Ooter's Place: A Sampler

by Karl El-Koura

  “It was a bag of chips and a coke,” Ann said fiercely, turning disgusted eyes on the Chief. “Give me a break.”

  He looked at her with his satisfied smile and said, “Sure, yesterday it was a bag of chips, a chocolate bar, and a coke.” He emphasized her omission, looking around the table to make sure everyone had caught her slip and his correction of it. “But tomorrow—what will it be tomorrow, or the day after? We can’t allow him to run around this city unfettered, above the law, immune to rules and regulations.”

  The Mayor said, “The Chief is right about that. We must stop him.”

  There were suggestions from around the table, some more violent than others. The Fire Marshal wanted to use water from high-pressure hoses to force Matt out of the sky and pin him down. The Chief of Police wanted to try some new gluey foam they were developing for the force; it would entangle Matt, and the harder he struggled against it, the more it would constrict him, like a Chinese finger trap. Some guy named Bordan—Ann didn’t catch his title—wanted to set up a trap, with a damsel in distress and a net that would drop from the ceiling.

  Sam cleared his throat. People kept talking, making suggestion after suggestion, criticizing other people’s suggestions and defending their own. Sam cleared his throat a little louder; no one paid him any attention. He cleared his throat once more. Someone beside him stopped talking for a second, then continued.

  The Mayor raised his right hand slightly; the room was immediately silent.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Miertman,” the Mayor said quietly.

  “You should know that we have another suit,” Sam said. “For the arch-nemesis, Zortran. It’s custom built around the actor, though, and he’s not here—his first scene isn’t scheduled for weeks yet—so we’d have to fly him in from California.”

  There was a short pause before the volcanic explosion of suggestions, criticisms, and defenses erupted once more. It was as if Sam had never spoken at all.

  “What do you think?” Sam said, turning to Ann.

  “I’m worried, Sam,” she said, her voice low enough that only Sam could hear her. “The longer he’s out there, the greater the chance he might do something that’ll get him more than a slap on the wrist. And we can’t shoot him down or set a trap for him—if he feels his life is threatened, he might do something that’ll land him in jail for the rest of his life.”

  “So you think we should go with Zortran?”

  “I think that’s best. If Skeet can lure Matt away from the city; if we can get the suit off and bring him back to his trailer and surround him with familiar things; if I could just talk to him for a little—”

  Ann stopped speaking, recognizing the look in Sam’s eyes. He had reached a decision.

  Sam rose slowly from his seat. The clatter of voices continued without a pause and he was completely ignored. Sam looked around the room at the different people. Ann could almost hear him thinking: I am a director. I directed four thousand extras in the most daring war scene in movie-making history. I got Jerry Pintosh to cry on camera—twice.

  Explosively, he brought his fist down hard against the table. Everyone and everything—the glasses and pitchers of water, the notebooks and pens, the people in their chairs—seemed to jump.

  “Thank you,” Sam said, using his directorial voice. “Nothing would please me more than to sit here and listen to more of your inane chatter, but if it’s all right with you—just this once, for a lark—I’d like to actually do something to resolve this situation before it’s too late.”

  He had been looking around the room at all the faces with their jaws dropped. Now he turned to the Mayor and didn’t look away, as if the rest of the room had disappeared.

  “Here’s what I suggest we do,” he said. “We fly in Bronson Skeet from California. He lures Matt Peber away from the city and, when it’s sufficiently safe, he overpowers our Don Quixote and forces him out of his suit.”

  Sam was describing things as if they were scenes in a movie. Ann almost expected him to bring in an artist and have storyboards drawn up. But what if it didn’t happen as planned? They couldn’t simply re-shoot—this was real life, with real-life consequences. What if something happened to Matt? What if he were hurt?

