Sunday, January 14, 2024

A Visit to the Kingdom of Redonda

Several years ago when I was forced to go into hiding for one reason or another under an assumed name and thanks to the generosity of an anonymous benefactor who asked only that I not publicize the results, I paid a visit to the Kingdom of Redonda.

It is perhaps important to note that I was grieving at the time the end of my private detective agency, which I had run with the assistance of a precocious infant with whom I had solved many mysteries, the exact nature of which and credulities concerning are irrelevant to the current tale. 

The Kingdom of Redonda is difficult to describe except to note that it is often seldom in the same place twice and has inspired the dreams of at least several television writers who populated it with all manner of curiosities, not the least of which was a bald man who looked at its eye and saw something other than what was actually there (or perhaps was temporarily blinded, like the apostle Paul, and was later martyred in much the same manner, although to explain further would be a different story entirely).

While there I sipped from a bottle of water I had brought with me that failed to empty the whole time I was there, although this might have no more explanation than perhaps I didn’t drink as much I thought I did, being constantly distracted by the wonders of the island, such as the bookshelves that rearranged themselves even while I browsed them.

I’m afraid there’s not much more to say about the visit, which I now recall I wasn’t supposed to talk about at all, and subsequently must confess is filled with ridiculous lies, which is fortunate because those are the best ones, and thus can inform my benefactor that I followed the letter of their request.

Saturday, January 13, 2024

The Kansas Question

Maggie job shadowed for a day at the Smallville Times-Reader. She was assigned beat reporter Ellie Maggin, and it was only a matter of minutes before she caught a staffer cracking the joke she immediately assumed had been traveling around the newsroom all morning, and she told herself, “You’ve got the stuff, kid. You already cracked your first story.”

Ellie’s desk, as it turned out, was actually more like a cubicle, and Maggie watched as she quickly tidied up, not to hide sensitive material from some high school kid but clearly an effort to look more professional. It only kind of worked.  Maggie sat awkwardly beside Ellie for a few minutes, uncomfortable talking with a stranger while the reporter got caught up with the business of the day, listening as the office chatter around them continued, amused here and there by unexpected remarks on both community and cultural affairs.  She'd never really thought about what a newsroom might sound like.  It seemed pretty normal.

Finally, Ellie said they were off to make the rounds of interviews for stories she was expected to file by the end of the day.  One of them was with the woman who'd made the claim.  Just some crackpot, but also the reason Maggie had gotten the invitation, because she'd been the one to listen to this one, the latest in the very long line of people who claimed they knew all about Superman's origins in town.  What set this one apart was that she claimed to know who Superman's parents were, that the mom had had an affair, and that Superman's dad never even had a clue, and so, yeah, wasn't his dad after all.  Juicy.  Ridiculous, and probably not even true, but it was certainly news one way or another, and deserved the attention of the Times-Reader at the very least.

They pulled up to the Kent farm first, just to get the lay of the land.  Maggie didn't know much about cars, but that was another fantasy busted today, what Ellie's was like, which was to say, like any other car she'd ever been in.  They'd be coming back here later.  This was where they expected the drama to unfold.

They left the parked car and headed next door, if "next door" in farmland country meant the same as it did elsewhere.  It was more of a hike than Maggie had anticipated.  "Wrong shoes," she told herself.  The lady she found at the house they found at the end of the trip was older than she would've thought, too, elderly, even, sitting in a proverbial rocking chair, although when Maggie first saw her she thought maybe she was dead, she wasn't moving.  This was Jane, plain ol' Jane.  Maggie went to school with Jane's granddaughter, the one who'd cracked a joke Maggie alone took seriously.  She'd done enough investigating, and math, to take her theories to the paper, just when school was already setting up job shadows for seniors, and that's the short version of how she ended up there that day.

"You come to talk about Superman," Jane greeted.

"Yeah," Ellie said, matter-of-factly.  No dissembling.  Straight to the point.  Professional.  Maggie perked up a little.

"Not much to tell," Jane said.  "Everyone knew the woman was barren.  They never so much as had a pregnancy up at that farmhouse."

Maggie, for the first time, began to consider the implications.  She started to panic a little.

"It was nothing more than an affair with my Jim," Jane continued.  "He was an alien, you know.  Well, folks back then didn't know, that's for sure."

