WHO IS KILLING THE GREAT CAPES OF HEROPA?

By Andrez Bergen

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Copyright © 2013 Andrez Bergen
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78279-235-2

Contents

PROLOGUE: THE KÁRMÁN LINE…………………………………………..1HEROPA……………………………………………………………3GO WEST…………………………………………………………..41THE ORIGIN OF SOUTHERN CROSS………………………………………..69TWILIGHT OVER HOBOKEN………………………………………………89PATRIOT CLAIMS…………………………………………………….131THE CRIME CRUSADERS………………………………………………..171PRANCE, PRANCE, PRANCE……………………………………………..187BLACKJACK…………………………………………………………2356° OF TREPIDATION………………………………………………….241GUN HAPPY…………………………………………………………261A ROSE BY ANY OTHER STAIN…………………………………………..337MARVELLOUS MELBOURNE……………………………………………….359THE KNOCK-OFF……………………………………………………..385ROGUE’S GALLERY + ENCYCLOPÆDIA COMMIX………………………………..425ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS + ULTERIOR READING………………………………….436ARTIST BIOS……………………………………………………….452ABOUT THE AUTHOR…………………………………………………..456

CHAPTER 1

HEROPA

#100

While he may’ve felt like he’d been dropped on his head, he actuallylanded on his feet.

Even so, following on as this did from a spell of sustaineddarkness, Jack tottered in the middle of a sidewalk crammed withpedestrians. His body felt heavier, lethargic, cumbersome. Whenpeople began to shove past in brutal fashion, he beat one very hastyretreat to lean against a brick wall, overwhelmed and dazed.

There was a shop here, an archaic-looking place called the BigTrip Travel Agency, all posters of propeller-driven clipper planes,swirling bullfighters, and a dirigible marked with the livery ofLatverian Airways, from which disembarked gaily-smiling, beautifulpeople in 1940s apparel.

The agency also grabbed Jack’s attention because, back in hishometown, tourism had bird-dogged the itinerary of the dodo.

The man’s heart was racing. He tried his damnedest to calmdown, but this was bizarre.

In the reflection of one of the big windows, beneath a stripedmarquee, he’d noticed he was dolled up in a tight superhero costume— coloured a shade of dark blue, verging on cerulean — to which noone else here paid any heed. Peeling off the smothering mask, Jackinhaled deeply, coughed, and finally took time out to properly gawk.Revelling in the presence of no rain, he scanned a cloudless sky highabove, and dropped his gaze to a metropolis — all flying buttresses,concrete and glass. This was something, he would allow that much.Not quite the Emerald City, yet hardly a place to sneeze at.

On street level caroused mint-condition antique vehiclessnatched straight out of some tasteful car museum. Hurrying alongthe footpaths to either side were women in wild hats, kid gloves andfitted dresses with shoulder-pads, along with men in felt fedoras anddouble-breasted pinstripe suits who looked like they belonged in aphoto with his great grandfather — which probably they did.

“Welcome, sir.”

Outside Sam’s Delicatessen, next door to the travel agency, anelderly gent had positioned himself in front of Jack. He was dressedin a jarring red military-style uniform with gold lapels, the only oneof a horde of pedestrians to notice Jack’s presence. The two of themlooked like mismatched bookends in a sea of conformity.

“I’m Stan the Doorman.”

Jack decided he liked Stan’s eyes. They were warm and accompaniedby a suave white moustache above a winning smile.

“You may label me the Doormat,” the gent in red waffled on,”since there are some here who do just that — but I prefer to beconsidered a welcoming committee.”

Jack looked at him for a few seconds, rediscovering anew theability to speak. “Okay. Um. Can I call you Stan? That CoolMcCool?”

“Of course. And appreciated.”

“So — what is this place?”

“Everything has a starting point and your starting point is here.”

“Cryptic.”

“Actually, also very simple. Look around. Go on, then.”

As if to encourage his charge, the old man performed a creaky,horizontal bobbin routine right there on the footpath, turningseveral times, so Jack hung on to his coattails.

This city was immense.

It stretched in every direction he could see, making him feel likea flea in a ridiculous blue suit of his own choosing.

The monumental skyline sweated neoclassical touches, its architectureearly twentieth-century art deco colliding with Sovietformalism — offering tall, sharp-edged towers, soaring arches,looming statuary. Jack felt most of the places looked like enormouswedding cakes with kitsch columns and over-decorative façades.

