by Peter Clines
9:03.
Hollywood Villainy
Weston Ochse
No one pays attention to the body.
Instead, they watch the antics of the paraplegic pimp and his one-legged midget hooker. He holds her by a leash attached to a spiked dog collar around her neck as she hops around his wheelchair in a crazy, cavorting dance. This is what they came to see. Not the stars on the Walk of Fame. Not the handprints in the Chinese Theater. Not the gargantuan Hollywood sign that had once announced a suburb. But theater in the raw—the misfits and characters that make Hollywood the adult Disneyland promised them by every David Lynch and Tony Scott film.
The pimp has enough studs poking from his face that he could have been a cyborg. A young girl points at them and says as much to her father. The midget hooker has had a boob job that makes her look ridiculous even if she hadn’t been a half-pint, one-legged fuck machine. The detraction is sad because the death of the man had been majestic to behold. And that his body lay square atop the Hollywood Star of Orson Welles was a grace note that I’d never thought to pull off. Still, people never look to the heart of things; instead, they grasp at any shiny object that happens by no matter how shallow or meaningless it may be.
#
Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows. This is my mantra. This is what has fueled me through these years of too much, too young, forever. The notion of the shadow, of someone who can manipulate the minds of men to his own ends, is something that I enjoy. I say it. “Only the Shadow knows,” and follow it up with dramatic, baritone laughter. But I am far from the figure of a tall, handsome, masked, and cloaked avenger. In fact, no matter how many years pass, I’ll never be tall, I’ll never be old, and I’ll never be handsome. Instead of portraying the Shadow like a masked and cloaked avenger, I have no choice but to present myself as I am—fifteen, Chinese-American, short, odd-shaped face covered in acne and glasses the movies referred to as RPGs, or Rape Prevention Glasses, because they were so ugly. Still, even though I was born Valiant Fang in 1922, I AM the Shadow, and the Shadow always knows.
“Watch it, kid,” an older man growls as he tries to get by.
My 1949 Schwinn Phantom is positioned in the middle of the sidewalk. I’d parked on John Wayne’s star. It is as good a view as any. It also gives me a jumping off point. After all, in an entire world filled with people, how am I to go about selecting my targets? I let the stars guide me. Not those up in the sky but the ones set in concrete as flat monuments to pop culture greatness.
And then I see him.
And he is perfect.
Especially the pink straw cowboy hat—pink enough to make John Wayne roll over in his grave.
Especially his connection to an old memory I’d long thought forgotten.
I begin the chase.
#
Marvel thinks the kid has the oddest look about him. For one brief moment, he is reminded of that almost-forgotten John Cusack movie from the early 1980s called Better Off Dead. It had its moments, especially when Booger tried to inhale a mountain of snow as if it were a mountain of cocaine. One of the better gags was the newspaper boy on the bicycle chasing Cusack in random scenes, crying, “I want my two dollars.” The odd kid following him on the old-time bicycle gave him a vibe just like that except maybe to say, “I want my crack rocks.”
Marvel laughs as he changes hands because the bottle of Gallo is getting heavy. Two blocks and he’ll be home. But the movie reminds him of how recently he’d been addicted to the magic white vapor. If it hadn’t been for a solid ass-kicking by One-legged Cherry and a forced, sixty-day stay in the grind, he might still be in its clutches. The very idea the kid is following him is like one of the paranoid delusions he used to have while under the influence. No, the kid is probably just new to the area and lost.
But a block later, the kid is still with him.
Marvel stops to tie his shoes just like he’s seen in the movies a thousand times except he doesn’t have any shoes, so he feels stupid. Still, he pretends because to do otherwise would be even stupider. Maybe it really isn’t a kid. After all, it could be an under-sized, undercover cop out to see if Marvel Watkins is on the straight and narrow. If that’s the case, then the last thing he needs to do is drag a cop to his crib, where Jimmy Raglin has the garage filled with servers loaded with porn. Marvel’s chest seizes in a moment of panic. Dear God, what if Jimmy has the kind of porn that will get them all arrested? There are some questions you never ask, and this has always been one of them.
