A. Lee Martinez's Blog, page 24

The Door in the Mountain (short fiction)

Ernie the Hero

 

Someone had carved a massive door into the mountain. None could say who. Some thought it was the final remnant of an ancient civilization, forgotten by time. Others claimed the gods themselves had done it. And still others claimed it wasn’t a door at all, but just a natural rock formation replete with gargoyles and columns and a very big inscription, NEVER EVER OPEN. EVER.

All anyone knew for certain was that the door in the mountain had been closed for as long as anyone could remember. Most believed it was for the best. Whatever horrors lurked in the mountain were best left there.

Simon thought differently. He made regular pilgrimages to the door to study it. The runes carved into it were indecipherable by the greatest scholars in the land, and Simon, having only a few books he’d bought from questionable traveling merchants, hadn’t made any progress. But he walked the twenty miles once a week from his village to check the door. Life as a villager was boring enough that a giant door of untold mystery was the only thing worth visiting. That, and the tree that looked like it had bosoms growing out of its trunk.

He always went alone. He wouldn’t have minded some company, but the combination of superstitious peasantry and oaken titillation were enough to keep everyone else away.

Today, he arrived at the door to find he wasn’t alone. A one-armed skeleton stood before the door.

It just stood there. Its tattered gray cloak flapped in the chilly breeze. It wasn’t even looking at the door. It stared off in the distance, at the yellow trees growing in the valley below. Simon watched the skeleton for some time, waiting for it to do something. Anything. When his patience ended, he stepped out and called to it from a good distance, just in case in needed to run for it. The red sword in the skeleton’s hand looked dreadfully sharp.

“Hello!”

The skeleton turned its skull in Simon’s direction, sort of looking at him with its empty eye sockets. It didn’t move. It didn’t say anything. He hadn’t expected it to, but he also hadn’t expected it not to. It was a magical, walking skeleton. Expectations were tricky things.

“Are you here for the door too?” asked Simon.

The skeleton pivoted. This time, looking directly at Simon for a moment before turning completely around, putting its back to him, facing the massive door.

“Did someone send you?” asked Simon. “A wizard too lazy to come himself? The gods?”

The skeleton didn’t answer. Simon edged forward slowly until he was within striking distance. He opened the vial around the skeleton’s neck and read the parchment within.

This is Ernie. It read. He’s here to help.

Simon returned the parchment. Ernie stood quietly.

“Is something going to happen? Is that why you’re here?”

Ernie, unsurprisingly, offered no answers.

Simon sensed no malice in the skeleton warrior. He sensed nothing much, in fact. Just a pile of magically animated bones.

“I don’t know if you realize this or not, but you picked a great day. I think I figured it out. Today is the day I open the door.”

Ernie lowered his skull to peer skeptically at Simon. Or perhaps studying a beetle trudging past his feet.

“It’s true!” said Simon. “I know. I’ve said this before, but this time. . . ” –He pulled out his notes, a scrawl of half-formed musings and random ideas— “this time, I’ve got it.”
There was no way for Ernie to know that Simon had spent fifteen years attempting to open the door. Trying and failing. He had made the door rumble once, shaking some dust off its immense stone frame. No one believed him, claiming it was only a coincidental earthquake. But Simon knew. It was his destiny to get it open. The other villagers might laugh at his dream, but Ernie only stood there, silently judging Simon.

“It’s all about the magic words,” said Simon. “Find the right ones, and it’ll open. You’ll see. I’ll open this mountain.”

Ernie’s head turned to the side in a curious look. His jaws parted slightly.

“Of course it’s a good thing! Everyone thinks it’s full of monsters, but I know better. It’s a treasure trove. Gold, jewels, ancient books filled with wisdom. That signs just there to scare away the faint of heart.”

Ernie’s teeth clamped shut together with a sharp snap.

“Okay, so I don’t know for certain,” said Simon, “but it’s probably not monsters. And if it is, it’s safe to say the monsters inside have starved to death by now.”

Ernie turned and trudged away.

“Fine. Be that way,” said Simon. “You’re going to kick yourself for missing this. And don’t think you get a share of the treasure.”

Ernie, his back to Simon, stared into the sun.

Simon stood before the door, reading through his notes that didn’t always make sense to him either, if he was being completely honest to himself. He shouted the latest version of the words of power and prepared himself for the door to open, its mysteries to reveal themselves to him.

It didn’t move.

“I didn’t think that would work” said Simon. “But you have to find what doesn’t’ work before you can find what does, right?”

