Hero Town

© 2012 Christopher Poole. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/25/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0545-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0544-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0543-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908577

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

SANDS OF OKINAWA

CHAPTER TWO

A SERIES OF MISFORTUNATE EVENTS

CHAPTER THREE

HERO TOWN

CHAPTER FOUR

IT’S A LONG ROAD TO CAANAN

CHAPTER FIVE

RED OCTOBER

CHAPTER SIX

ENTER: IMPOSSIBLE GIRL

CHAPTER SEVEN

LOOKIN’ FOR FUN AND FEELIN’ GROOVY

CHAPTER EIGHT

MIX N’ MATCH

CHAPTER NINE

GRACE UNDER PRESSURE

CHAPTER TEN

THE ELEPHANT MAN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

GONNA MAKE A SUPER-ATOMIC MAN OUT OF YOU

CHAPTER TWELVE

HOTEL OF ILL REPUTE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LIFE DURING WARTIME

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN YOUR CAGE, AT THE HUMAN ZOO

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CONCEPTION AT THE NEXUS

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CASTING THE GAUNTLET

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

COSMIC

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE LIVES AND DEATHS OF ISH THE IMMORTAL

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JINGLE BELL ROCK MONSTER

CHAPTER TWENTY

CAN I PLAY WITH MADNESS?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHEN IT ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY HAS TO BE THERE ON TIME

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

REFLECTIONS

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE SACRED HEART

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

AUDITIONS

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

RACING THE WIND

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRES

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

ATTACK OF THE FEARSOME FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A BUG IN THE HAND

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

FAST AND FURIOUS

CHAPTER THIRTY

BRIDGE GAME

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING

STAR-SPANGLED ANGEL

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ESCALATION

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THE COMEDY DIVINE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

HAVOC IN THE HOLY LAND

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ON THE RECORD WITH MATT FRASIER, PART I

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

STAR-SPANGLED ANGEL AND ME

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

THROUGH AN EYE, DARKLY

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

ROCK ME, AMADEUS

CHAPTER FORTY

FEARS

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

RUNNING OUT OF TIME

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

TRUCE

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

RETURN OF THE FEARSOME FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

THE COMING OF THE ELITE

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

DATE NIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

PROMISE AND LOSS

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

DOWN CAME A BLACKBIRD

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

AUTOPSY

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

PERSPECTIVES

CHAPTER FIFTY

MAN OF ACTION

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

LATE AFTERNOON/EARLY EVENING OF THE LIVING DEAD

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

ARIGATO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

THE GANGSTER OF LOVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

YOUNG PEOPLE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

HARLEM WHEN IT SIZZLES

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

YOU CAN CHECK OUT ANYTIME YOU LIKE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

ACROSS THE UNIVERSE

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

KID MEETING

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

WEIRD SCIENCE

CHAPTER SIXTY

BREAKING OUT

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

IN THE LANE, SNOW IS GLISTENIN’

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

SIEGE

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

ARE YOU THERE, GOD? IT’S ME, JIMMY

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

AFTERMATH

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CUBAN MIDLIFE CRISIS

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

DRESSED IN YOUR JEWELS, YOU MADE YOUR OWN RULES

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

THE MIRACLE MAN

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

ON THE RECORD WITH MATT FRASIER, PART II

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

OPEN RANGE

CHAPTER SEVENTY

RELICS

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

REDEMPTION

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

SON OF A BAD MAN

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

GANGLAND

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

REVELATION

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

DELINQUENT

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

WHEN YOUR FEARS SUBSIDE, AND SHADOWS STILL REMAIN

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

DREAMS OF INNOCENCE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

GENERAL BORDER GIVES THE ORDER

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

SON OF THE RETURN OF THE FEARSOME FIVE

CHAPTER EIGHTY

OVERLORD

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

RED MENACE

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

ROCK ‘EM, SOCK ‘EM

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

LOVE AND DEATH

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

FLY BY

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

MAN IN THE MOON

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

BURNIN’ OUT HIS FUSE OUT THERE ALONE

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

THE LONG WALK HOME

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

HIGH NOON

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

LET IT NEVER END

CHAPTER NINETY

ONCE AND FUTURE

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

ON THE RECORD WITH MATT FRASIER, PART III

For Mom, Dad, and Stephanie.

And for Dan, for additional assistance and support.

Batman and Robin were part of the fun. They were the straight men, but we were the stars. No one ever hurt anybody. Not really. Nobody died. You look around these days…it’s all different. It’s all changed. The Joker’s killing people, for God’s sake! Did I miss something? Was I away when they changed the rules? ~The Riddler, Secret Origins Special #1

I asked him to choose between humans and superhumans. But he alone knew that was a false division…and made the only choice that ever truly matters. He chose life…in the hope that your world and our world could become one world once again. ~Superman, Kingdom Come

CHAPTER ONE

SANDS OF OKINAWA

JUNE 17, 1945

It was the summer of what would prove the final year of the Second World War. Nazi Germany had surrendered to the Allies weeks ago, and imperialist Japan was on its last, crippled legs. The great conflict was nearly at an end, and Capt. Matt Frasier, better known to the world at large as the Star-Spangled Angel, had seen it all. From his enlistment in the armed forces immediately following the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, to the Americans’ tide-turning triumph at Midway, to the landing at Anzio, to the biblical invasion of Normandy, to the iconic victory at Iwo Jima, the American Army’s colorfully costumed champion – able to bend steel in his bare hands, defy the very forces of gravity, and achieve speeds unmatchable by most conventional automobiles – had accompanied his fellow soldiers on nearly every major campaign throughout both the European and Pacific theaters for three years now. Now he found himself on the Japanese island of Okinawa, called in to assist his countrymen as they prepared to close the noose around the neck of the yellow menace.

Soaring as a brilliant avatar over the rugged, ravaged landscape of the island’s south side, clad in his bulletproof, flame-retardant uniform of red, white, and blue, Angel seemed almost serene, unperturbed as he was by the deafening din of machine guns and heavy explosives; as the U.S. Army’s most seasoned veteran, it was all old-hat to him, and he was no longer bothered by the mayhem that always accompanied battle. He knew what was expected of him by now, and he knew just how to achieve it.