Although Marvel is short for an African-American, fear drives his thick legs fast enough to cover the distance of a man twice his height. He passes his crib, intent on walking around the block. When he turns the corner, he sees that the kid is slowing down. By the time he turns the next corner, the kid is no longer behind him.
Marvel laughs self-consciously. It was all for nothing. I want my two dollars. Ha!
#
I’m waiting for him when he comes back around the block. The look on his face is precious. I just love it when they think one thing but discover the truth of it. The fat black man wearing cut-off jeans, white cowboy boots, a Culture Club t-shirt, and a pink cowboy hat slows to half his speed. I watch as he composes his face, his lips vacillating between a smile and a frown until I can’t tell what the man is feeling. Except I could. Two things had happened to me in 1937. One was that I’d somehow stopped aging. The other was even cooler.
“I want my two dollars,” I say, grinning like a maniac.
Marvel drops the gallon of Gallo wine, no longer capable of holding anything. It explodes like a bottle of blood, splattering Marvel’s white boots. He brings his hands to his face as his eyes shoot wide.
“I want my two dollars,” I say again.
Marvel turns and sprints into the house.
The place looks sketchy, so I decide to wait outside. After all, they’ll eventually have to leave.
#
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
Marvel slams the door. He locks the seven deadbolts and the chain and presses his back to the two inches of wood that separate him from the outside. His breath comes fast and furious. But after a moment, he can’t stand it. He spins and presses his face to the door. His hat rises so high it almost falls, but his left eye is pressed firmly enough that he’s able to see through the peep hole. And there he is, a teenage Chinese kid on an ancient bike speaking words that had been living in Marvel’s head.
“Where’s the wine?” Jimmy asks, coming into the room.
“Shhh.” Marvel presses his finger to his lips.
“Okay,” Jimmy whispers. “Where is my wine, and why am I whispering?”
Marvel points to the door. “Out there.” He backs away from it, shaking his head.
Jimmy gives him a look, clearly questioning Marvel’s sanity, then moves to the door and looks through the peep hole. After a few seconds, he turns.
“A kid on a bike. So what?”
“He’s not just a kid on a bike.”
“Oh yeah? Then who is he?” Jimmy asks, putting his hands on his hips.
“I—I don’t know. But I think he can read minds.”
Jimmy stares at Marvel for a long moment then breaks into laughter until he bends over and grasps his knees. Finally, “You have got to get a hold of yourself, Marvel. Whatever crack-addled fancy came to you, you’ve gotta be mistaken. Jesus. I thought you were off that shit.”
“No. Really. Seriously.”
Jimmy checks the peep hole again. “Is that stain on the concrete my wine? Did you drop my wine?”
“I couldn’t help it. He—he read my mind.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Jimmy reaches down and begins the process of opening the seven deadbolts.
Marvel grabs the side of his head and pulls his hat down as far as it will go. “What are you going to do?”
“Going to ask the kid what’s going on?�
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“Are you sure that’s safe?”
“Safe? Did you say safe?”
Marvel nods emphatically.
Jimmy rolls his eyes. “What’s the worst that can happen? I mean he’s a mind reader, right? Not a serial killer. Right? Listen. Everything is going to be okay.”
#
I notice two things right away when the man opens the door. First, he’s wearing a Ramones I Wanna Be Sedated T-shirt and second that he has a sick, sick mind. I can’t help but stare at his hands and wonder how a man can touch himself so many times in a single day. Images of men, women, grandmothers, grandfathers, and farm animals all engaging in some form of sex or ritual abuse comes unwanted.
“Hey, kid,” the sick man calls. “Come here.”
Then I recognize him.
