Ladies' Choice (The He-Man Women Haters Club Book 4)

by Chris Lynch

  “I knew it,” Steven said as soon as Wolfgang was gone. “He knew we were there watching him the whole time. The rat. You’re not going to let him get away with this are you, Ling? Ling? Are you?”

  This was a dilemma.

  “Wait,” Jerome said. “Get away with what? He knew you were where the whole time?”

  “We spied on the rat, that’s what,” Steven blurted. “He was found to be with a girl, consorting, even touching her muscles, and even slandering other He-Man members.” Steven puffed way up, his eyes bugging out, his fists punching his own thighs as he talked. “So, He-Men, what do you think of that?”

  There was a pause. Cecil broke it.

  “Why’d y’all have to go spyin’ on the boy to find that out? He does all that right here in front of our faces.”

  Jerome looked at Steven with a deep frown. “Spying’s pretty low there, Steve-o.”

  Steven huffed, scrambled out of the car, and lay down face-up on the creeper. Then he wheeled himself under the front end to pretend to be fixing it.

  “So,” Cecil asked, “you gonna be kickin’ ol’ Wolf out of the club?”

  I sighed. The pressure, the strain of command decision-making. Wolfgang was a problem, no doubt about it, a wild card. But at the same time he was probably the He-Man with the greatest ability to go out and make things happen. He was our can-do guy.

  Unfortunately, some of the things he can-do you wish he wouldn’t-do.

  “There is an investigation under way. I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation.”

  I have all the CNN Pentagon press briefings on tape.

  Jerome turned to me and began poking me in the belly just like Vanessa had. Very embarrassing.

  “If you dare get in Wolf’s way before he completes his mission, I’ll bop your brains out,” he warned.

  It had come to this: Jerome was threatening to beat me up.

  8 The Solution

  WHOLESALE CHANGES WERE IN order.

  The first step was going to be the most painful, but I was certain it had to be taken.

  Bolt Upright must die. No one respected him, no one understood him, and anyway I was always more of a military man than a do-it-yourself superhero anyway.

  So I returned the bicycle helmet and shorts to my sister. (“So that’s where my stuffs been disappearing to,” she growled. “I just TKO’d the dog when it should have been you, ya pervert.”) I returned the white knee socks and Rockport striders to my mother. (“Ling, you scamp. I almost had to quit my Tuesday mall-walking club. I’m also missing a lipstick and an eye pencil—would you have any idea …”) And I marched—literally—down to my friendly neighborhood Army-Navy Store. Time to get serious.

  By the time I’d returned to the garage, I had it. Tasteful. I looked at my reflection in the door of the black Lincoln. (Steven never stopped polishing the thing.) Tasteful and dignified. You just had to respect the man in this uniform.

  It was all army—the grunt branch of the service. Shiny black boots, dark-green pressed khakis, and matching blazer with a very modest set of bars on each shoulder. The hat too was dark green, flat, and crisp, with a brilliantly shiny black brim. The one shot of flash I allowed myself: a riding crop. I couldn’t exactly quit cold turkey after all.

  I saluted myself in the car door.

  “Are we off on a mission, Bolt?” Cecil asked, coming up from behind and shocking me.

  “Don’t ever sneak up on a trained fighting man like that,” I barked. “You want to get yourself killed?”

  “Um, well no, Bolt, I sure don’t.”

  “Don’t call me Bolt.” There was a small catch in my throat here. “Bolt is no more. And take off that ridiculous cowboy outfit. You look like a fool.”

  Cecil took off the hat and sat right down on the garage floor in a confused heap. He unstrapped his spurs.

  “Where’s Wolfgang?” Jerome asked, buzzing around the garage like a bumblebee. He zipped over to the car, looked inside, looked underneath. “Where is he? He was supposed to have straightened out Vanessa by now.”

  “At ease, soldier,” I called.

  “Shut up, Captain Crunch,” he responded.

  See what I mean. This was very very bad.

  “He ain’t here yet, Jerome,” said Cecil. “Sit down and relax, will ya boy? You’re making me nervous.”

  Jerome did sit right down on the floor next to Cecil, but somehow he managed to seem as if he was still running.

