A Dad in a Cape (Mr Wonder Book 1)

by Sean Stansell

  Mickey grimaced as he took a sip of warm beer. “Sure there is. There are lots of other reasons to shoot fire out of your hands. Like clearing bamboo. You ever tried to get rid of bamboo? It’s like a weed. Once it starts growing somewhere it’s almost impossible to get rid of.”

  Chuck stared at him in disbelief. “Bamboo? Is this a joke to you, Mickey?”

  Mickey shook his head, suddenly serious. “Look, I get it, kid. You’re rattled. You’re not exactly someone who’s used to violence. Though, to be fair, from the way you tell it, you clocked that crook in the convenience store pretty good. And you tried to shoot that shoplifter with a lightning bolt. Anyway, your life hasn’t exactly prepared you to suddenly be a walking, talking killing machine. And that’s a good thing. That’s what makes me pretty sure you’re going to be one of the good guys. If you were a psychopath before you got these powers, then I’d be worried. But you’re not, so you’ll work your way through this. And you’ll realize that having a weapon doesn’t make you a killer. Having this power doesn’t mean you have to use it to hurt people.”

  He paused to take a long, unpleasant sip of beer. “Max helped a lot of people in his time, and I never saw him hurt anyone he didn’t absolutely have to. What he had, and you lack, is control. The only way to get that is to practice. You’re going to have to figure out if you want to be a hero or not. Or even if you want to keep the cape. But if you do keep the cape, you have to learn control. Or I’ll personally kick your ass.”

  Chuck wanted to make a sarcastic remark about wanting to see him try. Something about him being old and out of practice. But his heart wasn’t in it. Instead he focused on drawing as much heat as he could out of the beer in his hand, then took a long swallow.

  “You know I can’t promise not to get freaked out again, right?”

  Mickey smiled. “Yeah, I know. But let’s keep the puking to a minimum, ok?”

  “You…realize…you’re…the…runner…right?” Chuck struggled to get the words out, fighting for air.

  “Yep,” Mickey shouted, leaning out the driver’s side window of Chuck’s minivan.

  “So…why…are…you…driving…and…I’m…running?”

  “Three words: ‘Car. Dee. Oh’,” Mickey yelled, then guffawed at his own joke.

  Chuck struggled to keep pace with the van, though not for lack of motivation. Keeping slack in the rope that connected his waist to the bumper was his top priority. But it was getting harder and harder to do by the moment.

  “How…much…farther?”

  “You’re not really out of breath, are you? It’s been a quarter mile. And we’re going less than five miles per hour. Did you even know cruise control worked at that speed? But to answer your question, we’ve got 15 laps to go.”

  Maybe the cops will show up and bust us for driving on the high school track, Chuck thought.

  “Not…going…to…make…it.”

  Mickey took a nip from the flask in his hand. “Not with all the yapping. Now hush and focus on putting one foot in front of the other.”

  With that he rolled up the window. He fiddled with his phone for a minute. Chuck’s head snapped back as “Eye of the Tiger” ripped out of the van, pushing its pathetic speakers to their limits.

  Mickey rolled the window back down and shouted “You’re a bum, Rock. You’re a bum!”

  Chuck would have laughed if he had any air to spare. Having a guy name Mickey quote Rocky at him, while blasting that song, was hilarious. Instead he suppressed the giggle and croaked, “I…ain’t…no…bum…Mick.”

  Mickey pumped his fist, then fiddled with the cruise control, bumping the speed up.

  “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” Chuck said, the worry plain on his face. He felt the walls of Mickey’s trailer closing in on him. He wished they were at his house instead of the tiny trailer. But Mickey had said the supplies he needed were at his place.

  “That’s because you’re what I like to call an ‘inside the box’ thinker, Chuck.” Mickey curled his fingers into mock quotation marks for emphasis. He looked down and continued taping his knuckles with the ease of a career boxer. “What does the cape let you do?”

  “Absorb energy?” Chuck had no idea where Mickey was going with this.

  “Is that a question?” Mickey asked, briefly looking up from his work. “In any case, you’re right. But what does that mean? What can you do?”

