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A Lost Lover?

    You lose something in that departure--the essence of the moment, the recorded fact, disregarded. The action ripples in that instant, spreading waves through and through. Every step you take, every choice you make, will either get you back there or just forever guessing, until you're both helplessly back at square one, ready to depart like you were from the start, but with that knowing difference that it doesn't have to ever never-end that way again. Would it be enough?  //

    He had just received a call out of the blue. 
If it weren't for the caller ID, the initial silence on the other end might have resulted in a prematurely-ended connection. 

    "Um... hey," the familiar voice finally came. She obviously wished she had never picked up the phone, but he was glad. 
Moments passed before the silence became endless once more.

    'Call Ended,' read the phone. 
He held the phone for a few moments, letting his emotions work their way out of his mind. It was hard to hear her voice without getting lost again.  Nonetheless, he had to hold on and contain himself, keep his composure. It had been over a year already. It shouldn't have affected him as much as it did. He thought he was past this. 

    She couldn't escape his thoughts. He forced himself into other relationships, always telling himself that he'll get over it. Always convincing himself that this new girl will grow on him and he can care for someone new. 
After a sigh, his phone rang again. He held his breath.  "Hello?" His voice crept out, treading lightly.

    "Hi, it's me. Listen, I know this has been difficult for both of us, and I don't want to make anything worse, but I need to get some of my stuff out of our apartment, and I think it would be best if you weren't there." Her voice was much firmer now, and he felt the power in it. 

    "Joanne. I moved out of that apartment half a year ago. 
You got all of the things you wanted then, now you want more?" He was infuriated. He didn't know why, but suddenly all of his thoughts were focused on everything Joanne had ever done wrong.  Joanne hung up again, and didn't call back. 

    Seasons passed, the Earth rotated, wars began and ended, and Joanne was lost in his memories, replaced with dead family members and that time he ate a goldfish on a bet. 

    It would have been impossible to intuit, exactly, how eating a goldfish resulted in the death of his entire family, but that was the thing about hindsight. It was built on the bones of the past - the graves of family members dead and gone, killed indirectly as a result of swallowing a live fish. If only he could go back to that day, that Thursday, and stop himself... would he? 

    Maybe they were better off dead. Maybe he'd be better off dead. 

    Maybe the world would be better off dead.

    He shook his head, banishing the dark thoughts from his mind. They were coming more frequently, now, and with greater clarity. He needed Joanne. NEEDED her. She kept him balanced, engaged... sane. Without her, the world became dark and twisted, a 
macabre reflection of the turmoil roiling within his own heart. He didn't want to go back to the way things were, and yet without Joanne's calming influence he could feel the abyss pulling at him, calling to him, urging him to once again don the mask and spandex bodysuit that had been infamous across the country. 

    Fuck it. If the fates didn't want a calm and fulfilled Brian Vargas, they'd get a distraught and vengeful Doctor Sinister. 
This time he would show no mercy. Doctor Sinister could feel no remorse for what he'd done, all he needed to do was...





    If only he could find it. 

    Shit. He'd left it at Joanne's, hadn't he? Well, this was certainly going to be awkward. Clearing his throat, he reached for the phone. 
As soon as he grabbed it, he gripped it so hard that it shattered into pieces. It was time to take a new name, a new identity, instead. His past couldn't haunt him any longer. His new name would be:  something important. Something meaningful. Something pure. The world believed Doctor Sinister dead; let him lie in peace. It was Joanne that had done this to him. Joanne and her ilk. Women. They were all the same trashy harlots, there to be used and discarded. Oh, he'd tried to treat them like equals. He'd paid lip service to this "political correctness", but the women just made it so damn easy to take advantage of them.

    Their weakness called out to him, to his lusts. They begged him to do the things that he did, and practically forced him to discard them afterwards. Joanne had changed all that - changed him from a user of women into a righteous man.

    The bounty of the righteous is pain. If women be so unworthy, then let their failed tests be his to give. Let his cock be the siren that calls the wretched from their fidelity. Let his be the hands that treated them like the NEEDED. For now, and the future, he would be The Bastard! 

