JohnnyZ
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[Life is Good] Chapter 36
🕑 Added 2025-01-22 19:47:55 +0000 UTCCletus Kasady. So, he’s here too. In the original Marvel universe… wait, one of the original ones? Or was it in several? Eh, doesn’t really matter. Point is, he was the host for Carnage. And here, in this world, he’s also a guy. The billion-dollar question then: has he already become the symbiote-loving butcher we all know and loathe? No mention of Carnage or anything red in the news or online so far, and Venom’s been off the radar since that one incident. Let’s check the article.
Well… what can I say… He’s a psycho and a pedophile. The man’s got a body count of nineteen rapes and murders, including four underage girls. Officially deemed insane and locked away in a psychiatric hospital—until a few days ago, when he busted out. His "parental rating" has been set to zero, all his registered offspring have undergone rigorous checks, and his genetic material has been pulled from circulation. Kasady himself got a temporary vasectomy, just in case they manage to "cure" him, though there’s talk of permanent chemical castration. That’s one thing I’ve got to give to this version of the U.S.—if you’re a sick bastard, they don’t let you breed.
His backstory? Not exactly moving. A psychotic mother who lost custody when he was two, and then he was raised in a good family that practically kissed his ass? That’s supposed to be his sob story? His "trauma"? Give me a break. I’ve known orphans who came out decent despite some seriously rough childhoods. Hell, I’ve even known a couple of genuine gangsters in my previous life who wouldn’t stoop to the shit Kasady’s done. Look, I’m not saying everyone has the same start in life, but being a monster is a choice—unless someone’s brainwashed you like Bucky Barnes. So no, stories about his tragic past don’t stir an ounce of sympathy in me.
And let’s not even try to pin it on some "heat of the moment" bullshit. Nineteen victims, spaced out over time? That’s premeditation, not temporary insanity. Plus, rape in this world? Utter stupidity. If you’re horny, you can walk into any club solo and practically guarantee a good night. Hell, the odds of ending up in a threesome are higher than just a basic one-night stand.
No mentions of Carnage or Venom, and nothing about supers—just a garden-variety psycho who happened to get caught by the cops. Maybe the "big K moment" hasn’t happened yet, and Ooyama’s just dragging me along to catch an escaped lunatic and boost mutants’ public image a bit more? Although, she did mention additional materials—maybe there’s more useful intel in there. Anyway, no point guessing. I turned to my homework. Doing it in a moving car wasn’t ideal, but I figured the teachers would forgive my messy handwriting—this wasn’t exactly my choice of study space. At least I didn’t have to worry about lighting, thanks to my powers. Just light up whatever part of my body I needed, and boom—problem solved. Three hours later, I was done with my assignments, and around 10:30, we stopped at a roadside diner. Sensei wanted coffee, and I wasn’t about to turn it down either.
While we slowly sipped some surprisingly decent coffee, the TV in the corner ran a segment on Iron Lady, who’d just made her debut in our country. Well, looks like we’re keeping things relatively canonical here. At least something’s familiar.
Now, Iron Man… mixed feelings about the guy, honestly. He tried to do good for humanity, sure, but he lacked control—especially over himself. Too much flair, too much of a showman. And judging by the news, this universe’s Stark wasn’t much different. Eh, whatever. The Avengers and their ilk aren’t in my league—I’d be way out of my depth on their missions. Although… having one of those Iron Man suits wouldn’t suck. Maybe if I could figure out how to extend my powers beyond my body without frying the suit into a puddle of molten scrap…
Lost in thought, I felt a jab from Ooyama and followed her nod toward the exit. Grumbling about how minors shouldn’t be subjected to such abuse, I left the diner under her amused smirk. I nearly bumped into a woman on her way in—mid-thirties, maybe forty, dressed in a killer black leather jacket with metal studs, jeans, heavy boots, and a no-nonsense expression. I muttered an apology, got a slight smile and nod in return, and headed for our car, hearing Ooyama’s footsteps behind me.
As I walked, my thoughts drifted to how sneaky Sensei could be. Those steps? Practically silent when she wanted. It always amazed me how “super-agents” got caught with their whole "predator walk" shtick. Ooyama, on the other hand, was the perfect chameleon. In her downtime, she looked like any average person—no intense stares, no “aura of death,” just a resting expression of utter apathy.
Anyway, back to the parking lot. As we approached the car, my eyes landed on an absolute beast of a bike parked near the diner. Wow. I don’t even care much for motorcycles, but this one? Pure art. A gorgeous Harley, an older model but clearly maintained and tricked out to perfection. I actually stopped for a few seconds, whistling under my breath in admiration. God, it looked familiar, but the sound of our car door slamming snapped me out of it. With one last wistful look, I hopped into the car.
Speaking of vehicles… I really need something of my own. Sure, Iron Man’s suit would be the dream, but until then, what could boost my mobility? A bicycle? Nah, there’s already a hero on a bike—Mumen Rider from Saitama’s chronicles—and I couldn’t outshine his adamantium-grade balls. A motorcycle, though… that’s tempting. Too bad you can’t get a license here until you’re sixteen. Although, who needs a license when you’re playing the secret identity game? Still, I’d need to learn to ride first. I should bring this up with McCoy tomorrow.
