JSA: Atrocity
By Bruce Wayne
DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.
An Elseworld's story: Stories, situation or events involving familiar characters in unfamiliar settings.
Chapter 9
Wildcat left the highway behind him and turned the Catocycle onto a deserted street that led to Flagg Furriers in Queens. He felt a cool breeze in the air. The setting sun was visible and Wildcat squinted at it, smiling.
Trees lined both sides of the street. Wildcat turned right, his rear wheel skidding a little. The Catocycle fishtailed slightly, as it should.
He could see his destination straight ahead. The security gates were closed, as they should be on a Sunday evening. Wildcat pulled into a nearby alley and went to the rear. A security gate was open -- that didn't look good. He slowed to a quiet stop.
While he dismounted, he thought back to what brought him here. Ted Grant's friendly beat cop -- Ol' Clancy -- had stopped by the gym and related that an informant told detectives that Wildcat's arch-nemesis, The Huntress, was planning to acquire some very expensive jaguar skins from a local furrier. Since then, Wildcat had been checking the furriers in Queens, his home turf.
He passed under the open security gate that was supposed to guard the rear delivery door. Wildcat tried the door and it slowly rose. He closed the door behind him just to make it more difficult for anyone to escape, should anyone get away from him.
He opened an interior door and entered the main portion of the store. He saw a cat across the room. It was strange to find a cat in a store that sold furs. The cat was sitting on a table. "Hi, Kitty," he called out in a whisper.
The cat meowed once.
He shrugged. It was more than he expected.
Wildcat walked to his right, toward another section of the store.
He heard something and turned around. Probably the cat, he thought, but the cat hadn't moved.
"Wildcat?"
"Oh, jeez," he rasped, turning to his left. He saw a man with a submachine gun.
"Are you Wildcat?"
It was a second man, this one to Wildcat's right, also carrying a submachine gun.
"Wildcat who's just returned from London?"
A third man came out of a small room, a silenced pistol in his left hand. He held the gun too casually, as if he were right-handed and the banana he was eating from his right hand was, for the moment, more important than the gun.
"Yes, that's what they usually call a guy who wears a cat costume."
The man with the banana and the pistol smiled. "I guess so. I found this banana in the other room with some other fruit. Would you like an apple or something?"
"No, thanks." Wildcat shook his head.
"And the bananas sure do taste fresh."
"Good," Wildcat said, smiling. "Wouldn't want to think that a place that sells five thousand dollar minks offers their customers stale fruit to munch on."
"You know," the man with the pistol said, "most people we come around to knock off aren't nearly so friendly. So gosh, I didn't know there would be fresh fruit here."
Wildcat smiled again. "Well, people have come around trying to knock me off before. So, you know, experience counts."
"How true." The man with the silenced pistol agreed. "Would you like to know who paid us to kill you? What about it? We're in no big hurry."
"Sure." Wildcat shrugged and walked slightly forward. He heard the rattle of a sling swivel against metal as the two men flanking him moved their submachine guns to follow him.
The man with the banana and the pistol moved a few steps down the room to where the cat lay.
"Some guy sounded like somebody doing a Barry Fitzgerald impression."
"IRA," Wildcat suggested.
"Guess so. He said you messed with some guy named O'Malley. He wanted you to know that was why you were getting hit. Guess they didn't have any of their own people around to get you, so they hired us. We smuggle some explosives, stolen weapons, things like that. Smuggle them out of the country for the IRA. We told 'em it wasn't any imposition to ask us to kill you. Anyway, a couple thousand bucks in anybody's pocket is good these days."
"Amen to that," Wildcat agreed.
"Times are tough," the man with the banana said. "Would you like it sitting down or standing? Your choice."
"How about running?" Wildcat smiled.
"Hey listen," the spokesman said, "it's good to deal with a pro -- even though you do wear a funny costume -- you know, keep your sense of humor in adversity. I like that. Laugh in the face of death."
"Yeah, that's me." Wildcat grinned. "But I must warn you -- make one move to harm me and she'll cut your eyeballs out, friend."
"Who? Everybody was gone before we even got here."
"No, she will." Wildcat pointed to the half-snoozing cat on the edge of the table.
The man with the pistol turned to look at the cat for a brief instant. Wildcat noted one of the men with the submachine gun also stole a glance at her. The cat opened her eyes and looked back at the men.
"The cat?"
"Yeah, you've heard of 'em." Wildcat eased himself against a wheeled rack of furs. He leaned an arm onto the rack, the subgun muzzles following him. "I mean," he said, "well, everybody's heard of attack dogs. You know, with urban overcrowding, the economy -- dogs eat a lot. Anyway, this outfit on the West Coast trains attack cats. And I happen to know that this place has one."
