This series was written by my sister and me back when the M.A.S.K. series was first on the air in 1985. We still get a kick out of it and sometimes quote our favorite lines, so I'm pulling it out of the archive to post for the first time. The Origin of MASK is full of action, humor, puns and my obsessive need to reconcile the jobs characters had on the show with the bios on the toy boxes. We alternated chapters in our writing, but added bits and pieces to each other's stories, so it's hard to remember who did what. (The person listed first on the byline did the majority of that chapter.) Originally, this was written for print with seven chapters of 20-plus pages (13,000 words!) each. That seems excessive for reading on screen, so I will break them up into Toy Tie-In1, Toy Tie-In2 and Toy Tie-In3 before we get to what was the original second chapter, The Buddy System.
Now, for the first time on the Web:
The Origin of MASK
Chapter 1: A Potential Toy Tie-In
By Qweb and/or Jelsemium
Calm, unflappable Bruce Sato was almost incoherent with rage as he stormed into the main office of Trakker Toys, Inc., (a wholly owned subsidiary of Trakker Enterprises).
Polite, respectful Bruce Sato shoved past the diminutive secretary and burst into the office of Matt Trakker, founder, president and chief stockholder of Trakker Toys and Trakker Enterprises, not to mention the Trakker Foundation, a worldwide, non-profit organization dedicated to the preservation of life, art and culture in all their forms.
Serene, reasonable Bruce Sato threw open the door, sending it flying backwards toward a collision with Trakker's son, Scott, quietly playing with Trakker Toys' latest development. Fortunately, Scott's robot companion, T-Bob, served as a doorstop, keeping the youngster from harm. The impact of door and robot caused a deafening hollow clang, which made Matt Trakker jump, but Sato didn't even look around.
In his left fist was a crushed wad of papers. He occupied his other hand by slamming the palm down on Matt's desk with a resounding smack. The blond executive reared back in shock at the entrance of this human tsunami.
Honest, honorable Bruce Sato looked the well-known, well-respected philanthropist in the eye.
"You are a thief, Matt Trakker," he said venomously. "And I intend to prove it!"
The unexpected accusation struck Matt speechless, but not Scott. The brown-haired boy leaped to his feet, letting his robot friend fall back to the floor with a second crash.
"You can't talk to my dad like that! He's no thief!"
Until that moment, Bruce Sato had been entirely unaware of the boy's presence. When he looked down into Scott's angry, blue-gray eyes, the Japanese inventor deflated so suddenly Matt was afraid he'd collapse to the floor like a punctured balloon. Trakker jumped around the desk to grab the smaller man's arm in support; but Bruce just stood there, looking at the furious youngster.
Though born in America, Bruce Sato came from a very Japanese household, in most respects, at any rate. It showed in the faint, musical accent, which colored his colloquial English. And it showed in his attitude toward family, particularly toward the inviolate respect to be maintained between father and son. According to his traditions, one did not shame a man before his son, not even if the man deserved it. And here, in this office, facing this boy's angry eyes, Bruce was no longer as certain of his accusations as he had been. He felt Matt's comforting grip on his arm and transferred his gaze from the boy to the man where he found the same honest eyes. There was no anger in Matt's face, however, just concern for his unexpected guest. All the doubts Bruce had felt on making his discovery returned with full force. Looking at him, it seemed impossible that this famous benefactor could be a thief.
For the first time in his life, the self-confident, self-possessed Bruce Sato felt totally at sea.
Matt saw his uncertainty and smiled in reassurance.
"There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding here," he said mildly. "I think we'd better discuss it."
"You oughta kick him out, Dad!"
"That's no way to talk to a guest, Scott," Matt said.
"Dad!" The boy was outraged that his father wasn't outraged.
"Scott." There was iron in the second warning.
"Yes, sir," the boy said mulishly. Scott didn't say another word, but he kept a glowering eye on the intruder.
"I'm sorry, Matt," said the secretary from the doorway, "but he just … zoomed past me!"
"That's all right, Sharon," Matt said. "I think we'll dispense with the appointment formalities in this case. I'm dying to find out what I stole."
Bruce winced at the joke.
