by Adam Graham
Powerhouse landed by the woman. “You must be the Blue Morpho. Can you fly?”
“No, I just like the butterfly and I sewed this outfit.”
“Oh.” He bit his lip inside his helmet. Hopefully no mutant butterfly-woman would come along and need Blue Morpho’s name. “Well, keep up the good work. I have to go confront the Quandary.”
He dashed inside and returned to the interrogation room.
The Quandary sat smiling. “So did you find my groovy bomb, Daddy-o?”
“We came up with twenty possible answers, but not the right location.”
“They were the right answers for you, just not right answers for me.”
Terrific, he wasn’t just a hipster supervillain, he was a post-modern hipster supervillain. How to deal with that? Powerhouse grabbed the Quandary by his collar, held him up in the air, and spoke in a low gruff, menacing tone. “Where is the bomb? Where is it?”
“You are a gas with that Christopher Nolan jive, but you’re one cat who’s not going to hurt me, no matter how crazy things get.”
Powerhouse raced outside and caught up with the Blue Morpho. “I need your help intimidating the Quandary into telling where a bomb is.”
“I’d be glad to help with the dirt bag.”
“Can you speak in a low gruff voice and demand to know where it is?”
“Sure, okay.”
Powerhouse scooped her up, raced her to the interrogation room, and set her down.
She pulled out her taser and spoke in a voice that sounded like Cinderella trying to imitate her stepmother. “Where is it?”
The Quandary doubled over with laughter. “Man, you are the craziest cat. You thought a butterfly could scare me? Sure, this brunette china doll snuck up on me and caught me, but she’s not going to use her squaresville gun here. If she did, she’d knock me silly, and I wouldn’t remember my own address, let alone where I put the bomb. It would be the end, Daddy-o, the end.”
“Tell me the truth before it kills innocent people.”
“Uh, Powerhouse,” Blue Morpho said.
The Quandary continued. “You people are the villains, wanting to stop the bomb from self-actualizing by blowin’ up, thus fulfilling its dreams. It’s all how you look at it.”
Powerhouse snarled. “That’s nuts!”
Blue Morpho said louder, “Powerhouse, listen! This is relevant to the clue he gave us. Trust me. I’m an ophthalmologist.”
“What does your religion have to do with it?”
She slapped her forehead. “I’m a doctor specializing in eye problems. He has red-green colorblindness, so a lot of things look blue and brown all over to him.” She stared at his outfit. “That would also explain his outfit.”
Powerhouse said, “Is that true? You can’t see red or green.”
“You arrogantly imagine anyone who doesn’t see the colors you see has a problem. In reality, you’re the ones hallucinating those imaginary colors.”
Powerhouse sighed.
The criminal glanced up at the wall clock. “You got twenty minutes, man and then it’s boom time. I got to go to the john.”
Powerhouse stormed out of the interrogation room and spoke to the officer out front. “Take him to the bathroom.”
He nodded. “Will do, Powerhouse.”
They walked back and the officer took the Quandary to the toilet.
The Blue Morpho said, “Sorry I couldn’t help more. It’s tough talking to him. The only objective reality he seems to accept exists is time.”
That was it. Powerhouse grinned. “You’ve helped more than you could know, but I need you to leave right away. I’ve got a plan.”
“Let me know how it turns out.”
“If it doesn’t work, you’ll hear about it.” Powerhouse dashed back into the interrogation room, squinted at the clock, and moved the arms forward by ten minutes.
The cop brought the Quandary back and left him with Powerhouse.
Powerhouse said, “So this must be a pretty clever riddle?”
“It’s the most, Daddy-o, the most.”
“Okay, so why don’t you tell me.”
“You’ll find out soon.” He looked up at the clock and grinned. “Tick tock, man, tick tock. Come on, guess.”
He had to try something. “Is the bomb bigger than a bread box?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a commercial or residential area?”
“Residential.”
“High density or low density?”
Quandary glared. “Don’t jive me. This is a riddle, not twenty questions.”
