#bcnicholes

[bcnicholes-blog]

Patron God of Hobos

A bearded man sits with a popsicle stick lodged between his teeth Upon his disheveled head lies rotting olive wreath.

“You’re down on your on luck, it’s quite easy to tell, With that distraught face and that unwashed smell.

But worry not poor soul, for you are not alone. I’ll stand by your side until you're cold as stone."

[bcnicholes-blog]

Conspiracy

I tend to be of a curious disposition, Not relying on facts, just my gut and intuition. Sleuthing for evidence contradictory of the facts, Searching deep for the info that revisionism lacks.

Linking together points of possible incidence. Nothing in this world is actually coincidence. Digging for the answers, truth that I’m hopin’ Will help me grab this case and break it right open!

I don’t have a face so I can’t see the lies. I know deep dark truths that can possibly paralyze. They say there’s no conspiracy and that I’m drowning in aggression, but no one’s better at finding out the truth than The Question.

.

[bcnicholes-blog]

Fist of Khonshu

Was a mercenary, made a lot of money,

Stood up to my friends, ‘cause grave robbing ain’t funny.

They riddled me with bullets and left me for dead,

So the moon god revived but he messed with my head.

I donned a white robbed, all the voices shouting,

Found my old buddies and gave them a good clouting.

Went back to the states, decided to fight crime,

Investing all my money, my sanity, and my time.

I wearing white so they see me because I don’t care,

I’m a haunt, I’m a spook, so I’ll give a good scare.

So they better start running until they’re out of breath,

Cause if they push me too far I’ll beat them to death.

I’m a heroic mental case out there dispensing justice.

Each persona has purpose, on this you’ll just have to trust us.

One is the hero, one’s on the street,

Then there’s me and the one living in the suite.

All guiding me while taking down a criminal squad,

All in the name of mighty Khonshu the moon god!

I’m a white cloaked hero, haunting the city

Everlasting like the moon and equally as pretty.

Beating down criminals with millions in tools,

All those who think I’m harmless are idiotic fools,

Because until I’m dead or broken I won’t give up the fight.

I’m the heroic Fist of Khonshu: Marc Spector

MOON KNIGHT

[bcnicholes-blog]

The SPACE Age of Jackson

Introduction

Android Jackson had many redeeming qualities in life. He was ruthless, bloodthirsty, a despicable human being, an extortionist, sold his prisoners on the black market, and an advocate of the Save the Space Whales Foundation (S.S.W.F.; pronounced “suh-woof”). He was also president of the space pirates (well SOME of the space pirates. The space pirates weren't really one single group or nation, but more like a common term for several conglomerated groups of vagabonds and criminals who pillaged upon the galaxy, but you really don’t care about all the complicated terminology and names do you?), a leader unanimously voted into power by his crew (and by unanimous we mean all who still were alive by the end of the election voted for him). He and his merry crew traveled across space, pillaging small space monasteries, going out for space burgers, joy riding on space tractors on space farms, and defending the majestic space whale, a creature now on the endangered species list of the United Universe Council (U.U.C., pronounced “Oo-ook”). His ship was made of space wood, from a spacewood tree, in a space forest, in space. It was carved by the finest carpenters of the Milky Way galaxy, along with some skilled craftsmen of the Do-not-come-to-our-sector-you-lousy-dunces galaxy (kidnapped, free of charge, and then sold on the black market as space chum for the space sharks). His ship was carved into the shape of a sword because, in the words of Android Jackson “It would be SO cool, just flying around in a giant sword-ship, and then all the authorities would be like ‘OH NO! IT’S A GIANT SWORD SHIP!!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!’ and that would be awesome”. In short, Android Jackson changed the universe as we know it for the better, if you don’t count the one-thousand percent increase in space whale attacks, galaxy wide depression, and a space dollar that is so weak we might as well go back to trading material goods for more goods instead of having a space-currency. 

