SENSATION COMICS #1
By The Mauve Lantern
WILDFIRE in BIRTH BY PYRE
The god of flames gazed upon his work and saw that it was good. All about him the once green, verdant forest was lit in a radiant blaze; each step he took seeded the ground with embers. He smiled at the sight of mighty trees, trees that had grown for over a century, collapsed and released a swarm of ashes and sparks into the night. An unearthly chuckle drifted past his lips when he thought of what the Parliament would do to him when they saw the death of so much vegetation. Fhlorah, their creator and the goddess of the forests, would certainly be angry, but that had never stopped Fernas from enjoying himself before.
After walking for a while, he came upon his destination: a flaming cabin. It was a small structure, standing as tall as three men and being no wider than a classroom. It was built well though, and had weathered many a storm and rough night. Fernas guffawed at the burning home, mocking the human workers that had toiled on the house. For all their work, he could destroy it in mere minutes.
He crossed through the remnants of the doorframe and looked about the place, taking in the destruction of the home. A small kitchen stood close to the entrance; Fernas noticed there were still dishes and food lying out. Further in the cabin was what remained of an oaken table, collapsed under its own weight and taking out a chair with it. Near the table was a sofa and, in a fit of irony that even the god of flames had to laugh at, a fireplace. The sofa had split down the center when a piece of the roof caved in and smashed it. At the back of the cabin, near a shattered window, was a burning bed, upon which lay the charred body of a woman. This was what Fernas had come to see; this was the reason he had set fire to the whole forest.
The woman was a mortal that once piqued Fernas's interest. He had spied her working on her family's farm and fell for her vibrant spirit and flaming red hair; she seemed the living embodiment of the fire he created. One night, his urges took the better of him and he visited the farm in the form of a gorgeous man. He snuck in through the woman's window and lay with her, embracing her until the last star faded from the sky. Fernas left, having had his way and thinking he no longer needed the girl now that he had taken her.
In truth, he could not stop obsessing over her. He visited the farm many a day, sometimes as an animal and sometimes as a man, just so he could see her up close. Though he did visit many times, the god never again lay with her, much to the humor of his brothers and sisters. They laughed at him and joked how he was losing his touch.
"Fernas," Icikol, the god of the frozen lands, had said, "I have never seen you so tame. Perhaps your fires need stoking?"
Ohxijen, goddess of the air, had laughed. "Perhaps, Icikol, dear Fernas wishes to take his time with her. I feel I should ask though: does this mean you can only simmer, brother?"
Fernas could not take the mockery of his family, so he visited the girl one more time, appearing to her as a blazing phoenix. He lay with her as he had before and this time, he left as the sun crossed over the horizon, not once looking back. In the days that came, the god never went to the farm again, deciding that he could not allow himself to hang onto the mortal girl. Still, he could not keep himself from casting glances down at her from afar. He would watch her from the heavens and smile when she laughed, frown when she cried, and clap his hands when she had fortune.
All that changed when she married a mortal man. Fernas became furious with her, despising her for taking someone else to be with her and forgetting all about him. His anger seeped into the human world, casting a horrible shadow of heat over the entire planet. He dried up marshes and rivers, melted mighty glaciers, and turned the plains into deserts. Still, none of this affected the woman he longed for, so he decided to visit the human world once more, this time as a raging storm of flames.
He followed the woman, her husband, and their infant daughter to a cabin in the woods, which he laid to waste in a matter of moments. The man had tried to escape, to find help before the fire got out of control, but Fernas struck him down with a bolt of fire before he could get too far. The woman had remained inside the cabin and perished in the flames while cradling her daughter. Fernas was a wrathful, envious god though, and he felt no pity for the woman who had betrayed his emotions.
As the god turned to leave, he heard a soft sound coming from the bed. It sounded like the coo of a dove, quiet and sweet, yet it could be heard over the din of the fire. Fernas walked to the bed and moved the woman's body aside. Underneath, shielded by her mother, was the daughter, unharmed and sleeping peacefully. She looked so much like her mother: skin as light as the hottest flame and hair as red as a pepper. When she opened her eyes, the god found that she even had the same viridian eyes as the woman.
Fernas snarled at this mockery before him. To see the woman living on in her child was too much for the god to take, so he snatched the girl off the bed and held her in one hand with an iron grip. When he did this, the infant looked at him with bright and curious eyes; she neither screamed nor cried. The god of flames grew furious at this and summoned a fire within his hands, consuming the child in a matter of seconds. He smiled victoriously, thinking he had won and rid the world of his former love once and for all, but the smile faded when he felt a weight in his hands.
The fire died down enough for the god to see that the girl was left unharmed; in fact, she seemed to be happier now. She cooed and giggled as though she were being tickled by the flickering flames that held her. Fernas, perplexed by this, set the child down on the bed and passed a small ball of fire to her as a test. The girl took the ball and rolled it around on the sheets at her feet before the flame dissipated and returned to Fernas's hand.
When the girl looked to Fernas for another toy, he offered her another fireball and watched as she played with it as though it were a toy. As he watched her play, the god of flames pondered what the child truly was; to be able to survive his wrath was no small feat. Greater men had fallen at his hands before, so why should an infant be spared and given strength over his power? And then, sickening realization came crashing down upon Fernas like a mighty wave.
"She is my child," the god murmured, volcanic air pouring from his mouth.
How could this have happened? A god siring a child with a mortal was not unheard of; certainly his brothers and sisters had visited humans for centuries. But to find one that had the strength of their parent was unprecedented, for all had fallen at some point in time, many at the hands of their very mothers and fathers. This girl, barely an infant, was able to withstand flames that could melt rocks with their heat. It was possible then that she had all of his powers, and what would the others think of that?
Fernas felt light in the head as these thoughts raced through his mind, so he crafted a throne of flames and sat and watched the girl play with the fire. When she grew tired of playing with the fireball, she yanked at it and found the fire to be as soft and malleable as cottoned candy. She tossed these embers left and right, watching as they fell slowly through the air and hit the ground. Once there was nothing left of the ball, she started to whimper so, instinctively, her observer formed another ball of flames, one as big as the child herself, for her to play with.
As he watched her play in the ashes, an old feeling seeped into the fire god's ancient heart, a feeling he had buried away for a long, long time. For the first time since days long forgotten, Fernas felt shame and guilt for what he had done. His daughter, the first to come in a thousand years, had been deprived of proper guardians, parents to watch over her in place of him, for he could not spend his days among mortals. The god, in his wrath, had slain two humans, both likely innocent and unsuspecting of the ire they had invoked; they had suffered and paid a price most unfair. An entire forest was laid to waste for revenge undeserving. And Fernas was all to blame.