“Sorry. Is it a brown house near the House of Blues?”
The Quandary sneered. “Go check.”
Powerhouse left and stared at the time on his cell phone’s display, 10:45.
He flew outside and waited for three minutes before heading back.
The chief stood outside the interrogation room. “What’s happened?”
“Don’t worry, Chief, I’ve got this.”
“But the bomb’s set to go off any minute.”
“Trust me.” Powerhouse strode in and stared at the Quandary. “There is no House of Blues in Seattle.”
“You wasted some precious minutes.”
“Oh, it’s time for you to lord your victory over me. No way will I be able to get there in time to stop it now. After it blows, I won’t be around to hear your brilliant plan.”
“Yeah, you’ll be busy with charred bodies.” The Quandary laughed. “It’s like this. Willie Joe Brown has the best collection of old time blues records in the city. He also lives in the middle of a high rise with his son and grandson. So when it blew up, it was browns and blues all over, Daddy-o. ”
Powerhouse flew out the window on his jet pack and mentally looked up Brown’s address in the city directory. The Marquette apartments. He zoomed there, squinted open the apartment window, and flew in. Three young boys on the couch were shooting up zombies on a Play Station.
One of the boys was nine and already had an earring. That kid pointed at him. “It’s Powerhouse.”
He asked, “Is there an adult home?”
“Grandpa’s in the kitchen.”
“Go pull the fire alarm and leave the building.” He ran into the kitchen.
A wrinkled, bald man was making a ham sandwich. Old-time jazz music wafted from the nearby record player.
Powerhouse switched it off. “Mr. Brown, has anyone been in the house in the last day or so?”
“A crazy guy in this weird suit showed up, vacuumed the place, and left one for us to try free for a month. Said he’d be back for it if we didn’t want it.”
“Where is it?”
The fire alarm sounded.
“In the closet,” Brown shouted as he ran for the exit.
Powerhouse searched the closets at superspeed, locating a vacuum. He glanced at the cell phone. Less than a minute to go. He mentally changed the explosive into toothpaste.
Heaving a sigh, he snatched up the vacuum bomb and dashed out the window. Down at the street level, he met Brown exiting the building as fire trucks pulled up. Powerhouse held the vacuum bomb one-handed as he patted Brown’s arm. “The bomb’s disarmed.”
Brown raised his hands. “Thank you, Lord, my record collection’s safe.”
If it were him, would his first thought have been about his comic book collection? Hopefully not. He set down the bomb. “This was the device.”
Mr. Brown scratched his head. “Why would someone bomb me?”
Powerhouse punched his left palm. “They thought it would make a good riddle clue.”
The chief stood outside the interrogation room. Powerhouse gave him a thumbs up and stormed inside carrying the vacuum. The chief followed him.
The Quandary gaped. “That’s not possible, Jack. It should’ve gone sky high by now.”
“Wrong. I set the clock in here ahead ten minutes.”
Quandary stood. “You outsmarted me? You jivin’ me. You a dingbat.”
&nbs
p; Powerhouse smiled. “I wonder what that makes you.” Actually, since I don’t know what a dingbat is, what does that make me?
“When you write it up in the comics, you can out-scare me, but you can’t outsmart me. People will think I’m a nosebleed. My gang back home will go ape, and I’ll be nowheresville with my crew. Write this up right, Clyde, and I’ll be considered a solid big daddy who’ll land in Fat City after I split this burg.”
No, this was one villain who wouldn’t catch a break in the comics. “It goes in like it happened.” Powerhouse glanced to the Seattle Chief. “I think you can take him away to the slammer, the Big House, the Rock.”
The chief stared. “You mean lock up.”
“Just wanted to be sure he’d understood.”
“You’re one cold cat. I don’t dig this at all.” Quandary smiled. “Though, by the end of the night, you’ll be stone cold, and that’ll give me a thrill.”
“Why can’t you just speak English?”
“Cop it. Rapping with you is the pits.” Quandary jerked his thumb at the door. “One last question for you, Jackson. What’s big, metal and dead?”
