Tales of the Parodyverse

The conclusion to Mr. Epitome #3 "Blow up"


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killer shrike
Fri Jun 20, 2003 at 10:21:07 pm EDT
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Part Two:
When Mr. Epitome returned home to his apartment fifteen hours had passed since the crashes of Flights 204 and 1452 out of Buffalo. He hadn’t come back to sleep; the Exemplary Man could last three weeks before his senses overloaded and forced his mind to shut down, but home was the only place he could phone his supervisor without fear of discovery.
“Sir, I see our man in Africa has left us,” was Epitome’s greeting to the Grey Eminence.
“Our man in Africa is a damn fool and very soon you’ll be paying him a visit.”
“Do you want me to leave now?”
The digitally scrambled voice on the other end of the line snapped, “Hell, no. You’re going to find that package he sent. I think our other friend is behind it. This whole disaster might lead us to what we wanted in the first place.”
“The cost is unacceptable, sir,” Epitome said gravely.
“Hey, you really are a fucking genius, boy. But you know what? I was making the tough decisions for this company when you were just a dirty thought in your daddy’s head. This company still exists because I’ve never shirked from making the hard call. So spare me the smart mouth unless it’s to tell me something I don’t know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve got enough problems trying to make sure our competition from Idaho doesn’t get any whiff of our being involved in this business. Clean up’s always the hardest part of this job.”
*****

As Mr. Epitome expected, it did not take long for his “human bomb” theory to make the press. It would be cited by the mutate control (they hated to be called anti-mutate) lobby when they called for greater restrictions on the use of “non-registered” powers. One senator even proposed the use of mutate-detecting devices in airports, arenas, and other areas where large numbers of people gathered. Epitome asked his secretary to e-mail the distinguished gentleman a copy of an article he had written for the Harvard Law Review about the constitutionality of such measures, in addition to a cost-benefit analysis of putting that type of technology in America’s airports. It never hurt to have another ally in Congress.
What the general public did not know yet, was that the cellular sample found at the crash site did not contain any evidence of the metagene all mutates shared. They were normal people. The person who caused them to explode, however, would be a different story.
Epitome guessed it was a biological power to create these explosions. He also assumed it involved some form of matter transmutation: you could cause a human to combust, but not with the raw force being exhibited here. Then there was the issue of what caused the detonation. The obvious conclusion was that it was a timed charge, but perhaps there could be other triggers as well.
“So what we are looking for,” he told Agents Dawes and Germain over lunch in the Epitome Division’s commissary, “is a person with the psionic ability to alter a human’s biological structure, so under specific circumstances they would transform into explosive material and detonate.”
Abby Germain nodded after taking a bite from her apple, “Koskivo has started calling the suspect Dr. Boom.”
Lester Dawes groaned.
“Agent Koskivo better hope no one in the press hears him talk like that,” Mr. Epitome stood up with his tray, “Excuse me, agents.”
Dawes waited a few minutes before questioning his partner, “What did you rat Koskivo out for?”
“Because he’s our boss, and like most bosses, he’s an asshole,” she gave Lester a dismissive gesture, “Relax, Epitome isn’t going to say anything. He likes having Koskivo around. The big asshole needs a little asshole.”
“I don’t think Mr. Epitome is an asshole,” Lester protested.
“Well, maybe asshole is too harsh. But he is creepy the way he’s too into this job. He lives above his office, for God’s sake.’
Lester shrugged and dug his fork into his peach cobbler, “I figured that was for security reasons,” his voice then took a conspiratorial tone, “but what’s the story with the plaque in his office?”
“Oh, I know: ‘Work Makes Us Free’? That’s Nazi propaganda.”
“Yeah, it was on a sign outside Auschwitz.”
Abby leaned in from across the table, “Someone almost called him on it. Two years ago. He said it promoted a hostile work environment and asked Epitome to remove it. We thought the EEOC was going to get involved.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing. The guy’s still here though. I don’t want to say any names….”
“Right, because you are so not a gossip,” Lester made a face.
“The point is, smart ass, Epitome knows it’s ‘politically incorrect’ to have some Hitler slogan on his desk, and he doesn’t care. I think he likes the fact it weirds people out,” she put her thermos back in her lunch bag, “Let’s go upstairs. I’ve got to call back that Colorado DA about a lead on this Dr. Boom case.”
*****
If the Magnificent Blastard had learned John Koskivo christened him Dr. Boom, he would have chuckled; then triggered the OPS agent to explode the next time he urinated so as to take sole credit for coming up with the name himself.
