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Second Tier Superheroes
by Nakar Alright, this is my story, and you'll have to take that however you will. It has almost - and this will be an operative word throughout - everything one could ever want in a story: action, drama, latent sexual tension, heroes, wannabe heroes, heroes who don't want to be heroes, heroes who show up late, heroes who don't show up at all, overt sexual tension, aliens, demons, satire, mad science, blatant sexual tension, musical numbers, hackneyed cliches, vilains, overpowered villains, villains who kill each other and themselves, in-your-face sexual tension, science fiction, vendettas, Italian history, coach-class travel, plagues, semi-sexual situations, mass rioting, copyright infringement, trademark infringement, patent infringement, banana republics, Ronald Reagan, military coups, villains having a field day in an undefended city, divine intervention, demolition teams, most of your favorite heroes, quite a few "who the hell is he?" heroes, sex, Saigon, sex, AIs, sex, telephone hotline operators, sex, repetition, sex, repetition, sex, flashbacks, sex, one pissed-off traffic cop, far more than two Expendable Extras™, at least three fight scenes, no more than four sex jokes stolen from other places, five pages of meaningless taunting, six geese-a-laying, and yours truly, the author, N.D. Gabab of the Supermegatopian Technical and Liberal Arts Institute for People With Too Much Time on Their Hands (a division of Supermegatopian Labs est. 1973). And kiwis. But that's a given. Oh, and one last thing: I'm in control here. Never panic. It all works out in the end. I read the ending. Hell, I wrote the ending. Chapter I: Second Tier Superheroes Supermegatopia - the "How Many Uses for a Kiwi? So Glad you Asked!" city. Just in case you flew in from another planet - a likely occurence around here - this metropolis happens to be awash in the little fruit thingies. It has been said that, when the apocalypse comes, nothing will survive but cockroaches and kiwis, which will suck for the cockroaches, who can't eat kiwis. But, if you're looking for a place to spend money frivolously in the face of such grim speculation, you can't go wrong here. Indeed, the average person can walk the streets of Supermegatopia in relative safety. This has little to do with the police - affectionately known as "the fuzz" - but rather, it has to do with the high population of superheroes, mercenaries, and vigilantes. Take Ferret Man. Shortly after his arrival in the city, tourist muggings dropped sharply. No mugger wanted to die, and so many tourists were biting the dust in the crossfire that most never left the airport. Which is to say nothing of one of Ferret Man's contemporaries, Rory "Twitchy" Hobbes, known during the Golden Age of comics as "Mr. My-Husband-Was-Just-Sneezing-Did-You-Have-To-Unload-Seven-Automatic- Rounds-Into-His-Face-Sir?" Needless to say, while Ferret Man is a revered (and pardoned) hero, Hobbes is still in prison serving consecutive 40,000 year sentences. He'll be eligible for parole in 7,596 years, 3 months, 2 days, and 5 hours, in case you're curious. Nowadays, most of the heroics business falls upon Ferret Man's successors, Weasel Boy and company, plus assorted other groups: The Offenders, the Men-Men, Cap'n Jack's Unwashed Harbor Boys, and so on. When a major villain threatens teh city, this cadre of several thousand stands ready to defend it with their great skill, cunning, and power. But even superheroes have their limits. There lies a breed of villain between "petty shoplifter" and "wicked sorcerer with an army of darkness." A villain the police can't handle but that the superheroes can't be bothered with. For the sake of comparison, we'll call them "second-tier villains." And, as one might suspect, there are those poor few not quite powerful or lucky enough to qualify as Offender-type material. These we will call "second-tier superheroes," hard-working folks with day jobs who use their powers as much as they can be used. Brave men like Grammar Guy, whose grasp of the english language is uncanny; Waffle Woman; The Somewhat Impressive Weevil Man; Captain Nicaragua; and the Men in Semi-Dark Clothing. They may not earn much, but they are a vital cog in the great machine that is Supermegatopia. When a street gang loots an appliance store in the ghetto district, one can be sure to see Grammar Guy arriving on the scene in his '64 Plymouth to give the miscreants a fairly painful thrashing. And as they often say, it ain't much, but it's a living. And where would Supermegatopia be without all its heroes? What would it have left? Kiwis, sure. Or so you think. Phillip Arrival wasn't a superhero. He wasn't even a second-tier superhero. But for your average upstanding citizen, he sure saw a hell of a lot of them. Wherever he went, he'd find one or more doing something heroic. Whether it was Weasel Boy, fighting to keep Carrion away from a traveling museum exhibit on ancient burial customs, or just the MISDC foiling a shoplifting ring, he'd somehow show up just before the action began and always left as it ended. In one way, it was exciting. Few could claim to have seen the mighty Captain Kiwi in person, to have watched the SMT tumble haplessly from the roof of the Kiwi Savings and Loan, quaking in fear of Captain Squid, to have stared down Tiger Lass's top while being questioned for the official report to the authorities. There were definitely perks. Then again, the shrew sort of resented it. When the average jaunt to the corner store to buy beer on a fake ID turned into an all-out war between the Justice League of Supermegatopia and Dr. Ghoti's "Land-Dweller Extermination Corps Mark III," he was somewhat irked. His puppy Jake had died of starvation once while he was trapped in a bubble of frozen time while heroes battled it out to save the area from stagnation. Worse yet, he had no way to hold a job. He'd show up for work each morning and would leave each evening with a pink slip, usually dug from his place of employ's rubble-filled ruins. He had come to be associated with bad luck, and after his seventieth termination in four months, he was apt to believe it. Eventually, as our story opens, he gave up. Wandering the streets, dejected, Phillip glanced up just long enough to see grappling hooks snaking across the rooftops to extend over the street. He considered that they might become suspicious if he kept showing up. Then he was floored by an idea so obscure, so imaginative, so inconceivable, it came straight from the "obvious" file: Let them recognize him! It made sense. Bad luck or no bad luck, he had a gift. It was the sort of gift you never ask for that your crazy aunt sends you three months after your birthday, but it was a gift. He had a snowball's chance in Hell of ever getting on a major hero team, but he had at least a car-salesman's chance of becoming a sidekick to an inert, inactive second-tier superhero. Phillip watched as several bullish thugs emerged from an alley, toting various large weapons and bags of money and gods-knew-what-else. He saw the shadows descending. Bystander time again... A pleasant five minutes later, the police arrived to carry out their usual duty - namely, dragging badly beaten baddies to prison, or the morgue, if the heroes in question were having a bad day. "Haven't I seen you before?" One of the triumphant vigilantes asked as he handed a trounced opponent to the so-called authorities. Phillip referenced a small calendar which he kept in his pocket. "This is the sixty-seventh time I've been present at one of your acts of heroism, Mr. Boy." Weasel Boy gently adjusted his mask. "That's Weasel Boy, kid. 