Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(19)

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.”