A cool breeze blows through the hair and purple cape of a particular rodent as his mighty claws grip the roof of a building. The whizzing cars and bustling sidewalks hum with an unknowing gratitude to their guardian: the purple patriot, MIGHTY MUSKRAT. His sharp eyes pierce the night as the gloomy glow of the stars above illuminates the fog rolling in from the bay. He leaps from his perch with silent stealth, and begins his run through the unsleeping city. His broad, beastly shoulders bear more weight than even a creature as powerful as him – or even a mere grown man – can possibly bear.
That’s because he is not a beast, or even a man. He is a tenth-grade high-school student from Marlborough High. Beneath the hard flesh and twisted muscle, beneath the fur-coated exterior of the gruff, masculine muskrat, lies the imaginative and young mind of Melvin Morale.
Mighty Muskrat streaks through the streets as fast as his flying feet can take him, daring purse-snatchers and cigarette-pack stealers, pitiless perpetrators and erroneous evil-doers, to step out of their doors. Since he had arrived as the polis’ protector, crime had decreased in all of its forms, now festering only in back alleys or seething in a cell, serving a sentence.
That was enough to keep him in the metropolis for a time, but now his presence in the city and attention to its defense is more important than ever. Something much bigger than pilferers, bank robbers, or even mobsters lurks its streets. Although Mighty Muskrat has taken the city by the collar, polished its black underbelly, and shaken every flea from its fur, that has only made room for a more threatening evil power, one that rivals even the Amethyst Avenger. This new enemy is the stubborn burr, the skunk spray, the milked metaphor that is soiling the city’s coat once again. So our protagonist speeds, as only a cape-wearing super-rodent can, to a southern Ontario middle school in Marlborough, a veritable blip on anybody else’s radar, but a vital step in his investigation.
* * * *
Will Kolkman walks to school. Will Kolkman shrieks and is hauled into a nearby bush by a clawed hand.
“Will Kolkman,” a booming (but boyish) voice speaks, “I’m only gonna ask you once. Where is Blake Ours?”
“He disappeared, Melvin, just the same way you did.”
Melvin drops his mighty jaw, stunned. “How do you know who I am?” Though Mighty Muskrat had appeared only shortly after Melvin’s supposed death, nobody had guessed that they were one and the same. Not until now, that is.
“I saw it happen, Mel. I saw the lightning tear a hole in the ground the size of a car, right where you were standing.” Will lowers his voice. “And I saw what came out of that hole, Mel.” He studies his massive captor.
Melvin relaxes his grip on Will and stands silently, every frightening feature seeming to fade from his flexed frame, leaving what remains of the former “Marlborough Muskrats” mascot. He sets an opposable-thumbed paw on his old friend’s shoulder.
“It’s still me in here, dude.”
Will smiles, and says, “I don’t know where Blake is, Mel. But I think I know who does.”
* * * *
The pair walk cautiously through the deserted halls, populated only by the sounds of the janitor struggling to pull a prank-victim hamster out of the girls’ toilet, and the muffled squeals of a kid struggling to avoid having a bully flush his head down the toilet. Though he has a newfound sympathy with the former, the latter receives his attention. Violet vengeance tears through his veins as he sweeps to the anaemic academic’s aid.
“Stop!” The bathroom walls shake. The teenage tyrant and stammering serf both fall to the cold floor, made equals by the very sight of …
“MIGHTY MUSKRAT!” In unison, they stand to run, but the belt of the bully is pulled back and turned, so that the meanie stares directly into the menacing mandibles of the Mauve Marauder. As Will helps the freshman escape his after-school ablutions, Mighty Muskrat addresses the bully.
“Where is Blake Ours?”
“I don’t know! I mean, he’s dead, isn’t he?” he stammers unconvincingly.
“Let’s try this again, shall we, David Black?” Mighty Muskrat pulls the teen outside, where he is shocked to see his vintage ’81 Camaro balanced precariously on the upper level of the parking garage adjacent to the school, with nothing but asphalt to break its fall.
“That explosion at the Morales’ garage,” Mighty Muskrat grips David’s collar, “it didn’t kill Blake Ours, did it?”
“N-No,” David says.
“It turned him into something horrible, didn’t it?”
“I don’t know… ” The car slips forwards a little. “O-Okay! You’re right; he’s a monster! Please get my car!”
