Billy Torch Takes A Beating
You gotta appreciate the little things…
NOW
Billy only had to tell the old man once.
The bell dinged and the cash register slammed open, coins crashing in the drawer, loud and loose in the empty little bodega.
The old man said nothing; his head was down. He was sweating in his raggedy tank top despite the artic blast of cold from the rattling air-conditioner overhead, little plastic streamers flapping in the breeze. Oily beads rolled down his wide forehead and into the unruly bushes of his eyebrows—blinking, blinking, blinking—they hung off the tip of his long nose. His massive Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
And Billy Torch smiled to see it.
Yeah, that asshole Felix Fixit may have fucked him over—the chintzy, price gouging son of a bitch. Yeah, he might have double-crossed Billy on the cost of repairing his flame-rig, forcing him to hit the street and start taking up “collections” again, but shit, moments like this… Goddamn, if it wasn’t all suddenly worth it.
“It’s rough, Mr. Duc, I know it is,” Billy said, smiling, leaning. “Believe me, I know. Sudden change is always rough. The secret is: Us little guys? We just gotta roll with it, right? We have to…” his face scrunched up as he searched for the right phrase. He brightened. “We have to learn to appreciate the little things,” he said, smug.
Mr. Duc pulled a greasy sheaf of oft-folded bills from the cash drawer.
“But then, who knows?” Billy said. “Fortunes change every day, am I right?” He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “Eh? Come on now.”
Mr. Duc said nothing, stoop-shouldered, a single small glare.
“What am I saying?” Billy spread his arms, as if struck by sudden recollection. “You know that. Of course you do. I mean, what was it? Last year?” He stopped. “Wow,” shocked. “It’s been a year already? Time flies, huh?”
Mr. Duc stuffed the money into a blue vinyl bank bag and zipped it closed.
Billy laughed and turned away, leaning back and resting his elbows on the counter, a man at ease in an empty store. The few patrons who had seen Billy Torch swagger in out of the drizzle, stylized flames sewn around the cuffs of his jacket, had known better than to stay. They had scuttled out in a hurry, abandoning their meager groceries while Billy browsed the racks of glossy celebrity mags. The back wall of cold-fogged freezer glass, the silent aisles of chips and paper towels, and the wire shelves of stale snack cakes were now the only witnesses to their exchange.
Billy’s gaze fell on the stack of newspapers next to the counter and the bold headline emblazoned above the fold: “The Sick Man escapes! Where is The Cowl?” And below that, in smaller type: “Vigilante legend vanished?”
“I’ll never forget that night,” Billy glanced back. “The Cowl crashing in here… My knee still kills, you know? And since then? Well, it’s been a rough year.” His smirk widened into a toothy shark’s grin. “But like I said, fortunes change. Who knows, maybe you’re next.”
Mr. Duc held the bank bag out across the counter, eyes shiny and wet.
“Maybe not.” Billy Torch took it, calm, cool and in no hurry, not a care in the world, not these days, not anymore, not with the Cowl gone. He unzipped the bag and thumbed through the contents. Low numbers blurred by, his lips moved with his count, the bills flick, flick, flick… flick… flicked… and then he sighed, looked up and slowly shook his head. “A little light, right?”
“People are staying in,” Mr. Duc muttered.
“People got to eat, right?” Billy scratched at the scruff under his chin, sniffed and motioned around. “You’re a grocery store, right?”
Mr. Duc just looked away.
The silence dragged. Billy watched the old man avoid his eyes while the fluorescents stuttered and buzzed and the air conditioner rattled. Finally he said, “Look, Mr. Duc, this is all new, I know… well, maybe not new so much as… starting up again. You know what I mean. It’s been awhile, is what I’m saying, and I’m a good guy, so…” He held up a wad of bills.
A sudden jagged lance of pain shot up his leg.
His knee buckled and he cried out, the money spilling from his hands as he lurched over. He caught the counter, clutched at it like a drowning man. He hung there, red faced and hissing, just this side of hitting the floor. He stood on one foot, wincing. He groaned. His knee throbbed, it pulsed and ached. He bent it, eased it through the motions, listening to the click and pop of once-broken bones that had never quite healed right.
Goddamn knee, he thought.
A flash of memory: A year ago, crumpled on thestore’s dirty tile, sprawled among wrecked shelving, screaming, snot and blood coating his chin as he clutched a leg that was bent the wrong way. His flame-edged mask hung askew and his white jumpsuit was in tatters, stained red with blood and cranberry juice. His flame-rig had been torn off and tossed aside; it was dented and broken, spritzing fuel in the corner. He was sticky from spilled soda, peppered with shards of Doritos and splattered with mashed Twinkies. A black clad figure stood over him, growling, metal studded gloves creaking into monstrous fists.
