Things aren't looking good for Our Hero. His old nemesis, the FightBulb's got the jump on him and is wailing away. There's no telling how much thought was left in the well beaten head of The Pouch, but if he was thinking, he was probably thinking he was pretty glad he didn't have eyes because The FightBulb's glowing dome, drawing its energy from pugilistic violence, only got brighter and brighter with each punch. The filament that made up his face inside the glass twisted into a rictus of cruel pleasure.
Then, just as the light seemed it couldn't get any brighter, few hear the quiet sound of unsnapping as the many pouches of which The Pouch was fully constituted began opening. Suddenly a great amount of moths (moths are primarily solitary creatures and thus do not have an interesting collective noun) flew out of The Pouch's many pouches. The moths, driven into a frenzy by the quantity and quality of the light streaming out of The FightBulb's bulbous cranium, suicidally clung to the glassy exterior of The FightBulb's head, searing and smoking in a rather disgusting display.
Too charged up on the thrill of battle, The FightBulb began wildly swinging at the moth cloud that encircled his head. Finally, he turned his horseshoe-hard fists on himself, wailing away at the months combusting all along the surface of clear head. It only took a few haymakers before the dome shattered, sending in cool Autumn air, and no small amount of living and half living moths onto his thin filament face, the quick cooling causing it to snap! The FightBulb hit the ground with the force of a drunk dad miscalculating where the stairs started.
The Pouch stumbled to his feet in time to see his crush and sometimes crime fighting partner Mary Sew swing in on an all but invisible length of thread. After asking him if he was okay, and checking the ware on some of his stitching, she deftly bound The FightBulb and waved over the arriving officers of the local police force.
"That was pretty smart, the moths bit," said Mary Sew.
"Um, yeah, uh huh, I wasn't um... I didn't know if it would work or not," said The Pouch.
"Well, I have to run, see you around," said Mary Sew.
"Yup," said The Pouch. He watched his unrequited love swing away and slowly limped down to the hardware store. There he tried to be discrete, though this goal was almost completely un-achievable as a being made of pouches and was rather heavily armed. Finding what he needed, he walked down the checkout aisle, selecting the cashier with really thick glasses in a feeble attempt at minimizing his shame. He slid the package across the counter.
"These, ah, these don't have any side effects on sentient leather, do they?" he asked.
"Hold on a second," reaching for the store microphone before even The Pouch's preternatural reflexes could stop her, she blared over the store intercom, "Herb, these moth thingies, the balls, can you put the balls in a nice pouch or will it get weird? I mean like worse than having moths down in there?"
Life was rarely easy or satisfying for The Pouch, but still he got out of bed everyday to protect the ungrateful mass of humanity that surrounded him on all sides.
***Rob Liefeld holds the sole ownership of The Pouch, this work is merely a loving tribute.
No comments:
Post a Comment