The Pulptress

by Pro Se Press

  “NOOOO!!” Arnold Malone screamed, his hands reaching out to catch his falling brother.

  Cody flipped the shotgun to her shoulder and fired. At the same time, Brother Bones aimed his pistols to the ceiling and unleashed another volley aiming at the steel chains overhead.

  The shotgun blast ripped through the Butcher and nitro. The explosion erupted as a singular bright flare of white, sucking up all the noise in the area…then to Cody’s utter shock, Bones was knocking her down just as the suspended rowboat that had been dangling over their heads came crashing down on them.

  The bomb concussion slammed into the hull, tearing it to shreds, while beneath it Bones was huddled over the Pulptress. Then, within seconds of the blast there was a loud whooshing noise and flames sprang up throughout the building.

  Brother Bones tossed aside the overturned, demolished husk, and pulled Cody to her feet. They were surrounded by a fiery inferno as cans of thinner and paint went up like delayed bombs.

  “Stay behind me and keep your mouth covered,” Bones advised and then took off at a run for the front entrance. Cody hustled after him, the flames of the rapidly expanding blaze reaching after her like living fingers from hell.

  Then they were both bursting free, into the cool, saving embrace of the night air. Back on the street, they continued to run until they had reached the roadster where Blackjack Craddock was standing, his face a visage of concern.

  “Holy shit, what happened in there?” he asked, clearly relieved to have them back safe.

  “A monster of unparalleled cruelty became his own final victim.” Brother Bones put away his automatics, watching the old building be consumed in the roaring fire.

  In the distance fire alarms were sounding.

  “I think it’s time we left,” he said looking at Cody. “Will you accompany us?”

  “No thanks, with Malone’s death, my job here is done.”

  “Can we drop you off somewhere?” Bobby Craddock offered, hoping to spend a few more minutes with the sexy vigilante.

  “Thanks, but I’m in the mood for a long walk.”

  “Suit yourself, Pulptress.” Bones touched the tip of his slouch hat with a nod. “Till we meet again. Come along, Craddock, my work here is done.”

  The roadster was speeding away ten seconds later leaving Cody Randall, one of the Pulptress’ many identities, behind, her shotgun resting across her shoulder. As soon as they were out of sight, she turned and started strolling towards the nearest alley. She didn’t want to be anywhere near the place when the fire trucks arrived.

  In the end, she’d failed to get her man, but then again, justice had triumphed in the form of the grim Brother Bones. Sometimes that had to be enough.

  She whistled as she melted into the night.

  THE END

  VOICE TO A NEW GENERATION

  by Erwin K. Roberts

  March 1999

  From the private journal of the Voice:

  It had been a terrible winter in my hometown. And, for some reason, I seemed to be up to my ears in Arkies. A late February ice storm knocked out half of the region's electricity. In fact, of all the places I own or control, only one retained power. In the following two weeks crews up from various Arkansas utilities restored power to three of my places.

  On the scandal/political front Monica Lewinsky's book about her experiences with Arkansas expatriate Bill Clinton hit the stands. Give me a break!

  Plus I met an extraordinary young lady from down at Gibsonville. And I innocently let her see a private aspect of me. One that really made us connect. But it turned out we have more in common than I could have imagined.

  ***

  Emily got out of the van near the front entrance of the Popular Park Convention Center. The thing dwarfed the combined facilities of the college auditorium, formal live theater, and six-plex movie house in Gibsonville, Arkansas. And the convention hotel across the landscaped plaza stood three times higher than anything in her whole home county. Well, except maybe the water tower. And Poplar Park only rated as a medium sized suburb in this metropolitan area.

  Emily sighed. She understood the reasons she lived in a small town in rural Arkansas. But being in a major urban area, even for just a silly gymnastics competition, gave her a feeling of excitement. Looking left she could barely see the regional beltway they'd just driven on to get to Poplar Park. To her right lay an area of small businesses and restaurants. Beyond that, a children's hospital.