“He’s been terrorizing my city, pal,” Mighty Muskrat seethes, “and I need to know exactly what he has become, and what I can do to stop him!”
“Alright, I’ll tell you whatever you want. He turned into a bear with wings.”
A puzzled set of masked eyes stares back at the frantic jock.
“A flying bear?”
“Yes – I’m telling the truth!”
Almost on cue, the Camaro slides from its perch, beginning its apocalyptic descent. In a flash, Mighty Muskrat catches the car, leaving a perfect set of clawed feet imprinted in the pavement below him. The Canadian caped crusader carries four wheels of American muscle on his shoulder back to the school, and sets it safely down in front of the shocked student.
A shadow crosses the sky above. Broad and torn bat-like wings hover above the car, then drop the hulking mass, crushing the vehicle beneath it. As glass shatters and sprays across the parking lot, a bear-like Blake bellows,
“Boo!”
Mighty Muskrat stands his ground, pushing the youth behind him and whispering, “Run!” Not a difficult order, David runs for his life.
“We finally meet, Mighty Muskrat!”
“Gimme a break, Blake! If anybody knows who I am, it’s you.”
“Well, Melanie Morale; it seems that lightning does strike twice.” Then, Grinning, he says, “Do you really think you can keep control of that city? You’re just as pathetic now as you were before, Miss Muskrat. You couldn’t even let the little squealer’s car hit the ground – I had to crush it for you.”
Righteous anger grips our hero, and fear for his beloved metropolis and disgust for girl-names balls up in his fist, and he takes a Mighty swing. Blake’s hand catches Melvin’s, and with a crushing twist, he pushes Mighty Muskrat to his knees. The bruin chuckles cruelly as he delivers a shattering blow to his head.
Will waits in the school until the grim grizzly disappears in the dark clouds above. Coming to his friend’s aid, he says, “Melvin! Are you alright? Can you move?”
Before losing consciousness, the Amethyst Avenger manages a weak but determined smirk.
“Will, what do you know about hunting bears?”
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Mighty Muskrat: Origins of Might *****
I woke up in the middle of the night to hear my door creek. My unwanted bunkmate, Melvin Morale, was leaving my room again. He was a total dork, and the only reason he was at my place was because my parents agreed to look after him while his folks were on vacation. He had gotten up every night so far, just as I was falling asleep, and I hadn’t cared before. But tonight was different.
I stepped into the hallway just in time to see him slip through the front door. He was walking towards his house on the sidewalk, twitching and looking over his shoulder, making it extremely obvious that he didn’t want to be followed.
And so, I followed him.
You see, earlier today, the stunted sprout of a kid had somehow thrown a baseball faster than a major league pitcher, and jumped over a six-foot fence in one jump to retrieve it. When my friend Marty and I asked him how he was able to do it, he acted as though he had no idea what we were talking about.
Behind his braces and massive head gear, Melvin’s face was contorted into what most closely resembled determination. His knees buckled as he walked, and his footed pajamas stuck to the sidewalk. I was hopping through the neghbour’s yards, checking between the houses that he was still within sight.
The hedges seemed to get thicker as I went, and I began to struggle to keep up. I lifted myself over a chicken-wire fence but lost my grip and fell. A hot mist fell over my face as I pulled the dirt out of my eyes. I looked up into the panting jaws of an angry Doberman. He began to growl. I shuddered as the guard dog’s teeth crashed together with each loud bark.
Then, he whimpered and began licking my face.
“Will?” I heard Marty’s voice from the back door. “What are you doing here at this hour?”
His pet, Rex, was now hopping around me with excitement, raining drool from his droopy jowls all over my face, cementing the dust to my skin.
“It’s Melvin,” I said, “he snuck out of my house and left for his. I think he’s been doing it all week, too.”
Marty pulled my slipper from Rex’s mouth as I stood. “Well then, let’s go see what he’s up to!”
When we got to the street, Melvin was nowhere in sight. We raced to his house, and saw him in his garage. He was wearing one of his school mascot costumes, which seemed to be lined with some sort of reflective foil.
“What do you think that does?” Marty was pointing to a row of strange electronic devices. Melvin walked up to them and turned a few dials.
“It looks like we’ll find out soon enough.” We watched as Melvin walked up and down the stairs to his basement, coming up with more bizarre pieces of technology each time. Before long, the scene through the window looked more like a futuristic laboratory than a garage.
