by David Beem
Wang storms down the stairs onto the next level, where a sexy brunette is facing away from them on her stomach doing the splits in yoga pants. He stops in his tracks, his heart thumping like a tricked-out car as her legs slowly close behind her. Her arms sweep out in front. She arches her back, lifting the most perfect ass he has ever seen…
His teeth clack—
He lurches forward—
Consuelo trips past, followed by Christine, Ralph, Shmuel, and then something collides into Wang’s back with the force of a front-end loader.
Wang skids, crashes into a standing lamp. He twists away and wraps himself in the cord as more clattering, clanging, yelping, and ouchie-mamaing issue from various locations around the room.
Wang blinks back stars and sits up. He touches his head, and more pain zaps though him. He spots the yoga babe, on her side now, one arm draped across her hip as she peers over his head with cool green eyes. She pulls her legs in and rises to her feet.
“What’re you doing down here?” she asks, her voice resonating in the large space.
“Well, I, um…” says a voice from behind Wang.
Wang shifts—snags. A lampshade falls into his lap. He tosses that aside, gets his thumb into the cord knot around his waist, pulls, and makes slack.
“I thought I might go with them,” says the voice.
Wang struggles with the power cord, gets one leg out, scoots backward, and turns around. Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal-buster is there, picking Shmuel up by the back of his pants and setting him on his feet, then bending over and doing the same for Ralph, Consuelo, and Christine. Wang gets to his feet too and dusts himself off, his brain already turning on this unexpected development.
Yoga Babe’s lashes flutter as she shakes her head. “Go with them? Why?”
Wang faces Yourmajesty, who is now staring sheepishly at his cleats. “Oh, you know… I just thought…”
“You’re striking out on your own!” Yoga Babe exclaims, and Yourmajesty waves his hands and shakes his head.
“No, not like that.” Yourmajesty raises a finger to his faceguard in a shushing gesture before cheating a quick glance up the stairs behind them. “It might be the last choice I get to make, is all.”
Yoga Babe juts her hip out and skewers him with a you’ve-gotta-be-kidding-me look.
“Who’re you?” asks Christine.
“Kate.”
“Are you a boss battle?” asks Ralph.
Kate smirks. “The bossiest.”
“You know,” says Christine, “I like her. If Nostradamus had been more like her, I think this whole idea might’ve been tolerable.”
Wang rolls his eyes. “You mean a woman. Ugh. You’re so predictable.”
Kate snorts. “Says Horny McHorny-Pants.” To Christine she adds, “Technically, Nostradamus is male and female now.”
“Works for me?” says Shmuel. “This door swings both ways? Get it? This door swings both ways?”
“Why don’t you say it one more fucking time, Supererogatory Rex,” Wang scoffs, then faces Kate. “Okay, Yoga Tits. I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, because, hey, I happen to be into yoga too.”
“Let me guess,” says Kate. “It’s a lifelong discipline you’ve been pursuing for the last two minutes.”
“Super-rer-rer-what?” asks Consuelo, and Shmuel scratches his head.
“Are you going to let us by, or what?” asks Wang.
Kate’s head recoils. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Aren’t you here to battle Zarathustra?” asks Wang, and Kate laughs.
“Trust me. You are no Zarathustra.”
“Precisely.” Wang waves for Yourmajesty and the others to fall in behind him. “We’d like to get by now.”
“Well, that’d be fine by me, but, um, you’re going to have to take it up with him.”
Wang turns to face Yourmajesty, who hurriedly steps behind Wang and cowers. Wang tracks the Green Bay Packer’s gaze and turns to find a black-cloaked figure gliding up through the sanded floorboards. Shmuel leaps behind Consuelo and shrieks. Ralph presses his back into a paper screen, catches his heels on the frame, and wipes out with a rip and a clatter. Wang squints to take in the translucent tattered cloak—no, peers through it—at a red-and-gold tassel hanging from the tip of a sword mounted on the wall.
“It’s a Demented!” cries Shmuel.
“It’s the Neighborhood Watch!” cries Consuelo.
“My back!” cries Ralph.
“It’s the ghost of Super Bowls Past!” cries Yourmajesty.
