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killer shrike
Mon Dec 26, 2005 at 08:57:15 am EST
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The Adventures of Alcheman #25
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The Adventures of Alcheman #25


“So this is Christmas”


Previously: Alcheman, convinced there was a conspiracy afoot to humiliate and control the superheroes of the Parodyverse, decided to launch against a pre-emptive strike against the forces allayed against them. He managed to organize a group of third-rate super humans into the Joy Corps, who have set up shop in Alcheman’s townhouse. The team is wanted for several crimes, a fact that has the mother of the Chemical Crimefighter, Agnes Wooster, concerned.

“Marta!” Agnes Wooster screeched to her maid, almost causing her to fall off her stepladder, “I don’t want to see popcorn and cranberries in the garland!”

“Yes, Missus Wooster,” the Honduran worker snatched up the offending material that she was hanging along the crown moulding of the mansion dining room.

“We don’t decorate with trail mix ingredients here: this isn’t Christmas at Jane Fonda’s house,” the matriarch of the Wooster clan stated firmly, “Douglas fir and holly. That’s what I want.”

“Yes, Missus Wooster,” Marta repeated, internally reminding herself this was how she was affording her son’s dental college tuition.

“Mum,” another maid called to Agnes, “A Mr. Cloot is here to see you. I put him in the drawing room.”

“Very good, Winifred. Have the kitchen send in some tea and cakes,” Agnes Wooster smoothed down her lavender pantsuit and then stalked off to meet with her lawyer.

*****


“So that’s my problem, Damien,” Agnes finished, “I’m worried my son may leave the family open to a lawsuit.”

The lawyer took his tea from the server with a near imperceptible nod of gratitude, “It would be much easier to gauge your potential liability if you told me exactly what your son is doing.”

“I’d…. rather not.”

“But it is illegal?” the attorney checked.

“It could be construed as such.”

“Hmmm. Well, I suppose…. is it possible to identify these possibly illicit actions of Michael’s as being systemic of a larger pathology?”

Agnes didn’t understand.

Cloot clarified, “Could it be said that your son has certain psychological or emotional issues that could be responsible for his behavior?”

“Are you asking if Michael is insane?!” Agnes literally clutched at her pearls.

No no no no no. No,” Damien sipped his tea, “I’m asking if we could convince a court that Michael’s actions are beyond his control.”

“Get. Out.”

Mr. Cloot blinked, “I realize this is a sensitive topic with your family, given your late husband’s er, history-“

“No, you clearly didn’t realize, because if you had, Damien, you would never have suggested such a thing!” Agnes rose from her chair, “My son may be many things: stubborn, irresponsible, impractical, but he is not crazy.”

The senior partner in one of Paradopolis’s most prestigious law firms put his Blackberry away and snapped his suitcase shut, “I’m sorry if I offended you, but I am trying to help. If Michael could be determined non compos mentis, it would probably immunize him and you from any legal action,” he stood to take his leave, “Have a Merry Christmas, Agnes.”

“Merry Christmas, you ambulance chasing shyster,” Agnes Wooster murmured back.

*****


Michael Wooster stood at the edge of the brick-laid hearth and called the house meeting to order, “Is there anyone present who objects to foregoing the reading of the minutes from the previous session?”

The assembled Joy Corps kept their hands in their laps.

“Very well,” the House Speaker/Secretary/Parliamentarian flipped through his legal pad, “First issue, then, is to determine procedure on closing debate on the adjusted bathroom schedule. As with all previous procedural votes, an ‘aye or nay’ will be used to make your choice. So all in favor of a hand count to verify support or opposition for closure say ‘Aye’.”

“Aye,” was the unanimous decree.

Michael quickly jotted a note and nodded, “Then we can now address the issue of closure. A raised hand will indicate that the participant wishes to end debate on the subject of the adjusted bathroom schedule, wheras those who do not raise their hands will be understood to support continuation of the debate.”

From his recliner Myron House raised his hand prematurely, “Mike, can we get on with this? I have to use the bathroom.”

“You sure its your turn on the schedule?” Smooth Operator quipped.

“Real funny,” Varmint gave the boy in the denim jacket the stinkeye, “Yer a laugh a minute, bub.”

“Just trying to balance out you and the other Grumpy Old Man there,” Operator noted while fiddling with one of Brick House’s darning needles.

“Daniel! Really! I can’t imagine your family would approve of such manners. Please apologize to Mr. King and my husband,” the grandmother trapped in the body of a supermodel lectured.

Smooth Operator’s face reddened, partially out of being chastened and partially out of finding such admonishments a turn on, “Sorry.”

