Because punk zine Razorcake is something that people of a certain age might be familiar with as a “print publication” and doesn’t put the bulk of its content online, I feel compelled to share this recent review of “The Villain’s Sidekick” by laboriously typing it in by hand.

“Like you and me, Duke a.k.a. “Hand Cannon” has problems. He’s got a resentful ex-wife, a custody battle, a shitty apartment, and a cat to feed. He’s got a criminal record, debts to pay, and he’s on parole for past drug-fueled misdeeds. Oh, and he’s a giant man with a machine gun arm, a steel jaw, and an infrared camera eye who just got his ass kicked by a small-time vigilante and failed to deliver the goods to his boss. Fans of film noir and true crime whodunits will relish The Villain’s Sidekick, as it employs classic tactics of both; lush mental visuals of dark and dangerous urban sprawl, unexpected murders with several suspects to investigate, concise storytelling through the inner monologue of a complex protagonist, and dialogue inflected with mob-style slang. A short, fast read, it hits the ground running with action from page one.

Parts of this book bear awkward markers of a first novel. A level of cheesiness is inevitable with superheroes, but monikers like HandCannon, Heatsource, and Nightguard make one wonder whether we’re actually talking about industrial-strength cleaning products. Female characters are flat and underdeveloped, with descriptions revolving around their sex appeal; Miss Thang, Bitch Goddess, Twiliter. What’s a good film noir without a femme fatale, or a strong love interest?  A notable exception is Duke’s six-year-old daughter, Cordelia, who is the brains of the final operation to take down the bad guy–though in this case, it’s technically the good guy. We’re on the villain’s side, and Duke’s nuanced, human relatability is the book’s strongest trait. Most punk rockers have that been misfit schmo who takes issue with authority and struggles to make something of themselves in a harsh world. It’s pure entertainment, but The Villain’s Sidekick would make a good quick read on a long plane trip, or perhaps in the back of a van on tour.”–Claire Palermo

While the review is (justifiably) critical in spots, I was pleased with it for a few reasons. One, because it’s always nice to be reviewed by someone who clearly knows how to write well themselves, and because at least some of those criticisms are dead accurate. Now, the cheesy character names I will defend with my life because hey, there’s satire here and those barrel-scraping monikers are most definitely part of the joke. But the accusations of sexism-through-author-laziness I’ll totally cop to. It’s something that bugged me enough when I finished the original draft that I made efforts to go back and strengthen Twiliter’s character as much as the demands of story allowed. But more importantly, it’s informed much of what I’m doing with the novel-length sequel, which alternates between HandCannon’s and (the now former) Twiliter’s first-person POVs as they embark on parallel adventures. Likewise, there’s more for Cordelia, Duke’s ex Liza, and a number of other female characters, both good and bad, to do. And while some of these characters do engage in sexual acts, they most certainly aren’t defined by their sexuality (well, not exclusively–I’m sure I indulge in incidental male gaze in a few spots, but I’m tryin’). Anyway, I thought it was a solid, thoughtful review and deserved a look for whatever fans might be out there.

Ft. Bragg, North Carolina/Sedona, Arizona March, 1957

General Flagstaff was not a festive man by nature. Oh, sure, he enjoyed a good stiff whisky and a fine cigar at the officer’s club, or brandy with his pipe by the fire, or even the occasional ice cold beer with a shot of tequila with the boys, topped off with a cigarette, or a handful of bennies washed down with half pint of rotgut vodka if he had to pull an all-nighter, or even the odd sniff of cocaine off a Japanese prostitute’s pale bare ass while enjoying his leave. But he wasn’t generally a champagne kind of a guy.

Today was different.

They’d been tracking her five years now, five long years since her first appearance at the H-test site when she walked out of the ultra-top-secret forbidden stretch of desert like it was nobody’s business but her own. Never mind it was on the heels of a madman who’d tried to run down an entire platoon. Too bad they could never prove the bullet-riddled hunk of shit was actually a spy, but in his gut, Flagstaff knew it to be true. Just as he knew the woman was an absolute menace, that she must be brought in for rigorous interrogation, and that at the end of the day, one way or another, he had to have her.

And now he did. Well, not that way, not yet, but she was within reach. He’d just received word from CIA Deputy Director Exeter that they had her pinpointed in a little diner on the outskirts of Sedona. Apparently the girl just couldn’t find her way out of the Southwest to save her life.

Up until now, it was just the odd report, the unsubstantiated rumor, the false-alarm sightings, the unreliable eyewitness accounts, like the Las Vegas casino fire or that incident in Pasadena with the rocket-freak, Parsons. But now, it was confirmed. She was there, just sitting, having lunch at the counter like an ordinary human being, no doubt brazenly flirting and coyly tempting and openly seducing everything with either a penis or a pulse. His wonder woman–the Red-headed Bitch Goddess of the Apocalypse, as prophesied in his fever-dreams ever since that initial contact.

“Culpepper,” he said to the young aide standing nearby. “I believe this calls for champagne.”

“Sir,” Captain Culpepper gave him a clipped nod and started for the wine cellar.

“Not the Dom ’47. Not just yet.”

“Sir,” Culpepper said, nodded again, clicked his heels and was off.

The phone rang, the direct line from the field. Ordinarily he’d have Culpepper answer, just to maintain formality, but he was too excited, and this seemed important enough for him to break his own rule just this once.

“Exeter?” he said, almost before the receiver reached his ear. “What’s the word?”

“Well, sir, you said you wanted a play-by-play of the situation once we made our move.”

“So you’re ready to go?”

“We are, sir.”

“Tell me everything.”

“Yes, sir.”

  “As it happens.”

“Of course, sir.”

“In real time.”

“Why I called, sir.”

The last half-decade was a thrill, a blur, a whirlwind, a never-ending, slightly exhausting vortex of excitement, possibility, and ever-increasing isolation from everyone and everything around her.

Ever since the incident she found it impossible to pass one of these Googie-style diners, or space age motor inns, or anything with Atomic or Jet or Space in its name. After all, she was Victoria Atomblast now, and in a way she was the flesh and blood embodiment of this space age, post-atomic aesthetic that had seized the national imagination. And whoever she’d been before was a distant memory who didn’t even rate a missing persons report, as far as she knew. Then again, she wondered if she saw her old face on the wall at the Post Office, would she even recognize herself? That lost sad girl wouldn’t have known what to make of the form-fitting latex jumpsuits and mini-dresses she adorned herself in now, the knee-high zippered boots, the Bakelite bangles at her wrists, the turquoise Phoenix pendant at her throat, gifted by a young Apache would-be warrior/will-be alcoholic who was on the cusp of manhood until she brought him all the way there. 

She didn’t pay for anything these days. She breezed in and out of towns and villages and private residences, blazed a trail through shops and restaurants and with a wink and a nod, she found herself fed, clothed, housed for a night or a week or a month, until she inevitably grew bored with them, as they never seemed to grow bored with her. In fact, the only person she seemed capable of boring anymore was herself. 

She breezed into the cafe on this glorious spring morning, the Arizona sun already blazing and her right along with it, in an orange vinyl mini hugging a bombshell figure she never had to work to maintain, matching plastic pumps, her red hair piled high on her head like a sunburst on the horizon. She felt like the future. And everyone else felt it, too. It was predictable now, that western-saloon moment whenever she walked into a place, the sudden silence, necks swiveling, eyes fixing, forks dropping, coffee spilling, platters of food hitting the floor, an instant of silence that became a cacophony of little oopsy-daisies. Even the most conservative of women, the most pious of men, only stared, never glared, too awed by the sight of this alien being to stand in judgement of it.

“Should I get a tattoo?” she asked the aging cowboy beside her as she slid onto a stool at the counter.

He looked stunned for a second, and she didn’t know if it was because he wasn’t used to a woman being so upfront or because he never thought someone who looked like she did would give him the time of day. Probably both. Finally, he found his voice, and even managed to summon some of his long-lost teenage lothario. “And mark up all that pretty skin? I don’t think so. Then again…” Emboldened now, he looked her all over. “…I’m not sure anything short of third degree burns could damage that.”

