Tag Archives: heroes

You Are Iron Man

The Hero
Drawn into existence
Into the inevitable

To be beaten
To rise again

By our world
By our very dreams

Symbol of our hope
Sent into our darkness

Inner glow
Our guide light
Through our journey

Bold tester
Grappling unknown
So we may rest easy

Told to lead
Told nothing more

Of golden dawns
Of impossible wins

Know one
Or if no one
Be one

Claremont/Loeb: Red Reign X (part 1)

Part 1 in a 4 part limited series.

Meanwhile, famed X-Men scribe Chris Claremont found refuge in the Holodeck Training Room of the mysterious alien space craft. Yes! This will be an excellent position from which to prepare my counterstrike against HULK writer and newly announced Marvel Executive Vice-President of Television Jeph Loeb, the mad cretin against whom I most battle in order to satisfy my lust for vengeance! Chris Claremont furrowed his British brow as he contemplated his next move. I contemplate my next move, he thought as a subtle wind from a recently opened door nearby rustles through his bold, white, British beard, returning his focus to the present. What was that? A subtle wind, rustling through my bold, white, British beard! It must be from a nearby door that was only just opened! That can only mean one thing — Jeph Loeb has found me! But how could he find me so quickly when I am hiding out in the Holodeck Training Room of the mysterious alien space craft?

No sooner was Chris Claremont struck by this thought that he was attacked by a Type 3 Subsonic Plasma Blast. The explosion hurled his fat British body into a wall nearly 30 feet behind him, the force of which dented the metal and sent mysterious alien rubble crashing down around him. He soon found himself buried up to his waist in debris. The force of the blast knocked me into the wall nearly 30 feet behind me! It must have been at least a Type 3 Subsonic Plasma Blast! But who is capable of wielding such power?

At that moment, Chris Claremont’s angry British eyes — until now hidden by his furrowed British brow — collided with the eyes of his attacker. “Of course!” he cried. “Who else could it be but —”

“It is I! Jeph Loeb!” the attacked belched with a smarmy grin. The lights of the mysterious alien Holodeck refracted off of Jeph Loeb’s shiny forehead, as revealed by his receding hairline, and his LA TV executive sunglasses absorbed the energy in order to convert it into Type 3 Subsonic Plasma Blasts for his next attack.

“Tell me, Chris Claremont,” said Loeb. “Have you read HULK #24 yet, the latest chapter in my Red Hulk epic, a modern classic?” Chris Claremont spit daintily at the foot of his aggressor, as his proper British upbringing prevented him from engaging in any less polite or more combat-appropriate etiquette.

“Ha!,” replied Claremont. “Do you truly believe that a master of the form such as I would have the time to read such filth?”

“Perhaps if you stopped relying on such lengthy exposition, you would find the time! You should try phoning it in like me, rather than relying on convoluted storytelling like you always do! Then you will become a true master of the comic book from.”

“Only a master of evil, Jeph,” responded Claremont as he reached for his laser sword.

“Chris Claremont — there is something you must know. You are actually the gender-swapped alternate reality cyborg clone of the Red Christine Claremont from Earth-418, who is a writer on the HEROES remake in the 33rd century!”

Chris Claremont’s body went prostrate from the shock of this revelation, causing him to drop his laser sword, his last line of defense. “No!…that’s…that’s impossible!”

“Search your feelings, Chris. You know it to be true! Joe Quesada uncovered the truth when he got drunk with Stan Lee at Comic-Con last month. But he didn’t tell you, because he hates you and only keeps you around out of pity!”

This revelation filled Chris Claremont with a rage that his otherwise well-mannered British self had never encountered. A tingling sensation began to flow through his veins, like feet regaining feeling after falling asleep, and his skin turned a shade of blue-ish grey. Loeb was terrified, frozen in fear — he knew what this meant, of course, and it was as unexpected as it was inevitable.

“Loeb,” said Claremont as his body stretched and grew. “It’s %&*#in’ break !@$# time!”

To be continued!

Thin Ice

You slipped on the ice and I grabbed your arm, found myself falling with you. You were tiny, always you-sized, and though your heel should have acted like an ice pick, gravity always pulls us back down. The Reflecting Pool at the Christian Science Center had become a perilous tundra; it was probably about 7 degrees out—with the wind chill, somewhere negative, just like Boston Januaries often are. Still I braved the cold, like I always would for you, and we fell.

“I’m lost!” you yelled inside the bar. I could barely hear you from the couch at my apartment where I’d been waiting for you for the last 4 hours.

“Well, it sounds like you’re in a bar…” I said into that Bluetooth headset that my mother bought me for Christmas and you hated so much.

“But I don’t know where the bar is!” Yep. You were wasted. We had a date that night—we were supposed to have a date that night, anyway. We’d watch Heroes and eat Chinese, curl up, find warmth in one another, and finally spend a night together, a night just like the one we’d both dreamed of but neither could admit. You would come over after your Holiday party at work—you were only going to go for a few hours—but with all that free Champagne you were quickly whisked away. But you called, because you always call, and I swooped in to find you wandering the Back Bay streets in those pointy-toed leopard print heels that matched the silky slip you hid for me beneath your dress.

“No! I’m sorryyy I ruined our date!” you cried as I helped you get your balance again.

“No, you didn’t. It’s fine, we—”

“Yes! I did! We were supposed to—”

“I know.”

“—have a date tonight and we were gonna watch Heroes and—”

“I know.”

“—and eat Foodwall and-and then I got drunk!”

“It’s fine. Really!”

“I don’t want to be drunk anymore!” you cried and I pulled you close to me, kissed your lips with a passion I’d held in check for far too long; I didn’t know what to expect once I gave myself over to it, but a kiss like that was one that I had never had before, never have again. I wrapped my Angel coat around you as we held that moment close, and when our lips finally parted whispered, “Someone’s got to keep you warm” and discovered just how deep those auburn eyes could go. They smiled first, your eyes, and the stretch of the skin around them lifted your mouth upward into a crooked crescent moon.

Listen,” you slurred—you start every sentence slurring, “Listen…” when you’re drunk. Something like tears welled up behind my teeth, a tidal wave of overwhelming elation, and I took my eyes off of yours for just a moment when the streetlight refracted off the ice below and made glimmer the Celtic Trinity that I bought you for Christmas (you know how I am with shiny things).

My pupils returned to settle in yours like a matching key, turning to unlock the thought you started eight heartbeats ago:

“I love you.”