The memory burned.
Goddamn Cowl.
He set his foot down, wary, testing the feeling, waiting for the twinge, the pain. None came. He put his weight on it, carefully stood on it, looked up and caught Mr. Duc watching, a flick of a smile quickly gone, his eyes skipping away.
Billy boiled over.
“The fuck are you smiling at?” He whipped a handful of cash across the counter.
Duc flinched back, his arms up. He stumbled into the racks behind him, spilling a colorful avalanche of cigarette boxes and plastic Captain Awesome figures, the Man of Might’s muscled arms akimbo, his star-spangled capes fluttering.
Billy almost went over the counter right then. His hands itched to throttle the stupid old man right then and there, but he didn’t trust his knee to make the leap, or to do much else these days. If I had my rig and my mask, Billy thought, breathing angry blasts through his nose, I’d burn you and your little shithole to cinders.
But he didn’t, and he needed money to fix that, money people like Duc would provide, so he let his breathing slow, let his anger ebb away. He glanced at the bank bag with its sad little bundle of wrinkled bills. It was nothing, some ones, some fives, a few ratty twenties. Time was, a score like this would have been beneath him, barely worth the strong arming. Times change. Billy had only been outta stir a few days, he was getting desperate. The plain truth of it was, he just couldn’t hack this bullshit loser life, this nothing existence, living as a civilian, waiting in line.
He needed to get back out there.
He needed his name back. The key to getting his name back was his flame rig and his mask. In order to get that, he needed money, a lot of money, which meant he needed to be careful, because the cops were out in force tonight.
The cops and The Cowl had long been allies. They couldn’t publicly support him of course, he was a dangerous vigilante. They investigated him, they chased him, especially after he crashed some villain’s hideout in a particularly aggressive way, but it was all a show. They relied on him; he crossed the lines they couldn’t. So when the story of The Cowl’s death hit the streets, the cops came out hard and hunting. Billy had seen them on the way over, rousting the easy marks, dragging the snitches from their holes, and kicking apart the tent cities nestled under the overpasses. Everybody was hitting the side of a squad car tonight. Billy needed to be careful, because like his flame rig, a little heat was another thing he couldn’t afford right now—at least, not until he could afford to provide a little heat of his own…
Heh, yeah…
But for that, I need money… His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed, you son of bitch, Felix. He took a steadying breath. Just a little bit more, he thought, just a little bit more and I can pay that bastard off, get my flame rig, and then… then I’m gonna climb up outta this gutter. He smiled. No more civvie-life, no more scrounging, no more living like a rat among hawks. Billy Torch back on top. Respected. Feared.
A flash of memory: Leaning far out the open side of Big Time’s helicopter, buffeted by the whomp-whomp-whomp of the big rotors. His flame-edged white jumpsuit snapped in the wind as the neatly bound stacks of gold bars gleamed behind him, clinking and sliding with the swoop and turn of the aircraft. A crackling jet of flame blasted from the chromed nozzle of his flamethrower, thunderous, scorching the air. He was ecstatic, screaming defiance, screaming guttural victory, as Miss Missile slowly tumbled back to earth, trailing a plume of black smoke back down into the warren of buildings below.
Oh yeah, he smiled, those were the salad days.
He watched the bills flutter down around Mr. Duc, a twirling paper storm, sticking to the old man’s sweat slick skin and fly-away hair. “This week’s a pass.” Billy pointed around at the little drifts of money, edges flapping in the air conditioned breeze, and then leveled a finger at Duc. “Next week?” He promised. “No passes.”
Duc nodded, swallowing, and Billy felt a second twinge in his knee—the damp always played havoc with the injury—but this time he smiled. The little things, he thought, watching Mr. Duc cringe, you gotta appreciate the little things.
#
THE ESCAPE (7 DAYS AGO)
The Sick Man had been locked away for years, kept in a dank cell in a sub-basement far beneath the dark rock of Black Maw Prison. There, he stewed. There, he screamed. There, he raved and lurched and paced in his tiny cement square, his skin blistering and oozing, chained to the back wall and strapped into a steel cable strait jacket twenty-four hours a day.
They never let him out. He was fed a protein paste from a fire hose. No one ever got close to him. Not the guards, not the prisoners. The warden wouldn’t allow it.
The clean-up cost way too much.
Inhumane, the Sick Man’s lawyers claimed—this concerning a guy who once ate a baby on live TV—inhumane. They demanded the prison loosen his restraints, at least for an hour. One single hour, they said, every day, one hour where he could eat, exercise, or use the computers, maybe even get his GED. They finally got a judge to agree and the one word whispered on the street was: blackmail.
The locks on the Sick Man’s cell clanked and thudded and rolled back.
