Legion World Forums LEGION OUTPOST Bits o' Legionnaire Business Numf & Sonnie Go To Hell On A Pushbike

ARGH!

MORE!!!!!

My pleasure.....


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Sonnie, due to the pressure changes mentioned earlier, is no longer a piece of black coal.

You guessed it, probably at the time, he has been turned into that most perfect of carbon forms, diamond.

This being a story, we can't really just have him as something that looks like molten glass (a bit of a rough diamond, ha ha ha), but rather he is a cut diamond.

In fact, being as he is now in heaven, how can he be any less than the most utterly perfect cut diamond there has ever been? With wings.
Koh-I-Nor ? Phaah! Nothing compared to the perfection that is Sonnie.

Don't feel you have to answer that - it's my story, and he's my brother, and I can do just about anything I want. As long as Nighty allows it, at least.

However, although he had felt a bit funny, he hasn't yet realised just how much he has changed.

So, although he quite enjoys the warmth of the suns rays coming in the window of the control centre (sleeping in HVAC shafts can be quite chilly), he doesn't realise that it is those very rays that will give him away!

Like something from a Pink Floyd album sleeve, the ray of light which touches Sonnie flashes a kaleidoscopic rainbow effect through the open office door and on to the wall outside. Where Security notices it.

Luckily it takes a few seconds for the security to get past the "that's purty" stage and actually wonder where it's coming from.

Sonnie is concentrating on the phone message, and doesn't notice the guard at the door, turning towards the door to find out what's going on.

Sonnie flicks the switch by pushing hard against it.

Feedback ensues.

SCREEEEeeeeeeee!

"EX ZOMBIES! NUMF NEEDS YOUR HELP! GO TO PEARL-EYE GATE! NOW!"

The re-constructed voice echoes around the control centre. Sonnie, quite pleased with himself, turns to head out and marshall the 247 ex-zombies who should answer the call.

It would appear, however, that the 8 feet tall behorned demon, with four arms, swords and clubs, in his way might have something to say about that.

Well, if a diamond could shit itself ..........

Poor Sonnie!

Numf. you Bastich, now I'm gonna spend the next three or four hours wondering just what a Diamond would shit if it could shit...

“! WOTCHOODOOIN !” asks the guard in a very commanding voice, standing menacingly over Sonnie. Clubs and swords are quite obviously in view.

Sonnie quivers in fear. He isn’t naturally a fearful person, what with being a superhero and all that and ex-leader of the Hells Angels, but for some reason his subconscious is reminded of a poster that his elder brother used to have.
It was a Frank Frazetta poster of Conan the Barbarian fighting hoardes of four-armed big red behorned hell spawn. And it had held him in awe and fear during his pre-pubescent years.

And then the poster had been replaced by Charlies Angels, and that had held him in awe and fear during his formative pubescent years. That HAIR!

So, some primal, dormant fear was re-visiting him, and quiver he does, as memory forces his brain towards shutdown.

Quiver he does, shaking, shaking, shaking. He’d managed to hold himself together quite well he’d thought, up until now. Considering that he had entered such a strange domain. A domain of death. And considering the changes he had gone through.

And now, for the first time since his relocation to these realms he thinks of his great friend, Harbinger. He wishes she were here – she always knew how to look after his fears and take him through them. Not that he really wanted her to be dead, of course. He hasn’t realised until now just how much he misses her.

Inside, he breaks into tears.

“You’re so pretty! And what a pretty song you sing,” says the guard, melting at the haunting music that Sonnie is producing. “Poor little flying light, what’s the matter?”

Sonnie hovers, juddering, in the air in front of the guard, who eases himself forward gradually, talking softly and reassuringly in his bass tones, lulling Sonnie into a false sense of security.

When he gets within range the guard drops his weapons and pounces at Sonnie, hoping to capture rather than kill. He could do with a new pet to torture, and having a flying light may well test even his skills in that field.

His top pair of hands grabs at where Sonnie is, while the second pair grabs behind to stop any attempted retreat.