“It sure isn’t a seamstress.” Christine gestures to the being’s badly tattered robes.
Wang nods. “That is one holy ghost.”
Kate smirks. “Allow me to introduce…the Übermenschen.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Golden dragons glare out from recessed shelves, pedestals, and from the arms and head of a throne at the room’s raised center. The Superfriends and I hurry down the stairs into the sunken throne room, where my gaze is drawn naturally up. Dozens of paper chandeliers follow the balcony around three of the four walls, and shadows mingle behind shoji screens.
“Hey, I read about this,” says Fabio in his supersuit voice and peering up at the throne in the middle of the room. “They build it like this so you have to look up at the throne. Supposed to make you feel inferior.” He stands straighter and puts his fists on his hips. “Fools! This holds no power against me! I’m used to looking up!”
Clones, says Mary.
Sliding doors open along the screens. Clones in black suits, ties, and Ray-Bans rush to the balcony railings, their feet beating like drums before giving way to the ka-chink, ka-chink of chambering rounds. They train their guns down on us. Mary’s psychic sense doesn’t even flinch; her arms rise, forearm rockets pop out—
Mary—no! I reach out through the Collective Unconscious to lower her arms.
What? she asks, incredulous.
Whaddaya mean what? cries Fabio. You were about to violate superhero rule numero uno! “No killing,” he says out loud.
“Guys, this isn’t a comic book,” she replies.
“I’m with Mare.” Caleb raises his arms and his rocket launchers pop out.
You can let others set the rules, says Bruce Lee, or you can set the rules. It is how we fight that defines us.
“Whoa.” Fabio faces Mary. “Bruce Lee totally just Yoda’d you!”
Mary clicks her tongue. “Even I know that was The Matrix Reloaded.”
“This feels like a liberal thing,” says Caleb, popping his forearm launchers back in. “Is this some dumb liberal appeasement thing? We gonna fly money to them on a plane now?”
“Can we please not make this about politics?” asks Anna.
“Oh, so now you’re weak-liberal-troping Bruce Lee?” says Fabio. “Obama would’ve kill-listed their asses by now.”
“I’m pointing out they have guns, and now we’re not allowed to use guns, little bro.”
Welcome to my world, says Killmaster.
Mary’s forearm rockets pop back into their sockets as she unlatches a clip off her utility belt and holds it in a two-handed grip. The nanotech grows seamlessly into a katana sword, which she holds angled down above her head.
Welcome to my world, says Hanzo.
“Yeah!” yells Fabio, drawing his own autoassembling sword. “That’s how we do it!”
Congratulations, says Killmaster. You are five space ninjas who brought swords to a gunfight.
“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, little bro.”
“Use your telekinesis to stop the bullets, or chop ’em in half,” Fabio replies. “Remember, try to have fun with it.”
“Mr. Bonkovich,” says one of the Dr. Seuss clones before hocking a loogie and spitting over the railing on the beautiful sanded floor.
“Ew,” I say. “Let me guess: You must be Ned.”
Ned’s head ticks back. He and the others trade uncertain glances from beneath their Ray-Bans
. “How…do you…know that?”
“Yeah.” Mary shifts to face me, her sword still angled overhead. “How do you know that?”
“Is it the Collective Unconscious, bro?” asks Caleb. “Spidey sense?”
I shake my head. “All the other clones keep telling me Ned is the disgusting one.”
Ned looks left. He looks right. The clones lower their guns, their furtive gazes darting every which way but at Ned.
“Awkward,” sings Fabio.
“You do know we’re literally clones,” says Ned, casually sweeping the barrel of his gun over them to address them in rows and everyone breaks formation to duck. “We have the same DNA. We’re cut from the same cloth.”
“Yeah, but your cloth musta been dragged through the mud, crapped on, and then used to clean every single toilet in Grand Central Station,” says another clone, straightening and scowling. “Watch where you’re aiming that thing!”
Ned pulls out a nut wedgie with his gun hand. “That hurts, Ted. Ted, I’m hurt.”
