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The World's Greatest Superheroes.....
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| JLI: The Return of BWA-HAH-HA! #7 - December, Year 1 | by Bertram Gibbs |
Martian Manhunter |
Blue Beetle |
Booster Gold |
Plastic Man |
“Will you look at this place!” exclaimed Jack Knight, better known as Starman.
“That’s the fifth time you said that, Jackson,” Ted Grant, boxing champion and costumed avenger Wildcat said, popping a few peanuts into his mouth and washing them down with a tall foamy beer.
“I mean Guy has just about outdone Planet Hollywood in kitsch! Look at all the collectibles! A Guy Gardner/Green Lantern lunchbox! Since it’s behind that glass case, it must be the real McCoy!”
“Quite impressive, Jackson,” Wildcat replied, his eyes hovering over the rear end of Big Barda. “Where’s Alan?”
“Over near the jukebox, talking to that Constantine creep.”
“John’s okay,” Wildcat said grinning. Barda had just dropped her cocktail napkin and had bent forward to pick it up. “He’s just . . . British.”
“Will you look at this place!” exclaimed Jack Knight, his eyes on an autographed picture of Hal Jordan and Barry Allen.
“Six,” muttered Wildcat.
“Aren’t you drinking a little much, John?” asked Alan Scott, the first Green Lantern, now emerald-powered hero Sentinel.
“Alan, love,” John Constantine said, draining the contents of his mug and ordering another, “Don’t be such a git. This ‘ere is a party, and I’m performing my civic duty as a guest and friend of Guy ‘The Wanker’ Gard’na and drinking until my bleedin’ legs give out. I would suggest you let your ‘air down and follow likewise.”
“I mention it only because you’re knocking them down awfully fast, John,” the older man said sincerely.
“Oy!” John said, pulling a pack of Silk Cut cigarettes from the rumpled pocket of his wrinkled trench coat, popping one in his mouth and lighting it. “Don’t get preachy with me, Sunshine, or I’ll have you doing a strip tease on the top of this here bar!”
Scott waved his hand scattering the smoke. “Do you have to do that here, John?” he asked grimacing.
Constantine grinned. “No, Alan, I don’t. I just am.”
“I mean, it has been proven . . . “
Constantine flagged down a bartender dashing from customer to customer, filling orders. He tapped the rim of the mug with a stiff finger. “You keep fillin’ ‘em until you see me fall, unnastan’, mate?”
The bartender locked eyes with John. A thin film closed over the bartender’s eyes, then disappeared. The man shuddered, then nodded, placing a fresh beer next to Constantine’s half full one.
John grinned and nodded. “That’s the lad.”
The ‘tender ran off to serve the next thirsty customer. John glanced over to Alan Scott, who was citing the last AMA report on cancer. He shook his head and took a pull from the mug. He felt a presence next to him and turned in that direction. Sitting on the stool on his right was a man of no determined age, wearing a vest over a tee shirt and dark glasses. He was sipping on a beer and caught Constantine’s gaze. He turned slowly towards him and time stood still for a few seconds as he completed the turn. He held the beer out in front of him and grinned at John.
“Cheers!” he said.
John was close to embracing a fellow countryman when his eyes noticed the sharpness of the stranger’s teeth.
“Cheers,” he returned, holding up his glass.
The stranger turned back facing forward. John did likewise and gazed into the wall mirror’s reflection. The only images reflected were of Alan, himself, and the rest of the bar’s patrons. Alan was now discussing carcinogens.
Constantine sipped his beer.
“Oh, yes, John, love,” he said to himself. It’s gonna be a long night.”
“Do it again!” screamed the
Star-Spangled Kid. “Do it again!
”How many times does this make?” moaned Hawkgirl.
“Watch the wings!” barked Snapper Carr, holding his hand over his beer for protection.
“Sorry!” she replied, straightening her back, trying to pull her wings in as far as they could go.
“I think this is number eleven,” muttered Zatanna, absently picking playing cards out of the air.
“Please forgive my lack of comprehension,” said Hourman, the super-hero android allegedly from the 33rd century, “But I fail to see the significance of repeating this ‘accident’, which could hardly be referred to as an ‘accident’ since we’re causing the pitcher of beer to fall off of the bar.”
