Tales of the Parodyverse

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killer shrike
Tue Mar 30, 2004 at 09:14:26 pm EST
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How is Mr. Epitome #26 like an episode of "Family Ties"? It's two-thirds old material with some new stuff tacked on at the end.
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Mr. Epitome #26


“Blood Sports”



“Explain to me again,” Jay Aaron commanded from behind his desk, “how you lost track of Carl Eagleton.”

The leader of Aaron’s Dirty Tricks Squad, Jon Henkler, looked pale, “Well, sir, I had Zach monitoring him in the van while we disrupted Mayor Hopkins’s barbeque. But Zach left his post and Carl wandered off.”

“Where is Agent Wills now?”

“We think Niagara Falls. That’s what his text message said, at least. Seems he met up with his high school sweetheart at the event and they, uh, eloped.”

Jay Aaron pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “Eloped?”

“Yes, sir. We don’t think it was a coincidence that Zach was reunited with his old flame when he was supposed to be guarding Carlsbad Carl.”

“Of course it was a Coincidence,” Aaron snapped.

Henkler winced. He had worked with the bigger man enough to know he was a perfectionist, and that any deviation from the plan was unacceptable. Aaron removed his over coat from its rack and made preparations to leave.

“I am going to try and track down Eagleton. You keep an eye on things here. If I’m not back by 3pm, go to Dr. Shales’s headquarters and help with the debate prep.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find out where Wills and his bride are staying. Send them a basket. Flowers, fruit, whatever you think is appropriate,” he smiled ruefully, “We should all be so lucky to get a second chance with a lost love.”

Jay Aaron pulled on a pair of calf-skin gloves and headed out to track a man who controlled the odds of whether or not he could be found with a rhinestone encrusted belt.

*****


Artemis swung across Dawber Street in order to catch up with Haley Morningway’s cab. As expected, the car made a right onto Pitt Avenue. Charlotte was in position to watch the buxom woman exit her taxi and enter one of the street’s apartment buildings.

It wasn’t her place; that much the archer knew. A boyfriend’s maybe. Or her dealer’s. Artemis needed to find out as possible about Miss Morningway to put together a proper plan to keep the woman on the right side of the law. Mr. Epitome, who had trained her since she was eight, made it a condition of continuing to operate as a solo crime fighter in Paradopolis. How the Exemplary Man knew Haley, a former lap dancer who had been charged with solicitation and shoplifting in the past, piqued Charlotte’s curiosity. Dominic Clancy certainly did a lot of charity work, but rehabilitating call girls seemed petty ante for a big picture guy like himself. Artemis was in the process of stowing her weapons behind an ornate precipice so as to change into her street clothes and do some closer recon work when a flash of grey caught her attention.

She turned in time to see the titanium steel talon arc towards her head. Ducking down, Artemis managed to avoid the blade and the 250 pounds of muscle and Kevlar it was attached to. Still in her crouch she withdrew a short tube from her belt and pressed a stud on it. A six foot long quarterstaff telescoped from its housing, a weapon Artemis used to strike the assassin across his face.

“Ow!” Killer Shrike grabbed the staff and yanked it from her grip. The woman used the momentum to vault up and over the villain. As she somersaulted Artemis wrapped both her hands around Shrike’s topknot, and used her weight and strength to snap his head back. Then she struck a scissor kick into the base of his neck. The maneuver was bold, stylish, but ultimately ineffectual.

Killer Shrike turned and drove an elbow into Artemis’s sternum. There was enough force behind it to send Charlotte sprawling across the roof. The villain smiled at her as she clutched at her chest and gasped for air.

“I see you’re dressed for your execution,” he referenced her blindfold before charging up his shock gauntlets for the killing blow.

*****


The lock on Carlsbad Carl’s suite was easy enough for Jay Aaron to pick. The room was a mess. Room service trays rested precariously on the bureau, and the floor was strewn with moist towels and grease-stained napkins. An open jar of Brill Cream sat on the nightstand.

Aaron went around to the other side of the unmade bed to see if he could locate Carl’s luggage. He hoped to find some clue as to what the Probability Cowboy was up to. It was only when he was well clear of the door that the suite’s other intruder made himself known.

Messenger came out from the bathroom with the speed of a jungle cat. The postman vaulted across the bed and tackled Aaron.

“No! Wait!” the unprepared man was able to get out before the vigilante felled him with a perfect right cross to the jaw.