“You are so sweet.”

“I tell ya, if I wasn’t married…” he started, fingering his wedding ring.

“You’d be alone,” she said sharply.

His jaw dropped open, just a little. She reached under his chin and pressed it shut. End of conversation.

“You’re not from around here, honey,” the waitress, Cookie, going by her name tag, stated matter-of-factly. One look at her weary face, barely thirty and already baggy around the eyes, and Victoria just felt sad. She’d be a pretty girl if this job, this town, these men, these people, this world, weren’t rapidly sucking the life and energy out of her all the way down to her wounded, complacent, uncomplaining soul.

“Yeah, I’m kind of from everywhere. And nowhere.”

“Okay. Well, I don’t know what they eat in everywhere, but it just so happens we specialize in the regional cuisine of nowhere.”

“Well, in that case, let me try a little bit of everything.”

“Oh, sweetie, you do not want to do that. You’ll bust right out of that…outfit you’ve got on there.”

“Trust me, sugar…I won’t.”

Sometimes, her own bitchiness surprised her, and those were the moments when she most longed to remember how it felt to be the lost little girl she was five years ago. Not to truly be her again, but to experience things the way she did, from a place of innocence, with just a glimmer of empathy or compassion for the strangers in her midst. At this point, the fading desire to experience those feelings was about all the genuine humanity she had left. Everyone and everything she encountered in every place she went just seemed so beneath her. And this waitress, with her kind eyes and sassy ways and her empty pathetic sadness making Victoria feel sorry for her? That just pissed her off. Besides, deep down, she knew the only reason this woman was being so friendly was A) it was her job and B) like everyone else she met these days, deep down, this poor little minimum wage slave just wanted to fuck her, too. And therein lay the rub. Who do you trust when everyone just wants a piece of you?

How do you maintain a relationship with someone who just stares and drools with eyes full of naked lust. Sure, she enjoyed the sex, free and wild and utterly meaningless, but if she wasn’t playing the smart-mouthed queen of all she surveyed, if she tried to say something true, from the head or the heart, would anyone even listen?

“Okay, sir, Corporals Litsky and Sparzst are ready to move on your orders…now I’ve already got a man in there, feeding me intel. If you like, I can hold the corporals back and let him make the first move. Maybe if this is handled with some small amount of discretion…”

“I don’t know, Ex. This one’s a handful, we already know that.”

“Right, right. A ‘real bitch goddess,’ I believe you said.”

“That’s right.”

“Which makes me think, if we handle this in a more low-key fashion, at the very least, my man can get her away from all those people in there.”

“Alright. Give it a try. But tell those men to be ready. And Ex–we absolutely 100% need her alive.”

“Understood.”

“Hi.”

Lost for a moment in her self-pitying reverie, she hadn’t even noticed the old cowpoke drift away, gutshot with rejection, while another man took his place. Younger, maybe 40-ish, but still very handsome. In his clean dark suit, he looked more out of place among these yokels than she did. There was nothing Southwest about him in the slightest.

“I was wondering if you had a light.”

“I’m always on fire, if that’s what you’re asking.” She took the cigarette from between his lips. “Besides, why do you need one?” She struck the tip off her thigh and handed it back to him smoldering. “If you don’t know how your own ciggies work, I’m a little worried about you.”

“Just started.”

It was one of the clumsiest moves to start a conversation she’d yet encountered. Still, she didn’t shut him down. Not yet. There was something going on behind those baby browns that snared her interest. For the moment.

“Little late in life to be picking up bad habits, isn’t it?” She was vamping at maximum level, and she noticed something unusual, and very intriguing. He wasn’t falling for it. Not yet. In fact, there was no pupil dilation, no stammering, no wandering eye traveling the relief map of her luscious curves.

“Never too late to start killing yourself, I say.”

“Too true. And there’s just so many wonderful ways to do it.” She placed a hand on his thigh, stroking the fabric of his off the rack suit. He was all muscle there. Still, no response. He didn’t move to stop her, but his eyes remained inscrutable and distant.

“You know, it’s a little early in the day to get into this kind of trouble.”

“Don’t tell me,” she said, sliding the hand between his knee and just shy of his groin, each stroke a little longer and slower than the last. “…you’re married.”

“Close. Divorced.”

“Too bad. For her.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the job, y’know.”

“Let me guess.” She gave him the once over, never pausing her stroke. She was pretty sure something was stirring in those poly-blend slacks.

“I’ll save you the trouble. Sales.”

“Ooh, the traveling salesman. That wasn’t going to be my guess, but it fits.”

“Oh, and what was your guess?”

“Well, the haircut, the inexpensive but well-fitting suit, they could go either way, but the quiet confidence? That I’ve never seen from a salesman. And I’ve seen my share. I was going to say…G-Man.”

Still nothing. He didn’t flinch, didn’t gulp, didn’t have a tell of any kind. After a brief pause, he let out a short burst of spontaneous laughter that only made him sexier.

“You just made my ex pee her pants, and she’s three states away. G-Man. I should have known a girl in that outfit would have a wild imagination.”

“You have no idea,” she said, and cupped her hand around his manhood, in full view of everybody. The waitress just stood there, wiping the same spot on the counter in a hypnotized feedback loop. Sexual tension filled the diner like propane from a gas leak. He went from semi- to fully-erect then, possibly against his will, but his actions confused her even more. He didn’t move into it, and he didn’t pull away. He was letting her do everything, and somehow he was controlling everything by doing nothing at all. He might have been the most badass real man she’d ever met. 

“Why don’t we take this outside?” he suggested, his voice a husky whisper as if everyone in the diner wasn’t hanging on every word.

“Why don’t you take me right here?” she said and pulled him to her, planting her mouth on his, and now he did push back, just a little, and she knew she was right about him. And what she’d have to do. But to her own credit, she felt kind of bad about it.

“I prefer my privacy,” he murmured, trying to unseal his lips from the vacuum of her kiss, the strong pull of her searching fearless tongue.

She paused just long enough to look into his eyes, watering now. She’d cracked him, if not broken him. Nobody could resist forever. “Ah, men,” she said, letting him feel her body as she wrapped herself around him. “So many secrets.”

This time, when she pressed her lips to his he kissed her back, hard and hungry and shameless. She felt the heat rising inside of her and she let it, concentrating it, focusing it, not letting it get too out of hand. But he felt it too, all that fire, flowing into him now, and his eyes went wide and wild as it filled him, but still he couldn’t stop kissing her, even as it consumed him.

“Holy shit! Go, go, go!”

Exeter was shouting, the desperate pitch of his commands exacerbating the static crackle over the long distance wire.

“Exeter, what in God’s name is going on over there?”

“McKind is down, sir. I repeat, McKind is down!”

“That’s your boy inside?”

“Yessir. Agent McKind. A…good man. A great man. Fuck me.” The sound that erupted into his earpiece may have been a sob. An actual goddamn sob. Flagstaff didn’t have all the information, didn’t know every detail of what these men might have been through together, but under no circumstances would he tolerate crybabies.

“Exeter, pull yourself together. I told you I wanted play-by-play!”

“Um, I believe he…spontaneously combusted, sir.”

“He what? Was he necking with her?”

“I believe he was, General.”

“Nothing spontaneous about that then.”

“No sir.”

“I thought you said you all took something, something to counteract whatever the hell it is she does to people.”

“We did, sir. But I think she may have counteracted the counteraction.”

“I told you, she’s a handful. Did you send in my boys?”

“They’re going in now, sir.”

“They’re two of the best.”

“So was McKind, sir.”

