Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

Chapter 167: Chapter 167 – The Slacker

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Cyclops and Storm had been sent topside for a reason—none of their powers belonged in a cramped metal tube. Out there, on the roof of the train, aliens swarmed from the air, the treeline, even the mountain slopes. Holding them back was no less brutal than the brawl raging inside.

Meanwhile, Nightcrawler bamfed Xavier forward into the lead car, startling the soldiers guarding it. But a quick explanation—and the sight of Kurt vanishing right back into the fight—was enough to convince them. By now even the thickest grunt understood: the scraping and pounding outside the hull wasn’t a storm. It was aliens trying to rip the train open. The moment they saw metal peel back, they emptied mags into the breach.

Selene wasn’t much help here. Her psychic tricks barely scratched these creatures; their minds weren’t built like humans. Even Xavier struggled to parse them on first contact. And illusions meant nothing to enemies who fought hand-to-claw. So Selene fought the old-fashioned way—dagger in hand, parrying claws, bleeding for every inch.

Beast, meanwhile, had a different problem.

He glanced at the freed restraints across the aisle... and saw one clown-headed alien-turned-human lounging like he was still shackled, feigning weakness.

Hank McCoy sighed. Then he reached over, grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck and the back of his head, and yanked him out of the seat like an errant cat.

”Easy, big guy! Hair can be messy, blood can spill, but never ruin the style!” the clown protested.

”The aliens are here,” Beast growled. ”Do something useful.”

He was about to chuck the jester straight into the horde—except Magneto was already tearing the air apart with floating rifles, leaving no room to toss dead weight without hitting friendlies.

The decision was made for him. With a screech of tearing steel, one side door was ripped wide open. Raw, unmasked aliens—no human disguises this time—lunged for the opening.

Beast didn’t hesitate. He simply shoved the clown forward like a human shield.

And suddenly—red beams erupted from the man’s eyes, slicing an alien clean in half.

It wasn’t Cyclops’s optic blast, not exactly. Scott’s power tapped into a dimension of pure force, concussive and unstoppable. This was different: concentrated heat vision, hotter than a star’s surface, carving through armor like butter.

Aliens disintegrated where the beams struck.

Beast blinked. Then, like a scientist with a brand-new toy, he adjusted his grip and squeezed the clown’s head again. Twin beams shot out in another direction. Another alien dropped in two pieces.

He rolled the man’s skull between his palms like worry beads. Each twist, another laser.

”Enough!”

”Yeah, enough already!” the clown yelped, finally wriggling free. He whipped out a comb—God knew from where—and began frantically fixing his green pompadour.

”My beautiful hair! What is this, huh? Jews at the top, then whites, then Blacks, then ’coloreds,’ then mutants, and below all that—aliens? That’s the pecking order? That’s why you think you can manhandle my head like a stress ball?” He jabbed a finger at Hank, furious. ”Unforgivable! You’ve crossed the line. I’m switching sides—alien rights matter, damn it!”

Beast opened his mouth to apologize—too late.

Another alien burst through the side door and, with a wild kick, booted the clown square in the skull. His comb snapped in half, clattering to the floor.

The clown froze. His eyeliner smeared with tears, two black streaks running like bloody rivers down his cheeks.

”My Cleopatra... my precious, one-of-a-kind comb... gone. No heir. No successor. And you dare—DARE—take her from me?”

The alien roared in its own tongue, trying to intimidate. Bad idea.

The clown inhaled—his chest swelling to inhuman size, shirt buttons popping. Then he screamed.

Not a sound humans could hear. A blast of compressed air and vibration detonated from his lungs like an invisible bomb. The alien and half its reinforcements shattered like glass, their remains flung back into the night.

The clown’s voice broke into a sob as he pointed at the next wave.

”Your lives are forfeit. Every one of you pays for Cleopatra’s death!”

He snatched up a discarded M16, shouldering it like an action hero. He fired in full auto. The stance was perfect. The damage? Virtually nil.

Magneto, watching this absurd performance, pinched the bridge of his nose. ”You cannot be serious.”

Even Selene, catching a breather, muttered, ”Honestly... you’d be deadlier with just your mouth.”

The clown froze, scandalized. ”Excuse me? A man should never be told all he’s good for is his mouth. Do you know how insulting that is?”

Selene blinked. ”...Was that a sex joke?”

Magneto had heard enough. His voice cracked like a whip. ”If you’re not going to fight—get off this train!”

”Copy that, boss!” The clown cheerfully leapt for the door—only to be snagged mid-air by Beast, who hauled him back like a misbehaving kitten.

”Really, Hank?” the clown complained. ”Do you have to carry me like a housecat? I’ve got a reputation.”

Then fate intervened. A plasma bolt slammed through the open door, hitting squarely on the clown’s chest. The explosion engulfed him in a flare of electric fire—leaving Beast gaping, and the battle raging hotter than ever.

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