The Biffites

[Drakey]

Okay guys, here's a little gift for you. I intend to finish this story eventually, too.
Some of the characters will be easy to figure out, some of them a little harder.
Put up your guesses as to who is who.
And yes, I ran out of creativity on Poltaap, myself, and Orangey. Sue me.







Chapter One: Braaaaaains!

The man was tall, elegant, and plainly powerful. His long legs were sheathed in cheery tan slacks, his torso wrapped in a green shirt. His head was buried under a long mass of dark brown hair, and brooding eyes the same shade as his hair sat above a refined, slightly hooked nose. Wide set shoulders and a slender frame supported powerful wings on his back. Yes, he had wings. Get over it.
As he walked up to the door of the house in front of him, he looked a little hesitant. He knocked and waited, twitching those distinctive pinions. Finally, the door was flung wide. "Mister Orangey," the winged man said. "I have arrived. Will you tell me now why I am here?"
Mister Orangey, a squat, short man with a cynical bent to his every feature, raised one eyebrow and beckoned to the winged man to enter.
"Three days ago," he said as he closed the door, "My men tracked a sattelite falling from orbit. It landed in Siberia."
The winged man laughed. "That's all? I flew here for that?"
Mister Orangey shook his head. "That is not all. It is merely all I will tell you until the final member of our team arrives. Please go down the stairs and through the second door on your right."
The winged man proceeded down the stairs.
A few moments later, Mister Orangey answered his door again. This time, the man on the other side was a tall, imposing figure, shrouded in shadow. "Poltaap," Orangey said. "You're late. The others are all here already."
Poltaap grinned. He said nothing.
"Follow me," Orangey said, and he turned, grabbing a beret from his table and settling it on top of his distinguished-yet-unkempt black hair. He led Poltaap down the stairs and through the second door on the right.
"Take a seat," he advised.
Everyone who wasn't sitting, sat.
It was a motley collection.
The winged man took up a lot of space. Wings aren't small, no matter how many laws of physics you bend. Poltaap took a seat next to him.
Beyond those two were a couple of others. A smallish man sat in one corner, playing with a ring of keys. His short blonde hair was the only striking thing about him. He was Tanker.
A woman who appeared to be made entirely of yarn was piled loosely on a couch, her every move setting off a rustling sound. She might have been pretty, were it not for the eerie quality of the material of her, which also made her entirely unidentifiable. She was The Thread.
A young man with wild eyes sat in a self-conscious pose, gripping a guitar case with all his might. He looked, depending on the angle you viewed him from, either as though he would kick your ass or give you a candy bar. This was Riff.
To round off the collection was an older figure. While the others all looked to be between Twenty-five and fifteen, this last man was at least thirty, perhaps thirty-five at the outside. His head was shaved bald, but this was made up for by insanely long eyebrows and a grim black goatee. When he cracked a smile, it seemed as though perhaps someone was looking out for you after all. He was merely known as One.
The winged man shifted uncomfortably. "Mister Orangey. Your sattelite?"
Orangey nodded. "I'm getting to it, Drake." He tapped the floor and a blank wall shifted and changed and morphed until a screen sat on it.
The screen began to play the opening sequence of Star Wars. Orangey stomped on the floor, swore once or twice, and stomped again. The screen showed a map of the world. A small red point was glowing in Siberia.
"Three days ago, my network tracked a satellite falling out of orbit. It landed in Siberia. At the time, we thought that this was an unfortunate occurence, but nothing more. Two days later, after investigating, we found this." The screen displayed an image of Mister Orangey in the bathtub. His hair was all soapy, and he appeared to be playing with a rubber ducky.
"Aww," Thread cooed. "It's so cute!"
"Not that!" Orangey shouted, tapping the floor with his foot again. "This!"
An image appeared of a smoking crater in the ground.
"Yup," Drake said. "Satellite fell there all right. Can we go now?"
"It's a video, numbnuts," Orangey snapped as something began to crawl out of the rim of the crater. It was black, oily looking. It stood up on two misshapen legs and lurched towards the camera, reached out, and smashed it.
"The thing killed our cameraman, and then infected his body with some manner of bacterium. Within three hours, he was up and walking around. He attacked several others and infected them as well. All efforts to kill the infected permanently have failed. That is why we have called on you. The Biffites are needed now."
"Can't you just nuke the place?" Tanker asked.
Orangey glared at him. "Would that be at all awesome?"
Tanker shrugged. "Maybe a little."
"Would it be as cool as sending in a bunch of superheroes?"
Tanker shook his head. "No."
"Then lay off it."
"When do we go in?" Riff asked.
Orangey smiled. "You go in now. Tanker has brought his heavy transport. Parked it in the Lair."
"Why not the Batcave?" Drake asked.
Orangey sighed. "The Batcave is out of order. Some joker set off an explosion in there.Knocked a wheel off the Batmobile, too."
Drake shook his head. "Despicable. Did you catch the guy?"
"No. Joker got away."
Drake sighed. "All right. Let's go. I call shotgun."
"By that," Tanker said, "Do you mean that you want the front passenger seat, or that you want a shotgun?"
"Both, if possible."
Tanker smiled. "That can be arranged."

