I have eight or ten completed stories kicking around, and I think I'll post them on Fridays for the next couple of months. There are six or seven stories of the Occult Investigations Agency, and four or five involving the Freedom League. All were written while Mutants & Masterminds second edition was the thing, and all use properties from Green Ronin. Forgive that transgression, and perhaps you'll like these. And if not, well, they were written quite a while ago, back when I wrote regularly and thought maybe I'd do something about it. Before the brain tumour, and the cancer, and everything in between.
Domestic Dispute
"Lamb, Toomey, this is our new employee, Jedediah Cabot," said A. Martin Campbell in the offices of the Occult Investigations Agency. "That will be your desk, Jed."
Cabot winced. "Cabot is fine. I'm not fond of my first name."
"Ah," said Campbell. "Names are important things, eh?" The small man and the woman nodded. "Cabot has excellent references and already has his PI license." Cabot noted that the agency was emphasizing "occult" rather than "investigations."
Cabot offered his hand.
Lamb Hutton, a big raw-boned woman in a plain dress, stood from her chair and curtsied. Toomey grunted; he was some kind of little person in a brown suit. Neither shook Cabot's hand.
Cabot stuck his hand in his pocket. "Nice to meet you."
"You'll be pleased to hear that gentleman who was just leaving is our first client, Mr. Campbell," said Toomey in a thick Irish brogue. "A Mr. Brogan." No, thought Cabot, Toomey wasn't a standard midget or dwarf—he was too well-proportioned. He was a little man.
Hutton said, "He wants us to find his wife. He says there's no history of abuse. I wrote it on the form." Her voice was a scratchy contralto.
"May I?" asked Cabot as he picked up the form, covered in fine cramped copperplate. "Did you ask him what he did time for?"
"What does that mean?" asked Hutton.
"He was probably in prison. The build, the look, the suit—it's a typical going away gift from the state. Did he say why she left him?"
"They argued."
"About?"
"He didn't say."
"Did he leave a picture?"
"Two. Show him, Toomey." The short Irishman handed over two charcoal sketches of a woman. One was a headshot and the other was a nearly complete portrait, from the shins up. "He's an artist." She said it as though it excused sins.
"But he has trouble drawing feet," said Toomey. "Still, that's a pretty lass, and I'd be wanting to win her back myself."
"But no photo?"
"She was against photos, he said."
Cabot made a tsk sound. "I don't know how you guys do this in Freedom City, but back in Vegas we would see this as odd."
"Why?" she asked.
Before Cabot could respond, Campbell said, "Miss Hutton grew up in a remote religious community. She really is new to all of this."
"Yesterday I saw a tractor," she said happily. "You know, if we had had one of those, I wouldn't have had to do all of the ploughing myself."
Cabot hoped she was joking.
"She is, however, an expert in certain kinds of magic and witchcraft."
"And you?" Cabot asked the little man.
"I guard wine cellars."
"Mr. Toomey's specialty is faerie and myth."
"I'm sure it is," said Cabot. "So I'm the actual investigator?"
"Among your other gifts."
"You have gifts?" asked Hutton.
"Hunches. That's all. I have hunches sometimes."
"Mr. Cabot knows a great deal about psychic phenomena. We also have Mr. Markur, an expert in demonology, and I'm trying to hire a voodoo expert."
"Great," said Cabot. "Gotta cover all the bases."
"Where is that sulphurous bastard Markur?" asked Toomey.
"That's not very nice, Toomey," chided Hutton.
"No, literally. His parents never married."
Campbell said, "He's gone to get his beginner's licence. I'm sure he'll be in soon. Congratulations on the first case—Mr. Cabot, it seems you came on board just in time. I'll see you at the end of the week with paycheques." And with back slaps all around, Campbell left.
"So you're the real investigator," said Toomey.
"I didn't mean it that way."
"Would you like a little arm wrestle then, just to settle a question of manhood?"
"I don't see how that's going to prove anything about being an investigator."
"For fun." The Irishman's eyes glinted in the fluorescent lights.
