Warwick : an account trois part 1

(see part the earlier entries of Warwick to follow the story) 
the noon sun is eclipsed as a slight fey man effortlessly descends from outer space with utterly filthy tattered clothes flickering in the wind.
"its funny how something so small can destroy so much. what alarms me however is this controlled hate. How do you make 50 people from from all walks of life
collectively commit suicide. then i figure when the bombs go off in their chest the crowd of on lookers, cops, medics, newspaper reporters are to be scraped off the pavement along with all the identities and and physical evidence to be collected. so much hate focused to a needle point. i can't even get anyone to met me for coffee let alone jump off a building." -Warwick

the mayors office.  

a well dressed man sits at a well dressed desk and sips a coffee as a herd of staff stand teeming with anxiety until one speaks out

Cynthia Ellen- clears her throat Emerie we will need to make a statement about the ...falling party incident.

Emerie- Yes, yes ,of course, I think I shall. Tell me Ms. Ellen who was this that prevented this most grievous tragedy. Do we have any video of the event have we captured any photos of the Hero? I want to know with in the Hour. I think we'll hold the press conferance at say 4.

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Warwick : an account deux

 big fat swollen rains start to splash into the pavement gathering connecting pooling to reflect  that foppish subversive
Warwick in a grey broken light. the suicidal littered bodies collected on the tree wheeze groan and spit their discontent
as paramedics swarm the branches for bodies. Saw tooth cops with blunted features glare brutal looks at poor puny
Warwick his tattered shirt encrusted with grime blood and sap flips them the bird. they write down his plate number.
that's when the first body explodes a meat headed juggernaut of a man stumbles from the medics wrenching his collar
tears open his shirt a red light emanates from his chest vibrates then makes a sound that rents the very fabric of the air
paints the crowd the streets the birds over head in bony goo. Scenes of hysteria in blood myst as 49 red lights flash.
the sound barrier POPS to warwick and a rusted piece of metal from his car the world has become statues as he does
49 exploitative surgeries with the rusted scrap then ascends in a spiral from the earth fling the pin head bombs into satellites.
then half the country loses phone service. "Fuck My Life" Warwick mutters descending.    
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Warwick : an account -fan fic

Warwick : an account 
the grimy city yawns its rusted mouth as the sun banishes the smog choaked stars. 
the rats drag their slimy coats into the swear as porters hose off the hobo piss 
from the sidewalk in the dawn in the distance amoung the park garden and the orange flowers  
a slight fey chap tucks his pant into his boot struts off fixing his hair in the reflection 
of a car window; the divers side tire's boot locked and the windsheild is littered with 
tickets plastered with bird shit. grasping the metal bootlock it melts like silver solder     
windsheild tickets  flicker in the dawn light as the rustbucket goes humpty dumpty  
down the road. Warwick thought it would be a nice enough day until the 50 people 
threw themselves off a building. Bursting from the roof of the rust bucket Warwick tears 
up a huge tree fling a cloud of debris and earthworms and other crawldads about he 
flies into the air boughs reaching to out bodies thumping smacking whalping in midair 
collision the wood bust out teeth cracks ribs pierces limbs but everyone lives dangling 
from the warwick tree. Squirming in blood soaked misery busted mouths spray out crimson 
myst Warwich thinks about infection pathogeins and shundders and looks for a antibacterial  
drops after setting the manic crowd down. the disco lights of sirens flash round the corner. 
Warwich looks at his shirt and dirty hands and grimices. 'Shit ass, this isn't coming out"  
glares at people and shakes head.


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The true ethical test ?

'The true ethical test is not only the readiness to save the victims, but also - even more, perhaps - the ruthless dedication to annihilating those who made them victims.'

- zizek
 I've seen the greatest heroes money could craft be the perpetrators of an idea that 'Tolerance makes everything boring, that we need more conflict!'-zizek. 
i find it interesting that comics have roots in Marxist conflict theory that the higher order of meaning is to be found from the juxtaposition of images which is a fundamental language of narrative via  Eisenstein theory of montage : not that i have political position to make i'm just pointing this out. is the fundamental structure of this type of story telling somehow influencing the medium on a fascinating subversive level. Shall I apply Leibniz theory of compossiblity to the comic universe.
According to Leibniz a complete individual thing (for example spider-man) is characterized by all its properties, and these determine its relations with other individuals. The existence of one individual may contradict the existence of another. A possible world is made up of individuals that are compossible -- that is, individuals that can exist together.
 then are the characters made to live in this continuum a product of essence rivalry determined by the very structure limitations set by juxtaposition?

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the ontological comic dilemma

 the post modern daedalus    
tony stark suits up in iron to face a world drawn up with the soul intention of 
bombarding him with unearthly fits of malice . placed in a  continuous  loop of 
self destruction created by flaws intrinsic to his being: they're as untouchable
and uncorrectable to him as his actions are premeditated to suit an arc of universal design. 
his every thought feeling and word are merely made to entertain a unknown mass; tony stark
suits up encased in iron to have an buffer of privacy. his life is foliated and Ironed to
Starchy perfection then stapled and traded for paper. 

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