Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [16]
He was likely doing that now while chewing happily on something brown; chatting up some bleary-eyed young woman I recognized vaguely from the shipping department in hopes of getting her into tight-fitting clothing while she was clearly searching for any opening in his monologue that would allow her to escape him.
“Archangel is my favorite X-Man,” he said, apparently going for the ‘Date with Psylocke’ angle, unaware of the fact that this woman could not possibly care less if he were lying on the floor bleeding from the ears. She was leaning, turned away from him and primed to run at the slightest visible crack in their one-sided conversation. “Or he was until they hired this hack writer who changed his skin from blue to normal flesh-colored. White people flesh-colored. They’re always changing writers, and each one is worse than the last. But this guy— woo! Ruined Archangel. Archangel, not ‘Angel’.”
He said ‘Angel’ in the kind of whiny, sarcastic, singsong voice that homophobes with little or no acting talent believe sounds exactly like an unattractive homosexual. “He claimed he quit. The writer. But Marvel fired him. I know someone who was there. He cried. And he should have after what he did to Archangel. You see the movie?”
“Which mo…”
“The third one. It sucked. ‘Angel’ was that faggy, feather guy. Archangel, from the comics, was tough and scary. He could fling them at you, you know—his wings—and these razor-feathers would disengage, and they could shoot at you, and cut you! So COOL! Now he’s just back to being like the guy in the movie. Gay white guy with ‘downy’ feathers who ‘heeeeeals’ people. He’s a ‘heeeealer’. So faggy.”
“My brother is gay…”
“Either of you see the third movie?”
“No. I…”
“It soooo sucked. Especially…” unattractive, gender-challenged, singsong “…‘Angel’. Even gay guys wouldn’t like him. We should see it sometime. Wanna rent it and see it with me?”
“No, I…”
“I don’t blame you. It was the worst of the three. First and second ones are great. But the comics are still better. Especially Archangel, and Psylocke.”
Cha-ching. Moving in for the ‘kill’.
“Psylocke, as any true fan knows,” Morgan said sagely, “is Archangel’s one, true love. Not that dippy little Paige Guthrie.”
Morgan winked at her as if she were one of the chosen few who understood. She stared back blankly, clearly one of the teeming masses that did not.
“And you,” he concluded, “would look great dressed as Psylocke.”
“Dressed as…“ she shook her head, lost. “As what?”
“Psylocke. Yeah. And I could be Archangel. I have a couple cases of blue face paint. We’d look great together. Like an Adam Hughes cover! He draws women like you! SMOKIN’ hot! WOO! All feminist and strong in their tight-fitting little outfits. And he draws them really realistic so their boobs actually squeeze out in places where the costumes are too tight. Like they would on a real woman with naturally big ones who couldn’t find anything in her size.”
He glanced down at her, ‘naturally big ones’, and she reflexively covered them, goggling at him, open-mouthed and horrified, then began backing quickly away.
“So it’s more true,” he continued. “The way he draws them. Like actual art. You’d look like that. Squeezing out all over.”
“Squeezing out…what?”
“All over.”
She was moving away from him very quickly now, and Morgan stepped a few paces to stay with her.
“Or, now that I think about it, maybe Nekra. Ooooh, yeeeeeah. The original black costume where the bottoms of her boobs hang out from under the top. So sexy.”
He indicated on his own chest where his boobs would hang out if he had them and were so dressed, and she flinched.
“With a body like yours, you’d look amazing as Nekra,” he promised her. “And if I had to, I’d be willing to dress like Mandrill. It’s not out of the question.