“Welcome to the Society of heroes with indeterminate talent convention. Please state your name and super power.” said Agent One picking up his pen.
“My name is Clifford and I have two super hero alter egos. One is as the Invisible Man and the other is as the Fiery Flaker.”
“This could be interesting.” commented Agent Two.
“Let’s go with the first one. If you can show us an example of your power.” said Agent One.
Clifford nodded his head and held his hands up theatrically, looking intently at both agents.
“Close your eyes.” he whispered.
They both closed their eyes waiting for Clifford to speak, and after a moment his voice sounded eerily close to the agent's faces.
“I’m invisible.” whispered his soft voice.
“You’re not really invisible if you’re asking the other person to close their eyes, are you Clifford?” questioned Agent One, with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
“Can you see me?”
“Well, no.”
“So I’m invisible.”
Opening his eyes Agent One looked up into the face of Clifford’s, which was hovering inches from his own.
“Let’s try the Fiery Flaker, shall we?”
Clifford took his fingers and ran them through his lank greasy brown hair scratching vigorously at his scalp and sending small white flakes of skin floating down onto the table top.
“Scalp Psoriasis?” queried Agent One, with an eyebrow raised.
“I can make the flakes thicker if need be.”
“That will be all Clifford, and we’ll surely be in contact.”
“Really?”
“Most definitely. Next!”
As Clifford strode off with a smug grin on his face up stepped a small portly looking man sporting a thin handlebar moustache and a delightful comb-over.
He was dressed head-to-toe in what appeared to be a bird outfit with feathers stuck randomly all over his body and a tailfin that looked like it was fastened with a safety pin.
“Firstly, do you have a genuine super power, before we start?” asked Agent One pointing his pen at the man.
“I do.” replied the birdman in a squeaky voice.
“Good. Welcome to the Society of heroes with indeterminate talent convention. Please state your name and super power.”
“My name is Geoffrey and they call me Birdman, because I can control birds.”
“Yes, I see that you came in full costume today. It wasn’t necessary. So you say you have control over birds? Which type?”
“Pigeons.”
“Ahhh…I am truly lost for words.” replied Agent One.
“Don’t you like pigeons?” asked Geoffrey looking offended.
“They're probably the most confused and useless animal in the bird kingdom, Geoffrey. Couldn’t you stretch to like an eagle or a vulture, or at least something with a little more attacking intent?”
“I don’t like your attitude, mister,” snapped Geoffrey. “Did you drive here today, by any chance?”
“Yes I did.”
“Too bad, sorry about that.” said Geoffrey with a grin on his face. “Pinpoint accuracy, it's remarkable really.”
“Next!”
As birdman wandered off a huge, obese man ambled forward and stared at the agents with narrow piggy-like eyes.
“I am the Liar?”
“Are you?” asked Agent One.
“No,”
Sighing Agent One sank his head into his hands and shook it miserably.
“It’s going to be a long day, Agent Two.”
“I got a stack of crumpets under the table if you’re hungry.”
2.
S.H.I.T headquarters
"Enter!" barked a harsh voice from beyond the thick mahogany door.
Agent Two licked his lips nervously and reached for the door handle with a trembling hand.
"When we walk through this door our lives could change." he said to Agent One.
He opened the door and they both stepped into the General's office onto the thick plush blue carpet and waited quietly until they were addressed.
After a few minutes the General's head snapped up from a report he was reading at his desk and he stood up and strode over to them, eyeing them up and down with a look of contempt on his face. He was an exceedingly short man with a pencil thin moustache a little above his lip, with thinning black hair scraped back over his head and piercing storm grey eyes that exuded power and authority. His crisp navy suit was adorned with miniature medals over his left breast and his black shoes gleamed like a mirror's surface.
"You agents are a disgrace to this agency!" yelled the General, with his face flushing angrily as he glared at them. "Are you a sloucher, number Two?"
"N-n-no, sir." spluttered Agent Two.
"Then stand straight, shoulders back, chin up, chest out, stomach in," roared the General with spittle flying from his mouth. "You miserable sorry excuses have no idea how lucky you are to stand before me, yet you dare enter my office carrying that posture and dressed like its button-down casual day. You're both nauseating me; in fact, get the hell out of my office!"
The two agents hesitated then turned sharply on their heels just as the General shouted out again.
"Who said you could move? I haven’t finished yet."
Dutifully they turned back around as the General fixed his eyes on them intently with his lips curled back in a look of disgust.
"This agency has an image to protect and there are certain standards and a code of conduct that I demand at all times. You Agent One, your shirt is crumpled and your trousers un-ironed, and you Agent Two, your tie is crooked and your shoes need polishing. Shoes say an awful lot about the man wearing them. I polish my shoes every night without fail and take the time to press my shirts and trousers because wearing a uniform is a badge of pride. Do we all understand one another?"
"Yes sir." they both said.
"Do you want some advice, Agent Two?"
"Sir, yes sir."
"The best way to get a good polish on your shoes is to take a set of pantyhose and lightly buff it for a good hour and make sure there's no haze or swirls."
