“Thanks for touching base with me, my man,” he said, forcing me to return a fist bump.
“I can’t stay long, Jules. What’s your fix?”
“Dude, I’ve deep-dived your dilemma and arrived at a bottom-up approach that’ll totally disrupt the narrative.”
No, I don’t know either.
“You apologize on TV,” he said, giving it to me in American.
“I go on a chat show and say sorry? That’s your whole plan?”
“Not just any chat show – it’s a hip new platform for marquee influencers.”
“Can’t I just book a spot on Letterman?”
“We gotta diversify your brand, babe. Anyways, you were only on with Dave a couple of weeks back promo’ing your album.”[23]
“So what’s this new show?” I asked.
“It’s called Chomp.”
“Weird name. What’s it mean – like, the show has bite?”
“Sure, big man, whatever you say.”
F*ck it, I had to do something. My rep’s taken a real hosing since I let Professor D’eath slip through my fingers and I needed to let the public know I hadn’t been sitting around with both thumbs up my ass.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” I told him.
Jules flashed me a Colgate smile. “You know what this smells like?” he asked.
“What?”
“It smells like team spirit.”
Jesus Christ.
January 3rd
Jules followed up our meeting yesterday with a text telling me to get some new duds in time for my talk show appearance. Something with “attitude,” he wrote. Something “darker.” Darker my ass. The last time I went that way was when I trialled the Dusk-Stalker costume – a disastrous redesign that made me look like an emo rent boy. I gave it a single outing before I packed it away, never again to see the dark of night. I’m telling you, that sh*t was straight-up virginity armor.
Still, it couldn’t hurt to give the existing threads a little tweak – bring them up to date just a smidge. After all, a superhero’s costume is a big deal. It’s his badge. His identity. His prophylactic against the disease of crime. It’s also what sets him apart from the rest of the caped bozos, which is why his outfit needs to be striking, memorable and above all, unique (like clown paint only less, you know, kid touchy).[24]
“Bonjour, Monsieur Capitaine!” effused Baptiste as I stepped into his store. “‘ow may I be of help?”
In case you didn’t catch it, Baptiste is French. He’s also my personal tailor and the sole proprietor of Extraordinary Gentlemen, the #1 superhero outfitters in town. The man is a real marvel – the Jean-Paul Gaultier of cape fashion. I have all my costumes custom made by him personally; none of this off the peg, Brand X Spandex crap. Save that for the dopes who don’t mind getting all juicy in non-breathable fabrics, or having their junk chaffed raw by ill-fitting legwear. Some folk just don’t recognize the value of a well-cut, durable outfit and to them I say this: it’s all fine and dandy being able to withstand a 3000 degree fire, but without paying that little bit extra for flame-proofing, you’re going to fly out the other side of it hanging some serious dong.
My style’s a classic one: primary colors, chest insignia and a cape. None of this bonded leather, molded latex, domino mask bullsh*t. I’m a superhero, not a refugee from a masquerade sex ball. Here’s hoping that stuff’s all just a passing fancy, like that thing in the Nineties when everyone started wearing pouches. People were covered in those things. I’m not having a go at utility belts you understand – they’re like a classy fanny pack – but why go covering yourself head-to-toe in fun-size kit bags? Pouches on biceps, pouches slung around shoulders, pouches on thighs like little girly garters. What were people keeping in them anyway? Aspirin? Throat lozenges? Change for the phone in case they had to call their mommy?
I sat down with Baptiste and talked options for the new costume. He made some subtle suggestions – a new font for the insignia, some piping detail on the leggings, upgrading from Spandex to matte Milliskin with a liquid-repellent polymer coating (handy if ever laid it on too thick with a perp and wound up wearing his blood). I gave Baptiste the nod then chimed in with a suggestion of my own – a new feature that will revolutionize the way I go about my business, both literally and figuratively – a customized ass-flap. I can’t believe I’ve managed without one for this long really. When you gotta go, you gotta go, man, even if that means dropping a deuce at altitude. It ain’t pretty, but what’s the alternative? If Overkill was about to nullify you with his anti-matter cannon, would you want me sat in a gas station bathroom crimping one off? I don’t mean to be crude, but that’s the reality of it.
As well as getting tailored for my new costume, I picked up a gift – a peace offering for Birdy to say sorry for the New Year’s fiasco. Nothing fancy, just a back-up of his favorite banana-colored onesie with the feather emblem on the chest. It’s not exactly to my taste, but whatever drapes your cape, man. I got him the matching boots and mask too. Me, I don’t do the mask thing, not since I was fourteen anyway. I started out with a secret identity but Mom blew it when she hung my costume to dry right outside our apartment window. Not that I hold that against her anymore. You ask me, secret identities are like Tampax. Strictly for pussies.
January 5th
I arrived at the studio for my chat show appearance just after 7pm. It was a live taping and word had gotten out that I was on the bill, so the house was packed. I was sat backstage waiting for my curtain call when I glanced up from swiping Snapchat to see a logo in the corner of the green room monitor. That’s when I realized that the title of the show wasn’t Chomp but ‘C.H.O.M.P.’ Jules hadn’t mentioned those periods when he sold me on the slot, so I flagged down an assistant and asked her what the deal was.
