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 10
He studied himself in the lavatory mirror. The short blond wig made his teeth seem vastly more prominent.
Underneath the black leather vest he wore no shirt. On his left forearm he'd body-painted a rose which looked like a tattoo.
Another man entered the bathroom.
False-Face stepped back from the mirror, put his left combat-booted foot up on the toliet bowl and began to retied the boot lace. The skintight white jeans he had on hurt his crotch.
The guy who had walked into the bathroom was tall and chunky looking. He wore blue jeans, a black leather jacket, combat boots and a plaid shirt. He began to comb his brown hair.
"Hi," the man combing his hair said.
"Hi," False-Face said.
"Ain't seen you around."
"Don't get to Gateway much," False-Face said, smiling. He had finished with his boot and now stood beside the man, combing his own "hair."
"Good scene around here."
"Free, yeah," False-Face said, proud of his American accent.
"Can I buy you a drink?" the man asked.
"Sure," False-Face replied. They both finished combing their hair at the same time, and the man with the plaid shirt held the washroom door open for him. False-Face smiled, going through ahead of him. As they started toward the bar, he felt the man groping for his left hand. False-Face let him take it. His blue eyes were still probing the faces of the crowd -- at the tables, at the bar, near the bandstand and the dancing couples, as well. All men. Yet, he couldn't find the face of Flyboy.
With his new friend holding his left hand, False-Face muscled in at the bar between him and a thin, overly made-up man. The man was talking animatedly with the bartender.
The big bartender, who was built like a bouncer and wore a see-through pink shirt, turned to False-Face and his friend.
"What would you like?" False-Face's friend asked him.
"Oh," False-Face said, laughing coyly, "whatever you're having."
"A Singapore Sling."
"Fine," False-Face enthused.
"Make it two, then, please."
The bartender nodded and walked away.
False-Face scanned the bar in greater detail. He finally saw Billy "Flyboy" Mason.
"Would you like to dance later?" False-Face's friend asked him.
False-Face said, "Sure, later."
His friend was groping him. False-Face let him do it, feeling the man's hand on his buttocks. His mind was focused elsewhere.
False-Face knew Flyboy well. He was slightly built, short and had never been anything but openly gay. He was the best helicopter pilot False-Face knew. False-Face watched Mason's thin, high-cheekboned features, his prominent forehead, the hair combed down to hide the recession of the blond hair from the face. The eyes were black. Two vastly larger men flanked Flyboy on either side. Mason's back was to the bar rail. They were arguing.
"Where you from?" It was False-Face's friend.
The drinks arrived, and False-Face answered, "Down in L.A. -- but I like the scene here."
"You come up here alone? I mean, no old man?"
False-Face smiled. The man stopped groping him. "No, I got no old man," False-Face said.
The groping started again. The friend's left hand held the Singapore Sling. "Toast, to us?"
"Sure," False-Face said, clinking glasses with the man beside him. He sipped at his drink. It tasted like urine, he thought. He set the drink down, turning to the bandstand. The group was starting into a fifties routine. The lead singer had on a pink sweater and poodle skirt, but the girl singer wasn't a girl.
"Wanna dance now?" False-Face's friend asked.
"No, let me finish my drink. This is delicious."
"Okay, honey," the man said.
False-Face looked back down the bar at Flyboy and the two big guys who were bracing him. One of the men reached out, knotting his right fist into Billy's hair. Flyboy slapped him. The man holding Billy's hair yanked on the hair, snapping the head back as the second man backhanded Flyboy across the mouth.
"That go on here a lot?" False-Face asked his friend.
"What, fighting? Yes, you know how some guys are -- cats."
"Yes," False-Face nodded. Mason seemed unable to protect himself. He was running true to form -- always poor in a fight.
False-Face turned to look at his companion. "Darling, I just decided -- you're not my type." His left hand reached out and pulled on the waistband of his friend's jeans. With his right hand he poured the Singapore Sling inside the front of the man's pants.
"Bitch!"
False-Face brought up his right knee as he turned, ramming it into the man's crotch. As the man doubled over, screaming, False-Face worked the knee again -- into the man's face. With the side of his left hand he executed a swift chop across the back of the neck. The man sank to the barroom floor.
False-Face stepped away from the bar toward the two men who were hassling Flyboy. They turned around and the nearer of the two came at him, a little uncertain. False-Face feinted an obvious punch with his left. The man started to block it as False-Face's right hand -- still holding the glass -- slapped forward, smashing the glass across the bridge of the man's nose. False-Face let go of the glass just in time to avoid cutting his fingers. White cartilage began to spot red. The blood gushed freely from the large cut on the man's nose. False-Face wheeled half right, snapping his left foot up and out, slamming the combat-boot's sole against the first man's chest.
There was fighting and screaming everywhere now as he let the man fall. His right foot snapped out backward, mule-kicking the man in the side of the head, putting him out hard.
The other man who'd been harassing Billy Mason wheeled. A switchblade appeared in his right hand. There was a loud click as the blade shot up from the handle and locked in place.
False-Face reached to the bar and grabbed an empty wine bottle. He slapped the base of the bottle against the edge of the bar. The base shattered, leaving him with a jagged weapon.
The man with the switchblade took a step backward, gauging his opponent, then started forward. False-Face tossed the bottle into his left hand, feigning a lunge. The man dodged the thrust. False-Face wheeled to the left, snapping his foot up into the man's face. The man reeled under the impact as False-Face finished the turn, his left, combat-booted foot striking out for the inside of the man's extended right forearm.
