The Jenkins Conspiracy

another one i take credit for:

Jenkins: Uh, sir. Can we talk?
The Don: Of course. What can i do for you on this, the day of my daughter's wedding.
Consiglere: No Sicilian can refuse a favor on the day of his daughter's wedding
Jenkins: Yes, I know. I have seen "The Godfather" trilogy like a dozen times and that's my problem.
The Don: Whatever do you mean?
Jenkins: Well, we're supposed to the mob, right? Right. But, as far as I can tell, we only conttrol the Independence Port area and we share that.
Jenkins: Add to the fact that all you guys do is quote from gangser movies, and well you can see my dissatisfaction
Luca Brassi sleeps with the fishes
Jenkins: What the hell does that have to do with anything?! Look, ever since I can remember I wanted to be a gangs--aw hell, now you got me doing it.
The Don: Everytime I try to get out, they keep pulling me back in!
Jenkins: Oh for the love of! I quit. Man this is worse than my last job
*Family Guy style flashback*
Hellion Slicer: Ok, so as the FNG your job is to rob the MAGI vault.
Jenkins: Are you kidding me? Theres like a 3 mile long line to get in that thing!
Slicer: Hmm, you're right. Bring a lawn chair and a book or something
Jenkins: Gawd, I hate you.

Our stalwart supervillain intern Jenkins finds himself once more within the walls of the Zigg.

Jenkins: "Hey....um....H.T?"
H.T: "You're back AGAIN? They just busted you out a few hours ago!"
Jenkins: "Yeah. I know. That's the last time I try stealing a purse in Atlas Park. Anyways, I have something I wanted to ask you."
H.T: "If you want me to help ya break out again, then get me some drugs...."
Jenkins: <throws his hands up in frustration> Are your legs broke? The nurse is like twenty freaking feet away for crying out loud! Go terrorize her yourself you junkie! <mumbles> You'd think he would'a O.D'd by now...."
H.T: <glowers at Jenkins>
Jenkins: "Look, nevermind all that nonsense. I need to ask you something important. <he looks around carefully before continuing> The Zigg is supposed to be the biggest and most secure prison in the country right? Not counting the daily breakouts and riots of course." <he rolls his eyes>
H.T: "Yeah? So what about it?"
Jenkins: "Has anyone else noticed we only have like....a dozen cells here? <he speaks in a hushed tone> And most of them are occupied by a guy named Mike? I'm not saying several guys named Mike, I mean they're all the same freaking guy! It's really weirding me out man!"
H.T: "Oh yeah. That's Multiple Mike. He's a mutant with the power to replicate himself."
Jenkins: "He can clone himself? That's awesome! I wish I could get me some of that!"
H.T: "Nah. All he did was get himself multiple life sentences. Now are you gonna get me my drugs now or what?"
Jenkins: <storms off angrily down the hallway, passing the frightened....yet bored looking....nurse>
H.T: "Hey moron! You walked by the nurse! Where do you think yer going?"
Jenkins: <stops and spins around> Not that it's any of your business Mr. I Hate Vowels, but I'm going to stroll on out of here AGAIN, find me a nearby dollar store...."
H.T: "Robbing a dollar store? Heh. Loser chump!"
Jenkins: <sighs> "I'm not going to rob it ya shmuck! I'm going to buy some Pop Rocks candy and glue it on my face! I figure I'll try joining the Devouring Earth this time and I need a costume...."

The saga continues....

Where did the 5th Column go?
Nebel Fist: Okay Jenkins, watch this door, if any of those council guys come in just start shooting.
Jenkins: Um whats the fire bullet setting again? I can't find it.
Nebel Fist: Um I don't know, lemme see... look just use the normal bullets okay, the fire thing doesn't work to well anyway.
Jenkins: Failed the gun course huh?
Nebel Fist: (sigh) ...yeah Look just don't let anyone through that door, and for the love of god, don't let the near the gas room!
Jenkins: Theres a gas room? Can I see?
Nebel Fist: I showed you last week! And you left the door open. It took us 3 hours to get all those War Wolves outa there!
Jenkins: Ohhhh yeah, I think I left my Ze Rally is starting pager in there with my lunch. I mean, do I really need a pager to tell me when the rally starts? They blast it on the frickin intercom for like 3 hours before it starts

Nebel Fist: We got to used to the intercom after a few years.. but yeah. Okay, okay, here are the keys, but you better come straight back to this door, and don't leave the gas rooms door open, one bullet in those canisters will flood our whole tunnel network with poison gasses, that will kill us all, and leave our bases wide open for some random namless organization to take it over when the fog clears.
Jenkins: Okay, sheesh you don't have to tell me again! (10 minutes later) Hey my lunch! Man these lunchables never go bad. I wonder if the fire mode on this thing will make it toasty? (CLICK) Sweet I found it!"

Pop-TINK-shhhhhhhhh

Jenkins runs out leaving the door open, and heads out the front door dropping the keys as he tears off his 5th uniform.

Jenkins makes us wonder about him:

"But I really don't want to wear women's panties." Jenkins crossed his arms and tried to look as defiant as possible dressed in fishnet stockings and a lime green bustier. His new boss, sultry socialite Vanessa Devore, was not pleased.

"What do you mean you don't want to wear women's panties?" She slid from her plush, velvet seatee and with the languid steps of a siren slowly circled her new minion.

Jenkins had been a curious addition to the Carnival of Shadows. He was much too scrawny to be one of her powerful Strongmen… and that pretty much ended his opportunities as a male villain among the female dominated Carnival. But Jenkins showed dedication. He was willing to do anything. And the little man's resume read like a Who's Who list of Paragon City's biggest Bads. Vanessa grudgingly admitted the bizarre Jenkins had somehow met some very impressive villains. She was always looking to add the well connected to her social (and criminal) fold. Now all she required was to talk the man into wearing women's panties, women's pink panties.

"Jenkins. Imagine the power you could assume by putting on these frilly women's panties. You'd have the mental prowess to crush a man's weak mind. You'd be able to strike mortal fear in the heart of any hero who dared oppose you. And lust? The men who gazed upon you in these pink, lacey, see through, women's panties would be under your thrall. You would enslave dozens, hundreds, THOUSANDS of weak-willed simpletons with a mere slap of your hiney. There is power in these panties Jenkins."

"But Ms. Devore. I'm not homosexual or anything..."

"Please, call me Vanna."

"OK... uhm... Vanna. I just really, REALLY don't feel comfortable wearing women's panties." Jenkins nervously shuffled his feet as he talked. "I mean, yeah, you were right about the silk stockings. After we shaved my legs, yeah, they pulled on very smoothly. And they feel… quite… liberating. And the leather bracelets and the weaponry are kind of manly, I guess, but, Vanna… please don't make me wear women's panties."

Vannesa Devore glowered, "I could crush your mind and MAKE you wear the women's panties!"

"Please don't." Jenkins offered.

She sighed. "I won't. To gain the power of the panties one must willingly slip them on…"

"Yeah, that's the other thing. I thought all you gals' power came from those clown masks you wear?"

Vanessa guffawed,"Oh yeah the masks...no. It's a ruse to confuse the heroes. I bought, like, 80 cases of these cheap things at a Mardi Gras clearance house a few years back. Check this out" She handed him a Harlequin mask, turning it over. "Made in Taiwan."

"Well, golly." Jenkins made no effort to hide his surprise. "So it really is the women's panties."

"Yeah. I found the first pair of silky, lavender panties on a Rikti mentalist. I killed him and learned to harness the panty power myself. The panties are self-replicating. I still wear the original pair myself. At night I put a pair in the freezer and the next morning there are ten."

"Well gosh golly! And the Rikti wear panties too?" Jenkins was aghast.

"The Rikti wear mental panties. The Devoured Earth have their own set of magical panties. You don't want to get within five feet of a pair of smelly Banished Pantheon panties. Stiiiinky!" Vannesa laughed behind her mask.

"Wow…so power through panty."

"Yes Jenkins. Put on your panties."

"Hmmm…" Jenkins held the pink women's panties infront of him. He could feel the power pulsating through the soft, silky fibers. He swore they were calling his name.

He slowly lifted one high-heeled foot and put it through the left. He regained his balance and did the same with his right leg and slowly pulled the panties up over his dumpy knees and then over his saggy bottom.

The power of the panties surged through him! He sensed persons outside the richly appointed bedroom. He could hear their thoughts and sense their hidden desires. He also felt kind of strangely sexy in the pink panties.

Jenkins decided he might just like this new job after all..

Jenkins: Uhh… Mr. Greater Devoured. Sir?

Greater Devoured: GRAAAGHH. What you want, Rosevine?…

Jenkins: Look, I uh, need to put in my two weeks, or whatever. This just isn’t working for me.

Greater Devoured: You no can leave. You are one of us.

Jenkins:Well…umm…. I never actually went through with that whole mandatory transformation thing. I’ve just been collecting vines off the wall of the apartments behind my building and gluing them to my clothes. And, well, I think there was some poison ivy mixed up in there. I know it helps the image with the whole crusty blisters thing, but by God, I need some calamine lotion! And then what is up with the caves?! I understand the Circle of Thorns wanting to hang around down here, but most of you guys are plants! Vegetative Lifeforms!! You can’t tell me that most of you don’t need to be in the sun. No wonder some of these “heroes” can walk all over you. Half of the organization is WILTING! I am SO out of here!