When it was over, she was depressed and elated at the same time. And seeing as that was the most overwhelming conflux of emotion she’d experienced in years, elation won the day. The handsome G-Man with the steely resolve was literally everywhere, and she was coated in his visceral blowback. She spun around on her stool, surveying the room, the stunned audience of sad diner patrons also caked with his spatter. One woman was clutching her eye, blood pouring through her fingers, probably permanent vision loss from bone shard shrapnel. The only reason she wasn’t screaming, Victoria figured, was that she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself.

“So glad I could share that experience with you all,” she exclaimed with the sing-songy forced merriment of a Vegas lounge entertainer, then spun back around to face the waitress, licking a bit of G-Man goo from her fingertips.

“Honeypie,” she cooed, “what did you wanna be when you grew up? You know, when you were still young and full of dreams?”

“Lady…ma’am…I don’t know about any of that but right now all I wanna be is still alive…”

Victoria smiled indulgently but not at all comfortingly. “I’ll see what I can do, sug.”

  Then that old familiar feeling started to creep in, the one that always came sooner or later after sexual ecstasy or orgiastic violence or any highly punctuated moment of existence. The anti-climax settling over her as she realized the only way to get back to the fading feeling was to keep chasing it unto eternity, the tiger after its own tail. Post-orgasmic depression syndrome. It was all somehow related to the howling emptiness at the heart of human endeavor that we were all trying desperately to keep at bay.

So as she sat amongst these frightened, whimpering little nothings, wondering what in the hell her purpose was if the man who’d ostensibly summoned her into being was dead and all she was left with was a planet stuffed to brimming with plebeians, who should walk in but two more of the same?

She whirled around in her seat to face the soldiers, their weapons at the ready.

“Hiya, boys,” she purred with a smirk that was practically her permanent expression now.

“Miss, we can do this two ways…” one of them started to say.

“No,” she said, and she could already feel the heat rising inside of her. “We can’t.”

“Exploded? Everything? The whole goddamn diner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, she’s…” 

“Presumably. Along with a lot of innocent people. And three good men. Well, two good. One great.”

“Good. Great. It all ends the same, Exeter.” 

“I suppose it does, sir.”

Profoundly depressed now, Flagstaff glance up to see Culpepper hovering in the doorway, clutching a bottle of Laurent-Perrier and two flutes. “Put that shit away and bring me whisky. This day has just gone to shit in a shinebox.” Culpepper scurried away, and Flagstaff shouted after him, “And what the fuck did you bring two glasses for? Did you think I was gonna share a toast with you, you little faggot?!”

“Sir…”

He’d almost forgotten Exeter was still on the line. “What?”

“You’re not going to believe this, sir…”

“She’s alive?!”

“So it would seem.”

“Culpepper! Strike that last order! Bring the Dom! And a glass for yourself! The celebration is…”

“Before you go getting too excited, I’d like to remind you…”

“Don’t crash my party now, Ex.”

“Well, I’m alone here, sir.”

“Aw, shit.”

As the fire raged and the smoke billowed and yes, actually mushroomed into the sky, Exeter kept his distance and watched for movement, any kind of movement, though it was ridiculous to imagine that anything could be alive in that flaming hell. Even the Jeep-load of men stationed behind the diner with the brand new mounted M60 ready to take her if she attempted escape out the back had been blown straight to God.

Only because he’d positioned himself inconspicuously clear across the road and behind an old abandoned pumphouse had he managed not to take more than secondary burns from the heatblast. There didn’t seem to be anyone else alive for miles.

The only noise was the crackle of the fire consuming everything in its reach. Everything except…

For a moment, he let himself feel a little thrill of hope, like maybe there were actual survivors, someone shielded in a meat freezer or behind a lead-lined counter. Hell, maybe he’d been wrong about McKind, his eyes playing tricks through the binoculars. But he knew who it was, the only one it could be.

She emerged from the smoke in a stumbling mockery of her sexy swivel-hipped signature strut; she’d definitely taken damage from this one. Her red mane was a wild frizzy burst like the Rising Sun on a Jap flag. 

He moved around to the trunk of his vehicle, popped it and moved the spare tire aside, revealing the illicit treasure he had stowed in there. Jass’ old blitz-rifle, the one they’d taken from him on Der Schwimmenwurst, all those years ago. He had no reason to believe it would actually work on this unkillable bitch but it seemed like a sweet way to honor McKind before joining him in the Great Beyond, or maybe the Big Empty.

She staggered across the road, stark naked except for the few places where the vinyl from her outfit had melted to her flesh. She was terrifying, but also somehow vulnerable, reminding him of nothing so much as a bombing victim he’d come across outside a French village during the war, so badly scorched he couldn’t tell if she was young or old or in between. So burned he couldn’t even hold her as she died, because the pain of his touch was too great. He tried to shake it off, this overwhelming pity he was feeling for the creature that was about to end his life.

He raised the lightning rifle to his shoulder and took aim.

“Don’t come any closer, Atomblast!” he warned. “I will put you down like a dog.”

“God,” she said, mushmouthed as a drunken bag lady, “I wish you would. I wish someone fucking could!”

She kept coming toward him, and still he hadn’t fired. The weapon hummed in idle, drawing charged particles from the air. There were plenty.

“You know,” she said, stopping just about five yards shy of him and putting one blackened hand on her scorched hip. “This day did not turn out like I thought at all.”

And collapsed in a heap at his feet.

Nye County, Nevada June 1951

Jackson Tennifer’s ’47 Vanderbuilt Road Baron flew up North Highway 95 like a rocket from Hell. It was full dark, nearly midnight, and there were no other cars on the road. His wife, Visalia, was stretched across the bench seat, head resting in his lap. Her cheek against his thigh was causing an erection he was doing his best to ignore. After all, what good what it do? She’d never put her face this close to his crotch when she was wide awake, would she? 

When he saw the sign for Mercury, Nevada, he slowed the Road Baron and left the main highway onto a service road that veered off to the right. The speed decrease was like an alarm clock, and right on cue, Visalia began to murmur, then lifted her head and blinked up at him with a bleary smile. 

“Are we there?” she asked, lifting herself slowly away from him and stretching as she sat upright. She peered through the windshield at the surrounding darkness. “Where’s the lights?”

“We’re close,” he said, and reached into his coat pocket for his flask, took a long pull of the bourbon inside and then poked the open mouth at her before replacing the lid. 

She waved it away. “Did we take a wrong turn somewhere?”

“Nope,” he replied. “More of a…romantic detour.”

“Oh, Jack. Please. If I wouldn’t do those kinds of things in a car before we were married, why would you think I’d want to do them now?”

Jackson rolled his eyes, hoping the cab was dim enough that she wouldn’t notice. Question of the day, wasn’t it? Of the year. Of their life. “You miss my meaning, sweetie. I just thought, before we hit the big town, we should get a little time to ourselves.”

“Um…okay. But I thought we had a room at the Desert Inn, and tickets for Martin & Lewis?”

“Tomorrow night, hon. Tonight’s all about us.”

The Road Baron rolled off the service road and bumped its way down a narrow strip of dirt that could only be referred to as a road with tremendous generosity. The puzzled expression wasn’t leaving Visalia’s face, but Jackson was thoroughly used to that look by now. Visalia, the sweet little angel, the Virgin of Sioux City, Iowa, a small town girl with big city dreams and stars in her eyes but not a single clue how to operate one foot outside of Squaresville. Sure, she was beautiful, under the mousy haircut and unflattering clothes, else why would Jackson  have ever given her the time of day? And there must have been some tiny mystery there, too, behind those wide, eternally awestruck eyes, else why would he have asked for her hand just to get under her skirt? But now here they were, two years in and nothing had changed. Well, next to nothing. Two years in and she was still as fearful of his sex as she was on their wedding night, still timid and frigid and willing to submit only under what amounted to extreme duress. There was just no joy in it. If he wanted the house cleaned and his meals on the table, he could hire a goddamn maid, but could he really be expected to spend the rest of his life like a monk who’d taken vows? 

