Friday, August 13, 2004

7 am.

I was sitting in my den, reading "Guns and Ammo", enjoying my
semi-retirement, when I got the fateful call. I'd been enjoying my
vacation from the blogosphere, thinking back to all the days when my
villainy had been thwarted by the forces Ultrablognetic and Kool
Keith. While I often desired vengeance, retribution, I had given up at
this point. It was time to turn over a new leaf. I wanted to start a
family. I wanted to help the homeless.

I answered the call; the voice I heard chilled my blood.

"Mister 8?", said the thick and gravelly voice on the other end of
the receiver.

"Uh, nobody by that name lives here..." I stuttered. Damned past
catching up with me.

"Mister 8, do you know who this is?" The mystery caller asked.

What should I do? What if it was the FBI or the CIA, or worse, my
boss? I thought I had done a good enough job killing off my old
identity. Someone had found me. Panic started to overwhelm me. I was

"No... Who is this? How'd you get this number?"

"Mister 8, this is Wilson Fisk. I have a proposition for you."

His voice was thick and dark. I could hear him smoking, chewing hard
on an expensive cigar. What did he want from me, after so long?

"Sir, Mr. Fisk, I've retired. I'm not involved in blogosphere
villainy anymore. Besides, I'm wanted in three states..."

He drew deep from his cigar and exhaled before addressing me.

"Mister 8, what if I was to offer you the chance of a lifetime? What
if I could give you the one thing you could never attain?"

He'd lured me in. I was curious what he had to offer.

"Mr. Fisk, I've told you already, I am retired. Although, I will
humor you and hear what you have to say."

"No, Mister 8, you do not humor me. I have a
serious offer for you, and you would do best to take it seriously. I
grow tired of this nonsense, so I will get to the point. I am
offering you a chance to settle an old score, Mister 8. What if I said
I would give you the chance to topple... Ultrablognetic?"

And so it started.

And here I am.

I have left the retirement village for this ultimate and most
dastardly plan, even though I don't know what the plan actually is.

In all seriousness, I think I'm a patsy, but I can live with that for now.

I have plans of my own.

So I have taken over the airwaves, pirated in, scrambled all
channels... I am in complete control. Take that, Jurk storr. I've
begun my slime campaign against Mr. Pennyworth and his associates. His
unsavory practices, real or otherwise, will be his undoing.

Also, I am saturating the system with counterfeit astromedallions,
dropping their universal net worth to ZERO!!! Muahahahahahaha!!!

And they said I was a lonely and confused child.

Mr. Keith, Mr. Pennyworth, welcome to your collective demise!

Yours truly,


Thursday, August 12, 2004

Hello. My name is, well, that is actually unimportant. I am the man in front of the man who organizes and sets up appointments that are none of your concern. However, I am deeply concerned with and dedicated to the preservation of, in a form that may be deemed higher than satisfactory, that which I see before me, as is Mr. Fisk.

We are currently in a state of in between-ness here at the quote unquote skunkworks. What with Mr. Pennyworth on an extended leave of absence, and the circumstances of trying to find quality foundations on which to build, we are forced to shift inventory of previously confiscated material from our South American cartels, evidence of which you have not seen nor possibly will you see, I just want to make clear that quality will not be forsaken, in fact, it shall be instigated within preset factions to maximization.

Much thanks to all who have endeavored to carry this project into its next phase, and curses to the prior executor who was allowed to wander to extreme levels beyond that which was intended when this venture was originally bankrolled. Looking forward, however, I do believe that with all the current state of affairs we will have to continue and actually would like to continue, in light of the early successes and extraordinarily gratifying results, with the seemingly current track of ideals, if they can be delineated to the proper degree by the management, which at this time is me.

Tuesday, August 10, 2004

To be the man...

You gotta beat the man.

And I sir, am the man.

Or so says Mr. Fisk, hence why he hired me, for mucho bucks.

Like, top dollar style shiat, with signing bonuses and et cetera.

"Hey m68, you = better than KK, aka jurk storr best seller, wanna work for me?"

"Why yes I do senor Fisk, may I call you senor?"

"You may."

Handshake, signed dotted line, and here I be.

To quote Mr. Fleihr...


So here I am at my desk, fielding jurk storr calls like I'm Khalil Greene of the defending world champion San Diego Maradona Padres, and I have been thinking.

Here I am.

I've arrived.

My blog = WCW.

Ultrablognetic = WWF/E


Somebody call my momma.


"Momma, it's me, I made it, I'm big time. I'm hollywood now."

And then she'd hang up.

It's not easy filling a man's shoes, especially when he has bigger feet.

But I'm the new Von Dutch, I'm the new glam rock, I can do anything.

Like velcro© or rubber cement.

Batphone rang and I didn't pick it up and I heard on the news something about an armed robbery but I figger hey, gotta keep the world balanced, can't stop every crime.


