Gone, gone am I.
The job that was trying to kill me has agreed with me that I should be somewhere else. The fun part; they begged me to stay a full three weeks after I gave them my notice. They needed someone to train my replacement, they said, that I had to finish work from a huge project they were about to do, a project that I had never been trained on, I should mention. Begrudgingly, and because I’m too much of a nice guy (or a coward, take your pick, I don’t mind) I told them sure and braced myself for a fresh round of hell. That all changed by the time lunch rolled around. When I got the call from HR, I knew what was about to happen. I was quickly escorted out of the building, my bag full of my possessions, and my hat in my hand. They let me keep the picture of me meeting Lady Quantum they had from the security cameras, so that was nice of them while they informed me that they couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.
One thing I love about this town? The consistency. I can consistently assume that they will praise me and damn me to make themselves look good. Of course, in this town, it seems the best way to get someone to look good is by stomping on others. So like I said, consistency.
Still I was happy to be out of there. It was decent pay, but what good is money if you don’t live long enough to spend it. Kay, on her end, has been blessing the water cooler, eating foods rich in garlic, and drawing pentagrams in salt under the welcome mat for weeks. She has had enough of people trying to drain her as well. One of her coworkers, the one that almost got her fired for literally obeying the company policy (I wish I was kidding), almost got staked when she took her new job. Apparently she forgot to tell her new employer, the devoutly Greek Orthodox employer, that she’s a blood drinking creature of the night. According to the rumor mill, he told his priest, who told the catechism, who informed the Night Watchmen, who took it upon themselves to rid the world of one more demon. Thankfully, they staked her on the right side of the chest, telling her to “ship up and fly right from now on,” whatever that means. Kay is happy that she wasn’t killed but couldn’t help but feel delighted. Sure, she was a vampire, a creature of the night, and a drainer of blood and souls who would kill or destroy easily, but she was also a bitch who liked to get other people in trouble to boost her own ego and career. Not unlike, see above.
Oh, the other vampire that tried to get her fired? Yeah, they found out she had been feeding on the board of directors and enthralling them to get a better position. She was also sleeping with her boss. So they fired her. Then the spouses of the enthralled directors found her and they fired her again. By which I mean, they set her on fire. What’s most surprising is they had a permit to do it. Amazing what statutes and bylaws one can find if one looks. Apparently it’s covered under an extermination policy for virulant diseases and parasites. Several vampire rights groups are trying to get it repealed but until then all it takes is a legal professional, the right paper work, and a simple 5150. I guess that “Danger to Others” thing is taken pretty far.
I'm not going to get dragged into a political shouting match about "vampire rights" versus "safety of the species" on my own blog. This is supposed to be about the metahuman events in my town and around the world. Maybe show a bit of hope in the world. You want to shout about that, there are dozens of websites to go nuts on. Not mine. Now if you excuse me, there is a werewolf howl around here somewhere hosted by the most laid back demon you ever met who has a recipie for Beef Wellington he claims to be borrowed from Anubis himself. And I'm going to find it. Or maybe a beer. Whatever.
Still, it’s good to be out of there. Packing continues as well as getting rid of furniture. In this town, it’s a lot harder than it looks. For one, every charity in every other city I have ever lived in will be more than happy to come and pick up the stuff you are giving them for free so they can sell at a profit. Not here. Here there are only two charities that will pick up. One doesn’t want furniture and the other won’t reasonably arrive to pick it up or do any lifting. Sigh.
In the meantime we hired a few movers to help us lug stuff out. Many of the services out there weren’t great or had mixed reviews. Two, even after poor reviews charged more than a hundred bucks more than just about any other company we looked at. Brawny Movers on the other hand, got great reviews, came with a truck, and are pretty inexpensive. I think it helps that they hire metas to most of the heavy lifting. I’m told to expect two guys, Brian and Killdozer, to come help when we fill our MoveCubes.
Wish us luck.
Now, where did I put my tape gun. I always put it down then lose it….
