NOT The World's Greatest Superheroes.....
JLI: The Return of BWA-HAH-HA! #20 - January, Year 3	by Bertram Gibbs

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Martian Manhunter

Blue Beetle

Booster Gold

Plastic Man

TWENTY-TWO

Dinner was a success and Grayson hoped the performance at the Kane ended quickly.

They arrived at the theater and were escorted to their box seats. Barbara remarked that they were lucky not to get front row seats, for fear of being drenched in paint. Grayson nodded silently, still unable to take his eyes from Babs Gordon.

The crowd was already full of electricity and couldn’t wait for the show to begin. Everyone was talking and laughing and just having fun. Grayson looked over to Babs and found her beaming.

Nothing could spoil this night, he thought to himself.

The lights went down and techno-pop blasted out of column speakers that lined the front of the stage. The crowd began to cheer and applaud. From a hole in the floor of the stage, a blue head popped out, looking around with feigned surprise. Two more trap doors in the stage opened and two more blue heads looked out. The three men pulled themselves out and began to dance and boogie to the thumping music. The crowd went wild as they began to do cartwheels and splits across the stage. Even Grayson, who had years of acrobatic training, had to admit the men were good.

One of the men ran across the stage and up a wall, doing a flip when he reached the top of his arc. He landed and stared at the second man. The second man, not to be outdone, did the same feat, only higher. He landed and both men looked to the third. The third went off stage for a few seconds and came back dragging a large mattress, which he placed near the wall. He then pulled out a measuring tape and measured the distance between the wall and the padded surface, making careful adjustments as he did.

The third man ran to the opposite side of the stage and ran like the devil was chasing him. His foot struck the edge of the mattress and he fell flat on the surface, sending rivers of paint from the mattress’ side, spraying the members of the front row. Whenever he tried to stand, he slipped and fell back on the mattress, sending another shower at the audience. In minutes, the floor of the stage was soaked with paint.

The second man ran to the wings and brought out a wet/vac and began to suck up the colored liquid. The only problem was that rear of the machine was not closed, so as much as the machine sucked up, it came out the other end in a spray, hitting the audience. The first stood by calmly wearing a bright yellow rain slicker with matching umbrella.

Grayson and Gordon nearly fell out of their seats with laughter. Regardless of his attention to the men on stage, he glanced over to his partner and mentally remarked how beautiful she was when she laughed.

Then came the paintball gags, where each man would try to spell out words on a white screen with paint. Then came a parody of the three swinging silver balls device, where the first would slam into the second, that would propel the third. But instead of silver balls, the men used three thirty-five inch televisions. And more and more and more.

Barbara consulted her watch. She leaned over to the giggling Grayson and tapped him on the shoulder.

“I have to go the lady’s,” she whispered. “Be right back.”

“Aw, Babs!” he exclaimed. “They’re ready for the big finale!”

“I won’t be long,” she said and rolled back through the curtain.

Grayson turned back to the stage and saw the men pushing out a large vat of paint to the center of the stage. The first and second man attached hoses to the opposite ends of the vat and pushed them down the rear of the third’s pants.

The music swelled to a climbing crescendo and the first and second exaggeratedly turned two valves on the vat. The third’s pants began to fill then enlarge. The first two turned off the valve, which broke off in their hands. They looked at the audience in shock while the third’s pants ballooned to twice, three times, then five times its size. All of a sudden, the third man began to shake and vibrate, his eyes growing wider as he looked down to see his lower torso growing.

Grayson turned in his seat to see if Barbara was returning, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight.

He turned to face the stage as the third man’s upper torso began to expand as large as his lower area. He had his arms outstretched and his chest and sleeves began to fill with paint.

Then the unexpected happened.

The third man’s head began to enlarge as well.

“Oh, no,” muttered Grayson, his smile vanishing from his face.

The head expanded, widened and stretched to accommodate the paint coming from the vat, then turned into a funnel. It quickly stretched and extended itself across the stage, up and into the box where Grayson sat, covering him completely.

Grayson began to struggle inside the flexible tube and heard two sounds.

The first was a familiar voice.

“How you doing, ‘Wing?”