Six guards eased in, wary and walking on the balls of their feet. A squad of containment officers waited in the hall beyond, clad in their gleaming armor, crowded together, sweating beneath the layers of ceramic, Kevlar, and steel.
The Sick Man squatted at the back of his cell, twitching and growling, his strait jacket stained and crusty from his own blood and infection. He watched their careful approach, their batons crackling with arcs of electric blue. He could hear a plastic Spork rattling on the lunch tray the last guard nervously carried. The Sick Man cracked a smile, his face a red ruin, the skin splitting at the corners of his mouth, and seeping a watery pus.
“Don’t you move, shit bird,” the guards warned. “Don’t you move!”
They undid his restraints, buckles tinkling and falling loose.
And the Sick Man burst up, a blur, suddenly free.
The cell door banged shut.
Inside: Muffled screams. Muted banging. Thuds and splashes. Then: Alarms. Flashing lights and running feet. Rattling gunfire. There were echoes: screams and the deep thud of fists to flesh, rending meat, and dark laughter. Outside, the ground shook. Small tremors grew. A fiery fist punched up at the sky, tearing through glass and steel, a hail of debris raining down. Black Maw Prison cracked wide open into a sagging, flaming ruin.
Lunatics, thieves and murderers ran cackling into the night.
The Sick Man climbed over the rubble, klaxons blaring, dusty gravel falling from his shoulders, his strait jacket hanging in flapping tatters. He leaned back, arms spread and howled his wild celebration up into the night sky.
Glowing in the distance, the city beckoned to him. The Sick Man stared at the tantalizing riot of light that laced the horizon’s edge. He stared; a cool breeze caressed his feverish brow, venomous desire twisting around inside of him.
Years. It had been years. Now, free at last, he vowed to make the city his.
#
NOW
The city was gray and wet.
It pissed cool water, never enough to soak, just a slow mist, constant and damp. It had been raining all day, all week, a hazy veil draping the skyline.
Billy flipped up his collar and limped out onto the sidewalk.
It wasn’t long before he was cursing himself for parking so damn far away, his knee growing worse with each step. Soon he was gritting his teeth, splashing in the oil-sheened puddles. He could feel the bones in his knee grind. His eyes watered from the pain. Trains rumbled and clacked overhead, a migraine building like a thunderhead behind his right eye. What the hell had he been thinking; parking by his first stop was just poor planning. Next time, he promised himself, he’d park here by Duc’s, his last stop, and walk up to Benny’s Pharmacy, and make his collections while his knee was fresh. Then, when he was done, the car would be right there.
That was a fantastic idea. Fantastic.
His hip had started to ache too, creaking in time with his knee, his limp becoming more pronounced. It will be so nice to sit down, he thought, breathing through his nose, focusing on lurching forward, concentrating on each step, so nice. Just a bit farther.
A shower of pebbles clattered the long and lonely fall down the side of a building. They echoed and bounced and splashed.
Billy froze, alarms going off in his head.
The 9:30 express blasted by overhead, a thunderous cacophony ratcheting down the tracks, flashing lights and throwing sparks. It rumbled and roared above him, stuttering light, a world-consuming din, and then it was gone. The street was left hushed and empty again.
Billy scanned around, wary and alert.
Nothing. The pavement was shiny black and wet, gleaming with the flashing red, yellow and green of the stoplights, the orange of the stuttering streetlights. A lone car rolled through a distant intersection.
It looked like he was alone, but it certainly didn’t feel that way.
Billy had forgotten all about his knee. His nerves were alive and thrumming. He squinted. He tried to pierce the inky drape of shadows all around him. He listened. He could feel it, it made his shoulders hunch; there were eyes in the darkness, close by, watching. The buildings loomed over the narrow streets and elevated train tracks, three or four stories, all shrouded in deep black shadows above. Something scuffled through grit and gravel and another scatter of pebbles fell to the street.
Billy swallowed, he knew what this was. Oh yeah, he knew was this was, but it can’t be, it was impossible, there’s no way…
The Cowl is dead.
Another train thundered above him, clickety-clack-clickety-clack, slowing, rolling into the station down the street. Brakes screeched, lights stuttered and flashed. Sparks fell in a hot orange rain, hissing in the wet streets and banishing the shadows, illuminating the corners and alcoves, illuminating a dark figure standing in a doorway.
Right there in front of him.
Flashing red goggles.
Oh, shit. Billy spun and ran down the street. He hobbled. Oh, shit. His aching knee caught up to him. He limped in long lurching strides, hurrying. Oh, shit. It can’t be. The Sick Man said he killed Cowl. He said he killed him and ate him. He glanced back, there was nothing there, but he didn’t slow.
His car was just ahead, parked on the other side of the alley.
