What has gone before... Tommy Champion, Nebraska farmboy, and all-round hellraiser turned superhero, arrived in Los Angeles to become the official superhero of Nike. His cocky attitude and foul temper did not win him any friends, except for Michael, a Nike image consultant who gave him the superhero nom de guerre "Omega", and Leona Blade, Michael's friend and confidante. Tommy is operating under a directive - make favorable headlines in three weeks, or lose Nike sponsorship. Furthermore, Tommy's enemies at Nike, led by Nike marketing director Michelle Law, arranged for a competitor  (the young Canadian Permafrost) to compete against Tommy; whoever performed the greater heroic deeps in a three week time period would win his spot at Nike. But there are other forces, represented perhaps by the enigmatic Lieutenant Hawkins, who see Tommy as more than just another superhero, but as one of the Seven Chosen who will fight an important battle against the forces of evil.

The competition was a public relations bonanza for Nike, and eventually both men won positions at Nike, although as far as the general public is concerned, the competition is still continuing. Angered by Tommy's success, Michelle arranged for some of Tommy's private misdeeds -- his hijinks at an LA club, where his sex partner nearly died of a drug overdose -- to be exposed before a nationwide audience on MNN. Fearing his father's reaction to the revelation, Tommy rejected Michael's advice to stay in Los Angeles, and has returned to Nebraska to meet with his dad and reassure him about his recent actions.

Cross-country navigation for dummies. It sucks. You can waste hours searching for a recognizable landmark, all the fucking cities and towns look alike from the air, and if you're doing it without some sort of easily tracked map (or a GPS and an accurate set of coordinates), forget it. I don't have time to see if I can parallel an airline flight to Denver and then cross over the Rockies and look for Nebraska, especially at the speed I've discovered I can reach when I put all my power into it. So I just wing it northeast and hope I get there.

Yes, this is what I call speed. Shit, I hope I don't hit the ground at this velocity. I'd become a fine Omega paste spread across several fucking counties.

It sure is beautiful countryside though. I'm definitely going to have to schedule some time off to just fly around here. When I first got my powers, I enjoyed flying around Nebraska and got to see some great vistas of wide open spaces, but I wasn't nearly as fast as I am now, and I can reach the mountains with ease. It's so fucking beautiful up here I could almost become a tree-hugger.

I'm making real good time. I recognize the Sierras, pass over them somewhere near Las Vegas, marking it on the itinerary as a place where I'm going to have to stop for a weekend and get wasted. Continuing northeast should put me into Utah, I think. It's night, so it's going to be hard for me to find landmarks. Hopefully I'll be able to recognize the Great Salt Lake from the air. Let me see, Salt Lake City's in the southeast corner of the State, right? Hmmm, it's not like I can see the fucking state boundaries from the air.

As you can probably guess, I'm way off. I end up landing and asking for directions twice, the first time in Durango, the second time in Topeka.

It takes me about a little over an hour and a half to get home, traveling at speeds which I don't have a fucking clue how to estimate, and adjusting for the additional 'Tommy's navigation is fucking clueless' factor. I keep my mind on the navigation and the scenery -- anything but the problems I've been having. The scenery helps that a lot. It's funny how much of the land is settled, though, more than I thought. But when I start to see some of the familiar landmarks around Interstate 80 and pass over from Lancaster into Seward County, I'm a whole lot fucking happier than I ever thought I'd be to see this shithole again. I land at home at 11:20 in the evening, Central Time. Dad's a farmer, but he's never really been one for 'early to bed, early to rise' except at planting or harvest. The lights are still on in the house.

The door's unlocked, of course. Fuck, I'm almost ready to vomit. Dad's in the living room, sitting at the table in conference. Buck's with him, and (to my astonishment), so is Steve Doerksen.

"Hey hero!" Buck bounds on me and tries to tackle me.

I'm the small one in the family -- Buck's around 6'5" and a lot heavier than I am, built like a powerlifter. Buck's my cousin, but he's also my sort-of brother. Uncle Cranston and Aunt Helen died in a car crash when we were 11, and my dad took in Buck and his two older sisters and made them a part of the family. Buck's my age. Unfortunately, Buck also suffered some brain damage in the accident, enough to make him a real problem to handle. We've had our share of scraps, but I do love him like a brother. When we were growing up it was never hard to persuade him to do some real nasty shit with me. I got him into so much fucking trouble! But by senior year I'd gotten bored with making him do mean shit, and I really don't know what else he's good for. No, he does have an aptitude for farm work. And for making explosives, which we put to good use when I was younger. I guess I still do like being around him, although it's a little dangerous when he hasn't taken his medication. Dad and I have to monitor him closely, and I sometimes worry that he might get into one of his vicious moods when dad's the only one with him.

Steve's looking at me like he's about to have a fucking stroke. He's my age too and close to my size; he wrestled at 189 when I was a heavyweight. He's a dork. I like him (in small doses), but he's very emotional and being around him is like being with someone who keeps farting all the time by accident. He's also loyal to the point of being irritating, more like unwanted puppy than a man. Steve is my token gay friend. In tenth grade, his dad found him in his bedroom screwing another kid and kicked him out of the house. Buck and I discovered him a few hours later, on top of a water tower, ready to jump. Since he was my teammate, I talked him down, and I got my dad to persuade Noah Doerksen to let him back into the house. Since then, Steve thinks of me as a better friend than I actually am. Ironically we look alike, even more than me and Buck; he's got a similar narrow face and cleft in his chin, his golden hair (bowl-cut like a fucking boy band member) looks like mine but straighter and dorkier, and like most of Seward County, he has corn-fed, athletic good looks. I hate to say it, but he's a pretty shitty wrestler, having a tendency to choke in big meets and tournaments. Steve likes to wrestle me, for obvious reasons, but he's way too easy to pin for me to be any fun.

Then there's dad. As usual, I can't tell what he's thinking, except that he's worried about me. Dad's a strapping guy in his mid-40s, 6'4" and I don't have the nerve to ask him how much he weighs, not that he cares about that sort of shit. Dad actually has kind of an ageless look to him, most people guess that he's in his mid-to-late 30s. Most farmers age before their time, but not dad. He's also a member of the local blond-hair blue-eye club (given the Germanic ancestry of most of the local Mennonites, it's a pretty large one), and he wears his hair cut short, just like it was when he was in the military. People keep telling him that he looks a lot like Ed Harris, the actor, except that dad's a lot bigger. I don't think there's anyone more respected in Milford, perhaps because dad likes to help people, and he doesn't open his mouth very often. That's a combination worthy of a saint. He's the one who should be the fucking superhero, not me.
Mom's not here. We don't talk about mom in this house these days.

Buck and I half-embrace, half-wrestle. Eventually, I persuade him to sit down. "I saw you on TV!" Buck exclaims.

"You sure did." I'm looking around, gazing directly at Steve. "I bet I know what you've been talking about."

"Tommy" Steve begins.

"Get out, Steve."

"I said a lot more that they didn't air. A lot of good stuff."

"Of course you did. It just didn't fit into the fucking story they were trying to tell. It's called 'objective journalism'. They pick an object, and they journalize it. It's kind of like public sodomy, but with barbs on their dicks." I smile. "Get the fuck out of here, Steve. I'll send you a goddamn postcard later."

"I just don't want this to come between us"

"Steve, you're a sentimental shit, so just shut the fuck up." I snap.

"I"

"I can't deal with you right now!" I'm just about to lose it. "What the fuck were you thinking? I expect that sort of dumbass shit from Buck, but not from you. Jesus Christ, Steve, I know you've got a fucking brain!"

Steve's lower lip begins to quiver and cover his upper. Fuck, he's about to start crying. And I'm not even that close to the dork! Just because I talked him out of  jumping off a fucking water tower doesn't make us fucking buds.