“Do it again!” screamed the Star-Spangled Kid, kicking her ankles back like a cheerleader.
Hourman sighed. “Very well,” he said and nodded.
Zatanna pushed the pitcher of beer off of the bar, it’s edge making it first tilt forward and pour the brew on the floor before following it.
Hourman raised a hand and just before the foamy liquid touched the floor, the brew slid back into its container, before it completely up righted and returned to its original position next to Zatanna’s hand.
“Do it again!” the teen-aged super-hero screamed.
Hawkgirl slid next to Hourman.
“You’re from the future,” she whispered. “How long does this go on before she gets bored.”
“One-hundred and twenty-three times,” he said. “And that is only because there is an interruption that replaces this action that stimulates her interest more.”
“And that is?” she asked.
“One of the super-heroes dancing on the bar, removing his clothes.”
“Oh, really?” Hawkgirl asked, a smile spreading across her face
“Watch the wings!” barked Snapper Carr, again holding his hand over his beer for protection.
“Sorry!” Hawkgirl replied, straightening her back, trying to pull her wings in as far as they could go.
“Okay,” said Sandy, former partner of Wesley Dodds, the original Sandman. “I have a question.”
“And that would be?” asked The Creeper, his ankles locked around a blade from a slowly moving ceiling fan.
“This person’s name is ‘Mister Miracle’, right?”
“Real name, Scott Free, but yeah, his name is Mister Miracle,” answered Creeper, his hand reaching down and lifting his beer to his mouth, drinking it upside down. “Why you ask?” he said, licking foam away from his lower lip.
“Well,” Sandy began uneasily, “The bet was that we would tie him up tightly with five ropes.”
“Which we did,” mentioned Creeper.
“Handcuff him.”
“Done.”
“Put handcuffs on his ankles.”
“Done as well.”
“Wrap him in a table cloth and tie chains around his chest, midsection and legs.”
“Ditto,” said Creeper sipping on his beer.
“Place him on his back on the top of the bar, in plain sight of everyone.”
“Uh, huh.”
“And Doc Fate would cast a spell that would continuously pour beer down his throat.”
“Being done,” Creeper said, putting the beer back on the bar and performed a triple summersault onto the floor in front of Sandy. “So what’s your question?”
“He said he would escape before the fifth beer.
Creeper nodded. “Yeah?”
“He’s on his ninth.”
Creeper grinned. “And you’re paying for the suds.”
“Uh, yes,” Sandy said, lowering the goggles from his eyes as he regarded Mister Miracle whom was lying in front of him on top of the bar. Full beer mugs floated overhead. One by one they would hover over the escape artist’s head, tilting, then slowly pouring its contents down his throat, and be replaced by another. “You think there might be something wrong?”
Creeper grinned crazily, his eyes rolling around and around in their sockets, until coming to a halt in the direction of Mister Miracle. “Let’s find out.” He signaled Fate to stop and the floating conga line of beers came to a halt. Both men cast two pairs of laughing eyes at Sandy and shrugged. Creeper leaned forward until his face was over Mister Miracle’s, his wild green hair hanging in his yellow-skinned face.
“Scotty?”
“Yeshh?” he answered.
“You okay?” he asked, tilting his head in Sandy’s direction. “Your benefactor is getting concerned you might not get out.”
Free turned his head in Sandy’s direction, giving the man a lopsided grin. “Don’ you worry, Shandy,” he said. “Jush a lil’ rusty, is all. Jush gimmee a few more minutes and I’ll be out of this thing.”
“You’re sure?” Sandy asked worriedly. “We can get you out of . . . “
“Unnecesshersary!” he said indignantly. “I can get out of this in no time! Jush gimmee a few more minutes.”
Sandy shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “You know what you’re doing.” He signaled to Fate to continue with the floating suds. As the beer poured down the man’s throat, Sandy called out, “I’m going to give you ten more minutes. Okay?”
Free grinned, nodded and opened his mouth for the next beer.
“You sure he knows what he’s doing?” whispered Sandy to the Creeper.
“Oh, yeah,” said the Creeper, who looked like he was trying to control a massive expulsion of laughter, “I’m sure of it!”
