Two pairs of broad shoulders advanced with the lengthening shadows of evening toward the rear of the Siegel Plastic Works factory on the Metropolis River. Their destination was a drainpipe, two feet from the river's restless surface, from which flowed a greenish liquid visible as small eddies in the water for as far as one could see. Having arrived, they stepped out into the golden light, turning their hat brims in every direction before addressing the shadows from which they emerged with a nod and an "all clear."
Two other figures then meet these. The first was short for a man, if it was a man—it was not possible to tell, for he was robbed head to foot in silkish fabric, blood-red in color, while his face, all but the intense eyes, were covered by a smiling, large-eyed mask—a skull. Following him, on his right, was a tall, angular man dressed similarly as the first two, though with pin-stripes on his suit instead, and an air of greater accomplishment.
"Proceed," said the amplified voice of the costumed villain.
The first two henchmen each produced—the first from his breast, the second from his trouser pocket—small lead containers which they turned with toward the pipe and its greenish tongue.
"Take care not to touch the samples," warned the villain, "the substance is radioactive."
The first thug paused, remembering the word from an article about the bomb someone read to him recently. The second was already kneeling, but, sensing his partner's hesitation, oscillated from demanding confirmation from his friend to begging his employer not to make him go through with it, and back again.
"Ash," said the Crimson Ghost, his voice a static-riddled screech, "collect the samples yourself, then dispose of these traitors—we'll have no further need for them."
Ash, who had his automatic drawn the moment he heard his name, collected the containers from the thugs who, with raised arms, were only too obliging to move away from the radioactivity. Ever faithful, however, Ash bent toward the waste. Seeing the unnatural liquid now up close caused something like fear to slow his motions—yet never did he pause.
Once he was close enough to reach out and take the sample, two red bolts came streaking through the air from over his shoulder, exploding the pipe, which in turn spat a thicker, greener form of waste covering Ash's face—his eyes stung, his nose was blocked, his mouth spit but couldn't be rid of the deadening plastic taste—before sinking, in one unsightly clump, into the river.
Ash fell forward, plunging his head into the flowing water.
All other eyes, however, turned toward the sky, spotting the wearer of a blue, red, and gold costume, the deliverer of the laser bolts, floating midair, his fists on his hips, descending leisurely.
"Superman!" said the thugs in a gasping unison before sprinting back the way they came. They made it no farther than a few feet before something in the shadows balked them. They starting moving backward, and starting to emerge from the darkness was Sergeant Steed.
"Johnny Crump and the Youngest," said the officer, flanked by two square-jawed, non-descript uniformed cops, who took the burdens Steed passed to them, "I should have known you two were taken up with the Ghost. Get them out of here."
"Yes, sir," said the cops, disappearing.
Superman called down, just before making contact with the ground: "Nice work, Sergeant. That's two down, two more to go."
"Aye," said Steed with glee.
"And make sure those people stay back," continued Superman who could hear the anxious voices of onlookers and fans wanting to witness the dispensing of justice.
The Crimson Ghost had adverted his face at the first sign of the superhero. He remained with his shoulders slumped and his back toward Superman, even as the hero was mere feet away. Now, though, the Crimson Ghost twisted around dexterously, his right arm flung out, his hand holding what looked like a gun, a homemade device apparently, with a conned barrel akin to a musket and, in lieu of an ammunition clip, the same small beaker-shaped container now lain beside Ash's convulsing body.
Superman did not so much as flinch, although the irregular mold of the weapon worried him. He threw back his shoulders as the Crimson Ghost let a green laser fly, one which ricocheted off the famous S emblem and caught the villain full in the face. The laser melted away the foam rubber skull and the flesh beneath that, so what shown through where both had been was wet, wet, red-streaked bone.
A cheering roar erupted before the Crimson Ghost's body was still. Like a frightened animal or perhaps an offended king, Superman looked to the crowd Sergeant Steed had brought right into the heat of the arrests, the sergeant himself smiling amongst the chorus.
"One left," he said, laughing.
Ash, by this time, had raised himself unto his side, where he lied panting but exhibiting self-possession. The uniformed cops were deployed. They collected their quarry easily, the quarry not resisting in the least. As he reached a position close to Superman, however, he lunged, swiping the pistol from one of the cops' belts. Ash leveled the barrel at Superman—the cops leveled theirs at Ash.
This standoff lasted all of a few seconds. When he saw that no one was too eager to be involved in a shoot-out, Superman waved the cops back with a slight, commanding gesture.
"You're the hero, huh?" said Ash. "Well, you're no hero to me, pal. I got plenty of heroes, though—and if you want to know their names, just read the list of those guys that went overseas defending this country who ain't never coming back. Those are my heroes! What have you done? Huh? Took out a couple of tanks? Maybe killed a Jerry or two when they camera's were rolling? You could have ended the War long before we went over there. You could have saved us all a lot of grief, but did you? No! You let us die! But now, now Superman is vigilant again. Yeah, a guy can't even make a living without you butting in. You've made the world, what it is. I hope you're happy living in it. Cause I ain't—" He brought the pistol to his temple and fired. His lifeless body fell with a smack upon the mattress of sprayed blood and brains.
The whirring sound of rolling newsreel cameras and the explosions of flashbulb were added to the joyful din as the jubilant crowd once more erupted.