  Chuck thought for a moment. “Well, I can absorb heat, whether it’s ambient or from something like fire. And electricity. Where is this going Mick?”

  Mickey stopped taping and looked Chuck in the eye. “Heat and electricity are kinds of energy, right? But they’re not the only kinds. You remember anything from high school science class? What other kinds of energy are there?”

  “I didn’t know there’d be a science quiz today, or I would have studied.”

  “You are a science quiz now, Chuck. Get used to it. And study up.” Mickey paused to finish taping his knuckles. “There are lots of kinds of energy. We’ve stuck to the most obvious ones, so far. But today we’re branching out a bit. You’re going to figure out how to absorb kinetic energy. Do you know what that is?”

  “I think so, it’s energy from something in—OOF!” Chuck doubled over and struggled to catch his breath.

  “I’ll go ahead and finish that for you. The energy of something in motion. A car cruising down the highway has kinetic energy. A bullet has kinetic energy. And so does a fist when it’s coming at your stomach.”

  “Ass…hole,” Chuck wheezed. He struggled to pull himself up and catch his breath. “How am I supposed to absorb a punch?”

  “Beats me,” Mickey said. “But Max did it all the time. I don’t think I ever saw anyone phase him with a punch or kick. And one time I saw him get shot, but instead of the bullet going into him, it just stopped. Didn’t bounce off of him like you’d expect from Superman or anything. Just stopped and fell to the ground. Because Max had absorbed all the energy from it.”

  “And you think the best way to teach me is to punch me? You’re a sick bastard, you know that?”

  Mickey shrugged. “I thought about shooting you,” he said, “but figured you might prefer this.”

  Chuck shook his head. “Of all the possible heroes I could get to train me, I get the sadist. Just my—GAH!”

  “Hmm, I figured you might catch that one,” Mickey said. “I guess the surprise attack thing isn’t working.”

  Chuck managed to take one hand off of his stomach long enough to give mentor a one-fingered salute, then dropped to the floor.

  “Maybe we’ll pick this up later,” Mickey said, heading toward his fridge. “I forgot how thirsty punching people makes me.”

  THURP!

  “OW,” Chuck said. “OW. OW. OW.”

  “C’mon,” Mickey said. “It’s not like I’m punching you in the gut. I don’t even have the machine turned up.”

  “How about we—OW—point it at—OW—you then?”

  “Quit your bitching. I gave in and used tennis balls, didn’t I?”

  “What kind—OW—of jerk would—OW—intentionally shoot—OW—baseballs at someone—OW?”

  Mickey shrugged. “You say ‘jerk’, I say ‘innovative instructor ‘.” He reached over the machine and did something Chuck couldn’t quite see.

  “Did you just—OWWWW—turn it—OWWW—UP?” Chuck asked in disbelief.

  “We’re getting close to a breakthrough here, I can feel it.”

  Chuck stepped out of the path of the speeding tennis balls. “Well, the only thing I can feel is pain. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.”

  Mickey turned off the machine and walked over to Chuck, putting his arm around the younger man.

  “Look, we’re flying blind here. Absorbing other things has been natural for you. Either it happens accidentally, or it happens when there’s a threat. Accidental is hard to reproduce, so I figured I’d simulate threats. Not crazy, right?”

  “Not comple
tely crazy,” Chuck said.

  “Fortunately, it’s also fun for me. Unfortunately, it’s not working. Time for plan B.”

  “Do I even want to know?”

  Mickey smiled, took his arm back, and walked away.

  “Does the school even know you took the pitching machine?” Chuck yelled after him.

  “If they really cared they would have used a better lock.” Mickey shouted in reply. “See you tomorrow. My place. Bring socks.”

  “Relax, I know the manager,” Mickey said, raising his voice over the Skynard song playing on the tinny sound system. “It’s cool.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Chuck said. “And I know I shouldn’t be down here.” He’d been in leagues for years, but he’d never actually been at the pin end of a bowling lane before. And he didn’t like it now.

  “I’m not sure what you’re complaining about, Chuck. This is going to hurt way less than our other attempts. More mass, sure. But way less speed. It’ll give you more time to react and do your thing.”

