Courtmaster
Vivacious Visitor
- Joined
- Oct 28, 2011
Author's note: I'll be adding new issues of Spiderchick every so often, but don't expect her to lose every fight! It's more fun when you don't know what the outcome will be. Also, if any of you writers like the concept, feel free to come up with some OC to help expand the universe. New heroes, villains, stories, whatever.
I try not to let my circumstances get me down. After all, there are plenty of people in this world who would give anything to be in my shoes, strapped down to this chair, helpless, waiting for my captors to decide my fate. Well, at least masochists would. Or at the very least they're fantasizing about it from the safety of their own bedrooms, the lucky bitches. But I'm not a masochist, and I'm none too thrilled about my predicament, if I'm going to be perfectly honest with you.
You know, it's a little funny. I haven't been at this job for very long in the grand scheme of things, but I'm already so used to it that I'm picturing my musings showing up on a page in little yellow narrative boxes, typed in the most despised of all fonts; Comic Sans. Life is not without its ironies.
I suppose I should be figuring out my escape. Super heroes and heroines are always escaping their binds at the last moment to beat up the bad guys, but that doesn't look like it's happening here. I mean, sure, it's hard to imagine any of these guys in boy scouts, but they are pretty damn good at tying knots; I will give them that much.
Try as I might, I can't get this horrid taste out of my mouth. They had lifted my mask partway up, revealing my mouth and nostrils, so I'm able to spit. I aim for one of the thugs, but miss by a good bit. The goons laugh; their ringleader does not. "Heeey!" one of them calls out. "She's still feisty!" He strikes me hard in the face, splitting my lower lip. Blood trickles down to my chin as my eyes water. It doesn't really matter. I figure they've already done just about the worst they can do.
I took out a good half dozen of them before their leader overpowered me and beat me senseless. I wish I could say: "If only I had done X, Y and Z differently!" But no, I don't think there was anything I could have done differently to beat this guy. He's just in a world of his own. As much as I hate to admit it. One of them had pulled out a small video camera and pointed it at me as I lay on the ground in the fetal position, covering my vitals as best I could as they kicked me savagely. One of them pulled out a knife and cut a hole in the crotch of my outfit, and I knew immediately where this was going. I'll spare you the details of getting sodomized. Wait, does sodomy refer to oral or anal? I'm not really sure, but either would apply in this case.
With my head still swimming from the blow, I hawk another loogie and spit it out. It hits the ground with a splat, a mixture of red and white with my saliva. The one who hit me, I remember him cracking a joke while they were violating me; something about how funny it would be if after they were done and took my mask off to find out I'm actually hideous.
"To all watching this video, I present to you your hero..." the ringleader says to the camera. His voice is not at all befitting the badass villain he's trying to rip off. It's high and nasally, and can't do much to inspire confidence in the guy. But he's powerful, and that must be enough, I guess. I'm just saying, if I was a henchman, I totally would not follow this guy. "...Spiderchick."
The goons laugh again. One of them grabs the red and blue fabric over my chest and cuts a long gash through it, exposing the padding I had stuffed in to make my tits look bigger. They laugh even harder. For some reason, compared to this, the beating was nothing. Getting violated five different ways was an annoyance. But as the thugs rip out the padding, exposing my tiny, mosquito bite tits to the world, my shame is crushing.
The cameraman makes sure to get a good, long look at me as I sit there; dripping jizz on the seat between my legs, nipples on my flat chest erect, face half exposed. I look far from heroic. Magnetron sneers at me. "Let us see what's under the mask," he says, walking toward me. He grips my mask and slowly lifts it up, revealing my light blue eyes, fresh, young face, and shoulder length golden blonde hair.
"Just little ol' me," I answer with a feeble smile. I look at his helmet, which was clearly fashioned after Magneto's, and wonder if it's made of paper mache, or what. No professional cosplayer, this guy. He starts talking into the camera again, but honestly, I'm only half paying attention at this point. I spit again, cursing the thought that I'll probably die with the taste of some jackasses' wasted DNA in my mouth.
After that, they close in on me with knives, and that's when the hurting starts. I'm not really sure how many times they stab me, but it feels like a lot. OK, so once would feel like a lot, truthfully, but this feels like...fuck, I dunno. Like a lot of pricks are stabbing me over and over. That's pretty much the only description that comes to mind right now.
My vision starts to blur and my body goes limp. I'm dimly aware of the thugs dragging me for a while. Then they hoist me up and throw me, then I'm falling for an eternity before I hit water. Then I'm floating; floating down the river Styx to face my destiny.
