Sunday, January 28, 2007

The Undead Will Feel My Wrath

After last week my comments section was plagued, literally, by wave after wave of zombies - including Booster, that grotesque shambling abomination, who evidently faked his own death to lust after whorish fame even more and is now making scurrilous accusations about things I allegedly did that never, ever happened, and even if they did I was drunk at the time.

I've taken it upon myself to rid the world of this plague of evil. I'll be doing it without the help of Dr Fate, who seems to have switched his allegiance from noble order to unholy chaos by refusing to pick up the phone, but those zombies should be no match for me, Ralph Dibny, saver of souls, especially when I have zombie-destroying fire on my side!

The first to feel the blazing torch of righteousness will be Hal, since he's fairly close - unless Coast City's on the other coast, I can never remember - but then I'll be setting the torch to Ollie, Booster, Rex, Swamp Thing and anyone else I can think of who has been dead and now isn't. You heard it here first, zombie scum! Ralph Dibny is here to take a bite out of your zombie ways before you take a bite out of an innocent civilian's brain. I know you're thinking about it.

Also, I need to change my email address because these round-robin emails are really starting to pile up, especially from the Question:

From: questionauthority@fightthepower.emo.com
To: worldfamouselongatedman@lexmail.org
22/01/07 11:23

Dear Everybody,

Feel... cough... worsening. Everything's... starting to grow dim. Is... is that you, God? I'm cold... so cold. Oh Danny Boy... the pipes, the pipes are calling... from glen to glen... oh, I can't type anymore, I'm too weak.

This will be my last communication.

Yours,
The Question

---

From: questionauthority@fightthepower.emo.com
To: worldfamouselongatedman@lexmail.org
23/01/07 9:48

Dear Everybody,

I was just thinking about who would carry on my legacy as a faceless crime crusher. Obviously Montoya is available, but she's dragging me up a mountain instead of crushing crime so I'm starting to think she might not be up to the task. She says hi.

Also, my vision is blurring and I think I see angels overhead... is... is that you... um... whatsername... daughter of my ex-lover whose name I forget? I'm sorry I forgot your name, it was a long time ago... My... heart... no... longer... beating... my last words are 'Question the power of The Man'... urrrrgh...


This will be my last communication.

Yours,
The Question

--

From: questionauthority@fightthepower.emo.com
To: worldfamouselongatedman@lexmail.org
24/01/07 16:10

Dear Everybody,

Mustn't. Black. Out.

This will be my last communication.

Yours,
The Question

--

From: questionauthority@fightthepower.emo.com
To: worldfamouselongatedman@lexmail.org
25/01/07 20:38

Dear Everybody,

Today we were ambushed by Nazis and I heroically hurled myself off my deathbed and onto a grenade to save Montoya's life, while shouting 'This one's for you, Sergeant Rock!' It was absolutely f***ing radical and I wish there'd been someone there to see it, but unfortunately I didn't die after all and now my entire body is riddled with shrapnel and also cancer. Added a new word to my delerious ramblings yesterday - 'butterflies'. Feedback is good, so I might craft my last words around that.

So cold. So very cold. Is that you, William Howard Taft, 27th President and 103rd Chief Justice of the United States? I thought it might be... feel... brain... exploding... urrrrggghhh...

Oh Danny Boy... the pipes... the... pipes... are... actually those are rubbish last words. I need to think of something better.

Don't... do... drugs... aaaaarrrrrgggghhhhh...

Yours,
The Question

P.S. This will be my last communication.

--

From: questionauthority@fightthepower.emo.com
To: worldfamouselongatedman@lexmail.org
26/01/07 08:01

Dear Everybody,

Montoya started crying again this morning. I'm the one who's dying of cancer, lady. Self-absorbed or what? I don't know. And she's been bogarting all the morphine.

In other news, I'm so cold. Is... is that you, Professor Rodor? Probably, you're an old man and there's certainly no need for you to stick around if I'm going to bite it. Urrrrgh, lungs filling with blood, lymph glands bursting, blah blah blah. Oh Danny Boy. I can feel death's cold hand closing about me... I... I can see an assemblage of great heroes... like Blue Beetle and the old Captain Atom and Judomaster, who's probably dead since I know for a fact he's been replaced by a chick.