'Boy' is not my last name." Phillip nodded. "Oh, right." Weasel Boy tilted his head. "Any particular reason you're following me? I'm fairly sure there are fan clubs out there, and I'll do autographs." "Actually," Phillip explained, "I was heading out to buy underwear with my last paycheck. This meeting was chance, just like the last sixty-six." There was morbid humor in Weasel Boy's response. "I guess it's nice to have a constant eyewitness. You do this for everyone?" Phillip nodded again. "Unfortunately, yes. I can't even cross the street without running into one of you. It's sort of weird." Ah, but if only that were true, young Arrival! If only you understood as I do. And, I suppose, everyone else ought to know. The Arrival family has dwelled in Supermegatopia (formerly Distopia) since its founding 150 years ago. In all candor, 150 years and 1 day. The patriarch of the family, Alfred "Early" Arrival, came to the site of the city the day before it was founded. As one might suspect, Early had earned his nickname due to a curious trait. For the brain dead: He always seemed to arrive at important places early. So you can see Phillip's predicament. His timing was just too perfect. If he had actual powers, no doubt he would today be Supermegatopia's most consistent superhero. But he had no powers, just that damned timing thing. Work with me here, this is important to the story. At least, I think it is. The funny stuff comes after the dull intro chapter. Stories just don't have the spontaneous quality of comics. That, or comics can mask some of the plot holes with spiffy action frames. You know it's true. Anyway, back we go. "If I see you again, kid," Weasel Boy promised, "I'm going to have to give you an embarassing nickname." "Anything but Bystander Boy." Phillip begged. Weasel Boy chuckled and turned to depart. "Uh, Mr. Boy?" Phillip called out. He turned his head. "How do you do that thing with your eyes?" "What thing?" "The mask thing." "Huh?" "With your eyes!" "Eh?" "Your pupils." "What about them?" "They vanish?" Weasel Boy squinted. "They do?" "I think so." Weasel Boy slipped into the Weasel Mobile as it pulled up alongside the street and hopped inside. Once safely tucked away, he flipped down the mirror. "Something bugging you, Owen?" Mighty Yak asked as he shifted gears. "They do vanish, Monty." "What do?" The sidekick and resident straight man pondered, leaning bodily over the seat to peer into Owen's tiny mirror. "Our pupils." "Our pupils?" "Yeah." "What?" "Huh?" "What do they do?" "They vanish!" "Our pupils?" "Yes, our pupils!" "When?" Oh for crying out loud, even I fail to see the humor in this exchange! "When our masks are on, Monty." Monty returned to his seat, allowing Owen to feel his left leg again. Owen lifted his mask, replaced it, lifted it again, replaced it again. "Where do you think they go, Monty?" "Where do what go?" No! Dear sweet merciful God, no!!! "Our pupils." Stop! "When?" Stop!!! "When our masks are on." "Oh." Thank you, stupidity. As to the question, it's a rather good one. You see, the masks of many Supermegatopian heroes cause the pupils and irises of the eye to vanish except in circumstances where eye emotion is vital. This is sometimes considered a Japanese influence on comics, but in many ways, it's just neat to have heroes with blank white eyes. But the pupils, where do they go? As with most odd occurences in the city, the pupils of masked heroes appear to Dr. Andronicle of Supermegatopian Labs, as he works diligently with highly sensitive chemicals. The sudden appearance of spectral eyes causes him to drop his work, and though he usually survives the resulting explosions, he has - like most of the lab scientists - gone insane. Now he climbs under his desk and whimpers like a baby whenever a hero puts on his or her mask. The Weasel Mobile swerved off into the night. Phillip stood alone on the curb. Or at least thought he was alone. "'scuse me, son. Can you tell me where that thing parked?" A tall ermine-ish fellow stepped from the shadows. He wore the standard uniform of the fuzz - a blue police outfit with a kiwi-colored badge that read "SMPD." His name tag, beneath the badge, proudly declared him to be Officer A. Dartin, Traffic Division. "Right there." Phillip said, turning his back to the officer to point. He suddenly felt a rush of wind from behind him, a curious enigma in the crowded city streets. He wrote it off as coincidence and did not turn around. "In that fire lane?" Dartin's voice was certainly angered; he took his job very seriously. "No, next to it, in the loading and unloading zone." The officer's voice drifted back to the sickly-sweet "I work for the government and pretend to enjoy it" tone. "Ah, thank you son." He stepped back into the alleyway, his black fur merging with the shadows. Phillip paused briefly to sort out the last ten minutes' events, an exercise in futility. Things weren't quite adding up. The sudden appearance of the cop, Weasel Boy speaking to him, and his pupils had vanished... Phil made a solemn vow that very day that, come Hell or damnation, rain or snow, nuclear winter or armageddon, he would get himself one of those masks! Adam Terrell had quite a business going. Sure, he was one of a select few superheroes with actual powers, but hell, who needed superpowers? He had tried to be a hero for a while, tested the waters a bit, made some promotional sports deals. But the allure of easy money was too great. For Adam Terrell had experienced an epiphany. A lucrative vision, to be sure. Once he had gone by the name of Stupendous Fella, a respected hero around Supermegatopia. But these days he went by a far more commanding name. Operator Number One. Terrell owned and ran the Superhero Emergency Hotline™, a public service dedicated to the quick eradication of crime and suffering wherever it reared its ugly head, all for a mere $9.99 a minute, major credit cards accepted. The desperate masses would cry out: "I am helpless! I need a hero! I have money I would otherwise waste on a psychic hotline! Save me! Liberate me! Bill me for time on hold!" And he would answer their cry, as soon as the charge cleared. Damn bastard got the idea before I did. It was truly amazing. He had millions of dollars, a large-breasted trophy wife, a suburban mansion (one without a secret lair underneath it), and three kids whose names he could never remember. Life was good. Better than good. He set his own hours, didn't need goofy spandex costumes, and never had to personally attend to an orphanage fire. Which was what he was managing on the first line. "Right... and put this on the government tab? Certainly, Mr. Superintendent, I'll send the invoice to Mayor Dave at the end of the month. Those poor orphans. Their building was insured, right? No? Hey, have I got an offer for you, Mr. Super. Stay on the line, okay?" He clicked over to the dispatch line. "Get me Hose Boy. He sounds like the kind of dweeb for this one. Also, call the insurance boys, tell them there's a desperate civil servant on line one, okay? Thanks. Hang on..." He tapped a button to answer another call. "Superhero Emergency Hotline, this is Operator Number One, how may I help you?" He listened as a panicked voice related a bizarre story. "Yeah... uh-huh... hmmm... now how often does a radioactive monster just emerge from the bay? Fancy that. The media's already there? Thought so. Listen, all I need is your credit card- what's that? It ate your wallet? Damn! Well, how about I put you on hold until you can borrow one. No, no CODs, I'm sorry. I'm sure it is urgent, sir, but you just have to wait for the heroes to get there on their own. Why? Quick response isn't cheap! These vigilant citizens can't be everywhere you want them, not without motivation. I'm sure they'll turn up before too many