JL's Diner

        As you enter JL's Diner your feet land on a soft, 
supple 'Welcome' mat. It appears to be faux velvet, with a 
picture of Elvis Presley striking a pose and saying, "Thank 
ya for coming. Thank ya very much." This mat lies on a 
black and white checkered marble floor that shines like it 
was just-waxed.
        Your gaze travels across the diner layed out before 
you. To your left is the gleaming white countertop of the 
oaken bar. Seven barstools with shining silver bodies and a 
red leather top line the bar's edge. A soda-jerk in a white 
outfit stands behind the bar, waiting to take your order. 
His crimson name-tag is pinned to his left breast, a sharp 
contrast from his immaculate white uniform.
        To your immediate right are several booth-style 
tables. The tables have the same white top as the counter, 
and the booths have red leather-esque padding. Several 
waitresses bustle around you, rushing back to the kitches 
with orders. You finally notice a small crimson sign with a 
sterling-silver frame that reads, "Seat Yourself."

***********************************************************
                       Today's Weather:                               

        A snowstorm rages through the downtown streets of 
Beacon Harbor today, blanketting the ground in endless 
layers of blinding snow. Smoke rises from the rooftops of 
nearby homes, while shops are closing early to avoid the 
horrible road conditions sure to follow.

***********************************************************

Mr. Furious sits at his favorite booth in the back corner 
of the restaurant... never have your back to the door, 
first rule of tough guy socializing. He stares with 
annoyance at the heavy snow coming down... grimacing a bit 
as he waits for his food. Only one other customer is in the 
restaurant, and it looks to be a guy who just wanted to get 
in out of the cold, as he's only eating small french fries. 
The Furious man cracks his knuckles, the goggles hanging 
around his neck... trying to hold back his rage... and 
occasionally eyeballing the somewhat comely waitress...

Suddenly the door bangs open to emit a snow-covered guy 
who, instead of quickly shutting the door to block out the 
weather, just hangs in the jamb. "Hey, it'sch really 
schnowing out there," he remarks conversationally to a 
passing waitress. "Shut the door, you creep!" she yells 
back at him, losing her tray to a gust of icy wind. "Oh, 
whoopsch. Want me to get that for you?" "No you freakazoid, 
shut the frikkin' door!" "Huh? Oh." The guy shoulders the 
door closed. The temperature in the diner has now dropped a 
good ten degrees. He knocks some snow off of himself onto 
the welcome mat and heads for the counter. The waitress 
sulkily retrieves her tray and goes to get new fries for 
the poor other guy, who had found them somehow 
unnappetizing with snow on them.

Mr. Furious shudders a bit involuntarily at the new gust of 
cold... it wasn't all that warm in here to begin with. At 
the sight of the freak who's arrived... the same freak that 
tried to interfere with his business during the Infamous 
Museum Caper... he grimaces a bit, his struggle to control 
his rage taking a downward turn. His fists involuntarily 
clench as he gives the Glare of Fury at him... never 
letting him up from his Eyes of Justice... and his Sneer of 
Rage.

Blake leans on the counter and tries ordering various 
strangely-named concoctions ("Black Death," "Brainsmasher," 
"Frenetic Fusion," etc) from the impatient-looking 
counterguy before finally settling on plain coffee. Never 
once noticing Mr. Furious' scrutiny he retreats to a booth 
in the same vicinity as the other where he starts amusing 
himself by drawing bizarre-looking faces in the 
condensation on the window.

Mr. Furious glances to his side and downard for a moment. 
"Okay..." he says to himself. "We've got a Picture Pages 
playmate here, do we? Likes to do his drawings... wearin' 
his 'wild and crazy' costume..." He slides out of the 
booth, straightening up and preparing his steely nerves for 
action. He strides purposefully over toward the freak's 
booth, nodding and extending a cautionary hand to the wait 
staff. "I'll handle this wack-job, ladies... but it might 
get a little intense, so keep your distance... for your own 
safety." He nods, looking at the waitress he was eyeballing 
before, and then makes his final approach.

Blake finishes off his little creation by signing 
underneath it (in reverse of course) "SULLIVAN" in neat 
little allcaps. Glancing around, he notices Mr Furious 
heading for his table. "I take it you're not the guy who 
wantsch to know if I want any tobaschco schausche," he 
comments. "Oh," he says, "I remember you...um...from the 
ische cream plasche, right?"

Mr. Furious shakes his head as he looms over the table, 
clenching and unclenching his fists in preparation. "'Fraid 
not, Captain Way-Out of the S.S. Weirdmonger..." he says 
condescendingly... then glancing at the window drawing 
quickly. "Or should I call you 'Navillus?' If that is your 
REAL name?" The Glare of Fury has not let up.

Blake pauses, and blinks at Mr F for a while. Finally he 
folds his hands on the table. "People generally alwaysch 
scheem to find *schomething* to call me schooner or later," 
he remarks. "But you know what, today I'm boring. My name 
isch Blake. Okay?" He scowls a bit. "And if you're *not* 
going to bring me any condimentsch, maybe you schould go 
see if that guy over there needsch any help with hisch 
french friesch."

