by Adam Graham
“I’ve been robbed.” Varlock jabbed his tongue out three times. “Cretins stole my entire mass media guide to villainy.”
“Someone absconded with a collection you stole from me? Oh, for shame!” Thankfully, it was in a storage unit where the alien wouldn’t get his dumb hands on it. “How did your expedition to the Leprechauns go?”
Fournier chuckled. “Did you find these little men that don’t exist?”
Varlock sneered. “They exist in a forest in Ireland. Unfortunately, they are only interested in getting people to buy sugary marshmallow cereal. They make you chase them to talk to them and scream, ‘You’ll never catch me and get my Blarney Stone Cereal!’ Then they catch you eating it, charge you two British pounds for the cereal, and run away. It’s an odd ceremony meant to induce fools into buying their product.”
Fournier smiled. “How many boxes did you bring home?”
“Twelve.” Varlock hacked while sticking out his tongue. “I got hungry at the airport and ate a couple.” He glowered at Mitch. “This is all your fault!”
This had better at least be amusing. “What’s your justification?”
“Simple.” Varlock leered at him. “After I chose to blame Fournier for the second time in the row, you volunteered to take the blame for all future mission failures.”
Funny how I don’t recall that. “No, I said we mature adults refuse to play a childish blame game. The person responsible for all these failures is you.”
“Me! I’ve had many plans to defeat Powerhouse.”
“None that work. Lie all you want in those reports, but the truth will still be self-evident. You’ve delivered nothing for all of the tech you have.”
“Yeah!” Fournier pumped his fist. “I mean, it took hours to crack your security system.”
Idiot! Mitch glared at him.
Fournier giggled. “I mean it must have, with all the alien tech you have.”
Varlock thrust his tongue out like a hissing snake. He stared at the newspaper sitting on the chair. “I read your newspaper and saw the story about a Baptist minister who was in a sex scandal. Is he very prominent?”
What? Mitch scrunched his nose. “Don’t try to change the subject.”
“I may have an idea. Now answer the question.”
That could be worse. “The guy only got twenty people in his church.”
“Are they Baptists like the large church down the street?”
“No, he’s independent, doesn’t answer to any denomination. The guys down the street are part of one of the big denominations.”
“But I overheard people speak critically of the Baptists down the street like they were his team members and the parties to blame.”
“On Earth, that is a logical fallacy called guilt by association. Some commit it out of true stupidity, others to manipulate the folks stupid enough to fall for it.”
“Why don’t we blame all superheroes for the actions of one bad superhero?”
Now, there was a thought. Mitch closed his eyes and shook his head. “Scientific and journalistic efforts have only verified the existence of five superheroes on Earth, including Powerhouse. Captain France has a reputation as a playboy, but he’s a single, agnostic French guy. You can’t expect much of him. We’ve already tried that tact with Miss Invisible. She’s somehow managed to live her hypocritical indiscretions down.”
Fournier glared. “Perhaps the people aren’t sexist hypocrites who’d slap my lovely Miss Invisible for behavior she regrets while expecting her ex to be a playboy.”
So that was a sexist double standard. Sometimes a father had to do unsavory things for the children’s future. “Some reports from the third world indicate Big Gray can be a bit rough, but nothing worse than Batman did in the movies, and Batman is wildly popular. Major Speed was involved in anti-Communist stuff. Everyone knows that was an evil witch hunt, but his crimes were old news before I was born.”
“There’s also Half Brain.”
“You believe in that dumb urban legend?” Mitch rolled his eyes at Fournier. “A vigilante who lives in the sewer and makes criminals act stupid.”
“Perfect!” Varlock’s eyes littered. “If he’s an urban legend, you can make up charges. He’ll never defend himself.”
Mitch sighed. “You can’t slam real superheroes on that basis. It’d be easier and as effective to try guilt-by-association tactics on Powerhouse using existing comic book characters. The illogic of that would be apparent to everyone over the age of six.”
