 #261: Untold Tales of the Lair Legion: Choose Your Next Words Very Carefully Previously: The Parody Master is back, more dangerous than ever, and his countless armies are gradually conquering the universe. He's done a deal with Earth's governments to let Earth alone if they bring their superhuman population under control with mind-over-riding Obedience Brands. Many countries have therefore passed legislation compelling superhumans to register and receive a "Patriot Brand", and the deadline for complying is just a few weeks off. The Lair Legion has to decide whether to yield to branding (but you just know they won't), and has had to deal with some dirty tricks from the secret villains behind the initiative. The bad guys continue their efforts by going after friends, family, and others who might help bring down the heroes. In particular Commander Black has murdered LL Leader Sir Mumphrey Wilton’s daughter and son-in-law and kidnapped his grand-daughter. And they’re not done yet. Relevant tie-ins that take place before this story include: Pregnant Pause, part one – Nesting by Visionary, outlining what happened with Hallie and Miiri’s baby. Semi-Transparent Lad #12: Preparing for the Storm by L!, describing the internal SR 1066 machinations at the Federal Metahuman Resource Centre. A list of Special Resolution 1066 Conspirators is included here Previous chapters at The Hooded Hood's Homepage of Doom Character descriptions in Who's Who in the Parodyverse Place descriptions in Where's Where in the Parodyverse “Although they first welcomed stricter controls on unaccountable metahumans, many citizens are now wondering about the price that such control seems to demand. People are counting the rights that are being suspended to bring our so-called superheroes to book, and are realising just how high the cost of Special Resolution 1066 is. Not just the cost in tax dollars, which has again thrown the federal budget billions of dollars into the red, but in more human terms: the cost to the American dream.” Bernice Teschmacher leaned back from her screen and rubbed her eyes. It was late, but she had to get this right. Then she felt the knife at her windpipe. “Choose your next words very carefully,” the man in the darkness behind her said. “Just how strongly do you believe in the First Amendment?” Bernice looked over the desk. Her taser was just out of reach beside her dictaphone. Both were switched off. “You’re right about people getting antsy about 1066,” the knife holder said. “That’s why it’s so dangerous to stir up more trouble.” The knife shifted, pressing hard enough the puncture the journalist’s skin. “Personally dangerous.” “I understand.” Bernice was proud of how she controlled the tremor in her voice. “So what’s you next sentence?” her visitor asked. “I…” Bernice felt the blood trickle down her neck. “There is no next sentence.” “Good girl. Now format your hard drives. Right now.” Bernice’s fingers stumbled over the keyboard as she erased her precious data. She hoped – in vain – that her visitor wouldn’t take her backups. “Word of advice, reporter,” said the voice. “Take a vacation from fighting for truth and justice. Go dark. You see, the next visit you get won’t be from me. I’m old school. I’ll just kill you. The next visit will be from men who like pretty spunky girl reporters, and they like them screaming and begging. That visit will be long and humiliating and painful, and you won’t be pretty or brave when they’ve finally finished with you. Do you understand that?” “Yes.” “I hope you do. I’ve enjoyed some of your work. I’d hate to see you come to such a sad end. But this is your only warning. Do I need to puncture one of your eyeballs as a reminder?” “No. no, I’ve g-got the message.” “So glad. Goodnight, Miss Teschmacher. Sweet dreams.” And the Captor was gone. Hatman felt uncomfortable behind Mumphrey’s desk. The acting leader of the Lair Legion felt he should try to speak with an English accent. Perhaps if he put on his top hat? “Why are you doing the briefing?” he asked Mr Epitome. The paragon of power shrugged. “Somebody has to. Asil’s too busy fretting about Sir Mumphrey to do her job properly. Hallie’s confined to the basement gestating Visionary’s child. Amber’s Obedience branded and timeshifted. Trickshot’s still AWOL, not that he’d be any use anyhow. So I thought we might as well make sure there’s at least one competent person in the room.” Hatman bristled. “Are you having problems with me being your boss, Clancy?” “Not