After a long silent while he brought the sedan to a stop outside of a bare bones clapboard two-story house. The headlights revealed a long wide porch across the front, dark windows staring down, the shades half-drawn like sullen eyelids, observing their approach with blank indifference. 

“Jack…what’s this?”

“I rented us a cabin. You don’t like?”

“No…I…it’s…fine. It’s totally fine.”

He could hear the disappointment in her voice, and for just a moment he wondered if he should have saved this for the end of the weekend. Let her have her fun, or whatever passed for fun in her boring Midwestern brain, then…but no, that would have been too late. If he couldn’t save the marriage, at least he could save himself. And this was the only way.

He got out of the car, mildly surprised and slapped half sober by the cold snap of night air in the desert, took a breath and went around to her side, opened the door like a gentleman does and put a warming arm around her as she stepped out, already shivering. 

“It’s like no cabin I ever saw,” she said, taking a tentative step toward the big dark shabby house. She peered around, trying to take in their surroundings beyond the bleak, impenetrable dark. “It’s so…desolate.”

“That’s Nevada, baby. You wanted to get away, right? Well, you can’t get much more away than this.”

He couldn’t tell what she was more afraid of, the loneliness of the house and this place, or the thought of being alone here with him. Either way, he didn’t want her scared. That wouldn’t do either of them any good.

“C’mon, I’ll get the bags.”

“Do you have a flashlight?”

He popped the trunk and brought out an electric lantern, clicked it on and flooded them both in white light. It didn’t exactly cheer things up. 

“Prepared for every eventuality.”

She smiled for the first time since waking up in his lap, and it melted him, just a little. That smile had been the first hook, the thing that drew him to her. He should have hated that smile, but he just couldn’t.

The steps creaked and even buckled a little with each footstep, and the porch floor was no better. The whole place felt like it might fall over if he leaned against the wall to tie his shoe or something.

“Jack, are you sure this is the right place?”

“Positive. Why?”

“Well, isn’t that another car?” She pointed off to the left, around the Southeast corner of the house, where the tailfin of a spanking new Vanderbuilt Casino Deluxe sparked and glistened in the glow of the lantern. “Maybe somebody’s already here?”

“Oh, no. That’s the owner’s. The guy I rented from. He told me he parks his extra car out here sometimes. Safekeeping.”

“Oh.” She smiled up at him, but this wasn’t the warm inviting smile of a moment ago. It was the forced smile she wore along with her one negligee, the “I-guess-if-you-say-so” smile. 

He gave her the lantern and pretended to fumble with the door, hoping she wouldn’t notice that he didn’t have a key. He’d known he wouldn’t need one. He didn’t push the gag too hard, afraid the thing would pop off its hinges, and when it swung open, he took the lantern back before ushering her in. Immediately, she grabbed his arm.

“Jackson,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “There are people here.”

“How’s that?” he asked, giving the lantern a swing around the room. Sure enough, several human silhouettes emerged from the darkness, one standing at the window, one seated at the kitchen table, another over by the couch. 

“Jack, I’m scared,” she whispered.

She clutched his arm tightly enough to leave a bruise as he stepped over to the figure at the window and illuminated it fully. She gasped when he reached out and gave it a tap, and it wobbled stiffly. 

“Huh. Imagine that.” He let out a snort of laughter. “Mannequins.”

“Jackson, what is this place? It’s like a…house of horrors.”

“They’re probably just here to scare off kids and troublemakers. Like scarecrows.”

“I don’t like it. It’s weird. I want to leave.”

“C’mon, I already paid.”
“It’s worth every penny to me not to be here anymore.”

He’d had plans, an idea to enjoy her diffident lovemaking one last time, to eke as much minimal pleasure from the whole sordid event as he could before…

“Sorry, babe. We can’t leave. Well…you can’t.”

The puzzled look again. “What are you–?”

He brought the lantern down on her skull.

He must not have hit her as hard as he thought. Carrying her out to the Road Baron, she stirred, the same sleepy, bewildered look as when she woke up from her car nap, but no smile this time. Just fear. He’d never wanted her to be afraid. This wasn’t meant to be malicious. He just wanted his freedom. To leave as little mess behind as possible. A peaceful exit for both of them. Sort of. He thought he’d planned it perfectly, but he’d only ever seen the place in daylight. It was a little creepy then, but he hadn’t counted on how much more disturbing it would be at night, and how that would affect his little Iowan waif. His virtuous child bride.

“Jacky…? What are you…? What…happened?”

“Shh.” He carried her in his arms like they were crossing the threshold on their wedding night, and maybe it stirred that memory for her, because she nuzzled against him suddenly, burrowing for his protection. She probably didn’t even realize, in her semi-conscious stupor, that he was responsible for her cloudy mind. Probably just thought she’d fainted, again like their wedding night, and he was doing as she asked, taking her away from this terrible place, not forcing her to do anything she wasn’t comfortable with.

The trunk was still open, and he tried his best to be gentle as he lowered her in, but he bumped her head against the trunk lid and she let out a little yelp of pain.

“Jacky, I’m cold. Where are we going?”

“Nowhere too far,” he said comfortingly, then went to close the lid, but she grabbed the edge of the trunk and he nearly caught her fingers. Gingerly, he reached down and freed her hand, pushed it down against her chest, arranging her in her casket. 

“Jacky, it’s too dark,” she murmured as he caught his last glimpse of her.

Too fucking dark indeed.

If the Road Baron was a rocket, the Casino was a goddamn time machine. At top speed, he figured he’d be back in San Diego an hour before he’d ever left. He whistled along with the song on the radio, Tony Bennett’s version of “Cold, Cold Heart.” He expected to feel guilt, shame, that anxious looking-over-the-shoulder feeling. But he only felt…lighter. The further he got from that broken down shack and that unfixable woman he felt like he was tap dancing on a storm cloud. 

As he reached the turn-off for the service road, he was hit with a flood of light so intense he thought for a moment he might be getting abducted by aliens. He knew the rumors about the area, but he was a pragmatist by nature, so the thought left him just as quickly. 

“Stop the vehicle!” a voice barked with a bullhorn crackle.

The law! he thought, but how was that possible? No one could have found her this fast. It hadn’t been ten minutes yet. He hit the brakes more out of blindness than in response to the command. The Casino was brand new, and cost a fortune. It wouldn’t do to smash it into anything just yet. 

“Step out of the vehicle! Hands over your head!”

He blinked into the brilliance, and it all became clear. Their helmeted silhouettes coming into view, the outlines of their rifles, held at the ready. A jeep rigged with floodlamps and some kind of mounted machine gun.

“Out! Now!”

The click-clack of weaponry cocking, the shadowy motion of men stepping forward, coming for him.

Without a second thought, Jackson threw the Casino into reverse and floored it. She handled beautifully, a masterstroke of American automotive engineering, top of the motherfucking line. All this desert, horsepower like this, they didn’t have a hope in hell of catching him out here. All he had to do was make the highway, any highway, and he’d be home free.

V8 engine, chrome bumpers, built-in record player, automatic doors and windows, this car had everything. Though there was one feature available on the ’52 Casino that Jackson had refused. The mere suggestion from the sales dealer had sounded absurd to him at the time. Why on earth would he ever need that? What would any regular Joe just cruising the American roadway ever want with a bulletproof car?

As the shattered glass filled his eyes and the relentless ammunition of the silhouette soldiers tore him and his car to pieces, Jackson Tennifer finally had his answer.

She wasn’t in a bed. That much she knew. Wherever she was it was hard and unyielding and devoid of creature comfort and…she tried to sit up and promptly bumped her head against whatever ceiling was above her. It sent a jangling shock of pain through her body. She’d barely bumped it, though, so why did her head hurt so terribly? 

As she pressed her hands upwards against the obstruction, a moment of foggy panic had her convinced she’d been buried alive, some kind of horrible mistake. What could have led to this? Were they in an accident? Last she remembered she’d been resting comfortably in Jackson’s lap, on their way to Vegas, the long-promised second honeymoon. 

