NOT The World's Greatest Superheroes.....
JLI: The Return of BWA-HAH-HA! #14 - July, Year 2	by Bertram Gibbs

Active Roster

Martian Manhunter

Blue Beetle

Booster Gold

Plastic Man

Booster came out of the shower and was toweling his hair when he saw Skeets hovering in front of the television. A talk show was playing, showing two sets of possible inbreds discussing the pros and cons of inter-marriage.

“Morning, Skeets!’ he said from behind the cyborg.

“Your Boosterness,” it replied.

“How are things going?”

“If you are referring to the Dorian family on the television,” it asked, “not well. The audience seems quite hostile to the fact that the brother and sister are trying to have children. Seems perfectly plausible to me, if one wishes to keep genetic purity intact.”

“You’re not telling me that you go along with that?”

“It is a logical course, your Goldship,” it replied.

“When it’s their gene pool???” Booster said, pointing at the screen.

Skeets turned to face Gold. “In theory, I agree,” it said. “On the other hand, regarding the Dorians, who are on the lowest rung of the food chain of any specie, their line will die out in ten point five years.”

“Ten . . . “

“Point five years,” it finished. “I took the liberty of using the JLA teleporter to inspect a water glass that held the Dorian brother’s DNA on it.”

Booster shook his head.

“If you are questioning the status of the mass dis at the LexCorp Building, Mr. Luthor is presently being attended to by his personal physician.”

Booster was walking towards his room and stopped, one foot hovering above the floor.

“Lex is being what by his who?” he asked.

“Attended to by his personal physician,” it said.

Booster ran to the rooms that held the sleeping forms of Kord and Plas, waking both of them up; literally dragging their half-conscious forms out of the room. He held them both up by their armpits.

“Skeets,” Gold began with a grin, “Tell them what you told me.”

“This couldn’t wait until a commercial?” it asked.

“Skeets!”

The cyborg sighed. “Very well. Mr. Luthor is presently being attended to by his personal physician.”

Both Beetle and Plastic Man opened one right eye.

Wide.

Plas’ hands extended across the room, poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Beetle, while he downed his cup.

Running his tongue across his teeth (and making a face at the acrid taste), Plas grinned a sleepy grin.

“What is Mount Baldy being treated for?” he asked.

“A torn muscle in his shoulder, a mild concussion, a chipped cheekbone, several mild contusions, and a varied assortment of bruises.”

“Oy!” exclaimed Kord.

“Of course this does not included an office that resembles the Exxon-Valdez incident,” stated Skeets.

“Fire alarm?” asked Booster.

“Fire alarm,” replied Kord.

“And the damage to a five-thousand dollar hand made white silk suit,” added the cyborg.

“And it’s not even noon yet!” exclaimed Plas.

“What are today’s agenda, Plas?” asked Gold.

“Well, aside from giving Prof. Hamilton a call to let him know what’s what, our day is pretty free!”

“Sightseeing!” called Beetle.

“Second!” yelled Gold.

“Then sightseeing it is,” said Plas. “How are we on cash?”

“Running low,” said Kord.

“Skeets?” asked Plas. “Can you tear yourself . . . “

“On the commercial, your Elasticness, I will venture down to the ATM and withdraw, say twenty-five-hundred dollars from Mr. Luthor’s account?”

Plas weighed the amount over in his mind. “That’ll do,” he said.

Lex Luthor sat in his office, scowling. It wasn’t his office; the epicenter of LexCorp, which was presently being repaired, but since he owned the building, technically, every office was his office.

His finger tapped the intercom. Instead of a soft buzz, strains from the song, ‘Blues in the Night’, came out. He suddenly raised his fist to smash the instrument, then thought otherwise, fearing additional damage to his person.

He stood from behind the much-smaller desk and walked to the single door and opened it. Sitting behind makeshift workstations were Hope and Mercy, wearing fresh unstained clothes, their hair and makeup perfect.

“Ladies,” he said, his hand unconsciously touching his now completely shut eye.

“Mr. Luthor,” they answered.

“What appointments do I have this afternoon?” he asked in a voice of forced calm.

Hope pulled out a legal pad and scanned the notes she made. The information was now written down, since her computer showed clips from Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho’ whenever she tried to access the database.

“You have a 2:30 at the club,” she answered.

Luthor consulted his watch. “Please have the car brought around,’ he said softly and returned to his office.

Mercy stood at attention, clicked her heels and went to the elevator, thought better of it and took the stairs to the underground basement.

Twenty minutes later, Luthor was standing in front of the LexCorp building, waiting for his sleek black limousine to appear before him. He was dressed in a black suit and goldenrod shirt, with a black and gold striped tie. He nodded a silent greeting to the gawkers and fellow LexCorp employees who passed him.

Ten minutes later, he was still waiting.

He removed his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number on his speed dial.

“Paulie’s Pizza,” said a bored voice.

