The Origin of MASK

Chapter 10: Fast Food, Part 4

By Qweb and/or Jelsemium

Dusty culminated his virtuoso performance by deliberately rolling the jeep. Bruce gasped and closed his eyes as Gator tumbled over twice, then bounded back to her feet like a well-trained dog. Dusty brought the jeep to a halt.

Matt set Thunderhawk down next Dusty who was inspecting the boat inside. Satisfied that it hadn't been jarred loose, he turned his attention to the outside of the jeep. He ran his hands along the chassis in admiration.

"Not a scratch," he told Bruce proudly. "You sure build 'em good, Bruce."

Bruce recovered speech enough to thank him.

"I must say I'm surprised to find Gator, and you, both intact after that escapade," Alex said.

"But why, Alex?" Matt teased. "Bruce is used to designing toys to survive rough play, clumsy fingers and childish temper tantrums."

"And Venom's going to throw more than a temper tantrum at us," Bruce said, though, truth to tell, he'd been as surprised as Alex.

Dusty detailed a few minor points about Gator's handling and about the placement of the boat which would make Gator more efficient, but he had few complaints.

Thunderhawk's computer beeped a warning. Matt walked over casually to view the screen.

"There's a helicopter coming," he reported, then his pulse quickened as the computer made an ID. "It's Switchblade!"

The MASK agents exchanged startled looks, then Alex held up his palm for calm.

"Easy, chaps," he said soothingly. "There's no way Mayhem could have traced us here."

Alex was confident he had covered the tracks Buddy had followed to find MASK.

"And they sure didn't recognize you from the other day, Matt," Dusty said. "That disguise of your'n would'a fooled Scott."

"Then what's he doing here?"

"Maybe he saw that 'spaceman' article in the newspaper," Bruce said. "If so, he won't find out anything in town. The people who talked to the reporter have been laughed at so much they hardly talk to anyone any more."

"Well, there's only one way to find out whether he's really onto us," Matt said.

"A worm makes attractive bait, but only to a hungry fish," Bruce said.

"Exactly!" said Matt.

"Huh?" said Alex, Dusty and Scott in unison.

Matt wanted to find if the fish recognized the bait, but he didn't intend to be swallowed. He sat in Thunderhawk, one hand on the controls that would bring the lasers to life. Bruce sat in Gator, ready to man the Ouch Cannon if necessary.

Because Dagger had gotten a good look at Dusty, the cowboy was under Gator as if making repairs on the jeep. There wasn't much cause for worry, however. Dagger only remembered his own name because Mayhem screamed it in fury three or four times each day.

Alex and Scott stood alongside the vehicles as if kibitzing. When Switchblade flew over the normal seeming group, everyone, except Dusty, looked up at it. It would have been unnatural not to. At Alex's urging, Scott even waved at the helicopter.

Mayhem humphed and flew past, hardly giving the homey group a glance. Dagger, who could be as childlike as he was deadly, leaned out and waved back.

"Would you cut that out," snarled Mayhem.

"You're just grumpy because we didn't find any Martians," Dagger said. "I could have told you there's no such thing. Just like the Easter Bunny."

Mayhem growled to himself; but what Dagger said was true. The only interesting thing Mayhem had learned in Boulder Hill was that it was the home of Matt Trakker, the Matt Trakker, the extraordinarily wealthy Matt Trakker.

The very thought made Mayhem salivate.

He wondered if he had the time for an extra fundraising venture before he set up his seventh, and final, museum robbery. He decided he did. Mayhem always had time for money. He was still thinking about Matt Trakker while Switchblade put the Trakker family and friends far behind it.

Matt wouldn't have sighed with relief to see Switchblade go if he'd known what Mayhem was thinking.

"I'm glad that's over," he said.

Dusty had already put thoughts of Mayhem out of his mind. He wanted to get back to his job.

"Where's a lake, so I can check out Gator's boat?" he asked.

Dusty liked to give a full day's work for a day's pay.

"Tomorrow, Dusty. You've done enough for today," Matt said.

Dusty glanced at the sun, which was only slightly past its zenith.

"But there's still plenty of daylight left," he said, puzzled. "I'm ready to go."

"But we're not," Matt said.