Mr. Furious continues unabated. "Blake, huh? Very cute... 
very CATCHY." he says, in a gruff near-whisper. "As if I'm 
not gonna remember you from that Museum Heist you kept 
interfering with... getting in the way of superhero 
business..." he says, the sneer flickering on his face. 
"You got anything to say for yourself, punk? Huh? Do ya?"

A look of complete confusion crosses Blake's face. 
"Muscheum Heischt?" he demands. "When wasch thisch? I 
schwear I never know what'sch going on around here...Okay, 
look. I've had a weird couple of daysch. Either quit 
hovering over me like that and take a scheat or go back to 
your zeppelin and float away, okay? My coffee'sch getting 
cold--er, colder."

Mr. Furious looks slightly deflated at this. "The Museum, 
remember?" he says, somewhat more earnestly. "I was trying 
to apprehend a dangerous criminal... you kept following me 
and being kind of a pest... ring any bells?"

Blake looks long and hard at Mr. F. "Oh," he says at last. 
"Um. Wait. Er--wait. Yeah. But you *are* the guy from the 
ische cream parlor. You were going on about that 
motorschycle guy. Scho you were that paranoid guy in the 
muscheum too, huh? Didn't recognische you without the 
gogglesch on. I'd forgotten all about that. I was a little 
more conscherned about the guy in the funny hat. Hey how 
did that end up, anywaysch? Are you gonna sit down or not?" 
he demands without waiting for an answer to any of his 
other questions. "You're schtarting to freak me out."

Mr. Furious glances around, looking toward the waitresses 
again... all of whom have stopped watching him, so he just 
sighs and sits down across from him. His glare lets up a 
bit, but he's still trying to hang onto it. "Okay, fine... 
so... what's your story, Blaine?" he says, looking cocky 
and snippy.

Blake shrugs. "I kinda like The Wizard of Oz...but then I'm 
partial to anything where large heavy objectsch fall on 
descherving partiesch." He takes a sip of his cooled 
coffee. "No, really, I don't know what you mean. I juscht 
came in here for schome coffee. I don't have a schtory 
today."

Mr. Furious eyes the weird guy he's suddenly sitting with. 
Glancing back to the waitresses.. still attempting to look 
kinda cool. A little more earnestly, though, he asks... 
"So, what's with the get-up? Trying to be some kinda 
'superhero'?" he says, sarcastically...

Blake arcs an eyebrow. "Maybe," he says, irritated. "You 
don't schound like you *like* schuperheroes. Are you a 
villain? Are you Interrogaschion Man? Why do *you* care how 
I dressch?" He frowns and looks down into his coffee. 
"Schorry--I told you I'd had a weird couple of daysch." He 
looks back up. "It'sch juscht that a lot of people have 
been on my casche lately about schtuff. Okay, yesch. I am 
trying to be a schuperhero...schort of. How about that."

Mr. Furious continues to look disinterested and cocky... 
until he confirms that he's trying to be a superhero. 
Suddenly, he looks involved in the conversation and 
curious. "Really? You have any powers? What can you do?" 
Maybe he's stumbled onto something important here... most 
other superheroes ignore him...

Blake chokes a little on some coffee. "What? You're--what? 
What can I *do*??" He glances around, like someone might be 
watching. "Well, I--" At this moment, a waitress arrives 
bearing the coffeepot. "Would you like--Oh," she says, 
spotting Mr F sitting at the new booth. "Have you been 
helped? Er...what did you order again?" She puts the pot 
down and takes out a notebook.

Mr. Furious glances up at the waitress, and instantly leans 
back a bit, trying to look cool and dangerous. "Yeah.. I 
was back in the corner over there... my order's in.. the 
Monkeyburger and the chocolate shake... don't worry, I'm 
cool..." he says, a slight smirk.... glancing at her and 
checking her out while trying to make it look natural...

The waitress taps her chin with the eraser end of her 
pencil. "Oh. I guess maybe Lisa lost your order. She does 
that sometimes. Okay. I'll go tell the cook." She walks 
away with her coffeepot, not having given Blake a refill. 
Blake doesn't seem to care anymore. "Waitaminute," he says 
suspiciously to Mr F. "Why do you want to know about my 
schuperpowersch? Did that guy in the lab coat and 
glasschesch from the dock schend you?"

Mr. Furious glances back to the guy he's sitting with. They 
'lose' his order a lot here. He cocks an eyebrow. "What guy 
in a labcoat? Do I look like I hang out at the docks? What 
kinda trouble are you in, pal?" he says, still stylin' and 
'cool.' Intrigue... danger. Somethin's up here...

Blake shrugs. "Nah, I don't think I'm in any trouble," he 
answers. "Not from Mr. Pocket-Protector." At that moment, a 
totally different waitress from the earlier one saunters up 
to the table. "Have you been helped?" she asks Mr. F dully.

