Minister Faust (6 page)

“His
Udjat
—that’s what you people call the Eye of Horus, what should be the Eye of
Heru
if you could bother to learn the Afro-Egyptian name—should’ve alerted him. So what we’re looking at is someone with soular-invisibility, dimension-shifting, or counter-remote-viewing.

“On the Heavyweights list, it’s
possible
Shockrates could’ve generated a strong enough electrical field to disrupt the Eye…and the E-Baboons
might
’ve been able to use a string-dimensional tunnel to get inside the Blue Pyramid. But neither should’ve had the power to kill him.

“Of the Superheavyweights, Cosmicus seems unlikely—we would’ve detected his Nebulanaught approaching, just like we would’ve seen Ymir’s iceberg fleet if he’d reconstituted himself at the north pole. Warmaster Set’s vendetta is seven thousand years old…but there’s been no sighting of him or anyone else on that list since the Götterdämmerung. Of course, there’s always the possibility of L-Raunzenu.”

A monstrosity of pure terror described in the
Encyclopedia of F*O*O*J Adversaries,
Vol. III (Revised) as “a cosmic culmination of a billion horrors, personified and transmogrified into a universal force of unstoppable, ravaging evil,” L-Raunzenu, in the most literal way possible, was everyone’s worst nightmare.

But despite media fireworks about the threat posed by L-Raunzenu, fewer Americans were killed by that entity during its entire existence than the number of people in the same time period who died from rattlesnake bites or choking on chicken bones. And the L-Raunzenu death toll was simply insignificant when compared to, say, the annual human and financial cost of alcohol-and tobacco-related illness and morbidity.

But, blinded by grief-induced obsession and paranoia, Kareem was oblivious to such basic logic.

“Of course,” continued Kareem, “there’s also the matter of those supervillains who
are
accounted for. Who are on Asteroid Zed right now.
Menton
—”

Everyone glared at him. He shut his mouth, realizing the enormity of his breach of etiquette.

“Ve don’t speak his name…so
idly,
Kareem,” whispered Hnossi, narrowing her eyes. “Unt need I remind you zat he’s been in a Psionic Impotence Helmet for five years?”

“I’m aware of that, Hnossi,” he said slowly. “But Ment—the
Destroyer’s
abilities were off the scale. Do we really know if a P-Imp hat could stop him?”

Iron Lass rolled her eyes at Kareem’s abbreviation. He continued without regard for her disdain. “And on that exact same topic—”

Knowing where he was going, the older F*O*O*Jsters reacted instantly.

Hnossi: “Zere are certain lines zat even
zey
—”

Wally: “Now, Kareem, I know what y’all’re about t’say, but lemme tell you suh’m—”

Mr. Piltdown: “I don’t care what they were
alleged
to have planned—even you can’t seriously accuse them of striking out against our greatest—”

“They went bad.
Very
bad,” said Kareem, too loudly. Then he whispered something inaudible.

Behind him, massive shadow-sculptures, like a miniature Mount Rushmore, oozed into existence. Even in black, the busts were unmistakable: on the left, the elder, Gil Gamoid, with his thick neck, wild beard, wild eyes, and spike-teeth; and on the right, junior with his ram’s horns and flowing mane, the N-Kid. The two titans from the distant world of Ur-Prime, orbiting the mysterious quasar Q-939.

“Yes, they were founding members of the F*O*O*J. Yes, they were great heroes. Once upon a time. But now they’re locked up wearing P-Imp hats on Asteroid Zed. Because they’re paranoid schizophrenics. Who were conspiring to commit mass murder.”

“Zey were foundt not guilty—”

“On account of being criminally insane, Hnossi? You call that a defense?” he sneered. “Hell, I rarely grok brain-to-brain with you people, but on this issue…you not only floor me, you
basement
me. Those two ‘heroes’ were planning to massacre all of
you
! You Stone Agers aren’t exactly the most forgiving freaks in the circus, so why all this sympathy for Gil Gamoid and the N-Kid?”

