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, foul mouth, and bad temper did not win him any friends, except for Michael Carleton, a Nike image consultant who gave him the superhero nom de guerre "Omega", and Leona Blade, Michael's friend and confidante. Both of these friendships have their dark sides, as Michael has proven to have an explosive personality that is at least a match for Tommy's, and Leona has become the object of Tommy's lust, despite Leona's engagement to Frank Rodgers, a UCLA psychology student and Olympic athlete.

Tommy and the young Canadian hero John Wolfe (better known as Permafrost) both won positions as Nike's sponsored superheroes. But there are other forces, represented by the enigmatic Lieutenant Hawkins, who see Tommy as more than just another superhero, they think he's one of the Seven Chosen who will fight an important battle against the forces of darkness.

Tommy's successful battle against the Dictator and his cult has helped win him acceptance in the local community. Now he hopes to repair the damage done to his reputation during an incident at an LA Club (where his date suffered from a very public drug overdose), and a nasty fight with the old Los Angeles superhero Halcyon over stolen publicity. And so a long series of battles continues, as Tommy experiences more of the superhero trade.

"Ugh!" I say. It's a muffled "ugh," because my face just impacted against a concrete wall so hard that it's filled up my mouth with fucking powder and debris.

Is "ugh" even a word? I suppose people don't really give a shit about grammar when they're being pounded by four huge human-shaped monstrosities constructed out of concrete, brick, and steel, but goddammit, this is the first time in a fight I've ever taken this much pounding, and I gotta stick with the fucking classics. Classics like "ugh." I almost feel like throwing a fucking word balloon over my head, and maybe playing some fight music from the old Batman television series.

I'd love to see the look on the Brickyard's face if I tried to pull that shit on him. But I figure I'll first pull my head out of this fucking wall, and then shove my fist down his throat, or up his ass, depending on which way he's facing when I get to him.

I'm staggering pretty badly, as two of the Brickyard's mother fucking concrete monstrosities are riding on my back and trying to beat the living shit out of me with punches that have enough power to put a dent in heavy steel plate. I'm pissed now. I grab one of the monsters, swing it like a baseball bat, and do a Mark McGwire with it against two of the other "Brickwork Men." All three of them fall to pieces. The fourth one steps up to me, and I give it a good solid Nebraska uppercut that tears the automaton's head from its shoulders, causing it to collapse into rubble. Now that the "minions" are gone, it's time for the main event.

"Yeah, right," Brickyard says. He doesn't try to put his monsters back together, instead, he rips off his shirt. Is this moron actually going to go hand-to-hand against me? Shit, I love it when the fucking supervillains are even more testosterone addled than I am! I shake my head and smile. Musculo the Barbarian obviously thinks he's something fucking special, but California (and especially the metahuman community) is riddled with guys who have pectorals and biceps that are just as big as his. They just don't impress me that much anymore. "You've met your match, Omega!" He flexes, slapping his pectorals to get the blood rushing.

"My match? You mean they actually let guys like us get hitched in this state? I thought they only did that in Hawaii."

I may as well do the whole combat talk bullshit -- I've taken a bit of a pounding from the "Brickwork Men," so I figure if I can keep the idiot talking for even a few seconds, I can clear out a few cobwebs. Or maybe if I insult his manhood, he'll get so pissed that it'll be an even easier victory than I'm expecting. And to be honest, it's a lot of fun to make these shitheads feel like the fools they are.

Brickyard steps forward. He's got a lot of muscle, but he's also a slug. I rope-a-dope several of his punches as we close, and then we wrestle. He's strong, but he's not fucking strong, and you need to be really fucking strong if you want to do the macho two-step with me. It's not hard for me to put him in a headlock, perform a duck under and put him up in a fireman's carry. "Hey, Thickyard!" I smirk. "Where'd you learn how to wrestle? Prison showers?"

This taunt intensifies his struggling, but he hasn't a hope of breaking free -- the musclehead has no idea how to handle a trained opponent who isn't interested in going Greco-Roman against him. Once I have him in position, I hoist him over and piledrive him straight onto the top of his head. It makes a muffled thud sound, nothing cracks. I'm slightly disappointed.

Even so, Brickyard's barely conscious. His hands reach for my face as he gets to his feet. I grab his wrists and hold him back with a smile; he's got a two-inch height advantage on me, but he doesn't have enough power to convert it into a leverage advantage, and he's too slow for me not to be able to anticipate his moves. Suddenly I feel my body cooling down, recuperating more quickly, and I take a quick glance behind me and spot John (better known as Permafrost) grinning like the complete shithead he is while he's giving me a helping hand.

"I got two of them!" he shouts.

"The two easy ones," I snap back. "But me and the Brickster here are having fun. Right, Bricks?"

Brickyard says nothing, but I can tell he doesn't like being mocked. The guy is sweating more profusely than Richard Simmons doing aerobics in a sauna. I let go of the hold, and quickly punch Brickyard in the face before he can react. He drops to the ground and lays there motionless. "One for me," I shout back. "Not including his eight fucking concrete ass-sniffers."

"And so ends the Tyrannical Trio." Permafrost laughs. "Not with a bang, not with a whimper..."

An armored cameraman rushes in and takes a picture of us. "At the hands of Nike's Ne'er Do Wells," I spit. Shit, that was just pathetic. "Fuck, where are all the competent bad guys? And their master plan was to keep all the water from getting to the firefighters who are fighting all the brush fires?"

"Well, it's evil," John says.

"I think if I had their powers, I could come up with a better blackmail scheme than that. Like stealing all the candy from the infant ward of the local hospital."

"They weren't exactly the toughest opposition." Permafrost shook his head. "Compared to Totem, they were complete wimps"

"Hey, John, what was it like fighting Totem?" I had heard that Totem (unlike the Brickyard) was a major badass, a Native American with incredible powers who avenged wrongs done to the Indians, no matter how minor the slight.

"You know, when I fight, the Inuit spirits guide me," Permafrost explained. "They were so busy laughing at him that it was hard to concentrate."

