It was at precisely 05:47 am on the morning of Friday 24 of August 1994 that I opened my eyes through a shell of blood encrustment and realized it is time to begin this non-linear, gothic drama, hyper-cycle. They made their decision less than 12 hours before to slowly terminate me in an attempt to test the mental and physical limits of the least cooperative experiment. My life had become a series of statistics on paperwork to show some invisible Nerve Center that we are the best at surviving. Twelve hours of torture and I never made a sound. Yes dear friend - this is the part where you insert the cliche self-dialog about 'payback time'.
Legs found space beneath me as my body floated upright into vertical. The sound of skin peeling away from the floor was one of the last noises any of them would hear. My cage wasn't fit to hold animals and electric lock split open with a flicker of light as the door pulled away to reveal my monster. I slipped through empty space and into shadow.
He never saw his fate: the scientist sent to prepare the others for today�s training. His body fell apart under my weight. He aparently hasn't been keeping up with his counter-assassination training he so laboriously programmed into my head. I pulled the gun from his side and slid down the hall.
My Brothers' vacant faces stared at me through the metal grates. It is no use to live the life of a ritual tool - "forgive me" - but not too much. Bang-bang. They laid in their own tissue as life slipped away with the heat released from open wounds.
The last body had barely time to react from the shock when I kicked the door to the laboratory open. It felt like something from a dream: fourteen heads looked up in unison and each one�s eyes grew larger by the millisecond. How nice. Two dropped dead when my pistol emptied into the flock of bodies as they scattered across the room.
Magazine two:
The rest of the prey leapt away in every imaginable fasion. Silly humans, so many years of schooling and they never learned that you can not outrun bullets. They all fell like dominos amid showers of ruptured computer terminals and flashing lights.
I never understood how strange life is until I found myself standing naked and free, surrounded by the bodies of the men who created me, smoking pistol in hand with strobe lights blinking. The only identity I had was a black seventeen tattooed across my left breast.
They had created a monster capable of survival under the most undesirable conditions. Deep in their lost lives, they were hoping success would have been a little bit more enjoyable.
The security cameras never saw his ruthless escape. Nor was any alarm ever triggered. In a brief moment he had managed to kill many of the U.S. Government�s top scientists and eleven other super soldiers as he slipped through the metal corridors and into his first summer morning.
Shortly after, the neighboring weapon and equipment laboratory was raided by a single man. Were there any survivors there would be details on what exactly happened in there. All eight guards were killed in what must have been a short fire fight. No blood other than theirs was spilled.
Reports were filed but disappeared; just like the information concerning the experiment that never existed. Approximately 2 hours after he stepped from his cell a message was sent to someone known only as:
"Angel,
Subject 17 has escaped. All related computer data, paperwork,
experiments, and persons are currently being erased. He was reported
missing at 06:22 MST and a manhunt has been established. He has stolen
experimental weaponry, armor, and equipment. His whereabouts are unknown.
Information will be supplied as discovered. This time the mess may be
difficult to clean up.
Cartwheel"
Ninja kicks and back flips - a real clown festival. Only then did I notice
the 12 foot tall gorilla with a shotgun. Solid slug grazes my trenchcoat
as I roll across the table and a swift bicycle kick removes a lot of blood
and all of his teeth. I miscalculated his speed - he must have chemical
enhancement. Grabbing my foot he begins to swing me around his head. One
flick of my wrist and my knife extends from my hand. Monkey juice and
cartilage follow a forearm as it launches across the room. Crashing
through a window I recover in time to see the sectoid power armors who
fell from the dropship. Where are the others?
Plasma blows the wall in and concrete dust mixed with old plaster form a cloud around me. Pulling my gun I unload my magazine into the leader. Armor piercing rounds have minimal effect on his suit - but they sure do a number on him.
"Yeah bitch, that�s why they are called �armor piercing� rounds."
The others gather around me as they fire their weapons in my direction. I�d like to think they were aiming but even Ray Charles could have come closer. Fourteen and a half seconds later I step from the puddles and back onto the street.
I guess I should find the others, but let�s have a look in the dropship first . . .
August 14, 1976:
My hair and clothing had been vaporized. Skin hung from my torn body like a bloody shawl. All around me is death. Charred skeletons lay in the blackened streets. Scrap metal sticking from the pavement like headstones.
What in the hell happened?
August 13, 1976:
I tilted my head back and enjoyed the brief adrenaline rush. Ear piercing screams came from below. About 200 feet below. I am falling into an ocean of carnage. Terminal velocity seemed to hold me stationary. The ground will never come . . .
