pretending? Acting?"
"I would never say this to anyone else... but yeah. Truth is, I don't really like to fight. I mean, I 'can'. You don't grow up how I did without being able to at least a bit. But ever since my powers came in, I kind of lost my stomach for it, and I don't really like being around the types who actually would throw fists at anything."
"Well, what if he didn't fall for it? What if he decided he really did want to?"
"He didn't. So long as you're not stupid and overly aggressive it tends to keep you out of more fights than drags you into. Bein' around the kind of people who are up for a fight... that'll drag you into more."
"But what if HE DID, Andrew." Her exasperation palpable.
Banjo chuckled. "Then I'd better have found my interest in fighting pretty bloody quick. Nothin' will see you get your arse kicked quicker than not wanting to be in a fight you're caught in. But it wasn't gunna happen."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because, like I told you. I've been around people who are like that. And that guy... he ain't it."
"Because you hung around people like that?" She said. He spotted a trace of nervousness in her tone. The same kind of apprehension he'd often picked up on when he'd voiced his decision to be a defense attorney.
"I've KNOWN people like that." He clarified. "And it doesn't necessarily make them bad people. They just... grew up in situations which changed them that way. I wouldn't want to be that way."
"If it doesn't make them bad people, then why wouldn't you want to be like that?"
The clear pointed question skewering the issue. She'd gotten right to it. He snorted a half-laugh recognising what she'd done.
"Because once they start looking at the world like that. Defensive. Quick to violence. They become a hammer in a world of nails. Once you become the kind of person who's so beat up that you throw fists at everything... it can be hard for those people to know when to stop throwing them."
He smiled at her.
"Like I said. Doesn't make 'em bad people. But they're people who got pushed into a corner, found a means of survival for that corner, and then when they're out of that corner, that means of survival... it can lead to bad situations."
Things could get pretty bad. They'd been pretty bad for him, even if the physical scars had long since faded. But he'd never needed to be that way. He'd found another way.
Banjo sat in the chair with a towel wrapped around his shoulders.
Vincenzo looked on with a skeptical expression, surveying the terrain.
"Whaddaya reckon? Can anything be done?" The Butler, known to the island as 'Harry Holt' uttered.
"Leonardo... from pristine untouched marble pulled from Carrara quarries in Tuscany, could make the most beautiful sculptures you have ever seen. With this, Harry, this untouched mop. I must thank you! Vincenzo will make art, the kind of which you have never seen!"
He unfurled a barber's set, clippers, scissors of all kind and began to whistle whilst he worked.
"I guess I should be glad you didn't just tell him where my spare sheep shears are and set him loose with the handpiece." He said, wincing, as Vincenzo pulled a stray tangle with a comb, before divining that this marble certainly needed more spray.
"I told you we'd take care of you." His older keeper reminded him. "I'm more surprised that bird of yours never grabbed the shears and went after you herself. Her patience... boundless."
"I'm sure she'll love it!" The euphonious sing-song tone of their neighbour's enthusiasm brought the audience to a silence.
Banjo fell dark at the mention of Calliope.
The Butler had wrangled a handful of his neighbours over on the alumni island to come together into his home for the charitable effort of making him look halfway presentable.
Vincenzo was thrilled that his moment to shine was upon him. But it was his neighbour from the house behind, Margot, who had lent the most hours to the effort.
Not that she had any idea just how many hours she had sunk.
In a past life, Margot had been 'Margot Saunders' and that name had been up in lights on many a Hollywood marquee. She was one of the most glamorous actresses of a Hollywood era which truly worshipped the triple threat she presented as musicals took place of pride in the entertainment scene. Whispers and murmurings of how much longer she could sustain a career in the industry threatened the career and lifestyle she had grown to love, when she was given a gift from the gods. The Coronal Mass Ejection born from the darkness of the eclipse.
In the tabloids it would be reported that a newly hired makeup girl had seemed to turn back the career of the 'Nightingale' Margot Saunders. The truth she kept hidden. Her career revivified, as she returned to stage and silver screen.
For about a decade... as the genre itself fell into decline and her career became a relic inconsequential of her appearance or her age.
In fact her youthful appearance and apparent overeagerness learned from professionalism only left her the target of ridicule. An artefact of a bygone year unwilling to accept its time was over.
Because whilst Hollywood desperately wants women to remain young forever. It will still have deep skepticism of any who can.
A retirement thrust upon her and a limelight stolen from her, she had long ago picked up her not unsubstantial career earnings and looked for a place where she could have her secrets. To this island, where she had now been teaching a less than willing Australian for a few months now - before the senior dance had even been anounced. On Harry's request.
Of course she had no idea it had been a few months. The tragic irony of her hyperhuman power. Whilst it had presented her with the appearance of eternal youth, it had no impact on her mind. She had long since succombed to dementia, and her short term memory was at best spotty.
