It started with a dwarf walking into the conference room with two tabloid newspapers tucked under his arm.  It was not exactly the normal course for an assignment to arrive at the Department of Defense, despite what The World Examiner had probably claimed on page three.

Smoke hung in the conference room like a sweet-smelling specter, scouring the color from the ceiling-to-floor shelves and oak furniture, making the whole scene look a bit like a tarnished old-fashioned photo.  Even halfway through his second Cuban cigar, Old Glory studied Dr. Wight, so small against the brown, overstuffed chair in which he sat.  The little man seemed a bit distracted, staring off in the distance, perhaps at some obscure pattern in the looming smoke.

Granted, Dr. Wight was a dwarf, which made it somewhat difficult for him to get noticed, but he was nevertheless a hugely successful private investigator.  Some even considered him the world's best paranormal detective.  Apparently he was well-versed in arcane forms of chemistry and other sorcerous trades in the occult.

Old Glory sighed then looked down at the paper on the table.  He could have made out the headline from down the hall: "Atlanta Can't Brave Native Curse."  He picked the paper up.

"What a hoot," he laughed.  "It says Turner Field is being tormented by a poltergeist.  Serves the Atlanta Braves right too, with their millionaire ball players and their even wealthier club owners -- Ha!  Oh look, it says they think it might be an irate working-class fan who's behind it.  Yeah, I can see that..."  Old Glory placed the paper back down on the table, then began puffing on his cigar, snickering.

General Gardner frowned and, his finer judgement notwithstanding, reached for the tabloid, giving it a close inspection.  The article was a mass of hysteria and seemingly falsified facts, which was standard prose for a tabloid.  The only thing of true intrigue was the side bar, featuring pictures of the baseball stadium, displaying sections of the building immersed in water.  In one panel, water lay like a translucent blanket over the playing field.  Through its glassy surface broken bleachers rose, jutting out like the fingers of a giant hand.  Another panel revealed a different area of the stadium where other shapes punched randomly out of its watery coverlet: the broken spines of water-warped beams; an oblong shape, swollen on one side, that might have been a concession stand; and less identifiable shapes, all reduced to flotsam and jetsam.

"I read about this story in the Free Press," the general concurred, "but it said forensics investigated the flood.  It was a busted water main."

Dr. Wight peeled his gaze off the smoke that hung over the room and looked at both General Garder and Old Glory.  The little man had the kindest, most studious eyes they had ever seen.  "Of course the Free Press said that," he replied.

General Gardner frowned.  "Why do I find it hard to believe that the Free Press is white-washing facts but the Examiner isn't?"

Dr. Wight pursed his lips and shrugged.  "Perhaps it has to do with you being part of the majority that believes tabloids are sensationalist tripe.  I read what the Free Press wrote as well.  'A freak surge of water' -- that is what they called it.  Look, do you not see the connection between this incident and the one that occured at the football stadium in Washington just weeks ago?"

"Surely you don't think the flooding at Turner Field is tied to the bombing at FexEx Stadium?" Gardner challenged.

"Wait a second here."  Old Glory's brow arched, as if the general's question sparked an idea.  The super-soldier considered his idea, nodded, biting down on his cigar.  "I'm getting your drift, Doc.  You think these were planned hits, and by someone who doesn't particularily like Indian mascots, right?"

"Actually, by someone who doesn't like the use of Indian mascots.  But, yes, that is what I've deducted.  And there's more..."  Dr. Wight set aside his cup of tea in order to use his right hand.  Using his left was not an option, as that particular appendage was disportionately larger and made of silver and iron.

Old Glory straightened and his eyes widened, imagining the metal hand could smash through stone.  Then he set his jaw and watched, unmoving, as the dwarfish doctor passed another tabloid to him.

"Take a look at page five," Dr. Wight added.

Old Glory looked down at the paper and turned to the mentioned page.  "...So, Madonna sold her baby to loan sharks -- who cares?"

"Try to be serious about this," General Gardner insisted with a frustrated sigh.