“Hey!” cried Gardner, leaping up on the bar. “Calm it down, people! Let those cuts under your nose heal!” He looked around spotting Alan Scott and his stomach gave a tug. He was lecturing someone about something. He’d been through those at least three times in his life and pitied the poor bum. From the dazed expression on the victim’s face, it appeared the bum was only hearing every fifth word. Lucky him, thought Guy. “ALAN!” Guy yelled over the crowd. “ALAN! OVER HERE!”
Scott’s head spun on his neck, finally landing on Gardner. He raised both eyebrows questioningly. Guy circled a stiff index finger around his head, and then cut the finger across his throat. Scott nodded.
Alan tilted his head back, extended his arms and smiled, giving in to the feeling. His body was slowly covered in a green glow. The light began to glow brighter and with more intensity. The heroes in the immediate vicinity cut their conversation in mid-word to stare in wonder. As the glow bathed the room in a pulsating green light, more people stopped talking to watch one of the originals; one of the handful that started it all, strut his stuff.
In seconds, the entire club was silent, each man and woman jockeying for a front row seat to see whatever was to come.
Alan opened his eyes.
“Now, if you will be so kind to turn your attention to the bar, our host has a few words to say,” he grinned, pointing a glowing arm at the bar. A bolt of green energy shot across the room and exploded into a light show above Guy Gardner, who stood with his hands on his hips, a wide grin plastered to his face.
“Thanks, Alan,” he said. “Now that I’ve got you bum’s undivided attention, thanks for showing up at such short notice.”
He suddenly sprinted across the bar and leaped in the air, performed a double summersault and landed in a small ball on his toes. He stood to a huge round of applause and screams. He weaved through the crowd to a small raised stage on the far right of the room. A microphone on a stand rose out of the floor and Guy snatched the mike off its perch in a sweeping move.
“Now, like I said, thanks a lot for coming to the opening of Warriors – Metropolis. Seeing you derelicts showed me how much support I got. How much we mean to each other.”
“How much money you owe us,” Ted Grant called, sending the crowd in hysterics.
Guy cupped his hand to his ear. “Ah, the sound of a sore loser,’ he grinned. “Won that fair and square, ya third rate pug.”
“Third . . .?” Grant said, a feral smile spreading across his face. “Anytime, anywhere, Gardner.”
“How ‘bout at the bar when I’m through?” Gardner asked smiling.
“You think you can out drink me?” Wildcat asked, tilting back in mock disbelief. “I was drinking beers longer than you stopped wetting the bed. Last week, right?”
“Okay! Okay!” grinned Guy. “This ain’t The Gardner/Grant Show. We’ll flap our gums all we want after I’m done. So shut up!”
The audience went into a huge cheer. Guy held his hands out for quiet.
“So where was I?” he asked with an overdone expression of forgetfulness. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “The reason why I’m doing this is to let you ungrateful beer-swilling slobs know that this is your place as much as it is the civilian’s.” The place erupted in a cheer and Guy’s name repeated like a mantra from a more inebriated section in the rear of the club.
“This joint,” Gardner went on, “was made originally for you mugs, but . . . “ he held up his finger, “there are those who are present that only seemed to drop by my establishment when someone else was buying, so in order to stay afloat, I had to let the civilians in.”
“I hope that crack wasn’t directed towards me,” said a tall dark-haired man in a long green coat and dark lensed glasses.
“Monaghan, sit your drunk-butt down!” Gardner said good-naturedly. “But for the record, I have never seen you dig into your pockets for anything but your heat in all the time I’ve known you!”
The audience went wild.
“Now wait a damn minute,” Monaghan began.
“When the Brother is right, the Brother is right,” said a large Black man standing at Monaghan’s shoulder.
“No one asked you, Nat,” Monaghan warned.
“Makes no never mind, Tommy,” Nat the Hat said, waving a huge paw in the taller man’s face. “The man is telling the truth, and you know it you cheap-ass mu . . . “
“I’ve paid!” Tommy shot back in a petulant voice.
“Yeah?” Nat said sticking his face as close to Tommy’s as it could go without touching. “You stand right there and tell me some God . . . “ Nat’s jaw clamped shut on the rest of the phase, seeing the teenage Star Spangled Kid standing there, her eyes as big as saucers. The crowd snickered around him. He turned his attention back to Monaghan. “You tell me some G-D lies about the last time something came out of your G-D pocket ‘sides lint?”
