The Autobiography of Magneto X by Erik Lensherr

In addition to recruiting a team, Charles and I spent much of our time then playing chess, arguing about which Van Gogh painting was the best and solving murder mysteries. We were very good at solving mysteries because we looked good, we were witty, and we knew how to stare provocatively at one another until the case was solved.

There was the Mystery of the Chewed Up Face, in which Florida officials thought a man had fallen in a river and had his face hacked by a motor boat’s motor, but Charles and I believed it was eaten off by a manatee. Then there was the Case of the Pumpernickel Bread, wherein an old man supposedly died of a heart condition, but Charles and I surmised he had been so disgusted by a loaf of pumpernickel bread that he willed his own heart to stop in revolt. Finally, there was JFK’s assassination, which we never solved because we had broken up our alliance by that time. However, if we were still friends, I think we would have found that JFK was assassinated by a gorilla dressed like a child. It all adds up.

— p. 127, Volume 3, The Autobiography of Magneto X, by Erik Lensherr

I have been tortured. I have been wounded. I have been forced to wear polyester in the summertime. However, the worst pain I have ever experienced is heartbreak. There are times in our lives when we open ourselves up to others. We let them into our hearts, our homes, our gold tile Russian steam rooms. We trick ourselves into believing that if we trust this person, the two of you will create a greater whole. Greatness occurs. And then, suddenly that person is gone. They betray you by choosing the side of a Scottish scientist with split ends or they leave you to spend more time on their autoharp playing career or they are torn apart on a cellular scale by a mentally unhinged telepath. I don’t know, it could be anything. What matters is you are alone again. You replay the last moments you had with that person and pretend they didn’t happen. It was all just a terrible scene from an unfaithful film adaptation of your life. The real problem is that you are alone again. You feel as though something was ripped away. Like you were lounging on a yacht and someone came out of nowhere and tore your ascot off. Now your Adam’s apple feels cold and exposed. How horrid.

The thing I have learned to remember is that even alone, I am magnificence incarnate. That greatness that I shared as a pairing or duo—that greatness was great—but that greatness was mostly just me. Saying this helps most of the time; eating strawberries dipped in Godiva chocolate helps the rest of it. 

—p. 1, Volume 8, The Autobiography of Magneto X, by Erik Lensherr

The waves rippled around our bodies as we swam to the surface. We were tangled together like vines in a vineyard. As soon as air filled my lungs, I knew Sebastian Shaw had gotten away. My body was filled with disappointment and rage. Part of me wanted to give up. I felt like a beautiful woman who decides to get fat after her wedding—I just didn’t care anymore. I wanted to die. Then, the strange man in the water held me closer. He wrapped his arms around me and he entered my mind. I started to feel better. I started to feel hope again. In my head he said, “My name’s Charles Xavier.” In my head, I replied, “Thank you. I understand I have a reason to live again. I am not going to give up and get fat. I’m going to stay lean and beautiful and I’m going to kill everyone I hate.” Then he complimented me on my choice of wetsuit. I said I chose it because the fabric glistens when wet. And that’s how Charles Xavier and I became friends. 

p. 1452, Vol. 2, The Autobiography of Magneto X, by Erik Lensherr

Russia is a strange place. It was even stranger when it was called the USSR. I traveled there a bit whilst Nazi hunting, and then later with Charles. I had tried to tell Charles that Budapest would be a better travel destination. Budapest had more former Nazis, charming flea markets and dark alleys for naughty deeds than any Russian city I knew. However, we were dispatched to Russia as a part of the whole CIA charade Charles invited me into. I remember singlehandedly storming a Soviet base with such style and elan that Charles had to join in. After all, great men can’t sit on the sidelines of greatness; they have to partake. That’s why I stole the identity of a young Boston University undergrad in 1980 so I could sneak onto the ice for the USA vs. Russia “Miracle” hockey game at the Olympics. (In case you were wondering—yes, I assisted the winning goal.) Anyway, when Charles and I finally made it into the base’s inner chamber, we were puzzled to find it was a bed chamber. And that Russian men masturbate by fondling the air. Again…I don’t like to judge, but it’s a strange place…

—p. 532, Volume 3, The Autobiography of Magneto X, by Erik Lensherr

Charles insisted that we all challenge ourselves, but I found training to be a farce. Stopping a bullet that’s headed towards your brain with the power of your brain is as easy a parlor trick as I know. When I was a teenager, I used to flirt with ladies I met in art deco cafes by asking them to shoot me. This may surprise you, but women don’t really like going out with men who ask them to shoot them. They consider you crazy. I was very sexually unfulfilled in my early teens. I had to read a lot of Middle English and take a lot of cold baths. So, when Charles offered to shoot me I played along. It was fun to watch him fret over me. And after I stopped the bullet, he still wanted to eat dinner with me. Charles was like the girl I always wanted to meet when I was a teenager.

