Meet the Heroes 11

Daylight

Normal people did not understand the news. In a field outside of Raynham, just within the borders of the Hockomock Swamp, thousands of dead bodies were found. Poorly dressed bodies flopped over badly burned bodies. Little fires crackled. The air smelled like sulfur.

What average city folk didn't know was why. Why did this happen in a field? Why so many dead? Why the costumes and tattered clothes and prison orange jumpers? Hero showdowns rarely left horrific scenes of carnage. The simple answer of war never occurred to them.

Superpowers as nations go to war. Politicians engage in political warfare. Corporate entities waged price wars. The inevitable always happens. War began among crime and crime fighters.

Daylight revealed the price. Lives. The public didn't understand. The Horde weren't human. The Heroes were misguided loners. The prison squad was reprehensible. They blamed Mardi Gras, the Harmless Man. The media provided the logic.

Crime remained static. Robberies, murders, rapes happened, sure, but at a predictable rate. Drugs came in and went out. Drug dealers and thugs died at their own hands. Police arrested them. They were released, all the easier to arrest, institutionalize and hide away.

Once the vigilantes fought back and organized, the criminal element congealed into a horrific monster syndicate with no ambition greater than the total destruction of all law and civilized behavior. The world turned for the worse. America had never seen 2300 dead people in a rural field dressed in costumes and armed like private security mercenaries.

It undermined the purpose of a police force to boot. Police departments became a stopping point for criminals on the way to the hospital or the morgue. And the mistakes. Heroes killed innocents and other heroes and white collar criminals and traffic violators. Or, so the media told American Citizen 245 and her family.

An outburst of anti-hero sentiment flared up again. The late Sly Peterson became a martyr. Theories about his suicide became nefarious. Who killed Sly Peterson? An article read on the cover of Times Magazine.

The Average citizen was left to draw their own conclusion. The horribly violent Harmless Man and his gang of prison insiders were a logical choice, once pushed to that by media coaxing,

People don't want to know the truth. The want a quick answer and a way to express their disappointment in their jobs, their pay, their protection and their fear. That fear was Harmless. But don't worry.

I killed Sly Petey. I set up the bloodbath at Hockomock. I burned the bodies. I robbed the banks. I bribed the media. And now I own the minds of millions. Fear is the best tool to lead.

When I remove this Pig Mask, dress in a suit, and provide the final solution, all intelligent, God fearing Americans will have no choice but to ellect me into office. Just a Governorship or a Mayor of a major Eastern City will do. I'll push the legislation we all want.

The Vigilante Reform Act. You see, people want their crime in a nice tight box. Everyone has their own crime of choice. Is this goes to far, we'll all be robots, prisoners or dead.

I will keep America safe. I will target the true enemy.

But first, a terrible disaster.

Anonymous letter to Channel 7 News

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Terminal

It's another word for dead, or close to it. Terminal. It means the end. Bus terminals. Train terminals. Endings. It's not a fitting word for the death of a friend. For many years, Buzz and I didn't see eye to eye. We didn't speak for weeks. He wanted to blaze. I wanted to redirect.

Buzz liked direct language. He liked action. Buzz wasn’t afraid of anything. I’ve heard people slander the Hero movement, particularly those of us who used force to its limits. They say we are criminals. The Police hunt us and politicians persecute us.

But I ask you this. If a man was trapped in a tiny apartment for fear of being mugged, or worse, by gangs, would you blame him for making a decision one day to fight back? A timid man can be brave if he chooses to stand up for himself. That’s what Buzz did. In his former life, before that first time he wore the uniform, he was not part of the solution. In his new life, we haw a Hero. In death, he is a reminder of what is right with the Hero movement.

Barney Aldren. That was his name. His real name. He was a person like any of us. He’d had enough. He fought back. In fighting back, he angered the criminal element. They fought back. The situation escalated. Now, we are at war with crime. War is not for police. It’s for brave soldier. This is not some foreign country. This is the United States of America. Our home. People who would destroy us must be eliminated. Prison is not an option. Prisoners become Inside Boys, and Harmless Man will make criminals in to cold blooded vigilantes with no regard for any law besides the Old Testament eye for an eye mentality.

We must neutralize the criminal element, stop feeding the army of a psychopath with a Bible, and end this threat. The only people who will do this is our brave Heroes. With this in mind, I have submitted an outline of a Constitutional Amendment to establish the National Union of Heroes. This union will ensure that we fight with order, consistency, clear rules of engagement and government support. It stresses accountability and has an endgame, the complete elimination of the Horde of Evil and the Inside Boys.

In memory of Buzz Baldwin, the man Barney Aldren, and all of our fallen heroes, it is imperative that we rally around this legislation to restore order to American urban centers.

Excerpt from a speech by Chronos on the steps of the Capitol Building.

Meet the Heroes 10

Terror

In the beginning of the 21st Century, a wave of kidnappings spread across the East Coast of the United States of America. Normal, everyday people disappeared during business hours, on lunch breaks, at parties. Coaches cancelled games. Schools closed. People called in sick from work. Sometimes they never made it back.