Melvin, on the other hand, looked just like he always did. He stumbled clumsily around the space, struggling with the heavier pieces of equipment in his over-sized costume, and sifting through a chaotic looking table covered with notes, paper, and blueprints. Though we didn’t know what it was, he had pieced together what looked like a single machine, with cords running from every outlet, making it look like a giant bug caught in a web.
In the corner was a cage full of rabbits. “I wonder what those are for,” I said to Marty. Nothing he could have said would have prepared me for what happened next. Melvin reached into the cage, and selected a rabbit to place in the centre of the machine. He then took two beakers from a stack, and poured their mysterious contents into a glass container next to the door. He typed something into a nearby laptop, and then placed his “Marlborough Muskrats” radiation helmet on his head. The liquid in the container drained slowly, until when the last drop rolled into the machine, Melvin pulled a lever. The display counted down from ten, until suddenly, a bolt of electricity blasted through the garage, lighting up the walls of the surrounding houses. Marty’s eyes adjusted faster than mine, and he said,
“Melvin is making monsters!”
I could now see it too – the rabbit had grown to six feet tall, and had fierce eyes and monstrous teeth. It was having difficulty standing, however, and soon fell to the floor, twitching.
“Is it … dead?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” Marty said, in sheer disbelief.
Not wasting time, Melvin dragged the seizing creature out of the machine and began diligently resetting everything. He was nearly ready to pull the lever when the sound of squealing tires turned his head. Marty and I watched from our hiding place as Blake Ours, the school’s star quarterback and all-around jerk, stepped out of his truck in the Morales’ driveway.
“That’s probably the most ordinary sight we’ll see all night,” Marty said. Besides being a bully, it was well known that Blake had a criminal record for break-and-enter. There were a few unsolved thefts in town, and most of the students suspected that Blake was involved.
“ He probably heard that Melvin’s parents are out of town,” I said. I heard the garage door open. “We need to go help Melvin.”
“No way,” Marty said, pointing at the countdown. Melvin had already started his machine. “I’m not going anywhere near that thing.” We watched in horror as Blake stepped towards Melvin.
… 10
Melvin stepped back, picking up his stack of beakers.
… 9
Blake opened the door of the machine,
… 8
And grabbed the rabbit, shaking it menacingly
… 7
As he bent over Melvin’s humble frame
… 6
Melvin stuttered,
… 5
Trying to explain what was about to happen
… 4
Blake pushed Melvin against the machine,
… 3
Beakers shattered and spilled around them
… 2
The dead monster-rabbit twitches,
… 1
Kicking the door into Blake and Melvin, who fall into the machine.
0
A flash and a deafening crack pealed through the air, leaving a crater beside the house where the garage once stood. Marty had to scream in my ear since the bolt had dimmed my hearing.
“What is that?!”
A brown, furry and clawed hand clung to the edge of the hole. It wasn’t plush, like the costume should have been. I saw its fingers tense as the hand gripped the earth, another whole arm sprouting out and landing on the edge.
“I don’t know,” I replied with a shaky voice. The arm was covered in short fur, but looked very human; it was rippling with strength. A clawed foot that looked more like a paw landed on the edge, and the three limbs pulled the entire body out of the hole.
It was Melvin Morale.
He was more like the Muskrats’ mascot than anything, caped in purple with a mask. But he was unlike anything I had ever seen. The muscular chest of the beast heaved up and down. His claws dug into the ground and he rolled upri`ght. A panting, enraged, and confused animal stood on his feet, looking more like a powerful man everywhere except his face, and roared. His Mighty legs flexed as he spun and ran off into the night, chased by a streak of purple cape, rippling behind him as he ran out of sight.
I stepped into the hallway just in time to see him slip through the front door. He was walking towards his house on the sidewalk, twitching and looking over his shoulder, making it extremely obvious that he didn’t want to be followed.
And so, I followed him.
You see, earlier today, the stunted sprout of a kid had somehow thrown a baseball faster than a major league pitcher, and jumped over a six-foot fence in one jump to retrieve it. When my friend Marty and I asked him how he was able to do it, he acted as though he had no idea what we were talking about.
Behind his braces and massive head gear, Melvin’s face was contorted into what most closely resembled determination. His knees buckled as he walked, and his footed pajamas stuck to the sidewalk. I was hopping through the neghbour’s yards, checking between the houses that he was still within sight.
