The Star-Spangled Future

by Norman Spinrad

  You take some stuff—acid is a groovy high, but you’re liable to get wasted; lots of speed and some grass or hash is more recommended—when you go in, so that by the time the game starts you’re really loaded. And then, man, you just groove behind the violence. There aren’t any cops to bring you down. What chicks ate 6 there are there because they dig it. The people you’re enjoying beating up on are getting the same kicks beating up on you, so there’s no guilt hang-up to get between you and the total experience of violence.

  Like I say, it’s a unique trip. A pure violence high without any hang-ups. It makes me feel good and purged and kind of together just to walk out of that stadium after a Combat football trip and know I survived; the danger is groovy, too. Baby, if you can dig it, Combat can be a genuine mystical experience.

  Hogs Win It All, 21–17, 1578(23)–9S9(14)!

  Anaheim, October 8. It was a slam-bang finish to the National Combat Football League Pennant Race, the kind of game Combat fans dream about. The Golden Supermen and the Hog Choppers in a dead-even tie for first place playing each other in the last game of the season, winner take all, before nearly sixty thousand fans. It was a beautiful, sunny ninety degree Southern California day as the Hogs kicked off to the Supermen before a crowd that seemed evenly divided between Hog lovers, who had motorcycled in all week from all over California, and Supermen fans, whose biggest bastion is here in Orange County.

  The Supermen scored first blood midway through the first period when quarterback Bill Johnson tossed a little screen pass to his right end, Seth West, on the Hog twenty-three, and West slugged his way through five Hog tacklers, one of whom sustained a mild concussion, to go in for the touchdown. Rudolf’s conversion made it 7–0, and the Supermen fans in the stands responded to the action on the field by making a major sortie into the Hog lover section at midfield, taking out about twenty Hog lovers, including a fatality.

  The Hog fans responded almost immediately by launching an offensive of their own in the bleacher seats, but didn’t do much better than hold their own. The Hogs and the Supermen pushed each other up and down the field for the rest of the period without a score, while the Supermen fans seemed to be getting the better of the Hog lovers, especially in the midfield sections of the grandstand, where at least one hundred and twenty Hog lovers were put out of action.

  The Supermen scored a field goal early in the second period to make the score 10–0, but more significantly, the Hog lovers seemed to be dogging it, contenting themselves with driving back continual Supermen fan sorties, while launching almost no attacks of their own.

  The Hogs finally pushed in over the goal line in the final minutes of the first half on a long pass from quarterback Spike Horrible to his flanker Greasy Ed Lee to make the score 10–7 as the half ended. But things were not nearly as close as the field score looked, as the Hog lovers in the stands were really taking their lumps from the Supermen fans who had bruised them to the extent of nearly five hundred takeouts including five fatalities, as against only about three hundred casualties and three fatalities chalked up by the Hog fans.

  During the half-time intermission, the Hog lovers could be seen marshaling themselves nervously, passing around beer, pot, and pills, while the Supermen fans confidently passed the time entertaining themselves with patriotic songs.

  The Supermen scored again halfway through the third period, on a handoff from Johnson to his big fullback Tex McGhee on the Hog forty-one. McGhee slugged his way through the left side of the line with his patented windmill attack, and burst out into the Hog secondary swinging and kicking. There was no stopping the Texas Tornado, though half the Hog defense tried, and McGhee went forty-one yards for the touchdown, leaving three Hogs unconscious and three more with minor injuries in his wake. The kick was good, and the Supermen seemed on their way to walking away with the championship, with the score 17–7, and the momentum, in the stands and on the field, going all their way.

  But in the closing moments of the third period, Johnson son threw a long one downfield intended for his left end, Dick Whitfield. Whitfield got his fingers on the football at the Hog thirty, but Hardly Davidson, the Hog cornerback, was right on him, belted him in the head from behind as he touched the ball, and then managed to catch the football himself before either it or Whitfield had hit the ground. Davidson got back to midfield before three Supermen tacklers took him out of the rest of the game with a closed eye and a concussion.