“It stands for Championing Humans Over Metahuman Persons,” she told me.
I didn’t much like the sound of that.
“Metahuman like superhuman?” I asked, but before she could answer a stagehand with a clipboard showed up clicking his fingers and saying, “Go time.”
Clipboard man cattle-prodded me through some back corridors and into the wings, cueing me onto the stage as the house band flared into action. I made my entrance one to remember, floating through the curtains and into the spotlight – arms out, abs tight – classic Jesus Christ pose.
“What up, Mein Capitans?”
The wall of applause that greeted me just about knocked me to the ground. Look, I get it, I’m not immune – sometimes even I see me and get star struck. ‘Holy sh*t!’ I think, catching my reflection, ‘that’s Captain Might!’ This was something else though. I must have been levitating there a full five minutes and the applause was still going. One woman in the audience even had to be stretchered off after she whooped herself into unconsciousness. Get a grip, lady. After a while I got to wondering if the clapping was ever going to end! I mean, come on, a show of appreciation is one thing, but I hadn’t even done anything yet. I felt like I could have farted in a box and those rubes would have thrown it a parade.
I touched down on the stage and took a seat next to the show’s host, a swaggering young buck with oil slick hair and dipped-in-tea tan by the name of Rex Kettner. He took me by the hand and gave it a shake that I’m sure I would have described as powerful if I wasn’t able to slam dunk planetoids.
“Wow, you’re certainly a hit with the ladies, Captain. But then I suppose it’s not like you have much in the way of competition is it?”
“Well, Rex, I don’t like toot my own horn... and believe me, I don’t have to.”*Big laughs from the crowd. I was kidding around but there was a ring of truth to what I was saying. I mean, who’s a more eligible bachelor than Captain Might? You think Ryan Gosling’s going to take your hand and whisk you away for a midnight pleasure flight over the rolling dunes of the Sahara? Don’t bank on it, ladies.
I was ready to field Kettner’s next softball when he abruptly changed tack.
“Fourteen. That’s how
many people lost their lives at the Palo Verde nuclear plant almost two months ago, and yet not one of their bereaved relatives has seen justice. What do you say to that?”
Jeez, I thought this was meant to be a puff piece. What was he going to do next – unveil a remembrance wall?
“Fourteen,” Kettner repeated, unveiling a remembrance wall.
Seemed Rex wanted to play hardball. Fine, batter up.
“My heart goes out to the families of those taken by Professor D’eath,” I said. “I’m sorry to say that casualties are a consequence of this dangerous world we live in. That said, it’s worth remembering that superpowered law enforcement has seen those casualties drop to record levels.”
“At least when it isn’t contributing to them,” remarked Kettner, “like it did in the fall of 2002.”
That did not bode well. I had a feeling I knew what was about to come out of Kettner’s mouth next, and it wasn’t anything good. Except... wasn’t that information supposed to be classified? The files had been sealed and buried deep – only the tribunal I answered to was meant to be privy the truth. SomehowKettner knew though. Kettner knew about the alien.*I was twenty-one years old, just starting out in the business, when a mysterious pod from outer space punctured the night sky, tore a strip through a wheat field and came to a halt in crater of farm dirt. Government eggheads plotted the pod’s trajectory and announced to C.H.A.M.P that it had cruised here from the rim of some faraway galaxy. They’d run a battery of tests on the thing and their scans showed a no-sh*t alien inside. A baby boy they reckoned – alive and well – and if their calculations were correct, the kid was developing the kind of powers that would make Earth’s superhumans look like four-year-olds running around with their dicks glued to their elbows (my phrasing).
The way I saw it there was only one sensible course of action to take, and it was my job to see it taken right. That’s why I took that pod outside, tee’d it up and toe-punted it back into the great beyond.
Kettner fanned a wad of Top Secret documents at me like they were a rolled up newspaper and I was the dog who pissed on the rug. He bought the audience up to speed on the alien pod story, although somehow his take on it didn’t sound half as reasonable as mine. I dare say I even came out looking like the bad guy!
“Isn’t it true,” asked Kettner, “that your reason for breaking the Eighth Amendment that day wasn’t in the interest of humankind, but to make sure you kept on being the most powerful man on the planet?”
What the hell had I walked into here? This wasn’t a chat show, it was a goddamned sandbagging.
“First of all, Rex, I don’t think the ‘Cruel and Unusual’ part of the U.S. Constitution applies to aliens. Secondly, there’s something you’re not taking into account here, and that’s what it means to be superhero. See, looking out for humanity isn’t just about single-handedly mending collapsed dams or quenching bush fires with a sneeze, it’s about the big things too. Big things like space invaders.”
“Don’t you mean space babies?”
“Ooooh!” went crowd as they leaned in, eager to hear what I had to say to that.
