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Chapter One: Life, Death and the Manhattan Mangler

The tree was critical.  The blueprints for the Governor’s mansion clearly showed that the tree’s branches came tantalizingly close to a second-floor window.  It was less obvious that the window led to the room of a servant scheduled to work during tonight’s fundraiser.  Most importantly, the Governor’s security detail only sent a guard past the tree every forty-five seconds, plus or minus fifteen.  The superhero had spent an hour counting.  Lash had estimated that the leap through the open window would be four feet.  He could do that.  Maybe.  Being an unpowered hero was always interesting. 

Lash lay behind the courtyard fountain as the hapless guard wandered past the tree again, his heels clicking against the cobble-stone path.  The beam of the guard’s flashlight soon faded around the near corner.  Forty-five seconds. 

Lash peeked over the fountain.  He was alone.  The splashing jets of water would help muffle any sound. 

His whip grabbed easily around a branch.  Ten seconds.  His arms buckled as he climbed the six feet to the first branch.  His hands slipped.  He glanced left and right.  Still alone.  Twenty seconds.  He tried again, but his soft-soled shoes didn’t provide much traction against the tree’s bark.  Thirty seconds.  He panted.  He glanced back at the hiding place behind the fountain.  Another attempt proved unsuccessful.  His peripheral vision caught a vague blur of light shining past the corner.  The guard would round the corner soon.  Was the guard early, he wondered.  No.  I’m late. 

He grabbed the whip, hauling himself up the tree with a final, messy heave.  His arms felt like they were going to fall off, but he had reached the branch. 

The guard rounded the far corner.  His flashlight now grazed the tree.  The corner was fourteen feet from the tree. 

The guard stopped five feet short of the tree.  His flashlight’s beam pointed at the fountain, then the path, then the window.  The guard hadn’t stopped once in the past hour.  Lash inched farther into the tree’s leaves.  The light trickled through the branches.  It hit Lash’s feet but kept moving. 

His heart started beating again.  The tree went black again.  Lash heard fading clicks, the boots crisply clipping against the path and around the near corner.  The guard had begun another circuit around the mansion. 

The window was fully open.  Dr.  Savant, one of his higher-ups at the Social Justice League, had come through on his end of the operation.  Lash holstered his whip.  Promises were fine, but he had more confidence in the whip than Savant’s level of commitment.  Savant was a national celebrity that any politician would kill to share a photo shoot with.  Savant was on the guest list tonight.  Savant had superpowers.  It didn’t make sense to Lash that Savant would rely on him to do whatever the mission was tonight. 

He stared at the window.  The four feet wasn’t getting any shorter.  He gulped.  Two stories is a long way to fall. 

His legs pressed against the tree and he leapt.  For a moment, the wind rushed past him.  He caught a foot on the windowsill coming in.  He slammed into the carpet arms-first.  His eyes flashed white or maybe orange-purplish for a moment.  There might have been a yell of pain. 

Lash sat up.  Nothing had fallen off.  He gingerly pressed against his arms, then his feet and ankles.  The arms throbbed dully.  He didn’t roll up his sleeves, but his arms were certainly bruised.  They’d work.  His right foot was tender and it didn’t quite give off stabbing pains, but it did hurt like hell.  It would also work, more or less.  His knees hadn’t taken much damage in the fall, but they had been noticeably unenthusiastic about Lash’s choice of night job for years.  Whether they would work was always a mystery. 

He wasn’t worried, as long as the mission didn’t involve any sort of legwork more physically demanding than a slight hobble.  But he reasoned that Savant wouldn’t have wasted a forty-year-old master investigator on a run-around unless he had a damn sick sense of humor. 

A doctor’s bag lay on the bed.  Dr.  Savant wasn’t subtle. 

The bag contained a note.  And a fire extinguisher resting on top a fireman’s helmet.

