Colonel Rick "Overkill" Slugg

It's impossible to stay out of it. Once you dedicate your life to the military, make a name for yourself, you can never get out. United States army for a short time. Showed some promise and then selected for a different division of the government's strong-arm. The "Capture and Detainment of Powered Individuals" division. That's where I made a name for myself, and let me tell you: the names you make never leave.

            I’m the man I was raised to be, a tough guy. I don’t get hurt easy, and that’s just a part of who I am. I don’t worry about myself, I don’t care about the consequences of my actions. Since I was a boy, I’ve been made to do the job I was given. My dad would tell me what to do, chop the wood, go to the store, clean the house. I did a lot of work and he spent most of his time drinking, but that’s what happens when you’re a broken man. I forgive him, not having a wife around to look after me, not having much of a job to feed me. But he always did. So he could get mean at times, he could yell and hit, but he did love me.

            But anyway, government sets up this group of specially picked people like myself to go out and hunt the people that nature picked specially. I’ve been up against some nasty stuff, guys who can throw fire, laser eyes, one dude could turn into water. Nasty stuff. It’s just the world we live in, I guess, and not everybody is so great at tuning out those mean thoughts, even when they’re handed the tools to make a difference. So we hunted these men and women, down on their luck and doing wrong to make ends meet, and either took them in, or killed them like animals.

            A lot of them come up with ridiculous names for themselves, something to do with whatever ability they have in them. I remember every last one that I heard or read. Something about it appeals to me, I don’t know. The idea that somebody can be their own person, not named just because, or because of what they’re supposed to be. A name that you choose.

            The nickname that you earn, that’s the one that defines you. I always got the job done, always made sure that there was absolutely no chance for failure. Buildings could be destroyed, casualties could pile up, lives could be ruined, but the mission would not fail. There was an incident in Alaska, really small town called Quinhagak. I got my name there, that’s when they started calling my “Colonel Overkill.”

            And I couldn’t shake the name, couldn’t shake what I was raised to be. I’d run in, guns going off and resulting in death, and the name would just get stronger. In a way, the name made me this way. I had the reputation, and got the name, and so I grew to fit my clothes. I quit a few years later, failure in Lucerne, and I moved back into my old house.

            They never stopped knocking at the door, sending me letters and e-mails, or calling during dinner. I ignored just about every one of them, until the end. Promised me a new job, new location. Hell, I’d even lead the damn team. I could do things my way. Well, not quite. They wanted things to get done “Overkill’s” way. A national hero, somebody who had medals and fatigues and a reputation. And see, that’s how they pulled me back in, and I probably won’t get a chance to leave again. The job suits me fine now, but when it comes time to put on the fatigues and kill somebody trying to live up to their own name, we’ll just see how content I am.

Isaac Daedalus

                A slighted madman, Isaac Daedalus has just concluded a Wonka-esque tour of his work shop. Along the way, state officials that he believes have wronged him were killed or tortured in ironic contraptions based on their previous actions. The doctor did not account for a reporter, who came with the District Attorney. Unhappy with there being a remainder on his finely calculated plans, he explains himself as he decides what to do with her.

And thus concludes our tour. I hope you’ve enjoyed this trip, but I have not taken the time to build a gift shop. With all of the death traps and doomsday devices, I didn’t expect anybody to get this far. So who are you, exactly? You haven’t wronged me like the rest of our group did. So who are you? Mayor’s Secretary? PR Rep? Intern? Regardless, you are the proverbial wrench in my plans.

                I don’t need to kill you too. I don’t know what you’ve done wrong, and we are running short on time. No time to build a large, ironic consequence for you. I suppose you are nosy, having wandered where you aren’t wanted. What if I didn’t have a seat for you? You would have just stood there and looked ridiculous. Maybe, I should turn you into a security camera. Then you can watch over my operations, and you can see all of my precious treasures.

                You look scared. Come on, laugh a little. This is funny business! No wait, don’t make any noise. You are gagged for a reason. So shut up. Shut up! Don’t take it harshly. Smiles. But honestly, my work is art and science and entertainment all wrapped up in a thick carapace, with a fuse. And right now, we are in the “lit fuse” stage. And the ideas are coming, and soon ,they will blow up all over the place and you will be cut with the shrapnel of my genius.

                Do you know how many bones are in the human body? Guess. You can’t, no talking. I may cut out your tongue and place it on your forehead, you are so chatty. Scrape your ankles with a potato peeler. Build a machine that takes your teeth and makes them into a necklace.  Sell the necklace… Bones! There are supposed to be 206 in the human body, but I have yet to meet somebody with the right amount.

