Powerhouse Hard Pressed

by Adam Graham

  The audience cheered.

  Miss Invisible threw them kisses. “Thank you.”

  Powerhouse grinned. “Any questions?”

  A fan raised her hands. “I heard there was another hero in New York who lives in the sewers named Half-Brain.”

  Powerhouse coughed. “We can’t confirm the existence of such a hero. However, if he did exist and live in the sewer, he wouldn’t do a comic book and would say he wanted the underworld to not know for sure whether he was a man or a myth. He’d have delusions of grandeur in addition to being paranoid of what would happen if criminals knew for sure he existed, which we can’t say for sure whether he does or not.”

  Everyone stared at Powerhouse.

  Miss Invisible smiled. “I’ll take the next question.” She pointed at a leggy blonde with a press badge. The reporter was hanging onto Mitch Farrow’s arm.

  The world began to move in slow motion. Powerhouse whispered. “Nooo.”

  The female reporter eyed Miss Invisible like a hyena looked at its dinner. “Kelli Michaels, Seattle Guardian. What is your comment about compromising photos of yourself taken with a former lover that allegedly appeared in the New York Enquirer?”

  A chill crashed over Powerhouse’s body. On the overhead jumbotron appeared a picture of Miss Invisible naked except for a few blurs.

  She scowled, flushed scarlet from hairline to neckline, and retreated toward the exit. The press ran after her, screaming in a futile effort to be heard over each other.

  Powerhouse punched his left palm. “This looks like a job for Powerhouse.”

  A woman wearing a toga, white wings and a white oval mask swooped down, grabbed Miss Invisible, and flew her up above the reporters to a seventh floor balcony.

  Powerhouse pressed a button on his sleeve and flew up the woman with wings.

  She patted Miss Invisible’s back, hugging her. “Ellie, you gonna be okay.”

  Miss Invisible sobbed. “I just need some time.”

  Powerhouse cleared his throat. “Can I call you in about an hour?”

  She nodded. “Okay, yeah. We have some things to discuss. Call in an hour.”

  Powerhouse eyed the winged woman. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Winged Woman. Actually, that’s just my superhero name. I’m really Angela Brooks. I work as her personal assistant. She’s kind of training me in the whole hero biz.”

  Oh brother. Was he ever this much of a greenhorn? “When she’s feeling better, ask her to train you on that whole secret identity thing.”

  “Oh, sorry, this is my first time. Um, why would I keep it a secret from you?”

  “Ask your boss. Right now, I need to go deal with the crowds. Powerhouse down! Down!” Powerhouse flew back to the ground and walked back into the exhibit hall, scowling. He walked past the Spider-Man booth. No one should be upset at Comic Con. That’s like being sad on Easter morning.

  Mitch Farrow walked over, smirking. “Tough break. Not the best way for a press conference to end.”

  Powerhouse stiffened. “I didn’t plan it that way.”

  “No one plans disasters.” Farrow leered. “I guess this shoots the wholesomeness image you try to project all to Hell.”

  Powerhouse clinched his fist. God, please help me not to smack him. “I have to call Corporate. Excuse me.”

  He stomped off. Farrow had to behind this somehow, but why? What was his angle? Was it just a petty business rivalry?

  Mitch Farrow sat at his black laptop in his hotel suite. Someone rapped on the door. He jumped up and looked out the peephole. Fournier in his dumb Wookie costume. He opened the door.

  Fournier imitated a Wookie growl, coughing, and removed his fake head from his real one. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Come in.”

  Fournier stormed in, hurled his Wookie head at Mitch, and put his hands on his hips like a school teacher. “Were you behind that awful story?”

  “No, a young man who had a brief relationship with her decided to get his fifteen minutes of fame at her expense.”

  Fournier curled his lip. “After learning I loved her, you set out to destroy her.”

  “Oh, you have a gallant side!” Mitch laughed. “How quaint—and tiresome. Our goal was not to destroy her, but to humanize her and maybe remind her of the truth. She’s not the pure saint she encourages other young women to be. Maybe then she’ll lower her standards, perhaps even date mad scientists.”

