04-06-2015, 07:06 PM
For far too long, mild mannered Bruce Blingsteen wondered what it would be like to become a legendary hero like the ones plastered all over his pajamas. He wanted to know what flying high above the city with his cape waving in the wind was like. He was curious about the feeling of shooting laser beams from his eyes. He couldn’t help but to imagine all the hijinks he could get into if he could just turn himself invisible. Merely pipe dreams, but thoughts that could entertain him for hours on end as he wished he knew just what it was like to be just like them.
The time for wondering was over.
He was now one of them.
He stood in front of the long mirror in the corner of the darkened room admiring the sight he had become:
A pair of ‘borrowed’ work boots, spray painted lime green. He would use these to stomp out evil.
A black speedo, allowing him maximum mobility. He would wear this to chase down evil and stomp it out.
A utility belt to hold his gadgets. Presently he only had a lighter, a couple thumbtacks, and half a can of mace. McGuyver did more with less. He would use these to disable evil prior to stomping it out.
A bulletproof vest, for obvious reasons. He wasn’t completely clueless, bad guys have guns and he’s not fast enough to dodge bullets. Yet. He would wear this to protect his precious innards while stomping out evil.
Compression sleeves on his arms. He’d seen basketball players wearing them during their games. He’s not sure what they do, but he likes them. He would wear these to look cool as fuck while he stomps out evil.
A Guy Fawkes mask, concealing his precious identity. Should evildoers figure out who the real face of fear is, his friends and family would certainly face a backlash from the criminal underbelly that plagued the streets. He would wear this to remain anonymous while stomping out evil.
And finally, a cape. Because, why not? He would wear this so he could be...caped, while stomping out evil.
This was the new breed of a hero. Not a Hollywood hunk in spandex and majestically flowing hair, but a regular man willing to stand up for what’s right, no matter what the personal cost or sacrifice. No, he was fueled by righteousness. By morality. By justice.
And marijuana. Like, a lot.
He lifts his head and cracks his knuckles, then suddenly sends his fist into the glass. In the shattered fragments of the mirror several reflections of the Guy Fawkes mask can be seen. He holds a fist up and glances over it; the mask obscuring his face but it can be easily assumed that he is amazed by the sheer force he was able to generate.
â€Beware evildoers. A new face of justice takes over the streets this night. I am the Stomper.â€
He looks down to his feet where his reflection can be seen in a large shard of glass. â€And I will…†In the reflection, the lime green boot is seen lifting up briefly before slamming down onto the glass, crushing it into pieces.
â€Stomp. You. Out.â€
The time for action was now. The world needed it’s heroes, now more than ever, and he was there to answer the call. He presses a button on the wall and the door to the cave begins to open. Before he can make his way over to his Segway, however, a blinding light floods the interior. What could this be? Had the criminal underbelly already gotten wind of plan to eradicate evil once and for all? Perhaps the seedy mob bosses had the police in their pocket and somehow they tipped them off to the location of his secret base? It couldn’t all be over before it even started, could it? He was interrupted by a voice that cut through him like a knife:
â€Get the fuck out of my parking spot! And why are you dressed like a gay construction worker?â€
â€Don’t hate on my swag old man, you know you admirin’.â€
â€Oh my god, I should’ve put you into therapy.â€
With middle finger held high, The Stomper hops on his trusty Segway and rolls off, a vigilante into the night. Overjoyed by the thought of finally putting evil into it’s place, his brain was overcome with the possibilities of where his night would take him. Arsonists? Rapists? Murderers? Software pirates? Each a worse crime than the one preceding it, and yet he hoped to encounter them all tonight. He wanted to rid the world of this vermin one stomp at a time, and reclaim the good name of ‘hero’ that others, like that wretched bitchboy ‘Hero’ Xtreme 7.9, have sullied. As a matter of fact, if The Stomper could run into any criminal that night, the vile impostor and his shit swallowing mouthpiece would be his choice. Nothing would bring him greater joy than leaving a series of boot prints in their faces and ass cheeks. But their time would come, Wednesday night at Warfare, where they would be put down like rabid opossums rummaging through a hungry hillbilly's garbage can. Sure, he could be sitting in his room smoking more weed and laughing about just how pathetic ‘Hero’ Xtreme’s manager’s short-winded, hair brained rants were, but tonight was purely about the hunt.
The Stomper weaves through the streets, keeping a vigilant eye out for those who would dare to commit evil acts on his patrol. To his dismay, the night is frustratingly quiet. He looks up and down the streets, but sadly nary a murder nor rape in sight. All this planning and excitement and he couldn’t even find an old woman jaywalking. It never occurred to him that in his eight years living in this gated community that there had never even been a noise complaint, to his knowledge. Dejected but not defeated, he continued on.
â€Come on, there’s gotta be something. Anything. Martha Stewart where you at girl?â€
Just then, something caught his eye! Was this finally it!?
Down the street, a black sedan is idling with it’s lights off, pulled over onto the side of the street. The Stomper jumps off his Segway of Justice and stealthily makes his way through some nearby bushes, making his way towards the suspicious vehicle like a budget ninja in the night. He finally gets close enough to spy on the vehicle, just in time to see the window roll down and a crumpled up McDonald’s bag being thrown out the window and into the grass.
Oh no, he didn’t.
That motherfucker.
Ain’t no littering on his watch.
The Stomper immediately jumps out from the bushes and rushes the car. He leaps feet first through the open window and into the car. The door on to other side flies open as The Stomper drives the perpetrator to the ground with the force of the dropkick. The Stomper immediately begins stomping on the man violently, muttering curse words as he sends several boots to the villain’s midsection.
â€You’re going to litter on MY street!? I don’t fucking think so!
Another kick to the stomach sends the man searching for air and writhing in pain on the ground. The Stomper places one boot over top of the man’s face and lifts his leg into the air, measuring one final stomp.
Screeching tires and police sirens cut him off.
It’s the villains lucky day.
The Stomper, not one willing to allow the police to meddle in his affairs, quickly flees back to the safety of the bushes as the police squad car pulls up. Two officers sprint out from the car to the side of the fallen man. Upon seeing his face, however, they roll him over onto his stomach and place handcuffs on it. They yank him to his feet and march him back to the car.
â€You think you can just run from death row, huh? You don’t kill four people and get away with it asshole. Whoever did this to you would’ve been doing you a favor if they would’ve just finished the job.â€
The Stomper pats himself on the back (figuratively, this kid couldn’t stand yoga) as the police car pulls away. The Stomper stands tall and places his hands on his hips.
â€All it a night’s work, civilan. All in a night’s work.â€
Current Universal Champion
(1x) X-Treme Champion
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