Mr. Furious blinks a bit, cocking an eyebrow. "YES, I've 
been helped. Although it seems to be a TEENSY WEENSY ITTLE 
BITTLE BITSY BIT too much trouble to ask you to maybe, I 
dunno... have a little confab with your co-workers before 
ya go bugging people every ten seconds. Huh? That sound 
peachy keen, girlfriend? Huh? It's called teamwork, baby... 
give it a thought or two!" he sneers... just tearing into 
her for very little reason. Excessive politeness is 
apparently a crime. It's all he can do NOT to stand up and 
start posturing.

The waitress stares blankly at Mr F a moment, then puts her 
notepad away. "Okay," she says simply, and walks off. Blake 
watches her go. "That'sch why I love thisch plasche," he 
confides. "You get to meet all schortsch of new people." 
Then he looks at Mr F. "Waitaminute," he says, hearkening 
back to what seems now a very old conversation. "Are *you* 
a schuperhero?"

Mr. Furious blinks a bit, nodding as the waitress heeds his 
fury and backs off. He turns back to Blake... having almost 
forgotten he was sitting with someone... especially someone 
that it hurts to look at. "Well... not to try and up my 
profile or anything... but yeah. Name's Mister Furious... 
but keep that on the down low, y'know? Anonimity is key to 
my successful operation.." he says, bringing his voice down 
to a whisper...

Blake nods. "Ah," he says. "Anonimity'sch schomething I've 
never tried before. Scheems kinda hard. Don't know why." He 
glances around. "Scho...what? You're on a misschion? Who 
are you after?"

Mr. Furious looks around suspiciously for any sinister 
characters. "I'm after the bad guys. The tall, dark and 
ugly types that fester in this town. Roots run deep... evil 
is all around, lurking like a purple canary. It makes me 
mad. Makes me furious... and when the rage takes over, you 
best take a two-step back home to Hog-Tie Country, before 
something really nasty and really crazy goes down in the 
BH, baby..." he says, still in an intense whisper... 
leaning over the table towards him.

Blake leans forward. "Yeah?" he whispers back, drawn into 
the moment. "Scho what happensch when you get mad? You 
uh...schpew aschid from your eyesch? Or uh...can you like, 
inschinerate thingsch with your mind?"

Mr. Furious looks around again, making doubly sure no 
secret agents are listening. "Let's just say it ain't gonna 
be pretty around the campfire once this spring chicken is 
let outta the booby hatch, pal. I'm one guy whose lips you 
DON'T wanna chap... capice?"

Blake nods. "Yeah," he answers, impressed. "Wow. That'sch a 
cool schuperpower. Even though I'm schtill not schure 
exactly what it uh...isch. I guessch you can really fight. 
I can only take down a dozen or scho people at once, max. 
You're *way* out of *my* league."

Mr. Furious blinks a bit... eyeballing this guy. "Don't 
sell yourself too short, pal. What is it you do? What's 
your schtick? I'm not picking up any theme from that get-up 
there... a little too haphazard for a superhero outfit, 
y'know?" he comments, studying him, looking for some sign 
of his power.

Blake draws himself up. "Well," he says importantly, "I've 
got schomething that *no* other schuperhero hasch. Oh 
schure, everyone and hisch brother can run around with 
Fischtsch of Doom or Vein-Popping Muschclesch, but I--" 
"Here you go," interrupts a third waitress, putting a plate 
in front of Mr. F. "Meatless Saladburger with wheatgerm 
chips. You need anything else?" "Hey gals," announces the 
cook, emerging from the kitchen. He takes an enormous bite 
from a concoction clutched in his right hand which looks 
suspiciously like a Monkeyburger. "I'm goin' on my lunch. 
Be back in an hour." He takes a final swig from a chocolate 
shake, puts on his coat, and slams the door on his way out 
into the snow.

Mr. Furious blinks a bit... not only did she disrupt an 
intense moment among potential superheroes... but his 
Monkeyburger is being scarfed by another bastard.. and that 
just ain't right. He shoots up, standing on the booth seat. 
"Now just wait a minute here, pappy... seems to me I 
ordered that sloppy burger you've got in your hand about 
fifty times tonight, and I get served a handful of barley 
and you take off to go dream about your sugarplums? I'm 
sorry, buddy, but this is one chump you're not going to... 
to chumpify so easily, pally boy. You got that? That simple 
enough for ya?" he says, bobbing and weaving emphatically 
with each snide comment.

Blake blinks in confusion as the cook pauses in the 
doorway, snow blillowing into the diner. "What's that, 
buddy?" the cook says, just as confused. "What did you just 
say to me? 'Cause--I could be wrong here, I couldn't quite 
get all that--but it sounds like you just insulted me. You 
got a problem, pal?" Blake stands up quickly, stepping up 
next to Mr F. "Ohmygod," he whispers. "You're not going to 
kill him right here are you?"