The chief growled. “Officer, take him back to his cell.”
The officer led Quandary away.
Reddening, the Chief clenched his fists. “He was threatening you.”
“Then don’t let him out again.”
The chief glowered. “We didn’t let him out! A master criminal did.”
Powerhouse put up his hand. “Sorry, I’m exhausted. I’d keep an eye on the Quandary, but I still have three more supervillains to round up.”
The chief said, “Knock off for an hour and get some sleep.”
Powerhouse yawned. “In an hour, those maniacs could level the city.”
“A cop who is too exhausted to shoot straight is a liability in danger of killing an innocent bystander. How much greater of a liability are you? Go rest. I’ll text you if we get any leads. We have the entire police department and the Powerhouse Squad as your eyes and ears.”
“Fine.” Powerhouse nodded and flew out the window. Maybe he could stay at a hotel close to the likely targets, even if that did mean giving Mitch Farrow’s company money.
He flew to the Dorado Hotel and Convention Center. The text on the reader board said, “John Wayne movies, performing midgets, and a seminar on being a good housewife today.”
Oh no. He had to get that taken down before it was too late.
Mitch Farrow glanced around the convention hall as older men led their grandchildren to see posters of the Duke’s movies, women were doing home economics demonstrations, and vertically challenged people were singing. He looked over at the fire hose Fournier had tied to the restaurant basement.
Ah, Pat Porter will be here any second, and I’ll show it doesn’t take a superhero to take out one of these clowns, just knowing their greatest weakness. Farrow pulled out his two way radio. “Fournier, are you in position?”
“Yes.”
“Is the pressure on the hose a check?”
“Yes.”
“Is the tuna there?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Farrow rubbed his hands together. “Be ready on my mark.”
The metal clad idiot stumbled into the convention hall and stomped up to Farrow. “What are you doing?”
“Get out of here, you glory hog. I’m setting a trap for Humyn Revenge.”
“You fool! Get these people out of here.”
“Excuse me?” Farrow growled. “I’m not the idiot here.”
“You’re not the comics expert here. The angrier she gets, the bigger she gets, and the bigger she gets, the more powerful she gets. She once caused ten million dollars in property damage and left five people in the hospital because a grocery store didn’t have any vegan hot dogs. You’re going to make her so mad, only I’ll be able to defeat her.”
A door slammed.
An eight-foot-tall muscular woman stomped in, her eyes filled with rage.
She let out a guttural scream. “Who allowed McClintock to be played?”
Chapter 13
Two Down, Four to Go
“You stay,” Farrow said as he spun back toward Powerhouse.
The big chicken had run away.
Farrow grunted and strode towards the fire hose.
Humyn Revenge jumped twenty feet forward and smashed the floor as she stood three feet from him. “If it isn’t the powerful symbol of the corporate patriarchy himself. What percentage of your corporate executives are women?”
It was higher than it was last year, wasn’t it? “Um, I’d have to look that data up.”
The woman grew three inches and her muscles bulged. She snatched up Farrow and hurled him over her gigantic shoulder. “You’ll pay with the rest. You’re responsible for this.”
She snarled and stared around the convention hall as people ran.
Farrow scrambled up and ran back to where Fournier had put the hose. He turned it on. Nothing. He said over his two-way radio, “Doc, I’m getting no pressure down here.”
Fournier’s voice said, “Sir, the hose is backed up. I’ll fix it. One second.”
“I don’t have a second.”
Soft music poured from the speakers mixed with ocean waves and the hotel ballroom transformed into a seascape mural that included the ceiling.
A giant wall appeared, hiding the John Wayne fans, midget performers, and home economic teachers. A gas mask appeared over his face.
Cursing, Farrow jumped back and whipped around. Who did that?
The approaching supervillain shrank until she stood at just under seven feet tall. “This is so peaceful.” Brahms’ lullaby played with the sea waves. A cup of tea appeared in her hands. She sniffed. “Chamomile, my favorite.”