Descending now, Angel extended both his fists in front of him, like twin battering rams, and crashed directly into a pillbox occupied by two Japanese gunners. Without even slowing down – without even feeling a thing – he blasted straight through the pillbox, eviscerating both the structure and the enemy soldiers in a blaze of flame and glory. Below him, the American troops who had been pinned down beneath the gunfire cheered their living icon of democracy, freedom, and patriotism, and threw him many grateful waves, cat-calls, and thumbs-ups.

Star-Spangled Angel loved his job.

And Hitler wasted all that time trying to create a master race, he smirked to himself, with all the self-assured cockiness to which his youth entitled him. I’m the master race!

Angel’s revelry was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a second flying figure. This one wore an ensemble of burgundy and violet robes, and, unlike Angel, his face was completely obscured by a mask of stern iron.

Watch yourself, my American friend, he said, his smooth, otherwise pleasing voice marred by a Kraut accent.

Floating ten feet in front of Angel and about five feet above him, the newcomer raised his right hand, splayed his fingers, and mumbled something under his breath. Immediately, a beam of crimson energy projected from his open palm, lanced past Angel’s left shoulder on its way to the ground, and made contact with the upturned gun turret of a Japanese tank. The turret, preparing a moment ago to fire a shell directly through the small of Angel’s back, now melted down into so much slag. Angel smiled, and tipped a nod to the flamboyantly dressed newcomer.

Thanks, Doc, he said, appreciatively. That’s one I owe you.

The other man folded his arms across his chest, and returned the nod. He was a sorcerer, codenamed Dr. Obscura, and it hadn’t been so long ago that he himself might have been the one to deliver the killing blow to America’s fighting mascot. After all, he had been born and raised a German citizen, and it had been Hitler’s notorious obsession with the mystical and the occult that had led the Third Reich to take advantage of Obscura’s natural talent and build him up to be Star-Spangled Angel’s opposite number, and it had been in this capacity that Obscura had waged many a battle against Angel in the past. However, a little over a year ago, when the admittedly naive Obscura had discovered for himself the unspeakable atrocities committed by the regime he had pledged to serve, and had realized – as mortified as he had been horrified – the extent to which he had been deceived concerning the Reich’s intentions, he had defected to the Allies, and had been fighting alongside his former sparring partner ever since.

I shall be glad when this war is ended, said Dr. Obscura, thinking, with a heavy heart, of the role he had unwittingly played in the murders of countless innocents during his time in the service of the Reich. It disturbs me in ways I cannot begin to describe.

East of their position, a thunderous battle cry echoed, but it elicited from the throat of just one warrior, and neither Angel nor Obscura had to look down in order to ascertain the warrior’s identity. Cutting a swath of blood and carnage across the craggy hills below, a muscled, statuesque Amazon of a woman – clad in a modernized toga, chain mail, and a winged helmet reminiscent of the god Mercury’s – laid waste to hordes of onrushing Japanese single-handedly, hacking them to pieces with the blade of a huge, double-edged sword gripped in her right hand, and deflecting their useless bullets with a golden shield attached to her left.

This was Amazing Grace, the third of the wartime ‘superheroes’ (as they had come to be called by the general public, thanks in large part to the sensationalist comic book industry), and easily the most ferocious. Described breathlessly in newsreels as being a glamorous cross between the historic Joan of Arc and the pulp magazine heroine Wonder Woman, Grace was defined by two dominant characteristics; her unbridled passion in the heat of battle, and her fundamentalist approach to Christianity.

Heathens, repent! she cried, as scores of the enemy continued to perish ‘neath the blade of her mighty weapon. You worship your emperor, but he cannot save you now! Only the one true God can save you, and it falls to me to send you to Him!

I’ll grant you, war is a terrible thing, said Angel, turning back to face Dr. Obscura. But, speaking strictly for myself, it’s that woman who disturbs me in ways I can’t begin to describe.

To my side, friends! Grace called up to the airborne duo, even as she severed a soldier’s head cleanly from his shoulders. This conflict shall not be resolved with idle talk!

Could have fooled me, seeing as how you never shut your trap! Angel replied, as he and Obscura swooped down together to rejoin the fray. You and the Doc finish cleaning up here! I’ll go see if our boys on the other side of that hill need any assistance!

Leaving Grace and Obscura well in command of the situation, Angel soared up over the scorched and barren hillside to find yet another battle raging. He was gratified to see that the Americans appeared to be enjoying the upper hand, but he didn’t suppose his fellows would balk at a little help from on high.

Hey! There he is! Look! one G.I. cried out, enthusiastically, pointing skyward.

Wow! exclaimed another. I’ve never actually seen him before now!

Terrific, grumbled a third. How I love it when we ordinary joes are upstaged by a circus freak.

A division of opinion, obviously, Angel noted, trying his best not to take the ‘freak’ remark personally. But hey, that’s what we’re fighting for, right?

He swooped in low to seize a pair of Japs by their collars and hoist them away, and his wounded feelings were promptly balmed by the supportive cheers he received from most of the attendant G.I.s.

You fellas are doing a bang-up job! he commended his comrades in arms, as he dropped the two terrified Japanese into a sufficiently deep pit. Working together, we’ll soon see these fish-eyed fascists off!

More cheers followed, but these were for Dr. Obscura, who had just used a levitation spell to hurl a Japanese Chi-Ha tank into the sea.

Boy, am I glad that sonofabitch is on our side now, one G.I. whistled, wiping a streak of sweat and mud from his forehead.

Star-Spangled Angel smiled, and silently concurred. While his own unique abilities had always rendered him more than a match for the magical machinations of Obscura, he had to admit that their prior confrontations as mortal foes had been anything but easy to walk away from. As for Amazing Grace…well, she was just a maniac, plain and simple, and, though her power seemed small compared to his – she couldn’t fly, or outrun a speeding jeep, and he had never seen her lift anything in excess of half a ton – she made up for her lower strength class with naked bloodlust and pure, outright nastiness, and Angel secretly thanked his forty-eight lucky stars that she had not emerged on the side of the Axis.

Torn from his thoughts by a scream of terror – not that of a dying soldier, but one born of confusion, helplessness, and fear – Angel jerked his head around and looked abruptly down the other side of the hill. There, on the cusp of what had used to be a tiny village, a woman and young child – remnants of the island’s unfortunate civilian population – cowered on their knees in front of the smoldering ruin that had once been their house, while two Japanese soldiers threatened them with bayonets. A third soldier stood off to the side, his arms weighed down with pirated supplies, and, upon closer inspection of the scene, Angel could see an elderly man – likely the frightened family’s patriarch – lying dead on the ground in a spreading pool of his own blood.