At any other point in history the suggestion would have been greeted as absurd.  But Superman, who looked perfectly human himself, had always been hailed as...Kryptonian?  Was that what they always said?  And he clearly worked with green-skinned Martians.  Others.  These were certainly interesting times.

"Of course, Jim died a long time ago," Jane said.  "Cremated.  No body.  Spread the ashes.  No proof.  All you'll have is my word."

"That's fine," Ellie said, recording all of this, jotting notes at the same time.  Maggie, watching, in that moment wondered if she ought to always have a notebook with her, and unconsciously patted her pockets as if she could have manifested one in them then.

"I don't care what people say, now," Jane said.  "Never did, I guess.  It just doesn't matter anymore.  He's no family of mine.  The Kents can't possibly care if people know.  What'll they do?  Come all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?  Any tourists would quickly get bored.  Not much more to see here than cornfields.  People can get everything they want in the Metropolis giftshops.  The California amusement park.  Maybe we could get a plaque.  Maybe a mention in the history books.  Or the local paper.  No offense."

Maggie started to fidget.  Suddenly she felt dirty.  This didn't feel like a scoop anymore.  It wasn't much fun.

Ellie told the old woman thanks, and they headed back.  The Kents were waiting, with a pitcher of iced tea.  Martha Kent still looked youthful somehow, Jonathan less so, but hardy, the way a farmer should.

"I expect Jane told you everything," Martha said.

"She did," Ellie said, again so businesslike.  They all sipped their iced tea.

"There's no sense denying it," Martha said.

"We talked about all this years ago," Jonathan said.  "I don't think there's much that Jane told you that isn't true.  All of it.  You came out all the way here for nothing.  Just some soundbites, I'm afraid."

"That's okay," Ellie said.

They finished their drink, Ellie put away her notebook and recorder, and she led Maggie back to the car, and back to the newsroom.  Maggie had little to say but much to think along the way.

When the day was over, and they'd done various other things and she watched Ellie type her articles up, Maggie found the courage to ask the question she'd had all day.

"Why?"

"That's all you've got?" Ellie said.

"Why do this for a living?" she offered.  

"Seems kind of pointless, doesn't it?" Ellie said.  "No one is gonna care what news the Times-Reader breaks, not even in Smallville.  And it's kind of insulting to suggest otherwise.  It's a routine.  It keeps the day going.  Superman will still fly off to some new adventure tomorrow, and it won't matter what his father's name was, and nobody will care.  If his mom were famous...But she isn't.  And neither are we.  I'm no Lois Lane, but in the final analysis...even Lois Lane doesn't amount to much.  And she never did.  Just stories journalists tell other journalists.  But somebody has to do it.  And I guess I always had an interest in it.  But I'm guessing you don't."

"And please, please understand it has nothing to do with today," Maggie said.  "I, I'm not judging you.  Not at all!"

"More words spoken just now than all day," Ellie said.  "A girl could start to wonder...I'm kidding!  I'm a reporter, Maggie.  I can read between the lines."

"Thank you," Maggie said.  "I guess that settles it."

"What?" Ellie asked.

"The Kansas question," Maggie said.  

"Your answers are elsewhere," Ellie said.  "They often are.  That's what a good reporter knows best.  Even if they're reporters for a single day."

Later, Maggie wished she'd saved clippings of the articles from that day.  She didn't.  Life moved on.

Saturday, December 2, 2023

The Sum of Mankind (Monster/Frankenstein, Chapter 7 & Finale)

For a brief moment in time, Sabin was happy.  Then he learned that his family line was going to come to an end, and he met his last descendant, a woman named Olivia, named in honor in someone who had been a family friend, as far as anyone knew at that point.

     

Olivia was vivacious, charming, beautiful, but if anyone noticed they would have to have looked closely, since she hid herself from the world, and if Sabin ever found out why he was courteous enough not to mention it, and he never forced her to change a thing, accepting her exactly as he found her, and he wondered, eventually, if he would have loved her as she was, if he had not gone looking for her, if he had not intended to use her, and if all this meant perhaps he was exactly as his brother had always feared, and he put all that aside when she became pregnant, was surprised that was even possible, and when the child was born, and it was not a monster, they named him Henry, and that was when Sabin knew he had done something wrong, and he exited both their lives, and that’s why Henry adopted his mother’s name for his own, why he grew up answering to Henry Grenoville, and all the more ignorant of his origins.

