You can do it, put your back-story into it.
Or side story, at least. Ditto what JasonFranklin said before. I wrote this months ago, but have only now decided to put it up. Keep in mind, I'm used to writing bad historical analysis, not crappy fiction.
Author’s Note-
For me, there is no difference between Reality and Fandom. The tempering power of one affects the other. I have a hard time with disunity, even internally.
There are no conventions, there are no costumes, there is no canon. This revolution will not be televised.
When I acted, I was a character actor. All of my characters were essentially Lawrence with different accoutrements. This includes the character in this story. I don’t really have to put on a façade or behave any differently when I’m Theroden as I do when I’m myself, and I am known exclusively as the Miracle Man to a number of people who only had a connection to me in Basic Training.
Therefore, the setting in this story is less separated from reality than most of our kwantumwank adventures. I believe it represents pretty well the quasi-reality I actually live in.
He had filled many roles in his life.
Emancipator.
Savior.
Bane.
Blind Slayer.
Killer.
But one title had eluded him. That is, until now.
Theroden “Miracle Man” Blackclaw in:
Dr. Chuck Taylor, Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Ball.
As Theroden walked into the gymnasium and removed his Aviator sunglasses, his heart did something it had never done before.
It fluttered.
In the first time in a long time, Theroden was nervous, as a single bead of sweat formed at the corner of his forehead. He wiped it away and placed a red, white, and blue sweatband atop his head, right at his hairline.
-“Damn it, Theroden, get a grip,” he thought to himself, then corrected, “Shit, I’m Miracle Man here. Man, now is when I should start second-guessing referring to Miracle Man in the third person. Just whom is Miracle Man having this conversation with?”
-“Go big or go home, Ugly.”
Ah yes, who could forget Lawrence’s Hair? Who is Lawrence? Anyway, the name thing would not be an issue, because Miracle Man had drug out his stenciled T-Shirt that said, “MIRACLE MAN” on the front and “BASIC TRAINING-THE ORIGINAL HARD CORPS” on the back, complete with the four-star ranking on the left shoulder. There was no question who this player was. Just hope that the Fashion Police wouldn’t show up.
-“Let those dirrty hoes show up, I’ll give them something they can Miranda-ize,” Lawrence’s Hair interjected.
-“SNAP!” Miracle Man finished, and with a grin walked over to the basketball court with a little more spring in his step
***
The hard metal bench was cold, because this ghetto-fabulous gym couldn’t afford a good heating system. That was just one of the many things that convinced Miracle Man that he was in the right place.
The bald black guy with the crazy sunglasses dressed in black leather told him it would be like this, but Miracle Man didn’t really believe him until now. While the building itself was ramshackle, complete with a wide array of people working out-your usual collection of guys trying to gain the mass that girls were trying to lose--the basketball court itself was immaculate. Bright halogen lights cast a uniform glow on the parquet grid floor, and a handful of ABA balls were spread across the floor. Most interesting was that all of the paint on the court, from the three-point line to the key, was black. What was it with this world and black? For a reality that was built around the problem of choice, you could pick any color you wanted, as long as it was black.
As if the court was not surreal enough, the figure approaching Miracle Man was even worse. All in…you guessed it, black…He had neglected to remove his sunglasses, and had eyebrows only an elf could grow, Theroden should know.
“Mr. Miracle Man, that is the name you are using, isn’t it?” the entity inquired.
After shifting his gunna, Miracle Man responded, “Yessie sai, but there are other worlds than these. Who are you?”
The character cracked a smile that could make the undead’s skin crawl,
“You do not recognize me, Mr. Miracle Man? Ah, well, you are still human. However, I knew there was something special about you, Mr. Miracle Man; out of all of them, your soul was the only one I could not steal.”
It took less than a second for Miracle Man to realize the only entity that could be, and his hands drew with unnatural speed for the dagger that wasn’t there…Drizzt was somehow quicker and had already removed it. It sat embedded in the wall behind Miracle Man.
“Hmmm…Upgrades.”
***
What can only be described as a smile crawled across Drizzt’s face.
“Mr. Miracle Man, you’re still using all of your muscles except for the most important.”
“Hey! It happens to every guy at some point! I’ve been under a lot of stress recently…”
Drizzt clenched his teeth, “Not THAT muscle, Mr. Miracle Man…I’m referring to your brain, which isn't a muscle, but you get the point. I assume you have been told what will happen here today.”
“Fa shizzle, my nizzle," Lawrence's Hair offered.
With only a slight look of bemusement, Miracle Man clarified, "Verily; I was told. We’re going to play one-on-one, and the winner gets the title of ‘Baller.’”
“Hmmm, that was quicker than the others. You should also know that we’ll be playing this game without weapons, which is why I’ve taken the liberty of disarming you. First to 21, 2s and 3s.”
