Slug Muldoon (Hero)
Full Name: Sluhgg M’ldoon
Faction: Star Marshals
Slug loved Earth. With its Monsters, Supremes and sheer diversity of challenge, he was as happy as a Quarethian hog in mud. But best of all? Cigars. Earth’s cigars beat anything this side of the Ten Galaxies. Oh, he knew they were bad for him, but the aroma and taste just could not be matched on any world.
And that was partly why he was annoyed. His preferred cigar seller’s store in Downtown had been destroyed the day before in a knock-down, drag-out, nothing-barred fight between two Supremes. Fortuitously for Slug, one of the combatants was a wanted criminal. It was time for payback, a good fight, and maybe he could earn a little bounty for good measure.
A squat, blue-skinned Gatchan, hairless like most of his people, Slug was also a deputized Star Marshal. The Marshals had assigned him to Earth after the Ulthar’s recent invasion attempts, to provide intelligence about their activities. With the way things worked on Earth, rolling news was taking care of much of that for him, plus whatever information Virgo passed on. Deputizing Virgo and Tritonious had been a stroke of luck bordering on genius thought Slug, and he now had his sights on adding a half-alien vigilante girl he was hearing about. The other deputies’ input allowed him to focus on his favored pass-time – hunting! Monsters and Supremes had become his game and they provided a true test of his skills and knowledge. He had found a new home, and it was Pulp City USA, Earth.
And now some punk Supremes had destroyed his regular cigar shop. He was sure Diego would get back on his feet, but that was not the point – it was Slug’s favorite, and no-one messed with his favorites.
Slug pulled up files he had received from Virgo. While he was not actively watching the Ulthar, Virgo was, and at the same time she supplied good intelligence on various Supremes of interest – thanks to her he had some details on the guy he was looking for.
Cro Mag was a big bruiser, even by Supreme standards. By all accounts he was as dumb as a bucket of Atrathian Vompas, and he looked almost as ugly. Cro Mag would not go down easy, that was for sure. Big problems called for big solutions. This was a job for Betsy.
Betsy was no ordinary gun. She was a twenty-five millimeter phased plasma handheld cannon, one of the last ever made before the Fall of Sizzurnia. With custom over-charge rifling and Slug’s special stockpile of ammunition, she was one of the most feared weapons in any arsenal. Named for the Last Empress of Gatcha, her Exalted Majestrix Behtsinia the Fourteenth, Betsy was as formidable as her namesake. In Slug’s words she was simply a ‘beauty’. Slug and Betsy had together held back a Pisces platoon on Scarrus IV, had captured Modra’kk the Tyrant Nebula in the Lost Rim, and had taken down Omran the Decimator of the Vindal Empire. They were an unstoppable team. And Cro Mag was about to learn that first-hand.
Slug maintained a secret base in Pulp City as he did not want to use precious crystal fuel cells on frequent teleporter trips to and from his star-cruiser. Flying to and from orbit would have likewise attracted too much attention, so it had made sense to establish a base. It was secure and well-equipped, its walls adorned with all manner of Star Marshal ordnance, and a lot more besides, most of the remainder unsanctioned weaponry.
Slug grabbed tangle wire grenades, vector mines, and a bandolier of double-phasic plasma shells. He locked a clip of shells into place in Betsy. Wearing his usual battle fatigues, he was ready. He even had his lucky Mamruk skull ready attached to his belt. A life of hunting had taught him that every bit of planning and preparation was necessary for success, but sometimes the missing ingredient was simply good fortune. Slug liked to cover all bases, and the lucky head-bone was something he liked to have with him.
With gear chosen, Slug got into the van he had acquired and refitted with Marshals technology. He stowed extra ammunition and equipment for the job in case the situation changed. The vehicle’s remote link to the base computer activated at his voice command, causing the engine to growl to life.
He was almost ready.
One last part of the ritual remained. He reached into an inner pocket in his exocarnosaur-skin battle vest. Slug pulled out a cigar, carefully snipped the end with a cutter, and chomped down as he lit it up. It was hunting time.