by Adam Graham
Powerhouse frowned. There had to be something wrong with that logic, but he couldn’t figure out what.
Something slammed into his head and bounced. Powerhouse spun.
On the pavement lay a sharp ax with a motor and a remote sensor.
Fifty yards away, fifty remote-controlled, toy airplanes approached armed with knives.
Powerhouse mentally vaporized all the remote sensors and landed the planes. “Remote Master, I sense your fiendish hand, but how could you pull it off?” Powerhouse slapped his hand against his helmet. “Duh!” He scanned the villain’s forehead with his x-ray vision. In his head was a metal panel. “Your own built-in remote.” Powerhouse imagined a titanium hat painted red, white, and blue. “Try and get your signal through that patriotic hat.”
Remote Master sneered. “You’d remember that holiday. You’re more powerful than I thought. Though I don’t know why that ax didn’t get you.”
“An ax will not penetrate the mighty personal force field of Powerhouse. I forgot to turn it off. Must have been divine providence.”
“You were lucky, but this illustrates a big problem with you.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll throw me in jail after the first battle. Your comics show you don’t have a good rogues gallery. You have to admit, I’m better than most villains you faced.”
“I’ll give you that, even if you’re no Mister Manners.”
The Remote Master smiled. “There was a great archenemy, but they got him locked up in Supermax, and you need more than just one archenemy. If you capture me on the first try, then I go to prison for life, what kind of comic is this going to be?”
“A happy one.”
“If you let me go, I can come up with another criminal plot that you’ll have to fight me on, and we can really have an epic battle.”
Powerhouse thrust out his hands. “You endangered over a thousand innocent people.”
The Remote Master laughed. “I’ve been to the movies. Bystanders are cannon fodder to you super gods.”
Powerhouse glowered. “I’m not a god! I’m doing this to help people.”
“You are a god. Or do you deny having qualities that make you superior to mortal men?”
“Underneath all the flashy stuff, I’m an ordinary guy helping people.”
The remote master rolled his eyes. “Sure, an ordinary guy who can create giant flying airbases out of thin air and can lift several tons. You’re a god. You need a rival. Let me loose.”
“I am not. If you were a real supervillain, you’d get out of jail yourself.”
“Say, you’re right. Thanks for not granting my request. When I do escape and kill you, I can feel that pride in knowing that I did it myself.”
“That’s the spirit.” Wait a second.
A woman’s voice finally said over the phone, “Hello, sorry for the wait.”
“Sorry? I had an entire battle of wits with a supervillain while on hold!”
“Powerhouse, it’s you? Oh, the chief needs to talk to you right away!”
He gave her their location’s address. “I need a squad car here pronto. There’s a villain here who hijacked four planes.”
“Just leave him like you usually do.”
“Not this guy. He nearly killed thousands. I can’t risk letting him loose.”
“The chief needs you in his office. Bring the guy in. We’ll send some CSI guys out to your location.”
“Will do.” Powerhouse picked up the villain and zipped through the air.
The Remote Master shouted like a kid on a roller coaster. “Woo hoo! This is awesome!”
“Glad you’re taking this in stride.”
“I’ll be out before you know it. Mind if I write you from jail?”
A few of the guys he’d locked up put fan letters in his PO Box. “Sure.” He superimagined a Powerhouse business card in the Remote Master’s hand.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Powerhouse landed with the criminal at police HQ in Seattle. Out front was Sergeant Jay Watts. Powerhouse grinned. “Hey, Sarge! Weren’t you on vacation?”
“All leave has been cancelled due to a major crime wave.”
Powerhouse grimaced. Leave town for just a couple days, and criminals thought it was some sort of holiday—and not Independence Day. He waved at Remote Master one-handed. “Could you book him?”
“What’s the charge?”
“About 1300 charges of attempted murder and commandeering four airplanes.”
“Feds will want to talk to him.”
Powerhouse placed a DVD in Watts’ hand. “This recording should have the entire affair, from when I saw the planes about to crash to right up until I brought him here.”
“Handy.” Watts took the DVD and stared at the criminal. “I’ll read him his rights.”
“I’ve got to go see the chief.” Powerhouse dashed into the chief’s office.
The chief stood at the open window with his back to the door.
Powerhouse whistled. “Chief!”
The chief jumped and spun. “I was expecting you to enter that way.”
“I haven’t come in that way in months.”
“This is an emergency. Someone’s hijacked a bus. If the bus goes under sixty miles an hour, it’ll blow up. And it’s in the middle of downtown.”
“Where is it now?”
A bus doing seventy screeched past the window.
“Speak of the supervillain, and his bus will screech.” Powerhouse flew out the open window and x-rayed the bus.
He spotted the bomb under the bus, flew over it, and imagined it loose and flying back towards the source of the transmission at two hundred miles an hour. He followed the bomb through the air to a skid row apartment, cut off the power with his mind, and landed the bomb on the fire escape. After mentally opening the window, he flew towards it.
Uh oh, it was a tad too small for him.
Crunch.
Powerhouse made the window bigger as he broke the window frame and shattered the nearest bricks. Have to remember to fix that before I leave.