Sonnie, however, isn’t that stupid. (Feel free to disagree with that statement if you want to.) He has been able to read the guards thoughts in his eyes. He knows the old and new methods of torture that the guard knows already, and is concocting as he moves.

Instead of retreating, Sonnie charges. Accelerating at a fearsome rate. Nought to sixty in fuck-all of a second.

Straight through the guards right eye, ripping the back of his head off.

“AAAAAAARRRRRRRRHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!” screams the guard.
“I’LL GET YOU!!!!!!! SEE IF I DON’T!!!!”

Two of the guards hands are grabbing for weapons, one has grabbed his right eye socket while the other is digging at the back of his head to determine what’s going on there.

His other eye is merrily searching for Sonnie.

Okay, if you’re gonna be like that! thinks Sonnie to himself.

The guard sees Sonnie hovering in front of him, red this time rather than the blinding white of their encouter seconds ago. But he just doesn’t have the speed to react before Sonnie takes out his other eye.

He falls over backwards in a heap.

And then, just like the Undertaker, he sits bolt upright!
No-one had told Sonnie that hellspawn don’t die.

“NOW I’LL MAKE YOU PAY! WHERE ARE YOU, YOU LITTLE…… ” the guard rumbles, ominously.
<span style="font-size: 20px;">"GUARDS!!!!!!!"</span>

Sonnie turns to see the first half-dozen guards spill in through the control room door, and exits out through the plate glass window without opening it first.

Back under the pile of black clothed Saturday-night ninjas, Numf has had enough.

For a while now he's been planning to work out exactly what powers he has, and now that he's dead seems to be the perfect opportunity to find out.
Life had been all about getting pissed (mostly) and laid (not nearly as much as he wanted to), but there's not much of any of that going on around here at the moment.

He knows about a number of his parents, but not all. Some of them even had powers which may be of use. If the proper DNA molecules had been passed down in the mix.
The mixture concocted by Darkseid contained, but was not limited to :-

Legion worlds Security Officer Cobie,
Captain James T. Kirk - hence his desire to wear girdles (not common knowledge),
Attila The Hun - he has had to fight the urge to support Rangers all his life (as it is only right he do),
Alexander The Great - fabulous at undoing knots,
Genghis Khan - loves barbarian whores,
Adolf Hitler - hence the silly moustache and crap side parted hair when younger,
Jesse James - might explain the need to wear cowboy boots and eat Milky Bars,
Darth Vader (who in turn was the son of Darkseid himself) - has been known to wear black in his fat goth days, and wheeze the morning after a heavy smoking session..Oh, and bits of him had a habit of turning to rock.....
Mon-El - has been known to wear a gar land or two (boo hiss bad pun / spoonerism!).
And, lets not forget, one of the Banana Splits. Without whom he would never had ended up in this mess - he'd probably be fighting sloths in the Andes.

With his mother being a Supergirl clone, and one time Legionworlder Golden Girl.

There were a few things that he'd worked out how to do - his patented Wanker Detector worked a treat. It can also be turned to be used as a motion detector. It wouldn't be much use here - surrounded as he was by no motion but a whole buncha wankers.

Being part Mon-El led to a few possibilities, but
1. he couldn't fly without a Legion Ring (he'd tried previously, much to the amusement of most of the then Legionworlders),
2. he obviously wasn't invulnerable, or else he wouldn't be here in the first place,
3. all the air had been forced form his lungs, so he couldn't breathe out without having had the chance to breathe in first,
4. being stuck under such a large pile of blackness didn't really do much for vision, nor hearing for that matter,
5. he wasn't going to get the chance to build up any speed in the near future for similar reasons.

Which leaves super strength.

Even more interesting when the Supergirl DNA is taken into account along with the Darkseid DNA.

Might be worth trying to tap into.

The 247 ex-ex-zombies had been partying rather steadily for a number of months now.
They'd been enjoying the heady delights that heaven had to offer.
Waltzers, roller coasters, hotdogs, cotton candy etc.
Queueing. That was one of their favourites. Shuffling slowly.