at all. I’ve worked with plenty of inadequate commanding officers before.” Jay Boaz forced himself to calm down. This wasn’t the way to do this. He remembered the tensions and traumas of Goldeneyed’s period as acting leader. “Okay. Well I expect you to behave professionally whatever your personal opinions. And so will I. This is no time for a pissing contest.” “Agreed.” Mr Epitome hefted the files – paper files, since so many of the computer systems were down. “Ready?” “The overview, please.” “Security first. We had two attempted incursions over the last twenty-four hours. The Mansion’s remote defence nanobots caught a bunch of micro-drones trying to infiltrate. Fleabot took a look at them, thinks they’re Peter von Doom vintage spy hardware, with SPUD upgrade patches. And there was another attempt to dimension-shift some kind of explosive device into the command centre. The automatic filters caught it again and diverted it out to sea. Otherwise all quiet.” “Do we know who sent the bomb?” “Best interpolation of the scanners is it was Dimensionweaver, which means it was an official SR 1066 bomb,” Epitome noted. “We can’t prove anything, of course. They were probably just probing our defences.” “Current personnel deployment?” “We have Yuki in Seattle investigating the Book Tower explosion. Dancer’s looking into MetaWatch. Foxglove’s on the West Coast doing something about that First Nation stuff. The Shoggoth’s still with Mumphrey in England. No new word there.” “Damn.” “Visionary and Donar are setting up the emergency secondary command centre, but that’s going to be a waste of time.” Hatman frowned. “Why?” “Because we can’t evacuate the mansion just now. Hallie’s stuck in the building while she’s gestating Miiri’s baby, stuck for weeks. If we go we abandon her here. And Mumphrey shifted Amber four weeks into the future. She’ll reappear right back here when the time comes. We’re pinned down.” “So you’re not willing to abandon Hallie and Amber?” Jay Boaz checked. “Interesting.” “Hallie’s far too valuable an asset to let her fall to the opposition,” Mr Epitome said. “She’s got data that could be used against us.” “Right. Any word on Lisa and Al B yet?” “We’re running out of options on those two. Same with Yo and the Librarian.” “Damn. We’re running out of people.” Hatman scowled. “Can we recall any old members? Banjoooo perhaps, or spiffy? Right now I’d settle for Space Ghost.” Epitome’s mouth twitched. “Well, we do have one new applicant for membership to consider,” he offered. “Arrived earlier today, demanding a place with us.” “Who?” Hatman asked. He brightened up. “Not Zdenka, was it? Was it?” “Gamona,” Mr Epitome told the acting leader of the LL with relish. “Gamona the Assassin, formerly the Lynchpin’s number one hit woman, formerly the protégé of Dark Thugos, master of Apocalyspe, tyrant of the Sol Empire…” “I know who Gamona is,” Hatman snapped. “I still have the scars from the time she hospitalised me.” Mr Epitome shrugged. “So she could be very useful,” he pointed out. “Mom, you’ve got to get out of there!” Dreamcatcher Foxglove begged, almost shouting down the phone. “It’s all going bad.” “I heard about Gideon Book, honey,” Melanie Hastings, a.k.a. porn star and radio host Meggan Fox assured her son. “It was all over CNN all day, the Book Tower exploding like that.” “It’s not just Mr Book,” CSFB! blurted. “Mumphrey’s daughter and son-in-law, they were murdered over in England. Tortured to death! And Anna’s disappeared from her uncle’s place, they found the front door broken in. Some guys came after Shep at the Bean and Donut. They went for Miiri in her freaking hospital bed! Mom, they’re playing for keeps, and I can’t protect you while you’re home in Seattle.” “Dream, I’ve got a radio programme to do. I have over a million people listening in to my talk show. You know what kind of clout that gives me when it comes to questioning the dickweeds who are forcing through this 1066 crap?” “But it’s not safe. At least go over to the Reservation, let dad…” “I’m not runnin’, Dreamy. That’s not the way to fight these people.” “But mom…” “Just do your part, honey. Ah’ll do mine. Me and Junior, we’re taking care, okay?” CrazySugarFreakBoy! swallowed hard. “Just be very careful then, okay. I’d… I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.” The people on the wiretap looked at each other with satisfaction. “Good.” “There’s a lady to see you, master,” Flapjack toadied. “Don’t call me master,” Hatman snapped at the