• • •
Dear Mindhopper,
I'll tell you how I know you call yourself a mindhopper: you talk out loud when no one is around. Once you got on my radar, I planted bugs in your bedroom and The Magic Attic.
So are you screaming, "Invasion of privacy!" right now? Listen, I need you, and others like you, if we're going to save the world. People like you can't sit back and do nothing. But keep in mind that if you aren't with me, you're against me, and you don't want to have me for an enemy.
What makes you think I "mindhopped" the museum curator? This has me curious.
I like you, Jake. You'd be a valuable member of my team. Please reconsider.
By the way, what is it with you and frogs?
Yours affectionately,
Brushstroke
On rare occasions, Jake showed real emotion. And after reading the email for the second time, anger came boiling up from the pit of his stomach, and he felt like he was ready to explode. She'd not only violated The Magic Attic but his bedroom, too. He had to do something, so he spent the next three hours carefully searching his room, until he'd found and crushed two bugs, hoping they were the only ones, then sent a final message before going to bed.
Brushstroke,
You're sick. When I said to leave me alone, I meant it. There is no way I'd ever work for or with you.
You think you're all powerful and need to train me, but you seem surprised that I could tell you'd been in the curator's head. Let that be a warning. My abilities stretch much further than you ever dreamed.
Mindhopper
Jake felt justified in embellishing his gift. Anything to keep that nutjob far away. Now he just hoped it would work.
• • •
Over the next couple days, things remained quiet. No cryptic messages from Brushstroke, no finder jobs, and his mother pretty much left him alone. The way he liked it.
As he walked down the half flight of stairs to The Magic Attic for his evening shift, he could see, through the glass door, a man set a gun on the counter and his mother step back, clutching her chest. Jake stopped descending, totally surprised by this and not sure what to do. He watched as the man slumped to the floor. This is all so weird, he thought, but then his mother walked over to the counter and started picking up the pistol, and it dawned on Jake that the man must be a mindhopper. There was no time to finish going down the stairs and through the door, Jake realized, and though he was reluctant to do it, he, too, mindhopped into his mother.
Over the years, Jake had mindhopped into so many different kinds of people that nothing phased him anymore, but this was completely different, as he battled the stranger for motor controls of his mother's body. He could see out of her eyes, but the vision was fuzzy, almost as if he'd had too much to drink. Or maybe dropped acid. Not like he ever dropped acid, but he imagined this might be what it was like.
Mrs. Connally stumbled around behind the counter, knocking over stacks of books and a couple flower pots she had sitting around to bring a little beauty into the store and her life. The gun, still clutched in her right hand, swayed over her head most of the time, and if any witnesses had seen her, they'd think she'd already dropped her bottle of tequila and was looking for her long-lost husband to shoot. Then her left hand swept across the counter and Jake's frog went flying across the store. Enough was enough!
Fury unlike he'd ever experienced filled Jake's thoughts, and he felt himself squeeze the stranger out of his mother's body. Just like that, it was over. Now in control, Jake placed the gun under the counter and looked down at the man who so recklessly sent the frog flying. He looked to be in his forties, brown hair, slightly overweight, wearing a black shirt, jeans, and a cheap looking light navy jacket. Definitely, no one he'd ever seen before. After a couple seconds of no movement, Jake started wondering if he'd killed him. He might not like people, and he was definitely a thief, but he wasn't a murderer.
Movement caught his eye and he turned his mother's head toward the front door. Apparently, the stranger jumped into Jake's body. But how? Jake always had to mindhop back to himself before he could jump into someone else. Plus, he had to be looking at his body to get back in. Were multiple mindhops part of Brushstroke's training? Could they zip out and into someone else at the last second? And perhaps, just perhaps, they didn't even have to see a body to mindhop into it. If that was the case, Brushstroke and her agents were far more dangerous than Jake initially thought.
