ã€ŠGolden Ageã€‹


 Part I- ICARUS

    PART I

    ICARUS

    The dream was always the same. . .

    I was flying.

    Not like I used to, with a harness and straps and all that crap around me.

    I was really flying, like I dreamed of flying when I was a little boy, lying on a grassy hill and looking up at the clouds.

    That was the daydream. But the real dream . . . does that make sense? By definition, a dream can¡¯t be . . .

    Oh, but this was! It was! It was so real.

    Wind in my hair and my face. Folds of my clothing slapping against my body. And the noise! So much noise that you wouldn¡¯t expect when you¡¯re in the middle of a dream. Not the gentle sound of wind through the trees on a warm summer day by the river, with the smell of cotton candy and the sounds of baseballs cracking against the bat while children scream.

    No, the wind, the wind roared like a mighty lion at the circus, or a grizzly bear on a rerun of Davy Crockett. It roared through my ears and my body, up around and through me. I soared, and the wind was my friend. Through cloud after cloud, wet and unpleasant but only for a moment and then out the other side, and below. Below I could see . . .

    The fair. It was beautiful. The ferris wheel was turning, the lemonade stands were running, horses, pigs, bulls and other animals everywhere, children screaming with joy as I coasted a hundred, then fifty, now twenty feet above them. Now, touching the ground with a few steps to steady myself.

    And now my street clothes were gone. Instead I was in my skin-tight costume, the green one I¡¯d used to wear when I did my thing back in the day. Sweet kids rushed up to me, along with happy, smiling adults and pretty girls- oh, the girls. Bright red lipstick and swirly dresses, some up just past their knees. Sometimes it was the pretty blonde I saw by the guess-your-weight for only a few seconds back when I was sixteen. Sometimes it was the brunette with the short-n-curly look that Liz Taylor¡¯d had when she was younger. Sometimes it was the redhead with the bouffant hairstyle and the half-dozen freckles on her perfect little pale nose I¡¯d gotten a slow-dance with at my cousin¡¯s wedding. I¡¯d learned her name was Rosie, but could never find anyone afterwards who knew her last name, or how she was connected to my cousin, or how I could have found her.

    None of that mattered in the dream. In the dream, they all came to me. They all loved me. They all wanted to love the man who flew, the man who could do anything. The man who would, when he could, if he could, the man who¡¯d change everyone¡¯s lives forever. Selling a thousand comic books a day, and ten times that number watching the TV show about my exploits. The president asking me to dinner, and me saying: well, yes, sir, but could I please bring my folks, too? I¡¯d love for my dad to meet you.

    All of them, rushing up over the green grass on a warm summer day at the fair. Reaching out to touch me, the one in the lead being the first to tap my shoulder and . . .

    #

    ¡°Six A.M., Mr. Conlan!¡± said a voice full of sunshine I¡¯d heard every morning for the last year.

    I opened my eyes slowly. It was the same, happy, fresh-faced young lady who¡¯d woken me up, changed my diapers (let¡¯s not try to get around it by calling it incontinence, shall we? I piss and shit myself in my sleep. End of awkward word-dance), and helped me dress myself for nearly a year now.

    She was a beautiful young thing. Or maybe she was just average and the only young thing I¡¯d gotten this close to since the last presidential elections. Either way, I was quite certain that despite my persistent little fantasies she wouldn¡¯t have fallen for me even back when I¡¯d been in my prime, much less now when she had to wipe my wrinkled old ass as part of her morning routine.

    ¡°Good morning, Meagan,¡± I said, still trying to hold on to the remnants of the lovely dream. Thoughts of me, the redhead, the brunette and the blond all fading into the dusky sunset of my happier dream-life as the sun tickled the sky outside my window. ¡°How many of us do you have to do today?¡±

    ¡°Oh, too many, as usual,¡± she said, pulling out sheets and lifting my nightshirt.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    I closed my eyes. This was a cruelty on the level of a bargain with a leprechaun. When I was a teenager and thinking about sex every three seconds or so, I would have given worlds to have a gal like Meagan getting her hands close to my privates. Now? Now it happened every day. Every (literally) stinking day, but there was zero stimulation in the whole affair for either of us.

    Six minutes. That¡¯s how long we usually had. Then into the wheelchair, and into the hallway as she peeled off her gloves and smiled again at me.

    ¡°I think you¡¯re going to have a better day than usual, Mr. Conlan,¡± she said as she reached for her clipboard to check my name off. If I died, my guess is they¡¯d need a record that they¡¯d wiped my butt carefully each day as evidence of my not being abused.

    ¡°Really, honey? And why¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve got a visitor already waiting for you downstairs.¡±

    ¡°What? Is this a joke?¡± Some of us got visitors- Mostly JWs looking to make a convert among those of us who could see the finish line coming up and might want to get a little insurance for the trip ahead. Julie on the ladies¡¯ floor above had a daughter and three grandchildren who came to visit (she proudly told us again and again) every Sunday after Mass. Ed down the hall had a wife of forty-three years who¡¯d come and just hold his hand while they watched football on the TV, his stroke-twisted face now and again trying to say words while his wife pretended to understand him. Or maybe she did- I wouldn¡¯t know. By the time I was ready to settle down and get married, there was no one left for me. They¡¯d all gotten snapped up by Jewish guys who could check something besides the ¡®flies around in a silly costume stealing things¡¯ box on the work-history section of a job application.

    ¡°Who?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Dunno,¡± she said as she scrubbed her hands with that disinfectant goop they use today instead of soap-and-water, ¡°but to get in the door this early? Must¡¯ve slipped Rick a c-note or two. See ya!¡± She smiled and waved her fingers at me as her flats tapped on the cheap linoleum on the hallway floor.

    I made a mental note of her smile, for later when I fantasized about her accidentally falling into a time machine and sharing an egg-cream with me when I was in my teens, and the American Airman had yet to start his routine of pummeling me and destroying my latest project.

    The one I¡¯d spent a year on . . .

    Nope. Not gonna get mad. The Airman had been beaten up enough in the end to where he was in my position- needing help for his basic functions. And I could gloat because he¡¯d been put in his place by a villain about two decades before Father Time did his little romper-stomper on me. Ole¡¯ Double-A may have torn up my flight suits again and again, but at least I could still shit in a toilet when I wanted to, instead of in a bag connected to my gut with a hose.

    Rick showed up at the door a few minutes later. He was a good kid, overall. Maybe in his mid-twenties. Some days he could be full of life, singing Spanish songs with enough vigor and panache that the little curly goatee on his chin bobbed and weaved like a boxer dodging punches. Other days he¡¯d be like a postman stuck doing door-to-door deliveries in the rain, or a mechanic working on a make of car he really doesn¡¯t know how to work with- unsure and grouchy, wanting to get through the day¡¯s work quick as possible so he could get on to other things.

    Today, he seemed to be the latter.

    ¡° ¡®Morning, Mr. Conlan,¡± he said briskly, walking up to my chair and grabbing the handles behind it.

    ¡°Good morning, Rick,¡± I said, pleasantly as I could. Sometimes, pretended happiness makes for a good weapon.

    ¡°You¡¯ve got a visitor, Icarus Conlan¡± Rick said, ¡°nice person. Wanted to see you really bad.¡±

    ¡°He got a name?¡± I asked.

    ¡°She does, I¡¯m pretty sure. But I missed it when she shook my hand and told me how much she wanted to talk to you.¡±

    Well, two things. Meagan was right- Rick had been given a bribe. Normally, he wouldn¡¯t budge on the no-visitors-before-noon-on-a-weekday rule. Meant she¡¯d put something in his hand when she got here, if he was going to put his regular rounds on hold while he wheeled me over to see her.

    ¡°She cute?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Cute as chicks her age go. She¡¯s a bit younger than you, maybe in her forties.¡±

    ¡°Still a spring chicken for an eighty-something like me.¡±

    ¡°You got a daughter, maybe? Niece?¡±

    ¡°Nope. Never married, no siblings. Not too many women wanted to hitch their star to a comic-book bad guy.¡±

    ¡°You still on about that? How long¡¯s it been, Russ? Sheeeeit. I bet the last time you wore a costume and tried to rip someone off, they were still using rotary-dial phones.¡±

    I didn¡¯t have much to say to that. Then I did. ¡°You¡¯re right, you know. But by the time everyone forgot about Mothman, my chances in the girl department had pretty much expired like an old library card. What looks I had were pretty much gone, and my only skills really were flying in a fancy glider suit and breaking into banks. Not much good on a resume.¡±

    I waited for Ricardo to answer, but he didn¡¯t. He didn¡¯t have to, because as he turned the corner¡­

    Wow.

 Part 2- ICARUS

    I waited for Ricardo to answer, but he didn¡¯t. He didn¡¯t have to, because as he turned the corner¡­

    Wow.

    I¡¯d heard she was still around.

    Jane Cobb was my age, I was sure of that. I¡¯d always be sure of it. But she looked a good thirty or more years younger than me. She looked fifty years old, at most. Could pass for even younger if she dyed her hair back to the same Jet Black it¡¯d used to be back in the 30¡¯s, when we were a bunch of stupid teenagers trying to get a fast buck. Or, in her case, pay the rent on the family farm.

    ¡°Russ,¡± she said smiling, and stood up. She was wearing a red-checkered blouse and blue jeans, and I half ¨Cexpected to see her gunbelt hanging from her hips that she¡¯d always wore when she was sticking up a place, or doing tricks at a carnival, shooting dimes out of the air for not much more than food and a bed in a trailer.

    She walked over to me. A lot of women her age tried to hide the sags, bags, and rags that their bodies slowly became with the march of time. But good old Calamity Jane had kept her figure better than any woman her age I knew or¡¯d seen. She still had her cowgirl boots on, though. A Texas girl, through and through.

    ¡°Jane,¡± I said, cursing my withered, broken body for being unable to stand out of the metal-framed chair that might as well have been a prison cell right now.

    I thought again of my old suit. The one I¡¯d worked a year on. More, really. It¡¯d been a metal frame too, with wings that let me fly and soar like an eagle on a sunny day. And I soared¡­until American Airman decided he¡¯d had enough of catching me and seeing me make bail. Then go out and try to steal again, getting ready for the next time when I¡¯d need bail money again. Then the bad day had hit, and Airman had . . .

    I couldn¡¯t believe I¡¯d gone into a reverie like that. And so easily. A beautiful woman standing up and walking towards me, and I had to think about the bitter past? Phooey.

    She kissed my cheek- that, I paid attention to! Jane was always a smart cookie- knew how to play the men like a cowboy¡¯s harmonica around a desert campfire. At least, when they started putting her into the comic books as a regular villain, that''s what one of the writers said about her.

    ¡°Hello, Jane,¡± I whispered, looking into her eyes. Her face was a bit older. Just a few lines. But those eyes- they were always, always the same shade of sky-blue. A man could look too long into those eyes, and lose himself thinking of wide open prairies and dusky mountains at sunset.

    The writers didn¡¯t say that about her. I did. We all had our own kinds of crushes on Calamity Jane in the day, just like a later generation fell in love with that cat-lady in the skintight suit on the 60s TV show.

    ¡°How are you, Russ? You¡¯re looking good.¡±

    ¡°Not half so good as you, Jane. It¡¯s good to see you again, that¡¯s for sure. What brings you here, honey?¡±

    ¡°Well, a couple of things, Russ. But first, I wanted to hear you tell me a story.¡±

    I snorted. ¡°Jane, I¡¯m an old man. I ain¡¯t got nothin¡¯ but stories left to give. Which ones you want? How I got pasted by Eddie Finklestien for making fun of his name? Or maybe you wanna hear about how I walked in on my seventh-grade school teacher doing the hokey-pokey with the principal in her classroom?¡±

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    She sat back down in a chair that looked like it had stood in the same place in the dusty old excuse for a visiting room for at least a decade or two.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got something, Russ. I got something I think you¡¯ll be good in. But I gotta know if you¡¯re right for it. So, tell me your story.¡± She looked at me steadily for a few seconds. ¡°You never told me or anyone else where you came from, or what you did before you made the suit.¡±

    I¡¯d never sat for a real job interview in my life, not for the kind of job guys with suits and ties had, anyway. But I felt like this is what it would¡¯ve been like: on the spot, with a window of time about a minute wide to prove myself or go back to life the way it was before.

    No way. Life wasn¡¯t bad here, but Calamity Jane was the best-lookin¡¯ doll in maybe thirty years to look me eye-to-eye that didn¡¯t have a staple in her navel. I wasn¡¯t going to blow it.

    ¡°How much time you got?¡± I asked.

    ¡°All morning,¡± she said.

    #

    Me, I was born out here in Indiana back in the late 30¡¯s. The Depression wasn¡¯t quite over, but it¡¯d run the worst of it. I still grew up hearing stories of how Pop had to do all kinds¡¯ve odd and dangerous work to live and survive and bring home food and keep a little roof over our heads.

    But by the time I was born, a lot of good things were happening. I dunno if it was the New Deal or what, but Pop got a good government job building roads that he didn¡¯t like much, but it was steady and he could do it well enough that he never got canned from it. He was a steady guy- not too mean, not too nice, either. Guys who were either usually got the shit kicked out of them when they ran into someone meaner (and there was always someone meaner, and you near always found them), or you lost your shirt when someone figured out you were so nice you wouldn¡¯t put up a fuss or were an easy mark.

    My folks named me after a story in Greek mythology. Huh. The kids in my neighborhood were such a bunch of lunkheads they didn¡¯t even know what ¡®mythology¡¯ was, and they all thought ¡®Greek¡¯ just meant a guy who took it in the tailpipe. Sorry, but that was the way it was in my neck o¡¯ the woods.

    But I¡¯ll never forget when Momma took me to the library as a kid, and the librarian was so happy to meet a boy with an unusual name like mine (I never knew it was unusual- normal to a kid is whatever you grow up with, after all), she took my right to the fiction section and found me a book with my name in it! Of course, yeah, it was the story of Icarus getting too close to the sun. But Jane, when she turned the page in the book and I saw the illustration of this good-lookin¡¯ guy with wings, flyin¡¯ up to the sun, with a great, big, toothy, aw-shucks smile on his face, and then the title of the story in great, big letters below that- ¡®Icarus and Daedalus,¡¯ well Jane just seeing my name someplace, when every comic book and story in Boy¡¯s Life had guys named Bill, Joe or Tommy for their heroes, and here was a kid named Icarus, just like me? Hell, I tried shortening it when I was older to Carus and then to Russ so¡¯s I wouldn¡¯t stand out, but up until then even the immigrant kids made fun of my name. Hell, I was so happy to see my name someplace I didn¡¯t care if the stupid shmoe died at the end, you know? All I knew was here, at last, here¡¯s someone who has a name like mine!

    And that someone had wings. Real wings. Wings that let him fly. Yeah, that part, whoever they had writing the comic books either got it right on their own or they just guessed that me having the funny name led to me wanting to make a pair of wings. Who knows which caused the other, nuh?

    Pop was a fairly smart man, but he hadn¡¯t gone to school past third grade. He figured out laying concrete well enough that he moved high as you could as a road-crew man, which wasn¡¯t that high, really. But he did all right. Better than a lot of fathers, really. I knew a lot of kids on my block who lived in shacks instead of a small house like I had. Shacks that had been cobbled together from leftovers at construction sites where employed dads like mine worked. Those kids¡¯ dads had worked as day-laborers, when they worked at all. Or maybe they took a walk to go get a pack of cigarettes and never came home.

    Momma was a pretty woman, and was always good to me. When I started school and the kids started making fun of me for being short and smart, she was always there to tell me they were the ones who were wrong, and they weren¡¯t gonna amount to anything, but I was.

    I believed her. I was a little kid, and she was naive.

 ICARUS- Part 3

    Pop did help me in a couple of areas, though. We had a little house (not a shack, remember. Not a shack), and Poppa and Momma¡¯s biggest contribution to things in my life today were that they were always looking for ways to make things better.

    Momma would try to save money on milk by buying a cow, and putting it in a small, fenced-in area out back. Pop made more money slowly, by figuring out how concrete worked, and letting the engineers know when their plans were off by just a bit. And what that would mean for the road they were building one, two, ten, or twenty years into the future. My parents were bright people, Jane. If I could get into a time machine and go anywhere, I¡¯d love to go back and see their courtship. Were they both on the outside looking in, the way I was as a kid? How did they find each other? And why couldn¡¯t I have ever found that someone?

    School was- well it was awful. For me at least. The teacher would show us how to do a math problem on the blackboard, I¡¯d get it, and then be ready for more. But I couldn¡¯t do more, because the other kids hadn¡¯t caught up. I was like a runner who had to have a pair of dumbells strapped to his feet whenever the starting gun went off. This kept going through grammar school, middle school. I didn¡¯t have hardly any friends, really, since I wasn¡¯t good at baseball (it was still America¡¯s pastime then- not that I¡¯d be great at football or running around with the black boys playing basketball these days, either), and never quite figured out how to talk to girls until that ship sailed.

    But you know, Jane, sometimes the world has a way of easing you into things. Sometimes you don¡¯t even know where you¡¯re going, or where you¡¯ve been going until you¡¯re already there.

    Me, one day I was just sitting back on a grassy hill near our house. I did that a fair bit back then. The War was on, and instead of going home after school and watching TV like so many kids have been doing since the 50s, after I had another crappy day slogging through school I¡¯d go out back and just flop down on the green grass and look up at the sky.

    Tom Riechert, the school superstar sportsman from 3rd grade to the end of high school, picked me out as his special punching bag. He¡¯d clout me, I¡¯d make the kids laugh at him, and he¡¯d get his toadies to clout me some more. I knew I was in for some serious beatings from him when he got this little, kind¡¯ve crazy look in those ice blue eyes of his. Then anything could have happened. I saw him pick up a tree branch and beat on Izzy Finklestien with it until his head was bloody and he said ¡®uncle¡¯ in Yiddish. Why? Well, he was Jewish, of course. What more did you need back then? Poor Izzy didn¡¯t speak a word of Yiddish- his family were only nominally practicing Jews, but with a name like that, there was no way the poor kid was going to get any peace as long as there were Tom Riecherts in the schools, on the baseball team, and the football team, and rich enough that he could throw parties for the cool kids every weekend.

    The American Airman had made his first few appearances by then; a few blurry pictures and write ups in the local paper. I think every boy back then wanted to fly planes and shoot down the Nazis. Even blond-haired blue-eyed kids like Riechert knew the right thing to do was shoot ole¡¯ Fritz between the eyes if he had a chance. And Fritz spoke German, wore a steel helmet, and fired grease guns at all the comic book flying ace heroes, like Crash Carson or Dan Dare. Maybe that¡¯s why they made me into the Airman¡¯s regular foe- Moth-Man had a nice, same-first-letter ring to it, huh? Doncha think?

    Okay, Jane, I get it. Focus. Indulge me- this is the first time anyone¡¯s wanted to hear me talk about anything other than ratting out a partner since I can¡¯t remember when. Where was I? Oh yeah. Riechert, and the American Airman.

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    Well, when the Airman started getting more press and better pictures, I guess someone in the propaganda department had the bright idea of making him into a comic book hero and getting the kids behind the war effort. Up until then they only had pictures of him wearing either street clothes or his full, crisp airman¡¯s uniform, epaulets, wedgie hat and all. Me, I think the boys in the propaganda department decided they needed something that was everyman, an American pilot, and something a little extra- kind¡¯ve like a god-boy thing going on. I mean, who really knows how the guy got his powers, right? The comic books say he got them when he got hit by a lightning bolt, standing up on a raft when his plane crashed at sea. But who knows, really? They stopped talking about the lightning angle when the dozenth boy got hisself fried standing out in a storm, holding a big metal stick in the air, hoping they¡¯d get zapped and be able to fly, too.

    But even with that, suddenly, the Airman went from being just something out of the ordinary to being just . . . everywhere. I mean, before the only flying hero was that comic book guy in the blue suit with the ¡®S¡¯ on his chest. Remember him? Suddenly, we all were all everything about the American Airman. When he burst out of the clouds in the newsreel, wearing that pilot¡¯s leather jacket and the goggles, but his hair never came out of place, right down to the little black curl in the middle of his forehead? And the big red-white-and-blue ¡®A¡¯ on his chest in a fancy-shmancy shield logo over his heart? I think at that moment every boy in America wanted to be the American Airman, and every gal wanted to have his babies. You know?

    And that¡¯s when I wanted to fly, Jane. I laid down on my back one day, looked up at the sky, and I had this thought. Not quite a vision, but a thought. Not of American Airman flying through the clouds, but a real-live man, with real wings, floating, flying, looking up at the sun and flying higher and closer with every swoop and dash. I wasn¡¯t going to try it the easy way- too many kids got their insides turned out trying to catch lightning bolts. Nope, I knew that even if that¡¯s how ole¡¯ double-A did get his super power, God doesn¡¯t let it strike twice the same way.

    But I did have a way with machines.

    See, I had friends who would look at an engine like it was a magician¡¯s top hat. Something totally magical and mysterious, but you knew if you said the right words and did the right things, rabbits and doves¡¯d start jumping and flying out of it.

    But to me, Jane, an engine wasn¡¯t any more complicated than a pair of drapes on a running track. I found out first I could take most things apart, then after a few more years of taking things apart, I found out I could do a pretty decent job of putting them back together, too. I started doing it for a few extra bucks on the side- fixing old-man-Merkley¡¯s lawnmower, or opening up the blender for Jennie Brando¡¯s mom and finding the wire that¡¯d come loose made me enough money for a month¡¯s worth of weekend John Wayne movies.

    And soon, after we heard about the Airman, I started thinking about how I¡¯d make a pair of wings, something that could make me as able as the American Airman in the sky. Maybe if I impressed him enough he¡¯d take me on as his sidekick! I even started thinking about what my hero name would be. Air-boy wasn¡¯t catchy enough. Wing-lad didn¡¯t have it either. I shelved the name hunt, thinking that it¡¯d be a better idea to have the wings working first before I tried to get a cool name to go with them.

    Oh, and as for names? Yeah, I asked my mom once why they named me ¡®Icarus.¡¯ All the kids at school called me ¡®Icky.¡¯ She said my dad thought a man who flew too close to the sun and got burned was way better than a man who worked as a drudge everyday of his life and had nothing to show for it but a little box of ashes buried six feet under.

    So, maybe because of that, and the Airman, and just because I found I liked machines, I didn¡¯t go looking to get hit by lightning. Nope, I went looking for what we¡¯ve all wanted since we were old enough to want to fly:

    I wanted wings.

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 ICARUS Part 4

    I wanted wings.

    Real wings. Wings I could swoop with, wings I could touch the sky with. Wings that wouldn¡¯t melt if I got too close to the sun. I wanted to be a winged man.

    And I wanted to fly over the high school where so many kids had made fun of me for being too skinny, or having a funny name. I wanted them to see me, flying through the air, with a pair of wings.

    I hit the library- no internet then, remember, Jane? Remember when the big ¡®search engine¡¯ was a card catalogue? Those were the days, days when a question a ten year old could have an answer to in seconds today might require a whole day, or even a week¡¯s worth of digging, probing, looking, reading, sifting, you name it. I looked up how DaVinci tried to do it, how the birds did it, and what would be needed for a man to do it. My Physics teacher said it couldn¡¯t be done- birds have light, hollow bones and special chest muscles so their wings could over them higher and higher. I asked- and got permission!- from my biology teacher to dissect a pigeon instead of a frog in class, just so¡¯s I could see how those muscles worked. Not easy, but eventually I found the right books, the right men who could tell me what I needed to know.

    The wings couldn¡¯t be made of feathers- feathers only work when your bones are full of air instead of blood and marrow. I had to find some material that was light enough it could float on air, but tough enough it could push the air down, down hard enough to send me flying up, up to the skies¡­

    I found a chemist who was just going to ditch a batch of plastic polymers, and he was happy to give ¡®em to me to take them off his hands. I spent the better part of a month slicing them after school in my Pop¡¯s workshop attached to the back of the house. I modelled them after feathers, though. Made ¡®em just the right width- bent and gave a little, but you couldn¡¯t break ¡®em without a set of pliers and a hacksaw. Glued, then screwed ¡®em in place with wood screws- better¡¯n bolts any day, for what I was doing. When I made the first wing, I was so proud of myself. And then¡­the second wing didn¡¯t look like the first. I had to knock it back and start over I dunno how many times, but I did it eventually. Three months, just to cut and bolt. The framework hadn¡¯t been quite so hard. A local TV store had closed down, and a bunch of their stock- old TVs no one wanted to buy- black and whites were giving way to color by then ¨C were just left out back of the place to junk themselves. All those nice, long, rabbit-ear antennae, asking for a guy like me to snip ¡®em off, bind ¡®em up, and turn them into a frame just as tough-yet-bendy.

    And, once all that was said and done, and done. And Done over. And done over again¡­

    I took it for a glide.

    Now, you know it¡¯s not the easiest thing in the world to try out a pair of wings. It¡¯s not like there¡¯s any safe place to use them, really; unless you¡¯re high up enough to use a parachute, but that means going up really, really high, which means if the things don¡¯t work you turn into a grease spot on the ground.

    So I got a sack of flour, took it and the wing set out on a chilly Saturday morning, and did my first test run. Do I remember the day? Jane, honey, you know the game too well, doncha? Sure I do! Each of us remembers the day we took our first big plunge into the life, weather it was the first patrol, first fight, or first try with one of our gadgets.

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    And was I glad that I strapped a sack of flour into that set of wings the first time, lemme tell ya! Thing dropped like a rock and hit the ground, sack went ¡®ker-splat!¡¯ and went everywhere.  I mean, that coulda been me, all my guts at the bottom of the hill, and where would I¡¯ve been then?

    Well, I fiddled, diddled, tried and tweaked and pulled and welded. I added a pulley system to the wings too, so¡¯s I could steer better and turn towards a good thermal if I needed to¡­if I could ever get the damn thing to fly, that is. I couldn¡¯t seem to get it to catch the wind with wings that could really steer the way birds could. And I didn¡¯t just want to strap an overgrown kite to my back like a hang glider. That didn¡¯t have all the pull, the kick of really flying, you know?

    And eventually I figured it out. I needed something that would make more lift, something that could pull something heavy, like a human body, up in the air more with better pull. Eventually with a slide rule and a lot of scrap paper calculations, I figured out that I needed what a plane needed- wings, but that extra muscle to pull me higher and forward. But you couldn¡¯t just go to the local hardware store and buy a propeller, so¡­yep, you guessed it! I had to design and build those, too!

    Yeah, those took a while. A lot of visits to a lot of junkyards. A lot more visits to libraries and a couple of airports where the security guards needed a dollar or two to be convinced I was a kid doing a science project and not some commie tryin¡¯ to send information about our planes and airports back to Ivan in Russia. Another six months or more of work every day after school, in the workshop and on the hills trying those wings out over an¡¯ over again.

    Did my folks mind? Not on your life. They were just jim-dandy with me working on my little project. Mrs. Blanski¡¯s kid down the street was handing out pamphlets for the Socialists, like they¡¯d ever give a sixteen-year-old kid a fair shake if they got into power. And the Morris boy? Two streets over from us? Baseball star with a .425 batting average? He sent at least two girls I know of to the unwed mother¡¯s home before he finished his junior year. And that¡¯s not counting the other kids in our fairly poor neighborhood who were getting up to other kinds of mischief with reefer and booze every Saturday night. So if I wanted to spend all day tinkering in the shed, my folks were more¡¯n happy to let me. My Pop, I could tell sometimes that he wished I was playing baseball more than trying to get one of those little turbines to spin. My mom, too, she¡¯d ask me if there were any girls I¡¯d like to take out on a Saturday night instead of trying to get the rigging system to pull and mesh, but she didn¡¯t give me too much grief about it. How could I tell her that any girl who was halfway decent looking already had a crush on Tom Reichert, and was going out with either him or one of the toadies on his crew?

    Oh, Jane, hon? You got a water or something for me? Couldja get a . . .

    Jane, is that what I think it is?

    Dangit, Girl, hide that flask! Here, hang on- there¡¯s a coffee cup over there- no, don¡¯t bother to wash it out! Someone¡¯ll see, and you¡¯ve never seen gossips like you get here in a nursing home! Puts the worst you ever saw in an all-girl¡¯s school to shame! We¡¯ll have the aides cruising down here like nobody¡¯s business, even sweet little Meagan¡¯ll try to take it away.

    Ah, honey, that¡¯s it¡­over the ice and¡­oh, that¡¯s real good. Not the four-dollar Walmart stuff! Dang, it¡¯s been a long, long time. Where¡¯d you get this? Well, fine. I¡¯ll finish if it means I can have another cup of that later! Where was I?

    Oh yeah. Yeah, I tinkered. I tinkered a lot, until it was ready. Slaved over a year until it could fly a few feet without busting open the sandbag I kept strapping into it. Until one day¡­ one fine sunny, Saturday morning, when the rest of the damn town were either sleeping in, throwing a baseball at the park or shoveling Fruity Pebbles in their mouths while watching some cartoon rot on the TV, I set up the wings with the lump and . . .

    Presto!

    It flew.

 ICARUS Part 5

    Presto!

    It flew.

    It flew, Jane. All the way to the bottom of the hill, not a single dip out of place.

    And then a few more times? I stood on the edge of a small cliff, and sent the wings down that, too. Same thing- all the way to the edge, and then down, down, to a gentle landing. You never saw a paper airplane touch the ground so gentle as my wings did that day. And it was so much more than just a touchdown, too. Remember, I¡¯d put a ton of work into the way the wings would gear, mesh, automatically adjust and correct itself when there¡¯d be a stray gust of wind or a thermal underneath. The wings knew now how to correct, adjust and be ready, even if I wasn¡¯t watching, like how your body is always adjusting and re-calibrating and rebalancing when you walk from your house to the mailbox, or some of these little yuppies are always jogging every morning in their weird little one-piece suits that look more like something a paratrooper woulda worn during the war.

    But the wings, Jane! I felt like someone had given me a blank check to travel anywhere in the universe. I wasn¡¯t even thinking about making money then, y¡¯understand? It was all about the wings,  it was all about being able to fly. I was never gonna get true-flight from lightning, anymore than I was gonna win the lottery and be set for life. But by golly, Jane, I was gonna fly, and not by payin¡¯ through the nose and sittin¡¯ in some giant metal cigar, either. I was really gonna fly, the way men¡¯ve wanted to fly since the world was made and we looked at the birds and wondered ¡®why can¡¯t I do that?¡¯

    The whole of the world seemed open to me then. And in just a few more tries I knew I hadda get up there myself and do it.

    Sure enough, I got the wings ready on the Fourth of July, up on the nearby cliff (really just a steep hill, but it was a small town- we called it a cliff). My wings were totally unfolded and ----

    I took the leap. Into the air, and like they had a dozen times already, they held and I glided over the grass and the small bushes below.

    And now I needed to do more than glide- I pumped the wings a bit, just a bit, and I got lift. Up, just six feet, but up. I wasn¡¯t just gonna glide and catch myself running with my feet, no ma¡¯am. Just good old fashioned flap-your-wings and rise, the way we¡¯ve birds do a thousand times a day, if you¡¯re watching.

    And I rose, and went higher. I felt the warm summer sun on may face, and best of all, my wings weren¡¯t made of wax, like my poor namesake. My wings were wood, plastic and metal. Not the toughest stuff on earth, but definitely melt-proof no matter how high I went.

    The only problem was that I had no one to share this with- no one at all. My every waking moment was spent either putting minimal effort into my schoolwork or these wings, and I had no friends or social life to speak of. Why bother? My ¡®peers¡¯ would look at a Friday as an opportunity to worship the football players who disdained them, get drunk and throw up on Saturday night and then jump up and down and clap their hands with the Baptists on Sunday. What was that, compared to flying?

    I eventually convinced my mom and my dad to come out and see. It took quite a bit- my dad was only vaguely aware of my existence at this point, figuring that I was like most teenagers and looking for a reason to be away from home as much as possible. So long as he was able to have his beer and read a book or two at night uninterrupted by the cops bringing me in for something evil or other, he didn¡¯t care and didn''t need to. Mom was still good, but kind¡¯ve one-part worried about her son¡¯s weird little obsession with flying and two-parts sick of hearing about velocity, calibration, pullies and drive motors.

    And yet, here they were, standing on a Saturday afternoon, where I¡¯d practically pulled them after I¡¯d gotten home. Dad had a rare Saturday off his many jobs and was willing to come, reluctantly, to watch his goofy son who couldn¡¯t throw a baseball jump off the sorry excuse for a cliff we had in our little Podunk town.

    And then they saw.

    Dad¡¯s jaw dropped. Mom put both her hands over her mouth. I cheered, I coasted, I curved and I swerved. I went twenty, thirty, fifty feet into the air, circling over their heads and whooping like a Commanche that¡¯d just single handedly whupped and scalped the six nations.

    Now, how did I keep my secret? Why did I keep it?

    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.            Well, truthfully, I didn¡¯t think that the locals would be interested. I mean, you give flowers to an ape, is he gonna marvel at the arrangement, or thank you for the thought? Well, I thought most of the folks would look at me and then jeer at me. The Tom Richert crowd would take one look at the wings I¡¯d slaved over a year to build and call me a cheap knock-off of the American Airman. And, to be fair, maybe they¡¯d be right. Getting the gift of flying after you get hit by lighting? That means Jesus is your teammate and God the Father¡¯s just become your personal coach, trainer and marketing department all in one big blast outta the sky. Building wings in your backyard shed says you were a bright boy, and you had a lot of spare time on your hands.

    But I¡¯m getting ahead of myself, huh? Too big for the britches, even though no one wears clothes with those anymore. Well, of course pop went nuts, happy as I¡¯d ever seen him. Ma went even crazier. I think all those years of having the other mothers talk about their sons playing football and dating girls and becoming boy scout leaders and whatnot while her son spent hours in the shed every night tinkering had put a weight on her. And now here I was, flying, actually flying, right in front of her! Something at last she could brag to the other moms about and hold her head up high in the town over . . .

    What? Keep it a secret? You nuts? Nosirma¡¯am were we gonna keep it a secret! After living in the background of that little bitty speck of a town, d¡¯you think for a second that I was gonna keep something like that quiet? Jane, honey, I don¡¯t know if you were a wallflower in school or the cheerleader, but if the wallflower suddenly blossomed into a beautiful girl, d¡¯you think she¡¯s gonna come to class with a bag over her head? Hell no! I flew over my folks, then over the town, then right over the diner where Richert and his crowd hung out every Saturday afternoon to waste time, drink pop and figure out what kind of trouble they were gonna cause that day and that night.

    Oh yes. They saw me. They all saw me. Every one of ¡®em. I¡¯ll never forget how Richert''s girl looked at me, with her jaw dropped and her mouth wide enough to . . . well, never mind. I thought of the kind of thing that teenage boys think of all the time, and Riechert the Rocket¡¯s girl was the prettiest dish in town!

    I flew and I flew. No real flapping the way you think of seagulls or crows doing it, but something way, way stronger. Draw the wings forward, and then push and glide on the air, like I was swimming and the air was the water of a fast-moving brook.

    Draw, push, glide.

    I flew all afternoon, the air filled with the steady chuff-chuff-chuffing of wings¡¯ small engine helping push the wings hard enough to keep me afloat.

    Sunday, I guess folks were talking. They all went to Church, but being (at best) nominal Jews, I got to sleep in on Sundays and do my own thing on Wednesday nights. The only folks who were near close to being out of the main swim of things as us were the three or four Catholic families in town. They at least could go to the nearest Catholic Church two towns over, but we didn¡¯t even know where the nearest synagogue was. But come Monday, I found out that the whole town was talking about the flying Jew-boy.

    Yeah. But y¡¯know, it was funny. You¡¯d think a teenager flying down Main street in smalltown USA would bring every reporter from New York to San Francisco onto the place. But I guess with the American Airman tearing up the skies over Europe and sometimes even in New York City, a kid like me didn¡¯t warrant more than a few lines in a coupla newspapers at best.

    Still, it was real, real nice. In a burg like Fort Orlan, getting your name in print in the school paper was something. But when you get your name and your picture and a quote in print? And it¡¯s in a paper from a big, fast-paced city like Landing?

    Yeah. Landing. You never heard of it, either. Fort Orlan was such a small dot on the map that Landing, Arkansas (two states over, mind you!) was considered The Big City when we were growing up. New York or Los Angeles might as well¡¯ve been Timbuktu or the Emerald City. Still, Ma had the interview and the pictures put into her scrapbook, and Dad, I imagine, walked quite a bit taller with a spring in his step over it for at least a week afterwards.

    Oh, did things change for me at school? Somewhat. I was really a nobody there to begin with- a bit of a weirdo who fiddled with tools and gadgets rather than socialize. I wasn¡¯t really all that book-smart, so I wasn¡¯t hit on for help with homework or study help. And sports? Pfft! Next question.

    But being ¡®famous¡¯? Even if that fame didn¡¯t extend past the valley? Well, it was still pretty nice. People were talking to me who hadn¡¯t even seemed to notice me before. One gal I¡¯d had my eye on since the first day of ninth grade started talking to me, ho-daddy! I literally hadn¡¯t known what her voice sounded like until that moment! And she was- well, really, really nice. Yeah, I¡¯d gone from nobody to¡­well, somebody normal. Just a regular guy, now. And for someone who was on the outside looking in, that¡¯s something you want every day of your life. I saw the nerds, the way they glared at me? At one point I think they considered me the only thing lower than they were, but now I¡¯d climbed up a rank or two and it made them madder¡¯n hell. I saw one of ¡®em- an overweight little shit with red hair named Teddy Breise- whispering to Tom Richert when Tom¡¯s football buddies weren¡¯t around. Tom was a jerk, but he wasn¡¯t a total dummy. He had his informers and advisors like any smart king in his kingdom.

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 ICARUS Part 6

    He had his informers and advisors like any smart king in his kingdom.

    And Teddy was telling him about the kid who¡¯d just burst onto the scene; how, while not an actual threat to his place as king of the school, this kid had still nonetheless moved up a notch on the totem pole without the king¡¯s blessing, or even seeking his permission, first.

    Yeah, I hadn¡¯t really wanted to be anything in school but gone and back in the shed working on the wings, until suddenly I was part of the group. And it was nice. Until that Riechert jerk decided it was time to restore some order to the universe. In the cafeteria about two weeks after I had my picture in the paper, he started with the catcalls. I¡¯d been asked, asked mind you, to sit at a table with regular guys. Not the nerds, and not the football team, but regular guys, you know? When little bits of popcorn began to fly over at me, hitting my head and falling into the soup I¡¯d bought for lunch.

    I turned, and Reichert was smiling at me.

    I smiled back, thinking it was a bit of good-natured play between me and someone else who wanted to be my friend. Well, big mistake. Reichert had wanted me to slink away from my table and eat lunch with the nerds, or maybe go a step even lower and eat by myself in the Library.

    But I was feeling a little cocky. Wouldn¡¯t you? I picked up one of the popcorn pieces out of my soup and tossed it back at him.

    It splatted on his jacket.

    Worst thing I could¡¯ve done, really. The smile dropped from his face. He stood up, and all his football buddies stood up beside him, following his lead. Two tables over, I saw Teddy stand up too, and push his glasses up over his nose as he tried to look as tough as Reichert and his group.

    Reichert marched over to me. My new friends either found a reason to leave the table or started looking at the floor.

    And me? I was so clueless I didn¡¯t have a single idea what was going on. I¡¯d spent so much of the last few years in the shed working on those damned wings I¡¯d totally missed what you were supposed to do and know about the hierarchy in high school. There¡¯s folks there who get seriously, blisteringly angry if someone tries to move up where they''ve been placed, and if you don''t know how to fight it . . .

    And, well, I didn¡¯t.

    ¡°What the hell is this?¡± Reichert asked when he got to my table, pointing to the splat the size of a dime on his blue-and-white football jacket.

    ¡°Tomato soup,¡± I said. I was stupid, but not so stupid to think this was going to be friendly banter between equals. ¡°Want some more?¡±

    He grabbed me and landed a half-dozen punches before a teacher intervened. I had a black eye and a fat lip, he had a one-day suspension and a letterman jacket with a splat of soup on it. I called it even.

    Things went back to the way they were. No one talked to me anymore. Reichert found new victims. I guess he figured that in my case, the horse had made a run for the fence and had been given a good whuppin¡¯. Case closed.

    But it wasn¡¯t closed. Not for me. Not by a long shot.

    See, before I didn¡¯t care if no one talked to me. I didn¡¯t care if I ate lunch alone every day. I didn¡¯t miss it because I didn¡¯t know what I¡¯d been missing.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    But now? Now I knew what it was like. I knew what it was like to walk into a room and have someone shout out a hello to me. I knew what it was like to have a girl bat her eyes at me. I knew what it was like to have a group of guys subtly pull me into the conversation, be it about cars, girls, or why we all hated the English teacher.

    But now I was on the outs. Again. With everyone. Even the three or four guys who considered themselves beatniks wouldn¡¯t bother with me, because no one wanted to incur the wrath of Reichert and his little crew of footballers.

    A taste of honey¡¯s worse than none at all. And I found out that was truly the case.

    No more.

    One day, as I was walking to school and had Reichert drive past me for the five-hundredth time or so, the kids in his car jeering at me as they drove past, I realized something:

    I was being their victim because I chose to be.

    I couldn¡¯t choose who my parents were. I couldn¡¯t choose how much money they made. I couldn¡¯t choose what side of town I lived on, and I couldn¡¯t choose what town I lived in, yet.

    But I could choose what I said, and what I did, and how I was going to respond to them all. I could choose how I was going to use what I had between my ears. I could choose to be a victim, waiting for the American Airman to show up and make me his sidekick (unlikely; at sixteen I was already on the outer edges of age for a gig like that), or I could choose to be the hero of my own story, and find a way to take on the Tom Reicherts of the world and win.

    Because, I realized, there was always gonna be a Tom Reichert in my life in one way or another. The whole thing had made me look at the adults around me with different eyes. I saw how Mr. LaHoud, our Biology teacher, would suddenly go from being all lively in class to being quiet and deferential when the gym teacher and football coach, Mr. Sension, would enter the room for a pep talk about the upcoming game. I saw how Miss Addison, the Math teacher, would get all quiet behind her desk and look at the floor when the Vice Principal Mr. Gaynor would come into class unannounced, all huffy and puffy and ready to spit blood because someone had flushed a sock down the toilet again.

    I realized there was a pecking order even among the adults, and I decided that I was gonna stand above it any way I could.

    I was tired of Reichert leading the charge against me. So one night during spring break I tried something I hadn¡¯t tried before.

    I put together a pretty simple setup- a bag of slops strapped to my chest, with a little pin I¡¯d pull, like a grenade, to open the thing up and drop the whole mess.

    Yeah, the first of the gadgets that went on the Mothman¡¯s amazing, high-tech wondersuit. A bag of slops, taken out¡¯ve the garbage cans out back of the butcher shop on main after everything closed down for the night. I guess everyone¡¯s gotta start somewhere, huh? Well, like I did before, I practiced. I did night flying now, after my folks had hit the sack about nine every night, I took the wings out for a spin, and practiced. Not just flying, nosir. Flying up, and then indexing the wings just right and diving. I¡¯d gone from studying how a seagull would flap and drift and move forward to being a hawk, climbing and then diving down to my prey.

    Yeah, I get the symbolism now, too. But there was a practical reason for that kind of attack; it was way easier to hit something you dropped from altitude when you were diving straight down than when you were flying over it. The hawk move was ¡®way more accurate than trying to pretend I was a B-17 bomber. Of course, B-17s were a couple of years down the road, but you get the idea, right?

    So for the first time, I did some night flying. I saw things differently as the sun started to go down, and the lights in the stores and houses started to wink out. I was ready for it all; I¡¯d taken the wings out a spin or three, and counted at speeds how long and how fast I¡¯d have to go and in what directions I¡¯d need to go in order to reach my target. Streetlights could help, but only so far. Fort Orlan was such a burg that it didn¡¯t have streetlights anywhere past main street, but I could use them to light the way and point me in the right direction to my destination.

    Moonlight did the rest. Dad¡¯s Almanac told me when the next full moon was gonna be, and because of that when midnight rolled around I had no trouble seeing the place bright as day.

    Getting to the swanky part of town was easy, then. And Reichert had been kind enough to bully his parents into getting him a car that¡¯d been painted a nice, bright white...

    ----

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Icarus - Part 7

    Getting to the swanky part of town was easy, then. And Reichert had been kind enough to bully his parents into getting him a car that¡¯d been painted a nice, bright white.

    Jumping from my hill, I felt the wind in my hair and heard only the smallest chuffing from my engine. Once I got the flying part down in my wings I¡¯d been busy tweaking other parts of the outfit; removing wind resistance, increasing lift, and now making the engine quieter with a crude muffler made of an old battered Boy Scout canteen and a pair of socks.

    I soared, and quietly. I knew the wind made noise in my ears, but I also knew that everyone else below couldn¡¯t hear me as anything more than a distant car on a far-away dirt road, the kind of thing no one ever thinks twice about.

    There¡¯s a section in every town in America, no matter how small, where the wealthiest live. The other half. You know who I mean. Them. The guys you wish were your best friends. The folks who don¡¯t have to worry about how to get the money for their kids¡¯ prom dress or college tuition. I flew there.

    After maybe five minutes (twenty by car, an hour and change walking, thank you, by-the-crow-flies travel over trees and the roads) and a little down the dirt road, I saw it.

    The biggest house in town.

    And parked just outside of it was my target.

    A nice, white blob in the moonlight with four wheels, parked in the driveway of the four truly nice, rich-people-type houses in town, all of them on the same street, all of them every bit as arrogant as that statue in that poem we hadda read when I was in the ninth grade- Ozymandias? Yeah, that¡¯s it. The houses on that street literally looked down the hill at the rest of us, telling us we might as well just give up at any chance of being as perfect, rich and wonderful as they were.

    In retrospect, I probably should have cased the area a bit better. It literally never occurred to me that the car out on the driveway wasn¡¯t Reichert¡¯s spiffy roadster convertible, but instead was his parents¡¯ Boattail Speedster. The thing¡¯s a classic today, I understand.

    All I knew was that I saw it, and went into the routine I¡¯d practiced about a hundred times: approach, swoop up, swoop down, and¡­pull the cord.

    A dozen pounds of very, very smelly and dirty innards from a recently dead group of farm animals poured out of the sealed bag strapped to my gut. I¡¯d practiced the run with water at least a dozen times to get my posture and adjustment correct on the pouch to make sure not a drop got spilled on me. I wasn¡¯t exactly prissy about such things, but blood and shit mixed together do not make the kind of combination you want to bring home to mother. Plus, I figured, they were going to be looking pretty closely at anyone who had a reason to hate one of the city¡¯s favorite sons. And if one of them smelled like the same stuff that got dumped on his car? Well, that¡¯d be the end, now, wouldn¡¯t it?

    So, I played Dan Dare bombing the Treens- remember him? Somebody told me they were still making them video-game things about him all the way up to the early 80s- only instead of flying a a glorified B-17 bomber like the Anastasia over the surface of the planet Venus, I was flapping a set of homemade wings and dive-bombing the most expensive car in five counties.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    Payback, honey, payback.

    It all came out, and I heard the splat as it all hit the very, very expensive upholstery and everything else inside the very, very expensive car.

    Direct hit, and a quick heading home!

    I got home feeling like I could run a mile. Ten miles! A hundred! I felt like the choir from the Baptist church down the road was inside me signing at the top of their lungs! Part of me wanted to jump off of the roof and see if I could fly without the wings like the Airman! Hell, even if I fell and hit the ground I don¡¯t think I would¡¯ve felt a thing. I felt that good! I wished it was two in the afternoon instead of the morning- I would¡¯ve told Mom, Pop and everyone else I could¡¯ve found that I was the most amazing person in the world, that the world was a wonderful place [even for a Jew in the South!], and that everything was fantastic, wonderful, amazing, and that for the first time in my life, I had gotten even with someone.

    Unfortunately- well, you may have already guessed it. Even by moonlight, one oversized white car looks pretty much like another.  And when you dropped pig and cow organs, blood and shit on a car on a nice, hot southern midsummer night and it sits there for about four hours, getting soaked up by the upholstery, the carpeting, and even under the paint, the dash- well, I¡¯ve heard since then that the particular make of car I did hit went on to be a classic, but I¡¯d be very surprised if that particular vehicle ever ended up in anyone¡¯s collection after I was done with it.

    I didn¡¯t realize just how big I¡¯d messed up my life until I got to school the next morning. I got to school with a nice, showered-up body and freshly-laundered clothes, and saw both of the town¡¯s cop cars parked in front of the doors at F.O.H.S.

    You¡¯ve got to understand why this was such a big deal; the town had room in the budget for exactly four policemen. And for some reason, every one of them were at our school, manning each of the four entrances, and smelling each student as we went in.

    Yes! You heard it right, Jane old girl! Where nowadays they put the kids through metal detectors, these cops were honest-to-goodness leaning in and smelling each of us as we walked in the door! The greasers thought it was the funniest thing you ever saw, and cracked joke after joke when one of them was told to stand aside because they smelled like they hadn''t showered in a week- which some of them hadn¡¯t, truth be told.

    But smelling like sweat, dirt and motor oil wasn¡¯t enough to get a conviction, not even in the loose definition of law that got used in those days if you pissed off one of the more powerful citizens in a small Southern town. It wasn¡¯t until I passed my smell-test. Oh, and I was so very glad I¡¯d gone and showered, and made sure that crap wouldn¡¯t splash on me, and that I¡¯d dumped the bag down the river after! I¡¯d only wanted to spare my dear, poor Ma the smell, but that day it may have saved my life and family¡¯s reputation. At least, for then.

    Once we were inside I started to overhear the buzz about why we were being given the F.O.H.S. version of the third degree. It turned out that instead of hitting the rich-kid¡¯s toy, I splatted a bunch of cow and pig innards on his parents¡¯ set of wheels!

    And oh, did the fur fly then!

    Apparently, Mr. Reichert had gotten up to drive his very expensive set of wheels to the mill he owned where over half the people in town worked. Yes, it wasn¡¯t too far past the depression and we were happy to have jobs, most folks agreed. It was one reason that the Reicherts had so much pull in the town, doncha know. It¡¯s the golden rule: whoever has the gold, makes the rules.

    And one rule right now was that the Reicherts wanted to know just which miscreant had gone and destroyed their amazing car, the nicest car in five counties, symbol of how the Reicherts were everything you were not, and couldn¡¯t hope to ever be. Shame there wasn¡¯t a private school to send their child to so he wouldn¡¯t have to mingle with the riff-raff like me, but there it was.

    They never quite had enough to actually bust down my door and put the cuffs on me. But Pop, when he came come from work that night? Around the dinner table he started just casually talking about what he¡¯d heard from guys on the road crew talkin¡¯ about that day....

 Icarus - Part 8

    ...They never quite had enough to actually bust down my door and put the cuffs on me. But Pop, when he came come from work that night? Around the dinner table he started just casually talking about what he¡¯d heard from guys on the road crew talkin¡¯ about that day. Some of them had dealings with the fellows over at the police station. Others had friends who worked the towtruck that had to pick up the smelly pile of crap that the roadster had become, and would be forever unless they dropped a huge pile of dough down to change the carpeting, upholstery and a bunch of other things besides.

    ¡°Pretty odd,¡± Pop said, looking down on his plate, working hard not to make eye contact with me. ¡°seems that the cops couldn¡¯t find a single footprint around the Reichert¡¯s car. Nor a tire track, either. Could¡¯ve been because it¡¯s been chilly at night and the dirt stayed tough, but that¡¯s still unusual.¡±

    ¡°Have they got any suspects?¡± Mom asked.

    ¡°No, not yet. When you get successful as Reichert, you¡¯re bound to have people upset with you for one reason or another. In his case, mostly millworkers mad that they were laid off. Still, this isn¡¯t the kind of thing that they usually do to someone who owns the place- guys that ignorant usually go after the immediate manager who told them they didn¡¯t have a job anymore, whatever the reason. They¡¯re thinking maybe instead that someone was out to get his kid.¡±

    I swallowed, very slowly. Pop came home tired every night, but he¡¯d never miss a trick if he was trying to bust me for something I did. I think now he woulda made a great cop, like that character on Dragnet years later. He was always good at noticing my facial tics or reactions and figuring out if I was guilty or innocent from them.

    ¡°Why would they think that?¡± I said in a voice I hoped sounded normal.

    ¡°Because that kid¡¯s car is the same color, and probably looked a lot like his dad¡¯s car in the dark. You hear anything about that, son? Anyone talking about it in school today?¡±

    I weighed my options carefully. If I lied and said no one said anything, Pop would know I was lying. And then he¡¯d start digging to find out what else I was lying about.

    ¡°Well, sure. We had the cops at school today, so everyone was talking about it.¡±

    ¡°Any thoughts on who could¡¯ve done it?¡±

    Both Mom and Pop looked at me for a second. I had thoughts, sure. My whole day had been consumed about what I¡¯d say if the cops came to the door. And-

    I¡¯d hesitated too long. Pop swore- really unusual for him- stood up from our little dinner table and took his plate into the kitchen.

    Mom stared at me, tears starting to brim in her eyes.

    ¡°What?¡± I said, still trying to play the innocent.

    ¡°Do you know how it¡¯s been for him?¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s hard enough being the ¡®Jewish guy¡¯ on his crew. He¡¯s had to work twice as hard for half the recognition. And now this. Reichert¡¯s got enough influence to divert jobs from his road company, maybe even threaten to put them out of business if they don¡¯t fire the ¡®dirty Jew boy¡¯ on their staff. It happened last year when they hired a black man as the accountant.¡±

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    ¡°Mom, I didn¡¯t do-¡°

    She held up her hand. ¡°We can read you like a book, mister, so don¡¯t bother. And you know I¡¯m a light sleeper. I heard you leave last night, and I heard the door to the shed where you keep that crazy bird costume of yours, I heard the door creak open and shut, and then open and shut again later on when you got back an hour later. We gave you a chance to come clean and you didn¡¯t And if you can¡¯t get a lie past us-¡°

    ¡°Then you won¡¯t get past the cops either.¡± Dad was already up from the table and in the doorway. ¡°and a sharp cookie like Ed Banes is gonna figure out in about ten seconds that you did it just by your body English. Now, you are gonna tell your mother and me exactly what happened, and more importantly why it happened, and then we¡¯re gonna figure out what we¡¯re supposed to do.¡±

    He sat back down at the table again. I looked at his hands- thick with callouses from years of working on the roads, and tanned with the rays of years of hot Indiana summers.

    I hesitated, but only for a few seconds. I knew I was gonna be in trouble, but maybe I could save myself a bit by . . .

    ¡°And don¡¯t think you¡¯re gonna get out of this by soft-pedaling it, or trying to make me hate the Reichert family. I¡¯ve got my own axe to grind with that fella, Icarus. Just tell us what you did.¡±

    Well, that door got shut pretty damn quick. So much for pulling Pop¡¯s strings and getting him on my side. What else could I do? I came clean. Told Pop everything while Mom did the dishes and listened in.

    I finished with the slops hitting Reichert¡¯s Dad¡¯s car by mistake and me ditching the evidence. By the time I was there, though, I saw something I hadn¡¯t seen before.

    Pop was smiling. Or trying hard not to, anyways.

    Maybe I wasn¡¯t dead after all.

    ¡°Okay,¡± Pop said, ¡°this is what we¡¯re gonna do¡­¡±

    It didn¡¯t take Officer Banes all that long to figure things out, really. Reichert and his kid were jerks to a lot of people, true. But there weren¡¯t too many people on that list who coulda done the deed without leaving tire tracks or footprints in the nearby dirt roads. I filed that away for another day: sometimes leaving no trace is a trace.

    Okay, sorry Jane honey. I said it once for an interview and then they just kept using it in the comic books. It became one of the Mothman¡¯s taglines or something. Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, the whole thing with Pop¡¯s plan to save my sorry ass from the cops- all four of them. Well, four can make your life just as awful as forty, or four thousand, if they know where to look and how to take you down. I guess Banes had been interviewing folks all over town trying to catch the vandal. And the whole time I was eating dinner with Pop and Mom and getting a good night¡¯s sleep, the net was closing in on me tighter as Banes eliminated suspects and found reasons to point his finger at me.

    The next morning, even though I had school and Pop had to work, Pop used one of his sick days and called in (nice thing about a government job back then- you could call in sick maybe three or four days a year, and they still had to pay you. Sweet deal huh? Well, it was a sweet deal then anyways, lemme tell ya!).

    We were in the car with his shotgun in the rack. He¡¯d only gone on a hunting trip once in his life that I could remember, and we¡¯d never gone as father-and-son. To be fair, that¡¯d more be my fault than his, but I try not to think about that since he passed on.

    Anyways, we were just opening the garage door when ¡­yep, you guessed it. A police car was just waiting in our driveway.

 Icarus - Part 9

    Anyways, we were just opening the garage door when ¡­yep, you guessed it. A police car was just waiting in our driveway.

    ¡°Going somewhere, Bob?¡± Officer Banes was there, his rather large belly hanging over his belt buckle. His handlebar mustache hung over his upper lip, almost daring anyone close enough to tap the tips of it to see if he really did wax it up each morning as the town rumors told. His thumbs hung in his beltloops- he didn¡¯t have to be upset or agitated, and we all knew it. Officer Banes was never truly scary looking. Every kid in town I¡¯d known had grown up with him as a kind of constant, vigilant presence. Not so much a boogeyman as a watchful guard who wouldn¡¯t give you any trouble if you didn¡¯t start any, but worse news for you than the four horsemen of the apocalypse if you did start something. More than one town drunk had found out the hard way that if you lipped off to him or didn¡¯t show respect, he wouldn¡¯t hesitate to pull out his nightstick and give you a sound attitude adjustment in the leg, elbow, gut or (in very, very extreme cases) a rap on your noggin.

    Jenny Farkle¡¯s dad had been on a hundred-dollar bender when he¡¯d made the big mistake of telling Officer Banes just where he could shove his nightstick, and then pulled out a knife to emphasize the point. Officer Banes took issue with Mister Farkle¡¯s characterization of the situation, and had two of his officers first disarm him, and then hold him while Officer Banes adjusted Mister Farkle¡¯s knees, elbows, gut, groin and the right side of his head before dropping him just over the county line at midnight, and told him never to come back. Jenny Farkle hadn¡¯t been upset about this; quite the opposite, in fact. She smiled every day for a week and blossomed that year. And while her mom never got divorced from him (they were hellfire Baptists), Jenny and her mom became shining stars in town for their volunteer work and other social circle events without ¡°Mister Drunkle¡± sucking away their money and souls.

    Yeah, Officer Banes could use that force of nature inside him for good. But it didn¡¯t mean you didn¡¯t have to worry when he stopped at your driveway.

    Dad smiled at him. ¡°Stay here,¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t get out of this car unless he or I tell you to.¡±

    ¡°Okay,¡±

    Dad got out, still smiling. ¡°Officer Banes!¡± he said with a jaunty air as he climbed out of the driver¡¯s seat and sauntered down the driveway. ¡°Good thing you caught us! We were just going to do a little hunting for the weekend.¡±

    ¡°Really? You don¡¯t have to work, Bob?¡±

    ¡°Playing hooky, Ed. You know . . .¡± Dad started talking low. Then Officer Banes talked even lower. I wished I could be a fly around them and hear what they said, but after just a few seconds Officer Banes started laughing, looking over at me, then laughing again. Were we in the clear?

    Pop came back a few minutes later. Officer Banes was still in our driveway, writing something down on a pad of paper.

    ¡°Well?¡± I asked when Dad got back in the pickup truck.

    ¡°I told him I was forcing you to go on a hunting trip, make you do something a little more masculine besides going into that shed all the time and tinkering with your wings.¡±

    ¡°Dad!¡±

    ¡°Just shut it. We¡¯re fine. Banes and I go way back. He¡¯s got a nephew who¡¯d rather knit than shoot anything, so he gets it. You just act all eager to go hunting when he comes up to the door in a few seconds, and . . .¡±

    A shadow loomed over me. Officer Banes was in our garage, his gut pushing up against the door. He looked down at me, smiling.

    ¡°Roll this down, wouldja boy?¡± he said.

    I pumped my arm in a circle as I rolled the window. Boy, Jane, I am so glad I don¡¯t hafta do that now, with my arm in the shape it¡¯s in! God bless the man who invented power windows, you know? Well, I rolled it down and Officer Banes just looked me in the eye for a few seconds.

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    ¡°So, going huntin¡¯ with yer Pop, huh?¡±

    ¡°Yessir.¡±

    ¡°Ever been huntin¡¯ before, son?¡±

    ¡°Nosir. First time ever.¡±

    ¡°You hear anything about the Reichert car getting¡¯ vandalized, son?¡±

    ¡°Well, sure, officer. Everybody¡¯s talkin¡¯ about it at school.¡±

    ¡°Hm. What¡¯d they say?¡±

    ¡°I heard them say that someone dumped a lot of slops of some kind on the car belonging to Reichart¡¯s daddy.¡±

    ¡°You hear about who done it, Icarus?¡±

    I paused for a second at that one. Almost no one ever called me that. Not even during the couple of days when folks were actually talking to me. I was either ¡®Carus¡¯ or, for a day or two when it looked like I was gonna actually become one-of-the-guys, a few people were calling me ¡®Russ.¡¯ But my full name? Even my teachers didn¡¯t do that anymore.

    Then I had a little idea.

    ¡°Well, I did hear a bit, but I don¡¯t know if it was true or not.¡±

    Officer Banes looked at Pop, then me. ¡°You alright,¡± he said while keeping eye contact with me, ¡°if I talk to your boy for a few minutes a¡¯fore you fellas head out?¡±

    ¡°Not at all,¡± Pop said. I could hear the tension behind his voice.

    Officer Banes stepped back and I got out of the car, feeling like I was walking on a tightrope and had to watch my steps very, very carefully over the next few minutes.

    ¡°Give us a minute, would you Bob?¡±

    Now, today that¡¯d be a reason to take the cops to the cleaners in court. I know. But remember, this was Indiana in the 1940s. Back then, for a lot of cops, the Constitution was kind¡¯ve like a nice bunch of suggestions that you followed if it was convenient for you, or something your kid might study in History class. If you had a crime to solve, though, the whole damn thing went out the window.

    My Pop? I don¡¯t blame him. He thought Banes was a straight shooter, a good guy. But when he left and the door shut, Banes gave me the kind of look that makes a grown man want to sit down, say ¡®yessir,¡¯ and pray he don¡¯t get his knuckles rapped.

    Banes turned to look at me, thumbs in his beltloops and with a toothpick that¡¯d magically appeared sticking out of his teeth.

    ¡°Young man,¡± he said, ¡°let¡¯s get a few things straight. First, I¡¯m gonna talk, and you are going to listen. I can interrupt you, you will not interrupt me. Is that clear?¡±

    I nodded.

    ¡°Second, I know what you did, and I¡¯ve got all I need to have a jury send you to county for the next month or so. Piss me off or cause trouble once you¡¯re there, we¡¯ll say you assaulted an officer and you¡¯ll end up in the pen for two to five years. Piss me off while you¡¯re there, or your Jew-Daddy does something really stupid like hire a lawyer from outside the county, and you¡¯ll be shot trying to escape the pen like that drifter last year. Is that clear?¡±

    I nodded. I was sweating.

    ¡°Third, you are going on that hunting trip with your Daddy, and you are going to stay gone on that trip when he gets back. I don¡¯t care what you do, but your days living in this county are done as long as the Reichert family hold sway here. As soon as I get word you are even visiting for Christmas dinner, or whatever it is you people do during that time, I will be here with a warrant in my hand and you¡¯ll be locked up in county before the turkey hits the table. Is that clear?¡±

    I nodded.

    ¡°Good. Last, I will talk to your daddy myself, and when I am done, you won¡¯t tell him a single thing we discussed, or you¡¯ll be visiting the local crossbar hotel afore you leave this driveway. And I know that¡¯s clear.¡±

    Sure was. He made a number of things clear that day, not the least of which being that the law was just a big fellow with a bigger stick, pretending to be your friend until you had something he wanted or decided you were in his way.

    And that was the last day for many, many years that I set foot in that county. I was seventeen then, and I was thirty and Banes and Dad Reichert were safely in their graves before I came back. Pop and Mom stayed in town- his job was there, after all- but things changed after that.

    Pop drove me a long, long ways to the big city¡­no, not New York. That happened later. Nope, I first ended up in Indianapolis- we were in Indiana, remember? That ¡®hunting trip¡¯ lasted just long enough to get me dropped off at his sister¡¯s place- an aunt I¡¯d never met.

    It was hard, sure. But it was a different time. You didn¡¯t cry. Not in front of anyone.

    ----

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 ICARUS- Part 10

    It was hard, sure. But it was a different time. You didn¡¯t cry. Not in front of anyone.

    The trip wasn¡¯t so bad. We brought Mom. We went to her sister¡¯s in Indianapolis.

    Mom¡¯s sister had ¡®done good.¡¯ Back then, it meant she¡¯d married seriously up. Well, as up as anyone got in 1930s Indiana. Her man owned a nice brick house on ten acres of land, just outside the city. He¡¯d made his money¡­ well, no one ever made that exactly clear, but when I asked I always got a different answer. Stock speculation, real-estate, liquor and movies were all various reasons they gave.

    We drove through the day, and I guess we surprised her sister that evening. A servant opened the door and showed us in. Aunt Rose had a drink in her hand, and was looking at us kind¡¯ve funny, with eyes that just didn¡¯t quite wanna see right, it seemed. When she recognized Mom she threw her arms wide with the kind of long, almost howling squeal that rich women make when they see someone they haven¡¯t seen for a very, very long time, whether they¡¯re happy to see them or not.

    Pop and I stood there, feeling a little awkward, not wanting to touch anything for fear of breaking it and thus owing Aunt Rose and her husband forever.

    We heard Mom talking to Aunt Rose in the next room. Hushed whispers and all that. Then when they came out, Aunt Rose was smiling wide at me. A smile with lots of teeth.

    ¡°Of course you¡¯re welcome here, dear boy,¡± she said, ¡°for as long as you need to be here. I warn you, though, I¡¯m rather busy and my husband¡¯s always working and out of the house. But we¡¯ll get along just fine.¡±

    Pop said I¡¯d need to be here maybe six months before things cooled down. On the plus side, Aunt Rose said there was a good school nearby she could get me into for my last semester that¡¯d look much better on a college application. I¡¯d lost the friends I¡¯d made pretty quick back at Fort Orlan High thanks to the Reicharts, so leaving the little Podunk High School didn¡¯t bother me half so much as I guessed it bothered Mom and Pop.

    Mom cried a bit as she hugged me and said goodbye. Pop shook my hand. I know to a lot of folks it seems like that¡¯s on the cold side, but my folks grew up during the war- the first one, not the second- and they saw friends go away and never come back, buried in fields without any names thousands of miles away. And the ones who did come back were missing arms, legs, or even faces- eyeballs glaring out from little metal frames that held the rest of their heads together. Besides that, it was the tail-end of the Depression. The Second World War hadn¡¯t kicked the economy into high gear yet, and there were a lot of us who either remembered or knew families who¡¯d had kids die on them from everything from farm accidents to strep to the flu, and then hadda bury them in the ground within a day to cut down on the bugs and the smell. So, dropping your kid off in a rich house for a few months? Pshaw, easy as pie. Tell ya, when I see the wimpy parents who cry ¡®cause their kids are goin¡¯ away to summer camp? Fer just two weeks? You gotta be joshin¡¯ me. Really.

    Well, things started out alright. But the rich kids at the new school figured out pretty quick I wasn¡¯t one¡¯a them. Like kids everywhere, they got ways to see if you¡¯re in or out. Me? Never been to Europe, didn¡¯t know one end of a tennis racket from the other, or how to hold a golf club to save my life? Yeah, they sized me up pretty damn quick and I was at the bottom of the totem pole again PDQ by the end of the first day.

    Still, I didn¡¯t care. You know why? I had to be there just twelve weeks, and I was done. And every weekend, guess what?

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    Aunt Rose and Uncle Joe didn¡¯t just have money. They were filthy, filthy rich. I mean, had-a-bored-driver-on-call-every-weekend rich. The kind of driver who loved to have the chance to drive the non-spoiled little nephew from the country into town, and have someone actually talk to him, instead of treating him like a piece of furniture. And . . .

    Yep, Jane, you guessed it! When the comic book guys decided to write me up as the arch-enemy of the American Airman, saying I was this rich, bored recluse living in a mansion with a thousand criminal henchmen at my beck and call? Planning my latest scheme from the back of my limo while ¡®my¡¯ driver (those putzes even had the limo driver wearing a mask as he drove through the city. Really? Really? Buncha morons, them.) took me into the city? That¡¯s where it came from.

    I actually got in good with all the folks in the house- the servants were pretty fun to talk to, all-in-all. I developed a teen-boy crush on one of the maids who was only a year or two older than me, and, well¡­

    Okay, honey. I can see from your face, you don¡¯t wanna hear about that side of things. That didn¡¯t last too long, anyways; it turns out Uncle Joe had staked her out for himself on the rare occasions he was home. But the other folks I met were great, too. There was Michael, the driver I tolja about. There was Frankie, the gardener, swore like a sailor ¡®cause that¡¯s what he¡¯d been in doublya-doublya-one before he¡¯d gotten hit by something that gave him a game leg. But best of all for me (next to Anna the maid, of course) was Demetrius Edou¨¢rdos Alleous, the mechanic. He always introduced himself with all three names, but once he liked you he let you call him ''Meetri. Aftr his shift ended at 8pm, sometimes I''d find him workin¡¯ on my wings for me. They always needed tightening, restringing, the whole thing. He actually asked me if he could work on them for me, and when I said yes you¡¯da thought he¡¯d died and gone to heaven. He went nuts, checking out the pulleys, the plates, the engine, the works. He tweaked and futzed, and in a week or two he¡¯d made adjustments to the thing that doubled the thrust, the reach, even increased the height I could fly safe without the things shuddering like it was gonna fall apart. He was like a dad helping his boy be the best athlete he could be¡­or maybe trying to do his kid¡¯s homework for him. Whatever it was, when I first decided to go for a spin in the big city, I knew where to go.

    I probably couldn¡¯t find the place today without a map and a seeing eyedog. But thanks to ¡®Metri¡¯s quick weekend driving, I managed to get into a nice, huge building that Michael had friends in the security department with. A skyscraper, Jane, a place in Manhattan called The Majestic. Standard building to a New Yorker, but to a kid like me, comin¡¯ from where I did? Might as well have been the Emerald City, Disneyland and El Dorado all rolled into one. It was huge, tall, and I remember standing on the edge of the roof with my arms holding the handles of my wings (another little addition thanks to Meetri- now instead of strapping my wings to my arms like some kid playing he was a birdie, I could make the wings go, let ¡®em fly themselves for a sec while I zipped up my fly or whatever else I hadda do, then go back to the handgrip on the wing again. You bet it made life easier, especially if I did go out there with my fly down, which happens more than most of us like to admit, doesn''t it?) like I had a hundred times before on hilltops and little two-story housetops. The sun came up that morning, and I felt my feet just stepping over the lip of the edge of the building.

