Title: Alias 2/3

Author: Slipstream

Rating: PG-13 (for language mainly)

Notes: Sorry about the inexcusably long delay between posts. I found most of this second part in a random jumble of files stored on my old computer, so if you spot some discontinuance of style, the span of time this is written over is to blame (which, just to give you an idea, is long enough that Tim Burton's remake of 'Planet of the Apes', a movie I allude to in here, was still fairly recent.) So some of the culture references are a bit old, but not so much that I don't think they fall out of place. Also, I have not read any of the current comic continuum for the last year or so, so any key events that happened in cannon since then I am oblivious to, thus they won't make an appearance in this fic. Besides, this is an Elseworlds anyway. :) As always, enjoy.


Babs was right. The facet of Los Lobos that I just fought was only a small fraction of what I find Nightwing facing. Over 30 gangsters. All armed to the teeth. All fighting each other and Nightwing alternatively. I think I can spot at least four different sets of colors scattered among the group.

Dick looks like he needs a breather, so I time my landing to knock out one of the thugs circling closer to him. "Heard you needed a hand."

He smiles at me, the dangerous, half-impish 'boy-isn't-this-fun-but-I-hope-we-don't-die' smile that he gets when he's on an adrenaline high. "Took you long enough. What'd you do, try to hail a taxi?"

We're fighting together, the banter never stopping, as smooth as a machine. The best thing about becoming Robin, I think for the zillionth time, has to be gaining an instant big brother. "Nah. Everyone knows the D-Train is slower." I snap a kick into a passing torso, working my way around in a ring in hopes of disabling more with less movement. Bat-a-rangs, smoke pellets, puke bombs, and flash-and-bangs fill the night, and soon the situation is turning our way.

While 'Wing cuffs the last of them, I make the rounds to see if any are familiar faces. I sort out the known juvies for Gordon, if I have time, and I'm treated with a good load tonight. At least 12 are under-age, eight people I know from Gotham High. Should have stayed home, L.C., how are you going to take the Trig test Thursday with a broken hand? Hope you don't mind explaining the shiner and gang-sign to Coach Lueders, Raymon. I bet your suburbia girlfriend Ari loves kissing those split lips, Scott. The benefits of a public education: go places, meet new people, beat them up, arrest them.

"You coming?" shouts Nightwing from a rooftop, and I have to scramble to meet him before the cops show. We stick around a while to make sure none of them get away, enjoying the momentary breather in the chaos of the city.

Dick's on my right, and as he looks over to say something, I guess the light hits my right earlobe just right for him to notice…

"Hey! You got the other one pierced!"

I smile. My earrings are one of my few vanities. If guys are even allowed to have vanities. "Yeah. Cool, huh?"

"Other than the fact that it balances your head, I have one question. *Why?*"

"For her birthday Gena wanted to get her ears pierced, too, but she was scared it might hurt, so I got the other one done at the same time to ease her fears kinda."

He snorts. "You're just using that as an excuse to justify your craving for more jewelry."

I pout. "The chick at the counter that did it thought it was cute. Even gave us a discount."

"Ah. A girl enters the scene. It makes sense now." He waggles an eyebrow in that annoyingly frustrating way that only he and Superboy can and pokes me in the arm. "C'mon, bro, fess up. Who is she?"

Swatting the poke away, I continue to watch the cops cart away our victims. "Shut up, you. She's a friend of Star's that works at a store in the mall that I know uses *clean* needles, otherwise we'd've gone somewhere else."

"Uh-huh. Right." Eyeing the new hole in my body, he adds. "Hope those don't get pulled out in a bitch fight. That would hurt."

"No shit, Sherlock. That's why they're studs, and not hoops." I think a moment about my other earringed super-friend. "Do you think I should let Superboy in on that little trade secret?"

"Nah. Let him learn. It'll do him good." He tosses out a decel line and it's a race to catch up and hear his words above the wind.

"By the way, Bats just called. Want's a rendezvous to 'talk.'"

I groan. "You know what that means. One of us is in some major trouble with the Boss."

"Well I know *I'm* innocent. I've been busy kicking butt the last half an hour. I don't know what you've been up too."

"Why does he end up always mad at *me*?"

"Why do you always end up dragging *me* into it?"


The Bat is mad. Oh yeah. Very mad. I know this because he's not where he said he'd meet us when we get there, which means that he's somewhere on the roof, waiting to jump out and scare us.

