He wasn't comfortable with doing it this way anymore. There had been so many advances in his lifetime, from the repetition of dipping a stylus into an inkwell and applying long, smooth strokes of ink to paper to, at one point, his prized neural interface which, for three weeks, allowed him to transcribe material from thought into digital information ten times faster than anyone could ever type it. For three weeks, he thought with a snort. Then came the power surge. He never did find out exactly who was responsible for it--probably Adam Warlock and one of those Infinity gettogethers--but when it was over, he was left with a piece of molten metal in his skull. He ate a bottleful of Tylenol and rested his head in the freezer for several hours before he could even think about continuing his research. Even though his more experimental approaches had some risks, Sinister knew they were at least more efficient than...typing. Like some...mortal. He snorted again. If only Threnody were here. Well, then again, she could barely hunt-and-peck, and the work would *never* get done. But when one was recompiling a century's worth of genetic data, one could use all the help one could get.... Sinister reached back and cracked his knuckles. This was going to take all night--again. He glanced back to his central monitor to insure that the VCR was recording Mystery Science Theatre 3000 tonight. He'd lost his MST3K tapes, too, when the X-Men had come trouncing through his lab. Salt in the wound, Sinister thought. The least they could do is keep the damage relatively localized. But then, those mutants were rarely so skilled at damage control.... "!ERROR! C:\GENETIX\REAGANRW.DAT corrupt. (D)elete\(I)gnore?" Sinister swore. Not again. He hit "I" and continued. "!ERROR! C:\GENETIX\HAIGALEX.DAT corrupt. (D)elete\(I)gnore?" Sinister blinked. This was not shaping up to be one of his days. "!ERROR! C:\GENETIX\CLINTONB.DAT corrupt. (D)elete\(I)gnore?" Great. Now it's not just the Republicans. "!ERROR! C:\GENETIX\CLINTONH.DAT corrupt. (D)elete\(I)gnore?" "!ERROR! C:\GENETIX\CLINTONC.DAT corrupt. (D)elete\(I)gnore?" "!ERROR! C:\GENETIX\CLINTONS.DAT corrupt. (D)elete\(I)gnore?" Sinister gaped. Not Socks, too! "!ERROR! C:\GENETIX\PITTBRAD.DAT corrupt. (D)elete\(I)gnore?" "!ERROR! C:\GENETIX\HATCHERT.DAT corrupt. (D)elete\(I)gnore?" So much for the new master race. "!ERROR! C:\GENETIX\ELLISWAR.DAT corrupt. (D)elete\(I)gnore?" Sinister hissed and vaporized the terminal with a bio-energy blast. This was adding injury to insult. Even while the plastic circulation fan danced around the floor amid the PC debris, a troubling thought descended on Sinister. This was his last working terminal. Such as it was. Time to hit petty cash. Sinister hadn't had to draw on petty cash since the seventies. He'd spent quite a bit of cash on...something...in the sixties. He wasn't sure about most of it (except the tattoo, which lead him to the creation of a "Milbury Cosmetic Surgery" lab in Tuscon which specialized in tattoo removal), but a few well-placed investments had allowed him to recup most of his funds to operate comfortably into the twenty-first century. Sinister moved from the computer lab with ease. He liked not having to wear the damn cape. Fluttered too much. No, he greatly enjoyed the weekends when he could just put on a pair of jeans (he didn't make a pun anymore--that particular pun got old *real* fast), a sweatshirt, and lounge. There was a disturbing odor coming from the kitchen. Apparently Threnody had tried cooking again. More research material, probably, Sinister comforted himself. He was prepared to see anything on the counter except what waited for him. His piggy bank rested in a thousand pieces, a blue ear resting more or less intact next to the toaster. Amid the debris was a scrawled note in all-too-familiar handwriting: "S: HAVE TO TAKE A TRIP. BE BACK SOON. NEED GAS MUNNY. --T." Sinister repressed the urge to cry. * * * * * Michael J. Marsh hated his job. Sure, on the fun days, he got to see every videotape that WBRD had on file. But whenever Mel needed someone to do a petty, insignificant job, even the jobs that fell quite easily to paid professionals outside the station, Mike found himself shoved out of the studio and into anything from a bear suit to a traffic chopper. Limo driver, though, he thought with a grin, was tolerable. He'd gotten to bring in a former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader the other day, and she'd had a skirt short enough to make his day worthwhile. This one, though, was going to be trouble.... Mike'd been holding up a sign that read, simply, "Moo". Most passersby in Logan International took the sign as a command and replied, in stretched smiles, by giving Mike an affectioned "moo" as they walked by. The five-year-old who'd stood in front of Mike for at least four minutes and performed every variation of "moo" the child knew (which totalled around three) was entertaining, in a highly disgraceful way. But in sad reality, Mike was holding a sign to attract the attention of a man WBRD had phoned two days ago to host a program they weren't sure they could put on in the first place. The holstein-spotted lab coat was visible from across the terminal, and Mike felt a little silly for even needing a sign in the first place. Dr. Clarence Moo's eyes told of a full day of travelling and of a sincere disrespect for human life. Mike recognized it, either from the mirror or from his boss. Either way, he knew what this man wanted, and it wasn't prologue. "Your limo's this way, Dr. Moo," Mike greeted. "About bloody time," Moo snorted. "How was your trip?" the intern asked carefully. Moo shook his head. "I swear to God, from what I could see, we were landing in the water. I didn't even see the runway. I was just very surprised we hit something solid. Well, something solid beside that DC-10 that was roaming around like the bloody Red Baron...." "Exciting trip, then, sir?" "Commuting isn't supposed to be exciting. That's what vacations are for." Mike nodded. "Whatever you say, sir." "So...which station is this for, now?" Moo asked. "WBRD, your early bird with morning news at five a.m." Moo shrugged. "Whatever." "Don't you remember?" "I didn't have time to look over the proposal. All I know is Chandra told me to get on flight 393 and get down to Boston for a show. So here I am." "Chandra?" "Department secretary...well, whatever the politically correct term is for the woman who keeps the department running while the administrators, students and faculty conspire to tear it apart." "Office goddess." "That's it," Moo said with a snap of the fingers. "So you've been busy at school, then?" Moo shook his head while dodging a mad tourist dragging luggage. "Not quite. Personal...difficulties." "Difficulties?" "Wife