Tales of the Parodyverse

An out of order Mr. Epitome #9 "Distractions"


Post By

killer shrike
Sun Aug 10, 2003 at 05:52:32 pm EST
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Mr. Epitome #9


Distractions


Aaron Soames was an excellent law enforcement agent. He had served in the FBI for 18 years before leaving the Bureau to become a federal circuit judge in his home state of California. After five years on the bench he was tapped by the President from the previous administration to help organize a fledgling domestic security agency specializing in threats that were metahuman in nature. A natural politician and administrator, Soames is responsible for getting and maintaining the Office of Paranormal Security’s enormous mandate to deal with supercrime in all its myriad forms. He was now Director of the OPS, but Soames was on the short list to replace Secretary of Paranormal Security Evan Milliken when he stepped down from the President’s Cabinet in November.

The 62 year old UCLA graduate looked forward to the opportunity for advancement. He felt in several instances the current administration’s policies towards superhumans were random and ill-formed. Blaming the reactionary views of Metahuman Security Adviser Herbert P. Garrick for this, Soames saw in his possible promotion a chance to be a counterweight to the splenetic Garrick in Washington.

Any Cabinet level position could come only after the Senate’s approval, so Aaron knew to get what he wanted he had to be very careful not involve himself in political scandal. Director Soames had information that could bring about a very large one. So he sought out advice from a man who seemed bulletproof when it came to the dog-eat-dog world of public service.

Colonel Dan Drury, commander of SPUD, took careful aim with his Luna Arms P-2 Needler Pistol, “OK, Judge, you got my attention. What is it you want to tell me you think I don’t already know?”

Soames watched the super agent fire on his target, reducing the paper silhouette’s dead center to so much Swiss cheese, “I would feel better if we conducted this in your office, Colonel.”

“Ah, the place is a mess. The maid called in sick again. We can talk here,” Drury pressed a button, and another target slid into view, this one 20 yards farther away than the last.

It was true the duo was alone on the firing range. The SPUD helicarrier was currently going through repairs, so Colonel Drury had set up office temporarily at the organization’s training facility outside Casper, Wyoming. SPUD’s cadets were at a hand-to-hand combat drill. Director Soames decided this place was as safe as any to drop his bombshell.

“Seven days ago an OPS operation uncovered a terrorist cell in Dublin, Ohio. The terrorists had a prisoner who claims to be an ex-SPUD agent and that he was contracted by someone in your organization to help train and outfit followers of Emperor Scorpion.”

Soames had to wait nearly a minute for Drury to finish with his expletive-laden tirade before he could continue.

“The man’s name is Randall Freehling. He worked for you in the Technical Branch until 1999, when he retired to the private sector.”

“Does he say who reached out to him?”

“Uh, Howard Gittes.”

“Gittes,” Colonel Drury took a cigar from the pocket of his uniform. After lighting it, he continued, “When did this supposedly happen?”

“Nearly eleven months ago. Freehling and some of his co-workers were approached by Gittes. He said he needed them for some freelance work, training and outfitting a rebel movement in Sybia.”

“Unskar’s crowd,” Drury said, referring to the clan of desert nomads who served Unskar Kuffadala, the Emperor Scorpion.

“Right. They worked with him for six months in Sybia. Then Kuffadala double-crossed them, liquidating most of Freehling’s team.”

“And then Emperor Scorpion decides killing Americans is a hoot and a half, and sends us Blastard. How did Freehling wind up here?”

“He says he was smuggled in from Canada and forced to build explosives for the terrorists.”

“You know Howard retired in the spring, right?”

“Two weeks after the Magnificent Blastard blew up Flights 204 and 1452. Was his retirement… scheduled?”

Drury shook his head, “Naw. Threw the entire Counter-Intelligence Division off when he went. Who knows about this?”

“You, me, the two agents who found Freehling, and their field director. We’re not charging Freehling with anything yet, but he’s in protective custody.”