*****


Messenger eyed his prisoner with disdain. The man was big, over six feet, and solid. It had been a hassle to drag his unconscious body across town to one of his hidey-holes/interrogation chambers. He hoped the guy had something worthwhile to say.

The stranger’s possessions held some clue as to what he was up to. He carried an expensive lock pick set and a roll of twenty dollar bills. No ID, keys, phone, or weapons. He dressed in casual urban attire, like a middle manager on his day off. All of these indicated the man was some type of undercover operative. But why he was breaking into the hotel room of a powerful super criminal was a mystery. For now.

The door opened and in walked Messenger’s associate, another mystery man. Michael McKinley had not chosen to give the postman his name, or even a fanciful alias. But they had worked together well in the past.

“I could have used you earlier. It was a bitch to lug this guy here,” Messenger tried to banter with the armored vigilante.

“Who is he?” was the only reply.

“Some kind of spook. Whose, I don’t know yet. But I’ve got an arc welder here that should get him talking.”

McKinley activated his mask’s digital recorder. He decided to take a “before torture” picture of their prisoner and check his files for a match. The young man was surprised when the camera showed a strange distortion effect around his face. The stranger had some kind of tech that obscured his features to electronic sensors. That sounded familiar to Michael so he cybernetically contacted his database for more information.

The suit’s internal readout identified a possible match. Someone will similar safeguards had contacted his father. They had worked out a deal to sell and transport anti-aircraft missiles to the island nation of Taiwan. Royale’s file identified him as “Jay Aaron.” The normally stoic man’s heart skipped a beat to be in the presence of one who had sought aid from his father, but he remained calm enough to ask Messenger if he recognized the name.

“Yeah. Yeah, SPUD put out a bulletin on him a few months back. He’s some type of arms dealer. You telling me this is him?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, then,” Messenger grinned, “Look’s like some of Carl’s luck is rubbing off. On us anyway.”

Aaron groaned. He tried to raise a hand to check the swelling on his face, but quickly learned his arms and legs were chained to the chair he had been dumped in. He groggily opened his eyes. His vision focused immediately on the two who shared the room with him.

“Good; you’re up. We’ve got some questions for you,” Messenger removed one of his razor envelopes from his satchel, “Now, Jay, I know you’re some type of top cloak and dagger guy, and you won’t talk without a bit of persuasion from us. But don’t feel you need to impress by holding out for too long. It ruins the rug.”

Jay Aaron went through his options. The duo thought they knew who he was, and they were capable of torturing him to get more information. He wasn’t sure he could resist the postman’s ministrations in his present state, but to use his full abilities could expose his identity. Who knew what kind of sensors the man in black armor had available? Aaron decided conflict was unavoidable. Concentrating, he willed his powers active.

Mr. Epitome snapped the steel manacles and blurred across the room. He knocked his captors’ heads together with enough force to shatter one of McKinley’s lenses. Both he and Messenger fell to the ground and lay still.

There was a moment of discombobulation as Epitome’s hyper-senses kicked in, and his brain worked to process the billions of new stimuli. It was closest the straight-laced agent would ever come to experiencing an acid trip. Once he managed to order his thoughts he tore a hole in the wall and leapt outside.

The Dark Knight was there waiting for him. The World’s Most Dangerous Detective was leaning against the building opposite from where Epitome had come.

“I’m almost tempted to let you go,” his voice was like thunder through fog. "I’ve learned so much already. Mr. Epitome, the Star Spangled Splendor, is doing the Establishment’s dirty work and removing a constitutionally elected politician from office. He also feels the need to try and disguise himself with sub dermal light refractors and play the role of Jay Aaron, a man wanted for questioning in several conspiracy cases. And that it is possible for him to switch off his powers,” the vigilante smiled, “That’s the most interesting news of all.”

Mr. Epitome knew it was pointless to try and bluff his way past this man (if that’s what he was anymore). No lie or rationalization would sway him, so Epitome was blunt, “You and your sidekicks are fouling up this operation. Walk away.”

“I would, ordinarily, because it’s spiffy, but since the Lynchpin is involved, I have to make it my business.”

“You can have Flask when I’m done with him,” Epitome matched DK’s predatory smile, “Now get out of my way before I take you in and charge you with several million counts of attempted homicide,” the Paragon of Power brought up the warrant for the urban legend’s arrest.

“Please, try,” the Dark Knight insisted.

Mr. Epitome, ever considerate, moved to oblige him.

