Cyclops heads into the desert for dessert

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50530638747405971.post-28159359166974814232008-03-22T05:35:00.010-06:002008-03-22T17:33:03.335-06:002008-03-22T17:33:03.335-06:00Cyclops heads into the desert for dessertWhen I got out to the desert locale where the Brotherhood of Sylar Haters was gathered, I was a little surprised at what I found. There were bunches of shlubby guys in generic grey costumes cowering by some caucuses. They had henchmen written all over them. I came up to Simon, ready to disintegrate him with my eye beams. I couldn't believe the horrible things he had said to Danny Noriega. That young girl had the most awesome singing talent, sassy attitude and cute<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_n7ElxHw3550/R-T8SaO3Z7I/AAAAAAAAACg/iOIGW1jGriI/s1600-h/danny.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5180542864592431026" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 172px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 181px" height="221" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_n7ElxHw3550/R-T8SaO3Z7I/AAAAAAAAACg/iOIGW1jGriI/s400/danny.jpg" width="168" border="0" /></a>st little butt I have seen on broadcast television. Yes, she was a little flat, but no one's perfect. Except Obama, of course. That dude is great. Anyway, I was about to vaporize Simon when I noticed him whining in pain, grasping his arm. Suddenly he let go and his hands dived into half-filled cheese cake tins lying next to him. He shoveled the gooey mess into his mouth, whimpering with pleasure. Then he winced and grabbed his wounded arm again. I gave him a quick blast in the face. You know, just to be sure. Just past Simon lay the prone body of Peter Petrelli. There was a big red bruise on his chin. I checked to make sure he was still breathing and then blasted him in the face too. As I was closing my visor, a homeless guy wandered over and asked if I had any spare change. "Sorry, man. My form fitting latex battle suit doesn't have any pockets," I told him. "They would create odd bulges that would interfere with me showing off how hot my body is. Do you know how many crunches I have to do to get abs like these?" I pulled up my shirt and showed the homeless guy my six-pack. He nodded, duly impressed. Then the empty bottle of Southern Comfort he was holding slipped from his hand. I realized it was Jack Bauer so I blasted him in the face. A clapping sound from behind me made me whirl around. Standing there was a pudgy little man with an orange afro wig on. Richard Simmons. He had the coolest outfit I had ever seen on. Really short gym shorts and a tank top. I've got to ask that guy where he shops. After I blast him in the face. "Now you just wait a minute, Mister," he said in a high-pitched yet smoky voice. "I am challenging you to a duel. A battle of the whits." "Of the what?" I asked. "Of the whits!" "Uh . . what's a whit?" The pudgy guy let out a long sigh. "Okay, how about we play strip poker? The first one to get naked wins. Unless it's you in which case we both win." "I don't have any cards or anything." "It's okay," he assured me. "I have a totally amazing mind and can keep track of all the cards in my head." "Well . . okay." "Scrumptious!" Simmons started to move his hands like he was shuffling cards, though his hands were actually empty. Though a snappy dresser, this guy is a real weirdo. "Okay, here." He made like he was handing me something. Shrugging, I pretended to take it. "You got a three of hearts, five of clubs, six of spades, nine of diamonds and a jack of hearts. I got three sevens so I win.You have to take off your boots." Just great. I have the worst luck at poker. Wolverine is always cleaning me out. And not in the good way. I pulled off my cool super-hero boots and tossed them aside. He dealt again. "Hey! You got two eights!" he told me excitedly. Finally, a little something. "Oops, I got five spades. Sorry. I win again. Take off your shirt." Sighing, I pulled it off. All I had left was my pants, my mask and my X-Men speedo underwear. After he dealt the next hand, he told me what the cards were. "Let's see . . you got a king high and I have a pair of tens. I win. Take off your pants." "Uh, you have some drool coming out of your mouth, Rich," I said as I pulled off my pants. Simmons let out a deep groan. "Call me Dick," he whispered. After a few moments, he shook his head and dealt some more pretend cards. "You got a six, eight, ten, jack and a two," He told me. "I got four sixes. Take off your underwear!" Crap, this wasn't looking good. I glanced around to make sure no one was looking. I saw Simon starting to stir so I blasted him again. Then I pulled down my shorts. Simmons eyes lit up and a huge smile crossed his face. He looked kind of delirious. He just stood staring my crotch for like ten minutes. "Uh, Dick?" I said. "I can see that," he answered. "Oh, I mean . . right." He quickly handed me some invisible cards. "You got four kings!" he shouted. Awesome! Finally. "Oh, I got four Aces. Sorry." Damn. I pulled off my mask. The visor shielding my eyes was attached to it. As soon as my visor was lifted, the force beams constantly streaming from my eyes shot out and blasted Simmons in the face. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5180570773289920450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_n7ElxHw3550/R-UVq6O3Z8I/AAAAAAAAACo/ViV4Goetunk/s400/desert.jpg" border="0" /> I pulled my mask back on and looked around. All four of the Brotherhood were lying motionless, breathing softly. At least I think they were still breathing. I started back to the transport rather pleased with myself. Professor X is going to be so proud. When I climbed into the transport, the pilot looked back at me. "Where are your clothes?" he asked. Whoops.Cyclopsnoreply@blogger.com