What... what's that you say, Blue Beetle? It's... it's my time? But... so hard to let go... urrrgh... must... find strength... to mumble... my last words...

When... when you stand... for what you believe in... and find the strength... to do... what's right... that's... turtle power... urrrrrrrgggghhh...

This will be my last communication.

Yours,
The Question

--

From: questionauthority@fightthepower.emo.com
To: worldfamouselongatedman@lexmail.org
27/01/12:42

Dear Everybody,

I've had a brilliant idea! I'm going to make Montoya drag me around in the shape of a big question mark just before I buy the farm. Also I might get her to put my mask on, but I'm in two minds about that since it could muffle my historic final words. I'll just rip it off if that happens. Oh yeah, plus I'm definitely knocking that 'Danny Boy' crap on the head now and going with the butterfly metaphor I've been working up. Plus I've told her to lay on the waterworks. I want history to see me at my most wise and mentorly.

This is going to be great!

Blah blah I feel cold, aeeeeeiiiigh, what... what is this skeletal face I see before me... gassssssp... is it... the visage... of... death...? Moooooaaaaannn... uurrrrggghhh...

Don't do drugs!

This will be my last etc,

Yours,
The Question.



That was the last one I saw. I've got one new message in my inbox today, but I don't dare to look at it.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

You Zombie Bastards

Oh, I see. So it's like that, is it? No sooner to I buy a fat wreath with the word 'Remembrance' picked out in lillies, get my suit drycleaned and book another flight to San Diego than I get another round-robin email from Ellen. It's a similar story of getting a mysterious feeling from the depths of space, only this time it was a feeling that Buddy, while having been dead, was now mysteriously alive for some reason and so the funeral wouldn't be on Thursday after all.

Thanks, Buddy, you monumental asshole.

It's bad enough you bore everybody with your fantastically dull 'abduction story' every chance you get, but now you can't even have the common decency to stay in your grave and be buried. It's not even the first time you've done this either - I remember getting a letter from Ellen saying you'd been run over by a car and then another one the same day saying that you'd hatched out of an egg or something and there was no need to panic. Well hear this, you dying-and-coming-back-to-life bitch - if you ever, ever come back to this planet I will shoot you myself and state in my defense that I figured you'd just come right back to life again. Also, you now owe me $112.60 in total. I suggest taking on the abilities of a mink and then selling your own hair.

In other coming-back-to-life news, I've received an email from somebody calling himself goforthegold@timemasters.kandor asking if I've seen Skeets lately and could I let him know if I do. I really hope this doesn't mean what I think it means.

However, if Booster is somehow alive - I can only assume alive in the form of a rotting zombie eternally cursed to walk in unbearable pain, or I hope so anyway - I'm telling him right now that I will not rest until he's back in his grave where he belongs, and I'll be calling on my good friend and ex-therapist Dr. Robert Amersham Willis, Phd, AKA Supernova, to tear his shambling undead corpse into its component pieces and stuff it into some kind of medical waste bin. So do yourself a favour and cremate yourself now, Booster Corpse.

And that goes for the rest of you maggot-infested scum! The next person who comes back to life I will personally send right back into the depths of Hell, especially you, Barry, you freak of nature. I, Ralph Dibny, have no problem with being the guardian who stands firm at the doors between life and death if that's what it takes to save me the cost of another plane ticket. No problem at all.

Oh yes, and if anyone talks to Ollie, you haven't seen me for months, I'm not living in a cave with a giant penny in it and you definitely, definitely don't know who took a whizz on the Mayoral Portrait and anyway I was miles away in Gotham when I did it so it couldn't have been me.

Okay? Super.

Saturday, January 13, 2007

Ellen Has A "Feeling"

I got an email from Ellen Baker - apparently she had a 'feeling' that came to her from the general direction of space, and she started crying in the middle of doing the laundry and then her kids came out to ask if there was any jelly left or had they eaten it all.

So obviously Buddy is dead.

As opposed to being alive in deep space which is what she claimed he was before despite all evidence to the contrary. Frankly, I was perfectly okay with all that because it meant I wouldn't have to spend any money on getting my suit cleaned for the funeral or buying flowers, but now because Mrs Baker's had one of her 'cryptic space feelings' I have to go to the drycleaners again and buy a wreath.