[Axe Shredder]

Ohmygod!

I love you!!

9/10

[Pixel Pincher]

Ok that is good. And hear are my thoughts on who is who...

Thread = No dur, Scarf
Orangey = Orangey
Poltaap + Poltapp
Riff = I think Riff is me but I can't be shure yet.
Tanker = I have no idea.

[Drakey]

Yes yes yes no and no, Pixel. Although that last one was pretty obviously a no.

[Pixel Pincher]

Ok Then is Pieman Riff.

[Poltaap]

Imo
tank= pixel
Riff= Manson(son of man)

and this my friend is made of [EPIC] and win.

and if you needed another name on me, why not the duke? 

[Drakey]

Tanker isn't Pixel, but you got Riff right.

Nobody is trying to guess One? Or is that too easy?

[Pixel Pincher]

I'm not in the story! 

By the way. There is no way that One is not Biff and or Chris.

[Drakey]

Too large a team complicates things. You may appear in some capacity later, but I guarantee nothing!

Nothing! I guarantee nussink!

[Pixel Pincher]

I'm just giving you a hard time. I admit I am a little disapointed, who wouldn't. But I realize I don't get on offten enough to be called a regular.

[Orangey]

Tanker can only be Grot, to my mind. And, of course, One is Biff/Chris.


Most amusing, though facepalming at parts. And, for your information, I take showers.

And am taller than you. Artistic license be damned!

[Pieman]

Aww, I'm not in it. Can I be a side character or summin?

[Drakey]

You may take showers, but I was going for funny-because-of-inner-child-showing rather than ha-ha-look-at-his-penis or he-wears-a-shower-cap-like-an-old-lady.
And I'm using people's avatars to ccraft the characters where possible.
Also, you got Grot in one. I went off of the quote in his signature to create Tanker.
@ Ye of Pie and Manliness: I considered putting you in, but decided to go for the humor of Grot-with-guns instead. Protest though you might, I have found that inserting characters by request quite simply never works out. If you show up, you show up. If not, I'll craft a character for you to use later.

Now for the single most badass thing Manson will ever do...