"So what caused the spirits to have a laugh attack? Totem's costume?" You know, if you'd told me a few months ago that I'd be asking that question even half-seriously

"I was up in British Columbia, protecting environmentalists who had come to protest a native band that had gotten logging rights to their land and suddenly started clear-cutting everything in sight," Permafrost explained. "I kept hearing the tornaq insist that I tell him: 'You idiot, what gave this band the right to clear-cut old growth forests when they've been saying for decades that it was wrong for the white man to do the exact same thing to the land?'"

"I think the answer is because they wanted more of your shitty sixty-cent dollars."

"Exactly," John replied. "Except that it's a sixty-seven cent dollar." I twirl my finger. "But the Innu spirits have never been too impressed by their southern neighbors."

"I take it he wasn't impressed by their arguments?"

"Totem lives in a very black and white world. He thinks that any criticism of the Indian peoples is just white man's racism. Most of the time, he's right, but it doesn't mean that criticism can't be valid."

"But he's tough?"

"If you and he ever tussled, it would definitely be a 'marquee match,'" John replies. "I'd make a fortune selling popcorn for that one."

"So when's the rematch?"

"Hopefully, never! He's tough!" John laughs. "And we actually started talking and came to a bit of an understanding by the fight's end. Totem's a little obsessed but his heart's in the right place. I'd rather spend my time going after the real scumbags."

This charming vignette is interrupted by a swarm of press that have managed to make their way around the police barricades. KCAL is the first organization to stick a microphone in my face. "Omega, now that you and Permafrost have smashed the Tyrannical Trio" A reporter gets in my face with a microphone. Several cameras are trained on us.

"We're going to fucking Disneyland," I say. KCAL is owned by Disney.

"It's a small world, after all," John adds.

"You would like that stupid goddamn ride," I chide him.

"It's such a catchy tune," Permafrost exclaims. "Every time I hear it, I'm reminded that the human race is just one small community alone on a tiny planet. And it makes me want to buy stuff. And shopping is so cool!"

I'd never have expected it in a million years, but John and I get along really great. John takes nothing seriously, and he makes me laugh my fucking ass off.

The press eventually leaves, having collected their share of quotes; I've already sent a signal to the cops for a Metahuman pickup. I'm on pretty good terms with the media and the cops, ever since I stopped the Dictator's boys five weeks ago. I'm still the Bad Boy of Los Angeles, but since John and I have started teaming, the emphasis has been on our badboy/wiseguy sort of chemistry -- I'm Sean Penn, he's Matthew Broderick. It's actually working out pretty fucking well. Not that we get to spend too much time together; this fire season has been pretty bad, and John's been flying around half the continent doing snuff patrol. But people think of us as a team. "We've got make-up in an hour," I note.

"Thanks for the reminder. What do you think of the script?"

"It fucking sucks," I say.

"Tommy, is there anything that doesn't 'fucking suck' to you?" John asks, doing an uncanny imitation of my voice when I'm saying 'fucking suck.'"

"We're after some supervillain named the Worm. We start telling stupid fucking jokes to each other while we're being crushed in a couple of death traps, then we break out, confront the master villain and he turns out to be Dennis Rodman. How fucking lame can you get?"

"It didn't seem that bad to me. Just because you hate basketball."

"I say we work on some ad libs before the shoot," I suggest.

"Just as long as the director doesn't walk out again." John sighs. "Not to mention how Rodman's going to feel about it."

"We'll leave the ending intact so we don't have to listen to the big green-haired shithead whine," I say. I grab a pair of rocks that are lying on the floor, transmute them into a pair of Budweisers, and hand them to Permafrost. "Give me some chill?"

John laughs, grabs them, and chills the beer to just above the freezing point. "We're going to have to wean you onto Molson's."

"Or how about that other Canadian brand, what do they call it, 'Moosehead?'"

"My friends call it 'Moosepiss,'" John says, one of the rudest comments I've ever heard him make.

"Beer for queers?" I ask. "Who ass-fuck mule deers?"

"Remind me never to take you home to my folks." John laughs. "Man, you have the worst mouth I've ever heard."

"Remind me never to take you fucking home to mine," I taunt. "You'd bore them to death." I bullshit.

"Hey, the reduced electric bills on your air conditioning is reason alone to invite me to your place," John taunts.

"See! This is the sort of shit we should be saying to each other. Not this 'is it cold enough for you' bullshit that some Madison Avenue hack who couldn't even make a living writing fucking soap operas came up with" I stop, noticing that Permafrost is about to bust his gut laughing. "What's with that fucking grin?" I say.

The commercial goes without a hitch -- John and I do a rewrite on the dialogue that doesn't make us sound like fucking motards -- then I've got a meeting with my lawyer and Halcyon. We still haven't settled anything with the old fossil. I come in with a Nike representative and one of the best and brightest $1000/hour boys that I can find. Halcyon is alone, no lawyers. His face still shows signs of the pounding it took from me.

"I want a million dollars," Halcyon declares, arms folded.

"My client is prepared to be very generous," the legal beagle says, hoping that the scent of green will cause the caped loser to be more tractable. "We will pay all of your hospital expenses, and give you an additional $250,000."

"I want a million dollars."

"We're also prepared to make a public apology."

"I want a million dollars," Halcyon repeats.

"We're not prepared to pay you that sum, but"

"I want a million dollars," Halcyon repeats like a dazed, retarded man. "A million dollars."

"We're willing to give you a position at Nike with a generous salary and a no-cut guarantee for five years," the Nike rep says.

"I want a million dollars!" Halcyon shouts. "Isn't anyone listening to me!"

"Leave me alone with him, boys," I say.

"I don't recommend this," the pretty boy in the suit says.

"I'm doing this. Man a mano." I smile. "It's what you want, isn't it Halcyon?" I say.

"No. I want a million dollars!" Halcyon shouts.

What the fuck did I do to this guy's brain?

The lawyers take off. I stand up, start circling Halcyon. "You know your case against me is pretty fucking poor. You're not going to get your 'one million dollars.'"

"I didn't say I was going to get it. I said 'I want it' -- I want a million dollars."

I sit down. "How are you feeling these days, Halcyon?"

"Okay. But I want"

"One million dollars!" I shout.

"One with six fucking zeroes behind it." Halcyon smiles, mocking me, throwing the exact same thing I said to him just before I beat the shit out of him into my face. You fucking old fart! I guess I deserve that.