Dad nods at Steve, and he finally composes himself, gets up and leaves. It's hard for either of us to look at each other, or to take our eyes off each other either. Shit, that's a weird feeling.

"How much of the program was true?" Dad asks. It's a demand, not a question.

"Most of it. I broke my promise. I did drugs."

"What drug?"

"Not sure. I thought it was a homebrew. It was sorta like Ecstasy. I didn't think it was illegal."

"How many lives have you saved?" Dad asks.

"Two, I think." I answer. "One definite, another probable."

"What else have you done that they haven't mentioned?"

I swallow damn hard. "I seduced a supervillainess." Buck smiles, but neither dad nor I are paying much attention to him. "I held her at the crime scene by having sex with her. I told her if she had sex with me, I'd keep her safe from the authorities. I lied. I just wanted the sex. And" This is fucking killing me. "I've also done a lot of drinking."

"Wow." Buck says.

Dad just gets to his feet, goes into a drawer and grabs a few things. "Tom, we're going for a drive."

"Are you going to take him out into the fields and shoot him, Uncle Roy?"

"Nope." Dad says. "Take care of the house, Buck. We'll be awhile."

Dad has a big lumbering '79 Ford pick-up truck, which he called "Old Shoe," because that's how comfortable it makes him feel. It rattles a lot, but it eventually gets him where it needs to go. We get in, and dad starts driving to God know where.

"So life's not what you expected?" Dad says. This is just talk to fill the air while we're driving. I don't know what dad has in mind, but I don't think it's 'The Talk'. 'The Talk' is for fourteen-year-olds, and dad isn't someone who treats you like a kid when you're not. Even so, I nearly jump out of the truck at the sound of his voice. I think I'd have felt better if he had told Buck that he was going to shoot me. At least that way it'd be fucking over soon.

"I gave up expecting anything years ago," I say.

"They always say at your age you should be making plans."

"I'm not in a business where you can make a lot of plans," I say.

"I can see that," Dad acknowledges.

"What was Steve doing at the house at this hour?" I ask.

"Apologizing."

"That's all that dork ever does," I say, shaking his head.

"He's your friend, Tom. You should treat him better. And considering what's happened between he and his father, it's a wonder he didn't turn out a lot worse."

Dad always did like Steve the most of all my friends, even more than Kenny Goetz, who was my best friend until the moment I found him making out with Rachel.

I just shake my head. "Steve just couldn't keep his mouth shut, and just had to go off and tell the entire fucking national media about every piece of shit that's happened to me in the last year. That hurt me a lot more than what Kathleen said. I suppose I should be glad no one got to Rachel. Or mom. Or Buck."

"You know, if you don't step in shit in the first place, nobody will complain when you mess up your carpet," Dad responds.

"I knew that was coming"

"I suppose everything we've got to say to each other is pretty goddamn obvious," Dad notes. "I'm sorry. Being lectured on the obvious just pisses people off. Besides you're an adult now. The lectures are over. At least until you get married."

I can't argue against what he said. I've done a lot of horrible shit, but one thing I've never done is show disrespect to this man. Everyone else on the planet, sure. But dad's a special case. "So what do you have in mind?"

"A lot of things." He's being non-committal. Just hold your horses. It's going to be a long trip.
The windows are down, but there's not much comfort to be found in the hot July air, even at night, not on the prairie. It's close to midnight now, or ten o'clock Pacific -- I'll have to take the time zones into account on the trip back.

The truck buckles and bumps its way into a cemetery on the outskirts of Lincoln. I recognize it as the cemetery where Granddad, dad's father Tom Champion (yeah, I'm named after him) is buried. Dad parks his car off to the side, climbs the fence, and beckons me to follow.

"We're not supposed to be here," I whisper.

But dad keeps walking, and I jump over and follow him. Dad takes us through the graveyard, probably the shadiest spot in Lincoln, and the most depressing. I'm as nervous as shit. Dad's confident enough for the two of us. After about five minutes navigating through this morbid maze, we reach Granddad's grave.

It's marked by a big slab of marble with a large steel plaque. I don't need the moonlight to know what it says:  "Thomas Alexander Champion. Revered hero. Born 1921 -- Died 1989."

It may as well read "my fucking god."  He was the family standard bearer; even dad found it hard to live up to his legacy, and sometimes I think that it killed him to try. But despite all the problems, dad turned out pretty fucking awesome.

I remember when Granddad was buried here. I was seven, it was the first time I'd ever been to a funeral, and I never understood why they needed to open the goddamn casket. Even today, that custom's never made a fucking bit of sense to me.

Dad stops, unzips his trousers, and starts pissing on Granddad's grave.

Holy fuck!

I can't say anything. Dad's face is practically stone while he's doing it. It takes about thirty seconds, and then he gives his dick a bit of a shake, tucks it in, refastens his zipper, and takes a look at me. A long hard look.

"Is this what you think I did to you?" I ask.

Dad reaches into his pocket, hands me an old, yellowed, heavily folded piece of paper. It nearly falls apart in my hand. "I've been meaning to do this for awhile. Here's why."

Dad's handed me a letter from my Granddad to a woman in England that he wrote in 1948, four years after the war. I've heard war stories about Corporal Champion all of my life. I've heard how he out-Audie Murphy'd Audie Murphy (and just who would ever name their kid Audie?), how he did incredibly suicidal things that even Major Alliance and the Old Glory would have thought twice about. I heard them from his squad-mates, the people who lived through what he did and ought to know them without adding unnecessary bullshit. If there was anyone that I looked up to more than dad, it was him, except maybe for Dan Gable.

Granddad's letter was written four years after he was stationed in England. Where, in a pub in Dover, this war hero and goddamn family paragon got so fucking drunk that he lost control of his senses, and raped a local barmaid named Denise Cole. In the letter, he's begging her for forgiveness, but at the same time, he's also denying parentage of the woman's three-year old daughter, and says that he won't pay a penny to help support her. Granddad also mentions that he'd be surprised if he actually works up the courage to send the letter -- my guess is that Denise Cole never fucking heard from him again.

I unzip my zipper, and get ready to piss on the grave too. Dad stops me.

"Save it for mine," he tells me.

"What?" I start. "Why?"

"I've done things almost as bad, Tommy. Hopefully, you won't find out about them until after I've passed on, but given how poorly I've hidden them, I'm surprised you haven't already figured them out."

"Do they involve mom?" I ask.

"Not directly. But I think they contributed to the breakdown. I don't know."

We're silent for a long time. Dad turns around and heads back to the truck.

"What should I do, dad?" I ask after a long silence. "I've been a goddamn superhero for about four days, and I've already fucked things up worse than I thought possible."

Dad stops walking and considers the question. "You know, your Granddad was a goddamn great man." He's not directly addressing the question, he rarely does -- dad always encouraged me and Buck to think for ourselves, and cloaked his advice in questions or anecdotes. "There aren't enough superlatives in the language to describe everything he represented to me. He practically was a superhero. I figure that's probably where you get it from."

"But he screwed up."  I reply, starting to climb over the fence.

"Oh, he screwed up big time." Dad responds. "And the sonuvabitch wouldn't face it either. That's what pisses me off. I have a half-sister, and I never goddamn got to know her. Here we have one man who can face down German machine gun nests without breaking a sweat, but he's such a coward that he hides from his own flesh and blood. How does such courage and such cowardice co-exist in the same man?"

I can't begin to answer that question. "Have you looked into it?" I wonder. "Have you ever tried to contact this Cole woman?"

Dad shakes his head. "Why bring up that business again?"

"I dunno. You don't suppose it could make things right?"