Chapter 2: We Are Rock Gods

The smell of bacon pervaded the area around the heavy transport. It was a massive machine, towering at least thirty feet high, It was sheathed in gleaming metal. As The Thread walked toward it, she could think only that Tanker must be compensating. After all, who in the hell puts a “my penis is bigger than this whole vehicle” bumper sticker on their giant tank?
Drake flew overhead came in for a landing on top of the massive machine. “Runs on biodiesel,” Tanker said proudly as his baby came into view. “All—“
“Bacon grease?” Thread guessed.
He nodded. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Just a hunch. Where do you get all that bacon?”
Tanker grinned and walked up to the door. He got in. “Pigs, mostly. I have my doubts about the Oscar Mayer, though.”
They all filed in. Drake took a seat on the front passenger side. Tanker reached behind the driver’s seat and pulled out a shotgun, which he handed to Drake. Drake grinned and cradled it as though it were a lover. “Saddle up,” he quipped in a bad impression of Brent Spiner. “Lock and load.” He looked around hopefully. Everyone was staring at him like he’d requested a wedgie. Several looked as though they were tempted by this hypothetical offer. “Nobody? Aw, you guys slurp. I can’t believe you never watched Insurrection.”
Tanker looked pointedly around at everyone after the awkward silence. “Buckle up,” he said.
Seat belts came down and strapped them all in, despite Thread’s protest of “But I’m immortal!”
“Shouldn’t I be driving?” One asked. “I am older.”
“He has a point, you know,” Riff said. “Your being at the controls of this machine brings such crushing fear.”
“And you fight with music like a sissy little girl,” Tanker replied evenly as he turned the key in the ignition and the heavy transport made a noise that would have given a charging rhino second thoughts. If the rhino had been able to see what it was charging that made the noise, it would have simply dropped dead from feelings of crushing inadequacy. This was a documented scientific fact. Tanker was no longer allowed within five miles of any part of Africa.
The transport thundered out of the Lair and Mister Orangey got up as soon as they had settled into a speed somewhere between reasonable and holy shit. He went to the back and calmly opened the fridge.
Bacon.
“Tanker, you are one weird dude,” Orangey said as several packs of bacon slid to the floor.

The next few hours were uneventful. Poker games were played, challenges were issued, and Thread did that thing with the apple that everybody always wanted to see. When they arrived in Siberia, Drake and Orangey were arguing. “I told you, already,” Drake said, “There were four of them!”
“There couldn’t have been four,” Orangey replied. “The most anyone has ever had is two, maybe three in a couple of mutants.”
“Well I had four!”
“Guys,” Tanker shouted. “We’re here!”
Orangey waggled a finger in Drake’s face. “We’ll finish this later. After the hordes of the undead are managed, I intend to prove you wrong.”
“I was born with wings,” Drake said. “I’m pretty sure that makes me a mutant, doesn’t it?”
Orangey stuck his tongue out at Drake. “I’ll be in the control room, directing you guys,” he said, pointedly ignoring the faces Drake was making behind his back. He passed out headsets to everyone. They all donned the gear. “Your goal is to figure out a way to destroy the undead. Failing that, rescue the survivors that are trapped at the coordinates I showed you and we’ll nuke the place. I guess. If we have to. Even though a nuke is totally bogus compared to a team of superheroes.”
“Men,” Thread said exasperatedishly. That’s right. Exasperatedishly. It’s a word. Because I said it, it’s a word, so stop questioning me, I’m the writer, dammit, and you readers are but my playthings, toys for my amusement. Ultimate power is within my grasp! Bwahahahaha… ummm… I mean…
The team filed out of the transport and found themselves confronted by a milling horde of bored-looking zombies.
“Okay guys,” Drake said.” It looks like they haven’t noticed us. We should stay really quiet.” He took a slow step forward, slipped on a rock, and yelled out a long string of pure obscenity.
All the zombies looked up at once.
A long, low moaning suffused the air.
“All right you idiots, who alerted them?” Drake snapped.
Orangey’s voice buzzed in their ears. “That would be you, Drake. Nice move, bonehead.”
Drake took to the air. He extended his hands and pointed at one of the zombies. A blast of energy burst from his fingertip and struck the zombie, which looked annoyed briefly and then continued on. “Well butt,” Drake said.
Tanker sighed and retreated into the transport. The others followed him, except for Drake, who landed on top of it, and Thread, who scaled the side of the massive vehicle with uncanny agility.
A loud rumbling sounded within the transport as Drake and The Thread stood atop it. “Do you think they can infect me?” Thread asked casually.
Drake shrugged. “Who knows? I wouldn’t risk it. You may be immortal by your very nature, but that doesn’t mean you’re immorbid.”
“Imm-what-bid?”
“Immorbid,” Drake repeated. “Immune to disease. Remember that cold you had?”
She nodded. “Every time I sneezed, my face fell apart.”
“Yeah. Proof you’re not immorbid.”
The transport jolted underneath them as a storage door opened and a large tank issued from the cargo hold of the ridiculously large tank. It appeared to bristle with laser cannons of some sort. Riff stood atop it, guitar in hands. The guitar was a new one, but obviously forged by the hands of the Metal Gods like all his others. The box was a fire. This is not to say that it was shaped like a fire. It was made of flames that writhed and cackled and twisted around Riff’s hands as he rode out atop the tank. Out of the flames emerged the neck, a writhing draconic form frozen in the middle of arching its neck. The head of the dragon stood with its mouth open, teeth bared, and looped around the teeth were the ends of the unbreakable strings, strings that need never be tuned or maintained. Riff grinned as he struck a chord. “Let’s rock and roll,” he whispered, and the sound projected across the Siberian landscape as though he had shouted.
The Rock Messiah had arrived.