    I was just stretching out my arms like something out of the storybooks when a blast of wind suddenly came out of wherever and made me lose my balance. One hand started pinwheeling on its own, trying to get my balance. The other arm did its job, holding onto the wing and trying to get me to fly, muscle memory trying to do its best to keep me from turning into street pizza- owitch!

    Well, I got control. Spun myself out a little ways, but I swooped real nice, real fast. I wish it hadn¡¯t been so early on a Sunday morning, but of course, that¡¯s why I¡¯d gone up there then, just in case I made a fool of myself, you know?

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Icarus- Part 11

    So here I was and I was flying again, but now instead of the forests, I had tall, tall buildings around me. Hardly a soul around, you know? The few folks that were there hardly said a word. Someone shouted something about the American Airman, but so what? I was seventeen, going on eighteen. If someone thought I was the Airman, I was in good company and doing something right.

    Down Main, down Broadway. Drunks passed out in the street, the occasional hooker who hadn¡¯t been to sleep all night, no cops. Hooray! No cops! I could do what I wanted.

    I made several more trips downtown, and I started going when there¡¯d be more people to see. Eventually, guess what? Yeah the papers, Jane! The papers got ahold of me! They had a blurry, artist¡¯s rendering asking ¡®Who is This New Flier?¡± I mean, I¡¯d gone from being a nobody in a nowhere town to being on the cover of the New York Times! Pretty spiffy, eh?

    But I just hadda screw things up, I guess. Hindsight¡¯s 20/20, and now I can see that I was pretty mad about a lot of things in my life. Being the only kid without a Christmas tree at the end of December. Being the kid always left out when they picked teams for sports or guest lists for parties. Finally doing something that got me accepted¡­and then getting routed out by a rich kid (or what passed for one in our bumblefuck little town, anyways). I guess not seeing the Airman anywhere just made me decide to push the limits a bit. It started with buzzing the locals on Sunday afternoons. You know, buzzing? That¡¯s where you swoop down and skim close as you can. A lotta folks liked it, really. They¡¯d reach up to try and touch my wings, hit my foot, things like that.

    But then little things happened. I blew the hat off of a fellow once. An old, rich guy walking along Wall Street. The guy screamed so loud and cussed so hard, you¡¯d think I¡¯d called his mother a two-dollar whore and tried to sell him pictures. After that, it got kinda fun- I saw the same fellow later on, and I dove down and flipped his hat right off of his head with the tip of my wings. No easy feat when you¡¯ve got a chuffing engine on your back, especially in rush hour! I always had to make sure I was downwind, and moved quick enough that people wouldn¡¯t be yelling and alert the poor old guy in time.

    I did it to him three or four times, and I think he got angrier each time! Sad thing was, I never knew he had a heart condition . . .

    Yeah. They blamed me when he dropped on the ground with a heart attack when I flipped his hat for the third or fourth time. Worse, I was moving too fast, and didn¡¯t look behind me. Some lady was ready for me while I was buzzing the crowd the next day- I was getting used to high-fiving the kids- and she took her purse as I flew over and- Whammo! Ouch! To this day, I seriously think she had a rock or something in her purse. I wasn¡¯t thinking about it then, though. All I knew then was something black hit me in the face, and then I was rolling on the ground, moaning and trying to get oriented. I¡¯d never known what it was to be stunned before, but Jane, that day? Oh, mother did it hurt! There were people crowding around me, shouting. Everyone of them, all shouting, shouting, with angry looks on their faces. No chance to put things right, no chance to defend myself. I heard what it was like for colored kids later, when they tried going to the all-white schools? I know kinda now what they went through. I guess after the old fellow died, I went from being the novelty act to the bad guy.

    I didn''t know that then, though. All I knew was that my head hurt, and I was in the middle of an angry mob. That older lady (well, not so old now. She was probably in her forties, fifties tops. But old to me when I was eighteen) was in front of everybody, screaming at me like a banshee with her panties in a- oops, sorry, Jane. Yeah, I know- you heard it all on the ranch, but I still don¡¯t like saying stuff like that in front of ladies.

    Anyways, she was yelling at me louder¡¯n anybody, and waving that gawd-awful purse in my face. Jane, I got so mad, by golly, when I shook my head and came to, I just grabbed the thing out¡¯ve her hands, and I ripped it up. Yeah! Ripped. I dunno if I was just real real mad and the adrenaline was going, but I grabbed that purse away from her an¡¯ tore it down the middle. All he stuff, whoosh, onto the sidewalk.

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    I didn¡¯t look at it, and I didn¡¯t wait for folks to get angrier. I just popped open my wings- that gave me space, y¡¯see. Everyone backed off. ¨C and took off running down the street. I¡¯d never tried to catch wind from that low, but by now I had an instinct about when it would be safe to jump. Sure enough, first time from just a standing height, jump and foom, catch the current and up I went, first six, ten feet, dropped two or three, but then I was high enough to go over the highway, catch all the thermals coming off of the cars below, and then up, up, up where the screaming crowds couldn¡¯t get or harm me.

    Quiet, nothing but the wind, the hum of the city, and the occasional squawking bird or distant car horn.

    I was free. Free again. No one took my picture, no one in that crowd knew who I was. I was free.

    For about, oh, an hour and a half? Someone called in to the papers. Told them the newest flying fella was actually a menace. How he¡¯d gone from playing pranks to killing old men who were pillars of the community, and stealing old ladies'' handbags and tearing them up in front of them. That was how they cast me, you  know, in the comic books. Issue two or three of the Airman¡¯s funny book, I was this little miscreant who laughed when the old man died and chuckled when stole the purse from a crying, ninety year old lady and ripped up her purse, her social security check and the pictures of her grandkids to boot.

    The Times interviewed her, or maybe it was the Bugle, I don¡¯t remember now. But she said that my wings were white, and I was a pale, skinny criminal who should be swatted aside like a moth in a closet full of clothes.

    A moth?

    Well, you guessed it. I¡¯d spent two grueling years building those wings, learning to fly, getting good at it, the works. And a few pranks and what happens? Suddenly the papers smelled money, and nothing sells papers like conflict. Be it a war, an election, baseball teams, or a little worker versus the company, every paper likes a fight.  It sells papers, right? People wanna know how it¡¯s gonna end. I opened up the paper the next day and I find out I¡¯m not someone the cops¡¯re after- I was touted as the arch enemy of the American Airman!

    I was scared green. It¡¯s like being in high school and learning the girl you snuck a kiss from at a party was really the fullback¡¯s squeeze, and he¡¯s out for you, you know? You¡¯re dead. My one hope was that the Airman was gonna be busy with a bunch of Nazis or something, and I¡¯d get off easy- get forgotten about, you know?

    So, my next move was to lay low. I packed up my wings for a bit, thinking maybe a year would be enough time for New York to forget about me. Maybe I could make a comeback, like that boxer-hero kid, the Brown Bomber? Yeah, that¡¯s what I thought, that if I laid low and kept my nose clean, when I came out again then I could be a hero. Maybe even the Airman¡¯s sidekick for starters, if I wasn¡¯t too old by then.

    I graduated from high school out there a month later, and boy, was I glad. None of those rich punks gave a damn about me. Not one. I didn¡¯t even go to prom, you know- they actually could make a rule back then, ¡®No Jews.¡¯ Yeah, forget the fact that at least a dozen kids there had at least half-Jewish blood. Their moms and dads all went to the ¡®right¡¯ Episcopal church at Christmas and that meant they got in. I coulda made a stink about it, my aunt being who she was and all. But why bother? Not like I could get a date.

    When I was done, I decided to take one little celebratory flight. I skipped the all-night party they were throwing (again, not like I¡¯d be let in the door), and got Michael to drive me into the city.

    ¡°You sure about this?¡± he said as we crossed the bridge. Yeah, I was sure. My problem, I figured out, was that I kept flying in broad daylight. Even if it was a Sunday, everyone got to see ¡°The Mothman¡± in all his homemade winged glory when the sun was out. So I decided to try a bit of night-flying instead.

    Well, it didn¡¯t go so good, either.

    -----

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Icarus- Part 12

    So I decided to try a bit of night-flying instead.

    Well, it didn¡¯t go so good, either. Same routine as before: up on the building, step to the edge. Wait for the wind while listening to the cars honking and the occasional person yelling. And then- I did something that I promised Meetri I wouldn¡¯t do. He¡¯d been bringing in these new little steel knobs you worked with a ratchet set- made the wings open quicker and be even sturdier. I¡¯d taken to being a bit more of a daredevil as I got to the end of school. Meetri had told me the best way to test the wings would be to open them up and try flying when I was falling. Well, sounded good on my end, nuh? Eighteen-year-old boys all think they¡¯re invincible anyways- think that bullets¡¯ll bounce offa their chests, and they can drive a hundred miles an hour and never crash.

    Well, I did that. I stepped off and just started falling. I pointed myself at the ground like I was gonna do a high-dive into water. Whoo-whee! Feeling the air whistling past my ears, knowing I had about five seconds to pull my wings open? Forget drugs- there¡¯s nothing that¡¯ll give a rush like that. Reefer? You make yourself into an idiot for a while, mess up your head and your guts-if¡¯n tobacco cigarettes are as bad as they say, you tryin¡¯ to tell me reefer¡¯s not worse? Pshaw!

    Anyways, droppin¡¯ down, getting¡¯ faster every second, nothing like it. I popped open my wings at maybe the last second and swooped, came within maybe a foot of the sidewalk and then up a nice, big arc, until lady gravity gently decided to pull on me again. And then I scooped again, and up in the air, twisting and spinning, looping and hovering on a thermal where I could find it.

    Why hadn¡¯t I tried it thisaway before, I thought? Why didn¡¯t I just go out at night, when I wouldn¡¯t have all the eyes on me, no cameras, no papers, no nothing. I¡¯d gotten hurt and messed up when I went out during the daytime, but the night? That¡¯s where a guy like me could shine. I¡¯d be like a moth, maybe, something that comes out at night to fly and feed, and be seen by the light of the moon. Not something beautiful like a firefly (you hear about that dame? Firefly? Last I heard she married Frosty, the hero guy she was always going up against. Crazy world, huh?), and not something dangerous like a scorpion or a rattlesnake- the guys who modeled themselves after those animals weren¡¯t exactly ¡®ight-bay in the ain-bray,¡¯ if you get my meaning. Bright yellow and shit-brown costumes? Yeah, that¡¯ll show up good in the papers.

    But I wasn¡¯t thinking of being a bad guy. Or even a good guy. I just wanted to fly and soar, and maybe do the occasional prank. I sometimes wonder if it was a good or a bad thing that the papers got ahold of me and tried to make me into something I wasn¡¯t. I mean, you know, Jane, we did become comic book characters. Kind¡¯ve like the bad-guy wrestlers today. People knew who we were, but we still could go to the grocery store without people mobbing us the way folks on TV are. Some dreamer came by with a contract to make a line of dolls about me and the Airman- can you believe it? After all these years? And some fat kid in his twenties with a scrubby beard and pimples tells me I could make millions? Gimme my bifocals, where do I sign, right?

    And it¡¯s all because of what happened a week or two after that night I just decided, what, why not? Why not be a bad guy? All the good-guy slots were taken, it seemed.

    See, I had been flying at night, and still doing the occasional prank on folks. No stealing, no hurting anyone. If I had seen something bad happening, a gal getting attacked or a real purse-snatching happening, I like to think I woulda done something about it, something good.

    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    But as it was, it was way, way easier to see some fellow who needed a good hat-flipping than someone who could use help from me, who usually needed both hands to fly anyway. I mean, I¡¯d see a cat in a tree, or a guy on the side of the road with a flat, but how could I help that, really? I saw way more ways to be a little stinker at a world that had either ignored or hurt me than actually could have used my help in some way.

    Well, scratch that. I did see a lady broken down in the dark on the highway one night. And I could see she had kids in the car. I didn¡¯t know much about cars- still don¡¯t really. But I knew how to change a tire, and I thought maybe I could¡¯ve called a tow truck or something.

    Or something. I couldn¡¯t tell you why I circled and flew down. I saw her standing on the side of the road, arms folded. Maybe she was looking for a car to flag down. But I still thought¡­well, maybe she looked like my own mom. Anyways, I landed about twenty feet away and folded up the wings. I was wearing a combination of black and white clothes then. Wings, too. I gave up hoping they¡¯d call me the Eagle, or the Hawk, or some cool kind of bird of prey. Hell, I would¡¯ve preferred being called the Vulture or the Buzzard at that point, but apparently there was a villain team over on the West coast that already held those names, so I was out¡¯ve luck.

    So, black and white. Mothman. Could¡¯ve been worse, I guess.

    I dropped down, folded up my wings, and walked towards the lady with a smile on my face. Could that¡¯ve been the problem? No. The problem was I had a little red flag go off inside my head when she looked at me. Maybe she had too much makeup on for a mom of that many children. Maybe her kids were too quiet in the car given how kids usually get when they¡¯re stranded and alone in the dark with nobody to help them.

    Well, I walked up, smiling. I got maybe a half dozen steps and had opened my mouth to ask ¡®what seems to be the trouble?¡¯ when she started screaming.

    Now, with 20/20 hindsight, I get it. You¡¯re already stressed out and upset because you¡¯re stranded in the middle of the city at night, kids in the car, god-knows-what could happen to you when you¡¯re a very vulnerable woman by yourself, and then a fella drops out of the sky who you¡¯ve seen in the papers touted as the Bad Guy? Well, Jane, you¡¯d probably just pull out your shooter and make¡¯im take a dozen steps back or else. This gal, though, started screaming.

    I tried to tell her to be calm. I tried to quiet her down. I put my hands up and tried to shush her, but she just wouldn¡¯t. I was getting pretty upset myself and wondering what I should do, right? I might, you don¡¯t want to fly off and leave a lady and kids alone in the center of the city at night, but you can¡¯t stay there either. I tried to yell over her that everything was alright, but then . . .

    Then I felt the two, gloved hands clap me on the shoulders. Hard.

    I got spun around and found myself looking straight and close-up into the face of the American Airman.

    And he did not look handsome like they drew him in the comic books, lemme tell ya! His face was all joints and angles, with a big, pointed nose and an adam¡¯s apple so big you could hurt someone with it. He was wearing those black goggles and the stupid leather hat he really had no need for- I think he just wore it for show, you know?

    Well, I didn¡¯t have a lot of time to think about that then. Because right after he spun me around he hauled off and gave me the first, genuine punch in the nose I ever got. Usually, bullies back in Fort Orlan would trip me, ignore me, or whatnot. But instead this time he spun around and soaked me so good the world started spinning.

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Icarus- Part 13

    And then I just felt all this cold air on my face. I know now what he was doing- he liked to take bad guys to someplace a little secluded, like an alleyway, and finish punching them up there. Just close enough he could hear the lady if she screamed for ¡®help¡¯ again, but far enough away that she¡¯d be alright if she was the type who¡¯d get all traumatized seeing some get beat up.

    Well, he dropped me down and I felt pavement under my feet. He grabbed me by the straps of my harness and looked me up and down.

    ¡°Wings?¡± he said, ¡°huh.¡± Then he flipped the buckles on my chest- they were modeled after a pilot¡¯s safety belts, after all ¨C and slipped me out of my second skin with two or three tugs.

    And then¡¯s when I really came to.

    He took a step back, with my harness in his hands. Somehow he found the button that made it fold up again. I realized for the first time that though he may have looked like the kind of guy who¡¯d hang out in chess club, he had really broad shoulders and thick biceps. Military life had probably already gotten him into shape even before he got hit by that lightning bolt, and since then he¡¯d probably had every trainer, boxer and dietician that Uncle Sam got get ahold of, putting him through his paces to make him a strong, amazing, fistfighting superhero that could take on just about anyone and come out on top.

    But he didn¡¯t beat me up.

    He took my wings, held it by one strap, swung it like a great, big tetherball around his head three or four times and slammed it into the brick wall of the building next to me.

    I heard the crunch as the panels broke, the pulleys snapped, the plastic ¡®feathers¡¯ in the wings cracked and smashed like dinner dishes dropped from the top of a building.

    I screamed, tears and yells mixing in a loud torrent as I saw the American Airman, America¡¯s Mr. Nice Guy, destroy in three seconds what had become my baby and my life¡¯s work, the one thing that had kept me going, helped me not care when the other kids had rejected me, had made me popular for the few days I¡¯d ever actually been accepted in my life. Brought me the only real joy I¡¯d had since I was old enough to know I was different. And the Airman had smashed it into the walls of a dark, stone alley like it was a bag of garbage. Turned it into so much garbage, so much trash, in three fucking seconds.

    I sank to my knees, pleading with him not to do it, still pleading with him as he pulverized them. Sobbing, my eyes wide open with grief and horror when I realized that they were broken beyond repair, and that I¡¯d never fly them again.

    And when he was done, The Airman opened up my pack and poured out the pieces, watching them clatter and bounce and some breaking even further as they hit the pavement. I collapsed on the ground, wailing and trying to keep all the rage and anger and sadness inside, trying to keep him from even noticing me, keep him from turning on me and trying to destroy me, just like he¡¯d destroyed the only good thing I had left in my life now that I couldn¡¯t even live at home with my parents.

    After he emptied my backpack the Airman looked at me. He¡¯d still been wearing that gosh-gee-whiz face of his, the face of a schoolteacher telling little Jimmy that he was gonna get an ¡®F¡¯ for cheating, but I hope you¡¯ve learned your lesson, young man. But after he¡¯d finished and saw me break down he just looked kinda puzzled. I think now he was used to seeing people he squared off against swear revenge, or try to kill him with a knife or a gun. But he wasn¡¯t used to seeing an opponent sink to his knees and then face down in a filthy street sob like a little . . .

    Thanks, Jane. Appreciated. No, no worries. The Kleenex helps. Right now I just have . . . yeah, allergies. Darned new cleaner boy they have in here. Nice kid. Terrific kid, but the bleach and cleaner is just awful on the eyes. No, I¡¯m fine. Thanks for the Kleenex. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yeah. I was blubbering like a little kid. I just wanted to hide and never see anyone again, especially if he were some kind of hero that everybody but me loved.

    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    ¡°I . . . Well, I hope you¡¯ve learned your lesson, young man,¡± he said. ¡°There¡¯s, ah, there¡¯s only really room for one flier in this town, and, well, um . . . don¡¯t- don¡¯t cause any more trouble, alright?¡±

    I barely heard it. I kept crying. What the hell kind of thing was this? This never happened in the comic books! The Airman was supposed to see my potential, and put me on the right path. Not rip apart my life and be all awkward afterwards.

    Well, he couldn¡¯t have felt too bad about it. Thanks Jane, I appreciate that. But the truth is someone must have snitched about that night. Because in the comics for the rest of the run they did American Airman, the ole¡¯ archenemy Mothman never did learn his lesson, did he? The Airman would always foil his schemes, rip apart his latest set of wings, and cart him off to jail. And somehow he¡¯d get out, go back to his underground lair beneath his mansion, and make up a new set of wings with some new kind of special effect each time. Those were pretty interesting ones, let me tell you, Jane. One month, Mothman had flamethrowers on his wings. Another time he had mounted machine guns. Other wings fired poison darts, threw knives, whatever. Each and every time, I had to hear the kids around me in the city, on the radio plays, all talking about how the great American Airman beat the evil Mothman. And every time, Mothman got his wings ripped off and destroyed in a different way. Sometimes they got crumpled into a ball, or tossed off the Empire State Building, or thrown into the waterfall of Hoover Dam. Hell, I think one time the comic-book guys were short on ideas, so they had the Airman shove them into some kind of super-cannon and fire them into the heart of the sun. Dammit, Jane, I didn¡¯t deserve to have the worst moment of my life served up again and again, shoved in my face for little kids to laugh at and given a new and awful twist each time.

    And do you think that leather-jacketed numbskull ever apologized? Even after he wrecked my life¡¯s work? Nothing! Zip! Zilch! Tell ya, Jane, I wouldn¡¯t have made those wings if the Airman hadn¡¯t existed. I can admit that now, a good forty-odd years later. But then again, I wouldn¡¯t have been the bad guy if he¡¯d taken a minute to talk to me before he ripped the thing I loved most in this world and smashed it like it was a bag of trash against a brick wall.

    So what did I do? After I finished crying, I looked around. The lady in distress, her car, her kids, the Airman, all of them were gone. Vamoosed. I picked up the pieces I could of my wings and went looking for a phone. I called Mike from a pay phone collect at the bar I knew he liked to hang out at while he waited for me to finish my flying time through the city, and he showed up in the town car a half hour later.

    Mike was great. He helped me pick up every single piece that the Airman smashed. Every nut, bolt, spring and string got found and put into the trunk of the car. And you know what? Mike was great in so many ways. I was having to operate on my own, dad-less, for the last few months while I finished high-school and all the rest. But that night Mike gave me the kind of advice a young man needs when he hits a major speed-bump on the road of life. He saw me through his rearview, slouched, defeated, life just squeezed out of me like I was a tube of toothpaste that had gotten run over by a schoolbus.

    ¡°Russ,¡± he says to me, that was what he called me, ¡°Russ, I¡¯ve seen guys where you¡¯re at, and I know what you¡¯re going through.¡±

    ¡°Bullshit.¡± I said. Remember, I was eighteen.  I¡¯d celebrated my birthday the week before, and the joy I¡¯d had celebrating with the servants and the kiss I¡¯d gotten from Anna the maid was all so much steam-and-ashes.

    ¡°No, really. I know. Someone you thought would be your friend just cut your lifeline, and you feel like your life, your whole damn world ain¡¯t never gonna be good again. Some of us have it happen when our best friend sneaks our girl, sneaks our job, or switches teams right before the championship game and they get the trophy. Whatever it is, you¡¯ve been betrayed. You know what you gotta do, Russ? You listen to me, now. I¡¯m near thirty, and I¡¯ve seen more of the world than you. When a pilot crashes in his plane? My dad worked the airfields during the War. He said if a pilot got shot down or crashed, they made those pilots go right back up again after resting for maybe a day. One day, at most. Any more than that, they were afraid to ever fly again. Now you, Russ, you listening? You do that. Or you¡¯re gonna be stuck in that alleyway for the rest of your life, remembering how shitty you felt whenever you try to do anything great, anything to do with flying ever again.¡±

    ¡°How the hell¡¯m I gonna fly, Mike? You want me to dive off the Empire State Building? My wings look like an anchovy pizza. And I¡¯d look just as bad if I tried flying with that mess.¡±

    ¡°Russ,¡± says Mike, ¡°you can¡¯t fly right now. But you can build your wings again."

    -----

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Icarus- Part 14

    ....¡°Russ,¡± says Mike, ¡°you can¡¯t fly right now. But you can build your wings again. Or even better, build a new set. Metri¡¯ll help you. And if you need stuff, your aunt¡¯s filthy rich, remember? I could have the cook or someone else buy you your stuff when they go on shopping trips. And if you need stuff that you can¡¯t get at the local hardware store? No problem! I¡¯ve got friends in construction. You¡¯d be surprised how much stuff just goes missing from a construction site alla time.¡±

    I thought for a bit. ¡°That¡¯s real nice, Mike.¡±

    ¡°You bet it is. Russ, when my girl dumped me a while back for a guy whose dad owned a grocery store, I thought I was gonna die. Couldn¡¯t even look at another girl for maybe six months or more. But a buddy of mine brought me to this thing at the Emporium, and whammo, girls all over the place. Met a nice one, danced with her all night, and I was back in business. For you right now, your wings are your girl. And you need a new girl. You know?¡±

    Yeah, Mike was a good fella. Oh, did I make new wings? Hell, yeah! I took a day, one day, to feel bad for myself. And then the next morning after that? I was up bright and early and at the drawing board, Metri looking over my shoulder and giving me advice where and when and what and how. Mike was bringing home parts soon, from garages where stuff just ¡®fell off the backs of a truck¡¯ if Lulu the cook couldn¡¯t get them on her grocery outings.

    It took another six months, but since I still had a lot of my notes, it took a lot less time to design, put together and test from start to finish. That¡¯s why when I see or hear about some cape saying they were a one-man band I just wanna laugh in their faces. Maybe if you were some kind of billionaire you could do it, or if you were just one guy or gal with a costume and a few fighting skills. But really? Even then you¡¯d be hiring out folks to build or fix your gadgets, or counting on someone to bail you out if a fight went bad. Or fix your costume if it got tears in it from the latest freak who thought a mask and a fancy knife made him a supervillain. Even if you¡¯re some kind of karate-chopping whiz-kid, they¡¯re gonna get their licks in, especially if they¡¯ve got minions of their own.

    Where was I? Oh, yeah. Six months later, I had my new set. Jane, honey, it just looked lovely. I coulda cried. When I took them out for their first run, they were all silver and steel, polished and shiny. I¡¯d only had pop¡¯s little out-back-shack to make my first set, and that¡¯d been only one-room with a wooden table and a few tools. But at my aunt and uncle¡¯s place? A whole workshop, with tools that let me do in a few minutes what sometimes took me a week to do back in Fort Orlan. That, plus I had an experienced mechanic to help¡­only after a while I realized he was ¡®way more than a mechanic. The fellow knew a lot, and when I asked him why he¡¯d moved here from Greece he just stayed quiet and smiled.

    Well, fine with me. I had my new wings, and I flew again. I won¡¯t bore you any more with the details- I flew, the papers yelled again, and the Airman tried to rip them off my back again. But this time, Jane, I was ready! Whenever I could, I flew with my back to the sun and close to the ground. Why? Yep, sounds a little odd, I know. But one thing I¡¯d learned about the Airman was that when something worked, he liked to keep doing it that way. I gambled that he¡¯d try the ole¡¯ sneak-up-from-behind thing again, and I was right! Soon enough, I saw his shadow behind me, but I waited until I saw his hands go up to clap me on the back again.

    See, I had it all in my head. He had no right at that point to attack me. None. I probably shoulda sued him after the first time he beat me up, but you know, it was a Depression thing, wasn¡¯t it? Take care of your own problems. Besides, I¡¯d been raised on stories of corrupt cops and courts. It was the ¡®Forties, nuh? No chance I was gonna get the Airman to do time or pay me back for wrecking my life, even if all I¡¯d done was flip a few hats and get my head caved in by a lady with a brick in her purse.

    But I did figure that if he came at me again, when all I was doing was minding my business, flying, then I had a right to defend myself.

    And when I saw he was reaching out to take me down, I was ready. I¡¯d been practicing the move I was gonna make so much I could almost do it in my sleep. And when he was about six feet away, I did a quick, sharp bank, turning all at once so I was flying pointed at the Airman, but slanted so I flew just below him. I also tipped sideways so my left wingtip was pointing up in the air, and my right wingtip pointed down at the ground.

    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    My goal wasn¡¯t to kill the poor guy; I just wanted to slice up his pretty little leather jacket a bit. Most bullies don¡¯t stop unless you give them a damn good reason to back off, and I thought that¡¯d be it. But me? Did I know how a super would take that? Nope. See, a normal bully figures it out, and tries to beat you up a couple times more. If that doesn¡¯t work, then he¡¯ll either be your friend or he¡¯ll have to try and wreck you as publicly as possible.

    But a super being a villain¡¯s friend? Nope. That just wasn¡¯t in the cards then.

    Now, in literally one fell swoop (never figured out what that meant, other than something that happened real quick and changed everything), I went from a public nuisance to a hardened, stone cold killer. Even though all I did was slice open his jacket and shirt, drew a little blood off of his chest, and cut his belt. He was saved that embarrassment literally by an inch or so, I figured out later. And really, it could¡¯ve gone a lot, lot worse for him, if you get my meaning. I mean, another inch to the right and he coulda been talkin¡¯ high the rest of his life. Not much stock in changing your name from The American Airman to The Flying Choirboy, now, is there? No seven year old boy is gonna bug his parents to buy him that kind of action figure at Christmas time, eh?

    Well, you can guess how it ended. Except this time the Airman went all whacky on me, my wings, the whole bit. Blew his wig like no one ever saw before or since. He could maneuver way easier in the air than me, flying straight and zigzagging where I hadda move my wings and catch thermals and all the rest.

    So, he caught me pretty damn quick. And just like before, he ripped the wings offa my back. But before he wrecked them this time, he thought he¡¯d go all Jack Dempsy on me and try to punch me out. Lemme tell ya Jane, I ain¡¯t never seen a guy so mad before or since as he was that day. His eyes, the snarl on his face- sure I was scared. If some weak kid in high school got put in the football QB¡¯s crosshairs, you betcha that poor kid¡¯s gonna get scared. And I was scared.

    And you know what? At that moment I didn¡¯t care. And you know what else? He wasn¡¯t that great a knuckler, either. I mean, he was better than me, no doubt. But when I saw how he was after getting his precious jacket sliced up, I saw him different. He wasn¡¯t this lantern-jawed, high cheek-boned demi god with waves in his perfect black hair, trading punches with a perfect one-liner with every blow he landed. He was every schoolyard kid I¡¯d seen who¡¯d taken a hit and gone all nutty as a fruitcake. He was just a guy, and I think he¡¯d gotten too used to criminals just folding when he went after ¡®em and didn¡¯t know how to handle it when someone actually tried to fight back some way.

    Anyway, he went into a total frenzy, screaming, wailing on me. I fought back best as I could, which wasn¡¯t very good. But I did land a punch or two before he threw me down in some judo move he¡¯d learned in the Air Force. I still remember how it felt against my knuckles when I hit one of those cheekbones of his. Remember, in real life, he wasn¡¯t the handsome, perfect looking devil that you saw in the comics of the old black-and-white movie serials. When I landed that punch he seemed more stunned that someone would fight back than by the actual punch itself. He looked, for the first time to me, anyways, like just a normal guy. A regular guy, with a bigger-than-average nose and an Adam¡¯s apple that was almost begging to get punched someday.

    But when I landed that punch on his face, I shoulda followed up with a dozen more. Maybe I would¡¯ve been the first guy to take down a super, hey? Instead, I got all scared and hesitated. Then the Airman looked at me again, and he got all sore again, and then he moved in and grabbed me, threw me down, and then stomped on me. Hard.

    Oh, what? The American Airman, kicking a man while he¡¯s down? Hell yeah. I¡¯d taken my share of lumps and bumps, but I¡¯d never had the wind knocked out of me before like that. I started to panic a bit, trying to suck in air and not being able to breathe.

    And then, while I was trying to suck in air, the crowd formed- they always formed, again, just like in a schoolyard ¨C everyone cheering the Airman, the hero of the hour, and looking at me like I was a fresh pile of manure that had been dumped in the street, and using cuss words if they said anything to me at all.

    This time the coppers got me. I got hauled into my own paddy wagon while the Airman smashed my second set of wings into powder.

    -------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Icarus- Part 15

    ....This time the coppers got me. I got hauled into my own paddy wagon while the Airman smashed my second set of wings into powder.

    Nothing hurt so much, then or since, as hearing the crowd cheer while he smashed my wings. How the hell could they do that, you know? Didn''t they know I was the one who¡¯d been hurt his whole damn life? How I tried to be good, but it just wouldn¡¯t stick? Sonsabitches. All of ¡®em.

    And that¡¯s when it happened. I bet you had something like that, didn¡¯t yuh Jane? We all had that moment, the one where we said ¡®fuck it! I can¡¯t be what they want, but I can be what they hate. I¡¯ll be the bad guy, and I¡¯ll shove it down their fucking throats!¡±

    Yeah, we all had it. Me, you, Monocle, the Swami, Snowman. Hell, I bet if you could get the Hanging Judge to stand still for ten seconds and say something that didn¡¯t have a legal pun to it, he¡¯d say he had that moment too, where he realized that the capes who got to be the good guys was just another, crummy club, a clique, no different in the end from the popular kids in high school. But instead of it being decided based on who was good at sports or who had the biggest boobs, it got decided based on who could smile biggest for the cameras, or who could make nice with the government. Those guys, like the Airman and his buddies? Those guys got the spiffy base at the tops of high rise buildings. The rest of us at the bottom of the super food chain? We hadda go find some piece of real estate nobody wanted, usually underground or an abandoned warehouse or train station, and make do with that. Hell, remember that off-track train station we tried out as a base for a year during the Forties? Dank, filthy, and I still get nightmares of the spiders and the roaches that¡¯d skitter over me when I tried to sleep down there.

    Anyways, sorry. Remembering. Things didn¡¯t go so well for a while after that. I made a few more versions of my wings over the next few years, each time I came closer to ¡®getting¡¯ the Airman. I never really had it in my mind I was gonna try to kill him. I was more like a dog chasing cars then, you know? What¡¯s the dog gonna do when he actually catches one? I¡¯d never wanna actually kill someone. If I did, it¡¯d be a complete accident.

    But I came close to taking him out, more than once.  I knew that we¡¯d just keep coming close, though. When we started to find each other, people with some kind of power or ability that made us different, but for some reason we couldn¡¯t join the crummy superhero club, we started to find each other and group up, the way outcasts in any group will. Hell, supers are a pretty messed up bunch of folks to begin with anyway, ain¡¯t they? Instead of figuring out a way to make money offa having powers, we put on weird getups and beat each other up in public. I mean, if I got into as many fights in a bar on Saturday night as the Airman did in the street in broad daylight? They woulda put me away for being a public menace.

    But if he beat us up, the outcasts? Then he got his own comic book and a pile of money from a line of dolls made to look like him¡­ sorry, action figures. Cripes, I get so tired of how everything has to be said a certain way these days. I hope it passes soon and people can get back to normal. Anyways, there we were, still trying to make our lives happen. Of course we robbed banks. What, we¡¯d steal cars? We had to get food, clothes to replace the stuff that got ripped up when we fought the good guys. Can you trade a Cadillac for milk and bread at the local grocery store?

    Yeah, that¡¯s the thing: They made it all look so amazing to have an underground lair in the comic books. Like we just had to flip a switch and everything was all shiny, with computers that talked and a dozen snazzy super-themed cars to choose from. Reality? We were living in a fucking train station. An abandoned train station. One step up from a bunch of squatting hobos. Not like we could get an electrician or a plumber when things wouldn¡¯t work. We all knew they¡¯d tell as soon as the bill got paid. So, we¡¯d either have to kill them, which would expose us to getting caught when someone¡¯s husband or daddy didn¡¯t come home for dinner that night [plus, when do we dump the bodies? Bodies smell, and we were already underground], or bribe ¡®em and keep them on the payroll, making us have to pull even more jobs and more risks.

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    Yeah, it was pretty much a lousy life at that point, even if they made it look good in the comic books. I¡¯d left the mansion for a bit- aunt Rose had started to get a little ¡®handsy¡¯ with me lately, especially after she¡¯d had a few drinks. Now, I think she was trying to get even with uncle Joe for cheating on her over and over again with just about anything that had a set of boobs and a skinny waist. Aunt Rose was starting to get a little chubby as she got older- not much to do besides chase the help and eat bon-bons if you¡¯re a rich wife and don¡¯t like doing charity work.

    It was lousy, but when it was good it was really good. I mean, once we had you come on board, Jane, we already had that gal¡­what was her name again¡­Honey something, called herself Queen Bee. She wasn¡¯t that great as a crook, but she was good at getting us to clean up the place. And once Monty got the place¡¯s electricity going- you remember Monty? Long black hair, called himself Mister Monocle? Had all those weird little one-eyed glasses things that did all the crazy effects? He was a whiz with electricity, plumbing, you name it. Metri came over a couple of times to help us out with helping us find fuse boxes, getting us parts we needed and the like. Once he managed to get the place wired up so we could steal electricity from Con Ed and water from a bunch of other places, we were really in business. The Queen Bee could cook, and we got a stocked kitchen out of the deal. If we coulda stuck to robbing banks and stuff like that, we coulda made a decent living for a while. You know?

    But, all good things. We lasted down there for about a year. We were able to turn the offices into our own rooms. Not as nice as what I had at the mansion, but still a step up from the house we had to live in back when I was a teen. By this point I was twenty, and college wasn¡¯t even in the picture any more. For the first year we were pretty much intact and got to be a pretty good team. But then Queen Bee got busted by some palooka- what was his name again? The one who dressed like he was a guy outta the King Arthur stories? Yeah, the Champion. She got caught by him once, twice. After the third or fourth time, we figured out what she wouldn¡¯t admit to: she had a thing for the guy, and was trying to get caught by him.

    So, yeah, they got hitched. He quit the hero biz and became a cop out west or something, and last I heard they both turned Catholic and had a bunch of kids. They made a bundle when they took out a patent on that thing she used to fight with- that wand? Zapped you if she touched you with it? Called it her stinger. Yeah, when her husband brought it onto the force with ¡®im the other cops all went nuts. Now, cops in any city gotta have one, so they made a bundle.

    I was happy for her. Missed her a bit, though. I was twenty, remember, and she was a pretty thing. Well, when she was dressed up in her full outfit, especially, with all that tight yellow and black outfit with the high heeled boots. But oh well.

    Well, then a few months after those two made nice and ran off into the sunset, Scarlet Swami found you at the carnival ¨C I still think he was trying to hedge his bets, in case our thing fell apart ¨C and brought you into our group. He was tryin¡¯ to think bigger, get that one big score so¡¯s we could move out¡¯ve that dump and start doing some serious living. He saw what the bad guys in the comic books were living like, and he wanted that.  Big buildings, big houses, gorgeous dames, like those Mafia guys were doing in Little Italy.

    The trouble was, we weren¡¯t anything like the Mafia. We were just a bunch of misfits [well, maybe you weren¡¯t Jane] who wanted a piece of the pie, and we found the best way to do it was to get dressed up in a weird outfit and go try and rob a bank. The Mafia guys? They had a whole chain of command thing going on, with foot soldiers and lieutenants, and the leader safe in his lair at the top of the food chain. Us, we hadda be all those things.

    And the worst was when those goddamn comic books started up. Making the guys like American Airman look like these perfect people, and us looking perfectly awful. I mean, I kinda liked how they gave me the whole ¡®evil genius¡¯ treatment, even after I went to the straight life. But it was still a pain. And I couldn¡¯t not read the things, you know? Each month or week, or however they ended up on the newsstand, I just hadda spring the nickel and see ¡®em.

    So, if I remember right, by the time the Scarlet Swami brought you on board, it was you, me, the Swami, Mr. Monocle, the Queen Bee, that Mexican guy, Miguel, the cat burglar who called himself the Black Tiger, and the last one, that kid who called himself. . . the ice? The¡­

    ¡°Snowman.¡±

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Icarus- Part 16

    ¡°Snowman.¡±

    Right, Jane! That was it. Snowman. I still think he had the best idea for a costume; he just had a blue business suit and a fedora with a white cape, and he pulled a white nylon stocking over his face. Pretty easy to do, and he was always coming up with new ways to use cold stuff. Problem was he hadda spend almost as much time breaking into labs as robbing the banks, since he hadda steal his stuff to make his ¡®snowballs,¡¯ those little bombs that¡¯d freeze cars, locks, and all that? Remember him? Gawd, did he have the hots for you, Jane. It got annoying, almost, how his eyes were glued to you whenever you walked in the room.

    The six of us. All screwed up in one way or another. All of us living underground. Remember when a job¡¯d go well? How we¡¯d dress to nines, and go out on the town? Off to places like the Stork Club, or the Brown Derby? We¡¯d get a table, flash the green, and they¡¯d treat us like we really belonged there. I could forget for a while that I was a small town reject, Jake could forget he was a gypsy and everyone suspicious of him and all, Miguel could forget that he was Hispanic and that normally he¡¯d have to either be a waiter to get in the door or dress all in his Black Tiger getup to scare a little respect out¡¯ve the guys who were serving him. The usual. It all went away, every way.

    ¡®Course, we¡¯d be doing that on Saturday night, and then we¡¯d be back to eating Cheerios and peanut butter for dinner by Wednesday, eh? Leave it to the Swami to think up that we should hit the Stork Club and rob the place a week after we ate there! You shoulda seen him, Jane! It was beautiful.

    Of course you were in on the job! But you were doing the distraction, weren¡¯t ya? Shooting down the chandelier and taking everyone¡¯s pocketbooks on the main floor while the Swami and me went in through the top floor window. I swooped in, carrying the damn phoney cripple on my back, and when we got in he did his little magic-whoosis pretty good. He¡¯d conned his way into the life of club owner¡¯s chief lunkhead a while before, and he¡¯d put a number of little ¡®suggestions¡¯ into his head in preparation for the swipe. In, out, before anyone knew what we were doing or what was really happening. That was the way I liked it. Remember?

    Well, of course things couldn¡¯t go good like that forever. The Airman got wind of what we were doing, but he was too chickenshit to try and take all of us on at once. So, what does he do? Gets a bunch of them together and forms his own gang! I swear, no wonder the cops can¡¯t stop the drugs in this country. I heard that one fellow- who was the guy in Las Vegas? The guy who was the cop and then turned all cape? Yeah, BlackJack. He said that heroes really got their start because of the criminals. Some group of bank robbers had the idea of all dressing the same so they couldn¡¯t get pulled out of a lineup so easy. So you had the Pirate gang, the Soldier gang, the Ghost gang¡­and then the cops got in on the act when they wanted to bust these guys in their off duty hours.

    Anyways, we get together because we¡¯re tired of getting all beat-up by guys like the Airman, and so they copied us! Oh, now you have the Airman, that fast guy, who was he? Yes! The Streak, BlackJack with his fancy playing cards, Lady Liberty, and that guy who got your attention- the cowboy guy¡­yeah, Aces and Eights. If that wasn¡¯t the stupidest name for a hero I ever heard! But I guess he liked the poker thing about the Wild West, and the name BlackJack was taken. Ah, well!

    So they got together after we got together. Suddenly, while we¡¯re barely eking it out in a smelly, cold abandoned subway station while the Airman and the rest of his little toadies were up on the penthouse of a downtown skyscraper. I heard they whored themselves out to the government, but someone else said BlackJack patented some of his gadget playing cards and got even more money for him and his team that way.

    Well, we did what we could, didn¡¯t we? Me, I was done after a couple of years of that. After the Airman wrecked my fourth or fifth set of wings, I got tired of building ¡®em. And when I heard BlackJack was making money hand over fist by selling his ideas? Well, yeah. Snowman said I sold out,  but dammit, I was tired of getting punched out and waking up handcuffed to a hospital bed.

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    So, I went to some guys I knew who got stuff to and from the military. Yeah, after I patented the design of my wings- the Airman may have broken them over and over again, but I still had my drawings and specs- I took the designs over to the military. They bought ¡®em up for a good chunk of change and I invested it. No more robbing banks, and now I get to see young men who look like the comic book versions of the Airman wearing my wings as they fly into battle against the commies. ¡®Least that''s what it looks like on the posters.

    So, Jane, that¡¯s most of the story. I stayed single- never quite found the gal who was ready to settle down with me. And I guess that¡¯s okay. When most guys I knew were hating Monday morning and trying to pay for their kids¡¯ braces or college, I was sleeping in every day and tinkering and making more gadgets with all the extra money I had.

    Until¡­we got to here, today. I¡¯ve got a minor case of MS which is gonna kill me one day, but for now I¡¯m doing okay. Better than the Airman, like I said, who¡¯s never gonna shit right again after he tried his Jack Dempsey act with that bad guy with the steel fists. Forget his name, but that guy could actually fight and wasn¡¯t just play acting with the crazy bit, and finally the Airman found out what it was like to feel like his innards got all ripped up. My investments pay the rent on this place, and they feed me and change my undies throughout the day.

    #

    ¡°So, Jane,¡± I said, ¡°you asked to hear a story and you got it. What do you think? I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever told the whole thing to anyone before; never had a reason to, and when we were the team in the subway, we were always too focused on the next job to be doing the whole hold-hands-and-sing-kum-by-yah thing.¡±

    She just smiled. Still did that- it always put off guys who tried to go on the make with her. Her smile, that particular smile, just let you know that she was smarter, tougher and cooler that you, and she was only putting up with you because a) she was too tired to beat the crap out of you or b) you were either too naive or too stupid or both to know you were trying to fuck someone who¡¯d turned down propositions from honest-to-goddamn supermen.

    But there was just a little something behind that smile. Something I hadn¡¯t seen before or expected.

    ¡°I think,¡± she said, still smiling, ¡°that you¡¯ve got a good reason to be mad at the world. Most folks our age do. But you, Icarus, you¡¯ve got a bigger reason¡¯n most.¡±

    She stood up, put both hands on the small of her back, arched and stretched herself. Gawd, have mercy, as Luther next door to me used to say before he died last month. I don¡¯t wanna come off as a perv, but noticing and wanting a lady don¡¯t stop for a guy, no matter how old he gets. And Jane, well, she always did have a good figure and a good profile, knowhatImean? She just looked so good for a second or two there! For a moment I was back in my twenties, remembering how the Queen Bee had to wear a ton of makeup and skintight yellow and black outfits to get the kind of looks Calamity Jane got just from a set of cowboy boots, bluejeans, no makeup and a plain flannel shirt.

    And I noticed something else for the fourth or fifth time: she was a few years older than me, but she looked young enough to be my daughter.

    ¡°Russ,¡± she says when she was done, and every other dirty old man in the room pretended to go back to doing what they were doing, ¡°I wanted to see if you still remember, really remember those days. And remember them the way they were. I wanted to see if you had anything still sparking in your head about those times, back when folks like you, me, Queen Bee and the Airman and all the rest were the big bulls in the corral. And I think you do. I saw your face when you began talkin¡¯ about it- you remember it, and you¡¯d love to go back to it, if you could get out¡¯ve the chair. Right?¡±

    ¡°Hell yeah, Jane. But what difference does it make at this point? I¡¯m not gonna get to fly again, even if you could get me a set of wings. Not unless they come in a model that lets your wheelchair fly, too.¡±

    ¡°Not a problem, Honey,¡± she said. She¡¯d been standing over me, but now she went down on one knee and got her face close to mine, closer than any woman had who hadn¡¯t been paid for it since I literally couldn¡¯t remember when. She took my hands in hers- they still felt calloused. They were rancher¡¯s hands, not a pampered city girl¡¯s- and smiled. She slipped me something, something small, like a pill bottle.

    ¡°Don¡¯t say anything,¡± she whispered. ¡°Put it in your applesauce tonight and see what happens. I¡¯ll be back in a week¡±

    -----

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Icarus-Part 17

    She slipped me something, something small, like a pill bottle.

    ¡°Don¡¯t say anything,¡± she whispered. ¡°Put it in your applesauce tonight and see what happens. I¡¯ll be back in a week¡±

    She straightened up, smiled, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I smiled back- My body wanted to get a raging hard-on, but there was something in the back of my brain that said it wouldn''t be a good idea. Because if I let myself fall for a gal like her all over again, It¡¯d mean going back to the life of a hood. A life spent running from capes all over again, waking up every morning wondering if I was going to be in a jail cell by nightfall.

    But then I thought about my little room. Nice, and painted a happy, light orange color. But it still might as well have been a jail cell in its own way, nuh? I wasn¡¯t going anywhere, not on my own. That was why any money my investments made these days went straight here. To the people who were paid to take care of me.

    I stole a glance at what Jane had given me. It was a small glass vial. The kind my pills used to come in. It was half-full of a sparkly blue powder.

    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± I whispered back with a semi-chuckle. ¡°Something to make Mr. Happy wake up?¡±

    ¡°Better than that,¡± she said. ¡°A little magic. Mixed with a little homespun hoodoo from a local and his version of the old Mr. Science chemistry set we all had as kids, and a little something from far, far away. Try it, and you¡¯ll see.¡±

    I picked it up and looked at it. ¡°Is this why you look so young, Jane?¡±

    She smiled, stood, and put her black hat back on. Dear God, I tried hard not to look at her bust. I really did. ¡°I¡¯ll be back in a week,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ll know if you took it, Russ. And if¡¯n you got the balls now you did when we was a bunch of stupid kids hiding out in a train station? We¡¯re gonna be busier¡¯n a lizard on a hot rock, and so rich we¡¯ll have more than Solomon hisself could say grace over.¡±

    She leaned down and kissed my cheek again. Oh, boys, I got so hot to trot after that! You could¡¯ve fried an egg on my face, I got so.

    Before I could answer she whisked out the glass door, fluttering her fingers at me and giving a wink.

    Well, damn, but this ended up being a good morning! I took the vial and put it in my pocket. Carefully, because my gnarled hands were a little worse-than-useless these days. And if I dropped that little bottle, or let little Ricky see it? Gone. Either swept up or just grabbed from me.

    Luckily it had just gotten into my pocket when Rick came by. He was in a better mood than he had been before Jane had come. Maybe he¡¯d asked darling little Megan to the movies, and she¡¯d said yes. I¡¯d thought he was a little sweet on her¡­

    ¡°Heyyyyy, Mr. Conlan!¡± Rick said suddenly from behind me. Damn, that was close!

    Maybe Rick wouldn¡¯t have grabbed it. Who knows. Young ones are tempted most by sex and buddies, middles aged by greed and anger, and old folks by grumbling and paranoia.

    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    But why?

    The young¡­well, horniess is coded into their DNA. Middle-aged folks see retirement coming. But folks like me and Jane? We¡¯re tempted by grumbling. Assuming Jane is Jane, and not her daughter or something, part of a long-con? Why grumbling? Well, some of us, anyway. I looked at Julie and Ed when I could. Julie always seemed happy, knowing down to the minute when the next visit from her grandkids was gonna be. And Ed¡­well, Ed passed the point of verbal c¡¯herence a long time ago, but of all the slurred mumblings that came out of his mouth, none of them had the volume or sharp quality of a man who hated what life had given him, and I¡¯d known my share of those, believe me.

    What made them that way? What put them in the non-grumbler category?

    It hit me when I woke up at 2am that morning from a fitful doze: Neither Ed nor Julie grumbled because they had done what they wanted in life.

    Ed¡¯s wife said he¡¯d had a dad who was a drunk, and they¡¯d moved around a lot as he tried to find a job that would keep a man who had to miss as many days as he did from hangovers. When Ed hit the world, he started at some factory right out of high school, some saw and knife outfit, and worked there five days out of seven for over forty years. It didn¡¯t close down until a few years after he¡¯d retired, so he¡¯d been safe. Every day, every hour, he¡¯d known what was gonna happen, and he¡¯d seen other folks come and go. Raised his kids, put them through school, and watched them leave him in the dust but he still was on good terms with most of them.

    Julie? I didn¡¯t know much about her life before, but I knew about it now. Her daughter didn¡¯t seem all that thrilled to be around her, if you watched her. But her grandkids just loved her.

    Julie had always wanted kids around her.

    Ed wanted stability.

    Julie wanted kids.

    They¡¯d both gotten it.

    What did I want?

    A family wasn¡¯t the biggest thing for me. I don¡¯t think I would¡¯ve made a very good dad.

    But tinkering? Tinkering, making new things, things that moved when I told them, stopped when I said so, making things that worked, that was the biggest thrill I ever got anywhere.

    And that was it, I realized. I wasn¡¯t unhappy, really. Three square and some folks to talk to now and again.

    But this wasn¡¯t how I wanted to go out. Slowly, watching daytime TV.

    I wanted to get out there again, to make things that worked, and have the thrill of seeing it work. I wanted-

    There was a collective ¡®Ooo!¡¯ from the TV room. I knew what that meant. It meant that one of the heroes, the new breed of young ones, was on the screen doing their thing again. This time, it was the one who knew how to use gadgets- The Pulse, I think he called himself. I chuckled- there were so many of these clowns out there nowadays, they actually took copyrights out on their names. Can you believe that? Not the worst idea, I guess. Jane had made a nice living licensing her old persona out as an action doll, or figure, or something like that. And she looked great these days to boot- she looked like she wasn¡¯t a day over forty, and kept her figure besides.

    My hand went to the blue vial. Would this do that for me? Would it make it so I could walk without a walker, without having to go to PT (and, yes, everyone calls it Pain and Torture instead of Physical Therapy whenever they can) for an hour a day?

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Jane and Jake, Part I : The Cowgirl and the ConMan.

    PART II

    JANE

    It warn¡¯t- wasn¡¯t too hard to find Russ. This is the 80s, after all, and everyone¡¯s life is all in a bunch o¡¯computers. If you know where to look, or if you know someone who does, you can find anyone anywhere, whether they want you to or not.

    And Russ wasn¡¯t trying too hard not to be found. Russ, or Icarus, or whoever he¡¯s calling himself these days, when I found him he was trying to keep his dignity despite him having to wear diapers and eat applesauce for breakfast.

    My job wasn¡¯t to feel sorry for him, though. My job was to see if there was enough of that same piss-and-vinegar filled kid I knew back in the 30s who pulled a bunch of misfits together and made us into a team. If he was still in there, this job just got easier by a country mile. If he wasn¡¯t, then the job was gonna be hard as a saddle made of sun baked trail-leather.

    But tough or no, a job¡¯s a job. And I needed the tin. I¡¯d told Russ the tale, now I needed to find Jake.

    I looked at the paper I¡¯d gotten earlier that morning. The address was pretty easy to find, thanks to the Thomas guide. Every street in the city in one book of maps- fella must¡¯ve gotten hisself pretty rich by thinking o¡¯this and printing it out.

    It took me about an hour to get to where I was going. Soon enough I found the strip mall, with it¡¯s parking lot full of rides, game booths, and two-bit haunted houses that¡¯d all fold up at the touch of a button and the turn of a key.

    Made me think of the first time Mama took me to the circus when I was little. It was a tiny, fleabag operation; even as an eight year old, I could see that. But I could also see that the performers seemed a hell of a lot happier than a lot of the farmers in town who were barely putting enough food on the table to keep their families from turning into ghosts.

    That¡¯s why when I was fourteen- well, another story for another day. Now, the two-bit circuses are little-bitty carnivals that pop up in plaza parking lots and are done in a week and move on without a trace. But even in the carnivals, some things stay the same.

    Most of them have rides, games, and overpriced food that could snap your arteries shut just by smelling it. But this one had something a little extra.

    The human element.

    It had the fat lady. And the dwarf pony. And the alligator man and, most important for me, it had the fortune teller.

    Me, I¡¯m looking to make a fortune. So I go to the teller.

    I see him. He¡¯s sitting with a customer¡­really, more of a mark than a customer. He¡¯s got a white tent among a row of white tents. Every tent¡¯s advertising local knick-knacks, henna tattoos and airbrushed t-shirts. I see him in the wheelchair long before he sees me, and I listen in on his talk with the latest person to give him their money.

    ¡°You are a very creative person,¡± I hear his voice saying to the twenty-something blond girl sitting in front of him, her boyfriend sitting down beside her, his eyes wandering. The girl smiles as if she¡¯d been told she was going to get a thousand bucks in the mail, just for being alive and pretty.

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    ¡°And you¡¯ve had to-¡° he looks between her hand and her face, his bright blue eyes set like bright blue pearls in the middle of a wrinkled-apple of a face. When we were dumb kids in a filthy abandoned subway station he¡¯d been a short, spry fellow, maybe five feet tall and trying to do the hoochy-kootchy with evry half-decent looking gal he crossed paths with. Now he''s a wizened little gnome of a man sitting in a wheelchair. He¡¯s still short, but not a dwarf. And except for whatever¡¯s put him in a wheelchair, his body doesn¡¯t seem to have betrayed him like poor Icarus¡¯ has.

    ¡°You¡¯ve had to suffer at times. With your¡­father? No, no, it¡¯s your¡­mother? Stepfather! He hurt you somehow¡­yelled, cursed, made you¡­ah! It was that.I¡¯m so sorry, honey. But here¡¯s the good news¡­¡±

    He must be pushing eighty, and still wearing a now very battered, dusty red turban and a moth-eaten red cape over his shoulders. It was put on hastily and covers most of the back of the wheelchair he¡¯s sitting in. The rest of him is blocked by his mark, but I just bet he¡¯s wearing that same vest (though I hope with the kind of chest he has today that he¡¯s taken to wearing a shirt beneath it) and those same, baggy, poofy pants he thinks make him look like something out of the Arabian Nights.

    It works. He hits all the right buttons, and the poor girl is crying within five minutes. He¡¯s good; figured out somehow that he stepfather yelled at her when she was six, and she¡¯s still mad about it. Figured somehow that her teacher molested her as a little girl, something she¡¯s never told anyone. Figured out she was still sad about her mom dying a few years ago, and wanted something different in her life ever since.

    Then, for the last bullet, he tells her he can sense her mom in the tent with them, right now, right over there. She¡¯s happy and proud of her daughter, and still watching over her.

    The girl leaves the tent sobbing, after giving him a hug that he holds on to just a shade too long, but it¡¯s to be expected. Most men don¡¯t stop wanting women- but they lose it and can¡¯t rope ¡®em in and keep ¡®em after a certain age, if they don¡¯t got the flash to do the job. And working at a two-bit, parking-lot carnival? Nope, he ain¡¯t got the flash. You¡¯d have more luck finding turpentine in the middle of the Painted Desert.

    ¡°And who, pray tell, is next to be found? Who is in need of the services of Manrique, the Magnificent?¡± he says his little spiel when he sees my shadow outside the tent wall.

    Manrique?

    So¡¯s I say it when I come in. ¡°Manrique? Jake?¡±

    He looks at me for just a second. ¡°Do I know you?¡± he says. He¡¯s got me going. Then his face breaks into a smile, and I take a seat.

    ¡°Jane!¡± he says, all happy for a second before his regular face takes over again. ¡°Been a long time, Jane,¡± he says. ¡°I always felt that somehow, sometime, I¡¯d see one of the old crew walk in on me. How¡¯ve you been?¡±

    JAKE

    ¡°Alright, Jake. Nice setup you¡¯ve got here.¡±

    Jane¡¯s being polite. Well, polite as you get growing up on a prairie, then in a carnival like this. I give a little snort and wave my hand. ¡°This?¡± I say, ¡°A dump. But the people are nice, real nice. Nicer than the Russian mobsters I hadda go through when I had my own little tarot card place in downtown Syracuse. Can you believe the mob¡¯s got its fingers in things even down there? Between the state of New York and Ivan, I was getting taxed so bad I coulda made double my money and still ended up in the hole each month. Here at least I get three square, a bed, and I don¡¯t have to worry about waking up to some Russkie standing over me with a baseball bat, you know?¡±

    She nods her head, as if she knows. She doesn¡¯t. I¡¯ve seen her, off and on in the news. She¡¯s been making money- I don¡¯t know how much, but a lot more than me and the rest of us, anyway. She somehow got the rights to making action figures of herself, along with that Cowboy hero fella and a few other folks besides. Every few years they make a new batch of Saturday morning cartoons about the guy, and I see the carny kids watching him alongside Tarzan, Batman, and those little blue squishy freaks with the white hats and the squeaky voices.

    Plus, I heard she¡¯s been making tapes and movies about staying fit at our age. Haven¡¯t had a chance to pick one up, but . . . well, you know. An old man¡¯s gotta take his thrills where he can get ¡®em.

    But I ain¡¯t telling her that.

    I watch Jane¡¯s face- can¡¯t really help it, ya know. Reading her, reading people in general, I mean. I been doing it for longer¡¯n boys ¡®been chasing girls on the Ameche. I look at every twitch, very muscle. She¡¯s trying to hide it- she knows how I do what I do, but she¡¯s not gonna be able to hide it forever. A small tug here, a tiny pull there, and I can tell rough enough what she¡¯s thinking and how hard she¡¯s willing to work to bury it until she¡¯s not worried about letting too much out¡¯ve the ba-

    ¡°Stop tryin¡¯ to figure  me, Jake.¡±

    Dang, she¡¯s good.

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Jane and Jake Part II- Cowgirl, Conman, Action Figures, Aces & Eights....

    ¡°Stop tryin¡¯ to figure  me, Jake.¡±

    Dang, she¡¯s good. While I was looking over her, she was watching me. She always was a smart cookie, that Jane. Shame what happened with Aces ¡®n Eights, but there you hav-

    ¡°Jake? You drifting off?¡±

    I smile. ¡°Jane, honey, you bring back a lot of ghosts, you know? I mean, I know we only worked together a few years, but those were, well. . .¡± I lick my lips, nervous.  ¡°Well, quite the years, you know?¡±

    ¡°I know, Jake. I remember it all. How¡¯d you end up here?¡±

    ¡°Not much to tell. After our group broke up during the War, I actually enlisted. Didn¡¯t go far- they said I had fallen arches. Wouldn¡¯t be able to last on long marches. They told me I could go home, but I just went to the next recruiter station and asked to be . . . something. Anything. I heard the Nazis were killing Jews, along with Blacks, the queers, and my people, the Gypsies.¡±

    ¡°I thought you wanted to be called Roma these days.¡±

    ¡°Some of us. Some just wanna let the truth be the truth and let it stay there. It¡¯s like the Indians- the Indians call each other Indians, black people call each other ¡®nigger¡¯ alla time¡­it¡¯s mainly whites who¡¯ve spent too much time in college who make up this stuff. The rest of us just ignore it, unless there¡¯s money in it somehow. You know?¡±

    ¡°Not really, no. My family¡¯s Dutch and Irish. Can¡¯t get too many nicknames out¡¯ve that these days.¡±

    ¡°True. But that¡¯s because the Irish actually became part of things, and don¡¯t get all offended when they call a police truck a ¡®paddy wagon.¡¯ Did you know that? Anyways, I got a gig in the war helping do the USO thing. Frustrating as all hell for a guy like me. All healthy and girl-crazy, but those dames all wanted soldiers, an¡¯ me? I just drove the truck and pointed the spotlight during the shows. After that, well, I found my first carnival. Gals weren¡¯t too pretty, but the best ones always went to the trapeze guys anyways. Short version of things is that I¡¯ve been doing carny work in the on-season and joe-jobs in the off season for most of my life, and got damn little to show for it except for a few friendships that¡¯ve started ending with my friends in the ground and air in my wallet.¡±

    We talked until she says she wants to get some air. We leave my tent- she walks, I wheel it. I made enough money offa that last mark to where I can take the day off if I want. Plus, I want to show Jane I¡¯ve been busy and getting better at what I did in the past.

    We talk about next to nothing while we walk. She tells me about Russ and his mothman suits. Poor bastard is in an old-age home in his 70s, if you can believe that. ¡°You got money?¡± I ask her as we start to get closer to the place.

    ¡°Some. I usually use the card these days.¡±

    ¡°Save your card, honey. Hang on.¡±

    The wheelchair helps this a lot. I stop a fellow walking who¡¯s wearing nicer shoes than I ever will. I put my wrinkled hand on his wrist while I ask him the direction of the nearest sandwich shop, all the while looking him in the eye with total confidence, while taking a squeeze bottle of water and sucking on it. After a couple of seconds I talk to him, ask him to hold my water, and could he give me his wallet, too? Thanks. Bye.

    And we walk away. I scoop a ten out of his wallet and leave the rest, dropping his wallet on the ground. In seconds, there¡¯s a sea of people separating us from him. When and if he figures out that I just slicked him, he¡¯ll come looking for me, sure. But he¡¯ll see his wallet on the ground, see that most of the money is there, and be happy about it. Meanwhile we¡¯ll be long gone and in a sandwich shop, ordering food and talking about the old days while I weigh my options and decide whether or not my little mind-fucks are gonna work on Jane in her current state.

    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    So she keeps pushing me in my wheelchair and we kep¡¯on yakking and yakking, and we kept walking until we got to the edge of the strip mall. There was a sandwich shop in there and I got her to open the door and help me inside. Yes, I got her to. Jane¡¯s the kind of gal who likes to think she¡¯s running the show, and that¡¯s the best kind of person for me to mark and make ¡®em do what I want. In five minutes, we were sitting at a booth, my chair on the end an¡¯ me hefting myself up an¡¯ over onto the nice, fake red-leather seats. There¡¯s subtle ways you can get a person to feel sorry for you, hate you, love you, and be loyal to you. Today, I used the ¡®loyal/feel sorry¡¯ bit on Jane. Maybe she really felt that way, maybe she didn¡¯t, but all I care about is that she paid for lunch and I didn¡¯t hafta eat one of the crappy corndogs they sell in the center of the carnival.

    Best part for me? When the mark knows what I¡¯m doing and they know I¡¯m pulling their strings, but they buy me lunch anyway. Yeah, doesn¡¯t work every time, but I¡¯ve gone for a month without having to shell out a dime of the crappy pay they give me.

    ¡®Course I was lying about having to work the carny angle for the last fifty years! Shit, you think I¡¯m that stupid? No one takes this life for good unless they¡¯ve hit rock bottom and wanna stay forgotten, or unless they don¡¯t have the brains God gave a goose and they¡¯re stuck. ¡°Hey, you hungry?¡±

    ¡°Sure. You buying? I can¡¯t eat no corndogs, though. Bad on the waistline, and the fat slows down my head something awful.¡±

    Jane. Still into the whole health thing. Meh. It¡¯s how she makes her bread and butter these days. ¡°Sub-sandwiches, good?¡±

    I mean, folks, don¡¯t be mad at me or think I¡¯m a pig or anything, but a man never loses wanting it, you know? And Jane- well, damn, but we all wanted her back in the day. The only one who made us go ¡°23 Skiddoo!¡± more was that gal who dressed up in the bee costume- and damn if she didn¡¯t marry a hero¡­one who became a cop, no less!

    And here she is, looking at least thirty years younger than she oughta.

    ¡°So what jumps, Jane?¡± we¡¯re seated now. I¡¯ve moved a chair away to make way for my chariot so I can eat my philly cheesesteak. She¡¯s eating something vegetarian.

    ¡°Whadja mean?¡±

    ¡°C¡¯mon, Jane. It¡¯s been a while. People don¡¯t drop into your life after a few decades unless they got a good reason. You¡¯re making out good, with the toys and the tapes and all that. Why¡¯d you come looking for an old con-man like me? Why now?¡±

    She puts down her sandwich and smiles. ¡°You like the carny life, Jake? Or d¡¯you want something else?¡±

    I look at her for a couple of seconds. Dang, but she¡¯s good. She knows what I¡¯m gonna be looking for with a cold read, and her face doesn¡¯t give up a damn thing.

    ¡°I like having a bed every night. And there¡¯s worse ways to make a living than making sad people feel better about their lives. You, know, that¡¯s one reason I¡¯m not conning people with the rest of my gypsy family? They turned me out years ago in Cincinnati, where they got an old gypsy king buried. At the annual pilgrimage we all take to his grave, I let some normie know that he was gonna lose everything he¡¯d been saving for his kids to my family. I got sick every time I saw them take some shmoe¡¯s life savings, and I wasn¡¯t able to do a damn thing about it.¡±

    Jane looks at me for a long while. ¡°So, you didn¡¯t like stealing, but you joined a crew of folks that did?¡±

    ¡°Jane, c¡¯mon. You know how that was different. You, me and the rest of our crew, we never took old ladies or lonely bachelors in their eighties. We robbed banks, jewelry stores. We did stick ups at places where the rich folks went, and now I sometimes think we did it so we¡¯d have an excuse to fight other folks just as screwed up as we were, like the Airman or that cowboy boyfriend you had- the Ace of Spades, or something?¡±

    ¡°Aces and Eights.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, him. You know, we were a special kind of screwed up, if you think about it. I mean, what kind of person decides to wear a goofy outfit and do that for a living when everyone else is getting a job, going to college, right? Still, remember how much fun we had when we made a score? A real one?¡±

    ¡°Like the First National.¡±

    ¡°Yeah! Dear God, that was a great day. For some reason, the capes were all busy doin¡¯ something else, and we just burst in. Guards did what we told ¡®em to do, for once. In and out in under two minutes with two hundred big ones! I mean, if I¡¯d cared about my family at that point, I might¡¯ve tried to buy my way back in. But who cares then, right? Even when you split the take, we had fifty large each, back in the 30s, when most shmoes only made, what, two grand a year? Maybe? What¡¯ja end up doing with your share?¡±

    -------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Jane & Jake Part III- Share, Care, and Quite a Pair...

    What¡¯ja end up doing with your share?¡±

    ¡°I invested in a toy company. They made action figures, and I tripled my money in two years.¡±

    ¡°So that was it. Dang, Jane. You always were the smart one about stuff like that. I guess that¡¯s why we were such a good crew. Russ did the gadgets, Miguel cased the joint outside and in, Snow had the science angle down, Bee was the pretty one who the guys just fell over all the time to say ¡®yes¡¯ to, and you were the leader that everyone followed. But you know, you never hadda act like a comic-book bad guy. You were just always right, and we never hadda worry unless the capes showed up.¡±

    ¡°You think so, Jake? Me, the leader?¡±

    ¡°Jane, to hell and back. We¡¯d¡¯a followed you there all the way. No plan you ever made ever went to shit, unless the capes showed up. And even then, half the time we handed them their asses, no matter what they tried to say in the comic books. Like the time poor Mitch the Snowman froze The One and freaked out ¡®cause he thought he¡¯d killed the big green boy scout.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± she said, smiling, ¡°That was a good day. So,¡± she shifted gears, looking at me again, ¡°Would you follow me again, Jake?¡±

    ¡­And there it was. I knew it was coming. One of the first things you learn in this business is to never, ever look too eager. I leaned back in my wheelchair and pretended to think a bit.

    ¡°Well, if you mean a job, Jane? See, thats kinda tough. You know, Jane, I¡¯ve got a nice thing going here. The place ain¡¯t rich, the pay ain¡¯t great, but it¡¯s steady and the people are good to me an¡¯ each other. It¡¯s more like a family than my own family ever was. Least when someone dies here, I get to go to their funeral.¡±

    ¡°We were a family, Jake.¡±

    ¡°A long, long time ago, Jane. Back when we were in, what, our twenties? Mitch was in his teens?¡±

    ¡°You remember the First National job? The Barnum Circus job? Making the Airman punch through what he thought was a hot-air balloon, but it was a giant . . .¡±

    ¡°The shit bomb! Oh, dang, honey, I¡¯d nearly forgotten that one! That was amazing! Hell yeah! You can bet that never made it into the comic books!¡±

    She had me laughing again, like I hadn¡¯t laughed since I couldn¡¯t remember when. Back when we were younger, and it was all most of us could do to not try and cop a feel on her. We didn¡¯t bother- something about her let us know that it wouldn¡¯t ever be a good idea, and we had Queen Bee to satisfy those urges; the kind that frustrated young men have to try and hit on someone so far out of our league we might as well have been monkeys trying to touch the face of the moon.