“Nicely contained. So I’m still waiting to hear the $64,000 Question from you, Aaron,” he smiled grimly.

“Dan, did you know anything about this?”

“Hell, no. This wasn’t a SPUD thing. ‘Course, between the Shadows and the recent takeover attempts from within SPUD, I might not be the best possible source of what goes on around here ,” Drury blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, “What’s next?”

“It’s too soon to go to Secretary Milliken. We need more information. I say we form a joint task force, SPUD and OPS, to look into this.”

“I agree. And we will look into this. No dicking around. I’m tired of this hidden agenda crap. You going to use your boys who found Freehling?”

“Boy and girl, actually. And they’re not mine: both work in the Epitome Division.”

Drury shook his head, “I can’t believe you have to share power with that oddball.”

“Mr. Epitome keeps us competitive with your team of high-tech cowboys, Colonel. To me he’s a godsend. He won’t have a problem with us using Agents Dawes and Germain for this.”

“Epitome’s going to have a litter of breech-birth kittens when he sees who I’m sending,” Drury blew another smoke ring, “and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

*****


Four weeks into the American occupation of Sybia:

The United States did not want to offend the religious factions that populated Ritopli, so the Army decided to have Jingo Belle wear something less revealing than her usual star-spangled bikini when meeting the troops. The blue top with spaghetti straps and white star insignia worn over red Capri pants were stunning on her, and a welcome sight to the men garrisoned in the coastal city.

Captain Jo Simon bounded on the makeshift stage when Drew Carey was finished with his routine and took the microphone.

“Thank you, Mr. Carey! OK, boys, let’s show some love for Christina-”

“YEEAAAHHH!!!”

“- and Justin!”

“BOOOOO!!!!”

*Cue canned pop music*

Mr. Epitome did not want to be here. He understood the reasons for it: he was security for a concert that was an attempt to boost morale and show that the United States had control over Sybia’s second largest population center. But there were concerns elsewhere, starting with the most obvious. Emperor Scorpion and his troops had dropped off the face of the Earth.

The cursory reconnaissance in the Pashads Mountains had turned up nothing. The Americans had been too busy putting out fires in Northern Sybia to concentrate on the invasion’s primary objective. There had been occasional skirmishes, but they usually wound up being disgruntled Sybian regulars who had disappeared into the population after General Bakkat’s surrender. The Joint Chiefs weren’t calling it a guerilla war, yet. But the numbers of ambushes and suicide attacks were growing.

Other problems abounded, especially in Lebask, Sybia’s capital. After the old regime collapsed there had been an orgy of looting and religious violence. Old scores were settled between families. The city’s electrical and water systems had been damaged by “Asunder by Thunder” and sabotage. Of the 27 days Mr. Epitome had been in Sybia, 18 of them were spent helping maintain order in Lebask. 18 was approximately the number of hours of sleep Mr. Epitome had gotten over that time.

Then there was the matter of the investigation into a possible U.S./Emperor Scorpion connection prior to his attacks on American soil. Aaron Soames had told Epitome about the OPS-SPUD task force put together weeks ago, but as of yet the group had not reported their findings. The Exemplary Man hoped his superior, the Grey Eminence, had been thorough in covering his tracks, because if the truth came out the mission in Sybia would come under even greater scrutiny.

Mr. Epitome’s cell phone rang. The Caller ID told him things were about to get worse.

“You are receiving a collect call from the Greentown Federal Penitentiary. If you wish to accept this call, say yes when indicated. You will not be charged if you hang up. Do you wish to accept this call?” an automated voice asked.

“Yes,” Epitome replied.

There was a click and Letitia Gahagan, the Idiom, was on the line, “We had a deal.”

“Ms. Gahagan.”

“You promised you would destroy every piece of my tech except the Express, in return for me telling you where all my stockpiles were.”

“I know.”

“And here I am watching CNN and they’re describing some of the meta weapons used in Sybia. My weapons.”

