“Yeah. Sure. I — um — I’d like to make a deposit.”
Jack wished he’d worn only his costume so she might have enthused —“Oh, you’re one of those wonderful heroes, aren’t you, the Equalizers?” — but instead he had over the top a herringbone wool three-piece suit by Walter Plunkett that was too roomy and garnered no reaction whatsoever.
This forced him to remember — forget the eyes; the girl was a Blando. If his teammates were correct, she wouldn’t get excited and even if she did, it’d be fake-and-bake.
After he pushed over the Gladstone and the bag was opened to check, Jack watched the woman’s downturned face. Age, about nineteen or twenty. Skin? Perfection, nary a blemish. Small, pixieish nose supporting the brown, black and orange frame glasses, arched eyebrows above those, and one compact, extremely kissable mouth — the whole caboodle lightly skirted with makeup that accentuated every little thing in subtle style. Then there was blonde hair, parted on the left side, proceeding in neat waves to her shoulders. The ends defied gravity and curled back up an inch.
Her eyes were the killer; so magnetic Jack had to avoid looking at them. He tried to focus instead on the girl’s magnificent carnation-pink lips.
“Would you have your passbook?”
“Ahh — yep. Here you are.”
Jack swallowed hard as he slid the bankbook across.
Their fingers brushed, and he noted a slight colour appear across her cheeks. In return, Jack’s face burned. Briefly peering down to rediscover the girl’s hands — slender and superb — while she sorted through the bills, Jack winced. He didn’t know where to stare so he adjusted his gaze to the clothes.
The girl wore a fitted navy blue box-cut jacket, with a series of grape-rose coloured buttons, one inch in diameter, boasting rhinestone accents. The bottom hem of the jacket, visible just above the counter when she stepped back a moment, flared to produce a Peplum effect.
A mother-of-pearl badge affixed to the left lapel read ‘Miss Starkwell’. The badge swivelled away from Jack, along with the sublime face. Instead, he beheld a profile that once again knocked off his cotton socks.
“Oh, Mister Winkle,” she was saying to a cadaver at the next stall, a gaunt man pushing ninety. “I have a deposit here for $5,000. I hope you wouldn’t mind confirming the amount.”
“Certainly, Miss Starkwell.”
The Gladstone exchanged hands, pristine to ancient.
“We won’t be a moment, sir,” Miss Starkwell assured, all professional.
A middle-aged gentleman with a droopy brown moustache, bulbous nose and very little chin sauntered up to the woman’s side and placed his mitt on her shoulder. He poorly balanced a smirk that tottered toward patronizing, and those fingers on the navy blue held Jack’s attention.
Unsure why, he felt angry.
On the newcomer’s grey blazer sat a gold nametag with ‘Henry Holland’ inscribed. Apparently he was the manager — his badge looked like it’d cost a month’s salary.
“Everything fine here, Louise?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack noticed the girl didn’t look up at her boss. In fact she hardly moved and was evidently uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, Henry’s contemplation sauntered over Jack and the other customers like they did not exist, since he was more intent on manhandling his employee. Those digits on the shoulder, nails cut far too short, had started to knead the material there.
Jack considered pulling away the metal grille and ripping the man’s arm out — what did it matter? He was only a Blando — but super strength was not his stuff.
All he could maybe do would be to blow a hole through the bars, in the process blinding or maiming everyone around — including Miss Starkwell. Jack didn’t know the extent of his power yet.
Thankfully, Mister Winkle had finished a plodding count of the cash.
“All done, Miss Starkwell,” the walking corpse croaked while he laboured under the Gladstone’s weight and placed it upon her desk.
“Thank you, Mister Winkle.”
They were so damned polite and formal to one another Jack considered he might fall asleep standing up, but there was no denying the mischief of that creeping hand on the girl’s shoulder.
Finally, she brushed off the thing.
“Thank you for your concerns, Mister Holland,” Miss Starkwell said in a frosty tone. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish up with this customer.”