Shit…come on…
The alley was so black it was like a hole in the universe. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, he was going right past. If he stopped, his knee would give out. He was so close to safety. He was almost there, his car waiting at the curb. He threw himself into a flailing, stumbling run, fumbling his rattling keys from his pocket.
Something grabbed his coat. His collar went tight, choking him. He squawked as he was pulled off his feet, dropping his keys as he was yanked back into the alley’s full darkness.
And the street was empty and quiet again.
#
THE PARTY (5 DAYS AGO)
Billy was fresh out of the joint, cut loose early from a year-long stint for armed robbery, when he last ran into The Cowl.
He had been coming out of the bathroom, head down and dragging up his zipper, the TV over the bar going on about the Sick Man’s escape. Word on the street said The Cowl was on the hunt, busting up the underworld in that sudden terrible way he does. First the breaking glass, splintered wood, and a haze of smoke, then the black clad fury of hobnailed boots, fists like granite, and hard barked questions.
That’s never a good time.
The villain scene was tense, everybody was jumpy and gearing up for a fight, which meant an ambitious young tough like himself might be able to find some work if he kept an ear out and knew where to look.
And Billy Torch was a guy who knew where to look.
Tomorrow, he had been thinking, tomorrow I’ll call Felix and start putting my gear back together. Maybe I’ll call the Deadly Elements and see who’s around, maybe Frigid will want to grab a drink or two. Maybe she’ll finally put out.
“Billy Torch.” It was a growl, instantly recognizable, and Billy stopped cold. He looked up then, eyes wide, suddenly paying attention, seeing the destruction that littered the bar all around him, seeing the scattered bodies, bloody, beaten, and flung about, hearing the anguished cries and groans.
The Cowl squatted on the bar, a monster man wrapped in creaking black leather, his red goggles flashing. “How’s the knee?”
“Aw… crap,” Billy said, shoulders sagging.
The Cowl lunged at him, a metal-studded fist swooping in.
…
…
(Noise)
…
(Groans)
When Billy came to, he was sprawled beneath a broken table and missing a shoe. Climbing out, he saw the bar was in shambles. He staggered to his feet, sore all over, and joined the others in a hobbled queue, battered and bruised and groaning, all waiting to be poked and prodded at by a local junkie who used to be a doctor. The villain scene comes with a medical plan.
“Hey, Billy,” Doc Needles said. “Congratulations on your parole.”
Billy eyed the torn banners, the smashed pulp of the cake. “Thanks, man.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Rotten teeth and a couple of burn-calloused fingertips floated before his eyes. The man smelled like old sweat and slept-in garbage.
Billy tossed back the customary on-the-house shot of whiskey that always came with the morning after a vigilante’s surprise interrogation. It burned going down. He winced, groaned, and sneered. “Goddamn Cowl.”
#
BREAKFAST (3 DAYS AGO)
Billy sat alone in the diner, surrounded by a chattering crowd of oblivious civvies and their whiny brats. He had ordered breakfast, but spent more time stirring his oatmeal then actually eating it. He tongued at his back molar. Was it chipped or cracked?
The front bell ding-a-linged.
Skeleton Rourke’s wide bulk filled the doorway. The big man had to stoop when he came in, thudding and clanking. His dark hoodie was the size of a tent, oddly humped and poked up. The demonic armor he wore beneath was welded to him—it didn’t come off—and his clothes did a terrible job of hiding its hard plates and wicked spikes, not to mention the vague whiff of sulfur.
Skeleton spotted Billy.
He waved, chains clanking at his wrist.
Billy nodded and gave a small wave back.
The diner was small, a tight squeeze between the tables, and Skeleton was a big lumbering galoot; he side-swiped tables, bumping, stumbling, spilling juice, and rattling the silverware. “’Scuse me. Pardon me… Excuse me. Sorry…”
He dropped into the booth; the wood groaned beneath him.
“The Sick Man killed The Cowl,” Skeleton said, no preamble.
Billy just raised an eyebrow.
“Everybody says so,” Skeleton said.
“No way,” Billy said, thinking about that gravelly voice, those granite fists.
“It’s true. Sick Man set a trap. He hired a bunch of heavy hitters.” He counted off on his fingers, “Big Time, Dragonhead, Lady Face-kick, The Red Pole—”
“I hate that guy,” Billy said.
“Me too,” Skeleton said. “His new costume is terrible.”
“Terrible!” Billy agreed.
“Yeah, but look… that doesn’t matter, because Red Pole’s dead, they’re all dead.” Skeleton leaned in, whispering, a bull moose trying to be inconspicuous. His hood was pulled low, a muted green glow seeping out from within, hints of naked bone in the shadows. “All except The Sick Man.”