moved out Thursday." Mike turned to Moo. He didn't seem the slightest bit affected by this loss, although he didn't seem to be fully conscious, either. "I'm...sorry, sir," Mike muttered at length. "S'okay. These things happen. People...outgrow each other." "If you say so, sir." "Speaking of which, is this about...." "The late show, yes sir, it goes up tomorrow night." "Which one this time?" "It's Chuck vs. Chuck, sir." Moo cast a skeptical glance Mike's way, and he replied, "Xavier vs. Xavier. Onslaught." "Ah. That nonsense." "Yes, sir. Where's your co-host?" "He's back in his own dimension. He's got his own troubles at the moment." "Worse than...." Moo actually laughed. "By far. So I'm looking for someone to fill in for him." Mike nodded. "Yessir. They got your list. They looked through it." "'Looked through?'" Mike sighed. "None were available." "Castle?" "He's rather busy. His family just got killed again." "Harsh. What about Samson?" "Trapped on a pillar with She-Hulk." Moo nodded. "I shan't pity him. Corrigan?" "First, sir, wrong company...." "Details, details," Moo mumbled. "...And secondly, management thought it inadvisable to have the incarnation of the wrath of God in the studio." "Cowards." Mike and Moo moved past the luggage carosel. "You don't have any luggage, sir?" "Just this," Moo said, patting his carry-on. "Lead on. This limo got a bar?" "Yessir." "Brilliant." He paused while squirming through the rotating doors. "What about Rogue?" "She's busy too, sir." "Betty Banner?" "Busy." "Mockingbird?" "Dead, sir." "Dead, huh?" Moo paused. "Ow. Amanda Sefton?" "They didn't know how to get a hold of her, sir." "She's probably busy anyway." * * * * * Muir Isle squirmed in the grip of another late-night fog. Amanda stared out through the kitchen windows over a peninsula of jagged rock, toward London, toward Kurt, toward whatever the Hellfire Club and Black Air had planned for them. She shifted in her seat. Lockheed, last she'd seen, was eating a few used trenchcoats and Moira was mumbling to herself in her lab again, and she didn't want to interrupt that. When she stopped by to talk to Rory, she caught him talking to his new Norwegian blue parrot and wearing an eyepatch. She'd seen quite enough of that. Amanda sat in front of the telephone, turning toward it on occasion, as if doing so would make it ring. After an hour of waiting, she picked up the receiver and asked in a forlorn voice, "Hello?" She heard nothing but the dial tone and replaced it in its cradle. She stared back over the water. She still couldn't see anything. Nights were lonely at Muir. * * * * * Moo stretched out across the back seat of the limo, looking past the Fleet Center as the limo ambled through traffic. "Okay. What about...Spider-Man?" "Which one, sir?" Moo paused. "Never mind. Toad?" "He doesn't exactly have a camera presence, sir." "Good point. Ah...how about...Zero?" "Destroyed, sir." Moo muttered an Anglo-Saxon word and scratched his temple. "Ah... Beast?" "Which one, sir?" "Never *mind.* What about Death? Not Marvel Death, the other Death." "Dream on, sir." Moo took that with a nod. "Tori Amos?" "Same notation, sir." "How about the chick that does the voice of Babe? Cavanaugh?" "We can see, sir, but...that might get a little disorienting after a while, especially for those not actually *watching* the program, but just listening to it." "Oh, I dunno...might just give us that added angle we need...." Moo downed another swig of whatever chablis they had in the ice waiting for him. "But that gives us six ideas to work with...." "Yes, sir. The taping's at two Monday afternoon, but we've got pre-production tomorrow, so we'll be by to pick you up around...say, noon? Grab a bite, get wardrobe and makeup done early, meet the co-host...." "Mmmm-hmmm, sounds good," Moo muttered, having noticed a packet in a pouch behind the driver's seat labelled "Onslaught Data." Intrigued, he opened in and flipped through the pages of "Onslaught: X-Men." Time to cram, he thought. * * * * * "What...do...you...*MEAN*...I can't get a loan?" The bespectacled gray-haired woman spoke with greater volume, as if emphasis would clarify the situation, "Mr. Milbury, you have had insufficient funds to qualify for collateral for some time. Your foreign holdings have been recently liquidated, and your employment record is simply inadequate to justify such an economic risk...." "All I want is a computer," he hissed through shark-fanged teeth, "it's not like I want to take over the world." "I understand, Mr. Milbury. Harold and I finally saved up for our first computer and got it last weekend. Still don't know how to use the blessed thing...." Sinister sat back. It was grotesque enough to actually have to dress up for this event, but to listen to family stories about running headlong into technology after living in the dark ages was just enough. He fantasized about Cancun. Yes, after the database is rebuilt, maybe just a few weeks in Cancun. Lying on the beach, soaking up rays...it'd been an eternity, and look at what it'd done to his complexion.... "Mr. Milbury?" Sinister glanced back at her. "I'm sorry. I was ignoring your banter, human." She smiled as if complimented. "And if you'd like to come back Monday, you can talk with Mr. Coleman, but he's gone this weekend, so there's no more we can do here." "And where is this...Mr. Coleman?" "Barbados. He sent a postcard, it just got here yesterday, would you like to see it?" Sinister never knew how much he enjoyed the anonymity of urban life. Sometimes personal service was just too much for a man. He stormed out of the Beatrice Savings and Loan and made his way to the hovercar that was holographically disguised as a Ford Escort. Rural Nebraska was not accomodating to a man with desires to hold the reins of power. No, for a task such as this, one would have to look farther, higher.... Sinister punched in a course for Des Moines. * * * * * Moo shook his head. "I'm not doing the show with Scott Lobdell, and that's the ever-lovin' end of it." Moo'd just met his latest nemesis in the form of producer Mel Travis, professional slug. It wasn't enough that Mel would nix every decent idea Moo had for a co-host, but Mel had to insist that certain things could *not* be included on the program, including the Bill Buckner footage from the world series, or even mentioning Bill Buckner. Some people. No senses of humor. "All right," Travis finally capitulated, waddling his way to the bar to refill the sweat glands that he apparently emptied by moving his arms. Travis wasn't exactly in the best of shape, and while Moo'd fought his battle of the bulge a few years back, he didn't like the man enough to feel sorry for his physical plight, being a foot shorter and wider than the good doctor. "No Lobdell. Perhaps a good idea." Travis brought a filled whisky back to his desk. "I remember having John Byrne and Star Brand on once together. That was a *mess.