There are some more… unconventional options, too. Like getting some gear like Felicia Hardy’s grappling system or sweet-talking Norma into lending me a glider. Hmm… a glider would be awesome, honestly. But those things are typically controlled mentally, and my powers tend to disrupt tech that interacts directly with my mind. Then again, they only cancel out stuff that’s perceived as a threat, so maybe it could work? How would I even convince her to give me one? Beg Harry to gift me one for my birthday? Hah. Just imagining his face at that request is worth it.
On that note, I did once try to save Norma from the whole Goblin Serum fiasco. Sent her an anonymous email from a shady internet cafe, telling her to steer clear of OZ serum because someone who “foresees the future” had warned of terrible things in store for her. I mean, what else was I supposed to write? “Hi, I watched a movie where you turned into a raving psychopath”? Not exactly persuasive.
Honestly, I never bought into the movie’s canon of a businesswoman like her diving into supervillainy firsthand. It’s just not practical. What, there aren’t enough mercenaries around? The comic version, where it’s an accident, makes way more sense to me. Anyway, after the email, I followed up with a couple of texts from burner phones. Just in case. Will it help? No idea. But the notion that someone out there knows about Oscorp’s secret projects should at least give her pause. Assuming those projects even exist. If not, she’ll probably just dismiss it as nonsense.
Norma’s a sharp lady, though. Let’s hope she dodges this bullet. From what I remember of her comic counterpart, even with his ruthlessness—or outright cruelty—Norman Osborn was still a rational person when not under the Goblin influence. Sure, not exactly a paragon of morality, but hey, in the world of big business, that’s practically standard.
The rest of the drive was spent in silence, as usual. Yuriko focused on the road while I leaned back in my seat, trying to catch up on the sleep I didn’t get last night. I woke up to a folder landing square on my chest and Sensei’s curt voice: “Go through this. We’ll be there in half an hour.”
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I cracked open the folder. The first few pages were all about Cletus Kasady—his background, upbringing, personality. But something felt off. The Cletus I remembered from the Marvel universe was a violent, raging psycho who wore his broken self proudly for the world to see. This version? He was a snake—a calculated, manipulative charmer who never showed his real emotions. Sweet smiles, no aggression, nothing but positivity. Until, of course, you found yourself tied up with a gag in your mouth, staring into the abyss of his true self. A Dexter type, but without principles or limits. And here’s the kicker—no mention of symbiotes. A mix of relief, disappointment, and petty satisfaction washed over me. Relief that I wouldn’t have to face Carnage yet. Disappointment because it seemed there’d be no combat trial tonight. And satisfaction because I might be able to stop Carnage’s rise altogether.
The next section detailed his victims, complete with photos—before and after Kasady got his hands on them. The first two cases I skimmed mechanically, still digesting the earlier revelations. But as I kept going, I couldn’t help but focus. A 22-year-old college student. A 30-year-old mother of two. A 17-year-old high schooler. Nineteen lives stolen. Nineteen stories cut short. Nineteen families left to grieve. And then, the last case: Claire Manchester, a thirteen-year-old girl with bright blue eyes and a wide, playful grin. The next photo was her mutilated body, her throat slashed. When the gravity of what I was seeing finally hit me, my mind went blank, consumed by a searing rage. Hatred boiled in me, demanding release. I wanted to grab Kasady and burn him to ashes, to let my fury obliterate his existence.
I snapped out of it with a sharp punch to my cheek. My hands, I realized, were smoldering, about to ignite the papers. I pulled the energy back, gritted my teeth, and asked in a low voice without turning to Yuriko, “How much longer?”
“Not far. He’s in that motel.” Her hand stayed on the wheel as she pointed ahead to a colorful sign about a kilometer away.
I looked up and saw it—a roadside motel, the kind where people go to sleep off their road trips or, sometimes, to never wake up again. I had no intention of letting Cletus Kasady leave that building alive. I wouldn’t need my "Mr. Mutant" persona for this. This wasn’t a mission for recognition. This was retribution.
We parked a couple of hundred meters from the motel. Yuriko pulled her hoodie up, as did I. I didn’t fool myself into thinking she hadn’t orchestrated this perfectly. Showing me the victims’ files so close to our arrival was no coincidence. She wanted me to feel this rage, to let it simmer and guide my actions. This wasn’t a lesson in restraint—it was a lesson in killing. And she was an excellent teacher for someone like me.
I didn’t see myself as a murderer. I’d killed before, yes, but it was in the heat of battle, against those who would have killed me if they could. Kasady? He was different. He preyed on the innocent, the helpless. Tonight, I’d ensure he’d never do it again. If I turned him in and he escaped to kill again, their blood would be on my hands. I couldn’t live with that.
“Room seventeen. No cameras, except at the entrance,” Yuriko said quietly, stopping by a chain-link fence.