"It's way too late for that. Your Granddad couldn't do it. And I know if I were in the exact same position, I'd make the exact same choice he did. We're tough sonuvabitches, your granddad, me, and you. We're about as fearsome as the human animal gets. But when it comes to facing the consequences of when we screw up, we fail pretty damn miserably. But I'm hoping that you won't carry on this family tradition. That you possess that special kind of courage that we lack."

"The stakes are higher with me," I note.

"Not really. A fuck-up is still just a fuck-up." Dad rebuts. "But even if you do fail, Tom, I want you to know that I won't judge you. It's your life now. Just go ahead and live it the best you can."

"A farmer's got to have faith in his crop."

"I never thought of you as a crop, Tom." Dad tells me. "A crop I can pretty much predict. You, on the other hand"

"C'mon dad. You're used to handling worst case scenarios," I say.

We climb over the fence again, get back in the truck, and drive back home. We talk a bit about sports, about the Chain incident and about the other things that have happened to me. Dad says that given how I treated Bandita, I should watch my back in case the Matrons of Mayhem, that team of radical feminist supervillains, show up and decide to avenge one of their own.

"Bandita's way too minor league for them to worry about," I argue.

"Nothing's too minor league for a fanatic." Dad answers, all too convincingly.

The ride back home's pretty quiet. I'm actually pretty calm now. I know I have some heavy shit coming down tomorrow, and I wouldn't blame Michael if he weren't speaking to me again after I trashed his skylight. Dad brings me home without comment.

"I need to get up around seven-thirty," I tell dad. "I probably should be back in Los Angeles as soon as possible."

I sleep in Buck's room that night, placing a zone of silence around him before I turn normal; yeah, Buck snores like a broken down tractor. I'd like to think that I'm dreaming of wrestling Shane Barlow, and that Rachel's with me, helping to keep my emotions in balance, and that grandpa's alive and watching as I kick the boy-superman's muscle-bound Kearney Catholic school ass. But I can't control my fucking dreams, and anyone who says they can is full of shit. Nobody can control their dreams, sleeping or awake. They fucking control you.

Morning is a dawn of clear skies and hot sunshine. Dad gets up early, and Buck goes with him. I'm woken at six-thirty, not seven-thirty, and greeted by a breakfast of fried ham and a mountain of scrambled eggs and buckwheat pancakes.

"You don't have to eat in your superhero form, do you?" Buck asks, making a bicep for emphasis.

"Fuck that noise," I respond. "There is no way I'm letting fucking capes and tights stand in the way of a good breakfast."

Buck agrees, although the idiot still talks with his mouth full.

I have breakfast, make sure Buck takes his medication, and since I've got about an hour before I hit the skies, I ask if there's anything I can do on the farm before I go. There are a few chores that could be done easily with superhuman strength, so I do them. I also head to the experimental patch, about a half-acre of corn on which I'd been practicing my powers, and check the crop growth. I've been trying to make the ground more fertile, and encourage the corn to grow faster. It's working better than anyone's expecting, especially me: the crop's nearly ready for harvest. I have a little bit of time to get on the Internet and check out the topography between here and California a little better.

At seven-thirty, I say my good-byes. Dad and I shake hands and look at each other knowingly, and Buck bearhugs me until it hurts (or at least it would hurt if I were still normal, the big fucking brain-damaged goof). It's going to be a great day for a flight, with clear skies between here and the California coast.

I head westward. It's just a fucking beautiful morning. I head pretty much due west from Milford at a cruising altitude of about 10,000 feet, until I catch Denver in the distance and bend southwest. I make a correction when I catch Las Vegas in the distance to the south, swing close to due west, and I come pretty close to the mark. It takes some effort to slow down from supersonic to a speed that won't crack every fucking window in the San Fernando Valley. But it takes me just a little more than a half- hour to get from Nebraska to Los Angeles, and the effort doesn't hurt a bit. It's now about six o'clock Pacific time. Los Angeles is a little doozy this morning, except for the early morning commute.

Returning to Nebraska, even for a day, gives me a new perspective on the people below me. I'm beginning to think that the day's going to come when people in Los Angeles will become so used to commuting that they'll lose the need to fucking sleep; the average Los Angelino will come home from work, have a shower and eat, and then start the commute all over again.
That what the people of Los Angeles will become. Human salmon, driven by insecurity and the paranoia of this town's two-faced work ethic that their workaholic impulses will become so lodged in their neural pathways that they develop into some new instinct, like the need to eat and shit. And, like salmon, they'll keep throwing themselves downstream into their commutes, until battered and bloody, they give up their brain-fried lives.

One day, the need for the average Los Angelino to spawn themselves in their work is going to become so fucking important to them that only a few of them will take time to have a real fuck, and those who do won't have kids, because children would remind these self-centered little shits that one day they'll have to fucking grow up, or they'll be afraid that the extra work or expense of raising a family will fucking break them. Los Angeles is a really fucked up town. No wonder the rest of America can't fucking stand them and the shit they produce.

But I gotta admit, it's a great place to screw around.

I head back to Michael's, expecting the worst. Michael's cleaned up the broken glass from when I shattered the skylight, but hasn't replaced it. That's the first thing I do, even before I land. Then I walk over to his bedroom door, and knock.

Very briefly, I feel nauseated. Maybe it's the effects of the flight, but there's a voice inside my head that's telling me it's something else, something inside Michael's bedroom. It's something to check out later.

Michael opens the door. He's naked, and he's pissed. The first thing he does is slug me in the jaw, and then he screams and shakes his hand. I'm still in my superhero form, which means that my jaw has a tensile strength slightly higher than that of eighteen-inch thick reinforced titanium plate. Fuck, that must have hurt.

I grab Michael around the shoulder. "Shit, man. If you're going to do that you should at least warn me so I can go into normal form."

Michael's too busy wincing to protest. I grab his hand and work some mojo on it. It isn't that hard to heal a fracture. He's giving me one of the fucking nastiest stares I've ever seen. I'm almost tempted to laugh, it's such a goddamn funny look.

"I fixed the skylight." Michael is saying nothing. We just keep looking at each other. "Fine. If you want, I'll turn normal and let you beat the shit out of me. Or I'll strip naked and let you fuck me up the ass. Or you can tell me to fuck off and get the hell out of here, and I'll never bother you again." He's still silent. "C'mon, Michael, say something."

"I'll have one from each column." Michael finally says, and then even he can't keep from laughing. "Shit, farmboy. Goddamn you!"

"Goddamn yourself," I smirk. I jump him and start wrestling him, just for the hell of it, just for the release. He's strong and he's a motherfucker to pin, but he's also untrained, no real match for me, even when I'm mortal. I just think we need it -- we're too busy laughing for it to be a real fight. God, it's nice to see Michael loosen up after last night.

"You were worried about me being gay, and now you jump me when I'm naked?" Michael's smile is telling me not to take this bullshit seriously. "You ever hear about mixed signals, farmboy?"

"Sorry. I guess your dick looked too much like a sheep's, and I just lost it." I laugh.

"At least you're in a good mood," Michael notes. "You didn't fuck anyone over last night, did you? Is there anything I should know about?"

"Normally, that question would piss me off, you fucking baby-sitter," I say. "But I guess I deserve it. Aside from telling Steve Doerksen to fuck off, and sneaking around a cemetery at night" Michael's eyes narrow. I continue like it's no big deal. "I didn't do anything that would blemish the lily-white reputation of the Nike Corporation. How'd things go on your end?"
"Well, Bandita's gotten herself a lawyer, and she may bring a civil suit against you. And I managed to get in touch with Cliff Johnson -- he's the lifeguard who worked with you at the Jaguar Grill, and he's willing to state in public that you helped save that girl's life, and that no one saw you using drugs."

"That's a surprise. He was pretty fucking harsh to me at the time."

"I actually know Cliff. He's a pretty good shit." Michael says. "We gotta be at Nike at nine to meet the press, and hopefully we'll do a good enough job that we can avoid the firing squad at ten when we meet with Nike's board. Fuck, I hate spin doctoring."