But she liked her affable, friendly neighbour who was always up for a chat. And the dance lessons had allowed her to revisit past glories - even if only between her own ears for brief moments at a time. Her long-term memory was fine, particularly regarding every minute detail of her own filmography and stagework. Her short-term memory was long gone. Margot had been told all about Calliope, even met her a few times, although the lessons remained a secret - intended to be a surprise for later. And had even been told of her returning home last time he was here. It wasn't her fault. He knew it wasn't her fault. But it all still hurt. Rolled into the big ball of pain he'd been going through since his leg forced changes upon him.
"Mate... it's al--" The Butler took an opportunity to grab a shoulder whilst Vincenzo changed his weapon of choice.
"It's fine." He grunted bluntly. "If nothin' else, she'll still get the photos out of it, eh?"
The older man nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, mate. I'll send her the photos."
"So, you wear the old fashioned classical tuxedo, eh? Vincenzo saw it hang as he came in. We will make this work, perfect, pristine, bellissimo!"
"You're sure it's not too short?" He winced, clumps of his hair dropping to the floor.
"Hey! Canvas! You no talk. You no know what you want. Vincenzo knows what you want."
"Canvas? I thought I was marble."
"Much-a the same. You do not have input on art. Art is being done to you. Sit there. Become beautiful."
Banjo turned his head to the Butler. "Sit here. Become beautiful. Are you kidding me?"
"Hey! You no turn your head!" With a firm finger he redirected Banjo's head to the front.
"It is for Vincenzo to have you make others turn their head. Yes?" The barber tutted as he applied the finishing touches to his work.
Banjo sighed.
"Hey! No sigh. Adds wrinkles." He murmured to the younger man, as he finished with shaping the back of his neck with a razor.
"That is true. It does add wrinkles." Margot added her own beauty tip from a bygone era.
"Now! You tell Vincenzo this is not a thing of beauty!" He gestured to the back of his head for the others to admire his work.
"Well, seein' as I'm sittin' in old mate's kitchen with a towel wrapped around me, and not in your barbershop, and there's nary a bloody mirror in sight. I'm just gonna have to take your word for it. Aren't I?" Banjo snarked.
"This is true! Mirror! He needs a mirror!" The Italian barber exclaimed.
"It looks great, mate. He's done a top job croppin' your mop, cob'." The Butler lent support.
"It looks spectacular, Vincenzo! You've done so marvellously!" Margot lent her glowing review.
"Ehh! Molte grazie! Ciao, a presto. I must go! One of Vincenzo's stories is about to start!" He rolled up his barber's tools, donned a hat and with a wave to the adults in the room bid everyone farewell.
"I can't help but notice, the bloke who cut my hair is headin' for an early exit before I can find meself a mirror..." More snark.
"Relax, mate. Like I said. Looks great. Now shower and suit. I'll see you off back down to Dundas myself."
Banjo hobbled off to the bathroom letting the towel hang off his shoulders for a quick clean before pouring himself into his suit. He let the water beat down on the back of his head and neck and run down his face, taking stray gulps that ran to his mouth before spitting it onto the floor, running a hand back and forth over his significantly lighter head to clear off loose hair.
He didn't really want to be doing this any more. All of it was for everyone else. And it was eating at him.
He was going to the dance because she'd said she still wanted to see how he'd look there. The effort she'd put into making this night work, so it wouldn't go to waste where he was concerned. But it wasn't really his scene in the first place.
Helping Zimmerman and maybe Big Steve..? As if he could. If they weren't beyond help altogether, he sure as Hell didn't know what greater wisdom he could hope to impart on anyone. Not in this field at least. He'd got beyond lucky. If you believed in luck.
And if you believed in luck he was right down the other end where that was concerned right now.
Shampoo. Conditioner. Soap. He looked downright civilised now. Nudity aside.
The water stopped and he stepped to the bathmat a much neater complete mess than a few hours ago.
By the time he emerged in his tuxedo, sans tie, he saw the older pair dancing in the living room to pass the time. They uncoupled as he approached.
"Bloody Hell, kiddo! Made a new man out of you!"
Banjo did not care much for this new man at all.
"Let's get that tie done, eh?"
Banjo approached and did up his top button. His collar popped he watched once again as the older man tied the bow-tie, twitching his head back out of the way to avoid theolder man flipping his nose with the tie this time, as a smile creased across the Butler's face.
"I know, mate. It's not the same." He pulled the two sides even. "But there's worse things in this world than doin' things for others and bringing happiness to other people."
"Oh. Fuck. Off." He sighed.
"What?" The older man stopped and sized him up.
"Look. I'm fine. I'm goin' through the motions. But don't act like this is some after-school special or some learnin' experience or anything like that. It's some bullshit to get through. And I'm gettin' through it. That's all."
