Saturday, July 15, 2006

So Anyway, Bob Is The Quakemaster

I'm not entirely sure how I didn't see that earlier. Anyway, that's why I'm posting late this week and also why my apartment is now a pile of smoking rubble.

On the plus side, though, I did totally kick Dr Willis to the curb! So score one for me.

But back to Bob. The penny should finally have dropped when he started wandering around the apartment on Monday wearing a hideous green and purple number. I swear to god I am as liberal and tolerant as you can get but when I saw him standing there in skintight latex shouting about how he's going to use his power-charged jackhammer to teach me a lesson and pound me into the wall until I scream - what was I supposed to think? And then he orders me to go put on my costume so we can wrestle as befits Olympian Gods and not mere men. I know what happened on Mount Olympus. Say I'm just another example of the new wave of subtle homophobia that's plaguing modern American society if you like, but I thought Bob wanted to chain me to a slab in a dungeon and flog a giant puppet of me while I watched. I hear that's how it works when you're into hot, kinky deviant shenanigans.

So anyway, I told him I wasn't that way inclined and then he flew into a rage and told me I would feel the wrath of the Quakemaster. And then I did the dumbest thing imaginable, which is ask if Quakemaster was the name of the sex toy he was carrying. I swear it looked like a giant massager. And now I know who Quakemaster is, because he stuck his goddamned cosmic dildo against my NEW KITCHEN TILE which I'd finished less than 24 hours ago and basically obliterated it with the flick of a switch, and then started on the work surfaces.

It's one of those times that I really wish I had my stretch powers again. I know I go around telling people that I could stretch around if I felt like it, but I really felt like it then - I mean I wanted to elbow him in the face from across the room like I used to do to people who irritated me, even at parties. Anyway, he trashes the whole kitchen with this thing and then starts on the other rooms, and meanwhile Mrs. Levin next door is banging away telling me to keep the music down. Thanks Mrs Levin. I'm being murdered by a supervillain and you think it's japanese noisecore.

Anyway, my goose would've been cooked if not for that new guy, Supernova. When Bob blew out the window in the bathroom, he flew in and started taking care of business. I mean, seriously, he's got the skills. POW! SOCKO! All that stuff. Very old-school. It was all over in thirty seconds maybe, although they did destroy a couple more walls, including a supporting wall which means the whole building has to be closed in case it falls down, but that was Bob's fault, not Supernova's. And not mine either, despite what Mrs. Levin told the landlord. Anyway, thank God for Supernova, that's what I say. I figure I can turn my meeting with the Star Of Tomorrow (I thought that up, it's copyright Ralph Dibny) into a few tasty appearances on the Steve Lombard show. So I guess I can thank Supernova for a couple of extra thousand dollars in the bank as well as saving my hide. Thank you, Supernova! I am your biggest fan.

Hey - maybe I could be his 'pal'! Jimmy Olsen gets thousands in endorsement deals every year, and I've already got a signal device from the JLA days, which could be turned into a signal watch if I knew anything about signalling devices and how they work.

Apart from that, though, I'm homeless and the landlord kept the deposit and he's threatening to sue, which is ridiculous because supervillains attack buildings all the time. Apparently it was my fault for not vetting Bob thoroughly enough. Well excuse me Mr high-and-mighty Rabinowicz, but last time I checked, you had arrested precisely zero super-villains. I think the fact that I happened to let one slip by is no fault of mine.

Anyway, I took all this to Dr Willis and the first thing he asked me was whether I felt that my poor detective skills invalidated me as a human being. The first thing. Oh, he apologised after I hurled his diploma across the room and tipped the couch over, but it was too late for sorry! I've taken a lot of crap from that grotesque shyster but this was the last straw! This fraud, who couldn't diagnose his way out of a paper bag, telling ME - The World Famous Ex-Elongated Man - that I was a poor detective? I've had enough of his lies. He's called me a borderline psychotic, a manic depressive, a possible threat to those around me - he's even tried to addict me to mood-altering drugs - but this was the end. I walked out of his office for the last time, a free man, and if he thinks I'm paying for that last session he's got another think coming. Goodbye, Willis - goodbye forever.

Hourman (the new one who's a junkie or a pusher or something) recommended a guy called Dr. Huntoon, who seems to have a pretty good success rate. He operates in Gotham, which is a good town for profitable mysteries, so I'm going to head down there and see if there's any apartment space. Anyone got anywhere to live in Gotham? I don't smoke.