Followed by the sound of rushing liquid.

From the audience’s perspective, paint gushed out of the box where Grayson sat, sending them into hysterics of laughter.

The third man retracted back to his normal form on stage to the standing ovation from the audience. The three men took a final bow and ran off the stage.

A spotlight lit the box, showing a fuming seated Grayson, completely covered in blue paint. He stood up and leaped off out of the box, grabbing a hanging curtain, flipping in mid-air and landing on his toes on the stage. His feet went out from under him and he landed in a colorful splash on his rear.

He stalked forward and slipped, falling flat on his face, sending a wave of paint at the audience, who by this time, were on their feet cheering the added attraction. He slid and slipped across the stage as he headed for the wings. He managed to walk four paces before his feet went out from under him again, forcing him to grab the curtains for support. He ignored the standing O and ran backstage.

Grayson left a trail of blue footprints as he kicked open every closed door, sending the stagehands scattering for cover. When he kicked in the last door, he found the three real Sid Sapphire and the Indigo Boys tied to chairs, with gags over their mouths. Grayson ripped off one of the gags.

“WHERE ARE THEY?” he demanded.

“They ran out that door!” the man said.

“WHERE DOES IT LEAD?”

“To the street!” the man exclaimed. “Please untie . . . “

“I’ll send someone to help,” Grayson said, running out the door.

He glanced at the sidewalk and saw three sets of blue footprints going in three different directions. He ran down the alley and came to a skidding stop when he reached the front.

There was his car, on blocks.

The letters ‘BWAH-HA-HA! BWAH-HA-HA! BWAH-HA-HA!’ covered every section of the car. Next to it was a cab. The driver was putting Barbara’s chair in the trunk. Babs sat in the front seat, grinning. He ran towards her and struck a shimmering field. He pounded his fists against it, but to no avail. He turned to go around it and found a similar field on his other side. He turned in a small circle, his hands extended. He was boxed in.

Calmly walking out the theater entrance were Booster Gold, the Blue Beetle and Plastic Man, in full costume, walking towards the waiting taxi, wiping the remainder of blue paint from their faces.

“Maybe you can get Skeets to open a dry cleaning service?” suggested Beetle.

“COME BACK HERE!” Grayson screamed.

“Night ‘Wing,” Plas said. The three men stopped and giggled at the unintentional pun. “Ready, Ms. Gordon?”

“Ready, gentlemen,” Barbara said from the window.

“BARBARA!” yelled Grayson.

“Like I said, Dick,” she said, emphasizing his first name, “I’ll get you back when you least expect it.”

“Mr. Oracle don’t like you, ‘Wing,” grinned Plas. “You must’ve been a baaaad boy.”

Skeets flew in front of Grayson, who was staring angrily at the three joining Babs in the taxi.

“The force field will disappear once we are out of the area, your Wingship,” it said.

The cab drove off into the night, leaving the sound of ‘BWAH-HA-HA! BWAH-HA-HA! BWAH-HA-HA!’ in four part harmony, echoing in his ears.

Grayson began to bang his head against the immovable field.

Bruce Wayne took off his coat in the Wayne Manor foyer and handed it to his loyal friend and servant, Alfred Pennyworth.

“I’ll be going on patrol in a few minutes, Alfred,” he said.

“I’ll feign shock, sir,” the butler replied.

“I hate these evening meetings,” Wayne grumbled, ignoring Pennyworth’s sarcasm. “Quiet evening?” he asked.

“Not the words I would use, Master Bruce,” he said tilting his head to the sitting room.

Bruce frowned and walked across the large hall and stood in the sitting room’s doorway. The television was on and slumped on the couch was Grayson. Because he had trained himself to do so, in one glance Bruce saw that his one time ward’s hair was wet (he could also smell the faint scent of lilac shampoo he knew was in the guest bathroom), he was wearing his sweatpants and sweatshirt (Dick having moved his belongings to his apartment in Bludhaven), and was undeniably angry.

“Dick,” he said. “Didn’t you have a date with Barbara tonight?”

Grayson did not respond.

“Dick?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he grumbled in a tone Wayne was known to use.