The Butler stepped back.
"And you're not my goddamn dad either. Acting like you've ever been teaching me any lessons in the first place, what? Just because she's around?" He pointed at Margot. "Who are you kidding, you're just a bloke who used to drive me around between schools. Where were you when I was actually AT any of them? Phantom. Ghost who bloody walks, mate. Til it was time to pick me up and drag me off somewhere again."
"Well, I'm here now. When you're at this one."
"Yeah! Because you live here. Amongst these people. And you're worried they're gonna judge you or somethin', so you've changed how you are and give a shit about being present or some shit. Which you never cared about before."
The older man looked notably hurt and just bobbed his head in sarcastic agreement with a screwface.
"Well, I guess you got me pegged, huh?"
"Mate. You're not that deep. I had you figured out years ago."
He gave a half-hearted chuckle with a sigh.
"C'mon. I said I'd take you back to Dundas. Let's--"
"Don't bother. I've got to go back to my dorm anyway. Pick up the other two. If I don't drag them out they'll probably never leave the room."
"There ya go. Ever the hero... what a martyr--"
"Not a hero. Never said I was a hero. Never even said I was a good person. I'm not trying to be. I'm just a regular bloke who wants to be left the fuck alone to live my own life. That's it."
"Whatever. Smile, you want me to snap this shot right..? Then we'll go."
"..." He glowered. Dark clouds filling his head.
He moved and stood by one of the bare walls, big grin as fake as any he'd accused Gil of having, whilst the Butler fired off some stills.
"You want to check these or--?" The older man flipped through his phone at the pictures.
"It's me in a monkeysuit... she'll be glad I made that much of an effort. Whatever reason she liked me enough outside of the thing..."
The Butler sized him up after his photos and considered what he was looking at. He grabbed the remote, flicked through and selected a golden oldie movie.
"Right-o. Margot, just gotta drop the kid off. Is it alright if you hang about and I'll see you home when I get back. We've got--"
"Ohhh 'That Girl'! Did you know that I was in this one... I remember when I first got given the script for this one and I said, 'I told you, I'd never work with that--'" The older starlet of the silver screen reminsced, taking a prime seat in front of the television.
"Ahh... she'll be right." He quietly said to the sullen younger man.
"I told you, I'll find my own way."
"And I told you I'd take you. And if I weren't a man of my word, we wouldn't be here."
Hard to argue that logic, however he felt.
"Besides, the ferries aren't as frequent this time of night, and my boat's quicker. Gotta get right 'round the other side of the island, remember?"
"Are you kidding me? I just got in this suit, I'm in no shape for it, and now you're gonna expect me--" The younger man had visions of having to launch his boat, barefoot and with his pants rolled up his legs.
"Relax. I got myself pier-space for the occasion. It's docked. I just don't usually."
Here it comes. Some stupid half-baked sentiment.
"Always figured launching the boat was part and parcel of the whole experience."
The two walked down towards the docks, where they could see the large fishing boat was indeed moored.
"What's with you, anyway? Somethin's... not right."
"I'm just pissed off."
"Nah. That's not it."
"What do you me--"
"I've seen you pissed off. Over the years, I've seen all ninety-nine flavours of you. I've seen 'pissed off', I've seen 'sullen', I've seen 'cheeky bastard', 'despondant', 'crying ugly tears'... that one's fun..." He mimicked the crying of a small boy complete with gasps and sniffing. "I-- I-- I-- jus-- I..." Then the rakish grin once again returned to his face just as quickly. "I've seen 'contemptuous', 'contemplative', very briefly I once saw 'content'. That one scared the shit out of me..."
"But this is something different." The grin left and was replaced with something else. A look of genuine concern. "Something new."
"I'm--" He hesitated. Unsure how to parse exactly what was happening. He'd thought about it, how could he not. But never given it enough consideration to properly convey it to other people. It had been hard enough talking to Calliope.
"It sounds pissweak. But this leg. It's just completely changed how I've had to live and I'm not dealing with it. I'm pissed off all the time now. All the time. Believe it or not, I actually spoke to one of the shrinks here it's been bothering me so bad..."
"Shit..." The older man muttered. Knowing full well how unlikely it was for him to ever do anything like that.
"...I just. I feel like I'm in a box. I can't do anything that I want to do. I'm scared to stretch out and do anything, because... There's all these rules I've got to follow or my leg won't heal properly. If after all this time, my leg doesn't heal right and I knew I could have done more--"
"This is you..?" The older man asked. Before following almost incredulously. "You ARE in a box."
"Hey! Nobody puts me in a box!" Re-ignited by the thought of a force to push against.
"And yet... it sounds like you're in one, kiddo. So who put you in there?"
He didn't like the sound of that. But more unarguable truth, regardless how he felt.