* It's no wonder the universe ended up the way it did...." "So you're not going to listen to any of my suggestions?" "Doc, they're either way outta our price range, or just too...well, otherwise removed from reality. Ya gotta remember, pal,"--Doc cringed at the word, as he still didn't like this beast yet--"most of the Marvel U's in a bit of an uproar at the mo. Ya got Hulk showin' up in Cable, and we *know* how much PAD *loves* crossovers." Travis snapped his fingers. "Hey. Y'know, David might...." "I think having me and David on the same show might overdose the Boston metro area with enough cynicism to kill off all human life." "Fah," Travis spat, finishing a drink, "you shoulda been here for the Patriots season. Anyhow, I left a message on Rick Jones's machine. Of course, we're more or less competing right now...." "He won't do a freebie. He's a showbiz boy now." "Ayep." Moo shook his head. "I dunno. I'm more or less out of ideas." And I also don't trust you to make the right choices, you walking pile of pus, he thought to Travis. Moo was extraordinarily angry this morning. Maybe it was the breakfast. Or lack thereof. "We'll get it taken care of," Travis promised. "You know how these things tend to fall into place." * * * * * The problem with the hovercar was that when the fuel gauge read "empty," that meant it had another two-thousand miles to go before it was *really* empty. Or so Sinister thought. Sure, his shape-changing ability helped him survive the crash, but there wasn't much that his ego could do to recover from the bruising it was taking. Sinister looked back across the cornfield at the pillar of smoke drifting lazily upward from what was once the hovercar. He hadn't even made it to Iowa yet. He grumbled and plodded toward the highway. By the time the next passing motorist saw his thumb, Sinister resembled a young college lad, complete with sweatshirt and ballcap turned backwards (he was *so* fashion-conscious, he noted with a moment of self-admiration). The Volvo slowed to a halt, amazingly enough, and Sinister jogged to it with genuine enthusiasm. "Where ya headin'?" the driver asked with a smile. "Des Moines. Well, really, anywhere with an ATM," Sinister replied. He was a proud man, true, except today. He turned to look at his driver and saw a large brute of a man who could barely scrunch over the steering wheel. "My...ah...name's Nate," he offered. "Walter Langkowski," the driver grumbled. "Nicetameetcha." Sinister stared out the windows at the corn for what seemed like hours. Walter tuned into a light jazz station, but it faded to static, and all he could find on the dial were country stations. Walter clicked off the radio and asked, "So...what're you doing out in this neck of the...er, woods, anyway?" "Car...broke down." "I see." "And you?" Walter laughed. "Thought I'd come south. See the country." He paused. "Haven't ever taken the opportunity to just...drive. Stop at local restaurants, sample...the flavor of America, you know?" "Don't you have a job?" Sinister asked, with perhaps more edge than he meant. Walter shook his head. "We got laid off. All of us. It was kinda pathetic." "I know what that's like...I'm between jobs, myself." "It's rough." "Yeah." Walter nodded. "Yeah." * * * * * The convenience store didn't seem to Sinister like the type of local flavor anyone would want to sample, but then, there was something about those Canadians that bothered him. Nothing he could put his finger on, but...well, something...suspicious. He dismissed this as paranoia while he filled up the Volvo and Walter took care of "personal business" inside. The digital display clicked past five dollars at the same time Walter's car phone rang. Sinister, still in his college-boy disguise, yelled at the building. "Walter! Phone! Walter, your car's calling you!" Pause. "Walter!" Sinister shrugged, released the pump, and crawled back inside the car, picking up the cellular phone. "Hello?" "Hi, is a...Walter Lang...kowski there?" "He's not in his car at the moment, can I take a message?" Sinister looked for something to jot a note down on, thinking perhaps his future as a secretarial assistant was looking up. "This is WBRD-TV in Boston, we're looking for someone to co-host a program for us, someone familiar with the mutant problem, specifically the X-Men...." Sinister's eyes grew wide. "Do tell," Sinister hissed, smiling. * * * * * By the time Walter made it outside, the Volvo was gone, but his wallet (complete with Alpha Flight identification), bags, and fuzzy dice were sitting in a thin puddle of motor oil on the asphalt. Walter stared off at the highway, pointing, and calling back to the convenience store attendant, "That guy just stole my car!" "Cool," replied the attendant. This was the best thing to happen in town all month. It'd make the paper for sure. * * * * * "No, Chandra...the plates are hers." Moo put down the phone for a moment and held his head in his hands, then spoke back into the phone. "Yeah, I know. No, it's not like...yeah, I know. Look, tell her she can have whatever the hell she wants. It's not like she's going to take my videotapes or my Legos or anything." Moo narrowed his eyes. "But if she so much as touches anything bovine, whap her across the knee, will ya?" Moo smiled. "You're the best. Thanks." He hung up the phone and looked for something to shatter. It was time to break in the hotel room. A knock at the door grabbed his attention. "Doc? It's Mike. Time for taping. We found a co-host." Moo opened the door. "You're just in time, Mike. I'm feeling rather violent. Want to help me break something?" "'Scuse me?" "She-who-once-was-wife is back and cleaning out our...well, *my* apartment while I'm not even there to defend myself." Moo snorted. "Typical." Moo pointed into the corner. "There. That mirror looks like it might come loose." "Doc, seven years bad luck, sir." "In my case, that's just redundant. Get a screwdriver." "I think you should come with me, sir." "C'mon. I'm payin'." Moo paused. "Well, no, technically, your boss is paying...." This actually made Mike pause, but he thought better of it. "C'mon, sir. We've got a milkshake in the limo." Moo stopped. Apparently, he thought, they were briefed on all his weaknesses. * * * * * Moo plodded into the studio with a degree of trepidation. Mike had been less than forthcoming as to the identity of his co-host. This was a sign. All he could get out of the intern-turned-chauffeur was that the mystery host was indeed male, as if that narrowed it down. And the fact that Mike wasn't gleefully filling Moo in was reason to worry in and of itself ("She's got a great