Personally, I think the fact that I had to go to her funeral should absolve me from attending Buddy's. We're all standing about in the pissing rain listening to him fall apart and then a week later he calls me up and acts surprised when I mention it. "Actually, that was all just a dream, Ralph! I guess you were having a dream too. Or something. Ciao for now!"

I'll tell you who wasn't having a strange dream, Buddy. My drycleaner! Who charged me $15.99 for services rendered during the course of that strange dream! And the florist! And the greeting card store! And who do you think bought that nice headstone? I put five bucks into the hat like everyone else! So in total your unpleasant dream cost me $89.99 plus tax. I hope Ellen's got time between sobbing tears of pure portent to write me a juicy check.

I had what I considered a frank and civilised discussion with Buddy about it at the time, but apparently I yelled at him so loudly that it frightened him into a parallel-universe coma. Which is Buddy all over, quite frankly.

Or was.

Oh well! It's only a space feeling, after all. I'm sure he's fine. And it's not like there isn't a dry-cleaning machine in the Ralphcave that I can use for free (it's just next to the robot tyrannosaur) so I only really have to spend money on flowers.

Anyway, it's not like a proper superhero died! When Superman died they started a whole bunch of tasteless internet jokes about it. Well, actually, that was me... anyway, I don't see why I should be feeling upset just because Buddy's kicked the bucket - and probably only as part of some odd dream I'm having, knowing him.

I mean, it's... it's only Buddy.



I'm sorry, I'm going to have to sign off for a while. Or possibly forever, depending on whether I can find a chupa chup for the gun barrel. Ciao for now!

Sunday, January 07, 2007

How Dare They

"HOW DARE THEY??" I screamed into the microphone. "HOW DARE THEY?!? They've made a mockery of what the Steve Lombard New Year Funbag Dance Party is supposed to represent! A mockery of a parody of a sham! GET BACK IN THE SKY, YOU SCUM!! Get back in the sky or so help me I'll sue each and every one of your families into the gutter where they belong!!"

Hasty words that I now regret.

That was probably the low part of the New Year broadcast, to be frank, and despite Steve's courageous attempts to contain the damage by cutting off 'Down To Earth' by Curiosity Killed The Cat in mid-song and replacing it with 'I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow' by The Soggy Bottom Boys, the complaints kept coming in like a tidal wave of bile.

Apparently GBS's complaints department received more calls than the emergency services this New Year's, which considering the circumstances is saying something, although frankly I'm convinced that that was more to do with the abysmal performance of the Skysoaring Neverplummet Dance Troupe than my own tiny blunder. The clue's in the name, guys. I tell you, if Dr Invulnerable hadn't smashed into a substance resembling Chunky Italian-style Pasta Sauce on contact with the hard concrete eighty stories below him, he would be so fired right now.

Anyway, as you can probably guess, I was shown the door, Steve Lombard was fired and it doesn't look like I'm going to be a respected talking head for anybody anytime soon, what with Newstime rushing out that 'Most Hated Man Of 2007 Already' edition with my face all over it. I had a call from the Flash Museum telling me the 'Ralph Room' has been ritually cleansed with fire and another one from my gold statue people telling me that they're building a new statue from base lead showing me pointing at a dead superhero and laughing, with the inscription 'Here Lies Earth's Wickedest Mortal', and it's all going on my bill.

So the suicide thing is on hold until the heat dies down a little - obviously Sue is the number one thing on my mind (or suing people is, anyway, which is almost the same thing) but Hitler shot himself too and I really don't need any more feature articles comparing me with him right now. Seven is enough.

The only real blow was being evicted from my apartment by the landlord - on account of being 'a low-down crumb' apparently - and having to move to Gotham to escape angry mobs. Now I find myself living in a cave, like Osama, and looking out at the fabulous mansions nearby with a terrible envy as I type this journal on my laptop. Actually there's some incredibly good wi-fi in this cave for some reason. It almost makes up for the vermin problem.

Anyway, I hope you had a Happy New Year, and you didn't get too much blood on you. I know my shoes were ruined. That's $100 the City of Metropolis owes me, not that I expect them to pay, the cheap bastards.