“Yes, quite right, of course.” The man clicked his heels and went back into his gloomy office.
“My apologies, sir, for the delay.”
The girl’s expression was certainly warmer than the one she’d just tossed her boss — but that was precisely when the wall caved in, amidst much racket.
People ran about screaming and shouting as bricks, mortar, and a cloud of dust settled.
Standing by a yawning hole leading out to the main street was a huge character about three metres in height. He was made up of iron hexahedrons, each the size of a Rubik’s Cube, fixed together to create a man.
At least, Jack gathered this was a man.
His head, stuck on top of a short, thick neck, mimicked the shape of a hammerhead shark’s — again made up of the metal cubes. The eyes were the only organic part of him, but since they sat on the sides of his head he was forced to tilt it to the left, then to the right, in order to see ahead. The design was so unwieldy that, out in the real world, he would’ve been the first victim of Darwin’s natural selection.
“I-AM-BULKHEAD!” this gatecrasher roared, like it was meant to mean something, from a slit mouth cut between two cubes in what represented a face.
The roar echoed and resonated before it reached Jack’s ears and ended up sounding more tinny than imposing.
“Course you are,” Jack muttered.
He’d turned to face the beast with the vague intent of shielding Miss Starkwell and the elderly Mister Winkle, rather than any assertive pretence leaning toward heroism. If he could have, Jack would’ve hightailed it to the exit in an instant.
The metal man’s left eye studied him for a few seconds, and then he swivelled his head so that the right eye could do the same. “I’m here for the dosh, the swandooly, the contents of the big safe in there.”
“And I thought you wanted to make a deposit.”
While he may’ve been cracking foxy, Jack was also playing for time — trying to run through options, or the lack of them, while stalling the big bastard.
Bulkhead’s right eye blinked several times. “Why’d you believe that?”
“The grand entrance, and all.”
Jack continued to think hard as he spoke. He could try to take out the fiend now — straighten his right arm and let him have it with one of those kooky power surges he’d supposedly been blessed with, according to Gonzo. Who cared if he wasn’t in uniform?
“Smacks of big bucks,” Jack rambled on in half-hearted fashion, “since you’re going to have to pay for the damage.”
The eye that regarded him hardened, if possible.
“Oh, a wise guy, huh?”
“Just looking out for my investments.” Who knew from whence the bravado was flowing? Skedaddle, a more sensible side of Jack whispered in his ear.
Testing out the power blast was risky. There were dozens of people inside this bank scattered round them, and it really didn’t matter that all of them were Blandos. Besides, the bank clerk Louise sat behind him — while Blando material she may’ve been, he couldn’t shake those eyes.
He didn’t get another second to procrastinate, since Bulkhead barged forward at surprising speed and bowled him over.
Jack bounced off a bench, using his head as a cushion, and was pretty much out for the count before lifting a finger. Bulkhead leaned over him, ripped the buttons away from his jacket and shirt, focused in on the Eureka Stockade flag on the costume beneath, and flattened his mouth.
“Hah, a Cape — thought as much. You had me worried the Blandos were getting out of
line. Investment and all, like you mentioned.”
He raised an ironclad fist and Jack decided on the spot he was a dead man, but that was before Miss Starkwell — Louise — figured into the action.
She was suddenly on Bulkhead’s back, hitting him across the noggin with a steel typewriter. The villain threw up hands to protect his head, and then swatted her aside.
From where he lay, Jack couldn’t see what happened to her, but he fretted and tried to rise. Bulkhead returned attention to him on the ground.
“Crazy dame,” the villain muttered. “G’night, sweet prince.”
With the flick of one huge iron finger, he knocked Jack out.
#108
When he came to, Jack was tied to a chair in the middle of a dark room that would’ve been somewhere in the vicinity of a thousand square metres in size.
These people had their very own banner on the wall, showing a big black bird with three legs.
