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Prologue:
The day began like any other in the dimension of Escheria. The white squares chased the black squares out of the sky and flooded the entire landscape with pure white light. A'l'a'n S'm'i't'h'e'e arose from his bed and looked out his window. Directly across from him, he saw his neighbor A'l'l'e'n S'm'y't'h'e, who was looking directly across the courtyard at his neighbor A'l'l'a'n S'm'i't'h'i'e, who was looking directly across the courtyard at his neighbor, E'l'a'i'n'e S'm'i't'h, who was looking directly across at A'l'a'n. Each of them was rotated 90 degrees from his neighbor, so that A'l'l'a'n S'm'i't'h'i'e was upside-down from A'l'a'n's perspective. In the center of the courtyard, men and women with water buckets climbed up, down and across the overlapping staircases surrounding the waterfall. A'l'a'n watched for a minute as the water cascaded down the artificial tower and flowed through a long winding canal, going down at every bend, until it arrived back at the top of the waterfall. Another perfect day.
After bathing and dressing in his gray suit, with a gray shirt and gray tie to match, A'l'a'n looked out the window again, checking his watch against the clock tower atop the waterfall. Time for work. He donned his gray bowler, turned his back on the window, and walked straight ahead through the archway that led directly into the courtyard.
At least it was supposed to. He should have emerged in the courtyard, on top of the stairs that led sideways to his office. Instead, he found himself in a dark, smelly, enclosed place he'd never seen before. A metal door slammed shut behind him, and A'l'a'n S'm'i't'h'e'e began, slowly, to panic. This was completely beyond his, or any Escherian's, experience. He was in a place from which he could not see any other place. "It's like freshman philosophy," he muttered to himself.
All of Escheria is visible at once. It's a dimension that's essentially all in the same place. Escherians can talk theoretically about places they can't see, but it's the stuff of fantasy to suggest that a person could travel to such a place. If you can't see it, the argument goes, how would you know how to get there?
The Dark Place shook and A'l'a'n felt a distinct sense of movement. "Maybe I'm dead," he thought. "Maybe this is death and I'm dead and somebody's pregnant right now." Escheria being such a small dimension, no one ever got pregnant until someone else died, or "went away." Only a few Escherians had ever "gone away," and none had ever come back. Still, it was tradition that no missing person was considered officially dead until a baby was born.
* * * * * *
"Let's get out of here, Clive. This dimension is weird."
The Space Utility Vehicle executed a sharp, six-point hyperspace turn. Had any Escherians been able to see past their paper sky, they would have seen a massive black ship suddenly fold in on itself and apparently implode. In the cabin, Clive Ark'Tel stuffed a handful of cheese snacks into his mouth while his partner Gary Spode'Plimp twisted the dial on the hyperspace radio. "Nothing but static," Gary muttered. "We are w-a-y out in the dimensional boonies. What's next?"
Clive looked at a greasy square of paper stuck to the dashboard and squinted to read the crabbed handwriting. "Looks like it says . . . the Looniverse? Does that sound right?"
"I'll see if I can find it on the map." Gary rummaged around amidst the empty soda cans and empty chip bags under his seat, finally pulling out a tattered Quintuple-A Dimensional Map. He studied it in silence for a few seconds. "Yeah, here it is. You want to go clockwise-up at the next dimensional portal, then trans-easterly at the hyper-cloverleaf. Then there's a shortcut if you skip past the wormhole and go ultra-down-backward as soon as you see the Denny's sign."
"Thanks."
"Hey, did you hear something back there?"
"You mean when we were in the Weird-o-Verse or whatever?"
"Escheria. The Weird-o-Verse was Tuesday."
"Whatever," Clive shrugged. The distinction between similar dimensions was often lost on him.
"Anyway, I thought I heard something in the luggage compartment."
"Probably just the wind, or whatever they have there. You want to pull over and check?"
"No, it can wait 'til we get to this . . . Looniverse, was it? Hey, put in a tape."
As the bulky craft hurtled between dimensions, a hypothetical observer would have heard loud rock-and-roll music blaring, distorted almost beyond recognition by the Doppler effect. Had this observer been very quick, he might have had time to scratch his hypothetical head over the bumper sticker plastered across the back: "Take only footprints, leave only photographs."
