In which steak is consumed.

The pilot's frantic voice cut across the howling wind that whistled into the aeroplane through the open cargo bay door.

"Sir, you shouldn't jump yet! We're too low! It's not safe!"

"I know the risks, Jerry!" replied a deeper and far more masculine voice. It was the kind of voice that made all other male voices up to and including a bull gorilla's howls sound feminine. "But I've got damn good men down there who need me! Tell them it's not safe!"

"But sir, I-I can climb to a safe altitude. It will literally take seconds, if you'll just-"

"Tell those men down there you can 'climb to a safe altitude'," said the second voice scornfully. "Me, I'd rather get down there and tell them myself…with my bare hands!"

"At least take the backup parachute!" The pilot was now yelling at the top of his lungs to make himself heard.

"There's probably no time!" said the second voice. Now it was fading away, quite appropriately as the owner of the voice was now plummeting the atmosphere at quite high speed. The pilot inwardly cursed the stubbornness of his accelerating employer. But to be honest, he'd survived worse falls, without so much as a scratch, and still managed to sign the paychecks of every Mann Co. employee at the end of the day. It was probably fine.

But who was this mysterious masculine man plummeting through the sky? Who was this magnificently moustachioed male? To this, there was only one answer. The hippie-hating, Australium-powered, crocodile-tooth-hatted, the one, the only…

"SAXTON HAAAALE!"

As the pilot of the far-off aeroplane (who had opted to wear his parachute) bailed out some way overhead, Saxton Hale crashed through the twentieth-floor window of Mann Co., executing a flawless roll as he did so, and finally came to a halt and stood. Somehow unharmed from the broken glass lining the floor, his muscles steamed slightly as he stood before the two waiting men, wearing only a pair of navy-blue shorts.

"Mr Bidwell!" announced Saxton Hale. "How did my landing compare to yesterday's? Be frank with me now. I'm made of stern stuff."

"Tears were brought to the eyes, sir," said a long, thin man with a long, thin moustache that curled around the contours of his mouth. He was wearing a black business suit and tie. "Your breakfast steak," he said, proffering forward a silver platter that held a perfectly seared buffalo steak, fresh from the grill.

"It's the most important steak of the day, Bidwell." Saxton Hale picked up the steak, almost reverently, before tearing into it with appreciative munching noises. "Mr Reddy! How's accounts?"

"You're now the sixth richest man in America, Mr Hale," replied a shorter, plumper man, also clad in a black business suit, but unlike Bidwell he was wearing a black bow tie. He sported a thick boxcar moustache.

"Top drawer!" smiled Hale. "Send the other five a congratulatory bouquet and my 'You're a dead man' form letter." He paced the room, stopping in front of a stuffed bear-one of several that had fallen victim to Hale's incredible strength. "What's next?"

Bidwell sighed. "There's a group of hippies in the parking lot again…"

"The scoundrels!" shouted Hale, outraged. "What have they got their smelly ponytails in a twist about this time?"

"Guns, sir. They're against them."

"Fine. I'll beat them to death with my bare hands! Or maybe with my bear hands," said Hale, his mind slightly wandering. "Did you get my memo about ursine weaponry?"

Before Bidwell could answer, Reddy rushed up, slightly out of breath. "TF Industries is holding on line one, sir."

"What? Why didn't you say so, man?" reprimanded Hale. "You don't leave Helen on hold!" He took the phone.

"Helennnn! You chain-smoking seductress! Do you still like steak dinners and sex with handsome men?"

"Mister Hale, this is Miss Pauling," said a feminine voice. "I work for the-"

"Excellent!" Hale boomed. "My offer still stands! What can I do for you, Miss Pauling?"

"We need to resolve a, uh…" On the other end of the line, Miss Pauling licked her lips nervously. "Personnel problem. We were hoping that you could provide the incentives."

While he talked, Saxton Hale began walking down a corridor until he came to a large store cupboard. He pushed the door open, revealing a number of crates covered in plastic tarpaulins. Every one of them bulged with suspicious metal objects.

"It just so happens that the boys in R and D just sent up a few crates of highly experimental new ordnance they wanted me to take for a test drive. Why don't I send those over? Hold on, Bidwell's gesturing frantically to me about something…"

"Sir, those were the weapons you asked us to send up so that you could destroy them before the senate investigation."

"I have no idea what you're - ooh, right. That poor monkey." Hale winced slightly as he remembered the Poopy Joe fiasco a few months earlier. "Well, never mind that. Helping Helen out's more important." He thought for a moment. "Also getting someone else's fingerprints on these things as soon as possible. I won't lie to you, Bidwell, we are in a lot of trouble here."

He turned his attention back to the phone.

"Miss Pauling, still there?"

"Um…I heard everything you said, Mister Hale."

"Fannnntastic. And?"

"We'll take them."

Both Miss Pauling and Saxton Hale hung up at the same time. The giant of a man tossed the phone to Reddy, who had suddenly materialised beside him.

"Problem solved! Mr Reddy, we're going to need some ambulances! Mr Bidwell, I need an alibi that puts me anywhere but the parking lot for the next seven minutes." He straightened his crocodile tooth-lined hat.

"Let's go kill some hippies!"