It had been six months since Mr. Epitome last visited Four Colors, Massachusetts. The mid-sized Cape Cod village had gained a Dunkin’ Donuts, a Cumberland Farms, and two ATM kiosks; which meant the Four Colors Preservation Society must have lost an epic struggle within the Zoning Board to maintain the town’s character.
Another surprise awaited Epitome as he pulled the rented Crown Victoria into the Haverhills’ gravel driveway. In addition to the family’s Buick and Dodge Dakota, there was a lawn care van parked at the end of the drive. A short, tanned man was in the process of hoisting his mower into the back of it. When he saw Epitome get out of his car, the man tensed his muscles in what could only be some instinctive attempt to front the larger man.
“Hey, how are you? You the son?” he offered his callused hand in greeting. He was over fifty, and his accent gave him away as Irish.
Epitome smiled, “Not really. I spent some summers with the Haverhills when I was a teenager,” he shook the man’s hand, and introduced himself as “Dominic Clancy.”
“Larry Entwright. Clancy, eh? You from Ireland?” Irish students had been coming to the Cape for decades in the summer as part of a work study program. As a boy Epitome had found the girls’ lilting dialect and prodigious drinking abilities enthralling.
“No. I’m from Dorchester,” Dorchestah, he remembered to stress his accent, “I was part of a program to send foster kids to the Cape.”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah,” Larry looked around at the yard behind him, “Hell of a spread, isn’t it?”
The lawn was large and neatly kept, but Mr. Epitome was surprised the Haverhills had gone to outside help to maintain it. Epitome nodded.
“Well, good to meet you, Dominic,” Larry shook hands again, “When you see Anne, can you tell her I put the hammock back up and I’ll be back next week?”
“Sure thing, Larry. Try to find some shade,” Epitome offered helpfully.
After seeing Larry off Mr. Epitome went up to the white and tan ranch style house. He knocked on the glass door. After a few moments a tall woman with tight curly hair came from an unseen hallway off from the home’s living room. She was dressed in light pastels. She smiled when she recognized him, “Hello, Dom!” She welcomed him in.
Epitome entered, and breathed in the smells of the home. The omnipresent pall of cigarette smoke that filled the air was streaked by the sharp odor of citrus cleaner mixed with a whiff of fried egg and onion. It was past noon and the Haverhills hadn’t done their breakfast dishes yet.
“I thought you were Larry. He does our lawn now. Did you meet him?”
“Yes, Anne. He was leaving as I was coming in. He said he put the hammock back up.”
“Oh, you haven’t been here since the hammock. Teddy bought it for his father (fathah) for his birthday. I think Teddy and Marissa use it more than we do,” The duo still stood in the living room, “So how are you?”
“Good, good,” Mr. Epitome heard a metallic wheezing over the shower running down the hall, “Where’s Paul?”
Paul was Anne’s husband, Teddy’s father, and Marissa’s father-in-law, “He’s in the shower. Have you eaten? I can make you a sandwich before I clean up the kitchen.”
“I’m not hungry, thanks. But I’ll help you with the dishes.”
The duo was halfway done when Paul came out the bathroom, his thinning black hair plastered to his flushed face. He was tall, with an ample stomach and stubby legs, “Hey, Dom,” he said, “I thought I heard you.”
“Yeah, washing dishes, just like old times.”
“Did he complain about it for ten minutes like you used to?” he asked Anne teasingly, before getting a bottle of soda out of the fridge.
Anne laughed, “No, not this time.”
“How was church?” Anne’s husband asked while filling a large glass with ice.
“Good, good. Teddy and Marissa were there. They said there going to stop by and say hi to Dom. Marissa wants to thank him for the wedding presents.”
Ted Haverhill married Marissa Dowd last winter. Mr. Epitome had been invited, but was unable to attend. The Office of Paranormal Security was attempting to track down an industrial spy named Tech-Spectre at the time, and the investigation had him working around the clock. Epitome sent them the bread-maker they had put on their registry, and since he didn’t see much use for a bread-maker, added in a DVD Player.
Paul Haverhill went to another cabinet to get a bottle of vodka. Splashing some into his glass first, he then topped it off with the soda, “Yeah, they love that DVD machine. They’ve almost convinced us to buy one. But it doesn’t record, you know that? How’s Annie going to tape her stories?” he looked at Epitome, who was mopping down the counter top on the island in the middle of the kitchen. “Red Sox are on in ten minutes, Dom. Are you coming?”