  Chuck understood this. They’d discussed it in the van on the way to the alley. The bowling ball would still have a lot of energy in it, but because it was moving slower, he would have more time to absorb it. Plus, anyone watching would just think he stopped it normally.

  “Ready or not, Chucky boy,” Mickey yelled, “here it comes!” Mickey stepped toward the line, swinging his custom ball— a pearly crimson number with a silver lightning bolt running along its axis—gracefully in the air, before starting his slide and driving it down the lane.

  The ball barreled toward Chuck, faster than he imagined it would. He tried to clear his mind, but it was difficult with Ronnie Van Zant urging him to give him three steps toward the door. As the ball approached, he squatted down in a catcher’s pose, reached down, and lined the ball up.

  The next things he heard were pins crashing and Mickey’s riotous laughter. An instant later Mickey was in front of him, offering a hand to help him up.

  “Wha…? What happened?” Chuck managed to ask, getting to his feet.

  It took Mickey a full minute to get his laughter under control. “Funniest thing I’ve ever seen. One moment you’re squatting down, the next the ball hits your hands, and you go ass over teacups into the pins.” His laughing fit returned. When he got it under control, he continued, “You’re lucky the pin setter didn’t pick you up for the next frame.”

  Chuck shook off his wooziness and wondered if he had a concussion. He was getting annoyed at just how much joy Mickey took from his pain.

  “Again,” he said, through clenched teeth.

  Mickey cocked his head, struggling to keep his laughter at bay. “Ready to go for the spare?”

  “Just go down there and bowl.”

  Mickey put up both hands, trying to look conciliatory. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Chuck. I’m movin’.”

  As Mickey made his way back down the lane, Chuck tried to clear his mind, with no luck. He decided to embrace the chaos he felt inside. Humiliation. Anger. Fear. He clung to them as he knelt on the slick wood.

  Mickey retrieved his ball and prepared to bowl. Chuck stared at the ball, focusing all of his attention on the shiny red sphere. He watched as Mickey wound up and released it, tracked the spin on the ball as it tore down the lane. He extended his arms and placed his hands, palms forward, in front of the ball. Just before it reached him he took a sharp breath, anticipating the impact.

  The impact came, but in the most underwhelming way. The ball, traveling somewhere around 15mph when it got to him, struck his hands and stopped dead in its tracks. Without so much as nudging Chuck. In fact, rather than feel the jolt of a 16lb ball striking him, he felt a rush of energy.

  “Whoa.”

  At the far end of the lane Mickey smiled. “Drinks are on me tonight Chuck.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chuck plopped another meatball onto his plate and glared in amazement at Mickey. It figured that someone who acted like a kid most of the time would be popular with actual children.

  Riley squealed. “Do it again Uncle Mickey!”

  “One more time, Princess Riley,” Mickey replied. “Are you ready? Count to three for me.”

  “Oooooone,” Riley said, stretching the syllable out. “Twoooooooooooo. Free!”

  On three, Mickey took a deep breath, winked at Chuck, and loosed a horribly realistic impersonation of the wettest, nastiest fart he’d ever heard. Riley collapsed on the table in full-body laughter. Pax, not to be left out, submitted his own imitation for judging, giving himself a round of applause for good measure. Mickey returned the clap along with a big smile for the boy.

  Chuck looked at Penny, trying to gauge just how angry she was going to be later. Instead of looking upset, she was smiling and watching Riley’s laughing fit. No matter how long they were together, she never failed to surprise him. Maybe he was just being an insufferable grump. He needed to lighten up.

  “Ok, Riley, you need to eat something now,” Penny said, not completely losing her smile. “So, Mickey, I’ve heard Chuck’s impressions on how the training is going, but I’d love to hear yours. Is he making progress?”

  Mickey finished chewing a bite of spaghetti and took a sip of wine. “Oh yes, he’s making progress alright. When we started, I thought there was a 50/50 shot he’d kill himself within the week. But he made it. And now I’d only give him a 20% chance of a horrible, yet hilarious, death.”