"Not as much as I hate being spin doctored." I protest. "But I really was a fucking asshole last night. Get dressed and I'll make it up to you."

"How?"

"Just trust me." I smile. "You're about to have the best fucking experience of your life."

"Fine. And if I hate it, you'll turn mortal and let me beat the shit out of you."

"Deal."

Michael changes into something a little more formal than buck-naked and I grab him and fly through the skylight with him, this time opening the glass and closing it behind us as we exit. The morning's still beautiful. I head west, over the beach, and then kick him off. Michael starts plummeting toward the water.

"What the  --?" he screams.

"You said nobody would care about the fucking Jaguar Grill, asshole!" I shout back with an evil smirk. Michael begins to curse, but suddenly he begins to slow down, and he realizes that I've given him the ability to fly, and the most extraordinary look dawns on his face.

Michael manages to stop in mid-air, then he flies back up to me wearing the biggest fucking grin I've ever seen. "You are such an asshole!" he shouts. "I love you!" Then he screams like an eight-year-old on his fucking birthday and flies away.

I guess I felt the same fucking way when I first realized I could fly. I felt like kissing God.
It doesn't take Michael too long to tire himself out, and I help him back down to the beach, which is pretty empty at this early in the morning. Man, is he winded. I'm glad we didn't do this later in the day -- he'd probably be dead from sunstroke, given how hot it's been.
"I can die happy now." Michael says, lying on the beach.

"It definitely doesn't suck," I say. "Well, are you ready to meet the press?"

"You just had to goddamn bring me back down to earth, didn't you?" Michael shakes his head and pants. I have to agree.

Today, the Nike boardroom almost has a gothic look to it, with the press of human flesh, contorting for a view, people's faces with gargoyle twists and wide, ominous eyes. Huge lights and cameras are making it hotter than hell in here, making everything appear pale and washed out. I'm surrounded by a lynch mob of fucking vampires, which is about par for the course from the Hollywood press corps.

Oh well. If I screw up today, there's always Nebraska.

Michelle is here. She keeps trying to whisper little comments into my ear. I make a slight adjustment with my powers, and the world's suddenly dead silent. The shock of seeing everyone transform in an instant into a fucking mime is almost enough to make me laugh out loud. Michelle is annoyed that I'm ignoring her venomous little pieces of shit.

The clock hits nine. Press members are still pouring in. The chairman's about to start the meeting. I hold up my hand, and let the room know that I'm about to speak. I can see the cameras and the eyes swivel. I use my powers to try to make myself look a little more charismatic, to give myself some added confidence and poise.

"Look, I'm not used to people bailing me out when I screw up, and a contract with Nike isn't going to change that. I have a statement I'd like to make. I'm not a great public speaker, so I hope you'll be patient." I smile. "It's not like you have much choice, but I figure that you didn't come here just to be spoon-fed some spin doctor's bull, no offense to my friends here."

People are nodding. I haven't lost them yet. Good.

"Yesterday, after the MNN broadcast, I went home to Nebraska, to make sure everything was okay with my folks, and one of the first things my dad asked me was whether I had saved any lives since I came to Los Angeles. And I thought about all the questions that MNN had asked, and all the allegations they made, but I didn't recall them bringing up this question. And you know, I can't think of a more important question to ask somebody who wears tights, because that's the reason why I'm here."

More nods. No fuck-ups yet. Goddamn, I'm nervous.

"In case you were wondering, not including the woman at the club -- the credit for her rescue has to go to Cliff over here - the answer is two. First, there was a woman who walked in front of a bus, and I grabbed her before it hit her. The bus driver managed to put on the breaks, and as far as I know, a lot of people got shaken up, but no one was hurt. Second, there was a diabetic who I airlifted to a hospital. I didn't hear MNN talk about either of these incidents, and again, I wonder why."

There's some grumbling. I'm probably sounding too whiny. But I've already made the fucking bed, too bad I didn't remove the shit first.

"I'm not trying to boast, not this time. I'll save the boasting for when I haul Autocrat's ass to prison, and I promise you that on that day you'll be able to say that Omega is more obnoxious than any superhero you've ever met. But if the media ignores me when I'm saving people's lives -- and I don't mean to bitch or whine -- I have to ask myself what you guys really want from Omega. Do you want him to risk his life to help save people from psychotics who'd flash-fry you without blinking an eye? Or do you want him to tiptoe around and be a saint and a role-model and not screw up? And do you really understand what you're asking when you ask that?"

I pause and catch my breath. "I'm not saying that heroes are a bad thing. I had them too. When I was growing up, my heroes were my dad, Dave Schultz and Dan Gable." I'll bet only a handful of people here know who Schultz and Gable were. Fuck them. Let them do the research to find out about the two greatest wrestlers in U.S. history.

"My heroes had intensity, they were winners, they were the best. I didn't care if they weren't saints, or what skeletons were hidden in their closets. I just knew they were damn good. I knew who I wanted to be and what qualities I wanted to have; my heroes had those qualities in abundance, and that's why they were my heroes. But I never tried to duplicate them completely. I became, for better or for worse, my own man. And I think it's a good thing, to try to figure out who you are, rather than clone somebody else and lose your identity. I'm probably going to take a lot of flak for this"

"Oh boy," Michael says under his breath.

I glance at the Nike folk, and they're sweating. "But the very concept of 'role-models' just sucks. A lot of this so-called 'role-model' stuff is pure bull. It's a cheap shot used by people on a moral high horse to criticize anyone who don't share their inhibitions. Your morality isn't my morality, people. I like having a good time, and I do get wild sometimes. It's not going to change anytime soon. And yeah, I've made my share of screw-ups. A lot of what MNN said was absolutely true. But I've also dedicated myself to trying to protect the public from some very dangerous people, and I've done that too. It'd be pretty sad if saving people's lives were less important than having good manners or avoiding places that are on the morality brigade's boycott list."

 "He's buried himself." Frigia is egging Michael.

"Maybe," Michael says.

"We've heard this speech a thousand times," Frigia says. "Nobody who gives it survives. They know that anyone who gives it is always trying to cover something up."

I have to rethink my strategy a little. "I suppose you want me to touch on a few of the issues that MNN brought up last night. Fine. First, let's talk about Halcyon. I know you're wondering what really happened between me and him. We had a misunderstanding, and it led to a fight. I never wanted to hurt him, and I'd like to patch things over with him peacefully. We need to talk things over man-to-man, so I'd appreciate it if you let me do that first and then I'll get back to you with a statement."

I think it's a reasonable request, but the audience is sniffing for blood. Whatever.

"Second, there's the Chain. I know some people want me to apologize, or admit that I went too far. Sorry, there isn't an ounce of regret or apology in my body over what I did to that prick. He's a murderer who attacked me in my sleep and tried to kill me when I couldn't defend myself. And Omega had never done anything to him. You do the math."

On that point, I think I'm actually getting some sympathy. Just as long as I don't act like I'm happy he's in a coma, it should be okay.

"Third, Bandita. I'm hoping she'll use this experience to finally realize that three generations of crime simply suck."

I really didn't even need to talk about that one. MNN barely mentioned it. Why did I just open my mouth?

"Fourth, the Jaguar Grill. I went clubbing, like a lot of people do in this city. There's no crime there. I had sex. Between consenting adults, that's no crime either. There was an emergency, and I did my best to help. I don't even understand why this is even an issue."

There's some whispering that I didn't talk about the drug allegations. Too bad. No one saw a fucking thing except the girl, and she was the one who gave me the stuff. Worst case scenario, it's my word against hers.