"I-- guess I put myself in it?"
They reached the boat and the older man gave a shrug as if to say 'Well, what are you going to do about it?', before jumping aboard and heading for the wheelbridge. The younger man straddled the boat and pier by the rope, ready to cast off once the older man started the engine, considering his next action.
The engine turned over and he untied the boat and pushed off with a weak leg. He went into the interior and up the ladder, before joining the older man on the wheelbridge.
"It's not you. This. The way you've been. It's a shit colour for you."
"Well, yeah. But what am I supposed to do?
"It sounds very much to me like you're not livin'."
"I'm not! But how would I deal with that? If I'm the reason that I walk with a limp for the rest of my life?"
"I don't know if I should tell you this, because when you are healthy and right, that's not exactly the best for the people around you either... but--"
The older man sighed.
"What?"
"You're thinkin' about this all wrong."
The younger man screwed up his face skeptically.
"At the end of the day. Your leg's either going to be right, or it isn't. Right?"
"Yeah..?"
"Yeah. So you could do all the right things and at the end of it, it could still not heal right. Yeah?"
"Well, yeah. But at least I'd know that it wasn't because of me. Wasn't because I'd done anything dumb."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I wasn't aware I was talking to someone who cared about doing dumb things and making dumb mistakes."
"Not the same thing. Not mistakes. Sure, I may get myself tossed out of some schools because they can't take a joke, but its not like I didn't know they were going to do it when I was planning on--"
"Never known someone who puts more thought into doing dumb things than you do."
"Exactly."
"So what part of your plan had you getting hurled across--"
"Alright, alright..."
"--by one of the world's most wanted hyperhuman terrorists, no less. What part of your plan was that again?"
"I said 'alright', already."
"Face it, kiddo. You make dumb mistakes just like everybody else. Even if you choose not to look at it like this. What you need to be doing is find a sustainable middle. Do what you can to help the healing process, but don't stop living. Because if how you were back there is anything to go by, you're probably making life miserable for the people around you."
"Hey! She--!" He exploded.
"Not talkin' about her, mate. She had a genuine family drama, by the looks. There's other people on these islands too. Speakin' of..."
He pulled his phone out and fired off a text message.
"What?" He called out over a particularly loud wave.
"Just told those pair of roommates you have to not wait up and meet you there."
"--but yeah. Sustainable middle. Because what you're doing now. It isn't. And however your leg turns out tomorrow... well, there's gonna be a day after that. So how are you gonna be then?"
Banjo thought about it. However his leg turned out he didn't want to be how he was now. He knew that much. But surely he wouldn't be. The rules would all be lifted. He could--
No. It didn't sit right. The old man was right. Even with everything gone back to how it was, HE would know what happened. He would know that he could be changed, broken, from something as stupid as a threat to one leg.
This was unacceptable.
The old man spoke up as if he could read his thoughts.
"I'll tell ya, I suspect there's a handfull of Principals and teachers where, if they knew you could be broken and gotten to stick to the rules with something as simple as this, they'd have broken your leg long ago." He chuckled.
"You're not bloody wrong..." He mumbled to himself. Ever unwilling to concede a point.
"From you? Shit, I'll take it..." The old man said with a laugh, before throttling up as the boat skimmed across the waves, curling around Dundas Island's coastline.
Banjo hobbled across the campus at an irregular pace for him. He was known to take his time between classes, with a reputation for being late to all of them.
Anyone who saw him would likely have suspected he was up to something. After all, he seldom had any other reason to rush anywhere. Least of all because anybody was waiting for him and expecting him. This evening was somehow different.
Or they would have, if they hadn't seen something which would seem even more irregular.
Walking across the quad towards the A.R.C arm in arm were Aurora and-- not Lorcán. What was his name? Shit-- he knew it. Some dumbarse name like Tyler or Tayler or Ch--
Chad. That was it. Water polo jock. From Chadwick and his merry numbnuts band of dickweeds.
He was familiar with them from an afterparty for an intramural hyperball event. Banjo wasn't particularly impressed with how they talked. And if he were honest, Chadwick didn't seem particularly impressed by anything about Banjo either.
But 'Raw..?
He'd given her advice in regards to Lorcan the night before the Trials...
...and now this. Whatever happened after his brilliant advice it hadn't worked, that was for damn sure.
Well, that didn't bode well for his abilities to impart any brilliant wisdom on Zimmerman.
Don't. That shade of sorry for yourself, its a bad colour on you.
Without wasting another thought on them as they entered the A.R.C, he limped onwards towards the night's venue and the two familiar faces milling around outside; one stoic, the other pacing.
"There you are, man! We've been freaking out--!
"I've been fine."
"--people have been going in already, my Mom sent me this suit, and I don't even know how to tie a bow-tie... and everything's--"
"Stop." Banjo hobbled onwards, approaching the smaller man. "Here." His fingers slapped his own palm as he gestured for the tie.