  “So you expect to calm me by appealing to self-interest?”

  “Doesn’t it work?”

  “That’s beside the point. I don’t understand what you’re after. If you thought that would hurt their sales—”

  “Nah, my goal is much more complex. It is to shatter the mythos of Powerhouse as some great symbol of hope and decency. If I can provoke him into behaving badly, it’ll destroy his public image.”

  Fournier bit his lip. “Sir, have you considered the implications of trying actively to provoke a superhuman to extreme anger? What will happen to you if he finds out you’re the one doing it?”

  “Just one of those risks you have to take. I don’t want to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Modem-to-modem is the way I fight.” Mitch tossed Fournier’s Wookie head back at him. “Get back to the convention.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.” Fournier put on his mask and headed for the door.

  Mitch settled back at his laptop and surfed to another Christian news site that let anyone on the web post articles. He signed in with his sock puppet’s username, Deacon275, and pasted in the Guardian article on Miss Invisible. He typed, “Wow, I’m really shocked by this. I thought Powerhouse was supposed to be godly, but I guess not. Those pastors working with him in Seattle had better repent.”

  The Christians loved it when he said someone needed to repent. He snickered and switched over to another tab, where he’d made a similar post already. He refreshed the post and scrolled down. A few suckers agreed with him, and a few disagreed.

  The twenty-eighth post was, “Hey, you just joined the forum today and the first thing you post is attacking Powerhouse, who has been doing great things. Troll alert!”

  About half a dozen more folks picked up the theme of audaciously calling a troll a troll. Mitch posted a response. “You can’t argue scripture, so you attack the person.”

  Mitch smiled. He was right, but their only mistake was that he wasn’t just a troll, he was the King of Trolls.

  His cell phone rang. “This is Kelli Michaels. I couldn’t get hold of Powerhouse’s spiritual advisor. It looks like she’s in a meeting.”

  “Keep trying.”

  “What great journalistic acts do you demand? Want me to break into her room and steal her diary? Maybe get some naked baby photos and make a scandal out of it.”

  Farrow scowled. “What’s the attitude about?”

  “I just thought about a fresh-faced girl who liked people and like writing about them. She went to journalism school to write about things that mattered. Along the way, she had some stupid relationships with men, but they didn’t take pictures of her and sell her out to the paper. If she could see me now, she’d throw up.”

  Who was she to judge him? “I’ve never known you to have a weak stomach.”

  “I don’t have any doubt of what I’ve become, and it’s who I am. I’m simply mourning the loss of my naïve illusions. What do you want me to do?”

  “Get reactions around the convention hall and go and have a few stiff drinks.”

  “So go drown my morals in some cheap whiskey just like the head honcho who is destroying a woman for questionable choices you’ve made yourself. Will do, boss.” She hung up with a click.

  Mitch returned to his posts.

  His black phone rang. “Hey, Pharaoh, we completed your request on her room.”

  “Has she been out since she got back from the press conference?”

  “Nah, we did it while the conference was going on.”

  Farrow scowled. “I told you aft
er she got home and after she left again.”

  “We were thinkin’ she might not leave until she flies back to New York.”

  “I didn’t pay you to think. You may have a point about her going back to New York, but now she won’t think the attack was committed by her co-religionists. The news had barely come out when the press conference occurred. It’ll be obvious to her that whoever did it knew about the story in advance, knew where her room was, and clumsily make it look like she’d been vandalized.”

  “So when do we get the rest of our money?”

  “You don’t, you dolt. I gave specific directions. You violated them. Our contract is void.” He hung up and slammed the phone down.

  Why, why, was the underworld so full of idiots?

  Powerhouse sat on the bed in his hotel room as he punched a number into his cell phone, dialing the conference line number Naomi had mailed to him.

  Naomi’s sweet voice said, “Who just joined?”

  “Powerhouse.”

  “Welcome, Powerhouse! We’re just about ready. Jeff Murphy’s here.”