In between innings of the baseball game Mr. Epitome took the opportunity to review the Haverhill’s finances. His x-ray vision revealed a well-balanced checkbook with a hefty surplus. Anne, a bookkeeper for the town’s Department of Public Works, knew how to make and follow a budget. There was a recent check to a Dr. Mangunson (general practitioner) and another to the CVS Pharmacy. The dates coincided with the one bottle of Amaryl, an oral anti-diabetes medication he scanned in the medicine cabinet with Paul’s name on it. This was new, but not unexpected.
He remembered Anne kept her medicine in the couple’s bedroom, but Mr. Epitome couldn’t bring himself to look in there to see if any new prescriptions were added.
Mr. Epitome was checking the condition of the hot water heater when Ted and Marissa arrived. Ted was a younger, trimmer version of his father, while Marissa was a tiny brunette who wore her hair short. Epitome had met her just once before. Unlike the Haverhills, she seemed quite shy. Her heartbeat skipped when she saw him sitting on the couch, and moved micro-infinitesimally towards her husband.
“Hey, Dad,” Ted put his hand on his father’s shoulder, “Hey, Dom. How was the drive from Virginia?”
“Not bad,” Epitome answered, “You know Sunday traffic on the Cape is a bear only if you’re leaving.”
“Damn straight. Mom said you’re leaving tonight. That’s nuts. You should stay here.”
Mr. Epitome shook his head, “No, I’ve got a meeting with my editor late tomorrow,” his cover to the Haverhills was that he was a writer of computer technical manuals.
Marissa squeezed her husband’s hand, “I’m going to check on Anne in the kitchen. Nice seeing you again Dom. Thank you so much for the DVD player and the bread machine.”
“You’re welcome, Marissa.”
After she left Ted gave Mr. Epitome a broad smile, “Not bad, huh? One thing you can say about the Haverhills, we tend to marry up,” he bummed a cigarette from his father and asked, “How about you, Dom? Seeing anybody?”
“No, I’m in a bit of a slump, Ted.”
Ted took a seat on the rocking chair across from his father, “Well, you better break out of that slump. You’re pushing 40. Here’s what you do: next time you’re at that gym of yours-”
Paul Haverhill was giving his son a look Epitome remembered from his youth. It was his ‘Shut the hell up before you embarrass me’ look. Ted either had forgotten the look or didn’t care.
“-you find some cute aerobics instructor and say, ‘Hey, you don’t know me, but I write Unix for Eunuchs and shit like that and since we’re in THE INFORMATION AGE that earns me gobs of money and how about I take you out for a carrot stick or whatever it is you aerobics instructors eat and we can go dancing and see what develops?”
Mr. Epitome smiled, “Should I ask her just like that?”
“What the hell is Unix for Eunuchs?” Paul asked his son, “Leave the man alone, Teddy. Not everyone is cut out for the married life.”
“Come on, Dad, Dom’s here only a couple times a year. I gotta get my licks in.”
Epitome tuned out the two’s familiar bickering and went back to watching the game. He wondered if the Haverhills, indeed if Marissa Haverhill herself, knew she was pregnant.
Paul Haverhill might have stopped doing dishes or tending his lawn, but he still cooked. Dinner was barbecued steak with a homemade honey-cayenne pepper glaze, along with baked stuffed potatoes and steamed asparagus. Anne made dessert, a pineapple upside-down cake.
It was during dessert that Mr. Epitome finally, reluctantly, turned his attention to the senior Haverhill.
He didn’t need his enhanced senses to realize that since retirement Paul Haverhill had let himself go. Haverhill was always fat, but it had once been a hard fat. His hands were once as rough as the yard man’s he now paid to do work he had considered a joy. In the past 2 years he had gone soft. His face had become swollen and beet-red, his nose was scratched with numerous gin blossoms.
Mr. Epitome looked deeper. His arteries were clogged with the fatty deposits left behind by too many steak dinners and not enough exercise. Epitome was especially concerned by the build up in Haverhill’s renal artery: a man in the early stages of Type II diabetes could not afford an attack of stenosis.
The liver was free of the accumulation of fat that was a warning sign of steatosis. Nor could Mr. Epitome find any nodules that might identify the presence of cirrhosis. That was a relief.