Ernie, his back still to Simon, mocked him with silence.

“Who asked you?”

Simon sat on the hard ground and shouted at the door for an hour. Each incantation was met with indifference by the mountain and Ernie, but Simon’s optimism remained unfaltering. He would open the door next week. He was certain of that.

He packed up his notes and bid Ernie good-bye.

The mountain rumbled, ever so slightly. Fractures appeared in the door. Simon and Ernie moved closer.

“See? It’s working,” said Simon. “I’m getting closer. It’s only a matter of time.”

The earth thundered, and the fractures spread into thick fissures throughout the door.

Ernie held out his red sword, pointing it toward the door.

“What are you going to do? Cut your way through it?” Simon chuckled. It was a stupid plan, but what could one expect from a skeleton.

Ernie tapped his blade against the door. The skies darkened. The tremors increased. Pieces of the door fell away.

“Hey, no fair!” shouted Simon. “No fair! No fair! It’s mine! Not yours! I did all the work. You can’t just come here and—”

A second strike from the crimson sword caused the door to crumble into a pile of stone. Hot wind blasted out of the portal, stinking of must and fungus.

“You asshole! That was my door! What gives you the right to open it with your stupid sword? I could’ve opened it years ago if I had a stupid magic sword!”

Ernie raised his stupid magic sword and moved toward Simon.

Simon realized he’d made a terrible mistake. “Okay, okay! It’s yours! Take it! I don’t want it! I don’t want it!”

Another blast of hot air came out of the open door, accompanied by a rumble. Not the mountain, but something else. Something big within the darkened interior. It stirred.

Simon couldn’t see it, but he could sense it. Like sensing the earth moving beneath his feet.

The thing in the mountain howled, and several boulders cracked in half. The great beast stomped, and acrid, red rain fell from the dark, cloudless skies.

Simon pointed to Ernie. “He did it!”

A long, thick tendril, perhaps a tentacle or a tail, whipped out from the dark and snatched up Ernie, yanking him into the mountain. Simon backed away from the howls and shrieks of the thing. He thought about running for it, but he didn’t think there would be anyplace to run once the thing was finished with Ernie.

A boot, still holding Ernie’s right tibia and fibula, sailed out and nearly hit Simon in the head. The mountain shook, threatening to collapse with each roar, and this went on for a few minutes.

And then, silence. So sudden, so unexpected, Simon assumed he’d gone deaf at first, what with the blood coming out of his ears and his vibrating body. He didn’t move closer toward the doorway, but instead, sat where he’d fallen in all the chaos.

The rain stopped. The skies brightened. And thick, oily liquid spread out from the door.

“Hello! Are you still alive . . . are you still in there?”

Ernie, his gray bones, covered in ichor, climbed over the rubble and tumbled out of the threshold. He attempted to rise to his feet, but the slippery goo and his missing leg made it difficult.

“I think this is yours.” Simon threw the boot at Ernie. It landed a few feet away, righted itself, and hopped back into place. Ernie rose.

“What was that? Did you kill it?”

Ernie grinned silently.

“Never mind. I guess it’s a good thing you were here. Though you did almost let it out in the first place. I mean, I just said a few words. They didn’t do anything, right? The door was probably going to open on its own anyway. Oh, why am I asking you? You’re not going to admit to anything.”

The gooped skeleton marched down the mountain, and Simon followed.

“Where are you going now? Off to slay more monsters? Maybe help the downtrodden? I bet that’s it. That’s what you do, right? Don’t worry. It’s a rhetorical question. I’ve always heard heroes need companions, squires or whatever. Someone to help pick up their legs after the battle is over, maybe help clean the goo off their bones. Maybe you’d like some help? I promise I won’t get in the way, and I’m great at getting slime off of old cloaks.”

Ernie paused, still staring straight ahead.

“Okay, so maybe I’m not great at it, but I can learn.”

Ernie, his bones rattling, marched onward.

“Well,” said Simon. “He didn’t say no.”

He chased after his new, fleshless master.

Dawn of Justice: Downer Disco Party (commentary)

The new Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice: I Can’t Believe They Went with that Title trailer has been “leaked”. And, boy, is it a stinker. After the Adventure in Grimdark that was Man of Steel, I was hoping for a course correction at this point. It’s common for sequels to address (and even over correct) on the perceived flaws of their predecessors. Man of Steel itself was an over correction of the criticisms of Superman Returns, a movie where fans complained that Superman didn’t throw a single punch so in Steel he throws lots of punches. The James Bond series is loaded with adjustments, each actor bringing with them a “fix” based on ideas of the previous actor’s failings. The new series of Daniel Craig “I feel sad and am not very good at my job” films are a direct response to the Brosnan “let’s crack one liners and have grandiose villains” series. Whether these corrections work or not is always up in the air, but it’s a standard thing.