"You used a gun." The Voice growls out from behind me, making Dick and me jump. Batman doesn't even bother to acknowledge Nightwing, his blank eye sockets focusing all their burning intensity on me instead.

Yep. It's official. I've screwed up.

"I didn't *shoot* them," I defend, folding my arms and staring at him in what I hope is some sort of conviction.

He doesn't move. "I talked to Jessie Mark. He almost didn't cooperate on the gun shipment exchange because one of his boys said you pulled two guns on his crew."

"They were their own stupid guns that I knocked out of their stupid hands and then hit them upside their stupid heads with. I didn't shoot them."

"Mack said you loaded the guns and threatened their lives. It doesn't change anything."

Frustrated, I throw my hands up in the air. "And so you automatically believe the sleazy weapons and crack dealer over me… God, it was an intimidation technique! Haven't you ever heard of playing bad cop? Oh right, I forgot. You're the one who taught me."

"But your training, at least from me, did *not* include the usage of firearms," he growls.

At this last comment my eyes automatically slide to the person who did teach me to through as well as shoot a gun, who is currently trying to sneak off unnoticed. Batman follows my gaze and freezes Dick in his tracks with a noise from the back of his throat.

Dick covers his retreat well by putting on an expression similar to Bruce's. "What?"

"You know perfectly well what 'what' is."

He sighs. "You gave surroundings and size advantage training responsibilities to me, since I had experience with that body-type from when I was Robin. Which also covered turning available objects into weapons, guns included. And throwing something that oddly shaped accurately takes a lot of practice."

"But no shooting."

"Once again," I interject. "May I remind everyone that I did *not* shoot them." It doesn't help. They continue to ignore my input.

"Advanced aim training. Plus training in the use of tranquilizer guns, bat-a-rang wrist launchers, de-cel lines, and laser targeting on small objects. Using similar shaped firearms are good training for all of those."

"There's no excuse. We do not use guns." I know that tone. It's the "End of Discussion, so Don't Even Think of Questioning Me or I'll Kick Your Teeth In" tone. He looks at me now. "Tomorrow. Cave. Training."

Training. Noun. Means of physical torture and mental humiliation rendered upon the subject by the Dark Knight and his newest, most deadly obstacle course as punishment for the subject having screwed up.

"Can't. Wednesday. YJ meeting."

"Cancel it."

"Another can't. Second meeting of the month, that means a 'surprise' JLA inspection."

Thank you, Superman. You've saved my life, or at least delayed it a little longer, more times than I can count.

"Alright then. Thursday. Cave. Training."

Believing he is off the hook, Nightwing turns to sneak off of the roof. "And you. Cave. Tomorrow. Training."

"Man…" Dick whines, low enough to where I could only hear. "And I didn't have anything to do with it."


"Any other orders of business? No? Okay then. I officially declare this organized meeting of Young Justice over."

"Yes!" Kon-El crows, literally flying out of his seat. "TV's mine! I call the grunge special on CDTV!!!"

I smile to myself, thinking that I'll have to either tape it or join him for the Best of Nirvana segment. It's good to have a family that, though still dysfunctional in every way that the Bat-family and my home life is, is more dysfunctional in a happy way. Whatever that means.

Cassie sits down, sighing a little in nervousness. "I'm never gonna get used to that. Public speaking *and* being the responsible one. Who'd a' thunk they could have such a combined effect on one's digestive system."

"You're doing a great job, Cass," I assure her and stretch in my chair. Originally, when it was just us three guys and early into the history of the girl's with YJ, I was the main leader. But things kept happening so that I had to spend more and more time away from the team, a little event known as "Sins of Youth" popped up, and… well… Cass and I just decided that a joint leadership was in order. Hell, the JLA does it, so so can we.

"'M just glad da' GL decided tha' he had more importan' things ta' do than hang aroun' here baby-sittin'." Anita reaches for another sugar and cream packet to dump into her coffee. It must be her first cup of the day, or this afternoon, for that matter: her accent gets stronger the longer she goes without caffeine.

A blur of wind and a tangle of yo-yo's later the unruly mop of chestnut hair that is Impulse appears before us. "Green Lantern was here? Huh? When did that happen?"

Cassie laughs. "Right about the time you got the hankering for a Korean seafood burrito. He was gone before you could find somebody who spoke English to make it."

