#((HERE YOU GO!! Thanks to Devon for proofreading!))

[suplex51]

Return To Form

This spot wasn’t much for the history books, or your “Must-See Sights” brochures. It wasn’t a shithole, or anything; It was a well-kept, wooden-walled village — like the kind you’d see in Hong Kong, only more Japanese-flavored  — located within the Red Light District of Cotes Ward. Just a little very far off the beaten path, that was all.

Oh, and it was also rumored to be home field for a community of whitebread mafia. They, themselves, were rumored to have permanently ( slash not-so-peacefully ) evicted the fort’s former citizens, not to mention rumored to be currently causing problems for several local businesses — local businesses rumored to be under the protection of the Third Street Saints, incidentally. Harassment, sabotage, kidnappings, the works. Plenty of those rumors floating around, though they were certainly coherent enough to be truths.

And they all ended tonight.

A promising testing ground for his uncapped powers, coupled with a chance to do good… this was The Spot. This was the target. This was the stage, and Travis Touchdown was ready to play. 

_________

Two mooks. Two nondescript men, unimportant enough for our narrative to go and label them “A” and “B.” A and B, were standing outside The Spot’s main entrance, standing guard while casually chatting it up with assault rifles in hand.

“So, uh… what’s the catch, this time?”

“Really, man? We’ve been out here since half past forever ago, and /now/ you ask that?”

“Yeah. Because I wasn’t curious about it ‘til now. Because I wasn’t bored enough to care ‘til now.”

“Coulda asked about my day, but— ugh, fine. It’s a dame in charge of this little sake joint. Cute place, cuter owner. The ‘fuckable grandma’ type, y’know?”

“Eww.”

“No accounting for taste… Anywho, it’s a shame what’s gonna have to happen. But that’s what you get for paying off the Saints instead of us.”

“...”

“... seriously, though. Just wait ‘til Johnny comes riding back with her in tow. This broad aged like-”

Headlights cut through the fog, cutting off B’s defense of GMILFs with the telltale roar of a souped-up motorbike engine.

“Thank god, finally,” A groaned, already stepping to the roadside. B, however, was slightly more… hesitant.

“ ‘A’...?”

“I swear, if you’re fixating on old lady titty again—”

“I DON’T THINK THAT’S JOHNNY—”

I mean… It was technically Johnny. In a way. A very demented way, that I’m sure B wasn’t referring to at all, but I’ll go ahead and point out anyways. It was Johnny’s severed head, launched through the air like a fastball, embedding itself into A’s skull like cannon fire going through wood.

Gross.

B barely got a second to process this before the headlights became blinding, and that bike closed in... _________

Cut to the interior. The wretched hive of scum and villainy. People, both old and older, moving around corridor after corridor, eating, drinking, hustling and bustling- you get the picture. I’m done setting up.

The front doors blew off their hinges, a shower of splinters and gore, courtesy of B’s broken body and the vehicular-manslaughterer that’d ran him over; The most ridiculous motorbike you’d likely ever see. And it kept going, right down main street, flattening anyone else who didn’t get the hell out of dodge before it finally came to a stop.

There was a moment of stunned silence from one and all.

Footsteps hit the ground just outside. It served as a signal for the entire gang to stop gawking and start pointing weapons at the man approaching from behind the billowing fog. Guns opened fire, shooting first and asking questions never. A curved beam of light — a green saber — lit up in the man’s hand.

Travis eagerly got to work. 

Running out like a rocket, the otaku assassin lunged into the first wave of baddies, deflecting bullets like a well-trained Jedi and faster than the eye could track. Bada bing, bada boom, a group of seven fell to bloodless pieces — the Tsubaki beam katana’s heat had instantly cauterized any fatal wound.

Travis stood still for a moment. The casino slots — forced visual imagery — activated in his head, started rolling. Every life taken added up to another imaginary coin insertion. Seven lives, seven rolls. Nothing lined up quite right, yet, but that was okay.

More people were coming. More chances.

Quick reminder that this is, in fact, our hero, even if some perspectives beg otherwise.

Travis kept moving, veering to the right, starting his path down the narrow maze of streets and corridors. War cries sounded off all around. Criminals and scum were spilling out from buildings and alleys — like ants defending their nest — unsheathing swords, loading guns, etc., etc.

It was all pointless.

Travis. Wrecked. Shop. Up and down, all over town.

He danced around sword strikes and bullet volleys. Leapt from wall to wall, flipping, somersaulting and buzzsaw-ing through a row of mooks. Bisected a man at the waist, grabbed his upper half, spun around and clubbed another dude to death with it. Turned a woman’s tommy gun spray against her comrades, through skilled swordplay and just spitting in the face of physics. Powerbombed her into paste. Even kicked a gangster to the ground and used him as a bloody skateboard.

