Tales of the Parodyverse

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killer shrike
Wed May 11, 2005 at 11:07:56 pm EDT
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The Adventures of Alcheman #19, Part One
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The Adventures of Alcheman #19


“The Dreaded Kitchen Sink Drama Episode”


Note: This story takes place after Untold Tales #209


Doctor Honoria Sesselby tried for the fifth time to reach Michael. Once again the Amazonian adventurer would be denied, as her efforts resulted only in a dial tone.

“Are you calling his cel?” Donald Branson inquired as he navigated the Prowler through the late afternoon traffic.

“Michael doesn’t own a cellular phone,” Honoria groused, “He claims to barely use the one in his house.”

“I can see that. The boy could never be described as a social butterfly.”

Honoria caught herself before defending Michael’s gregariousness. After all, she did not want to arouse her current beau’s suspicions about how close she had become to her former fiancé in recent weeks.

Not that the time they were spending together was a betrayal of their relationship. No, Honoria and Michael had established a purely platonic arrangement where she used her resources and intellect to help Michael function as the superhero Alcheman.

It was this that Honoria hoped to stop Donald from learning. She had criticized how poorly Michael kept secret his role as crime fighter. Besides herself, there were at least half a dozen others who knew of his second identity, and that was not taking into account the multitudes of people Michael’s brain-dead sisters could have told in an effort to impress.

Because of this Honoria tried, without luck, to contact Michael so the pair could get their stories straight.

When Donald entered Seedytown it became obvious why she had been unable to reach him.

Seedytown was in shambles. More so than usual.

Honoria had heard of the carnage that had taken place in Hell’s Bathroom: the bloody conflict between authorities and street gangs had been national news, but was not mentioned was how the violence had spread to adjacent areas. While the damage was not comparable to what had happened in Paradopolis’s most notorious slum, there were obvious signs of looting and arson in the neighborhood Michael called home.

Even on his block, which was in the process of gentrification, Honoria and Donald drove past shattered storefronts and the hulks of torched cars. Honoria was distraught; Donald intrigued.

“They’re going to need a bit of a hand to dig their way out of this,” he noted to his paramour.

“It’s a tragedy,” she agreed.

And an opportunity, the real estate developer thought to himself.

*****


Michael Wooster was nailing a plywood pane over his ruined front window when the Prowler pulled up the common driveway to his townhouse. The tinted windows rendered its occupants anonymous until the passenger door swung open and Honoria bolted out. Moving with the powerful strides of an Olympic level athlete, the blonde and bronze bombshell closed the gap between herself and Michael and caught him in a bear hug, “Donald is here. You need to follow my lead in regards to our cover story,” she hissed in his ear as they embraced.

“Cover story?!” he whispered with some alarm.

“Do as I say,” Honoria released her grip and turned back to speak to Donald, who was ambling up the walk with a look of amusement on his sun-burnished face, “He’s all right,” she told him.

“I can see that,” the lanky gentleman offered Michael his hand, “Seems we’ve come at an inopportune time, though.”

“Yes, I’m sure these repairs are keeping Michael from completing his thesis on the League of Nations’ role in governing the activities of post-World War One superheroes; a thesis I’ve been helping him with,” Honoria said hurriedly.

The two men stared at the young woman, put off by her burst of exposition. Michael slowly nodded.

“Honoria has been an invaluable source of aid with my research.”

“Of course,” Donald smiled, “I would expect nothing less from one of the finest minds Pierce Heights ever produced. And how are you, Mike?”

“I have my health, though it appears not much else. My home was burglarized during the riots.”

“A shame. Do you have insurance?”

Michael affirmed, “Yes. In fact my sisters are upstairs checking to see what has been stolen.”

“Really? I haven’t seen Jenni or Trudi in ages. Since their coming out, at least.”

“Feel free to go in and say hello. Just watch for broken glass, please.”

“Thank you,” Donald gave Honoria’s shoulder an intimate squeeze, “Coming, darling?”

The woman nodded and smiled, and soon the two were making their way into Michael’s vandalized home.

Michael, still outside, could not have been happier.

*****


Jenni Wooster held up a picture of her as a toddler being mobbed by a herd of billy goats, “When was this?”