personality, Doc!" he remembered someone saying about the woman now rummaging through his silverware drawer and probably taking all the silly straws). Still. The tide of luck had to turn *some*time this week. Moo recognized the costume instantly. Not too many super-villains walked around with shredded capes, pasty skin, and red diamonds on their foreheads. Moo, to his credit, remained standing while Travis and Sinister walked over to him. "Doctor Clarence Moo, I'd like you to meet your cohost, Mr. Sinister." Moo laughed aloud. This had to be a bad-milkshake fever dream. Still, he took Sinister's hand and shook it. "A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Moo," Sinister hissed in his characteristically hydraulic tone. "Yeah, okay," Moo noted. What, he thought, wasn't Power Pack busy? What about Squirrel Girl? Night Nurse? Devil Dinosaur? "So," Travis chortled, "you guys chat for a bit, kinda touch base, figure out this Onslaught thing, and...I'll...see if we can't get the guests their costumes." Travis slithered out of sight, leaving Moo and Sinister to size each other up. Sinister was much bulkier, as a shapechanger could be, but Moo was looking the villain right in the eye. "So...." Moo began. "I read your book," Sinister said. "Really?" Moo blurted with some surprise. "_Embracing_Your_Bovinity_ was one of my favorite reads," Sinister admitted. "That, and _Primary_Colors_. I'm still waiting for the new Tom Clancy to come out." "Indeed." Moo chided himself silently. This could be interesting. * * * * * Mike finally found them in the lobby next to the vending machine, Moo with a Diet Pepsi, Sinister with a Dr. Pepper and a Twix, apparently in a heated debate of some sort. "No, no, no," Moo insisted. "Joel has the better timing, the more subdued approach...he is the *friend* of the audience, he's not there to parade, he's there to pal around." "Maybe," Sinister allowed, "but Mike...well, when Mike's on, the robots have much more control, and who can argue with that?" "Sure, when Mike's on, we *want* the robots to run amok, but Joel's just as entertaining as *any* of the robots." "Gypsy, maybe," Sinister snorted, and laughed a deep, menacing laugh. "Do you...*have* to laugh that way?" "Force of habit," Sinister apologized, shaking his head. "Sorry." Mike pointed to his watch. "You guys are late for makeup." Moo pointed at Sinister. "He's beyond late." "I suppose I should put on something respectable for the show." "Why set a precedent?" Sinister scowled. "My costume's not *that* bad." "As compared to Daredevil, maybe...." Mike barked, "Come *on*, guys!" Sinister shrugged, and Moo bobbed his head. "Sheesh. Rush, rush, rush." * * * * * (Lights fade up on montage of comic book covers. Voiceover intro over opening credits.) SINISTER: It's the Chuck vs. Chuck Pre-Game Show, brought to you by WBRD-TV! Hello, I'm Mr. Sinister, and tonight Dr. Clarence Eustacius Moo and I look at the impending confrontation that will tear the Marvel Universe apart as Professor Charles Xavier goes head-to-head with his own darker half! Tonight our special guests are writer Warren Ellis, attorney Matt Murdock, and the Fantastic Four! And now, your host, Dr. Moo! (Moo enters through curtain to chorus of cheers. He waves, somewhat shyly, for a few moments before he begins motioning for the audience to subdue themselves. They comply, and he begins his opening monologue.) MOO: Thank you, thank you Boston! (Another minute of self-indulgent applause) Okay, glad you guys got *that* out of your system. Welcome to the first late-night pre-game show. I'm here tonight with Mr. Sinister, and we're taking a look at the confrontation that threatens to shatter the foundation of the X-Men...again...in the form of Onslaught. (A few "ooos" from the audience) We'll get to talking about that in a minute, but first, some Unfinished Business.... (A few well-meaning "boos") Yeah, I know. In case you haven't heard, four of Marvel's core titles are being "outsourced" to...that is, well, drawn and written by...our old buddies at Image. Have you...have you seen the pics of this yet? Didja see the new Fantastic Four? (sporadic applause) Yeah, that at least looks...refreshing. (false enthusiasm) What about that Cap America, though? (hisses, boos, one thrown tomato that misses by a mile) Oooo. Good throw, there, Ace. Now I *know* I'm in Boston. (chorus of boos, three more tomatoes, none even close) * * * * * Sinister watched Moo evade the tomatoes and whispered to Mike, "I thought he was supposed to be *warming* them up." "I think it's working," Mike said, nodding. "Their aim is improving." * * * * * MOO (still calm): Hey, guys, but seriously...did you see that Red Skull? (gawks) Apparently the skull shrank in the wash, too...his head is roughly the size of one of his gloves. (Illustrates by holding hand in front of head) Did you read the interviews? Gah. My favorite line is "Cap's had a lot of things taken from him, he's been violated." Yeah, he had Mark Waid taken from him. (Chorus of "oooos") * * * * * Sinister cringed. "I'm going to get another Twix. Hold my mike for me, Mike." Sinister pulled off the condenser microphone and handed it to the intern. Mike held onto the microphone delicately, praying nothing happened before Sinister's return. The last thing he wanted was for the camera to swivel back around and see nothing but a frightened young intern holding a microphone.... * * * * * MOO: What about Kingdom Come? You guys are getting into that, aren't'cha? (cheers) Me, too. Love that art, and a pretty good story so far. I hear Marvel's working on a version of KC on their own, except in twenty years, all of their heroes are working for other companies.... It's called "Kingdom Go." (groans, some boos) Hey, ya get what ya pay for.... * * * * * Sinister tapped his chin as he scanned the vending machine. "Yes. B4. You will do nicely. Yesterday you rested in the metal coils of this almost-maternal machine, but today you become the meal of... SINISTER!" Sinister caught himself and glanced up and down the hall. He was trying to reign in the soliloquies. He'd save that for when he finally...removed Moo from his hosting position and ascended to the late-night throne himself. But until then, Ed McMahon didn't do soliloquies. Sinister shuddered as he inserted his change. He needed to find better role-models. The coil around the Twix bar started turning, and the candy bar proceeded toward him. He smiled in anticipation, the taste of the last chocolate-caramel experience fresh in his mouth. When the coil jolted to a stop and the bar hung, suspended on the coil's tip, which had wedged under the back flap of the wrapper, Sinister was, to his credit, not surprised. Nothing today was going to surprise him. He rattled the machine gently, still