Mr. Furious does offer a slight wave in Blake's direction 
that seems to indicate a 'don't worry, superheroes don't 
kill' kind of message, before continuing his tirade. "You'd 
better get all the Stove-Top Stuffing cleaned outta your 
ears then, Sparky, cuz I've had just about ENOUGH from your 
flytrap. You don't wanna cross me, sucker... I'm a Tower of 
Rage, and when you press the tripwire, things get hairy 
REAL quick... just gimme a Monkeyburger and I won't have to 
hurt anything..."

Everyone is staring at Mr F by this point: Blake, the 
waitresses, the cook, and even the guy in the corner with 
his fries. "What??" demands the cook, coming back inside 
and letting the door close. "You want a Monkeyburger? Is 
that what you're so geared up about? I didn't get no order 
for no Monkeyburger...Lisa!!" One of the waitresses 
suddenly bolts for the ladies' room and locks the door 
audibly behind her. "Well then, there's your problem," 
resumes the cook smoothly. "You got Lisa. Tough break. Now 
if you will excuse me, I'm going on my lunch." And he exits 
the diner, making his way down the snow-covered sidewalk. 
Blake looks fearfully at Mr F, seeming to expect some kind 
of ugly scene.

Mr. Furious seems to be somewhat satisfied that the cook 
didn't persist in antagonizing him once he found out the 
trouble.. and he eyes the door carefully. Lisa, huh? Good 
thing she wasn't the one he has a crush on... or else he 
might be forced to look unmanly for a moment. He just 
seethes silently for a moment. "Somebody gonna get back 
there and make me a Monkeyburger? Or am I gonna have to 
open up a jug of surliness?"

One of the remaining waitresses throws her hands in the 
air. "All right all right all right, keep your shirt on," 
she grumbles, and vanishes into the kitchen. Fry guy 
finally finishes his fries and gets up to go, but on his 
way out is nearly bowled over by a burly guy on his way in. 
"Watch it, Shorty," growls the big guy, who seems to have a 
stain of mysterious origin on the front of his grubby 
shirt. He takes a seat at the bar. "Hey toots," he yells at 
the last waitress. "Gimme some pie! And step on it!" Blake, 
meanwhile, had relaxed because he figured the danger was 
over--until he spots Stain. "Oh geezsche," he mutters, 
ducking back into the booth. "Not *that* guy...Sit down, 
quick," he hisses to Mr F.

Mr. Furious remains standing, not one to back down from 
anything. His sneer quickly moves from the waitress to 
Stain. Without realizing that Stain's attitude is pretty 
much just what he was up to himself mere moments ago, he 
gets a bit testy at this guy's gumption. But he checks 
himself before he wrecks himself. "Why... what's up with 
this guy?" he says, looming semi-ominously...

Blake shakes his head. "He'sch a menasche. He'sch pusched 
me around and schtolen perschonal property. I didn't take 
him down becaushche there were too many innoschentsch 
around, you know?" Never mind that he was scared out of his 
wits. "I'd rather he didn't schee me." Stain, meanwhile, 
has continued to harrass the pretty waitress behind the 
counter, asking for ridiculous (and disgusting) things to 
go with his pie, like chili sauce.

Mr. Furious takes this as his cue. "OHHHHH... so Captain 
Drooling Thug of the S.S. Gravy Boat makes a habit out of 
being a jerkwad, does he?" he says, aloud, obviously 
towards Stain. "Looks like SOMEBODY didn't get enough of 
the harsh blender of discipline as a kid... has to take it 
out on people that are trying to whip me up some grub, 
huh?" he says, standing on the back of the booth seat to 
attain greater height, stretching his arms out wide...

Stain looks over his shoulder, his mouth bulging with pie. 
"What?" he blurts, ejecting pieces of pastry and fruit 
halfway across the diner. "You talkin' to me, freak??" He 
stands up, a napkin dangling from his collar (it of course, 
is stained). "Who are you, some kind of wanna-be motorcycle 
jockey? And what's with the snorkle goggles?" He snorts 
with laughter. Blake just sighs. "That guy'sch got a real 
way with words," he mutters, and its not clear who he's 
referring to.

"THAT'S it, pal!" spouts the Surly One. "NOW you're playing 
with liquid hot magma STRAIGHT outta the spleen of a 
volcano... and once you turn on this fireplug, baby, 
there's no way to get all the peanut butter back in the 
can, ya know what I mean?" He clenches and unclenches his 
fists, and begins a little stutterstep. "You just provoked 
the Tower of Rage... and tonight is all right for huntin' 
the horny back toad, baby.."

At that Stain rips off his napkin and heads quickly for the 
booth. "All right you fragged-out little--" He stops upon 
getting to a vantage where he can spot Blake, still trying 
to make himself small on his seat. "Hey it's Circus-Man!" 
he says, almost gleefully. "Was wonderin' when I'd see your 
ugly face again. Still playin' with picture-frames? Or, no-
-" he interrupts himself, looking at Mr F. "Now you're 
playin' with Nutcase In a Can over here. Well huzzah." He 
folds his thick arms and looks smug at his own wit.