Matt apologized, realizing this was no humorous matter to the other man. He guided Bruce to a small table and sent Sharon for refreshments. Bruce had recovered his equilibrium by the time the woman returned with two mugs of steaming tea and a cold Coke for Scott.
"I must apologize for my behavior earlier," Bruce said to the woman. "I was … upset."
"And the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground," Sharon said. "Don't worry about it. I've been walked on by bigger men than you."
She shut the door behind her and went back to her desk. She eyed the inoffensive outer door like a hungry hawk. The next intruder who wanted to get past her had better have a flamethrower, she thought. Or an appointment, she amended.
In the inner office, Bruce turned to Scott. "And I must apologize to you, also. I hope my abrupt entrance did not harm you, or your … friend."
He looked at T-Bob swaying dizzily around the room.
"No, no. Don't mind me. I'm fine," the robot said. "At least, I will be when the room stops spinning."
Actually, Bruce saw that it was one of T-Bob's eyes that was spinning, its relays damaged in the collision with the door.
"Please, allow me to repair that," Bruce said quickly, glad to do this one small thing make amends.
On his knees by the robot, he used a pocket screwdriver to make a few swift adjustments to the eye component. The spinning eye righted itself and focused on the man.
"You look much better now that you've gotten off the Ferris wheel," T-Bob commented.
Matt was impressed. T-Bob had been a basement experiment that, through some quirk, had proven to have intelligence; though it was, perhaps appropriately, a quirky sort of intelligence. He made a good companion for the boy, though, since his cowardly nature acted as an anchor to Scott's enthusiastic spirit of adventure. No matter how useful T-Bob was, however; Matt had found, somewhat to his relief, that the robot was an unrepeatable, one-of-a-kind creation.
The inventor in Matt admired the way Bruce deftly repaired the unfamiliar machine. The businessman in him was getting more and more curious as to what this whole matter was about. When he said so, Bruce picked up the toy Scott had left on the floor, Trakker Toys latest release.
"This is what it's about," Bruce said sadly.
"Why don't we start at the beginning," Matt said. "Like with your name."
Bruce looked at Matt in surprise. His tidal wave entrance seemed especially ludicrous somehow, because Trakker didn't know who he was. The Japanese inventor grinned suddenly and looked younger for it, even younger than his true 27 years. He put his full hands together and bowed briefly in comic parody of the oriental manservant in the occidental movies.
"So sorry, honorable sir," he said. "My name is Bruce Sato."
Matt's eyebrows rose up to his blond hairline. "Bruce Sato of Sato Family Toymakers?"
"That's me."
Matt looked Bruce over with new interest. This explained the stranger's expertise in repairing T-Bob, Matt thought.
The Sato family had been toymakers in Japan for generations. In the late 1950s, Bruce's father had made a short visit to the United States to check on possible American markets. His visit had lengthened into a lifetime stay when he met and married a Japanese-American girl, thus founding a U.S. branch of the family firm. In recent years, they had made a stupendous hit with the "Converta-Car" line of toys that transformed from robots to vehicles to a number of bizarre items. Most recently, they had been licensing, and in many cases selling outright, the rights to a series of electronic and computer-operated toys too complex and expensive for the small firm to manufacture. Trakker Toys was among the companies who had purchased the rights to some of the ingenious devices, which were the brainchildren of the Sato's top designer — one Bruce Sato by name.
Bruce set Scott's toy on the table and touched the remote control. The battery operated robot, called "Buck," transformed from a walking mechanical man to a stiff-legged, bounding horse, then to a jeep speeding along on four independently driven wheels. Bruce raced the small car around the table, deftly weaving it in and out of the obstructing mugs. The toy was not yet on the market. It was only due for its grand unveiling at a trade fair next month. Yet Sato handled the controls as if he'd designed them.
Matt thought of the money spent tooling up the factory to manufacture Buck. He thought of the ad campaign already planned and purchased. 'Ouch,' he thought.
Without taking his sad eyes off the small car, Bruce said, "I worked on this project for more than a year, off and on, between others. I wanted to make a Converta-Car that would change shape by remote control, that would move by itself in all its forms. I had just completed my first prototype four months ago …"
"And somebody stole it?" Scott asked.