     

From afar Sabin watched this family, its struggles and its triumphs, watched as Olivia grew sick with the cancer that would kill her, a cancer he wondered if he might have given her, the impossible trade for the life he had somehow given her.  He watched as Henry grew, telling himself time and again he should have no part in rearing, in guiding, in anything at all, and then the day came in which Henry entered Sabin’s life of his own accord, ignorant of everything he should have known, of everything Sabin could never tell him, but felt compelled to all the same.

     

The years advanced as they always did and Henry grew older, just as Victor had, and Sabin stayed exactly as he had been for two hundred years, and not for the first time he wondered if there was a reason for any of it, or if it was just blind chance and the best he could ever have asked to make of it was the best he could make of it.  He wanted to tell Henry all his secrets.  He wanted to explain.  He wanted a reckoning.  He chose not to, time and time again.  It wasn’t his place, he decided.  He watched as a new Oliver entered Henry’s life.  He remembered that all these people knew or suspected as much as Sabin himself knew or suspected, and had chosen the same paths for just as long.  He poured over the diaries, the books of Victor Frankenstein, trying to find answers, and of course there were none, even though Sabin understood better than anyone what they were.  But that was life.  Sometimes meaning is meaningless.  And maybe that was the point.  He had made conscious choices for however many lifetimes he might be said to have compiled, and he wondered if they had been the right ones, if he had hurt more people than he had helped, hurt the ones that mattered, such as his brother, how his failure to reconcile with him had been a sin for which he could never be absolved, if that was the sum of his life, his judgment, the sum of mankind itself, why he had exiled himself to an embassy of shadows…

     

One day he stopped Oliver Row and asked for a conversation.

     

“I’m new at this, you understand,” said Oliver Row.

     

“That’s okay,” he replied.  “So am I.”

    

“Where would you like to begin?” said Oliver Row.

     

“Right now,” he said.  “This very moment.  I would like to understand it.  I would like to know if I can.  I have decided it’s not important if anyone else does.  Maybe it was a decision I made a long time ago.  Maybe it was a decision I made when my eyes opened again, all those years ago.”

     

“That is a wise decision,” said Oliver Row.

    

“You’re much easier to talk to than I ever imagined,” he said.

    

“Did it ever occur to you to try?” said Oliver Row.

    

“No,” he said.  “I suppose I didn’t.  It just never occurred to me.  I thought it was a different story for so very long.”

    

“The exact nature of my work is something I myself am just coming to grips with,” said Oliver Row.  “Suppose we can help each other.”

    

“I never understood what you were, until now,” he said.  “Perhaps a guardian angel.  I thought you were something else.”

    

“Everyone needs something like that,” said Oliver Row.  “Some more than others.”

    

“I tried to fill the role myself, over the years,” he said.  “I’m not sure I was so successful.  Might have misinterpreted the task.”

     

“I think you got it,” said Oliver Row.

    

“How is he?” he asked.  “I mean, is he okay?  Is he going to be okay?”

     

“I think he will,” said Oliver Row.  “But then, everyone has their struggles.  It can’t be helped, really, if you think about it.”

     

“I suppose you’re right,” he said.  “I never thought of it that way.  Which is a little bizarre, given.”

     

“You’re probably right,” said Oliver Row.  “Listen, I think there’s at least one thing I can put to rest for you.  She forgave you.  She understood.  She always knew the assignment.  You have to, in this line of work.”

     

“Thank you,” he said.  “That means a lot.  I don’t think I was, ah, quite prepared, to hear that.  I will need some time to process that.”

     

“Take your time,” said Oliver Row.

    

“Sometimes I’ve thought I’ve nothing but time,” he said.

    

“Funny how life works,” said Oliver Row.  “It’s going to be okay.”

    

“I think so,” he said.

And the years continued.

A Secret History (Monster/Frankenstein, Chapter 6)

From the diary of Victor Frankenstein:

 

December 31, 1798

My brother died, today.  I’m told it would be better to pretend as if he never existed.

 

July 31, 1802

After several years at this game I’ve decided that was terrible advice, and so filled this diary with all my precious memories of him.  Then I scratched it all out.  Then I wrote it again.  Then I scratched it out again.  I made another copy.  Started over.  Threw it out.  I am somewhat conflicted over this matter.