  The local people she could see seemed to think the weather fine for this close to the equinox. But Gibsonville lay going on two hundred miles further south than Poplar Park. She shivered a bit, but did not zip up her jacket. The plain windbreaker over her Gibsonville Gymnastics & Drill sweatshirt would be a bit too much.

  Her friend Laura's father, who had driven the large rented van, shooed them through the doors into the huge Convention Center rotunda. Once inside “rope” barriers divided the place in two. Mr. Conner flashed a wad of passes at a uniformed security guard to get them into the dance and acrobatic competition side of things. The rest of the entryway belonged to the Rod and Gun Show sharing the venue.

  They made their way towards the table clearly marked for checking in. Mr. Conner put himself in the line of adults waiting. He told the girls, “Use the restrooms, if you have to, otherwise stay in the roped off area. The other van should be here any minute.”

  As he spoke a giggling mob of about thirty girls, with about five boys mixed in, headed towards the entrance to the meet. Now Emily could finally see the area around the table. The people at the table looked like any other check in table. With paper and schedules everywhere, they had the usual grimly determined to be happy look she always saw. Next to the table she watched a man squat to place some papers in a large gym bag. As he stood up she looked around. Yup, there was the standard bulletin board with seemingly the same papers stapled to it as any other. The only difference from most other meets being that another security guard stood next to it.

  Emily eased up beside the security guard. She lifted up the first of a set of pages stapled to the board and pretended to read. She spoke out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Officer, do you see the slender black man standing next to the Team Check In table? The one wearing the tan sports jacket? I think he's carrying a gun in the small of his back.”

  The guard's eye's narrowed. He quietly asked, “Did you actually see a weapon?”

  “No, sir. But when he bent down to that gym bag I saw something outlined under his jacket's tail. Sure looked like a pistol butt.”

  “Thanks, Miss. You stay put. We'll get a look.” His hand moved three inches to the microphone key on his belt. He spoke without leaning towards the device clipped to his epaulette. “Sam Three from Sam Five. Possible weapon near Check In table. African-American, about six-one, slender, tan sports jacket.”

  Emily slipped a small mirror out of her butt-pack. She watched the scene unfold in the reflection. The uniformed guard drifted in from the door. The athletic young woman pushing attraction pamphlets walked away from the display in the general direction of the Check In table. From further inside the center walked a uniformed Poplar Park Officer obviously wearing a protective vest.

  Even before the Uniform turned in his direction the man in the sports jacket realized something was up. He actually smiled slightly. Very carefully, not to mention slowly, he opened the jacket to reach into the inner breast pocket. He removed something thin and rectangular. Then the Uniform blocked Emily's view.

  A moment later the guard's radio crackled next to her. “Sam Five, that's Captain McTeal of Northwest Patrol. His daughter's competing.”

  Sam Five blew out his breath before replying. “Understood, Sam Three. Thanks.” Then he turned to Emily with a big grin. “Miss, you just dropped a dime on the fellow who runs the toughest police precinct in the whole region. But don't feel bad. That's exactly what he would have wanted you to do. Thanks. Now go enjoy yourself.”

  Emily smile
d a bit. She had analyzed the situation correctly. She'd done the right thing for the situation. And, if she actually lived in this region, she would have recognized Capt. McTeal herself. Now, windbreaker tucked under her arm, she let herself drift towards the area with signs and other information about upcoming events at the Poplar Park Convention center.

  The display cases on the wall looked to have the same posters and flyers on each side of the divided entryway. But just before the entrances of the two venues the ropes split into a large triangle that filled the space between the doors with their metal detector stations. And a man seemed to be floating out of a hole in the wall about five feet above the floor. The hole was a simulation of a hatch, but the man wore a genuine NASA spacesuit. Surrounding the suited astronaut were posters promoting a coming exhibit by the “L-5 Space Colonization Society.”

  Emily's eyes fell on a handmade poster with a picture of the Space Shuttle. “If the Discovery launches during our exhibit,” she read, “we'll watch it live on a fifty foot screen!”