There was a shriek from the couch and Whitney Spheris levitated to her feet, “Gross! He’s leaking again!” she pointed at Holothuroidea Lad, who did seem to be expressing…. Something.

“Order,” Michael tried vainly.

H-lad put his nearly vestigial arms on his almost shapeless hips, “I can’t help it. It happens when I’m out of the water too long, and my skin starts to dry out.”

“Now I really need to use the restroom,” Myron lamented.

Ivan Strode had heard enough, “That’s it. I’m leaving,” he reached behind a chair and picked up his rucksack. With glance of sympathy toward the owner of the house the tattooist headed for the door.

“Ivan, wait,” Michael called after him, “The chair requests a five minute recess. All in favor?”

“Aye!”

Michael bolted.

*****


“Ivan, wait!” Michael bounded down the townhouse steps, “Please don’t leave. The house needs you.”

“The house needs a therapist,” Ivan Strode grumbled, but did stop. He turned and gave his former roommate a rueful smile, “I’m sorry, Mike. I can’t take it anymore. You trying to run things like we’re some kind of model UN ain’t working.”

“I know,” Michael admitted, “But, I need your help. Besides myself, you’re the only other person whose bringing money into the house.”

“That’s not much of an incentive for me to stay. And money wouldn’t be a problem if you had taken that loot you found when you all broke up the Hurdy Gurdy Man’s pickpocket ring.”

“That merchandise didn’t belong to us, and was evidence in a crime.”

Ivan smiled, “I know, but the rules have changed, Mike. You guys are living outside the law now. They can’t contact their friends or family, or even show their faces in public.”

“I know.”

The tattooist could see the guilt etched across the young man’s face. Michael had always been earnest, but also optimistic. Now…

Ivan dug into his jacket and withdrew a wad of bills, “Here. For the damage I did to your floor.”

The reference to the carvings Strode made reminded Michael of another concern, “Those sigils were to keep out the minions of Penny Blood! If you leave you are putting yourself in danger!”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m a tough son of a gun. Besides, it seems like Penny’s laying low. Something’s going on with the Cosmic Forces, and since her power is tied in to the Office of the Shaper of Worlds, she’d be sensitive to that. Still, I’ll probably play it safe and head out of town for a bit. My ex lives in Dayton, and she’s let me bunk in her garage in the past if she’s feeling charitable.”

Michael nodded, “It’s the season for being charitable,” he stuck out his hand, “Good luck, Ivan.”

“You too, Mike.”

And then Ivan Strode was gone, turning up his collar and heading for the nearest bus station.

*****


When Michael returned inside he found only Whitney Spheris in the living room.

“What happened to the meeting?” he asked.

The Pop Nebula didn’t even look up from her copy of Blender, “We ended it.”

“I can see that, but there were still issues to discuss-”

“The bathroom? Well, it was decided that we’d go ‘first come, first serve,’ until the new one was built.”

“New bathroom?” Michael was incredulous.

“Yeah. In the basement. Smoothie is downloading some Plumbing For Dummies blueprints and Varmint and Brickhouse are heading back to that BALD base we busted up last week and confiscate their toilet and stuff.”

“They’re going to steal a toilet from BALD? They can’t do that!”

Whitney shrugged, “Why not? They’re not using it.”

Alcheman wanted to protest, but remembered Ivan’s words, “I suppose that’s true.”

“Oh, and you got a phone call: your mother. She wanted to know if you’re still coming over for Christmas Eve.”

Again Michael felt guilty. His housemates were banned by circumstances from seeing their families at the holidays, while he could still enjoy the benefits of having a double life. Even if that life meant breaking bread with his fellow Woosters. He looked up to see Whitney staring at him expectantly.

He smiled weakly, “Wouldn’t miss it.”

*****


Christmas Eve at the Woosters when the family had always celebrated the holiday in the manner they were accustomed to. The party, the guests, the feast, the gifts, were slotted in on that night, because Christmas Day itself was reserved for ‘the people of Paradopolis.’ For twenty five years Agnes had had her husband (when alive) and children spend the day on the road, bringing gifts to the homebound, volunteering in soup kitchens, and attending services in a number of churches the family had sponsored over the years.

In the past it had been the one time Michael could say he was proud to be a Wooster.

Now, as he shrugged out of his winter coat and handed it and his scarf to Marta, he knew Christmas was about to start a fight.

“I will be unavailable tomorrow morning,” he told his mother after accepting a peck on the cheek.

Agnes’s face grew very stern, “What?”

“I am sorry. But my friends and I will be celebrating the holiday in the morning. I won’t be able to attend until after 10:30.”

“So you plan on ducking out on your family responsibilities, then, because of those strange people you’ve let into your home,” she spat.

