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Post by Batflunkie on Sept 1, 2022 12:43:34 GMT -5
Chapter 1: Carbonated For Your Pleasure Paul Thomas was enjoying the searing heat that comes with the lack of proper air conditioning in his apartment. "Damn," he said aloud to no one in particular, "even my sweat is sweating." He wondered if there was anything in his fridge that could relieve him of this particular aliment. So, he got up from his bought-and-paid-for goodwill furniture and walked for what seemed like eons towards his kitchen. The tiles on the floor of the kitchen felt cool to the the touch, almost seeming to radiate it. Prying open the fridge door, his physique was awash with a strong, cold air. Bending over, he looked around, seeing nothing but old take-out boxes and half empty condiment containers. But parting the sea of uninspired edibles, he found a lone can of soda. Dubbed Kaizer One and tasting of strong, black coffee, it was a favorite of those who's interests leaned more towards video games. Popping the tab and taking a good, long gulp, Paul felt refreshed. But then the after taste kicked in and he felt sick to his stomach, almost kind of like his body was having a knee-jerk reaction to the chemicals in the beverage. Then, he threw up and passed out for an incalculable amount of time. During that time, he had a very strange dream about a shifting face awash with black light and neon that was muttering something of grave importance and intertwined destinies. Paul was honestly surprised that he was able to remember as much as he did was the splitting headache that he woke up with. On the floor across from him, covered in a spongy black goop that was possibly his vomit, was a maroon colored super hero costume. He touched it and it came alive, tickling him with static. It soon slithered on top of him and meshed with his skin. Paul was just fortunate that he wasn't particularly claustrophobic, because the sensation he was having was pretty close, what with the suit crawling up his throat and latching onto his scalp. Sensing that he was done with whatever the hell that was, he got up, a newfound energy coursing through his entire body.He wriggled his fingers and could see blue bolts of electricity pulsating through them. They felt almost fizzy from carbonation, almost as if he was being powered by that Kaizer One he chugged. Paul's brain toyed with the sheer possibilities that came with such abilities. He spied a nearby mushy, half empty cereal box and made it the target of his whims. Paul flicked his finger and sent a jolt of fizzy blue energy right at the tooth rotting foodstuffs. The box stayed still. Paul flicked another bolt, but still the box remained motionless. He flicked another and another and another. He was one his last try when something finally happened. The box began shaking, rustling the half limp corn flakes inside. Suddenly, it began bouncing around like mad, throwing flakes of bran and wheat everywhere. Paul chased after it, but the cereal just kept bouncing along on it's merry way until it bounced off the railing ledge of the balcony and dove off onto the street with a splat. It's crispy bits becoming smooshed further by a passing car tire. Paul mourned for the little box, having spent almost three dollars a lifetime ago on it. On the tv, the siren call of The Ryder Rabbit Show, beckoned unto Paul; he never missed it. It was a show about a anthropomorphic rabbit sheriff and his possum deputy's adventures in the small western hamlet dubbed Lonesome Cactus. Usually a baddie would appear like Timmy, Tommy, and Tyler Chipmunk; the notorious Acorn Dumpling Gang. Paul had watched it often in his youth and it's power over his inner child continued into his less than steady employment of his adulthood. But today's episode was something different. It was well-known that Ryder's skills were at their peak during high-noon, allowing him special feats of strength and agility to best his foe of the week. Except this time, he used his newfound strength to crash through the tv screen and into Paul's living space. "Well howdy lil' buddy!," Ryder said in a thick southern drawl, brushing the static off of his bright auburn fur,"the powers that be have made me yer guardian helper for a secret mission. Yah see, yer not the only one with new found powers from sodee-pop and some of them are using them for dangerous purposes. So what say you and me go down there and give them what fer?" Ryder jimmied the lock and flung the door open, grabbing Paul by the hand, leading him into this new great unknown |
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Post by Batflunkie on Sept 1, 2022 12:49:00 GMT -5
Soda Jerk is an idea I came up with during brainstorming for Stupor, The All-American Guy. It's about a guy who's powered entirely by an allergic reaction to drinking soda. Thought it was interesting enough to have it's own story Ryder Rabbit is also a character that I've had in mind for a while, based somewhat off of Dearfield's "Red Rabbit Comics". The story I had in mind for him is that he's reflecting on his existence as a cartoon character while a wave of static threatens to wipe him and his little hamlet of Lonesome Cactus clean off of the earth because there was a lapse in Syndication potential Not wanting such a character to go to waste, I stuck Ryder in here as kind of a goofy mentor |
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Post by Batflunkie on Sept 5, 2022 21:32:48 GMT -5
Chapter 2- No Name, No Slogan
It wasn't particularly an effortless feat to walk down the block in red long johns without everybody staring at you, nor was it easy to be beside a four foot eleven anthropomorphic cartoon character. "So, Ryder," Paul said as they stopped at the local convenience store,"what's the plan exactly?"