He could feel his power growing with each use. Before the Blastard could barely stand after using it, and the recovery time between “triggerings” would last for hours. Now he could set his bombs at will. He had left a long line of walking, talking landmines behind him to prove it. All it took was one brief touch….
“Here you go, sir,” the Magnificent Blastard said cheerily to the tollbooth operator that took his dollar, willing it so the man would explode at precisely 3:23 AM. That should be quite a surprise for anyone sharing his bed. The Blastard edged his car into the merging mass of traffic heading to Philadelphia.
*****
Agent Germain’s call to the State’s Attorney’s Office in Colorado proved to be a break in the case. Soon after the crashes an inmate from Colorado State Penitentiary asked to speak to the warden. The prisoner claimed he knew the whereabouts of a group people in the United States wearing armor similar to that of the Emperor Scorpion’s. The warden contacted the District Attorney, who after hearing the tale called OPS.
“The man’s name is Roger Gainslaw,” the man told Abby, “He’s dealt with you before.”
Roger Gainslaw was the leader of the Colorado cell of VIRUS, or Violent Insurrection and Revolution in the United States. Shutting down this anti-government paramilitary organization was one of Mr. Epitome’s early successes as a superhero. Gainslaw himself had been captured by OPS in the clean up operation afterwards, and was serving two consecutive life sentences for a laundry list of crimes.
“Gainslaw says last month he got word from some flunky on the outside that a group of foreigners had taken over one of their old bases and that another VIRUS operative sold them some of their high tech hardware. Same flunky contacts him yesterday and says these guys wore suits like the Emperor Scorpion.”
“Did Gainslaw name his source?” Abby asked while taking notes.
“No, but he did identify the location, without any prompting. He said what these ‘diaper heads’ had done was cowardly and he was acting as an American patriot in coming forward.”
“Nice. Did anyone check the site?”
“It’s an old hunting camp at the base of the Rockies; not far from the prison, actually. State police have it under surveillance.”
Abby Germain had an FBI memo from May that cited a possible terrorist cell in northern Colorado. That information could back up Gainslaw’s story when it came time to ask for a warrant, “Mr. Traub, I’m going to fax you some information. If you think it’s enough to convince a judge to search the camp give me a call. I’m sure Mr. Epitome would be happy to assist state authorities any way he can.”
Given the tense mood the country was in it was not hard to find a jurist willing to sign off on a warrant supported by such weak probable cause. Epitome was the difficult one to convince.
“Agent Germain, this puts me nearly an entire continent away from where the target was last operating. If this does not pan out I could be out of range to appropriately respond if he attacks again.”
“Yes sir,” she had heard the same before from Lester, who was now staring straight ahead at the wall behind Epitome’s desk, “So you’re not going?”
“Oh, I’m going. It’s a credible lead and you’ve all but committed me to the operation anyway. But from now on be careful in what you say and who you say it to, Ms. Germain. Am I clear?” to Abby Epitome’s eyes seemed as hard as steel. He was being very clear indeed.
*****

Hours later when Epitome flew the Epitome Express over the supposed terrorist site he realized Abby Germain was right to involve him. The eight men sleeping in the cabin did have advanced technology: high density ceramic body armor hidden under piles of blankets in another room and plasma rifles slung under their beds. A sophisticated motion sensor system watched the camp’s perimeter. Mr. Epitome put the advanced flyer in hover mode half a mile above the base and jumped down through the main building’s roof to serve his warrant.
Only one of the men had time to get his rifle raised before Mr. Epitome had subdued him. The blast missed, putting a hole the size of a watermelon in the cabin’s wooden wall. The Star Spangled Splendor slapped the gun out of his grip, and then bound his wrists with high tensile plastic strips Epitome took from his pouch.
Mr. Epitome recognized one of the terrorists: Baris Sivaslian. Sivaslian was a mercenary wanted in seven countries and renowned for taking money from anyone for anything. Epitome addressed him in his native Turkish:
“You are a long way from home, Baris. What could have possibly brought you here?”
Baris Sivaslian’s response was to explode with the force equivalent to his body’s weight in TNT.
The blast obliterated the cabin, sending Mr. Epitome flying backward 400 feet into a copse of trees, which shattered to kindling upon impact. For a moment the hero lay groaning on the tops of several stumps. Over the ringing in his ears he could hear sirens approaching.
‘So much for finding a cooperative witness,’ he thought.
The police arrived with worse news: fifteen minutes ago a veteran’s hospital in Philadelphia collapsed after being rocked with multiple explosions.