“Jack?” she croaked, her voice hoarse with fear. She thought that had to be it, they’d been in a crash and she was either dead in her coffin or, more likely, trapped inside the ruined car. But where was Jack? She felt around in the terrible dark and her fingers brushed strange things—hard metal here, soft cloth there, a crumple of something that was crusty and hard, maybe newspaper or an old towel, something that had to be a hairbrush, another that felt like a length of pipe or a tool. 

“Jack!” she said, more insistently now. But he wasn’t here with her, she knew already. Not in these tiny confines. She remembered him carrying her, and then she knew where she was. The trunk. And Jackson had put her here. But why? She reached up and felt the lump on her head and the sharp but expected jolt brought a flood of realization. The creepy house, the ghostly mannequin-people, Jack’s strange demeanor. Had she been attacked in there? Had they both? But no, that made no sense either. It was Jack who’d done this, she was sure. A new answer but the same nagging question: Why?

Panic again. She was alone, as alone as she’d ever been, in the middle of nowhere with a man who’d just hurt her, possibly tried to murder her, the man who supposedly loved her. And just the thought of that was enough to transform fear into anger. It wasn’t an emotion she was used to, at least not to expressing out loud. But hell hath no fury…

She began pounding on the roof of the trunk, shouting as loud as her cold lungs would let her. “Jack! You let me out of here right now, you…you…son-of-a-bitch! Do you hear me?! Let me out or I’ll just make sure whatever happens is as bad for you as it could ever be!” Then, rethinking her position. “Let me out, while there’s still a chance we can make sense of this!” 

Nothing.

Anger turned to despair then. He’d done it. He’d abandoned her. Maybe he’d meant to kill her, maybe not. Maybe there was another woman, maybe there wasn’t. Hardly mattered now. She’d been betrayed. Abandoned and betrayed. In the far-flung reaches of some desert hell, locked in a trunk without light…or air.

Panic again. She pounded even harder, knowing it was futile but trying anyway, knowing there was no one to hear her for miles around, just like he’d planned it. So no matter how she tried to slice it, it was murder, even if he’d been too much of a coward to kill her with his bare hands. He’d meant for her to die, and when she’d exhausted herself and her hands and arms ached from pounding, she collapsed back and figured she would. Almost against her will, though, her legs kicked up and she tried to force the trunk that way. She felt the heel of one shoe give and she kicked them both off, kicking upward again as hard as she could, and feeling nothing but hard steel resistance and screaming needles of pain in the soles of her feet. She very nearly twisted an ankle with the violence of her effort and that was when she gave up again, collapsing back and curling up into a fetal ball and sobbing heavily. 

When she cried herself out she tried praying, but even as a good church-going Lutheran girl, a tiny part of her deep in the center knew that it was futile. Jesus might be there to comfort her when she reached the Pearly Gates, but he wasn’t going to come along and open the trunk with his magic key, was he? He could always send one of his angels, in the form of a passing motorist, but she was too far off the highway to be seen, no matter how bright their halo.

She thought maybe if she just went to sleep she wouldn’t feel it, that death would come for her with silent solicitude and steal her last breath in mid-snore. But there was something pressing against her spine and if she was going to lay back into the arms of death, she was going to be comfortable, by God. She reached beneath her and her hands closed around the metal object she’d brushed over earlier and she knew without needing to see what it was. A tire iron. With a crowbar end. She tried to stay calm as she fumbled around for the trunk’s lock mechanism, and after a panicky few minutes she realized she was searching the back of the trunk, not the front. She rolled over and found it, then fingered the tire iron, trying to figure out how to mate tool and lock in blind darkness. She managed to slide it into place at the edge of the lock but she couldn’t find a position that gave her any leverage to pry. She wriggled this way and that until she could, then used what strength she could muster to force the lock. It wouldn’t budge. This wasn’t something a woman was capable of, she thought. This was man stuff, all the way. Her thin arms and slender shoulders didn’t have the muscle required for such a monumental…

Fuck that, she thought, and startled herself with the mere idea of the word. She wasn’t that kind of girl, she didn’t talk that way. She’d heard the word, sure, from the lips of her father out in the garage under the hood when he had no idea she was in earshot. And what had he been doing? Fumbling and struggling with a wrench against a bolt that didn’t want to budge. But a few well-placed and whisper-shouted “fucks” later, the bolt came loose for him. How was this any different? 

“Fuck this,” she said out loud and caught herself giggling. The word felt weird on her lips. Weird but wonderful. She wondered what Jackson would have thought? Her mother would have slapped her silly, her father would have grabbed his belt—never acknowledging his own hypocrisy as he tarnished her hide. But Jackson, he would’ve just stood there, with that slack-jawed “who are you?” expression on his face. The look that told her what she’d always been too afraid to think about too hard—that he didn’t really know her, and never would. All for lack of trying. 

“Fuck this!” she said again, and pried hard at the lock, feeling the narcotic adrenal surge as she summoned strength she didn’t know she had. Something gave. Not a lot. No satisfying shriek and pop of metal surrendering to her will. But…movement.

“Fuuuuuuuckkk!”

She couldn’t tell what sound it made over her own powerful scream, but the lock gave up the ghost with such force it flew back and hit her in the mouth and even as the blood trickled from her lips she was laughing. Hysterical, triumphant, exhausted, over-the-edge soul-deep laughter welling up from her core. 

She pushed the trunk open and was surprised to see that it was dawn now, the desert sky a pale blue-gray overhead. It was comforting to know that she wouldn’t have to find her way out of here under dark of night. She didn’t suppose that rotten bastard would have thought to leave the keys.

As she started to climb out, she heard a roar of thunder loud enough to shake the Heavens and then the sky lit up. Great, she thought, a storm. But this bright flash didn’t flicker away. Daybreak, she figured, the sun cresting the far horizon. It wasn’t until she saw the massive cloud begin to form that she fully realized what was happening. Jackson really had planned this well. Next came the cloud of dust, rolling toward her like a freight train, picking up whatever was in its path and hurtling it in her direction. She ducked back into the trunk and managed to get the lid down just in time for the shockwave of the atom blast to send the Road Baron flying into and right through the clapboard house. 

Surrender Dorothy, she thought, as the car sailed end over end, and again she was laughing.

She didn’t know what time it was when she came to. She figured wherever she was now, time didn’t matter anyway. Right? I mean, I must be dead now, she thought. Then again, if I’m dead, why does everything hurt so Goddamn much? And then she clapped her hand over her mouth just for thinking the word Goddamn. Maybe I went to Hell, she reasoned. Probably. After all, I did say the Fuck Word. And what was a life of piety and submission and near-constant trembling God-fear in the face of an atrocity like that?  

She felt another fit of the giggles coming on and that surprised her even more. She couldn’t remember laughing this much in a long time, and by all rights, this should be the least hilarious day of her life. But it wasn’t. It was Goddamn hysterical. Everything about it, from Jackson’s brutal betrayal to her escape into the face of a mushroom cloud struck her as wonderfully, joyously ridiculous. There was an undercurrent of anger, too, a recognition of the bitter ironies and vagaries of fate. But miraculously, the fear was gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense that in spite of her predicament—because of it?—she could do anything.

It took her a few moments to realize that she was most likely not in Hell, but in the trunk of an irradiated Road Baron. Feeling around, she also realized pretty quickly that she wouldn’t be going out the way she got in. The car must have landed upside down. Without hesitation, she repositioned herself and kicked at the back of the trunk, one, two, three, and the backseat popped forward and she was able to crawl free. She expected to emerge into the sedan’s roomy interior but instead she found herself outside, and when she turned to look at the vehicle she realized that at some point it had been cleaved in two. She was in the backyard of what had once been the clapboard mannequin abode, which was now just a wood frame on a cement foundation strewn with rubble. The front half of the vehicle rested on the still-standing second floor, next to a clawfoot bathtub. As she stood there in the debris field, tattered, bruised, bleeding from here and there, but very much alive, she took in a lungful of radioactive air and turned to face the mushroom cloud still lingering on the horizon, unable to believe how absolutely brilliant and beautiful everything was. This was undoubtedly the lowest moment of her life, and she’d never felt better.

