The random soccer field suspiciously near the headquarters of the Minnesota Infinites, at least on Thursday nights
Glitch
So the babe in the field said hi. And I could tell that she was an admirer of my super-powered awesomeness. Maybe she had followed my exploits. Maybe she was from a comic book company and wanted to feature me! I could just see my name on a cover in a radical gnarly font that said, "Glitch: Hero of all Heroes and Stopper of Bad Dudes from Getting Things that would Almost Maybe End the World Kind of Quite Probably..." It was going to be a sweet comic. And if this babe lady was from the comic book company, I need to impress her by showing her other things I can do.
"I feel the same, babe lady. So, I'm guessin' that you rep like from one of the comic books, and you're lookin' for the next, greatest, most epic heroes to grace a new comic book line. Well, you came to the right place an' all. Dude. I'm the one you're looking for! I'm gonna be the next great comic book superhero! I've already taken down, um, well, when you count on both hands exponentially, zero bad guys and all. But my time's comin'!... Ok, so like what I was tryin' to speak when I so rudely interrupted myself was that if you are launching a new comic, or even just rebooting an old comic and don't want to use the old hero, I'm your guy!
"So, I'm guessin' that you need, like, a demonstration of my super-powered awesomeness on display. Right. Dude. Check out the soccer field! I'm already doing it!"
On the soccer field right then, someone among the heroes had the brilliant new rule that from then on, the only balls that could score goals were the baseballs, the croquet balls and the hockey pucks. And, that rule went, that in order to score a goal, people had to headbash those balls into the goal. Sideways. While hopping on one leg. Glitch, however, was still somehow playing makeshift goalie by having the goal stop functioning as a goal, so nothing could go in. As if there was a giant invisible force field preventing things from going in. So a good number of baseballs, croquet balls and hockey pucks were headbashed in, only to fall flat a few feet away without going in. Only, then Glitch's power stopped, and the goal started working normally again as a goal. And then the headache-heroes started scoring more goals.
"See that? I was an awesome goalie. For a while. But now, you want to see my other ability. No, you must see what else I can do, so the comic book company can get the full scope of my extensiveness. I'd demonstrate on you, but you kind of need to have a clear noggin' and all to report back to the comic book company. But, since my friend Donut-Guy is here, I'll demo on him. Observe the excellentness!"
Then, Glitch turned to Matthew, and said, "Dude, this won't hurt a bit." And then, used his stupidity inducement power on his friend, turning his friend into a person with the mind of a drooling vegetable, that is, like an alien shaped like a vegetable who drools, and who also is stupid.
And to the lady, Glitch said, "Now he's stupid for awhile. But when it wears off, he'll be like super-genius for a while. Dude."
A farm outside of Orient
The angry farmer
The farmer was in line and range of Florida Man's lethal bullet spray. And just as he was preparing to be hit by the slew of shots heading his way, a pheasant leaped up out of the tall grass, getting hit, and dying agonizingly. The farmer breathed a sigh of relief. But in fact, with the shots fired back at him, he sat down, grabbed his heart ("Arggh! My weak ticker!") and called 911 to report a medical emergency - his heart condition, and at least several wounded thieves - shot in self-defense, of course. He gave his name, address, email, height, weight, medical history, shoe size, and the last movie he had seen in a theater. Then he hung up, picked up his shotgun for one last blast at the villains, and slumped against a nearby post.
The cows, meanwhile, had all vanished. Those who were trapped in by Diet Cola's rivers of diet cola had stampeded down the road and could not be seen. Those that were on the outsides had all scattered, most to supposedly other fields that could not be seen. It was all quiet, other than the sound of sheriff sirens and ambulance sirens getting louder.
Each villain who had a phone, driving off in the shotgun blast-riddled 3-door car of Jason Dolar each got a textmessage on their phones. It was from some untraceable number and blocked name. But when opening the message, all it said was this:
Mr. Big wants to talk to you. Now. Call him at this number. 1-582-437-2123. What are you waiting for you dolts? HE SAID NOW!