So people complained that Man of Steel was too grim, and Warner Bros. response is to stick with that idea. This is a trailer that ends on the line: “Do you bleed? You will.” which sounds great coming from the lips of Dirty Harry, but completely out of place in a Batman and Superman film. Yes, I know. Batman is a tragic anti-hero. Although, really, he’s not. He’s a guy who dresses up as a bat and fights a guy who dresses up like a clown. In BvS: Dawn of Justice: All the Good Titles were Already Takenhe’s a rich guy who dresses like a bat fighting an alien from outer space who shoots heat rays from his eyes.

Goyer and Snyder are not the problem here. Let’s get that out of the way. They are, to be sure, one note artists who are unsuited for this kind of material. That’s a criticism, of sorts, but not much of one. I consider myself a fairly inventive writer, but there are certain themes and ideas that recur throughout my own body of work. All artists have a certain point of view and personal philosophy that pops up in their work, and it’s usually obvious once you know what it is. The problem isn’t that the artists working behind the scenes aren’t good at what they do (whether I like what they do or not is another question). It’s that they shouldn’t be allowed to do it in the first place.

I’ve noted before how this new shared, ongoing universe in films isn’t a new idea. It’s been part of comics, especially superhero comics, for decades, and, despite what you might believe, it isn’t the writers and artists who have the power in these situations. It’s the editors and producers. These are the folks who own the toys that the artists are merely borrowing (strangely, even when the artists created those very toys, but that’s a whole big thing we just can’t get into right now).

Basically, someone needs at Warner Bros. needs to tell Goyer and Snyder to knock it off.

It might seem weird, as an artist, that I would ask for editorial intervention from the production company, but there is something different about writing a story with your own characters versus writing a story with somebody else’s characters. And that difference should be loss of control and limitations in place. Marvel’s Cinematic Universe has a history of losing directors, of dissatisfied, talented people working behind the camera. But that hasn’t prevented them from creating a coherent universe that is both a cash cow and an interesting experiment in a shared movie universe. It’s actually probably the exact opposite.

 

 

Old Friends (short fiction)

Super Janine

 

In the superhero game, you tend to hang out with other supers. It’s not intentional. It just sort of happens. My life before the accident that gave me superstrength, sometimes, it seemed like a faraway thing. I still kept in touch with the old gang, but just getting together and hanging out, that was rarer and rarer.

“Are you sure she won’t mind?” I asked as Erica knocked on the door.

“Why should she? Just the other day, Gwen was telling me we should have lunch together.”

“Did she mention me specifically?”

“No, but she said Old Gang. You’re part of the Gang, aren’t you?”

I had been, but things had changed.

Gwen opened the door. Her smile dropped. Just for a moment. She plastered it back into place. That was Gwen. Decades of beauty queen training at work. If there was a lull in the conversation, she could always share her thoughts on world peace and puppies.

I hadn’t ever liked Gwen much. Unfair, since she’d never done anything to me. But I was certain she didn’t like me much either, so we shared an unspoken rivalry. My second greatest. Right after Strongobot, the strongest robot on Earth.

Gwen was pregnant as I already knew, following her Facebook page. Gwen and Erica exchanged hugs, but when it came time for me, Gwen held up her hand.

“Sorry.” She rubbed her belly. “Precious cargo. We wouldn’t want any accidents.”

I wanted to tell her to screw herself.

“I hate to ask,” said Gwen, “but you aren’t . . . radioactive or anything? Carrying strange alien spores? I wouldn’t ask, but . . . . ”

She rubbed her belly again, like a shield.

“Maybe I should go,” I said.

“Don’t be absurd.” Erica took me by the arm and pulled me into the house.

“Careful, that’s a very expensive lamp,” said Gwen as we entered. “And that vase is an antique.”

She proceeded to warn me of everything in danger of being crushed by me. A polite tour of her home given to any random bull or superhero who happened to stop by. She shouldn’t have gotten to me, but by the end, I felt like I might destroy something precious and irreplaceable with a careless sweep of my arm.

This was why my best friend was a space Amazon. Dementra had her flaws, but she didn’t make me feel like Godzilla stomping through Tokyo.