The hedges seemed to get thicker as I went, and I began to struggle to keep up. I lifted myself over a chicken-wire fence but lost my grip and fell. A hot mist fell over my face as I pulled the dirt out of my eyes. I looked up into the panting jaws of an angry Doberman. He began to growl. I shuddered as the guard dog’s teeth crashed together with each loud bark.
Then, he whimpered and began licking my face.
“Will?” I heard Marty’s voice from the back door. “What are you doing here at this hour?”
His pet, Rex, was now hopping around me with excitement, raining drool from his droopy jowls all over my face, cementing the dust to my skin.
“It’s Melvin,” I said, “he snuck out of my house and left for his. I think he’s been doing it all week, too.”
Marty pulled my slipper from Rex’s mouth as I stood. “Well then, let’s go see what he’s up to!”
When we got to the street, Melvin was nowhere in sight. We raced to his house, and saw him in his garage. He was wearing one of his school mascot costumes, which seemed to be lined with some sort of reflective foil.
“What do you think that does?” Marty was pointing to a row of strange electronic devices. Melvin walked up to them and turned a few dials.
“It looks like we’ll find out soon enough.” We watched as Melvin walked up and down the stairs to his basement, coming up with more bizarre pieces of technology each time. Before long, the scene through the window looked more like a futuristic laboratory than a garage.
Melvin, on the other hand, looked just like he always did. He stumbled clumsily around the space, struggling with the heavier pieces of equipment in his over-sized costume, and sifting through a chaotic looking table covered with notes, paper, and blueprints. Though we didn’t know what it was, he had pieced together what looked like a single machine, with cords running from every outlet, making it look like a giant bug caught in a web.
In the corner was a cage full of rabbits. “I wonder what those are for,” I said to Marty. Nothing he could have said would have prepared me for what happened next. Melvin reached into the cage, and selected a rabbit to place in the centre of the machine. He then took two beakers from a stack, and poured their mysterious contents into a glass container next to the door. He typed something into a nearby laptop, and then placed his “Marlborough Muskrats” radiation helmet on his head. The liquid in the container drained slowly, until when the last drop rolled into the machine, Melvin pulled a lever. The display counted down from ten, until suddenly, a bolt of electricity blasted through the garage, lighting up the walls of the surrounding houses. Marty’s eyes adjusted faster than mine, and he said,
“Melvin is making monsters!”
I could now see it too – the rabbit had grown to six feet tall, and had fierce eyes and monstrous teeth. It was having difficulty standing, however, and soon fell to the floor, twitching.
“Is it … dead?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” Marty said, in sheer disbelief.
Not wasting time, Melvin dragged the seizing creature out of the machine and began diligently resetting everything. He was nearly ready to pull the lever when the sound of squealing tires turned his head. Marty and I watched from our hiding place as Blake Ours, the school’s star quarterback and all-around jerk, stepped out of his truck in the Morales’ driveway.
“That’s probably the most ordinary sight we’ll see all night,” Marty said. Besides being a bully, it was well known that Blake had a criminal record for break-and-enter. There were a few unsolved thefts in town, and most of the students suspected that Blake was involved.
“ He probably heard that Melvin’s parents are out of town,” I said. I heard the garage door open. “We need to go help Melvin.”
“No way,” Marty said, pointing at the countdown. Melvin had already started his machine. “I’m not going anywhere near that thing.” We watched in horror as Blake stepped towards Melvin.
… 10
Melvin stepped back, picking up his stack of beakers.
… 9
Blake opened the door of the machine,
… 8
And grabbed the rabbit, shaking it menacingly
… 7
As he bent over Melvin’s humble frame
… 6
Melvin stuttered,
… 5
Trying to explain what was about to happen
… 4
Blake pushed Melvin against the machine,
… 3
Beakers shattered and spilled around them
… 2
The dead monster-rabbit twitches,
… 1
Kicking the door into Blake and Melvin, who fall into the machine.
0
A flash and a deafening crack pealed through the air, leaving a crater beside the house where the garage once stood. Marty had to scream in my ear since the bolt had dimmed my hearing.
“What is that?!”
A brown, furry and clawed hand clung to the edge of the hole. It wasn’t plush, like the costume should have been. I saw its fingers tense as the hand gripped the earth, another whole arm sprouting out and landing on the edge.