"Oh." And then, completely at random, "I wonder what's going on in Antarctica?"

Being Impulse, he's gone to find out before anybody so much as lifts a finger to warn him. We're used to it.

I make my way to the beat up, well-worn YJ couch and plop myself down in time for a commercial break. Just my luck. Kon takes the initiative, though, to grab a couple of Zestis out of the fridge and a bag of barbecue potato chips, cranking the volume in anticipation of the rock genius to come.

"Bliss…" he mumbles and takes a huge, burping swig of his soda. Just past his shoulder Cassie buries her face in her hands.

The television chooses this moment to air an overplayed advertisement for the 13th in a series of bad music of the 90s collection CDs. Seeing for the bijillionth time the same snippet of a music video with the same band that blended into the same genre, I comment to the general air, "Y'know, I wonder… If I started a shock rock band that didn't record anything original and complained about capitalism while going on international multi-million grossing tours and moaned about how sucky my life was on 'Behind the Music,' would I make enough money to get out of the hero biz?"

Not even taking his eyes off of the TV, Kon quirks a smile and raises his coke. "This from the guy who beats the crap out of dummies in the gym to Drowning Pools' 'Bodies'."

"Shut up, Mr. Sings-Otis-Redding-While-Fighting-Super-Meanies."

A BBQ coated chip barely grazes pass my nose. "It's called 'intellectual irony,' Birdboy. Nothing screams good guy vs. bad guy like a round of 'Try a Little Tenderness' when you're knocking a guy's teeth out."

The air currents in the room change again, and Bart's back, carrying a stuffed penguin, a bunch of flags, a big bag of ice, and a copy of the Happy Harbor Harrier. "Hey, guys, look at THIS!" He fumbles with the newspaper, rips it, frantically tapes it back together, folds it some more, and finally thrusts a beat up corner into our faces. "Let's see a movie!"

This draws the attention of the entire team and we group around the clipping. "That's a pretty good idea," Cassie says, taking the paper and reading through the listings. "We haven't done anything 'fun' in a while."

Bart is bursting at the seams with enthusiasm. "Yeah! Let's do it! We could all go… the non-superhero us, I mean… uh… y'know… the normal people who don't wear masks… yeah… uh… But we could do it! And Cissie could come, too!"

"What are they showing?" I ask and slouch into as comfortable of a position as my cape will allow. Costumes were just not made for chillin'.

"Uh… lesse…" Cassie scans some more, then starts to read. "There's 'Planet of the Monkeys.'"

"Seen it," pipes up Anita, glancing forlornly at her now empty coffee cup. "Starred an ex-New Guy on the Block. Next."

"'Whitey and his Mind-Numbing, Song-Filled Adventure.'"

"Yeah! Let's see that!" Chirps Bart. Glancing around at our faces, he adds hastily. "Uh… never. Let's never see that. Yeah. Uh… next."

"A re-showing of 'Cannibal.'"

Kon shakes his head violently. "Uh-uh. After seeing it the first time with Tim and Lobo, and being severely disturbed in the process, never again will I be able to watch that."

I raise an eyebrow and down the last of the Zesti. "What was so damned disturbing about that?"

"When that guy got the top of his head sawed off… and Cannibal dragged him off to make coffee, you LAUGHED!!!"

"Lobo laughed. I merely snorted and turned my mouth up slightly at the corners."

"In the bat-family, that counts as rolling around on the floor slapping your knee, Robster."

"Shut up."

Evidently this has been bugging SB for a while, 'cuz he doesn't stop there. "AND not only did you laugh at a guy missing the top half of his *skull*, but when the faceless guy in the wheelchair said, 'It seemed a good idea at the time…" you laughed then *too*!!!"

"It was the way he said it that made it funny."

"No. Uh-uh. Only a person with an extremely warped, morbid sense of humor, which we now know you possess, could find that even remotely humorous. I'd have thought that living in Gotham would have hardened you against that sort of thing, but evidently the Arkham craziness has made its way into the local gene pool by osmosis."

Silence for a bit. "Ooookay then, no Cannibal. Besides, Imp's too young to get it and still retain his innocence," observes Wonder Girl and she continues to scan the paper. "Hey! What about 'Ghosthackers 10: Return From Hell?"

I just take a good, hard look at Secret, who's floating oblivious to the conversation in the corner, long enough for everybody to get my point. The movie is passed by without further comment.