"Tell you what we're going to do," I smile. "I'll give you two million dollars. All you have to do is two things. First, you need to sign a waiver, stating that I'm not responsible for any injury I do to you. Second, you have to walk out that door under your own power, and leave me lying here unconscious."

"So you want to beat me up again?" Halcyon says.

"Isn't that how you guys settled things in the old days?" I say. "How many biographies of superheroes have I read where two so-called 'good guys' pissed each other off bad enough that they found themselves a private place where they could go at it without anyone fucking knowing?"

"That happened in the fifties and sixties. That was way before my time," Halcyon said. "Maybe Old Glory can relate to that, but nuh-uh -- not me."

"Bullshit. It happened all the time in your day. What about you and 'A1-Tank-killer?'"

"It doesn't count when you're drunk," Halcyon replies.

I laugh. "Okay. So you're a chickenshit"

"Can you goddamn blame me? Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how goddamn strong you are?!" Halcyon shouts. Man, what doesn't get this guy off? He's a fucking emotional powderkeg. "I haven't been able to carry an A-level fight since 1987! Do you think I like being forced to hang around the edge of the metahuman scene and run away from any asshole who comes around with Class III powers?"

"What happened to you? I saw footage of you from the beginning of your career, and for the few three years you were awesome. What the fuck changed that?"

"What gives you the goddamn right to ask that?" Halcyon snaps.

"I didn't think I was asking anything that needed a goddamn right," I snarl back. "Unless you lost your powers when you lost your virginity."

Halcyon gives me a look that could kill.

"I'm risking my fucking life against the top tier," I tell him. "The biggest, meanest, nastiest assholes in the fucking world. I need to know who the fuck is out there that could do this shit to me so I'll know what to look for."

"One million dollars," Halcyon says. "And then I give you the whole goddamn story."

"Shit! Why are you so fucking fixated on a million fucking dollars?" That's a month and a half worth of pay! That's more than three months of pay if you deduct the Federal and California state income tax! That's half the price of the goddamn beachhouse I want to purchase so I can move off Michael's fucking sofa.

"You guys today have no idea what it's like to be a real hero," Halcyon spits. "You're a pack of goddamn pretenders. All you have to do is put on a costume and prance around like a queer and people just start handing you buckets of cash. All I got to be was poor and beat up."

"Fuck you. There was merchandising in your day," I protest.

"Fuck yourself. You weren't around when the goddamn Toymaker caused the whole collectibles market to collapse for five years. Not to mention when Atari went bust in 1984. By the time the goddamn market got back on its feet, the window of opportunity to make a fortune had shut itself in my face. All I did was sell a few T-shirts."

"Cry me a fucking river," I snap. "You've got a beach house, even if you're too lazy to keep it from looking like a broken down shithole. You did okay in your day, so let's cut out this bitter fucking bullshit, you brain-damaged retard."

"Bite me, you goddamn rich asshole!" Halcyon snarls. "But if you want to hear the dirt on the Black Priest, you're going to have to pay for it."

"The Black Priest?" I wonder aloud.

"Oh shit," Halcyon says, bowing his head. I can practically see him kicking himself for tipping his hand.

I've heard about the Black Priest, but then everyone's heard of the Black Priest. If you believe his press, he's been around for literally centuries, cultivating the only worldwide cult of pain and suffering that doesn't involve either the Democrats or the Republicans. He's plagued every major superhero who has ever lived, and defeated more than a few of them.

Shit. Talking about victories and defeats is way too mundane a description to deal with the Priest. He's another guy straight out of mythology, a great evil who can't hide the horror of what he is underneath a set of tights and a bad-ass pentagram logo. Yeah, he has the look of a bad guy who was manufactured by someone's marketing department after they'd flashbacked to their childhood Black Sabbath concerts, and he has all the appropriate super-powered henchmen in his "Black Mass" organization to fill the bad guy action figure quotient. But when you look at the trail of shattered lives and dead heroes that he's left behind, and you can't help but come to the realization that the Black Priest isn't a "supervillain" at all -- he's a fucking nightmare. He's nuts and he's powerful, and even saying his name aloud makes me want to shit myself.

"Let's do a deal," I say to Halcyon. "Four hundred grand, plus medical expenses, plus an apology, and a position at Nike."

"Five hundred thousand and the rest of the shit thrown in." He finally budges on the price.

"Done," I say, and I call in the lawyers to put it on paper.

"I still want a million dollars," he says. I roll my eyes.

Five hundred grand is a setback to my Malibu dream, but if it gives me some insight into someone who's potentially one of my most dangerous enemies, it might be money well spent.

The contract is quickly made out, and we sign it, and I arrange for money to be wired immediately into Halcyon's bank account. I dismiss the lawyers. Halcyon gets up to leave. "Not so fast. You owe me an explanation."

"After I get drunk," Halcyon says. "I'll meet you tonight"

"No way." I shake my head. I have an uneasy feeling about this whole situation, as though procrastinating were a really bad idea. "We can drink here and talk here."

"You don't goddamn trust me?" Halcyon says.

"No, that's not it," I say, sensing around, I'm not sure for what. I have a bit of a premonition, as though the laws of cliché fiction are at work here, that if I let him loose, he's gonna die a horrible fucking death before I can pry out the information. I'd rather get fucked in the ass than have my life become a parody of a really bad novel. "You'd better tell me now." He looks like he's going to be defiant, and I just give him a stare that goes through him.

"Alright." He says. "In 1987, there was a fire at a black Baptist Church in Watts, and some reports of animal blood being splattered at the site. When I visited"

He breaks down for a moment. I grab him and shake him.

"Be a fucking man, Halcyon. Of course it's painful. But if you don't have the powers to be a first-rate superhero, show me that you've still got the balls."

"But I don't have them--"

"I don't give a shit." I'm digging my fingers deep into his shoulder blades. The pain seems to help him focus. "You visited the Baptist Church. What happened next?"

"I got jumped by Hellhound." Hellhound was one of the Black Priest's uglier minions, sort of a black magic version of Mastiff, the current asshole who's terrorizing New York City right now. Five years ago, Hellhound fell into a chasm during a fight with Avatar and hasn't been seen since. But that was eight years too late for Halcyon. "It was an ugly fight. I stopped joking at the five-second mark, when his fangs pierced through my force shield and put a bite mark right here." He points to a scar on his shoulder. "He threw me into some sort of magical circle. It was like a circle with a big star in it."

