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  “Is there any of that good sassafras soda left?” he said. “RIGHTMAN! sure could use one right now.”

  “Sorry, Sweetie. They raised the price, and we can’t fit it into our grocery budget anymore. How about a nice glass of ice water?” Tess brought his drink and sat on the sofa next to him. “So, tell me all about . . .” She lowered her voice to sound like a news anchorman. “. . . RIGHTMAN!’s day.”

  “Golly, Tess. I hardly know where to begin. I snagged some dope addicts and prostitutes off the street, foiled a convenience store robbery, and nabbed a whole bunch of shoplifters, vagrants and truant kids. And I got another commendation from the Chief of Police. Unfortunately, I failed to defeat Mr. Nemesis. Who is of course, my, um . . . my major nemesis.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Tess said. She paused. “I’ll file the commendation with all the others. Shame we can’t cash them in at the bank . . .”

  She snuggled tighter against him, wrapping her arm around his massive chest. “You know, the thing I like most about you is that you don’t ever sweat. Even under that hot spandex outfit you wear.”

  “It’s just part of being a superhero, Tess—like flying, or having enormous strength. Anybody can become one, if they just believe strongly enough in their mission. Like in my case, bringing criminals to justice. RIGHTMAN! All caps with an exclamation point! Yes!” He pumped his fist in the air.

  Tess purred and held him tighter. “Ooh, that enormous strength—and endurance—that I know so well. By the way, I notice you spend most of your time working in the lower-class district of the city.”

  “I go where the crime is. What are you suggesting?”

  “Oh, nothing, really. But there’s crime in the upper class areas, too. Like stockbrokers bilking investors out of their money, or telemarketers scamming old people, or corporate tax evaders, or . . .”

  George’s head swam as she laid out an endless litany of examples. Finally, he interrupted her. “Tess, Tess. This is all going over my head. You know I don’t understand the first thing about white-collar crime. Heck, if it weren’t for fighting the kind of crime I can find, I’d be flipping burgers for a living.”

  “Which might improve our standard of living, actually,” she said in a soft voice.

  “Yes, and as I’ve told you a hundred times before, I’d lose my integrity if I took even a penny for my services. I have to keep my single-minded faith in my mission and stay above all that . . . that mundane stuff, else I’ll lose all my powers.”

  He didn’t like the thought of Tess having to work at her daddy’s car dealership to put bread on the table. He only wished that the cheap sonuvagun paid her more.

  Tess nodded. “Well, then, think about this: How many of the criminals you’ve captured actually wanted to lead a life of crime? Think about the person shoplifting food from a store to feed his hungry children. Or, for that matter, all those people who are underprivileged, unemployed, and resort to crime as their only way to survive?”

  “I . . . I don’t get you. Criminals are people who break the law. I enforce the law. It’s that simple. Isn’t it?”

  “Hmm, maybe so, maybe not. It might not be so black and white, is what I’m saying. But I’m still proud of you for being a goodhearted, loyal guy.” She gave him a peck on the cheek.

  George frowned while he tried to process the pieces of their conversation. Not surprisingly, he found it hard to do so. “You’re telling me I’m overlooking some important things about being a superhero?”

  Tess’s face took on a thoughtful expression. “I’m talking about subtleties, George. For example, Sun Tzu once said—”

  “Who?”

  “A Chinese superhero from long ago. Anyway, he said you must know your enemy if you want to defeat him. How much do you know about Mr. Nemesis? Have you ever talked to him? Do you know what makes him tick?”

  George shook his head from side to side. “I know he spends every evening at the Superpowers Club. I don’t like that place very much. Nobody there gives me any respect. But maybe I should talk things over with him, like you said.”

  “I think that would be a great idea, Honey. Here, I’ll give you an advance on your allowance, and you can also enjoy a nice dinner for a change.”

  She pulled George off the sofa and walked with him to the door, where she fussed with his cape so that it looked nice on him.