    Meanwhile, Stan Jones had just gotten home. He'd been out with his friend Julia, helping her shop for a birthday present for her boyfriend Jay. Before that, he'd spent the morning painting his friend Alison's garage. He was a busy guy. He had a lot of friends, and they all needed his help.

    Women couldn't help it, you see. They weren't as capable as men. They needed someone to treat them like the goddesses they were. The queens they were born to be. This was the only thing Stan knew about women, but he knew it well. By night he traveled the city, looking for women to save, hoping that they might realize how he felt about them. By the light of the moon, he was the White Knight. 

    Joanna was his latest project. She'd broken up with her boyfriend not too long ago, and was feeling hurt and vulnerable. Whenever she was sad, Stan was there with a hug. Whenever she cried, he was there with a tissue. He was sure that soon - SOON - she'd realize that he was the one who had been there for her ALL ALONG, and when she did, and professed her love for him, he could reveal to her his secret identity.

    After the lovemaking, of course. 
Sometimes she called him Jacob, and he didn't understand why. 

    Lightning lit the sky menacingly. The Bastard decided that his first goal in becoming this being of evil would be to show Joanna what she had created. Not reveal his identity, but let her see that he existed and she was the reason for it. 
It didn't take long for his plot to unfold.

    Joanna woke up the next morning to find some of her clothes missing and some furniture moved around. 
Her immediate reaction was to get Stan to her place as quick as possible. She was frightened and knew he would oblige.

    Stan was running on his treadmill when the phone rang. He put down his Vitamin Water and ran to the phone. "Joanna? Is everything okay?" 

    "Can I come over?" came her worried reply.

    "Yes, of course," insisted Stan. He then began to mix four vodka tonics, while still on his treadmill, like a boss. 
But as Joanna reached her car, she realized that a tire was slashed. 

    "WHO IS DOING THIS TO ME?" She screamed her anguish at the morning sky, startling her neighbor and the terrier he was walking. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

    In the bushes The Bastard simply smirked and slid his sunglasses on, before flicking open his switchblade-comb and making sure his pompadour was coiffed. The day was young, and he didn't have the time to terrorize his ex all evening. He had trashy women to bang and a Free Clinic to rob, ideally in that order.

    Stan was, of course, willing and eager to pick up Joanna and bring her home. He'd already explained the "mom's basement" thing to her - it was PURELY financial, and just a favor he was doing for his mother. It wasn't, like, he was going to put her into a home, was it? 
Well, not yet.

    Joanna began to sob uncontrollable. As she pulled out her Motorola Droid, she realized that its screen protector had been removed. 
Shocked, she threw her phone at the ground and ran to the nearest bus station, checking over her shoulder every few steps. The Bastard rose from the bushes and crept closer to her phone.

    The doorbell rang. Stan grabbed the snuggie and glass of warm milk that he had prepared for Joanna.

    "What happened?" Stan showed obviously sincere concern as he held the door open for Joanne. 
Secretly, Stan was in on it. His good nature was all a ploy. Forever a childhood friend of The Bastard, long distanced by grade school relocation, he was determined to see justice served and his friend's life put back together. This was his part. This is what he lived for. 

    Well, that and Voyager. But where was his Captain now? He'd need a new strong female figure to worship. And if he couldn't find one... he'd MAKE one. 
That would happen another day, in another tale, however. This time, he had to back up his bro and revenge Joanna hardcore. 

    Unless... unless he could somehow combine his goals. Make Joanna into the woman he needed her to be. Like V did to Evey. Make her strong, and a worthy target for his affections through diabolical psychological torture. She would be a puppet dancing on his strings, like those loutish fools on his precious internet forums! 
No! He shook his figurative internal head without a head, like an optical illusion. He couldn't betray The Bastard in his time of need, could he? Just then, he snapped out of his trance and looked up. It was Joanna. 

    Or rather, the hair doll he had made of Joanna, brought to a semblance of life by the foulest of necromancy. 