"That's what they call a pentagram," I say. How could somebody be a fucking superhero and not know what a pentagram is? It's been in plenty of music videos and comic books. How fucked up can one man's head get?

"I finally defeated him, but I could barely keep my intestines from leaking all over the place. My blood was everywhere in the circle."

"That sounds bad."

"That's when he showed up. Like a dark cloud, black and nasty. He smelt like sulfur, like goddamn Satan from the Bible."

"Cool," I say.

"He was holding this big necklace with this big stone made of some sort of big black glass, and he touched me with it. That's when I heard the scream of about twenty other people and then I began to scream too. I was screaming really loud."

"Like a fucking little girl," I state.

"And part of my scream stayed in the glass. And then he left, and Hellhound left, and when I finally could think, it was I was I don't know how to describe it. It hurt to think. Every time I tried to think, there was a pressure, in my head." He sighs. "When I shot my light lances, the night sky lit up like daylight. When my force field was up, I looked like a goddamn angel. Now, I was lucky if I look like Tinker Bell. I lost so much"

I pause to consider what I've been told. "Let's see if I've gotten this straight. The Black Priest consecrated an area to perform a ritual, got his minion to drag you into it, spilled your blood and then used an amulet with a black stone set in it to suck part of your soul into himself to increase his power," I surmise. "And he's done it before, because the screams you heard were other victims of the amulet."

"Yes, other victims. That must've been it. Why didn't I think of that?"

Actually, the real fucking question isn't why he didn't think of it, but why I did. I'm not ignorant, but I'm not an expert on the occult either. This does explain a lot, like how the Black Priest, who was barely a match for "mystery men" when he was first spotted in the 1920s, has managed to steadily grow in power so that today he can effectively challenge the most powerful metahumans, even without his flunkies.

"He's done a lot of that stuff. I think he did that to Pumice too"

"Who the fuck is Pumice?" I ask.

"The previous wonder boy." Halcyon laughs. "Nike's last sponsored superhero. He had only been in town a couple of weeks when they had to drag him away to a mental institution. I saw it. And I recognized the look in his eyes. The same thing that happened to me had happened to him. You can tell."

"The fucking Black Priest."

"It must have been. You know, I may not look like much, but I do keep my eyes open. Did you know that a lot of horrible things have happened to last few batches of Nike's sponsored heroes?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't it ever strike you that it's goddamn unusual for a shoe company to become a death trap for metahumans?"

"I guess." I shrug.

"Well, when it happens to you good goddamn riddance," Halcyon snarls. "You've been nothing but a pain to me. Now that the cheque's in the bank -- you can fuck off and die. All of you."

"You too, old man. Enjoy your retirement."

I'm a little weary as I fly back to Michael's place. I hate negotiations, and lawyers, and their sweatless lizard skins that make me want to take a knife and carve it off and mount it on my wall. Imagine that, a trophy room of skinned lawyers. The difference between a normal guy and a fucked up psychotic is that the normal guys don't get hard-ons when they think about this shit.

But the lawyers aren't the people who are really bothering me. I'm thinking about how many patrols I'm going to have to fly to pay for this settlement, how many supervillains I'm going to have to fight, and how many times I'm gonna have to sit up and bark for some MTV exile who thinks that commercials are the perfect launch vehicle for his career in feature films and thinks of me as a piece of meat. And all because Halcyon is the biggest cocksucking parasite in tights in the entire fucking world.

I'm too young to be paying fucking alimony.

Michael's getting dressed for a date, which is unusual. Tonight is supposed to be our weekly combat training with Sergeant Jackson Clay, a retired USMC close combat expert and the closest thing to an honest-to-god badass I've ever met. It's actually good to train with him, because when I'm in my mortal form, he can pretty much beat the shit out of me without much trouble. I tell myself it's a good thing. Pain isn't so bad. When I get good enough to take Clay down, I'll know I've arrived as a hand-to-hand fighter. I'll be able to go against someone like Old Glory (who's a dork, but he's a dork who makes seasoned fighters look like stumbling amateurs), and not look like I'm floundering.

I've also invited Michael to get involved, just so we can scrap. Despite his pretty-boy marketing wunderkind image, he's a born fighter. And it gives him a ringside seat when Clay takes me apart, so it's not a total loss for him.

"Sorry, farmboy, but I've got better things to do with my life tonight." Michael says as he puts a whole shitload of something with a Vidal Sassoon label into his hair. It has a slightly cloying sweet smell. I have no idea why he does that to himself.

"That's okay" I suddenly have a weird feeling about tonight. "I can reschedule Clay for tomorrow night."

"You just like seeing me bruised and beaten," Michael snorts. "Go ahead. But if one day I turn into a killing machine and snap your neck, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

"If I ever let a dickless wonder like you managed to snap my neck, I'd deserve it." I smile. "Hey, Mike. Mind if I use you for a guinea pig for a second?"

"You're going to use your powers on me." Michael sighs, and he throws up his hands.

I grab him by the shoulders and concentrate on him a little. His posture suddenly straightens, and the light hits his face in a different way. Michael's mouth opens as he examines himself in the mirror. I haven't really changed anything, but whatever mojo I can manipulate has taken his natural Tom Cruisesque looks and made them even more attractive. It's an interesting trick, one that I'm going to have to play with in the future.

"Shit," Michael says as he examines himself in the mirror.

"So are you going to freak out about me using my powers?" I smile.

"Not tonight." Michael smiles.

There's a long pause while Michael continues to admire himself. "You're such a cocksucking fucking peacock," I snap, not meaning it as an insult.

"That I am." Michael's really full of himself. Good.

"Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"What do you know about the Black Priest?" I ask.

Michael pauses for just a second, but there's something in the way he's looking at me that makes me swear that I hit a nerve. Somewhere deep inside me, I'm expecting this. "He's a mystical asshole who runs a cult of loons." Michael explains the obvious. "I say we should find a ghost town, stick both the Royal Elite and the Black Mass inside it, and then nuke whoever survives," Michael says in a casual tone.

"Did you know he's the one who hurt Pumice?"

