The Exploding Detective

by John Swartzwelder

  “Stupid bastards.”

  “Super villains historically underestimate the world. A world will fight back. You’ve got to make allowances for that.”

  “And you have.”

  “Yes. That’s why Operation Overkill can’t fail. My opponents simply have too much to overcome. It doesn’t matter how many of my men are grabbed from behind by secret agents and dragged into the bushes. I could have a thousand of my men tied up behind those bushes on the day of the big attack, and I’d still have thousands more than I needed. Overkill is the only way to succeed when it comes to world domination. And Overkill is my name.”

  “Beautiful.”

  We walked past a large machine that had a big red handle. “What’s that thing?” I asked.

  “Doomsday Machine.”

  “Ah.”

  “That’s in case things don’t work out exactly as I’ve planned. It can destroy the entire universe.”

  I raised my hand.

  “No way to test it, of course,” he said, “but I’m confident it will work as it’s designed to.”

  I put down my hand.

  “I don’t want to seem like a poor sport,” he added, “but if I can’t rule the universe, I don’t want there to be one. Does that make me sound like I’m a poor sport?”

  “Not at all. Quite the reverse. Anybody who says you’re a poor sport has it backwards.”

  “I’m relieved to hear you say that. Now, you asked earlier where I got my patterns for Napoleon and Lincoln and so on. Follow me and I’ll show you the most amazing part of my operation.”

  He led me to a large door. Before he opened it he asked: “When we were having dinner, did you notice one of my servants – General Custer, I think it was - come in carrying a tray of hot dogs and suddenly start spinning in a circle against a weird stripy background, finally disappearing with a pop?”

  “Yeah. One of those hot dogs was supposed to be for me.”

  “Do you remember asking me where that bastard went with the hot dogs?”

  “Vividly.”

  He opened the door. “The answer is in here.”

  We walked in. Overkill stood proudly next to a huge water-nozzle-shaped tunnel.

  “What you are looking at is a doorway to the future. Or the past.”

  “What about the present?”

  “No, that’s all these other doors. Did you ever see a television show called The Time Nozzle?”

  “I think so. Something about two handsome scientists traveling through time with a bad script, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “It was a cheap knockoff of The Time Tunnel. It wasn’t very popular and got cancelled after 14 episodes.”

  “I saw a fantastic episode of Wagon Train once that…”

  He interrupted me, impatiently. “After it was cancelled, all of the props from the show were put into storage on the studio lot and forgotten. Then last year they were rediscovered and put up for auction. I had no interest in the smaller props, but I outbid several other super villains for The Time Nozzle itself.”

  I started telling him about some collectible TV memorabilia I used to have - a Roy Rogers lunchbox and a Lassie paw - but he wasn’t interested.

  “What viewers in the 1960’s didn’t realize,” he went on, “was that a lot of what they were seeing was real. Studios didn’t skimp when it came to production values in those days. Whenever possible they used the real thing, not a mock up. Disney hired the real Zorro, for example, for the show’s pilot episode. But it turned out the old fellow had trouble memorizing lines. Couldn’t even remember where he lived. They dumped him out in the Valley somewhere and got a younger guy for the series. And I have it on the highest authority – a stuntman told me this – that there was a real Twilight Zone. Rod Serling found it next to his house. He didn’t have to write any scripts at all. Just grabbed actors and threw them in, then turned on the cameras. The show wrote itself. Everyone thought those old TV shows were just fantastic entertainment, but they were more than that. They were up to 10% real.”

  “Wait, are you trying to tell me that The Time Nozzle actually worked?”

  “Works,” he corrected me. “Present tense. When the show was originally filmed, the actors felt they couldn’t get ‘into’ their parts if the machine didn’t actually work.” He snorted derisively. “As if it mattered whether they were ‘into’ their parts or not. Just say the damn lines.”

  “I hate actors too.”

  “So handymen at the studio worked on it until they made it operational to a certain extent. It never worked perfectly, but the show’s writers incorporated its flaws into their storylines. It was really a remarkable achievement. The epitome of prop technology. Now I’ve got it, and I’ve been using it to bring famous people back from the past so I can blueprint them and make copies.”

  “Why make copies? If you have Napoleon here, why not just keep him here to run your army in person? That’s what I would do with my Napoleon.”

  “I tried that, but The Time Nozzle kept dragging the originals back to their own time, or sending them to the Alamo or the deck of the Titanic or something. Didn’t you see the series, Burly?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right.”

  “Just about every famous person in history ended up on the deck of the Titanic, thanks to this machine. That’s why the damn thing sank. Too many famous people on it.”

  “Now we know the rest of the story.”

  “Yeah. So, anyway, while I have them here, I make copies. Sometimes they’re still around after I no longer need them. That’s why you saw Sitting Bull dusting the furniture in the living room and Al Capone out on the lawn shooting weeds. But the machine will reverse itself eventually and they’ll pop back to their own time. The sooner that happens the better as far as I’m concerned. The originals get tiresome after awhile. They all think they’re big-shots and want to run the island, not clean toilets. I’ve got the original Lincoln locked in the Purple Room over there. I hated to do it. I’ve always enjoyed our conversations. That guy is almost as unprincipled as I am. But he won’t learn to mind his own business. He keeps trying to free my army. Don’t touch that.”

