NOT The World's Greatest Superheroes.....
JLI: The Return of BWA-HAH-HA! #11 - April, Year 2	by Bertram Gibbs

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Martian Manhunter

Blue Beetle

Booster Gold

Plastic Man

“I must say, I’m impressed,” said Nightwing, standing with his arms folded across his chest behind the Blue Beetle, who was entering commands and altering existing programs at a rapid pace, yet looked relaxed and at ease. His eyes fell on an open Window on the flickering monitor and frowned slightly. He tapped the screen with a gloved finger. “You might want to add a . . . “

“Don’t even go in that direction, okay, Buckwheat?” Kord snapped without turning around. His fingers hadn’t slowed down. “You may be a close and personal friend of the Bat . . . “

“Is there such a thing?” asked Booster.

“Doubtable,” replied Plas.

“. . . but don’t you even dare to presume you know something about computers that I don’t. And just for your information, Booster and I are following the Red Man’s lead, not yours. He brought us this far, and we’re staying to the end. You’re just coming along for the ride, Brother; that’s all.”

Grayson coughed through an already open mouth as he suddenly remembered to exhale.

“And one more thing,” Kord said, suddenly spinning around to face him. His face was still calm, but his eyes were flaring. “We’re JLA; you’re not.” He turned back and continued entering strings of data.

“Oooo,” Gold winced. “Royally and indisputably dissed! And in the prime of his life.”

“I felt the knife turn on that one,” Plas said.

Grayson turned to Plas and Booster, who stood there smiling.

“Don’t mind him,” Booster said. “He’s like this whenever he’s hungry.”

“And there’s not one junk food machine in the joint,” mentioned Plas.

“Freakin’ health fanatics!” groused Kord.

Plas stretched his face and body to resemble Robert Mitchum’s psychotic minister (and costume) in Night of the Hunter. He gazed sleepy-eyed at Grayson and held his fists in front of him, who looked down.

Instead of the letters L-O-V-E showing on one set of knuckles and H-A-T-E on the other, as Mitchum’s character did in the film, the letters M-A-J-A on one hand and L-O-O-K on the other appeared.

“Those who eat of the vegetable,” he said in an approximation of Mitchum’s drawl, “Shall think and eventually become a vegetable! And the heathen will corrupt and force others to do likewise!”

“Hallelujah!” cried Booster, his hands held above his head and his eyes closed in a head tilted back in rapture.

“CAN I GET A BEEF BURRITO?” Plas cried.

“Amen,” said Beetle, still typing away.

“CAN I GET A CORNED BEEF ON RYE, SLIGHTLY TOASTED, WITH A SCHMEAR OF MUSTARD AND A PICKLE ON THE SIDE?” Plas asked the group.

“Say it, Brother!” Booster exclaimed, now bouncing on his toes.

“CAN I GET A HAPPY MEAL WITH ONE OF THOSE CUTE PLASTIC MAN TOYS (patent pending) INSIDE?” he erupted.

The signal for an incoming transmission vibrated on his belt. Grayson shook his head, feeling the eyes in his head rattle, and walked to the far side of the room.

“Nightwing, here,” he whispered.

“Got company?” asked Barbara in the earpiece.

“Depends on your definition,” he answered.

“Possible lead,” she said. “Seems that the newswires are vibrating because Guy Gardner socked Lex Luthor at the opening of Warriors tonight.”

Grayson couldn’t help but grin. Just from the stories Bruce told him about the never-ending grudge match between Superman and Luthor, he knew a) Luthor most likely deserved it, and b) the Bluester would have wanted a piece of the action.

“Really?” he said.

“Oh, yeah,” said Barbara. “Since Gardner is part of the JLA support group, I would make bet that those lunatics are there as well.”

“How much?” asked Grayson.

“Huh?”

“How much would you bet?” he asked.

“What are you getting at?”

“How much are you willing to bet they’re at Warriors? You pay for dinner and I’ll pay for the flick on Friday.”

There was silence on the line.

“Barbara?” Grayson asked.
Which was followed by a very high-pitched screech. Loud enough to make Grayson’s knees buckle.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT???” he hissed, blinking his crossed eyes rapidly behind the mask. “Barbara? Are you okay?”

“You are a skunk, Grayson,” she said.

“What do you . . . ?”

“They’re there, aren’t they?” she asked flatly.

“Well, uh . . . “

“You were trying to weasel on our date!”

“I was not . . . “

“Not in the true weaselistic sense, but you were going to trick me into paying for dinner!”

“It was a joke!” he whispered urgently.

“Now it’s a joke!” she answered.

“Look, Babs,” Grayson said softly (and hopefully, tenderly), “I’m sorry. It was a lousy joke, and I apologize.”

“Are you calling J’onn to let him know you found the prodigals?” she asked in a business-like way.

