Post by redsycorax on Oct 7, 2020 3:43:37 GMT
On Earth-92, Bob White (Nightmare) and Terry Wake (Daydream) are the heart and emotional core of the Golden Society of Super Heroes, the 1940s metahuman crime fighting and counter-terrorism group. How did the burly wrestler and his teenage manager and eighteen year old lover get together?
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Although he should have been prepared for it, Bob White had left Stewarts Cafeteria in Manhattan, walking past 116 7th Avenue's frontage and plate glass windows. It hadn't been a productive night for the burly masculine wrestler. For one thing, his body definition meant some of the more delicate queens were frightened of him. That was the trouble with passing, it meant that people didn't believe you were 'in the life' unless you demonstrated it to them. And with that business in Spain winding down, and the instability that had beset the Ratzis and Musso as a result, it looked like there wouldn't be a Second Great War as had seemed likely ten years ago. The Russians were too weak and the Little Father had made a severe mistake when it came to purging most of his senior military staff which meant that he couldn't exploit the resultant turmoil in Eastern Europe as weaker fascist regimes collapsed. If things had gone differently, he might have enlisted and had some offbase fun when time permitted.
Then he heard the sounds of combat and alleyway violence and didn't hesitate. Breaking into a run, he rounded the corner to witness... well, something unexpected. That the petty crooks there had seized one of the patrons of Stewarts on the way home was unfortunately habitual. What was unusual was how the kid- he couldn't have been more than eighteen, nineteen, twenty?- was handling himself. As he watched, the younger blond man broke an already partially legless chair hard over the head of one of his would-be attackers. The second produced a knife, but the kid's leg snapped out and kicked the blade from the other's hand. Then, unseen by the younger man, the third and final assailant, sweating profusely, produced a pistol. Bob decided to intervene at that point, barrelling into the third man and forcing his abortive shot to go wide of the mark. Grabbing him by the hair, Bob flung him hard into a wall.
The remaining thugs finally realised that this was no pantyweight that they had foolishly picked to beat up and rob, and wisely fled the scene. Which left Bob and the rather handsome young man, looking at each other. Bob decided to start talking: "Are you okay, buddy?"
"Hey, correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you also in Stewarts about twenty minutes ago when I was leaving?"
"Guilty as charged. Even if it hasn't been a crime since the Revolutionary War." Bob acknowledged.
"Yeah, for all the good it's done. Okay, the police can't arrest us for being in the life, but liquor licensing, prostitution, other 'morals' charges give them an excuse." The younger man picked up his jacket and checked his shirt for blood and knife incisions. There didn't seem to be any.
"Sorry, where are my manners? Bob. Bob White."
"That was some damned excellent fighting you managed back there. So what d'you do for a crust? Slugger? Bodyguard?"
"Well, I did during the Depression. I mostly wrassle now. And hey, mutual. You were taking pretty good care of yourself when I heard the scene from Seventh."
The younger man nodded: "I had to learn how when I grew up. Turned out I could look after myself. So... handle's Terry Wake. Just finished a business degree at Wharton."
"Are you doing anything this evening, Terry?"
"Why? Did you have something in mind, Bob?" In reply, Bob stepped up to Terry and kissed him deeply. The passion built as the two men entwined themselves around each other. And when they broke, they had the measure of one another and realised that this wasn't going to be just for this evening.
The next morning, Terry prepared some eggs and hash for the burly man who had shared his bed the last evening:
"Damn it. Sounds like we weren't the only ones who had it rough last evening. Shootings in Queens, cops killed in the Bronx. Man, I'd like to teach those bastards a lesson."
"Not a bad idea, Bob. I agree. Hey, it looks like that mystery man Antaeus managed to clobber someone who tried to roll over a grocery shop."
"Hey. That's it. What say we join them? Only perhaps we mask up and keep things anonymous? Dunno how the police would handle what they'd see as a vigilante."
"Uh uh, partner. Two vigilantes. Because now I've found you, I'm not letting you out of my sight."
"Partner it is, then. In sport, in the sack, in the alleyway. C'mere, kid..." And for the fourth time that way, the two men embraced.
"So what do we name ourselves?"
"Something scary. Something that'll make criminals and thugs piss their pants. Hey, like The Bat-Man there, only I guess that's taken. Hey, I know. Nightmare."
"Okay. So I'll be...Daydream?"
"You certainly are that..."
EPILOGUE:
Shortly after, suitably attired, the newly minted Nightmare and Daydream joined in when Italo-German Axis spies had cornered Lady Satan, the beautiful but deadly OSS agent. Spider Queen happened along at the same time, on one of her patrols. Finally, they got to meet Antaeus. Realising that they could do better as a team than individually, Nightmare and Daydream signed up for a new "Golden Society of Super Heroes". They also managed to get some time on their own, when they weren't fighting enemies like the magpie-hued Checker, the Undertaker (a sentient zombie), the Corpse and the Crooked Nine, which kept them busy during the rest of the forties. When Senator Joseph McCarthy tried to make something of their homosexuality during his late forties "satanic panic", it came to nought. Their colleague, Lady Satan, was not so fortunate and disappeared during the period. Shortly after, Bob and Terry hung up their distinctive skeletoid and grim reaper outfits and retired to the suburbs, disillusioned at the turn American society had taken. They stayed together until Bob's death at 88, in 2017. Terry died two years later, in 2019. They still went to Stewart's Cafeteria when they had the chance and could be seen dancing together throughout the decades, deeply in love.
