The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 73

Prologue, Part 4

Several years prior.

The SI’s must be a green group hunting me now, because I haven’t done anything in a while that would bring attention. Being too cautious is what kept me alive and in secret for this long. Now that the wool has been removed, I’m going to need to rely on that old distrust. 

The same kind of paranoia that keeps them in business will be the same kind of paranoia that keeps me alive. It’s not until you realize that no one can be trusted that you can consider yourself safe.  Everyone has a price, no matter how close to you they are. Always watch over my shoulder, always think someone is there. That is the only way I can stay alive.

Once an SI is at my back with a gun, there’s no slipping the noose. Kids bump into me as I cross the dance floor to a spot by the speaker. I let them inflict a couple bruises, to make me look genuine. Anything that could disguise me in the end. My sixth sense says the Secret Inspectors could be coming soon, so I slip out a different back door, turning the handle with my shirt sleeve. 

I abandon my car and run. In my own vehicle, they wouldn’t even need Secret Inspectors to hunt me down. Alert the local police in some neighborhood they divined. I could get picked up and locked away for “Special Extradition.” 

No self-respecting SI, no matter how dedicated to the job will follow me on PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION.  The bus is filled with homeless people and junkies. I keep my head lowered. They are the ones most likely to sell you out for a few cigarettes, and I can’t really blame them. It’s better than starving to death. I sit in the front, close to the driver, who is the least likely to remember my face amid the sea of human tragedy he experiences every day. 

A junk-head under hypnosis can still describe faces in detail with the encouragement of a little torture. SI’s employ junkies with money, smack, day-old doughnuts, or even the promise of acceptance. The SI use anything to their advantage, and a good junkie can prove more valuable than a security cam. Unlike a camera, which can be set to rotate, the junkie will face forward and shoot as much smack as possible with no question, no care, no desire. 

That should have made me suspicious of the junk-head that had been sitting on my front steps for the last week. I knew he was there to keep tabs on my comings and goings, so I started going in and out the back door. The junky’s allotted job was to watch the front door, and they are lacking the cognitive ability for rational thought. Even though he hadn’t seen me in days, he didn’t move from that appointed spot on my doorstep.

Part 74

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 72: The Following Evening.

The din of voices has returned to the party, covering our conversation again. A few have started to chuckle ominously about how pathetic the little adventure really was. Some are even suggesting that SpectraCom set the whole event to rattle them.

Like a coming storm, the air rushes to silence as Joshua Solomon blows onto the patio. He’s shaved his head once more, now that he’s done with an Off-Broadway of Jekyll & Hyde. Tonight he’s wearing a red and black tartan suit that look like pajamas.

Back in the day, he called himself “Public Enema Number 1.” Stage shows included cutting himself, bashing himself, and throwing himself from heights while singing songs about society’s downfall. He performed nude and ate laxatives before shows for diarrhea that he sprayed at the audience. He fought members of the crowd, and shows usually ended when the police arrived. After Solomon got out of prison, Sado Mass went Prog Rock and I stopped paying attention. 

His eyes are on me. “Dr. Filth!” Solomon calls across the crowd, waving his arm. Guests part before him as he passes, shaking hands and congratulating, but Solomon doesn’t care. He wants to talk to me.

I’ve been a long-time fan. Not in the boy band days, that was stupid. When Solomon broke with his label, he put out the sickest, most offensive collection of ten tracks to ever hit the Internet. He called it “Sado-Massochrist,” and out-sold his first album before the end of the week. His third album debuted a month later, and he sold less than 100 copies.

 “I didn’t see your name on the guest list,” says the sickest rocker to grace the planet. Most importantly, he knows my name. This is a guy who once plunged a microphone so far up his ass it needed to be removed with surgery, and he is aware of my position as persona-non-grata. That’s fucking cool!

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, extending my hand to shake his. Think about the interview. I came here to do a job. “I’ve been a really big fan for years.” Should I admit I sent him several emails thanking him for all his great music?

The first Sado-Mass album was shit, the music was written in an afternoon. Solomon never intended for the songs to be enjoyed. Sado-Mass was a clean break with any fan that remembered him for his more-than-glamorous beginnings. The second album has gems, but is mostly still songs about farting and getting wasted. He wrote all his own music after that, and made his mission to be the most offensive performer to ever hit the stage. If he wasn’t wearing pants he’d try and spray his audience with shit. He broke bottles and cut himself, and once knocked himself out with a bowling ball. Before another show, he shot so much heroin, he was pushed on stage as no more than a lump. Fans spent 20 minutes smashing bottles on him before getting bored and wandering off. He consumed any drug he was handed, and most shows ended in a frenzy of violence. Still, when Solomon put his mind to it, he could write a hell of a song.

He looks confused. Nepotism and Mephis could be helping, but they are not. “I swear we’ve met.” His iron talon grips my hand and as he shakes. I’m positive I feel actual claws digging in my skin. “You were always around the shows in Metro City, right? Anyway, I’ve been watching Unnatural non-stop. Your show is crazy shit!” He releases my grip and looks at my companions. “Who’d you come with?”

Go to Part 73

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 71: The Previous Night.

“If I’m gone too long Nepotism will come in here with guns blazing,” I say, trying to push past Eva. She’s still in black leather, head to toe, and looks amazing. Her pistol smokes in her hand, slack at her hip.

She steps over Zombie and grabs my collar, dragging her lips to mine. Her tongue breaks past the defenses of my teeth and probes my mouth in a slow dance with my own. We kiss a moment and she pushes me away. “I need something from you.”

“I’ve got time for that,” I say, unbuckling my belt.

“Not that,” she snaps. “You need to go to Metro City.”

I flop down in Zombie’s seat, still moist from the last junk-starved whore he lured back here. I'm not buckling my pants until I'm absolutely sure I'm not getting laid. “I’m not allowed in...”

“Do they have police stationed at the borders to turn you back?” She steps behind the desk and sits on it. When I did that at schools, teachers would ask me if it was how I sat at home. It was. Her pants cling in every crevice so well I’m sure it’s vinyl, but a touch confirms it’s the most supple leather I’ve seen made into a superhero or supervillain costume. She doesn’t have a symbol. Mine would do nicely across her chest.

How did Tyr know Eva was alive? Was he just trying to get my goat? I try not to believe in coincidence. “What do you know about Mephis Tyr?” I ask. I probably shouldn’t tell her any more. “He wants me to talk to some trilobite collector.”

Eva groans. “That’s not a trilobite collector.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and pushes me down. “The trilobite collector is Josh Solomon.”