“I know.”

It was at this point Jingo Belle had found Mr. Epitome. She rushed over to speak to him.

“So, you lied.”

“Your technology was destroyed as per our agreement. But I memorized some of the blueprints of your non-lethal weapons systems-”

“You lied.”

“Those devices prevented casualties. I can send you pictures of entire neighborhoods the mission planners expected to be destroyed if we had used conventional weapons in the invasion.”

“So I’m only responsible for the deaths of a few people, then.”

Jingo Belle mouthed come up on stage to the Man of Might. He found himself distracted by the perspiration mark swelling over her breastbone.

“You’re not- Look; I need you to remain calm here. I have a plan.”

“Forgive me if I don’t put too much faith in your plans right now, Epitome,” the line went dead.

“Everything OK?” Captain Simon asked, still smiling.

“Not really. I just admitted to destroying evidence over an unsecured line,” Mr. Epitome put the phone away.

“Uh, yeah. Do you feel up to going on stage after the song and being made an honorary member of the Sixth Infantry Division? The guys want to give you a hat and have you sing ‘The Caissons Go Rolling Along.’”

“That sounds fine. Lead the way.”

Mr. Epitome went to receive his accolade.

*****


Hollywood has made the Mafia infamous, but how many people have ever heard of the Camorra?

The people of Naples know them well. The Camorra got their start in the northern Italian city in the 1800s as a loose-knit alliance of clans, specializing in extortion and smuggling. Now there are rumored to be over 107 of these gangs, with perhaps as many as 60,000 people directly involved in their activities.

The Camorra is not organized in a hierarchical nature: there is no “Godfather,” no “Lynchpin.” And they are often forced to follow the orders of their Sicilian neighbors to the south. However, if Cesare has his way both of those things will change.

Cesare is organizing a new Camorra; one he hopes will dominate the region and send the accursed Sicilians home to their dingy island. Entrée into the organization requires a payment of 1,500,000 American dollars and the blood sacrifice of a law enforcement officer. In return the applicant would be given a new body. A form as powerful and beautiful as any sculpted by Bernini or Buonarroti. Cesare himself chose a face that was handsome in the classical sense, with the long aquiline nose and deep set onyx eyes. With a thought the micro-processor grafted to his central nervous system commanded those eyes to magnify on the work done on the operating theater below him. Another thought allowed him to reference an on-line medical library to identify what organs were being removed from the patient’s body. He was surprised to learn a liver did indeed resemble Napoleon’s hat.

“How are you able to do this so inexpensively?” he asked his partner.

“Low overhead,” came the reply, “and the doctors are wanted men with nowhere to go. Is this the woman who killed the undercover agent?”

“Yes. Thank you for alerting us of his presence.”

“You’re welcome. My employer and I felt it would be a shame for an organization with such potential compromised before it could even begin.”

“Then thank Emperor Scorpion as well,” Cesare poured his guest another glass of clarete gran reserve.

Factor X downed the red Spanish wine of exceptional vintage, “I assure you the Emperor had nothing to do with this,” he said, before turning back to watch the Technopolitan scientists create the latest member of the Camorra Macchina.

*****


Mr. Epitome and Jingo Belle walked the makeshift camp the American troops had established on the grounds of General Bakkat’s coastal mansion.

“You really did our anthem justice back there,” Captain Simon commented, “You have a very nice singing voice.”

“It was Roy Orbison’s voice, truthfully,” Mr. Epitome dangled in his hand the baseball cap given to him by the infantry division that occupied the port city, “and you should hear my Patsy Cline.”

“So you have super-mimicry powers, too? That’s, well… I guess it’s useful,” the pretty blonde looked up at Epitome, “to trick the enemy.”

“Not really. It takes too long learn somebody’s voice for any type of field application. When I first started out I had more time to do those things. I taught myself a lot of parlor tricks back then.”

“Like sleight of hand?”

