Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Babysitting for Mama Petrelli

Well, it seems we finally found out the true origin of Gabriel Gray. Someone that vile and disgusting could only have been the test tube love child of Angela Petrelli and a crazy snow globe collector. How exactly Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Petrelli created him, I really don't care to know. I'm sure it was despicable.

Regardless, Mrs. Petrelli now has a third son, as if the two others weren't enough trouble. We all remember what happened when I tried to bag and tag her eldest.

"Those stupid-looking pajama bottoms make your butt look big."

And Peter has always been nothing but trouble: whining about how we shouldn't kill ants because they too have souls, crying over spilled milk, complaining about being bitten by ants, whimpering over ants having drank all the spilled milk. His cry-baby tantrums are incessant.

But I have to say, the newest addition to the Petrelli Brats is by far the worst. I can put up with the cross-dressing. I can put up with the murdering. I can even put up with the Aqua music he plays constantly. But I can't overlook what he did to my Claire Bear!

That's why I was really upset that Angela tasked me with keeping an eye on her little baby.

"Oh, Bennet, he's just misguided," she insisted. "He never had the chance to suck at my teat of motherly love."

Holding back vomit, I said, "I'll catch these villains, but you have to never say anything like that again."

Continued at Burnt Toast Diner....

Monday, September 29, 2008

Rule of Two

Even if I took on an alias and was cunning in my attack on the villains, it would still be a difficult task to take them down. That's why The Company always insisted on pairing up a human agent with a mutant agent.

"We're not mutants!" Elle cried. "We're human beings and we deserve respect! And access to the employee lounge! And Manolo Blahniks!"

I suppose I could ask her to help me take on these villains. Sure, she's an annoying, spoiled brat. But she can zap people. Plus, it's her fault they're loose, so maybe guilt would motivate her.

Or maybe Sylar. Sure, he's a turd of pure evil, but if I trick him into thinking he'll get to eat villain brains, he'd be more than willing to help me out.

Or Dick Cheney, but again, turd of pure evil and I'd have to offer him villain brains to eat.

If there's one thing watching the Star Wars saga bi-weekly has taught me, it's the importance of the Rule of Two. Sith and Jedi alike adhere to this fundamental law.

The best of the good guys work in pairs:

Ronald Reagan and The Pope

Chip and Dale

Superman and Spider-Man

And so too do the greatest of the bad guys:

Jafar and Iago

Simon and Paula

George Bush and The Easter Bunny

As you can see, being in a duo, whether ambiguously gay or not, is imperative. I'm going to have to take on a partner for this job.

"Bennet, my office, now," a cackling and sinister voice called out from Bob's old office.

I walked in to find Angela Petrelli seated in Bob's former chair, his corpse tossed onto the floor nearby. "You have to stop these villains, Bennet," she said, "and I've got just the partner for you."

Oh, boy! I hope it's The Easter Bunny.

Sunday, September 28, 2008


When I bag and tag, I don't bother hiding my true identity. The glasses make me mysterious enough as it is. Plus, nobody knows my first name anyway.

But these villains are going to be a bigger challenge than your average dyslexic fool. They're going to require more than simple shooting. They're going to require that I take on a secret identity and infiltrate their little criminal pack in order to bring them in. After all, they're armed with some of the most dangerous of superpowers. I've got a gun, two paperclips and my horned rims. I'll have to be extra cunning.

Plus, it's been a while since I've played dress up. The only question is, which alias should I use?

Power Ranger?

Love Boat Captain?

Iron-Rimmed Glasses?

One of those Japanese Fish Dudes from Star Wars?

The Messiah?

Saturday, September 27, 2008

On The Tele

I turned on the news to see if I could find a lead on where our villains might be. Sure enough, I found one.

"The remains of a woman who was burned alive were found at a local gas station. Authorities suspect she was protesting rising gas prices when something went wrong," the anchor announced.

Something went wrong alright. And it had to do with one of my villains.

Gun in hand, I headed for the door.