Dusty realized his friends were going to take awhile to get used to his headlong ways. They did look a bit green, now that he thought about it. He grinned at them fondly, but the look he unconsciously threw Gator was more than fond. It bore the wistful longing of an orphan child eyeing a Christmas tree laden with presents.

Bruce watched the play of emotions on Dusty's expressive face, understanding the younger man had no practice at masking his feelings and no real desire to start. Thou shalt not covet, Bruce thought, as he watched Dusty fight down a disloyal desire to keep the jeep. Fought it down and banished it.

It was with only a tinge of reluctance that the Texan handed the keys to Bruce.

The toymaker refused them.

"No, Gator's yours, Dusty," he said, to the other's wide-eyed surprise. "I didn't know it at the time, but I built her for you."

Dusty couldn't believe his ears.

"He's right, Dusty," Matt said. "You and Gator belong together."

Fist clenched around the keys, Dusty sat in the driver's seat and ran his free hand over the steering wheel.

"I never could afford a car of my own," he said huskily. "I … "

He couldn't find the words for a proper thank you. Matt gripped his shoulder.

"Let's go back to the house," he said. "You can try some target practice with the Ouch Cannon and make sure you didn't shake it apart."

Dusty's eyes seemed to blaze with all the emotions he couldn't find words for.

What he did say was, "C'mon, Scott. I'll give you that ride now."

"Backlash, FIRE!" Dusty said.

Nothing happened. Dusty sighed.

It had really seemed like Christmas when Matt let Dusty pick out one of the finished masks. He chose Backlash because the tinted, full-face, pointed visor offered him the widest field of vision. But somebody must have forgotten to put the batteries in this present.

Matt, Scott, Alex, and T-Bob, who had been dragged away from his experiments, watched, puzzled by the mask's non-behavior. Bruce, who had built the sonic disruptor, was as puzzled as all four of them put together.

He took the mask, which was linked by cable to a power pack, just for testing purposes; and put it on.

"Backlash, fire!" he ordered.

Through the specially treated visor he saw the lines of force shoot out to punch a hole in the bed sheet target.

Without the special glass, the others saw only the result; but they heard the whip crack that gave the mask its name.

"Backlash, on!" Bruce tried the alternate command.

Again the mask fired. Bruce handed it back to Dusty. Obediently the Texan tried both commands. Again nothing happened.

Wordlessly he passed the mask to the blond inventor and watched while Matt, Alex and Scott all hit the target. Bruce's face was a tight mask of concentration.

Dusty sighed again. "Looks like she don't like me, no how," he said mournfully.

Bruce snapped his fingers, "Of course!"

He hooked up the computer to Backlash and juggled the programming as Dusty recited the commands yet again.

"When the owl speaks, does the raven pay heed?" Bruce said in answer to Matt's questioning look.

"Of course," Matt said. "It's always the obvious you overlook."

"You suppose you two could speak English?" Dusty said before Alex could.

Matt and Bruce began to laugh. A moment later, Alex joined them as he belatedly got the point. Scott and Dusty exchanged looks, then shrugged.

With great ceremony, Bruce handed the revamped Backlash to Matt. Nothing happened.

"Now you've broken it," Scott said.

"Let Dusty try it," Matt suggested.

This time Dusty shredded the target.

"It's not that Backlash didn't like you, Dusty," Matt explained. "It didn't understand you."

Scott looked at Alex blankly.

"His accent, Scott," the man explained. "It wasn't programmed to recognize a Texas drawl. Now it won't respond to anything else."

"Oh."

When Scott thought about it, he realized Dusty's "fire" sounded more like "far" and his "on" had a whole different vowel sound. Of course, he hadn't noticed it. He was used to it.

"You mean, you all built me a Yankee mask?" Dusty teased, accenting his accent.

Matt patted his shoulder.

"Don't worry, it'll be civil from now on, I'll war rant."

"Yes, it will be your loyal confederate," Bruce chimed in, maintaining a straight face with an effort.

They looked at Dusty expectantly. Fortunately the Texan was up to the challenge.

"You're not just whistlin' Dixie, pards," he agreed.

