Continued from Part Six

Nearly upside down in his chair, Night Lord watched the video of Power-house’s bust at a ring of car thieves’ hideout. The thieves began to fire. Power-house hit the ground. Night Lord smiled. “You’re not bullet-proof, that’s for sure.”

Powerhouse released a smoke bomb.

“That’s a good trick, pal. We’ll have to find a way around it.”

 ###

Powerhouse entered Mrs. Kennedy’s room carrying a Bible he’d found in the lobby and sat across from her.

Mrs. Kennedy sat up in bed.

Powerhouse opened the Bible at random and read about a sacrifice to dedicate something called a tabernacle that the children of Israel built.

Several paragraphs in, Powerhouse frowned. “All these sacrifices are exactly the same. I didn’t know they had copy and paste back then.”

Mrs. Kennedy shook her head.

Powerhouse skipped ahead by a hunk of pages and began to read. “Adam, Seth, Enosh, Kenan, Mahalaleel, Jared, Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech.” He paused. “Is this the phone book of the Bible?”

After three more chapters like this, he yawned. “I don’t get it.”

Mrs. Kennedy grabbed the Bible from him. “You have to believe.” She clutched the Bible to her chest and went to sleep.

Continued…Next Tuesday

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Continued from Part Five

After a hand of cribbage with Lenny, Powerhouse counted the points he’d gotten and put it down.

Lenny said, “Muggins for two.”

Powerhouse arched an eyebrow. “What’s a muggins?”

“You didn’t count a fifteen in your hand, so I’m taking the two points.”

“You would steal from me?”

“That’s one of the rules.”

“It’s a stupid rule.”

“Look, do you want to play?”

Powerhouse grunted. Someone had to fill Reverend Jones’ shoes. Even if the rules were stupid.

Lenny rattled on about his life for an eternity, then asked, “So, you married?”

Could they go back to Lenny’s stamp collection? “I can’t say.”

“Got any kids?”

“Haven’t you ever read a comic? All hell would break out if I were to answer this.”

“Okay, um, Pepsi or Coke?”

“Look, any personal detail could give a clue to my identity. Night Lord would track you down and torture you. He’d say, ‘Pepsi or Coke?’ as he ripped out your fingernails.”

“Look at the time—I’m fifteen minutes late for my nap.”

Powerhouse left. Why did he have a sinking feeling things hadn’t gone well?

Continued…Next Tuesday

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Continued from Part Four

Night Lord leaned back in his desk chair under his lair’s black light. How dare Marcos lord it over him! Marcos may have gotten rid of the reverend, but Night Lord had Power-house to contend with, and he was a much greater threat. “If you’re such a tough guy, why don’t you deal with Powe-house? You’re the one with a contract out on him.”

Marcos stiffened. “Yeah, so if you kill him, you get a nice 750 G bonus.”

“That’s it?”

“I can raise the price to 850 Gs, but that’s about all I can do.”

“How am I supposed to kill this guy on such a paltry wage?”

“You’re a bright boy; you figure it out—but don’t blow up anything that costs over a hundred thousand dollars to do it.”

Continued…Next Tuesday

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Continued from Part Three

EZ handed over the dope and reached to take the money from his client. Ropes wound about them, tripping them.

EZ cursed.

Powerhouse flew down and whispered something EZ couldn’t make out. “What?”

“Tell Night Lord he’s hexed.”

EZ laughed. “Night Lord don’t believe in no hexes.”

“He’s next! Man, you can ruin a dramatic moment!”

EZ cursed out the white fool.

Sirens blared. Powerhouse flew away.

Continued…Next Tuesday

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Continued from Part Two

Father Douglas eyed the parishioners lining up for confession and sighed. Father Brady asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Arnold Witter’s in line.”

“So?”

“Every time there’s a big crime in the news, he comes here and confesses to it.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“I just give him his penance for lying and send him on his way.”

“It’s time to get started.”

###  

Marcos reached the front of the line. This was beneath him, but what else could he do to escape Jones’ face? Why did it haunted him in his dreams like this? He’d killed many men before without a second thought. So why couldn’t he get a lick of sleep without valium?

He entered the confessional. Thank-fully, this parish didn’t know him. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The priest asked, “How long has it been since your last confession?”

Good question. How long had it been? “Twenty-six years.”

“I see. So what is this sin?”

“I killed an innocent man, that Rev-erend Jones. I can’t get him out of my head. I don’t feel any guilt over hiring that guy with the rocket who killed all those people compared to what I did to that Reverend.”

“So you not only killed Reverend Jones, you’re responsible for all twenty of those deaths downtown.”

“Yes.”

“We all make mistakes, son. Say five Our Fathers and three Hail Mary’s.”

What? “I just told you I killed a man.”

“And I just told you to say five Our Fathers and three Hail Mary’s.”

“But I’ve killed a lot of people”

“I know. Just say five Our Fathers and three Hail Mary’s. That’ll suffice.”

“But it’s not going to—”

“You could confess to the police if you would like.”

“Fine, I’ll say the penance.” Marcos left.

 ### 

The parishioner after Arnold said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Douglas still didn’t look up. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Four days.”

“What is this sin?”

“I killed Reverend Jones and all those people downtown.”

Oh no. Father Douglas peered through the screen at the confessor. “Arnold! If this is you, then who…” He cupped his mouth. He raced from the confessional.

Only the normal parishioners remained outside. “Oh, my God! What have I done?”