Suddenly, the theme song for The Amazing Mutant Race came on with Charles Xavier narrating. Normally, I wouldn't watch, unless Rob & Amber were racing. But this was a special season of The Amazing Mutant Race. Why was it special? Because I'm a contestant! The participation in this reality show was one of the reasons Bob locked me in a cell.

"We can't afford the publicity, Noah," he had said. "We're a secret organization, Noah."

This would have been my last reality show, but luckily Bob was murdered. I suspect Sylar wanted to ensure I would be able to return for Sylar's Bachelor 2.

Anyway, before I head out to bag and tag these villains, I'm going to watch this episode of The Amazing Mutant Race. I already know the outcome. Do you?

This is the second leg of a race around the world.

Friday, September 26, 2008

No More Gnome

My new partner, the Travelocity Roaming Gnome, was not working out. We went out on a training exercise. The plan was to bag and tag a couple of local criminals, jewel thieves, nothing fancy.

I had them cornered. "Alright, do your job," I said to The Gnome.

"Most certainly," he replied.

Hours later I was waiting at my house for him to return. It should have only taken 20 minutes to hand them over to Primatech. I was starting to worry for the well being of my gnome when he finally arrived.

"What took so long?" I demanded.

The Gnome replied, "Their flight was canceled, but no worries! I notified Travelocity and had a new flight reserved within minutes. It was a later flight, so I waited with them just to make certain everything went well."

"Their flight?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, "on the way to the paper company, they mentioned how they had never been to Paris. I managed to arrange a lovely trip for them. Honeymoon suite, body chocolate, the whole package!"

"You were supposed to detain them at Primatech, not send them to Paris!" I was frustrated it. This wasn't the first time the little guy screwed up. It was clear he wasn't going to make it in this line of work. I decided to let him down easy. "Sorry, but you're just not cut out for the paper business," I said. "You're actually rather useless."

"I say! That is quite offensive."

"Offensive, but true."

"Well, then. I shall be on my way," he reached for his luggage.

"Not so fast. I can't exactly let you leave."

"Can't let me leave?"

"No. But we have accommodations prepared for you."


"Level 5."

"Level 5?" He began to sob. "Will I at least have complimentary peanuts?"

I shook my head.

The Gnome cried out, "NooOoOocoOoOOO!"

And so now the little guy is locked away safely with The Company. It was unfortunate because I was counting on his travel discounts while tracking down these villains. Looks like I'll need to dip into my IRA now.

But I'm sure he's fine. He's a strong-willed little gnome. I bet he's handling solitary confinement incredibly well.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Preparing the Gnome

I had replaced The Haitian with the Travelocity Roaming Gnome as my partner in paper sales, also known as bagging and tagging. Now, it was time for a trial run.

"Hey, Claire. You can't feel anything, right?" I said as I shot her in the shoulder.

"No," her body pushed the bullet out as she replied, "I'm completely dead inside."

"That's great!"

I gathered up my new partner and went over the gameplan. "Listen up, The Gnome, we're going to run you through a simulation to see if you have what it takes to hunt down these villains with me. This will be nothing compared to what you'll face out there." He began trembling in his pointy red hat. I continued, "The villains we'll be facing are mean, tough people. They'd kill their own mother's mother for a buck twenty-five. They won't hesitate to rip your gnomey little head clean off your non-existent neck."

"Oh, my!" The Gnome replied.

"Oh, your, indeed." I patted him on the back and said, "Let's do this."

"Must we?" he asked.

I drop-kicked him into the living room, where Claire was waiting. "Distract her while I move in for the kill!" I commanded as I snapped a new clip into my gun.

"I should have gone to med school!" The Gnome cried as he flew through the air with the greatest of ease.

Once he landed, my Claire Bear attacked. "Oh, my God, you creepy little perv!" she yelled. "Get out of here!" She kicked The Gnome right at me as I took aim. I fired my gun as The Gnome struck me and blasted a hole through the television set.

"I guess we won't be watching Lipstick Jungle," The Gnome commented.

Perhaps this wasn't the best choice for a new partner.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

An Imitation Haitian

Stopping these villains is going to be tough, especially without The Haitian. I may be able to find him, but if I don't, I'll need a back up plan.