“That’s actually been of some help to me. I’m talking about art history, dancing, playing the piano: things you learn for fun.”

Captain Simon stopped walking and turned to face her companion, “For fun?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, to impress women,” the Paragon of Power confessed, smiling.

“Mr. Epitome: using his powers to score with the ladies! I’m shocked. My image of you is forever shattered,” Jo laughed.

“It was the early 90s. A lot of men were using their powers to score with the ladies.”

“Is that a Clinton joke?”

Epitome took the hat and put it on Captain Simon, “That depends on what your definition of is is,” he drawled, mimicking America’s forty-second President flawlessly. The smile quickly fell from his face and he straightened, “I’m sorry, Captain. I really shouldn’t have been so forward.”

Jingo Belle was taken aback by the superhero’s sudden shift in gears, “Uh, hey, that’s OK. It’s just a little harmless flirting,” she smiled coyly, “Though I should remind you here in a combat zone I am your superior officer. What’s your title again? Civilian Tactical Specialist?”

Mr. Epitome didn’t answer. He was listening to a news report from a television six tents over.

“There’s been an ambush. Three of my men have been killed,” he said, looking perplexed.

“What? Where?”

“In Naples. A team of OPS agents were killed in their car,” the confusion hadn’t yet left his face, “I need to see Colonel Fisk immediately. Uh, I can pick you up and carry you.”

Jo Simon realized when Epitome meant quickly, he meant running at 750 miles per hour, “No, that’s OK. Go on ahead. I’ll catch up,” and in a heartbeat he was gone.

*****


When a new agent joined the Office of Paranormal Security one of the first things they received was a personal letter from Mr. Epitome himself. It was addressed to their entire family, and contained enough information about them to get across the point the Star Spangled Splendor had taken the time to learn who they were.

The second paragraph of the letter both congratulated and thanked the agent for agreeing to serve their country in such a way. There’d be a quote there, something about the importance of duty and sacrifice, more often than not by one of the Stoics Mr. Epitome admired. Then the last paragraph contained a pledge both morbid and comforting.

It was in the last paragraph that the superhero vowed to the families of the OPS agent that their loved one would be as safe as Epitome could possibly make him or her, but that if anything did happen, he would personally make sure that the persons responsible would be caught and forced to pay for their crimes.

Most denizens of the criminal class knew of this oath, and it had been effective in discouraging attacks against OPS. Those who challenged it learned very quickly how sincere the Exemplary Man was.

Mr. Epitome was explaining as much to Colonel Morton Fisk in the Colonel’s Operations Center. The thirty-five year Army veteran seemed skeptical.

“Sounds like a trap, Mr. Epitome.”

The hero, pacing, fidgeting, clearly distracted, agreed, “Emperor Scorpion wants me out of Sybia. I’m sure some kind of counter-offensive is planned from the south during my absence.”

“So why not just pretend to go to Italy, and wait with us for him?”

“I know that’s the most logical option-”

Fisk bulled on ahead, “You’re going to have a hard time getting any cooperation from the Italians anyway. They weren’t exactly thrilled about this operation we have going here. Maybe someone from the Lair Legion could investigate for you?” he said as an afterthought.

“No,” Mr. Epitome flinched at the suggestion, “This is my responsibility, sir. Glory will remain behind and I’ll leave you the Epitome Express. That and the firepower you have here now should be enough to deal with whatever the Scorpion has planned.”

Colonel Fisk nodded, “It should. I’m more concerned about you, though. Walking into an ambush is not good strategy.”

“Believe me, sir; the parties responsible for this won’t even hear me coming.”

Nadezhda Prokofiev enjoyed the irony of Mr. Epitome’s declaration from her hiding place within Colonel Fisk’s mind. Factor X had never been more right when he said the quickest way to destroy an enemy was to through his pride.


Next: Cyborgia

Actually next is #8 "Intermission", which I pushed back because it doesn't really involve the Sybia story. Then we get to #10.





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