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killer shrike
Thu Mar 11, 2004 at 10:42:30 pm EST
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Mr. Epitome #25: the whole magilla
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Mr. Epitome #25


“[Mud]Slings, Arrows, and Outrageous Fortune”


Previously: Artemis tried taking down Paradopolis crime lord Crushed Velvet. For her trouble she’s being stalked by mercenary for hire Killer Shrike. Mayor spiffy refused to approve a deal that would have helped the business empire of Gothametropolis crime lord Harry Flask. For his trouble he’s facing a recall vote orchestrated by Mr. Epitome.

The tape plays, the first volley is fired:

{Voice over}: “spiffy refuses to lease public land to a company that wanted to supply cheap, safe power to the city of Gothametropolis. Why? Does he oppose more jobs for the city?”

Grainy footage of Depression Era unemployment line on screen.

{Voice over}: “Does he want to keep Gothametropolis dependent on an antiquated power system?”

Show rows of streetlights flickering, then fading out.

{Voice over}: “Or is he in the back pockets of a variety of fringe special interest groups?”

Newsreel of eco-warriors hurling red paint on fur-wearing grandmothers, followed by animated short of Banjoooo!!! banging SCUBA flipper on desk at UN Assembly.

{Voice over}: “spiffy has played the role of absentee mayor for too long and now the city is suffering because of it. It’s time for a change. Vote to recall Mark Hopkins on March 15.”

Still of swollen-faced spiffy after boxing match with the Yurt, with logo “Paid for by the Friends of Gothametropolis” on the bottom of the screen.

Mark Hopkins hit the “pause” button and stared dumbfounded at the screen, “What the hell was that?”

“An attack ad,” Doug Benton told him, “The first of many, I’m sure. It appears someone has finally gotten serious about removing you from office.”

The ferned wonder glared at his subordinate, “So the assassination attempts weren’t serious?!”

“Hey, you’re still here, aren’t you?” Kerry Shepardson quipped. She, spiffy, and his most available confidants were crowded around the table in the Mayor’s War Room, where they were discussing how to respond to this latest threat to the hero. Except Kerry, who came for the snacks.

“What do you think, Banjoooo!!!?” the beleaguered mayor asked his fellow Legionnaire.

The King of the Sea Monkey tapped his chin thoughtfully, “Did that animation seem familiar to you? Not Bruce Timm, but sort of Bruce Timm?”

“What?!”

“Ah, I know. Its style is like Mike Parobeck’s. What a tragic loss,” Banjoooo!! mourned the late genius.

“Well, yeah, I know. But if you could focus on my problem for a second here…”

The pink monarch made a sound of derision, “Oh, just remind the voters of all the times you’ve invaded France. That will appeal to the little jingoistic mouth breathers.”

“Actually,” Benton said, somewhat annoyed, “The opposition has thought of that. They have one ad by Charlton Heston who half-jokingly chides you for ‘not finishing the job’ in re France and another with Celine Dion upset over your perceived Gallic prejudice.”

“Dude, your bodyguard is sniffing me,” Kerry warned the Mayor as she tried to inch away from the curious Caveguy.

“But Celine Dion is Canadian!” spiffy felt the walls closing in.

“63% of the Gothametropolis electorate doesn’t know the difference,” Benton pointed out.

“That’s pathetic. You really need to increase funding for your city’s schools, spiffy,” Elsqueevio, god of small waters, observed.

“Hooga!”

“This guy’s proof positive to that,” Kerry dumped a bowl of guacamole on the aspirating Neanderthal.

“Then there’s the matter of your misadventure with Miss Shepardson here, where you used city property in an attempt to smuggle alien super weapons to the terrorist Balefire,” Benton said, “That’s getting some serious airplay as well.”

“They used the T-word? Uh-oh,” Banjooo!! looked concerned, “Looks like they’re going to paint you as soft on domestic security.”
Let them say that to my face!” spiffy stood, flushed with anger, “I’m one of the founders of the Lair Legion and the Abandoned Legion! I’ve helped save the Parodyverse more times than most of these dopes can count!”

“Yes, but what have you done for them lately?” Benton asked.

