Chapter 2: Mirth and Pie
"Well, it has a big A on its ass," observes Greer. Her companions and she stand half-stumped before the Quinjet.
"The empennage, or tail assembly, does in fact have an Avengers emblem on the fin," Bruce acknowledges.
"Should we approach it?" Greer suggests.
"Are any of us Avengers?" Tommy asks.
"I apparently know the Avengers," Jan pompously places her hand to her heart.
"I hope that they show-up soon," Shepherd shakes his head "Where are some superheroes when you need them?"
Nelson nods, "I hear you."
"Maybe, they are in Harrisonville," van Dyne voices.
"Where in Little Egypt is that?" Banner beseeches.
"Well, that way," Jan points to a street sign on a rusty pole before a dirt road. It reads 'Harris Road'. Along the road, within sight, a rotting and weathered arrow hangs from a post before a wheat field, across from the fallow field. It says 'Harrisonville'. The town near the river is Harrisonville.
"Let's move along," Speed suggests.
Thirty miles north, thirty minutes later, Fixer and Mentallo disembark their vessel in Cherokee Cave beneath St. Louis' Marine Villa neighborhood. The cavern was a tourist attraction until the early 1960s when the government closed and flooded the natural cave. Overhead, I-55 runs. A person can almost hear it below. Echoing, Fixer's boots hit cruddy steel stairs beside the surfaced boat. In the sub's artificial light, Mentallo examines the dilapidated surroundings, half-submerged and half-manifest.
"These steps lead to an abandoned building above," Norbert explains the structure, "They lead us to where our employer has nicely left us some street clothes to change into. Our boss has even left the clothes inside some fine luggage into which we may put our current costumes."
"How considerate," Marvin comments, "Who is our employer?"
"The Commission on Superhuman Activities," Fixer answers—astounding his compatriot.
"W-w-what? We're felons working for the f***ing feds?!" Flumm is flummoxed.
Ebersol informs the flabbergasted, "Yeah, I was supposed to fib to you. I was supposed to spin some cover-story about our former mutual associate the Masked Marauder retaining us to fetch something in St. Louis. The Masked Marauder is supposedly dead [see Punisher War Journal v. 2 #4], so you could never confirm whether he hired us or not."
"But, you chose not to lie to your old buddy," Flumm feels flattered.
"Something like that," Fixer's shoulder-lamp illuminates the way upstairs, "I trust you more than I do Uncle Sam. And, I have for a long time. Through the years, we have often plotted against the government together."
Mentallo is momentarily silent, and the blackguards' ascending boots are temporarily the only sound. The duo reaches the door at ground level. Marvin inquires, "Why would Washington employ two reprobates such as us?"
"We are acquiring something from AIM for the CSA," Norbert answers, "Known criminals can interact with AIM without raising suspicion that the Avengers, for example, cannot."
"But, is the CSA not too suspicious of us, in turn?" Mentallo wonders, "We have extensive records of treasonous espionage, as you mention."
"The Thunderbolts have an ally inside the organization," Fixer informs, "She got us the job." The lead man opens the door and steps through. Fixer speaks of one Dallas Riordan, long-time Thunderbolts cohort. She tends to be morally flexible.
His companion dallies a few seconds. Mentallo appears to really ponder something. He scratches the goatee on his chinny-chin-chin.
"We're working with the feds? That's—interesting," Mentallo comments. He warily follows his friend into the abandoned museum.
The empty landmark is full of stinking, stagnant air aggravated by broiling heat. Instantly, the Masters of Evil perspire profusely and breathe raggedly as the audible skittering of cockroaches accompanies their misery. Holding his nose, Fixer scans the spoiled space. He finds a mildewed countertop upon which to set his suitcase. Latches pop, and he points to the apparel within. Mentallo susses that, the sooner that they are in street clothes, the sooner the supervillains can be out on the open street. Soon after, Cherokee Street offers open, fresh air.
"Let me summon a cab," Techno brandishes a common cellphone, "We can take I-55 northbound to our accommodations downtown."
Northwest of downtown St. Louis, Lambert International Airport operates. There, a man awaits his valise at a carousel. Paul Pierre Duval is stone-faced behind his dark cheaters. Through his shades, the Grey Gargoyle stiffly studies the scene of tourists, business travelers, and military personnel at this transit point. The incognito outlaw appears just another traveler amongst the throng. His skin is pink and only his grizzled hair is grey. But, Duval's thoughts are black.
In this case, the Gargoyle is mad that AIM had him fly commercial when the moneyed organization could have sent a private aircraft. When communicating, AIM contact Eve Necker explained that her people could not send a shuttle, however. AIM's St. Louis operations try to stay off the radar. Still, the French fiend is pissed. Gargoyle's hard grip grasps his holdall's handle. And, in a huff, he hurries for the airport exit.