    ¡°So, Jane, honey, let¡¯s get to it. Why¡¯d you look me up? Been a long while, and I bet you didn¡¯t try to find me just to catch up on old times.¡±

    ¡°Fine, Jacob. Fair enough. You say your life¡¯s good? How¡¯d you like it better? How¡¯d you like having the kind of life where you don¡¯t have to do cold reads on college kids for dollar bills like some mindfucking version of a stripper?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re swearing, Jane?¡±

    ¡°Cowboys- real cowboys do that on occasion, Jake. Cowgirls too. Seriously, you wanna die here? Who¡¯ll pay for your funeral? Where are they gonna bury you? You really a family here? I understand most gypsy types settle down by the time they¡¯re your age. Wife, kids, house, instead of moseying around the country.¡±

    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°True. But I haven¡¯t been part of that life since we teamed up. Tried to get back into it, but it didn¡¯t happen. I never really fit in to begin with. I didn¡¯t much like being a nomad. Still don¡¯t really.

    ¡°Then I¡¯ve got a job for you. One that could set us up for good. Every one of us. And other bonuses besides. What put you in the wheelchair, Jake? You¡¯re pushing seventy, but you¡¯ve made yourself look a good twenty older¡¯n that, what with the wheelchair and all.

    ¡°This life does that to you, Jane. The hands on the clock spin forward twice as fast when you travel for a living.¡±

    ¡°How¡¯d you like to turn that clock back a few spins?¡± she said, putting a small plastic vial, about the size of a film canister on the table.

    I picked it up and looked at it, then at her. I could have probably messed with her head a bit, made her tell me more than she wanted to, despite the walls she had up. But this was more fun. I opened it up and there were what looked like little blue diamond chips inside. I tried hard to keep my eyes on it and not on Jane¡¯s bust which had suddenly started to look very, very promising. I pulled my face into a mask of mild disdain. ¡°This looks like the rock candy that Iggy sells next to the three pitch. Stuff rots your teeth faster¡¯n a freight train on a greased track.¡±

    ¡°This candy¡¯s different, Jake. It puts the teeth back in your head. You wonder how I look this way? You think it¡¯s all jogging and fifty push-ups a day? I got most of my hearing back that I lost from being around guns going off all the time, and I hardly need to wear my bifocals anymore.¡±

    I tried really, really hard not to lose my cool and look eager. If your mark senses you¡¯re eager to get their money, it¡¯s all over. Every time.

    But who was the mark here? Jane or me?

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m not gonna turn down an offer like that right away. But have you been watching that new version of The Twilight Zone recently? Some lady got ahold of the fountain of youth¡¯s water. Only she hadda buy it, every day. And the price kept going up. In the end, she looked older than when she started.¡±

    ¡°Try this, Jake. This one¡¯s free to get you started. It¡¯ll turn things back, and keep ¡®em back for a few weeks. You pull this last job with me, you¡¯ll be set for life, any life you want, and you¡¯ll go back a good twenty, maybe thirty years and stay there. No more doses. No dealer showing up from under a rock with mirror sunglasses and a slick haircut. Just you, your money, and a reset clock. Whaddya say? Icarus is already in, and I¡¯m going to get the Snowman next.¡±

    I smile. For once, I feel the old, prickly excitement I used to get at the base of my spine when I knew we were gonna move on a job.

    ¡°Okay, I¡¯m in,¡± I said. ¡°But let me talk to Snow. I know where he¡¯s at, and frankly my guess is you an¡¯ him ain¡¯t exactly good yet, Jane.¡±

    She paused for a second. She wasn¡¯t expecting that one. Good. I gotta keep her off balance if I wanna make sure I don¡¯t get run over at the end of this.

    ¡°What?¡± she says, ¡°did he go queer or something?¡±

    ¡°Nope,¡± I says, ¡°he¡¯s straight. Not just like that, more like as in he found Jesus and he¡¯s a highschool teacher. You talk good to a carny like me or someone desperate, like the Moth who wants out of the old age home. Getting something out¡¯ve someone who really likes their life? That¡¯s my department.¡±

    Jane smiles, leans back and tips her coke into her mouth, reminding me of a persistent fantasy I had about her back when we were stupid kids living in a subway train. ¡°Fine,¡± she said, ¡°How¡¯s about you talk to Mitch. Saves me a trip to Portland. Never much liked rain ennaways.¡±

    #

    MITCH

    The alarm went off and I looked all bleary -eyed at the red digital numbers in the dark. My wife could sleep through a herd of caffeinated elephants charging through the bedroom with noisemakers, but I¡¯m a pretty light sleeper. Especially on Mondays.

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Mitch/Snowman, Part I- Memories, Wishes, and Shiny pencils...

    Jane smiles, leans back and tips her coke into her mouth, reminding me of a persistent fantasy I had about her back when we were stupid kids living in a subway train. ¡°Fine,¡± she said, ¡°How¡¯s about you talk to Mitch. Saves me a trip to Portland. Never much liked rain ennaways.¡±

    MITCH

    The alarm went off and I looked all bleary -eyed at the red digital numbers in the dark. My wife could sleep through a herd of caffeinated elephants charging through the bedroom with noisemakers, but I¡¯m a pretty light sleeper. Especially on Mondays.

    Sigh deep, rise. Into the bathroom, out of the bathroom. Try to ignore all the things that hurt and pick out my clothes in the dim light. Bring ¡®em back into the bathroom and get dressed for the day, glad for a change that so much of my hair is gone- less to comb, doncha know.

    Dress in my khakis, collared shirt, sweater vest. Glasses- I feel black-plastic rimmed today. Out to the living room to get some P&Q before the day starts proper. Open up my laptop, and read the Gospel of the day before I go to the front porch for my USA Today. Coffee. Check the bills, then more coffee. My wife wakes up, morning kiss with a smile, then say grace over our bowls of cereal. Throw a lunch together, kiss my wife goodbye again with a smile, then off to school.

    Traffic¡¯s not bad, no fighting it this morning. Pull into the school¡¯s parking lot. Briefcase with student papers in it, out of car, into building. Wave ¡®hi¡¯s¡¯ and ¡®howareya¡¯s¡¯ to everyone as I go in. Get to my desk, and look at the eight octagon-shaped tables with hard black plastic tops. Walls with sinks and test tubes and other paraphernalia sitting on counters or hiding behind glass-fronted cabinets.

    And I sit at my desk, thinking like I do every morning how happy I am with the way my life has turned out. Two adult kids who (mostly) get along with me, and stuck with our faith despite college. Got a wife I love who does a great job of putting up with me. And got a job I love where the students are good, and the worst thing I hafta deal with is some kid cheating on a test or cribbing a paper.

    Yeah, life¡¯s been good so far.

    Then dear old Jake hadda roll into my room.

    ¡°Hey there, buddy!¡± Jake says from his wheelchair in my classroom doorway, smile so big on his face it could melt every icicle on the Eastern seaboard in January.

    Jake has a certain smile. It¡¯s almost impossible to resist it if you don¡¯t know him that well. Moreover, even if you do know him well, you know him well enough to know that he¡¯s got something good up his sleeve when he uses it, and almost always what he¡¯s got¡¯ll be better for him than for you.

    Usually, anyways. The last time he used that smile on me, within twelve hours I¡¯d gotten in and out of enough trouble that I was looking over my shoulder for the next year. I¡¯d been bouncing around the idea of turning Catholic ever since, because as many times as I talk to Jesus I still wish I could go to a priest, confess my sins and be done with it all.

    And here he was. Again.

    ¡°Well, look at you!¡± I said, getting up from my desk to shake his hand. Did he know I had a prep period now? Probably. Jake¡¯s place, back when he had one, had all the organizational value of a trailer park after a tornado. But when he wanted something he did an amount and thoroughness of research that¡¯d put the toughest CIA agent to shame.

    And there was that wheelchair again. Dang. He must be up to something.

    Five minutes later. Maybe not even, and we were sitting at one of the big science desks while he made his pitch.

    ¡°So, what¡¯ve you been doing, Jake? How¡¯s the carnival thing working out?¡±

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    ¡°It sucks wind, Mitch. The outfit I¡¯m with now? They¡¯re nice as far as carnies go, but I¡¯m probably gonna hafta change out after another six months. A year at most.¡±

    ¡°So why¡¯d you leave with them in the first place, old buddy? I thought you were doing fine with that little fortune telling place downtown. Plus, your food bill was always low.¡±

    We laughed at that. He never had to pay for lunch- he¡¯d use that weird little hocus-pocus stuff to make cashiers forget to charge him, or get people to fork over their wallets and cash. Pretty wild stuff, and I could never do it.

    ¡°Yeah, well, when I had my place the taxes to the local Romas put too big a dent in my overhead. It made sense to drop the fortune-telling shop and go with a job that paid my room and board and a little pin money extra. Plus they always blew town every week, so wherever we were if there was someone mad at me for taking them for a twenty, they couldn¡¯t find me all that easy.¡±

    ¡°You still taking twenties, Jake?¡±

    ¡°Ten of those adds up during the day. Keep it small, no one sends legbreakers. I¡¯m just someone¡¯s  cost of doin¡¯ business, not an example to put six feet under.¡±

    I laughed again. Poor Jake- never got a skill to take him through the straight life, but couldn¡¯t ever quite fit in enough to make it with either the Travelers or the Gypsies.

    But we¡¯d finished the small talk. Even two old friends got to get down to business now and again.

    ¡°So what¡¯s up, Jake? Usually you call first. You doin¡¯ alright?¡±

    ¡°Better¡¯n alright, Mitch.¡± He leaned in. Aw, crap. Not again. ¡°I¡¯ve got something lined up that¡¯ll set me up so good, I¡¯ll only be taking twenties because it¡¯s fun, not because I gotta eat.¡±

    ¡°Waaaait aminute, buddy. If you¡¯re gonna try another midnight run like we did a year back? I¡¯m lucky my wife didn¡¯t see the dent in the car, or my goose¡¯d been cooked.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s ways around that, Snowman.¡±

    ¡°First, you don¡¯t get to dink around with my wife¡¯s memories. Second,¡± look over my shoulder, even though the classroom¡¯s empty, the door is open, ¡°you know not to call me that around here!¡±

    ¡°Eh, bullshit, Mitch! Like any of these walking pimple clusters ever read a comic book with you as the villain in it.¡±

    ¡°Well, with a last name like ¡®Winter¡¯ maybe they¡¯ll think ¡®Snowman¡¯ was a school nickname or something. But come on, Jake. You¡¯ve never come by the school before. What¡¯re you after?¡±

    Jake leaned back and looked at me for a while. Then leaned in. Again.

    ¡°Remember back in the day? Back when we had that hideout in the abandoned subway station? You, me, the Mothman, the Queen Bee, and . . .¡±

    ¡°Calamity Jane. Dear God, oh, yes. She was somethin¡¯, wasn¡¯t she? Between her an¡¯ the Bee, no wonder I could barely sleep at night. If it weren''t Jane turning me on with her tough cowgirl act, the Bee was parading around with that outfit of hers that was so tight I used to joke she just spray-painted it on before a job. Yeah, that was good times, alright. ¡®Course, I was what, thirty pounds lighter¡¯n I am today?¡±

    ¡°Yep. Well, what if I told you, Mitch, that Jane was putting the group back together? And with a job and a payday that could solve any problem that a good, churchgoing school-teacher could ever have in the money department?¡±

    I looked at Jake. He was sitting there, smiling. Doing nothing but reflecting light off of a little pencil he was turning in his hands. He started to talk again and th-

    ¡­cil was still moving. My chest was all tight, like it was every time I thought about the house payment, and how this year it¡¯d jumped by a good five bills each month with the new batch of taxes. My granddaughter, wanting so much to go to a good, religious college that had a tuition that might as well have been six figures for how reachable it was to my daughter, her mother, and my idjit son in law. Now how in the heck¡¯m I supposed to solve that problem?

    And all of a sudden, it was so darned clear. If I went with Jake¡¯s plan, it couldn¡¯t fail. With Jane, and ole¡¯ Icky the Mothman again? We¡¯d be back in business, I¡¯d be teaching again, my granddaughter¡¯d be in school and my daughter¡¯d stop crying into the phone, worried about the influences her daughter¡¯d be getting in a secular university.

    Seemed like a slam dunk.

    Sure, there was that little voice in the back of my head saying this wasn¡¯t going to be a good idea. But I just chalked that up to Emmy¡¯s influence. She¡¯s my wife and I love her, but dangit if she hasn¡¯t thrown cold water on every idea I¡¯ve had to better ourselves in the last thirty years.

    And then he gave the coup-de-grace:

    Jane.

    ----

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Mitch, Part II- The Snowman, the Cowgirl, and the Sheriff.....

    ¡°Remember Jane? You know, gun girl?¡±

    Did I remember Jane? Back when we were stupids kids, Jane and I¡­ well, we were. . . she was my first kiss, though you couldn¡¯t necessarily call her my first gal. But yeah, you always remember your first car, your first kiss- and no, she wasn¡¯t my first that. That was Emmy after we got married.

    But still- Emmy doesn¡¯t know much about that part of my life. Though I have caught her looking at me sometimes, wondering why my eyes get all misty when I hear subway trains roaring through the tunnels.

    We¡¯d been back for a little while, spending a bunch of the dough we¡¯d gotten from a rare job that¡¯d gone right. I think Queen Bee had paired off with Mothman for the evening (yeah, she was pretty, but something about her said to stay away. I used to listen to that voice more back then). The train dove by, the wind blew through, around and over us, smelling of steel and rock. In the dim light of the tunnels, Jane looked to my seventeen-year-old eyes like a twenty-year old goddess in plaid flannel, jeans and cowgirl boots.

    She leaned in, smiling, and we kissed. I swear, by Jesus God Almighty as my witness, I felt my head pop in the back when our lips touched.

    I can see more clearly now, ¡®course. I may¡¯ve been a skinny, naive kid but Icarus was more interested in his gadgets than in any girl, and poor Jake had a chip on his shoulder a mile wide an¡¯ a yard thick, always complaining about something like how he got the short end of the stick or how the next plan wasn¡¯t gonna work.  And Miguel? The Black Tiger? He was a spic. Not the plus then it is today. Not by a country mile.

    Me, though? I was just some dumb, nerdy kid who liked to play with his chemistry set, and found it was easy to make stuff freeze. Soon, my dad was actually proud of me for once because I was borrowing his gun instead of playing with my test-tubes. But I was doing a new set of experiments. Crafting, perfecting, making my first prototype of the Winterbeam, the gun I used to do almost all my ¡®super villain¡¯ stuff.

    Hell, I never even thought of myself as a super-anything. My mom was a smart cookie, but even she couldn¡¯t stretch the family budget when Dad lost his job at the factory. When I found out that the local department store kept a lot of its profits in a glorified safety-deposit box, I figured out pretty quick how I¡¯d be able to pop the lock.

    And I did. And I got the cash. And I made a little trip to the bank, paid our mortgage for the month, and put the rest under my mattress- where most other guys I knew were hiding their Playboys.

    Mom said nothing, and never turned my mattress after the first time. Dad said nothing, always sweating when the mail came,waiting for that past-due notice that never came. And me? Well, the cops never quite came after me officially. But there was this weird, unspoken thing you usually hear about the most dysfunctional small towns happening, but it seemed pretty much in place in our little corner of the city, too:

    Everybody knew, but no one accused. Not openly. I still got invited to parties, and my mom still went to her bridge club, and my Dad still went bowling every Wednesday night. But there was a new kind of awkwardness around our family. If there were a bunch of people talking and laughing in a room at school, the room always got quiet when I walked in, and people started looking at the floor. When Dad stepped up to take a shot, the bowling hall got quiet. When the moms would get together to make an act for the family talent show at the school, they¡¯d ¡®forget¡¯ to include my mom until it was too late.

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Well, I got sore. But what was I gonna do? I used the Winterbeam pretty sparingly; I iced the driveway of our crappy neighbor on Halloween morning instead of evening, and my little snowball bombs? They weren¡¯t these massive hand grenades of arctic tundra blasts that swallowed up whole houses of innocent people, like they showed in the comic books. Think more like cherry bombs that iced the floor and made you fall, or numbed up a leg so¡¯s you couldn¡¯t run after me, or your arm so you could raise your fist or point a gun at me.

    But the snowballs came later. I hadda pull another job or two when things got bad, and dad had to deliver papers in the morning just to get food money. Another job on the safe in a hardware store and the JC Penny down the road- that one was tricky. That¡¯s the one where I wore a dark blue suit and fedora I¡¯d gotten from a thrift store, and I wore a mask I made quick out of a white stocking I pulled over my face when I thought a regular eyemask might not be enough. Plop on a fedora and a cloak to hide any more details and keep my hands free, and you had Beantown¡¯s only bona fide super-villain.

    I kept it going for a little bit. I was set for college in the fall when my dad passed away, just a month before my high-school graduation. What was I supposed to do? Give him a potter¡¯s field funeral? Dang it, but real funerals can be expensive, and the morticians know they¡¯ve got you over a barrel. So, I did my fourth job, the one that some joejack caught on camera. Now there was a blurry photo of a guy in a fedora and a white stocking mask robbing a place after dark, using something that left icicles on the lock (the cops got there faster this time), and suddenly the papers dubbed me ¡®The Snowman.¡¯

    The sheriff dropped by after that one. Knocked on my door and everything, asked my mom if he could have a little chat with me. I imagine that was an awkward conversation for the sheriff maybe more, even, than it was for me. I¡¯d known that my dad had been good friends with Sheriff Lawson when they¡¯d been in high school together, but I hadn¡¯t known until that day that the Sheriff had dated mom for a while back then. I also didn¡¯t know he¡¯d carried a torch for her for a long time, even after she¡¯d married my dad a week after their graduation.

    He had a chat with me in our garage, alright, with the chem set and everything I¡¯d used right behind him. I thought then that he was just thick as a brick, but in retrospect he was probably cutting me a break for the sake of my mom and the memory of my dad.

    I¡¯d never been more nervous than I was that day, and the only day I¡¯ve ever been more scared was my wedding day. But the sheriff was nice enough. Just told me he knew I was good with a test tube, knew that we were having trouble financially, said he could get us help to keep the lights on. He went on to ask me if I knew anything about the thefts in town (surprise, I said no), and if I could point him in the direction of anyone who might know something.

    I was pretty stupid myself, being seventeen and all. But right then I realized I was being offered a chance, a way out. And I was gonna take it. My science teacher had been gradually turning over from being a pretty button-down, coat-and-tie teacher like the others to being a goatee-and-black turtleneck-wearing beatnik type. Plus, he wasn¡¯t hardly teaching anymore; just giving us textbook pages to read and sitting at his desk and reading the paper, when he wasn¡¯t yappin¡¯ about how the country was bein¡¯ run by corrupt bankers, racist industrialists an¡¯ the military and the like. Some kids loved it, others didn¡¯t. I didn¡¯t care one way or the other.

    So, I gave him up. Said he¡¯d been talking about how corrupt the banks and America was (slam dunk- every kid in his class would corroborate that), and Sheriff Lawson said he¡¯d look into it.

    Just before he left he looked at my chemistry set. ¡°Nice setup here, Mitch,¡± he said, looking at the tubes and beakers, some with tiny rings of frost around them. ¡°Science project?¡±

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Mitch, Part III- Snowman, Calamity Jane, and The One....

    Just before he left he looked at my chemistry set. ¡°Nice setup here, Mitch,¡± he said, looking at the tubes and beakers, some with tiny rings of frost around them. ¡°Science project?¡±

    ¡°Yessir,¡± I said, hoping he wouldn¡¯t touch anything too much. I was getting better at making the shells for the Winterbeam, but it still took a good hour of setup and then a day for the stuff to perk before I got a half-dozen shells filled with my special brand of freeze-brew that would turn into a liquid-nitro gas that¡¯d freeze everything it touched within a dozen yard range. And I had six shells right on the counter already; dad¡¯s passing had made me more than a little sloppy.

    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll just check out this teacher of yours, Mitch. It¡¯s real important I do that quick. You know why? Because if he is this Snowman character, then the real danger isn¡¯t him popping a lock on a cash box over at JC Penny¡¯s. The real danger is in someone thinking that this¡¯d be the way to solve problems for themselves.  We¡¯ve got a nice, quiet town here, Mitch. And I don¡¯t need or want someone who¡¯s read a few too many comic books bringing someone like the Airman or The One down here and having a public fight in our downtown. The comic books show only the cool parts of that- not the cops who get hurt or killed, not the regular joes whose businesses get their storefronts kicked in and their stock blown up, and where are they a week before Christmas?¡±

    He looked at me as if to gauge my understanding. I nodded my head. I had an idea, but couldn¡¯t go much further.

    ¡°Mitch,¡± he said as he walked to the car, ¡°you¡¯re a good kid, and everybody knows it. But if anyone tried to play superhero or supervillain in this town, I would shoot to kill, no matter how much I care about them or anyone else they might be connected to.¡±

    Well, damn. The penny finally dropped. Sheriff Lawson knew what I was doing, but because he¡¯d been sweet on my mom and knew my dad, he was gonna let me go this time and warn me not to do anything in-town, or else.

    Fair enough. Later, when I was cleaning up I found that there were only five cartridges. Not the six I woulda sworn on a stack of Bibles had been there before the sheriff¡¯s visit.

    The next day the papers had a bit about my science teacher, Mr. Adler. It seemed Mr. Adler had been trying to date one of the cheerleaders (no one called it a mid-life crisis then). He¡¯d been fired from the school and arrested when ¡°evidence was found linking him to a series of robberies¡¯ in town.¡± I was careful not to be seen trying to follow the case, but I just bet some if not all of that ¡®evidence¡¯ was my missing cartridge found on his living room floor when Sheriff Lawson went to have a little chat with Mr. Adler.

    So, yeah. I got smarter. I kept the suit (who¡¯d notice a suit? They all looked the same in a newspaper picture back then- all black-and-white, no color), the mask, and used the Winterbeam to freeze locks and pop them open from the back.

    And I made sure every job took place in the big city, not in Beantown.

    So long as I was careful and didn¡¯t get too greedy, I knew I could pilfer all I needed and the evidence would literally melt away before the cops even knew I¡¯d been in the place. I had nothing to fear from the Airman, The One, the police, or any of the rest now that everyone thought the Snowman was safely behind bars and getting beat up by his fellow inmates on a daily basis over his accusations of statutory rape and his friends in the Young Communist League.

    All was...well, not perfect. Our bills were getting paid. My mom was willing to make herself believe I was getting ready for college instead of making my Winterbeam more effective at splashing cold on the ground or squirting nitro into locks. The closest I came to getting caught during that period didn¡¯t come from the cops or the capes, but from a bunch of yahoos who saw me skulking around after I pulled a job on a Macy¡¯s downtown. They didn¡¯t even know I¡¯d robbed the place; all they saw was a guy on the wrong side of town wearing the kind of clothing a young guy¡¯d wear going on a date or a college mixer.

    So they chased after me. I blasted the street behind, and some fell. The rest didn¡¯t get the message, and kept on coming after me. I panicked; what if they caught me? I was really more worried about them breaking the Winterbeam or Mom being disappointed in me if she found out for real how I¡¯d been paying the family bills.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    And then one got close. Roaring, yelling, whooping, he¡¯d slicked back his red hair and a letterman jacket- fella who didn¡¯t belong on the wrong side of the tracks himself, by the looks of him. Looking to get plastered on cheap beer with some of his buddies. But there was a certain kind of crazy in his eyes that scared me. I was scared- I don¡¯t mind saying it now. Scared that he¡¯d hurt me, break the Winterbeam, maybe. Wreck what I¡¯d spent a year making, wreck the only thing that was keeping the roof over my Mom¡¯s head and stopped her from crying at night.

    So when he got too close, I blasted him with it.

    Self defense? I think I yelled for him to back off. No cops anywhere. Besides, what, I¡¯m gonna call the cops for help, when I¡¯m carrying a bag of stolen money in my hands? No, all I know, all I remember was that I wanted him to leave me alone.

    So I pulled the trigger.

    To this day, I don¡¯t . . . I couldn¡¯t say for sure if I meant to hit him. I ended up blasting his legs, which, well . . . they froze. Not just ¡®ouch, frostbite,¡¯ either. They froze solid. I don¡¯t think he even realized what happened until he fell and his legs shattered below the knee, breaking like a couple of china vases.

    I have a few regrets in life. But even fifty years later, seeing his legs break off is something that can still get me to wake up in a cold sweat at night.

    I ran and found the car I¡¯d parked in an alleyway. Stolen? Yeah. It was easy to boost a car back then if you knew how to pop the lock and cross a few wires. And I did.

    I wanted to floor it all the way home, but I knew that drawing the attention of a cop was the last thing I wanted to do. So I went at almost the exact speed limit, until I got to the outskirts of Beantown [not in town, remember. Not in town]. I parked the car near a copse of trees- it was maybe two a.m. - and changed out of the suit and into a pair of bluejeans, a t-shirt and a sweater. Just another teenage kid walking home from a party or something on a Saturday night.

    The college kid¡¯s leg-breaking made the Sunday papers, late edition. All of them asking if the Snowman was back, and more evil than ever. A big splash shot showed the poor guy in a hospital bed crying over the ruined stumps of his legs.

    I was done. No more Snowman, no more heists. Done. Finito. From now on I decided I¡¯d help out the family budget by mowing lawns or something. I was gonna worry about college, which I hadn¡¯t bothered to apply to, and maybe I¡¯d get in somewhere, some little tiny podunk place and transfer out after I¡¯d gotten a decent number of credits under my belt.

    Until I saw Jane.

    She was just a few years older than me. But when you¡¯re a seventeen year old boy and a beautiful brunette with her hair parted in the middle wearing red-checked flannel shirt, bluejeans, cowgirl boots and a cowgirl hat to boot suddenly starts talkin¡¯ you up at the drugstore while you¡¯re nursing a coke, it makes even the lowest day a thousand feet higher.

    What did we talk about? You know, she knew baseball. She also knew high school, and tough times with parents who were gone an¡¯ never coming back...yeah, she¡¯d done her homework on me way before she ¡®accidentally¡¯ bumped into me that day. Something in me told me this was too good to be true; pretty cowgirls like her just didn¡¯t put the make on cityboys like me. But all I¡¯d have to do was look at those cherry-red lips and those bright blue eyes and all reason faded away, like trying to track a snowflake in a blizzard.

    We spent the afternoon together. I asked for her number, but she said she didn¡¯t have a phone. But that¡¯s okay, she said. Would I like to meet her at the drugstore tomorrow? She was going to be here with a friend or two . . .

    I never stood a chance. She might as well¡¯ve handed me a hundred dollar bill, and then asked me if I¡¯d like another one tomorrow. She could¡¯ve told me her friends were Kaiser Whilhem and Karl Marx, and I still would¡¯ve been there like a puppy dog waiting for a second steak dinner.

    And guess who her friends were? My head had run through a thousand fantasies where they were a couple of cowgirls just as pretty as Jane was (though a blond and redhead, of course. Variety, spice, life, and all that). But they turned out to be a skinny, dark haired nerd a little taller than me, a chick who was cute but dressed all in yellow and sunglasses on a cloudy day, and another fella in a wheelchair who was a good ten years older¡¯n any of us.

    And now, that fella in the wheelchair was sitting across the table from me in my classroom, ten minutes before my ninth-grade biology class was due to file in.

    ¡°Thinking about back then, Mitch?¡± Jake said. He always had that ¡®gawl, ain¡¯t life grand?¡¯ smile on his face when he was trying to get you to do something.

    ¡°You know I am, Jake.¡±

    Little sum-bickle.

    -----

 Mitch, Part IV-

    Little sum-bickle.

    He was probably the one who made me think of those days. Back when the Snowman was the archenemy in the comic books of the American Airman, the Champion, The One, and one or two other of those weirdos. But I can¡¯t deny it; those were the days! I never played sports much, but you¡¯d have a hard time getting me to believe that any football player was as exhilarated when he threw a ball as much as I was when we were finishing a job and got away scott free. Or worse, when the capes showed up just as we were finishing, and we had to duke our way to the getaway car we¡¯d stolen that morning. I remember the time that The One showed up, all green-and-yellow tights and  underwear, glaring at me through his eyemask. I was so scared when I saw he¡¯d flown in and his muscles were bulging like my uncle¡¯s belly after a Thanksgiving dinner, I pointed the Winterbeam right at his head and pulled the trigger.

    I got scared as soon as I pulled it. More scared when I felt the juice gurgle and surge through the tubes in the pistol. When the white gas was gone and I saw One standing there, his skin all blue and icicles dripping from his mouth and his nose and his eyes, I got terrified.

    Oh, shit! I thought. No other words, just fear. I just knew that starting this second, every comic book was gonna peg me as public enemy number one. Every single cape, from the noble hero-type like the Airman or the Champion to psychos like the Hanging Judge, they all was gonna be gunning for me. Hell, probably every comic-book reading nerd who could pick up a pistol or a knife and put on a dime store mask¡¯d be looking for me too! Every one of them trying to avenge the death of their favorite hero, and maybe get their own comic-book line in the process.

    I was about ready to fall down and throw up from fear when Jane grabbed my arm. ¡°C¡¯mon!¡± she shouted, ¡°Move!¡± I was still a little dumbfounded, and she gave me a good smack, right in the kisser. Dang, but that made me snapout¡¯ve it!

    I moved. Staggered, really. Trying to look back and hope that I hadn¡¯t killed The One, but all I could see was the ice statue with a surprised look on its face.

    Next thing I knew we were bundled into the getaway car and barreling through the streets of the city, sirens blaring behind us like we were in one of those Keystone Cops movies they showed in school when I was a kid.

    Well, Russ packed hisself in somehow, even with the wings of his. Bee drove and we made it. God only knows how she could see through those stupid thick black-plastic sunglasses of hers. Monty in the shotgun seat glaring at everyone and everything with that mechanical eye of his. Those eye things- he had a half-dozen of ¡®em, I think. They were good in a fight or for cutting through steel, or staring at Bee and seeing through her clothes [well, whuddyawant? I was seventeen, remember. And truth be told, I think she knew and she didn¡¯t give a damn. Maybe even liked it]. Cops then weren¡¯t the consistent, high-trained fellas you see today on TV. Back then half of them were criminals themselves, given a chance to reform and then plunked onto the streets to go catch their old buddies. So, losing them in a chase wasn¡¯t the problem it would be today.

    Aw, well, see me gettin¡¯ ahead of myself. The money ended up being real good- best we¡¯d ever done. Once Russ got out of his suit, he convinced everybody to give me extra beyond my share for the way I¡¯d zapped The One out of the way. Said that our star was gonna rise higher than any super-villain group, maybe get our own comic, or something like that.

    Me? I was still shaking like a leaf in a windstorm, all scared-like. Good news was  the money was darned good. I sent almost the whole wad home to Mom, and she paid off most of the mortgage with it over the next two years. Nope, she didn¡¯t ask . . . I told her I had a part-time job selling Amway door-to-door, and I¡¯d made a killing in my last sale. She bought it, or at least didn¡¯t ask any questions. Dang it, if I could get a pile like that today, I¡¯d . . .

    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    Jake was smiling at me, his teeth looking like a happy jack-o-lantern.

    ¡°Jake, you messin¡¯ with my head again? Like when you got Queen Bee to do that striptease to distract the prison guards while we broke Monty outta prison?¡±

    ¡°Mitch! My dear old friend! You cut me to the quick! Nope, I¡¯d never, never, hardly ever do something like that, no matter how much you needed the money to help your oldest daughter get her divorce from that atheist she married, or help your granddaughter through that lovely Christian college she can¡¯t afford, or maybe pay off your house so you and you wife could have some real savings for a change.¡±

    For a second, it all seemed so clear. Money- enough that I wouldn¡¯t have to worry. Family taken care of, wife not complaining, no worries about my daughter going off with the wrong man again, or my granddaughter getting in with the wrong crowd like one of my grandsons did . . .

    ¡°What¡¯s the risk. What¡¯s the reward?¡±

    ¡°What would you need, Mitch?¡±

    Ballpark? What did the supervillains all ask for in the movies when I was a kid?

    ¡°Jake, I¡¯m gettin¡¯ old. I¡¯d hafta have one million dollars on the table.¡± Jake looked at me for a second. He was wondering if I was serious. ¡°Is that all?¡± he said. ¡°Jake, you make me sad, my friend. I thought you were more ambitious than that.¡±

    ¡°Half up front.¡±

    ¡°Now, waitaminute, partner . . .¡±

    ¡°No, Jake, you wait a minute. I can tell- you¡¯ve been playin¡¯ three-card-monty with my head, and you wouldn¡¯t do it if this was gonna be a cakewalk. If we¡¯re lookin¡¯ at that big a payday, I¡¯m lookin¡¯ at serious jail time if things so South. I need to know my people are gonna be taken care of.¡±

    Jake paused and looked at me again.

    ¡°Okay. You wanna know they¡¯ll be okay if you get caught. I get that, Mitch. I respect that. My family don¡¯ give two shits if I¡¯m walkin¡¯ free or if I¡¯m in the slammer for life. So here¡¯s what I¡¯ll do, Mitch. You got a phone?¡±

    ¡°Right on my desk. Why?¡±

    ¡°You got an account at a video store?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t everybody?¡±

    ¡°Hollywood or Blockbuster?¡±

    ¡°Hollywood. Why?¡±

    ¡°Tell me which store your membership¡¯s at. I¡¯ll have your credit card number in my wallet in five minutes. Time me. If I can get your credit card in five minutes, I can get whatever money you need for whoever you need, whenever they need it, nuh?¡±

    I¡¯m not liking where this is going. But sometimes you¡¯ve gotta slow down and see the accident on the side of the highway. Even if the accident may turn out to involve one of your own.

    ¡°And to sweeten the deal, Mitch: if we pull this off, you¡¯ll get way more than a million bucks.¡±

    Jake always did like the dramatic side o¡¯things. He rolled a little cylinder towards me. I caught it, and it had little tiny blue crystals inside. ¡°What in Sam Hill is this stuff supposed to b-¡±

    I hadda stop.

    Jake was standing up.

    I hadn¡¯t seen him stand since the job in- too long ago to remember, now.

    ¡°What the hell, Jake! Since when can you-¡±

    ------

 Mitch, Part V- The Sum-Bickle aint playin a Zero Sum Game....

    -----------

    NSA:OSAIR Agt M. Welpers

    NSA:DoO J. Silvers

    Foreword:

    This report details the current abilities, potential influence, level of law-abiding activity, psychological makeup and potential threat levels of the significantly-abled individuals (SAIs) which are known to the Office of Significantly Abled Individuals Reporting (OSAIR) and currently operating in the United States and surrounding territories.

    Summary:

    No known MH/SAI is currently a discernible threat to the Operations of the United States Government on a State or Federal Level. The MH/SAIs known to this office currently exert minimal power or influence beyond the primary metropolises of their operational bases. This influence level could change relatively quickly if said MH/SAIs were to collude and coordinate their efforts to a significant degree. Said influence could be either positive or negative to the interests of the United States government, depending on the ideological bend of the groups that choose to collude.

    Summaries of SAIs in this report will be reported via the following template:

    Subject:

    Known Abilities:

    Physical Characteristics:      Ht_____   Wt_____

    Identity: Known     Unknown

    If Known:

    Affiliations:

    Current Ideological Orientations:

    America:       Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Law/Order:     Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Threat/Influence Assessment:

    ------

    Subject: ¡®Mothman¡¯

    Known Abilities: Powered, Independent flight

    Physical Characteristics:      Ht__<u>5¡±10</u>   Wt<u>. 160lbs (approx.)___</u>

    Identity: Known     Unknown

    If Known:

    Affiliations: No gangs, Org. Crime. Possibly Jewish religious groups.

    Current Ideological Orientations: None known.

    America:       Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Law/Order:     Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Threat/Influence Assessment:

    Subject does not at this writing pose a threat to the U.S. Government. Eyewitness accounts describe him as young (late teens/early 20¡¯s), and viewing his activities as more of a prank on authority figures than an actual dedication to a life of crime.

    Subject has NOT demonstrated anti-social aspects to his public persona, such as random homicide, assault of women, or a willingness to commit pointless acts of vandalism. Agents planted in an effort to test these impulses have uniformly been left alone, even when sighted by the subject in late-night, isolated urban environments.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    The subject¡¯s primary motivation appears to be an easy means of profit, hence the prevalence of urban financial institutions as targets.

    Speech patterns of subject as described by witnesses suggest a mid-Western, rural background. Some reported phraseology suggest a familiarity with Jewish traditions and beliefs, which would fit with the pattern of isolation during formative years that an increasing number of ¡®villain¡¯ oriented SAIs are displaying under psych evaluations and profiles.

    A search for the subject¡¯s identity ought to revolve around young men of Jewish background, raised under isolated circumstances in rural, ¡®Bible-Belt¡¯ communities where families of minority religions and the display of above-average intelligence was met with suspicion or hostility.  Subject in his formative years likely displayed aptitude for mechanical engineering but was left unable to pursue it at the college level due to funding issues or other factors.

    Subject is best handled by local authorities, unless he displays leadership potential among other SAI miscreants. At such time an approved ¡®hero¡¯ matching his abilities ought be dispatched to nullify his flying apparatus.

    -----------

    ------

    ¡°What the hell, Jake! Since when can you-¡±

    ¡°Since Jane gave me what¡¯s in that vial, Mitch. That¡¯s magic in there. Pure magic. Won¡¯t make us teenagers again, but it took me back quite a few years. Jane too.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m married, Jake.¡±

    ¡°Jane ain¡¯t. Look, you ready or not?¡±

    I looked at the vial, then back at him. ¡°You said you could get my card number?¡±

    Jake smiled and went to my phone. Grabbed the phone book he saw under my desk. Flipped through a few pages and found what he wanted.

    A few punched buttons and he was in business. ¡°Hello, is this Hollywood Video? Great,¡± he¡¯d lost his Jersey accent. Now he was some clown from down south, the smallest twang in his speech. Maybe some fellow born and raised in Dallas.

    ¡°Well Hell-oooo there! My name¡¯s John Zwaharlaminienski. Yeah, it¡¯s a mouthful alright. Hey, I just wanted to say that I¡¯ve been real, real happy with the service I¡¯ve received from y¡¯all, and I wanted to write a letter to your corporate offices about it. [pause] Well, sure! Could I have your manager¡¯s name, then? Yep, lemme get that down¡­ [he didn¡¯t write it, but made noises like he was, spelling out the letters of a name I forgot even before he finished spelling it] . . . great! And what¡¯s your store number? That¡¯s . . . [again, four numbers that I forgot instantly] . . . great! Well, thank y¡¯all for all you do! You bet, and you have a great day, too! God bless yuh!¡±

    He hung up the phone. ¡°Time?¡±

    ¡°One-point-five minutes so far.¡±

    ¡°The Scarlet Swami is on the job, Snowman! Watch an¡¯ learn.¡±

    And, dad-gum it, didn¡¯t he call the place, and switched his accent again. Now his twang was a high-class New York job, smooth as Vermouth whiskey.

    ¡°Hollywood Video, this is Juliette, howcanIhelpyou?¡± I heard the girl sing through the receiver.

    ¡°Hi Juliette. This is Ed Shuman, I¡¯m the manager at store 3357, over in Richland? Great. Well, could be better, really. I¡¯ve got a problem and they told me you guys could help me out over there...great, thanks! Okay, here¡¯s where we¡¯re at: Our network¡¯s down, we¡¯ve only got the unit at the counter working. I have a customer who wants to rent a video, and he says he has an account at your store? Great. Thanks for checking on that. His name is Mitchel Winter . . . he¡¯s in there? Great! Hey, no holds or fines, right? Good, all info¡¯s current? Excellent. Okay, here¡¯s where the problem is: we¡¯re getting a lineup of folks now, and I can¡¯t get into the network. I want to rent him the vids, but we can¡¯t get to the . . . well, heck, yes, if you would, that¡¯d be great! Sure. Hang on, let me make sure the pen¡¯s working . . . [now the sum-bickle¡¯s got a working pen in his hand]. . . okay, shoot. . .¡±

    ...Dang if that little weasel didn¡¯t get all sixteen digits of my credit card, the expiration date, and the little three-digit code on the back!

    ¡°Hey, thanks Juliette! You really saved my bacon. I owe ya . . . no, seriously! You need any kinda help in the future, give me a holler, ¡®kay? I always take care of folks who help me out . . . okay, you too. Thanks again!¡±

    Bang goes down the phone, and he slid the number to me. ¡°I got yours, I can get anyone¡¯s. I can get anyone¡¯s, I can get money to anyone. You say you¡¯re in, Mitch, and if anything happens to you I take total care of you and yours. What d¡¯ya say?¡±

    I looked at his hand. It was a hand ¡®way less wrinkled than the last time I looked at it. I looked at the vial. If it¡¯d taken a good forty years off of how Jake looked- what could it do for me? Or for . . . for my wife?

    All that, and a million dollars?

    ¡°In like Flynn, Jake.¡± I shook his hand, and that was it.

    Man, if we¡¯d only known.

    I had only one question . . .

    ¡°Jake? You got a plan if any capes get into this?¡±

    ¡°Like who? The Airman? Guy¡¯s gonna be shitting in a bag the rest of his life. Didn¡¯t you hear?¡±

    ¡°I ain¡¯t thinking of the Airman. You know who I mean.¡±

    ¡°Are you still pissing your pants about The One? You know he went back to his people back on planet Whogivesafuck, right? Or are you still wetting yer bed about the Judge, or some of the new young bucks out there?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, the Hanging Judge, Jake. And some of those new bucks are crazier an¡¯ scarier than the Judge ever was. That walking ad for the Aryan nation, calls himself Primus? He¡¯s a boy scout. No worries there, so long as we¡¯re white and we¡¯ve all got our papers in order. But kooks like The Dark? He hangs guys offa rooftops until the blood goes to their heads and they die of an aneurysm? Or whats¡¯er name, Gladiatrix? The gal who castrates guys?¡±

    ¡°She only does that to rapists. Good riddance, I says. And The Dark? He does that to guys who sell kids. Good riddance too, says I. Primus? He¡¯s got his hands full with guys who try to stomp on the city with giant robots. Those assclowns won¡¯t bother with us, Mitch. Not a bunch of older guys who¡¯re just going to heist a bank, nice an¡¯ quiet, and take a few mil.¡±

    ¡°How do you know they¡¯re gonna have their hands full, Jake?¡±

    ¡°Bud, come with me. Lemme show you some stuff.¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t. I got class.¡±

    ¡°No, you don¡¯t. I talked to your principal. She¡¯s gonna sub for you this afternoon, and give you a raise next year besides.¡±

    I paused. ¡°You fudged with my boss¡¯ head, Jake?¡±

    ¡°Easiest bit of mindfucking I ever did.¡±

    ¡°That don¡¯t surprise me. Let¡¯s go.¡±

    -------

 MIGUEL-Part I- The Black Tiger meets Calamity Jane

    ------------

    OSAIR Report 4351:

    Subject:  ¡°Calamity Jane¡±

    Known Abilities: Phenomenal ability to target with one-handed projectile weapons.

    Physical Characteristics:      Ht__5¡±10___    Wt__110 lbs___

    Identity: Known     Unknown

    If Known: Jane Cobb [No M.I. on record]

    Affiliations: Cadre of Crime {aka Mothman, Snowman, Mr. Monocle, Queen Bee, Scarlet Swami}, various small-time carnival operations.

    Current Ideological Orientations:

    America:       Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Law/Order:     Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Threat/Influence Assessment:

    Jane ¡°Calamity Jane¡± Cobb does not appear to present a threat to the interests or aims of the United Sates Government. Though she touts herself as a patriot, she is not adverse to stealing from institutions that identify themselves as American, i.e. National Banks. Said animosity to public financial institutions may have more to do with her family farm being held under a relatively heavy mortgage by a currently nationalized / previously privately held financial institution, which may have played a factor in the heavy domestic strife during her formative years. She has nonetheless been observed engaging in fisticuffs and pistol-battles with Soviet/Leftist themed SAIs such as the duo Hammer & Sickle and The Feminist.

    Subject has amassed a devoted following among young men enamoured with her comeliness and young women wishing to model themselves after her independent nature. She is rumored to be the de-facto leader of her group of SAI-Criminals, having been observed verbally directing accomplices during several of their heists and physically abusing one of them on at least one occasion [¡°SNOWMAN¡±, see entry for details] in order to gain compliance and maintain team cohesion under significant stress.

    Though her identity is known, subject¡¯s current lack of contactable friends, relatives or associates makes it difficult to either locate or manipulate her.

    Subject has also demonstrated a canny business sense. She is rumored to be directing and/or investing in a line of toys based upon her likeness and that of her comic-book based heroic nemesis, the cowboy-themed hero Aces & Eights. Said toy line has been ably marketed, with royalties paid to Miss Cobb through a number of shell companies. Nothing in Cobb¡¯s background suggests this business sense is the result of her own life-experiences, as records of her schooling do not exist past the 3<sup>rd</sup> grade. This suggests either an innate ability to learn complex concepts quickly or a mentor acting in her life that is heretofore unknown to this office.

    Subject is best handled by local authorities, but ought to be monitored by this office. If her leadership potential results in a group of like-minded SAIs whose influence could extend past the city¡¯s boundaries or over state lines, the FBI and it¡¯s Meta-Human unit will need to be informed and activated.

    ------

    MIGUEL

    ¡°Quit leading with your chin, Sanchez! You¡¯re gonna get-¡±

    I watched as the skinny kid got drilled by the husky white boy and hit the mat, writhing like a kitten that had just been hit by a car.

    ¡°Told you, Sanchez. No feeling sorry for you now.¡± Caramba, I thought, what¡¯s it gonna take? I¡¯d come out¡¯ve nowhere when poor, skinny Sanchez was getting his ass beaten by a bunch of local hoods as he¡¯d walked out¡¯ve the library. Offered to help him out here at the gym, teach him how to fight. Gave him the first month free, even. His madre only could pay half, but I let her make up the rest by putting my intentions in her rosary prayers every day.

    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Sad, though; the boy was making slow progress. And by slow, I meant ¡®almost going nowhere.¡¯ Sanchez was no boxing version of the Karate Kid.

    To be fair, I was no Mr. Miyagi either.

    Sanchez, though, was learning something; he¡¯d gotten up on his own the last three times he¡¯d been knocked down. And he¡¯d done it without help or any cajoling. He wasn¡¯t going to be ready in time for the tournament, but maybe next year? ?Qui¨¦n sabe?

    ¡°Alright, Sanchez. Back into it. This time stop trying to be Rocky and just be Emillio Sanchez. Sanchez is smart. Sanchez is cunning! Sanchez knows when to make a move right when his opponent-¡±

    Sanchez did a move I¡¯d taught him the first day. Showed it to him in the first minute or two after I¡¯d taken down the bullies hassling him, in fact. Classic fake-out; make your opponent think you¡¯re swinging right when you¡¯re swinging left. He drops his guard and-

    Boom! Punch to the gut. Sanchez¡¯ opponent, a stupid lunkhead named. . . damn, I couldn¡¯t remember it. The lunkhead winced, though, and tried a power punch at Sanchez. And another, and another, and . . .

    Sanchez got scared when he saw fury in the mat¨®n¡¯s eyes, and flinched.

    The third punch landed on his right cheek, damn. He went down again.

    But he got back up. Sprang up, really! Yes! Si! Excelente! ¡°a toda madre, Emilio! A.T.M.!¡±

    I ended the fight, gave each boy some encouraging words over their performance. Lunkhead stared at me with glass eyes; I could tell he wouldn¡¯t be here much longer. I¡¯d seen him come and go in a hundred different ways, shapes and forms. Fantasmas, walking ghosts who drifted in and out of my gym, staying for a few days to a few months, learning a few tricks, then disappearing when they think they know everything. Disappearing into the world of the barrio, to kill time in high school or get a job right away, frying chicken or making tacos or running numbers for some local lacra until they weren¡¯t useful any more. Their stories ended with them getting either fired or killed as an expendable footsoldier in the neverending gang-fight turf wars out here.

    Yeah, I encouraged the lunkhead a bit more, until he saw the tiniest light go off in his eyes. Maybe he¡¯d come back and stay. Maybe.

    ¡°Emilio, hit the showers. You lost, but you lost good.¡±

    ¡°What the hell does that mean?¡±

    ¡°Emilio, you¡¯re fifteen years old. Maybe one-twenty, soaking wet. You lasted three rounds with a guy bigger, older and tougher than you. And you got up right after. You know what that means?¡±

    ¡°Que perdi.¡±

    ¡°Yes, you lost the fight, but you won the war, a bigger fight. You got back up, ready to fight on. That is the trick, Emilio! So many men who could be good fighters, maybe great ones, quit after they fail. One failure, and they give up. Half my vatos in their twenties haven¡¯t figured that out yet, but you figured it out when you were fifteen! You see why I¡¯m so happy? All the tricks and punches in the world can¡¯t help you if you don¡¯t have it right up here,¡± I say, poking him in the forehead. ¡°And you had it today! Now you go home, and you think on that!¡±

    Emilio¡¯s back straightens while I talk to him. It¡¯s slow, and it¡¯s subtle, but it¡¯s there. He¡¯s listening to what the wrinkled old man with white hair, a slight limp, a battered pork-pie hat and a dirty wife-beater shirt is saying to him.

    And unlike Mr. Thug Life a few minutes ago, it¡¯s sinking in.

    Emilio nods, smiles. I give him a playful smack upside the head and head over to the next fight. And then . . .

    One of the boys, a kid half-way between a bully and a shining star like Emilio, taps me on the shoulder. His face got the glow, something teenage boys get when something¡¯s got their hormones kicked into such high gear they¡¯re scared instead of giggling. What the heck, I knew the look, but you didn¡¯t see it so much in a gym . . .

    Someone wants to see you, boss, he says. I turn and . . .

    My God.

    She¡¯s in the doorway.

    She¡¯s beautiful, like she always was.

 MIGUEL, Part 2, Black TIger and the Calamity Jane Pitch....

    NSA:OSAIR Agt M. Welpers

    NSA:DoO J. Silvers

    Subject: ¡°Snowman¡±

    Known Abilities: Tissue destruction, Road hazard creation, Lock breaking via ¡®freeze¡¯ weapon.

    Physical Characteristics:      Ht__5¡±10___    Wt__110 lbs___

    Identity: Known     Unknown

    If Known:

    Affiliations: Cadre of Crime

    Current Ideological Orientations:

    America:       Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Law/Order:     Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Threat/Influence Assessment:

    Subject ¡°SNOWMAN¡± does not at this time appear to represent a threat to the U.S. Government or its interests. In his metropolitan area, he has been rumored responsible for at least one assault leading to the crippling of one college-age male victim four (at last count) bank heists and several independent thieving operations from private business operations.

    The events surrounding the crippling incident suggests a degree of self-defense was involved. Victim in this case, an MSU student named Lionel Hansom, stood accused of several assaults and at least one count of rape, charges of all which were dropped by his alleged victims just before trial. Mr. Hansom has not been accused of any crimes since he was crippled and put in a wheelchair, the tissue in his legs destroyed via extreme cold temperatures below the knees.

    SNOWMAN has otherwise demonstrated an unwillingness to endanger human life. The few witnesses we have to his solo activity claim he displayed a voice consistent with a recently post-pubescent youth. This, coupled with further witnesses seeing a tendency to be led and act in a deferential manner towards other members of a group (esp Jane Cobb, aka CALAMITY JANE) suggest SNOWMAN is likely younger than the other members.

    Dynamics of the emerging phenomenon of the ¡®super villain¡¯ group suggest that each member of such a group fills a needed role and jealously guards it, without the tendency of a ¡®hero group¡¯ to nurture younger members to one day take their place (see earlier report ¡®The Sidekick Syndrome¡¯). If these findings hold true for the group known by some as the ¡®Cadre of Crime¡¯ [only referred to this on a regular basis by another member, Mr. Monocle], then SNOWMAN might prove an effective ¡®weak link¡¯ that could be turned to serve the Department. His technological contributions to the group are limited to that provided by his single weapon, and [witnessed on only one occasion] a type of hand grenade that froze the ground and the surrounding area of detonation in an eight-foot radius. The comparatively more versatile and applicable contributions of MOTHMAN [flight] and MR. MONOCLE [aggression via light-based gadgetry] may lead to feelings of resentment on the part of his teammates, being seen as a member of lesser import to the group, along with his own feelings of inadequacy. These can be exploited by the Department [see below] should we decide to pursue a Divide and Conquer approach.

    Examining the pattern of action which they have conducted their last few robberies (see Appendix F), one notes that SNOWMAN stays consistently in close proximity to CALAMITY JANE. This initially suggests a sense of subservience and personal sense of inadequacy on the part of SNOWMAN to the group leader, but also could be indicative of a romantic liaison with CALAMITY JANE, or at least feelings of unrequited attraction on the part of SNOWMAN towards her.

    Whatever the exact nature of this dynamic, it could be exploited to divide the group¡¯s effectiveness. Were SNOWMAN to be in our custody, the subject could be convinced that there were rivals within his group for the affections of CALAMITY JANE, as well as for his place as the group¡¯s authority as technical expert.

    Regardless, his capturing ought to be a priority, considering the usefulness of his cold-gun¡¯s applications in military settings....

    -----

    My God.

    Jane.

    She¡¯s in the doorway.

    She¡¯s beautiful, like she always was.

    And she looks a good twenty or thirty years younger than she oughta. Damn, chica, you look fiiiiiiiine!

    ¡°Well, now!¡± I say, ¡°If it isn¡¯t my coyotita! Look at you!¡±

    ¡°Always a gentleman, Miguel. How¡¯re you doing?¡±

    We give a little hug, and I look at her again. Those same eyes, that same skin. Dios, but Jane was beautiful then, and still is today. I¡¯m in pretty good shape for my age, but she looks trim as she did when we were kids robbing banks.

    ¡°Well come on! Come on! Let¡¯s go catch up!¡± I say it because I¡¯m sure she has a darned good reason for being here, but she won¡¯t be giving it to me in front of a bunch of street toughs and alleyway losers all gawking at her.

    Into my office. It¡¯s about the size of a phone booth, but I¡¯m okay with that. I pay bills here, and give the occasional punk a tune-up talking-to in here too. Place stinks, but it¡¯s in the middle of a gym, whaddya want, right?

    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    I reach down into the bottom drawer and pull out the whiskey I save for friends. Last time she was in here, she became a very good friend indeed.

    ¡°Well, Miguel? How¡¯re things?¡±

    ¡°Going very, very well, Coyotita, since a certain lady came by with enough capital to help me pay my debts and upgrade my gym. We¡¯ve turned a profit every quarter since you did what you did, Jane.¡±

    ¡°Glad it turned the tide. Wanted you to know that we don¡¯t eat our own, or leave a man hung out to dry when he did his job. And you did yours on the First National, no question.¡±

    ¡°Shit, thanks. I do wish I¡¯d been there to see poor little Mitch [Mitch the bitch, I used to call him to myself. Sorry, I know he was yours, but that¡¯s how I saw him], scardiest one of us all, pull the trigger and freeze The One in his tracks. If that didn¡¯t beat shit, don¡¯t know what would. I was kinda mad for a while, you know. When no one came back to the hideout and I didn¡¯t hear nothing from no one for a long time after.¡±

    ¡°I know, Miguel. We hadda move fast. We . . . well, me, anyways, figured that since we¡¯d brought down The One, everyone¡¯d be gunning for us. They¡¯d prob¡¯ly find our lair, find us out, and we¡¯d all be in the joint. Mitch was the one who tried to get us to go back and warn ya, but we all knew that you¡¯d remember the plan we had if the lair got raided by cops¡¯r capes.¡±

    ¡°Oi, shit, did I ever. ¡®Hit the south tunnel, in through the third metal door, secret passage behind the tool bench, pull it back in place as you went through.¡¯ You made us repeat that so many times I started having dreams about it. And you know, it worked. I got away. But I had no way to find you.¡±

    ¡°We tried finding you, Miguel. Especially Monty. Though I think he was more worried you were gonna pop up one day and put a knife in his neck than anything about being fair. When the heat did come off enough to where we could split our cut, we split yours first and stashed it safe. I don¡¯t know if you knew that.¡±

    ¡°Well, nice to hear. It was nicer when you showed up a couple years¡¯ later with my cut plus interest. That smoothed things over, for sure. But . . .¡± I stop just long enough to slug down my whiskey. ¡°I¡¯d like to know how the rest are doing. You hear from them lately?¡±

    She catches me up. Mothman is stuck in a nursing home. Mitch the Bitch is married and teaching high school science [caramba, saw that one coming]. Queen Bee married that maric¨®n who used to ride a white horse down 5th avenue and talk like he was out¡¯ve a fucking Shakespeare play. Jake¡¯s a carny, a fortune teller. Guess he hasn¡¯t lost his old touch, huh? Monty, talked like he was a university professor instead of a high school dropout from Little Italy? He was still on the bottom rung of the ladder, poor guy. A security guard at some egghead place, still trying to get someone to make him rich by buying one of his ideas and using it as a super weapon.

    ¡°So, my Coyotita, I¡¯m glad you came by, and I¡¯m happy to have a drink with you, especially considering what a lovely younger lady you¡¯ve become! But I suspect that you haven¡¯t come by just to invite me to the high school reunion and catch me up on what the other folks are doing.¡±

    ¡°You know, s¡¯what I always liked about you, Miguel. Some men get right to the point, so fast you¡¯d think they were gettin¡¯ charged by the minute. Some men take their time so long you¡¯d think they were Rip Van Winkle wachin¡¯ a snail race. You? You was always right down the middle.¡±

    ¡°The best business is done by those who love, trust and fear each other. And a good drink can bring out all three in any relationship. So, what¡¯s on your mind, chica? How can this old, past-his-prime boxer and burglar help a beautiful young lady like yourself today?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a job, Miguel. A job with near no risk, huge reward, and you get all the love and respect you¡¯ll ever want from these little wanna-bees for the rest of your life.¡±

    ¡°Jane, we left that life a long time ago. I have a business here that pays my bills, I get respect from the . . . well, most of the kids in the neighborhood and their families. What else could I want? Why would I risk jail or worse?¡±

    She looks up over my shoulder, where I have the picture. It¡¯s a beautiful picture, of two stupid Mexican kids who were so insanely obsessed with each other that they¡¯d gotten married way too soon. It¡¯s still got the same frame it did when we unwrapped it years ago, only now the frame also has a black ribbon around one corner.

    ¡°Sorry for your loss, Miguel,¡± she says, in a voice that makes me think of wind whispering across the desert.

    ¡°It was very sad, yes. But Maria and I had a few very good years together, before the leukemia took her. She had cancer, in her blood. She was a good and wonderful wife, up to the end.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯ve never remarried?¡±

    ¡°When you¡¯re twenty-five, you still think no woman will equal that woman, the love of your life. Eventually you realize the only reason she¡¯s so perfect in your eyes is because you haven¡¯t been together long enough to see her at her worst. Not long enough for bad habits to grow and fester. But by the time I realized that? Well, I heard an old man once say you know you¡¯re getting old when you can finally read a woman like a book, but your library card¡¯s expired. Nobody left. Single ladies my own age are either too ugly, too bitchy or just too set in their ways.  And though the young ones are still beautiful, I feel like a criminal asking one of them for so much as a dance, let alone to share their life with me.¡±

    ¡°What if you wern¡¯t so old no more, Miguel? What if I could change that?¡±

    ¡°Ponce De Leon already tried to find the fountain of youth, Jane. If he ever found it, he¡¯s not telling.¡±

    ¡°I prefer to show, not tell,¡± she said. She stood up, did a little stretch, and the dirty-old-man in me began to hope against all rhyme or reason. Memo to me, Confession this Saturday at four at Our Lady of Guadalupe before I try to take Communion at Mass on Sunday.

    But nothing like that happened. She took out a small plastic bottle, and put it on the table in front of me.

    ¡°?Qu¨¦ es esto?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s your ticket to a guilt free life with one of those beautiful young ladies, Miguel. The kind you hide yourself from by staying in this smelling, sweat-stinkin¡¯ gym all day, seven days a week. You take that in your coffee, your whiskey, your water or Church wine, and you¡¯ll see. That one¡¯s free, Miguel. After that, I¡¯m gonna need two things from you: the Black Tiger¡¯s eyes, ears, and quick fingers, and a bunch of your meanest, shittiest little students you can get together. Kids who you know are on their way to the hoosegow anyways, and could maybe do us a little good on their way down without them even knowing it.¡±

    I thought about the chubby, unsmiling little hood who¡¯d punched Emilio to the ground, and was ready to stomp on his face a few times to finish the deed. I thought of the little jerk, Esteban, who thought I didn¡¯t see him flip me off when I kicked him out¡¯ve the gym last week for trying to steal from me.

    Yeah. I¡¯d seen my share of shitty kids leave here. This wasn¡¯t a place to save them. For a lot of them, this was just a stopping point on the way down.  They¡¯d sell out their own madres for case of beer. Some would stab a friend for a bag of cocaine.

    ¡°How many would you need?¡± I ask.

    This may not be fun. This may not be right. But Calamity Jane is one of exactly two Gringos who¡¯ve never steered me wrong, and that if nothing else gets her my attention and ears during this time.

    Plus, even if things go south, I know how to keep my hands clean.

    -----

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 MONTY- Part 1- Who Secures the Security Guard?

    Subject: ¡°Mister Monocle¡±

    Known Abilities: technological, damaging artificial optics.

    Physical Characteristics: Ht__5¡±7___ Wt__200lbs___

    Identity: Known Unknown

    If Known: Montay ¡°Monty¡± Petronia

    Affiliations: Italian-American community, New York City. Cadre of Crime

    Current Ideological Orientations:

    America:   Pro [mildly]                         Anti                            Unknown

    Law/Order:                  Pro                 Anti                             Unknown

    Threat/Influence Assessment:

    Mister Monocle¡¯s/Petronia¡¯s advances in aggressive / offensive optic technology currently do not pose a threat to the United States government or its interests. This may change if he decides to sell his technology to the Russians or other enemies of the USA.

    Petronia has proven to be a surprisingly adept technological persona in his group, though one with delusions of personal grandeur. In coining the name for his group [the ¡¯Cadre of Crime¡¯] that virtually no one but himself will use publicly, or attempting to market the use of his monocle eyebeam technology to the U.S. Military, Petronia displays a willingness to suspend belief in facts with respect to his own abilities and achievements.

    Consistent with his background, Petronia appears, like many ¡®villains¡¯ in the MH/SAI community, to have been an outsider in the community he was raised in. Displaying significantly high levels of intelligence, his teachers reported noting Petronia consistently was isolated and rejected by his peers due to his inability to effectively hide his intelligence from his academic peergroup from first grade onwards.

    In terms of strategy, Petronia likely suffers still from unresolved conflicts in his childhood and adolescence, believing himself to have been withheld from his ¡®due¡¯ in terms of social interaction and position among his peers. He likely feels his higher I.Q. and technological achievements leave himself more suited to be leader of his group than Cobb, who by all accounts has a poor-to-nonexistent academic record yet leads the group with no apparent need for official votes or other process. Those like Petronia who see themselves excluded from the mainstream due to intangible forces such as innate leadership abilities often grow frustrated by their inability to reproduce said effects of popularity in their own lives.

    Attempts to splinter this group and reduce its effectiveness would most easily succeed by beginning with Petronia, turning him against Cobb by encouraging him to more aggressively seek the leadership position within the group, even as we manipulate subject ¡®SNOWMAN¡¯ to usurp Petronia for position of technological master.

    ------------------------------------------------

    MONTY

    I arrived at my desk at the usual time. That is, about five minutes before the start of my shift. Julie had already packed and been ready, as she always was: Sitting primly at the lobby door waiting for me, with her thermos between her knees and a smile on her chubby, bespectacled face.

    She was a good child in many ways. Perhaps a bit of an underachiever, if you¡¯d ask me. She looked relatively presentable in a security guard¡¯s uniform. But then everyone did, provided they didn¡¯t tip over 300 pounds, the way Sherman from day-shift did.

    She handed off the keys to me with a perfunctory ¡®good night,¡¯ and headed out to wherever her car was. I went in, trying not to limp even though my knee was acting up again.

    I took a few seconds once I arrived at the desk. The entire factory was in darkness, save for the lone fluorescent light over the security guard desk. I walked ponderously up the three steps and gently placed my large gym bag on the ledge that ran a good dozen feet in a semi-circle around me.

    I sighed once, picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. After two rings a familiar voice piped up on the other line.

    ¡°Paladin Security,¡± it said. ¡°Station Forty-Four.¡±

    ¡°Pittstan Manufacturing. Security Officer Montressor Petronia calling in at eleven-fifty-five p.m.¡±

    I¡¯d already dipped my right hand into my now-open bag while holding the phone with my left. Before I¡¯d finished the sentence I¡¯d used the routine I¡¯d availed myself of many times before to scoop out a half-dozen vacuum tubes and arrange them according to the number of electrodes they sported.

    ¡°Happy Birthday, Monty.¡±

    ¡°How¡¯d you know?¡± I asked, though I already knew the answer. I just wanted to see how much the nice fellow on the other end of the line actually knew about his own system while I dipped my hand into the bag a second time to extricate my specialized box of tools.

    ¡°Eh, it¡¯s that new computer system they got in here. They got them all hooked up to each other- lotta places are doing that now. Mine¡¯s got its fingers in the personnel files. Pops up when it¡¯s your birthday. Along with how many times you¡¯re late.¡±

    He wasn¡¯t a complete fool. But not up to my level. Not that I ever expected him to be. Not to sound snobby, but the last time I¡¯d found someone who actually peaked my interest in terms of intellectual pursuits, we had a cripple in the White House and I was using my right eye as a glorified dentist¡¯s drill.

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m glad to be zero on that score.¡±

    ¡°Makes sense. You do anything cool today, Monty?¡±

    I looked at my setup for the evening: a half-dozen vacuum tubes. A leather quarter-cowl with no facial features save a hole where the right eye could look out. An open toolkit with a half-dozen small screwdrivers, wrenches and a modestly-sized soldering iron. Several valves, focus-rings and small, spy-camera sized gadgets which had already half-filled the desk with more appearing by the second as my hand kept dipping into my bag over and over again.

    ¡°Not really. I am going to sail gracefully out of middle age and into my golden years without any great fanfare. Just myself and my toys.¡±

    ¡°Toys?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a hobbyist with electronics, Forty-Four. If you ever did want to buy me a present, a gift certificate to the local Radio Shack would be in order.¡±

    ¡°Heh. Monty, I work for Paladin Security in a blue state. I¡¯m lucky if I have enough after taxes to buy my daughter the latest Calamity Jane doll, you know?¡±

    ¡°Not really, as I¡¯ve never had the pleasure of reproducing. Still, hope springs eternal.¡±

    ¡°You got that right. Have a good one!¡±

    ¡°And to you as well.¡±

    Over the next hour, I slowly filled every available space on the long table with equipment from the duffle bag. A test tube holder held vacuum tubes of various sizes. Thick cables wound up and down and through the counter, finishing at a relatively small contraption with a transparent dish half the size of the palm of my hand.

    ¡°Not bad,¡± I said, placing an apple at the end of the counter, and then a sturdy piece of white ceramic behind it that had multiple burn marks scorched across its surface. Behind the lens, and against the small wall of his guard station¡¯s cubicle, I taped a laminated picture of an older man dressed in a monk¡¯s robe with a halo over his head.

    ¡°Saint Albert, guide me,¡± I mumbled after he made a few more adjustments. ¡°Aaaaannd, now,¡± I said, clicking a switch set into a small black box. The lens flashed, and the apple disappeared in a small wisp of smoke. The stem of the apple dropped quickly with a soft clatter against the counter.

    ¡°Well, now,¡± I said, pulling out a black spiral notebook and jotting down several pieces of relevant observations in my characteristically neat, slanted cursive writing.

    Over the next two hours I repeated my experiments with an orange, three blocks of wood with varying degrees of thickness, colors and grains, and a ceramic teacup. The teacup almost vaporized as well, but did not completely disappear.

    Satisfied, I methodically dismantled my setup, returning each piece back to its place in the large bag. My next action (it was by now nearing four a.m.- in another two hours the few workaholics in the company would begin arriving) was to pull out the Wang word processor and begin typing.

    Dear Mr. Hansel, I began, as per my last communication to you, I have continued my testing and procedures with my latest modifications. The tests have proven thus far to be universally successful. Once again, the applications on a practical level of a laser capable of vaporizing large quantities of matter are not strictly limited to those affiliated with the military . . .

    The printer began to chatter, its dot-matrix chewing up the paper as it stippled small letters, line by line.

    I looked quietly at the printer, then back to the small 64k computer at my workstation.

    I hadn¡¯t called the local BBS; the computer wasn¡¯t hooked into any kind of network. What was happening?

    Normally I would have given a quick push on the floor and wheeled over to the printer, or anywhere else at the workstation. But today. . .

    ¡°Like . . . looking at an accident . . .¡± I said, halfway in a dream. I stood up and walked slowly over to the printer, which was still spinning the paper through the holes in the fringe.

    After a few seconds it was done.

    HELLO, MR. MONOCLE it yelled silently in large, stylized capital letters. CALL UP L.I.S. I HAVE A PROPOSITION FOR YOU.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°Oh, Saint Albert,¡± I said, looking over at the computer. Its screen was blank, like a shut eye.

    He sat back down in the chair, and flicked the little black switch at the side of the beige plastic box with the rounded corners.

    **** COMMODORE BASIC V2 **** the screen proclaimed in blue letters after a few seconds.

    64K RAM SYSTEM  38911 BASIC BYTES FREE

    READY

    The little blinking square beneath was, as always for me, full of promise. I smiled. This was traditionally my second phase of the night; talking to others on the Bulletin Board Systems, or BBSs for those of you not in the know. A few keystrokes and the dark-blue on -light-blue lettering was changed to a much more dynamic black screen with red trim and white lettering. He inserted a disk into the floppy drive, added a few more keystrokes, and then dialed on the phoneline that was never used from 6pm until morning at his workstation. The little box he¡¯d long attached the phone cord to said ¡®Vicmodem,¡¯ and when the phone¡¯s ringing became a bizarre scratching and whining of static he flicked a switch

    The screen began to fill with text at an easy pace. 300 Baud, I thought. There were 14 year old kids who had modems faster, but I didn¡¯t mind. I was here to read and talk, not move quickly.

    And tonight, I was here to see just what had managed to remotely start his work printer chattering away at him.

    I dialed a very specific number, and when the cursor started blinking again it had written the following on the screen:

    LOST IN SPACE BBS

    Sysop: King Cobra

    LOGIN:

    PASSWORD:

    I sighed and waited for a moment. I¡¯d had pranks played on me before, but this would have been more elaborate than those would have been. Why not?

    LOGIN: MR. MONOCLE

    PASSWORD: EYEBALL

    There. The white cursor square blinked with a friendly regularity, until I began typing.

    <ol>

    <li>  I. S. the screen said in 1970s -era tech font. </li>

    </ol>

    Type to travel:

    <ol>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Chain Stories</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Quizzes</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Message Board (War!)</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">Files</li>

    </ol>

    I typed a ¡®3¡¯. Within thirty seconds, words began spinning across the screen

    FROM: DIAL TONE

    TO: SIG 3 (WAR!)

