Tales of the Parodyverse

Mr. Epitome #6, featuring a new villain who's neither especially new or villainous


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killer shrike
Mon Jul 07, 2003 at 03:54:44 am EST
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"Down Time"
Lester Dawes was working in his office this Saturday morning; which was not out of the ordinary for him. He had been promoted to the Epitome Division of the Office of Paranormal Security three months ago, and the ambitious former CIA operative made it a habit to spend every other weekend at the unassuming facility located in the business center of Persephone, Virginia.
Normally he wasn’t alone. His partner, Abby St. Germain, often spent a couple of hours catching up on paperwork at her desk down the hall. The Epitome Division’s technical staff would be taking apart or building some type of gadget in the labs on the ground floor. The lead field agent, John Koskivo, might be in his office, or he might be using the ED’s Nautilus room to maintain on his chiseled physique.
Mr. Epitome was around as well. If not on a mission he would be somewhere in the building, conducting research downstairs, or on the second floor in his own office reading, writing, or contemplating. More surreal was when Lester would come across the superhero acting as custodian. One Sunday morning Dawes watched Epitome attack a coffee stain on the carpet outside his office with the same determination on his face as when the man squared off against the Magnificent Blastard in Philadelphia.
The Exemplary Man kept an apartment on the third floor, but it did not appear it got much use. In fact very few people had seen Epitome’s living quarters. Koskivo once told Lester and Abby he had been up there, and described the living room as “more Spartan than Sparta.”
The arrival of Glory had changed Mr. Epitome’s work habits. The Border collie was constantly by his side, watching the hero go about his business and apparently taking it all in. The official word was that the dog was smarter than any employee there; with the exception of her partner (Epitome would not acknowledge the title of owner). The Paragon of Power would train the dog exclusively upstairs in his private suites, which kept him away from the offices more often than before.
That’s why Lester was surprised to see Mr. Epitome walk in and sit down to chat.
“Good morning, Agent Dawes,” the tall, lean-muscled man was dressed casually in a polo shirt and jeans. He carried a pair of grocery bags, one of which smelled faintly of seafood.
“Good morning, sir. Running some errands?”
“Best time to go shopping is early on a Saturday. What do you have there?”
Dawes showed him the files, “More on Puppet Maker. I’m looking to see if we can make a more solid connection between him and Sybia.”
“I doubt you’ll find anything. Zollstein is probably telling the truth when he said he didn’t know any Emperor Scorpion. It was a representative of Factor X that made contact with him, I’m sure. Dr. Vassilych knew Puppet Maker from his old KGB days, and passed the information on to Scorpion.”
Dawes shook his head, “I wish the Soviets were more forthcoming on what they know about Vassilych’s activities. That would make it a lot easier to connect him to Emperor Scorpion.”
Mr. Epitome stood up, “We’ll find it. Sybia was an ally of the USSR when the original Emperor was causing trouble back in the 80s. We’ve got proof X met with him. And since Unskar Kufadalla has gone underground, it’s safe to assume he’s taken up his father’s role as the new Emperor Scorpion. Once we find Unskar, we can get Factor X,” Epitome quickly changed subjects, “I’m going to be activating the security system in an hour, Lester. There is an errand I need to run that will take me out of range if something comes up. You’ll be done by then?”
“Oh, uh, sure sir. Do you expect to be back by Monday?” Agent Lester Dawes began replacing the Puppet Maker dossiers in his desk in order to lock it.
“Definitely. This is just a day trip.”
*****
Glory heard all of Epitome’s conversation with Lester Dawes from upstairs. As humans went, Agent Dawes wasn’t too offensive: he didn’t reek of fear unlike most Epitome Division members. Glory wasn’t prejudiced against her partner’s race; in fact she liked the ones who were ignorant of her unique nature. But the humans who worked for Epitome did not know how to act around a two year old Border collie with a 205 IQ and teeth that could puncture titanium plate. That made them annoyingly skittish.
Mr. Epitome took his leave of Agent Dawes, and came up the private elevator to the third floor. Glory could smell the sweet aroma of fresh Gulf shrimp and met Epitome at the entrance to the living room.
“Give me a shrimp, please?” she asked him, in the unique system of communication the two of them had been able to create. Though she could understand printed and spoken English, she was physiologically unable to speak it. Her “Gloryspeak” was a mixture of growls, barks, yips, and body movements that could be translated into a language with a 3500 word vocabulary.
Epitome patted her head as he walked to the kitchen, “Let me get this put away first.”
“Sorry.”
“Apology accepted. I bought you a present.”
Glory wagged her tail, “What is it?”
The tall brown-haired man pulled a slim paperback out of another bag and put it on the kitchen’s stainless steel counter, “A book,” he took a carving knife from its rack and sliced away the book’s spine. He brought it and a pair of shelled shrimp back to the living room and laid it on the floor in front of Glory’s bed.