                205, every last one of them. And do you know why? No spine! Yes, the vertebrae are all there, but that does not a spine make. There are 206 bones in the human body, so I obviously haven’t killed any people. Only worms.

                Not even worms, less. Because at least worms bleed red. I have killed people with, cowardly yellow blood and self-righteous blue blood. Even filthy browns and diseased greens. Sickening, vile, filth.

                MY mind’s made up. So tell me. [removes gag] What color do you bleed?

Henry Flagg

            The buzz of the audience, feverish and excited dancing of hands. The crowd is flowers for ears and honey for eyes. It was my favorite thing, as I would get into the ring in my black and yellow shorts. It was also my favorite thing afterwards too, because that’s how you know when you win. I always won, so that’s how I knew who I was.

            Right now, I am Henry Flagg. A man in a small apartment with no family. My posters remind me that I used to have a big family; fans, wrestlers, refs, and coaches. I spent every day at the ring, practicing, joking around with the guys. Here comes the busy bee, they’d say. And I would say back, all sting and no float. And we’d laugh about it, good days had. Man, I was on top then. Killa Gorilla, Man Handle, Colonel Overkill, and even Toucan Slam. I bested the lot of ‘em. Of course, this was back when themed wrestlers were big, we all had to have a backstory and we all had to sell it.

            Course, current wrestling is a little bit the same. But now there’s no character. Just backstory and a guy. We became icons, and we were spectacles, man. I mean, a grown man dressed in a bee costume wrestling a guy in a construction get-up? That’s an event, and people side with whoever they identify with, not whoever has the best record.

            I loved my story, mostly because it’s partly true. As a kid, I was picked on all the time. So, naturally I had to work out to defend myself, but I didn’t want to go to a gym. They judge you at a gym when you’re still the scrawny guy. So I went into the woods to train. And one day, the bullies followed me there, and I was just starting out. I dodged the first punch thrown, and the kid hit a tree. This angered the bees up there, and they went after the jerks who came for me. But the bees didn’t bother me. So I trained with the bees, learning how to throw each sting as if it was my last. Of course, for the show, there’s a little more of “raised by bees” and less “exercised near them.”

            So in the ring, I was Rumble Bee, idolized by children everywhere. I could go out on Halloween and see a kid or two dressed like me, act like me. Those were the days. But then, regardless of the fights you win or lose, you get old eventually. I did. The popularity of us wrestlers came quickly, and all I really knew to do was wrestle. So I put on a different costume, Henry Flagg, cashier at a plant store. In the springtime, I can shut my eyes, and listen real close, and I can feel like myself again.

Ichabod Crowley

For the duration of my life, I was never much of anything. I was never an angry man; never mean; never violent. Things change after what one can truly call life. I am not dead, I am trapped.

            My current situation is not the result of my misdeeds. In fables the wicked man gets comeuppance due to some act of badness, but I never acted in such a way.

            I also didn’t believe in anything supernatural, save for works of God. Now, I believe the opposite. I was a wanderer, just a man with no home or work. I fed myself with food that I found, having no skills in hunting and no place for farming. I had been a day and a half without food at this point, and nowhere near any kind of civilization. I prayed for help and my “salvation” came in the form of a stationary caravan. I approached it, but not being one for words, I avoided sight.

            I could hear people, and I was very hungry. Have you ever lied? Ever taken something you shouldn’t have? Why? It never does make any sense in hindsight especially when you are caught. I rummaged through one of their wagons, hoping to find some morsel.

            I did, and I took only what I needed to get by. It was during my departure that I was spotted and chased. Fortunately, being a lean man of great endurance, I escaped my pursuers. I sat down to eat, and saw a fire in the distance.

            Well, had these folks let bygones be bygones, maybe their caravan wouldn’t have been burned down. In chasing me, their men had left the place completely unprotected. The attack was most likely done by bandits who had been waiting for the right opportunity. It doesn’t mater though.

            Amazed by the inferno, I ignored any sign that I was finally found. An old woman, as cliché as it is, begged me to help save the caravan. I shrugged, telling her that it had nothing to do with me. I was in the right; a man trying to survive has no correlation to a man who torments for fun. I tried to maintain a certain distance from everyone, and I was punished for my self-interest in safety.

            I don’t pretend to understand exactly what happened, but the result remains the same regardless of the methods. I am now a scarecrow. I was left in that field. I have only just recently regained movement in my extremities.

            The straw-man does not feel. The greatest method by which men know that they are alive and well has been denied to me. I cannot see or hear either, yet I still have an awareness of my surroundings. I don’t know how I get my information, but it is torment. Being alone in a very dark room is the only way to describe it. Where the darkness is relentless and violent, and the silence is maddening. When most people would take this time to feel for surroundings and talk to themselves to rejoin reality, I am trapped.