Beneath the flag was a row of windows, red-lit and without a view. Probably they were red to compliment the surrounding black. Chains hung from the ceiling with no apparent purpose other than making the place look more dangerous, but a worrisome iron maiden decorated one corner.
“That’s our filing cabinet,” said Bulkhead, standing before him.
On the other side of the room, either aesthetically balancing the filing cabinet or offering a place in which to hang spare capes, there was an incongruous metal clothes-locker, and a few feet left of that was a Corinthian-style pedestal boasting a silver trophy cup with handles. ‘Villain of the Month’ was inscribed on it in big letters Jack could soak up from the chair.
Bulkhead followed his gaze. “Bet you do-gooders don’t have one of those.”
“I live in hope. You wouldn’t have personalized toilet paper, by chance?”
“Of course not.”
“Just checking. So,” Jack surmised, “these are the digs of the League of Unmitigated Rotters.”
“That they are.”
“Gotta ask — who thought up the zany name?”
“What zany name?”
“The League of Unmitigated Rotters.”
“Who knows?” Bulkhead chuckled, and the resulting sound scraped his prisoner’s ears. “Someone who left for greener pastures, no doubt. But tradition is tradition in Heropa.”
“So I’m learning. It doesn’t exactly inspire fear or respect.”
“What, the name?”
“Yeah.”
“You think ‘the Equalizers’ inspires respect?”
“Point taken.”
Jack’s right hand felt clammy and cold. When he bent his head to take a peek, it was encased in a mitten of dull metal — in fact, the thing resembled a helmet that’d been refashioned with some creative gaffer-taping.
“That’s right,” his captor announced. “Your superpower is nullified. Could’ve been more original — pinching the same mojo as the Faceless Phantom. To shame.”
“Bombastium?”
“Yep.”
“Is it real? I never heard of bombastium before Heropa.”
“Dunno. Don’t get all technical — try it out if you don’t believe me.”
“Safer not to?”
“For sure.”
“How’d you know my power?”
“On file.”
“I’m in your books already? That was quick — I arrived two days ago.”
“We don’t mess about.”
Jack gazed again at the silly banner on the wall. “What’s the story with the three-legged chicken?”
Bulkhead glanced up as well. “That’s not a chicken — any fool can see it’s a crow. Don’t you know your ornithology?”
“Looks more like a chicken. Who’s the shoddy artist?”
“Dammit, it’s a crow.”
“Well, why the three legs?”
“I don’t like you. You ask too many goddamned questions.”
“Okay, just the one more. This is a super-villain group, right? Where is everyone? I see only you. Singular.”
The giant shrugged. “Past their bedtime.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, seriously — it’s late and past their bedtime. If you could keep things down, I’d be much appreciative.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good boy.”
“By the way, you didn’t misplace any of your number, by chance?”
Bulkhead eyed Jack with a single peeper, this time the leftie. “Whaddaya mean?”
“I had the pleasure of acquainting myself with Iffy Bizness. Well, with his head at any rate — the rest of his body I’m yet to meet.”
“Dead?”
“People usually do die in those circumstances.”
Bulkhead squinted. “You killed the prick?”
“No. Blew himself up, we think. Can probably read about it in the papers today.”
“Friggin’ unbelievable. Well, now.”
The villain momentarily hung his head and Jack thought he might be in prayer, but then he raised himself again and had a crafty smile between the metal cubes.
“Tell me, you ever copped Peter Pan?”
“Er — no.”
“I’m talking up the Disney movie, not the book.”
“Neither, to be honest.”
“Never read the book myself, personally, and not sure it reads the same as the movie. In the movie there’s this part where the Lost Boys and Wendy’s brothers — I forget their names — are captured by Red Injuns. They have this policy of letting each other loose after every bout — point being it’s the rumble that matters, not the aftermath. Without each other, things’d get boring. So, we’re going to cut you loose.”
“No roughing up?”
“Well, now, never said that, did I? Figure you need a few half-decent souvenirs to show your mates.”
His gleaming leer told Jack he would not enjoy the experience.