Luthor’s one good eye squinted. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“You wanna pick up your order or have it delivered?”

He disconnected the line and dialed the number, this time, manually.

“Paulie’s Pizza,” said the voice again.

“I, uh . . . “ began Luthor.

“Hey!” barked the voice. “Did'ja hang up on me?”

“I . . . “

“Look, rubber-neck!” sneered the voice on the line, “You either order, or you say yer sorry for dialing a wrong number! You don’t hang up on a body!”

Luthor severed the call and shoved the cell into his jacket pocket. He winced when he heard a small popping sound. He looked down and saw that he had tore a seam in the pocket. He spun on his heels and went into the building.

He went to his private elevator and tapped the signal button several times, and continued to hit the button until the car opened. He stepped inside and pressed the garage button. The car shifted slightly and, seconds later, the door opened.

He walked out and stared at the workers repairing his office on the 100th floor. The workers stared back. Luthor stepped back into the car and pressed the garage button again.

The elevator door closed and he felt the car shift slightly. The doors opened again and he walked out.

Onto the 100th floor.

One of the workers walked towards Luthor.

“Mr. Luthor,” he said. “You need something?”

“I am trying to get to the garage,” he said slowly.

The man grinned. “Try hittin’ the garage button.”

Luthor did not return the grin. The man’s smile wavered and he backed away.

Luthor pressed the garage button again and the doors closed. He smiled when he felt the car descend.

Which went into a free-fall to the twentieth floor.

The doors opened and Luthor pulled himself to his feet, angrily brushing himself off. He jabbed the button with his finger, then pulled his hand back with a yelp. His entire body vibrated as he inspected his finger, which was bent on a slight angle. He grasped the tip of his finger and pulled, hearing a snap. He hit the button again, unfortunately with the same finger, and the door closed.

The car’s doors opened and Luthor, now cradling his injured finger, raised his eyes and saw a group of workers dragging sections of the soiled carpet from his office.

His hand shot out like a striking cobra and hit the garage button again. The door closed and the car descended. Luthor held onto the thin chrome railing, just in case. His eyes watched the lit numbers. 99. 80. 75. 63. 50.

The car stopped between the 50th and 49th floor.

Luthor sighed. He tapped the garage button. Nothing happened. He hit the button again, this time with more force. Still nothing. He began to violently jab the button with the toe of his shoe. Nada.

He opened up the car’s telephone and picked it up, hearing it ring in his ear.

“Paulie’s Pizza,” said the male voice.

Luthor fought the urge to scream. “Look,” he said. “I need you to . . . “

“Is this rubber-neck?” the man asked. “Hel-lo, rubber-neck. What can I do you out of?”

“I need you to call the police and advise them Lex Luthor is stuck in an elevator in the LexCorp Building.”

“And I’m doing this why?” he asked.

“BECAUSE I AM STUCK IN AN ELEVATOR IN THE LEXCORP BUILDING, YOU SIMPLETON!”

“Temper, temper, rubber-neck,” the man said with great superiority.

Luthor counted to ten.

By fives.

“Look,” he said, trying for an approximation of cordiality. “Would you please call the police and let them know that Lex Luthor is stuck in an elevator in the LexCorp Building?”

“And you are?”

“Lex Luthor,” he said.

“Hang a sec,” the man said, dropping the telephone nosily on the counter. “That’s a pie with mushrooms and anchovies, a large sausage and cheese hero, and two large Cokes,” Luthor heard on the line. “That’ll be nineteen-fifty. Out of twenty, and fifty cents yer change. Yeah, thanks. Come again.” Luthor heard the man pick up, then drop the telephone and pick it up again. “You were saying?”

“I need you,” he began in a painfully slow voice. “To call the police. And let them know. That Lex Luthor. I repeat. Lex. Luthor. Is stuck. In an elevator. In the LexCorp Building.”

“And you are?” the man asked.

“Lex. Luthor.”

“Right,” the man replied. “And I’m the Joker.”

“I am Lex Luthor!”

“And I’ve got green hair and stupid purple suits.”

“Now look here,” Luthor began.

“This’ll cost ya,” the man said.

“Money is no object,” Luthor said through clenched teeth.

“Don’t want money,” the man said.

Luthor looked to the ceiling of the car. “What do you want?” he asked. “A vacation in Europe? A new car? A new house?”

“Order somethin’,” the man said.

“Order? Something?” Luthor asked, dumbfounded.

“Yeah, rubber-neck,” the man said. “Oh, I’m sorry; Mr. Rubber-neck.”

“Pick anything!” Luthor growled.

“No can do,” the man replied. “You gotta pick it.”

Luthor felt his stomach churn.

“I don’t even know what you have on the menu!”

“It’s a pizza place, rubber-neck!” the man replied. “Use a little imagination!”

Luthor clenched his hand and winced. He raised his hand and saw his finger was swelling.