These feelings of guilt grew into something else as the flaming god sat there in his make-shift throne. It felt strange and alien to him, something only described by someone sounder in mind like Fhlorah, though it was not unwelcome. It was responsibility for his actions, accepting that he had committed an act most deplorable and vile, and so he dwelt on what should be done.
The god pondered the predicament for a spell, thinking of who could take the child in place of her parents. His many observations upon his love had afforded him the gift of knowing the people in her life, such as friends and family. Her mother and father had shunned her, no doubt because of her mysterious pregnancy; her brothers and sisters were equally distant from her because they knew no better than to listen to their parents. Being so far from civilization, the girl had no friends of her own, finding no company until she moved nearer to the city with her husband. There, in that city, they had made friends with a young couple like them, though they were not capable of having children themselves. They had often watched over the child as sitters when the parents needed to go somewhere; they were always hesitant to return her when they came back. In this man and woman, Fernas found his answer.
Dismissing his throne into embers, the fire god picked up the infant and held her close. She looked at him with curiosity and stroked his flaming beard like she would a cat or dog. Fernas smiled at the babe.
"Blessed are you for being so young as to have no memory of this day, child," the god said to the infant, "for this suffering I have wrought would break anyone else. You, flesh of my flesh, are remarkable beyond words, and so I give you a gift. In time, when you are older and grown smarter and wiser, you shall make and command the fires as I do; they are yours. This will all seem some far-off dream, a distant memory too long-gone to be remembered, but my promise still stands. When you have need of my flames, they will awaken within you."
His words, carrying power and glowing with warmth, lulled the infant to sleep. Still keeping a grip on her, the god changed his body into a mighty bird, his arms and hands becoming legs and talons while wings grew from his back. Once the transformation was complete, Fernas gave a push with his powerful wings and flew through a hole in the roof of the cabin. He held the girl close to his body while he rose through the smoke, until he cleared the dark mass and set out for the nearby city.
At the home of the Martins, John and Marla were listening in on the radio. They had seen the smoke coming from the woods and so tuned in to hear if there was any news about the blaze. Fear crept into them for their friends, Jordan and Laura Vance, had been going into the woods for the weekend as a get-away. Were they caught in the fire? Had they been able to get out? The questions went unanswered as the reporter continued to detail all that he knew.
"Oh, I do hope they're all right," Marla fretted away.
"I'm sure they'll be fine, dear. They're probably driving out right now, with little Carol right between them in Jordan's old flivver," John assured his wife. He did not appear as confident as he sounded though; he sat in his chair and chewed his fingernails, a nervous tendency for him.
The two were so caught up in their listening that they almost missed the sound of someone at the door, banging on the old wood. It was a maid who heard the sound first though, so she ran to see who it was even while John and Marla raced for the door. The maid opened the door and found there to be no one at the door; she did not notice the singe marks on the front. When she looked down though, she shrieked in fear and surprise.
"Mr. Martin! Mrs. Martin! Come quick!" she screamed.
Marla raced ahead, reaching the door just before her husband. She found the maid crouching down to pick something up that was left on the stoop; from where she stood, there was no way of telling what it was.
"What's the matter, Helen?" asked the frantic woman. "What is it?"
"L-l-look," the maid managed to choke out.
Turning, Marla found a baby in Helen's arms. And though the infant was covered in soot, sweat, and ash, Mrs. Martin knew very well who it was; there was no one else with hair that red. She let out a sob as her husband ran up to her, joining the women on the stoop. He tried to ask what was wrong but could not get a word in through Marla's tears. Finally, he glanced down at the dirty bundle in his wife's arms and the breath left him.
"Is," he hesitated to ask, "is it really her?"
"How could it be anyone else?" Marla cried. "Who else could it be?!"
They cradled the baby in their arms for what seemed like hours, the two crying at what her arrival meant. Neither could explain how young Carol had arrived at their home nor did they even question the mysterious event. All that mattered was that she had managed to survive where her parents had not. John and Marla sat up late into the night, wondering what the next step was; after all, they would have to tell people something.
"We ought to tell the authorities," the weary John would suggest. "If we don't, someone is going to find out eventually and then where would we be?"
"I can't bear the thought of sticking her in an orphanage though, John! Laura would never hear of it," Marla would reply.
The decision-making went into the wee hours of the morning, when they finally agreed on what they would do. They would explain that Carol had been left with them over the weekend; first thing in the morning, they would go down and work out the paperwork of making the orphaned babe their own. As the sun peaked over the horizon the next morning, its first rays found John and Marla sitting in their chairs in his study, Carol cradled in Marla's arms.
Many years passed since that fateful day and in that time, Carol Vance Martin grew into a beautiful and bright young woman. Her pepper-red hair grew long and flowing, try as she might to cut it; the mane only seemed to grow back a few days later. The green eyes that had shined like gems as a babe only became more priceless with age, turning such a verdant shade of green that they would put the plants of the Amazon to shame. Skin that was once light as snow became tanned, turning the girl a lighter shade of bronze. At a mere eighteen years of age, she rivaled some of the timeless creations of the Renaissance.
She could have been content with riding through life on her beauty alone, but Carol, like the element of her father, could not sit content with what she had. All her life, she leaped from activity to activity, trying out any sports and hobbies that she could find, even the ones deemed unsuitable for a lady of her status. Modeling her surrogate father, she would play darts, which evolved into a love of archery, and she also learned how to tackle a man to the ground should the need ever arise. Her adoptive mother, wanting to show her daughter how to be classier, would take Carol to an upstate farm in New York, where she would learn how to ride horses. Not content with sitting around and riding all her time there, Carol would pitch in and help the hired hands in the field, which granted her a stronger body than any girl her age. This would happen every time she visited the farm, which she did quite frequently while she lived with the Martins.
And while she lived with the Martins, she could not have been wonting for love and affection. John and Marla loved Carol with all their heart, giving her every opportunity they could give to her, price be damned. Her dresses were made from the finest materials, her toys bought from the finest stores, and her room furnished with items that would turn even a princess's head. Not content with having her attending any old school, Carol was given private tutoring with college professors, professional scientists and renowned writers. All the staff of the mansion treated her as if she were their own as well; Helen, the maid who found her on that day, was her favorite and closest friend. There was not a single person who was not charmed by her enthusiastic and warm nature.
It was with a heavy heart that she left the Martin house when she turned eighteen. Once her homeschooling had given her all she needed, Carol turned her gaze to higher academia, which she was able to afford thanks to her parents surviving the collapse of the economy. The passionate girl sought a degree in medicine, wanting to give people some of the good fortune she had accrued in her lifetime, and so she left for St. Anne's Nursing School in the fall of 1932.
Unfortunately, life in school was less entrancing than she could have anticipated. Carol had dreamed of meeting so many wonderful people, people of like or different minds, but all she had found was work after work after work after work. All she seemed to do was write papers and take tests; there was no magic to the lessons at all. And so a rainy day in March found her nearly asleep in her desk, her friend Marcy taking notes for her.
