Wizard's Fire

THREE: Schlichting, Frank a.k.a. "Frank Payne" a.k.a. "CONSTRICTOR"

2005-10-05T19:51:00.000-07:00

- start THREE -

I followed the car. Guy and a gal inside.

My hands shook, teeth chattered, sweat poured outta my skin and the ache made me wish I could die, but I followed the car. Man on a mission, man with a purpose, man who made something out of himself. Just needed to get level, then I'd cut the stuff forever. This time, with money in the bank. Bring Penny into it later, not at the beginning like last time. Didn't need to scare her again.

Whazzat they said in the movies - "don't tail too close." Bob and weave, like a boxer. Rope-a-dope. Rumble in this concrete jungle. Hang back in this 15-year-old Ford junker, try not to shake to death, don't bite that tongue in two. Might need it later, may need to talk after the fight.

Needed a fix, needed it BAD.

Followed the car with its flashy paint and hubcaps. Car slowed down, turned into a fenced area covered by plastic.

The signs on the fence made it clear. Vacant lot.

Nice car, good paint. Bad part of town.

I drove past the lot, got a bit of building between us. I pulled to the curb, nudged a MINI forward a foot or two. "Get a real car," I thought and laughed out loud through clicking teeth. I got out of the car, took off the trenchcoat, pulled the mask over my face. Looked to the right and left - neighborhood for rats only, no one around, just passing cars.

I tried to relax, let my cables go to work. No dice, too worked up, not calm enough. I shook as I ran to the vacant lot and the nice car. I walked right in, no signs of alarm. No sign of anyone in the car 'cept the cheap shocks giving away movement.

Jimi Pit Bull and his lady were busy in the back seat. Windows not fogged yet. I knocked on the glass. The lady jumped off Jimi's lap, looked at me with this wild mix of hate and fear. Caged cat, heavy on the makeup. Lady's painted eyes went all sorts of crazy, her mouth and teeth gnashed angry. Jimi Pit Bull moved without looking, brought up his .38, aimed it at me.

I waved and smiled. "Hi there," I whispered.

Jimi went all gangster on me, held his gun sideways. He yelled some stuff I couldn't understand. He pulled the trigger a few times. I listened to it. POW. POW. click. click. click.

After the first "pow" hit my suit of kevlar and adamantium padding, it relaxed me enough to connect with my cables. They snaked out of the arm holsters smooth and quiet. As each column notched against my wrist it reminded me of when Penny caressed my hand.

The right cable crashed through the shot-out window and wrapped around Jimi Pit Bull's paw, the one with the empty gun. I sent the command "squeeze" but I saw "crush." Way too soon, Jimi Pit Bull was a bleeding, screaming heap. Way too soon. Way too soon.

The left cable wrapped around his lady, kept her from leaving til I said so. I pulled her out of the window, none too gentle. Oops, forgot about that glass - she started in with the screaming. I'd check her later.

My right cable relaxed the grip on Jimi's hand, let it go. I got mad at that car door, ripped it off with my right cable, tossed it through that third story window in the burned-out building next door. Glass exploded! Check out the noise!

Another ache hit me and I noticed all my sweat.

"Shut up, your yellin's killing all the fun," I said to Jimi's lady.

I sent some amps through my left cable, shocked her deep and good, kinda sizzle that'll leave some burn marks.

She went quiet.

I looked back into the car. Jimi had grown some brains, opened that other car door with his good hand. He tried to make a break for it, pants down around his knees, lower than those rap guys.

I sent my right under the car, snagged Jimi's ankle. Pulled sssssssssssssslow.

Jimi screamed, tried to fight the pull. He slipped, went splat on the tar and gravel. I started to drag him under the car. I heard his arms and legs bump the undercarriage and smiled. While he got up close and personal with his transmission, I loosed his lady. She didn't move.

When I had Jimi through to the other side, there wasn't much fight left in the dog. Fun time was over.

I wrapped the cable around him a good four or five times and slowly started the SQUEEZE.

"Lissen man, whatever you want, you can have it! You want the car, man it's yours! You want the woman - she's yours!" Jimi Pit Bull pleaded.

"The drugs, dog." I demanded, and my teeth started in again.

"I can hook you straight up, jack, yes I can do that for you today!" Jimi said, "You let me loose, I will fly you higher than Iron Man on turbo boost, put you calm like Doctor Strange, you hear me, jack?"

I unwrapped him and he went back to the car, pulled his pants up with bloodied fingers. He hit a few buttons on the dash, backed up and the entire front seat flipped back. A box with a glass top, hidden underneath now open for all to see.

Jimi Pit Bull's pharmacy on wheels - open for business.

I shopped.
Blue Beedles, KT-28's, Hoztezz, X-Meth, Booster Goldies, Cryptonights, Green Llamas and Screaming Skulls.

The ache multiplied, but I knew enough to be surprised at premiere lines for a small-time hustler.

Rodeo Drive products, flea market vendor. Something WRONG.

"The Beedles. The Green Llamas. All of them."

Jimi moved back to the car, Mr. Salesman, eager to please. As soon as he turned, I grabbed his head with both cables, wrapped it tight, crushed flesh, muscle and skull and let the amps rage. I threw - his burnt and bloody carcass met his car door.

I didn't bother his woman. She was dead.

The cables retracted. The shakes kicked me hard, teeth felt like they wanted out of my head. I had to level out NOW.

I pulled back my mask, inhaled a Green Llama, rode it all the way to Tibet or Istanbul or wherever those grinning freaks called home. Ahhhhhhh, the ache melted away and cool rivers rinsed my nerves with calm. I floated on air, passed smiling chinamen in emerald robes on my way to the magic mountain.

The dream passed quick, but the calm stayed on. Really, really good - top of the line, genuine article.

Using the cables was easy now. I took the whole box from the car, carried it to my junker. Put the trenchcoat back on. Drove.
.... .... .... .... .... .... .... .... .... ....

Two hours later, at a red light, I heard a phone ring inside the box. I answered it.

"Jimi, you're late man, what's up? You know you don't show, you're good as dead!" the voice said.

"That's right," I answered, and hung up. Out of the corner of my eye, a green chinaman gave me the thumbs-up sign, laughing as he faded away.

Whoooooo - good stuff.