Scott sat at the patio table feeling disconsolate. He'd had a lonely morning. His father and Alex had gone to town to pick up a shipment of electrical supplies to complete the computer center in the big rig cab known as Rhino. They also intended to nose around and make sure Venom had really left town as it appeared.

Dusty and Bruce had gone out to the desert to test yet another MASK vehicle.

In just a week, Dusty, a diligent technician, had already finished with Gator's hydroplane, and checked out the two sections of Rhino together and separately. The Firecracker pickup had met with his complete approval. Of the MASK vehicles that were finished, Dusty only had Condor — the motorcycle that changed into a helicopter — left to go. He couldn't check the helicopter's performance, since he couldn't fly one; but he could work the bugs out of the motorcycle.

In the afternoons, Dusty had put in a lot of target practice with a variety of weapons. He concentrated on Backlash's sonic blast and Gator's two cannons, but he also helped Bruce finished the sighting adjustments on the weapons from several other vehicles. Bruce had found that Dusty's aim was as true as a computer's and more adaptable.

But while everyone else was out having "fun" Scott had been stuck at home alone with nothing to keep him company but five rooms of toys and a preoccupied robot. Now, to add insult to injury, T-Bob had insisted on fixing Scott lunch. The kid couldn't find any way to get out of it without hurting the mechanism's feelings.

All in all, Scott felt pretty glum when Firecracker pulled into the driveway, carrying Condor on its tailgate rack.

The boy sat up straight and stared as Dusty got out of the pickup and unfastened Condor. The Texan lived up to his name and then some. To say he was dusty was like saying the Pacific Ocean was wet. Clouds of dirt floated off him at every step except where sweat had turned it to mud in his hair and on his face.

Yet the mudpack couldn't conceal his thunderously grim expression.

Dusty set the lightweight cycle down with the excessive care of someone who really wanted to hurl it against the wall. Then he walked toward Scott, a purposeful expression on his face. He pealed off his jacket and dropped it on the patio, where it lay like a pile of sand. Hardly breaking his measured stride, he pulled off his boots, passed the open-mouthed Scott and dove into the swimming pool, still clad in brown stained blue jeans and a once-red T-shirt. The clear water became muddy and Scott lost sight of the young man.

The boy turned to Bruce who had followed Dusty out of the pickup. The Japanese inventor was hot, sweaty and dusty, though nowhere near the Texan's earthen condition. For a moment, Bruce looked as if he'd like to follow Dusty into the pool, but dignity restrained him. Instead he sat down in the shade of the table's umbrella and heaved a heavy sigh.

Scott proved he could think in an emergency. He went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with three glasses of ice tea. Bruce swallowed half of his in one gulp, sighed again, this time with relief, and thanked Scott.

Dusty surfaced and sprawled tiredly on the wide pool steps, not ready to leave the cool water. When Scott brought him his tea, he saw a livid bruise on the Texan's right cheek and abrasions on both his arms. The palm of the hand that took the tea was scraped and raw. Considering the amount of protective clothing Dusty wore, Scott decided he must have taken quite a fall to get so banged up and dirty.

Dusty looked at the muddy water.

"Sorry, Scott," he said to the boy who had to clean the pool. "Guess I shouldn't'a done that."

Scott waved away the apology. "You look like you should have done it sooner," the boy said.

Restored by cool liquids inside and outside, Dusty managed a faint grin.

"Did something go wrong?" Scott ventured.

"Well, I'll tell you, that Firecracker truck is a real pistol, but that Condor is for the birds," Dusty said. "She wants to fly."

Scott scratched his head. "I thought it was supposed to fly?"

"Not when it's a motorcycle," Bruce put in.

"Oh."

"I finally gave it up after I plowed a full furrow with my nose," Dusty confided to Scott. "I tell you, Bruce," he said fervently. "I've ridden professional buckin' horses that I could stay on longer than that cycle!"

"It must be that the airfoils on the side give too much lift," Bruce said, making some notations on a pad of paper. "You know, Dusty, I am beginning to feel that Condor was a mistake completely. We don't even have anyone to fly it."

But Dusty's good humor had been restored by cool water and iced tea.

"Don't you worry, Bruce," he advised as he hoisted his sopping self out of the pool. "Condor was made for someone, you just ain't met him yet."