  Sam was still talking. At the end of his speech, he said, pointing a finger at the Mayor, “What we’d need from you is to make sure the city is empty of people at the time this goes down. We’d need you to tell everyone to stay in their homes—to not even stick their heads outside a window. If Matt decides to duke it out in the streets—hopefully he won’t, but who knows how far his madness will run?—we don’t want any innocent bystanders in the way.”

  Looking at the media representatives around the room—who had been given silent observer passes into the boardroom—the Mayor said, “I think that can be arranged.”

  Outside the room, Sam turned to Ann and asked her, “Do you think Skeet will go for it?”

  Ann called Skeet on her cellphone. After she had explained the situation and said what she wanted from him, Skeet was silent for a moment.

  “Dangerous work, huh?” Skeet said, finally.

  “Yes.”

  “Potentially life-threatening.”

  “Yes.”

  “Something could happen to Matt and I’d go to jail for it.”

  Ann flinched at that but tried to keep her voice level. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

  “How much will I get paid?”

  Ann said a number.

  “I’ll be there on the next flight out,” Skeet said, hanging up the phone.

  Oh, thank you!” the mother of the young baby he had just saved said to him, her voice full of joy and relief.

  “You’re quite welcome, citizen,” the Defender said, trying to keep his voice from sounding too harsh. “But please remember that steep hills and baby rollers just don’t mix. I may not be around next time.”

  “Oh, yes, certainly,” the mother said, in between kisses of her baby’s forehead. “I’ll keep a much tighter hold from now on! No more talking on the phone and rolling the baby, I promise!”

  The Defender smiled with satisfaction and, with a parting nod to mother and baby, flew away.

  As he floated above the river on the city’s edge, the Defender finally realized what it was about the thwarted robbery at the store that bothered him so much.

  Soon, he realized, there would be no more burglaries, no more murders—no more criminal activity whatsoever. Who would commit a crime knowing the Defender might be watching? Who would act in an uncitizenly fashion when they might face the fury of his mighty arm?

  And though that was good news—the end of crime—a part of him couldn’t help but feel a little sad at the prospect. Because where would he fit in such a world? If no one needed defending, no one would need the Defender. He’d be useless, forgotten. Like a good therapist, he was slowly putting himself out of work.

  But that was foolish, wasn’t it? Just now, he had saved a small, cuddly baby from certain death. Earlier that day, he had helped an old woman carry her groceries fourteen blocks and up three flights of stairs. On his way down from that very building, he had stopped two teenagers from fighting and given them a stern lecture about alternate, non-violent means of resolving conflict. His suggestion that next time they had a disagreement, they should discuss it over a game of chess seemed to go over really well.

  And besides, there was always the circus.

  That night, he watched two ruffians from the roof of the building in whose mooncast shadow they were hiding. They had stumbled out of the bar across the street and had spent the last ten minutes discussing their plans for mugging someone.

  The street was deserted, so the Defender wondered if the two drunks would tire of waiting and go away. But suddenly there was the click-click of high heels on pavement, click-clicks that were getting louder as the lady got closer.

  The ruffians whispered to one another, but with his enhanced hearing the Defender heard every word. They were no longe
r thinking about robbery.

  He flew down and landed a bit awkwardly just in front of them. He hoped the darkness sufficiently cloaked his less-than-graceful descent.

  “Hello, ruffians,” he greeted, his voice booming. “Why are you standing in these shadows? You wouldn’t be planning ill-will to honest citizens, would you?”

  He hoped they caught the sarcasm in his voice.

  “What we’s planning to do, it’s to kick your ass,” the one on the right said.

  The Defender listened for a moment—the high heels clicked toward them, toward them, toward them, paused, then clicked away quickly.

  He turned his attention back to the ruffians.

  “Ruffians,” he said, trying to speak sense to them. “You do not want to fight me. You—”

  They were on the ground, both of them. One had a bleeding nose that he was clutching like he was afraid it might fall off and the other looked unconscious.

