NEW OLYMPIANS (ISSUE 1), Kelly Logue [psychology books to read TXT] 📗

Great Jupiter Sparks!

 

 

Greetings, Thunderheads!

 

Mighty Mitch Goodman here! Editor Supremo of New Planet Press, welcoming you to this fabulous, fantastically, frustrating, fawning, fearless, fraudulent, money laundering...er, I mean amazing first issue of New Olympians. It's the superhero rag you may not have wanted, but it's definitely the one I put out to make some moolah. And, Thunderheads, let me tell you, your pal Mighty Mitch Goodman loves his moolah.

 

But Mitch―the voices in my head are telling me now―you must be crazy! How can you put out a superhero comic without any pictures? Don't let the straight jacket fool you, the idea is pure genius and here's why: it saves me money.

 

Speaking of pure genius, and by that I mean me, everything great about this pitiful rag was my idea. Everything terrible, like the horrible grammar, typos or cringe worthy dialogue, was the fault of the writer, who's name I won't even bother to learn.

 

Thunderheads, full confession, we have a high turnover rate here at New Planet Press. But I'm only accepting applications from people who will lie to my face, and tell me I should be President of the Moon. And by the Moon Princess! Your pal, Mighty Mitch Goodman should be President of the Moon! I rigged that election fair and square, and still got completely robbed! What's the Moon coming to?

 

Grievances aside, thank you again for giving me your moola in exchange for this absolutely sensational first issue of New Olympians. Rest assured, you have made a sound investment. This pictureless pictorial is going to set the world ablaze...

As it becomes a complete dumpster fire!

But, enough of my saintly wisdom, Thunderheads...

Now onward toward adventure....

 

Ars longa, vita brevis

 

NEW PLANET PRESS.

Now with 10% less ink smudging.

Chapter I

CARL MANNERS began to wonder just when the world stopped making sense. As far as he could narrow it down, it was about a year ago—more or less. Of sure, people would still go crazy every now and again, and sure World Leaders would always be mad with power, but all of that made a certain kind of sense. It was simply the price to pay for an otherwise civilized world. And Carl knew his place in that world.

He was a soldier, and up until a year ago, it was his job to make sure that the world remained civilized.

He liked his job, and he was proud to serve.

Though there were times when Carl wondered if he had been sold a bill of goods. Despite all the “Be All You Can Be” ads he’d seen countless times as a kid, Uncle Sam had neglected to mention one crucial fact: that most of your time as a soldier is spent waiting.

Waiting for the enemy.

Waiting for orders.

Waiting to get shot at.

Waiting for something to happen.

And all that waiting could make a man go a little stir crazy. That’s the kind of crazy that could make you drop your guard. That’s the kind of crazy that could make you careless. And, if you weren’t very careful, that’s the kind of crazy that could get you killed.

He had dropped his guard.

He had gotten careless.

And that had almost gotten him killed.

He remembers it as clear as day, now.

His squad had been stationed at an abandoned town, on the border of enemy lines.

Every morning and evening they would do a routine sweep of the area.

They had done this sweep so many times, Carl could practically do it with his eyes closed. He wasn’t alone in that sentiment, either, as the rest of his team felt the same way. They had been nicknamed the “Shut Eye Squad” for that very reason.

But, orders from above told them that this location was of “Strategic Importance.”

Why?

Who knows.

It just was, and like all good soldiers they did what they were told.

So they checked abandoned buildings.

Checked the empty streets.

Knocked on doors of vacant houses.

Everything safe and sound.

But, the other thing that Uncle Sam never told you was the enemy was good at waiting too—especially lying in wait.

Watching them as they yawned.

Watching them as they joked around.

Watching them as they pissed in the street.

Watching and waiting.

But, when Carl entered the main square that morning, that last morning, he hesitated.

Something felt off.

It was the air. It felt too still, as if the entire world were holding its breath.

He told his buddy Chuckles about it.

Chuckles was a big guy, who looked like a younger version of Santa Claus.

Chuckles shook his head, and did what he always did: laughed. His big infectious laugh that could make any fear seem ridiculous. That is until a bullet tore open Chuckles’s throat.

Carl remembered he screamed something.

“Get down!” He thought.

But it was already too late.

Bullet after bullet tore through the Shut Eye Squad, and they dropped like flies.

He took cover, behind an old car, that stunk of rust and old gasoline.

Seconds past like hours, and then he heard someone cry out.

Summoning whatever courage he had, he peaked around the car.

His Sargent, Payton, lie wounded in the street.

Carl knew it was a trap.

They had left the Sargent alive to lure out any straggles.

The enemy, however, couldn’t have picked a worst person to serve as bait. Payton was a complete asshole, who everyone assumed at some point would be killed by friendly fire.

Carl debated what he should do.

The smart thing would be to run, radio base to get reinforcements, and then make these bastards pay.

He even saw an opening where it would be easy to slip away, unnoticed.