[Pieman]

It's like the league of extraordinary gentlemen, except odder and without Sean Connery.

[Ziggy Stardust]

You, my friend, are made of awesomesauce. And omnipotence.
Can I just say that he did in fact have four penises at one point.

[the Scarf]

Who says they were talking about penises?  They could have been talking about anything else!
The spleen feels so unloved.

I would hate to have my face fall apart every time I sneezed...

I AM MADE OF YARN.

[Torg]

I have to admit, even though Manson

fights with music like a sissy little girl,

that is incredibly badass.

Also: Drakey, you know me too well. The thought of personally owning a bacon-powered She-Va/Bolo-type-thing gives me wood.

[Orangey]

I gotta say, that last bit is not something I'd expect to hear from you.

[Torg]

Would "I develop an erection" be more in-character?

[Orangey]

Closer, I think...

[Drakey]

I must say, Torg, your tendency to become sexually aroused by heavy machinery is a little disturbing.

But totally hawt.

Anydoodles, here's the third chapter, in which some badass stuff happens and poor Scarfy gets knocked around by a vile alien creature.
Not as funny as the first two, I'm afraid, but the funny can't be there all the time.

Chapter III: Orbitality

Riff’s retribution was swift and brutal, and also not really retribution so much as an unprovoked attack, since nobody had made sure that the zombies weren’t just bringing cookies or something. He slammed into a guitar solo that slowly increased in volume and pitch, sliding up the register until it could be heard only by dogs that liked to headbang a lot. The zombies stopped in their tracks, mesmerized, apparently, by the awesome power of music. Or something. Maybe they just figured this was worth thinking over.
Riff screamed a furious note and lightning came down from the sky. Several of the zombies were struck. They twitched and kept moving.
Riff switched tunes, Flames shot up from underground and several zombies were caught in them. Then several more. Soon, the entire horde was flaming.
Riff grinned and watched the havoc he had created. Some of the zombies collapsed. One or two stopped moving entirely. “All right,” Riff said. “Who’s up for lunch?”
“Uh, guys?” Mister Orangey’s voice sounded very nervous. “The black thing… it’s coming your way.”
Indeed it was. A lone black figure on the horizon was approaching with unnerving speed.
As it approached, oily blacknesses emerged from the charred corpses on the ground. They slicked across the ground to join their source, which swelled in size and seemed to gain solidity as it approached. By the time it arrived, it was a forty foot monster. An ugly gash of a mouth was spread across its head, and it opened this and spoke.
“Earth’s heroes? How pathetic. You shall serve me.”
It reached out and a tendril of oily blackitude slammed into Thread. She was thrown off of the top of the transport and slammed forcefully into the ground beyond. Drake cried out and swept his hand like a knife at the black tendril. The beast yelled as the energy blast Drake generated slammed into its arm.
“One,” Drake cried. “I could use your help here.”
One clambered out of the smaller of the two ridiculously large tanks. He stood up and looked at the giant creature, apparently unimpressed. “You can’t scare me,” he said. “I write a webcomic. I have freaky, obsessive fans.” He jumped up and pulled a very cartoonish sword out of his back pocket, which, by all appearances, had some kind of interdimensional thingy going on or something. I dunno. I let my subscription to Multidimensional Digest expire years ago after that atrocious article on the quantum mean and its effects on aging. Absolute drivel, that.
