Big Superhero Action
Read Big Superhero Action Online
Authors: Raymond Embrack
ALIEN COMICS NOVEL #1
RAYMOND EMBRACK
Contents
1
S
even a.m. The alarm clock sounded and she became a trapped animal.
Nicole clung to the bed sheets. Two years of this hell.
SLAM. The noise unique to shitty Atlanta apartments when some asshole lets slam the black iron gate unique to shitty Atlanta apartments. The bone rattling shock hit every corner of the apartment and every nerve in her body.
It was the one time too many. Fuck this. She had to be Gingiri again.
She crawled her way from the bed sheets, faced the truth. It was be a superhero or die. She had to go back to Brutalia.
For the first time in two years she texted Mermaid Gangster.
Start up the SS.
Mermaid Gangster texted back
R U serious?
Very.
U coming back?
Yes.
We still wan
t
your head.
Come N get it.
LOL
A
XIS went after the most psychotic outlaw biker gang on the east coast. That was according to the F.B.I. While conventional biker gangs were run like organized crime crews with a growing membership numbering in the hundreds, the Motorchrists were a small-scale cult too self-destructive to function as an organization; but the M.C. was evil enough to keep rival gangs out of Brutalia.
Crimes attributed to the Motorchrists included murder, murder for hire, armed robbery, burglary, kidnapping, extortion, drug trafficking, illegal arms dealing, rape, torture, and cannibalism. Up to 48 homicides were linked to the Motorchrists, including twelve policemen killed, three federal agents. Their policy was to kill policemen on sight. Seventeen were doing multiple life sentences in state and federal prisons. Nine were locked away in mental institutions. The M.C.’s leader took the name
Motorchrist
. The current Motorchrist was a suspect in a double police murder and the serial murders of six hookers. He was thirty-five, eighteen of those years spent in various state and federal prisons. He was a psychopathic sadist with hallucinations, had delusions that he was Jesus Christ, practiced cannibalism.
On his Harley Street Bob, JKM tailed the Motorchrists up a jungle trail just wide enough for his shoulders. The trail widened ahead until he was counting Motorchrist choppers, nine of them waiting, nine bikers straddled atop them.
Motorchrist had the face on the mug shot, in person even harder, more bearded, more sunken, more pitted. An open black leather vest framed a tattoo of the Crucifix that spanned his narrow chest.
JKM got off the bike. Jack Kirby Man had a Jack Kirby-drawn physique etched in a purple-black costume. They watched him, some intense, some smiling to themselves. He had no time to be intimidated. Rocking the superhero way got done only because the focus was compressed into a space so small there was only enough room to cram the next two seconds of consciousness. The concept of a third second was out of range until you needed the Hubble telescope to see it.
Nine of them were now off their choppers.
Motorchrist spoke. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m JKM.”
Motorchrist stared at him. “What the fuck you want?”
“I’m a superhero. I’m here with one message. Motorchrists: get the fuck out of this city.”
Mystified at the costumed figure in front of him, Motorchrist didn’t even look at the bikers as he spoke to them. “Beat him to death and take the bike.”
They came at JKM expecting it to be easy but JKM took them on like a human bulldozer until it was a mash of bodies until nine bikers buried him in a tableau of outnumbered superhero. His back was pinned to the mud, his chest under their boots. A gun barrel lowered to his forehead. Death was one twitch of index finger away. JKM waited for it without regret.
From the jungle came a stirring of Martian dread. The boots stepped off his chest. JKM got back on his boots, saw Martian Justice emerge from the trees, eight feet of green megaroided freak armed with two soundless matter disruption guns. He started laying down fire.
Motorchrists took to their bikes returning fire with Mac-10s. Leaves were blasted into spray, the spray hanging in the air.
Martian Justice swung behind the guns, blasted one Motorchrist firing from his chopper, splattered the head. The body tumbled off, hit the leaves. Choppers ripped, bikers escaping up the jungle trail.
In seconds the Motorchrists were gone. One fallen biker left behind. They left no trace. It was absolute quiet again. JKM checked his digital glove. It told him since his arrival four minutes had passed.
JKM turned back to Martian Justice. Amateur superheroes and pro superheroes rarely crossed paths. When they did it never went well. The megaroid-altered growl of Martian Justice spoke.
“My advice? Find a new hobby. And commit suicide on your own time.”
“Thanks for fucking that up.”
Martian Justice turned the gun on him, seemed to change his mind. JKM blinked. Martian Justice was gone. That was another difference between amateurs and pros. Amateurs had to wait for the other guy to turn his head before they could make their surprise exit. Pros could do it in an eye blink.
“W
e need blow jobs, AXIS Boy, help us out.”
Waiting outside the private school for the limo, Chase Juniper hid behind his blonde bangs and horn rim glasses, kept his head down, his arms folded. Finley kept it going anyway, giving him crap. Finley and his two droogs with their OSD pins, letting their limos wait so they could bully Chase longer.
“Do us like you sucked off Kieran Aspen. AXIS guys love to eat dick, you cross-dressing freak.” Finley put a fist to his lips, under his cheek tongue-mimed giving oral.
Chase tried to make himself invisible. He just wanted to be left alone in his warm bubble. Why couldn’t people be cool? Why did they want to make trouble? He didn’t want to be angry at anyone. He only wanted to be still. Stillness. Not motion. But not them. They were all noise and motion and feelings. They were pigs about their feelings, always wanting more of it, eating other people’s feelings.