  “Yeah, but I may have to cut out. The editor’s looking for a story. Since we got a new CEO, the editor’s been cracking the whip. That Farrow is a slave driver.” Murphy laughed at his own joke.

  “I’m here, Powerhouse,” Pastor Leticia Jones said.

  Naomi added, “Mr. McCall and Mr. Delaney couldn’t make this meeting.”

  The phone beeped. “This is Miss Invisible.” She had an edge in her voice. “Is everyone here?”

  “Everyone who could make it.” Naomi sighed.

  “Okay. First thing you’ll want to know is about my relationship with this guy. I was eighteen. I thought he loved me. I was rebellious and curious. Afterward, I found out he’d taken pictures of me. He threatened to show my parents if I didn’t pay him $5000. I got the money together, but he kept blackmailing me for three years. I took on extra modeling jobs to keep paying him.” Her voice cracked. “Then I met Captain France and I started openly living in sin, but I still didn’t want these photos published. I kept paying until Captain France found out what this guy was doing. I’ve never seen him so angry. He confronted the blackmailer, and I thought that was the end of it. He said he’d give us all of the copies. Apparently, the scum lied.”

  Wow. Powerhouse closed his eyes and bowed his head, gripping the cell phone tight. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. Powerhouse, I’m willing to agree with Blue Cat to cancel the comic book. I don’t want to mess with what you’re trying to do.”

  “I got a text from Mr. Delaney earlier. He said you have his full support.” Albeit only so as long as no recent photos came out. “If you didn’t have his support, I’d quit.”

  Miss Invisible moaned. “Don’t you get it? If I am associated with you, it would ruin your wholesome image.”

  “Honey,” Pastor Leticia Jones said, “what the media is doing to you is neither wholesome nor Christ-like. You know how many eighteen-year-old girls have fooled with men and regretted it? You’ve repented, and you’re trying to do right before God.”

  “Okay, but I thought I should offer.”

  Murphy said, “How are we going to handle this in the media? Should she do interviews?”

  “No!” Pastor Leticia’s voice said. “A woman shouldn’t have to go on the air and give some detailed explanation of her sins and get into some tabloid fight. We should put out a statement explaining the essentials and tell them to move on.”

  “The media’s not going to. The Editor at the Guardian sent an email asking us for coverage ideas on ‘Powerhouse’s Moral Failing.’ They’re trying guilt-by-association.”

  “The media will have to move on if we refuse to feed them. It’s none of their business and we got to stay out of the mud.”

  Naomi cleared her throat. “I agree with Pastor Leticia.”

  He surely wouldn’t have to give another speech. “Who will make the statement?”

  “Dear—Powerhouse, you’re the one who works for Blue Cat Comics.”

  Drat. Powerhouse sighed. “Okay, get it ready, Mr. Murphy. I’ll read it tomorrow at a press conference, barring an earth-shattering emergency.” God, please send one. Please, please, please. “Miss Invisible, are you going to be back at the convention?”

  “I need to disappear for a while—and take care of the person who did this.”

  “Wait, you know who did this? Who?”

  Pastor Jones said, “Girl, you shouldn’t take revenge. It’s bad for your soul.”

  A beep blasted Powerhouse’s ear over the cell phone.

  Naomi said, “She left the line.”

  Chapter 7

  Powerhouse and Perilous Press Conference

  Mitch Farrow finished his comment and hit submit on another Christian forum the next morning. Well, he’d managed to keep Christians at each other’s throats, but he could use some professional assistance.

  His gray phone rang. He glanced at his caller ID. “Reverend Miles Graystone.”

  He smiled and accepted the call. “Hello, Reverend. Have you had a chance to consider the story about your daughter’s college days?”

  “I want more time to pray.”

  This is called stalling. “You’ve had your time, Reverend. Two hours. If you want to ‘save the lost,’ and if you love your daughter, you’ll say yes to our exchange of favors and save your crusade and your daughter’s wedding from the irreversible damage that story would do.”

  “You’re cruel.”