Outside, Duval enters the white zone for loading and unloading passengers. He stops in surprise. Dr. Necker stands beside a Stark luxury sedan. Smile upon her lips, she silently opens a back door.
"Merci, moi cheri," Dr. Duval is slightly assuaged. He amiably accepts the polite gesture.
"Welcome to Missouri," the lovely redhead motions him in.
"Please feel neither peeved nor peckish, Grey Gargoyle," a bespectacled Brit grabs the suitcase with one hand and offers a packaged fruit pie with the other.
The hostess cringes at her assistant announcing Paul Pierre's secret identity in the open. "Pardon my minion," Eve requests.
The English attendant drops the baggage in the auto's "boot" and brings himself to the driver's door. The Frenchman places his posterior in the backseat. There, an African-American man extends a hand in greeting from beside Duval.
"Hello, I am Curtis Carr," the existing occupant confidently seizes a palm that can literally petrify a man.
Gargoyle's gloved hand gives a hearty shake. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Chemistro."
One nefarious chemist recognizes an infamous other—although the former is surprised to see this Carr occupying an AIM car. Duval knows that there are two Chemistros who are siblings: Curtis and Calvin Carr. But, he could swear that Curt is the original bad guy who is now a good guy and that Cal is the one who remains actively "evil". But . . . Grey Gargoyle could have rocks in his head.
Suddenly, the servant driver pokes his head from the front seat. "I'm Duffy," he introduces himself with a flat affect.
In the close quarters, Duval notices significant scars adorning Duffy's scalp and forehead. Behind glasses, the gofer has a glazed gaze and bloodshot eyes. Paul wonders if neuro-roboticist Eve has been experimenting.
"Nathanial," Necker addresses Duffy, "Drive us downtown to where we meet Fixer and Mentallo tomorrow."
"Yes, as you command," the servant swivels his head to twelve o'clock and starts the sedan.
Nate cracks open a can of suds, beer. He chugs it while cruising toward I-70. He cracks another cold one once speeding down the fast and furious interstate, abuzz with traffic. From behind, Paul eyes the open container. However, he knows that Gargoyle is unlikely to crack in any crash. And, he notices that Carr and Necker are, oddly, perfectly calm around this AIM eccentric and his alcohol consumption. The rocky rogue relaxes down the road.
Elsewhere, an Avenger panics a wee. Amnesiac Wasp ejaculates, "Aaah! I feel like Michelle Pfeiffer in Batman Returns! I cannot get my head right!" van Dyne rips hairs forth.
"Babe, don't muss your darling 'do in the muggy air," catty Greer grins, "We'll figure-out our fix."
Semi-nude Nelson fixes her bra and savors the hot breeze upon her face. Tacitly Tigra, she stretches her exposed toned form like a tabby and runs her fingers through her lush locks. The sunshine shimmers upon her moist black tresses, and it blazes over her bare baking body. To the left, Tommy titters sheepishly.
Beside her, breathless Bruce beholds her almost as beautiful as Betty has ever been. Then, he wonders "Who's Betty?"
"I bet he," Greer points over yon, "could help us."
Her three companions take a look up Harrisonville's main "drag". The unincorporated community is a wide spot in the road, so all Harrisonville businesses are along one road amidst farms. And, Walnut Road has only one business upon it—a roadhouse for any wanderer traveling rural Illinois Route 156. And, Dad's Tavern has but one "he" to whom a werewoman could be pointing. Some stranger in an altered Captain America suit stares their way. He wears Old Glory's colors on a mostly black outfit out in the scorching August heat. Over the highway asphalt, his image is distorted in the brutal temperature, but the four wayfarers are certain that he is not a mirage.
Standing at attention, U.S. Agent is unsure whether his eyes deceive him. Wasp and Speed appear attired for enemy encounter. But, they are neither pursuing Fixer and Mentallo nor bringing the two evil-doers in. Bruce Banner and Greer Nelson do not look ready for action at all. John Walker wonders "what gives?" and strolls toward them.
Agent asks, "Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on? Where are Fixer and Mentallo?"
"Could you tell us what the hell is going on?" Bruce replies, "And, who are Fixer and Mentallo?"
"Yeah, tell us. For example, could this Mentallo fellow mend our mental Jello?" Speed raps his head.
"Perhaps, you could help us," Greer suggests, "You do look like that Captain America guy."
"Otherwise, could the Fixer fix us?" Jan questions.
"I suspect that he—or his buddy—already did," John rolls his eyes.
An adept strategist, U.S. Agent knows his enemies. The super-soldier suspects that Mentallo or Fixer botched the bunch's brains as Mentallo messed-up Banner's mind once before. Well, Banner/Hulk has already a fubar mind, but John's thoughts know what they mean.