We sat in Gwen’s living room, a room made to be looked at, not used, and waited for her to bring some snacks.

“She certainly hasn’t changed,” said Erica.

“Why are we friends with her again?” I asked.

It was a good question. Sometimes, you just ended up hanging out with people. There wasn’t a convenient explanation why. But if you did it often and long enough, you were suddenly “friends”, even if you couldn’t always stand one another.

“Hey, I forgot to mention, but you’re still single, right?” asked Erica.

I nodded. I didn’t want to. I should’ve just lied.

“There’s this guy I met the other day who I think would be perfect for you.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “He’s a superhero.”

“How’d you know?”

It was always a superhero. Some nice man falls into a vat of unstable mutagen, and suddenly, he was the Perfect Guy for me. Like all it took to make a healthy relationship was a shared love of heat vision and fighting time traveling megalomaniacs.

Gwen returned with a tray of snacks and something to drink. She handed Erica a delicate teacup and me, a disposable plastic cup.

“This tea set belonged to my grandmother,” she said. “You understand?”

I couldn’t yell at a pregnant woman, and I couldn’t punch her into orbit.

So I simply smiled.

Gone Fishing (short fiction)

Super Janine

 

Bringing Dementra, Warrior Queen of Galadron, had been my first mistake. My second had been telling her to leave the power armor behind. In it, she was seven feet of intimidating alien warlord. Out of it, she was a bubble gum pink space princess with the body of Jessica Rabbit. The young man behind the counter couldn’t take his eyes off her as she picked through novelty T-shirts.

“What about this one?” She held up a Who farted? shirt. “Is this suitably amusing?”

“Hilarious,” I replied as I set the six pack on the counter.

The clerk rang me up. “I know her. Isn’t she that space amazon who came to conquer the Earth?”

“That’s her.”
“She’s part of that superhero team in the city, isn’t she?” He noticed me for the first time. “Hey, you’re that lady, aren’t you?”

I lowered my sunglasses. I’d made a dozen trips out to the lake and hadn’t been recognized yet. I didn’t have a secret identity. Who bothered anymore? But I was only five five and if I let my hair down, most people didn’t put it together.

“I’m that lady,” I said. “Just the beer, please.”

“Yeah, sure.” He sized me up. “So how strong are you?”

“Strong enough.”

“Like how many cars can you lift? One? Two? Didn’t you throw a bus one time?”

I had, in fact, thrown several buses over the course of my career. And things bigger.

“Just the beer, please,” I repeated.

Dementra dropped a T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase Female Body Inspector. “And this.”

I peeled off twenty bucks and handed it to the clerk. I wasn’t sure the shirt would even fit her. She had a ridiculous pair of tits, made even more ridiculous once you knew she wasn’t a mammal.

We paid and left before he could ask any more questions.

“Have I done something wrong?” asked Dementra as we got into my car.

“Other than being you, no. And you can’t really help that.”

The lake was probably ruined for me. I came out here to get away from it, and now, everyone knew. If I was lucky, they’d forget about me. My physique wasn’t as impressive as Dementra’s. I was in solid shape, but I’d never gotten down to zero body fat. I didn’t look great in tights, which was why I was thankful that trend had died before I’d become a superhero.

But people didn’t usually forget once they put it together. It wouldn’t be long before people started asking for demonstrations. It was always cars. The most common being to pick up an automobile while posing with them.

“You forgot the bait,” said Dementra. “Don’t we need it to fish?”

“We’re not fishing,” I said. “We’re just here to relax.”

“As you said, but how does one relax without exerting dominance over the forces of nature?”

“You’ll see. The cabin is just down the road. We’ll sit by the lake, enjoy the quiet. Read a book.”

“Sounds boring.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come along.”

“I was hoping for a bonding experience,” said Dementra. “On Galadron, boon warrior companions such as ourselves would enter the pit, fighting until one of us yields or dies.”

“This is Earth. We sit by a lake and talk.”

“If such is your custom.”

“Boon warrior companions, huh?” I asked.

“I believe the Earthling equivalent is Besties?” said Dementra.

I chuckled. She did drive me crazy at times, but wasn’t that the nature of friendship.

A cop knocked on my window. I rolled it down.

“Problem officer?”

“No, ma’am, but my partner and I were just wondering if you’d do us a favor?”

The cop’s buddy stood by their cruiser with the flashing lights while another officer stood aside with a camera at the ready.