Skulls crushed beneath my boots as I slammed into the road. To the front of me was the giant mechanical suit outfitted for combat. A large chaingun built into its left arm cut soldiers apart as it swung from side to side. The machine turned its attention toward me.
"You are born only to breathe. You will die just like everybody else. Everything fits into a cycle. You created me to kill that which created you. Your creator was created by you when you killed it. What happens when you find that you are standing in front of yourself as I am now and the world turns over?"
Fuck, I hate it when he does this.
I turned around and there he was again. A tower of darkness standing
solidly, his neck bleeding from where I had stabbed him. He must
have gotten back up. Rounds from the chaingun flew past my shoulder and
struck the figure tearing armor and flesh from his body.
He fell back to the ground . . .
July 4, 1999:
He staggered slightly from side to side. Almost rhythmically like a caged animal - a path of habit. I traced his face slowly with the cross hairs. Enjoying each curve and analyzing every mark that symbolized some small point in his life that lead up to the manufactured future. So, I am his creation.
His words stopped long enough for his tongue to wet his dried lips. Again he spoke.
"We are upon the dawn of a new millennium. It is up to you, the people, to demand new choices and a new direction. The time is change. Our world is upon the moment . . ."
His voice began to change. Lower, and more penetrating. Like something evil. He is Angel.
". . . I said all those things you buried. Of all the liars, you will be so cynical. The Modern Angel is so hard to come by. I hate to touch your stinking cur. You don�t know what I have started. Gave you no conscience. They cannot listen to bodies. You will stay low. They will all lock the doors. I know there is more than just aching in store. There are things that one should never see. Your Modern Angel has gone to ruin. Your ignorance is about to steal the world. As the century fades from view . . ."
His sun baked crowd does not realize what is taking place. But I can tell by every bead of sweat that rolls down his body that he knows I am here. All the soldiers in the world could not keep me away, and believe me, they have tried.
I raised the thin cross from the black of his mouth to the center of his head. His eyes twitched unnaturally. You think you have won, "you�ve swallowed your tongue - now swallow this."
My finger tenderly squeezed the trigger.
Interview conducted September, 1997.
Originally appeared in Seventeen October, 1997.
It's not every day that you get a chance to interview The Ripper. He is one of the least publicly oriented figures in contemporary superheroics. When I was first consulted by Seventeen Magazine about this I decided that I didn't know too much about him. After weeks of reading FAQs on the internet readers offered a lot of background and possible questions. As it turns out there is something mysterious, almost magical that carries his personality so far and yet reveals nothing. So without further delay, I present my interview with The Ripper:
Dennis: Of all the places in the universe, you came from Earth. Do you
think that hurts your reputation as a superhero?
Ripper: No, I think it would.
Dennis: Everybody thinks that being a superhero is all glory and gold. Is this true?
Ripper: No.
Dennis: What is the "darker" side, if you wouldn't mind telling your fans?
Ripper: Please don't make those little quotation marks with your hands. I hate that . . .
Dennis: Sorry. Is there a particular instance that comes to mind that illustrates this?
Ripper: Yeah, I guess I was about 16. My mother and I had just moved to a new town and I was having a hard time making new friends. Then, one day in gym class I got my first period. Man, I thought I was dying. My mom never told me about that kind of stuff. All the kids laughed at me. Even when things seemed to be going well they always turned around. Like when this cute guy asked me to a dance and some f***er poured pig blood all over me and I got really pissed and started making stuff fly around and blew some s*** up. Things kinda calmed down after that.
Dennis: Uh . . .
Ripper: I think the whole building burned down and killed everybody or something like that - the whole thing is pretty hazy.
Dennis: Um, many of your fans are interested in how you managed to escape from certain death in the Firefly Incident.
Ripper: In the what? You're talking crazy.
Dennis: Why is it that you have the highest civilian mortality rate among superheros, and, it looks like even among supervillians? . . .
Ripper: My philosophy on life is simple. "If the s*** fits, wear it." It all boils down to a question of morality. Do you like Mr. Ed reruns? No! Nobody does. If it isn't someone trying to feed us propaganda it's someone trying to sell us a shirt or something. I remember an episode where Mr. Ed is taking tango lessons. What the f***? They're just playing a little piece of tape and rewinding it and playing it again and rewinding it. God I wish I had a gun . . . Oh, wait . . .
Dennis: Speaking about your gun, why is it called a smart gun? Does it win on Jeopardy? Heh, heh . . .
Ripper: Man, this guy's stupid.
Ripper: Shut up, he can hear you!
Ripper: Oh, sorry.
Dennis: . . . Uh-huh. One quick question that is asked in all interviews for Seventeen. What do you like best about modern fasion?
