Tales of the Parodyverse

The Adventures of Alcheman #1


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killer shrike
Sun Dec 21, 2003 at 01:36:11 am EST
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The Adventures of Alcheman, Episode One: Following Ones Muse

"Do you want superpowers?"

Michael Wooster looked at the man sitting across from him on the Paradopolis subway. He was short and wiry, his lean arms knotted with muscles and tattoos. He wore a tattered denim jacket and a dull red do-rag over his grey hair. His ill-kempt beard was dotted with what appeared to be crumbs from an English muffin. Michael considered his offer.

"The question really isn't do I want superpowers, after all, who wouldn't? What you should ask is 'Do you deserve superpowers?'"

The man blinked in surprise, "Uh, what?"

Michael explained, "I would submit to you the world's general populace desire superhuman abilities, provided that they are in fact beneficial, or do not carry any stigma, such as those who are mutates. However, there are people who would abuse such powers, committing crimes in pursuit of their own selfish ends. So, it might behoove you to ask those you wish to empower what qualities they possess that would make them candidates to earn such a boon. As the one bestowing said powers, it is your responsibility to ensure they are deserved."

"Are you a lawyer?" the tattooed man asked suspiciously.

"No. I teach at a small private school in the city. Are you asking me if I'm a lawyer to determine whether or not I'm a suitable recipient for your largess? Because that might not be a valid criterion to judge me by. Granted, attorneys have a reputation for amoral behavior, but there are examples of members of the legal profession with superpowers who work towards the common good. Or are you asking me if I'm a lawyer because I have a tendency to speak in a very precise vernacular?"

"The second one, I guess," Ivan Strode was starting to regret making the offer in the first place. Most people either dismissed him as a crank or immediately asked for specifics: what kind of powers, what was the cost, etc. "I don't care what you do with your powers once you get them. I'm an artist. I'm only following my muse."

“But aren’t artists ultimately responsible for the consequences of their art?” the bespectacled man asked, “Look at Leni Riefenstahl.”

“Who?”

“German movie maker Leni Riefenstahl. Director of what were essentially propaganda films for the Third Reich.”

“Look,” Strode interrupted, glancing momentarily at his fellow strap-hangers with nearly pleading eyes, “I’m no Nazi. I’m just a guy who charges 500 bucks to give people powers. You interested?”

“Oh, yes,” Michael smiled, “Very much so.”

*****


Ivan Strode unlocked the door to his studio and turned on the lights. The walls were covered with a variety of symbols, pictures, and sample fonts. A metal recliner took up one corner of the room, a refrigerator another. A wooden table laden with empty carry out containers squatted in the room’s center.

“You’re a tattooist,” Michael said the obvious.

“Yeah. Been inkin’ for nearly 20 years now,” Strode went to a cabinet and withdrew a set of needles and dye.

“And your tattoos bequeath powers?” Michael asked as he took off his cuordoroy sports coat and hung it on a listing coat rack.

“Not to everybody. Just people who have this… aura. I’ve worked on maybe a hundred or so over the years.”

“Really? Have any of your subjects gone on to greater glory or infamy?” Michael unknotted his tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

Strode set the implements down and went to watch his hands in the ceramic sink jutting from the far wall, “I don’t know. I don’t keep track of those things. I can tell you not one of them was unhappy with my work.”

Michael started scanning the samples on the walls, “So, what do you think I should get? Does it matter?”

“You and I don’t get to choose. It’s the muse that decides. Very Zen. You can put the money on the table there. Then go get that bottle of vodka from the icebox.”

“Vodka? It’s a little early in the day for cocktails.”

“Not for you,” Strode smiled, “This is going to hurt like hell.”

*****


Michael awoke four hours later with a piercing hangover and both biceps bandaged. Strode was sitting at the table playing solitaire.

“Can’t handle your liquor, can ya, Mikey?” Ivan grinned.

“I’m more accustomed to a mild aperitif after dinner,” he admitted, and pinched the bridge of his nose, “You know, other than the excruciating pain I don’t feel any different.”

