Gender: Male

Kit: Super

Location: Sao Paulo, Brazil


Alignment: Villain

Team: Solo Villains


Strength: standard (rank 1)

Agility: supreme (rank 3)

Mind: standard (rank 1)

Body: standard (rank 1)

Spirit: (rank )

Charisma: (rank )


Infamy Points: 0

Personal Wins: 5

Personal Losses: 3

Team Wins: 0

Team Losses: 0

Tourney Wins: 0

Tourney Losses: 0


Status: Active


“Boom diddily, boom-boom, wham,”

Knock, Knock.

“Diddily, boom-boom, wham, screeeeech, boom—”

Knock, knock. He enters, sees me.

“Well, some things never change.”

“Jaaaaaaaack,” I squeal, “Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack—Mr. Jack… been a long, looong time comin’, but a change gonna come…”

“Yes… I suppose it will. Just wanted to check up on our favorite psycho-killer.”

“I can’t hear the music Jack. Can’t hear-hear-hear it in here. They put something on the walls; the pings go poof. Can’t hear them, but I know I’m in a cell, in a room, in a box, eating shit, off a tray. It’s shit on a tray in a box, Jack. It’s all so… Rectangular.”

“Oh. I’m, sorry to hear that…”

“You’re sorry to hear?”

“Oh, sorry...” He says, “Anyway, I was hoping you might be up for a quick errand.”


“Oh,” he remarks, “But you’ll like this. There’s a big tournament going on. One of your old friends might be there. One of the seven who put you into your quiet little rectanguloid prison. Brainchild?”

“Brainy?” I ask, “Brainy-brain-brain-babe. Oh well…That’s different.”

“Good, because we actually have a problem with her.”


“Well, for starters, she’s still breathing.”


I see the herd of killers. I turn to Jack.

“Who are they?”

“Oh, they’re just a formality really. Syndicate procedure; consider this a qualifying round.”

“Ah yes,” I say, “Bing, Bang, Boom, Thump.”

The one I’ve labeled Bang turns her head, glares at me.

“Excuse me?”

I turn to the first man, “Bing, the short, fast guy who doesn’t say anything right?”

He neither agrees nor disagrees.

“Then there’s Bang, the token woman, underappreciated because of her sex, a real bitch, but very flexxxxible.”

She spits at my face

“Bite me, ass-clown.”

“Then there’s Boom, big guy, physically powerful. Not all that trained, deceptively unskilled.”

Boom grunts in annoyance. I turn to number four, a slouching mouth breather with a horrid grin.

“And Thump. The freak… But this won’t do, you see now it’s Bing, Bang, Boom, Thump-Thump. Won’t do, won’t do at all.”

He hisses, “Lets see how talkative you are when I peel off that mask and—AHHHHH!”

My thumbs pop in to gushy soft eye sockets. I knead the ocular nerves. He feels it. One twist, it all goes CRACK. He’s a bloody bobbleheaded lump.

“You see, there’s only room for one freak.”



     Hyper-Senses: standard (rank 1)


Only Bang was left. It was all broken up into a mini-tournament style. She went three rounds with big man Boom, he gave her more trouble than I thought. 25 whole minutes of vicious, bloody, battle till she got his bones gristling in her knuckles.

Lucky ducky. I’ve been sitting here, bored. 22 minutes of bored, waiting.

But then she finally came through.

“Yo, ass-clown. We doing this or what?”

“Hmmm, yes, oh sorry, yes, just one minute if you please,”

I turn the ratchet onside my head, the music begins to beat. Thump, thump, diddily, thump thump. And on and on. Her body pings against the baseline; she doesn’t know it, but I hear it. The pings make her all so clear. I hear all of her, every shirt wrinkle, the depth of every scar, every tattoed line above her thigh, ooooh, pretty pretty butterfly.

“Are you ready freak?”

“Boom, diddily, thump, my darling. Whenever you please.”

