The stereo short-circuited with a loud hiss as the frozen Risk
infantryman's bayonet was jammed into the speaker, and ice seeped into the
wiring. "I take Japan," said Len Snart, the Rogue known as Captain Cold.
"What're ye talkin' 'bout?!" angrily replied the Mirror Master, a.k.a. Evan
McCulloch. "Ye def'n'tly snuck a cann'n in yer troops o'er there!"
"Oh, cut the crap, McCulloch! You sore losing drunk! Go play Pretty Pretty Princess with that Magenta girl, you fucking pansy!" Mirror Master jumped up and threw a right hook at Len. He dodged it and belted McCulloch in the stomach.
"Jeezus fucking Christ on a lilypad!," yelled Mark Marsden, the Weather Wizard. "You're like a bunch of little Dragonball fans! Kamae- freakin'-ha! Cut it out"
"Screw you, Marsden!" replied Len. "Go play Harry Potter with that rod of your's!
"It's a wand, you moron. Weather Wizard! Weather Wand! Not that fucking hard!"
"Go fuck yourself, Dumbledore!" Then, Mirror Master cut in. "Aye let's just play the game!" he suggested. It was McCulloch's turn and he decided to invade South Africa. Slowly, as rolls were won and lost, infantries and cavalries were taken off of the Risk board. Fifteen rolls, another fist fight, and eight "f-words" later, Mirror Master took Snart's last figurine, placed it in a small makeup-case mirror, and punched it. The mirror and, consequently, the figure, shattered. "Heh...Good job," said the overly enthusiastic Mirror Master.
"Hhhhhhhh," futily laughed Dr. Michael Amar—the Rogue known as Murmur.
"Shut the hell up," yelled the second Trickster, Axel Walker. "We need some fucking lives!" The teenage criminal stomped over to the Risk table and with a crash, kicked the entire thing over.
"Wot th'ell was that fer?" angrily inquired McCulloch.
"Cause we've been hiding out in your aunt's apartment for a fucking month!," he replied. Axel walked over to the fridge. "We need a night out! Lose the costumes! Murmur—unsew the mask and wear a freaking trenchcoat. Len! Lose the hoodie! Evan! Orange makes you look like the damned Piper, and you don't want that! Wizard! Lose the rubber footie- PJ's!."
"Low blow," replied Marsden. "I'd hate to admit it, but the kid's right."
"Damn straight," said Walker. "Let's go!" No sooner than thirty seconds after this statement was he betrayed. Len froze his legs to a chair and the chair to the wall, then froze a Snapple to the wall next to him. The Rogues then dispersed to their rooms. They emerged ten minutes later looking like, for a change, normal civilians! Cold lost the hoodie, and now wore blue jeans, a Keystone Combines hockey jersey, his usual glasses, and his cold guns were hidden in their holsters beneath the jersey. McCulloch's blonde hair hung neatly over his eyebrows and barely touched the collar of his green sweater, which he wore with orange nylon pants, whose pockets held mirrors. Weather Wizard wore pants and a sweatshirt. Under his pants and in his sock was his wand. Murmur wore black pants and shirt, with a trenchcoat. His face had some dried blood, after unsewing his mask. He left his mouth sewn, and flipped the coat collar to cast a shadow on his lower face. His beady little eyes stuck out of their wrinkled sockets. "Where the fuck are all of you going," screamed the Trickster, as the Rogues left him. "Get the fuck back here! It was my idea! Why can't I go?!" Mark Marsden turned around.
"You're...uhh...not...hmmm...eighteen? Yeah! You aren't eighteen yet! You're still a child! Good night. Don't stay up too late!." He slammed the door behind him.
"Oh, cut the crap, McCulloch! You sore losing drunk! Go play Pretty Pretty Princess with that Magenta girl, you fucking pansy!" Mirror Master jumped up and threw a right hook at Len. He dodged it and belted McCulloch in the stomach.
"Jeezus fucking Christ on a lilypad!," yelled Mark Marsden, the Weather Wizard. "You're like a bunch of little Dragonball fans! Kamae- freakin'-ha! Cut it out"
"Screw you, Marsden!" replied Len. "Go play Harry Potter with that rod of your's!
"It's a wand, you moron. Weather Wizard! Weather Wand! Not that fucking hard!"
"Go fuck yourself, Dumbledore!" Then, Mirror Master cut in. "Aye let's just play the game!" he suggested. It was McCulloch's turn and he decided to invade South Africa. Slowly, as rolls were won and lost, infantries and cavalries were taken off of the Risk board. Fifteen rolls, another fist fight, and eight "f-words" later, Mirror Master took Snart's last figurine, placed it in a small makeup-case mirror, and punched it. The mirror and, consequently, the figure, shattered. "Heh...Good job," said the overly enthusiastic Mirror Master.
"Hhhhhhhh," futily laughed Dr. Michael Amar—the Rogue known as Murmur.
"Shut the hell up," yelled the second Trickster, Axel Walker. "We need some fucking lives!" The teenage criminal stomped over to the Risk table and with a crash, kicked the entire thing over.
"Wot th'ell was that fer?" angrily inquired McCulloch.
"Cause we've been hiding out in your aunt's apartment for a fucking month!," he replied. Axel walked over to the fridge. "We need a night out! Lose the costumes! Murmur—unsew the mask and wear a freaking trenchcoat. Len! Lose the hoodie! Evan! Orange makes you look like the damned Piper, and you don't want that! Wizard! Lose the rubber footie- PJ's!."
"Low blow," replied Marsden. "I'd hate to admit it, but the kid's right."
"Damn straight," said Walker. "Let's go!" No sooner than thirty seconds after this statement was he betrayed. Len froze his legs to a chair and the chair to the wall, then froze a Snapple to the wall next to him. The Rogues then dispersed to their rooms. They emerged ten minutes later looking like, for a change, normal civilians! Cold lost the hoodie, and now wore blue jeans, a Keystone Combines hockey jersey, his usual glasses, and his cold guns were hidden in their holsters beneath the jersey. McCulloch's blonde hair hung neatly over his eyebrows and barely touched the collar of his green sweater, which he wore with orange nylon pants, whose pockets held mirrors. Weather Wizard wore pants and a sweatshirt. Under his pants and in his sock was his wand. Murmur wore black pants and shirt, with a trenchcoat. His face had some dried blood, after unsewing his mask. He left his mouth sewn, and flipped the coat collar to cast a shadow on his lower face. His beady little eyes stuck out of their wrinkled sockets. "Where the fuck are all of you going," screamed the Trickster, as the Rogues left him. "Get the fuck back here! It was my idea! Why can't I go?!" Mark Marsden turned around.
"You're...uhh...not...hmmm...eighteen? Yeah! You aren't eighteen yet! You're still a child! Good night. Don't stay up too late!." He slammed the door behind him.