One sculpture, a statue of some suited bigwig punching his fistheavenward, was in the vicinity size-wise of King Kong.

“Overboard,” Jack muttered.

“Fear not. All this has happened before, and it will all happenagain — but this time it happens in Heropa. It starts happening on abusy street in Grand Midtown. That corner skyscraper over there,the one that takes up all four corners of a city block, is the home ofthe Equalizers, and I suggest that you choose this particular buildingbecause there are people there who believe in you.”

“Sure.” Whatever, crossed Jack’s mind.

The skyscraper the old man pointed out was dozens of storeyshigh. It ascended into a bullet-shaped peak a thousand feet up, witha glossy white exterior finish and mirror windows that caughtdistorted reflections of the neighbours.

“Come on then. I’ll take you over. I am, you know, the building’sdoorman. Your first port of call,” he chuckled.

“Handy. One thing, though — other people don’t appear to seeme.”

“Give it time. The transition takes an hour or so. The Capes willhave no problem.”

Canvas awnings billowing in its doorways, a shiny, green, wood-panelledW-Class tram clattered past before they crossed athoroughfare on which 1930s and ’40s Packards, Buicks, MorrisMinors, even a two-tone tan and chocolate-brown Summit Tourerfrom the 1920s, moved slowly.

These vintage jalopies honked one another while a traffic cop injodhpurs, knee-high riding boots and white gloves, standing withrod-straight posture at the next intersection, used his whistle andenergetic arm movements to control the flow.

After passing the crossroads they proceeded through a grassysquare lined with elms and decorated by the occasional fountain andminiature pagoda, leading the two men to the tall, rocket-likebuilding in question.

Stan grabbed a brass lightning bolt handle in order to push opena glass door that bordered on monstrous, and stood aside allowingentry.

“Welcome to Timely Tower.”

“That’s appropriate,” Jack said as he brushed past.

“You get the inference?”

“I think so. Timely was the publishing company that predatedMarvel Comics, right? From around World War II — they call it thegolden age of comicbooks.”

“I must say I’m impressed.”

“Why so?”

“Many of our residents wouldn’t have an inkling.”

“Not that big a deal.”

Stan scrutinized the other man as he closed the door with a quietswish. “Sir, it’s never wise to doubt any knowledge.”

“Fair enough. Call me Jack, by the way.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Again with that debonair smile.

White marble paved the foyer inside, while shiny white wallswere indented with chrome fixtures. Suspended above a bank offour separate metal concertina elevator doors sat a woven squarebanner several metres in size, showing a circle pierced by asimplistic lightning bolt that cut diagonally down from the top leftcorner to the bottom right.

Whoever designed the thing had been sparing with the colours,since it was cast only in black, white and grey.

“The symbol of the Equalizers,” announced Stan, “designed by thegreat Israel Schnapps.”

“Nifty — but shouldn’t it then have an ‘E’ in the logo? Thatlightning bolt looks like an ‘N’ and,” here Jack cocked his head to theright, “there’s a ‘Z’. Something Zorro would conjure up if he had aset of tapestry tools, don’t you reckon?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“Jack. And you must have an artistic bone somewhere.”

“None I’m aware of — at my age the osseous matter tends toaccelerate into disrepair.” Stan also crooked his neck.”However … now you mention it, I can see the ‘Z’.”

“But no ‘E’.”

“Sadly amiss.”

“So, these people are expecting me, you say?”

“Certainly are.”

“Which floor?”

“The Penthouse Suite — of course.”

“Top of the heap, huh? Inside the bullet?”

“All the better to keep an eye on the city.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Stan didn’t respond. Either he’d missed the question or preferrednot to offer up his two cents.

A half-moon shaped reception counter stood nearby. The guardsitting behind it would’ve been somewhere in the vicinity of forty tosixty — hard to tell — and his gaunt, expressionless face ignoredthem, so Jack ignored it back.

The guard was cradling a softdrink can of something called Dixi-Colawith red and blue ovals on a white background. He had hisgaze fixed on a portable telly.

Jack stared at this small contrivance. “I thought TV wasn’tinvented till after the period we’re supposed to be in — given thedécor outside, I mean. Isn’t this the 1930s?”

