by Adam Graham
“Well put.” Bertrand flashed him another toothy grin. “Through them, we’ve created mass amounts of public cynicism all around the world. Earth has a growing population of people who are fat, lazy, and only interested in free bread and circuses like Rome of old. In addition, we control the world’s largest network of organized crime. It adds to our bottom line and undermines the authority of every county on the planet.”
Yeah, some corporation he’d never even heard of had managed to do all this. “So what do you want me to do?”
Bertrand folded his hands on his desk and pressed his lips into a thin line. “To take my place, just as I succeeded Mr. Dorado thirty years ago. The Rezellians have determined there’s a need for fresh blood in my office.”
“Should I scream at the top of my lungs, ‘I’ll never join you’?”
“If you did so sincerely, you wouldn’t be the man I thought you to be.”
This guy expected a cynic who cared not to be cynical when offered a free lunch from a megalomaniac heading up a crooked corporation he’d never heard of? Mitch renewed his smirk. “Here’s the problem, Mr. Bertrand. You put an ad out for a cynic, invite me here for a follow-up interview, and instead you spin a conspiracy fable about aliens who are insider traders and running the media. Now you want me to agree to be the Chief Executive Officer of Cynicism with no proof.”
Bertrand let go a loud laugh. “Quite right, Mr. Farrow.” He pressed a button on his desk. “Here is your proof.”
A glowing red portal opened on Mitch’s right. From it emerged a seven or eight-foot tall, radiant, rainbow-skinned creature with glowing eyes and huge hands that held a silver staff. The alien plodded toward Mitch.
Mitch got out of his chair. “Okay, okay! I believe you.”
Radiance held up his staff. It lit up, glowing in a luminous blue.
What had he gotten himself into? Skin crawling, Mitch raised his hands over his head and backed away from the radiant creep toward the door.
Radiance twirled the staff like it was a baton.
A burst of blue energy slammed Mitch’s body. Agony ripped through every fiber of him as green sparkles wiped out the world.
Chapter 5
Copyright Powerhouse
Mitch Farrow groaned. Every nerve in his body ached. If he ever caught Radiance without that stick, he’d pummel him.
Mr. Bertrand extended a hand down to him. “Come, we have much to discuss.”
“You are one for the dramatic.” Mitch gave Bertrand his hand.
Bertrand lifted helped him. “We’re not done yet.”
Mitch looked up. A view screen was behind Bertrand’s desk.
The screen powered on and displayed a glowing cherub. “I’m sorry for the pain you’re experiencing now, but it was necessary to illustrate our good intentions.”
Yeah, right. Cherub didn’t sound the least bit sorry about inflicting pain. Mitch groaned. “Oh yeah, I’m loving you guys.”
“That was a healing beam, Mitch. You no longer have AIDS.”
Mitch took a deep breath. Oh come on. “Come again?”
“Check with your doctor tomorrow.” The creature smiled like a vulture. “I healed you, and I want to heal your ex-wife, your child, and the whole world: to end disease, poverty, and war, to bring mankind into a new age. First I need your help, Mitch.”
Talk about an offer he couldn’t refuse. “Providing you did cure me, and that this isn’t a scam, I’ll help you.”
The creature nodded. “Mitch, you’ll be the father of a better world for your people. Mike has laid the foundation for the work you will complete.”
“So when will you take care of my ex-wife and daughter?”
“When I come to bring your world into our union.”
“They may not have too many years left.”
“It won’t be years, I promise. It will be very soon. Mike will brief you on the rules of your position. Good day.”
Mr. Bertrand resumed his seat behind the desk and pressed a button on the remote. The viewscreen receded into the ceiling. “While Dorado Incorporated is a publicly listed stock, ninety percent of the shares are held by the late Mr. Dorado’s trust, of which I am the trustee. I shall designate you as my successor. You will be paid a salary of $667,000 a month, as is commiserate with your position.”
“Wow.” Mitch whistled, his pulse quickening. “With that I can send my ex-wife and daughter to Europe for treatment.”