“That complicates matters.” Varlock tried to lick his nose. “I’ll have to create a superhero for us to slam. Bring me an Earthman prone to culturally unacceptable behavior, and I will give him the power of your sun.”
“No go.” Fournier snorted. “That’d make a supervillain.”
“Only if you choose poorly. Find me an Earthman who will seek to be a superhero and remain within the cultural boundaries of what constitutes such well enough to make superheroes everywhere look bad due to a flaw in his character.”
“I don’t know.” Fournier sighed. “We’d have to find someone mentally unstable.”
Yeah. Mitch closed his eyes. It’d be dangerous to give superpowers to a loose cannon, but Powerhouse had to go. For Rosie’s sake. “This is an interesting plan.”
“You approve?” Varlock licked his chin.
“Not only that.” Mitch glanced between Fournier and Varlock and grinned. “Gentlemen, I know the perfect person.”
Chapter 17
Mister Manners, Defender of Virtue
Mitch stood with Fournier on the dark side of a one-way mirror. On the other side, a short blond man lay unconscious on the examination table. Fournier touched the one-way mirror. “Are you sure about this?”
Duh. Mitch scowled. “Would I have called some of the boys up from Portland to abduct Mister Manners if I wasn’t?”
“Sir, an etiquette blogger will be the world’s new maniac superhero? It doesn’t seem to fit.”
“He’s perfect. First, his blog posts show the arrogant, high esteem he holds for himself and his own opinions. Secondly, he’s imperious and believes absolutely in his own goodness. That will make him easy to manipulate to our ends.” Mitch flinched. Is that what King Bel thinks of me? What if Bel is using me like we’re using Mister Manners? What if Bel isn’t going to make the world better?
“Sir? Did you hear my question?”
Huh? Mitch shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, my mind wandered.”
Into areas that weren’t helpful.
Fournier continued. “How will you know he’ll even use his new superpowers? I was just reading his blog, and he criticized superhero films for creating exaggerated images of power rather than lifting up truly virtuous principles and behaviors.”
“People who say that type of thing are merely envious.”
“Envy? Is that why you go after Powerhouse?”
Hey. Mitch scowled. “We’re psychoanalyzing him not me.”
“I still don’t know how you’re going to make him become a superhero.”
“With me making the actual plan rather than Varlock, it won’t be a problem.”
“I guess things couldn’t go worse.” Fournier sighed. “I’d better prep for surgery.”
“You have any training?”
“Enough to wing it.” Fournier left.
Mitch sighed. If Varlock had explained it to him accurately, this surgery was more like assembling a toy, only Mister Manners was part of the toy.
Time to play his silly part. Mitch stripped off his clothes and slipped on a little green men alien costume, complete with huge head and eyes twice their normal size. He pulled a tuxedo on over his alien skin. He cleared his throat. “Testing one, two three.”
His voice came out sounding as sweet as Aspartame tasted, as if he were a proper enlightened alien overlord—like King Bel.
Stupid nagging doubts. He shook his head. He wasn’t a dupe like Manners.
Mitch sat in a folding chair a
nd observed the operation through the one-way mirror. Varlock attached shackles to Manners’ left and right arms and hands. Varlock took an alien cutting tool and made a cut near the patient’s spine. Farrow winced. Of all the people who should operate on humans, Varlock had to be at the bottom of the list.
The wannabe surgeons slid onto Manner’s back a rectangular device half the size of Powerhouse’s jetpack. The device attached to Manners’ spine.
Fournier and Varlock stood back as Mister Manners writhed vertically.
How long would they let the guy suffer? Mitch clenched his fists.
As Mitch moved to march in there, Mister Manners stopped. Varlock touched the still form on the table and nodded. Fournier gave a thumbs up.
So long as he was okay. Mitch forced a smile and pressed a call button on the wall by the door. “Bring him to the black room.”
Mitch meandered down a winding corridor for half the length of a football stadium until he reached a window that looked into a small room. He fidgeted and stared at the pocket of his pants that held his cigarettes. If I light one, he’ll smell the smoke on me. He’s not going to believe an alien angel that’s a smoker.
