Tales of the Parodyverse

Re: Mr. Epitome #13, Part Two


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killer shrike
Mon Sep 29, 2003 at 12:14:08 am EST


In Reply To
Mr. Epitome #13, Part One

killer shrike
Sat Sep 27, 2003 at 09:25:21 am EST

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Two weeks later

The Bar Naught Ranch was a wide, ranging place, covering thousands of acres along the Pedernales River. Due west of Austin and north of San Antonio, it had been the home for Aldrich Grey for fifty three years. He had bought the land once owned by his ancestors in the early days of Texas’s history, before the Greys had lost their claim to the land that proved so heartbreaking to many families. Poor soil and anemic rainfall made farming a hard scrabble life, which was why Gray was so willing to leave it at the first opportunity.

He had gone to college back in 1923, and when he graduated became a bookkeeper to a small road-building company owned by Charles Branch, a diligent, hard-working man with the ability to inspire. The two men learned a great deal from each other, and when they became partners they soon realized how much money could be made off of the government contracts being issued out in the 1930s. A combination of charm, hard work, and graft made Grey and Branch the major construction company in Texas.

Aldrich Grey always looked beyond Texas, though. He saw the potential of the global market. How much money could be made, how much good could be done, if the same principles he had used to build up G & B could be applied elsewhere. So he worked to make his company multi-national, and he succeeded. By the time he retired in 1978 as CEO, the organization that once employed eleven people and four mules had offices in thirty-seven countries.

It’s wrong to say Aldrich Grey truly retired, though. He kept working to make the world safe for his dream, from behind the scenes. He and a consortium of like-minded patriots financed an organization that could bypass the quagmire that was at times democracy and get done what needed to be done. Their goals weren’t as absolute as those of the Shadow Cabinet, but those men were gone and the Grey Eminence was still here, mostly because he knew to avoid overreaching.

“Enlarge seven,” he said. The bank of video screens opposite his bed obliged, melding and merging so that the view outside the ranch-style home’s driveway was enlarged. A rental car had pulled up, and a tall, well-muscled man stepped out. He had curly brown hair worn short, and was dressed in shirtsleeves and tie. A woman was waiting for him.

“Audio on seven,” Aldrich ordered his surveillance system.

“’Morning, Dom!” Hannah Mae Grey, Aldrich’s wife, drawled. The tabloids had a field day when the zaftig former centerfold married the reclusive and, to be frank, decrepit billionaire. But it the union (and subsequent amending of his will) led the press away from the Eminence’s activities, so she was serving her purpose.

Dominic Clancy accepted the hearty embrace from the woman, then spoke, “Good morning, Hannah. How are things?”

“Oh, you know. Busy,” she flipped her brassy blonde hair back, “I’m going down to the stables to watch the kids, then Ma and I are heading to town for some shopping.”

The Bar Naught Ranch was now used as a summer camp for children suffering from terminal illnesses. It was one of many charities Grey was involved in. As for “Ma,” Delores, Hannah’s mother, also lived in the house.

“Sounds like fun.”

“You want to meet us in Austin when you’re done with Aldie? We’ll be having lunch at the Hilton.”

“No, thank you. Wish I could.”

“Oh, well. Let me take you up.”

Mr. Epitome and Hannah made their way up the home’s staircase to the second floor bedroom. When they entered Aldrich Grey had the television on full blare.

“Aldie, honey, Dominic is here,” she shouted over the din.

Aldrich looked confused, “Dominic?”

Hannah gave Epitome a knowing look before taking the remote from the nightstand and muting the TV, “Dominic Clancy. Remember Dominic? From Holy Cross?”

“Dominic, what are you doing here? It’s Saturday. You got a game.”

“I don’t play football anymore, sir. I graduated,” the man explained.

“You quit football?” Aldrich was looking from man to woman, bewildered.

“I’ll leave you two be,” Hannah patted Epitome on the arm then bussed Aldrich’s shriveled head, “’Bye, hon.”

