Adulthood means taking care of yourself, not psychic dependence on others or clutching on to unrealistic opinions of our elders. It’s time to unchain yourself from your mentor. And while you might think that your idol is made of gold, it’s really just made of garbage.
It’s time to toss your idol into the composter. It might stink for a while, but at least it’s transmuting into something useful…and fit to walk on.
But if you don’t dispense with your empty idol, in all likelihood you’ll be setting yourself up for the very chaos you are about to witness among the F*O*O*J.
CHAPTER FIVE
Limited Series
It’s Ironic That Funerals Are Sad
Funerals and superheroism are a natural combination. Each involves uniforms, oaths of allegiance, declarations of virtues, and connection to superhuman power under circumstances of high drama frequently performed to theme music.
But despite these abundant affiliations, hyperhominids are notoriously psychemotionally mismatched with the requirements of funereal deportment. Consider the following cases:
• The pustulent eruption of grief from Tempest and Pyromanny at the laying to rest of Lady Liberty was a popped pimple on the face of the 1945 funeral scene, resulting in no less than a flash flood and an instant inferno (which thankfully cancelled out each other without loss of life—but not before transforming the contents of a nearby grocery market into a giant stew whose lingering aroma kept neighborhood animals in a frenzy for months).
• The 1973 service for Doctor Patho saw the evacuation of forty square city blocks after her sidekick Dea Coli wept tears of pure anthrax, which a sobbing Cumulus Maximus accidentally dispersed into the atmosphere.
• Hyperhominid funerals have produced freezings, mutations, growth of vestigial organs, virgin births, impotence, chimpotence, shrimpotence, spontaneous macrophagocytosis, and interdimensional neuroflatulence.
As we saw in the previous chapter, because you as a hyperhominid believe in the myth of your own invulnerability, facing death is even more difficult for you than it is for “mere mortals.” Therefore no experience—outside of death itself—is more traumatic (and dramatic) for you than the funeral. And that is because facing funerals means discarding our idols and becoming, for the first time, independent.
And, fundamentally, more alone.
MONDAY, JULY 3, 8:00 A.M.
Independence Day
Despite the grief-stricken plans that the Pathetic Fallacy announced in The Los Ditkos Sentinel-Spectator, the weather at the sunrise funeral of Hawk King on Sunhawk Island could have dazzled a pharaoh. The disk of the sun glorified the horizon like a divine disco ball, drizzling gold along the eastern face of the distant Tachyon Tower, while the sky above us melted from orange to azure like a child’s crayons left on a hot stove.
Media outlets from FOX and ABC to Mutant TV and CAPES had been camped outside the wall of the Blue Pyramid complex since the previous night, drinking from the stream of primary-colored celebrities marching into the grounds since the dawn.
That day’s costumes were the rarely glimpsed dress uniforms and dress tunics reserved for funerals, replete with gold brocade, left-breast mission tags, ceremonial wands and scepters, gilded armor, and formal capes. Traditional bagpipes, taiko drums, and throat-singers intoned the eschatological atmosphere amid the silent witness of obelisks, the giant Ka-Sentinels, and the radiance of the Blue Pyramid. Everything combined to say that we were truly at the end of an era, the exit of an epoch, the egress of an age.
Even before the service began, it was already clear that the gathering was the largest such funeral in history, exceeding even the final services of the Götterdämmerung. Silver Agers such as the Monolith, the Evolutionist, and the gladiatrix Dynamiss were assembled, joined by Civil Rights–era stalwarts such as the Spook and La Cucaracha, and Digital Age up-and-comers such as the Beaver Brothers, the Cyberpunk, and Bag-Fulla-Asswhuppin. Even the oldest living F*O*O*Jster had arrived, the 173-year-old outgoing Director of Operations and Civil War veteran Colonel Strom Flintlock, floating in his hover-throne with the regalia of oxygen tanks and IVs like a modern-day Charlemagne. Only two people were notably absent—two living founding F*O*O*Jsters, Gil Gamoid and the N-Kid, imprisoned on Asteroid Zed.