  * * *

  RIGHTMAN! paused at the entrance to the Superpowers Club to puff himself up and exude an air of confidence. In the process, he farted loudly. He looked around to see if anybody was nearby. Sheesh, George thought. Where’d that come from?

  He fanned his rear end with his cape, then entered the club.

  George made a beeline for the bar and ordered a sassafras soda. What he received instead was a club soda. Other Superpowers, both heroes and anti-heroes, lingered nearby, conversing in small groups. He sidled up next to one and listened in on the conversation, which was largely inscrutable to him. He heard terms like: “tax deferred accounts,” and “advantages of S Corporations,” and “investment portfolios.” This was obviously not the group for him, so he moved off to another. It echoed the same conversation. Neither group had noticed him standing next to it.

  He determined to put himself forward in his best light.

  “Excuse me, fellows. RIGHTMAN! here. Did you hear that I got a commendation from the Chief of Police today?”

  The Superpowers all turned to look at George. One of them said, “Whoopty doo,” and then they all burst into laughter. George slunk off and found a tiny unoccupied booth to sit in. This was going just like he figured it would. Shunned, isolated, made fun of. He sipped his club soda morosely.

  Mr. Nemesis slid into the seat across from him.

  “Let me guess: It all seems confusing to you, correct?” Mr. Nemesis said.

  “Yes, it does. Why don’t people like me?”

  “Because they’re stupid. Like you, but in a different way. They’ve all forgotten where they came from. And they’ve lost all sense of humility—or humanity, if you prefer. They’re just in it for the money.”

  George lifted his eyebrows and threw his hands out to his side. “What has money got to do with anything? I thought all of us were above that.”

  “Everybody’s got to eat, George. The secret to this game is Marketing: action figures, T-shirts, video games, sponsorships, commercials. For example, have you ever noticed how many people you’ve busted in the ‘hood were wearing my Mr. Nemesis T-shirt?”

  “Now that I think about it, lots of them. Kids and adults both.”

  “And why aren’t they wearing yours? Or to put it differently, why wouldn’t anyone buy your own licensed merchandise, if it were out there to be had?”

  George thought about this for a long moment. He recalled Tess’s conversation with him earlier that evening. “I guess because . . . because no one thinks I’m helping them. In fact, I can’t recall ever getting even a simple ‘thank you’ from the residents living in my crime-busting turf.”

  “Touché. You’re ignorant of the true balance of power in my neck of the woods. Down there, I’m the superhero, and you’re the bad guy. Now, I’ll grant that makes for a pretty cozy situation for me. Lord knows, I could have ended up with a lot worse sort of antagonist than you. But lately, you’ve become too much of a pest. You’re creating more cleanup work than I like to handle in a day. You do realize that we’re symbiotically linked, don’t you?”

  “Symbo . . . symbilogical . . . huh?”

  “It means we depend on each other. You nail ‘em, I bail ‘em. If you eased up and used some common sense for a change, things would become easier for you, for me, and everybody else. Get it? Now you’ll have to excuse me, because I’ve got a dinner date with a wickedly luscious angel—specifically, Wicked Angel. It’s been nice chatting with you, dipwad.”

  Mr. Nemesis grinned, rose and went into the dining area.

  RIGHTMAN! frowned, rose and went home.

  * * *

>   George couldn’t sleep that night. He tossed and turned and got out of bed early. He kissed Tess gently and put on his spandex outfit. Might as get an early start on the crooks, he thought.

  In the kitchen, he strained to open a new jar of instant coffee. He couldn’t do it. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he grappled with the tight lid.

  Sweat? Huh?

  George stumbled into the foyer and donned his cape. He could always get some coffee down at the Police Precinct. He stepped through the front door, flexed his knees, and sprang into the air.

  And landed hard on the cement sidewalk, a few feet away.

  “Ouch!”

  He pushed himself aright, closed his eyes and thought hard. Where is my faith? There’s a mission to perform, and that’s the only important thing. All other thoughts must disappear! He tried again—this time leaping toward the softer grass in the yard—and managed to get himself elevated. Erratically so, but flying nonetheless.