I’ve heard better news. “Josh Solomon... your Solomon?”

She shakes her head and looks away. “That was nothing, I don’t care what was said on the Internet.”

“The only indecent photo anyone ever captured of you?”

She shrugs. “My luck had to run out sometime, right?”

I press against her body. “Remember that time we saw Sado-Mass at the Voyer and fucked in that broken bathroom stall?”

She is disinterested. “It must not have been that great of a show. Were we on acid?” Eva leans on the desk.

“What’s with the trilobites?”

Eva is relieved for the change of subject, but still relishes in recounting Solomon. “He’s weird about it. He single-handedly drove up the price of trilobite fossils from a few dollars to a few hundred. Rock people hate him.” She crosses her arms. “This isn’t about trilobites. What did Mephis say about Solomon?”

I really shouldn’t tell her. What if Nepotism is right, and she is an assassin? “ Mephis says he can get me an interview with Solomon. SpectraCom is unveiling some artifact tomorrow night.”

Eva gasps. “You’re interviewing him tomorrow?” Eva asks, putting a hand on my shoulder and leaning in close. “Is it the Alarm Clock at the End of the World?”

I shove her back. “That’s my name!” She turns and walks away a few steps, hand on her forehead. “I made that up!” I say. “It’s on the cover of the notebook you stole!”

“Look,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t know what Solomon wants, I need you to find out. Mephis Tyr is telling the truth, but you can’t tell him you’ve spoken to me. Both our lives are in danger if you do.” She grabs the collars of my shirt and pulls me out of the chair, kissing me hard. “Now get out there. Go to the party.”

I never realized just how strong Eva could be until she tosses me toward the door. I catch my step in time to avoid tripping over Zombie. I look back only once as I go out of the room. Eva is pointing a gun at me.

Go back to my table. Act like nothing happened. If Nepotism knew Eva was back there, he’d go running back with guns blazing, and she’d kill him for sure.

Mephis Tyr is staring at me, jaw hanging open. “Why didn’t you tell me you fought Jack Kerouac today?”

I glare at Nepotism. “It wasn’t Jack Kerouac.”

“Oh! Em! Gee!” Mephis cries. “Of course it wasn’t Jack Kerouac! It was a Scrubber! Just like in your show! That’s so amazing, can you show me the body? What did you do with it? Is it still in the woods?”

“It wasn’t a Scrubber,” I say.

“How can you say that?” he asks. “How can you know?”

“It was the only gunfight with Jack Kerouac I’ve ever had,” Nepotism says.

“You want to go to Metro City?” I ask Mephis. “I’ll go to Metro City, but you keep your mouth shut about this, you got it?” I take a deep breath through my nose. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Go to Part 72

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 70: Prologue, Part 2

I was in no position to make waves, I just wanted to live my life and not “disappear” like too many people have done after the Superhero War. I didn’t want to say anything dangerous now, but who knows what buttons of mine could be pushed at what time. It’s the filthy breeding of danger.

I slip back through the crowd of dancing kids toward the kitchen. The bartender looks at me angry when I move past him, head bowed, jacket collar pulled high, but in typical fashion, he says nothing. If he were to point me out for being out of place, that would bring the roving microscopic Everpresent Eye down on him. He has just as much to hide. The Secret Inspectors push about, craning their necks.

The Secret Inspectors were created to keep Metro City fair. They are not police, and they are only loosely government employees. They are like superheros, but more biased. Secret Inspectors stay anonymous by trading bodies after every investigation so the same inspector never inspects twice. Secret Inspectors can dispense judgement in all situations as they see fit. They have affectionately been called “The Party Mayor’s Cudgel.”  Unless a death warrant is mitigated, the SI take notes and report back to central command.

I jump through the saloon-style doors to the kitchen. I need to get some place out of sight real fast. Ducking out of the way to hide behind an over sized shelf with an array of spices and salts that disguise the smell of rotted meat in the kitchen. From my pronounced correspondence with Mike, I know that this bar gets most of its meat from dumpsters of meat-packing plants and fast-food restaurants selling their stock when they go out of business.

A poster on the wall offers a reward for a daughter named Ashley, who went missing. Keith and Kim desperately want her return. Mike is at the grill, cooking up something that looks vaguely like the stomach of an animal.

Penalties for dissent include death, and other punishments that may seem unnecessary in the future. If you have caused any kind of discomfort to the system, the judges in Metro City are a bloated Hammurabi, and the punishment is meted out to fit the crime. I’ve seen entire families murdered or worse, publicly shunned because they spoke out against a war other civilized nations considered barbaric. I haven’t been accused of anything yet, which can be worse than the crime.  

A suspect can simply be “disappeared,” like your average run-away or prostitute or murder victim. The Secret Inspectors like to get the job done real fast. Mike looks up from the grill. His eyes are wide and bloodshot from the massive amounts of cocaine he has been doing to stay awake. He has not slept in seven years, simulating REM sleep by watching mosquitoes fly about in a bog while doing line after line of pure South American rails. The last time I saw him, he was going on three years and usually spit out gibberish, acceptable for the occasional profundity.

Go to Part 71

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 69: The Previous Night.

“I’m not going anywhere without a fight,” I whisper, pressing the muzzle of the gun to Zombie's cheek. “You might want to call this off.” Zombie’s eyes show now recognition.

“Wait in here, please,” Zombie says motioning the door again.

I holster my weapon and do as I’m told . He closes the door behind us. I look for any possibility of escape. Nothing but a desk beneath an vent-sized window. Zombie leans against the door, eyes fixed on me as I circumvent the desk and sit.

“Is this an old restroom?” I ask. “Did you convert a restroom for your office?” The pipes from sink and urinal still protrude from the wall. The phone sits to the side of his desk, receiver still nestled comfortably in the cradle. “Who’s coming for me?” I ask nonchalantly, picking up the receiver and looking it over. A dial tone reveals the set-up.

“Quiet please,” Zombie rumbles.

I shake my head. “I’m going to shoot up your bar really bad. You know that, right?”

He stares at me.

“This is going to be ugly.” I put the phone down.

Zombie stares at me.

Someone knocks on the other side of the door. Zombie’s eyebrows raise and he starts to turn, but groans and falls to the sound of a nail driven through wood. A small bullet wound is between Zombie’s shoulder blades, and a hole in the door about an inch wide. Blood spatter covers the broken door.