“My pleasure, officer,” I said as I stepped out of the car.

Gone Fishing

Super Janine

 

Bringing Dementra, Warrior Queen of Galadron, had been my first mistake. My second had been telling her to leave the power armor behind. In it, she was seven feet of intimidating alien warlord. Out of it, she was a bubble gum pink space princess with the body of Jessica Rabbit. The young man behind the counter couldn’t take his eyes off her as she picked through novelty T-shirts.

“What about this one?” She held up a Who farted? shirt. “Is this suitably amusing?”

“Hilarious,” I replied as I set the six pack on the counter.

The clerk rang me up. “I know her. Isn’t she that space amazon who came to conquer the Earth?”

“That’s her.”
“She’s part of that superhero team in the city, isn’t she?” He noticed me for the first time. “Hey, you’re that lady, aren’t you?”

I lowered my sunglasses. I’d made a dozen trips out to the lake and hadn’t been recognized yet. I didn’t have a secret identity. Who bothered anymore? But I was only five five and if I let my hair down, most people didn’t put it together.

“I’m that lady,” I said. “Just the beer, please.”

“Yeah, sure.” He sized me up. “So how strong are you?”

“Strong enough.”

“Like how many cars can you lift? One? Two? Didn’t you throw a bus one time?”

I had, in fact, thrown several buses over the course of my career. And things bigger.

“Just the beer, please,” I repeated.

Dementra dropped a T-shirt emblazoned with the phrase Female Body Inspector. “And this.”

I peeled off twenty bucks and handed it to the clerk. I wasn’t sure the shirt would even fit her. She had a ridiculous pair of tits, made even more ridiculous once you knew she wasn’t a mammal.

We paid and left before he could ask any more questions.

“Have I done something wrong?” asked Dementra as we got into my car.

“Other than being you, no. And you can’t really help that.”

The lake was probably ruined for me. I came out here to get away from it, and now, everyone knew. If I was lucky, they’d forget about me. My physique wasn’t as impressive as Dementra’s. I was in solid shape, but I’d never gotten down to zero body fat. I didn’t look great in tights, which was why I was thankful that trend had died before I’d become a superhero.

But people didn’t usually forget once they put it together. It wouldn’t be long before people started asking for demonstrations. It was always cars. The most common being to pick up an automobile while posing with them.

“You forgot the bait,” said Dementra. “Don’t we need it to fish?”

“We’re not fishing,” I said. “We’re just here to relax.”

“As you said, but how does one relax without exerting dominance over the forces of nature?”

“You’ll see. The cabin is just down the road. We’ll sit by the lake, enjoy the quiet. Read a book.”

“Sounds boring.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come along.”

“I was hoping for a bonding experience,” said Dementra. “On Galadron, boon warrior companions such as ourselves would enter the pit, fighting until one of us yields or dies.”

“This is Earth. We sit by a lake and talk.”

“If such is your custom.”

“Boon warrior companions, huh?” I asked.

“I believe the Earthling equivalent is Besties?” said Dementra.

I chuckled. She did drive me crazy at times, but wasn’t that the nature of friendship.

A cop knocked on my window. I rolled it down.

“Problem officer?”

“No, ma’am, but my partner and I were just wondering if you’d do us a favor?”

The cop’s buddy stood by their cruiser with the flashing lights while another officer stood aside with a camera at the ready.

“My pleasure, officer,” I said as I stepped out of the car.

Drinks with Friends (short fiction)

Super Janine

 

“I’m telling you, the guy’s lost it,” said Henry.

“He can’t lose it,” said Eugene. “It’s not like a superpower you can just take away from him.”

“Isn’t it?” asked Henry.

Dementra finished off her beer and bit off the top of the bottle and chewed on it. “I fail to understand the problem. Didn’t we save the city? Shouldn’t the citizens be happy?”

“Yes, they should be,” said Eugene. “Ungrateful bastards.”

“It’s complicated,” I said.

Most operations went smoothly. There might be some incidental property damage, some casualties. But we were good at what we did. But sometimes, things went wrong. The Gophor Invasion had been one of those times.

Clusterfuck wouldn’t have been too strong a word.

“It was only a couple of buildings and a few hundred people” said Henry. “I don’t see why everyone wants to make a big deal about it. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

“We need a publicist,” said Eugene.

“I thought Barry was our publicist.”

He was. Not in any official capacity, but the flying chin had a way of smoothing everything over. It wasn’t just because he was the most powerful of us (though he was) or the aura of good will and compassion (entirely genuine) he radiated. The guy had a way with cameras and a sound byte.