Old Glory merely smiled.  "Ah, wait a sec...  It seems the Washington Redskins are having a little trouble with spontaneous combustion.  It says here that a bomb wasn't what turned FedEx Stadium into a giant ash tray.  Nope.  A witness, who happened to be driving by the scene, claims that he didn't hear an explosion.  He says, 'One second it was dark, then it just seemed like the whole stadium went up in flames, and burnt down in no time.'"

"Let me read that..."  General Gardner grabbed the tabloid and scanned the article that read, "FedEx Stadium Now Red's Ex-stadium!"  Gardner ruffled the paper as he slammed it on the table.  "This is ludacrous," he said.  "A stadium just doesn't spontaneously combust!"

"No," Dr. Wight admitted. "At least not in the manner you're suggesting."

Gardner looked at Old Glory for a supporting opinion, but the super-soldier responded with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Well," Old Glory then began, "Washington bomb squad didn't find any residual traces of an explosive, something you'll find from C-4 or Semtex.  And there was no outward pattern to the debris, no blast radius."

"What about an incendiary device?" asked the general.

Old Glory nodded, still biting on his cigar.  "Of course that's a consideration.  But the blaze worked at an incredible rate.  I mean, the fire department had a good response time to this fire, so they should've been able to salvage the stadium.  You saw the news.  FedEx was nothing but a chimney sweep's wetdream."

There was an uncomfortable silence and exchange of glances among the three men.  After a long moment, Old Glory started.  "I get the idea that you know more than what you've just told us.  Let me guess, a terrorist faction of A.I.M. is behind this.  They have a meta working for them, right?..."

"I've contacted American Indian Movement," Dr. Wight said.  "They implore that they're not responsible for these attacks.  I did have a chance to quickly sweep both stadiums, however, and like the tabloids, I don't think we're dealing with a bomb or a broken water main here.  No, occult energies were expended at the sites.  Something of a paranormal nature is without a doubt behind what happened at FedEx Stadium and Turner Field."

"So it's poltergeists,"  Old Glory laughed.  "I love it!"

Dr. Wight shook his head.  "Not in the nature you are suggesting."

The super-soldier stopped laughing, his querying eyes piercing through a cloud of cigar smoke.

Gardner sighed.  "Alright, you've obviously piqued my interest," he said.  "So who or what are we dealing with?"

"Totem," Dr. Wight answered.  "And I have reason to believe he will strike Cleveland next."

During the next hour, Dr. Wight quickly laid out the story for General Gardner and Old Glory.

It seemed Totem was a powerful Blackfoot Indian, possessing the supernatural ability to generate and control the four natural elements of earth, wind, water, and fire.  As a freedom fighter, his résumé was a laundry list of attacks on authoritarians.  He spearheaded  Saskatchewan, overthrowing its government from changing land claims to its Indigenous people.  He helped dismantle a string of private schools that were guilty of abusively assimilating their aboriginal children into Roman Catholic, United, Anglican, and Prebyterian cultures.  In Manitoba he destroyed a nuclear power plant for contaminating a reservation's ground water.  He also forced a multinational logging corporation to flee out of Alberta.

Now Totem moved into the United States, obviously infuriated by its insistant need to reduce Native American Indians to stereotypical motifs and caracatures for the sake of sports mascots.  His attack on Washington's FedEx Stadium was calculated for it occured while the Redskins were on the road, and so no one was injured.  The same went with the flood at Atlanta's Turner Field.  This meant that Totem was careful yet his message nevertheless displayed his anger, his unbridled frustration towards the use of such disparaging mascots.

Gardner and Old Glory weren't sure if Dr. Wight's reasoning behind Totem hitting Cleveland was purely a hunch or a detective's practiced intuition, or whether there was actually a difference between the two.  There was no real deductive science behind his claim, after all, and he didn't even rely upon his talents in the occult.

"The distance between Washington and Atlanta is 600 miles, and the two attacks were separated by a time of two weeks," the little doctor said.  "From Atlanta to Cleveland is 700 miles, and so there is a triangulated connection about the three sports teams.  I am assuming the next hit will follow two weeks after as well."

Standing just behind the conference table, leaning against a book shelf, Old Glory grinned but said nothing.

General Gardner studied Dr. Wight, frowned, then turned to face Old Glory, whose grin had disappeared.  "What do you think?" he asked.

"Hey, I'm on your side."