The boy had drawn the same conclusion as his father from Bruce's handling of the controls; but Bruce's answer surprised both Trakkers.
"No, I never suspected a robbery until I opened the trade journal last night and saw your ad for my toy."
Matt wasn't ready to deal with that yet. He wanted to hear the whole story first.
"What did happen four months ago?" he asked to steer Bruce back on track.
"My laboratory burned to the ground. Nothing left. My prototype was a lump of melted plastic and metal. Even the designs in the safe were turned to ashes by the heat. Or so I thought. When the investigator was sure I had lost more than I could have gained, he confided in me that he'd never seen a fire like it. It was too hot, for one thing, as if it had been a chemical warehouse, not a toyshop. There also seemed to be no particular point of origin. It seemed as if the entire wall had burst into flames instantaneously. He said the only similar effect he'd seen had been caused by a flamethrower. But that didn't check out either. They finally decided that faulty wiring had set the wall on fire and some freak combination of fumes from the plastics or the synthetic fabrics in the curtains or carpet had caused the intense heat. With the insurance settlement I started to work again in a new office."
He pointed to the papers, which, in his fury, he had squeezed into a shapeless blob.
"All I had left were some of the preliminary drawings which had been at my home instead of the lab. I started to redo a year's work."
Matt spread out the papers to study them. "Then you saw our announcement in the trade paper," he said.
Bruce looked at him in bewilderment.
"I recognized Buck immediately, of course. It was my toy. Hardly changed at all. But I couldn't believe you could be so blatant about such a theft. And I didn't want to believe you could be involved."
Matt was taken aback by his emphasis.
"You see," Bruce said almost shyly. "You have been a role model for me. You took over your family's fortune and made it grow; yet your name is synonymous with honesty, fair dealing, good value, with … truth! You are a man of honor in a business world which too often spits on honor as being unprofitable. I saw you speak once at the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce and I've tried to model myself on your words. 'It's been said only one party can profit in a business deal; but that's bunk. If the buyer gets what he wants at a fair price and the seller gets rid of what he has at a reasonable profit, then both sides benefit. And the merchant benefits most of all, because the customer will return again and again. It's simply the Golden Rule, gentlemen. If you'll permit a paraphrase: Sell unto others as you would have them sell unto you.'"
Matt looked distinctly embarrassed to have his words quoted back at him.
Bruce said, "When I thought you had stolen from me, I felt cheated. I had admired you and then … "
"Yes, a fallen idol is worse than none at all," Matt mused.
Bruce explained that he jumped right into his car and drove all night to Boulder Hill, Nevada. He got more and more angry the more he thought about it until he burst into Trakker's office like a madman.
"But when the axe head flies off the handle, it cuts only the woodsman's foot," Bruce said sadly.
Scott said, "Huh?"
"I think you're being too hard on yourself," Matt said.
Bruce was surprised by Matt's comment. He was a lot more used to "Huh?"
It was a Sato family failing to quote obscure aphorisms at odd, sometimes inopportune, times. Then they usually had to translate. Matt was the first outsider Bruce could recall who hadn't needed a translator to realize Bruce was feeling ashamed of "flying off the handle."
Matt continued thoughtfully, "Anyone would be upset to see a year's work stolen."
Bruce sat up straight. That almost sounded like an admission of guilt. But, more and more, Bruce was sure that was impossible.
"I know we didn't develop Buck," Matt said. "But I don't know much about where we got him. I was out of town four months ago."
"Of course!" Bruce exclaimed. "The good will tour! I should have remembered."
"I think you had other things on your mind at the time," Matt said sympathetically.
But the extensive press coverage of the good will tour had made an impression on Bruce, even through his preoccupation with his fire loss. Bruce looked more cheerful. Even though nothing had been settled, at least he could believe his idol's feet were not clay after all.
Matt called his plant supervisor on the intercom and asked him to bring all the specs on Buck to the office. Bill Ward trundled into the office with a worried look on his face.
"Something wrong, Matt?" he asked, then he noticed the visitor. His eyes widened.
"Mr. Sato, isn't it?" he said, extending his hand. "We met at that convention in Los Angeles."
"Yes, I remember," Bruce said, as he shook hands.
Ward frowned at his boss. "Is there something wrong?"