Alex's eyes raised, as he handed it over. Banjo popped the smaller man's collar and perfectly duplicated the process the Butler had performed less than an hour ago, leaving two perfectly balanced equal sides slid to the centre.
"Is-- is it okay?"
Big Steve nodded to him.
"What? You think I'd give you a bum steer?"
The pair of bookish roommates shared unspoken looks between them.
"Don't answer that..." He snapped, but he needn't have worried, they were still trying to figure out what he'd just said. "Your parents gonna expect some Happy Snaps? C'mon. Let's get in there..."
Limping inside, he waited a few seconds to watch as the first of the pair prepared to get photos to send home on the red carpet, before moving on and hobbling off inside without them.
Virtual band, elaborately decorated tables, the perfectly selected furnishings in their classy red, white, black and gold. The way the students had come together to complement the style.
He sighed.
It was perfect. It was everything she was hoping the trials would have been. And she wasn't here to see it.
He looked back to see if Zimmerman and Big Steve had managed to pass the cameras and make their 'Grand Entrance' yet, but it was still taking them some time. The 'paparazzi' snapping red carpet shots hadn't exactly made them a priority, so it was taking some time.
Almost on instinct he began his ascent up the stairs to the mezzanine and the bar. His hand on the cool gold railing. His pace slow, as he took in the sights and sounds. The music, the ambient sound of students enjoying the night. The sights, the sounds...
He needed a goddamn beer. Never before had he needed a goddamn beer like right now.
And then he saw Chad minus dickweeds making haste for the bar, cutting through.
He knew exactly why he was so eager. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach. A voice inside tried to push back what he remembered overhearing from that night.
Don't. Just don't.
His lopsided legs kept taking him to the bar though.
Just get a beer. You need a beer. Leave it.
Chad minus dickweeds was at the bar now. Less than three metres ahead.
Don't... Don't say anything. You don't need to get involve--
"Hey. Noticed you're over there with 'R--'" he pulled himself up from using his overly familiar nickname for her, as he stepped to the bar. "Mitchell."
Leaning up against the bar, Chad slowly turned his head to face the accent that just assumed he could casually start up a conversation with him. The dark haired boy didn’t stoop to associate with lesser types who didn’t belong in his world, but he was bored waiting for his drink, so, he cleared his throat.
“And?” He questioned, brow furrowed, “What’s it to you?”
Banjo was well familiar with the disdain. He had his own reputation and had never done anything but lean into it, after all. So it wasn't foreign at all, the cadence, as if he was addressing something unfortunate that he'd stepped in.
"Just--"
God he hated injecting himself into people's bullshit like this. Don't-- Goddamit. You're already doing it...
"I don't know what's happened here. She's free to make her own decisions. But I know her-- she's had enough people passing through her life and leaving her..."
Ugh. The earnest words felt distasteful coming from him, so he changed gears. Grew colder.
"She's on my team. If I have to deal with a lot of tears after tonight. I'm not gonna be very happy."
Chad couldn’t help but roll his eyes, the attempt was laughable at best. Did this guy really think a few words would intimidate him? From the school’s laughing stock, at that.
“Listen, Bongo, mind your own fucking business and go run back to that little girlfriend of yours.” He paused, pretending to think for a moment, “Oh that’s right, you can’t, cause she’s gone and forgot to take you with her. Pity.” He caught the eye of the bartender, raising his eyebrows and smirking, the two clearly familiar with one another, “Whiskey, neat, and a vodka soda. Both doubles, make them strong.” He ordered before looking back at Banjo.
In his pocket, the hand that wasn't on the bar, curled into a fist. His mouth flattened to a single tight crease. He was out of shape; on one leg. He hadn't juiced in as long as he could remember, and he was looking at someone who was equally matched even if he had.
The growl from his gut wanted to cold-cock him here and now. Drop him with a cheapshot before he even knew what happened. He'd get back up in seconds. Without juicing, he wouldn't have enough in the punch. He'd be back up and would beat the shit out of him before he could take enough in.
A big part of him didn't care. A big part of him wanted him to know he didn't give a shit how big an arse kicking he took for the opportunity to drop him cold and see the look on his face.
But HE'D know. He'd know he could get to him with what... some softball shit-talking?
Fuck right off with that...
Besides, he didn't KNOW that he was right about him in the first place. He could have just been eager to get them drinks and get back to his date. Not bloody likely... sure. But he couldn't know for sure just yet. It was all just prejudicial because he knew the man.
The fist in his pocket uncurled.
“Do yourself a favor and just quit while you’re ahead.”
Banjo chuckled, a lifeless guttural growl that never met the eyes, and suggested he hadn't 'been ahead' for quite some time.