They had tasted an extra five minutes humanity due in no small part to Numf. Mostly Space Tart, it has to be said, but they wouldn't have been in Shameless Hussies that evening if Numf hadn't invited them all for a drink.

And if there's one thing that zombies crave, even above warm brains, it's a return to humanity and the chance to have a cold brew. And Numf had delivered.
So they owed him any help that they could provide.

It takes a while for them to saunter to the nearest bus stop and catch the free bus back to the Pearly Gates. And then wait for the next five buses to drop off the rest of them. When they are all gathered they head out the gates, much to the confusion of St. Peter.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but where do you think you're going? No-one EVER goes back out that way!" St. Peter says rather loudly as they pass.

"wweee...... hellllp ..... fren," comes the gruff response. Followed by a green flesh covered bottom jaw dropping at his feet.

"But, but , but, you can't come back in," St. Peter says.

"Wanna .... fu ' n bet?" asks a passing seven foot tall zombie.

"Ummmmm......" splutters Petey-boy, fluttering his big white fluffy wings, tripping over his harp and landing on his fake mouse ears.

St. Peter picks himself up, brushes down his previously pristine white gown and preens a few feathers back into

their correct place. He is glad those bloody ears are broken though. What a TWAT!!!! he'd looked with them on.

The last few days had been a bit of a grind, to be honest. First that mysterious young girl with the pass. A PASS?

He'd never heard of such a thing, but Jesus had okayed it.

In fact, come to think of it, since the new management team had taken over a few years ago it had all been a bit

strange.

No more weighing of souls, good v evil, like in the "old" days. Just one question now, and on the answer to that

alone lay the opportunity to enter 'heaven'.
And even that, he had to admit, had turned into a bit of a playground.

He supposed that something had to be done. After all there had only been the three of them up here. For

thousands of bloody years.
Himself , God, and the boy with the holes in his hands.
He alone was only person who had proven himself pure enough to get in. No-one else had proven themselves good

enough. But then they had a high level to live up to. All that last minute praying for forgiveness crap never worked.

The only way to get in had been to cheat - and he should know!

Didn't mention his mysoginistic tendancies and hatred of Jesus' wife. Nor his mum for that matter!
He was sooooooo pissed off that those bloody monks had translated 'young' as 'virgin'!
Useless bastards! They'd deified the bloody woman, instead of crucifying her for under-age sex as he'd planned!
Well, at least they'd managed to paint Mary Magdalene as a whore.

And then of course he'd slipped in the hollowed out weights when their backs were turned..........
But then, he had probably paid the price by being made the doorman for eternity.

So, when Jesus took over the place he knew that he'd be here for a lot longer. So much for his plans for a holiday.

Jesus was on to him ......

When the big J had sneaked down to earth no-one was paying attenion. God had fallen asleep watching

Eastenders or something.
He had got a house in Wako, Texas for some r'n'r. Got down to a bit of hareem building after 2000 years celibacy -

and who can blame him?
But, while there he'd picked up a penchant for something called The Disney Channel.
So when the local government boys had burned his ass back up here he'd had a few funny ideas about what he'd

wanted.

His dad hadn't been too chuffed. Not at all chuffed, but sometimes you've just got to pass along the reins.
Jesus had turned around with the 'Look, it's boring around here, and we need more people. Sitting around playing

the bloody harp! I am you so I have as much right to run this place how I like it' nonsense.
'What makes you say that you are me?' had been the booming question.
'Father, son and Holy Ghost, one and the same - that's what they believe in, so that's what is,' came the stroppy

rejoinder.
'Utter pish and tosh! That crap with the knotted hanky - utter garbage. Father.... son.... there, you've got it right

there. Even with cloning there's no way that father and son can be the same person. But I'll give you the chance to

run it your way. Just don't come running to me when it all falls in around your head.' And he'd vanished. Just like

that.
No, not like that ..... just like that.