"Now," the aged teacher, Sister Margot Childs, droned, "if your patient were suffering from headaches, stuffed sinuses, and a decrease in hearing, what would you give them to help? Anyone? Perhaps Miss Martin would be willing to tell us."
Marcy nudged her friend, but nothing happened. She poked Carol in the side, but she had been lulled into slumber. She whispered in the red-head's ear, "Childs is glaring at you, Carol; now would be a good time to wake up!"
"Five more minutes," Carol grumbled, sinking her head into her arms.
"Miss Martin!"
With speed unbefitting a woman of her age and stout stature, Sister Margot dashed up to Carol's desk and slammed a ruler down in front of her. The drowsy girl snapped to attention and cried out, "The square root of nine is three!"
Sister Margot glared at Carol and said, "Astute observation, but this is not a math class, Miss Martin. If you want to sleep, go back to your room and sleep as much as you want. You're getting a zero for this day, and if I catch you sleeping in my class again, I'll fail you for this whole semester."
The young lady sighed and collected her books. Ever since she started attending Sister Margot's class, she had been a target for the old woman's seething rage; it certainly did not help that Carol could hardly focus on the material.
As she gathered her papers, Marcy scribbled a little message to the side of her notes. It read, "I'll get what you missed and see if I can sweet-talk Childs."
Carol winked at her friend before walking out of the classroom. What little guilt and humiliation she received from Sister Margot was forgotten as soon as she walked through the doors. Like the fire that created her, she moved on to the next part of her day without a care for classes.
The rain let up not a moment too soon, allowing Carol to walk back to her room unimpeded. As she left the Baker Building, where Sister Margot taught her classes, she gave a slight shiver; the rain may have stopped but the cold still remained. Wanting to get out of the chill, Carol hastened her pace and walked with determination to her building. She did not get far before she was stopped by an unearthly sound.
"Haaaooooooo!"
From somewhere in the woods came what sounded like the howl of a wolf, but the sound was all wrong. It was garbled, mangled, and joined by the sound of sharp splintering and crackling; it was not unlike a tree falling in the forest. What made it even more spine-tingling was that this loud, booming noise sounded incredibly close, as though it was on the very edge of the campus. Carol halted in her walk like any person in shock and tried to find the source.
Unfortunately for her, she did not have to search long. Not fifty feet away, from behind the corner of the library, came a creature that was not of this world. It had the general appearance of a wolf, but it was much larger, being as tall as a man and as long as an automobile. There were hideous fangs sharp as razors and filthy claws that looked like massive hooks; glowing, red eyes stared harshly at the girl before them. But that was where the similarities stopped: in place of fur, the wolf-like monstrosity had moss; where the moss did not grow, there was rock and dirt. It appeared foul and dead, the moss-fur not covering it entirely, leaving splotches of rock and dirt exposed like so much flesh and bone.
Carol, struck with frightened awe, was at a loss for words. Finally, with nothing else coming to mind, she managed to choke out, "Nice doggy."
The abominable wolf did not listen to the pepper-haired beauty though, and so it took some slow, cautious steps towards her. Carol met his pace with some backwards-steps of her own, walking slowly so as not to prompt the beast into attacking. This did not work though, as the beast suddenly leaped at her, another hideous howl his only sign of attacking. Surprisingly fast for its size, it hit Carol with all the force of a battering ram.
"Oof!" the young Vance Martin huffed, the wind knocked from her lungs. She had trouble breathing but had no time to worry about that; her primary concern was keeping the wolf from tearing her to shreds.
Quick as she could she reached up and boxed the wolf's ears, bringing her toughened fists against the beast's head. It disoriented the beast but not enough to knock it away, so it kept Carol pinned with all its weight. When it came in to bite the young beauty though, she scooped up a handful of mud and slammed it in the wolf's face, smearing it in the creature's awful eye. Blinded, the wolf rubbed its face with one paw, freeing Carol's left side and allowing her some leverage on the creature. With a kick of her legs, she was able to knock the beast off-balance and drive it off her body.
Freed, Carol scrambled to her feet. Though her outfit was a mess and she could feel some ribs broken, she was not about to back down from this fight. She gave her own snarl to the wolf, "I've been wrestling beasties like you since I was a kid. You're nothing compared to a bucking bronco, you overgrown mess."
Once the wolf had composed itself, it began to circle around Carol, who followed the beast's every move with her own. When it made a lunge for her, she dodged to the side; the wolf skidded through the sloppy ground before it could gather itself. It tried another attack, and this time she was able to rap it across the head. The hideous creature let out a deep, guttural growl, and it launched into another attack, lunging for Carol once more. She dodged, but the beast stopped and, quick as a bolt, it changed direction and swiped at her with one of its rotting paws. Its claws, like hooks, cut into Carol's skirt, which was the only thing that kept her safe.
"I liked that skirt," the young girl said to the wolf. "I'll tan your hide for that!"
The wolf made another swipe at her but Carol was not going to be caught unaware again. This time, she knocked the beast's paw aside with an attack of her own; it was not enough to hurt the beast but it did keep her safe. She was not expecting it to trick her again though, as it charged at her again, ramming her with its stony head this time. It racked Carol's body with pain and she went toppling to the ground, where the wolf pinned her down again.
"Get off me," Carol coughed, but the wolf would not let her up again. "I said get off!"
Suddenly, her entire body burst into roaring flames! The wolf could not react fast enough, and its body was engulfed in the fire within seconds, eating away at the mossy fur. It reeled in agony, allowing Carol the chance to stand up. The young, blazing maiden watched the beast writhe and then she looked at her own body. Though she was ablaze like the wolf, she could feel no pain; it almost felt soothing and cleansing.
"That's interesting," she remarked as the flames died away, leaving only a few in her flowing hair.
"I agree."
Carol turned to find that there was someone else at the scene, watching from the steps of a nearby building. She looked no older than Carol, but she had black hair cut in the style of a military man; her clothes were from the Army as well, though they were not from any branch in America. In her hands were a large crossbow and a thin, lit cigar, which she puffed on while she spoke.
"Zat vas quite ze show," the girl said in a thick German accent. "Vat else can you do, wunderkind?"
THE TIGRESS in THE $200,000 HEIST
It was a cold, wet night, the kind that sends animals scurrying for the warmth and safety of their homes. For some, there are holes, caves, and nests; for others, houses and apartments. But there are some establishments open to protect from the chill of March, ones that require a bit of searching and know-how to enter. If one can find them and if one knows how to get in, they can find themselves inside speakeasies and secret saloons, like New York's Apollo Lounge. And those who found themselves in the lounge that night were treated to dinner, drink, music, and a show, for no one could have anticipated a fight breaking out between a thug and a cowboy.