Legion’s major domo. “You only do it to irritate. And I know Gamona’s waiting to be interviewed about her bid for Legion membership. She can keep waiting.” “Not Gamona,” leered the hunchbacked butler. “Another one.” “Another what?” “Another fine female who wants to be part of the Lair Legion,” smirked Flapjack happily. “And although this one wears clothing, it’s a very tight-fitting sort of PVC thing…” “Will you just tell me who’s here?” demanded Hatman. “Without the PVC.” “I can ask her to take if off for you,” Flapjack agreed. “If you need any further help with the interview process after that…” “Who. Is. Here.” “Why, Citizen Z of course. I’ll ask her to come in, shall I, mistress?” There was no reason why Transmission Man should have died. There was no reason why he should have been stabbed in the first place. Steve Gardino wasn’t a superhero. He was a mechanic. A few years back he’d had the idea for a marketing gimmick. He dressed in spandex and a cape and took out some cable ads where he acted like a superhero and fixed people’s cars. It did his garage business a bit of good, picked him out from the competition. He’d even written a jingle. When the MetaWatch vigilantes had called last night and torched his garage they’d sung it as they knifed him in the gut and left him bleeding on the sidewalk. The wound was vicious, but amateur. The paramedics had got him to Phantomhawk Memorial Hospital in time. The doctors had sewn together his intestine, pumped four pints of whole blood into his body. He should have survived. There was no reasons why his heart should just stop, and refuse to start again. Grace O’Mercy took it personally. She always took it personally when they died on her watch, even thought it inevitably happened every night. She took Steve Gardino’s death harder than most. He’d died because he dressed on TV like a superhero. He’d died for no reason at all. She didn’t really understand why Steve Gardino had died until she had wheeled him into the morgue and Jack Weston was pulling out a drawer to slip the body into. And old Jack suddenly went dead quiet and stood stock still, staring blankly into space. “Good evening, Grace,” a cold, Germanic voice said in her ear. There weren’t many people that could creep up on the Night Nurse. Grace knew that voice. It was the last voice she’d ever heard, before she’d died. Before she’d risen again as one of the undead. “Werner.” Graf Hertzog was Teutonically good looking, his head bald in the Junker fashion, his eyes dancing with reflected hellfire. Grace felt a wash of desire flood over her, like before, back when she’d given herself to this lover, back when he’d taken her life in return. She suppressed it. “I thought you were dead.” “Death is but a door,” the vampire lord shrugged. “It goes both ways.” “Well don’t let it slam you on the ass on the way out.” Graf Hertzhog chuckled. “Little Grace. I should have stayed around and shaped your undeath properly. Shown you the dark pleasures. Helped you to grow into your new existence. I apologise for being… unavailable after my encounter with that buffoon Wilton.” “And I should kill you for what you did to me. For what you made me into,” spat the Night Nurse. A nasty thought struck her. “How did you get into the hospital? My hospital?” “Oh, I’ve been doing this sort of thing for a long time, Grace. Convincing mortal cattle to invite me in is easy. As you know.” “Yes. I know. Well, what do you want? Before I kill you, I mean.” Graf Hertzog smiled down on the pretty nurse. “So it’s true. You did drink Nosferos’ blood. You have the power he had.” “Maybe.” “That’s why I’ve come, Grace. That power must be burning inside you, a consuming darkness. I can help you. You can join me. We can be together.” “This Underwar you’re setting up?” Grace challenged. “Yeah, I knew somebody was mopping up the vamp packs and stray nightcrawlers into some kind of army. I just didn’t think it would be you.” “Now you know. And there is a place there for you, Grace. At my side.” Grace glanced over at the body of Steve Gardino. “Did you kill him?” she demanded. “Suck the life-force from him just to get me down to the morgue?” “Yes. I can show you how to do that too. Come to me.” Grace plunged a hand into Hertzog’s chest to rip out his heart. It wasn’t there. “Later then, beloved,” the vampire lord chuckled as he melted into mist and disappeared. April Alice Apple checked the tech-scanners and the bio-diagnostics and finally opened the door of the Lair