Angel’s eyes narrowed, and his teeth gnashed together, and, as quickly as it was in him to propel himself once more to earth, he flew down and landed with a heavy, authoritarian ‘thud’ behind the Jap soldiers. It was clear to Angel what was happening here, and he didn’t like it one bit.

What the hell do you think you’re doing?! he growled, snatching up a soldier in each hand and holding them aloft, so that their boots dangled inches above the ground. These are your own people! You’re stealing from your own people! You’re supposed to protect them, not brutalize them!

Incensed, Angel threw the astonished Japs away, as he would have any other sort of common garbage, then backhanded the third one hard enough to knock him several yards. He then gathered up the scattered pouches of food and other essential supplies, and handed them back to the nonplussed civilians.

Here, he said, urging the woman to reclaim what was hers. Enough innocent people have suffered already.

But the woman just grabbed her child’s hand and ran with him, leaving Star-Spangled Angel standing alone, holding bundles of meat, vegetables, sugar, tea, and soap, while the civilized world continued to break down noisily around him.

I don’t understand it, he thought, completely at a loss. They’re really, truly afraid of me. Why? All I did was save their lives!

A thunderous explosion from some distance behind, followed immediately by the screams of several expiring Americans, and Angel dropped the parcels, turned, and sped back into battle.

Damn it! he cursed to himself, as he spied the Ha-Go tank that had just deprived a handful of brave American boys of their bright futures. I can blame only myself for that. Wasting time helping civilians was a mistake. It’s not what I’m here for. It’s not my job.

Charging the tank like a rhinoceros, Angel gripped the war machine at its rear, and, after a few grunts and groans of exertion, finally succeeded in hoisting it high above his head. It weighed fully seven tons, but he could manage it. He could even fly it up into the air and drop it on that Jap platoon he saw coming over the far hill.

It’s the only thing these people – these animals – understand, he told himself. I’m only doing this because it’s right.

What do you think you will be doing after the War, Matt? Dr. Obscura asked his onetime rival sometime later, after the setting of the sun and the coming of the night to Okinawa had put an end to the day’s campaigning. That is, when freedom and democracy are secured once again, and your country is no longer in want of a symbolic super-soldier to spearhead its battles across the globe.

Sitting in one of the larger foxholes with Dr. Obscura and Amazing Grace, Star-Spangled Angel took a sip of his lukewarm, Army issue coffee (it tasted like mud warmed over), and furrowed his brow thoughtfully before answering.

I heard an interesting news item from the States come over the radio last week, he said, at last. Someone robbed a bank in Montana. Witnesses said he killed a guard and two tellers with bolts of electricity fired from his fingertips, then melted the vault just by touching it.

Another like us? Dr. Obscura speculated.

Another superhuman, yes, Angel nodded.

Superhuman, Grace rolled the label around on her tongue. Are you sure that’s the right word?

As good as any, Angel replied. Anyway, it’s obvious that we three aren’t the only ones with special powers. There are others out there, and not all of them share our good intentions. If a lot of super-powered criminals appear in this guy’s wake, then conventional law enforcement won’t be able to cope. That’s where I’d like to come in. I’d like to continue using the image of the Star-Spangled Angel to fight for justice and tranquility at home.

You mean, with the costume and everything? behind his mask, Dr. Obscura raised his eyebrows. Like the characters in your American comic books? Like Superman, or the one that dresses as a bat?

Why not? Angel replied. We’re entering a new, unfamiliar era, Doc. Wars always change everything. Once this conflict is over, I think we’ll find the world to be very different. Far from being obsolete after the War, I think uniquely talented champions like us will be needed more than ever.

You seem remarkably confident in your conviction that a civilian populace will accept the likes of us as its problem-solvers, said Dr. Obscura.

Well, we’d have to do some things differently, of course, said Angel. For one thing, we wouldn’t be operating in a war zone. The lethal, heavy-handed methods we use in battle now would have no place in the civilian sector. In order to be deserving of the public’s trust and sympathy, we would be compelled to honor the law, and to cooperate with the regular police.

A bold idea, indeed, said Grace. And not without a certain appeal.

I must admit, I, too, would appreciate such an opportunity to continue the application of my powers towards constructive ends, said Obscura. Given my past alliances, I feel I have much yet for which to atone.

Well, given all the good that we’ve done, I’m sure we’ll be able to sit down with the bigwigs and work something out, said Angel. For us, and for all other, similarly talented people who decide to take up the mantle and join us.

A nationwide movement, eh? Obscura smiled behind his mask. Superhumans unite?

"Superheroes, you mean, Grace chimed in. That’s what the comic books and movie serials call them, anyway."

And that’s what we’ll be, Angel nodded, firmly and decisively. We’ll be superheroes; guardians of a brave, new world.

CHAPTER TWO

A SERIES OF MISFORTUNATE EVENTS

APRIL 3, 2011

Detective Dan Skinner was seventy-seven years old, and, with his graying hair and craggy, timeworn features, he looked it. His countenance, too, was that of a miserable old man who had seen far too much of life’s seedier side, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to draw in a breath of air without grimacing with discomfort. The lung cancer was steadily killing him – the doctors gave him three more months, at most – and he really ought to have been retired at any rate, but Skinner was perfectly indifferent about whether he died alone on the street or alone in his bed, and he knew the NYPD needed all the good cops it could hang onto.

Beginning with the early 1970s, New York City had gone completely to shit. Once a shining model of human ambition and achievement, Manhattan and its neighboring boroughs had fallen into a state of perpetual economic, social, and moral decline. Urban decay, political corruption, smog and pollution that blotted out the sun, and the nation’s highest rate of violent crime had all conspired to render New York the most dangerous and unpleasant of all of America’s major cities. It was a toilet; a cesspool on a metropolitan scale, down whose ruined avenues drifted the turds and waste of a civilization that would just as soon forget the regrettable fact of New York’s very existence.

Skinner hated New York every bit as much as the next guy, but he had lived and worked there all his life, and, like the maligned parent of a serial rapist, he could not find it in himself to abandon all hope for the fallen, tarnished soul of his ward.

