Chapter 16: Okay, Bye
Limited Supply
"You see, this is what I hate about being on the lam," Paul Pierre Duval pronounces, in a heavy French accent.
"Oh?" says his fellow Kwikee Burger customer across the aisle. The cowboy tips back his hat. Outside, a fine evening proceeds in Salina, Kansas.
"Sometimes, you can't afford s***, so you have to eat s***," the irked eater explicates.
Certain other patrons do not care for the Frenchman's Saxon. They frown.
Mum, the maverick munches his value meal but maintains eye contact.
The fussy felon further explains, "I am an international menace, so the U.S. government has frozen my f***ing assets like f***ing a*******."
"Well, don't you shoot from the hip," comments the cowboy.
Incognito Grey Gargoyle continues, "In Europe, this pathetic pabulum would not pass as food—even when passing through the bowels."
Disguised Speed dips fries and deftly devours them. "American eats are all right with me," declares he.
"How can they be?" Duval scoffs, "Those French fries are not even French. Rather, they are an abomination consummated between Yankees and Walloons. We true Parisians are much pleasanter to the potato."
"I see," the silver-haired slicker squints, "And, do you people have a beef with our beef too?"
"Oui, we do," the dining dastard disses.
"Well, that's too bad because I could wolf-down a burger or two," Shepherd scarfs six sliders in a blur, "The French must prefer snails because they're not fast food."
Grey Gargoyle rolls his eyes hard, but the veteran villain is glad to view the fancy feeding. The display verifies his suspicions that the snow-topped buckaroo over there is actually a Young Avenger. An old outlaw, such as Duval, always attends to his surroundings—and the people in them.
Bold Tommy takes off his hat, expecting the brigand's trepidation. Instead, Grey Gargoyle turns the table. Dexterously, Duval taps his torso and triggers transformation. In the millisecond that it takes for Speed to shed denim duds and move on his foe, Grey Gargoyle metamorphosizes and does so successfully. His concealed costume hastily hardens. And, the compressed cape and collar shred through his street clothes.
Charging Speed slams off solid rock, ringing his bell. He reels back. The rocky rogue tosses his petrified tray like a discus. But, with great reflexes, Speed ducks. Gargoyle turns the tabletop—tearing it from its moorings. The broad slab mashes pie-eyed Shepherd like a potato. Pulling it back, Gargoyle turns the synthetic plastic to stony slate. The sheet of rock shall splatter Speed like a restaurant rat. Duval swings the hefty swatter high.
However, American Eagle intervenes. From nowhere, Jason Strongbow strikes the descending death-dealer, and the rigid device shatters to shards. Grey Gargoyle simply smacks American Eagle hard for interfering. Instantly, Duval does a high flying axe kick up to the fiberglass ceiling slats. His heavy heel crashes upon hero's crown with a hardy crack. Strongbow crumbles to the cruddy Kwikee Burger tiles.
"Ha-ha, Batroc has trained me well," boasts the Francophilic fiend, "Your brains should be hamburger, for I—how do you say—put some mustard on that kick."
Moaning, Speed staggers to his feet. He also probably groans at Grey's rancid repartee. Right away, Duval responds to the riser. A granite grip grabs green garb and suspends the speedster from firm floor. An Avenger kicks impotently in the air.
"Hey, greased lightning," Grey Gargoyle says, "Perhaps, I can fling you from here to the fryer. How's that sound?"
"Frankly, you could just freeze me in stone," Speed suggests, "That is your usual m.o."
"Mmmm, no, burning you in oil is more amusing—and evil," the Frankish fink states, "I am a Master of Evil and have a reputation to maintain. You understand." The terror tosses the teen hero far past the counter. In the kitchen, Speed clatters through hanging utensils until reaching certain sizzling tubs. It would seem a heinous hook-shot hit a certain basket. Looking on, Grey Gargoyle licks his lips.
Between blinks of Duval's lid, flying Speed fleetly lurched left and flopped on the eatery's filthy floor mats. Bad taste in his mouth, Tommy temporarily follows the five-second rule before returning to the fight. Grey Gargoyle is tough, and Speed needs a plan.
