Comic Book Hero Chapter 4

Across the far bank of the Sacramento River lies a flat and treeless area known only as West Sacramento, an area that is so different from the city proper as to be almost another city itself. Although sprinkled with strip malls and fast food outlets, most of the business in that area is industrial, mixed with office buildings and a myriad of squat, ugly factories and warehouses.

It was to one of the later businesses that the two Blackwood brothers drove, Tom’s old blue pickup navigating a familiar path to the single driveway off a courtyard that had no street sign. The only three story building for blocks, it was the image of the cheap warehousing put up in the forties to handle the glut of war material on it’s way to the Pacific front, converted afterwards to small business use. In the last sixty years its corrugated metal walls had held three machine shops, a factory that made glue in seven different colors, and a company that assembled blond haired plastic dolls from parts manufactured in Japan, which rolled their eyes and wet themselves. In its last incarnation the building hosted a business that employed twenty seven workers, most of them illegal immigrants from at least three different countries, who boxed and shipped pornographic movies. After a well publicized raid by the Immigration and Naturalization Service the building had languished, a rusty and forgotten property, empty and obscure and of no more importance than a dozen others in the neighborhood that were just like it.

Tom turned into the driveway, the fat tires rolling over the tough green grass that grew up through the cracks between the concrete, stopping at the rolling gate where the pavement met the fence and beeping his horn three times rapidly. A hooded intercom atop a scratched and dinged concrete post stood on the left, and as Tom rolled down his window a surprisingly clear sounding tenor voice asked, “Yeah, waddya want?”

“It’s Tom Blackwood. The guy next to me is my brother Mike.”

“Yeah, and that should interest me because…?”

“Because he’s carrying Tomb of Dracula #1, that’s why.”

The voice hesitated, then asked, “Fine?”

“Very Fine” replied Tom. A click came from the speaker, and immediately the heavy gate began to roll open, with surprisingly little noise from machinery that should be old and rusty. Knowing from past experience that this was the only form of invitation they would receive Tom drove through, quickly pulling around the side and to the back of the old warehouse before the gate could finish cycling closed.

In back was a parking lot, long and wide, obviously meant to accommodate a large workforce. But the presence of the many scraggly weeds poking through cracks in the pavement, some as tall as a young child or a surly dwarf, attested to the years gone by since the lot had last seen that much use. In fact the only other vehicle in evidence was a brand new Plymouth PT Cruiser, it’s dark purple paint job polished and waxed to a high gloss, an incongruously modern site amidst the surrounding urban decay. It snuggled up to the old warehouse next to a rusty blue fire door, to the other side of which Tom parked his Chevy. The two Blackwood brothers stepped out of Tom’s truck, Mike scowling skeptically at the old building.

“Tell me again, Tom. What is a nice mechanical engineer with a PhD in physics doing in a dump like this?”

“Two PhD’s. He’s also a chemical engineer.” The younger Blackwood showed his face to the security camera over the fire door, raising one eyebrow quizzically. In response the door buzzed loudly and unlocked, swinging open an inch from the frame. Tom opened the door and strode through confidently, followed more reluctantly by a still scowling Mike.

Corridors formed by unpainted sheetrock led off in three directions from the fire door, eight-foot walls with concrete floors and no ceilings that formed a clutter of offices and storerooms. The sound of large ceiling fans echoed from the metal rafters thirty feet overhead, counter pointed by their own hollow footsteps. The air was fresh but redolent with the smells of both old and new construction, fresh sawn wood and paint, machine oil and heated metal. The chemical taint of insecticide could also be sensed, it’s presence completely ignored by two cockroaches in one corner, fighting over the body of a large spider.