<As Jenkins turns to leave, he sees that two Deathcaps have blocked off the only exit from the room. Jenkins turns around quickly and sees his *former* boss, the Greater Devoured, summon a couple of swarms. Just as his ex-boss rears back (for what Jenkins knows is his projectile-vomiting move), he sees a puff of brown spores. The last thing he thinks as he falls asleep is: “Oh bloody hell…..”>

It seems Hamidon has some self image issues:

Jenkins: Why are there so many heroes gathering up on that cliff there?
Hamidon: They are going to attack ussss my little one.
Jenkins: Yeah about that, uh... I don't think I'm cut out to be a floating orb in jello.
Hamidon: Why little one, you don't like fruit pie?
Jenkins: Well no I like fruit CAKE, except when I get it for Christmas but this whole spit at heroes and get kicked in the nuts thing isn't working for me. Plus I hate lime flavored jello.
Hamidon: Do you want to make me cry? Is that it? Do you realize that all I can do is SIT here and watch as heroes come on down to beat on my poor defenseless mass of blob? I KNOW I'M OBESE! Why do you have to bring it up! You know I can't just lose this weight!
Jenkins: Hey, hey you're not fat! You're a rail baby! But really I should get going.
Hamidon: Fine go! Leave me just like Tanya left me, I don't care! I've accepted the fact that I'm fat I don't need you to remind me anyway!
Jenkins:Okay I'll just be going now.
*floats away out of the blob.*
Jenkins: You should really consider Weight Watchers.
Hamidon: LEEEEAAAAAVEEE!

A Praetorian version of Jenkins? Who knew?

They'd been sitting there in the rubble strewn streets of Paragon City for close to an hour. Neither one of them said anything. They just sat and stared at the doppelganger sitting across from one another; Jenkins and Hopkins. On the horizon, the familiar statue of Atlas appeared to hold a smoking crescent moon, another architectural tragedy in the war torn cityscape of Atlas Park.

The silence was palpable. Jenkins couldn't help feeling like he was looking at a mirror reflection of himself. Well, except Hopkins was more muscled and wore a bright green, spandex body suit. He also proudly displayed a pale scar from a long ago battle protecting the benevolent Oranbegan scholars.

Jenkins finally broke the uncomfortable silence, "So…you are…like me, but here you're a super hero and stuff?"

Hopkins smiled warmly, "Yes Jenkins, I'm just like you… well, except I'm not exactly a super hero, yet. I'm more a sidekick, I guess. I usually hang out while more powerful heroes show me the ropes. They end up saving me more than vice-versa."

"Wow. Heroes like Bastian and Swan, oh and Statesman?"

Hopkins raised his eyebrows in alarm, "Golly, no way. I know who you're talking about. If I stepped on the same city block as those hooligans I'd be fricasseed for sure. Anyways, they don't go by those names here. They're bad guys here, Jenkins."

"Oh yeah. Sorry Hopkins. This Praetorian stuff gets me all oogly in my noggin." Jenkins rubbed his forehead and casually studied the patterns in the cracked pavement.

"It's no problem buddy. The first trip through a Portal Corp gateway can be disorienting. No. I work with this world's heroes; the big ones like the Kind Countess and Healer Vahz and Spirit Bride. But everyone's worried we're losing this war. Morale has been down lately. Thank goodness heroes like you show up on occasion to help turn the tide."

Jenkins kept his eyes on the cracks in the pavement, "Yeah…heroes like me…"

"You know. When I got that first secret transmission from you - from your world, I have to admit. I was way skeptical. I guess living on Praetorian Earth makes one a little skittish. But the more we talked, the more I realized you are just like me. It's uncanny! The glasses, our hair, we even sound alike!"

"Yeah... it's uncanny. Here's an idea. Test your voice. See if you can fool the vocal sensor on my wrist watch." Jenkins held his forearm towards his alter-ego. "Just say 'initiate operation mirror-mirror'."

"OK buddy! This'll be a fun trick!" Hopkins eagerly leaned close to the red watch and spoke into a tiny audio mic, "Initiate operation mirror-mirror."

The watch face flashed red and a familiar tone played from the device. Jenkins' watch was programmed to play the Hustle.

Hopkins broadly smiled and looked into Jenkin's eyes. He laughed and said, "Gosh golly! M--"

A giant robot's foot smashed down onto the Preatorian hero crunching him into a sticky pulp of blood, viscera and emerald green Spandex. Jenkins wiped a little bit of Hopkinsplatter from his glasses, and looked up at the Warhulk automaton which had been hiding behind a nearby wall, waiting for the initiate command.

"It took you long enough Jenkins! We only had two hours for you to find that do-gooder and take him out. Your socializing nearly cost us this mission!" The robot scolded his minion while wiping clean it's steel foot on a patch of burned grass. "Now let's find that portal and get out of here."

Jenkins sighed. He was certain this would go into his Nemisis reprimand file. He stood and followed the lumbering Warhulk away from the scene of the carnage. As he left, Jenkins failed to notice Hopkins' pale arm sticking from the gore of gooey entrails and crushed bone. On the dead man's wrist, Hopkins' communicator began to beep.

His was programmed to play the Hustle as well

Automaton Soldier 1: Jenkins! How about those TPS reports?
Jenkins: Yeah yeah I know about the cover sheets... hey look, can we talk about something?
Automaton Soldier 1: Did you see the game last night?
Jenkins: Um no, I missed it... but really, I wanted to talk about -
Automaton Soldier 2: Jenkins! How about those TPS reports?
Jenkins: ... Ok look guys, this just isn't working out for me. You see, -
Automaton Soldier 1: Who made the coffee this morning?
Automaton Soldier 3: Nice weather we're having!
Jenkins: ... You see, we don't actually do anything... you guys just stand around in one place! For weeks! You're covered in dust!
Automaton Soldier 2: Did you see the game last night?
Automaton Soldier 3: Jenkins! How about those TPS reports?
Jenkins: I want to be transferred outta here, there must be a Nemesis division that's more exciting than this one....
Automaton Soldier 1 <speaking into radio>: Jenkins unit requires shipping to new location.
Jenkins: Hey that's great! No hard feelings, hm? I really sorry I can't stay, you guys are, um, great company and all.
<2 beefy-looking Automatons come over and unfold a 2-foot cardboard box>
Automaton Soldier 1: Prepare Jenkins unit for shipping.
Jenkins: Uh... shipping?
<Automatons grab a hold of Jenkins and lift him over the box>
Jenkins: Bloody hell...

The Ritki abduct Jenkins:

Jenkins: Urrrgghhhh... *drools*
Conscript: <The subject awakens.>
Rikti Proctologist: <No worry. He is completely immobile. Hand me the probe.>
J: Is that what I think it is? Bloody HELL! Get that away from me!
RP: <Wait a moment! My panties!>
C: <It seems he got them from a clown.>
RP: *confiscates undergarment* <Okay, now we can insert the... What the!?! Our probes are never THIS intrusive.> *gestures towards Jenkins's hindquarters* <The subject is ruined. It seems someone else got to him first. We'll have to send this one back and get another.>
C: <I've let him know he's being returned. He said 'Thank you Dominatrix' before going unconcious again.>

Jenkins Goes Home

I'm sure you've all seen the billboards around Paragon City for a certain lawyer:

A bald, plump man in a nice suit steps out of a count house as a gaggle of news reporters swarm around him.
“Mr. Jenkins!” “Chris Jenkins!” “Sir!” they all shout, trying to get his attention.
Being a real professional, the attorney has no trouble stringing the crowd along, and just before stepping into his vehicle he turns to face the reporters.
“I'll answer three questions” he states bluntly, but with a welcoming grin on his face, “You, in the green.”
The din ends for a moment while the reporter poses his question. “This is the fourth member of the Freakshow you've managed to have acquitted on the grounds of ‘insufficient evidence’ this week. How do you manage it?”
“The events of this case, as well as those other three, are strictly confidential. But my client IS innocent, and that's all that's important. Next question!”, Chris Jenkins pauses for a moment while scanning the crowd, “You!”
“Hi dad”, says the man Chris Jenkins pointed to, “Can we talk?”
Flabbergasted, Chris Jenkins stammers for a moment before finally blurting out, “Sorry everyone, no more questions. Good night!” He motions his son to get into the car with him.