Sociologists reasoned some new malaise had set in. Whole population clusters didn’t vanish. There must have been some secret migration. A sign of the times, perhaps. The disenfranchised people of the Western World had seen enough and were moving on.

This theory was incorrect. The missing children of Urban America came back in division sized globs of humanity. The Sons and Daughters of the Eastern Hemisphere known colloquially as The Horde joined them. A panic gripped the cities and sprawls of the Eastern Seaboard from Maine to Florida.

It wasn’t until the acceptance by local, state and federal government of the vigilante/hero movement that normal citizens could walk safely to their jobs again. This acceptance was slow in coming because of a massive smear campaign engineered by journalist Sly Peterson of the Daily Chronicle. There is anecdotal evidence that he was paid substantial sums of money for his efforts.

The Cape Busters program flourished as doctored footage of The Demon Crew, a gang of loosely organized heroes with a reputation for quick and decisive violence, set the public against all heroes. Peterson spent the majority of his time producing slanderous reports and fake documentaries that eventually brought down the group’s self proclaimed leader, The Harmless Man.

When the true nature of the threat was finally realized, The Harmless Man was a shadow of his former skull crushing glory. He’d deteriorated in a solitary cell in a Supermax Prison outside of Detroit. His crew had splintered into smaller groups with different aims. It’s no shock that when the brainwashed masses returned with their lethal dose of vengeance, even the veteran building jumpers were not prepared.

The criminal mastermind Pig Fink, after many defeats, hid until everything was in his favor. Without the writings and deeds of superhero Harmless, the movement drifted aimlessly into the waiting, psychotic arms of the world’s most dangerous man.

The unsatisfactory nature of the situation became evident when Sly Peterson supposedly committed suicide by pouring gasoline on his head and lighting a match. His suicide note was never fully substantiated. It serves as a reminder to us all that the best defense against evil is right here in our midst. It is ourselves.

Excerpt from the Foreward to Almanac of Heroes, written by Richard Dubois, American Boss.

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Clink

To whom it may concern:

In a recent article, your magazine lumps all the street heroes into one category: Brawlers. This is far too general. Boxing and sparring are not like a bar fight. A bar fight is cleaner than a street fight. And then, there’s the prison fight. The strategy is kill in one second. The tools are bits of scrap, plastic, metal, wood, glass, it doesn’t matter. Do as much damage in as little time. If a fight ends with both parties upright, someone screwed up.

The streets are not like the movies. People get shot and die on the streets. In prison, given a long enough stretch, even the nastiest wolf will get popped. Most people don’t walk out of prison, they get rolled.

Even in solitary, punks die every day. If a dude wants to survive inside, he can’t be a punk. Respect is the currency. It doesn’t matter if he killed to get in. Will he kill to stay in? It’s called The Game. Jail is where hustlers learn to survive. If a dude gets out, he’s bound to come back. There’s nothing out there. It’s all in the Pen. Drugs, money, power, fame, it’s all in. No one gets out alive.

Unless some bad, neck snapping, six foot four dude gets the cube next to him. If someone like that shows up, dude’s got a chance. Life on the outside is easy if someone shows you how to be useful. Grab something and use it to flip The Game. Now, Cons die on the outside. Prison’s safer.

One thing they never get in prison is women. If you like women, stay out. No one has to go clean to be a street hero. Hero would be a bad name for some. The dude that showed up put some thugs together and told them how to make it all happen. They got paroled easy. Hell, the man even smiled when he signed the form.

Next thing you know, it’s the violent on the violent. These brainwashed freaks tearing up the streets, they might be high enough to talk to God, but they don’t know how to implement prison justice.

Now, street fights are prison fights. No one is left standing if it’s done right. There’s no guards with rifles in the towers to break it up. It ends in death. Inside Guys like me, we don’t want to die. We want to be like Harmless. We want to live forever.

Another thing they’ve got in prison is the Bible. God of the Beginning dispenses prison justice. The God of the Middle learns Mercy. The God of the End has tried both. Which one do you think he found works best?

You become an agent of the God of the End and you live forever. We’re all Harmless once we get with God.

Calvin ‘Clink’ Hayworth

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Stratagems

Boss didn’t buy it. They suited up ready for a war. Fifteen carriers, two support vehicles and the Wailer. The Inside Boys wanted to meet, so he would meet them. It wasn’t about fighting but being ready to fight. Terrible risks have high rewards. The Inside Boys could turn this fight for them.

Rumors floated. He didn’t buy them at all. He saw wholesale slaughter at the last appearance of these street vigilantes. Heroes don’t do that. Part of a person’s soul must be missing if they can do that. This was justice on a very sharp edge. The letters sounded like him. It was hard to tell.

If so, they would stop him.

The risk.

They rolled out into the street. Night, of course. Mercy drove outside the city to a dark field far away from prying eyes. They parked the transportation. Heroes flooded the night. The days of makeshift capes and crude devices ended shortly after Pig Fink’s first defeat. They got stronger, more clever, better armed and less lethal.

Then The Horde came back. Fifty thousand lunatics charged the city while decent folk tried to sleep. That was the first night. After a week, The Inside Boys complicated things. Lethal for lethal. Harmless vowed to trade death for death. That’s what the letter said, anyways.