buildings are leveled. Uh-huh... I'm sorry to hear that sir, but I must say you have an impressive vocabulary. Hey! There's a four letter word I'd never heard before, clever! Please call again, and keep extra credit cards." He slapped the button and watched the line clear off the board. Almost immediately it was filled by another call, and he pressed the button again. "Superhero Emergency Hotline, this is Operator Number One, how may I help you?" As the caller explained, Terrell casually sipped from a "#1 Capitalist" coffee mug, manufactured as part of the Bruce Vayne 40th Birthday Series quite a while back. He paid the mug more attention than his children. "Is that so? There, of all places? Oh, you've got your number ready, I see you've used our service before. Right..." He scribbled out the number. "...that was a five, yes? Yes, right. I'll send the closest hero. How long? Ten minutes, maximum. Wait, your account says it's a platinum card? Make that five minutes, sir, and please call again." Slamming the receiver down, Adam spun sharply to a large dispatch radio. Cranking a knob, he hastily addressed the heroic masses. "This is SEH-01, requesting assistance on a 307Q in progress. Anyone within 5 minutes please respond ASAP, PDQ, PPPWACOT? It's a 10P-BR-MD, if it's done on time." Just about five minutes from the 307Q, Mighty Yak idled the car. "Hey, Owen, is a 307Q what I think it is?" Weasel Boy nodded. "An unregistered alien in combat armor in the men's underwear department at R. K. Kiwi's downtown, causing wanton destruction to helpless support garments. Hit it, Monty." The Weasel Mobile swerved and took off in the opposite direction after pulling a figure eight into oncoming traffic. Mighty Yak balanced his 80 mph driving with his usual deep thinking. "Hey Owen? What's ASAP stand for?" Of course this story is no mere 307Q! Far from it. Indeed, it more approaches a 211RZ-Special-Class-Green, but I'm sure you guessed that already. Anyway, let's meet today's minor villain, shall we? His name could have been Butt Ugly, except it wasn't. All told, he stood a mighty five-foot-four, one hundred and twelve pounds of what could almost pass for muscle. He was greenish-brown, and his scales were flecked with alien-esque bruise-colored rosettes. His face curled into a doglike snarl, displaying one or two rows of teeth that, given a good chance, could likely scratch rather severely. His fashion choice was somewhere in the questionable range of "sadistic," for he wore a maroon-beige combat piece that clashed with everything, with menacing pointy shoulder blades and a few unconnected codpiece flap. Thanks in part to the trim combat tutu - you don't make these things up; not while sane, folks - that was in place to show off his "muscular" legs, he looked to be wearing nothing below the waist. The very thought repulsed everyone who had seen him arrive in the store. So he was ugly and flabby, but he was also using an arm-mounted plasma weapon to disintegrate as much underwear as he possibly could. If for no other reason than his choice of targets, the police weren't getting close. "Shiver in fear, mortal earth-beasts!" He proclaimed in a whiny voice that caused one of the SWAT team members to giggle like a schoolgirl. "Beware my might, for I am a warrior! I have severely bruised a man! I am one of the greatest in the entire galaxy. I defy any man to challenge me." At that, his weapon swung and recoiled. A rack of Kanga-Roos™ ("The Only Support Garment With a Pouch, if you Know What we Mean; Official Underwear of She-Male") caught fire. One of the officers quailed and moaned. "He's destroying valuable designer cotton briefs stitched by unpaid laborers in impoverished nations and shipped here under woefully corrupt trade administrators who take a cut of the already slashed import fees! When will this madness end!? When!?!" The "mighty warrior" cackled with nasal glee like an MIT undergrad discovering that electrocution was, in some cases, a cheap alternative to sex. "I ask again, who dares face me, or will you all perish like the heavily-armed cowards you are?" "Maybe someday," thundered a commanding voice from the barricades, "but not today, ugly!" He scoffed. "Ugly? I'll have you know that, on my world, I am called Lesser Servant of a Mysterious Dark Master Who Will Serve as This Story's True Villain!" Need I really insult your intelligence by assuming that was a secret? He paused, plasma gun smoking. "And who might you be, earth creature?" Perched on a hosiery kiosk across the aisle towered a dark fur-covered earth mammal in a rather impressive green and purple outfit. His pupil-less masked eyes gradually narrowed to slits as he considered his next line. "Some call me Weasel Boy." Lesser thought about as long. "What does everyone else call you?" Weasel Boy leapt into the air, intent on delivering a witty response as he landed, disarmed the fiend, and kicked him across the room. Instead, he hit the carpeted floor several yards short, slammed into a BVD display, and collapsed under a pile of oversized briefs. He glanced up and back to the barricades. All eyes were trained on him. He slowly and nervously looked back to Lesser, who offered a sympathetic shrug. "I know how you feel. Same thing happened when I landed here." Weasel Boy shrugged off the underwear and stood. He surveyed his foe, stared him in the eye, then shifted slowly to examine his armor, his- dear gods... "If you came for pants, I'm sure we can negotiate." Lesser responded by opening fire. In true heroic fashion, Weasel Boy dove for his life, and stumbled behind a display before Lesser could see him. He heaved and sighed, brushing sweat from his snout. "Well wouldn't you know it. Hello, Mr. Weasel Boy." Rocked by surprise, Weasel Boy spun his head to see a quiet - and familiar - lesser field shrew. He sighed. "Oh, hello again." Phillip Arrival nodded. "Yeah, hi. See what I mean?" Weasel Boy peeked around the corner. Lesser seemed to be distracted by a large rack of jock straps, possibly long enough to do something heroic and redeem himself. "I usually don't ask for help, but you've been stuck here longer, kid." "Phil." He corrected. "Sure, Phil. Any ideas? Nothing stupid, that's my sidekick's job. Bystanders are the ones with the good ideas, I think." The shrew considered. "I saw his armor chip when he bumped into the sales counter. It's probably not as strong as it looks. You could shoot right through it." Weasel Boy sighed, looking at his curled-up knees. "Damn! Gramps was right. I should always carry multiple high-caliber weapons. Am I some sort of passive-resistor? Of course not. I've just always thought that my acrobatic skills would be enough, coupled with a cunning mind and well-honed reflexes. That, and I tend to get wrist cramps." "How about your grappling hook thing? It has an average velocity of sixty feet per second given minimal air resistance and discounting the rotation of the earth." Phillip offered helpfully. The vigilante brightened. "That's right! I'll punch a hole through that creep's defenses, catch him off guard, and win the day. Hell, one of the reporters could be a woman, she might want me. Thanks, Phil." Unclipping his cable-launching hook device, Weasel Boy gently rose and rounded the corner. About two seconds later, thanks to a pair of briefs that had somehow ensnared his legs, he lay face down in the aisle, his grappling hook bouncing to land at Lesser's feet. Curious, the alien picked it up. Weasel Boy resigned himself to a shameful death. Then Lesser laughed innocently. "Hey! This is one of those neat grappler things that fires a sharp claw connected to a metal and plastic cable at speeds greater than that of a minor league fastball! I'll bet it would hurt like hell