JCRAP Prodcutions
presents
The Idiodyssey
Episode 47:
"She Will Come...,” But There She Goes
presents
The Idiodyssey
Episode 47:
"She Will Come...,” But There She Goes
In a world not unlike our very own, the rain was falling on a darkened city. There was no pow-wowing on the marshes, no student protests on the campus, no bean sprouts in Chinatown. Most of the city appeared empty; its inhabitants had fled the streets for shelter in their homes, behind locked doors, the back seats of large “classic”-model American automobiles, deep under ground. The heavy clouds sat low, obscuring even the tallest of metropolitan skyscrapers. The yellow phosphorescent lamps that lined the streets glowed under a massive rolling, unbreaking wave of clouds. Flashing stop-lights pounded out the weak heart beat of the city, blinking on and off a thousand times without notice.
The storm had come like a rabid Schnauzer, barking and huffing over the mountains and desert. Old men on front steps and park benches rubbed their weather-sore elbows and nervously craned their necks skyward. Mothers on front steps called their children home. Cats and dogs were scooped up and taken inside or stuffed into kennels. Cows settled down in the long grass, lowing softly to each other as they tripped on ‘shrooms. The city and everything around it closed up tight and settled down for what Darla Davies of Inkom called, “One hell of a night.” All was silent and anxious.
All, that is, except Jason Stone.
The reporter was standing under the stone arch of the bridge in Karen McGee Memorial Park, his trench coat wrapped tightly around him, hat pulled low over his eyes, water dripping from the brim and falling into puddles at his feet. The burning end of an Old Gold simmered in the humid darkness. He peered forward into the night at the falling rain, smoke simmering and dissipating around his face.
He was waiting.
* * * * * *
Anarchy stumbled through the rain, his booted feet punching soggy holes in the soft, wet grass. His spandex was slick against his skin, pulling at the crack of his butt like a prepubescent boy who’s just discovered the Art of the Wedgie. His cape hung limp across his shoulders and down the length of his back. Dark hair hung in tight curls around his pale face. His eyes were bloodshot and vacant.
“Is she dead? Is she dead?” Not for the first time that night he heard PoloGuy’s squeal in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears. In desperation, he began humming the theme to “The A Team.” But all his efforts to drown out the memories of the day only seemed to strengthen them.
The second his eyes closed, he clearly saw the scene that had taken place earlier in PoloGuy’s office. The villain was jumping up and down, and occasionally falling on his ass (he had, after all, been sucking the dentist’s gas not five minutes earlier).
“Is she dead? Is she dead? REEEIIIBER!” He screamed, his face turning red, small droplets of pungent Polo appearing on his skin. “Save her!”
Reiber was kneeling over the body of Little Ruth, clutching her wrist as he searched for the faintest traces of a pulse.
Abbot-Cabezol was snickering in the corner.
“Reiber!” PoloGuy, pulling at his face, had climbed on top of a chair. “Save her!”
Reiber looked up at his commander, his face pale.
“Uh, boss...” he whispered. “We have a problem here.”
Anarchy’s eyes opened as the thunder crashed and a bolt of lightning zig-zagged across the sky. For a moment he saw his surroundings as clearly as if the sun had been shining. Up ahead, toward the pond and under the bridge, he thought he glimpsed a figure standing under the arch of the bridge. It had been a man, he was sure. And although he wasn’t entirely certain, he thought he’d seen the burning end of a cigarette. He turned in the direction of the arch and stumbled onward.
* * * * * *
Stone, who’d been leaning against the underside of the arch, stood up straight when the lightning flashed. For a brief second he’d caught sight of an approaching figure. He narrowed his eyes, exhaled, and tossed the cigarette. It made a soft wet hiss where it fell. Fixing his collar, he practiced his best “tough-guy reporter” face.
The figure came closer, swaying slightly as it turned toward him. Stone stepped forward, allowing a beam of light to fall sharply across the bridge of his nose, only slightly illuminating his piercing eyes. He lit another Old Gold, squinting like a pro, took a deep drag and watched as the approaching stranger came closer. The reporter exhaled, almost liking the way the smoke stung his eyes. As it wafted up, caught by the air and doused with a thousand tiny droplets of water, the silhouette of the stranger came into sharp focus. He couldn’t make out the face, but he could clearly see wet hair hanging in dark curls, the shadow of a limp cape tossed over the shoulders, the symbol he wore sewn onto his spandex: a circle with a jagged “A” carved into it.
Stone was never a man who allowed fear to control his life, but nonetheless, he felt his butt cheeks clench and his testicles scurry up into his belly.
“You...” he suppressed a gasp of surprise.
Anarchy grinned and stepped under the arch.
* * * * * *
He couldn’t stay here any longer. Something was wrong, he knew it as surely as he knew it had been two days since he’d changed his underwear.There was a nagging suspicion, more than that actually, that something very horrible had happened. Or was that just the condition of his tighty-whities? He knew it when the first wave of nausea had swept over him in A.P.’s cell only a few hours earlier. And he knew it now, sitting on his cot, his head tucked into the palms of his hands.
But the real question was, what did he know and how did he know it?
In the villain’s cell, SuperCurt had felt something rip at the very fabric of his being, just as six months earlier he had heard a voice speak directly to his soul. In both cases there had been the comfort and confusion that the knowledge provided was the truth. There were no if’s, and’s, or but’s about it.
The truth was Little Ruth was lost to him forever. Sometime in the two days he’d been imprisoned, in the last few hours actually, Little Ruth had died. He’d been certain, prior to the wave of nausea, that despite whatever she’d become, whatever PoloGuy had done to her, that there had remained, buried deep underneath any understanding of psychology and science, a part of her that could not be touched or controlled.
But was she really dead?
That he didn’t know. He felt that she was dead, but the feeling hadn’t directly told him so. He only knew that all was not well, and that nothing could be made well again until he pulled his shit together, changed his shorts, and did something about it.
And that couldn’t be done behind bars.
* * * * * *
Jason Stone eyed Anarchy carefully. The boy had stepped under the arch and was standing only a few feet from the reporter. Deep shadows fell across his face with only the dull red glow of Stone’s cigarette reflecting off his eyes and the tips of his ears. Stone didn’t know what to think. Although he’d never actually seen Anarchy in action, he’d been smart enough to guess that he wouldn’t have adopted the name “Anarchy” without a reason. Superpeople, he knew, however weird their psychoses and costumes, had a genuine knack for picking the name that best suited them. Just look at that whole Group From Hell thing that had cut the shit out of Pocatello a few years back. Mustacho? she’d been hairy, alright. Cakeface? Yeech!
“Hello, Anarchy,” Stone took a pull on his Old Gold and held the smoke in his lungs, his eyes cinched to narrow slits.
“Hello, Mister Stone,” Anarchy’s voice was heavy and nearly as lifeless as his cape. Stone could see the boy’s face was pallid; dark circles coagulated under bloodshot eyes. “I see you got my message.”
Stone nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the wet night.
“I should have come to you sooner...” Anarchy said, his voice cracking and trailing off. “If only I had done something sooner...” He slouched forward, dropping his face into his open palms and began to cry. His body rocked with sobs, and Stone was suddenly made very aware of the weight the boy had been carrying on his back.
Of course it had been Anarchy’s journal he’d been reading for weeks. Abbot-Cabezol’s journal had provided some valuable information, but it had been Anarchy that Stone had paid the closest attention to. It was at the very center of his hope that something could be done to save his city, clear SuperCurt’s name, and return Little Ruth to “normal.” He’d made hard copies of the journal, back-ups, and a will. He took no chances. Only recently, however, had he began to suspect that Anarchy was deliberately feeding him information. And then tonight, sitting in his office going over the file once again, he’d been surprised to see the words
“MEET ME AT THE ARCH
9PM”
appear on the screen.
They erased any doubts in his mind that Anarchy was still playing for the good guys.
But how? Why? he’d asked in his notes to himself. “Perhaps Reiber and PoloGuy failed to realize that Anarchy, as his name implies, is beyond control. Anarchy is unstoppable. I’m almost sure that’s the case. The kid just played along with them, buying time until he could figure out what to do next,” he’d written.
Stone put a reassuring hand on Anarchy’s shoulder. The boy flinched and pulled away.
“Don’t try to tell me everything’s going to be all right. Face it man, I fucked up.” Anarchy pulled away, leaving Stone’s palm sticky and wet. “What good am I? When it comes down to it, I’m just some dumb kid they got stuck with. My parents ditched me. My dad died. Little Ruth up and leaves, and just when SuperCurt needs me the most, I fuck up, smoke some pot, knock up a chick, and bail on him. I deserve whatever I get.”
