Part 4: Thrown Under the Bus
Glenn-El, last son of the lost planet Crypto-con, walked the streets of Municipality. To the people of the city he was Farren Fox, mild-mannered stooge of the Liberal Media. Little did they know that Farren Fox was merely the secret identity of Supercon, defender of truthiness, property, and the conservative way.
Farren Fox didn't particularly like Municipality. He had been raised in a small town called Littleton, and he knew without having to think about it that being from a small town made him morally superior to the city dwellers around him. That was how his adoptive parents, Ma and Pa Fox, had raised him, and nothing he had seen in Municipality had inclined him to change his mind.
He could still remember the day before he finally left home for the big city, with a freshly minted journalism degree from Billy Bob University and the promise of a cub reporter's position at the Daily Globe. His adoptive father had sat him down and warned him about what he would find in Municipality.
"Niggers," Pa Fox told him.
"Well, duh," Farren had responded.
"You sassin' me, boy?"
"No, sir."
"But that ain't all. They got faggots there too, and Moozlims, and Jews."
"But I thought the Jews were good guys."
"Only when they're over in th' Middle East fightin' Ay-rabs. They ain't Christians, so they're goin' straight to Hell, jus' like all the other heathen."
"Oh. Okay."
"An' ya gotta watch out fer the spics, too. Comin' up from Messico, takin' jobs from hardworkin' Americans an' livin' on welfare, never learnin' a word of English. Damn country would be better off if we could just get all them spics to go back where they damn well came from!"
Fox's musings were interrupted by the growling sound of a bus as it came to a halt at a nearby bus stop. Fox himself hadn't ridden a bus since graduating from high school, and his lip curled as it always did when he saw any form of public transportation. Why should his taxes go to subsidize some welfare queen on her way to see her crack dealer?
He turned away and was about to resume walking when the door to the bus opened and he found himself frozen to the spot in horror. The people in that bus were speaking Spanish! It was full of illegal immigrants!
For some reason, an image flashed in his mind of the spaceship that had brought him from Crypto-con to Earth, but he quickly dismissed it. The momentary horror gave way to grim resolve. "This looks like a job . . . for Supercon!"
Spotting a nearby ATM booth, he hurried over and slipped a debit card into the slot. The door unlocked, and no sooner had it closed behind him than he was out of his street clothes and into his cape and tights.
Fast as a streak of light, Supercon was out the door of the ATM booth and swooping down underneath the bus full of illegal immigrants. With a single mighty heave, he lifted the bus above his head. "Up, up, and away!" he cried out as he rose from the city street.
The landscape below him was a blur as Supercon flew to the southwest. In five minutes, he was across the Mexican border with the Sonoran Desert spread out below him. He let himself drop to the ground, then set the bus down atop the burning desert sand.
The door to the bus opened and a man in a business suit leaned out. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.
"Bringing you back home, Pedro," Supercon said.
"I'm an American, you dumbass!"
"Tell it to the Border Patrol, Paco. Up, up, and away!" And with that, Supercon was soaring back into the sky.
Showing posts with label supercon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label supercon. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Adventures of Supercon, part 3
Part 3: Who Monitors the Monitors?
Supercon, last survivor of the planet Crypto-con and Earth's defender of truthiness, property, and the conservative way, was cruising through the planet's stratosphere as he pondered his father Rush-El's last recorded message. Rush-El had been eloquent, as befitted the last and greatest conservative propagandist of Crypto-con. Science, he had warned, was as much a battle between conservatism and liberalism as any other field of human endeavor. No scientific enterprise ought to be allowed to escape the attention of vigilant conservatives, ever on the lookout, as they must be, for evidence of liberal bias.
Worst of all, Rush-El had warned, was government-funded science. Letting scientists receive money from the government was a sure-fire way to get liberals pushing their stealth agenda at the expense of decent, hardworking conservative taxpayers.
As Supercon let his father's words occupy his thoughts, his eyes took in the vista before him. He was flying east over the Aleutian Mountains after a few hours spent patrolling the Bering Strait. Sure, the Russians wanted everyone to think they had abandoned Communism, but Supercon knew that was just the sort of sneaky subterfuge the Russians were renowned for. He always made a point of flying along the International Date Line between Alaska and Siberia, just to let the Russkies know that he was still keeping an eye on them.
