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killer shrike
Mon Mar 21, 2005 at 07:21:27 pm EST
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The Adventures of Alcheman #16, Part Three
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The Adventures of Alcheman #16


“Feuds, Familial and Otherwise, Part Three”



Previously: Agnes Wooster met the Baroness and the encounter was less than cordial. Alcheman learned his on-time girlfriend was dating another man and couldn’t be happier. And the Scourge of the Parodyverse realized the world was filled with lame supervillains and decided to do something about it.


Los Angeles, California:

The office of real estate mogul Donald Branson was done up in classic Greco-Roman style. On each gleaming white wall rested reminders of what he had accomplished, not in the world of high finance- those trophies rested nicely in his various homes and bank vaults- but rather more personal achievements. There were the boxing gloves he wore when he stepped into the ring with Mike Tyson, the tattered muleta and saber he wielded during La Corrida in Spain, a crossed pair of pitons he had employed to climb Everest, and various other instruments he had used to demonstrate his machismo.

Right now, Branson was multi-tasking. While his personal barber was carefully grooming the wooly gold goatee he grew over his sun burnished face, he was simultaneously plotting a buyout of a medical research firm and defeating one of his corporate rivals in a game of online chess.

“That’s checkmate, Tony,” he spoke into his earpiece, “Still hope you’ll join us at Vail this weekend,” he pressed a button and switched calls, “No, you tell Korthahko $125 is my final offer. That nearly doubles what he paid for his shares,” another touch of a button, “Tony? Gotta go. Best of luck with that thing with the thing,” again, “$125 firm. And remind Korthahko that Bodwick chairs the Health and Human Services Committee, and I own Bodwick.”

Donald Branson wiped the remaining lather from his face and examined his barber’s work in a hand held mirror, “You’re a magician, Barry,” he fished into his pants pocket and pulled out a gold coin, “This is an 1878 Morgan Dollar,” flipping it to the grateful numismatist, “Keep the change.”

The man cast aside the smock used to shield his attire and rose from his chair. He intoned dramatically:

“Leave us, Barry.”

Once alone, Donald strode over to one of the office’s alcoves to fetch a battered Corinthian helmet. He took a deep breath and donned the relic.

"Its better to burn out than fade away."

A ghostly figure manifested itself, “How goes the battle, Donny?”

“I’m kicking @ss and taking names, Alex,” the billionaire reported, “The GenometrixTech buyout will be tomorrow’s headline for every financial paper in America. I rented the Sydney Opera House for Mee Maw’s and Pam Pam’s anniversary. And I broke the Laundry Workers Union in the Branson Towers Hotel.”

“What about that other thing?”

Branson feigned ignorance, “Uh, what other thing?”

“You know. My blood vengeance against that… actor. Have you seen to it?”

“I know you were offended by Farrell’s portrayal, but having a big Hollywood star assassinated draws undue attention. Besides, I met Colin in the Viper Room; he’s an OK guy. Did you get a chance to see Phone Booth? A nice performance.”

The ethereal figure darkened, “You are a weak, spineless woman! If I had displayed the same amount of courage you are at Issus, we’d all be speaking Farsi today!”

“Alexander, be reasonable!!” Donald pleaded, and then thought for a moment, “What if he were to come down with a venereal disease? Something discomforting, but not terminal.”

“The Macedonian’s eyes narrowed, “You can do that?”

“Well, not personally. But it can be arranged.”

“Make it so then. How go your own romantic exploits?”

Donald brightened, “Honoria will be back in town this evening. I’m planning a quiet dinner, then some extracurriculars.”

“Good. I approve of that woman. She’ll birth you a fine heir.”

“Honoria’s my very own Thalestris,” the corporate raider bragged with genuine affection, comparing his paramour with one of Alexander’s own Amazonian conquests.

“Just make sure you don’t lose her,” the ghost warned, “She has been spending a great deal of time on the East Coast with her old friends.”

“I have noticed that,” he admitted, “It will be a topic of discussion at dinner.”

“Your parlay must be done from a position of strength. Keep your pimp hand strong with that termagant.”

“Don’t worry about me, Alex,” Donald removed the helmet, causing the ghostly image to vanish, “I’ve got everything under control.”

*****


Michael Wooster pedaled his ten-speed up the red brick driveway of his childhood home. He leaned it against one of his mother’s enormous geranium pots that squatted by the front entrance and let himself in.

“Hello?” he called, as he removed his jacket and hung it in the grand foyer’s closet, “Mother?”

Agnes Wooster descended from the entry room’s grand staircase, “Michael, did you have to let yourself in? That Marta-“

“Don’t blame Marta, Mother. I’m in a bit of a rush, so I forwent the bell.”