A figure in a black hoodie enters. It's St. Eva enters and the smoking gun is in her hand. She  licks her lips. “You’ve got a big mouth,” she says We kiss and paw at each other’s backs before I push her away.

“You stole my notebook!” I stop short and take a step backward.

It’s tucked in her leather pants under the hoodie. She tosses it on the desk.

“Nepotism says he’ll kill you if you read it.”

“You’re writing an episode about cave men that built great cities. “Is that what you do in your spare time?’” She circles the desk and stands behind me, blocking me with her knee when I try and swivel. It’s a rare trait to go from entirely nude to completely covered and become sexier. No one does it like Eva Lorraine.

“We fought a Scrubber at you’re house, and it was already trashed when Nepotism arrived.”

“You have no idea who eradicated my furniture with shotgun blasts and automatic gunfire?”

“I may have seen some of that occur.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder and presses her groin against my leg. “I trashed that house,” she said. “I wanted you to think I was dead.”

“We fought a Scrubber!” I say. “It was there! It looked like Jack Kerouac!”

Eva puts her black leather gloves on my shoulders. “I’ve got a job for you.”

Go to Part 70

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 68: Later That Same Evening

Nepotism is ahead of me when I hit the bottom of the stairs. A heavy metal door painted eggshell white and a meshed window on the top allows a dim view of the inner world. Mephis looks through. “I don’t see anyone,” he whispers harshly. “No guards anywhere.”

Goat and Kara join him, gazing through the window in turn. “No fucking way,” Goat whispers harshly. “They wouldn’t leave the place unattended.”

No one else is interested. The three kids take up strategic places around the room for a maximum firing arc, ready to lay on should anyone attempt entry through either vista. I start pacing. “They wouldn’t leave something this important completely unguarded.” I  pause where the little one, Nigel, has taken up position by the north wall. “What would you do?” I ask him.

His eyes widen and his jaw drops open. “Excuse me, sir?” The stone-cold soldier that has been here a minute before is gone, replaced by the quivering jelly left by suggesting he may have an opinion of his own.

I slowly repeat, “What do you think we should do, Nigel?” I glance over at the others for a reaction, and get mostly shock.

“I... I don’t know, sir,” he stammers.

“Filthy, leave him alone,” Nepotism suggests.

“You don’t know?” I ask in shock. “You don’t know. You are ready to plunge into a life-or-death situation without any kind of idea on how to get out?”

“Dr. Filth,” Mephis scolds. “We don’t have time for this.”

I’m undeterred. “You came here totally relying on someone else for your survival? What happens if you’re the only one left alive? What if there is no one else here that can tell you how to save your life?”

“Filthy!” Nepotism snaps. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I turn on him like a rattlesnake. “Wrong?” I gasp. “What is wrong? Nothing is wrong. I’m doing what we need to do.”

“And what’s that?” Mephis demands.

Goat and Kara watch.

“We’re standing here with our thumbs up our asses. We clearly need some new blood on the case.” I turn back on Nigel. “Tell me, Nigel, what do you think we should do right now?”

He stares in shock for a few seconds before saying, “Uh... Go in there?”

“Did you say, ‘go in there?’” I ask.

He nods dumbly.

“Very good!” I boom. “Let’s go!” I push past Mephis and yank open the heavy metal door.

Go to Part 69

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 67: The Following Evening.

Cut back to the car, parking lot of the Alternatron, me in the backseat, Nepotism in the front, and Mephis never relinquishing his driver’s seat, no matter how much I beg. Mephis turns the ignition, roars the car to monstrous life and coaxes into reverse. “The operation is run out of some filthy punk commune,” Mephis says distastefully. “That has kept off any real attention so far, but the place smells terrible. They call it ‘Castle Greyskull.’” He crinkles up his nose and glances down between the seats. “They offered to let us spend the night, but I don’t think I could stomach the whole affair.”

“You’re so subtle,” Nepotism mumbles.

We take side-streets past graffiti-covered tenements. I have not been back to Metro City for years. I traveled around a little, especially when I was doing the cryptozoology work, but I never came back this way. I didn’t expect police, or even Scrubbers at the border, but I didn’t forget the Old Priest’s command. Stay out of town.

We’re in Doom City, where the Superhero Gang don’t mean shit. Half these people are rehabbing for some petty crime or villainy. Every time they get caught it’s another 6 months they can’t set foot on Hero Island.

Children jump about happily on the sidewalk in imagined games. “We need to be at the garden party by 7:30, so we have 45 minutes to suit up.” He glances at me pointedly. “We don’t have time to waste, so I don’t want dawdling.”

“Party Mayor gonna be there?” I ask.

Mephis points to a massive grey monstrosity of a building looming to our left. “This is the one we want.” The cluster of windows make it resemble the grinning skull that named the place. Banisters of the wide front porch are clenched, rotten teeth. A red Punchbug vacates it’s spot and Mephis slides in. 

“Seriously, dude,” Nepotism says. “What kind of Metro City sneezers will be at this shindig? If we get recognized, we’re done.”

“No one gives a shit about the Unnatural,” Mephis says, and gets out of the car. We follow, and he leads us through the gate up the stone steps. A liberty-coned punk rocker in once-black clothes lays semi-conscious on a torn, rent and spray-painted couch by the front door. “Whattafuk a’you wan?” he says in mimicked Cockney.

“Tyr,” Mephis says in a low voice.

The punk’s glazed eyes clear and he nods. “They’re waiting for you.”

The protest of the metal gate announces our arrival. We follow Mephis in, and pass a sitting room full of ratty furniture and a drum kit, each crammed with punk kids in faded t-shirts drinking from paper bags or sticking heroin in their veins. One ancient-looking punk rocker with patchwork leather pants, tied-back greying mohawk and an intricate tribal tattoo across his craggy face is seated in the back corner. He sees Mephis and smiles, making a delicate hand gesture that I almost miss. “Tophel,” he whispers.

Mephis says nothing, and does his best to keep his hand gestures out of our sight.

“They waiting for you in the kitchen,” the old punk says, gesturing down the hall. Harsh florescent light pours from a doorway and Jello Biafra singing for a band that is probably Lard. One of the kids slurs at Mephis under his breath. The old punk silences him with a look.

“Thank you, Brother,” Mephis whispers, bowing his head. He turns to his right and leads us to the kitchen.

Go to Part 68

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 66: Much Too Early, Late That Same Morning.

“No.” I pace about the debris. “The room is carefully staged to look ransacked, but it doesn’t hold up to scrutiny.” I hold out a broken snow-globe, water still pooled around the feet of the missing Frosty the Snowman I gave her years ago. “First off, there is no sign of a defense. No bullet-holes in the walls, no blood either. Eva wouldn’t have gone without a fight. They would have to kill her, and we’d see evidence of that.”

