Skip to main content

"astra, come here for a second"


Context: From Astra's G.L.I.T.T.E.R.A..T.I. tribe of shiny people, where I operate as a sleeper agent:
Re: if you HAD to be a super hero/villain...
My costume would be the one I debuted on the Castro with: a formfitting black leather mask, Kato-style, that ties with a matching thong in the back. Of course, under that is black greasepaint around the eyes, right up to the eyelids, for that seamless look. Add a black latex T-shirt (mixing two chewable surfaces), and black jeans with heavy black shoes. I'd add to that (once-existing) costume, a gadget-laden codpiece, called (in deference to an earlier thread) "The Jeweled Meat Hammer."

Astra would be my demented brother/sister/arch-enemy, in a sort of binary orbit of several G.L.I.T.T.E.R.A.T.I. subcliques: Lovers of Virtue Eternum, and Hellbound Apathets' Terror Engineering. We would fight tooth and nail in public all week, but send each other chocolate and tiny electronics on weekends.

My secret identity would be a scatterbrained lab researcher who always leaves the bunsen burner on "high."

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

send this to your crush without context.

dan simmons’ fiction

“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he