A double-helping of animated shenanigans this week.
HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE SUPERMAN?
Remember Gay Disco Superman? Many people would rather not.
Emo hoodie Superman:
Superman on the Couch. Who can blame him?
THE CONDITION OF BOND
And now, the fifth installment in Bleeding Cool's first fiction serial by Adi Tantimedh and premier PUNISHER writer Steven Grant.
London media wag and debauched cunt Alan Brond has been stitched up by his archnemesis Horace Pemfrey – Pemfrey had challenged Brond to a very public gunfight at the exclusive media watering hole The Harpo Club, only for someone to beat Brond to the pleasure of blowing Pemfrey's brains out and making it look like it was Brond who fired the shotThen Brond is told Pemfrey has played one last cruel joke on him – he's left Brond his vast fortune as bait for the rest of the Pemfrey brood to come and claim by killing him.
Having defeated his first Pemfreys in a firefight and speeding through the streets of Central London with a BBC crew filming his plight as the subject of a new reality show Brond's producer girlfriend Yvonne had set up within minutes of Brond's discovery of his inheritance, Brond and Yvonne return to the scene of the original crime, the Harpo Club, to look for clues as to who really shot Pemfrey Pére and set Brond up. . Brond and Yvonne are confronted by a bunch of dead Pemfreys who had planned to ambush him – Pemfrey's original killer had plans for Brond that don't include him getting killed too soon. Could it be Robespierre Corby, Brond's rotund publisher who never misses a trick for a nice new earner?
Before Brond can use his rather average deductive skills even further, Yvonne usefully informs him that he has just inadvertently tripped a landmine left by Pemfrey's killer under one of the dead Pemfreys…
Soho London pix:
BROND ON THE RUN
By Adisakdi Tantimedh and Steven Grant
We leapt behind the bar as the bodies went up in a conflagration of limbs and lingerie. When the smoke cleared, I saw Corby groaning under a piece of paneling from the bar. Pieces of the crouch-level mirrors from the bar to enable the rest of us to see up the skirts of girls sitting there were now embedded in my publisher's abdomen.
"Not to worry, old son!" he croaked. "Excess fat! Thank god for long lunches, eh?"
"Nobody perforates my publisher!" I roared. "That's *my* job!"
Now this had become personal. I hoped the camera caught my good side.
I was unnerved to catch Yvonne gazing on Corby's perforated midriff not with the nasty glee I'd have expected but with something approaching pity. And lust. Why hadn't I seen it coming? The entire affair had her breasts rigid and her breathing shallow and erratic. Somewhere behind her eyes remained a longing for Corby, possibly for his money and power, that I could never hope to kill.
I felt a thrill of paranoia as electric as any kundalini shock she had ever inflicted on me. For all the time I'd spent in her, I'd never once caught a glimmer of Yvonne's true goals and purposes. I remembered with a start her tale of a casual meeting with Pemfrey two months before his death, a supposed brush in the tube without consequence (or, thankfully, physical contact) for either. When did Pemfrey, terrified of closed spaces (another legacy of our schooldays, but that's another story), ever ride the tube? Was it she who had suggested the bizarre stipulation in his will? Perhaps she had done it to win anew Corby's love, ever cognizant of his childish fascination with violence and confusion.
Or had Corby somehow manufactured the scenario? It fit his personality. No, he'd been genuinely surprised at the news of my inheritance; a spit take was outside his comedic frame of reference. But it fit so many agendas: his need to sell ever more books and magazines via the most sensationalistic means necessary, Yvonne's desire for a popular hit that would nonetheless win numerous awards and widen the scope of "appropriate" TV, perhaps her hitherto unconscious desire to eliminate me from the emotional landscape, Pemfrey's pathological lust for an – as far as I knew – unprovoked vengeance. Had he recanted but knew his death was coming before his will could be changed again? That would explain his attack on me, but it left other questions unresolved. Then there was Lola. Was this sudden affair with Corby Yvonne's way of recanting her admonitions and pushing me into her half-sister's homicidal arms? If so, why?
Literal sparks snapped between Yvonne and Corby with every movement. I had been mistaken; it was this moment, her unanticipated betrayal of my trust, that would inevitably form the documentary's emotional centre. Or was it a docudrama? Increasingly I felt as though I were being trotted through some maniac's prefab script, a naïf cruising a nightmare without mooring or bearing and only vaguely aware of the extent of his dangerous surroundings.
The camera crew as well knew some unexpected corner had been turned, and shifted their focus to Yvonne as she straddled Corby and gingerly began to pluck the shards from him. He spasmed with every tug, and they subtly rocked in horrible unison. I knew in that instant somehow the prick had beaten me again. I had lost her. I wanted to vomit. I would have vomited on them, had I not sensed they were in some way expecting it, that it was the benediction they awaited to truly seal their new union. She had even replaced me as the star of the show, unless I could concoct some scheme to turn things around. I had nothing now.
Nothing, I reflected, but Horace's money, if I could survive to claim it. The official Pemfreys were taken care of, but how many of his bastards now raised their noses from the gutter to pick up my scent?
They were kissing now, tonguing every orifice they could easily reach without removing their clothes, surreptitiously fingering the others. All eyes were on them. I took the opportunity to slip to the men's room, throw up twice (washing away the taste with the bottle of Tanquerey I'd managed to swipe from the remnants of the long bar on my way by), and continued out the pub's back door. As far as Yvonne and Corby were concerned I no longer existed, if I had anything to say about it.
I made my way back to the Jaguar, glancing through the shattered window of Harpo's the spectacle of Yvonne and Corby going at it in front of the crew. It occurred to me that I was now truly free. I had Pemfrey's money and I had the new identities and air tickets for parts unknown. No more debts, no more obligations! Sod my deadlines! Sod the documentary! It was time for me to vacate the snakepit of the London media!
End of Part 5
Staying animated at firstname.lastname@example.org
I've begun the official LOOK! IT MOVES! twitter feed. Follow me at http://twitter.com/lookitmoves for thoughts and snark on media and pop culture, stuff for future columns and stuff I may never spend a whole column writing about.
Look! It Moves! © Adisakdi Tantimedh
Brond on the Run © Adisakdi Tantimedh and Steven Grant