I hit Penny's number: No answer. She'd be headed to the bar, looking for me.

I kept the phone, stashed the box at my "safe place" and headed to the bar to see if my guess was right.
.... .... .... .... .... .... .... .... .... ....

I walked in the bar. Everyone was in the corner, standing, watching TV, quiet-like. Not something you see everyday. Mr. Hairpiece on Channel 11 tossed it over to another guy on the West Coast, and I saw the caption on the screen: "Death of an Avenger."

Yeah, buddy, I could get behind that headline. But it was out in California, so you knew it wasn't any of the big guns. Sure enough, it was some teenager who thought he was the new Electro or something.

Still, it was a good way to start the afternoon. I got a beer, asked about the pool and the bartender said, "it's a secret. You know how some of these guys can be."

Probably one of the big-brain guys. Put money into a pool like that and you play a sucker's bet with Egghead, Mento, Sergei Cerebellum, Big Brain Bostisto and other guys like that dropping by from time to time.

I ordered a beer and tried to find a table with a view of the set.

"There you are," I heard her say.

I let her walk to me. She was none too happy. I was getting used to the look.

"I've been searching for you everywhere - the police are out in force, trying to make sure no one gets any ideas," she said.

"Who did it?" I asked.

"Whirlwind, according to CNN," she answered. I felt her looking at my eyes, trying to see if I'd been using again.

"Huh," I said, "don't really know the guy," I remarked, and I hoped Green Llamas didn't mess with your pupils and the way they adjusted to light. A transparent emerald chinaman shook his head back and forth, assured me they didn't.

"Me neither," she said.

We sat down and relaxed for awhile. I told her some bull about casing out an upcoming jewelry delivery, looking for weaknesses. I didn't share a single detail about Jimi Pit Bull and his dead girlfriend. Penny didn't know how mean I could get, didn't know the kind of violence I could deliver. I liked it that way. She knew I had trouble with the drugs, but thought it was all behind me now - and thanks to the premium Green Llamas, I could keep that going for awhile longer.

I wasn't sure if she loved me, I wasn't sure if I loved her. We were both kind of aimless that way, but I knew I was stronger with her than I was alone so I played the boyfriend as best I could. Penny could probably do alright on her own, but she was a joiner. She joined The Corporation and was the star pupil. She joined SHEILD and blended right in. I was more of a maverick type, but together we did okay. "Opposites attract" they said, right?

Like everyone else in the bar, I stopped watching TV when the winner of the pool came by to collect.

Average looking guy - I didn't recognize him, and his melon wasn't huge like Egghead or the Leader or nothin'. Still, the bartender was impressed with him, whoever he was.

I turned to Penny. "Guy's a genius, guarantee it."

"He is," Penny said.

"Follow him, find out what he's got going, see if we can cash in somehow," I said.

Penny nodded and went outside.

Penny was the best thing in my life right now, along with the box. We'd met way back in the early days, back when The Corporation was up and running strong. Money was available for every idea, as long as the idea was tied to making more money.

Back then, I had just changed my last name to Payne and hit Chicago to restart my life with the mob. I left a no-good trailer park life, a drunk do-nothing wife and a one-way future to nowhere back in Racine, Wisconsin and decided to try my luck in the Windy City. Fortune smiled, and within a year I was collecting debts and contract killing. Then one day I was told to report to a new boss, that it was a big opportunity for me if I played the cards right.

Next thing I knew, I was thrown into a group underoing all sorts of high-impact training. All sorts of tests: endurance, psychological, physical and mental strength, personality, personal history, you name it. That's where I met Penny - even though she doesn't remember it.

After the training, The Corporation offered me a contract to become an elite hit-man. They explained the bullet-proof navy blue and orange costume and deadly electric cables of the Constrictor uniform and without even blinking I said "yes." Couldn't get into the snake suit fast enough, really, but some changes had to come first.

There was painful surgery. Now I got some computer stuff inside my spine and arms, micro transmitters to the suit, makes the cables do what I tell 'em. Doesn't cause me much pain anymore, just some stiffness now and then.

Penny didn't have surgery, but I think she got the worse end of the deal.

The Corporation had some files on a hero guy named Captain Marvel. Way he worked was, he was stuck in some far-off dimension and had to swap places with someone on earth to arrive on the scene and play hero. The Corporation made a machine to copy the process, swapped Penny with some ugly shaved pink caveman from outer space or somethin'. They did it over and over and over and over again, tryin' to kick-start some "latent ability" they thought Penny had, make her and the caveman come to some sort of agreement, some arrangement.

Then one day, she made it happen WITHOUT the machine.

After she gained some control, they sneaked her into SHEILD to act as an undercover agent. She didn't tell SHEILD about the caveman, of course, but they told her all about fighting hand-to-hand, gave her some security clearances, a belt gizmo that made her stronger for short periods of time and gave her a code name: Vamp.

She fought Captain America a bit, same as me, same results. She was nearly killed by that Scourge guy, but shifted places with the caveman right before the bombs went off. She said he was in that "other place" now, banged up bad and healing slow, still in a lot of pain. Caused her to lose a lot of memory, let me come in with some false history, gain her trust.

She didn't like talking about the caveman. I didn't press it, didn't want her to start remembering the way the past had really been.

My trip down memory lane stopped once the genius guy walked out of the bar, laughed out loud like some freak all the way to the door. Penny'd be waiting for him outside, she'd decide the best way to act: follow, confront, whatever. I trusted her instincts a lot better than mine, and it usually paid off.

I drank my beer and looked at my watch. She had twenty-four hours to find out what she could and get back to me. I kept watching the TV - Whirlwind - I was gonna have to buy that guy a beer someday. The green chinaman laughed whenever the photo of the dead kid flashed on screen, gave him the raspberry. I let myself drift on toward magic mountain.

Premium stuff, really.

- end THREE -

TWO: Marko, Michael a.k.a. "MOUNTAIN"

2005-10-03T17:10:00.000-07:00

"All is bright"

- start TWO -

They started processing me at eleven, two hours early. Guessed they didn't want to spend the fourteen-seventy-five for my lunch or somethin'. Whole world's gettin' cheap and going nuts if you pay close enough attention.