"Finally, some other superheroes have made some comments about me. All I've got to say to them is 'wait and see, because you ain't seen nothing yet'. If what I'm doing is worthwhile, I'm going to do it well, and I'm not going to let the screw-ups I've made so far get in my way."
And as far as being 'a cookie' goes, Blockade, I have two words for you: "bite me." God, I really want to say that! But I fucking don't. I'll save that for a time when I'm not trying to keep the piranha from biting my ass. That's when I'll be able to afford to sound like some joke out of pro rassling.

 "Anyway, I'm not a great talker, and that's all I have to say. Hope you got some good sound bytes out of this. Bye." With that, I become intangible, and fly through the roof, leaving Nike with the shit I left behind.

I end up in a small deserted office right above the conference room. Shit, did I ever blow it. I feel like breaking down and bawling my fucking face. What the fuck was I thinking? Frigia was right. I've heard that same speech from others, and I didn't believe it from them. Why the hell should they fucking believe it from me? I don't even bother listening to what they're saying. I just feel like waiting quietly for the inevitable.

After some time has passed, Michael enters the room and sits down beside me. "I was hoping you hadn't left yet."

"You're probably the only one in this building who hopes that."

"Probably." Michael smiles, putting his arm over my shoulder. "I think the part about heroes may have saved it. Admitting that you had heroes gave you a human face."

"And the part on role-models sucking?"

"That part completely tanked," Michael admits. "But at least it was honest, and we can probably get some footage out of it. And you brought up a really important issue: what is a hero? It's a good thing to talk about. It shows that instead of just mouthing off, you're actually thinking about your role in the community."

"You are a fucking spin doctor," I say.

"Fucking right I am." Michael laughs.

"So am I packing my bags today?" I ask.

"I dunno. If they do turf you, you want to go out and get drunk?" Michael asks.

"Fuck yes." I answer. "By the way, a hundred bucks says I'm history."

"You're on." We shake hands. "By the way, the meeting's been rescheduled at four-thirty now. I think they want to see reactions from the conference before they make up their mind."

"Oh cry me a river!" one of the critics says. "Omega practically beats two men to death, and he's the victim?! Give me a break."

After a long, uneventful patrol, I return to Nike and hole myself alone in a boardroom on one of the upper floors. Metafight is playing on a big screen TV, MNN's daily half-hour of trench warfare disguised as a panel of commentators yelling at the top of their lungs at each other. Guess who they're talking about today?

"He did not beat Halcyon even close to death, Maury," A woman contradicts. "The Chain is garbage. He's guilty of multiple homicides. The police corroborated Omega's account about what happened to him."

"The LAPD probably like the fact there's now a superhero around who thinks like they do! They're an even bigger disgrace than he is!"

"That's a cheap shot and you know it!" the woman slams her colleague.

"If Nike wanted to get people's attention," an Asiatic man says. "Did they ever succeed. But I'm glad he's with Nike. When you've got someone as powerful as Omega I think someone looking over his shoulder is a really good thing If this guy weren't so powerful, there wouldn't be any controversy."

"If he weren't so powerful, he'd be dead!" the woman says. "The Chain would have strangled him, and Maury here would probably be on his feet cheering!"

"This is crap." Leona declares, turning off the channel. Her presence isn't a surprise to me -- I watched her as she came into the room, dressed in a low-cut dress.

"Going to a wedding?" I ask. It's a very nice dress. The cleavage is sexy, but not slutty.

"I just like to dress nice now and again. It's not spandex, of course."

"Would you like to see how you'd look as a superheroine?" I ask. "I can do it for you."

"Well, if you promise not to laugh." Leona blushes.

The approval sign has been given. Time to turn this conference room into the "Omega Cave," or at least into "Omega's Bachelor Pad." I transform a section of wall into a full-length mirror.

"Okay, how about Iron Maiden's uniform? You're tall enough."

"This is going to be ridiculous," Leona says.

"Well I don't have to do it" I smile.

"Don't you dare stop!" Leona protests, using the four words that men most like to hear. I laugh, and I get close and I gesture, and Leona (or at least her clothes) transforms into one of the most famous superheroines in the entire world.

"I look fat in this. I am definitely not built for this costume."

She's bullshitting and we both know it. Typical passive aggressive compliment hunt. She's a little chunky around the middle, and her thighs could use some muscle tone (although pointing these flaws out to a woman would constitute a bigger mistake than stripping naked at the press conference and telling them to fuck me up the ass). But Leona's worth going through even the obvious motions. I get close to her. "You look different than she does. But trust me, I've seen fat, and you're not it."

 So are we going to have sex, or aren't we? Jesus Christ, Leona?

 "That's sweet of you to say," Leona says, and she kisses me gently.

 I grab her, not too hard, but firmly and stare into her eyes, using all of my looks and charm to make her forget the swim-jim alpha male who's waiting for her back home. "You know, you can do more than just kiss me? If you really want?"

 "I think the kiss is fine, Tommy," Leona says, taking a huge butcher's knife, grabbing my genitals, and cutting them off with a swing worthy of a fucking Viking berserker.

 "Okay." I say timidly. Leona pats me on the shoulder, just like everyone fucking does. I'm Tommy Champion, everyone's fucking friend! God, it's enough to make me wish fucking Michael was sexually interested in me! I'm Tommy Champion, the guy with the world's sexiest fucking shoulders, and a dick that everyone hates! Shit! Goddamn them all!

 "Don't let those morons on the television get you down," Leona says.

 "Thanks." I smile.

 "Uh, my costume?" she says, and I change her back to normal. "You'll be great to have around here at Halloween."

 "Boo!" I say, and we laugh, and she's still laughing as I leave.

 I suppose I could always summon a duplicate of Leona, just like my fighting clone of Michael, and have sex with her. Fuck, I could always arrange for Frank to find a Leona-clone having sex with someone else, and maybe they'd break up, and make room for me to move in.
 Fuck! That's just goddamn pathetic. I walk over to the mirror.

"Tommy, have you been watching too many fucking soap operas?" the image taunts me. "The real problem is that Leona's looking at you like a fucking 16-year old kid, not a 25-year-old prime, seasoned piece of adult meat like Frank."

"Fuck Frank!" I snap.

"Give me a fucking break," the reflection says. "You met Frank. He's calm, cool, smart, caring, and he's got the body of an Olympic athlete. Why the fuck would she dump somebody like that?"

"I just want her," I say. "The reasons don't fucking matter."

"There are five million fucking women in this goddamn city, Tommy. And if only one in a thousand are gorgeous, smart, interested, and available, that's still five thousand primo pieces of female meat out there waiting for you, you goddamn idiot!"

I sigh. "Fuck you," I say, turning the mirror back into the wall. I take a few minutes to compose myself, and then head to the meeting. I'm numb right now. I'm not sure why, but sometimes I think I'm really fucked in the head.

About twenty people are packed into the room. Some Senior Vice-President starts the meeting, but Michael interrupts us, videotape in hand. He juggles it confidently.

"Before we start the meeting, I'd like to show something," he says. "I had a bit of an advertising brainstorm after the press conference, so I went to Theresa, and she greenlighted it, and me and a few of the boys prepared it. I think you'll like it."

"Go ahead, Mr. Carleton." Big Vippie gives him the go ahead.

The screen is black.

"What is a hero?" The screen asks.

"My heroes had intensity, they were winners, they were the best." I'm saying, in front of a press conference. Nine Inch Nails is playing in the background.

Quick cut. Permafrost is standing in front of a forest fire. A blizzard is extinguishing it. Snow and ash fall from the sky in a really fucked up mix. "Damned if I know," he shouts at the camera.

Quick cut. I'm lifting a giant robot. Voice overdub. Some of the voice has been reworked. "I never tried to duplicate my heroes. I became my own man."

Quick cut. Permafrost is watching as an injured firefighter is being brought out on a gurney. "I think being a hero hurts."