“Sure, babies are cute, but who’s to say when Little Orphan E.T. grew up he was going to play nice with the rest of us? All the signs said he wasn’t exactly a popular member of his species. I mean, just how obnoxious do you have to be for someone to say ‘let’s load up the baby gun and let’s blast this sucker to another planet?’”
The audience didn’t take to that one bit. Kettner saw I was digging my own hole and flashed a grin that made me want to cuddle his face with a pillow.
“Look, for all we knew,” I said, feeling the first beads of flopsweat on my brow, “the kid could have turned into the biggest supervillain of them all. If I hadn’t done the humane thing and drop-kicked that baby into the great beyond...”
Big gasp from the crowd there.
“...if I hadn’t done that,” I repeated, “we might all be wearing matching unitards and marching under the banner of some humpbacked space pervert right now. I only did what needed to be done.”
“I see,” said Kettner. “And while we’re on the subject of getting things done, were you planning on arresting D’eath and recovering that stolen plutonium any time soon? Or should we wrap up warm for a nuclear winter?”*The guy got himself a standing ovation for that one.
“Captain Might?” Kettner said when a gap in the applause eventually presented itself, “more like Captain Might Not!”
What an actual prick. Is that any way to talk about a man who once had the United Nations award him a giant fob with the key to every city in the world? The man they call The Champion of Liberty? The Savior Supreme? That’s not biting the hand that feeds you, pal, that’s chewing it off at the shoulder!
I tore off my mic and tossed it at Kettner’s lap. I wasn’t sticking around to be treated like that. I may be physically invulnerable but that doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings (for example rage, fury and an Old Testament flair for revenge). I blasted off into the night sky, leaving Kettner with a bill for a man-shaped hole in his roof. I whipped open the flap on the new costume while I took off too – a little reminder of the ass that keeps this city in line each and every day.
January 6th
I’d like to tell you what happened yesterday was water off a duck’s back, but it would be one very pissed off duck.
Jules was more chilled about it. “You’re sucking some flack, big man, I can’t lie, but we’ll turn this boat around, you’ll see. You’re evergreen, baby!”
I don't know; this feels like the start of something to me. There’s a backlash coming, mark my words.The press are already throwing enough sh*t my way you’d think I was in need of fertilizing and now they have themselves a champion in Rex Kettner; an uptight moral crusader on a mission to harness all the anti-cape sentiment out there and focus it on yours truly. I only wish I knew what that boner’s beef was.[25]
January 7th
When I got word that the villainous shape-shifter, Mimix, had been apprehended, I was on the scene quicker than Doubletime getting in line for a tour of a titty factory. Mimix was a real get. Not just because he’s a criminal heavy-hitter but because him and Professor D’eath are known accomplices. There was a real opportunity here. Get Mimix in a room and I might finally get a bead on the big guy.[26]
Mimix was caught trying to copycat a security guard at the American Museum of Natural History. Best guess says he was after the collection’s most valuable exhibit, the Star of India, the largest sapphire in the world. You might be surprised at my detailed knowledge of rare gemstones there, but being in the superhero racket you get to be a bit of an expert on the subject. I don’t know what it is about bad guys and fancy jewelry, but they go in for that stuff like deep fried heroin.
Catching Mimix in the act was a cinch, but arresting him had never been too big of a problem – it’s keeping hold of him that’s the challenge. An ID parade for a guy who can switch faces is a logistical nightmare, plus fingerprints and dentals are obviously a wash. Even when we did manage to keep a grip on the crafty bastard, putting Mimix through a trial was a major hassle. His constant shape-shifting’s driven at least one court room artist to the brink of insanity.
So, if Mimix could look like anyone or anything, how could we be sure we had our man? Well, that part’s a breeze, at least so long as you have the proper intel. See, despite being able to take on whatever form he likes, Mimix can’t help but give off a signature odor. How can I describe it? Well, it’s sort of like rotten meat, if rotten meat had diarrhea. Honestly, the guy has AKAs out the yin yang but he could take ten laps in a pool of Clorox and still smell like a boiled toilet.
I watched Mimix through the interview room’s one-way mirror (and it is one-way, guys, a two-way mirror would be glass). He’d been forced to drop the security guard disguise and assume his true form, a gelatinous, humanoid blob that looked like a garbage bag full of spoiled mayonnaise. He was being kept in check by a pair of handcuffs ch
ained to a steel table, plus the special collar we’d fitted him with, which negated his powers.
I swung open the door to the interview room, marched inside and read Mimix the riot act.
“Tell us what Professor D’eath’s up to. First he robs a nuclear plant and now he’s sending you after sapphires? What’s his play?”
Mimix crossed his slimy arms and gave me the stink eye. “You got it all wrong, pig, I don’t work for the Prof no more.”
“I think he’s lying,” said Birdy, who’d stepped in to assist.
“You could be onto there something, partner. I doubt I could trust this sleaze bag as far as I could throw him.”
“What do you say you put that to the test?” said Birdy, flicking a switch and causing a skylight to slide open above us.
Normalized (The Complete Quartet) Page 3