  They had moved on him so fast, and he’d just reacted. Obviously he was very well trained in the martial arts, perhaps karate. It was instinct that had taken over when they rushed him. He was sorry they were hurt, but it was their fault and hopefully they would learn a lesson from this experience.

  Picking them up and carefully slinging one over each shoulder, he flew them to the nearest hospital and dropped them in front of its doors. Their weight opened the automatic sliding doors and kept them open.

  In the air again—flying always put him in a thoughtful mood—he wondered if there were others like him. Were there people in other cities in the world, endowed with special, super-human abilities as he was? Because if there were, he should try contacting them. He might even try setting up a Superhero’s Conference. It would be interesting, for example, to hear how other superheroes dealt with the police. There was lots they could teach one another, best practices and lessons learned they could share, anecdotes that only other superheroes could understand and relate to.

  But then the thought struck him, running shivers up and down his spine—who’s to say that these other superhumans would use their powers for good and not evil? If these super-villains existed—if men and women had the power that he had but not his moral code—it was his duty to seek them out and put a stop to their maniacal plans to take over the world.

  He might very well be the only person on earth who had the slightest chance to stop them.

  The thief lifted the old lady’s purse with expert swiftness. There were no wasted moves in his actions and not a second of wasted time. The street was incredibly desolate for this time of day—there was hardly anyone in sight, besides the old lady and the man with her purse. The ruffian ran down the empty sidewalk, taking his time as there didn’t seem to be anyone around to listen to the old lady’s feeble cries for help.

  “That purse is really not you,” the Defender said. “And it certainly doesn’t go with what you’re wearing.”

  The ruffian turned to look behind him but saw no one there. The Defender, flying above him, reached out with a finger and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “I’m up here,” he said.

  Trying to look up at the voice that was harassing him, the ruffian tripped over his own feet and fell headfirst toward the pavement. The Defender reached out to catch him before his head hit the ground, but he was distracted by the sudden appearance of a costumed figure.

  Perhaps noticing his distraction, the ruffian tried to make a getaway. Absentmindedly and without taking his eyes off the new figure, the Defender reached out and grabbed the thief by his collar.

  “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” the new figure said, his voice as booming and intimidating as the Defender’s. He wore a red jumpsuit, lined with blue stripes and sprinkled with black “z”s.

  “Give me just one second,” the Defender said, holding up a finger. Turning to the ruffian, he said, “I’ll be watching you!”

  He flew the purse back to its owner, who—embarrassingly—showed her gratitude with repeated and frequent kisses. He struggled to get away from her grasping arms, assuring her that he was just doing his duty as a superhero. Finally free, he returned to the mysterious costumed figure. On the flight over, he wiped at his mask with both hands to remove any embarrassing lipstick-stains that might have been left there. He landed awkwardly in an out-of-view side-alley.

  Walking toward the costumed stranger, he stuck out his hand in friendly greeting and said, “I knew there must be others!”

  “I am Zortran!” the man said. “And I am here to destroy you, Alpha!”

  The Defender looked over one shoulder and then the other. But he was the only person on the street.

  “You have me mixed up with somebody else, Mr. Zortran,” the Defender said, finally. “Do you require my assistance in locating this Alpha?”

  He wanted to be helpful. He had ambitions of becoming the President of the Association of Superheroes and every vote counted.

  After a slight, awkward pause, Zortran said, “You cannot fool me, Alpha! I am here to destroy you and destroy you I will!”

  The Defender nodded his head slowly. If Zortran wished to persist in this mad, violent fantasy, maybe a few knocks about the head would teach him not to walk around and threaten other superheroes’ lives. Besides, Zortran seemed to speak only in exclamation marks, which was annoying.

  Now nose-to-nose with the masked figure, the Defender said, “If you value your life, turn around and never return to this city. If your life is as valueless as it seems, you may strike first.”

  He took a single step backwards and held his hands at his sides, waiting.

  “Not here!” Zortran said. “Follow me!”

