Bret Easton Ellis does the Superfriends (a parody)
His pitch-black cape flutters out of the customized Phantom F-4 and straight into the conference room, almost eclipsing the gorgeous black-haired apollo walking by his side.
“…been tinkering with a Nomex tri-weave for the new Batmobile canopy,” he tells Superman and the farm-boy from Kansas just smiles at the rich kid from Jersey.
“…been meaning to thank you for that dinner with Lois back in Los Angeles,” he says a little absently-minded. “What was the name of the restaurant again? Spazio?”
“Hh, Clark,” whispers the Dark Knight. “Spago.”
“You guys went to California and never called?” says Hal as he stands by the watercooler, leaning his strong, tan, shapely body against the bulkhead. Bruce checks him down from head to toe under the all-white eyeslits of his bat-cowl or whatever it is he’s calling his silly mask right now.
“We don’t mix business with pleasure, Jordan,” he barks back at the Green Lantern, his opaque eyes reflecting the glistening emerald jewel on Hal’s middle finger. The thought that playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne can actually get envious at something ought to make me smile but instead it makes me shiver.
Aquaman is there too- Arthur Curry- with the looks of a movie star and the personality of a poolboy, the golden scales from his shirt dripping wet all over his musky tights and I’m a little listless because I can’t really tell whether it’s made of velvet, corduroy or God forbid, neoprene.
Diana has both her hands resting on his broad, strong shoulders and she’s smiling like a schoolgirl. Hal said he thought Arthur was sleeping with her. I told Hal I thought Arthur was sleeping with him.
“Geez Barry,” he told me, “I know Arthur’s a total b*tch but come on.”
It was not until later that month, during a team-up with Black Vulcan and El Dorado against the Legion of Doom, that we found out Aquaman was actually sleeping with Elasti-Girl from the Doom Patrol.
Hal rolled his eyes when he learned that one.
My Rolex is budging awkwardly through my costume; I peel back at the red skintight gauntlet for a second and check the time, maybe for the fourth time that minute.
The Green Arrow cracks a joke about it behind me, to the Black Canary, something to do with my being the fastest man alive or something but she holds back her laugh. They made the cover of last week’s Newstime as the “World’s Finest Couple” but to me they are an absolute bore; why don’t they get married and scram the hell out of the Hall of Justice anyway? As if Ollie the p*thead doesn’t look like a retard enough with that Van Dyke of his, that hippie beard that went out of style like, ages ago.
And don’t get me started on the drunken brunette by his side with the Veronica Lake wig, fishnet stockings and half-full bottle of Stoli in her hands.
Arthur turns his face to Hal and whisper something lewd by the look on their faces. They both laugh, leaving Wonder Woman to her own devices.
Diana lumps back to the bar and I check her back: big, solid, plump buttocks like spheres of the purest marble under star-spangled satin shorts and I wonder for a second who’s the lucky bastard nailing her *ss. Or maybe she’s indeed a l*sbian. Clark once told me they were all l*sbians on Paradise Island. I mean, with a name like that…
“Watcharre havin’ Barry,” the words slur out of Wonder Woman’s mouth as I notice she’s holding a half-empty white wine spritzer in her hand. I think it’s her fifth this evening and I’m not counting the b*nghits she did with Ollie and Dinah half an hour ago. You can tell by her reddened, dilated pupils.
“Nothing tonight Di. Had a few little Demer*ls too many with Iris’ V*liums before coming over,” I tell her and it’s obviously a lie because my super-fast metabolism isn’t really affected by dr*gs or alc*hol and that’s why it’s such a drag coming over to these Justice League meetings.
“Well too bad,” she says mildly drunk, very st*ned. “How’s Iris anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
Superman, the only person visibly sober among us except for myself, insists on all of us sitting through a lame-ass presentation on the importance of keeping a secret identity and I just yawn.
Guys like Bruce and Hal do it because they’re total sl*ts and want to be able to wake up in bed with half of Metropolis without the other half being aware of it. I did it because it was the only way of getting out with other girls when I married Iris but of course it was a long time ago and she doesn’t really care anymore as long as I pay up the insurance on her Porsche and keep those prescriptions coming.
And God alone knows why Superman does it. I think he really buys it that no one’s buying the “Clark Kent’s glasses” bit but if he wants to keep on living in denial, fine by me.
As Clark speaks I turn my head back and Batman is speaking something to Wonder Woman’s ears. She opens her blue-red eyes wide, obviously startled, then smirks. He smirks, too and looks at Hal, who gives Bruce a thumbs-up with his Power Ring.
Batman and Green Lantern get to leave the meeting a little before it actually ends, each of them escorting Wonder Woman in their arms back to Bruce’s bat-cave or whatever it is he’s calling his silly headquarters right now.
Hall phones me the next day to brag and says Diana put Bruce in traction but for some reason I don’t think he’s really kidding. I stare out the window, past the venetian blinds and into the big ocean spread under a pale-orange sunset, and say nothing.
It’s the end of summer, 1982.
- - - - - - - - -
Contemporary North-American novelist Bret Easton Ellis is one my favorite writers of all time. He wrote such terrific books as American Psycho, The Rules of Attraction and Less Than Zero. He would probably be the last person you’d choose to write a Justice League of America comic book, by the way.
