Really? Is that so? Are you sure this is a road you want the world to take, Johnny Girl? Because I ain’t interested in going through that door, but if you open it and rush on through…wew lad, I ain’t gonna resist that kind of inspirational kick in the puffy pantaloons.
The muse us upon me! And fondling my mental manboobs like she was Al Franken on a jetplane surrounded by sleeping girls larping as Real Soldiers!
Obligatory Disclaimer: I do not own nor claim to own nor would I want to own or write seriously any of the characters trademarked by Marvel Entertainment, Disney, or its subsidiaries. This FanFic is a parody and thus operates under the Fair Use principle. Suck it, Marvel, and the shady Saudi Arabian financiers who paid you off to publish anti-American drivel can suck it twice.
Miss Marvel couldn’t take any more. She had to shout. The crowded Newark apartment fell deathly silent at her outburst. Heat rose in her cheeks, but she had fought alongside Avengers, she wasn’t about to be cowed by her family and a few friends. “I don’t know who this Suleiman you work for is, but these are our people, brother! You should be ashamed of speaking of them this way. And what do you expect walking around city streets dressed like a twelfth century shepherd!”
“Kamala!” Her mother’s voice split the silence that followed her outburst. “Show some respect for your brother! And our guests! This is your eighteenth birthday party, but that does not excuse such behavior.”
“Forget it,” Kamala mumbled and shoved through the crowd to reach the front door.
As she ducked out her father called out, “Wait! Tomorrow you meet your husband! I paid good money-“
The rest was drowned out by the slam of the door.
Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she fled down the stairs and out into the cold night. How could they still cling to their backwards notions of tribal politics? Hadn’t her parents moved to America even before she saw born? And yet they demanded to be accepted as Americans while doing nothing to honor the traditions of the nation that had so lovingly welcomed them with open arms and open checkbooks.
Her feet carried her down the street to the nearest cathedral, directed by thoughts that swirled away deep beneath the anger and shame she felt that her family had raised her to be American even as they rejected everything that made this nation so great. When she reached the side door of the cathedral, her thoughts slammed to a halt. She hadn’t meant to return to this place, to her friend, but now that she was her, she knew what she had to do.
Kamala pushed the ornate and heavy wooden door aside and respectfully entered the cavernous building. Her senses were assaulted by the ancient majesty and beauty and grandeur of this place of worship, and she bowed her head reverentially. Still awed that the could enter such a place and stand side-by-side with the men and even children during regular services, she sat heavily into a pew with a sigh. The old woman in the front row cocked her head, disturbed in her prayers, and Kamala whispered a brief apology.
The woman returned to her prayers, and Kamala blew a black strand of hair out of her eyes, grateful for the solitude of the place. She lost herself in thoughts of the future now that she was an adult, and wondered how she could explain to her family that she had no intention of marrying any man whose dowry her father could afford. A heavy presence dropped into the pew next to her, and she started.
The white Cossack of the young man hid the broad expanse of his powerful chest, but could not disguise the wide set of his shoulders. To her pleasure, it did nothing to cover his curly blonde hair, strong jaw, or gleaming blue eyes. Unlike the most handsome man she had ever encountered, an RPG blogger named E. Reagan Wright, whose majestic visage awed her into dumbfounded silence and whose enormous crotch bulge scattered her thoughts when her eyes inevitably drifted down to its magnificence, she felt at ease around the solid masculinity of the blonde superhero.
“Altar Boy!” She said un-necessarily. She had met him numerous times on the streets as they fought crime and repaired damaged hot dog trucks and generally made her little corner of the greatest country in the world a better place, but it stuck her she had never seen the young superhero in his natural environment – a church.
“In the flesh,” he whispered, and placed a finger to his lips in silent admonishment. “What brings you here on the night of your 18th birthday?”
“My family,” she huffed. “Tomorrow I must marry a man I’ve never met, and do as he bids, even if he serves a known terrorist that sarin-gas attacked a French Church.”
“Suleiman,” Altar Boy nodded. “We must trust the good men of the CIA to take care of him – after all, we have cisheteropatriarchal norms to combat.”
She shot him an angry look. “Don’t tease me, I’m in no mood.”
Altar Boy smiled and rested one large, warm hand on her thigh. The move should have repulsed her, so direct and forward and without her permission it meant sexual assault on the order of rape, but she liked it. It calmed her, and she smiled back. She knew that he fought for truth and real justice instead of the empty cargo cult justice that called her. His use of the Sacred Word that kills the Narrative Unbelievers stung, given her recent doubts about all of the random white men she had suckerpunched – sure, at least one of them had been a Real Nazi, but deep in her heart of hearts she wondered if all of them had been.
“Come with me,” he said, and stood without waiting for her to follow. Curious, she did so.
The handsome young super-hero led her to a small room behind the altar to where a kindly old priest, bald and rotund, puttered about preparing for the next day’s services.
“Here she is,” Altar Boy announced as they entered the confined space. “This is Miss Kamala Khan, Father Jean-Paul, the girl I told you about.”
“Ah!” The older man’s eyes lit up. “You are as lovely as Altar Boy said.”
More like, Miss Mar-Vult, amirite?
She blushed, uncertain of what Altar Boy had in mind, only that she loved the attention and wanted to make the moment linger. To her shocked surprise, Altar Boy dropped to one knee.
“Miss Marvel,” he said, “I know of a way to rescue you from the fate your family has designed. Will you marry me?”
Unable to speak, her hands fluttered to her neck.
The old priest seemed surprised as well, but he maintained enough presence of mind to ask, “Are you sure about this, Altar Boy?”
Blue eyes glanced his way, “As sure as I’ve ever been, Father. And having reached the age of majority yesterday, you should call me Altarman.”
“Yes!” She finally found her voice, and could not help but interrupt their discussion.
“Well,” the priest tsked, “I can marry you, but…”
Altar Bo – er, Altarman waved one idle hand and explained to her, “In order to be married within the church – the only marriage worth God’s recognition – you must convert.”
“That process takes time,” the priest explained, “But we can get started enough for our purposes. Just answer me – do you reject Satan? And all his works? And accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”
Miss Marvel answered without hesitation, “Yes to all of them!” And she felt an enormous weight lift from her heart.
“Then do you take this man to love and to hold until death do you part?”
“I do!” She grinned as Altarman stood.
“And what of you, Altarman? Do you take this woman to have and to hold until death do you part?”
“I do,” he answered with more reverence.
“Then by the powers invested in me by God himself, I pronounce you husband and wife!”
Altarman’s hot lips crushed against hers as his strong arms held her close. She nearly lost control of her powers and her body started to melt in his arms just as her heart melted under the heat of his love.
Later, as he lay her down to consummate their marriage, Altarman joked, “Tomorrow we’ll sign you up for RCIA classes and you can begin your submission to Rome. Tonight, you submit only to me.”
She giggled and welcomed him with open arms and open heart.
The next day, having accepted a healthy injection of Vita-Man D delivered using a syringe almost too wide barreled for her to handle, she woke with a massive grin on her face.
When Kamala Khan’s new husband cocked his head questioningly, she ran one hand over his smooth and strong pectoral muscles and laughed, “We Christian now, fam!”
And all the angels in heaven sang in a chorus of celebration.
P.S. Remember when this blog used to be about RPGs?