  “Well … anyway … I just need to know … you know … if he took care of it … you know … my little problem … you know, like he said. He does always do what he says he’s going to do, doesn’t he?” Jerome hopped back to his feet and started pacing.

  I got my slapping hand limbered up.

  “All right, where is the four-wheeled rat?” Steven snarled as he came in. “I want to see some results. Is little Jerome a free man, or does he get to live out the rest of his days pinned like a beetle bug to the wall of Nessy’s cave?”

  “Oh my god oh my god oh my god,” Jerome said.

  I was getting very agitated about now.

  “Hasn’t anybody even noticed my new outfit?” I asked.

  “Somebody’s got to do something. Wolfs not coming,” Jerome wailed. “He’s never coming back. They’re going to mail him back to us in pieces like the Mafia does, I just know it. Hide me, somebody hide me …”

  I slowly approached Jerome, my riding-crop hand raised and ready to calm him down.

  “Ohhhh no you don’t,” he said. “You just go right ahead and start slapping yourself. I’m not hysterical. You saw her. You know. I’d be insane if I wasn’t in a panic.”

  He was certainly convincing. I paused to think about it, standing there with my sharp-pressed uniform on and my hand way up in the air.

  “Still, it could only help you,” I said, and ran after him.

  I suppose some might have thought it a little bit funny, the way I had to chase Jerome around and around the car, me being so much bigger than him, and him being so wiry and crazy with fear. But I was willing to risk some ridicule to get this operation back in working order.

  “Slow down so I can slap you,” I said, reasonable as you please.

  “Oh right,” he answered. “Now who’s the mental case?”

  “Would you just let me slap you and get it over with, and we’ll all feel better?” I said, getting increasingly wheezy and angry with the pursuit.

  That was when gallant Cecil intervened. He stepped in front of me, locked a good solid grip on my upper arms, and fixed his eyes on mine.

  “General,” he said evenly, “I think maybe this is not exactly the leadership style you had in mind.”

  Gasping, gasping, I looked at Cecil, then across the roof of the car at Jerome, who was over there on his side panting, panting, his tongue visible like a little dog in summer heat.

  “Here, Jerome,” Steven said, walking over and taking him by the hand. “Let me show you what I do to decompress in times of great stress.” And he led Jerome over to the four-wheeled creeper that lay behind the tail of the car. Steven guided Jerome down onto it, laying him flat on his back so that he was staring up at the ceiling. “Now,” Steven said, “what you do is, you push off with your feet like so, sort of walking yourself under the car. Then once you are under there, you look up into the soul of the machine, at the pipes and plugs, bushings and springs and hoses, and you just contemplate it. You know what that means, J, to contemplate it?”

  Jerome, remember, has about three spare IQ points for every hardworking one of Steven’s.

  “Yes, I think I do,” Jerome hissed.

  “Good. What I think is, what I get out of this is what some geeks get out of staring up into the solar system with a telescope. This here is the whole Man’s universe, all you’ll ever need, right up under here. So go on now, push yourself off. And while you’re there, trying to figure stuff out, if you feel like working on something, go right ahead, kid. I’ll fix it later. The important thin
g is, just lie under there and cooooool out. You’ll see, it works.”

  Jerome nodded silently, with a determined look on his face. He planted his feet and pushed off.

  As hard as he possibly could. He was torqued up like a mainspring, because when he shoved off, he shot himself under the car, along the whole length of it, popped out the front end, and hummed right along until he crashed, headfirst, into a stack of empty motor-oil cases that came tumbling down on top of him in a heap.

  “How come nobody told me we had Jerome-bowling scheduled for today?” Wolfgang said as he reappeared. “I would have worn my glove.”

  Wolf was clearly the man of the hour, and everybody wanted to get at him. First one to reach him—despite the new egg on his forehead, and having to wrestle his way out of a stack of oily cartons—was Jerome. “So what did you do? What did she say? What did you say? Is she dead? Did you bring us her heart or her broom or something so I can be sure it’s safe to go outside again?”

  Wolfgang reached out and patted Jerome on his cheek.