Michael turns around suddenly. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Halcyon told me."

"That old man has shit for brains, farmboy."

"Yeah, but he had no reason to lie to me," I reply. "And he knew enough to know that your friend Matt was called Pumice."

Michael sighs through gritted teeth. Hopefully, I can get through the wall of fucking secrets that he always puts up. When I improved Michael's looks, I also added something extra -- a confidence booster. Since most lies are based on fear, I figure if I improve his confidence, he'll be more honest with me when I ask him about the Black Priest. I could always try telepathy, but the last time I did that to my best friend, he wasn't my best friend at the end of the day. This time, I'm being a little subtler.

"There was a press release on what Matt was going to be called. As for the Black Priest, shit, I suppose anything's possible. Why are you asking?"

"Halcyon says that he recognized the same sort of drain on Pumice that happened to him. If we could find a way to reverse whatever happened to him, we could heal your friend Matt," I say.

I'm expecting Michael to be overjoyed at the speculation, but he just shrugs. "If there were any sort of miracle cure for Matt, they'd have found it by now."

"Chin up, dude," I say. I'm not sure where "chin up" came from, except maybe from one of the movies I used to watch when I was a kid. "If it was magic"

"Magic was covered in Matt's treatment. Soul draining was covered in the treatment. We were thorough. It still didn't help," Michael says. "Halcyon is a rat's turd. Small, stinky, and shitty, but not even worth scraping off your boots. I'm not about to get my hopes up because of him."

"There's more than you're telling me, you know," I complain.

"Fuck yes," Michael says. "You don't tell me everything about yourself."

"What do I hold back?" I protest.

"Well, for starters, what happened to your mom that you don't even see her at Christmas?" Michael snaps with a smile.

"Oh," I say.

I wasn't expecting that response. I step up to him, shaking my head. "You know Michael, if you're willing to tell me your secrets, I'll tell you mine."

"I probably got more to hide," Michael says.

"Maybe. You afraid to trust me, after everything we've been through?" I ask. I know the confidence boost is still working -- hopefully I can goad him into telling me everything.

"How would we even know we were telling the truth?" Michael asks.

I take Michael by the hand, and place a mark on it, then place a mark on mine. "This mark will start bleeding when one of us tells the other one a lie."

"Shit!" Michael says. "Actually, that's kinda cool."

"So go ahead. Let's ask the nastiest, meanest ugliest shit we can think of." I smile. "Three questions each. Let's do it."

Michael exhales. "Sorry farmboy. I've got a date. And you've got a patrol."

"You are such a chickenshit," I snap.

"Thank you very much for that fucking revelation," Michael says. "I would never have guessed that there are things in my past that are so unpleasant that I would trade my goddamn soul never to bring them up again, since I probably couldn't get enough for my soul that I could undo them."

"I just wish you'd trust me. A little. I thought we were buds," I protest.

Michael laughs, shakes his head, and walks away.

Well, I've got better things to do with my time than interrogate Michael in his full asshole mode, but there's something I want to before I head out. Michael's gone. He forbade me from entering his room, but during my first few days in the apartment, I felt something odd inside it. It's time to break that prohibition - in spirit, if not in the letter.

My senses leave my body, penetrate the wall, and make their way into Michael's bedroom. It's very, very neat. All the clothes are folded, the bed is made and the sheets are aligned with wrinkle-free, military precision, and the pictures lining the wall are so perfectly square that they'd do Pythagoras proud. There's a picture of a Michael at the beach, his arm around someone other big lug's shoulder, smiling like he owns the fucking world. Is this guy Matt?

My eye is drawn (literally) to his bookshelf. There's a copy of The Art of War on a reading table next to his bed, and a bookcase full of old hardbacks. The Secrets of Kur. Must be a science-fiction novel. Obiism Unlocked, Mastering the Odylic, Necromancy for Dummies (that one's in softcover), Twelve Cabels and the Branch of James, Mystic Warriors and Champions, and Authentic Thaumaturgy.

Shit! Michael really is into sorcery!

I'm not sure what to make of this. Was Hawkins right about Michael? Shit!

It's time to head out. The night feels quiet, as if something big was about to happen, the hot night air is filled with pinpricks of anticipation that poke me as I glide across the city, and the street lights look a little dimmer, more threatening. Fuck, am I getting superstitious after seeing that Michael was into mystic shit?

I head north, then westward, and my instincts approve of my course. If what I earlier was true, he'll strike soon.

And I hover over Halcyon's beach house for awhile, and wait. If he holds true to form, I'd expect a midnight visitation.

From the Black Priest, of course.

I arrive at Halcyon's at nine in the evening, which means I have a long wait, and patience isn't my biggest virtue. But I can wait, and so I do. I think about Leona and Frank, and how I'd like to be with her when Mr. Olympics makes his way to Sydney.

And I'm thinking a lot about Michael: about the stench of black magic I detected when I first entered his apartment, Hawkins' warnings, Michael's secrets and mood swings, the incredible coldness that he's capable of, the amount of trouble I've gotten into because of him, and the fate of Nike's first three metahumans.

But I'm also remembering our friendship, and how much shit he's taken from me, how much fun we've had together, and those moments when he seemed really and genuinely concerned about me. I'm a guy who forges strong emotional bonds, and in the month or so that I've known him, my bond with Michael's has become strong as any I've ever made. We've done everything that two guys can do together, except fuck each other.

Shit, who can figure out what another human being is really fucking about?

Halcyon makes it back home around ten o'clock -- god knows where he's spending his nights -- and, like an ant on a trail of sugar, he makes a direct line for the couch, where he lays down to watch Nash Bridges. What a fucking stupid show. Don Johnson has one of those smirk-heavy faces that you really, really want to punch out. Halcyon proceeds to down several cases of beer, and gets himself thoroughly pissed. He falls asleep during the KCBS news. How anyone can sleep through an anchorette as gorgeous as Gretchen Carr, I can't begin to guess.

At midnight, there's a sudden feeling of coldness. The silence encompasses everything, even the normally loud buzzing of the defective street lamps, and the air is charged with mourning; there's a sense a feeling of gloom everywhere like I haven't felt since Uncle Cranston and Aunt Helen were buried. I know he's here. It's time to move.

