Powerhouse Hard Pressed

by Adam Graham

  Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out and glanced at the text message. “Mrs. Jensen, Derrick will be on in ten minutes.”

  Grr, no time to text back my right name. She made her way out toward where she’d parked the minivan and peered at the road. Traffic was still backed up. She glanced back at the minivan. The flying van thing was too much of a hazard. She’d try running.

  Naomi ducked into the minivan and stared down at her pants. “Jeans, transform into running shorts.”

  Properly attired, she locked the van back up and dashed at top speed toward the auditorium. The world passed in slow motion.

  A blur that looked like the auditorium came up on her right, and she slowed. By the time she’d came to a top, she was half a block past it.

  That wasn’t too far off. Maybe, with practice, she could stop when and where she wished.

  She strode back to the auditorium, ran inside to the ladies room, and locked the stall door. Holding her arms out at her sides, “Shirt, change into my blue dress. I want my Degree for women deodorant to appear on the back of the toilet.”

  She closed her eyes as her blue dress dropped over her running shorts, opened her eyes, and snatched up her deodorant stick.

  After applying it, she set it back on the toilet again, “Degree, go home.”

  She walked out but glanced back. It’d listened. Good. She glanced in the mirror, wet her hands, and combed her fingers through her hair.

  She slipped into the auditorium and located the music teacher in the audience.

  The older woman smiled. “You made it, Mrs. Jensen. He’s on now.”

  Naomi peered at the stage. A blond boy with glasses stepped up to the piano and sat. Naomi glared at the teacher. “That’s not my son.”

  “Mrs. Jensen, I’m sure he is yours. I know his name. Derrick Jensen.”

  Grr. “I am Mrs. Naomi John Son. My son is Derrick John Son.”

  “Oh.” The teacher blushed. “I’m sorry. I get the two Derricks mixed up. Yours does our finale. Won’t be for another hour at least.”

  Naomi sighed. “An hour? You’re sure of that?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  Naomi grit her teeth. “I’ll be back.”

  If Derrick was doing the finale, she’d better bring the van next time. She’d either have to take Derrick to the game or take James to the recital.

  Rain pinged off Powerhouse’s metal costume as he flew toward home over the highway. A tiny windshield wiper swept across his helmet’s visor. He used his mind to dial the phone number of his head writer.

  “Hi, it’s Adam.”

  “Powerhouse here. I had some villain encounters.”

  “Okay, let me open up a WordPad document.” Adam paused. “Go ahead.”

  “All right. I encountered a guy dressed like he came out of the Australian bush. He called himself the Boomerang Bloke.”

  “Okay, in the comic book, we could call the character the Tasmanian Terror and have him wearing heavy armor and throwing boomerang bombs.”

  That would be less of a nuisance and more of a challenge. “The other guy was the Silver Medal. He’s a lame criminal who boasts that he came in second when he loses to a superhero if he escapes and avoids being arrested.”

  “Oh yeah. He’s in Miss Invisible #8. In there, he’s called Doctor Mystery and he has a silver medal that has strange hypnotic powers. Plenty of fodder. Anything else?”

  “How’s Powerhouse: The Animated Series coming along?”

  “It’s not.” Adam blew out his breath with a slight growl. “KidWerks dropped it. The guy on the phone wouldn’t tell me why, but I could tell he was scared.”

  “Oh, well, in other news, I’ve decided not to do the newspaper comic strip. I can’t reveal much of my personal life and I don’t want to make more stuff up.”

  “Pity. I always wanted to do one of those.”

  Powerhouse took a breath. “Sometimes, I’d like to tell the plain truth about what I do and not make up all these stories about villains I never faced.”

  Adam sighed. “I hear ya, but it’s not like we’re lying. We lay it out that the events described aren’t necessarily true. Right on the back page in small print. It’s not like this stuff couldn’t have happened. The lack of real supervillains isn’t your fault. All the helping out and rescues are nice, but they don’t sell comic books.” Adam cleared his throat. “Speaking of which, could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure, what?”