“The truth hurts,” says Ted. “Like that right there. Stop doing that.” This clone turns to face us. “You know, I’m not embarrassed. No. I am glad you brought this up. Glad! Here we are, obvious professionals. I mean, look at this shirt.” His gun hand thumbs the collar. “See how white it is? And I would like for you to note the starch too. Now look at everyone’s gleaming white starched shirts. Go ahead and look. We won’t shoot.”
Fabio nods. “It is really nice.”
“Nobody irons their clothes anymore,” says Anna. “Maybe you’ll bring it back. Good for you.”
“Thank you.” Ted nods. “We really think it’s the little touches. You know? Those little details that say, ‘We care.’”
“And you polished your shoes.” Fabio points. “They say that’s the true mark of professionalism.”
“You noticed!” Ted exclaims.
Fabio nods. “That takes practice. I tried to polish my shoes once. Used a cloth with black shoe polish on my tan shoes.”
Ted winces and turns his head. “Oh!”
“I know, right?” says Fabio. “I’m just saying. A polish like that isn’t achieved by amateurs. Good job.”
Ted bows his head a fraction. “Thank you. Now it pains me to point out our colleague Ned, here. May I please call your attention to the ketchup stain on his wrinkled off-white shirt—”
“It’s Sriracha,” says Ned—
“—and his shoes are caked in mud—”
“Well, actually, that’s crap.”
“—and here we are,” continues Ted—
“Seems like a lot of animals around lately. Shittin’ all over the place.” Ned shrugs and eases his neck to the left. He hocks another loogie and spits, then pulls out another nut wedgie.
“—Professionals. Assembled to kill you,” finishes Ted.
“I’m assembled,” says Ned. “I’m here to, you know, kill them.”
“No, you’re not,” replies Ted. “You’re here to pull out nut wedgies and pick your nose.”
Ned’s gun hand quickly lowers from his nose, and the five of us exchange unreadable glances from behind our supersuit helmets.
“I hope you guys won’t judge us for Ned’s lack of professionalism.”
“And how can we do that?” asks Fabio. “Will there be comment cards? Is there like a Yelp for MIBs I don’t know about?”
Ted shifts his weight from one foot to the other and exchanges a glance with the clone next to him. “You know, that’s not such a bad idea.”
“Is this what you’re always doing while I’m getting into position to snipe their brains out?” asks Mary.
I shrug and nod. “This is pretty much how it goes, yeah.”
“Phoo, they talk a lot.” She shakes her head. “Seuss never talked that much. At least he rhymed.”
“You never forgot,” says a new voice from behind us. “Now…prepare to be shot.”
Mary spins around, strikes her Action Pose with Sword position. And there, on the balcony behind us, is a much older version of the clones, the man from Mary’s past, the man holding a gun with a wicked smile.
Dr. Seuss!
The clones raise their guns and, as one, fire.
Chapter Sixty
“BEHOLD!” cries the Ringwraith, and his voice is like frozen slush down the back of Wang’s shirt, the way it seems to phase into his ears as if from another galaxy, dimension, or a faulty cell phone reception going through the Lincoln Tunnel.
“Oh look,” says Kate. “It talks.” She leans against the wall and examines her nails.
Consuelo’s eyes widen. “Talks like Red Skull in Infinity War. All echoey and stuff. Radical!”
“I HAVE COME FOR YOUR SOULS!”
Shmuel takes a shoe off, smells it, winces, then throws it at the ghost. It flies straight through him and knocks a tasseled sword off the wall.
“WHAT’RE YOU—WHY DID YOU DO THAT?” asks Ringwraith.
Shmuel throws his other shoe at the ghost. This one knocks a katana loose.
“STOP DOING THAT!” The ghost revolves in the air to face the mess behind it, and then it revolves back to face them.
“He thinks you want his soles,” says Kate, looking up from her nails.
“I DO WANT HIS SOUL.”
Wang shakes his head. “Okay. No. I see the problem. It’s like this. You mean s-o-u-l. He thinks you mean s-o-l-e. It’s totally not you, it’s him. See, sometimes when you use words, our friend here gets confused.”
“OH,” says the Ringwraith. “IN THAT CASE… ER… HE CAN KEEP HIS SOUL.” Swiveling to face them, he raises his arm and sweeps a skeletal finger across the rest of them. “BUT I WILL HAVE YOUR SOULS.”