    DATE: 3/22/85

    TIME: 0423 HRS

    SUBJECT: WAR! MR. MOMMY-COLE!

    Hey, Mommy-cole! I hacked your printer, loser! Is calling out my grammar the best you can do, loser? Go home, eat goatshit and get retarded, loser! Oh, sorry, you already are! Look, dimfis-breath, the kind of guy who¡¯d name himself after a loser of a super-villain who had a sucky power anyway isn¡¯t worth my time. As far as I¡¯m concerned, theres only three things that you can do: eat shit and die!

    Just get lost, burnout. Take your lame-ass excuses and shove ¡®em up your ass! And you¡¯d better not answer this message with another bunch of $10 words unless you¡¯ve got the balls to back them up! I gave you my address last time,

    I inhaled twice, cracked my knuckles and began my response.

    FROM: MR. MONOCLE

    TO: SIG 3 (WAR!)

    DATE: 3/23/85

    TIME: 0331 HRS

    SUBJ: WAR- REALLY?

    My dear young fool, at what point do you plan to obtain a dictionary, a thesaurus, or any of the other more notable tools that grammatically and verbally challenged young idiots like yourself can so benefit from?

    Indeed, you truly believe that I am unable to ¡°back up¡± my words with action? You even claim that my nom-de-guerre (look it up, cretin) is that of a substandard villain?

    How predictably pitiful.

    If you actually read something besides the first-grade, Mister-Mugs readers that gave you such pause in Middle School, you would have known that Mister Monocle was the undisputed technological mastermind villain of the golden-age of comic books. Without his optic-based weaponry and inventions, the team popularly known as the Cadre of Crime would never have managed to rob a blind newsstand owner, much less any of the National Banks.

    I have noticed that virtually all of your messages to this Special Interest Group are posted just after 4pm, soon after the final schoolbell has sent the children home from the classrooms. I further suspect given your abysmal level of vocabulary and sentence structure that you send your twaddle soon after you have eaten a tasty bowl of cocoa - choco - puffballs and milk, and gotten bored of your cartoons.

    I, on the other hand, have a job of significant stature and responsibility. I pay my own bills, and have not lived in my parent¡¯s basement for a number of decades. If indeed you are feeling brave and can sneak out of your house after your bedtime, I invite you to drop by my workplace here at Soltech-Circuitry''s eminent subcontractor of Pittstan Manufacturing on the tech-strip and see just how far your kind of asinine conversational level will get you.

    I await your response with anticipation...

    __  __        __  __                                 _

    |     \/  |_ __  |  \/  | ___  _ __   ___   ___| | ___

    | |   \/| | ''__   |   |   |\/| |/ _ \| ''_ \ / _ \ / __| |  / _ \

    | |   |  | |_      |   |  |     | (_) | | | | (_) | (__| |  __/

    |_|  |_|_(_)  |_|  |_|\___/|_| |_|\___/ \___|_|\___|

    ...I left my Moniker, a stylized form of ¡®Mr. Monocle¡¯ written in ASCII graphics. Something I knew that the attention-challenged little miscreants would likely never match without graph paper and a great deal of spare time.

    P.S. : ¡®Hacked¡¯ my printer? I¡¯ve told you before where I worked, numbskull. The company¡¯s BBS is public domain knowledge, and the password is so simple a ten-year old could ¡®hack¡¯ it.

    But then, as a ten-year old yourself, you already knew that, didn¡¯t you?

    Ta-ta . . .

    I chuckled. Their little tete-a-tete had been going on for several weeks now, and as of yet there¡¯d been no serious threats to my person. I¡¯d warned the powers-that-be multiple times about the ease with which an even semi-dedicated hacker could obtain access to their computer network. But, of course, what did I know? My reports were supposed to be confined to threats posed by teenagers using the parking lot for a place to try to copulate, or perhaps raccoons looking for easy meals in the nearby dumpster.

    Sad, really. I wasn¡¯t actually trying to have the company¡¯s computer security breached, of course. But if that little miscreant were caught doing something, three things would happen:

    <ol>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">The little twit would be caught, and severely dealt with. I would gain a good laugh at the expense of the little teenage know-it-all, and thus a little bit of the grime of bad-attitude and disrespect would be carved away from the culture.</li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">My predictions to management would come true, and thus my reports and expertise would be given more credence. Perhaps I might even entertain the possibility of a raise past the usual ceiling of $5.50 an hour afforded unarmed Security Professionals like myself. </li>

    <li style="font-weight: 400">I, now having an ¡®in¡¯ with management, would be in a good position to pitch my latest generation of monocle-wonder technology to the bosses of the firm. Perhaps they would agree to produce my works, or find me a Department of Defense contact that would aid me in getting the recognition I¡¯ve sought for so many years. </li>

    </ol>

    ...There was only one potential hazard: if the little brat were caught, would he and/or their exchanges implicate me as a willing participant in the tete-a-tete we¡¯d been having? Unlikely. But still, best to find a way to close that loop before . . .

    I was caught completely by surprise when the window exploded behind me.

    The plate glass shattered inward. I whipped around; the front grille of a battered car stared at me like a mouth full of sharpened teeth. The little building had no gate, only a driveway. The car must have been going at a ridiculous speed to have made it this close without me noticing; nothing in my experience as a security guard had prepared me for this! Nothing had . . .

    The car door opened. The singing, off-key voices of several teenage boys blasted into the night and the front lobby. One of the boys strutted out and forward, the long hair of his mullet nearly tangling in the rusty, screeching car door as he pushed it open.

    ¡°HEYYYYYYY!¡± he screamed, louder than the door, ¡°LOOK WHO IT IS, GUYS! Issat Mister . . . mistah . . ."

    ¡°Monoclit!¡± one the boys in the back sang out, his speech also slurred by whatever intoxicants they¡¯d been imbibing this evening. Five boys in total stumbled out of the car, carefully picking over the broken glass and navigating past the sharp corners of the broken front window.

    I carefully, subtly pushed the panic button underneath the desk by the computer monitor. God only knew if it¡¯d work and actually call the police. To my knowledge it had never been pushed the entire time the building had stood. My fingertips could feel the dust on it, and-

    The young tough, no more than fifteen or sixteen, had staggered up to me and grabbed me by my tie, breathing beer and vomit into my face.

    ¡°So, y¡¯say my li¡¯l brother¡¯s an idiot, huh? Call ¡®im a . . . creeton?¡±

    I stayed still. Absolutely still. The other four boys, all wearing jeanjackets and t-shirts with various heavy-metal bands emblazoned on them, surrounded me, giggling as if they were looking at a hidden girlie magazine.

    ¡°You got an answer, asshole?¡± the boy yelled, getting closer, now an inch from my face. ¡°You got one, huh? Fuckin¡¯ piece o¡¯ shit.¡± He leaned back and smacked me across the head with his open palm, the boy¡¯s open hand making a ¡®doiche!¡¯ sound as it connected with my ear.

    Just like when Papa hit me, I thought, a long-dusty memory connecting in my head from childhood, when he hit me, for spilling milk on his playing cards just before his friends came over to play briscola. . . called me a worthless mangiacake, a bookworm, and a filthy son of a. . .

    No. No more. My father was over forty years dead now. And these little miscreants were all in a semi-circular ring around me, giggling like the bullies did at Saint Thomas Aquinas school, where they¡¯d beat me up at recess for knowing the answers in Math. Or English. Or anything else.

    The button hadn¡¯t done anything. Nearly a minute, and nothing. No police.

    The box was right near me. The on switch in reach of my hand. If I could get the boys distracted, maybe I could do something.

    ¡°Officer!¡± I yelled looking past them.

    They all turned.

    I grabbed the eyebeam, and twisted it wildly while flicking the switch.

    There was a flash, and when things cleared the truck was largely gone, wisps of smoke wafting up without any hurry from the four tires and the remains of the chassis.

    ¡°WHAT THE FUCK?!?¡± yelled the leader of the toughs, striding back towards me.

    I flicked the switch again.

    The vacuum tube popped and broke. No beam shot forth this time.

    I didn¡¯t panic, but realized my only hope now laid in the police showing up.

    I reached for the phone, and got the receiver up before the first angry child grabbed me from behind.

    I had no real idea or especially clear memory exactly how things progressed after that, only that after a few seconds I was on the ground. Punches became kicks, kicks became harder kicks. Soon I felt bruises become breaks.

    I am in trouble, thought a rational part of my brain. Serious trouble. Then I felt one of my ribs crack, and the rational part of my brain stopped. I became a screaming, begging child, trying to hide under the lip of my workstation.

    ¡°Callin¡¯ my brother names, old man?¡± I heard the leader above me. ¡°Think you¡¯re cool? Trash-talkin¡¯ my family? Huh?¡±

    The blows had worked their way from my stomach up to my head. I vaguely perceived being grabbed by the collar and dragged out from under the shelf and into the open floor of the entranceway. ¡°Gonna finish the job,¡± the leader mumbled under his breath, ¡°an¡¯ get back to havin¡¯ fun tonight.¡±

    I could barely registered what was happening. When a loud whomf! noise sounded in the room and a plume of white fog bellowed out and enveloped them all, I only had a dim gladness that the blows had stopped.

    A tall, dark figure with a long white judge¡¯s wig swept through the room and the young men yelled in surprise. I had a sense of relief mixed with fear and puzzlement. Just how old are you now, Judge? I thought.

    -------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Monty, Part 2- The Hanging Judge Arrives!

    OSAIR Report #4:

    Subject: ¡°The Hanging Judge¡±

    Known Abilities: Teleportation, Physical strength at a far-above average level, Melee-weapon abilities [blunt & rope-based weapons]

    Physical Characteristics:Ht__6-7 ft___  Wt__250 lbs [approx.]

    Identity: Known     Unknown

    If Known:

    Affiliations: None.

    Current Ideological Orientations:

    America:       Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Law/Order:     Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Threat/Influence Assessment:

    Subject does not appear at this time to be a threat to the aims of the United States government, but this is not certain. Subject is, at this time, the most enigmatic of the individuals studied by this office and hence the most unpredictable.

    In the field of operations, witnesses have described an uncanny ability to appear out of a cloud of smoke, then relocate short distances within a fighting range so as to obtain advantages over foes.

    Witnesses have further described the use of a large, gavel-shaped hammer and a noose used as weapons in close-quarter fighting.

    Subject also has been described as using legal terminology during the process of subduing criminals caught in the act of illegal activity. A typical pattern of activity involves subject interrupting a criminal activity, stating ¡®Court is in session,¡¯ denying pleas for mercy with phrases such as ¡®overruled,¡¯ etc.

    Attempts to trace a pattern of behavior to result in a predictable set of actions have proven fruitless. Subject¡¯s choice of vigilante venues seems at times almost random. In the month leading up to the filing of this report, subject was credibly sighted a) breaking up a meeting of a ring of pimps of child prostitutes, b) breaking into the home and injuring a well-heeled lawyer guilty of beating his wife, and c) assaulting a drug-smuggling ringleader on the street at 3 a.m. and breaking both his arms on two places each.

    The only visible pattern is that the victims of the subject¡¯s vigilante justice all escaped or were not in danger of being subjected to the normal level of consequences from the mainstream legal system.

    -----

    A tall, dark figure with a long white judge¡¯s wig swept through the room and the young men yelled in surprise. I had a sense of relief mixed with fear and puzzlement. Just how old are you now, Judge? I thought. And when the figure brought out a large gavel and began to slam young men, and lasso them with a white noose, pulling in the ones who tried to escape and pummeling them further, I felt an even greater sense of satisfaction.

    ¡°Order, Court is in session¡±, the figure whispered, loud enough to somehow be heard over the boys screaming and scrambling to escape. I tried to track their dealings with his eyes but couldn¡¯t- things were too blurry. I could see that the leader of the hoodlums was on his knees, begging, gibbering, crying as the Hanging Judge stood over him, the noose in his right hand wrapped securely around the boy¡¯s neck, the large ornate and brass and wood gavel in his left.

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    ¡°Vandalism. Grand theft auto. Rape. Second degree Assault. Premeditated Assault. Assault with intent to kill. Attempted murder. The sentence is . . .¡±

    ¡°Please! No! I¡¯m sorry! I¡¯m sorry! I won¡¯t- I promise, I- please . . .¡± the boy, now apparently chastened, gibbered through fat, bloody lips.

    ¡°Sentence, passed.¡± The Hanging Judge pulled on the noose, hoisting the boy into the air, the long, stringy hair flapping over his eyes which now bulged with fear.

    The Judge now had the young tough strung up on his toes, his back facing the Judge. I saw him swing the gavel towards the boy¡¯s lower back, almost as if he was going to spank him with the comically oversized mallet. It made a solid connection with his lower back instead, hitting it with a meaty crunch. The boy¡¯s legs, which had been trying to get some kind of foothold to release the pressure on his neck from the noose, now went slack.

    The Judge made some kind of twitch with his hand, and the rope seemed to unravel around the boy, releasing him as he fell into a silent puddle.

    I was still lying on the floor, and saw now that the other members of the little gang were also lying still around us. Some were breathing silently, some not moving at all.

    Then the Hanging Judge strode towards me. I tried to rise, but my back, side and legs screamed if I tried to do more than breathe. I could see the thick, black boot in front of him with black laces holding it together. My eyes followed it up to the face hidden in shadow, framed by a white judge¡¯s wig and a long black robe.

    ¡°Monteressor Petronia,¡± the black figure said, ¡°you are innocent tonight.¡±

    ¡°Could¡¯ve told you that,¡± I gasped.

    The judge swirled his long, flowing black folds and was gone into the fog. As soon as he disappeared, a young patrolman ran through it and up to me, the red and blue lights from his patrol car flashing behind him.

    ¡°Sir? Are you alright? Can you tell me your name?¡±

    I struggled with the words. My mouth didn¡¯t seem to want to form them.

    ¡°Mister- Mister Mon-¡±

    ¡°Code ten-fifty-two,¡± the young rookie said into his should radio, now seeing the injured and still around him. ¡°We need a bus out here. Maybe three. I¡¯ve got at least six casualties that I can see right now and there may be more. Possible one-eight-sevens.¡±

    ****

    #

    ¡°Everybody ready?¡±

    Jane¡¯s looking at us. The black eyemask is tight in place, but I can see her eyes inside. They¡¯re sharp, focused and ready for anything.

    ¡°Ready, Calamity Jane!¡±

    Gawd almighty, but Mi- Snowman, got to remember to use their ¡®aliases,¡¯ that way the cops¡¯ll have a harder time finding us. But really, this is getting to be too much I think. We¡¯re packed inside a stolen car like sardines in a can, we¡¯ve gone over the plan as many times as you can go over something without actually being there, to the point where I know everyone else¡¯s part as well as my own. Maybe even better than my own. Normally, when Jane asks that kind of question we just say ¡®yeah,¡¯ like a bunch of tired dogface soldiers who¡¯ve been on a March all day. But good old Snowman here, sitting up front and perked up like a good doggy ready to get a biscuit? He¡¯s using the lingo Jane said to use, keeping our aliases steady, talking like he¡¯s one of the guys out of comics instead of a guy who ain¡¯t even old enough to drink or vote who¡¯s about to commit a crime he could go away for twenty years for if he gets caught.

    Really, it makes me wonder: we¡¯re five people in a little car, dressed in goofy outfits and masks. How come no one¡¯s reported us yet and we don¡¯t have someone like the Airman drop outta the sky, or the Champion charge down the street on his white horse that he¡¯s named Virtue. Yeah, you got that right. I try driving a car with expired plates, cops swoop down on me and give me a ticket, making Jew jokes the whole time when they see my last name on my driver¡¯s license. Guy like the Champion charges down 5th avenue on a fucking horse, they stand back and applaud. What?

    ¡°Mothman, you listnin¡¯?¡±

    Crap. we¡¯re here.

    -----

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Monty Part 3- Cops Arrive, and Mothman Remembers...

    ¡°Mothman, you listnin¡¯?¡±

    Crap. we¡¯re here. At least where my here is. I ignore Jane¡¯s jabbering- unless the score is a big one today, I¡¯ll get my earful when we get back to the lair. For now, I get out of the car. This is why I was on the door side in the back, so we can move with a minimum of time and fuss and arguing. I climb up to the top of the building on the fire escape ladder, wrapped up in my [stolen, again] trenchcoat and the brown fedora clamped down over my head. No one notices anything, no one [I hope] calls the cops as I make my way to the roof.

    I¡¯m counting the whole way. I¡¯ve got three-hundred seconds, five minutes to get to the roof, make the jump, do my part in the scheme and high-tail it back to the car, which¡¯ll be parked in front of the bank with the engine running. All goes right, I¡¯ll get there just as they¡¯re getting out, and Queen Bee¡¯ll man the wheel.

    Up on top of the roof now. It¡¯s just two minutes past nine o¡¯clock in the morning. I know because we all wound our wristwatches down to the same second last night. Well, I wound them that way, anyway. We¡¯re all synchronized, a new word the eggheads are using these days.

    In just thirty seconds I¡¯ll fly down to the street and start my part. I ditch the trenchcoat and fedora I stole from a church cloakroom last week- it¡¯s one way of getting back at all the mean little Christians for making my life difficult; I steal stuff from them when I need it, or just because I can- and I don¡¯t even look at them as they sail lazily down to the street, six stories below.

    Before they even touch the pavement, I¡¯ve bent my knees, dropping my body just a few inches as I keep my head straight and angle my eyes down just a hair or two, to where the street with its cars, noise, busses, pedestrians, cops, street hawkers and paperboys made their noise and bumped and prodded each other with their voices and their shouts and their horns and their wants and dreams and . . .

    No time for that. I jumped.

    My wings popped open. I flew. The thrill never left, never. It was one part of ¡®look at me, Ma! No hands!¡¯ and one part giving the ground the almighty middle finger as it tried to pull me down and turn me into a pile of green puke on the street.

    My wings, though . . . my newest babies. Oh, how they saved me. Not with a jerk and a violent tug, the way a parachute would do it. But instead a smooth, sliding motion, a gentle caress like I¡¯d dream at night about Bee or Jane caressing and holding me . . .

    Oh, for a dream like that today. Tonight. Now.

    But now, now I had a job to do. Ten seconds after my wings had popped I was flying, riding the current and using gravity like a kid on a swingset to go faster, farther. I was speeding, now, shooting through the air like a blue and green torpedo, faster and faster into the morning air, close enough to everyone below I could hear them scream and point and shout my name. Even though I hated the name the papers and the comics gave me, it gave me a little thrill to hear them shout ¡®Mothman!¡¯ as I sped over their heads. Every punk kid in high school in Fort Orlan, every little intellectual bastard child of Tom Reichert who looked up at me- they had to look up, because I was above them for a change. For those few seconds, until the fucking American Airman showed up, I was above them in the only way that really mattered. No matter how many of them there were, no matter how many of them bought Christmas trees that I could never enjoy, no matter how many of them had more money than we did, no matter of them whispered ¡®Jew-boy¡¯ under their breath when I walked through the halls of the rinky-dink, podunk high school we all hadda go through.

    No matter, no matter.

    I could fly, and they couldn¡¯t.

    And I flew. In one minute I was nearly a mile away from the rest of the crew. And I spotted the jewelry store we¡¯d driven by a half-dozen times while we were hatching and making our plans, Jane going over every detail a dozen times until we were sick of the plans and her a dozen times over.

    I flew. I flew and made it to the sidewalk right outside the store and dropped the smoke bomb right in front. Noxious, horrible-smelling white smoke, thick as pea-soup filled the air, and everyone began screaming and running.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    I smiled. People could be so predictable. I always hoped whenever I did something like that that Reichert or his dad or someone like them was in the crowd. I hoped that they¡¯d choke on the smoke, even if it wasn¡¯t the least bit toxic. Maybe they¡¯d panic and have a heart attack or something.

    No more now. No time to worry. Now, off to the bank, and fast. I could already hear sirens in the distance, coming here and either putting the bank off or spreading themselves so thin that it¡¯d be a cakewalk to take the money and run.

    Flying. Swooping. I was back at the bank in the space of a minute and a half. They were waiting in the car, and when Jane saw me coming I gave the thumbs-up with both hands, and they moved.

    Out of the car, into the bank. Jake rolls in first in his wheelchair, looking sick and pathetic. He and Bee roll up to a guard each.

    Jake asks the bigger of the two guards a question, holding out a piece of paper  and pointing to it. When the big guard looks and reaches out to help, Jake reaches out faster than anyone could follow- dang, that guy was quick! He grabs the biggest guard¡¯s hand in his own and looks him in the eyes. ¡°Sleep,¡± he says, slapping the guard¡¯s hand. The big ugly fellow¡¯s head drops, his eyes closed, though the rest of his body still stands erect.

    As soon as Jake dispatches the big oaf, Queen Bee throws off her trenchcoat, revealing her bright, yellow skintight costume which . . . ahem, ¡®distracted¡¯ the other, younger guard she¡¯d been flirting with earlier in the week. Before her coat hits the ground, she¡¯s pulled out her wand, the little number she called her ¡®stinger,¡¯ and jolted the poor schmoe guard with enough voltage to knock a half-dozen men flat on their asses.

    The second guard hasn¡¯t hit the floor before Jane draws both her pistols and blasts them into the air, yelling out for everyone to get down, this was a hold-up!

    Then Monty yelled out that we were the Cadre of Crime, along with some weird and pretty speech. We were too busy to argue or tell him to shut up. Monty was too important for us to ditch. Besides, he never held things up by acting this way.

    I¡¯m acting as lookout, checking all the access points. We never cased the joint ourselves; too risky someone might recognize us the day of the job. Miguel had gone through here days before, breaking in at three in the morning and going over every window, door, tripwire, nut and bolt in the place. And the crazy bugger had memorized it all! Guy could barely read or write enough to sign his name, but he could get the layout of a place just by giving it the once over in the dark better than a camera could in broad daylight. So we knew which places to avoid and where we could hit hard.

    Like the teller booth at the end of the row, hard to see or target by a guard¡¯s pistol.  Mitch is there now, pointing his Winterbeam at some teller- a kid barely older than Mitch himself, who¡¯s fumbling as he puts money in the sack. Jane takes over the teller, as Monty and Mitch head for the safe.

    The manager¡¯s freaking out. He couldn¡¯t open his wife¡¯s bra in the state he¡¯s in, much less a bank vault. Monty and Mitch go to work; Monty¡¯s latest eye-contraption turning the metal on the hinges into vapor while Mitch starts filling the gaps in the lock with some new ice-gel he made up back at our base in the subway.

    It could¡¯ve gone really, really wrong, but it doesn¡¯t. Per the plan, I take over the tellers for Jane, who does her little trick shots on the latest, greatest security feature in the world: cameras that film you the whole day.

    Six bullets, perfect shots from Jane, every one, and the cameras and the film inside are all toast and jam.

    The bag¡¯s full after I get done with the fifth teller. The vault¡¯s open now- we¡¯re cookin¡¯ and moving, and we haven¡¯t even been in the place for a minute. The other guards who came running stop when they see Jane¡¯s guns pointed at them, and their friend on the floor, still twitching from his encounter with the infamous Bee Sting.

    ¡°One Minute Five!¡± Jane yells. Bee is already outside, walking slow like she¡¯s just made a withdrawl from her husband¡¯s bank account to pay for a new box of dresses from Macy¡¯s. She had the bored, strolling gait of the wealthy housewife down pat- she once said her folks had been rich and she¡¯d been raised in Scarsdale and then Beverly Hills, and that was how she knew how to affect the walk and talk of the well-to-do. We never knew if she was lying to us; all we cared about is when she could be the face that got us past bank guards, store managers and even the occasional cop or prison guard.

    Maybe I¡¯ll tell that last story some other time.

    After a few more seconds Snowman and Mister Monocle are finished loading up as much of the vault as they can cram into their sacks. The manager is still freaking out, screaming for the guards over and over again while hiding under his desk. Jane looks at him with so much disgust on her face, just for a second I thought she was gonna shoot him because he was being such a wimp.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go, guys!¡± Jane yelled, ¡°It¡¯s almost two minutes!¡±

    She was right. My distraction would keep the cops away for maybe as long as ten or fifteen minutes, but the capes were gonna be here ¡®way faster. And some times, all it took was one, lousy, stinking cape to show up to ruin the whole plan, send one of you to jail, and make all of us move and . . .

    I look. He¡¯s in the bank with us.

    It¡¯s not the Airman; it¡¯s worse.

    It¡¯s The One.

    --------

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Interlude-Best. Heist. Ever.!

    I look. He¡¯s in the bank with us.

    It¡¯s not the Airman; it¡¯s worse.

    It¡¯s The One.

    He¡¯s wearing his bright green suit with the yellow gloves, belt, cape and boots and the bright, yellow, stylized number ¡®1¡¯ on his chest. His hair is still perfectly coiffed, those damned, perfect blond waves never, ever got mussed up, even after he touched down after flying supersonic speeds to get wherever he was going. He was the only cape in town whose comic-book persona truly didn¡¯t live up to him, rather than vice-versa.

    And of all the crimes taking place in America at that moment, he had to bust ours.

    Shit.

    His arms are crossed, and his face has the patient, straight look of a father with a coiled belt in his hand who¡¯s caught his kid with a hand in the cookie jar.

    Shit. Shit on toast.

    He looks in a mood to punch someone through a wall, or stuff them in a car and pitch the damn auto all the way to whatever planet he says he was originally from.

    ¡°Drop the guns,¡± he says, without inflexion or any real emotion. ¡°Then drop the bags and get on your knees with your hands in the air, or you¡¯re going to regret it for the next month as you lie in your hospital beds.¡±

    His voice has no more concern than a soda jerk asking ¡®what¡¯s yours, lady?¡¯ We were going to comply or he was going to hurt us.

    And that made me mad. Madder¡¯n I¡¯d remembered feeling in a while. Sure, we scared folks. And sure, there were some gangs and villains that¡¯d kill people. But we¡¯d never hurt anybody. No one. We took money, that was it. The capes, though? They hurt folks like us alla time, putting us in the hospital over and over again, and then in jail where the seriously bad guys lived and beat us up again, sometimes killed us, too.

    Made me mad. I was ready to tell him so right then and there before he started beating on us, when little Mitch of all people, Mr. scared-of-his-own-frozen-shadow, pulled the rabbit out¡¯ve the hat that saved us that day.

    Mitch drew on The One. Mitch. He was holding a bag of money in his hands and his gun was in the other, and he pointed it at the most famous cape on the freakin¡¯ planet.

    The One knew what came next, and started the usual part of the script.

    What was supposed to happen was a bullet or ray or something else was supposed to try and blast him, bounce harmlessly off his perfectly sculpted chest, and then The One got to beat the snot out¡¯ve poor little Mitch, tossing off a one-liner or two. Later, the whole event would be immortalized and made into something it totally wasn¡¯t in the comic book of the week. Skinny, scared little Mitch would be turned into some musclebound, snarling force of pure evil, while The One would lose the bored expression he had on his face right now, the artist exchanging it for a beaming, toothy grin as he dispensed pure justice on the poor sap.

    Didn¡¯t happen this time, though.

    The One may have been the greatest cape on the planet, but he hadn¡¯t done his homework. Mitch¡¯s Winterbeam hit him with the frosty strength of a liquid-nitrogen tidal wave. The poor sap had just enough time for a surprised look  before his whole body got turned into a great big popsicle, his famous big blue eyes now solid iced-over orbs of milk-white. His skin was a light blue all over, icicles dripping silently and unmovingly from his mouth.

    The One¡¯s frozen body hit the ground like a slab of frozen meat.

    Everyone was quiet. Three whole seconds of silence. A car horn blared outside.

    ¡°I . . . I killed . . .¡± Mitch¡¯s voice began to whimper like a little kid looking for mommy at the fair.

    Then he started to turn up the volume.

    ¡°I KILLED HIM!¡± he screamed, then screamed over and over.

    Jane looked at all of us. ¡°Everybody outside, in the car, now!¡± Somehow we all heard her over Mitch¡¯s screams. The guy was acting like he¡¯d just seen the boogeyman jump out of his closet, and he couldn¡¯t stop.

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    Jane holstered one of her pistols by her left hip. Still training her right-gun on the people flattened on the floor, she walked up to Mitch. She tried talking him down for about two or three words until she saw it wasn¡¯t gonna do any good. Then she hauled off back, her free left hand making a fist, and plowed him a good, solid haymaker in the jaw.

    We all froze on our way to the door. We¡¯d seen Jane punch capes and guards and cops. I¡¯ve no doubt that she could¡¯ve laid out poor Mitch on the ground and sent him into La-La land if she¡¯d wanted to. She was a farm girl and a carny, remember? She wasn¡¯t a muscle-bound female wonder like Big Bertha, but she was wiry and feisty as any woman I¡¯ve known, before or since.

    Mitch, silenced, stared at her through his white stocking mask. His fedora¡¯d been knocked askew.

    ¡°MOVE!¡± Jane screamed, grabbing his hand and pulling him after her. She leaped over The One¡¯s frozen body, and Mitch fair tripped over it trying to keep up with her.

    Outside. We¡¯d been inside maybe three minutes, tops. Bee was in the car, the engine revving and the horn honking. Dangit, woman! Don¡¯t draw attention to- well, look how we were dressed. I decided to leave that one to Jane, if she wanted to give us a dressing down after.

    We piled in the front and back seat, bags of money in our laps as Bee stomped on the gas and we leapt into the street, cars honking at us, speeding by and forgetting us as soon as we were out of sight. Still no cops; Miguel was doing his own distraction uptown, trying to draw as many black-and-blues away from the bank as he could with a smoke bomb lobbed on the floor of the stock exchange. The man could go in and out without anyone knowing what happened. Shame how we had to-

    Nope. No regrets. Can¡¯t do that now. Had to stay focused. Sweating so much now my cheapass eyemask is slipping off my face.

    ¡°We¡¯re dead¡­ we¡¯re dead¡­ we¡¯re all dead¡­¡± Mitch is rocking back and forth, tears flowing from his eyes in big dark patches on the cheeks of his white stocking mask. Jane¡¯s already ripped her eyemask mask off and is trying to calm him down, talking to him like I saw a rancher talk once to a spooked horse.

    ¡°Mitch? Mitch? Listen to me, Mitch. He¡¯s back there, you¡¯re here. He can¡¯t hurt you, Mitch. We¡¯re safe now. But you gotta stop crying and get with it. You understand, Mitch?¡±

    Mitch takes a breath. ¡°Don¡¯t you see? I killed The One, Jane. Even if he doesn¡¯t come after me, every fucking cape from here to Kookamunga is going to be after us. After me, looking to be the guy who pasted the guy who pasted The One. You get it? You see? Every cape is gonna be gunning for us. Any idiot who can make a mask and carry a pistol is gonna be gunning for us. Every one!¡±

    ¡°This is quite possible, young Mitchel,¡± says Monty, ¡°but consider the other side of the coin. If you did indeed expunge The One from the ranks of the living, it is also very possible that many of the costumed vigilante community will be too intimidated by us and our exploits to make a coordinated assault on our persons.¡±

    ¡°You think they¡¯re gonna be scared of us?¡±

    ¡°I see it as a distinct possibility. Further, we will be able to command much better cooperation from our marks in banks, jewelry stores, and so on. The people will know that they cannot hope to stall and wait for their heroes, not when the Cadre of Crime faces them!¡±

    I feel a tickle at my ankle. I look down. A tentacle has reached out from Monty¡¯s body in its seat and is wrapping itself snug around me.

    ¡°Plus,¡± says Jake, ¡°if we play this right, we can soak the funnybook guys for a pile of dough, They make us look better and give us a bigger cut of the dough, or the gang that put The One himself on ice- hey, that fits double, don¡¯t it? You put him on ice, Snowy! We¡¯ll tell the comic book guys to fork it over or we¡¯ll hafta pay you a little visit! We can get rich just sittin¡¯ at home, collecting the checks!¡±

    Another tentacle sprang out of Jake¡¯s red turban, twisting itself around my wrist. I don¡¯t flinch, hardly move. It almost feels good, really. I look down again; Mitch is still babbling, trying to fix his hat while a blue tentacle wraps around me, encasing my torso in an icy grip.

    ¡°Guys,¡± I say in as casual a voice as I can muster, ¡°You¡¯re, ah, squishing me here. Guys?¡± No one answers. Mitch and Jane are making out passionately next to me. I¡¯ll never have as big a ¡®what¡¯n hell?¡¯ moment for the rest of my life as I will when I walk into one of the storerooms and see the jumpy nerd and the tough-leather cowgirl swappin¡¯ spit. I mean, really? Really?

    ¡­and now I was in the office, staring. Couldn¡¯t think of anything to say at they stared at me. Tried to walk out but there were too many hallways. Doors didn¡¯t open. Dead ends. Fewer choices the longer I stayed in the game. Fewer turns to take, no doors in the walls at all . . .no gonna scream, not gonna scream . . .

    I inhaled a deep breath and woke up. I was in my borrowed bed with a couple of blankets covering me.

    What the hell?

    I swept my legs over and remembered where I was before my feet touched the floor. I stood up and stretched- Dear God in heaven, that wasn¡¯t gonna get old for a long, long time. Just standing, walking, flexing my fingers, all of it. All of it. And all of it without pain, not an ounce.

    I left the room I¡¯d been given and walked down the hall to the bathroom. I took a piss, then a crap, and then cleaned up¡­ sorry for the description, but remember? Remember how I used to need help for this part? Now there wasn¡¯t the least bit of difficulty or discomfort. I kept thinking about asking Meagan, my old nurse, out for that egg creme. Then I¡¯d remember how even though I looked half my age now, half my age was still nearly twice hers. Still, a man can dream¡­

    ----

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Interlude Two- Russ, The Dark, and Primus

    I kept thinking about asking Meagan, my old nurse, out for that egg creme. Then I¡¯d remember how even though I looked half my age now, half my age was still nearly twice hers. Still, a man can dream¡­

    Then I remembered the dream. The dream I¡¯d just had about our best heist ever. The one where we¡¯d gotten ourselves a good, cool mil, and frozen The One literally in his tracks as we made our getaway.

    I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was black again, only a couple of gray hairs visible. I¡¯d never been a large man, but after seeing myself as a crippled little wizened old gnome for the better part of the last decade, having my back straight again with pulled-back shoulders made me look [to me] like Charles atlas, the guy in all the bodybuilder ads in the comics way back when.

    I looked at myself in the mirror until I got tired of it and then quietly left the bathroom. The clock said it was 5:13 a.m. You wake up earlier and earlier on your own when you get old. But now I wasn¡¯t just waking up- I was getting up full of vim and vigor. I was waking up feeling like I could take on the Alliance of Virtue- the Airman, the Champion, Aces & Eights and BlackJack, and whoever else was going through the revolving door that week.

    Heck, I felt like I could paste one on The One himself and come out alive. It''d turned out that poor little Mitch hadn''t killed off The One after all; the big green goofball''d fine after he''d thawed out, so the caped world hadn''t gone all Wrath ''O'' God on us in the end. His alleged kid, Primus, was doing the rounds of Earth now that his dad had gone home, or something like it. Maybe I could give kiddo a sock on the jaw too an'' see what happened!

    I went back to the room I¡¯d been given. I could hear others rustling, and I wanted to show I could be first. First to breakfast, first to the meetings, first to get the job done, whatever the job was and however it needed to be done.

    I was feeling so good, in fact, that I even opened up and read the little prayer book someone had thoughtfully put at my bedside table. After a couple minutes of that I went down to the kitchen where I could already hear pans, plates, glasses and spatulas softly clinking against each other.

    I crept past quietly. Jane was in there, an apron on as she mixed flour and whatnot into bowls, laid bacon out on pans to broil in the oven and began boiling water for grits in bowls.

    I¡¯ll eat the bacon- I¡¯m not that Jewish, - but I¡¯m sorry, I just can¡¯t choke down grits, cream of wheat, or oatmeal. Stuff like that was something Ma made on the rare occasions I¡¯d made her super-pissed at me for about a week on end.

    I made my way to the living room. The couches are wide and soft, but the room was kept very, very cool to ensure that we didn¡¯t fall asleep when we had our meetings here. We¡¯ve had three since Jane gathered almost all of us here, now two days ago.

    I flopped down and looked at the wall. Jane or someone else had bolted a great, big whiteboard to it. A projector sat nearby, set up in the perfect position to light up the board. Sweet¡­

    #

    The night wind howled at this height, covering up the screams of his captive.

    ¡°Are you ready to communicate now?¡± he asked, the vocal distorter on his jaw dropping his voice by an octave and making sound like he was speaking through a jar of mud.

    ¡°I can¡¯t! I can¡¯t! He¡¯ll know it¡¯s me, and he¡¯ll kill me and everyone I care about!¡±

    ¡°Chuckie, I¡¯ve been watching you for weeks now. Following you as you drive around the bus stations, combing the meat market district, looking for victims you say you¡¯ll help but then exploit. You try to engage my sympathies, Chuckie. But I don¡¯t have any. Not for someone who sells children to predators like they were tacos to hungry factory workers.¡±

    He hung over the lip of the roof, looking at his victim, tied by his hands and feet hanging upside down.

    ¡°The name of your boss, Chuckie. And I let you go. You get out of the city, and you can start over.¡±

    ¡°You know what happens to snitches? To capes who go against these guys? I saw him take some asshole like you, had a mask and a gun. He got stabbed, tazed, and fed to a bunch of pigs. They ate him alive, man! I still can hear the bones crunching!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll worry about that. Feel that pressure on your head, Chuckie? Last guy I did this to was dead in twenty minutes. After ten, it really didn¡¯t matter. He was screaming, and no one heard him. Just like no one will hear you now. You¡¯ve got maybe two minutes left before your vessels burst, and you¡¯ll spend the last minutes of your worthless, miserable life with immeasurable pain, worse than the worst hangover you¡¯ve ever had. But I can make it stop, Chuckie. Just give me my next lead.¡±

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°Warehouse, 5th and Edison. Has some ad outside for some vegetable company. That¡¯s where we took the kids every week after they got cleaned up and fed. Guy who took them in was Asian. Never talked. Red leather jacket and dark sunglasses. Gave me the money, took the kids and I left.¡±

    ¡°See? That wasn¡¯t so hard, was it Chuckie?¡±

    Chuckie felt the cords on his feet tug as he was pulled up onto the roof. He screamed more as the concrete lip of the roof dug into his bloated, cheeseburger-fed belly.

    Chuckie felt another tug as the cords were cut. He gasped and began rubbing his wrists and ankles to restore the circulation to them.

    ¡°Jesus fucking Christ,¡± he mubled, ¡°there¡¯s a thousand guys like me in the whole goddam city, and I¡¯ve gotta be the one that The Dark has to go after. Shit.¡±

    He stood up and looked around, his considerable bulk twitching as he jumped at every minor noise and scuttling sound.

    Shit. Now he had to get home and find some way of getting out of town before sunrise. There was an ATM that would give out four or five hundred bucks at a time. It was a ways away, and he didn¡¯t have money for a taxi or anything. But maybe he could hike it? No, not with the kind of strain his body put on his legs. He looked out over the rooftops of the city. Maybe if he-

    The kick in his back came out of nowhere. He fell forward, and over the lip of the concrete ledge. Screaming louder than ever before, he dropped the twenty-five stories to the street. The drop took less than five seconds. If he¡¯d hit the ground, he¡¯d have splattered outwards like an overripe pumpkin.

    But he didn¡¯t finish the drop. A streak of blue and white blitzed out the night, snatching the overweight goon. The blurr slowed slightly as its new burden weighed it down, but only for a moment. In less than a second it was flying at full speed again, up and out to one of the more lit up buildings.

    After maybe thirty seconds, the blurr emerged from the lit building and charged towards the building Chuckie had fallen/been pushed from. Chuckie¡¯s former interrogator, almost his executioner, stood on the edge of the building and looked down at where his latest victim had almost met his end. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the approaching streak of light as it zipped high above the cityscape. Within seconds he heard the familiar sound of a pair of booted feet touch down softly on the roof a dozen feet behind him.

    ¡°You¡¯re still a showoff, Jason,¡± The Dark said.

    ¡°You could try interrogating one of these lowlifes and letting him live after you get what you¡¯re after, Henry. I know you drop them just to get me frustrated when I have to save them.¡±

    ¡°He was trafficking kids. Even a red-white-and-blue boy scout like the great Primus must get tempted to pop one of these sleezeballs off a roof now and again.

    ¡°Tempted, yes. But I don¡¯t do it.¡±

    ¡°No. You don¡¯t want to get your hands dirty. So you drop them off in a police station, even though you know every little County jail skell is gonna put a shiv in between his ribs inside of a week of him getting locked up.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s on the skells then, Dark. Not on me.¡±

    ¡°What do you want, Jason?¡±

    ¡°Just checking in to see how the city¡¯s terror of lowlife criminals is getting on. Even The Dark has to open up sometime.¡±

    The Dark turned away from the edge and glared at his unwanted teammate. Jason had been Primus [long ¡®i¡¯, don¡¯t forget] for over a decade, zipping around the city in a red-white-and-blue striped skintight costume while he grabbed purse snatchers, beat up giant robots and helped kittens out of trees.

    The Dark did things differently.

    ¡°I don¡¯t need you checking up on me, boy scout. Why don¡¯t you go try on a set of gladiator sandals with your girlfriend?¡±

    ¡°Henry . . .¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t call me that! I am The D-¡±

    ¡°Henry! Look, I have enough to do keeping this city safe from scum like fat Chuckie. I know Flavia doesn¡¯t much care if these lowlifes take a long walk off a building¡¯s edge after you¡¯re finished with them, and the cops don¡¯t care either. I mean, look at what Flavia does to those serial rapists she catches these days, and she says it¡¯s all under Juno¡¯s orders.

    ¡°But aside of the legal fallout, the people will cheer us today for doing that, but they might kill us tomorrow for the same thing. Henry, we run around playing dress-up and doing civilian arrests. We¡¯re different and we know it. But both Flavia and I are worried you may overstep your boundaries and do this to someone who doesn¡¯t deserve a highdive. You come anywhere near that, and one of us is going to truss you up and hang you out to dry. Understood?¡±

    ¡°Are you threatening me, Jason?¡±

    ¡°Is it working? You just just keep your nose clean, wherever you hide it under that mask of yours.¡±

    ¡°You know, Jason, just because your daddy was The One doesn¡¯t mean you get to run the world. He figured out that the world¡¯s got a habit of eating its heroes these days.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re trying to bait me into doing something. It¡¯s not gonna work. Leave my dad out of this. Yeah, I have daddy issues. Flavia has Mommy issues, and you? Well-¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m done, Jason.¡±

    ¡°Fine. Meeting tomorrow, at seven. Be there or Flavia or I will find you and drag you to it.¡±

    Primus flew up and away without giving The Dark a chance to answer.

    ¡°Stupid, Flag-waving...¡± The Dark mumbled under his breath, finishing with a number of other epithets designed to question Primus'' masculinity. He waited for a few seconds after, knowing Jason had heard him. mildly upset that he''d chosen to ignore the comment, Henry unfolded his cape and took a long glide off the building back to his vehicle.

    It was going to be a long night.

    #

 Interlude 3- Reunions

    ¡°Morning, Russ.¡±

    Monty¡¯s looking chipper. When he turned up in the news as the victim of that brutal beating, we all trapsed down to the hospital to see him. Seeing us all looking half his age did the trick- he asked us if he could join in with whatever we were hatching!

    Can¡¯t blame him; Jane¡¯s looking nice and perky, her hair a dark, slick jet-black with a few strands of gray in it. Jake¡¯s out of the wheelchair, his hair almost all grown back except for a bald spot at the top he claimed he¡¯s had since he was nineteen. Mitch looks- well, dang it, he looks sharp, like a lady killer if there ever was one. He¡¯s got his hair back, too, plus his beer gut¡¯s all but disappeared.

    And me?

    I can¡¯t stop looking at my hands.

    I can flex them without the pain that arthritis used to bring. They aren¡¯t gnarled and crooked in a vain and fruitless attempt to stave off the pain that came if they twitched or were bumped.

    I can walk, talk, urinate, excrete, all on my own. My hair is back, black, lookin¡¯ good, jack, with just a touch of gray at my temples. Damn, maybe I should grow a pair of chops?

    Nah. For now, I just love doing everything I can do with my hands. My fingers. I pick up the clicker and turn on the TV.

    The news is on. One of the bigger new heroes in the city is the feature. Okay, she¡¯s been around for a decade or more. But when you were in your prime back when they were dropping atom bombs on Hirohito and his gang, anything under a quarter-century is ¡®new.¡¯

    ¡°Who in the nine hells is this?¡± Monty asks, aghast. He looks like a man who¡¯s date just ordered a burger, fries and coke from the waiter at a five-star restaurant, with the Queen of England sitting at the other end of the table.

    ¡°Eh, her name¡¯s Gladiatrix. Says she fought in the Colosseum or something, and some goddess brought¡¯er back to life to help women.¡± Jake¡¯s trying to fill his voice with disdain, but it¡¯s obvious he finds her attractive.

    ¡°But she¡¯s African. The Colosseum is in Italy!¡± says Monty, like it matters.

    I watched her fly around the city a bit. She looks cute in that outfit of hers, what with the spear, the bronze brasserie and the steel helmet and all. ¡°I dunno, Monty. Maybe she was an import?¡±

    ¡°Pretty much,¡± said Mitch, strolling in. ¡°She claimed in an interview that she was an African slave, sold to a Roman master who sold her again to some outfit to cover a debt. The outfit trained gladiators, and eventually she ended up fighting in Rome. She won a bunch of times, but Nero was a total bugger and ¡®thumbs-downed¡¯ her even though she¡¯d won. Something about her spurning his advances.¡±

    ¡°And a Greek goddess brought her back to life?¡±

    ¡°Roman, actually. In the interview she said Juno, wife of Jupiter, brought her back to life to stop crimes against women, or something like that.¡±

    ¡°A lovely story, Mitchel. But if that were the case, why is she staying in America? Why not rip the burkas off of women in Saudi Arabia, or save them from being trafficked? Or mutilated in Muslim Africa?¡±

    ¡°Monty, are you always this much fun at a reunion?¡±

    ¡°Only when I¡¯m right.¡±

    ¡°Meyah,¡± Jake says, walking in on his now two very strong legs. ¡°I don¡¯t care where she comes from or how good she speaks English. She just looks damn fine in that metal skirt o¡¯hers. If she¡¯s for women¡¯s rights, I wish she¡¯d fight for the right for the babes to go around topless.¡±

    ¡°Do you still let your groin dictate your political and domestic positions on the issues, Jacob?¡±

    ¡°Hell, yeah, Monty the mudeye!¡± Jake says, plopping himself onto one of the couches. He¡¯s already got a half-finished drink in his hand. ¡°When the broads up in New York were pushing to go topless, I backed ¡®em all the way. You think I gave a shit about women¡¯s rights? Hell, no! I just like seein¡¯ a good set o¡¯ boobs!¡±

    ¡°Geez, Jake, there¡¯s a lady in the house. You¡¯re sleeping in one of her rooms.¡±

    ¡°Aw, Mitch, if Jane thinks I¡¯m bein¡¯ an asshole she¡¯ll tell me so- won¡¯tcha, Jane?¡±

    Jane¡¯s walked in already, looking like she could be either a gal from the old Bonanza TV show in her Jeans, flannel shirt and boots, or maybe a pinup for ladies just entering middle age.

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    ¡°Alright, guys? Everyone¡¯s here?¡±

    ¡°Everyone but Miguel. He comin¡¯?¡±

    ¡°Nope, Russ. I found him and he¡¯ll be helpin¡¯, but he¡¯s busy the next few days. It¡¯s better if he stays outta the picture until his part in this comes up.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d like to the question the fairness of that last statement, dear Jane.¡± Monty again, standing and trying to look like some kind of elder statesman with a cup of Sanka in his hands. And you know, for a change he¡¯s almost pulling it off. ¡°Considering how he was treated at the conclusion of our victory against the National Bank, I¡¯d posit that he deserves-¡±

    ¡°He deserved a decent share of the profits. An¡¯ Monty, he¡¯s gotten that. I found him a few years after and gave him a quarter mil, just like each of us got, plus a good ten grand outta my own pocket as a way of sayin¡¯ sorry for the shit he hadda walk through. He was mighty happy that day, and now he runs a gym downtown to help keep punks off the street.¡±

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s splendid. I do wish you¡¯d availed us of this information; I spent the first decade or so after that job was finished looking over my shoulder, wondering if he was going to be popping out of the shadows and digging one of those signature claws into my neck.¡±

    ¡°You got nuthin¡¯ to worry for, Monty. Now,¡± she says, looking around at us, ¡°you guys ready to make some serious money?¡±

    ¡°Serious as a heart-attack, Janey girl. And thanks to you and that little blue rock-candy of yours, that¡¯s one¡¯a the last things I gotta worry about now.¡±

    ¡°Glad you liked it, Jake. Now, Here¡¯s where the hooves meet the trail. Y¡¯all siddown, while I get things in order.¡±

    They all sat. I slumped in one of the deep couches next to Mitch, who¡¯d sat close as he dared to Jane. Jacob, now out of his wheelchair, had still arrived in the stupid thing and surprised everybody by standing up once he¡¯d gotten safely inside with the door shut and the blinds drawn.

    Effin¡¯ showoff, Mitch had thought to himself when he saw how much of a fuss Jane made over Jacob¡¯s new ability to walk.

    ¡°We¡¯re looking,¡± Jane said, ¡°at stage one through three. We¡¯re here to get rich, stinkin¡¯ rich, each of us six-plus-zeroes rich, with one last job.¡±

    ¡°Foolproof, of course,¡± said Monty, reminding everyone how much they¡¯d always disliked his sarcasm.

    ¡°Eh, nothing¡¯s foolproof, Monty.¡± Jake said. ¡°If you made something that was really foolproof, then only a fool¡¯d use it, right?¡±

    Everyone chuckled inside. Jake always was the quicker one, the one who could take the wind out on Monty¡¯s sails.

    ¡°If we could focus, please?¡± Jane was getting more than a little frustrated, and it sounded in her voice.

    The room was quiet. She turned to the screen and touched a button on the slide projector.

    Three lines of text appeared on the first slide:

    1.ACQUIRE CAPITAL

    2.HIRE STOOGES

    3.PRACTICE RUN

    4.REAL THING

    ¡°Do you truly believe we¡¯re going to acquire capital this easily?¡± Monty again.

    ¡°You ain¡¯t,¡± Jane says calmly. ¡°That¡¯s gonna be Jake¡¯s job, and Russ is gonna help.

    ¡°You sure I can¡¯t be here, Chica?¡±

    Miguel is at the door! Looks just a bit older than the twenty-something we knew back in the day, but he looks dressed to kill- like Edward James Olmos in the cop show set in Miami. White blazer, dark pants, shoes so white they look like were made of shiny vanilla ice cream. Damn. where¡¯d he get his money from?

    The whole crew was up. All up in seconds. Handshakes, hugs, all the rest. Not an ounce of awkwardness. Later, Jane will reveal that she¡¯d told them how she¡¯d made up with Miguel first before he dropped in, just to make sure no one worried that they¡¯d get killed with a tigerclaw in their neck. The group hug is as much a happy release of tension as it is a greeting and an apology.

    ¡°Gentlemen, now that we¡¯re all here . . .¡±

    ¡°Jane?¡± Russ again. ¡°Is Bee coming?¡±

    ¡°Queen Bee can¡¯t make it. And by that I mean she¡¯s still married to that silver-stringed pansy-cop-husband of hers who used to pretend he knew how to ride a horse.¡±

    ¡°Did you even ask her?¡±

    ¡°Russ, you want the wife of a cop to know we¡¯re getting the band back together? Nope. And doncha go tryin¡¯ to hook her back in, niether. She¡¯s gone over to the capes ¡®long time back, and we all knows it. Even them¡¯s what had a little crush on her.¡±

    They were all quiet. All except Miguel, who started laughing.

    ¡°What?¡± says Mitch. ¡°What¡¯s so funny?¡±

    ¡°You guys! I was the only one who never let myself get all twisted up over Bee, and she¡¯s the first thing you ask about when I walk in.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s not your type?¡±

    ¡°Oh, friend, she was my type. But I learned from my brother¡¯s mistakes: getting mixed up with a crazy gringo woman was the stupidest thing a young chicano like me could do. When the breakup comes? She could yell you abused her in some way and life is one-and-done.¡±

    ¡°If we could focus?¡±

    Jane¡¯s voice suddenly filled the room. The cheerful banter stopped. Mitch looked at Jane and blushed three shades of red in less than ten seconds.

    ¡°Alright then,¡± she said, commanding the room like a circus ringleader directing horses under the bigtop. ¡°Russ? Hit the lights. Guys, here¡¯s the target:¡±

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 PART TWO, Chapter One- Scarlet Swami Scoops the Moose

    Subject: ¡°Scarlet Swami¡±

    Known Abilities: persuasion, hypnotism.

    Physical Characteristics:      Ht__5¡±4___     Wt__100lbs___

    Identity: Known     Unknown

    If Known: Jacob Magnus, aka Jacob Smith, circus performer

    Affiliations: Gypsy [¡°Roma¡±] community, esp. in the Cincinnati, OH area. Cadre of Crime

    Current Ideological Orientations:

    America:       Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Law/Order:     Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Threat/Influence Assessment:

    Jacob ¡°Jake¡± Smith currently poses no threat to the U.S. government or its foreign / domestic aims. Smith is part of a subculture colloquially known as the ¡®Gypsies,¡¯ though the term ¡®Roma¡¯ or ¡®Romani¡¯ are factually more accurate. Interviewing his family has proven more than difficult. Not only do Gypsies have a centuries-old prejudice regarding dealing with figures of law enforcement, in America many Gypsy males are given two names: their ¡®real¡¯ name used among family, and their ¡®American¡¯ name, which is frequently the same as the given names of all the other males in their extended family.

    An attempt to find ¡®Jacob Dean Smith¡¯ when there are no fewer than twenty-nine males with the same name in their tribe proved more than fruitless for two agents sent to gather information on him. They also learned that Gypsy males all have the birthday of January 1<sup>st</sup> on their birth certificates.

    Magnus is unique in that he was turned out from the family almost as soon as he reached the age of majority. Though he is a proven effective social engineer, able to manipulate and even hypnotize others with extreme effectiveness, he apparently drew the line at bilking the poor and otherwise option-deprived, even when given direct orders to do so by members of his family command structure.

    Subject began an independent fortune-telling business, using a red turban as his trademark. He further augmented his fortunes as a nightclub performer with a hypnotist act. When given the opportunity to use his ¡®skills¡¯ in the employ of a bank-robbery, he placed post-hypnotic suggestions in the mind of a bank guard.

    The guard, lured into a hypnotic trap via a drinking session at a favorite bar, could not be reliably manipulated into complex actions such as opening the bank vault or a door at a reliable time. Investigations with our own hypnotist professionals revealed this and more: it was easier to hypnotize the guard into standing perfectly still in abject fear in the presence of Magnus and his henchmen.

    Magnus is still a relatively low-level confidence man and social engineer. His scams are capable of little more than momentary lapses in a life of poverty, yet they have been increasing in scope. Subject appears content to steal amounts from those who will take little notice of it.

    -----

    ¡°Alright then,¡± she said, commanding the room like a circus ringleader directing horses under the bigtop. ¡°Russ? Hit the lights. Guys, here¡¯s the target:¡±

    The slide projector clucked and chuckled. A relatively nondescript door blinked into existence on the white canvas.

    ¡°Gentlemen, this is the front door of the Wharton Dessel Safe Deposit Comp¡¯ny. We¡¯re gonna hit it, take it for all it¡¯s worth, and be gone before anyone knows we were there.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s the take?¡± Mitch asked. I couldn¡¯t read people easy as Jake, but he looked to me like he was speaking more out of wanting to look smart than actually interested. He was finding himself more and more trying to impress Jane, though he¡¯d never have admitted it publicly.

    ¡°I got a man on the inside, Mitch. We¡¯re lookin¡¯ at anywhare from a hundred to two-hundred million in those little, tiny safe-deposit boxes. Any more questions afore we take the skin off the chicken and get to the meat?¡±

    PART TWO. THREE DAYS LATER.

    Tazzi¡¯s was the kind of bar that exists is every city, town, and podunk little hamlet in America and most other countries in the world with regular access to alcohol: the kind of bar that gives cheap booze to an undistinguished and indiscriminate clientele who want to get drunk fast and pay little to accomplish it.

    It also had a wheelchair access ramp. Not because the bar¡¯s current owner had a particularly enlightened mind, or was all that interested in bringing the place up to code, but because the space itself had been rented out cheap and fixed up by the previous owner, a small-time restaurateur who lived an honest life and was easy prey for the kind of lowlife who eventually ran him out of business and took over the place.

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    That lowlife now sat in the back room, his bald head visibly sweating while talking on the phone, his eyes wide with worry though his voice was very calm.

    ¡°Iz, you gotta see where you¡¯re putting me,¡± he said, his voice still even though he knew it would crack if he talked too long. ¡°I¡¯ve always had the rent and the taxes on time to you, haven¡¯t I? Maybe late once or twice in the last three years? But jacking it up to twenty-five? I¡¯ll be out¡¯ve business, and you¡¯ll get nothing, then. Is that what you want?¡±

    The voice on the other line was loud, decisive, and unyielding. A person in the next room could¡¯ve heard the words ¡®TWENTY-FIVE PERCENT¡¯ bellowed into the receiver,before being silenced with a loud click.

    Crap, he thought. Jimmy Manson, he thought to himself, they may call you ¡®the Moose,¡¯ but you¡¯re just a little bitty muskrat in a bigger game you¡¯re just about to lose. His ma, God rest her soul [if there was a God; ¡®Moose¡¯ Mason didn¡¯t have a mind given to thoughts past the pleasure of the weekend, and as such hadn¡¯t seen the inside of a church since his childhood.], had warned him when he¡¯d been in school about hanging out with the likes of Iz and his crowd of thugs. She¡¯d told young Jimmy that they were using him, roping him in with a nickname, free beer, and the occasional girl tossed his way, and he¡¯d wake up to it and realize it was all too late.

    And today that day had come. He¡¯d seen himself as an up-and-comer, the muscle that had finally gotten something of his own instead of always being pointed like a gun at the next target. He looked around the cramped space that made up his office. This was what he was so proud of? He¡¯d been working for Iz¡¯s crew for twelve years now. A loyal soldier. And this was the best he¡¯d get? The other kids he¡¯d gone to school with and bullied all had wives, kids, jobs and houses. The biggest things they had to worry about was getting their sons to soccer practice on time, and bringing home enough money to make sure there was food on the table.

    Moose had to bring in enough money to keep his boss, Iz, satisfied. And Iz just changed the percent of his take of the gross on a whim.

    And Moose finally realized: Iz had a boss, too. Iz was brutal, but he¡¯d almost always been fair. Iz had a boss who was likely demanding more cash for whatever reason, which made Iz demand it of Moose and the other members of the crew who were all doing their own thing.

    Shit always rolls downhill, Moose thought somberly. Now Moose had to lean on the barkeeps to get more drinks poured for both the drinkers and the johns that the whores bled dry.

    It was a shitty life, lived in a shitty place. But there was no way out that Moose could see.

    There was a knock at the door. Moose put his hand under his desk, just in the off chance that Iz or one of his competitors had been feeling a little paranoid and sent a torpedo to make a point or an example to others.

    ¡°Who is it?¡± Moose growled in a voice he hoped was intimidating.

    ¡°Guy needs to see you, Moose. He¡¯s in a wheelchair.¡±

    Wha? ¡°Tell ¡®im to fuck off. I got things to do.¡±

    ¡°Boss, he¡¯s . . .¡±

    ¡°Right here!¡± said the little man as the door opened, rolling right past one of Moose¡¯s bigger lunkheads and into the office. ¡°Moose!¡± said the man, who looked about eighty. ¡°You remember me, Moose? When you were a little fellow, I came by your house alla time! Your dad an¡¯ me we go way back.¡±

    ¡°I hated my dad. Get the fuck out or you¡¯ll get bounced out, chair or no chair.¡±

    ¡°Moose, is that any way to treat an old family friend?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t remember any old family friends, especially ones in wheelchairs. Larry, get this fucker out and come see me af-¡±

    The little man, moving quicker than Moose had ever seen a wheelchair-bound man move, grabbed Larry¡¯s hand and slapped it.

    ¡°Sleep,¡± the guy said.

    Larry dropped in a heap into the chair that luckily was behind him.

    Moose¡¯s hand went for the gun that was bolted underneath the lip of the desk.

    ¡°Stop,¡± the little guy said, raising his hand, palm out.

    Moose stopped.

    ¡°Moose,¡± the skinny little freak said as he rose out of the wheelchair and stretched a bit,  ¡°I¡¯ve been keeping tabs on you here an¡¯ there since you were in high school. You didn¡¯t like your dad much, an¡¯ truth is he really was an asshole, even by the standards of the comp¡¯ny you an¡¯ I keep. But he did owe me big, and he told me if I ever needed anything to come to him, and if he was dead I was to come to you.

    ¡°Now, I need something. Quite a few somethings. And you¡¯re gonna help me for two reasons:¡± Now the little freak was leaning on Moose¡¯s table, looking him straight in the eyes.

    ¡°First, I put a little something in your head when you were ¡®way younger and your dad was still alive. Nice little trick at a party, hypnotize folks and make ¡®em forget about it. Your dad thought it was funny as fuck to see his son clucking like a chicken and then forget about it. And you forgot about it. But I told that little brain of yours to stop you when I said ¡®stop¡¯ and held up my hand like this.

    ¡°So, Moose, here¡¯s how you¡¯re gonna help me. I¡¯m gonna need about a half-dozen heaters with no bullets in ¡®em. I¡¯m gonna need ten grand in cash, and a buncha nylon ropes, hooks, and carabiners. You¡¯re gonna send your mooks to the local Home Base shops to get ¡®em for me.  And when this is all done in a few weeks, I¡¯m gonna spot you enough money you can tell your boss, Izzy, to go piss off and take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut as you watch your new-bought mooks fit him for cement overshoes and drop him in the Southebend river. Savvy? Blink your eyes twice if you get me, Moose.¡±

    Moose blinked. Twice.

    ¡°Good. Now, Larry,¡± he said, turning to the sleeping side of beef in the chair behind him, ¡°when I snap my fingers, you¡¯re gonna wake up, and you¡¯re gonna feel great. You too, Moose. Larry, you didn¡¯t hear anything I said to your boss here, and I¡¯m your good buddy. Moose, you¡¯re gonna have my stuff here in this office next week, and you¡¯re gonna be so on board with my little plan, but you¡¯re gonna keep it to yourself. Ready boys? In three, two, one¡­¡±

    #

 PART TWO, Chapter Two- Mothman Meets Gladiatrix

    I¡¯m your good buddy. Moose, you¡¯re gonna have my stuff here in this office next week, and you¡¯re gonna be so on board with my little plan, but you¡¯re gonna keep it to yourself. Ready boys? In three, two, one¡­¡±

    #

    Jonas Johanson adjusted the thick, brass belt buckle on his security guard uniform and grunted for the third or fourth time since he sat down. ¡°How much longer?¡± he asked, his mouth still half-full of a jelly donut.

    ¡°Give it ten or fifteen. Man, you gotta lay offa those,¡± said his partner, his hands on the wheel at two-and-ten, his eyes steadily on the road. ¡°At least keep that powder shit offa my shirt, man.¡±

    ¡°What else¡¯m I gonna do? We got no radio, and Jack, don¡¯t take this the wrong way, but you¡¯re not the best conversationalist,¡± Jordan answered, taking another bite for emphasis.

    ¡°I don¡¯ give a shit if you think I¡¯m a good talker or not. We get a supervisor looking us up an¡¯ down, I don¡¯t want none of your lunch on me, giving me demerits or some shit like that. Driving this tank¡¯s the best job I¡¯m prob¡¯ly ever gonna have, and I do not want it fucked up just ¡®cause you got an addiction.¡±

    ¡°First, Jackie, you got the best record of any guy in the company. Maybe the whole armored car biz in the city. Maybe the State. Ain¡¯t no one gonna give you a bad rep just becau- WHAT THE FUCK!¡±

    The armored car suddenly started sliding, out of the mainstream of traffic and into a side street.. Brakes did nothing. Cars blasted their horns as the tanklike car clipped headlights and scratched paint. Jack pumped brakes and turned into the skid.

    ¡°Stay cool, Jordie, stay cool . . .¡± Jack¡¯s voice became a mantra for the next thirty seconds as he struggled to regain control of the armored car. Jordan tried to raise Central on the car¡¯s radio.

    ¡°SCC, this is unit four. We¡¯re skidding! Out of control and skidding! Trying to - oh God!¡±

    Jack, trying to do everything he¡¯d been taught to do in driving school back when he¡¯d been a teenager over a decade ago, was still turning into the direction of the skid. However, the direction of the skid now led to . . .

    ¡°Get ready bail, Jack!¡±

    ¡°What the fu-!¡±

    Jack didn¡¯t get a chance to finish the sentence. They were headed to the guardrail on the edge of the canal.

    But the metal poles in the guardrail had been broken away. Bites had been taken from it, weakening the original while not tearing it out completely. The bitten off pieces of metal were glowing red in the already blistering summer heat.

    The armored car sailed through the guardrail, smashing through the partially-torn section without increasing its speed, its undercarriage scraping loudly as the front tires dropped off of the edge, and pure inertia pushing the rest of the car over the concrete lip and down to the water below.

    Jordan and Jack screamed.

    The armored car teetered, groaned, then slid down towards the river. The two men screamed again, one in pure terror, the other calling out the words to a prayer he hadn¡¯t said in years and without feeling or belief since his childhood.

    The world went white for them as the car dropped twenty feet and hit grille-first smack-dab in the middle of an ice-floe in the middle of the lake.

    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

    #

    ¡°Go!¡± Jane whispered, gabbing a beam near her perch under the dock and pulling a rope with her other hand. Mitch was sitting on another beam, his frost-gun-gadget steaming white from the work it had done minutes ago, greasing the ground for the truck and creating the icy landing pad the armored car now poked head-first into.

    Manny smiled; the twinkle in his visible eye glimmered even as his monocle beam cooled from the work it had done on the railing.

    ¡°Going,¡± Manny said, his monocle locking on to a point on the door a scant six inches wide by an inch deep. With a flash from his mechanical eye, the lock on the back of the truck became a smoking crater.

    ¡°Pulling,¡± Mitch grunted, glad for the ten-thousandth time that the little blue crystals Jane had gotten ahold of did their work so well. This kind of work wasn¡¯t easy in a forty-something old body, but it would have been utterly impossible in a seventy-something old body, no question about that!

    The car and its icy raft slid under the dock fairly quickly once some inertia had been gotten up. Then the doors to the cab burst open, and the two guards fell out as if the car had vomited them onto the ice.

    ¡°The . . . the hell?¡± the fat one said. The slim one had a set of dreadlocks pinned back neatly under his baseball-cap with the company logo on it. ¡°Mother of God,¡± he said, his dark hands skimming over the already melting ice.

    Jane cocked both her pistols. The guards looked up. ¡°Ah¡¯m givin; yuh to a count of three to jump off an¡¯ swim to shore. After that, we¡¯ll see how yuh swim with holes in -¡±

    The slim guard was already in the water. The chubby one followed.

    ¡°Good thing for him fat floats,¡± Mitch mumbled as he dropped to the ice. His cleats stabbed the surface, not getting slick as the summer sun did its work. He was off balance for a second, but grabbing the line that ran from his belt to the underside of the dock near Jane¡¯s perch steadied him.

    ¡°Okay, Mitch, let¡¯s get rich.¡± Jane pulled her line that had been attached to a hooked-loop, hastily drilled into the dock the night before, and dropped to the ice-floe.

    ¡°We have perhaps four more minutes, unless our dear winged friend has succeeded more spectacularly in his mission that we have anticipated.¡±

    ¡°Russ never let us down yet,¡± Jane mumbled. ¡°Let¡¯s hustle just in case.¡±

    #

    They named me Icarus. Nice.

    The words came unbidden as he flew towards the shabbier section of town. He didn¡¯t need someone like Primus ripping his suit up, and he really didn¡¯t need someone like The Dark or Gladiatrix showing up and ripping off pieces of his body and feeding them to the fish. But if Jake and Miguel had done their jobs he shouldn¡¯t see any capes this trip.

    The buildings sped below him, whizzing by as he pumped his arms. He knew his equipment was in order on his belt; he¡¯d checked it at least five times before he¡¯d taken off from the top of one of the skyscrapers this morning.

    Russ smiled; it was a rare day when he could look out over the rooftops of the city and not think of it the way he once did; each building having loot and treasure that he could pilfer if he only had the right key, the right combination to the right safe, the right words to say to the right people.

    Not today. Today, he had all those things, and he¡¯d use them to get rich before the jobs were done.

    Ironic, that he¡¯d be wearing a newsuit, based on his old one, and for a change he was trying to get the attention of someone who¡¯d . . .

    The slap on his shoulders came quickly, quicker than he¡¯d ever thought it would. He realized he¡¯d been waiting and watching his shadow to see if some cape was creeping up on him, the way the Airman used to.

    But whoever¡¯d gotten to him was faster than the Airman. Faster than anything Russ had ever encountered, in fact. There were hands on his shoulders, gripping pads tight enough that he¡¯d never break them. And he knew this as sure as he knew the sun would come up the next day, summer would follow winter, and the muggers in New York would gather in Central Park that night.

    All these thoughts flew through his head in less than half a second. Before that time was up, he was on the ground and facing the black woman he¡¯d seen on TV the other day.

    ¡°State your business,¡± she said. The spear was strapped to her back, the sword in a scabbard at her waist, the shield on top of her sword. No threat yet, but in a second any of those could be brought to bear. Though Gladiatrix wasn¡¯t the killing kind, she could still be very, very dangerous if she had you made as a criminal. Or worse, as a sexist.

    ¡°How about you state yours, young lady!¡± I said. He¡¯d skipped his dose of the blue stuff that morning on purpose, and he could feel the effects already. He was stooped, his face more wrinkled, his hair whiter. In short, he didn¡¯t look his actual eighty, but he did look like an old man, wearing a costume.

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± she said, raising one eyebrow.

    ----------

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 PART 2, Chapter Three-Argument of the Gods?

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± she said, raising one eyebrow.

    Dear God, is she ever a looker! I thought. I¡¯ve never been into colored women, and she looks a third of my age, but if I thought she¡¯d drop that brass brassiere I¡¯d probably drop out of this whole plan, right here right now.

    ¡°You heard me, young lady. I¡¯m just out for a fight in my suit- hobby of mine - and you suddenly grab me and tell me I have to state my business to you? Who made you a cop? A judge? Where does your authority come from?¡±

    ¡°I . . .¡±

    The crowd was forming. I wasn¡¯t a con man like Jake, but he told me I had about thirty seconds from the time they started to when I lost my momentum. Just like the snake oil salesmen in the history books, I had to get the crowd on my side and keep them there.