She lunges. The pings grow sharp. Every move she makes yells like a garage band wailing on a garbage can. I can’t help but hear her punch coming a mile away.



     Martial Arts: superior (rank 2)


“Stand still—you little—fucker!”

“Why,” I ask, “are you not having fun?”

She charges, I dodge. She kicks, I bend. She swings, I duck. Heh heh, quack quack. But they actually do echo, I tried it once.

“This is a serious martial arts tournament, not an angry mime academy. Stop fooling around with this Capoeria shit, and fight me!”

“Oh interesting fact about mimes,” I say, “you punch one in the stomach, he’ll make a noise.”

“Shut up and fight!”


The music drops. And it drops sooooo heavy. Punch, kick, snap, crackle, pop, and her nose is all bloody.

I’m in the groove, and I feel my body mooove; hands together, pop and lock, we put it all together and then we DROP!

Bang goes across the arena floor, getting hit by my unending percussion drumming. She wants it to stop, she wants it to end. But the hits just keep on coming. And coming. And coming. And coming.



     Reflection: supreme (rank 3)


My joints ratchet and pop, going knick, knack, knock, tick, tack, tock. It’s harmony in motion. Something she doesn’t understand.

“You’re going to fucking pay for that!”

She gears up her tempo, but strikes out of tune. You never strike out of tune. Her beats fling back onto her knuckles; it looks like it hurts. You do not fight the music. She tries again and again, but it all goes scitter-scatter. You DO-NOT fight the music, or the music fights you. And the music always wins darling.

My motions move in rhythm, my hands in harmony. Knick, knack, knock, tick, tack, tock. Every thing she throws, I can always block.

You see you can fight with the music. But don’t you worry, don’t you fret; here comes the baseline darling, here it comes. Here it comes in one, two, THUMP!



     Telekinesis: supreme (rank 3)



She goes soaring, but the ground is hard. Is your world shaking darling? Is it all too much? Do your ears go ringy-ring-ring?

Can you hear it darling, can you hear? Can you hear it thumping in your chest, in your brain, in your soul? ‘Course you can; And hear it comes!




Scream, pain, cough. Ha, ha, ha,

“What are you doing?”

“I’m a mime, aren’t I? I’m putting you in a box.”

Left, right, floor, ceiling, front, back, trapped, alone, rectangle, SMASH!

The baseline, the percussion, the rhythm, it was all thumping so marvelously tonight. Deep inside my blood the music beats, beating through my hands, beating through my feet, beating through the air.

I lift her off the ground, as she surrenders to the beat. Limbs lift and pop, a puppet dance. I choreograph to the sound, my marionette jerks with rhythm.

“Please darling, let’s have a dance?”

She spits in my face. Bad poppet.



     Power Manipulation: standard (rank 1)


My hand taps on her chest. The rhythm courses through her.

“I feel you beating,” I smile.

She nods her head no. But my ears hear yes.

Thump-Thump… Thump-thump… Thump-thump-SQUEEZE.”

She goes fuck, damn, squeal, please, no, scream, yell, shriek, fuck.

The baseline peaks. And a one, and a two, and a one-two, RIPPPP.

Her internal organ now’s in my hand, all bloody and raw, still going thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. I cut the track and she falls down dead as the beat slowly fades.

Jack is standing next to me.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“She was a pottymouth,”

“Well, good enough a reason as any I suppose. Look we’re kind of in a rush, so lets just say the job’s all yours.

“Mine. All mine,” I say, “Brainy-brain brain-babe. Hers goes beep, boop, bop, you know.”

“You know I didn’t know that," he says, "but again we really need to get moving before the sanitarium orderlies realize you’re missing. Leave that thing on the floor and we can jet.”

“Beep, boop, bop; Bing, Bang, Boom, Thump. And she's all mine.”


“Hmmm, yes, fine, lets go.”

I drop the heart, the beat going dead.