Mr. Furious would wonder exactly what wit he was feeling 
smug about if he had any of his own, but he doesn't. "Oooh, 
the big bully with the chili stains on all his clothes 
likes to call people names and make 'em feel bad and hurt 
their feelings... bleh bleh bleh... How'z about me 'n' you 
take this little bout of fisticuffs outside, huh? Up for a 
little pugilism, huh? Or are you gonna be a good moron and 
haul your butt back home to mommy? What's it gonna be?"

"This," responds Stain, taking a sudden lunge forward. He 
grabs at Mr F's lapels in an attempt to haul him down off 
of his soapbox. Blake jumps up onto the seat on his side of 
the booth and presses his back up against the foggy window, 
trying to get away from the enraged behemoth. The 
waitresses, meanwhile, all take refuge into the kitchen.

Mr. Furious gets grabbed and yanked off of the booth, and 
he slides across the floor, slamming into a chair and 
grimacing a bit. Ow. He picks himself up slowly, breathing 
heavily. "You asked for it, pal... rage... taking... 
over!!!!" He starts to quake with volcanic spasms, and he 
bellows in anger... scowling heatedly and glaring at 
Stain...

Stain is actually taken by some surprise at this reaction, 
and just stands there blinking stupidly. Blake manages to 
scramble over the top of the booth to the next one over, 
where he hops over that table before scurrying out into the 
middle of the room. "You'd better look out!" he says 
importantly. "Thisch guy'sch really dangerousch! I don't 
know what he can do, but--but--he'sch gonna do it to you!" 
Afraid and excited, he waits for Mr F to tear into the guy.

Mr. Furious breaks into a quick run, as if on cue, and he 
barrels into Stain, with a full-on shoulderblock that will 
probably not do much more than stagger him a bit.. and he 
follows it up with a flurry of blows to the midsection... 
one of which MIGHT accidentally be a low blow.. and his 
furious bellow continues throughout...

Stain does indeed stagger a bit, and then, after enduring 
about four seconds of pounding, drives a fist down between 
Mr F's shoulderblades. Blake pauses in his cheerleading. 
"Ow," he remarks.

Mr. Furious collapses to Stain's feet hard and fast. "Ow," 
he remarks as well... and then he brings his head up... the 
top of his cranium aimed as a well-placed head-butt to the 
groin. Shame he's had to resort to this so often... but it 
usually works best...

Stain, however, has used the fist-to-the-back move himself 
a few times, and knows that the next logical play is the 
grab-the-guy's-hair-and-haul-him-back-up move. Which he 
attempts now. Blake hangs back on the sidelines. "Um, 
you're really in for it now," he interjects a bit less 
enthusiastically this time.

Mr. Furious's attempt at the sacking is foiled by the guy 
pulling his hair. Luckily, his hair is kinda short and 
greasy... so his angry flailing might just pull him loose 
of the grip. "Pulling HAIR now, are ya?" he says, coughing. 
"What now, you gonna dress up in pink and skip through the 
dandelions?"

"Not quite." Stain pulls Mr F just high enough to try and 
drive his other fist through his face.

Mr. Furious has been in enough fights to know to roll with 
punches like this, so although he is clocked, it doesn't 
break his nose or anything... it just sends him to the 
floor. He rolls to a crouch, though. He's got spunk, give 
him that. "I asked you to take it OUTSIDE..."

Stain sneers. "Outside, eh?" His fighting blood boiling, he 
grabs the nearest object--which just happens to be a very 
surprised Blake--and hurls him around and through one of 
the booth windows. Too surprised to even yell out, Blake 
goes rolling end over end through the snow, until finally 
coming to rest in a drift. Stain turns back around, 
grinning half-toothlessly. "After you," he says in mock 
politeness to Mr F.

Mr. Furious stands up straight, still kinda floating like a 
butterfly, but only slightly fazed by that show of 
strength. "Now, see... that's the kinda property damage I 
was trying to avoid! Now they can sue you for all you've 
got, you know?" He looks a little exasperated, feeling bad 
about the window and the poor waitresses. Until he grabs a 
chair and bellows again... charging and swinging it at 
Stain...

Stain is clocked by the chair, but it doesn't seem to do 
much more than make him blink. He plows headlong at Mr F, 
trying to drive him into the wall.

Mr. Furious actually manages a deft move, and he spins out 
of the way, even managing a little "Ole!" as he does so. 
Those fractures cost a hell of a lot to heal after Booster 
Gold tossed him aside... he can't risk it again just yet...

Stain continues his trajectory into the wall, making a 
sizable dent that probably would have hurt if Mr F had been 
the recipient. He half-staggers around. "Now you're gonna 
die, Freakyman!" he growls. Taking a step to the right, he 
reaches out and grabs hold of a table, beginning to lift 
it.

Mr. Furious is almost stunned into inaction by the fact 
that he executed a good move... but he breaks out of it in 
time to scoot behind him as he leans to grab the table, and 
deliver a power-wedgie to him... bellowing like an animal 
as he does so...