“This is where it’s gotten us,” Guise said.

“Shut it,” Buzz hissed.

Explosions burst around them. A dirigible cleared the trees and dropped phosphorous devices. The cool recesses of night shocked to bright white. Instant daylight. People appeared and died in the same instant. Horde, Heroes and Inside Boys tangled violently. Communications slapped out of devices. Chaos.

In the center was Harmless. Mercy dashed off with Guise tailing her. The stout shape of Pig Fink rappelled from the airship. It got thick quick. No innocents. Tactics changed on the go. A mix of bodies, blood, bullets, fists, boots, canisters and colors fizzed in white relief against the woods.

Three pockets formed. The lines stabilized. The phosphorous faded and they fumbled around, stabbing at each other. Ultimate blindness.

“Goggles, folks,” he transmitted. Low red fires blew out enhanced sensors, fragging everyone’s retinas. A shaky voice suggested retreat. “Stay and slug it out,” he responded.

Meet the Heroes 9

Piggy

Candy Girl. You are my world. Ever seen a dancing pig? Maybe at the clubs sweetheart. You look like a club dancer. I’m that Italian PIG you wrinkled your nose at. I had enough money to buy and sell you. Now I buy people like you every day. This is the real life game of death. Fight your way inform the streets and then battle the eighteen stories of terror to get to my pad. Wanna take a bath? You’re love’s so sweet. You’re a special treat. Candy Girl.

You’re everything. Everything. Everything to me.

Let me give a few different commands to my street sergeant. He’s a good friend of your Boss. Imagine that. You have a Boss. You’re rich, so rich and beautiful. Built like an Amazon. Check out my fair lady, now. Whooooooweee! You don’t need another Boss. I’m the Boss Hog.

Tin Soldier, introduce plan R. Scatter. Retreat. Pull back and let them in. The almighty Smaug Hog has traps in his lair that no burglar can escape. Let them come in and play. Candy Girl. Now. How about those villains? Radiative Fetus. Attack. Dr. Murk. Attack. Stroke. Attack. Crimson Cape. Attack.

Release the hounds. The cameras show my Horde Floors slapping each other into a fury. Open the flood gates. Attack. Attack! Tin Soldier, get up here immediately. We must plan for her arrival.

Look at that spiral kick. Damn, he’s good. That’s a nasty takedown you got there Boner Man. He’s studied something. A strike to the temple. Low kicks. That knee stomp of his. What is the name of that style. No matter. Iron Hand, Iron Body. I have both. Here. Staple my mask on. This might get rough. Either way. She’s a minx. Look at that flying kick. I love that.

Give me an injection. I’m getting faint. Did you hit an artery or something? Staple to the collar bone next time. Jeez. I don’t want this thing coming off. Okay, you handle the peons. Let her through. In fact, let him through too. I want her to see this. It might be her last chance to realize that I am his superior in every way. Yes. I’ll kill him myself. Injection, you nitwit. I can still feel it.

Handle the others. Handle them. And shut off this damn music. I’m getting tired of it. I’m losing focus. You injected too much, idiot. This isn’t like the other times. I’m in it this time. Understand? Get the second needle. I need an energy shot. It’s just B 12, I swear, your honor.

That’s it. That’s it. Free and easy. Now go. I need to prepare.

Look at that tailored suit! That’s my best decision this week.

Confrontation

She dropped to the floor. Expecting the blackout that never came, she felt his fat hands turn her head. She could see the room. Harmless came through the side door as planned. Too late for them. The Pig Thing launched into a great speech. It made sense. It was disturbing but it made sense.

Harmless tensed as Pigsy described what he was going to do next. She watched the flurry of gloved hands as the two men met. Pig flab didn’t give way. Harmless’ fists made staccato thuds. He backed off. He’d hurt his hands doing that. Pigman open hand slapped him across the room.

Slowly, they came close again. The fat Pig was immovable. No leg sweep worked. The thigh kicks bounced back. The head hunter jaw shot, the backfist, the twelve elbow strike all were useless. Piggy slapped him again. This time, he went down. The Pig stepped on his back. She heard cracking.

The sound of tazers rang in her ear. She smelled ozone. Dodger to the rescue, she thought. Old Gutshot had run the gauntlet and he was wired to taze. It stunned the Pig, but only for a second. Harmless jerked his legs up around the Pighead and squeezed.

“Hold him,” Guise said. He hopped over her and injected the Fat Bastard with something. “Good freaking night.”

The Boss backed into the room with Buzz. “Pick her up and let’s go. No time for Fink. Just get her up and go.”

That crazy guy dressed like a Nutcracker shouldered him to the ground.

“Come on, Rick! Run me down, baby!” He screamed. “You should be running things, Rick! The Goldenboy! Ricky Ticky Timebomb. Phone for you, Rick.”

Boss tangled with him. Guise scooped her up. Harmless was pounding Fink’s face bloody. Teeth were poking through the Pig Mask. Everything was broken and burning in seconds. Fresh air slapped her lungs and they whizzed down a rope. The world went up as she went down.