"Dis sucks," Anita sighs. "Y'd think with all dis variety tha' ya could at least have one good movie."

"Wait! I've got it!" exclaims Wonder Girl. "'Goolander II'!!!"

"Dude! Yeah! It'll be great, and I betcha ten bucks one of the super-hero spoofs reminds us of someone we know." Kon is already warming up to the idea.

"When do we want to go? Today? Tommorow? Friday?"

In my head, I run down my schedule. Thursday I get to have my ass kicked in retaliation for my behavior yesterday. Friday I have patrol and a date with Star. Saturday Gena goes to the zoo…

"How 'bout we catch a Saturday matinee? It'd be cheaper and we'd miss the Friday night crowd." 'It'd also allow me a chance to go for once,' I add silently.

Cassie nods sagely. "Yeah… yeah… I think that'll work. What does everybody else say?"

"YES!!!" screams Bart. "M-O-O-N and that spells MOVIE!!!!"

I can't help but smile. Bart reminds me of Gena sometimes. "I guess that's a yes then."

Everybody goes back to doing their own thing, and I dig myself deeper into the couch. The sounds of the television and my friends fills my ears and my cheeks hurt from where I smiled. I wonder, almost guiltily, if I really deserve this escape from my reality.


"Heads up, Draper!"

I can hear the whoosh of the basketball as it flies through the air, but I play the dumb, only mildly athletic, teenager and turn in time for it to whack me in the arm. Right on the spot where I got a bruise from falling off of the uneven bars last night at Bruce's.


"Christ, Tito! Give me more warning than that."

Tito grins at me as I reach for the ball. "I thought your church had something to say 'bout taking the Lord's name in vain, Alvin."

WHUNK! The ball slams into his chest. Show him. "Fuck off, Tito. Just 'cause I'm goin' with your sister doesn't mean I still can't kick your ass."

He rubs at the spot and follows me through the crowds clustered around the cracked pavement of the GCPS 451 yard. "Jeez… whatsa matter with you? You look like shit. Act it, too."

Miss Bertinelli gives our IDs a wave as we exit thought the rusted chain link fence. Hard to think of her as the Huntress, but then again, she doesn't think of me as Robin, mainly because I kept to the back of the room and slept through her class just to cover up the secret id.

"Got into a fight grinding some stairs last night an' the stairs won." I pull up the sleeve of my shirt to show off the black bruise spreading across my shoulder, proof enough, to him at least, that I'm gutsy enough to shake off a 'skateboarding' accident.

He's impressed. "Ouch."

"'S what I said when it happened."


"Said that, too."

He grins. "So… your battle scar enough to keep you away from the Park? Or are you just waitin' for Star to kiss and make it better?"

"Shut up, Tito. And don't talk trash about your sister, much less MY girl. She can beat you up."

The Park is a part of the Gotham Botanical Gardens built in the 60s in the hopes that its geometric squats of buildings and benches would better the city. The swimming pool was drained years ago for public health and has since been claimed by the gang-bruisers and skaters of the city.

Star and Joel are already there when we walk up, Joel doing some basics off of the homemade plywood ramps scattered across the concrete while Star watches. She's wearing this tight, black, long-sleeved shirt with a fanged smiley face printed on the front and ripped, faded jeans, black and blond hair pulled back in a clippee and spiked appropriately, purple eye shadow and lipstick that goes with her nails.

She used to wear mid-riffs a lot. But then she got shot, and now only bears her 'battle-scar,' as she likes to call it, when appropriate to show her toughness.

I love her anyway. More, even. Battle scar and all. Just so long as she doesn't acquire any more.

She spots us and waves us over with a smile. By the time we reach her bench she's dug a bag of corn chips from her backpack and offers them to us. Well, me at least.

"Hey!" She smiles again. "How'd the rest of prison go? You do the biology lab with Seymour?"

I swallow my chip and grin. "Yeah. Felt like Frankenstein experimenting on sea urchins like that. Here, have a chip."

"How generous of you." She takes one. "We accidentally killed our urchin. Injected it with too much potassium chloride, I guess. Poor Bert."

There's a thudding in the background as Joel hits the ramp wrong and crashes, a sound that does little to phase us.

"Bert? You named the thing?"