Gardner shook his head.  "I'm not sure we should get involved... Totem's gone toe-to-toe with Permafrost, and he's met Avatar to a standstill!"  Gardner paused.  "I tell you what, Dr. Wight.  Assuming this whole tabloid revelation is correct, I'll allow Old Glory to accompany you."

Dr. Wight nodded.

"But I'm going to have word relayed over to the Cleveland authorities.  If you're right about this, Doctor, we're gonna need some blue-boys stationed there until you two arrive."

Three days later, Old Glory and Dr. Wight were choppered into Cleveland.  But they were a little too late.  Downtown was a battlefield.

Totem barreled his way through parked police vans outside Jacob's Field, as he commanded gusts of gale-force wind to become battering rams.  The front gate lay in ruins, and areas of the stadium had already been destroyed.  As the Blackfoot's attack proceeded in the stadium, the entire area had been evacuated.  Emergency Response Units attempted to contian Totem, not that they had any hope in doing so.  If he could make quick work out of steel and concrete, barricades would pose no problem.

Police had riot guns too, but they knew they faced the situation with a sort of dire hopelessness.  Yet they had to do something -- anything.  They were heavily armed and shielded, and they were wishing that maybe, just maybe, the press overrated Totem.

What remained of the front of the stadium suddenly exploded outwards.  Within the cloud of dust and pulverized rubble, Totem yelled.

"Enough with the racism!  Stop making us the punchline to your slanderous and stereotypical jokes!"

So far he wasn't overrated.

"Fire!" hollered the S.W.A.T. leader.

And the police did.  There was nothing save the rapid-fire barrage of high-caliber bullets.  Totem swayed under the bombardment of gunfire, but was protected by walls of asphalt that sprouted up at his mental command.  Canisters exploded at his feet, releasing plumes of tear gas.  The Native Indian dropped to his knees as the haze surrounded him, and for a fleeting moment there was hope that they were going to take the freedom fighter down.  Then the tear gas billowed wildly, its swollen mushroom shape broke apart as Totem caused a rush of wind to eliminate the noxious cloud.

The S.W.A.T. unit stood their ground for as long as they could, and then they broke ranks as Totem advanced on them.  Totem plowed into them and through them with torrents of water and wind.  He made the ground heave, break open and swallow more gas shells, allowing the earth to ingest the smoke.  Then his body changed.  His six-foot frame froze, shifted, even made a cracking sound, as his stature grew and his very form transmuted into a craggy version of himself.  He was like a living ten-foot statue, earthen and raw.

The now colossal Totem grabbed two police cars -- one in each hand! -- and crushed them together, creating one huge ball of twisted metal.  Police scurried to get the hell out of harm's way as the Blackfoot sent the metal ball crashing into a police van.

"Don't intervene with what I'm forced to do!"  Totem yelled.  "Cleveland, with its so-called Indian mascot, reduces Indigenous tribes to a single, generic cartoon.  This ball team's 'Wild West' figment distorts attitudes toward the oppressed -- and diverse -- minority of my brothers and sisters."

"Yeah, and you're the mule calling the donkey a jack-ass."

Totem spun around to face the newcomer, and found himself staring at Old Glory.  The super-soldier hovered to Totem's eye level, his arms crossed before his chest, borne by sheer defiance of gravity.

The ground shook beneath Totem, his footfalls growing in seismic contempt as he approached Old Glory.  The very air quivered at his fury.  "You dare mock me?"

"Mock you?" Old Glory insisted.  "Nope.  I'm just making an observation.  You stand here preaching about being reduced to stereotypes yet you're wearing buckskin boots and what looks like a feathered symbol across your chest."

Totem's stone face contorted into a deepening scowl.  "And you, with your proud stance and patriotic costume?  I know who you are and what you're supposed to represent.  It doesn't surprise me that you've come to try and stop me."

"Oh, I'll do what ever I can to stop you."  Stern eyes locked onto Totem from behind Old Glory's blue mask.

"Yes, your American Dream -- to oppress and belittle us minorities," Totem growled, and a tremor shook the area.

