Wow! I wrote something! Look!
Oh, if you haven't been reading the Iceman Ltd Series, it won't make
much sense. Not that it does anyway. But I wrote. Be happy.
or What the Hell was up with Iceman #3, Anyway?
"Yo, yo, yo! Word up, homeslice!"
"Good morning, Bobby," Jean said cheerily. "Would you like some toast?"
"Sweet Christmas, that be phat, yo. Serve it up, sweet mama!"
Bobby slid into his seat, bopping his head in time to music only
he could hear.
"Ooooookay," Jean mouthed to herself as she turned back to the toaster.
"Greetings and salutations, one and all!" Hank called merrily, bounding
into the kitchen.
"Funky fresh, Brotha' Blue."
"Morning, Hank! Toast?"
"That would be magnificent, my dear Marvel Girl!"
"Butter or jam?"
"Strawberry jam, if it currently graces our larders."
"Check the fridge. Bobby?"
"Jam be jammin', dig."
Hank shot an upraised eyebrow at Jean.
Scott stumbled into the kitchen, yawning. "I got the eggs."
"Great!" Jean replied, standing up on tiptoes to kiss him. "Eggs,
Scott blinked, then leaned towards his wife. "Why is Bobby wearing
a stocking cap?"
"We don't know."
Jean grabbed a frying pan from under the counter. "Take care of the
toast, would you, Scott?"
Hank returned to the table with the jam. "Most of the tests I'm running
today require quite a lengthy diffusion sequence, so I was planning
on traveling to the local cinema to see the latest theatrical release
based on the fine works of Mr. Tolkien. I don't suppose I could persuade
any of my erstwhile comrades to accompany me?"
Scott's eyes went wide behind his glasses. "We haven't seen it yet,"
he said hesitantly. Scott continually labored under the delusion that
he had managed to keep his Lord of the Rings obsession a complete
and total secret.
Even after the time he accidentally yelled "For for the honor of
Gondor!" while they were fighting Magneto. Even after the time the
Professor caught him sitting in the broom closet reading the Silmarillion.
Even after the time he dragged Jean to a Renn Faire. "Um, I don't
suppose you were up for a movie, today, hon?"
Jean contemplated this. On one hand, she knew that conversation for
the next three days was destined to revolve around How Cool the Balrog
was. On the other hand, she'd seen the trailers. She knew that this
film contained liberal doses of Viggo Mortenson, Sean Bean, and pretty,
pretty elves. "Sure!" she replied. Jean was a woman who knew her priorities.
"No score, skillet. I gots to slide by the mall in my fly el Camino
and git my sweet groove on wit' some fine ladeez, if you catch me
"What did he just say?" Scott asked Jean under his breath.
"I think he's going to the mall with Remy."
Warren walked in, stretching. "Mmmm ... do I smell eggs?"
"Either that, or the pungent odor of Bobby's sanity going up in flames,"
"You want some?" Jean offered.
"Naturally." Warren turned around, took one look at Bobby, and shuddered.
"Man ... I thought you left Opal in Hong Kong."
Bobby blinked. "I DID!"
"Then why are you wearing pants so large that you could hide a circus
midget in each leg?"
"You dissin' my threads, yo? You wanna piece o' this in yo' FACE?"
Warren raised an eyebrow, then sat down at the table. "Okay, I know
you guys have just been sitting around trading strange looks, and
waiting for someone to ask, so I'll bite: Bobby, why are you dressed
like a thug?"
"I's fly, yo!"
"No, you're not fly. You're ... wearing one of Logan's undershirts
and have a twenty pound gold dollar sign that I know you stole from
Angelo hanging around your neck. You look like a big weenie."
Bobby threw his sunglasses onto the table, and shoved his lower lip
out in a pout. "It's not fair!"
Jean scooped some eggs onto his plate.
"What's not fair, hon?"
"Everybody gets to be all cool and different! Hank's a cat and Warren's
got a cool goatee and Scott's got, like, a cool haircut, and you got
to smooch Logan and... and I want to be hip to the youth crowd! I
wanna be a hip urban hero that's down with the beat of the street!"
"And where is Luke Cage, now, Bobby? Where is Luke Cage?" Warren
Jean settled a hand on Bobby's shoulder. "Bobby's, it's commendable
that you want to take command of your life, but ... how can I put
"You're whiter than Lawrence Welk," Scott put in.
Scott nodded sadly.
Bobby stabbed at his eggs angrily. "You guys can say what you want,
but I'm sticking with this thug things. It's fly, and so am I. Dig."
There was a slight creak, and the five original X-Men looked up to
see Professor Xavier's chair poised in the doorway.
"Morning, Professor," Jean said hesitantly. "Eggs?"
"Robert?" the professor asked.
Bobby tried to meet his eyes and failed miserably, finally settling
on his plate of eggs. "Yes, sir?"
"X-Men wear shirts to the breakfast table."
With a scrabbling of Doc Martens on linoleum, Bobby made a mad dash
for his room.
Xavier shrugged. "Shiiiiiiiiiiiit, ain't there respect for big Prof
X up in this crib no mo'? Jean, git me some eggs, woman."
"Of course, Professor X."
"That's what I'm talkin' bout. Yo."
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