if I were to point it at my chest and push this button -erk." He did exactly that, and the hook, cable, and his colon all flew through the giant hole that was quickly punched in his wafer-thin armor, all coming to rest some twelve yards away, in the bra department. Most doctors will agree that the colon is a far more vital organ than, say, the tonsils, and that removing it can cause serious or even terminal death. Lesser, surprised and stupefied more than anything, fell backwards in a gurgling heap. Weasel Boy looked back to see Phil flashing a thumbs-up sign. A bit cocky, the heroic weasel rose and padded over to the fallen alien warrior, taking care to pull off the dangerous underwear and throw it elsewhere. "And you think that hurt?" He asked. "I haven't even started!" Lesser coughed up greenish blood on the four-hundred-thousand-dollar carpeting. "No more, earth creature. You have proven yourself worthy of a dying warrior's respect." "Is this that alien warrior code thing?" Weasel Boy asked. Lesser groaned. "No, but it's far more polite than some of the things I could say now that I've killed myself with your weapon." "Just swear. I do it. It's good for you." Weasel Boy consoled. Lesser spasmed. "Alright... you're a clumsy-ass fur-carpet credit-snatching moron, earth 'hero.'" The standing combatant nodded. "See how much better you feel?" "Not really. Remember, I have a hole in my chest the size of a large floodlight, and I'm missing a major organ. Still..." He hacked in typical "I need to tell you some plot information before I die" fashion. "You probably wonder why I'm here." Weasel Boy shrugged. "Actually, I'm just doing it so that the media will overlook the groping scandal, but yeah, you're dying and the manual says I'm obligated to listen." Lesser smiled as much as he could. "I am, you see, no more than a minor servant to a far greater power. Compared to him, my deeds are but specks set against the vast galaxy of power that he commands." "You mean this guy goes after whole suits?" Weasel Boy asked cluelessly. "Oh, if only that, earth creature!" Lesser lamented. "Nay, I was sent here not for the purpose you might think, but rather to destroy the kiwis of your planet." Owen Vayne, whose entire inheritance basically hinged on the continued existence of the kiwi industry, reared back behind his heroic facade in utter shock. Lesser boasted. "And you see how many I have already destroyed." "But these aren't kiwis," Weasel Boy explained, picking up a pair of boxer shorts. "They're undergarments." "Damn!" Lesser howled. "I should have asked the ship's computer to show me a better picture. Urgh, well, now it is no matter. You see, within the month my master will have destroyed all the kiwis in the universe anyway." Weasel Boy stammered. "Hang on. All of them?" "Every one of the accursed fruits." Lesser savored. "But how?" "I don't know. I'm here on orders." Weasel Boy was stunned. "Why???" "Can you think of a good use for a kiwi?" "Actually," Weasel Boy noted, "I can give you a city-made brochure that lists ten thousand uses for a kiwi, but you'd probably die before I could get back from city hall." "I don't care anyway!" Lesser spat, examining his gaping wound with his fingers. "So, if your master was just going to destroy all kiwis anyway," Weasel Boy reasoned, "why did he send you here?" "Plot development." Lesser coughed, his vision clouding. "Listen, earth creature, even now my master is preparing to visit the third planet of Delta Orion, where he will unleash a galactic kiwi blight. And you will never find him in time to stop him!" "Yes I will." Weasel Boy retorted. "You just told me where he's going." Lesser huffed. "Look, I killed myself with your weapon, not even a weapon! I'm not the brightest bulb on the holiday tree. I more came pre-burned from the factory... are you following me here?" Weasel Boy nodded quickly. "Good. Then I bid you farewell, earth creature. If you wish to challenge my master, just to stretch this story out, go ahead. You won't win. Hell, if you knew what he was like, you'd just give up on your kiwis now. I'd tell you why, but I have to die. Right now." That said, he did. Weasel Boy nudged the alien corpse with his foot and watched as the armor fragmented at his slightest touch. Phillip approached gently, hiding behind a counter. "He's dead?" Phil asked. Weasel Boy grunted, not turning to face the civilian. "Alien minor villains tend to be less durable than most, since the average alien supervillain is so powerful that he only shows up during year-end specials, and nobody remembers his lieutenants by then." "It certainly took him long enough to die." Weasel Boy simply stared down at Lesser's body, perhaps sad, perhaps in deference to the fallen warrior, perhaps because he was considering what grave danger Supermegatopia's kiwis faced, perhaps because he wasn't listening. Oh, get over it. It was a one-joke encounter, Weasel Boy. "Hey Owen, nice job!" Mighty Yak called out as he rounded a display for crotchless thongs. Weasel Boy pointed to Phillip in a panic. Mighty Yak stopped. "Whoops." "Owen..." Phillip considered, running the name through his head. "As in Owen Vayne, son of seldom-seen industry giant Bruce Vayne?" "He knows too much." Mighty Yak warned his boss. "So does half the city, sometimes." Weasel Boy argued. "Still, since he's done the secret identity thing and he's a civilian, we'll have to go by the book." "Do we kill him, pass the mantle down, or what was it?" Mighty Yak pondered. "We assume he knows more than he really does, reveal all our dangerous secrets to him, and either draft him into our corps - which I don't really need right now - or put him in the business so that our secret is safe. C'mon, Phil, let's make you a superhero." Weasel Boy began to drag the shrew from the store. Phil protested. "Hey, what if I don't want to be 'in the business?' I can't be a hero, not me! Hey, c'mon, I won't tell anybody! Ow! Owe-err, Weasel Boy, cut it out! Let go already!" Article XIV of the Big Book of Heroics' chapter entitled "So Your Sidekick Blew Your Secret Identity?" clearly states the necessary protocol when one's secret identity is revealed to a single otherwise unknowing person. Villains: Destroy within the next 3 issues, just as they are about to reveal your secret to the world. Or brainwash them in a time-travel plot, but only if you have issues to burn. Other Heroes: Either a) team up with them, or b) find out the bastard's own identity and cross-blackmail him. Civilians: Force them to conform to the Superhero Code of Identity Ethics, either by making them your expendable mortal sidekick or by discovering Previously Unknown Talents™ that allow them to assume a heroic identity of their own. Then follow procedure b) under "Other Heroes." Obviously, Weasel Boy is not in need of a sidekick, so what do you think is going to happen? Yes? Good. Maybe there is some hope for this audience after all. I have to go, folks. The latest issues of "Urban Warfare" and "Guns 'n' ICBMs" are in, and I'm thinking I may need them soon. I'd explain, but I'm out of time, you see. Let's just say it involves Nesbit. I think that'll clear most everything up, yes? Tune in next time for the ironically-titled Chapter 2, where we'll discover just how some of those aforementioned "second-tier superheroes" operate. We'll also complete a pointless origins story and unveil a few new heroes. Plus, a superhero video conference! Oh, and let's not forget our story's main villain, a fellow so horrible, so mind-boggling, you will be washing your eyes out with that pumice soap for an hour after reading. Okay, that's a bit extreme. But when you see this guy, you may yet long for the days when a villain's biggest flaw was overconfidence. Oh, and