Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa?
Page 1
Praise for
Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa?
“The best non-comicbook superhero story I’ve ever read.”
COMIC BASTARDS
“Cleverly alludes to the conflict between fantasy and reality at play — that this story about comics should be so similar to a murder mystery of the Sam Spade kind is just the cherry on the cake.”
EMMETT O’CUANA, The Momus Report
“A compelling study of character driving an investigative narrative, and a cracking good read.”
THE INK SHOT
“Plays with the conventions of comicbooks/virtual reality/dystopian fiction and the good ol’ murder mystery.”
RENEE ASHER PICKUP, Books and Booze
“A front-seat view into a quirky and imaginative world of superheroes that feel love and pain in equal measure.”
LLOYD PAIGE, Huffington Post
“I had an idea Andrez Bergen was going places — and his new novel fulfils that promise. An excellent book, don’t miss it.”
HEATH LOWRANCE, author of City of Heretics
“Equal parts homage and pastiche, Bergen peppers this bold mystery with superb nods to the four-colour world, while also densely building a universe in which he can play with confidence — and does.”
RYAN K. LINDSAY, author of The Devil is in the Details: Examining Matt Murdock and Daredevil
“This love letter to the silver age of Marvel Comics will grab you by the tights and not let go till the final page — as complex as The Matrix and as immediate as a Jack Kirby splash page.”
JACK SEABROOK, bare*bones ezine
“Andrez Bergen takes his childhood creations and mashes them up with various icons and tropes of superhero literature, resulting in a fresh, exciting look at crime fighters who don capes, masks and union suits to fight the forces of evil. I need two copies of this book — one to read and the other to bag, board and save.”
STEFAN BLITZ, Forces Of Geek
“Reading Heropa is like going back in time — the nostalgia and childlike wonder is still there, but these are clearly more complex than you surmised. It’s a pleasure to puzzle out the familiar faces hiding behind the characters’ masks, and lovely to see that even through the grime and grit of Andrez Bergen’s world, their eyes still have a twinkle.”
PAUL O’CONNOR, Longbox Graveyard
“Filled with smart humour, stunning detail and credible allusions, Heropa captures the good-natured feel of the Lee/Ditko/King comic books while still feeling fresh and new.”
ANDREW CYRUS HUDSON, Comic Attack
“If anybody else is as inventive and bizarre as Andrez Bergen, then they aren’t half as good a writer or everybody would know their name. In Heropa pulp fiction is brought bang up to date and then slammed hard into the roots of its own mythology. Equal parts mystery, science fiction and comicbook fantasy, it’s a stylish, creative, noirish romp full of darkness and fun. I don’t know any other writer that could quite pull this off.”
CHRISTOPHER BLACK, Available in Any Colour
“Twisted and warped with the best influences from pop culture — comicbooks and noir — this is one of the most original novels I’ve ever read.”
SONS OF SPADE
“We’re not in Kansas anymore. Or even Gotham City. Bergen’s bighearted meta-romp wears the author’s mighty affection for comic-books past, present and future on its sleeve, and the call-outs, shout-outs and sly winks zip by faster than a speeding bullet — like a crazy, post-modern road trip with Jack Kirby riding shotgun, and everyone from Stan Lee to Raymond Chandler nattering away in the back seat. More fun than a box of old comics!”
KEVIN BURTON SMITH, The Thrilling Detective
“Bergen delivers a tale that is equal parts crime fiction and silver-age comics, with characters swimming in cultural winks and a mass-media homage that feels like the pious mutterings of an über-fan. But it’s his unique style that propels the piece, gripping in an art nouveau sort of way, the clean architecture of an ornate age — long past — towering off the page. Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa? is a mad undertaking, and the madman pulls it off…”
NOIRWHALE
“In a world of silver-age superheroes, a murderous villain emerges as Bergen expertly combines the safety of our youth with the dangers of the present.”
JAYDEN LEGGETT, ComicsOnline.com
“A mad, dystopian world, keeping Bergen fans on the hop with a virtual reality love story. Shifting parameters as the ground shakes under the reader’s feet seems to be his strength — no need to be a comicbook fan to enjoy; the engaging characters will have you turning the pages in this story of true love in a virtual world.”
MCDROLL, author of Feeling It
“A highly readable tale that gives us superheroes with a difference in a fantasy world gone sour, and does it with a lightness of touch that makes the pages seem to fly by.”
STEVE DOES COMICS
“Reads like an open love letter to the golden age, blending in a gritty Matrix-esque, cyberpunk edge.”
MATT KYME, writer of That Bulletproof Kid
“Great stuff! — as a huge comicbook fan, I really connected. It’s funny, bizarre and very, very cool.”
THE TROLLISH DELVER
“Whilst flexing his comic and cultural muscles to heroic proportions, Andrez Bergen manages to plant a razor-sharp tongue into a wickedly hardboiled cheek.”