Mansion. Flapjack was busy fawning over the two candidates for Legion membership, trying to convince them about the fitness tests he needed to carry out on them. The zaftig comics creator looked out on the lithe bald woman who held herself with such poise and dignity. But Pelopia, Disciple of Logos also had telltale red rims to her eyes where her discipline had failed her in her grief, and she held a tiny infant in her arms. “Can I help you?” April asked, puzzled. “You can take me to Dreamcatcher Foxglove, the CrazySugarFreakBoy!” Pelopia answered. “Tell him that I have come to claim sanctuary with him, and to join his Lair Legion. And also that I have brought him the daughter that he fathered on me.” “Commissioner,” Exemplary chided, “you are not being of help to your government.” Don Graham glared over at the man in the expensive grey business suit who had used his SPUD clearance to barge into police HQ. “It’s not my job to help the government to persecute heroes,” he replied. “We protect and serve. It’s right here on the badge. And the next bit of that oath talks about the people, not about the government.” Exemplary shook his head. “You’re a stubborn old man. Are you really going to make me break you?” Graham knew the kind of power the bio-energy field manipulator commanded. “I really am,” he answered. “I will die before I turn this police depart over to the service of a police state. If a metahuman crosses the line, breaks the law, then I’ll go after them and take them down. Until they do they’ve got constitutional rights same as everybody else.” “Well then,” Exemplary said smugly, “I imagine I’ll have to convince you.” “Let me guess,” scorned Graham. “You’ll hurt me with your mighty powers? The Technopolitans tortured me for three days hanging in chains in Parody Plaza and I spat in Count Armageddon’s eye. You’ll go after my loved ones? Goldeneyed already got my daughter clean away. You’ll smear my reputation? Your Shadow Cabinet friends already tried that once before. Hard to use that trick twice one it’s been exposed. Or is it just an Obedience Brand?” “I’m thinking an Obedience Brand for you, Graham. And then when you’re my slave I’m thinking of a long list of dirty degrading things I’m going to have you do to teach you to watch your mouth when you’re speaking to your betters.” “Bigger and stronger doesn’t make you better, you pissant worm. It only makes you a bully.” The Commissioner rose from behind his desk and opened his shirt. “Go ahead. Do it. Get out your Brand and slap it on.” Exemplary paused, unsure about his adversary’s strange confidence. “Or,” Graham suggested, “perhaps you’ve overlooked something? Perhaps, being as I’m not dumb as dirt, I foresaw you might be paying me a call with your disgusting enslavement technology. Maybe I made some preparations, things that would happen if you did that to me. Things I couldn’t undo once you’d Branded me, even though I might then want to after that. Things you’d really, really hate to happen. What do you think, Exemplary? Are you smarter than me?” “I think you’re bluffing.” “Could be. But it’s your choice.” The policeman’s eyes narrowed, “Just how much do you think I don’t like you, you strutting sadistic pathetic disgrace pretending to be a man?” Exemplary went red in the face and glared at Graham. The Commissioner gasped and clutched his chest then fell to the floor as his heart suffered coronary spasm. “You should be more polite, old man,” Exemplary shouted, kicking Graham in the ribs as he stalked out of the office. “I brought you a coffee,” Samantha Bonnington said, laying the I-heart-Fashion Accessory merchandising mug on the lacquered surface of Mumphrey's antique writing desk. “Uh, do you drink coffee?" "I drink coffee,” Jay Boaz agreed, quickly shifting the mug to a pile of paperwork and noting he’d need his French polisher mask later. “Thank you.” “Try it,” FA prompted him. “I’ve never made coffee before, but there were instructions printed on the back of the jar.” “It’s very... " Hatman told her sipping at the beverage, “brown. Ish. And liquid.” He looked over at the young California blonde in her kicky retro pinstriped two-piece. “Was there a special reason for you learning to make coffee today?” Samantha flashed him a glance and Jay noticed the red rims to her eyes under the careful waterproof makeup. “I wanted to help" she said. “You know, with everything. And Asil is...upset. So I thought you’d probably need filing and dictation. And coffee. Probably best