When I wake up, I'm in a bright hospital room with IVs jammed in me. The light pierces into my retinas, like lances aiming for my brain. It hurts so fucking bad, but even when I squeeze my eyes shut I can't keep it out. After a minute, the pain lets up, and I slowly open my eyes a little bit at a time.
Okay, so with this being your first impression of me, Spiderchick the somewhat less-than-original superheroine, you probably don't have much confidence in my competence. But honestly, that was the first fight I've ever lost since gaining my superpowers.
I was flying from Miami to London when it happened. A glowing meteor or something fell from space and struck the wing of our plane. We went down hard, crashing into the water. Miraculously, most of us survived. But in the time since, strange things have been happening to the survivors. Some have died from what appears to be radiation poisoning. But as for myself and a few others (like my new enemy Magnetron,) our fates have turned out like something out of a comic book. Magnetron, for instance, gained powers eerily similar to the Marvel villain he shamelessly ripped off. (I'm aware of the hypocrisy, thank you very much!)
What are my powers, you ask? No, I can't fly. I can't read minds, or move stuff with mine. I can't shape shift or teleport. And before you ask, no I cannot climb walls or shoot webs or do anything really cool at all. But my physical strength was more than quadrupled. (Quintupled? Is that a word? Whatever. You know what I mean.) But since I was a small, petite girl to start with, that's not actually saying very much. I'm noticeably stronger than your typical grown man, but a twenty-something Arnold Schwarzenegger could still kick my ass with ease in an arm wrestling match. But I am now also very quick, very agile, and very flexible. This is not just useful in combat situations, if you know what I mean. So why did I choose Spider Man as my avatar of justice when I don't have anything even remotely spider-like? It's simple; he's my favorite. And just between you and me, that outfit is sexy as hell. As Lana would say: Sploosh.
And my knife wounds are healing up quite nicely, thanks for asking. I mean, I'm no Wolverine, but the healing process has sped up considerably with my new found powers. "Do you need anything, dear?" my nurse asks me. She looks like she's in her thirties. Brunette. Brown eyes. Laugh lines. She does this thing where one eye half closes when she smiles.
"Yeah," I say. "A Valium and a morning after pill. I'll chase 'em down with some Listerine."
She smiles at me awkwardly and leaves as a middle aged man enters my room. He's not carrying flowers or a get well card or anything, just a plain manila envelope. He drops it in my lap and leaves without a word. "The hell?" I mutter picking up the envelope. Stamped in the center is:
I tear it open and read the top of the page, which bears three ominous words: Cease and Desist. I drop the letter and close my eyes with a groan. "Fuck my life."
To be continued!
I try not to let my circumstances get me down. After all, there are plenty of people in this world who would give anything to be in my shoes, strapped down to this chair, helpless, waiting for my captors to decide my fate. Well, at least masochists would. Or at the very least they're fantasizing about it from the safety of their own bedrooms, the lucky bitches. But I'm not a masochist, and I'm none too thrilled about my predicament, if I'm going to be perfectly honest with you.
You know, it's a little funny. I haven't been at this job for very long in the grand scheme of things, but I'm already so used to it that I'm picturing my musings showing up on a page in little yellow narrative boxes, typed in the most despised of all fonts; Comic Sans. Life is not without its ironies.
I suppose I should be figuring out my escape. Super heroes and heroines are always escaping their binds at the last moment to beat up the bad guys, but that doesn't look like it's happening here. I mean, sure, it's hard to imagine any of these guys in boy scouts, but they are pretty damn good at tying knots; I will give them that much.
Try as I might, I can't get this horrid taste out of my mouth. They had lifted my mask partway up, revealing my mouth and nostrils, so I'm able to spit. I aim for one of the thugs, but miss by a good bit. The goons laugh; their ringleader does not. "Heeey!" one of them calls out. "She's still feisty!" He strikes me hard in the face, splitting my lower lip. Blood trickles down to my chin as my eyes water. It doesn't really matter. I figure they've already done just about the worst they can do.
I took out a good half dozen of them before their leader overpowered me and beat me senseless. I wish I could say: "If only I had done X, Y and Z differently!" But no, I don't think there was anything I could have done differently to beat this guy. He's just in a world of his own. As much as I hate to admit it. One of them had pulled out a small video camera and pointed it at me as I lay on the ground in the fetal position, covering my vitals as best I could as they kicked me savagely. One of them pulled out a knife and cut a hole in the crotch of my outfit, and I knew immediately where this was going. I'll spare you the details of getting sodomized. Wait, does sodomy refer to oral or anal? I'm not really sure, but either would apply in this case.
With my head still swimming from the blow, I hawk another loogie and spit it out. It hits the ground with a splat, a mixture of red and white with my saliva. The one who hit me, I remember him cracking a joke while they were violating me; something about how funny it would be if after they were done and took my mask off to find out I'm actually hideous.