"I just hope that when we do meet him, Condor doesn't throw him on his face," Bruce sighed.

"I'm starvin', pard," Dusty said to Scott. "What's for lunch?"

Scott's face fell at the reminder. "Oh. I almost forgot. T-Bob's cooking again."

Bruce groaned, "That is the unkindest cut of all."

Dusty looked puzzled. As a guest, he hadn't yet been subjected to one of T-Bob's experiments. As if on cue, the robot, dressed in a white cook's hat and apron, walked out carrying a platter. On it was the soggiest, saddest looking lump of cheese, grease and dough Dusty had ever seen.

Bruce reminded himself for the fifth time to kill Buddy Hawks when he got back from Washington, D.C. His off-hand challenge to T-Bob had given the Trakkers and their friends indigestion for weeks.

"Come and get it!" T-Bob announced, clanging a spoon against his metal side for emphasis. "Microwave pizza, my best one yet!"

Dusty had been brought up to be polite and eat whatever his host put in front of him; but he looked at that sorry mess, thought of the trying day he'd already put in, and rebelled.

He pulled Scott with him as he slopped into the house to change.

"C'mon, I mean to check out your kitchen," he said.

Matt and Alex parked out front and began unloading boxes of equipment from Thunderhawk's trunk. They were relieved to find that Venom had left town and were ready to start the next phase of their anti-Venom program.

"So Vancouver's our next stop, eh?" Alex said.

"That's right. I just got word there's been some trouble with the medical research building I'm sponsoring. I have to mediate a dispute between the contractor and the architect."

Alex looked at him shrewdly.

"There's something else, isn't there?"

Matt laughed. "You know me too well, old friend. Yes, I have heard about a young man who sounds like a promising MASK recruit. He's already foiled two Venom plots, primarily by accident, I'll admit."

"What's this one do?" Alex asked. "Is he a helicopter pilot? A computer expert? A Mountie?"

"Actually, he's a lumberjack," Matt said, waiting for the explosion.

Alex almost choked on it, but he refused to oblige Matt. He changed the subject instead.

"I wonder what's for lunch?"

"Can't you guess?" Matt said.

Alex remembered T-Bob.

"In that case, perhaps I won't stay," he said, as Matt pushed the front door open. They were assailed by the delightful smell of fresh-baked pizza. "Then again … You don't suppose T-Bob actually got it right this time?"

They ventured into the kitchen and found T-Bob looking glum. But everyone else was quite happy. Dusty was demonstrating proper pizza handling, spinning the dough in the air with deft twists of his floury hands. He explained to the fascinated Bruce that most places just rolled the dough out, but he'd been taught the traditional method of stretching it to fit the pan.

Scott watched Dusty's technique with an interest that boded ill for the Trakker ceiling in the not-so-distant future. Matt and Alex were quick to help themselves to a share of a finished pizza. Alex eyed Dusty with amusement.

"You amaze me, Dusty. I never considered pizza as Southern cooking," he said. "Unless, of course, you're talking about Southern Italy."

"Where did you learn to do this?" Matt asked.

"Grandma Teresa taught me," Dusty answered, as he flipped the dough through a fog of steam from the stove, landing it right on the mark in the pizza pan. "Teresa Regina Ysabella Counter."

Dusty spoke the name with proper Italian emphasis, dropping in her married name with a deliberate thud.

"You mean your grandmother was Italian?" Alex asked.

"Shoot, no," Dusty said, grinning. "She was Texas born. But her folks were Italian."

The founders of MASK soon learned that Dusty could cook a lot more than pizza. Italian specialties, Western barbecue and down-home country cooking all came easily to his talented hands.

It was just as well Dusty could cook. It gave him something to do. Once he'd finished with all the assembled MASK vehicles, except the still recalcitrant Condor, he was unemployed until Matt, Bruce and their mystery mechanic finished the next batch. Being idle gave Dusty entirely too much time to think.

Scott found Dusty lying on the front lawn one morning. Since Scott was playing international spy at the time, he began sneaking up on the Texan. He quickly realized, however, that something was wrong. The set of Dusty's shoulders looked unusual. He looked — Scott was surprised by the thought — unhappy.