Spread out across his vision was a chain of snow-capped mountain peaks, shining in the afternoon sun. As any conservative would, he was wondering if it would be possible to privatize the mountain chain and charge people admission to see them. He was turning the problem over in his mind, weighing the possibility of covering the mountains under a tarp and only exposing them for paying customers, when his eyes saw a plume of ash rising from one of the peaks.
The Aleutian Range, he knew, was volcanic. No doubt, one of the volcanos in the range was erupting. He flew closer, and immediately noticed two things: one, a jetliner was flying directly towards the cloud of volcanic ash rising from the mountain peak; and second, there was a building a few miles away from the mountain. His super-powered vision was able to pick out a sign standing near the building: REDOUBT VOLCANO MONITORING STATION -- YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK.
A volcano monitoring station, Supercon realized with growing horror, and it was government funded! There was no time to lose! Diving down out of the stratsophere, Supercon flew like an arrow towards the monitoring station. He came to rest hovering a hundred feet away from the building. Inhaling for all he was worth, Supercon was able to compress millions of cubic feet of atmospheric oxygen and nitrogen within his superpowered lungs. Then, with a single convulsive effort, he exhaled again.
Like a sudden tsunami, the mighty wind of escaping air battered at the volcano monitoring station, blasting it until at last it was reduced to a pile of rubble. Wanting to make certain, Supercon again inhaled, and again exhaled, and the rubble was blown across a hundred thousand square feet of the volcano's flank.
Looking up from the wreckage of the monitoring station, feeling the glow of a job well done, Supercon noted idly that the jetliner had passed through the cloud of volcanic ash and was spiraling down out of control. Well, he thought with a shrug, the passengers and crew had known the risks when they boarded. The more farsighted ones would have purchased flight insurance.
With a trumphant "Up, up, and away!" Supercon rose from the mountainside and resumed his interrupted journey to the east.
Supercon, last survivor of the planet Crypto-con and Earth's defender of truthiness, property, and the conservative way, was cruising through the planet's stratosphere as he pondered his father Rush-El's last recorded message. Rush-El had been eloquent, as befitted the last and greatest conservative propagandist of Crypto-con. Science, he had warned, was as much a battle between conservatism and liberalism as any other field of human endeavor. No scientific enterprise ought to be allowed to escape the attention of vigilant conservatives, ever on the lookout, as they must be, for evidence of liberal bias.
Worst of all, Rush-El had warned, was government-funded science. Letting scientists receive money from the government was a sure-fire way to get liberals pushing their stealth agenda at the expense of decent, hardworking conservative taxpayers.
As Supercon let his father's words occupy his thoughts, his eyes took in the vista before him. He was flying east over the Aleutian Mountains after a few hours spent patrolling the Bering Strait. Sure, the Russians wanted everyone to think they had abandoned Communism, but Supercon knew that was just the sort of sneaky subterfuge the Russians were renowned for. He always made a point of flying along the International Date Line between Alaska and Siberia, just to let the Russkies know that he was still keeping an eye on them.
Spread out across his vision was a chain of snow-capped mountain peaks, shining in the afternoon sun. As any conservative would, he was wondering if it would be possible to privatize the mountain chain and charge people admission to see them. He was turning the problem over in his mind, weighing the possibility of covering the mountains under a tarp and only exposing them for paying customers, when his eyes saw a plume of ash rising from one of the peaks.
The Aleutian Range, he knew, was volcanic. No doubt, one of the volcanos in the range was erupting. He flew closer, and immediately noticed two things: one, a jetliner was flying directly towards the cloud of volcanic ash rising from the mountain peak; and second, there was a building a few miles away from the mountain. His super-powered vision was able to pick out a sign standing near the building: REDOUBT VOLCANO MONITORING STATION -- YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK.
A volcano monitoring station, Supercon realized with growing horror, and it was government funded! There was no time to lose! Diving down out of the stratsophere, Supercon flew like an arrow towards the monitoring station. He came to rest hovering a hundred feet away from the building. Inhaling for all he was worth, Supercon was able to compress millions of cubic feet of atmospheric oxygen and nitrogen within his superpowered lungs. Then, with a single convulsive effort, he exhaled again.
Like a sudden tsunami, the mighty wind of escaping air battered at the volcano monitoring station, blasting it until at last it was reduced to a pile of rubble. Wanting to make certain, Supercon again inhaled, and again exhaled, and the rubble was blown across a hundred thousand square feet of the volcano's flank.