Tom led the way through the mini-maze of the office corridors, coming out into a large open area that seemed to take up almost two thirds of the small warehouse. Soft light from the dirt encrusted windows high overhead lit the open area in a ghostly light, creating a sea of shadows that confused as much as it illuminated. Harsh actinic light lit a section of that area, some of it from fixtures on long cables hanging from the far off ceiling, more from lights clamped, strapped or even nailed to every available wall or surface. Large machinery of unknown function, an even dozen workbenches, crowded and cluttered with equally mysterious boxes of tools and equipment. Metal shelves and storage bins, a penned in area with a door made of steel posts and chain linked fencing. The neon flicker of computer screens and security monitors, and the background humming click of electronics, almost masked the tinny sound of a local country western radio station. And presiding overall was a dwarf with a green eyeshade, drinking a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper through a swirly straw.

He sat on a long legged stool, arms crossed, a suspicious gaze that flicked back and forth between Mike, Tom, and the manila envelope in the latter’s hand. After awhile the dwarf set his soft drink on a nearby workbench and jumped off the stool with a quick energy. Only he wasn’t a dwarf, Mike realized, although he couldn’t have stood more than 4’10” even in the pointy toed cowboy boots he was wearing. Although the blue jeans and long sleeved western shirt he wore could only have come from the boys department, it covered a normally shaped and proportioned body just a little on the stumpy side. A bolo tie and the green plastic eyeshade framed a face with plump cheeks and the brown eyes and baggy lids of a Bassett hound, a week chin and slightly bucked teeth behind. As he approached the two brothers with arm outstretched, Mike raised his own to accept the proffered handshake, only to be completely ignored as the little man walked past him to snatch the manila envelope from Tom’s grasp. Without a word he spun on his heel and marched back to a large wooden desk, followed more slowly by a grinning Tom and a scowling Mike.

The little man opened a drawer at the desk, pulling out a pair of white linen gloves, acting oblivious to his two visitors. Ignoring their host’s rudeness as easily as he ignored them, Tom made the introductions.

“Mike, that bald little munchkin with the bad manners is Pablo Murray, certified genius slash mad scientist. He’s short, rude, anti social, and forgets to bathe a lot. The only reason nobody’s handed him his head yet is that he’s one of the best in the world at what he does.”

“The best, you fat ape,” muttered the little man, pointedly sitting with his back to his two visitors. He had finished pulling on the linen gloves, and was carefully slitting the flap of the manila envelope with a letter opener shaped like a miniature broadsword.

“Did I mention he was short? Anyway, Murray’s the best independent F/X consultant in the world.”

“ ’F/X consultant’?” Mike frowned, confused at the strange term.

“That’s right. Murray’s the one who develops most of the special effects used in the world wide movie industry today. Pyrotechnics, makeup, computer graphics, if it’s less than 15 years old Murray probably invented it. Spielberg has his number on speed dial. He’s also a compulsive comic collector, which is why he puts up with me.”

“You’ve come through for me more than anybody else in this town, I’ll give you that,” the small man said, still not turning to face his two guests. He removed the rare comic in its glassine sheathe from the envelope, holding it up to the light for study. Then carefully he pulled it out, laying it reverently on the green felt desk blotter. A small smile slowly replaced the frown that had marred his face since they had entered, as he slowly turned the pages of his newest treasure. “But you’re still a fat ape. Okay, it’s a very fine, and you know that I need it for my Marvel Horror collection, so you’ve got me over a barrel. What’s the price?”

“No price. It’s not for sale.”

The little man in the cowboy clothes frowned, the expression quickly becoming a scowl as he finally turned his beady gaze on the two brothers. “If there’s no price, than what are you wasting my time for?” he growled, his voice a strangely deep rumble that belied his size.

“An exchange,” Tom said, leaning against a tool chest and crossing his arms, taking on the air of a Kentucky horse trader. “I need the professional opinion of a scientist, specifically a theoretical physicist, and I need one who can keep his mouth shut. And I’m willing to trade. You interested?”

Murray cocked his head, examining Tom from the corner of his eye, with the air of a biologist discovering some new and interesting life form. This was not the comic trader he was used to dealing with. Finally, he said “Yeah, maybe. It depends.”

