Roland warned, “The attacks are happening more frequently.”
“What do you expect me to do?” I asked, my tone surly.
“I’m not accusing you of causing all this…”
“Could have fooled me,” I muttered.
“But it is reasonable to deduce you must be a link.”
I couldn’t force myself to walk away. I couldn’t ignore Roland’s righteous fervor.
“Chloe, it’s snowballing. Whatever is happening, you must stop it.”
“How?” I kicked at a crack in the sidewalk with the toe of my shoe, scuffing it. “Should I go into therapy? Maybe I have ESP? Or a split personality?”
“Nah. Although you should cut down on the caffeine. Your hands are shaking.”
“Proof it’s not me,” I insisted. I held up my hands so he could see their tremble clearly. “Hands this shaky can’t draw.”
I started to walk away. “I’m not creating this—this whatever it is.” I nearly yelled. “What do you expect me to do? Contact the FBI?”
“No, the federal government is keeping a tight lid on this,” he replied. He walked closer, and lowered his voice. “The photos and videos get taken down.”
“Your conspiracy theory doesn’t hold water. People keep putting the pics back up on other sharing sites,” I pointed out.
“One for our side,” he said, not at all discomposed.
We both laughed, though the sound from my mouth was kind of rusty.
Why had I laughed? Roland could be right. Maybe there was a government-instigated news gag. The establishment media could be under orders to ignore or quash stories about sightings of a supervillain or his henchmen.
Paranoia did not help me find out the how and why of these bizarre supervillain attacks. Or why I was involved.
“You should get help identifying the art. Contact a comic expert like Eric Wood. He runs Fantastic Comics,” Roland proposed.
“An executive? What would he know?”
“He’s a former comics artist. Totally cutting edge.”
“I don’t think so.” Did I want to tell a stranger about my weird situation?
“From his daily news feed, he sounds like a cool guy. Why not take a chance?”
I shook my head. “I don’t need his help. Or yours.”
Roland put his arm around my shoulders, one buddy to another. “At least let me look at your computer again, try again to find the source myself? Please?”
“Oh, okay. Come over tomorrow.” I shrugged off his arm gently and hastened down the street alone. I was late again for my shift.
I couldn’t help turning around and yelling back at him. “I am not the artist.”
I made tracks toward the bookstore. I had stated the obvious, as Roland well knew. I drew “Average Chloe” utilizing minimal, cartoony line drawings, trying to be funny, not serious. My art style did not have the flashy realism or the bulging, muscular figures of superhero comics.
These crazy dreams freaked me out. It was fun to read adventure comic books or watch movies about super people, but they were pretend. The real world had no superheroes and no supervillains.
I wanted to get these disturbing comic book drawings off my computer, and stop having these dreams. Roland was the opposite. He wanted to find the source so he could learn all about them. He sought proof that real supervillains were wreaking havoc on our city streets. He was such a fanboy sometimes. He didn’t make the connection that if supervillains were real, our entire planet was in trouble.
Chapter 2
This Friday
I struggled with the masked villain. I tried to, anyway. I was still dangling in midair, over a very long drop to the street.
“Cut it out or I’ll drop you,” he said with cold indifference. He’d stopped ranting. His eyes were focused up, scanning the sky.
“Soon, my greatest enemy will arrive, hoping to rescue you. Once he shows, it won’t matter whether you are alive or dead. My plan for world domination will be complete.”
Nuts. I’m the endangered heroine in a typical superhero comic. My hero had better come along and save me soon, or this creep might dump me. What if his arms get tired? There must be something I can do to save myself.
“Uh, excuse me?” I sounded meek. It wasn’t a put on. Dangling in midair with your life in someone’s hands can make you feel plenty humble.
“What?”
“Wouldn’t it be as effective for me to stand up there on the roof with you? It’s pretty breezy out here.”
“Why should I make you more comfortable? Perhaps I shall kill you soon.”
“I know something about the world portal. Something you would be interested in learning.”
“What about the portal?” He pulled me up, set me on the roof, and shook me, demanding an answer.
I wanted to fall on my knees and kiss the filthy roof tiles. I tried to maintain some cool. I dusted off my clothes, avoiding eye contact with the bad man. Of course that worked for about two seconds.
“Talk.” He sounded impatient. Even not counting his superpowers, he was taller than me and naturally had more muscle because he was a man. Intimidating. My karate classes in middle school had not made me a match for him.
I wanted to survive. What lie could I tell him to keep him from tossing me over the side for sure?
Think, Chloe, think.
*
Last Monday
The day after he ambushed me, Roland came to see the newest drawing. I could have e-mailed it to him, but I was busy packing. I didn’t have the rent and I had to move out. My life here in Chicago had officially fallen apart.
“Why isn’t this art style familiar?” Roland puzzled.
“If you don’t recognize it, no one could.” Roland knew everything about superhero comics. But we still had failed to identify the artist. I’d tossed all my research samples in the paper recycle trash.
The phone rang. I picked it up and clicked it on. “Yeah?”
“Is this Chloe Cole? I’m calling from WDED-TV in New York. You’re the winner of a role on our new TV show.”