"Why don't we work on Mr. Brogan's case instead? We'll do what work we can over the phone first."
"For honour."
Cabot sighed. "All right." They went into the boardroom, where the Irishman laid on the table. Cabot put his arm up. Hutton counted—"one two three go!"—and the Irishman slammed Cabot's knuckles to the table.
"Ye didn't try!"
"Of course not. If a three-foot Irishman challenges you to an arm wrestle, he's either very strong or very stupid. I am going on faith that as my co-worker you can't be stupid. Don't make me change my mind."
Cabot stood to leave the room. Damned if he was going to rub his knuckles when the little man could see him. They hurt.
"Where are ye going?"
"My desk, if you must know. I want to get started on the Brogan case."
Hutton shyly said, "Can we watch?"
"I— Oh, all right."
A dozen phone calls later, Cabot said, "Okay. They'll fax me Brogan's record when they find it. HR at Wolfram Quarry said he's always handed his material in on time but wouldn't give me details on his history, which is good of them but a nuisance for us. The Brogans didn't belong to any clubs, and I'm no closer to finding her social security number. According to Brogan, it was a common-law marriage, but he claims she took his last name. If so, it was informal, because there's no record of it."
"Is that legal?" asked Hutton.
"Sure. You can call yourself whatever you want if there's no intent to defraud. This is Freedom City—there are lots of folks calling themselves the crimson this and the golden that, and it's perfectly legal. What I can't figure out is how she's getting by without a birth certificate or social security number. She's only been gone a week, but based on what Brogan gets paid, she couldn't have had much money."
"What does that mean?"
"You need money. Either she's staying with friends, or she's doing something where she gets paid cash."
"Or barter. We used barter."
"Yeah, I look at her pictures I think of a kind of barter," said Cabot. "First we check the neighbours."
Markur still wasn't back. Cabot decided that the odds of another customer coming in were low, and said, "Ms. Daya can handle anyone who comes in. Come on, you two. The state requires you to have a thousand hours of on the job training with a licensed PI, so it's time to start hour two. We can take my car." He stopped. "Mr. Toomey, I don't suppose you have a booster seat?"
"Remember that I beat you at arm wrestling," grumbled Toomey.
"Remember that I didn't try," said Cabot.
* * *
The Brogans lived in a small duplex in a low-rent suburb. Cabot looked at the house from the curb. "They must have been the only family in the neighbourhood without kids."
"Kids are nice," said Hutton. "I prefer children."
Cabot started to say something and then shut his mouth. Instead he said, "They had goats in your community?"
"And sheep and cows. But I liked playing with the children."
"I'm sure you did."
"Do you have children?"
"No. I think I'm barren. Cursed, you know."
"Sorry. If you want children, I mean."
"I'd love children."
"Then I'm sorry. Let's start with the neighbours. You get to watch, okay? Don't talk."
"But—"
"It's a learning experience."
At least Toomey didn't have any problems keeping up with his short little legs. He rang the bell. A young woman answered it, neat and tidy but tired-looking. A young mother, probably. Cabot was aware of how odd they looked.
"Hi, we're looking for April Brogan."
"Are you bill collectors?"
"No. Actually, we're private investigators. Well, I am. These two are watching me today."
"You're actors?" she said. "I love the Mongo books."
Toomey blinked at her.
"Yes, he is." Cabot gestured diffidently. "I asked them not to talk."
"It's okay," she said.
"I'm not an actor," said Toomey.
"Yes sir, Mr. Toomey, you're a star. I know, sir," said Cabot to Toomey. He wished the little man's shins weren't such a small target for kicking. "He's not a character actor. Can we come in?"
"Sure. Mind the children's toys. It's naptime."
"Oh, I love children," said Hutton.
"You're an actor, too?"
"No, I'm a heretic. I got thrown out."
"Method actors," said Cabot heartily. "Did you know April?"
"Sure," said the woman. "I'm Tracy McLeod." She held out her hand. Cabot shook it. The other two didn't seem to notice.
"You're Scottish?" asked Toomey, perhaps a touch belligerently.