Bothered by the chill night wind that met him as he lumbered down the concrete steps leading up to the front door of the thirteenth precinct, Skinner shivered inside his tightly buttoned overcoat, and fumbled in his pocket for a book of matches and a cigarette. Having produced the items, he lit up, and sucked a breath of poison and nicotine into his bloodstream, reveling in the warming effect it had on his ailing body. There was little point in quitting the habit now, and anyway, it made him feel better.

Approaching the beige 1988 Oldsmobile Firenza – a battered old clunker of a vehicle that was as prone to fits of coughing as was Skinner, and was not likely to go on much longer than he would – parked by the curb, he opened the driver’s side door, slumped down onto the threadbare seat, and consulted the notebook he had left on the dashboard. When he read the address of his first eyewitness interview, he heaved a great, inward groan, and scowled.

Skinner hated going to Harlem. It was the worst neighborhood in the whole city, and that was saying something. Neighborhood. Hrmph. That was a laugh for a start. That hellhole barely even qualified for the label anymore. Years of depression and recession had finally dealt the great African-American cultural center its death blow, and today it was just a wasteland of uninhabitable ruins, frequented by few but the mad dogs and jackals of society’s underbelly. Everyone else – everyone with half a brain – had taken flight long ago, leaving the burned-out churches and rotting tenements to stand as silent, solemn testimonial to the civilization that once had been, like a Stonehenge made of crumbling plaster and broken fire escapes.

Remembering, with a shudder, what had happened the last time he had been forced into Harlem, Skinner leaned over, opened the glove compartment, and took out his .357 Magnum Colt Python with the four-inch barrel. True, the powerful revolver had been banned by the NYPD some ages ago, not only because tendencies shifted more towards semiautomatic weapons these days, but also because of the gun’s frighteningly effective delivery; indeed, a round from the Python tended to blast straight through whichever person or object at which it had been fired, and shred into whatever – or whomever – happened to be standing behind.

Well, the desk jockeys and bureaucrats could say whatever they wanted about Skinner’s little companion, but the fact was that they weren’t out on the streets of this city of the damned, and he was. And he knew that a weapon like the Python – named after a snake for a reason, he was sure – was his best bet for survival. Oh, yes, he wasn’t long for this world to be certain, but nor was he in any great rush to be relieved of his mortal coil.

Being doomed doesn’t mean I have to go quietly, he vowed to himself. If Death tries to come near me, I’ll rip his fucking balls off.

Hangdog Blue’s was a jazz club on 125th Street, framed by the great, hollow ruins of what had once been the Apollo Theater and the Hotel Theresa. Skinner couldn’t think why such an establishment would still be in demand in any part of Harlem, but it was the first stop on his list, so he went in, hoping that the place was indeed still a jazz club, and hadn’t become some sort of crack house, or a stable for imported Chinese sex slaves.

As Skinner stepped inside the smoke-filled, dimly-lit club, he could hear the drums and horns of a jazz band playing. That was something, anyway, although he wasn’t a particular fan of the genre. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the band – the Black Boys From the Bowery, according to the bright neon sign displayed on the wall behind – as well as a meager handful of patrons who didn’t appear to be paying a great deal of attention to anything besides their beer steins and ashtrays. At the back, a young, attractive black woman with a big, frizzy hairdo was busing tables.

Excuse me, said Skinner, as he approached the girl. Are you Miss Selina Woods?

The girl turned, and, with one hand resting on her hip and the other hand resting on the table, made a great show of sizing up the detective with her sharp and cunning eyes.

Well, I guess that all depends on who’s askin’, hon, she drawled, conveying an almost arrogant lack of interest in the man now addressing her.

I’m Detective Dan Skinner of the NYPD, Skinner replied, producing his badge. If it’s convenient, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the attack you reported the night before last.

At this, the waitress snorted out a laugh, and almost as an afterthought, placed her hand demurely over her grinning mouth.

Well, ain’t that jus’ pretty, now? she chuckled. I’m jus’ walkin’ home, mindin’ my own business, when I almost get split in half by a couple o’ horndog rapists, an’ two nights later, here you are. Boy, who says there’s never a cop aroun’ when you need one? Well, I sho am glad you was able to get here when you was, Mistuh Poe-leece Man.

All right, all right, said Skinner, having grown accustomed long ago to the insolence of the public. If you could just give me your statement of what happened, please.

Well, like I said, I was walkin’ home…

That’s point one right there, Skinner interrupted. What are you doing out on these streets at night, anyway? You must be aware of how dangerous it is.

Well, I’ve got to get home somehow, don’t I? retorted Miss Woods, her hands returning to her hips. "I mean, they don’t run the buses up here anymore, do they? An’ I can’t afford a car, can I? Where am I gonna get the money for a car? You gonna give it to me, bigshot?"

Sorry, said Skinner, sufficiently chastened. Please continue.

I’m walkin’ home, an’ I get jumped by these two dirtbags, an’ they pull me into an alley. They say they’re gonna have their wicked way with me, but ‘fore they get the chance, this other guy shows up outta nowhere an’ starts layin’ into them.

Skinner didn’t make mention of the fact that this third, enigmatic individual’s inclusion in Miss Woods’ nine-one-one call had been the sole bait to lure him here. He just nodded, and bade the waitress continue.

He moved real fast, she said. Like he’d had some special trainin’ or somethin’. Both o’ the guys rush him, an’ he whips out a knife and slashes it clean across one guy’s throat. Then he grabs the other guy by the ears, slams the guy’s head into his knee a couple o’ times, then smashes him into the wall and breaks his neck. Then he’s jus’ outta there, man. He’s gone, jus’ like that.

Uh-huh, said Skinner, jotting down notes. Did you see what he looked like at all?

Like I said, he was movin’ with some mad speed, said Miss Woods, but I got an eyeful o’ that bad lookin’ outfit o’ his, yeah. He was wearin’ a hat…whadda ya call ‘em, one o’ them Humphrey Bogart hats.

A fedora.

Yeah, one o’ them. An’ a tan trenchcoat, but he wasn’t wearin’ it like normal, see? He didn’t have his arms in the sleeves. He had the collar pinned aroun’ his neck, an’ the rest of it was flappin’ out behind him, like a cape or somethin’.

Skinner nodded, and inwardly he smiled. Miss Woods’ description of the interloper’s unique dress had confirmed his prior suspicions. For weeks now he had been investigating the case of this distinguished, unknown vigilante who balked not at all at using criminals’ own lethal methods against them, and now he knew for certain that he was one step further along the trail.