“All right,” he allows, as if he had been considering this as well.

“We can stage a crime scene better than this. They made a point to break everything. Why break the bed?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admits, eyebrows raising proudly.

“Nothing has been taken that I take note of. They broke a flat-screen television, the DVD player, and the compact disc player, and left a hundred dollars in twenties over there on the floor,” I say, pointing to the other side of the bed.

“That’s begging for  InternetConspiracyEchoChamber.com to jump on it," Nepotism says. "I was going to take the cash because they were dumb enough to leave it.”  

“The destruction is too complete,” I tell him. “ The clothes pulled out of her dresser, drawers torn out and broken, and the dresser and the mirror smashed on top of them. What purpose does that serve?” I glance around the room and take a deep breath. “We’re splitting that money.”

“You’re good.”

“I’m just getting started.”

“Let me get a witness!”

“Look at this. They did everything to this room save for pulling the blinds off the window. Maybe two hours ago she left my house. I woke up at ten and she was still sleeping. They couldn’t do this in two hours.”

He snickers.

“Dude, shut up. Think about it. They were planning to make her disappear before she got my notebook. From the looks of how carefully this mess was assembled, I doubt they wanted her to even show up here at all. It would take one little struggle to destroy this work of art.”

“Uh huh, uh huh.”

“Dude, they were going to pick her up on her way here.”

“You know, if they were going to put something here it implicate you, and they had to get it from her. It probably means they haven’t been back here yet,” he says, looking down at his cell phone for the time.

The front door opens.

Go to Part 67

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 65: The Night Before.

Zombie, has been manager of the Spot from before I started coming here. He is shambling toward our table, glazed eyes staring lifelessly at me from within the purplish bags that hang almost to his droopy moustache. He extends both his arms, wrists limp, fingers fat noodles beneath his meaty palms. The index finger on his left hand shoots out and points at me.

“Is my Spot Slab coming out any time soon?” I ask him. “ I think the cook is shooting up again.”

Zombie looks me up and down with no acknowledgment of my words. There have always been rumors about Zombie. Some say the owner built him piece by piece from stolen body parts, a monstrous conglomeration of all the best managers in the entire world, reanimated with electricity and cocaine.

Zombie is more a force of nature than a real human being. Once he starts moving, there is no stopping him. I once saw him throw five big  guys aside to get the kid that grabbed a bartender’s ass. While they tussled, another kid broke a bar stool over Zombie’s back, and impaled Zombie with one of the broken legs. They chopped off his hand before Zombie got them all out the door and collapsed. He was dragged to the back room and a ‘waiting ambulance.’ The next day he was back, fist wrapped in a dirty cloth shoved up a pint glass. No one spoke a word of what happened the night before. “Dr. Filth?” Zombie groans.

“No,” I say. “Someone else.”

“Of course it’s Dr. Filth,” Nepotism says, disgusted. “We’re in here every night. You know him. You know this is Dr. Filth.” Nepotism looks at me. “Tell him, Filthy.”

“You have a phone call in office,” Zombie says. He points through the door to my left, leaving not much room to argue. I slide out of the booth and follow the direction of his digit, more than a little worried about who is back here waiting for me. Why do they only want me? Why not Nepotism or Mephis Tyr. I’ve got my Talon under my jacket. Nep wouldn’t have sold me out. Was it Mephis? Did one of us whisper a little too loudly?

Ugly florescent light scorches out of a doorway. “In there,” Zombie says.

“Who is it?” I demand under my breath.

“Wait in here, please,” he says in a monotone.

I draw the weapon from under my armpit, spin and hold the side up to his face. We stand there, momentarily tense, eyes locked, or at least, I’m tense. Zombie does not move. His features are cold and bloodless, dead eyes staring.

Go to Part 66

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 64: The Following Night, at the Concert.

Nepotism runs to me. I’m laying across one of the spinning discs, but it’s moving too slow to throw us. “Are you all right?” he yells to be heard over the music that continues playing.

“Fine,” I shout, rubbing my head and getting to a sitting position.  The Scrubber is gone. Did Nepotism’s spell kill it?

The song reaches crescendo and the metal grate shudders. The spinning discs lift beneath us, speeding up, so we have to fall flat to grip the smooth plastic. Aluminum catwalks stretch between them, barely more than rails.  Kara is descending into the empty center of the Sephiroth. Nepotism and I find ourselves and the entire band 10 feet off the ground, stretching to receive the Ankh. The audience loves the spectacle.

Solomon only seems to be slightly paying attention. "Paled or purple, veiled or voluptuous! Paled or purple, veiled or voluptuous.” Now that we’re up here, we’re obvious to everyone, and the entire band is gesturing and pointing to alert security. There are no stairs I see, no way for us to descend, or any attackers to reach us. "PALED!" Solomon shrieks. "PUR-PLE!"

Mephis is alone on the stage, gun still in hand, but cast in the shadow of the spectacle above him. "Put on the wings and arouse the coiled splendor within you." I slide to hold a rail, letting the disc spin beneath my hip. Nepotism stands at the center. “Come! On! To meee!" Solomon is on us, and they are fighting. Nepotism is hesitant to use his sword, though Solomon is clearly reaching for it. I lose my legs and I spiral out of control, catching myself on the catwalk

Dukett has been doing guitar poses on his disc as he slides into a solo, driving the sweaty ladies beneath him into orgiastic frenzy, grinding and undulating against boyfriends, husbands, 'friends with benefits,' and random strangers. The fighting and death at the other end of the Tree of Life has garnered Dukett's attention and he is carefully picking his way down the rail toward us. I'll have to move fast if I'm going to get past him and reach Kara.

Nepotism wrestles with Solomon. Nep couldn't kill him now without driving the crowd into a frenzy and blowing our cover. We're part of the ticket price. Solomon is well aware of the same thing, but he would never be able to break Nepotism's defenses while still concentrating on his music.  There is little more than this fight than elaborate posing and dance.

I’m in position to see Armitage form from a black splash through the grating behind Mephis, already attacking before it turns solid. Long, knobby fingers form from inky tendrils, grabbing Mephis by the shoulders. A tremendous explosion of blue energy hurls him away. Only momentarily phased, Mephis shoots Armitage twice in the head. The face reforms before it has finished exploding. Armitage raises his hands and they flow with blue fire.