  “I just wanted to see how it worked. Can we bring back the dinosaurs? Or does it have to be a famous dinosaur?”

  Overkill thought about this. “It would be easier if he was famous. But I don’t want anybody messing around with the controls right now. I’m close to finalizing a deal with a company in the year 2265 to ship an army of future fighters here. A half million of them. They are the ultimate mechanical men. They have built-in guns, knives, torpedoes, lasers, everything. Like walking Swiss army knives. They’re self-maintaining, and can eat anything. So once you start them up, they can fight forever. They’ll be the backbone of my army. The elite fighting core. Once they’re here, I’ll be ready to take over the world.”

  “What’s the hold up?”

  “Medical insurance and contributions to pension funds for the fighters that I don’t particularly want to pay.”

  “Damn unions.”

  “Yeah. But we’ll work it out. Well, you’ve seen it all now. What do you think?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “I think there’s only one thing you need that you don’t have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A Flying Detective.”

  He stared at me, first with astonishment, then with suspicion.

  “You want to join my organization? You want to help me take over the world?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to be on the winning side for once. And I don’t see how you can lose.”

  He wasn’t sure he believed me at first. He thought it might be a trick. One of the pictures he had of me on the wall – the one of me trying to remember whether I had eaten yet or not – made me look pretty damned tricky. But it wasn’t a trick. Nobody was going to stop this guy, as near as I could tell. If he was going to be number one man in the world, I wouldn’t mind being number two.


  It took a lot to convince him I was on the level. I had to take several different lie detector tests, say “Yes, really” after he had said “Really?” and sign an affidavit in the presence of a notary public, but he finally believed me. I think it was the affidavit that did it. You can’t lie on those things. Those things are notarized. Once he was convinced, he pumped my hand enthusiastically.

  “This is fine! Outstanding news! Now nothing can stop us! What a team we’ll make! The two most formidable men in the world fighting side by side! You can use your regular costume, of course, though I think you should have ‘Overkill’s Flying Detective’ printed on your cape.”

  “Fine.”

  “And you should have a better weapon than that .38 you usually carry. Have a look over there in that pile. See if you can find something you like better.”

  I went over to a pile of strange looking weapons and rummaged around, finally picking out a particularly deadly looking little number, then walked back to Overkill.

  “I guess I’ll take this one. What is it?”

  “That’s a machine knife. The Pokemaster 5000. You can stab 1500 guys a minute with that. And because it’s a knife and not a gun, you never run out of ammunition. No reloading. You could have single-handedly won World War II with one of those.”

  “I would have gotten my name in the papers if I’d done that.”

  He nodded. “In capital letters.”

  I tripped on the carpet and landed on Overkill, somehow accidentally turning on the Pokemaster as I fell. His lifeless and incredibly poked body collapsed onto an alarm and set it off. I was stunned, but not as stunned as Overkill was, judging by the look on what was left of his face.

  As more alarms started going off around the fortress, each one setting off the next, I noticed I was still stabbing Overkill in the chest. This panicked me and I tried to turn the machine off, but only managed to turn it up so it was going faster. Pieces of flesh were flying all over the room. I finally got it turned off. Then I checked his pulse, which had rolled under the couch. He was dead all right. He was more than dead. I had made mincemeat out of him. If I were a clever man, I would say I had “overkilled” him.

  I was pretty upset. I’d just wasted a lot of time buttering up this guy. Time I wasn’t going to get back. Plus, now I was out of a very plush, probably very high paying, job. I didn’t know how much the number two man in the world got paid, but I imagined it was something pretty good. The loss of that big paycheck hurt.

  I checked in his pockets and took his wallet, his keys, and a few other odds and ends that caught my fancy. I know readers may look askance at this, but I figured since I’d killed the guy, robbing him wouldn’t make it much worse. I’m pretty sure he would have wanted me to rob him after I killed him anyway.

  There were alarms going off all over the fortress, and running feet approaching the room, so I figured I’d better get out of there fast before anyone saw what I’d done. Pausing only to steal a few more things from Overkill’s body, including a shiny black ring I’d been admiring during dinner, I stood up to go. It was too late. I had stolen one thing too many.

  The door opened and a couple of dozen armed guards came in and stood staring at me. Finally one of them spoke.

  “Orders, sir?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Yes. Do you have any orders?”

  “Uh… yeah. Wait here.”

  “Yes, New Master.”

  I carefully edged past them and ran down the stairs.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When I got out of the fortress, I had just sense enough to realize I should move as calmly as possible, and try not to arouse any more suspicion than I usually do. So I stopped running and looking over my shoulder and whimpering “oh God oh God oh God,” and forced myself to slow down to a frightened saunter, whistling a frightened song.

  I made my way past a group of creatures who were working on the lawn. As I passed them, I gave them the thumbs up. They, somewhat confusedly, returned the thumbs up.