    More to the point: I hadda keep her there. Long as I could. And maybe pull in a few friends to help her out.

    ¡°I mean, you help out and all,¡± I took over again, addressing her while looking at the crowd, nodding my head and trying to get their assent, ¡°and we¡¯re grateful for that, aren¡¯t we?¡±

    Small murmurs of assent. They were working with me.

    ¡°But where do you guys in your little club get off grabbing folks who aren¡¯t doing anything wrong and act like you¡¯re in charge? Where is that written?¡±

    She looked just a little uncertain under that helmet of hers. Which was just what I wanted. She looked to one side and then the other-looking for support. No one was mad, but no one was gonna carry her shoulder-high off the football field, either. She was on her own, and she knew it.

    ¡°I help you . . .¡± she started. Poor thing. I felt sorry for her for a second. She was a knockout, for sure. And her heart was in the right place- who didn¡¯t like seeing some child rapist getting his gnards removed, really, except some little screaming ACLU goofballs?

    For a second or two she didn¡¯t seem like the hero lady the comic books made her out to be, the gal who had it all-together like the movies and the cartoons made her out to be, either. She was just a gal, maybe in her mid 20s to early 30s who was in over her head and suddenly knew it. This was the reason we¡¯d picked this time and place to hit the armored car and take the cash; we¡¯d spent a good three days getting back issues of every newspaper for the last month, looking for all the crimes that had been foiled and trying to see the patterns. Eventually, it was Monty [pompous windbag that he could be, he did have a brain on those shoulders that was good at collecting stuff and seeing the big picture] who figured out that a) Gladiatrix was the least dangerous to a bunch of older folks like us pulling a job like this, and b) she almost never gave a statement to the press, which didn¡¯t mean she was a woman of mystery so much as she didn¡¯t have to the skills to do so, and c) the docks district, with its high-end shops only a couple of streets over from the gritty reality of the docks themselves, was her beat and patrol area during mid-morning on Wednesdays.

    Which is why we were here, now. And the crowd was getting bigger. And she¡¯d been here for a good two and a half minutes so far- nearly record time for a cape to be among the unwashed masses like us when there weren¡¯t any cameras around. I wished Jake was here, instead of trying to get some palooka downtown to get on board with money and hardware for our little plan. I was the gadget guy, not the faceman.

    But I started to get the idea from the crowd that I wasn¡¯t doing too badly.

    ¡°C¡¯mon, Gladiatrix!¡± someone shouted from the back of the crowd, their accents making them sound like some hick visiting the big city. ¡°Tell ¡®im! Tell ¡®im what fer!¡±

    ¡°What for what?¡± someone answered. ¡°He didn¡¯t do nothin¡¯!¡±

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    ¡°Yeah! What¡¯d he do?¡±

    She looked around, at the faces in the crowd, back at me.

    ¡°Yeah, Lady!¡± I yelled. ¡°What¡¯d I do? I made this suit! I was taking it out for a spin, and you grab me and pull me down here! What¡¯s the big idea, huh? I thought you went after big-time threats, not old men who still like to dream!¡±

    The last comment sounded out over the crowd. I¡¯d practiced it in my head at least a dozen times, but it never went over as well as this. The crowd got silent. Quiet. And Gladiatrix¡­

    Dear Lord, she looked around again and I seriously thought she was gonna cry.

    I almost felt bad for her. Almost. Then I remembered a young, fresh-faced little eighteen year old, beaten up by the system, lost his family because of someone¡¯s privilege, and had the one thing that gave his life meaning torn up and shredded by some shit in a leather jacket with a great, big smile on his face.

    Suddenly, I didn¡¯t feel bad at all anymore.

    ¡°Yeah, you¡¯re gonna cry? Are you gonna beat me up for saying something you don¡¯t wanna hear? That may¡¯ve been what they did in ancient Rome, lady, but here things are different! Here, in America, we fought a war to stop that kind¡¯ve shit from happening!¡±

    Just for a second she looked upset, then angry, then lost again. She had a whole set of fallbacks she¡¯d been trained for and none of them fit this situation. She hadn¡¯t been trained in what to do when a weird old man in a flying suit turned out to be just a harmless person with a chip on their shoulder.

    ¡°I . . . I apologize for my actions,¡± she said. ¡°Please forgive me.¡±

    It was nice. I was almost ready to let her off the hook, but I knew that they probably weren¡¯t done yet. If I could draw a big enough crowd, maybe I¡¯d even pull Primus into things and we¡¯d be all set. . .

    ¡°Well, damn right you¡¯re sorry, honey! You¡¯ve gotten a hell of a lot of gifts here from the almighty, and how d¡¯you spend ¡®em? Flying around? In a Halloween costume? If you were my daughter, I¡¯d have a few words for you, that¡¯s for sure! You call yourself a hero? You can¡¯t tell the difference between a real bad guy and an old man trying to go out for a spin! You think we¡¯re gonna wait forever for you people to get your act together? Do yuh?¡±

    I started hearing more murmurs from the crowd. People were talking. No one wanted to piss off one of the big three, but I knew it¡¯s what they¡¯d been thinking. It¡¯s what I¡¯d been thinking for a long time, and I¡¯m a pretty normal guy. Normal as far as making flying suits and flapping my arms around the city, anyways. I¡¯d stopped even looking at her, and was addressing the crowd. And it was getting bigger, just as I¡¯d hoped. Jake really should¡¯ve been doing this, being the faceman and all, but he couldn¡¯t get a cape¡¯s attention the way a flyer like me woulda. We¡¯d thought about having him jump in to whatever crowd I¡¯d managed to gather, but we couldn¡¯t guarantee when a care woulda slammed me, or if one would grab me at all.

    ¡°Do you know, really know, how I¡¯ve suffered, mortal?¡± her voice was cracking. I had to tread lightly now; my goal was to delay her, not to get her to beat me up and discredit her. I also didn¡¯t want to end up on the 6 o¡¯clock news and have my face splashed all over the city.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell me?¡± I said, shifting. I wasn¡¯t the angry old man anymore; now I was the kind grandfather to the granddaughter I never had. Jake would be proud, I like to think.

    The crowd got quiet; the people weren¡¯t sure whether to turn into an angry mob or give a collective groan of sympathy.

    She looked again at me, then at them. Suddenly something started buzzing on her wrist. ¡°I am needed,¡± she said. Her accent was more pronounced now, less a princess or queen and more some standard African woman, displaced from where she¡¯d belonged more than once against her will, used by men more powerful than she could ever be, and now she wasn¡¯t even given the peace of death, but raised up by a woman more powerful than she¡¯d ever be, and forced to work in her service.

    I didn¡¯t like anyone waking me up on a Saturday when I wanted to sleep in; what must it like to be woken up from death? Where she might¡¯ve been with her loved ones again? Brought back, not to her own time and place, but somewhere more alien than ancient Rome ever coulda been to her. A place where she¡¯d be constantly reminded that people with white skin were still in charge, and that for all the superpowers she¡¯d been given, she¡¯d have to spend G-d knows how long figuring out how things worked all over again?

    Hot damn.

    I¡¯d just found something every giant robot, super-powered nazi villain and every other nutjob Gladiatrix had fought had wanted to find, but never did:

    Her weakness.

    ---

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2, Chapter four- Take a Drink, Start to Sink....

    I¡¯d just found something every giant robot, super-powered nazi villain and every other nutjob Gladiatrix had fought had wanted to find, but never did:

    Her weakness.

    She was a normal woman. One with super-powers, but the TV and the press had her out to be some kind of goddess-princess. Suddenly I saw her in my head as a girl in her African village, going to get water, doing laundry on the side of the river and talking to her girlfriends. She was all dressed up in finery, but she still was who she was, and she knew it, and now I knew it.

    She took off, shooting into the sky like she¡¯d been blasted from a cannon, almost before she¡¯d finished the ¡®d¡¯ in ¡®needed.¡¯ No matter; I¡¯d delayed her enough. I hit the button and folded my wings. This had been a good day, no question. Time to go to where I¡¯d stashed my clothes, take my hit of rock-candy-blue, and the old man who Primus or The Dark would start looking for as soon as the Big G finished crying to herself in the girl¡¯s bathroom [or whatever they had in the lair for capes] and told what happened? He was gonna disappear, along with the wrinkles and the white hair and the two or three inches of height I¡¯d lost over the years. The stuff really could turn back the clock, and I wasn¡¯t gonna let it go to waste. Jane had told us that after a month¡¯s use, the effects were permanent and we wouldn¡¯t need more hits. Maybe. I didn¡¯t see her mixing any blue sugar in her coffee, but who really knew?

    What mattered was that it was gonna work, today, and I was gonna be half my age and untraceable in about ten minutes.

    If all went well.

    #

    ¡°Jorge? Come here. Got something for you.¡±

    The lunkhead rolls his eyes and saunters over to me. He came back to the gym after drilling poor Emiliano the other day in the ring. I wonder for the ten-thousandth time if this is a good idea. If I¡¯m gonna scare this kid straight or send him up the river or down the fast-lane to prison hell. His daddy took a train to nowhere before he was born and his momma¡¯s too strung out to know he¡¯s alive. I¡¯m the closest thing to a dad he has, but he doesn¡¯t care. I¡¯ve tried talking to him about making good choices in life, and he doesn¡¯t care. Maybe I can just get him to see what life is like for a vato, and he¡¯ll change out? Maybe.

    In the meantime, he could be useful.

    ¡°What?¡± he says, still trying to look tougher than me. Acting as if he¡¯s the only one who¡¯s ever been in a fight, been hassled by cops for no reason, been jumped by a gringo for hanging out in too nice a neighborhood or jumped by one of our own for being out alone after dark.

    I¡¯ve seen the look a thousand times. Wore it myself when I was his age. I may be steering him wrong, but right now I need him. If it works right, I¡¯ll be saving him. If it goes to shit, he was on his way to the joint anyway.

    But I still hear Sister Lupe¡¯s voice in the back of my head, telling me not to use people as things, or I¡¯d risk God¡¯s wrath upon my head, her ruler on my hand, and the anger of men on my hide..

    Don¡¯t matter how Meat Loaf sang it; two out of three can be quite bad indeed.

    ¡°I got a friend, needs about five guys your age for a job. No chchifo, nothing like that. Moving some stuff out¡¯ve a truck. Money¡¯s good, no worry about cops or anything like that. You get five of your buddies together, you get a bonus.¡±

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    ¡°How much?¡±

    ¡°They get two-hundred each. You get five. Four hours work.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡±

    ¡°No catch. All legal. He hates putting stuff on the books, and he likes giving jobs to his own people first. Plus, union¡¯s is trying to screw him. He needs strong backs and he knows I got plenty of those here. You in or I go somewhere else?¡±

    He looks around, catches the eyes of several other guys in the gym his own age, maybe a little younger. They¡¯re hooked. I¡¯ve got a sap to be my upline in case things go bad; a thug who hires kids alla time for quite a few chchifo works with pervs. If little thug life here gets nabbed by a cop or a cape, I¡¯ve got someone I can pin it on, and my hands are clean, just trying to give kids what I was told would be honest work, officer.

    At least, that¡¯s what I hope is gonna happen.

    #

    ¡°You kin get this thing open, then?¡±

    ¡°Shit, Jane,¡± I say, looking up at her from my freeze gun and the lock on the back door of the armored car, ¡°this ain¡¯t like the comic books where I just point and shoot. I hafta squirt just the right amount ¡®a juice in here. To little and I hafta start over again. Too much and I might get some on me and say bye-bye to a few fingers, gloves¡¯r no gloves. Now let me work, willya? The ice is meltin¡¯!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s just why I¡¯m sayin¡¯. The ice is melting, and I don¡¯t know if we¡¯re gonna get caped or not!¡±

    Sheeeit. Jane¡¯s worse than my wife right now. ¡®Course, I can¡¯t say as I blame ¡®er. She¡¯s got as much to lose as anyone if a cape shows up. I dunno if I¡¯m gonna have the stones to ice a cape again like I did back when I was a stupid, green teen. I look at the lock again through my goggles, calibrate the nozzles on my winterbeam [dear God in Heaven, that name sounds so cheesy now!], and . . . I wonder if I should say a prayer; Preacher Davis over at Faith Tabernacle would say not, but didn¡¯t the Catholics say there was a patron Saint for everything? Even thieves? I offered up a little, tiny supplication, just in case someone like that was listening up there, pulled the trigger, and-

    A small, hissing leak of liquid nitro slowly squeezes out of the gun¡¯s nozzle. It slides without any hurry into the crevices, nooks and crannies of the complicated lock in the back of the truck. A few seconds and I hear the delicate crackle and crunch as temperatures near absolute zero do their work on metal whose freezing point is about ten or twenty degrees above what¡¯s hitting it now . . .

    ¡°You done yet, freezer boy?¡± Jane asks. Scratch her being like my wife; she is my wife right now, right down to making the casual, nasty nicknames for me when she¡¯s frustrated with me.

    So I act just like I do when I¡¯ve gotta get my wife¡¯s attention that, yes, her husband does know what he¡¯s doing in this world, despite making less money than her father or any of her brothers or any of her sister¡¯s husbands, I can-

    ¡°You can what, Mike?¡±

    Crap. I started talking to myself again, and I let it spill out from my head to my mouth. ¡°Nuthin¡¯,¡± I said, ¡°I think I¡¯m-¡± and I don¡¯t finish the sentence. I take Winterbeam by the nozzle, think better of it and holster it instead. I take out the sap from my belt and give the lock a good, solid rap on its now-brittle jaw. The lock shatters into dust and flakes, and I¡¯ve got the door open in a second.

    There¡¯s a guard inside. His gun is out. He couldn¡¯t be more than twenty-two. He¡¯s wearing a wedding ring and he looks more scared than an alligator in a handbag factory.

    I quick duck behind the door as he panic-pulls the trigger, and the bullet ricochets off the armored door.

    ¡°Well, shit.¡± I say, as the armored car starts to take a forward dip, and the young guard begins screaming.

    ¡°I told you I should have just melted the lock,¡± Monty says, his feet dangling from the beam he¡¯s lounging on under the dock, safely out of range of the panicked guard. His calm, relaxed tone all the more annoying because of the background noise of the guard who must have shot himself.

    ¡°Yeah, and you woulda either burned or melted the money too, moron! Now get the kid outta there, or we¡¯re gonna have the FBI and every cape from here to Kookamonga after us for murder!¡±

    The kid was still screaming. The car was still dipping, and we were at least thirty seconds over time. Cra...no.

    Shi-

    Sugar.

    Sugar-an¡¯-Salt.

    ---------

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2, Chapter Five-Drive, Dont Dive

    The kid was still screaming. The car was still dipping, and we were at least thirty seconds over time. Cra...no.

    Shi-

    Sugar.

    Sugar-an¡¯-Salt.

    I heard a deep sigh behind me. Monty being his pretentious-as-fudge himself again. For just a second I wanted to turn around and put him on ice like I did The One all those years ago, but he hopped down from his beam and onto the ice-float, which started to pitch and yaw like nobody¡¯s business. ¡°Get off, you two. You¡¯ll only make this sink faster.¡± We grabbed our little cables, and- well, Jane was in such good shape she probably coulda done it even before she took the little blue rock candy bits. Me, for a few seconds I felt like I was trying to climb the rope in gym class, with Mr. Lambert swinging a paddle behind us, ready to give a healthy, humiliating swat to whoever was slow enough to be within reach.

    Damn, it was hard even with the stuff, but I made it.

    ¡°Sir?¡± it was Monty again. Trying to talk him down as the kid screamed into the afternoon sun. ¡°Sir?¡±

    More screaming. Monty- jumped into the back of the armored car.

    ¡°Blamed fool,¡± Jane said, but her voice sounded more in awe than in frustration.

    We heard Monty¡¯s voice again, calm, subdued. He said ¡®sir¡¯ about five more times, then somehow got the kid to say his own name.

    The floe was about to tip and take a drink.

    ¡°A little help here people?¡± Monty suddenly said. ¡°Mister Jefferies here would like to get some help so he can go home to his lovely wife and new baby.¡±

    Jane looked at me, whistled low. I unhooked a couple of straps from the underside of the dock above me, and tossed them in. I heard two clicks, and then a great, deep, sucking sound as the ice finally gave way and the car tipped over, pointing straight down and filling with water as soon as the lip of the car touched the water¡¯s edge.

    The car went down, but three nylon straps pointed down into the drink. Jane and I pulled together on one, which went slack until Monty popped up in the water at the end of it. Then we grabbed the next one as Monty pulled himself into the beams under the dock. I was praying we were pulling up the kid, and . . . we did! He hit the surface, spluttering.

    His wound wasn¡¯t so bad at all. His temple was just grazed, it looked like. But he was still upset, still panicking, or near enough to it.

    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

    ¡°Here, James? JAMES!¡± Monty¡¯s yell was just a few notes higher than a whisper,but the kid heard it and started swimming towards it while Jane and I pulled on the last strap.

    And oh, the happiness when the large canvas bag bobbed up to the surface!

    I won¡¯t bore you with the details; we got the kid up to the surface, and the bag got stuffed into the trunk of the old car.

    Right after we stashed Jane¡¯s pistols, my beam and Monty¡¯s monocle-strap-thingie into the lead-line pocket in our old Crown Vic, we start talking amongst ourselves to make poor James the security guard think we¡¯ve forgotten him. He¡¯s just a hair smarter than the average normy, and begins to creep away. We¡¯ve had this part planned, too. The most obvious route to escape with is down an alley between two warehouses, after he takes a very, very quiet walk about fifty feet from us.

    Jake is waiting at the end of the alley. Ready to get the kid¡¯s attention and add the coup de grace to the whole affair: in under thirty seconds, the kid has a re-done memory of just who has managed to grab a big pile of money in a few minutes on a warm summer day.

    The other guards are gone- gone too quickly and too traumatized to have gotten a good look at us. Only James has, and he¡¯s gonna be our ace in the hole.

    We piled into the Vic and took a drive down the pier.

    After a mile, Monty got out. I looked at my watch- yep, just about time. And the liver spots sprouting on my wrist said so, too.

    After another minute, Monty¡¯s hair had gone from jet black to greyish white again. The crow¡¯s feet were back in the corners of his eyes, and his hands looked like sodden messes that had been left in the sun to long. He smiled at us, and without a word took his walking stick from the backseat and started to take a walk, his jaunty gait replaced by a slow, plodding pace with a slight limp on his right side.

    Jane and me? I hit drive, found the nearest garage, and switched cars. Now we were in a sturdy little black sedan. For some reason, my nephew the car salesman assured me, old coots like me always preferred a black car.

    And in another ten minutes, we had our lawnchairs out on the riverbank, and I had my fishing pole out. Just another, happy old retired couple whiling away a weekday afternoon, Jane with a Zane Gray novel, me with my stick and line.

    We really didn¡¯t need it; turned out we didn¡¯t see a super all afternoon. They¡¯re not everywhere like the funnybooks¡¯d have you believe; know how they say ¡®never a cop around when you need one¡¯? A city like ours has at least 10,000 cops, but maybe a half-dozen actual capes, the kind that could give us trouble. Unless you¡¯re doing something along the lines of bringing a giant robot to stomp around downtown, chances are you may live your whole life here and only see a cape actually in action but once or twice.

    Jane said the only one we hadda worry about was the pretty black chick, the one who dressed like something outta Spartacus. If we got lucky, then Russ had done his job right with his flying suit and distracted her good while we got away with the goods. After the heat was off in a few hours, we¡¯d go back, transfer the stuff from the Vic into our new wheels and skedaddle. after that we set the Vic on fire, and soon the only thing left¡¯ll be a smoking chassis and the lead-lined trunk. Not that we¡¯re really worried; we haven¡¯t had a cape who could see through walls n¡¯stuff like that since the 60¡¯s, when that guy Mr. Peepers, or whatever his name was, got arrested for using his powers (ahem) improperly.

    #

 Part 2, Chapter Six- You know, Juno, and *How* much?

    #

    ¡°What¡¯s up with her?¡± Peter asked. His face was puzzled- not that it could be easily read through the red cowl.

    Jason, aka Primus, sighed and adjusted the ¡®P¡¯ on his shirt for the sixth or eighth time since he sat down. ¡°Pete, I think she just had a rough morning. Someone rattled her cage on her patrol today and it¡¯s got her bent outta shape or something.¡±

    ¡°Rough don¡¯t cover it, Jason. I just asked how she was doing, and I think she swore at me; first in Latin, then in some kind of Swahili.¡±

    ¡°Pete, you were born in a shithole- or whatever they¡¯re calling Bayonne these days, but it¡¯s paradise to where she came from. She was born in a totally different place, died there, and suddenly woke up here. She¡¯s only been here a year. She¡¯s gonna be adjusting for a while. Got my contact with the TV news- she grabbed some old guy flying around- turned out he was some kind of old villain, like fifty years ago, and he gave her the spiel on the Constitution. Everybody jumped on his side and she got upset.¡±

    ¡°What, she can¡¯t take it? I thought she killed people all the time in the arena, or the Colosseum or whatever it was.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, but don¡¯t forget where she started. She was living in a village in Africa, happy enough from what I gathered, and then another African tribe attacked, wiped them out, and then she got enslaved and sold to the Romans- and all this before she was eighteen. Then somehow she ends up being put into the arena because her master had money problems, and the emperor at the time liked seeing black women fight each other. She got something like a day¡¯s training and then got tossed in, fought for a while, and then she died. And she thought she was gonna go to Heaven, or some fields or wherever they told her she was gonna go, and instead she wakes up here and now, in a place where they don¡¯t speak the language, and everything, everything works different.  It¡¯s gonna be a longer while at least before she norms up- maybe never. So cut her some slack.¡±

    Peter stopped for a bit, slid off his cowl and rubbed his eyes. ¡°So, right now, we¡¯ve got you, a cape with serious daddy issues, me who¡¯s gotta eat fifty burgers a day or I¡¯ll waste away, a six-foot-two shrinker, a rich punk who won¡¯t walk out in the sun, and now a super-strong Roman gladiator who has a meltdown when an old guy yells at her. And we¡¯re the ones who are supposed to save the world all the time?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, kind¡¯ve messed up, huh? Makes me wanna read comics all day,where they make me look like I¡¯ve got my act totally together all the time. It all seemed ¡®way simpler back when we were teenagers, didn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°What did you say about an old villain?¡±

    The last sentence sounded somewhere, out of the room. Both Jason and Peter looked around, then back at each other with rolled eyes. ¡°Henry,¡± Peter said, ¡°willya stop with the hiding thing again? It¡¯s good for scaring street bums, but it¡¯s just annoying here.¡±

    Henry stepped out from behind a doorway. As usual, he was in full costume even though he was off duty. His black cloak hid his hands, and even Primus was just a little worried about something accidentally and deadly launching out at them one day.

    ¡°Fine,¡± Henry said, ¡°I¡¯m here. But what was this about a villain?¡±

    ¡°Some old guy in a wingsuit. You know, the kind you can get mail order nowadays? Why? I thought you were busy with the kidfuckers?¡±

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    ¡°I¡¯ve finished with that, Peter. The assholes at the top of that particular food chain are done for. It¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve had to take on a cape.¡±

    ¡°Well, talk to ¡®Neesha if you want answers on that, but be sure your insurance is paid up first. I can move at the speed of sound last count, and she just about took my pretty, cowled head off when I tried.¡±

    ¡°She won¡¯t hit me.¡± Henry said this last statement with the kind of quiet, immovable surety that had become his trademark for the past year or so. He¡¯d practiced it in front of a mirror with a recorder for hours at a time until he¡¯d gotten just the right, gravelly tone that struck chills into the hearts of evildoers, and made his teammates roll their eyes at his pretentiousness.

    ¡°Whatever, Henry. I¡¯m gonna go see what¡¯s in the fridge.¡±

    ¡°You do that, Streaker.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s The Streak, Henry. And you know that. It¡¯s copyrighted, it¡¯s the name my dad used, and unlike some folks I take pride in doing what I do in broad-¡±

    ¡°Both of you assclowns shut up. Pete, go eat. Again. Henry, save it for the eighty-year old supervillain you¡¯re-¡±

    A red light flashed on the control board; the widescreen monitor flashed a dark shade of crimson with bold, white letters atop a map of the city, with a target of concentric circles over a spot in the docks district.

    ¡°Well, what have we here- an armored car just slid through traffic and hit the water. Cops are en route- any takers?¡±

    ¡°Igotit!¡± yelled Peter, who disappeared in a splash of red and white.

    ¡°That was convenient,¡± said Henry.

    ¡°Fortunate,¡± said Jason. ¡°I don¡¯t like playing ref when you two start to needle each other. You gonna talk to ¡®Neesha or go look for more kidfuckers to drop off buildings?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll talk to her for a little bit. See who this old guy is. Hearing that made my neck get all prickly, and that means something¡¯s up.¡±

    #

    After I finished with the black chick, I headed back. A long walk, but an easy one once I ditched my suit and took a shot of the blue crystal gunk that Jane suddenly had a great supply of.

    Once I got back to the house, we had a party. The kind we wished we¡¯d had many a time over the past few years, and that we shoulda had back when we were eking out a living in the subway tunnels. Booze, cards, great food, movies in the background, laughter, remembering old times, boring stories, the works.

    And the next morning? The first real hangover I¡¯d had in maybe two decades. Was it worth it? In retrospect, hell, yeah.

    We kept our paws offa Jane. No worries there. Even though she was straight, the only guy we knew she¡¯d ever carried any kind of torch for since Mitch was that cowboy guy, Aces n¡¯ Eights. We kinda guessed even back then he wasn¡¯t her type, but there¡¯s no talking to a man or a woman in love.

    It wasn¡¯t until about three in the afternoon that we were all doing well enough to meet in the living room and talk to each other about the gig.

    Jane, still always the organized one, tossed out bags of money to each of us. ¡°Half of what we got¡¯s going to the big one, boys,¡± she said, ¡°but everybody did their part an¡¯ so you all got an equal share of what¡¯s left.¡±

    We got our canvas bags and opened them. No one complained. Miguel swore softly in Spanish, Mitch said something about Hawaii. Jake whooped, and said he just might buy the old circus he used to tour with.

    I didn¡¯t think it was crazy much, but unless you¡¯re some kind of Wall Street banker type, eleven grand is a pretty nice chunk of change for a day¡¯s work.

    Still¡­

    ¡°There was only how much in it¡±

    ¡°A bundle, a little under 150 grand.¡±

    ¡°Those trucks can transport something in the neighborhood of a half bil when they¡¯re full to the brim. I knew a guy who used to work for one. Why¡¯d we hit it when it was so little?¡±

    ¡°Half a billion?¡± Jake said slowly.

    Nobody spoke. It was very, very quiet in the room. In the distance, a dog barked and a car honked its horn.

 Part 2, Chapter Seven- Dreaming, a Different Kind of Party Game, and Slammed Glasses....

    ¡°Half a billion?¡± Jake said slowly.

    Nobody spoke. It was very, very quiet in the room. In the distance, a dog barked and a car honked its horn.

    ¡°Well, dadgum it,¡± Mitch said, ¡°whyd¡¯yuh think, moron? It was the last stop on their route. Everybody¡¯s slack at the end of the day. Plus, we hadda hit them when they were close to water, an¡¯ that was at the end of their route. Miguel said so, right Miguel?¡±

    ¡°Gringo¡¯s right,¡± Miguel said.

    ¡°Plus,¡± Mitch said, barely waiting for Miguel to finish, ¡°it¡¯s only ¡®cause Russ here was fast - thinkin¡¯ on his feet that we didn¡¯t have some black chick who can toss cars around gettin¡¯ in our faces. What¡¯ve we¡¯d taken a half-bill? We¡¯d have every cop in the city, every cape in the flippin¡¯ world out to take us down. They¡¯d find us, bet your skinny white asses on it, and we¡¯d be spendin¡¯ the rest of our lives with no blue rocks and in one of Uncle Sam¡¯s crossbar hotels, with roommates who¡¯d put a knife in our ribs just to get the room to themselves for the night.¡±

    ¡°You kinda got dramatic with that last part,¡± Miguel said.

    ¡°Yeah,¡± said Jake, ¡°jail¡¯s for losers, but most of the guys you¡¯d see in there for theft aren¡¯t dangerous, in fact . . .¡±

    ¡°Guys, let¡¯s get back on track. This was a practice run for the real thing, remember? And we planned it this way so¡¯s we¡¯d come up with enough cash to stay under the radar, and keep the capes out¡¯ve it. Now, we gotta chance to make a hundred times what we got today; who¡¯s with me on this one?¡±

    I smiled, picked up a can of beer and cracked it. ¡°I¡¯m in. I like what this blue shit does for me.¡±

    Mitch found a Dr. Pepper. ¡°I¡¯m in too. That was damned fun, and I¡¯ve got a good three weeks worth of vacation days I can burn on this. Rather do it making a cool mil than sitting my ass on a beach somewheres, makin¡¯ someone else rich.¡±

    Jake grabs a glass of wine, raises it, ¡°Where do I sign? For my trouble I get a decent bed and a little house, and I get to be Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack. Sounds good to this old conman.¡±

    Miguel¡¯s already been rummaging around for his own beer to raise- a brand I hadn¡¯t seen before today but with a couple of Xs on the can. ¡°I¡¯m in. Tired of the gym. Want to sell it and retire, some neighborhood where I won¡¯t smell piss everywhere I go.¡±

    ¡°Then we¡¯re all in like flynn, boys!¡± Jane¡¯s got a brown bottle of something she¡¯s raising. We cheer, and for just a few seconds we¡¯re all stupid kids again, ready to take on the world.

    #

    ¡°Pan right, thirty degrees.¡±

    Henry Musaki, aka The Dark, sat in his oversized black recliner in front of his computer and stared at the screen. His index finger was poised under his chin in what was now an unconscious attempt to imitate Harrison Ford in one of his many serious movie roles.

    The screen, so ordered, spun quickly, showing the scanned scene from earlier in the day when Kenesha had tried to detain the old guy. TV News footage that had ended up being discarded; there was so much of that these days, pictures of capes like him that they could pick and choose what ran and what didn¡¯t, rather than run with whatever they could get of capes in action.

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    Now, to focus on the old guy . . .

    ¡°Run facial,¡± Henry said, as the old man¡¯s face appeared in closeup, about a hundred little yellow pixels appearing on and around it.

    NOT IN DATABASE said the caption beneath the face in blocky white capital letters.

    Henry grunted. Even state-of-the art equipment was notoriously unreliable in 1985. It¡¯d be a good ten years before the kind of technology he needed would be available even to someone rich as he was.

    He leaned forward and started typing at the keyboard, and stopped. Thinking. Instead he reached under the desk and pulled out a big, yellow phone book. While his computer was still loading the information he¡¯d requested, he flipped pages until he found what he was looking for, then picked up a nearby receiver and dialed.

    ¡°This is Costume House,¡± said a bored, wheezing voice on the other line, ¡°where you can live out a fantasy. How may I . . .¡±

    ¡°Joey,¡± Henry growled into the phone, ¡°you know who this is.¡±

    ¡°Um, woah, yes, yes sir! Yes sir, I do sir, I . . .¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re the superhero history expert? How are you with villains?¡±

    #

    ¡°You fool,¡± cried Miguel, in the center of the ring of villains, ¡°I am the greatest thief in the city! How do you dare to try and match wits with me?¡±

    ¡°I dare,¡± said Mitch, standing and reading the folded-back pages of the comic book, ¡°for I am the Streak, the fastest man alive! And your days of petty thievery are over! Hand back those jewels you¡¯ve stolen!¡±

    ¡°Ah, but my dear, rapid, arch-enemy¡± said Miguel, no book in hand, but a leering look on his face while he made a sweeping gesture with his right hand, ¡°how do you plan to capture me, when you stand fixed, when your feet are held fast by . . . an inch of glue on the floor!¡±

    ¡°Zounds, you criminal!¡± Mitch said over the peels of laughter from the others, ¡°It will take me at least a few minutes to remove my boots, which are attached to my costume! And during that time I will be immobile!¡±

    ¡°Precisely, fool!¡± said Miguel, ¡°and by the time you free yourself, I will be long-gone from this hideout, with the jewels and the knowledge of your secret identity!¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re almost there, Miguel!¡± Mitch said.

    Miguel leaned in to Mitch.  ¡°Ha-HA!¡± he said, his voice exaggerated.

    ¡°He¡¯s got it!¡± Mitch said, ¡°Word-for-word, all of page twenty-four! Give ¡®im his drink!¡±

    ¡°Thank you, thank you everybody!¡± Miguel said as the others applauded, ¡°I¡¯ll be here all week! Try the veal! Thank you, thank you! Who¡¯s next?¡±

    ¡°Whuddabout Jane?¡± Jake said. ¡°She hasn¡¯t gone yet!¡±

    ¡°Naw, I don¡¯t think so,¡± Jane answered. ¡°I ain¡¯t even looked at a comic book in years. Whar¡¯d you dig these up, Mitch?¡±

    ¡°I always had ¡®em. Every hero an¡¯ villain I ever knew read ¡®em over and over again, especially the parts where they were squaring off against their dread arch-enemy! C¡¯mon, Jane? You tellin¡¯ me you don¡¯t remember any of the cheesy dialogue they gave us back then? Here, hang on- I went home to get ¡®em special . . .Here¡¯s the one I had¡¯ve you, Jane! Careful with it- it¡¯s worth a few bucks!¡±

    Jane took the comic book, its page edges just starting to yellow with age. Mitch had carefully preserved it, maybe for years and years. They watched as Jane slowly turned the pages, looking at images drawn of her when she was barely out of her teens.

    When she reached one page, though, her eyes widened a bit. She swallowed, and put the comic on a nearby table. ¡°Ah can¡¯t do this right now,¡± she said. ¡°I need a drink.¡±

    She left the room. A few minutes later they heard the door open and shut outside.

    Nobody spoke for the next few seconds.

    ¡°What just happened?¡± Miguel asked.

    Russ picked up the comic and looked at it. Jane had left it open on a splash page. Looking out at the reader was a tall man with a cowboy hat, a white vest and a series of playing cards sticking out of his belt.

    ¡°Aces n¡¯ Eights,¡± Mitch whispered. ¡°Sonofabitch, how could I¡¯ve been so stupid?¡±

    -------

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2, Chapter Eight- Calamity Jane and Aces n Eights...

    ¡°Aces n¡¯ Eights,¡± Mitch whispered. ¡°Sonofabitch, how could I¡¯ve been so stupid?¡±

    ¡°What on earth is going on?¡± Monty asked. ¡°Are you saying that the cowboy and Jane were an item?¡±

    ¡°Not exactly,¡± Mitch said. ¡°More like . . . well . . .¡±

    In the next room they could hear Jane yanking open cupboards, drawers. A glass slammed, then cubes of ice slammed into the glass.

    ¡°Don¡¯ take this the wrong way, fey, I don¡¯ wanna be no metiche, but I thought you were her man. ¡®Least while we were all together.¡±

    Mitch sighed. ¡°Hang onto that thought a minute, willya Jake? I gotta go try an¡¯ take my foot outta my mouth.¡±

    Mitch left the room. When he entered the kitchen, Jane was sitting on one of the stools, facing the wall.

    ¡°Hi Jane,¡± he said softly.

    ¡°You were a pussy when we were a team, Mitch. Y¡¯all ¡®re a stupid pussy now. Fuck off an¡¯ lemme be.¡±

    ¡°Ooh, givin¡¯ me the tough girl treatment. Make me worry you¡¯re gonna cut my balls off an¡¯ use ¡®em for earrings, huh?¡±

    ¡°The thought occurred to me.¡±

    ¡°Jane, you¡¯re still mad? It¡¯s been over thirty years. He¡¯s been dead twenty-five.¡±

    ¡°It ain¡¯t just him, Mitch. Doncha get it?¡±

    ¡°No, Jane. But if I get much closer, I think I¡¯m gonna get it.¡±

    She turned to look at him. Tears tracked down her face. ¡°I ever tell you ¡®bout my family, Mitch?¡±

    ¡°Some. That what this¡¯s about?¡±

    ¡°Some. My daddy was a good man, Mitch. He shoulda never been a farmer. He liked to look at things, an¡¯ figger out how they worked. He was a lot like you, come to think.¡±

    ¡° ¡®Splains a few things, I guess.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. Well, Momma took me aside one day, told me . . . naw, she yelled at me, while Daddy was out in the fields, yelled me an¡¯ shook me good to make sure I understood. She said ¡®Don¡¯t you never marry a man like your Daddy, you hear? He¡¯s just good fer nothin¡¯! Better to marry a man mean as a snake an¡¯ drunk as a skunk, so long as he¡¯s bringin¡¯ the bacon an¡¯ puttin¡¯ food on the table!¡¯ She was yellin¡¯ an¡¯ yellin¡¯, and I was cryin¡¯ an¡¯ sobbin¡¯, and then she left. Then affer a while Daddy came in. ¡®What¡¯sa matter, princess?¡¯ he says, an¡¯ I told ¡®im what Momma said.

    ¡°I bet he got kinda sore at that, huh?¡± Mitch¡¯s tone was one part kind father and two parts a man walking through a minefield. He¡¯d also inched closer to Jane when he thought she wasn¡¯t looking.

    ¡°Naw. He was- he made some cocoa, and then sat down with me. ¡®Your Momma¡¯s just sad that some things didn¡¯t turn out like we thought they would, Honey,¡¯ he said. ¡®But when the crop comes in, an¡¯ we got more money, things¡¯ll be okay.¡¯ ¡±

    ¡°Were they?¡±

    ¡°Hell, no. The fights got worse an¡¯ worse. I hated it. I hated Momma for always gettin¡¯ mad, and eventually I hated Daddy for never havin¡¯ no money and never standin¡¯ up to Momma. I hated Momma for always bein¡¯ mad at Daddy no matter how much he worked.¡±

    ¡°Why¡¯d you get upset about a comic that had you fightin¡¯ Aces n¡¯ Eights, then, Jane?¡±

    Jane looked at Mitch. ¡°You know, you were th¡¯first boy who liked me, what didn¡¯t try to get in my drawers? You know what that¡¯s like, growing up and learnin¡¯ and knowin¡¯ that every guy, every guy who says they cares¡¯ve got the same damn thing on their mind? You was the first one, Mitch, the first one who loved me just for me. But I could hear my Momma say in the background just how much I needed to get a man who had money, and yet Daddy treating me so nice. The only way to shut those voices up-¡±

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    ¡°...Was to break up with me, and take up with a guy like Aces. With a rich superhero, action figures, cracked first the comic books and then they did his Saturday morning cartoon that all the kids watched.¡±

    ¡°Someone both my folks would¡¯ve loved. And he didn¡¯t try to get in my drawers, ¡®neither, but that was because he was-Gawd almighty I was such a damn fool!¡±

    ¡°Jane, look . . . it¡¯s, well . . .¡± he shifted his weight again, put his arm around her shoulder. She glared at him, but only for a second. ¡°Jane, where most people do other things, like go see a shrink? We chose t¡¯put on masks and costumes and rob banks. We¡¯re the kindsa folks the head-shrinkers just love to pick apart, ¡®cause we¡¯re all so screwed up. But you know what? Even folks as screwed up as we are, we can have some happiness.¡±

    ¡°Bullshit. Bullshit on a cracker in the hot summer sun.¡±

    ¡°Look, Jane, I . . . Jane, I got married to a nice lady. And she¡¯s good to me, most of the time. So, I can¡¯t . . . I won¡¯t jeopardize that, you understand? I¡¯ve gotta answer to God for the things I do, so I¡¯ve got no other motives here and now than helping you, understand?¡±

    Jane looked at MItch for a very long ten seconds, then nodded her head while fixing her eyes on the glass in front of her.

    ¡°Jane, I was real, real hurt when you took off. I figured I just wasn¡¯t enough for you. When the team fell apart and you went solo, I felt like a piece of me was gone forever. But then, about a year later, when I was in college like I oughta been before, I saw a picture of you and Aces n¡¯ Eights on the cover of some gossip mag. Did you really try to stick up a bank that big all by yourself?¡±

    ¡°I was feelin¡¯ mighty low, Mitch. You know how that goes. We had a good team, but it fell apart. And I had a good man, you, an¡¯ I left ¡®im. I couldn¡¯t keep anything together, so I just did something stupid ¡®cause I was mad at myself.¡±

    ¡°People do risky behavior when they¡¯re depressed or suffer a big loss. It happens.¡±

    ¡°I walked into the place, fired two shots into the ceiling- first mistake. Coulda hit a civvie, and made life ten times worse for me. Then I say it was a stickup, but I was so sloppy by then that a buncha folks slip out. I get a bag of money, and I only had one exit- Miguel wasn¡¯t there to case the joint first. And there he was as I was leaving, standing with his fists on his waist and his big smile and that stupid little sap of his dangling from his belt.¡±

    ¡°Ace? With a club at his belt?¡±

    ¡°Nope. Ace came later. The feller who showed up when I tried ta¡¯ rob the bank solo was Blackjack. Remember him? Hell, it was Vegas; all the capes there had a card-thing, or some kind¡¯ve gambling gimmick going on.¡±

    ¡°Humph. Yeah, but they really weren¡¯t the brightest bulbs in the drawer. There was that gal, Roulette? With two dogs, Red and Black? Some mobster shot the dogs when she tried to run him down and she quit on the spot. Stupid costume, too- wheel on her head or something.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, well, Blackjack waren¡¯t too much smarter. He left the mob alone and stuck with folks like me, but he didn¡¯t count on me havin¡¯ a gun drawn when he stood for his pose like he was in one of the funnybooks. I shot him in the foot, he went down screaming like a little girl with her hair on fire. All I hadda do was step over him and get walkin¡¯ to my car outside- I¡¯d carjacked a beat-up station wagon a few minutes before- and I was makin¡¯ for my ride when Aces ¡®n Eights stepped out an¡¯ got between me and the door. ¡®Well, little lady,¡¯ he says, his own gun already drawn [already, he showed he was smarter than Blackjack], ¡®let¡¯s you an¡¯ me have a little talk.¡¯ He smooth-talked me to drop the bag of money on the ground, then got me onto his motorcycle.¡±

    ¡°Dang, he was good!¡±

    ¡°Hell, yeah. That sonofabitch actually took me to his hideout- or one of ¡®em, anyways; it was a ranch on the outskirts of Vegas, with a secret entrance made up to look like a construction site. I got wined and dined that night and¡­ he didn¡¯t try anything. A perfect gentleman cowboy.¡±

    ¡°Or so you thought.¡±

    ¡°Yep. First man since you that I thought maybe I might actually get married to. I thought that maybe, just maybe there was a man out there who could actually love me an¡¯ stay that way. Things stayed like that for a while; I played house with ¡®im, and I found out later his comics had him an¡¯ me in a romance thing, too, teamed up to catch the bad guys, and the like. They made me his sidekick. Me, when in real life I was the one who could shoot the eye of a squirrel out at fifty yards after chuggin¡¯ a fifth, an¡¯ he couldn¡¯t hit the broad side of a barn with a gatling gun after a beer an¡¯ water.¡±

    ¡°You were the best shot of all the capes, Jane.¡±

    ¡°Still am, even though I needed bifocals afore we got the blue rocks.¡±

    ¡°You ever gonna tell us where those come from?¡±

    She paused. ¡°Not today, Mitch.

    --------------------

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2 Chapter Nine-Jane and Mitch get closer,, and the Heroes begin closing in...

    ¡°You ever gonna tell us where those come from?¡±

    She paused. ¡°Not today, Mitch. Ennaways, that kept-a-goin¡¯ on. We did actually stop a robbery, but it warn¡¯t no cape. Some fool was running out of a casino with a couple a¡¯ bags of dough, and we were driving by on Ace¡¯s motorcycle, the one he called Silver.¡±

    ¡°Good Lord.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I know. The other one was called Bullet. Any cheesier an¡¯ we coulda had a pizza. We just stopped, drew on the fool an¡¯ made ¡®im stand there until the Security guards got ¡®im. Poor idjit.  The security guards in that place were a bunch of 800 pound gorillas who just beat the shit outta him until the cops showed up. Ace¡¯s people sent out press releases, pictures, the comics took a whole new tack ¡®bout how Ace¡¯s love had reformed me . . . suddenly, I just hadda sign a few papers and I had my own title, my own damn comic with me as the hero.¡±

    ¡°I remember that- I saw your comic one day, after I finished filling up my car with gas. Your title was on the rack, right next to Ace¡¯s.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, well, the sumbitch wanted to keep me as his little pet forever, it turned out. And he wasn¡¯t keepin¡¯ outta my drawers ¡®cause he was a gentleman; it was ¡®cause he had something goin¡¯ on with Blackjack. I walked in on the pair of ¡®em one time and- you¡¯ll laugh, but that¡¯s something you just hear people talk an¡¯ joke about when you¡¯re livin¡¯ the life I did. You never see it, never really believe it, you know? Gawd almighty, I left ¡®im that day, moved out¡¯ve the room, got my own lawyer, threatened to expose it all if¡¯n he didn¡¯t gimme rights to the title, my action figures the works. And I got it, and he faded away- got sick from someone with something, died a few years back. And I¡¯m still here.¡±

    Mitch waited a few seconds for the words to process before he spoke. ¡°Jane, you¡¯re a tough woman. And a good woman. One who¡¯s had a lot of tough breaks in your life. I¡¯m sorry I wasn¡¯t- that I couldn¡¯t be-¡±

    ¡°You were wonnerful, Mitch. Your wife¡¯s a lucky, lucky woman to have a man good as you. Me, I woulda been a shitty wife and a shittier mother. I make a better stick-up gal than I¡¯d ever of made any man happy forever. And- you¡¯re still handsome, Mitch. Even without the blue rocks, you still make me think of that prairie sunset ¡±

    ¡°Well, you know, I-¡±

    Jane kissed him. Suddenly, her lips were on his, and for perhaps three seconds he was hers again, a seventeen year old boy with dreams, hopes, wants and needs far from what reality¡¯s world  had given him.

    And then, reality was all there was again.

    ¡°Wait- just, wait a minute . . .¡± he said, disengaging and pulling back, his hands raised palms-out. ¡°Jane, I still love you- part of me always has and always will. But I¡¯m married, and, well, my wife¡¯s not perfect, sure. But I can¡¯t hurt her this way; I just can¡¯t.¡±

    Jane looked down. ¡°Sorry.¡±

    ¡°No, no need for sorry, just- whaddyasay we head back to the game, huh?¡±

    A cheer sounded up from the living room. They looked at each other for one more second. They stood up, still with eyes locked on each other, and turned to leave the kitchen.

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    The TV was on, the volume blasting something fierce. ¡°There¡¯s a cape on,¡± said Jake, ¡°the Streak¡¯s boy. He got there a little bit after we left, sounds like.¡±

    The set kept blaring, as the hero got interviewed. He was a talking head, basically saying how the armored car was expertly taken by a group of shapeshifters . . .

    ¡°What?¡± says Mitch, ¡°We¡¯re shapeshifters now?¡±

    ¡°Watch and see,¡± Jake says. ¡°The kid Miguel sent me ended up being my best work in a while.¡±

    Police sketches flashed on the screen, then photos of young teenage boys, looking tough while glaring at the camera. The interviewer spoke about how a witness saw the perps transform from elderly people in their forties or fifties into teens, and . . .

    ¡°Ah, my stupid, stupid boys,¡± Miguel said. ¡°They wanted in on the life, now they got it.¡±

    ¡°What if they get nabbed?¡± Russ said. ¡°Won¡¯t they drop the dime on you?¡±

    ¡°Nope. How can they? Jake twisted up their heads, no memories to use at all. We¡¯re safe.¡±

    Then the doorbell rang. Everyone looked at each other.

    ¡°Oh, shit,¡± said Jane.

    #

    ¡°So, you¡¯re doing what now?¡±

    Jason looked at Henry¡¯s face on the screen. Henry liked to think of himself as unstoppable, but they both knew that Jason could blast the fellow into next week with even a pulled punch if he wanted to. Henry¡¯s whole ¡®Dark¡¯ persona turned comic books and movie tickets into paper gold, but in reality Henry ¡°The Dark¡± Huang was a fifth-generation American Born Chinese with a lot of inherited money and a pretentious attitude that was becoming more and more the new normal as of late.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got a serious hunch there¡¯s a lot more to this than you know, Jason. That old man was all over the grid like anybody else up until a few weeks ago, and suddenly he dropped off. Then he reappears and tells off one of us? There¡¯s something that just isn¡¯t right here. Do you remember who Calamity Jane was?¡±

    ¡°Henry . . .¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s in town too! She was a member of his old crew, back over a half-century ago! I¡¯m telling you, something funny¡¯s going down here. We had an armored car robbed while the old guy was chewing out Gladiatrix!¡±

    ¡°And for an amount of money, Henry, that puts it squarely in the domain of the local police, not us. Remember, we¡¯re civilians, we¡¯re not deputized.¡±

    ¡°But-¡±

    ¡°Henry, you¡¯re talking about putting millions of dollars worth of resources into something a cop on the beat''s gonna solve in a couple of days. Look, you did a great job breaking that ring of kid traffickers, can¡¯t you spend the time and resources you have on something just as big? I don¡¯t want to have to put in my weekly report to the boss that one of us is spending our money looking at some eighty-year old with a wingsuit and an attitude just because he made one of us cry on national TV.  Let it go and save your strength for the next giant robot that starts stomping around downtown.¡±

    ¡°You know I can¡¯t let something go, Jason.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, I know you¡¯re not gonna let something go when you use that dark, creepy voice you¡¯re always working on when you think no one¡¯s around and can¡¯t hear. Fine, go find the old guy, but just be sure you answer if an alert goes off. Understand?¡±

    ¡°Acknowledged,¡± Henry said, his face disappearing from the screen.

    Crap, this always happens, Jason thought. Whenever Henry got into something stupid he was like a rabid dog with a bone. Or, in the recent case where his quarry was that cute little super-villainess who liked to dress in a red leather fetish suit, Henry was like a teenage boy with a new girlfriend.

    But this? Jason already knew this was rabid dog territory.

    #

    ¡°Are you gonna answer it?¡± Jake asks. Everyone had gone silent at the noise at the door.

    ¡°Did anyone call for a pizza?¡± The question came from Mitch.

    Again, silence.-

    -------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2, Chapter Ten- Apple-a-Day, Will it Keep The Dark At Bay?

    #

    ¡°Are you gonna answer it?¡± Jake asks. Everyone had gone silent at the noise at the door.

    ¡°Did anyone call for a pizza?¡± The question came from Mitch.

    Again, silence.

    ¡°Dadgummit,¡± Mitch says, ¡°I¡¯ll get it. My blue rocks¡¯ll be my mask today.¡±

    No one else moved. Several looked around. ¡°Should we get ready? Ready to fight or something?¡± Jake asks.

    ¡°I¡¯m always ready for a fight,¡± Miguel says, ¡°but if there¡¯s a cape at the door I think the fight¡¯s gonna be a little one-sided, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m always ready,¡± Jane whispers, patting the pistols that have been in her holsters since they all got up this morning.

    ¡°Let¡¯s try something else, though,¡± says Russ, pulling out a set of bifocals.

    Mitch got to the door, sweating already. Glad I look forty instead of seventy, he thought to himself.

    Breathing deep, he opend the door, and-

    It was a boy scout.

    ¡°Hi mister! Would you like to buy an apple?¡±

    Mitch smiled, and dug into his pocket for some coins. He took the apple, nodded to the young fellow who couldn¡¯t be more than ten, and then to his father who was standing on the sidewalk. By the time he got back to the living room, everyone was wearing old-man glasses and holding playing cards around the dining room table. A pile of peanuts was mounded in the center of the table, and smaller piles in front of Jake, Jane, Miguel and Russ.

    ¡°Apple day,¡± Mitch says. ¡°False alarm.¡±

    ¡°No alarm is a false alarm,¡± Jake said. ¡°That¡¯s one of the first things we learned if we were doing a steal or a long-con. Always be ready to blow your place or abort the job if anything goes wrong.¡±

    ¡°Leavin¡¯ here won¡¯t be much of an option,¡± Jane said. ¡°I¡¯ve got the rent paid up for another month.¡±

    ¡°Is there a paper trail?¡± Russ asked, his voice suspicious. ¡°Anything that a cop or a cape could find us with?¡±

    ¡°Nope. I never saw the landlord. Just mailed him a cashier¡¯s check, an¡¯ the place is ours for a good four weeks. You say there were TV cameras when you chewed out that colored Barbie doll this mornin¡¯?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, but they were all lookin¡¯ at her. And I was too, with that outfit she was wearing an¡¯ all. And I took the blue rocks as I walked away- no one saw an old man walkin¡¯ from the place, only me, an anonymous, forty-something guy with graying temples and no bursitis. Anyone else a risk?¡±

    ¡°I think we¡¯re all a risk right now. Look at us-¡± It was Miguel this time. ¡°We pulled off a good job, we¡¯re celebrating, and some random doorbell ring makes us all paranoid, suspicious, ready to pounce on each other, getting defensive. We need to keep this little poker table ready just in case the real thing does come knocking.¡±

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    ¡°Yeah, true. A knock at the door isn¡¯t something for us to worry about. If they were capes, they wouldn¡¯t knock. They¡¯d just blast their way in.¡±

    Jake¡¯s comment made everyone get quiet.

    ¡°Who¡¯s for another drink?¡± Jake said.

    Still, quiet.

    ¡°Well, folks," Jake said, "if our number¡¯s up, no blue rocks an¡¯ no gadgets are gonna change that. If a cape busts in, we¡¯re just a buncha old friends playing poker, drinking booze, watching old movies and maybe playing a stupid party game with comic books. Now, me- even though I¡¯m only forty again, I¡¯m gettin¡¯ kind¡¯ve tired. I¡¯m turning in. G¡¯night, everybody.¡±

    Jake was just the first; everybody followed in the next few minutes. Jane looked for a few seconds at Mitch, but he missed it. Mitch then looked at her, and he thought she missed it. But in the end, it didn''t matter; they both slept alone.

    Miguel grabbed the shower. Russ stayed up for a little while, deciding to enjoy the silence, reading first the local paper, and then some of the funnybooks that Mitch brought with him.

    Unsurprisingly, most of them have Snowman making an appearance. Mitch only squared off against the Streak once or twice that Russ knew of, and that was after the crew broke up. Still, in the comics Snowman went up against The Streak again and again, ending up in jail again and again. In real life Mitch escaped both times. He thought fast for a kid who was then barely out of his teens; he knew he was in a territory that Streak patrolled, so he blasted the ground around him, turning just about every surface nearby into a skating rink. When the speedster showed up . . . slip, bang. Streak ended up in the hospital with a major concussion, slipping on the ice and hitting a brick wall at 90 mph; going fast didn¡¯t guarantee you were invulnerable, and Streak was out of action for the better part of a month, his secret ID blown open to the world. Now his kid seemed to have taken up the mantle - too many of them doing that these days, it seemed. But at least the kid wore a helmet.

    The whole thing set Russ thinking: had they really planned well for what could happen if a cape like Primus showed up? Gladiatrix probably wouldn¡¯t be talked down a second time. Something to talk to Jane about in the morning during the next planning session.

    #

    Roger McFinty slowly came out of the haze. He¡¯d been home in bed when he¡¯d had a dream about getting stung by a wasp as a child on a picnic with his mom and dad before they¡¯d gotten divorced. The dream had shifted to his bedroom. He was alone, his wife on one of now fairly consistent tirades of leaving him and going to visit her annoying family for a week or so. He knew she¡¯d be back, of course. If there was one thing her family respected it was money, and since his business had taken off he¡¯d had plenty of . . .

    And he¡¯d fallen asleep again.

    Though he felt awake, part of him realized he must have been still dreaming. He¡¯d ''awoken'' at his office, in the back room of his main store. His head had been on his desk, and he was in an uncomfortable position, as if he¡¯d just been sprawled into place on his chair and had sat there for the last hour. His leg felt cramped and asleep, and-

    ¡°Roger McFinty,¡±

    The voice that had spoke his name was slow, and sounded like its owner was speaking into a metal fan spinning in a garbage can. Roger looked up through the haze he felt and realized he must still be dreaming; he never worked late at the office anymore, not since he had enough money to pay a manager. This and sitting across from him was . . .

    ¡°Dark? The Dark?¡± he mumbled, the blood suddenly charging through his head and clearing the cobwebs as the adrenaline kicked in.

    ¡°You are not dreaming, Roger McFinty. This is very real. I¡¯m in an unpleasant mood already, having had to drag your very heavy body from your house to my vehicle, and then from my vehicle out here into your office. I want information, McFinty. Information about an old man who purchased a wingsuit from your company....¡±

    ¡°What? No, you don¡¯t understand- this is great!¡± McFinty said, jumping up from his seat.

    #

    ...TO BE CONTINUED.....

 Part 2, Chapter Eleven- The Dark, The Prep, and the Security Guard...

    ¡°You are not dreaming, Roger McFinty. This is very real. I¡¯m in an unpleasant mood already, having had to drag your very heavy body from your house to my car, and then from my car out here into your office. I want information, McFinty. Information about an old man who purchased a wingsuit from your company.¡±

    ¡°What? No, you don¡¯t understand- this is great!¡± McFinty said, jumping up from his seat. ¡°I¡¯m- I mean, my kid is such a fan of yours! And I- well, I¡¯ve just loved superheroes, ever since I was a kid! I mean, only the real deal, not all the posers and the like. You, you¡¯re the real thing! The real thing! And-¡±

    ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear me?¡± the Dark said. ¡°I said I wanted . . .¡±

    ¡°Yeah, yeah, information, I know. But listen, just listen! I¡¯ve never been able to tell anyone this! Not my wife, co-workers, employees, for sure not my teenage kids! And now you¡¯re here! Look, I was bullied a lot as a kid,¡±

    ¡°Saw that coming.¡±

    ¡°... and it was seeing you guys, you guys with the capes that taught me to stand up to those jerks! Of course I got my ass kicked, but you know what? I didn¡¯t care! When I was fighting back, I didn¡¯t care! I was something special! I was a superhero! I went out for martial arts, and then things were different! I learned a few moves, and the next time-¡±

    ¡°You kicked their assess.¡±

    ¡°No! They dusted me! But it took them longer this time! Eventually I did kick the major bully¡¯s ass- you know he works for me now? True story! He doesn¡¯t know this is my company! He just sees ¡®MSH Inc.¡¯ on his paychecks, but he doesn¡¯t know it stands for ¡®McFinty SuperHeroes¡¯! I¡¯ve made my fortune making the dreams of average joes like me come true- I sell gadgets and stuff that someone can be a superhero with, even if it¡¯s just for a little while! So here, look, I can¡¯t tell you how old a person was when they got the suit, but I can give you a list of who bought what on a day- it¡¯s all networked!¡±

    ¡°I want it. Yesterday.¡±

    ¡°Yes sir! This is amazing! Oh, boy!¡± McFinty sat down back at his computer, his fingers flying over the keys. Suddenly, he paused. ¡°Hey, you know what? I just realized something:I¡¯m becoming that guy in your story. The computer guy, the one you go to for information when-¡±

    ¡°Now.¡± Henry growled. He used the voice.

    ¡°Ooh! Yes! The dark, scary growl! No problem, Mr. Dark! No problem! I¡¯ll print it all out for you right here, right here and in just a few minutes, and . . .hey, could I get an autograph for my kid? Just one? An ¡®x¡¯ would be fine if you don¡¯t wanna give yourself away or anything. Of course, if you-¡±

    The Dark took a device out of his belt and pointed it at the desk. The desk¡¯s corner exploded, a few inches from the plump man¡¯s hand.

    There was a short pause, and McFinty started screaming like a little schoolgirl. ¡°Now you¡¯re trying to intimidate me with your gadgets! Oh, this is the best night ever! It¡¯s like something right out of the comic books! How cool is this? How cool is this?¡±

    Inside his mask, Henry rolled his eyes, wishing for a second that the overgrown fanboy was a child molester or something so he could justify breaking his finger to make him move faster and stop talking. Thankfully, the printer began chattering as the paper began sliding out of its slot.

    ¡°Here¡¯s the list of folks in the city. I can have it nationwide if you give me a-¡±

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    Henry grabbed the sheaf of papers with a dark-gloved hand. He left through the door without a word.

    ¡°Hey, um, aren¡¯t you supposed to knock me out again? And I wake up back at my house and think it¡¯s all a dr-¡±

    The door to the street slammed shut downstairs.

    McFinty sat slowly in his chair and looked around.

    After a few minutes, he scrunched his eyes shut and began screaming again while tap dancing his feet on the floor, his hands balled into fists as he pumped them into the air again and again.

    #

    ¡°Ready yet?¡±

    Jake was impatient. Happy to be walking again, sure. Who wouldn¡¯t be? But he knew as well as anybody how easy it was to be eating pate-de-fois-gras on Monday and be down to mac-n-cheese by Thursday. And right now they were in a pate-stage, and he wanted his pocket to stay nice and fat by this Thursday.

    ¡°Give it a rest for five seconds, willya?¡± Mitch said. ¡°You¡¯re the first line here.¡±

    ¡°I know I¡¯m the first line,¡± Jake said, itching the same spot on his chest for the fortieth or fiftieth time, ¡°but I wanna be sure everybody else is ready, too.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re ready,¡± Mitch whispered.

    Their car, a nice, dark-complected crown vic, slid through the night. Monty had boosted it with a gadget he¡¯d cobbled together with a few odds-and-ends from Radio Shack. The new, computerized locks were even easier to crack, since they needed a specific frequency beamed out to them, ¡°an of you know how to spin through those,¡± Monty said, ¡°The world is your oyster in a matter of seconds.¡±

    Whatever. Monty had always been annoying, but here at least he shone; guy was amazing with gadgets. Annoying and pretentious as all hell to deal with on a personal level, but great with gadgets. Mitch looked in the rearview. Satisfied with what he saw, he kept driving.

    ¡°How much further?¡± Jake asked.

    ¡°Five minutes less than the last time you asked me. Shee-oot, Jake, can y¡¯all hypnotise yourself or something into staying quiet? I started out nice and calm, and now you got me all twitching.¡±

    ¡°I wanna ditch this clown suit I¡¯m wearing, Don¡¯t you?¡± He looked down as his security guard¡¯s uniform, and then at the one Mitch was wearing. ¡°How the hell does Monty do this for a living?¡±

    ¡°Same reason every office drone gets up, puts on a tie and a collared shirt and sits in a cubicle every morning: He needs the bucks. But if Jane¡¯s got this down right, we¡¯re gonna be rich as kings in about an hour.¡±

    #

    #

    Eddie liked his life. He was a security guard. That was his job. It said so on the nice, shiny badge he had on the lapel of his shirt. When he wore the uniform, he felt happy, confident and accomplished. In school, he¡¯d met with one failure after another from teachers kind and mean. He¡¯d been called stupid, idiot, fool, moron, and a host of the kinds of names with words his mom would wash his mouth out with soap if she caught him saying them.

    But here? He could tell people with pride he was a security guard. It was a name that was cool, had weight. Not like working at the car wash (¡°You want hot-wax, mister?¡±), or sweeping floors at night as a janitor. He¡¯d gotten this job with the help of a friend of his dad¡¯s and had managed to keep it. He was keeping people safe, he¡¯d been told over and over again. He was keeping good people safe, people who¡¯d worked hard all their lives and deserved a vacation, a rest. He was keeping them safe from burglars, home invaders, fires, leaky sinks, and a host of other threats he looked out for when he made his rounds through the old folks home.

    It was also cheaper to pay him seven dollars an hour than to buy a quarter-million dollar security system, and just as big a break on the insurance. But they hadn¡¯t explained that part to him and knew it would be futile to try and do so.

    Eddie, having finished his rounds, sat down at the wide admin desk and took out the papers for his nightly report. He laboriously wrote the words ¡°ALL WELL¡± after the printed numbers that spelled out 2 a.m. on the log sheet the company had provided him.

    It was a good job. If they kept him on, he¡¯d be willing to do it for the rest of his life. He took the brown bag out from the drawer and unwrapped the peanut-butter sandwich he¡¯d spent ten minutes preparing after he¡¯d woken up at five this afternoon.

    While he ate and drank from his juice box, he looked at the brightly-colored pictures in his comic book, trying to puzzle out the action from the poses of the characters. Reading wasn¡¯t impossible, but he could only really do it with smaller words, not the stuff he saw here. A name here, a phrase there, it all swirled around like bubbles going down the drain in his head. He liked seeing the poses the heroes made, especially the pretty women, and . . .

    ¡°Where is Icarus Conlan?¡±

    The voice was cold and scary. Eddie yelped one of the words his Momma washed his mouth out with soap when he was younger, dropped his comic and knocked over his juice box, which his the floor with a hollow sound.

    #

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2 Chapter Twelve-Security Guards, Champions, and Queen Bees...

    ¡°Where is Icarus Conlan?¡±

    The voice was cold and scary.  Eddie yelped one of the words his Momma washed his mouth out with soap when he was younger, dropped his comic and knocked over his juice box, which his the floor with a hollow sound.

    ¡°Holy shi- Mr. Perkins, are you doing that costume playin¡¯ thing again?¡±

    Eddie stood up to his full height of six-foot three, which displayed his two-hundred-fifty pound frame fairly impressively. The guy in front of him was several inches shorter, and fit the build perfectly of one of the old folks who sometimes liked to dress up as a superhero and attempt to score with the ladies.

    ¡°I am not a resident, fool. I am . . .¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t give a fat flying frog¡¯s ass who you are! This is private property, and you better clear the hell out or so help me-¡±

    Eddie didn¡¯t see him move. He didn¡¯t know if the man in the suit jumped over the counter or ran around it. He was just suddenly there, with his hand at Eddie¡¯s throat and another hand holding something shiny in it.

    ¡°I don¡¯t care what you think you can do,¡± said the man, ¡°I am not Perkins. I am darkness personified, I am-¡±

    ¡°What? Personi- wussat mean?¡±

    ¡°Shut up! I don¡¯t want to hurt you, but I will if you don¡¯t tell me what I¡¯m looking for, do you understand?¡±

    ¡°Well- now ain¡¯t that illegal? You know, they tol¡¯ me when I signed up for this job that if¡¯n I threatened anyone I¡¯d be the one lookin¡¯ at time in the slammer. Now you-¡±

    The guy dressed all in black looked odd for a moment. His hands moved a bit, like he wanted to do something, but couldn¡¯t, or didn¡¯t want to.

    ¡°Hey, waitaminunte, I get it- you¡¯re -¡± he looked at his comic book, then back at his interrogator, ¡°you¡¯re not Perkins! You¡¯re the real thing! You¡¯re really one of them superheroes! You¡¯re the one who- oh, please ¡®scuse me! I messed up somethin¡¯ awful! Now, I¡¯ll help yuh, for sure! Who were you lookin¡¯ for?¡±

    ¡°Icarus. Conlan.¡±

    ¡°Oh, Russ! Yeah, he was here for a few years, but he signed out. They were done, and he moved out. Some pretty lady, I think she musta been his daughter, said she was taking him home and all that. She was about maybe in her late thirties, forties.¡±

    The Dark paused. This cretin talked a lot. And he had to listen to every word. He wished the fool was an evil child molester for a moment- dangling someone off a building and dragging information out of them that way was so much more- exciting than doing things this way.

    But here, now, there was only one way to do this: sit and listen. Hit record on his device on his BlackBelt, and wait.

    ¡°You will tell me more about this woman,¡± he said, when Eddie paused for breath and forgot what he was talking about.

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    #

    The house stood in a row with over fifty others, each the same color though there was the occasional twist in this-or-that one. This one had five bedrooms, that one had four. This one had french windows, that one had a wall. The painted-white brick stood in the heat of the summer, and the AC inside each house dared the sun to afflict the residents with discomfort. The sun, for its part, stayed outside, cooking anyone foolish enough to venture forth without generous amounts of sunscreen on or melanin in their skin.

    And it was the house at the end of the suburban cul-de-sac that saw an older woman open the front door, walk to her mailbox, greet a neighbor, get her mail, and go back inside in the space of a quick minute. She was tall and shapely, looking very fine for a woman in her early seventies. If she were the type to go to parties and bridge clubs, she¡¯d assert humbly yet audibly that she¡¯d never had a facelift or any other ¡®work done¡¯ on her face or body, nor did her husband on himself. Their toned bodies and handsome faces were due to two primary factors: a lifestyle devoted to health and exercise, and being largely childless throughout their over forty years of marriage.

    As she re-entered her house she looked at the headline of the day¡¯s paper, and stopped in the open door.

    A casual observer driving past would have noticed the beauty of the home¡¯s interior, with walls dedicated to mirrors, granite-topped counters in the kitchen, and many other motifs, the oddest of which being a glass trophy case with a neatly folded, black-and-yellow dress on its top shelf and several figurines of knights on horses on the second shelf.

    And above it all, mounted on a large plaque above the entrance to the spacious living room, was a medieval lance, the kind carried about by knights in storybooks, nearly a dozen feet long.

    ¡°Is everything alright, dear?¡± said her husband from the couch, looking over the lenses of his reading glasses. He¡¯d been interrupted so many times when reading his copy of National Review that he¡¯d begun interrupting himself when she walked in or near enough to the living room.

    She looked at the paper, and looked back at her husband. ¡°Remember the group I used to be with? I think they¡¯re back in business.¡±

    He sighed. ¡°Beatrice, you¡¯ve been worried about this off and on for how many years now? If they were going to come after you for revenge, they would have done it a long, long time ago. Honestly, compared to the psychos and losers I put away during that time? Or even afterwards? Your crew was probably the most benign group that ever existed. They never killed henchmen, never harmed civvies, and they certainly have never come after you for turning states¡¯ evidence against them. I doubt they even know to this day that you offered to do so. Did any of them ever go to jail?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± she said, the first edge of fear in her voice soft but unmistakably there. He knew what to do.

    ¡°Let me take a look at the story, Bea- can I see it?¡±

    She handed it to him and sat on the edge of the other couch, fidgeting slightly while he scanned the paper.

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing in here about your old group, hon,¡± he said after three minutes of reading. ¡°This could be anybody. Armored cars don¡¯t get held up all the time, but it does happen more often than you¡¯d think.¡±

    ¡°I know, but does anyone rob an armored car with a freeze gun anymore?¡±

    ¡°I saw that. Did you see what the witness said? Three people, two men and a woman. All Hispanic, in their late teens or early twenties.¡±

    ¡°One of them had a white stocking mask, just like Mitch did.¡±

    ¡°Mitch was a scared little boy when he ran with you guys. Now that he¡¯s old, like us, he probably couldn¡¯t rip off the take at a Bingo parlor. Besides, Hispanics? Aside of Miguel, your group was whiter than a cow in a snowstorm.¡±

    #

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2 Chapter Thirteen-Calming Down, And Moving Up!