“I don’t know,” I replied with a shaky voice. The arm was covered in short fur, but looked very human; it was rippling with strength. A clawed foot that looked more like a paw landed on the edge, and the three limbs pulled the entire body out of the hole.
It was Melvin Morale.
He was more like the Muskrats’ mascot than anything, caped in purple with a mask. But he was unlike anything I had ever seen. The muscular chest of the beast heaved up and down. His claws dug into the ground and he rolled upri`ght. A panting, enraged, and confused animal stood on his feet, looking more like a powerful man everywhere except his face, and roared. His Mighty legs flexed as he spun and ran off into the night, chased by a streak of purple cape, rippling behind him as he ran out of sight.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Mighty Muskrat E:VI Melvin's Mighty Arm *****
“Hey, wait up!”
Marty and I call out to Melvin as we quickly crest the hill and start stumbling down the path to the neighbour’s yard. We are on one of the most daring rescue missions ever dared, and we need to keep up.
“Where – (gasp) – do you think *(pant)* it is?” Marty wheezes. Bent over and exhausted myself, I say,
“How am I supposed to know? *(pant)* I wasn’t watching. You’re both crazy, anyway; there’s no way he hit it this far.”
* * * * *
Melvin, the school mascot and the least athletic guy in our class, was over at my house on my birthday. If I had any choice in the matter, he wouldn’t even be living in my neighbourhood. He was always in his own little world; at recess, his wiry hands gripped a comic book, while the rest of the guys were playing baseball. And, though it wasn’t his fault, he had a December birthday, hadn’t hit a growth spurt since he was a fetus, and was the most maladjusted pre-teen that ever fell off the rope ladder in gym class. So you can understand how it seemed like social homicide when my mom told me he was going to stay in my room the week of my birthday, while his parents were on vacation in Connecticut. That’s why I only invited Marty over on my birthday, and why we were so sour about the predicament we were in.
The three of us had gone to the backyard to pitch a baseball to each other the way Marty and I did most days after school. He and I always argued over who could throw the fastest, so it was with a wide smile on his face that he handed me his birthday present.
“Open it!” he said, as impatient as if it were his present, too. He and Mel watched as I ripped open the wrapping.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the most beautiful baseball I had ever held. It had red, leather stitching on the seams, and it gleamed brighter and cleaner than any new ball I had ever seen. On the side, there was a screen, which with the help of a little micro-chip, showed how fast the ball was thrown.
“Now we’ll find out for sure who throws the fastest!” I said. With a whoop and a holler, Marty ran to the back corner of the yard, as I whipped my new ball for the fist time.
“Forty-one miles-per-hour,” he said. “Not bad, Will, but this is better!” He chucked it back.
“Forty-three,” I said, already cranking my arm for another throw. We tired ourselves in this way for a solid ten minutes, getting a little better each time. It was about then that I noticed Mel standing off to the side, gripping an old Louisville Slugger.
“Can I hit the ball?” he asked. I looked at him, and seeing how left-out he felt, I figured it wouldn’t take very much effort to entertain him, just once.
“Sure,” I said. Taking a step back, he tapped the bat against his heels, and wrenched his little body into the strangest position I had ever seen.
“I’m ready!” Mel was definitely excited. I looked at him, confused about where his strike zone might be. With a shrug, I lobbed him an easy slow-pitch, and turned to watch Marty’s expression.
To my surprise, his jaw dropped with a look of sheer disbelief. I wheeled around to look back at Mel, who had managed to fall teeth-first into the dirt. I heard a thud behind me, and I spun to look towards Marty again. I was getting dizzy.
“I don’t believe it,” Marty said.
“Believe what?”
“It’s in his yard!” I could see the raw, yellow fear in his eyes, and I knew that he meant Father Wilson.
Father Wilson was an old priest who still led mass every once in a while. He spoke Latin as though it was his first language; however, he also spoke English like it was his second. He was one of the only people at the church who wanted to keep the creepy old Gargoyles that sat at the entrance. Mom said it was because he respected tradition, but I still think it was because he liked to see children cry.
When Marty and I finally turned from our horror, we realized that Melvin had already taken off. We ran after him. We yelled for him to wait up, but he kept on running.
* * * * *
“You’re both crazy, anyway; there’s no way he hit it this far,” I say. As we come to the bottom of the path, we see Melvin disappear into Father Wilson’s yard. We stop in our tracks. It would take more guts than we have right now to go into that spooky yard, so what does Mel have that we don’t?