 

April 2, 1810

In the midst of my studies I came upon curious information, which started me thinking.  I can bring him back. 

 

January 18, 1818

I did as I planned and it turned out to be a terrible idea.  It wasn’t him.  It wasn’t him at all.  I’ve spent the past several years in recompense, and it wasn’t nearly enough.  In the end I had to fake my death, and I’m not sure he knows or cares.  I wrote the whole thing down again.  I may have shared my story with some poets.  There may be multiple versions of this horror.  I have started my diary anew.  I have started it and scratched through it and started it again many times.  How many versions exist?  Am I still the same man I was when he died, or did I change as well?

 

June 8, 1824

The years continue their descent, as do I.  I’ve started my life over so many times I keep new diaries to track each new life, and they’re all lies.  Finally I can admit that.  I confess I’m no longer quite certain I know who I am, what my name is today.  I wonder where this all ends.

 

November 26, 1843

I attempted to collect all the diaries from where I discarded them, even amongst the very trash heaps, and I can find none of them.  There can be only one explanation, that he’s taken them all into his possession.  I don’t think he cares what effect this has on me.  He means to control my legacy.

 

May 1, 1864

If you must know, my name these days is Grenoville, and that is only because I have learned, recently, that I had a son, at some point, a new member of this strange family, of which I was unaware for the duration of his formative upbringing, and yet he knows of me, as if he knows my true face, and I assume this is because my brother took the liberty of informing him, that and the dogged pursuit of Oliver Row, who wants some form of justice, the nature of which eludes me in my advancing age, that and a great many other things. 

 

September 12, 1871

I met him, again, had a whole conversation with him.  We discussed many things.  I mean my brother, not my son.  I never had the courage.  My brother has pursued a similar course to mine, over the years, including the adoption of aliases.  As I sat talking to him I wondered if he remembered his name, if the point of this occasion was to provoke me into stating it.  In truth I’m not sure I do, either.  I am an old man, and there’s no use denying it.  I sometimes wonder, now, if the things I record in here are anymore the truth than what I cross out and attempt to set straight a second and third, fourth, fifth, however many times it takes.  I wonder if my brother reconstructs them, rewrites them with all the words left in, and what a confusing affair it would be to read, whomever tackled such a task ending up as confused as I myself have become.  I suppose it would be amusing.  There are authors who believe that’s the way their readers want to be entertained, I suppose.  Never quite a straight line.  Cleverness for its own sake, perhaps.  It’s not my affair.

 

February 23, 1875

I don’t know why I continue to write in this thing.  I had a thought the other day, and didn’t jot it down, and so I forgot it, and that’s what my life is, now, very far from what it once was, what I imagined to be a clever mind with no boundaries, capable of anything, and then of course I did just that and have regretted it ever since.  I don’t know how many people are honest enough to admit such things.  Perhaps, if they’re lucky, when they’re as old as I am.  If they remember what they regret.  If they remember to regret. 

 

January 12, 1876

I saw him again.  I had to remind myself, this time.  Didn’t remember his face.  Because of his unusual nature he doesn’t age, and I do.  The body died a great many years ago, after all, and he has been living on borrowed time ever since.  Tried to shoot him, this time, but couldn’t lift the pistol.  Don’t know why I have the thing.  A small comfort.  I don’t know whose time he borrows.  Perhaps mine.  The skin is obviously a problem, but he seems to have worked around it.  Walks stiffly, but he gets around.  We’re the same, at the very least, again, for the first time in a very long time.  All told he does it better.  I find myself somehow jealous.  He dresses better.  I was never able to determine how he ended so much smarter.  I remember, now, if I remember my brother at all, to have been a dullard.  Maybe that’s just what I have to tell myself.  Maybe it’s what I always told myself, why I felt so guilty when he died.  But there are so many things I don’t remember, now, that I perhaps recorded in prior versions of this diary, that he stole, along with so much else.  What I gave him.  Let’s be honest for one brief moment, shall we?

 

January 18, 1878

Thought I’d go for a walk.  Ran into him.  My son, I mean.  At least I think it was.  I imagine it was.  Very different fellow.  Or maybe exactly the same.  I don’t suppose I’d know the difference, at this point.  I don’t suppose I care.  Perhaps that’s the true curse of this life.

