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J. Jonah Jerkson
Wed Dec 15, 2004 at 09:50:19 am EST
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The Baroness, Part 15. Gathering Storms
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The Baroness, Part 15
Gathering Storms

[These events occur the afternoon and evening before UT #191, in other words, just before the arrival of the Hellraisers in Parodiopolis.]

“So how long have you been working with Hench.com?” Hatman asked the head thug, who was sitting across from him in one of the limousine’s jumpseats.

“Ach, about six months,” Helmut replied. “They pay well, though. Fifty dollars an hour, plus full medical benefits and rehabilitation, and double combat pay. “

“Sounds pretty reasonable, especially the benefits. Are you getting combat pay now?”

“Probably not. But if you were to take a swing at me, yes.”

“Hey, I’d be happy to do that when we get to the mansion. It’ll look good on our cameras, too. Gotta keep my rep up, you know.”

“Especially when you are coming back with him,” Helmut replied, glancing at the nearly incapacitated CSFB! “I haven’t seen a drunk like that since I worked with a group of Russian commandoes about five years ago. Say what you will about those Spetznaz guys –“

“So who did you say was running this new agency?” Hatman interrupted before Helmut could go on with his war story.

“I didn’t.”

“Come on, I’m about to do you a big favor and probably get my face punched in. You can at least tell me that.”

“I don’t know . . . but you’ll probably find out anyway, so what’s the problem? It’s a partnership -- Yuri Palchenko and Irina Demidova. That’s all I know.”

“Wasn’t Palchenko working for Roni Avis?”

“Yeah, until six months ago, when he got a visit from some mafiyya types from St. Petersburg . . . “

Next to Hatman, CSFB! was slowly recovering. The pink elephants were down to one or two, and sometimes he only saw one Hatman instead of three. In fact, once he got out of his Silly Suit and washed out the remaining yeast, he would probably be back to normal. But for now . . . the Wired Wonder hiccuped and closed his eyes.

Hatman continued milking information out of the surprisingly garrulous Helmut, interrupted only by the occasional moan from CSFB!, until the black stretch limousine crossed the causeway to Parody Island and swept up the driveway to the front entrance to the Lair Mansion.

“O.K.,” Hatman whispered to Helmut, “I’ll take a couple of swings at you after I get out of the car. I’ll pull them as long as you do the same.”

“Ja. Then you will bolt for the rear of the limo and snatch the case with your hats in it from Fritz, who is taking it from the trunk, and shout defiance at us. We will then threaten you and the Legion with annihilation and Leo will come up to you and aim the particle gun at your head. You will disarm him, warn us about ever returning to the island, and then you can walk determinedly into the mansion, supporting your colleague, and get ready for your date with that cute nurse.”

“Thanks, guys.”

The scene began as planned. However, as CSFB! was dragged from the limo by Karl and Leo, he determined that he was now sober enough to join in. Unfortunately, he made two mistakes. He wasn’t remotely detoxified, and the lower half of his SillySuit was bunched around his ankles thanks to his efforts in the car. Instead of bounding forward to defend Hatman, CSFB! pitched forward, hitting the ground with his chin. He rebounded, knocking Karl and Leo away, and then ricocheted against the side of the limo, shooting forward and knocking both Hatman and Helmut to the ground.

As the semi-conscious CSFB! sped toward the mansion’s gate, the Bautistamatic defense system picked up what it interpreted as a green missile with flesh-colored rear fins and fired up the laser defenses. In fact, the defense systems went to red alert so quickly that the capacitors overloaded, causing two massive explosions at the gate just as CSFB! reached it. The resulting shock wave catapulted CSFB! rearwards again at high speed, bowling Helmut and Hatman over again and driving him into the side of the limo like a cannonball. The car slid sideways with the impact, knocking Fritz to the ground as he opened the trunk, and then tilted over onto its left side. The dazed SugarHero struggled to his feet, staggered, and then looked downward. His pants were gone.

“Hey! That, erp, whew, that, I mean, [hic], I’m doing, woooah, a Space Ghost! Hey, Hat, I’m, ooh, in my underpants!”

“Get out of here!” shouted Hatman to his partner, as he heard the whir of the mansion’s secondary defense systems turning toward them. “I’ll call the cops to pick up these rent-a-thugs.”

“Aww, can’t I take ‘em in?” CSFB! complained as he weaved slowly toward the location of his pants. “I’ve got much . . . I mean many . . . I mean lots of SillyString to hold ‘em.”

“You’ve got half a dozen of Jaime’s lasers trying to range you right now,” Hatman replied. “And your rear end is going to get fried unless you get those pants on.” CSFB! had reached the lower half of his uniform, but seemed to have no idea what to do with it. He had reached one arm down an inside out trouser leg and was now struggling to free it without removing the arm.