Footsteps knocked the pavement. The siren call of the ambulance coming. Miss Bomb and Teddy Spaghetti covered their exit. It was not a compete disaster. News crews everywhere. She felt a tug at her neck.

“It’s out,” Guise said. “Give it a while. It’ll wear off.”

“Harmless,” she said.

“Don’t worry,” Boss said. “We got him.”

Meet the Heroes 8

Meanwhile

Dark. He sat up. Nothing. Still dark. His gut hurt. Oh. And his sinuses. How terrible. This life sucked so far. The first thing in thirty years he’d enjoyed and it nearly killed him. Crap.

His legs hung off the cot. He’d seen some guys get up from the cot. Others. Too many others. He dripped. Sweat or blood. Both. Fever was back. He saw the clock. It was deep in the night now. He swallowed four aspirin and a tramadol. Life kept getting better and better.

He wanted to shoot the gun. He wanted to drive the van. He wanted to learn karate or whatever. No, you hold the camera, they said. Safer. Yeah right. This was safety he didn’t need. Pain safety. Hospital safety. No. Not even a proper hospital. Mercy’s backyard surgery and prescription drug center. A flophouse for half dead building jumpers.

Where were they? It was jolly of them to leave him alone, screaming in pain. No babysitter. No nurse. At least she left the pills. Another bottle in his hands, he swallowed a few of something or other. Gut shot. Gut shot in broad daylight in the city holding a camera with hundreds of witnesses. Some of the witnesses were drug crazed killers. Eh.

Oh. It hurt. He slumped across the room to the couch. Television. Crap. News and a warehouse getting shot up. There he was. Skull and Bones. There was Mercy. There was the Guiser. Carrying dead people. Nice of them to cart off the dead. Explosions and fire. Buzz’s blue and red butt hauled past a news camera. And here came the Horde. Nasty little cusses. They bit and scratched and shot and shrieked. And there in the background stood a man on a loading dock. A man with a pink pig mask. He knew the man was smiling. No mask could hide a smile that big.

That was no building jumper. No one was sick enough to fight crime in that get up. That was a bad guy, for sure. A happy bad guy. Porky. He’d tell them Porky was watching. A glutton for violence. A swine among purls. A dandy boar. Candy pig. Oh.

The longest nap crept up upon him. Second longest nap. Not time for that nap yet. Gut shot is not dead. The Dodger lives to film again, he thought. At least he shot something. Not like whatsisname who can’t hit the side of a broad boar if you paid him in nickels. The television barked. He turned it down.

Waving lights danced him to sleep.

News is fun, he thought.

Defense

If there’s a high wall around a house and defense becomes an issue, hunt up some building jumpers and mount some heavy caliber machine guns. This is a very basic strategy for home defense. You can embellish it as you wish.

The most useful type of building jumper has two things. Experience fighting The Big Ham Sammich (aka Fink) and his Horde of drug crazed indentured servants from the east, and a great shtick. Remember, the flashier the costume, the more outlandish the name the better.

Here are some of the crime fighters who hopped the wall at Mercy’s compound the day it got invaded: Cow Ninja, Kid Kosmos, Lame Wire, Dr. Eidolon, Miss Bombs, Captain Cryme, Chronos, Drunken Robot, Tent Gal, Mr. Rubbersuitman, Doc Finook, and of course, the Demon Crew featuring Mardi Gras (aka Harmless), Buzz Baldwin, Guise, American Boss, Dodger (aka Gutshot) and Mercy herself.

It’s better if you are well rested and uninjured. Again, referring to the Mercy compound, they had little time to prepare and most were beat up. As an aside, this whole thing could have been avoided if Mercy had installed the proper anti-surveillance devices like I asked her to. Turns out someone had a surgically implanted tracking pin in them. An RFID chip, for those of you in the know. GPS can be a superhero’s best friend or worst enemy.

Not that I’m putting blame on anyone. It sucked all around. It’s going to suck if your secret lair gets invaded by hundreds of meth toothed junkies. Just deal with it. Get the men and women up on the walls and start spraying rapid fire heat down on them.

One note about fighting The Horde. Technically, they are innocents when the board the ship from wherever, but once they land here and get all juiced up and start killing and eating, the guilty tag has to apply. It’s sad that they were looking for a better future and ended up working for a psycho in a pig mask, but this is what wars are. The innocent fight for pigs and die.

At this point in the game, you are well beyond using non-lethal suppression devices like pepper spray, tazers and tranq darts. It’s great if you want to capture someone and hand them over for analysis, but all it does is mess up the flow of combat. The enemy scatters and some are dead and stay dead while others rise up after a few minutes. Way too creepy for me. Plus you’d be shocked what a speedball will do for a one hundred pound starving woman who thinks you’re a demon turkey. They don’t quit.

They honestly believe we’re demons, and we’ve done nothing to dissuade them. Gaijin, they call us. White devils. Well, not all of us are white, but we are American. Good enough for them. We don’t mind. Hell, we’ve got a Skull as a frontman and the creepy ambulance that floats. Gimmicks, see? They might seem superfluous, but they create confusion and fear.

Excerpt from Hero 101, by Buzz Baldwin.