“Real or not real?”
Epitome tossed his partner the plump pink shellfish, “Real. Non-fiction. It’s called ‘Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations.’ It’s a book about how to think.”
After gulping down the food, Glory declared, “I know how to think.”
“Humans have different ways of thinking about the world. We call them philosophies. This book describes one philosophy called Stoicism.”
“That last word means what?”
Mr. Epitome smiled “Read it and find out.”
Glory took the cover off the stack of pages and examined the first page, “Do I have to type a report again?”
“No, but I’ll expect to hear what you think when I get back tonight. Glory, I need to make a call. Excuse me.”
Mr. Epitome went to use the phone in his private office that could contact only one person: the Grey Eminence.
“How are you this morning sir?” the government agent asked his employer when he finally came to the phone.
“Excellent. Took an exceptionally good shit before you called. When you’re my age, that’s something to celebrate,” the mechanically masked voice at the other end of the phone waited for Epitome to respond.
“Yes, I suppose that’s true. You’ll be 98 this August, correct?”
“Good memory there. I think it’s going to be a particularly happy birthday too, if you deliver on my gifts.”
“Sir?”
“Emperor Scorpion’s head and Factor X’s ear. After Monday we’ll have authorization to get both. Then nothing will stop us.”
Mr. Epitome massaged his temples, “I’ve read the President’s speech. It’s well written and makes the case, but we’ve got a way to go yet.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just make sure you’re ready afterwards to make the talk show rounds.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a good man, Clancy. Maybe the best that has ever worked for me. Some day I’m not going to be around to give the orders anymore and you’ll be in the big chair. I only hope you remember what I’ve taught you.”
“I will, sir. And I will give you a call Tuesday morning to discuss how things have been going. Have a good day.”
Mr. Epitome put the phone back in its cradle then walked to the kitchen to make his lunch. Along the way he stopped to check on Glory’s progress.
“What do you think of ‘Meditations’ so far?”
The dog looked up from the two stacks of pages, one read, one unread, “A lot about death and duty.”
“Those are the most important things to understand,” he said before breaking eye contact.
*****
The Greentown Federal Penitentiary housed 127 supervillains. Some, like Bruiser Bates, the Molecular Mimic, were obscenely powerful, and had to be kept in special cells that checked their abilities. Other prisoners had no natural powers, but had used their intelligence for criminal ends: the mad scientists, the inventors, and the criminal masterminds. Garen Dye was one such person.
Dye was slightly better known as Kelvin, a founding member of the Friendly Foes. He and his three teammates tried to kill Mr. Epitome last month. Their revenge scheme went unfulfilled due to the interference of the hero’s new sidekick Glory who, as sidekicks occasionally do, managed to jump in at the last minute and distract the villain team. The Mutt of Might’s method of distraction was ripping off Kelvin’s arm.
Though his arm had been reattached, Dye had lost the use of his hand. The injury had been severe enough to keep the Fahrenheit Felon in the prison’s hospital. This is where Mr. Epitome had found him, talking with a slim, tired looking woman with a visitor’s badge.
“You,” she said accusingly when she saw Epitome enter, “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting your father, Ms. Raeligh,” the Paragon of Power looked over Garen Dye’s chart clipped to the foot of his hospital bed, “same as you.”
“My father doesn’t have to talk to you…”
“Kris,” Kelvin gently held his daughter’s arm, “It’s OK.”
“You don’t,” she turned to explain to her father, “Your lawyer says not too. This guy wants to add another 20 years to your sentence. Don’t give him any ammunition.”
“Why not? I’m guilty. Anyway, I doubt Epitome’s down here to help the prosecution.”
Mr. Epitome opened his attaché case on a nearby table, “True. I came to show you something,” he produced a sheaf of blueprints and gave them to Kelvin.
“It’s a prosthetic hand. Solar powered, it allows for 96% of normal range of motion. And with the synthetic skin sheath, it is impossible to identify as artificial.”
“Did you build this?” Kelvin asked while reading the schematics.
“No. I’m not much of an inventor, Mr. Dye. A cybernetics company called the Manchanics Group did the specs. They’ll build it for you and fly one of their surgical teams to Georgia to implant it.”
“All for free, of course.”
“Obviously not,” Mr. Epitome withdrew some more papers from his bag, “This is the contract. It states they will provide you with and install the unit in addition to a guarantee of lifetime maintenance free of charge on two conditions. One, you do not tamper with the device in any way. If you try to take it apart the contract becomes null and void. Second, the Manchanics Group wants you to sign over your patent on the Kelvin Gun to them.”
Garen Dye handed back the blueprints to Mr. Epitome and gestured for the contract, which he was given, “Why would a company that builds robotic limbs want my gun?”
