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Back on the Banks of Des Pair @ Henry the Adequate
My name is Henry the Adequate, and I am a superhero
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  • Back on the Banks of Des Pair

    Posted on April 26th, 2008 ben No comments

    What’s that?

    Am I awake again? I try to feel about for some heart pits. Or pocket plumbs. Yes, I think I may be awake.

    Strange Other Memory floods my senses, like a tidal wave of stuff that floods. Kind of the way water does. Only it is memories. Well mostly memories. I do notice that I am dripping and there is a guy with a bucket nearby.

    The bank teller stands to one side, arms folded beneath her breasts as though she is saying “Here, look at my arms. Are they not enormous? Are they not magnificent?” Or something like that anyway.

    A large gentleman in a suit is saying stuff to me but I do not know what it is because my head is throbbing and because I am too busy admiring the teller’s arms. Something large and solid impacts the side of my face, almost like a hand except it is way too big for that.

    He slaps me again. “Who are you working with?”

    “What? Nobody.” I am confused and shaken and disoriented and strangely aroused. I am also, it seems, tied to a chair.

    “We have your girlfriend.”

    “Oh,” I say as though he has just told me something I do not know, “Can you ask her if she turned the gas off, because I think I might have left it on and that is really bugging me.”

    “You think you’re funny?” I am about to say something clever and macho, such as “Yes, actually,” or “I KNOW I’m funny,” or “Can i go now?”, but… “What are you - some kind of communist agitator?” he demands, while simultaneously playing my face like a drum, “Trying to destabilise the banking sector?”

    “Huh.”

    “That’s it, isn’t it.” He hits me again.

    “No,” I wail, my powerful voice echoing from the walls like a thin warble of defiance, “My account was overcharged. I just wanted a refund on the fees.”

    “Ha! So, you admit it! Filthy communist agitator scum!” He hits me again, harder this time.

    “Ow,” I say, because I have such a way with words.

    “You all heard the confession.” The teller steps forward. “Time for sentencing.”

    “Wait a….. Ow,” I point out, eloquently.

    “Send them to R&D.”

    “What?”

    “Does he need to be conscious?”

    “Not particularly.”

    I have a feeling this is about to get ugly.

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