  “I know how difficult this is. I’m willing to kill the story.” Mitch grinned. This was fun. “Thing is, I’d hate to be in someone’s debt, so how can I in good conscience leave you in mine? So I’ve already decided what favor I want in return. I assure you, it’s not money or anything that you can’t spin to make yourself look good.”

  The reverend sighed, then spat. “What do you want?”

  Finally. He was ready to consider it. “Condemn a vigilante named Miss Invisible. Ask, how can she claim to be a Christian when she appeared naked in the Enquirer.”

  “You can’t be serious!” The reverend growled. “So you’re a Blackmailer, Farrow. Do you realize God takes what you’re doing as seriously as he does fornication? You need to figure out how you can claim that yourself, or you’ll—”

  “Spare me. You’re talking to Job, only I cursed God and died a long time ago.”

  “Good news, son. Satan lied. You’re not beyond redemption. You never accepted the Lord for yourself, so you were never spiritually alive to start with.”

  Stupid religious nuts. Mitch stiffened. “Oh, so you think you’re a prophet?”

  “Boy, I think I’m an evangelist with way too much experience with kids just like you. Ever since I rebuked you for your hypocrisy, your voice has been shaking your fist at me like a rebellious little boy who was raised in the faith but never caught it.”

  “Well, whether you call it a favor or blackmail, you’d better make that statement condemning Miss Invisible or you can kiss your daughter’s wedding goodbye.”

  “Are you a father? Do you have any idea what you’re putting me through?”

  “My daughter has been dying for years! She’s spent her childhood in and out of hospitals! Why should I care if your saintly, ‘Thou Shalt Always Be Happy’ family has to deal with something a tad unpleasant? Now, what is it gonna be, Reverend? You going to let people go to Hell and your daughter’s wedding go with it?”

  “You leave me no choice. If this got out, it’d bring too much damage to the ministry and hurt too many people. I’ll do as you ask.”

  It’s better that one woman suffer for the whole nation. Religious people haven’t changed much in 2000 years. “Good, I’ve already booked you on CNN. Be at the studio at six Pacific and wear a coat and tie. People take their preachers more seriously if they’re properly attired for their moral condemnation.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll dress appropriately.” The Reverend ended the call.

>   Mitch leaned back in his office chair and glanced up to the ceiling. “Look, Mom! Your little boy grew up to be a blackmailer, too! Aren’t you proud? What, no answer? Of course not. You’re not up on a cloud, looking down, and feeling ashamed of me, either! You’re worm food, mom.”

  Whiskey time. He stomped to his liquor bar, poured himself a shot, and glanced at his watch. Four minutes to Powerhouse’s big press conference. No way was he attending it in person and facing that tin-plated Boy Scout.

  He pressed a button to turn on the closed circuit television.

  Powerhouse stood at the podium. He stared out at the sea of press and fans as he recited his statement from memory. “The New York Enquirer has recently published photos that were taken without the knowledge or consent of Miss Invisible six years ago. The pictures were an invasion of her privacy and do not reflect her character today. Blue Cat Comics and I stand behind Miss Invisible and we eagerly await the release of her comic book beginning in October.” Powerhouse swallowed as his heart pounded and his stomach churned. “I’ll open the floor to questions.”

  A dozen reporters hands went up.

  Powerhouse pointed to a man in a sports jacket and jeans. “Yes.”

  “Will Miss Invisible be giving any interviews?”

  “No.” Powerhouse frowned. “Especially given the sort of questions the media asks. It’s none of your business. Everything you need to know is on her website.”

  Mitch Farrow’s reporter girlfriend raised her hand.

  Oh no. Maybe he should just end the conference.

  Over his Bluetooth earpiece, his press advisor said, “Call on her, but ignore whatever she says. Instead segue to the rest of the prepared statement.”

  That was its use? But that felt so . . . un-superhero-like. He pointed. “Kelli.”

  She said, “You’re a Christian, and the Powerhouse Presents releases from Blue Cat Comics promise a line of Powerhouse-approved Comics will offer positive role models for kids.”