I was walked through the cages but today the newer cons kept their yaps shut, didn't start in with the normal razzin' to see if they could get me raged. These new punks, they're all about body counts and terror and gettin' on the TV. They couldn't pull a bank job with the vault open for 'em without killing the tellers and writing their own names on the walls in blood. They have no idea that money is always more powerful than the latest energy blaster gizmo.

In the old days, you tried to make a score for yourself so you could live easy through life. Now, it's all about personal revenge, gettin' your sicko jollies and letting the cameras snap your picture while you stick out your tongue and beat your chest like Tarzan. Morons.

Today though, the new kids were gettin' logic stood on its head. The news about Whirlwind's gang sent a buzz through the prison... and today's buzz was, "the old school are serious cold murderers."

This set up a second string of buzz, "don't mess with the old guard, especially not today."

Rumor - never trust it - was, there were riots at other prisons when the news came in over the TV. Ours was under control, for today at least. I blamed and credited Faustus. Fat boy always liked his surroundings quiet, and this place wasn't likely to go all powderkeg even with the shrink six feet deep serving dinner to worms for awhile now.

I got to the discharge window where they're supposed to return your personal property. The guy said "Sorry, your clothes went missing." Tough to tell if the guard was serious, or if he was trying to punch buttons - get some small man's revenge for the Avenger teenager that Whirlwind killed. I kept my temper in check. That jacket and pants set I was wearing when I was checked in were scraped up, anyway.

They said I'd be a tough fit, not much in my size. They made me wait a good while, finally gave me a cheap bright blue suit, a green and white checkered shirt and a brown necktie. They gave me some charity bin shoes (a couple of sizes too small). I crunched my toes into 'em and stared at the polished metal that passed for a mirror. A color-blind used car salesman crossed with some 1970's high school prom photo stared back at me. The guards smirked, but they held back from laughing - my sheet was clear on what kind of injuries THAT could cause.

I decided right then and there to stop by Scattapelli's before visiting Susie's night show, get a real shower, get some real clothes, try to look classy my first night out instead of desperate. I came in with a bit of cash, not much, but Scattapelli might do me a good turn with a loaner suit. No need for Susie to see me looking like this, that was for sure.

I took a minute and stared at my reflection in the polished steel.

Older now.
My brother said I'm 47, maybe 48. When the mob took me from our folks, he was still a young kid and can't remember the exact year it all went down like it did. He's 53, we're both okay with the idea that he's 5 years older.

Smaller now, too.
6 foot 11 and a half inches now, probably weigh in at 345 or so.

After a few months in, all the black dye washed out of my hair. Some gray there, not too much. Some of the cons said I reminded them of a younger version of Dennis Farina. I didn't know what a "Dennis Farina" was until someone pointed him out on that Law and Order TV show. That's one constant being inside, guys compared almost everything to something on TV. Had to admit it, I looked like the guy. After I grew the mustache it was all the more obvious. Not bad to look like a TV star, eh?

I hoped Susie liked the show.

Being off the meds this long took me down size-wise, weight-wise. I called them "meds," but I knew deep down that steriods and Lord-knows-what-else had a bad role in it all. I was forced to use since, well, before most kids went to grade school. A mob boss came to the house after a close tangle with some costumed nut, told my Dad all about it over dinner. He saw I was big for my age, decided right then and there he wanted his own personal bodyguard as he stared down the old age road and that I was the boy for the job.

The way my brother tells it, Dad was shot and killed right on the spot. I was taken and he and Mom had to make do with a big wad of cash from the Family. Mom didn't work, was too scared to put up too big a fuss, and my brother was still too young to know any different.

My brother was raised having to listen to Mom cry herself to sleep every night while I was raised on a regimen of drugs, supplements, exercise, experiments - you name it. By the time I was 20, I was The Mountain - like those super powered jerks, I could tear phone books, smash walls, lift small cars even. The angrier I got, the bigger I grew. The mob boys used to say "don't get near The Mountain when he erupts - it'll kill ya."

Mob boys don't know that it's called a Volcano when it erupts. There's a lot mob boys don't know.
When they thought I was ready, they suited me up in a padded leather outfit and threw me at rival tough guys from other gangs. I even got to tangle with Spider-Man a few times. Sometimes I won, sometimes I didn't.

The artificial growth came with a price. Never had a doctor confirm it, but my gut has always told me my time on this planet is gonna be short. "Gotta live for today" I liked to say, "'cause tomorrow ain't guaranteed."

I was off all that stuff now. Maybe I'd bought myself some years. I'd been inside awhile, calmed my rages a lot, sharpened my reading a bit, learned some things about life and the world.

One of the first things you learn in stir is, find guys who can cover your weaknesses, 'cause if you have a sore spot someone'll take advantage. It's like when they dumped that sick old fat man Faustus in the joint - he was a flabby sitting duck, so he started forming alliances quick, used his psychobabble to get the more stupid mooks buddyin' up to him. Next thing you knew, he was close to running half the joint, untouchable. He made the misery of prison just that much worse.

Ben saw things early, told me what would happen out in the yard the day the fat loser arrived: "Faustus will control the prison within seven weeks. Anyone who does not want to become his slave would be wise to make alliances now."

That was Ben, always ten steps ahead of everyone else. I figured working with a smart guy like that could cover my weakness in the brains department and said so. He saw things the same way, and needed muscle. We shook on it. I forgot my strength, almost broke his hand. Out of prison, it's every man for himself and go your own way, but in stir, The Wizard and The Mountain watched the other's back.

Time passed. Ben and I spent time talking, got each other out of some scrapes, found mutual respect. Rare enough thing outside the joint, even more rare inside. We traded the standard stories of how capers had gone wrong. We were able to see what the other had missed in the planning. Well, I only found something on Ben ONCE through something in my gut, but that impressed the living daylights outta him. We were both in and outta the joint a lot over the years. We both thought that by now, we'd have made that one big hit, the type of caper that meant no more worryin' about money, no more scores to settle, no worryin' about anything anymore.

The young hotshots - these mutants, and these new kids signin' on with guys like Power Broker and Meta Power Dot Com and probably Doctor Fickin' Doom, gettin' all juiced up and spandexed - they didn't respect guys like The Mountain and The Wizard. We were too old-school for their tastes. They'd try to take us down a peg from time to time, try to humiliate the old guard.