“I’m doing no such thing. It’s just that I have additional commitments now that I’m part of a team-”

Agnes waved the rationale aside, and in a voice quavering with indignation said, “If you can’t come on time, then don’t come at all.”

“Mother,” Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, “please. I’ll only miss Midnight Mass and breakfast at the Strumpet’s Alley Mission.”

“You’re not going to Mass?!” the minister’s daughter was near hysterics.

“I went to church earlier this afternoon.”

“Nevertheless,” Agnes said in ultimatum, “This is the one time of year I ask you and your sisters to set aside your selfishness and represent the family. And if you are not willing to commit yourself fully, I don’t want you there.”

“Don’t do this, Mother. You’re being unreasonable.”

Agnes all but stamped her foot at the accusation, “I’m being unreasonable?! If you only knew what Hell you’ve put us through- oh!” and she stormed off towards the upstairs.

From the darkened foyer window an ominous figure watched with great interest.

*****


From the entrance hall Michael made his way to the dining room. That was where a good number of the guests had assembled in knots of conversation. The party goers were mostly family: Woosters from Georgetown or Sag Harbor or Osterville who had come home to Paradopolis for the holidays. Agnes’s relations were there as well, off in their own little clutch, eyeing the largesse of their surroundings with equal parts disdain and envy.

Then there was the company who were not kin: the Jerksons and their dodgy delinquent son argued by the Rosewood, likely over what time to make their exit. Reverend Beckwith Gleeson Hawes was deep in epistemological debate with arms magnate Obadiah Blott. And of course, there was Honoria.

Doctor Honoria Sesselby, Phds. Cryptozoology and Cryptoanthropolgy, stood by the mantel with her current boyfriend, real estate mogul Donald Branson. Michael had known both persons for over twenty years; Honoria had almost become family, as Michael and her were to have married when he graduated from high school, and would have if Michael hadn’t chose to run away the night before the rehearsal dinner.

Michael Wooster felt the urge to run again when Honoria caught sight of him.

The statuesque blonde knew Michael’s secret: that he bore mystical tattoos that allowed him to assume the properties of elements and compounds and used them to fight crime as the superhero Alcheman. Honoria mostly approved of his career choice, and felt, with her guidance, Alcheman would accomplish a great deal of good in the world.

This was before Michael had made the decision to turn against the System; something he had done without seeking Dr. Sesselby’s input.

As Honoria put aside her drink and began stalking towards young Mr. Wooster it was clear she still felt obligated to provide him with it.

“Excuse me,” came a soft, lyrical voice behind Michael. He turned to see a slim Japanese woman wearing a stylish kimono and (even more strangely) a katana hanging from her side, “I am Chiaki Bushido, an…. aide to your sisters. They wish to speak to you.”

“Yes, of course,” a grateful Michael enthused, “Where are Jenni and Trudi?”

“The panic room.”

*****


Michael closed the heavy vault door and greeted his sisters, “Merry Christmas.”

Jenni Wooster popped open a second bottle of Dom Perignon and refilled her glass, “Merry Christmas, Michael. Want some champagne?”

“Yes, please.”

“Care for a snort, Chicki?” Jenni asked the swordswoman.

“It’s Chiaki, you dunce,” Trudi leaned back in the chair set in front of the row of monitors that showed footage of several rooms in the house, “And she can’t drink while she’s on duty. Whoah!”

Trudi nearly tipped backward onto the hard concrete floor. With fluid grace Chiaki stepped forward and gripped the headrest, restoring the Wooster girl’s equilibrium.

“You’re quick,” Jenni said approvingly after some polite applause, “It’s a good thing we hired you. Especially since Trudi is such a klutz when drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. Well, maybe a little,” she giggled, “I’m a little tipsy.”

Jenni figured out the joke, “Hee hee hee.”

“Tipsy. Get it, Michael?” Trudi looked over to her brother, “Chiaki is our bodyguard. She’s a trained ninja.”

“Samurai,” Miss Bushido corrected as she stepped back.

“What’s the difference?” Jenni sipped at her flute.

“Ninjas wear black pajamas,” Trudi explained as she swiped the bottle from her sister and took a deep pull from it.

“Well, Chiaki might wear black pajamas. We’ve just never seen her in them,” Jenni gave her brother a sly smile, “What kind of pajamas do you think Chiaki wears, Michael?”

“I-uh-“ Michael blushed.

Trudi suddenly bounced out of her chair, nearly toppling over again, “After Christmas, we need to take Chicki shopping. For lingerie.”

“Which is French for pajamas,” Jenni explained helpfully to her bodyguard. The Psychic Samurai shifted uncomfortably.