“That will probably be best. You are not allowed to marry, live with any person in a romantic way, or develop a long-term relationship. Such could compromise our mission. Your hours will be constant and irregular. Other than the necessary restriction on committed romantic relationships, you are free to get relaxation and recreation at any time and in any way you can.”
“Irregular hours? I’m a blogger, so I’m already on that.”
“Also, as an officer, you will be obliged to die when you turn seventy.”
Who cares? I only had two years to live a few minutes ago. “Fine, but why?”
“Mitch, we can’t eliminate disease from this planet and let everyone live as long as they want. The Earth could not support it. There must be an age when, having lived a good healthy life, we contribute to the Earth’s future by voluntarily departing.”
“Makes sense.” Mitch’s stomach irrationally tightened into knots and his legs stupidly wanted to flee. “Too many people on this rock already.” Right?
“Rest assured the new order will address overpopulation.”
Varlock lay on his aching back on a surgical table, covering his eyes with his left arm.
“I’m done,” the gravely voice of his master rumbled.
Varlock lowered his arm. The dark room was lit by candles.
He peered up at his lord and master, who had one large eye in the center of his forehead. “Oh master, why do you deface yourself by creating the illusion of having two eyes?”
“The Earthmen find a two-eyed creature of light beautiful, and beauty is important to those fools. So the healer is going to perform surgery on you to make you look like one of them and equip you with a translator.”
Varlock extended his tongue and lowered it the whole six feet to the ground in obeisance. “Master, please do not leave me so disfigured.”
The master nodded. “When we take over the planet, we will end your suffering.”
“And my family shall become noble?”
“Yes, Varlock.”
Varlock raised his nose and inhaled. “I shall bring honor to my family and go to the place of darkness.”
“To be greeted by twenty-one young maidens.”
“Why do you offer to do more than honor the Earthman’s family?”
The master sneered. “Humans are most efficient destroyers when they mistakenly believe they’re doing good. Go, the healer will prepare you and Merdron for the journey and teach you to walk as an earthman.”
Varlock nodded and turned the door. He extended his tongue out toward the nearest wall and used his tongue to haul himself six feet forward.
“One more thing, Varlock.”
Varlock slithered around.
The master peered at him. “There is one word that shall not be translated. The name of our planet. We mustn’t betray ourselves. They must never suspect we are from Perdition.”
Mitch Farrow entered his new office. He stared at the Seattle skyline mural on the left side wall. In front of the wall sat two tree-sized ferns. In front of the window lay a marble-topped desk and three new brown leather chairs. Just above the doorway was a fifty-two-inch plasma television.
He settled in at his desk, leaned back in his power chair, and let out a sigh. This is the life, Farrow. He swiveled around to face the highest window in Seattle.
“Well, let’s build some cynicism.” Mitch turned on the computer and pulled up a browser. He’d begin with his favorite tool to awaken the masses to how bad things really were: comic books.
He pulled up a list of the top
ten comic books. He stared at the names. All cynical comic books he subscribed to except for number four.
The Adventures of Powerhouse. Huh. He’d never gotten that one. He surfed onto its page in the Blue Cat Comics’ online store. He pressed the purchase button, downloaded a copy, and opened it on his computer.
A picture of Powerhouse in all his glory appeared on the front cover, hurtling towards Earth. Mitch turned the page. A terrorist with rocket shoes was plotting to kill the Ambassador from Japan who was visiting Seattle.
On the next page, Powerhouse happened to be patrolling the area. The terrorist fired at the Ambassador from across the street. Powerhouse spotted the terrorist and rocketed down to stop the bullet. He threw the ambassador out of the way. The bullet hit Powerhouse’s rocketpack.
Mitch turned the page. Powerhouse leapt to pursue the fleeing terrorist and got six feet off the ground. The rocketpack failed.
A dialogue bubble rose from Powerhouse’s mouth. “Drat!”
Mitch gaped and his eyes widened. Drat? Powerhouse said drat?
