A Dad in a Cape (Mr Wonder Book 1)

by Sean Stansell

  Mickey took a sip of his bourbon on the rocks. One of the conditions he’d set in coming back to train Chuck was that he got full access to Chuck’s collection of good whiskey. “Honestly, I don’t know. And I think you have to figure it out. I’m just here for the booze.”

  “You and Max had to have talked about this at some point. Didn’t he ever explain it while he was training you, or helping you with your power?”

  Mickey shook his head. “Remember when I called you dumb? I was wrong. You’re not dumb. Just self-absorbed. And ignorant. A real winner of a combo, by the way.”

  “Remember last time we went down this path, I threw you out of—“

  “Easy, I’ve got a point this time. You’re ignorant because you don’t know what my power is or how it works. You’re self-absorbed because this is literally the first time you’ve asked about it. After all of the discussions we’ve had about the cape, Max, your power, my history, my family, and more. You haven’t even bothered to mention my power until now. I don’t know whether to be hurt because you don’t care, or impressed by that level of narcissism.”

  Chuck started a snappy comeback, but stopped himself. He thought it over. “You’re right. Holy hell, what’s wrong with me? Sorry about that. I’m not usually like this. Ask Penny. This whole cape thing has me all out of whack. Tell me about your power. Please.”

  “Look, I get it. You’re leading a nice, normal life, and all of a sudden you can shoot lightning out of your fingers. That can mess you up. But it’s my job, as your teacher, to call you on your bullshit.” Mickey took another sip, swirling the top-shelf whiskey around his mouth before swallowing. “My power is pretty simple Chuck. I’m fast.”

  Chuck waited for him to expand on his power, until it became obvious no further explanation was coming. “That’s it? You’re fast? How fast? Like gold medal at the Olympics fast? Ferrari fast? Bullet train fast? Run around the world and slow the rotation of the earth to roll back time fast?”

  Mickey grinned. “Somewhere between those last two. Last time radar caught me I was going around 450mph. In the grand scheme of speed heroes, that’s actually not all that fast. But I’m also quick, meaning I can hit that speed pretty close to when I start. And I maneuver pretty well at top speed.”

  Chuck’s mouth fell open. “You’re telling me that other folks run faster than 450mph?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m pretty sure Superman has flirted with Mach 2. I’ve seen Quicksilver outrun a bullet. And The Flash? Well, he’s not as quick as his comics would lead you to believe, but I’m pretty sure he can escape a lightning bolt. Don’t pick a fight with him, by the way. Not a good matchup for you. “

  Shock dominated Chuck’s face. “You must go through shoes pretty quickly. And how do you deal with the windburn? I’ve been on a motorcycle at 70, and there’s a ton of wind at that speed. I can’t imagine 450.”

  Mickey laughed. “Shoes aren’t really a problem. Whether you’re going 10mph or 400, it’s the same number of steps to get somewhere. Yeah, friction’s a bitch at higher speeds, but most shoes can handle it. As for wind, let’s just say I’m tougher than the average bear. I have to be to deal with the stresses of going that fast, and more importantly, stopping. Not to mention the bugs. Can you imagine what a horsefly feels like smacking your forehead at those speeds?” He paused to take another sip of his whiskey.

  “Anyway, that’s about it. I’m fast, I’m tough, and my reflexes are fast enough to keep up with my body at those speeds. My power is a lot less complicated than yours. I didn’t need anyone to teach me how to use it or control it. It was just there. So, there was no reason for Max and I to talk about how he used his power. All I have to help you is years of watching him use it, and some general life experience. But I think that’ll be enough.

  “Now, enough about me. I say you try again. And this time, relax a bit. Don’t strain to pass the energy. Just pick a point on the coals, and let it flow.”

  Chuck nodded. He would take time to process Mickey’s data dump later. For now, he was going to get this damn grill to light. He took a few deep breaths and mentally reached inside his chest. The energy rose up to meet his consciousness, ready to be directed. He focused his vision on one briquette in the pile and visualized it bursting into flame. Smoke began to rise from the briquette.

