Who is Killing the Great Capes of Heropa(69)
“Mm-hmm. Don’t bet on it, Fritz.”
“Bah! Your false bravado cannot impress us now. We are here to take revenge for Black Owl — you know you put him in a wheel-chair? Und there ist the unfinished matter of Iffy Bizness and Sinistro…cold-blooded murder.”
“In case you haven’t heard, we’ve also been losing people like flies.”
“Pfaw! You Equalizers crossed the line. Let this be our answer to the scoffers und der doubters — to those who think the League of Unmitigated Rotters has lost its resolve!”
The Nazi threw back his head and laughed heavenward, and then he took time out to unravel a banner of that poorly rendered, three-legged black turkey logo of theirs.
“Wherever the deadly spectre of heroism looms, the spirit of villainous men—” Prima Ballerina coughed discreetly behind him “—oh, und of fräuleins too, together proud and united, will drive it from our streets.”
Von Gatz started waving the flag, like he was stuck on the tail-end of a Third Reich propaganda reel.
“You sure like to waffle,” Jack decided.
“That pathetic barb counts for nothing, bumbling fool! This moment belongs to Baron von Gatz! Now all that remains is to determine the manner in which you will die.”
“Where’s Bulkhead? He and I are old mates.”
“That dolt refused to come — said he wanted no invitation to a lynching party.”
“The man has manners.” Looking over at Prima Ballerina, Jack nodded. “Can’t say the same for you.”
“I’m just along for the ride,” the girl murmured, without any particular conviction.
“Shut up!” shouted von Gatz.
“For crap’s sake, get it over with — use the gun,” his Communist teammate urged.
“Never! A bullet is far too quick und easy for the likes of him.”
“Then I will use mine.”
“That thing? It’s hideous. The verdammt Norinco Type 86S was a commercial failure precisely because it’s so ugly.” Von Gatz glanced at Jack. “Made in China,” the man said, by way of explanation. He even winked.
“I am sick to death of your cultural stereotyping!” General Ching stepped up to his colleague and held him by the scruff of his costume’s swastika. “Don’t you know the pistol you’re flaunting is Chinese? That’s no Mauser — it’s a Shanxi .45.”
“Rubbish.”
“Shanxis are noticeably bigger than their Mauser 7.63mm brethren, with the ten-round magazine extending beneath the trigger guard. See? If you don’t believe me, pig — it will be inscribed with ‘Type 17’ in Chinese on the left-hand side of the gun. Take a look.”
Baron von Gatz did just that and he blanched. “Scheisse.” Then he karate-chopped General Ching’s assault rifle. It clattered on the floor and snapped in two.
“Look what you did to my gun — you broke it!”
“Well, I think it’s safe to say that’s now kaput. Mass-produced trash breaks so easily, don’t you think?”
“Then I’ll take that mass-produced pistol!”
The two men comically tussled on stage as the Nazi tried to keep his mock-Mauser out of the Communist’s fingers.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Prima Ballerina sighed, pushing forward. “Gomene, Southern Cross — I’m sorry you have to put up with such idiocy. Let me take care of this.”
Jack knew he had to act, and do so post-haste — having previously copped a dose of the woman’s spellbinding body language, he was not sure he wouldn’t again cave in.
So, as he leapt across the space, the Equalizer fired off a controlled plasma blast at Prima Ballerina’s feet — preferring not to break her legs, but sufficient to knock the girl off the raised platform.
Jack’d counted on the Nazi and his ideologically opposite sparring partner being too preoccupied to take pot-shots at short notice, and was proved right — by the time he ducked beneath an apron, the two men were still struggling and their ring-in Mauser was pointed at the roof, fully loaded.
That was when the shooting really started.
The rat-a-tat-tat came from a rich patron’s box with velvet curtains, to the front and above the level of the stage, about two hundred metres away.
Jack saw the first muzzle-flash in the corner of his eye and ducked — since he was completely exposed in his position — but nothing ended up hitting him.
The Nazi and the Communist, on the other hand, were not so fortunate.
For at least thirty seconds, they danced a romantic jig together up on the podium, held aloft by the impact of several hundred rounds. Once the firing ceased, they leaned against one another and slowly slid down to the boards. There was a red wash over everything in proximity, with Prima Ballerina nowhere to be seen.