by Adam Graham
Powerhouse
Hard Pressed
Adam Graham
Edited by Andrea Graham
~~~
Smashwords Edition
Laser and Sword Books
Boise, Idaho
© 2013 Adam Graham
All Rights Reserved
Edited by Andrea Graham
Cover Design © 2013 Brandi Doane
Powerhouse Logo © 2010 Holly Heisey
All Rights Reserved
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Previous Books Featuring Powerhouse:
Tales of the Dim Knight (Splashdown Books)
Fly Another Day
We are hard pressed on every side,
but not crushed;
perplexed,
but not in despair.
2 Corinthians 4:8 (NIV)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
Visiting Day
“No! I refuse to act like a campy cartoon villain.” Mitch “The Pharaoh” Farrow slammed his hand down on the obsidian desk in his underground lair. The only light came from a twenty-five watt bulb set in a floor lamp with a dark red shade.
He glowered at the jerk in the “you’re the nobody” desk chair across from his CEO chair. “What makes you think I’d okay a plan you ripped off from a lunatic in the Flash’s rogue’s gallery?”
Dr. Fournier not only adjusted his pink bowtie, he dusted off his lab coat and blue shirt, and polished his bald spot, all while glancing over the literal pharaoh garb of Mitch’s, er-crime lord alter ego.
That was it. The Pharaoh ripped off his ridiculous headpiece and threw it on top a file cabinet. His salt and pepper hair had gotten a bit matted since he’d last squeezed in the time to comb it.
The undocumented help coughed. “Sir, please remove your mind from your TV set and consider the precedents set in reality. Marco Silvano spared no expense in having me work around the clock building battle armor to attack Powerhouse.”
The Pharaoh snorted. “He was a stupid hood who continually threw lots of money into plans that had no prayer of working against a guy who can ‘superimagine’ anything out of nothing. All Silvano succeeded in doing was leaving a trail of bread crumbs so obvious that even a dumb jock like Powerhouse had no trouble following it.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
Pharaoh swallowed. “I’m going to lay low until you have a plausible plan.”
“I can’t just stand around not being paid.”
The Pharaoh leaned back. “Fine. You can be our staff mad scientist.”
“Mad scientist, bah! I refuse to accept such a demeaning position. I’m a level-headed inventor. I have standards, I have principles. Wait, did you say it was a staff position?” Dr. Fournier clapped his hands. “Oh goody! What does it pay?”
Say the g-word ever again and you are so getting slapped silly. “Um, I can afford seven grand a month tax free.”
“Can you get me medical?”
“That would require obtaining you an identity I could put on my legal payroll without Dorado Incorporated coming under the FBI’s scrutiny. However, I can arrange it. You just keep thinking of a foolproof, cost-effective way to get rid of Powerhouse. My first move is to call Laura the Lip and have her get our boys off the street.”
Fournier titled his head to the right. “Why are you doing that?”
The Pharaoh leaned down as if he were talking to his little girl. “We want them to stay safe, and we don’t have a way to protect them from the big, bad Powerhouse, so we’ll send them to Portland.” Plus his job was to create cynicism, not to keep a bunch of hoods in work. “If we cut Seattle’s crime rate, we’ll knock Powerhouse off the front page. It’ll be easier to turn his allies against him when they see less danger.”
“So, you, um, want to go to church with me?”
Major Joshua Speed looked up at his blond substitute nurse. Karen wore a bright pink shirt that went with her bright smile.
He sat up in bed, nodded three times, and pointed up.
“All right.” Karen lightly touched his shoulder. “We thank you, Lord, for the healing you’re working on John’s body day by day, and that he’s finally well enough to visit your house-er-does a service in the lobby count as your house, well you know what I mean. In Jesus’ name we pray, amen.” She backed toward the door. “I’ll go fetch a wheelchair, and we’ll get you down there.”
He turned his torso about and tried to wiggle his legs. They moved half an inch. At least he could feel them. If he kept getting better, he’d be able to run out of here in another three days.
She returned with the wheelchair and lowered him down into it.
“You str-” The Major frowned. He wasn’t strong enough to demonstrate the meaning of the word he wanted. “You str-str . . .” He growled.
“Don’t be mad at yourself. I’m proud of you for even trying to talk.”
I’ll have a lot to say once the poison being touted as medicine fully wears off.
She pushed him down the creamy hall. An old man was holding the little, black plastic thing the television had said was called a cell phone.
Pain shot through his chest and he closed his eyes. Would he ever get back to 1957 and its familiar technology? When he was able to get his hands on Pharaoh at full strength, the commie would regret ever figuring out how to shoot him into the future. That must be why the commies had won.