I pedal my bike to the cracked stoop, pull out a chain from my pack, and lock the rear wheel to the rail. Then I stand, adjusting my backpack. When I finally lock eyes with the sick man, I see the root of the man’s passion steeped in a wheat field south of Sacramento, where young Jimmy Raglan lies with three young migrant boys who touch each other over and over until they are all released.
“What can I do for you?” I ask.
“What’d you say to Marvel that made him go so crazy?”
“I told him that I want my two dollars.”
“Does he owe you money?”
“Nah.”
“Then why’d you do it?”
I shrug. “I thought it would be funny.”
Jimmy turns. “Was it funny, Marvel?”
Marvel shakes his head. “He stole those words from a movie.”
“Actually,” I say, cutting to the chase, “I stole those words from your head. I’ve never actually seen the movie.”
Jimmy’s eyes narrow. His half-smile curls into a frown. “What the fuck game you playing here, kid?”
“No game,” I say. “This is what I do. My name is Valiant Fang, and I am The Shadow.”
#
Jimmy laughs out loud for the second time in as many minutes. He searches the street for Ashton Kutcher, wondering if he is about to be punked, but then remembers that he’s no celebrity.
“My name is Clark Kent, and I’m Superman,” he says with a wink.
“No you’re not. You are James Larue Raglin, and you’re a pornographer.”
Jimmy’s mouth drops open as he’s unable to make a sound.
“Mind if I come in?” the kid asks then comes in anyway.
Jimmy steps aside then, seeing no reason to keep the door open, closes it. He ignores the locks and turns to the kid.
“And you’re Marvel Watkins, or really Jerome Laverne Watkins, although you like the name Marvel from the comic books you used to read when you were a kid.”
Marvel steps back. “How did you—“
Jimmy’s mind reels. Who was this kid to come into their house and call them out?
“I’m The Shadow. Remember him?”
“From the old radio show?” Marvel asks.
“Exactly. Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”
“The—the Shadow?”
The kid nods. “The Shadow.” He goes to the couch and sits. “Now let’s us talk about your evil.”
#
I’ve done this hundreds of times, and I never lose the joy of the first few moments of confrontation. I know they won’t do anything to me, so I am never afraid. Not being afraid gives me the leverage to say and do things that are right out of a comic book.
I let them get situated. Marvel sits on the other end of the couch with a pillow held to his chest. Jimmy sits in a well-worn lounger on the other side of the coffee table. Everything is in a state of decay. The floor looks as if it’s hosted a hundred orgies. The furniture is tattered and filthy. The tables are scarred and scored with cigarette burns. The walls are tan from too many cigarettes. The popcorn of the ceiling seems ready to drip like snot from the nose of a flu victim.
It’s Jimmy who speaks first. “We’re not evil. There’s nothing illegal about what we do.”
“Evil cannot be contained by man’s laws, which are subject to the whims of policy and influence.”
“What’s that you say?” Jimmy’s eyes narrow.
“Immoral and illegal are two different things.”
“You can’t prosecute morality, kid.”
“Who said I was going to prosecute?
Marvel’s eyes widen, as do Jimmy’s.
“Then what are you going to do? I don’t think you’re big enough to take me. And don’t think of pulling anything out of that bag.”
“That’s the thing about impressions,” I say. “You look at me, and you see a kid. I could be twice your age. But then age, morality, and the law aren’t the reason I’m here.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s potential.”
“As in if I try real hard I can be somebody some day?” Marvel asks.
“Sounds like something from school,” Jimmy notes.
Marvel nods. “It was, but it was all bullshit.”
But I shake my head. “More like as in you are going to do something someday that I need to stop from happening.”
#
It never used to be this simple.
In fact, back in 1937, it was a bastard.
Back then, I didn’t know I was going to live forever. But I did want to be like the Shadow. He was so cool. Kids didn’t have X-Men or the Fantastic Four or the Avengers yet. All we had was a fledgling Superman and a few other heroes. Batman wouldn’t be born until the next year. But those were paper. They didn’t feel as real as the heroes on the radio. Somehow, Orson Welles’ voice of the Shadow made the character seem much more substantial, much more significant. Every kid wanted to be him. But it was me who really became him.