Of all the strange things Jake had seen over the years, watching himself start climbing the stairs topped the list. In seconds his body would be out of sight, so he had to mindhop back in now. Still furious at this guy, Jake squeezed him out immediately. Glad to have control of his own body once more, and especially happy to exit from his mother before her dreams and desires started flooding his mind, Jake hurried into The Magic Attic, expecting that the guy either went back into his own body or maybe into his mother again. The guy on the floor still wasn't moving. And when Mrs. Connally started screaming and telling Jake to call the police or an ambulance or something, it became apparent that the guy mindhopped into someone else entirely, and by now was long gone.
"Jake, I can't even,” she said, pausing for a moment and looking more odd than usual, “I can’t even tell you what happened, Jake, it was all so crazy." Jake heard sirens approaching. "I'm just glad no customers were in the store because that wouldn't be good for business." She walked over and picked up one of her flower pots, more soil spilling out as she lifted it. "Looks like I'm gonna be here for a while with you, Jake. My soaps will just have to wait."
• • •
The presence of police and a medical emergency crew brought plenty of onlookers, but they couldn't see very well into The Magic Attic from the sidewalk, as they tried to peer down the stairs and around all the commotion. Mrs. Connally decided they'd close the shop as soon as the man was whisked away to a hospital and the police finished taking statements.
As they walked home, Jake's mother insisted that they stop in Levenson's deli.
"He's got his egg salad on sale this week, Jake. I love it on toasted rye bread. We'll pick up a pound, and maybe for a treat will get some regular potato chips, instead of Reduced Fat Pringles. After what we've been through, we deserve to live a little."
Mrs. Connally couldn't stop talking about seeing the gun, blacking out, and coming to with the store such a mess. But Jake, like usual, wasn't a good audience for his mother. He didn't care to listen to her prattle on and on. His thoughts, though on the same subject, veered from a different perspective: Who was the gun intended for? Initially, he thought Brushstroke meant to get at him by having his mother commit suicide. But the more he thought about it, the less sense that made. When he realized the plan was for Jake to be shot by his own mother, he nearly choked on his egg salad sandwich.
"I'm so shook up, Jake, that I can't even watch my soaps and talk shows tonight," Mrs. Connally said.
Was she looking for sympathy from Jake? He was never sure how to reply when she made statements like that.
After several more seconds of silence, she stood up, sighed, and started putting the food away. "I'll just get up early, is what I'll do. Can't afford to fall too far behind in my programs. Good night, Jake. Sweet dreams, son."
As Jake sat at the kitchen table and watched her slowly walk down the hallway to the stairs, all he could think about was how glad he was that she'd left so he could finally get to his computer. He was pretty sure Brushstroke sent him an email by now.
• • •
Jake,
It's obvious to me that you don't believe in our cause. You ask to be left alone, but I can't do that. You know about us, somehow you have the ability to force other possessors out of bodies (I'm done calling it mindhopping, since you chose the wrong side!), and therefore you're too dangerous. Can't you see it? You're a threat to our very existence. You could have been part of what we're trying to accomplish, part of our team to tame the world, mold it and shape it into what it should be.
/>
But no, you think you're better than me and my disciples. Well, Mr. Connally, you're now facing the worst enemy you could dream up. Maybe we missed our opportunity to be rid of you earlier today, but we'll get you when you least expect it. And next time it's going to hurt…it will be much more painful than a bullet to the face.
His cell phone started buzzing. "Who in the world would be calling at this time of night? Jake mumbled to himself, and looked away from his computer, picking up his Samsung. Brushstroke could wait. He didn't recognize the number, but then again, his list of contacts was short.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Connally, this is Officer Hardy from the precinct that handled the perp early today. The one who came in your shop with a gun."
"What can I do for you, officer?"
"We just wanted to warn you that the previously comatose perp is gone. The hospital isn't entirely sure what happened, but apparently, he just woke up and walked out the door. We just wanted you and your mother to be aware, and to be on the lookout."