“The Manchanics Group is a subsidiary of Zoxxon Oil. They are interested in the practical applications of your thermal projector as an alternate fuel source,” Mr. Epitome’s tone became less officious, “Mr. Dye, I’m going to leave the contract with you. Get a lawyer, a contract lawyer, to look over the proposal. It’s more than fair. Just don’t expect to get anything more from Manchanics or Zoxxon. These terms are non-negotiable.”
Kelvin looked at his daughter, “Got a pen, honey?”
“Dad, let’s let Mr. Henckel read these first.”
“Naw, I trust Epitome. But,” Kelvin paused, “Am I going to be able to wear this thing back in my cell? They won’t even let me have a television in there.”
“I’ve spoken to Warden Hardcourt. She will allow it.”
“Alrighty then,” Garen Dye tried to neatly sign the contract with his non-dominant hand while resting the papers on his lap, “Got your stamp, Mr. Epitome?”
“How did you know?”
“You seem to be everything else: doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. Stands to reason you’d be a notary public. Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And thank Glory too. If it wasn’t for what she did I probably never would have seen my daughter again.”
“Dad-“
“It’s true, Kelvin’s eyes started to tear up, “I don’t blame you, Kris. I didn’t give you any reason to want to see me. But when you heard what happened you came, and…”
He was crying now, and his daughter soon joined him. Mr. Epitome picked up his attaché case and cooler and left them to their moment.
*****
“Idiom, you’ve got a visitor,” the intercom buzzed.
Letitia Gahagan looked up from her copy of ‘Vogue.’ “Unless it’s George Clooney I’m not interested. No way I’m putting on those irons and trotting down to meet anyone else.”
“Don’t sweat it, you’re not going anywhere.”
“’Don’t sweat it?’ Are you trying to steal my bit, buster?” she sounded indignant.
“Mr. Epitome wants to see you. You’ve got five minutes to get your shit together.”
The tall brunette rose from her cot, “No need to use profanity. You could have just as easily said ‘get your act together.’ I would have.”
“Whatever.”
Idiom went over to her sink and washed her face, then gave herself the once over. She thought she looked pretty good for someone who had spent the last three years unable to get even the most rudimentary cosmetics. Or a hairdryer. Or sunlight.
After freeing her thick, curly hair from its ponytail, Idiom went to the center of the cell and cleared her utility table. Stacks of magazines and books were tossed onto her unmade cot. She put the legal pad that contained the details of her latest project away in her foot locker. Idiom was tucking in the shirt tails to her orange jumpsuit when Epitome appeared at the door to her cell.
He was in costume, of course, and was carrying a slim briefcase and a tiny cooler. The Paragon of Power pressed the button to activate the intercom.
“Ms. Gahagan,” he acknowledged.
“Mr. Epitome,” she mimicked his tone, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He punched in the cell’s access code. The door slid open, and he walked in, “I have your copies of ‘Mad Scientist’s Monthly.’ I’ve proofed them as per security regulations. Since I was here in Greentown, it made sense to hand-deliver them instead of sending them through the mail.”
“Right. Gotta pinch those pennies,” she sat at the table, “Grab a chair and fork them over.”
Epitome took the three glossy magazines out and handed them to her, “Going for a new record? That’s four in less than a minute.”
“Actually, I was thinking of getting the colloquialisms out of the way before lunch. That is lunch, isn’t it?”
“It is: shrimp salad on baguettes with a remoloude dressing, pasta salad, and sweet gherkins,” he placed it on the table, “In your last letter you doubted I could cook. This should prove you wrong.”
“Sure,” Letitia Graham smiled, “Are you going to join me?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
She peeked inside the cooler, “There’s two sandwiches in here.”
“I’ll be eating mine on the ride home.”
“Two forks too.”
“It’s unhealthy to share silverware.”
“Especially for a guy who could inhale a bushel of anthrax and not even get a runny nose. Look, Epitome: I’m not going to tell anyone you broke bread with the enemy. Sit down and eat.”
The Exemplary Man thought for a moment, “All right.”
“But first,” Idiom’s blue eyes flashed mischievously, “Take off your mask.”
“I can eat with my mask on.”
“I can’t. You’ll look ridiculous. I want to enjoy my meal unafraid that I might accidentally choke to death on one of your canned-at-home gherkins after laughing at you with shrimp salad on your cowl. And I’ve seen your face when I zapped you with my inorganic immolator, so it’s no big secret.”
“You saw it briefly-“
“You’ve got wiry brown hair in a widow’s peak, kind of a flat nose, and a ruddy complexion. I could make you a sketch, maybe have you hitting a golf ball or jet skiing in it. Like those artists who do the caricatures at the mall.”
Mr. Epitome just looked at her.
“Baguettes are getting stale,” she warned.
“Fine,” he pulled off his cowl.