I become visible, and land on the front lawn. The pitch buckles as I descend -- hey, I'm not that heavy -- and then erupts like a giant prairie dog burrow, shooting dirt and sand out of the ground in all directions. Grass, dirt, and asphalt explode in a geyser around me, and out of the eruption emerges one mother-fucking big figure of earth and stone. No, it isn't the Brickwork Men, it's something far, far worse. It's an earth elemental, and a big one, which goes by the name of Sandstone. When the Black Priest demands destruction, Sandstone is the reply. He's the Black Mass's own personal tactical nuke, and one that the Priest doesn't hesitate to unleash.

"Welcome boy" I've heard that voice before, that man-crone's scraping of fingernails on his blackboard. Somewhere in my race memory, I know that voice. Beside the monster there is a dark figure: malevolence wrapped in flesh, a sulfur-drenched mother-fucking, child-raping, son of the queen of all fucking bitches. He holds a huge staff in his hands or is it a dragon, is it Sin itself given a home, a place to rest while it contemplates new atrocities to let loose upon the world?

Fuck! I shake my head wildly to get these thoughts out of my brain -- this shit would have been rejected by Ms. Orbison back in Creative Writing 11! There's something about the Black Priest and guys like him that do weird things to my mind, and get me thinking on a different, artsy-faggot level of metaphors. I really didn't know I had this bullshit in me.

There's a fucking sly grin on that sadist's mask of a face, the same smile that a cat has when it plays with a crippled mouse. Part of me wants to be sick. And there's another part of me wants to scream all the way to Heaven and tear this walking blasphemy into fucking little pieces.

"Welcome your fucking self, asshole." I snap. Fuck, am I nervous. "You've hurt a lot of people, you piece of shit. It's payback time, and I'm the bitch!"

"Now, now, Omega. Such language," the Black Priest goads.

"Fucking right," I declare.

"Allow me introduce you to Sandstone," the Black Priest purrs. "Like you, he has the virtue of a god's strength. Unlike you, he has the additional virtue of being mute."

"Not to mention he's got shit for brains, since he allows you to run his life. I've got news for you, Priestie," I goad him. "Evil sucks shit almost as bad as wearing black fucking tights!"

The Priest begins to chuckle. "The tights make me look thin," he says with amusement. "And what, in the many vast years of your experience, has led you to such a brilliant conclusion on the nature of Evil?"

"Read the 'Book of Revelations,' dude," I reply. Shit, I must be hanging around Michael too much if I'm using 'dude' in my sentences. "There's this little thing called Armageddon, and Evil loses. So, you're gonna burn in Hell forever, you son of a fucking bitch!"

"The ranting of an offshoot of a small Caananite cult is hardly worth taking seriously, except as comedy," The Priest says. "I do find it to be a wonderful read. The heroes of your precious Bible are a pack of self-righteous hypocrites. I find their raping and murdering and scheming and genocides to be delightful entertainment."

"Maybe the good guys were flawed, but that's the point," I say. "You don't need to be a saint to be a hero."

"Is that an excuse to cover up your own iniquities?" the Priest smirks. "Come, boy. Who are you trying to fool? I've known mass murderers who paid greater attention to their personal virtue than you..."

"Oooo!" I interrupt. "Let me guess! 'Join me and complete your training, and together, our combined fucking forces will turn this planet into an even bigger shithole than it already is!'"

"Oh, I'd never suggest that," the Black Priest says in a tone that's mock-gentle. "I would never want such an irritating brat as yourself in my Black Mass. As I said before, Sandstone has all of your virtues, and none of your annoyances. I think I'll simply have him kill you now!"

With that, Sandstone lumbers toward me at surprising speed.

I brace, and prepare to throw him back. He's a lot bigger than me, nearly double my height, and if I were to make a rough guess, based on the square-cube law and the density of dirt and stone and a whole lot of bullshit that I pretend to know, he looks to have about ten to twenty times my mass. He takes note of my stance, and prepares to lock up with me. It's a sheer test of power, a "getting to know you" maneuver.

Sandstone and I collide, and I find myself realizing what it must feel like to be in the middle of an avalanche. The mountain hits me, and it overpowers me. I make a burrow with my feet for a few meters, and then with a burst of strength he flips me, and I go flying heels over head and tumble into the middle of the street.

Holy shit! That's not supposed to happen! This motherfucker is fucking stronger than I am!

I get to my feet, shout a rebel yell at the top of my lungs, and charge. Sandstone is remarkably agile for his size; his living earthworks gives him sudden, unpredictable twists, and parts of his mass become loose sand when you least expect it, so it's hard to make an impact against anything solid.

And then I connect with him, and I'm looking into his eyes when my punch nails it in the chops. He winces. I hit the fucking thing with enough force to send anything else rocketing to Santa Monica, and Sandstone just winces and keeps going.

Shit!

That's when I feel the back of his hand. The closest I've ever felt to this level of pain was when I did my suicidal test plunge into the Pacific Ocean. Again, I'm taken off my feet and tumble badly. I land on my upper back, with my legs curled over my head in a half somersault. My lip is bleeding and my nose feels like it's fractured.

I continue the roll, get to my feet, lift my arms over my head, and scream in pure rage. One of Halcyon's windows cracks.

The adrenaline rush feels good. I know I can take this guy. Yeah, it doesn't look good right now, but I'm not a fucking quitter. I can beat him. All I have to do is not fight stupid.

The Black Priest just stands there watching. He's just going to sit at ringside and enjoy the show. Halcyon's not making a move -- the old fart is probably still asleep. It's just me and Sandstone and a shitload of hurt. Fuck, this is heaven.

Sandstone's trundling toward me. I connect with an upper cut that hits him hard in the face. He's almost staggered by it, but "almost" doesn't cut it -- his body shudders, and I suddenly find sand at my feet, as my opponent shifts his form and attempts to engulf me. I leap over the attempted grapple, and punch again. My fist gets lodged in his shoulder -- no, it's only sand, I didn't hit anything solid or substantial. Sandstone takes advantage of my surprise to get behind me, throws his huge arms around me, and squeezes me with a reverse bearhug.