For the first time Mike spoke up, “Depends on what?” he said.

“It depends on who’s interested in what you have, Junior. What kind of people do you want me to keep secrets from? “

Mike scowled, the other man’s rudeness starting a slow burn on the back of his neck. And he didn’t like being called ’Junior’, either. “Whaddya need to know that for, ’Old Man’? How do we know you’re not planning on selling us out to the highest bidder? Maybe you just want a list of potential customers!”

Murray scowled, a red tinge coming to his frog like face. As he started to rise from his chair, Tom stepped forward hurriedly, his hands up in a placating gesture as he moved between the two almost combatants.

“Hey-hey-hey, ease up, you two. Mike, I trust Murray, and he’s got a point. If he’s going to be keeping secrets, he’s got a right to know what he’s getting into. And Murray, you’ve been acting like a surly little snot since we got here. I’m used to it, but Mike isn’t, so cut him some slack, alright?”

For several heartbeats Murray just looked at them, his face frozen, expressionless. Mike started to fidget, looking to Tom, but his younger brother ignored him, his gaze locked on the little man they had come to see. Finally Murray grunted, then turned back to his desk, where he proceeded to repack Tomb of Dracula in its glassine envelope.

“Alright, this just bought you five minutes. Now who’s interested in what you got?”

“Everybody,” said Tom, his voice as level as a brick. “The Feds. Big Business. Organized crime. Every other government in the world, not to mention every political faction and terrorist group that’s ever existed. You name them, and if they found out about this, they’d want what we got.”

Murray stared at him, speechless, his wide mouth hanging open. Then suddenly he broke the silence with a howl, throwing his head back and roaring with laughter.

Tom and Mike shared a glance, irritated. Their annoyance grew as Pablo continued to hoot and bark, slapping the desk and rocking with glee. Finally the physicist stopped and caught his breath, his face red and tears running down his cheeks. He wiped at them with his palm as he turned back to the table and once again picked up Tomb of Dracula.

“Oh Tommy, Tommy” he said sadly, shaking his head in mock disappointment. He placed the valuable comic back inside the manila envelope and laid it back down on the green felt blotter. He began peeling off the white linen gloves, his back once again turned towards the two Blackwoods. “I never thought they’d turn you into one of those conspiracy freaks. You know, I blame the X-Files. Great show, but it made the whole country paranoid. There’s aliens under every bed and government spooks under every rock. Okay, so what are you boys peddling? Martians, JFK, or another CIA plot to poison Castro?” Murray finished peeling off the gloves and tossed them into a corner of the roll top desk. He picked up the bottle of soda, taking the swirly straw between his lips. As the dark brown liquid made its roller coaster ride to his mouth Mike spoke up, his voice a deliberately slow drawl.

“You know Tom, comedians today just aren’t funny anymore. I blame television. They’ve replaced sight gags and slapstick with sarcasm. But the truth is…”

Murray turned around in his chair, still drinking his Diet Dr. Pepper. As he faced his two guests he suddenly jerked upright in shock. Sticky brown liquid sprayed from his mouth and squirted out of his nose, his eyes almost popping from their sockets. His arms flapped, and the diminutive man slid from his chair as he literally fell out of his seat, landing on the concrete floor. His dignity completely forgotten, Pablo Murray gasped and choked at the incredible sight of a floating Tom Blackwood, his legs folded under him and his chin propped on the knuckles of one hand, his unblinking gaze steady from where he hung, two feet over Pablo’s head. He barely noticed the smug Mike leaning against an electric lathe, grinning.

“…the truth is, you just can’t beat a classic spit take.”

Metahuman Press Home | Comic Book Hero Index Comic Book Hero and all related characters are © and ™ 2006 Rick Considine.
Metahuman Press are © and ™ 2005-2006 Nick Ahlhelm.