Mentally speaking, Ryder wasn't all there, not yet anyway. It must have greatly frazzled his brain when he made the leap from two dimensions to three. Ryder reached for a candy bar," Hey liddle pardners howsabout a Snooker's Delight? Made with a rich, creamy chocolate atop a savory nougat and caramel. And guess what? It comes witha special prize, a trading card of yours truly! Snooker's Delight, a treat for all even if you're not on the ball." Ryder shook his head, "No, that's not right. I ain't in the looney pictures no more, I ain't gotta carry on selling candy bars to impressionable youths. Why this is America! I can be anything I darned well please! Except," Ryder took a breath,"Yahsee Paul, before I made the leap from in living color to HD right before your very eyes, I hads me a bit of a problem. My show wasn't doing sohot anymore. But we had us a good run of fifty-two years, why I might have even propsed to sweetheart Polly Potumus and finally put away Ceaser Von Weasel once and for all!"
Paul let his cartoon idol carry on venting his frustrations because he didn't have the heart to tell him that in those fifty-two glorious years, he only ran about three and a half seasons from 1967 thru 1969. The show was still incredibly popular even after the cancellation came in and the network heads didn't know what to do, everyone who worked on it had mysteriously vanished. So the show was stuck in kind of a syndication limbo, but how on earth do you explain that to a formerly two-dimensional character? Do you tell them that their whole existence was the creation of someone else?
Paul decided that this heavy thinking was for a more intellectual sort than he and he went to the soda rack. Ryder, with a bundle of chips and candy in his gloved paws, stumbled behind him. "Nowletsee here," Ryder said, thinking aloud," right now, you gots kinetic electricity pulsating through you. Not really effective unless you wanna go on the moon or join the circus..." Ryder looked up and down the rack for roughly a minute or two and suddenly had a revelation. Reaching on his tippy-toes, he nabbed a bottle of Everglade Rage. Much like it's sister soda, Kaizer One (both lovingly produced by Glenning Potables And Associates), it was high-octane and no-nonsense kick to the insides.
Ryder tossed it to Paul and he took a hearty gulp, much to the ire of the shop keeper. Paul's outfit suddenly changed to a deep shamrock green. "In the show's later years, aye used tah promote it as being the tonic to give yah a can-do, high-noon attitude. Not entirely sure what powers it'll give yah, but you should be a might stronger and quicker on yer paws than yah used tah be." The two walked over to the counter and paid the shop keeper who still wasn't too happy about two weirdos patronizing his store, but like most of America, how could he say "no" to the money?
The two found a nice secluded area with a basketball court, a ball, and a bench. The two munched on their snacks, shared gulps of Everglade Rage, and when they were done, got to playing.
Meanwhile, a couple of blocks away, was the radio station HWRK. Specializing in quality alternative music for the city of *REDACTED*, it was a hit with many (as well as advertisers) and had been in a comfortable position of prominence for over thrity-five years.
The current deejay of the hour was Tommy Jay, who tended to play 80's classics from a wide variety of genres. He took a good long sip of his bottle of Fiji Apple Crisp before he went back on, setting his plan in motion, "Alright you groovy cats and kittens, there's a ball game going on at *REDACTED*, so saddle up, grab a cold one and have fun! Now here's a little ditty by Def Leppard called 'Switch 625'"
The game was going well, Paul managed to slip past Ryder on numerous occasions for a steady lead, but Ryder was still plenty agile with his High-Noon powers. They were about to call it a day when a huge slew of youthful looking toughs approached them, cracking knuckles and popping their necks. It looked bad all things considered.
Using what he learned on the court to his advantage, Paul darted past them. Weaving in and out with enough fluidity to make Jackie Chan blush. Paul was never much on fighting and would rather talk his way out, but he really didn't have a choice. Ryder tossed him a loose tree branch, it could work, but he would rather have had a nunchuk. Suddenly, before his eyes, it transformed into an ideal fighting weapon of the orient. He cracked off a few shots with it and the gaggle of agitated punks went flying. "Ryder," Paul exclaimed,"this is amazing, what is this?!" "It's called the Hero Nexus, aye don't know much about it other than it gives yah a clean advantage over those that would do folks harm." Soon, the terror was over. Or at least, it seemed that way. While his back was turned, one lone man bum rushed Paul, but not before Ryder cracked off a shot with his patented dust pistol.
Not intended necessarily for harm the Mirth & Tongue Dust Driver was modeled after a child's cap gun, but through years of tending to his flock at Lonesome Cactus, Ryder modified it to be loaded with tightly packed dust pellets. The worst it would do was give the victim a sneezing fit. And the assailant did just that. But he also seemed to be slipping out of some kind of trance. "Where am I?", the man muttered,"last thing I remember was listening to the radio station and then it...it just went all black..." Through a quick exchange with the man as well as the other sleeper agents, they gathered what they needed (along with a twelve pack of Everglade Rage) and headed to HWRK.
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