I jumped, grabbed the top rail, and hauled myself over. Hood pulled low, hands in my pockets, I strolled along the motel’s perimeter, glancing at the room numbers. Just a guy taking a walk. Nothing suspicious. Any noise from the fence? Could’ve been anything—a bump, a kick. Who would suspect some random guy of sneaking into a motel to commit a crime? Men don’t climb fences for theft. Too much effort.
I reached room seventeen. Inside, a silhouette lay sprawled on the bed. The only powered device was a heater. Kneeling by the door, I lit the lock with a faint glow from my fingertip and worked it with a pick. Click. The door opened silently, and I slipped inside, closing it just as quietly behind me. My footsteps were noiseless as I approached the sleeping figure.
For a split second, I almost lost control. The urge to kill him on the spot was overwhelming. But I steadied myself, touching him lightly and delivering a shock. He was out cold. Dragging his heavy frame from the bed, I tied his hands and feet, securing him to a chair with zip ties. His socks went into his mouth, held in place with a shirt tied around his head.
Pulling up another chair, I flipped on the nightstand lamp and sat across from him. The folder was on my lap. I opened it again, forcing myself to look at every face, every story. Each photo, each detail, stoked the flames of my rage until it roared inside me.
Kasady stirred, his eyes fluttering open. I grabbed his hair with one hand and his jaw with the other, forcing him to meet my gaze. His eyes were wide with fear and confusion—no rage, no defiance, just the terrified bewilderment of a man who knew he was about to die.
Could someone with a look like that really commit cold-blooded murder? The question flickered through my mind—and then, everything went black.
The room around me wasn’t real anymore—it was a crude pencil sketch, drawn in harsh black and white. The lines formed the cramped trailer, Cletus Kasady, and a young girl. She was entirely naked, battered, and broken, but I recognized her. Claire Manchester, his last victim. Above her head floated a speech bubble, scribbled with desperate pleas for mercy.
The entire scene was rendered in stark, lifeless lines. Above Cletus, another speech bubble appeared: “It’ll all be over soon, sweetheart.” His face showed nothing but genuine sympathy as he gently dragged a knife across the girl’s fragile neck. Black, inky blood spurted out, and she convulsed, her tiny body writhing in agony. I wanted to scream, to rip that bastard apart, to save her—but I couldn’t move. I was frozen, forced to watch.
Then, it happened again. And again. Twenty-nine times, I watched him kill. Twenty-nine victims, each death as vivid as the last. And in every scene, Cletus wore the same expression—not hatred, not malice, but regret. He cried during the first few, his face twisted in sorrow. But he kept going. The final sketch revealed his first victim, his adoptive sister. Their conversation made it clear: this was where his path of blood began.
When the visions faded, I was staring into his eyes. A storm raged inside me—hatred for him, horror for what I’d seen. People like him don’t deserve to live.
“You’re guilty, Cletus,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “And I’m your executioner.”
His eyes widened, fear twisting into sheer terror. “There’s innocent blood on your hands,” I continued, leaning close to whisper in his ear. “Feel their pain, you bastard.”
I let his head drop, lifeless now. His brain was seared, his eyes charred and blackened. A mask of frozen agony and pain etched across his face. I’d tried to drag it out, to make him suffer, but even as he burned from the inside, his death had been too quick. Regretfully, I incinerated the case file in my hands, letting the ashes scatter over his corpse.
“In mortem convertēbar, in vastatōrem hostem,” I murmured, twisting a line from the Exterminatus litany: I have become death, the destroyer of my enemies. Tonight, I was vengeance. Tonight, I avenged twenty-nine souls.
But tonight, I also learned what kind of cursed gift I’d been given. This… whatever ability I had, it wasn’t just a power. It wasn't the dojutsu of my dreams. It was a nightmare.
As I climbed back over the fence and made my way to the car, I felt hollow. Satisfaction warred with apathy and unease. Yuriko’s words from earlier, about memories you wish you could forget, echoed in my mind. She was right. Those twenty-nine scenes weren’t leaving me anytime soon. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to drink myself into oblivion.
“I know a bar about an hour from here,” Yuriko said calmly as she started the car. “No one there will care about your age. Should we stop?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, forcing a crooked smile. She’s one hell of a woman—careful, or you’ll fall for her, I thought, chuckling bitterly at myself.
As we drove, a motorcycle roared past, moving at a breakneck speed. I only caught a glimpse, but it looked like the same gorgeous bike I’d admired earlier at the diner. This time, though, the rider gave off an intense heat signature. Could it be… Ghost Rider? Maybe. Didn’t matter. If anything, it was fitting. I’d tried to kill like Johnny Blaze in the first movie—with righteous, burning vengeance. If the local Spirit of Vengeance was cruising by, then hey, let people think it was him who came for Kasady.
Comments
John Atel
Yeah, i get what you mean but thankfully the story doesnt push him that far
Kraxis93
I like the story but I'm pretty disappointed that the mc is gearing up to be just another killer anti-hero