 ###

A few hundred feet away, Marcos rose up from his penance. Reverend Jones’s face greeted him. “Father, forgive him…”

Never. God would never forgive him.

Continued…Next Tuesday

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Continued from Part One

Powerhouse sat in the back row at Reverend Jones’ funeral. His black Jimmy Olsen finally finished the epic poem he’d written in Jones’ honor and pointed at the audience. “Powerhouse.”

He jumped up. Him? Sure, everyone else had been called on to participate, but—oh, why not? “Reverend Jones was a very fine man. He cared for people and for this community. I could tell that though I only knew him a short time.”

That was too short a tribute; Jones deserved more. “He wore a size 11 shoe, I know that much, and he had this really ugly scar on his left leg. It was very distinct, just as he was. That scar was the story of his life, no, the story of all mankind.”

The congregation looked at each other with puzzled frowns.

Powerhouse launched into “You Light Up My Life.” Half way through, he forgot the rest of the words and finished with “O Danny Boy” instead.

The congregation exchanged more confused looks, but applauded.

During the procession past the casket, Jimmy Olsen broke down crying. “Who will take care of us now?”

Powerhouse slipped in from behind and placed a hand on the young shoulder. “Don’t worry, Jimmy, Powerhouse will handle everything.”

Outside, Powerhouse powered up his jet pack with focused visualization, and took to flight over the inner city projects. He shook his head. Most of the funeral-goers seemed at peace, even rejoicing. He’d never seen anything like it. They all believed Jones had gone to a better place. It would be his job to fix things here on Earth.

Continued…Next Tuesday

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Continued from Powerhouse v. Nightlord

The kind eyes of Reverend Jones stared up from his obituary photo. Power-house’s lower lip wobbled. “I failed.”

Zolgron perched on a black boulder, his back to the waterfall churning purple under thick storm clouds. “Nonsense, you handled the greater risk.”

“But I promised to protect Reverend Jones. And now he’s dead.”

“You did what you had to do. Don’t waste your time and energy on pouting. We do not mourn on my planet. We seek bloody vengeance.”

“That’s not a superhero thing to do.”

Zolgron sighed. “Catch the criminal and turn him over to the authorities.”

“Are we all right with God? Are we going to Heaven?”

Zolgron snorted. “What’s with this nonsense? We’re all but gods ourselves.”

“That’s good to know.”

Continued…Next Tuesday

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Continued from Part Twelve

Powerhouse triumphantly dropped the evil invisible man on the sidewalk in front of Captain Welch and wiped his hands. “You’ll be going to jail for a very long time.”

The evil invisible man laughed at him. “That’s what you think.”

A sergeant handcuffed the man. “Can I have your name?”

“No.”

“That’s okay; we’ll find out.”

 ###

Powerhouse flew back to Jones’ house. A chill slithered down his back at the napping police officers. He awakened them with jolts of electricity. One of them screamed, “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing? This is no time for sleeping on the job!” Powerhouse spotted darts in their thighs. They’d been drugged.

He ran inside Jones’ house.

Jones lay on the floor of the study. Blood trickled from his neck. Jones sang along with the music playing. “We’re marching to Zion. Beautiful, beautiful Zion. We’re marching upward to Zion, the beautiful City of God.”

“I’ll get a doctor,” said Powerhouse.

“No need. Let me be.”

The reverend sang the chorus once more before the light went out in his eyes.

The police officers came in. One said into his radio, “We have a homicide.”

Powerhouse brushed past the officers. He needed to be alone.

Continued…Next Tuesday

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Continued from Part Eleven

The Invisibility Master ran through the burning building. Paint pellets and paper clips flew near him. 

Where are you? I know you’re here.

How was he to know the metal dweeb had an invisibility power?

He put his ear to the ground.

Pain exploded near his ribs, right in the midst of the invisibility device. He became visible and looked up.

Powerhouse emerged seemingly out of the gray wall and grabbed him.

 

 

Jones sent Marcos a look that oddly seemed more concerned about Marcos’ soul than Jones’s own life. “You don’t have to do this, Marcos.”

For once, Marcos wished his reputation hadn’t preceded him. “Yes, I do.”

Never had he had this much trouble pulling the trigger.

Jones extended a hand. “Come on, Marcos. God doesn’t want you to do this. Pray with me, and everything will be fine. You’ll be forgiven and can have a new life.”

Marcos summoned the strength to fire.

The reverend collapsed, bleeding from his neck. The reverend whispered, “Father, forgive him.”

Marcos stood over him and fired again.

Continued…Next Tuesday

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Continued from Part Ten

Powerhouse ran down the hall in the office building.

Where did the shoulder rocket guy go?

A rocket came towards his position. He flew past it as it exploded on the back wall, creating a fire behind him. The man with the rocket appeared ahead, running. The guy pressed a button and disappeared again.

Ah ha. One of those.

Two can play this game.

 

 

Jones met his assailant’s gaze without flinching. “Why are you doing this?”

“You’re in the way of business.”

“Drug business, I assume.”

The truth flickered in his assailant’s eyes. Jones clucked his tongue. Marcos Silva himself, he’d wager. “You destroy lives with that stuff. Do you really want that on your soul come judgment day, Marcos?”

“Reverend, don’t preach at me.”

Jones laughed. “Or what; you’ll kill me? You can have a better life. It doesn’t have to be killing and death. God loves you. If you’ll turn to Him, he’ll save your soul from Hell.”

Marcos cocked his gun. “Say hi to God for me.”

Continued…Next Tuesday

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