Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(6)

“Nah?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Suit yerself.”

Jack then broached a subject he’d been too overawed to mention before. “Do you guys have a toilet?”

“No,” Pretty Amazonia said in a singsong tone, “we use our pants.” But when Jack thought about this, the woman swapped to irritated. “Course we do — just over there, the door behind the staircase. Have fun.”

Jack stood up, hesitated, and hovered.

“Problem?” asked the woman, still annoyed.

“No, not really.”

“Then, what is it?”

“Speak up, junior,” the Brick encouraged behind him. “We won’t bite’cha.”

“All right. Um — how do I get out of the costume?”

Something resembling disgust crossed Pretty Amazonia’s face. “It’s a loo, not a bathtub,” she said.

Jack scratched the side of his head behind his ear, a nervous tic. “You know what I mean. Don’t you?”

“Kid can’t pee in tights,” the Brick guessed.

“Oh.” The woman shelved her annoyance, and a smile flickered. “Cleverly hidden zip, at the back.”

“Got’cha. Thanks.”

A few minutes later the newcomer returned to find the two Equalizers squabbling about something. When they caught wind of his approach, they went silent.

“You have Equalizer logos on your toilet paper,” he remarked.

“We do,” the woman agreed, eyes on the ground.

As the Brick settled into his sofa it creaked in a tortured manner, and then the man threw his arms over the back of the couch. “How long you been here, kid?”

“Arrived today,” said Jack, sitting down.

“Seen any action?”

“Nope.”

“Anyone bothered t’tell you the ropes?” The Brick glanced at Pretty Amazonia with a lopsided grin. His face was surprisingly flexible for a thing composed of ceramics.

“Not really — I only just got here. Stan, downstairs, gave me a few pointers.”

“The Doormat? Yeah, he ain’t half bad fer a Blando.”

“And Pretty Amazonia, here, about climbing in and out of costumes.”

The woman smiled, but said nothing.

“Okay, easy.” The Brick sat up and returned his leg to the floor. He raised one hand, as if preparing to count. “Heropa has rules. Stupid, dodgy ones I’m the first to whine about — like the Comics Code Authority all over again. One: no swearin’. Minor profanities like ‘bloody’ an’ ‘damn’ are fine, but steer clear o’ the ‘f—’, ‘c—’ an’ ‘sh—’ words. You know the ones I mean, or do I need to spell ’em out?”

“I know. Weird rule, though.”

“Like I says. Number two, honour. Yep, our very own Bushidō. Treat others — yer enemies, hell, even yer undeservin’ peers — as you expect t’be treated in return.”

“No worries about using ‘hell’?”

“Sure, ‘hell’ is okay too. Y’can push the limits o’ the honour fiddlesticks, but there’s no cheatin’ or betrayal — they expect yer t’be a fine, upstandin’ role model. Now, there was a third rule, but I’ll be bummed if I can remember that one. Four — no alcohol, no tobacco, no pharmaceuticals o’ ill repute. Number five — what’s number five again, PA?”

Pretty Amazonia smiled. “Thou shalt not kill.”

“Hah. The Bible ref. No wonder I ditched it from me noggin. Fact is we’re not s’posed to die — no matter how much we pummel one another. Rules is rules.”

“Excuse me.” That was Jack, speaking up.

Both heroes looked over.

“What?” asked the Brick.

“I get what you’re saying,” Jack assured, “but, then, who killed him, and how did he cark it?” His finger was resting on the newspaper picture of a pair of legs pinioning a billboard.

“That, kid, is a pearler of a question.”





#101


Pretty Amazonia tucked their bums in comfy white seats at the big table that would sit about thirty — though there were only three people there. Attempting to balance this by spreading themselves thin around it, they had to raise voices to hear one another.

“Where’s the Great White Mope?” the Brick asked from his region of the table.

Pretty Amazonia craned forward. “What’s that, hon?”

“I said, where’s Great White?”

The woman shrugged her broad shoulders. “Guessing he’ll be along shortly, since he called the meeting.”

“Huh?”

“He’ll be here soon!”