“Wow. I’ve changed my mind: put the mask back on.”
“Stop it.”
“No, really. Were you sunny side up when Fin Fang Foom stomped on you? Because that would explain a lot.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Just pulling your chain, E.”
The two were halfway through their lunch before the conversation picked up again.
“There was an interesting article in those magazines. It posits that the explosion of Krakatoa led to the beginning of the mutate age.”
“That’s been mentioned before. Who wrote it?” Idiom asked in between bites.
“Someone I never heard of: the Low Evolutionary.”
“You’ve never heard of him? That’s a breach in security. Have you made inquiries? Started a file? Set a bounty?”
“Yes to the first two.”
“What does my file say?” She dabbed the last piece of her sandwich into a smear of the tangy remoloude sauce left on her plate before eating it.
“That you’re a left-leaning political activist with a super genius IQ. You choose to attack corporate and political targets using high-tech weaponry and have a fetish for leaving hints of your crimes in the form of idioms and colloquialisms.”
“Ooh, fetish. Dirty.”
Epitome continued, “Also, that you were responsible for over $150 billion dollars in damages because of your actions, though no fatalities.”
“See, I’m not all bad. I never killed anybody.”
“You nearly killed me.”
Letitia Gahagan took offense, “I gave plenty of warning about the Pentagon. I said ‘Everybody out: this sucker’s heading straight towards Mr. Sun.’ But you had to rush in and save that obscene symbol of the military industrial complex.”
“That’s what heroes do.”
There were a few moments of silence before the Idiom continued, “You forgot something.”
“What? Toothpicks? I’ve got some in my belt.”
“Gross,” Letitia replied. Then, leaning forward, she whispered, “You forgot to mention it says in my file that you’re sweet on me.”
“I couldn’t forget something that isn’t there.”
“Now, now, don’t be bashful. It’s pretty obvious.”
Mr. Epitome put on his gloves now that they were done eating, “Maybe to you.”
“You brought me gifts and made me lunch. This is a date.”
“I bring Glory gifts and make her lunch. Doesn’t mean we’re dating.”
“No, but it does raise the interesting topic about how you’re going to handle her when she’s in heat.”
“I don’t find it interesting at all.”
“It’s sad really. She’ll have these urges but all the guys that turn her on will be dumb as a bag of hammers. I’ve been with some dopes in my time too, but none of them were so stupid as to drink out of the toilet bowl.”
Mr. Epitome started to pick up the remains of their meal.
“Just like a father to ignore that special moment in his daughter’s life, hoping it will go away,” Idiom smiled.
“Can we talk about anything else, please?”
“Sure,” she stood up, “Let’s get down to brass tacks. You never do anything for one reason. And the reasons you offered stink on ice. So why are you here?”
Mr. Epitome slipped the cowl back over his face, “I know you’ve been offered leniency by the federal prosecutor.”
“I’m sure you do. The deal seems contingent on me doing some consulting work for the government. Your proxy didn’t say exactly what it was, but I would guess it involves me betraying the very principles that got me put in here. I said no three years ago, and I’m saying no now.”
“Life without parole is a long time, Ms. Gahagan.”
“Life where you turn your back on your beliefs isn’t living at all. You may have been able to get Tech Spectre to join your little conspiracy, but I’m not interested,” Letitia walked around the table and stood before him, “But that’s not why you’re here either. There is something else. Something you want to tell me, but you can’t work up the nerve.”
“That I’m attracted to you? I’ll admit that.”
“No. But your admission fits in with how you operate: I’m safe to be attracted to because nothing will ever come of it. That’s why I know you’re not here to get me to take the government’s offer, because if I did that your perfectly ordered world would spin off its axis. You might have to do something more than send me my magazines and write letters that talk about everything under the sun with the exception of your feelings.”
Epitome folded his arms, “I’m so obvious.”
“When you spend a year trying to outwit someone, you learn some things about that person.”
Mr. Epitome shook his head and smiled, “I seem to spend more time arguing with geniuses about my own nature. You, the Hood, the Legion, all think you know better than I. But what’s really interesting is that I’ve beaten you. So maybe I’m not so stupid after all.”
“I never said you’re stupid, E. But you can be smart and still be wrong.”
The comment wiped the smile off the hero’s face, “It would be best if we didn’t communicate any more,” Mr. Epitome said cautiously.
“So I should cancel my subscription to ‘Mad Scientist’s Monthly?’ But the swimsuit issue hasn’t come out yet.”
“Nevertheless…..”
“OK, Mr. Epitome, if that’s what you want. Go back to your self-inflicted solitude,” Idiom looked the man over dismissively, “It’s served you so well.”
Epitome looked like he was going to say something, but stopped. It was time for him to piss or get off the pot, and he chose the latter. Gathering up his belongings, he left.
















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