*****


The Albino Probability Cowboy sat in his rocker and tuned his guitar. He suddenly looked into the camera and smiled.

"Howdy, folks," he tugged the brim of his Stetson, "Most of you don't know me, but the name's Carlsbad Carl. As you might have guessed, I'm new to these here parts, but in my short time in Gothametropolis I've grown to love her for the fine lady she is."

"But as ladies get older, there come problems: crow's feet, grey hairs, laugh lines. And GMY has its own set of laugh lines, only nobody's really laughing anymore. Ah'm talkin', of course, about Mayor spiffy."

"Now, Ah'm an old fashioned kind of guy when it comes to humor. Can't get enough of the knock-knock jokes, for example. But some jokes can get stale, stale as my Gammy's corn bread a week after it's out from the oven. spiffy's like that. He's done past his expiration date."

Off the set a dog bayed mournfully. Carl whistled, and a floppy eared bloodhound clumped into view, "Ah know, hound dog, it's a tragedy. But these things happen. Look at Jeff Foxworthy. One day he's telling redneck jokes to the President of this fine U.S. of A., the next he's shillin' for Shoney's Restaurant."

"Now, Ah got no quarrel with the fine folks at Shoney's. Their breakfast bar is top of the line. The point is, spiffy tain't funny no more. We need new blood in the mayor's office. Somebody who's as plum loco as the world we live in. And that somebody's me: Carlsbad Carl."

"Ah reckon some of you might be thinkin', 'This ain't Hooterville, Carl. Gothammetropolis fancies your hip, ironic, self-referential brand of humor. Your Friends and Seinfelds. Ah understand completely. But Ah kin be a more Urban Cowboy if it suits ya. Why, I just had my first bagel yesterday and it was top of the line."

"All Ah'm asking for is a chance to be mayor. Because if you all give me that chance Ah'll turn it to a guarantee. And then the real fun starts," Carl strummed a few bars of Crazy, and the camera faded out.

So went Carlsbad Carl's declaration on public access television that he was running for mayor; which, thanks to freak sunspot activity, was picked up by every channel on every TV set in the Tri-state area.

*****


The blast of electricity was close enough to Artemis that every hair on her body stood up. She flipped backwards away from her attacker. Killer Shrike cursed and tried again, hitting the air conditioning unit that squatted on the building’s roof, creating an explosion of sparks.

The attacks were driving the young archer away from where she wanted to be: with her weapons. If Artemis had her bow this battle would be over in seconds. She leapt over the side of the building, twelve stories above the mid day traffic. After removing one of her arrows from its quiver, Charlotte hooked it behind the roof’s guardrail and retracted the missile’s swingline. She fell half the height of the building before the cord went taut. Artemis lurched to a halt, and swung herself over to one of the windows and kicked it in. Hooking her legs over the sill (and cutting her shins in the process), Charlotte pulled herself inside.

“Oh my God!” the office worker screamed as the vigilante clambered across his desk and out the door. When Killer Shrike barreled in he screamed again.

Shrike blasted the pressboard door to flinders. Artemis ducked down and outran the shrapnel. She removed a curved blade from her wrist guards and hurled it at the villain. He swatted the knife aside and flew in pursuit.

Banging through the doors to the stairs, Artemis went up, taking them three at a time. She was on her second flight of steps when Killer Shrike soared up the stairwell and lunged for her.

Artemis managed to drive the heel of her hand into the Butcher Bird’s nose, causing him to bleed. He snarled and struck back. His punch missed, putting a fist-sized hole in the mortar and brick wall.

Artemis yanked on his cowl, obscuring his vision. Then she knelt down, grabbed his ankles, and tipped him over the railing. Shrike ricocheted down several flights before regaining his balance. He took off again, ascending to the building’s top just as his target exited the door to the outside

When Killer Shrike smashed through the roof, he found the specifics of the battle had drastically changed: Artemis had her bow.

Her first arrow sheared off his topknot. The second hit his right shock blaster. The attack shorted out every electronic component in the battle suit. The Avian Assassin made a slight mewling sound and collapsed into a twitching heap.

“Dork,” Charlotte labeled her foe before stalking off, mad that her first super-fight was against a man with a Queequeg hairdo. The investigation into Haley Morningway was compromised, and she was in no mood to serve as her guardian angel, anyway.