  All at once, as time ran out in the third period, the ten-point Supermen lead didn’t seem so big at all as the Hogs advanced to a first down on the Supermen thirty-five and the Hog lovers in the stands beat back Supermen fan attacks on several fronts, inflicting very heavy losses.

  Spike Horrible threw a five-yarder to Greasy Ed Lee on the first play of the final period, then a long one into the end zone intended for his left end, Kid Filth, which the Kid dropped as Gordon Jones and John Lawrence slugged him from both sides as soon as he became lair game.

  It looked like a sure pass play on third and five, but Horrible surprised everyone by fading back into a draw and handing the bail off to Loser Ludowicki, his fullback, who plowed around right end like a heavy tank, simply crushing and smashing through tacklers with his body and fists, picked up two key blocks on the twenty and seventeen, knocked Don Barnfield onto the casualty list with a tremendous haymaker on the seven, and went in for the score.

  The Hog lovers in the stands went Hog-wild. Even before the successful conversion by Knuckleface Bonner made it 17–14, they began blitzing the Supermen fans on all fronts, letting out everything they had seemed to be holding back during the first three quarters. At least one hundred Supermen fans were taken out in the next three minutes, including two quick fatalities, while the Hog lovers lost no more than a score of their number.

  As the Hog lovers continued to punish the Supermen fans, the Hogs kicked off to the Supermen, and stopped them after two first downs, getting the ball back on their own twenty-four. After marching to the Supermen thirty-one on a sustained and bloody ground drive, the Hogs lost the ball again when Greasy Ed Lee was rabbit-punched into a fumble.

  But the Hog lovers still sensed the inevitable and pressed their attack during the next two Supermen series of downs, and began to push the Supermen fans toward the bottom of the grandstand.

  Buoyed by the success of their fans, the Hogs on the field recovered the ball on their own twenty-nine with less than two minutes to play when Chain-Mail Dixon belted Tex McGhee into a fumble and out of the game.

  The Hogs crunched their way upfield yard by yard, punch by punch, against a suddenly shaky Supermen opposition, and, all at once, the whole season came down to one play: with the score 17–14 and twenty seconds left on the clock, time enough for one or possibly two more plays, the Hogs had the ball third and four on the eighteen-yard line of the Golden Supermen.

  Spike Horrible took the snap as the Hog lovers in the stands launched a final all-out offensive against the Supermen fans, who by now had been pushed to a last stand against the grandstand railings at fieldside. Horrible took about ten quick steps back as if to pass, and then suddenly ran head down, fist flailing, at the center of the Supermen line with the football tucked under his arm.

  Suddenly Greasy Ed Lee and Loser Ludowicki raced ahead of their quarterback, hitting the line and staggering the tacklers a split-second before Horrible arrived, throwing them just off-balance enough for Horrible to punch his way through with three quick rights, two of them k.o. punches. Virtually the entire Hog team roared through the hole after him, body-blocking, elbowing, and crushing tacklers to the ground. Horrible punched out three more tacklers as the Hog lovers pushed the first contingent of fleeing Supermen fans out onto the field, and went in for the game and championship winning touchdown with two seconds left on the clock.

  When the dust had cleared, not only had the Hog Choppers beaten the Golden Supermen 21–17, but the Hog lovers had driven the Golden Supermen fans from their favorite stadium, and had racked up a com
manding advantage in the casualty statistics, 1578 casualties and 23 fatalities inflicted, as against only 989 and 14.

  It was a great day for the Hog lovers and a great day in the history of our National Pastime.

  The Voice of Sweet Reason

  Go to a Combat football game? Really, do you think I want to risk being injured or possibly killed? Of course, I realize that Combat is a practical social mechanism for preserving law and order, and, to be frank, I find the spectacle rather stimulating. I watch Combat often, almost every Sunday.

  On television, of course. After all, everyone who is anyone in this country knows very well that there are basically two kinds of people in the United States: people who go out to Combat games, and people for whom Combat is strictly a television spectator sport.

  Introduction to

  It’s A Bird! It’s A Plane!

  Honest, I swear I wrote this story years before anyone even thought of doing a big Superman movie, and if you don’t believe me just check the copyright page of this book. I predict nothing. The movie hasn’t even come out as I write this. I am responsible for nothing. I didn’t do it, honest I didn’t!

