Vol. 2 #1 - Aging Gracefully

By Thomas Deja

I stared into the mirror a little more closely.

Ran my fingers through my hair.

Watched those stray silvery-gray hairs move under my hand.

And for the first time this morning I realized how long I’ve been doing this.

“You’re the Vulturions.”

“We are not.”

“We’re The Raptors.”

“No. You’re the Vulturions. I don’t know if I can fight you now.”

“Comon’ Sweet Face! We can take him!”

“See? You have a Sweet Face; The Vulturions had a Sweet Face--no one else in the world could take such pride in having a dorky nickname like that. You guys are the Vulturions.”

“Screw this! Let’s get him!”

“Gripes, right?”

KEEEEEER-ANG

“Why don’t you guys just give up? I need to pick up someone from a play date in an hour.”

“Owwww.....”

“Stay down, Sweet Face. Remember--an old guy beat you up last time.”

My wife, bless her, just passed by. She pointed out that I wasn’t the first guy who started going gray at twenty-five. She pointed out that guy with the voice like Joe Cocker on American Idol was fully gray and he’s my age.

I pointed out that the guy on American Idol hadn’t been fighting weirdos with delusions of grandeur since he was on the verge of becoming seventeen.

She wrapped her arms around me and kissed the back of my neck, and I once more was struck by how beautiful she was. I once again asked myself what I did to deserve such a sweet, sexy woman to spend my life with.

And then I thought of all the times I saved the world, all the lives I snatched from the jaws of death, and I remembered.

Sweet Face didn’t stay down.

I’m sorry, but just because you paint your costumes different colors and added lil’ claws on your gloves doesn’t wash the stink of failure-tude off of you. I let Sweet Face--who, before the leader, Honcho, came up with the idea of stealing Adrian Toombs’ designs and forming The Flying Lames Gang--get to a crouching position before I blasted him with a faceful of webbing and then smacked his helmet down hard on his head. The guy’s hands went instinctively to his gear, trying to dislodge it from his skull and I poured on the webbing again, effectively binding his arms (complete with his goofy wings) to his sides.

“I’m gonna have to ask the Academy Of Super-Heroes to keep this fight off my presentation reel. I’m up for best butt-kicker, you see, and--”

“Y-you shouldn’t h-h-have done that t-to Sweet F-face.” The voice was meek, kinda quiet. It belonged to the Vulturion--pardon me, Raptor--named Pigeon. I almost felt sorry for this guy, but then he let himself be called Pigeon. No matter how you looked at it, that’s a crappy nickname to have, let alone be proud of.

He came in out of the sun; luckily, the polarized one-way lenses in my costume cut down on the glare. I leapt at the last minute, flipped in the air and fired my web-shooters. Two strands attached themselves to the artificial pinions of his costume as he receded from me. I let myself land on the nearest wall, gritted my teeth and yanked with all my might.

Pigeon’s wings came away with a loud ripping sound. Now if this was Adiran Toombs, the original Vulture, this trick would never have worked; the man was a genius when it came to anti-gravitonics, and he would have reinforced the rotator joins in the wings that allowed them to move like a bird’s would. But these guys were third rate amateurs who took advantage of an old man’s loneliness to steal secrets from him. They were too lazy to come up with their own gimmick, much like Blackie Drago, and now they were paying the price.

I turned to face the remaining two, ignoring the crash when Pigeon went skidding across the tar paper roof. “Look, you know this is going to be quick. I’m not at war with my dry cleaning this time. Why don’t you just give up and let me do something useful...you know, like watch paint dry, pull out my own fingernails, something like that.”

Before she returned to the kitchen, she reminded me about the call from Anasazi Books, wanting to set up a meeting. It doesn’t take a genius to know who might be the financier behind the fledgling publisher, or why he’s attempting to start up Commute NY, a free daily newspaper that’s been cutting into the pay tabloids while being oddly supportive of the super-hero community.

I really thought I was done with Thomas Fireheart, both in his human form and as the Puma. Guess I was wrong.

I had a good idea why he wanted to talk to me. I wondered what he could offer to pull me away from the Bugle.

In the next room, May Watson-Parker cried. I left my position before the mirror to tend to her.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out one of the reasons I might want to leave the comfort of Jameson and his staff behind.

Gripes--at least I think it was Gripes, it was hard to tell them apart with those silly bird helmets over one-third of their faces--let loose a stream of invectives all more of less indicating he hated me and charged. I waited until the last moment, launched myself over him and landed with both feet hard on the hump that contained his gravimetric motor assembly. I sprang off him and found myself in space between him and Honcho, Gripes struggling to regain control of his wings. I fired a web line on the flag pole behind Honcho and swung up and over him, gaining momentum enough with my apogee to smash him in the back--and right into the struggling Gripes. Both men went through the window of the Old Navy in front of them--a window that was clearly marked ‘Accessway and Shaftway.’