Junior Associate Lash:

Further investigation has proven quite fruitful.  I might have neglected to mention before that the governor is not under the control of Mastermind, so a fist or two will not suffice.  A hostile third party is responsible, possibly a quite exotic party.  The biochemistry is beyond you, but using a fire extinguisher or inducing a near-death experience should expel the corrupting agent.  The extinguisher is quite obviously the politically and morally superior option. 

Speaking of exotic parties, the fundraising gala is a masquerade ball.  You’re still not on the guest list, but the policepeople are only checking ID at the front entrance.  They will assume that anyone wearing a mask in the ballroom—say, a fireperson’s helmet—is a legitimate party guest. 

Discreetness.  The media is quite a concern, particularly the New York Post.  Even a fire extinguishing could be easily misconstrued.  Conceal that this was a League job.  This matter is highly sensitive and publicizing our involvement exceeds your pay-grade.  Mine, too.  (That last remark was a joke, quite obviously.  Did you know that the other Directors somehow believe that I’m incapable of humor? Presumably like I am incapable of lacing their coffee with laxatives). 

Contingency plans.  I’m in the ballroom.  I will be available if, and only if, you bungle the job horrifically.  Unfortunately, the Executive Director is also here on his own business.  Please do not involve him. 

Good luck.  (Our equal opportunities guidelines suggest that I follow “good luck” by explaining that I did not mean to suggest that anyone differently abled in terms of superpowers necessarily needs more luck). 

Dr.  Savant, Director of Media & Government Relations

The message ended with Savant’s symbol, a snake-entwined staff, but that wasn’t necessary.  The scrawled handwriting was so bad it could only have come from a doctor.  And even the junior associates and side-kicks knew that Savant was addicted to “quite.”  Lash hadn’t heard that Savant was an irrepressible ass, but Savant was a director.  It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to make the connection. 

He walked outside the bedroom to the ballroom.  Left at the portrait of Mario Cuomo, then right at Spitzer.  Even without memorizing the diagram of the building, it would have been easy to find the sound of the violinists playing Pachelbel’s Canon. 

A state trooper smiled at him as he strode in the ballroom.  A waiter offered him a glass of chardonnay.  Lash had heard rave reviews about the Castile 1938, but drinking with a mask on was tricky.  He politely declined and brushed past. 

Donors, some he recognized a few from his day-job as a stockbroker, had formed loose circles around Dr.  Savant and Gigas, the League’s executive director. 

The governor was also ringed by donors, backed against the wall.  He didn’t look comfortable; he kept glancing over to a masked guard as though the governor might have to run away at any moment.  The guard had an Office of Special Investigations badge, a genie lamp hanging over a globe flanked by two swords.  Lash didn’t recognize the agent.  They all wore the same tan trenchcoat and black SWAT mask.  Lash wondered why the governor would be afraid of Homeland Security’s superthugs.  Unless… Black knows.  Lash smiled.  That simplified the legal issues considerably. 

The crowd shifted a little, blocking Lash’s view of the agent.  Lash tried maneuvering his way to the governor. 

Someone tapped his shoulder hard. 

“Excuse me,” said a rough voice from behind.  “Don’t violate the governor’s personal space.” 

“What? I’m ten feet aw—” Lash turned around.  It was the OSI agent, a few inches from Lash’s face.  “Ah.  I was going to say that your costume looked very convincing,” Lash fumbled. 

“Thank you.  My Agent Black is very convincing…” Lash winced.  Agent Black was the head of the OSI’s New York branch office.  It wasn’t his persistent dedication to the rights of the accused that made him known as the Manhattan Mangler.  “…certainly more convincing than a certain Leaguer’s donor-as-fireman routine,” said Agent Black. 

“How the hell… did you just x-ray me, bitch? There are rules…”

“No x-raying.  I accused everyone that approached the governor of being a Leaguer.  Now that we’ve established that you are, and a dumbass to boot…” He clamped his hand on Lash’s shoulder.  “…tell me what the fuck is up with the governor.  Mastermind? He’s in prison.  That would be one freak of a magic trick.”