Hundreds of DVDs were stacked against the wall and the door hung open. He sped down the hall. A man in a film reel hat was dashing towards the stairwell. Powerhouse imagined him held in midair and turning about to face him. He glared at the villain. “You ripped off the plot of Speed! How old is that dumb movie now?”
The villain snarled. “Little do you know. ‘Four stars,’ raves the Chicago Sun Times. The New York Times called it a masterpiece of its genre. You laughed. You cried. You were in suspense. It was a perfect plan that challenged you on every level.”
“Do I look like Keanu Reeves to you?”
“Faceless metal man, you shall defeat not the Cinema Lord again.”
“Like I don’t hear that every other day.” Powerhouse tied up the crook and put him on his back. How many more of these clowns were there?
Farrow sat in his plush black office chair in his underground office.
Varlock sat across from him on a small filing cabinet with a Blue Tooth device in his ear. “I agree our cinematic friend shouldn’t make it to round two, but Remote Master has potential.” Varlock licked his nose a moment. “Very well then, the auditions will continue.”
Farrow raised his eyebrows. “What second round?”
Varlock pointed his tongue at Farrow, then retracted it. “Farewell.” He hung up and glared at Farrow. “Don’t your people have rules about listening to private phone conversations?”
“We also have etiquette rules about conducting phone calls in someone else’s office and pretending I’m not here. Now who were you talking to?”
“To two retired criminals. They are serving as the equivalent of judges for your reality programs, only they are judging criminal talent.”
“And what’s this second round stuff?”
Varlock waved his tongue sideways. “I don’t trust you. I know you want credit for destroying Powerhouse so you can save you
r spawn.”
Farrow glared. “My daughter!”
“Oh. I forgot your pet names for your spawn.”
“Don’t you raise children?”
“We allow our spawn the dignity of fending for themselves in the pond they hatched in. Only the spawn who manage to pull themselves by their own tongues to the education center are fit to live. The rest perish as the fit feed on them to survive.”
Meaning the aliens’ young aren’t sentient? “Uh, that tactic doesn’t work for my people. My daughter is everything. She has to survive.”
“Where did you get that silly idea? Nature selects the strong to survive and the weak to perish. It is the rule of evolution. Now, excuse me. I must return to my own lair.” Varlock left.
Cursing, Farrow reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a whiskey flask. He swallowed. He coughed. Couldn’t breathe. He’d taken it too fast.
Spitting whiskey out, he threw the flask against the wall.
The flask spread golden brown liquid over the wall.
Powerhouse walked into the Seattle Chief of Police’s office. “Why did you cancel everyone’s vacation? Something about a crime wave.”
The chief leaned back in his chair. “A tsunami. Crime is 200 percent higher than it was at this time last year, and violent crime has increased by 325 percent. So we have to fight on. Our officers appreciate that.”
Powerhouse rubbed his helmet. What was with all the percents? Why couldn’t the chief simply say crime was up big time? “I understand crime takes no vacation. You can count on Powerhouse.”
The chief nodded. “Glad to hear it.”
Powerhouse headed out to the water cooler in the hall. He popped a mug into existence and filled it. Naomi wouldn’t be so happy their vacation was being postponed.
Naomi whistled “Bare Necessities” as she shoved a black camisole into her fourth suitcase. She closed it, but it would only zip up halfway. “Suitcase, increase size by ten percent.”
The suitcase did, and she zipped it closed.
She collapsed on the bed. The packing was all done.
The phone rang.
Naomi sat up, pulled down her white minidress, and picked up the phone receiver. “Hello.”
Dave’s voice came weakly. “Hi, honey. Um, the trip’s off.”
“Why?” Naomi swallowed hard.
“We’ve got a huge crime wave.” His voice chirped up. “There’s probably an A-list villain behind it.”
Why couldn’t he be satisfied with his usual D-list criminals? “I’m glad you’re thrilled with this great career opportunity.” To make her a widow. Did that fear come through in her voice? She needed to be supportive. “I just was looking forward to this.”
“I hate to let you down, honey, but all my friends are having to cancel their vacations. I can’t live it up in Paris while my buddies are fighting the worst crime wave in city history.”
Naomi sighed. “Will you be home in time to watch the fireworks?”
In the background, a man shouted, “Powerhouse, someone’s threatening to blow up the Lacey Murrow Bridge.”
Guess that was her answer.
“I better go. I love you,” Dave said.
“Love you too.” Naomi sighed.
Thankfully she’d bought refundable plane tickets.
Stupid crime wave, but it was one of those things that came with being married to a superhero.
She lay on the bed. How long could this last anyway?
Chapter 8
The Battle Continues
Mitch Farrow stormed in Varlock’s office carrying a stack of newspapers. Varlock was seated at his desk as it floated three feet in the air along with two spare chairs. Varlock stared down at Farrow. “What are those strange things you bring?”
“Newspapers.”
“How odd. I thought a newspaper was a website with cynical comments attached that commit the grave offense of being completely irrelevant.”