“Look out!” Through the dry, thin branches of the hedge, we can see the callous cleric stumble across his weed-packed patio toward Mel. With a dive and roll like I’d only ever seen in movies, Mel throws the ball out of the yard. It lands directly in my glove, and the force surprisingly tosses me backwards on the sidewalk.
Tipping my head up, I see Mel jump, almost effortlessly, over the fence bordering my yard. I look at the baseball in my hand in the shade of Father Wilson’s hedge.
“What’s it say?” asks Marty.
“A hundred and five miles per hour.”
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
MM E:IV *****
A cool breeze blows through the hair of a particular rodent, as his mighty claws grip to the roof of a building. The whizzing cars and bustling sidewalks hum with an unknowing gratitude to their guardian; the purple patriot, Mighty Muskrat. His sharp eyes pierce through the night as the gloomy glow of the stars above illuminates the fog as it rolls in from the bay. He leaps from his perch as unnoticed as he had stood a blink earlier, and he began his run through the unsleeping city.
The chase began. Hundreds of eyes turned in amazement, as the blundering mascot suddenly found some sense of athleticism that even he hadn’t ever known before. The thief made his best dash, but he was soon overtaken by a heap of cotton.
“No,” came a feeble reply, “I’d prefer not, sir.”
“No,” booms a deep voice in reply, “I’d prefer not, sir.” Before the Mayor can protest, the robust rat leaves the crowd below. With little success, each looks into the sky to catch a lucky glimpse of his rippling cape before he is out of sight for good.
MIGHTYMUSKRAT!
Sunday, May 13, 2007
PB's of Superheroes
While planting with the wonderful Sarah Haveman, who puts up with my singing and terrible conversation, i devised a list of the PB's (personal best) of various superheroes if they were planters, based on their powers.
Jordan- 3 750 trees.
Superman- 245 000. Superman is able to fly, and coupled with x-ray vision and telescopic vision, he can organize his land in seconds. his top speed is slightly faster than a speeding bullet, which moves at an average of 9 500 km/h. compared to an average PB of 4 000, and an average human top speed of 20 km/h, he can plant 200 000 trees, and with an added handicap provided by his x-ray vision, super endurance because of the power of the yellow sun of the Earth, he could likely plant an additional 45 000 trees.
Wonder Woman- 6 000. She has her lasso of truth, which does nothing for her advantage. besides being generally in better shape than a normal person, she has the power of flight. I give her an above average, but not amazing PB.
The Wonder Twins- 2 400. Zan can turn into anything made of water or ice, which is entirely useless. Jayna can turn into any animal, which as far as I can see, also helps her little. plus, they suck.
Batman- 12 000. Batman is the world's greatest detective, but although he knows who's stashing trees, it does not help his planting rate. However, he is learned in numerous martial arts, and has almost complete control of his body. plus, he has many wicked cool gadgets. (note, I am referring to the Christian Bail batman, not the Adam West batman. I give him 1500)
The Incredible Hulk- 9 000. This is difficult to judge, because as normal, everyday Bruce Banner, he can't plant trees, he's a lame scientist. if he gets too angry, he will be unable to hold the tiny trees. However, I believe that with some minor annoyances, usually those provided by the gong-show life of the tree planter, he could grow to a maximum of 9 feet and still be able to use his powers to advance his planting ability.
Aquaman- 0. He talks to fish, people!
The Green Lantern- 35 000. The Green lantern can create an additional eight shovels before he cannot concentrate on all of then at the same time. using this, he can couple his multiplicity with his ability to fly, and organize his land well. note: this would have to be any green lantern except for Alan Scott, since his ring was useless on wood.)
The Flash- uncountable. He can go at the speed of light! Barry Allen reached the speed of light and met the speedsters, who give him his powers. he would demolish every other hero.
Mighty Muskrat- 100 000. Mighty Muskrat cannot fly, but he uses small round discs which do fly to use his super speed ability to fly through the sky. these are yet unnamed, so feel free to make a suggestion. otherwise, he has keen vision in order to spy out the best microsites, but since this is a PB, I'm assuming he's in cream.
Jordan- 3 750 trees.