That meant one or both of those guys were going to be falling a ways.

I lit upon the flagpole and sprung myself across the street. Landing on the wall just outside the window, I crawled to the edge of the Shaftway and/or Accessway. “You know, you have to change your names to better reflect your abilities, guys. The Dodos, maybe, or--I got it! The Gooney Birds!”

I heard an inarticulate scream of rage. The one I assumed was Honcho rocketed up the Shaftway, arms out and glove claws extended. He was banging into the walls randomly; the area I dumped he and his friend in wasn’t exactly conducive to flight (lucky me). My spider-sense tingled as I heard a chuffing sound, allowing me to pull back juuuuust as a mess of those curare darts this Pre-dumb Four liked to use in place of actual fighting skill.

“You’re playing dirty, bud--maybe Pigeons is the right name after all.” I looked up and fired a web line. Once I knew the line was secure, I yanked.

Anyone who’s been hanging around this city as long as me learns to recognize certain objects quickly. Like the dumb waiter this Shaftway was built to service. I pushed off from the building just as the pulleys squealed in protest....

Once I made sure there wasn’t any movement from beneath the dumb waiter, I muttered, “Yep...Pigeons. You got the brains of one...between the four of you.”

I followed Mary Jane into the kitchen. “Do you think I should take that meeting?”

She stared at me with those big, dewy green eyes. “Who is it going to hurt?”

“Jonah for one.”

“And we should worry about his blowhard butt because--”

“Because he’s been keeping my secret safe for months,” I pointed out.

“And that makes up for all the abuse you got from him--both sides of you?” She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head, a stance that never failed to take my breath away--hey, it was how she was standing that long ago spring day in Forest Hills when she uttered ‘Face It, Tiger--you hit the jackpot.’

I didn’t know it then, but truer words were never spoken.

“Do I really want to antagonize J.J. now, with him knowing who I am and all?”

She walked up to me, put a hand to my cheek. “Petey...what’s the worst that could happen if you take one little meeting?”

“He’ll fire me,” I answered, “And reveal who I am to everyone.”

“A little secret for you, man o’mine,” she said, a smile playing on her lips. “He never hired you in the first place. All that talk about staff photography when you were in college to the contrary, you’ve always been freelance so the mighty J. Jonah Jameson can save a few bucks every month not providing you with medical insurance and paid vacation. It’s your right to field other offers. That‘s what freelancers do.”

I paused, returned her smile. “Well, you put it that way--”

“What would you do without me?” MJ asked.

“I’m not all that keen to find out, okay?”

I kissed her and went to the small area in the back of our loft we put aside for my ‘office.’ It was little more than a desk outside my darkroom, but it served it purpose.

I dialed the number for Anasazi. What could it hurt?

Epilogue The First:

“...so what you’re telling me is they didn’t find it?”

“No, sir. The fact is, according to our sensors, they never even got to the first potential hiding place.”

“Damn it. Damn it and burn it.”

“Shall I make arrangements for their release, sir?”

“Gott, no! Someone fails the cause this badly, let them rot for all I care.”

“Then what do you advise we do to maintain the search.”

“Put out an open call, Barrington. The contract to obtain Volume II is in play. And only the elite amongst that rabble calling themselves ‘super-villians‘ need apply.”

Epilogue The Second:

She pushed her welder’s mask up off her face, the metallic surface pitted and scarred from overuse. Her hair, usually long and curly and blonde, was streaked with black grease and tied up in a hasty ponytail. A bluetooth headset was nestled in her ear.

“I’m serious, Pat,” she said sharply, one hand crossed over her waist, the other dangling a blowtorch. Even though she wore heavy canvas overalls, it couldn’t hide her sensual form. “I need those wings.”

She listened to the person on the other end, secretly grateful that Pat couldn’t see her present body language. “I don’t care, Pat. We had a deal. I’ve made good on that deal and made you rich; you have to make good on your end and make sure I get first refusal.”

“Comon!” she said, no longer hiding her exasperation at Pat‘s reply. “You know that wing assembly Spider-Man tore off that Raptor is useless without a Gravimetric wave generator to operate them.”

Her eyebrows furrowed as she asked, “And who’s fault is it that I have a gravimetric wave generator, Pat? I expect those wings at my place by end of the week, or I‘m dropping some dimes. See if I don‘t.”

She disconnected the call and sighed. It was getting so difficult to maintain the connections she needed to maintain her collection.

“Not that there’ll be much left,” she said to herself before lowering the welding mask and returning to work.

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