Two men at the bar, both of an unsavory sort, sat back and downed their drinks as the thug was escorted from the premises and the cowboy rode off with the girl. One of the men, a gaunt skeleton of a man, tilted his head back and finished the last of his bourbon. He wiped away a dribble of the stuff as it leaked through a hole in his cheek.
"Never thought I'd see a real cowboy in New York," he said to his partner.
The other man, who had spindly limbs but a bulbous body, swished around the bourbon in his glass, savoring it instead of finishing it. He remarked, "I didn't think they were real. Guess I was wrong."
"Wait, are you serious? You actually thought that cowboys were fake?"
"Absolutely. I thought they were just something you saw in the movies or the funny pages, like pirates and what-not."
"First off, pirates are very real," the gaunt man said to the bulbous man, "on account of my great-grandfather working for one way back in the day. And second, you're honestly telling me that you've never seen them in the news or nothing?"
"Nope," the rotund man shook his head. "I always get a snack when the boring stuff comes on."
"And you don't read the papers?"
"Sure, but I just take a look at what's going on in the city, not out in the desert."
"History books? You had to have read about them in history books."
"Never was one for schooling."
"Wow. And here I thought I had heard everything," the gaunt man chuckled as he signaled for the bartender. "Hey, Lloyd, c'mere!"
The bartender, a stiff man who stood ramrod straight, walked over to the two and asked, "What'll it be, fellas?"
"Another round of bourbon on the rocks, and some common sense for my friend here," said the skeleton man to Lloyd.
"Comin' right up."
As the bartender walked off to grab the bottle, the bulbous man shot a glare at his companion. He grumbled, "I'm not much of an educated man and I'm okay with that, but do you have to point that out to everybody?"
"I don't have to, but it sure is fun!"
Lloyd returned and poured more bourbon for the two. He asked them, "What brings you two out here on a night like this?"
"We're here for some nunya," the gaunt man told Lloyd, more drink spilling from the hole in his cheek. "Nunya business! Now vamoose!"
While Lloyd walked off in a huff to tend other patrons, a tall, dark man came up behind the pair and clapped them on the shoulders. In a deep voice that sounded like it came from an organ, he said, "Finger? Van Pelt? The boss will see you two now."
Van Pelt, the bulbous one, straightened his tie and asked his comrade, "Do you think I look presentable? I want to leave a good first impression, after all."
"Then you probably should have worked on that paunch," the gaunt Finger told his friend. "There's no way Tigress will take you on if you look like a balloon. At the very least, you could lift a few weights and beef up your chicken arms and legs. But other than that, you look presentable."
"Blow it out your nose, you fish-face."
At the same time, at a railroad station some miles from the lounge, a railway detective was snooping around the stopped cars. The station had called him in to help find out where a missing brakeman had gone off to; they suspected it was one of the bums that frequented the area. Vagrants would often wander in and hide away inside the rail cars under the cover of night, so it was his job to make sure the cars stayed clear. His heart did go out to these people though: times were tough and people had to make do with what they could find; there was no way around it. Still, if he wanted to avoid being like them, he had to do his job.
As the detective rounded a corner, he saw an orange light burst in the shadows. Someone was lighting a cigarette just a few cars down, but the question was, who was it? Shining a lantern did nothing to help; whoever was smoking was avoiding the light.
"Hello? Is somebody there?" the detective asked.
There was no answer.
"I'm armed and I'm prepared to shoot!" said the detective, reaching for his pistol.
"Do you always bother people when they're taking a smoke?"
The detective followed the sound of the voice and found a man lying in one of the open cars. When the detective shined his lantern at the man, he found that the fellow's face was almost all obscured by his hat. A funny-looking cigarette dangled from his lips.
"Got some identification?"
"Left it in my other coat pocket," the man chuckled.
"What're you doing out here this late?"
"Isn't it obvious? I'm dancing!"
"Do you know who I am?"
"Not yet."
"The name's Stone; I'm a detective for the station. If you don't show me some identification now, I'll fix you up with a nice jail cell," Detective Stone threatened.
"Is that so?" asked the man, flicking the rest of his curious cigarette away. "Well, we wouldn't want none of that. The name's Babcock, Ron Babcock."
Babcock raised up his hat to reveal a lean, tanned face, gray eyes, and dirty blond hair. He smirked at Stone and withdrew some papers from his coat pocket. The detective glanced over them and, certain they were truthful, gave them back to their owner.
"I wasn't aware that the station had inspectors out this late," said Stone to Babcock.
"They need me to keep people out of the cars when the trains stop in at the station for the night. Don't want anyone going through the goods now, do we? Or maybe they're just looking for a place to get out of the cold; it's none of my business."
"Mmhm," Stone nodded in agreement. Babcock was a chatty fellow, definitely, but it would not hurt to have another set of eyes investigating the scene. "Say, think you could come off your break and give me a hand? I figure you know this station a little better than I do."
"Happy to oblige," said Babcock, hopping down from the train. He pulled another curious cigarette from his coat and lit it as he walked beside Stone. When the detective glanced at the joint, the inspector offered it to him.
"Where are my manners? Would you care to partake, detective?"
Stone shook his head. "No thanks. I don't know what you're smoking there, kid, but it ain't tobacco."
"You got that right."
The two walked around the cars checking them to make sure the coast is clear, and, sure enough, not a single soul could be found in the train cars. After searching for some time, the two stopped to take a breather at one of the open cars, Babcock smoking one of his joints and Stone taking a swig from a hidden flask.
"Care for some?"
"No thanks," the inspector replied, "I'm quite content."
The two sat in silence for a moment before Babcock asked, "So this brakeman got a name? I just started here the other day, so I'm not quite familiar with all the other workers."
"It's some Polack named Borkowski; fellow didn't show up for work and hasn't been seen in about a week. That name mean anything to you?"
"Can't say as it does," Babcock mumbled, rubbing some scruff on his chin. "Like I said, I'm new to the place."
"Aw nuts. And here I thought I was going to get some place warm tonight."
As the two sat and enjoyed their personal vices, a late train arrived on the track opposite of them. It came in slow, allowing the men to catch a glimpse of the cars. One in particular caught the detective's eye: three cars ahead of the caboose was a red car with an X inside a circle on the door.
"That's funny," Stone commented.
"How's that?" asked Babcock.
"I just saw some markings that seemed like hobo code. It's a way for them to communicate with each other through signs and what-not."
"What'd you see?"
"Circle with an X in it. It means you can either get a handout here or maybe find food. Strange, seeing it in a place like this."
"Some kids might've drawn it on without knowing what it means," Babcock reassured his companion. "We don't get too many hobos around here."