Meet the Heroes 7

Toys

Rick Dubois, American Boss, champion of justice is trapped by toys. The man who could talk his way out of any situation is stuck in a rut. Toys don’t listen to reason. He knows he’s been given something. Someone pulled his eyelid open and dropped in some bitter, stinging substance and now he’s trapped by toys! Brilliant.

He’s thinking. Oh, looking for a way out. Looking won’t help. Nothing you see is real. Such charm in your voice, Rick. Toys won’t listen to you and neither will I. Look at you. You can barely mumble. Such a sad man without his phone. So helpless without his pals. Where are your pals, Rick? Where are your pals, Rick? No pals.

I’ll tell you what. We can be pals. I’ve always wanted to be your pal. Fink will be done with you soon and I’ll be your pal again. You could run them all down, back in the day. Now, you’re a freak in some costume. Well, I’ll save you some embarrassment. I’ll make you whole. Hiyo! Remember the good ole days? Rick my buddy. My pal. I’ll put on a sexy cape for you and play doctor. I’ll buy a skull mask if that’s what it takes.

Look at the toys Rick. You are my toy now. But I want to be friends. Here. Here’s a toy phone. Smile and dial Rick. Call for help. Call for help. Call your pals so Fink will let me have you again. Call them. I want to see them. I want to watch them die so we can be all alone just you and me without anybody to bother us. We can make millions, Rick.

You shouldn’t swear at me. I’m sorry I hit you but you shouldn’t swear. It’s the least you can do. You know, that day I went back home with my last paycheck, I thought about you. You were my inspiration. I fell apart. They sent me home. News and toys, toys and news. Thirty six strange hours.

Do you like action figures? RC cars? Trains? I love trains. So beautiful. Remember being a kid, Rick? It was nice before all the hassles. It’s kinda dumb for a grown man to play with toys. But look who I’m talking to! You look like one of those cheap costume people at the movies. Shame shame, buddy. At least my toys have a purpose. Man, I am sweating. Are you sweating? Awesome.

Predictably thudding along. I hear them coming. Careful, Rick! The toys are sharp. A few are rigged. No. No. Not yet. Man, I’m freaking out here. Whoo. Thud thud thud. Is that tear gas I smell? It smells like clean brain o wow ow. Huh. Cahuh.

Oooof. Ha ha. Hit me again. Bang. Door is open. Bang. Guns and smoke. Fist fist skull fist fist boot ow. Ready Rick? Button time. Button time. Button time. Ha………………

Swimming.

I like swimming.


Rescue

The Ambulance rammed through the aluminum door of the warehouse. Its driver and its passenger stumbled out. Guise wasn’t sure if he’d get a chance to fix this. She’d asked him to fix something that first night. It seemed he’d been fixing stuff ever since. This might be the last thing he fixed, this situation.

Neither one of them could fight. Mercy’s best cuts were on the operating table. They would stand side by side and pull bullets, stitch bleeders, reroute intestines. They did cosmetics for those who needed to disappear. This wasn’t their finest hour. The van was smurfed. It was dark. He was bleeding.

They’d dragged a police cruiser here by running a red on Fifth and Main. The cruiser had called backup. They’d rammed the door. Dead Horde bodies were all around. Live Horde bodies were filing in. Gunfire erupted. They were crossed up in it. Mercy shouted to get down. He pulled the revolver.

She was hot, but it was more than that. To him, it was important to show her how he was. He was brave and dedicated. He worked hard. He did what he was told with a smile. He wasn’t sure. Maybe. He shot holes in the wall. He hit one or two. The police opened fire again.

They ran. She jumped and did that double kick he liked, knocking a Horde Zombie back and through a door. She punched another one. He popped a few that blocked their way. They were rolling. They were getting down now.

It made sense. Buzz and Skully made sense now. He got it. Point, click, dead. Punch with the heel of your palm. Keep your thumb tight to the curled index finger, but not inside it. Now it all made sense. Yes, he loved her. He loved all of them. He loved being powerful. This was out of control, but slow and easy somehow.

They swept room to room until they found them. He didn’t bother reading the scene. They were here to grab them and go. They’d make sense later. She injected Skull with something and he woke up.

“Help me,” she said, lifting Bossman as best she could. Harmless grabbed Buzz. Guise grabbed Buzz’s gun, the AK 47.

“Don’t worry,” Guise said, “I’ll cut us a hole.” He loaded a clip and they were off. They stormed out of the front of the warehouse. Forget the vanbulance. She’d get a new one. She had the money. Bullets hummed like angry bees as they stomped down the street backwards, returning fire to The Horde and the cops alike. This was no ordinary raid. The news cameras rolled as they got down right on Broadway.

But what surprises did they take with them, Fink wondered. He watched the scene from a nearby high rise. Harmless. That’s your name, eh? You’re not Harmless anymore.

Meet the Heroes 6

Wounds

She couldn’t shut him up. Some pain went beyond the reach of medication. Migraines were like that. No amount of aspirin, vicodin, percoset or morphine would touch it. So, he’d scream himself out if he lived.