Mark Hopkins, or more, specifically, his fern, reacted without thinking. The powerful fronds lashed out and grabbed Doug Benton by his lapels. Benton was suspended inches off the ground, his eyes agog.

“spiff, stop!” Banjoooo!! wrestled the heavy-set Benton free from the plant’s grasp.

Mark realized he had gone too far, “God, I’m sorry, Benton.”

“You’re going to have to develop thicker skin if you expect to survive this, Hopkins,” Doug retreated from the room.

“And there goes the only man here with any experience navigating through a democratic election,” Elsqueevio pointed out, “Nicely done.”

“Tough. I’m not giving up. I’ve fought the Parody Master and stared down the Hooded Frickin’ Hood! These slimy pols do not scare me. Maybe I’m not as clever as some, but I do what I think is right. And if the people of GMY don’t believe that, then none of this matters and I shouldn’t be their mayor.”

Mark Hopkins’s cohorts stared at him as he finished his diatribe. Kerry shook her head, “Too stubborn for his own good,” she muttered.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Banjoooo!! noted, “Your entire reelection budget was spent on what’s now congealing in Caveguy’s lap.”

“Hooga!”

spiffy didn’t care, “How much money did I need to win the first time? And I’ve got something more important than cash. I’ve got friends,” the young man paused, “Uh, you guys are going to help me, right?”

“Sure. Anything to get out of that freak factory,” Kerry alluded to her temporary lodgings in Dullard’s Corner. The others followed with their assurances of support.

“Well, all right then,” Mark Hopkins smiled, “How can we lose?”



*****

The Seedy Town hostel was three floors high. There was no elevator, so Dominic Clancy took one of the building’s spiral stairs. He stopped at the top, and headed down the drab, mildew-stricken hallway. The door he sought had been recently painted, and someone had stenciled in a border of purple and red flowers around its frame. Dominic knocked and waited. He heard her on the other side, peering through the peephole, sighing to herself, and then undoing the door’s many bolts.

“I expected you sooner,” Charlotte Ouk said, “Come in,” she would not look the man in the eye.

Dominic appraised the young woman. It had been half a year since he had last seen her, when she was fifteen. She was taller, close to six feet, and her pony tail was gone, replaced in a style much shorter and spikier. She was wearing sweats and a heavy knit sweater under a jacket.

“There’s no heat,” he said as he entered her room. Mismatched furniture squatted in the center of the room. The ceiling high windows to the right were boarded up, and a card table was pushed up against them.

“Yes, there is,” she argued, pointing over to the space heater by her bedroll. Half of the machine’s coils were shorted out. Dominic made a sound of disgust. Charlotte stopped him before he could say anything more.

“I’m lucky to have my own toilet and phone line. Most of these apartments don’t.”

“And did it come furnished?” the trench-coated man gestured at the shapeless sofa that dominated the room.

“No,” Charlotte was about to explain how she and her friends picked the items up at a variety of thrift stores and dragged them up here in an giddy, unorganized scramble someone like him would never appreciate, but he was staring into the kitchenette, probably using his X-ray vision to check what was in the fridge.

“How do you pay for this?”

“I work part time at a hotel in the city.”

“Under the table?” Dominic knew she hadn’t been using her Social Security number.

“Sure. It’s what I would have been doing if you hadn’t rescued me from Doc Toxic. If I was lucky,” she sat on the couch. He pulled over a folding chair and sat across her.

“And this life is better than staying with the Holsfords,” he stated. The Holsfords were retired Bureau agents who owned a small horse ranch outside Flagstaff. Their home had been Charlotte’s for close to nine years.

“I like it. I’m surprised you don’t. I thought it would fit in with your Spartan sensibilities,” Charlotte was starting to work up her courage.

“You are better off back with the Holsfords, in Arizona, going to school,” Dominic announced.

“So are you here to try and take me back?”

“Perhaps. How goes your investigation into Valvette’s drug operation?”

The teen was surprised he wanted to talk shop, “Pretty good. I’ve led the police to a couple of major deals, and I have got a good idea of what properties Velvet actually owns. Nothing admissible, of course. And word is his looking for a new connection. I think he wants to seperate himself from the Lynchpin’s source.”

