Post by Lunatic on Aug 7, 2015 19:40:17 GMT -5
A Looney Introduction - Part Four
(Recap: "Wild Thing" Stuart Michael Sampson sprung his friend and former Titan Wrestling Association tag partner, "Lunatic" Marc McGwire out of Osawatomie State Mental Hospital. From there, he introduced Marc to the Kansas City headquarters of A.R.R.E.S.T., a mysterious organization apparently designed to assist authorities when meta-humans commit violent crimes. Stuart keeps threatening to take Marc to meet someone named Grontor. Speaking of fish...)
Stuart knocked on an ornate teak wood door with a name plate proclaiming that the space behind it housed the living diamond, Grontor. "Come in."
Lunatic nudged Wild Thing in the ribs with his elbow, "More code talk? You sick perverts." He leaned next to the door frame as Stuart opened the door. "I'mma stay right here and let you and the living engagement ring get your freak on. I keep telling you I don't swing..."
Wordlessly, Stuart snagged Marc by the collar of his shirt, lifting him unceremoniously inside with a surprised meep. "Sorry it took so long, boss," Stuart deposited Marc onto one of the Corinthian leather high back office chairs in a heap.
Marc scanned the room, taking in his unscheduled surroundings as well as the new company in his midst. Along with his longtime friend, whom he now glowered at with newfound suspicion, there was the gargantuan humanoid jewel known as Grontor, most of his form clad in a rather smartly tailored Brooks Brothers pinstriped suit and tie. Other members of the peanut gallery included "Wild Thing's" patent leather covered wife, Minx, as well as a disproportionate man who looked as if someone had stuck a baseball head on a pipe cleaner body.
The walking stick figure had on white and blue spandex uniform with a collar that stood up like the petal of a spike-shaped flower running only half the circumference of the flower as if someone had plucked the other half in a desire to know if she loved him or loved him not. The imagery that popped in Looney's mind immediately made him choke back a fit of laughter at the strange looking man's expense.
"Welcome aboard, Mr. McGwire," started Grontor with an extended hand. Marc shook the hand, making a mental note of just how extremely strong, yet gentle the grip was, and just how sharp the cut edges of the being's every angle felt. Any sudden move on Marc's behalf could end up easily shredding the skin of his into spaghetti.
After regaining what composure he could muster, he tilted his head at the situation, displeasure took hold as the circumstances finally dawned on him. "Aw! You didn't tell me we were going to a meeting! BO-RING!"
"We'll make this as quick as..." To his shock, Grontor was met by loud, sincere snoring as Lunatic had draped himself over the arms of the office chair, apparently sawing logs instantly. The diamond man shook his head, picking up a paperclip in his obscenely large hand. He flattened his palm, flicking the paperclip with his other hand, driving it deep into the hard redwood arm, waking Marc up with a start.
Looney scrunched his body nearly into an upright fetal position, his eyes widened from staring at the smoking hole where the fastener entered with bullet like force. "Do I have your attention now?" Afraid to utter a single syllable, Marc slowly nodded in compliance. "Good." Grontor cleared his crystalline throat. "The reason you're here is because Stuart here suggested we use you for this particular mission."
Lunatic perked up instantly. "Mission? I get to be like a spy, or some junk?" Marc skipped around the room, whooping and hollering like a hobo that just struck the lottery. Finally, he settled back into his chair, poking around the hole created by the wire, giving it his full attention. "Not interested."
"You're not being given a choice," explained Grontor motioning at the lanky man. "Hard way it is, then. Fugue, if you would, do the honors?"
"My pleasure." The spindly gentleman's eye began glowing as he extended his arms towards Lunatic.
The same grey colored aura began bubbling around Marc's head, causing him a great deal of pain. He clutched his noggin, writhing in agony as the man he had thought was so comical before inserted commands into his mind against his will. After a few second, the world faded away and Lunatic lost consciousness.
*******
Marc awoke ensconced in a padded cell, wrapped snugly in a heavy canvas straightjacket with no recollection. At all. He couldn't remember how he got in this room. He couldn't recall the circumstances that lead to his forced exile. What few memories he did have were jumbled like a fresh jigsaw puzzle; the pieces were there, but nothing was paired together correctly.