“What happened in there today?” Stone asked, carefully watching the frightened boy. He held out a crinkled pack of Old Golds. Anarchy snatched the pack away and nervously withdrew a cigarette, which Stone lit with his black Zippo.
“You wanna know? I’ll tell ya! I fucked up! That’s what happened. I shouldn’ta left PoloGuy alone with that fucking dentist.” With that, he burst into tears again. Stone waited it out. When he calmed, Anarchy continued. “He poisoned her! Stuck her with a needle.”
For the second time that night, the reporter suppressed a gasp. “Is she dead?” He made a mental memo to rework his control skills.
Anarchy shook his head. “Might as well be. She’s not worth a duck’s fart, man. Reiber says she’s brain dead, whatever that means. PoloGuy’s pissed. Started wailing on the dude. Wouldn’t let up.”
“Norman...” Stone whispered. “Is he alive?”
Anarchy shrugged. “I dunno, man. If he is, he’s probably wishing he wasn’t. Almost killed him myself. Everything woulda been fine if he hadn’t fucked things up like that. I just don’t get it. Why’d he do it? I could’ve figured something out.”
“You couldn’t have stopped him.”
“But why’d he care? What business was it of his? Nobody even knows who he is.”
Stone frowned. He took a drag and waited out the necessary dramatic pause, a talent he’d perfected in college. It had provided him with a new angle on many a story and saved his life more than once.
“He’s her husband,” he said simply.
Anarchy, who’d never thought to refine his surprise-suppression skills, gulped loudly, causing his epiglottis to bounce up and down like a grasshopper on crack. “Holy shit! You mean... all that time SupeCurt and I spent getting fat and gross, L.R. was married? Is that why she vanished?”
Stone nodded.
“Man, why’d she marry a geek like that?”
Stone shrugged.
“Must be his penis,” Anarchy mused aloud. “You never know who’s gonna get one.”
Stone said nothing.
Anarchy sat in silence, his adolescent brain trying desperately to process the information. He didn’t understand, but then, who’d ever understood Little Ruth? Sometimes he doubted whether she even understood herself.
“Is she still at The Source?”
The boy nodded, his train of thought momentarily derailed. “Yeah. Reiber’s got her hooked up to all sorts of stuff. Pretty scary looking shit.”
“Can you get me in to see her?”
“No way, dude! Not on your life! They’ve got about twenty Juggernaut guards stationed all over the place. Only Reiber, PoloGuy, me, and a few others. No one else is allowed near her.”
Stone thought a moment. “Anarchy, I need your help. SuperCurt and Little Ruth need your help. You’ve got to go back, act like it’s no big deal, do what they tell you. And you need to keep me updated at all times. Can you do that?”
“Man, it’s too late for that. It’s over. She’s gone and she ain’t comin’ back. I fucked up. Last thing SuperCurt needs is my help. Already fucked him up enough. I helped send him to jail, remember?”
Stone shook his head. “It may be too late for Little Ruth, but you can’t leave SuperCurt in prison. If I’m not mistaken, he’ll have has hands full before not too long. There are a lot of people there who won’t take kindly to him, if you get my message. Besides, he’s wearing tights and a cape. Think about it.”
“I’ll do what I can. But I ain’t making any promises. Hey man, you think you can spot me a few bucks to get a pizza or something? The food they been cooking over there is pretty brutal.” As if to prove his point, he farted loudly, squeezing his face up into a tight ball.
The reporter reached into his wallet, removed a twenty dollar bill and handed it to Anarchy. “I’m going to speak to SuperCurt. He’s got to know what’s happened, if he doesn’t already. Maybe he can think of something.”
Anarchy frowned. “I doubt it. SuperCurt was never much of an idea man. That was always L.R.’s job.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
* * * * * *
Petunia sat on the window-sill watching the rain come down in grey flannel sheets. Salisbury, from his place on the television, hadn’t seen her move in hours. She stared blankly at the glass, her eyes unblinking even when the sky lit up with lightning. Once or twice he tried to comfort her, and although she’d let him gently stroke her purple fur, she refused to move. She hadn’t even purred. She was as unmoving as that last mouthful of TurtleWax he’d swallowed.
Unable to stand the silence any longer, the monkey leapt down from the t.v.. Tuna turned and glanced over her shoulder at him and then back out into the night. She didn’t see him skitter across the floor toward the door. He never took his eyes off of her, waiting to see if she’d follow. When he reached for the handle and turned the knob, the door cracked open as a rush of wet air came hissing into the room.
Petunia bristled and jerked upright. Salisbury smiled, relieved that he finally had her attention. She stretched and jumped down, bounded across the carpet and raced out into the rain. The monkey chased after her, following, not only to The Source, but to an entirely different world altogether.
* * * * * *
PoloGuy paced. He had yet to put on his pants. The leftover shaving cream on his chin had long since melted away by the almost continuous stream of Polo that leaked from his pores. Reiber, busy attending to Little Ruth, had been forced, several times, to give PoloGuy an extra pill to keep his scent at bay. But the smell would not dissipate. It was intent on crashing the party and staying the night.
“You’ve got to control that. This is a medical laboratory. You’re going to kill her,” he insisted.
Pologuy sneered. “If you don’t save her, Reiber, it’ll be your head.”
Reiber went back to his work. Little Ruth was laying on a table, wires and electrodes taped to her skull and various other parts of her body. Her face was calm, almost insanely serene. Her arms were crossed over her chest in an ironically unsettling manner.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t finished with her. The whole thing is ruined.” His voice rose to shocking new heights as he walked back and forth across the room. “What am I gonna do? I’ve got a deadline. Everything is suppose to be ready next week. You Know Who is waiting for the first shipment.”
Reiber was not listening. He was busy flipping switches on monitors and jotting down notes. The machines hummed as a thin green line appeared on a black screen. Reiber had hoped against hope that the line would appear jagged and jumpy, but with little surprise he found it to be as straight and flat as his ex-wife’s chest. Not so much as a beep or a twitter; this puppy wasn’t moving. He turned to look nervously over his shoulder at PoloGuy.
“He’s had a rough couple of years. What the heck am I gonna tell him?” PoloGuy bit the nail on his thumb.
“Didn’t he use to work for you once? What’s to be afraid of?” Reiber asked, adjusting a knob, hoping conversation would keep PoloGuy’s attention from Little Ruth’s condition.
PoloGuy’s pace didn’t slacken. “That was a long time ago. I haven’t seen him since the GFH fell apart. He was the only one who got away. Had a rough time on the other side just after that. He’s been in hiding ever since; an outlaw in both worlds. You wanna tell a guy who’s been in hiding that his shit is gonna have to wait? He’s been jones’in, man.”
A second later, the door opened and Anarchy stepped into the room carrying a pizza box. PoloGuy leapt forward, grabbed a piece and stuck half of it into his mouth. Reiber rolled his eyes.
“How is she, dude?” Anarchy asked, taking a seat on the end of the table that held Little Ruth.
PoloGuy followed after him. “Just where have you been? I needed your help around here.”
“Chill dude,” Anarchy flashed him a lazy peace sign. “Got me some food. Figured it was gonna be a long night.”
PoloGuy scoffed and licked his lips. “Not for you , my little pint-sized prepubescent.” He stopped walking long enough to let a single beam of soft overhead light fall across his face, twisting and distorting it into a grizzly elfen mask.
“Bring me the dentist.”
* * * * * *
Norman sat huddled on the floor of a darkened broom closet. Had he been entirely coherent, he might have realized it was a broom closet and not a jail cell. This was, after all, The Source, and there had been no room in such a magnificent building for prisons and holding cells. Unfortunately for Norman, PoloGuy had knocked the coherency right out of him, along with one of his teeth. As it was, Norman wasn’t aware of much at all. The ether had long since worn off, leaving only the first traces of a doozy of a headache.
His lack of awareness was not caused so much by the pain the putrid villain had inflicted on him, but by the knowledge that it had been his hand that had killed RuthAnne. He had seen her stumble away from him and sink to the floor. He hadn’t been able to see much of her after that, what with Anarchy sitting on his back like a wildebeest in heat. He’d only seen her arm, the pale skin on the inside of her elbow, and the way it hung limp at her side. He’d known at that instant it was over, and that whatever they did to him, it would not be sufficient punishment for murdering his wife. Despite whatever it was they had done to her to change her and make her over as the bride of Frankenstein, it had been her husband who had sent her to her grave.