[bcnicholes-blog]

Sound Bites

I wake up, feeling as groggy as usual. It’s still dark outside, but I just happen to be an early bird. I slip out from underneath my covers and wander out of my room. Bare wooden floors, bare plaster walls. Just a bed and some plain curtains for my windows. I live pretty spartan. The bathroom isn’t much to talk about either. A plain clean porcelain sink, white tiles, and a mirrored cupboard. Looking at my face in the mirror always weirds me out. It looks familiar, but I can’t recognize anything this early in the morning. Maybe I’m not as much of an early bird as I thought. Whatever, I keep staring at the face in the mirror. The face is normal. Incredibly normal. Incredibly symmetrical. Incredibly boring. It’s the type of face that always looks familiar, but you don’t really know who it is. The eyes are a sort of normal shape, colored somewhere between a normal dulled blue or a normal dulled green. Boring. Normal boring chestnut hair, cut short and even after waking up is easily swiped to the left and flattened. Skin that possibly, in a certain light, looks somewhat ethnic, but could also pass as white. Skin that is in some limbo zone between society’s preconceptions of race. You can’t pinpoint what ethnicity it is, and asking won’t help, because not even he knows. Not even I know. Boring. What is race, anyway? We’re still all human, just with different amounts of melanin and pigment in our skin. It’s like saying a chocolate lab and a golden retriever are-

Enough with the thoughts. I’ve got business to pretend to attend to. I quickly brush my teeth, refusing to blink with the face in the mirror. It’s part of the ritual. A never-ending staring contest between the two of us. It always ends in a draw though. We both have to look away to grab our floss. I always floss right when I wake up, and as the piece of floss sidles between my teeth, pain strike through my gums. I yell, and so does my reflection. Neither of us blink though. I quickly look down at the box of floss. “Unwaxed” it says. I can’t handle unwaxed, it just hurts. Like a blunt razor being forced down my teeth. Yet I somehow always buy it. I also buy waxed floss, but I keep forgetting where it is. So I buy more, but I also buy unwaxed.

Back in my room, I look inside my closet. There are three types of clothing layers I wear: my underclothing, and my over clothing. There is a third one. Somewhere. A simple suit setup is what I usually go with. Black suit coat. Black suit pants. White dress shirt. Dull blue tie. Regular. Boring.

As I exit my one room, one bathroom apartment, I grab my briefcase. I’m an accountant. Probably. I never know what I do at my job anymore. I’m always late, but they never seem to notice. Maybe because they are always late too.

The sidewalk is white. The road is black. The building are white, then black. The cars are white, or black. I walk by people dressed in white, with black. The sun is up in the sky, but from the angle I am standing at, meaning anywhere outside in this city, it is white. A bright white ball of light. I continue on my way. Briefcase in hand. Never know what is inside here. Or maybe I do. I don’t remember.

I hear some commotion from a bank as I pass. People yelling, people crying. The other people on the sidewalk also hear it. They walk past it. They always do. Crime will never exist in this city, as long as no one acknowledges it.

I’ll go to the bank tomorrow, they say.

Such a quiet day, they say.

I love this city, they say.

I almost walk past. Do what I was taught. Something stops me though. Not outside the bank, but to the side of it. There’s a side entrance, in a dark alley. I have nothing to fear, there is no crime in this city. No one is in this dark alley. I drop the briefcase on the ground. I kneel next to it and dirty my suit pants.

I remove a mask from the briefcase. Two eyeholes. Different colors. Red. Yellow. Orange and purple bands travel southeast across the mask, bending around the curvatures of the face. My face. My boring, normal face.

I then remove some earbuds from the briefcase. Wireless. Why I live like a spartan: it’s easier to find the earbuds. I put them in my ears, then put on the mask. It locks the earbuds in. They won’t fall out.

The inside of the mask is dark. It fits perfectly to my face. It colors everything blue and green. Not those dulled, boring colors, but bright neon. I remove my over clothing, my suit, and reveal my third layer: my armor. Similar to the mask, it is colored by purple and orange bands, traveling southeast. The armor is like a third skin, considering it also goes over my underclothing which itself is like a second skin.

I remove one last thing from the briefcase, a music player. Handheld, holds thousands of songs. I start the playlist. I don’t even hear the song, but I know what is playing. It is simply titled “Defensive,” and it is the first one in my playlist for a reason. I reshuffle the playlist, then place the music player back in the briefcase. I leave the clothes and the briefcase, because just like how there isn’t any crime, there isn’t any trash.

I pick up my own trash, they say.

We live in a clean and pure city, they say.

Everything I use is completely removed, they say.

I’m going to stop a freaking bank robbery.

There wasn’t a lock on the door. There never is. This town is sick. We pretend we aren’t, but we are. We’re sick to the bone. A thousand people died two weeks ago. No one noticed. Except me, and others like me. Sadly, those who are like me often end up robbing banks. Then that leads to killing, because no one in this terrible city knows how to rob a bank. Then those deaths are ignored.