we'll also get out first mention of it. Should be fun! Keep it right here. -NDG Chapter II. Thirty Days to Kiwigeddon! When last we met, Lesser Servant of a Mysterious Dark Master Who Will Serve as This Story's True Villain had narrowly managed to defeat himself. Oh, and Weasel Boy was there, too. But all is not well in Supermegatopia! The city's kiwi supply is in jeopardy, and if Lesser was to be believed, only thirty-some days remain until Supermegatopia becomes a ghost town. That's bad, just in case you were undecided. When the kiwis are gone, only scientists will remain. Scientists like me. And Nesbit. I, like most employees of Supermegatopian Labs, fear Nesbit. She's certainly worthy of it. Like the time she rigged a small chunk of mysterious glowing rock to Jim's storage matrix and invited Captain Kiwi over for a tour. I don't know what the stuff was, but he passed out every three minutes. Then there was the time she contracted John Hinkley to assassinate Ronald Reagan. Or that time she overthrew the czar of Russia. And she captured Anne Frank, shot the pope, stole the Mona Lisa, kidnapped the Lindbergh baby, nuked Canada, devalued the yen, castrated Elvis, spoke to Joan of Ark, debunked Santa Claus, incited the Salem Witch Trials, conquered the Incas, sacked Troy, tore down the Berlin Wall, threw the OJ Simpson verdict, and exposed the Watergate scandal. I may be a bit mistaken on some of those, though. Ah, but what about yours truly? What could someone like her have done to a flabby meerkat with little body mass and a physics degree? Worse than you'd think. She erased my brother from the space-time continuum. This wouldn't have been terribly earth shaking, except for the fact that he was my siamese twin. Thus, I'm only really half here. And why did she do it? Just to see what would happen! The bitch! Thankfully, I received a transfer to this institute on the outskirts of town, near the Boune Desert and the suburbs. Nesbit can't get me here, not yet. But she'll come here eventually, to finish the job. I won't let it happen. Since that time, I have begun stocking more weapons than the local militia and national guard combined. Everything from rifles to flamethrowers to the new Mega Drencher 400K, the only squirt gun requiring a > But until such a grim time, I have a story to write. Let's move on, shall we? No story can survive without a villain. I could have taken the easy way out and had your plain vanilla earth-based battle, but you ought to know that that's not how I play the game. So, rather than rip off an existing villain who has already established a reputation for me to screw up, I submit to you a villain so dark, so terrible, so unabashedly ambiguous, words cannot begin to describe his deeds. But since this is a story and stories usually have words in them, I'll have to try. But be warned; he is not of this earth. Which you knew already... since he's an alien. "That's enough... Kevin..." The huge, furry mass of brown and cream paused, one gloved hand holding up a pink jellyfish-man in a pressurized air-suit as his two free arms pummeled. The rasping voice from behind could have come from only one man; his master. "Yes sir?" A figure in the shadows (obligatory) of the ruined city nodded gently. Perhaps too gently. "Our dear Mayor Melli has suffered enough, don't you think? I mean... Kevin... we don't want him to be in too much pain when I get my hands on him, do we?" ...Kevin... reconsidered, cracking his free knuckles. His maroon armor - somewhat thicker than Lesser's - was marred by the blast marks of the jellyfish-mens' ineffective weaponry. Otherwise, however, he was unscathed. Unlike his weaker counterpart from the last chapter... Kevin... wore long black pants, much to the relief of most of the reading populace out there. Yet there was a far greater evil about him than mere nearly-exposed loins. "I suppose so, sir. After Little Prick rammed him through six buildings, a public sculpture, and the concrete, then flew up nine miles in the air and zapped him with a coiling blast of energy, I could tell he was winded." "Is that all?" asked... Kevin's... master, cackling. "That's not so bad. I'm sure I could do far worse." Mayor Melli glubbed, his suit translating into the alien language. "Who are you? Are you one of his generals? What can you possibly do to our people that your men have not already done?" There was a huff of indignation, and the figure stepped into the light of the evening suns. He was armored like... Kevin... but with more flamboyant paneling and slightly more phallic points. He was a dark purple fellow, no taller than five nine, with a smooth salamander complexion that glittered like the makeup of a cheap whore. Indeed, if Mary Kay were to have salesmen in space (and I'm not saying they don't), he could be one of them. A squat, pointed tail coiled and uncoiled gently as a smirk crossed his all-too-flush lips. Melli recoiled in terror. "You're not a general... you're... you're..." ...Kevin... laughed, thundering his proclamation. "Behold, His High Grand Excellency, the Mighty and Augustine Leader-God Emperor Warlord Prince of the Federated Imperial Kingdoms, Who Trods the Suns Beneath His Feet and Shakes Loose the Stars Like Stray M&M's in a Car Seat, Galaxicosmus the Grand Overlord of All and Everything!" The one identified as Galaxicosmus scanned his nails and scoffed, turning again to the beaten mayor. "I usually go by... Gary." Melli squirmed, but... Kevin... held him tight. "No! Have mercy upon our poor people, Lord Gary! We do not even know why you have come! We did not realize we had displeased you!" There was a flash of light as a dark purple, well-manicured palm backhanded the glass dome of the suit, shattering the usually shatterproof glass. The jellyfish-man began to pop and deflate as air rushed in and pressure shifted. "You don't know why!? I'll tell you why! Your last tribute of skin cream made me break out in HIVES!!! How do you expect me to go around conquering planets and subjugating pathetic natives when my face is lumpy? You're lucky I didn't come wipe out your people while I was wearing it!!!" "It, no," crackled the dying Melli, "thank the backboned gods that you did not, Lord Gary." ...Kevin... shuddered heavily, his seemingly unshakeable self-confidence ruptured by the mere mention of the word. "These people are hardly worth it, Lord Gary." Gary nodded. "I agree... Kevin... these people would never understand my true power in such a state. Either way, I'm getting a bit bored and the three sun system thing is causing me to sweat. Do that thing you do to your defeated enemies and let's get on home, shall we?" ...Kevin... smirked, hefting the mortally-decompressed mayor. "For your great honor, Lord Gary, let it be done." At that dramatic utterance... Kevin... cocked his middle arm back and heaved, tossing the mayor high above the city. Then, the smiling lieutenant extended all three of his arms and joined his palms in a triangular pattern. As if on command, Melli's body, suit and all, exploded in a spread-out and generally messer shower of bodily fluids and machine parts. Gary clapped happily. "I love that part! If only you could work things like Little Prick... Kevin... I might make you my right hand man." ...Kevin... turned. "But Lord Gary, I already am your right-hand man!" Gary giggled and faked error. "Oh of course. I knew that. Don't read anything else into that statement." His subject clenched his jaw, nervous. "Err... yes, Lord Gary." Gary sniffled, waving his right hand in front of his face. "Well, either way, lets go home. Hurry on and tell the boys to fire up... the usual." "The planet-destroyer cannon, the cheap foreign beer, the multisex strippers, the clowns, the hot tubs, the