“Come on, man. How many times has Big Time made that same claim?” Billy asked. “Remember when he was showing off that charred skeleton dressed in The Cowl’s burnt costume and like, a year later the real Cowl re-appeared and beat the crap out of him?”
“Yeah, ok, fine, that was weird…” Skeleton said, pausing, shaking his head, “But, I’m telling you, this time it’s real. Red Pole was speared. Dragonhead looks like a charcoal briquette. Big Time’s took the concrete high dive!” Skeleton’s raised hand arched down to the Formica table top. He made a reedy dropping whistle. “Splat. The Cowl took ‘em down… hard… but the Sick Man got the Cowl!” Green flames shined beneath his hood. “He actually got him!” He laughed evilly, manically, leaning back and cackling, it echoed deep in his chest, his teeth clack-clack-clacked.
People looked their way and Billy hunched over his oatmeal, making subtle shushing motions. This was a civvie diner, if these sheep spotted two known villains in their midst, they would panic and scatter like startled birds. There would be running and screaming and the cops would show up, not too mention a costumed jackass or two and then Billy would be fucked. Without his gear, he’d be back in a cell in no time, sent up the river for parole violations, “associating with known criminals” would be his third strike too, and that’s for good.
Skeleton quieted and sank down in his seat, stooped over, but the big man couldn’t keep quiet long. He cast furtive glances about and leaned back in. “The Sick Man’s called a meeting. The whole scene. Masks, mobsters, gang bangers, psychos, thugs and thieves, everyone’s gonna be there. He’s gonna declare himself King. Can you dig it? We gotta go. Did you pick up your gear from Felix? You ready to suit up?”
Billy’s face darkened and he shook his head. “No, the cheap little bastard upped the price on me. ‘It’s a seller’s market,’ he said, the greasy little google-eyed son of a bitch.”
Skeleton’s shoulders slumped. “Oh… that’s cool, I guess. I mean, it’s not like you’ll be a civvie forever, right?” He said, glum and staring at his gloved hands lying limp on the table. Then he looked up, a hopeful skull wreathed in green flame. “Do you think you might have it together by the meeting?”
“I don’t know.” Billy shrugged. “I doubt it. Maybe, if I’m lucky.”
#
NOW
Billy slammed into a rain-slicked dumpster. He bounced off, staggering, and the world lurched as he whipped around, panicked and searching.
The alley was empty.
His heart was thudding. He whirled around.
Running boots. Billy turned. A sledgehammer fist thundered into his gut.
He folded over, honking, and blasting a spray of spittle. Fingers twined in his jacket. He was flung in a stumbling run, tripping in the drifts of black-bagged garbage piled against the buildings. The bags were wet and slick. They broke open, stinking and squelching under his feet. His knee twisted in the mess and he slammed face first into a brick wall, pain bursting behind his eyes. Skin tore, blood ran. He fell, bracing against the wall, blinking away the wet muck, spaghetti in his hair and coffee grounds between his fingers. He struggled to focus, to stand, stumbling up and falling back.
What the hell? Was that The Cowl?
The Sick Man had to be wrong—wrong or lying. He had to be, because there was no mistaking it: The black leather suit, the dark mask, the dark hood, the glowing red goggles. The punching. So fast, here and then gone, like a living shadow.
The Cowl.
It had to be.
It couldn’t be.
Either way, time to go, Billy...
He stood, too quick, falling as he tottered free of the garbage. His head was ringing, his nose bleeding like an open tap, the copper tang of blood in his mouth.
A boot slammed into his ribs, steel toe cracking bone.
Billy whooped and dropped to his knees on the broken concrete.
A shade fell over him, a dark figure standing over him. He was kicked onto his back and the heavy boot stomped down on him, once, twice, again. Billy grunted and flopped. He felt ribs creak and break. He screamed, flapping helpless warding hands.
“Where’s the Sick Man?” The figure roared and stomped. “Where is he?”
That’s not The Cowl’s voice. It was weird, digitally garbled.
Fists curled in his lapels. They yanked him up, his feet slipping and skittering, and then he was whipped across the alley. He hit a brick wall and bounced off.
Dark laughter rippled through the shadows.
The alley was empty again.
He turned, wiping away blood. What the fuck? He lurched up into a hobbled run. At one end, the street light sputtered, casting its light into the darkened narrows between the buildings, a portal to safety. He limped for it, a drowning man struggling to break the water’s surface. Movement in the corner of his eye…
“Where you going, scumbag?” In his ear, a low digital warble.
Billy spun, throwing wild haymakers, grunting, hitting nothing but air, staggering from the force of his swings. Hands shoved him from behind and he gasped, splashing down into a stagnant puddle, his hair hanging in his face.