“Perhaps we should discuss with your brother why we are here?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s right!” Jenni became anxious, “Chickpea detected a disturbance in the Force. Something eeeeeevil.”

Michael looked at the woman, “Really?”

Chiaki gave a qualified nod, “There is an unearthly presence in this house. Whether its intent is malevolent I can’t be sure.”

“Well, we weren’t gonna stick around to find out!” Trudi said resolutely, “Mother spent $300,000 on this panic room, it might as well get some use.”

“Yes, and now that you’re here you can call your friend Alcheman and help Chachi investigate. I mean, he can help her investigate. Why are you staring at me like that, Michael?”

“No reason,” Michael grumped.

Chiaki Bushido didn’t have to be psychic to detect some strong domestic acrimony in the room. She did, however, have a question:

“Who’s Alcheman?”

*****


Michael hadn’t bothered to explain the nature of his double life to the young woman. Instead, he asked for her help to get his sisters out of the vault and into bed. The two protested at first, afraid that ‘the monster’ would get them. It would take some consoling words from both Michael and Chiaki, who had to promise to stand guard outside their door until morning and submit to a ‘makeover’ at some point in the indeterminate future.

“Thank you,” Michael told the Psychic Samurai after Jenni and Trudi had been put down, “Whatever you are being paid, I fear it is not enough.”

Chiaki smiled, “They are not so bad. I admire their obvious lust for life.”

“That is as politic a description of them that I’ve ever heard.”

There was a moment of awkward silence before Michael spoke, “You know, it is unnecessary for you to stand sentry, if you would wish to rejoin the celebration-”

Chiaki looked to the stairwell, “Someone’s coming.”

Indeed someone was.

“Michael,” Honoria Sesselby observed, “At last. We need to talk.”

*****


After Chiaki had excused herself Honoria began, “I have a check for you. Ten thousand dollars.”

“Whu-what?” Michael stammered as she snapped open her clutch and withdrew a slip of paper to hand to him.

“To finance your new venture you will need funds. Since you no longer seem interested in receiving my advice the least I can do is provide pecuniary support.”

Michael was flummoxed, unsure of which statement to dare challenge first, “I never said I no longer wanted your advice, Honoria. In- in- fact, now more than ever, I will probably require it.”

“Indeed? I am surprised to hear that, since your decision to form an outlaw team of superheroes was made without my counsel,” the Amazon stated.

“Yes, well, that… wasn’t my original intent at the time. It was all very spontaneous.”

“Which is quite unlike you, Michael. You are normally so meticulous in your planning,” she noted shrewdly, “Hence the check.”

“I cannot accept it, Honoria.”

Honoria tutted, “It’s not for you. It’s for the rest of this ‘Joy Corps’ you’ve dragooned into your cause. If you are to be a true leader you need to look past your own prejudices and think of the needs of those who follow you.”

Michael knew his ex-fiancée was right. He took the check from her hard, callused hands, “Thank you. I… I’m afraid my gift to you is of significantly smaller value.”

“Money isn’t everything, Michael,” she gave him a wry smile, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

The pair hugged. In her heels Honoria was exactly the same height as the six foot Michael, which helped make a potentially awkward embrace comfortable.

Quite comfortable, Michael noted the smooth texture of the woman’s black velvet dress and the supple lattice of muscle underneath. The smell of lilac in her gold spun tresses-

“Michael.”

-the press of her chest against him, her own hale heart thrumming a potent rhythm that matched his own-

“Michael!”

Honoria gently but firmly took hold of Michael’s arms and placed them at his sides.

“Erm, yes?”

“I’m with Donald now, Michael,” she said.

Michael Wooster nodded as he regained his composure, “Yes. Of course. Uncle Donald. Good man.”

“Yes, he is,” Honoria rubbed her jaw thoughtfully, “We need to see if we can find you someone, Michael. Soon.”

“I don’t think-“

“Yes, we have to work on that: it just wouldn’t do for you to be without a date on New Year’s Eve.”

“I- I will be busy New Year’s Eve,” Michael predicted lamely, “Fighting crime.”

“That will certainly be taken into consideration when determining an appropriate candidate with whom you can socialize,” Honoria agreed. She took Michael by the arm and ushered him towards the staircase.

Privately the young man cursed himself: it wasn’t the first time an impressive set of cleavage had gotten him into trouble….

*****


Agnes Wooster sat at her bedroom vanity and finished reapplying her make-up. It was bad form for the hostess to be away for so long from her own party, but having her guests see her tear-stained mascara and blush would have been an even worse faux pas.