  This time, instead of pushing harder, trying to will the flame to spread, he tried the opposite. He pulled back his focus and let the energy take control. Almost immediately the briquette erupted in flame.

  Chuck smiled and pumped his fist. Then he regained control of himself, pictured another briquette, and watched it join its brother in a halo of flame.

  “Nice work, Chucky boy,” Mickey said, gesturing toward the door. “Now run inside and grab some hot dogs. We’ve got some work to do.”

  Chuck took a bite of his hot dog. Fortunately, he didn’t mind them a bit past well done. He didn’t care what it tasted like; he was just proud to be eating something he cooked with a super power.

  That part didn’t feel quite real. He had successfully lit the rest of the grill, and managed to cook a dozen hot dogs—if he used a liberal definition of “cook” that encompassed turning several of them into ruined masses of charred flesh. But part of him still didn’t believe he had actually done it.

  “Not a bad dog, Chuck,” Mickey said, waving his tube steak appreciatively in Chuck’s direction. “Now, let’s recap what we know, shall we?”

  Chuck finished his hot dog and wiped his greasy fingers on a paper towel. “Ok, so I now know that I can’t force it to happen. I kind of just pick what I want it to do, and let it take over from there.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “It seems like I can pinpoint it pretty well. I was able to pick out a single piece of charcoal and light it.”

  “Good to know. Let’s go back a bit though, to other times you’ve used it. Accidentally.”

  Chuck thought back. “Ok, the first time I used it, I shot lightning out of my hand.”

  Mickey nodded. “Right. So, we know you can do that. Do you know how you did it?”

  “No, it just happened. I was pissed at a football game.”

  Mickey held up one finger. “So that’s one thing we know you can do that we can’t explain or replicate. Go on.”

  “Then there was the mall. I was trying to shoot lightning, and instead a fireball came out. But I know how to do that now.”

  “Oh, do you? Go ahead then.” He gestured toward the open grill. “Toss a fireball into the grill.”

  Chuck relaxed, reached inside himself, picked a spot, and watched a piece of charcoal burst into flames. “There, happy?”

  Mickey clapped, slowly and sarcastically. “Nice, very nice. Not what I asked for, but nice.”

  Chuck felt his blood pressure rising, heard his pulse in his ears. “What do you mean, not what you asked for? Don’t you see the fire?”

  “Oh, I see it. And if you kept any marshmallows in the house I’d be roasting one right now. By the way, you should pick up some marshmallows before our next session. Oh, and some graham crackers and chocolate bars. If you’re going to be making fire, we should get s’mores out of it.”

  Chuck rubbed his temples, and willed himself to stay calm. “I’ll make a note. Now what’s your point?”

  “My point,” Mickey said, “my impatient pupil, is that you didn’t create a fireball. You created fire. In a remote point. Which is a very useful thing to do. But not the same as a fireball.”

  “What’s the damn difference?” Chuck was struggling to keep his anger in check. He knew there was probably a halfway decent point here. He just had to stay calm and let Mickey get there. “I wanted something to be on fire, and now it is. Who cares how it got that way?”

  Mickey picked up his nearly empty whiskey glass. “Not important right now. Just make a note that you know you can make fireballs, but you don’t know how.” He drained the rest of his drink in a large gulp. “Care to get me a refresh?”

 
Chuck groaned. One step forward, two steps back. He wasn’t sure if he was going to master the cape, but if anything, Mickey was going to help him master patience.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I’m not asking why, just wondering why, out loud,” Chuck said, grabbing another warm beer out of the box. “I can’t help but think this is less about training, and more about you forgetting to put these beers in the fridge.”

  “Frankly, I don’t care what you think. Just keep absorbing as much heat out of them as you can. And pass me another of the cold ones.” Mickey sat in his recliner, hand firmly down his boxers, watching a reality show about people potty training their cats. “Can you believe this? People have actually figured out how to get their cats to piss on a toilet. We’re living in the future, my friend.”

  Chuck tossed the now-cold beer in his hand at Mickey, and thought about how far he’d come in just the last few days. Since the night he had figured out how to light charcoal, he and Mickey had been working on rounding out his control. They’d gone through 11 bags of charcoal, practicing both lighting it and absorbing it.