Grabbing Mephis around the throat, the Scrubber lifts him off the ground. Blue fire consumes Mephis’s head, burning flesh and hair. The collar of his shirt smolders. Exposed muscle and bone scorch, and features flake away like carbonized paper. Eyes turn white and evaporate. His jacket burns away from the burnt flesh of his shoulders. Armitage casts aside the corpse and sets his eyes on me.

"PALED! Puuuuurple!" Solomon moans.

Go to Part 65

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 63: Several Years Later, Early in the Afternoon, 

the Day After the Party and the Day Before the Concert.

“Do you understand the significance of making Ira a fugitive?” Nepotism asks, looking over his shoulder impatiently. “It kept him quiet. If  he was a fugitive, he couldn’t spout off about the Turkey Farm. I mean, hello, ‘Space Kids?’ That couldn’t really be made public, could it? No, so they set him up for this murder. He goes on the run, has to keep his head low. If he was killed, there would have been a lot of questions. If he was in jail, he could still talk. So they sent him running. In one fell stroke, they shut him up, and ruined any credibility he ever had.”

“And who told you this?” I ask, kicking at the remains of the bed stand.

He turns around abruptly and taps his temple. “I have sources,” he says. “I know people.”

“Most of your sources are people you meet at the Spot. Do you remember the guy who told you how to cut off a person’s head?”

“Dude, seriously, he showed me a lot of scars. He was in the war.”

“He also said he was a Freemason, a Skull &; Bones, and an O.T.O. When you were in the bathroom, he confessed to being in three groups I made up.”

“That’s just it, dude. You made them up. Who is to say he wasn’t a member?” He puts his fists on his hips and scans the room. “I wouldn’t touch anything in here.” I was pawing through broken knick-knacks on the bookshelves as he talked. “You get your fingerprints around, and you’re dead.”

I sigh. “Don’t worry, they will be able to prove I was in the room.”

“Gross, dude.” He snickers. “You’re going to prison for murder.”  

“I’m glad you find it amusing,” I say. “We don’t know she’s dead.”

“And the longer we can keep that up, the longer you’ll get letters from freaks and weirdos that still believe you’re innocent.”

“Did you write to Ira Einhorn?” I ask.

“I wrote to Uri Geller. That guy got railroaded.”

I take a step back from the details and see the full scene. “Dude, there’s no sign of a struggle.”

He stands up quickly and spreads his arms. “I think this was a bit of a struggle.”

Go to Part 64

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 62: Prologue, Part 3

In some circles, Mike was called ‘the Deacon.’ For some it’s the haggard and knowing look in his eyes, some for his preternatural attraction to young men, but the rest are for the wise bits of knowledge he will occasionally spew like vomit from his broken lips. It was that last bit that first drew me to him. Mike was one of the few members of Lapis to survive the Superhero War.

Mike first showed me a painful underground world of running and lies, that comes with thinking on my own. The Regime didn’t care if you agreed with them or not, any thought produced through your own faculties made a danger of the utmost variety. The day may come when you think up, wholly unbidden, a though they don’t agree with. 

I’ve met many people whose views are exactly the same as the Regime that are no less on the run, because they came to these conclusions on their own without reading the scripts they teach the children in schools. By that reason alone, their execution orders are given to SI’s, and they never know if they may see the next day.

I had always hoped to avoid this kind of existence.  I would much rather just live out my life peacefully with no complications. Even if I couldn’t be a superhero, Metro City was a big place. I had a gig delivering pizzas, and picked up the occasional weekend shift at Old Gil’s Bookstore. As far as I knew, I was the only member of the Superhero Gang to know Old Gil’s secret identity as Stupendous Guy, founder and leader of the organization. Stupes may have been controlled by corruption, but he was incorruptible himself. He knew I’d been railroaded, and if he couldn’t give me employment in one arena, he would do what he could in the other.

“Shut up!” I order to Mike when he sees me. “Just point to the door and start thinking about something else.” He’s a man that has spent his life hiding from his past, I don’t want to embroil him in my unfolding drama. He had dreams of a wife and rugrats and a picket fence of his own, and I my misadventure doesn’t figure into that. For his sake, I hope when the microscope falls on him, he has less to hide. You end up running form the law either way.

Mike points to a crooked screen door by the stove. As I rush past, I mouth, “I’m sorry,” and hit the thing like a trailer park father on his gay son. Maybe as psychic knowledge, maybe as just luck, I parked my car next to the kitchen door and have the engine running before I even know it’s happening. I’m sure that these Secret Inspectors are still shaking down kids with mohawks.

The places I can go at this point are few and far between. I need to disguise my scent before they can break out the blood-hounds. Downtown, I can mix odors. I know where to find a few more bands playing for disillusioned youth. Another hundred kids that want to piss off their mom and dad, or maybe hook up with the girl that came with them. The punks all stink. When I arrive, they are all dancing around to a band that sounds like William S Burroughs as music.

I sneak in through the side door claiming to be in a band, which earns free beer. I only drink a little, because I don’t want to dull my wits. I need to be sure I’ve lost the SI’s first. They have noses built from the newest Titanium Brand Olfactory Systems, or TBOS, and will be able to sniff me out in no time. My house will certainly be watched.

I rub most of the first beer on my chest and jump into the crowd. The kids are ravening for blood, and I’m drenched in sweat after a few passes in the pit. The smell is nearly indistinguishable to the SI’s following me. TBOS are known for short-circuiting in the presence of teenage hormones. Anyone that needs to go into deep-cover fast knows to hook up with a group of underage punks.

Go to Part 63

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 61: That Night, During the Concert

Nepotism steps out from under me, extending the shiny tip of his sword. Solomon continues to go around and around, right arm raised. "This is bad," Nepotism shouts. "This is bad, real bad."

"What?" I demand, grabbing his arm and pulling him back to me. "What is so bad?"

Aiden Quartermass slowly strums, palm-muting to create a slow, melancholy punk ballad riff. “To love meee-ee is better than all things!" Solomon wails, resounding voice tickling every clitoris in the building. "Burning incense in the desert beneath the night stars, call me with a pure heart."

With a lurch, the suspended thing starts to fall. It's a massive structure of wood and gemstones. "The Serpent flame therein, thou... shall... come a little to lie... in... my booooosom."

It's a symbol... a cross... or no... a multicolored ankh... and a nude figure is bound across, arms extended along the branches, the head tied to be raised in the open eye at the top of the cross. The figure is a girl.

Kara.

"Shit!" I cry.