Anything else? he asked aloud.

S’all I could make out.

I see, said Skinner, putting away his notebook and pen. All right, then, that’ll be it.

I s’pose you’re gonna try an’ catch him now, said Miss Woods. Jus’ ‘cause he killed those two creeps.

The law applies to all of us, ma’am, not just the bad men, Skinner retorted, coolly, as he turned to leave. You have a good evening now.

Well, I hope you don’t catch him, Miss Woods called after the detective. He’s the first cowboy I’ve seen go outta his way to help anybody in some long time, an’ what, you cops gotta go after him for that?

As Skinner exited the club and walked back to his car, he heaved a tired sigh.

I swear, people are never going to understand, he thought to himself. Someone kills a bad guy, and everyone wants to hand him the key to the city. Forget law and order, let’s just hang everyone we don’t like. Well, usually, when that starts happening, you’ve got bigger problems than petty street crime. Because people don’t really want law and order; they want vigilante justice, and moral absolutism, and retribution without any hang-ups. That is, they want it until it’s their turn to face it. The fact is we have a system, and we have a way of doing things, and you can’t let a murderer go just because his victims happen to be other murderers. So I’m going to find this guy, and I’m going to bring him in, because it’s my job. And if a cop doesn’t do his job, then what the hell good is he?

Harvey Lyman was a watchman working the night shift at the Manhattan Mall. He was sixty-five years old with a reedy frame, wire-rimmed glasses, and a big, white mustache decidedly thicker than either of his forearms. The day before yesterday, during his restful period at home, three burglars had broken into his house, roused him from his slumber, and threatened his life when he had confronted them.

To Skinner’s lasting regret, New York had become the sort of city where such capers could be perpetrated even in broad daylight without drawing much attention.

So, there were three of them, Skinner took notes from the watchman as they strolled past the fountain by the food court.

Yep, Lyman confirmed with a nod. All real mean an’ ugly. Had their grubby hands all over my collection of rock n’ roll LPs.

Were they armed?

One of ‘em had a gun, yeah. I saw the other two holdin’ a crowbar an’ a length o’ bicycle chain.

But they didn’t attack you?

Didn’t have time. Right when the guy with the chain looks like he’s makin’ to whip me with it, these two hands come bustin’ through the window behind him, grab him under the arms, and yank him out. Then, the very next moment, this new weirdo jumps in.

Trenchcoat and fedora?

Yeah. How’d you know?

Lucky guess. What happened after that?

The new guy killed the shit out of ‘em, said Lyman, scratching his neck with the handle of his flashlight, an’ I can’t say I’m too choked up about that.

Could you tell me how he did it?

Skinner listened while Lyman described the brutally efficient and unceremonious manner in which the two remaining punks had met their ends. According to the watchman, Crowbar had had his weapon of choice snatched away from him, then had been spiked forcefully through the head with it. As for Gun, he had gotten off a shot, but it had missed by a Long Island mile. The vigilante had then snatched away his weapon, and, his left hand holding the punk fast by the front of his shirt, had proceeded to use the butt end of the gun in his right hand to coolly and methodically beat the punk’s brains out.

Sure was somethin’, Lyman said, in conclusion. Kinda reminded me o’ those superhero types that used to be around when I was a young’un.

Don’t call them that, said Skinner, a trifle brusquely. They weren’t heroes. They were deluded, egotistical vigilantes with serious impulse control problems, and we’re better off without them.

I know that’s the fashionable thing to be sayin’ these days, Lyman replied, but you can’t just sweep it all away with a few mandates an’ initiatives, an’ make like none of it ever happened. Fact is they existed, an’ I don’t know much, but I do know this city was a much nicer place to live in back then.

Skinner was about to rebut, but was stopped in his tracks by a truly sensational fit of coughing that lasted a full minute and left him doubled over and teary-eyed.

Yikes, said Lyman, awkwardly. You doin’ somethin’ for that cough?

Dying, Skinner replied, when at last he found the breath. That’ll stop it like nobody’s business. Thank you for your statement, Mr. Lyman. You’ve been most helpful.

Two hours later, after he had concluded subsequent interviews with a cab driver, a firefighter, and a rabbi, all of whom had had something to say about their own close encounters with the nameless street-stalker already becoming famous throughout the city for his signature look and penchant for violence, Skinner ended his long workday and arrived back home in the shithole of Union Square, where he parked his distinctive Oldsmobile by the curb outside the low-rent apartment building he shared with twenty-five other miserable tenants.

Climbing out of the car, Skinner scowled bitterly to himself, and bit down hard on his cigarette, and shivered involuntarily at the morbid proximity of the unnamed potter’s field just across the street. Sprawling for acres, the former parkland was where much of the city’s poor, anonymous, and disenfranchised were interred at minimal cost, and it annoyed Skinner that this constant reminder of his own fleeting mortality should be placed half a stone’s throw from his bedroom window.

At least I’ve put enough away on the side to ensure that I don’t end up in that wretched place, he thought.

Ahoy there, guv’na! something squawked from behind Skinner. Nice clear night to be workin’ outdoors, wot?

The burst of loud, jagged Cockney hit the detective in the back like a gust of wind, and he turned to face the potter’s field and the source of the unpleasant noise, but could see nothing until, a few seconds later, a man of slight build and indeterminate age stood up on his spindly legs and sort of leapfrogged out of the rectangular hole in the ground in which he had been squatting.

Sorry, guv, he said, sheepishly, waving his dirt-encrusted shovel in greeting. I’m always forgettin’ they can’t see me when I’m down there. Gives some people a right start so’times, it does.

That’s all right, said Skinner, crossing the street and approaching the man. I must admit I am a little surprised. I’ve lived there in that building for years and I’ve never once seen anybody working over here.

Aye, well, supply and demand, ain’t it, guv? the gravedigger replied. The dead wants their graves when they wants ‘em.

Yes, I suppose they must, said Skinner, and now that he had come within just a few feet of the man, he could see that he cut quite an eccentric figure, dressed in a tattered coat, a pair of dirty jeans, and a felt cap that, together with his large, bent nose, obscured his eyes almost entirely from view. And whose grave would this be?

No call to waste your tears on this one, mate, the gravedigger replied. Kiddy molester. Jus’ another o’ yer typical victims of ol’ Mr. Misfortune.

Who? Skinner cocked an eyebrow.