  * * *

  George got halfway to the police precinct before he lost his flying power. He’d let some of Tess’s and Nemesis’s conversations from the night before break his concentration, and he found himself plummeting out of the sky, down, down, down into a pile of garbage bags lying by the side of the street.

  “Darn it!”

  He looked around and recognized where he was: Badtown, the slimy center of crime in Megalopolis. He tried to free himself from the garbage bags, but only ended up floundering amongst them. People began to gather around.

  He recognized many of them as folks he’d handed over to the police throughout the years. Why weren’t they in jail, where they belonged? They moved closer, murmuring aloud. George heard one of them say, “. . . oughta bust a cap in the sucka’s ass.” He didn’t understand what that meant, but it sounded hurtful.

  “Gentlemen! Ladies!” RIGHTMAN! cried out. “Please hear me! I realize now that you all have a bone to pick with me. Yes, maybe I’ve treated some of you wrong in the past. If so, I’m sorry. I’ve been going through some changes lately, and . . .”

  The crowd laughed at him, and kept advancing.

  A caped figure pushed its way through the milling people and stood before George. It was Mr. Nemesis, obviously there to celebrate his final victory. He bent down and lifted George out of the pile of rubbish with one strong arm, then addressed the crowd: “He ain’t worth it, people. Look at him! Just a gnat, still thinking he’s an eagle. So what if he once busted you all? I and my gang of Superlawyers always got you back out on the street in a couple of hours—no sweat, no fuss. Now go on with whatever you were doing, and let this worm crawl home. He ain’t gonna bother you any more.”

  The crowd slowly dissipated, and George shook his head in wonderment at Mr. Nemesis. “I thought I was a goner. Thank you for helping me. But why? Aren’t we mortal enemies? In public, at least . . .”

  “RIGHTMAN! . . . or should I call you George, now? You’re dumber than a box of hammers. Call me a softy, but I don’t feature stomping on a guy when he’s already down and out. Especially a dumbass guy like you. I hope you’ve learned a lesson here. You’re just not cut out for this game.”

  “At least tell me how you do it,” George said. “How do you get these crooks out of jail so quickly?”

  Mr. Nemesis laughed. “Can you spell lack of evidence? Thought not. Look, you’re not on the official police payroll, and therefore you’ve got no institutional authority. To the courts, you’re merely another common citizen—plus, you never, ever show up in court to testify. So it always comes down to your word against theirs. Voila! Case dismissed.”

  “I never would’ve thought—”

  “Of course not. That’s because you’re too stupid to think. But don’t get upset by that statement. Fact is, most do-gooder superheroes are just as clueless as you are. Their super-antagonists are always smarter in every way, shape and form—and they’re not totally without empathy. It’s only Hollywood’s illogical, egregious plot-fudging that keeps the bad guys down.”

  George wiped his brow. “I . . . I never thought of it that way. You’re telling me that everything I know to be true is wrong? That I’m living in a world that’s upside-down from what I thought?”

  “The Germans have a word for that feeling: Weltschmertz. Those playas got a word for everything, George. In short: yes.”

  “But, but . . . where does that leave me, Mr. Nemesis? Do I just fade away into the sunset?”

  “Call me Ralph, please. No, you haven’t lost your powers, George. You’ve only misplaced them temporarily. You’ll find them again, once you figure out a way to right some of your previous wrongs—a new mission, so to speak. Your wife Tess may have some ideas about that. And you needn’t worry about our business relationship. I can always attract a new antagonist to keep me going strong. Here, grab hold of my arm, and I’ll fly you home . . .”

  * * *

  The Badtown street had been cordoned off, and the good times were rolling. A small Ferris wheel spun at the far end of the block, and a Reggae band played on a makeshift stage in front of the “RIGHTMAN! Shelter and Food Kitchen.” Everyone danced and swayed to the beat.

  Tess handed George a hot dog from the grill. He stuffed it into a bun, poured some mustard over it, and gave it to a kid.