A crack of light appeared as the door opened and Anarchy peeked his head into the small room. The boy peered in and saw Norman huddled on the floor in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. Anarchy came in, closing the door behind him as he flicked on the overhead light.
Man, he thought. What did she see in you? Skinny little guy like you has no business married to a woman like her. Must’a been the penis.
He knelt down next to Norman and shook his shoulder gently. “Dude, wake up.”
Norman didn’t respond.
Anarchy shook him again but stopped. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe he shouldn’t be too awake for whatever it was that PoloGuy was about to do to him.
“Dude, I don’t know what’s gonna happen to you,” he said softly. “I’m sorry it has to be this way. But Mr. Stone said that I’ve got to keep my cover. It might be too late for your wife, but I’ll do anything to save SuperCurt.”
Norman’s eyes blinked at the mention ofRuthAnne, but that was all the response of which he was capable. Anarchy gently lifted him to his feet and guided him out the door and to whatever fate awaited him on the other side.
* * * * * *
Jason Stone walked through the corridors of Arkham Asylum, Officer Petrechio leading the way. Petrechio, saddened by SuperCurt’s condition and treatment, had agreed to let the late-night visitor in to see the fallen hero despite the rules that said otherwise.
“Something’s up with him tonight.” the guard said in hopes of striking up a conversation. He’d always hated the way the sound of his footfalls echoed and echoed off the cement floor of the halls. “He’s not feeling so well.”
Stone bristled at the news. His ears perked up as the trained news-hound in him sat up and took notice. “What’s up?” he asked matter-of-factly, not wanting Petrechio to think he was fishing for information.
Petrechio shrugged. “No clue. One second he was visiting Rocko and everything seemed fine. Next thing we know, he’s puking his guts out. I know the food around this place ain’t the best, but I’ve never seen it get that bad.”
“When was this?” Stone asked.
“Late this afternoon. Just after dinner.”
Stone nodded. It made sense. Somehow, SuperCurt had been alerted to what was happening to his ex-partner. He wondered just how much he already knew.
“Who’s this Rocko guy?” he asked.
Petrechio scowled. “Bad guy. Use to party with the GFH. Went by the name A.P, but now everyone calls him Rocko. Sounds tough, I guess. He wanted to be called Milton for awhile there, but it sounded too wimpy, ya know?”
For the third time in less than two hours, Stone audibly gasped. A.P. was here? And SuperCurt had been to see him? What was up with that?
* * * * * *
In another part of the prison, deep underground, Ed Jones was standing in a darkened cell. The door was wide open, but he had no fear of the prisoner escaping. He’d actually been busy for two days trying to arrange just such an escape.
“So what did he say?”
A.P. closed Paradise Lost and stared calmly at Jones, a man he thought less than fondly of. “He didn’t say anything, vomited all over the place and had to leave.”
Jones turned away in disgust. “Damn! I thought for sure he’d take the bait. A prison break would fix him for good. Doesn’t matter if you’re innocent or not. No judge likes a prison break.”
A.P. smiled patiently. “Be calm, my friend. He’ll be back. I made it perfectly clear to him that I’m the only one who can control PoloGuy. SuperCurt will remember that, and when he needs a favor, I’ll be here waiting for him.”
Jones kicked the barred door, stubbing his toe. He hopped about for a moment, holding his wounded foot in his hands. “This better work. The sooner PoloGuy is out of the picture, the easier I’ll rest. And once you’ve finished this job, I want you out of here, you got it? I don’t care where you go. Just leave! I’m not going to all this trouble just so a couple of criminals can wreck everything. I got political aspirations!”
“He’ll be back.”
A second later, a cacophony of alarms began to sound. Jones jerked up straight, still clutching his foot, an action that quickly sent him sprawling to the floor. A.P. did not move to help him up. Flashing red lights illuminated the pale darkness like a thousand police cars.
“Looks like you might get that prison break anyway,” the villain whispered, a thin smile illuminating his face.
* * * * * *
“What the hell?” Petrechio, who’d nearly been knocked to the floor by the force of an unexpected blast, frantically reached to his side for his gun as the alarms began to sound. The hallway in which they’d been walking was filled with plumes of dust and clouds of smoke so thick the flashing red emergency lights could not penetrate them. It drifted and floated in the hallway like a strange creature from another world.
“What’s happened,” Stone asked.
Before Petrechio could respond the question was answered. From the center of the dust cloud a figure emerged, a ripped and tattered cape hanging in shreds down the length of his back. Stone felt his heart race. The figure came calmly toward them, shoulders thrown back, head held high. From somewhere in his head, Stone could have sworn he heard theme music playing, and it sounded like Jimmy Hendrix’s “Voodoo Child.”
Petrechio stared dumbfounded, his right hand still trying desperately to unholster his gun.
SuperCurt approached, his face calm and determined. His pace did not slow when he approached the shocked guard and the stunned reporter. As Petrechio finally unfastened his gun and withdrew it, SuperCurt swept by, casually reaching for the weapon and plucking it from Petrechio’s trembling hand. He crushed it into a ball and tossed it back over his shoulder.
Now that’s cool! thought Jason Stone.
“SuperCurt, where are you going?” he stumbled after the hero, alarms and sirens raging in his ears.
Without turning, SuperCurt replied, “To put an end to this once and for all.” With that, the hero raised his fists into the air and shot upward, through the ceiling, his cape rippling in the air behind him. The prison quaked as the ceiling gave in, sending rocks of cement and steel beams crashing down. When things subsided and the dust had cleared, Stone stepped under the gaping hole and looked up. What he saw amazed him.
SuperCurt had cut a path straight up through eight stories of very solid prison floor and ceiling. And at the very top he could see clouds and the night sky.
“I’ve got to get to The Source,” he said and clambered over the debris, Petrechio hot on his heels.
* * * * * *
Major Abbot-Cabezol was in a hurry. He didn’t know how long Reiber was going to be out of the lab. And while PoloGuy was in his office waiting for Anarchy to bring the dentist, Abbot-Cabezol knew this may be his last chance to have a few minutes alone with the bitch. He showed the Juggernaut guard at the door his clearance papers and hustled into the room, locking the door behind him.
The lights had been dimmed, as if someone inside was sleeping. And ‘lo and behold, there she was, on a hospital bed in the center of the room, a warm circle of light falling around the bed like the radiance of angels. Reiber had hooked her up to all sorts of gadgets and machines, none of which looked heaven-sent. They hummed and beeped methodically, like a complicated mechanical heart. One particular machine caught his attention: it was a large glass tube with a vinyl balloon in it that seemed to inflate and deflate on its own accord. Each time it expanded, it wheezed and sucked the air out of Little Ruth’s lungs. When it emptied, it wheezed again and filled her chest, lifting her slightly from the bed.
The Major smiled and stepped toward her.
“Looks like someone clipped your wings, little lady,” he sneered as he patted her cold leg. “No more flying for you.”
Little Ruth said nothing. The respirator, a terrible translator who hadn’t brushed up on its English, had nothing to say and was content to wheeze once more.
Abbot-Cabezol jumped up on the end of the bed and sat back. “I figure this is a pretty good time for us to have a little chat. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m gonna ask you not to speak.” His fingers lazily stroked the white sheet that covered her leg.
“As a matter of fact, I’m gonna ask that you do nothing at all, ever again.”
And with that, he leapt at the machines that were only just barely keeping her body alive.
* * * * * *
Although his imprisonment had been rather brief, it felt good to be among the clouds once again. The rain had taken a smoke break and had dulled to a mere drizzle by the time he’d escaped. Nonetheless, he’d climbed above the clouds and was making his way toward The Source.
SuperCurt had always preferred to fly above the clouds at night. He liked the way the city lights below filtered through, turning them a soft shade of luminous orange. And the higher he went, the smaller it all looked. From thirty-thousand feet, he could see almost all of southeast Idaho, each town a tiny blossom of orange cotton. It was still late summer and it seemed that each of the summer scents he so often took for granted, had been trapped above the cloud layer. Breathing in deeply, he could smell barbecues, freshly cut grass, and a thousand chlorinated swimming pools. How sad, he thought, that it took two days of “hard time” to remind him how much he really loved it.
And such thoughts immediately made his mind turn to Little Ruth and the times they’d spent with each other. No, they hadn’t ever really flown together for the simple peace and joy of flying with another, but they had shared a deep understanding of their love of being in the air, their capes flapping like flags behind them. Those had been simpler and easier days; and there were days he imagined existed, knowing full well that they were figments of his imagination. After all, there was little rest in being a Superperson, and if one had take solitude in the realm of fantasy, so be it, for it seemed that every time things were just winding down, something else had demanded his attention, tearing them apart.
