Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(24)

So, with these details in mind, we come to that accompanying piece of Australianism, that you could perhaps utilize or develop upon if ever you get the compulsion to create an Aussie counterpart to your very own Captain America. I call him SOUTHERN CROSS. Why Southern Cross? It’s an idea with a long history, beginning ’way back in high school with those absent-minded doodles that appeared on my lecture pads; evolving into the characterization pictured overleaf. The “Southern Cross” is actually a constellation visible only in the southern hemisphere, and it appears on the Australian flag. The version of it employed on our hero’s tunic is a derivation of the rallying flag of the Eureka Stockade in the nineteenth century — Australia’s first and only rebellion, and revered ever since as a libertarian struggle against repression (in this case, British rule).

The letters ‘S’ and ‘C’ that appear on our hero’s back are fashioned into the shape of boomerangs (another Australian symbol); his costume is navy blue, with white detailing; his power is ambiguous — it’s the one thing that I couldn’t resolve, even after all this time! An idea could be that the character had a mutant power of repulsion of any sort of blow struck against him…Thus you could play with the notion that, although he’s a national hero, Southern Cross is also a mutant, and gets caught up in the whole mutant hysteria?

Anyway, do with him what you will; hopefully, use him. If not, get some sort of idea from his draft and create something else! Just remember that there are a large number of Marvel fans down here who could do with a “home hero”. Earlier this year I spent a week in Los Angeles, and a week in New York, and was struck by the increased awareness most Americans now possess with regard to Australia — so couldn’t Marvel lead the way and extend that awareness by a foray into the untouchable grey zone down under?

I have my fingers crossed. And my toes. Thanks for bothering to read this slightly long-winded letter. One thing I’d really appreciate is to hear from you or your colleagues by return — giving an indication of what you think about my idea, and also if you could fill me in about the possibilities of writing something (anything!), okay?

Thanks,

Yours faithfully,

Wally Deaps.





#112


As it turned out, Jacob found Heropa while wandering a rain-drenched street (Grandview Road) just beyond the ramshackle, junk-cluttered entrances to Hikari Mansion.

He’d been scrounging for something to eat, having rifled through various moss-green plastic rubbish containers, while evading police and security types, but found most of the bins filled with murky water — nothing edible nor potable.

That was when a fossilized hippy/homeless man — in all probability the geezer juggled both the professions — sidled up to him with a handful of soggy paper flyers.

This man, sixty-odd, had on a tattered vinyl poncho with peace symbols all over it in various shades of discolour. He had dreaded hair and a dreaded beard in which Jacob could not spy a mouth, and he stank of mould, incense and mothballs. The mouth was confirmed by wafting breaths of something unbrushed for an agonizingly long time.

“Looking for escape from the madness, my boy?”

“Not interested.” Jacob circled past, hoping to put some space between him and the stench — he pictured some indoor acoustic guitar circle singing ‘Kumbaya’ to the accompaniment of god-awful bongo drums.

“Wait, wait. Hold your over-excited horses — whoa, Nellie!”

The Hippy thrust a sagging, half-torn flyer into Jacob’s hand before he had the chance to snatch his fingers away.

Jacob looked at the message; worried it might carry some breed of smell bacteria and wished he’d brought along a pair of salad tongs with which to hold the thing. There was a poorly drawn picture of a masked man, a bit like Batman’s sidekick Robin as he was conceived in the 1950s, smiling, with no worry in the world.

The caption beside this junior hero’s head was written in bold caps that said HEROPA and, in smaller lettering — the ink of which was starting to bleed —Escape to a new life of heroes and adventure!

“Come along anytime,” the Hippy urged, at the same time that he leaned closer with stinky fumes.

Jacob tottered away, trying hard not to screw up his face. “Got no money. Can’t afford it.”

“Heropa costs nothing.”

“Everything costs something.”

“In this case? Only your leisure.”

There was the hook. Free, and a timewaster to boot. Jacob finally looked into tired, slate-coloured eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. But you look like you could use a romp, if not a bite to eat. Too young to get about with that hangdog countenance you’re folded up in. This here is everything you ever dreamed about in comicbooks.”