There was a flicker of something in the man’s pale blue eyes, an emotion Charlotte did not recognize, “So what’s your plan?”

“Keep doing at what I’m doing, until Velvet’s out of business. Then go after whoever tries to take his place.”

“And this is going to happen how- by magic? You can’t make a case against him, not with these vigilante tactics. Are you going to kill him then, when everything else you try fails?”

Charlotte felt the years slipping away. She was back at the ranch, and this same man was lecturing him in his patient, not unkind tones. But this time she would not stand for it, “I’m not going back.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t send you back.”

“Because this is the life I want to lead. This is the life you trained me for. Maybe you didn’t expect me to become Urban Archer Avenger Girl, but this is what you wanted. At least you did.”

Dominic smiled, “As I recall, the archery was your idea. Reading too many Robin Hood stories.”

“Actually, it was Trickshot’s appearance on Letterman that did it for me,” Charlotte had been amazed by what a regular man could accomplish with a millennia old weapon design and nerves of steel, “Send me back, and I’ll be gone in a week.”

“You won’t be able to fight much crime without the equipment I designed you, Charlotte,” he cautioned.

“I’ll figure something out.”

Mr. Epitome watched the young woman before him. She was trembling slightly, out of anger more than the cold.

“You are very brave,” he said simply, “And stubborn. I never should have put the idea of being a superhero in your head.”

“No, what you should have done was stick with your original plan, and let me take part of the experiment with the Divine Spark. But I guess it’s easier for you to partner up with a dog than me. Glory’s less likely to freak you out if she calls you Dad.”

“We’re not going to dredge this up again,” he stood and fished a manila envelope from his jacket’s pocket, “I will not stop you from remaining in Paradopolis. However, there are conditions.”

Artemis waited.

“You must keep in contact with the Holsfords. They may not have been the most ideal foster parents; however they do worry about you. You must get your high school diploma. I would prefer you go back to school, but a GED is just as acceptable. And I need you to look after this young woman for me,” he reached out to give Charlotte a photograph.

She took it. It was a mug shot of a zaftig twenty something blonde with too much make up and glitter, “Who’s this? Another of your failed Eliza Doogooders?”

“Her name is Haley Morningway. She is a former employee of the Lynchpin.”

“An informant?”

“No. Someone who was in over her head and needs help. Do this and you can continue your work as Artemis without any interference from me. In fact, I may be able to help you with some contacts in the city, if you wish.”

A friendly source on the Paradopolis PD would be helpful, Charlotte had to admit, “OK.”

“Very well,” he placed the envelope with the rest of Haley’s information on the TV tray that served as the sofa’s end table, “My number has not changed. Call me when you have any information about your progress,” He stood awkwardly for a moment, and then left.

Charlotte exhaled deeply once he was gone. She had not expected their inevitable encounter to go as it did. The remoteness was a given, but for Epitome to acquiesce to her wishes? She thought she would have to threaten him with everything up to exposing his identity to the world for that to happen. She reached over to where her mentor had placed the envelope. The first things to slide out of it were five folded hundred dollar bills bundled to a Mastercard in her name and a Blue Cross Insurance ID. She laughed and put them in her pocket. Those things might come in handy too.

*****



It was a balmy 53 degrees at the Gothametropolis Fairgrounds; very lucky for Mark Hopkins, considering the rest of the East Coast was caught in the grip of a late winter freeze. The warm weather and the offer of free food made the Omni-Mayor’s Campaign Kick Off Barbecue a well attended affair. spiffy went over to thank who he believed was responsible for the favorable clime.

“Hey, uh, Harlagarz,” he tapped the strapping young Ausguardian on his shoulder, “I really appreciate you helping out with the weather. We wouldn’t have had a turn out close to this if the original forecast was correct.”

Harlagarz looked amused, “I assure thee, weedling, t’was not mine hand that shaped such favorable conditions for yon feast. The winds art not sufficiently tempestuous, and the clouds too downy,” he bit into his burger, “’Tis truly a girly day.”

“Right. Sure. So, you having a good time?” spiffy checked.