Looking up from the wreckage of the monitoring station, feeling the glow of a job well done, Supercon noted idly that the jetliner had passed through the cloud of volcanic ash and was spiraling down out of control. Well, he thought with a shrug, the passengers and crew had known the risks when they boarded. The more farsighted ones would have purchased flight insurance.
With a trumphant "Up, up, and away!" Supercon rose from the mountainside and resumed his interrupted journey to the east.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
The Adventures of Supercon, part 2
Part 2: Better Dead than Maglev
Glenn-El, the last son of Crypto-Con, walked the streets of planet Earth under the human name Farren Fox. Adopted as an infant by Ma and Pa Fox, Glenn-El had grown to manhood unaware of his heritage, until his unearthly powers had begun to manifest themselves. That was when his parents had revealed the small spaceship in which he had fallen to Earth seventeen years before. Within it, he had discovered the sweat-soaked cape of his true father Rush-El, bearing a strange semicircular character that he now knew was the ancient crest of his Crypto-conian family.
Also within the spaceship he had uncovered a strange device that proved to be a voice recorder holding his father's last message: "Glenn-El, my son, remember this. Conservativism did not fail us -- we failed conservatism. We weren't conservative enough. I've given you a chance to avoid the mistakes we made. Remember -- government isn't the solution, government is the problem. And taxes are always bad. Always, always, always! Goodbye, my son, and good luck!"
Inspired by his father's words, Farren Fox -- Glenn-El -- had donned his father's cape, along with a costume of leotards and tights that was totally not gay, no matter what anybody said, and appeared before the world to champion conservatism. The Liberal Media, fearful of his conservative awesomeness, had named him Supercon, and he had proudly born that name.
There was much for him to do on this dark planet Earth -- government regulations, government subsidies, and worst of all -- worst of all! -- taxes! More taxes than even Rush-El's worst nightmares could have conceived.
Flying across the Mojave Desert, Supercon's attention was drawn to a dark line drawn across the dessicated landscape as though with a straightedge. A line a railroad cars moved across it at a speed of hundreds of miles an hour. Supercon nodded in approval -- good, old-fashioned rail technology, the kind that had opened the west, a tribute to the power of unfetterd free enterprise.
Suddenly, his superpowered vision noticed something amiss. There was a sign next to the railroad, and as he read it, his blood ran cold: MAGLEV TRAIN - YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK. A government-subsidized maglev train -- and it was headed straight for Las Vegas!
As quick as thought, Supercon was roaring through the sky, arrowing down to the desert floor beneath. Approaching the train from behind, he grabbed ahold of it, then set down on the railbed. A gout of dust erupted behind him as his feet gouged into the hard rock. He could feel the friction with the ground heating his boots, and his feet . . . his legs . . . .
But it was working! The train was slowing down. Slower and slower they went, until the maglev train was resting motionless on the tracks. Staring down at the rails, Supercon let his x-ray vision heat them up until they were white-hot. The rails softened like wax, then spread across the ground in two molten lines across the desert as they liquefied.
His work complete, Supercon lifted his eyes to find a crowd of passengers glaring at him from the train.
"What the hell are you doing?" one of them asked.
"This maglev train was wrong," Supercon explained. "Government subsidized, creeping socialism. Next time you want to go to Vegas, take the highway -- in your own private car. That's the way to preserve freedom! Now, up, up, and away!"
"But the government subsidizes highways, too, you dumbass!" the passenger called out. "And now we're stranded here!"
But there was no one to hear. Fast as a second-amendment-approved speeding bullet, Supercon was gone.
(to be continued)
Glenn-El, the last son of Crypto-Con, walked the streets of planet Earth under the human name Farren Fox. Adopted as an infant by Ma and Pa Fox, Glenn-El had grown to manhood unaware of his heritage, until his unearthly powers had begun to manifest themselves. That was when his parents had revealed the small spaceship in which he had fallen to Earth seventeen years before. Within it, he had discovered the sweat-soaked cape of his true father Rush-El, bearing a strange semicircular character that he now knew was the ancient crest of his Crypto-conian family.
Also within the spaceship he had uncovered a strange device that proved to be a voice recorder holding his father's last message: "Glenn-El, my son, remember this. Conservativism did not fail us -- we failed conservatism. We weren't conservative enough. I've given you a chance to avoid the mistakes we made. Remember -- government isn't the solution, government is the problem. And taxes are always bad. Always, always, always! Goodbye, my son, and good luck!"