Pivoting, Grey Gargoyle returns to American Eagle. Short on cash, the supervillain plans to pettily steal Strongbow's billfold for some play money. Also, Paul Pierre doesn't know who the pesky powerhouse is, so a peek at his i.d. would be nice. Who knows? Perhaps, the brained bruiser is even supposed to be the next big thing, like Solarman or something, and bad-man Duval can bolster his bad reputation by bragging about the brief burger joint beat-down.
However, the seating area contains no flattened fighter. Grey Gargoyle frowns. He hates when heroes rally.
From the rear, someone strong raps Grey Gargoyle in the noggin. American Eagle rabbit-punches again after that.
"Wait!" Gargoyle requests, signaling time-out.
"What?" Eagle clenches fists and teeth.
"If you think I dislike the 'amburgers, I truly hate your knuckle-sandwiches," cad quips.
"Oh, shad up!" warrior wallops.
A big stone body breaks Kwikee Burger's wide glass window, and an alert boulder cracks the sidewalk outside. Swearing superlatively, the stony scoundrel swipes for a shrubbery planted beside the restaurant. He plans to stick his foe with pointy petrified wood and to flay him with fossilized foliage. But, before Gargoyle acts, a streaking blur uproots the entire hedge in a blink and replants the whole row just out of reach. Gargoyle falls flat-faced in the upturned soil.
"Milkshakes do a body good," cocksure Speed stands clearing a cream mustache. Sometimes, a huge sugar rush helps a speedster to think and act.
"F*** you," fumes Paul, "Kwikee Burger doesn't even use actual ice cream in its shakes. Do you know that?"
"Well, that's sorta un-American," deems American Eagle stepping outside, "I'll have to talk to them after shaking you."
Abruptly, Strongbow slugs Duval across the parking lot. Grey Gargoyle dents a dually deeply. American Eagle sprints after him. GG dislodges himself. AE arrives and unmercifully uppercuts a Master of Evil for the ozone layer. The flightless Gargoyle does not reach that height, but he hurtles high into the Kansas sky. And, from skies that are not cloudy all day, the dolomite dude drops like a stone directly back for Salina. The affected asphalt explodes, and afternoon traffic stops.
"Is he down?" Jason massages an aching fist.
Inspecting, Speed says, "Apparently so. Appears to be. Grey Gargoyle is still as a statue. Let's you and me assume." There is some phrase about assuming and you and me.
As on cue, the fallen stirs and sighs. Speed springs back. American Eagle swoops in. Grey Gargoyle hefts his heavy hand. And, it flops back down on his front. Pink, plain Paul Pierre Duval appears before all, and he passes out in the Salina street.
"Yeah, he's down," assesses Eagle.
Police sirens approach as American Eagle stands akimbo over an adversary. On the ground, Duval opens one eye and winks—at you.
Up in the Sky
The Ohio River meanders past Metropolis, Illinois, and MODOK manages to enjoy some nature for a moment in his unnatural existence. George Tarleton tries to take in the scenery. The wide Ohio shimmers in a September sun as ships stream past. Gulls glide overhead. Trees tilt and tremble in the breeze. And, families fish from shore. Lovely and green Kentucky sits across the way. The Scientist Supreme studies the scene and manages a modicum of sentiment within. Under different circumstances, George Tarleton too would jaunt along the bucolic bank, but. . . . .
MODOK really is a monster. And, his inner man may miss everyday life, but his inner megalomaniac never will. Ever since AIM altered him, involuntarily, tech Tarleton has been more than the mundane. Therefore, he cherishes his magnificent mutilation daily.
MODOK remembers the yesterday of long ago. Initially, AIM experiments drove poor George quite mad, and he was angry. Then, the aggrieved mutate discovered his abilities such as mind control, psychic blasts, telekinesis, and every other awesome psionic under the sun. AIM had made him a marvel. So, mad MODOK slaughtered the existing echelon and became the organization's master.
George is glad to be like a god as he beholds the land before him. America's heartland is but part of an Earth that AIM will eventually utterly acquire—after AIM's damned creation convalesces awhile more.