Matt explained Bruce's story. Ward sank slowly into a chair. He looked pained and worried, but not surprised.
"I knew there was something funny about that guy," he sighed. "But I checked him out, Matt. Honest!"
"Tell me about it."
"The fella who brought Buck in called himself Sylvester. I got excited when I first saw the toy. I knew it was going to be a winner — the hottest thing out this year." Ward winced at his choice of words. Maybe the toy was "hot." "I didn't like Sylvester, though. Something dishonest about him. I wondered if the toy might have been stolen. See, he wanted full payment, no royalty deals. Well, the design reminded me of Sato toys, but Sylvester had said he'd worked for them, which could have explained any similarity in style. But I still didn't trust him; so I called your company," Ward said to Bruce. "I spoke to a lady there. She verified Sylvester's story. Said he'd left the company more than a year ago to work as an independent. She said he had the personality of a rat, but he did good work. So I bought the designs, for $100,000. I half expected him to ask for cash, but he said he'd take a check. 'A Trakker check's as good as gold, better for some things,' is what he said."
Bruce had begun shaking his head halfway through Ward's recital, and he was still shaking it in bewilderment.
"What did this man look like, Bill?" Matt asked.
"Shaggy, greasy black hair. Thin face with a thick mustache. Real pale like someone who hates the outdoors. Flat nasal voice. Wore dark glasses all the time so I never saw his eyes."
Bruce was still shaking his head.
"How about the woman's voice, anything distinctive?" Matt asked.
"It was one of those deep voices, sounded real sexy on the phone; But she was all business. Very curt."
Bruce sat up straight at that. His face twisted in bitter lines.
"Familiar?" Matt asked.
"We had a receptionist who spoke like that. Not a nice woman, I thought, but very efficient. She wore her hair funny. It was long and very red, except for her bangs right in front, which were very black. Rather Punk." Bruce smiled ruefully, "She wasn't with us long. She said she didn't like to stay around people who set their buildings on fire. She said she didn't realize toy-making was such a dangerous business."
The three men sat in silence, struggling with the realization that they'd been swindled.
Finally Ward cleared his throat. "I'd sure hate to lose Buck, Matt," he said, then he turned to Bruce. "You realize you can't prove any of this. You could have made these drawings after seeing our ad."
"Yes," Bruce said softly. "I realize I cannot get Buck back. I no longer have any desire to fight for it. Yet, I have regained something, my faith in the honesty of one man." Bruce bowed to Matt, not a comic bow, this time, but a genuine expression of respect. "After all, money is only green paper; but a new friend is a treasure."
Bruce touched the small horse on its head in farewell, then walked out. His back was ramrod stiff, but his shoulders slumped just a little. Matt watched him go with hooded eyes. Ward watched him go with open-mouthed surprise.
"Was it something I said?"
Matt smiled, though the expression didn't touch his eyes. "I think he thought you were planning to take him to court and he just doesn't have the heart for it. Buck's been an awful disappointment for him."
"Court! I was just getting ready to haggle a little. It's obvious that toy is his design," Ward said.
"I know, Bill," Matt said with a distant look in his eye. "But he wasn't in the mood to haggle. Come to think of it, neither am I."
Ward could take a hint. He gathered up his papers and slipped out.
"Son, think you two could find somewhere else to play?" Matt said with deceptive mildness.
"Sure, Dad," Scott said, tugging the tottering robot from the room. Scott knew that look.
"Someone's gonna get it now," he told T-Bob.
Two weeks later, Bruce Sato received a check in the mail along with a folder of documents which made his almond eyes open wide and set him on another all night drive to Nevada.
He entered Trakker's office at a much more decorous pace, but Sharon, who was in deep conference with Ward, gave the inventor as dirty a look as if he'd torn the door off its hinges.
"This is all your fault," she said.
"Huh?" Bruce was taken aback entirely. "What's wrong?"
"What isn't!" Ward said distractedly. "First I've got to retool all my dies to put a Sato toys credit on Buck. Then I've got to make sure your name gets in all our advertising. Now Matt's locked himself in the computer room and won't let anyone in! I need that computer. I tell you, Sharon, the boss has gone really crazy. And I bet we don't even make a profit on it this time!"