Once Agnes was on the landing she noticed something was not quite right with her son, “Why are you still wearing those sunglasses? What are you now, a rock star?”

“No, Mother. I was in an accident.”

“Oh my Lord!” the matriarch of the Wooster clan clutched at her pearls, “Your nose! It’s broken!”

“It’s not broken, Mother.”

“My baby’s button nose has been broken!” she lamented.

Michael sighed and removed his glasses, exposing two blackened eyes, “It is not. I have medical documentation to that effect. Now,” he steered his mother to the couch, “Why did you call me over?”

“It’s not important,” Agnes answered, “Who told you it wasn’t broken? Who saw you: some free clinic quack?!”

“Mother, please. What’s wrong?”

“Well,” she calmed down, “You know about Pierce Heights’s newest resident.”

Michael nodded.

“Can you imagine? A Zemo, setting up house here. It’s an outrage. Why that woman is even allowed in this country I’ll never know.”

“I believe Miss Zemo is an American citizen, mother.”

“Is she? Well, that doesn’t excuse the city’s laxity in dealing with that costumed menace.”

Michael was confused, “I did not think she wore a costume, mother. In fact, there is little proof Elizabeth Zemo has taken up her uncle’s modus vivendi.”

Agnes snorted dismissively, “I very much doubt that. Even as we speak she’s probably in her dungeon, bag on head, plotting against the world.”

“The Van Drabble Estate had a dungeon? I had no idea. I mean, it was a hard enough fight for them to build that above ground pool…”

“Stop! Just stop! You know full well that woman has built a castle on the property. Hideous thing.”

“The woman or the castle?” Michael asked.

“Don’t be impudent!” Agnes huffed, “It’s obvious Zemo has done something to cow the authorities, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to construct such a blot on the landscape.”

“Ah,” so the truth stood revealed: his mother was concerned not for her community’s safety, but its aesthetics, “Mother, is this why you called me here?”

“Yes. You have taken upon yourself to become a superhero, putting your family at great risk. I only think its fair when your family calls on you for aid, you answer.”

Michael thought a moment, “Do you expect me to beat her up?”

“Certainly not! I would like to think I raised you well enough to know not to strike a woman, even one as scabrous as Ms. Zemo. But you could investigate her lair. See what she’s up to.”

“And after snooping, report my findings to the Zoning Commission so you’ll have just cause to evict here?” Michael asked.

“Evict her, arrest her, it’s of no matter to me. She needs to go.”

“Very well.”

“Really?” Agnes sat up.

“I do have some questions about the woman’s activities, and it appears the usual agencies are being lax in their inquiries,” he shrugged, “It wouldn’t hurt to see what she’s up to.”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Wooster patted her son’s knee, “Spoken like a true Wooster.”

Michael wasn’t sure he’s ancestors would approve of a plan to creep into a woman’s house and spy on her while she was unaware, but he wasn’t about to contradict what was to his mother the highest compliment one could bestow. He wanted to see what he could learn what he could about the Baroness, before beginning his reconnaissance. One didn’t break into a potential arch villain’s stronghold without some preparation.

*****


Several hours later, the Scourge of the Parodyverse had similar thoughts.

The assassin knew he had failed to make much of an impact in her one man war on costumed evil, having been only successful in picking off the stragglers, the has-beens, the third stringers.

But if she took out a high profile target, a masked menace whose career was on the fast track to Arch Enemy, then his cause would at last be seen by others as a serious matter. The Baroness met that description. Kill her, and then the villains of the Parodyverse would tremble.

The Scourge had been meticulous in researching her mark’s day to day patterns, but Miss Zemo was proving remarkably elusive. He had thought of journeying to England and slaying her right on the doorstep of the Wilton Estate, as a message to those heroes who would fraternize with such malefactors, but demurred when she learned what other oddly garbed wrong-doer would be attending the revels. The vigilante was confident, but even he balked at a potential encounter with… the Hooded Hood.

Then a new opportunity presented itself, one as capable as making the Scourge’s point: Zemo would die in the one place an arch villain would expect to feel safe.

The Scourge of the Parodyverse put the finishing touches on her disguise, a garishly colored set of coveralls and a hat bearing the logo of Paradopolis’s monopolistic Cable company, loaded his equipment into the back of the stolen van, and then got in on the driver’s side. She smiled at the bound and gagged cable installer who was expected to show up at Schloss Schreckhausen sometime between nine and six, Monday through Thursday, this week or next.

“You’re about to be famous,” the Scourge noted with a bit too much glee, “And for once, prompt.”

To Be Continued



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