"You're right. She's not here. So I guess I've got way too much free time on my hands, eh?"
Banjo turned and ordered his own vodka soda from the barkeep.
"Like I said though, bird's free to make her own decisions. Just see that they are her own decisions, eh?"
The bartender brought the drinks over and as they each reached across, he knocked the second of Chad's drinks all over his wrist.
"Ah shit. Doesn't matter. Just remembered I shouldn't be drinking anyway, what with the leg and all. Take mine." He quickly offered.
Another chuckle, this time with a spark of something more. The corner of his lips curled into a shit-eating grin.
As the drink spilled all over the arm of his suit, Chad swore, shaking the liquid off as best he could. He seethed, glaring at Banjo, before snapping at the bartender and wordlessly pointing at the empty glass. Instead of arguing or imparting more choice words on the blonde boy, he simply ignored him, giving him the coldest shoulder he could manage. He wasn’t worth his breath anyway.
Within seconds a new drink was placed in front of him, and Chad didn’t waste any time grabbing the two beverages and walking away. But not before tipping Banjo’s drink in the process, proceeding to get it all over the bottom of his jacket and the top of his pants.
Banjo turned back to the bartender and ordered a 'virgin screwdriver'.
The junior at the bar blinked twice.
"You mean--"
"Yup."
Zimmerman rushed up, with Big Steve lumbering somewhere behind.
"Are you alright? We just saw--" Alex pointed at Chad as he stormed away through the throng of students. "Do you need to get changed?"
The full glass slid to the bar behind him.
"What? Nah, it's vodka. It's clean. And what it does leave the soda will pick it up."
He sipped from his glass of orange juice, a wry grin on his face. Happier that he'd had his suspicions confirmed than that he'd come away from the altercation dry.
Bloody eager to get that one 'strong', eh? Too bloody eager.
"Nah, I'm fine fellas. Looks like I'm keepin' an eye out for more than just you two tonight though, gents."
I'm free-falling to earth, tumbling end over end in an uncontrolled spin. That special sense I have is blaring in my head like the half-time buzzer at Midtown High. My own momentum has me trapped in a way that even if I could see which way was up, 'up' wouldn't remain 'up' long enough for it to mean anything.
The only way hafway reliable thing I have to keep track of my bearings before the ground rushes up to meet me is that special sense... and like I said, it's so loud right now it's hard to cut through the fog.
I wonder if that Devil they have down in Hell's Kitchen ever has to deal with things like this.
I have time to wonder that, because of how high I'm falling from.
I'm about to pass some of the tops of the larger supertall skyscrapers now. So if I'm going to live through this, I'd better start to get my wits about me now. I'd be below One World Trade Center. But seeing as how I'm falling on Midtown that's not much good to me now.
Central Park Tower.
I throw out an arm and thwip blind.
The webline catches nothing but sky, as I keep spinning out of control. Which does nothing to quiet that sense I was telling you about.
Not gonna lie, that one was a hope and a prayer in the first place, for its distance.
I throw out a line to One Vanderbilt. I tag it, but not well. Well enough to pull myself back on balance and stop spinning though. If I slow down at all it's negligible.
But that's okay. You're upright now. You can do this. You're not gonna die. The trumming in my head eases off as the fog lifts a little.
I throw out another line and the light on my wrist blares red and it makes a noise as it ejects the last of its web-fluid in a line which barely hits another skyscraper. I try to make the most of it, but the frittering line flies from my grasp.
"That ain't good..."
The sense blares again. But fortunately... two hands, two web-shooters. It's only nervous panic and I fight through the thrumm, and take aim with my other wrist.
My webline strikes true and both it and my grasp holds. I pull myself taut with my other hand, making it useful regardless of it's lack of remaining webbing.
I throw out another line and--
Once again, the red light blares and the noise repeats.
"Oh, you have gotta be kidding me--"
I manage to keep my grasp of what little webline is produced and hold my swing to get what use I can from it.
The thrumming eases and with it I can regain my senses for my predicament.
I feel it before I see it. The sense tells me of a previous webline I used when I was swinging around in pursuit in the first place. Blowing in the breeze. I focus on my breathing to clear the sense as much as I can.
I really should figure out how to change these web-cartridges one-handed on the fly...
Nope. Doesn't help. Not useful now. Focus Parker. You're going to let go of this line and leap through the air and grab that other webline.
...while it blows in the breeze. Almost a thousand feet off the ground.
I time my jump to give me the most wiggle-room possible. The wind tries to blow it clear, but my hand manages to strike true.
"Oh thank God. Oh man... OhIthoughtIwasGonnaDieThere..."
I use the webline to swing around the building, and pull myself up to a solid ledge.
With shaking hands I reach to my belt and quickly replace the web-cartridge in my right hand. I grab another cartridge for my left and suddenly the sense blares like a klaxon.