Finger and Van Pelt were led up to a private room in the lounge, disconnected from the rest of the speakeasy thanks to a long hallway. When they made it to the far-off room, they found the Tigress waiting for them on a plush chaise longue, a long cigarette holder hanging from her lips. Both men were struck when they saw her, for she was gorgeous: olive skin that hinted of Mediterranean blood; hair as golden as the sun; eyes like two pieces of amber; a figure like a perfect hourglass. Perhaps most fetching was the look she gave the men as they walked in; she seemed to size them up like prey.
"So you're the two I've heard about?" she asked, a refined tint to her voice. "The ones looking for work?"
"Y-Yes, ma'am," both replied. Even the cool and calm Finger could not keep his composure around her.
"And why should I hire you two on? When I commit a crime, I commit the biggest crimes; I need men who can keep up with me. I require men who are not afraid to dream big, you see. So again, I ask, why should I bring you on?"
After a moment's hesitation, Finger stepped forward. He tried to maintain some of his earlier swagger, but his knees could not stop trembling. "Miss T-Tigress, you'll find I'm a hard-working man who's willing to do anything to get the job done. You need me to blow something up? I'll set the dynamite and push the plunger myself. You need some muscle against your competition? I'm your man. I'll even off someone if you say the word! So long as I get what's mine in the end, I'll do it."
Van Pelt nodded, knowing full well how serious Finger was. The Tigress gave the gaunt man another glance and took a long drag on her cigarette. There was no change to her eyes; they still glared like a jungle cat waiting in the brush. She then turned that gaze to Van Pelt, who only stepped forward with a little prodding from his companion.
"I, ah well, I don't know if I'm the man for ya, Miss Tigress," the rotund fellow admitted. "I'm not too strong, my sight's not that good, and I can't run too far on account of my asthma and my, well, you can probably figure it out. I was honestly hoping you needed someone who could handle books or drive cars, if at all possible."
"You're quite harsh on yourself, Mr. Van Pelt," said the femme fatale. "I'm assuming that you have something that will entice me, because I am very unimpressed so far."
"All I've got to run on is your sympathy, ma'am. See, I've got a wife and kids back home, and they need all the help they can get what with times being what they are and all. My wife don't want to hear none of it, but I can't just leave 'em out in the cold, Miss Tigress. So that's my plea: take pity on this useless schmuck and give my family what they need."
The Tigress lay back upon her seat and blew smoke rings into the air. As she shifted, the two men in waiting saw that her dress was a dark orange and had black stripes running diagonally down it from the shoulder. It only added more backing to the rumors that she was not right in the head. Not that either man would say that out loud, mind you; they had also heard rumors of how the Tigress was quick to do away with anyone who disagreed with her.
Finally, when her cigarette was exhausted, the Tigress propped herself up on an elbow and rang a bell sitting on the table in front of her. When two men arrived, she told them, "Show Mr. Finger out the door."
"Right away, Miss Tigress," the two guards answered.
"You can't do this!" Finger protested. "I need that money! That two-hundred K ought to be mine!"
"Goodbye, Mr. Finger," the Tigress yawned as her guards lifted the man by the arms and dragged him out the door. Van Pelt and she could hear him fighting the security all the way down the hall, which elicited a sigh from the criminal. "I do wish the rejected would behave themselves better. Such unbecoming behavior only makes their chances at more work all the slimmer."
Van Pelt turned to the tan woman and said, "Pardon me, miss, but why did you pick me over him? Finger's everything I'm not."
"And that's why I don't need him," the woman replied.
"You see, Mr. Van Pelt, I do not need someone who will do anything for money. Those sorts will sell you out to the highest bidder, and I need someone with loyalty, someone I can depend on. And you, you strike me as a man I can rely on. Because you've got something to lose, something that you cannot give up on, and that is what I need. Men like you, who have a reason to be afraid of the police, work so much harder not to get caught in the act. Who would provide for your family if you were to get caught? No one needs that."
"I'm sorry, what was that last part?"
"Nothing, a slip of the tongue."
Van Pelt tugged on his collar, feeling out of place again. "So, ah, what sort of work am I looking at?"
"Train robbery, Mr. Van Pelt. Right now, I've got men working up and down the East Coast in one of my biggest heists yet. At the major stops, I have an inspector mark a car with a symbol, a circle with an X inside, which lets my men know which car has valuable goods in them. My men board the trains when they get the signal from the inspectors, and then they move to the cars with the goods and toss them out at certain points along the way. I have get-away cars at these stops, and they pick up the disposed-of cargo before anyone can get their hands on it.
"I've been running this operation for a long while, but now it's time for the big one. Over two-hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels will be coming in from up north tomorrow night, doubling my steals so far. They'll be coming in through the Upstate Station, and I need a driver to meet us as the train travels through the countryside. That will be your job, my friend."
"Has anyone noticed the symbols on the side, ma'am?" asked Van Pelt.
"Not at all. Most dismiss them as mere drawings or signs written for vagrants," explained the Tigress. "Does this answer your questions?"
She did not wait for an answer. "Good. Now, join me for some celebratory drink, Mr. Van Pelt."
"Oh, I really shouldn't."
"I insist," said his new employer. "Besides, from the sounds of things outside, I'd say your friend has started another brawl. We may be cooped up in here for a while, so why not wait with a drink?"
"Can't argue with that," Van Pelt groaned, knowing full well how long Finger could go in a fight. "Here's to new employment."
"To family," the Tigress added, raising a glass of brandy in the air.
When the booze was almost gone and the joints were all smoked, Stone and Babcock decided to call it a night. It was too cold, too wet, and too dreary to keep looking for somebody that was probably long gone. Best to just call it a night and let things be.
"Are you sure there's nothing else I can do to help, Detective?" Babcock asked as he dusted off his coat.
"Not unless you can identify something for me," said Stone.
"Well, let's see it."
Stone reached into his coat pocketed and pulled out a small pouch. Inside the pouch was a strip of cloth, checkerboard in yellow and black, that looked to come from a suit. The detective passed it to Babcock and the inspector took it in his right hand.
"What am I lookin' at?"
"We think it's a piece of cloth from a coat Borkowski might have worn, but his wife said that he doesn't have anything checkerboard."
As Babcock fiddled with the cloth piece, Detective Stone could not help but notice that the inspector's jacket seemed awfully threadbare; there were definitely more than a few holes, now that he saw it in the right light. And how could he not have noticed this, having sat with the man for a few hours: he never seemed to handle anything with his left hand. Whenever he used something, his left hand was stuffed into the pocket of his coat.
"Sure is a ratty-looking coat there, Babcock," said the detective.
"What can I say? I can't really afford a new one right now."
Before the inspector could protest, Stone reached out and pulled Babcock's left hand from his pocket. Right at the cuff was an empty space about the same size as the piece of cloth in the inspector's hand, right down to the frayed stitching on the side. When the detective did this, Babcock's face sank into a deep scowl; it was the first time he had shown anything but a dopey grin that whole evening.