Those encounters would usually get Ben into some serious thinkin', and one night he said he had an idea, asked me if I was willing to be a partner on a job outside.

Like he even had to ask.

The next day, Ben told me he got himself a young lawyer, taught him how to argue an appeal case for him.

"The thing about being arrested after fighting these self-styled powered heroes is, there are legal loopholes the size of Everest to exploit," Ben said, "it's just a matter of pressure and incentive."

Ben got out, said he'd do the same for me. I asked him to check in on Susie, quiet-like, so she wouldn't know. He promised, and I had new photos of Susie less than a week after he was free. His lawyer filed an appeal for me, and after some more legal wrangling, presto, I was on my way out today.

I snapped out of my memories when the guard tapped his club against the bars. Time to move.

The guards walked me to the secondary pass.
Two more gates to go, then outside.
I stayed calm.

They paired me up with another inmate on his way out. Young guy, early twenties. Let himself get tattooed inside - not a good move. Nothing yells "lifetime welfare dependent" to the ladies louder than prison tats, you ask me. The kid was scrawny, not even six foot tall, needed a few hundred good meals in 'im. He saw me and I saw recognition in his stare. He was smart enough to look away so it didn't become a problem.

The kid started whispering and his hick accent screamed he was straight from the chicken, pigs and haybales of farm livin'. He whispered way too loud. He kept at it, but I didn't deck him 'cause the guards were watching.

"I tell ya Mr. Marko, it's the opportunity of a lifetime. I gots big plans now that I'm out, big plans. I was talking to Simon McDowell, he's one of them AIM scientists, Advanced Idear Mechanicals, a smart guy. He and I's friends, and he says 'If you're going to be successful, you has to do something new, not something's been done before, beaten before'."

I didn't say anything.

"So's he tells me how to get me two blueprints," the okie hick whispers, "and I starts thinkin', he's right! I gotta do something new!"

I looked at the clock. At least twenty minutes to kill. The TV was playing Maury Povich, and I didn't care "who's the daddy" of some already-doomed baby. Whole world's gettin' cheap and going nuts and it was all there on TV.

"Awright kid, pretend I haven't heard a word you've said up 'til now. You got fifteen minutes to sell me. Go," I said.

The kid stammered a bit, then hit a blue streak of talking.

"Okay, it's like this Mr. Marko. Simon McDowell, the AIM scientist, he's told me how to get ahold of two secret like blueprints. One is for the Stilt Man armor."

"Being the new Stilt-Man's no way to make it, kid," I responded.

"I knows that Mr. Marko. That's what Simon McDowell said, too. That's why I went ahead and also got a way to get blueprints for the Porcupine armor," he said.

"That's better, but again, no way to make it," I said.

"Right Mr. Marko, and that's why I want something different. I want to spend around the same amount of money, combine the two, and become something no one's ever seen - I want to become the most dangerous armored desperado you've ever seen - The Towering Cactus!"

The kid said this to me with a straight face, no kidding, dead serious. I chucked my first impulse to laugh, and thought it through a bit. Yeah, it sounded like a bad joke, but the whole world was getting cheap and going nuts if you paid close enough attention. There might be a few scores there before Iron Man took an interest and blasted this armored redneck back to the pen.

"How much you need?" I asked.

"I, uh, I" the kid stammered, "I don't know yet, Mr. Marko."

Just like that, a weakness.
I checked the camera in the guard office, turned my face from the lens.

"Okay, kid, it's like this," I said, lowered my voice just above whisper level, kept my lips from moving much and flexed up just a bit.

"I'm in for fifteen thousand, five hundred, with thirty-percent interest annual, the standard vig, and thirty five percent of all your take for the first three years. You get caught before that and get back in stir, you follow whatever order I give from outside without question, and we renegotiate your deal once you're out, but at higher rates. That work for you?" It was a question, but the way I had put it, he knew it was a demand.

"Yes - yessir, Mr. Marko, sir," the kid stammered.

"Good. Now where you gonna stay once you're outside?" I asked.

"The Steranko Inn. It's over on South Secon-"

"I know where it's at," I said, "you check in as - as Mr. Okiefinokey, you got that? I'll have the fifteen thousand five hundred delivered in four days."

"Mr. Okie-finokey, yes, I got it." he said.

"Oh, and one other thing kid," I said.

He stared back at me like an obedient dog, waited for my next command.

"The vig starts the day you miss a monthly payment. Got it? Now let's keep this quiet," I said.

The kid smiled. The kid nodded. The kid did everthing but stick his tongue out and pant for his water dish. I'd tell Ben about it later, see what he thought of the kid's chances.

Then I wondered if Susie was the type of gal who liked dogs.

The guards barked out some orders and we were moved to the last holding area before daylight. As we waited for the paperwork, I thought of where I wanted to eat my first real dinner in years. The hick kept his yap shut. DNA cleared two guys of fatherhood on the Maury show. The cheap woman wailed and cried tears like she was getting paid for each drop. Another kid who deserved better was declared fatherless.

...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ......

Twenty minutes later, daylight and freedom.

I spotted her in the parking lot quick, a nice-looking gal in her early thirties, just needed a hair style and a trip to the mall to be a serious looker. She was no Susie, but she had something, no denying that. She walked straight up to me all business-like and said,

"Mr. Marko, Mr. Whitman has provided a ride - this way, sir."

Leave it to Ben to class up a guy's first minutes out of stir.
I offered the lady my arm and said, "after you, my dear."

She smiled, but didn't take my arm.

"I'm Mr. Whitman's bodyguard, sir. Not an escort service girl. But I do appreciate the compliment," she said, and smiled.

Smooooooth, this one. I'd ask Ben about her backstory, that was for sure.

We walked to a BMW. Ben was in the front passenger seat. He nodded, we got in. The gal was driving.

"So my friend, long time," Ben said. We reached over the seat and shook hands.

"Where to, Mr. Whitman?" the gal asked.

Ben glanced from the gal to me, letting me pick the first stop. I rubbed my fingers together, showing I was short on cash. Ben smiled, waved it off. Without speaking a word, he just told me the day was on him.

"Scattapelli's, it's a suit store over on United east of Seventh," I said, "I gotta get a shower, shave and some respectable duds. After that, dinner over at the Comet Club," I said.