“Get lost,” I snarled. I clicked off. They called right back, and this time I glanced at the Caller ID. It was a genuine New York phone number, from the sacred 212 area code of central Manhattan.
“What?”
“Please don’t hang up again, Ms. Cole,” the young woman pleaded. If she was a customer service rep trying to sell me something, I should pity her and give her a few seconds. I silently let her continue.
“I truly am calling from WDED-TV. We got your contest entry. The judges have chosen your artwork. You have won the grand prize. You will appear on our TV show, ‘Can You Draw a Superhero?’ You will represent the young generation of independent comic artists. The winner receives an all-expenses paid trip to New York for the filming.”
She recited more details about the prize trip. My attention wandered. How could I have won a contest I hadn’t entered? What artwork was she talking about?
I paid attention again as she babbled on, “…your ticket to come to New York will be express delivered to you tomorrow. We’ll expect to see you on Wednesday afternoon to have your wardrobe fitting and makeup application for the launch party.”
“Ticket?”
“Yes, it’s part of your prize.” The girl at the other end sounded a bit testy. She evidently expected perky and enthusiastic, instead of surly and confused. My type doesn’t usually have anything to do with television game shows.
I blanked out on the rest of the phone call. After I clicked off, I stood motionless in the middle of the room, thinking.
Roland raised his glance from the computer screen. He lifted an enquiring eyebrow.
“This is very strange,” I said. “Almost too convenient.”
“What?”
“I supposedly entered a contest to be on a new cable TV show about superheroes. And I won.” I wasted a few more seconds wondering before I noticed the guilt written all over his face.
; “Uh…about the contest,” Roland began.
If he had done what I was beginning to suspect he had, he ought to be nervous.
“I sent in your application,” he said.
“I don’t want to be on television,” I yelled.
“It’s the perfect opportunity.” His eyes glowed. “You’ll be in New York City, where the supervillains appear.”
“What, in my spare time I’ll find them and tell them to knock it off? They’re supervillains. Anyway, they don’t exist.”
“It’s your chance to meet the legendary superhero comic artist, Jerry Fine.”
“Jerry Fine? He’s your idol, right?” Roland had told me what a wonderful comic book artist Jerry was when he was young. How he became the elder statesman of the comic book industry.
“He’s our best chance to identify the artist and he’s the star of the show.”
Roland obviously was tickled that his idol was soon to be a reality television show star. But there was more.
“Guess who else is on the show? The dude who runs the entire Fantastic Comics empire, Eric Wood.”
“The guy you wanted me to ask about my mystery drawings?”
“Yep.”
Even I knew Fantastic Comics was the biggest name in corporate comics, with lots of blockbuster movies featuring its superheroes. “You tried to sell me on him before.”
“Eric Wood is a former artist. Burst into management a couple of years ago.”
“You think one of these two comics power players is sure to recognize the art style of my mystery artist?”
Roland nodded, eager to convince me. He knew my biggest fear was I was causing these catastrophes. Even though I didn’t 100% believe supervillains were actually flying around New York, something was up, and I was in the middle of it.
“You think I should go?” I asked, sighing. I picked up my duffel bag.
“You might have to quit your job if they won’t give you time off,” he said.
“No need. They fired me last night. The landlord is about to evict me.” Try as I might, I couldn’t keep all vestiges of misery out of my voice.
Roland looked upset on my behalf, but only for a moment. “You hated your lousy job.”
“True.”
“You’ve never been wild about this apartment. It was a stopgap after your roommates bailed on you.”
“Also true.”
“You could move in with me after the TV show is over.”
“No, thanks. We can’t go back.”
Roland was crestfallen, but giving in would be a mistake. We were better friends than lovers and I wanted to keep it that way from now on.
As for my mystery, it would soon be solved. Sweet.
Chapter 3
Friday
“Tell me the secret of the world portal.” The supervillain shook me like a giant rattle. “Tell me, or you can kiss the sidewalk.”
Nice choice. Tell this superthug how to get to my world and devastate it, or let him kill me.
“Okay, okay. I don’t know a lot, honestly.”
“You’re lying.” He shook me again.
“I’m telling the truth. I just got here. You’ve been traveling to my world for months now. Why do you need the amulet?”
“Something keeps drawing me back to my world,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. Your weak little mind cannot comprehend a different world order.”
“Sure I can,” I replied, “but how do you get order out of the chaos you’re creating?”
Not a tactful thing to say. He grabbed me again, in a harder grip. Why was I annoying him like this? He could still toss me over the roof. An enormous drop to the sidewalk isn’t much fun.
“Foolish girl! When the populace, the petty-minded politicians, and the inept governments have exhausted all their puny efforts to stop me, they will be forced to accept me as their leader. I shall rule the world!”
He leaned his face into mine to emphasize his threats. His eyes were rimmed with red behind the mask. Not a stable personality.
I must tell him something, fast.
Last Wednesday
Going to New York was easy with no job or apartment to worry about anymore. Roland promised to store what little I owned, and the TV show arranged all the travel details including meeting my plane. I was whisked away from the airport in a limo, and shortly after, checked into a very upscale, hip hotel.