“Hallie,” shouted Hatman, “turn off the defenses for a minute,” as he walked over to the unconscious Fritz and grabbed the case containing his hats. He then returned to assist his comrade.

“Took you long enough to get here,” groused CSFB!

Meanwhile, at Elizabeth's rented town house: "Robin Hood's here to see you, Your Excellency," Sally reported.

"Robin Hood? Oh, you mean the Huntmaster. Give me a minute to clean up. Sally, and then bring him in."

A few minutes later, the Baroness and the Huntmaster were sipping aperitifs in her sitting room.

"A very appropriate costume, Huntmaster. Excellent camouflage for the forest. It may not be what you need for hunting this prey, though. "

"You had mentioned something about a bird, ma'am?"
.
"A city bird, Huntmaster, perhaps *the* city bird. A pigeon," she spat.

"Presumably something more than a simple pigeon, then? Is it Pigeon-Man you have in mind?"

"No, a new adversary." she handed the green-clad game keeper a thin file containing a single photograph and a few sheets of paper. "Shazara Pel. An alien warrior brought back by the Lair Legion from the Transworlds Challenge. Her race appears to use the pigeon as a totem and she flies -- better than one of those winged rats, apparently."

"And I am to eliminate her?"

"No. She has managed to -- offend me. I want her caged and humiliated in front of me. Then, I will turn her over to an associate of mine, who has promised me that his friends will have her pecking and cooing for the rest of her conscious life."

The Huntmaster suppressed a shudder. Elizabeth's face and tone of voice had become colder than liquid nitrogen. "And my compensation for this capture?"

"Unhurt and caged securely, five million dollars plus expenses. Injured and caged, two million plus expenses. Dead, five hundred thousand dollars, flat. You have two weeks."

"Is there anything else I should be aware of?"

"Your quarry has been seen with the renegade mutant De Brown Streak. They appear to be . . . close." The Huntmaster noted the quaver in the Baroness's voice and the slight tremor on her face for future reference. "He may attempt to defend her. They are at the Basskill resort, outside the city. It would be unwise for you to linger here."

"Do you want me to bring in De Brown Streak, also, ma'am?"

She hesitated. ". . . . No. . . .I have no desi -- use for him anymore. Leave him unharmed. In fact, if you can bring the birdie here without him following along or showing up within a week, I'll pay you an extra two million."

"I should obtain some sort of down payment for undertaking such risks. Perhaps half a million to get started?"

Elizabeth's laugh was like a sharp bark. "Hah! You'd probably do it
just for the sport. Cash upfront would only reduce your lust for the hunt. And I want you on her like a hawk on a street pigeon. Another two million if you get her here within 48 hours; one if you do it in four days or less."

"That's nine million, if everything goes as I hope. What could l do to make it ten million? "

"Film the capture for me. Push her to her limits. Make every breath agony. Chase her until hope is gone and she has no energy to think, only flee like a crazed bird. I will be very generous if I can see that."

. . . .

”All right, Sally,” Elizabeth called out later that evening, “check the lighting and make sure there’s no glare from my face.”

“It’s fine, Your Excellency,” Silicone Sally reported back.

“Lance, how about the video camera?”

“Fine.”

“And the theme music? Remember, I want a negative 5 db fadeout, no more, for six seconds.”

“On it. But if that thunderstorm outside gets much worse, it’s going to be audible. And the filters can barely keep out the static from all those lightning strikes.”

“It’s my debut,” growled Elizabeth. “Make sure the storm doesn’t upstage me.”

“Live in 30 seconds, ma’am,” warned Lance. “Hey, who’d have thought I’d become a TV producer?”

. . . .

“Cue in 5, 4, 3, 2, . . . .”

The opening chords of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor swelled as the camera focused on Elizabeth Zemo, dressed in an elegant gown and pearls in front of a carved antique desk. Dark purple curtains formed a backdrop for the scene, which was being broadcast (thanks to the Zemo Heidi-2 Broadcast Override Machine) on all four national television networks and the cable news channels, as well as the radio news.

“What a cliché,” griped Sally. “Doesn’t she know how tacky that music is?”

“We were going to go with some Elgar, but it looks like somebody switched the CD,” Lance whispered back.

“Good evening. I am the Baroness Elizabeth Zemo, and I am taking over –“

With a roar of thunder, the crash of multiple lightning bolts and the shriek of hurricane force winds, the lights went out and the TV and radio feed vanished. Although the emergency Zemo generator in the basement kicked in almost immediately and restored the townhouse’s electricity, when Lance finally checked the network monitors, there was nothing but static. The Hellraisers had reached Parodiopolis.


Playing the part of Baroness Elizabeth Zemo von Saxe-Lurkburg-Schreckhausen:

J. Jonah Jerkson
VOICE OF THE PEOPLE


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