The above text is obviously a joke.
“…been tinkering with a Nomex tri-weave for the new Batmobile canopy,” he tells Superman and the farm-boy from Kansas just smiles at the rich kid from Jersey.
“…been meaning to thank you for that dinner with Lois back in Los Angeles,” he says a little absently-minded. “What was the name of the restaurant again? Spazio?”
“Hh, Clark,” whispers the Dark Knight. “Spago.”
“You guys went to California and never called?” says Hal as he stands by the watercooler, leaning his strong, tan, shapely body against the bulkhead. Bruce checks him down from head to toe under the all-white eyeslits of his bat-cowl or whatever it is he’s calling his silly mask right now.
“We don’t mix business with pleasure, Jordan,” he barks back at the Green Lantern, his opaque eyes reflecting the glistening emerald jewel on Hal’s middle finger. The thought that playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne can actually get envious at something ought to make me smile but instead it makes me shiver.
Aquaman is there too- Arthur Curry- with the looks of a movie star and the personality of a poolboy, the golden scales from his shirt dripping wet all over his musky tights and I’m a little listless because I can’t really tell whether it’s made of velvet, corduroy or God forbid, neoprene.
Diana has both her hands resting on his broad, strong shoulders and she’s smiling like a schoolgirl. Hal said he thought Arthur was sleeping with her. I told Hal I thought Arthur was sleeping with him.
“Geez Barry,” he told me, “I know Arthur’s a total b*tch but come on.”
It was not until later that month, during a team-up with Black Vulcan and El Dorado against the Legion of Doom, that we found out Aquaman was actually sleeping with Elasti-Girl from the Doom Patrol.
Hal rolled his eyes when he learned that one.
My Rolex is budging awkwardly through my costume; I peel back at the red skintight gauntlet for a second and check the time, maybe for the fourth time that minute.
The Green Arrow cracks a joke about it behind me, to the Black Canary, something to do with my being the fastest man alive or something but she holds back her laugh. They made the cover of last week’s Newstime as the “World’s Finest Couple” but to me they are an absolute bore; why don’t they get married and scram the hell out of the Hall of Justice anyway? As if Ollie the p*thead doesn’t look like a retard enough with that Van Dyke of his, that hippie beard that went out of style like, ages ago.
And don’t get me started on the drunken brunette by his side with the Veronica Lake wig, fishnet stockings and half-full bottle of Stoli in her hands.
Arthur turns his face to Hal and whisper something lewd by the look on their faces. They both laugh, leaving Wonder Woman to her own devices.
Diana lumps back to the bar and I check her back: big, solid, plump buttocks like spheres of the purest marble under star-spangled satin shorts and I wonder for a second who’s the lucky bastard nailing her *ss. Or maybe she’s indeed a l*sbian. Clark once told me they were all l*sbians on Paradise Island. I mean, with a name like that…
“Watcharre havin’ Barry,” the words slur out of Wonder Woman’s mouth as I notice she’s holding a half-empty white wine spritzer in her hand. I think it’s her fifth this evening and I’m not counting the b*nghits she did with Ollie and Dinah half an hour ago. You can tell by her reddened, dilated pupils.
“Nothing tonight Di. Had a few little Demer*ls too many with Iris’ V*liums before coming over,” I tell her and it’s obviously a lie because my super-fast metabolism isn’t really affected by dr*gs or alc*hol and that’s why it’s such a drag coming over to these Justice League meetings.
“Well too bad,” she says mildly drunk, very st*ned. “How’s Iris anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
Superman, the only person visibly sober among us except for myself, insists on all of us sitting through a lame-ass presentation on the importance of keeping a secret identity and I just yawn.
Guys like Bruce and Hal do it because they’re total sl*ts and want to be able to wake up in bed with half of Metropolis without the other half being aware of it. I did it because it was the only way of getting out with other girls when I married Iris but of course it was a long time ago and she doesn’t really care anymore as long as I pay up the insurance on her Porsche and keep those prescriptions coming.
And God alone knows why Superman does it. I think he really buys it that no one’s buying the “Clark Kent’s glasses” bit but if he wants to keep on living in denial, fine by me.
As Clark speaks I turn my head back and Batman is speaking something to Wonder Woman’s ears. She opens her blue-red eyes wide, obviously startled, then smirks. He smirks, too and looks at Hal, who gives Bruce a thumbs-up with his Power Ring.
Batman and Green Lantern get to leave the meeting a little before it actually ends, each of them escorting Wonder Woman in their arms back to Bruce’s bat-cave or whatever it is he’s calling his silly headquarters right now.
Hall phones me the next day to brag and says Diana put Bruce in traction but for some reason I don’t think he’s really kidding. I stare out the window, past the venetian blinds and into the big ocean spread under a pale-orange sunset, and say nothing.
It’s the end of summer, 1982.
- - - - - - - - -
Contemporary North-American novelist Bret Easton Ellis is one my favorite writers of all time. He wrote such terrific books as American Psycho, The Rules of Attraction and Less Than Zero. He would probably be the last person you’d choose to write a Justice League of America comic book, by the way.
The above text is obviously a joke.
posted by 186282mps at 7:43 AM
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