Out on the street, a rusty Dodge rolled past. It was slow and easy, its frame creaking and its tires hissing on the wet pavement. A snippet of Motown wafted past, here and then gone again, a world away.
“We’re not done yet.” The electronic voice again. Rough hands grabbed him.
This couldn’t be The Cowl; Billy knew that much. The Cowl’s voice was real. It was brutal, low and angry, nothing but gravel and scars. This voice sounded like it was coming through a voice modulator.
The dark figure threw him back down the alley. He squawked, his arms pin-wheeling, a running fall. His foot caught in a pothole and he hit the concrete, face down, spread-eagle and dribbling blood. “Ugh.”
Slow footsteps approached.
“Where’s the Sick Man?”
He turned over, slow and pained, and started to crawl. “I don’t know,” he gasped. He was dragging himself, too slow, getting nowhere. He smeared through wet muck, banana peels, slippery filth; the sound of those heavy boots drew closer, closer. “Please, I don’t know! I swear!”
The boots stepped around him. They stood in his way.
Thick soled and iron-shod, the tight laces crossed up and up and up. Billy’s gaze climbed, seeing black leather and black armor, darker than the surrounding night. Red lenses flared beneath a shadowed hood. Billy gaped.
Holy shit. It WAS him. It really was him.
The Dark Shadow of Justice.
The Eyes in the Night.
The Cowl.
He was yanked to his feet, slammed against the wall. The Cowl worked him like a heavy bag, those freight train fists pummeling him.
“Where! Is! The! Sick! Man!” yelled with each thundering punch.
Billy grunted and coughed blood. He sagged in The Cowl’s fist.
The black mask was in close, right there in his face, the red goggles a bright crimson and making that high whine you can only hear when The Cowl is right up on you. Billy had been here before, The Goddamn Cowl had been beating on him for years and this was the same black mask, the same black hood. The costume was the same, too: thick leather, Kevlar-like plates under some kind of heavy fabric, all black, all of it damp and creaking and smelling awful, moldy like a gym locker room and hung with the bitter cabbage stink of unwashed sweat.
But that voice…
And now that he really looked, the body—it wasn’t right either. The Cowl was a big, burly, taller than him, and built like a brick shithouse dude. This person… Billy stared, blinked confusion. His eyes followed the long legs up and up, along the curves, the hips, this person was built, but shorter. This wasn’t a man… A woman?
“Who the fuck are you?” Billy groaned.
She drew back her fist. It hung there, the hard overhand right, and Billy saw the familiar glints of chromed metal at the knuckles. They gleamed in the stuttering flicker of the street lights. “I’m The Cowl, asshole.”
“You’re—”
“Where’s The Sick Man!”
“You’re not the real Cowl!”
He barely saw the punch.
Face twisted, his head thrown back, an explosion of pain. “Ga-ah!” A little cartoon orchestra of Cowls marched in a circle around his head, banging away on their cartoon instruments. Deet-da-deet-da-deedle-deet! Deet-da-deet-da-deedle-deet! Deet-da-deet! Deet-da-deet! Deet-da-deedle-deedle-deet!
The Cowl let him go. The alley floor leapt up and kicked him in the face.
Fade to black…
#
AFTER THE MEETING (1 DAY AGO)
The Sick Man was the last man standing, that’s what Skeleton Rourke said.
“Barely standing,” Billy amended as the tattered red velvet curtains creaked closed, swishing. He could hear The Sickman’s hesitant stutter steps and the wobbling tap-tap-tap of his cane as it faded away backstage.
The desultory applause trailed off as the crowd broke up.
“No kidding.” Skeleton towered over him, his naked bones visible in the gaps between the clanking and soot-smudged black plate armor, wreathed in green flames. His ram-horned Death’s head helmet squealed and sparked as he turned. Billy caught a whiff of sulfur. “At least his speech was rousing.” The big man shrugged, armor up, armor down, screech.
“Rousing?” Billy said, “More like crazy. He wants to take over the city and rename it St. Sickmansburg? Why not send out invitations ‘Hey, Supers! There’s some villains over here doing bad stuff! Come on over and beat us up! BYOB!’ It’s crazy!”
The crowd muttered around them as they filed out of the old theatre’s moldering remains, confused, angry and disappointed all at once, like a bunch of kids who had got nothing but socks and sweaters for Christmas.
“Yeah, and that part about the Dinosaur gun? I didn’t understand that at all. Where does he think he’s going to get that many dinosaurs, let alone make a gun that big? Who does he think is going to carry it?” Skeleton shook his head.
Then something caught his eye and his flames whooshed, his armor screeching as he waved excitedly over the crowd. He stopped, and turned back, looking apologetic and uncomfortable, his flames dampening. “Oh, hey… listen, dude, I… ah, I got invited to this thing.” He motioned over his shoulder, chains banging hollowly on his soot-stained chest plate. “It’s… ah… for masks only though, and you don’t have your kit together… yet… so…”
Billy strained up on his toes and looked out over the crowd.