Keep Dreaming
Daniel
I have to ask the other creatives in who read this a deep philosophical question that I know has its roots deep within psychology, physiology, and biochemistry. It’s a question that I know others in on one form or another have tried to solve in their own ways, utilizing whatever technology they have at hand so that they could find solace without having to confront this dilemma, so I know there is an answer out there. Please all those out there, hear my query:
Why do I get so many ideas while peeing? and do so few of them survive the twenty feet to the computer desk? It’s so damn irritating.
No, seriously. I have had zingers, great quotes, plot points, and revelations of all sorts (really good ones too) get dissolved by a flushing noise. I can’t think of how many words vanished in that room, never to be thought correctly of again. Oh, well. Enough of the deep questions.
Soon I shall be free.
This isn’t another deep question, only a realization that keeping a day job and moving a two bedroom apartment when one is as disorganized and out of shape as I am doesn’t come easy. So while I will be losing several weeks of pay for a job that barely wants me here in the first place as far as I can tell, I’m opting to take the time off, pack, sell, and do the impossible: weed through my comic collection to see what can be sold and jettisoned. The number of long boxes I have is a little problematic and it’s been suggested that enough was enough, that graphic novels and individual issues were not a good idea, etc. It was time to start getting rid of that which I have spent 35 years collecting, reading, and obsessing about.
You know that scene in Tablesaw IV where the guy has to not only use a blowtorch to cut off his arm at the shoulder to escape the room before it fills with poisonous gas all the while he has to describe the smell to the evil sentient computer who longs to understand human suffering?
Yeah, it’s kind of like that.
Stop laughing.
I know we all have those things that we obsess over, long for, and sometimes lose faith in and yet are unable to let go of. This isn’t just a hobby, a favorite food, or a sports team, it’s a religion; a religion that should never fail to support the follower. In San Niebla, the Ashland Pirates inspire loyalty and disgust in equal measure, usually from the same people, some of which aren’t even into football. All over the net various TV shows and movies become the aspect of people's lives, so much so when slight changes are made, the vitriol comes flying, like lava from an unappeased volcano. Kind of like when they reboot that sci-fi show as a movie? You know the one, that one where they stole scripted scenes, shot by shot and still failed to capture what made the show so special in the first place. I know some of you screamed blue murder! And yet these people don’t lose faith that what is next will be better, a new experiment, or otherwise the story continues. When Dynatron Comics did their universe wide shake up and end up with what is universally panned, I did the impossible: I stopped collecting. Almost a dead stop of all my comics. Now thanks to my status as a former employee of a comic shop in Ashland that is nice enough to send me my books at a massively discounted price, I used to get a boat load every few weeks. My addiction is has not gone cold turkey so much as trickling in and threatening to ensnare me once again. Go on, comics. I dare you!
Not that it’s my only obsession. Have you seen the photos of Bacchane’s latest shindig? The number of names that came out of the woodwork, who ate, danced, and just plain went nuts is still something of a surprise. Besides some of the locals, a few Questers, Grand Master Grav, I think I saw Columbia, the Illuminator, and Doctor Auric in various pictures, and I swear I saw what looked to be Chevron lounging in the background. I’m not sure but I think I saw Ghost Owl in the rafters. Sure would be one hell of a party where everyone of every persuasion could just let their hair down and find peace with the pulsating rhythm.
That is, of course, if everyone wasn’t there to stop Bacchane. His parties get a little… explosive. The fact that he is a party elemental might have something to do with it.
In a way, I’m thankful I missed it and just saw the reports on the news. It started in a small tavern called “Big Wigs,” just some hipster bar on the North East side. I can’t say I was ever inside it, I’m not the kind of guy who hangs out in either hipster places or bar, save for a known favorite, (Pele’s Peak), so I looked it up online. Small place filled with artisanal drafts, but mostly did a brisk trade in Pabst Blue Medal, and a small stage known for open mike nights and the occasional poetry slam. The walls were covered in old crudely copied flyers for former bands and limited par aphelia. Oddly, most of the seating was picnic tables. Go fig. From what I can tell, a surprise concert was supposed to take place there last night. Welcher’s Bet was supposed to some sort of acoustic concert to celebrate their tenth anniversary of their first release, just a little show for dedicated fans of their work. Apparently, Bachchan is one of those fans. Once he showed up in the middle of “Gauntlet Gadget Blues” the whole affair took on a different tone.
