The World's Finest Team... JUST ANOTHER MUTHA-$%@&!-ING  TEAM-UP STORY
World's Finest #2 - August, Year Three	by Bertram Gibbs

BATMAN

SUPERMAN

APOLLO

MIDNIGHTER

Hoboken, New Jersey

    Myron Eugene Spazinski looked like a Myron Eugene Spazinski.  He was painfully skinny (very close to achieving a skeletal disqualification) and moved like every joint had an imposing view on direction.  His head, which was almost perfectly egg-shaped, wore very thick glasses that enlarged his watery brown eyes.  He had no facial hair (not for the lack of trying) and his teeth jutted out slightly.  His hair was very brown and very thick, but lay across his head like a mop without conditioner.  Remember the Jerry Lewis version of The Nutty Professor?  Lewis’ Julius Kelp was Cary Grant in his prime in comparison to Myron Eugene Spazinski.

    Aside from winning the ‘Most Likely to Get His Lower Extremities Punted After School’ category in his high school yearbook (yes, the students in charge of putting the yearbook together made up that category, just for Myron), Myron also won all the science awards and was known for his genius at coming up with a functioning, though yet unheard of, device for …something.

    And the award goes again to Myron Eugene Spazinski for his . . . his . . . Myron, what is that again? was the congratulatory question that the head of the science department asked every year.

    Every god-dammed year!

    “IDIOTS!” screamed Myron Eugene Spazinski.

    “I’m sorry my Lord!” cried a black suited guard rushing through the closed door.  He came to a halt at the base of the pedestal and lowered himself to one knee, moving for the safer cowering-mode.

    “Not you, Foxworth,” growled Myron.  “I mean, you are an idiot; don’t get me wrong.  You put the Q in S-T-U-P-I-D, and can be looked upon as the prime reason animals eat their young, but I didn’t mean you.  This time,” Myron added.

    Foxworth made a small bow and returned to his post at the door.  Foxworth was six foot eight, two hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle.  He knew several forms of hand-to-hand combat and was an expert with various handguns, rifles, and knives.  He could have easily picked Myron up by his scrawny neck and rung it like a chicken’s, and had no problem doing so.  But Foxworth also knew that Elliot Claymore Wiggins; Spazinski’s right hand man and head of security, would watch every footage of the tapes from the hidden cameras, and suddenly Foxworth would be missing from morning chow.  Every time Myron barked an order at him, or talked down to him, or blatantly insulted him, Foxworth would remember Bobby Scranton.

    After five months as Myron’s personal guard, Scranton couldn’t take anymore of the little man’s bullshit.  The day came when Myron had a tantrum because his grilled cheese sandwich was cold (mainly because just before taking the first bite, he had suddenly come up with an idea to perfect his dimensional transport device, and began making notations in his journal for the better part of an hour) and took it out on Scranton.  Bobby reached out and grabbed Myron by the back of his neck and lifted him to eye level.  For the next three minutes, Bobby Scranton screamed, yelled and cursed Myron Eugene Spazinski’s narrow behind out.  He dropped him and watched in sadistic satisfaction as Spazinski scooted backwards and away from him on his hindquarters, tears pouring from his eyes.  Scranton uttered a parting explanative and walked out of the room.  The next day he was missing.  After a week, he was marked down as AWOL.

    Foxworth had just watched the bootleg DVD of Scranton cussing out Spazinski - courtesy of someone patching onto Elliot Claymore Wiggins’ security system, then edited for your pleasure - when he received his orders; he was hired by Myron to take Scranton’s place.  He tore his room apart for four straight hours, looking for the bug or hidden camera.  Out of frustration, Foxworth hurled the remote at the HDTV in the corner of the room.  Feeling very stupid, he returned with a dustpan and broom and leaned forward to pick up the shards of shattered screen.  It was then he noticed the camera, and its red light, showing it was in full operation.

    The next morning, Myron, smiling and walking with his hands behind his back, led Foxworth around his suite in the warehouse, showing him some of the antiques and memorabilia he had collected throughout the years.  Foxworth gnawed on his tongue at Myron’s remarks, digs, and observations and kept a sincerely interested smile on his face.  He nearly bit it in half when he walked past Myron’s bedroom and saw Bobby Scranton lying naked on the floor.  He unconsciously dashed into the room and got out the “Bo . . . “ before he began to scream.  It took four men of Foxworth’s size to carry him out and sedate him.  For months every time he closed his eyes, he saw Bobby Scranton’s body in front of the fireplace, stuffed, with his eyelids and mouth sewn shut.  Just as the nightmarish visions finally left, he was called into Myron’s office to deliver a personal communiqué to Wiggins.  He found Myron in his bedroom watching a DVD of The Wizard of Oz, leaning against Bobby like he was a bolster.  Seeing Foxworth at the door, he pressed pause, got out of bed stark naked, went to his desk in the corner, lifted the large economy party sized tub of Vaseline up an inch, removed a note from underneath, then walked up to the man and pressed it in the palm of his hand.  Foxworth tried not to cry out at the oily slickness of Spazinski’s touch.  Myron returned to the bed, slipped under the sheets, kept one hand below as he used the other to grab the remote and press play.  He leaned his head back against Scranton’s buttocks and began to pant as he watched the film.

    Foxworth realized that drinking heavily and taking abuse was a whole lot better on his résumé than becoming a life-sized pillow.