"No, my husband's family. You're going to have to tone down that accent as Mongo."
"He doesn't have the part yet," said Cabot, "and he's here to watch, not talk." If Toomey noticed, he gave no sign.
"Can I offer you guys coffee?"
"No, that's fine," said Cabot.
"Do you have wine?" asked Toomey.
"Oh, I don't drink alcohol," said Hutton.
"Just a bottle of pink zinfandel," said Tracy.
"I'll take a look at it," said Toomey.
"Can we get back on task, Mr. Toomey?" Cabot said, "We won't take up much of your time, Mrs. McLeod. Can you tell us about April?"
"Well, pretty thing. Kind of...ignorant. No, that makes you think she was rude, and she wasn't. Innocent, that's what she was. You'd swear she was born yesterday the way she acted sometimes."
"Did she have a thing about being photographed?"
Mrs. McLeod nodded. "Among other things. Shoes, too. She never showed her feet. Even sunbathing in the yard, she always wore slippers or shoes. And she never gained weight. She could eat what she wanted, do whatever she wanted, and she always looked the same."
Cabot nodded. "Did the Brogans argue?"
"Oh, sure, they got into some regular donnybrooks"—she smiled at Toomey. "But they pretty much always made it up again, though I got the impression that it was always his choice of a way to make up."
"Oh?"
"Well, she called him His Nibs sometimes when she was ticked at him, and even though she knew she had a body that was just built for men to ride—and sometimes she acted it, too—it never seemed to be the thing on her mind."
"So she wasn't...active?"
"Well, they were, but I never got the sense she, you know, started anything."
"You were close?"
"We were neighbours. Sharing a wall, you share other things."
"Did she have any friends or family that you knew of?"
Tracy shook her head. "None she ever talked about."
"Hobbies?"
"She liked cartoons. The older ones, not the new computer ones. Preferred them in a movie theater, but they have a lot on DVD."
"Did she go out to see them often?"
"Well, he was home three days a week, working. He's an artist. And the government man comes every month."
"And?"
"Just once I heard him with the government man, I heard him yelling, 'You want me to strip naked? Okay. I'll strip naked. No tattoos.' I don't see what's so wrong with tattoos. I mean, I have a tattoo."
Hutton perked up and in an attempt to keep them on track, Cabot said, "That's all? Did you see her leave?"
"Well, she took a cab."
"You remember the date? The cab company?"
"Sure. It was the twelfth, because I had to take a cab to get Joey—my youngest—to the doctor. I thought her cab was our cab. We missed the bus and you know how long it takes to get a doctor's appointment."
"How is he now?" asked Hutton.
"Oh, he's fine, thanks. It was an FC Taxi, about three o'clock that afternoon because the appointment was three thirty."
"Thank you. You've been very kind. If you think of anything else, here's my card."
"Oh, you're welcome. It's not every day that actors and private investigators come to call." She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and met them at the front door. "Here's the wine, Mr. Toomey."
Toomey held the bottle for a moment and then gave it back. "Because you've been so kind, this is a good bottle."
"Why—thank you."
Outside, Toomey said, "Are we not going back to the embarrassment of your car and the booster seat?"
"No, we have more neighbours to question."
"That was very subtle, Mr. Toomey," said Hutton.
"Thank ye."
"What?" asked Cabot.
"Did ye not feel it?" asked Toomey.
"No, what?"
"I improved her wine. Not for nothing am I a guardian of wine cellars."
"Riiight. I thought you were going to drink it."
Toomey shuddered. "Even with my help, it's a mediocre vintage. But she meant well."
"She did," said Cabot.
"So back to the office?" asked Hutton.
"No. We ask the same sorts of questions of everyone on the block."
"This is as bad as farming."
* * *
"My feet hurt," said Toomey, back in the office.
"You need better shoes if you're going to be an investigator," said Cabot.
"We didn't get anything from those other people."
"We got confirmation that Mrs. McLeod didn't lie to us."
"She wouldn't lie," said Hutton. "Why would she lie?"
Cabot glanced over at the woman. "She might lie if she were having an affair with Brogan. Or with April, for that matter."
