Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(20)
“I live in hope. You wouldn’t have personalized toilet paper, by chance?”
“Of course not.”
“Just checking. So,” Jack surmised, “these are the digs of the League of Unmitigated Rotters.”
“That they are.”
“Gotta ask — who thought up the zany name?”
“What zany name?”
“The League of Unmitigated Rotters.”
“Who knows?” Bulkhead chuckled, and the resulting sound scraped his prisoner’s ears. “Someone who left for greener pastures, no doubt. But tradition is tradition in Heropa.”
“So I’m learning. It doesn’t exactly inspire fear or respect.”
“What, the name?”
“Yeah.”
“You think ‘the Equalizers’ inspires respect?”
“Point taken.”
Jack’s right hand felt clammy and cold. When he bent his head to take a peek, it was encased in a mitten of dull metal — in fact, the thing resembled a helmet that’d been refashioned with some creative gaffer-taping.
“That’s right,” his captor announced. “Your superpower is nullified. Could’ve been more original — pinching the same mojo as the Faceless Phantom. To shame.”
“Bombastium?”
“Yep.”
“Is it real? I never heard of bombastium before Heropa.”
“Dunno. Don’t get all technical — try it out if you don’t believe me.”
“Safer not to?”
“For sure.”
“How’d you know my power?”
“On file.”
“I’m in your books already? That was quick — I arrived two days ago.”
“We don’t mess about.”
Jack gazed again at the silly banner on the wall. “What’s the story with the three-legged chicken?”
Bulkhead glanced up as well. “That’s not a chicken — any fool can see it’s a crow. Don’t you know your ornithology?”
“Looks more like a chicken. Who’s the shoddy artist?”
“Dammit, it’s a crow.”
“Well, why the three legs?”
“I don’t like you. You ask too many goddamned questions.”
“Okay, just the one more. This is a super-villain group, right? Where is everyone? I see only you. Singular.”
The giant shrugged. “Past their bedtime.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, seriously — it’s late and past their bedtime. If you could keep things down, I’d be much appreciative.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good boy.”
“By the way, you didn’t misplace any of your number, by chance?”
Bulkhead eyed Jack with a single peeper, this time the leftie. “Whaddaya mean?”
“I had the pleasure of acquainting myself with Iffy Bizness. Well, with his head at any rate — the rest of his body I’m yet to meet.”
“Dead?”
“People usually do die in those circumstances.”
Bulkhead squinted. “You killed the prick?”
“No. Blew himself up, we think. Can probably read about it in the papers today.”
“Friggin’ unbelievable. Well, now.”
The villain momentarily hung his head and Jack thought he might be in prayer, but then he raised himself again and had a crafty smile between the metal cubes.
“Tell me, you ever copped Peter Pan?”
“Er — no.”
“I’m talking up the Disney movie, not the book.”
“Neither, to be honest.”
“Never read the book myself, personally, and not sure it reads the same as the movie. In the movie there’s this part where the Lost Boys and Wendy’s brothers — I forget their names — are captured by Red Injuns. They have this policy of letting each other loose after every bout — point being it’s the rumble that matters, not the aftermath. Without each other, things’d get boring. So, we’re going to cut you loose.”
“No roughing up?”
“Well, now, never said that, did I? Figure you need a few half-decent souvenirs to show your mates.”
His gleaming leer told Jack he would not enjoy the experience.
A few hours later, just after dawn, Bulkhead excused himself to go wake up fellow fiends Schlock Tactile and Kid Calmdown.
After much pointless carousing, including the pulling of Christmas bon-bons and a fight over the enclosed paper party hats, the three of them did a drive-by in their slick, retro-futuristic black Phantom Corsair six-passenger coupe, to drop Jack off at Timely Tower — unhitched the bombastium mitten and pushed him out a car door (which had a picture of the three-legged chicken on it) as they hooned past at thirty Ks.