  “Wow!” exclaimed Emily softly.

  “Wow, indeed,” chuckled a man's voice from the other leg of the triangle. “That'd be the next best thing to being on the ground near the Cape.”

  Quickly Emily took stock before she answered. Medium sized. Medium build. Shaggy brown hair. Thirty something, maybe. A bit of a twinkle in his hazel eyes. Wearing a medium dark blue suit. And too far away to potentially grab her.

  “You've been at the Kennedy Center for a Shuttle launch?”

  “Several,” he replied. Then the twinkle disappeared and his voice caught as he added, “Including the Challenger's last...”

  “Sorry,” replied Emily. “The first one I can remember is long after that.”

  “That's alright. Keeping up with spaceflight is about the only thing I can call a hobby. But on a more cheerful note, that was a nice move you put on McTeel, little lady. I about busted out laughing.”

  “You know Capt. McTeel?”

  “Let's just say we're acquainted. Good man. And his daughter, she goes by Daisy, is a rising star in local gymnastics. Matter of fact, she's pretty close to your size and build. Well, I've got to find a man about a fishhook. Good luck, little lady.” And he turned and was gone.

  As the man disappeared Emily's eyes opened a bit wider. For as he turned she briefly saw part of the inside of his suit jacket. The fabric was a much darker blue. Almost black. And it came clear down to the bottom of the tail. There was no hint of a lining. Emily wondered if the garment could be reversible.

  A few moments later Emily and her group entered the area formally hosting the Poplar Park Regional Gymnastics Competition. Her team's small assigned area, according to the official diagram, sat against the mobile wall dividing the Competition from the Rod & Gun Show. Just one problem. The west side of the mobile wall stopped moving twenty feet from the east wall. The Center staff finished hanging a fifteen foot tall sheet of transparent plastic across the gap as the Gibsonville group moved into one section of the area. Emily settled her gear and began her stretches to work out the kinks of the long drive. She stood facing the plastic looking into the Rod & Gun Show. And there, a few dealers’ tables away stood the space buff, as she thought of him, in earnest conversation with a man she instinctively didn't trust.

  As she stretched and strained the man finished his conversation. He crossed the aisle to talk to a burly man with a lightning bolt tattooed on his arm. With her head nearly touching the floor she saw her new acquaintance slip what looked like folded money to the second man. He received something small in return. And no sales receipt. Now the space buff moved further away.

  ***

  An hour later Emily returned to the team area after completing the vaulting horse round. She'd deliberately failed to “stick” her landing. But she inwardly reveled at the distance she reached from the apparatus while doing the showy twists and turns of the form her coach assigned her. As she drank sparingly from her water bottle she looked through the curtain for the space buff. Finally she spotted him some distance up the aisle. Their eyes briefly locked and she waved. He returned the wave before moving to another booth.

  Now she scanned the contents of the various booths visible. Almost no guns. A fair number of knifes and other tools of the hunter and fisherman. But the area seemed to be heavily into chemical lures and masking scents. Not to mention sports drinks, with barely a brand she recognized.

  ***

  Roger Claiborne fumed as he sat in his booth at the Rod & Gun show. His big client was over an hour late. And there he sat doing virtually no business sitting next to a case of bottles that could get a bunch of people arrested. Including him. The refilled sports drink bottles sat under a stand with a cloth over them. Claiborne could not help keeping a close eye on them. Each bottle was worth thousands. And, if some jerk managed to lift a bottle... And drink it... He'd be spectacularly dead before he could put the bottle down. He shivered, just thinking about it.

  Then he saw that guy with the blue suit headed back his way. Claimed he was writing an article on sports drinks. Probably was, Roger could count the number of men wearing suits at the show on one hand.

  Then, off to the left, he spotted his client, all dressed up in brand new hunting gear, with his two bodyguards headed his way. Jeez, he wished he had a rod that wasn't the kind for fishing.