“While the revelry is a most fortunate break from Master Visionary’s lessons, I dost not understandeth its basis. If thine enemies strive to remove thee from thy throne, should thou not be crushing their skulls and forcing their women to cry in lament for their vanquished loves?”

spiffy smiled, “Doesn’t work that way in America, Harl,” then he considered, “Well, except maybe in Chicago.”

The Omni-Mayor took his leave of the teenage hemi-god and went to check on how the rest of the celebration was going. It cost a significant amount of his own coin to put it together, but if it garnered the campaign some good publicity it would be worth it.

There were large crowds at the face painting tent, where Caveguy was decorating the youth of Gothametropolis York in the sigils of his long forgotten tribe. Fashion Accessory was performing her own brand of make-over, giving their parents the temporary thrill of wearing Versace and Hugo Boss, and offering (hopefully) constructive make over tips. Banjooo sulked in the dunking booth while Ham Boy manned the grill. Elsqueevio was pouring from a bottomless pitcher of iced tea. Even Kerry was helping out; though perhaps having her in charge of the fireworks display was not the best idea.

Mark wished his absent friends were present. The Lair Legion was wrapped up in their own ordeals (see the entire Deconstruction of the Lair Legion arc in Untold Tales), and who knew the whereabouts of the Abandoned Legion. Glory was unable to attend, saying as an operative of the United States government it would be unethical for her to take sides in an election and anyway she disagreed with his stance on the proposed millage to finance the new Gothametropolis Museum of Blind Circus Performers, which surprised spiffy, because he didn’t know he had a stance. Or what a millage was. Still, things were going well, which could only mean one thing:

The other shoe was in the process of dropping.

*****


They came in four different cars. With one exception all were young, nicely dressed, and totally devoted to their mission. They were Jay Aaron’s Dirty Tricks Squad.

“OK people,” Jon Henkler, the unit’s field leader, spoke into his cuff-comm., “Know your roles. The boss wants the targets domesticated and neutralized. Wills, you and our guest stay alert. If things get too weird we may need you.”

From the van Zach looked back at the man he was chaperoning. Carlsbad Carl was dreamily tuning his “gut bucket.” He sighed, “Roger that.”

The rest of the team disembarked, and set about ruining spiffy’s picnic.

*****


“I have a question,” the well groomed young man asked Fred Harris, “about your meat.”

Ham Boy looked up from the roasting brats, “Uh, yes?”

“Where does it come from?”

The Protein-Packed Protector was confused, “I’m sorry, I don’t-”

“I mean, matter can never be created, nor is it ever destroyed, right? At least that’s what my college physics teacher said. So what’s the source of the food?”

“Does it make a difference?” he said defensively.

“I think so. How do we know this meat is edible?” the stranger continued. Soon he was joined by a second man. He spoke up.

“Yes, and this iced tea,” he pointed to a glass, “What’s the deal with that?”

Elsqueevio stopped pouring. “What is your problem, mortals? I assure you no harm will come to anyone who imbibe my creations.”

“So, is this like, magic food?” the first man asked in a voice that slowly grew louder, “Pagan magic food?”

“Pagan?!” the god of small waters took offense.

“Who are you guys anyway?” Ham Boy looked worried.

“We represent the Coalition for the Promotion of Christian Values, and our organization is quite concerned about you foisting what could be satanic food and drink on these people.”

The crowds around the grill began to fidget.

“This banquet of ill repute,” the CPCV agent gestured, “could endanger their very souls.”

“Um, I think you guys are getting a bit carried away here,” Fred Harris argued.

That’s when the third member of the Dirty Tricks squad fell to the ground and began projectile vomiting, provoking a mass exodus to the Fairgrounds restrooms.

*****


“You’re Samantha Bonnington, yes?” the woman in the well-tailored suit asked the blonde superheroine as she transformed a single mother’s housecoat/sweat pants ensemble into a sliding off the shoulder, pale peach, sparkly strapless gown with a chiffon bodice.

The member of the junior Lair Legion turned and gave the stranger the once over. She was clad in a Prada wool/viscose blend boucle skirt suit with sheer lining visible at the cuffs and hem. Before the custom tailoring that outfit retailed at close to $2,700, which was impressive enough, but the woman also managed to slip easily into a size 4. Clearly, this was someone worth talking too.

