Two days later, while most of the Lair Legion is still occupied with the Transworlds Challenge:
It was just before noon when the white lunch truck, decorated with a chicken dressed in a World War II German colonel’s uniform, pulled up opposite the Federal Reserve Bank of Parodiopolis. “Colonel Zemo’s Fried Chicken – It’s heel-clicking good!” it announced.
“Who'd want to buy Nazi fried chicken anyway?” groused one of Beth's rented minions.
“Nobody,” snapped the Baroness. “It's just a cover for my command post.” She lifted a microphone. “Now, the rest of you, are you ready? Uniforms complete? Spray guns filled? Carts and ramps set?”
“Yes, Baroness.” – “Jawohl, Fraulein Baronin” – “Si, Señorita Baronesa” – “Hai, Baroness-sama” -- came the replies.
“All right. Natasha, actuate the surveillance drones. Team 1, move out for the loading dock. Team 2, right behind them. Jorge, hold Team 3. Team 2, prime the spray cannon, and Team 1, watch out for the concealed camera just around the corner. Team 3, Team 3, not so fast, wait up there, Jorge.”
A somewhat disheveled resident of the financial district walked up and began pounding the window. “Anyone here? Got some chicken for me? I got two dollars, come on, I’m hungry!”
“Drat! We’re closed, come back tomorrow!” came a girlish voice.
The customer stared blearily at the van through an alcoholic haze. “My money . . . I said, my mon . . . eee – where is it – pocket, pocket – oh damn, where’d it go . . . .”
“On my mark, now, Team 1, deploy the guns, in three, two, one. . . .”
“Hot damn, I had it in my hand! Now open up there, and gimme my chicken!”
“Not now! Team 2, Team 2, hurry forward and disable those guards that are holding Team 1. Team 3, move into secondary positions!”
BAM, BAM, BAM. “Gimme my ‘Berliner Breast Special” or I’m going to call the cops!”
The shutters lifted, revealing a stocky blonde woman dressed in tight, black leather from toe to neckline, decorated with a profusion of silvery zippers and buckles. “Holy cow, honey,” burbled the drunk, “forget the chicken parts, this is what I want to take out.”
As he leered, Beth raised her hand and delivered a spray of knockout gas to the yawning mouth of her customer. He dropped to the curb, drooling. “Natasha, drag him out of the way and get back here.” She turned to the bank of monitors which showed the black-garbed Teams 1 and 2 in a melee with the bank guards. “Team 3, spray them all, and get our crews out of there! Pablo, Team 1’s behind schedule. Spray the Compound XX [1] and get moving!”
In the Federal Reserve Bank’s loading dock, two of Beth’s minions managed to wrestle their sprayers away from the blue-uniformed guards and begin wetting their opponents and the room. Instantly, the guards took pratfalls to the floor, with legs windmilling and arms flailing. Only Elizabeth Zemo’s minions were able to stand. One or two guards attempted to grab their adversaries’ ankles, only to find that their hands slipped off.
“It works! Natasha, it works! An ultra-lubricant that only our treated clothing can counter! Now, everyone, straight to the gold vault! Spray the locks and they’ll open!”
Indeed, that was precisely what happened. No door would stay shut, no guard could hold a telephone or a gun. Within two minutes, the gold vault doors were open, and her henchmen were sliding five hundred pound gold bars down the hallways like ice cubes on a hot skillet.
At Lair Legion headquarters, Hallie noticed an unusual amount of messaging traffic radiating from the Federal Reserve Bank. Although no alarms or police bulletins had been triggered from the area, she dispatched one of her sensor drones to check out the area.
By the time her sensor had reached the bank, most of the gold had already been slid up ramps into the trucks, and the teams were retrieving their equipment and preparing to escape.
Hallie’s face appeared on Mr. Epitome’s computer monitor, interrupting the Exemplary Man’s perusal of a classified database. “Mr. Epitome, it looks as if there is a situation at the Federal Reserve Bank. A gang of about 15 appears to be looting the gold vaults.”