The gal looked at Ben, who nodded. She turned toward Madison. "I'm sorry Mr. Marko, but I think the Comet Club closed - ah - two years ago now. Is there somewhere else you'd like to go for dinner?"

I thought of all the times I took Susie to the Comet Club and cursed my time inside. Who would have thought a place as deep with the Family as that could ever close?

"Anderton's on Madison near Cooper," I said.

Susie always liked Anderton's, too. When the gal didn't question it, I smiled. Maybe some of the world hadn't gone cheap and nuts yet.

.... .... .... .... .... .... .... ....

Mr. Scattapelli measured me for a new suit. He noticed I was a bit shorter, a bit less big across the shoulders, but he didn't press the issue. He took the new measurements to the back of the store and his team of tailors went straight to work while I freshened up with a shower and shave. No waiting at Scattapelli's: that's why you paid a lot more there, that's why he could afford a team of tailors at all times of day.

If Scattapelli had a specialty, it was getting guys fresh out of stir or kicked out of the house by a wife back into the feel of finer civilization. He carried every item of wardrobe, from underwear to cuff links. He had a private marble tiled shower on-site, with the best quality soaps, shampoos and heated towels - all to reintroduce the ex con to the luxuries life outside could offer a man with money.

While the suits were underway, I picked out shirts and ties. I caught Ben looking at some of the store mannequins dressed in suits, one wearing black with black pinstripe really seemed to catch his eye.

"Go ahead," I said, "that works for ya. Heck, you're the type of guy who could pull it off with a turtleneck if ya wanted to."

Ben didn't answer. I wasn't surprised - he'd spend a week or two thinking about it first. Probably work up a math formula or two before making up his mind.

If I was Dennis Farina, then Ben was like, I dunno, Terrance Stamp. That guy from The Limey and a bunch of English movies on the cable TV. Five foot eleven, 165 lbs., not at all big. But it's what goes on behind his eyes that puts fear into people. It's the way he can grab a radio and turn it into a bomb with just a few tools. Doesn't matter how big or small a guy like that is - he's always dangerous.

I picked up the newspaper. Dated today. Funny how good it felt to pick up a current newspaper again.

I read through the Entertainment section: Susie and her brother were at a third-rate dinner theater, "Cafe Nostalgia." Not performing tonight - but they were on tomorrow afternoon at 5:30 p.m. and again at 8:30 p.m. That probably meant a 3:00 rehearsal. If the old 'Jet was parked outside tomorrow afternoon, I might get to see her with some privacy.

I checked out Ben's bodyguard gal - Valerie - again. She sat cool but kept her eyes on the different doorways and windows like a good bodyguard should. I couldn't peg her down with a TV likeness... kinda like a cross between the Xena Warrior Princess gal and a young Mary Tylyer Moore from the Dick Van Dyke show. Had some shape to her, and some strength, but calm, not irritating like some ladies with power can be - no, not that way at all.

I checked out a mirror. My hair was still a bit gray. What would Suzie think, me walking in older, less big? Would she accept me without the drugs and medical muscle, accept me as just a man?
"Mister Marko, your suit is ready, sir," Scattapelli said.

I got dressed and Ben asked the gal to get the car ready, prepared to pay the bill. He pulled a large envelope out of his jacket pocket. I did a small double-take 'cause Ben wasn't the type to carry cash around in an envelope like that.

"Gambling winnings - a long story. We'll talk about that and a few other things over dinner," he said.

"A few other things." I knew what that meant. It meant WORK.

Outside, Val started the car.

- end TWO -

Author's Notes:

"Man Mountain Marko."

The mob muscleman first appeared in Amazing Spider Man # 73 in June, 1969. He's there on the front cover, a defeated Spider-Man in his right hand, his left making a haymaker to finish the fight. Marko is dressed from head to foot in black leather, he’s got a jet-black pompadour hairstyle. The background on the comic is stark white – maximum visual contrast for the big guy. The defeated Spider-Man is holding up a hand as if to say “please don’t hit me anymore,” his costume shirt is untucked and his head is turned down and to the side, as if he can read the headline on the cover, which declares “THE WEB CLOSES.”

I’ll bet that comic jumped off the shelves back in 1969.

I caught the story years later as a kid in the reprint, in Marvel Tales #54. The cover had been doctored from the original well-designed 1969 version. The stark white background was gone, now there was dark color all over the place. Marvel added a brick wall on Marko's right side to suggest an alleyway, put in some yellow pavement (!) and even had a black silhouette of they city skyline in the far background. The image of Marko looming over Spider-Man was mechanically reduced just a bit to get the book’s new, larger title to fit on the cover.

Still, even with all the changes, the defeated Spider-Man looked helpless at the hands of this huge dude.

As a kid, I thought “Man Mountain Marko” was a silly name and a rather boring character. This huge goon wasn’t like the other bad guys who made silver age Spider-Man stories such great reads. He didn’t have any special powers like mechanical arms, he didn’t turn into a lizard, he didn’t fly around on a glider and throw pumpkin bombs, he wasn't dressed up as some giant green bird. In fact, he wasn't dressed up as much of anything, really.

He was just some big, strong jerk.

I was a kid in grade school. If I wanted to see big, strong jerks all I had to do was go to class in the morning and walk down the hallway to the junior high area.

The years came and went. My interest in comics did the same - I was all about detective stories and crime novels now. What could happen in Real Life was much more interesting to me than guys who changed into lizards or wore green bird suits. When I started putting together this crime story, I needed a big, strong dude for my central casting. I didn't even bother to look around in back issues or do any research on the net to find the character, he stomped into my consciousness as soon as the need arose.

Man Mountain Marko.

Since those early days when I was first introduced to the character as a kid, the word out in comics-readership-land was that Marko was a joke. I did do some research to see what had become of the character and read - in more than one place - that he's seen as "The Fonz with super strength" because of his black leather jacket. I found a one-page story/advertisement where Spider-Man takes him down by throwing some Hostess snack cakes his way (readers of SVTU know there is some strange power inherent in those fruit pies). It was clear to me that Marko had joined the "joke ranks" - guys who don't get any respect from the fans or from the guys they fight against in the comic stories. He was another Paste Pot Pete, another Egghead, another Plant Man.

Until Steve Seinberg's arc of Super Villain Team Up at Avengers2000, you'd have said "another Whirlwind."