“Jeremy, it’s been so long” says Chris as he begins driving.
“Yeah, sorry about that, dad. I meant to call you, but I’ve been really busy with work. I’ve been doing a lot of travelling and changing of, um . . . positions and stuff. They don’t keep me in one place for too long. It can get really tough sometimes, but I think it’s best if I don’t stay with any one, uh . . . division too long. You know, change is good for the soul and all that” meanders Jeremy.
“Son, quit the palaver. I know you have something specific on your mind” Chris said, any pretense of joy at the prospect of being reunited with his son was now gone.
“Right. Sorry.”
An awkward silence falls between the two for almost half a minute.
“WELL?!” exclains Chris.
“Right, uh . . . well, in one of my most recent jobs I made a friend, real nice guy. He helped me out a lot when I joined the ga- er, um . . . ‘firm’. Trouble is, he’s recently fallen on some tough times, and- ...”
“I’m not giving anyone charitable donations, Jeremy” Chris’s tone just kept getting more and more baleful.
“No, it’s not that. You see, he’s, uh . . . he’s . . . he’s been moonlighting as a security guard, yeah, at this warehouse we work at occasionally.”
“Uh huh . . .”
“And some heroes decided to break in, you see . . .”
“Yes. I see EXACTLY where this is going.”
“Really?” Jeremy says with a start, “So, will you help him out?”
“Will he pay me?” retorted Chris.
“Oh, come on dad! He’s a friend!”
“So?”
“I knew it was a mistake coming to you . . .”
“Look Jeremy,” Chris’s tone had become even more dire, “I didn’t get where I am today by just helping any random thug get out of jail for free. I’ve made a fortune out of it. Not only that, the gangs and criminal organizations of this city owe me more favours than bugs in a Swarm! If this ‘friend’ of yours can’t offer me anything, than he’s not getting anything in return, got it?”
“Yes sir . . .”
“Good!”
Another awkward silence fell.
“Now,” stated Chris finally, “if I recall correctly, YOU still owe me for that time I got you out of community service two years ago. I just bought a new place in Founders’ Falls. You’re going to paint it.”
“Bloody hell . . .”

We see what Statesman is really like in the office:

Jenkins: so let me get this straight. I am just supposed to take a few of these magazines to the mailroom at a time?
Sinister voice on intercom: yesss, that is correct
Jenkins: but we have 29 other guys, er… henchmen here to help. We could deliver the whole load in about 5 hours and have it all mailed out!
Sinister voice on intercom: The villain groups you have worked with in the past were obviously overpowered.
Jenkins: uh yeah. If you say so
Sinister voice on intercom: I think I will do some checking into them
Jenkins: well about that part on my resume where I have that gap for about 4 months? Positron had re-directed a task force on to me and I was in jail.
Sinister voice on intercom: I am aware of that. We always do full criminal background checks before hiring new staff.
Jenkins: ok then! So about those magazines – why was it that you didn’t want me to help get them all to the mailroom? Wouldn’t it be more efficient?
Sinister voice on intercom: efficient? Yessss. But my vision from day 1 was that our “customers” be teased, addicted, and then I will have them in the palm of my hand!
Jenkins: But, Mr. Tyr…
Sinister voice on intercom: [interrupting] I told you NOT TO CALL ME THAT! It was just a phase I was going through.
Jenkins: Yessir! I mean No Sir! I mean, Mr. Statesm…
Sinister voice on intercom: [interrupting] and NOT THAT EITHER! Get back to work! And now I want the magazines hand-delivered one at a time.
Jenkins: Yes sir, Mr. Zeus. One at a time. [grumbles]delusions of godhood...
Sinister voice on intercom: I HEARD THAT! Don’t make me nerf you, Jenkins! Remember what I did to Kip… Do we have an understanding?
Jenkins: Yes sir! I will hand-deliver one City Of Heroes comic at a time to the mailroom.
Sinister voice on intercom: And when you are done, I want you in my office for your quarterly smiting! [disconnects]
Jenkins: oh bloody hell…

The War Wolf project hits a snag:

The glass shattered. Crystalline shrapnel flew outward from the 54th floor of the Steelhaus Building followed by the ragdoll tumble of a man. He appeared to fall like a lazy ball of dryer fluff. That was an illusion of perspective, however. In 15 seconds Jenkins was certain to die.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!"

*C'mon, oh bloody…think Jenkins. Think!* Jenkins squeezed his eyes shut and focused, *Summon up that dark mojo Nos put in you. You got to or you're gonna splat for sure this time. Golly. Steel Canyon is very pretty this high up. Enough! Focus!*

Jenkins felt the cold wind whip around him. He looked into himself. He searched for that feral beast the Council's months of experimentation had sought to unleash… unfortunately, they hadn't unleashed it yet. It was still buried in there. Jenkins attributed his lack of transformation to his general performance anxiety. He sometimes gets very nervous. Like that time in 5th grade when the class was putting on the school play about the Founding Fathers.

He got to play Lightnin' Ben in fact. His best friend Eric was Washington the Hatchetman. Jordan, man he hated Jordan, got to play Statesman. Sean got to play Alexander Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton didn't have any powers, so he was the lamest Founding Father. Anyways, Jenkins forgot all his lines and…

*Jenkins! Focus!!!* He berated himself for reliving all that crap. Is this what people do when they're faced with death? They worry about trivial crap from their childhoods? This was a test. His last test, but a test! He would pass! His bloody life depended on it. Focus. Focus. Focus. Jenkins scrunched up his brow and tensed his body. He imagined sitting on the toilet… and… His eyes snapped open. He caught sight of the full moon hanging above Steel Canyon. He felt the Beast surge within him!

"RRRRAAWWLLLRRRRR!!!" The ground rushing up towards him seemed to slow down. He identified where he was set to land. His reflexes attained an acute focus and with a delicate somersault he landed easily on his hind paws. He pounded his furry chest and roared into the night air as a deadly rain of broken glass crashed around him. He desired blood. He craved flesh. For some strange reason… he was hungry for tacos. But he pushed that weak thought into the back of his canine brain.

He heard clapping behind him and the monotone hum of a Council hoverbot. Jenkins spun and prepared to attack. But it was his master, Nosferatu.

"Ssss. Very good Jenkinsss. I ssseee my final test managed to unleash your beast. Unfortunately, I alssso see you are yet another aberration. I wassss afraid of as much when you failed to transssform quickly in my lab."

Jenkins growled, "What do you mean 'aberration'? I feel fine. I'm a killing machine. I'm death incarnate. The foolish heroes will tremble before me. I will rip their still beating hearts from their chests and drink their blood like wine!"

"Darling, you're a Chihuahua." Nosferatu giggled and handed him a mirror.

Sure enough. Jenkins had transformed into an adorable, big-headed Chihuahua; a Chihuahua wearing leather pants and a studded harness.

"Damn. This sucks!" Jenkins spit at the ground and kicked his tiny, little paw at the shards of glass.

"Watch out precious. You're going to cut yourself." Nosferatu bent low and scooped up Chihuahua-Jenkins into his arms. "This happens sometimes little fellow. It's an unfortunate sssside effect of my processsss. Sometimes the, mmm, how do I put this delicately, less enthusssed, take on more passive forms of Beasthood."

"But sir, what future do I have as a Chihuahua? None. Absolutely stinking nothing!!!" Chihuahua-Jenkins savored the delicious fury building within him again. He wanted to rip the vampyre's throat out. He desired to gobble his pickled brain and dry hump Nosferatu's bony, gnarled leg!

"Tsssk Tsk. None of that Jenkins. I can read your thoughts, you know." Nos winked.

"Sorry boss…" Chihuahua-Jenkins calmed down.

"There are plenty of opportunities for operatives with your unique skills. We have Council-Chihuahuas placed in national media firms and hidden among several of our rival factions. Take for instance the Taco Bell Chihuahua? He's Council. And look at Paris Hilton's doggie Tinkerbell? Ms. Hilton is among the upper echelons of the Carnival of Shadows and her very puppy is our spy."

"Uhm boss. I read she got rid of Tinkerbell."

"What? No. Friggin. Way. Where'd you read that?"

"US Weekly I think. Or maybe Teen People? Apparently Tinkerbell got too big. Oh and Tink kept biting at Paris' new puppy, Bambi.

"Hmm. Bambi you say? This name sssstinks of intrigue by the Circle of Thorns! Cursssses. Damn you Parissss Hilton!" Nosferatu shook his razor clawed fist to the heavens as he carefully stepped aboard his hoverbot. "Come along Jenkins. I have Snausages upstairs in my personal chambers."

Chihuahua-Jenkins hopped into a tiny wicker basket on the front of the hoverbot and gleefully considered the offers of Snausages and world domination.

Jenkins sighed as he pulled open the front panel of another collection of computer banks. It wasn’t that the job was bad, though it certainly had its dangers, he could tell tale of dozens of times he’d nearly been killed by -traps today alone, but it wasn’t exactly fulfilling either. Constant rush, rush, rush coupled with worry, caution, haste, and moments of absolute terror followed by lots and lots of running. That’s how the day usually went if he was lucky.

If he wasn’t lucky he’d probably spend several moments pleading for his life before all that worry became irrelevant and he got to take the grand tour of the universe.


This base was much like the others. Hidden behind some ordinary-looking façade, full of high-tech equipment used by some villain or other for some evil scheme, and recently raided by some do-gooder hero-type and emptied of all aforementioned villains. In-between the time the hero-type left and the next batch of crooks, and/or official do-gooder technicians snuck in people like Jenkins made a quiet living scavenging anything that wasn’t nailed down.

The man Jenkins worked for wanted computer parts, so Jenkins very carefully opened up as many computers as he could and tore out anything he thought he could without being electrified. Then hopefully he’d be able to sneak out without being caught, because being caught would mean, at best, a swift beating followed by a quick death. At worst death wouldn’t be so quick.