* * * * * *
LNH "Tsk" Force #1 "Bad Tourists, Part 1 of 2"
Starring: Irony Man, Bandwagon Chick, Mainstream Man, and Contraption Man
with: The Ultimate Ninja and Cheesecake Eater Lad
Special Guest Villains: Clive and Gary, the Bad Tourists
and introducing: No Sense of Direction Man
* * * * * *
The Ultimate Ninja tipped way back in his chair. Way, way back. Back past the point where you or I would long since have tumbled to the floor in an undignified heap. Back further than anyone had ever tipped a chair before. Using his years of ninja training, he kept the chair precisely balanced on one caster and studied the tile ceiling. "I'll bet no other ninja has an office as fine as this one," he thought to himself.
He was probably right. The office, as befitting the head of an illustrious superhero team like the Legion of net.Heroes, was elegant in its simplicity. The dark paneling and the big wooden desk lent an air of authority to the room, while the few small mementos served as a reminder of the occupant's highly successful crime-fighting career.
Only one thing detracted from his mood of perfect balance and reflection. Cheesecake Eater Lad was standing in front of his desk, talking. The Legion's chef had been talking, he realized, for upwards of half an hour, and probably wouldn't stop until the Ultimate Ninja answered him, or at least acknowledged his presence. "So what you're saying, in a nutshell," he began, remaining perfectly still, "is that we have too many members."
"No, I was talking about the ventilation system in the kitchen."
"Good. So that's settled then. Thank you."
"Settled? Wait a minute. What's settled? And what's all this about too many members?"
"You have to admit, we do have a lot of heroes, most of whom don't ever seem to do much of anything."
"You're right. I have noticed that several members seem to treat the Legion as nothing but a big social club, or a superhero hostel. You know, I don't think Petrified Man has left the TV lounge since he joined."
Ultimate Ninja laughed. That is to say, he exhaled once, very quickly, in a manner not dissimilar to laughter. The force was enough to upset the precarious balance of his chair, which crashed to the floor a split second after he leapt to the desk, sitting casually on the edge as if he had been there all along.
"What's so funny?" Cheesecake Eater Lad asked.
"Petrified Man isn't a superhero. It's a plaster statue. New Look Lass bought it at that big estate sale she went to last April."
Cheesecake Eater Lad blushed slightly, but continued. "Whatever. Anyway, it just seems like a lot of Legionnaires don't have powers that lend themselves to epic world-saving adventures."
"Do you think our standards are too lax? I mean, we do turn away a lot of applicants. Just the other day, we rejected Zamboni Man, Eat-a-Bug-for-a-Quarter Boy, Shiny Bowling Trophy Man, and . . . what was her name?"
"You mean, 'Spank Me! Spank Me! Girl?'"
"Yes. Did you, uh, get her phone number, by the way? I mean, just for our records, of course."
"I, um, that is, I'll check." There was a brief pause as both men stared into the distance, lost in thought. "No," Cheesecake Eater Lad said, breaking the silence.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"No, I don't think our standards are too lax. I just think we need to find a way to utilize our resources more efficiently."
"Are you taking one of those MBA-by-mail correspondence courses?"
"What I mean is, maybe not everybody is cut out to save the city from a giant lizard or stop a crazed megalomaniac from taking over the world, but those aren't the only things superheroes do. We could organize a team to deal with . . . the less than Earth-shattering problems of modern urban living. You know, rude drivers, loud neighbors, annoying radio commercials . . ."
"Mimes," the Ultimate Ninja suggested.
"Mimes, sure."
"People who spit out their gum right on the sidewalk and then you step in it, only you don't notice right away so you're trailing this disgusting stringy wad of gum and dirt on your shoe and then --"
"I think you've got the idea," Cheesecake Eater Lad interrupted.
"I suppose you've thought of a name for this new team."
"In fact, I have. Since their job is to issue a stern reprimand to those who violate the unwritten laws of civilization, I thought we could call them the LNH 'Tsk' Force."
"Of course you did. I'll tell you what, Cheesecake Eater Lad. We'll create this new group of yours. And since you thought of it, you can be the leader!"
"Ah, well, yes. Not that I'm not honored of course, but my duties in the kitchen are rather pressing and, well, I thought maybe someone with more free time on his or her hands could sort of run this team."
"All right, then. You're on the Special Committee to select and organize this 'Tsk' Force."
Cheesecake Eater Lad sighed. "That's fair, I suppose. Who else is on the committee?"