The room suddenly grew very cold and a draft swept up the holiday themed drapes, even though all the windows were closed.

“Agnes,” a sepulchral voice called.

The matriarch of the Wooster clan whipped around in her chair to see a gloomy figure dressed in a black great coat and jodhpurs. An officer’s cap was tucked under his arm.

“Otto!” she gasped.

Baron Ottokar Attila Kublai Tamerlane Zemo von Saxe-Lurkburg-Schreckhausen stepped forward, “Good evening,” in his gloved hand he held out a brightly wrapped package, “For you.”

“Oh, Otto, you should not have come,” Agnes told her not-quite-dead-yet-not-alive but definitely former paramour.

“Yes, I did. I’ve missed you, Liebling.”
Agnes slowly stood and crossed the room to stand before the Neo-Necromantic Nazi, “And I you. But our relationship, it is not meant to be.”

“Why? Why must we resist those urges that dwell within our, uh, souls?” Otto’s gift still waited acceptance.

Agnes took it from his icy fingers and tore away the paper and ribbon, “A first edition De Sade,” her voice trembled as she recognized the manuscript.

“Jä, you had said he was a favorite of yours,” Baron Otto took her hands in his.

“Thank you, Otto, this is a gift I will always cherish,” hidden in the wall safe she added to herself, “But you must go, before-“

“Mother, who are you talking to?” the door to the bedroom opened and her son walked in.

Michael Wooster gaped dumbfounded at the sight of his mother in the clutches of a jackbooted spectre. Then his hazel eyes grew very hard.

“Get away from her, you monster!” he shouted.

“Michael, calm-“ Agnes began, but it was too late. By now Michael had torn away the sleeve to his dress shirt and tapped the periodic table tattooed to his bicep. Pressing the chemical symbols for hydrogen twice and oxygen once, he assumed a form more fluid in viscosity.

Baron Otto scoffed, “What do you plan on doing, Dumköpf: give me the pneumonia?”

Alcheman lunged, striking Otto square in the temple with a soggy fist. To the German’s surprise he went down like a house of cards.

Michael was pleased to see that taking communion earlier this evening had in fact allowed him to become holy water. He dug his knees into Otto’s chest and began choking the unlife out of him.

“Stop! Stop!!!” Agnes took up her comforter and began walloping her son with it, “He’s not here to hurt me, Michael! He’s my friend.”

Michael’s head swiveled to stare at his mother, “What? Your friend?”

“Yes, now get off of him!”

Michael quickly stood and accosted Agnes, “You are friends with this villain? This Nazi zombie?!”

“Nein,” the Baron coughed an objection, “Baron Ottokar Attila Kublai Tamerlane Zemo von Saxe-Lurkburg-Schreckhausen is no Zombie!”

“Shut up,” Alcheman touched his tattoos to return to his normal, albeit slightly drenched, state. He watched in horror as his mother bent down to help Otto stand, “I- I cannot even begin to fathom your hypocrisy, Mother. You criticize me for the choices I’ve made, the company I keep, and all the while you’ve been consorting with this!”

“A child should not address his Mäter so,” Baron Otto lectured as he rubbed his still raw neck.

The Elemental Adventurer took a step towards the spirit but was promptly blocked by Agnes.

“Stay away from my family, you decrepit ghoul, or I swear by all that is Holy I will destroy you,” Alcheman vowed, pointing a finger at Zemo, “I have restrained myself so far. You do not want to be the one who causes me to test the limits of my power.”

Otto sneered, an expression Agnes did not catch as her back was turned to him.

“Michael, I won’t have you threaten one of my guests. If you can’t be civil you need to leave.”

Again, Alcheman was stunned. Reluctantly he complied, but not before he tossed one last warning over his shoulder, “Remember what I said, Zemo: harm my family and I’ll come after you in a manner that makes the Red Army’s past efforts seem timid in comparison.”

Otto kept his smirk until Agnes faced him, when he adopted a more penitent mien, “I am sorry to have caused such a rift. And on Chr- chr- during the holidays as well.”

Agnes reached up to touch Otto’s pallid neck, “Did he hurt you?”

“Nein,” the Baron stated, though it was a shock to have been so roughly manhandled. How did the little pisher do it? He wondered. Suddenly Agnes broke down and wept, pressing her face against his uniform.

“I don’t know what has happened to him, Otto. Michael was formerly so sweet-tempered. Something has happened to my little baby boy,” she looked up into his tombstone eyes, “My attorney may be right. Perhaps Michael has gone insane.”

The Baron made a comforting sound in the back of his throat and smoothed Agnes’s ginger hair.

Perhaps, the villain mused to himself, and perhaps not yet.




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