A bean bag chair appeared, and she plopped down and stared up at the ceiling. “Aw, what a nice Wonder Woman mural.”
Her shoes disappeared. A soft pillow appeared at her feet.
She shrunk to five foot six.
Darkness fell, with the only light coming from glow-in-the-dark stars and an orange night light.
She closed her eyes and a sleep mask appeared over her face.
Something landed right beside him in the dim light of the nightlight.
“Shh.” Powerhouse’s costume blended in perfectly with the mural and he was sipping an energy drink. He stopped the music and whispered, “Man, that stuff was making me sleepy.”
Farrow lifted his gasmask. “Why am I wearing this?”
Powerhouse said, “Oh, I’d meant to imagine you as the Sandman, but I kept picturing the 1940s superhero rather than the mythical figure.”
The gas mask disappeared.
Farrow said, “What’s up? This doesn’t seem like a supervillain battle.”
“Oh, I’ve discovered rage-based villains’ weakness. Make them peaceful, content, or happy, and they’ll stop fighting, only I’m also getting really sleepy.”
Because you should be in bed, moron. “Powerhouse, for saving my hotel, how about you take forty winks on us?”
The hose he’d left on the floor with the valve open exploded and sprayed pureed tuna across the room and onto the sleeping villainess.
She awoke, screamed, and scrambled to escape from the tuna.
Powerhouse glared at Farrow. “What is that?”
“Pureed tuna.” He hunched his shoulders. “She’s deathly allergic to it.”
Humyn Revenge flailed her arms and as she grew to six feet tall. “You will pay.”
Powerhouse growled. Water appeared from nowhere and washed her off.
Her skin was broken out and blotched. “Men! You’ll pay.”
Powerhouse flew up. “Please don’t. We need to get you to the hospital.”
“Damsel in distress, am I?” She grew bigger. “How dare you presume to rescue me!”
Powerhouse raised his hands. “Think of it this way. Farrow sprayed you while you were on the ground, already sedated. You could sue him.”
/> “Sue.” A smile filled her face. She shrank. “I could take his company.”
“Yeah, you’ve totally got a cause of action, but he’ll get away with it, if you go on a rampage and get yourself killed.”
“You’re right. I could get even more than a $166 million dollars.”
“She loves lawsuits,” Powerhouse whispered to Farrow.
A gurney appeared under her and a rectangular box with a red cross on top surrounded the gurney. Powerhouse took off with the villainess in tow.
That worked out great. Farrow picked up his phone and dialed Fournier.
Fournier rasped. “I shall always be your friend. The good of the many outweighs—”
“—What are you doing?”
“Repeating lines from Star Trek II while I’m covered in tuna. After I heroically saved your life by getting the hose unplugged.”
“Wrong. The hose turned on after Powerhouse had her calmed down. Now she’s going to sue me, and it’s all your fault.”
Fournier growled. “No, it’s not. You didn’t tell me anything. I’m tired of you villains acting like I’m supposed to be a mind reader. You didn’t say, ‘Hey cancel the plan.’ I did what you ordered, and you came up with the plan.”
“Forget that then. We need to get a clean up crew in here and figure out how else we can help Powerhouse.” And this time we actually need to help him, if Rosie’s going to have a chance.
Powerhouse emerged from the hospital, blinking, blurry-eyed. Got to get another six-hour energy shot.
Reporters swarmed around him.
One said, “Powerhouse, please elaborate on why Mitch Farrow should be prosecuted for attempted murder and public endangerment.”
Powerhouse groaned. He’d said that in earshot of the press? Sheesh, he was tired and cranky. “I may not be a genius, but who by sheer accident sprays pounds of pureed tuna on someone who is deathly allergic to tuna? He lured her there to kill her and put innocent John Wayne fans and cooking experts in peril. So I hope he’s punished. He is a public menace. We can’t have powerful corporate heads taking the law into their own hands.”
A driverless van rolled through the parking lot towards the reporters.