Joatman
Richard A. Dickson
Published by Grey Cat Press
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009, 2010 © Richard A. Dickson
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* * *
Joatman
Richard A. Dickson
Citizens of the world, beware. There's a new superhero in town. A really super, superhero. He's a wonder. He's a whiz.
He's a wonder of a whiz.
He's... Joatman!
*
It was with superheroly satisfaction that I gazed through the window of the brave little appliance shop nestled in the crushing shadows of the evil box store and watched my television commercial strike fear to the very hearts of villains across the world... or, at least, to the heart of every villain within range of the transmitter of the independent station -- the major networks having for some reason forgotten to return my calls.
A minor matter.
The message would get out, and with only one minor mistake.
Justice would prevail; that was a promise from me.
Joatman!
Turning to the street, I struck a superheroly pose on the sidewalk, my jet-black hair oiled to perfection, my sparkling blue eyes... um, sparkling..., my granite jaw the very vision of strength, and my pearly-white teeth gleaming in the white-hot sun that shined down from high above.
Heat shimmered through the artificial canyon formed by the box store at my back and the row of office buildings across the street, a mere hint of the heat I was about to bring to the criminals of the world -- the citizens of the world naturally having nothing to fear.
The busy rumble of passing cars and the smell of exhaust quickened my blood. These were the real heroes -- the average citizens going about their business and laughing in the face of danger. I held my superheroly pose as they drove past, no doubt comforted by the sight of my muscular body showing to good effect through crimson and blue tights, set off with boots and gloves of the purest white. With a little more wind, my fuzzy blue cape with its brave diamond 'J' would unfurl, as well, but not today.
I let the good people of the city bask in the knowledge that the minor misunderstanding with the city's constabulary was safely behind us, and that Joatman was one again on the job--
"Hey! You can't stand hee-ah," a voice called out, strong and firm and rolling down the street with a passion, a purpose; a voice with a deep-seated devotion to goodness. Turning my head, I changed my granite profile without mussing my perfectly parted hair or hiding the gleam of my pearly-white teeth, and then lifted my chin to better see the approaching figure.
He was an officer of the law, of course; vertically challenged, but girth accomplished in the manner of his kind: a warehouse of processed powdered sugar and pure potential energy, ready to burst forth at a moment's notice and sweep the streets from the vile clutches of crime. He was a hero.
Like me.
Joatman!
The good officer came striding down the sidewalk, his heels pounding confidently on the pavement, his crisp blue uniform bulging at the seams, his bright brass buttons shining from the glow of my dazzling pearly-whites, and his gleaming belt buckle... um, gleaming in the sun. He was a truly heroic sight. Even the hardest of criminals would think twice about crossing this fine young officer's path.
"Ah, good morning," I greeted the officer. "How may I assist our city's finest on this glorious crime-fighting day, Officer... Brubaker?" I asked, reading the name from his shining badge.
He pulled his nightstick from his belt and clapped it against a calloused palm -- a warm, pattering applause. "You know the agreement, Buddy. You can't loiter hee-ah no more. Beat it, or things are gonna get rough."
My momentarily-puzzled brow suddenly cleared with crystal comprehension. "Ah, my mistake," I replied. "I thought you recognized me, but you have me confused with another, Officer Brubaker. I am not this Buddy you seek. I am... Joatman!" I proudly declared, thrusting a heroic finger into the air.
"You're not listening!" Officer Brubaker told me. "You can't be hee-ah no more!"
Not listening?
I suddenly realized that he was right. I hadn't been listening. I'd been distracted by my television commercial, instead. Cupping my hand to my ear, I listened carefully... and I suddenly heard what Officer Brubaker was trying to tell me: distant cries of police officers in distress.
A bomb... in a bank... in a really-really big building...
No time to stand around on corners. There was work to be done.
"Thank you, Officer Brubaker. Now, I must away. Duty calls!" Planting both fists on my hips, I struck a final superheroly pose for the good citizens of the city.
I spun on a dime, and then reached down and picked it up -- bus fare for my superheroly trip across town. With a final wave to the good officer, I jogged down the sidewalk, knees high and cape flapping behind me as I ran to catch the bus that was just pulling away from the curb up ahead.
This was a job for... Joatman!
*
I was slightly winded by the time I arrived at the bank, but healthier for the exercise -- the bus driver having obviously never seen me in his rear-view mirror and, therefore, accidentally accelerating through the streets instead of pulling to the curb to let me aboard.
No matter; I was here.
Joatman was on the job!
I ducked under the police tape that blocked the south sidewalk from the passage of the unsuspecting citizens of this, our fair city, and stepped into the newly-cleared courtyard. I waved through a wall of decorative trees and planter boxes at the edge of the square to my hordes of excited fans, who were even now being restrained at the north end of the courtyard by Officer Brubaker's valiant associates. None noticed me; none waved back -- no doubt due to the thick foliage that concealed a small portion of my superheroly presence.
I strode across the empty concrete, chin up and teeth gleaming in the sunshine for the news cameras that would no doubt be recording my heroic exploits for generational posterity. Negotiating the revolving door took only a minute or two. Then, I was inside.