The argument was over. Buzz had walked. Bossman insisted they keep up with it. Skull had left after that. Skull came and went. Nothing new. Guise worked on the van, blacking out the wheels, adding more undercarriage light, patching holes. Bossman chain smoked.

“He’s going to die, you know,” She said.

“Not now,” he waved her off.

The Horde had slammed them around all Halloween. Dodger was shot in the stomach. Buzz was not in great shape either. Skull never got hurt. She wondered what they were going to do next. Maybe Boss was recruiting in his head. He stretched out.

“Keep him alive,” Boss said.

“Sure, I’ll call God,” She said.

“It’s important,” Boss said.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“I’m going to the police,” he said.

It made about as much sense as sewing up dudes in costumes and pumping them full of pills. The news had tons of footage to play with. The Horde obliged them with encore performances around the city. Then, they vanished before dawn. She heard wedding bells.

Sundown to sunrise took thirteen hours, an ominous number. The Horde was full of fury, fighting off bullet wounds, missing fingers and arms, fractures, shrapnel. They fought until they died and then ran off to fight some more, like living corpses, like zombies. She knew it was too late to go back out. It was too late.

Or…

She found Guise revving the engine. She got in the seat next to him.

“Do you remember the first night we met?” She asked him. His scowl turned into a soft smile.

“Best day of my life,” he said. She nodded her head to the garage door. It was her house after all.

Meet the Heroes 5

Halloween

Children are just darling in their little Halloween outfits. That is, unless they’re speed addicted, malnourished children posing as trick or treaters robbing a bank. It’s not so cute when they reach into a bag and pull out a nine millimeter and redecorate the lobby of the bank. No one likes the trick where they slap the teller and call her a naughty word, or blow the manager’s brains out onto the other tellers. It’s not nice.

The poor security guard couldn’t bring himself to shoot a child. The customers in the bank noticed that these children were horribly behaved. Real monsters. They were eating the security guard. He’s not candy, children.

They filled their bags with money. Lots and lots of money. Then, they played a nasty trick on everyone in the bank. They lit it on fire. That was not nice. Not at all. I can’t believe their parents let them out alone. Unsupervised children always misbehaved.

Wait. The parents were outside the whole time. They scooped up the crying children and pulled out guns of their own. The apple most definitely does not fall far from the tree. Plant a carrot, get a carrot. These awful parents shot people trying to flee the burning bank. What was this world coming to?

Finally a siren. The police will set these youngsters straight. A little scare will put everyone back into the fabricated box they belong in. It’s an ambulance. We’re saved! An ambulance with no tires. It’s purple and green. Nobody expected the paramedics would dress for the holiday. Now this was a treat.

Look! There’s one dressed as Baron Samadhi. And that one has a Gatling Gun. Look at all the green smoke. Ooooh. It stings. Was that an explosion? I can’t see anything, can you? Can you hear the screaming? Now this is Halloween. It’s terrifying to say the least. People will want to visit the haunted bank show every year, if there’s anyone left to tell about it.

Oh good. The news van is here. Let’s get on TV. Say hello to America. Happy Halloween everyone! Happy Halloween! Trick or treat! Trick or treat! Holiday Greetings from The Fink! Candy and bloodshed for everyone! Ha ha!

My my my. It is going to be a busy Halloween. Uncle Fink needs to go home and get his costume on and get more children to join the fun. Enjoy the mess, Superteam, whoever you may be. Enjoy the confusion and the blame. You look so sharp in your little costumes. Enjoy, children, enjoy!

Can you hear the motorcycle roar to life and ride over sprawled bodies like twigs in the forest? Don’t we all love Halloween? So many Holidays we can spend together. All the earth rejoice! The children are running wild in the fields with their hair undone. Sing to the blood red sky! Halloween is here!

Meet the Heroes 4

Fink

Fifteen cargo containers of starving humanity crowded the abandoned bus station. The translator explained to them that they would work for their freedom. Trade in forced human labor was nothing new. Fink had an unusual twist to add. They would become his vast, violent criminal organization. Most of them were shaking with hunger. Men, women and children. All would work, the translator said.

Fink watched from the safety of his enclosed office. He saw the boxes dragged in by strong Italian men. Loyal men. Men who’d come to him after the set up that sent him to prison. All of these men had chosen him and certain death if caught by the Mafia. Their tongues would be torn out.

The Italians opened the boxes. The Southeast Asian Slaves looked on in wonder. Guns. Well, the slave trade was despicable. Why not reroute some of these unfortunates from Molvalo’s trade and make them soldiers in the crime war? At least they had a real shot with guns.

The instructions were clear. They would be given one meal a day until they brought back $300.00 of stolen merchandise apiece. No one told them the meal was stuffed with crank. Utter chaos. Loved it.

Fink had sent The Horde out before. This was a much larger group. More men, too. The money was unimportant. He wanted fire. Fire and brimstone. He didn’t know what brimstone was, but he liked the sound of it. The unsuspecting public was already keyed up from the building jumpers running iron footed through the garden of crime. This was the cherry, the icing. Let’s see old Bone Daddy face off with a bunch of cooked meth-heads from the Pacific Rim. Let them at each other. Guns and knives and teeth. Rotten teeth and sores.