"She didn't!"
"No, she didn't, but we didn't know that before we talked to her. And now we know that she took the cab to the Radiodeum to see the Keystone Cops festival."
"And disappeared from there."
"More or less." Cabot's phone rang. "Cabot." He scribbled on a piece of paper, then said, "Interesting. Who do I talk to? Thanks. I owe you dinner." He hung up and turned to the others. "Our Mr. Brogan used to be a supervillain."
"What? And who are you?" A compact, sturdy man filled the doorway. He looked to be younger than Cabot, but hard-used by life. Cabot couldn't identify his accent.
"Oh," said Hutton. "Seth, this is Jedediah Cabot. Jed, this is Seth. Seth knows a lot about demons. He spent about six hundred years in Hell."
"Lamb, we have been over this. We do not discuss these matters with outsiders.
"He works with us now."
"Still."
"Six hundred years?" asked Cabot.
"Aye," said Markur. "I was fighting for the English under contract when a filthy papist sorceror opened a gateway to Hell and my entire company ended there. We were tormented though we were living men."
Cabot nodded slowly. "And now you're here."
"I am. I am grateful to Mr. Campbell's agent, who freed me."
"Of course you are." Cabot swallowed. He thought, I need to have a talk with Mister A. Martin Campbell. "In the meantime, we have two leads to follow up. Someone needs to talk to Mr. Brogan and a group of someones need to canvas the area around the Radiodeum to see if anyone spotted April Brogan."
"And who is April Brogan?"
"They'll fill you in on the cab ride there, Mr. Markur. I'll go talk to Mr. Brogan. Call me if you discover anything." Once outside, he said to himself, "If any of you know how to use a phone."
* * *
Brogan was just getting home from the office, his portfolio under his arm. Cabot intercepted him just before the door. "Can we talk?"
"Have you found her?"
"Not yet. But we need to talk." He shrugged. "I know about the joint and what you did to get there."
Brogan slumped into himself. "You want coffee?"
"Okay."
The kitchen was small and untidy: dirty dishes piled everywhere. Brogan had to kick clothes out of the way for Cabot to sit down. He fussed with the coffee maker. "She never learned to make coffee, you know?"
Cabot nodded. "You know they had a supervillain name all ready for you when the Arrow caught you."
"Really? What was the name?"
"Larceny Ink."
Brogan wrinkled his nose. "Too long. Wouldn't play."
"Hey, you had an axe. So tell me about it."
"I grew up in a bad neighbourhood, in the Fens. I wasn't going to school, so I divided my time between being tough and drawing. That was all I liked to do besides drinking and proving what a bad ass I was. Anyway, I broke into this haunted house, on a dare, and had to provide proof. I saw this set of ink bottles, different colours of ink, and I grabbed them."
"You remember the address?"
"Sure. 105 Chestnut. Anyway, afterward, you can imagine my surprise when the gun I had been drawing fell off the page, full-size, even though I had been drawing it at one-half size. And when I put it back on the paper, it turned back into a drawing. So I was young and stupid. I drew a bunch of guns and futuristic-looking armor and used them to rob a bank. I got away with it, and I was pretty pleased with myself. I had money. I drank a lot. I was a big shot, man. Except I told my friends, and they swiped the pages. I don't know where those guns are now. Sugar? The milk's turned."
"Black is fine." The coffee was awful, but Cabot drank it anyway. Anything to keep Brogan talking.
"So I got this bright idea: tattoos. Nobody could steal it from me if I had tattoos. I gave a guy the magic ink, right, and had him do a set of drawings on me. Axes, guns, shield, all sorts of stuff. Did maybe three jobs when the Arrow caught me."
"And you did time."
"Oh, yeah. They were going through a law and order phase, and I turned eighteen waiting for trial. Fortunately nobody ever got hurt in my crimes, but I was an example. And in prison, they lasered off the tattoos. I was a model prisoner, because frankly it sucked. I just wanted to be quit of it, right? Worked on my art instead. You can do some art assignments from a jail cell. Castle Comics bought some of my stuff."