Most people know about the water to wine incident in the Bible. No one stops to think what happens when all the water was drunk and they had to turn to hard alcohol. Or that other miracle of making a small amount of food feed a wedding feast to contentment. Just imagine what that certain someone could do with all those solo cups of Pabst Blue Medal. Needless to say when Bacchane arrives, the number of alcohol poisoning cases skyrocket. Soon what was once a nice get together to watch a decent band play a special concert became something akin to a riot. It wasn’t a “kill all the cops” riot or “we demand free speech” riot or even a ‘We think Che Guevara is kind of neat” riot. We got those all the time in Ashland. It was closer to an “Our team is really cool and I think you are really cuddly” riot.
Yeah, that was a new one on me too.
Police did arrive and were quickly swept up in the shenanigans and good feelings. It’s amazing how fast one can go from riot gear to streaking. Sure several ADAM units tried their best but it’s hard to get a clean stun shot in when hordes of innocent bystanders are blocking the target. It’s one of Bacchane’s greatest abilities that has kept him alive so long. Most people who get close enough to damage him are usually swept up in the frenzy long before they get within arm’s reach. Anyone who is good enough from a distance has to deal with acres of party goers acting as human shields. Even if you are they type who doesn’t mind all those innocent casualties, all to stop the Ringmaster of this little spur of the moment rave of doom, (I’m looking at you Chevron and half of your followers at Terraq) getting a good enough shot is difficult. People and things always happen to get in the way. I suspect that he has no photos on file simply because others are always standing in front of him when someone pulls out a camera.
(Note: I am wrong on this account. Mostly because he likes to post his selfies, or at least someone claiming to be him. If it is him, he has aged really nicely for what some believe to be a 70 year old. He looks like he is barely out of college and loaded with cash. However, fake meta accounts have been created in the past. One genius tried to poach an account for Tom Foolery in hopes of either ruining the man’s reputation or to sell it to him later. I’m told they found the genius encased in six feet of Lucite, attached to a very sarcastic mock up of an action figure display sealed with a massive post-it note reading “Mint in the box.” )
Anyway, this little riot threatened to overtake the Northeast sector… all of it. I can’t tell you how many square miles that might be. every TV and radio turned on and started blaring dance music. Neighbors and total enemies suddenly provided hor d'oeuvres and drinks, even the ones in strict AA programs. Needless to say the weed made the area look like a Chinese industrial winter in seconds. Sure it seemed like a nice party and brought people out to enjoy the good time, that is until the houses started to get demolished. Apparently, Bacchane didn’t approve of some of the new buildings in the area, the new apartment complexes meant to look modern but just look like drab color yuppie boxes. They offended his eyes so they tore it down. A mob of drunken people just spent the night ripped up a building with their bare hands. All three stories. It was like Keith Moon on steroids.
Several metas were called out to help, but, as anyone with a history with him could tell you, anyone sent against him just becomes another party guest and adds to the celebration. Which means other things he thought were uncool soon got destroyed, a mediocre German restaurant, a vintage record store that refused to own anything after 1972, a scrapbooking specialty store. All of them, gone, though the music was amazing.
I have to hand it to local law, though. They thought it through. It wasn’t easy, and he wasn’t apprehended but at least two ADAM units managed to make it through the crowd. The seventeen that didn’t survive came back spray painted with images of pigs and loaded with hashtags, most notably #F---ThePolice, #TheMan, and #MetaLivesMatter. I don’t try to guess where all the spraypaint came from.
Of the two that made it, one, #17823 managed to hold the riot at bay and clear the way for its partner #12353, or as he is now known on the internet “1Adam12.” I have no idea if a robot can dislike a nickname but I don’t think it matters. 1Adam12 was on the other hand, smart. Much smarter than it’s other ADAM units, or so it’s whispered by tech partners and people who say they were at the event. 1Adam12 had the bright idea to call in a psychologist, figuring that brute force would never stop this sort of thing, not without being a complete PR disaster for the city in general. The Police had several psychologists on hand but 1Adam12 left his post to find Dr. Quantum. Quantum, as always, had a great idea.