Mr. Armbruster ran the soda fountain on Lincoln Avenue near the Santa Monica Pier. Tourists, kids, and teens on their way to or coming back from the ocean would stop in and get a root beer or a two scooper. Mr. Armbruster was really good at making those sorts of things. He was also really good at taking pictures of people going to the bathroom although, as it turned out, I was the only one who knew about it.
At first.
I’d been going around intentionally looking for someone to save. It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Every day, I’d end up at Armbruster’s. Every day, I’d have a root beer. This went on for four months until I suddenly realized something: I knew what Armbruster was thinking. It came as a series of whispers at first. I discovered that if I concentrated on them, I could discern actual words. Soon—too soon really because I wasn’t ready for the knowledge—I discovered that the thoughts that collided behind his smile were anything but nice. He wanted to touch and feel everyone. His sexual tastes had no limit. Eventually, I learned about his secret stash of photos and the camera in the bathroom. An anonymous letter to the police and Armbruster’s Soda Shop was soon closed. They locked him up. Three years later, he was killed in prison.
I should have felt happy. I should have felt thrilled at my new power and how I used it. But I felt hollow instead. No one knew it was me. How can you be a hero when no one knows? Even the asshole alien Superman got applause when he was wearing his cape, so why not me?
I soon learned that no one liked a little Chinese kid superhero.
#
It was 1938. Floods and landslides around Los Angeles had killed 200 people. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and Boystown were a big deal in Hollywood. Superman was born. And so was Valiant Fang, The Yellow Shadow. I had a costume fashioned for me in Chinatown. It had a cape of yellow satin with a red underside over a yellow, form-fitting suit. With this, I wore red boots, red gloves, and a red mask over my eyes. When everything was ready in July of that year, I donned my costume and began to walk the streets.
At first, all I got was laughter. I hadn’t grown since the year before. I wouldn’t realize that I’d reached
my limit until later. Still, I was a gangly kid with glasses and acne. I wasn’t white like all the other superheroes; I was yellow. And my costume was yellow. They took to calling me Yellow Kid. I could have almost accepted that, but it devolved.
Hey Piss Boy!
Look Momma; it’s Piss Boy!
It’s a bird, it’s a plane… It’s Piss Boy!
They didn’t even try and rhyme it, those fuckers.
When the police picked me up, I tried to explain to them that I was old enough to be out on my own, but they wouldn’t hear of it. They took me to an orphanage in Ventura, where I spent the next five years until I escaped.
If the world wanted to laugh at me, then I’d show them what funny was. I spent the following years being funny and doing funny things. Then on June 5th, 1968, everything got positively hilarious.
#
“So you’re some kind of hero, aren’t you?” Jimmy says, frowning around a cigarette he just lit.
“Not hardly.” I smile sadly. “At least not by your definition.”
“Not my definition,” Jimmy says. “It’s the universe’s definition. I don’t make shit up, I just repeat it.
I turn to Marvel, who has calmed down substantially. “What’s a hero to you?”
“You mean like Spider-Man?”
“Is he a hero to you?”
“Yeah. And the Hulk too. Oh yeah. The Thing, what’s his name?”
“Ben Grimm,” I say.
“Yeah. Him.”
“Do you realize that all those heroes you mentioned had something done to them that made them a hero?”
Marvel stares back in incomprehension.
“There are three types of heroes. There are those who have something done to them that gives them powers. There are those who actively seek out heroism, most often, but not always, attaining their powers through technology.”
“Like Iron Man?”
I nod to Marvel. “Like Iron Man. And, of course, there are those who are born that way.” I gesture toward Marvel. “Like your namesake. Not the D.C. version, mind you, but the Marvel version.”