"So it worked out."
"I got parole, but terms are I can't see any of my old friends or any other undesirables. I have to have a parole meeting once a month, and I can never get a tattoo."
"You didn't tell them about the ink?"
"No. It was pretty much used up by then. Tattoos take a lot of ink, or mine did."
"So you were out."
"Yeah. I got a grant of some money when I got out—Wainwright had something going at the time—and I buckled down. Except I didn't drink any more—I get violent when I drink—and I didn't see my old friends, and, well, I was lonely."
"You drew April."
"Uh-huh. Did pretty well on her, except for her feet. We were pretty happy, I figured."
"Did you put her back on the page?"
"Early on, but I gave it up. The one day I burned the page with her, it was a celebration. She was real."
"Except she was still dependent on you for everything." Brogan didn't say anything. "Your prisoner, you might say. And she might have felt that she was your little sex toy, because you brought her into existence."
"She was happy. We were happy."
"Yeah."
"You'll find her, right? I— I miss her."
"We'll find her. We'll give her the choice of coming back to you, though. You gave her life, Brogan. You have to let her live it."
Cabot walked out. His phone rang before he got to the car.
* * *
Hutton, Toomey, and Markur got out of the cab at the Radiodeum. "We'll question people," said Toomey. "I know how to do this now."
"It's just like talking," agreed Hutton.
"Hey—hey! Down here!" A young woman stuck her head over the ticket booth counter so Toomey could see her. "I'm looking for this woman. Have you seen her?"
"Oh, her. The Pavlovian Belle. She comes in whenever we're doing an animation festival."
"Last week."
"Pavlovian Belle?" asked Hutton.
"Sure—the men salivate when she comes by. She wasn't with her husband last week, so we were mopping drool."
"That's disgusting," said Hutton.
"Tell me about it."
"But you saw her?" asked Toomey.
"She went in and then I never saw her come out."
"Do you mind if we talk to the projectionist?"
"I should care, so long as you don't watch the movie? Go on in."
They climbed the stairway to the projectionist booth and knocked. A young fat man opened the door, stroking crumbs from his beard. "Yeah?" When he saw Hutton, he began tucking in his shirt-tails.
Markur looked him over with evident distaste and finally said, "Have you seen this woman?"
The projectionist looked at the photocopy of the drawing. "Oh, yeah. I watch her through the window. Once I have the focus correct, nothing to do until the next reel change, and she's worth watching, even from up here and behind."
"Do you remember her from last Thursday?"
He nodded. "She was there without her man, and there were guys all over her, walking over to her to ask if she wanted popcorn or a drink or some chocolate or a hot dog" — he sniggered. "I don't think she got to see any of 'Speakeasy Sassy' or 'Keystone Custard'. Anyway, then this woman pushes everyone away—she's tiny, even shorter than you, and boom, folks leave her alone."
"Did you know the midget?"
"Of course I did. It was Roxie. The Toon. From the Toon Gang."
Finally Toomey said, "A gangster?"
"Yeah! The cartoon gangster. All of them come; they like to see themselves in the cartoons."
"Where did they go?"
"They left through the left fire exit."
"You let them?" asked Markur.
"Are you kidding? The Toons kill people. Besides, she wasn't fighting it."
"Tell me of these Toons."
"They're gangsters, from the Keystone Cops cartoons—in fact, they're in Keystone Custard—Boss Moxie, Joey, Knuckles, Lefty. The Toy Boy brought them to life, and they stay around. But they're cartoons, so they can't die. They just don't understand that other people can die."
"They cannot die?"
"I'll wager they have no souls," said Toomey.
"Yeah, you squash'em, they pop back. They're cartoons. Haven't you ever seen cartoons?"
All three investigators shook their heads.
"And they say I need to get a life."
* * *
The fire exit led to an alley; the alley opened onto Dillin Street. Markur looked at the shops lining the street and said, "Someone will know where they went."
Twenty minutes later, they had an address: A woman in a clothing store had heard Roxie, the Toon woman, complain about the Ocean Heights amusement park.