The Monster Boys were waiting at the end of the aisle, the Bully, Thundercrack, and Baron Von Fuckya-up. They were flexing and shoving each other, chortling, a pack of bruisers wearing too much metal.
Yeah, Billy thought, no thanks. “Oh, that’s okay,” Billy said. “That’s cool, man. I’m cool.”
Skeleton gasped relief, his flames whooshing. “Really? You sure? Oh, that is awesome, dude. I’m really sorry, but y’know… Look, I’ll catch a ride with them then, ok? And, you know, when you’re suited up again…” But he was already edging away, clanking, easing between the seats. “Pardon me, ‘scuse me…”
“Yeah, sure, no problem.” Billy nodded, but Skeleton was already gone, swallowed up by the crowd. Billy could hear their excited whoops and the thunderous gonging of their high-fives. He turned away and merged with the crowd trudging up the opposite steps.
“I’m telling you, man,” a voice was saying behind him, “the smart money says get the fuck outta Dodge while the getting is good.”
Billy glanced back over his shoulder.
Double Jointed Larry and the Paper Mache Giraffe were slowly climbing the steps behind him.
Larry was talking, the big peacock plumes stuck to his domino mask bobbing. “I’m serious. Listen, if The Sick Man is telling the truth about him and The Cowl, and the other Supers figure it out, they are gonna hit this city like an atom bomb, man.”
The Paper Mache Giraffe creaked, rocking and nodding up the steps.
“I don’t want that.” Larry said, “Captain Awesome and those other douche bags flying in here and beating the unholy crap out of us. I don’t want that. Do you want that?”
The Paper Mache Giraffe didn’t say anything, but anyone looking at him could easily tell: He definitely did not want that.
Larry started and nodded up the stairs. “Hey! Looky here! It’s Billy Torch! I heard you were in the hospital, or jail, or… hospital-jail or something.” Larry looked him up and down, “And wearing civvies?” A raised eyebrow.
“I’m getting my gear together,” Billy said. “Felix has it right now.”
“Sure you are.” Larry glanced at the Paper Mache Giraffe and smiled. “Sure you are. Say, you lookin’ for a little henchman work?”
Billy could feel the Paper Mache Giraffe’s silent, mocking laughter. He glared at Larry, clad in his peacock feather cape, his thigh-high sparkle boots and his v-neck onesie that showed off his hairless, pigeon chest. “Why don’t you two fuck off?”
“You know what you need, street thug?” Larry dramatically held his hands up, flourishing, wiggling his long fingers. They waggled, bending too far both ways, his knuckles popping like bubble-wrap. “Flair.” He shoved past Billy, throwing back his dusty feather cape. “You should look into it, maybe then you could be somebody,” he tossed back, sneering.
The Paper Mache Giraffe followed Double Jointed Larry up the stairs.
Billy watched them go, his face burning and his fists clenched.
Fucking Felix Fixit.
#
NOW
He woke choking.
He gurgled, inhaling water.
The Cowl had dragged him into the middle of the alley and was dunking his face in the murky puddle slopping around within a deep pothole. She held him under until he started to flop and thrash, blowing muddy water. Then she tossed him aside.
Billy lay there, wet and coughing and hurting all over.
Leather creaked as The Cowl crouched down next to him. She reached out and tangled her fingers in his hair, wrenching his head over. She raised her fist, the metal glinting. “Talk!” She spat. “The Sick Man!”
“I don’t know.”
“You think I’m kidding tonight?” She roared and slammed his head down.
“I don’t know.” He gasped and tried to scoot away, but she just tightened her grip. He winced, feeling his scalp pull, the roots give. “I swear, I don’t.”
“You think I got a problem with beating you to death right now, asshole?”
Who is this? Why is she dressed as The Cowl?
“Answer me!” She slammed his head down again and he saw stars.
Girl, he thought, girl. His mind was racing. Wasn’t there...? Memories rolling by in his head, blurring like flipping through the pages of a book. There was a rumor years ago about The Cowl and that kung fu chick in the thong? That they had a kid? A daughter? Is this The Cowl’s daughter? She slammed his head down again, harder. His brain rattled in his skull and his vision blurred. “Wait! Please,” he stammered, pleading, hands pawing at her, feeling leather and armor and hard edges. “Stop.”
She released the tangle of hair, knocked his hands away, and leaned in close. He cringed back from his blood-hued reflection in her goggles, battered and beaten.
“One chance,” she said, digitally garbled, rough.