As #17823 kept the crowd at bay, 1Adam12 managed to fight through the remaining, striding hard against the onrush of humanity, many suggesting they have been at a party with a Droid before. Other suggestions were made about how said ‘Droid’ could loosen up or how it could otherwise spend its time away from “the Man.” I’ll let you fill in the details. Judging from what little footage I manage to see from various uploads, whatever strange, depraved, fun, exciting, or nonsensical your idea might be, it’s probably true. 1Adam12 on the other hand, ignored everyone, successfully strode up to Bacchane and demanded his presence like a subject to a king. Bacchane rose to the challenge, but didn’t rise from the pile of wellwishers and groupies. He cracked his knuckles, about to suggest how much these ADAM units are bothering him, ensuring its demise when 1Adam12 threw himself on the pile and managed to slip a metallic arm around Bacchane, a feat almost unrivaled. Bacchane dared the unit to take him in, crush him, explode, whatever. The Party Elemental suggested it would do no good and this party would rival Woodstock 2001 in every respect. 1Adam12 had a different plan.
The Droid aimed his hand at Bacchane’s head and yelled. “Say Cheese!”
Selfies, seventy six and all, proclaiming how much the cops loved a good gathering like this. I’m not sure how a ADAM unit could make faces like that, but he did, goofy, silly, and overall mortifying. The images were uploaded immediately to Baccahne’s pages, all of them. Showing once and for all the demigod of celebration in all his glory.
#17823, now spray painted dayglow yellow with psychedelic imagery started to dance adding to the images. Dad dancing to boot. For the record, no one programmed the ADAM units to dance and probably never will. The unit, now dubbed the Dance-o-matic 4000, made drunken uncles at weddings look like John Travolta.
I can say the only thing I did experience from the party, way out here in Ducklyn. Both Kay and I raised our heads from the TV and her knitting to wonder who shouted outside but shrugged it off by the words, “This Party is Over!” At least it was over, not knowing it was Bacchane yelling it across towns.
Released from 1Adam12’s grasp, he sighed and said he needed a rest, walked into a nearby Men’s room, and disappeared. Apparently, his powers involved teleporting from one party to another. For a man who makes everyone around him drunk and excited, it was the only way to travel.
The music stopped. The thruming beats trickled to a halt and people, most of whom having no idea where they were, staggered home, or to the bus, or just to the ER to get their stomachs pumped. I’m sure lives were ruined, sobriety programs were set back years, and a spike in pregnancies and STD’s was probably about to be reported, but at least it was over. Good to know he still had a weakness, not one easy to exploit but still.
Vanity, thy name is Bacchane.
Clean up crews were sent in, necessary arrests were made and the aftermath of broken bottles and vomit quickly got swept away. It was advised to most to believe this was in fact a dream. I’m sure it kept many divorces from happening. For a week later, every channel, it seemed, played a Midsummer Night’s Dream on at least one of the versions set to video. The arts channel played nothing but shakespearean comedies for the month. Hell, most politician quoted from them for a while after.
At least until Lord Quantum showed up. But that’s another entry.
As for Bacchane, he was never arrested and his analysis of his pictures didn’t reveal his name or any record, other than to truly reveal that those selfies he took were in fact him. He will always be known by his moniker and I think most people are ok with it as long as this doesn’t happen again for a long time. At least wait for the Lumberjacks to win another World Cup. I’m sure there will be celebration like that again.
The man himself vanished from Bridgeton and, according to reports, appeared at the slumber party of Stephanie Mercer of Toltec, Ohio. It was characterized as a small gathering of young women to help said Ms. Mercer deal with a bad breakup by watch movies and eat ice cream.
According to all records and accounts of that night, it was epic.