*****


In physical combat, Mr. Epitome would have several advantages over the Dark Knight. He was taller, with a longer reach. His reflexes and speed were metahuman, and he was invulnerable to most conventional forms of injury. And Epitome had the strength to turn DK into dust if one of his punches connected.

So the trick would be to avoid them, a difficult proposition if one factored in the Paragon of Power's skill in the martial arts. Greg Burch had designed instrumentation that broadcast high frequency audio and visual "flak": undetectable by normal senses but to Epitome it would be the equivalent to the popping of flash bulbs and sounding of air horns at Tiger Woods while he was still in his backswing.

Those distractions would keep Mr. Epitome off balance, but wouldn't stop him. As DK feinted and blocked his opponent's blows, even the incidental contact was bruising. The black-clad avenger tried several precision strikes on various soft spots without any effect. The Exemplary Man caught hold of the Dark Knight's cloak and hurled him from the alley, across the street, and to an adjacent construction site. Burch managed to slow his fall by hooking a girder with his grappling line.

Onlookers watched as the plain-clothed Epitome charged across the street. As he leapt over the site's security fence he was hit from behind by a powerful explosive charge. From the hole Epitome had made Messenger reached into his bag for another parcel bomb.

Mr. Epitome checked the building for bystanders with his X-ray vision. Satisfied there were none, he hefted an idle bulldozer and lobbed it at the postman. The multi-ton machine crashed into the building's foundation and the entire structure collapsed.

The copious amounts of dust and sound concealed McKinley's advance. He got in range of Epitome and unsheathed his energy blade. The weapon gouged its way across Epitome's midsection. The Man of Might gasped. McKinley swiped again, catching the larger man in the shoulder. The third attack was halted when Mr. Epitome kicked in McKinley's chest plate and knocked Michael forty feet into a pallet laden with bags of cement.

By now the Dark Knight had recovered and unleashed his next attack. The bola whirled through the air and wrapped around Epitome's neck. Still clutching his scorched and bleeding side he reached up to remove it.

The cords of the bola, however, were designed to molecularly bond with whatever they came in contact with. When Mr. Epitome ripped the weapon off he tore his throat open. He howled in agony as blood cascaded down his chest and back. Then the bola detonated.

While Epitome was down DK closed in. His Knightstick had been morphed into its more lethal katana form. Mr. Epitome swung at the advancing figure and finally scored a solid hit, driving the Dark Knight to the ground. The Exemplary Man rose and kicked his enemy's prone form the distance of the lot. Before the vigilante had stopped tumbling Mr. Epitome had caught up with him. He carried five rebars in his gore stained hands.

"Kill you," he managed to gurgle, raising one of the steel rods over his head and then slamming it down through the DK's shin and a yard of earth beneath it. He used three more to similarly pin the other limbs. The last rebar was for the Dark Knight's head.

"Let's see, hero. Let's see if you can," Burch gritted.

The Paragon of Power hesitated. He was well half past dead himself, and seemed to lack the strength or will to make due on his threat. Eyes glazed and unfocused, Epitome’s ears pounded with the sound of his heart pumping his life out from several horrible wounds. He was so distracted he failed to hear the grinding gears and chugging engine of the wrecking crane until it decked him. The attack flung Epitome skyward, over the fence and out of the field of battle.

Messenger put the machine in park and jumped out to help his ally.

“Nice to know you’ve learned a trade in case this fallen angel thing doesn’t work out,” DK chuckled darkly.

The postman grabbed a rebar with both hands and pulled with all his strength. It was slowly uprooted, “You know who we're fighting, huh?” he grunted.

“It’s Mr. Epitome,” the Dark Knight gave a slight gasp as the first rod was pulled from his flesh. The postman started working on the second.

“Was Mr. Epitome,” Messenger corrected, “Soon as he cleared the yard he took off. I saw New Guy stumbling after him.”

“Forget it. We need to get out of here before the cops show. I knew he couldn’t make the kill shot. What a pussy.”

“Yeah, he only crucified you instead,” was Messenger’s sarcastic response.

The Dark Knight was undeterred, “Epitome’s all hat. He’ll be easy to beat next time.”

“Right.”

Michael McKinley dropped down from the looming super structure that dominated the lot, “Police helicopters in two minutes,” he warned.

“Give me a hand with DK then.”

They finished their gory work with a minute to spare, and were gone before Gothametropolis’s Finest arrived.