But now, no matter what else happened, he was going to reclaim what was rightfully his. He was going to put an end to the madness, save her, and try to return her life to normal. He knew that there’d be resistance, that she might not even want a normal life, but he was going to try anyway. And when she was herself again, he would set her free to do as she pleased. With him or without him, her life would once again be her own. And if she was dead, as his gut told him, he’d give her the rest she’d so longed for.
He turned in mid-air and slipped down through the thick layer of clouds. The rain had taken one last drag of its cigarette and was ready to begin work again. Once under the clouds, it growled back to life, pelting his skin with dime-sized drops of water. He paid no attention. He could see the lights of The Source looming before him.
* * * * * *
Anarchy led Norman into the dark waiting office, the smell of cologne thick in the air. The boy winced and made a conscious effort to breath through his mouth. It did little good; he could taste the Polo on his tongue. Norman did nothing, barely even raising his feet from the tiled floor.
“Boss?” Anarchy called into the darkness. “I got the mad doctor here, just like you wanted.” He pushed Norman forward in mock contempt.
From somewhere in front of them, Anarchy heard a low growl, that however menacing was meant, sounded like indigestion. He pushed Norman further into the room and closed the door behind them.
“Boss? Where are you?” he called again.
“Thank you, Anarchy. You may go,” came the response. Anarchy peered toward the source of the voice but saw nothing. Only shadows.
“You sure?” he asked, not wanting to leave Norman alone. Despite his actions that day, if Little Ruth had loved him enough to marry him, if Stone had cared about his well-being, he couldn’t be all that bad a guy. He felt a strange urge to protect the doctor. He hadn’t been able to save Little Ruth, but he’d do almost anything to save her husband.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’m done with you tonight. You’re dismissed.”
Anarchy gulped. This wasn’t going to be easy. “I kinda hoped I could help.”
“GET OUT!” screamed the villain, lunging from the shadows, grabbing Norman by the collar and hurtling him across the room. “I said GET OUT!” he roared again.
Anarchy backed toward the door. “No problem. Maybe we can play Nintendo when you’re finished. I was thinking maybe you could show me how to get to Level 10 on that new game.”
PoloGuy reached for the boy, but Anarchy, suddenly unable to breath, flung the door open and jumped out. The door slammed, nearly hitting him in the face. The Juggernaut guard stationed there looked at him quizzically.
“Long day,” Anarchy shrugged and turned away.
Oh fuck, he thought. He’s gonna kill him.
* * * * * *
“Fucking bitch!” the Major roared, tearing at wires and tubes. The monitor near the bed started beeping frantically, like C3PO having a heart attack. The Major paid no attention; he was far too busy beating Little Ruth’s chest and smashing expensive medical equipment.
“I’ll teach you to fucking mess with me!” In his excitement he lost his balance and slipped from the bed, falling to the floor in a hysterical mess. He leapt up and reached in his pocket and pulled out a thick roll of heavy black duck tape.
He jumped back onto the bed and started stringing tape across her body, from her nearly bald head to her leather-clad feet, over and under the mattress, pinning her down firmly. When he finished with that, he wadded it into balls and started pushing them into her open mouth and down her throat.
“I’ll fucking teach you!”
The room suddenly quaked, rafters and beams falling from the ceiling. Abbot-Cabezol turned in time to see a red and blue streak speed down from above and come to a stop on the tiled floor not twenty feet from him. The roll of tape slipped from his hand and rolled across the floor, coming to a stop under the pointed red boot of SuperCurt.
“Y-you’re supposed to be in jail...” he stammered, slipping off the bed and backing up. “We took care of you. YOU CAN’T BE HERE!” He screamed and bolted as far across the room from the Superperson as he could.
SuperCurt said nothing, but reacted quickly. Moving faster than the Major’s eyes could register, the hero leapt across the room and grabbed the frightened man by the throat. Abbot-Cabezol, briefly thinking himself free, freaked out and shit his pants.
Is that Jimmy Hendrix I hear, he thought as he was thrown across the room, striking a cabinet and falling to the floor.
“I didn’t kill her!” he screeched, holding his hands up to defend himself. “She was already dead!”
SuperCurt paid him no attention. He moved to the bed and the side of his fallen companion. He grabbed the thick ropes of tape and pulled them away from her, tossing them to the floor. Gently, he touched her hand, taking it in his own. It was cold and limp, and very heavy. He pulled her body to his chest and held it there, rocking gently back and forth. It was the first time he’d actually touched her in years.
“What’s happened to you?” he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. His lower lip quivered uncontrollably and his voice cracked. “I’m so, so sorry, Little Ruth. Why did this have to happen to you?” He stroked her hair with his fingers and let his tears fall on her face. “I only did what I thought was best. I followed instructions. I did everything I could to get you back and make you happy. How could it go so horribly wrong?” He fell silent and gazed at her serene face, touching the soft skin of her eye-lids with the tips of his fingers. And then, without warning, his agony found a voice. He suddenly clutched her tightly to him and bellowed in pain and rage, screaming until he was heard across the entire valley. Without explanation, everyone in Pocatello knew the depth of his pain.Every window in The Source shattered, sending shards of glass falling to the empty parking-lot below. Jason Stone, who’d been running up the steps outside, had to shield himself under a partition to keep from getting cut to pieces. Anarchy covered his ears and hid under his bed. PoloGuy froze in his tracks, his fist raised menacingly over Norman. The dentist, who’d heard and felt nothing all afternoon, suddenly blinked awake and recognized every ache and pain in his body. Petunia and Salisbury, who’d also reached the steps of the vast structure, looked skyward, into the falling rain. The thunder bellowed down on them, gnashing its teeth and spitting. Traffic came to a standstill, perplexing one slightly Hawaiian reporter who’d recently been transferred to the traffic report.
Back inside The Source, SuperCurt’s voice fell silent. He held Little Ruth a moment longer and then carefully sat her back on the bed, wiping his tears from her face. Then slowly, so slowly that Abbot-Cabezol had ample opportunity to register what was happening, he turned toward the Major, who’s eardrums had exploded, and walked across the room toward him.
“I hold you personally responsible for her death, Major,” SuperCurt hissed as he plucked the man from the floor and pulled him to his face.
“Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything...” he whimpered.
SuperCurt reached for his throat, wrapping his fingers tightly around it. “You will not speak. You need only listen, and not for long because when I’m finished with you, you will have all of the rest of forever to do with as you please.” He squeezed, feeling bones weaken and flex in unusual ways. “You have killed the only thing that meant anything to me. You robbed me of all that I held dear. And for that, you will pay.”
The Major had little time to respond, for an instant later his neck had snapped, killing him in SuperCurt’s hands. The hero, tears still in his eyes, tossed the lifeless body aside and turned back to Little Ruth. He scooped her up in his arms, jumped into the air and flew back out the hole he had come in through.
He cradled her dead body as he floated down to the paved parking-lot. Jason Stone, Petunia, and Salisbury hurried to his side. The cat slid up next to her former master and rubbed her head against Little Ruth’s limp hand. She meowed softly and curled up into a small purple ball at her side. Salisbury stroked the cat’s fur and whimpered. Anarchy, from his bedroom window, looked down on the scene with tears in his eyes. Stone, without a cigarette for the first time in days, said nothing. He could only watch and listen to the wail of approaching sirens.
SuperCurt was oblivious to their presence. He only cried as the rain pelted his body, soaking through his spandex uniform.
“Oh God, what has happened?” He looked skyward as if expecting an answer. “I did what you said and now look...” he shook her softly. “Look at what’s happened!”
Stone would later say that what happened next originally sounded like thunder rolling across a vast distance of deserts and crags. The people gathered around the body of Little Ruth paid it no attention until it was directly over them, hovering in the sky like a giant buzzing mosquito. One by one, they looked up, blinking back the rain.
“Build it and she will come,” the voice said. Lightning flashed, illuminating the parking lot.
SuperCurt stammered. He rose to his feet, Little Ruth still in his arms. “I did!” he called. “I did build it! I did exactly as you said, but it went wrong. It went horribly wrong!”
“BUILD IT AND SHE WILL COME,” the voice repeated.
SuperCurt stared up at the clouds and the morning that was just appearing on the horizon. He shook his head, choking back his sobs.
“Build what? What do I build?”