Why, Mr. Misfortune, o’ course, said the gravedigger, leaning forward amiably on the handle of his shovel. He o’ the murky night, ol’ son. Him whats punishes the errant an’ defends your mums an’ daughters. If he comes after you, it’s your own ‘orrible misfortune, an’ no mistake.

You’re talking about the maniac in the trenchcoat, aren’t you? Skinner groaned, wearily. "Well, that’s just wonderful. Bad enough he has the costume and the MO, but now he’s got a name? Damn this blasted headache! I can feel the whole mess getting ready to bust wide open again."

Beggin’ yer pardon, suh, but that seems a bit of a rum view to take, said the gravedigger, scratching dirt off the back of his neck. I’d have reckoned you coppers’d be glad o’ the extra ‘elp.

Well, you probably don’t remember what it was like when it all fell to pieces, said Skinner, not thinking to ask how the man had known precisely what he, Skinner, did for a living.

Oh, I’m much older ‘an I looks, guv’na, said the gravedigger, with just the sly hint of a grin. I’ve been at this job for donkey’s years, I ‘ave.

Isn’t it the sort of thing that eats away at you?

In all this lovely, rich soil? Don’t you believe it, squire. The cor’ses, though, that’s diff’ent.

I beg your pardon?

What’s that, guv?

You said…’courses’?

That’s right, cor’ses, the gravedigger nodded. Bodies an’ such.

Oh, I see, said Skinner, locating the dropped ‘p’.

Yessuh, they get eaten away real lovely in this ‘ere spot o’ groun’, an’ no mistake, the gravedigger continued. Jolly good thing, too, ‘cause there’s never enough room for ‘em to ‘ang about. Always movin’ in new tenants. It may be a sin, but we jus’ can’t afford to let these poor devils ‘ere rest in peace fore’er. Usually they get twen’y or thirty years to enjoy theirselves an’ get all nice an’ broken down like, then it’s out with what all’s left, an’ in goes ‘im what’s jus’ coughed it yesserday.

Skinner felt a chill run down the entire length of his spine. To think that not even the ultimate release of death itself could protect one from such naked ignominy.

‘Ere, ‘ave a gander at this, the gravedigger chuckled, reaching back down into the hole and coming up with a human skull, cracked in places and missing most of its teeth, but otherwise intact. Not ‘is lucky day, is it, squire? Bein’ evicted an all, an’ not even goin’ with the rest o’ the body.

Though reluctant at first, Skinner did, after a few moments, extend his hand to receive the skull, and as he cupped the macabre object in his palm and gazed into the dark sockets that had once held the eyes, he felt almost as if he was coming face to face with his own morbid fear of death. He felt as if he was confronting it in a way that none of his doctors or department shrinks could conceive, and, for just a few, precious seconds, he felt quite peaceful.

I don’t suppose you know who he was, said Skinner, quietly.

Oh, to be sure I does, guv, the gravedigger replied. T’was me that put ‘im ‘ere, wasn’t it? That fine cranium you ‘old now in your mortal ‘and, it jus’ so ‘appens, ‘as the distinction of once ‘avin belonged to Police Sergeant Jim ‘Shamrock’ McGreedy, gone from us these pas’ twen’y-five. An Irishman, but not a bad bloke for all that.

Skinner was visibly stunned. Are you quite sure of the name? he asked.

Oh, I knows me ol’ friend Shamrock when I sees ‘im, guv, the gravedigger assured him. Too bad he ‘ad to come to ‘is final rest in a place like this, but he was never a rich bloke, don’tcha know.

Yes, I do know, said Skinner, a sort of reflective sorrow coming into his eyes and voice. He was the only honest cop on our block.

Ah, you knew ‘im, then, guv.

A long time ago, Skinner’s rough voice became somber and quiet, trailing off into the past, when I was just a boy, growing up in Greenpoint. This man was my role model. He was the reason I decided to spend my life fighting crime.

Blimey, guv’na, but the world’s a small place so’times, ain’t it? said the gravedigger, grinning ridiculously.

Skinner no longer heard the quaint stylings of the Cockney earth-mover, however. Now he could hear only his own bitter thoughts, ringing hollowly inside his troubled mind as the skull of his long lost friend, still resting in the embrace of his right hand, seemed to stare with its unseeing gaze into the very core of his soul.

What was it all for? he put the silent question to the skull. All your years of good deeds and public service? All your pride and integrity and cheerful idealism? Is this what it’s come to? Is this what we all come to, in the end?

Surely you must have room for him somewhere? Skinner appealed to the gravedigger. You can’t just…throw him away.

Aye, I reckon there’ll be a spot, guv, said the gravedigger, reaching out to reclaim the skull. After all, it’d be a right shame if the likes of ‘im didn’t ‘ave a place to rest ‘is ‘ead.

At this, the gravedigger burst into braying, fiendish cackles of uncontrollable laughter, and Skinner, with a weary sigh and a ponderous rolling of his eyes, decided to call it a night, and turned to plod back over to his side of the street. He had barely made it halfway, however, when he heard a bloodcurdling scream of terror cut through the air above him, and, precisely two seconds later, he staggered backward and fell on his behind at the sight of notorious drug dealer Terry Marko making a truly spectacular crash landing onto the roof of his Oldsmobile.

Nonplussed, Skinner looked up at the punk’s mangled body, spread out all over the car’s newly pulverized frame, then looked higher still, all the way up to the rooftop of his own building. There, framed against the pale, sickly light of the half moon, the imposing silhouette of the vigilante called Mr. Misfortune stood stoic and defiant, fists clenched at his sides, trenchcoat flapping in the cold breeze, glaring down at Skinner, as if daring the detective to hold him in contempt for the public service he had just performed.

Then, after he had deemed his pause to be of sufficient length, he bolted, navigating the tops of adjacent buildings in great, quick strides, leaping from ledge to ledge, well on his way out of the neighborhood before Skinner could even drag himself to his feet.

All thoughts of retiring for the evening forgotten, Skinner dusted himself off and, without thinking, scrambled to his car. When he yanked open the door, however, and found that the driver’s side no longer provided adequate headroom, he decided to commence pursuit on foot.

I may die, he vowed to himself, as he unholstered and double-checked his revolver, then took off jogging at as brisk a pace as his clogged and blackened lungs would allow, but at least I’ll get you first, you son of a bitch.