  “Don’t pat me, Wolfgang,” Jerome said. “Talk to me.”

  Wolf answered him very confidently, very charmingly. “Not to worry, not to worry, brother He-Man. Contacts have been made. Processes have been initiated. A positive outcome is assured.”

  Jerome spun around to look at me. “What is he saying, huh? Can you tell me what he’s saying? Does anybody know what he is saying?”

  “Ya,” Steven said, in that tone he uses when he’s challenging Wolf. It sounds like the low gurgly-growl dogs use when they’re circling each other. Steven went right up close to Wolfgang and smirked at him. “I know what it means. It means he didn’t do nothing. It means he’s been pulling everybody’s chain around here, like usual.”

  “No. As a matter of fact, it means I have been very busy with this,” said Wolf. “I have made contact with Vanessa, but since my reputation is so huge, and I am so intimidating, she has refused to meet me face-to-face alone. Fortunately, our mutual friend Rock has agreed to act as mediator, and I just wanted you all to know that I am on my way over to Rock’s house right this—”

  “Oh that does it,” Steven thundered. “This guy is such a crock. He ain’t doin’ nothing but going off on another date. He couldn’t get anywhere with Vanessa, and he’s not even man enough to admit it, so he’s just running away to join the enemy.”

  Wolfgang brought his hand up to where his heart was supposed to be. “Steven,” he said in a wispy voice, “I am hurt. To think that you would believe …”

  “Save it, slick. Ling,” Steven said, “I say we don’t let this guy go anywhere without us.” He turned to Wolf. “We’re goin’ with ya. Hah!”

  “Oh no,” Wolfgang protested, weakly. “No, you can’t …”

  “Oh no,” Jerome protested, a lot more convincingly.

  “Oh yes,” Steven said. “Your game is up. Wherever you go, we go. And if Vanessa doesn’t show up at Ling’s house, you’re history.”

  A loud, nervous gulp echoed through the garage.

  It was Jerome, of course.

  9 Apocalypso

  WE WENT THROUGH WITH it, though none of us expected Vanessa to be there. But that didn’t stop Jerome from singing his “oh my god” song softly all the way.

  And it didn’t stop the clever Wolfgang from constantly assuring us that she would be there.

  “Really, guys,” Wolf said one last time as we circled around to the back of my house. “She’s here, so why don’t you all just go back—”

  “I can’t wait,” Steven said, slapping his hands together.

  The bulkhead to the cellar flew open and up out of the grave came my great big ghoulish sister Rock.

  “They wouldn’t believe me, honey,” Wolfgang explained as she lifted him out of his chair and cradled him in her arms. “I feel so hurt. Can somebody please meet me at the bottom of the stairs with my wheels? You there.” He gestured toward Steven. “Be a good boy, would you?”

  Steven was by now putting on quite a show with the number of colors he could make his face turn.

  “You guys are so suspicious all the time,” Rock said, shaking her head. “Don’t you ever take a break from being paranoid?”

  “No,” I snapped.

  When we got to the foot of the stairs, there she was, Vanessa, sitting on the couch, hands folded, staring at us.

  I was surprised—and relieved. I was hoping we would be able to rehabilitate He-Man Wolf, and this was a good sign.

  Steven was not quite so impressed. “So he got lucky. Vanessa happened to be here, coincidentally. Let’s just get this over with.”

  “All right,” Wolf said, rubbing his hands together as if he was sitting down to a nice meal. “I believe I have come up with an idea that will help not only Jerome but every He-Man with his girl problem. I am certain, in fact, that by the time we leave this room, we will all be better men, and you will all be thanking your ol’ buddy Wolfgang for helping out.”

  As if on cue (had Wolfgang even rehearsed his speech?) my sister walked to the steps leading up to the main part of the house. She stopped at the light switch. Slowly, she turned the dimmer down, down.

  “Hey,” I called. “I don’t like this. Rock. Rock, you put those lights back up now.” She did nothing. “I mean it.” Nothing. “I mean it now. Don’t make me come up there now …”

  She giggled and turned the lights down to where we could barely see each other. “Rooooock,” I moaned, “you’re embarrassing me again in front of my men.” I stomped one big boot and slapped my leg with my riding crop.