“Hey, you must be Switzerland,” Miracle Man answered.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Drizzt questioned
“I’m about to violate your neutrality.”
***
The ensuing game was furious. Drizzt was using every illegal defensive move in the book, fouling hard and drawing charges. Every 3 that Miracle Man nailed was countered with supernatural speed and power by the imp-in-Agent’s clothing.
Miracle Man was never stymied, and was able to keep it close throughout the contest, but trailed 19-18. Random Hip-Hop songs flowed onto the court, keeping Miracle Man’s morale high, “Shake Your Tailfeather,” “99 Problems,” “Mama Said Knock You Out,” “Coming to America,” “Welcome to the Terrordome,” and “Like I Love You” managed to massage Miracle Man’s game to the next level, but fatigue was setting in and fast.
“Mr. Miracle Man, why do you continue to fight? I am stronger and faster, this is MY world!!! Even now you can feel your loss weigh heavy on your shoulders!”
“Impossible” Miracle Man responded, breathlessly
“Not impossible, INEVITABLE!”
With those words, Drizzt charged hard into the key, knocking Miracle Man off balance as he leapt for the easy lay-up and the win.
“Not in my house, punk-ass beyotch!” As Lawrence’s Hair reached out and slapped the ball out of Drizzt’s hands with a power that is non-existent in normal hair.
Miracle Man recovered the ball, ran out past the line, pirouetted on his left foot, and with a hook shot that made Kareem Abdul-Jabbar stand up and say, “There is a disturbance in the force,” nailed the game-winning shot.
The ‘magic’ surrounding Drizzt quickly dissipated and the 18 inch imp laid prone on the wooden floor. After holding a Michael Jordan fist-pump for what seemed to be an eternity, Miracle Man approached him with swagger and impunity, giving off finger snaps to a football he hadn’t spun on the ground after not scoring a touchdown. Lawrence’s Hair had taken on the personality of a certain ebony dog, screaming, “OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT, SOMEONE PHONE HOME AND GET THIS GUY’S MOTHER!!!” Drizzt whispered…
“I have one thing to say…”
“Call me Ishmael?”
“No…”
“Meet me at Montauk?”
“No…”
“It was the best of times…”
“NO, damn it…
Slurred…
Technological…
Decay…”
***
When Miracle Man was back at Pope’s House/NPC Manor, ‘Fax and Boss asked how it went.
With a mere shrug and a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth, Miracle Man gave the only appropriate answer,
“Sure, Sure."
Author’s Note-
For me, there is no difference between Reality and Fandom. The tempering power of one affects the other. I have a hard time with disunity, even internally.
There are no conventions, there are no costumes, there is no canon. This revolution will not be televised.
When I acted, I was a character actor. All of my characters were essentially Lawrence with different accoutrements. This includes the character in this story. I don’t really have to put on a façade or behave any differently when I’m Theroden as I do when I’m myself, and I am known exclusively as the Miracle Man to a number of people who only had a connection to me in Basic Training.
Therefore, the setting in this story is less separated from reality than most of our kwantumwank adventures. I believe it represents pretty well the quasi-reality I actually live in.
He had filled many roles in his life.
Emancipator.
Savior.
Bane.
Blind Slayer.
Killer.
But one title had eluded him. That is, until now.
Theroden “Miracle Man” Blackclaw in:
Dr. Chuck Taylor, Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Ball.
As Theroden walked into the gymnasium and removed his Aviator sunglasses, his heart did something it had never done before.
It fluttered.
In the first time in a long time, Theroden was nervous, as a single bead of sweat formed at the corner of his forehead. He wiped it away and placed a red, white, and blue sweatband atop his head, right at his hairline.
-“Damn it, Theroden, get a grip,” he thought to himself, then corrected, “Shit, I’m Miracle Man here. Man, now is when I should start second-guessing referring to Miracle Man in the third person. Just whom is Miracle Man having this conversation with?”
-“Go big or go home, Ugly.”
Ah yes, who could forget Lawrence’s Hair? Who is Lawrence? Anyway, the name thing would not be an issue, because Miracle Man had drug out his stenciled T-Shirt that said, “MIRACLE MAN” on the front and “BASIC TRAINING-THE ORIGINAL HARD CORPS” on the back, complete with the four-star ranking on the left shoulder. There was no question who this player was. Just hope that the Fashion Police wouldn’t show up.
-“Let those dirrty hoes show up, I’ll give them something they can Miranda-ize,” Lawrence’s Hair interjected.
-“SNAP!” Miracle Man finished, and with a grin walked over to the basketball court with a little more spring in his step
***
The hard metal bench was cold, because this ghetto-fabulous gym couldn’t afford a good heating system. That was just one of the many things that convinced Miracle Man that he was in the right place.