"Presumably she is held for some sort of ransom," said Markur. They hailed a cab. "Toomey," said Markur, "you can telephone Cabot."
"I'll only be touching the phone if I can gloat."
"I think gloating would be good." Markur pulled his coat aside and touched the hilt of the hunting knife fastened to his belt. "And a foe that cannot be killed is worthwhile."
* * *
The taxi driver let them off at the front gates to Ocean Heights Amusement Park. Memorial Day was still weeks away, so the gates were closed.
Markur tested the iron gates; they were locked. "No latch on the other side, so there's no point throwing Toomey over the top."
"Hey, you great galoot. Don't be talking about throwing me."
Hutton looked down at the flowerbeds that lined the base of the wall that surrounded this part of the park. "Give me a moment," she said.
She slipped off her plain Mary Jane shoes and her socks and stood in the dirt for a moment. Then she chanted an incantation. The earth grumbled and the scent of fresh-turned soil filled the air. A tunnel opened up before her, leading under the wall.
She took out a kerchief and wiped sweat from her brow. "We can go in now."
"Aye."
They scrambled down the tunnel, with Hutton last, carrying her shoes. "Close it," said Markur.
"Wouldn't it be good to have an escape?" asked Toomey.
"She could escape using it. They could escape using it. And it will attract attention." Hutton nodded and spread her toes in the grass as she chanted a different spell. "Besides," said Markur, "cartoons are a children's entertainment. What could they do?"
"Do you have any idea where they are?" asked Hutton.
"No, but if they're cartoons given life, that sounds like magic to me," said Markur.
"Ohhhh," said Hutton, and then, "It's a big park. I don't sense any magic in particular."
Toomey pointed to a fountain. "There's a pool of water right there."
"That would help." Hutton plucked a blade of grass. She carefully floated it on the surface of the water and murmured to it; it spun madly and then settled down. "That way," she said.
* * *
Cabot found the maintenance entrance to the park and drove in. Some quick talking got him past the guard and a copy of a park map. The park was huge and he had no clue where the Toon Gang or April Brogan would be.
The Toons didn't need to eat, although they could. He didn't know if April Brogan needed to eat. The Toons would need a place to stash their car, a miniature Model T Ford, but didn't need much else in the way of creature comforts. He didn't know what April Brogan needed.
Damn it. There was too much he didn't know. Okay. He was going to have to go hunch-searching.
He looked around to make sure that no one was watching him. He closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind out, then examined the first thing that popped up when he thought "Toon Gang." It was a circle of Model T Fords. He stored that away and emptied his mind again. This time, he thought of April Brogan, and the first thing that popped up in his mind was her looking in a mirror.
Wary with the knowledge that his hunches had been wrong before, Cabot looked at the park map. In the children's rides there was a Model T ride, which might have been what he saw; the Toon car would fit with the children's rides, but how would they drive it in and out? And how would it fit into the ride itself? He set that thought aside.
But here was something: the Fun House of Mirrors was near the back of the Midway, and not far from the maintenance shed, which was also close to a second freight entrance. It was also across the park from him.
Cabot jogged for the Fun House of Mirrors.
* * *
"Inside the building, but I can only sense one magical entity," said Hutton.
"Perhaps the others are out," said Toomey. "It seems to be a busy life."
"They would have left at least one with Mrs. Brogan," said Markur. "That must be the one you feel. Mr. Toomey, do you want to sneak up to the building? Your fae ways are suited to this."
"I'm a clurichaun. Wine cellars, Markur. Wine cellars."
"Please?" asked Hutton.
Toomey sighed and vanished from sight. The other two watched and then the question of stealth became irrelevant because two of the Toon men—each a handspan taller than Toomey—appeared in the doorway. They leaned there, one with long ape-like arms and a matchstick protruding from his mouth, the other smoking a cigarette and flipping a coin.
Markur strode forward, his hunting knife in his hand. "What are you doing?" he asked.
The two looked at him. "I'm havin' a smoke. It says no smokin' in dere. What's it look like I'm doing?"
"I want April Brogan."