  Roger glanced around. Just Rubes in all directions except for the guy in the blue suit. The fellow seemed to keep circling the area. He'd hinted at a desire to buy body building stuff. The every day under the table variety. Roger decided he might make some extra money from the guy. But only after the main event. Nothing was more important than that.

  After stopping at a couple of other booths the client came up to Roger's.

  “Good morning, Mr. Luthor,” said Roger, thereby giving the all clear signal. Lex Luthor, my big toe, he thought. He knew exactly who this player was.

  “Morning, Claiborne,” came the reply. The client glanced around and then at the smaller of the bodyguards. The man nodded. “Things seem okay,” the man continued in a lower voice. “You have what I'm interested in.”

  “Yes, sir. Been vetted by the laboratory you told the maker about. This brochure has the details.”

  Roger passed over the bright folded paper. “Mr. Luthor” opened the thing to read the report hidden inside. He closed the flyer with a slight smile.

  “You do realize that this will be checked?”

  “Mr. Luthor, I know the system. Check everything, not a problem. Those bottles haven't been out of my sight since I picked them up. You'll get exactly what I received. Believe me, I'm not looking for any kind of trouble. No, sir!”

  “Good. Just so we understand each other.”

  Roger felt himself begin to relax. Another two minutes and... That's when everything went to Hell in a hand-basket.

  “ Claiborne!” came an angry voice from up the way.

  All four looked that way to see a big man rounding the corner of a cross-aisle booth. His aggressive forward motion somehow got tangled with the man in the blue suit.

  “Who?”

  “I owe him money, Mr. Luthor. Told him I'd pay off at the end of today. Must have followed me. Flippin' idiot!”

  “Luthor” nodded to the bodyguards. One word left his lips, “Quietly!”

  The bodyguards headed up the aisle shoulder to shoulder as the big man untangled himself and started forward.

  “Please, sir, let our friend finish his business...”

  “Business, Hell! I want my money!” came the reply. With that the man grabbed the edge of a tablecloth behind him. A hard yank sent things flying in all direction. Before the bodyguards could react the tablecloth covered their heads.

  The attacker moved to push “Luthor” aside. Only to have his arm taken into a Ju Jitsu move that ended with him smashing onto the top of Claiborne's front table. The legs of the thing folded. Bottles, flyers, and such flew in all directions. But the attacker sprang to his feet. Tha
t's when the bodyguards arrived. Claiborne grabbed the case of special bottles and back-peddled to the rear of his booth. He stared wide eyed as the real fighting started.

  ***

  Emily would have been astonished if she could have seen the space buff when things blew up. Shedding his coat as he moved he dived under the heavy skirt of a booth front. As he crawled towards the uproar he somehow managed to reverse his suit coat. He yanked something out of pockets revealed by the change. Then he tore off his hair, all of it seemingly. But no, a receding, mostly gray crew-cut remained.

  He passed through a second, third and fourth booth before he stuck his head out. Just in time to see the interloper take a heavy tackle-box to the side of the head. The man slammed into the cloth covering the side of the next booth. Metal and plastic shrieked and snapped loudly. He staggered further in that direction toppling the rear cloth of the booth, not to mention three sets of display shelves, right on to himself.

  Before the sounds of destruction faded “Luthor's” bodyguards snatched up fishing knives from the next display. Seeing security guards hurrying in from the exits, they bolted for the thin plastic covering the hole in the divider wall. Not three steps behind them stumbled Roger with the precious case of bottles.

  The two musclemen swung their knives like they'd practiced the routine. An opening appeared as if by magic. “Luthor” stepped through and the two covered his retreat. They hurried across the teams' area towards the competition itself. The space buff now dashed forward as Roger followed the others.

  He saw Roger stumble as he stepped on a pair of street shoes. Just as he reached the fresh cut door Roger stepped over the low rope to the aisle. Then Roger caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. But he figured he'd just run over whoever came along. That's when the rolling transport legs of the vaulting horse slammed into his feet.