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Stories from the Verse
Con Version
Chapter 96: Cooper 31
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Brown 315
Brian’s gentle courtesy was winning the Red Swashbuckler over. They were on their fourth day of practice, and the Commie swordfighter had yet to insult him once today. He still ranted about ‘imperialists’ and ‘capitalists’ and ‘counterrevolutionary elements’ and the ‘bourgeoisie’ as they trained in the smaller courtyard of the Berkeley City Prison. Brian’s arms still stung where the broomstick repeatedly smacked them, but the end of the personal insults was a welcome relief. Years of training as a teacher and effort at self-control had kept him from snapping back, but the man could test the patience of a saint. Brian had thought the last with an inward amused smile, because according to his theology, he was a saint, like all Christians.
The Red Swashbuckler’s broomstick sliced down, and without thinking, Brian slid aside, and lunged. The supervillain danced back out of the way, but paused afterward to applaud. He nodded vigorously.
“Yes, that is how you do it. Finally. I was beginning to think you were a dolt or a natural klutz. Evade to the side, and riposte with a quick lunge.” Brian accepted the compliments with a rueful thought: the supervillain had mostly given up on the personal insults.
More training followed, then a few minutes short of the end, as both could tell by the prison guards gathering themselves, the Red Swashbuckler called a halt.
“You are very fit, and have solid footwork, but your stamina is tuned to long travel. I’d say you were at one time in the Army, as you’re clearly used to foot travel–but you don’t march.” Brian felt chilled at how easy it would be to spot who he was, but then remembered that it seemed like the simplest of disguises worked wonders in this world. “This gives you a good foundation, but sword duels are high intensity occasions. You need to practice going full out for five minutes at a time. Almost every one of the fights I’ve been in, even against multiple supers, was over in less than five minutes.”
“I understand. High intensity cardiovascular workouts. Good idea, sir.”
“Hmmm, sometimes, Mister Justice, you use the strangest words as if they were common. Also, please do not call me ‘sir’. It's a leftover from the ancient nobility oppressing the peasants.”
“Of course.”
“You’d be an excellent Communist, Mister Justice.”
“Envy is a sin, Red Swashbuckler.”
“Religion is the opiate of the People, Mister Justice.”
“A man is eternal, the State is merely a temporary arrangement to help support good, and restrain evil, while in his time on Earth.”
“But what if there is no God, no soul, then the State is the closest thing to eternal, is it not?”
“If there is no God, then everything is permitted, but you know not everything is permitted, therefore there is a God.”
The Red Swashbuckler paused considering as the guards walked up to him.
“That is an interestingly twisted piece of logic. Remember to evade and riposte.”
“I will. Thank you for the lesson.”
Red Swashbuckler shrugged, and let himself be chained and led away.
Taking his teacher’s advice, after leaving prison by the front gate he began to sprint down the street. One minute, then another, and it was starting to get to him, but he pushed on. Cutting down one street and up another he passed a dozen kids in the street playing baseball. They yelled at him to join in, and he decided that four minutes high intensity sprinting was enough for now. Curving back around, he came to the home plate.
A wooden bat was proffered, and he took up position by the flattened metal pie plate lying mid-street between the densely packed houses on each side of the road. Carefully, he fixed his mind on his goals. Do not bean a kid, first, and second, don’t break a house or car window, and last, and least, try to hit the ball.
The first ball came in, but it was ridiculously high, and he let it go by. The next one came, and even as the kids on the opposing impromptu team yelled ‘swing, batta, batta.’ to try to mess with his concentration, he let it go. This was called a strike, but he did not let it bother him. This was fun. It had been too long since he had held a bat. The next one came in straight, and fast, and he could have let it go as it was too tight inside. Instead, he leaned back a shade, and drilled a straight shot past the second baseman, and the ball went bouncing down the roadway. Running, he rounded first base (an apple core), and slid into second base (another aluminum pie plate). The union suit took the slide on the asphalt without complaint.
From there, he teased the pitcher with fake steals for third base, until the frazzled pitcher threw a fat blooper, and the next in line hit a long homer. He sped on home, and waited until the hitter made it to back-slap him. Regretting it, he said he had to go, and to disappointed cries ran off.
Not two blocks later, as he ran at a slower pace, he heard a police siren behind him. Stopping, wondering what he had done wrong, he let the black and white pull up alongside him. The cop yelled from his open window.
“Get in back. First Bank is being robbed by supervillains!”
Without questioning, Mister Justice yanked open the police car’s back door and leapt in. Slamming the door shut, he heard the siren go full blast, and the tires screech as the police car sped up.
“Hostages?”
“There are people in the bank, but they’re not being held hostage,” Officer Highland (according to his brass name tag) said from the front seat as he looked back at Mister Justice, who was leaning forward on the vinyl covered seat and slipping and sliding about as the police car skidded around a corner.
“Supervillains?”
“Major Pain and Private Problem,” the cop said, and Brian just rolled his eyes. Those were terrible names, especially Private Problem. The police car skidded to a halt, and Brian prepared to give vent to the dozen questions he had lined up in his head. What powers do they have? Are they likely to kill citizens? How experienced are they as supervillains? Are they relative noobs, like he most definitely was, or were they veterans? Does either have ranged weapons, and if so what? Can they regenerate?
Come to think of it, he had closer to twenty questions, but before he could give voice to the first one, the cops had bailed out of the car and were running up to a line of police cars encircling the mouth of the First National Bank of Berkeley. He could have told as much even without seeing the sign engraved in marble over the pillared porch with marble columns. Bank architecture was distinctive. Marble columns gated the temple to money. Feeling the annoying itch of unanswered questions, he got out and began running toward the other cops. They waved him onward. Evidently, the thing to do was charge straight in without any sort of proper briefing. He found this more annoying than all of Red Swashbuckler’s insults, but on the other hand, he did know that speed had a virtue all its own.
So he ran past the police cars praying a prayer that a thousand heroes had prayed before him.
“Please God, don’t let me mess this up.”
There is a behind-the-writings look at the thoughts, influences, and ideas of this chapter, along with eleven other sequential chapters of this novel, in mark Joseph "young" web log entry #510: Versers Debate. Given a moment, this link should take you directly to the section relevant to this chapter. It may contain spoilers of upcoming chapters.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