“Give it time. When you take the bandages off it will come to you. That’s what usually happens,” Strode picked up his cards and stood, “We better get going. I don’t like being in Hell’s Bathroom after dark. You got a ride?”

Michael Wooster slowly rose from the chair and lumbered to the coat rack, “I can call my family’s car,” he took a cell phone from his jacket’s pocket, “Though that will incur an encounter with my mother. I may need a few more pulls from your bottle for that.”

*****


The Wooster estate was a three story Tudor mansion located in the elite suburb of Pierce Heights. The Woosters had lived in the district for three generations and in Gothmetropolis York before that. Michael’s great great-grandfather, Wendell, had started the family business as Wooster Dry Goods. Now that small feed store has evolved into a multi-national department store chain specializing in high end merchandise. Michael himself had worked in the Paradopolis branch of Wooster’s until he turned seventeen, when he realized retail sales was not the career for him.

The decision had infuriated Michael’s mother, Agnes Wooster. He could remember that baleful glare on her face so vividly. Probably because she wore it again now.

“You got yourself tattooed?! Michael, what were you thinking? Were you even thinking at all?!”
Michael and Agnes sat in his mother’s drawing room drinking coffee. Agnes, a stout, matronly redhead dressed in her bedclothes and robe, continued her harangue.

“Aren’t you too old for this type of rebellious behaviour? It’s not like you’re still in college when you took a semester off to follow that band around the country.”

“I would have to say following Phish was a learning experience more than an act of rebellion. I still remember how to make soap.”

“Well, goody for you. When Hogan Academy fires you for defacing yourself you and your Hippie friends can open up a little soap-making shop,” Agnes stirred her coffee with growing malice.

Michael smiled, “Mother, unless I begin attending class sans jacket and wearing a sleeveless tee Headmaster Furrillo will never know I’ve been defaced.”

Agnes was tempted to throw the spoon at her cheeky offspring, “You’re just like your father. Always doing something to draw attention to yourself.”

Malcolm Wooster, RIP, had been an international jet-setter and amateur daredevil before his tragic death six years ago trying to jump four ascending hot air balloons on his customized Indian motorcycle. Michael loved his father dearly, but even he had to admit for that stunt the man probably deserved what he got.

“That’s really not the reason, mother. I’ll explain the situation more fully when I’m more clear on the details myself. I was wondering, though, if we might continue this discussion at a later time. I’m still in a great deal of pain from the experience.”

“Fine. I suppose you’re staying the night? Marta can fix up your old room.”

“That would be splendid. Thank you.”

Later, when Michael was alone in his room, he gingerly removed the swaths around his arms. His skin was still red and swollen, but he could make out what Strode had etched around his arms.

They were a band of squares, each one numbered and bearing a letter. Upon closer inspection he saw sometimes there were two letters: one capital, one lower case.

“A periodic table,” he noted, “It’s a periodic table,” he cautiously pressed one of the squares: Fe.

Michael felt a sudden rush of vertigo and then he changed. His entire body became as dense and solid as pure iron.

“So that’s-“ Michael began, but was cut off mid-thought when the hardwood floor creaked and buckled under his weight. Quickly he tried to find an element he could press that would reduce his mass. He settled for oxygen.

His gaseous state certainly relieved his mother’s floor from stress (and his clothing as well), but it was quite disconcerting for Michael. He could feel his very being drifting apart, dispersing across the room. Michael concentrated, willing himself together. With an ethereal hand he touched the symbol for oxygen again. His instincts proved correct when he returned to his human form.

“Well, now, this should prove interesting,” Michael said. He looked over at the family portrait adorning his room’s wall, “Father, I believe I’m about to do you one better,” he told his parent’s image, then set about experimenting some more.

*****


Michael was at the breakfast table before his mother, scribbling designs onto a sketch pad he had found in her study. His mother, dressed for working with her hothouse orchids, came down the stairs.

“You took your bandages off,” she noted before sitting.

“Good morning, mother.”