Ripper: After the building burned down, I kept appearing in the heads of the kids of the people who killed me and haunting them. Kinda like the Boogey Man, if you believe in that kind of stuff. So I had these knives for fingers and would cut people up. I think that's why I got the name Juicy Billy.
Dennis: Does the superhero lifestyle ever get to you? Too much glamor? Do you feel that there is a lot of pressure to act certain ways as a role model?
Ripper: Yeah, then the monkey went apes***. Jumping over barrels and grabbing hammers just to save some lady. She wasn't even cute. I guess it was pretty cool just to know that you got high score.
Dennis: Do you believe in aliens?
Ripper: The third one? No, it doesn't exist.
Dennis: If you could be anything in the world, what would it be?
Ripper: Did you just make that one up? What a stupid question. But, since you asked, I'd be eight strips of yellow construction paper each about one by four inches.
Dennis: We seem to be running out of time. My last question . . .
Ripper: That's an easy one. I'd go to Mexico and start a family with my neighbor Janet.
Dennis: My last question is . . .
Ripper: She's only twelve.
Dennis: Okay, my LAST question is: what are your future plans as a superhero?
Ripper: She's cool because she doesn't like the Spice Girls or dance the Macarena. But that's beside the point. I'd say, maybe, ten pounds of lettuce.
Ripper: Where are you going? I haven't even said anything yet? You let that other guy talk all the time and I never got a word in . . .
The other night I was in the computer lab working on my Ripper Page - I decided that it isn't really an A.T.H.E.N.A. page because I'm only a rogue agent and it never actually says much about A.T.H.E.N.A. other than the links - anyway, I was working on my page and I kept getting this paranoid feeling and I kept imagining this little sectoid would come walking through the door and walk over to me and stop and look at me with those big bug-eyes of his. This freaked me out a whole bunch because we all know how this goes - the cute little guy comes in all innocent and walks up to you and holds out his finger all E.T.ish and he looks so peaceful you reach out with your finger and poke his and it's like the love of two advanced cultures and intergalactic harmony and then BAM you wake up strapped to some table in a metal room with your chest cut open and little fuckoids sticking shit in you. So now, when the little guy comes in I'll jump from my seat and proceed to beat the shit out of his little head punching-bag style and finish it all with a boot to the crotch that lifts him a good yard off the floor - yeah, I also realize that sectoids don't have testicles so this won't have the same effect, it's more of the intention and philosophy behind the kick, you like that girly-man? - but then what if he really did come in peace? Yeah, I know, he's a sectoid and he just wants to dissect me, but what if this little guy is different. His name is Joey and he escaped the tyranny of the Grand Poobah after hours of merciless gunbattles and high-speed saucer chases and finally smuggling himself onto our planet via CNN satellite . . . that would make me feel really bad that I just kicked the shit out of a sectoid who was so cool. But you all know how the old saying goes, "it's better to be safe than get strapped down to a table and cut open by an advanced race of rat-boys". Then I started thinking about how they can just walk through walls. Which is pretty stupid if you ask m e but it's also kinda scary. You can run and hide but all those little fuckoids will just walk through that big iron door and blast you with their little death-rays. And then there are the psionics which are also nasty. I'm assuming they are fairly useless against me, considering I'm insane. They keep send ing to my mind "shoot Glitter Boy" but it comes out "rip your pants off and then ass rape me". Then I get weird looks as I bend a little fuckoid over and give it to him all dry and painful like he wanted it. And then I started thinking about if all this happened and I sent a message to A.T.H.E.N.A. that the sectoids were here and it's time to fight and how A.T.H.E.N.A. would react to it. Would it be taken as a joke? And then one week later when the saucers are floating above Moscow and melting everybody would it be like a big whack-your-palm-to-your-forehead kind of thing? or would that be taken serious as A.T.H.E.N.A. springs into action. I kept having images of me running around in the snow in Finland trying to talk people into fighting but nobody understands me so I pull my knife and start slashing little fuckoids left and right. Eventually I went to sleep - consequently, that night I had Dream Cycle II - but man, I was pretty damn scared.
Knock knock! Hello Kitty is at the door. "Shall we walk to school, The Ripper?"
"Aren't my Mum's flowers pretty?" says The Ripper.
"Let's pick some for Mrs. Spinkmeir, our teacher" says Hello Kitty.
On the way to school Hello Kitty and The Ripper met Keroppi. "Hello, The Ripper! Hello, Hello Kitty! What lovely flowers" he says.
"They are for Mrs. Spinkmeir" says The Ripper. And they all go to school to give them to her.
"Thankyou for the pretty flowers, Hello Kitty and The Ripper!" says Mrs. Spinkmeir. "That was very thoughtful."