Finally, Mr. Epitome examined Paul Haverhill’s lungs. Fifty years of smoking had left the twin organs a scorched wreck. It was in the left lung’s pitch-like mucus that Epitome saw them: a pear-shaped formation of flattened cells surrounding the main bronchi. Those cells heralded the onset of squamous cell carcinoma.
Lung cancer.
For the rest of the evening Mr. Epitome tried to keep engaged in the polite conversation involving sports and local politics, but in reality his powerful mind was searching for what he could possibly do about his untenable situation. He tried one thing before he finally left. Taking Anne aside, he said, “Paul’s cough sounds pretty rough. Has he seen a doctor?”
Anne seemed nervous when she replied, “Oh, you know Paul. He won’t see a doctor any more than he has to. He does have an appointment in 2 months, to check on his… to have his physical.”
“Paul should go earlier,” Mr. Epitome said firmly, “He should have chest X-rays. Ask the doctor about a procedure called sputum cytology. I’m sure your insurance covers it.”
Mrs. Haverhill’s face grew a little flushed when Epitome told her this, “Sure,” she was angry. He could imagine what Anne was thinking. Don’t you think I know he’s sick? Who are you, a man who we now see twice a year, to tell me how to take care of my husband?
That anger was only the second hardest thing Mr. Epitome would have to face that night. The worst came later, after he said his goodbyes, and drove over the Bourne Bridge and headed south.
“Awfully late to be here, Mr. Epitome,” the sleepy eyed doctor acknowledged.
Epitome looked at the head of the asylum’s night staff, “I’m working on a case.”
“Well, I’m sure, sir. You wouldn’t be here 2am on a Sunday morning for tea and scones.”
Epitome had changed into his costume along the way, and his steel toed boots clattered across the cobblestone floors. He listened as the physician went through the security procedures.
“Don’t give him anything. Don’t accept anything he tries to give you. Don’t give him any personal information. Believe me, you don’t want this guy in your head,” the two men stopped at the cell door. Epitome was surprised he couldn’t see through it. He could hear Enrico Caruso’s rendition of Nessun Dorma from Turandot from within.
“Call for Barney when you’re ready to go,” the doctor said as he scurried off.
The music was blaring from a brightly polished Victrola Phonograh in the corner of the room. There was a cabinet of records next to it. A huge bookcase stood in the opposite corner. A round table with a pair of chairs took up the middle of the room. Mr. Epitome didn’t see a cot or a privy. He wondered if the man he sought, the man who could help him, even needed such things. He acknowledged the man.
“Mr. Winkelweald.”
“Mr. Epitome,” he answered. His voice was calm and cultured, “You will address me as the Hooded Hood or not at all.”
The Italian tenor reached the song’s crescendo just as the tall, cloaked man turned away from the window to face his guest. All that was perceivable, even to Epitome’s senses, were the green eyes that blazed with infernal power.
“I apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” even though there were many more parts to the Puccini opera, the Victrola stopped at this opportune time, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“And appropriate.”
The Hood’s eyes narrowed with something resembling mirth, “Oh, yes. ‘Nessun Dorma, Nessun Dorma, no one sleeps, no one sleeps.’ At least not us,” his tone became slightly more conversational, “So how goes the conspiracy, Miles?”
“I’m not part of any conspiracy.”
The Hooded Hood seemed to glide across the room until he was right before Mr. Epitome. It was as if he took up every atom of space, blocking out even light itself, “Your capacity for self-delusion is remarkable. Tell me, why are you here? Have you come to play another game of chess?”
Mr. Epitome was about to answer in the negative when the Hood pulled away, revealing a chessboard that now was, and always had been, on the table.
“I, unfortunately, can’t oblige you this time, Mr. Epitome. One of my pieces is missing. That rascally Dr. Valium probably made off with it. Petty of him, really. I thought maybe I’d use something else, like a salt shaker, or a thimble, but that spoils the whole mood.”
“Look, Hood, I’m not here to play chess,” Epitome felt dizzy, “I-I am not going to try and figure out the way your world works. This stuff,” he gestured around the room, “is beyond me.”
“And yet you beat me, Miles. You asked for a boon and won it. How do you think you beat me?”
Epitome ignored him, “I want you to fix what you did.”