Quick cut. There's a really good shot of me with that humvee I scooped up in the police chase. "It's a good thing, to figure out who you are, rather than clone somebody."

Quick cut. Permafrost is walking into the flames, and the fire is being extinguished as he walks. "Being a hero isn't about perfection."

Fade. The Nike symbol on black. Permafrost voice-over. "It's about who you are."

"This is, of course, a very rough cut," Michael says. "We need to recut the dialogue, but I think you get an idea where we can go with this. But I definitely see an ad campaign coming out of this concept. Each ad would address a different superhero issue such as being a role-model, determination, making mistakes"

"We know all about that one," Frigia says.

"It definitely works." The Vice President ponders.

"And it plays out the contrast between our two sponsored heroes," Michael says. "And it doesn't shy away from the controversy. It uses it."

"Provided that one of them doesn't go to prison soon." Michelle digs in the dagger.

"And that's based on what, Michelle?" Michael responds. "The police weren't interested in the Jaguar Grill, they exonerated him over the Chain"

"Alright!" The Vice President snaps. "We're well aware of your opinions, both of you." Big Vippy then turns to me. "Omega, I know you like to 'ride the edge'. But if you keep crossing the line, we're going to have to terminate your contract. We need your word that you're going to try not to damage this company's rep."

"I'll try," I say.

"And the next time there's a press conference, leave it to us. We have professionals who know how to handle the press."

"Sure," I bullshit.

"And Mr. Champion, we hired you to be a hero. So far, you're not meeting expectations."

"Okay," I say, wondering what the fuck he wants me to do that I haven't already done.
"Meeting adjourned."

Frigia goes to object, but Big Vippie has learned from the previous meeting where Michelle kneecapped her next promotion, and leaves the room before she can turn the meeting into something from a bad sit-com again.

"Pay up." Michael comes up to me after the meeting and hits me with the ever-popular hand slap on the back of my shoulder.

"I need to do more fucking damage," I smile, handing him a C-Note.

"Trust me. You've done enough." Michael laughs.

"Tell me about it. I just hope this hasn't damaged my reputation with the police."
"It probably has." Michael laughs. "It's five o'clock, farmboy. Time to stop giving a fuck about this shit."

"Last time I stop giving a fuck, look what happened." I pout.

"Trust me, letting it get to you is goddamn worse."

Michael drives me over to his apartment. The commute sucks, but Michael says he doesn't want to fly. There's some sort of slowdown on the 101, and it takes us close to an hour to get to Michael's place in the Valley. I get an odd sense of hostility when I enter the apartment, like there's something in here doesn't fucking like me, and it isn't Michael. But this is probably my fucking imagination going into overdrive after getting that warning from Hawkins, so I ignore it.
"I'm ordering out for Chinese," Michael says with a smile. I ignore him and just watch the television. It's a rerun of Fresh Prince of Bel-air, and it's really goddamn lame: preachy, self-righteous, and not funny. It's cookie-cutter cardboard characters who only gain some semblance of three-dimensionality when it comes time for the heavy-handed moral. It's some Hollywood hack's idea of a guy who has 'attitude'. Just like me.

Great. All I need to do is start rapping and I can become Will Smith.

Michael hands me a bottle of a clear liquid. "Goes great with Chinese."

I take a swig. "This is fucking vodka!"

"It's goddamn Perestroika in a bottle!" Michael shouts. "It goes perfect with Chinese, farmboy."

About a three-quarters of an hour later, the doorbell rings. It's an incredibly hot Chinese woman in a red dress holding cartons of Chinese food. My god, what a fuck she'd be!

"This is Ling," Michael says, starting to slip off his clothes. "Can I order out or what?"

"You ordered us a hooker?"

"Nobody blinks at call girls, farmboy. And I wanted to thank you for the flight this morning," Michael says. "This is going to be a Chinese meal unlike any you've ever had." He lies down on the sofa, and 'Ling' takes the chopsticks, opens the carton, and starts to feed him, putting streaks of sweet and sour sauce on his chest and licking it. "Well, come on," Michael beckons.
I join in, at least as far as the feeding goes (although not off Michael's pecs). But when the foreplay ends, and the real sex begins, it takes me about five minutes before I get totally creeped out. I've never done group sex before; fucking has always been something I've done in private, it's a really personal thing for me. Brushing up against another guy while I'm fucking someone is something I'm not used to. I finally excuse myself, head into the bathroom, and shut the door. I could fly away, but I don't. Don't ask me why. I just sit on the toilet, listening to Michael and Ling while they continue to go at it. He sounds like a fucking stud, and just keeps fucking going, and I've never heard an orgasm that sounded so good. She's screaming at the top of her lungs in Chinese. She sounds like a rabbit caught in a trap, a fucking red-hot horny white rabbit. Fuck, is this ever depressing!

About a half-hour and two orgasms later, Michael opens the bathroom door. "Hey, farmboy, come say good-bye to the lady," he says.

Wearily, I get off the john, and I thank the hooker for giving us a good time. She's playing her role to perfection, bowing and thanking us, although I wonder if the bow is supposed to Japanese and not Chinese. Michael hands her a rose with six C-notes wrapped around the stem -- fuck, is he ever good at this shit -- and she leaves.

"I'm sorry," I start to say.

Michael just laughs. "Well, I'm sorry that you didn't like my present. I thought she was great."

"I just well I've never really done it when another guy's around. It's kinda weird."

"I keep forgetting you're practically a virgin." Michael shrugs.

"I am not a fucking virgin," I protest. Michael just laughs at me.

"Don't get hostile," Michael says. He's right, I'm starting to get pissed. "By Hollywood standards, I'm practically a virgin too. So what was the sex like back in Nebraska?"

"A fuck is a fuck," I say. "But the people are different."

"What were the people like? How many did you fuck?"

"Michael, I like you," I say. "But it's none of your goddamn business."

"I keep forgetting that at your age, sex is so fucking serious." Michael sighs. "Okay, the Chinese didn't work. Is there anything else I can get you? Is there anything that you really, really want?"
I think for awhile. "I'd like my life to be less of a fucking mess right now. And I'd love six minutes on a wrestling mat with Shane Barlow."

"High school's out, farmboy," Michael says, slapping me on the back. "You graduated last month. Put it behind you!"

I pause for a long moment. "Have you ever had something you just couldn't get off your mind. A goddamn demon that you couldn't kill, Michael?"

I don't know where that fucking metaphor came from. Michael cocks an eyebrow. "Farmboy, that is the stupidest, fuckingiest question I've ever heard." Michael replies with a smile, and he goes back to the half-empty cartons and starts slurping up chow mein noodles like spaghetti.
Fuckingiest? You gotta love anyone who mauls the English language like that.

Morning finds me in better spirits than I've experienced in quite some time. I'm hoping that, at least for today, I've seen the last of the media controversy.

One thing that's bothered me for the past few days is that Stormtrooper robbery. Yeah, I foiled the robbery and put those diamond-thieving clowns behind bars. But there was someone was directing that operation, and whoever he or she was, they just got to sit back and watch the show and munch popcorn in peace. It'd be nice if I could do more to them than just hand them a mild setback. Time to do some investigation.

I head over to have a chat with my friends at the LAPD, only to find that I'm about as welcome 'downtown' as a rabid skunk. Most of them would like to throw me in the cells and end the embarrassment. Since they can't do that, they do the next worst thing, which is to hand me over to my good ol' drinking buddies Officers Surly and Shithead. Even Shithead isn't that friendly to me today. Cool. Every scowl makes my smile more obnoxious.

"I'd like to see if there were any other diamond exchanges that have been hit in the last few weeks."

"Well," Shithead says. "I know our detectives have been looking into that information, but I'm not sure you're cleared to share it with."