"Don't we all, chump." The man spat. "Beat it."
"I will take her back."
The gorilla-like one stepped forward. "Uh...I don't t'ink so." He cracked his knuckles.
"You deal wit' da maroon," said the other Toon. "I'll tell da boss."
"Put da toothpick away and take yer beatin' like a man. In da hospital, tell'em Knuckles sent ya."
Markur grinned and said, "Toothpick? I think you'll find it is a longer fang than that." His knife grew in his hand until it was a sword.
"Sheesh," said the one in the pinstripe suit, just before Toomey appeared from nowhere and smashed down on his head. The hat crumpled and the Toon did too, until he looked like a squeezebox. His coin went tink on the ground and rolled to a stop, where it blinked at them.
"You been rubbin' fertilizer on dat or dat just the stuff you talk?" Knuckles swung and missed Markur, who slashed once. Knuckles' head slid off his body and fell to the ground, followed by thick steak-like slabs of the rest of him. "Geez," said Knuckles' head.
"That was easy enough," said Toomey.
"Go look for the woman," said Markur.
The collapsed Toon popped to his full three and three-quarter feet size with a sound like a champagne cork. "You realize, of course," he said, "dat dis means war."
Toomey stopped without going into the Fun House of Mirrors. "So it is to be a donnybrook."
Knuckles' arm reached out from the pile and began stacking slabs. They melded together to reform the gangster.
"This is more like Hell than I expected," said Markur. He cut Knuckles' legs off.
"You is startin' to annoy me," said Knuckles. He reached over and grabbed Markur's legs with his long arms. Markur cut off one hand at the wrist, but by then his legs had somehow rejoined his body.
* * *
Cabot crested the small hill that separated the kiddie midway from the main midway, and saw them there: Hutton watching at a distance as Markur sliced and resliced Knuckles (and where did Markur get that sword, Cabot wondered) while Toomey faced Lucky. Toomey picked Lucky up and tossed him many yards aside. Even though the Toon must not have weighed much, it was an incredible throw; Lucky dove into the pavement and bounced like a rubber ball, then rebounded off a lamppost and headed back for Toomey.
Cabot came up behind Hutton and said, "We have to stop them. Our only chance is to talk to April Brogan, and we can't do that if they're out here brawling."
"You go in and talk to her; I'll stop them."
Cabot knew he shouldn't let her, but he was the only one who knew enough to talk to April Brogan. He angled around the fighters as she started to chant and looked back at the doorway—
—and saw a maw of earth open and swallow Lucky just as he landed.
She had not been joking about the ploughing. He ducked into the front door of the attraction—
—and came face to face with himself, in a mirror.
Cabot held his hand out to the left wall. If this were a fair labyrinth, he would be able to trace his way through.
"Stop right there." A woman's voice, made out of dreams and desires. Cabot felt a shiver run down his spine. He hadn't thought about a woman since his wife died, and he resented this woman's voice for putting thoughts like that back into his head. All he could see was himself.
"My name is Cabot," he said.
"I don't care. You're a man."
"You're April Brogan?" He had read that Roxie sounded like Lina Lamont from Singing In The Rain. "I've been hired to talk to you on Mr. Brogan's behalf."
"Oh, all right. Straight ahead and push on that mirror."
He pushed; the latch released; and he pushed again to swing the mirror open. He stepped into a small corridor, and then into a small white room with a red couch and a black card table with folding chairs.
And Boss Moxie sat on the couch, with a miniature moll perched on the arm. April stood near the card table, touching the cards nervously. Cabot was only half-surprised; he didn't think the gang split up much. Wasn't there a fourth one?
He heard a gunshot outside. That was probably the fourth one.
Cabot said, "Boss Moxie. April." He smiled at the moll. "I'm afraid I don't know your name."
"Roxie," she said, and snapped her gum. "Charmed, I'm sure."
"We heard the noise your boys are making out there."
"They got a little eager to see April here. They might have been rash." He had to think, dammit. There was so much weirdness in Freedom City, you could only learn so much of it before you moved. The Toons at least he had read about. "Of course, your boys have a tendency to shoot first and talk later."