The crowd stared at Tommy Monaghan who stood there fidgeting nervously, glancing around at the sea of eyes latched on him.
“I’ve paid!” Tommy repeated in a petulant voice.
The crowd hooted and roared
“Ah, the heck with it,” said Gardner though the microphone. “Have a great time and don’t let this be the last time you drop by Warriors!”
He leaped off of the stage and began to mingle with the crowd. He shook hands and shot quips off at light speed, always gracing whomever he passed with what was becoming his trademark ready grin, a wink, and a raised fist, or Warrior salute.
There actually was a trademark pending.
Upstairs, John Stewart sat in his chair, quietly nursing a gin and tonic, watching Guy on the monitor handling the crowd.
This was his night, he thought. He was amongst his peers and they all were there. Heroes from the West Coast and Europe, from the Southern and Northern states, they all took time out of their schedule to kill a few hours at a friend’s place.
John was about to say that there was nothing or no one that could take this night away from Guy Gardner, when his eyes fell on two men in spandex and spit a mouthful of his drink in his lap.
“Oh, no,” he whispered. “Not here. Not now.” John took a big gulp from his glass at the same moment another spandex joined the first two. This entrance made John spit another mouthful of drink into his lap.
He raised his finger on the signal device activator that Guy wore on his belt and stopped, his eyes landing on the device next to the soundboard. His eyes turned back to the monitor and found the three men absent. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when his eyes dropped to a different monitor and there they were. Stewart’s eyes canted to the left. They were going in Guy’s direction and there was no way to warn him of impending disaster.
John did the only thing he could do in a situation like this one. He drained the glass and pressed the intercom to the bar.
“Yes, Mr. Stewart?” came a young female voice.
“Yes, my dear,” he said soft and low. “Please bring up another gin and tonic please?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Stewart.”
“And keep them coming,’ he said. “One every twenty minutes.”
There was only the sound of white noise coming from the speakers.
“Sure thing, Mr. Stewart.”
“Thank you.” He disconnected the line.
Seconds later, a woman with a drink on a tray entered the room and John deftly removed the drink. He leaned back in his chair, took a sip of his drink and watched the show.
Guy reached out and grabbed the mug of beer, knocked rims with Grant, and took a swallow. The noise in the place was deafening. Part of it was the loud conversation between groups of people; part of it was the Motown music blasting from the speakers. Regardless of how deep you were in conversation, you still bopped in time with the music. But through the cacophony and revelry, Guy’s ear still picked up a conversation.
“Can you believe him?”
“I can’t believe he let this go to his head!”
“Had so much faith in him. Didn’t think he’d sell out.”
At that, Gardner’s hand balled into a fist, he spun on his heel and pulled his arm back to fire.
And stared, mouth open, eyes in shock, frozen in place.
“What’s shakin’, Red?” asked Booster.
“You never call,” sighed Beetle. “You never write.”
“Wha . . . wha . . . wha . . . “ was all that came from Gardner’s mouth.
“Eloquent as usual, Red,” Booster said.
Beetle grabbed his arm, still raised in mid-punch, and led him to a booth while Booster grabbed his other arm and pulled/dragged him into a sitting position. His eyes finally registering, he snatched his arms away.
“What the hell are you two doing here!” Gardner bellowed. A few people turned to see what the disturbance was, saw who was sitting in the booth, then quickly returned to their conversation. “This is by invitation only! How the heck did you get in?”
“That would be me,” Plastic Man said, his head sliding from under the table (between Guy’s legs, no less) to look Gardner square in the eyes.
“GAAAHHH!!!” Gardner screamed.
“You invited the JLA,” Plas said sliding the rest of his body into a sitting position in the booth. “Sorry. I was the only one who could make it. Now your gold metallic goombah at the door saw the JLA credentials and let my buddies in with me.”
Cliff Steele, Gardner thought, you and I are going to have a long talk with a ball peen hammer.
“No,” Gardner said.
“We haven’t even told you why we’re here,” said Booster.
“No,” Gardner repeated.
“It’s in your best interest,” mentioned Beetle.
“No,” Gardner repeated a third time.
“Would it make any difference if we told you that we’re here helping Superman?” asked Plas.