Yuck. That was so awful. Scowling, Mitch closed the comic book and yanked up the phone. “Hello, Janie, get me the CEO of Blue Cat Comics. I’m going to make him an offer he won’t refuse.”
Dave sat on the brown leather couch in his basement, flipping through the latest issue of Powerhouse. He sighed. Too bad he didn’t have any real new adventures that hadn’t involved him jabbering incoherently while his wife saved his life.
Dave heard a beep. It couldn’t be. He turned toward his computer. It was. The red phone was beeping. Someone was calling for Powerhouse.
True, it was only someone calling on his business, rather than the chief of police wanting him to rush to city hall.
But it was ringing.
Dave swallowed and deepened his voice. “Powerhouse, speaking.”
“Powerhouse, it’s Wallace Kandinsky, Blue Cat Comics. We received an offer to buy out your rights to the comics and the Powerhouse character. A corporation wants to pay you four million dollars.”
Dave glowered. “So they would own Powerhouse?”
“Exactly.”
“I’m not for sale.”
“Powerhouse, we expected you to provide us a lot of real story lines and to keep fighting crime to increase publicity.”
“I thought you said you were fine with me losing my powers.”
“Yes, I understood, but you keep fighting with the writers’ plot ideas.”
“They violated my code. I’d never do those things, particularly in that one issue where they wanted me to go to bed with a sleazy woman.”
“Look, Powerhouse, squeaky clean heroes are out. The Golden Zebra is the sort of comic that is in.”
Dave waved it away. “That trash is the twelfth best selling comic. Mine is number four.”
“But Powerhouse, we have a code, too. We want to be respected in our industry.”
“Fine. Release me from my contract. I’ll find another publisher.”
Silence.
Kandinsky sighed. “I can’t. Your sales are the only thing between us and bankruptcy. If I let you go without compensation, we’re done. But you’ve got to stop this wholesome garbage.”
“I think this conversation’s over.”
Kandinsky swore and hung up.
Dave sighed. He’d get to have that conversation again in six months. The new bit was weird, though.
Who would pay four million dollars to buy Powerhouse?
Mitch growled into his cell phone. “What do you mean he wouldn’t sell? You told me he lost his powers.”
Kandinsky sighed. “He did.”
“Then why wouldn’t he cash in?” Mitch leaned back in his chair. “Well, you don’t leave me a lot of choice but to send those pictures to my friend in New York.”
“Are you so new to having power that you’d throw a pointless tantrum? What do you expect to accomplish? He’ll still have an ironclad contract that allows him to approve and make edits to every draft we send him. Once you send those pictures, you can no longer use them against me.”
Mitch frowned. That was true. “I’ll hold on to this information for now. I’ll suggest you send $1,000 to the Marville Journalism fellowship.”
“A thousand won’t be the end of it.”
“I don’t plan on wasting my time calling the CEOs of small comic book companies for petty blackmail. I won’t call you until I need something and that won’t be for a while. I just want us to be clear where we stand, which is why I ask for the $1,000.”
“It’ll be in the mail tomorrow.”
“Good day.” Mitch pressed the disconnect button on the base of his phone. On his computer, he closed the world’s largest database of blackmail material. Guess this would only be helpful if the person he was blackmailing could do what he wanted. With Powerhouse refusing to sell out even at his generous price, it was time for plan B. He dialed a number.
“What do you want?” A middle-aged woman snapped over the phone.
Mitch rolled his eyes. “Please, is that how you answer the phone? Is this the office of Doug Bartel?”
“Yeah, who the heck are you?”
“Just tell Doug his old buddy Farrow is calling.”
“Pharaoh? Like in the Bible?”
“Could I just speak to Doug?”
The woman called. “Dougie boy, someone who thinks he’s the Pharaoh is on the line wanting to talk to you.”
“Give me the phone.” Bartel came on the line. “Hello?”
“Hi, Doug, it’s the Pharaoh.” Mitch smirked. Dumb broad. “What kind of phone etiquette was that?”
