I am Prophecy Man, apparently

About a decade ago, I wrote a bunch of little stories for another website I used to be on, centered around Salem-The-Girl-From-Another-Story. (Actually she was the smokin'-hot Japanese bassist for a death metal band in a horror novel I wrote called Death Metal Creeps, which I've mentioned before. She's also the semi-basis for one of the girls I drew in that dumb comic I put up a couple weeks ago). I just liked her (she's a real smartass and therefore fun to write) and was bored so I threw her into other weird, surreal stories (or vignettes if you wanna be all that-way about it) to amuse people on this website... and confuse them since they had no idea what "other story" she was from). Anyway, here's one of the stories... and I'll explain why I'm bringing it up - and why I'm a prophet - afterward.


Due to the less-than-miracle of bad writing,
Salem found herself in a cheap, crappy bar from the
40's. It had to have been somewhere close to three
a.m., because nobody was left but a few hardcore
barflies who either couldn't find the door or were
waiting for morning, when the county jail would be
open for business. Slowly drifting layers of cigarette
smoke hung in the air like hope's funeral shroud, and
Salem was annoyed to be thrust into a place like this,
especially after she'd just washed her hair. She was a
fictional character, it was like being a cartoon, she
could literally be anywhere, doing anything, and yet
her idiot creator had dumped her here, where
everything was grainy black and white and the ghost of
David Goodis was wrestling with the ghost of Jim
Thompson to see who had to buy the next round of major
bummer. The bar was rough under her elbows, deeply
gouged with the whiskey-dyed initials of a thousand
different guys, losers all, desperately trying to use
their keys, pocketknives, or broken shot glasses to
leave a mark on the world in the only way they ever
would. This was the wrong place to be if you were an
eye-popping, soul-totaling superfox. And, to top it
off, she could tell that the little nebbish a few feet
down the bar was trying to work up the nerve to speak
to her.
And, damn him, he finally got brave enough.
"Hiya, b...baby," he stammered, then flinched. "Need
some company?"
She cut her almond-shaped eyes at him,
wondered if Peter Lorre had ever gotten busy with Ruth
Buzzi on a particularly fruitful night, and then
stared at the mirror behind the bar. "All the company
I need is right over there," she said, waggling her
fingers at her reflection.
"Um... wanna go back to my place or something?
I've got a book of riddles back there."
"No thanks," Salem said.
"Knock knock jokes, too," he said hopefully.
"They're real funny. I bought it at the candy store
one time when I had some extra change. Girls like 'em.
It said so on the back."
"I'm sure they're a laugh riot," she sighed.
"Why don't you go back there and read yourself a few
until you giggle your damned ass off?"
"Cheee..." the guy said, disappointedly. He
sat there a minute and then, apparently, content by
the mere fact that he'd spoken to the goddess and not
been killed, decided to keep going. He looked her up
and down, taking in the long, straight black hair, the
black leather vest laced around her bare torso, the
short black leather gloves, the bulletbelt, the black
spandex pants, the boots laced to her knees, and came
to a conclusion. "You're dressed fancy. You some kinda
She looked coldly at him. "I wish. I wish I
was Wolverine." She held her fist up, flexed her arm,
said "Snikt!" and swiped imaginary claws at him,
pretending blood.
"I wish I was a superhero," he said.
"Sometimes I read funnybooks and pretend I'm the guy
in there, fighting crime, like I'm Batman or Superman.
Not Aquaman, though. He's pretty weak. I mean, he can
talk to fish. Big deal."
"He talks to fish, and I talk to doorknobs.
Hooray," Salem sighed to the pretty girl in the
mirror. "When did it happen? When was I bitten by a
radioactive jackass?"
"Sometimes," the guy said, with a tone of
just-you-and-me conspiracy in his voice, "I safety-pin
a towel around my neck and go out and... well, I don't
really fight crime, but I take note of it."
"So you're a superhero?" Salem said, favoring
him with another glance.
"Yes. I'm Towel Man."
"Towel Maaaaaaan..." he sang quietly to
himself, drumming on the edge of the bar.
"Who's a girl gotta kill around here to get
some kryptonite... or samsonite, or whatever works?"
Salem sighed.
"Brussel sprouts," the man said gravely.
"Towel Man can't handle brussel sprouts."


Okay, here's the prophecy part. I wrote this:

"Sometimes," the guy said, with a tone of
just-you-and-me conspiracy in his voice, "I safety-pin
a towel around my neck and go out and... well, I don't
really fight crime, but I take note of it.

And now in the news today I find this article, in which a supposed "real-life superhero" says the following:

"Vigilantism is never a good thing," said Bernard Gonzales, public information officer for the Chula Vista, California, Police Department. He's had some interactions with real-life superheroes. "The very best thing a private citizen can do is be a good witness."

Mr. Ravenblade said he's just that.

"If you're a real-life superhero you follow the law. If you catch somebody you can't just tie them up and leave them for the cops, that's for the comics. You have to wait for the cops and give them a statement," Mr. Ravenblade said.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you... Towel Maaaaaaaaan!

Which makes me Prophecy Man, I guess, since I predicted it. I gotta find me a towel.

Evildoers, beware! I shall take note of the people who may, in the future, be taking note of you! Tah-daaaaah! *bonk!* *thud!*

No comments:

Post a Comment