Without exactly knowing why, she started walking in the direction of the big billowing cloud of smoke and death, like she’d seen the soldiers do in the newsreel films. On the horizon, the incongruous mushroom seemed as motionless as a painting, a piece of set dressing for an epic Hollywood film. She didn’t know how long she walked, but she never seemed to get any closer to it and she didn’t stop until she saw something, or maybe someone, coming toward her, silhouetted against that gorgeous backdrop of pinks and yellows and oranges and reds. She didn’t know if this was someone coming to her rescue—not that she needed it—or maybe a soldier coming to take her into custody for trespassing. Better yet, perhaps it was Jackson, on his way back to finish the job. If that was the case, she was ready for him.

But as the figure drew nearer, Visalia saw that it was a woman. It wasn’t just the voluptuous curves and the billowy mane of flaming red hair. No, the real giveaway was that she was stark naked, her ample breasts and fiery nethers on display for all the world to see, if all the world were to suddenly gather in remote death-blasted Nevada. Maybe, Visalia thought, she’d been caught in the blast, too, another victim of a surprise atomic incident, her clothing super-heated away. But that didn’t explain the confident motion of her hips as she walked, the near-hypnotic focus of her determined forward motion. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said as she drew close enough for Visalia to see that she had the most electrifying green eyes she’d ever seen. As soon as the words left her full, indescribably luscious lips, she planted them on Visalia’s, and as they kissed in the shadow of the mushroom cloud the former Mrs. Tennifer felt a shockwave that put the A-bomb aftermath to shame.

Oh, I get it, Visalia thought. I’m hallucinating.

The sun was already getting low in the sky, the giant cloud long since dissipated, when she found herself at the service road. She came upon a bustle of activity, men in army gear and some in suits, others in labcoats and even more in radiation gear, taking readings and measurements and talking quietly and seriously among themselves. They were gathered around something that she recognized, first dimly, then with dawning horror followed by sudden and immense satisfaction. The ’52 Vanderbuilt Casino Deluxe that she’d seen parked alongside the clapboard house. The getaway car. Only it didn’t get far. Pocked with bullet holes like a gangster’s last ride. She couldn’t yet tell if Jackson was inside, but she knew he was—every bit as dead as she wasn’t. It was almost enough to make her believe there was some justice in the world. 

When she caught the first soldier’s eye, she couldn’t help but wonder what a sight she must be. In her own mind-reel, she was a bedraggled wretch, a filthy ragamuffin waif in tattered dress and grease-smeared sweater, shoeless and skin-burnt from radioactive wind. But the wide-eyed look on his face was her first clue that her mental picture wasn’t entirely accurate. He was obviously startled, only vaguely concerned for her well-being, and definitely not thinking of her in terms of her potential threat level. No, the predominant reaction lingering within that slightly glazey gaze was…lust. Pure animal lust. 

She’d seen the look before, but only rarely directed her way. She kind of liked it, even if she couldn’t quite understand what she’d done to inspire it.

“Ah…sir?” the soldier managed to stammer, letting go of his rifle stock to jab a stiff index finger in her direction.

The nearest officer turned away from his conversation with a lab-coated tech, a slightly annoyed expression on his face. “What is it, sol…?” And then he saw her. And got the same wolf-lust look in his eye.

The bustle went right out of the scene as one by one they turned to apprise the new object of interest in their midst. And as they drank in the messy, blast-ravaged sight of her, they all, to a man, got the look. Okay, she had to concede, the one over there in the labcoat didn’t have it, and neither did the strapping sergeant to her immediate left. And she couldn’t really be sure what was going on under the helmets of the men in the radiation-proof suits. But the rest of them just stood leering for a long, quiet moment that was as poignant as it was awkward. She hadn’t said a word, hadn’t done a thing, had hardly moved a muscle since wandering upon them. And she had them all mesmerized. Maybe they just weren’t used to seeing girls around these parts?

“Sir?” the first soldier managed again, and the officer seemed to snap out of his horndog stupor, yanking his pistol from its holster and holding it pointed at the sky. 

“Halt!” he barked, and she hadn’t even been aware she was moving. She really just wanted a peek inside the car. She did as she was told like a good little girl, and the thought of that made her giggle again. 

Those who were armed swung their rifles and sidearms towards her now, none of them quite wanting to poke the barrels at her, but just to let her know they were paying attention. 

“What…where did you come from?” the officer asked.

She nodded her head back toward the blast area. “Ground zero, I guess.”

“Were you…how did you get out here?”

She cast a meaningful glance at the ruined luxury car. 

“You were…with him?” The officer’s face wavered between a look of deep empathy and total suspicion, but never quite losing that lusty undercurrent.

“Do you mind?” she asked, gesturing at the car.

The strapping sergeant stepped aside and she got her first good look at what was left of the man she’d pledged her life to. Slumped behind the wheel, one eye open, the other gone, along with about a quarter of his skull. It was the first dead body she’d ever seen, besides her grandfather in his funeral casket, already stuffed and mounted. But she’d seen pictures, and in death, Jackson Tennifer looked like most dead men did. Beyond vulnerable. Pathetic. The sad empty vessel of a life spent in perpetual terror and confusion, not the least bit clued in or prepared for the moment when life meted out the final punchline.

“Did you know this man?”

Visalia snorted. “Not in the least.” It wasn’t even a lie.

“What were you doing out here?”

“Just passing through,” she said with a smirk. Part of her couldn’t believe the way she was talking to these men, and not just any men, but real legitimate figures of authority. Federal authority. But it also felt like the most natural thing in the world. They weren’t above her, after all, and their silly game of War didn’t really mean anything, did it? They were little boys playing dress up, and taking it as gravely serious as all little boys did. And here she was, in no-girls-allowed country, distracting and confounding them and reminding them all why there were no girls allowed in the first place.

She started to move again, not so much eager to get away as simply done and over with the whole dull scene, but caught a glimpse of herself in the absurdly outsized sideview mirror of the Vanderbuilt. She’d been right to begin with. She was a wreck. Smudged, bruised, hair undone from its tight bun and flying behind her in a wild tangle. Not only was she barefoot and sporting skinned knees like a schoolgirl, but at some point she’d lost the last of her ruined dress and was wearing only her satin slip—Jackson was too cheap to ever buy her silk, must’ve been saving for his sweet ride. Her makeup had all been cried or sweated away. Both slip and bra-strap had slid off her shoulder and her left breast was precariously close to revealing itself to the eyes of the U.S. Armed Forces, et al. She looked, if she dared think it of herself, alluring. Sensuous. Even her facial expression had some heretofore unseen come-hither quality. She thought the face in the mirror might wink back at her. Then it did. She wasn’t sure she knew this person, but she instantly liked her. She clearly didn’t give a shit what anyone thought about her, and that was probably the sexiest quality of all. That and she had a pretty incredible figure, which the Widow Tennifer had known all along, or at least since she used to stand naked before the mirror back in Sioux Falls and compare herself to the bathing beauties in the movie magazines. By the time she looked away from the mirror and back at the men, she knew exactly why they were all looking at her that way. Beyond the obvious novelty of a half-dressed woman sashaying out of the desert in the wake of an A-test, she, Visalia, or this woman who had taken hold of what was once Visalia, was truly something to behold. They weren’t just looking at a woman; they were gazing upon a Goddess and not one of them had the first clue what to do with her. Typical men.

One of them, a young private barely out of grade school from the look of him, gave his head a puppy-like shake and stepped forward, jamming his rifle at her. “Stay right where you are!” he blurted, trying his best to sound menacing and authoritative, but his quavery adolescent voice wasn’t up to the task.