"For one kiss will thou then be willing to give all," Solomon cries.

Nepotism looks up and sees what I see. "Oh no," he whispers, words lost in the thunder of the crowd who now can see what is being revealed.

"Who... so... gives one part-i-cle of dust shall lose all in that hour."

Aiden Quartermass has spotted us. He's looking around for some kind of help, any of the SpectraCom thugs, but none are coming. Not yet at least. For now it's us and the band, and Kara hanging 30 feet above.

"Ye shall gather goods and store of women and spices," Solomon croons, still spinning on the center Sephiroth, oblivious to us about to invade his stage. "Ye shall wear rich jewels! Ye shall exceed the nations of the Earth in splendor and pride... but... always... in the love of me!"

Kara must be drugged, she isn't even struggling against her bonds. Large red circles have been placed over both hands and feet, and another about her waist, large enough to cover her entire pelvic region. Behind her erect head is a fourth red circle, extending up into the loop of the ankh.

"So shall ye come to my joy!" he sings, entirely motionless, but for his lips. "Lay now before me in single robe with rich headdress. I! LOVE! YOU! I yearn toooo yoooou!"

I’m up and running to help Kara, but a hand is on my shoulder, pulling me back. I spin, expecting Nepotism, and find myself staring into the chest of an enormous man with long arms and a long face. The scowl is none other than H.P. Lovecraft, the Scrubber called Armitage. The Scrubber lifts me off the ground

I should not be surprised that Nepotism Baldwin knows magick. He knows everything else. What’s more, I know if I’d simply paid attention, I’d probably know magick myself. I always thought it was horseshit. Apparently I was wrong. Nepotism chokes an unheard word whose force freezes the arm of the Scrubber as it moves to attack him. Without missing a step, the Scrubber pummels Nepotism with the other fist, discharging crackling blue energy from his long, knobby fingers.

Mephis Tyr comes from within Solomon’s temple, blasting at Armitage with his pistol. Nepotism tries to attack with the broadsword, but can’t connect. Armitage absorbs the bullets without a flinch, but turns to catch Mephis’s charge. A shoulder check sends Mephis on his back. Armitage tries to attack, but Nepotism shouts again. With the thunder of drums, I can’t hear what he says, but it’s clearly a spell with power over the Scrubbers. Armitage’s upper torso and head are frozen solid by the sound and shatter when Mephis knocks the body down. The pieces of Armitage look black and oily in the lights, reflecting the colors of the spinning spotlights. They melt quickly into the grating.

Go to Part 62

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 60: Roughly Twenty-Seven Hours Later.

Nep jabs one of his fingers in the air. “First and foremost, if we bailed on this restaurant right here and now Mephis would know something was amiss. If Tyr didn’t pick us up himself, someone else undoubtably would. We’d be as good as dead. I’m waiting for a moment when we will be able to shoot our way out.”

“I love the way you think.”

He nods proudly. “Second: What if he’s telling the truth?” He grins wickedly. “Shit, dude if we get access to that artifact, we’ll be bigger than those Holy Blood/Holy Grail hippies.” He shuffles about in his seat as a young couple pass behind him in white T-shirts It’s a little cold for T-shirts.

Our waitress comes over with three cups of coffee on a scuffed brown tray balanced precariously on her hand. She looks around the table curiously, trying to find where the third person was hiding.

“Did  they gave me the wrong number of people again?” she asks, tossing a glance toward the kitchen. “I’m telling you, that new hostess won’t take to her programming. She’s constantly screwing up orders. I think we’re going to have to have her killed. Like, anyway, are you guys ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?” She watches our body language to see if we want mashed potatoes or french fries.

“We’re waiting for our friend to get back first,” Nepotism says.

“Okay!” she pops and saunters off.

“Don’t you have to go fuck the hostess?” Nepotism growls.

I throw up my hands in defense. “Are you kidding? I’d probably be the fourth or fifth one today. Go ahead, take my turn, I don’t mind.”

“Only someone as sick as you would keep going back to Eva Lorraine.” Nepotism shakes his head. “You’re asking for trouble.”

With a shake of my head, I say, “She shall hence be known as ‘Insatiable Fuck Demon.’”

“Even better than the Marine chick?” he asks. “And the ninja?” He throws back the rest of his coffee and eyes Mephis’s cup hungrily. “If I remember correctly, they were all sent to kill you.”

Mephis enters and sits across from me. “Here’s the deal.” He grabs the hollow aluminum railing of the chair next to Nepotism. “The party has already started, with a lot of SpectraCom top brass present. There is a big unveiling at midnight.”

“How are we supposed to get in?” Nepotism asks.

“We all have tuxedos waiting at the safe-house, which you will all be billed for later. Don’t think I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart.” Mephis sits. “I wasn’t able to get a program for making invitations, so we’re going to have to break in.”

“We’re breaking in?” I ask. “Your plan was to score a requested interview through felony?”

“Mr. Solomon is not interested in doing the interview this evening.” Mephis asks and doesn’t wait for answers. “At 8pm, there will be a distraction that will clear the terrace. We slip in like we’ve been there the whole time.”

“Are they ready for us at the safe-house?” I ask.

Go to Part 61

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 58: The Previous Evening.

I laugh. “Tell him to come here. He can bring his trilobites. Why do I give a shit about a trilobite collector, anyway?” I got desperate with a few episodes of The Unnatural, and now every not job on the Net wants to tell his story of secret alien societies trying to conquer the planet. “If he says trilobites built an advanced society, tell him I’ve heard it,” I say, starting to rise.

Nepotism is shaking his head. “New Age chatrooms all over the Net are buzzing,” he says. “I spent all morning reading about this. I could have told you everything this morning, if we’d gone to breakfast.” Nepotism crosses his arms.

Mephis leans in. His teeth come together in an overacted, cartoon animal grin. “It doesn’t matter a fuckstain whatever some pagan savage priest used this thing for in some drug-addled orgy. Holding this artifact lets you write your own history. We only know Rameses the Great hacked the dicks off the 10,000 Hittites he slew by himself is because that’s what some archeologist thought it said on a wall in the middle of the goddamn desert.” He points a long, knobby finger at me. “The lucky winner can ascribe whatever whacked-out, fucked up backstory he wants, and the rest of the world has to accept it.”

“I only found descriptions of the artifact,” Nepotism says. “A couple blogs referenced a photo, but none had it.” He nods to Mephis. “Have you seen it?”

Mephis draws a notepad from his pocket like he practiced a thousand times. In pencil he draws a line, and two curved lines twisting around it.