  At first, Chuck wasn’t interested in how to absorb energy. It seemed pretty automatic. Something with energy hit the cape, the cape grabbed it. But Mickey had piqued his interest when he revealed that Max almost never used the cape to absorb energy. In fact, he often kept the cape tucked under his clothes. Chuck had guessed that was so he could keep a low profile, and keep his secret identity intact. Mickey said it was more about not looking like an idiot.

  It had taken some practice, but Chuck had managed to absorb heat with his bare hands, as long as the cape was touching him. They had started small, practicing putting out matches with two fingers. Once he managed to drain the matches rather than extinguishing them, they moved on to charcoal. Chuck got into a steady rhythm of lighting and absorbing, feeling the energy ebbing and flowing. Light, absorb. Light, absorb. The rhythm of it reminded him of the ocean, and soothed him.

  Despite giving Mickey a hard time, he did see how chilling the beers was the next step in his training. It was one thing to pull energy out of something that was so actively giving it off. Grabbing it from something passive was another matter. There was heat in the room-temperature beer, but it wasn’t leaping out like fire from the charcoal. At first, Chuck had to focus on feeling for the warmth, reaching out to it, coaxing it from can. After the first dozen or so it became automatic. One thing was for sure, he was going to save a lot of money on ice for barbecues.

  “Hey, don’t blame me,” Mickey said, “it’s not like I’ve done this before. I’m just guessing here.”

  It was going on 10:00pm, and they’d been in Chuck’s back yard for over two hours, trying to figure out how to throw a fireball. The target was a work of redneck ingenuity that made Chuck’s heart swell with pride. They’d flattened a big cardboard box that several boxes of the kids’ diapers had been delivered in, made a frame for it out of PVC pipe, and covered the whole thing in wet blankets. This gave them a roughly ten-foot square of fire-retardant surface to use as a target. It was big enough to stop any stray fireballs that might go off the precise spot he was aiming for. Chuck didn’t want any awkward conversations with the neighbors about burning trees or melted siding.

  To this point, the caution had been overkill. Each attempt had failed by either nearly lighting the makeshift target on fire directly, or by doing absolutely nothing.

  After so many failed attempts Chuck was getting snippy. “It’s not blaming you to point out that ‘visualize a meatball, then imagine it catching on fire’ is a terrible idea. It is a terrible idea, and you did come up with it, but I’m not blaming you, per se.”

  “It’s no worse than your plan to actually hold a cotton ball, light it, and throw it.”

  “That would technically be a fireball.”

  “But not exactly the spirit of what we’re going for here,” Mickey said, draining yet another beer.

  By Chuck’s count that was 14 beers tonight. If training didn’t pick up, he was going to go bankrupt just keeping Mickey buzzed. “Any other ideas, or should we call it a night?”

  Mickey grabbed another beer out of the box and reached it out toward Chuck, expectantly. Chuck sighed, grabbed it, and chilled it. Mickey smiled, popped the top, and drained it in one long chug. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Just one more thing to try.” He let out a window-shaking belch.

  “I’m all ears,” Chuck said, “but keep it down. Don’t wake the kids, you disgusting pig.”

  Mickey snorted and shook his head. “I’ll give you that one. Ok, here’s what I want to try. What if we’re thinking of a fireball wrong. What if it’s not really a ball of fire at all?”

  Chuck didn’t bother holding back his derisive laugh. “And I’m the one who’s not embracing the spirit of what we’re trying to do?”

  “Hang on. It is a ball of fire, but what if that’s a byproduct, not the intended action?”

  Chuck raised his eyebrow and cocked his head slightly to the side, looking like a confused dog. “Huh?”

  “Ok, what I’m thinking is that you shouldn’t actually try to create a fireball. What if the thing we think of as a fireball is actually a really short pillar of flame? Here, watch this.” He picked up the hose he had lying near his feet in case of fire, pointed it off in the distance, and pulled the trigger. “This is a long, continuous stream, right?” He released the trigger and quickly squeezed it again. He rapidly repeated this, creating short pulses of water. “If you turn it on and off really quickly, you don’t get a stream, you get short bursts of water. What if a fireball isn’t its own thing, but really just a short burst from a stream of fire?”