Without a thought, she reached out and gently took hold of the barrel, cupping it, giving it a suggestive stroke. As she stared into his helpless eyes, she felt the heat surge up from somewhere deep inside her and the gunmetal began to melt, literally melt, in her fist.

“Ooh, what happened?” she asked, coquettish and sly. “You went soft on me.”

The private staggered backwards, staring with disbelief at the now-useless weapon in his hands.

“It’s been real, fellas,” she murmured breezily, moving on.

“Halt!” the officer commanded again, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “Identify yourself!”

She stopped, half-turned, and put a hand on her hip. She had to think about it, but only for a second. “They call me…Victoria Atomblast.” 

She didn’t know where that came from, but she knew it wasn’t a lie either.

SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED

Detroit, Michigan March 1, 1957

The irony of joining a union so soon after the debacle in Chicago was not lost on Brock. But this was the UAW, one of the most powerful unions in the country, and the benefits and pay were nothing for an honest laborer to sneeze at. If he lasted the first year, and he had little doubt he would, his bonus would outstrip even the hazard pay the Army had shunted his way after his most harrowing super-ordeals.

He liked the work, too. Manual labor suited him, as did the efficiency of the assembly line, a point-to-point system of men in near-perfect tune with the automation, a precision-dependent work regimen that was perfectly suited to the muscle-memory mindset of a soldier. And indeed, most of the men he shared the line with were veterans, too, though it was unlikely any of them had ever faced Captain Panzer, the Human Tank in the North African desert, or fought the Rising Son in the sky over Hiroshima as Little Boy did his dirty atomic business below. For their benefit, Brock invented a backstory for himself that included storming the beach at Normandy, fighting at Market Garden, and surviving Bastogne, all as a regular grunt.

Every so often, he’d hear a couple of the other men discussing General Public, wondering what had become of him, or swapping stories–mostly secondhand tales retooled to support the claim that they’d been there–about accompanying him on wild exploits.

“He saved my ass at Guadalcanal, I tell ya,” one man would say.
“How could he? He was in the ETO then, leading my squad on a raid against the MechaKraut!” another man would argue.

“What, you think he can’t be two places at once?” a third guy would ask. “He’s freakin’ General Public!”

“I hear there’s more’n one of ‘em.”

“Nah, that’s a lot of malarkey. They broke the mold makin’ that guy.”

“I hear he broke it himself, just to keep them from makin’ more.”

“It’s just an expression. You think he came outta a mold, like he’s Jell-O?”

“Sure turned to Jell-O in Chicago, didn’t he?”

And with that, they’d grow mostly silent, kind of morose. Even the ones that poked fun at the guy in the ridiculous outfit (“Ain’t even regulation colors? What makes him so special?” “Uh, everything about him, ya ultramaroon!”) seemed disturbed at his disappearance. Apparently, he’d underestimated the impact of the living symbol of their harsh struggle and ultimate victory in the face of evil suddenly losing his shit and vanishing into the wind. If life back home could break the General, what was going to become of them?

“What’dya think, Stone?” someone would inevitably ask as he sat silently in the breakroom, just taking in the chatter with a bemused half-grin. “What become of the General?”

“Maybe his job was done. Ever think of that? Maybe he just wanted to come home, settle into a nice normal life out of the glare of the public eye. Find some peace, start a family. Isn’t that why you guys did it?”

They’d get quiet again, a couple of them nodding, a few others shaking their heads.

“He coulda said something,” someone would say.

“Ah, he didn’t owe us nothing. Stone’s right. Guy gave plenty. I say wherever he’s at, God bless ya, Pubby! You done right by this old soldier.”

Words like that, when they reached his ears, were better than any medal.

Every so often, he and a few of the other vets–the ones with the heaviest combat experience–would get pulled off the line for a special detail. It usually had to do with a clean-up in the crash test room, or occasionally an accident during a test run of some new experimental vehicle or another, the thinking being that men who’d seen much worse in combat wouldn’t lose their lunch over a chimpanzee or human cadaver that had just been turned into a hundred-plus pounds of ground chuck.

Brock never said no, but every time, he prayed it wouldn’t be an ape of any kind. The very first time he’d had to pull the limp remains of a dead chimp with absolutely no say in how his life turned out from the crumpled wreckage of a Vanderbuilt Shadow sports coupe, he’d found himself right back inside that Austrian mountain lab, with the helpless ape-boy strapped to the table waiting for the horrors to come. At least that time, he was able to save the animal-man. On the Vanderbuilt test floor, not so much. So as he made his way with a couple of his workmates to the exterior test field, a Jeep-ride away from the rear facility entrance, he found himself chanting his strange new mantra, “Please be a corpse. Please be a corpse. Please be a corpse.”

As they came upon the scene, Brock knew this wasn’t the normal test-crash scenario. The way the vehicular wreckage was strewn far and wide, the fact that there were medics and nurses at the site performing what amounted to battlefield triage, the evidence of more than one or two “test bodies” and more than likely actual collateral victims told him that something had gone terribly wrong here. He imagined the only reason they hadn’t heard it all the way inside was the roar of their own machines. He also knew that there would be visits from legal after this, papers to sign, sworn oaths of confidentiality in this matter. And he would sign them dutifully and without protest because all he wanted was to keep a low profile and this job.

A couple of men were running around barking orders like a two-headed dog, both acting like they were fully in charge while not challenging each other’s authority. One of them, balding and sweat-stained, his expensive suit smoke-blacked and blood-spattered, his threatening cigar aimed like a weapon at whoever crossed his field of vision, was Carlton Fuller, company president. Brock recognized him from the portrait and accompanying bronze bust in the lobby. The other, in full dress regalia, a bloom of medals on his puffed-out chest splayed like peacock feathers, Brock recognized from his other life. General Beauregard Flagstaff, formerly Colonel Flagstaff, one of Dwight D.’s most trusted advisors during the war. A real bastard, who clearly brimmed with simmering resentment every time he’d had to defer to the wishes of the honorary super-officer General Public. Technically, Public never outranked him, because the title had more to do with image-creation than any actual position of command, but time and again, Eisenhower, Patton, MacArthur and the others had happily taken his lead, largely because Public got battle-tested results, and in no small part because it took the heat of potential operations failure off of them.

When he spotted the civilian workers approaching, Flagstaff puffed up even more, and Brock was sure the big man was in danger of providing a secondary explosion by spontaneously bursting from his own skin.

“Fuller, what is the meaning of this? Why are these men here!”

“They’re our designated clean-up crew, General. You got a problem with that?”
“Yes I do! This is a military exercise, and it’s our job to not only clean this up, but to keep as tight a lid as possible on what happened here. And that means not bringing in another half-dozen looky-loos to get a gander at this godforsaken mess!”

“No, General, what this is, or was, is a commercial test of an experimental technology for the purpose of securing a government contract. You are guests here, and this disaster is completely our responsibility. My responsibility. I appreciate whatever help your men can provide, of course, and believe me when I say, the Vanderbuilt board wants this to get out even less than you do, and we’ll do everything we can to ensure that. Won’t we, boys?”

With that, he turned his attention directly to Brock and the others. But mostly to Brock. His eyes fixed him with a laser-like stare, his face a mask of phony camaraderie and genuine impatient expectation.

“That’s right, sir,” Brock said, nodding solemn agreement. Luckily, his own carefully cultivated obsequiousness in the face of authority figures served him well when he had to knuckle under and make them look good. Brock certainly didn’t fear, and didn’t even particularly respect, the so-called authority that a uniform or a title supposedly imposed upon a man, knew that these separations between individuals were arbitrary and frequently decorative, relying entirely on a tacit agreement between multiple parties that such distinctions did in fact exist. His main reason for bowing to the whims of leaders, be they worthy of respect or just petty tyrants-in-training, was expediency. The quicker he said yes, or appeared to acquiesce to their expectations, the sooner he could get on with the job at hand. Sure, part of it was duty, but the larger portion was simply a means to lubricating the engines of progress and forward motion.