Son of a gun mindhopped back in when no one was looking. And why would they suspect it? The police have no real way to track these guys, chase them down...prove that they're jumping around from body to body.
"Thank you so much, Officer Hardy. We'll do our best to keep an eye out for him and to be extra careful."
What more could Jake do to keep Brushstroke and her people away? She probably wouldn't send the same guy, but someone he'd never seen before. Which would make him paranoid of everyone. He felt a little anger boiling around in the pit of his stomach. Closing his eyes and setting his phone back down, he took a deep breath. He reached out to a little ceramic green frog close to his mouse, but that didn't cut it, so he went over to his bed. This situation called for his frog on the nightstand, and he carefully picked it up, cupping it gently in his palms for several minutes. But he needed to get back to the email. He had plans to make.
It's ironic, is it not? You behaved like a superhero, swooping in to save the day. I'm surprised you weren't wearing spandex with "Mindhopper" stitched across the chest, a bright cape billowing out behind you.
And all that power, all your abilities, were destined to be working for me.
You screwed it all up.
By the way, your mother is fair game now.
We're coming after you, and there's no escape. As I said, this time it's gonna hurt.
And then I'll burn your frog collection.
With hate and vengeance,
Brushstroke
Jake clicked the reply button, then changed his mind and closed out of the Deep Web email server. Instead, he got comfortable on his bed, setting his favorite frog on his chest. "What would you do?" Jake asked the green toy. "Probably nothing, since you're not alive."
Brushstroke had the numbers on him. He had no idea how many trainees were in her pocket. Three at a minimum, based on the Boston murders, and possibly dozens. All he wanted was to be left alone. He didn't want to be a hero and try to stop her from taking over the world. But now she made it impossible for him to just sit back and do nothing. Now it seemed as if he truly did need to become a superhero.
And he had an ability she wasn't familiar with. He could actually squeeze Brushstroke's people out of bodies. That had to count for something.
He ran upstairs, grabbed a Coke out of the fridge, then went back to his desk.
"I can do more than she thinks," Jake whispered. "I can train myself to do whatever I want. I'm not afraid of her or her people."
Jake needed to leave. Tonight. He could access his money from anywhere, and it would be hard for Brushstroke to trace.
What if they took his mother, or killed her? More than likely, he figured they'd use her to lure him in. And he was okay with that. It could help him locate their lair, or hideout, whatever she called it. Maybe being a superhero is easier when you're emotionally stunted, he thought. Still, he'd wake his mother before leaving, tell her goodbye, and warn her she might be in danger. She'd be sleepy, disoriented, and too stubborn to leave. Her DVR was programmed for her shows, and it hit Jake that her shows were much like his frogs. Which reminded him to pack his five favorites. Thank goodness he'd placed the frog from The Magic Attic in his pocket after he found it on the floor below some travel books. Travel books. It had to be a sign. Superheroes were given signs all the time, Jake realized.
He packed his small suitcase with a few changes of clothes and some toiletries, along with a bookbag for his laptop and five frogs. To stay off Brushstroke's radar, he'd get an Uber to downtown, then eventually make his way to the bus station and decide his destination on the fly. He still didn't know all the tricks Brushstroke and her cronies could pull.
That left him one more task before he put his laptop away. A final missive to his mortal enemy.
Dear Brushstroke,
You’ve pushed me beyond my limits. And now you have no one to blame but yourself for what comes next. You thought you could appeal to my inner nerd because I collect comic books, telling me I’d be like a superhero if I joined forces with you. But you’re wrong. You can’t have a hero without a villain.
I’ve been mindhopping for years, stealing for my customers. No one would confuse me for a good guy. But like a lab accident, or poisonous space rays, or witnessing the murder of one’s parents, you’re the catalyst launching me from thief to something more.
And if I were you, Brushstroke, I’d be plenty worried. My abilities go far beyond anything you can imagine, which you’ll find out soon enough. Because I’m coming for you.