And almost as soon as he asked the question, a ball of lightning ripped across the sky, igniting the clouds. The small group flinched and looked up in time to see the answer. It came in the form of a giant square cumulonimbus cloud. Petunia leapt to her feet, recognizing the shape immediately. Salisbury chittered. Stone knew it from a movie he’d once seen. SuperCurt nodded, feeling the blood pump rapidly through his veins once again. He knew the shape, knew it well. He’d been there once and was fairly confident he could go again. After all, Devil’s Tower was not that far away.
“I will. I’ll take her there and I will build it...”
“AND SHE WILL COME,” the voice finished his sentence for him.
The storm had come like a rabid Schnauzer, barking and huffing over the mountains and desert. Old men on front steps and park benches rubbed their weather-sore elbows and nervously craned their necks skyward. Mothers on front steps called their children home. Cats and dogs were scooped up and taken inside or stuffed into kennels. Cows settled down in the long grass, lowing softly to each other as they tripped on ‘shrooms. The city and everything around it closed up tight and settled down for what Darla Davies of Inkom called, “One hell of a night.” All was silent and anxious.
All, that is, except Jason Stone.
The reporter was standing under the stone arch of the bridge in Karen McGee Memorial Park, his trench coat wrapped tightly around him, hat pulled low over his eyes, water dripping from the brim and falling into puddles at his feet. The burning end of an Old Gold simmered in the humid darkness. He peered forward into the night at the falling rain, smoke simmering and dissipating around his face.
He was waiting.
* * * * * *
Anarchy stumbled through the rain, his booted feet punching soggy holes in the soft, wet grass. His spandex was slick against his skin, pulling at the crack of his butt like a prepubescent boy who’s just discovered the Art of the Wedgie. His cape hung limp across his shoulders and down the length of his back. Dark hair hung in tight curls around his pale face. His eyes were bloodshot and vacant.
“Is she dead? Is she dead?” Not for the first time that night he heard PoloGuy’s squeal in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears. In desperation, he began humming the theme to “The A Team.” But all his efforts to drown out the memories of the day only seemed to strengthen them.
The second his eyes closed, he clearly saw the scene that had taken place earlier in PoloGuy’s office. The villain was jumping up and down, and occasionally falling on his ass (he had, after all, been sucking the dentist’s gas not five minutes earlier).
“Is she dead? Is she dead? REEEIIIBER!” He screamed, his face turning red, small droplets of pungent Polo appearing on his skin. “Save her!”
Reiber was kneeling over the body of Little Ruth, clutching her wrist as he searched for the faintest traces of a pulse.
Abbot-Cabezol was snickering in the corner.
“Reiber!” PoloGuy, pulling at his face, had climbed on top of a chair. “Save her!”
Reiber looked up at his commander, his face pale.
“Uh, boss...” he whispered. “We have a problem here.”
Anarchy’s eyes opened as the thunder crashed and a bolt of lightning zig-zagged across the sky. For a moment he saw his surroundings as clearly as if the sun had been shining. Up ahead, toward the pond and under the bridge, he thought he glimpsed a figure standing under the arch of the bridge. It had been a man, he was sure. And although he wasn’t entirely certain, he thought he’d seen the burning end of a cigarette. He turned in the direction of the arch and stumbled onward.
* * * * * *
Stone, who’d been leaning against the underside of the arch, stood up straight when the lightning flashed. For a brief second he’d caught sight of an approaching figure. He narrowed his eyes, exhaled, and tossed the cigarette. It made a soft wet hiss where it fell. Fixing his collar, he practiced his best “tough-guy reporter” face.
The figure came closer, swaying slightly as it turned toward him. Stone stepped forward, allowing a beam of light to fall sharply across the bridge of his nose, only slightly illuminating his piercing eyes. He lit another Old Gold, squinting like a pro, took a deep drag and watched as the approaching stranger came closer. The reporter exhaled, almost liking the way the smoke stung his eyes. As it wafted up, caught by the air and doused with a thousand tiny droplets of water, the silhouette of the stranger came into sharp focus. He couldn’t make out the face, but he could clearly see wet hair hanging in dark curls, the shadow of a limp cape tossed over the shoulders, the symbol he wore sewn onto his spandex: a circle with a jagged “A” carved into it.
Stone was never a man who allowed fear to control his life, but nonetheless, he felt his butt cheeks clench and his testicles scurry up into his belly.
“You...” he suppressed a gasp of surprise.
Anarchy grinned and stepped under the arch.
* * * * * *
He couldn’t stay here any longer. Something was wrong, he knew it as surely as he knew it had been two days since he’d changed his underwear.There was a nagging suspicion, more than that actually, that something very horrible had happened. Or was that just the condition of his tighty-whities? He knew it when the first wave of nausea had swept over him in A.P.’s cell only a few hours earlier. And he knew it now, sitting on his cot, his head tucked into the palms of his hands.
But the real question was, what did he know and how did he know it?
In the villain’s cell, SuperCurt had felt something rip at the very fabric of his being, just as six months earlier he had heard a voice speak directly to his soul. In both cases there had been the comfort and confusion that the knowledge provided was the truth. There were no if’s, and’s, or but’s about it.
The truth was Little Ruth was lost to him forever. Sometime in the two days he’d been imprisoned, in the last few hours actually, Little Ruth had died. He’d been certain, prior to the wave of nausea, that despite whatever she’d become, whatever PoloGuy had done to her, that there had remained, buried deep underneath any understanding of psychology and science, a part of her that could not be touched or controlled.
But was she really dead?
That he didn’t know. He felt that she was dead, but the feeling hadn’t directly told him so. He only knew that all was not well, and that nothing could be made well again until he pulled his shit together, changed his shorts, and did something about it.
And that couldn’t be done behind bars.
* * * * * *
Jason Stone eyed Anarchy carefully. The boy had stepped under the arch and was standing only a few feet from the reporter. Deep shadows fell across his face with only the dull red glow of Stone’s cigarette reflecting off his eyes and the tips of his ears. Stone didn’t know what to think. Although he’d never actually seen Anarchy in action, he’d been smart enough to guess that he wouldn’t have adopted the name “Anarchy” without a reason. Superpeople, he knew, however weird their psychoses and costumes, had a genuine knack for picking the name that best suited them. Just look at that whole Group From Hell thing that had cut the shit out of Pocatello a few years back. Mustacho? she’d been hairy, alright. Cakeface? Yeech!
“Hello, Anarchy,” Stone took a pull on his Old Gold and held the smoke in his lungs, his eyes cinched to narrow slits.
“Hello, Mister Stone,” Anarchy’s voice was heavy and nearly as lifeless as his cape. Stone could see the boy’s face was pallid; dark circles coagulated under bloodshot eyes. “I see you got my message.”
Stone nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the wet night.
“I should have come to you sooner...” Anarchy said, his voice cracking and trailing off. “If only I had done something sooner...” He slouched forward, dropping his face into his open palms and began to cry. His body rocked with sobs, and Stone was suddenly made very aware of the weight the boy had been carrying on his back.
Of course it had been Anarchy’s journal he’d been reading for weeks. Abbot-Cabezol’s journal had provided some valuable information, but it had been Anarchy that Stone had paid the closest attention to. It was at the very center of his hope that something could be done to save his city, clear SuperCurt’s name, and return Little Ruth to “normal.” He’d made hard copies of the journal, back-ups, and a will. He took no chances. Only recently, however, had he began to suspect that Anarchy was deliberately feeding him information. And then tonight, sitting in his office going over the file once again, he’d been surprised to see the words
“MEET ME AT THE ARCH
9PM”
appear on the screen.
They erased any doubts in his mind that Anarchy was still playing for the good guys.
But how? Why? he’d asked in his notes to himself. “Perhaps Reiber and PoloGuy failed to realize that Anarchy, as his name implies, is beyond control. Anarchy is unstoppable. I’m almost sure that’s the case. The kid just played along with them, buying time until he could figure out what to do next,” he’d written.
Stone put a reassuring hand on Anarchy’s shoulder. The boy flinched and pulled away.
“Don’t try to tell me everything’s going to be all right. Face it man, I fucked up.” Anarchy pulled away, leaving Stone’s palm sticky and wet. “What good am I? When it comes down to it, I’m just some dumb kid they got stuck with. My parents ditched me. My dad died. Little Ruth up and leaves, and just when SuperCurt needs me the most, I fuck up, smoke some pot, knock up a chick, and bail on him. I deserve whatever I get.”
“What happened in there today?” Stone asked, carefully watching the frightened boy. He held out a crinkled pack of Old Golds. Anarchy snatched the pack away and nervously withdrew a cigarette, which Stone lit with his black Zippo.