if I start with the coffee really.” “Is Asil speaking to me yet? Does she understand that I kept her in the mansion for her own safety? It’s what Mumphrey would want” “Kerry's with her,” FA answered, not saying whether that was a good thing or a bad one. Then she remembered the folder under her arm. “Oh, I have another membership application for you.” Jay forced another sip of coffee. Things were that bad. “In addition to the three probably-psychotic women who have already declared their intention to join the team today?” “Yep. And can I just say you shouldn’t give LL places to any of those bimbos?" Jay was curious. “Why not?” Fashion Accessory ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “Well, for one, green all-over body tattoos? Eew. And then there’s that weird outfit Citizen Z has. Hello? Who does purple with black? She should call herself Captain Bruise. And don’t get me started on baldy.” “"I won’t. I was thinking more along the lines of Gamona being a ruthless murderess, Citizen Z being an entirely unknown quantity, and Pelopia being the right hand woman of her archvillain father, but I suppose your reasons are sound too.” "And the new guy? Doesn’t he know that Elvis is dead? And especially Vegas-era podgy Elvis.” Hatman glanced down at the file for the first time. “ManMan’s here? Manny and Knifey? And they want to join?” “Status report?” demanded Exemplary. “The visits are going off with 82% success rates, sir. That’s within acceptable operational parameters. Three fatalities so far, amongst the targets, when they tried to resist. “Only to be expected. No further investigation into those incidents.” “Graham’s in Phantomhawk Memorial. Stable, they say. He’ll be laid up for weeks.” “Find out who’s deputising for him. Brand the man.” “We’re also getting requests to intervene in the Native American stuff in the Midwest, sir. The riots. They want us to Brand Louis Laughing Fox.” “Then do it. But carefully. I hear he’s a slippery bastard like his son CrazySugarFreakBoy! And what about Foxglove's whore mother?” “We sent a detachment to Brand her and her new kid. Hell, there was a lottery over who got to go down there and try her out once she was all Obedient. We sent five guys in the end. She won't be any trouble.” “The media incentives?” “Locked down. Everybody’s good and scared. We’re succeeding sir. The plan is working.” “Couple more cases before my last visit then. I’ve been looking forward to that all day.” Meggan Foxxx crouched over her baby’s carry-basket, rocking the child backward and forward, holding him close until she could stop crying. She ignored the blood splashes over her face and arms and torn dress. She ignored the five dead G-Men sprawled out on the floor of her apartment. She ignored the empty revolver in her hand. “So you’re intending to join the Lair Legion,” Citizen Z murmured in the ear of Gamona the Assassin. “Interesting. I didn’t know you’d had the training.” “I was raised by Dark Thugos, instructed in the lethal arts by the best trainers in the galaxy,” pointed out the dark green woman. “My biomesh epidermis and other surgical modifications increase my strength, reflexes, resistance to harm, senses, and combat performance even more.” “Well sure,” Z agreed. “That’s why so many people thought you were probably holding back when you worked for the Lynchpin, the number of times you got whupped. But I was talking about the sex.” Gamona’s eyes narrowed. “What sex? Speak clearly, Earth woman. I could snap you in a second.” “Not if you want to join the good guys, greenie.” Citizen Z glanced over to where Pelopia was rather uncertainly tending to the newborn in her arms as if she’d never handled a baby before. “It needs its diaper changing,” she advised the Disciple of Logos. “And then feeding. So Pelopia, you’ve been trained to perform good sex, right?” “My father had me instructed as soon as I hit puberty,” the Word’s daughter replied. “As with all things that I do, I am superb at the acts of intercourse.” “See?” Citizen Z said, turning back to Gamona. “Pelopia is superb at all things, except breast feeding, given that her baby was removed from her womb at six weeks and gestated ex vitrio so the perfect woman never had the hormonal changes to lactate…” “I can control my hormonal releases if that is required,” argued Pelopia. “Or just buy formula,” shrugged Z. “But the point is, Gamona, when it’s Pelopia’s turn to pleasure Hatman she knows exactly what to do. In fact she’s probably been specially