That means I'll need a sidekick. Someone to distract the villains. Someone that can absorb their punches, their fire attacks, their kicks to the groin, while I manage to aim and shoot.

The Travelocity Roaming Gnome should work.

But I'll need to Haitian him up a bit. First, for my own comfort, I need him to smell like The Haitian. It helps me when I'm in a familiar environment. Haiti, as you probably know, is an island and fishing is a big deal there. So, naturally, The Haitian always smells like fish. You can take The Haitian out of Haiti, but you can't take the fishing instincts out of The Haitian. This was a problem at first. We'd bag and tag someone, toss 'em in the backseat and while heading back to the office they would ask, "What smells like carp?" It wasn't good for morale.

This fish would help, though. A rub of this and my little non-organic gnome will be practically an exact replica of The Haitian!

Unfortunately, even with the new stench, my gnome partner is lacking one of the most important qualities The Haitian had: intimidation. He could make anyone carp their pants with a single glance! Skills like that only come from years living in silence and being bald. Since I can't shave my gnome, we'll need a way to compensate for his apparent wussness. He can carry around this:

Now, anyone who sees a stinky little gnome with a canon like that will know we mean business.

Bring it on.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

No Job is Finished Until the Paperwork is Done

I had just finished up with some paperwork of my own and went back to playing bounce-the-ball-against-the wall when Elle came into my cell.

It was quite shocking. Not that she zapped me, I was just surprised to see her.

My imprisonment didn't last long. Which is a shame. I had converted a favorite game of mine, bounce-the-prisoner-against-the-wall, into a single player version. I was looking forward to playing my new game all day.

"Like, I am totally freakin' out, Mr. B," she said and tossed me a gun. Apparently her father was killed by Sylar and she wanted my help.

Long story short, I kicked Sylar's brain-eating butt. After that, I had a talk with Bob.

"So, Bob. We need to talk."

He was silent. Deathly silent.

I continued, "I know we had an agreement that I work with you and in exchange you stay away from Claire. But as it turns out, you guys just lost a ton of supervillains. They're all out on the loose, and I need to stop them. Now, now," I said before he could respond, "I know you don't like me and my so-called rogue behavior. But you know I'm the only man for a job this big. Those people are dangerous. I may not have any powers, but I'm good at shooting people. And to be honest, I've been dying for someone to shoot recently. I was excited when you offered me my job back. I thought you would send me to kill Nathan. I really think I was the man for that job, but hey, you went with some freelancer instead, that's fine. Who was it if you don't mind me asking?"

He didn't reveal that secret. Even in death he managed to keep so much from me.

"Alright, well I understand. My point is, it should have been me. And next time it will be. You've got a mess on your hands, Bob...and actually your face is kind of dirty too," I offered him a Kleenex. "But I'm going to clean up this mess. It's what I do. Those villains are on the loose, and it's my obligation as a father, as a paper salesman and as a person who likes to shoot people to see to it that they are stopped. You can't stop me, Bob, so don't try it. Someday, when you have a daughter, you'll understand."

I left dramatically without giving him a chance to respond to my eloquent monologue. It felt good. Good to have a gun in my hands. Good to know there are so many people out there waiting to be bagged and tagged. It feels like college all over again.

Monday, September 22, 2008

I'm No Villain

I'm wearing pajamas. And not the fun kind with the butt flap. These are standard-issue prisoner pajamas that all the villains we lock up wear while being contained by The Company. Why am I in them? I'm not a villain. Sure, I'm villainous. People usually mistake me for a bad guy. I think it's because of the glasses. But I'm hardly worthy of villain pajamas.

In truth, good and evil can be complicated. That's why I never take sides. I mean, just look at my current predicament. I'm protecting my daughter, which is good, but I am working for a secret organization that bags and tags people, which is bad. But I also sell paper, which is good, but it's not necessarily recycled, which is bad. So what happens when an evil (bad) paper (good) company (bad) imprisons (bad) me (good/bad)?

It all gets rather confusing, and Mohinder isn't here to narrate.

"Actually, Bennet, I am currently in existence in this very same room as you," he annoyingly interrupted.