The guy with the banana laughed. "Her?"
Wildcat sighed. "Look, one pro to another. I'm trying to warn you. It was written up in Time magazine about a year ago. You miss the article?" He turned to one of the other flunkies. "How about you?"
The man holding the pistol raised his eyebrows, taking another bite of the banana. "What article?"
"You ever watch TV? A couple of the news shows had some film about the place -- Kelsoe's Killer Cats."
"Bullshit," the man on his right snarled.
Wildcat shrugged. "You know how cats can jump. They go right for the face, the eyes. In that magazine article there was a police photo of a guy who tried to knock over a liquor store where one of Kelsoe's Killer Cats was on guard. Jeez, the face."
Wildcat swallowed hard, and right hand drifted toward the pole on the right side of the wheeled rack of furs. "So don't go slapping me with a lawsuit afterward. You've been warned," the hero concluded.
The man with the pistol had finished eating the banana. He set the peel down next to the cat on the table -- but not too near her -- then said, "Okay, you freak, enough bullshit. You're getting it."
"Sic 'em, Kitty!" Wildcat shouted.
The man wheeled toward the motionless bored-looking feline. So did the man to Wildcat's right. Wildcat shoved the rack of furs into the closest man on his left and then launched himself into the man on his right. The rack of furs crashed into the first man. The mink coats swallowed the would-be hitman. Glancing back, Wildcat saw the man desperately trying to extricate himself from the furs.
Wildcat's right shoulder made contact against the man on his right. The submachine gun fired wildly into the ceiling, and plaster rained down as Wildcat got his balance. He snapped his right fist into the subgunner's jaw, at the same time half wheeling right, his left foot kicking up into the subgunner's right forearm, impacting the arm and subgun against the man's rib cage. Wildcat finished the rotation and balanced now on his left foot. He back-kicked with his right into the subgunner's face. The man fell backward, his head hitting a table with a sickening crunch.
The second subgunner was strafing the wall as Wildcat dropped into a crouch. He rotated half right and wrenched the submachine gun out of the unconscious man's hands. A vase beside Wildcat's head shattered as the man with the silenced pistol opened fire.
Wildcat had the subgun now. He threw it at the other subgunner to give himself a break from the gunfire coming at him as the man ducked to avoid being hit. He rolled to the right and came up on his knees. He dived at the man with the silenced pistol. The man went down with Wildcat on top of him.
The second subgunner was now re-targeting, firing from behind a sofa as Wildcat hit the floor. The subgunner's bullets missed their intended target and tore into the man with the silenced pistol. The man was dead.
Wildcat pushed himself to his feet and then reached into the compartment on the back of his glove for a shuriken. He pulled out the throwing star from the left glove with his right hand.
The subgunner was standing. The weapon started to chatter into the wall beside Wildcat as he threw the shuriken, snatched a second, threw it, then a third, throwing it, too. The man's weapon discharged into the floor and then into the ceiling as he screamed, "My eyes!"
Wildcat took a running dive across the back of the couch, tackling the blinded subgunner. The man's eyesockets were leaking fluid as Wildcat wrestled him to the floor with the submachine gun between them. Wildcat's right knee smashed up into the left side of the blinded gunman's head -- once, twice, a third time. The screaming stopped. The body didn't even twitch.
Wildcat pushed himself to his feet and started walking to look for the store's office area.
Then Wildcat heard the cat meowing. Turning around, he saw her come out of the stockroom. Wildcat reached out and petted her.
He walked to a nearby office and dialed the police. He told them to send an ambulance. He then hung up and left the furrier. No need for him to stay around and answer questions from the police.
Sometime later, Wildcat returned to the Catlair hidden inside of Ted Grant's gymnasium. After changing out of his costume, Grant went to his small apartment that was also located in the gym building that had once been an old warehouse.
He thumbed through the mail. There were bills and a letter from a publisher wanting to do a biography on his former life as the heavyweight boxing champion of the world. He opened it and found a confirmation letter, a copy of the completely executed contract and a check. He folded the check and put it into his wallet. There was a telegram. He opened it.
It was from Bruce Wayne in Gotham City.
MAN WITH EXPLOSIVE PUNCH HEADED FOR OUR SHORES STOP BELIEVED WORKING IN CONCERT WITH MAN OF A THOUSAND FACES STOP TWO GOOD GUYS DOWN FOR THE COUNT STOP A BRITISH INSPECTOR MISSING STOP TEAM NEEDS TO MEET STOP
He crumpled the telgram and left it on the counter. He walked over to a fruit bowl and picked up a banana. Suddenly he realized he was hungry.
TO BE CONTINUED ....
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