            And I am hungry. I never got to eat that day, stunned with awe and interrupted by mysticism. I cannot eat, but I have felt hungry every day for the four and a half years that I have been this way.

            Soon, I will be able to move again. I can feel myself making progress. I was not a bad man in life. I was not mean, or violent, or cruel. Things change.

Professor Peter Arthur Clerval

            “Mad scientist” is a label that I object to. I mean, go ahead and use it if it suits you, but just know that it bothers me. You see the movies and they’ve got this guy with an affinity for science, a guy who has real talent, and he uses it for some ridiculous end. World domination is ridiculous, for example, because how could one possibly maintain that power? And the effects on the global economy! I just have to say, it’s a lot of work just doesn’t seem worth it. But yeah, anyway, I do the things I do to make the world a better place, not for some kind of crazy megalomania.

            There’s another thing about “mad scientists.” Why are they so angry? Going into some kind of fit over who knows what and making some sort of death ray, it’s just silly. By the way, no way to make a death ray that functions instantly; you can make a laser or something with radiation, but the death ray doesn’t just do the whole killing thing. Not my specialization, mind you, the rays, this was told to me by Doctor Spitzer. That guy’s an expert, but he’s got the death penalty for being too mad. Damn shame.

            I mean, I sort of see where he’s coming from. I’m bothered by a large number of things, but never really got to that level of “angry at everything.” I specialize in genetics and biology. You ever see Frankenstein? Good movie, sort of in the vein of where I work. I don’t want to change death though, dead is dead. I like making new creations. The spirit of science is in discovery and innovation. I do both of those on an organic level. Just my way of going green.

            Have you ever been in a super-market, specifically “12 items or less” aisle? I have, and let me tell you, it’s the absolute worst when somebody has more than 12 items. That’s blatant disregard for the rules, and the sign is right there! I bring this up, because it involves how I’ve applied my sciences. To make the world a better place. I built a hawk, 6-foot wingspan and barbed talons, and I trained him. Trained him to count to 13, and using some conditioning I trained him to attack quantities of that number or greater. So we went to the super-market, and he went berserk. I kept this helmet on him, even when we got there, and took it off in the aisle. I was getting looks the whole time, but man did he flip when he saw how many items there were in the store. Now, there may have been hiccups associated with the actual process, but the end result was still what I wanted: nobody had 13 items in the “12 items or less” aisle.

            See? No big schemes, no grand plan to ruin the world. Just a guy trying to work on the little things, and it really is the little things that matter. Things like losing one’s keys, when nothing’s on television, people who wear Bluetooth headsets, people who talk during movies, people who wave to somebody behind you but look like they’re waving at you, walking into spider webs, when my socks get wet, when I get a bad haircut, when somebody one-ups me in conversation, and when my name is pronounced incorrectly. Just a bunch of minor complaints that I have taken some measures to fix. Things would be a whole lot better if I was in charge.  

Doctor Nemo Seppelio

            It’s a damn shame that you could not possibly understand what I do. Nobody does. I am nobody. I was Doctor Nemo Seppelio. I was an excellent scientist, loving husband, soon-to-be father. I made a discovery, one unfathomable to minds that aren’t equipped like mine. Don’t blame yourself for not getting this, but you can blame me for trying to explain it to you.

            I have to keep this as simple as possible, so in short: our lab had just gotten a new microscope 1235% more powerful than our previous one. A microscope so much stronger, that it could see things so much smaller. Needless to say, a bunch of subatomic researchers would kill for the opportunity to be the first to use it. That is not where I am going with this. I was giddy, excited to see protons and neutrons, even electrons. And that’s when I saw it.

            Nothing. In between every proton and neutron, in the cracks of an impossibly small nucleus, there was absolutely nothing. This is the kind of discovery that wins a Nobel, not that those judgmental bastards would know anything about it. I kept this my little secret for a time, writing my hypotheses, exploring the possibilities. You have no idea how difficult it is to keep such a colossal discovery from people who study atoms, but I suppose their ignorance of the nothing was an oversight. Who else but me could notice what isn’t there?

It was around this point in my research that my wife told me she was pregnant. Naturally, I was interested in the prospect of being a father, but the family would need money first, and this discovery was my big payday.

            So I worked with nothing for a while, studying and refining. If I could create an area of nothing out of matter, my legacy would be great. I needed the microscope for most of my work, but after a while I could see nothing. It was everywhere, in everything. Invasive and miniscule, nothing was on my mind at all times. It started with seeing, but then I smelled nothing, heard nothing, tasted nothing. It was a matter of time before I also felt nothing.  

