See, the goddamn Batman got it wrong. Insert mental fuckyeah fist pump GIF here people. Yes, I just had to use Frank Miller’s line for that.
No disrespect meant, OK? Bats will always be my hero. But I figured Man is not really driven by fear. We’re driven by hunger, hunger of all kinds. Who cares if the skies are having a massive lightning diarrhea on the flat field I call my land? I want that gazelle running across the just-mentioned flat field for dinner later. Who cares if that downright-scary woman-beating drunken brute of a husband will come home soon? His hot and abused wife needs some er, caring support from their friendly neighbor during her time of need. Don’t get me started on that damn blue-balled president of ours.
So yeah, hunger. That may explain why I’m wearing a basic black ghillie suit padded with Kevlar-wrapped, interlocked iron plates on places that may be hit with bullets (chest, back, neck, forehead, groin, etc. and yes, I tested it and so far they can take an Uzi burst at pointblank range) and that may hit other people (elbows, knees, shins, forearms. MMA fan here yo), and only plain Kevlar otherwise. That may also explain why I’m about to rappel Australian style down a twenty-six story building with only a can of mace, two mil-spec Tasers (double-wield oh fuck yeah) and two Asp batons tucked in my utility belt and maybe a month’s worth of rappelling experience in the nearby mall tucked in my other (and figurative) belt. That may not explain, however, this… fan-shield thingy I created that’s now strapped on my forearm. Imagine that shield used by Escaflowne’s Van Fanel against dragon flame in the first episode, only this time it’s bulletproof and has more fancy etching around it. Awesome, I know right? Very functional too.
Hunger. Hunger for approval from dear ol’ military-born-and-raised Special Ops dad who was downright disappointed when his only son decided to study Fine Arts, majoring in Metal Works and Sculpture, instead of joining the Green Berets. Hunger to one-up those motherfucking artsy-fartsy illustration majors with all their big talk of being the next Alex Ross and that condescending attitude towards us sculpture majors.
Your son, even though he’s a nerd who’s into art, is not a pussy, dear sir. All that beatings you gave me, all that surprise self-defense lessons I had to go through just so I can have dinner, all that talk on what’s right and wrong and standing up when you have to, they taught me a lot. Because of those I know that being hit on the groin is not a fun experience and that a Taser shot there will paralyze someone AND make him/her pee. Thank you for those, no sarcasm meant.
Your classmate will own all your collective asses. You are cursed to draw comic book heroes that will never be yours. Heck, after I’m done here you will draw ME.
Back to rappelling down this building and on to that pair of drug dealers. I really should’ve thought of a name first. Tss, too bad “Kickass” was already taken. Feh. At least I have the logo I’ll spraypaint on their asses after I’m done beating the crap out of them.
If I beat them up, of course. Fuck this noise. Let’s get this party on.