briefed by her father on how to seduce the Champion of Order. Whereas all you’ve done is put him in intensive care. I think it’s going to take one spectacularly good blow job to get past that obstacle, don’t you?” “They're certainly entitled to think that, and they're entitled to full respect for their opinions... but before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience,” said Atticus Finch. “Shut up!” cried Bernice Teschmacher, and hurled her battered old childhood copy of To Kill a Mockingbird far across the room to quieten the voice in her head. She didn’t want to think about the things that Harper Lee had convinced her of as a child, the reasons why she’d wanted to be a journalist. She desperately wanted rid of the book. It had betrayed her, given her up to a world of darkness and fear; but it seemed as though her hand had different ideas. Somehow the book stuck to her fingers. She trembled, curled up there on her bed, clutching it to her chest. “They’ll hurt me,” she pleaded, a tear running down her cheek. She’d never been this frightened. She kept seeing the Captor’s eyes looking down at her as if she was nothing. “They’ll kill me,” she sobbed. Somehow the book stuck to her mind too. “I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand,” Atticus Finch told her. “It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.” “Here’s your coffee,” Flapjack told ManMan, slouching into the Lair Legion Living Room and limping over to the guest with a silver tray. “There’ll be a delay before Hatman can see you. Because let’s face it, if you had the choice between interviewing three total hotties and a guy with a talking knife, what would you pick?” “The hotties,” admitted Joe Pepper. ManMan’s talking weapon, Knifey, joined the conversation. “There are some other people here to see Hatman?” “Yep. You’re not the only ones looking for a slot on the LL,” Flapjack leered. “And frankly I’m hoping that of all the possible butt-cracks I could be watching spandex ride up into, your wielder’s isn’t going to be the one.” “Amen to that too,” agreed ManMan. “But wait… are you saying there’s competition for joining the team? I mean they asked me to join, back during the World Tour, when they asked Dancer.” “That was quite a while ago, Joe,” Knifey pointed out. “Back when you, y’know, did things.” ManMan was beginning to look panicked. “Is there some kind of written test? Do I need references?” Flapjack shrugged. “All my suggestions for practical ways to help decide between the three hotties just got me tossed out of the window,” he complained. “Twice. So far.” “Who is Hatman interviewing?” Knifey asked. “Right now? That nude green alien killer chick, Gamona. It’s gone awfully quiet in there.” “I… I don’t have to actually join the LL,” ManMan offered. “I could just stick around and be useful. I have skills.” “Will they need somebody to empty their fridge of food on a regular basis?” Knifey wondered. “Or to sleep drooling on the couch?” “I have other skills. I’m a pretty good caretaker and handyman back in my apartment building. I could… I could be caretaker and handyman here!” “We already have a caretaker and handyman,” Flapjack pointed out coldly. “Me.” “Well sure, but you’re butler and stuff as well, right?” Joe checked. “I mean I could totally janitor this place, no problem. It’d be a snap, and I could… Hey, that’s my coffee!” “I just remembered,” Flapjack explained, wrestling the mug off Joe, “I forgot to put… sugar in it. Yeah, that’s it. I’m just going to go put sugar into it for you. Sugar. Heh. Stay right there. I pride myself on getting my coffee exactly right for the person it’s meant for.” “Well, that’s one person sold on me being here,” ManMan told Knifey optimistically as Flapjack limped away cackling. Mumphrey Wilton tried to keep his hand from trembling as he answered the bleep from his compromised comm-card. He failed. “Well?” he demanded. “Hello, Mumphrey old chap,” Commander Erskine Black called back over the transmission signal. “Have you sent your snot-monster away as I demanded?” “The Shoggoth’s not here.” “Jolly good. So now we can have a private little talk.” “I want to talk to Samantha. I need to verify that my grand-daughter is alive and well.” “Too bad. I prefer to keep you wondering. I’m hoping you’re imagining all the vile things I could do to such a sweet bright pretty little thing. And if you don’t obey my every whim I’m going to take pleasure in showing you just how limited your imagination