'A familiar face for everyone when they get to the gate..' indeed. Peter knows he's been screwed again. But what

choice did he have really? Jesus bringing in the outside consultants had really put the kybosh on his own ideas.

Anyway, enough about the ancient history - these black cloaked gits - it had taken a few of the security guards to

keep those buggers out, even though they passed the test question. Almost as if they'd been primed.
The first few had got past, but then they hadn't been dressed in black. There was something definitely not right

about them, and they weren't getting in - and Peter himself had the last word on the matter.

And that's when things started getting a bit stroppy and the guards were called. They'd just formed a barrier across

the gates and that was that.
Where Jesus had managed to get such good, cheap guards from he couldn't imagine. They sure knew what they

were doing.
It's strange, however, that if you catch them in your periferal vision they look like they're red with four arms. never

mind - he definitely needed that holiday.

Anyway - suddenly, after a couple of days of aggro and chip fights they'd all buggered off and jumped in a pile!

After shouting more abuse at St. Peter and the guards, swearing terrrrrrrible vengeance on them. They'd probably

been watching too much Pulp Fiction.

And now these bloody ex-zombies trying to escape! From heaven!

Peter shakes his head in disbelief.

And he thought he'd seen it all.

Sigh.

ooooooh good post Numf. Very risky subject matter treated with your usual considered irreverence! You are a star!

need I say more, more, more? I'm sure you already guessed

Harbi, can you tell me what's going on, 'cos I haven't got a bastard clue!



p.s. - where does the pushbike come in to things?

247 shambling ex-ex-zombies shamble out to help Numf.
They stumble to a halt - there's no sign of him. There's just that big black mountain. That never used to be there, did it?
It appears to be crawling like a mound of black maggots.

And if there was one thing that they know about, it's maggots!

They stumble shabbily forwards on stiff legs, arms outreached in front of them, just in case they should fall over. And a few of them do in the rough terrain.

As they line up they are surprised (or at least as surprised as zombies get) to see the vast mountain rise up slowly from the ground. There, underneath, holding it up at arms length is Numf!

YAY NUMF! they all cheer, except of course that it sounds more like "a' N ... F" said by people with no tongues. Which of course most of them didn't have anyway. Having had them eaten by the afore-mentioned maggots.
So, it sounded like not very much at all.

"Oh, hi there!" says the numfster, recognising a few of the zombies. "Any idea what I should do with this lot?"

"A'i n'ah!" mutter a few of the zombies.
Which Numf recognises, from having had teenage daughters, as "I don't know." At least the zombies don't mutter it with as much loathing and disrespect as the girls do. Sorry, did.

At that St. Peter comes flying out awkwardly (to be honest, the wings are more ornamental than functional), and lands fairly close to Numf, making sure that he's not actually standing under the mountain, in case it falls.

"Did I hear you say that you were looking for an idea of what to do with them?" St. Peter asks.

Numf nods, respectfully. Although he doesn't know who it is that's talking to him, anyone dressed in white with big gorgeous wings like that is bound to be a goody. Or a fucking seagull, but he doesn't look like one of them.

"Um, you see that tributary over there?" asks St. P. pointing behind Numf, who looks puzzled. "You CAN see through the ethereal mist, can't you?"

Numf turns 180 degrees and tries. He focuses on seeing through the fog. The fog appears to almost lighten and turn transluscent, allowing him to see further and further through it.

WHUMP!!

Suddenly he's lying on his back with some serious tonnage of pseudo-ninja on top of him again. Feeling a tad squished.

"Damn," he mutters incoherently to himself. "I didn't reckon to there being Ultra Boy DNA in me as well!"

Up they go again.

This times there's some shouting going on from the edge nearest Petey-babes, from the pseudo-ninja who have recognised him.

"Point me in the right direction," says Numf. "My super-vision doesn't work at the same time as the strength."

"Of course - that'll be the Ultra Boy DNA," sayd Petey-bunny. Out goes an arm, finger pointing. Numf turns to face in the right direction.

"What range?"

"Between 150 and 530 yards. After that it bends away to the right."