Keep Dreaming
Daniel
Compared to the last few weeks, so far this week has been pretty quiet. Not much other than watch the aftermath of a couple of Questers finding several Candy Girls (all of whom, I’m told are getting treatment) in their attempt to steal several hundred gallons of various chemicals with names that would take too long to correctly pronounce and spell let alone list here. Instead, my work continues, packing continues, sort of, and life in general continues. I heard on the news that at least three of the recent abductees have been saved, one from Kid Quantum, one from a hero called Ghost Owl (who I should probably talk about soon, as he claims to be one of the only native heroes to Bridgeton). The last was rescued by, of all people, Snowflake.
Oh I was getting a few emails regarding the blog. They tell me I should included more background info. As the wiki is taking forever (you try to do this when holding down a 40+/hr work week in a job that sees you as a leech that doesn’t replenish you in anything other than finances, plus household chores, errands, and making time for the family. Not so easy is it? Stop showing off Electricpop! (Mom of a teen, full worker, seamstress and occasional writer… who says women don’t do more in a day?)) That being said, I think I should explain a few bits more. In this case, Snowflake and why I’m startled to find her hauling in victims of super-violence. Again, I shouldn’t be that surprised if people don’t know about her. I get the same problem talking about science fiction movies I forget people have not seen. That also might be the reason I get people who look at me strangely now when I quote Dune…Anyway, I don’t expect everyone out there to know everything I do. I’m the obsessive compulsive geek with a near fetish for the gods among us. Not all of them make the news, and plenty are pretty obscure. It’s kind of like being a metal fan around rock fans. Some bands you can mention and people will smile, nod, or maybe put in a vote of confidence, even an occasional “That band rules!” Others are so obscure some people scratch heads, while others smile, nod, pretend to know what you are talking about, and silently judge your music tastes and life choices.
It happens.
Snowflake, as much as the name sounds like something a kindergartener might call her stuffed pony, could also be called by her other less formal title, ‘Unofficial Queen of Terraq.”
(Terraq for those who don’t know, is the small nation populated entirely by metahumans carved out of the Alaskan wilderness and turned into a thriving state with a reputation as the supervillain equivalent of a pirate port of call. It’s ruled by Chevron, formerly Robert Chevron, formerly Robert William Kendrick, formerly the sidekick Billy Club before his powers manifested. So far everyone on the same page? Great. Don’t get too excited, some of the stuff I know came from the internet and is of dubious accuracy, considering that I have read recent articles that wonder why records say Terraq exists and doesn’t exist at the same time. More on that at a later article…)
She is given that less formal title as a whisper more than anything else. She has been seen on the arm of Chevron at just about every major event the Overlord has attended publicly. While it is only rumor that two of them are in a relationship, any suggestions by any press who can make it into Terraq is met with silence and peculiar looks. But there is more to the woman than who she is seen draped over in a sky blue and white off the shoulder number. Some have called her the Icicle of Doom, the Frost Princess, and other less appropriate names in various blogs. She is also one of the most powerful cryokinetics on the planet, an interesting irony as she hails from New Orleans. Judging what little I know about her family history, based on the fact that her foster father and younger foster daughter were found encased in six feet of ice in the middle of summer, she might have issues with people who abuse young women. Most of the time she is scouting for Terraq or being a pain in the Paramericans side. Glad to see her working with the good guys. Even a broken clock is right twice a day and all that.
Ok, lesson over…
She returned the girl to the police commissioner himself, made a note that the Candy Man would not be terrorizing Bridgeton for a while but he was not gone. If the commissioner didn’t believe her, then she could ask anyone of the Questers, Paramericans, and even the Flight of Champions, all of which had representatives at the event, whatever it was. She also mentioned more would be returned soon, as many girls opted to stay with the Monster as he fled, and some were left behind. Threats, remnant powers, psychology, and addictive behaviors had to be monitored and evaluated before they could safely be returned. Many of them had criminal records based on their activities working for him and that would have to be accounted for later. There was talk of find the Candy Crushers, a group of former Candy Girls who made it their mission to destroy the candy maker after surviving their time in his ‘family.’ However, they cannot be reached. As far as I could tell on various forums, they don’t like to work with police, seeing as technically they are vigilantes operating out of an unrecognized group. Oh, and they don’t like to take prisoners so any contact would not be easy. Still if anyone knew how to deal with the trauma, addiction, and abuse of being a Candy Girl (or Stripers as they are sometimes called) it would be them. Granted, their coping mechanism isn’t the best for what some would call a normal life. But hey, I’m just a failed counselor. I have no idea how the biochemistry and trauma might scar that kind of mind. I can only wish for the best.
