The Curse of Spawn #2

[Spider-Man Beyond]

The Curse of Spawn #2

Written by Sononsj
Edited by Daniel Dyer

By the power of Satan! The might of Lucifer!” screamed a punk.

“Dude, nothing’s, like, happening,” said the guy next to him.

“I told you we needed a bigger pentagram,” said the last guy.

“Maybe we need fresh blood!” said the first one, menacingly.

Just then a hideously obese clown with his stomach sticking out of his shirt, blue face paint, and tufts of hair on the side of his head materialized in front of them.

“Gah! What are you doing here?!” asked the punks, obviously afraid. Not wanting to show fear, they yelled, “Go to Hell!”

“You have NO idea,” muttered the Clown. Maliciously, he leaned forward in their faces, grinned, and said, “Boo.”

The punks ran away, terrified.

“Why does Hell get all the retards?” the Clown muttered, walking away.

He walked over to a nearby gravestone, where a man clad in black, with spikes on his boots and gloves, a huge cape, a skull and chain securing the cape, and a white ‘M’ on his chest surrounded in red lay on his knees, sobbing. They had both teleported in, but the Clown had obviously been a little off. The tombstone he was kneeling in front of said:

“Al Simmons
A True American Hero
You Will Be Missed.”

“C ‘mon, why’re ya cryin’? Yer a Hellspawn now! Homicidal agents of Hell don’t cry!” insisted the Clown.

“That- the tombstone… I may not remember my whole past- but somehow I know- it’s my own!” cried the Hellspawn.

“So yer dead. Ya gonna let a little thing like that stop ya?!” asked the Clown.

“Shut up! Who the Hell are you, anyway?!” yelled the Hellspawn.

“Who I am don’t matter right now. All that matters is you.” He held out a shovel in front of the Hellspawn.

“Wha- what’s that for?” he inquired.

“What do ya think it’s for, you retard?! Get diggin’!”

The Hellspawn- or Al Simmons, as he apparently was called, didn’t know why, but a part of him felt compelled to do what the Clown said. He wanted to use his chains to impale the obnoxious little Clown, but a voice in his head said no, obey him. Obey-- your master.

He started digging. Surprisingly, it felt fairly easy and was done in a short amount of time.

The suit must be augmenting my strength somehow, thought Simmons.

When he had dug for a few meters, he reached a body. It was covered in an American flag. When he tore the thin, decomposing flag away, he saw a body. It had on a military uniform, and on his chest was a Navy and Marine Corps Medal. He could feel that the body was, indeed, his own.

He used the chains to hoist himself out of his grave, and in despair, threw the body back in, breaking the fragile head off.

“Who are you, fatty?! I want answers!” screamed the desperate Hellspawn.

“Guess since you’ve suffered some, you can learn part of the truth. You died, and being the vicious murderer you were, sold your soul to the Devil.”

“‘Vicious murderer?’ I don’t believe that. I can’t believe that! I may not remember my past, but I couldn’t have been that murderous!”

“Well, ya were, and you sold your soul to the Devil, and now you’ve been brought back in this shiny new body, complete with a collectible Hellspawn. Memory not included,” the Clown said, smiling maliciously. He was torturing this man, and enjoying every second of it. “Well, you’re back, and now we want to collect. Lead our army, Hellspawn. Lead us to the gates of Heaven- so we can burn them down!!!” he yelled.

“You tell your boss I don’t want in,” he replied.

“Nuh-uh, Spawny. That ain’t how things work. We scratch your back, you scratch ours.”

“Oh, I’ll scratch it, all right- with these razor chains!” He “punched” the Clown with his chains, breaking his neck. Then, with a creepiness that would make Chucky proud, he twisted his head back. In an extremely bloody process, he begin to shed his skin and morph into a thin, insectoid form.

“yOu broKE The DeaL, SPAwNy!” he said as he morphed.

“&*^% your deal,” said the Hellspawn with glee, impaling the creature.

“wE vIoLators aRe a HaRdy bReED,” he cackled.

Like the equally blood-thirsty (well, maybe not equally- even Hydras have limits) Hydra of lore, the Violator could not be killed. Every time the head was chopped of, it grew back. Each time he stabbed a hole in it, it regenerated.

Finally, the Hellspawn got tired of it and stabbed holes in the creature in such rapid succession that it couldn’t heal before Simmons’ next move. He stretched a chain to an impossible length and retrieved an abandoned gasoline truck. He stabbed holes in it, too, until he also got tired of that and ripped it in half. All the gasoline poured out of the truck, spilling onto the Clown.

“yOu WoRK foR uS nOw, hEllSPawN!”

“I don’t work for Hell anymore. So it’s just Spawn,” he replied.

Then he used the chains to jump over a mile away. Again extending two chains impossibly long, he rubbed them together to create a line spark. A spark that turned into- an explosion!

He thought he heard a burning Clown scream.

“You ain’t heard- AGHH!- the last of us! I’m- you- I- dying!” he screamed pitiably, though Spawn felt no pity for him. Only a hatred that burned hotter than the flames of the explosion.

“C’ mon, now,” he said. “So you’re dead. You gonna let a little thing like that stop you?!” He walked away, laughing into the night with joy, joy over the carnage that he- Spawn!- had caused.

To Be Continued!