“Is it? I have no idea. But there is some debate about the trueinventor of the television: Vladimir Kosma Zworykin, John LogieBaird, or Philo Taylor Farnsworth.”

Having heard of none of these people blessed with three names,Jack remained mum.

“It was commercially available from the late ’20s,” the oldconcierge went on, “so television wouldn’t be out of place here by anymeans. The TV dinner, on the other hand, wasn’t invented until 1945.”

Hearing about any kind of dinner made Jack’s stomach growl.

Over on the TV in the here and now, the monochrome picturerolled occasionally, but on it was an old guy in a clown suit with aventriloquist doll on his knee. The wooden figurine was crooning asad-sack jingle:

‘Be a Top Man, flee the Bop Man, and drink a bottle or can of Tarax TopTen flavours!’

By the end of this, Jack decided he’d had enough viewing time,so he turned around.

Inset beside one of the elevators, a little plaque read ‘TheFoundation Stone of this Building was laid by Mr William Eisner,President, Leland Baxter Paper Company’.

“Huh. I thought foundation stones had dates on them.”

“Well, now, as I think we’ve established, dates don’t matterhere,” said Stan.

The traction lift was one of those antique movie jobs with teakpanelling and bulbous globes; these announced each floor as itpassed in sluggish fashion. Jack had left Stan the Doorman in thelobby to do his real job, and after a month of Sundays and the piped-in,mind-numbing instrumental sounds of ‘A Walk in the BlackForest’, the cubicle reached the Penthouse Suite. This had its ownprivate globe with a ‘P’ marked on it.

There was a lovely leviathan awaiting him.

Shoving aside the metal concertina door like a shower curtain,she smiled down with something Jack would have called benevolence,if he knew what it looked like. He took in a face composed ofstrong cheekbones; enormous eyes with purple irises, long lashes,and tiny, swollen lips that in most cases would infer a mild foodallergy.

A full twelve inches higher than Jack, this particular giant wasgift-wrapped in frills and ribbons, most in plum, with a bigperiwinkle bowknot on her bosom, a pair of long white satin glovesand one very short, voluminous miniskirt.

She also had a headband holding in check lavender hairspiralling down to her ankles — a touch of Wonder Womaninterbred with far too much Sailor Moon, making her resemblesomeone dragged out of a manga comic and stuck on a pair oftowering legs.

“I’m Pretty Amazonia,” the woman announced with a tight smilethat nullified the sultry effect of her mouth. “And a quick warning — beforeyou conjure up any unwisecracks, I could break both yourlegs in quite the jiffy.”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“Oh, dandy. You must be Southern Cross. We’ve been expectingyou.” Pretty Amazonia gave him the once over. “To be honest, Ithought you’d be taller.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“I’ll live. Well, come on now.”

He followed the woman down a brightly lit passage along whichwere framed monochrome and primary colour pictures of heroes inaction and/or hamming it up for the artist.

There were dozens of these; no photos, but drawings in black andwhite or red, yellow, green and blue — heavily outlined in black — withnames attached like Lord Evolve-A-Lot, Kardak Da Mystic,Slam-Dunk Ninja, Babe Boon, The Soldier, Big Game Hunter,McBlack, Vesper, Mister Sniffer, Ace Harlem, Fraulein Helmet,Captain Atom, Cowboy Sahib, Flasher Lightning and Kid Squall,Sans Sheriff, Curvaceous Crustacean, Vege-Might, That BulletproofKid, Trick-Or-Teet, and Yarko the Utterly Greatest.

Some of the monikers fitted the costumes, while others lookedlike they were sorely mismatched and the designers colour-blind.Most made Jack want to chuckle.

Tucked in amidst the visual mayhem was a portrait of hisnewfound hostess, a classier rendering in black ink, pencil andminimal watercolour that accentuated her traits, including thenonplussed demeanour.

“Our rogue’s gallery,” said Pretty Amazonia as she sauntered ahead.

“That was you,” Jack mused, in hot pursuit. “Huh.”

Having passed a metal door with ‘G.M.R.’ initialled across it andthe Equalizers’ logo beneath that, Jack thought twice, doubled back,and was about to take a peek.

“Don’t go in there,” the woman warned.

“Why, is it dangerous?”

“No, just a white elephant — the Giant Map Room. Has a layerof dust as thick as my heels. C’mon — this way.”