Smaller supergroups such as the Merry Men were there, including Dazzle Man, Fabulous Man, Original Fabulous Man, Simply Fabulous Man, Rainbow Man, and Man Boy. The Bold Bots 0001 through 0110 were arranged and buffed to gleaming; the Blue Collars, the Supa Soul Sistas, the League of Angry Blackmen, the Asian Invaders, and the Mohawk-Aztec-Mayan Brotherhood Organization were joined by hundreds of unaffiliated heroes from Alpha Dog to Zed, the Living Phoneme.
Of course, the outpouring of mourning extended beyond the superheroic profession. Government and the international community were represented by President Bill Clinton, UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan, and New Atlantis Comandante Uno Umboot Pinolawi among many others.
Suddenly everyone’s quiet reverence was ripped apart by a media tornado at the entrance of two men: Tran Chi Hanh, FKA Chip Monk, flanking his replacement mentor and the head of Human Citizen, the unrelenting watchdog on the hyper-community, Jack Zenith.
A reporter who’d sneaked in disguised as a fire engine with siren epaulets shoved a microphone into the face of the Flying Squirrel, demanding to know how he felt about Gil Gamoid and the N-Kid being prevented from attending Hawk King’s funeral, while Jack Zenith, the Squirrel’s sworn enemy, was allowed to walk in without even being jeered.
Mr. Piltdown growled, “It’s a disgrace, a travesty,” before hissing a canister of Squirrel Spray into the reporter’s eyes and nose. The man hit the ground vomiting before being scooped up and tossed outside the wall by the elongated arms of Extraneous Man.
No one had any clue that within minutes, two bombs would be detonated that would rip apart the F*O*O*J as we knew it.
Pavanne for a Dead Prince
Never one for brevity, and id-charged by such highly public moments into grandiosity, Mr. Festus Piltdown began his address by thanking Liberty Lady and Captain Manifest Destiny, martyrs of the original F*O*O*J, and then spent the next forty-eight minutes citing every conceivable connection between himself and Hawk King.
“…which is why this city, this state, this country, this planet, yea, even, dare I say, likely this very galaxy, joins me and us this morning in mourning a man-god of such magnitude, might, and magnificence.
“Because this honorable king of hawks embodied all that my gloved hands clutch at the epicenter of my heart: nobility, wisdom, determination, and unflinching defiance in the face of despots, demons, and the depraved defilers of all that is decent, right, and good!”
Mr. Piltdown put his hand over his heart, just to the left of the black-on-bronze squirrel emblem of his dress uniform. Looking up toward the milky moon in the brilliant sky, his eyes glistened.
“And I promise you, sir, my comrade, my liege, my King, wherever you are…that I will follow you into whatsoe’er battle you so will for me, for now and ever after, that perpetually will I hold fast my shield and hold high my spear, and that I will never, ever slip from this crusade divine whose fire you ignited like the sun in the space of my soul!”
Applause spattered up from many of the younger heroes in the crowd, unaccustomed as their generation was to the etiquette of such events. As Mr. Piltdown left the platform, he stooped to lay his hand on the Egyptian sarcophagus of Hawk King and then straightened up to salute before sitting down in the front row.
I expected to see Kareem scowling, but the X-Man’s face was a charcoal portrait of unreadability.
I was less surprised to see the Brotherfly looking as he did, tears leaking from beneath his Fly Goggles. A week earlier I could never have imagined that such an aimless, hyperactive, socially inappropriate, and vain young man could experience loss at such a depth. But from André’s explosion in therapy two days before and given his absence until now, he’d begun revealing himself as a more co
mplex person than anyone could have deduced.
When the Greatest Defenders Are Rendered Defenseless
Throughout the morning’s speeches, the anticipation in the crowd thickened like smog on a hot Los Ditkos day, awaiting the words of the man whose name was synonymous with hero.
“Afternoon, y’all,” said Wally. “Or, I mean, g’mornin. This…this was a day…wellsir, a day I…I ain’never spectid t’see in, well…not in my lifetime, anyway.”
Wally stood awkwardly at the podium, the eastern sun gilding one side of his face, the reflected sun from the Pyramid blueing the other side of his visage. He tugged at his white collar, straightened his black tie, pulled at his black jacket and white cape, rearranged his black epaulets, hunched his shoulders in his famous manner, while the sole camera crew allowed inside—from Piltdown News Network—sent the image of the world’s mightiest fidgetter to an estimated audience of three billion people.