So when Jenkins’ finely tuned sense of preservation heard what sounded exactly like the front door being opened it went on Full Alert. Perhaps if he hadn’t been halfway inside a large radar-looking device set just inside the main entrance he would have had a chance of getting out. Instead he swore violently, (but quietly), and bashed his head on the metal casing as he tried to scramble out and look innocent. Jenkins stood up and saw a tall man in a black suit staring right at him. A man in a black suit who seemed to have a human skull where his head should have been, which didn’t make any sense whatsoever.

“What are you doing there?” the skull-headed man asked Jenkins, who was busy noticing that the new arrival wasn’t carrying a large gun or anything and therefore would probably have him killed in a very slow and painful method.

“Um… nothing?” Jenkins answered hopelessly, sweating profusely from every pore.

“Oh,” replied the skull-man, “jolly good. Carry on.” The skull-man then breezed on in as if he hadn’t a clue what had happened just twenty minutes earlier! Jenkins sighed in relief and was tempted to get on his knees and give thanks but settled for dashing, (quietly), like a madman for the door as soon as the man was out of sight.

“Just one thing,” a voice near his ear hissed. Jenkins immediately let go of the door handle and spun around, his eyes as large as a cd. He knew he skull-man had realized the base was empty and that Jenkins was not on the list of approved people to be inside the secret base. Death was once again staring him in the face… this time it seemed literal, given the empty eye sockets of the man he was facing.

“Yes-s-s-s, sir?” Jenkins asked with a large lump in his throat.

The skull-man’s body seemed to radiate anger and mistrust even though his face was, obviously, smiling. “Do you know where the pickles have gone?” the man asked in a way that insinuated that not only did Jenkins know where the pickles were but he had coveted them all his life and finally decided to steal them while the skull-man’s back was turned.

Jenkins couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “Pickles… sir?” he added quickly as he tried to think of how he was going to survive this.

“Yes… the pickles. You know. Small little green things in green liquid with a miniature Grouch-Marx-bird on the front. Pickles. I’d spell it but I think we both know exactly what has happened and need not keep up the pretense, don’t you?” The certainty of painful torture-filled days loomed large on Jenkins’ calendar.

“They’re in the fridge, I-I-I-I think, ss-s-sir,” he stammered.

The skull-man’s mood seemed to change instantly from contemplating murder to contemplating a nice picnic in the park. “Really? Oh good. Good man. What’s your name soldier?”

Jenkins’ mind clashed. One half of it demanded he give a fake name, the other half demanded a fake name to give out. In the end he went with the first thing that came to mind. “Jenkins, sir,” he said as one half of his brain punched the other half in the gut and called it dirty names.

“Jenkins, huh? That’s a good name. Can’t say I remember ever seeing you before, but I guess that’s ok since I’ve never been here before. Now tell me Jenkins- can I call you Sam?” Jenkins nodded weakly in response. “Oh good. Now tell me Sam- wait, wait wait,” the skull-man shook his head in disappointment and backed up a few steps, which pleased Jenkins since until now they’d been close enough to be considered engaged in some parts of the world.

“There’s something wrong here,” the skull-man said and looked around the room. There were bullet-holes in the walls, scorch-marks on most of the equipment, bits of equipment and cloth scattered here and there. In fact, in the entrance-way alone there was every evidence of some massive fight had occurred recently. You could even still smell the gunpowder and smoke. None of this though seemed to register with the skull-man. “Oh yes, I know what is wrong. I have no idea where the break-room is, Sam. Be a dear and just fetch the pickles for me, will you?”

“Sir?” Jenkins asked helplessly. Couldn’t the idiot skull-man just wander off and look so that he could get out before anybody smarter showed up and spent the next six hours trying to extract his liver through a straw or something?

“Go. Fetch. Pickles,” the skull-man said in a voice that darkly suggested a rolled-up newspaper was in the future for anyone who didn’t instantly obey. Reluctantly Jenkins quick-walked down the tunnel to find a jar of pickles he was certain didn’t exist.


“Bloody Hell, how do you get into these things,” Jenkins’ muttered to himself as he wandered through the base looking for a good place to hide for a while. He was in a large room that seemed to contain a number of individual multi-storey pill-boxes. From his vantage point at the top of one he could see very little – by design, it looked like – but he hoped that also meant his chances of being discovered were also remote.

“Jenkins, I am still waiting for those pickles,” the skull-man said, causing Jenkins to jump and yelp in fright. “Nice little piggie noise though. Pickles. If I don’t get them soon I’m afraid I will have to do something very unpleasant to you. I’m sorry, but those are the rules I’ve just made up.”

“I think we may be out of pickles sir,” Jenkins pleaded, “perhaps I could get some from the store? I think there’s a SuperFood just around the corner, please sir?”

The skull-man seemed stunned. Jenkins didn’t know how he could tell since the man’s face was just rigid bone, but somehow he knew he was right. “No…. pickles? By the gods man, what sort of operation are you running here?!!”

“Uh, um… uh,” Jenkins stammered.

“Well then by Heaven we’re going to straighten things up here. I’m going to whip this place into shape or else the great Googly-Moogly will feast on your gizzards!” he shouted at the ceiling with his fists upraised in defiance. Jenkins wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or terrified. “Who do you work for?”

“Sir?”

“This office, this agency, who is in charge here man? I demand to speak to your superior officer!”

“Um, well, you see sir, it’s like this,” Jenkins had a brain flash, “about an hour ago a super-powered super-hero swept through here and took everyone off to jail, so nobody will be back for a while sir.”

“Jail huh? Why aren’t you in jail then?” he asked suspiciously.

“It was my lunch break sir,” Jenkins replied without delay and congratulated himself on a well thought-out lie.

“Which jail?”

“Sir?”

“Which jail? Surely the question is not difficult?”

“The Ziggurat sir, the only jail Paragon City uses anymore.”

“Oh yes, that place. Ok. Let’s go.”

“Go sir?”

“Yes. I mean to have a word with this commander of yours. You’re going to take me to him.” Jenkins just stared at him as his brain, which had only just patched up its differences and made peace, now began arguing with itself all over again.

“But we’ll be arrested, sir.”

“That’s fine, I’ve been there plenty of times, no problems. Lead the way.”

“But sir,” Jenkins weakly protested.

“Tut tut, Fred, we’ll never get those pickles with that sort of attitude,” the skull-man patted Jenkins shoulder as he steered him down the stairs and towards the exit. “Tell me again Roger, what’s the name of your organization again?”

As they walked down the corridor Jenkins sadly replied, “I think this is a Coucil base, sir.”

“Council, huh? More like the Council Against Pickles if you ask me. Oh yes, there shall be a reckoning.”

“Bloody Hell, how do I get into this stuff?” Jenkins muttered in despair. The skull-man put his arm around Jenkins’ shoulder, pulled him uncomfortably close, and asked “what’s that young Robert?”

“Nothing sir,” he sighed resignedly.

“Good good,” the skull-man answered automatically and kept walking.

“Sir?” Jenkins asked after a quite moment.

“What is it Billy?”

“Could you please let go of me?”

“Superstitious, eh?”

“If it will get you to let go, then yes.”

“All right young Turner,” he replied with a chuckle and let go of Jenkins’ shoulder. “Now, all we need to do is get into jail. I wonder how we manage that?”

“Easy enough,” Jenkins answered without thinking, “just get arrested.” In his head the halves of his brain looked at each other in shock and accused each other of being complete idiots. Weapons were drawn.

“Excellent!” the skull-man shouted with a clap of his hands, “lead the way Albert.”

Jenkins joins the newest group, the Coralax Hybrids:

note that we have, in our collective callousness, neglected to get poor Jenkins off the bottom of the harbor. Well, that shall be remedied..though he might have been better off drowning.

As the water rushed to cover his head, he once more displayed that pigheaded optimism that had often lead him to tender his resignation to archvillains in person--he held his breath. An oddly calm part of his mind noted a DVD player sinking with him.

Jenkins: I'll get out of this. I always get out of these things. Maybe Lusca needs a henchman?

That hope, desperate as it was, dimmed as weight of the cement dragged him farther from light and air. A faint light bloomed before him in the murky, benighted depths, where no light should be. His new overshoes thudded into the deep muck beneath the pier.

Jenkins: That's it, then. Funny, after my life, I didn't really expect to "go into the light".

Something slimy slapped against his face, and his mouth dropped open in shock...only to fill with air. It was foul, reeking of ammonia and iodine. It was the most wonderful air he'd ever smelled. As the black roses of suffocation cleared from his eyes, the light before him resolved into a faintly luminescent figure. It was holding something against his face. Instinctively, he reached up to hold the breather in place, and the figure released it, darting instead toward his feet. He couldn't see what it was doing, but within moments, the dreadful weight was gone, and his savior was gripping his arm solicitously.

Jenkins: Oh, wow. Thanks! Lucky you had this breather thing--I guess you've done lots of these rescues if those mobsters have been dumping people here.

The creature made a sound like a sack of dead cats being swatted with a tennis racket, while doing something that looked like an attempt at the Hokey-Pokey.

Jenkins: Ummm...right. Well, uh, I'll just head for the surface now. I'll need the breather until then, but I'll return as soon as I get in reach of land, OK?