"Can I see him?" Bruce broke in.
"Sure. Why not!" Ward said wildly. "You started this mess. You and your stolen toys!"
He directed Bruce to the computer room. "Locked himself in" turned out to be a slight exaggeration. The door opened at the Asian inventor's touch. But he didn't see Matt when he entered the dimly lit room. Instead he found Scott and T-Bob, talking to a tall man in his forties.
The stranger had a bushy red beard and mustache, with sideburns that squared off with the tops of his ears. The quantity of hair on his face made up for the lack of it on his head, for he was completely bald. Age had thickened him a bit around the middle, but he still had powerful arms and carried himself with an erect stance that bespoke years in the military.
"Can't you do something, Alex?" Scott said tearfully. "He won't eat. He won't talk to anybody. He hasn't come home for days!"
"I'm starting to feel like an orphan robot," T-Bob contributed.
"There, there, lad," the man said to Scott in an educated British accent. "He'll pull through. He has before, you know."
"But he's never been this bad before!" the boy wailed.
Bruce wondered in dismay if his accusations had driven Trakker to a nervous breakdown, or something worse. As he hesitated, thinking he'd better leave, Alex noticed him for the first time.
"Here! Who are you?" Alex demanded.
"That's Mr. Sato, Alex, the one I told you about," Scott said with a sniffle.
"Oh, so you're the one responsible for this," the Brit said. "Come to view your handiwork, have you?"
"Please, would somebody tell me what's going on here?" Bruce said.
Alex stepped aside drawing Scott with him, so Bruce could see Matt slumped across the computer terminal, snoring gently. With a week-old stubble of blond beard on his face, he looked like a drunk sleeping off a binge, but it was discarded paper coffee cups that littered the room, not empty gin bottles.
"What's happened?" Bruce asked.
Alex looked at the sleeping millionaire fondly. "He's a genius, you know," he said as if it was common knowledge.
Bruce nodded. It was common knowledge.
"Well," Alex continued. "He goes on these tears every once in awhile. Gets his teeth into some problem and worries at it day and night until he gets the solution. We're all used to it. But he's never been quite this bad before."
"He even missed my Little League game," Scott said.
"Yes. No matter how busy Matt is, he never neglects the boy," Alex said, squeezing Scott's shoulder in reassurance. "Whatever this is, it's special, Mr. Sato."
"May I ask who you are?"
The Briton chuckled. "Sorry. Sector's the name, Alex Sector. Scott called me when he got frightened and I flew right up. He thought I might have some authority over Matt, since I've known him since he was Scott's age. And even if Matt wouldn't listen to me, I know enough about computers to pull the plug and force him to stop. But when we got here, we found he'd stopped of his own accord."
Alex chewed his lower lip. Then continued in a low voice. "Have you ever seen one of those science fiction stories where they give a computer an impossible problem to solve — like what's the full value of pi — and it burns itself out trying to come up with an answer? I've often wondered what would happen to Matt if he got hooked on one of those insoluble problems."
He and Bruce exchanged worried frowns.
"There's no such thing as an insoluble problem, Alex," Matt said sleepily.
Trakker sat up, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. Obviously stiff and sore, Matt stretched with bone cracking vigor. With his rumpled clothes and tousled hair, he looked like something the cat refused to touch. But his eyes were alight with triumph.
"Dad!" Scott threw himself in his father's arms with a shriek, as if he hadn't seen him for weeks. And, truth to tell, Trakker in one of his moods wasn't the usual Matt Trakker. Matt hugged his son hard enough to make his ribs creak, then set the 10-year-old on his lap. He turned to Alex.
"Speaking of problems, what are you doing here?"
"Your bizarre behavior frightened your son half out of his wits. Naturally he called me to talk some sense into you," Alex said drily.
Matt hugged his boy again apology.
"I'm glad you're here anyway," Matt said. "I probably would have called you myself. I finished inputting the data, but I conked out before I could run the program. I think we're going to get some surprising results. Check it out for me, would you."
"Glad to oblige, chap; but shouldn't you see what your other guest wants first?"
Alex gestured toward Bruce standing motionless, unnoticed and perplexed in a corner. Matt's eyes, which already blazed in excitement, seemed to light up further with pleasure.