"Mohinder? What are you doing here?" I asked.

"It is my obligation to inform you that Mr. Bishop requests your company."

I was glad. Anything to get away from his incessant rambling.

I barged into Bishop's office yelling, "Now, look, I agreed to come back to work for you guys, but the current pension plan is not worth putting up with Mr. Philosophical Chatterbox in there." I pointed back with my thumb.

"You won't have to worry about Mr. Suresh anymore, Noah," Bob replied. He stood and approached me.

"Good," I said.

"You see, Noah," Bob said as he reached into his coat jacket. "We have a problem with our current arrangement, Noah." He pulled out a gun, which oddly was not gold, and aimed it right at me.

"What are you doing?" I was shocked. "You shouldn't be shooting anyone. You're a desk guy! Look, you don't even have hair." I pointed to his shiny, never-ending forehead.

"My condition is of no concern, Noah. It's come to our attention," he explained, "that you have been appearing on several reality shows, and continue to, Noah." With the gun fixed on me with one hand, he pulled out a remote control with the other. His thumb pressed a button causing the TV to turn on.

There I was, on the television, racing through the first leg of The Amazing Mutant Race.

"Hey, it's me!" I said, taking a seat in front of the TV. "I was wondering when it would finally air. I'd tell you how I did, but there's a lot of confidentiality agreements, you know how it is." I watched excitedly as I relived the Vision Quest detour in my head. "Do you have any popcorn? This would be good with popcorn."

"Shut up, Noah," Bob rudely replied.

"Oh, sorry. Here, I'll turn up the volume." As I reached for the controls, Bob blasted the TV screen with his Primatech handgun.

"We're not watching your little reality show, Noah. All this publicity is becoming a problem, Noah. We're a secret organization after all. Remember, Noah?"

Suddenly, I realized what was going on. The Company wanted to bag and tag me. And well, morally-speaking, that's where I draw the line.

"Hey, look! A seagull!" I pointed out behind Bob. As he turned, I jumped from my chair and ran out of his office, grabbing a banana from his fruit bowl on the way out.

I quickly made my way to the Company's tech department. Bob was no doubt close behind me. I didn't have a lot of time, so I quickly found Allan Arkush, Primatech's gadget expert. "Allan, I forgot where I left The Haitian, so I need something that can erase memories. Pronto!"

"Pronto?" he asked. It was clear he was high, as usual.

"It means quickly."

"Oh. I guess you should have just said that then. It would have been prontoer," he laughed.

I shook him.

He wept.

I stared.

He grabbed a slushi.

Bob entered.

I pushed Allan and the slushi outside.

"Allan, I need your help right now!" I yelled at him.

He handed me some sunglasses and said, "Put these on. That slushi is a flashy thing. Use it and--"

I don't know what I did, but as I was examining the pseudo-slushi it suddenly flashed a bright light.

"Does that mean it's on?" I asked. "How do I use it?"

Allan just stood there staring off into space.

Just then, Bob came outside. I didn't have time to figure out this fancy slushi gadget, so I dropped it and ran.

"Do you know where he's going, Allan?" Bob asked the bamboozled technician as I fled. "You're high again, aren't you, Allan?" Bob ran after me.

He didn't make it too far. After he had stopped, I called back to him and explained how he's just a desk guy. "After you lose that much hair, you just can't expect to run very far," I said. But before I could continue my fleeing, I was knocked unconscious by an unknown person.

I awoke to find one of my worst fears once again realized.

"Pee Wee!" I yelled. "Haven't I killed you? Several times?"

"Mayhaps!" he responded cheerfully as he turned to face me. "Now, let's get you into the proper prison attire."

"NoOOocoOoOOoOOO!" I screamed in horror.

Unfortunately, as Pee Wee was redressing me, I accidentally said "careful," as in "be careful down there," which turned out to be the secret word. Even with all my paper sales training, I found it difficult to make it through that situation alive.

At this point, it's anyone's guess what they plan to do with me. Maybe I can promise to re-assassinate a politician or something in exchange for my freedom. Or at least something other than these prisoner pajamas.