Wayne’s eyebrow went up. “We’ll discuss this later,” he said.

In one movement, Grayson did a back-flip and landed inches from his mentor, his stiff index finger stabbing between Wayne’s eyes. The look in his partner’s eyes reminded him of one he saw when he performed his daily shave.

“No,” replied Grayson, his tone darker, if that was imaginable. “We won’t.”

He stared at Wayne for a heartbeat, then returned to the couch and sat down heavily.

Bruce was about to respond when he felt a hand on his arm. He looked down and saw Tim Drake chewing on a stalk of celery.

“Been like that since he arrived,” he said. “I wouldn’t bug him about it.”

Wayne considered the words, and then nodded.

“He’ll talk about it when he’s ready,” he said to his junior partner.

“No,” said Grayson, not turning around. “I won’t. Ever.”

Wayne stared at Grayson’s back for a moment, frowning. He turned and went to dress for patrol.

EPILOGUE

The teleporter in the JLA Watchtower hummed and glowed. On the receiving bay stood Plastic Man, Booster Gold and the Blue Beetle, burdened down with several shopping bags and parcels stuck under their arms. On each of their heads they wore baseball caps displaying an ‘I Y Metropolis’ monogram. On their uniforms, they wore red lacquered Warrior pins given to them by Guy Gardner. Skeets hovered above them, a bag labeled ‘Metropolis Science Museum’ strapped to its underside. The three men were grinning and laughing as they stepped off.

Right in front of J’onn J’onzz.

Whose grin was as wide as their own.

“AAAAHHHHHHH!!!” they screamed in chorus.

J’onn held up his large green hands.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he said in his deep voice. “Welcome back!”

Beetle and Booster had their eyes closed, expecting J’onzz to shoot them with some Martian death ray, or something more damaging, but less permanent. Plas stood frozen in place, staring at their large green partner.

When nothing deadly happened, Plas cleared his throat. “You’re not mad at us?” he asked. Kord and Gold hesitantly peeked through tightly closed eyes, expecting the Martian to pummel them at any time.

“Well,” he said walking deeper into the Watchtower, “I must admit I was furious with you at first. Then, after several hours of meditation and spiritual cleansing, I . . . “ He paused for a few seconds. “What is that Earth term? Got my head around it.”

“So you’re not going to dismember us?” asked Beetle, peering over Plas’ shoulder.

“Far from it!” J’onn exclaimed. He reached out and grabbed Plas’ hand and pumped it mightily. “I must say, you were absolutely correct, Plastic Man.”

Plas swallowed, not being able to see his hand encased in J’onn’s. “I was?”

“Of course!” J’onn grinned. “You are a member of the JLA and I should have trusted your judgment on how to handle this mission. I mean, no questions would have been asked if Wallace, or Kyle, or Arthur, or Diana was put in charge of a mission, so it was more than insulting by doubting your leadership abilities. After Nightwing’s report, I must say that the three of you performed very well together and did a very good job.”

“Skeets?” began Booster.

“I have already anticipated your inquiry, your Boosterness,” it replied. “Scanning the individual in front of us and the area to determine if we landed in a parallel dimension due to a transporter malfunction.” Seconds later, the cyborg beeped. “Negative, sirs,” it replied. “As incredible as it seems, we are in the actual JLA Watchtower and that is the real J’onn J'onzz; the Manhunter from Mars.”

The three heroes looked at the cyborg, then to J’onn. There were smiles all around.

“Thanks, J’onn,” Plas said. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

Handshakes went around and J’onn left them to return to the Watchtower console.

They walked down the hallway to their quarters, talking amongst themselves. Plas came to a sudden halt, frowning.

“What’s the matter?” asked Beetle.

He shifted his shoulders. “I got this feeling we’re being watched, is all,” he said. The three men turned completely around and saw an empty hallway behind them. They turned back in the direction they were heading and found the Batman standing inches from them.

“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” they screamed.

All Beetle and Booster’s eyes registered was a slight fluttering of his cape, then saw Batman gloved hand wrapped around Plas’ neck. Plas’ eyes bulged out of their sockets and his face turned a rosy color.