"Oh c'mon, what now--hoik!" I manage to get out as the web cartridge falls to earth.
I'm hauled skywards once again by the lunatic in his green winged monstrosity.
"What, we've got two-for-one offers on all spider-buzzard related fights today?"
Not wasting any time I take out a fresh cartridge and snap it into my left web-shooter.
How do I get myself into these things..?
S P I D E R - M A N S P I D E R - M A N
It all started when I was out on assignment for the Bugle.
...
...alright, it all started when I put myself on assignment for the Bugle. I may have been feeling myself a little and thought I'd try my luck and my new press credentials to get into a Tech show for a local start-up made good - Bestman and Toomes.
"Peter Parker. Daily Bugle."
"Uh-huh. And they should have provided you with a press pass, buddy. Which says that. So I'm not expected to just take your word for it."
Which I would have if I actually went down to the offices like I said I was going to, gave them my paper work and actually picked up my press credentials. Before I decided to try out those press credentials I hadn't even physically laid hands on yet.
Live and learn.
"Umm... I-- must have left it in my other pants. If you call them up, they'll confirm it though. I'm theiir new Science and Technology--"
"Yeah, I'm not calling nobody. See, pal, even if I were to believe that you left it in your other pants, kid... which I don't. This sounds very much like a 'you' problem and not a 'me' problem."
I love New York.
"Look, I'm not kidding. I work for the Bugle. I need to get in there. Can you just--"
"Twenty bucks."
Oh. I see. The 'other' Press Pass. Accepted more places than American Express.
"...and you're not going down the front with the rest of the press. You're hanging back by the door with me. If it turns out I let you in and you're not press, could be my ass."
I reach for my wallet, and somehow find a twenty before moths fly out.
"So long as I can see and hear, that's fine."
Bestman and Toomes began as a small engineering startup out of Newark. A story of two local hometown boys, made good. Their work in electromagnetic generators promised to cut down considerably on the emissions of backup generators and increase efficiency across the board. They also were working on early proposals for converting the MTA New York City transit system to Maglev technology throughout the subway lines. It would be by far the biggest infrastructure project the burgeoning startup had ever undertaken, and the city would likely want to see a few more success stories before handing such an enormous undertaking to the local pair.
Afterall, this city may love its own, but New York expects.
Which is what this was about now. Their latest release. They were targeting a niche market with new personal devices and data storage units for the commercial and corporate sector.
It was a tricky bullseye to hit. The market for personal devices was fairly settled and it was difficult to enter. They were relying on the efficiency standards to appeal to a greener market and companies looking to hit greener targets that were now being brought in. Anything that could slice into that imprint without detracting from business in a meaningful fashion, and with a local release the pair hoped that sales trends might lead to a market spreading beyond the five boroughs as the product's usefulness and reputation spread.
"So it's all set up to specs as I asked?"
"Well, yes, but remember what I said... Don't open too many applications at once, you're going to want to close them as you go, or it might lock-up as you're--"
"Wait-- You're telling me the product which I've repeatedly hassled you about, which you have assured me is ready for launch, might lock-up if our customers 'try to open too many apps'."
"Our consumer-base its fine. It should fit their needs. But you don't want to go highlighting an issue at the launch. Tech-bloggers will have a fiel--"
"We're electromagnetic engineers. We work in data storage. And you're telling me there may be an issue with memory--"
"It hits our consumer-base's needs specs that you provided. And I've told you this for weeks. RAM is not--"
"I can't believe I'm hearing this..."
"And don't act like you're an electromagnetic engineer in the first place, Bestman..." His partner spat.
"And don't act like you have a creative bone in your body or the vision to see beyond your nose, Toomes."
A dark glower crossed Adrian Toomes face. He'd done all of the work. Bestman fired ideas for features and applications with no technical nouse or know-how or even appreciable ability to determine whether his requests were actually possible, let alone how they could be executed in the first place.
And there was funny business with the financial numbers. It wasn't Toomes forte, so he'd sought outside help to run a second more meaningful eye over the books, but Gregory Bestman had been making moves and manoeuvering. To what end Adrian still didn't know. But people in Bestman's position seldom did these things for any kind of benevolent or fair reason.
Which was why Adrian took his own extreme precautions to protect himself in the only way he knew how, with the only tools he had ever had at his disposal...
Peter's mouth was agape.
Gregory Bestman was dead. Much was still to be uncovered, but it looked like he had tanked this product's launch, and had been making moves to redistribute the company's capital to a second Bestman T. Electronics company of his own creation, with re-defined investment between his very irate partner.
He'd tried to take the company right out from under him, after a solid loss which would make it more affordable. One he was going to look to blame on the hardware of his partner's design.
And Toomes had snapped.