"Let me look at the police reports," I say. "I'll draw my own conclusions. Let's just call this 'preliminary detective training'."

"Just give him the goddamn reports," Surly says. "With any luck it'll take him a few hours to go through them, or he'll get bored and leave, and we won't need to put up with this bullshit."
You know, I can actually fucking respect Officer Surly.

A huge stack of police reports are thrown on my lap. Fuck, there's a lot of crime in Los Angeles. And they make sure the paperwork stacks up even higher than the crime rate.
"Can I use a computer?" I ask.

"You'll find the written reports are a lot more detailed," Shithead tells me.

"I'm not asking to see the electronic versions. I just need a computer with a word processor and an Acrobat reader," I explain.

"I'm afraid we don't have any computers available," Shithead bullshits. The officers around him are on the verge of openly busting out with laughter.

"Fine." I smile. I concentrate on the best machine I can find in the office, and sucdenly an exact duplicate of it appears on the table in front of me. People drop their coffee cups. I ignore the impulse to smirk - better to do that later -- and then concentrate on the paperwork. Instantly, it's all loaded into the machine. Sometimes I fucking love my powers. It takes me a few seconds to change the machine so I don't need to use the secretary's password, then I begin searching for the word "diamond."

"Jesus fucking Christ," the sergeant mutters.

"I see." I say. "Beverly Hills, ten days ago. Four guys in stormtrooper armor, stopped by Blur, but unlike mine, they escaped. Heh. Score one for the new kid in town. And then there's a jewelry store in West Hollywood eight days ago, where they got away with a satchel of raw, uncut diamonds."

People are starting to look over my shoulder. "Back in the old days, they'd have burned you as a witch," The sergeant says, almost breathlessly.

"Back in the old days, I'd have burned them as witch-hunters. Okay, Sarge, let's cut the bullshit. What do you guys know about the armor these bozos were using?"

"You know Purgatory Prime?" the sarge begins to explain.

"The prison for supervillains in Alaska? Of course I do. Do you mean this is the 'Warder' armor that the guards use there?"

He seems a little surprised that I figured it out so quick. "About two months ago, the blueprints for the Warder prototypes at the Smithsonian were stolen. If I recall correctly, something big broke into the place. Made a real mess. They think they used some big machine, but I don't remember the specifics."

"You know, maybe it wasn't such a good idea" I begin to say it really isn't a good idea to have the specs for working powered armor in a museum, but I'm interrupted by six men in dark shirts entering the precinct, with a clearly panicked policeman in tow.

"Sarge, you better hear what they have to say," the cop says.

The blackshirts look at me with complete contempt and wild eyes. "You got a complaint?" I snap.

"We are here to deliver an ultimatum to the city." The shortest and oldest of the men says. He pulls out what looks like a remote control detonator. The police sergeant stops me with a motion, but I wasn't going to attack - I wanted to hear what the morons had to say first, unless I felt imminent danger. "A dozen police cars have been rigged with trigger-activated M3 plastique. Unless our leader is released from his confinement within one hour, we will blow up one of your cars. If you still fail to release him, we will blow up one car each hour until our demand is met."

"And who is your leader?" the sergeant says in a low calm voice.

"The Great Dictator," the terrorist says.

"Charlie Chaplin?" I blurt. Everyone looks at me like they'd like to trade me to the villains in exchange for the detonators. I can't help it if they haven't watched any fucking classic movies. (Actually I think it was from a Chaplin movie; I'd be fucking embarrassed if I'm wrong, it's been so long since I watched any of that stuff that I'm not exactly sure where the reference comes from.)

"Tell the idiot to be silent." The terrorist demands, his hand inching toward the detonator button.
Okay, Tommy, focus. No more fucking jokes. They're assholes, but they're serious assholes who can blow up a shitload of innocent people and fill the local news broadcasts with stories on police widows and funerals for the next three weeks. It occurs to me that stopping these deluded pieces of shit would be a great way to restore my rep, but I do my best work when I put my fucking ego in check and just do the job, so I don't even bother thinking about that. These shitheads are deluded half-wits, and I have the power of God. C'mon Tommy, this should be a real easy one.

Some of the cops look at me. And they were all turning their heads a few minutes ago. No, I can't fucking think about that either. "Any ideas?"

 "Uh, no..." I stammer. "I just beat people up. Maybe I could fight the Dictator, and if I win, they surrender, and if he wins, he gets released."

They roll their eyes. I do my best to maintain a vacant expression, as if I'm surprised by their reaction.

"Sarge, we could order all the cruisers off the street," a cop suggests.

"No cruisers means more foot patrols -- more foot patrols means Los Angeles gets reduced to British beat-cops," the sarge says.

"We can't do that sergeant." I protest. "We all know how crime-ridden London is. We sure as hell don't want that sort of crime rate in Los Angeles!"

Jesus, I didn't realize he was such an idiot. But even if we did that, they'd just blow up the bombs at the station.

The sergeant thinks, and then notices me in his head. Huh?

It's me, I telepathically inform him. Sorry about that bullshit, but I want to put them off their guard. Now, while I pretend to be a musclehead with shit for brains, here's the real plan.

I have a frantic telepathic conversation with the sergeant, who agrees to go along with my scheme. The sergeant turns to the terrorists. "Well, the truth is that we really don't have much to go on against the Dictator. Mostly FCC violations concerning the radio emissions produced by his giant robot," the sergeant says. "We were going to release him, but we still need to talk to the District Attorney to make sure all the right forms get filled out before we can let him go. In the meantime, Mulhoney, why don't you escort them to the prisoner so they know things are on the up-and-up?"

One of the cops gathers up the followers, who are about as happy with the turn of events as terrorists can get. When their eyes aren't trained on me, I turn invisible and follow them. Stage one of Omega's foolproof master plan.

The men are escorted to a cell. Out of costume, the Dictator is a putz, a fat, greasy-haired balding guy with a pencil-thin moustache that makes him look like the sort of wuss that Bill Gates would beat up for his lunch money, and whose ass probably wouldn't be touched even by a drunken horny transvestite. He's pretty high on the loser index.

"What news on the Revolution, my brothers?" Like a lot of these super-losers, the Dictator can't talk like a normal fucking person; instead, his diction seems to come out of a bad Marvel comic book. I didn't think people would fucking channel Stan Lee until after he's dead. Still, I listen very carefully as he talks a really bad Fidel Castro riff with his brain-dead flunkies. It's all platitudes and vengeance through clenched teeth. Dicky probably thinks he's being monitored, so he doesn't discuss his master plan, he just gives them a pep talk. I think even the fanatics eventually get bored.

I listen for about forty-five painful minutes before the guards come back for the Dictator's goons. "We'll have El Bossy out of here for you in just a few minutes."

"You will treat the Dictator with greater respect!" Big Dicky shouts.

"We just need to finish the paperwork and get him back into his longjohns," the cop smiles.
"Go, my brothers! Victory is ours for the taking!" The Dictator shouts. What a fucking idiot. The deluded horde returns a long armed salute. Just because Pat Buchanan is running for President doesn't mean we can uncork the fourth fucking Reich yet.

The cops escort the lackeys out to a waiting area. Okay, Stage Two complete. Now for the fun part.

The lead terrorist is nervously checking his watch in the holding area. There's only a few minutes left until the deadline. As some moron of a superhero suggested to them, the cops have been instructed to park their cars in deserted areas and walk away.

The minutes count down. The lead terrorist is beginning to fiddle with his detonator. It's time to intervene

That's when the Dictator arrives, resplendent in a powered suit with elevated shoes and about fifty pounds of false muscle. That costume just looks fucking ridiculous, like a cross between a Roman Centurion's armor and Napoleon. "Your Dictator thanks you for releasing him," the man addresses the cops. His voice is deep and heavily filtered, using the latest in masculine overcompensation technology. "I wish to inform you that the Revolution bears you no ill-will, and when you come to realize your place in the New Order, you will be welcome. I am not the first great man to be wrongly incarcerated" The egotistical buffoon turns to his followers, and keeps talking. You'd think that if supers wanted to role-play, they'd stick with fucking Dungeons and Dragons. "But know that incarceration only strengthens my resolve."