“You wanna know? I’ll tell ya! I fucked up! That’s what happened. I shouldn’ta left PoloGuy alone with that fucking dentist.” With that, he burst into tears again. Stone waited it out. When he calmed, Anarchy continued. “He poisoned her! Stuck her with a needle.”
For the second time that night, the reporter suppressed a gasp. “Is she dead?” He made a mental memo to rework his control skills.
Anarchy shook his head. “Might as well be. She’s not worth a duck’s fart, man. Reiber says she’s brain dead, whatever that means. PoloGuy’s pissed. Started wailing on the dude. Wouldn’t let up.”
“Norman...” Stone whispered. “Is he alive?”
Anarchy shrugged. “I dunno, man. If he is, he’s probably wishing he wasn’t. Almost killed him myself. Everything woulda been fine if he hadn’t fucked things up like that. I just don’t get it. Why’d he do it? I could’ve figured something out.”
“You couldn’t have stopped him.”
“But why’d he care? What business was it of his? Nobody even knows who he is.”
Stone frowned. He took a drag and waited out the necessary dramatic pause, a talent he’d perfected in college. It had provided him with a new angle on many a story and saved his life more than once.
“He’s her husband,” he said simply.
Anarchy, who’d never thought to refine his surprise-suppression skills, gulped loudly, causing his epiglottis to bounce up and down like a grasshopper on crack. “Holy shit! You mean... all that time SupeCurt and I spent getting fat and gross, L.R. was married? Is that why she vanished?”
Stone nodded.
“Man, why’d she marry a geek like that?”
Stone shrugged.
“Must be his penis,” Anarchy mused aloud. “You never know who’s gonna get one.”
Stone said nothing.
Anarchy sat in silence, his adolescent brain trying desperately to process the information. He didn’t understand, but then, who’d ever understood Little Ruth? Sometimes he doubted whether she even understood herself.
“Is she still at The Source?”
The boy nodded, his train of thought momentarily derailed. “Yeah. Reiber’s got her hooked up to all sorts of stuff. Pretty scary looking shit.”
“Can you get me in to see her?”
“No way, dude! Not on your life! They’ve got about twenty Juggernaut guards stationed all over the place. Only Reiber, PoloGuy, me, and a few others. No one else is allowed near her.”
Stone thought a moment. “Anarchy, I need your help. SuperCurt and Little Ruth need your help. You’ve got to go back, act like it’s no big deal, do what they tell you. And you need to keep me updated at all times. Can you do that?”
“Man, it’s too late for that. It’s over. She’s gone and she ain’t comin’ back. I fucked up. Last thing SuperCurt needs is my help. Already fucked him up enough. I helped send him to jail, remember?”
Stone shook his head. “It may be too late for Little Ruth, but you can’t leave SuperCurt in prison. If I’m not mistaken, he’ll have has hands full before not too long. There are a lot of people there who won’t take kindly to him, if you get my message. Besides, he’s wearing tights and a cape. Think about it.”
“I’ll do what I can. But I ain’t making any promises. Hey man, you think you can spot me a few bucks to get a pizza or something? The food they been cooking over there is pretty brutal.” As if to prove his point, he farted loudly, squeezing his face up into a tight ball.
The reporter reached into his wallet, removed a twenty dollar bill and handed it to Anarchy. “I’m going to speak to SuperCurt. He’s got to know what’s happened, if he doesn’t already. Maybe he can think of something.”
Anarchy frowned. “I doubt it. SuperCurt was never much of an idea man. That was always L.R.’s job.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
* * * * * *
Petunia sat on the window-sill watching the rain come down in grey flannel sheets. Salisbury, from his place on the television, hadn’t seen her move in hours. She stared blankly at the glass, her eyes unblinking even when the sky lit up with lightning. Once or twice he tried to comfort her, and although she’d let him gently stroke her purple fur, she refused to move. She hadn’t even purred. She was as unmoving as that last mouthful of TurtleWax he’d swallowed.
Unable to stand the silence any longer, the monkey leapt down from the t.v.. Tuna turned and glanced over her shoulder at him and then back out into the night. She didn’t see him skitter across the floor toward the door. He never took his eyes off of her, waiting to see if she’d follow. When he reached for the handle and turned the knob, the door cracked open as a rush of wet air came hissing into the room.
Petunia bristled and jerked upright. Salisbury smiled, relieved that he finally had her attention. She stretched and jumped down, bounded across the carpet and raced out into the rain. The monkey chased after her, following, not only to The Source, but to an entirely different world altogether.
* * * * * *
PoloGuy paced. He had yet to put on his pants. The leftover shaving cream on his chin had long since melted away by the almost continuous stream of Polo that leaked from his pores. Reiber, busy attending to Little Ruth, had been forced, several times, to give PoloGuy an extra pill to keep his scent at bay. But the smell would not dissipate. It was intent on crashing the party and staying the night.
“You’ve got to control that. This is a medical laboratory. You’re going to kill her,” he insisted.
Pologuy sneered. “If you don’t save her, Reiber, it’ll be your head.”
Reiber went back to his work. Little Ruth was laying on a table, wires and electrodes taped to her skull and various other parts of her body. Her face was calm, almost insanely serene. Her arms were crossed over her chest in an ironically unsettling manner.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t finished with her. The whole thing is ruined.” His voice rose to shocking new heights as he walked back and forth across the room. “What am I gonna do? I’ve got a deadline. Everything is suppose to be ready next week. You Know Who is waiting for the first shipment.”
Reiber was not listening. He was busy flipping switches on monitors and jotting down notes. The machines hummed as a thin green line appeared on a black screen. Reiber had hoped against hope that the line would appear jagged and jumpy, but with little surprise he found it to be as straight and flat as his ex-wife’s chest. Not so much as a beep or a twitter; this puppy wasn’t moving. He turned to look nervously over his shoulder at PoloGuy.
“He’s had a rough couple of years. What the heck am I gonna tell him?” PoloGuy bit the nail on his thumb.
“Didn’t he use to work for you once? What’s to be afraid of?” Reiber asked, adjusting a knob, hoping conversation would keep PoloGuy’s attention from Little Ruth’s condition.
PoloGuy’s pace didn’t slacken. “That was a long time ago. I haven’t seen him since the GFH fell apart. He was the only one who got away. Had a rough time on the other side just after that. He’s been in hiding ever since; an outlaw in both worlds. You wanna tell a guy who’s been in hiding that his shit is gonna have to wait? He’s been jones’in, man.”
A second later, the door opened and Anarchy stepped into the room carrying a pizza box. PoloGuy leapt forward, grabbed a piece and stuck half of it into his mouth. Reiber rolled his eyes.
“How is she, dude?” Anarchy asked, taking a seat on the end of the table that held Little Ruth.
PoloGuy followed after him. “Just where have you been? I needed your help around here.”
“Chill dude,” Anarchy flashed him a lazy peace sign. “Got me some food. Figured it was gonna be a long night.”
PoloGuy scoffed and licked his lips. “Not for you , my little pint-sized prepubescent.” He stopped walking long enough to let a single beam of soft overhead light fall across his face, twisting and distorting it into a grizzly elfen mask.
“Bring me the dentist.”
* * * * * *
Norman sat huddled on the floor of a darkened broom closet. Had he been entirely coherent, he might have realized it was a broom closet and not a jail cell. This was, after all, The Source, and there had been no room in such a magnificent building for prisons and holding cells. Unfortunately for Norman, PoloGuy had knocked the coherency right out of him, along with one of his teeth. As it was, Norman wasn’t aware of much at all. The ether had long since worn off, leaving only the first traces of a doozy of a headache.
His lack of awareness was not caused so much by the pain the putrid villain had inflicted on him, but by the knowledge that it had been his hand that had killed RuthAnne. He had seen her stumble away from him and sink to the floor. He hadn’t been able to see much of her after that, what with Anarchy sitting on his back like a wildebeest in heat. He’d only seen her arm, the pale skin on the inside of her elbow, and the way it hung limp at her side. He’d known at that instant it was over, and that whatever they did to him, it would not be sufficient punishment for murdering his wife. Despite whatever it was they had done to her to change her and make her over as the bride of Frankenstein, it had been her husband who had sent her to her grave.
A crack of light appeared as the door opened and Anarchy peeked his head into the small room. The boy peered in and saw Norman huddled on the floor in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. Anarchy came in, closing the door behind him as he flicked on the overhead light.
Man, he thought. What did she see in you? Skinny little guy like you has no business married to a woman like her. Must’a been the penis.
He knelt down next to Norman and shook his shoulder gently. “Dude, wake up.”
Norman didn’t respond.