"You four idiots had better come with me" Agent offers, "You can trust me. I'm kind of like Captain America—but more effective and kick-ass."
"It is good that you ape the Captain," Jan sashays forward, "I am connected to the Avengers."
"Well, no s***, Wasp!" U.S. Agent about-faces on Illinois 156. He marches for Dad's Tavern.
Behind him, genteel Jan is aghast and considers leaving this whole herd of hillbillies. They seem small compared to Wasp. However, Wasp also hears the buzz of Dad's huge air conditioner. Peeling the gloves from her perspiring hands, refined van Dyne reckons that it is awfully hot and that she is awfully thirsty. Perhaps, she could follow the "hillbillies", two unshod, into the watering hole.
"No shirt. No shoes. No problem" reads the painted plywood sign outside of the agrarian establishment. Tigra and Hulk hoof it right in while courteous Shepherd holds the screendoor without and Southerner Walker holds the solid door within. Wasp walks past without thanking either.
Within, Dad's Tavern is dimly lit, but it is not dingy for an old place. Soda-pop sits in a standing glass cooler. Fluorescent tubes hang over expansive picnic tables between a bar and a dance floor. A vintage juke box complements the lights and floor from a corner. Over the bar, there is a drink and food menu that is pretty basic: beer and soda, burgers and dogs, fries. Off to the side, swinging doors go into a kitchen. In the wall, rickety restroom doors stand.
There is no "Dad", or anyone else, in the place though. Detective Nelson finds that absence odd. Thus, the curious Cat queries Cap, "Where is everybody?"
"I told the owner and his one patron to evacuate," John's voice echoes, "I informed them that the area was due for an Avengers battle."
"Really? Which Avengers were anticipated around here?" all-wet Wasp asks. Perspiration drips off an apparent ditz.
U.S. Agent shakes his annoyed head. "You guys are the Avengers," he informs.
"Heh-heh. Does she look like an Avenger?" Greer juts a nail at Jan. The keratin cover extends and sharpens slightly.
U.S. Agent points to the W on the "well-bred" woman's chest, "She is the Wasp. I called her that outside too."
"What did you call me?" offput van Dyne shakes sweaty raiment in the a.c. output. Beneath her thick make-up, her cerebrum continues to cook with some heat exhaustion—and some Mentallo assault.
"I said that you are Janet van Dyne, the Wasp, founding member of the Avengers," U.S. Agent states, "And, slim over there is Bruce Banner, the Hulk, also a founding Avengers member."
Amused, amnesiac Bruce guffaws, "Heh-heh-heh-heh. Yeah, I'm really the Green Goliath. Can't you tell?" He flexes. Amazed, Banner beholds biceps and pecs engorged with muscle, at Agent's suggestion. Agape, the scientist watches them instantly enervate back to normal.
Semi-stunned, Banner stumbles toward the bar. "Banner get smashed," 'David' says in a husky voice, "It worked for my father."
Suddenly, like a mother cat, Greer bounds the bar and fetches Bruce a beer like a queen does her kittens. She strokes his hair to calm and comfort him. However, the kind woman also bats "freaky" feline (not human) eyes at him, and this startling metamorphosis disquiets the scientist all the more.
Agent observes, "You are Tigra, my West Coast Avengers teammate."
"I was a Waco too—I think," Wasp communicates from near the soda cooler. She hopes it holds mineral water instead of just common cola.
"You must not have made much of an impression on me," John is frank.
"You must not have made much of an impression on me either," Jan is blunt back.
"Do you have any money?" Tommy interrupts the two. Browsing a countertop, Speed has spotted desired refreshments. He could use some renewed energy and rehydration.
"Sure, Speed," Agent calls Shepherd by name, "I insisted that Dad's mom leave some apple pie and iced tea for us. Have some free all-American ade to wash down what would have been a victory snack if you guys had delivered two deviants."
"Those two deviants are the aforementioned Fixer and Mentallo, correct?" flighty Wasp asks.
"Yeah, lady," Cap confirms, "Y'all seem to have already encountered them today."
"Well, 'Avengers' assemble," the ex-chairwoman enjoins everyone to plop posteriors at a picnic table. Promptly, everyone—except U.S. Agent—does.
Standing, Walker proposes, "Tell me everything that you four DO remember about this mission. Debrief." Greer giggles, for the nature girl imagines everyone de-briefing.
"I mean to bring me up to speed!" the speaker snaps. Shepherd now smirks.
"You vulgarians need to settle-down," Jan adjures all, "As my husband Hank Pym would recommend, let us be productive and purposeful as Aesop's ant."