“Paradopolis Petting Zoo, Michael’s ninth birthday,” Trudi crisply replied. She and her sister were sitting on their brother’s bed sorting through a shoebox of photographs. The two had been sent over by Agnes, matriarch of the Wooster Clan, and given orders to aid Michael in his time of need. Michael in turn had given them a binder containing photographs and sales’ receipts of his home’s valuables, and asked them to go through the house and take inventory.

The twins complied for about half an hour, before deciding that it wasn’t television sets or baseball card collections that mattered, but the security of the family’s personal keepsakes. To that end Jenni and Trudi sought out and found Michael’s pictures, and made the effort to ensure the visual record of their family history was intact. They would take great umbrage when Honoria barged in with her boyfriend and adopt such an accusatory posture.

“I should have known you would have found a way to shirk your duties,” she said, her lips pressed together in disapproval.

Trudi voiced her outrage, “We’re focusing on what’s truly important: the sentimental, not the material.”

“Do not expect us to believe the two of you have rejected the material,” Honoria scoffed.

“Hello, Uncle Donny,” Jenni waved to Branson as she stood.

Donald Branson had known the Wooster family since before the twins were born. He had been a sort of apprentice to their father Malcolm, before going off to make a name for himself in the construction business, “Hello, Jenni. Trudi. You look even less alike than the last time I saw you. No less lovely, though.”

“We won’t put you on the spot and demand you tell us which is lovelier,” Trudi said graciously.

“I don’t think such a distinction is possible,” Donald, ever gallant, retorted.

“It’s funny you should mention how much we’ve changed,” Jenni picked up the shoebox and began rummaging through it, “because that makes me think-aha!” she exclaimed, pulling out a print and handing it to Honoria.

It was a picture of Doctor Sesselby herself. A less full bodied, flaxen maned, golden skinned Honoria. She observed her previous incarnation neutrally.

“Yes. That’s from our eighth grade class trip to the Kennedy Space Center.”

“Is this some kind of astronaut communications device?” Jenni pointed at the wire headgear Honoria was strapped to.

“No: my retainer,” she turned to Donald, “We really should get downstairs and help Michael with the work that matters.”

“Of course. Good seeing you again, dears.”

Trudi waited until the pair had left before addressing her sister, “Well played, Jenni.”

The wispy blonde made a sour face, “I was just tired of her trying to bully us with her cleavage.”

*****


Elsewhere, and in no way thematically related to the conclusion of the previous scene:

“How’s the grapefruit, Vizh?” Sarah Shepherdson asked.

“Oh, delicious. Really. I should have started eating these years ago. Mmmm-mmm. Who needs crullers?” Visionary slouched in his booth at the Bean and Donut.

“That’s the spirit,” Shep grinned as she slid into the seat across from him. She turned serious, “I need to talk to you. About Kerry.”

“Kerry? What did she do now?”

“Nothing. Well, probably something. But we’re better off living in ignorance. It’s just… I’m concerned about her future.”

“OK. Wait,” a sudden thought struck the Legionnaire, “You aren’t thinking about taking Kerry back, are you?”

Sarah was surprised (and a trifle relieved) to see how much the possibility worried her friend, “No. No such luck. I’m talking about her education. What if my sister doesn’t want to be a superhero, Vizh?”

Visionary stabbed half-heartedly at his grapefruit, “Well, I keep telling her about how the life of a supervillain is shallow and joyless, where the only things you can count on is a steady diet of beatings and a bit part in the Hooded Hood’s latest plan for universal domination,” he looked grave, “Kerry didn’t buy it.”

“I see.”

“Last week I caught Kerry writing a letter to that Anvil Man guy. She said it was part of some prison pen pal program,” he reported with substantial concern.

“Hmm,” Sarah glanced away from her teammate to keep from laughing.

Vizh tried to look hopeful, “She might have been joking…”

“I’m sure that’s it. No, I’m worried that we’ve spent so much time on teaching Kerry how to control her powers we’ve ignored other aspects of her schooling.”

“Well, she does have a demolitions license. Though I’m kind of leery of a place that teaches how to handle explosives by correspondence course.”

Sarah tapped Visionary on the wrist, “Vizh? Focus. I want Kerry to have a well rounded education, so she has as many legal options available to her as possible.”

Visionary blinked, “Well, I want that too.”

“Good,” the currently incognito Probability Dancer smiled and unfolded a pamphlet for Hogan Academy from her apron, “because this is what I was thinking….”

To be continued










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