Juan Whiskey

Juan was not Latino. Perhaps a family joke, his name implied none of the glory of ancient spanish heritage. The point, Juan was white. No tan skin or dark hair or slenders eyes rushed out to herald the cavalos of mid history, sires from his past. No, and by white the point, he had no recognizable culture. Perhaps born of second generation Irish Americans, but no, still he had nothing of the proud Gaelic bearing. His smile didn't warm heart and hearth and his voice held no fierce rain on green hills.



Juan was white. Younger still, all the boys in his class delighted to call him June or Joan or Jew-Anne. Simple facts being evident, as a boy he was clearly boyish, and as a Christian he was unJewish. The taunts made no sense and infuriated him. He drew pictures of his chums with pencils jabbed into their necks. He knew it was a sensible reaction to the insanity of the taunts. Juan was no girl, in fact his drawings showed danger in his head. Surprizing that, even young, no one headed the warning.



Juan, no longer overweight or zit riddled, spent a celebate 4 years in secondary school, though not by choice. Not a choice on his part, to clarify. He was no John Merrick of a hideous thing, cast out as a leper, unfortunately, no. He looked merely average. He developed no personal hygene issues of note. Sill, and again for no real reason, he was passed over by the multilayered cult of the fairer sex when it came time for courtship. He wrote poetry and stories about them, in the kindest and most naive fashion. These writings were tributes to beauty, and again he was cited as being a bit sillyheaded, but not crazy. Another rational response to ward off rejection, created.



Unfilfilling in academic circles, Juan floated past four years of advanced bachelor's studies at the small University, earning a paper in Sociology. After, and not to be outdone, employers explained his uselessness to a degree of painfully stunning acuracy, even by his own estimation. There was no logical reaction.



Whiskey and guns fell in without criticism, his true friends and crying shoulders - purchased friends, all high caliber. The low bar stool and the high hammer of a revolver complimented him endlessly. His friends told him not to worry. They were important friends. They knew people. They would take him places. The gun barrel and the open neck of a bottle praised him, even embarassed him as a mother flatters her young boy in front of strangers to prove her fitness as a mother. Juan sparkled in the reflection of the glass of Old Grandad. His flaws hid in the blue imperfections of cold steel.



White people - descended from cow pokes - crawled out of his brain, learned to walk across the room, and soon ran to him. A town of competing law dogs sweated out decisions and stamped a deal he could live with. The echo of their boots matched the slip scrape of his shoes on the sidewalk as he crab walked the eight block from the bar to his appartment. The mail looked fine. The stairs waited, empty. The room waited, empty. The bed, thankfully, empty. He sprawled.



He prayed, silent as he fell asleep, that tomorrow the guns would be real. The bearded white God of the Americas didn't answer. Instead he dreamed a nightmare of broken windows and sirens and sprained elbows. At first, his dream of himself was a wonder, a relief. He sat naked in the living room, smoking bowl after bowl of hash, drinking fine bourbon and cursing. His dream loaded a gun, lit a smoke, hit the pipe. He swaggered to the bathroom to check the mirror. He dreamt of all this. As the dream crystalized in a haze of chemical relaxation, he loaded his pack with bullets and hash and crushed cigarettes. Then, he followed the empty stairs to the widow's walk two floors above.

Naked and cold, he dreamed he might kill himself until a rowdy crowd crested the small hill. They shouted. It was far to late and night and he shot them. The same people from childhood, perhaps, but not officially. It suited him fine. The bottle was downstairs and the wind made his balls shrivel, and so, he let the gun fall into his pack. The return trip was screaming. The stairs and hallway now filled, he had to retreive the gun. Naked and dreaming, he threatened and shot. A few gawkers refused to clear, lying on the floor, thinking that blood would protect them. He shot several times. They were dead before, he realized.

Then the sirens and the broken glass as he fired at the police and anything that moved until they burst through the door. With a calm dreaming mind, he let them hurt his arm and drag him out in a blanket. Morning was soon to come, he knew. He would be in bed, hung over and warm. This terrible dream, this too would end. Everything passed eventually. As the sunlight rubbed his eyes, he wondered about the dream. The passage of all things meant his drinking would end. His sleep ended. His headache began. Work, however, would not begin today. He stayed home. He prayed to be fired, and was not.