Jenkins kicked off, only to find that the creature's grip on his arm no longer seemed so solicitous. It was much stronger than he was, and seemed disinclined to let go. The creature began dragging him along the harbor floor, heading for the open sea. Forgetting the breather, he tried to pry the finny grip loose with his other hand and felt something horribly like tentacles whip around his head to hold the mask in place.

Jenkins: Look, I can't stay down here. I'm...I'm not a very good swimmer, even when I don't have concrete galoshes on. And I sorta specialize in fire. Fire. F-I-R-E. Do you even know what that is?

Caught fast in the fish-man's implacable grip, Jenkins was pulled onward. Passing through a section of shallows, he spotted a lumpy figure, dappled by the water-thinned moonlight. It looked familiar somehow...it clicked as he saw her lean back into the embrace of an enormous tentacle.

Jenkins: Well, I guess things work out for some people.

Past the harbor gates, Jenkins and his captor plunged into deeper waters. The tentacled thing on his head seemed to be warding off the chill bite of the water as well. He didn't really want to think too hard about how it managed that, but there was little else to consider. There was only the darkness, the water, and the firm grips on his arm and face.

Jenkins had quite lost track of time when light suddenly stabbed at his eyes. It was only a dim luminescence, but after the pitch blackness, the mouth of the tunnel his captor dragged him into seemed to blaze with it. As his eyes adjusted, the twisting passage sank into an eldritch gloom. He peered ahead, trying to catch some glimpse of what awaited him, but the writhing shadows defeated him. He was not aware of the vast chamber ahead until he had been dragged across its threshold. As the (rather small) sensible part of his brain gibbered in horror, the perversely calm bit that always got him into trouble spoke up.

Jenkins: You know, I don't think this is what the Don had in mind when he sent me to sleep with the fishes.

Suddenly, the foul air from the breather turner fouler still, and darkness closed around him once more.

He awoke to find the breather gone. After a panicky moment, he realized that he could breathe without it, though not easily. A fish-man was watching him--perhaps the one who had rescued, then abducted him, or perhaps not. Jenkins had been many things, but never an icthyologist.

Jenkins: All right. What did you do to me? Give it to me straight--it can't be any worse than Dominatrix.

The fish-man made a swishing sound and a very credible attempt at Riverdance.

Jenkins: Figures you'd be good at that one. Wait a minute! Whaddaya mean, "You can talk to fish now"? What the hell kind of a power is that?

The Coralax passed him a shard of mirrored glass, and he glanced into it. As his mouth dropped open in shock, a rush of water flowed easily through his gills, and without thinking, he burbled:

Jenkins: Oh, bloody hell.

My name is Jenkins.

Well....not really, but that's what my last employer called me and I'm not one to disagree with the person that signs my paychecks. Unless that paycheck is short a couple zeroes. Then there's disagreements aplenty. Besides, it's been so long, I can't even remember my name anymore.

I sigh at the thought of all I've lost through the years and take another drag on my cigarette. I inhale the nicotine flavored ambrosia under the shelter of a busted street lamp. The flaps of my trenchcoat dance a little jig in the sudden breeze, and a discarded newspaper flies by so fast I don't have time to read the sports page.

I notice for the first time that the city street is quiet. Too quiet for this part of town, especially this late at night. I look around with a curious eye. That's when I glimpse the shadowy figures running into the abandoned warehouse at the corner. One of them strays into the light from one of the few unbroken street lamps, and his helmet gleams from the faint illumination.

I raise my eyebrows with amused surprise. It looks like the demise of the 5th Column has been greatly exaggerated. I watch as the soldiers silently go about their business. Most of them run inside the derelict warehouse, but one of them stands guard outside. The way he's holding his automatic rifle tells me he's ready for trouble.

A voice inside my head tells me to hide, that this darkness won't conceal me for long. I quit listening to those voices long ago. Too many of them tell me to do things I don't like anyway. Besides, I just had a little spat with a couple of Freakshow goons, and I can still feel the rage smolder inside like a grease fire that refuses to go out.

I stand motionless, like a gargoyle perched on the curb between two ripe smelling garbage cans. The wind seems determined to ruin my night, and mischieviously dislodges an empty beer can from the trash next to me. It hits the cracked sidewalk with a hollow clanging sound before rolling past my size 14's. By the time I return my eyes to the warehouse, I can see the sentinel pointing at me and talking to his buddy.

I strain to hear the conversation, but my artificial ear isn't up to the task. Can't really blame the Good Doctor though. They didn't even have a Radio Shack back then. Still, it would be nice if the damn thing worked like it was supposed to. No matter. The guard is goose-stepping towards me with purpose, while his buddy scurries back into the warehouse like an armored cockroach. I sigh and toss my cigarette to the pavement before stomping on it. I'm good at stomping.

The black clad soldier starts to play a game of Twenty Questions, and the way he holds his gun tells me it's going to be a short game. I just grin and look stupid. I'm good at that. Not the grinning part though, on account of my face. The soldier's accent is heavy. Not German like in the good old days. This one's from the Midwest. Idaho I think.

My musing is interrupted by the ominous clicking of the gun's safety. He seems a little surprised at my speed as I wrench the gun from his hands. Snapping it in half with my bare hands makes a damn good impression too. He turns to run, but I'm just too fast for him. Within moments, he looks like a piece of origami. Origami that twitches anyway.

I stride towards the darkened warehouse, the rage growing with each ponderous step. It's been ages since I was able to pound on these jackbooted stooges, and I was really looking forward to the reunion. I'm halfway to the door when I hear a strange whistling sound. I almost convince myself it's just my artificial ear acting up again, when the stinging pain spreads across my back like a swarm of fire ants.

I turn around to see what the deal is, and I'm rewarded with more stinging sensations. I glance at the objects lodged in my massive chest. They glimmer slightly from the nearby street lamp, and I can see the pointy edges. Shuriken I think they're called. I'm fascinated by the metal jutting from my chest, and try to get a closer look at the ornate engravings along the metal's surface.

The sound of muffled footsteps disrupts my art appreciation class, and I look up as the ebony ghost flies towards me. I raise my hand instinctively to ward off the attack, and a flash of lightning cuts through my arm. My pajama wearing assailant pauses with his sword poised above his head, ready for another strike. We both look at the stump that used to be my forearm. While he waits for blood to gush out of the wound like a crimson fountain, I use my good arm to drive my fist into his face. The squishy feeling gives me goosebumps.

Ignoring the death spasms of the body next to me, I reach down and pick up my severed arm. I hold the lifeless appendage up to the stump and wait for a few agonizingly long seconds. The flesh quickly knits itself together, leaving a raised scar around the circumference of my arm. I can't argue with the Good Doctor's results, but it sure would be nice if my regeneration didn't leave me looking like a jigsaw puzzle forced together by a three year old.

I flex the fingers of my recently reattached hand and study the pajama clad corpse at my feet. It twitches like a bloody marionette with half it's strings cut, so I kick it in a vain attempt to make it stop. Then I kick it again for the hell of it. Damn ninjas. Then it hits me. What the hell are ninjas doing working for the 5th Column? That's not their style.

My reverie is cut short at the sound of a dozen soldiers pouring from the front of the warehouse like angry wasps. I watch as they form a little semicircle around me and point the business end of their rifles in my direction. Looks like my night isn't over just yet.

"Bloody hell." I sigh. The first words I've spoken all night. Might be the last too....

Jenkins: Hello sir, am I too early?
Malise: No, quite on time. Please sit down. Do tell how you found out about my operation?
Jenkins: Calvin Scott, sir.
Malise: What!
Jenkins:He was ranting alot, back when I was with the Freakshow. I was there when you had that, umm, 'run in' with his flunkies.
Malise:You don't look like you were in the Freakshow, Jenkins...
Jenkins: OH! Um, ahh, well, Crey fixed that sir, good health plan there. But the retirement plan stinks.
Malise: Tell me Jenkins, what do you have to offer me?
Jenkins: Well, I shoot fire sometimes, and can turn into, a well, umm... Its embarassing. A, aah, Chiuaua.
Malise: I see. I don't think I can use you.
Jenkins: I've been part of almost every villian group in Paragon. Even Arachnos! I know things, people! Please, I really need the job. Rent is getting expensive in Bricks.
Malise: Interesting. I think I might have just the job for you. I want you to send a special message to Sister Psycho for me. *Mad cackling*
Jenkins: Oh, bloody hell

Jenkins tries an honest job, well semi-honest:

We find our man Jenkins in a police uniform, leaning against a cruiser, with his new partner beside him. Both have embraced the cliche', and are eating donuts.*