CHAPTER THREE

HERO TOWN

SEPTEMBER 14, 1949

High above Midtown, from his lofty perch atop a gargoryle protruding from one corner of the sixty-first story of the Chrysler Building, Star-Spangled Angel, decked out in his customary regalia of red, white, and blue, serenely surveyed the glittering skyline of the city he had come to call home. Up here, where only he and eagles dared, and where naught but his superhuman strength saved him from being blown away by the angry, defiant wind that whipped constantly at the rafters of the grand metropolis called New York, Angel could see all of Manhattan spread out before him, basking like a lazy, many-tentacled octopus in the brilliant, golden sunshine of mid-morning. Indeed, from the hustle and bustle of Times Square, to the grandiose sprawl of Rockefeller Center, to the rolling greens of Central Park, to the soaring span of the Brooklyn Bridge, every bit of it was heavenly, and it could surely not be denied that New York was, bar none, the greatest collective of civilization in all the world. Overflowing with human innovation, technological advancement, and all the idealism and hope of the post-War era, New York City was a perennial World’s Fair; a shining, shimmering city of the future.

New York was a wonderful place to live.

His youthful, optimistic blood invigorated, Star-Spangled Angel took in a deep breath, then spread his arms and leapt from the gargoyle. His extraordinary ability to defy gravity keeping him aloft, he swooped through the crisp autumn air at top speed, performing barrel rolls and loop-the-loops that would have hopelessly dizzied any normal human being. The colorful cape he had added to his costume upon entering the superhero business flapped flamboyantly in his wake, and the wind refreshed him as it blew through his blond hair and brought healthy color to his bare cheeks.

Setting him apart from most of his crime-fighting colleagues, Star-Spangled Angel wore no mask, and his true identity of Matt Frasier was a matter of public record. That had been one of the stipulations imposed by a leery U.S. government not entirely convinced that the presence of superheroes could be a boon to society; that their own Star-Spangled Angel be the leader and figurehead of the community, and that he set an example of openness and honesty with the public.

Angel could understand the reasons for that. After all, people could hardly be blamed for feeling apprehensive about a group of anonymous, masked individuals who could fly under their own power, conjure up spells, or bench press literally tons of weight. It only stood to reason that the authorities would desire the image of a friendly, trusted spokesman whose clear lack of secrets to hide would allay any public anxiety arising in response to the more mysterious, more sinister practitioners of superhuman vigilantism. Yes, Angel understood that, and he was more than happy to be the amiable face of a dark profession.

Still, every now and again, on those annoying occasions when he couldn’t shake the autograph hounds, or found it fairly impossible to extricate himself from the groping, cloying grasp of the paparazzi, Star-Spangled Angel found himself just the tiniest bit envious of his costumed fellows who would cease being celebrities the moment they shed their outlandish disguises, and were free to melt into the elusive embrace of a normal life.

Secret identities are important to the others, though, Angel thought to himself, soaring high over the commuters on 41st Street. Many of them have families, or delicate business concerns, and just wouldn’t be able to do all the good they do as superheroes if forced to come out with their real names. So, for their sake, I’m happy to take the burden of public relations upon my own shoulders. Let the others be the mystery men. I get to be the one the people trust and respect.

BOOOOOM!

Jarred from his thoughts by a sudden explosion from below, Star-Spangled Angel whirled in mid-flight and looked down and to the north, a few blocks past Bryant Park and the New York Public Library. It was the Diamond District, and, upon closer observation, Angel could see a human figure emerging from a big, jagged hole in the wall of Julie Spencer’s, two huge canvas bags slung over his hunched shoulders.

Well, I suppose I have time, thought Angel. All in all, it’s turning out to be quite a busy morning.

Declining sharply in altitude, Angel made a steep beeline for the scene of the crime, and executed a dramatic, graceful landing in the center of the street, directly in the path of a short, bespectacled man sporting a gray jumpsuit and a hi-tech backpack. Attached by a cord to the backpack, and tucked into the man’s belt, was something that looked like Buck Rogers’ pistol.

You again! the little man cried in dismay.

Yeah, ain’t it revolting? Angel smirked in reply.

Angel knew the little man standing before him. Going by the moniker of Dr. Sonic, he had appeared on the scene a few months ago, using advanced sound technology to attempt brazen heists of money and other valuables. Angel had captured him twice before, and had found him to be, in summation, a buffoon. He had learned, however, the wisdom of treating each and every supervillain (as the superheroes’ opposite numbers on the wrong side of the law had come to be known) as a credible threat, no matter how clownish or ludicrous their presentation. Indeed Dr. Sonic’s weaponry was both versatile and powerful; set at a relatively low frequency, the invisible bursts from his sonic gun could stun a foe into paralysis, while a high frequency blast allowed him passage into the vaults of places like Julie Spencer’s.

But Dr. Sonic wasn’t a superhuman. On the contrary, there was nothing extraordinary at all about the man. Strip away his impressive toys and presumptuous demeanor and he was just another bumbling loser, badly in need of the knowledge of an honest day’s work.

Dr. Sonic dropped his bags full of stones, ripped his gun from his belt, and fired a blast sufficient to turn a normal man’s bones to powder, but Star-Spangled Angel was on the move even before the criminal’s finger had curled itself fully around the trigger. Then a single blow to the chin and Dr. Sonic fell backwards, struck his head against an iron lamppost, and sprawled unconscious upon the pavement.

He’s all yours now, officers, Star-Spangled Angel said to the arriving policemen, as he dusted off his hands and politely acknowledged the appreciative applause of gathered bystanders.

Much obliged, Angel, a police officer tipped his hat. If not for you, he might have gotten away.

No need for thanks, said Angel. After all, we’re all in this together. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m running late as it is.

With that, Star-Spangled Angel lifted off, propelling himself back up into the sky and eastward, towards the work in progress that was to be the headquarters of the newly founded United Nations. Arriving in under sixty seconds at a tall office building on the very cusp of the complex, he went inside and waved cheerily to the receptionist in the lobby.

Morning, Rita, he greeted her. You’re looking especially nice today.

Why, thank you, Mr. Frasier, said Rita – a slender woman with glasses and red hair, attractive in a mousy sort of way – blushing as she tried not to stare at the man’s well-defined muscles. The others have already arrived. I imagine they’re waiting for you.