“You beat me because-eh?” again the Hooded Hood’s tone changed to one of muted surprise and consternation, “Fix what?”
“I want you to change it back to the way it was so that my family remembers me. When I came to you years ago and asked you to make it so that the world forgot about Miles Haverhill, I did that to protect them. If my enemies found out whom I was, my family could be used against me.”
The mirth was back in the Hooded Hood’s eyes. He folded his arms across his chest and waited.
“But things for them are worse now. I can help them better if they knew I was their son.”
From deep in the black of the Hood’s hood came a slow, ominous chuckle, “So you want things back the way they were, hmm?” the chuckle now became a manic laugh, “And then things will be the way you want it? Oh, Mr. Epitome, I must amend my earlier comment: your capacity for self-delusion is awful. And I mean in that it truly inspires awe.”
“I got that.”
“I’m glad I agreed to your request for an audience, Epitome. I haven’t laughed so much since I read the lost confession of Caligula. Let’s see if we can identify your misinterpretations of this ethical dilemma. One,” the Hood held up a gnarled finger, “I will not simply undo my retcons. That is gauche. Two,” another finger, “You did not change your past to protect your family. It was nothing more than an abdication of your responsibility as a child and a brother. I could change the world to what it once was, and you’d be the same derelict you are now,” the last finger, “Three, what makes you think anything you say or do matters? That you can change peoples’ destinies by them just basking in your presence? You don’t have that kind of power. You are not special. When you are gone another violence-prone super patriot will rise up to replace you; Captain Americana, perhaps. Or Lee Pluribus Unum. You are a mere footnote in the magnum opus I will create! It shall be titled All That is, is His, and it will be good!!”
Mr. Epitome was trembling in helpless rage. “Well, then. I guess we’re done. Enjoy prison, Hood.”
“And you yours, Mr. Epitome. But before you go,” the Hood’s arm shot forward. As it reached behind Epitome’s head the sleeves of his cloak brushed against the hero’s shoulder causing him to nearly black out. When Epitome recovered he saw that the Hooded Hood now dangled a small black pawn in front of his face.
“Look at that: it was here all along!!” the Hooded Hood cackled, turning his back to the dumbstruck Epitome. The Victrola started again. This time it played Leoncavalio’s aria Vesti la giubba, from Pagliacci, which, Mr. Epitome admitted to himself, was appropriate too.
OK, a couple things:
I know this story messes with the time-line of the Parodyverse, but that’s why I kept when it happened somewhat vague (no mention of the Thresh case for example). Also, I don’t know how in-character this is for the Hooded Hood. I read his Secret Origin and not much else, so I’m as guilty of not doing my research as, say, Ron Zimmerman. But I thought the idea worked (and the Hood is hella cool) so I went ahead with it.
If there’s anything I should change, let me know. It won’t take much for me to edit things. I probably should have asked first but I wanted the Hood’s appearance to be a Big Reveal moment, so I kept mum. I hope it worked.
Also, here’s a bit more about Mr. Epitome, to anyone who’s interested:
From the Official Handbook of the Parodyverse
Hero Name: Mr. Epitome
Real Name: Miles Haverhill
Known Aliases: Dominic “Dom” Clancy, the Exemplary Man, the Paragon of Power, the Star Spangled Splendor, Mr. Opitomy (to those who can’t spell)
Known Relatives: None…sort of
Base of Operations: Persephone, Virginia
Occupation: Director, Epitome Division, Office of Paranormal Security
Physical Appearance: Those of you over eighteen run a Google search for “Randy Spears.” Epitome looks like that. Warning: doing this at your place of employment could lead to your lawful termination.
Costume: Get out your copy of Ultimates #1 and turn to page 17. Dump the shield and the helmet and there you go.
Powers: Somewhere in between Captain America and Superman
Pre-Crisis Superman or Post Crisis Superman? : Does it matter at this point? They’re pretty much the same guy now.
Origin: A government agent and sole surviving participant in the Cold War era program Homo Maximus, Mr. Epitome serves as America’s “first and last line of defense against those who would threaten our way of life.”
Known Enemies: Factor X, VIRUS, Doc Toxic, The Idiom, Musk Ox, The Friendly Foes (Mirror Maiden, Hammer Toss, Kelvin, and Doctor Spin), Tech-Spectre
Identity of the guy bossing him around on the phone: In the interest of national security, that must remain classified
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