“No comment,” said Eugene with a snarl. “Can you believe that? No comment?”

“Lay off the poor guy,” I said. “He’s going through a hard time.”

“I told him marrying her wasn’t going to work,” said Henry, “but did he listen to the clairvoyant? No, of course not. Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother.”

I emptied my beer.

“Are you going to finish that?” asked Dementra.

“Knock yourself out.”

I handed her the bottle and went to the bar. Service was slow tonight. I tried not to read too much into it, but every citizen in the place was glaring at us. They knew, as we did, that we’d done the best we could, but enough people die, it makes other people question if we did enough. Hell, I kept playing it through my head, trying to figure out where I’d screwed up.

The operation had been a staggering success, considering what we’d been up against. It didn’t make it any easier, and having a city full of glares and bad press wasn’t helping anyone, us or the people.

I ordered a drink. The bartender didn’t say anything. Just gave me the drink and took my money.

“Pretty fucked up,” said someone invisibly from beside me.

“Barry?” I asked. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Since when can you turn invisible?”

“Since this morning.”

Barry already had more powers than any of us, and he stumbled across new ones now and then. It was a debate whether he always had them and didn’t know how to activate them or if they developed spontaneously.

“The others are mad at me,” he said.

“Not Dementra,” I replied.

“And what about you?”

“What about you, Barry?” I asked. “How are things with Brook?”

“Rough,” he said. “I should’ve listened to Henry.”

“Don’t tell him that.”

“I’ll buy a round. Maybe that’ll smooth things over.”

“No, Barry. You’ll sit right here with me. I’ll buy you a drink. And we’ll talk about it.”

“I don’t want to bother you with my problems.”

I smiled. “I’m a superhero. Helping people with their problems is what I do.”

“I’m not sure this is one you can help me with.”

“So I’ll listen then.”

I ordered a drink for him.

“I don’t think I can get drunk,” he said.

“And here I thought you could do anything,”

Barry laughed, materializing on the stool beside me as I struggled to catch the attention of a bartender very deliberately ignoring me.

No Apologies (commentary)

So Ant-Man is obviously going to play around with the idea of someone becoming a superhero named “Ant-Man”, and I like that it has no problem acknowledging the weirdness of the shrinking superhero while also still being determined to be a superhero flick.

Tongue-in-cheek is hard to do. In the most recent Lone Ranger, there’s a lot of apologizing for the idea of the Lone Ranger, a lot of jokes at the character’s expense. In particular, it doesn’t sit well with me that the character’s iconic catch phrase “Hi Ho, Silver, Away!” is treated without any reverence, as embarrassing.

That’s the line, folks. It’s all well and good to say, “Hey, this is goofy and we acknowledge it.” It’s another to have no respect for the material. This is why I don’t particularly enjoy reboots. They aren’t coming from a place of affection, but rather of “fixing” the material. Timeless material that has lasted for decades, and someone comes along and “makes it better” by removing everything that makes it interesting and unique. From Robocop to Transformers to TMNT, it’s why these things are usually a waste of my time.

Ant-Man, however, is fine with acknowledging the weirdness of the premise (though I still say a shrinking superhero is no more absurd than a guy who fights Nazis will draped in the American flag and throwing a shield around) without insulting the premise.

Basically, what Marvel has going for it is that it never feels like it’s “slumming”. It always feels like they’re eager to make the films they are making. And not just because of money (though, hey, money is a lot of it) but because they genuinely like this stuff.

That’s the missing ingredient in so many other adaptations. DC views its characters as something to fix, to correct. Transformers and TMNT and Robocop have all been updated with a more extreme version of the originals.

But Ant-Man? He shrinks. He can have an epic battle in a model train set. He can save the universe with his army of insects.

And I can completely get behind that.

With Great Pizza… (short fiction)

The thing nobody mentions during superhero orientation is that having superhuman strength is the equivalent of owning a pickup truck. All your friends are going to ask you to help them move.

I hefted the sofa over my head.

“Be careful with that, Janine,” said Henry.

“I’ve got it,” I replied.

“You said that about my coffee table, and now it has a nick in it where you banged against the wall.”

“You’re clairvoyant,” I said. “You should’ve seen it coming.”

Henry paused wrapping dinnerware in newspaper. “Not funny. Do you have any idea how hard it is to ignore the thousands of possible futures I see at any moment and focus on the most important and probable?”
I’d heard this speech before and walked away. He kept talking. His voice faded away.