The crowd suddenly split apart.  The governor emerged and strode towards Lash. 

“Jim! I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.  Would you come with me to my reception room,” said the governor.  Lash glanced at the governor, who clearly had him mistaken for someone else.  His given name was Courtney, not Jim. 

“Not a problem.”  He shook his shoulder, expecting that the agent’s grip would loosen.  Not so.  The agent marched Lash to the reception area, hissing in his ear. 

“Committing any crime in a mask violates the Ku Klux Klan Act of 1871.  Try anything and it’s 10-20 years in federal prison.”  The agent shoved Lash and he stumbled away. 

The governor ushered Lash inside but closed the door behind him. 

The room was heavily oaken.  The governor sat down in a leather chair resting in front of an American flag.  Lash smiled.  The windows were blinded, so he was safe. 

“Agent Black’s trying to kill me.  I have no idea who you are, ‘Jim,’ but he seems to hate you too.  You’ve got to stop him,” said the governor. 

“I plan to.  If you don’t mind me asking, though, it seems unusual that a politician would be nervous around donors.” 

“He’s trying to kill me.  Of course I’m nervous.” 

“Is he trying to kill you because you’re controlling the governor’s mind?”

Lash brandished the fire extinguisher. 

“What are you talking about? And what the hell are you doing with that?”

“Saving the day.” 

He sprayed cold nasty foam at the governor.  He tried to avoid the Governor’s face.  There was an innocent person there.  Somewhere. 

Red smoke started pouring off the governor’s body.  Lash and the governor started hacking wildly.  After a few moments, the smoke had cleared.  The governor’s suit was covered with white foam flecked with red ashes. 

“I don’t remember anything,” said the Governor.  “Mind control again?” he asked. 

Lash nodded. 

“Mastermind?”

“Yes,” said Lash.  He loved lying to politicians. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.  Get off your ass and kill him next time.” 

“Killing people doesn’t help.” 

“That’s convenient.  Goddamn convenient.  It’s not your brain he’s after.  I don’t blame him.”  The governor tried to flick the foam off his coat.  “My fundraising jacket.  Damn ruined.  Is this a fundraiser?”

Lash nodded. 

“He’s getting better,” said the governor.  “Next time you catch him, fix the problem.  Goodbye, whoever you are.” 

The governor walked outside.  Lash followed. 

Agent Black stopped the two, gaping at the foam and layer of red ashes.  “What the…”

“Mastermind,” they said. 

The governor walked away.  As soon as he was out of earshot, Agent Black turned on Lash. 

“I really hope he presses charges.”

Lash shrugged.  “I’ll see you then.  Hey, say cheese.”  He waved at a press photographer that was taking pictures of them. 

Agent Black turned.  He was probably glaring under his mask. 

Lash kept walking.  Gigas, the League’s leader, was marching towards him.  His arms were crossed.  He looked a lot more imposing than, say, his cover shots on Time or Rolling Stone.  And he was scowling, Lash could see.  Gigas didn’t wear a mask; he didn’t have an alternate identity.  Pretending to be mortal was beneath him. 

“What are you doing here? This is an exclusive gathering,” said Gigas. 

“The governor is under Mastermind’s control.  Have you seen him? I’m planning to dish out a quick one-two punch.  Save the day, you know,” said Lash.  It was almost too easy. 

“Thanks for the lead.  I’ll take it from here.”  Gigas smiled malevolently. 

******************************************************************************

Reporters for the Times and Post caught it on film.  A few cable networks caught it on tape.  Gigas sucker-punched the Governor, sending chardonnay spraying everywhere. 

Admittedly, the Times eventually ran it under the headline “GIGAS STOPS MASTERMIND AGAIN,” but the Post’s version was actually kind of accurate.  It started its front-page article by quoting what Gigas roared immediately after he learned that he had been duped. 

“You’re through, Lash!”

[end chapter]

You can access Chapter 2, “The Empire State Strikes Back,” here.

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