Gardner’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re helping Big Blue?” he asked in a skeptic monotone.
“That’s right, Red,” answered Gold.
“Ah, hell,” Gardner said. “Why didn’t you jerks say so in the first place?”
“Then you’ll . . . “ Beetle began.
“No!” Gardner said. “The day Supes asks you for help, Metallo’ll be President.”
The three heroes looked at each other and shrugged.
“Guess that’s it, then,” sighed Plas.
“Gave him a chance,” Beetle said. “Guess he doesn’t want this joint to take off.”
“Narrow vision,” Gold nodded.
The three pulled themselves out of the booth (actually, Plas slid out from underneath) and began to walk away. Gardner watched them begin to weave through the crowd, his stomach shifting from side to side.
“Don’t get involved,” he whispered. “Things are cooking nicely, don’t get involved.”
“May I have a word, sir?”
“GAAHHH!!!” Guy screamed diving under the table. His hands grasped the table’s edge and he peeked from its underside, staring at the hovering gold cyborg. His eyebrows narrowed to a straight line. “Skeets,” he muttered. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!”
“If I may be allowed a few words, Mr. Gardner?” asked the cyborg.
“Like I have a choice in the matter,” he muttered. His eyes regarded the floating egg. “Okay, Skeets,” he said. “Since you’re a machine and machines can’t lie, if I can get the straight dope from anyone, it’d be you. Spill it.”
“Well, Mr. Gardner,” the cyborg began politely, “The first and foremost reason for our being here is to congratulate you on a simply splendiferous establishment.”
“Cut the hearts and flowers, Skeets,” rasped Gardner. “Give it to me straight.”
“Well, the gentlemen came up with an idea that would not only increase the clientele of Warriors, which, of course, would bring in more capital, but make you famous in the process.”
“They came up with an idea?” sneered Guy. “That would take more working brain cells than they have, even if you added ‘em up.”
“Here’s the pitch, Guy!” grinned Beetle, who returned to the booth with Plas and Booster, and had Guy trapped between them. “You open a Warriors in Opal City, and who’s the best person to endorse the place?”
“Starman!” cried Booster and Plas in unison.
“The original!” exclaimed Beetle. “Ted Knight! He has connections. He’s well respected. He knows people!”
“Not to burst your bubble,” Guy said, eyeing Jack Knight drooling over Alan Scott’s original costume in a sealed Plexiglas case, “But didn’t the old guy retire a month or so ago?”
“Don’t interrupt!” chided Beetle.
“You open a Warriors in Gotham City, and who’s the best person to give the place the big thumb?” asked Booster.
“Batman!” cried Beetle and Plas. Their faces suddenly fell and they looked at each other.
“Well, maybe not Bats,” Beetle said softly.
“Definitely not Bats,” Plas said.
“Bruce Wayne!” interrupted a scowling Booster.
“Bruce Wayne!” repeated Beetle and Plas.
“He’s way connected and has more bucks than Midas! If he shows up, you’re made!” Booster said, wrapping his arm around Guy’s shoulder. Guy shot him a look and Gold dropped his arm.
“You open a Warriors in Metropolis, and who’s the one single person to insure all the elite show up in droves?” asked Plas.
“Lex Luthor!” cried Beetle and Booster.
All the genial conversation, all the heated debates, all the music and general hub-bub in the room shut off like a switch was turned. All eyes were on Gardner, Plas, Booster and Beetle.
Skeets made the sound of a single cricket chirping.
The men in the booth turned towards the cyborg.
The chirping ceased. “Sorry,” Skeets said quietly.
Gardner looked up at the sea of eyes gazing in their direction.
“WHAT’RE YOU LOOKING AT?!?!?” he screamed.
On cue, the music and revelry continued.
“Boys,” Gardner said, sliding out of the booth, “You have lost your ever-lovin’ minds.”
“It’s a money maker, Guy!” cried Beetle.
“No,” Gardner said ordering a beer at the bar.
“A sure thing!” said Plas.
“No,” Guy said taking a sip, wiping the foam from his lips with the back of his hand.
“A guaranteed winner!” added Booster.
“No,” Guy said waving to a barmaid who was at the bar frosting beer mugs.