            I was a scientist, but I had become a master of nothing. In a matter of weeks, I had seen the truth behind matter, my truth. All of the other scientists, those who would dare call themselves my colleagues, wanted it all. I saw them, greedily swarming over my microscope to try and get a glimpse at nothing. Nothing is in the air, the water, the ground, in me. I had accepted my role as prophet to the nothing. To let people know what they thought about matter was completely wrong and that I knew the right way. Only me.

            And they laughed at me! Said I’d gotten weird. Said that I’d spent so much time working on nothing that I’d gone nuts. No. Wrong. They would not listen! I shoved proof in their moronic faces and they still could not comprehend the basic concept that nothing is everything! They look and I ask, ‘what do you see’ and they say ‘nothing, I don’t see anything’ as if that statement doesn’t CONTRADICT ITSELF.

            Their words, meaningless. I’ll show them all, because where I used to be Nemo, Doctor Seppelio, there is NOTHING. They’ve since tried to stop me, lock me away, keep me away from the idiots. But they don’t understand. I know nothing, how to manipulate it. I will escape this place when the time is right, and then we will see who was right. ME. Only me.

Hugo Moreaux

           I have spent much of my life amassing wealth in search of luxury. True decadence is something worth striving for, and once one becomes accustomed to the best they simply must have more. I am one such individual who has found the correct way to live, free of any of the troubles of lesser men. I have a flutist follow me everywhere, and the penalty for playing out of key is dire. I have a harem of virgins and seamstresses. The former is required to only tend to their hair and bathe me, while the latter turn the aforementioned hair into my robes. I have even given my mother an important position in my home, I do adore her. She sprinkles rose water everywhere I am going to step, so that I may never have to soil my nose with a foul scent. Original and exquisite art lines my every wall, with a greater total value than that of the Louvre. Every sixty-two steps (a number determined by my doctors) I receive foot massages and every one hundred (determined by me) I am given new shoes. I have someone to pick up everything for me and someone else to put things down. Having eliminated any possibility of vile sensation, my existence is objectively better than that of you mere insects.

            I have not, for fear of losing your interest too early, described the most perfect part of my day. As a man of fabulous wealth, my dining hall is laden with gold and rubies, while my plates and goblets are silver. It overlooks my lawn of emerald, all kept just for me by massive ivory fences topped with barbed wire of platinum. It is in this area that I am entertained, for a king must have fools to please him. I have become bored of jesters and performers, and moved onto a sport that is much more…decadent. I use my wealth to effectively purchase endangered species. The lesser man will cringe at this thought, because he thinks I am going to hunt them. I am not so barbaric. I pit two species against each other and allow nature to take its course; all acts of barbarism placed onto the shoulders of beasts.

            Since starting these struggles for life, I have worked my way up the various levels of predation. Today’s match is the ferocious polar bear versus the dignified, and ruthless, tiger. My men put the beasts into a poor disposition through electrocution and cause them to fight each other. Ribbons of crimson velvet soar through the air as tooth and claw clash in an exciting, and enticing, battle. It is this very sort of activity that makes me so very hungry, and fortunate to be able to watch it from my dining hall. It is amusing what little motivation animals require to be willing to fight one another. It used to be that my men would starve them for a better show, but once I became aware I put a stop to it at once. I am not some kind of animal; their meat became much too sinewy.

            It is true that I dine upon the newly deceased animal. Not only am I able to see such a rare fight, I only eat the rarest flesh. Today’s meal is a “Polar Bear Stroganoff”, my chef carves the best meat off of the bear and browns it in butter, and seasons the meat to perfection with salt and pepper. This is served over fettuccini noodles with a delightful combination of tarragon, nutmeg and cremini mushrooms. The harmony of flavors is divine, and warrants a fine Bordeaux to drink. A fantastic and exquisite meal, if there ever was one. I cannot abide wasting such a fine beast in one meal, and though I never repeat the dish or animal, I use as much as I can by having this bear’s blood made into a light sorbet. This amount of sweetness is my last taste before I sleep soundly through the night.

            These luxuries of mine are often met with horror, but allow me to explain it in simplest terms. When you step upon some insect, a cockroach or centipede, do you feel remorse? The answer is a most decided “no.” You recognize yourself as a higher form of life, and so you do not waste any thought on the pest’s life. I have elevated myself to a point where even large and dangerous creatures are but mere insects to me. Humans are the highest form of life, and I have surpassed even them on the food chain. When one has money, he may do as he pleases in regards to anything. I would love for some bold pest to attempt to stop me at this point.