MIKE YOUNG & MARC CRANE, creators of LIL Comic
“Sam Spade meets the Justice League of America in a dystopian future where everybody’s a superhero. Filled with clever references to the silver age of comicbooks, Bergen knows his comics and how to craft an entertaining mystery.”
SILVER AGE COMICS
“A mixed-media love letter to the golden age of comics and the classic detective story, with nods to Batman and The Avengers along with tips of the fedora to Chandler and Hammett, Heropa is unlike any mystery you’ve ever read. Highly stylized and forever cool — like if Rorschach had been allowed to just gumshoe and smoke, without any giant blue dongs slapping you in the face to shatter the illusion.”
JOE CLIFFORD, author of Choice Cuts & Junkie Love
“Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa? is a terrific, postmodern superhero noir. It’s like Top 10 rolled into the Comicbook History of Comics, but with a wry Aussie humour all of its own. Action, mystery and yuks a-plenty, lavishly illustrated by real-deal comic artists. Get into it.”
JASON FRANKS, Black House Comics, author of McBlack
“A little noir, a dash of dystopia, a pinch of alternate reality, and a heaped helping of creativity and talent make for the sledgehammer of a novel that is Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa? Prepare to change the way you look at superheroes.”
BOOK REVIEWS BY ELIZABETH A. WHITE
“If Jack Kirby and Carroll John Daly had a child, science would cry and from those tears would rise Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa? Who knew hardboiled superhero pulp fiction could be so great?”
RYAN HUFF, Geek of Oz
“Andrez Bergen returns with a fast-paced romp that’s equal parts comicbook heroics and hardboiled detective homage. Nobody is better than Bergen at this sort of highly entertaining hybrid — his is a unique voice, and if you haven’t read his work yet, you really need to.”
JAMES REASONER, Rough Edges
“Equal parts sinister fantasy-mystery and open love letter to the history of comicbooks, every passing hero reference will have you shouting excitedly at complete strangers with all the vigour of a Trivial Pursuit revelation. Ignore their cold stares, for you are right — that totally is Stan Lee.”
DAVE BUESIN
G, Comic Book Herald
“Bergen creates some of the most wildly imaginative places you will ever encounter in fiction and his characters are fascinating people who you’ll want to hang out with…an entertaining and challenging read for comicbook lovers and the rest of us alike.”
CHRIS RHATIGAN, Death By Killing
“Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa? is partly a homage to one of my favorite writers, Raymond Chandler, and a noir superhero crime fantasy inspired by a great love of the classic silver-age comic heroes. Jack Kirby meets Philip Marlowe? It’s got my vote!”
BRYAN TALBOT, creator/artist of Grandville, 2000 AD, Sandman
First published by Perfect Edge Books, 2013
Perfect Edge Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach,
Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK
office1@jhpbooks.net
www.johnhuntpublishing.com
www.perfectedgebooks.com
For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.
Text copyright: Andrez Bergen 2013
ISBN: 978 1 78279 235 2
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.
The rights of Andrez Bergen as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Design: Stuart Davies
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.
C0NTENTS
PROLOGUE: THE KÁRMÁN LINE
HEROPA
GO WEST
THE ORIGIN OF SOUTHERN CROSS
TWILIGHT OVER HOBOKEN
PATRIOT CLAIMS
THE CRIME CRUSADERS
PRANCE, PRANCE, PRANCE
BLACKJACK
6° OF TREPIDATION
GUN HAPPY
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER STAIN
MARVELLOUS MELBOURNE
THE KNOCK-OFF
ROGUE’S GALLERY + ENCYCLOPÆDIA COMMIX
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS + ULTERIOR READING
ARTIST BIOS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ARTWORK CREDITS
Rodolfo Reyes cover&
Drezz Rodriguez
Giovanni Ballati
Israel Schnapps
Juan Saavedra
Kohana Yamadera
Andrez Bergen
Dave Acosta
Yata Garasu
Cocoa Bergen
Wally Deaps
Loka Ashitaba
Lorrie Melton
Loka Ashitaba
Harvey Finch
Tsubomi Hanasaki
JGMiranda
Sho Ishinomori
Saint Yak
Paul Mason
Rodolfo Reyes
Fred Rambaud
Giovanni Ballati
Van Diemen
Milton Caine
Andrew Chiu
Hannah Buena
Giovanni Ballati
Maan House
Joe King
Carlos Gómez
Marcin Markowski
Maan House
Giovanni Ballati
Casey Crime
Also by the same author:
TOBACCO-STAINED MOUNTAIN GOAT
ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF VICISSITUDE
THE CONDIMENTAL OP
For Cocoa, again
“We all do what we must, and live with what we’ve done.” Wolram E. Deaps, Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat
PROLOGUE: THE KÁRMÁN LINE
“Aer’t,” the radio receiver squawks inside her helmet. “Aeri’st, re’ng me?”
“Hello, you’ve called the Aerialist,” the Cape says in response. “She’s not home at the moment, too busy falling from a ridiculous height. Please leave a message after the tone so the girl can get back to you — you know, after all the king’s horses and all the king’s men put her together again. Beep.”