2007, based on interpretations and extrapolations of stories about broken men, drugs and guns

Meet the Heroes Issue 2, Epilogue

Epilogue Jane Doe arrived unnanounced to Mercy Medical Center, another body found in the flood. The doctors wondered at her scars and skeletal trauma. The collected the stable facts: white caucasion female, mid fifties, had given birth at least once, in excellent health (before drowning). The flood had removed her clothing. Dental records gave her name as Erica Thomas. There was no surviving family to contact. Janes and Johns pulled from the river were many these days, but everyone could sense she was special. A few of the orderlies and nurses got permission to spare the body from cremation. They found a plot out on old Seven Hills Cemetary, dug her a hole and burried her. She was a hero, they said in her eulogy. Any mother who died in the flood was a hero for being a mother at all. Each woman present created her own tale of what Jane Doe had done to receive her injuries. None made her a victim, but a heroine, fighting for her children and for justice. It fit. It fit her every aspect. Even dead, she was vibrant and attractive, the envy of all present, beautiful, strong, heroic, at peace finally after the great struggle. They wept for themselves. This woman could have lead them and nurtured them. She'd have inspired them to greatness. She'd teach them to be strong. As they tossed mud on her, they resigned to fate. Not everyone can be a hero. Few people can. The choices involved are glamourous and brave at a distance. Up close, they are poison versus rot. Heroes strengthen others while destroying themselves. Heroes live in guilt and die in hell. To be a hero is to regret. Knowing the ending, very few volunteer for the job. The ones who do were doomed from the start. The night before, Kosmos had told me that they didn't need me and I'd be better off leaving. It was the first and last fight we had. He died the next day, as did The Son, as did Mercy, as did many others who weren't heroes, but victims. I stayed, despite what he told me. In a fit of anger, he said, "You can't possibly imagine what will change tomorrow if you stay." But they needed me. He was lying to save he. I hated that. I can't even wish I had died. How awful if I ruined what they did by being a self pitying kid. So, I watch them sling mud on Jane Doe, a.k.a. Erica Thomas, a.k.a. Mercy, beloved of Harmless Man and Mother of the Son. She'd seen them all die and somehow managed to let go and drown. There are no heroes, just good and bad people too stupid to stop fighting, like me.

Ebard

Meet the Heroes, Issue 2, Part 12

Endgame

The news van flew low. Its rider, melding his own magnetic energies with that of the Earth, generated a fierce static cloud around him. The van flew over the water, toward Jeruselem.

The rider read the signs of activity correctly. The Son of Man and his support team were fortifying the Temple Mount, one of the few structures above the flood.

The Fisherman, a.k.a. Deepwater, created waves the height of a building. Supercell kept his flying van well above the reach of the waves. A strategy formed.

Within a mile of the city walls, he plunged the van into the deep, cold waters. He floated, suspended by magnetic repulsion. The van continued on under water. It emered a few feet from the submeged Wailing Wall.

The van and anything metal within a mile hurtled towards the Temple Mount, electrified and pushed by the human dynamo in his pale yellow singlesuit.

He heard screams. The Son would know he was here. The psychic sidekick would also know. Supercell understood the principle of forced moves. Dubois had taught him that giving people a choice invited disaster. He had to leave no choice for them. He showered them with more metal.

Sure enough, a cruiser sized military boat came at him high speed. The boat fired, but all ammunition would fall into the water.

He realized, almost to late, that it was controled from dry land and loaded with a nuke. His magnetic field would hold off the radiation if he could stay conscious through the wall of compressed air from the explosion.

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

"Decoy is away," Fredblast said. The Son of Man nodded. "Closing, 700 meters. Detonate?"

"No," The Son said.

"What?" Deepwater exclaimed.

"Hold off the detonation. He's seen through the trap," The Son said. Ebard stood beside him, smiling.