“It has a ninety-three percent chance for success,” mentioned Skeets.
Gardner stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly, his eyes glittering in the bar lights.
“How much was that again?”
“Ninety-three percent,” repeated Skeets.
“And when you say ‘ninety-three percent’,” Guy asked, “what does that cover?”
“Based on my knowledge of Mr. Luthor’s influence, his presence would insure wealthy people coming from around the world to visit Warriors,” Skeets said. “This sudden influx would prompt you to open several more Warrior establishments on the East Coast, West Coast, and Europe. This would lead to several television appearances, leading to a possible starring role in a film; possibly a biography of yourself, and/or in a television series.”
Gardner’s eyes were wide and his mouth parted slightly, if only to wet his lips with his tongue.
“And you calculated . . . “
“Ninety-three percent success rate.”
“All you have to do is invite Luthor to tonight’s opening,” Beetle said in his ear.
“And the world is yours,” added Booster.
Gardner’s eyes scanned the faces of his ex-teammates, looking for a sign of deceit. Finding only idiot grins, he turned to Skeets, who quietly hovered in front of him.
“If these yahoos told me this line of hooey, I’d know a gag of massive proportions was in the works,” Guy said. “But because you, Skeets, you old cuspidor, calculated their idea to . . . “
“Ninety-three percent!” Plas, Booster and Beetle said in chorus.
“Ninety-three percent,” finished Guy, “And since you are BS proof, I’ll take it under advisement.”
“So?” asked Beetle.
Guy scowled. “So, nothing,” he said. “I said I’d think about it. Now scram. I got a party to work.”
“But . . . “ spoke Booster.
“I said, scram!” A smile covered the lower half of his face. “And thanks, guys,” he said walking into the crowd.
A smiling Beetle, Booster and Plas walked out of Warriors – Metropolis, with Skeets coming from behind.
“Do you think it worked?” asked Plas.
“My gut says yes. Skeets?” asked Gold.
Skeets hummed. “Mr. Gardner is on the telephone with Mr. Luthor right now, asking him to attend tonight’s opening.” Skeets hummed again. “Mr. Luthor is declining the offer, but Mr. Gardner is insistent, stating that everybody who is anybody will be there. Mr. Luthor accepted Mr. Gardner’s invitation. He said he would arrive at eight-thirty tonight, and will be bringing his assistants.”
“Sweet!” exclaimed Booster.
“Gentlemen,” began Plas, “Tonight, while Mount Baldy and the chippies are boogying the night away, we break into LexCorp!”
“And delete all Superman related information,” said Beetle
“And those files from S.T.A.R. Labs,” added Booster.
“Exactly!” said Plas. “We . . . “ his brows furrowed for a second and a grinned.
“What are you thinking, Plas?” Gold asked.
“Teddy-boy?” Plas said turning to the blue costumed hero. “Can you make a remote thingy that could control the LexCorp system?”
“Might take me a bit,” Beetle replied, “But it can be done. Why?”
“Think you can have it ready by tonight?” he asked.
“I’ll need a few things, but sure. Why?”
“What do you have in mind?” Booster asked.
“Mount Baldy thinks he’s so smart, and above everything,” he answered, his eyes staring into the distance from behind his goggles. “Tonight, we will spah-ring every practical joke we can conceive of on ol’ chrome dome!”
“Anonymously?” asked Beetle.
Plas shook his head. “Naw,” he said. “We’re going to be ‘nonymous about it. He’s going to be so busy trying to figure out where we’ll strike next, he won’t have the time to check his system for the deleted files!”
Both men looked at each other, wide grins on their faces. They dropped to the ground and salaamed Plas again.
“WE’RE NOT WORTHY!” they cried. “WE’RE NOT WORTHY!”
“I apologize for the interruption, sirs,” broke in Skeets, “But would you be so kind as to deactivate the ‘lie mode’ from my system? I feel so dirty.”
“Sure thing, Skeets, old boy!” said Plas. “Boys! Baldy’s faced Supes! He’s faced the JLA! But he’s yet to face the Blue, the Gold and the Red!”
“BWAH-HA-HA!” they laughed as they walked down the street. “BWAH-HA-HA!”
“Oh, happy, happy, joy, joy,” muttered Skeets who was following close behind.
To be continued…