“A caduceus?” Nepotism asks.

Mephis acknowledged, but continued without speaking, drawing circles for snake heads at the end of the lines. “Above the snakes is a bust of Hermes.”

“The Caduceus was his symbol for thousands of years, and came into our time as the symbol of the physician,” Nepotism says. He’s hooked. “The Greeks and Egyptians agreed Hermes and Thoth were the same entity.”

I screw up my lips. “This is stupid. Nep, I’m going home.” I rise again, but Mephis pushes me back down. “Mephis, if you ever touch me again, I will put a bullet between your eyes.”

Mephis grins. “I’d like to see you try.” I intend to respond.

“It’s cool,” Nepotism says. “What Mephis says is correct. We’re talking shifts in world religions.” His eyes bug and his entire body tenses to emphasize his final words. “It’s happening right in front of us.”

“You want to know what it’s being called on the Internet?” Mephis asks.

“The biggest mistake of Dr. Filth’s life,” I say, finishing my pint glass and pouring another. The pitcher is almost gone. It’s my turn to buy. Why isn’t my food here yet?

Tyr says, “They’re calling it ‘the Alarm Clock at the End of the World.”

I look up, eyes wide.

“That’s hot,” Nepotism says proudly. He looks from me to Mephis.

“It will wake some global consciousness to unite mankind in peace and unity,” Mephis says, waving his arms around.

“That’s ridiculous.” I calm myself.

“I didn’t come up with it,” Tyr says defensively. “That’s how Mr. Solomon wants it to be known.”

“I’m in,” Nepotism says, slamming his hand down the table hard enough, to send our glasses wobbling around and spilling.

“Watch the fuck out!” I cry, diving out of the beer streams that cascade over the table’s edge and pool on the bench beside me. I squeegee the expanding pool away with my laminated menu. "We’re cryptozoologists, not conspiracy theorists. What do we want with this Alarm Clock? Where the fuck is my food?” I crane my neck to see the bar.

“You’re superheros,” Mephis says.

“That has never been confirmed,” says Nepotism.

Mephis speaks grave and close.  “If you help me steal this artifact, you will be preventing one of the greatest disasters our society has ever faced.”

Go to Part 59

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 56: Late That Same Afternoon.

“Go ahead,” Mephis says with a hideous grin on his face, gesturing to the plump girl.

She looks at him and gives a broad, stupid smile.

With a shrug, I say, “If my eggs are runny, you’re fucked.”

Remaining bent over, she answers, “Shall I follow you to the men’s room?”

Mephis bursts out laughing. “See! Isn’t that a riot? I could seriously do this all day.”

Nepotism slaps him with a disapproving glare and slides into the booth, claiming the middle seat. “Dude, that’s fucked up. Think of the implications. I mean, putting workers into altered states? You are making a human being into a machine. This is a major atrocity against the working class. This girl is put in a state of mind where she will fuck Dr. Filth to make minimum wage.”

“She should be happy for the opportunity,” I say.

“Would you like anything else?” the girl asks, clasping her hands in front of her. Her expression shows no recognition of the conversation we’re having at full-volume a few feet from her face in an otherwise empty room.

“Send us coffee and get out of my sight,” Mephis growls, fighting out of his jacket.

“Yes sir!” she coos and runs off

“Gets boring fast.” He puts his jacket on the edge of the booth behind us.

“Dude, seriously, you shouldn’t do that shit,” Nepotism says in a low voice, carefully watching the window. “What if the wrong person overhears you? We’re all fucked for your amusement.” A brown Cadillac pulls in slow to the parking lot and parks outside our window.

“What do you have to do to get in touch with your friends?” I ask, not really caring one way or another if Mephis abuses a hostess in this dive. You have to know what you are getting into when you take the job.

“There is a payphone out front,” he answers, standing up and walking away. “Remember, shoot the waitress if she asks a question she shouldn’t ask.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter, repositioning myself at the bend in the seat and drape my hands over the pleather railing. “Why won’t Mephis say who we are going to meet?”

“It feels fishy,” Nepotism says, staring off into space. “Mephis’s up to something, but I’m not sure what. You see the Triple R out front?”

I nod. Whatever the driver of that car is doing, it’s completely cloaked by the inky windows. “Why don’t we high-tail it out of here right now before he gets back.” My fingers tense, reaching for my gun as the car door opens at long last. “I’d rather not find ourselves surrounded by enemy agents with weapons drawn.” With unfair effort, a rotund elderly man in a beige bowler extricates himself from the steel sarcophagus he had been entombed within. It’s not a Scrubber, unless Teddy Roosevelt counts as a dead writer.

Go to Part 57

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 52: Epilogue, Part 1

I drop the sword and split, taking the time to retrieve my Desert Talon. I don’t have bullets, but it would make a good hammer. Shock grips everyone, giving me a head start to get in the shadows back stage. I cut through the temple, where superstitious road crew are hesitant to follow. All of the bodies are gone. Backstage is dark, and the scene is chaos. Most people are back here, and when the feedback goes down, word gets around fast. There will be trouble if I’m not clear before someone finds a light switch.

I take refuge in what appears to be an unused dressing room and slam the door. Boxes are stacked on the vanity counter, and the mirror is streaked. I stand in the darkness, catching my breath. The hallway is mostly quiet by the time my panting has slowed enough to take my phone out of my pocket. I have full coverage. I use the light to find a desk lamp. I first type Nepotism’s number, but erase it.  He’s in enough danger now. I call Eva Lorraine.

She picks up on the first ring, like she’s been waiting. “Doc?” she asks breathlessly. “Are you okay?”

“Solomon is dead,” I say.

She is silent. “I’m sorry, Doc,” she says. “I got paid a lot of money.”

“Mephis Tyr is dead too.”

She sighs. “I’m only getting half of a lot of money. I’ll still split it with you if you drop all this and run away with me.”

I bury my chin in my chest. “If we see each other, you’re going to jail.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.” I let the silence breath. This is done, but neither of us is eager to say goodbye. “Are you still in the mansion?” Her voice echoes in my ear and outside in the hall. The door opens and Eva Lorraine slides inside. Her leather dress is unzipped past her breasts, keeping her painfully close to indecent.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, showing her my gun.

She pushes my hand down. “If you had bullets, you still wouldn’t shoot me.” She’s right.

I want to embrace her, want to make use of this dark room, but I can’t. The line between us is clear, good and evil. I’m not going to cross it.