Instead of pouncing, Scott coughed artificially and sat down on the grass beside his friend. "What's wrong, Dusty?"

"I feel useless," the Texan said, violently tossing away the blade of grass he'd been chewing on. "I can't keep on taking your daddy's money and not doin' anythin' to earn it."

Scott protested but Dusty eyed him shrewdly.

"Ain't no one else bein' paid to be in MASK, is there?"

Scott had to confess that was true. Buddy Hawks drew salary from Matt but that was for running the Boulder Hill gas station in his patented abrasive fashion. And Scott couldn't mention Buddy's name anyway.

"Honest, Dusty, we've got plenty of money and … " Scott let it trail off.

The Trakkers were a proud family, too. For all Scott had been born with a golden spoon in his mouth, he understood the work ethic. He knew his father labored long hours for his fortune. And he knew Dusty wouldn't take what he considered charity.

"I guess I understand. I'll miss you," he said in a small voice.

Dusty laughed and rumpled his hair. "You'll miss pizza, and barbecued ribs, and flapjacks in the mornin'."

Scott grinned back at him. "I sure will. But it's not just the food I'll miss."

"Thanks, pard. But I'm not plannin' to go very far. I already started lookin' for work in Boulder Hill. But there's only two pizza places and neither one delivers. Fact is, Mr. Martin said he was thinkin' of closin' up and sellin' out, business is so bad. But I guess with your father's recommendation I can find some sort of drivin' work."

Scott excused himself to go inside. He had to tell his father about Dusty.

Dusty lay back on the grass feeling better, now that he'd gotten his worries off his chest. He figured Scott would tell his father and suited him just fine. He'd felt like an ingrate wanting to leave; but a man had to keep moving. Time enough to stop when you were six feet under.

The postman came up the walk. "Hey, Dusty, I got a letter for you," he said.

Dusty jumped up eagerly. "Must be from my mama, she's the only one knows where I am."

The mail carrier shook his head. "Not unless your mother's name is Fred," he said, handing over the envelope.

Scott found his father in a huddle with Alex and Bruce as they studied the plans for a car that would convert into a submarine. He described his conversation with Dusty.

"I warned you," Bruce said.

"Yes, well, I've been working on that," Matt said.

"Yeee-hah!" Dusty burst through the front door like a Texas twister. He caught up Scott, who was nearest, and twirled him around until his head spun.

"What's this all about!" Alex shouted.

Dusty thrust his letter at the Englishman and continued his wild dance around the room, until he came to rest perched on the back of the couch.

Bruce looked at the Texan's shining eyes with amusement. He had thought he'd seen Dusty excited before, but now he realized the young man possessed depths of exuberance as yet unplumbed.

Alex passed the letter around. It was from Fred Heineman, head of the stuntman's association and it referred to a recently completed inquiry into the events that had gotten Dusty barred from the major studios. It congratulated Dusty on being exonerated of charges of negligence and contract violation. It wished him a speedy return to Hollywood. In a personal note, Fred added he hoped he'd be working with Dusty again soon.

"That's terrific, old chap," Alex said, shaking Dusty's hand. "I'll bet you had something to do with this, Matt," he added.

"A little," Matt confessed. "All I really did, though, was start the ball rolling. That director had a lot of clout in Hollywood. He managed to keep a lid on things."

"But the mountain lion shouldn't threaten the grizzly," Bruce said.

"He means I have a little clout, too," Matt said, before anyone could say, "huh?"

"So now I suppose you'll be heading back to California," Alex said.

The broad grin vanished from Dusty's face to be replaced by something near panic.

"No! Unless … ," he turned to Matt. "Unless this's an awful polite way of sayin' you want me to get?"

Matt was surprised.

"Of course not, Dusty," he said so emphatically that the Texan couldn't doubt him. "We need you in MASK. I just thought you'd like your old job back."

Dusty relaxed. "I 'preciate it. But I can't be a stuntman and be in MASK, too. And I can do a lot more good in MASK."

"I don't understand, Dusty. You don't have to live in Boulder Hill to be in MASK. The transport jet can pick you up anywhere."

"Anywhere, Matt? Suppose I was in Borneo, or New Zealand, or Morocco. I've worked all those places on movies."