"I think that I have a kid by your Hank Pym," Tigra blurts. She strokes the fine orange hairs of her chinny-chin-chin. Then, they simply disappear.
"Well, aren't you catty," Wasp whiffs, "William Grant Nelson was fathered by a Skrull imposter posing as a paramour Pym."
"Psst! You and Dr. Pym are divorced anyway—if memory serves," the Cat swishes her "tail" in her seat.
"Not that any of us remember much," Speed shrugs.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let us determine what we do definitely remember," Dr. Banner becomes the voice of reason.
"I may remember flying over wheat fields then woods," Jan begins, "If I am Wasp, I could do that."
Bruce offers, "I may vaguely recall leaping over the forest before bobbing in the mighty Mississippi."
"The Hulk could leap like that," Nelson notes.
No one utters anything next. Bruce kneads his noggin, massaging further memory. Thinking, Tommy taps his knuckles nervously. Seemingly vacant, van Dyne stares at the ceiling. Staring vacantly, Nelson licks her sweaty arm as though casually cleaning. She nimbly lifts her naked calf to her face and nibbles at it . . . . .
Walker takes over, "Howabout I share what s*** I know while you scatterbrains get a grip. I summoned you to St. Louis because Fixer and Mentallo may be abetting AIM in something sordid. . . . ."
Elsewhere. "What are we doing for AIM?" Marvin Flumm asks across the table. The Rowen Hotel serves fine peach pie in its restaurant.
"You're asking in public?" Norbert Ebersol asks back.
Mentallo assures, "I mind-probed the wait staff and fellow patrons. They are all the types to mind their own business even if they overhear supervillains' nefarious plans."
Fixer chuckles, "You gotta love big cities where no one cares about Masters of Evil."
"Be nice. Urban areas simply altruistically offer opportunities to everyone, including degenerates," the brain quips.
"In your case, St. Louis will offer a chance to mind-probe people for money," the genius explicates, "I need you to monitor the AIM operatives with whom we meet tomorrow. Our business exchange should go more smoothly for having you spy inside AIM heads."
"I can see whether our fellow bad guys plan a double-cross or something," Mentallo guesses.
"Sure," Fixer grants.
"Plus, information is power, and power is what business is all about," the telepath talks.
"Look at the head on this guy!" one big head compliments another.
"So, what is our devious business?" Flumm inquires.
"Only the Elements of Doom," Ebersol declares. Then, Fixer debriefs Mentallo on tomorrow morning's plans.
Afterward, Marvin claims that he is still hungry following dessert. He would like to score some pizza pie too, but it is unavailable at the luxury hotel. He must jaunt down the street.
Bert believes that his longtime cohort is b. about something, but Fixer trusts Mentallo, for the most part. Techno bids the telepath adieu and heads for his evening accommodations.
Outside, Mentallo moseys down Memorial Drive toward the river. Over the Mississippi, Mentallo's extraordinary mind reaches out to another superlative psyche. MODOK answers his unusual associate. Across the sky, an immense image of AIM's abominable head forms, visible only to Mentallo. Ever upon his throne, the Doomsday Chair housing him, MODOK spans and supplants the Gateway Arch before Marvin. Burning eyes blink once—bidding Mentallo to speak.
Silently, the psychic converses via psionics, "Scientist Supreme, Fixer seemingly suspects nothing."
"So, Ebersol does not surmise a quisling in his midst?" MODOK quizzes.
"No, Fixer might not be that quick," Mentallo muses, "He reckons that he has my loyalty more than AIM. Although, he knows that I was recently AIM's Minister of Public Affairs for about a year and that I was on your MODOK's 11 heist crew awhile back."
"Fixer even got you that burglary job," MODOK comments.
"Buddy Bert is a good friend," Mentallo acknowledges, "He even got me this current espionage gig."
The Scientist Supreme solicits, "For whom do Fixer and you work? Has he said?"
"He has," Mentallo states, "We purchase AIM goods for the CSA, the Commission on Superhuman Activities."
"What the-?! The government?!" MODOK mugs high in the sky. He loudly laughs over St. Louis.
"Yeah," Mentallo sighs. He shakes his (disgusted) head.
The prime unit directs the double-agent, "Do not let Fixer know that we of AIM know anything." MODOK exits into the ether.
A short distance away, Norbert Ebersol enters a hotel other than his current one. An elevator takes him to the fourth floor. There, a door opens, and CSA operative Barney Fiddler beckons Fixer inside. On the dresser, a government laptop provides a secure video conference with CSA Chair Dallas Riordan. She knows Techno from the Thunderbolts. During the video chat, Fixer compliments Mentallo highly. He says that his fast friend should be but an asset at tomorrow's exchange. Pal Flumm may well protect Fixer from MODOK and AIM.