Star playfully swats at my arm and takes the chip bag away, handing it to Tito. He dives into it like a horse only to find it empty. "You bet we did. Gave it a proper funeral and everything. Full military honors, you should have seen it. Called in the English class from across the hall and had enough pieces for a twenty-one gun salute."

"Ha ha. You hungry?"

There's this sparkle in her almond eyes as she scrunches them up mischievously. "Starved. *Some*body ate my chips." She sticks her tongue out at Tito. He just grumbles and tosses the empty bag over his shoulder, where it misses the trash can by about ten feet. "Where do you wan t to eat?"

Uh-oh. Loaded question. Best let the girl answer this one. "Your turn to pick, remember?"

Ching! The look on her face says I made the right choice. I think I may be getting the hang of this boyfriend stuff. "How bout Chi-Chi's? We haven't been there in a while, and I'm in the mood for their Chinese nachos."

Chi-Chi's is this place she and I frequent. Not the sharpest digs in town, but not too bad. They try. It's run by this Chinese guy and his Mexican wife, and they come up with some of the weirdest food concoctions for their buffet. Chinese nachos, sweet and sour chicken with jalepenos, fried corn rice with oriental shrimp and seaweed, that kind of stuff. It reminds me of Bart and his Korean seafood burrito from Wednesday and I almost laugh.

"Fine by me. Ready to go?"

"Hold on."

While she's rounding up her stuff and giving Joel a few unneeded pointers on the best way to set a dislocated knee, Tito sidles up to me and looks at me gravely.

"Now Alvin," he begins, trying to lower his voice like the announcers on TV, but it doesn't work quite right. "Being the good brother that I am, I am going to have to give you a little talk. My sister is to come home safe, sane, and in once piece in time to see 'Survivor.' You are to save her from the many creeps roaming the streets, including yourself, and act as if there are cameras everywhere manned by thirty cops just itching to bust somebody for public indecency and corruption of a minor. You are to provide all means of transportation, and, if she so desires, chocolate, because we are plain out at our house and I'm not making another run to the store for her today."

Star steps up to my side and I slip an arm around her shoulders, snapping into a salute with the other. "That all, admiral?"

He glares at his sister, and growls at me under his breath. "Don't forget the subway tokens this time, VINNIE."

Star starts pulling me away before I can reply. "It's okay, bro. We're *walking,* and we're going to hold hands on the way there."

"You guys are sick!" Tito shouts, and Joel grumbles at him to shut up and get a sex life. But it's okay. Star has one of those hands you can hold and not care much about anything.


Night. Patrol time for this little boy wonder. With Star returned home to her father's specifications (I may pull the super-shift, but he's really big and really scary and her dad, so I won't mess with him) and Gena tucked safely in bed, I head out on this weekend's mission. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get between Jack and the compensation check quickly enough, which means that I get to follow him around and watch him drink up the money. Yippee. If I'm lucky I'll get a justification to beat him up at some point.

Jack's heading for one of the seedy bars he prefers that serves hard liquor for cheep without many questions asked. The type of places Batman scopes for murder suspects and gang thugs as Matches Malone. In fact, that's how I found out where Jack goes. I didn't give a damn where he went so long as he didn't bug us until Bruce commented on seeing him during one of his gang bust-ups.

That woke me up. What if Jack brought home some unsavory characters? What if he owed some loan-shark money and forgot to pay? I could just imagine how big the bullet holes would be in the paper thin walls of our apartment. So I got the added chore of making sure Jack doesn't bring on too much trouble for himself and, consequently, us.

It looks like I'll have to put my services to use again, tonight. This week's stop on the international seedy bar tour is O'Shank's, four walls and a roof held together by the eggs of a thousand cockroaches a mere hop, skip and a jump from the main strip of the red-light district. (As if any part of Gotham wasn't a red-light district.) Here Jack can stretch the Social Security check to its limits on cheep beer. Alcoholic math.

I sigh as I watch him enter the door. The last time he was here there was a tussle and I went to school the next day with a new 'skateboarding' scar, a jagged little white line that runs down my left shoulderblade where a bouncer was so kind as to sink the disease-ridden blade of his knife into my back.

The windows in the place are all boarded up, so I have to hunt and wiggle into a tight spot before I find some Quake damage that makes a decent skylight and peephole.

"Frankie! Frankie, gotta cash a check!"

The bartender, who's name isn't Frankie but will answer to it for enough cash, gives Jack an unsavory glance.

