Before any of you ask, this is not supposed to be serious. I'm not trying anything with this, there's no subliminal messaging or anything (well, there might be a little, but that's no the point) and this really isn't supposed to amount to anything. I just recently saw this episode and wanted to do something amazing with "Bandana Man." Criticize me if you will, I'm inspired. So that being said, enjoy. Most chapters will be short, and there won't be many. It's just a short little super hero story. X3
It was going to be one of those average days, James thought. Warm sunlight combed through the blinds and striped his bed sheets, almost blinding him when he woke up and opened his eyes. He had gotten a wonderful sleep, thank you very much- besides, when didn't he? It would never be of his own accord, that was for sure. If he were ever to lose beauty sleep, he would be the last to blame, and everyone knew that. So yes. An average morning, down to the way his back arched as he stretched lazily, toes curling and fingers spread wide.
It wasn't very average, however, that Carlos was missing from his bed. In all normality on a sunny Saturday it would be impossible to get him up before at least noon, because the weekends were the only times the four of them got any breaks from the evils of Rocque Records and its terrifying dictator.
James decided to pass this as a rare occurrence- there wasn't any special occasion today, right? Nope. Because it was an average day. Minus the Carlos actually being up in the morning thing. So he decided he would very much like some breakfast. Cereal, toast- something average. He didn't want to jinx anything. But before his morning meal- well, the only thing more important than breakfast was, of course, making himself pretty. No questions asked. James shuffled tiredly to the dresser next to the full-length mirror he'd insisted on having installed in the room, reaching blindly for his prized lucky comb. When his fingers landed on nothing but the solid wood surface of the dresser, he frowned and turned to look for the problem.
He nearly screamed to find that his lucky comb was nowhere in sight. Instead he made a horrified noise that caught in the back of his throat and felt the panic seize upon him, almost freezing him in place. His lucky comb was gone, and in its place was a piece of paper folded neatly into a small rectangle. Drawn on the outside of the paper was a music note (an eighth note, James was proud to remember) with a swirled design on the oval instead of just solid black. Feeling uneasy, James picked it up and unfolded it.
It was a note, that much was clear. The kind of note criminals leave behind, a ransom note. It was not handwritten; letters cut from magazines and newspapers spelled out words that made James's heart sink lower and his stomach twist more tightly. The note read as follows:
We have indeed stolen your precious "lucky comb." You may have also noticed that your roommate is missing as well. We know you have a direct alliance with the infamous Bandana Man. Bring him to the below address and your comb and friend are both guaranteed. Do not try anything. We're watching.
At the bottom of the page was an address that undoubtedly led to some kind of horrifying torture chamber, probably surrounded by a crocodile-filled moat. James felt sick. Some twisted group of hooligans had his lucky comb? Who did they think they were? No one messed with his lucky comb. Oh, and Carlos. This was an outrage, and by golly, he was going to do something about it. Someone was going to pay. James strode to the closet and opened the door, pushing all the clothes on hangers aside to reveal the nails hammered into the wall behind them. Countless purple square-shaped cloths hung from them, decorated with intricate white patterns. Reaching forward and grasping one, he pulled it in and clutched it to his chest, raising his chin and closing his eyes. Oh yeah.
This was a job for Bandana Man. Definitely. Someone was going to pay.