Down at the basement, Elektrolik K.O. mourned sparkingly his unability to conceal from hisself the blue yearning. Long years behind bars had given him an appetite for fetish that the ladies at the complete “League for Evil Cosmonautesses Bewildered by the Real” had barely managed to quench. Insplace, a misty want for the sweet embrace of Mary Hail, the Masked Wonder of Purity, was shorting his flux.
He had gone to all lengths to quiet this longing, lacanically placing an ad —half-addressed to himself— in the personals. Pointless. Only spandex-clad endless frictions had acronymically answered long letters of lust. Once more, the kink wore out pretty soon, and he had been left with an empty hand, a bad deal.
He could always go down to DunLeary’s, where “Matches” and “Knuckles” would be waiting, pints on the table, and an ever-unaltering evening of poker-playing and rechewing second-hand plans to master AlternatiCity.
He couldn’t even blame Doc Martini, the architect of his downfall. Dim fuses, what but staying in, waiting for that random event of sheer chance that would jumpstart his current?