He heard one guy tell it that these Chinamen ate some of the victims. Disgraceful. Tacky. Would have to be tolerated for now. Ha ha. Oh. The cannibal Horde must be allowed to work on the city’s gut for a while. The Horde was a slow spreading morphine sickness, exhilarating even while paralyzing. It made a great commercial.

He watched their sickening feast from on high and held his breath as the doors were swung open to daylight. They ran like a herd of diseased animals, snorting and screaming for safety as jets of latex paint colored their faces. Shelter. Food. Love. Privacy. Sanity. All the things that were taken away from them and would never be given back. They howled his pain. The pain of unbearable loss and the knowledge that one choice had taken everything from them.

One. Greedy. Choice.

Sayonara, suckers.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Dialogue

“What in God’s name did you think you were doing?” Guise yelled.

“Strafing fire,” Buzz Baldwin said. “Not that you’d know what that is.”

“You nearly strafed Dodger’s freaking head off,” Mercy joined in.

“I’m fine,” Dodger said, rewinding the tape.

“We need to work out our timing a bit,” Boss said. “It’s not about wanting to play by team rules, it’s about actually playing by them. No one cares if the two of you want to expand roles a bit. Play by the rules.”

“Aren’t we getting a bit stale?” Dodger asked.

“It’s simple,” Boss explained. “We don’t go off the map until we need to. Consistency. Trust me. It will pay off when things start to muck up.”

“And you,” Boss said, “Ease up.”

Harmless smiled. Boss had seen enough of that look. Harmless was an empty skull it seemed. No life to him. No reasoning with him. It was bad enough. No need for him to smile and make it worse.

“If we have to keep editing for violence,” Boss said, looking to Dodger, “We’ll have no footage. Or worse. If news networks happen to catch up to us. What will people think?”

Harmless lit a cigarette.

“Another thing,” Boss said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and crushing it, “No more smoking. Causes infections.”

Harmless stopped smiling. He retrieved a notebook from his backpack and wrote.

“Okay,” Boss said, “We have a busy night tonight. Let’s get the van prepped. Doc, make sure everyone is patched up. Guise, fix this. Dodger, get the tape out to Channel Six and everyone be ready for 2 a.m. We’re going big game hunting tonight.” He looked at Dodger and Buzz. “You two may get your wish after all.”

Mercy grimaced.

Dodger and Buzz smiled.

Harmless kept writing.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Editorial

Daily Chronicle:

Super Heroes For Kids
Sly Peterson

The recent idiotic behavior of the younger generation astounds me. I’m referring to roof jumping, a.k.a. costumed crime fighting. Sure, we all loved it as kids. Halloween and comic books are a boy’s best friend growing up. But the social hazards of imitating the lifestyles of our Golden Age friends are crippling.

One, there has been a recent backlash from organized crime. The one thing we could always count on from organized crime was, well, organization. Now, they’ve become chaotic. Mob Bosses on roids. It’s insane. I liked my mobsters better when they wore Armani. Now, every day is a criminal’s Mardi Gras.

Speaking of which, the Bone Man himself strikes me as being a bit inconsistent. Here’s a guy who fights crime by ignoring the justice system, taunting the press with manifestos and dressing up for his own self aggrandizing home videos. This is Super Ego, not Super Hero.

And who is this band of gothic misfits with him? The property damage alone is criminal. Not to mention masquerading as an Emergency Vehicle. This has to stop. Police Chief Harold Dimes had better get his head out of his… childhood and take this threat seriously. Who are the bad guys anyways? When everyone is in costume, it’s tough to tell.

Plus, our younger generation looks up to these creeps. It’s bad enough that I can’t name a single athlete who’s not in a scandal, now my five year old wants to fling on a cape and fire a machine gun indiscriminately into a crowd.

Bad parenting? Maybe. Maybe I’m just a boring old man who writes for a dying media outlet known as the Chronicle, but I do it the right way. Above board, without a mask and with very little fanfare.

Well, I’m left with little choice but to expose these punks for who they are and bring them to justice. You can join me by sending any information you have to:

Cape Buster
c/o Sly Peterson
Daily Chronicle
12345 West Street
Downtown, 10110

I’ll be looking out… for you!

Meet the Heroes 3

Channel 7 Newsflash

Cue intro. Roll it. 10 seconds. Five four three cue lights, ready one. Take one. Ready three. Take three. Fade intro, cue sound. Sound up. Cue Tracy in five four three two…

“Good evening. This is a Channel 7 news flash. An outbreak of gang violence featuring more bizarre costumes and vehicles took place in the lower East End today. Police are currently investigating the possibility that an organized group of gang members may be attempting to wipe out all of their rivals.

The video you are about to see what shot by an anonymous contributor. This footage may not be suitable for young viewers…”

Cue B roll. Take it.

The monitors show a tall, dark figure walking in front of a purple and green ambulance which seems to be floating. As he walks, the streetlights go out with loud pops and rain of glass and fire.

“The gang of costumed crusaders destroyed infrastructure and property on Saville Street in lower East Side.”

Explosions. Thick green smoke. The sound of coughing.