A few hours later, just after dawn, Bulkhead excused himself to go wake up fellow fiends Schlock Tactile and Kid Calmdown.
After much pointless carousing, including the pulling of Christmas bon-bons and a fight over the enclosed paper party hats, the three of them did a drive-by in their slick, retro-futuristic black Phantom Corsair six-passenger coupe, to drop Jack off at Timely Tower — unhitched the bombastium mitten and pushed him out a car door (which had a picture of the three-legged chicken on it) as they hooned past at thirty Ks.
Jack bounced a few times, collected a couple more souvenirs, brushed himself down, and took the elevator to the penthouse — after commiserating words in the lobby from Stan the Doorman. “It won’t always be like this,” he said. “You can do some genuine good in the world, but you need to hold onto your beliefs. Now, go patch yourself up.”
Pretty Amazonia must’ve woken with the racket he made coming in the front door. He was surprised he didn’t wake the entire building. The woman appeared on the balcony above the shared living quarters, dressed in a boudoir gown of gold lamé that was remarkably homely. She shook her head, descended, and then whisked him to a brightly lit bathroom.
“No one bothered teaching you to use your hands to protect your face?” she muttered, while she bent over and dabbed antiseptic on swollen abrasions.
“My hands were tied down at my waist.”
“Excuses.”
Jack couldn’t see out of his right eye, but attempted a grin. This hurt more than the effort was worth.
“You really are tall, aren’t you?” he remarked.
“The Brick says two hundred and thirteen centimetres of man-eating, gut-crunching terror. So, you met the Rotters, huh?”
“Charming fellows.”
“They do have their moments.” PA acted like an old hand with the treatment as she gently checked each wound on his face. “Strip,” she then commanded.
“Do I have to?”
“Don’t worry, even I wouldn’t attack you in this state.”
Very carefully, with a barely repressed groan or three, Jack unbu
ttoned his shredded suit, and then yanked off the costume. While doing so he got dizzy again and almost collided with the white porcelain sink. He was so close, he could read the royal blue brand name: HILLMAN.
“Isn’t Hillman an old clothesline manufacturer?” Jack muttered, just as Pretty Amazonia’s firm grip on his arm ensured he didn’t receive additional head injuries.
“I have no idea. Are you delirious?”
More swabbing ensued.
“Stand up straight and stop slouching — anyone would think you’d never before been in the nud in front of a girl. Okay. There. Most of these contusions will heal overnight — part of the charm of this place. Your brain, however, will take a while longer to let go of the pain.”
“You were a nurse back in Melbourne?”
“Who’s to say I wasn’t a doctor?” Jack was surprised to see a grim look on her face. “You’ve got to learn you can’t ask me questions like that, not here.”
“I can’t ask your real name?”
“You know it already, hon. Pretty Amazonia. PA to my friends.” He winced as she dabbed a deep cut on his chest. “Ouch.”
“You could’ve saved yourself this grief by using your password. Why didn’t you?”
“I thought we needed intel on the Rotters.”
“Liar.”
Jack stupidly smiled again. “Okay. I forgot I could do that.”
PA rolled her eyes. “Oh, my Lordy. So what did you find out from your accidental incursion into enemy territory?”
“Not much, but I think they’re clueless about the deaths of Sir Omphalos and the Aerialist — they weren’t even aware of what happened to Iffy Bizness.”
Pretty Amazonia tossed a final cotton swab into Jack’s friend the Hillman sink, and gave him the once over.
“There. Done. Now, SC, get to bed — doctor’s orders.”
#109
The next morning, Jack scrutinized his reflection in the sparkling, full-length mirror of another bathroom upstairs.
This was an art-deco looking glass, styled like a huge triangular shield with bevelled edges. The good-looking face returning same scrutiny was about twenty-five: chiselled features, neat blond hair, blue eyes. Nary a freckle nor blemish in evidence. Not a bruise in sight from the previous day’s fun and games with the Rotters.