"That's why they're my boys. Talking's for gunsels."
"Well, I'm here to take April away. Just for a little while."
"She ain't going."
"I'd like to hear that from her." He looked over at April.
"Go ahead. Tell him you ain't going."
"I'm going to stay here. They're my people."
"Because they were born from ink instead of flesh? You can have whatever life you want. They're bad because they're drawn that way." He hoped he would never have to repeat this conversation to anyone else.
"I don't have any life with him."
"You don't have to go back to him."
"All right."
Cabot took a step closer to her. "Good. We'll take you to our office, you can talk with Max there. He doesn't have to know where you live."
She nodded and stepped toward him.
"Boss!" cried Roxie.
"You shut yer yap, punk," said Boss Moxie. He stood and produced a tommygun, aimed at Cabot.
"Sorry, April," said Cabot as he raised his hands. "You just exchanged one kind of imprisonment for another." Toomey appeared from behind the couch and hit Boss Moxie on the head. The gangster fell over like a sack of lead.
"You should be glad to be seeing me now," said Toomey.
"No!" cried Cabot. "That wasn't my plan."
"Aw, rats," said Roxie. "There go my plans of havin' someone normal height to buy stuff for us."
Toomey said, "Be proud of your height."
"No, you little dipstick. Everybody knows we're the Toon Gang, but they didn't know her."
"But..." said April. "That's all? You didn't...like me?"
"I like you lots, Toots. But a girl's got needs, y'know."
Moxie stirred. Toomey said, "Must be going. Mrs. Brogan?"
Cabot grabbed April's arm and pulled her to the exit.
"Don't call me Mrs. Brogan. Please."
Toomey said, "Would it be too much to ask you what's going on?"
As they exited into the bright May sunshine, they heard from inside the building, "You ain't heard the last o' Boss Moxie!"
Hutton and Markur hurried over to them. "This way!" cried Cabot. "And run!"
In the car, Cabot said, "I think you just got us involved in a gang war."
Afterword
So I have maintained elsewhere that these are from a campaign, and they are but only in the loosest way.
When we tried out DC Heroes I ran what was essentially this group. I remember that Seth, Cabot, Lamb, and Gideon were characters, and I don't remember whether there were one or two other players. A few years later, I was looking to practice writing, and I happened on that set-up. Loosely inspired by the campaign, I wrote this story and others, but I can't tell you where I end and the others begin.
Nonetheless, in the spirit of fairness, I can tell you:
- Jedediah Cabot is based off a character created by Ian Lim.
- Seth Markur pretty much is the character created by Brian Dorion.
- Lamb Hutton is based off a character created by Tina Klein-Lebbink.
- Dr. Gideon Cross is based off a character created by Viktor Haag.
Two other people played in the DC Heroes campaign, but I haven't the foggiest memory of who their characters were. If I've included them and not credited them, it's because I don't remember. Jog my memory and I'll give you credit. The campaign took place in the DC Universe but in a fictional Canadian city, the city of Wellington.
When I wrote the stories, I created the characters from memory as Mutants & Masterminds characters (PL 7) and set them in a version of Freedom City. I no longer have those writeups. Still, I can probably recreate them as ICONS characters. Here's one.
| Jedediah Cabot |
|---|
| PRW | CRD | STR | INT | AWR | WIL | Stamina | Determination |
|---|
| 3 | 4 | 3 | 4 | 4 | 5 | 8 | 4 |
| Powers | Specialties |
|---|
- Fair (4) Precognition (Limit: Unpredictable)
- Extra: ESP (Limit: Preparation)
- Extra: Telekinesis (Limit: Tiring)
| - Investigation Expert (+2)
- Law (+1)
- Psychiatry (+1)
|
| Qualities |
|---|
- Skeptical Private Investigator
- Moved to get away from tragedy
- Unreliable, uncontrollable psychic powers
|
The Toon Gang is from Freedom City. Brogan is a take on DC's original Tattooed Man. A. Martin Campbell is inspired by various bosses I have had.