  A body moved in the darkness, brushed by me like the first pass of the shark in Jaws.

  “Uh-oh.” Suddenly it occurred to me that Jerome had not whimpered in some time. I felt around for him, pulled him close enough for me to see his face. His mouth was wide open in a futile attempt to scream.

  Steven got panicky. “What’s going on here? Wolf? Wolfgang, what is going on here?”

  When Wolf didn’t respond, I knew we had big problems.

  “Retreat, men!” I called. “It’s a setup! Retreat!”

  We ran, as a fumbling group, toward the bulkhead.

  Slam! Someone had that closed, and locked.

  “This way!” I said, leading Steven, Jerome, and Cecil back toward the upstairs. There was an awful lot of giggling going on. Much more than from the two girls plus my mother we saw in the light.

  Something was very wrong.

  When I reached the stairs, a familiar hard finger jabbed my belly. “Get out of love’s way,” Vanessa told me.

  “Turn around,” I yelled at all the He-Men banking up against my backside. “Out through the utility room! Steven, you remember.”

  “Ya,” Wolf called. “Steven, you remember the utility closet, ya sneaky spy.”

  The giggling got louder and seemed to come from the walls.

  Then there was music.

  Caribbean music. Loud, with a powerful beat.

  “Hurry, hurry hurry,” I said. “This is what they did in Apocalypse Now, blasting music before they wiped everybody out.”

  It was “Under the Sea,” from The Little Mermaid.

  By the time Steven grabbed the door handle to the utility room, the music had been turned up loud enough to shake the Eisenhower picture down off the wall with a crash.

  It was just like in the war movies. Steven, poor son of a gun, never got to turn that door handle. They turned it for him.

  Ahhhhhh! They poured out of that closet like wasps out of a nest, squealing, bouncing, jumping as the lights came halfway back up again. Girls. Hundreds of them, millions of them, an endless army of them, many in that familiar uniform of the Girl Scout brigade, moving to the music and overrunning us.

  It was uncanny the way they could synchronize their body movements precisely to the music. It must be a girl skill.

  “Holy—” Steven screamed, his last words before the final, utter collapse of our line. Their laughing leader advanced on him, her hand
s extended toward him. He wailed, “Head for the hills, boys, it’s a dance parrtyyyy …”

  Words can scarcely describe the horrors that ensued. They were a brilliant, merciless force. They divided us in the dark and never let us recombine to defend ourselves. After “Under the Sea” came the slow song “Kiss the Girl.” (Monsters! Is there no end to the carnage?) By the time the lights came back up, Nessy was holding Jerome as if he was an air mattress she was trying to expel all the air from. Sure, his feet were moving, and he appeared to be responding to the music, but that was just some residual nerve twitching like when you pinch the head off a bug. Really, he was gone, his head lying back on his neck like it was going to fall off.

  I begged my mother to put a stop to it. How could she have allowed my sister to con her into this whole fiasco?

  “I’ve been waiting for this, Ling, to see girls here. I wondered if it would happen for you someday. Your father said we would never live to see it, god rest his soul.”

  What had my rotten sister been telling her?

  Cecil, our shell-shocked soldier, had cornered himself, down on his haunches in the most inaccessible crevice in the room, with his two great bony hands extended in karate-chop position. He remained frozen there like an indoor gargoyle until the doors finally opened and he flew.

  But our wounds were mostly superficial compared to what happened to Steven. Monica pursued him, first to one corner of the room, then the next, then the next. Like an expert boxer, she cut off the ring, making his maneuvering room smaller and smaller, until she had him trapped. At that point things got so intense, Steven’s face became a thing I did not even recognize as him. Words were exchanged over the relentless, remorseless music. She bore down on him, pressuring, leaning, until, somehow, she broke him. Broke his mind, broke his spirit.

  Numbly, he followed her. Through the crowd, and into the utility closet, where she closed the door behind them. She held him trapped in there for a good seven minutes anyway.

  God only knows what happened to him. Like all traumatized victims of war, he couldn’t even speak of it afterward.