“Yes, I am. How can I help you?”

The agent smiled, “Well, Miss Bonnington, I think the issue really is how I can help you?”

And another player in the drama was skillfully removed, as Fashion Accessory was whisked away to an interview for entrance to the famous Polimoda School in Florence, Italy.

*****


So I’m in civvies, plotting my next move. I should be hunting my primary target, this vigilante archer that has been tearing up Crushed Velvet’s organization, but another opportunity has presented itself: spiffy, mayor of Gothametropolis, is out campaigning. Seems that the Lynchpin is tired of the little sprout mucking things up in his city so he’s financing a recall movement; which to me sounds needlessly complicated. The way to deal with the SOB is to use the same MO as LBJ did to get rid of JFK. And I’m willing to do the job for free because A: getting in good with the Lynchpin will help my job prospects and Two: I owe fern-boy for the beat down he put on me when he and his chippie were running some scam on Balefire. That’s why I’m here, surveying the terrain, waiting for the moment to change into my costume and do some weed whacking.

Right now his Highness is dickering with some chubby guy in a suit. The jail-bait girlfriend watches spiff’s meltdown with interest.

“So FA left?” he whines.

“Yes, and that poses a problem,” chubby guy explains, “Ms. Bonnington disappeared without changing several of the outfits back to what they were originally. That means there are a couple of dozen people wearing illegally copied designs. The haute couture set tends to frown on such trademark violations.”

spiffy nods as fervently as his empty head allows, “Yes, yes, of course. We’ll get right on that.”

“Then there is the matter of the prayer circle slash religious protest going on at the barbeque tent.”

“Protesting what, exactly?”

“The possibility that Ham Boy and Elsqeevio are poisoning your constituents with the Devil’s pork products.”

Kerry (?) Shepherdson snorts. Even I, pro that I am, have to chuckle.

spiff can’t catch a break, because he’s suddenly joined by another guy in a suit.

“Mayor Hopkins,” he smiles, “I’m Jon Henkler. I work for Sherman Shales.”

I recognize the second name. Shales is the one running closest to Hopkins in the polls, out of a field of about fifty. Turns out that’s what Henkler is here to parlay over.

“Dr. Shales wants a debate,” Henkler says, “just you and him.”

“Well, we already have two debates scheduled for all the candidates,” Hopkins replies testily.

“We know. But we believe such a format does not fit with the reality of the situation.”

“Everyone should have a voice.”

“Yes, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind hiding behind the cacophony created when the entire freak show of candidates assembles. The porn stars. Former child actors. Libertarians. But Dr. Shales feels the public will be best served by hearing the two most viable candidates speak at length on the issues.”

“Nice to know you consider me viable,” spiffy pouts.

“I’m being kind,” Henkler gives a smile that’s pure evil, “Honestly, I see you as nothing more than a punk kid who lucked into the biggest political windfall since Teddy Roosevelt became President.”

spiffy flinches, his fronds waving dangerously, but Henkler stands his ground.

“So do we have a deal, Mister Mayor? You willing to meet Dr. Shales one on one in a real debate, or are you going to hope him being one more voice in a chorus will keep you from being exposed as the fraud you are?”

Henkler’s jacket starts smoking. There’s a shower of sparks as something in it explodes.

The Shepherdson girl is suddenly by spiff, putting a protective arm around him, “He’ll do it. And he’s going to kick ass.”

The kid looks shocked by this show of support; as shocked as Henkler, which is considerable, since he’s rolling around on the ground trying to prevent immolation from a freak cell phone mishap. That’s when I make the decision to leave spiffy be, again for a couple of reasons: One: whenever those Shepherdson broads are around, it usually means bad things for yours truly, and B: spiffy’s upcoming public execution at this debate is going to be more heinous than anything I could do to him.

Who am I?

http://www.marveldirectory.com/individuals/k/killershrike.htm

*****


Next time: Things do turn heinous. The spiffy/Shales debate gets ugly, but Killer Shrike’s hunt for Artemis may prove uglier. And Mr. Epitome versus the Trifecta? That’s going to be the ugliest of all. You may want to bring lots of bandages for the “Bloodsports.”




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