He tossed around, panicking. Shit. He didn’t know where The Sick Man was. How could he? He’s been upriver; he wasn’t in the inner circle, not anymore. He was a civvie, not a mask; even Double Jointed Larry had ripped on him. If that son of a bitch Felix hadn’t jacked up the price on his flame rig—
“Felix Fixit,” Billy sputtered, gasping. “Felix Fixit. You know him?”
The Cowl cocked her head and stared at Billy for a long moment, silent. He could hear a high electronic whine, cycling, cycling. Then it stopped and The Cowl nodded. “Felix Johnson, a.k.a Felix Fixit, a.k.a. Mr. Fixit. He’s the weapon-maker for the Super Villain set. Yeah, I know him. What about him?”
Billy swallowed.
And lied.
“He’s making a… a… ah… like a back-brace leg thing! The Cowl, the old Cowl, he fucked The Sick Man up before the Sick Man killed…ah…” She leaned in, close and menacing, and Billy shrank back, talking fast, “well, you know… Felix is making an exoskeleton to prop him up, like a brace or—”
“I get the idea,” she snapped. “What about him?”
“He knows. Felix Fixit knows. He knows where The Sick Man is holed up. He’s gotta deliver the brace when it’s done.”
One beat. Two.
“Felix Fixit,” The Cowl said, slow, considering. “Is he still in that warehouse by the docks, the one with the sub-levels? Where he built that robot dirigible army?”
Billy shook his head. “The Blimp-bots? No. He’s in that old mega-mall, the one Fistor the Unstoppable wrecked until Captain Awesome… stopped him. He’s in there making super-suits, weapons, meth, lots of money.” The bastard, Billy thought.
Silence.
The Cowl straightened. She stood over him and stared down. “If you’re fucking with me, I’ll come back here and stomp you into paste.”
Billy nodded, swallowing, “Ok. Yeah. No. I—I wouldn’t like that.”
“The Cowl’s still in town, Billy Torch, so it’s time for you to retire. Go find yourself a nice new life, you understand?” She dug in the bag slanted across her back and pulled out the familiar shape of The Cowl’s grapple gun—a pneumatic tank, some copper tubing, and a claw of serrated iron spikes. The old Cowl once shot me in the ass with that thing, Billy thought. It hurt. A lot.
She raised the grapple gun over her head. Pafffft! A blast of compressed air. The spikes disappeared into the night sky, the line unspooling. There was a thunk somewhere high above. “Consider this your only warning.” The grapple gun clicked and whirred and she started to rise up into the dark. “If I see you again, I’ll bury you.”
Then she was gone, swallowed by shadows. The sky ripped open with a brilliant white flash of lightning, thunder boomed.
Billy turned his head, squinting, shielding his eyes.
He blinked his vision clear, looked again, and there were figures lining the rooftops above him, silhouetted by the lights of downtown. They stared down at him, men and women, as still as statues, like gods above him. He saw wings flex. He saw capes snap in the wind. He glimpsed stern faces, colorful costumes and masks lit by glowing auras and gleaming weapons that crackled with alien energies.
“Get out of town, Billy Torch,” The Cowl warned, her silhouette joining the others along the roof’s edge. “I’ll be watching.” He saw a flash of red goggles.
Lightning cracked again, a searing blue fork across the sky. Thunder boomed so loud, he felt it in his chest. It rocked the world and rattled the ground. He covered his face, and when he peered around his hands, the Supers were gone, the rooftops were empty. He was alone. Left in the gutter. Tossed aside like trash. Churned up and spit out.
Thank God.
He sagged with relief, soaked in blood and muddy water and filth. His ribs were screaming at him, his chest tight, but he laughed. “Ow…” He imagined Felix getting his ass kicked, that slimy smirk of his smashing under The Cowl’s heavy fists.
More laughter burbled up out of him.
More thunder, like the world had cracked in half, and the rain began to fall. The fat drops were as cold as ice, slow at first, then faster, soaking him.
And he laughed.
I hope it hurts, Felix, you fucker, he thought. And once those super-assholes are done with you, I’m gonna slip in and get what’s mine… for free. He tried to sit up, but fell back again, a burst of white hot pain shooting up his side. Or maybe not. His mouth was full of blood and he spat a red wad, slouching back into the wet garbage. Ah, fuck... He couldn’t move his leg, it was twisted up underneath him. As the waves of adrenaline ebbed away, his knee throbbed, bursts of stabbing pain. It hurt like crazy. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaking hot tears.
Goddamn Cowl.
It would hurt more in the morning, but he laughed again, he wheezed and groaned and winced as the rain fell and he tried to lever himself up off his injured leg, and he laughed some more. But at least that cheap-ass, nickel-and-diming son of a bitch Felix Fixit will get his ass kicked too.
At least there’s that.
You gotta appreciate the little things.