"Bruce!" He leaped up to take the inventor's hand and drag him to the group by the computer. "Good! It's only right you should be here. But how did you know?"
"I still don't know anything," Bruce sighed. "I came to return this." He pulled out the check Matt had sent him. "It's too much. Much too much," Bruce said. "It's twice what you paid Sylvester! Plus 50 percent of the profits. I would never have gotten so much if I'd sold the toy in the usual fashion."
"It's a fair price," Matt said mildly.
"Fair! It's … extravagant!"
Matt smiled. "Consider it a bribe, then. I want to steal you away from your family business. I want you to come to Boulder Hill and work for me. You see, I think I'm going to need your inventive little mind for this new project of mine. Or don't you want … revenge?"
"Then you've tracked them down?" Bruce said eagerly.
"They don't call me Trakker, for nothing," Matt said. "I've identified them, all right, Bruce. And you'll never guess what I found."
"Matt!" Alex had been looking over Matt's papers. Now he turned to the younger man in outrage. Matt looked back blandly. "Where did you get this information!" the Brit demanded. "There are records here from the FBI, Scotland Yard, the Surete!"
"I just did what my Uncle Alex taught me," Matt said.
"I most certainly never taught you to break into other people's computer systems! Matt, you must have broken laws in half the civilized countries of the world to get this information!"
Matt was unrepentant. "But Alex, look what I found out!"
He started the program. The computer sorted the information, then began to present it in coherent form. The exasperated lines around Alex's eyes began to smooth out as he became caught up in the story. Scott and Bruce were fascinated from the start.
The computer began by identifying the woman who had worked in Bruce's office — Vanessa Warfield. Bruce nodded his head violently as her picture appeared.
"That red and black hair was a dead giveaway," Matt confided, as the computer listed the woman's stupefying criminal history, which included everything from extortion to attempted murder. "Then I decided to check her known associates for Mr. Sylvester."
The computer obligingly put the man's picture on the screen.
"Funny enough, his name really is Sylvester, though everyone just calls him 'Sly,' Sly Rax."
"He looks it, too. Doesn't he," Alex said. "Slimy blighter."
Rax's criminal credentials were every bit as impressive as Vanessa's.
"Then the computer and I went after anyone who hung out with the pair of them. Having two names made it a lot easier," Matt said. "I got a select list of names. A regular Who's Who of the criminal profession. Here's one that should interest you Bruce."
Matt paused the computer at a picture of a wide-faced, stupid looking man who wore a black beret with a band that looped down over one eye like a pirate's eye patch.
"Should I know him?" Bruce asked.
"I'd wonder at your choice of friends if you did. His name is Cliff Dagger. More muscle than brains. He can hardly count to 20 without looking at his toes, but he's surprisingly good with electronics and explosives."
"So?" Bruce prompted.
"Ah! But his first love is arson," Matt said.
Bruce frowned at the screen as if memorizing every line of the unlovely face, only to find it replaced by a homely, mousy little guy who looked as if he'd be afraid to wipe a bug off his thick, horn-rimmed spectacles.
"That's a major criminal?" Alex scoffed.
"Nash Gorey, meek, inoffensive — white collar crimes for the most part. Talented man with a computer — but push him too far and he can be deadly, in a hysterical sort of way," Matt said.
The computer went on to list two others who looked like punks, in both the old and new meanings of the word. Floyd Malloy, a wiry, weaselly fellow, gelled his long blond hair so that it stood straight up on his head. Bruno Sheppard, a big muscleman, wore his red hair in a close-cropped Mohawk.
"But I've saved the best for last," Matt said.
The picture that came up on the screen showed a man older than any of the others. His once brown hair and mustache were mostly gray and his eyes were the same steely color. His hair was cut short on his bullet shaped head. He might have been a pleasant uncle type, except for the cold, calculating look about his eyes and the permanent snarl lines etched around his mouth. This was an uncle who'd sell his nieces and nephews just to save money on the food bill.
Scott flinched from the avaricious gleam in the man's eye. Even Alex was fascinated by the power that emanated from a mere photograph. It was obvious to everyone that this man in his military style uniform was the leader of the motley gang of high tech crooks.