The switchblade spun out of the man's hand. False-Face, switching the broken bottle back to his right hand, took a long step forward on his left foot, leaning into his adversary. His left fist smashed straight into the center of the face, while his right hand, still gripping the bottle, rammed forward into the abdomen, just below the sternum. His opponent shrieked as False-Face pulled back his arm, ready for another thrust. His right arm snapped forward, plunging the jagged edge of the bottle into the exposed throat.
False-Face dropped the bottle and let the body fall back flat on the floor.
Flyboy's dark eyes looked at him.
"Who the hell are you?" Mason hissed.
False-Face sensed someone running toward him. He turned, punching out with his right hand. The man tried to dodge but was not swift enough. The middle knuckles of False-Face's fingers impacted against the base of the nose, breaking it, driving it up through the ethmoid bone and into the brain. The man fell over dead.
"Who do you think I am?" False-Face asked in his German accent.
"F.F.?"
"Let's get the hell out of here," False-Face snapped.
He shoved Flyboy toward the front door. False-Face could hear a police siren now as he followed Mason up the low steps, bursting through the door.
They collided with a uniformed Gateway City cop, his gun drawn.
False-Face's kick caught the officer under the chin, snapping the head back. The neck broke with an audible crack.
False-Face picked up the gun and tossed it away, half dragging the limping Flyboy.
"I can't run in these cowboy boots. The damn heels are too high," Billy Mason complained.
False-Face kept pulling him toward his car. It was still parked at the curb half a block away. False-Face was running, occasionally looking behind him. A police car was coming up the street, it's roof light flashing. False-Face found the car keys in the left front pocket of the tight-fitting white jeans. He jammed the key into the door lock and opened it, shoving Flyboy across the front seat.
False-Face flipped onto the hood and executed a body roll across it, landing on the driver's side. Mason already had the door open for him.
False-Face threw himself behind the wheel. "Down," he shouted, ducking below the level of the seat. The sound of the siren rose and fell in intensity as it passed.
False-Face sat up. He inserted the key into the ignition. "It's all right now, Flyboy. Just relax and sit here beside me. If any cops see us, they'll think we're just out on a date or something."
"F.F., but you look so --"
"Good to you?" False-Face smiled, glancing at Mason before he pulled out into the street.
"I never knew you were --"
"I'm not, of course. But the last time you saw me, I was dressed as a Catholic priest. I'm not religious, either."
There was little traffic. False-Face drove the stolen Ford close to the parking lane so a police car could pass him.
"There is a job, Flyboy. It is of great importance to the right -- our right."
"The movement?" Mason asked breathlessly.
"Yes, and it requires the most consummate helicopter pilot who exists, so I naturally came looking for you. The undergound knew your haunts. There wasn't time to wait near your apartment, I'm afraid. Good thing for you I didn't ... those two leather boys looked as though they didn't like you."
"Ah, a couple of --"
"Never mind, Flyboy, " he said, sighing. Sometimes the life-style of the men he worked with disturbed him.
"F.F., whatever ... to further the cause ... I will do it."
False-Face nodded. He had known that.
***
Rex Tyler had driven through the night, letting Lee Munday sleep through a double shift. He was hoping to make himself tired enough so that he could rest no matter how much Lee talked. There were two rigs in convoy so far. The other two trucks were due to join them just outside Albuquerque.
He smiled to himself as he read the sign: Welcome to New Mexico -- Land of Enchantment.
"Land of secret arsenals, where they make atomic bombs," he added aloud. He wondered how that would go over on a welcome sign.
It was tedious driving slowly, but hauling poison gas meant slow driving.
He felt down to his pocket, almost instinctively, for the small metal, hour-glass-looking container that carried some Miraclo pills. He always carried the pills -- just in case.
He yawned, then glanced at his watch.
He glanced at the watch again, having forgotten the time he'd read a moment earlier.
He frowned, returning his gaze to the road. The sun was up, but that didn't quite make sense with the time on his watch.
Then he remembered he had the watch set on Eastern Time, never bothering to change it in the Midwest. Now he was in the Mountain Time Zone.
He put on his right turn signal to signify to the rest of the vehicles in the convoy that he was moving to the shoulder of the road. It was Lee's turn to drive.
He turned to look at Lee.
"You keep me awake this time," Rex said, "and I'll shoot you."
But Lee just slept like a baby.
***
"Hey, wake up, Mr Tyler!"
Rex Tyler opened his eyes, looked at Lee Munday, blinked, then looked at him again. "Wha -- what?" He'd been sleeping, he realized. He needed sleep badly. He glanced at his watch. He'd been sleeping for less time than he wanted. "What is it, Lee?" he asked, his mouth feeling dry, hot.
"I figured I'd let you know. We're turning off from Albuquerque."
Rex sat up, rubbing his eyes. He found his porkpie hat and put it on. It was sunny. There were mountains to his right. To his left the land dropped sheer to the valley below. Wind socks were spaced at regular intervals along the highway. With each new gust, they grew stiff for an instant, then flaccid, then stiff again. Now ahead of their Military Police escort car were two trucks.
He looked in the mirror on his right, not seeing much. He leaned to his left, craning his neck to get a view from Lee's side mirror. The other truck was there as it should be, as was its escort car. "Convoy's complete now," he muttered, his throat feeling dry and hoarse.
"Yeah. We turn off two miles ahead toward the arsenal. Then we rest easy for a while before we head back to New York."
Rex Tyler nodded, settling himself back in his seat. "I can use that all right." He shifted his butt on the seat. "Yeah, I can use that," he said again.
He grunted, yawned, stretched, then closed his eyes.
TO BE CONTINUED ....
***
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