trying not to cause a scene. No amount of force applied seemed to jostle the candy bar loose. Undaunted, he carefully pressed the coin return button. Repeatedly. With undue force. With his fist. With the receiver of the pay phone next to the machine. Finally, he pushed the machine back far enough that it actually tilted. His intention (had he one through the frustrated rage) might have been to shake the Twix loose when the machine fell back into place. This might have actually happened, had the machine not first landed on Sinister's foot. * * * * * MOO (perspiring just a bit): Ooookay...so...stop me if you've heard this one.... (over the catcalls) Bill Buckner walks into a bar.... (looks up, face is stricken with panic, moves back for the back curtain as one of the studio audience seats, ripped from the floor, comes tumbling onto the stage) * * * * * Sinister stepped back and glared at the machine. "You pick your foes poorly, infernal device. Now feel the destruction you have brought upon yourself!" He smiled when he blew the vending machine apart with his handy-dandy Generic Energy Blast. He picked up three Twixes from the rubble and, past the gawking production assistants with their headsets still on, made his way back to the studio, smiling all the way. Two free candy bars and some freeform soliloquizing could make a guy positively giddy. It took three steps for him to notice that the power had gone out. Moo ran headlong into him and seemed determined to get past him. "What's wrong, Moo?" "I need a drink." "Rough crowd?" Moo looked back to the studio that now resembled a giant mosh pit. "I dunno. I think they're warming up to me." "Oh." Sinister pointed. "So is *that* what the burning cross means?" "Hrm. They're good at improvising carpentry." * * * * * "Generator," the director muttered. "Get the generator." "Do we cut to a commercial?" an intern asked quietly. "As soon as we get the power back, maybe," the director snapped. The sound tech simply shook his head. "He shouldn't've said anything about Buckner. He crossed a line." "He knew the risks." The director rubbed his nose. "Is Ellis done in makeup yet?" The sound tech looked back to a production assistant in the doorway, who replied first by shifting in place and making guttral sounds. "Sir... we...haven't seen him." The director dropped his headset. "You...what?" "He hasn't gotten in yet. We've got a driver waiting at the airport, but Ellis isn't there. His plane is. He's not." "Are you *sure* his flight's in?" "Yessir." The lights flickered back to life. "Thank God," the sound tech muttered. The director shrugged. "Plan B then. Get the Ellis videotape. Time for the ol' 'live via satellite' routine." The director stubbed out a cigarette and wondered aloud, "Where is that crazy Brit?" * * * * * Gina Kirkland hadn't been working as a baggage handler for United Airlines very long, and was understandably upset when she saw the body in the luggage carosel. The passengers, however, seemed content with checking the lapels of the pale traveller and making sure that he was not part of their ensemble. The almost-shaven disheveled man smelled to Gina of exotic flavors and scents, most of them alluring, some of them probably illegal, all of them undoubtedly carcinogenic. She pulled the unconscious form out and checked his tag. Heathrow. Yep. At least he came in on the right flight. "Who is he?" a security guard asked. "Dunno. Just got in. Apparently flew extra-coach." "Is he dead?" Gina leaned closer. "No," she replied. "He just gurgled." "No emergency room then." "Nope. Straight to the lost-and-found." * * * * * (Cut back from commercial. Moo is sipping a milkshake from a McDonald's Larry Bird collector's cup, and Sinister is biting a Twix bar and playing "I've got a cigar" with it while the two exchange idle banter. The music, Garbage's "Supervixen," fades out more abruptly than anyone expects, leaving the hosts talking aloud.) SINISTER: ...So I talked to her brother, and that's when I got him to lend us the Cadillac for the night, and the good thing about the Caddy is.... MOO (turning quickly back to camera and letting the straw fall out of his mouth): Aaaand we're back! SINISTER (muttering): Blast it. MOO: In case you just tuned in tonight, our guests will be Warren Ellis, writer until issue #103 of the X-title "Excalibur," Matt Murdock to speak on the legal implications of the Unfinished Business storyline, and the Fantastic Four, inhabitants until autumn of the Marvel Universe. (friendly applause) Anyhow. Also, a special thanks to intern Mike Marsh for hunting down the tear-gas canisters filled with aerosol Prozac. Not bad, is it, folks? (obliging applause, to SINISTER) They can read the applause sign now. SINISTER (still muttering): About time. MOO: What's wrong with you? Does your foot still hurt? SINISTER: I should've tried out for basketball. Do you know how hard it is to find (points at feet) size fourteen boots that go with this outfit? MOO: I can't imagine. SINISTER: It's not easy. MOO: Did...they even *have* basketball the first time you went to high school? SINISTER: Of course not. Not...the first time. MOO: You went through high school twice? SINISTER: Well, yeah. MOO: For God's sake, man, *why?* SINISTER: I was feeling nostalgic. I wanted to reexplore my youth. I wanted to understand my inner child.... (sees Moo's glare) That, and I rented "Sixteen Candles" and didn't understand a word of it. MOO: Did it help? SINISTER: John Hughes now makes so much more sense to me. MOO: So is that where you got your fashion sense? SINISTER: You're treading on thin ground, cowmonger. MOO: Would you like to help me with a top ten list, then? SINISTER: Aren't *we* original? MOO: Opening night. We need all the help we can get, don't we, folks? (obliging applause) ...I like that. I like this audience. SINISTER (shaking head): The wheel's spinning, but the hamster's dead. MOO (fluttering card in his hand): Okay, ladies and gents, tonight's top ten list comes to us from the home office in Rockford, Illinois...Top Ten Signs Your Kid is Onslaught. (to SINISTER) Sound promising? SINISTER (dripping sarcasm): Oh, immensely. MOO: Okay. Top Ten Signs Your Kid is Onslaught. (drum roll) 10: Class ring now sports Crimson Gem of Cytorrak 9: Keeps leaving unwashed suits of red armor right next to the hamper 8: You find yourself mysteriously compelled to allow him to stay home from school "for as long as he likes" 7: Neighborhood bully beaten to pulp by the Hulk 6: Sits in the back of the fridge and grows mold (oh, I'm sorry, that's "Top Ten Signs Your Kid is Cole Slaw") 5: Speaks in yellow word balloons with thick black borders 4: Can't read a damn footnote when he's around 3: Bunch of kids named "Harold" follow him everywhere 2: Uses his Legos to