On a side note, I’m thankful the Candy Man has been dealt with before Halloween. Nothing sucks more for a kid than knowing a holiday where one dresses up as whatever, goes door to door to get sugary treats becomes a terror day of contaminated candies and human suffering. I lived through the “Razor blades in apples” and “Tainted candy” scares of the 80’s. Trust me. Losing faith in humanity starts at an early age and it’s because of things like that. But now kids can enjoy bite sized whatevers in relative safety. Score one for the good guys.
That was a little while ago and I found myself in my slightly larger amount of free time contemplating several issues at hand and doing a little research. Yes, I’m doing this to get the Institute off my back but I can’t say I wouldn’t have done it. It damn fascinating and I’m obsessed anyway. Better to make your demons work for you than against you, yes? This lead me to internet research mostly and reading several books. Until my job put the smack down on any and all who used the internet for anything non business, it seemed like a good way to fill up the time between assignments.
Did I mention I’m quitting this job? Not for the reason above, I am actually moving away you know.
I sat in the Golden Grog again, relishing the feeling of the place and wondering how many times I could go here again. There is nothing like it in Space City, not even close. Although there is some really kick-ass restaurants there and barbecue is a must, but the general feel of a full on metahuman bar run by a former hero who makes a magic elixir in form of a brewers special beer and the chance to see someone in costume ask for a special in exchange for a photo with the bare-chested Ettin. I doubt there are many places like this in the world. And no, I thought about but doubt I would have the chops to open one there. Besides, there is no replacing Bobbi or the other hard working people who really made this place what it is.
(Note: today’s color was Tangerine. Someone got the points today by pointing out that it was actually the shade of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrapper. So congrats to whomever that was.)
With Edgar upstairs doing paperwork, Bobbi enjoying her attention while manning the register and acting as defacto maitre d, I saw under a picture of Arrowhead and Firefly when they stopped by in the late 80’s. I hear they have a kid now. My book of notes lay before me as I scribbled some ideas for plots, some musings on what people have told me recently, like all the Institute issues, GTI, whatever this Xenex thing was, and what exactly was Sovereign Brain? I also had several print outs of various articles from the late 50’s and early sixties. Some talk about how the First Mr. Atomic helped in the several excursions into Korea and other East Asian countries at the time. Two talk about, how after the initial push, several metas in on the communist side made the war almost apocalyptic and how this pushed the UN to add to the Geneva Convention rules as to how metahumans could engage in warfare. But others don’t have a word about him, even at the same engagements. It was as if he was Schrodinger’s Hero, both there and not there at the time.
He wasn’t the only one.
There should be a huge number of articles about Paramerican’s role in WWII. I can find articles related to Hitler’s Elite and the Übermensch, but they are talking about eugenics and silly notions of purity and perfection rather than the group of metas that fought the Allied forces at every turn. It was frustrating. I even found an entire page devoted to a man named Edward Fallon, a name briefly mentioned by Captain Lyons and Elizabeth Lambert in a speech they made just after their wedding in 1889. Apparently he was some sort of ‘Man of Adventure” and a gentleman at the same time. Granted I also found an entry about an Edward Fallon around the same time stating that he was a Secretary of Trade for the Morning Star Shipping. I have no idea if they are the same person, though images look similar, graying mustache and beard combo, top hat, and piercing eyes. Anyway, in the Man of Adventure version, he kept a diary, most of which was burned in 1910 for reasons unknown. Several pages survived, thanks to some servant who remains nameless, fishing the final pages off a desk while the others burned. On the last page, past several proclamations, two things were scrawled in a barely legible hand. Truly out of character for the elderly Victorian in the early part of the new century. The first stated: “We approach a new age of Quantum possibilities, unlike each universe unto the other.” This might be the mad ravings of a man known to ingest things that would make me run and hide for sanity, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was quoted verbatim in a speech that Mr. Atomic made just before retiring to the Bikini Atoll. The other simply stated. “It said its name was Xenex.” It’s the closest to anything I have been able to muster about that word.