"Get outta here, Draper. We got you're number after the last two times, you bum."

Jack grins at him a little, swaying slightly. He evidently started the party without me earlier. "Aw… c'mon, Frankie… See? I even got the actual check with me this time…" He digs into his pocket, pulling out the said piece of paper. "Unsigned. One-Hundred-Percent pure grade federal aid."

Frankie ignores him, turning back to another, equally unsavory patron. "Yer checks bounced *both* times, Jack. What kinda sick shit you into when a government check bounces?"

I smile. My handiwork. I got back every penny Jack spent and the bartender lost the same in beer.

The smile on Jack's face disappears and he stuffs the social security check back into his pocket. "Jesus Christ! Can't even get a fucking drink anymore. What a world, eh?"

He glowers once more at the other customers, spits on the floor, and leaves. It looks like I might have gotten off easy, tonight, but I spotted the look the two punks next to Jack at the bar gave each other when he whipped out that check, and though Frankie may be afraid to cash it, I bet they're thinking of a list of people who aren't. As soon as Jack's out the door, they're tossing money onto the counter and moving after him like a pack.

Paging Boy Wonder to Aisle Scum, you're needed to clean up after your father. Again.

It takes a little maneuvering to back out of my vantage point, but I manage to unjam myself and get positioned in the shadows in the fifteen seconds it takes the Two Stooges to get to the end of the alley and look to see which way Jack went. In their moment of indecision, they don't realize how open they are to attack.

The angle's too awkward for me to take them both at once, so I just grab the bigger one by the mouth and haul him back into the alley's darkness. This surprises them both long enough for me to land a few good hits to his torso and jaw, but then Stooge #2 wizens up and moves around behind me in a circle. They're shouting at me, spitting out curses between mouthfuls of blood and spit, and I'm forced to divide my attack. I can't do close up fighting with one without leaving myself open to the other, so I whip out some miniature bat-a-rangs from my utility belt and let fly.

Most of them hit true, but something else has gone wrong. I'm still a little out of it from the beating my body took in the Cave yesterday, and I realize too late that it was seriously stupid of me to hit the street while not running at 100%. The sweep of my arm threw my upper body out of line, easily corrected except for the fact that my feet are finding nothing worth gripping and now I'm scrambling for balance and in perhaps the worst fighting position ever devised. The thug closest to me seems to sense this and he shoves as hard as he can, sending me sprawling, and time seems to slow as he reaches into the back of his pants and pulls out a gun.

Oh crap.

The first shot slams me hard in the chest, the force of it picking me up and spinning me around in an arc. The second actually 'pings' as it hits my 'R' and clips across my left shoulder, leaving a gouge that's deep and hurts like hell but not life-threatening. The wind's knocked out of me, though, and if I wasn't on my back earlier, I am now. And not getting up any time soon.

Satisfied that I'm down or scared that their shots will bring others into the fray, my would-be prey takes off, but not after Jack. They seem to have forgotten about him for now. Not that I care one iota. Go ahead, track him down, shoot him, whatever, I think I'll just lay here a bit longer and concentrate on not passing out.

Oh. Pain.

My reverie is broken by the barkeep opening the door long enough to shout to shut the hell up and take the gang war somewhere else. I think for a moment about just ignoring him, but then he disappears inside and comes out with a twelve gage. My world is flooded with yellow light and I manage to crawl into the safety of a pile of garbage as the bartender fires a warning shot into the alley. A few of the foraging rats jump but most just give me the evil eye but go right on eating. I'm trying hard not to think about the possible implications that has of what I'm sitting in, but the smell is making it nearly impossible. Please don't make me puke, I pray, I don't think my ribs can take it.

As soon as the door shuts again, I stumble out of the alley into the cool night air, grabbing choking lungfuls of cool air. I stink and my chest hurts and my arm stings and you know what, screw following Jack for the rest of tonight, I'm going home.


Concluded in part 3


(1) "Whitey and His Mind-Numbing, Song Filled Adventure" If you spotted that little reference, then congratulate yourself, you are now officially a Jhonen Vasquez junkie.

(2)"M-O-O-N, and that spells…" is an allusion to Stephen King's 'The Stand.' Read it. Now.

(3) This installment is in memory of Bert, the sea urchin who had one too many potassium chloride induced orgasms in the name of science. (Long story…)