Jenkins: "So... this is the job, huh?"
Cop: "Yep. We protect the innocent with our amazing training in the field of law enforcement.... HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! *cough, cough* Oh, jeez- heh- almost choked on my sprinkles..."
Jenkins: "Training? YOU got training? I didn't. They handed me a blood soaked uniform, said 'Here- machine wash, cold. Put it on tomorrow, and get yourself a gun from the supply area before you go out."
Cop: "Sounds about right. Did they teach you how to use the ultra-secret Hero call?"
Jenkins: "NO! How do I do THAT?"
*The cop throws his hands up, and begins frantically screaming and running back and forth. After a few moments, he stops and leans back against the car, eating his donut.*
Cop: "That's how."
Jenkins: "You scream and run around? THAT is the 'ultra-secret Hero call'? That's no secret call- that's just you being a big chicken!"
Cop: "It's also why I'm still alive, mister 'this was once a blood soaked uniform'."
Jenkins: "Hey! Look over there! That one Hellion is trying to steal that old lady's purse! We have to help!"
Cop: "Woah there, rookie. Sit back. A hero will probably come by soon. This is Atlas Park. You can't throw a dead badger without hitting someone in day-glow spandex. That reminds me- I have a dead badger in the trunk. Once we're done with these donuts, we can go do that. Helps pass the time."
Jenkins: "What?! We're NOT going to help??"
Cop: "Look at her- she's fine. She's got a nice firm grip on that sucker. You know, I've seen old ladies fight for DAYS without letting go of their purses. Then a hero comes, and it's all good. That idiot Hellion over there has no idea what he's in for- he's just gonna keep on tuggin' without a care in the world. Watch."
Jenkins: "This blows. I thought I'd be able to make a difference, what with my inside knowledge on all the street gangs in the WHOLE STATE."
Cop: "Oh! Here comes a cape right now! THE SIGNAL, JENKINS!"
*both men charge a nearby hero, and flail their arms screaming*
Captain Thinks-He's-Invisible: "Good lord! DANGER! I'd better save the day!"
*He charges in, one-punches the Hellion, and runs off to battle his next evildoer, with the old lady giving chase in a useless effort to thank him. The two police officers lean against the car again.*
Cop: "You want to know something else? I have no idea how to drive this damn thing. I've been on the force for 2 years now, and this is the only streetcorner I've ever patrolled."
*An extremely powerful hero comes by, with a train of villains behind him. He is quickly teleported away by a teammate, leaving all of the villains right in front of Jenkins and his new partner. They all exchange awkward silence*
Jenkins: *sigh* "...Got that badger handy?"

Jenkins: Uh...Mr. Stalker...err Void, or Void Stalker, sir, whatever your name is?
Void Stalker: Yes?
Jenkins: Uh, I don't think this job is working for me.
Void Stalker: Why not?
Jenkins: Well, you see, it's these guns...what kind of energy is this? Cause I think it's doing stuff to me. Just look at my hair!
Void Stalker: I do not see any hair.
Jenkins: That's my problem! I had a full head of hair when I started, 2 weeks later, all gone! I need to see a doctor, who knows what else could be going on.
Void Stalker: Well, if you MUST go... you realize we must erase your memory of us, yes?
Jenkins: Why does that remind me of something? Oh well, go ahead.
*Void Stalker whips out a strange device with many pointy things*
Jenkins: Oh bloody hell...

Joining The Praetoreans Part 11: Shadowhunter and the Fuzzy Bunch

Jenkins: Son of a.....man this place really needs a good mowing. Awwwww dangit...I know I am gonna get chiggers out here.
Droolcup Higgins: Man this place sucks...I think it is time to have a chat with the boss.
Jenkins: Hey, excuse me. Do you know where I can find Shadowhunter? I am supposed to have an interview...
Droolcup Higgins: Um...yeah. I was heading the same way, I gotta get outta this dump man ASAP, dude. These guys have NO sense of the word hygiene.
Jenkins: Oh yeah? Man, I know what you mean about these AVs bro, ever since the standard villain groups haven't worked out, I have bounced around the praetorean hierarchy like an Arkansas housewife.
Suddenly Jenkins and Higgins are surrounded by a "herd" of ancient looking werewolves. It was obvious that these creatures had been here for decades. Strangely they had bags of rocks thrown over their shoulders, which appeared to be brand new.
Werewolves: Hey what's up new guy! Who's your friend? Welcome to our little 2 acre tract of repetitive carnage!
Jenkins: 2 acre tract of repetitive carnage? What the...
Droolcup Higgins: Yes dude, this place is a friggin joke. You would think that this many werewolves would require a great deal of space to hunt for food, kill terrified women and children, you know...werewolf stuff. Unfortunately the "authorities" around here thought differently. Not only that, but they decided to make a few changes recently...
Jenkins:Changes? What kind of changes?
Werewolves: (/em collective moaning, sighs, and disgusted sounds)
Droolcup Higgins: Ya dude, get this. Not only are we confined to this 2 acre tract, where "werewolves" are supposed to be out in the daytime (which makes no sense at all), but all of the sudden their required tactics were changed.
Jenkins: Uhhh, how can you change the tactics of warewolves? Aren't they naturally pack hunters?
Droolcup Higgins: That's what we thought...but all of the sudden these packages of burlap sacks showed up with instructions...and that's when we knew something silly was going on. Not only that, but the same heroes come in here over and over and over...they kill tons of wolves, but never even try to fight the boss. Stupid, isn't it?
Werewolves: Ya dude. Look at this gimpy instruction card! "Stand back from the target and hurl the boulders..." I mean, thats like telling a shark to swing a bat at their prey!
Droolcup Higgins: Ya the strangest thing, too. The number of fire tankers that have been through here has cut in about half since the strategy changes...
Jenkins: wow, normally I give a job at least a couple of days before I quit, but I am thinking I might just skip this interview altogether....
Shadowhunter: Droolcup! Who is this fanboi you have captured? Ohhhh...your that Jenkins guy arent't you. They said your first day was today...
Jenkins: Oh no! I mean...I was just coming by to check the place out, you know? To see if this was right for me and all...
Shadowhunter: What? That's not right..you already filled out your W4 form at human resources...
Droocup Higgins: Oh hey boss...while you are here, I was gonna see if you would mind if I sorta transferred back to...
Jenkins: Hey jerk! I was trying to get out of a job here, and you are interrupting with this flaky garbage? What are you, a quitter?
Droolcup Higgins: Flaky? Quitter? I will show you what quitting is all about! (/em grabs his sack of boulders...)
Shadowhunter:Guys don't worry about it....I just got word that they are shutting this place down in 90 minute increments. It appears that there are about 15,000 fire tankers that are actually going to beat the crap out of me like the mission was intended.
Jenkins: Awww man, that sucks.
Droolcup Higgins: Dang boss, sorry to hear that...
Werewolves: If only we could give up these stupid rocks and use our natural instincts of pack hunting in the cover of darkness...
Droolcup Higgins: You know boss, about that transfer? Forget it, I will stay and help you fight to the death! Those heroes will get ALOT more than they bargained for!
Warewolves: RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWR!

Jenkins: 15,000 fire tankers? Hey that is great guys! Wish you the best of luck with that! Kick those fire tankers in the jewelbox! I will be rooting for ya! (/em turns and flees, screaming like child...in the general direction of Dreck's 5 acre town of crushed buildings...)

And thus ended the tale of the would-be quitter, Droolcup Higgins. His death marked the end of an era of level 2 heroes standing by a huge rock in broad daylight, surrounded by level 53 wolves being shoveled into the oven by people with WAY too much time on their hands. Where could the fire tankers go now?

Dreck: What the heck are you talking about? MY town, slaughtered completely in 5 minutes while I never saw one fire tanker?
Chimera: That's what I thought....now let me tell you a little story about caltrops...

All he wanted was some lunch:

Here's your order, sir, and thank you for choosing the Up and Away burger."

"Thanks."

Jenkins took the tray with a slight smile and navigated his way back through the resteraunt, sliding into a booth by the window. Taking a long, slow sip from his StatesmanSized soda, he looked out over Atlas Park. Life was -good-.

It'd been three weeks now since he quit his last gang, after a particularly unfortunate disagreement between himself and a Warrior over Xeno's Arrow. The Warrior had still been insistant that the Paradox stood and had attempted to prove his point with his own bow. Jenkins winced at the memory, shifting uncomfortably on his seat. Testing the point out with a crossbow had been gilding the lilly, in his opinion.

But that was all history now. He grinned to himself, enjoying the feeling of liberation. He had -had- it with gangs. He'd looked around and found a quiet job... sure, he was working in a gas station, but it was the only place he could find that wouldn't mean having to work in a lab, office or warehouse. Now, he was out clean. No more henching, no more visits to the hospital and no more having to climb that damn fence in the Zig. Things were certainly looking up. Why...

Before he could go on, Jenkins' train of thought was disturbed by a loud knocking on the window. Startled, he looked up to see a sad, beaten figure peering though the glass at him, a look of excitement written across his face.

The knocker was wearing something that was clearly supposed to be a tight-fitting bodysuit, but whatever substance it was made from had either been tailored for someone sevral sizes bigger, or had long since lost it's elasticity. Now it hung from the mans emaciated body like laundry on a damp day. An equally ill-fitting mask, seemingly made from cardboard and colored black with a magic marker, was attached to his face by what Jenkins swore was a length of hairy twine. On one shoulder was what Jenkins took to be an attempt at a metal skull, though the tinfoil covering rather killed the effect. On the opposite arm, the man had wrapped barbed wire. Jenkins gagged on his soda a little as he caught sight of it... there was a little blood on the fabric around it. Tetanus seemed a definate possibility.

"Hey!" The tragic figure gestured wildly. "Hey, man! It's really you!"