“See, General. I may be no more than a businessman, but I run a tight ship. Just like you. My men are loyal and true. Just like yours.”

Also, in this particular instance, in light of his history with Flagstaff, a despot in military finery, helping Fuller look good came with its own minor reward.

“Let’s get to it, boys,” Brock said, taking charge without a second thought. “Jessup, Ralston, you take the West end of the field. Any debris too large to be picked up by at least several men, tag it for automated retrieval. Everything else, sweep toward the center and create a pile…”

“Hang on a sec, Stone,” Jessup chirped. “Who made you boss?”

“I did,” Fuller said, and gave Brock an approving nod that seemed to come from a place of sincere, if noncommittal, admiration.

A young junior executive ran up, breathless. “Sir, the technicians are having some difficulty retrieving the…” He glanced at Brock and his team and carefully considered his word choice. “…essential materiel.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The cockpit pod’s more or less intact. But the hatch lid fused in the heatblast.”

“Can’t we burn it open or something?”

“So far it’s resisting all their best efforts, sir.”

By the time Fuller turned his head to say something to Brock, he was already halfway across the field, approaching the scorched and blast-twisted metal pod.

The lab-coated techs were working feverishly, the ground around them littered with broken bits of wrenches, screwdrivers, crowbars. Now they were trying to burn through the hatch cover with some kind of superheated torch.

“You’re just welding the welding,” Brock said, his voice steady and commanding, trying his best not to make them feel like assholes.

“You got something better, worker-bee?”

“Maybe.”

The snippy tech stepped aside with a “be my guest” flourish. Brock cracked his knuckles and stepped forward. He had a moment of self-doubt before he put his hands on the thing. He’d torn the hatches off Panzers with his bare hands, punched through cockpit glass on Kamikaze jets over Midway, but with the chemicals out of his system, what made him think he could do this now?

“Hands? Is that your plan? You think we haven’t all tried that? Thing is, all that steel and glass is still cooling down from a toasty 1000 degrees or so.”

“I have gloves,” Brock said, and pulled his work gloves from his back pocket.

“I hope they’re made of lead.”

Brock placed one hand on the steaming glass and the other on the jagged metal lip where it once met the body of whatever kind of craft this was and gave it a tentative tug. Nothing. Not even a millimeter’s budge.

“How much oxygen you figure he’s got left in there?” one of the techs asked rather casually, lighting a First Strike off the side of the pod.

“Does he even need oxygen?”

“He…?” Brock murmured. “You mean there’s someone alive in there!?”

“Someone? Arguable. Something. Yes. Alive? Eh, that’s a question for a higher authority than me.”

Great, Brock thought. Another dead ape. But that did it. Not on my watch, he thought. Not if I can do a damned thing about it.

He took hold of the heat-fused hatch edge and pulled with all his might, feeling the gloves start to sizzle, feeling the burn right through them, smelling the mixture of leather and flesh as they sizzled. Wondering, will the gloves fuse to me like this hatch to itself? He tore the gloves off and went again, and this time, something moved. There was a terrific rending of steel and popping of glass, but even so, it was barely a hairline crack when he reached the limit of his exertion. Ignoring the pain in his fingers, he took a deep breath–not as helpful as he’d hoped, with the air full of smoke and reeking of jet fuel–and went again. This time, the edge started to curl back and someone behind him, maybe Jessup, let out a low wolf-whistle.

“Holy shit, he’s doin’ it!”

Another foul breath, another tensing of his shoulders, another reaching all the way down to the core of his being to do what he did best. Or used to. And what he’d always done best, really, was persevere. Against the odds, in the face of brutal, unrelenting elements both natural and manmade, he’d been the steadfast uncompromising rock, the true spirit of the American fighting man, beating the odds, cheating death and laughing in its face. His vision went red from the pain and the exertion and he saw MoMo again, the helpless creature in chains and in pain, saw the faces of the half-starved and half-dead children at Dachau, saw the terrified Londoners trying to make it home from the corner shop as V2’s rained on quaint, cobbled streets. Saw the faces of all the people he’d saved and all those he couldn’t and screamed from the memory and the moment, a bellow of rage and despair and defiance that mingled with the whining shriek of resistant metal and the angry crackle of splitting super-thick glass as the hatch buckled and gave way and he twisted it free and hurled it without thinking, sending it spinning toward a cluster of soldiers who managed to scurry out of its trajectory just in the nick of time.

“What were you in a past life? Circus strongman?” the formerly snippy tech asked, crushing out his cigarette and giving Brock an approving clap on his aching back.

“Goddamn hero, this one!” Ralston said.

“Screw that, Stone. Yer a goddamn superhero!”

“I hate to burst your bubble, boys, but whether he saved anyone’s day is still up for debate,” the tech said, peering into the shattered interior of the ruined cockpit.

Brock looked over his shoulder and what he saw made him shudder all the way down to his rock-solid core. The thing in the pilot’s seat was neither man nor beast, but a little bit of both, a grey-fleshed mass of scar tissue and stitches with milk-glass eyes, looking very much like one of the crash test cadavers, but without the mummy-wrap of bandages that were used as much to hold them together as for a kind of discreet acknowledgement that hey, this guy was human once. But this was no ordinary corpse because in spite of its many injuries, past and immediate, in spite of the metal strut through its torso and the chunk of instrument panel protruding from its cheek and the right arm hanging loosely where the forearm had snapped in half, this test subject was moving, trying to free itself with a kind of flailing determination, but no hint of panic or pain. The wild-rolling eyes, lifeless yet strangely mischievous, fixated briefly on Brock, or maybe something just behind him.

“Did I do good?” it asked in a dry, terrible rasp that turned Brock’s shudder into a cold fear-spasm.

And then it got worse.

“You did very well, mein junge,” said a voice from behind Brock. “And we’ll have you back in fighting form in no time.”

Cold fear became hot panic, and Brock stiffened in place. He knew that voice. He’d heard it in his nightmares.

From the cockpit, the crash test monstrosity grinned idiotically and gave the Nazi at Brock’s shoulder a twitchy, spastic thumbs-up.

When I was first introduced to this book, I thought it might fall alongside books such as “Grunts,” by Mary Gentile, books that show a story from the “other side.”  Sidekicks of villains rarely have a place in the sun and usually end up in dire straits as the good guys triumph.  When I started reading, though, I saw a lot more of Terry Pratchett in it, but if this book is any indication, Stephen Brophy can give the esteemed Mr. Pratchett a run for his money.

 This book is taut, well-edited, and well-crafted.  Characterization is detailed without being tedious, and the storyline quickly draws the reader in.  There is a good deal of literary tension that qualifies this book as a page-turner.  On top of that, it is darn funny.  The humor, though, does not get in the way of the plot, as it does in so many other books, but rather supports it.  While it echoes Pratchett to an extent in the feel of the humor, where Pratchett elicits his humor in action and general observations, Brophy’s humor centers on the personal thoughts and attributes of the protagonist.  To me, that brings a deeper relevancy to the humor.  I could identify with it.

  Duke “HandCannon” LaRue is a bad guy, have no doubt about that.  He is an ex-con, a crook, a killer (although he’s killed fewer times than someone might suspect.)  He isn’t concerned about what his boss, Dr. Eye, might do with an item he’s sent to retrieve.  On the other hand, he dotes on his diabetic cat, Miss Lady, and loves his six-year-old daughter.  He has the same problems as so many of us have—an ex-spouse, paying for a mortgage for a house in which he no longer lives, a job that interferes with his domestic life.  He may be a baddie, but we can relate to him. I think that is a key to the book, and when Handcannon says he’s a bad dad for something he’s about to do, we’ve all been in that type of situation. 

 This is a funny book, but it is not just a platform for one-liners.  There was nary a weak spot, and I enjoyed every page.  This is one of the very best books I’ve read this year, and I give it my highest recommendation.