  Penny didn’t miss a beat. “Well, that’s impressive.” Turning toward Chuck she said, “Nice work, honey. The kids would appreciate it if you could keep pushing that risk of sudden death down.” She flashed him a smile. “I could go either way.”

  “Don’t die Daddy,” Riley said, a serious expression on her innocent face.

  Chuck didn’t appreciate being teamed up on, but he wasn’t about to let them see his discomfort. “Mommy’s just kidding, sweetheart. Penny, my dear, don’t pretend you wouldn’t miss me. I’m pretty sure you appreciate the enhanced endurance in certain, very specific, ways.” He punctuated his retort with an over-the-top wink, followed by double snaps into finger guns.

  Penny just shook her head and turned back to Mickey. “Have you guys talked about costumes yet, because I have some ideas.”

  “You know, I could probably answer—“ Chuck started.

  “Not really, Penny,” Mickey cut in. “We’ve been focused on building his control. I’d love to hear your thoughts though. The cape is a must, obviously. Max kept it hidden most of the time, but he’d let it fly when we were out on a job. Other than that, it’s a blank slate. No reason to copy what Max did.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this, and—“

  “That’s nice Chuck,” Penny said, “but let the experts handle this. I can’t even trust you to match your work clothes.”

  “One time!” Chuck said. “One time I wear a grey shirt with khaki pants, and ever since I’m some sort of fashion pariah.” Mickey shot him a look that said “are you listening to yourself?”, and he decided to drop it. He took a bite of spaghetti and sulked.

  “Are you done?” Penny asked. “Good.” She turned to Mickey and said, “Ok, I want to stay away from tights. Unless that’s a thing in this world. Do heroes have to wear tights?”

  Mickey laughed. “Not at all. Some do, but more for practical reasons than anything else. They’re flexible and don’t get caught on stuff. I wore them, but that was mostly so I didn’t snag them on anything and kill myself.”

  “Let’s stay away from tights. Chuck’s got the goods, but I don’t want him flaunting them, if you know what I mean.”

  Riley squealed and pointed at Chuck. “Daddy’s face looks like an apple!”

  Chuck’s face did, indeed, look like a very ripe Red Delicious apple at that moment. “Thanks for pointing it out, Riles,” he said.

  Penny continued, un-phased. “The cape is that weird, shifting blue-ish silver, so I’m thinking we work in that color range. Should he have a mask?”

&
nbsp; Mickey stopped chewing, face suddenly drained of color. He composed himself. “Keeping his identity safe is this family’s top priority. You don’t want any of the bad guys knowing about you and the kids. A mask is a must.”

  Regret flitted across Penny’s face as she remembered their first dinner with Mickey. “I’m so sorry, Mickey,” she said. “I totally forgot what happened. I should have known.”

  Mickey waved a hand dismissively. “No need to apologize. It was a long time ago. Let’s just do our best to keep you guys safe.”

  “Ok, so we’ll need a mask,” she said. “I was thinking of one like those Mexican wrestlers wear.”

  “Luchador masks work great. I used one for a couple of years when I started out. They’re affordable, pretty comfortable, and easy to come by.”

  “But I’m not Mexican,” Chuck said.

  Penny slammed her palm on the table. “Charles Riley Nelson. I will not have you being racist at my dinner table.”

  Riley slammed her hand on the table. “Daddy, no races!”

  Chuck was taken aback. “Wait. What? How was that racist? I was specifically trying not to be racist.”

  “You implied that you’re better than the hardworking folks that wear those masks, and I won’t have it.”

  “Huh? Are you saying that ‘But I’m not Mexican’ was meant as a way to say I’m better than Mexicans? Don’t you think you read a little too much into those four words? The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  Penny tried vainly to hold a straight face, then gave in to laughter. “Dang, I thought I had you going. Ok, we’ll skip the wrestler mask.”

  “Probably for the best,” Mickey said. “They never hold up very well, and they don’t offer much in the way of protection. Plenty of other options though. How about an old-time hockey goalie mask?”

  “You want me to be Jason Voorhees?” Chuck asked, incredulous.

  “I’m only looking out for your safety, Chuck. You’re not exactly A-list material at this point.”

  “No hockey mask,” Chuck said. “What other options do we have?”