    "What are you doing Joanna-doll? You have to get out of here before Joanna sees you," Stan whispered urgently. He grabbed a broom and started shooing the abomination back out the door. 
It moved slowly, jerkily, a gruesome faximile of human femininity just like Stan liked it. He couldn't tell anyone. Not even The Bastard. Nobody would understand. 

    Pushing the doll into a closet, he looked down at himself, into his own ugly soul. Not a moment later, memories of knocks at the door pounded their way into his ears. It was Joanna in front of him again. 
His beautiful bitch-goddess.  Her appearance caught him off-guard. Despite the plan set forth by his broski The Bastard, he was not such a terrible man nearly enough to slap this shit.

    Stan looked up at her. 
He got on the floor. Everybody did the dinosaur. Boom Boom. Shakka lakka lakka boom. Boom boom. Shakka lakka. Boom Boom.

    He snapped himself out of his reverie, reconsidering his whole plan. Revenge fantasies were fine and good and provided for a good wank, but seeing an actual live girl, here, in the flesh, weakened his resolve.

    He leaned against the doorway and wiped crumbs from the lapel of his velure smoking jacket and tilted his fedora back. "Joanna," he muttered. "What a pleasant surprise." 
Joanna was taken slightly aback by the way he was acting, but she couldn't resist velure.  It was like a tactile aphrodisiac to her, and she felt her woman's heat rising in response to his pure animal masculine appeal. 

    "Can I offer you some Snapple?" he asked stepping back into the foyer. "Or perhaps a Spiderman Pop Tart?"

    Brian had NEVER treated her so well. He'd seldom even invited her into the house, preferring to rut in the bushes alongside his driveway. This Stan was a true gentleman, and quite dapper to boot! 
It took every ounce of her willpower not to throw herself at his feet. She only hoped that he did not mistake her self-restraint and insecurities as a total lack of interest!  But Stan remembered the plan. Bros before hoes, after all.

    He took a step into his closet, and then walked out, draped in an all-white, leather pimp outfit. He was the White Knight. 
The White Knight of sex. He was amazing at sex and always had been, ever since he found the crystal in the cave behind his house. He only hoped that some day someone else would have the chance to experience his magical hands.  But today was not the day. He was, instead, to blueball Joanna and then call her a whore for betraying The Bastard.

    Joanna trembled in lust. 
And Parkinsons. But mostly lust.  Only because the Parkinsons had yet to develop.

    Meantime, The Bastard was perched on a tree branch just outside the White Knight's lair, gazing in. 

    "Bastard to White Knight, Bastard to White Knight. Come in. Over." The Bastard spied through the window the White Knight lifting his walkie-talkie to his lips.

    "White Knight here. Operation JoJo is under control. On a side note, aren't walkie-talkies AWESOME?!"

    "Hell yeah!" The Bastard shouted.

    "Did you hear something?" Joanna asked, still in shock from earlier. 
She had heard what sounded like Brian's voice. 

    "Just the sound of your dick in my mouth," the White Knight smoothly recovered.

    "Oh, Stan, you're so funny," Joanna beamed.

    "Yeah. Funny." Someday. 
Just then, Stan disrobed. Joanne moaned. The Bastard gave his full and undivided attention.  Stan swung his penis like a sword, "Hiya!" He screamed as he charged.  Joanne swooned. The Bastard began to feel confused. Slowly, he unfastened the box-cutter on his belt, in case of treachery from the White Knight. 

    His fear was unfounded though, for before his eyes was the sight of a woman getting brutally cockslapped. It obviously wasn't intended to be pleasurable for anyone, other than the Bastard of course. 

    As the scene developed before his eyes, the Bastard was getting more and more anxious. maybe he still loved her deep down, maybe? but that place was a deep cold pit,filled on all sides by the detritus of her malevolence towards him.

    even now as he watched the penis being forced into her eyes he felt both pity and glee. One side of him wanted to rescue her, the other wanted her final choking breaths being filmed for youtube.