“It is daytime,” he growled. “I hate daytime. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t tear the three of you to pieces?”

“Would it help any to mention that since we’re on the moon, and in the Watchtower, you can’t really tell what time it is?” asked Booster.

“Would you like your answer before or after they surgically reattach your arms?” Batman asked.

“Shut up?” Booster said in a high-pitched voice.

“Yes,” Batman answered.

“We’re gonna die,” moaned Beetle. “Oh, mama, we’re gonna die!”

“Not for a very long time,” the Dark Knight replied.

“I think I have three good reasons,” Plas said in a strangled tone.

“And they are?” Batman asked.

“Could you lighten up on the neck a bit?” he asked.

Batman unclenched his fist, returning the color to Plas’ face.

“Speak,” he said.

When we were in Metropolis,” Plas quickly explained, “Skeets downloaded not only the entire LexCorp system, but Mount Baldy’s personal files.”

“That’s two,” noted Batman.

“Skeets also downloaded the entire S.T.A.R. Lab system.”

Batman did not say a word, nor did he move a muscle. He hardly even breathed.

“And you intended to do what with these files?” he asked.

Plas, Booster and Beetle swallowed.

“Give them to you?” Plas replied in a tiny voice.

“All of them?” Batman asked.

The three men nodded quickly.

Batman walked past them and down the hall.

“Gold, before you leave, have Skeets download all the files to the JLA computer,” he said without turning.

“Yes, sir!” Booster snapped.

Batman stopped. “If I find any files missing,” he said, “And you know I will, I will come after you.”

“Y-yes, sir!”

“Gloves off.”

“Understood, sir!”

He turned to face them.

“Good job,” he said.

The three men stared at him, their mouths open.

He walked back to where they stood. The three men back stepped a foot.

“In honor of a mission well done,” he said, “On behalf of the Justice League, there is something waiting for you in the training room.”

The three looked at each other, then back to the Dark Knight. Plas grinned.

“Well, thanks . . . “

“Go now,” he said.

“We were going to drop off . . . “

“Skeets will take care of your . . . purchases.”

“I have to take their things to their rooms?” it asked.

Batman tilted his head slightly towards the floating cyborg.

“Yes, your Batness,” it replied.

“Gee, Batman,” Beetle began. “We . . . “

“Now,” Batman said.

“Yes, sir!” they snapped and ran down the two levels to the training room.

Booster, Beetle and Plas jogged towards the entrance to the hallway that led to the training room. Standing in the opening was Superman, his muscular arms folded across his chest. He wore a broad smile and a look of pride on his face.

“Gentlemen,” he said, extending his hand, “I know you’re in a hurry to get to the training room,” a twinkle of light glittered off his eye “but I wanted to extend my personal thanks for all you have done.”

Shocked, limp handshakes went around, the three goggle-eyed at the courtesy given by the Man of Steel.

They stood there for a moment, staring at each other.

“Well,” Superman said, breaking the silence. “Again my thanks. Enjoy the evening!”

He lifted off the floor and glided down the hallway.

“He thanked us,” Plas whispered, a very satisfied smile on his face. “Big Blue actually took the time to thank us personally.”

“I’m impressed,” said Beetle.

“First Bats; then Blue,” muttered Booster, shaking his head in awe. “That, and a tribute!” he suddenly exclaimed. “From the JLA themselves!”

“What do you think it is?” asked Beetle.

“Don’t know,” Plas said extending his legs, loping down the hallway. “It don’t matter, when you think about it!”

“Why?” asked Booster.

“After all these years,” Plas said, “We’re finally getting what we deserve!”

They stood in front of the training room, staring at the closed door.

“You want to do the honors?” Beetle asked Plas.

“You are our leader!” stated Gold.

Plas grinned. “I’d be honored to do the honors!” he said and tapped the button that opened the door. The door slid open silently on its tracks revealing a dark room.

“What do you think?” asked Beetle.

Plas gave him an elbow. “We’re gonna walk in and the guys are going to jump out yelling ‘SURPRISE!’’ he replied. “That’s what’s going to happen.”