A Countess by Night (Monster/Frankenstein, Chapter 5)

The golden age of cinematic horror solidified the idea of the monster by its outward appearance, and further justified this approach by separating the component parts in the popular consciousness from mad scientist creator only responsible for the inception of the monster, and of course the rampaging monster itself, which is to say, Victor Frankenstein receded into history, and the monster took on a name, Frankenstein itself, monster assuming the full mantle.

In the original chronicle of the story, monster is a surprisingly intelligent, even sympathetic creature, wounded by the pathos of creation for creator, forever scorned despite an exhilarating chase sequence deep into the heart of the arctic unknown, where both figures recede into history, the suggestion being the brute forms used by creator reverted to nature in the most literal sense despite all impossible potential, story of mankind in a nutshell.


But the truth, as is often stated, is often stranger than fiction.  I should know.

    

In the 19th century it was still possible to discover the unnatural, before the natural world was tamed by science, was still possible for science itself to discover the impossible, so that the arcane blended the worlds of science and fantasy, monsters stalked the earth, and the naturalists plumbed the depths of reason to tame it in our blessed besotted utopia of today.  This is to say, where there were those who pursued vampires, there were colleagues who sought other treasures, and the first of my line came into being, the first Oliver Row, a name given to all those whose adoption of the role forever cursed them to stalk the earth alongside monsters, to understand their intentions.  We knew where our monster went, after the arctic, knew the aliases he assumed, and when he emerged as a figure cloaked in mystery known as Sabin, a mere academic, we were not misled, as was the rest of the world.  We followed him closely.

     

We followed him all the way to the Embassy of Shadows, a clever name given to an institution the rest of the world hallowed, and I am not here today to dispel its reputation by identifying it further.  We worried that our Sabin had a sinister plot of revenge against a world that could never understand him, common pablum that I grew ashamed to peddle, and so one day I revealed the truth to Sabin’s descendent, Henry Grenoville.

     

Now, some stories begin roughly, and to read further the reader must have patience that there will be some reward later, better writing, a point even, some secret to justify the pittance of faith in such transitory wonder, an allegory perhaps, a reflection of the real world, something that can’t be spoken of openly but needs saying all the same, otherwise later generations will lose all respect for us.

    

Perhaps, then, Sabin and Henry and myself are not all the players worth knowing in this piece, or the story sketched so lightly to this point it has hardly been worth considering.  What has Sabin been doing all this time as our Henry wonders at this strange introduction?  How does the rest of the world see him?  Does the world see him at all?  Or is all this delusional fiction, a fever dream best left unremembered in moments?

     

Sabin’s reputation was as Henry had perceived it, an ogre of a man if not in appearance alone then by reputation, and this would be the mark of the villain in our times, an irony in our rush to redefine refinement of perception, to repair the injustices and shallow natures of the past, how we have come to define evolution not only mankind’s past but its necessary intellectual future, as if all our collected thought has come to nothing more than what we need to overcome.

     

And yet Sabin was tall, taller than usual, and his features rough, his manners imposing, no concessions to observers, no attempt to pacify his peers.  In earlier eras his height alone would have given him privileges, and yet in our suspicions of inherited impressions, we have acknowledged our genius for interpretation, given preference to those who ask for our attention, and suspicion to those who seek to avoid it, regardless of their social status, and in fact actively encourage misperception of such status at our convenience.  Such is the advancement of agendas in our time, however we can bend such minds to our aims, however easy it might be to flatter, all of us bent low in our courtly pleasures.

     

So what of our Sabin?  An academic, resplendent in his offices, the shaper of young minds, culling attitudes beyond the scope of the grades and degrees of the day, an authority figure to be scorned and adored, central in his placement at the head of the room where all eyes must drift toward for as long as the clock demands, a notebook or tablet recording what might be useful a few months later, when such soft tyranny ends, his true influences known by the clubs he runs, the visits he encourages for apprehensive scholars, the positions he stakes, the memories he will inhabit for years to come, the last time many future citizens will have been held in thrall by the suggestion of necessity before some form of income enticement fills their days, their opinions now cultivated by politicians hungry for a vote and parties eager for power.