"Okay. That should be long enough for the spread that they'll have. Wind speed? Zero, right?"

Chuck.

With a mighty two handed throw, a number of tonnes of black covered flesh goes flying into the thick, thick fog.

5 Sssscrrrreeeeeeeee

4 eeeeeeeee

3 eee

2 eea

1 m

PPLAAAAASHHH!!

"Thank you. They'll be no bother now," says Peter, with a big smug look on his face. "To either of us."

"Why's that? Are there crocodiles in that tributary or something?" asks Numf, for some reason suddenly concerned that he'd cast all those dead gits to their death. Or something.

Peter laughs. "No, my dear boy. Are you by any chance a scholar of the classics?"

"Well, I've read Moby Dick and Black Beauty ...." says Numf hopefully.

"No," says St. P somewhere between laughter and disappointment. "I meant do you have a grounding in Greek and Latin. I'll take that as a no, then. That is, indeed, the river Lethe," St. P waits for a second in the hope that this might mean something, and then soldiers on with a sigh. "The one thing that classic scholars would generally know about it is the fact that it's waters make one forget their memories. Therefore, once they re-emerge from its waters, they will have forgotten everything. What they have against you, and what they have against me, too. So we needn't worry about them any more."

"Cool," says Numf, brushing himself off. Sorry, I mean brushing all of the dirt off his clothes. "So, now what?"

"Well, I suppose that I owe you my thanks for getting rid of those trouble makers. How about I tell you the answer to get in through the Pearly Gates?" asks Pete.

"What about my friends?" asks Numf waving his hands round to take in the zombies. "I could have sworn that I heard you saying that they wouldn't get back in. Let them back in - they only came out to help me after all - and I'll answer any question you like. Without cheating."

"But it's unheard of!"

"Yeah, but they'd already been admitted, hadn't they?"

"Yeah, I s'pose," says Peter, slightly annoyed with himself.

"SO, let them in!" says Numf, feeling slightly confrontational.

Having just seen Numf dispose of those ninja, and spotting in his eyes a look which reads "feather plucking mood", St. P relents. "Okay - but I can only grant one favour, so no asking anyone the answer. Promise?"

"I promise," agrees Numf.

Okay, let me get this straight. You lost track of what's happening in the story you're writing so you ask Harbi, who happens to write the most insanely convoluted stories this side of Mr. Dobson's favorite opium house, to straighten you out and after your next story segments you wind up palling around with St. Peter in Heaven?

UB's DNA as well??? Are you sure it's not that, like most blokes you can only do one thing at a time?

Great stuff Ken, now go sort out St P. as he's worthy of Herk treatment if anyone is (Loved the - "a look which reads "feather plucking mood" " line btw ). And now you have a host of ninjas with no memory to add to your fab cast too, damn - wish I'd thought of that! What a great idea!

Hope sun is shining at your end of the aether Ken!

And AQ, convoluted plots? I've no idea what you are referring to

Hey, you know how it goes - sometimes you've just got to follow the story, no matter where it takes you.
BTW - where's this opium den you were talking about ........

Well, B, you could be right about the first point - multi-tasking sure ain't in my genes, in fact sometimes single-tasking can be a strain.

As for St. P, just 'cos he's a misogynistic, gossip spreading uber-cheat doesn't make him a bad person

They stand at the Disneyland©®™ Pearly Gates. The zombies have all passed through, as agreed, and shuffle animatedly on the other side, waiting for their friend.

Numf waits patiently, sweaty palmed, as St. Peter sorts out his paperwork.

"Am I allowed to ask you a question?" asks Numfy of Petey-boy.

"Why, yes. Under the rules you're actually allowed to ask me one question that I'm obliged to answer truthfully. It just seems a pity that you've wasted your question at this early stage," says St. P distractedly. "Ah, here's your entrance form," he says, waving it in the air like Chamberlain returning from Berlin.

"Bugger," comes the inevitable reply.

"Righty-ho," says St. P looking through the form. He opens up a sheef of paper, and one single, folded up sheet un-concertinas out, revealing fifteen folds in it.