We’re not sick, they say.

Crime is at zero percent, they say.

This town is a great place to raise a child, they say.

“Drop the money, or you’ll end up in the hospitable.” I shout as I reach the bank robbers.

They’re jumpy and immediately begin shooting. “Defensive” protects me, and the bullets fall to the floor in inert piles of metal. They keep shooting me, because just like the rest of this city, the criminals are completely clueless in the matters of crime.

Why am I different? I never thought to ask. Nor will I. “Defensive” has just finished playing, and out of my shuffled list comes the perfect song: “Take Down.”

I charge the two gunmen, weaving past these amateurs’ bullets like child’s play. I grab the closest one, and slam him straight into the ground. I hear bones break everywhere, and he screams, but he won’t die. “Take Down” will never let me kill. Pain spikes through my leg as a bullet cleanly flies through it, but “Take Down” makes me indomitable, and I charge the next gunman. He only hit me because it was a lucky shot, and he seems more surprised than I am. I change that look of surprise into a look of incredible pain, pinning him to the floor with all the force I can muster. He’s now broken all over, but he won’t die. Getting off the two gunmen, I see the bank is empty. They ignored it. They all ignored it. They all ignored what was going to kill them. They all ignored what was going to end their simple, repetitive, quotidian lives, and left. They always leave. I exit out the front of the bank, leaving those gunmen to cry. They won’t die though. No one will enter that bank for a while now. They want to ignore it. Even if their lives are affected, they will never visit that bank again. There are traces of me there, and just like crime, they ignore me. I am different.

Standing on the sidewalk, they ignore me. Pretend I’m not there. Moving out of my way, giving me a wide berth. This city of black and white is afraid of the orange and purple man. They are scared of the man who is willing to save them, who gets shot to protect them.

I was the only one of one-thousand-and-one who survived two weeks ago, yet supposedly those people never existed. Only I do, because I’m alive. Yet I’m supposed to ignore this. The deaths, the crime, the everything. I feel it too. I feel the urge to ignore. The urge to walk away. My boring, regular self would. I won’t though.

“Take Down” has just ended. “Soar” is now playing.

I go above the skyline, above the clouds, above the thin film over the city, turning the sun white. The sun is yellow. It always has been. Yet they want us to forget.

My name is Sound Bite. I am a superhero. I will make this city remember, make them see, make them acknowledge reality.

Even if I have to force them with my bare hands.

[bcnicholes-blog]

Dark Roost

Upon a tall dark roost I sit, A gloomy place that much befits A dark demure vanguard like I; An inky silhouette up in the sky. Glaring over the city blocks Where villainous criminals raid in flocks, Tearing children from parents arms, Amidst unanswered cries and alarms. A darkened alley was where I emerged Into a city stricken with scourge. So to save this city I’ll fight the dark And Leave upon evil a fearful mark. I’ll fight for this city as much as I can, For I am this city’s guardian: The Dark Knight.

BATMAN

[bcnicholes-blog]

Abyss

A poem

I live an invisible life,

with an invisible dog and invisible wife.

For days I walk an invisible street,

with invisible people I never meet.

I became invisible on a whim,

some potions, commotions, and chaos therein.

So now I’m invisible, but all I can see,

is nothing at all. They’re invisible. Like me.

Everything’s dark, nothing is bright.

All the stars are invisible, so nothing gives light.

My other senses are fine, it’s my sight that I miss,

for everything’s invisible, a deep, dark abyss.

[bcnicholes-blog]

Hello, people of the galaxy. I’m going to become the coolest guy in the galaxy. But I can hear you asking ‘Why am I such a space-turd?' Well that's because you think ABROHAM LINCOLN IS COOLER THAN ME!!!!! HE ISN’T!!! YOU HEAR ME!? MY LEATHER JACKET AND SHADES ARE TWO QUARTILLION TIMES COOLER THAN LINCOLN AND HIS PATRIOTIC FLOWER SHIRT AND STUPID SURFBOARD!!!!!!!!! I’M GOING TO CRUSH HIM INTO THE GROUND!!! WITH MY COOLNESS!!! MY COOOOOOOOOOLNEEEEESSS!!!

Calvin Cool-Edge: Second Coolest Guy in the Galaxy