Sneering, Farrow grabbed one of the chairs, pulled it down, and sat. It rose two and a half feet in the air. “This time you’re only playing dumb. You know what a newspaper is. Take a look at these.” He dropped the papers on the desk one by one. “USA Today, New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Miami Herald, London Telegraph, Sidney Morning Herald, South China Post. They all have front page stories on Powerhouse. The 24-hour news networks are all in Seattle covering every battle he fights. We have tourists coming in to watch.” Farrow pounded his fist on Varlock’s desk. “I spent more than a year working to keep Powerhouse an obscure local hero with a minimal negative impact on cynicism levels. In one week of these crazy villain fights, and you’ve turned him into international sensation.”
The alien sent him a blank stare.
“Am I getting through your thick skull yet?” Farrow tapped his foot.
Varlock waved his hand. “My skull has the same density as a human’s.”
Farrow took a deep breath. “Have you forgotten the mission? We’re to build public cynicism so that, when King Bel invades, humanity will surrender. We’re only bothering to mess with Powerhouse because he gives people hope. You’re helping him do that by drawing attention to him.”
“You’re one to talk.” Varlock stuck his tongue out like he was trying to reach his forehead. “You attacked him when he had only a comic book with a third of the readership he has today. If you’d left him alone, he would’ve never come out of retirement, and we wouldn’t have this problem.”
Farrow snorted. “You had to bring that up.”
“Indeed, I did. It is a requirement of my people, when dealing with a co-worker who is challenging you, to put him in his place by reminding him of his past failings. The more relevant his failings are, the better. Let Powerhouse give them hope. Let them place all of their hopes on him. Powerhouse will die, and all hope will die with him.”
“Please. You’ve come no closer to killing him than anyone else with all these rejects from a comic book you’ve been throwing at him.”
“I have a master plan.”
Farrow rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve seen how those work. What is it?”
“That’s for you to find out.”
“You’re immature. You know that?”
“How dare you insult me!” Varlock stood, glaring at Mitch. “Get out!”
“Gladly.” Farrow stormed toward the door.
Varlock hummed. “I know something you don’t know.”
Naomi sat in Mike’s Coffee Bar disguised as a frowning Marie Dubois.
A male TV anchor said, “We’re here in Seattle, where Powerhouse has once again defeated a master criminal. We have some incredible footage of it.”
The TV showed a man wearing a white jump suit and a helmet with a monkey’s head on it. “Powerhouse, you will never defeat the Monkey Master.”
The shot switched to a grimacing Powerhouse. “Your simian sycophants have soiled the magnificent moniker of monkey. It is your baleful belligerence that’s bound them to be bad. That, mister, I can’t stand for.”
Naomi rolled her eyes. How many times have I told him the alliteration is silly? But no, he still thinks it’s cool and continues to practice alliteration with the dictionary at home. Though, it’s the news’ fault we don’t have enough context to figure out what he meant.
The dozen people in the coffee house hooted.
Mike said, “You tell him, Powerhouse.”
On the TV, Powerhouse was now right behind the Monkey Master and removing the villain’s helmet.
Monkey Master screamed, “Monkeys, attack!”
“They’re not listening to you!” Powerhouse put his hands on his sides for the camera. “I disabled your diabolical control and adapted its technology into my own helmet. The monkeys will rest for now, free from your evil influence. Dr. Angela Carter of the Seattle Zoo will arrive and see to them.”
The TV cut to the male reporter. “So, Powerhouse defeated the Monkey Master, returned the two million dollars in goods they’d stolen, and insur
ed the monkeys would have a good future away from the Monkey Master. This is the thirtieth major criminal Powerhouse has captured this week. Jason Girder, who is allegedly the Monkey Master, is wanted by police departments from Nairobi, Kenya to Omaha, Nebraska. Most of his crimes were committed in Orlando, Florida. No one has ever apprehended him until today.”
Everyone around Naomi cheered.
She pressed her lips into a thin line. When was this dumb crime wave going to be over?
Mike whistled. “Now that’s some fancy work.”
A blonde waitress said in a dreamy tone, “I’d love to be his Lois Lane.”
Position filled. Naomi gritted her teeth and glowered. “What makes you think he’s available?”
Mike said to the waitress, “Sister, I’m sure he is single, but only because real superheroes don’t let themselves develop romantic entanglements.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous. Besides, a real superhero is married to the land he protects like a minister is married to his flock. It’s like the Apostle Paul said. He that is unmarried cares about how he may please the Lord. But he that is married cares about how he may please his wife.”
Remind me not to go to Mike’s church. Naomi frowned. “You’re not married?”
“No, ma’am. Before I became a Christian, I was trouble to women, and women were trouble to me. Without a wife, I’m free to focus on building the Cowboy Church and making great coffee.”
Naomi raised her left eyebrow. “ God said it wasn’t good for the man to be alone.”
Mike shrugged. “If he has the time to be lonely. Pastors and superheroes don’t.” He turned to the blonde waitress. “So stop negatively comparin’ your boyfriend to Powerhouse and gettin’ so infatuated. You sound like you’re forgettin’ he puts on his pants one leg at a time like the rest of us.”
The waitress smiled. “He probably imagines his pants into existence.”
“Oui, he does.” Naomi slapped cash on the bar. “Keep the change.”