Part 2
Part 2 of the story is below.
Waking up after a hard night was nothing new. Our hero wandered into the bathroom and did his business. He looked up into the mirror and immediately wished he hadn't. He looked every bit as bad as he felt. He walked out into the living room and turned on the TV, sat down at his computer, and lit a cigarette. The news was on, and as usual nothing was good. Bad weather, traffic snarls, the government either doing nothing or doing the wrong thing, felons wandering the streets. A look at the national news was no better. Just another gray day by the Bay. He stubbed out the smoke and decided something had to be done.
He went to the closet and opened it. The only thing hanging there was the uniform he had finished sewing a few days prior. He had taken up sewing not so much as a desire but as a necessity; he was broke and couldn't afford to buy new clothes. It turned out he was surprisingly good at it, one of the few things he managed to do well. He had seen something on the history channel and figured it would be interesting to make something himself rather than just darn his socks. The cloth was cheap enough for even him to buy. The pin was harder; he had no desire to buy them from anyone who would sell them and skinheads usually traveled in groups. Eventually he was able to find one that was alone and he was easy enough subdue. The boots, gloves, and jacket were all remnants of his old clubbing days. As for the gas mask he found that at a garage sale and bought it on a whim. You never know when you'd need one. He put on everything, looked at himself in the full length mirror, and was shocked at what he saw.
"God damn," he said. "Those Germans had a hell of a fashion sense. Why'd they have to be such assholes?"
The world needed a hero. It was just too bad there were none to be found. Not until now. He was going out tonight, and he was going to make someone pay. The last thing they would know is that that SS no longer stood for Schutzstaffel, but was now the calling card of the man who would do evil in the name of good. That man was the Supersadist.
Waking up after a hard night was nothing new. Our hero wandered into the bathroom and did his business. He looked up into the mirror and immediately wished he hadn't. He looked every bit as bad as he felt. He walked out into the living room and turned on the TV, sat down at his computer, and lit a cigarette. The news was on, and as usual nothing was good. Bad weather, traffic snarls, the government either doing nothing or doing the wrong thing, felons wandering the streets. A look at the national news was no better. Just another gray day by the Bay. He stubbed out the smoke and decided something had to be done.
He went to the closet and opened it. The only thing hanging there was the uniform he had finished sewing a few days prior. He had taken up sewing not so much as a desire but as a necessity; he was broke and couldn't afford to buy new clothes. It turned out he was surprisingly good at it, one of the few things he managed to do well. He had seen something on the history channel and figured it would be interesting to make something himself rather than just darn his socks. The cloth was cheap enough for even him to buy. The pin was harder; he had no desire to buy them from anyone who would sell them and skinheads usually traveled in groups. Eventually he was able to find one that was alone and he was easy enough subdue. The boots, gloves, and jacket were all remnants of his old clubbing days. As for the gas mask he found that at a garage sale and bought it on a whim. You never know when you'd need one. He put on everything, looked at himself in the full length mirror, and was shocked at what he saw.
"God damn," he said. "Those Germans had a hell of a fashion sense. Why'd they have to be such assholes?"
The world needed a hero. It was just too bad there were none to be found. Not until now. He was going out tonight, and he was going to make someone pay. The last thing they would know is that that SS no longer stood for Schutzstaffel, but was now the calling card of the man who would do evil in the name of good. That man was the Supersadist.