     

No, Sabin’s power isn’t in a position but where his power leads, and where he cannot be swayed he would be hated, and this is how he becomes a monster in today’s world, the image of the golden age become reality in the minds of those who need such belief, who will adhere to the ideals of those with such deep yearning for power.  And Henry’s antipathy directed not by outward appearance but cultivated carefully by society, something Sabin is all too willing to play into.

     

Why?  I am dying as I ponder these things, the end of my involvement clear to me, my ineffectiveness, my impotence.  It is only now that I see these things clearly, and perhaps the cruelty of it, the whole history of my line, how I too was manipulated, used as a pawn, a patsy, the invisible fingers of the assassin.  Regardless of a reconciliation between Sabin and Henry, their roles played out already, the effect of history already crushing them under its heel, passing them by, steady in its march onward, bent in shapes by those intent to guide it, or at least believe they do, which is what makes them so dangerous, so sure of their right, the justice of their intentions, their anger when they fail, their wrath, their envy, and their retribution, and their utter ineffectiveness when they finally win power, because of course then they have no idea what to do with it.

     

No, you know everything you need to already.  This is, as all these monster stories always are, a tragedy, and that’s all you need to know, the stumbling mad blindness of it, the jerking steps toward reconciliation, seldom witnessed, never sought, always met with suspicion, forgotten, dismissed as impossible ideal, considered backward in that incessant march onward, always believing there’s some grand discovery just over the next horizon, wondering if it would all be better without us, because “us” will always include those not wanted on the voyage, the aftermath of the apocalypse, always occurring somewhere in some slight manner and ready to be interpreted however conveniently by those stepping loosely along the way, careful not to slip, and if they do, to find their footing again…

     

And I wonder about myself, how pointless, and yet how ecstatic I am to have experienced it at all, to have been here and seen all the sinew and connective tissue, to see it exhumed all over again, denied in all its splendor in the interests of leaving something for another generation to puzzle over, the next iteration of the same story and, I don’t know, another dazzling triumph that will look like abject failure in slightly different light, an abomination, the eternal abyss, a direct manifestation of our real fears, the face of doubt, the old inadequacy of the race.

     
I really did set out to write something different, you know.

Saturday, July 22, 2023

How the Baby Survived Doomsday’s Assault on Metropolis

Holding the job I do, you get used to guessing. It’s not always very satisfying, because you find yourself prone to assuming the worst. I work with babies. I’m a caregiver. I’m male. I’m a male caregiver who works with babies. To be clear.

Okay, sure, sometimes a baby will cry for no reason. Not because they’re hungry or sleepy or have gas or are bored, feeling anxiety, any of that. Sometimes it seems impossible to figure out. You start asking questions. First, obviously, with your coworkers. Then, if you’re really brave, the parents. Some of us, the parents will freely share any and all inside information. Some of us, we’ll get lucky now and again. Asking questions, you never know. Depends on the parents.

This one baby, we’ll call her Aria. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s an insanely popular name these days. Sometimes it seems like literally every other baby is named Aria. So calling this one Aria is not to evoke any particular baby so named. It could be any of them.

This Aria cried all the time. Completely inconsolable. Honestly, I was as worried as I had ever been. Cried all day every day. Weeks and months went by, never changed. Parents weren’t big talkers, to any of us. So we guessed a lot. It’s not gossip if it’s guessing. Listen to a baby cry long enough, you have to release the pressure. You just have to.

The Doomsday rampage had happened. That was recent history. Months in the past. Superman died. All those replacements showed up. Everyone assumed one of them was the real deal. You have no idea how competitive the betting got. I’d rather not say who I placed my money on. A little embarrassing, in hindsight. But it seemed reasonable, at the time. And that’s just based on what little us average joes got to learn about any of it. The Daily Planet, a solid job covering all of it. But there were only so many scoops Lane or Troupe could score. 

I bring it up because eventually the guessing about what motivated all of Aria’s crying eventually, inevitably turned toward Doomsday. Trauma. Massive trauma. I’m mean, it is Metropolis, and the Doomsday rampage tore the whole city up. Sure, no physical scarring. Both parents confirmed very much alive.

That still left a wide gulf of possibilities. Aria was eight months old, when all this guessing occurred. During the Doomsday rampage, half that. People underestimate babies. They know what’s happening around them. 