This little assignment raged in my head, frustrating. None of the info made any sense in combination to other data. Granted my head was still a little shaky after having my memory played with. (Dear Institute: I know you are reading this. Stop doing that!) But still, it looked like a history unhinged, constantly in flux because Schrödinger made too many boxes and forgot which cat was in which. There was enough to make a person wonder, but not enough to be what I would call evidence. I stared to wonder why no one else noticed the possible idea that several actual histories are overlapping and may not contain the same events and people before. Ok, one person might have figured it out but all the evidence he could come up with has to do with the pronunciation of the Bearstein Bears. I was about to start slamming my head on the tables and pulling what is left of my hair out by the roots when a person approached. I almost thought they were my waiter.
“May I join you?”
I started to say, “I’m not sure that is a good idea as I’m looking at the mess that is human history and needing a file cabinet for all these strange paradoxes” when a mug of hot chocolate, a spoon still swinging in the contents, was placed before me, right next to the print out of a 3rd century tapestry that might actually have a crude rendering of the Quantum symbol. I looked up, about to protest, when I saw the glasses first. The slender, almost cartoonishly thin, man looked back through red and white striped rimmed glasses. His hair, a shoulder length grey bob framed his smiling face. I don’t think I have ever seen eyes like that before or since. I know my face must have blanched in seconds while I stared at him, muttering “oh, my gods.’
He repeated his question. “Again, Sir, May I join you?”
If I didn’t nod, I knew many, many people were going to die with probably myself at the top of the list. I slowly bobbed my head. “Many thanks to you and yours, kind sir.” He said as he took the seat across the table. He was not in his traditional suit that look like Willy Wonka preparing for a killing spree. Instead he wore a simple grey suit with a grey overcoat and radically non-descript grey fedora. Only his glasses gave him away. In his hand, he had a frosty mug of lemonade, the super sweet scent wafted over me and made me want to gag. He took a sip and looked out the window. “On a day as lovely as this, it’s no wonder why so many flock to the fair, green, and mostly grey of your berg. I do hope they enjoy the occasional spice of life to keep the gloom from seeping into their soul. But they do indeed have some of the best pastries I have ever sampled on this continent, do they not?”
Like a magic trick he flicked a donut out of the air. I honestly think it was just sleight of hand, but I have no idea how he does it. Hell, I’m still amazed by Penn and Teller a lot of the time. He placed it on a small bread plate that happened to be on the table. I recognized the Emblem of Evil donut, a signature creation of Nick Scratch’s Donut shop. It was coated in chocolate frosting, emblazoned with a pentagram on the top with red icing and filled with a deep red raspberry jelly. He pulled my unused knife and fork wrap across the table to himself and pulled out the utensils. With a surgeon’s precision, he carved it up and speared a section. He popped it in his mouth and chewed delightedly. “Exquisite.” He said around his chewing, humming slightly. “Simply Exquisite.” He swallowed with an almost comical “Ah,” and took another drink.
I stayed motionless, watching him eat. He did so, as if at a fanciful tasting, savoring every bite and washing them down, as if to cleanse his palette. When he was done, he dabbed at his mouth with the paper napkin. “Such a delightful treat.” He said as he placed the napkin down. “Still, my little darlings need me, and I cannot be long. Though, if might trouble you for a bit of information before I go sir? I do promise to pay for your services.”
I haven’t stuttered in years. I don’t do it often, only when overloaded mentally or emotionally. In retrospect I should not have been surprised when they fell out of my lips again. “Wh-wh-what can I tell you?” I over enunciated each word to guarantee they came out clearly.
“I understand the Gummy bear was a huge success and my atomic fireballs will soon be all the rage.” He pulled a small notepad from his pocket and a pen. Both looked sugar coated. “But did you get a look at the new wintergreen patties? The Bit ‘o Honey solution?”
I shook my head. Slowly.
He pointed his pen at me and tsked. “If you leave that open like that you will attract flies.”