is, old sport.” Sir Mumphrey’s lips drew back into a snarl. “What do you want, Black?” “Oh, lots of things, Mumph. Revenge. Fun. Power. Money. I want to see you grovelling broken and howling at my feet, of course, but that’s going to take a bit of time. But right now I want your honour.” “My honour?” “Yes. I want you to betray the Lair Legion to me. I want you to contact them and call them to help you on your brave rescue mission to save poor Samantha. Then, when they arrive at the designated site, you’ll just stop them all in time while my colleagues administer Obedience Brands. With hilarious consequences.” “I see.” Black chuckled. “Would you like me to send you some small body part off your grand-daughter to make the story more convincing?” he suggested. “An ear, a finger, a nipple, something like that? That would motivate your bold band of heroes, don’t you think?” “That’s not necessary,” Mumphrey told his enemy. “I’ll call them. Where do you want them to go?” “Tell ‘em I’m holed up in the Wookey Hole cave system, shielded so only your pocketwatch can get them in,” Black commanded. “I’m assuming you’ve long since worked out how to time-freeze even the elder being?” “Yes. For a while.” “Then I’ll expect you there with them at midnight, Mumph. If you’re not, I’ll have to take out my bad mood on little Sammy. Understand me?” “Oh yes. I know you, Black.” “Make it good then, Wilton. Today is the first betrayal of the rest of your life.” Mumphrey waited until the comm-card went dark. He shifted it forward in time and took out the new re-encrypted version. “Mr Boaz,” he called. J. J. Jerkson laid on the floor of his office, on the cheap carpet with the ash scorches on it, and carefully gathered together the tobacco from the crushed Cuban cigars his visitors had stamped upon. Those things cost money. When the pain in his ribs had subsided he dragged himself back up into his chair. He’d just had the freedom of the press explained to him very physically by two fit young men in dark overcoats. Nobody had come while they’d been hitting him. Nobody in the whole office had come. JJJ limped to the door. A frightened bullpen of editors and writers looked cautiously over the tops of their monitors. “Are you all right, sir?” Jenny James asked from the secretary’s pool. “Do you… need a bandage?” “They could shut us down,” said City Desk. “Just like that. With a word. Snap.” “No question,” agreed Politics. “You heard what happened at the Trib? And to Jeff Raspler?” “Nobody blames you for taking a duck on this one, Jonah,” Davey Davidson assured the publisher. “Nobody.” “In the 1930s,” wheezed JJJ, “In the 30s the National Socialist Party of Germany started smashing presses. That turned out badly. And in the 50s, with the McCarthy censorships.” “This paper runs on very narrow margins,” Accounting pointed out. “If we take a hit, an audit, a major accident, a big lawsuit, we’re gone. Under.” “Do you need a doctor, Mr Jerkson?” Jenny worried. She didn’t like her boss’ colour, or the way his hand shook. “I need my call sheet, Miss James,” JJJ said. He turned round to the rest of the staff. “And get to work! Do you think I’m paying you to gawk and gossip? Do your jobs while you still have ‘em!” Jerkson grabbed the list of unreturned phone messages from his secretary and limped back into his office, mumbling. Then he closed the door. “What did he say?” Jenny puzzled. Davey had been nearest. “News is something somebody doesn't want printed; all else is advertising,” he answered. “And it wasn’t a mutter, it was a quote. Jonah’s role model, William Randolph Hirst.” “What does it mean?” “It means we’re about to find out what kind of newspaper this is.” “Sir Mumphrey,” Hatman said. “Any word?” “Nothing to report,” the Englishman replied in clipped tones. “Jay, I hereby resign as chair and member of the Lair Legion. You will act as leader until such time as is convenient to elect to the post, and you’re my recommendation for the permanent job. Make us proud.” “What? Mumphrey…” “He’s going to force me to lead you all into a trap, Jay. He’ll do terrible things until I weaken and do what he says. I don’t know how long I can hold onto doing the right thing. So you can’t trust me any more. Enough said.” Hatman realised what was happening. “He’s coercing you to get to us? But if you don’t betray us he’ll hurt Samantha?” “Yes,” said Sir Mumphrey Wilton, his voice bleak and hoarse. “That is what he’ll do.” “Miss Teschmacher?” “Mr… Mr Jerkson? J.J. Jerkson? You’re