*****


Glory found Mr. Epitome huddled on the walkway for the Binghamton Street sewer line. His jacket was covered with the mottled brown of dried blood, and fresh blood soaked the towel he had wrapped around his neck. With his free hand Epitome gestured for the pouch Glory held in her jaws. The Border collie placed it in Dominic’s lap and waited.

Mr. Epitome removed a needle and a set of sutures and then beckoned for Glory to take his hand and pull the gauntlet off. Sewing up his own slit throat would be difficult enough without the cumbersome glove inhibiting his work.

The Paragon of Power had willed his heart rate to a slow crawl in order to reduce the hemorrhaging. It had been the only thing that kept him alive. Epitome slowly peeled away the cloth that stanched the flow of blood and raised his neck. While one set of fingers pinched the wound close his other hand worked diligently to stitch the wound shut. It wouldn’t be pretty, but the skin would heal. He had survived much worse.

“Who did this to you?” Glory asked, baring her teeth, “I am going to tear their throats out.”

“No, you will not,” Mr. Epitome managed to croak. His larynx was in tatters, “Return to OPS.”

“Are you coming?”

His voice gone, Dominic could only shake his head. He needed to heal, and wait, and plot his next move.

*****


The following is a portion of a transcript from WFLK’s televised Mayoral Debate

FC: Welcome to the first of two debates between the current Mayor of Gothametropolis, Mark Hopkins, and the leading candidate in the recall vote, Doctor Sherman Shales. I’m your moderator, Frank Chaulker. Tonight’s format, decided by the candidates, will be an informal town hall discussion on the issues of the campaign. We would like to thank the Flask Foundation for donating the use of the Edie McClurg Memorial Pavilion for the debate.

FC: Before we begin, both the candidates have a brief prepared statement. Dr. Shales, you have elected to go first.

SS: Yes, thank you, Frank. I just waited to make it clear that even though I might disagree with Mayor Hopkins’s political stances, I still respect and honor his achievements as a hero of the Parodyverse. This young man has a lion’s heart, and we all owe him a debt of gratitude.

FC: Well put, sir. Mayor Hopkins: your opening statement.

MH: Gosh, thanks. That was great. I- We don’t hear that enough. Thank you. Oh, uh, I just want to make it clear… er- to take this opportunity to say that my dog, Hound Dog, has not endorsed Carlsbad Carl for mayor, despite what The Drudge Report, ah, reported. That dog is an imposter. Thank you. Frank.

FC: Yes, Mr. Mayor?

MH: Yes, what?

FC: You called my name.

MH: No, well yeah, but I was just thanking you. Frank.

FC: *sigh* Let’s move on to the question and answer portion. The format will be as follows: an audience participant will ask a question to a particular candidate, who will have a minute to answer. The opposing candidate will have ninety seconds to offer their response to the same question, and the first candidate can use up to thirty seconds for a rebuttal.

MH: Wait: say that again. You lost me.

FC: To ensure fairness, we will alternate which candidate is asked the original question. Mayor spiffy, the first question is for you.

Q #1: spiffy, the latest polls indicate that Carlsbad Carl is now running third in the recall election, with 6 percent of the vote. Pollsters are saying that most of his support is coming from people previously committed to you. The Squire is calling this bloc “the knucklehead vote.” So, my question is, what do you plan on doing to get the knuckleheads back on board?

*General laughter*

MH: Well, uh, good question, ma’am. I mean, Carl’s a supervillain. His name isn’t even on the ballot. Shouldn’t somebody arrest him?

FC: You still have 40 seconds, Mayor Hopkins.

MH: Oh. Can I yield the balance of my time?

FC: Please do. Dr. Shales, your response.

SS: I’ll try to answer the mayor’s question. From what I’ve read, Carl is not wanted for any particular crime, which is an outrage. I have to criticize spiffy and his cohorts for this: it seems the Lair Legion is more interested in street fighting with these felons that putting together cases to make sure they stay behind bars.

MH: Hey, it’s tricky to keep the villains in jail. Especially if they have magic probability-fixing belts.

SS: I wasn’t quite finished, sir. But I have to contend your assertion that it is difficult to keep criminals incarcerated. The Safe may be a revolving door for supervillains, but other facilities, Greentown for example, have no problem with escapees.

MH: The Safe is not a city jail. Blame SPUD, they run it.

FC: Gentlemen, we’re deviating from the format.

SS: I’d rather not blame anyone. I’d rather work to solve the problem so no more residents are killed by these dangerous terrorists.