I didn’t know my mouth was agape. I snapped it shut, fairly certain I would need to get a few fillings redone.
“Still a pity. I have so many formulas to test. Those lovelies could have provided so much more entertainment. Fun for the whole family.”
My body pushed my stomach contents up, further than I liked, at those words. Don’t throw up. I told myself. Don’t insult him and for the love of all, don’t give him the opportunity to offer you a cough drop.”
He looked at me, his eyebrow raising. “Are you all right, good sir?”
“I’m fine, thank you for your kindness.” I tried not to say it as a single syllable. I swear I did.
He smiled again, contented. “Very well then. If you can tell me what went wrong with the atomic fireball, I will have what I need and I will take my leave.”
“She never ate it.” I blurted out. “She barely licked it. Just used it to threaten the Paragon Council.”
He slumped a little, slipping his pad and pen in his pocket again. “Oh that miserable Denise. Always the show off. Well, I will miss her. But what the world gives we must accept, yes?” He talked like he was discussing an experiment or an appliance. I heard of people with more compassion and longing for their old cell phone.
“I suppose so.” I said. Don’t let me throw up. Don’t let me throw up. My body told me in no uncertain terms that I had a time limit for that request.
“Very well.” He said. “Thank you for your time, good sir. I do expect a good write up in your review, yes?”
I nodded. What else was I going to do?
“Delighted!” He raised his glass to me again and finished the contents. When he put the glass down again, his other hand placed a small foil wrapped ball on the table. “Thank you, good sir. Take heart. I don’t believe we will speak again. This town is getting too crowded for me. Perhaps Capital might offer me a better place to build my factory. Until then,” He tipped his hat at me. “Good day and enjoy life.”
He whistled as he left. “If you want to view paradise, simply look around a view it.…” I watched him leave, nod silently to one of the cashiers who absentmindedly thanked him for coming to the Golden Grog, and walk down the street. He vanished among the crowd in seconds.
The little green foiled ball stared back at me. The cup of hot chocolate had already dissolved the spoon. Using a napkin I picked up the sphere, gently, and dropped it in the fluid. Immediately, it hiss as silver bubbles formed around the slowly disappearing candy. The whole mug caught fire. I used the plate and snuffed out the flames. Thank the gods with decent reflexes. Even better, none of my notes or pictures seemed affected by the flash.
Edgar ran over. Flames in his restaurant will do that. “What in the name of the Gods and Giants was that all about?” He roared. “You know this is a non smoking place!”
I looked up at him, unable to countenance the idea of getting thrown out, let alone getting screamed at by the Ettin. “That…” I pointed to the door. “That was the Candy Man.”
I quickly went over the events of the discussion and how the binary chemicals interacted. At the end, Edgar shook his head. “By Odin’s beard.” He said before slumping his shoulders and looking at the sky. “He could have been on my wall!”
Thanks Edgar. Let’s keep perspective shall we?
I quickly cleaned up my notes and tried to get everything back in my backpack (my gag bag as I call it) when I noticed two photos that wouldn’t fit easily. Not a huge surprise considering how full the bag was. The first was a WWII photo of the paramericans at the end of the war. Behind the wall of garrishly costumed heroes and contemporaries the ruins what I assume was Berlin stretched. Many of the buildings looked like they would have to be triaged thanks to the efforts of the Allies and probably the metahumans and mystery men in the photo. Behind them, scrawled on the wall next to several ‘Kilroy was Here’ scratches and bullet riddled plastered advertisements for German products I couldn’t decipher, someone had painted the words “Xenex Is.”
(I hope your happy, Mrs. Plummer.)
The other was the same picture, down to the blasted advertisements and strange markings, a boy, barely more than a teen, stood behind Mr. Atomic. He was sheathed in some sort of metal, save for his face. His helmet, which didn’t cover his face, looked skin tight and highly reflective. The only markings on him at all was a roman numeral on his forehead. XII. He seemed not to notice the camera as he held Mr. Atomic’s arm up, like he was placing it. Like we was posing him.
What did I stumble on?
I think I need a vacation….
Keep Dreaming All
Daniel
