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, your 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 that 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 foundation for the work you will 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 viewscreen receded into the ceiling. “While Dorado Incorporated is a publicly listed stock, ninety percent 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 committed romantic relationships, 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 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’s stomach irrationally tightened into knots and his legs stupidly wanted to flee. “Too many people on this rock already.” Right?
“Rest assured the new order will address overpopulation.”
Varlock lay on his aching back on a surgical table, covering his eyes with his left arm.
“I’m done,” the gravely voice of his master rumbled.
Varlock lowered his arm. The dark room was lit by candles.
He peered up at his lord and master, who 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 find a two-eyed creature of light 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 will 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. We mustn’t betray ourselves. They must never suspect we are from Perdition.”
Mitch Farrow entered his new office. He stared at the Seattle skyline mural on the left side wall. In front of the wall sat two tree-sized ferns. In front of the window lay a marble-topped desk and three new brown leather chairs. Just above the doorway was a fifty-two-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.
He pulled up a list of the top ten comic books. He stared at the names. All cynical comic books he subscribed to except for number four.
The Adventures of Powerhouse. Huh. He’d never gotten that one. He surfed onto its page in 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 patrolling the area. The terrorist fired at the Ambassador from across the street. Powerhouse spotted the terrorist and rocketed down to stop the bullet. He threw the ambassador out of the way. The bullet hit Powerhouse’s rocketpack.
Mitch turned the page. Powerhouse leapt to pursue the fleeing terrorist and got six feet off the ground. The rocketpack 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 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 real new 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.”
“Powerhouse, it’s Wallace Kandinsky, Blue Cat Comics. We received 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.”
“Powerhouse, we expected you to provide us a lot of real story lines and to keep fighting crime to increase publicity.”
“I thought 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 those things, 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. I’ll find another publisher.”
Silence.
Kandinsky sighed. “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. 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.”
Kandinsky 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 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. “I’ll hold on to this information for now. I’ll suggest 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, he 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. “Please, 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. “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, it’s the Pharaoh.” Mitch smirked. Dumb broad. “What kind of phone etiquette was that?”
“Sorry, she’s my cleaning woman. I was headed out the door.”
“Do you still need another panelist for the Powerhouse retrospective?”
“Yeah, but I thought you were too busy?”
Mitch rubbed his hands together. “New job, new perspective on life. My schedule will need some re-arranging, but people bow before 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 should decorate his office in an Egyptian theme and dress like a pharaoh. Nah, that’d be taking things too far even with a board of directors filled with yes-men.
Though, 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 climbed 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 wore 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. “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. “That was fan fiction.”
What gullible rubes. Mitch smirked, swaggered through the TV station’s doors, passed the vacant receptionist desk, and headed down a white corridor to the studio. Over at the makeup table, Chief of Police Stone Bachman sat, combing his hair.
Mitch swallowed. Here he was, the head of the world’s largest group of freedom fighters, sitting next to a high-ranking evil minion of the oppressors. Good thing he’d never liked cops much to start with, or he’d have to worry about arousing Bachman’s suspicions.
A makeup artist sashayed over to him. Oh no. Makeup artists always made him look like he was Bozo the Clown rather than 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 blue jacket with the station logo on it walked in. “We’re ready to mic you two.”
The production assistant wired them with lapel microphones and led them to the guest panel on the set.
Doug jogged out of the wings and sat in the anchor chair. The red light on the camera came on. Doug smiled too wide. “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, you made some statements against Powerhouse early on, but you seemed to warm to him over time.”
Bachman flinched. “My early statements were influenced by a false report from an officer that’s since been convicted of serious crimes. I’m always bothered by vigilantism, but Powerhouse improved as he gained experience. The city owes him a huge debt of gratitude for his part in bringing down the Ross crime family. More than that, Powerhouse brought a spirit of genuine caring and an innocence and infectious enthusiasm 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 about the city in his little suit. I always asked, ‘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 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.”
“That is thanks to Marcos Silvano coming forward. You cops always were corrupt and you 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 false, unproven assertions.”
Got you. Mitch sneered. “You cops are all 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. We need less people wasting their time calling the cops and more people calling the ACLU to report abuses at the hands of cops.”