I carried the couch down the three flights of stairs to the moving truck, placing his precious Ikea couch down gently among the boxes.

Eugene, sipping an iced tea, sat in a folding chair beside the truck. “Good job.”

“You could help,” I said.

“I am helping.” He pointed to the clear blue sky. “I’m keeping the rain away. You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t think it was going to rain today.”

“Well, now it definitely won’t.”

I was in good shape. It came as part of the superhero lifestyle. But a day trudging up and down stairs was beginning to take its toll on my knees.

“We’ll have to hurry up,” said Henry. “If we don’t get out of here by three we’re going to stuck in some hellacious gridlock.”

“That, you see.”

“No, I just know traffic in this city.”

I grabbed his refrigerator. “I still don’t know why we couldn’t wait for the weekend.”

“Professor Hubris is going to unleash an army of cyborg zombies on Saturday,” said Henry.

“What about Sunday?”

“I have yoga class.”

I carried my load downstairs and loaded the fridge in the truck while Frank made sure the rain stayed away and watched me with a smile. Never did like that guy.

An alien materialized in a flash, landing in several boxes of Henry’s stuff stacked by the street. Mostly clothes. Although I heard something fragile break.

“Whoops,” said Dementra, Warrior Queen of Galadron.

“Oh, goddamnit,” called Henry from the third story window. “Did you come millions of light years just to step on my collectible plates?”

Dementra shrugged. “It was an accident.”

Henry grumbled, retreating inside.

“Bet he didn’t see that coming,” said Frank.

“I’d like to see him teleport across the galaxy and see how well he hits his mark,” said Dementra.

“Forget it,” I said. “Just glad you could make it.”

She telekinetically hoisted a few boxes and floated them into the truck. “I’ll admit I don’t understand this ritual of moving day. On Galadron, we burn everything when we relocate.”

She threw a bundle of loose clothes into the truck, and I pushed an entertainment center in front of it.

“Oh put it in a box, you lazy assholes!” called Henry from above.

“All you need to know is that at the end of the day, we get pizza and beer,” I said.

Dementra nodded. “That is something I can get behind.”

Johnny Cliche (short fiction)

“You’ll never walk away from this, Johnny,” he said.

“Who says I’m walking, Malone? I’m taking the train.” I kept my gun on him, and he kept his hands on the desk.

Malone smirked. “You don’t got the guts to pull that trigger. You’re a loser, Johnny. A schmuck. You’ll always be one.”

“And you’re a heartless son of a bitch,” I replied. “But you forgot one thing. I’m a man with nothing to lose.”

I grabbed the suitcase, opened it just long enough to glance at the neatly stacked bills inside.

“You aren’t going to count it?” asked Malone.

“I trust you.”

“All this for a dame? I thought you were smarter than that. Do you think you’re her white knight? Don’t be a sucker. She’s playing you. You can’t be that stupid.”

“I could be,” I replied.

She wasn’t just any dame. It wasn’t just her long legs that went on forever or those lips that tasted like heaven, or the way every head would turn when I entered a room with her on my arm. It wasn’t her warm body pressed against mine. It wasn’t the way her blue eyes could burn right into a man’s soul, unearthing passions he didn’t know he had.

It wasn’t just that.

“She’s using you,” he said.

“What makes you think I give a damn. It’s nothing personal, Malone.”

He laughed. “You pull that trigger, you’ll be just as bad as me.”

He wasn’t wrong.

I shot him twice in the head, locked up his office, and headed back to her place.

She greeted me at the door in a sheer nightgown that left nothing to the imagination. The things that body had made me do. The things I was still willing to do for it. I wasn’t a sucker. I knew the score. She didn’t love me. She wasn’t the kind of lady to love anything but money. But I had money.

She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me hard. She pulled away with the suitcase in hand.

“You want to count it?” I asked.

“I trust you.”

“Nothing holding us back now,” I said. “The world is our oyster, baby. What say we find a nice little island paradise with sandy white beaches where we can sip mai tais and make love under the moonlight.”

She turned, pointed my gun at me. She must’ve taken it during the hug.
“Sorry, Johnny, there’s been a change of plans.”

“But, baby, you and me—”

“Just don’t feel like a two way split. I’ve never been good at sharing.”

The gunshot exploded like thunder. I slid against her bed. It didn’t hurt. The red stain spread across my shirt, but it didn’t hurt.