The police look at him with incredible coldness. The son of a bitch is smiling under all that faggotty battlearmor. "Now, if you would be so kind as to return the Spear of Destiny to me"
A cop goes into a weapons locker, retrieves the requested item, and hands a big hunk of metal and electronics to the dick in the fucking battlesuit. It gives off an odd whiz when it makes contact with the suit. The Dictator appears to be a little nervous, he's juggling the metal, rather than holding it confidently. "It is done. Let the world shake! The Revolution continues!" Then the Dictator chortles like a madman, completing the Z-movie effect of his dialogue. I have to say, when somebody takes that sort of rhetoric seriously, it makes Buck look like he still has all his brain cells by comparison. Of course, the words that are coming out of the Dictator suit aren't that far removed from what you'd hear from a lot of political science professors on campuses across North America.

The tin-plated Dictator and his little band of merry half-wits walk out of police headquarters. It'd be nice to take down the goon squad now, but we don't know how many of them there are. It's better to let the Dictator play out his hand.

"What next, leader?" one of the followers asks Dicky when they're a safe distance from police headquarters.

"I have much work to do." The Dictator appears very confident. "But I wish to thank the police for my incarceration -- with fireworks. Tonight, we must all assemble on the plateau above the Hollywood sign, by the transmission tower. Seven o'clock precisely. When all my followers have arrived, we shall detonate the squad cars simultaneously. The fires shall light the way for the Revolution."

The follower nods.

"Since my base is disheveled I shall rely on you to spread the word," his leader tells him. "The authorities shall be watching me."

"Of course, leader," his ass-monkey replies.

"Can I count on you?"

"It shall be done!" Generic Terrorist #1 says, and he and his compatriots separate from their leader.

Stage Three complete. Give myself fifty fucking bonus points.

I spend the rest of the day nervous, but it's an invigorated type of nervous. I feel so confident and happy about my fucking plan, I really want to scream to the world how clever I am, like goddamn Peter Pan. But the most critical stage is yet to come.

The evening news is filled with reports that the Dictator has been released from custody for lack of sufficient evidence. The reports also mention that I was at headquarters at the time, and I did dick all to stop them. Fuck, are people angry. No one can get hold of Blur right now, but I'll bet she's really goddamn pissed - not that I'd blame her. But the worse I look now, the better it'll look later.

Provided that I haven't fucked things up, this should be the shits. And if I have, I'm moving to Alaska.

Seven o'clock arrives, and a big fucking rented limo drives up the Hollywood Hills, containing El Puké Los Loser and flying two shitty looking 'Dictator' flags (a clenched fist on an ugly red, green and black striped background). Since the charges have been dropped, it's only logical to assume that the Dictator would go for the drama queen entrance. And if the audience reaction is any indicator, I'm right -- the grand entrance only emboldens his 'troops'. There's a crowd of about twenty people who cheer when the Dictator makes his way up to the top of the slope.
"Is everyone here?" The armored figure asks Terrorist #1, who moved straight to his boss's ass on arrival.

"Yes. I regret we were unable to recruit any more," the flunky says.

"That will change soon." The Dictator holds up his hands and addresses his "brothers."

"My friends, when Blur destroyed the People's Robot, our dear brother Maximus, I nearly despaired," the villain says. "But only for a moment! Your loyalty has rekindled my faith in the Revolution! This is a time for heroes! It is a time to hold a torch to the city of Los Angeles and put it afire so its people can be shown the way!" Shit, it's really so fucking hard not to laugh at this asshole's kind of dialogue, but one slip and everything will get fucked. "Hold high your detonators! Let me see all who would unleash terror upon our enemies!"

Eight people hold up detonators. I estimate the radius, and how much power I'd need to use to contain the signal.

"Come forward, brothers, and stand by my side at this moment of glory!" The Dictator shouts. The eight wackos with their fingers on the triggers do their little brotherhood cha-cha and stride toward their leader, surrounding him in a kum-bay-yah circle. "Now let us show Los Angeles the true power of the Dictator and his Revolution!"

Then suddenly, the Saturday morning cartoon is complete. They push the buttons.

And, all across the city of Los Angeles, nothing fucking happens.

The signal blocked worked. Not a problem when they're so close together.

Some of the followers are a little perturbed that they didn't see lots of distant explosions. I knew I should've had the cops set off some flares, goddammit, why didn't I mention it to them? But most of the followers are simply assuming that their precious El Dicky's plan went down like clockwork and have already begun celebrating their 'victory'. The Dictator holds up his hands to demand silence.

"I have but one more proclamation!" the Dictator shouts. The followers await his next words like they're the fucking Second Coming. "You have the right to remain silent! If you choose to waive that right, it will be held against you in a court of law!"

And, with that, I bust out of the Dictator suit and expose myself in all of my blond-haired, blue-eyed Omega glory. Man, the look on their faces is so goddamn priceless! You didn't honestly expect me to let them to release that fucking idiot onto the streets, did you?
A large cordon of police storm out of a rush of nearby bushes and the radio tower building, and surround the confused, frightened masses. The Dictator's henchmen surrender without a fight, except for Terrorist #1 who pulls out a gun and gets shot five times before he can even take aim. Shit, those police marksmen are good.

"Revolution's over, folks!" I smile. "Putting an end to scum is what the Omega does best! That's why I'm the last letter in the alphabet -- nothing bad ever gets past me!"

"That is such a corny line." Frigia shakes her head. It's now the next day, and we're reviewing the footage in a conference room at Nike. I've never felt more relaxed in this building; success is better than a fucking massage. "It's just painful!" she adds.

"Yeah, but it works," Michael replies.

"I hate to admit it, but it does." Frigia says. Oh, my fucking God, did she almost crack a smile?
"You know, holding that spear of Destiny gizmo just felt so wrong." I blurt out. "I wonder what the fuck it really is?"

"LAPD officers searching the homes of the accused terrorists have uncovered many caches of mercury switches and M3 plastique. At least a dozen squad cars were found rigged with the explosive."

"The Dictator's gang were nutcases, but they were serious nutcases," the sergeant says on camera. "We were very fortunate to have Omega's assistance today. He really surprised us. The kid has potential."

"This was nothing." The camera cuts to me, doing a humility spiel. "These boneheads were hardly Think-Tank. Omega's brain-damaged cousin could have out-thought these clowns."
Referring to myself in the third person is really fucking stupid, but Michael and the rest of Nike's image polishers seem to think it indicates self-confidence and 'attitude', so I've been training myself to do it. It's the one compromise I'm willing to make for marketing, although I have no doubt that as time goes by, I'm going to be bending over more and more for those dicks.
"So dozens of police officers and their families can sleep safer tonight, and LA's most controversial superhero has now become its most celebrated..."

"For today," Frigia adds.

"Alex West, reporting for KTLA."

Michael switches off the channel. "Even you have to admit he did good," he tells Michelle.
"I've never questioned his competence. Just his sanity," Frigia responds. "And trust me, he's got a long, long way to go before I come close to changing my mind on that account. I'm just glad we don't have policeman bits all over the city. Or egg on our faces."

With that remark, Frigia leaves. "The Queen Bitch has left the building," I whisper.

"She has indeed. And so should we." Michael leans back in his chair with a big-ass fucking grin and looks at me. "Time for the weekend, farmboy. What'd you want to do?"

 "I've had enough Boy Scout bullshit for one week." I smile. "Let's get fucking wild!"
 

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