Jenkins turned a little, trying to shield his face with one hand. He waited a few seconds, then peeked through his fingers. The figure, whoever it had been, had gone. Relieved, Jenkins straighted up again, turning his attention back to his food, lifting the beef patty towards his mouth.

"Hey! Hey, Jenkins!"

The burger shot out from the buns and skittered across the table. The call had come from within the resteraunt, this time. Jenkins tried to quietly slip beneath the table.

"I can't believe it's really you, man! You're... uh... what are you doing under that table?"

Jenkins looked up at the ghastly man. "I... uh... dropped my fork." He slipped back up, watching the man for any signs of sudden movement. He'd been in -more- than enough evil organisations to worry about sitting next to an obvious madman.

"This is so awesome, man... you're, like, my total idol!"

Jenkins coughed. "Come again?"

The costumed goon nodded furiously. "You're, like, the ultimate henchman! The whole -underground's- heard of you, man... you've got your own website and everything!"

Jenkins stared at the man. "... oh, God, no."

The man nodded furiously again. "Noo foolin' man... and... look, I kinda don't know how to say this, but... uh... me and a group of guys I know, we're trying to, y'know, get off the ground on the whole 'evil' thing, and, uh.. well, we don't have powers or nothin', but, uh... I kinda wonder if, uh, maybe you could help us out?"

Jenkins slumped visibly. "Why me?" he asked, to no-one in particular.

"Well, you've got the experience... and you have those cool powers going on... all that fire and stuff, and I heard this one guy say you can even turn into one of them Warwolf guys!"

Jenkins shook his head. "Look, I don't do the 'villain' thing anymore, okay? I quit."

The man continued to nod. "Well, yeah! You always do that, but I figure you're just, y'know, gathering information so you can start your -own- gang." He looked at Jenkins with desperate hope.

Jenkins sighed deeply, then wished he hadn't... whatever the goons hideous outfit was made of, it hadn't been washed in a while. "Seriously, man, I just..."

He was interupted once again by a small cough from above. Looking up, he saw the resteraunts duty manager, whose badge proclaimed him to be "Hi My Name's Keith", looking down at him with undisguised contempt.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Your friend is making our other customers complain."

Jenkins looked around the resterunt at a horde of glowering eyes. This had gone really bad really fast.

"Look, why can't -he- just leave? I was just about to tell him that..."

"Please, I'd rather you just left without causing a fuss."

"But I just want to eat my burger- I'm an honest citizen!"

The costumed man snorted at this. "Yeah, right. Two-week Jenkins, honest Joe. And I'm Mother Theresa."

Jenkins rounded on the man, eyes blazing, tiny licks of fire playing around his fists. "You're -not- helping, here!"

It was about that point that the door burst open. Striding into the resteraunt, his chest bulging and his cape fluttering behind him, strode a hero.

"Greeting, citizens of the burger chain! I wish to order..." then his eyes fell upon the tableaux by the booth.

"Egad! Villains, in an Up and Away?"

Hi My Name's Keith gestured to jenkins and his unfortunate companion. "-These- two are refusing to leave." he muttered.

"Not on -my- watch!" The hero began striding towards them, his lips twisting into a scowl. Allready, his fists were balled. Worse, they were glowing.

Jenkins winced as he watched them blur towards him. "Oh... Bloody hell."

me. credit. i take:

Jenkins sat on the curb trying to get his nose to stop bleeding and the dull throb in his head to go away.
"All I wanted was a bloody hamburger and fries", he muttered to himself.
"Is it too much to ask that I enjoy a meal and not get beat up for it?"
"Well, is it?!" This time he yelled to the costumed man still standing 20 feet behind him.
The man looked anxious and kept his distance, for which Jenkins was glad of.
"Are you mad?" the man asked nervously
"Now why would I be mad? After all, it's not your fault that the manager wanted to kick us out or that the hero came and kicked my [censored]. Wait, what am I saying? Of course its your fault! It's your fault I am bleeding, in pain and to make it infinitely worse..I am still hungry! Gawd!"
"I'm sorry, its just that, well you know the whole legend thing. I mean your the only one whose worked for just about ever criminal organization in Paragon. You're, like, my idol, man" the man squeeked out nervously.
"Oh bloody hell. Look, thats the thing. I have worked for every organization in Paragon City and either quit or been fired from them. I am done in this town as far as henchman job goes. Nothing left but to be goody two shoes from now on. The straight and narrow, thats for me" Jenkins said all this without conviction.
"You know, the Roque Isles are being opened up again, full of new criminal organizations, we could try there." the costumed man said.
"Eh, why not? Let's go back to my apartment though. We need to get cleaned up. What's your name anyway?"
"Hopkins"
"Now why does that sound familar?" Jenkins mused as he got to his feet.
He started towards his apartment with Hopkins beside him when he heard the distanct sound of an assualt rifle being cocked and the hero stepped out of the shadows.
"Vile Lost! You shall not take this man for your nefarious deeds!" he yelled at Jenkins.
"Oh Bloody hell...."

Jenkins crosses paths with that skull head thingy again:

Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpl ease, Jenkins prayed to himself as he raced down the street. Oh please don’t let them catch me! He weaved his way through the light crowd on the sidewalk and tried desperately to stop himself from looking backwards. Knowing he wasn’t being chased would allow his mind to cut his body some slack and prevent his lungs from vetoing the entire run-away idea altogether, but he knew that if he spun around and saw something chasing him he’d just collapse.

That stupid skull-man, why couldn’t he just leave well enough alone? So he wanted to go to the Ziggurat, fine. Lesser men than he have found it perfectly easy to manage, but not this character. First he drags Jenkins up to the nearest police officer and picks a fight, (and of course the cop uses Jenkins’ head as a substitute kettle-drum and not the skull-man’s), then when that fails to produce instant results he decides to insult the floating Police Drones at the tram station.

Obviously the Drones don’t care if you insult them, they’re mindless robots! But does that strike the skull-man? Noooo, and every time Jenkins tried to slip away he’d drag him right back, or suddenly appear behind him somehow… it was horrible! Then those super-heroes turned up…

Suddenly a large dumpster appeared in Jenkins’ vision. Actually there was nothing sudden about it, but his poor mind, already overclocked with worry about Impending Imprisonment and/or a nasty Super-Hero Beating, simply couldn’t cope with any new information and put whatever his eyes were seeing on hold until it was really too late to do anything with it except shriek a rather vulgar phrase that fortunately never made it to his mouth.


There was a voice in the darkness and it was causing Jenkins some confusion. Who the Hell was talking? And where were they? And who was this George person they were talking too? It just didn’t make sense. His eyes popped open out of habit and what he saw caused them to close again, but it was too late, he’d been noticed. “Ah there you are George,” the skull-man said, “I’m glad you have decided to rejoin the rest of us again. That’s going to cost you five demerits and two days’ vacation time, I’m afraid.”

Jenkins let the words pass through his head without trying to make any sense of them. The way his head felt right now the only thing it wanted to hear involved the word aspirin somehow. He slowly sat up and struggled to stand. The skull-man watched him like he was an amazing clockwork creature moving for the first time and he just couldn’t figure out how it worked! “Come on Roger, you really should watch where you’re going, nobody is going to arrest you for beating your head against this trash bin, but I give you 10 points for effort.”

“I thought you got arrested,” Jenkins managed. Why was the world spinning around? That wasn’t normal, was it?

“Oh the floating matchbox thing? Yeah, I got arrested, but you didn’t, you miserable coward. How am I supposed to find your boss on the Inside if you’re not there to point him out to me? Huh? My goodness you must be the dumbest henchman I’ve ever had.”

Red Alert. Every alarm bell and siren his brain could conjure suddenly went off, and the imagined sound made him wince in agony.

“Ok,” Jenkins said authoritatively. It was time to sort this lunatic out, no matter what horrible thing he did to him for saying it, it couldn’t be worse than having him around all the time. And he was certainly not working for this crazy no-face monster. “I’ve got a few things to say,” he began in the voice of a person preparing to walk the plank, “and I don’t care what you do to me after I say it, ‘cause at least then it will all be over and we’ll go our separate ways, right? I don’t work for the Council, I’m not employed at that base, and I wouldn’t know who the boss was if I walked into him and he had a bright red name-tag with flashing-bloody-flashing lights!” A note of hysteria was enjoying itself weaving in and out of his voice. “I don’t want to go to jail, I don’t want to die, and I certainly don’t want to be near you any longer than necessary. The man I work for has me creep into abandoned secret bases like that one and steal everything I can get my hands on, ok? Now do your worst.” A feeling of peace coursed through his system, like a man who’s just faced death and decided there wasn’t really anything there that was all that scary. Two seconds later and his brain served up over two dozen things that really were that scary and he felt sick to his stomach.

“I see,” the skull-man said. Nails were being driven into a coffin somewhere. “And the pickles?”

You could see the crack in Jenkins’ sanity as he shouted, “sod the damn pickles! I don’t give a bloody-hellfire-damn about PICKLES! There are no bloody pickles! What the Hell is wrong with you?!” If you happened to peak into Jenkins’ head you’d see only a simple placard where his mind used to be. It said, “Gone for the Duration,” in a rather neat, if hurried, script.