"Ronald Babcock, you're under-"
As the words were leaving the detective's lips, Babcock wrenched his hand away, dropped the scrap from the other, and lunged at Stone. He grabbed the detective by the throat and slammed him against the wall of a train car. The detective tried to fight back, but the false inspector held on as tight as he could, crushing Stone's throat with impossible strength. Stone's struggling grew weaker and weaker until, just a moment later, they stopped. Once he felt the man's pulse come to a stop, Babcock let the body drop into the muddy ground beneath them.
"Shouldn't have been so chatty, chum," the killer chuckled as he hefted Stone's body up into the train car.
Babcock pulled the man back into the shadows, where an old, large trunk sat. He opened the trunk and, with a little work, forced Stone's body down inside. After locking up the trunk, he walked back out into the night and shut the doors to the car. His job done for the night, the murderer walked off into the night, whistling a tune as he went.
An hour or two later, Finger was locked up in a jail cell, along with a few other bar brawlers from the Apollo Lounge. The police were particularly interested in what Finger had to say; the man had been giving them information on the Tigress all night long. Fred Brady, lieutenant at the precinct, sat by the holding cell and wrote down all that Finger said.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Finger," Brady said, closing his notepad. "This had been incredibly helpful."
"That's all good and well; now how's about you let me out?" asked the gaunt crook. "You promised me I'd get out of here if I told you everything I know!"
"Sorry, not my call to make," Brady told Finger, a smirk crossing his face.
"You rip-off artist!"
Brady turned to the guards and said, "Tell him to calm down, and don't be afraid to get rough."
While the guards dealt with Finger, Brady went back to his office, where a man in a sharp tuxedo sat waiting for him. Behind the well-dressed man was a large, muscular Polynesian dressed in a driver's uniform. When Brady walked in, the Polynesian gave a humble bow while the seated man tipped his cane to him.
"Did our friend tell us everything we needed?" he asked.
"Everything and more, Zatara," Brady replied. "Looks like Tigress is back in town with another heist."
John Zatara's face sank at that information. "Well then, there isn't much time to spare. Tong, we're leaving: we've got a thief to catch!"
RED TORNADO in PERIL OF THE PENNY PLUNDERER
Suddenly, a shriek pierced the quiet night!
"Help! Somebody, anybody, help!"
At a corner store of no repute, an old shopkeeper wailed for aid. Nearby neighbors came to see what the matter was, followed almost immediately by the police. The officers waded through the anxious crowd to get to the distraught shopkeeper.
"Mrs. Lamb, what's wrong?" asked one of the officers. "Another break-in?"
"Oh, yes!" the old lady cried.
"That's three in the past month alone!" another officer remarked.
"What did they steal, Mrs. Lamb?"
"My money! They took all the money in the register and ran!"
The policemen walked over to the cash register and found it to be broken, its drawer forced open and made irreparable. Left inside the drawer was but a single coin: one measly, little copper penny; any bills or change worth more was long gone!
"And look at this note I found!" Mrs. Lamb said to the officers.
The note, written in a sloppy, large sort of handwriting, read: CONSIDER YOUR REGISTER PLUNDERED! NO ONE IS SAFE FROM MY AVARICE! –THE PENNY PLUNDERER
Both officers glanced at each other with a shared concerned look. This screwball criminal, whoever he was, had been at large for a month now. Everywhere he went, he stole all the money he could find and would leave a single penny in its place. There was not a cop in the whole city that could catch him because, like the coin he used for his crimes, he was easy to lose. It seemed that this sensational villain was destined to pilfer the riches of others until the day he died. After all, who could stop him?
Meanwhile, on the outskirts of the city, a dark truck with bags of questionable content pulled up to a seemingly ordinary log cabin. Two men hopped out of the truck while a third meandered out, a copper cane holding him steady. While the first two set about claiming the bags, the cane-wielder waltzed over to the door of the cabin and dropped a penny into the lock, allowing him entry into his sanctum.
"I tell you, boys, there's nothing like the thrill of a caper gone right to get you going!" the man exclaimed as he lit candles and lanterns throughout the room.
"You got that right, boss," said one of the workers.
"Where do ya want yer new catch, boss?" asked the other.
"Put it in the back room, Rock; we've been over this before!"
As Rock carried his bags into the next room, the leader of these two stepped in front of a mirror to examine himself. Atop his head was a large stove pipe hat; around the bottom of his face was a bandana with the Roman numeral "I" on the lips; his fingers all held a copper ring about them. All this and a fancy suit made him a curious sight for some, but if only they knew the truth. If only they knew that this bizarre man was the fiendish Penny Plunderer!
"Boss," said Rock, returning to the main room, "I still don't understands why we'ze doing all dis! Why robs a place and leaves behind a penny? Why pennies at all?"
The Penny Plunderer clapped a hand to his forehead and sighed. "Rock, Rock, Rock, haven't I explained it enough? Were you not listening to me when I explained it all? No, of course you weren't; you were too busy trying to remember to breathe, no doubt. Well then, pull up a seat and let me tell you all about my predicament and my predisposition towards pennies!"
And indeed, it was a particularly peculiar plight that ails this conniving, coin-based criminal, for there was a day, not so far back, where he was just an ordinary man! Joe Coyne sold newspapers for pennies, the same as many men, but he led a lonesome life; he had no one to spend his time with, to share all the good and bad moments in life. Because of this, Joe turned to the terrible sin of gambling, joining in a penny pitching game with his fellow employees. Old Joe turned out to be good at the game, so he continued to play and racked up an incredible amount of money. His fellow workers were not pleased with this outcome, so they decided to inform their boss about what Joe was doing; they left themselves out of the explanation to save their own leathery skin.
When he was fired for his gambling ways, Joe vowed to get revenge on the company somehow, someway! Joe returned to the office the next night, his ultimate goal being to steal all the money in his boss's safe, and he would have gotten away with his crime too, had it not been for one fatal mistake: he would call his get-away driver from a payphone, but he needed one nickel to call! With nothing in his pockets but pennies, Joe had no way of calling for help, and so was arrested by the police. Poor Joe was taken to prison and held for a few years before being released, but prison had made him a hard man and he could not ignore his earlier failure. He tried to rob a corner store, only to find the register to be filled with the pennies that had brought him such misfortune! Losing what was left of his good senses, Joe turned to a life of crime and became known as the Penny Plunderer!
"And so when I rob someone now, Rock, I leave behind a penny or two to share in my misfortune," the reprehensible man explained. "I aim to show these naïve simpletons that the penny is a symbol of UN-luck, not good luck!"
"But if you're the Penny Plunderer, Mr. Coyne, why don't you only plunder pennies?" asked the dull Rock.
"Where's the point in gathering more of those terrible totems of unluckiness, my good man?" asked the boss, a patronizing laugh coming from his lips.