*****
As bad as Louisville felt to Lester Dawes, Philadelphia was much, much worse. The Benson Hargrove Memorial Hospital was now rubble, thanks to what witnesses describe as six explosions ripped through the five story facility. Though the attack had occurred after regular hours, early estimates were at least 350 people were dead or missing. Frantic rescue workers tore through the debris. The OPS, Philadelphia police, and the FBI were working the crowds as friends and relatives of those buried within arrived on the scene. Agent Dawes was interviewing one such person when John Koskivo came over and asked for a word.
“Mr. Epitome found a credit card used by one of the terrorists in Colorado,” he almost whispered.
Dawes was amazed, “I thought the place blew up.”
“We lucked out. Damn thing was in a strong box under a pile of their protective gear. Most of the stuff in it was trashed, but the boss put together enough of one card to identify it. Belongs to a guy named Andrew Al-Kaliq. Andrew apparently rented a car in Boulder last week. In about five minutes I’m going to meet with the locals and the FBI guys and give them the car’s make and license number.”
“What do you want me to do?” Lester Dawes asked.
Koskivo jerked his head back towards the OPS’s own fleet of cars, “I want you to get a head start. Good hunting.”
*****
The Magnificent Blastard knew his cover was blown when his attempt to contact Sivaslian via payphone failed. That meant Sivaslian was dead, as the Blastard secretly had triggered him to blow if his heart beats per minute ever got over 180 from stress. That meant the mission was compromised.
He abandoned the car, then walked a few blocks to the Greyhound Station and bought a ticket for Pittsburgh. He then sat down and watched the coverage of his work on the terminal’s television. Within half an hour a contingent of police, both uniformed and plains clothed, came in. The Magnificent Blastard watched as they went up to the terminal’s counter and began asking questions.
Could they have found the car already? How? Sivaslian couldn’t have told them, certainly, and after he went up like a Roman candle there shouldn’t have been enough evidence left to find about their operation.
One of the cops, a slight, black detective with wire-rimmed glasses, walked over to him, and flashed an OPS badge, “Sir, may I see some identification?”
“May I ask why?”
“Sir, you match the description of someone in the vicinity of a vehicle involved in a criminal investigation.”
The Magnificent Blastard realized then it probably hadn’t been a good idea for him to dump the car in an all black neighborhood, if he wanted to look inconspicuous, “Sure,” he reached into his jeans jacket and produced a driver’s license. The man refused to take it from him.
“Leave it on the seat next to you, sir, and step away,” Lester watched the young man from the corner of his eye as he picked up the ID, “Your name is Frank Mellon?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Well, Mr. Mellon, we need you to come down to the police station, please.”
“Why?” the Blastard noticed there were police on all sides of him now
“We’d like to get some additional information from you.”
“No need, detective, I’ll tell you what you need to know right here. I’m the man you’re looking for,” the Magnificent Blastard smiled as from all around him the police drew their guns and began chattering into their shoulder mikes, “However, you still have a problem: I’ve set fourteen people in this terminal to explode, including that big fat bitch right behind you. That’s enough to level this place if my demands aren’t met.”
Dawes held his gun at shoulder level and aimed right between the Blastard’s eyes.
“Killing me won’t stop it. In fact that will ensure it happens. I’m willing to die for my cause, pig. Are you?”
*****
The hostage situation was in to its second hour when Mr. Epitome arrived. He landed his sky craft in the station’s parking lot. He came out and conferred with Agent Koskivo, “Anything new, John?”
“No, sir, the suspect only spoke to us that one time. He said he’d wait for you,” the husky Koskivo handed his superior a cell phone, “Press eight if you want to connect with him. It’s Agent Dawes’s phone.”
Mr. Epitome waited a moment before calling.
“Hello, who am I speaking to?” he asked.
A young man’s voice responded, “This is the Magnificent Blastard. And you must be Mr. Epitome. I congratulate you, hero, in tracking me down. Inspector Javert should be so skilled.”
“Which law enforcement agency is this Javert associated with?” Mr. Epitome spied on the Blastard with his X-ray vision as he sat on the bus terminal’s ticket counter. He had about thirty people lying prone around him.
“Javert, from ‘Les Miserables.’ I thought you were smart.”
“I’m sorry, I prefer American writers.”
The Blastard chuckled, “Typical American myopia. If it doesn’t happen here then it doesn’t matter.”
“Is that why you are doing this?”
“In part. I am an American, like you.”
From Minnesota, if Epitome spotted the accent correctly.