  There was a small launch at the dock that seemed ready to go, so I stepped aboard. The captain of the craft, who was a dead ringer for Captain Queeg, except for the big key in his back, approached me, frowning.

  I tried to act as businesslike as possible. I was here on business. I wasn’t escaping. “Overkill told me to take the boat into town for,” I said. “He wanted me to get.”

  The captain didn’t seem to mind that my sentences were incomplete, or that I was sweating like an escaped pig. He just saluted smartly and gave orders to cast off.

  On the way to the mainland I kept looking behind us to see if we were being followed. I did this so often, the crewmen started doing it too. But there was no sign of pursuit. Relieved, I took a look around the boat to see if there was anything to eat. I don’t know about you, but running for my life after I’ve killed somebody makes me hungry. I felt like I could kill and eat a horse. I found some strawberries in the pantry and ate them. I don’t think anyone ever missed them.

  They let me off at the 1st Avenue Pier and asked if they should wait for me. Or maybe follow me. I told them that wasn’t necessary, to go back home. I would tell Overkill what a fine job they had done, and recommend them all for important promotions. They saluted again and pushed off back to the island.

  I don’t think I’ve ever run so fast as I did for the first half a block. Then I don’t think I’ve ever laid down on the sidewalk for so long. I decided to walk the rest of the way home at a more leisurely pace.

  For the next few days I was a little jumpy. I kept expecting someone to come looking for me. But no one did. This surprised me, because usually when you kill somebody, lots of people come looking for you. They want to talk to you about what you did. But that didn’t happen this time.

  After awhile, I started to relax. Then I started to get bored. Nothing was going on in the city, crime-wise. Overkill had monopolized crime to such an extent that all of the city’s original or “classic” criminals had either moved away or retired. Now, with Overkill out of the picture too, there wasn’t much for a detective to do.

  I put small ads in the paper that said I was “At Liberty,” but nothing happened. Except someone finally put a small ad next to mine that said: “Good.”

  I was hired briefly to take pictures of a guy’s wife in a compromising situation with another man. I got the pictures, but it turned out the guy who hired me wasn’t her husband, after all. He was just some guy who collected pictures like that. The police were pretty understanding about the whole thing and I only spent a month in jail.

  Finally, just to ease the boredom and get a little cash coming in, I looked up that guy I met at the Super Villain Club who kept saying he wasn’t the Devil. He wasn’t at the club, but I finally tracked him down. He had a house in a lake of fire, though he said that didn’t prove anything. I told him I wouldn’t mind doing a little part-time work for him on a free-lance basis, nothing permanent, if he had anything he wanted me to do.

  So that’s how I found myself prowling the streets in my car late at night looking for souls and trying to talk people into being bad. It wasn’t very difficult work. I’d see people buying something in a store, for example, and point out they could save a lot of money if they stole that object instead of buying it. It would represent a 100% savings. A lot of people had never thought of that. After talking to me, they put their money back in their pockets, along with a lot of other stuff. Or I’d make some old guy a successful baseball player overnight, and he’d ask how he could ever repay me, and I’d say funny you should mention that, and start hauling out the burning contracts.

  I felt good that I was helping people out and getting business for my employer, and making a little money for myself besides. But overall life was pretty dull for me now, especially dull when I compared it to the kind of lifestyle Overkill had had. That guy really had it made.

  Thinking about Overkill’s great life reminded me that I’d stolen his wallet. There hadn’t been much money in it. J
ust a few bucks. Hardly worth desecrating his body for, really. When am I going to learn? But I hadn’t bothered to look through the rest of the wallet – all the little compartments and secret flaps. Maybe there were some credit cards or IDs I could use. I could pretend I was him at a store. Get some stuff for free. I started to look through the wallet with this in mind, when a thought struck me. I looked at my hand. On it was the shiny black ring I’d stolen from Overkill’s hand.

  I suddenly realized how I’d gotten off the island without being challenged. And why all the creatures had called me Master. And why two of them had approached me seeking raises in salary. Overkill’s ring was bigger and shinier than the similar rings his creatures were wearing. This must be the Ring of Power. The One Ring That Rules Them All. I told Overkill he read too much Tolkien, but he wouldn’t listen to me.

  If it was a Ring of Power, that meant that as long as I wore it all of Overkill’s creatures would treat me as if I was him. So I could, if I dared try it, take Overkill’s place on the island, and live in luxury like he had been doing, happily ever after, like he did. The more I thought about it, the more I began to think I could pull it off. I knew it was wrong, but I also knew it would work. I knew two things about it.

  I was still hesitating – it was a risky move. There’s a downside to doing anything that’s really wrong – but then I got the afternoon mail. It contained a gas bill, a jury summons, fourteen assorted other bills, and a letter from someone I’d never met in my life saying I was an asshole. I guess he found my name on a list of assholes or something. That decided it. I tossed the mail in the trash, put on my hat, adjusted my Ring of Power, and headed back to the island.

  When I stepped off the boat, I held the Ring of Power up high so everybody could see it, and walked cautiously across the lawn towards the fortress, ready to turn and run for it at the first sign of opposition. A number of eyes turned my way, and some teeth, but no one tried to stop me.