Superman- 245 000. Superman is able to fly, and coupled with x-ray vision and telescopic vision, he can organize his land in seconds. his top speed is slightly faster than a speeding bullet, which moves at an average of 9 500 km/h. compared to an average PB of 4 000, and an average human top speed of 20 km/h, he can plant 200 000 trees, and with an added handicap provided by his x-ray vision, super endurance because of the power of the yellow sun of the Earth, he could likely plant an additional 45 000 trees.
Wonder Woman- 6 000. She has her lasso of truth, which does nothing for her advantage. besides being generally in better shape than a normal person, she has the power of flight. I give her an above average, but not amazing PB.
The Wonder Twins- 2 400. Zan can turn into anything made of water or ice, which is entirely useless. Jayna can turn into any animal, which as far as I can see, also helps her little. plus, they suck.
Batman- 12 000. Batman is the world's greatest detective, but although he knows who's stashing trees, it does not help his planting rate. However, he is learned in numerous martial arts, and has almost complete control of his body. plus, he has many wicked cool gadgets. (note, I am referring to the Christian Bail batman, not the Adam West batman. I give him 1500)
The Incredible Hulk- 9 000. This is difficult to judge, because as normal, everyday Bruce Banner, he can't plant trees, he's a lame scientist. if he gets too angry, he will be unable to hold the tiny trees. However, I believe that with some minor annoyances, usually those provided by the gong-show life of the tree planter, he could grow to a maximum of 9 feet and still be able to use his powers to advance his planting ability.
Aquaman- 0. He talks to fish, people!
The Green Lantern- 35 000. The Green lantern can create an additional eight shovels before he cannot concentrate on all of then at the same time. using this, he can couple his multiplicity with his ability to fly, and organize his land well. note: this would have to be any green lantern except for Alan Scott, since his ring was useless on wood.)
The Flash- uncountable. He can go at the speed of light! Barry Allen reached the speed of light and met the speedsters, who give him his powers. he would demolish every other hero.
Mighty Muskrat- 100 000. Mighty Muskrat cannot fly, but he uses small round discs which do fly to use his super speed ability to fly through the sky. these are yet unnamed, so feel free to make a suggestion. otherwise, he has keen vision in order to spy out the best microsites, but since this is a PB, I'm assuming he's in cream.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
MM E:III *****
As the bell rang its announcement of freedom, Mel walked with a grin into the hallway. The Ontario
Mel’s career in sports had only materialised the previous year, but it was this fulfilling vocation that kept him hanging on. You see, with a name like Mel, it was virtually impossible for a person to lead even a meagre resemblance of a social life. It was the other half of his name he employed on the field, and his success at the game garnered the respect of each and every student at Marlborough High. The trouble was, nobody knew it was him on that field. This is because Melvin Morale was not a quarterback or a star running-back.
He was the school mascot.
When Mel donned the heavy suit and mask, he did not simply become the face of the Marlborough Muskrats franchise. He became Mighty Muskrat, defender of the defenceless; or at least, the weakly fortified. He commanded an army of nimbly minded adolescents, whose cry could be heard at his explicit command! A cartwheel and an extended arm could unleash the lusty moans and jealous groans of every co-ed in the stands! And what was more, like a true hero, he did not do it for his own glory, as he might easily do. He did it entirely for the team he represented; for the team who was nothing without the home team’s cheer- who was nothing without HIM.
You might call this excessive. In fact, it is excessive. It is nothing short of sheer insanity. Melvin Morale was the epitome of a card-carrying lunatic. “What could possibly have driven our hero so fully over the edge?” you may wonder. Clearly, this was the product of a long process, but there was one moment where his invented identity and his neglected reality crossed paths. I witnessed this moment first hand, and it is with terrifying clarity I will disclose this history to you, my esteemed reader, in the next episode. Don’t miss it; it’s sure to be worth five stars.
TO BE CONTINUED
Saturday, April 14, 2007
MM E:II *****
The frantic clerk struggles with the combination dial of the vault. His second chin flushes red as another drop of sweat rolls off of his bald head. The thief shields his eyes from the glare. A shot rings off the solid alloy door (ting!) as he grows increasingly impatient.
“Give me the money!”
The pudgy plutocrat cracks the code, and the prehensile pilferer bags the bills, and bounds out of the bank. He tumbles into a dilapidated jalopy, and his wheel man burns rubber,
They hear the faint whine of sirens heading in the wrong direction and exchange high-fives, but their celebration will be short lived. They begin to hear the rushed sweep of a cape and the pit-pat of speeding feet on pavement.