Inspired by his father's words, Farren Fox -- Glenn-El -- had donned his father's cape, along with a costume of leotards and tights that was totally not gay, no matter what anybody said, and appeared before the world to champion conservatism. The Liberal Media, fearful of his conservative awesomeness, had named him Supercon, and he had proudly born that name.
There was much for him to do on this dark planet Earth -- government regulations, government subsidies, and worst of all -- worst of all! -- taxes! More taxes than even Rush-El's worst nightmares could have conceived.
Flying across the Mojave Desert, Supercon's attention was drawn to a dark line drawn across the dessicated landscape as though with a straightedge. A line a railroad cars moved across it at a speed of hundreds of miles an hour. Supercon nodded in approval -- good, old-fashioned rail technology, the kind that had opened the west, a tribute to the power of unfetterd free enterprise.
Suddenly, his superpowered vision noticed something amiss. There was a sign next to the railroad, and as he read it, his blood ran cold: MAGLEV TRAIN - YOUR TAX DOLLARS AT WORK. A government-subsidized maglev train -- and it was headed straight for Las Vegas!
As quick as thought, Supercon was roaring through the sky, arrowing down to the desert floor beneath. Approaching the train from behind, he grabbed ahold of it, then set down on the railbed. A gout of dust erupted behind him as his feet gouged into the hard rock. He could feel the friction with the ground heating his boots, and his feet . . . his legs . . . .
But it was working! The train was slowing down. Slower and slower they went, until the maglev train was resting motionless on the tracks. Staring down at the rails, Supercon let his x-ray vision heat them up until they were white-hot. The rails softened like wax, then spread across the ground in two molten lines across the desert as they liquefied.
His work complete, Supercon lifted his eyes to find a crowd of passengers glaring at him from the train.
"What the hell are you doing?" one of them asked.
"This maglev train was wrong," Supercon explained. "Government subsidized, creeping socialism. Next time you want to go to Vegas, take the highway -- in your own private car. That's the way to preserve freedom! Now, up, up, and away!"
"But the government subsidizes highways, too, you dumbass!" the passenger called out. "And now we're stranded here!"
But there was no one to hear. Fast as a second-amendment-approved speeding bullet, Supercon was gone.
(to be continued)
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The Adventures of Supercon, part 1
Part 1: The Last Son of Crypto-con
Far from the planet Earth, on a world that circled a red-state sun, Rush-El, last and greatest propagandist of the planet Crypto-con, brooded within his vast beachfront fortress. Of course, the beach was gone now, submerged beneath seas engorged with melted ice from the planet's lost icecaps. As the polluted water surged over the poisoned land, Crypto-conian civilization was crumbling under the combined ecological and economic catastrophes of free-market fundamentalism.
Rush-El shook his head. It wasn't true; he knew it in his gut that it wasn't true. "Conservatism didn't fail us," he muttered to himself. "We failed it. We weren't conservative enough." But now, at long last, there was no one to hear him. The rapidly-heating air of Crypto-con could no longer transmit the radio waves upon which Rush-El had made his fortune. Alone, unheard, he swore to himself, "It can't end here. It won't end here. I won't let it."
Heaving his vast, sweating bulk from one of the oversized chairs with which he had furnished his fortress, Rush-El waddled through the echoing hallways until he reached the garage. There, he beheld the small spaceship which his once-vast fortune had purchased for him. He also beheld its intended passenger, his infant son Glenn-El, crying lustily within his crib.
Well, Rush-El admitted within his own mind, probably not actually his son. Frankly, Rush-El didn't like having sex with adults. Even the women of Crypto-con, trained from birth in the arts of subservience, were too independent for his liking. That was why his many marriages had all ended in divorce, sealed with ironclad nondisclosure agreements. Children were much more satisfactory. In fact, give him a few years, and Glenn-El himself . . .
But Rush-El knew he didn't have a few years. Within hours, his fortress would be submerged beneath the poisoned seas, and the last bastion of Crypto-conian civilization would be no more. After pausing several minutes to recover his breath from the long journey to the garage, Rush-El leaned over to lift from the crib what was legally his son, and brought him over to the open hatch of the spaceship. Glenn-El continued to cry, his face red as the sun of Crypto-con, and the echoes of his voice filled the garage. It was with some relief, Rush-El admitted at last to himself, that he closed the hatch and cut off the babe's incessant wailing.