If only his addiction cared that this was a bad time to light up.
He pulled out his smartphone, muted it, and fiddled with a trivia app.
After half an hour, Mister Manners stirred on the gurney inside the black room. Mitch grabbed the microphone on the side of the wall. “Mister Manners, my name is Merkock, and I am leader of the Gergodians.”
Mister Manners growled. “Why did you kidnap me?”
“My advanced alien civilization recognized greatness in you. Of all the people on Earth, you are the most wise, most courageous, and most noble.”
Mister Manners raised an eyebrow. “That self-evident fact should be obvious to any proper, highly cultured alien race, but it doesn’t explain why you kidnapped me.”
Man, this guy was arrogant beyond imagination. Mitch chuckled. “Forgive me, we saw Earth needs a hero to save it from the uncivilized evil-doers plaguing it. You are the most qualified of your race to be a hero, so we have given you amazing powers.”
“Like one of those ghastly muscle-bound, violent Avengers?”
“These powers will help you gain the respect you deserve. You are a solar-powered dynamo. You will be able to run at supersonic speed and will have ever-increasing physical strength and the ability to defy gravity.”
Manners pulled against his chains. “Then why can’t I break these?”
“This room inhibits your absorption of solar power. Once you leave, your strength will begin to grow. However, you mustn’t know the location of our planet-side base. If we need you, we’ll call you. Now, we must sedate you.”
Fournier and Varlock entered wearing alien disguises that Varlock had said were based on his people.
Manners gasped and pointed at Fournier. “Deviant!”
“Excuse me?” Fournier sounded like he was glaring.
“You’re wearing a pink bow tie! Only deviants males wear bow ties—or the color pink.”
Mitch slapped his alien forehead. “It’s different on our world.”
“Sir, if you speak the truth, then your entire culture is uncivilized and barbaric. Proper etiquette, good taste, and good manners are as constant as the laws of physics. Ignorance due to belonging to a deviant culture is no excuse for such poor taste.”
“I’ll have him an examined by our torturers.”
Fournier’s mask glanced up at the window.
“As well you should.” Manners nodded, smirking.
Varlock stabbed his arm with a needle and Manners lost consciousness.
Ah, bliss. Mitch smiled and lit a cigarette.
The only thing greater than silence after dealing with Jules Manners was how he’d bring superheroes’ reps to ruin.
Powerhouse flew home. A text message beeped on his cell phone. Powerhouse examined it with his X-ray vision. It was from Derrick and said simply, “Company.”
He landed behind a fruit tree in the backyard and transformed back into Mild-Mannered Dad Dave Johnson. He strolled in through the kitchen door.
Zolgron had abandoned his armor and cape for jeans and a black shirt and he’d morphed his skin color to look like he might be from this planet.
“Dude, why?” Dave managed to choke out while shaking his head.
“A guest.” Zolgron rolled his eyes. “Earth hostesses might be more apt. I drew the line at using my powers to transform everything Naomi’s guest would see into the contents of magazine photos of a spotless, fancy home.”
Wow. Who had Naomi in such a tizzy?
In the distance, Derrick cried out in pain.
Sounded like the living room. Dave dashed to his baby boy and stared. Derrick was seated in Naomi’s new plush leather recliner. Standing over him was a pudgy ten-year-old girl with glasses, hazel eyes, freckles, and unruly auburn hair.
“That hurts!” Derrick moaned, batting at the girl’s hands.
The girl rubbed a cloth across his forehead. “It’s supposed to hurt. I’ve done this enough times to know.”
Dave stared at his baby boy. Derrick had a black eye, a swollen lip, and a few cuts on his arms. He glared at Nursemaid Girl. “Who are you?”
She extended her slick left hand. “Joanie Burns.”
“Good to meet you.” Dave took a deep breath. She wasn’t the brat who did this to his son. “What happened?”
Nursemaid Girl’s grin revealed a missing side tooth. “Jordan Reno has been bothering me, but Derrick stood up for me! He said, ‘You leave her alone.’”
