The copter’s mounted guns unleashed a fury of bullets. Focusing, Powerhouse made a Kevlar shield appear in front of each gun. The bullets deflected, piercing through the cockpit door. Powerhouse pushed against it. “No good, it won’t give.”
Wow, I’m stating the obvious to myself. I really am a superhero.
The copter shot up higher. Powerhouse slammed himself into the wall. After six tries, it gave. He burst into the cockpit. No pilot. Just a timer with Night Lord written in Matisse silver lettering on a midnight black background:
Powerhouse whistled. “Cool logo.”
“Glad you like it,” said a voice over a radio. “Goodbye, Powerhouse.”
The timer on the plastic dashboard showed thirty seconds. Powerhouse ripped out the dashboard, broke the windshield, and flew through the hole.
The copter’s explosion turned his metal suit into an oven and singed the spandex tights he wore underneath.
He doused himself in the neighbor’s sprinklers and let the steam vent out. Cooled down, he flew into Reverend Jones’ house. Bullet holes dotted his room and a bloody lump lay in his bed, blood splashed all over the walls. Powerhouse sniffed at the strange smell. “Grape juice?”
Jones came in wearing only exercise shorts. “What are you doing in here?”
“Where’d you go?” asked Powerhouse.
“To the basement to exercise. I couldn’t sleep. What happened here?”
Powerhouse puffed out his chest. “The villainous Night Lord attacked you, but his efforts were thwarted by Powerhouse.”
“Ya know, it’s weird when you refer to yourself in the third person.” The pastor glanced around. “Guess I’m going to need more grape juice.”
Powerhouse shuddered. It was almost Jones’s blood. “I guess so.”
Continued next Tuesday
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