“The sophisticated timing and use of military tear gas canisters may indicate that one or more of the gang members have military experience.”

The dark figure raises his hands. There is a robotic whirring sound followed by the extra loud fan noise of a gatling gun. The camera lurches and fixes on the line of fire. “Holy *beep*” a witness shouts. The lights continue to pop and go out. Coughing and choking are heard. More burping from the gun. The dark figure moves in close, followed by the ambulance. He begins a series of elbows and take downs on a group of grizzled street dealers trying to pull weapons from secret places.

“The figure in the skeleton mask is believed to be the Mardi Gras killer.”

Loud scream off camera.

Ready still frame. Take it.

A picture of this Mardi Gras killer, taken from the side as he beats his open palm into the chest of a would be assailant.

“Mardi Gras is considered armed and dangerous. If you see this man, or any of the others in this footage, do not approach them. Call our Channel 7 Newsline at one eight seven seven…”

Meet the Heroes 2

Guise

They’d burned down the flag shop. Now all he had was the basics. He had cloth, thread, scissors, and a sewing machine. It wasn’t good enough. It didn’t put money in his pocket. It didn’t help him relax. He had a few loyal clients. Freaks, mostly. They wanted their outfits stitched. Some wanted new and better outfits. Weird materials. Secret pockets. Insulated. Shock proof. Padded.

One day a client asked him to help with a fake identity. He named a disgustingly large price. The man paid cash. He knew nothing about creating a fake person. Satisfaction guaranteed, he said.

Lives were easy to quilt together from obits, web searches, biographies and such. The faces were more difficult. A woman contacted him about a cut job he’d done a few weeks back. He offered to meet her. The news rambled on about some ghostly ambulance hovering through Downtown. He would have dismissed it, but the ambulance pulled up to his building and it’s siren was eerie. It was whale song with effects on it or a woman moaning and chirping, he couldn’t tell.

Speaking of women, one got out of the ambulance. She was dressed in a tight fitting outfit of red and white. She had a mask and ski goggles. We’ll have to work on her look, he thought. He heard her running up the stairs. The running stopped for a moment and his door burst open, splintering at the lock.

She crouched, thumbing a switch on her belt. The lights went out.

“You’re going to fix something for me,” a voice said from behind him. It was a smooth, feminine growl.

“I, uh,” he chuckled, “You’re serious?”

“Yes,” the voice said, now on his left. He smelled something chemical in the air.

“Sure,” he said, “After you fix my door. Either that or I call…”

“Shhhhhhhh,” she hissed in his ear and his nose and throat went numb with a wet breath of something sweetly nauseating. “The police are looking for you already. You’re not safe. Here. Anymore. Anymore. Anymore. Or or or or or…”

“Blahgl,” he said.

“Don’t,” a deep voice from all around said. “Worry. Ee. Ee. Eeeeeeeee…”


::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

American Boss

“Rick, you should be running things,” Martin said to him from the other side of the cubicle. “Man, freaking, smiling and dialing. The Golden Boy. Rickterman. Rick, you could run all of these mothers down. You’ve got sales in your blood.”

“Hello, Mr. Farnswelt?” Rick said into the phone. “Hi, it’s Rick Dubois with EIC. How are you tonight? Good. The reason I’m calling is to introduce myself and to follow up on the information you requested. Did you receive the packet I sent you?”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Martin continued. “Listen to the Golden Boy roll out the script like he’s just talking casual to ya. Bam. Another PMM guaranteed. Man, your numbers are sick. You could sell Jello to Bill Cosby. I swear to you. You should be running things.”

“Well, Mr. Farnswelt,” Rick said, “Can I call you Jim?”

“Oh. Oh,” Martin said, “First name basis. Establish rapport. Build trust. Hit SALE! Hit SALE! Ding ding ding!”

“Right. I have some time later on this evening,” Rick said. “Maybe we could get a cup of coffee?” He was looking at the name and number he’d written down. “Eight o’clock at Men’s Donuts would be great. I’ll see you then.”

“Digh ding!” Martin stood and shouted. “Whoo! Hit SALE!”

“I’m out, M,” Rick said. “Gotta get suited up before my appointement.”

“Golden Boy’s got another live one,” Martin said. “How big?”

“This big,” Rick said and made the inch sign with his thumb and forefinger.

“Ha ha, man oh man.” Martin’s cat calls followed him on the way to the door. Martin was right. Rick should be running things. He had degrees in psychology, sociology, business, ancient languages and communications. His IQ was well above 150. People liked him. He knew the rules. He gave respect. Martin should have been smiling and dialing. Unfortunately, Rick was not his Boss, so there was nothing he could do. He had to sit back and watch Martin get himself fired and not interfere.

He didn’t want to be a Boss, but everyone knew he should be. It was a shame to waste his God Given leadership and charm selling by phone. It would be a waste. There was only one way to use his talents. He’d need the right employees. Tonight, he’d be interviewing a man from the Lower West End named James Farnswelt, a.k.a. The Dodger. Maybe he’d offer him a position with the North American Security Team Invitational. Probably not. Dodger was old. He needed the tall guy, the Skull. And he’d need a new identity.