I'm not sure what it is that makes each new generation scoff at the most previous generation. It's a constant of life, though - we look at what was cool 30 or more years ago and laugh it to scorn. Characters who thrilled audiences in the 60's, 70's and 80's are seen as lame by today's standards. I decided to make that a part of THIS story, the idea that the old guard of bad guys routinely took it on the chin from today's villains in the ego department. I'll explore it further as we go forward.

Readers are introduced to a new character in this issue, The Towering Cactus. I'm proud/ashamed to say this is an original creation of sorts, inspired by this same philosophy of taking something seemingly absurd and finding ways to make it interesting and enjoyable for the reader. We haven't seen the last of our farmboy villain want-to-be, you can be assured of that.

But back to Man Mountain Marko.

I knew I had to use the big guy in a major way for my story. Not the same way Seinberg used Whirlwind... no, that had already been done. But in a big way, nonetheless. Along with The Wizard, Man Mountain Marko makes up the second leg of this three-man storyline. We'll be in his head a lot over this story.

As for the third man, you'll have to wait until next time to learn more.

Thanks for your willingness to read,

- Doc

ONE: Whitman, Bentley a.k.a. "WIZARD"

2005-09-26T06:53:00.000-07:00

"All Is Calm"

-start ONE -

Question: How can you go to jail quickly?
Answer: Buy the technology needed to fight Reed Richards on the black market.

Go ahead, just see if those salesmen won't give up your name in record time during the next visit from Captain America, Daredevil or Spider-Man.

No - I cannot buy technology like that on the black market. That starts a trail of lips waiting to be loosed. More subtle moves are necessary. If I need Theleomaster Boost Adamantium Nanoprocessors to upgrade the Mento-Helmet, for instance, I have to find out:

a. Where they're made (Wakanda and Fargo, ND)
b. Who makes them (Stark)
c. What other products are made using some similar components (laptops, hand-held language translators)
d. Who sells those products (Tech Warehouse Dot Com)
e. Are there coupons available (yes, online)
f. What tools are needed to work on the components (92% already in my laboratory, 87.7% success rate using substitutes)
g. Can I make what I want this way (yes, but it will take 2 weeks, 3 days, seven hours and 17 minutes)

Today, I was at 1 week, 4 days. I'll spare you the hours and minutes.

I glanced at the clock. I had spent the last 13.87 hours pouring over my blueprints for the upgrade and repairs on my Mento-Helmet (damaged in Barry Reese's Fantastic Four #22). The plan and its steps were now memorized forwards and backwards, but I was not content. Something was, well, WRONG, - but not with the science or procedure. It was something else, something that hadn't been measured objectively. What Marko in his street wisdom would call "a gut feeling."

I've never been one to put trust in my instincts. I required hard data: charts, analysis, spec sheets, blueprints, probability ratios. Marko... well, he lived by instincts. While I didn't like to admit it, that system worked for him much of the time, I'd seen it in prison. I took up the pencil and wrote myself a note to discuss elements of the upgrade project with him after his arrival later this afternoon.

I finished the note when the phone started to ring. I checked the number: Petrusky, using the agreed scramble line, untraceable. I picked up.

I heard lots of background noise, a crowded place, probably a tavern. Petrusky's rough voice was rushed:

"Oz, find your TV and turn on channel 11, NOW."

Before I could respond, he hung up.

I lifted the small set onto the planning board, unplugged a heliophronic resonator and plugged in the television. I found the remote and in moments I was observing a broadcast of Channel 11 Action News Special Bulletin: Death of an Avenger.

I listened to the reporter and read the text ticker. In moments I had what few elements of the story were available, details flew wild across the airwaves but settled in on the actions of one man: David Cannon, the Whirlwind.

I knew Cannon as a common man-for-hire, a street thug with a super power and a green costume. This time, it seemed the man-for-hire had done the hiring himself. He assembled a team of fellow mercenaries and succeeded in a task where so many others had failed. His goals and mine were far from similar, but through the years we had shared the fate of having dreams squashed by self-righteous uniformed "heroes."

Cannon found a way to overcome his past failures. He would be the toast of the so-called criminal fraternity for the rest of his days, if he played the role correctly.

I continued to watch the broadcast. The same five camera shots were played again and again and again while the newsperson spoke in childlike terms to the public, pretending to choke back emotion every so often like he was starring in a high school drama, overly melodramatic, beyond what the story called for -

And it was at that very moment my earlier "gut instinct" flared to a hotpoint of mental clarity.

The challenging problem with the Mento-Helmet finally reached my brain in a way I could process, and the first tile in a ten mile line of mental dominoes started to fall forward.

"If I add more neurotransmitters..."
"The synapse circuits are too slow..."
"The balance is compromised..."
"The cerebral interface is jamming every 587.4th cycle along the K matrix..."
"If only I had upgraded the Theleomaster Boost Adamantium Nanoprocessors ..."

I looked down at the blueprint, and couldn't believe I had never noticed it before. But, there it was, as clear as daylight.

I ran equations, compensated for my age and physiology and most recent chemistry and wavelength, revisited the magnetic brain scan data. I took the spreadsheets of last month's endurance tests and cross-referenced with metabolism and cardiology.

My "gut instinct" was correct. There WAS something wrong.

I mentally reran the endings of battles against the Fantastic Four, Spider-Man, and others. I had learned long ago that my emotions and ego betrayed me in the midst of battle, and I had always dismissed this lapse in calm as being fueled by the rushes of adreneline one encounters in physical combat. The numbers on paper I had just scribbled suggested something else. The numbers suggested that the HELMET ITSELF robbed me of emotional control. The longer I wore it, the more likely I would make decisions fueled by anger and pride rather than reason.

I looked into the small mirror on the wall above the utility sink. The wound above my left ear had healed well, was all but unnoticeable under my hair. I was passing fifty now - gray claimed a large part of the hair atop my head, and had advanced into my moustache and beard. Yet whenever I was in uniform, engaged in battle, wore the helmet, I acted like a younger man with something to prove to everyone around me. All these years of shouting like a petulant child at the Fantastic Four as I battled or after, as I was carted off to jail... that wasn't ME, it was the effects of the Mento-Helmet's boosting wavelengths on my mind.