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing in here about your old group, hon,¡± he said after three minutes of reading. ¡°This could be anybody. Armored cars don¡¯t get held up all the time, but it does happen more often than you¡¯d think.¡±

    ¡°I know, but does anyone rob an armored car with a freeze gun anymore?¡±

    ¡°I saw that. Did you see what the witness said? Three people, two men and a woman. All Hispanic, in their late teens or early twenties.¡±

    ¡°One of them had a white stocking mask, just like Mitch did.¡±

    ¡°Mitch was a scared little boy when he ran with you guys. Now that he¡¯s old, like us, he probably couldn¡¯t rip off the take at a Bingo parlor. Besides, they said it was a group of Hispanics, didn¡¯t they? Aside of Miguel, your group was whiter than a cow in a snowstorm.¡±

    ¡°Jake could hypnotize them. Plant a memory in their heads. It said the police couldn¡¯t respond to the robbery call right away, because a jewelry store was getting robbed crosstown, and over here-¡± now she was sitting beside him, her red-fingernail stabbing at another story on the lower corner of the front page, ¡°it¡¯s talking about an old man in a flight suit, confronting that gal, the young one that dresses up like a Roman gladiator. That was how Russ and Jane loved to do their heists- distraction, get the police over someplace else just a few minutes before, and then do the job! It¡¯s them, Robbie, I just know it, in my gut!¡±

    He sighed, but caught himself before he sighed too deeply. ¡°Well, Bea, what are you worried will happen?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe I¡¯m just worried one of them will come by, looking for revenge. Maybe it¡¯ll happen when Georgie is here.¡±

    ¡°Gwen hasn¡¯t brought Georgie by for more than a day in the last year, Bea. And even so, like I said before, your old crew are all old folks, like us. But I¡¯ll wager none of them have taken care of themselves the way you and I have.¡±

    ¡°Calamity Jane has those exercise videos. She¡¯s in good shape. And Jake could hypnotize someone into coming out here!¡±

    She was getting that edge in her voice.

    Robbie knew the signs, having seen them many times in the course of their marriage.

    ¡°Bea, look at me.¡± He¡¯d put down the paper, moved to make room for her on the couch beside him, and locked his eyes on hers.

    ¡°Robbie, stop-¡± her breath was coming faster as the anxiety attack began to take hold.

    ¡°Bea, remember what the doctor said. We can work on this, but you need to do what he said-¡±

    ¡°But what if they come for us?!?¡±

    ¡°Beatrice, count backwards with me, ready?¡± He hoped he hadn¡¯t waited too long this time. The last time he¡¯d erred, she¡¯d locked herself in their room for four hours, and he¡¯d had to miss a poker game with his buddies. No way he was going to leave her alone in this state!

    ¡°Bea, ready? Three-hundred, two-ninety-nine, two ninety-eight . . .¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to do this! Stop treating me like a child!¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll do whatever you want, after we do what the doctor said! Now count!¡±

    She counted with him, fuming.

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    By the time she reached two-eighty, the edge was gone from her voice.

    By the time she reached two-fifty, her breathing was normal.

    At two-twenty-five, she looked tired. Her eyes had lost the glassy look and instead were looking droopy with a desire for sleep.

    ¡°You feeling better now, hon?¡±

    ¡°Better,¡± she sighed. ¡°But what do we do, Robbie? You¡¯re probably right; they may not even know to this day that I told on them. I don¡¯t even know if any of them got caught when they raided the hideout. But it¡¯s something that still nags on me every day; what if they get enough money, enough spare time, to look for payback?¡±

    ¡°I think, hon, that the time¡¯s come for me to call in a few favors. I¡¯ll talk to a few friends I still have in Justice. Maybe they could peek into a file for me, see how that little raid went.¡±

    ¡°You could¡¯ve done that? All this time?¡±

    ¡°Nope,¡± he said, grunting standing and stretching as bones and muscles snapped and popped quietly. ¡°Seriously against the rules. But with a case and event this old? I think I¡¯ve still got a buddy or two alive and un-retired enough they can tell me how an investigation went down.¡±

    #

    The moon was peeking up over the buildings opposite the bank when the argument started.

    ¡°I¡¯m relieved? Says who?¡±

    ¡°Says the post orders I got from Ed, the area head.¡±

    The guard scratched his head. The two guys who¡¯d shown up had a piece of paper that looked official, but anyone could do a dot-matrix printout. They knew the name of Ed, the area head, though¡­

    ¡°I¡¯ve gotta call Ed for confirmation.¡±

    ¡°Look,¡± said the taller one, a slight southern twang in his voice, ¡°it¡¯s real simple. I¡¯ve gotta get another sixteen hours in to retire. I need¡¯em by the end of the weekend so¡¯s I can get my bonus in time for the trip my wife an¡¯ I are taking. Ed gifted this to me from the company, since I¡¯ve got twenty years in. You guys get to go home, and get your hours free the next two days. You¡¯ll make money putting your feet up watching the game, come back Monday night, and you¡¯re all set.¡±

    The two guards on regular duty looked at each other. ¡°Whaddya think?¡± the younger one said.

    ¡°We can call Ed, but you know he never answers on the weekends unless the world¡¯s burning down.¡±

    ¡°Look,¡± said the shorter one, ¡°it ain¡¯t hard, guys. Could you just show me the ropes before you head out? I haven¡¯t been to this site before.¡±

    ¡°We can¡¯t do that unless Ed tells us that-¡±

    ¡°Tell you what,¡± said the smaller one, his voice dropping several notches, ¡°how about we shift gears here, just a few spaces. Let¡¯s look at the phone here. See the phone, how the light shines off of it. Now, if we look at the phone, at the dark plastic, and the light as it reflects off of it, you see the light is just perfect, isn¡¯t it. Makes you think of a night sky. A perfect night sky.¡±

    Jake¡¯s voice had gone from its Jersey twang to a mellow, almost sing-song quality. The two regular guards looked at the phone, then stared, then after a few more seconds went slack jawed.

    ¡°Now, when I snap my fingers, boys, you¡¯ll feel happy and refreshed. You¡¯ll realize that it¡¯s just fine to turn the site over to us, no need to call Ed or anyone else about it. You¡¯ll head home for the weekend and come back for your next shift on Monday. Nod your head if you understand.¡±

    With eyes closed, both men nodded their heads.

    ¡°Good. Snapping my fingers now, in three, two, one-¡±

    Jake snapped his fingers. The guards¡¯ eyes flipped open. ¡°Well, dang,¡± said the first one, ¡°That¡¯s gotta be the best deal I¡¯ve ever gotten in this business. A free weekend, with pay!¡±

    ¡°Lovin¡¯ it,¡± said the second, ¡°Lemme get my stuff. See you guys on Monday morning!¡±

    They packed up, signed out dutifully and left the site.

    ¡°How the hell d¡¯you do that?¡± Mitch asked Jake when they were gone.

    ¡°School,¡± Jake said, shedding the security guard uniform shirt to reveal a floppy t-shirt underneath with the Cincinnati Reds logo emblazoned on it. ¡°You ready?¡±

    #

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2, Chapter Fourteen- The Dark Gets Hammered....

    ...He waited patiently. Patience was a virtue he¡¯d developed long ago, waiting for important files to download on his BBS, or his favorite TV program to begin. Patience was a virtue he knew every cop knew, and as a detective in every way that he felt counted, he knew he¡¯d developed it.

    But he¡¯d been waiting for nearly ten minutes now, and he felt, truly felt that his patience was through.

    He looked again at his therm scan. There were definitely multiple people in the location below. He¡¯d tracked down the purchases made by the woman who named herself Jane West that had visited the old man in the rest home. This was it. The nest. The lair. A group of people, all dedicated to crime and no good. This would make up for all the humiliation he¡¯d suffered when he¡¯d broken into the lair of the last, self-styled supervillain, and they were waiting for him. He¡¯d been gassed, then strapped into a comically complicated deathtrap, one he was in the middle of escaping from when Jason and the rest humiliated him further by suddenly turning up and saving him at the last minute.

    ¡°Not this time,¡± he said under his breath.It had taken a sizable amount of promised money to keep his little goof out of the papers, but they¡¯d pulled it off.

    Now, busting a whole group of villains, intent on no good. This would make up for all that. The other heroes would use the name ¡°The Dark¡± around the base once again like it truly meant something special, something to be feared. Something to be respected.

    His Dark Chopper, as the papers had called it, was still in whisper mode. Nigh unhearable by anyone below, its rotor noise was further camouflaged by the windy night. Painted black with no lights visible [not even on the dashboard; he¡¯d trained himself to know the position of every valid button, dial and lever by touch and memory alone. He hardly ever needed to light the board up anymore], it was the perfect vehicle of the night. Even better, plastic copies of it sold in the hundreds of thousands in the toy market, and the Christmas season hadn¡¯t even started yet.

    He smiled underneath his mask as he hooked himself up to the cable, and prepared for the jump.

    The cable made that zipping noise he loved, loved to hear, because it meant the time for adventure was nigh. ¡®Nigh,¡¯ what an awesome, amazing word, he thought in the back of his head as he went through all the martial arts moves he was going to use when he busted through the window. Jeet-Kun-Do if he met a single, worthy opponent, Brazilian Ju-Jitsu if he had some beefy lunkhead who preferred close-quarter fighting, and for groups-

    Through the window! Busted glass everywhere! People running, shouting, screaming, high pitched shrieks as he stepped over the Atari.

    Atari?

    But these were-

    He looked again. The room was dark, save for the sounds of Space Invaders, stomping and pulsing in the background on the TV. One child, no more than fourteen, sat on the beat-up couch looking at him. Several pairs of eyes peeked up from behind the couch and around the corners of the walls to look at him in the darkness.

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    The, *Fuck*? he thought.

    He¡¯d been handed a red herring, and he¡¯d followed it like a first-class amateur.

    He looked around some more, his infa-red goggles hidden underneath his mask. The place was crumbling around him- holes in the walls, mold in the ceiling. The place must have been recently abandoned if it still had enough electricity in the wall to run an Atari for their little videogame party.

    ¡°Gentlemen,¡± he said, trying to make his voice sound smooth and kind as possible through the voice distorter, ¡°I am The Dark. I need your help on a case.¡±

    The little guys began to poke out from behind the wall, looking at each other then back at him. The biggest one, obviously their leader, was an Asian like Henry himself. But with a fuller, fleshier face that was almost certain to become piggish later in life.

    No matter. Now- he could imagine that he was going to be Henry''s sidekick.

    They started to edge out towards him, like timid rabbits coming towards offered food.

    ¡°I need to know who pointed you to this place. Who told you to use it as a hideout.¡±

    ¡°We won¡¯t get into trouble?¡±

    Henry smiled under his mask. ¡°No. Not if you tell the tru-¡±

    The smoke bomb went off behind him, the thick fog enveloping him and the room in less than three seconds. The boys screamed and ran. Henry turned around just in time to see the white-wigged shadow materialize out of the vapor, just a foot or so in front of him.

    ¡°Court¡¯s in session.¡± it said. Henry dropped and spun, and just barely avoided the large hammer as it swung near his head.

    ¡°I¡¯m on your side,¡± Henry said as he scampered away behind the couch.

    ¡°Home invasion,¡± it said, taking another swing that bashed and broke the couch almost in half.

    ¡°I¡¯m working a case!¡± Henry was having a hell of a time with this idiot. He¡¯d heard of the Hanging Judge before, but never had he actually had to square off against him.

    ¡°Menacing minors,¡± the Hanging Judge continued, his trademark noose barely missing Henry''s boot.

    Cripes! This shouldn¡¯t be this hard! Who the hell put this guy onto him? Henry had never had to play defense this long in a fight since he was six years old!

    Time to stop playing defense, then.

    ¡°Objection!¡± Henry roared, launching himself at the big man. The fellow was large; nearly seven feet tall, it seemed. Henry¡¯s fist careened through the air like a deadly missile, the razors in his gloves¡¯ knuckles popping out slightly, just enough to give a smarting, but not deep cut to whomever he was punching. ¡°Counsel is-¡±

    ...and the Judge disappeared. Collapsed into black smoke and whirled away from Henry.

    ¡°...making a speech?¡± Henry finished the one-liner, unsure what to do. He¡¯d trained and trained for years now, to the point where he knew how to counter virtually any kind of punch, kick or object tossed his way by a standard or super-powered criminal. And his acting coach had trained him further on how to improvise cool one-liners in the middle of a fight, the kind bystanders would hear, remember, talk about, and would then show up in the comics and cartoons that came out about The Dark and the rest of the team.

    But no teacher he¡¯d ever paid $200 an hour to had ever told him how to counter someone turning into vapor and scuttling away.

    ¡°Overruled,¡± said the voice to his left.

    The hammer connected. Henry¡¯s world exploded into colored lights.

    #

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2, Chapter Fifteen- Bonding, Thieving, and Primus....

    The hammer connected. Henry¡¯s world exploded into colored lights.

    #

    ¡°How long issit gonna be?¡± Mitch asked, watching Monty fiddle with the mannequin¡¯s head.

    ¡°Another five or so minutes to arrange this mounting. An hour for the first hole to be bored through, and another hour for the second, then the third. By midnight, that safe should have an opening large enough for Jake to crawl through and begin moving merchandise towards us.¡±

    ¡°And an hour or so for me to move the junk to you. And then we move it to the van and then out the door!¡± Jake said, his eyes shining. ¡°Why didn¡¯t we do a job like this when we were a crew back then, hah? Why not? Coulda saved us so much trouble!¡±

    ¡°Back then we was a bunch of young and stupid idiots who¡¯d watched a few too many movies,¡± Mitch grumbled, his hands fumbling a bit as he started to plug in multi-receptical adapters into the wall as Monty handed them to him. ¡°All we thought about was grabbing sacks of cash and running for the car.¡±

    ¡°In my estimable opinion, Jake is right for a change. Had we relied on my optical wares to bore a hole in a bank wall rather than try for the old, tired, ¡®gimme the money¡¯ plan, a number of us would have spent far less time than we needed to in prison.¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t hafta spend much time in there, Monty. Thanks to Jake and Bee.¡±

    ¡°Queen Bee was, I thought then and do still, a dilettante with sexual issues that expressed themselvesself though the costume she created and her willingness to exploit her own sexuality in the aims of the moment. That being said, I will always regret not being there to see her strip so the guards were distracted and Jake could obtain the keys for my escape.¡±

    ¡°Eh, no worries, Monty. Those guards were a couple of fuckin¡¯ idiots, anyway. They were so thick I couldn¡¯t even get a thought through to ¡®em so¡¯s I could hypnotise ¡®em. I¡¯m kinda sorry I missed the festivities, too; but when Bee got down to her bra an¡¯ panties, she started givin¡¯ me looks like ¡®willya get ¡®im out already?¡±

    ¡°More¡¯s the pity. I¡¯m certain those guards suffered the loss of their positions for their stupidity, but if she went far as she needed to, I¡¯m even more certain they¡¯d consider it worth it.¡±

    ¡°Hell, yeah,¡± Mitch said. ¡°I never been to a titty bar, but if¡¯n I were twenty again and that happened to me, you can bet my eyes¡¯d be glued to a gal like Bee like a bug on flypaper.¡±

    ¡°Speaking of the gals: You mind telling us, Mitch, now that so much water¡¯s gone under the bridge, why the hell¡¯d you and Jane get together? You two didn¡¯t seem to have nothin¡¯ in common, but after that job at First National you two were stuck together alla time.¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± Mitch said, lugging up another drill, ¡°that was weird. I¡¯d never had a real girlfriend before. You know, a prom date here, a homecoming dance there, but nothing ever came of it. I thought she was looking at me a bit much when I was working on the Winterbeam, but blew it off. Maybe she was just bein¡¯ sure I wasn¡¯t gonna mess things up. Then I realized I was looking for reasons to tinker with my gadgets just because she¡¯d be checking me out while I was doing it. Finally one day she just walked up to me, she took a couple of deep breaths an¡¯ just said ¡®Mitch, let¡¯s you an¡¯ me take a little walk.¡¯ Well, I had no idea that she was sweet on me or nothin¡¯ like that. Since she was the leader I thought for sure I was in trouble.  Instead, once we get a ¡®ways down the tunnel, I start tryin¡¯ to make small talk about somethin¡¯, and she reaches in and whammo, she puts the sweetest bit¡¯o liplockin¡¯ on me you ever did see. Right then,¡± Mitch snapped his  fingers, ¡°she had me. Lock, stock, an¡¯ barrel. And I was hers forever.¡±

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    There was a short, awkward pause. Jake spoke first.

    ¡°You mean you never got laid?  The whole time? The best you got was first base? Geeze, you¡¯re fuckin¡¯ pathetic, man.¡±

    ¡°Jake, though I am not known to be particularly bonded to any position that Mitch might take, I would nonetheless suggest that he,  ah, got farther with her than you ever did. And he achieved it with a prettier woman than you ever have, unless we decide to add ladies of the evening to the equation.¡±

    ¡°Holy geeze, Monty, shut the fuck up, willya? I was just havin¡¯ a little fun.¡±

    ¡°Then I suggest you ask Mitch if he felt in on the joke, or disrespected by it. Your jealousy is palpable, Jake.¡±

    Jake looked at Monty, then Mitch. ¡°Where is the rodeo queen, anyway? And Russ and Miguel, too?¡±

    ¡°Russ is busy putting out the next distraction in about - ten minutes. Miguel is making sure that the little group of toughs he has on his string keep the do-gooder-whipper-snappers busy, and Jane¡¯s off making sure everyone¡¯s doing their jobs.¡±

    #

    ¡°So, what do we do?¡±

    The rookie looked at his boss, the police commissioner who had guided the force through triumph, tragedy, glory and scandal. Commissioner Jefferies sipped his coffee in the white styrofoam cup and looked at the prone superhero form at his feet.

    He was looking at a safe distance- a dozen feet, really. He knew from painful experience what could happen to someone who was too close to The Dark when he woke up.

    ¡°Ambulance is on the way? Good. Then we wait, like we would with anyone else. Who took him down?¡±

    ¡°Buncha kids in here, playing Atari. Said it was another cape, one with long white hair and a big hammer.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± Commissioner Jefferies said. ¡°Then this case just got a little more interesting.¡±

    ¡°How so?¡± the rookie asked. He was a little too green to understand you didn¡¯t ask questions like that around the Commish, but Jefferies was in an indulgent mood.

    Jefferies crushed his cup and dropped it on the ground. ¡°Unless some new freak¡¯s hit the streets with the same outfit, we¡¯ve got one of the few capes out there with an actual super power that just got involved. The paper¡¯s called him the Hanging Judge. He can disappear, go poof, and reappear behind you. That¡¯s when he takes you out with that oversized gavel and noose of his that never runs out¡¯ve rope.¡±

    ¡°He strings guys up?¡±

    ¡°Only the worst kind. Usually they¡¯re tied up for us to find. One guy, back when I was a rookie? Creep was a kid killer. The Judge hung him upside down and left him there for a weekend to die from the blood rushing to his head before we found him.  He¡¯s been jumping in and out of things for a long, long time, and only shows up when something interesting is going to hit the fan.¡±

    ¡°Something big? Like a huge super fight?¡±

    ¡°Nope. Not always big, but always interesting.¡±

    #

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2, Chapter Sixteen- Meeting your Heroes, and Flying High...

    One guy, back when I was a rookie? Creep was a kid killer. The Judge hung him upside down and left him there for a weekend to die from the blood rushing to his head before we found him.  He¡¯s been jumping in and out of things for a long, long time, and only shows up when something interesting is going to hit the fan.¡±

    ¡°Something big? Like a huge super fight?¡±

    ¡°Nope. Not always big, but always interesting.¡±

    ¡°Does a visit from me count?¡± Said a voice behind the Commish.

    Jefferies didn¡¯t turn around. Took out a cigarette and lit it up.

    ¡°Had a feeling you¡¯d be here,¡± he said over the cancer stick in his mouth, trying to ignore the rookie¡¯s shocked look. He¡¯d never seen Primus¡¯s appearing act before. ¡°Think you could wake up our friend here? I didn¡¯t pull off his mask since there¡¯s a mayor¡¯s order not to, but if he¡¯s unconscious and we take him into custody . . .¡±

    ¡°You couldn¡¯t guarantee that some slimeball journalist might ¡®accidentally¡¯ get a picture of him with his mask off and splash it over the papers tomorrow.¡±

    Jefferies took a long drag on the cigarette and blew a puff of smoke into the air. He was liking this; he was feeling more and more like Humphery Bogart in one of those P.I. movies he used to watch alongside his dad on TV when he was little.

    ¡°Correct. And I know you and the other capes have to follow the law, or your funding dries up like spilled water in Death Valley. If you could wake him up here, though-¡±

    ¡°You could let him off with a warning to me, since I and the rest of the team are listed as next of kin and his guardians if he¡¯s incapacitated. I was a little late to the conversation, though. Can you tell me who managed to do this?¡±

    ¡°Kids over there. They all normally hang out at some gym downtown. But tonight they were having a little videogame party in an abandoned building. The Dark suddenly busts through the window and starts asking questions, then the Hanging Judge smokes in and takes him out.¡±

    Primus looked over at the small group of kids, who looked at him while still trying to look cool and unconcerned. Primus smiled. Unless he screwed things up very, very badly, those cool kids would be telling their grandchildren about this day, when they saw three superheroes in action.

    ¡°A half-dozen children, all looking like they¡¯re under the age of majority, in an abandoned building at night playing videogames. Sound a little odd to you, chief?¡±

    ¡°Sounds very odd. You¡¯re a deputy, when you wanna be. You wanna ask ¡®em a few questions while Rookie here records it?¡±

    ¡°Be my pleasure. Thanks, Commissioner.¡±

    He walked over, smiling. The boys¡¯ mouths dropped open, all except for the last one. Biggest and likely oldest, his mouth was closed but his eyes were wide. A wanna-be ganger, most likely.

    ¡°Hi guys. Do you know why you¡¯re here?¡±

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    They all nodded, almost in unison. This was going to be easy.

    ¡°Do you all know who I am?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re Primus, the best of the superheroes!¡± One of the little guys shouted. Several cops at the scene looked up and smiled, in spite of themselves.

    ¡°That¡¯s right, little fella. So, guys? Before you tell me what happened, I¡¯d like to know exactly why you were playing your Atari out here instead of a safer place, like one of your homes.¡±

    ¡°If you saw my home, Mr. Primus? You¡¯d know that this place is safer. Usually we¡¯re in the gym, where Miguel is watching over us. But he was busy tonight. He said he knows the guy who owns the place, and it¡¯s safe.¡±

    Primus smiled. The big kid was trying to do the stoic act, but the littest, maybe ten years old at most, hadn¡¯t gotten to that point yet and still liked to talk for the sake of pleasing the adult in the room. Especially if that adult wore a cape and could fly.

    ¡°Well that¡¯s great to know, buddy. And who, exactly, is Miguel, and why isn¡¯t he here this time around?¡±

    ¡°Miguel owns the gym off Marlee and Hopewell downtown. He hasn¡¯t been around the last couplea days.¡± Now the bigger boy was in the act. Something or someone to talk to, show off to. Jason, Primus, had seen it a dozen times.

    ¡°Gym, huh?¡± Jason said. ¡°Well, you think he¡¯d mind if I dropped by sometime?¡±

    #

    I was flying again.

    In the dark. No gadgets. No tracking devices, no radar, no target-lock ons like the younger heroes have these days in the movies. No satellite link-ups, no form of anything that shows up on anyone¡¯s radar for expended energies, electronic whosits, nothing.

    Nothing but flight. Move, expand, pump, lean, thrust, soar. . . coast. Feel the wind on my face, look through the goggles at the city below. See the world, the people, the flow of men, women, thought, dreams, lights.

    Flying. I had one small radio, with a small tube that ended at my mouth, and a small earplug in case anyone had anything to say to me. The only way I was gonna talk now was if I saw something bad happening, like a set of whirling cherries speeding through the night to where our boys were at.

    Was I worried? Maybe some goody-goody was gonna slap me on the back again and drive me down to the pavement? Maybe. But maybe not. Part of the reason I¡¯d made myself such a sitting duck during the armored car thing was so¡¯s I could get into a little dustup with a hero, and make them think twice about messing with me if I ran into one of their little patrols. They¡¯d see me, recognise me, and think twice before they tried to mess with me again.

    But I wasn¡¯t thinking about that now. Hardly at all. I wasn¡¯t thinking about much, except looking at the street and making sure one, long strip of road was clear of cops.

    ¡°Gun-shy to Flyboy,¡± crackled a staticky voice in my ear, ¡°anything?¡±

    ¡°Nothing,¡± I whispered into my tube. ¡°Clear.¡±

    No conversations. No big long details. No serious-sounding codenames, and for sure no real names. You never know if some ten-year-old might be listening in on your channel and call you in. Or worse, the capes might have a way of hearing. Jane was safe in a little, undisclosed location away from the house, while I watched the skies and Miguel prowled the streets on foot trying to look casual. The other three were in the place itself, and should be done in the next hour, if all went well enough.

    One more hour. One hour, and I¡¯d be a millionaire. A double, maybe a triple millionaire. Enough to buy that magic little blue crystal crap that Jane gave us for the rest of my life, buy another fifty years of life. A life where I could eat, piss and shit right and travel far and where I wanted, be young and rich enough to interest some pretty gal, maybe have a kid in my old age. Or middle age, or-

    No need. There was nothing that could-

    Crap.

    A cop car. Lights flashing. Going down Elm, towards our boys.

    #

    ...TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2, Chapter Seventeen- Prep, Thoughts, and a Bar?

    Crap.

    A cop car. Lights flashing. Going down Elm, towards our boys.

    ¡°KittyKat, this is Flyboy.¡±

    ¡°Go ahead.¡±

    ¡°Bears. Bears on the march.¡±

    ¡°On the way, here?¡±

    ¡°Yep. Do your thing. I¡¯ll do mine.¡±

    ¡°Got it.¡±

    I swooped, getting my little smoke bomb ready, along with another surprise Mitch had whipped up for me on the side.

    I counted ten, and then sped right to the target: a little mom-and-pop jewelry store in a strip mall, a good half-hour¡¯s drive from where Mitch, Monty and Jake were busily drilling their way to our unearned wealth.

    Scratch that, I thought. We¡¯ve earned this a dozen times over. Every punch I took from double-A, every good little evangelical Christian boy that told a penny-Jew joke in front of me, every suit of mine that ripped up by some would-be ¡®hero,¡¯ every one of those things I dealt with was me, earning this from society a dozen times over.

    Maybe it wasn¡¯t the best way to put it. Maybe I could¡¯ve thought of something better. All I knew then, really, was that if I wasn¡¯t doing this right now, I¡¯d be in a semi-drugged slumber back at the rest-home, dreaming of long-dead pretty girls and shitting my adult diapers in my sleep.

    Target in sight, my goggles with their little computer gadgets let me know, a very cool set of green circles helpfully reminding me where I was supposed to drop my payloads.

    Three on my belt, and a little stick with a button in my right hand. A twitch of my thumb, a click, and whoom!, the sidewalk and overhang in front of the jewelry store turned into a winter wonderland of ice, the window shattering with a sound that was a cross between firecrackers and loud, obnoxious windchimes.

    Another swoop, a twitch and a click, and another away. And another little bulb dropped from my belt onto a precisely chosen spot on the asphalt, popping with a loud, echoing clap and shooting a plume of white, easily seen smoke into the sky, drawing every police car and hopefully any nosy supers for a few miles around over here to investigate.

    I sped away, little jets in my pack giving me that extra push. In ten seconds I heard the sound of police sirens, and I¡¯d landed in a nearby neighborhood, touching down on the ground and retracting my wings a good quarter-mile from the trouble I¡¯d caused. Another five seconds and I was one of a myriad of walking ghosts along a busy street near a poorer suburb, a man in his mid-to-late forties walking home after a late-shift at work with a backpack full of tiredness and a hooded sweatshirt to stave off the night chill. I barely looked up,like anyone would, when the cop cars sped by me with their sirens screaming and their whirling cherry-colored lights turning everything around me into a flapping, on-off show of crimson and blue.

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    I didn¡¯t look at my watch. I didn¡¯t need to. Because one minute after I started trudging I heard another whomp about a mile or two away, and another plume of white smoke climbed up into the night without any hurry. Miguel had done his work, finding someone who was sick of their business and wanted it gone for the insurance money. A few contacts made, several phone calls over a couple of days, and a nameless man [though watched carefully and unknowingly by Miguel from some post in the parking lot] blew up a food truck that had seen better days. Another distraction, ensuring that any leftover cops who might be on patrol would be finding better things to do. And even if some nosey cape went and interrupted things, or caught our little firebug, the order had gone down the line through so many layers from Latino crimelords, lieutenants, fixers, and street-level soldiers that no cop would be able to link it back to Miguel. Miguel¡¯s friend in the underworld, if it came to that, would make certain everyone kept their mouths shut with the threat of one of those links in the chain disappearing, never to be seen again.

    #

    ¡°How much longer?¡±

    Miguel said the words to himself as the fire plumed from the sickly-looking food truck and went up into the sky. His speaker tube was tucked neatly into his collar, and the earpiece hidden the same way. No one was going to see or hear his compadres unless he wanted them to. Or unless they got a warrant to search him. 4th Amendment and all.

    He looked at his watch, and saw that if the plan were still in session, they had a half hour to finish the job.

    Half an hour. He tried not to think about how he was going to live life with the money- would he stay in the barrio with the gym, or would he fly off to a little cabin on the beach. Maybe in the Bahamas? He had no idea where the Bahamas actually were, but he¡¯d seen them enough in ads on TV to know it looked like the kind of place he¡¯d want to end up at. Warm, year round. Sunny. Pretty girls in bikinis. And if he could afford the blue rocks that Jane had . . . maybe, just maybe, find someone that could take the place of Carmelita in his heart.

    No, really. That wouldn¡¯t happen. No one would take her place. Not now, not ever. But someone new, maybe. Someone who he could start over with and maybe, just maybe . . .

    The cops whizzed by, red lights flashing and engines roaring. Idiots. Total idiots. Why were they going so fast? Did they think they¡¯d catch the guy who blew up the truck? That guy owned the truck, and wasn¡¯t going to be admitting to it any time soon. And Miguel who¡¯d given him the bomb? The cops had just blurred by him without a second look.

    He didn¡¯t even need his catsuit, he realized. He¡¯d always just worn black anyway, back when he¡¯d been in his prime. But somehow some comic-book writer had seen a picture someone had snapped of him and accidentally thought that his raised goggles were a set of cat ears. Then . . . boom!, he was the Black Tiger, master thief, and . . .

    Nah. ¡°Total crock o¡¯ shit . . .¡± he mumbled to himself, as more cop cars and a fire engine blasted past him into the night....

    He thought about stopping off at a small hole-in-the-wall bar for a beer, both to get off the street and out of sight and to take the edge off. He was feeling antsy, like something was going to go wrong. He¡¯d felt that way the first time when he¡¯d been all of five years old. He¡¯d broken a glass on the floor, but had carefully retreated to his room in the hopes of avoiding blame. Or maybe even seeing one of his many siblings get tagged for it.

    But as Miguel had rounded the corner of the hallway in their dingy little two-bedroom apartment, the blow had come with the sudden fury of a lightning strike on his forehead. His mother¡¯d been furious, and knew he¡¯d been responsible despite his protests.

    ¡°Yo no,¡± he mumbled again, remembering how he¡¯d falsely protested his innocence over and over again, terrified at the sight of blood trailing in his mother¡¯s footprints from the kitchen, where she¡¯d stepped on a shard of glass and trailed it into the shabby box of a room they used as their sala.

 Part 2 Chapter Eighteen- Share a Drink With the Hanging Judge, and Thoughts on a Heist

    Eh, what the hell, he thought, turning towards the bar. He was probably just nervous. Both the bombs had gone off. No one had gotten hurt, provided no one had decided to go dumpster-diving. Even so, the smoke bomb would make a loud bang, but would throw any [glass] shrapnel to hurt anybody even if they were hopping around for God-knew-what reason in an oversized metal trashcan.

    The bar had a little, lit-up plastic sign that declared itself to be the ¡°Tired Feat¡±, with little drawn cartoon bare footprints beside the words.

    Tired feat . . . man, if that don¡¯t describe me, nothing does, he thought. He¡¯d been working hard most of his life, and all to show for it was the gym, a few dollars in the bank, and . . . well, a few kids¡¯ lives changed for the better, true.

    But he was tired. And he wanted a drink. More than he¡¯d wanted one for a while.

    The place actually managed to look smaller inside than outside.  Three or four patrons sat on barstools and looked at him with little interest when he walked in. Miguel, long accustomed to life as a chicano in a white world, looked around for any evidence he might be in trouble if he took any more steps.

    But he wasn¡¯t. The place was hardly bigger than a sala, too small for a pool table or anything more than a bar and a half-dozen stools. This was an itty-bitty place that some guy had probably opened up as a side-project after he¡¯d retired. Perfect. A beer, maybe two, and then back to the house to regroup and hopefully split the cash.

    I¡¯m gonna have me a drink. You know how long its been?

    ¡°Too long,¡± he said under his breath.

    ¡°What?¡± said the barmaid. She looked like Rosanne Barr¡¯s fatter, uglier sister.

    ¡°You got Dos Equis?¡± he asked.

    She swept her hand under the bar and stomped a green bottle in front of him.

    Ah, happiness.

    He dug into his wallet and had started counting bills when the long shadow had fallen over his shoulder.

    ¡°Miguel Hernandez.¡±

    The voice behind me had the smallest echo in it, the kind used by almost every cape who can afford a voice distorter from Radio Shack to go with their cape and mask.

    The difference here was that it wasn¡¯t a distorter the man behind him was using. It was his actual voice.

    Miguel turned around and saw the huge silhouette behind him, the long white curls of the Hanging Judge¡¯s wig moving slightly as the night air tugged them through the open door.

    ¡°Hey, Giddy. Long time. Join me for a brew?¡±

    The Hanging Judge paused. The other patrons of the bar paid for their drinks and left without waiting for the change. The barmaid left through the back door.

    Once they were all gone, the bigger man sat on the bar stool next to Miguel.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    ¡°Don¡¯t mind if I do.¡±

    #

    ¡°Well? Jake?¡± Mitch¡¯s voice was trembling like a virgin boy¡¯s in a whorehouse. Jake had slid through the three holes dug in by the eye beam and leaped to his feet as soon as he¡¯d hit the floor.

    ¡°Got my tubes, Mitch? We ain¡¯t gettin¡¯ any younger, ya know!¡±

    ¡°I got ¡®em. Here they come.¡±

    Mitch had taken the tanks out of the dufflebag that he¡¯d brought in from the trunk of his car. A series of small, thin, plastic tubes had been in the bag alongside the tanks, and Mitch had spent the last few minutes attaching them to one another and then to the tank. The tubes looked to be made of white plastic, and rotated along several points and elbow joints.

    The tubes had been folded in on each other like a series of jackknives, and Mitch poked the biggest group through the triple hole in the wall to Jake.

    ¡°I still think you should have gone with the more flexible material, Mitchel,¡± Monty said, ¡°or at least tried using one of my eyebeams to gain access to the safe deposit boxes.¡±

    ¡°Oh, that¡¯d be great, sure Monty. I can¡¯t just attach a garden hose to this stuff, y¡¯know. This is liquid nitro going in through these tubes. There¡¯s flexible tubing for it, but the stuff has to be made of stainless steel, and vacuum- insulated to make sure you don¡¯t end up with a burst and you end up losing anything from fingers to eyes to Mr. Happy if that stuff starts to spray.¡±

    ¡°You are, as always, strikingly descriptive.¡±

    ¡°Yah, well, save yer sarcasm, Adonis. Moreover, when the cops start lookin¡¯ at the scene, they¡¯re gonna start lookin¡¯ for just that kind of toobin¡¯, who bought it, and from where. These li¡¯l pipes¡¯re only gonna last us the ten or so minutes it¡¯s gonna take Jake to freeze those locks, but it¡¯ll be all we need. The right kinda flex-tubing costs hundreds, mebbe thousands of bucks, and every dollar¡¯s gonna point right back at whoever bought it. This stuff costs a buck a yard at any hardware store in the country, they sell, like, millions of yards a year, and when we¡¯re done we just stomp on it. It¡¯ll break into a thousand pieces and none of ¡®em¡¯s gonna the pointing anwheres.¡±

    Jake said, ¡°Okay, Mitch, I got it lined up. Turn on the juice! Nice an¡¯ slow.¡±

    Monty watched Mitch slowly turn dials on the disguised and repurposed oxygen tank. Monty¡¯s sour expression went unnoticed, so he tried to be a bit more of a jerk.

    ¡°And if Jake sprays himself by accident? Do we plan to take him to the local hospital and potentially expose ourselves?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s got gloves thick enough he could handle red hot steel if he needed to, and a welder¡¯s visor to boot. Can¡¯t you go write a book or something Monty? Your part¡¯s done fer now. Jake? How goes it?¡±

    ¡°Two locks per box, two-hundred fifty boxes, equals five-hundred locks, an average of five seconds per squirt, equals twenty-five-hundred seconds total, means . . .¡±

    ¡°Forty-one point six minutes,¡± Monty¡¯s voice jumped in, attempting to sound droll and bored.

    ¡°Eyah! Give the egghead a hero cookie! After that, another ten minutes to hit each one with my glassbreaker, an¡¯ then we start passing the goods to ya. We¡¯re lookin¡¯ at bein¡¯ done in an hour, and hour an¡¯ a half. If Miguel an¡¯ Russ did their jobs, cops¡¯ll be busy twice that long just fillin¡¯ out the paperwork over them smoke bombs of theirs.¡±

    ¡°Keep squirtin¡¯ Jake. pressure¡¯s good, but we¡¯ve got a limited supply of the cold stuff.¡±

    ¡°Keep feedin¡¯ it to me, Snowman, and we¡¯ll be rich by sunrise.¡±

    #

    ¡°So what¡¯s the story this time, Miguel?¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s it always? I¡¯m not doing anything wrong. Just on my way home. Like the new wig, by the way. It¡¯s you, all the way.¡±

    The Hanging Judge had pulled his black cloth mask up until his chin and mouth were uncovered, just enough so that he could take the tall glass mug of beer and drain it halfway in a single drought. After he finished, he gave the smallest gasp of pleasure and a mild belch before slamming the stein down on the bar. ¡°Yep,¡± he said, ¡°my Methodist parents taught me to be thorough in all I did, but we couldn¡¯t bring a drop of alcohol into the house. S¡¯why I still bless the day I turned Catholic.¡±

    ¡°And when was that, amigo?¡±

    ¡°The day I died...."

    #

    ...TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2 Chapter Nineteen-A Drink to Remember...

    NSA AGENCY INTELLIGENCE GATHERING GROUP: EVALUATION AND QUARTERLY REPORT

    AGENCY REPORTING: Office of Specially Abled Individuals Reporting [O.S.A.I.R.]

    Subject: ¡°The Hanging Judge¡±

    Known Abilities: Teleportation, Physical strength at a far-above average level, Melee-weapon abilities [blunt & rope-based weapons]

    Physical Characteristics:Ht__6-7 ft___  Wt__250 lbs [approx.]

    Identity: Known     Unknown

    If Known:

    Affiliations: None.

    Current Ideological Orientations:

    America:       Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Law/Order:     Pro       Anti      Unknown

    Threat/Influence Assessment:

    Subject does not appear at this time to be a threat to the aims of the United States government, but this is not certain. Subject is, at this time, the most enigmatic of the individuals studied by this office and hence the most unpredictable.

    In the field of operations, witnesses have described an uncanny ability to appear out of a cloud of smoke, then relocate short distances within a fighting range so as to obtain advantages over foes.

    Witnesses have further described the use of a large, gavel-shaped hammer and a noose used as weapons in close-quarter fighting.

    Subject also has been described as using legal terminology during the process of subduing criminals caught in the act of illegal activity. A typical pattern of activity involves subject interrupting a criminal activity, stating ¡®Court is in session,¡¯ denying pleas for mercy with phrases such as ¡®overruled,¡¯ etc.

    Attempts to trace a pattern of behavior to result in a predictable set of actions have proven fruitless. Subject¡¯s choice of vigilante venues seems at times almost random. In the month leading up to the filing of this report, subject was credibly sighted a) breaking up a meeting of a ring of pimps of child prostitutes, b) breaking into the home and injuring a well-heeled lawyer guilty of beating his wife, and c) assaulting a drug-smuggling ringleader on the street at 3 a.m. and breaking both his arms in two places each.

    The only visible pattern is that the victims of the subject¡¯s vigilante justice all escaped or were not in danger of being subjected to the normal level of consequences from the mainstream legal system.

    Subject has been witnessed associating with other S.A.I.''s on only a few occasions, the most common being the accomplished thief known only as The Black Tiger. Ironically, the subject has never apprehended the Black Tiger, despite his lengthy criminal record for thievery of items in the hundreds of thouands of U.S. Dollars. The lone witness we have of the interaction between these two claimed that both began talking to one another in a calm, familiar banter, utterly unlike the subject''s interactions with all other lawbreakers...

    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    ----

    ¡°So what¡¯s the story this time, Miguel?¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s it always? I¡¯m not doing anything wrong. Just on my way home. Like the new wig, by the way. It¡¯s you, all the way.¡±

    The Hanging Judge had pulled his black cloth mask up until his chin and mouth were uncovered, just enough so that he could take the tall glass mug of beer and drain it halfway in a single drought. After he finished, he gave the smallest gasp of pleasure and a mild belch before slamming the stein down on the bar. ¡°Yep,¡± he said, ¡°my Methodist parents taught me to be thorough in all I did, but we couldn¡¯t bring a drop of alcohol into the house. S¡¯why I still bless the day I turned Catholic.¡±

    ¡°And when was that, amigo?¡±

    ¡°The day I died."

    "Pshaw, Gideon. Really? You never told me about that."

    "No, really," the Judge said, taking another big swig from his glass. "Right after Tony Scarfelli stabbed me in the kidney for convicting his brother and sending him to the chair. I bled out in front of St. Thomas More¡¯s statue at the courthouse- he¡¯s the patron saint of lawyers, you know. Right then, it started glowing. Then he started talking, and then he made me an offer. I said yes, and the next thing I knew . . .¡± he swept his hand over the wig, judges¡¯ gown, and the large hammer he had carefully propped up next to the bar within arm¡¯s reach.

    "Quite the story, Amigo," Miguel said. "Glad you''ve never had to come for me."

    "You stole only from those who''d stolen, Miguel. And gave to those who''d been cheated of something they''d had a right to. I follow the law, yes. But not just the laws in the books, but the highest law of all." He looked up through the black cloth over his eyes, and took another swig.

    They sat in silence for another few seconds.

    ¡°You¡¯re a little far from the gym, Miguel,¡± the Judge said quietly. He faced the wall-length mirror behind the bar, though his eyes were still hidden

    ¡°Yes, yes I am. Do you even have a home these days, Giddy?¡±

    ¡°Sure. I¡¯m just never there, except when I need to sleep. And I don¡¯t get much of that these days. And you just dodged my question.¡±

    ¡°You know me, Gideon. I got my fingers in something, yeah. But no one¡¯s gonna get hurt by it. You were a lawyer, a prosecutor before it happened. You know it¡¯s okay for men of the law to make deals.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been making them with you for the better part of a decade now, Miguel. And those little twenty-somethings with capes and too much money and time on their hands are starting to close in on whatever it is you had those teenage boys running interference for. Either The One or The Dark¡¯s going to show up on your doorstep in the next few days, maybe the next few hours. Maybe he¡¯s there now, for all we know. I don''t have many friends in this line of work, so I like to keep the few I have safe and out from behind bars and the hospital, if at all possible.¡±

    ¡°Me, too. Look, Gideon, you know I never get my hands into anything evil. Just enough to keep the gym running and the lights on so¡¯s the good kids have a place to be. And in return I tell you what I hear the kids saying about who¡¯s doing what. And when you do stuff like this, it keeps the gym from being ripped off, ¡®cause folks know I¡¯ve got The Hanging Judge backin¡¯ me up.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a lot of cops out tonight, Miguel. And ambulances. Someone set off a lot of bombs. I had to stop a few muggings that the cops couldn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°One of the smoke bombs was me, yeah.¡±

    ¡°Anything else you, Miguel?¡±

    ¡°Why doncha peek into my head and find out?¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t.Wouldn¡¯t if I could, Miguel. You know that. You¡¯re on my team, and that¡¯s part of the rules. I can only do that to the bad guys.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll find out, soon enough, Giddy. I¡¯m helping out a few old friends,  and I¡¯m getting paid for my troubles. That¡¯s all, really.¡±

    ¡°I hope so, Miguel, for your sake. The Dark and his friends, they¡¯ve got their hearts in the right place, but they¡¯re young and they¡¯re stupid. If one of them gets you in their crosshairs, you just may get yourself into something that I can¡¯t help you get out of. Well,¡± he stood up, his massive, seven-foot frame extending itself as he stretched, drained his drink and pulled his mask back down. ¡°Time to hit the road. You stay out of trouble now, Miguel. I¡¯ll be watching.¡±

    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t have it any other way,¡± Miguel said, as he finished his own drink.

    The door opened, closed. There was a flash of light outside, and Miguel sighed with relief. After a minute or so of peace, he stood up and left the place too.

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2, Chapter Twenty- A Visit From the Dark

    The door opened, closed. There was a flash of light outside, and Miguel sighed with relief. After a minute or so of peace, he stood up and left the place too.

    #

    Jane sat in the center of the room and looked at the pieces of paper in her hand, and on the desk in front of her. The piece in her hand said ¡®VAULT¡¯ in large, capital letters, and had five lined sentences below it in neat, cursive writing. Four of the lines had been crossed with a single, deft stroke. There was one line of text left, and it held her attention:

    Load up and get out.

    She sighed. The radio was quiet, and that was a good sign. She heard on the police band about Miguel and Russ¡¯ smoke bombs, and the others weren¡¯t due to call in for another half hour. All was going well.

    Then why were the prickles on the back of her neck?

    She had to go to the bathroom. She looked at the clock, nodded to herself. Carefully, she put the radio, notes and the small vial of crystals into the safe under the desk, closed the door and spun the lock. She stood up, and looked at one of the loose papers on the desk- the one from the Army about the ETs. She opened the drawer, put the paper in gently, face down, and shut it.

    Down the hall. To the bathroom. She was washing her hands when her back stiffened and her eyes narrowed.

    The first time she¡¯d felt that, she¡¯d been eight years old and a rattlesnake had gotten into her sleeping bag. The last time she¡¯d felt it, she found out Aces n¡¯ Eights had been cheating on her with a guy.

    Both times, either she¡¯d been or was about to be hurt by someone or something being where they shouldn¡¯t.

    Her hand went to her hip. She looked into the mirror; she hadn¡¯t taken her blue rocks today, and her hair had already started to gray. With her left hand [her right was firmly on her pistol, and it¡¯d take the force of the Almighty to move it before she felt the all-clear], she quietly reached into a door of the vanity and pulled out a pair of glasses. She perched them on her nose, stooped her shoulders and watched herself in the mirror as she suddenly began darting her head and eyes back and forth. She drew her gun and held it with both hands, looking like a rookie at her first rodeo.

    She opened the door, poking her nose out and the gun, too. Walking with the bent, hesitant steps of an old woman, she took step after step down the hall towards the living room, and turned on the lights.

    Nothing.

    She walked a few more steps to the kitchen, and turned those lights on too.

    Still nothing.

    ¡°I have a gun,¡± she said in her best, quavering old-lady voice. ¡°And I . . . I¡¯m a pretty good shot, too!¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± she heard the voice behind her say.

    She spun around, waving the gun with uncertainty. An old woman, visibly terrified for her life.

    ¡°Madam, Miss- Jane Cobb? You¡¯re going to need to put that weapon down. If you pull the trigger, you¡¯ll miss me, but you¡¯ll put a hole the size of two fists in the wall, and the kickback just might end up breaking your nose.¡±

    ¡°You . . .¡± she said, her voice going up into an old-woman¡¯s screech, ¡°you get out of my house, young man! Right now! You take yourself and your black mask and your crazy outfit, and you just . . . just get out!¡±

    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    The Dark walked forward slowly. ¡°I¡¯m not here to hurt anyone, Miss Cobb. But I need you to lower your weapon.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not Jane Cobb!¡± she said, her voice getting shrill. ¡°Cobb is my landlady! You want her, I¡¯ll give you the address my son sends the rent checks to. But you first get out, and don¡¯t come back until you learn how to knock! You may be one¡¯a those costumed young people, but I know my rights! Now get the hell out, or I just might get a lucky shot off with this Magnum P.I.!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s- dear lady, it¡¯s a forty-four magnum. Magnum P.I. is a TV show about a private investigator.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s at- hang on, just stay there. You promise to go if I give you her address?¡±

    The man, all in black with a cape and dark cowl and what looked like a fedora, raised his hand with three fingers extended. ¡°Scout¡¯s honor,¡± he rasped into his voice modifier.

    Still wobbling with the gun, she hobbled slightly over to the end table, pulled it out inefficiently, rifled through some crumpled papers and plucked a post-it from the pile. ¡°Here,¡± she said, extending it with a trembling hand. ¡°I know all you people can do what you want, but I¡¯m warning you! Next time any of you come into my home, I¡¯m gonna shoot first! You got me? Now get out!¡±

    The Dark looked at the paper in his hand, then back at her. His face, covered by the black cloth mask, was inscrutable.

    ¡°Thank you, I¡¯m sorry. I was expecting someone else. Good night.¡±

    ¡°See yourself out, sonny.¡±

    He left, through the front door. The lock turned from the other side. Dang, he was good.

    She waited for a few seconds, then a few minutes.

    She wanted more than anything to call up someone, anyone on the team, through the comlink. She didn¡¯t. As a bounty hunter in the 50s and 60s, she¡¯d caught more than a few bail jumpers just that way, by dropping in on their parents or girlfriends, and then tracing the call made by her quarry as soon as Jane had left.

    She went back to the room where she¡¯d been calling the shots, pulling the strings, and making sure everyone had been keeping their heads.

    That was my role in things, she thought to herself, ever since I¡¯ve been a little girl, back on the Texas prairie.

    She flopped down on the couch and exhaled loudly. She sat quietly for the next few minutes, then stood and holstered her pistol with the smooth, easy movements of the professional she¡¯d been for over a half-century. Ears still cocked and ready for any stray noise, she walked quiet as a cat into the kitchen, then as if by magic found the bottle of whiskey in the cupboard and a shot glass.

    Using only her thumb, she popped the cap on the bottle and poured a finger¡¯s worth of its contents into the shot glass. She sniffed the alcohol, tossed it down in one shot, and then chased it with a long drought from the whiskey bottle, her small adam¡¯s apple moving in and out like a tiny, dignified accordion while the burning alcohol flowed down her throat and into her gut.

    She guzzled until she needed to breathe, stopped, took a deep breath and then waited. After the long, wet belch rose from the depths of her guts, she gave a satisfied sigh and walked back into the living room.

    She flopped onto the couch and looked around the room, happy now that the room had begun its familiar wobble, which would soon devolve into a spin. ¡°Gone away,¡± she said to the empty air. ¡°They¡¯ve all gone awayyyyy¡­¡±

    She stopped as her eyes landed on the cover of the discarded comic book on the floor, her mouth sneering at the perpetually smiling visage of Aces n¡¯ Eights, the COWBOY super hero!

    ¡°Crock o¡¯ shit,¡± she said. ¡°I bailed yuh out¡¯ve how many jams with my shootin,¡¯ an¡¯ it was you the y put on TV! You! Iss you, who got on Jack Parr, Mike Douglas an¡¯ Joey Bishop! Alla talk shows¡­you, fuggin¡¯...if¡¯n I was on with Mike Douglas, know whud I¡¯d say? Ah¡¯d wait ¡®til he said ¡®tell me about what it was like growing up,¡¯ and I¡¯d say¡­well, start with¡­

    My Pa...

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2, Chapter Twenty-One - Calamity Janes Story

    ¡°Crock o¡¯ shit,¡± she said. ¡°I bailed yuh out¡¯ve how many jams with my shootin,¡¯ an¡¯ it was you the y put on TV! You! Iss you, who got on Jack Parr, Mike Douglas an¡¯ Joey Bishop! Alla talk shows¡­you, fuggin¡¯...if¡¯n I was on with Mike Douglas, know whud I¡¯d say? Ah¡¯d wait ¡®til he said ¡®tell me about what it was like growing up,¡¯ and I¡¯d say¡­well, start with¡­

    #

    My Pa.

    We all got one. Mine was good to me, an¡¯ around, which¡¯us more¡¯n we can say about a lot of ¡®em these days, huh? Mine? Well¡­

    Pa had been a good and [mostly] kind man who¡¯d have done better if he¡¯d been working steady jobs as much as he¡¯d been trying to strike it rich with his gadgets. My Ma, she gave up on life early in their marriage but realizing that Pa was the best she was likely to ever get on a full time basis, withdrew into herself more and more, her best friend eventually becoming Jack Daniels or whatever bottle she could snooker out of a local or a traveler.

    Pa had made some fairly decent money for a little while as a traveling photographer, and found it cute when I''d taken a stance like a shootist in a traveling, two-bit circus that had blown through town. He snapped a shot of me in a tough gunslinger¡¯s pose, and had pasted it on the wall of the shack home we lived in.

    Ma¡¯d gotten angry, livid that Pa would waste photography supplies like that. But Pa had weathered the storm. He¡¯d started a new business that way for some of the better-off folks in town, snapping their pictures while they were dressed up to look like old-west figures. Costumes had been almost ridiculously easy to procure, hitting up the thrift stores and charity places for their cast-offs.

    Me, though, I''ll never forget how I felt while her father had me wearing a cowboy hat just a little too big for me and holding an empty-chambered six-shooter.

    For most of the ten years I''d been alive on the planet, I''d remembered feeling helpless, worrying that we''d run out of money and have to live on the streets or as vagabonds, or [worst of all, in her mother¡¯s eyes and oft-repeated speeches], they¡¯d have to submit to the charity of the papists, since the Presbyterians and the Methodists and even the little clap-board Church of God with the Reverend Jimmy Phillips had gotten tired of helpin'' us out.

    Now, truth-be-told, I really wouldn¡¯t have minded being in the care of the Catholics; the priest was a young, chubby, moon-faced fellow who often smiled and had been kind to me every time she¡¯d tried to talk to him.

    But on the day Pa took my picture, I felt different. For the first time I could remember, I wasn¡¯t worried about making the rent payment, or the food bill, or any of the other worries that her mother would have tirades about.

    On that day, holding the gun, I felt powerful.

    And later, about a week later, when I was aimlessly roaming about the five or six intersected streets that formed the ¡®downtown¡¯ of our small, podunk hometown, I found something in the gutter that would change my life forever.

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    It was a bullet.

    A single, solitary bullet.

    I¡¯d heard the stories from the other kids at school; a stranger had come through town, tried to rob the local drug store while more than half-crocked on some stolen hooch, and been shot by the store owner as he tried to exit. As if to confirm the bullet¡¯s origins, I saw a dark stain the color of rust in the sandy dirt of the gutter, next to the sidewalk.

    I picked up the bullet, turned it over in my hand several times, and looked out among the respectable folks ignoring me.

    Later, when Ma and Pa were asleep after their nightly fight, I crept out and found the rusty six-shooter hanging with all the other costume props in the storeroom. I popped open the chamber on its hinge, and slid the bullet into the chamber with a small, satisfying click that I never forgot.

    Fear gripped me suddenly, fear that something could go seriously wrong. I turned the gun around and pushed the tip of the bullet from the other side, watching it fall to the thin rug we''d gotten for free from some Methodist church charity.

    Carefully, I picked the lone bullet up and hid it.

    Later, maybe a week, I''d been earning a few pennies running a message from the feedstore to the local sheriff at the bar when I saw his gun belt hanging on the sheriff¡¯s favorite chair.

    The barkeep was distracted by the town floozy screaming about something, the other men in the bar were either halfway or fully crocked, and the sheriff himself was in the bathroom relieving nature. And I, little Jane, little Plain Jane Gives Me a Pain as one particularly cruel boy had taken to calling me, had slipped over to the chair and popped a half-dozen bullets from the belt and into the folds of her dress before anyone even thought to look in my direction.

    The sheriff returned, wobbling from his recently quaffed bribe-drinks like a tenpin about to fall; I gave the message and ran, out of the bar and all the way back to the shack me and my folks called home.

    Ma was already asleep, but Pa had been up and worried. He¡¯d been worried a lot lately; something about money and the large, dirty men who hung around the bar playing cards every night. I''d seen Pa talk to them a few times. And after that, for a while things had gotten better. The men from the bank  had stopped coming around, and Pa had come home with a new dress for Ma and a doll and a stick of candy for me. But after a few weeks, Pa had gotten to looking more worried than before.

    Life went on; I hadn¡¯t had to work, so I went back to school at the little one-room schoolhouse in town. But when I come home one day I seen the dirty men from the bar outside our house. They had Pa backed up against a wall, surrounded. I counted four of them, all with decent clothes but thick beards and hands greasy from the bar and the grime of life.

    Pa looked scared.

    He¡¯d been worried, but I¡¯d never seen him look scared before.

    I knew what to do; I¡¯d read enough nickel novels to know that talk or promises wouldn¡¯t make the men leave Pa alone.

    I ran into the house, pulled up the rug and the loose board beneath it.

    I pulled out the gun, put the first bullet in my sock, and loaded the next six I¡¯d stolen from the sheriff into the chamber. I was more focused on that day than I¡¯d ever been in my life, maybe since. An old-West shootist with a decade of gunslinging under his belt couldn¡¯t have been quicker or more efficient. I spun the chamber and slid the bullets into the spaces smooth and quiet as streamwater in a spring thaw.

    Outside, I saw Dirty Pete land a punch on Daddy¡¯s face. Two of his no-account friends were holding Daddy by the arms while two more sat on the log near our fire and laughed like they was having a good-ole¡¯ time.

    I saw Daddy¡¯s mouth started bleeding and I got mad, so mad the world looked for a second like there was a little bit of red fog laying down over everything.

    Now some folks, when they get mad they almost get funny. I saw the teacher like that once when the kids wouldn¡¯t shut up, and she grabbed Billy Watford and started hitting him with a switch. She was so mad, and Billy was such a mean cuss, we all started laughing.

    But that day I was mad as a hornet what whose hive ¡®been used for kicker practice. And the funny thing was this:

    For most folks, gettin¡¯ mad makes you lose focus.

    For me, it were the opposite.

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 PArt 2 Chapter Twenty-Two, Calamity Janes story [Continued...]

    For most folks, gettin¡¯ mad makes you lose focus.

    For me, it were the opposite. When they hit my daddy, who¡¯d romped around with me on his shoulders, and made me dolls and little toy schoolhouses to play with out¡¯ve bits of wood and junk, and who¡¯d told me stories and even sung me to sleep once or twice when he¡¯d had a bit of the hooch? Well, after everything went red, the way I remember it now it seemed like everything slowed way down, and anything I looked at stood out clear as a bell in a quiet room. I knowed that if I wanted to shoot anything with that six-gun, anything at all, I¡¯d hit it. I couldn¡¯t not hit it. I¡¯d ping it straight in the bull¡¯s-eye center whether it was standing still, moving, bobbing or weaving.

    But I figgered I oughta give ¡®em one chance to run off, just like Quickshot Billy Bodeen would do in the Nickel Novels Daddy¡¯d brought home to me when he¡¯d gone on his trips to try an¡¯ sell his gadgets.

    ¡°You leave him alone, Dirty Pete!¡± I yelled, pointing the gun at them. I stood far enough away that I¡¯d be able to hit at least two, maybe three of ¡®em if they tried to rush me. I¡¯d seen enough fights in the bar from a safe place to know that when you¡¯re dealing with lowlifes like this, taking down the leader is the quickest way to make the mob scatter off.

    Dirty Pete hadn¡¯t gotten his nickname just because he never took a bath. He looked at me, then back at Daddy, then back at me again. ¡°Well,¡± says he, ¡°maybe I will lay off yer daddy a bit. What say you an¡¯ me get better acquainted, while he watches?¡±

    His friends laughed, but it waren¡¯t a real laugh. It were a laugh where they was just trying to play along, though they didn¡¯t like the idea much. I was too young then to know exactly what he meant, but I knowed it wouldn¡¯t be good for me, and I wasn¡¯t gonna let him nor his friends near me after what they¡¯d done to Daddy.

    Dirty Pete spat on the ground, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his duster, and walked towards me with a sick look in his eyes.

    I raised my gun and pointed it right where I knowed he needed it, pulled back the safety.

    ¡°You ain¡¯t got it in you, little girl. But I¡¯ll git it in-¡±

    I shot him. His forehead grew a big, red dot in front and a bunch of red stuff splashed out the back and landed in the dirt.

    Dirty Pete¡¯s face kept its grin a few more feet, and then he staggered and fell forward. He hit the dirt, and his nose smashed into a rock.

    To this day, I can still hear the crunch.

    His friends let go of Daddy. ¡°You little bitch!¡± One ¡®o them screamed, and ran at me.

    I pointed an¡¯ squeezed, and he dropped too, screamin¡¯ and holding his gut and screaming for his momma, and screamin¡¯ and screamin¡¯ some more.

    That spooked the other three, and they ran off.

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    Daddy came and got me. He asked if I would give him the gun, and I said, ¡°No.¡± And he was ok with that.

    Those sidewinder friends of Dirty Pete went to the sheriff, I heard later. Tried to get ¡®im to come and arrest me for murder. Sheriff wouldn¡¯t do it, sayn¡¯ he couldn¡¯t arrest an eleven year old, and Pete had it comin¡¯ anyways. Pete¡¯s friends told the Sheriff he¡¯d do it if he knew what was good for ¡®im, and the Sheriff drew on the buggers and told ¡®em to march into the jail cell for threatening an officer of the law.  They got mad, and I wonder to this day if they actually looked like they were drawing on the Sheriff like he said later, or if he shot the three of ¡®em just because he was tired of them doing bad stuff in his town and gettin¡¯ away with it and  making him look bad.

    Whatever it was, they waren¡¯t any trouble to no one ever again, and life in the town got ¡®way better without them miscreants making everybody uneasy. Daddy got to strut through town a lot taller and with a spring in his step, now that his little girl¡¯d broken the grip of Dirty Pete and his crew- seems he¡¯d been bullying quite a few folks in town, and they was mighty happy that I¡¯d done what none of ¡®em was willing to do.

    Best of all, we found ourselves gettin¡¯ all kinds of good stuff from folks for the next week; Mr. Hooper at the grocery store tore up our bill we owed him, and gave us two free bags besides. Even the bank stopped bothering us about our mortgage for a few months, and by that time Daddy had a new way for us to make money.

    Old Mulely the blacksmith also made guns and bullets, and did a bit of leatherwork when he could. I guess he asked Daddy what he wanted, because he came back from a trip to town one day with the most beautiful thing I¡¯d ever been given:

    It was a gunbelt, and it was filled with forty shiny bullets, handmade and oiled, perfectly calibrated for the two beautiful, shiny pistols that were in the holsters. Daddy brought them back for my birthday, my eleventh birthday, along with a free cake from Mr. Gareth the town baker. It was the first time I had a cake bigger than a cupcake for my birthday, and me, Daddy and Ma finished the whole thing in one night.

    But the gunbelt was what drew my eye. It was fitted to my size, and with enough notches on the that it could be adjusted until I grew to be a woman. And I still have it today, and it¡¯s what I wore to every job, and I¡¯ll have it ¡®til my dyin¡¯day, and I¡¯ll have it on my hips the day I pass on, God willin¡¯.

    I started shootin¡¯ for fun. I got to be more than just the gal who¡¯d popped a lawless man in the head and gave him a third eye; I started shootin¡¯ tin cans out back of our house, then other kids came over to see. Then their Daddys came, too. Then they started tossin¡¯ the cans in the air, just to see me pop ¡¯em while they spun. Then they started tossin¡¯ up rocks, dimes, playin¡¯ cards, everyone tryin¡¯ to find something I couldn¡¯t hit, but I got it every time.

    People started comin¡¯ by our little shack house every Saturday night, bring vittles and cards, settin¡¯ up on top of barrels and the like. Daddy had a thought and started passing the hat before I started the night¡¯s shootin¡¯, so¡¯s we could buy more bullets from Old Muley, but really it kept us in vittles and the bank away once¡¯t folks got to forgettin¡¯ about me killin¡¯ Dirty Pete.

    At least for a while. Then folks started to get bored. Then, I learned that when they¡¯re bored, they need to see a new trick. Daddy tried once to toss two cans in the air at once. I shot ¡®em both. But then I had me another neat idea: while one was in the air, I shot it, ¡®cause I knowed the bullet could bounce off just right if¡¯nI hit it in the right place. Well, that made things a whole lot better, lemme tell you! One bullet did the job of two- we saved money, and everybody got to see something new!

    And then the man came by.

    He had a nice, store-bought suit on him, and a fancy little card he handed to Daddy, what said he was from Barnum and Bailey Circus, the Greatest Show On Earth. He told Daddy that if I traveled with the circus and did my trick shots, they¡¯d pay us . . . well, I never did find out just how much it was, but it made Daddy¡¯s jaw drop and Ma stopped complaining for nigh a whole week.

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    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2, Chapter 23- Jane Continues....

    He told Daddy that if I traveled with the circus and did my trick shots, they¡¯d pay us . . . well, I never did find out just how much it was, but it made Daddy¡¯s jaw drop and Ma stopped complaining for nigh a whole week.

    I ended up goin¡¯ round the country, and then through Europe, where they spoke funny but the food was good and the people were real nice to me and Daddy. He said he¡¯d have to come with me, and they said, ¡®Of course!¡¯ And then he said I¡¯d have to keep up with my schooling, and they said, ¡®Of course!¡¯ Then had me and the other kids go to school on the road. I didn¡¯t like it at first- it was an hour a day that I coulda been shootin¡¯ and having fun, but you know after a while I liked it real good. I learned how to read better. Miss Lawson, the lady who was both the teacher and the doggie trainer, she was nice and patient with us and worked real well. I got to be the best reader in the class, and, well, okay, the class had only ten kids in it, but it was still good. I started reading more an¡¯ more. I liked the Wizard of Oz,there was maybe twenty of them books, each one was just plumb crazier than the last one, it seemed.  And Miss Lawson had these neat mysteries that got solved by a papist named Father Brown.

    We traveled with the Circus for two years, Daddy an¡¯ me. He took our pay each week and socked it away under the mattress we slept in, until we got to a town with a good strong bank and then he put the whole mess in there. I asked him once why he wasn¡¯t sending it home to Ma, and he said ¡®I do send some home, honeybunch. Ma won¡¯t starve, but if she wants to live like a queen she¡¯s gonna hafta get a job herself. This is to make sure we got the money after this circus thing peters out.¡±

    Poor Daddy. He knew how things were for folks like us. There waren¡¯t no gravy train gonna keep comin¡¯ forever, we¡¯d have it good for a bit, an¡¯ then we¡¯d hafta find a new way to keep the money rolin¡¯ in.

    After two years, we¡¯d run the gamut. No new places, and we were gonna start up again after a short rest. Daddy an¡¯ I hadda come up with new tricks to keep the audiences interested. They wasn¡¯t gonna pay a dollar each to see the same act they¡¯d seen last year, and some places were pretty rowdy, let me tell ya!

    It waren¡¯t too tough. We¡¯d been enough of a draw that we¡¯d been given little raises throughout the year. Mr. Barnum had put me front an¡¯ center on a lot of the new posters, an¡¯ come by three or four times after the show to our trailer, all personal-like, shook my hand, shook Daddy¡¯s hand, said how happy he was we were there.

    Well, that was the happiest I ever was, lemme tell you! Ma wasn¡¯t there to stir up trouble with Daddy, we had three square a day and the bed was always warm at night, there was kids my own age to play with and we all got along; even Daddy got some respect here an¡¯ there, and I saw he had some friends with the strong man and Electro the wonder wizard. Daddy was skinny, but he knew a few things, like how to arrange the weights on Julis the strongman¡¯s barbells in such a way that it was easier for him to lift, so he could put even more on his bar. An Daddy knew gadgets well enough that he able to make Electro¡¯s lightning bolts look even bigger, snap louder, and they even looked more blue and more white than before. The audience went from ¡®oooh¡¯ to ¡°WOW¡¯ in seconds, and Mr. Barnum made another visit to Daddy, this time with a bottle of booze. They had a drink together and laughed a bit, and I knowed Daddy¡¯d finally found his place in the world. It was tough for him, I always knew, when the other men got up and went to work in the mornings either at the mill or on their farms and he was stuck trying to make his gadgets work and make money from that. He was a happy man, when Ma wasn¡¯t yelling at him, but he was sad at nights, when all the men went to the saloon and spent their money on booze and cards, and he was stuck at home with Ma.

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    But now, he always went around with a smile on his face and a spring in his step. He was at home, with a buncha people who were all misfits where they came from, like he was. But they were all¡¯s alike in a lot of ways- the kind¡¯ve jokes they told, the way they liked going from town to town, seeing new things alla time- and Daddy loved it, I think, even more than I did.

    And I do think Daddy had more friends in the circus than he ever did in his whole life. Electro the electricity showman and him could talk and tinker for hours about how to make them bolts bigger and brighter. He had fun with the clowns, which I thought was nice, since no one else seemed to wanna talk to them. He tried to crack a few jokes with the trapeze guy, but him and his lady friend were all snooty, acting alla time like they were better¡¯n the rest of us.  His best friend, though, got to be the strongman, Ignazzio, a nice fella from Italy with a mustache like a set of handlebars. He¡¯d let Daddy try to lift his weights and they¡¯d have a good laugh, but Daddy eventually got to where he could lift some, and he got a little stronger.

    Later, when we went through St. Louis, there was a priest everyone knew and loved there. He¡¯d grown up in a circus hisself, so he always came to see performers when they¡¯d come to town. Father O¡¯Hanlon would baptize the babies of the ladies, some what had husbands but many did not. And he¡¯d hold a real, life Papist Mass for folks who¡¯d wanna come. Ignazzio and the Eye-talians came, and Ignazzio talked Daddy into dropping by. And Father O¡¯Hanlon took a shine to Daddy and talked with him near all night about what was true and ain¡¯t, about science an¡¯ faith. Father O¡¯Hanlon musta had a serious way with words, ¡®cause come morning Daddy got hisself baptized, communed and confirmed, all a¡¯ once, and just like that we was Papists! Well, I couldn¡¯t call us that no more. I got baptized too, and I was very, very happy all I hadda do as a Pap-sorry, a Catholic was to get it poured on me a little. I was scared of being pushed all-the way underwater, like the Baptists did back home.

    The first winter we went home. Ma met us at the train station.  She didn¡¯t smile, which I was not surprised at. Looking back, I can¡¯t remember a single time she smiled when Daddy was in the room, so it didn¡¯t seem all that unusual then when she met us.