CLUNK! “What was that?” The car screeches around a corner, and the fated fugitives notice that it is a little top-heavy. A set of clawed feet slam into the hood, and in an amazing feat of strength, rat-like talons tear the roof off, as if it were a tin can.
“Oh no! It’s MIGHTY MUSKRAT!”
The robust, enraged rodent jumps backward, slams his toes into the asphalt, and the car comes to a dead stop. Twin human bullets shoot from their seats, but the merciful muskrat makes a swift spring, and spares the stunned scalawags from their deaths. A quick twist transforms a near-by bike rack into make-shift shackles, and the Amethyst Avenger’s blurring speed prints a victorious purple streak in the sky.
*SLAM* A ruler cracks down on the desk of the day-dreaming Melvin Morale, sophomore student at Marlborough High.
“Is the material boring you, Mr. Morale, or is my voice particularly soothing this morning?”
Mel mumbles a meek reply, and Mr. Stafford is satisfied. Our groggy protagonist wipes the sleep from his eyes and the drool off his notes, lifts his pen, and masquerades as a student for the final five minutes of class.
TO BE CONTINUED!
Monday, March 19, 2007
Prelude: MM E:I (Mighty Muskrat episode roman numeral one) *****
What follows is a tale of daring; a nonfictional, auto-biographical, exhilarating tale of intensity. A rousing plot with new, unexpected entanglements around every corner will leave my esteemed reader begging for more, holding his breath at the end of every episode. I know what some of you are thinking; this is extremely dangerous. Well, I assure you, it is strictly metaphorical, and I suspect nobody will suffocate themselves because of a gripping conclusion to a Mighty Muskrat episode. However, if it is an especially tragic episode, anybody within the reader's violently melancholic path should consult "Enter the Dragon", "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", "Dragon's Bane", "Rush Hour", or any other movie which features a martial artist or the word 'Dragon' in its title, for tips on self-defense. However, barring time restraints, the best advice might be to run.
Excessive cliche's and my thesaurus aside, this blog is unlike any blog in the history of blogs. For instance, I will make an effort to refer to it with its original, more proper title: "web log". In addition, this blog, or rather, web log, will include very minimal entries based on my opinion on things, my feelings about life, or my meditations on life. The reasoning behind this is that you, the reader, still have the benefit of a face-to-face conversation with me, and while scholars may be frustrated with the lack of literature based on these things after my death, I hope that this rule will benefit my real-time social life.
Instead, this web log will include different episodes in the folklore behind the infamous super hero extroardinare, Mighty Muskrat. His story will hopefully inspire those without hope, those whose life is on the brink of disaster, those in Dire Straits (hopefully all four members), and those doing a blog search for poodles, since that is one of the tags for this web log.
What you can expect as a reader and non-contributer is a dose of entertainment to start your week, intense character development, and a star rating out of five in the title of each entry, so that you can distinguish a good episode from a bad one.
Of course, there is much more to come, but instead of waiting by your computer for the next week getting your sustenance from an IV machine, I encourage you to continue in daily activities, and conduct yourself with a level of patience and self-control. See Galatians 5 for more instructions.
Enjoy!
-Jordan Burgsma
Excessive cliche's and my thesaurus aside, this blog is unlike any blog in the history of blogs. For instance, I will make an effort to refer to it with its original, more proper title: "web log". In addition, this blog, or rather, web log, will include very minimal entries based on my opinion on things, my feelings about life, or my meditations on life. The reasoning behind this is that you, the reader, still have the benefit of a face-to-face conversation with me, and while scholars may be frustrated with the lack of literature based on these things after my death, I hope that this rule will benefit my real-time social life.
Instead, this web log will include different episodes in the folklore behind the infamous super hero extroardinare, Mighty Muskrat. His story will hopefully inspire those without hope, those whose life is on the brink of disaster, those in Dire Straits (hopefully all four members), and those doing a blog search for poodles, since that is one of the tags for this web log.
What you can expect as a reader and non-contributer is a dose of entertainment to start your week, intense character development, and a star rating out of five in the title of each entry, so that you can distinguish a good episode from a bad one.
Of course, there is much more to come, but instead of waiting by your computer for the next week getting your sustenance from an IV machine, I encourage you to continue in daily activities, and conduct yourself with a level of patience and self-control. See Galatians 5 for more instructions.
Enjoy!
-Jordan Burgsma
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