"Just you. I'd assign aLLiterative Lass to help you, but there are too many heroes whose names she can't say. I'll expect a full report of the committee's recommendations . . . now!"
Cheesecake Eater Lad took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Okay. The 'Tsk' Force will have a rotating membership, drawn from all the Legionnaires on active duty and not assigned to any other team. The team leader will select an appropriate group to respond to each individual situation. The team leader will also be a rotating position, with each leader serving a six-week term. No leader will serve two consecutive terms, or more than four terms total in any calendar year. The 'Tsk' Force leader will be appointed by the 'Tsk' Force Special Committee."
Ultimate Ninja looked at Cheesecake Eater Lad for a second. "Not bad. Rotating membership, huh? Does that mean there'll have to be some lame 'Mission: Impossible' parody with the leader shuffling through dossiers at the beginning of each assignment?"
"Probably. But only until we get tired of it, or it stops being funny."
"It's already not funny."
"Okay, then. Until we get tired of it."
* * * * * *
Two Days Later
Irony Man studied his surroundings. The temporary 'Tsk' Force headquarters had been set up in one of the least depressing LNHQ subbasements, for what that was worth. A couple of rickety filing cabinets against one wall, a battered old desk supporting a rotary phone and a manual typewriter against another, and a life-size poster of Peter Lupus comprised the decor. He sighed.
"Here I am," he thought, "a self-made billionaire. And what am I doing with my spare evenings? I stand around in this dingy basement, waiting for somebody to get cut off in traffic or eat off the wrong plate at a buffet. I've got a suit of powered armor. I'm one of the strongest, toughest and most combat-ready of the net.Heroes, and I'm stuck running the Politeness Patrol to 'demonstrate my leadership potential.'" Thinking quickly, he reduced the gain on his suit's built-in irony detectors, lest his musings set up a feedback loop.
The phone rang. Irony Man glared at it through his mask, raised a hand to his neck and activated his built-in communicator. "You don't need to use the phone. I'm plugged into the LNHQ network."
Todd, the intern assigned to monitor duty on Thursday nights, replied, "Sorry, IM. It's procedure. Cheesecake Eater Lad -- I mean, the 'Tsk' Force Special Committee says I'm supposed to notify you only via the 'Tsk' Force Hotline."
"But it's not a Hotline. It's an ordinary dial phone."
"Chee -- sorry, the Committee feels that establishing these procedures is important, and wants me to remind you that your equipment will be upgraded as soon as Contraption Man gets the parts he needs to build your permanent command center." Todd recited, as if reading it from a card, which in fact he was.
"All right, let's not get into that again. What's up?"
"You've got your first assignment. There's a couple of tourists in a black van parked across two stalls at the Net.ropolis Fine Arts Center. They're causing quite a ruckus." There was a slight pause as Todd flipped over the 'Tsk' Force Procedures Card. "It says here you're supposed to go through the files and select a team. I'll round them up and have them meet you at the command post."
"There's no time," Irony Man said decisively. "Well, there is, but there's not much room. Have Mainstream Man, Bandwagon Chick and Contraption Man meet me in the TV lounge, since that's where they are anyway."
"Sure thing, IM. But just for appearances sake, why not flip through the files?"
Irony Man sighed. "Can't hurt to humor them, I suppose," he muttered as he opened a filing cabinet and rummaged around inside. "Too bad these aren't in any order."
A few minutes later, he'd found the dossiers for his chosen team. He glanced quickly through each one.
"Bandwagon Chick." He opened the folder, revealing a glossy 8 x 10 fan club photo of a young woman with long black hair wearing a black body suit, standing in front of an old-fashioned circus bandwagon. The bandwagon was painted bright red and gold, with lots of rococo flourishes and curlicues. He turned to the next sheet of paper in the file, which read, "Real Name: Bonnie Chique. Powers: None. Has a mystical bandwagon pulled by two ghostly horses. Weakness: Always the last one to pick up a new trend." The final sheet in the folder was a spec sheet for the bandwagon. Unfortunately, since the bandwagon was a mystical artifact, there really weren't a lot of technical details. He skimmed the report, noting significant facts as he went. "Huh. Flight, Mystical Armor, Gestalt Cannon, Zeitgeist Neutralizer Field, Anachrowave Generator." He scribbled a note at the bottom of the list: "Ask Bonnie what all this stuff DOES."