  Honest, really, please believe me for your own good. Superman does not exist. He’s only a character in a comic book and a movie and merchandising campaigns and dirty jokes. He’s entirely a figment of poor nebbishy Clark Kent’s imagination. You do believe that, don’t you…?

  It’s a Bird! It’s a Plane!

  Dr. Felix Funck fumblingly fitted yet another spool onto the tape recorder hidden in the middle drawer of his desk as the luscious Miss Jones ushered in yet another one. Dr. Funck stared wistfully for a long moment at Miss Jones, whose white nurse’s smock advertised the contents most effectively without revealing any of the more intimate and interesting details. If only x-ray vision were really possible and not part of the infernal Syndrome…

  Get a hold of yourself, Funck, get a hold of yourself! Felix Funck told himself for the seventeenth time that day.

  He sighed, resigned himself, and said to the earnest-looking young man whom Miss Jones had brought to his office, “Please sit down, Mr…?”

  “Kent, Doctor,” said the young man, seating himself primly on the edge of the overstuffed chair in front of Funck’s desk. “Clark Kent!”

  Dr. Funck grimaced, then smiled wanly. “Why not?” he said, studying the young man’s appearance. The young man wore an archaic blue double-breasted suit and steel-rimmed glasses. His hair was steel-blue.

  “Tell me… Mr. Kent,” he said, “do you by some chance know where you are?”

  “Certainly, Doctor,” replied Clark Kent crisply. “I’m in a large public mental hospital in New York City!”

  “Very good, Mr. Kent. And do you know why you’re here?”

  “I think so, Dr. Funck!” said Clark Kent. “I’m suffering from partial amnesia! I don’t remember how or when I came to New York!”

  “You mean you don’t remember your past life?” asked Dr. Felix Funck.

  “Not at all, Doctor!” said Clark Kent. “I remember everything up till three days ago when I found myself suddenly in New York! And I remember the last three days here! But I don’t remember how I got here!”

  “Well, then, where did you live before you found yourself in New York, Mr. Kent?”

  “Metropolis!” said Clark Kent. “I remember that very well! I’m a reporter for the Metropolis Daily Planet! That is, I am if Mr. White hasn’t fired me for not showing up for three days! You must help me, Dr. Funck! I must return to Metropolis immediately!”

  “Well, then you should just hop the next plane for home,” suggested Dr. Funck.

  “There don’t seem to be any flights from New York to Metropolis!” exclaimed Clark Kent. “No buses or trains either! I couldn’t even find a copy of the Daily Planet at the Times Square newsstand! I can’t even remember where Metropolis is! It’s as if some evil force has removed all traces of Metropolis from the face of the Earth! That’s my problem, Dr. Funck! I’ve got to get back to Metropolis, but I don’t know how!”

  “Tell me, Mr. Kent,” said Funck slowly, “just why is it so imperative that you return to Metropolis immediately?”

  “Well… uh… there’s my job!” Clark Kent said uneasily. “Perry White must be furious by now! And there’s my girl, Lois Lane! Well, maybe she’s not my girl yet, but I’m hoping!”

  Dr. Felix Funck grinned conspiratorially. “Isn’t there some more pressing reason, Mr, Kent?” he said. “Something perhaps having to do with your Secret Identity?”

  “S-secret Identity?” stammered Clark Kent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dr. Funck!”

  “Aw, come on, Clark!” Felix Funck said, “Lots of people have Secret Identities. I’ve got one myself. Tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine. You can trust me, Clark. Hippocratic Oath, and like that. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Secret? What secret are you talking about?”

  “Come, come, Mr. Kent!” Funck snapped. “If you want help, you’ll have to come clean with me. Don’t give me any of that meek, mild-mannered reporter jazz. I know who you really are, Mr. Kent.”

  “I’m Clark Kent, meek, mild-mannered reporter for the Metropolis Daily Planet!” insisted Clark Kent.

  Dr. Felix Funck reached into a desk drawer and produced a small chunk of rock coated with green paint. “Who is in reality, Superman,” he exclaimed, “faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings at a single bound! Do you know what this is?” he shrieked, thrusting the green rock in the face of the hapless Clark Kent. “It’s Kryptonite, that’s what it is, genuine, government-inspected Kryptonite! How’s that grab you, Superman?”