The three men walked inside and the door automatically shut behind them. A low electric hum sounded from over their shoulders and a glowing field covered not only the door, but the wall as well.

The lights in the room went on.

The three men turned and saw the Black Canary, Power Girl, the Huntress, Wonder Woman, Zatanna, Hawkgirl, Big Barda, and Supergirl standing there.

Cracking the knuckles on their hands.

A loud snapping sound reverberated through the room and Booster Gold’s goggles flew off.

“Surprise,” the Catwoman snarled.

Superman walked through the long hallway in the JLA Watchtower and joined Batman who stood next to J’onn at the console. He reached under his cape and handed J’onn a box of Chocos.

“Present from Dr. Fate,” Superman said. “The box never empties.”

“Thank you, Kal,” J’onn said grinning. “Thank the good doctor for me as well.”

“Will do. Did I miss anything?” he asked.

“The show is about to begin,” Batman said.

He leaned forward and switched on a monitor. It showed Barda blasting Booster in the chest with a beam from her power staff. He flew across the room and crashed into a wall. Diana had her hands above her head and was twirling Beetle like an experienced majorette spun a baton. The Huntress, Hawkgirl, Canary and Supergirl had Plastic Man stretched in four different directions, while Power Girl used his stretched out middle as a trampoline.

J’onn offered the box to Batman.

“Choco, Bruce?” he asked.

“Thank you, J’onn,” Batman said sitting in a nearby chair, pulling off his cowl.

He held the box in Superman’s direction. “Kal?” he asked.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said with a grin. “Hold that thought,” he said. In seconds the Man of Steel returned with a pitcher of ice-cold milk and three glasses. He poured each one and sat back in his seat.

Batman grunted slightly.

“Something wrong, Bruce?” Kal asked.

“I would have preferred chocolate milk,” he said. “But this is . . . “

Before he finished the sentence, Kal held out a bottle of chocolate syrup to him.

“ . . . fine.” Bruce frowned at Kal, who grinned back at him. A thin-lipped smile formed on Bruce’s face and he began to chuckle.

A loud guffaw caused the two men to turn to J’onn, who was pointing at the monitor. Plas was presently being used as a rope to tie Gold and the Beetle together.

Soon the three hero’s soft peals of laughter increased in volume, which echoed throughout the Watchtower.

But in space, no one can hear you ‘BWAH-HA-HA!’

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Hey there, and thanks for lasting to the very end.

In order to express my gratitude, I just wanna clue you in about those expensive sounding intoxicating items Old Baldy tried to order in Warriors were legit. Yeah, that’s right. Those drinks Luthor was asking for were not only expensive; they were stupid expensive!

Here. Let me show you.

That 1931 Haut Brion? $4,106.00 a bottle. Ridiculous, right? Wait. It gets worse.

His next request for the 1949 Lafitte Rothschild? Now, don’t swallow your tongue, but that sucker is $4,954.00 a bottle.

Remember that story about the Pharaoh’s Gold beer? Strictly legit. A 12 ouncer really does cost $7,200.00! No lie!

Ever go out to a fancy place and order brandy or a cognac? For those of you below the age of getting yourself in trouble legally, think James Bond movies.

There’s usually a scene where Bond (or the Bond Girl, or the bad guy, or the special guest hottie) is sipping from a bell-shaped goblet called a snifter. In the very bottom of that self-same snifter is about one fluid ounce of brown liquid. Usually if it is the villain drinking, he or she’ll swish it around the snifter a few times to emphasize a point.

That people, be cognac.

Or brandy, if you prefer.

Now get out your calculators (or take off your shoes), because here’s a little math problem for you.

The Pierre Ferrand Ancestrale cognac is $404.00 a snifter.

Figure there’s an ounce of Pierre in the bottom of that snifter. Now how many ounces are there in your average bottle of wine? The answer is 750 milliliters. 750 Milliliters equals 25.3605 ounces. Now for simplicity’s sake, we’ll round it off to a flat 25.

At $404.00 per.

That’s $10,100.00 a bottle, Jackson!

And thus endeth the lesson.

Be prepared for a quiz at 3 this afternoon.

And thanks again! Hope you enjoyed the ride!