"Contraption Man." This folder was much thicker than the other two. Irony Man opened it up and studied the photo: a casual snapshot of a young man in dark blue tights with futuristic looking circuitry designs. The standard profile sheet was as brief as Bandwagon Chick's had been. "Real Name: Unrevealed. Powers: None. Comes from the future. Has technical and engineering skills far beyond those of modern times. Weakness: Remorse over his betrayal of his teammates." There followed an extremely detailed report of his history with the Legion and even more detailed descriptions of his various devices and inventions. "No time to plow through this junk," Irony Man said, moving on to the final file.
"Mainstream Man." This was another very thin dossier, containing only a photograph and a single sheet of paper. The photo showed a well-built young man in a blue and white costume and dark blue cape. A half-mask covered his face and a stylized "MM" logo graced his chest. The profile sheet was the briefest yet. "Real Name: Unrevealed. Powers: None. Weakness: Cannot buy independent comics."
"That actually wasn't very helpful," Irony Man thought as he made his way to the TV lounge. "Still, I suppose the exposition has to go somewhere."
* * * * * *
The newly-assembled 'Tsk' Force looked at Irony Man expectantly.
"Is this going to take long?" Mainstream Man wanted to know. "ER is on later."
"I just started watching it last week," Bandwagon Chick added, "and I think it's great."
Contraption Man looked up guiltily from tinkering with the cable box. "Sorry about that Command Center, IM. I'm still waiting on the parts for the 'Tsk' Force Supercomputer. It's going to be great. It'll have full hypertext dossiers on all the members, and you'll be able to pinpoint any impending crisis in the Greater Net.ropolitan Area with the new Inconvenience Spotting Radar, and you can play Freecell on it when you're waiting around for an assignment."
"Don't worry," Irony Man said, "This should be simple. We've just got to chastise some rude tourists. Bandwagon Chick, hitch up the horses and meet us on the roof."
"Hey, aren't we forgetting something?" Mainstream Man asked.
"What?"
"We're all established characters."
"And?" "And this is our first mission as a team." "Well?"
"Well, shouldn't the team include a character nobody's ever seen before, who gets killed?"
Irony Man shook his head. "No," he said, in a low, tight voice. "That's just what they'd be expecting."
* * * * * *
A few minutes later, the 'Tsk' Force were assembled in Bandwagon Chick's mystical bandwagon. Music filled the air -- a sort of new-wave Sousa march. "What is that?" Irony Man asked.
"It's called 'Get in the Swing.' It's by Sparks, this great band from L.A. I've just discovered," Bandwagon Chick replied. "Where to?" "The Net.ropolis Fine Arts Center," Irony Man replied. Then, with as much seriousness as he could muster, "We're going to talk to some bad tourists."
The two ghostly horses leapt into the air, their phantasmal hooves tearing at the clouds as if they were solid earth. The wind whipped around the net.Heroes standing on the wagon, causing Mainstream Man's cape to billow out behind him, twisting around in all directions.
"Hey," Contraption Man noticed. "Check out Mainstream Man. His cape's doing that Todd MacFarlane thing."
"From SPAWN, right?" Bandwagon Chick asked. "I've been meaning to take a look at that."
"Don't bother."
The bandwagon hurtled through the evening sky, heading directly for the heart of Net.ropolis's Tourist District. The heroes knew they were getting close when they spotted the familiar billboard. A multiethnic group of Net.ropolitans smiled and waved at the viewer beneath the legend "Welcome to Net.ropolis*". Below the picture, in much smaller type, one could just make out the footnote: "*The phrase 'Welcome to Net.ropolis', the distinctive likeness of the multiethnic smiling and waving citizens, and the full text of this disclaimer are copyright by the Net.ropolis Tourism Partnership and may not be used or reproduced without express written consent. Only those individuals who are in the city legally and on legitimate business are welcomed to Net.ropolis. Being welcomed to Net.ropolis does not grant any special privileges to the visitor nor create any obligation on the part of the City of Net.ropolis, any individual or business within the city, or the Net.ropolis Tourism Partnership."