  Chuck took a moment to consider this. The idea had merit, even if visualizing it terrified him. He’d probably have nightmares about flamethrower-esque jets of flame firing uncontrollably out of his hands. But it did make sense.

  “So, that’s the case, how should I try to do it? I haven’t made pillars of flame yet either.”

  “No, but you have caught plenty of flammable stuff on fire now, right? And oxygen is flammable, isn’t it?” He held his hands out to his sides, palms up. “Everything you need to make fire is all around you.”

  Chuck was growing more impatient by the second. The drunker Mickey got, the less clear his instructions became. “Great,” he said, “you want me to light the air? That sounds super safe.”

  “Not the air. Well, not all of it. Most of it won’t burn. The nitrogen, carbon dioxide, noble gasses, et cetera, won’t do anything. Just the oxygen. And really, only the oxygen between your hand and the target. Try picturing a tube connecting your hand to the bullseye, and all of the oxygen in that tube catching on fire.”

  Chuck closed his eyes. This could work, he supposed. It could also cause an Earth-shattering kaboom. But at this point, he didn’t have any other ideas. “Hold onto that hose. I’ll give it a shot.”

  Mickey took several steps back and waved the hose to signal he was ready.

  Chuck took a deep breath, felt for the reserve of energy inside him, and fixed his gaze on the bullseye. He pictured the world’s longest paper-towel tube connecting his hand to the target, and focused on igniting the oxygen inside it.

  A blinding flash burst across his vision, and he closed his eyes to block it out. As quickly as it came, it stopped. Eyes still closed, he heard the hose turn on and a jet of water splatter against the makeshift target.

  He opened his eyes and saw Mickey dousing the blankets, aiming just above a large singed spot in the center.

  “Did I just do that?”

  “Sure thing, Chucky boy,” Mickey said, letting go of the hose’s trigger, a beaming smile on his face. “One second, nothing. The next, human flamethrower.” His smile fell. “Chuck? You OK, kid? Oh. Ok. Just let it out, Chuck. Don’t fight it. I didn’t realize you had that much to drink.”

  Chuck’s gut clenched again, sending what was left of his stomach’s contents streaming into the grass
. After several spasms, he stood back up and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. “It’s not the alcohol, dumbass.”

  Mickey smirked. “Well, congratulations Chuck! Does Penny know yet? Or am I the first to hear the blessed news? Are you hoping for a boy or a girl? Do you have names picked out? I recommend Mickey if it’s a boy. Or a girl.”

  “You’re an asshole,” Chuck said, grabbing the hose from Mickey’s hand. He squeezed the trigger halfway, sending a trickle of water into his mouth. Then he turned the hose on Mickey and shot him full blast, the jet of water hitting square on his forehead.

  “HEY!” Mickey yelled, waving his arms.

  Then Mickey wasn’t in the stream of water. Chuck blinked. He looked around the back yard. Darkness had settled enough that he had a hard time making out much of anything. But he thought he saw something across the yard, over by the fence. He squinted to get a better look.

  “Ow.” He reached for the back of his shorts. “What the hell?”

  “Let’s chalk this up to a teachable moment, Chuck,” Mickey said, putting his arm around Chuck’s shoulders. “When you shoot something at a fast guy, don’t expect him to stay put for long. Now, what’s with the puking?”

  Chuck pulled away from Mickey’s arm. “Really Mickey? A wedgie? For an old guy, you’re not very mature.”

  “The classics never go out of style. Now what’s going on in that melon of yours?”

  “Lighting a candle, chilling a beer, even lighting the grill. They’re all fun. Sure, there’s a kind of implied violence lurking there, I guess. But they’re basically party tricks.”

  Chuck and Mickey were sitting on the deck, warm beers in their hands. Mickey had requested a chill down, but Chuck couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  “A twenty-foot jet of flame isn’t a party trick, Mickey. It’s a weapon. No other way to spin it.”