“Any indication of which gang it might be?” The Star Spangled Splendor was instantly alert.
“They’re wearing black coveralls, and the M.O. doesn’t correlate to anything known. But you might find this interesting.” A view of the white lunch truck emblazoned with the Teutonic chicken leapt to the screen.
Epitome cracked a smile for about a millisecond, and then returned his face to its normal dourness. “That fool, Garrick,” he murmured.
“Aren’t you going to stop them?” Hallie exclaimed, her face returning to the monitor. “Based on the compression of the tires, those trucks are carrying away $32.38 million.”
“As Mr. Garrick has already asserted to my superiors, Elizabeth Dewdrop is not necessarily a matter for the Office of Paranormal Security. She is neither meta-human nor para-normal. While the Lair Legion might get involved, I am the only member on duty here, with everyone else gallivanting around in support of the Crossworlds Challenge. I shouldn’t abandon my post here and risk being unavailable for a meta-human emergency.”
“But it would take you less than five minutes to break this robbery up. You must have additional reasons.”
“You read Herb Garrick’s Top Secret, Sensitive Compartmentalized Information report?”
“Of course. Couldn’t everybody?”
The Paragon of Power actually chuckled. “I didn’t even need a decoding program. He’s such an amateur. ‘In the short term, Miss Dewdrop does not appear to pose a significant threat to the interests of the United States or to law enforcement, although it must be kept in mind that in the long run any person who could access the late Baron von Zemo’s scientific secrets could, in appropriate circumstances, be worthy of extended surveillance or incapacitation by duly constituted authorities.’”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Mr. Garrick has written a report that will never be wrong, no matter what happens. By tomorrow he will be explaining to half of Washington that the short term was only 54 hours and the long run began today.”
“And Beth Dewdrop and her $32.38 million of stolen U.S. Government gold?”
“I think we’ll let that be Mr. Garrick’s problem for awhile.”
“That’s rather cynical of you. Certainly that’s not consistent with your image, let alone your normal character.”
“Mr. Garrick needs to learn a lesson about competence, Hallie, and failure is a far better teacher for him than I’ll ever be.”
“And you don’t care what Elizabeth Dewdrop does with the gold? She very well might try to emulate her uncle, you know.”
“Great-uncle, you mean. Perhaps so. Still, she’s easily dealt with. And frankly, Hallie, Baron von Zemo always was overrated as an opponent. Any one of the Science Villains in Badripoor could have wiped the floor with him, and we, as you know, just wiped the floor with all of them.”
“You sound over-confident – cocky, if that’s the right word?”
“No, just realistic. And by the way, I know why you’re so anxious about Beth Dewdrop.”
Hallie remained silent, fearing that any response would betray her. Epitome went calmly on. “I’m well aware that you began your life as a construct of Dr. Vishnar, an artificial intelligence for Baron Zemo himself. Yes, you’ve been treated and purged by everyone from Jaime Bautista to Al B. Harper, but there’s always the possibility of a trap door, or even, how should I say it, a lingering . . . attachment? . . . to your original programming. So naturally, you’ll go overboard to report anything relating to Zemo, to allay our suspicions and convince yourself that you are no longer beholden to him. That’s fine. But just like the rest of your past, you won’t convince me of your reliability like that. I’m still watching.”
Hallie paused for a long moment, and then replied, “You’ve been very clear that’s the way it has to be. At least I’m now sure that you are completely in character.”
Later that evening:
“Hello, Avis Realty Services? I’m looking for one of those specialized residences that you mentioned on your website. My name? Elizabeth. Elizabeth von Zemo.”
Playing the part of Baroness Elizabeth von Zemo:
J. Jonah Jerkson
VOICE OF THE PEOPLE
Footnote
[1] In his first appearances in Marvel Comics, Baron Heinrich Zemo, Beth’s great-uncle, bedeviled Captain America and others with his “Compound X,” a super-glue. An unfortunate accident with Compound X caused Zemo’s mask to adhere to his face permanently. Apparently over the years the Baron had developed an opposite compound and Beth Dewdrop was able to produce it.
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