THE END
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Although he should have been prepared for it, Bob White had left Stewarts Cafeteria in Manhattan, walking past 116 7th Avenue's frontage and plate glass windows. It hadn't been a productive night for the burly masculine wrestler. For one thing, his body definition meant some of the more delicate queens were frightened of him. That was the trouble with passing, it meant that people didn't believe you were 'in the life' unless you demonstrated it to them. And with that business in Spain winding down, and the instability that had beset the Ratzis and Musso as a result, it looked like there wouldn't be a Second Great War as had seemed likely ten years ago. The Russians were too weak and the Little Father had made a severe mistake when it came to purging most of his senior military staff which meant that he couldn't exploit the resultant turmoil in Eastern Europe as weaker fascist regimes collapsed. If things had gone differently, he might have enlisted and had some offbase fun when time permitted.
Then he heard the sounds of combat and alleyway violence and didn't hesitate. Breaking into a run, he rounded the corner to witness... well, something unexpected. That the petty crooks there had seized one of the patrons of Stewarts on the way home was unfortunately habitual. What was unusual was how the kid- he couldn't have been more than eighteen, nineteen, twenty?- was handling himself. As he watched, the younger blond man broke an already partially legless chair hard over the head of one of his would-be attackers. The second produced a knife, but the kid's leg snapped out and kicked the blade from the other's hand. Then, unseen by the younger man, the third and final assailant, sweating profusely, produced a pistol. Bob decided to intervene at that point, barrelling into the third man and forcing his abortive shot to go wide of the mark. Grabbing him by the hair, Bob flung him hard into a wall.
The remaining thugs finally realised that this was no pantyweight that they had foolishly picked to beat up and rob, and wisely fled the scene. Which left Bob and the rather handsome young man, looking at each other. Bob decided to start talking: "Are you okay, buddy?"
"Hey, correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you also in Stewarts about twenty minutes ago when I was leaving?"
"Guilty as charged. Even if it hasn't been a crime since the Revolutionary War." Bob acknowledged.
"Yeah, for all the good it's done. Okay, the police can't arrest us for being in the life, but liquor licensing, prostitution, other 'morals' charges give them an excuse." The younger man picked up his jacket and checked his shirt for blood and knife incisions. There didn't seem to be any.
"Sorry, where are my manners? Bob. Bob White."
"That was some damned excellent fighting you managed back there. So what d'you do for a crust? Slugger? Bodyguard?"
"Well, I did during the Depression. I mostly wrassle now. And hey, mutual. You were taking pretty good care of yourself when I heard the scene from Seventh."
The younger man nodded: "I had to learn how when I grew up. Turned out I could look after myself. So... handle's Terry Wake. Just finished a business degree at Wharton."
"Are you doing anything this evening, Terry?"
"Why? Did you have something in mind, Bob?" In reply, Bob stepped up to Terry and kissed him deeply. The passion built as the two men entwined themselves around each other. And when they broke, they had the measure of one another and realised that this wasn't going to be just for this evening.
The next morning, Terry prepared some eggs and hash for the burly man who had shared his bed the last evening:
"Damn it. Sounds like we weren't the only ones who had it rough last evening. Shootings in Queens, cops killed in the Bronx. Man, I'd like to teach those bastards a lesson."
"Not a bad idea, Bob. I agree. Hey, it looks like that mystery man Antaeus managed to clobber someone who tried to roll over a grocery shop."
"Hey. That's it. What say we join them? Only perhaps we mask up and keep things anonymous? Dunno how the police would handle what they'd see as a vigilante."
"Uh uh, partner. Two vigilantes. Because now I've found you, I'm not letting you out of my sight."
"Partner it is, then. In sport, in the sack, in the alleyway. C'mere, kid..." And for the fourth time that way, the two men embraced.
"So what do we name ourselves?"
"Something scary. Something that'll make criminals and thugs piss their pants. Hey, like The Bat-Man there, only I guess that's taken. Hey, I know. Nightmare."
"Okay. So I'll be...Daydream?"
"You certainly are that..."
EPILOGUE:
Shortly after, suitably attired, the newly minted Nightmare and Daydream joined in when Italo-German Axis spies had cornered Lady Satan, the beautiful but deadly OSS agent. Spider Queen happened along at the same time, on one of her patrols. Finally, they got to meet Antaeus. Realising that they could do better as a team than individually, Nightmare and Daydream signed up for a new "Golden Society of Super Heroes". They also managed to get some time on their own, when they weren't fighting enemies like the magpie-hued Checker, the Undertaker (a sentient zombie), the Corpse and the Crooked Nine, which kept them busy during the rest of the forties. When Senator Joseph McCarthy tried to make something of their homosexuality during his late forties "satanic panic", it came to nought. Their colleague, Lady Satan, was not so fortunate and disappeared during the period. Shortly after, Bob and Terry hung up their distinctive skeletoid and grim reaper outfits and retired to the suburbs, disillusioned at the turn American society had taken. They stayed together until Bob's death at 88, in 2017. Terry died two years later, in 2019. They still went to Stewart's Cafeteria when they had the chance and could be seen dancing together throughout the decades, deeply in love.
THE END