“Your parents died of AIDS. You gave it to them.”
Actually his parents had died in the first private space travel explosion. They were now minute debris circling the Earth.
“All AXIS are fags with AIDS.”
It was about the week Chase had cross dressed to school. It was about Chase taking sides. Since the day he’d worn an AXIS pin to school. But it was about Kieran Aspen too. Kieran Aspen had been his only friend, a redhead from Canada. It had started as a two-boy support system between social outsiders. They’d worn AXIS pins to school. During their bromance you never saw one without the other. Then they started making out. They were both too scared to go all the way but their first time was ahead and becoming more exciting than scary. Then it happened. Then they started doing it. They had a sweet five months until Kieran’s father’s contract in Brutalia ended and the family returned to Canada. They kept Kieran from contacting Chase, even via texting. Chase was back to being a loner.
Finley said, “You probably blew your dad.”
Finley slapped the back of Chase’s head. Chase stood there arms folded. Where was the limo?
“AIDS-infected AXIS cock-smoker. You killed your own dad.”
Chase started walking away. They followed him. By now more kids were around to watch. Another slap to the back of his head. A kick to the pants.
Chase said, “Just leave me alone, stupid.”
Finley said, “Or what, AXIS faggot?”
Chase stung with the projected rage striking him. The world wouldn’t allow him his stillness. He had better things to do than fight bullies. There was love to find. There was good to do and evil to fight. If not that at least stillness. But not using his superpower on bullies. That would have been gross. It was only for himself and Kieran to see.
Chase turned, faced Finley, gave his cutest smile. It was a sneak peek at a black mask with no mask.
He said, “AXIS fucking rules. Don’t touch me again, you pig.”
Finley’s stare changed. He backed away one step.
The limo pulled up. Chase almost dove into it. Then he was out of there.
S
onny Ditlow’s cousin ran an auto body shop in Deltville, its sign reading
Sure-Fit Equip
. The outside wall was painted ‘80s van style with fantasy chicks and gold panthers. The Blue Boss Mustang parked in front. In forty seconds the Blue Boss Mustang exoframe folded and exo-formed into the Blue Boss exoframe, a gleamingly detailed exterior in three shades of blue.
The Blue Boss walked around a maze of grimy cars. The cousin’s name was Dwight Vink. There were two guys and a boom box playing Metallica and one of them was Dwight Vink’s mug shot, the shrimp with mullet hair and sideburns, limp mustache, looked maybe a week out of Folsom. The other topped six-five three-fifty. They gave him that look wrong guys had when seeing a superhero in person.
The Blue Boss said: “Dwight Vink?”
The shrimp took it like a frozen shrimp on lithium. “Uh-huh, yeah, man.”
“I’m looking for Sonny Ditlow.”
“Forget it,” he said. “Not happening. ‘Bye.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Thank you,” he said. “‘Bye.”
“Were you frightened by a superhero in your childhood?”
“I’m telling you to leave.”
“Tell me where to find Sonny Ditlow.”
The other guy spoke up. Of the two, he looked like the punch-out artist. “Get outta here.”
“What?”
“Get the fuck outta here.”
The Blue Boss said, “Excuse me? You want to say that again?”
“I told you to fuck off. That means disappear, you’re not needed around. Or do you want a piece of this? Superhero or not, I’ll fuckin’ cripple you.”
“Please cripple me.”
The weight shifted on the taller man’s boots as he was about to punch out the Blue Boss. The Blue Boss put his right index finger one inch from his chest. The big guy’s eyes refocused on the finger. His mouth went slack but stayed silent, the hostility in his eyes replaced by intense concentration where the finger had been. Then he puked on his boots.
The Blue Boss said, “You still there, Dwight?”
Dwight went very cautious. “Let’s keep it cool. Just be cool.”
The Blue Boss: “Want to see how many fluids can I make him chuck? Can I turn your hero into a Leroy Neiman?”
“Let’s keep it cool,” he said. “Be cool. Just be cool, okay, man?”
“Fuck cool.”
“Be cool.”
“You be cool.”
“Okay. We’re cool. What do you want?”
“Let’s take a ride.”
The Blue Boss exo-formed into the Mustang. Freaked, Dwight got inside, the Mustang started around the block.
The Blue Boss appeared as a hologram at the wheel. “Where’s Sonny Ditlow?”
“Don’t know, man.”
“Last you heard from him?”
“January.”
“Last you saw him?”
“January. I helped him move.”
“Who does he know?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where does he work?”
“Don’t know.”
“What does he do?”
“I don’t know—temp jobs or something.”
“For who?”
“Don’t know.”
“Does he have guns?”
“I don’t know.”
“When he moved, he didn’t show you his guns?”
“I don’t know. Yeah.”
“What’d he have?”
“He had a rifle and a semi-auto and some handguns and knives.”
“What kind?”
“Don’t remember. I’m not a gun freak.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Queens.”
“What kind of kid was he?”
Pause. “What?”
“I know what kind of guy he is now. What kind of kid was he then?”
“Shit–I don’t know. Kind of a geek.”
“What was he into?”
“He was in the gun club and stuff. Stuff.”