Grayson winced. “Yes,” he said. “As soon as we finish here.” He glanced at the clock on the wall, watching the sweep second hand slide across the numerals. “Which better be damn quick.”

“DONE!” called Beetle.

“Quick enough,” Grayson said. “Barbara, I’ll call you in a while. Okay?”

Silence.

“Okay, Babs?”

Silence.

Followed by a very high-pitched screech. This time Grayson dropped to one knee.

As stars danced in front of his eyes, which were seeing duplicates of everything, Grayson sighed, “That was real smooth, Dick. They’re rubbing off on you.” He stood and shook off the cobwebs and walked, albeit slowly, to the three men, thinking of several limb rendering hazards that could accidentally happen to the JLA’ers.

“Record time, Teddy!” Booster said, giving him a high-five.

“You didn’t forget the coupe de Gracie Allen, did you?” asked Plas.

“That was the last thing I did,” he answered.

“Then I suggest we make like a tree and get the frock out of here!” Plas said, heading for the door.

The others followed, turning around and making sure everything was in its place before leaving.

Plas tapped the elevator button. He frowned. “Where’s Skeets?” he asked.

The elevator doors opened and there hovered the cyborg, singing Who Let the Dogs Out?, followed by recorded canine barks. They joined him in the car. Booster, Ted and Plas exchanged wide grins, while Grayson stared morosely at a wall.

They dragged the bodies of the unconscious guards and propped them up at their respective workstations throughout the building. Before leaving the floor, Skeets fired a beam of light at each guard to wake them up. The guards looked around and stretched like they just woke up from a catnap. All looked around, hoping no one (spelled L-U-T-H-O-R) had seen them. They glanced at the monitors on their station, saw the sector they were guarding were empty, and resumed reading the magazine or newspaper they were reading.

Just as the four men and cyborg walked out of the side exit, Luthor’s personal limousine pulled up at the curb.

“Well,” said Beetle, “The timing on that couldn’t have been better.”

“Periscope up!” Plas whispered, extending his eyeballs along the wall to peer around the corner.

He watched as Mercy jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran to the passenger door opened by Hope. The both reached in to help their boss out, but their hands were slapped away with a harsh snarl. Luthor stood from the car, adjusting his jacket, his eye and upper cheek already showing signs of discoloration.

“Ouch!” muttered Plas.

“What’s up?” whispered Booster.

“Someone clocked Mount Badly, but good!” Plas answered.

“Gardner,” muttered Nightwing.

Plas’ eyes retracted and he turned with a dumbfounded expression at the ex-Boy Wonder. He glanced at Gold and Kord, and found his expression mirrored in theirs.

“Gardner slugged Luthor at the dinner,” he said, raising his arm straight above him. A thin rope shot out of his wrist gauntlet with a barely audible hiss. The line went up and up and hooked itself on a window ledge about ten stories above them. Grayson gave the line a tug, making sure it was secure.

“Guy smacked the Bald One?” Booster asked, his mouth open.

“That’s the report that’s on the news,” Grayson replied.

“Oh, man!” whispered Beetle. “It got on the news?”

“Wonder what Baldy said to Red to get him riled?” Plas asked.

“Knowing Guy,” Gold said, “all Lex did was probably ask him the time.”

Plas’ eyes extended back to the outer corner of the wall, then returned his eyes back to their sockets. He turned to the men grinning.

“He and the ladies are inside,” he said. “I suggest we retire to our room for a little D & D to celebrate.”

“Where are you staying?” Grayson asked. “I’ll meet up with you in the morning.”

“Aren’t you coming?” asked Kord.

Grayson shook his head. “No offense, but I want to be as far away from you as possible right now. You guys are a bad influence.”

“We love you, too,” Gold muttered.

Plas grinned and turned his head into Batman’s pointed eared cowl, then let the ears droop to the sides of his face.

“Wot’s wong, bubbelh?” asked Plas in a baby-talk voice. “Afwaid to wet your ears down for a while?”

“Where are you staying?” he repeated, all hint of humor gone from his voice.

“The stiff’s back,” mentioned Beetle.

“I’ve got a better idea,” said Plas. “How’s about you telling us where you’re staying and we’ll call you?”

Grayson frowned.

Plas held his arms up in a helpless fashion. “We’re not early risers,” he explained.

Grayson was tired. It wasn’t a physical exhaustion, but a mental one. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt this emotionally spent. He knew it was spending the evening with these clowns and their non-stop puns, jokes, one-liners, and impersonations. He yelled at them a few times to stop, which they did for a whole whopping five minutes, then continued again with a renewed intensity. He also knew it was how he ticked Babs off. He stopped with the sophomoric gags when he adopted the Nightwing guise. It was reminiscent of when he was Robin and Barbara was Batgirl, when he was more rambunctious and wasn’t aware that this was his way of declaring his affection for her. The fact that Babs gave as good as she got symbolized she returned the emotion.