"Gee, I guess dat does make sense, boss."
"Of course it does," the Plunderer told his dim-witted assistant. "Now, you two can go home; I'll see you tomorrow night!"
Once his goons were gone, the master criminal retired to the back room, where an enormous pile of money lay in the center. He tossed his cane and hat to one side of the room before flopping down on the pile of stolen loot.
"Oh, sweet, sweet money," he whispered to the bills and coins. "May we never be apart again."
All the stores along Mayer Road were anxious about opening up the next morning; all were afraid of the Penny Plunderer and what he would do to their business. The only one to open up shop on time was Abigail Hunkel, owner of Hunkel's Garage, for there was no one as fearless as her. In spite of all that had happened to others around her, Abigail "Ma" Hunkel kept her shop open all day for anyone in need of assistance. And the shop showed signs of her pride: the tools were shiny and new, the paint was not chipping at all, and everything was placed neat and proper. The only signs of damage were missing letters from the sign out front, where "Hunkel" covered up a different name entirely.
"'Morning, Ma!" a passer-by said to the stout woman as she opened the garage.
Ma was dressed in her usual clothes: a sturdy shirt, a pair of overalls, and thick boots; all of which fit rather poorly on her large (both in height and girth) body. Her messy brown hair was tied back behind her head thanks to a red rag, and there was not a trace of make-up to be found on her face, which allowed her age to be shown properly. A smile crossed her rosy cheeks, flush from all the heavy lifting she had done in getting ready that day.
"Hello there, Joe!" the woman replied, giving a friendly wave.
"How's the family today?"
"Sisty and Huey are playing over with the Jibbet boys, and Lord above knows where my useless husband's run off to! My guess is that pumpkin head is out robbing trains!"
"Haw!"
As Joe walked on, a long, green car pulled up in front of the shop. Ma paused in her work and cast a baleful glare at the vehicle; she knew whose car that was and she knew just what they wanted. In fact, she was barking at them before they ever left the car.
"You may as well turn back around, Warren Lawford, because my answer is the same as it was last week!" Ma hollered. "I ain't selling my shop for nothing!"
From the safety of the automobile came two hulking thugs and a tall, wiry man with long red hair slicked back on his narrow head. He wore a tight black suit and a fur coat, which helped to keep out the cool March air. The man had a smile like an animal stalking prey, and his current sights were on Hunkel's Garage. When he reached the curb, he grinned at Ma; his canine teeth caught the light of the sun and seemed to glisten.
"Mrs. Hunkel-"
"That's MISS Hunkel to you, Lawford."
"My mistake. Miss Hunkel, all I'm asking is that you reconsider my previous offer," the slick man carried on. "These are difficult times, and everyone needs all the protection they can get, so how about letting me handle security for you. I'll even think of lowering the price for protection, just for you, ma belle."
"You can take your frou-frou words and your deal and take a hike! I'm not selling out to crooks like you!" Ma bellowed as she drew a wrench from her overalls. "Get out of here before I clean your clock but good!"
Lawford ducked to the side as the wrench flew by his head. "Miss Hunkel, let's try and be civil about this!"
He ducked again, this time to avoid a mallet. "If you would just hear me out!"
When a screwdriver nearly gouged out his eye, Lawford dropped any pretense of civility. "Listen to me, you heifer! Either you fork over some dough or we'll make your life a living nightmare!"
"Think you scare me, do ya?" Ma asked, another mallet in hand. "I'll have you know that the Red Tornado's got my back! You do anything to me and mine and he'll strike you down! So just try it, you snake in the grass!"
"Let's beat it, boss!" exclaimed one of the thugs, ushering Lawford into the car.
"You haven't seen the last of me, Hunkel!" Lawford declared. "Count on it!"
The green car pealed down the street; they could not get away from Ma Hunkel fast enough. From the safety of the car, they could see the massive woman jeering at them until they were out of sight, but they could hear her for even longer than that. Lawford gritted his pointy teeth and clenched his knuckles until they turned bone white.
"Thompson," he said to the thug at his side, "call up the Plunderer. I have a job for that nutbag."
"Are you sure that's a good idea, Mr. Lawford?" asked Thompson.
"It's the best idea. That copper-headed coot has got this whole block in a panic, so if he can take that Hunkel dame a few pegs, it'll show we're not to be messed with. And no one messes with the Trio and gets away with it!"
At the stroke of midnight, a large, dark truck pulled up outside Hunkel's Garage and from it came the nefarious Penny Plunderer and his crooked henchmen. They moved up to the door with speed but without noise, for they feared waking the gorilla woman who lived in the apartment above. Once the Plunderer had picked the lock, the ne'er-do-wells crept inside and turned on a flashlight so as to see inside the dark garage.
"Need a light?" asked a gruff voice from the darkness.
Suddenly, the lights in the garage flickered to life and standing on the other end was a curious and intimidating figure. His clothes were an eclectic mix: red long johns, a faded pair of green shorts, a utility belt about his waist, gray worker's gloves, dusty leather boots, and a faded yellow jersey with a red cyclone stitched into the center. Atop this bizarre mix was a black cape that fell to the man's knees and what looked to be a cooking pot upon his head. What made this bizarre sight so intimidating was how this man towered over the crooks, even the lanky Penny Plunderer, and how his eyes were obscured by the poor light. If it were not for the general build, this man would have seemed inhuman!
"Th-th-th-the Red Tornado!" one thug screeched, leaping behind the taller Rock.
"And just what do you think you're doing in Miss Hunkel's garage, fellows?" the helmeted figure asked. "Business is closed for today."
"We were just in the market to—get him!" the Penny Plunderer shouted, his voice going from controlled to bellowing in a second.
The men were quick to draw arms, but the Red Tornado was quick as the wind. In a heartbeat, his hand shot down to his belt, drew forth a rolling pin, and hurled it at the nearest thug's face. Before the thug even had a chance to react, the massive man-handler was in his face and belted him across the chin. He turned to the next thug, grabbed his head, and slammed it against another man. That just left the Plunderer and Rock, who failed to understand just what was happening.
"Rock, you idiot! Don't just stand there: kill him!" his boss commanded.
"Yessir, Mr. Coyne!"
"And don't use that name, you dunce!"
Rock charged at the Red Tornado and caught the big fellow across the chest. The Crimson Contender was knocked back into a damaged car, breaking the windshield and crumpling the hood. Before he had a chance to dig himself out, Rock was on top of him and ready to bash his head in.
"Sorry about dis, but da boss wants ya dead, so ya's gots to die," the lummox apologized.
"No hard feelings," the Red Tornado wheezed. "Oh, and sorry in advance."
"Fer what?"
"This."