“Sorry, she’s my cleaning woman. I was headed out the door.”
“Do you still need another panelist for the Powerhouse retrospective?”
“Yeah, but I thought you were too busy?”
Mitch rubbed his hands together. “New job, new perspective on life. My schedule will need some re-arranging, but people bow before the might of the Pharaoh, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, CEO. You’ve come up in the world. See you Wednesday night.”
“See you then.” Mitch chuckled. “The Pharaoh.”
Hah. Maybe he should decorate his office in an Egyptian theme and dress like a pharaoh. Nah, that’d be taking things too far even with a board of directors filled with yes-men.
Though, it would work for a nickname for underworld activities. Who would guess that a guy nicknamed the Pharaoh was really named Farrow?
Mitch pulled his brand new red Lamborghini to the curb half a block away from the TV studio. He climbed out dressed in a teal sports coat, black turtleneck, and khaki pants.
Outside the studio, several dozen people were gathered, many wearing Powerhouse T-shirts. A couple wore homemade Powerhouse suits. A man barely over five feet tall stood in a complete replica of Powerhouse’s costume. He had his helmet off and a female reporter held a microphone toward him.
Mini-Powerhouse beamed. “I spent eight months on the costume. I used more than five hundred photos from every angle to make sure I got it just right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You doing anything tonight?”
Gotta love geek pick-up lines.
By the door, a fat lady with a nose ring popped bubble gum as she spoke with a male reporter. “Powerhouse is the one spoken of in an Indian prophecy. When he returns, it will set about the end of time.”
A female dwarf elbowed the fat lady. “That was fan fiction.”
What gullible rubes. Mitch smirked, swaggered through the TV station’s doors, passed the vacant receptionist desk, and headed down a white corridor to the studio. Over at the makeup table, Chief of Police Stone Bachman sat, combing his hair.
Mitch swallowed. Here he was, the head of the world’s largest group of freedom fighters, sitting next to a high-ranking evil minion of the oppressors. Good thing he’d never liked cops much to start with, or he’d have to worry about arousing Bachman’s suspicions.
A makeup artist sashayed over
to him. Oh no. Makeup artists always made him look like he was Bozo the Clown rather than a respectable guest on a news program. He waved her away. “No thanks. I’ll take care of myself.”
She wrinkled her nose and smacked her lips but walked away.
Chief Bachman glanced sideways at him. “Can you believe it’s been a year since Powerhouse was last seen?”
Mitch applied the right amount of foundation and powder and began to comb his hair. “Other than in his comic book?”
“You know, you’re looking much better than when I saw you last.”
Uh-oh. Best not to have people focused on his improving health or it’d raise questions. Mitch raised an eyebrow. “Last time I saw you was when your old cop buddy Welch went up for life.”
Bachman leaned back, his lips parted. He closed his trap.
Mitch smiled. That had worked like a charm.
A young woman wearing a blue jacket with the station logo on it walked in. “We’re ready to mic you two.”
The production assistant wired them with lapel microphones and led them to the guest panel on the set.
Doug jogged out of the wings and sat in the anchor chair. The red light on the camera came on. Doug smiled too wide. “In the studio with us are a couple familiar faces, Chief of Police Stone Bachman and the new CEO of Dorado Incorporated, long-time news blogger Mitch Farrow.”
Doug turned to Bachman. “Chief Bachman, you made some statements against Powerhouse early on, but you seemed to warm to him over time.”
Bachman flinched. “My early statements were influenced by a false report from an officer that’s since been convicted of serious crimes. I’m always bothered by vigilantism, but Powerhouse improved as he gained experience. The city owes him a huge debt of gratitude for his part in bringing down the Ross crime family. More than that, Powerhouse brought a spirit of genuine caring and an innocence and infectious enthusiasm that we all miss.”
Mitch smirked. Powerhouse was innocently, enthusiastically raking in a fortune.
Doug gazed at Mitch. “I take it you don’t agree.”