Missouri really spat MODOK out, and he is merry for no MO of that misery. From St. Louis, faithful AIM operative Harry Daze (see Amazing Spider-Man #171) delivered MODOK from his hairy days. Dedicated Daze hired Illinois' own Nautilus (see Spider-Man Unlimited #6) to dive to the Mississippi's bottom where comatose MODOK lay in suspended animation. AIM raised its wrecked director, and Daze contacted Dr. Philip Roth of Chicago. Then, Daze gave the brilliant roboticist and physician, and future supervillain (see Death's Head v.3 #1-4), the dinero to mend and maintain MODOK in Murphy, Missouri. From there, Daze drove the AIM director in a rented diesel to Metropolis. The humble haul kept them under the radar until southeast Illinois.
Ironically, Metropolis is not a major city. It has about six thousand residents, so it is more of a Smallville. It is an appropriate locale for an AIM safehouse subtly concealed and snuggled in Americana. Aptly, the haven is not even up in the sky, for no tall buildings are here. A third-floor window in a recently foreclosed ag facility provides MODOK his verdant view, rich with possibility.
Puckering his prodigious lips, the great head of AIM peels his peer from the outside world and turns his attention to bad enterprises. He can consider conquering all of Kentucky and beyond some other time. For now, he has correspondence and communication about which to care. From Metropolis, MODOK talks to toyman Jester in Joplin, Missouri. AIM has wicked widgets on the way. From Metropolis, he contacts general clod Armadillo and offers some advice to Amarillo. Then, the freak faxes amazo Super-Adaptoid in Omaha. Next, MODOK video chats with HYDRA brainiac Bob, and they have good intergang intercourse. Later, it is okay to see Scorpion (Carmilla Black) in Oklahoma City. After that, it is nice to network with the Enclave in Nashville. AIM has a tendency for Tennessee turf. From Metropolis, MODOK powwows with parasite Monica Rappaccini in Memphis and tries not to puke parlaying with his perpetual rival. The dreadful director voice-dictates a letter to Doomsday Man and Mad-Dog in Mongolia. He sends the Super-Apes (and Red Ghost) an e-mail. AIM's big brain broadcasts to beekeeper "bitches" on Barbuda, a.k.a. AIM Island, and Baron Blood on Boca Caliente, another AIM island. Finally, wi-fi connects MODOK and Eve Necker, in Alba, a.k.a. Scotland. They have an amiable exchange and discuss assorted ambitious evil aims aloud.
Abruptly, Hyperion bursts through a hideout wall! Eve immediately hangs-up. Ambushed MODOK manages a surprised mien.
"It's a good thing that I was on patrol and overheard your despicable plans, evil-doer. You'll never get away with them!" Squadron Supreme shakes a finger.
AIM rolls his eyes, "You have heard everyone's plans?" The super-baddie sighs.
"Certainly," the red cheese retorts, "I was in the lowest lane in Metropolis and could even hear them from there."
"Oh, what amazing ears you have," an abomination emulates Little Red Riding Hood.
"The better to bag you with!" Hyperion boasts.
"Shut up," huffs the head, hideous hood, "Behold my brainwashed bodyguard! Beat him—be you able!"
Telepathically beckoned, Earth-616's Nighthawk, by his remarkable wings, blows from the building's basement to MODOK's bastion. The Mental Organism thought ahead. Like Doc Savage, he brought his opposition to his Fortress of Solitude and reprogrammed him.
Facing his foe, the Defender bellows, "If there is even a one-percent chance that you be a threat, be warned that I will obliterate you!"
Hyperion beetles his brow, "Give it your best shot."
Indeed, Nighthawk then brandishes a blaster, bought from the Brand Corporation, and shoots several blazing bolts off an invulnerable bosom. Riled, Richmond reels his wasted weapon at the man of steely stare. By George (Reeves?), it just bounces off.
Hyperion crosses behemoth forearms and bulging biceps. A bola briefly binds his big branches, but he effortlessly breaks the braiding.
Nighthawk's belt produces a boomerang. He pitches that. Boffo breath blows it impotently aside.
"Behave," Hyperion bids.
The berserk bird flies forth. He charges across the room. Chin wagging, Hyperion heats his brown eyes red. Beams barbeque Nighhawk's wings before the bogey ever arrives. The brawler bounces off the big boy's chest.