“Bye, Irene,” he cooed his first wife’s name. After the woman left Grey snorted, “As if Irene would ever fall for that horseshit.”

“You’re very convincing, sir,” Epitome smiled, taking the man’s hand and shaking it.

“Convincing as an addle-minded dupe. That’s quite a left-handed compliment. Help me over to the chair, boy, and let’s get down to business.”

The cover story was that Dominic Clancy, technical writer, was one of thousands of young men and women who had benefited from a college scholarship financed by Grey and Branch. The two had subsequently struck up a friendship. Parts of it were true. What was left out was that Dominic Clancy was the cover identity for Mr. Epitome, the most important operative in the Grey Eminence’s organization.

After leading the nonagenarian to a black recliner in the room’s center, Epitome took a seat himself.

“Let’s here it,” Grey said after settling in.

“The Mensaires nomination is stalled in the Senate Committee. The Democrats are still willing to take the heat for refusing to bring the name of a qualified minority to the floor for confirmation. This is just an inkling of how fierce a fight we’ll be in for if we try to get our choice on the Supreme Court.”

“Can’t buy anybody?” he asked.

“Not this time. On a lighter note, our California recall movement has descended into a circus sideshow, which is keeping the press busy. There has been almost no mention of the Attorney General dropping the investigation against the Holman Energy Concern. They might be able to duck the price gouging charges.”

“You think Ahnold’s going to win?”

“I think it would serve California right if he did,” Epitome leaned back, “It was an excellent idea, sir.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want to talk about the Medicaid Bill markups, and what we managed to get in?”

“Shoot, son, I’m worth $11 billion dollars, I don’t qualify for Medicaid,” Grey joked, adjusting his goggle-sized glasses, “Let’s get to the important stuff. Salvage.”

Mr. Epitome smiled, “We have a biochem lab located in Brazil looking at Salvage’s stem cells. Not exactly top of the line thinking going on there, but with the President’s Executive Order limiting that kind of research we didn’t want to risk using anybody here in America. And until we identify the mole in Homo Maximus, we can’t use them for any work that extends beyond their mandate. I sent Tech-Spectre on assignment to find a scientist with the skill and willingness to decipher Salvage’s DNA.”

“Who?”

“Doctor Daio Waltz. If anybody can figure out how to recreate Salvage’s immortality and recuperative powers, it’s her. Unfortunately, she’s dropped off the face of the Earth.”

“Waltz? That’s the cow-woman, right?” was how Aldrich described the infamous Dr. Moo.

“Yes, sir. She helped us in the past, with the mutate power nullification process.”

“The process that kills or cripples those who go through it? That’s the best we can do?”

Epitome shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “Yes,” then he added, “We are trying to reduce the incidence of fatalities in the treatment. There’s been some progress.”

“Until we get it down to zero, there’s no way its going to ever work as a deterrent against unlicensed metahuman activities. The American people might be afraid of mutants, but they won’t stand for us using the process on your average freak using their powers for petty ante crap.”

Epitome nodded enthusiastically. The American government’s mutant policy was an embarrassment to him. He planned on addressing it soon.

“Let’s move on to the big one: Sybia. Success or failure?”

“I’d say it’s a success, sir. We captured Emperor Scorpion, who so far is keeping quiet about his involvement with our support of him before being turned by the Grey Eminence. He probably doesn’t realize the significance of it.”

“How much does he know?”

“He could identify Howard Gittes in a line-up, but that’s about it.”

“Howard’s already compromised. We don’t want to make it worse.”

“SPUD knows, but they can’t prove anything. And once Director Soames heard that Contessa Romanza illegally gathered evidence, he shut down the task force.”

“Just because OPS is no longer investigating doesn’t mean SPUD has. Drury will still be looking into it. And we won’t have any idea of how its going,” the Grey Eminence pointed out.