“I never knew anybody like Mr. King. He was powerful smart. Powerful wise. Powerful powerful. He recruited me. Taught me how t’use m’powers. Always kept my compass pointin north. An so for me, t’be, t’be standin here in fronta y’all like this, without im….” He looked down to the sarcophagus. “Well—”
He stopped to clear his throat into the microphone, a sound like a walrus yelp, then began clasping his hand and yanking at his fingers as if he could detach them.
All around me, I saw the faces of people expecting to be comforted by Omnipotent Man’s wisdom shifting from morose to anxious, anxious to angry, and angry to confused.
“See, times like these, now,” said Wally, hunching his shoulders ever more hunchedly, as if he were being transformed into a panda bear, “they tell a man, even when sometimes he in’t inclined to be listnin, that suh’m…suh’m’s…wrong. The Gooterdimmerang’s done been over for years. The villains is all retired, beaten down, locked up, or dead. An here we are…I mean, alla us…like a big ol slumber party messin around in our finest three-color peejays…an meanwhile we jess found out—”
Wally’s voice caught in his throat, like a mouse bisected in a trap.
He dehunched his shoulders and took a breath, then let it out shudderingly.
“…jess found out…thet Daddy’s dead.”
Wally bowed his head to his raised cuff, dabbing his cheeks and eyes. Across from me, heroes such as Atomic Giraffe, Chloro Phyllis, and King’s English immediately did the same.
“So…well…t’be honest, I jess don’know anymore. Who I’m sposta be. What the world thinks is right if fellers like ol Hawk King c’n jest up an die. Maybe th’world should figger its own way outta troubles from now on. Looks safe enough from where I’m sittin.”
He took a quick breath, visibly making a decision.
“An so, ffective immediate-like, I am resignin as the world’s mightiest man an retirin to private life.”
Shock smashed through the crowd like a wrecking ball through a tea party.
“So, uh…thank y’all, ’Merica, planet Earth. Nice knowin yuh.”
And with that, Omnipotent Man rose like a humanoid zeppelin above the anger and wailing, up, up, and away from Sunhawk Island.
Just before the second bomb exploded.
Sublimating Grief Doesn’t Make It Brief
Brothers and sisters, ladies and gentlemen, friends and…enemies,” said Kareem after the furor had died enough for him to take to the podium. “I greet you in the ancient manner of the splendor-power-and-triumph of the Forty-Two Chambers: Dã’f xu, us em maãxeru.”
Members of the L*A*B and some of the Supa Soul Sistas intoned their response: “Maa-ten neferu-f.”
“And I also greet you in the name of other great and fallen heroes, such as the Son of Nat Turner, killed by Kyklos the Imperial Grand Dragon in 1991; the Brother from the HOOD, killed in a nightclub in 1992, and the man who was an inspiration to me and all of Stun-Glas, who inspired all of us who joined the L*A*B; Maximus Security”—scattering of applause, mm-hm!s and A-mens from the same area—“who was killed in Reagan’s war against New Atlantis back in 1984.” (Grumbling from other areas of the crowd, especially from the coterie around Mr. Piltdown.)
“This morning, I’d like to say a few words about the hero whose life we’re here to honor, because just as I and many others are increasingly convinced—yes, that’s right, I’m saying it—convinced that we aren’t being told the truth about Hawk King’s death, I know that practically nobody has been told the truth about Hawk King’s life.”
Grumbling surged, joined by ejaculations of Preach, brother! and Break it down. X-Man waited for both grumbling and support to subside, then leaned into the silence to proceed.
“First, I’d like to acknowledge the League of Angry Blackmen, who are here in full effect. Every Brother in the League, I’m sure, is taking this as hard as I am. Because after Maximus Security died, it was Hawk King who stepped up, who inspired every last one of us, to be what we are. Protectors. Defenders.
“Everybody here knows the official story. Hawk King was Heru, who those who don’t know better call Horus—the avenging son of Lord Usir, the Egyptian savior Osiris. As Hawk King, he intervened seven thousand years ago in the world of men—and women, yes, sorry, Sisters—to wage his ongoing battle on Earth against his evil uncle, Warmaster Set, or out amongst the stars against the cosmic serpent Ããpep, and to pursue the cosmic mysteries that consumed his incalculable intellect. And when he came back in 1937, he helped save Europe from the Nazis, and later on from threats such as the Specially Relative Einstein Baboons and Cosmicus, Digester of Worlds. He returned to his role in our realm as our greatest thinker. As our greatest teacher. In the ancient sense of the word, as our Master.