“And in my travels I have seen how America treats the rest of the world. You see them as whores to be used. It is long past time your country pay for their actions. Now, as I’m sure your supplicants have told you, I have over a dozen hostages here primed to explode. That’s in addition to the scores of people within the tri-state area who will detonate if anything happens to me. You may be able to kill me, but tens of thousands will die.”
Epitome nodded as he began walking towards the bus station’s automated doors, “I understand. So what do you want?”
The Blastard hadn’t yet seen that Mr. Epitome had crossed the police barricade, “Unescorted transportation for me and my hostages to the airport. A jumbo jet fueled with two pilots ready to take us anywhere I ask. Plus a million dollars. You know; the usual.”
“I’m not surprised,” Epitome said as he activated the electric eye that opened the terminal’s glass entrance, “That some one as dumb as yourself would make such unimaginative choices,” he put his phone away.
The Magnificent Blastard hopped off the counter and faced his enemy, “Move another inch and everyone dies.”
“Have you ever heard of the Morphegenic Grid, Blastard?”
The skinny blonde looked around nervously, “What are you talking about? Get-“
Epitome interrupted him, “It’s part of a theory that looks at the natural world in a new way. Physics combined with quasi-theology. It believes humans have an energy field that is a microcosm of the planet’s own field. If you can tap into it you can transform yourself and the world around you. Personally I don’t understand it. So I called someone who does,” the Star Spangled Splendor glanced over his shoulder, “A man outside built a machine that keeps you from reaching out and influencing the Morphegenic Field. That means the only bomb you’re going to be able to drop is in your pants while I give you the beating your father should of years ago.”
“You’re lying,” the terrorist bleated as the people around him began standing, “You can’t do this.”
Epitome walked up to the dumbfounded and defeated Blastard, “War isn’t so easy when the other side fights back, is it?” he said, before backhanding him over the counter.
*****
“This harness should continue to block the Blastard’s access to the Morphengenic Grid,” Al B. Harper explained as several OPS agents wrestled the unconscious villain into the jerry-rigged contraption.
“Doctor, you saved the day here. There’s no way this could have ended well without your efforts,” Epitome shook the man’s hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Epitome. But we’re not done yet. I want to get to the people who’ve been transformed and see if we can go about correcting the damage done to their own energy fields. It’s going to take a lot of time.”
Epitome watched Harper absently run his fingers through his fright wig hairdo. He was tempted to recommend to the man the name of his barber. The doctor was going to get a lot of opportunities to be on television the next few days. He should try to look professional.
“So I’m assuming you’re going to be going after Emperor Scorpion next?” Harper asked.
“Oh, definitely. He’s made a huge mistake,” Epitome climbed up into the transport van that would be taking the Magnificent Blastard to Central Booking.

*****
Days later, Emperor Scorpion was saying very much the same thing to his new patron: Factor X.
“Your precious weapon proved not to be unstoppable after all, X,” the armored villain intoned.
Gregor Vassilych leaned back in his sauna and sighed. This Emperor Scorpion was proving to be as stupid as his father. Vassilych answered the man in his native Sybian, “I never said Jack Daniels Heard would prove to be unstoppable, just effective, if you used him right.”
“You dare question my plan?”
“Since it failed, my criticism seems justified,” he eyed the towering black figure curiously, “Are you sure you don’t want to take that suit off, Unskar? I find a schvitz does wonders for the body.”
“This is ridiculous. I should never have betrayed the Americans. They were more than willing to give me the armaments I needed to reclaim my homeland.”
Factor X adjusted his towel, “Trust me Unskar, they were using you to get at me. The imperialists were hoping I’d contact you to form a partnership. After that the US would have deserted you like every other petty tyrant they once propped up.”
“Petty Tyrant?!” Emperor Scorpion stepped towards the seated man, a gun turret sliding out from his wrist.
“Remember, Comrade Kufadella, I gave you that armor. It may be much more powerful than the one America designed, but you will be unable to use it against me. And there is always the Mind’s Eye,” Vassilych acknowledged the striking platinum blonde woman sitting on the opposite side of the cedar-paneled room.
Factor X stood and stretched his sixty year old frame, “We should not fight, my friend. I remember my visits to your father’s court. He always said you were quick to anger, but no man could ask for a better heir. If you listen to me, Emperor, you will have more than just your revenge against the nation that killed him; you will achieve your father’s dream of a Greater Sybia. The illusion of America’s invincibility has shattered. It is the first day of a whole new world.”


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