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    No Money in Heroism: Power City Tales, #1
    No Money in Heroism: Power City Tales, #1
    No Money in Heroism: Power City Tales, #1
    Ebook55 pages45 minutes

    No Money in Heroism: Power City Tales, #1

    By Stefon Mears

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    About this ebook

    Chuck Halloran can fly, and pull weapons out of his imagination. Like his father.

    Chuck longs to fight crime as a superhero. Unlike his father.

    Can Chuck take his place as a hero, when every superhero he meets treats him like a villain?

    No Money in Heroism, a superhero novella of moral questions and superpowered battles. By Stefon Mears, author of Not Quite Bulletproof, and other Power City Tales.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThousand Faces Publishing
    Release dateDec 10, 2017
    ISBN9781386488934
    No Money in Heroism: Power City Tales, #1

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      Book preview

      No Money in Heroism - Stefon Mears

      No Money in Heroism

      No Money in Heroism

      Stefon Mears

      Thousand Faces Publishing

      Contents

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      About the Author

      Also by Stefon Mears

      The first time I put on my costume led to the last time we had the Argument. At least, while I was still living under Dad’s roof.

      I was all the way upstairs — meaning on the third floor of Dad’s twelve-thousand square foot beach-front mansion — and in my room. Foolish enough to think I was alone, just because I’d picked a time when everyone should have expected me to be asleep.

      Plus, I knew the servants were down on the first floor, beginning their day’s chores.

      Just after dawn.

      My stomach rumbled, eager for breakfast. Taste of toothpaste still in my mouth. Gray light just coming in across the terrace beyond my glass doors.

      Me, in front of my freestanding full-length mirror. Dressed in a form-fitting, simple costume. Gray bodysuit, with dark blue gloves, facemask, and boots.

      No cape. I went back and forth about that for a week, but I knew Dad would have drawn the line at a cape. Never wear a weapon the enemy can use against you. Dad must have said that a million times. Second most predictable thing he said to me.

      My costume bore no symbol to mark my chosen codename, because I couldn’t think of one that didn’t look stupid.

      But I had to admit the costume fit me perfectly.

      Not a surprise, but still. I looked good. Male model good, from a lifetime of discipline and combat training, and the outfit just showed all that off.

      Naturally, I was checking out the fit around my backside when I heard Dad’s voice from across the room. Saying the most predictable words he could possibly have said.

      There’s no money in heroism.

      Dad had just the right kind of gruff voice to deliver words like those. Always sounded like he should have been a drill sergeant in a war movie.

      Of course, Dad had starred in his share of real wars. Not as a drill sergeant though. In his costume. Doing the bidding of the good ol’ U.S. of A. wherever his country needed him.

      Sometimes right in front of the cameras. Sometimes way, way away from the cameras.

      And always, always, for a price.

      I turned around. I could see really well through the mask, even though there were no eye-slots. Neat design trick.

      Dad was standing framed in the antique wood doorway.

      In his own costume.

      Dad’s, of course, was famous. Or infamous. Like his codename: Agent Orange. Coined during Viet Nam, of course.

      The orange fatigues, orange combat boots, and an orange beret over his facemask. Also orange. The color didn’t suit his reddish Irish skin, still visible at his rough, calloused hands. But he never cared about that.

      I turned back to the mirror.

      Are you even listening to me, Chuck?

      Softer tone that time. Soft enough to get me to turn back around.

      He was floating now. Twenty feet up.

      Every level of the mansion had thirty-foot ceilings. Even the basement and three sub-basements. The bottom floors were stone. Mostly granite or marble of some variety.

      This floor had old, reddish wood all the way up, and stained-glass skylights in every room. Though the bedrooms could close them off with the push of a button.

      Every room, every level, more than big enough for casual flying.

      Came in handy when I was learning how, right around the time I learned how to walk. That I’d inherited Dad’s powers was clear almost from the cradle.

      My training started that

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