  “Find a cave and get stuck in a death trap where two walls are closing in on you.”

  And people thought he was eccentric. “Why?”

  “I have this great idea for a limited edition cover where you’re between these two walls holding each of them back with your hands. Trouble is, it didn’t happen in any of your real life adventures, and I can’t find anyway to work in the scene per your policies.”

  Ah. “Adam, I do like comic covers to reflect the comic’s actual contents, but this sounds like a cool cover. I’ll allow it if you use it on a comic where the actual supervillain fight supports a theme that justifies the cover.”

  “Sweet. Thanks!”

  On the road below, an SUV skidded toward a hillside guardrail.

  “Gotta go.” Powerhouse flew down.

  The car headed over the guardrail. He caught the car and lifted it above his head. He flew through the air to a turnoff and lowered it to the ground.

  He raced to the door. Inside the SUV, a middle-aged woman with long black hair sat gripping the steering wheel. A trembling little girl clung to the waist of a teenage boy, who had his arm around her, but his focus on his iPod. Game noises rose from it.

  She rolled down the window. “Thanks, Powerhouse.”

  “You okay, ma’am?”

  She rubbed her back. “I’ll be fine. What about you, Tyler? Maddie?”

  The young girl mumbled something, but the teenage boy kept playing his game.

  “Tyler!”

  The boy looked up “Huh?”

  “He’s okay.” Tyler’s mom sighed. “What did you say, Maddie?”

  Maddie murmured a bit louder, “My neck hurts.”

  Powerhouse flinched. Poor thing. He glanced to her mom. “She could have whiplash from when you hit the guardrail. Do you want me to fly you to the Hospital?”

  “That’d probably be best.”

  “Okay, ma’am. Roll down the windows all the way, and I’ll fly you there.”

  She rolled down the windows as requested. Powerhouse took flight, carrying the SUV. He visualized dialing Naomi’s cell phone on his cell phone. It rang half a minute.

  “Hi, Dad,” James said. “Mom says she’s dr-dr-driving home.”

  “Cool. Did you guys win?”

  “Three to one—and I made a goal!”

  “Way to go. Did your mom get video?”

  “Yeah, she was there almost the whole game, and Derrick saw her a couple times at the recital hall, too. Don’t know how she did it. Maybe she has sup-superpowers.”

  “Nah, that’s just called being a mom. Anyway, I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “It’s cool, Dad. What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when I get home right after I watch the game video. Talk to you later, son. Love you.”

  The Pharaoh sat in his underground lair. Now, maybe he could at least think. Pharaoh re-opened his journal’s file, scrolled to the bottom, and typed:

  Despite my attempts to defeat him or otherwise destroy him, I’ve failed at every turn. At latest, we’ll have to face him at the invasion, and he’s getting better over time. If I can’t get cynicism up, there may not be an invasion. He’s not even close to connecting me to the criminal enterprises of Dorado Incorporated, but it feels like a matter of time.

  My daughter’s hope for a future is slipping away, thanks to this metal miscreant’s goodness crusade. I can practically feel Powerhouse breathing down my neck.

  Wait, someone behind him really was breathing heavily.

  The Ph
araoh jolted up from his power chair, spinning around.

  Fournier stepped back. He held a manila envelope and a 3” by 5” card.

  “You!” Pharaoh panted, clutching his chest as his heart raced. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here.” Fournier snorted. “I had to ask you something, but first I need to practice my small talk. You’re the only one who comes down there, and I’ve got to work on my social skills.”

  No way. “Fournier . . . “

  “How’s the weather?”

  “Wet and miserable.”

  “Fascinating. So how’s the family?”

  “Still dying of AIDS.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Mitch growled and clenched his fists.

  Fournier ducked. “Oops. That wasn’t right. Um, how was your day?”

  “My day has me down to one favorite book of the Bible. I’d always loved that part in book of Esther when that jerk Haman had to honor his enemy. Now that hits too close to home.”

  “Sir, we’re atheists. We’re not allowed to have favorite fairy tales.”