He got flashes of some sort of secret society or guild, even a memory of an old friend guiding him through its corridors. He recollected meeting a cat-woman, seeing another female who looked as if she were made from pure sunlight, and even a guy comprised entirely of diamonds.
Then he also got sparks of some sort of wrestling promotion based in South Carolina. He remembered his face being painted blue. He remembered having at least three matches, each of which he lost. He recalled being booked for a tag match against several team at an event named "Return to Glory."
He did his best to shake the cobwebs, choosing to concentrate on the wrestling Organization known as Pure Class Wrestling. Those would be the edge pieces that would help him finally fill in the blanks. Struggling, he sneered and grimaced, deep in thought.
"Crazy Power. Who were they?" The image of a rather brutal and unhinged woman who looked like she could bench press a Buick... Wait... Was she that strong, or was he getting confused again? "Name," Lunatic thought, trying his best to unscramble his grey matter. "What was her name?" He paused, twitching to and fro before popping his left shoulder out of socket as he had so many times before when restrained in this fashion. He yelped with a new pain, but the diversion cleared his overstimulated cranium ever so slightly. "Alexa. Alexa Black. Her partner was a long blonde haired, tattooed and pierced man whose moniker was 'Crazy Boy.' They would be a force to beat if I were really in that match." A few of the mental pieces slipped into place.
Looney contorted himself, sliding his left arm free from the sleeve of the jacket. "Who else was it? Cosmic Nachos? Great," he thought aloud, "Now I'm hungry. Derek Cosmos was supposed to be my partner. We were going to have a lot of fun, but Nooooooo." Marc huffed his displeasure. "He teamed up with that Taco Bell jackhole. Sure he's a Hall of Fame member, and Cosmos is supposed to be some sort of time lord rip-off wannabe. I don't like them. I may have to crush them like a taco salad." He slid his free hand down and out, unbuckling the leather strap that traversed his crotch. Needles of pain shot up his arm with each movement, but it helped to keep his head clear enough for now.
Then there was Kincaid and Hiroshi Yukio, two other relative newcomers vying for a chance at the newly resurfaced Tag Title belts. "I'm not even sure why I'm in this whole thing, since Cosmos didn't want anything to do with me, much less these two plebeians. The fat sumo guy is a good opponent, but Kincaid is more wishy-washy than a pair of windshield wipers. They're a patchwork pair thrown together just to give them something to do, just like..." He paused long enough to slough the jacket over his head, tossing it into a corner nonchalantly as if he'd done it more times than Donald Trump had taught his toupee to play dead. "Who was I teaming with again?"
He stood, strolling absently over to the notch in the fabric and padding that outlined the door. He steadied himself within a few inches of the apparent frame area before driving his shoulder into it with an audible, sickening pop. He shook the pins and needles out of his left arm now that he once again had full use of it. The pain subsided, but thankfully most of the clarity remained. "Seth Archer, was it? Some boyish little spoiled amateur who think the world owes his rainbow-colored backside a living. All I have to say is that he'd better either show up or dig himself a grave. I don't like being snubbed. If I have to depend on someone, they'd better pull their weight."
"Even Barry Kemp has to team with someone he knows nothing about. It's a good thing these bookers aren't real." Lucidity overcame him. Not full crystalline (why does that word sound familiar?) recollection, but clarity that still felt like a distraction. "If they aren't real, then what I'm gonna do to them if I don't get put in a singles match won't hurt a bit."
"That still doesn't explain why I'm here."
A rap on the door interrupted his train of thought, derailing it like someone laid an entire roll of pennies on the tracks. "Mister McGwire?" asked someone with a heavy German accent. The voice rang familiar, but the fog in his mind couldn't allow all of the puzzle to be revealed.
"Who else would I be? And if you say Napoleon, I'll tear your lips off."
Undaunted by the tirade, the man behind the door snapped the lock free and stepped inside. "And how are we feeling?" A middle aged, robust man with glasses and a lab coat and a name tag that declared him to be a "Phillip M. Schulmann, PhD."
"You've got the clipboard. Figure it out. I've got the worst case of medicine head in the history of ever."
"It's okay, Mr. McGwire. We'll figure out why you are back here together. All in due time."