  “Thanks, Mr. RIGHTMAN!. It’s a bitchin’ block party! You the man!”

  “Have a RIGHTMAN!’s Shelter T-shirt, little guy. Stay in school. Make your Mama proud.”

  George turned around, hugged and kissed Tess, and then they spun in each other’s arms and giggled.

  “Mister, can I have a hot dog too?”

  Mr. Nemesis stood in front of the cart. George grinned and handed him a dog. “How about a T-shirt to go along with that, Ralph?”

  “Only if I can pay for it, George,” Mr. Nemesis said. “I see you decided on a 501C non-profit, right?”

  “Yes, that was Tess’s idea. It’s certainly not the road to fame and fortune. But we’re taking care of ourselves well enough, and doing some good in the community. I honestly didn’t realize how easy it would be to get donations. Many of them from the Superpowers!” George paused and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that, did you?”

  “Hmm. Let’s just say that those nimrods are pitifully easy to lay a guilt trip on—especially when presented with an example of a true hero. Of course, there were also certain tax benefits involved, which I explained in depth . . .”

  “I’m glad you have my back, Ralph.”

  “No problem. So tell me: Have you got your superpowers back yet?”

  George chuckled. “Not sure, Ralph. I haven’t bothered to check lately.” He bent his legs and hopped a few inches off the ground. “Nope. I guess not.”

  “You’re a damned liar, whether you realize it or not. You’ve got more power now than you ever had before. If you doubt me, just ask any of these folks.” Mr. Nemesis burst into laughter, winked at Tess, and wandered off to join the dancing crowd.

  Return to Contents

  THE ROMULUS PROPOSITION

  Tim Rohr

  “I want to kill him,” he says.

  Two hours in. The quickest I’ve managed so far. But Neighpalm always had a snap temper. Still, I should leave it alone. Best if the idea finds its own soil. Sets its own roots.

  “Kill him?” Perhaps just a little water.

  He drags on his cigarette. Stares out the window beside him. The swollen, evening sun drowns the world in syrupy orange light, light that turns to tiger stripes through the half-closed blinds of Neighpalm’s apartment. On him, the color and the pattern seem perfectly natural, the way he was meant to be. Wild, bold, brash. A warning to the world like the colors of a poisonous frog: don’t mess with this one.

  Not at all like the man he’s become.

  “Kill him.” He turns his long face my way, fixing hard, amber eyes on me. His gaze, for the first time since we began our interview, is even and steady, and I get a hint as to what he must have been as a fu
lly-fledged super. He chuffs a laugh and glances at the camera. “That must sound all sorts of unpatriotic. Like I’m some sort of damn anarchist.”

  “Is that what you are?” I ask, because that’s my role. I’m in his apartment as a filmmaker, documenting the supers who have fallen out of the public eye. And, like a therapist, I’m supposed to guide these former supers into the land of open sharing. Sit back; lay your burdens down. You want to kill Titan Blue, national hero and America’s favorite son? Doesn’t that feel better? Let’s explore that. Tell me about killing him.

  Not that I am a therapist. In fact, you could say I’m just the opposite.

  “No.” Some of the fire goes out of him. He scrubs at the ragged stubble that has overrun his face. “I’m just a pathetic, wash-up, used-to-be who can’t get a job.”

  “Because of Titan Blue.”

  He nods, but goes on like I hadn’t spoken the name. “A goddamn curiosity, that’s what I am. Just sitting here, waiting for relic hunters to look me up. Like you.”

  I ignore the insult, because that’s also my role. “Some might argue there’s a nobility to anarchists—”

  He snatches up a fistful of food coupons from table beside him. “Don’t peddle that shit here. You can’t eat nobility.” For a moment, he looks like he wants to throw the coupons across the room. But he doesn’t. He lays them back on the table carefully, smoothing them with the hand holding his cigarette. “I used to be somebody. Now look at me. Who am I? Sometimes I don’t even know.”

  “You’re Neighpalm,” I say. Not the answer he’s looking for, but it is the answer that will get him talking.

  “Am I?”