But they’d kill the Sarge, and he might be an asshole, but he was an American asshole.

Carl jumped up, firing out and up in a spray, as he rushed forward.

He stood at Sarge’s side in no time.

Everything told him that they had let him get close.

And up close, he hesitated again.

The enemy had taken the Sarge’s manhood, and an ocean run down the man’s leg.

Carl remembered thinking, it would have been better if they had killed him.

Nevertheless, he got the man up on his feet.

The Sarge whimpered, Carl would never forget that sound.

And the Sarge was heavy, he would never forget that either.

Even with Sarge’s arm wrapped around his neck, and walking on his two feet, Sarge still weighed him down—making him slow.

A shot tore through his leg.

Carl nearly fell, but willed himself to stay up.

Another tore through his arm, making him drop his gun, still he pushed on.

More shots followed, too many to count.

They were playing with him, like a cat with a mouse.

A final shot rang out, and he knew this was the fatal one.

He had failed.

But then, the world stopped.

And a woman causally stepped onto the battlefield.

She was a striking woman.

Tall and thin, but athletic, with skin so white that it looked like marble. She wore a helmet that might have been gold once, but was now heavily stained a dark red. Covering her body like armor, rested a long flowing gown, so long that it dragged across the ground, but remained a pure virgin white.

And despite being mortally wounded, Carl still became aroused by her.

The woman made a disgusted face at this, and then started down him with her cold, gray eyes.

“Carl Manners,” she said. Her voice was soft, but still commanded attention.

“You have shown great courage, although I must confess I do question your judgement. Did you not see the path I laid out for you?”

He nodded.

“Then why did you sacrifice your life to save this crude, little man,” The woman asked.

“It was the right thing to do,” he answered, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

The woman smiled, a smile bright so that it nearly blinded him, for it was like looking directly into the sun.

He turned away.

“Look at me, Carl Manners,” she said.

He turned his head, it felt heavy like a bag of rocks.

Her face was stern.

“I am Athena,” the woman said.

“Goddess of Wisdom,” Carl answered weakly.

“I am surprised,” the woman cried. “Most of your kind have forgotten me.”

“I like comic books,” he said.

The woman nodded sagely.

“The last bastion of myth and legend,” she said, chuckling a little.

The laughter sounded like the sharpening of a sword.

“But the one thing they don’t say, in the comic books, is that I am also the goddess of warfare.”

She paused her, letting the information sink in, before she continued.

“But this is not warfare, it is madness and chaos. There is no objective here, no reason for this strife, only endless conflict.”

Carl nodded weakly in answer.

“Your world is plagued by an abundance of madness,” she said. “If the tide is not stopped, soon your world will be utterly consumed by it.”

Carl felt himself starting to slip away then, and for a brief moment he swore he could see an angel hovering in the distance.

“Stay with me Carl,” the woman said, and although this was spoken so softly that it sounded barely a whisper, it was still a command. “Hades can wait for a little longer.”

He felt himself being pulled back from the brink of darkness, and the angel on high vanished.

“I have an offer,” the striking woman said, tipping her helmet up. “I am in need of a champion. Someone to act as my vessel here on Mother Earth. Someone with great courage. Someone who wants to do the right thing. Is that man you, Carl Manners?”

“Yes,” he said without even giving it a second thought.

“Then take my hand.”

He did.

There was a brilliant flash of light, and then...

The world started again with a bang..

Carl could smell the air burning, as a bullet raced toward the back of his head.

He spun, catching it, and then threw it back.

It found a target.

The sniper falling from a nearby roof. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Driven by almost pure instinct, he picked up the old car―it felt like paper in his hands―and turned it on it’s side to act as a barrier between the enemy and his Commanding Officer.

Then he leapt into the firefight, drawing the enemy’s fire onto himself.

He laughed, and his laughter sounded strange to him—like the clashing of swords

But, he quickly pushed this thought away, and narrowed his focus.

Based on the trajectory of the gunfire, he was quickly able to pinpoint the enemy’s location.

It was strange, Carl remembered, that perfect clarity of vision, as if he were looking at the situation from a distance completely detached.

He leapt again, hovering briefly in mid air before sinking his fingers into the stone of a nearby building. He scaled the wall, the enemy continuing to fire, more shots missing now than hitting.

They were becoming desperate.

He crashed through the window.

Then strode confidently forward.

At his approach they threw down their guns, and held up there hands.

They were boys. The oldest of them was an ache ridden kid of maybe fifteen.

They spoke to him, and to his surprise he actually understood what they were saying.

He heard two things over and over again.

“Jinn.”

and

“Mercy.”

And he remembered what he did next, something that also haunts him to this day.

The man who was Carl Manners hesitated.

They’re just kids, he thought.

“Jinn,” they cried out. “Mercy, mercy please, please...”

Carl started to nod, but stopped as another voice spoke to him.

A voice that was soft but commanding.

The wisdom of Athena

“If you spare them,