Dr. Wight stood in the background, tried to help in any way to keep the pedestrians at bay.  He wasn't supportive of Old Glory's tactics.  Surely the super-soldier's bluster would only fuel Totem's anger.  Yet it kept the freedom fighter from attacking the stadium, allowed Old Glory to bide his time.

"Please, people, I urge you to take shelter immediately," Dr. Wight tried to yell, but his voice was drowned out by the wail of civil defense and emergency sirens, the commotion of radio and television crews, and the blare of police loudspeakers.

Old Glory continued to hover.  "Look, you can't go about obliterating two-hundred-million- dollar buildings."

"Isn't that what your government does?"  The pavement swelled, water mains exploded, and heavy winds pushed aside debris.  "It allows the military to bomb -- and kill! -- just so it lets everyone know how much of a super-power the U.S. is?"

"One thing has nothing to do with the other. Anyways, you're distorting the facts, Totem-pole."

A maelstrom of rubble swirled about the Blackfoot.  "No.  No, I'm not."

"I'm not gonna let you destroy private property -- not on my watch.  But obviously you don't want to talk about your problem."

"Talk?  My father, my grandfather, they've done nothing but talk.  And they've become complacent over the years.  No, I'm not here to talk -- I'm here to act!"  A heat welled up from deep inside Totem, and lanced out of him in a thick, fiery ray.  It spilled from his eyes, his hands, and lit up the entire lot.

Old Glory swooped, positioning himself for combat.  "Alright, Tonto -- enough!  You've proved your point.  We're victims of bad marketing.  Sue us."

A nearby police cruiser suddenly burst into flames.  "For years my brothers and sisters have been demeaned, pushed aside by America's warped value system.  You talk about me distorting facts.  The ideals you so flamboyantly symbolize have trivialized the Indigenous people, reduced them to raindancers, scalp hunters, and war-painted chiefs.  We're not these savages that speak broken English.  Yet for many years we've allowed this slander.  Did you truly think this would go on forever?  Or did you think we'd just wither away and die?"

Old Glory listened.  He had a feeling that Totem could go on verbally venting, and that his deep-rooted animosity was going to surface more and more with each passing sentence.  He had to somehow push Totem, to goad him into focusing his frustration away from the stadium and the surrounding bystanders and police.

The super-soldier paused, braced himself, and finally spoke up.  "Well, a good Indian is a dead Indian..."

Dr. Wight cringed at what he had just heard, seeing Totem charge forward and slam into Old Glory, forcing him back.

Totem grabbed Old Glory by the legs.  Old Glory furiously pounded at Totem's massive hands, but was helpless to stop the swinging motion as he was thrown skyward.  He even tried to counter-balance the force behind the throw by intensifying the gravity field about him, but his velocity was too overwhelming to his power-suit's systems.  Within seconds Old Glory had crashed back down to the street.

"Alright," Old Glory moaned.  "That sorta hurt."

He ducked in under Totem's great reach, then turned the Indian's head nearly halfway around with a powerful right cross.  He had indeed caught his opponent off guard.  In doing so, he grabbed Totem by the ankle and began to swing him around and around, like an Olympic hammer thrower.  On his third rotation, he released, sending Totem flying high and away from Jacob's Field.

"Two can play that," Old Glory said, then bounded into the sky, streaking after the vanishing form of Totem.

As he whipped past a MNN helicopter, Old Glory suddenly found himself surprised by the absence of Totem's airborne form.  He shook his head and swore under his breath, realizing that he'd somehow lost a ten-foot-tall Indian made of stone and compacted earth.

A moment later a sudden gust of wind sent Old Glory tumbling backwards.

Gathering himself, Old Glory cursed again.  He flew a lazy loop, trying to spot some sign of the metahuman Indian's next attack. He could hear the wind amid the tall buildings, and occasional snatches of words. Strong gusts buffeted his body, forcing the super-soldier to land despite his gravity-defying power-suit.

"Dammit!" he yelled. "Face me!"

The wind swept past Old Glory, picking up dirt and dust.  Slowly the particles came to
life, merging, condensing to form an airy, amorphous wisp.

"You are outmatched," the wind said.

"Maybe so," Old Glory replied.

The wisp shifted as it picked up more particles and pieces of rubbage, began to reshape itself, became more translucent, more opaque.  It became less intangible and, llike a picture out of focus, turned into a man-shape.