Agnes tried to see what her son’s tattoos were under his shirt, “What are those, Scrabble tiles?”

“No, mother. It’s a stylized periodic table.”

“What they use for chemistry? Why on Earth would you get that? You’re a civics teacher.”

“Mother, there’s no way to gradually lead into this, so I’m just going to come out and tell you: I’ve decided to become a superhero. The tattoos enable me to alter my body’s molecular structure to duplicate the properties of various elements and compounds and yet still maintain mobility and sentience. That in itself would seem physically impossible, but so is the nature of the world we find ourselves in. I mean, when you compare my powers to giant shape-shifting dragons and half-plant politicians, it’s not so fanciful. I suppose at some point I will have to learn the specifics of how I can do what I can do; it would make sense from a tactical advantage. However, for now, there are other tasks that take precedence. Telling you about my plans is the first, and as I can see you think this is some form of prank I will now show you a sample of my abilities.”

Michael pressed the symbols for sodium and chlorine and assumed the properties of table salt. He rubbed his fingers together until flakes of grit dotted his mother’s azure table cloth. He then dutifully scooped it up into his chalk white hand before she complained about the mess.

Agnes Wooster looked stricken, “My, God. What have you done? What have you done?!”

Michael assumed his human form, “As you have observed, my transmutation does not alter my attire. Before I can truly begin my new role as crime fighter it will be necessary to learn if it is possible to design clothing that will change as I do. The people of Paradopolis condone many quirks of their heroes, but I doubt they will tolerate one of them operating au natural. In fact, as soon as I have decided upon a name for my heroic identity I plan to make an appointment to address this issue.”

“You need to make an appointment to see a psychiatrist, Michael. You can’t become a superhero.”

“Why not?” Michael asked simply.

“Because… because… you just can’t. Those people train and practice. They have skills.”

“Not to be immodest, mother, but I am hardly ignorant in what it takes to be a good citizen. And that’s all a superhero is: a productive member of society on a far-reaching scale.”

Agnes was undeterred, “Superheroes get into fights. When was the last time you got in a fight, Michael? Prep school?”

“When I master my powers I don’t think conflicts will be much of an issue.”

“Against people like the Red Watchman?! Being a superhero means you will be fighting supervillains, and they have powers too. No,” Agnes said resolutely, “I will not allow this. I will not allow my only son to get himself killed because he just turned thirty and he feels professionally unfulfilled.”

“That’s not why I’m doing this, mother. And I’m an adult. What are you going to say or do that could stop me?”

“Fine. Don’t think about your own safety. Think of mine and Trudi’s and Jenni’s,” Agnes invoked the names of Michael’s younger sisters, “If you become a superhero you’ll put all of our lives in danger.”

“I plan on making sure my identity is protected from discovery,” Michael picked up the tablet he was writing on before his mother came down for breakfast and showed her the sketch of his proposed costume, “See: it has a mask.”

Agnes Wooster stared at the crude drawing and came to the realization that her son’s lost his mind, just like his father had. With a strangled cry she bolted from the room and back up the stairs to her bedchamber. She wouldn’t leave it for two days.

Michael gauged the reaction as about what he had expected, shrugged, and turned the page on the tablet to his checklist. He crossed out Tell Mother Plan and considered his next task: Choose Heroic Name. He began brainstorming aloud:

“Element Guy? No. Element Master? No. Elementalist? No. Molecular Master? No. Molecular Lord? No. MolecuLord? No. Moleculon? No. Metamorphon? No. Mister Alchemy? No. Alchemy Master? No. Alchemy Man? No. Alcheman?”

He stopped, and repeated his last suggestion: “Alcheman. Yes, I like that one,” and he wrote it down.



Next time: Alcheman’s plan proceeds apace, with trips to the library and COPE. Don’t know what COPE stands for? Well, we’ll all find out together next time, and see what it takes to get Agnes out of her room and even more disgusted with her children. Plus, a supervillain might show up, and we’ll have some forshadowing and subplots and new supporting cast members, all things a good comic book needs. They need titles too, but I haven’t come up with one yet.



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