“Now, everybody always thought Hawk King was Hawk King only, without any secret identity. But everybody was wrong.”
The crowd fluttered and whispered at X-Man’s implication of secrets about to be scattered, like a swarm of pigeons squawking in anticipation of ripped-up hoagie buns.
“As a celestial being,” said Kareem, “Hawk King was physically powerful. But when he lived among us in his hidden role as a human, he did so in a frail body. Withered. Old. An aged invalid in a motorized wheelchair who in the last few years of his life couldn’t even talk. Had to have a voice-synthesizing computer do it for him.
“The man inside Hawk King was a brilliant scientist and professor—an archeologist, a cosmologist. Taught at Robeson College in Langston-Douglas for the last forty years. His name was Dr. Jacob George James ‘Jackson’ Rogers. He was my mentor.
“And Dr. Jackson Rogers—Hawk King—was a black man.”
Gasps and guffaws shot up like spontaneous sprinkler sprays on a golf green, with one man in the front row a geyser.
“How dare you!” shouted Mr. Piltdown, standing and aiming his finger at the X-Man as if it were an avenging foil.
“Hawk King wanted big changes,” Kareem sped on, “huge changes in the F*O*O*J! He gave me all his final papyri—specific directions on how and what to do, to overhaul the F*O*O*J and change the direction our planet’s going—”
“Shut your mouth, you reprobate rascal! We are here to honor our greatest hero, not listen to your crack-induced bafflegab—”
“—seeing what the F*O*O*J had become broke his heart, and he had a plan, a plan to completely revolutionize the group! One week from today I will reveal the contents of The Instructions of Hawk King, his final papyrus, detailing—”
“—dare you sully this holy day with your selfish, delusional election grandstanding and your bizarre negroist fantasies?”
“Don’t be accusing me of electioneering, Mr. Two-Hour ‘I Was Hawk King’s Bestest Friend Ever’ Eulogizing Crypto-fascist, who owns the only TV network allowed to shoot in here! And don’be doubting who Hawk King was, Pilly, ’cause I’ve got proof! Including the fact that Dr. Rogers went missing the day before Hawk King was found dead!”
Mr. Piltdown hustled onto the platform and toward the podium. The PNN cameras m
oved with him. “Get off there, now! You’re done, Edgerton, you hear me?”
Kareem held up his hands, fingers splayed, saying something inaudible while the Flying Squirrel kept rushing toward him. X-Man leaned into the microphone, saying, “What, you gonna throw down right here in the middle of a—”
Mr. Piltdown’s left fist slammed into Kareem’s belly hard enough to double him over, whereupon his right fist smashed X-Man’s face upward and back. Reeling from the uppercut, Kareem swung blindly, missing Mr. Piltdown’s cheek by half a foot, but his second fist connected with the older man’s throat. The PNN cameras caught it all.
All around me, men and women were scrambling into action, battle lines gashed by race and/or generation. Members of the L*A*B, the Supa Soul Sistas, the Asian Invaders, MAMBO, and the Merry Men were deep-ending into the melee against F*O*O*Jsters such as the Beaver Brothers, the Newt, the Evolutionist, and independent heroes such as Ivory Giant, Smithing Wesson, and the fifty-three-year-old Kid Kombat, Sr.
Folding chairs and chunks of burning sod ascended and descended like a convention of locusts; Messers Clinton, Annan, and Pinolawi were escorted out under guard through a chorus of swearing, screaming, and pleas for calm, with Jack Zenith leaving under the protection of his civilian-clothed protégé, the former Chip Monk.
Countless heroes waded into the dustup, trying to separate the combatants. Extraneous Man and Cumulus Maximus formed a fog-and-flesh barrier while the sickle-and-hammercaped Son of Soyuz flew left and right, biting people’s bottoms, wagging his little tail furiously and barking at them to stop—
When suddenly the sky collapsed from an embolism.
Raging overhead, blotting out the sun, were what must have been millions of hawks, their screeching choir sounding like the world being buzzsawed apart, their wings somehow transforming the remainders of the sky into an awful anguished violet saturating the earth and everything else beneath them.
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