returning my call?” “Nobody else has? Hardly surprising. Word is you’ve got a poison chalice news story that you’ve been dragging around trying to get every paper of record on the East Coast to print. No wonder people are blocking your calls.” “I… I do have a piece. It’s… radical.” “Is it about the Freedom and Patriotism Act and the Patriot Brands, and how they’re enslaving and unpatriotic? And about how the press are being gagged, and the agencies are running wild, and good people are having expensive imported cigars ground underfoot by shadowy government organisations?” “Kind of. Yes.” “Miss Teschmacher, the Daily Trombone is putting out a special, and I need a front page.” Katarina Allen was just about to latch the door and pull the blinds on her weaving shop when the big stranger came along. “Oh,” the pretty brunette said, a little startled by the man in the smart grey suit. “I was just closing.” “Let me help you,” Exemplary said, pushing her back into the shop then locking her muscles in place with his power. He took the time to draw down the shutters and lock the door. He expected to be here for some time. “Who are you?” Kat asked, realising she couldn’t move. “What’s this about?” “I’m somebody important,” the Director of SPUD explained, “And everything I’m about to do to you is duly authorised by the government of the United States of America.” “I didn’t vote for you.” Exemplary looked contemptuously around the spinner’s shop. “No, I imagine you didn’t,” he sneered. “Tell me, what’s your relationship with Dominic Clancy?” “Who?” “Mr Epitome. Would you like to have a sample of my ability to cause excruciating pain through manipulations of bioelectric fields, Miss Allen? Or would you like to answer my questions?” “Ah. You’re that kind of visitor,” Katarina said. “I was warned someone like you might be coming round. They wanted me to get out to safety.” “They were very smart,” Exemplary told her. “But you wanted to take a stand, not to be intimidated by big brother, right?” “Right. If people run away, you’ve won.” “I’ve won whatever you do, Miss Allen. You see, I’m important, you’re not. You’re an evening’s leisure to me. A means to an end. A way of paying back your boyfriend for some of the things he’s done to me. A way of sending him a message.” “I’m pretty sure he already knows that you’re a git,” Kat pointed out. “Did you hear about Sir Mumphrey Wilton’s daughter?” Exemplary asked. “Well don’t worry. I promise to leave you alive when I’m done with you. I want Clancy to see, to hear what happened. Tell him none of this would have happened if it wasn’t for him. You picked the wrong lover.” “No,” Katarina Allen told the Director of SPUD. “I didn’t. He looks after me.” “He’s not here right now,” the intruder pointed out. “He left parody Island two hours ago for Los Angeles to protect Wilton’s worthless son. He can’t be in two places at once.” “No,” agreed Kat’s brooch. “But I can.” The green gemstone pulsated then oozed out of its setting, replicating its mass over and over as if formed into a gelid wall between Exemplary and his victim. “Dom made arrangements to keep me safe,” Katarina explained. “This is the Manga Shoggoth.” “I’ve been wanting to meet you, Exemplary,” the elder being explained, bubbling forward. “You’re an evening’s leisure to me.” “GOVERNMENT OVERTHROWS CONSTITUTION,” read the headline. “FEARLESS PUBLISHER DARES TO SPEAK THE TRUTH.” “Although they first welcomed stricter controls on unaccountable metahumans, many citizens are now wondering about the price that such control seems to demand. People are counting the rights that are being suspended to bring our so-called superheroes to book, and are realising just how high the cost of Special Resolution 1066 is. Not just the cost in tax dollars, which has again thrown the federal budget billions of dollars into the red, but in more human terms: the cost to the American dream…” Next Time: We catch up on our absent cast members who are over the hills and far away, be they in the transdimensional vortex, on alternate versions of Earth, or simply trying to break the time barrier to rescue somebody; with a full supporting cast of Doomwraiths, Avawarriors, High Priests, Brides, Sorcerer Supremes, and cranky robots. Untold Tales#162: Frontiers, or Waiting For the Hammer To Fall, coming soon. Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2006 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2006 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