Oh, there was another postcard from Ram forwarded to me. Apparently he's into Johnny Moustache for three hundred large and he's contracted some kind of disease from the red light district and can I send a check for expenses. I'm starting to wonder if this has anything to do with finding Loring at all.


Blogger Kon-El said...

jeez man ! You have rough Ralph. I thought being a ghost was pretty bad. Until I saw that statue of me. i don't know who that was that carved the statue, but he was really intersted in my junk ( shudder)

Oh yeah Supernova's cool ain't he?

4:17 PM  
Blogger Ralph Dibny said...

Dammit! I won't be involved with ghosts. Don't you think I have enough trouble with depression already without being taunted by evidence of a post-mortal plane of reality whose spectral denizens are free to haunt the living? I don't suppose you've seen my wife on your travels through the Elysian Fields, have you? No. No you haven't. Because it's only zitty little bastards like you who get to walk around being ghosts, not people of importance and taste! Like my dead wife! So you can piss off back where you came from, you dough-faced, pizza-complexioned lump of ectoplasm, and take your vaguely-defined afterlife with you!

4:51 PM  
Blogger Swamp Thing said...

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5:53 PM  
Blogger Ralph Dibny said...

I said no ghosts! That includes you! I still remember what you did to my only good suit when we met at that publisher's party. Until you're ready to fork over the forty-seven dollars and fifty cents you owe me for dry-cleaning, you can just stay the hell away from me, you muck-encrusted cretin!

6:21 PM  
Blogger Swamp Thing said...

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6:48 PM  
Blogger Rick Tyler said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

3:35 PM  
Blogger Rick Tyler said...

John Constantine is a wanker. Everybody knows it.
The rest of the quotes are obviously just made up...why would someone from Houma travel all the way to Gotham to visit their doctor?

I can vouch for Huntoon. And I'll bet that if you managed to track Constantine down - there's a mystery for you, I think he was last seen in Glasgow - he would even admit that Huntoon is better than most folks give him credit for.

You might also want to check out Simon LaGrieve, but I'd advise against it. Look at the mess he turned Mark Shaw into! He left Shaw with a psychotic murderous alter ego inside him! Ugh. Although other people HAVE vouched for him, such as Firehawk. Isn't she a friend of yours? You might want to ask what she thinks.

3:51 PM  
Blogger Rick Tyler said...

When you found out that Bob was Quakemaster, I decided to do some digging.
Apparently, you've been speaking to the dead for several weeks now, because RAM is DEAD! That's right, he was killed in a deathmatch in Roulette's casino. I even managed to track down some eyewitnesses, who described cybernetic components being thrown every which way, littering the walls of the cage. Apparently it was a brutal sight, but it confirms this: RAM is dead.

I think that somebody has been ripping you off.


4:16 PM  
Blogger Ralph Dibny said...

WHAT? Wait, was this guy who was torn to pieces a japanese guy with a fleshy face and all the rest of him clear green glass with circuits in it? Because that's the guy I did business with. Used to be in the New Guardians? Worked with Jet, Extrano, Gloss and all those other terrific heroes?

This all sounds like hearsay to me. Did you actually see a body or was it just a picture on a wall somewhere? Maybe it was Rom or Cpu or something.

I'm not dealing with a fake Ram here. I'm certain of it. And I'm not being scammed either. Or if I am at least it's the real actual Ram who's doing it.

6:03 PM  
Blogger Swamp Thing said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

9:22 PM  
Blogger Superman said...

Poor Ralph.

11:03 PM  
Blogger Ralph Dibny said...

I don't have to prove anything to you, Monstery McBigmouth. I know the real Ram when I get a postcard from him. Discussion over.

And as for you - where the god-damned christ have you been, you space orphan bastard? Don't you realise there are volcanos that need plugging? Come on, hop to it.

4:57 AM  
Blogger Green Arrow said...

Hey there Ralph. Just a quick word - thanks for the donation to the Ollie Queen Mayoral Fighting Fund, and I hope the photos of your beautiful Sue Lady put the snap back in your elastic. Keep those pictures safe now - I've had all sorts of freaks trying to get them off of me!

3:55 PM  

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