Years ago I learned my perceptions of color had been compromised as a side effect. Long ago, right before an attack on Richards in the early days, Medusa asked me why I fashioned a grey and pink uniform. I thought her inhuman eyes were flawed, that my red and green uniform was perfectly acceptable, until I noticed that Petrusky was laughing.

I considered my most recent venture as The Wizard, nine months ago. I'd formed yet another "Frightful Four" team to attack Richards and the Fantastic Four. Each member chosen because they were more powerful, more intelligent than my previous allies. I had a battle station and headquarters on the Moon of all places, where I was on equally unfamiliar territory with the enemy.

That entire episode had been fueled by my foolish pride, not wise long-range planning. I attempted both a physical and psychological attack stance with the new membership, but I didn't factor the variables of each of my team members' personal agendas, and how that would impact the cohesive qualities needed to succeed. I chose the moon, in part, because looking down on earth satisfied my raging ego.

I'd compromised my final goal of victory in order to have a team "worthy" of my leadership. That was an area where Richards had the advantage. His allies were NOT chosen from the legions of self-proclaimed costumed "heroes" based upon mental and physical strength, but rather, were people he'd known and trusted through the years. One could not effectively measure such a family dynamic, but one could only lose if it was ignored.

I continued to look in the mirror and I wondered: How well would I fare without the helmet?

I needed time to think this new development over. First, there was Petrusky's call and the matter of collecting a modest sum of money. My prediction that the young lightning-styled teenager would be the first Avenger to perish this year had come to pass. A money pool formed by some sicker-minded elements of the underworld was now mine.

Inside, I felt some regret toward Petrusky. I'd considered him a weakness, let Crucible's jokes about the press nickname of "Paste Pot Pete" damage my raging pride while I was under the helmet's influence. The fact was, Petrusky had always been a loyal team member, in some ways much more valuable than Crucible or shape-shifters from outer space. Perhaps I could make things right with him, given time.

Other things to do today.

I grabbed my coat, left the uniform behind, started up the BMW and headed for a bar in a less desirable part of town. All the way, I continued to wonder what it would be like to engage in combat without the helmet, armor and gadgets.
...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ...... ......

Petrusky sat at the back of the bar, as was his fashion. He stayed at his chair, drank his beer and avoided eye contact. I walked in ten minutes ago, and was not noticed. That's rare here, since patrons are always on the lookout for any costumed vigilante that might want to force information out of the crowd. The slightest creak of the door is met with stares and uneasy reaches into jacket pockets. Today, however, the television in the corner held everyone’s attention.

This bar has always been a fine place to locate hired help. Certainly, there's the noise of far-blown stories and the occasional fist fight, but if you're delivering highly dangerous weaponry to the loading dock of the Baxter Building, it's best to work with people who do not understand the risk of long-term radiation exposure or chemical hazards or sonic nerve disruptors.

The bartender eventually noticed me in the crowd around the television, and acted shocked to see me.

I shrugged.

"I don’t know how you do it, man, really. My hat’s off, and all that," he said. He returned his focus to the screen and continued, "How’d you know? There’s gotta be at least forty different jerks that’ve been Avengers at one time or another – how’d you know which one would be the next one to buy the farm?"

Some of the crowd looked at ME now, as I expected. I placed my right hand inside my sportcoat pocket, and my fingers found the control switch of the anti-gravity disc inside and rested there, in case trouble started. The bartender reached under the bar and brought forth an envelope, which he handed to me slowly, with respect.

I opened the envelope - and immediately cursed myself for the stupidity of the action. I closed it quickly, and nodded to the bartender. I slipped the envelope into my jacket breast pocket, the attention of desperate eyes now following my every move. I put on a local accent and said, "If you have half a brain, it just becomes obvious. It’s almost too easy, as a matter of fact. Let me know the details on your next pool, won’t you? This is so much better than fantasy football."

I laughed a bit over-the-top to seem more crazy. I walked to the back of the bar, made eye contact with Petrusky who held up three fingers.

Loyalty.
My recent behavior shamed me again.

I made my exit - there would be people waiting for me outside.

I closed the door behind me, put my hands in my coat pockets and made my way to the car. With no stealth or strategy whatsoever, two large toughs started pounding the pavement behind me, headed my way. I wasn't wearing the armor, didn't have the electric gauntlets, but hadn't come empty-handed. I flipped the switches on two anti-gravity discs and felt the vibrations commence as I turned to face my attackers.

Big men - hired help in the early stages of physical power augmentation, as evidenced by their enhanced acne and ruddy cheeks. Their clothes were too tight, they had probably not purchased new wardrobe for their increased size yet. They hoped my bar winnings would finance weaponry and costumes, no doubt - One quick score against a weaker old man and their plans for the so-called big time would be underway.

I drew out the anti-gravity discs, aimed, and prepared to throw. If I made contact, the discs would take my attackers straight into the higher atmospheres until the power batteries failed and gravity took its hold again with a sudden vengeance.

Before I could engage, a shrill martial arts battle cry split the air and a spinning form of flowing fabric, dark hair and metal pipe flew over my head and into the path of the brutes.

The brutes slowed, but continued their advance. The spinning form moved faster, and the sickening sound of metal crushing into flesh and bone reached my ears. As the two mean shouted in pain, I watched their adversary - it was a young woman with short dark hair. Each blow from the pipe was precise and direct, focused on nerve groupings, designed to cause terrible amounts of pain.

The men tried to move apart and surround her with their bulk. She cut them down with fast, harsh shots across the kneecaps. She chopped into cartilege like a lumberjack meeting a quick deadline while working a tree.

The men fell to the ground, covered their legs and got worse treatment on their fingers and skulls. They shouted surrender, pleaded for her to stop the beating. I was a bit surprised when she turned, looked to me and asked "should I let them go?"

"Yes, they've learned their lesson," I answered, "right?"

"Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou..." they wailed as they retreated down a side street using arms as well as legs for mobility.

"That was nice back at the bar, Mr. Whitman, sir, making that pick I mean," the woman said, "I was impressed. Pete - Mr. Petrusky, he said you might be looking for help, might be working something this month."

I noticed that despite all the excitement, my adrenaline levels were rather calm. Normally I'd feel false strength pushing through my brain during such a conflict. I looked at the woman.

Question: What could I learn from her appearance?