It was a pity that they couldn't have made the spaceship big enough for Rush-El himself, the propagandist mused sadly. He would have cheerfully abandoned Crypto-con and left little Glenn-El to fend for himself in that case. But it was not to be. It was either Glenn-El, or nothing.
Turning to the control console, Rush-El pressed the button that would release the narcozine gas within the spaceship, placing Glenn-El in a deep slumber that would allow him to survive the long interstellar voyage to his new home. A second button caused the garage roof to swing open, allowing the planet's hot, choking air to enter. A final button fired up the spaceship's engines, and it lifted slowly out of its launch cradle, flames billowing out from beneath.
Rush-El swore as the flames enveloped him. It hadn't occurred to him that the spaceship would kill him when it took off; if it had, he never would have bothered with any of this. Screaming in pain, the last and greatest propagandist of the planet Crypto-con cursed the probably-not-his-son whose life he had just saved.
The spaceship with the sleeping infant rose up from the surface of Crypto-Con, oriented itself among the stars, and set off for the tiny yellow sun that would be its final destination.
(to be continued)
Far from the planet Earth, on a world that circled a red-state sun, Rush-El, last and greatest propagandist of the planet Crypto-con, brooded within his vast beachfront fortress. Of course, the beach was gone now, submerged beneath seas engorged with melted ice from the planet's lost icecaps. As the polluted water surged over the poisoned land, Crypto-conian civilization was crumbling under the combined ecological and economic catastrophes of free-market fundamentalism.
Rush-El shook his head. It wasn't true; he knew it in his gut that it wasn't true. "Conservatism didn't fail us," he muttered to himself. "We failed it. We weren't conservative enough." But now, at long last, there was no one to hear him. The rapidly-heating air of Crypto-con could no longer transmit the radio waves upon which Rush-El had made his fortune. Alone, unheard, he swore to himself, "It can't end here. It won't end here. I won't let it."
Heaving his vast, sweating bulk from one of the oversized chairs with which he had furnished his fortress, Rush-El waddled through the echoing hallways until he reached the garage. There, he beheld the small spaceship which his once-vast fortune had purchased for him. He also beheld its intended passenger, his infant son Glenn-El, crying lustily within his crib.
Well, Rush-El admitted within his own mind, probably not actually his son. Frankly, Rush-El didn't like having sex with adults. Even the women of Crypto-con, trained from birth in the arts of subservience, were too independent for his liking. That was why his many marriages had all ended in divorce, sealed with ironclad nondisclosure agreements. Children were much more satisfactory. In fact, give him a few years, and Glenn-El himself . . .
But Rush-El knew he didn't have a few years. Within hours, his fortress would be submerged beneath the poisoned seas, and the last bastion of Crypto-conian civilization would be no more. After pausing several minutes to recover his breath from the long journey to the garage, Rush-El leaned over to lift from the crib what was legally his son, and brought him over to the open hatch of the spaceship. Glenn-El continued to cry, his face red as the sun of Crypto-con, and the echoes of his voice filled the garage. It was with some relief, Rush-El admitted at last to himself, that he closed the hatch and cut off the babe's incessant wailing.
It was a pity that they couldn't have made the spaceship big enough for Rush-El himself, the propagandist mused sadly. He would have cheerfully abandoned Crypto-con and left little Glenn-El to fend for himself in that case. But it was not to be. It was either Glenn-El, or nothing.
Turning to the control console, Rush-El pressed the button that would release the narcozine gas within the spaceship, placing Glenn-El in a deep slumber that would allow him to survive the long interstellar voyage to his new home. A second button caused the garage roof to swing open, allowing the planet's hot, choking air to enter. A final button fired up the spaceship's engines, and it lifted slowly out of its launch cradle, flames billowing out from beneath.
Rush-El swore as the flames enveloped him. It hadn't occurred to him that the spaceship would kill him when it took off; if it had, he never would have bothered with any of this. Screaming in pain, the last and greatest propagandist of the planet Crypto-con cursed the probably-not-his-son whose life he had just saved.
The spaceship with the sleeping infant rose up from the surface of Crypto-Con, oriented itself among the stars, and set off for the tiny yellow sun that would be its final destination.
(to be continued)
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