“You’re not getting away unscathed,” she says, grabbing my dick through my pants. I’m ready for the fight. I unzip her leather shirt and let those beautiful breasts free. Her nipples are fat and erect and feel wonderful between my fingertips. She has out my cock, and she shoves her fingers in my mouth to wet them before she’s jacking me off. I get my free hand into her leather pants and squeeze her ass, driving her crotch into me. She drops to her knees and sucks my cock like it’s never been sucked. We are completely exposed in the hall with a hundred security guards, searching me out for murder, but I couldn’t care less.

When Eva comes back up for my lips, her pants are down around her thighs, and her groin is slick all about. Her vagina is soft when I slide my fingers in. I’m on my knees immediately with my tongue up inside her. She leans against the counter and I take off her boots. She’s bucking against my face. My beard is saturated with her wetness. She pushes me down, pulls off her pants and mounts me. I can only get my slacks around my knees before I’m in, and after that Eva is in control. She fucks the living shit out of me.

I get up and bend her over at the mirror so she can watch herself as I fuck her from behind. I finger her ass until she cums, clamping her muscles around my dick hard enough to hurt. She slows to enjoy the moment. I slap her ass hard enough to leave a print. That gets Eva’s engines running once more, and all I can do is hold her hips and try to stay inside. One wrong move could break my dick in two.

Eva pounds against me furiously and I spank her more. She cries out a little with each strike, but that only makes her fuck me harder. I have two fingers in her ass to the second knuckle, and she’s working them further in with each pump. She cums a second time, arching her back and groaning loud enough she could alert any passing security.

Driving hard against me three more times, she slides off and collapses on her back, breasts heaving with exertion. I’m winded. She looks at me and smirks, and pulls me down on her with one of her long legs. Part of me wants to decline. I’m spent without being spent, but when I slide in, I know I’m there for the long haul. She’s squeezing her ass and it’s making wet smacks on the concrete floor. Her legs are wrapped around me and her heels are dug deep in the backs of my thighs. Her fingernails cut deep lines in my shoulders. She has strength left only for a whimper each time I thrust into her. Her body tenses, and she cums a third time. When it passes, she can do no more but lay beneath me.

I need to finish before Eva catches her second wind. I may not survive if she goes for a fourth orgasm. I pump harder and faster until I burst inside Eva, burying my wet beard in her shoulder to mask my long, bear growl of a groan. I collapse and we become one continuous jelly mass. Most of the jiggle is me, but she’s got it in the right places.

I roll onto my back. The cold concrete feels good. We are silent and panting a minute before she sits up. Afterglow is over, we’re back to business. “Get dressed,” she says, putting on her leather shirt and fumbles to zip it. “We need to get you out of here.”

As finished as I thought I was, she looks so good dressed above with nothing below. I feel a stir in my loins. She throws my pants and shoes at me and repeats, “Get up!”

I’m trying, but I’m still watching her, stepping into the tiny crimson thong that barely conceals her even when it’s in place. We left a puddle in the middle of the floor. She’s pulling on her boots and I’m in my pants at last. “We don’t have a lot of time,” she says.

“That’s not my fault,” I plead, buttoning my shirt. I know it’s going to be a long time before we do that again. As quickly as she’s dressed, Eva’s out the door. I follow, but she’s gone in the shadows.

I find Kara approaching, alert, awake, and alone.

“Where is Nepotism?” I ask.

“He went back to find the Alarm Clock,” she says. “We need to get to the rendezvous point. Come on, I know a way out.”

Go to Part 53

First Rescue Free

Part 5

Lucille grinned at Stupendous Guy. "I like the way you thinned out your hair for the costume. Looks real."

“I’ll take the weapon please,” Stupendous Guy said, palm up.

Evyl Linn fired three times into Stupendous Guy’s chest, but the bullets ricocheted into the walls, narrowly missing a hipster eating a turkey wrap. Stupendous Guy grabbed the gun and crunched it like a beer can to toss over his shoulder. Evyl Linn jumped out of reach and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Stupendous Guy looked confused. “All these years and I had no idea she was a teleporter.” He smiled the trademarked Beaming Smile®, and said, “Good to see you’re back in the neighborhood, old friend.”

“And I’m an innocent man." Adradian shook his way out from behind the table. “I’m rehabbed, a private citizen under your protection. I’m late for my medication, my doctor can verify that. If you’ll excuse me...” Adradian shambled out the back door and across the red brick courtyard.

Newspaper reporters were already arriving for the scoop on Stupendous Guy’s return from the dead. He told the assembled media he’d been trapped in a death-like state by Armageddon's radiation. This trance had evolved Stupendous Guy’s cells to be more powerful and help in his ongoing mission to keep Metro City safe. He announced that both he and Dr. Filth would be returning to the Superhero Gang post haste. People cheered. Everyone was happy, except Bureaucraticus, of course.

That night, when press went home and the other superheroes went to bed, Stupendous Guy asked Dr. Filth to help with first watch. They drank scotch and talked about their adventures. Dr. Filth finally convinced himself to ask the question that had been bothering him all night. “If that radiation story was true, all the Gang would be in trances, or worse.”

“My prolonged exposure...”

“They kept Armageddon’s body in my room for a week before we shot him into space.” Dr. Filth refilled his rocks glass. “Why did you fake your death?”

Stupendous Guy coughed and scratched his nose. “I wanted to retire. Your single Moon may give me great powers, but it has given me long life as well. I’ve already lived two or three times longer than people on my homeworld. I’m tired, Doctor, I don't know how much longer I can be Stupendous Guy. The Superhero Gang was created to replace me. After I fought Armageddon, I needed a vacation, so I took some time off as Gil. That Bureaucraticus really screwed things up, didn’t he? I should probably start running background checks.”

“You didn’t know he was Adradian’s son?”

Stupendous Guy shrugged. “He told me he wanted to work, so I gave him a job. I assume the best in people. Deceit is a facet of humanity I may never understand.”

“You’d think he’d be honored you let him stay in the Gang. I can’t believe they turned my room into a stable.”

“I’ll help you clean it out tomorrow,” Stupendous Guy said, topping off the glass for Dr. Filth. “Bureaucraticus promised to be good," Stupendous Guy said, staring into space. "Neither he or his father committed any crimes. Evyl Linn opened fire and disappeared awful fast though. I'm sure we’ll hear from her soon. Until that changes, I’ll give them the doubt. If you’re born a hero, you’ll die a hero. If that doesn’t convince you to do the right thing, I can’t imagine anything that will.” Stupendous Guy finished his Scotch and poured more.

END