"And you're stubborn," the wind continued.

"I'm an old man, I deserve to be stubborn."

The man-shaped wisp solidified into Totem.  "And my people deserve respect.  And I'm going to see we get that."

Old Glory sighed.  "Look, Prancing Pink Bear -- Ungh!"

A powerful jet of water slammed into the super-soldier, knocking him half the length of the city's Main Street to plow into a small, and now deserted, bistro.  Glass, plaster, and debris rained down on Old Glory as he shook the stars out of his head.

"And another insult!" Totem bellowed.

The Blackfoot stalked onto the lot of a gas station half a block away.  As Old Glory lurched onto his feet, the Blackfoot scooped up a parked sedan and threw it at him.  The super-soldier ripped his way through the car, glass and metal flying before him.

"Stop this, Totem!"

Old Glory flew into Totem, taking him off his feet.  The two rolled, bodies shifting and torquing.  Hands and feet chewed up pavement as they wrestled, then they slowed and stopped, not budging another inch.  They struggled, strength versus power, frustration pitted against raw anger, angling for leverage.

"You are strong," Totem grunted, his body a thick earthen behemoth again.  "But my strength is that of the Earth itself!"

And then Totem hoisted Old Glory over his head.  His heart raced, his mind swirled, and he smashed the hero to the ground.

The power of the move packed incredible force as the windows of the gas station shattered from a shock wave.  Totem leaped onto Old Glory, jamming a knee into his throat.  He swung his fists like wrecking balls, delivering blow after blow to Old Glory's body, focusing his efforts there, leaving the super-soldier too rattled to collect himself.  But then, for a panic-stricken moment, Totem stopped, his fists frozen in midair.

Amid the chaos and confusion of the fight, a newspaper had found its way in their midst.  It was this that Totem noticed, or rather, an article on one of its pages.  Suddenly, a fire burned in his eyes, and a slight growl echoed within him.  Then his legs coiled and he leaped into the air.  He streaked across the sky, awash in flame.

Totem was gone.

Old Glory gritted his teeth and sat up.  To him, it felt as though his entire body ached.  Pain wasn't unknown to him, but it had been somewhat of a luxury to have a power-suit that could withstand damage and forceful impact.  But his costume wasn't designed to resist such intensity.  Old Glory smiled, his brain all foggy, then his head dropped and he slid limply to the pavement unconscious.

Dr. Wight raced to the scene, and attended Old Glory.  He checked his pulse, found it, then sat the hero up straight.  He quickly scanned the area.  He too noticed the newspaper floating about the gas station's lot.

"Old Glory!"  Dr. Wight was standing on the curb by a news van, a thermos of coffee in hand.  "I thought you might enjoy this."

Old Glory tried to smile, but it hurt to do so.  "You read my mind."

"No," the dwarf insisted.  "But I probably could under the right conditions."

Old Glory frowned, an expression that hurt far less than a smile.  "Where the hell did Totem take off to?"

"The Yukon," Dr. Wight explained matter-of-factly.

"What?"

The little doctor handed the super-soldier the newspaper tucked under his arm.  Surprisingly, it wasn't the The World Examiner -- it was The Times.  The "World Beat" section had an article, titled "Inuits, Victims of a Brutal Spree Up North."

Old Glory didn't read the story, just skimmed it over.  It seemed that there was a chain of killings by the St. Elias Mountians and in Whitehorse.  Mutilations, violent acts of inhumanity, all against the Indigenous people.  The story upset Old Glory.

Though he didn't much like Totem, because of his run-in with him, Old Glory knew the Blackfoot had a job to do.  He knew that he would continue his fight to protect his family and friends from their mistreatments.

"Did you learn anything with your brash attempt at handling Totem?" Dr. Wight asked.

Old Glory thought about that a moment and tossed the newspaper into a nearby garbabge.  "I learned," he said, "that the truth isn't always black and white, and that there are more important things out there than friggin' mascots and high-payed sports teams."

Dr. Wight stroked his chin.  "For instance?"

Old Glory raised his thermos.  "Coffee.  And the goofy stories in tabloids."
 

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