“After you stepped on him?”
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in, bub.”
“So dying here kills people — pretty much — in Melbourne.”
“In all likelihood,” agreed PA. “The risk factor right there.”
“But they shouldn’t have died, since you people are supposed to have rules that stop the anarchy riding roughshod over your doormat.”
“Yeah.” The Brick frowned. “But anarchy stepped over the threshold. Somethin’s changed.”
“Then it’s unequivocal, dangerous. I didn’t sign up for self-mutilation.”
“What did you sign up for?” PA asked.
Jack looked at her. “A comicbook world in which people didn’t really die or vanish. They picked themselves up, made a quip, brushed themselves down, and moved on to the next adventure.”
“The way it used to be — so long as you were a Cape, not a Blando.” The woman put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t understand. You missed that part of Heropa, when things were lighthearted and fun. Everything now is out of whack.”
“Could always go home, bub,” suggested the Brick, screwing up his cement face and looking like Michelangelo had taken to one of his least-loved works with a mallet.
Jack thought about the notion for a few seconds.
“Never said I was doing a runner — and even though I didn’t pop in for all the intrigue and back-biting going on, let alone impending homicides, I’m in no rush to return to my old digs.”
“Why?” PA asked.
“For one thing, there’s a mystery here to unravel.”
“Oh, hurrah.” The woman’s eyes glittered from some inner amusement she wasn’t one to share. “Why else do you think we’re sticking on here, darling? Not for the scenery.”
#105
Jack’s first full day in the supposedly exciting city of Heropa was shelled out at the requiem for a man he’d never met.
He stood with the Brick and Pretty Amazonia on the tiled rooftop of a three-storey apartment building overlooking a main thoroughfare.
The metropolis had come to a standstill.
Thousands of people mostly in black lined the streets below, a majority morose, as immaculately dressed, sombre-faced police, musicians and dignitaries in morning suits filed past on the road proper. Prancing at the head of the VIPs was a tall, moustachioed man in a tuxedo and top hat.
“Donald Wright,” Pretty Amazonia said. “The real power-broker in Heropa. Chief Justice, publisher of the Patriot, head of the Television Board of Control, Chancellor of Metro College, and a million other things. Wanker — you’d like him, SC.”
A discordant marching band of children plodded along, decon-structing ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’, followed by more professional practitioners. When the bands weren’t carousing, music played on loudspeakers — sight unseen — spitting out a blend of Gregorian chanting and despondent organ recital.
At a hiccup in the middle of the parade, a gorgeous sportscar appeared. Painted British racing green, this low-slung, well-rounded beauty was driven at a mundane pace that sullied the name and purpose of the sleek vehicle. The cop behind the wheel also stood out like a sore thumb since his starched blue uniform clashed with the shiny moss green.
“The Big O’s 1957 Jaguar D-type XK-SS,” confided the Brick, “with a Tony Nancy leather job an’ Von Dutch’s locking glovebox — identical to the one owned by Steve McQueen. Legendary stuff, only sixteen built, an’ blended road-racin’ science with art. Won three straight victories at Le Mans in 1955, ’56 and ’57. The chromed bumpers’re a nice touch, if I say so meself.”
“Blah, blah,” PA said, evidently annoyed.
“Well, sad thing is Heropa state requisitioned it. Prob’ly rot away in some museum nobody frequents. And y’know what gets my goat more? That flatfoot there can’t drive it prop’ly — the insult makin’ a man outta Mac. Lemme at the creep!”
Precisely then, a coffin appeared several metres behind the Jaguar.
It was carried slowly, conjuring up howls and much tearing of hair. A small woman ran from the crowd to throw her body at the casket; the trio could hear shrieks a hundred metres away. Cops had to drag her aside.
Next to Jack, the Brick shifted uncomfortably. “Nuts — the croc tears’re in full flow.”
“Not fair. They adored him. Don’t love us, though,” Pretty Amazonia sighed, while toying with her long hair. “Even the Reset doesn’t appear to have fixed that. I thought they’d forget and move on. Isn’t it the way things are supposed to work?”