Issue one is over, Brushstroke. Your villainy has been established. Stay tuned for Issue Two, when the hero strikes back.
Most Sincerely,
Mindhopper
Pleased with himself, Jake allowed a rare smile to creep across his face, then packed up his laptop, took one final look at the frogs he’d have to leave behind, and set off to become the greatest superhero the world would probably never know.
A Word from Ed Gosney
I fell in love with superheroes when I watched Batman and Robin battling the forces of evil in the mid- to late-Sixties. It was fun, exciting, and campy, but for a young boy, it was everything I needed. Then Saturday morning brought Super Friends to my TV, along with after school reruns of Spider-Man and other Marvel cartoons that didn’t have very good animation, but had great opening theme songs. Ultimately, the glamour of television superheroes led me to little mom and pop stores that had racks of comic books you could buy with pocket change.
Years passed, and while I wasn’t always loyal to comic books, they were always loyal to me, available whenever I needed to escape from the rigors of this world. Then one fateful day I found myself surrounded by mountains of white boxes full of comic books, and knew I had to stop, so I went cold turkey for eight years. Sadly, I had to eliminate a large part my collection, and while not an easy thing to do, my family needed room to breathe.
But like a supervillain who gets locked up and keeps breaking out of prison, the allure of comic books is too tempting to resist. Once again, I’m buying comic books. I’m choosier, mostly purchasing back issues to help complete runs of the comics I loved so much as a kid. Along with that, I also read a lot of digital comics on my tablet. There are both economic and storage advantages to going digital, and I’ve been enjoying it very much.
These days, I share my love of comics through a weekly blog I post on my website called “Cool Comics in My Collection.” You can find it at www.edgosney.com. While visiting, consider signing up for my newsletter so that you don’t miss out on freebies and updates on my fiction. You can also find all my books and stories on Amazon, and feel free to reach out to me via email at [email protected].
SECRET IDENTITIES, INC.
BY JEREMY FLAGG
SECRET IDENTITIES, INC.
BY JEREMY FLAGG
“JANICE, CALL IN THE FIRST APPLICANT.”
“Yes, Mr. Robinson.” He ignored her sarcasm.
Steve Robinson relea
sed the button on his speakerphone and straightened his tie while attempting to position himself comfortably in the high back leather chair. The large desk contained only the bare essentials; phone, computer, a stack of papers and a single pen. All items lined up parallel to the edge of the desk. He lifted the applications and shuffled them until they were aligned at perfect ninety-degree angles. He examined the resume on top of the stack.
The company logo bounced around on his computer’s screensaver. Secret Identities Incorporated started as an app for his phone, an attempt to crowdsource breakouts in superhuman activity. Now they occupied their first office, perhaps not in the most glorious part of town, but at least the operation had progressed from the basement of his house. Janice, his sister-in-law, against his better judgment, stood in as his secretary while he attempted to grow his business.
His pocket buzzed. He slid the phone out enough to catch a glimpse of a giant yellow “V” flashing on the screen. Somewhere close, someone registered a supervillain sighting. Not a burglar or a carjacker, somebody with superhuman abilities defying the laws of physics, was in the midst of a crime. Bank heists were normal in this area of the city, this being the third since they’d set up shop.
He couldn’t afford the safest neighborhood.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket as the door opened. Today marked the beginning of what he hoped would be a lifelong business venture. He handled the coding of the software. Janice, when she put down her gossip magazines, managed the office. The logical next step: hire customer service and sales reps.
His jaw dropped as the figure struggled to fit through the doorway. The mammoth turned sideways as he ducked, giving his impressively wide shoulders extra room to maneuver. The man dwarfed Steve’s impressive six-foot-four and two-hundred and fifty pounds. Rarely did the developer feel insecure next to another man, now he took stock of his insignificance.
Collateral Damage Page 11