karaoke machine, 'We Are the Champions' on all the intercoms, and the various incense-scented candles?" The second tallied. "Yes..." Gary savored, licking the back of his teeth. "And contact my skin-care technicians. Oh, and get that armor fixed! You always spoil the shiny-spaceship motif I'm going for... Kevin..." The three-armed fuzzy beast knelt. "As you request, it shall be done, Lord Gary." "Oh, just Gary, please." "Err... yes sir." I did warn you, didn't I? I hope none of you were actually reading that part carefully, and I strongly discourage going back to read it again. Let the icky thoughts go away, far away. Let's check up on our heroes Owen, Monty, and Phil, who may be starting to look tame in comparison. Yes, "Owen" and "tame" have been used in the same sentence. And it only gets worse from here. "And this is the hidden vault where we keep all of our highly sensitive information." Owen and Monty dragged Phil through the Weasel Lair (located, just in case you need a refresher course, deep beneath Vayne Manor). Their unfortunate accomplice tried desperately not to listen to them as they revealed every secret they could remember. "Really, I didn't know anything! Guys, I don't need to see all this. C'mon, Weasel Boy, let go." Owen stared down at him and tightened his grip. "Why do you insist on calling me that when you know who I really am?" "Because you told me to!" Phillip pleaded. Owen relented. "Yeah, okay, I did tell you to do that. Well, nevermind that. Let me introduce you to our resident tech." "But I'd be much better off not knowing!" "Now don't say that," Monty warned. "Suppose you go out to fight crime, and someone rips out your pancreas, and you happen to be in the area... you'll know that a fellow crusader of good dwells nearby and can help you!" "I won't be fighting crime," the shrew assured him, "and if by some bizarre chance I ever lose my pancreas, I'll just go to the hospital like everyone else. Can I go now?" "Not yet." Owen stressed. "You have to meet Greasy. And besides, mom's not done with your costume yet." "Hang on. I don't need your mom to sew me a costume. I don't need one!" Monty shrugged, missing the point. "I'm not going to say they're necessary, what with Buck Naked and The Indelible Skivvies, but most heroes have a costume." "Are you two dense? I'm not a superhero, hero, semi-hero, mercenary, vigilante, or anything even remotely like it!" Owen asked a direct question. "Are you employed?" Phil blushed. "Well, not right now..." "Try the business. You'll make a fortune in action figure sales." Monty suggested. Supermegatopia has quite an action figure business going, as one might expect. Although some figures have been banned - among them Real-Shooting Ferret Man and any anatomically correct She-Male doll - most heroes can count on a decent supplementary income from their persona. Some, like Waffle Woman, forgo action figure sales for products more oriented to their image, but in the end, someone will buy their likeness. Despite the popularity of the Big and Cuddly Weasel Boy Plush Doll with Ninety Real Phrases, the biggest action figure draw in the city is not credit to any major hero. No, the most popular figure of all is Speak and Learn Grammar Guy. Grammar Guy (aka Theodore Wills, retired 7th-grade english teacher) may not seem like a strong and mighty presence, and he isn't, really. But his mastery of the english language is marketable as hell! Thanks to a cunning agent, Grammar Guy figures are now required back-to-school supplies for all Supermegatopian schoolchildren until 6th grade. SAT scores have risen no fewer than 100 points since Grammar Guy first took on the mantle of a hero. Better still, 70% of all profits from figure sales go back to the ISD to pay for school lunches and debate teams. Foreign immigrants and taxi drivers have been known to speak better english than residents. I own five. Note, of course, that I did not say "five are owned by me," which is the passive voice and should be avoided at all costs. And if you caught the joke in that last sentence, then brother, you are beyond help. Greasy greeted her brothers as they shuffled into the main area of the Weasel Lair. "Hi Owen, hi Monty. Who's this guy?" "Reluctant hero." Owen gasped as Phil attempted to elbow him in the chest. Greasy sighed. "Do I have to install another seat in the Weasel Mobile now?" Owen assured her. "Nah, he won't be working with us. We're just showing him around for no good reason." "You didn't give him the secret emergency hotline to the lair, did you?" Phillip thought for sure that there was some sanity present in the household. "Not yet." Monty recalled. Greasy then retrieved a pen from a pile of junk and scribbled out a series of bumbers on a piece of paper. She then folded the slip and shoved it in Phil's pocket. "Now don't lose that." Phil squealed, giving up. "Can't you just keep it?" "He's talking crazy, Owen." Monty decreed. Owen bit his lip. "He's just anxious to get out on the streets. Remember what we used to be like." "Why can't you just listen to me, guys? I'm not going to tell anyone! I swear! I don't need to-" "Owen, dear!" Cried a voice from the stairwell door to Vayne Manor, high above the lair. "I finished your little friend's costume!" Owen tugged Phil away from Monty and steered him up the impossibly tall staircase. At one point he remembered that the lair had an elevator, but then recalled that it had been out of order ever since Greasy had raided it for an obscure tightening bolt made by a Japanese company that no longer existed. That, and the fact that no dramatic entrance was ever made by elevator. Especially not with the kind of muzak they played in that one. Ah yes, Gretchin Vayne. For the sake of the readers, she will never be featured in any scene with Lord Gary. For those of you cursing your luck, well... you're all sick SOBs. "Now sit down, dear. I'll grab your costume and maybe something to drink. And I always show people pictures. Do you like pictures?" Phillip sat nervously. "Uh, no thank you, Mrs. Vayne. You don't have to if you don't want to." "Nonsense... oh, he's really a nice boy, Owen." Gretchin mused as she crossed the room. "You always pick up the nicest people out there in the streets. Is this some new sidekick?" "No, not really. We were just helping him make a name for himself." Gretchin giggled as she retrieved the folded costume and tossed it, along with a standard utility belt, onto Phil's lap. She sat calmly beside him on the couch with a large album. "I guess I'll start at the beginning..." Phil studied the costume for a second and stopped her just before she turned the cover. "Just who am I supposed to be?" Owen cast a glance to his mother. Gretchin smiled warmly, tugging the parts of the costume until she could show Phillip a yellow "C" stitched onto the area around his left chest. "Well, when Owen told me about how you're always showing up accidentally, I thought it might be cute to come up with something regarding that. So I mulled it over and came up with 'Mr. Coincidence.' What do you think? Isn't it perfect?" Phil thought it over, a slight gleam entering his eye. "Mr... Coincidence... it's a bit stupid, but you know, Mrs. Vayne, I kind of like it." Gretchin turned back to her photo album. Owen tried to stall her again. "It's, uh, great work, mom. How'd you ever think up that name?" She smirked. "Well, Janyce and I were just-" Owen flipped the album open himself. "Nevermind, mom, I'm sure he really wants to see the pictures." In case you're curious, it involved three cartons of Cool Whip, a package of Lucky Strikes, and a tetherball pole. The door of the small apartment home clicked shut. As Phillip scanned the dark room, he was barely able to pick out the faint