     Just as his own penis was emerging from the warmth of his knitted cock mitten the tree branch snapped. he fell quickly and cleanly to the ground. 
Joanne simultaneously was cockslapped into the wall, masking the sound of the Bastard's plummet.

    "Stan! Stop that you're hurting me!" Joanne screamed, trying to block her face from his trained cock-jutsu. 
But it was no use, the relentless pounding continued until  the Bastard crashed through the window, showering the cock slapping couple with glass fragments.

    "Enough" he commanded as he crunched over the glass entering the room. his flacid cock mitten dangling from his clothes like the discarded knitted penis sheaf it was. 

    "B-b-brian...?" Joanna feebly ejaculated. 

    "yes it is i" he admitted 
"why...." she questioned into Stan's now collapsing erection.

    "i loved you once Joanna" started, and then went on to explain about all the times he had been rebuffed, the times he had spent making mix cds for her, the times he took acid and woke up naked in bus shelter covered in someone else's blood. All these times he recounted to an astonished joanna until she stood up, she approached him and shooshed him with a delicate finger to his lips. Her face turned to his, the lips just mere centimetres apart when suddenly 
the Bastard cockslapped her.

    He cockslapped her halfway across the room.

    "Why?!" Joanne shouted in tears, half from the pain of having her face demolished by slap-happy cocks, and half from her broken heart.

    "How does it feel Joanne? How does it feel to know the pain that has kept me awake all these lonely nights?" 
"you see Joanne, with every rebuff my heart hardened until it shrunk and withered" he continued the monologue he had been planning for years

    "slowly it ceased to become a heart, it became a stone, a stone made of sadness and passed chances, of lost dreams, of my lost life" he shouted as he pulled something from his pocket

    Stan backed away behind joanne as the bastard lofted the worlds tiniest violin, and with a shrill flourish he played the instrument like a madman. its twee sounds entwining everyone in the room with there song of sadness.

Stan broke down at the tune of infinite sadness, Joanna collapsed on the floor as the tinny tune permeated her very soul like a rapist performing a forced entry in an old peoples home.

    Even the bastard was effected by his playing, a single tear glinted on his eye as he played the worlds smallest violin. 
He played for hours, until his fingers bled and even the universe itself had felt his sadness.

    "It is done," the Bastard sniffled, "you have heard my tale and felt my song sting your heart." 

    "I... I... wait..." began Joanna, "let me go stick my head in the oven." 
she said as she marched over to the electric oven, not sure how to go about such a suicide she flung her self head first off the stool in the kitchen, merely grazing a knee, until finaly she held her breath and wished her heart to stop.

    seeing the tragic scene before him, The bastard rushed forward and grabbed Joanna

    "NOOOOOOOO" he screamed as he shook her totally alive body.

    her bright pink healthy lips tried to form words

    but it was too late, The bastard fearing his woman dead, had taken the tiny violin and plunged it deep into his chest, the little neck on the miniature instrument snapping and leaving only a small red mark on his belly.

    he sobbed as he imagined his life blood pumping out of him then realised he had failed to even kill him self properly. 
"im not dead" she at last managed to say "and i love you i realise now"

    he stood up and hugged her, they kissed each other then went to the window to watch the sun set over the city, the couple were so happy, and from the 85th floor of tower one, World trade centre they could see for miles.

Meanwhile, the White Knight was filming the scene for his own enjoyment.  he had a great view from his seat on the plane, why he didnt even need to use the zoom lens, it looked like they were going to fly right past Joanna's apartment.  The White Knight saw his job was done and caught a plane to his next project about an hour into the Bastard's song. 

    The End


    15 mins later the world was changed for ever. September 11th 1995 - Eastern Tennessee begins using new area code 423.

They all liked tits, because the tits in Tennessee were amazing as shit.  Why? Thought the White Knight. Why must only one state in this nation have so much rocking tits? It was too much. 

    And they all thanked Osama bin Laden for the rocking tits. 
And then ate him.  Osama tasted delicious.  And thus the White Knight's hunger was, at least for the moment, sated. Thank God for democracy.

    The End 
~Page x~
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