Stain is wedgied, and first drops the table, then drops to 
his knees, howling.

Mr. Furious grins a bit as the big man goes crumbling down, 
and he dusts his hands off in a 'that's all for you, buddy' 
motion and then nods to the remaining wait staff. "Looks 
like my job here is done..." and then he ducks out the 
door... hoping that covered his own fear... and looks for 
Blake outside in the snow.

Blake is just starting to try and crawl out of a drift--his 
journey seems to have taken him a good ten-plus-feet away 
from the building. He's covered in snow and mud and looks 
particularly dazed.

Mr. Furious reaches over to help him out of the drift. 
"Hey, hey, man... pal, buddy... sucker... uh.... you all 
right?" he says, still trying to find his superhero voice 
for the everyday citizen, when he's NOT trying to be the 
Tower of Rage...

Blake looks around vaguely as he's helped up. "Huh? What? 
Oh...Hey. You didn't kill that guy, did you?" he asks, 
assuming of course that Mr. F had just finished pummelling 
Mr. Nasty in there. "That wouldn't be a very good example 
to schet for the public."
	"How long is Maynard gonna *be*, man?" "He just said 
he was gonna get some pie--Holy Batman, lookit that." A 
group of no less then five burly guys round the corner and 
stop to gape at the broken window.

Mr. Furious shakes his head. "No... I may be Mr. Furious... 
but I don't kill unless I -" the sound of the burly guys 
nearby causes him to look... and he quickly pulls his 
goggles down. "Uh-oh... looks like go-time..." he says... 
scowling again.... then remembering to be helpful. 'You 
need to go to the hospital or anything?"

Blake shakes his head. "Oh, no, that wasch nothing. You 
schould have scheen what happened to me lascht Tuesday. 
Schtreet-schweeper schideschiped me."
	Burly Guy #1 blinks at Mr F for a moment ("Some kinda 
wanna-be motorcycle jockey," he remarks to the others) then 
steps forward to peer through the busted window. "Geez, 
they got Maynard," he says, spotting Stain stumbling around 
in there trying to pull his tighty-whities out of his 
nether-regions. He advances on Mr F and Blake menacingly. 
"Who the frig are you two weirdos?" he demands.

Mr. Furious steps a bit apart from Blake, in front of him
to defend him if he's injured. "The name's Mister Furious, 
pal... but the question is... what are your names? Sleepy, 
Hefty, Lumpy, Itchy and Gargamel?" he snaps back... still 
smarting from some of the hits Stain has put on him...

#1 approaches Mr F as the other four head for the diner to 
check out Stain's unfortunate condition. "I'm Brick," he 
snarls, poking Mr F hard in the chest with a beefy 
forefinger. "What're *you* gonna do about it?"

Mr. Furious glances to Blake... not knowing what kinda 
superpower he has... but hoping its something good. "Looks 
like we're outgunned this time around, pal... might have to 
bring out...." dramatic pause, slow turn to glare at Brick. 
"The Equalizer..."

Blake oohs. "The Equalischer. What'sch that?" he whispers.

Mr. Furious pipes up. "The EQUALZIER? You haven't heard of 
the Equalizer?!" he says, glaring at Brick as he talks. 
"Kinda my trademark, baby..." He reaches into his coat, 
threatening to pull something out. "Might wanna try asking 
some of your other punk friends about it... I've iced ten 
guys at once with this thing..." he says, nodding 
threateningly, floating like a butterfly... as best he can 
through the thick snow...

Brick doesn't seem especially intimidated. "What, you got a 
gun, pal? Give it up, buddy, you look like a stoned cricket 
in them goggles. You ain't shootin' nobody."
	Blake fidgets behind Mr F. "I didn't know you were 
packin'," he says. "Don't make too much of a messch."
	Meanwhile the other four guys have entered the diner 
and can be seen helping Stain to his feet.

Mr. Furious shakes his head, still sorta half-dancing with 
nervous energy through the snow. "C'mon, kids! I'd never 
carry anything as lame as a 'gun'... what do you think I 
am, this guy?" he says, gesturing to Brick. "This is 
something BETTER.." he says, glancing at Blake... with a 
look that almost pleads for him to reveal his superpower... 
and get him out of this bluff before he's called on it...

Could her timing be more perfect? Meg comes tromping 
through the snow with a few of her friends. The three are 
giggling and singing some god-awful Spice Girls tune as 
they come upon the diner. Not noticing anything out of the 
ordinary, her pals bounce into the diner, but Meg slows and 
'uh ohs' under her breath as she spots the ruckus.

Blake blinks. "Oh, uh, right. *That* Equalischer." He steps 
in front of Mr F. "Better schtand back, man," he warns 
Brick as bravely as he can through his own confusion 
(didn't this Furious guy say he had superpowers or 
something?). "I don't want to schee you get schmeared all 
over the pavement."
	"Smeared, eh?" says Brick, just before grabbing Blake 
by his jacket and hurling him back inside the diner the 
same way he came out. "That's what I'm gonna do to *you*," 
he growls at Mr F.

