.jpg?1208971030) By Zach Oberman | The following Superhero Diary is based on events in the Dark Reign one-shot, written by Brian Michael Bendis. Bendis writes a lot of Marvel’s comics, and though he has an occasional tendency for his dialogue to be a become too cute and snappy, his characters actually sound like people and his stories are always exciting. We’re definitely on board for this one. |
| Author: Namor, the Submariner, the King of Atlantis, Sovereign of the Seas, Emperor of the Oceans, Prince of the Pacific, Archon of the Atlantic, Tyrant of Tide Pools, and so on… Mood: High Tide Listening to: Bobby Darin |  |
The era of Atlantis is nearly at hand, loyal subjects. For too long we have labored in obscurity, in an underwater kingdom that few of the humans are even aware of, let alone respect. We realize that many of you could care less about the humans; there are whispers that we pander too much to them, and focus more on events above the surface than those of the oceans. Yes, we knew about that. Don’t forget, we use the royal “we,” as in, me and Poseidon.
It is true that we wish to rule both above and below the seas. We are not ashamed, and it should be apparent why: it is better up there. Our time down here is spent listening to nothing but petitions: “Your highness, [insert the name of a big fish] has been eating us. Please, send a bigger fish to eat them.” Then, one month later, “Your highness, that fish you sent has now started to eat us…” Or, “Your highness, the humans have been catching us by the hundreds again. Please show us how those net thingies work again; we forgot.” We grow tired, and go to the surface to escape the monotony. And to get ass. (Our human readers should understand that among Atlanteans, it is in poor taste to say you wish to “get tail,” due to several inter-species implications.)
Today, our dream of Atlantis as a global power came one large step - er, wave of a mighty tail fin closer to becoming a reality.
It began with an invitation from Norman Osborn. For our invertebrate readership, Osborn was once the Green Goblin, whose villainy was on par with the most diabolical of seahorses. Yet for reasons we still do not fully comprehend, he was recently hired as the head of basically every law enforcement agency in the world. Hey, he couldn’t do worse than Bush, right? Haha! Truly, we are hilarious. We shall have the Royal Secretary send that to Leno.
There was a time when for such a puny man to call upon the king of Atlantis would have earned him an electric eel suppository, but we were intrigued to see what kind of man Osborn had become. Besides, the Royal Afternoon was pretty open, and the meeting was to be held at Avengers Tower, which we had heard has an even more spectacular cafeteria than Google.
When we arrived we were met by Doctor Doom and a comely blonde by the name of Emma Frost, also known as the White Queen, and the leader of the X-men. How the Royal loins stirred at the sight of her! She wore a white halter top, which swelled as if it struggled to contain twin puffer fish! If she should be reading this: wonder no longer whether there was an eel in our pocket - nay, we were happy to see you! Verily so! We only pity Doom, whose steel briefs must surely have been… cramped in her presence.
We debated for a moment whether to introduce ourselves as Michael Phelps, as that line has gotten us laid like eggs, of late. (SALMON eggs.) Now that we know she is a telepath, we were wise to refrain. Other men might feel embarrassed to be so aroused by a woman who can read their minds, but we are not, and if the maiden (though we use the term loosely) did peek inside our mind, we hope she witnessed our fantasy performance of the royally-patented “Whispering to the Sea Anemone” move. (That’s right - we are into that.)
Soon we were joined by The Hood, a criminal with a demonically-possessed hood, followed by Loki, trickster god of the Norse. Following so soon after the White Queen, we could not help but notice that Loki is now a godDESS, and a disturbingly sexy one at that. (Allow us to dispense some of our Royal Wisdom, subjects: never make a bet with gods. They have no care for money, so they tend to gamble with anatomy.) Our attempts to remind ourselves that the buxom brunette had, shall we say, sported a “dorsal fin” before her current “blowhole” were in vain; the rumblings of a great trouser tsunami began to swell in our depths. Caught in the perfect storm of the Stripper Queen and the trickster god who no longer has to hide his tricks up his sleeve, we chose to admire Osborn’s ceiling while we waited. Luckily we were not made to wait long, or Osborn would have incurred our Royal wrath, or at the very least a soiling of his carpet.
He began by reminding us that he was in charge of everything now, followed by his proposal: if we joined him, he would help us achieve our own desires. We seethed at his audacity, as did the others. Who was this human, to believe Namor, king of Atlantis, Sovereign of the Seas, et cetera, et cetera, needed his help?!? Was a demonstration of our power was in order? At a single command from us, the sands in front of Osborn’s eight beach-front properties would fill with sting rays! He would learn why we are known as the “Avenging Son!” Imperius Rex!
Yet our indignation did not last long. Osborn was quick to remind Doom that he was under arrest in The Hague. The White Queen’s mutants are near extinction. The Hood’s army is one of not-so-super-villains. (He honestly has a subordinate named “Fancy Dan.”) If we were Osborn, we would have also pointed out the Hood’s attire: a red hood, with a cape of the type people used to wear to go riding. He’s also not a very large fellow. You see where this is going. One must be aware of one’s image, which is why our sidekick isn’t a crab with a Jamaican accent.
As for Loki, his fallen stature needed no mention. When he stated that his only wish was for “Asgard to be back in the heavens, where it belongs,” we all understood his true meaning: “Asgard” was his penis, and “in the heavens” meant between his legs.
As much as it saddened us to be among such faded glory, it saddened us more to realize that we belonged. These are hard days for fair Atlantis and her king. Our kingdom is in ruins, after a recent dispute with a long-lost son of ours. We were unaware of his existence, as he was conceived with a one-night-concubine we met off in a bar in South Beach back in the 80’s. (We introduced ourselves as Mark Spitz back then.) It happened despite our precautions, for we are always careful and use a jellyfish condom. One of them must have broken. (For clarification, we don’t use a man o’ war or anything, but one of the mild ones. The ladies love the tingling sensations.)
The boy attempted to usurp our throne by provoking the surface-dwellers until destroying Atlantis was the only way to prevent war. As an extra kick to our Royal barnacles, we were months away from the completion of our latest plan to seize surface world power: raising Atlantis above the water and turning it into the ultimate luxury resort. Our favorite touch: glass floors under the casino, with topless mermaids swimming underneath the gaming tables. Atlantis was going to make Dubai look like a DoubleTree Inn, and we would have lived the lives of Maloofs. The memory of its loss still enflames us with rage.
But we digress. The meeting ended shortly after that, as each of us returned to reflect on Osborn’s offer. As for ourselves, we have decided to join this motley cabal, in the hopes that we have finally found our path to greatness. So few of you care, and even fewer have the attention span to have read this much, but… think of it! No more would the humans pee in our waters with impunity! (Yes, humans - we know what it means to swim through a patch of warm, tangy water!) No more will we be forced to tolerate it while their Burger King flaunts his invasion of our borders, selling his fried fish sandwiches? Soon, his encephalitic head and paper crown will rest on a trident, or however many tridents it takes to hold it up, outside of Atlantis’s gates!
We acceptance has only one stipulation: our group may never be seen in public together. Between the Tin Man, the White Strumpet, a god in drag and Little Red Riding Hood, all led by the Green Goblin, the humans would be certain to name us the Short Bus of Doom.
Somewhere… beyond the sea… somewhere waiting for me…