“Well then,” the skull-man said darkly as he leaned forward so that his empty eye sockets were all Jenkins’ could see. “I suppose I shall have to find something else to put on my sandwich then, won’t I?” The blackness in those eyes seemed to swallow the world and Jenkins gave up trying to see anything else.

Jenkins works for Hami and gets a lesson in Hammy O's:

Life as one of Hamidon's Mitochondria seemed to suit Jenkins' fancy. He floated in salty goop and caught up on his summer reading. Sometimes the other Mitos and him would play croquet and he was constantly being fed Devoured Earth gossip from his buddy, Mitophlangea Amberphyll, which Jenkins enjoyed. Mitophlangea Amberphyll seemed like a nice guy, if not a little flamboyant. All in all, the Mitos were a good bunch of protoplasmic endomorphs and the weather this far outside of the hustle and bustle of Paragon City couldn't be more beautiful.

It was one such sunny afternoon when the anxiety began. By anxiety I don't mean Jenkins was worried. Oh no. Jenkins was busy winning Mahjong. He had no concerns whatsoever. Hamidon, however, sensed trouble and as such notified his Mitochondria with minute shocks of electricty, who in turn, suddenly began to float in the air. The organism's bio-energetic tympana were vibrating on a wavelength that Jenkins hadn't seen before. They crackled with primordial energy. The usually stoic Devoured Earth monsters which milled about outside of the primordial booger-stew were now at full attention and poised watching a heretofore unseen enemy.

Jenkins suddenly found himself repeating the word "raid...raid...raid."

"Dang it. I don't like it when you guys manipulate me as a speaking vessel. Cut it out," Jenkins waved his fist at Hammy, but still the ominous words 'raid' echoed inside his pear shaped head. Were they talking about roach spray?

That was when the first signs of battle began. Over the hill up from the primordial pond muffled sounds of electricity crackling and explosions could be heard. Very quickly the noise escalated and the towering monsters of quartz, granite and wood began scrambling to meet the unseen hero.

Make that: heroes, plural.

Jenkins eyes grew as wide as Mitophlangea Amberphyll's bioluminescent ova. Heroes in all manner of shapes, sizes and costumes began cresting the top of the hill facing Hamidon and his remaining guards. One, two, four, nine, fourteen, thirty, fifty-five, one hundred, two hundred, six hundred, maybe a thousand?? A thousand bloody heroes! They stood there on the hillside and watched the scene below them.

Jenkins panicked.

"No-no-no-no..." He turned to his current master. "Oh, Mr. Hamidon. I'm so very sorry. All of this is my fault. You see, I've crossed paths with so very many heroes in my career of villainy. Perhaps it was my vanity or my thirst for power which lead me down my darkest of paths. But alas, the hundreds of heroes I've wronged have now, obviously, joined forces to rid this fair world of my putrid presence. Oh Mr. Hamidon. My apologies for bringing their wrath unto you and yours as well, I feel just awful about all this. I had no idea I was such a threat."

Hamidon studied him coolly with his blob. "Relax Jenkins. They're not here for you human."

"Oh."

"They're here for my Hammy-O's." Hamidon sighed and his blob quivered.

"Your Hammy-O's?" Jenkins appeared confused.

"Yes. My Hammy-O's. It's a Devoured Earth spawn's post-nocturne sustenance rejuvenator. In your primate's language that means 'children's breakfast cereal'."

"Oh! Hammy-O's! I've read about those on the Hero message boards. Wow. There are a thousand heroes up there. That must be some bloody powerful cereal you own."

"Bah. It's not the power they're after. Our mutual Gods, The Devs, eliminated the potency of the Hammy O's long ago, but with only boring Statesman Flakes to choose from, my sugary O's are to kids what crack-cocaine is to Whitney Houston."

Jenkins understood, "So the heroes steal your cereal and sell it to kids for influence."

"Basically, but remember, influence is not a monetary system. They trade it for influence. Then their level of influence determines which products, like tech upgrades and new costumes, vendors will freely give them."

"Right...I'm still a little confused by tha--" Jenkins didn't have time to finish as hundreds of heroes descended into Hamidon's gooey soup searching for the elusive, delicious Hammy-O.

the skull man just wont leave poor Jenkins alone:

Something nudged him in the ribs. “Donwana go school,” he muttered and rolled over. A large bucket of cold water was suddenly dropped on him, causing him to jolt awake in freezing agony. The fact that the metal bucket had been dropped on him along with the cold water accounted for the agony part. “What the bloody Hell?!” Jenkins sputtered angrily as he tried to figure out who, what, or where he was.

He seemed to be inside a trash dumpster. Complete with trash. Oh, and a large rat. Wonderful. “I said,” came a voice from above him, “it’s time to get up Nancy.” Oh no. Please no. What did I ever do to deserve this lunatic? Jenkins whimpered a little as he looked up into the empty eye-sockets of his tormentor, the nameless skull-man.

“Go away,” Jenkins said angrily as he stood up.

“Tut, tut Williams, there’s no need to be like that. Plenty more sardines where they came from.”

“What?” Sardines? Where sardines? Oh please tell me that squishy feeling in my socks is cold water.

“Now get out of there and let’s get cracking. Crime is afoot, you know.” This seemed to puzzle the shull-man for a moment.

“Look,” Jenkins slowly lifted his right leg to examine his foot, “please, just go away and leave me alone,” yep… sardines.

“Nonsense my boy,” the skull-man said as he patted Jenkins on the back in a congratulatory manner. “We must stick together you and I. I’m your fairy whatsit, you know.”

“You’re a crazy man with a skull for a head,” he replied as he tried to remove his shoe without falling over.

“Didn’t you pay any attention in school? Everybody’s got a skull, nitwit. No wonder you’re unable to tie your shoes properly. Why do you put fish in your shoes anyway?” he asked with morbid curiosity as he watched Jenkins gingerly remove four or five very smelly and slimy sardines from his shoe. Jenkins didn’t answer. Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll get bored and go away.

“That’ll happen,” the skull-man said flippantly, shocking Jenkins to the core of his being.

“You read my mind?!” he shouted, aghast.

“What? Who? Mind-reader?! Where?” the skull-man spun around in circles looking for a small man with a large head, “come out you big-headed freak! I’ll teach you to boil an empty pot!”

“No no, you read my mind,” Jenkins explained patiently, wondering why he was bothering.

“I did not.”

“You didn’t?”

“Ok, I confess.”

“You did!”

“Liar.”

“Then why did you confess?”

“I don’t know. Why did you confess?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then neither did I.”

“But-,” Jenkins sighed and pulled himself together, “ok,” he let it drop and climbed out of the dumpster. “I’m going home.”

“Excellent, I’ll help you pack.” The skull man leapt into the dumpster and bent down to pick something up. Jenkins took the opportunity to run away, horror etched on his face. “Wait! Jernando! You forgot the sardines!” the skull-man shouted after him, holding a handful of rotten fish above his head.


Thirty minutes and two tram rides later Jenkins was home. Safe in his tiny wretched apartment. He nearly sobbed with relief. First a shower, then something to eat, then a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow he was telling Roberts that he was quitting, giving it all up. He’d get a job at the SuperLanes or something and slowly starve to death. Even the possibility of being murdered by Roberts when told the bad news didn’t bother him.

Feeling a deep sense of peace for the first time in weeks, Jenkins locked the apartment door and headed for the bathroom. “Simpson, where do you hide the toothpaste?” a voice inside the bathroom asked as soon as his hand was near the doorknob. No. Oh no, please no. He watched in horrified fascination as his hand slowly crept closer and closer to the knob, grasped it, and, despite every ounce of will straining to prevent it, turned the knob and push the door open.

Inside the bathroom was a skeleton wearing a towel around its waist, with what appeared to be a shower cap on its head, shaving cream on its jaw and a toothbrush wedged inside one empty eye socket. “Without toothpaste I can’t get the inside there to sparkle,” the skeleton explained casually.

Jenkins decided to skip the shower and get a good night’s sleep on the spot. The skeleton watched him fall then resumed scrubbing the inside of his eye socket with the toothbrush.

ok real quick, in the beginning of beta the Snakes arms were actually reversed. knowing this makes the joke a little funnier to others:

Once again we find Jenkins in a peculiar predicament, one that seems to be taking place deep below the earth, around large earthen formations and what appears to be discarded snake skins.

Jenkins: Okay, ssso that'sss the lassst of the formsss right? My armsss are already aching from the other onesss.
Cobra: Yesss, that is the lassst of them. You ssseem to already have the rolling of the ess'es down fairly well.
Jenkins: Ya, well I learned that in my run in with Bobcat and her cat-boysss.
Cobra: Yesss, well ssstop it, you're giving me a headache with all those ess'es. I get enough of that already. Now all thatsss left is your uniform and mandatory minion arm adjustments. *hands Jenkins a large snakeskin costume, complete with tail, minus the legs*
Jenkins: Boy, these are tight. What did you say about minion arm whatsit?
Cobra: Minion arm adjussstmentsss. Every sssnake that sstartss working for usss must have reversed armsss. If you'll jusst let me twisst them to the other ssside of your body, and then you can begin your first asssignment.
Jenkins gets a look of terror on his face and attempts to run, but the snake costume, lacking legholes, causes him to fall flat on his face.
Jenkins: Oh bloody hell!