She pushed the wheelchair into a rec room. A row of chairs were arranged with a couple dozen seniors seated. About a dozen younger people were scattered throughout the room. I should be among the young and strong. I’m only thirty-eight but apparently I look old and frail even to Karen. Though, I was born in 1919, and it’s at least 2012 now, so I guess I’m one of the oldest people here.
He frowned. Was he really ninety-three and suffering dementia that caused him to live in the past? That seemed more likely than—no, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to think clearly enough to realize it, if that were the case.
A man with a guitar stood at a music stand and played “Holy, holy, holy…”
Mild-Mannered Dad Dave Johnson pulled into the Happy Nest Retirement Home’s parking lot in the family minivan, which had a gray interior. Dave was tall with short black hair and wore jeans and a blue polo shirt with green stripes. Thanks to his superpowers, he’d gained muscles that rivaled those of the jocks that had beat him up back when he was a pudgy comics fanboy.
He turned off the ignition and glanced beside him at his wife. Naomi wore a cream colored blouse with a pair of brown slacks which went well with her brown eyes and ches
tnut brown chin-length hair. He crossed his arms. “I still think Powerhouse would’ve been better.”
Naomi grimaced and tucked her bob behind her ears. “Dear, you don’t have to be a superhero to spend time with the elderly.”
“Powerhouse is far more interesting than me.”
Naomi touched his arm. “You’ll do fine. It’ll be just like talking to your grandpa. I know you’ve been missing him.”
Dave released a shallow breath. “No one can replace Grandpa.”
“True, but you’ll help others and it’s something we can do as a family.” She glanced at her watch. “The sermon will be over in a few minutes.”
Dave glanced in the back at their sons. His fifth grader had his nose buried in a Powerhouse Comic and wore his black hair to just above his shoulders. Derrick wore an open green hoodie over a green Sonics jersey.
His twelve-year-old sixth grader was texting. James wore a denim shirt, and had his dark brown hair cut into short spikes.
Dave pointed out the door with his thumb. “Derrick, James, go.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
The boys both got out, alright, but each one kept his face buried in his own choice of entertainment. Dave cleared his throat. “Boys, leave those in the car. They’ll distract from our mission.”
Derrick sighed and tossed his comic in the back seat.
“Let me finish this.” James pecked faster on his phone and slipped it in his pocket. “There.”
Guess that would be good enough. “So long as it stays there.”
His tweens dashed ahead of them into the nursing home.
Naomi and Dave followed behind them and entered the facility near the front desk. Dave followed the arrow that said, “Bryerton Community Church Twilight Service.” Heh. “Hope folks aren’t still showing up dressed as sparkly vampires.”
They stepped on the white tile floor of the rec room. Some elderly people had their heads bowed.
An Asian pastor in his twenties wearing a T-shirt and jeans said, “Amen.”
Everyone looked up.
The pastor spoke. “I hope you’ve been blessed by us bringing church to you today. I want to give you the opportunity to meet with some of the families in our church. If you stay at your seats, they’ll be by to greet you.”
Dave leaned down toward his wife’s ear. “What do I talk about?”
Naomi whispered back, “You’ll find something.”
If she said so. Dave walked up to one of the bald, wrinkled men. This one wore a blue sports coat and a white dress shirt, while resting on a cane. The man glanced at Dave’s Superman wristwatch. “Hey! I bet you don’t know who first played Superman.”
“Bud Collyer, voice actor.”
The man blinked. “You’ve seen the cartoons?”
“Yes, and I’ve listened to all of the eleven hundred radio show episodes still in circulation. Twice.”
“You couldn’t have heard it. You’re too young.”
“The writer of the Powerhouse comic book re-airs the show on his podcast, and I never miss an episode. It reminds me of listening to the episodes Grandpa had recorded.”
“Really? Did he ever play the Shadow for you?”
“Oh yeah. Orson Welles was the best at that.”
“I never heard him. I liked William Johnstone, and then there was Green Hornet. We listened to that every week. Though, what I really liked was Captain Marvel! It’s too bad he never had a radio show.”
“Oh yes, those old Fawcett Comics stories were great.” Dave shouted, “Shazam!”
Nearly everyone in the room turned to him.
Oops, didn’t mean to be that loud.
Naomi tapped Dave’s arm. “The kids and I will circulate.” She whispered in his ear, “Let me know if you find anything to talk about.”
Major Speed smiled. That Shazam! guy knew almost as much about Captain Marvel as Ace did. Wait a second. That nose. “Ace! Ace!”
Ace Johnson’s relation and the old man he was walking to turned.
Major Speed moved his left hand to his heart, his head, and then flexed his muscle. “Ouch!”
Ace’s relation gaped. If Speed read the slight movement of Shazam’s lips right, he was thinking Speed’s name.
The old man said, “What’s he trying to do?”
Shazam’s jaw worked twice. “He’s doing the Major Speed salute.”
“Major Speed? I don’t remember him.” The old man snapped his fingers. “Wait, I think I remember something.”