She changed out of her nightgown as I bled to death. That body. A devil wrapped in an angel’s body. But that was how the devil was supposed to work, right?

She grabbed another suitcase she’d had hidden behind her nightstand. “Sorry, Johnny. It’s nothing personal. You understand.”

“Sure, sure,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette you could spare, would you?” Everything was cold. It wouldn’t be much longer now.

She put the cigarette between my lips and lit it. She planted one last kiss on my cheek. “I liked you. But I like money more.”

She was out the door, leaving me to die alone. Then again, didn’t we all?
I thought about that briefcase full of money, buried in an empty lot on the way from Malone’s office to here and the other case, full of blank paper, being carried onto a train by a dame I’d killed for.

“Nothing personal, doll.”

I wheezed out my last chuckle as the world faded away.

Transmutation (short fiction)

Wren & Hess

The shopkeeper opened the door for Wren and Hess.

“You aren’t the regular inspectors,” said the shopkeeper.

“We’re filling in,” said Hess. “Bad case of troll rot running through the constabulary. Alchemy inspectors were hit extra hard.”

The shopkeeper rubbed his hands on his robe. “I see. Come in then. I don’t have all day.”

The shop was little more than a hole-in-the-wall in a corner of the Dregs. There was enough space for Wren and Hess and the shopkeeper and the potions lining the walls, and that was about it.

Hess unhooked the wand hanging from his belt and passed it over the various vials. If the wand detected anything untoward, its crystal would change color accordingly.

“We’re going to need to see your laboratory as well,” said Wren.

“Don’t have one,” replied the shopkeeper. “All my potions are mixed off site. I’m just a merchant. Couldn’t mix a potion if my life depended on it. I can give you the addresses of my suppliers, but you should already have them.”

He went behind his till and sorted through his money. He seemed nervous to Wren. More nervous than usual. All the potion shops in the city had their questionable stock. Standard procedure was to inspect, confiscate, fine, and report, but it wasn’t usually worth it to drag someone to the Tower for carrying one or two overpowered love potions. Every alchemy shopkeeper and constable knew the drill. So far, the owners had been more irritated than afraid.

But this one, something about him set her instincts on edge.

“Is there a problem, sir?” she asked.

“No problem,” he replied. “I’m just an honest merchant trying to make a living and constabulary are bad for business in the Dregs.”

Hess found a handful of questionable elixirs. They were logged and fines were collected. While putting the potions in a bag, Hess dropped his wand. It flared bright red as it struck the floor. He pulled away the rug to reveal a small trapdoor.

“What’s down there, sir?”

“What? Nothing. I didn’t even know it was down there. I was holding it for a friend.”

Wren put her hand on her sword while Hess opened the door. The small collection of hidden potions caused the wand to flash a spectrum of colors. None of them good.

The alchemist threw something at Wren and Hess’s feet. It exploded in acrid green smoke that burned their nostrils. They exited the shop, coughing and wiping away tears.

The shopkeeper, caught within his own noxious cloud, came running out coughing, blindly tripping past Wren and Hess. He stumbled in a desperate scramble, carrying an armload of potions. Several tumbled to the cobblestones in his mad flight. A puddle burned through the street. Another produced a skull-shaped cloud that wouldn’t stop screaming.

They ran after the shopkeeper. To lose sight of him for a moment would be enough for him to give them the slip in the narrow, blind alleys of the Dregs. He no doubt knew a dozen escape routes and would’ve used them if he wasn’t struggling with the same blurred vision they were.

He threw a potion over his shoulder. It sprouted a thick, purple beanstalk that quickly blocked their path. Wren hacked at it with her sword, but Hess crawled up a wall and was up and over in a flash. He caught up with the shopkeeper in a shadowy dead end.

“Put the potions down,” said Hess.

The shopkeeper clutched his hand. A piece of glass had pierced his palm. The wound bled, but the blood was gold, not red.

“I broke it,” he said quietly.

The veins of his arm thickened as his blood transmuted. He reached out to Hess as the transformation overtook his flesh. Within moments, a golden statue of the helpless shopkeeper was all that was left. Frozen in mid-step, he fell over, breaking into several pieces.

“Poor bastard,” remarked Wren as they waited for a team from dispatch to collect the remains.

“Not the first alchemist to try to make his fortune chasing transmutation,” said Hess. “Won’t be the last. Still, a lousy way to go.”

“More lousy than you know, partner.”

She scratched a copper coin with one of the shopkeeper’s shiny fingers.

“Fool’s gold.”