All that… through only a portion of the base.

It was over-the-top violence, committed against evil ad nauseam. Slots rolled, rolled and kept rolling. Travis felt the adrenaline, the testosterone. The sheer thrill of battlefield dominance overflowed in him, aroused him, empowered him! As good and heroic as he’d arguably grown, in the heat of the moment, this M-rated action still felt right to him.

Suddenly, it happened. It finally happened— well, multiple things. 

The Tsubaki’s battery depleted. The surviving criminals brought out the big guns — RPGs. Travis found himself cornered and surrounded. But most importantly, the reason why that smile of his grew so sadistically triumphant? Those slots had lined up at last.

Seven. Seven. Seven.

“My lucky number…”

The rocketeers paid no heed to Travis’s muttering. And they didn’t try to understand what he said next. Instead, much like the beginning of this massacre, they shot first, asked questions never.

Their final mistake. 

“Strawberry On The Shortcake.”  ____________

The Spot was carved apart in a single instant.

It had fallen victim to a 12-foot, crimson lightsaber. Victim to a boner-powered, time-stopping assassin, who was soon trying his best to dig his motorbike out from under the rubble. He'd eventually tell Victor how it all went down, but for now? It was time for Travis to go home feeling like he’d done some good…

In his own, not-so-good kind of way.

[general-sleepy]

So, I’ve had this thing hanging around unfinished since forever, and I figure since, you know, all of this is happening, I might as well post a fragment of the Dracula/MST3K crossover the world clearly needed. Note the complete absence of any attempt to replicate Mr. Swales’ accent. 

"Another day, another dollar," Mina said as she punched in for the day at Gizmonic Institute.

"Mhm," Jonathan agreed. "About a hundred and twelve before taxes" He entered his own code on the wall-mounted module. As much as Mina told him it was silly, Jonathan still insisted on letting her punch in first, so that she would get that theoretical five seconds more of pay. 

"You always know how to cheer me up, dear." She gave him a quick peck on the lips, before they adjusted their matching messenger bags and entered the central compound. 

Gizmonic Institute wasn't a bad place to work. Maybe not great, but plenty fine in this economy. The $15.00 an hour, plus benefits, was nothing to sneeze at -- though the in-house medical care did come with mandatory participation in medical experiments. At least Mina wasn't smelling colors anymore, and Dr. Billington had assured both of them that the gallbladder wasn't a vital organ. The dark-matter-powered psychic-enhancing hairdryer had left Jonathan with a permanent white streak in his hair. He'd been self-conscious about it at first, but Mina had to admit that she found it pretty cute. 

They chatted aimlessly in the elevator down, after having completed their palm, retinal, and ear scans. The conversation had settled into a discussion of whether to go out for dinner or heat up that leftover shepherd's pie casserole, maybe with some braised Brussels sprouts, when they stepped off the elevator at Deep 5. It looked like it was going to be an average day of transcribing experiment notes and proofreading grant proposals. The life of two average Gizmonic secretaries: just another pair of faces in pink jumpsuits.

Mary, Dr. Hawkins' lab assistant, was examining a folder, leaning against a filing cabinet in Jonathan and Mina's teeny office.

"Good morning," Jonathan said, with that sunshiney smile that melted Mina's heart every time.

"Morning, Mr. Harker. Mrs. Harker."

"How are you?"

“Fine. You've both been reassigned."

"Huh?" they both said, both in the process of settling down in their desks.

Mary nodded. "Internal memo just came down the tubes." She took a piece of paper from the folder and held it out to them. "You've been asked to assist Dr. Dracula in Deep 12."

Mina's heart sank to around the region of her knees.

"Dr. Dracula?" Jonathans tense, squeaky voice accurately expressed her cocktail of disappointment, apprehension, and disbelief.

"Yup. I don't know what exactly he wants you for, but he requested you two specifically. Presumably something clerical."

Jonathan and Mina shared an anxious glance. Every punch-clock Gizmocrat shared a healthy dread of Dracula. (No one had ever been able to figure what his first name was). From his ghoulish appearance to his mannerisms to the type of experiments he conducted, the man was creepy, threatening, and deeply unpleasant to be around. Every encounter they'd had with the scientist had left them nauseous and deeply unsettled. In a business peopled mainly with scientists of varying degrees of madness, Dracula was out there on the far edge of acceptable insanity.

Mina had once been tasked with proofing a grant proposal from him for what appeared to be a kitten-powered submarine, which from the abstract was the cutest thing she'd ever heard of, until she went further and read things that still haunted her darkest nightmares. In person, he was strangely friendly, with occasional flashes of maniacal rage or laughter and apparently no awareness of the concept of personal space.

