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| PREVIEW | From Superheroes!
Birds of a Feather by Skylark 97 “Oh hey, they call you Griffon ‘cause you’re a gryphon!” “Yes, it’s terribly clever of me,” Griffon deadpanned, taking in the sight of yet another very strange, very crazy person in dark purple and black spandex. “However did you crack the code?” “Because I am Purple Death, and you have finally met your match, Griffon!” Speaking of terribly clever names. Griffon barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes he figured that if the city spent as much money on taking care of its mentally unstable inhabitants as they did recruiting superheroes, the crime rate would be a great deal lower. But hey, where was the fun in that? It was much better to have overweight men with Albert Einstein hair attempt to ineptly poison the entire population with highly contagious and deadly diseases like anthrax or smallpox. Purple Death gave the patented evil genius laugh, and Griffon watched with some fascination as his double chin jiggled. “I will rule this city!” Or, with some meds, maybe the psychiatric ward of Savior City General Hospital? Just a thought. “You’re right. With your cunning intelligence and scientific know how, I don’t stand a chance against you.” Angering the crazies just never went as smoothly as one might think. It was much easier to simply agree with them right up until the second he defeated them. That was where he and his father differed. Dear old Dad called it the pansy ass way of dealing with the trash. Best to let the bad guys know right away what the sides were and exactly where they stood. Then again, Griffon had never quite managed to have the balls his father did. Humoring the crazy bad guy usually at least gave him an advantage, and he wasn’t arrogant or confident enough to believe that he didn’t need every advantage he could get. “My plan is fool proof! Even as we speak, my tiny machines are marching across Savior City Mall getting ready to unleash their little gassy bombs of death.” Purple Death’s eyes glittered in unholy glee. Somewhere out there was a book, Griffon decided, of crazy things to say when faced with a self appointed arch nemesis. Gassy little bombs of death? It was a cross between evil genius and frat house joke. Still, after he dealt with Purple Death, there was an entire mall to scour for creepy little robotic creatures releasing deadly germs. Just the way he wanted to spend his Saturday. Crawling on the floor between spotty faced teenagers and mothers with bawling babies. “Are you the one they call Purple Death?” Griffon turned slowly at the question that was asked in stereo, because quick movements had a tendency to startle the crazies into doing less than sane things. Of course, assuming that anything sane would occur while in the midst of battling said crazies was probably expecting too much. Case in point, Griffon found himself looking at identical faces standing opposite Purple Death. Which wouldn’t be strange if he and Purple Death weren’t on the roof of an abandoned warehouse building in the worst district of town and the identical faces weren’t dressed like they’d stepped off the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. How was it that bad guy crazy people could find the funds to dress like they were rolling in wealth? That kind of detailed purple spandex suit did not come cheap. And every inch of the identical faces’ tailored suits screamed designer. Griffon felt like the most underdressed superhero in the universe. Was it his fault that the washing machine was broken and that the drier had Canadian quarters jammed in it? He did have nicer clothes. Honest. At the very least, he was sure he had a pair of jeans somewhere that didn’t have holes in the knees. And maybe there were one or two shirts his wings hadn’t ripped through yet. Crap. His father went out in nothing less than his specially designed thousand dollar flashily professional superhero suit. The clothes made the man, his father would lecture. But, well, Griffon had faced the facts. He’d never be on the Falcon’s level. He fought crime in jeans that were butter soft, not because they’d been made that way but because he’d worn them to the barest of threads. And yes, he was pretty sure that he’d fished the shirt with the ancient logo for cupcakes on it from some ultra cheap bin at a thrift store. He was a superhero, not the poster child for fashion awareness. Although, standing next to the twins, he realized that he was probably due for a haircut. About six months ago. ... |
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