Muted strains of muzak floated down from the ceiling speakers on a stale, warm breeze of polyester-scented recycled air. Plastic palm trees and a cardboard jungle display advertised the bank's newest investment opportunity -- shares of stock in the ground floor of their newly minted subsidiary: the Plastic Palm Tree and Cardboard Jungle Company.
It was a good investment.
The bank said so.
Why would they lie?
Ignoring the elevators to the right of the entrance, I crossed to the lobby to the left and greeted my fellow crime fighters -- a jolly group of officers from the bomb squad gathered around a large case on the floor.
"I've never seen anything like this, have you?" a tall officer in the back asked, hunching over the shoulders of his kneeling fellows and staring down into the open case.
"Not me," the one in front replied. He gazed upon the countdown timer inside the case with wide eyes, but with a slight tremble in his voice. It was understandable. They were all heroes, but none were superheroes.
Not like me.
Joatman!
"Whoever built this one must have been colorblind -- or nuts," the one in the front said, a bead of sweat appearing at his temple.
"Aren't they all?" the tall one asked. "Being nuts is part of a bomber's job description."
"Yeah, but this... I'm not sure I can disarm this thing with only three minutes left on the timer--"
"Then perhaps I can be of assistance," I offered, stepping into the circle of heroic officers and striking a superheroly pose, fists on hips and head turned in gleaming profile... although the gleam of my pearly-whites was slightly less than satisfactorily under the fluorescent bulbs of the bank.
"Oh, look what the cat dragged in," the tall officer muttered. "If it isn't Mister Mediocrity."
"Wrong," I chuckled. "It is I... Joatman!"
"Look, we've got a situation here, Mister Jack of All Trades, Master at None. Some guy came in here with a bomb and robbed the bank. He said he'd give the disarming codes if the bank tellers cooperated, but he didn't."
That sounded suspiciously like the work of my arch-nemesis, MiddleBoy Blue, the least famous of three brothers. A quick look at the bomb confirmed it, but MiddleBoy wasn't a bank robber. He only robbed banks when he needed money to pull of an even bigger job. MiddleBoy Blue was planning something, and I didn't think it had anything to do with knocking over a few plastic palm trees and a cardboard jingle.
"Look, we got a real problem here, Buddy. That calls for experts," the tall officer continued. "That ain't you, so beat it."
"On the contrary," I replied, momentarily puzzled that I should once again be confused for this 'Buddy' of whom he spoke. "This bomb is far from complex. Cut the blue wire over there," I instructed, pointing to a wire that hung off to one side of the main tangle of wires in the case.
"Are you sure?" the officer kneeling in front of the case asked.
"When it comes to bombs, Joatman is always sure," I told him with my most comforting and encouraging smile. He was doing his best, after all, even if his best wasn't quite up to the task presented to him on this fine crime-fighting morning.
"Here," I said, reaching down as he hesitated. "Allow me."
"No, don't--!"
There was a quiet snap. The wire separated beneath my highly-muscular superheroly fingernails. The ticking stopped. The countdown timer went dark.
The bomb was dead.
"That was amazing!" the stunned officer cried. "I didn't have a clue, but you defused it after barely a glance. How did you know which wire to cut?"
"Easy," I replied, buffing my nails and examining my handiwork. "Statistically speaking, it's always the blue wire."
The young man stared at me for a moment, no doubt stunned by such a simple revelation and struggling to form the proper words of thanks.
"You idiot! They were all blue wires!"
"You see?" I replied, ignoring my nails to strike another superheroly pose. "Statistics never lie."
The kneeling officer shook his head and his face draining of color. "Of all the--"
"Save it," the taller officer interrupted. "Ignore him and just look for clues. Let's see if we can't figure out exactly who sent us this little present."
"No need, Officer," I informed him. "This is obviously the work of my arch-nemesis, MiddleBoy Blue."
"I didn't know that you had an arch-nemesis," he said.
"Of course, I do. All superheroes have arch-nemesis...es."
"Really?" he asked. "So, why do you have one?"
*
I retreated to my library sanctuary, once more assuming the guise of an ordinary, mild-mannered professional college student. My ordinary broken glasses were held together with an ordinary bandage. Dozens of ordinary pens adorned my ordinary shirt pocket, which was protected by an ordinary pocket protector. My disguise held nothing out of the ordinary; I was sure to blend in, despite my Achilles Heel -- the one thing I simply could not disguise: my superheroly charm and my gleaming white teeth.
Hmm... make that two things.
Every super-villain left clues -- it was part of the super-villain Code of Conduct. Every superhero was trained to discover those clues. Blending in with the crowd was critical when searching for clues, since it was difficult to search for clues while signing autographs.
I flew through shelves of books and stacks of periodicals, my superheroly speed and my knowledge of the Dewey Decimal system making short work of thousands of years of printed history. Soon, not a single book or magazine remained at peace on its shelf, but to no avail.
Amazingly, I'd failed!
The library always brought enlightenment, but not today.
Sitting down, I wracked my superheroly brain, quickly considering where I might have gone wrong. It was only then that I realized the university library was on the cutting edge of technology, and that the edge of that technology currently cut along the dotted lines of imaging and electronic books. It was a new age, with new books ordered and received at the speed of light. I sat down here on the steps of the old school, but the new books were up those steps in the computer room. If my clue wasn't down here, it was sure to be up there.