"Who is that," Alex breathed.
"That," Matt said as proudly as if the man was a new invention, "is Miles Mayhem."
The name sent a shiver down Bruce's spine.
But Alex had recovered his very British equanimity. "Oh, surely not," he scoffed. "No one could be named 'Miles Mayhem.' Really!"
"You're probably right, Alex," Matt confessed. "There's no birth record or legal name change under that name in any computer I've been able to access. Not even in a translation from another language. But there's also no record of this man under any other name."
"Mayhem's his name and Mayhem's his business, eh?" Alex said.
"Exactly."
"And just who are these people, Matthew?" Alex asked.
"They're the people who took me for a $100,000 ride. They're the people who burned Bruce's workshop to the ground. And, I think, they're the Museum Raiders."
"WHAT!" Even T-Bob joined in the concerted shout of astonishment.
"Dad, you mean these are the guys with those awesome masks?" Scott said.
"Surely you can't be serious, lad," Alex said. "The police have been trying to identify the museum raiders for months and you claim to have done it in two weeks?"
"But, Alex, no one's had all the information I had. I dug up bits and pieces on Vanessa and her friends from hundreds of crimes committed all over the world. Some of them almost petty seeming crimes that no one would report to Interpol or even a national police organization. But all the pieces fit. These are the people who have used high tech equipment, including those 'awesome masks,' to attack six museums in the last six months. They've made headlines for those daring, ruthless attacks; but according to my information, they've also committed a variety of other crimes. Up 'til now, no one has realized it's the same group. The papers call them the Museum Raiders; but the note they sent when they ransomed the Leaning Tower back to Pisa was signed: 'Venom'."
The long silence that followed Matt's pronouncement was finally broken by Alex, "Venom. Yes, that fits the blighters, from all I've heard."
"The boa constrictor has no fangs, but it kills anyway," Bruce murmured.
Alex shot him a blank look.
"You're right, Bruce," Matt said. "It doesn't matter what they call themselves. What matters is, they've got to be stopped. Just look at this."
Using the computer, Matt ran through each of the Venom agents, teaming them up with the "awesome" masks they wore and the equally awesome vehicles they drove. Just as the masks did more than disguise their identities, the vehicles did more than provide transportation. Both served as weapons — very powerful, high tech weapons.
Vanessa wore a dark green mask that shot out a "Whip" made of pure energy which she could use to strike or grab. She seemed to prefer to drive a purple sports car which could extend wings and turn into a jet. Reports indicated that the car was called "Manta."
Rax rode a black motorcycle with a sidecar that could be launched to form a submarine. Victims had heard him refer to it as "Piranha." His "Stiletto" mask extended clear down to his chest and fired deadly metal spikes from the region over where his heart ought to be.
Dagger's mask was called "Torch." (Bruce hissed under his breath as he watched closed circuit films of it firing a blast of flame from its crown.) Dagger drove a coal black Bronco which converted to an armored car with a wicked looking gun turret. There were guns hidden behind its front grill as well.
Gorey had a mask called either "Powerhouse" or "Sampson" (reports varied) which allowed him to perform great feats of strength. The huge "Outlaw" oil tanker he drove, apparently some sort of Venom command center, was armed to its hubcaps and had a monstrous cannon along its back.
Bruno, whose "Magna-Beam" mask emitted magnetic waves, preferred an orange car called "Scorpion" which flattened down into a treaded tank with a clawlike crane for a tail.
Malloy drove a red motorcycle called "Vampire," which could change into a high- flying, one-man jet. Malloy's mask, known as "Buckshot," fired a vicious stream of ball bearings.
Mayhem's "Viper" mask fired a corrosive, poisonous acid. His preferred vehicle was an admittedly nifty looking dark blue helicopter that could change into a streamlined jet. The aircraft's apt name was "Switchblade."
Matt shut off the computer. "There you have it gentlemen — and robot. There isn't a police force on this planet who knows as much as you do about Venom."
Alex looked at Matt with sharp suspicion, "Just what do you plan on doing with this material now that you've collected it.
"I plan to use it, of course," Matt said softly.
In the next episode:
More toys, more maxims
and the anti-Venom program picks up speed
when they go looking for an overgrown Boy Scout