Anarchy shook him again but stopped. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe he shouldn’t be too awake for whatever it was that PoloGuy was about to do to him.
“Dude, I don’t know what’s gonna happen to you,” he said softly. “I’m sorry it has to be this way. But Mr. Stone said that I’ve got to keep my cover. It might be too late for your wife, but I’ll do anything to save SuperCurt.”
Norman’s eyes blinked at the mention ofRuthAnne, but that was all the response of which he was capable. Anarchy gently lifted him to his feet and guided him out the door and to whatever fate awaited him on the other side.
* * * * * *
Jason Stone walked through the corridors of Arkham Asylum, Officer Petrechio leading the way. Petrechio, saddened by SuperCurt’s condition and treatment, had agreed to let the late-night visitor in to see the fallen hero despite the rules that said otherwise.
“Something’s up with him tonight.” the guard said in hopes of striking up a conversation. He’d always hated the way the sound of his footfalls echoed and echoed off the cement floor of the halls. “He’s not feeling so well.”
Stone bristled at the news. His ears perked up as the trained news-hound in him sat up and took notice. “What’s up?” he asked matter-of-factly, not wanting Petrechio to think he was fishing for information.
Petrechio shrugged. “No clue. One second he was visiting Rocko and everything seemed fine. Next thing we know, he’s puking his guts out. I know the food around this place ain’t the best, but I’ve never seen it get that bad.”
“When was this?” Stone asked.
“Late this afternoon. Just after dinner.”
Stone nodded. It made sense. Somehow, SuperCurt had been alerted to what was happening to his ex-partner. He wondered just how much he already knew.
“Who’s this Rocko guy?” he asked.
Petrechio scowled. “Bad guy. Use to party with the GFH. Went by the name A.P, but now everyone calls him Rocko. Sounds tough, I guess. He wanted to be called Milton for awhile there, but it sounded too wimpy, ya know?”
For the third time in less than two hours, Stone audibly gasped. A.P. was here? And SuperCurt had been to see him? What was up with that?
* * * * * *
In another part of the prison, deep underground, Ed Jones was standing in a darkened cell. The door was wide open, but he had no fear of the prisoner escaping. He’d actually been busy for two days trying to arrange just such an escape.
“So what did he say?”
A.P. closed Paradise Lost and stared calmly at Jones, a man he thought less than fondly of. “He didn’t say anything, vomited all over the place and had to leave.”
Jones turned away in disgust. “Damn! I thought for sure he’d take the bait. A prison break would fix him for good. Doesn’t matter if you’re innocent or not. No judge likes a prison break.”
A.P. smiled patiently. “Be calm, my friend. He’ll be back. I made it perfectly clear to him that I’m the only one who can control PoloGuy. SuperCurt will remember that, and when he needs a favor, I’ll be here waiting for him.”
Jones kicked the barred door, stubbing his toe. He hopped about for a moment, holding his wounded foot in his hands. “This better work. The sooner PoloGuy is out of the picture, the easier I’ll rest. And once you’ve finished this job, I want you out of here, you got it? I don’t care where you go. Just leave! I’m not going to all this trouble just so a couple of criminals can wreck everything. I got political aspirations!”
“He’ll be back.”
A second later, a cacophony of alarms began to sound. Jones jerked up straight, still clutching his foot, an action that quickly sent him sprawling to the floor. A.P. did not move to help him up. Flashing red lights illuminated the pale darkness like a thousand police cars.
“Looks like you might get that prison break anyway,” the villain whispered, a thin smile illuminating his face.
* * * * * *
“What the hell?” Petrechio, who’d nearly been knocked to the floor by the force of an unexpected blast, frantically reached to his side for his gun as the alarms began to sound. The hallway in which they’d been walking was filled with plumes of dust and clouds of smoke so thick the flashing red emergency lights could not penetrate them. It drifted and floated in the hallway like a strange creature from another world.
“What’s happened,” Stone asked.
Before Petrechio could respond the question was answered. From the center of the dust cloud a figure emerged, a ripped and tattered cape hanging in shreds down the length of his back. Stone felt his heart race. The figure came calmly toward them, shoulders thrown back, head held high. From somewhere in his head, Stone could have sworn he heard theme music playing, and it sounded like Jimmy Hendrix’s “Voodoo Child.”
Petrechio stared dumbfounded, his right hand still trying desperately to unholster his gun.
SuperCurt approached, his face calm and determined. His pace did not slow when he approached the shocked guard and the stunned reporter. As Petrechio finally unfastened his gun and withdrew it, SuperCurt swept by, casually reaching for the weapon and plucking it from Petrechio’s trembling hand. He crushed it into a ball and tossed it back over his shoulder.
Now that’s cool! thought Jason Stone.
“SuperCurt, where are you going?” he stumbled after the hero, alarms and sirens raging in his ears.
Without turning, SuperCurt replied, “To put an end to this once and for all.” With that, the hero raised his fists into the air and shot upward, through the ceiling, his cape rippling in the air behind him. The prison quaked as the ceiling gave in, sending rocks of cement and steel beams crashing down. When things subsided and the dust had cleared, Stone stepped under the gaping hole and looked up. What he saw amazed him.
SuperCurt had cut a path straight up through eight stories of very solid prison floor and ceiling. And at the very top he could see clouds and the night sky.
“I’ve got to get to The Source,” he said and clambered over the debris, Petrechio hot on his heels.
* * * * * *
Major Abbot-Cabezol was in a hurry. He didn’t know how long Reiber was going to be out of the lab. And while PoloGuy was in his office waiting for Anarchy to bring the dentist, Abbot-Cabezol knew this may be his last chance to have a few minutes alone with the bitch. He showed the Juggernaut guard at the door his clearance papers and hustled into the room, locking the door behind him.
The lights had been dimmed, as if someone inside was sleeping. And ‘lo and behold, there she was, on a hospital bed in the center of the room, a warm circle of light falling around the bed like the radiance of angels. Reiber had hooked her up to all sorts of gadgets and machines, none of which looked heaven-sent. They hummed and beeped methodically, like a complicated mechanical heart. One particular machine caught his attention: it was a large glass tube with a vinyl balloon in it that seemed to inflate and deflate on its own accord. Each time it expanded, it wheezed and sucked the air out of Little Ruth’s lungs. When it emptied, it wheezed again and filled her chest, lifting her slightly from the bed.
The Major smiled and stepped toward her.
“Looks like someone clipped your wings, little lady,” he sneered as he patted her cold leg. “No more flying for you.”
Little Ruth said nothing. The respirator, a terrible translator who hadn’t brushed up on its English, had nothing to say and was content to wheeze once more.
Abbot-Cabezol jumped up on the end of the bed and sat back. “I figure this is a pretty good time for us to have a little chat. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m gonna ask you not to speak.” His fingers lazily stroked the white sheet that covered her leg.
“As a matter of fact, I’m gonna ask that you do nothing at all, ever again.”
And with that, he leapt at the machines that were only just barely keeping her body alive.
* * * * * *
Although his imprisonment had been rather brief, it felt good to be among the clouds once again. The rain had taken a smoke break and had dulled to a mere drizzle by the time he’d escaped. Nonetheless, he’d climbed above the clouds and was making his way toward The Source.
SuperCurt had always preferred to fly above the clouds at night. He liked the way the city lights below filtered through, turning them a soft shade of luminous orange. And the higher he went, the smaller it all looked. From thirty-thousand feet, he could see almost all of southeast Idaho, each town a tiny blossom of orange cotton. It was still late summer and it seemed that each of the summer scents he so often took for granted, had been trapped above the cloud layer. Breathing in deeply, he could smell barbecues, freshly cut grass, and a thousand chlorinated swimming pools. How sad, he thought, that it took two days of “hard time” to remind him how much he really loved it.
And such thoughts immediately made his mind turn to Little Ruth and the times they’d spent with each other. No, they hadn’t ever really flown together for the simple peace and joy of flying with another, but they had shared a deep understanding of their love of being in the air, their capes flapping like flags behind them. Those had been simpler and easier days; and there were days he imagined existed, knowing full well that they were figments of his imagination. After all, there was little rest in being a Superperson, and if one had take solitude in the realm of fantasy, so be it, for it seemed that every time things were just winding down, something else had demanded his attention, tearing them apart.
But now, no matter what else happened, he was going to reclaim what was rightfully his. He was going to put an end to the madness, save her, and try to return her life to normal. He knew that there’d be resistance, that she might not even want a normal life, but he was going to try anyway. And when she was herself again, he would set her free to do as she pleased. With him or without him, her life would once again be her own. And if she was dead, as his gut told him, he’d give her the rest she’d so longed for.