—p. 398, Volume 3, The Autobiography of Magneto X, by Erik Lensherr

I refuse to fly coach when I travel. If I am journeying to a tropical island for a bongo-playing retreat or if I’m sneaking into Belarus to murder a mutant-killing monster, I will surround a plush bed with fluffy pillows in a sphere of steel and propel myself to my destination. I try my best to avoid normal air travel. Occasionally I will fly upper class on Virgin Atlantic, but I refuse to fly coach.

I think my hatred of all things involving air travel stemmed from my brief experience on Charles’s ridiculous Blackbird. I was strapped into a seat next to a bunch of squirming teenagers. It was torture. There wasn’t any champagne nor was there an in-flight movie. When that brat, Hank McCoy, designed the steel beast, he could have at least included a monitor in back so we could watch classy romantic comedies like It Happened One Night, Bringing Up Baby or anything with Robert Mitchum. You know, something light to keep our minds off of the impending bloodshed. 

Charles thought I was being fussy. At least I don’t wear satin socks to bed. That’s what he does. Or did, back when he could still feel his feet.

—p. 1115, Volume 3, The Autobiography of Magneto X, by Erik Lensherr

(via moonrisequeendom-deactivated201)

For a brief time, Charles and I thought about starting our own slapstick duo. I wouldn’t say either of us was the straight man, but I would say that I was the charming one and Charles was the dull, dumb one who would spill things a lot. We had a few joke routines that Charles stole from aging Vaudeville comics who were going senile. He’d probe their soft brains and uncover their best and least well-known bits. Then we added Charles’s “magical mentalism bit” and I would move simple things like champagne buckets, pocket watches and battle axes with my mind. Everyone thought we were doing magic tricks, which frustrated me. Charles was content to keep up the ruse, but the idea that people thought we were engaging in cheap parlor tricks, when in fact we were defying the laws of physics with our minds, was unbearable to me. So, we quit. We didn’t perform much—just one time when we were drunk on whiskey at a gentleman’s club—but I truly believe that the world is a darker place because we did not pursue our dreams of conquering the concert halls of Las Vegas and Europe. The world is probably also a darker place because we did not stay friends.

—p. 372, Volume 3, The Autobiography of Magneto X, by Erik Lensherr

We had some good times in those days, too. We would quote Bob Hope albums to each other and laugh. We’d walk around the mansion’s extensive grounds and discuss interesting things like poetry, the science behind atomic weapons, and how tigers always look majestic. Sometimes we’d give each other massages when things got tense. You know, just friendly stuff. One time, we were walking in the gardens and we found a wounded bird. I wanted to put it out of its misery. Its pained chirps upset my fragile, sensitive spirit. However, Charles suggested that it could still be saved. We wrapped it in my ugly sweatshirt and carried it back to the mansion. Raven whimpered when she saw the bird. That cowardly prick, Hank McCoy, used his knowledge of everything-ness to save the bird’s life. Charles said the bird survived because we had worked together. The bird lived because Charles believed in it. Of course, the bird died three days later when Charles put in in the bunker with Alex as a part of his training. Alex would have missed it, but the bird flew in the direction of his force field. Some creatures want to die. It makes me sad to think of, but then I put on a Bob Hope album and remember the laughs.

p. 327, Volume 3, The Autobiography of Magneto X, by Erik Lensherr

Charles and I had very different philosophies about how to instruct mutants to harness their powers. I believed that you needed to put children in extreme situations of stress (for example: pushing them off of a cliff to see if they can fly, murdering their favorite puppy to see if they can resurrect the dead, or taping over their DVR-ed episodes of America’s Next Top Model to see if they can turn back time with their mind and stop you). Charles liked to play armchair psychic psychologist on you. It was unbelievably patronizing. He liked to make me cry. He would tell me horrible things to provoke the tears. He reminded me of my mother’s death, told me I needed dental work and that he wouldn’t pay the dry cleaning bill for the drab sweat pants and sweat shirt he forced me to wear in his mansion. Years later over a game of chess he told me that the reason he liked to see me cry was because my eyes glistened like beautiful diamonds when there were tears in them. You can say a lot about Charles Xavier, but the man does appreciate beauty. I mean, he always appreciated me.

—p. 532, Volume 3, The Autobiography of Magneto X, by Erik Lensher