FC: Gentlemen, please. Next question.

Q #2: Dr. Shales, I would like to ask you your opinion on Aeolus Wind Farm. Do you support their efforts to build windmills off the city?

SS: I support it, with conditions. There are some contract issues to iron out, specifically the clause that ensures the jobs building the wind farm stay in Gothametropolis. But the other arguments against it: the safety of bearded plover, that it’s to be built on the site of some Sea Monkey battlefield, are rumors without foundation. The plover issue is especially spurious: the bearded plover is not endangered by the proposed construction. The Department of Interior has circulated a report stating just that. The only fear the plover has of dying out as a species is perhaps out of embarrassment.

*More laughter*

MH: See, this where Dr. Shales and I disagree. The Wind Farm is to be built on a site sacred to the Sea Monkey people. That would be like putting a supermarket up on Gettysburg. Our relationship with the…. Sargassoianeans is bad enough as it is, what with us polluting their seas and all. This could provoke a war.

SS: I would just like to point out that the federal government, the people who are actually responsible for coordinating our foreign policy; have no objections to Aeolus’s plan. Mayor Hopkins, I think your friendship with King Banjoooo taints your judgment on this. This is another example of how your values differ from mine, and most Americans.

MH: Huh?

SS: Do you consider yourself a liberal?

MH: Wait, this isn’t the format. The people are supposed to be asking the questions.

Q #3: Mayor spiffy, are you a liberal?

MH: *silence*

FC: Mayor Hopkins?

MH: Yes, yes I am. I’m a good old fashioned left winger. I support gay marriage and the legalization of drugs and respecting other cultures and looking out for the little guy and I’m sure a bunch of other things Dr. Shales and his supporters are going to attack me for.

SS: I’m not attacking anyone-

MH: It’s still my time, doctor. Yes, I’m a liberal, and I’m a superhero. I admit that. We can keep harping on these facts or we can actually discuss some issues and compare how my opponent and I would govern differently. Can we do that, please?

*****


Apparently not.

Spiffy watched the post-debate analysis from the back of his town car. The pundits were unkind.

“spiffy needs to remember political rivals are not the same as arch enemies. He’s facing off against Dr. Sherman Shales, not Anvil Man.”

“…. his petulance may have handed the election to Shales.”

“Aren’t superheroes supposed to be in shape? Hopkins looked paunchy and tired behind the podium.”

“Paunchy?!” he exhorted, switching of the set, “Now they are all but calling me fat!”

“It’s your posture, spiff,” his driver spoke up, “Gives you a belly. You need to stand up straight. My dad, he was a haberdasher, and he would tell his customers that if you stand straight it’s an extra three thousand bucks a year in salary.”

“Yeah.”

“For the customer, I mean. Not for him.”

“Right,” spiffy stared out the window as he cruised back to his mansion. Standing tall was proving more difficult than ever. He was afraid he was going to lose, that the people would reject him. And he knew other cities were watching the recall movement with interest. If he failed here, the pols in those places would be sharpening their knives, eager to prune spiffy from their government too.

It wasn’t just the shame of being rejected that troubled him. Every day he was seeing more and more legislation being proposed on the local level to restrict superhuman activity. It was a grassroots movement that he used every once of his power to resist. If he was gone, if he could no longer be a voice for his teammates and friends….

The car’s phone rang. The Omni-Mayor answered, “Hello?”

“Mayor spiffy, we need to speak,” the mechanically masked voice entreated.

“Who is this? Oh, wait, let me guess: a friend.”

“Yes. I can help you. I know what it going on. I know who your enemies are and I know how to beat them.”

Mark Hopkins thought for a moment, “When and where?”

“The Birdwell Building’s parking garage. Third level, Section G. In twenty minutes,” the phone went dead.

spiffy sighed and told his driver to turn around. They were going to Paradopolis.

*****


The Birdwell Building was closed, so Mark had to use his symbiotic fern to climb up to the third floor of the parking structure. It was deserted, and only emergency lights permeated the gloom.

“Great,” spiffy muttered. “A crank call. Real mature,” he at the very least hoped it was going to be another assassination attempt. He felt like beating someone senseless.

There were footfalls behind him. spiffy quickly turned, his fronds waving menacingly.

“Sorry I am late. It was hard getting away.”

Mayor Mark Hopkins’s eyes went wide, “It can’t be! You!”

But it was. And now the race would really be on.

Next Time: spiffy Strikes Back














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