The Net.ropolis Fine Arts Center was a tourist magnet in the heart of the Tourism District. In fact, it even looked like a magnet. For reasons unknown, the building was shaped like a giant horseshoe magnet pointed at the sky. As the bandwagon approached the park-like gardens surrounding the Center, another billboard loomed into view. "Friendliest City in the Looniverse*," it proclaimed, above a cartoony rendering of the city's skyline with a big dopey grin. And then in smaller type at the bottom: "*The phrase 'Friendliest City in the Looniverse,' the cartoony rendering of the city's skyline with a big dopey grin, and the full text of this disclaimer are copyright by the Net.ropolis Tourism Partnership and may not be used or reproduced without express written consent. Friendliness determined in an independent study conducted by Best Cities in the Looniverse, Inc., a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Net.ropolis Tourism Partnership. This is not a guarantee or prediction of friendly behavior on the part of the City of Net.ropolis, the Net.ropolis Tourism Partnership or any individual or business within the City of Net.ropolis. Every situation is unique and the degree of friendliness displayed by individual citizens or businesses toward individual visitors depends on many factors."
"Heads up, team," Irony Man snapped. "Bad Tourists at six o'clock. Put it down here."
* * * * * *
In the gardens a few hundred feet below them, the Bad Tourists were in fact living up to the motto on their bumper sticker. Gary was busily using a shallow shovel to lift footprints from the ground while Clive was handing out snapshots of the area to random passersby. As Gary collected each sample, he carefully placed it inside a strange device resembling a small trash compactor on tank treads. After a moment, Clive consulted a digital readout on the side of the machine.
"That's probably enough, Gary. We'll have the analysis in a few minutes."
* * * * * *
Bandwagon Chick held her mystic steeds in a holding pattern over the parking lot. "I knew I shouldn't have taken this thing downtown without Parking Karma Kid," she said. "There are no spots! I can't just double-park. I mean, what with our mission . . ."
"You're right. Let's get a closer look." With that, Irony Man vaulted over the side of the bandwagon and throttled up his jet-boots to glide to a gentle landing in the parking lot below. Contraption Man unrolled a rope ladder from the other side and scrambled down a few seconds later. The two men approached the mysterious vehicle with caution.
"There's somebody inside," Contraption Man whispered. "I can hear them moving around."
"Can you see how to open it?" Irony Man whispered back.
"I think this thing might -- oops!" The latch turned out to be much more sensitive than he'd thought, and the back of the vehicle slid open noiselessly, revealing a confused-looking man, apparently in his early thirties, dressed entirely in gray.
"Thank the sky," the strange man said. "I feared I was trapped in there forever. Listen to me. This is important. Your place is in danger. This thing," he tapped the van, "is called a 'vehicle.' It has the ability to travel from one place to another."
"We know what vehicles are," Irony Man said, patiently. "Who are you and what's going on here?"
"If you are familiar with vehicles, then perhaps you know that the two men who operate it are 'tourists.'"
"Yes ... and?"
"This is a powerful place, indeed, if you are undaunted by tourists in vehicles. What manner of defenses do you have?"
Contraption Man looked confused. "I don't think we're talking about the same thing. What do you mean when you say these men are tourists? And what do you mean 'this place?' What place? The Fine Arts Center? The city?"
"Tourists. Tourists are men in vehicles who travel to different places and destroy them. And by 'this place' I mean . . . well, this place. All of this place." He gestured around himself in a big circle. "I think another word for 'place' is 'world,' or 'dimension,' or 'universe.'"
* * * * * *
Clive looked anxiously at the readout. "Well?" Gary asked.
"What does it say?"
"You want to do the evil villain laughter bit now?"
"Probably trying to defend their territory or something. Hand me that ionic nine-iron."
Clive picked up a very dangerous looking device, full of tubes and counterweights, sights and gauges, all designed to deliver a highly-concentrated blast of pure ionic energy at a precisely-determined location. "Here you go," he said tossing it casually to his partner, who lifted it to his shoulder, adjusted the eye-piece, then the ear-piece, then the nose-piece, then the chin-piece, then the shoulder-piece, then the other eye-piece, then the first eye-piece again. He centered the cross-hairs precisely in the middle of the three hominid-like creatures standing near the van. He set the power to HIGH, thought for a second, then turned it to VERY HIGH, then thought for a second more and set it to WAY TOO HIGH. He pressed the trigger.
[To be concluded in LNH 'Tsk' Force #2]
* * * * * *
Copyright 1998, Steven Howard
Ultimate Ninja created by Raymond "wReam" Bingham.
Bandwagon Chick created by Sue Clark.
Cheesecake Eater Lad, Contraption Man, Irony Man and Mainstream Man created by person or persons unknown.
Used without permission. |