glow of a television set in the master bedroom. "Uh, mom?" He called out. There was no response, so he gently crept to the bedroom door. Then he gasped. "Welcome home, Phillip." His mother intoned in an accusatory tone, neatly tucked into bed and clutching a remote. She was infirm, so she couldn't exactly hurt him, but she had her ways. "You'd better have a damn good explanation for this. Not even you could spend eight hours shopping for underwear." Phillip sighed. "Actually, mom, I never got to the underwear. There were aliens - well, one, really - and Weasel Boy was there and, um, well, now I'm a superhero. Or at least I'm supposed to be. Haven't tried on the costume yet." His mother shook her head. "Oh, Phillip, how could you? And you promised you'd care for me... just like your rat-bastard brothers. You don't want to end up like them, do you?" "Well, no, not really." Phillip confessed quite honestly. She grinned and heaved her upper torso to turn it a bit. "Then be a love and wash out my bedpan, would you?" Phillip fought to hold back a gulp as he retrieved the stainless steel bin from his mother's bed and cautiously balanced it between his arms. He edged to the bathroom, where his foot slid out above the linoleum. His toes found what seemed to be a tractioned spot, and he lowered his leg. Mrs. Arrival heard the sound of soap hitting the back wall and the unmistakeable splash-clatter of a toppled bedpan. She waited a half second longer for the sputtering coughs to subside for the kicker. "Son of a-" Two crusaders of justice dove behind a building. One, an otter, was dressed in a well-fashioned cape and spandex piece, dark black with miniscule white text depicting the minute nuances of the english language. He coughed. "It's 'they have many weapons that they may use on us,' not 'they have a lot of weapons they can use'!" The otter's companion bent over, chest heaving. He was older, a fish with the ability to walk on land yet not confined to a tank (like some folks we know), and wore a simple lab coat over medical scrubs, plus one of those reflective disc headband things. What are those things called, anyhow? "I'm too old for your putting the crap on me, Grammar Guy." "What? Watch the way you speak, Combat Sturgeon; after all, your profession is one which carries great influence over the younger generat-" Combat Sturgeon silenced him, wheezing. "Up yours, buddy. All the way." "That's a sentence fragment." Grammar Guy scolded as easily as he would a six-year old. "Worse yet, it didn't even have a subject, let alone a verb!" The older hero grabbed his contemporary. "Dammit man, I'm not a grammaticist." "Grammarian." Combat Sturgeon sighed and peeked back around the corner. He sighed. "Well, there went another one." "How do you mean?" Grammar Guy posed. "The Expendable Extras are still out there, remember? Numbers 1-5 have already eaten it, and I probably could have saved... well... I guess none of them, but at least I could have rendered aid had you not been correcting everything I've said!" Grammar Guy agreed. "We have no choice in the matter, true. Until the true heroes finish changing shifts, we have to protect Supermegatopia." There was a ruckus on the street all of a sudden. Both semi-heroes looked out long enough to watch the scene unfold. Amongst his "Land-dweller-killer v.7.2 Cyborgs," both operational and otherwise, Dr. Ghoti stood menacingly. To most he was a pushover, but to these second-tier superheroes, he was a challenge. Before Ghoti's looming suit stood a terrier, a fuzzy man totally out of place. His tweed suit flapped in the breezes from the crossfire between the cyborgs and the Men In Semi-Dark Clothing. He sniffled gently and clutched his briefcase closer as Ghoti's cyborgs surrounded him. "Before I have you cut down like cheap crepe paper, mammal, I'd like to know who you think you're supposed to be? A lawyer?" The terrier brushed his thick spectacles back and spoke frankly. "Actually, yes. I am a lawyer. I'm no mere lawyer, though, doctor. I am, you see... Lord of the Files... and this-" He clicked open his briefcase and slipped a three-page document from it, cupping it in his hand. "-is a termination notice for... you!" The Lord turned abruptly, tossing the document at unbelievable speeds towards one of the cyborgs. Half a second later the construct's metallic head clanged to the pavement. Ghoti fumed. "He has briefs, boys! Kill the mammal!" As the cyborgs opened fire, the Lord of the Files leapt into action. Betraying his appearance, he backflipped to safety with the grace of an Olympic gymnast. Three of the eight cyborgs shot each other. One adjusted its aim, but soon met its maker (well, its maker was actually standing next to it, but you get the point) as the bullet was deflected back to him by the patent (pending) exterior of the briefcase, raised with impeccable reflexes. Diving and swinging, the Lord of the Files ran one of the cyborgs through with a fountain pen and halved the last three with the momentum of his briefcase. When the dust and oil clouds settled, Ghoti's creations once again lay in ruins. The not-so-good doctor had failed to even kill anyone, Expendable Extras excluded. All in all, a waste of an evening. The terrier brushed his sleeve. "Now, about cutting me down like, quote, 'cheap crepe paper'?" Ghoti read the writing on the wall and fled, leaving the Lord of the Files amidst the rubble. Soon the streets were filled with second-tier superheroes, congratulating one of their own. "Exemplary job." Grammar Guy said with a slap to the timid terrier's shoulder. "Fine work, Mr. Ellis." Congratulated a tall man in sunglasses and a navy-blue suit. He could be none other than AZP-X, leader of the mysterious MISDC. The Lord of the Files polished his glasses with his sleeve, blushing. "Just doing my civic duty. Oh, and can anyone find that document? It's the Johnson file, and he'd be rather upset if I were to lose it." "Right here, sir." Echoed #7, the surviving Expendable Extra. He held the brief, spotless but for one grease stain, and gently tossed it to the lawyer-by-day. "Well, that was fun." Combat Sturgeon chimed in. "But what took the big guys so long?" "Conference call." AZP-X explained, tapping his bizarre earpiece phone. Grammar Guy paused. "What manner of call would require every major hero in the city to be present? How dire an emergency, that we be entrusted with Supermegatopia's security for more than five minutes?" You'll never understand, Mr. Wills. Who can? "So, um, we're about thirty days away from a total kiwi disaster." Weasel Boy explained to the various superhero teams arrayed on the wide video screen like bring-a-friend day on "Hollywood Squares." Some recoiled in horror at his tale, while others merely nodded gravely. "We can't let that happen. The city requires our assistance, even if that means traveling to another planet to do it." Captain Kiwi thundered, the other Offenders steeled in agreement. "That's all well and good, I'd like to do so as well, but everyone does realize that this is another planet, and a rather remote one at that?" Weasel Boy noted. "None of the ships currently in use would get there in time. Well, none that I know of, at the moment. Greasy had an idea, but there's no way she could finish it by herself." "This is that 'cooperation' thing, isn't it?" A random hero asked. The line erupted in disagreeable chatter. The very mention of the word met with hostility. "This isn't going to be one of those 'Infinity War' things that kills off two-thirds of us, is it?" "Yeah, we know you're going to survive to appear in Weasel Boy #1." "I'm afraid of heights!" "There aren't any bugs down there, big ones?" "We're not dealing with a lost colony overrun with face-huggers, right?" "Will