“How are you doing that, though?” asks Consuelo. “Making your voice all echoey. It really sounds like it’s coming from another dimension. You got me totally trippin’.”
“ALL RIGHT,” says the Ringwraith. “YOU GET TO KEEP YOUR SOUL TOO.”
“I wonder if we ripped his hood off if he’d be, like, a normal person under there?” says Shmuel. “You know, like Scooby-Doo?”
“And I would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for those meddling kids!” cries Consuelo. “See? I know my cartoons.”
“Oh look,” says Kate. “A stoner who knows about cartoons.”
“Scooby Doo is more than a cartoon?” says Shmuel. “It’s teacher’s molar lessons?”
Wang rolls his eyes. “Teaches moral lessons, cavity brain!”
“That’s what I said?”
“No,” says Wang. “You said it’s teacher’s molar lessons, which is a dentistry school lesson plan. Fuck!”
“I WILL HAVE YOUR SOUL!”
“Buh—my soul tastie rike chicken,” Wang hurries to say. “You no rikey chicken fry lice! Miso solly!”
“Racist?” says Christine.
“Virtue signaling!” cries Wang.
The Ringwraith’s arms drop to his sides, and his tattered robes billow in a nonexistent wind. “IS THERE ANYONE HERE WHO ISN’T AN IDIOT?”
Consuelo starts to raise his hand, but Christine lowers it. Ralph studies his shoes. Kate looks up from examining her nails, her eyebrows rising and her lips compressing.
“Is this the molar lesson of the story?” asks Shmuel, and Ringwraith’s boney hand slaps the face hole of his overlarge hood. Kate releases a sigh.
“Birth control is that way.” She points. “Please, for the love of God, hurry.”
“Thanks,” says Wang, and the five of them Naruto-run for the door, their feet practically blurring Scooby-Doo circles.
“WOW,” says the Ringwraith. “SIX HUNDRED YEARS I HAVE BEEN IN THE GRAVE. IS THIS WHAT NORMAL PEOPLE ARE LIKE NOW?”
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything,” replies Kate. “Pull up a seat. I’ll get you a cup of covfefe and tell you about the leader of the free world.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Fabio and Anna cross in front of me, both leaping through windmill kicks, slashing and parrying
. Sparking, halved bullets fall to the ground like metal rain. My HUD flashes—I spin around—Caleb’s already there, grabbing two clone heads and cracking them together.
“Thanks.”
“No prob.”
Gleaming steel flashes. A Glock drops in two pieces. Mary steps in front of me, her sword shining like justice.
“Incredible,” she says, admiring her katana. “Einstein guides the angle of the cut, and it glides through steel like butter!”
“I can’t believe that’s not butter.”
My skin tingles as I float to the balcony. I land on a clone’s shoulders, then hopscotch across shaky agents, my sword cleaving guns as they swoop up to target me. At the far end, Seuss ducks into a side room and slides the door shut.
“Knock it off, kid!” yells a clone, who topples through a paper wall as I leap from his shoulders to the next clone.
“Humiliating,” another clone mutters.
“Edger!” cries Mary.
At the far side, I backflip to the ground as Ted and Ned bring their guns to bear—fire.
Time stretches to a near standstill. Bullets spin from smoking barrels. Beneath my supersuit, my skin tingles and pops. My katana swipes, and time snaps to normal. Bullets sprinkle the ground, tink-tink-tink. From beneath their Ray-Bans, the clones trade confused glances.
“Holy shit,” says Ted.
Ned sneezes and sprays my visor.
“Gross,” says Ted. “I feel like I should apologize.”
Ted and Ned lift into the air, smash their heads together, and drop. Mary’s armored form steps over them, her fist clenched like Darth Vader’s in Rogue One.
“You’re scary. Did you know that?”
She gives me the Power Rangers thumbs-up, spins, and chops the fronts off two more gun barrels, then leaps through the paper door after Seuss. The two clones with ruined gun handles toss them aside and raise their arms in obvious frustration.
“Dammit,” says the first. “The only thing worse than the Disposable Henchperson gig is the Humiliated Disposable Henchperson gig.”
“It takes a toll on you,” says the second, nodding.