Speed repeated the salute.
Karen rose. “Whoa, you’re getting a little excited. I need to get you back to your room. I wonder what’s wrong?”
She turned his wheelchair around. Her face had turned white.
“No.” Speed shook his head.
“What could be wrong? I did everything Precious said.” Karen slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh gosh, your medicine! Poor thing, you’ve suffered without it for days! I’m such a ditz. I could’ve killed you. Now you know why I’m only a nurse’s aide. My memory’s too bad. Which of my instructors told me that in nursing school again?”
Shazam dashed in front of the wheelchair. “Ma’am, can I talk to him?”
“I’m sorry, he can’t have visitors.”
“But, ma’am, you don’t know who you have there.”
“I do, too! It’s John Smith.”
Shazam raised his eyebrow, only increasing the resemblance to Ace. “Did it ever occur to you that that name sounds phony?”
“Lots of real people are named John Smith.”
“Uh-huh, and where did John Smith live before he came here?”
“For your information, it says right on his card.” Karen checked the tag tied to his wheelchair. “Fifty-five, fifty-five South fifty-fifth Street.”
Shazam rolled his eyes, which brought out a slight resemblance to Ace’s wife Arlene. “I bet his phone number was 555-555-5555.”
“No, silly. The area code for Seattle is 206.”
“Major Speed disappeared in 1957, and this gentleman might be him.”
She sighed. “Look, I’m only doing my job. If you don’t let us go back to our room, I’m going to have to call security.”
A woman with her brown hair in a bob stepped in. “Honey, what’s going on?”
“This man may be Major Speed, and she won’t let me talk to him.”
Shazam’s wife glanced over at Major Speed. “He doesn’t look like a soldier.”
“He’d be over ninety.”
Karen put up a hand. “Okay people, this guy isn’t ninety. He’s barely sixty, if he’s that. You’re gonna get me in trouble. I shouldn’t even have brought him out here.”
Shazam’s wife swallowed. “This looks like a job for Powerhouse.”
“Huh?” Shazam stared at her the way Ace had at him once.
Shazam’s wife blinked like a liar. “You know I work for him. I could email Powerhouse, and he could come here later and investigate. He’s got time.”
“Oh right.” Shazam stepped aside. “Go ahead, nurse, but this isn’t over. When my wife reports this to her boss, Powerhouse will take action.”
She shook her head and pushed the wheelchair through the corridor. “Honestly, I’m not that gullible. You, a ninety-year-old soldier? And they’re friends of Powerhouse? I’m no fool. I’m going to get you back to your room and call your guardian.”
Lord, please quicken her heart with a warning not to tell Pharaoh.
Chapter 2
A Hero’s Sacrifice
Mitch Farrow sat on his gold, high-end couch in his penthouse overlooking Seattle. He took a swig from a bottle of Mylanta.
He walked onto the terrace and stood in the cool shade of his potted tree ferns as he stared out over the city. I have all the things I want, but I don’t really have them. I’ve only been home three hours this week, and I’m paying $20,000 a month for this place. Maybe, I should let some homeless person stay here.
He shook his he
ad. Nah, it’d get out that I’d done something nice, and it might make people less cynical. I can’t have that. Besides, the guy would probably sell my stuff to buy drugs. He stared up in the air. Where are you, my enemy? If only I could get you to understand the only hope for the world is to completely lose hope in our ability to save ourselves by any means, including religion. Only then will the people trust in the only guy in the sky who is actually coming to save us, King Bel of the Rezellians.
Alas, religious hypocrites like his ex-wife and Powerhouse were far too dumb to get it. He made a fist. “Powerhouse, you must die so my daughter can live.”
He swallowed. Every allegedly evil thing I do as the Pharaoh is for the good of mankind. Every allegedly good thing he does is as evil as the Holocaust. Powerhouse must die. He snorted. “Maybe in a couple years, you’ll buy it.”
The Pharaoh’s cell phone rang. He flicked on his Bluetooth earpiece.
A chirpy female voice came on the line. “Hey there! You Mr. Mitchell Smith?”
Stupid wrong—wait, that was the name he gave the nurse. “Yes. Has something happened to dear old Uncle John?”
“Oh, don’t you worry, he’s getting better every day. You should see him. He’s sitting up right now.”
Wait a second. Pharaoh clenched his fists, fished his actual phone out of his pocket, and scowled at it. “Who are you? You’re not the nurse I hired.”
“Um, I’m the substitute she called in. She had to go to Melting Man or something like that. Please don’t be upset. I’ve been taking good care of him. We’ve been having fun together, watching Veggie Tales and Touched by An Angel Reruns, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, Superman, and the Christian Music channel.”
What? Pharaoh’s face blazed and his chest heaved. “That disgusting garbage wasn’t on the viewing list.”