    We went back to the house- it was the same. Not much more than a shack, really, but Ma had stuffed a lot of the cracks that had kept us cold in winter and hot in summer with plaster and thatch. It was November, and we didn¡¯t hafta be back at the Circus until February. Daddy said as we rode the train home that we¡¯d spend the time bein¡¯ happy with Ma, and figuring out new tricks with my six guns. Daddy¡¯d gotten me new ones with the money we¡¯d made, pretty ones, lookin¡¯ like they was made with polished silver and with mother-of-pearl lining on the stock. I never went out much for girly-girl stuff, but when I saw them pistols? I felt like my heart was gonna jump right outta my throat and blast through my ears, I was so happy! Some girls, they love dolls. And some go for dresses. Me, I¡¯d learned to love a gun, and all it could do and do for me and my Daddy.

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 PArt 2, Chapter 24- Jane and the Circus....

    Me, I¡¯d learned to love a gun, and all it could do and do for me and my Daddy.

    That night, I slept in my bed for the first time in over a year. I had as long to take off as other kids did during the summer, but I never had to do much in the way of schooling; Daddy and the doggie-lady¡¯d already taught me how to read, and Daddy read to me and had me read to him. And he taught me how to do numbers, what so I could add, subtract and the like, and then he showed me electricity worked, and his gadgets, too. I waren¡¯t quite so interested in that as I was the pistols, and he was fine with it. ¡®God makes us all, honeybunch,¡± he said, ¡°an¡¯ he makes us all different. He made me to like gadgets, and he made you to like guns, and that¡¯s just jim-dandy for everything!¡±

    ¡°What did he make Ma to like, Daddy?¡± I¡¯d asked. I was stupid, then. I thought I could make Ma smile if I knew what she liked, because then I could go get it for her at the store with the money we was making.

    ¡°Well,¡± Daddy said, ¡°he made your Ma to like some things, but they¡¯s mostly what we ain¡¯t got. I think that when we get back, she¡¯ll have had a chance to figure out what she really does like, and we¡¯ll be set again, like we was before things got tougher for us.¡±

    ¡°You mean afore I was born?¡±

    ¡°Honeybunch, you were the best thing the Dear Lord ever gave to your Ma and me, and we both knowed it. Your Ma¡¯s just not the kind¡¯ve gal who can show it well, ¡®cause she wasn¡¯t given it much when she was little herself.¡±

    ¡°Why not?¡±

    ¡°Your Ma¡¯s people, well, when you say no to ¡®em . . . well, they tend to try an¡¯ fix things, and not for the better. They never wanted your Ma to marry me. They thought I jes¡¯ wanted money. But that wasn¡¯t at all. I just loved what she was, then. Full of sparkle, full of life. She¡¯d been sad when I met her, on account of some fella who said he was gonna marry her changed his mind an¡¯ walked oft. But to me, she was the most beautiful woman you ever did see. I only saw her ¡®cause I was delivering the groceries, but we hit it off, and one thing led to another, an¡¯ then...well we got married, and you came along, an¡¯ I been happy ever since!¡±

    I smiled. I knew a good bit of it wasn¡¯t all the way true, prob¡¯ly, but I was still happy. Daddy made everything good, and when he said he was gonna do something, he near always delivered. When I was tempted to get mad at him for the house we lived in or the way other kids got more, I though of Jim Jespers, whose Pa came home drunk and angry every Saturday night and beat on him, his little sister and his Ma. Or June Apling, whose Poppa had the biggest house in town but was never home, always on business trips, and her Momma was always cryin¡¯ and drinkin¡¯ booze and mumbling to herself while he was gone.

    But me? My Daddy spanked me some when I was little, and we never had much money, but he¡¯d wrangled it so¡¯s I saw more of the world than any kid in town- heck, maybe any kid in the state! Life was good, and I slept in my room, in my bed, and didn¡¯t care how dusty everything was- I was home, we had money, and Ma had no reason to be upset. I didn¡¯t even hear her yelling at Daddy none while I drifted off, just their voices talking low and quiet, all until . . .

    I woke up the next morning to the sunbeams comin¡¯ through my window. It was quiet- another good sign, ¡®cause usually Ma started yellin¡¯ at Daddy with the sunrise the way rooster¡¯s started crowin¡¯.

    I crept downstairs. Daddy was in his nightshirt, the one that went all the way to his ankles. He was starin¡¯ out the window with a piece of paper in his hand, a cup of coffee steaming on the edge of our beat-up kitchen table he¡¯d gotten for Ma at a rummage sale an¡¯ repainted for her as an anniversary present.

    ¡°Daddy?¡± I said. It waren¡¯t like him to be quiet. He was usually up and out back workin¡¯ on his latest project by the time I ever come downstairs.

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    He jumped a little when he heard me, standin¡¯ up quick and stuffing the paper into his nightshirt¡¯s only pocket. ¡°Hey, hey honeybunch,¡± he said, looking at me and trying to smile. His eyes were red, like the Jesper¡¯s girl when her allergies got real bad. ¡°You¡¯re . . .you¡¯re up early, hon! Everything ok?¡±

    He reached out to give me a hug, which was ok. He hugged me a lot, and that was another reason I liked him better than the other Daddies in town; most of them never gave so much as a pat on the head to their kids, but Daddy was always free with his hugs to me. But this time his hug felt a little strange, like his heart waren¡¯t in it.

    ¡°Daddy, what¡¯s wrong?¡± I said.

    ¡°Wrong, honeybunch?¡±

    ¡°Where¡¯s Ma?¡±

    Daddy sat back down, his hand stroking his pocket some, making the paper inside crinkle.

    ¡°Ma, honey she needs- well, sometimes, a woman needs some time to herself. She¡¯s on a little vacation right now, and she¡¯s gonna be there for a while. Maybe we- um-¡± he stopped talkin¡¯ for a second to wipe his eyes. ¡°Maybe we need to do something- something fun! Yeah! You wanna go shootin¡¯ in the back yard?¡±

    I knew something was up, something worse¡¯n what he¡¯d let on. But I also knew if¡¯n I asked about it he¡¯d go back to cryin¡¯, and that¡¯s the last thing any daughter with a soul worth a plugged nickel wants to see her Daddy do, if she can avoid it.

    So we shot up the back yard. Daddy n¡¯ I thought up new stuff to do, like throw three cans in the air, shoot one and make it rebound off¡¯ve the other two. That needed work, but we got it down after a while. Daddy an¡¯ me took the longest walk we ever did, an¡¯ he talked about Ma. A lot. Mainly about how they met. He was seventeen, an¡¯ delivering groceries to a real fancy house out in the biggest city in the whole, wide world [which for him then was Indianapolis]. He¡¯d come through the backdoor and was givin¡¯ the bags to the cook when he saw the prettiest, most beautiful gal he¡¯d ever seen.

    ¡°Ma was the cook?¡± I asked.

    ¡°Nope,¡± he said, it turned out she was the daughter of the rich man who owned the place. Well, to have a gal that pretty talking to you was every boy¡¯s dream, but she was rich besides! Later, he found out that she was fightin¡¯ something fierce with her own Daddy, on account of her bein¡¯ told she had to marry some cousin or other of hers. She talked to Daddy, then met him at night, then they run oft together an¡¯ got married at a justice of the peace. They ran in Daddy¡¯s beat up old car, and ran outta gas an¡¯ money in the town we settled in. End of story.

    Time marched on. Christmas came. Ma didn¡¯t. Daddy got me every present I¡¯d ever wanted, and we went to Mass that morning like he promised Father O¡¯Hanlon we would. I got dolls and  dresses, which I liked, and he invited two other families to join us for Christmas dinner. They were families that didn¡¯t have a lot, but they both brought a good few jugs of booze with ¡®em, so Daddy n¡¯ them got on real good. There was a good, warm fire, an¡¯ singin¡¯, and even some dancing in our living room when Daddy and the other grownups¡¯d had enough hooch. The kids were nice, too; Daddy¡¯d gotten a present for each one of ¡®em, and they was happy, too, and taught me how to play jacks, an¡¯ crazy eights, and a whole bunch of other games after dinner.

    It was the best Christmas I¡¯ll ever have. Even without Ma. Well, maybe because Ma wasn¡¯t there. I know it¡¯s shameful to say, but it was true, at least for me. I was almost sorry when we had to go back to the circus six weeks later.

    Going back was the best! Daddy saw his friends, and was so happy. And I had my own friends by now with the kids who were either performers or children of the performers, and we all got to have fun too.

    I was twelve by then. Had my birthday just before we left. Still didn¡¯t hear from Ma. She was still on her vacation.

    Life got good, and stayed good. I got older, and Daddy got older. We went home during the off season and had good Christmases with the same poor families, and saw the same good friends we made in each city in America and Europe. Father O¡¯Malley in Saint Louis was Daddy¡¯s favorite of these friends, and he helped Daddy to get something called an ann-oole-ment, which meant that since Ma wasn¡¯t gonna be coming back and never really meant to love Daddy forever, that their marriage wasn¡¯t really real and Daddy could get married if he found someone. I was a bit concerned if this made  me illegal in any way, but Father told me ¡°No child ever made in this world is illegal, little Jane. And you are legal and legitimate as the day is long in America.¡±

    Sounded fine to me. Now Daddy was happy, I was happy, and life went just grand.

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    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2 Chapter 25- Janes Story, Continued....

    Sounded fine to me. Now Daddy was happy, I was happy, and life went just grand.

    Five more years went by. Which was very, very nice, since Daddy had thought the whole circus things was gonna peter-on-out after two years. We stayed on an¡¯ brought in more money ¡®cause we kept makin¡¯ the tricks bigger an¡¯ better. I was never the headliner, and that suited me fine. Way less pressure and the money was almost the same. But I noticed something as time had gone on; it looked like the crowds were thinning out a bit. Fewer people coming and fewer seats getting filled.

    ¡°Well Hon,¡± Daddy said, ¡°what you¡¯ve got right about now is called a depression. Lot of folks are out of work, and that means less money for things like the circus.¡±

    I wasn¡¯t worried, to tell the truth. Daddy¡¯d always steered us right before, and I had no doubt he¡¯d keep doing so. ¡°Are we gonna be out¡¯ve work, Daddy?¡±

    ¡°Well, I¡¯ve got things I¡¯ll set just in case that happens, honey. I¡¯ve been taking the money we¡¯ve been making and socking it away.¡±

    ¡°Where? The bank?¡±

    ¡°Heck, no! The Bank¡¯s been the worst place to put money for a couple¡¯a years now. No, I took it all outta the bank, an¡¯ I¡¯ve been investing it.¡±

    ¡°Wuzzat?¡±

    ¡°I buy part of a company, and if the company does well, I get our money back plus a little extra. It¡¯s risky, but not as risky as putting it in a bank or under the mattress over in our house back home in Indiana.¡±

    ¡°What companies did you buy?¡±

    ¡°One makes beer. Another makes cigarettes. A third one makes soap and those radio shows your gal friend likes to listen to so much- Proctor and Gamble.¡±

    ¡°I thought alcohol was illegal.¡±

    ¡°It was. They switched to ginger beer and ¡®near beer¡¯ for a bit, but now that it¡¯s legal again, we¡¯re making money hand-over-fist compared to most folks. Mr. Barnum¡¯s come to me a couple of times, borrowing money from us so¡¯s he can make payroll. He offered me interest on the loan, but I wouldn¡¯t take it. ¡®Mister Barnum,¡¯ says I, ¡®you took my Jane and I in when we needed a place, and you gave us a home to be in these last seven years. There is no way on God¡¯s green earth I¡¯ll make you pay interest on that when I can help you back.¡¯

    Daddy was gonna say more, but Miss Esperanza the acrobat needed his attention for a minute. I¡¯d been noticing her needing his attentions more and more lately, and that suited me fine. Daddy¡¯d been so good to me, and he¡¯d put up with so much from Ma afore we came out here, I was quite happy to see him get some happiness in this area of his life.  She was pretty, too- I couldn¡¯t come right out an¡¯ say she was as pretty or moreso than Ma. Even though she was. Despite all Ma¡¯d put us through, it woulda felt disrespectful.

    I woulda stayed with them all until the end. I¡¯d had a few beaux myself over the past few years, and some had tried to get fresh, but Daddy¡¯d always told me that there was no man alive anywheres what was worth givin¡¯ up the best treasure a woman can give her husband on their weddin¡¯ night. I believed him, too. More to the point, I saw over an¡¯ over what happened to gals who did different, and I did not want that to be me.

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    But Daddy seemed happy. Even happier when he an¡¯ Miss Esperanza got hitched. Daddy wanted a church weddin¡¯, and so did Miss Esperanza. So one day Daddy surprised me an¡¯ we went to the town we was in. It had a big Cathedral, and they was married! Daddy had a nice black suit, and Miss Esperanza wore a white, store-bought dress they¡¯d got just that mornin¡¯! What a great day that was, for everybody. We had the time of of our lives for a few months after that.

    He started coughin¡¯, though, a few weeks after I turned eighteen. A few months after that he was hurtin¡¯ alla time in his chest. The doc looked him over and shook his head, told Daddy he had the cancer, and that was that.

    When he died, they buried him in the city we was in at the time- and I felt God had done us a kindness by letting him pass in St. Louis, where Father O¡¯Hanlon could give him last rites and do his funeral. Everyone at the circus put on their Sunday best, even the ones who never went to Church, and they all went to the funeral and most of ¡®em cried, especially Ignazzio the Strongman and Miss Esperanza, who asked me to call her Mia from that day on. She said after the funeral she couldn¡¯t stay at the circus no more, on account it made her think of Daddy too much. She was going back to Mexico, and she said I could come with her, if¡¯n I wanted, her bein¡¯ my stepmother and all now. I told her, no thank you, Mis- Mia. I love ya a lot, an¡¯ I was real happy with how you made Daddy happy. But the circus was my family now, and I needed to be with them. Maybe I could follow her to Mexico later? Last I saw of her she hugged me tight, told me she loved me, an¡¯ I¡¯d always be welcome where she was in Mexico. She got into a car with a tall man who she said was her brother. They drove off, and that was that.

    I was sad, real sad. I went shootin¡¯ and it made me feel better some, but not all the ways. The show hadda go on that night, and I wish I could say I felt Daddy lookin¡¯ over my shoulder, but I didn¡¯t. I just felt sad, except when I heard the ping! of my bullets hittin¡¯ their targets.

    After that, things got worse. Ma suddenly showed up. Or rather, some guy in a trenchcoat did, sayin¡¯ Ma had sent him to track me down. He talked me into coming to see her in a fancy restaurant, along with the new man she¡¯d married. She¡¯d gone back to her own mama and daddy, and they¡¯d got her married up to someone real rich, like them.

    Ma didn¡¯t smile hardly at all, though to be fair I didn¡¯t either. I was real, real mad at her for runnin¡¯ off. Her new husband waren¡¯t there either, just her. She said a bunch of stuff, but I wasn¡¯t in much of a mood to hear it. ¡°I¡¯m here to bring you home, Jane,¡±  she said at the end. ¡°It¡¯s time you learned who you really are.¡±

    ¡°I know jus¡¯ who I am,¡± I said, ¡°I¡¯m my Daddy¡¯s little girl. He loved me, an¡¯ the money he saved up for me proves it!¡±

    Well, that was a mistake, let me tell you. Ma sat up kinda slow and careful, like a cat stretching. She hadn¡¯t knowed about Daddy¡¯s money, how he¡¯d saved and invested it, but now she did. ¡°Intriguing,¡± she said, usin¡¯ a word what I¡¯d heard Mr. Electro use a whole bunch. ¡°It seems your Daddy can make a down payment on all the misery he caused me after all.¡±

    Well, that tore it. I started yellin¡¯ at her in that fancy-pants place fit to beat the band. I yelled about how she was always fightin¡¯ with Daddy, and how sad it made him, and how it made me go to bed every night with my guts feelin¡¯ like they was tied in double-knots. I yelled at her for running off and making Daddy cry, when he always tried to be good to her and do right by us. And I yelled at her for leavin¡¯ me and never saying goodbye, or so much as sendin¡¯ a card at Christmas or any of my birthdays.

    Ma wasn¡¯t gonna put up with that. She mumbled something about how I was hopeless, gathered her pocketbook and her muff and walked out of the place. The guy with the trenchcoat was there, suddenly, and he told me it was time to go home, back to the circus.

    He was nice while he drove me back. I think he felt bad for me. He dropped me back off at the circus and told me it might be a good idea to get all of Daddy¡¯s money in one place and put it under a mattress, because he said, ¡°Your mother is connected to some very powerful people in this country.¡±

    He drove off, and I just went to my trailer, laid down on the bed and cried and cried and cried. It was so unfair- why couldn¡¯t Ma have been poor, like Daddy an¡¯ me? Why couldn¡¯t she¡¯ve been happy with having a good man who loved her for a husband?

    Things started to go bad after that.

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2, Chapter 26, Janes Momma...

    Things started to go bad after that.

    Dates got canceled for the circus. Suddenly, towns and places that¡¯d had us for years said they didn¡¯t want us back. Mr. Barnum brought me in for a meeting and asked me: Young lady, we¡¯ve been told our circus is gonna get bankrupted if we keep you on as so much as a dung sweeper. What¡¯s going on?

    I told him about Daddy and Ma. When he heard Ma¡¯s maiden name was, and what her last name was now, I thought he¡¯d fall out of his chair. ¡°She came from that family?¡± he said. ¡°And she¡¯s married to that family now?¡±

    Mr. Barnum said he was gonna hafta let me go, just for a year, and then we¡¯d see if it all blew over.

    I went back to our hometown, back to our house. Where else was I gonna go? After a while I started to get letters in the mail. I didn¡¯t understand what one of them said, really, except that it had Ma¡¯s name, Daddy¡¯s name, and my name in it with a whole lot of big words. I took it to Miss Hanson, the town schoolteacher, who by now was Mrs. Davis. She was the smartest lady I knew, but I truly wondered if even she would understand all the gobbledygook in that letter.

    She had trouble too. So she took me to the only lawyer in town, a nice fellow who brought us in and took a long, quiet time reading the letter. When he was done he took off his reading glasses and looked at us with a sad expression on his face. He said that Ma had gotten some kinda lawyers, and even with him havin¡¯ got married again, all Daddy¡¯s money was hers. There really wasn¡¯t anything now I could do about it; I couldn¡¯t even wait for Ma to die, ¡®cause I was no longer listed as one of her heirs in her will, neither.

    I wasn¡¯t too broken up about it, really. Not right away. I took a job as a waitress in the diner downtown, and that paid the bills for a while. If Ma had left me alone, I might¡¯ve stayed there the rest of my life, calling orders, pouring coffee and taking tips.

    But Ma didn¡¯t leave me alone. I guess she felt Daddy had failed her somehow, and I was bad because I¡¯d gone off with him. Whatever it was, I got another paper from the same place I got the last one from, sayin¡¯ now she¡¯d sued Daddy after he was dead, claiming he¡¯d caused her pain and suffering, and wanted the house.

    The house was nothing to her. She¡¯d hated living there. Mrs. Davis¡¯ lawyer friend said if I sold it the money I¡¯d get wouldn¡¯t pay for the gas Ma used in the fancy cars she was being driven about in these days. But she still wanted everything, and if she couldn¡¯t hurt Daddy, she was gonna hurt me.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, honey,¡± the lawyer said, ¡°but your Ma has used her influence in a big way, since her husband¡¯s family owns the bank. They¡¯ve called the note on your house and started foreclosure. Your Ma¡¯s said she¡¯s gonna buy it up before the ink gets dry on the papers, so in a week at most, It¡¯s gonna be hers.¡±

    Well, that made me plumb angry, it did. Where was I gonna live? The house wasn¡¯t much, the farm was less- the land hadn¡¯t been worked over in years and years. But Ma was gonna have hers, the lawyer said, and again, we could try to fight it, but really there was pretty much nothing we could do.

    Until I heard about Pretty Boy.

    It was in all the papers, how he¡¯d been a career criminal and taken the money out¡¯ve a bunch of places, from a post office to a payroll master, and then from banks.

    So, I took the two pistols Daddy¡¯d given me, an¡¯ hitched a ride into the big city. I¡¯d thought about robbin the bank in our small town, but why? I didn¡¯t want to upset poor old Mr. Johnson who was both teller and manager of the place. Besides, all I wanted was Daddy¡¯s $150,000; the little podunk bank in the center of our town probably didn¡¯t have even a tenth that much in the vault. And most important, when I thought it over: Where would I run to, even if I got every dime of the cash? No place to hide in a one-horse town of about 300 people.

    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. No, I wanted my Daddy¡¯s money, and I was gonna get it, if only to spite my mean, old Ma. But I couldn¡¯t afford a lawyer now, and so the best way was to go to the bank that had Daddy¡¯s money and pull it out. I had scraped a little money together and got myself a cheap hotel room once I got there, and then got myself a cab.

    I knowed it sounds silly tellin¡¯ it now, but the cops weren¡¯t all that smart then like they are today. If you could get a bit of distance back then between them and yourself, you was scott-free, and no worries.

    I had the cab wait outside, and then waltzed into First National like a queen on a tour. Well, if a queen wore cowboy boots, a stetson, bluejeans, a red-checked shirt, a black cloth mask and a pair of six-guns with mother-of-pearl handles. But y¡¯all get the idea.

    I felt all tingly, too. Not just alive, but buzzing alive, like I¡¯d touched a live wire and I didn¡¯t wanna let go. My head was just about to fry itself, it felt like, and my fingertips were sizzling.

    I took the hint from what I¡¯d read Pretty Boy Floyd¡¯d said when he did a stick-up:

    ¡°EVERYBODY DOWN! THIS IS A STICK-UP!¡± And I put one round in the ceiling to make sure they knew I meant business.

    Today, I wouldn¡¯t a¡¯ done that. I woulda done a bank shot off of a lamp or two, or  something like that so¡¯s I¡¯d get their attention faster. But I was new at the game and not thinkin¡¯ how seeing several things drop at once from one bullet gets the whole blamed bank to quiet down that much quicker.

    But, happy for me, it was the thirties and not later.

    Like I said: I put a round into the ceiling. The bank guard went for his gun while everyone screamed and started dropping to the floor. I went and put one in the floor by his foot, and that got his attention. ¡°Put it on the floor and kick it over here!¡± I yelled, ¡°Or I¡¯ll put a hole in yuh!¡±

    He figured it out pretty quick. I scooped up his gun and put it in my pocket while he laid down like the rest.

    I knowed I had maybe a couplea minutes to get what I was after. To this day, I really don¡¯t remember going up to the teller, but I do recall sayin¡¯ ¡°You got sixty seconds to get at least a hundred-fifty clams in a sack, or I¡¯ll put so many holes in yuh, your next glass o¡¯water¡¯ll turn you into a lawn sprinkler. Now git!¡±

    They got. They filled the sack, and the manager promised it was at least a hundred-fifty thousand, though it didn¡¯t seem like that. There was maybe thirty bundles of bills in the sack, and it got heavy, way heavier than I thought a bag of paper ought to be.

    Well, no worry. I got outta there without any more words, and into the cab, and I pulled my pistol and told him to drive.

    He drove. We got away clean before I could even hear the siren going.

    He made off like a bat outta Hell for about twenty minutes, ¡®til I knew we was close to my hotel [I hadn¡¯t told him the address; I was green but not stupid]. ¡°Stop here,¡± I sez. He stopped.

    I looked at him through his rearview. He looked pretty scared, poor fella. I figured he deserved better than he¡¯d got today. I saw the wedding ring on his finger, and realized I¡¯d grabbed some poor fella who was just trying to pay the bills for his family.

    ¡°Are you, uh, gonna . . . please, ma¡¯am, don¡¯t hurt me. I . . . I got a wife at home, and a little boy.¡±

    Well, I felt pretty bad, honest to tell. ¡°Here,¡± I said, reaching into my sack and peeling out a hundred-dolar bill, ¡°Take this. I¡¯m sorry I took all your fares today. Don¡¯t tell nobody, an¡¯ this is yours. Tell anyone, though, and I might be a fair bit displeased, unnerstand?¡±

    He unnerstood. I never saw him again.

    I got out, changed in an alley from the clothes I liked to a cotton dress, pulled over my flannel and jeans in a jiffy. Pulled the bobby-pins out¡¯ve my hair, and presto-changeo, as Mister Marvel the Magnificent Magician used to say back at the circus, I went from bein¡¯ a bank robber to a sweet, midwestern gal who wouldn¡¯t say boo to a goose, and all in under a minute.

    Cop cars blasted by, sirens goin¡¯ to beat the band, and they didn¡¯t so much as look at me twice.

    Today, I¡¯d do almost everything different. I got real, real lucky that day. So many things coulda gone wrong it¡¯d probably take me nigh an hour to tick ¡®em all off. If I¡¯d tried it today, I¡¯d be in the hoosegow faster n¡¯ a jackrabbit with a belly full o¡¯ coffee.

    ---

    To Be Continued...

 Part 2, Chapter 27: Meet Mr. Smith...

    Countin¡¯ up the money that night in my dingy little hotel room, jumpin¡¯ at every shadow and noise, I knowed I got lucky, an¡¯ I wasn¡¯t like to get that lucky again. If I was gonna keep the money rollin¡¯ in, I couldn¡¯t do a one-man-band, I¡¯d have to have a crew to do the work with.

    I was pretty happy with the take; I¡¯d gotten more than I wanted in the end. That bag held over $180,000 altogether, enough to pay off the house and set myself up somewhere¡¯s else real, real nice. It was a big jump, I know''d it, goin'' from performin'' and watressin'' to robbin'' banks. I hear yuh on that, for sure. Why''d I makke that jump? Today, well, I was mad at banks in general a''for what they were doin'' to my house, and all I had left to remember my daddy by. But I didn''t wanna hurt Mr. Wilson at our bank in town, so goin'' after the big boys seemed the next best thing to do.

    I blew back to town, back home the next day carrying my clothes and the cash in a separate suitcase- not a brand new one, mind you; I found a second-hand store one that worked just fine. I¡¯d read how one o¡¯ Pretty Boy¡¯s crew had gotten tagged for buying a brand new car right after a job, and the feds had nabbed him and just about every member of his gang right after. So, if anyone was to look at me, they wouldn¡¯t see nothing different. Just a country girl taking a little holiday in the city after having a rough time in her life, and on her way back home after it was done.

    I paid off the mortgage when I got back. Mr. Wilson at the bank in town was actually more ¡®n happy for me. Today, someone coming in with a big stack of cash and putting it into your account would set off all kinds of alarm bells. But back then, remember there was a depression on. The banks was havin¡¯ trouble payin¡¯ their bills same as the rest of us. Mr. Wilson had always been nice to me, even when I was a little girl. And in went I went with a cockamamie story about how I¡¯d gotten Daddy¡¯s money back and then some from Ma, he was only too happy to belive I¡¯d done it all legal like.

    So, our rickety old house was saved. By then I¡¯d started to look at it more an more like most people saw a summer home they did vacations in, and that was alright. I lived there, paid the bills there, but the money I had was gonna run out one day and I knew it.

    And I¡¯m old enough now that I can say it and not fool myself: I coulda made enough to live on being a waitress at the diner or even as a secretary at one of the businesses that still ran in town. But after the circus and robbing a bank? The very idea made my poor li¡¯l stomach churn.

    But as I said, I knew I¡¯d gotten lucky, real lucky the first time through. I didn¡¯t want to roll the dice again, not when snake-eyes meant I¡¯d be sitting in an eight-by-ten cell for twenty years.

    So I had to get a crew.

    They started talking about me in the papers, calling me ¡®Calamity Jane¡¯ after some gunslinger lady in the history books. Fine by me. But then they started talking about others; a fella who flew on wings, another who could hypnotize folks in seconds flat, and another who could melt stuff with his eyes.

    And then there was the Snowman.

    I can¡¯t rightly say now why I found the little fella so cute, then sweet, then my heart just fell for him. I¡¯d told myself I wanted someone rugged, a man¡¯s man, a cowboy who could punch a steer between the eyes before breakfast and light a Marlboro for an after dinner snack.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    But when I saw Mitch- well, for me it was all over after the first few seconds. Now, years later, I knew it was the little girl in me lookin¡¯ for my Daddy all over again. Someone who was kind, slim, a little foolish, and great with gadgets. Mitch was someone I coulda maybe settled down with, if¡¯n he¡¯d growed up some more and gotten a pair. But he was only, what, sixteen and I was two or three years older¡¯n him? Not a chance, really.

    But it was good while it lasted. As I said, I¡¯d had a few beaux by then. But in truth he was the first man I ever kissed for real, and I was his first gal. Things don¡¯t get better than that, even if we was livin¡¯ in an old subway car at the time.

    But time went on. The last bank job went bad and we scattered. Things were movin¡¯ that way anyways for us, even if Mitch and Monty couldn¡¯t see it. I tried to look him up later, ¡®way later, but recall it was the dawn of the 50s. there was no way to find folks if you didn¡¯t have a ton of skills and spare time to go with it.

    Plus, I found better ways to make money.

    TV had been around for a few years already, and Barbie was selling like anything. So were soldiers with arms and legs that moved- even little kids from families with no money had a bunch of them. Ace introduced me to a fella named Eddie from Vegas came up to me, knowin¡¯ who I was [it¡¯s a long story for a different day], and asked if I wanted to get on board with Ace¡¯s whole line of figures. We all could go into business together. He¡¯d make the dolls, I just hadda say they were good enough and maybe do a commercial or two.

    An¡¯ they sold.

    Most of the girls still bought Barbie- can¡¯t change that, though gals like that crazy bitch The Feminist sure tried- and the bitch is still trying, though now she teaches at Yale instead of doin'' the supervillain thing. But the boys bought it, and the other dolls too- sorry, action figures. Well, words mean things, so they say. Later, when I walked in on Ace and Blackjack doin¡¯ their thing, I had enough leverage to get Ace to buy me out. Soon I was pushin¡¯ my own line, learnin¡¯ the business from Eddie, an'' soon Eddie decided he liked workin¡¯ with me better than Ace.

    Later, much, much later, after the doll-figures slowed down a bit, Eddie had a different idea. ¡°Jane,¡± he says, ¡°you¡¯re a fine figure of a lady, even though you¡¯re good ways past sixty, you¡¯ve taken such good care of yerself that you look like you¡¯re only pushin¡¯ fifty. Jane Fonda and a few other gals are doin¡¯ these exercise videos; wanna get a piece of the action?¡±

    Sure, why not? I felt silly, but the money sure was real, real good. I traded in my bluejeans for a set of tights and leg-warmers, did my thing and those sold real good, too, for the next few years or so.

    And then I met someone else through Eddie.

    He told me his name was Smith. I never worried much about it, or him. Eddie brought him by for a business meeting and he just sat there, a long face and no expression, short white haircut and a dark suit. Wrinkles all over his face- looked like a roadmap, some of ¡®em were so deep.

    He was sitting at the table where Eddie and I had our usual morning meeting, where we¡¯d go over what we hadda do that day. ¡°I don¡¯t b¡¯lieve I¡¯ve had the pleasure,¡± I said, sticking out my hand.

    He didn¡¯t shake it.

    ¡°Uh, Jane,¡± Eddie said. He wasn¡¯t sweating, but his voice was. You could hear it. I¡¯d seen Eddie stare down billionaires without blinking, but this guy had him rattled somehow. ¡°Jane, this is Smith. He¡¯s a . . . a potential investor. He just wanted to meet with you and see if we¡¯d be a good fit for him and his people.¡±

    Smith looked at me like I was a horse moseying on by on a dirt road. I might be a distraction, but I wasn¡¯t interesting.

    -----

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2 , Chapter 28: Bodacious!

    Smith looked at me like I was a horse moseying on by on a dirt road. I might be a distraction, but I wasn¡¯t interesting.

    ¡°Well, sounds good,¡± I said, giving the smile I¡¯d learned to give to folks who wanted to grease our wheels. Eddie started going over our stuff for the day; photo shoot of me with the latest line of action figures, interview with a toy magazine, another interview with another magazine, this time AARP Fitness, lunch with a little gal who¡¯d written the best essay in the country on why she loved her Calamity Jane action figures, and then my favorite part of the day: Target practice, down at the range. Got to keep up. ¡®Specially since I turned fifty, an¡¯ these peepers don¡¯t do the tricks on their own like they used to. Then meet with my speech coach Eunice, for the talk I¡¯m gonna give to the NRA National Convention, then¡­

    ¡°If I may interrupt,¡± said Smith.

    His voice was slow, cold. I could tell he was used to interrupting people, and also used to them stopping.

    ¡°Um, sure, Mr. Smith,¡± I said. ¡°What¡¯s on your mind?¡±

    ¡°I think we can do business,¡± Smith said. ¡°My people need a product tested, Miss Cobb. And we think you¡¯re in a unique position to do it.¡±

    ¡°An¡¯ why, exactly issat, Mr. Smith?¡±

    ¡°Um, Jane,¡± Eddie began. Dang it, but didn¡¯t I see a drop of sweat track down from his forehead down his left temple.

    ¡°Ed, what¡¯s the problem?¡±

    ¡°We are, ah, already contracted now, to do this. He¡¯s just here to go over the particulars.¡±

    ¡°Already contracted? Since when? I didn¡¯t sign anything.¡±

    Smith looked at Eddie. Eddie didn¡¯t look at him, but leaned in and started talking to me. His face was whiter¡¯n a whitewashed fence. ¡°Look, Jane, I did it, and I did it because I¡¯m legally empowered to do this, okay? Smith here has some very, very powerful folks who can do us a lot of good, and he wants you and me to help him test something. As a bonus, you get to see some old friends and maybe even score bigger in a day than we could in another ten years of pushing dolls and exercise tapes. Howzat sound?¡±

    Well, honest? That sounded mighty fine. I was gonna be seventy-somethin¡¯ next birthday, and I sure didn¡¯t wanna be doing ten-count pushups and pretending I liked playing with little plastic horses and cowgirl dolls when I was eighty, even if the damn things did have my face on them.

    ¡°What¡¯s the product, then?¡± I asked.

    The old Mr. Smith took out a small plastic vial and put it on the table. I could see there was something blue inside.

    ¡°We¡¯d like you to test this product, Miss Cobb. We¡¯ve been using it in a controlled environment for some time now, but my people have determined it¡¯s time we began field testing it.¡±

    He picked up the vial, opened it and shook it a bit until a little blue crystal fell out into his hand.

    ¡°To demonstrate,¡± Smith said. He put it in his mouth, and started to chew on it, real, real slow.

    A real, long minute passed. Suddenly, I saw his hair go from nearly bleached-white to jet black, and the wrinkles on his face smooth out until he had just the start of some crows-feet at the corners of his eyes.

    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    His eyes, though; they never lost that scary, hard look. I could see him giving instructions to me on how to use those those little blue rocks, or giving orders to kill a kid  with the same, hard look in those eyes. You see that in some people. Men or women, it don¡¯t matter.

    ¡°What the-¡±

    ¡°Miss Cobb, this product is available to you, now. It can¡¯t make you a teenager again, but it can half your current, chronological age in terms of your glands, hair, respiratory, eyes and other major systems while leaving your brain and all the knowledge and experience you¡¯ve gained in life intact.¡±

    ¡°So- I just gotta eat one o¡¯ them, and I¡¯m thirty-five, mebbe a few less?¡±

    ¡°A bit more is required, Miss Cobb,¡± Smith said to me. His voice made me think of sandpaper and oil. ¡°You¡¯ll need to recruit a number of individuals like yourself- that is, aging members of the Specially Abled Individuals community- to perform one last job. You will be provided with several choices, but the planning and execution of the theft is going to be left in your capable hands.¡±

    I waited a second- did he say what I thought he said?

    ¡°You- you want me to get my old gang back together, to do a job? What about capes? The young set that¡¯s out there now- some of ¡®em ain¡¯t just out there for show, you know.¡±

    ¡°I am aware of the capabilities of the current crop of SAIs, Miss Cobb. That is, in fact, one of the ways we are going to test the effectiveness of this product; will it, in fact, return your old abilities such that you will be able to out-perform them? That¡¯s one of the questions we are hoping to answer. There¡¯d be little point in you becoming young and in your prime again, and sending you out to tangle with the American Airman and his colostomy bag. Or, as I recall, you had a dust-up with The Feminist back in the late fifties?¡±

    I snorted and rolled my eyes. ¡°That stupid bitch? She thought if she got a girl gang together that I¡¯d join up, maybe even be her right-hand lady. Two minutes and I figured out she was just a dummy who¡¯d been raised with a lot of money and spent too much time around the reds in college. I said, ¡®nope,¡¯ and got up to walk out. She grabbed my arm- big mistake. I laid her out with one punch to the jaw, and the rest of her gals in their fancy little get-ups tried to get cute, too, until I pulled my pistols an¡¯ drilled one in the kneecap- the heavy, she was, called herself Big Bertha. The rest peeled off after, and I walked away without a scratch.¡±

    ¡°Excellent, Miss Cobb. There are some stipulations before you can become part of this experience; first, an agreement not to disclose our meeting or anything else, even to your partners, about our arrangement. Second, we¡¯ll need to know that you¡¯re going to go all the way with this; even if things do not work out as intended.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean by that second part?¡±

    ¡°Jane, honey,¡± Eddie again. He was good at the business end of things, but just couldn¡¯t shut up. ¡°He means that even if the capes catch you, or if someone screws up, you¡¯re still gonna keep your mouth buttoned and you¡¯re going to go through with the job.¡±

    ¡°Well, if¡¯n that¡¯s it, I¡¯ll give it a whirl. Hand me them rocks, and we¡¯ll go to town!¡±

    And I took one. I don¡¯t own a compact, and there weren¡¯t no mirrors in the room. But I felt different, like I had more energy and could take on the world if I had to. And later, just a few minutes after we said our goodbyes and shook hands and Smith said he¡¯d be in touch, I hit the ladies¡¯ room.

    Now, I¡¯d kept in shape, but there¡¯s no stoppin¡¯ what¡¯d been falling down on me bit-by-bit over the years. Now, my hair was black again, my arms- the biceps were busting up against the sleeves of my skinny-old-woman¡¯s shirt, my lower back didn¡¯t hurt from having to sit so long like it usually did after one of the meetings with Eddie, and . . .hell, why not say it? Even my ta-tas looked bigger an¡¯ perkier again!

    No wrinkles where I¡¯d gotten used to seein¡¯ em, and seeing- I blinked twice; I could see clear, without having to use my bifocals!

    I looked down at the little vial of blue rocks in my hand. The other gals in the bathroom had already cleared out at me whooping in all-happy at the sight of myself.

    My hair was dark.

    My face was smooth.

    And I could see it all, clear.

    I always thought Eddie was some kinda god of business and negotiatin¡¯, but that I looked in the mirror and said, ¡°Mr. Smith, you got yourself a deal.¡±

    #

    But now? My arms were skinny, my tatas were sinkin¡¯, my eyes needed glasses and I had my gray hair and my wrinkles all back. I was holdin¡¯ a pistol the wrong way, just to make myself look like those youngun¡¯s had got the wrong gal.

    ----

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2 Chapter 29-Jane takes a nap, Monty starts up...

    ...But now? My arms were skinny, my boobs were sinkin¡¯, my eyes needed glasses and I had my gray hair and my wrinkles all back. I was holdin¡¯ a pistol the wrong way, just to make myself look like those youngun¡¯s had got the wrong gal. I¡¯d remembered most of my life, the good and the bad, in just a few seconds of time. Boys who¡¯d said they loved me an¡¯ wanted to marry me? Few an¡¯ far between, and not important enough for me to think of now. All of it was my Daddy, and then being Calamity Jane.

    And like it sometimes happens when I know I¡¯m alone and no one¡¯s there, I sat down and started crying. Just a little- Sometimes when you get older you think a little about what mighta-been. And sometimes I think about it a lot. But never in front of anyone else, and not unless I¡¯ve got a full bottle of whiskey to knock back with it.

    So I cried. Soft. Other gals I¡¯d known and grow¡¯d up with were at home, sleeping next to husbands who¡¯d retired and playing with their grandkids on the weekends. Me? I was busy, pointing a loaded pistol at a brat of a man-child who ran around in a big-ass version of a Halloween costume and scaring him off.

    The last boy who¡¯d really loved me was married, jobbed-up with kids an¡¯ grandkids of his own. He¡¯d go back to that life when we were done. What did I have? Money, and nobody¡¯s love here or there on earth.

    And I was still crying when the wall exploded, and I dropped into a one-knee and got off all six rounds in the chamber before I even thought of anything.

    Give him credit; he may be a brat, but he knew how to make me drop the poor-old-lady bit and be Calamity Jane.

    ¡°Good evening, Miss Jane,¡± he said, his black body armor showing a few dimples where my slugs¡¯d tried to tear through, ¡°You need to come with me, now.¡±

    Dammit. I reached for more bullets, but he was too quick. There was a smell, something sprayed in my face, and I knew I¡¯d prob¡¯ly go d-

    #

    MONTY

    We drove in silence.

    I was, truthfully, feeling more than a little jubilant; however, I think we all had a sense that if we began celebrating at that moment, we¡¯d play into the trope of the criminals who are captured by the superhero right after they feel safe and secure.

    And we were criminals; I could not let myself forget that. I had tried being the hero more than once, and gotten soundly beaten for my troubles, and even on occasion laughed at by the very people I was trying to defend.

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    The schoolyard can be a terrible place.

    But enough; I don¡¯t wish to bore you with my own biographical details. Mitch, Jake and I managed to get the goods from the vault and into the truck, then disassemble the rather massive tools and move them as well. Into the truck, and leave the site a good seven hours before the reliefs are due. Seven full hours before anyone realizes that we were not, in fact, even employed by Sentinel Security, but liars wearing uniforms and badges purloined and created respectively by Jake¡¯s contacts in the local miscreant community.

    We had millions, though.

    Millions of dollars, primarily in precious stones.

    And we were driving a van. With millions of dollars in merchandise contained in cloth sacks behind us.

    Mitch was driving. He looked the most clean-cut of us. After dosing his blue rocks, he looked quite possibly the best of us, likely since he started out much younger than we were.

    ¡°Everything lookin¡¯ good up there?¡± Jake asked from the back, his voice still a tad screechy, even when he was filled up with our little fountain-of-youth.

    ¡°Lookin¡¯ great, Jake,¡± Mitch mumbled. It was eleven at night, dark, and we all wanted desperately and suddenly to take a very, very long nap.

    But there was too much to do. Get back to the house, move the bags and goods, find a place to dispose of the van, then return to the house unnoticed, and . . .

    I hoped Jane was going to take care of those details herself. I was suddenly very, very tired. She or Miguel or Russ could take care of the van as easily as anyone- I had been annoyed with the lack of speed with which we¡¯d bored the holes in the wall, despite the efficacy of my optics, but now, hopefully, we¡¯d be able to move the jewels and trinkets we¡¯d taken, obtain large amounts of cash, and go our separate ways.

    In truth, I was hoping we wouldn¡¯t have to separate so quickly. Even if they did not measure up to my standards of intellectual rigor, I was just getting used to having a group of like-minded people close at hand, just down the hall, at my elbow at mealtimes . . . yes, in truth, I was enjoying myself with my old colleagues more than I ever had. More than we ever did in our younger days, we were truly becoming friends rather than just associates. I further had to admit that despite over forty years of living largely alone, I felt a kind of completeness I hadn¡¯t even known I¡¯d been wishing for. It was like suddenly having the final piece to a puzzle I didn¡¯t even know I was missing.

    I wasn¡¯t about to verbalize this, of course. Such unmitigated displays of emotion got one on the receiving end of ridicule and /or beatings in the environment and culture I was raised in, and lessons learned early die quite hard.

    I was fortunate I had learned them, though, as we pulled up to the house and saw-

    ¡°What th¡¯hell¡­¡±

    Mitch whispered as close to a curse as I ever heard him say, jolting me out of my semi-slumber despite the softness of his speech.

    There was a hole blasted in the wall of the house.

    Police cars were parked outside. Yellow tape stretched everywhere. A news van was parked on the side of the road, and some TV reporter starlet stood with a spotlight on her, holding a microphone and saying words we couldn¡¯t hear.

    ¡°Shit on toast,¡± Jake said. ¡°We¡¯re fucked.¡±

 Part 2 Chapter 30- Road Trip?

    ¡°Shit on toast,¡± Jake said. ¡°We¡¯re fucked.¡±

    ¡°Are you aware of what this means?¡±

    ¡°That I keep driving?¡±

    ¡°Not just tha-, No, turn around and get away from the house, you foolish cretin! If you drive past, someone¡¯s going to see us, and even if we aren¡¯t arrested today it may come back to bite us later! I mean something¡¯s happened, and we need to go to the fallback position Jane discussed with us at the beginning in case something went wrong!¡±

    ¡°Well, I sure as shi-sugar think this counts,¡± Mitch grumbled as he turned the wheel, found a driveway a few tens of yards from the house and made a relaxed, unobtrusive three point turn.

    ¡°Where was that fallback point again?¡± Mitch asked.

    We were silent.

    ¡°Shit.¡± said Jake.

    #

    ICARUS

    My flight had ended pretty much after I¡¯d dropped those distracting bombs. I¡¯d landed and folded my wings up into what I¡¯d hoped was an inconspicuous looking backpack as I started hiking back to the house. I¡¯d landed in the midst of a bunch of shut-down warehouses that was about a three-mile-and-change hike through some rather desolate and non-descript, semi-urban land. The kind of place people drive to and through every day to and from work, and don¡¯t give a second thought to. Perfect to make a clean, nondescript getaway on foot.

    I know it sounds more than a little silly, but it¡¯s true. People don¡¯t quite ¡®get¡¯ just how easy it is to get nabbed in a car nowadays; cops are trained in all these little tricks on how to take you down in a car chase, from T-boning you by surprise to bumping a corner of your car and making you spin out. If you¡¯re in a car and the cops go after you, you might as well give it up there, because those chase scenes only end well for guys like you and me in the movies. In real life? Whatever they were chasing you for, running could add another twenty years or more worth of charges to, depending on how crowded the place you''re running is at the moment.

    So, Miguel and I were hoofing it back to the house from our spots. Mine had been dropped about ten minutes before, when Mitch and company were supposed to be barrelling out of the place with a few hundred mil in jewelry in the back.

    I was a little doubtful about it, too, to be honest. But Jane had made the plan, and she¡¯d never steered us wrong yet. It turned out she was right, at least this time. The rockets and glowy-smoke bombs had pulled the cops there at full speed, and they¡¯d whizzed by an older man just minding his business and shuffling along the road first in an industrial area, then a run-down residential one. I could¡¯ve been one of a thousand people walking alone at night, getting a beer from the corner store, on my way home from some joe-job that I couldn¡¯t afford a car to take me to-and-from, or  just an old guy out for a stroll on a relatively mild night.

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    Police cars screamed by me one after the other. I kept my head down, raising it just enough to look like anyone else would in such a situation: mildly interested. And I kept doing that and blending into the paintwork of the world until I got to the house.

    And the house had a great, big hole blown in it. And lots of yellow tape, and even more cop cars.

    Fuck.

    I kept walking, moving amongst the local homeowners, hoping no one was going to point me out as someone who¡¯d lived there.

    Keep walking. It was gonna be a long walk. She¡¯d planned for this, but none of us actually thought we were gonna hafta deal with this at all. Still, I knew it was gonna mean a lot more walking, and that backpack was starting to get a little heavy, even though the wingsuit was lighter weight than anything I¡¯d ever used back in the 30s through to the end of the 60s.

    Like I said, there was a crowd of local homeowners milling around, and I took my place among them for about thirty seconds or so. Then I kept walking. When I was about fifty feet away, I popped a blue rock. It only took about a minute for the thing to start doing its work, and I was extra glad I did. After I felt the stuff flow through me, I heard someone yelling behind me. Someone saying I was one of the old guys in the house. A cop swooped over, saw I wasn¡¯t old, not any more at least, looked at my fake I.D. and left me alone.

    I kept walking. No money in my pockets. No way to get a cab or even a bus for at least a few miles. And no way was I going to be enough of a schmuck to put on the suit when there were going to be cops looking around for at least three, maybe four major-looking crime scenes, one of them just a couple of minutes behind me by car.

    Yeah, a long walk, a long night.

    #

    ¡°Where the hell is his place again?¡±

    Mitchell was complaining, again. I wondered for perhaps the ten-thousandth time whatever it was that a capable, attractive woman like Jane had seen in a silly fellow like himself when she had a fine, masculine, and far more intelligent specimen such as myself to choose from on the team for a romantic partner. There¡¯s no real accounting for taste, one can suppose.

    ¡°Stop here,¡± I said, ¡°at the phone booth. What was the name of it again?¡±

    ¡°Well, it wasn¡¯t ¡®Black Tiger¡¯s Gym.¡¯¡±

    Jake again. And, once again, he was stating the obvious in such a way that he makes everyone in the room willing to punch him and break one of his skinny little bones just to make a point and relieve stress.

    Jake said, ¡°It was something Spanish, wasn¡¯t it? Monty, you¡¯re Italian. That¡¯s a lot like Spanish, in¡¯nt it?¡±

    ¡°Only in the way a high British nobleman¡¯s accent would bear the faintest similarity to the speech of some redneck in the Okefenokee swamps of the deep South...¡±

    ¡°Whatever, don¡¯t care. What¡¯s ¡®Black Tiger¡¯ in Italian?¡±

    I thought for a moment. ¡°Tigre, Nera¡± I said, pronouncing each syllable and phoneme with as much finality as I could.

    ¡°Right, look,¡± said Mitchell, ¡°I¡¯ll stop at the phone booth. Jake, hop out and look through, see if you can find an address in the phone book in the place.¡±

    ¡°Why me?¡±

    ¡° ¡®Cause I¡¯m drivin¡¯, Monty¡¯s translatin¡¯, and all you¡¯re doin¡¯ is playin¡¯ bump-on-a-log with yer thumb up that skinny ass of yers. Now move! Every minute we keep this junk in the van we¡¯re rolling the gawl-darned dice, and I wanna get money in our pockets a¡¯fore we get snake-eyes. Now move!¡±

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2 Chapter 31-Snake-Eyes...

    Every minute we keep this junk in the van we¡¯re rolling the gawl-darned dice, and I wanna get money in our pockets a¡¯fore we get snake-eyes. Now move!¡±

    ¡°Shit,¡± Jake mumbled under his breath as he pulled on the door handle, ¡°let the nerd drive, suddenly he thinks he¡¯s General George Patton inna fucking desert.¡±

    He hiked out and started flipping through pages in the phone booth¡¯s white pages, his lips still moving and mumbling the whole time.

    ¡°Methinks you¡¯re going to want to cool your temper, Mitchell, if you wish us to avoid undue attention.¡±

    ¡°Aw, shuddup Monty. I shoulda never let Jake talk me inta something like this, after what happened last time.¡±

    I waited a second to see if he¡¯d continue. ¡°What do you mean, ¡®last time¡¯? Are you referring to our last caper as the Cadre of-¡±

    ¡°No, moron. Not back when we were a bunch¡¯ve snotnosed kids tryin¡¯ to prove we were good as the A-team heroes. I¡¯m talking about six months ago. Jake there drops by- we¡¯ve kept up, off and on, over the years. Anyways, he drops by, and sez to me, ¡®Hey, buddy! Get your little freeze gun! I know where some low-level crime guys drop off a million bucks every Tuesday. All I need is someone I can trust to drive the truck when I walk off with the bag of money.¡¯ Well, I¡¯m hard up that month, so I figure: why not? Better that dough is in my pocket paying for my granddaughter¡¯s year in bible college than getting turned around and invested in drugs or worse.

    ¡°Well, skinny-ass over there tells me just where to park, tells me to wait with the engine running and the passenger door unlocked and open. He gets out, goes into this run-down bar that looks like it shoulda been condemned back when Hanoi fell. Five minutes later, he comes back out, leadin¡¯ this walking side of beef who¡¯s wearing a leather jacket and got that glazed look in his eye that the security guards had when Jake used to mess their heads up.

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound unreasonable. Was the money spendable?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll never know. Stupid little f...stupid moron didn¡¯t check to see if there was anyone else who might make trouble. Soon as that goon loaded the moneybag in the back seat, I hear someone yell ¡®Hey, stop!¡¯ Jake jumps into the back seat, screaming ¡®Go! GoGoGoGO!¡¯, and off I go like a bat outta Hades. I¡¯m floorin¡¯ it through this rundown section of the city, praying to God that those mooks are too angry and too stupid to catch a description of my face or Monty¡¯s. They ended up chasing us- and here¡¯s me, trying to drive and blast Winterbeam at the same time to try and ice up the ground behind us without making us crash at the same time.¡±

    ¡°Did they trace the car?¡±

    ¡°Nope. Jake stole it- or, rather, conned someone into giving it to us. He ended up tossing about half the money out the window in wads and bundles to try and make them stop. It worked, but I only walked away with a little over ten grand instead of bein¡¯ set for life. And ever since I¡¯ve been lookin¡¯ over my shoulder, waiting to see if some knuckle-dragger¡¯s gonna come up from behind and tapdance on my windpipe, lookin¡¯ for the missing cash.¡±

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    I waited for a moment. ¡°It would seem you have a number of quandaries here, Mitchell. You seek extra money, and rather than use legitimate means, as I¡¯ve been trying to do, you are taking routes to financial security that are quite dangerous, and in the end, not so secure at all.¡±

    ¡°You got a point, Monty? ¡®Cause I¡¯m not gettin¡¯ any younger here, and them rocks¡¯re gonna run out eventually.¡±

    ¡°Not like we have much to do while Jake¡¯s on the errand you conscripted him to. Mitch, I wonder sometimes if you aren¡¯t just a little addicted to the life we left. Most teachers moonlight at a different job when they need extra cash. You put your life at risk stealing from gangsters. Or now, you put your freedom at risk, stealing from regular folks. I have very little to lose, compared to you. You¡¯re risking both family and your professional standing, while I have no connections and my job barely pays above minimum wage.¡±

    ¡°I heard Russ made good money sellin¡¯ his suit to the military. Ain¡¯t they interested in those mechanical eyeballs of yours?¡± Mitch said.

    ¡°Icarus has a much better sense of timing than I do. He sold his soul to the military years ago. Now? How many super-scientists are out there these days? Too many. One cannot swing the proverbial dead cat without hitting a new creation of some frustrated fifteen-year old that blasts lasers. How many pieces of alien technology have fallen into earth¡¯s hands since The One or that little bastard child of his have taken to flying about? No, I took too long, and have to refine my work to far greater performance than that to even hope to compete. I¡¯m a very, very minor player asking for a shot at the brass ring, when all the big leaguers have crowded the field.¡±

    ¡°Well, I guess you got your reasons, and I got mine. All I know is something just mussed-up this plan, big time, and I¡¯m driving around a van with enough stolen goods to get me a thirty-year prison sentence. That¡¯s gonna put anyone on edge just a little.¡±

    Jake had begun hiking back the short distance to the van, waving a page he¡¯d torn from the phone book in the booth.

    ¡°Got it,¡± he said.

    ¡°Good,¡± Mitch mumbled under his breath. ¡°At least he can do something right that doesn¡¯t involve screwing with honest people.¡±

    ¡°Okay, you know what, frosty? I heard that!¡± Jake suddenly yelled. ¡°You hear me? I heard the shit you were just sayin¡¯, and I want an apology, now!¡±

    ¡°Oh fer the love¡¯a Pete,¡± Mitch said. ¡°Jake, get in the GeeDee van a¡¯fore I freeze that yapper of yours!¡±

    ¡°No, shitferbrains! Your old girlfriend ain¡¯t here to bail you out, and I¡¯m tired of you and everyone else acting as if you¡¯re all better than me ¡®cause of your straight jobs and kids and everything else! Dammit, you say you¡¯re sorry, or maybe I¡¯ll walk away with this and see how far you get without me!¡±

    ¡°Jacob, we¡¯ve got no time right now for any pretty squabbling. Please re-enter the van, so that we may-¡±

    ¡°SHUT THE HELL UP, MONTY!¡± Jake¡¯s voice went up at least one octave and a few more notches in volume. ¡°I¡¯m fucking well done with your ten-dollar words and you acting like you¡¯re so much smarter than the rest of us. Where¡¯d your fancy words get you, huh? Some minimum-wage job at a desk at night, wearing a uniform that¡¯d be a laugh to any kids flipping burgers for three-an¡¯-a-quarter an hour. Know what I say to th-¡±

    Mitch¡¯s door suddenly burst open, and Mitch launched himself out of his seat, out the door and around the front of the car. His face was calm, but his eyes were glaring and angry.

    Jake stopped talking and began to back away in quick, jumpy steps, the torn page never leaving his hand.

    ¡°I¡¯ll give you an apology, you skinny little shit,¡± Mitch mumbled,just loud enough for both Jake and Monty to hear, ¡°attached to the boot I¡¯m gonna put up your skinny little con-man¡¯s ass!¡±

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 PART 2 Chapter 32- The Van and the Car

    ¡°I¡¯ll give you an apology, you skinny little shit,¡± Mitch mumbled,just loud enough for both Jake and Monty to hear, ¡°attached to the boot I¡¯m gonna put up your skinny little con-man¡¯s ass!¡±

    ¡°Mitch, back off! You- ah, sleep! Dammit¡­¡±

    ¡°That ain¡¯t gonna work when I¡¯m this pissed atcha! Now gimme that page so we can get-a-goin¡¯ or so help me I¡¯m a gonna-¡±

    ¡°What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?¡±

    The voice wasn¡¯t Monty¡¯s. It wasn¡¯t Mitch¡¯s or Jake¡¯s either. It belonged to a cop standing in front of the van, his hands in a relaxed but ready position near his belt and holsters.

    Jake smiled, and opened his mouth to speak.

    ¡°Shit,¡± said Mitch, cutting him off.

    ****

    ¡°YOU DID WHAT?¡±

    The scream roared and echoed throughout the meeting hall. Roosevelt the cook and his wife heard it two floors down in the kitchen. Zeb the mechanic in the hangar heard it while he was tuning up one of the four engines of the Mecha-man¡¯s fantastic vehicles.

    And in the meeting hall itself, Jason Primo, aka Prime, heavily rumored bastard son of The One had screamed so loud that the black hair strands of Henry ¡®The Dark¡¯ Chu had fluttered just slightly.

    ¡°I made a citizen¡¯s arrest,¡± Henry said, his face utterly calm though he was somewhat worried for the first time in a long, long time. He realized in that moment how much his fearlessness had come from knowing that if he got into something he genuinely could not handle, Jason with his strength and Neema with her whole tricked-out gladiator- theme would be there to bail him out.

    But now, Jason was standing up at the oval table, glaring at him. His face was red, his teeth were visible, and his blue eyes looked like they were ready to shoot out of his head and pin Henry to the wall.

    And Neela, Peter, and a couple of second-stringers were at the table, all either looking blank-faced or, in Pete¡¯s case, smirking as he downed his fourth hamburger, and glad they weren¡¯t Henry right now. Henry pretended to be bored- blast, but this felt worse than prep school- but he was feeling ten kinds of sick inside.

    ¡°A citizen¡¯s arrest? A CITIZEN¡¯S ARREST?Are you fucking nuts? Pete, wipe your lunch off your face, and remind this idiot what a citizen¡¯s arrest is.¡±

    Peter ¡®The Streak¡¯ put down his food as Jason turned his back to look out the window. Peter grabbed and opened a thick book near him on the table and sped his finger through the pages, landing at a spot on the left page roughing in the middle of the book.

    ¡°Ahem,¡± Peter said with an exaggerated professor voice, ¡°In certain situations, private individuals have the power to make an arrest without a warrant. These types of arrests, known as citizens'' arrests, occur when ordinary people either detain criminals themselves or direct police officers to detain a criminal.¡±

    ¡°See?¡± Henry said. ¡°Quit getting your green undies in a twist, Jason. The old lady pointed a gun at me, unprovoked.¡±

    ¡°Oh, wait, Henry, there¡¯s more,¡± Peter said, taking a quick bite to swallow of his fifth and last burger on his plate. ¡°Mmm, now, uh, ¡®while arrests by private citizens are subject to fewer constitutional requirements than an arrest by law enforcement officers, there are still rules that apply. Failure to abide by these rules can result in civil and criminal liability for the arresting individual. . . uh, If a person doesn''t comply with the law''s requirements when making the arrest, the arrestee could allege a number of claims in a personal injury lawsuit, including wrongful death, false imprisonment, assault, and battery.¡¯ ¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the problem, moron!¡± Jason roared. ¡°You were on her property, no warrant, and when she told you to leave, you hit her with the knockout gas and brought her here! What the fuck were you thinking?¡±

    ¡°I was thinking that I was going to detain her and make her talk. She¡¯s a lot more than a little old lady, you know.¡±

    ¡°I know exactly who she is! She¡¯s a civilian, and a fucking celebrity! You took a high-profile target and locked her up, against her will, in our base, after you gassed her! Do you have any idea what the ACLU can do to us with this? Wrongful imprisonment, battery with the gassing charge- this isn¡¯t some frat house that¡¯ll lose its letters, Henry! We could get shut down, heroes might get outlawed- you could go to fucking prison for decades- not that I give a damn about that right now! But were you thinking about that?¡±

    ¡°I can make her afraid to-¡±

    ¡°Oh, Henry, put a fucking sock in it! You only scare fifteen year old boys who couldn¡¯t get a date if their lives depended on it. You can¡¯t hold her by the ankle and dangle her off a building. She¡¯s not a baby-snatcher! She¡¯s a- what they hell did she do, again?¡±

    ¡°I think she was involved in the armored car robbery yesterda-¡±

    ¡°You think? You think? Henry, you committed about five major felonies less than two hours ago, because you think she might have been involved? You-you know what? Fuck it. Get your shit out¡¯ve your room, and get the hell off my base. You¡¯re done. I¡¯m turning her loose, and turning you in. This is too far.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not going to turn me in,¡± Henry said quietly.

    ¡°The hell I¡¯m not!¡± Jason said. ¡°What, you think this is some TV show? That we¡¯ll lose viewers if you go to the joint? No, shithead, this is the Justice Team, this is my HQ, and I sure as hell am gonna turn your sorry, pretentious, rich-boy ass in. What¡¯s not gonna happen is you suddenly going off and poisoning me, or zapping me with a secret- I dunno, crazy-ass laser or something, just because I¡¯ve threatened you! Get your shit outta here, and wait for the police to drop by at your giant-ass mansion on the outskirts of town. Or run. I don¡¯t care. Somebody get me a phone.¡±

    Nobody moved. Henry stayed still. His face was quiet and passive. Jason¡¯s went from red to deep crimson.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear me? Get, the, fuck, OUT!¡±

    ¡°What if I can fix this?¡±

    ¡°Henry,¡± Peter said, trying to push his empty burger plate away quietly, ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯re at a point where we could-¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re going to give her money.¡± It was Neela. She¡¯d spoken with the rich African accent every other man at the table had fallen for on the first day she walked onto the base.

    Now Henry did smile, and he looked at Neela with a grin that was supposed to make him look both rakish and wise.

    To Neela, he only looked like a bigger fool than she¡¯d already judged him to be.

    ¡°You forget,¡± Henry said, ¡°all of you, forget just what kind of resources I have at my disposal. I can-¡±

    ¡°Dear God in Heaven and Saint Peter in chains,¡± said Jason, ¡°you¡¯re gonna offer her a fucking bribe? After all this?¡±

    ¡°Actually, Jason,¡± Peter again, only this time he was wolfing down a plate of fries, and doing so quickly enough that he was able to say a word between each bite without missing a beat of the sentence. ¡°Henry may finally be onto something that¡¯ll work. Settling out of court is a concept that has a long, if not exactly distinguished history. Roosevelt?¡± his finger hit the button next to his hand, ¡°Those were great. Could you bring me four more? Thanks. Anyway,¡± he said, releasing the button and turning his attention back to everyone else, ¡°folks, I think it¡¯s both just and workable if Henry buys her off. He¡¯s got the cash, he¡¯s got a good reason to do it, and all he has to do is convince an old lady that she¡¯ll get more out¡¯ve accepting the deal than she would dragging him into court. Sounds like a thumbs-up for me.¡±

    Jason rubbed his eyes with his right hand for a few seconds, sighed deeply and looked at the rest of them with his hands on his hips. ¡°What do you guys think?¡± he said.

    ¡°If I could, ah, contribute, gentlemen?¡± It was Roosevelt, carrying a special tray that could hold four plates of food at once. The lights of the room shone off his dark, bald head and glistened on his trim mustache. ¡°I¡¯ll admit, Mister Peter¡¯s got the law degree, while I barely managed my G.E.D.. But it seems like Mister Henry here is the one who stepped in it, so he oughta be the one who cleans off the shoes. The imprisoned lady herself is quite cordial, and though I¡¯ve only talked to her a mite when serving her meals, I get the impression she¡¯s had a hard life. People with a hard life often take to hard cash, and I seriously think she could be swayed by a real sincere ¡®I¡¯m sorry¡¯ and an offer that would make her comfortable for the remainder of her days.¡±

    They were all quiet for a moment.

    ¡°Fine,¡± Jason said, throwing up his hands. ¡°Go do it, Henry. Buy her off, get her out of here. But you¡¯re still out until further notice. You got that?¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± Henry said, and left the room with a sweep of his black cape.

    ¡°Put your cowl on first, remember!¡± Jason shouted. He looked down the hall for a few seconds, and then sat at the table with his head in his hands.

    ¡°Hey, uh, Prime-O?¡± Peter said, his voice trying to sound upbeat, ¡°Buddy? When¡¯s the last time you had a vacation?¡±

    #

    Robert took the large envelope from the UPS man, thanked him for it, and waved goodbye as he walked back to his van. As the young fellow drove off, he turned and went back into the house, shut the door, locked it, and set the perimeter security to its highest setting. If anything tried to get into the house now without his voice, retina or thumbprint giving permission, the intruder would get roughly 80,000 volts of electricity and a flood of painful electric screeches aimed directly at his ears, while an automatic 911 call would scramble the local tac-squad. They¡¯d gotten here in only four minutes on their last drill. Sharp kids, those. Made Bea feel safe even in her darkest moments of fear.

    Plus, Robby would grab the Desert Eagle hand-cannon that would pop out of the wall, and put a hole the size of two, man-sized fists into anything that managed to actually get through the titanium-reinforced door and walls, or unbreakable bullet proof plexiglass windows, or the inch-thick steel roofing that he¡¯d has this place built with during its construction. Calamity Jane wasn¡¯t the only one who figured out how to profit from merchandising her image, after all. And the cartoons, toys and movies based on his time as The Champion were still going strong.

    He gripped a corner of the envelope, giving it a decisive tug. There was a tab he ought to have pulled to open it easier, but he didn¡¯t bother. Even at seventy-one, with a grown-up adopted daughter and grandchild, he liked to know that he still could do things the hard way if he had to.

    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    Once open he pulled out the envelope¡¯s content and dropped it, empty, onto the nightstand. There was a second envelope inside the first; it had also been torn open where Robby had pulled on it. It spilled out of the larger envelope, proclaiming to the world is large, capital block letters that it was ROBERT CHELMSFORD. CLEARANCE: SI, NOFORN, ORCON.

    Robert didn¡¯t bother looking at the clearance levels, having lost his taste for all the cloak-and-dagger acronyms a long time ago. He held a sheaf of papers in his hand, several of them yellowed with age. It was the top piece of paper that held his interest now, however.

    ROBERT CHELMSFORD [Ret.]

    SAI TASK FORCE BRAVO

    NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

    Robert,

    Good to hear from you, old buddy. Sometime I¡¯d like to hear from you even more for a beer-and-poker night instead of cashing in a favor.

    Here are all the files we have on the folks you listed. As you can tell by the wording at the top, information on these guys has moved ¡®way lower on the classification totem pole. They were all at or near ¡®Top Secret¡¯ back in the forties during the war, but now they¡¯re down to ¡®Special Intelligence,¡¯ a fancy way of saying ¡®who-gives-a-damn,¡¯ and NOFORN, as if the Russkies would care about a bunch of seventy-somethings running around in tights. Ah, well. The ORCON designation means that I have a small piece of paper at the back of my desk saying that I know you have this, but again, it¡¯s not any kind of big deal.

    As you can see, the only ones that could possibly make trouble for you or Bea would be Hanging Judge, and maybe Calamity Jane, assuming she can still shoot straight. Possibly the Monocle-guy; he hasn¡¯t stopped trying to sell the military his patent for his eye-lasers, even though they¡¯ve had better stuff from the aliens for about forty years now [oops- did I let the cat out of the bag? Nah. Not really.]

    I hope this was what you were looking for. You were good to me when I was starting out, Rob. You seriously took me under your wing when I was a scared new guy, and I appreciate that. I always thought the way they forced you out of the Company was bullshit, and now I don¡¯t care who sees me say that in print, since I¡¯m about three months shy of retirement myself. I¡¯m glad you found more satisfaction on the force. And I¡¯m glad for the success you and Bea had with the toys and comics angle as well. My grandchild still loves hearing stories about how grandpa blasted his way out of a Soviet Spy ring with The Champion by his side.

    You take care of yourself, old friend. Expect a call from me once I am no longer chained to my desk.

    Your friend always,

    Rexford ¡®Rex¡¯ McAllister

    NSA

    Robby read the letter and smiled. After a minute or so of being lost in memory, his legs began to ache and he sat down. He looked around his house, bought with the earnings of what had become a small entertainment empire, vigorously in competition with the Calamity Jane line for decades now.

    But Robby felt he¡¯d won in any case; in terms of actual dollars, Jane had more. But she¡¯d had to do a lot of helming that particular ship, pulling eighteen and twenty hour days to do it. Robby¡¯d had the good fortune of a couple of hungry twenty-something kids coming to him and Bea, asking only for a few signatures and giving the promise of wealth.

    Unlike most stories that began this way, the young guys hadn¡¯t asked for any money, nothing beyond Robby and Bea¡¯s signatures and the occasional appearance at a shareholder¡¯s meeting or a comic-book convention. And the money¡¯d rolled in.

    Robby had kept it a secret at first; he actually liked being a cop and they told him he did it well. It wasn¡¯t ¡®til he drove into his last day of work in a limo that folks began to understand  just what kind of money the toy biz could generate. From then on, they¡¯d lived on easy street, and life had been smooth; smoother than it went for most retirees, anyway.

    He flipped through the files, hoping for a sign or two of exactly whatever it was that may have set off Bea¡¯s radar. Or maybe he could find enough to keep her calm, like they all relocated to sunny beaches in Santo Domingo, or something.

    No. It didn¡¯t.

    It looked like they were all still stateside.