"You use your wife's pantyhose to polish your shoes, sir?"
"I'm not married." said the General clearing his throat uncomfortably.
"Oh."
"Do you think I'm short, agent?"
"I don’t know how to answer that, sir." answered Agent One.
"Just answer the question, that’s an order agent."
"Yes sir, you are remarkably small."
"I like a man who tells you how it is. What about you Agent Two? Do you think I'm short?"
"You have an abnormally small stature bordering on dwarfism, sir."
"Very observant agents and I applaud the honesty. I may be small but I cast a very large shadow which is why I'm at the top of the rank structure. Through life you need to have a clear idea of who you want to be and how you want to get there and I have done that. The question is, do you? Do you want to be field agents for the rest of your life?"
"Erm…sir, we're not actually field agents. We…erm…we work in Administration." said Agent Two meekly.
"I knew that of course because I run this place. Tell me, do you have ambition, boys?" he snapped as he smoothed his moustache out slowly.
"Sir, yes sir." the agents said in unison.
The General grunted and nodded his head slowly, his eyes searching the agent's faces.
"Good, because I do, I see it in the mirror when I exfoliate my skin every morning. Do you exfoliate number One?"
"No sir."
"How about you number Two? You like to feel the pleasant freshness of your skin after a facial don’t you? You want smooth, radiant healthy skin, right?"
"Real men don’t exfoliate, sir."
"The right response agents, I don’t like pamper boys working for me, I like real men, men with backbone. Are you two real men?"
"Sir, yes sir."<
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"But it's okay to shave your legs. Does that make me less of a man that I think that?" asked the General leaning forward menacingly and eyeballing them.
"No sir," said Agent Two.
"What if I told you I like wearing silk stockings and my top drawer is filled with demi-bras and lace panties because I'm a nonconformist?"
"It would be a secret between us sir, but you would still be hard pressed to find a General with your leadership qualities."
"Good." muttered the General, nodding in approval. "It's just a phase, albeit an arousing one that adds support in all the right places, so keep that between us. The message I'm trying to convey is that you must be comfortable with the unfamiliar in this business and knowing that will take you places. Now bend down and let me look into your face Agent One, I like to see what's going on behind the eyes."
Agent One leant in as the General scrutinized him closely.
"Are you looking at my honor medals, Agent One?"
"Yes sir."
"They are most puzzling, but shiny, and I'm entitled to them."
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence the General stepped back and clicked his heels together, nodding his head.
"Gentlemen, please be seated." he said spinning on the balls of his feet and striding back over to his desk.
Agent One and Two looked at each other, then walked towards the desk and seated themselves on two deep cushioned wing-back chairs opposite the General.
"Your report said you had difficulties at the convention. Give me your assessment number Two."
"Sir, my opinion, based on the selection and assessment process would be that we are a long way away from hiring for any form of field work. We saw a mixture of superheroes with legitimate powers, most of which are completely worthless, while some possessed moderately useful powers. The rest were either do-gooder's wearing costumes, some of which were quite fantastic, and the remaining were clearly people that should be sectioned under the Mental Health Act 1983."
"Was this your assessment too, number One?"
"With all due respect sir, I wouldn’t trust any of them to rescue a kitten from a tree," said Agent One. "In fact, I would actually fear for the safety of the cat involved. These people we saw aren’t ready and they will get hurt. But it was a good atmosphere on the day, wasn’t it Agent Two?"
"Wonderful and a visual delight too!" replied Agent Two.
The General grunted something inaudible and began flicking through the documents on his desk, eyes scanning the words.
"What about this one?" he asked, stabbing the paper with his finger. "Mocker the Snidekick, he sounds like a superhero."
He throws sarcasm at you to put you down. It’s a gift but gets real annoying after a while." commented Agent One.
"The man has terribly cutting remarks, sir." added Agent Two.
"And this one, Giant Man?" said the General squinting at the papers.
"He’s 4ft 6 and wears heels."
"Maybe not a superhero, but certainly a potential crime fighter," offered the General. "Heels are deadly weapons and if they penetrate the eye they can cause serious brain trauma. I'll put him down as a maybe. Granola Girl sounds like a possibility, what does she do?"
"She can morph herself into a healthy breakfast of rolled oats, nuts and honey, sir." replied Agent One drily.
"Deception, I like it. What about this one here who calls himself The Grass?"
"He calls Crimestoppers whenever he sees a crime developing. Sort of like a mobile Neighborhood Watch scheme."
"Hmmmm…," murmured the General tapping his chin thoughtfully. "He could be our communication logistic specialist. An important element because without effective communication how will we be able to target the crime hotspots? How about this one here, his name is the Star-Spangled Lad?"
"His power is to put on an American accent, sir."
"A challenging dialect," commented the General in appreciation. "Does he have any combat skills?"
"No sir, he literally puts on a very bad forced American accent. These are just mostly ordinary people and not ready for the 'have-a-go-heroes’ program. I think we need to re-think our strategy to tackling street-level crime in London."