Shit! This really fucking hurts. I realize that if I don't escape now that I'll pass out in about five seconds, so I throw a quick elbow, and when he shifts to react, I perform a textbook standing switch reversal (in what's definitely a non-textbook situation -- Coach Carey would be proud). I'm now behind Sandstorm, my arms around its neck. I'm not big enough to try a full nelson on this critter, so I just squeeze. I increase my muscle density to something metallic, adding seven hundred kilograms of densely packed muscle to my frame, and I squeeze him with everything I've got, screaming from the effort. Sandstone writhes like a fucking mad thing, but he doesn't break free from my hold.

I catch a look of surprise on the Priest's face. The asshole is still not intervening in this fight, but his interest is certainly piqued. I'm assuming that none of the other members of the Black Mass are present, or if they are, my own contingency plans have neutralized them.

Sandstone continues to struggle like an octopus in a net. His stone form gathers the dirt and ground from Halcyon's ruined lawn, and becomes denser and more compact, even as he increases the pressure against my hold. I think only Avatar has ever successfully wrestled this creature, and even he had his problems. I lift Sandstone off the ground, leaving a trail of crumbling turf, hoist him overhead, and slam him to the ground. The impact resonates with a loud thud, and for a second, I don't see Sandstone moving.

"You're beaten! Give it up!" I shout, but there is a moan from that shifting monstrosity that's half-crack, half-growl, and Sandstone regains his footing. No, he's not out of the fight yet. Luminous cracks form in his stony body, and he's leaving a trail of dirt at his feet. He's hurt, but he's far from out of this fight.

Sandstone shoots out a spray of dirt and scree from its mouth to blind me, and follows it up with a nearly simultaneous punch. But my senses intuitively catch onto the trick, and I abruptly climb a meter and a half and dodge the intended blow. But it puts me in a really bad position for a response, and I attempt a spin kick that misses so badly I may as well not have tried at all.

Punching and wrestling, Tommy, that's what you're good at. My tactical sense is screaming at me so hard that I can't hear any other thoughts. None of this kung-fu bullshit!

Sandstone takes advantage of my lapse to pull himself together; I notice a lot of the broken turf congealing around his feet, and the cracks seal in his armor. Meanwhile, I'm breathing hard, and the top of my costume was shorn when Sandstone grabbed me. I'm bloody, sweating, bare-chested and covered in dirt -- I must look like a fucking West Hollywood wet dream. The one advantage I have over my opponent is that I'm agile enough that it's not particularly easy for this elemental shithead to connect with me when I'm fighting defensively, but oh my fucking god! I've hit this thing with enough full strength punches to fill a hospital ward with broken supervillains, and the goddamn motherfucker is still standing tall and ready to beat the shit out of me if it can land just one more solid punch. What is it going to take to beat this thing?

I'm airborne and gaining altitude: seeing Sandstone draw a bead on me with a two-handed overhand axe-blow, I quickly descend, stomp on his head hard enough to shove him into an eighteen-inch deep crater, then acrobatically leap over his counterattack and land on my feet. Cool, some of that gymnastics training that I took to improve my flexibility is actually paying off. When I land, I wind for a spinning punch. Sandstone is not expecting the blow, and it connects solidly in the creature's mid-section with a crack that must sound like a rifle shot; it looks like the monster's finally getting wobbly.

Somewhere deep inside whatever excuse that Sandstone uses for an intellect, he realizes that he's in trouble. But he still has one more ace left to play in this game of consciousness poker. Sandstone takes a step back, I detect an odd smell, and suddenly lines of force wrap themselves around the monster. The colossus makes a shrieking sound. I can hear the Black Priest laughing.

And then, abruptly, all the dirt that's lodged in the pores of my skin begin to burn and shake, scraping through my epidermal lairs.

I scream. No matter how tough my hide is (and it's tough enough to make tank armor look like as brittle as fucking glass after it's been dipped in liquid nitrogen), it can't protect me from this kind of attack. Fuck, I don't think I've ever felt anything remotely this painful.

I fall to my knees, writhing in agony. With a thought, I purge the dirt from my skin, but the damage has already been done; I'm bleeding badly, and I can feel some nerve damage. I can see the shadow of the still wobbly Sandstone looming over me, his two titanic arms poised overhead, hands clenched for a finishing blow. But I'm ready for it. As the haymaker descends, I perform a sit out, tumble into a springing position, and then perform my own two-handed blow, a full force uppercut that connects perfectly with the tiny protrusion that Sandstone uses for a jaw. I literally beat Sandstone to the punch.

And then, the mountain finally falls, and lies still. I've won -- barely. There's a sudden silence, permeated only by my heavy breathing and the sound of two hands clapping. It's the Priest, mocking me.

"Do you want a piece of me, Priest!" I snarl. "Or is there somebody else in your synagogue of fucking black motards that's going to receive the ultimate shit-kicking before I get my hands on you?"

The Priest is silent. "Do you think that you could defend Halcyon and fight Sandstone at the same time? Macha, step forward!"

The front door of Halcyon's house opens, and out comes a woman carrying two spears it's Macha, the Irish warrior goddess, another member of the Black Mass. But she's encased in a sheathe of ice, and she slides briefly down the walkway before she tumbles to the ground and rests, immobile, on the broken lawn.

"Hey, Tombo!" Permafrost shouts. "One Irish frapacinno, just like you ordered. By the way, Tommy that fight you just had was really incredible."

The Priest snarls, and turns toward Permafrost. John's nursing an ugly wound in his side, but he's used frost to seal it. The Priest is about to make a pronouncement, but before he can speak a word, a new figure comes charging out of the house and grabs the Priest by the throat. It's Halcyon.

"Give me back my powers, you goddamn son of a bitch!" the old hero is screaming like a goddamn maniac. He screams something else, but it may as well be gibberish.

Halcyon is using some power I've never seen before on the Priest, something that's draining power from the Priest back into his body. Holy shit, he's trying to restore his soul! Unfortunately, something in my gut tells me that in a duel of soul draining, Halcyon doesn't have a prayer -- as soon as the Priest can react, Halcyon will be transformed into a desiccated, soulless husk, and everything we've done tonight is going to be for fucking nothing because Wonder Idiot couldn't hold his temper in check. So I concentrate on Halcyon, fortifying him specifically against the Priest's soul drain, and hope it works.