"He's pulling up," Ebard said.

"Now can I detonate?" Fredblaster asked. There was a long pause.

"Detonate, now," the Son said.

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

The waters withdrew as the small, tactical nuclear warhead went off one mile from the Temple Mount, above a place called Horeb.

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

Supercell dove towards the Son of Man. The Son unsheathed his sword, the Sword of David. Belial knew about the sword. It slew his Golliath. It slew the body of Dubois. Supercell knew.

"The one who wields the Sword of David cannot die in combat," Dubois had said. Supercell was curious. He swept an arc of electrons over the Son of David Mott. The Son was knocked back but got up.

Supercell flew at him and landed a punch to his jaw. His electrified fist hit with the force of a boulder falling from a high cliff. The Son was knocked back but got up again.

Supercell circled around him and back up. He laughed. He focused his energy and magnetically pulled the sword from the Son's hands.

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

Moments before, The Son sent all his remaining friends into the labyrinth beneath the Temple Mount. The would emerge safely in Horeb, he assured them. He would distract Supercell.

He he came out of Al Asque and waited in the open courtyard. A yellow thing of a man flew at him. Lightning erupted, knocking the Son down. He stood. A fist rammed his head. He stood.

Sensing his opportunity, the Son readied himself and, as he saw the energy building in Supercell, he added his own force when the blade was torn from him. Instead of travelling at the predicted speed it should have, it travelled twice as fast.

The second arc of lightening hit him.

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

Supercell caught the sword in his gut, blade first. He fell from the sky in pain. He landed on the sword, right next to his enemy, the Son. Ebard watched.

The life force of both men retreated from his view. He ran into the courtyard. He cupped the Son's head in his lap. The last thought startled him.

This couldn't have been, he thought.

"Yes," the Son said aloud. "I am."

Ebard sobbed. The thought was too beautiful to bear. As many times as necessary to serve God. He was transported back to the day he met this man. He'd asked the Son a question when they were alone. Ebard was afraid to die. He asked if he would die. The Son didn't give him an answer, until now.

Meet the Heroes, Issue 2, Part 11

History

He never thought about that first night. He allowed very little of the past. The stereotypical childhood of a career criminal with one fundamental difference, his past hid in fear. There existed, somewhere, a sick, warm place of abuse and defilement straight from the Hollowood movie factory, except there was no retaliation, no release into psychosis.

He didn't tick or hum like a bomb. He didn't fume and plane. He didn't obsess. He didn't kill. He made a clear and rational decision to purchase the skull mask for a party. He bought it early. He bought the black duster coat and top hot from a consignment shop.

None of his friends thought him unusual because he studied various martial arts forms. His generation sought out that sort of thing at the prodding of television, comic books and video games. Hell, everone had been bullied in school. Everyone came from a broken home. There was nothing unusual at all.

That night, the mask went on. The sick, warm feeling returned in his own breath under the mask. The smell of saliva, and soon the taste of his own blood, created a hole and he fell into it. His training took over and it was done. No, not done.

Once the trembling subsided and the novacaine of brandy and ginger ale took hold, he knew he liked it. Every part. The killer came accidentally.

He fought the urge to repeat for two weeks. The news hollered at him, "Save us! Save us!" He saw a priest who barely listened. He bought a Bible and tried to read his mind back to right. Inside its pages he met Kings David and Solomon, and the prophets Daniel and Isaiah. Empires rose and fell at the whim of the Lord.

Save us, he thought. Save us. But no one answered his call. He opened a notebook and wrote for two days straight. His thoughts never cleared.

He put the mask back on and entered a place where the past existed only as smell, moisture and temperature. A place where the War Kings lived in blood and spit. A place for prophets to rail without conscience.

He beat men women and children to death, and was beaten to death in return. Now, in the fever and sweat of Ghenna, there was no difference between him, the criminals, the victims and Belial himself.

"It was an accident," he said.

"He speaks," Belial grinned.

"An accident," he repeated.

"I know," Belial said.

"Are you satisfied now?" St. Michael asked.

"Very," Belial said.