Anyways, One started slashing away, and before long the tendril holding down Thread was severed. It reformed itself into a child-sized black figure similar to the giant one. This could not hope to hold down Thread. She uncoiled herself, converting to the form that gave her her name, and became several miles of magically energized thread, coiling around the black form and whipping it up and away.
As the child-sized form began to fall again, the black giant turned its attention on the tank. A laser blast caught it square in the chest. It fell backwards as One dived in under its child-sized smaller offshoot and pulled a large gun out of his back pocket. He fired straight upwards and scored a bullseye, blasting the child-form out of the atmosphere.
“Okay,” One said. “Now all we need to do is make that happen until it’s gone, right?”
Drake nodded and turned his attention to the giant. He extended both fists and a wide swath of energy rocketed out of him, staggering the giant. “Are you all right, Thread?” he shouted over the din.
She recoiled herself. “I might have to revert to human form for awhile after this is over. That took a lot of effort. But yeah. I’ll be fine once I’ve slept it off.”
“What about infection?” One asked.
“The magic might protect her,” Drake said. “Ask Mister Orangey.”
“She’s a main character,” Orangey’s voice said over the headsets. “She’ll be fine. You guys have to chop that thing to pieces and launch it, though.”
Drake nodded and moved into his next attack, a volley of little energy bundles that impacted on the giant’s body. “And who better to chop things to pieces than Poltaap?”
At the sound of his name, the borderline-psychopathic superhero emerged from the smaller tank. He smiled grimly and seemed to slurp the light out of the day. A machete was in his hand, god only knew where it came from. He grinned a little wider and launched into the fray, hacking at the giant’s heels with such speed and force that it simply couldn’t reform fast enough. Soon, he had one foot off of it, and that foot assumed a humanoid form and struck out at him. It began to taunt him. “Don’t you talk? What, are you some kind of dark, sinister, silent avenger character? Come on, say something. Call me a prick. Insult me. Say my momma’s a whore. Something!”
Poltaap merely continued to slash at the creature, driving it backwards, and then Thread lashed herself around it and tossed it skyward. The Giant roared in frustration as One rolled under another of its parts and blasted it away at a couple dozen times escape velocity.
Poltaap’s grin widened again. It was becoming a little unnatural. He turned to the Giant. “You’re a prick,” he said. He rushed back in to repeat the operation.
Riff joined in now, having come up with a song that would help. Piercing music rushed from his strings and slashed at the Giant, slowly forming into actual blades that slammed into its black, oily flesh.
“And you guys wanted to nuke the place,” Orangey said over the headsets.

[Poltaap]

....sweet monkey jesus! 

[Drakey]

Ummm.... Is that good or bad?

[Pieman]

Yes.

[Torg]

I must say, Torg, your tendency to become sexually aroused by heavy machinery is a little disturbing.

Bacon-powered heavy machinery.

[Poltaap]

Ummm.... Is that good or bad?

its gooder then good! its higher then [EPIC]. this is SPARTA!  [LEGENDARY]!

[Ziggy Stardust]

YES.

[the Scarf]

Oh, come ON!
ONE attack leaves me wiped out? Not only that, but my FIRST attack!

....Oh well, at least I can climb brick walls really well.

(Good job, Drakey-cakes!)

[juneloveslotr]

He had to rescue you/defend you or else he couldn't get into your pants later when you have to return to human form.

[Pixel Pincher]

Damn Strait!