by Adam Graham
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, you 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 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 groundwork for the work that you will soon 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 view screen receded into the ceiling. “While Dorado Incorporated is a publicly listed stock, 90% 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 any committed romantic relationships, however, 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 too 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 nodded as his stomach irrationally tightened into knots and his legs stupidly wanted to flee. “Too many people on this rock already.” Right?
“The new order will ensure overpopulation is addressed, I’ve been assured.”
###
Varlock lay on his back on a surgical table, covering his eyes with his left arm.
“I’m done,” the gravely voice of his master rumbled.
Vorlock lowered his arm. The room was dark and lit by candles. He peered at his lord and master, who stood and 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 think a two-eyed creature of light is 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’ll 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. You will use our word for it. We mustn’t betray ourselves. They must never suspect that we are from Perdition.”
###
Mitch Farrow entered his new office. He stared at the mural of the Seattle skyline on the left side wall. In front of the wall were two tree-sized ferns. In front of the window was a marble-topped desk and three new brown leather chairs. Just above the doorway was a 52 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.
Mitch pulled up a list of the top ten comic books. He stared at the names. All cynical comic books he subscribed to except for #4.
The Adventures of Powerhouse. Huh. He’d never gotten that one. He surfed onto 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 in the area, patrolling the city. The terrorist fired a weapon from across the street at the Ambassador. Powerhouse spotted the terrorist and rocketed down to stop the bullet. He threw the ambassador out of the way
Mitch turned the page. The bullet hit Powerhouse’s rocket pack as he pushed the Ambassador out of the way. Powerhouse leapt up to pursue the fleeing terrorist and got six feet off the ground. The rocket pack 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 slammed 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 new real 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.”
“Hello, Powerhouse, it’s Wallace Kandinsky, Blue Cat Comics. We re
ceived 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.”
A pause. “Powerhouse, we expected you to provide us a lot of real story lines and to keep fighting crime to increase publicity.”
“I though 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 the things they proposed, 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 and I’ll find another publisher.”
Silence.
“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. Well, 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.”
Kandisky 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 with the company 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. “Mr. Kandinsky, I’ll hold on to this information for now. I’ll suggest that 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, Mitch 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. “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. “Hey, 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, this is the Pharaoh.” Mitch smirked. Dumb broad. “I’m wondering what type of phone etiquette that was.”
“Forgive her, she’s my cleaning woman. I was just headed out the door.”
“Do you still need another panelist for the Powerhouse retrospective?”
“Yeah, I thought you were too busy.”
Mitch rubbed his hands together. “My schedule will need some re-arranging, but in this business, people bow to 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 could decorate in a whole Egyptian theme and dress like the Pharaoh. Nah, that’d be taking things too far even with a board of directors filled with yes-men, but 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 got 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 had 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. “Are 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. “Dottie, that was fan fiction.”
What gullible rubes. Mitch smirked, swaggered through the TV station doors, and passed the vacant receptionist desk down a white corridor to the studio. Over at the make up table, Chief of Police Stone Bachman sat, combing his hair.
Mitch swallowed. Here I am, the head of the world’s largest group of freedom fighters, sitting next to a high-ranking evil minion of the law. Good thing I never liked cops much to start with or I’d have to worry about arousing Bachman’s suspicions.
A make up artist sashayed over to him. Oh no. Makeup artists made him look like he was performing as Bozo the Clown rather than like 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 jacket with the station logo walked in. “We’re ready to mic you two.”
The production assistant wired them with lapel microphones. Doug jogged out of the wings and sat in the anchor chair. The red light on the camera came on. “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, early on you made some statements against Powerhouse, but you seemed to warm to him as time went on.”
Bachman flinched. “My early statements were influenced by a false report from an officer that’s since been convicted of some very serious crimes. I’m always bothered by vigilantism, but Powerhouse became much better as he gained experience, and the city owes him a debt of gratitude for his part in bringing down the Ross crime family.” The chief smiled. “More than that, Doug, Powerhouse really brought a spirit of genuine caring and a sort of, almost, innocence, and infectious ent
husiasm 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.”
“I wrote a few posts on Powerhouse back when he was flying around the city in his little suit. The thing I always asked was, ‘What’s this guy’s angle?’ Now we know. Since, he disappeared; he’s continued to publish Powerhouse Comic Books and action figures. He’s shamelessly profiting off of the misery and suffering of the city. Rather than decrying that sleazy con artist, everyone’s acting like he’s some big hero. It’s disgusting.”
Bachman scowled at Mitch. “I’m glad if Powerhouse is earning something off his experience. He risked his life more than once. Thanks to his efforts, we have a more honest police department and the Ross crime syndicate is out of commission.”
“You owe that to Marcos Silvano coming forward. The police in this city have always been corrupt and still are. The few people that managed to get caught in the Silvano probe have only been replaced by other crooked cops.”
The chief cupped his hands together and inhaled. “You’re making unproven and false assertions.”
Got you. Mitch sneered. “You cops are crooked. Everyone knows it. The rate for all crimes is at almost the exact same level now as it was when Powerhouse first arrived on the scene. He made no difference whatsoever.”
The chief leaned forward. “Some of the crime he stopped was not stuff that shows up in the rate. It’s unreported. It’s called the dark figure of crime.”
Yuck. The only thing worse than a cop was an educated cop. “Nobody can trust the cops. What we really need is less people calling the cops and more people calling the ACLU to report abuses at the hands of cops.”
The chief’s face flushed red and a vein popped out in his forehead as he pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “We have a complaint board to address that.”
“Oh yeah, like people can trust that.”
Doug raised his hands. “Gentlemen, we’ve gotten off-topic. We’re not talking about the police. But if I’m understanding you, Mr. Farrow, your stance is Powerhouse didn’t accomplish anything and is profiting from his powers?”
Good old Doug still goes for controversy like a dog after meat. “It’s all about the Benjamins, baby. It makes Seattle look bad. We are a forward-looking, progressive city with a grimy underbelly of poverty and corruption. Powerhouse comics hide that.”