The chief’s face flushed. 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. 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.”
Bachman raised an eyebrow and put his hand up. “How is Powerhouse making us look bad by not having his comic book portray us as a hellhole?”
“His portrayal of Seattle is so Leave it to Beaver, all the other major cities won’t take us seriously.” Mitch stared into the camera and spread his hands as if to show he had no weapons. “Tell you what, Powerhouse. If you’re not just about the money, call my office. I’ll take over the rights to Powerhouse and donate a hundred percent of the profits to my charitable trust to help causes in the greater Seattle area.”
Doug cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, thank you for your time. And thank you for watching. I hope you enjoyed this special: Powerhouse: One Year Later. Join us tonight and every night for the news at eleven. Good night from your news station.”
A production assistant held up three fingers, two, and then one. “You’re out.”
Doug slapped Mitch’s back. “That’s the old muckraker. Who would’ve thought the anniversary of Powerhouse’s departure could be controversial?”
Bachman glowered. “Yeah, who would’ve thunk it?” He stomped away, stopped, sighed, and spun back. “You ready to go?”
Mitch scowled. “We didn’t come as couple.”
Bachman folded his arms. “Mr. Farrow, you’ve insulted Powerhouse on live television. This studio is surrounded by rabid fans who watched it on the monitor outside the station. I would not want to be responsible for what happens if they get their hands on you. Now, would you like me to walk you to your car, or would you rather wait for the ACLU to send someone?”
Help from the evil system’s enforcers? Guess he had no choice. Mitch strode toward the back entrance. “I think we can avoid the crowd by going this way.”
“You sure? The crew went out there to smoke after the show.”
“Why would that bother me?”
Bachman blinked. “Secondhand smoke is bad for people with AIDS.”
Mitch swallowed. He’d have to answer a lot of questions from this guy if he wasn’t careful. “For some, maybe, but it’s not a problem for me.” Mitch pointed to the door. “After you.”
Zolgron stood over Dave and Naomi in the living room with a plate of Waffle shaped cookies. “Want another stroopwafel?”
“I lost my appetite.” Frowning, Dave leaped up and paced. He clinched his fist. “How can that jerk say that?”
Naomi stood and patted his back. “Ignore him, honey. Everyone else loves Powerhouse.”
“Well, the city still needs Powerhouse!” Or did they? Dave sighed. “Or maybe not. Farrow said everything’s just as bad as if I’d never been there.”
“You helped a lot of people. You can’t help it if new criminals move in.”
“I wish I still had powers. Then I could get things cleaned up.” Dave sighed. “But that’s not going to happen.”
Zolgron put the plate of stroopwafels on the coffee table. “Why not?”
Huh? Dave peered at Zolgron. “Duh, the source of my powers learned his lesson, is no longer a symbiote, and is now the world’s next top chef.”
“Dave, I didn’t know you wanted powers. I thought you were all done with that after James’ accident.”
What? Dave gaped up at Zolgron. “I can get superpowers?”
“Of course.” Zolgron took another stroopwafel. “When I was planning to take over my home world, I realized I couldn’t manage the whole planet by myself. While I hoped to get an army of loyal sycophants together, I needed stronger people. I created a cylinder that allowed me to transfer a portion of my powers to its wearer.”
“So that’s why you were a cylinder?”
Zolgron nodded. “Precisely. So, any time you want powers, I can, in the vernacular, hook you up.”
Dave stared at Naomi. “What do you think?”
Naomi closed her eyes and opened them. She smiled. “If you’re going to keep putting yourself in danger, I’d rather you have superpowers. Before you do it, though, I think we should pray about it and meet with Dr. Rose.”
Why couldn’t he leap at the chance and start right now? Dave sighed. Naomi was probably right. “I’ve been waiting months for this. What’s another day of people dying rather than me saving them?”
“Very subtle, Dave.” Zolgron laughed. “It’d better not be much more than that. I have to fly to Tahiti to break up a ring of pickpockets on Friday.”
That was small potatoes for Zolgron. Dave blinked. “You’re going to waste superpowers on pickpockets?”
“Dave, Dave, Dave.” Zolgron tsked and put his left hand on Dave’s shoulder. “If it involves going to Tahiti, nothing is wasted.”