Answers:
a. Her hair was short, but not recently styled or washed at a styling salon
b. Her clothes were heavily layered, and carried the wrinkles of many days of wear
c. The bloodied pipe she carried was just short of three feet long, heavy, but she used it as if it weighed little
d. She bore scars along her wrists - suicide attempts?
e. She was probably more attractive in her past, but times had been rough

"You've been at this a while, you've had training. You fight like someone who is used to combat against strong forces, trained to fight against super-powered types. I do not recognize you. Who are you?" I asked.

"My name is Valerie Rosenberg, but my combat name was Vamp," she said, "and you're right, I've been up against the best. Captain America, the Hulk, some others. Things were different back then. Now, I'm looking for steady work - I have debts. I met Mr. Petrusky some years back - he says you're probably planning a big score, said I could be ideal for the job. I want in if you can use me."

a. If she planned to rob me for the bar cash, she'd have attempted something already.
b. Petrusky was a good judge of talent.
c. It would be a treat to have an attractive bodyguard with me when picking up Marko.

I pointed to the black BMW sedan.

"You can drive," I said and handed her the keys.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Prison," I answered.

Valerie Rosenberg, the Vamp, looked at me, quite confused.

"No, it's not like that. I have a friend to pick up. He's waiting, there's no problem for us," I said.

The car pulled out of the parking lot and headed deeper into downtown.

- end ONE -

Author's Notes:

Comic Book Villains.

“There are few things more clichéd than the traditional Comic Book Villain.”

That’s what I always thought, anyway. The Comic Book Villain was nothing more than a tool, a device, to help define and enjoy the Comic Book Hero, after all. If the golden age Captain America of World War II was the living embodiment of American values and ideals, he needed Germany’s Red Skull as an adversary. If Superman was a selfless hero lifting humanity’s spirit to a higher level, then Lex Luthor had to be self-centered, greedy, and climbing his way to the top over everyone around him. Batman’s grim but fair nature required a hilarious Joker’s lack of any sensibility to combat. The dimwitted Hulk’s primary nemesis is the super-brilliant Leader.

Other times, the villain is a flawed reflection of the hero, possessing similar powers or qualities, but dedicated to different ends. This is where Captain America meets Batroc. Superman fights Bizarro. Batman vs. Rahs Al Guhl. Hulk tackles The Obimination. Spider-Man battles the Scorpion.

So it has been through the decades… villains exist primarily to give the hero something to fight, something to contrast and compare the hero’s purpose and character against.

Occasionally, a writer would dive into the Comic Book Villain and give backstory to the character. Alan Moore’s work on the Joker in “The Killing Joke” comes to mind, as does the run up to the 300th issue of Captain America, which was more about the Red Skull than the title character. Victor Von Doom and Magneto are two of the most over-written characters in comics, rare instances of villains being just more interesting than the heroes they fight. “The Thunderbolts” is a book dedicated to the slow change of villains into heroes – basically making them into new characters altogether, just providing an interesting if convoluted backstory right from the start.

Last year, Steve Seinberg completed a ten issue arc in Avengers2000’s Super Villain Team Up book, and he did something I hadn’t seen before in the comics or in fan fiction. He took a lower-level character (The Whirlwind), got in his head, took him from what we knew and evolved him into something stronger but without the normal writer’s crutch of turning the character into something good, mainstream and admirable or just upping his power levels to make him "even more Whirlwind-y".

Whirlwind teams with other lower-tier villains and leaves a trail of bodies and destruction in his wake, much like the force of nature for which he is named, but not solely for all of the traditional comic book reasons. Seinberg shows the reader what the rest of the "criminal world" thinks of Whirlwind’s accomplishment, utilizing both old and new Marvel continuity and the Avengers2000 continuity.

To me as a reader, to find something this well-crafted and thought-through in fan fiction was like going to listen to music in the neighborhood coffee shop and suddenly Sting or Elvis Costello takes the stage to try out new tunes.

Absolutely rocked my preconceptions to the core.

I was inspired to do – well, SOMETHING – by what Seinberg had accomplished. One thing I was determined NOT to do, and that was to tell another story just like the one Seinberg told about Whirlwind. That is simply a classic in my book, and the classics are best left alone for a few decades so their magnitude can set in among the readership at large.

I started throwing some notes down, checking out back issues of comics that thrilled me as a kid, getting some ideas. I watched a large number of classic and new movies centered on the “bad guys:” heist films, gangland fare, stalkers, rough-and-tumble guys, crime stuff. Slowly, a storyline started to bubble to the top of the brew.

I had my central cast (The Wizard, Vamp and others you’ll meet in issues 2 and 3) , I did some research, I started some correspondence with Seinberg himself, brought Dreslinski into the fold. We went round-robin with some ideas, even explored some talk about whether or not a second title was needed (nope)… and then the whole thing almost fell apart while I was away from the message boards for a week.

The legendary Barry Reese started his run on Fantastic Four and was featuring The Wizard’s new Frightful Four combo.

I couldn’t get irritated with Barry, ‘cause he didn’t know about my plans for the character. Gary wasn't sure when my run would start, or even if it would given my low output in 2005. The dibs list wasn't updated. No one's fault, long story short.

If you know anything about Barry, you know the man’s output is unmatched – he’s a one-man fan fiction factory. I didn’t want to be the cause of a malfunction on his assembly line, and his quality work on Fantastic Four was/is very impressive. I found myself enjoying his FF immensely, and consider it his best work to date. So, I crossed my fingers and sent the man an e-mail explaining the situation, hoping we could collaborate a bit so that when he was finished with the character, I would have a place to pick up and start running, and could hand him back at the end.

Barry is nothing if not a gentleman about that sort of thing, and all went even better than I expected. While I could not be certain, I think our correspondence led to some adjustments in a bit of dialogue he wrote between Reed Richards and the Wizard, where the two are slugging it out and Richards tells the man that he could have done so much more with the gifts he has. I’ll explore that idea a bit as the story here moves forward, count on it.

So, if you find yourself here at the bottom of the page looking for more to read, I encourage you to check out Steve Seinberg’s Super Villain Team-Up and Barry Reese’s Fantastic Four at Avengers2000.

And hopefully, next month you’ll be back here for some more Villainy.

That’s all for now,

- Doc