build an army of Sentinels 1: He gets real old, real fast (you guessed it--obligatory applause. Garbage follows by playing "Not My Idea," and Moo throws the card through the window and over the cardboard skyline of Boston that looks as if it was constructed by an army of second-graders with safety scissors and construction paper.) SINISTER (as music dies down): What was #3? MOO: Huh? SINISTER: I didn't get #3. MOO (to audience): What was #3? (gets several muted, incoherent responses) Oh. "Harold." Herald. Get it? HAR-old. HER-ald. SINISTER: That's pretty weak. MOO: That's Onslaught. SINISTER: Touche. MOO: Our first guest tonight comes all the way from the other side of the great pond, writer of such comic books as Dr. Strange, Hellstorm, and for a few more issues, Excalibur, give a *big*, *warm* welcome to Warren Ellis! (obligatory applause, camera shifts to the curtain where, true to form, nothing happens, even while Garbage plays evil-sounding strains of "Only Happy When it Rains." The camera zooms in closer to the curtain, but this causes nothing to happen. Finally, a TV on a cart is pushed out from behind the curtain and travels two feet from the curtain and stops. The applause increases slightly. Moo and Sinister exchange glances.) SINISTER: You know, he's shorter than I pictured. (cut to Moo, who's taking a card from Mike, who promptly scampers away too late to avoid being seen) MOO (reading card): I've...just...been...informed that Warren hasn't been able to join us here in Boston tonight, but we're being joined by Warren live via satellite, where he'll engage in a spontaneous and lively discussion. SINISTER: That'll be a first. MOO (quietly): Where's the list of questions? SINISTER (pointing to back of desk): Top drawer. (The image on the TV flickers to life. Warren is seen relaxing in what looks like a comfortable house. Out a window over Warren's shoulder, a snowscape is plainly seen. Warren is wearing a black sweater.) WARREN: Hi. It's a pleasure to be here. SINISTER (waving): Hey. MOO: Hey, there, Warren. (looking at question list) Thanks for joining us on the late show tonight. WARREN: Well, I'm working on a new storyline with Kitty Pryde and a new character I'm introducing named Pete Wisdom. MOO: "So, can you tell us what you're working on in Excalibur?" (Sinister glances back and forth like a tennis match observer.) WARREN: Oh, lots of trouble. (laughs) MOO: "Sounds exciting. What is this Pete guy getting himself into?" WARREN (grim-faced): Kitty's costume, maybe Kurt's and Meggan's. MOO: "Planning any cosmetic artistic changes for the book?" WARREN: Groan and squeal in ecstacy. MOO: "So what do you do after getting your paycheck from Marvel?" SINISTER (interrupting): Hold it. You're out of sequence. MOO: What? WARREN (oblivious, obviously): Well, I thought, "We've done holographic covers to death. What about *hallucinogenic* covers...?" SINISTER: That's a tape. MOO: I know. (pause, then thinks, then slaps his cheek in horror) NO! A...a sham? A travesty of journalistic justice? SINISTER: That's it. WARREN: Bite, spit, chew, swallow, gargle on occasion. MOO: We can't let this go on. SINISTER: It's just ethically wrong. WARREN: Of course they don't. That's where the trapeze comes in. (Sinister and Moo exchange glances) MOO: Although I *am* curious to see how it all comes out. SINISTER: You got the remote? MOO: It's over here somewhere. WARREN: Then I wrote issue #97 about Meggan doing away with her costume altogether. I think the editors will respect my artistic vision with regards to that script. SINISTER: Two words, mate: "Comics code." MOO: But it was worth a try. (Continued conversation. Fade out) * * * * * (Fade back in. Moo and Sinister are no longer talking to a TV set, but are apparently engaged in friendly banter. Fade-out of background music is, again, far too abrupt.) SINISTER: ...But by the time I could get the wrapper off.... MOO: Aaaand we're back! (Sinister turns a shade paler as his eyes bulge) We were just talking Twix bars, people. (pause, crickets chirp) Many thanks to Warren Ellis...for making...a tape for us. (Moo shrugs) And the tape had *nothing* on it about Onslaught. SINISTER: Thank God for small favors. MOO: But this is a pre-game show. SINISTER: Coulda fooled me. MOO: Well, that's how it started. SINISTER: Intention is one thing, execution is another. Look at the Olympics. MOO: Okay, I *will*. SINISTER: Professionalized. Commercialized. Back in my day, they were the epitome of amateur competition. MOO: They didn't *have* Olympics back in your day. SINISTER: ...Well, eventually. MOO: *Any*how.... SINISTER: So we're getting to the analysis. MOO: If we *must*. SINISTER (doing his best Tone Loc): Let's do it. MOO: Joining us from the law firm of Murdock and Nelson, it's an attorney with a fresh perspective on the Marvel Universe and the legal implications thereof. Ladies and Gentlemen, give a warm welcome to Matt Murdock! (MURDOCK enters, wearing a yellow plaid shirt and blue jeans and wrap-around black shades. He moves effortlessly to the SINISTER's chair, which the villain vacates accordingly. MURDOCK waves cheerfully to the audience. SINISTER watches with skepticism. MOO is drinking a milkshake. The applause subsides.) MOO: Welcome to the show, Mr. Murdock. MURDOCK: Please, call me Matt. MOO: Can do. Matt. MURDOCK: Yes? MOO: ...What's your interest in this whole "Onslaught" thing, anyhow? MURDOCK: Well, my main interest is due to the fact that a lot of people and super-heroes are feeling rather...vulnerable at this stage of the game. They see what's going to happen to the Fantastic Four, the Avengers, Iron Twerp, and they say.... SINISTER: "Thank God I'm in an X-Book." MURDOCK: What if you're not, though? What if you're not blessed enough to be in a book without a spider or a great big X on the cover? MOO: Pack. MURDOCK: Exactly. SINISTER: What one needs to remember, Mr. Mur...er, Matt, is that this is not a simple obliteration that, say, one might face before the might of the Marauders in their prime, or against my bio-kinetic blasts. Rather, this is simply a transition to a...er, different plane of being. MOO: You almost said "higher" plane, didn't you? SINISTER: I assure you I wasn't even *close.* MURDOCK: The problem is, Mr...Sinister...is that.... SINISTER (interrupting): Hold it. MURDOCK (flustered): ...What? SINISTER (as if desperately trying to remember): Aren't you... blind? MURDOCK: ...Blind? SINISTER: Yeah. Blind. MURDOCK (nodding): ...Yeah. SINISTER: Then how did you get out here without tripping over anything? How did you managed not to fall into the audience? How.... MOO (harshly): That's quite enough of that. MURDOCK: Please. Stop your insinuations. MOO: I'd think that you'd be kind enough to cease these groundless accusations on the people who were kind enough to be our guests tonight. What, is he...a *super-hero?