He turned in mid-air and slipped down through the thick layer of clouds. The rain had taken one last drag of its cigarette and was ready to begin work again. Once under the clouds, it growled back to life, pelting his skin with dime-sized drops of water. He paid no attention. He could see the lights of The Source looming before him.
* * * * * *
Anarchy led Norman into the dark waiting office, the smell of cologne thick in the air. The boy winced and made a conscious effort to breath through his mouth. It did little good; he could taste the Polo on his tongue. Norman did nothing, barely even raising his feet from the tiled floor.
“Boss?” Anarchy called into the darkness. “I got the mad doctor here, just like you wanted.” He pushed Norman forward in mock contempt.
From somewhere in front of them, Anarchy heard a low growl, that however menacing was meant, sounded like indigestion. He pushed Norman further into the room and closed the door behind them.
“Boss? Where are you?” he called again.
“Thank you, Anarchy. You may go,” came the response. Anarchy peered toward the source of the voice but saw nothing. Only shadows.
“You sure?” he asked, not wanting to leave Norman alone. Despite his actions that day, if Little Ruth had loved him enough to marry him, if Stone had cared about his well-being, he couldn’t be all that bad a guy. He felt a strange urge to protect the doctor. He hadn’t been able to save Little Ruth, but he’d do almost anything to save her husband.
“Yes, I’m sure. I’m done with you tonight. You’re dismissed.”
Anarchy gulped. This wasn’t going to be easy. “I kinda hoped I could help.”
“GET OUT!” screamed the villain, lunging from the shadows, grabbing Norman by the collar and hurtling him across the room. “I said GET OUT!” he roared again.
Anarchy backed toward the door. “No problem. Maybe we can play Nintendo when you’re finished. I was thinking maybe you could show me how to get to Level 10 on that new game.”
PoloGuy reached for the boy, but Anarchy, suddenly unable to breath, flung the door open and jumped out. The door slammed, nearly hitting him in the face. The Juggernaut guard stationed there looked at him quizzically.
“Long day,” Anarchy shrugged and turned away.
Oh fuck, he thought. He’s gonna kill him.
* * * * * *
“Fucking bitch!” the Major roared, tearing at wires and tubes. The monitor near the bed started beeping frantically, like C3PO having a heart attack. The Major paid no attention; he was far too busy beating Little Ruth’s chest and smashing expensive medical equipment.
“I’ll teach you to fucking mess with me!” In his excitement he lost his balance and slipped from the bed, falling to the floor in a hysterical mess. He leapt up and reached in his pocket and pulled out a thick roll of heavy black duck tape.
He jumped back onto the bed and started stringing tape across her body, from her nearly bald head to her leather-clad feet, over and under the mattress, pinning her down firmly. When he finished with that, he wadded it into balls and started pushing them into her open mouth and down her throat.
“I’ll fucking teach you!”
The room suddenly quaked, rafters and beams falling from the ceiling. Abbot-Cabezol turned in time to see a red and blue streak speed down from above and come to a stop on the tiled floor not twenty feet from him. The roll of tape slipped from his hand and rolled across the floor, coming to a stop under the pointed red boot of SuperCurt.
“Y-you’re supposed to be in jail...” he stammered, slipping off the bed and backing up. “We took care of you. YOU CAN’T BE HERE!” He screamed and bolted as far across the room from the Superperson as he could.
SuperCurt said nothing, but reacted quickly. Moving faster than the Major’s eyes could register, the hero leapt across the room and grabbed the frightened man by the throat. Abbot-Cabezol, briefly thinking himself free, freaked out and shit his pants.
Is that Jimmy Hendrix I hear, he thought as he was thrown across the room, striking a cabinet and falling to the floor.
“I didn’t kill her!” he screeched, holding his hands up to defend himself. “She was already dead!”
SuperCurt paid him no attention. He moved to the bed and the side of his fallen companion. He grabbed the thick ropes of tape and pulled them away from her, tossing them to the floor. Gently, he touched her hand, taking it in his own. It was cold and limp, and very heavy. He pulled her body to his chest and held it there, rocking gently back and forth. It was the first time he’d actually touched her in years.
“What’s happened to you?” he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. His lower lip quivered uncontrollably and his voice cracked. “I’m so, so sorry, Little Ruth. Why did this have to happen to you?” He stroked her hair with his fingers and let his tears fall on her face. “I only did what I thought was best. I followed instructions. I did everything I could to get you back and make you happy. How could it go so horribly wrong?” He fell silent and gazed at her serene face, touching the soft skin of her eye-lids with the tips of his fingers. And then, without warning, his agony found a voice. He suddenly clutched her tightly to him and bellowed in pain and rage, screaming until he was heard across the entire valley. Without explanation, everyone in Pocatello knew the depth of his pain.Every window in The Source shattered, sending shards of glass falling to the empty parking-lot below. Jason Stone, who’d been running up the steps outside, had to shield himself under a partition to keep from getting cut to pieces. Anarchy covered his ears and hid under his bed. PoloGuy froze in his tracks, his fist raised menacingly over Norman. The dentist, who’d heard and felt nothing all afternoon, suddenly blinked awake and recognized every ache and pain in his body. Petunia and Salisbury, who’d also reached the steps of the vast structure, looked skyward, into the falling rain. The thunder bellowed down on them, gnashing its teeth and spitting. Traffic came to a standstill, perplexing one slightly Hawaiian reporter who’d recently been transferred to the traffic report.
Back inside The Source, SuperCurt’s voice fell silent. He held Little Ruth a moment longer and then carefully sat her back on the bed, wiping his tears from her face. Then slowly, so slowly that Abbot-Cabezol had ample opportunity to register what was happening, he turned toward the Major, who’s eardrums had exploded, and walked across the room toward him.
“I hold you personally responsible for her death, Major,” SuperCurt hissed as he plucked the man from the floor and pulled him to his face.
“Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything...” he whimpered.
SuperCurt reached for his throat, wrapping his fingers tightly around it. “You will not speak. You need only listen, and not for long because when I’m finished with you, you will have all of the rest of forever to do with as you please.” He squeezed, feeling bones weaken and flex in unusual ways. “You have killed the only thing that meant anything to me. You robbed me of all that I held dear. And for that, you will pay.”
The Major had little time to respond, for an instant later his neck had snapped, killing him in SuperCurt’s hands. The hero, tears still in his eyes, tossed the lifeless body aside and turned back to Little Ruth. He scooped her up in his arms, jumped into the air and flew back out the hole he had come in through.
He cradled her dead body as he floated down to the paved parking-lot. Jason Stone, Petunia, and Salisbury hurried to his side. The cat slid up next to her former master and rubbed her head against Little Ruth’s limp hand. She meowed softly and curled up into a small purple ball at her side. Salisbury stroked the cat’s fur and whimpered. Anarchy, from his bedroom window, looked down on the scene with tears in his eyes. Stone, without a cigarette for the first time in days, said nothing. He could only watch and listen to the wail of approaching sirens.
SuperCurt was oblivious to their presence. He only cried as the rain pelted his body, soaking through his spandex uniform.
“Oh God, what has happened?” He looked skyward as if expecting an answer. “I did what you said and now look...” he shook her softly. “Look at what’s happened!”
Stone would later say that what happened next originally sounded like thunder rolling across a vast distance of deserts and crags. The people gathered around the body of Little Ruth paid it no attention until it was directly over them, hovering in the sky like a giant buzzing mosquito. One by one, they looked up, blinking back the rain.
“Build it and she will come,” the voice said. Lightning flashed, illuminating the parking lot.
SuperCurt stammered. He rose to his feet, Little Ruth still in his arms. “I did!” he called. “I did build it! I did exactly as you said, but it went wrong. It went horribly wrong!”
“BUILD IT AND SHE WILL COME,” the voice repeated.
SuperCurt stared up at the clouds and the morning that was just appearing on the horizon. He shook his head, choking back his sobs.
“Build what? What do I build?”
And almost as soon as he asked the question, a ball of lightning ripped across the sky, igniting the clouds. The small group flinched and looked up in time to see the answer. It came in the form of a giant square cumulonimbus cloud. Petunia leapt to her feet, recognizing the shape immediately. Salisbury chittered. Stone knew it from a movie he’d once seen. SuperCurt nodded, feeling the blood pump rapidly through his veins once again. He knew the shape, knew it well. He’d been there once and was fairly confident he could go again. After all, Devil’s Tower was not that far away.
“I will. I’ll take her there and I will build it...”
“AND SHE WILL COME,” the voice finished his sentence for him.
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