They came to a set of double doors that the woman pushed open,revealing a huge inner sanctum, mostly white.

A Spartan, unadorned milky ceiling was far above them, alongwith a second-floor balcony that steered close by the walls and gavea view from up there to the room proper, where they stood.

Hanging from a picture rail that did a circuit of this space were aseries of replica white, lifesize plaster of Paris faces, cowls, visorsand helmets, likely lifted from those jokers in the passageway. Theylooked like death masks. The way in which the decorations stareddown at them made Jack lose count after a quick tot-up to twenty.

There was also a capacious, round white table with a carbon copyof the Equalizers’ symbol in the centre. From this angle he made outthe ‘Z’.

Two-dozen chairs wrapped around the table, and next to that sata couple of comfy ivory-coloured couches beside a glass-toppedcoffee table. On the table was a collection of cardboard cup-placematswith the same lightning bolt logo.

“Home, sweet home.” She scrutinized Jack again. “You certainlytravel light. No luggage. Just that mask in your hands you flaunt sonervously. Relax — I won’t bite. Not yet.”

“Who are you people?” he decided to ask.

“Haven’t you heard? Thought Stan would’ve filled you in. We’rethe Equalizers — sworn protectors of Heropa City, guardians of thepeace, et cetera, et cetera, blah, blah.”

She laughed — making him decide straight away he liked her.Sure she was formidable, but she also had a solid sense of humour.

“This place is impressive,” Jack said, as he wistfully struggled formore meaningful dialogue.

“What, Heropa? You’ll get over it.” The woman looked him overonce again. “You know, you remind me of someone.”

“I do?” Jack’s tone was edgy. “Who?”

“The actor George Peppard, when he was younger — circaBreakfast at Tiffany’s. If he’d excessively worked out, I mean.”

“Okay.”

“You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?”

“No.”

“Sad. So, take a seat. The others will be here shortly.”

“What others?”

“The other Equalizers.”

“Okay.”

Jack eyed one of the couches and went on over.

There was an attractive hardback tome nearby, something about1930s automobiles, which he reached over to grab. As he did so, ahuge shadow appeared across the table’s surface and someonetossed a newspaper onto it.

The broadsheet grabbed more of his attention than the shadow orthe book.

A headline was splashed across the top, each word severalcentimetres in height and in thick caps.

PEOPLE’S SAVIOURSLAIN!

Beneath the by-line — trumpeting that the article was written bysome journo called Chief Reporter Gypsie-Ann Stellar — sat a sub-headerin unnecessary inverted commas:

“Shots Fired From Grassy Knoll.”

The paper was called the Port Phillip Patriot, with the price five centsand credits including Donald Wright (publisher), Jean-ClaudeForest (editor) and Arthur Simek (designer). Its huge front-pagesketch came close to inciting Jack, again, to burst out laughing.

In black and white, this one showed an advertising billboard oftwo happy, smiling kids with a superhero crouched between them.A mask covered the top half of the hero’s face, shades of CaptainAmerica. He had a toothy, honest grin as he gave the thumbs-upbeneath a slogan that read Royal Vendetta, for Strong White Teeth! andpositioned just above his giant brow was the letter ‘O’.

Impacted dead centre in this fifteenth letter of the alphabet was aragged hole with two tiny legs dangling out, apparently lifeless.

“Bull’s-eye,” Jack muttered.

“An’ the same guy.”

“Huh?”

He glanced up to see a ton of bricks stuck together in the shape ofa person. There were even patches of white cement smeared betweenthe ochre-coloured bricks.

This arrival had on a giant-size trench coat that was open,displaying more paving across the torso, and propped up on theback of his great, stony skull was a small hat at a jaunty angle. Thecharcoal-grey straw number had an indented, fedora-style crownlike every other man Jack had seen here, but contrarily sported anarrow brim, only about two inches wide, making it more 1960s than1940s.

“The guy on the billboard an’ the one inside it,” the rock man wassaying. “They’re one an’ the same. The Big O, as you can see from thesymbol on his mask — a.k.a. Sir Omphalos. Not sure if we should belabellin’ it irony, coincidence, or damn well freaky.”
(Continues…)Excerpted from WHO IS KILLING THE GREAT CAPES OF HEROPA? by Andrez Bergen. Copyright © 2013 Andrez Bergen. Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
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