“We know Mr. Gittes won’t crack. We had to double our previous pay-off, but he won’t talk. The man is as loyal to you as anyone. I also think we can reach out to Freeling, the man captured in the Dayton terrorist cell. I have people talking to his wife. ”

The Grey Eminence sighed, “All right, Clancy. We’ll let them all live. But there is going to come a day you’re going to have to agree to assassinate a target. Part of the job description. There’s no way around it.”

There’s always a way, the man thought, “We’re going to have to shift our lobbying efforts to the United Nations, now that they are overseeing Sybia’s reconstruction. But I think both Zoxxon and Grey and Branch will still get the contracts they are seeking.”

“Explain to me why you felt the need to get that woman you’re after involved?”

“Letitia Gahagan is a very important resource. She wants what we want: a better world. Granted, her philosophy is different from ours-”

“She shrunk the entire Sixth Fleet and left it in the Bill Cohen’s [Cohen was Secretary of Defense under Clinton] bathtub!”

“That just demonstrates her power, sir. If we can channel that ability into areas she is interested in, the Idiom will be invaluable.”

Grey eyed Epitome warily, “You want to fuck her, boy?”

Epitome winced, “I wouldn’t put it that way, sir, but she is attractive.”

“It’s a mistake. You need to step back from that part of the plan.”

“Don’t worry, she’s not interested.”

“Damn, that makes it worse. You’ll say something stupid to try and gain her trust, and she’ll go to the damned Lair Legion with what she knows.”

“I’m not so stupid to tell Idiom about the true nature of my work,” the Exemplary Man lied.

“See that you don’t. Let’s talk more about the Legion. They saved the day, but that’s precisely what we didn’t want.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Epitome got ready for the lecture.

“Sybia was supposed to be America’s moment: proof we could win a super war without outside help. We went into it expecting heavy casualties, but that was to spur the growth of our own paranormal forces. The Power Armor Division. The Mutant Draft. Increased spending on Homo Maximus. But those things are not going to happen, are they?”

“It’s unlikely, yes.”

“No, because once again, the day is saved, thanks to Fing Fan Foom and his crew of damn anarchists!” Grey’s voice was beginning to crack, “As long as the Lair Legion keeps sticking their noses in my business, I will never have the support to do what needs to be done. America will continue to be dependent on a force that is beyond our control. And, of course, there’s always the chance they may decide to try and take me out.”

“I agree. But we can’t do much about it. They are too powerful.”

The Grey Eminence coughed, “So you recommend appeasing them, Epitome?” asking a loaded question.

“No, but we can’t outfight them, or go after them politically, or economically. After the war, we can’t even try to attack their image. My advice is to lay low and wait for them to do something foolish to doom themselves. Then we can use our contacts to pile on: Senate investigations, IRS audits, media crusades. When their reputations are tarnished, they will no longer be seen as reliable, and we can get what we want.”

“Good idea. You’ve got thirty days to come up with something.”

“Sir?” Epitome asked, but that was a mere formality. He knew what was coming.

“Thirty days to come up with a plan to ruin the Lair Legion, and then another sixty to implement it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And let’s not forget Factor X is still out there. The reason this whole fiasco started, out there, laughing at us.”

“We seriously damaged his infrastructure,” Epitome argued weakly, “And now we know he has a telepath working for him. That explains how he’s been able to avoid capture.”

“To you, maybe. I think the reason is he’s just smarter than you. But I want that sonovabitch got, understand? He knows more about international crime than anyone alive. You want to make the world a better place, Epitome? Bring me him and that friggin’ dragon.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Mr. Epitome stood up and shook the Grey Eminence’s hand.



Next: I don’t know. I’m tempted to make an extremely vain survey and ask people their opinions of the story so far, because I’m needy like that. Regardless, it will be a while before I write a new story. I need to hit CSFB!’s archives and read a few of the fifty books sitting on my shelves. But it has been real fun and I guarantee I’ll have some stuff in time for Halloween.


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