“Listen to me, Edgerton,” growled Festus. “And this will be more complex and nuanced than your minstrel show ever apparently gets, so listen closely—”

“You hear that, Doc? Aren’t you gonna censure him? Well, if you’re not reporting him to the F*L*A*C for
that
cracker-ass crack—”

“Listen, sonny, those two heroes—yes,
heroes,
” said Festus, “were wounded terribly in the line of duty. Mentally poisoned, probably by the Destroyer—but possibly by L-Raunzenu. But even given the awesome extent of their mental damage, they would never, I’ll say that again,
never
plot against our Founder.”

“Even though both of them plotted to kill the rest of you—”

“Even
if
they did, which was never proven in court—”

“Come on! Hawk King recruited them into the original F*O*O*J, and he used the
Udjat
to uncover their plot! He built ’em up and he took ’em down. Don’t you think that in their current state they might just want revenge?”

“Why now, Edgerton? Can you answer me that? Why would they or anyone else want to move on Hawk King
now
?”

“You’re the self-proclaimed World’s Greatest Detective. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Damn, dawg,” said the Brotherfly,
“fuck this.”

Stages of Grief: Boundless Contempt

E
ven Hnossi Icegaard’s lips parted at that outburst. Even more than Power Grrrl, André Parker, HKA the Brotherfly, was the most fun-loving, unflappable, and glibly superficial member of the group. Because no one could have expected his reaction or even his capacity for deep feelings, no one spoke—not even Kareem or Festus, at whom the intense psychemotional verbalization was targeted.

“André?” I asked. “You just psychemotionally verbalized intensely, targeting Kareem and Mr. Piltdown. Can you tell me about that?”

“I mean,
bzzzt,
Doc,” said André. “Look, I’ont know about them fools, but fuh real, the King was the shit, knawm sayn?”

“So…you disliked him, then?”

“Naw, Doc—
the shit,
see, that means ‘good’—”

The Flying Squirrel: “Then for the love of Greenspan, could you simply goddamned
say
that?”

“Festus, please. André, continue,” I said. “You were saying that in your view, Hawk King was ‘the shit.’ ”

“Damn skippy, Doc,” he said. “I was actually blessed to
meet
the King when I was just a shorty, like, back in ’82? I was one of twenny-fi schoolkids—our class won a contest for essay writin—‘Why would you like to meet Hawk King?’, you knawm sayn? I mean, he’d already been up in his self-imposed exile an shit for, like, seven years by then—ain’no kids getting to go t’see the King no how, but, like,
we
was, son. Just about to turn thirteen, an
I
get to meet the King!

“So us an Miss Jackson, we take the ferry over to Sunhawk Island, his Ka-Sentinels guiding us through the gates, then through the portal of the Blue Pyramid, down the shafts, up the shafts, right up into his Celestial Chamber…all them turquoise hieroglyphics on them black-silver walls, movin like they alive, like they talkin to each other an the stars.

“An he sittin there right in the middle, right on his Sapphire Star Throne, like a sunrise in space, knawm sayn? Golden beak, black body, hands holdin on to his maces an shit…but the eyes. Never forget them eyes. Whole room was hummin, vibratin, an them eyes, like radio transmitters beamin inside my spine.

“Changed my life, dawg, goin there. I
still
dream about it, every week since I was a kid for like thirteen-fourteen years, of havin the chance, the blessin, you knawm sayn? to go back. But…y’know, thangs don’always work out how we want.”

He cleared his throat.

“Anyway, I made up my mind right then—” he said, crackling an electrical charge between his antennae for emphasis without even saying
bzzzt!,
“I was gon be a superhero. Man changed my life. I owe him. We all owe him.

“An now…he’s dead. An my aunt, she’s, she just—look, it’s like, after my…my uncle died…the King was the one thing in the world she could count on that would always make things right, knawm sayn? But now she caint stop cryin. You hear me?”

He shook his head, then jutted one antenna each in the directions of Flying Squirrel and X-Man.

“An these two fools is gon sit here ying-yangin bout some muhfuckin unknown, unknowable, invisible ‘conspiracy’? King’s body ain’even cold, funeral still three days away an them superbrains caint shut up outta respect for a coupla kot-tam hours? Tryin t’get my
grieve
on here, knawm sayn? Should be honorin his life, not squawkin like vultures over who gets to autopsy the muhfuckin corpse!”