So I did some digging. Found her family living at Lex Towers at the time of the rampage. Of course her parents work for some division of Lexcorp. Practically one out of every three citizens of Metropolis does. Lex Towers has been undergoing massive reconstruction since the rampage, having been nearly leveled during it. 

I made some calls. Seems Lex Luthor has been providing support to all former residents. He’s footing the bill for Aria at the center. 

When all those Supermen were running around, it was Luthor who was this baby’s hero. I know what everyone says about him. Probably most of it’s true. But he’s one of the city’s most prominent citizens. One of the country’s. One of the world’s. Superheroes have one obvious conclusion about him. 

What I know is that after those calls, Luthor dropped by the center and visited our room, and the minute he stepped foot into it, Aria stopped crying. He picked her up, and she actually giggled. I can’t make this up. There are pictures. 

I don’t know. The world’s complicated. Sometimes people everyone says are evil do good things. Sometimes babies love them. Maybe tomorrow Luthor will, I don’t know, build a new deathray and attack Superman, try to kill him. Aria still cries, but now I know why, and all I can do is try my best to soothe her. Maybe she’s crying at the ridiculous state of the world she was forced to confront way too soon, where Lex Luthor is her legitimate knight in shining armor. (They say he actually has armor. For some reason he painted it purple and green. They say there’s big money if you can get a picture of that.)

What do I know? I’m a contradiction myself. That’s just the way it is sometimes.

Saturday, May 27, 2023

The Man in the Box, Pages 1-8

PAGE ONE

Panel 1
A ten-year-old black girl, Sam Lane, standing at the grave of Jerome Taggart, erstwhile butler of Adam Hemingway, the Ferryman.  She's holding a notebook, which distinctly sports a black cover with the Ferryman's logo, styled after the Greek ferryman Charon's boat, in yellow, absently in one hand.  This is the lead panel at the top of the page.

CAPTION: Sonny Reyes recruited me the other day.

Panel 2
Sam sits in a classroom, in the back row, bored, the same notebook we saw in the previous panel unopened in front of her on her desk.

CAPTION: Sonny used to adventure as the first Soul, kid sidekick of the Ferryman, Hun City's famed masked private detective.

Panel 3
Seemingly everyone else's hands shoot up to answer a question from the teacher.

CAPTION: Sonny recruited me at the funeral of the Ferrryman's dead butler.  I was busy fending off my conniving uncle at the time.  Still trying to cash in on his sister's death.  

Panel 4
Teacher has of course called on Sam, who looks embarrassed.

CAPTION: No one's told him she died penniless.


PAGE TWO

Panel 1
Sam's walking out of the classroom at the end of class, relieved.  Still very much alone, still clutching her Ferryman notebook.

CAPTION: The Ferryman provisionally accepted me as his new apprentice.  All I have to do is solve the mystery of the Destroyer's identity. Same setup as previous page.  One large panel at the top, three chaser panels below it.

Panel 2
The teacher's hand reaches out to Sam through the doorway.

TEACHER (o.p.): Sam, if I could have a minute.

Panel 3
Readers will recognize the teacher as the Ferryman, Adam Hemingway himself, in one of his disguises, the street level, mustachioed persona known as AJ Blocks, posing as a substitute teacher.  Sam herself seems nonplussed.

FERRYMAN: You were distracted throughout class today.

Panel 4
Sam looking defiant.

SAM: Don't think I didn't spot you the minute I entered class today, "Mr. Blocks."

SAM: Substitute teacher my...

FERRYMAN: Language, Miss Lane.


PAGE THREE

Panel 1
Blocks and Sam are now in the teachers lounge, and Blocks is waving goodbye to his colleagues.  This is the end of the day.  Everyone has their bags, jackets, making that clear.  Sam is already sitting at the table as Blocks stands.  She has the same unopened notebook from earlier in front of her.  As with two previous pages, same layout.

FERRYMAN: Be safe!  Never know what kind of maniac will be on the road!

Panel 2
Blocks has seated himself down across from Sam.

FERRYMAN: Now.  To business.

Panel 3
Sam has flipped open her notebook.

SAM: I understood the assignment perfectly.  You tell me you already know who the Destroyer is.

SAM: You just want to see if I can figure it out myself.