Some of it might have seemed justifiable... if it weren't for the corpse, and the wounded bystanders in the press row.
Peter slipped out the door at his back in the chaos, a masked figure returned.
"I'll tell ya, that was just murder. Sorry I'm late. You know how it is though. It's always crazy, the lines for the latest generation product..."
"Who?"
"Gotta say, you look more buzzard than owl with that beak of yours. But it's me. Your friendly neighbourhood Spider-man."
The dark glower returned over Toomes. His wings spread, and he turned to face the blue and red clad hero.
"And as your local representative authority in all things friendly in this neighbourhood, THAT does not seem very friendly at all. No, sir." He addressed the carnage at the front of the room.
The green winged figure soared towards the newest source of its irritation with a scream.
Peter hit him with both web-shooters without a real plan of what to do with the rapidly approaching figure once the threads hit him. They did little more than anger him further, as the figure grabbed Spider-man and drove him through the pull doors of the entrance.
The green figure didn't have much more of a plan either, and threw him aside once he got out to the street, before flying away down the street.
Peter shook himself off and threw a web-line up to swing off in pursuit.
This would prove to not be much more of a plan either.
Minutes later he'd be getting thrown from a height which small planes don't reach over the city.
I look up at Toomes from his grip as he once again looks to control the terrain of the battleground, taking us skyward.
Think Peter, think. What are we looking at here?
I run my eye over the contraption, presumably of his own design. Hard to believe you could buy kits of this kind of thing at Best Buy.
It's wings are clearly designed with sharp edges. Not sure if that was a feature, but it's already shown practical use cutting my web-line once or twice, and I wouldn't want to let myself get caught by them either.
So... Sharp wings. Probably powered by some kind of electromagnetic generator, knowing the man. Electromagnetic. That, I can use...
What that means, is that somewhere inside of this box, on the fetching green harness this batty buzzard is rocking. There's at least one magnet spinning rapidly on a coil... not unlike a certain Spider was several minutes ago... providing power by way of induction.
So I stop that, well, he's effectively wearing an ugly Halloween costume and not much more.
So let's stop that.
Ideally if I had a magnetic inverter, or some other kind of even more powerful magnet I could clean this thing up with no hassle at all.
"But if ifs and buts were candy and nuts--"
"What?"
"Oh nothing. Just had enough of the ride. Flaps." I say, as I strike the front of his left wing with a webline and yank down forcefully, causing Toomes to stall his flight's ascent as he seeks to regain control after slicing through the webline.
Well, that didn't do much. He's got too good a grip on me.
"Let's try this again, with meaning this time. FLAPS!"
I yank harder, and keep pulling, trying to force him into a barrel roll. At this point we have enough altitude that we're in no danger of hitting anything. If last time was anything to go by, not far off of where he plans to throw me from.
"You want me to let you go? Fine! Have a nice flight!" He growls, in frustration.
I seize the opportunity, hit his other wing with a webline and use my momentum to swing onto his back.
"Not just yet, Buzzard. I still have to get my baggage."
Using as much strength as I can muster, I throw a punch into the box and try to crush the panneling, doing whatever I can to expose the innerworkings. The panel buckles and I try to pry open the crack as best I can, but it barely budges.
This'll have to do. Now or never. I aim my web-shooter into the box and pour it on. Clogging the mechanism and preventing induction. Within seconds the thrust has gone and I'm now riding a glider.
"What have you done!? You've killed us both!"
I get to work on wrapping up his arms and legs with web-line. He clearly doesn't need these to control the wings.
"I've got to say, I find it really upsetting the lack of faith you seem to have in your local hero community. We really need a better class of villain. Do better."
I shoot a webline to the corner of each wing and lean back in the saddle.
"Now pipe down. I don't have my pilot's licence, so this is probably going to take some level of concentration..."
We start what could only be described as a controlled descent under the most generous interpretations of the term.
The man the media would come to call 'The Vulture' starts screaming at the rapid drop in altitude.
"Stop screaming... Like I said, this is harder than it looks. Any more and I'm gonna have to put you down in the Hudson."
The screaming doesn't stop.
"Alright. You called my bluff. Because I can't steer this thing at all."
After a singular inhale, the screaming gets louder still.
We descend rapidly through the skyline of the city as the sun begins to set. I throw out a webline and catch a building, wrapping my arm around the screeching supervillain and whisk him away, choosing to go with a landing more in my own particular style. Behind my mask, I smile as I see a store selling variety goods.
By the time the officers from the 86th Street Central Park Precinct get to the man hanging from the light post, with his harness covered in 'I Love New York' fridge magnets, the only evidence of how he got there is swinging away uptown.
I really should swing by the office while I'm in the city...
So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.</div>
PatientBean
Mao Mao
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Cyberlad
Qia
Half Pint
Festive
mickilennial
AndyC
Sep
