Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(10)
“Hers is way too long-winded.” The Brick blew out loudly. “Some Japanese gobbledygook like Watashi, kanninbukuro no o ga kiremashita. Sure I missed a ‘na’ or a ‘wa’ in there.”
“No, no. You got it right, darling.”
“Practice.”
“And the meaning?” Jack asked.
The woman slapped her mouth into an exaggerated pout, and then prised it open to speak. “The phrase translates as ‘I have reached my limit!’ — it’s pinched from my favourite Pretty Cure character, Cure Blossom.”
“Pretty Cure? Is that why you use the Pretty Amazonia moniker?”
“Gawd, don’t get her started,” the Brick whined. “She’s talkin’ anime — but not decent mecha robots. Girls’ stuff. Ouch.”
“I get why you don’t appreciate PreCure,” Pretty Amazonia cut back, “since they destroy monsters like yourself every other week.”
#102
The three of them had swapped the boardroom for a patio — stretched out on tri-colour banana loungers on a panoramic balcony overlooking the city. Jack’s seat was a ’70s fusion of orange, tan and brown. Behind him rose the bullet-shaped pinnacle of Timely Tower, while in front, beyond a flimsy guardrail, was a view and a half.
Catching whiff of Jack’s interest, the Brick edged up. “Three hundred an’ four point eight metres t’ground zero.”
“That’s how high we are?”
“Give or take a few feet. Never measured it meself.”
While soaking up the sun they drank sham mint juleps served in pewter cups, the Brick having advised that he swapped the usual Bourbon whiskey for chilled, flat lemonade. Jack never experienced a day anywhere near as perfect as this.
“If I were a cat,” Pretty Amazonia mused, finishing her latest round and placing the mug on a small table beside her, “I’d purr. Looks like you brought the good weather with you, SC.”
“As if. And call me Jack.”
After over-theatrically sweeping off black, Manhattan-style sunglasses to ogle at him, the woman huffed.
“In case it slipped beneath your radar, babe, I was being sarcastic weather-wise. And we don’t use real names here — even if Jack is a fake.” She raised a freshly filled cup in his direction. “Cheers?”
Jack frowned but returned the gesture. “Cheers.”
“I have another gripe,” interrupted the Brick as he sat up completely, leading PA to stick her sunnies back on her nose.
“You’re full of them.”
“No wonder, out in this balmy weather and with this body — the problem bein’ I don’t sweat, meanin’ my inside temperature don’t regulate itself. I’m bakin’.”
“Perhaps we should acquire glaze? You’d look a treat with some funky colours.”
“Ha-de-ha. Don’t you know it’s be-nice-to-gargoyles week?”
“Was that your actual gripe, or did you get distracted?”
“Yeah, I did, actually.”
The Brick stood and threw a pail of water over his head. Jack was surprised to see a light veil of steam thereafter, and even more surprised to glimpse the Equalizers’ logo on the bucket.
“It’s the name o’ the group,” Brick was saying, “the Equalizers. I never did like the stupid moniker — what, we’re only ever fated to play catch-up? We’re never supposed to be leading? Geddit? Equal?”
“I get it,” PA said. “What’s your point?”
“C’mon, dollface, why don’t we change now the Big O’s gone?”
“Meh…Too much bother. Plus we’d have to update the stationery.”
“So,” Jack said in a loud voice while he reached over to a glass jug and refilled his cup, “you two ever considered sorting things out with a marriage counsellor? Much as I enjoy the bickering.”
Both laughed, the reaction he’d been praying for.
“Cheeky,” decided the woman.
“I try. And, since I have your attention, can you fill me in on some of the blanks?”
“Shoot,” said the Brick.
“Well, for starters, you mentioned Stan — the Doorman — being a ‘Blando’, and I’ve heard the word lobbed about other times. What is that?”
Pretty Amazonia swapped merriment for boredom. “The Blandos are the Blandos.”
“I feel a whole lot more enlightened.”
“They’re little people. Fodder,” the Brick took over. “I mean look at ’em, even the Doormat, bless ‘im — no superpowers, no personality. They’re just plain bland.”
“You’re saying they’re not important?”