  “Says who?” Mitch smirked. His mad scientist sounded like his older sister did when she was letting their folks think for her. “Were your parents atheists, too?”

  “Does an enlightened, free thinker fall far from the tree?”

  “Sometimes we do—and sometimes the children of free thinkers turn out as mindless parrots.” Mitch folded his arms. “Now cut the small talk.”

  Fournier wiped his brow. “I’ve designed a new Anti-Powerhouse robot.”

  “I don’t suppose it can create something out of nothing, too?”

  “Not quite, but it’s close enough.” Fournier slid the folder to Mitch.

  He eyed the schematics and laughed. “Wow, a giant robot that fires laser beams and is made of titanium!” He slapped the folder on the table. “This is your attempt to create a real-life Spider Slayer. It’ll be about as successful.”

  Fournier snarled. “Keep this hypocrisy up and I’ll quit! A comic book has one or more writers and artists controlling every outcome. If you really don’t believe what you claim that you don’t believe, stop trusting in comic book outcomes that would only be valid test results if God existed, meddled in human affairs, and sided with our enemy.”

  Mitch bristled and glared. Try that one on me again, and you’re fired. “I’m acting like a free-thinker trying to save my daughter who is surrounded by the idiotic inspiration of at least one comic book writer. I’d already given you my final N-O to—”

  “To valid plans that you’d approve of if you were a real atheist!”

  “That’s what I say,” a deep voice boomed behind them.

  Mitch whipped around. A huge guy filled the door. A hood hid the newcomer’s face, but he wore black steel body armor and a black cape over a green cardigan sweater. Mitch mentally switched to his Pharaoh persona. “Who are you to say anything?”

  “Let me introduce myself.” The huge jerk bowed to the waist. “I’m King Bel’s designated warlord, Varlock.”

  “Who’s King Bel?” Fournier had raised his left eyebrow.

  Pharaoh wrinkled his brow. Best to not explain too much to hired help he’d have to kill if the fool seriously tried to quit. “Our inter-dimensional benefactor. This is one of his agents.”

  “Oh, I see.” Fournier stepped beside Pharaoh and nodded to Varlock. “Sir, how do you do?”

  “How do I do what?”

  Fournier and the Pharaoh exchanged glances, wrinkling their brows.

  Varlock growled. “Don’t use your culture’s idioms. Too many to bother learning, and most of them will be irrelevant soon enough. King Bel sent me to assist you with Powerhouse. You clearly aren’t prepared to deal with him, and it wasn’t your stated job.”

  Oh, so it took the allegedly advanced civilization eight months to figure out that a reporter-turned-CEO wasn’t the guy to take on the most powerful man on Earth. “I’ll send my regards to His Majesty for his considerations.”

  “Thank you. While you are in charge of general operations, I am to lead the battle against this treasonous Powerhouse, and you are to assist me. I’ve commandeered from your safe a few thousand pieces of the green paper to which your people have arbitrarily assigned monetary value. This will be filed on your budget as ‘miscellaneous.’”

  Auditors would love that, not. Pharaoh swallowed. Maybe, he could get some money from the criminal enterprises to replace what was stolen from the safe. “Sure, I’m glad you’re here. You’re right. Eliminating superheroes isn’t my forte.”

  Varlock sneered. “We’ve noticed. I’ve also commandeered a few of your strategy guides from your upstairs office to assist me in my planning.”

  “Sure.”

  “Report to me tomorrow evening at this address.” Varlock slapped a piece of paper on the desk. “At six o’clock, you will see how I will destroy Powerhouse.”

  Fournier rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got a plan for a robot!”

  “We will consider it, nearsighted one. I must go.” Varlock twirled his long cape and rushed out of the office.

  Fournier smirked at Pharaoh like he wanted to be executed, ancient Egypt style. “Such a relief. I feel better about our chances of success.”

  From the hall emanated the scream of a creature in pain.

  Pharaoh peeked out the door and glanced around the corner. The alien warlord lay on the ground tangled in his cape. Oh brother.

  “I’m fine,” Varlock got up and strode down the hall.