God knows if anyone hears the quip. The only feedback coming through loud and clear is shrill static.
The Aerialist was aware of risks, but sabotage — someone cutting a hole in her jetpack to siphon out the fuel — had not been one of the hazards people bothered to mention.
Fifteen seconds pass and the drop is only one thousand, nine hundred feet shorter, according to the instrumentation on her wrist. Three hundred and twenty-six thousand of the imperial buggers to go.
The Aerialist is slap-bang in freefall, somewhere marginally past the Kármán line — in plain English about a hundred kilometres to impact on earth. Unless, of course, she hits something higher like Mount Everest (shaving off nine kilometres) or the top of the Empire State, four hundred and forty metres above terra firma.
Not that either place is optional here.
Flame-on! she quips, laughing for just a moment.
Inferring she’s alit does, however, exaggerate the case. Objects light up when they fall at tens of miles a second, whereas her rate of descent clocks in around a few hundred miles per hour. Maybe seven hundred. Slower than a lead balloon.
That doesn’t stop her brain racing, conjuring up the insane, expecting fire to lick up on the outside of the pressure suit. This suit takes the brunt of buffeting as she tumbles arse over tit. No hope. Nothing. Just falling till she hits the ground.
Never thought it’d end via such a lame whimper, she further mulls, dizzy now. Maybe I should’ve packed a parachute?
HER0PA
#100
While he may’ve felt like he’d been dropped on his head, he actually landed on his feet.
Even so, following on as this did from a spell of sustained darkness, Jack tottered in the middle of a sidewalk crammed with pedestrians. His body felt heavier, lethargic, cumbersome. When people began to shove past in brutal fashion, he beat one very hasty retreat to lean against a brick wall, overwhelmed and dazed.
There was a shop here, an archaic-looking place called the Big Trip Travel Agency, all posters of propeller-driven clipper planes, swirling bullfighters, and a dirigible marked with the livery of Latverian Airways, from which disembarked gaily-smiling, beautiful people in 1940s apparel.
The agency also grabbed Jack’s attention because, back in his hometown, tourism had bird-dogged the itinerary of the dodo.
The man’s heart was racing. He tried his damnedest to calm down, but this was bizarre.
In the reflection of one of the big windows, beneath a striped marquee, he’d noticed he was dolled up in a tight superhero costume — coloured a shade of dark blue, verging on cerulean — to which no one else here paid any heed. Peeling off the smothering mask, Jack inhaled deeply, coughed, and finally took time out to properly gawk. Revelling in the presence of no rain, he scanned a cloudless sky high above, and dropped his gaze to a metropolis — all flying buttresses, concrete and glass. This was something, he would allow that much. Not quite the Emerald City, yet hardly a place to sneeze at.
On street level caroused mint-condition antique vehicles snatched straight out of some tasteful car museum. Hurrying along the footpaths to either side were women in wild hats, kid gloves and fitted dresses with shoulder-pads, along with men in felt fedoras and double-breasted pinstripe suits who looked like they belonged in a photo with his great grandfather — which probably they did.
“Welcome, sir.”
Outside Sam’s Delicatessen, next door to the travel agency, an elderly gent had positioned himself in front of Jack. He was dressed in a jarring red military-style uniform with gold lapels, the only one of a horde of pedestrians to notice Jack’s presence. The two of them looked like mismatched bookends in a sea of conformity.
“I�
�m Stan the Doorman.”
Jack decided he liked Stan’s eyes. They were warm and accompanied by a suave white moustache above a winning smile.
“You may label me the Doormat,” the gent in red waffled on, “since there are some here who do just that — but I prefer to be considered a welcoming committee.”
Jack looked at him for a few seconds, rediscovering anew the ability to speak. “Okay. Um. Can I call you Stan? That Cool McCool?”
“Of course. And appreciated.”
“So — what is this place?”
“Everything has a starting point and your starting point is here.”
“Cryptic.”
“Actually, also very simple. Look around. Go on, then.”
As if to encourage his charge, the old man performed a creaky, horizontal bobbin routine right there on the footpath, turning several times, so Jack hung on to his coattails.
This city was immense.
It stretched in every direction he could see, making him feel like a flea in a ridiculous blue suit of his own choosing.
The monumental skyline sweated neoclassical touches, its architecture early twentieth-century art deco colliding with Soviet formalism — offering tall, sharp-edged towers, soaring arches, looming statuary. Jack felt most of the places looked like enormous wedding cakes with kitsch columns and over-decorative façades.
One sculpture, a statue of some suited bigwig punching his fist heavenward, was in the vicinity size-wise of King Kong.
“Overboard,” Jack muttered.
“Fear not. All this has happened before, and it will all happen again — but this time it happens in Heropa. It starts happening on a busy street in Grand Midtown. That corner skyscraper over there, the one that takes up all four corners of a city block, is the home of the Equalizers, and I suggest that you choose this particular building because there are people there who believe in you.”
“Sure.” Whatever, crossed Jack’s mind.