The Priest attempts to completely suck Halcyon's life force, only to find his efforts blocked by my powers. Then he senses what I've done, and he concentrates, using his mystical senses like a magical fucking bloodhound. Halcyon continues to try to win back the pieces of his lost soul, but the Priest casually throws him off, and the glittery old shithead is sent hurtling into the wall of his house and bounces off like a frisbee. Permafrost wraps an ice sheet around the archvillain, but the Priest completely ignores it, walks through it, and approaches me with a big-ass smile on his face.

"What the fuck are you grinning at, Priest?" I shout.

"I know what you are. You don't know how long I've waited to greet you."

"So you're going to change your ways?" I wonder. The Priest laughs, a hideous noise like a throaty bird call.

"No! But I shall end your ways. The Chosen provide an opportunity to settle the conflict between good and evil. Your arrival means that, at long last, an End is possible. You do not know how many centuries I've waited for this. This is a moment of celebration."

The Black Priest lifts the dragon-staff, and there's a sound like the roar of a great beast. And then, in answer, there's another sound, that of massive wings beating in a fucking hurricane. Through a haze of raw magic I can see Sandstone, Macha, and the Priest vanish. Fuck!

I just stare ahead, breathing hard, trying not to cry. The asshole was playing with me all the fucking time. I never had any real chance of putting him away!

"Fuck!" I shout at the top of my lungs. "Fuck you!"

"You okay, Tommy?" John asks. "My god, you took a real beating."

He doesn't look in great shape either. "I'm." I begin. "I'm. oh god," I say, and then fall to my knees and start puking out my fucking guts.

Halcyon walks over to me. "You wrecked my goddamn lawn!"

"Jesus fucking Christ!" I spit, wiping chunks of supper off the front of my costume. John is helping me back to my feet. "We saved your life, we helped you get your powers back"

"I barely got anything back!" Halcyon's in tears. Permafrost and I look at each other. "That bastard used it up a long time ago! Don't you goddamn understand? My power is never coming back! Never! All these years I've told myself that if I could lay my hands on that bastard, I could become what I was again."

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

But sympathy isn't good enough for Halcyon, who closes to face-to-face range with me and decides to take everything out on me. He starts out by poking my chest. "But now every last hope I had is gone! It's gone! It's gone!!" He's screaming "gone" at the top of his fucking lungs, and takes about five seconds to properly drama-queen the word; he's like Mel Gibson would have been in Braveheart had he been a complete burn-out case. "I wish you'd have let that fucker kill me! I wish I was dead!" Halcyon, hyperventilating like a schizophrenic, pauses to catch his breath. "And you wrecked my goddamn lawn!"

"Fuck you," I snap. I've had enough of this clown's bullshit. I put my hands on his chest, and give him a slight shove, nothing that even he could make a lawsuit over, but enough to get him out of my face. He falls to the ground, landing in a pile of debris, where he makes a dirt angel. "Send me a fucking bill, asshole!"

"I will!" Halcyon shouts.

"You just fucking do that!" I turn to John. "Goddamn, idiot," I mutter.

"You okay?" John asks again.

"Barely. God is he tough. Fucking Sandstone makes the Chain look like a complete wuss. If he had landed that last punch, I'd probably be dead right now. And I'm not sure I can beat him twice."

"If I hadn't gotten the drop on Macha, I'd be carved ice right now. We got really lucky tonight," John says. "What the hell are we doing in this business? I should be playing hockey."

"And I should be a freshman on the Buckeyes wrestling team," I reply, and mutter under my breath. "Instead of fucking Shane Barlow."

John looks at me and shakes his head. What the fuck did I say wrong, John?

A few minutes later, there is a rush of police cars and press. I ask John to keep an eye on Halcyon, to make sure he doesn't take credit for beating Sandstone or Macha. But I think Halcyon's learned his lesson, and he has enough presence of mind to be gracious -- at least on camera -- about our efforts.

After a lot of police bullshit and even bigger media bullshit, John and I are permitted to fly our separate ways. It's about one in the morning, and I'm pretty dogged right now. Michael looks like he's still out on his date. I head straight for his Jacuzzi and soak for an hour. God, this feels fucking good.

"Hey, farmboy" Michael gets back around one-thirty. I turn around and see that he's looking pretty rough himself.

"What are you doing out this late on a school night?" I smile.

He ignores the jibe. "I heard what happened. You okay?"

"It's a long story, but I think I am."

"We need to talk," Michael says.

I sigh. I can tell reluctant bad news when I see it on people's faces; I hate it when people think they have to coat a nasty situation with bullshit. I decide to spare Michael the trouble. "Let me guess. You're willing to risk ordinary supervillains coming in and tearing up your fucking apartment, but you won't risk it against the Black Mass. So you want me to leave."

We're both silent for a few seconds. "People who encounter the Priest usually have nightmares for a few evening following their encounter. I'm not going to let you go through those alone. But after that"

"Man, I don't fucking blame you one bit," I say.

"I knew you wouldn't," Michael replies. "That made it harder."

"I'm a shit, but I'm not a fucking stupid shit," I tell him. "The safety issue's been bugging me ever since I first moved in. I guess I'm too much of a selfish prick. I liked being around you way too much to let it go." I pause. "Can I still come by once in awhile and use the Jacuzzi?"

"Sure," Michael says. "And I'm going to keep my door open tonight. When you need me, I'll be there for you."

"Great. First I'm going for a flight and soak in some night air," I say as I get out of the Jacuzzi. I put on my costume with a thought, become intangible, and fly through the ceiling.

I do what I've been doing every night for the last week, every time I feel like I've been fucked over. I fly over to Frank's place, and make my way into his bedroom. He and Leona are snuggled in bed together, naked and asleep. It's a hot night. I become invisible and hover over their bed, watching them, examining each fold and crease of their bodies as they caress each other. Fuck, that must be an uncomfortable way to sleep.

After about a half-hour of watching, I feel the inner demons swell inside me. I'm learning to hate Frank more and more with each passing day for the simple crime of being the person that Leona loves instead of me. I fly back to the apartment. If what Michael says is true, I'm gonna get nightmares, sooner or later, one way or another.

And I'm willing to bet that nightmares about the Priest are going to be better that the ones I've already been dreaming.

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