there be seven magical balls that grant wishes to bring back the dead? I kind of miss Juan-Ton Destruction." "There aren't any huge space stations the size of small moons prepping to blow the place up, are there?" "We won't get any diseases? Involuntarily, I mean?" "What if there's a primitive culture on the planet? Wouldn't we be interfering with their normal socioeconomic development?" "Is this going to take a while, because I'll need to call someone to feed my fish." Weasel Boy fielded the questions. "Hang on, stop it guys. Look, as far as I know, it's just an ordinary planet with some sort of great power over kiwis. No bugs, face-huggers, balls, stations, diseases, or primitive cultures. But yes, I'd call someone about your fish." "So what exactly do we have to do?" Someone asked as things settled down. There was an ever-so-brief bit of silence before Weasel Boy decided. "We'll assemble our technical greats. And I'll even go so far as to include Doc Patcher from Cap'n Jack's Unwashed Harbor Boys, seeing as they don't have a real technical wizard on their team. Anyway, it only cost about a million dollars of money I don't technically own, but Vayne industries managed to get their hands on the craft that the alien who told me all this stuff came in." "So where is it now?" Asked Iron Mantis, of the Offenders. "Supermegatopian Labs." No one said a word. Finally, someone whispered. "Oh dear gods..." Weasel Boy raised his hands to placate the slow, fearful whispers. "Nesbit's not within seven miles of the thing. Greasy called Jim and had him distract her with yet another seemingly innocent project that she can and will distort for evil purposes. She'll be busy for a while." "Oh, speaking of evil," Captain Kiwi considered, "is everyone going?" "Sure, we might need everyone's help." Weasel Boy reasoned. The other heroes exchanged looks of fear. "While we're gone..." "What if they..." "Who's going to..." Weasel Boy stopped. This was a problem. Time to worm his way out with the same Vayne ingenuity that had spared his grandfather several lengthy murder trials, and enabled his father to tighten his stranglehold on the city's industry. It was time for... faulty logic. You may not know this little tidbit, but according to legend, Kuman Naal, the god of faulty logic, is the brother of Tallom'en, the god of dumb luck. And when one god smiled upon a man, it was said, the other was bound to follow. Barring interference from Daviesi, god of common sense and ex-boyfriend of Kuman Naal's younger sister Atea, the muse of pornography. "Look, all the kiwis in the city are in danger, right?" Everyone could agree to that. Weasel Boy leapt to another thought. "And if we stay here, the city will be destroyed when the kiwi industry collapses, right?" There was a nervous concurrence. Weasel Boy smiled still wider. "So if we abandon the city and save all the kiwis, and the villains of the world level Supermegatopia, the net gain is pretty much the same, but thanks to our second-tier superheroes, there's the chance that the city will survive until we get back, whereupon we can take out any villains in the area. So we really have no choice." If there was a hole in that statement, the other heroes failed to catch it. I don't see how they couldn't, but then, most superheroes don't wind up class valedictorian, if you know what I mean. I wasn't valedictorian either, though I was close. My brother was. I miss you, brother. "So how far away is Delta Orion?" Someone wondered. "I don't know, really... if we go at or near the speed of light we can get to the nearest star in four years, so..." "So we'll never get there." Weasel Boy thought for a while. "I'll ask Greasy about that. Maybe we can shift gears or reset the odometer on the spaceship to accelerate it..." "By the way, son," Cap'n Jack asked politely, "how do you figure that alien learned to speak english?" "Krant, jaha'le, zizt... 'Is prostitution legal on this planet?'" Hidden in the darkness of a sterile room, a slender figure crouched over an archaic tape player. Through some miracle or accident of irony, the tape within was an instructive program on the english language. In a soft, sweet voice, the figure repeated uneasily. "Is pros-tit-ution... leg-al... on this planet?" The automated doors clicked and made a whooshing noise. A tall, furry creature wandered in. The lights in the room adjusted gradually. The figure at the desk, now visible, looked up and back across the room. I had to put a babe in here somewhere, right? She was stunning, or at least hopefully so, since it was hard to tell if she was actually female or just some alien joke of the gods. She had a tall, slender frame of warm lavender skin with a thin covering of cyan fur. Built in the traditionally disproportionate Comic-Babe fashion, her legs stretched to a perplexing length and were perfectly contoured. Much of her body was covered by a white lab smock which modestly covered her from knee to neck. It was large enough to accomodate her body, and eliminated the degrading "cleavage flap" problem that most ample Comic-Babes always seemed to encounter while wearing civilian clothing. Her hair, also cyan, fell to about her shoulders, and as the creature entered the room, she brushed it away from her narrow face and nodded tactfully. "Good evening... Kevin..." He grunted, rolling up his right sleeve. Hang on. Which right sleeve? She padded across the white room, rounding a large medical chamber in the center of the floor to sit at an examination table which... Kevin... also sat at. He sighed. "Mind taking a look at this, Doctor Thone? Little Prick clipped me with his Atomic Interceptor Rushing Dash Charge." "The one that cuts whole mountains in half?" She asked helpfully. He sighed again, teary-eyed. "Yeah. He's the greatest damn guy in the universe. Pure power." "How many fault lines split today?" Dr. Thone pondered, to which... Kevin... folded his other arms in an effort to recall. "All of them, actually. You know how it goes with Little Prick. Didn't hurt that their leader said he was short." "Short?" Thone marveled. "But he's a Tarsinon!" The Tarsinon people are short, yellow toad-guys who usually stand tallest at six inches. The Tarsinon in our story is a good two and a half feet, the Goliath of Tarsinon. "Well, it's irrelevant now..." Kevin... observed, "since Lord Gary blew up the planet. Now he's taking us to Delta Orion Three. Any idea what's there?" Thone tapped... Kevin's... cut with a medical sealant unit and wandered over to her workstation. Within minutes, her charts began to fill with data. Now there was a botched attempt at a suggestive line if I ever wrote one. "Well... Kevin... the charts say that Delta Orion Three is uninhabited." "What? No one to oppress? Why even go there? Is Gary going soft?" He questioned. Damnit! I didn't even mean to do that one! Thone stopped. "Wait. The Bacterial Highway. A special lane of warped space-time that can carry small organisms to distant stars in mere minutes. It goes right through Delta Orion Three." "I've never heard of any such thing. What purpose does Gary have for it?" Thone sighed. "Lord Gary knows... we'll just have to wait and see how his fancy changes." What does it all mean? Who is Little Prick? And what is up with... Kevin's... name anyway? Will I have my revenge against Nesbit? Will Weasel Boy be able to get Lesser's ship fixed up in time to stop Gary? Will he keep the other heroes together? Will I stop asking questions with obvious answers? Stay right where you are for Chapter III: Design Oversights, coming soon to Supermegatopia... and, uh... well, that's all I have for this chapter. Can't think of a witty ending, so, ummm... bye. -ND
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