I felt quite special until I saw my cramped little room. It was a far cry from the trendy lobby. There was a bed and little else. That brought me back down to earth. Billeting me in an expensive Manhattan hotel was for the convenience of the television bosses, not a mark of my importance in a city filled with powerful, important people. I needed to keep my focus, remember I was here to find answers. There was no time to lose.
A few minutes later, I hopped into the limo again for my wardrobe and makeup appointments. They were a part of the deal I couldn’t escape.
The fashion experts disapproved of my look, which tends at the best of times to verge on the Goth without even the saving grace of being deliberate. They tut-tutted, but nobody attempted to cut off all my hair, or dye it a weird color. No suffering was involved, except the wardrobe people made me over in a pop reality show style. The girl next door image, not one I found appealing. My personal choice of a celeb style to imitate would be the singer Pink at her most nose-ring hostile.
I would play the demure little dress-up doll for now. I focused on meeting Jerry Fine and Eric Wood and asking lots of questions.
The excessive primping was for a cocktail party tonight to start the week of events. I was decked out in a pink slip dress that showed all my assets before it ended at a very short skirt. Nice enough, though the pink color made me shudder. My hair covered most of the bareness of my shoulders. Luckily my pendant was on a long chain, easily hidden even in my low neckline.
Why had I never told Roland about the pendant? The answer came quickly. The gift was too personal to share with someone I viewed as a friend, not a soul mate. I leaned on his friendship, but I limited my sharing. I had never told him I didn’t know who my father was.
The TV people had sent an agenda for the three days of taping, although the details of the TV sessions and my role in them were sketchy. To tell the truth, I didn’t care, either. I shivered with anticipation, and lots of caffeine. Maybe a little hope. Roland was positive his idol Jerry would have the answer to the mystery. I wanted very much to believe that.
I received more special treatment when it was time to head for the party. An assistant arrived to quickly brief me on the evening cocktail event, which all the major owners of comic book companies would attend. He walked me to the entrance of a rooftop restaurant whose view of the New York City skyline was stunning enough to counteract its stodgy atmosphere. Of course, there was a hired private room for the party.
“Chloe Cole, nice to meet you,” a warm voice boomed out as I was ushered in. The assistant identified my greeter in a whisper as the cable company president, Jim Maneely. My escort then departed.
Some businessmen were standing around casually. Old guys. There were no other women present. A couple of real geezers, looking shrunken in their expensive suits, sat in upholstered club chairs by the enormous window. It gave an impressive view of Rockefeller Center. A spread of expensive edibles was artistically laid out on a nearby credenza. Mostly exotic fruits. The men all had drinks in hand, and there were tiny plates on various surfaces.
Maneely turned to the man on his right, who truly did not need an introduction.
“I’m sure you know Jerry’s famous face. We built this show around Jerry, but we don’t want him hogging the spotlight. A pretty youngster like you will give him some competition.”
I hoped if I ever did meet my father he wouldn’t put on such a phony act.
Jerry smiled. They all smiled as if they were happy to see me. Why not? A couple of years ago, I and my webcomics might have rep
resented the death knell of their corporate comics paradigm. Now they’d caught up. Their digital, tablet-ready comics gave them a new way to publish profitably. They had nothing to fear from me, and we all knew it.
Plus the wholesome image the wardrobe and makeup people had paved over the real me was extremely unthreatening. A pink dress, for crap’s sake. I still wanted corporate comics to die.
“Great to have you on board, Chloe,” Jerry said with his famous cheer. He was skinny and athletic looking even though he must have been in his eighties. He was formally dressed in a blue blazer and tan pants, wearing a tie, the whole nine yards. Only his hair was a little long for convention.
“Here’s Dickie Crandall. You probably read Crandall Comics as a child,” Maneely beamed as he introduced a short, stout old man in a dark suit. Right. The comics he had published for decades were sexist, old-fashioned drivel. Girls chasing boys, boys chasing girls. Jokes about being a rich kid. Roland said they were lousy to their artists, too. I'd heard they'd made some radical changes recently, but the basic formula was not my thing.
I went through the motions with the other introductions to various old farts from corporate comics. I despise corporate comics and always have. They’re either banal jokes or endless superhero fights, and at all times rampant sexism. This party represented some of the most powerful individuals in the conventional comics industry, yet there wasn’t a single female present aside from me. And I didn’t count.
Webcomics could be crap, too. They weren’t necessarily virgin pure. But I owned my webcomic. I refused to sell my best ideas outright to a big company for a pittance and then watch the corporation get rich while I got nothing. Everybody knew most of the creators of the famous comic book characters died broke. Nobody talented fell for such crap anymore. Artist-owned comics like mine were the future. I hoped.
I had to stop my mental rant. I was afraid I would act out impolitely. I didn’t have time to indulge my distaste for corporate comics. At any moment, another supervillain drawing would appear on my laptop, and someone would get hurt, maybe killed. Roland was convinced talking to these antiques of the comics industry was my best bet to solve the mystery. I must get some information from these fossils.
Temporary Superheroine Page 2