Bellicose Nighthawk tosses his burning, blackened apparel to the floorboards. Bravely, he brings up fists and rambunctiously boxes Hyperion's body like a heavy bag. Bemused, the titan blinks repeatedly at the banal assaults.
A potent backhand bats the batty man aside off the bricks like a bug. And, that is how Nighthawk v Hyperion would go.
Golden boots beneficently tramp the fiery wings on the wooden floor. Composed Hyperion comments, "MODOK, I ought to give you a giant concussion."
"Well, that will have to wait, wretch," declares the Director, "Behold my better bound brickbat!"
Summoned from Chicago (to southern Illinois), Captain Ultra crashes through the granary's roof. Readily, the red, yellow, blue, and green wonder raises his chiseled chin, ample arms, and vibrant voice.
"Here I come to save the daaay," Captain Ultra sings like Mighty Mouse.
"Hmph. You're just a knock-off of me," Hyperion retorts to the bizarro being.
"Well, you're just a knock-off of Superman," Ultra asserts.
"So's everybody," Hyperion acknowledges.
"True," Ultra shrugs, "Do you want to knock-off MODOK? I am actually not mind-controlled currently. My ultra-will stifled this boob's psychological attack when his sinister psyche contacted mine."
MODOK curses upon being foiled again. Forthwith, supermen Hyperion and Captain Ultra together teach MODOK some manners.
Needle's Eye
In the south of Missouri, soon after MODOK's misadventure, September fog fills quiet forest, and gentle drizzle falls throughout Ozark hills. Tigra feels the invigorating, moist air upon her pelt and skin. She inhales it deeply and licks her lips. A cool breeze enters her ears and touches her eyes. Her gaze takes in full nature as they did recently on a hot August day. But, this time, the Avenger is fully alert and able. Her heart quickening, predator Tigra purrs into the passing haze, and she prepares to eagerly charge and pursue prey.
At her shoulder, U.S. Agent whispers, ""Fine morning for a raid, eh what?"
"I am glad that you assembled us," Greer agrees, "All three of us." A big cat's furry feet furrow the soil a bit. The bestial beauty is ready and willing to race forth.
To the left, Leonard asks, "Are there only three of us? Won't Razorback be joining us?"
"He is Arkansas' Avenger, from the Initiative at least," U.S. grants, "However, the pig cannot assist us with Project: Pele. Other heroing hogs his time."
Amused, Samson shakes his head. He sarcastically states, "Oh please, Project: Pele. Northern Arkansas is just a piece from Polynesia and its pantheon such as Pele."
"Well, do you remember Magma, the deadly foe of Spider-Man?" Walker queries.
"No," notes Doc.
"No one does," Tigra titters, "But, he has an Avengers File like every nobody."
Agent informs, "Jonathan Darque wears a super-suit that is surprisingly powerful. He has overpowered Iron Man—twice. He has pestered Spider-Man aplenty. And, he once locked horns with the Human Torch but—okay—did not do so well."
"Magma may literally shoot magma, but he wasn't hot enough to take the Torch's mantle," Tigra contributes.
U.S. Agent continues, "Still, Darque does a good job of punching way above his weight. Consistently, he assembles a sizable army. And, most impressively, Magma manages to produce potential volcanos beneath such places as Long Island and Appalachia."
"Now, he plans to bring volcanic activity to the Ozarks," Doc Samson conjectures.
"Correct, an eruption in Arkansas would be impressive. Thus, the crackpot propagates Project: Pele," pronounces John, "with AIM's aid."
"Serendipitously, we Avengers found the intelligence in seized St. Louis records," states Greer.
"Thus, you two invited me to Marvel Cave near Branson, Missouri, to make plans for opposing this obscure adversary who operates in odd places for a volcanic villain," analyzes Leonard.
"Yeah. Plus, I really like Branson," the Captain comments, "It has all kinds of American music, both country and western."
Doc Samson chuckles at the Blues Brothers reference. Tigra stalks swiftly south across the state line. U.S. Agent salutes the great state of Missouri and sprints after his fellow Avenger to further amazing adventures and honorable obligation.
"Show me something new," thinks he.