Mr. Furious scowls a bit, his moment of panic erased by 
that move... "That is IT, Buster Beaver Brown..." he says, 
drawing his hand back out of his jacket. "You just messed 
with the wrong freezer burn, suckapunk... it's time for the 
knuckle shuffle on your jaw..." With that, he charges at 
Brick, only to slip on a patch of ice and smack onto the 
ground, sliding towards Brick... his flailing to get 
control of himself just might also luckily land a low-blow 
on the big man...

Meg yelps and sidesteps the action, whipping out her cell 
phone and brandishing it like a weapon. "You leave them 
alone you big jerk, or I'm calling 911." Yeah, that! She 
glares at Brick as best she can, then glances to Mr. 
Furious with a half-hearted smile. "Hi."

Brick is indeed smacked where he would rather not be 
smacked, and crumples, wheezing and making other 
interesting noises. He crumples right on top of Mr F, 
however, and his weight presses the lighter man deep into 
the muddy snow.
	Inside the diner, Blake is immediately set upon by 
Stain and his four friends, who seize him and pull him out 
of sight of the people outside.

Mr. Furious whoofs as the big man falls on him and knocks 
the air out of him... squirreling as best he can out from 
under this guy... need to get some distance to take 
advantage of this... but this near suffocation calls for 
more desperation moves.. so he struggles to get the angle 
and sacks him again... and again.. and again... "Get OFF 
me, Kool-Aid Man!

Meg gasps and watches in stunned amazement, not quite sure 
if this means Mr. Furious needs help or not. She holds the 
phone aloft and glances to the buttons, then back at 
Furious, then to the diner where more ugliness is going on. 
"Kool-Aid Man?" she mouths as she takes yet another step 
back from the action. "Um, should I call 911?" she asks the 
very busy Furious.

The angry shouting from Stain and his cronies suddenly 
falter, and are replaced by gagging, choking, and surprised 
swearing. In an instant, the gangmembers, waitresses, and 
Meg's young friends all come stumbling out of the diner's 
front door, wheezing and coughing. All in all, the scene 
very much resembles rats fleeing a sinking ship. Stain 
seizes Brick by a pantleg as he scurries past, and all six 
of them go staggering off into the snow. By this time, a 
vile stench has begun to waft out of the diner via the 
broken window.

Mr. Furious struggles a bit, and is about to shout YES to 
Meg, whose voice he hasn't recognized yet... when the big 
Brick is pulled off of him and they all run away... he sits 
up quickly, still panting a bit... wondering just what the 
hell happened... until he catches a whiff... and he 
involuntarily lets out a stream of curses and tries to bury 
his face in his coat... looking around for that gas-masky 
kinda thing he always carries with him because it seemed 
like something a superhero should have...

Meg suddenly makes a face and covers her mouth and nose 
with both hands, letting out a groan that indicates just 
how she feels about the putrid stench. She steps back yet 
again then gets 'attacked' by her friends who are 
chattering incessantly. "This guy threw the other guy, then 
the other guys came running at that one guy, then the whole 
place just started to stink." Well, no future reporters in 
this bunch. Meg nods and starts over to Mr. Furious who 
seems the worse off between the two. "Are you ok?" she 
asks, squatting beside him and resting a hand on his 
shoulder.

Blake appears in the diner's front doorway, leaning in the 
doorjamb for a minute to rest. Still drenched from the snow 
and covered in mud--and now 'decorated' in what appears to 
be various condiments from those squeezy-bottles on the 
tables in the diner, as well as being a bit cut up--he 
looks about as pleasant as he smells. He looks around for 
Mr. Furious. "Nische Equalischer," he mutters.

Mr. Furious has found the mask and has it over his face... 
and with the goggles, they might disguise his identity well 
enough for Meg not to recognize him. But he recognizes HER. 
And he can't move for a moment... then he remembers he's 
Mr. Furious, so he shakes his head. "I'm okay.." he says, 
looking bruised up as he starts to pick himself up, 
glancing over to Blake... eyeing him briefly. Is THIS his 
power? He keeps the mask over his face. "Are you all right, 
ma'am" he says... in an almost too 'superman' tone of 
voice... but he's trying to make up for his embarassment at 
his powers not kicking in when he needed them...

Meg nods and smiles, rising to her feet and looking toward 
Blake, whom she recognizes easily. "Blake, are you 
allright?" She moves away from Furious and approaches the 
diner, carefully tiptoing past the broken glass on the 
snow. "Do you two need some medical attention?"

Blake finally steps out of the doorway. "Nah, nothing'sch 
broken," he says, testing his elbows carefully. "They don't 
make jukeboxsches like they usched to." He steps towards 
Furious. "How about you? You...uh, you chasched off that 
one guy, didn't you?"

"Yeah he did!" Meg chimes. "Slammed right into him and 
bowled him over. It was cool.' An ego boost for Furious 
from the hottie cheerleader. Her pals nod and murmur their 
approval, though there is mention made of his weird mask.