Kareem shifted forward, facing his younger teammate.

“Listen…André.” I’d never heard Kareem’s voice contain such—I won’t say gentleness, but—lack of antagonism for André, or for anybody else. “It’s absolutely essential that right now, we—”

“No,
you
listen, dawg,” said André, standing up and shouldering his thick, lobed, translucent wings behind him. “The man aint no ‘debate topic,’ knawm sayn? People die. You got that, son? They just die. An aint nuthin you can do about it, not with all your theories an your Afro-ballistics an your muhfuckin
maãxeru
magic words, knawm sayn? So stop stickin an stabbin the man’s body with your Detecto-Junior Crime Kit an let im have some muhfuckin dignity, my
‘brutha’
!”

Kareem’s jaw muscles bunched.

“André,” he gritted, “we’re all.
Tense.
Now. So I’m gonna let that—”

“Whatever-whatever, Mista Mystery. Right now whyonchu let us feel the sadness and regret we all gots to feel. Specially since y’all don’know the meaning of the words!”

At that, André unfurled his proboscis, snapping at the rotating rogues gallery, and three of the Superheavyweights smashed into obsidian shards. Then André hopped over to the window and proceeded to
tap-tap-tap
his head again and again against the glass.

After Festus finally suggested wielding a can of Raid against the noise, André stopped, putting his hands and feet against the wall and with a
splippetty-splabbatty
sound, crawled up toward the ceiling and stuck himself, glowering down through his two complex and three simple eyes.

Kareem whispered, and the shadow-sculptures of Gil Gamoid, the N-Kid, and the remaining rotating supervillains and the shards of André’s tongue casualties dispersed into dark mist and disappeared.

Wally excused himself to go to the restroom.

I suggested we move on. “Would others like to discuss their own experiences of Hawk King?”

Syndi snapped her gum, raised her hand halfway.

“Like, I didn’t really know Hawk King? An like, hel
lo
-o, I
get
it: ‘sad!’ But does the whole city have to go spaz-mode? Like, I couldn’t even get a table at Chez Guevara because they closed early last night? And I was gonna take my crew to Dance-Tronics, but, yeah, cl
o
-osed!”

I asked her how she spent her night in lieu of her usual frolicking.

“I, like, stayed home, cut that Hawk King single, and answered fan mail.”

“You—!” choked Iron Lass. “You awnser
fan mail
vile all uff Midgard cries out viss agony unt tears?”

“Like, n
o
-o. I had my PA do it. I am so like
stressed,
you know? So I got Brianna to do me—you know, massage? But now, today, the stress is all back! Thank God for André’s strawberry tarts—they’re better than Prozac.” She craned her neck and smiled up at him sweetly. “Thanks, P-Dawg.”

“Babydoll, when ain’nuthin funny, eat what’s sweet. That’s my philosophy,” said André from overhead. “Glad everybody liked em. Cept Kreem, who aint tried pastry-one. Shoulda made him suh’m with cherry, chocolate, an kiwi. Only red-black-and-green for the great Marcus Garbage. My man wouldn’even
dream
of eatin no angel food cake, knawm sayn?”

Kareem reached for the plate, popping into his mouth a piece of crystalized ginger covered in nougat and chewing defiantly.

“And yet, Syndi,” I said, “despite listing rather trivial issues such as answering fan mail or being denied access to trendy restaurants, perhaps to imply that you’re entirely unmoved by the death of Hawk King, you
did
‘cut that single,’ as you put it, which means—”

“Which means she exploitedt ziss great beingk’s passink to make a qvick morbid buck!”

“I think it means more than that, Hnossi, although perhaps Syndi wants us to think otherwise. How about that, Syndi?”

I looked between the two women, waiting for either of them to respond.

Facing their silence, I resolved to put the two together for a later session, to spelunk the depths of the psychemotional stalactites and stalagmites they perpetually aimed at each other. But at that moment I changed directions.

“You’ve been rather quiet, Festus,” I said. “How did you spend yesterday evening?”

I expected him to unleash a blistering denunciation of Syndi, but instead Festus Piltdown III delicately swept lady-finger crumbs from his tunic pants. “Like Hnossi,” he said quietly, “I went to my post.”