* Maybe he's.... Spider-Man? MURDOCK: Not me. I...er...I *hate* spiders. MOO: Really? MURDOCK: They...ah...scare the living hell out of me. MOO: Hrm. Interesting. SINISTER (petulantly): Coward. MOO: Anyhow. I suppose it's too late for legal action against Marvel. MURDOCK: That still hasn't prevented many citizens of our fair city from stopping by and signing petitions. The only problem is many ordinances in the city have special clauses against "acts of God and/or Marvel." MOO: Somebody was thinking ahead. SINISTER: What about Image? MURDOCK: I'm afraid anatomical disproportionment is specifically covered under the ruling of Liefeld v. Laws of Nature 1989. MOO: Incoherent dialogue? MURDOCK: Asgard v. Tom DeFalco. The Thor injunction. SINISTER: Plot inconsistency? MURDOCK: Most concrete redefinitions came in the joint suit of Chris Claremont and the Mississippi Tourism Board v. Scott Lobdell. SINISTER: Unlimited #4. MURDOCK (nodding): Unlimited #4. MOO: And crimes against paper? MURDOCK: World Court v. Howard Mackie. Multiple violations. Last I heard his lawyer was trying to get the plea-bargain down to life in the electric chair. MOO: Okay, Matt. Quick question. Do you like sports? MURDOCK: No, actually, I'm a Mets fan. SINISTER: Poor guy. MOO: Onslaught. Chuck v. Chuck. How do you see this one coming down? MURDOCK (scratching the back of his head): That's...that's a tough one. They're not gonna let the ol' coot die, you know. If they were, they would've killed him during the Age of Apocalypse. Or X-Cutioner's Song. He's got staying power; I think he'll pull off a last-second pass for 70 yards and the game-winning score. Clutch homer in the bottom of the ninth. Forty-yard putt. Desperation three-pointer from mid-court. One-timer from the.... SINISTER (interrupting): *Thank* you, Mr. Murdock. MOO: One-point win for good Chuck, then? MURDOCK: Ayep. MOO: Thanks for being on the show, Matt. Matt Murdock, ladies and gentlemen! (MURDOCK gets up, waves to the audience, strolls off the stage and through the curtain without missing a step. SINISTER stares after him all the while, then turns angrily to MOO.) SINISTER: Did you see that? MOO (turning back to him from sorting his cards): What? SINISTER (pointing off left): That! He just...he walked off the stage as big as you please! MOO (eyes narrowing): ...You're bound to cause a scene, aren't you? SINISTER (deflated): Are you completely oblivious to all going around you? Can you see nothing but holstein? MOO: Look, we've got some bona-fide super-heroes on next. You can harass them as much as you see fit. Leave the lawyer alone. SINISTER: If Shakespeare had his way.... MOO: If Shakespeare had his way, nobody'd be watching TV. We'd all be studying literature in institutions of higher education and broadening our cultural vistas, stretching imagination and art to the horizon until the lines coalesced upon a single point of darkness that we could fill with a laugh, ending the void of ignorance with an acceptance of humanity, and how much fun would *that* be? SINISTER (aghast): I'd be out of a job. MOO: You see where I'm coming from. SINISTER: It's difficult to maintain perspective. MOO: We must endure. We are the new gods of this world. We are television personalities. SINISTER: To take liberties with the word "personality." MOO: TV takes all the liberties it can get. Next guests tonight come to us from Four Freedoms Plaza, via Fantasti-Car. They don't look over thirty years old, now, do they? Well, they're also evicted. No, not from that "hey, blow me up, Doc Doom" building of theirs, but from the whole *universe*! Now *that's* harsh! Please welcome Johnny Storm, Ben Grimm, and Reed and Sue Richards, also known as the Fantastic Four! (Nice, happy, bubbly applause. None of the Four, as they enter, look especially thrilled to be in the building. REED is out of uniform, as is SUE, each in casual wear. BEN is wearing what passes for his uniform, and JOHNNY, while en fuego, is pretty hard to tell. SINISTER puts up resistance when SUE tries to find somewhere to sit, but quickly shuffles off-camera when BEN's shadow falls over him. The Four gather around the couch in pretty much any manner they can, SUE in REED's lap, BEN taking up two-thirds of the couch, and JOHNNY flame-offing behind them to sit, in uniform, on the back of the couch.) MOO: Welcome aboard, gang. REED: I wish I could say it's a pleasure to be here.... BEN (interrupting): Ya didn't tell us we didn't have to wear uniforms. MOO: Excuse me? BEN: The uniforms. I coulda gotten all casual like the others, but I didn't get any warning. MOO (shrugging): Take it up with wardrobe. Maybe Sinister has a spare outfit somewhere. SINISTER (distantly, from off-camera): I heard that. BEN: I ain't that desperate. SINISTER (ditto): That, too. MOO: Anyhow. How did you guys get the news? REED (shrugging): Like always. We get back from the Negative Zone, and there's a note on the door. MOO: ...Of Four Freedoms Plaza? SUE: Yes. They did the same thing at Stark International and at Avengers' Mansion. Same letter, too. Photocopied. Utterly impersonal. JOHNNY: You'd think, if they were kickin' you out of the universe, at least they'd do it with a degree of personality. MOO: Have you guys chatted with the Avengers yet? SUE (nodding): Janet and I had lunch the other day. They're not too thrilled about it over there, either. They just laid down a new tile floor. And Cap just bought a house. MOO: Harsh. How are you...dealing with it? SUE (looks at REED, then continues): It's difficult. Knowing we're going to have to leave all we've done, here, start over, again, in a new world. Certainly there were a lot of things that went wrong in this universe, but we'd like to think the good outweighed the bad. JOHNNY (nodding): Amen. MOO: Reed? What about you? REED (taking a deep breath): ...What I'm most struck by is the memories of...the first few weeks. Of entering this new, undreamt-of universe of heroism and grandeur. I remember how it felt like anything was possible. I remember vividly Galactus coming the first time, I remember being resurrected by the Silver Surfer after being killed by a soldier's bullet. I felt so alive. In the beginning it was like we were special, like this universe was *meant* for us. And even later, when we expanded our horizons and met others with similar goals, still, that didn't deaden the special feeling, but extended it to others. Worlds upon worlds opened up before us and so much seemed within our grasp. It was an Age of Wonders. (long pause) Now? Now...it's worse than an invalidation. It's worse than...worse than I'd remembered. It's not enough to die. If I died, then I would leave a legacy, something to be