Derrick blushed. “It’s no big deal.”
“It is so!” She shook her head. “Derrick tried to talk that bully out of fighting and even let the guy get a couple blows and then—” She slapped her hands together. “Wham, Derrick did some weird martial arts thing, and Jordan was on his back, wiggling like a giant turtle, crying, ‘I can’t get up! I can’t get up!’ She made matching gestures with her arms. “And Derrick helped him up, but he didn’t even say thanks.” She giggled.
“You okay, son?”
Gritting his teeth, Derrick repeated, “It’s no big deal.”
“It is too.” Nursemaid Girl clasped her hands to her cheek. “You’re my hero!”
His poor son. Dave smiled. “She’s right, Derrick. Even without superpowers, you stood up for someone who needed you.”
Feet pounded on the basement stairs. Naomi emerged carrying the portable phone. She hung it up in the kitchen and rushed back into the living room.
Dave beamed. “Hey, honey! Did you hear? Our boy’s a hero!”
“Oh, I heard, all right.” Naomi grimaced. “That was the school. They want a conference with the principle about our hero tonight.”
“Maybe they want to give him an award.”
“I don’t think so, honey.”
What did they think should be done to a hero? Dave led Naomi away from Joanie and Derrick into the kitchen. “I’ll call the Chief and let him know I won’t be in Seattle unless he texts me about an emergency.”
“I don’t know if it’ll take all night.”
“Yeah, but I have to review some scripts for the new comic books, and I’ll need time for that later, too.”
Mitch Farrow marched into his underground lair and glanced up at the television screen behind his desk. Fournier was seated across from Mitch’s chair with an almost empty bowl of popcorn. Mitch took his seat, adjusted the chair, and glanced up.
Their hidden camera tracked the movements of Mister Manners. He wore black pants and a white undershirt. He held a lavender dress shirt to his chest, shook his head, and discarded it on top of the forty dress shirts already piled on the bed.
Mitch grunted. “How long has he been at this?”
Fournier’s stared at Farrow blankly. “Five hours. It took him half an hour on the underwear, and four hours on the pants, so we may be waiting a while yet.”
Wow, he’d never c
omplain about a woman taking an hour to dress up again.
Manners held up a white dress shirt, shook it, and flipped it around at least a dozen times. “You know, I like this one.”
Fournier snorted. “He’s rejected seven others that look just like it.”
“Yes, I’ll wear this one. It’s perfect. Now, I think I’ll wear a black suit jacket.”
Mitch mustered a golf clap. “Yay, he’s done.”
“Now I just need to choose a tie.” Manners sauntered to another closet and opened it. Inside were hundreds of ties.
Fournier shook his fist at the TV screen. “Curse you, Mister Manners!”
Mitch stood and headed for the door. “Text me when he’s halfway through his shoe closet.”
Fournier grunted and nodded.
Dave and Naomi strode into the elementary school office. A sign on the open door said, “Dorothy Grayson, Principal.” The office itself was decorated with an oak bookshelf and a mahogany desk. The principle sat in one of three faux leather chairs.
Grayson stood. She was a short, middle-aged woman with shoulder-length black hair. She wore a brown blazer, cream colored shirt, and gray pants. “Mrs. Johnson.” She shook Naomi’s hand. “And Mr. Johnson?” She extended her hand to Dave.
He shook her icy hand. Wow. Mr. Freeze probably had a warmer grip.
Naomi settled into a chair. Dave plopped in the one beside hers and leaned forward.
The principle stared down at them like they were miscreant students. “We’re here to discuss a very serious offense. Your son hit another student.”
Dave grimaced. “But he was hit first. He actually let the guy get in two punches.”
“Figures, these tragedies always seem to spring from poor parenting.”
“Excuse me?” Dave glared as his wife sputtered.
“We have a zero tolerance policy for violence. Fighting is never acceptable. Both parties are always equally in the wrong.”
Naomi growled. “The kid was a bully!”