  Zortran launched into the air, and the Defender launched after him.

  It became clear that they were flying away from the city, but why? Was he being led into a trap? Had a band of sinister supervillains joined and plotted the destruction of the mighty and fearsome Defender of the Innocent and Helpless? Was he being led to his own destruction?

  It was dumb to go on without more information.

  “Hey, Zortran,” the Defender called. “Where are we going?”

  Zortran flew on without a single look backwards.

  Shrugging, the Defender spiraled down and landed. He wasn’t going to allow himself to be led into some trap. Zortran kept flying, seemingly unaware that the Defender was no longer following.

  He was in a deserted park—everything was deserted, it seemed—when Zortran found him later that day. The Defender had been on a park bench, catching up on some sleep, when he was awakened by that annoying, booming voice.

  “I’ve found you at last, Alpha!” Zortran said.

  The Defender got up slowly and rubbed his eyes.

  “Hi, Zortran,” he said sleepily.

  “You are a coward, Alpha! Your belly is well-colored!”

  The Defender got up, fully awake. With slow, deliberate steps, he walked up to Zortran and said, his words as slow as his steps had been, “Tell me again. Tell me I’m a coward.”

  “To call you a coward would be an insult to cowards everywhere! But of all the superheroes I’ve ever fought, you are the cowardliest of the bunch! You give superheroing a bad na—”

  His punch had hit Zortran clean across the jaw and sent him reeling. A follow-up punch dropped Zortran right onto the grassy ground. The Defender stood over him and victoriously placed a foot on the villain’s belly.

  “You were saying?” he said happily, but suddenly Zortran grabbed his foot and twisted.

  Sent crashing to the ground, the Defender tried to roll over and get up. But Zortran was still holding his ankle and his grip was firm, seemingly unbreakable. Zortran grabbed the Defender by the other ankle and began spinning the Defender around his body—once, twice, three times. Then he let him go.

  The Defender hit a tree and toppled it over. His shoulder screamed with pain and seemed to have dislocated. But Zortran was already on him, before he even had a chance to move. Lifting him up over his he
ad, the villain flew up a few feet into the air and threw him against the ground.

  Although he was winded, the Defender forced himself to his feet—and fell right back down. His ankle was broken.

  “Had enough?” Zortran said, coming into view.

  With all his might, the Defender swung his elbow at Zortran’s right knee and smiled with satisfaction as the villain fell to the ground. He punched Zortran across the face, then jumped on him and held him pinned to the ground, his hands squeezing the villain’s red-masked neck.

  “Have you?” he said. Dislocated shoulder or not, broken ankle or not—he was good and Zortran was evil. He had a moral obligation to win this fight.

  But Zortran had amazing flexibility—he kicked up his left leg and hit the Defender right in the back of the head. Shaken, the Defender loosened his grip on Zortran’s neck and that was all the encouragement Zortran needed. Seemingly in one movement, he rolled the Defender over and wrapped his own hands around the Defender’s neck.

  Zortran was squeezing with all his might.

  “I can’t—I—can’t—breathe,” he said, gasping. Was this the end of the Defender of the Innocent and Helpless?

  But, amazingly, Zortran loosened his grip.

  The Defender kneed him in the groin. He pulled himself up, then hopping on his left foot, he flew away. He needed time to rest and recuperate.

  But Zortran wouldn’t let him get away. He felt his broken ankle grabbed from behind and screamed out in pain. In the air, Zortran flung him around himself once again—once, twice, three times—and the Defender was sent flying against a brick building.

  He tried to twist in the air, but the brick wall came at him too quickly. He hit it head first, then he felt darkness closing in.

  Matt?”

  His eyes slowly came open. His vision was swimming but he recognized the beauty at its center.

  “Ann,” he said, his throat so dry it hurt to speak. “Hi.”

  She seemed very happy that he recognized her.

  “Do you remember what happened, Matt?” she asked, concern in her voice.