Panel 4
Sam is sliding her notebook over to Blocks, who is making a show of not looking at it but rather remaining focused on her.

SAM: I already knew at the funeral.  

SAM: You can check all my evidence for yourself.

SAM: It's my uncle.  Looks different without the horn mask.


PAGE FOUR

Panel 1
This is a flashback to Jerome Taggart's confrontation with the Destroyer, just before it, as he rides the subway car, still holding the package he had gone to retrieve that fateful day.  On it can be seen the address line: Kenny Lane, 3827 Lucas Drive, Hun City, LA.  Every page follows the same design pattern.

CAPTION: On the day he died, Jerome Taggart picked up a package from the post office.  A package the mailman wouldn't deliver to you.  

Panel 2
Jerome looks at his watch, flashing a signal he knows comes from the Ferryman for emergencies.

CAPTION: That package was from my uncle.

Panel 3
Jerome looks in the direction of the next car, where he and the reader can see the Ferryman battling the Destroyer.  His arm hasn't drop from when he looked at his watch, but he's dropped the package.

CAPTION: The package was classic misdirection.

Panel 4
Mindless of the passengers around him, who are distracted anyway, Jerome slips on the mask of the Insider, a persona he has occasionally employed to assist the Ferryman in the field.  The mask is gray and covers his whole face.

CAPTION: It contained tea packets, in case you were wondering.


PAGE FIVE

Panel 1
The courtroom during Johnny Brisk's trial, with Etta Hemingway, the Ferryman's aunt, also known as Harlot, prosecuting.  On the stand testifying can be found our Kenny Lane.

CAPTION: At the trial of your parents' murderer, Johnny Brisk, my uncle testified against Brisk, believing he had scored immunity from the DA, Etta Hemingway.  Your aunt.

Panel 2
Behind the prosecution's table sits Jerome, who alone represents the Hemingway family beyond the DA.

CAPTION: Jerome had a keen mind.  He alone remembered my uncle's history.

Panel 3
Jerome whispers in Etta's ear.

CAPTION: He took my uncle's immunity away in an instant.  

Panel 4
Etta gives her star witness a cold stare, and Kenny knows he's lost his deal.

CAPTION: He remembered who killed my parents.  A minor case for the Ferryman at the time.

CAPTION: The whole thing was a setup.  It was revenge.


PAGE SIX

Panel 1
The Insider standing in front of the Destroyer, who towers over him, in the subway car.

CAPTION: No one else saw Jerome as a threat.

CAPTION: He was just Adam Hemingway's butler.  Totally anonymous.

Panel 2
The Destroyer grabs Jerome by the throat.

CAPTION: But to the Destroyer, he was the one who ruined everything.

Panel 3
The Destroyer has both hands on Jerome's throat, now.

CAPTION: As Kenny Lane, he'd been investigated by the Ferryman, dismissed as a suspect in the murder of his own sister and her husband.  My parents.

Panel 4
The Destroyer has snapped Jerome's neck.

CAPTION: As Kenny Lane, star witness, he'd dared show his face again.  And Jerome had figured it out.  How he'd done it, with just one glance.  Given him that crucial second thought.


PAGE SEVEN

Panel 1
The graveyard scene revisited.  This time we focus on young Sam at the tombstones of her parents.  We see Kenny looming toward her.

CAPTION: It was the tea, of course.

Panel 2
Kenny imposing his bulk on Sam.  This is where it's obvious he has the size to be the Destroyer.

CAPTION: He'd poisoned them.  For money.

Panel 3
Sam kicks Kenny in the shin.

CAPTION: I was made an orphan.  He thought I inherited the money.  

Panel 4
Sam shoves at Kenny.

CAPTION: It never occurred to him they would donate the bulk of it to charity.


PAGE EIGHT

Panel 1
Back to the teachers lounge.  Blocks is pouring over the notebook now.  Sam sits back in her chair relaxed.

SAM: I have all the samples back home.

SAM: All the proof you'd need.

Panel 2
Blocks is sliding the notebook, closed, back to Sam.

FERRYMAN: No.  Thanks.  I won't need to see it.

FERRYMAN: Save it for the police.

Panel 3
Sam is glancing through the notebook herself now.

FERRYMAN: You did good work.

Panel 4
Sam glances up at Blocks now.

SAM: I know.

SAM: Sorry for your loss.