The downed hero brought his hands against Rock's head and boxed his ears, sending the big man reeling. With the thug distracted, Red Tornado was able to wrap his arm around the man's throat and squeeze like a python, choking the air out of him. Rock struggled, but eventually gave in to sleep; the Tornado lowered him to the ground when he was sure the thug was unconscious.
"Now, as for you—"
When the Red Tornado turned to deal with the Penny Plunderer, he was caught in the head by the crook's copper cane, leaving him discombobulated from all the vibrations and echoes caused by the helmet. The Plunderer cackled as he brought his cane down on the hero a second time, this time catching the Crimson Contender in the side. It gave him sick pleasure to see the hero downed, and he continued to strike at him again and again.
"Not so tough now, are you?" he sneered at the Red Tornado. "You haven't got a bit of cents if you thought you could defeat me!"
"Don't…bet on it…punk," the battered hero groaned.
Suddenly, despite the wounds inflicted on him, the Red Tornado lunged forward and grabbed the Plunderer's cane. He swiped it from the thief and, in one fell swoop, bent it across his knee. The hero rose to his feet and stared down at the mincing man, who cowered at the sight of the risen warrior.
"I'm a little tougher than you give me credit for, sir," the massive man said. "Now, I have a little advice for you: start running."
The Plunderer, scared witless by the Tornado, scrambled from the garage and bolted into his truck, which he tried to start as quick as he could. The vehicle rumbled to life and he was off like a light, but not before the Red Tornado gave chase. He knew he could not catch the vehicle on foot, so he took aim at the satchels of pennies in the truck and hurled the bent cane. The broken weapon caught one of the satchels and spilled forth its contents onto the street, leaving a rough trail of where the Plunderer was headed.
"Now that I know where you're headed, I can take care of your lowlife partners," said the Tornado as he stormed back into the garage.
Back at the log cabin in the woods, the Penny Plunderer was lying in wait by the entrance to his money room. He had no idea if the hulking hero from before had followed him, but he did not want to take any chances, so he armed himself with a gun that fired rolls of pennies. Beads of sweat dripped down his face as he waited for a sign of the Red Tornado. As misfortune would have it, he heard the sound of a motorbike pull up outside his cabin, and a thundering knock came at the door.
"Listen up, Plunderer," the Red Tornado boomed. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but you're coming out one way or the other!"
"Not on your life!" the Penny Plunderer replied.
"Then the hard way it is!"
The Red Tornado slammed once, twice, three times into the thick, oaken door before it broke off its hinges and fell to the floor. When he heard the mammoth storm in, the Plunderer shot out from his hiding spot and fired off roll after roll of pennies. The Tornado was ready for this though, and he stopped each roll with a trash can lid. Once he heard there was a break in the fire, the hero hurled the lid as if it were a discus and caught the villain square in the chest. The Penny Plunderer went flying into his pile of money and fought to catch his breath before the Red Tornado came in.
"Any last words, you reprehensible man?" asked the Crimson Contender.
"Yeah," the Copper Criminal gasped. "Always keep a spare ready!"
The Plunderer's arm shot up, revealing a second penny launcher, and he fired a roll right at the symbol on the Tornado's chest. Unfortunately, the attack did nothing, as the hero took the shot as a brick wall would. Before he had the chance to fire again, the Red Tornado seized the gun and bashed the Penny Plunderer across the head with the butt of it.
"You should have chosen the easy way, Coyne," the hero said as he shook his head. When would these types learn that crime never paid?
Later, at the local police station, the officers on duty review everything they know about the Penny Plunderer but come up with nothing. There are no leads: no fingerprints, no M.O., nothing to attach anyone to the crimes. It seemed that this particular criminal would go free, for there was no way they could catch him.
Just then, a knock came at the door. One of the officers looked up and asked, "Who could that be at this hour?"
"Don't know, but the door's unlocked. Let's go check it out," said another.
The two officers made their way to the door, their nightsticks gripped and ready. When they opened the door though, all they found was a bundle of goons, including one dressed in a goofy costume. Stuck on the topmost goon was a note, which read:
FOUND YOUR PENNY PLUNDERER. AND TELL CHIEF GILHOOLEY THAT IF HE TAKES CREDIT FOR THIS, HE CAN EXPECT MORE OF THE SAME. YOURS, THE RED TORNADO
The next morning, all the papers were abuzz about the apprehension of the Penny Plunderer and how the mysterious Red Tornado had managed to catch him and his gang singlehandedly. Everyone on Mayer Road was blown away by the news, especially old Mrs. Lamb, who had all her money returned to her with interest. Ma Hunkel was especially giddy when she heard the news; she made her special flapjacks as a celebration. Everyone on the block turned out for the breakfast, including the hero-worshiping Scribbly Jibbet.
"So you called him up and told him about that Lawford fellow, and then what?" asked the bespectacled boy.
"Well, he told me I didn't have ta worry about a thing; he'd be over at the garage ta take a look and make sure no plun'erers were hanging around," Ma explained as she worked the stove. "Next thing I know, I get a knock on my door and there's the masked man, standing at my stoop and telling me there's a bunch of thugs all knocked out in my shop!"
"And did ya go with him ta beat up their leader, Ma?" asked Huey, Ma's oldest child.
"Nah, Huey. Someone's gotta look after you kids. Besides, you know me: I'mma pacifist," said the titanic woman. "Schultz, I see you trying to sneak a flapjack! Don't make me have ta throw you out onna streets!"
While Ma harangued the old butcher, Huey and Scribbly went back to eating their breakfast. If only the two boys had looked down into the open cabinet beside the stove, they would have found out the best-kept secret of Mayer Street. Down in that cabinet, just behind a sauce pan, was a large cooking pot with two triangular holes cut out one side!
But while some enjoyed flapjacks that morning, some were feasting on nothing but bitter defeat. Warren Lawford greeted the day with a cold glare as he walked down the secret tunnel beneath his mansion. He wore a suit similar to the one from the day before, but now he had on a most peculiar mask. It was large, red, and diamond-shaped, and it was made to look not unlike a red fox. It was necessary for what was to come at the end of the tunnel.
When he reached the end, he threw open the bolts of a large iron door and stormed into a large, round room, at the center of which was a circular table and two chairs, both occupied. One was filled with an obese man wearing a fine suit and a shark mask; the other was filled with a gaunt man in a ragged suit and a vulture mask. Though Warren could not see their faces, he knew that both wore a smirk.
"I suppose you know why I called you both here, Mr. Vulture and Mr. Shark," said the Fox.
"The Rrrrred Torrrrnado, I prrrresume" the Vulture answered.
"Sssseemssss ssssomeone doessssn't like your cut of the gib," the Shark chuckled.
"No, but they will learn," the Fox hissed. "They will learn that if you mess with the Fox, you get bit!"
"Long live the Terrible Trio!" the three fiends announced, their voices echoing in the dark cavern…