That shit has ben going on for years.

Before they even had streets.

How am I, superhero/male model/sex icon/pinacle of the world/New Punk Rock supposed to stop that?

I may be naturally better than you, but it doesn't mean it comes easy.

Doesn't mean it doesn't have a price.

I have to turn down potential bed mates since they aren't 10's.

I don't fuck around with 9's

Or 9 5's

I need perfection.

I've earned it, I deserved it.

I'm hawt.

Capital T.

I just happen to be a kiss stealin, wheelin, dealin, limousine ridin, jet flyin son of a gun that you know to be WOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!! the slickest, I kiss the girls and make 'em cry.

Get over it.

And yourself.

Guest post by Muscle68 and acid is fun, obviously.

Monday, August 09, 2004

Keith is, uh, out of town, so we jacked something from his hard drive. Enjoy.

-the editors

He woke up to sunshine streaming through the window of his plush hotel room. Coffee, numero uno. Once a pot was brewing, he filled his cup and sat out on the lanai. The view was magnificent. Turtle Bay was the only major resort hotel on the north shore of Oahu, located right smack on the northern tip of the island. Somehow the locals had kept the Japanese investors and the corporate sharks out of this part of the island, for the most part. Just a few miles west was the famous miracle mile, six of the top ten surf spots in the world, if you believed the hype.

Time for a few days of chill time away from Honolulu, let it sink in with the locals that he’d really skipped town. They were good enough to know he’d gone to the airport, but not good enough to know he was still here. He hoped.

It was time to admit to himself he needed help on this one. Some local assistance. Dark didn’t have any hook-ups in Hawaii, but maybe he had a hook-up with a hook-up. There was really only one guy in the world he could trust right now, and his name was Joe Johnson.

That wasn’t his real name of course. Dark didn’t even know his real name, which made it seem weird that it was the only guy he could trust, but maybe that was the thing; there was a mutual respect of the other’s anonymity. Dark sure as hell wasn’t his real name.

Anyway, Joe had connects all over the globe. Dark had used them before. There was a price obviously, but he’d never been burned. Thing was, he’d never had people on his ass this hard before. And now this thing with the guys in Waikiki. They’d somehow caught wind of him snooping on Robbie Chan, but were they related to this other heat that was on him? Unlikely. The two guys in Waikiki had been poking him for information, trying to see what his story was. Whoever was after him, really after him, seemed they already had his whole M.O., and they would’ve grabbed him if they’d had him cold like that. He growled inaudibly, still disappointed in himself.

Fuck it, he decided he’d call Joe. Slurping down the last of his coffee, he threw on his swimsuit, grabbed a complimentary towel, and headed down to the pool area. In the lobby, he headed for the gift shop, bought a couple postcards, and asked for ten dollars in quarters. He sure as hell wasn’t going to use the phone in his room. There was a pay phone over by the bathrooms, time to let those fingers walk.

Dark dialed the number from memory. Some things you never forget. The last time he’d called this number, he’d been in a New Jersey pool hall, a bridge stick coming out of the left side of his belly, with three dead Italians sprawled across the floor, a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels in his left hand, already starting the healing, trying like mad to stay conscious. Scared shitless barkeep cowering in the corner, pissing himself. That little reach out and touch someone had been on a payphone too. Joe had been down in Tenessee, but Dark was about to pass out, and he didn’t want to call 911 if you know what I mean. He needed some discreet medical attention as well as a bus pass out of a fairly fucked up situation.

“Dragon’s. This is Pauline.”

“I need to talk to Joe, is he around?”

“He’s with a customer, may I tell him who’s calling?”

“Tell him it’s Big Jim Slade.”

“Hold on.” She put him on hold.

About thirty seconds later, Joe was on the horn. “Rion. My man. What can I do you for? Don’t tell me you’re playing pool again.”

“Hilarious. Actually, I’m about to go chill out pool-side and have a strawberry daquiri.”

“No shit. So what’s up?”

Dark held his breath for a second. He was risking a lot telling Joe where he was, but fuck, his cover had been blown here, God knew to what degree or perspective, and he wasn’t giving up on this Robbie Chan thing. The trail was warm, but he needed local assistance.

“I’m on Oahu. I need someone that knows the local scene, and that can get me some weapons and that won’t fuck me.”

“I know just the person. Hold on.”

Two minutes later, he was back. He gave him a phone number. “OK, the guy’s name is Reginald. He knows the score on everybody out there. I’ll let him know you’ll be calling. Gimme 24 hours to prep him, and then give him a call. I’d like to say he won’t fuck you, but you know how that goes. You should be cool though, we go way back. The guy’s a pro, and if you hook him up, he’ll do likewise.”

“Thanks Joe. I owe you.”

“And you know I’ll collect.”

“Peace out.”