"Do you think for one second that after all the money the Government has invested in this secret recruiting project that I'm going to turn around and tell them to re-think their strategy?" snapped the General slamming the documents down onto the surface of the table. "Do you know the financial penalties involved if we don’t pull this off? These people want a ring of steel around this city. Modern day superheroes can't handle the level of crime we have anymore and the police are at breaking point. That is why they came to S.H.I.T, and with our resources we can recruit a group of heroes to enforce the system and form cohesive, organized crime-fighting units to protect this great city. We need our own band of superheroes to reduce the level of crime which is why I hand-picked you two for this program. I read your files, both of your files. You're both ready for this."
"Ready for what, sir?" asked Agent One.
"Both of you will be going out into the field with your own individual splinter cells of heroes that you have picked. Your mission is to target neighborhood trouble spots and eliminate the problem. Stand up in the face of adversity and defend the innocents, stop terror attacks, disband criminal street gangs, tackle gun and knife crime and put an end to drug infested corruption. The great people of this city need to feel safe walking the streets again, especially the fatties, because we need to encourage them to walk more, so think of the benefits on their health. The people need heroes, and you boys are going to give them that and when the Home Office releases their annual crime statistics publication for 2014, we can sit back and pat ourselves on the back knowing this project was a success. So, the only question I have left is, what are you waiting for?"
"We'll make you proud, sir." said Agent Two with a determined look in his eyes.
"What about you, number One?"
"Sir, I'm curious if there's any kind of performance related pay rise on this program?" he asked, averting his eyes from the General's intense stare.
"The economy is in recovery and people are dying on the cold streets every day under our noses and all you can think about is your own selfish financial peace of mind. You insult me and you insult all the unsheltered poor souls sentenced to die through cold-related disease through the winter."
"I'm…I'm sorry, sir."
"I'm kidding number One. You'll get Imminent Danger pay, un-taxed during any time you are present in a combat zone and all your meals and accommodation will be covered. But the most important thing to remember is that you need to make this a success because my bonus depends on it, okay?"
"Sir." said the agents in tandem.
"Also, one final thing before you both leave, just remember our little secret about the whole silk stockings and lace panties thing." said the General tapping his nose. "Now get the hell out of my office and get to work cleaning up those streets."
3.
The streets of London
The hulking shaven-headed muscular black man plucked the cash from the ATM dispenser machine and stuffed the money into his left pocket. He turned to leave when he felt a sharp object being pushed into his back.
"Gimme all your cash!" hissed a squeaky, nervous voice.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, stay calm and don’t be doing anything rash, son," said the black man in a deep baritone voice, as he raised his hands up slowly without turning around. "Just give me a second and I'll give you what you want."
"Just give me all that money you just drew out otherwise I'll cut you up real good." piped the armed robber.
"With that thing you got pressed in my back?"
"Yes." spat the robber menacingly and applying a little more pressure to his knife hand making the black man squirm a little.
"It feels like a butter knife."
"It's a very sharp butter knife. I spent hours on this home sharpener I bought the other day."
"But the purpose of a butter knife is to spread butter onto bread, so why not just buy a real knife if you're planning on robbing people?"
"Coz' I aint got no money."
"Makes sense," muttered the black man before frowning. "Yet, you bought a home sharpener? Why didn’t you just not buy a home sharpener and use the money to buy a knife instead?"
"I didn’t buy a home sharpener really, I stole it. What difference does it make?" shrieked the robber growing impatient.
"Calm down, son. I just feel I need to understand the facts around this terrifying ordeal. So tell me, do you still use it to retrieve butter from the tub container when you aren’t using it in armed robberies, because I can't see it accumulating much butter on the surface of the blade?"
"Aren't you scared I'm going to cut you up, because I swear I will?"
"Well it doesn’t feel particularly threatening to me, son." said the black man craning his neck over his shoulder to get a look at his attacker.
"Don’t you dare look at me!" shouted the robber.
"Are you kidding me, son? What are you like, twelve?" asked the black man, chuckling loudly and swatting the knife arm away.
He stared hard at the short hooded robber in disbelief, before planting his hands on his hips and shaking his head.
"You're what, one hundred pounds?"
"I'm one hundred and twenty." grumbled the robber staring down at his worn trainers.
"I'm six foot six, two hundred and fifty-two pounds, and live in the most underdeveloped borough of London, and you're trying to rob me?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I'm a goner now," said the black man, bursting into a wide grin.
"Are you not scared then?"
"I'm positively shaken by this incident. It's heart-stopping in its intensity."
"Then why are you laughing?" asked the robber looking offended.
The black man bit his lip with tears streaming down his cheeks, and then suddenly burst into loud guffaws.
"I'm-I'm sorry but I can't stop laughing." he said holding himself against the brick wall next to the ATM with his shoulders heaving.
"This isn’t meant to be funny, I-I really will cut you up." hissed the robber waving the knife.
Society of Heroes with Indeterminate Talent Page 2