  Pharaoh returned to Fournier. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Powerhouse soared through the sky over Seattle, peering down. Outside an office building’s glass doors stood a caped, hooded giant. Weird. He flew down and landed before the giant. His face was still hidden. Under the cape, though, the giant wore a green cardigan sweater and a pair of khaki pants. Costume party of some sort?

  The giant twirled his cape. “Ah, Powerhouse, my name is Varlock. I’m a warlord from another dimension, here to destroy you.”

  Not another one. “You’re going to be fight me?”

  “By thunder, no. I will plot and scheme against you. If you have any questions, I run an import-export office on the sixth floor of this building.”

  What interdimensional alien in his right mind would reveal all this to a target? Just another nut. “So what’s your goal?”

  “To turn your home into a hellhole like mine.”

  “So you’re from Detroit?”

  “Is that a joke?”

  Best to humor the poor nut. “No, the Mayor says we need new businesses. I guess that includes interdimensional warlords.”

  “Quite right.”

  Poor guy probably didn’t really have an office. “If you get hungry, you can try going to the Rescue Mission. It’s six blocks away.”

  “Thank you, Powerhouse.” He walked into the building.

  At least this one hadn’t actually gotten violent.

  “Powerhouse!” an Australian voice snapped from behind him.

  “Yes?” He turned.

  The Boomerang Bloke stood there in a weird pair of olive shorts with boomerangs hanging out of each pocket. “I am the Boomerang Bloke.”

  “I know that.”

  “I’ve purchased one of these expensive Utilikilts that you sell here in Seattle and used the attached strap to convert it into a pair of cargo shorts. So now I have seven boomerangs hanging loose in my cargo pockets.”

  “Why didn’t you just sew two cargo pockets on a normal pair of shorts?”

  The Boomerang Bloke rubbed his head and then raised a boomerang. “Curse your thrifty superhero advice! You may be able to withstand one boomerang, but can you withstand the seven? I can get all seven off and knock you silly. Watch!”

  Using both arms, the Boomerang Bloke threw all seven boomerangs in fifteen seconds.

  Powerhouse moved out of the way of the oncoming projectiles. They arched back around toward their source.
The Boomerang Bloke caught the first boomerang.

  The next three hit him. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” He caught the fifth boomerang, but the next two hit him. “Ow! Ow!”

  Powerhouse smiled. “Too bad you’re not as good at catching them as you are throwing them. Powerhouse away!” Powerhouse zipped up in the air.

  The Boomerang Bloke waved his fists in the air. “Sure, run away, again!”

  Mitch Farrow and Dr. Fournier climbed to the sixth floor of a gray office building. Mitch coughed. Dumb doc. Why was it a good idea to take the stairs, again?

  A sign on a black office door read, “Varlock and Sons Export/Import.”

  Farrow knocked.

  “Enter!”

  Mitch and Fournier walked in. Had he accidentally wandered onto the set of a new Men in Black movie? A metallic office chair and transparent glass desk hovered two feet off the floor. Overhead floated a ceramic eye the size of a standard globe. At the corner was a closet with a metal door on it.

  The only thing on the floor besides themselves was Varlock. The warlord waved like an excited school boy. “Welcome to my lair warming party.”

  Fournier extended a red wrapped package. “I brought a fruitcake.”

  “Splendid, put it on the table.” Varlock pointed. A black disk about three feet in diameter lowered from the ceiling. It stopped at the height of a typical dining room table.

  Fournier lowered the molded rectangular bread onto the table.

  Mitch cleared his throat. “When I got to my CEO office, I noticed that you didn’t take my books by Tsun Zsu and Clausewitz on war strategy.”

  “Why would I? Haven’t they been dead for a long time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then their strategies didn’t work well.”

  That’s not how things work on Earth, dimwit. “My comic book collection as well as my superhero DVDs were taken.”

  “Of course. There are many great ideas in there.”

  Mitch silently cursed. “Comic book villains’ plans never work. Why steal them?”

  Varlock smiled. “You already got the answer from your associate, mister—”