"Bloody hell, is that my family tree?" asks Numf.

"Sorry, I can't answer that," says St. Peter. "You've already had your question."

"Fuck. Hey, Mr. Zombie - go and you ask him for me," commands/pleads Numf.

Two minutes pass.

"Okay then - how about one of you with a tongue?"

"Zatiz famleetreeeee?" asks a close by zombie, complete with facial tics and strained rigor mortised muscles.

"Yes, but only going back one generation," comes the reply.

"You mean that you've got a list of everyone whose DNA is in my mix?" asks Numf incredulously.

Silence.

A bit more silence. And some definite 'trying-to-ignore'.

Yet more silence.

"Right - go on. Ask me the bloody question then. Maybe I can get a civil answer out of you after that."

"Okay then. It's a fairly simple question. All you have to do is answer yes or no. Understand?"

"Yes. Hey is that it then? That was bloody easy," says Numf, all pleased with himself. He starts to walk forward.

St. Peter lays a hand on his chest. "And now the question," he says, neatly not answering Numfs question at the same time. He's obviously a dab hand at this.

"Do you believe in dinosaurs?"

but.. but.. but..!

What a Question! If he says yes (due to scientifically conclusive proof) he'll lose won't he? The Earth being made 6003 years ago by mr JHWH (or whatever line of bollocks is being passed off as 'truth' these days) and St Pete ain't about to listen to reason is he?

Heh, good one Ken.

Ohmygod this story is so not sucky I can't believe it. No wonder Gramps says you make him crap his pants laughing.

Why, that's just about the nicest thing anyone's ever said about my stories.

Thank you.

"Of course I do!" exclaims Numf. Scientific fact that was. He'd seen the skeletons in The Natural History Museum - diplodocus, triceratops etc. Fossils of great sea beasts, archaeopterixes, trilobytes. He'd even seen a bunch of Chinese dinosaurs at one point, so he knows that they weren't just a localised event. Why on earth wouldn't he believe in dinosaurs for goodness sake.

They'd even found the oldest recorded fossil ever not 20 miles from his old family house.

"AAwwwwwww!" exclaim the zombies. Even St. Peter looks slightly crestfallen. Numfs entry form disappears in a puff of smoke, and with it the chance to find out his immediate ancestory.

Some of the zombies even start crying. The ones with working tear ducts anyway.

" ....but......" Numf starts, realising that he's maybe screwed things up somehow, and trying to think on his feet. But, as anyone who has met him knows, that ain't one of his strong suits.

"...........but........" he continues, playing for time.

St. Peter and the zombies look on, hoping that he's not just playing for time.

Lying soaked, cold and exhausted on the banks of the Leche -

Ninja 1 : I'll get that bastard!

Ninja 2 : What bastard?

Ninja 1 : Ummmm .............

Just when it looked like time had run out for Numfs rather crap procrastinating he finds himself attracted to a reflection of light ten feet behind St. Peter, and floating above the zombies.

The light is darting about, flashing on and off. But it seems to be doing so in a particular pattern.

Numf looks confused, and shakes his head.
St. Peter sighs.

The light speeds up. Back and fore, back and fore it goes. Speeding up, speeding up.
Until, suddenly, Numf can read a word hanging in the air. It says 'only'.

Numf tries this word on his tongue. It tastes good.

"Only...."

There is a gasp of indrawn breath from all around - maybe he won't be damned to eternal ...well.... damnation after all. Breaths are held. The tension can be felt, heavy in the air. Or is that just the fact that Numf is bloody hungry?

The light pattern changes.

"In....."

change

"As far....."

change

"As they ......."

change

"Are there ....."

change

"As testes ..... sorry, as tests ....."

change

"Stupid basta .........ooops..."

change

"Of faith."

Numf stops. St.Peter looks on quizzically. "You look like you've just read that off an auto-cue. Go on, explain what you mean then."

A thought pounds through Numfs head - HARBI HARBI HARBI HARBI.