Yes, said Angel, sheepishly, approaching the elevator. I’m afraid that punctuality hasn’t been my strong suit since I started in on this career. Ah, well. No rest for the wicked, eh?

Oh, I don’t think anybody could ever describe you as wicked, Mr. Frasier, said Rita, just a bit too dreamily to be subtle.

Let’s hope not, said Angel, as he stabbed the ‘5’ button with his forefinger and the elevator doors put an end to the repartee.

Moments later the doors buzzed open, and Star-Spangled Angel stepped out onto the fifth floor, whose full consignment of office space was allotted for use by the patriotic hero and his allies, collectively known as the Superhuman League For Proactive Justice. The organization’s other members – five so far – were, as Rita had said, awaiting Angel’s arrival in the big conference room, and they all turned to face him as he strode in to join them.

Dr. Obscura and Amazing Grace were both there, of course. Like Angel, they had carried their costumed identities over into civilian life after the War, and had co-founded the SLFPJ with him. The other three heroes sitting at the conference table had each joined the group’s ranks within the past fifteen months and had proven themselves valuable assets to the team.

Sitting at the farthest side of the round table was the Chinese-American who called himself Yin-Yang Robinson, and who held the power of heat and flame in his right hand and the power of cold and ice in his left. Accordingly, the form-fitting bodysuit he wore as a costume – complete with hood that came up over the top of his head to obscure the upper half of his face – was split right down the middle, reflecting the duality in the nature of his powers; the right side of the suit was a blazing red, while the left side was cool blue.

Two seats away from Robinson was Zodiac, an exotic, brown-skinned woman in a black-and-purple bodysuit and purple, starburst-shaped mask. By some unknown power, she had been given the ability to invoke the name of any of the twelve signs of the zodiac and temporarily gain a specific superhuman trait. A full year after making this awesome woman’s acquaintance, Star-Spangled Angel had still not ceased to be amazed every time Zodiac would call upon Taurus the Bull for super strength, or Capricorn the Goat for immunity to toxins, or Pisces the Fishes for the ability to breathe underwater. However, no great power was without its drawbacks, and Angel had noticed that Zodiac seemed unable to ‘mix and match’ her borrowed talents; if she required the services of Pisces, then it was good-bye to Taurus, and so on.

Finally there was the Wild Gunman, looking every bit the Hollywood cowboy in his brown leather boots and chaps, deerskin vest, red bandanna, and big Stetson hat. Although the sole member of the group unable to declare himself a member of the small, newly revealed percentage of mankind called ‘superhuman’, the Gunman was far from unprepared to join his more powerful fellows in the ongoing battle against evil; hitched into his belt was a rope lasso, a hunting knife, and a pair of pearl-handled six-shooters with a full compliment of wax bullets loaded into the chambers.

When Star-Spangled Angel had expressed concern about the Gunman’s choice of weapon, the Gunman had assured him that his wax bullets, deployed sparingly and non-lethally, would not strike with enough force to kill a criminal; they’d just sting like a sonofabitch.

Together these six bizarre figures had become the stewards of America’s post-War prosperity, and, with the overwhelming support of the public, had already found ample opportunity to promote justice, tranquility, and security across the nation, as well as to combat the ever growing threat of superhuman terrorists and lawbreakers.

Mornin’, boss, the Wild Gunman drawled, not bothering to take his boots off the coffee table. Ferget to set yer alarm?

Ran into that pest Dr. Sonic on the way here, Angel replied. Before that I had two purse-snatchers, and a time bomb on the subway. But never mind all that. Let’s get down to brass tacks. Would someone please remind me of the first order of business?

The new recruitment poster, said Zodiac, spreading a colorful sheet of paper out onto the surface of the table. What do you think?

Angel nodded approvingly as his eyes scanned the mock-up for the planned poster. Dominating the upper third of the poster was a quite lifelike portrait of Star-Spangled Angel himself, standing in for Uncle Sam in the widely recognized ‘I Want You’ pose. In the space below the evocative image, a concise and stirring appeal to arms was written in big, bold letters, reading:

DO YOU HAVE STRANGE POWERS BEYOND THOSE OF OTHER HUMAN BEINGS?

DO THESE POWERS MAKE YOU FEEL ALIENATED AND ALONE?

ARE YOU UNSURE OF WHERE YOU FIT INTO THE CHANGING WORLD AROUND YOU?

JOIN A FAMILY OF YOUR FELLOW SUPERHUMANS FOR THE CHANCE TO USE YOUR UNIQUE TALENTS IN THE SERVICE OF YOUR FELLOW MAN!

JOIN THE SUPERHUMAN LEAGUE FOR PROACTIVE JUSTICE TODAY!

ANONYMITY GUARANTEED!

I like it, Angel said. Send it to the printers. What’s next?

I’d hoped to have a few words with you about the political environment developing, Matt, Dr. Obscura spoke up. The superhero community has been getting more grief from McCarthy. Matt, I know that communism is a very real threat to our values and our way of life, but this paranoid oaf is accusing all of us – even those of us who fought in the War – of subversiveness, simply because we choose to remain masked. Yes, the public remains on our side for the time being, but I’ve seen firsthand what can be accomplished by scare tactics on a mass scale. Obviously, mentioning it to Mr. Bates just once has not been sufficient to make him do something. If he’s meant to be our liason with the government, then he should be representing us accordingly.

Angel nodded, thoughtfully. Dr. Obscura referred to Linus Bates, the president’s new Secretary of Superhuman Affairs. The man’s job was meant to involve, among other duties, conducting diplomacy between Washington and the SLFPJ. The only problem was that Bates was a sycophant, a bigot, and a weasel, more actively concerned with his expense account than with his esteemed appointment.

They seem to be leaning particularly hard on Robinson, Zodiac added. I guess it’s because it’s looking more and more likely these days that China is going to end up red eventually.

But I’m second generation, protested Yin-Yang Robinson. My parents were born here. I don’t even speak Chinese.

I’ll have another word with Bates, Angel said. Even I’ll concede that all this ‘red scare’ business is beginning to get out of hand. All right, does anyone have anything pertinent to share about their individual exploits?

There’s a new supervillain who calls himself Mercenary, said Dr. Obscura. Wears a hi-tech suit of armor that can fly and fire missiles. We don’t know much else about him yet. And a sorcerer called the White Warlock has added himself to my personal rogues gallery.

I have a new one called Golem, said Robinson. "No apparent powers, but he’s