  Clark Kent, who is in reality the Man of Steel, tried to say something, but before he could utter a sound, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Dr. Felix Funck reached across his desk and unbuttoned Clark Kent’s shirt. Sure enough, underneath his street clothing, Kent was wearing a pair of moth-eaten longjohns dyed blue, on the chest of which a rude cloth “S” had been crudely sewn.

  “Classic case…” Dr. Funck muttered to himself. “Right out of a textbook. Even lost his imaginary powers when I showed him the phony Kryptonite. Another job for Supershrink!”

  Get a hold of yourself, Funck, get a hold of yourself! Dr. Felix Funck told himself again.

  Shaking his head, he rang for the orderlies.

  After the orderlies had removed Clark Kent #758, Dr. Felix Funck pulled a stack of comic books out of a desk drawer, spread them out across the desktop, stared woodenly at them and moaned.

  The Superman Syndrome was getting totally out of hand. In this one hospital alone, there are already 758 classified cases of Superman Syndrome, he thought forlornly, and lord knows how many Supernuts in the receiving ward awaiting classification.

  “Why? Why? Why?” Funck muttered, tearing at his rapidly thinning hair.

  The basic, fundamental, inescapable, incurable reason, he knew was, of course, that the world was full of Clark Kents. Meek, mild-mannered men. Born losers. None of them, of course, had self-images of themselves as nebbishes. Every mouse has to think of himself as a lion. Everyone has a Secret Identity, a dream image of himself, possessed of fantastic powers, able to cope with normally impossible situations…

  Even psychiatrists had Secret Identities, Funck thought abstractedly. After all, who but Supershrink himself could cope with a ward full of Supermen?

  Supershrink! More powerful than a raving psychotic! Able to diagnose whole neuroses in a single session! Faster than Freud! Abler than Adler! Who, disguised as Dr. Felix Funck, balding, harried head of the Superman Syndrome ward of a great metropolitan booby-hatch, fights a never-ending war for Adjustment, Neo-Freudian Analysis, Fee-splitting, and the American Way!

  Get a hold of yourself, Funck, get a hold of yourself!

  There’s a little Clark Kent in the best of us, Funck thought.

  That’s why Superman had long since passed
into folklore. Superman and his alter ego Clark Kent were the perfect, bald statement of the human dilemma (Kent) and the corresponding wish-fulfillment (The Man of Steel). It was normal for kids to assimilate the synthetic myth into their grubby little ids. But it was also normal for them to outgrow it. A few childhood schizoid tendencies never hurt anyone. All kids are a little loco in the coco, Funck reasoned sagely.

  If only someone had shot Andy Warhol before it was too late!

  That’s what opened the whole fetid can of worms, Funck thought—the Pop Art craze. Suddenly, comic books were no longer greasy kid stuff. Suddenly, comic books were Art with a big, fat capital “A.” They were hip, they were in, so-called adults were no longer ashamed to snatch them away from the brats and read the things themselves.

  All over America, meek, mild-mannered men went back and relived their youths through comic books. Thousands of meek, mild-mannered slobs were once more coming to identify with the meek, mild-mannered reporter of the Metropolis Daily Planet. It was like going home again. Superman was the perfect wish-fulfillment figure. No one doubted that he could pulverize 007, leap over a traffic jam on the Long Island Expressway in a single bound, see through women’s clothing with his x-ray vision, and voilà, the Superman Syndrome!

  Step one: the meek, mild-mannered victim identified with that prototype of all schlemiels, Clark Kent.

  Step two: they began to see themselves more and more as Clark Kent; began to dream of themselves as Superman.

  Step three: a moment of intense frustration, a rebuff from some Lois Lane figure, a dressing-down from some irate Perry White surrogate, and something snapped, and they were in the clutches of the Superman Syndrome.

  Usually, it started covertly. The victim procured a pair of longjohns, dyed them blue, sewed an “S” on them, and took to wearing the costume under his street clothes occasionally, in times of stress.