Now, they were going to go work for him.

"Well, I guess we'll see you around," she said.

"Uh-huh," Mary said, eyes on her folder again.

Mina and Jonathan made their way out of the office and  back to the elevator.

"Oh, boy," Jonathan exhaled.

"You said it."

"What does he want with us? It's not like we're qualified to help with his experiments, and he never publishes or shares any experiment notes."

"I was wondering the same thing. Unless he wants us for guinea pigs.”

Jonathan's eyes widened. She reached out and took his hand.

"Don't worry. We'll keep our eyes open, and if something doesn't feel right, we'll leave and tell Dr. Hawkins."

Jonathan nodded. They both knew how difficult that could be. Neither of them was particularly assertive, hence why they found themselves regularly bullied into participating in "voluntary" experiments; like the time they spent six months "voluntarily" growing lab mice on their chests. Thankfully, in this case, she was being asked to stand up, not just for herself, but for Jonathan. If Dr. Creepy bothered her husband in any way, she'd smack him over the head with his own Bunsen burner.

They kept holding hands during the elevator ride down to Deep 12. The elevator stopped at Deep 7, and Old Man Swales, the janitor, entered with his mop and bucket."

"Good morning, Mr. Swales." She was surprised at how cheerful her voice was despite the circumstances.

"Mornin', Mrs. Harker, Mr. Harker. Lovely day to you." Mr. Swales had been working at Gizmonic Institute for, as far as anyone could tell, as long as it had been around. The consensus was that he had been ancient even then, so his current age was a mystery. "Where are you two off to?"

"We've been asked to assist Dr. Dracula for the time being," Jonathan said.

Swales' eyes widened. He shook his head. "No, no, you don't want to do that."

"I know," Mina said. "Honestly, we'd rather not either, but we can't exactly--"

"No, no, no," Swales interrupted, still shaking his head, jowls and eyebrows swaying. "There's evil things goes on down there. Strange, unnatural things. He's an odd man that Dracula. A dangerous madman."

Mina chose not to respond that a lot of what he said could be applied to many Gizmonic scientists. 

"Well, all the same,” Jonathan said, “we have our jobs to do."

Swales reached out a leathery hand and grasped Mina's arm. He did the same to Jonathan. "You young people look out for yourselves."

"We will, sir," Jonathan said.

"Keep your wits about you."

"Thank you Mr. Swales. We will."

He was still shaking his head when he stepped off the elevator at Deep 9. "May God protect both your souls."

"Have a nice day, sir," Mina said, before the doors shut. She and Jonathan just looked at each other as the elevator continued to descend.

"Well, that was..."

A loudspeaker crackled to life. “Mr. Jonathan Harker. Mrs. Wilhelmina Harker.” A voice boomed.

They both jumped. Mina let out a wordless squawk of alarm.

“Christ Almighty!” Jonathan exclaimed, his Devon accent pushing to the fore as it always did when he was surprised or excited. If she wasn't so shaken herself, Mina would have found it as cute as she usually did.

“Um, yes, sir?” she said, looking around for the location of the speaker.

“Good morning, my friends,” the voice responded. She could Now recognize it as belonging to Dracula, with the slight, but noticeable and unplaceable accent and the tone of over-friendliness that was deeply unsettling. “Enter freely and leave something of the happiness you bring.”

“Uh, good morning to you, too,” Mina said. They shared a look of confusion uneasiness. “Mary Irving said you asked for us to help you with... “ She remembered that she had no idea what they were supposed to be helping him with, so she just finished lamely, “...Today.”

“Excellent. Please enter through the red door.”

Mina stared at the circular metal door. She looked at Jonathan. “Would it be too cliché to say that I have a bad feeling about this?” she whispered.

“No,” Jonathan responded at the same volume. “That sounds about right.”

“I guess we don't have much of a choice.”

“I could go in and say that you were feeling sick and had to go home.”

“Jonathan, there is no way I'm going to let you go in there alone.” She took his hand in hers and squeezed. “I'm sure it will be alright. You know these scientists are all drama queens. He's probably just your average mad scientist with a goth paint job. It's nothing we don't deal with every day.”

Jonathan let out a deep breath and nodded.

“Of course you're right.”

“And if anything seems to strange we'll leave straight away.”

“Absolutely.”

They kissed quickly. Jonathan moved a step ahead to the door. They were a bit confused at first, then Mina cranked the wheel in the center. Jonathan had to join her; together their primary sources of exercise were filing cabinets and carrying stacks of folders.

Finally, they felt a thunk, and it seemed as though the door was unlocked.

They shared a look. 

“Here we go,” Mina said. They worked together to haul open the door.