“Fine,” he said. “May I order a pizza?”

“Wacha want on it?” the man asked.

“Excuse me?” Luthor answered.

“Here,” the man replied. “I’ll use small words. What. Do. You. Want. On. It?”

“Does it matter?” Luthor asked in a pained voice.

“If I gotta make it, it does,” the man said. ”One topping? Two? Three?”

“TWO!” screamed Luthor. “Two toppings!”

“Which ones?”

Luthor made a mental note to find this ‘Paulie’s Pizza’ and tear it down to the floorboards.

Preferably with the man on the line tied up inside.

Of an oven.

“What are my choices?” he asked patiently.

“Well, let’s see,” the man said in an overly relaxed voice. “You got your extra cheese. You got your anchovies. You got your pineapple. You got onions, peppers, mushrooms, hamburg, ‘roni, sausage, . . . “

“Anchovies and pineapple,” Luthor exclaimed.

There was a pause on the line.

“Say again?”

“Anchovies and pineapple,” Luthor repeated.

The man on the line sighed. “Large or regular?”

“What?”

“Large gets you four more slices.”

“Large.”

“Pick up or deliver?”

A strangled sound came from Luthor’s throat. “Deliver,” he whispered.

“Where?”

Luthor swallowed. “The LexCorp Building.”

“What floor?”

Luthor was about to say between the 50th and 49th floor, then changed his mind. “The parking garage,” he whispered.

“Telephone numba?” the man asked.

“Why do you need . . . ?“

“Rules, rubber-neck,” the man answered.

Luthor gave him his cell number.

“Anything else?”

“Meaning?” Luthor asked.

“Soda? Chips? Anything else?”

“No.”

“That’ll be fourteen-eleven,” the man replied. “That includes a two-fifty delivery charge.”

“Fine,” Luthor sighed.

“Be about fifteen minutes.”

“And you will call the police?”

“Huh?” the man grunted. “Oh, yeah. Sure. And rubber-neck?”

Luthor’s head was pounding. “Yes?”

“Pineapple and anchovies,” the man said sourly. “That’s pretty gross.”

Luthor heard a click on the line.

With a roar, he pulled the telephone out of the wall and holding the sliver cord, began to beat the elevator walls.

Breathing heavily, Luthor was about to sit on the floor and wait for assistance, when his eyes spotted the emergency alarm button. He grinned and pressed the button, hoping that an emergency crew would arrive before the delivery boy with the pizza did, just so he could stiff the man the fourteen dollars and eleven cents.

He blinked in surprise when the elevator descended slowly.

“Finally,” he muttered. “A little action!”


Mercy had Luthor’s personal mechanic against the limousine by his neck, his dangling kicking feet ruining the rear door’s finish.

“All I did was top off the tank, like I always do!” he cried in a strangled voice.

Mercy tilted her head to the open gas port and the hose that lay on the ground. Both were dripping brown goo.

“Then explain that!” she hissed.

“It’s chocolate syrup!”

“I KNOW IT’S CHOCOLATE SYRUP!” she bellowed, rearing her fist back. “WHAT I WANT TO KNOW IS HOW . . . “

A double ping sounded behind her, signaling the arrival of Luthor’s private elevator.

Mercy glanced around as the door opened and released her hold on the mechanic. It wasn’t because her anger was diffused, or the appearance of her employer forced her not to inflict the damage she intended. It was because a torrent of thick brown liquid poured out of the car.

Mercy raised her eyes from the streaming sludge and fought back a scream.

Standing in the car’s center, hands folded calmly in front of him, and completely covered in chocolate syrup, was Lex Luthor. He walked slowly out of the car, his shoes making squishing sounds as he came towards her, leaving a trail of brown footprints in his wake.

“Mr. Lu . . . “

“Say nothing,” he said darkly, one green eye staring though the muck. “Find out who is behind this. Now.”

“But, Mr. Lu . . . “

“NOW!!!!” he screamed.

A jingling sound came from behind. Mercy pulled her gun and spun, coming to a one-kneed firing position.

A man on a bicycle road towards them, a large pizza box on a flat rack welded behind the seat.

“A large pie, with anchovies and pineapple, for Lex Luthor!” he cried. “Fourteen-eleven.”

Mercy looked at Luthor, who nodded, his one eye visible in the muck. She reached into her pocket and handed the man a twenty. He exchanged the cash for the pie and began to hand her back the change. Mercy shook her head.

“Thanks, lady,” the man said grinning. He regarded the dripping brown figure standing by the limo, tilting his head from side to side. He walked over to get a closer look, then turned back and climbed aboard his bike. He rode up the ramp and stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Hey, rubber-neck!” he cried. “You are Lex Luthor!” He continued up the ramp while Mercy and the mechanic tried to grab hold of Luthor’s gooey arms as he tried to chase after the deliveryman.
 

To Be Continued...