But it was a gag! A joke! No harm done! Why didn’t she . . .

His headache had returned. Now that he thought about it, it had never left; it just receded to a less noticeable level of discomfort.

He was also tired enough not to debate the issue. He detached the line and pulled a slip of paper and a pen from a hidden compartment on his gauntlet and wrote the address down. He handed the slip of paper to Beetle, who glanced at it, and stuck the note underneath his glove.

“You’ll call me,” Nightwing said, since it wasn’t posed as a question.

Plas morphed into Julie Andrews’ Mary Poppins. “As soon as we’re presentable for company,” he said, his/her back stiff and prim.

Nightwing stared at him.

“You’ll call me,” he repeated.

“I’ll call you,’ Plas replied.

He reattached the line to his wrist, silently shot up into the shadows and out of sight.

Booster lifted off the ground and locked hands with Beetle. Plas leaped on Gold’s back, flattening himself to resemble a cape. Skeets hovered nearby.

“You’ll call him?” asked Booster.

“Sure will,” Plas said with a grin, his head snaking around to see the Beetle.

The three men looked at each other.

“NOT!” they cried in unison.

“Tomorrow, morning,” began Plas, “I think we should have a few words with Professor Kingston.”

“I’ll have Skeets patch in a call to Professor Hamilton,” Booster said.

“Naw,” said Plas. “Scratch that. We’ll talk to Professor Slug tonight.”

“Tonight?” asked Beetle.

“Night’s young,” Plas replied.

“Can we get something to eat first?” Kord asked.

Plas smiled. “Sure, Teddy,” he said. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Food,” he answered.

“That covers a wide spectrum,” Plas muttered. “Skeets, old ‘bot? What’s the closest source of foodstuff in the area?

Skeets hummed for a second. “There is a Taco Gringo about three blocks south from here,” it answered. “But due to the high content of cholesterol, among other additives of a highly questionable nature, I would recommend . . . “

“Double Baby Back Burritos!” whispered Kord in awe. “I want three orders. And a bib.”

“A tarp, you mean,” shot Booster. He looked at Plas. “We’re gonna need raingear, son,” he said.

“Oh, bite me!” replied Kord.

“Slaughterhouses are neater,” he said.

“We’re wasting time,” Plas said, quieting the two men. “Let’s get some grub and talk to the good professor.”

“There is a vegetarian establishment five blocks north from . . . “

The three heroes stared at the cyborg with unconcealed hostility.

The machine made an audible sigh. “I’ll schedule quadruple bypass operations for the lot of you,” it muttered.

The JLA signal on Plastic Man’s belt hummed. He had shut it off when he arrived in Metropolis, but when heading to LexCorp, he had unconsciously turned it back on. Without even thinking, he answered it, inwardly cursing at his Pavlov’s Super-Hero training.

“Plas here,” he said. He listened and his face dropped. “Yes, Sir,” he said. Plas listened for a few more seconds and his eyes bugged a foot from his face, his eyebrows lifted over his head, and his jaw dropped to the sidewalk, then bounced back to its normal position. “Will do, Sir. As soon as we finish here, Sir. Goodbye, Sir.”

“Wassup?” asked Gold.

“That was the Oracle,“ Plas said in a stunned voice.

“The Oracle?“ Beetle repeated.

“Whoa!” whispered Gold.

“He’s not the sociable type,” Plas said absently. “He only talks to us before a mission, after and during a mission. And he called me. About us. Directly. And that ain’t all. He asked us for a favor.”

Both men stared at Plas in an eerie silence.

“You sure it’s him?” asked Beetle. “Could be someone trying to patch in and fake . . . “

Plas shook his head. “Knew all the top level security passwords. It’s him, all right.”

“What did he . . . want?” asked Booster.

“I’m not sure,” Plas said slowly, “But it seems that Bird-Boy stepped on someone’s toes. Needs our expertise, he said. Said I’ll be contacted on the details later.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong about this,” said Booster, “But isn’t that in a way treading heavily on Bat-territory?”

Plas nodded. “I would have to assume with seven-league boots,” he said. “Pardon the pun.”

Booster let out a low whistle. “Now that’s stones!”

“Excuse me, guy?” Beetle said from below. “I don’t know which is bothering me more; either my growling stomach or my shoulder socket, which is slowly separating from my body. Either we continue this from the ground, or at Taco Gringo’s.” An acidic rumble came from Beetle’s nether regions. “My stomach votes ‘food’.”

“Then onward to yonder Acid-Reflux Refuge!” Plas cried. “Skeets! Lead on!”

“Three massive coronaries, coming up,” Skeets muttered and flew off in the direction of Taco Gringo, about three blocks south.
 

To Be Continued...