remembered, like Mar-Vell did, perhaps. Only problem is what we've done in this world is going to be pushed aside and swept under the rug. What we once bore proudly as our history is going to become a dirty little secret. It's just not going to be *true* anymore, and yet, they will have *happened*, even if we never existed, even if we *at this moment* don't exist, the footsteps we will or could or might have taken will exist, in perhaps the most tenuous form of imagination possible. MOO (enraptured): ...Wow. SINISTER (from offstage): ...Impressive. SUE (softly): You think that's something? You should hear him after a few cognacs. REED (somewhat embarrased): I'm...I'm just a little angry, a little disappointed, and rather saddened by it all. It's not just anybody's past they're taking. It's mine. It's my life. MOO: Your son's entire childhood. REED: Exactly. It's the disintegration of a childhood in sacrifice--no, in *pursuit* of the almighty dollar. MOO: Welcome to America, Reed. BEN: That don't make it *right,* pal. JOHNNY: If I can cut in.... SUE: Go right ahead. JOHNNY: Still...aren't we maybe...just overreacting a little? Nobody's dying, not really. Nothing's being outright destroyed. It's just a change of address and philosophy, really. Starting over again. MOO: Yeah, but I had Tellus and Quislet from the Legion of Super-Heroes on conference call once, and you should've heard them. They might not ever exist again, and if they do, it might not be for another 26 years. REED: But...that's not what gets me, it's the.... SINISTER (emerging from the curtain): It's the indignity, isn't it, Reed? It's the idea that your past is worthy of being swept away like a fine dust on a slab of polished metal. It's being acknowledged as nothing more than a variable to be toyed with. And you, Reed Richards, are nobody's toy. REED (excitedly): Exactly, that's what.... SINISTER (continuing): What you must remember, each of you, is that your journeys will pave a new path, indeed, but it will not be at the expense of the old. Your beginnings here will live on. What you have accomplished is *not* in vain. They may not be real as such, but...denied reality, legends become all the more immutable. Do not mourn the ascendancy of the stories you have left behind. Instead, look ahead to the pen in motion inscribing the tales yet to be told. (Long pause. Audience is mute. Production staff has stopped skittering around. The silence lingers uncomfortably.) MOO: ...Well-put. REED (swallowing): Indeed. MOO (checking watch): At any rate, Onslaught. Your picks, Four? SUE: Stalemate. BEN: Chuck by one at the buzzer. The blind guy wuz right. JOHNNY: I don't care. If I'm not gonna win, what does it matter to me? SINISTER (with mock enthusiasm): That's the spirit! MOO: Reed? What's your pitch? REED: Onslaught has already shown an obvious vulnerability. Note in his communication with Franklin...the milk. MOO (smiling): The technocolor milk. REED: This could be significant, couldn't it? MOO: Milk-blindness. An exploitable weakness See your optometrist. REED: In the end, it'll just come down to Onslaught and an oddly-colored cow for control of the universe. I pick the cow by two. MOO (to camera): Well, that's all the time we have. For Garbage, Warren Ellis, Matt Murdock, the Fantastic Four, Mr. Sinister and all of us here at WBRD-TV, this is Dr. Moo, wishing all of you a good night. (applause, credits roll, Garbage plays "Milk," and hands are shaken all around as the credits stop and the screen fades to black.) * * * * * Moo had gotten done scraping off the last of the TV makeup and put the lid firmly back onto the jar of Noxema with a sigh. Sinister was applying a layer of rouge when Moo asked the inevitable. "What was the point of all that?" Sinister chortled. "You mean, officially or eventually?" "Both." "Well, it was purported to be an analysis of an impending confrontation between the two sides of a man's soul. Instead?" Sinister shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps an incomprehensible barrage of sound and fury. Perhaps a peek between reality and legend and the fabric of emotion that comprises them both." Sinister puckered and applied his own tube of black lipstick. "Perhaps neither." "So...what're you going to do?" Moo asked, picking up a folder and moving toward the hallway. "They offered me a show, you know." "No, really?" Moo extended his hand in congratulations, and it was accepted heartily. "That's great." "I think they liked the closing speech. Good thing, too. I did manage to lift a book of poetry and...well, scan it before hopping out from behind the curtain." "Good plan." Sinister nodded. "So...I think things have taken a turn for the better." He paused and laughed, a pleasant, non-metallic, non-foreboding laugh. "What about you?" "I'm going home. I have some pieces to pick up." Moo leaned on the doorframe. "I'm not going to live as long as the Richardses. I have significantly less time to pave my own path to glory, you know? And I may not even do it." Moo nodded. "But I'm sure as hell gonna try." Sinister nodded in assent. "That is all we can do." Moo glanced at his watch. "Well, I don't feel like waiting for the return flight...." Sinister reached to the counter and tossed Moo a set of car keys. "There's a Volvo with Canadian tags in the parking lot. Take it to where you need to go." Moo looked up. "You sure?" Sinister smiled. "I have all I need to fulfill my aspirations now." * * * * * (Fade in. SINISTER, in a gray sweatshirt, stands near the inside of a thick oak door. The set is spacious and very nicely decorated with the trappings of an ordinary apartment. A series of knocks sounds. SINISTER looks up with a smile.) SINISTER: That must be my new neighbor. We like to meet the new neighbors in Mr. Sinister's Neighborhood, don't we, boys and girls? (SINISTER ambles over to the door and opens it to find a young woman with long red hair standing in the doorway.) Oh, how nice. And what is your name, miss? JEAN: I'm Jean. Jean Grey. I'm pleased to meet you, Mister.... SINISTER (taking her hand with predatory smoothness): Sinister. Won't you please come inside, my dear? There's someone I'd like you to meet. His name's Scott. JEAN: Reeeally? (JEAN skips inside the door, which SINISTER immediately shuts and bolts. JEAN skips across the set and off-camera.) SINISTER: My dear, pay close attention to the cellular containment chamber. See if you can see...what's inside. JEAN (from offstage, voice tinny): I can't see in here. It's too dark, Mr. Sinister.... SINISTER: I like it dark. (Walks off-camera after JEAN. There is the squeaking of metal hinges then a metallic slam as if a large steel door had been shut, followed by a distinctly evil laugh from SINISTER that bellows as the screen fades out.)