Matt thought about it. The transport was designed to pick up MASK agents and transport them anywhere in the world. But the agents really needed to be in North America for it to operate efficiently. If it had to fly to Tasmania to pick up Dusty for a mission in South America …. Matt realized the computer that selected MASK agents for each mission would just class Dusty as "currently unavailable." The cowboy would be left out a lot.

"If you don't want to be a stuntman any more, then why the blazes were you so excited about this letter," Alex said in exasperation.

Dusty looked surprised.

"But this means I've been … vindicated." He stumbled over the ten dollar word, but Alex understood. "This means everybody knows I wasn't responsible for gettin' Frank and Marcy hurt. That means a lot to me, Alex."

Alex gripped his shoulder and looked him in the eye.

"I know, lad," he said softly. "But if you don't want to be a stuntman, what do you want to do. I know you're not happy just lazing around here."

"I'll still be a stuntman," Dusty said. "There're some movie folks I owe a lot to. And some offers that're gonna be mighty hard to turn down. But I can't do it for a livin' any more. I'd like to get back to deliverin' pizzas. It might not seem like much, but people are awful glad to see you at the door. I like that."

"Yes, and you're a bloody good pizza chef, too. It would be a shame to waste such culinary talent," Alex said.

"Scott said you checked out the pizza situation in Boulder Hill and found it uninspiring," Matt mused aloud. "You realize that if you get a delivery job, you'll run into the same old problem. How is an employer going to understand if we keep calling you for MASK missions?"

Dusty looked at the blond inventor hopefully. Matt sounded as if he had an answer.

"But suppose you were your own employer," Matt said. "Suppose you buy Martin's pizza place in town. You could hire people to look after it when you disappeared. No one would question what the boss did."

"What do I buy it with, my good looks?" said Dusty who knew his credit was nonexistent.

"I'm sure I could manage to finance something," Matt said mildly.

"Blast it, Matt! I won't take charity from you. You've already done enough for me!"

"Have I." Matt's voice was very quiet, very sincere. "Dusty, you saved my life. And all I've done is make a few phone calls and offer you a dangerous, volunteer job fighting international criminals."

Matt grinned suddenly. "Don't you think my life is worth the price of a pizza restaurant? I think I'm insulted."

"Yeah," Scott said, folding his arms and glaring ferociously. "I'm insulted, too."

"Me, too," T-Bob squeaked, imitating Scott, his eyes crossing with the effort of his frown.

"Oh, I think we're all bloody well insulted," Alex put in drily.

Dusty looked at all the faces trying hard to maintain their pose of anger. One by one they broke down and burst out laughing. Finally, Dusty joined them.

"The Bible says if you cast your bread upon the waters, it will return, old chap. It doesn't say anything about throwing it away when it comes sailing back," Alex said.

"All right, Matt Trakker, I'll take your ol' money — as a loan," Dusty said firmly.

"At no interest," Matt snapped back.

"Done!"

They shook hands solemnly as their friends cheered.

Dusty's eyes gleamed as brightly as the highly polished counter in the refurbished Pronto Pizza ("We deliver") restaurant. The grand opening was set for noon and all his friends were going to be there. He could hardly wait to fire up the ovens and get to work.

The telephone rang. His first official call, Dusty thought, picking up the receiver with due ceremony.

"I'd like to order a large pepperoni pizza with double cheese," the voice said.

"Sorry, pard, we're not due to open until eleven. I haven't even turned on the oven yet," Dusty said apologetically.

"Oh," said the voice flatly.

The caller sounded so disappointed, Dusty had to laugh.

"If you feel that bad about it, I reckon I could make an exception," Dusty said, switching on the oven. "Where do you want it delivered?"

"It's out of town on the highway, the Boulder Hill gas station. The name's Buddy Hawks," the voice said eagerly.

"I know right where it is," Dusty assured him, hiding the delight he felt. He promised he'd deliver in time for lunch.

Dusty rubbed his hands together and started pounding on the dough.

So his first call was from the mysterious attendant at that mysterious gas station. That figured, Dusty thought.

It must be serendipity.

In the next episode:
An "Unsound Foundation" is the key to danger, and salvation,
as a potential MASK agent and an innocent bystander
learn the earthshaking truth about Venom!