The bald black guy with the crazy sunglasses dressed in black leather told him it would be like this, but Miracle Man didn’t really believe him until now. While the building itself was ramshackle, complete with a wide array of people working out-your usual collection of guys trying to gain the mass that girls were trying to lose--the basketball court itself was immaculate. Bright halogen lights cast a uniform glow on the parquet grid floor, and a handful of ABA balls were spread across the floor. Most interesting was that all of the paint on the court, from the three-point line to the key, was black. What was it with this world and black? For a reality that was built around the problem of choice, you could pick any color you wanted, as long as it was black.
As if the court was not surreal enough, the figure approaching Miracle Man was even worse. All in…you guessed it, black…He had neglected to remove his sunglasses, and had eyebrows only an elf could grow, Theroden should know.
“Mr. Miracle Man, that is the name you are using, isn’t it?” the entity inquired.
After shifting his gunna, Miracle Man responded, “Yessie sai, but there are other worlds than these. Who are you?”
The character cracked a smile that could make the undead’s skin crawl,
“You do not recognize me, Mr. Miracle Man? Ah, well, you are still human. However, I knew there was something special about you, Mr. Miracle Man; out of all of them, your soul was the only one I could not steal.”
It took less than a second for Miracle Man to realize the only entity that could be, and his hands drew with unnatural speed for the dagger that wasn’t there…Drizzt was somehow quicker and had already removed it. It sat embedded in the wall behind Miracle Man.
“Hmmm…Upgrades.”
***
What can only be described as a smile crawled across Drizzt’s face.
“Mr. Miracle Man, you’re still using all of your muscles except for the most important.”
“Hey! It happens to every guy at some point! I’ve been under a lot of stress recently…”
Drizzt clenched his teeth, “Not THAT muscle, Mr. Miracle Man…I’m referring to your brain, which isn't a muscle, but you get the point. I assume you have been told what will happen here today.”
“Fa shizzle, my nizzle," Lawrence's Hair offered.
With only a slight look of bemusement, Miracle Man clarified, "Verily; I was told. We’re going to play one-on-one, and the winner gets the title of ‘Baller.’”
“Hmmm, that was quicker than the others. You should also know that we’ll be playing this game without weapons, which is why I’ve taken the liberty of disarming you. First to 21, 2s and 3s.”
“Hey, you must be Switzerland,” Miracle Man answered.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Drizzt questioned
“I’m about to violate your neutrality.”
***
The ensuing game was furious. Drizzt was using every illegal defensive move in the book, fouling hard and drawing charges. Every 3 that Miracle Man nailed was countered with supernatural speed and power by the imp-in-Agent’s clothing.
Miracle Man was never stymied, and was able to keep it close throughout the contest, but trailed 19-18. Random Hip-Hop songs flowed onto the court, keeping Miracle Man’s morale high, “Shake Your Tailfeather,” “99 Problems,” “Mama Said Knock You Out,” “Coming to America,” “Welcome to the Terrordome,” and “Like I Love You” managed to massage Miracle Man’s game to the next level, but fatigue was setting in and fast.
“Mr. Miracle Man, why do you continue to fight? I am stronger and faster, this is MY world!!! Even now you can feel your loss weigh heavy on your shoulders!”
“Impossible” Miracle Man responded, breathlessly
“Not impossible, INEVITABLE!”
With those words, Drizzt charged hard into the key, knocking Miracle Man off balance as he leapt for the easy lay-up and the win.
“Not in my house, punk-ass beyotch!” As Lawrence’s Hair reached out and slapped the ball out of Drizzt’s hands with a power that is non-existent in normal hair.
Miracle Man recovered the ball, ran out past the line, pirouetted on his left foot, and with a hook shot that made Kareem Abdul-Jabbar stand up and say, “There is a disturbance in the force,” nailed the game-winning shot.
The ‘magic’ surrounding Drizzt quickly dissipated and the 18 inch imp laid prone on the wooden floor. After holding a Michael Jordan fist-pump for what seemed to be an eternity, Miracle Man approached him with swagger and impunity, giving off finger snaps to a football he hadn’t spun on the ground after not scoring a touchdown. Lawrence’s Hair had taken on the personality of a certain ebony dog, screaming, “OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT, SOMEONE PHONE HOME AND GET THIS GUY’S MOTHER!!!” Drizzt whispered…
“I have one thing to say…”
“Call me Ishmael?”
“No…”
“Meet me at Montauk?”
“No…”
“It was the best of times…”
“NO, damn it…
Slurred…
Technological…
Decay…”
***
When Miracle Man was back at Pope’s House/NPC Manor, ‘Fax and Boss asked how it went.
With a mere shrug and a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth, Miracle Man gave the only appropriate answer,
“Sure, Sure."