    Okay- not the worst. The freezer-guy was a high-school science teacher, the hypnotizing little freak was in a carnival, the boxer-thief was running a gym- and most of them had a state or two between them. Not the kind of setup that made for any kind of reunion of bad guys. And it¡¯d have to be a reunion of some kind; something would have to make them all decide to unite again. And it didn¡¯t seem to -

    The phone started ringing. He let it ring. His mind was starting to chase a lead. He¡¯d been offered the gold badge of the detective, but he¡¯d turned it down. He didn¡¯t need the extra pay, and he¡¯d liked hitting the streets in a patrol car. Still, more than once he¡¯d had to use deductive skills on the fly to catch a bad guy, and his antennas were twitching now.

    He let the answering machine pick up the phone. The voice was male, with a hint of gravel behind it.

    ¡°Robby? This is Rex. You should¡¯ve gotten the package by now, and if I know you you¡¯re in the middle of reading it and trying to put pieces together. Look, there¡¯s some info I¡¯ve just gotten ahold of that I can share with you that I think you¡¯d find very interesting, but I didn¡¯t want to send it in print. Pick up the phone, old pal, and we¡¯ll-¡±

    The receiver was already in Robby¡¯s hands.

    ¡°Hey, there, buddy,¡± he said.

    ¡°Ah, there¡¯s the voice I wanted to hear. How are you, Robby?¡±

    ¡°Been better, been worse. Whatcha got for me that you couldn¡¯t send in the mail?¡±

    ¡°A bit, actually. They¡¯ve started to put the hot sheets on computers now, and something just came up that I thought¡¯d tickle your fancy. Seems that fellow you asked about, the Hanging Judge? He decided to just show up at a bar last night, had a beer, according to witnesses, with a fellow matching the description of the Black Tiger.¡±

    ¡°That so?¡±

    ¡°And- get this- he was sighted a week before, saving the ass of an older security guard from a beating by a bunch of rich-kid, wanna be punks. Guess who the guard was?¡±

    ¡°From Bea¡¯s old crew?¡±

    ¡°Bingo, buddy. One Montressor ¡®Monty¡¯ Petronia, aka Mister Monocle.¡±

    ¡°Huh. Anything else?¡±

    ¡°Sightings of a guy in a winged suit over the city, smoke bombs going off crosstown when the crime¡¯s happening- ring any bells?¡±

    ¡°Shit. Bea was right.¡±

    ¡°Yep. Icing on the cake? I made a couple of calls. Seems Calamity Jane took a month¡¯s vacation from her business, starting a week or so before all this shit started flying.¡±

    Robby paused. ¡°Anything else, Rex?¡±

    ¡°Not much, except since we¡¯re looking at old capes, I checked in with a friend over at taps. Seems that Primus and his crew got a little ahead of themselves. Hot sheets are talking about a little old lady renting a house in the suburbs got paid a visit by some super who blasted a hole in the place. Lady¡¯s gone, but a bunch of calls went out an hour or two later to Justice Squad¡¯s legal team. Know what I¡¯m thinkin¡¯?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s a bit of a stretch, Rex.¡±

    ¡°But it¡¯s got you thinking too, doesn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s got me thinking one of that group of young punks overstepped again.¡±

    ¡°So, did the Squire do good today?¡±

    Robby smiled. ¡°Rex, stop calling yourself ¡®The Squire.¡¯ By the time we were finished our run, you weren¡¯t my sidekick anymore. I was practically yours.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s bullshit an¡¯ we both know it. But hey, look, I gotta go. I¡¯m up to my eyeballs in backlogged work, and now I¡¯ve gotta start lookin¡¯ over my shoulder to see if that weirdo who dresses all in black¡¯s gonna come gunnin¡¯ for me.¡±

    ¡°Any goofball cape who¡¯s gonna try and mess with my sidekick better make sure his insurance is paid up first.¡±

    ¡°Thanks, Rob. Say hi to Bea for me.¡±

    ¡°Will do , old buddy. Take care.¡±

    After he hung up, Rob looked out the window at the sky for a little while. It was the kind of day he loved, really; bright blue with white, puffy clouds.

    Should I get involved, he thought. That¡¯s the real question here. Bea¡¯s old crew was up to something. Something. But would he or Bea have to worry about payback? She¡¯d turned state¡¯s evidence, yes, which was why their hideout had gotten burned. But did they even know that? Could they?

    Dammit, suddenly he had to piss. He knew what that meant.

    He made for the bathroom quick as he could, the urge growing faster than he could walk. By the time he got to the bathroom it was like a knife in his gut, demanding release. He made it to the toilet and . . .

    Nothing. The urge was still there, but his bladder, pinched off by an enlarged prostate, couldn¡¯t push out the urine that jabbed at his innards.

    ¡°Dammit,¡± he growled under his breath. He felt the load in his colon drop, squeezing the urethra even tighter. He reached into the medicine cabinet and grabbed the emergency bottle of magnesium citrate he kept there. He unscrewed the cap, sweating, downed half of the clear, sugary, lemon-flavored liquid and sat down on the toilet to wait.

    It took the better part of a half-hour, standing, sitting, squatting and pushing from both ends, but eventually he got both his bowels and his bladder evacuated.

    ¡°God-¡± he started again, and stopped.

    He looked at himself in the mirror.

    He and Bea were both in great shape for their ages, but he still couldn¡¯t stop the onset of the things that hit a man of a certain age. He¡¯d been fighting prostatitis since his late forties, and had already had one scary dalliance with cancer which seemed to have gone away after some minor treatments.

    But now? He looked around his neat, modest, slightly-upper-middle-class home.

    With a yard in the front, and a garden in the back.

    And the group of guys he met with on Wednesday nights at the local diner to eat from the seniors menu, and complained about their health and whoever was running the government that year.

    And the Knights of Columbus meeting hall down the street, where he went twice a month for planning meetings.

    And the gym, where he and Bea would go to-

    This wasn¡¯t his life. The thought hit with the quiet insistence of a wave on the beach.

    Not the one he was supposed to have.

    He¡¯d had a good, decade-long run with the NSA, but gotten drummed out over a bullshit technicality after he¡¯d blown the whistle on a couple of incompetent supervisors.

    Then he¡¯d gone out for being a cop, starting in his mid-thirties with a bunch of late -teen and early twenty-somethings, but still made it a good life.

    And now he was here.

    Bea¡¯s old crew was up to something. And even if they weren¡¯t going to bother her, it was something big enough that those assclowns who called themselves heroes were getting involved.

    ¡°Calling the legal department,¡± Rob muttered to himself. Shit, he sure as hell never needed a legal department when he was doing the job. Damn young punks, thinking they had a lock on being a . . .

    He thought some more as he pulled up his pants, zipped up and pulled his belt over the slight bulge in his gut.

    They thought they know about being a hero? It was more than a mask, a gun and an attitude. He¡¯d learned that really fast, seeing some of the wanna-bes get taken down by the cops and villains. Some fat comic-book fan in the 60s, called himself the Crimson Crusader? Got himself beat-up by a couple of black leather jackets. In the hospital for a month. Or that gal who called herself Pink Princess? Even worse, what happened to her. She took down a mugger so bad he never shit right again, and he sued her for damages and won. Owned her for the rest of her life, practically.  So much for being a hero in New York City.

    That¡¯s it. These little wet-behind-the-ears kids needed a lesson in being heroes, not just vigilantes. He strode back to the living room, found the yellow pages, flipped through and dialed a number.

    It got picked up on the first ring.

    ¡°Don Wilshire Auto,¡± chirped a young man¡¯s voice on the other end, ¡°how can I help you today?¡±

    ¡°I need a car.¡±

    ¡°Come on down!¡±

    #

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2 Chapter 33-Loud and Proud...

    Miguel kept hoofing it; the house had been blown, his gym was a good five miles away, but he was in good enough shape he could handle it. He should make it a little after sunrise; maybe 8 am? And thanks to the tendency of pretty much every police officer in the universe to ignore older people, he knew he had a near zero chance of being stopped for any reason.

    And even if he was, it¡¯s not like he was carrying anything incriminating in his backpack. He was just an older loser, on his way home from an early shift at work, if anyone tried to stop him.

    The drink with the Hanging Judge had put him in a much better mood. But what were they all gonna do next?

    Miguel had a pretty good idea. He was going to go back to his life, and the rest were going to disappear into the paintjob of the world again. He had very little anger this time; back when things had fallen apart before, he¡¯d been seething with rage over feeling abandoned and cut out of the team¡¯s plans. He¡¯d spent the first year formulating plans of revenge, the second through tenth year fantasizing about what he¡¯d say as he got each member of the team alone and scared the crap out of them for ditching him, and the eleventh through the twentieth year keeping too busy trying to pay bills for his business to even think seriously about revenge, especially once Calamity Jane had been good enough to show up unannounced and give him his share of the loot, with a little extra.

    Nah, it hadn¡¯t been a bad life. He wished he could have some more of those blue crystals, though. Being under-forty again was pretty nice, actually. It made him want to take seventy a little differently. Maybe he¡¯d sell the business, do a little traveling, find a little job he could do down in some Spanish-speaking island in the Caribbean; being poor there couldn¡¯t be easy [it wasn¡¯t easy anywhere, he guessed], but it was better than being poor in the city.

    He was in the home stretch to his place, now. The sun was up, and he was looking at opening the gym, putting one of the vatos in charge of the place for a few bucks while he got some much-needed rest, and started waiting for a phone call he knew wasn¡¯t going to come. Still, hope springs eternal. And his hope managed to . . .

    What the hell? The van?

    Dang, it was, and he saw Jake jump out and run to a phone booth, followed by poor old Mitch the Bi- no, he was alright now. Mitch had grown up, like the rest of them. He hadn¡¯t seen Mitch try to put any moves on Jane, which was probably better than Miguel would have done in his position.

    Monty was out, too. Miguel was maybe ten minutes¡¯ walk away from them. Should I get involved or not?

    #

    ¡°Well?¡± the cop said. He looked all of fourteen years old to us, but I think we all knew if we didn¡¯t shake him somehow that he¡¯d be strong enough to take us all apart. The question went through our minds, I think, all at the same time, the kind of dilemma that hit the main character in every noir crime film we saw in the forties and fifties when we were stupid kids and the world didn¡¯t have as many hooks in us as it did now.

    The simple question was: What should we do? Use our stuff to cripple, maybe even kill a cop who¡¯d really done nothing to us? Dead men tell no tales, but we had maybe millions in stolen merchandise in the back of the van. What if he asked to see it? Were we acting suspicious enough that he¡¯d detain us, get a warrant? Or should we make a run for it, try and get to Miguel¡¯s gym, ditch the van somehow after hiding the stuff?

    The whole thing was making me more nervous than an alligator in a handbag factory. I knew we had only a few options, but I also knew we were three, very stubborn old men who might just decide not to play along if one person tried to put a solution into play. Damn, damn damint, I thought, though I¡¯d never say the words out loud. Dammit, we went over plans after plans, but we never thought we¡¯d get stopped by a cop with a wagonload of stolen goods, after the home base got blown up and we had to find a new rally point.

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    Fortunately, Jake solved that problem by falling back on his old standby: Confidence, loud and proud.

    ¡°Well, I¡¯m certainly glad you¡¯re here, officer! Maybe you can talk some sense into these two morons before they get me fired!¡±

    ¡°I said, what¡¯s the problem?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve got to be at work, on the job, in the booth, butt in chair no later than seven a.m., and dickless here loses the address, after he picks both of us up at carpool! I¡¯ve gotta get out and and find the goddam address from a fu- sorry, officer, language. From a phone booth, and now he¡¯s got the gall to say that I¡¯m too old to find an address in the yellow pages!¡±

    Now, truth be told, I¡¯m not always the fastest on the uptake, but thank God and His Blessed Momma Mary [another reason we¡¯re probably gonna go Catholic one day], that day I was good enough.

    ¡°Well,¡± says I, going along with it, ¡°If¡¯n you weren¡¯t such an idjit about everything else, maybe I would trust you! Who¡¯s the one who got us fired at the Thomson site? I¡¯m amazed we didn¡¯t get let go by the whole danged company for that one!¡±

    Monty did his part; playing the long-suffering friend who was suffering mightily in the presence of his two moronic companions. Rolling his eyes, slowing walking to the officer and trying to pretend he was the rational one in the group.

    ¡°Thank you, officer. I think your presence here is warranted. Look at these two fools; I made the mistake of convincing them to join me in this venture after their retirement, and yet all they¡¯ve done is drag me down in reputation and achievement. Now, we may be late for our shift due to their incompetence.¡±

    ...You know, Monty did all right, too. Me¡¯n Jake started yellin¡¯ an¡¯ squabblin¡¯ at each other, him holdin¡¯ a piece of paper an¡¯ me saying I wasn¡¯t gonna give him my pen unless he managed to actually give me the right address first. An¡¯ then him sayin¡¯ he didn¡¯t hafta, ¡®cause I was the most brainless piece of shit God gave eyes an¡¯ ears to, and Monty droning on in the background with his ten-dollar words and his rolling eyes . . .

    We were trying to make the cop want to get out of there, and it was working.

    The cop hadn¡¯t even hit thirty winters yet, so he didn¡¯t know the difference between a real fight and two old men just bein¡¯ stupid. More important, he thought he knew, and he hadda push past Monty and get between Jake an¡¯ me, tryin¡¯ to make sure things didn¡¯t get as bad as the last bumfight he¡¯d hadda break up, maybe as early as this morning or far back as last Saturday night between a couple of drunks behind some bar.

    It didn¡¯t take much longer. I could tell, in his mind, the young cop knew we were just three old guys on the way to nowhere, and we¡¯d had an argument. It took about thirty seconds before he¡¯d written us off as not being a big deal, and he was back in his patrol car and driving away.

    And then Miguel showed up! The so-and-so was there, and had pretended just to be some lookie-lookie while we ran the risk of getting arrested and the whole score taken.

    We were on the side of the road, a parking lot nearby of some department store. It was still so early in the morning that hardly anyone was even driving by, much less actually in a place where we could be seen. No real witnesses, and no real worries of any kind now. We piled into the van, and drove it to Miguel¡¯s place. No need for a page out of the phone book now! We were in like flynn, and ready to sell the stuff we¡¯d stolen and rake in some serious cash!

    Of course, we didn¡¯t know then what we do now.

    ------

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2 Chapter 34-

    We were in like flynn, and ready to sell the stuff we¡¯d stolen and rake in some serious cash!

    Of course, we didn¡¯t know then what we do now.

    #

    ¡°...So, there it is. Do we have a deal?¡±

    I looked at the young fellah, dressed in his black tights and black turtleneck, covered in black plastic plates over his legs, chest and arms, his black helmet with tiny, red slit for him to see out of and his normal voice, the silly little amplifier turned off which usually made him sound like he was speaking into a tin-can full of water, which my best guess was he thought sounded so scary to all the purse-snatchers and juicers and kidfuckers he¡¯d pounce on.

    But me? I was an Indiana prairie girl, and a carny. I¡¯d seen scarier things than him in my life afore my first womanly time.

    And it was pissing him off like nobody¡¯s business, which gave me no end of satisfaction in my soul and shiteating grins on my face.

    ¡°So,¡± says I, leaning back in my chair against a cardboard box, ¡°Y¡¯all say you are gonna give me a hundred-thousand dollars, in a nice little check, and all I hafta do is sign a piece of paper, and promise not to say nothin¡¯ about this today?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°Well, y¡¯see, that makes things a mite complicated. I¡¯m gonna hafta get at least a cool million, in cash, get dropped off at the place you spirited me away from, and have it in writing you are never gonna bother me again, and you¡¯re gonna fix up the place you blew a hole in, at your expense.¡±

    He waited. I had him. And it felt good.

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s-¡±

    ¡°One-million five. I hear another word, and it goes up to two mil. Cash, one hour. I know you people are good for it. And I don¡¯t want those beady little zipperhead eyes of yours watchin¡¯ me after today, waiting to see if I mess up, waiting t¡¯see if you can put a bullet in my head for jaywalking. I never want you near me again. Now, g¡¯wan back to your bosses and get my money. Git!¡±

    He stood there for a few seconds. I could tell he wanted to throttle me. I don¡¯t dislike Chinese folks; met jus'' as many truly decent ones as any other kind o''folk in my time, truth-be-told.

    But I was callin¡¯ him the kinda names he¡¯d hate and asking fer more money all for one, big reason:

    I wanted to make him so mad at me, he¡¯d either boil over and take a swing at me so¡¯s I could triple the ask, or get even angrier that he couldn¡¯t do anything, and understand how it feels sometimes to be a normal person havin¡¯ to deal with one of today¡¯s capes.

    ¡°Oh, an¡¯ I want my guns back, too. Just like they were when I lost ¡®em,¡± I shouted the last bit at him.

    The little shit had already left. He waren¡¯t quite so tall as they make ¡®im out to be in the comics an¡¯ the movies; maybe five-ten, if¡¯n you stretch ¡®im. I stretched out as good as I could on the box I was sitting on. Man, I musta pissed him off somethin¡¯ fierce. Looks like they never dump people in jail on their own here; got no place to put ¡®em. Well, no worry. It wasn¡¯t too comfortable, but I found it t¡¯be just fine as a place to wait while I got my . . .

    There was an argument happenin¡¯ upstairs. Guys yellin¡¯, a gal yellin¡¯, and then-

    I got cold prickles inside, like I did when Momma and Daddy used to fight. I know¡¯d I was safe, that no one was gonna hurt me. But kids who had parents what fought alla time know what I mean. It¡¯s like the whole world¡¯s gonna get turned upside-down, and there¡¯s nothin¡¯ you can hold onto hard enough to keep yourself from gettin¡¯ hurt when everything flips.

    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    And it never flips. You¡¯re there, waiting for hours, waitin¡¯ for something that never comes, but always a-scairt of it.

    Then there were thumps. Bumps upstairs. More yells. Something broke. A gal screamed, first angry, then scairt.

    Then more thumps, more yells, an¡¯ there was a loud bang, and I heard what sounded like a lot of stuff falling down, breaking.

    There was a fight goin¡¯ on up there, fit to beat the band. And then something happened, something every kid with fightin¡¯ parents knows is worse than hearing fightin¡¯.

    It¡¯s hearing fightin¡¯, and then hearin¡¯ it get real quiet, all of a sudden-like.

    An¡¯ it was real quiet up there.

    And then it wasn¡¯t.

    ¡®Cause upstairs, far up enough it sounded real soft, I could hear a set of footsteps comin¡¯ my way.

    Shit.

    #

    ¡°So, what¡¯s the plan?¡±

    Madre de dios, they¡¯re asking me? Just because I own the place we¡¯re hiding in doesn¡¯t mean I know what we do next. Me, I wanted to sleep for about a hundred years. And here¡¯s Jake, mister Scarlet Swami, who could make the president cluck like a chicken if he wanted, asking me what our next move should be?

    ¡°I dunno, Jake. Maybe get some sleep? We¡¯ve been up all night, you know.¡±

    ¡°We can¡¯t do that, Miguel. At least you can¡¯t. When do you usually open this place? Ten? Noon? Cops¡¯ll figure out that loot¡¯s gone soon. And when they start lookin¡¯ around, if they see anything different, they¡¯ll get a warrant faster¡¯n a roadrunner with a firecracker up his ass. And if this place is closed, with a van in the garage? And they search that van? We gotta ditch the goods, get our money and split. Got any blue rocks, still?¡±

    Jake had a point. I didn¡¯t have any. And I could feel age creeping up on me. I¡¯d fall asleep standing up if I didn¡¯t get the blue stuff to help me stay on my feet.  Staying up all night, and then running the show all day like nothing happened? I couldn¡¯t do it quite so easy at forty as I did when I was twenty, but I could do it at forty easier than I could at seventy.

    ¡°Nah, man. Jane was the source on that one. Okay, well,¡± Miguel stopped, stood, stretched. ¡°Looks like I¡¯m gonna hafta pretend I¡¯m up an¡¯ at ¡®em. How¡¯bout the rest of you? You gonna be seen as missing¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m on vacation, officially,¡± Jake said. ¡°Took my two weeks a little early. Rest of you?¡±

    ¡°Officially? I am on my weekend.¡± Monty again. Dear Lord in Heaven, sometimes when he opens his mouth it¡¯s like hearing the world¡¯s biggest clock pendulum swing back n¡¯ forth.

    ¡°It¡¯s Monday morning,¡± I says.

    ¡°Sunday and Monday are my weekends, Miguel. You get used to an odd weekly schedule when you¡¯re a security guard, you know. Speaking of Mondays, Mitchell, ought you not be in school, teaching young people how to blow themselves up in chemistry class?¡±

    ¡°They wish. Me? I¡¯m officially on leave for a week at a boring educational conference in bumble-duck, Kansas. A buddy of mine owes me big, so he¡¯s signing me in as ¡®present¡¯ for every boring talk they can muster up on why little johnny can¡¯t read, write, or stop votin¡¯ for Reagan, and why it¡¯s all mah fault.¡±

    ¡°Ok, gringos, let¡¯s quit with the yapping. You won¡¯t be missed, but I will. I¡¯ll get out there, run in and out like I¡¯ve got errand to run, the little vatos¡¯ll come in like usual, I¡¯ll put the toughest one in charge. You three head back to the storeroom, I¡¯ve got a few cots in there for fighters who¡¯re down on their luck and need a place to crash. You guys can get some sleep, and-¡±

    Then the knock came at the door.

    Big, loud, pounding.

    ¡°Whozzat?¡± Jake said.

    ¡°Think I know, poop-fer-brains?¡± I says back. ¡°All I know is it¡¯s not ten AM yet, and that I don¡¯t have to-¡±

    I heard the lock twist and click. Not like a key opening it, but something more like-

    ¡°Get in the back, epah! Now! Move, and quiet!¡±

    I barked the orders best I could without yelling.

    They were halfway into the back room before Russ and the big fellow behind him walked into the gym.

    Damn.

 Part 2,Chapter 35- A Visit From the Hanging Judge

    I had me an inklin¡¯ that the little richie-rich snotnose and his crew of baby heroes had gotten get their undies inna twist over me. I purposely hadn¡¯t been taking my blue rocks so that I¡¯d get older, skinnier and more broken-down lookin¡¯, and it worked. When the One¡¯s love child came to look at me, I saw his eyes go up an¡¯ out, oh, boy.

    Now, I knew he waren¡¯t so worried about how a poor old lady¡¯d been treated. There¡¯s some of them newer model whipper-snapper heroes that are like that, for sure. But Prime? I could see it in his eyes: the look of a little kid who¡¯s got hisself caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

    ¡°Um, hello? Miss . . .¡±

    ¡°Cobb,¡± says I. ¡°Are you gonna stand aside and let me out, young man, or¡¯m I gonna start screaming for my lawyer?¡±

    ¡°Miss Cobb, I want to apologize to you. It seems one of my colleagues has made a terrible, terrible-¡±

    ¡°Mistake? Damn right he did. You know what the law says about kidnapping, son? I don¡¯t care who you are, or who yer daddy was! I¡¯m an American citizen, and I know my rights!¡±

    ¡°Miss Cobb, you¡¯re completely free to go at any time. Here are your guns and your gunbelt. I was hoping to have a short talk with you first, if that¡¯s alright?¡±

    ¡°Fine. Talk while we¡¯re walkin¡¯ to the exit, an¡¯ yer coughing¡¯ up two mil to keep me quiet!¡±

    He breathed in, opened the door for me. Nothing in his face said he was up to any funny business, so I walked forward. I¡¯ll say this for the boy; he was a bit naive, but he was a gentleman. Hell of a lot more than that jerk who calls himself the Dark.

    #

    ¡°How long will you be gone for?¡±

    Bea looked a little nervous. She knew something was up. You couldn¡¯t hide something from a woman that easy to begin with, and doing so from someone who¡¯d shared your life for the better part of a half-century was damn near impossible unless they were willing disbelievers.

    ¡°Rex needs a little help on a case,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ve just got to get down there and help out. He says he needs my eyes and ears, and the Company¡¯s going to fork over a few bucks as a consultant¡¯s fee. Not too bad, really.¡±

    ¡°Is there any danger?¡±

    ¡°Naw, Bea. I¡¯m just gonna look over a crime scene and then tell ¡®em what I think. The babies have tried their hand at it and they can¡¯t figure it out, so they¡¯re asking grownups like us.¡±

    Bea smiled. Our generation of capes had been calling the current group ¡®the babies¡¯ for a while now, and it seemed to put her at ease.

    ¡°Can I call you if things get rough?¡±

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    ¡°Well, how about I give you a couple of calls a day? The portable phone is kind¡¯ve spendy, and I¡¯ll be close enough to come home if there¡¯s trouble.¡±

    Bea looked at the floor for a second, then at him. ¡°Can I invite Lucy to stay over for a few days? Maybe have her bring Diana?¡±

    ¡°Honey, I think having our daughter and granddaughter is the best thing for you. I¡¯ve gotta go, you take care.¡±

    #

    They all got real, real quiet when I walked in with the judge behind me. Thing is, they couldn¡¯t recognize him; not even Miguel, who¡¯d apparently had a drink with him a couple of hours before.

    ¡°Good morning, guys. You all know my friend here, Gideon Gothwin.¡±

    ¡°No, friend,¡± Miguel says. His voice sounds like someone saying ¡®nice, doggie¡¯ while they¡¯re reaching for a rock. ¡°No, I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Miguel, you jerk. We just had a beer together. And you don¡¯t know me?¡±

    Miguel¡¯s eyes got big. ¡°What? Judge?¡±

    ¡°Gideon Gothwin, boys,¡± I said, letting the backpack with my moth suit inside slip off my shoulders, ¡°AKA the Hanging Judge. Got anything to say?¡±

    Mitch looks terrified. His skin is white. Same with Jake; he looks ready to drop back into his wheelchair and play the invalid again.

    ¡°What the fuck¡¯re you thinking, Russ?¡± Jake says. I gotta smirl a little; I can hear the wheels in Jake¡¯s head spinning a mile a minute as he tries to figure out how he¡¯s gonna get his fat outta the fire on this one.

    ¡°I¡¯m thinking we could use some backup, Jake, since the plan went to shit. Jane¡¯s been nabbed, you three are here, and we¡¯ve got a truck full of merchandise that needs moving. Clock¡¯s ticking. Every hour there¡¯s a bigger chance something¡¯s gonna go real wrong, and Gideon here¡¯s the man to help us keep that from happening.¡±

    ¡°Gideon, you sonofabitch, how come you never let me see your face before this, but you did with Russ here?¡±

    ¡°Bit of a tale to that, Miguel,¡± the big guy says. ¡°Mind if I have a seat? Thanks. Look, you all know who I am, at least in costume. Here¡¯s how things work. Back a few years after you boys had stopped living in the subway, I was a young prosecutor who was set to take down Boss Barker¡­¡±

    ¡°Oh, really?¡± Jake says, the disdain in his voice palpable as he takes a seat himself on one of the boxing stools. From his tone of voice, he sounds like he¡¯s just heard that a fifth grader wants to take down a tank with his new BB gun. ¡°How¡¯d that work out for ya, Perry Mason?¡±

    ¡°It didn¡¯t, Mandrake. I got stabbed by what I thought was a janitor as I left my office one night. Guy was a pro- got me in the kidney, and I was bleeding out on the floor in an empty building late at night at the foot of the statue of Saint Thomas More, Patron Saint of all Lawyers.¡±

    ¡°Ah, crap, I hear an origin story coming¡­¡±

    ¡°Damn right you do, Swami. Leme finish my story, or I¡¯ll take out my hammer and Scalia your skinny butt. Where was I?¡±

    ¡°Saint Thomas More,¡± says Mitch.

    ¡°Oh, yeah. Well, the statue glows, and here comes the Saint himself, stepping off the podium to talk to me. Tells me I¡¯ve been chosen to bring law and order to this city in a unique way. I¡¯m given the hammer and the noose, but I can only use either on those who deserve it and have escaped the long arm of the law.

    ¡°So since then, you¡¯ve been beating the shit out of bad guys.¡±

    ¡°For the most part, yeah. Good news for you is this, Jake: I¡¯m not after you here.¡±

    ¡°Really? God told you I¡¯m okay?¡± Jake said, sneering.

    -----

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2 Chapter 36-The Hangin Judge, The Homestead, and the Long Con...

    ¡°For the most part, yeah. Good news for you is this, Jake: I¡¯m not after you here.¡±

    ¡°Really? God told you I¡¯m okay?¡± Jake said, sneering.

    ¡°I don¡¯t have a direct line to God, Jake. What I¡¯ve been given doesn¡¯t work that way. When I¡¯m the Judge- it¡¯s like I can see things as a series of scales, balances, clocks and gears in motion. When I took down those punks who were hurting Monty? About to kill him? All those guys deserved what they got from me. All of them. Down to the last tap on their spine. Now, as for you gentlemen,¡± Gideon stood up. They all moved back just a hair or two- Gideon was a large, bearded, imposing figure of a man even when he wasn¡¯t a supernatural avenger of justice. ¡°I get to say that what you pulled off in terms of thievery is actually going to serve the cause of law, in its own way.¡±

    ¡°Do tell, woudja? Mebbe we can tell it to the cops when they come git us,¡± Mitch said.

    ¡°Gladly. Everything you¡¯ve taken is insured; cash, jewelry, the lot of it. However, there are exactly five pieces of jewelry in your take that are precious family heirlooms, which belong to just people that have done no wrong significant enough to merit their loss. I¡¯m here to collect those pieces. Once I have them, I¡¯ll be leaving you gentlemen to your own devices.¡±

    ¡°How kind.¡± I will say there is an agent of the law who is aware of you, and he¡¯s coming. Now, Though beyond that I can¡¯t know. If you¡¯d kindly take me to your loot, I¡¯ll acquire the needed pieces- they practically glow and call out to me; I¡¯ll have no trouble finding them- and I¡¯ll be off to do my errands for the day, returning them anonymously.¡±

    ¡°Therefore- I can assume you are not going to pummel us with your hammer, or otherwise abuse us?¡±

    Gideon looked steadily at Monty. ¡°I never abuse anyone, Montressor. I give them only the precise amount of pain and punishment which they are due according to their deeds. And you haven¡¯t done anything thus far to warrant my attentions. Be sure you keep it that way. And watch out for Miguel over there- the places he chooses to get his beer from aren¡¯t always the best.¡±

    ¡°Shut up, gringo. Remember how I bailed you out?¡±

    Gideon looked at them all, and smiled. ¡°Miguel here saved me once. I¡¯d gotten in over my head- it happens. I ran up against what I thought was a simple cult of freaks who liked to hurt runaways. I was-overconfident. When I confronted them it turned out they were more than a bunch of traffickers; their leader was an honest-to-goodness sorcerer, not some pretender in dark robes and pretentious chants, but a genuinely dangerous man with ties to seriously dangerous demons.

    ¡°He summoned some entities that did some serious harm to me; I was dying, my spirit form wounded so badly that my old knife wound had opened up again, and I was bleeding out in an alley. I thought I was done for, until¡­¡±

    ¡°Until I showed up. I had a little relic of my own. A prayer and a touch from it stopped the bleeding, and a visit to a local mass cleaned out the rest.¡±

    ¡°I find that to be- improbable at best.¡±

    ¡°Monty, man, you don¡¯ know much about this, you know?¡±

    ¡°Miguel, I am a man of science. That means . . .¡±

    ¡°That means you tinker with your crap all day, and you still believe it¡¯s gonna pay off when it never does. If that ain''t faith, I dunno what is. At least my auela would get what she prayed for on her rosary. Vamos, now we have to figure out how to help Jane. Those baby heroes have her, and I don¡¯t think they¡¯re gonna give her up just because we drive up to their door and ask.¡±

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    ¡°Maybe they will¡­¡± Jake said. ¡°How about this¡­¡±

    #

    Jason, aka Prime, lolled on the floor in a dazed haze, his glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. His face was peaceful, with the dull insensibility that came with waking up without an alarm clock after a long sleep.

    Several small explosions blew apart the floor near his head, making quarter-sized craters in a steady, connect-the-dots line. When they reached Jason¡¯s head they kept progressing, tapping his skin and making ripples in the flesh but no other effect other than to make him blink suddenly, and then his gaze returned to the blank, drugged stare he¡¯d had seconds before.

    The red light of the base¡¯s alert status bathed his face in a flashing, crimson hue. A repetitive, monotonous voice above repeated the words ¡®Alert, alert, alert, alert¡¯ over and over again while more small explosions ripped into the walls and floor.

    ¡°Y¡¯all need t¡¯get some more target practice in, boy,¡± Jane shouted from behind the cafeteria table she¡¯d tipped up and over to act as her cover. She was lounging with her back the the table, facing the wall in front of her, looking over one of her pistols with no more concern that a gardener would have over a plant frond that needed trimming. ¡°I been nice, but I think ah¡¯m gonna have ta punch yer ticket the next shot if¡¯n y¡¯all don¡¯t gimme mah check an¡¯ get outta my way.¡± As if to emphasize the point, she reached up with her pistol, pointing it behind her while still sitting down and pulling the trigger with her thumb, squeezing off three shots and then lowering it again to reload.

    Henry ducked down and cursed himself for being stupid while the walls above him popped and exploded, new dimples and crater appearing where the bullets from the old lady¡¯s pistols hit, rebounded and made new pocks and holes.

    ¡°Not too bad, little boy, you¡¯re faster¡¯n you look. But if¡¯n I really wanted to, I could take you out pretty quick.¡±

    Henry bolted down every urge that suddenly surfaced to scream curse words at the top of his lungs. He checked his wrist computer again- was there any chance that the rest of them could see this? No, the whole thing was on lockdown, a calm loop of nothing showing on the monitors in the central hall, assuming anyone was watching to begin with.

    Crap. How was he going to contain this?

    #

    ¡°Good Morning, this is Homestead, the headquarters of the Guardians of Truth.  Today¡¯s tours are temporarily suspended due to unforeseen circumstances. This is Judy, how may I direct your call?¡±

    Jake waggled his eyebrows at the others in the room, his finger still at the yellow pages entry for the tourist section of the baby-heroes¡¯ hq. ¡°Why hel-lo Judy!¡± he said with a brash, confident air, ¡°Are you the same Judy I had the pleasure of dealing with last year?¡±

    ¡°That may be so, sir. I¡¯ve been here as one of their secretaries and schedulers for thirteen months now.¡±

    ¡°Well that is just swell to hear, honey. You did such a good job with us last year I said to mah-self, I sure do hope that when I call today, that I get to talk to Judy again.¡±

    ¡°Well, thank you for that, sir! I¡¯m glad I was able to help you effectively. What can I do for you today?¡±

    ¡°Well, Judy- can I call you Judy?¡±

    ¡°Absolutely, sir.¡±

    ¡°Well, that makes me happier¡¯n a bird in a windtunnel. See, I¡¯m opening up a new oil platform in the next year, and I loved how professional your security boys there were. Do you folks have in-house guards, or do you folks contract out?¡±

    ¡°Oh, we have the best service in the city, Mr.- sorry, what was your name again?¡±

    ¡°Josephus Aloysius Zwallarimenienski esquire, mah dear Judy. Don¡¯t fret, no one remembers it until they hear it for the fourth or fifth time. Sorry, but what was the name of that firm again? Was it Sentinel or Paragon?¡±

    ¡°Sentinel, Mr¡­ Mr Joseph?¡±

    Jake gave a big, barrel laugh. ¡°Don¡¯t you fret, Miss Judy. Now, I hope those heroes don¡¯t mind, but once I get the platform operational, I just might be calling you up to offer you a job, ¡®cause with the way you put up with me, whatever they¡¯re paying you, honey, it ain¡¯t enough!¡±

    #

    TO BE CONTINUED...

 Part 2 Chapter 37-

    ¡°Josephus Aloysius Zwallarimenienski esquire, mah dear Judy. Don¡¯t fret, no one remembers it until they hear it for the fourth or fifth time. Sorry, but what was the name of that firm again? Was it Sentinel or Paragon?¡±

    ¡°Sentinel, Mr¡­ Mr Joseph?¡±

    Jake gave a big, barrel laugh. ¡°Don¡¯t you fret, Miss Judy. Now, I hope those heroes don¡¯t mind, but once I get the platform operational, I just might be calling you up to offer you a job, ¡®cause with the way you put up with me, whatever they¡¯re paying you, honey, it ain¡¯t enough!¡±

    #

    ¡°Alright, little boy. I¡¯ve had mah fun. Looks to me yer in a real pickle now, and mebbe yer open to actually talking rather than giving orders. When y¡¯all get a chance, thank yer boss fer giving me mah sixguns back, by the way. Dumbass move on his part, thinkin¡¯ I couldn¡¯t shoot just because I¡¯m old. But you won¡¯t hear me complain. Now, I see you, or even a little bit of that outfit of yours pop out from behind those boxes, it¡¯s gonna get a bullet bankshotted off of the wall at it. And if¡¯n you¡¯re stupid enough to try and toss a bomb or something at me, then you¡¯re gonna hear about it from every lawyer from here to Kookamonga once I get out. And I will get out of here, little boy. You got me?¡±

    Henry tried his communicator again- dammit! Jason had locked him out! No one to talk to. And Jason, thanks to his human mother, was very, very vulnerable to the knockout gas Henry had surprised him with; he wouldn¡¯t be waking up anytime soon. Not to full strength for at least another hour.

    And now Henry was pinned down by an old woman with a set of six-guns. If that wasn¡¯t Ironic¡­

    #

    ¡°One minute, Jake.¡±

    ¡°Keep yer pants on, Mitch. And keep the twenty ready in your wallet; nothing motivates me like a decent bet. Here we go. Miguel? Your boys get that stuff inta the van yet?¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re working on it, Jake. You sure they¡¯re gonna get it done for a good reason? Or are you gonna fuck it up like a gypsy usually does, and they have to take it all out again?¡±

    ¡°I ain¡¯t gonna fuck up, beaner boy, not when there¡¯s twenty bucks on the li-¡± Jake stopped as the ringing on the other end stopped, clicked and a young man¡¯s voice mumbled something out of the receiver. ¡°Hello, William. This is Detective Andreas Juspeczik, badge number 4321, NYPD Fraud division. I¡¯m investigating a case and I need your assistance, but the situation is very, very delicate and I¡¯m going to need your discretion here. Can I count on that?¡±

    More mumbling on the other end of the phone. ¡°It means, William that we¡¯re investigating a potential homicide, and whoever you have stationed right now at the gatehouse over at the Homestead HQ is a person of interest. It also means that if you call him up after we finish talking, or if you refuse to assist us over here at the NYPD, or if you tip off anyone that we¡¯ve had this conversation before we make an arrest, you¡¯re gonna be the one charged with obstruction of justice, and looking at a minimum of a year behind bars. Now, all you need to do to keep yourself out of trouble is to tell us which of your guards is currently stationed at the gatehouse of Homestead, and keep quiet about this conversation until either I or my partner call you again to give you the all-clear, or twenty-four hours pass. You got me, son?¡±

    More mumbles on the other end of the phone. Jake scribbles on the sheet of paper. ¡°That¡¯s it. Oh, and I¡¯ll need the number of the gatehouse, too. Save us some time, and you might be looking at a citation for helping us out instead of jail cell. Looks good on a record, especially if you¡¯re thinking about the Police Academy. Thought so. Sounds good, officer William Templeton. Yeah, matter of fact, if you do think about joining the force, mention me on your resume, after we close this case. Sound good? Alright, good job, buddy. Take care.¡±

    Receiver bangs down. ¡°Time?¡± Jake asks.

    ¡°Two minutes, thirty-five. You¡¯re slowin¡¯ down, Swami,¡± Mitch says.

    ¡°Shuddup, Mitch. I¡¯m in the home stretch. Miguel? You got your boys loading the van?¡±

    ¡°Done in about five more minutes. Got a treadmill and five empty crates like you said.¡±

    ¡°Hot damn. Last leg. One minute from pickup. Got your watch Mitch? Ready¡­¡±

    #

    ¡°Boy, where¡¯s my check?¡±Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    Anger blistered in his brain. I¡¯ll give you a¡­

    ¡°An¡¯ if¡¯n you¡¯re thinkin¡¯ about doin¡¯ me any wrong, you remember: I¡¯m Calamity Jane. I¡¯ve been shootin¡¯ the eyes outta squirrels at a hundred yards since I was knee high to a grasshopper. Y¡¯all ain¡¯t invulnerable- that¡¯s comic book shit. You stir even a little bit, an¡¯ I pop you through the nearest chink in your armor. An¡¯ you know I¡¯m a-gonna see it. Now, you can either print up mah check, or send it straight to mah bank. You want the number?¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t get you any money if I¡¯m pinned down, madam.¡±

    ¡°Whoo! You¡¯re bein¡¯ polite now. I like that. Means you¡¯re shit-outta-options. I just bet you gotta bunch¡¯ve folks you can call. Ah tell yuh whut, little boy: Ah¡¯m gonna call 911 on my new portable phone here; the one I took offa your friend after you gassed him. I¡¯m gonna tell the cops I¡¯ve been kidnapped and I¡¯m being held against mah will. No warrant, no judge, just some slant with a bunch¡¯ve gadgets who the other heroes have locked out. Maybe the cops¡¯ll come. Maybe they¡¯ll send some more capes to take you down. Maybe the press¡¯ll hear about things next.¡±

    ¡°That won¡¯t be necessary, Miss Cobb. I can get you your million-¡±

    ¡°Two million, zippy. Make it two. You¡¯re good for it, and you¡¯ve made me wait a little too long. I¡¯ll give you just five more minutes.¡±

    Shit. Five minutes. Who could he call? How could he- could he try to jam her line? Not without the other equipment in his room that he¡¯d been tweaking. His official communicator was down, but maybe his direct line-

    ¡°Roosevelt?¡± he whispered into the comlink, trying to cover it with his hands and block out the incessant droning of the computer¡¯s alert through the PA system.

    ¡°This is Roosevelt. But, Mr. Dark? I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve been instructed not to give you what you want, whatever it is.¡±

    ¡°What the- says who, Roosevelt?¡±

    ¡°Says Miss Juno and the rest of the team. They¡¯re right here, watching and laughing at you on the monitor.¡±

    ¡°Are they now¡­¡±

    #

    Louis crossed his arms and stretched from a sitting position. He¡¯d been ten kinds of excited when he found out he¡¯d be working at Homestead, but the job had gotten pretty boring really quick. Far from seeing supers day in and day out, he¡¯d only seen Prime fly by once, and Gladiatrix leave once in a limo.

    Granted, that one time was enough; he was eighteen, and had had a schoolboy crush on her for years now. When she¡¯d rolled down the window of the limo and told him to pass a message on to¡­

    The car drove up and he pulled himself, reluctantly, out of the happy little fantasy he¡¯d been thinking on. Reality was here: it was a late afternoon on a summer day, and he¡¯d be here until ten at night. But this was the job; keeping the civvies out. He had a whole list of memorized protocols for what to do if super villains showed up, but it didn¡¯t look like that was going to happen here.

    He opened the door to his guard shack and saw a beat-up old blue sedan, with a Mexican dad- maybe in his forties- and three Mexican boys in the back hollering and screaming at each other.

    ¡°Can I- can I help you, sir?¡± Louis said, raising his voice above the kids in the backseat who were screaming, fighting and punching each other.

    ¡°Aye, caramba- could you- vamos! Hey, Estaban! Shut up! Estoy tratando de hablar con el hombre aqu¨ª! Ah, sorry about that,¡± he kept trying to talk above the din of the boys, who hadn¡¯t toned dow their fighting a bit. ¡°I think we had a day for a tour here- it¡¯s my son Esteban¡¯s birthday, and we wanted to surprise him a little, and-¡±

    ¡°Sir, I¡¯m sorry, but I got a passdown from my previous guard that all tours were cancelled today due to a situation that arose needing the attention of the heroes. You can call the one-eight-hundred number to reschedule, and since it¡¯s a birthday tour, I can go back to the shack and get him a coupon for a free action figure that can be redeemed at-¡±

    At the word ¡®cancelled,¡¯ the boys had paused in their fighting. When he said the word ¡®reschedule,¡¯ the smallest of the boys began a petulant wail, the kind reserved for the death of a family member or the news that summer vacation had been cancelled and school would continue through July.

    Cripes, there are days I hate this job, Louis thought. Maybe doing college this year wouldn¡¯t be a bad idea after all.

    ¡°Look, sir,¡± said the dad, rolling down his window the rest of the way and resting a well-muscled arm on the side, ¡°my boy has been looking forward to this for three weeks or more now. Isn¡¯t there something you could do for us?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, sir, but I¡¯m not authorized to- wait, no!¡±

    Another car, this one a white Crown Vic, had bounded up into the driveway and continued without slowing, careening towards the sedan in front with its radio blasting so loudly he could hear Phil Collins singing about how You Can¡¯t Hurry Love, even though the driver of the new car had his windows rolled all the way up. The driver was singing with the song, so into it that he didn¡¯t notice the car in front and-

    Whomp! The Crown Vic smacked the rear bumper of the sedan, making the children shift from crying and arguing to screaming in pure terror. The dad was still trying to advocate for his son, and the driver of the other vehicle got out, opening the door and stepping out, letting Phil¡¯s voice fill the air with brassy drums and his almost liquid-smooth delivery of the old song from the sixties filled the air and added to the confusion.

    Louis, being still two weeks shy of his twentieth birthday, had never known what it was to have his blood pressure skyrocket. But later on in life when he did have hypertension issues, he would always refer back to this moment as the first time he felt so much stress that he could hear blood and heartbeats hammering in his ears.

    And that, of course, was when the  truck pulled upland boxes both of the other cars into the nice, tight space right in front of his guard shack.

    #

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2- Chapter 38-Panic at the doorway, and THe Dark gets snarky?

    Louis, being still two weeks shy of his twentieth birthday, had never known what it was to have his blood pressure skyrocket. But later on in life when he did have hypertension issues, he would always refer back to this moment as the first time he felt so much stress that he could hear blood and heartbeats hammering in his ears.

    And that, of course, was when the  truck pulled upland boxes both of the other cars into the nice, tight space right in front of his guard shack.

    #

    ¡°Roosevelt, dammit, just give me access to the network! This is me talking, the guy who paid off your mortgage, remember?¡±

    ¡°I do recall that, and I¡¯m quite grateful, sir. However, the terms of my employment are very clear: your peers have voted you out of the level of authority that grants you access to-¡±

    ¡°Shit,¡± Henry mumbled and switched off the comm. This was going to take a bit of doing¡­

    He turned the comm back on again. ¡°Roosevelt?¡±

    ¡°At your service, sir. I fear we were cut off earlier.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, whatever. Look, can you at least tell the others what the situation is right now? They aren¡¯t answering when I try to raise them.¡±

    ¡°Ferrying messages between the members of the team is most assuredly within the parameters of my employment agreement. What shall I tell them?¡±

    ¡°That I¡¯ve gassed Prime and I¡¯m pinned down by the lady with a couple of six guns.¡±

    ¡°I- yes, sir. Very good sir. Will there be anything else, sir?¡±

    Henry was about to answer when a small chunk of the wall exploded just six inches above his head. ¡°You got five minutes left to get me mah money, boy! Or the price o¡¯my silence goes up by a zero or two!¡±

    Henry had never killed except in self-defence, or perhaps in defence of an innocent life. Or perhaps what he considered justifiable vengeance. Or maybe... well, no. But right now he was coming closer than he¡¯d ever come to thinking that maybe, just maybe there¡¯d be a justification here or there to taking the life of an extortionist like the lady who was barely twenty feet away from him¡­

    ¡°An just in case y¡¯all ¡®r gettin¡¯ ideas in that gook head o¡¯ yours, if¡¯n you try to rush me, that space between us is a long, long way when I got a total of twelve barrels I kin empty on yuh. Quite a bit ¡®o damage I kin do, if even one bullet slips through the armor you¡¯re wearin¡¯, innat right? Mebbe I might poke inta your guts, and you¡¯ll be walkin¡¯ around with a shitbag stuck on your guts for the rest of your life, like Airman gots. Or maybe I¡¯ll tickle your spine some, and you¡¯ll be pushin¡¯ wheels on a wheelchair like the Silver Skull did after he took that fall. Issat what you want, Darkie?¡±

    Bitchy, old, racist piece of shit, Henry thought. But she was right in that there was no way he¡¯d be able to close that distance before she got off a bunch of shots at him, and one of those just might do the kind of damage she was talking about. How much longer before Prime woke up? Or until Roosevelt found someone who was willing to help bail Henry out of this jam?

    His com link lit up, hot pink- Gladiatrix on the line.

    ¡°Hello?¡± he said quickly, after opening the channel with a touch on his belt, ¡°Hello, Neela? This is Dark. I¡¯ve got a situation-¡±Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    He stopped when he heard the laughter on the other end. ¡°Oh, do you now?¡± she said on the other end. He heard Streak say something else faintly in the background, and the whole room erupted in guffaws.

    #

    ¡°Look, everyone, it¡¯s gong to be a couple of minutes before I can-¡±

    ¡°Look, mac, we gotta delivery here and a schedule to keep! Can you let these two goons in so¡¯s I can get drop my load and get tot he rest of my route?¡±

    ¡°Uh-¡± Louis was trying to remember where the day¡¯s delivery list would have been- difficult at best with the screaming kids and dad from one car on his right and the slightly younger fellow in his late thirties getting out of the car that just smacked the family man¡¯s sedan just getting out of the vehicle.

    ¡°Wahhh!¡± screamed the kids.

    ¡°Look, man, my bumper¡¯s been crumpled, on your property! Can¡¯t you just let us in for ten minutes, maybe? Just to the gift shop?¡±

    Another kid screeched.

    ¡°C¡¯mon, mac! I gott a schedule to keep and a family to feed anna job to keep! All I gotta do is drop off this exercise equipment for your guys and I¡¯ll be gone. I been here before in the morning when the other guy¡¯s been here, I¡¯ll be in an¡¯out, an¡¯...¡±

    ¡°Louis Enkandu?¡±

    Louis looked at the new voice- it was the driver of the Crown Vic. Glasses, just starting to lose his hair.

    ¡°What?¡± Louis said, the stress coloring his voice.

    ¡°You are hereby summoned,¡± the Crown Vic driver said, slapping a piece of paper against Louis¡¯ chest and walking back to his car.

    ¡°WHAT?!?¡± Louis yelled as he dropped the paper to the ground and picked it up, unfolding it as Miguel and the three younger kids from the gym kept up the lelling on his left side and Jake took the cheap cigar out of mouth and yelled on the right side. ¡°Hey, take it up with the judge,¡± the summoner said. ¡°I don¡¯t type these things up; I just give ¡®em to guys like you. Now, couldja let some of these guys through, so¡¯s I can to my next-¡±

    ¡°You ain¡¯t goin¡¯ nowhere, mon, until I get your insurance for the wreck you put on me and my boys!¡±

    ¡°Aw, you kiddin¡¯ me? That was just a bump! And it was ¡®cause of those guys behind-¡±

    ¡°An¡¯ those guys are me, and he wants ta drop off the delivery, and I can¡¯t until you guys move forward!¡±

    Now there were four men arguing with each other and Louis, al shouting.

    Louis hadn¡¯t been trained for this eventuality, and no one was answering the phone.

    ¡°Look, just let us through; we¡¯ll circle around and get outta your hair,¡± said the dad, the kids still screaming in the back seat.

    Louis saw the sedan, Crown Vic, and the Delivery van bunched up like crap in a blocked toilet, and then looked down at the very real-looking summons in his hand. For the first time since taking this job several months ago, he thought about walking off the site- the cardinal sin for any security guard, and a sure-fire way to get terminated.

    No one was answering the phone, still, and there were even more folks bunching up behind the van now- legitimate people whom he recognized and were on his daily list of deliveries and-

    What the hell.

    ¡°Okay, guys, look, I¡¯m gonna make a judgement call here, alright? Sir, you take your boys to the gift shop, here¡¯s coupons for action figures for all three of them, since your tour was cancelled today. Sir, you just turn in a circle and head out. And you guys, with the delivery? Back around the side and then to the left. The loading docks are there, and you¡¯re going to be their problem at that point. Okay, you guys, everyone understand?¡±

    Louis pushed the button under his desk, and the long arm of the gate rose into the air.

    All four men stopped arguing, pausing only to give each other dark looks, and drove onto the site.

    Louis breathed easy, and began looking forward at the drivers behind the cluster-fuck of people that now filed out and left his gatehouse quiet again.

    He enjoyed that peace for the next fifteen minutes, until the dozen-or-so cop cars, paddy wagon, SWAT team and police chopper descended on him like the embodied minions of the wrath of an angry police-god.

    #

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2, Chapter 38- Darkness and Light....

    Jason, aka Prime, began to stir awake and looked groggily around the room. Someone was arguing, and someone else was yelling. Something about money¡­

    He knew he wasn¡¯t at home. The floor was hard, not like the bed he¡¯d enjoyed in his childhood, and his parents had rarely argued in the kind of voices he heard on either side of him right now. Further, money hadn¡¯t ever been an issue in his house growing up, and so these folks couldn¡¯t have been his parents.

    There was a weird smell in the air-or maybe it was just in his nostrils. And he was thirsty. His throat and tongue were dry and wanted water. What had-

    Henry. His voice. The rich kid with a ton of entitlement issues was yelling into the comlink again.

    ¡°Can¡¯t you understand the gravity of the situation? I¡¯m pinned down here, Prime is down, and this lady is increasing her demands by the minute! I need backup!¡±

    ¡°Well, you¡¯re not gonna get it, bucko!¡± the Streak¡¯s voice, tinged by laughter and mirth, crackled through the radio. ¡°You made yer Dark-bed here, and you¡¯re gonna have to lie in it! Give her some o¡¯that money you¡¯re always throwing around and then get yer ass offa the base, like Jason said to-¡±

    ¡°Jason is down! Didn¡¯t you hear me? And quit using our secret I.D. names! That lady is-¡±

    ¡°Aw, Henry, put a sock in it, willya? Everybody knows our IDs already, thanks to that reporter from the Enquirer you were messing around with. Yeah, we all knew about that, but Jason said to let it ride for some stupid reason. Now, you get yourself out of this, since you¡¯re always telling us how ¡®I am the Darkness¡¯ you are, and all that crap. TIme to prove it, ¡®cause our bylaws don¡¯t let us come to help out nd risk our own necks unless you¡¯re a helpless civvie. Which you¡¯re not. G¡¯bye.¡±

    Click.

    #

    Robby drove his rental car carefully through the streets of the city. He¡¯d gotten insurance, and he hadn¡¯t been in any real kind of accident since he¡¯d been in his early 20s, but he still liked to be careful.

    He¡¯d called Bea at home to make sure she was alright; he¡¯d been ready to talk her through another anxiety attack if need be, but it looked like this wasn¡¯t going to be necessary.

    He glanced at the sheet of paper where he¡¯d scribbled the address of the Homestead base. Not likely they¡¯d just let him walk in, but if Jane was there, then it was a little more than likely that someone from Bea¡¯s old crew might be there, too. At the very least, he could¡­

    ¡°Who¡¯d you think you¡¯re kidding?¡± he said, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. ¡°There¡¯s a part of you that¡¯s always wanted to get back on that horse and ride through downtown traffic again.¡± Eyes back on the road, he continued speaking out loud, as if there were another person in the car.

    Robert Hampton hadn¡¯t been raised in the most privileged of circumstances. Not exactly. His father had been the groundskeeper for an insanely wealthy family in the Northeast, and he¡¯d been raised in a modest apartment with him and his mother above one of the garages on the grounds of the family.

    The apartment wasn¡¯t tiny, and the view was beautiful; where many boys his age grew up seeing apartment buildings and dirty alleyways, Robby had grown up seeing rolling hills of green, blue skies and horses running in the midst of driftwood fences. He¡¯d grown up helping his father and being home-schooled by his mother, long before public schools had gone completely downhill and homeschooling had become something of a necessity for many parents concerned about either academics, values, or keeping their kids from turing into junkies before they finished middle school. And where many of his peers had still been stuck in ¡®See Jane Run/Run, Jane, run!,¡¯ he¡¯d been reading and seeing his mom and dad read and act out scenes from Romeo and Juliet [gross! Kissing!], A Midsummer Night¡¯s Dream [funny as all hell, especially when Robby got to hear his straightlaced dad say the word ¡®ass¡¯ over and over again], and Robby¡¯s all-time favorite, the rousing Saint Crispin¡¯s Day speech from Henry the Fifth.

    Friends had come from Church, family was always home for dinner, and his folks rarely fought. It had been a decent life. And when he¡¯d turned seventeen he¡¯d enlisted in the Army for a four year hitch, and seen some action in World War Two.

    Once he¡¯d returned Stateside, though, things seemed different. His father had seen it, and rather than have mom up every night saying rosaries for his safety for another three years Rooby had found himself encouraged to enroll in a short course that was the precursor to the modern idea of a police academy. In eight weeks he¡¯d hit the streets as a uniformed patrolman, first walking the beat and then assigned to a squad car.

    Driving and making a turn, he smiled to himself as he remembered the day that had almost sealed him as a superhero in the eyes of the press and the city; as they were trying to chase down a purse snatcher who was first running and then had jumped into an accomplice¡¯s car, Robby had seen a horse standing near a parade float. The parade had just ended, and Robby, seized by the kind of near-stupid inspiration that only a boy in his early 20s could have, leaped onto the white beast after giving the requisite one-line statement about requisitioning a civilian vehicle. Stolen story; please report.

    The purse snatcher and his driver accomplice, stuck in the same traffic jam that had tied up Robby¡¯s driver partner. Robby had ridden both miscreants down and drawn his pistol on them, getting them to exit their vehicle and lean against the car until backup had arrived.

    He hadn¡¯t gotten any official citation, but the picture in the paper of him riding the horse was too good for any editor who wanted to sell papers to resist. It had gone national, and Robby had been a minor celebrity for a few weeks, while the other cops at the station house had called him names like Sir Lancelot, King Arthur and The Champion.

    And, after those few weeks were done, Robby had gotten himself a motorcycle.

    Painting the trim white had been his own idea. Inside, he knew he was looking for the horse again; a motorcycle was less maintenance and didn¡¯t eat quite so much, though he had enough close calls in the first week of driving that he understood why the insurance rates were so high.

    After swing shift was done and Robby went home to his little apartment, he¡¯d get on his bike and drive through the city. He took to wearing a helmet long before it was the law for a biker to do so. T took a while for him to admit, even to himself, that he was doing it because it reminded him of the stories he¡¯d read about knights suiting up for for battle. The pale leather jacket [he looked; white leather didn¡¯t exist anywhere that he looked] was part of it as well; all of it went into the new persona he¡¯d crafted for himself as The Champion.

    Ironically, though he took his bike into the worst neighborhoods he could find, he had a genuinely hard time finding opportunities to fight crime. Most of the time he would chase away kids trying to break into shops or cars, and interrupt the occasional mugging or a date gone seriously wrong.

    Until the bank robbery.

    It was dusk and the alarm went off, sounding loudly enough that everyone for several city blocks could hear it. Robby had sped his bike fast as possible to the scene, just in time to see a gang of toughs dressed in identical black masks and jackets running into a car.

    Robby had ridden his bike, gunning the engine and reaching out with his arm to clothesline the last bad guy in the line of crooks. The remaining four sped off, and Robby had given pursuit.

    Robby had gotten the license plate number and doubled back to the mook he¡¯d knocked down, cuffing him and leaving him for the cops to find. Robby had hightailed it out of the area, not wanting to hear another round of jokes from his fellow officers.

    But there had been a ton of pictures and the papers had gone wild; the tip he¡¯d given the FBI of the license plate checked out, and the black-clad gang had been dubbed ¡®The Black Knights,¡¯ all of whom had been caught by The Champion.

    Robby had found it funny, and began riding down bad guys on his bike when he had the chance. On another occasion, he¡¯d tossed off a line of Shakespeare from Henry the 5th, and it had made the papers as well. Soon some eighteen year old comic book writer or artist had begun making him into a comic book figure, giving him a white horse and a lance to ride down the city streets, even putting him in a full suit of armor.

    He¡¯d ridden in on a white horse at some promotional events after that, and after one of them, he¡¯d had the good fortune to interrupt a robbery by a member of the newest group of costumed robbers to hit the scene. In a freak accident, he¡¯d ended up tumbling off of the horse he¡¯d been riding back from the event, right into the group of thieves. He caught only one of them, but luckily for him it was the prettiest of the bunch, the one they called Queen Bee.

    She¡¯d tried to jolt Robby with her ¡®stinger¡¯ wand, but any cop worth his salt knew how to disarm a petty thief untrained in hand-to-hand fighting. He¡¯d put the cuffs on her, held her under arrest until a few cop cars had come along and...couldn¡¯t stop thinking about her.

    Later, when she¡¯d turned state¡¯s evidence against her crew, she¡¯d shown up on his doorstep dressed in a mink coat and an evening gown, and asked to take him out to dinner. Six months later they were married, and the comic books had an even bigger field day.

    A year later, he¡¯d been formally invited to be part of the intelligence community. By then there were so many new guys hitting the streets with costumes and crazy names that he and Bea had managed to slip under the collective radar of the popular culture, and live a normal life raising their daughter.

    And now? Now he and her were retirees. She had anxiety issues which he¡¯d learned to live with and help manage, and he usually liked being a grandfather.

    But today? He looked at some folks like the ¡®baby heroes¡¯ as his generation called them, and saw a number of twenty-something and early thirty-something kids who were playing games and living out comic-book fantasies, rather than actually doing the work of being cops. Prime was an exception, but even he acted a little foolish now and again. And if you were foolish enough to get Robby talking about the trend for teenagers with powers getting recruited by the government or other groups to form independent ¡®crime-fighting¡¯ clubs? You¡¯d be sitting for the next hour hearing Robby complain about the recipe for disaster that was going to be.

    But now? Now he was driving, headed out to see just what Bea¡¯s old crew were up to. He really had never under her fear of them seeking revenge; they¡¯d never committed a violent act against anyone in their career, save freezing The One solid, and maybe the time that Mitch had zapped some semi-psycho''s legs off by accident.

    Still, something in him was itching to check this whole thing out. Something inside said this was something he should see, do something about. He¡¯d had that voice, analogous to the ¡®little man¡¯ Ernest Borgnine had talked about in the movie Double Indemnity, something inside that said this needed to be done.

    So here he was, lying to his wife and taking a little trip, in a car the same color as his bike and horse in the comic books. Likely there¡¯d be nothing at all, and he¡¯d be turned away from the baby-heroes¡¯ HQ, and¡­

    He¡¯d just rounded the corner as a long line of vehicles began to drive through the front gate. Something had happened, he could tell even at this distance, from the stressed out look on the young security guard¡¯s face and the lurching advances the cars were making onto the property.

    Robby thought carefully, wondering just how far he could spin his past credentials into a set of current credibilities¡­

    #

    TO BE CONTINUED....

 Part 2 Chapter 39. Rocks Fail, Everyone Dies....

    Miguel pulled his car around the parking lot until he found a spot; Mitch in his rental car and Russ and Jake in the delivery van did the same.

    Miguel gave each of the middle-schoolers five bucks and told them to hop a bus back to the neighborhood, but to be careful that they wouldn¡¯t be seen sneaking off the base. After the little vatos had left [dang, they¡¯d made good actors today, too! Must include them in the next job somehow- if there was a next job and they stayed out of prison], Miguel strode confidently across the lot over to Mitch, who was already talking to Russ and Jake.

    ¡°Next move, Boss?¡± Miguel asked when he got there.

    ¡°Just figuring that. Can¡¯t stay here too long, we¡¯ll draw attention. Look, Monty said most places have a worker entrance around the back, but at a high-profile place like this, what we¡¯re looking for might be through the front door and to the side.¡±

    ¡°How do we know that?¡±

    ¡°We don¡¯t; we haven¡¯t had a chance to case the joint yet,¡± said Miguel. ¡°But did you hear what I heard when I said we had an appointment? Everything for the public¡¯s been cancelled for today. You know what that means?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s trouble inside,¡± Russ said. ¡°And where that happens, we¡¯ve got opportunity. I don¡¯t know how many guards we¡¯ve got in this place, but I¡¯ll bet that we rattled that poor kid at the front bad enough he¡¯s not gonna be doing much for the rest of the weekend besides fretting about who coulda possibly sued him.¡±

    ¡°Sounds great to me,¡± Miguel said. ¡°I¡¯ll get Monty out¡¯ve the back of the delivery truck- you guys don¡¯t know how to jigger the lock to make it open. Jake, did you get the ID badge?¡±

    ¡°Yep, when I bumped into the guy. And we just hook it to his breast pocket and- ¡®Voila!¡¯ spin it around backwards and no one will see the pictures don¡¯t match, and it¡¯ll open any door that junior back there is cleared for.¡±

    Russ looked around. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± he whispered, ¡°it would appear we are in business!¡±

    Of course, that was when the blue rocks began to fail.

    #

    ¡°Should we give aid to the poor. . .how do you say it? Fatuus?¡± Gladiatrix was looking at the monitor while Henry kept ducking his head, dodging the occasional bullet that the older lady kept zinging by him.

    ¡°That¡¯s fool, Neela,¡± said Peter, giggling again. ¡°Your English is getting better, though. Guys, whaddya think?¡±

    ¡°I say let the fool stew in his juices,¡± said the empty chair to Peter¡¯s right. ¡°I mean, if she was gonna kill him, she woulda done it already. Right? Plus Jason is there, and he¡¯s gonna wake up at some point.¡±

    ¡°Good point,¡± Peter said, his hand a blur as he unwrapped and consumed a half-dozen candy bars. ¡°Okay, Jack says we leave him to the old lday. Ricky, whaddya you think?¡±

    ¡°Meh,¡± said a high-pitched voice from the rafter above them. A tiny head, half the size of a cue ball popped into sight above them, still in its red cowl. ¡°I¡¯m with Bill on this one. Henry¡¯s been a douchebag for a while now. I think this¡¯ll be a good lesson for ¡®im. ¡®Sides,¡± he continued, as his body suddenly grew to normal size and he dropped down to the floor, ¡°this is the best laugh I¡¯ve had in months on this gig!¡±This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

    ¡°Alright, then it¡¯s settled. We let Henry dig his own way out¡¯ve this hole he¡¯s gotten himself in. Jeeves? How¡¯s the check coming?¡±

    ¡°The wire transfer from the Zurich account is forthcoming, sir,¡± said the console in a crisp British accent. ¡°I¡¯m told the funds will be safely transferred in the next two minutes, at which point the laser printer will begin-¡±

    ¡°Okay, yeah, I get it, now-¡± Peter paused for a few seconds to finish the gallon of milk he¡¯d started after he¡¯d finished the candy. ¡°How¡¯s Jason looking?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s still out of it, by the looks of him,¡± the empty chair said again. ¡°I don¡¯t think any of us know exactly what was in that little gas cocktail Henry hit him with, but he¡¯s still off in La-La land.¡±

    ¡°Fine. He¡¯ll come around eventually. He always does. Now, once that check¡¯s printed, I¡¯ll zip down and deliver it, but Henry¡¯s gotta be the one to make peace and escort her out. Then, we escort Henry out, unless he really pisses us off and we get security to do it. Sound good? Everybody¡¯s cool with this?¡±

    Heads nodded. The empty chair rustled for a moment while Jack stood up and made his head visible. ¡°I¡¯m fine with it,¡± Jack said, his dark skin an odd contrast with the stark-white wall behind him, ¡°but with Henry being unstable right now, I¡¯m wondering if it wouldn¡¯t be a good idea to gas him, too, or something else. The lady down there- who is she again?¡±

    ¡°Comp¡¯s ID¡¯d her finally," Johnny said, walking over to the computer, jumping into the air and shirking again, landing with a light touch onto the keyboard. ¡°Damn thing¡¯s kinda slow, but it happens with a database this big. Her name¡¯s Jane Cobb, aka ¡®Calamity Jane,¡¯ an old, reformed bank robber. Now she does fitness videos for old geezers.¡±

    ¡°She looks far too youthful to have been thieving from banks fifty years ago,¡± Neela said. ¡°Are we  certain of this?¡±

    ¡°No,¡±Johnny said. ¡°This is 1985, not the 30th century. The tech that mapped out her face is pretty new, and we may have a few bugs in it yet. Jason was right, though, she is a celebrity; hence, Pete, you better get that check to her and get her off base before anything more happens and she bankrupts the whole darned team.¡±

    ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll call security. If anything goes wrong between that storeroom and the front door, it¡¯ll be more on them than us. I-hey, where¡¯s the guard at the front gate?¡±

    They all looked at the monitor. The small guard shack at the front gate was empty.

    ¡°Maybe he had to hit the head?¡± Jack said, going invisible again. ¡°You want me to check on him?¡±

    ¡°Naw,¡± said Pete. ¡°See this monitor? Kid¡¯s I.D. just got used to enter the base. You¡¯re right; he¡¯s probably just going to the bathroom. We¡¯ll give him a couple more minutes; let Henry stew in his juices, and we can - hey, what¡¯s that group of guys in the hallway by the gift shop?¡±

    #

    ¡°Where to now, Russ? I¡¯m sure we don¡¯t have a lot of time before this all goes to shit.¡±

    Mitch looked at me plaintively. So did Miguel and Jake. Monty looked haughtily at the rest of us and snatched the stolen ID out of Jake¡¯s hand. ¡°If I may, I can now act the part for which I was brought here? I- ah!¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± I asked. Monty¡¯s hand had suddenly seized up for some reason.

    ¡°My- I¡¯ve got bursitis and carpal tunnel, but they¡¯d stopped after I took the blue-things Jane had given me. Dear God, I forgot how much it hurt!¡±

    I swallowed, and looked in a nearby novelty mirror at the gift shop. There were several wrinkles that weren¡¯t there this morning that were there now- the deeper furrows in my forehead were more pronounced, and my elbow hurt where I¡¯d pumped it a little too hard last night while dropping my smoke bombs.

    ¡°Okay, so we didn¡¯t take our meds this morning. We¡¯ve still got time. Listen guys, Jane needs us, and we need to get her out of here. Monty, get some mileage out of that work shirt you¡¯re wearing from your security gig, and start walking like we were being escorted and you belong here. Mitch, keep your winterbeam under your coat but be ready to pull it out in case things get bad- it¡¯s the only gun we¡¯ve got, but if we yell that it¡¯s the weapon that stopped The One for an hour, we might be able to get out¡¯ve this popsicle stand before things get really bad. Jake, get ready to start talking if Monty fucks up . . .¡±

    ¡°Excuse me?¡± said Monty.

    ¡°We ain¡¯t got time for that, Monty. It could happen, and then Jake¡¯s the fallback. Miguel, be ready while your muscles hold out just in case it looks like we can get out of trouble by bopping someone in the nose and stuffing them in a broom closet somewhere. Got it?¡±

    ¡°Ready to go amigo. But we better move fast if you wanna take advantage of my fighting; my arms are getting skinnier.¡±

    ¡°Fine, let¡¯s go. Monty, you¡¯re the security guy. Where¡¯re we going? Where do they have Jane?¡±