"To all watching this video, I present to you your hero..." the ringleader says to the camera. His voice is not at all befitting the badass villain he's trying to rip off. It's high and nasally, and can't do much to inspire confidence in the guy. But he's powerful, and that must be enough, I guess. I'm just saying, if I was a henchman, I totally would not follow this guy. "...Spiderchick."
The goons laugh again. One of them grabs the red and blue fabric over my chest and cuts a long gash through it, exposing the padding I had stuffed in to make my tits look bigger. They laugh even harder. For some reason, compared to this, the beating was nothing. Getting violated five different ways was an annoyance. But as the thugs rip out the padding, exposing my tiny, mosquito bite tits to the world, my shame is crushing.
The cameraman makes sure to get a good, long look at me as I sit there; dripping jizz on the seat between my legs, nipples on my flat chest erect, face half exposed. I look far from heroic. Magnetron sneers at me. "Let us see what's under the mask," he says, walking toward me. He grips my mask and slowly lifts it up, revealing my light blue eyes, fresh, young face, and shoulder length golden blonde hair.
"Just little ol' me," I answer with a feeble smile. I look at his helmet, which was clearly fashioned after Magneto's, and wonder if it's made of paper mache, or what. No professional cosplayer, this guy. He starts talking into the camera again, but honestly, I'm only half paying attention at this point. I spit again, cursing the thought that I'll probably die with the taste of some jackasses' wasted DNA in my mouth.
After that, they close in on me with knives, and that's when the hurting starts. I'm not really sure how many times they stab me, but it feels like a lot. OK, so once would feel like a lot, truthfully, but this feels like...fuck, I dunno. Like a lot of pricks are stabbing me over and over. That's pretty much the only description that comes to mind right now.
My vision starts to blur and my body goes limp. I'm dimly aware of the thugs dragging me for a while. Then they hoist me up and throw me, then I'm falling for an eternity before I hit water. Then I'm floating; floating down the river Styx to face my destiny.
When I wake up, I'm in a bright hospital room with IVs jammed in me. The light pierces into my retinas, like lances aiming for my brain. It hurts so fucking bad, but even when I squeeze my eyes shut I can't keep it out. After a minute, the pain lets up, and I slowly open my eyes a little bit at a time.
Okay, so with this being your first impression of me, Spiderchick the somewhat less-than-original superheroine, you probably don't have much confidence in my competence. But honestly, that was the first fight I've ever lost since gaining my superpowers.
I was flying from Miami to London when it happened. A glowing meteor or something fell from space and struck the wing of our plane. We went down hard, crashing into the water. Miraculously, most of us survived. But in the time since, strange things have been happening to the survivors. Some have died from what appears to be radiation poisoning. But as for myself and a few others (like my new enemy Magnetron,) our fates have turned out like something out of a comic book. Magnetron, for instance, gained powers eerily similar to the Marvel villain he shamelessly ripped off. (I'm aware of the hypocrisy, thank you very much!)
What are my powers, you ask? No, I can't fly. I can't read minds, or move stuff with mine. I can't shape shift or teleport. And before you ask, no I cannot climb walls or shoot webs or do anything really cool at all. But my physical strength was more than quadrupled. (Quintupled? Is that a word? Whatever. You know what I mean.) But since I was a small, petite girl to start with, that's not actually saying very much. I'm noticeably stronger than your typical grown man, but a twenty-something Arnold Schwarzenegger could still kick my ass with ease in an arm wrestling match. But I am now also very quick, very agile, and very flexible. This is not just useful in combat situations, if you know what I mean. So why did I choose Spider Man as my avatar of justice when I don't have anything even remotely spider-like? It's simple; he's my favorite. And just between you and me, that outfit is sexy as hell. As Lana would say: Sploosh.
And my knife wounds are healing up quite nicely, thanks for asking. I mean, I'm no Wolverine, but the healing process has sped up considerably with my new found powers. "Do you need anything, dear?" my nurse asks me. She looks like she's in her thirties. Brunette. Brown eyes. Laugh lines. She does this thing where one eye half closes when she smiles.
"Yeah," I say. "A Valium and a morning after pill. I'll chase 'em down with some Listerine."
She smiles at me awkwardly and leaves as a middle aged man enters my room. He's not carrying flowers or a get well card or anything, just a plain manila envelope. He drops it in my lap and leaves without a word. "The hell?" I mutter picking up the envelope. Stamped in the center is:
MARVEL ENTERTAINMENT
I tear it open and read the top of the page, which bears three ominous words: Cease and Desist. I drop the letter and close my eyes with a groan. "Fuck my life."
To be continued!
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