Mr. Furious stretches awkwardly a bit, his joints aching 
and his pride hurting. He looks somewhat sheepish behind 
his goggles, but struggles to maintain his composure. 
"Yeah... hopefully they'll know better than to mess with 
this place again..." he says, earnestly, his eyes 
continually drawn to Meg. He extends a hand to Blake. "I 
think you'll need a codename besides 'Blake'... " he says, 
trying to turn the mood jovial... and forget about his 
pain... but as Meg talks him up... he actually smiles... 
and removes the mask, testing the air to make sure it's 
breatheable again...

Meg looks over at Furious and cants her head to the side, 
narrowing her eyes a bit. She leaves her pals to walk back 
over to him, waving a finger at him idly. "Wait a minute, I 
know you. I've seen you before. At school, right?"

Blake, after shaking Furious' hand, looks towards Meg. Meg 
knows this guy? Hey, good for him. She's pretty cute. Maybe 
he should let them square things away. "Okay. Well. Um. I'd 
better get home and uh...change or schomething. And I never 
did get to drink my coffee. Bye Meg." He looks back at Mr 
F. "Uh...I'll schee you later, Mischter Furiousch," he 
says. "Oh, and uh, thanksch for schaving my life," he adds 
loudly, hoping Meg is listening. "Thosche guysch were 
pretty schcary. You're really schomething." Yeah, there are 
other ways to be a superhero, he thinks as he turns to go.

Mr. Furious glances between the two of them... he was SURE 
this guy was completely deflated by his lack of super-
strength showing up... it doesn't quite occur to him that 
he's being talked up for cupid's benefit. But as Meg calls 
him out, he grits his teeth a bit... his secret identity 
hasn't been compromised like this before... and he doesn't 
want to put anyone he knows as Mild-Mannered Roy in danger 
from the enemies he makes as Mr. Furious. If he had more of 
a sense of pride, he might feel condescended to by Blake, 
but as it is, he's just thankful he wasn't torn a new 
one... he looks around, to make sure no one else is looking 
on... and he puts his goggles up on his head and comes 
clean to Meg. "Yeah... yeah.." he says, softly, then 
turning as Blake leaves. "Thank YOU... looks like we work 
well together..." he says, actually smiling slightly... and 
actually getting nervous about being left alone with Meg.. 
his palms are sweating through his gloves...

Meg waves at Blake then looks over at Furious with this 
wide grin. "Mr. Furious? So your super power is fury, hmm? 
Interesting. Do you have to be angry for it to work?" Note, 
her voice is considerably lowered for the benefit of 
protecting his identity. She dated Superman for Pete's 
sake, she knows about this stuff. She glances over at her 
friends who are speculating all sorts of things on this 
evening's events. None of which includes going back into 
the diner where that smell came from. After waiting all 
that their patience will allow, they excuse themselves to 
go to some frat party or some such. Meg seems to be the 
genius in every group of friends she hangs with. She looks 
at Furious and shrugs. "You hungry?"

Mr. Furious is completely unprepared for her adulation... 
she's a cheerleader, for chrissakes. Cheerleaders don't 
LIKE him. It's a rule. It takes him a bit to recover enough 
to answer. "Uh... um, sure... but... um... we probably 
shouldn't eat here..." he says.. smiling nervously... "And 
I should probably... uh... change clothes..."

Meg nods and smiles. "Not too sure how sanitary this place 
is after, uh, whatever caused that smell." Clearly she is 
clueless as to what Blake can do with his innards. Lucky 
her. "Want to just meet somewhere? Do you room at school?"

Mr. Furious glances around... "Uh... yeah... yeah, I know 
your dorm... I can swing by later." he says, the 
butterflies in his stomach apparently having been replaced 
by overcaffeinated monkeys...

She smiles and pulls her jacket around her body. "Ok, cool. 
We could just order in too. There is a Behind the Music 
marathon on VH-1 tonight." Oh the horror. "I'll just wait 
for you in the lobby and we can decide when you show up, 
ok?"

The monkeys are on crack now. He swallows hard. "O-uh... 
okay..." is all he can muster at the moment... "S-see you 
in an hour or so..." he says... hoping the cold is reason 
enough for his teeth chattering a bit...

Meg smiles and twirls around, bounding toward her car 
through the snow and hopping inside. In a moment, she is 
driving off and heading back to school.

Mr. Furious stands, completely stunned by all of this. He 
looks back at the diner, how shattered it is inside... 
figuring the cops will show up eventually... so he walks 
slowly towards his motorcycle... his eyes wide in shock, 
his mind reeling. Nice girl likes him. Maybe. He mounts the 
bike and struggles to get it running. Every one of his 
joints hurt. Peeling this leather stuff off is going to 
HUUUURRRRTTT. He sneezes a bit. Great, a cold. Finally, he 
recognizes his pain enough to ground him back into 
reality... and his bike starts...and he drives off... still 
completely startled.