    Myron Eugene Spazinski had entered high school known as ‘Spaz’.  He was abused every day of his high school years and college wasn’t any better.  His oppressors had found the luxuries of alcohol and come up with new and inventive methods of torture.  And on and on it went.

    Myron Eugene Spazinski developed a hatred of his fellow man due to his status of permanent victim.  He realized that he would need power to enact the revenge he craved.  It was around this time Elliot Claymore Wiggins entered the scene.  Elliot and Myron became fast friends because they saw in themselves individuals of superior intellect, had the same dreams of revenge, and were systematically trashed every single solitary day.  Wiggins was into James Bond and his God was J. Edgar Hoover (with a little Tesla on the side).  He planted bugs, and set up wiretaps and hidden cameras in the rooms of the jocks who ruined their lives in order to learn their innermost secrets.  Most of the stills were anonymously posted around the campus, on sides of buildings, on fences, push pinned on trees, and on the campus Website.  Myron made him his head of security (like finding out where the next beating was to take place so they could be miles from it).

    After he graduated, Myron and Wiggins founded their own R&D firm and hired fellow geeks who were geniuses in their own right (and were equally abused during their academic years).  When the company became part of the Fortune 50 (in the top 25), he began to build his own secret army.  Not of geeks like himself, but of trained and hardened military men who were looking for career advancement, great benefits, a kickin’ medical plan, and paid vacation (which caused mercenaries to unionize, but that’s another story).  At the same time, Myron began to parlay his company’s military contract deals into setting up labs in different parts of the state, as well as plant spies in major corporations and military installations.  Several years later, once every man was in place and all plans and contingency plans made, Myron Eugene Spazinski made his move.

    With a single command Myron Eugene Spazinski had commandeered several military bases and power plants, hijacked every satellites hovering around the world, released a computer virus that crashed and wiped every system on Wall Street, released a second virus that erased the Internal Revenue Service mainframe, blew up Microsoft, blew up all the Disney locations (except for the one in France, because what else could you do to it?), and because he was in a pissy mood, hacked in and increased everyone’s cable bills.

    From there, things moved like clockwork.

    Male and female (women can be geeks too!) moles in all the divisions of the Armed Forces, in installations and bases all over the United States (and all United States interests overseas) and under Myron Eugene Spazinski’s command, calmly, and with laser like precision, changed management.  Myron Eugene Spazinski was in total control.  The world would soon do his bidding as its rightful ruler and would pay for its transgressions against him and others like him.

    The first thing Myron Eugene Spazinski did was to write in an anti-abuse rule in the public school system’s regulations.  Anyone caught abusing a fellow student would automatically be put to death.  He placed agents in every school that looked young enough to be students to make sure his ruling would be reinforced.  One evening news broadcast showed a student being dragged out of his homeroom class because he gave a fellow classmate a super-wedgie during Physical Education class.  The kid - thirteen-year-old Mike Benson - was dragged by the back of his neck to the lawn in front of PS 128 in the Bronx, New York.  He was tied spread-eagled to the iron-spiked gate in a giant X.  His head was tied back in a way to prevent him from looking anywhere but forward.  A minivan pulled up outside the gate.  Seven armed soldiers leapt out and took the position of attention approximately twenty feet in front of the struggling Mike Benson.  By this time, all of the school was on the lawn, standing on the steps and hanging out the windows in order to get a view of the action.  A few of the students and the staff tried to grab at the arms of the agents when Benson was dragged by and were summarily shot in the kneecaps.  On camera, the agent removed a PADD from his jacket pocket, tapped the screen with a stylus and read him the charges.  The agent pocketed the PADD, went outside the gate and gave the crying young man a super-wedgie.  The boy’s screams chilled the television audience to the marrow.  The agent came back around and standing next to the soldiers, gave the order to fire.  Weapons snapped up and blasts of laser fire bored tiny deadly holes in the child’s body.  Through the screams of horror from the school, the soldiers returned to the minivan and drove away.  In a shot as chilling as the scenes from Auschwitz, the agent calmly walked over to the principal and had him sign release papers.  In triplicate.

    Myron Eugene Spazinski set up a base of operation in Hoboken, New Jersey - home of Frank Sinatra, which he had playing constantly through the PA system.  Operations had the Decca years.  R & D had Sinatra’s Capital period.  The barracks that housed over a thousand armed men played the Dorsey era.  The cafeteria rang with his film numbers.  The warehouse got the Duets.  Day In, Day Out.

    Myron Eugene Spazinski had plans of making the purchase of educational and reference material for recreational use tax deductible (over a certain amount, and you must have receipts proving purchase).  Of course, anyone buying sports equipment (over a certain amount, and you must have receipts proving purchase) would have additional charges added to each purchase.  This would be called the Geek Tax.

    Myron Eugene Spazinski had many plans, all to put the geek in power, with him as supreme ruler.  Today; the United States.  Tomorrow; the World!

    But the Authority showed up.

    Myron Eugene Spazinski stood staring at the glowing dimensional portal, his large watery eyes darting to Wiggins.

    It had a large round base that rose nearly two feet off the floor.  In its center was an equally large square frame that was eight feet high.  Off to one side there was a small podium that held a small built in laptop with a series of switches and dials on either of its sides.  The frame pulsated and emitted a low thrum, like a beating heart.  The energy in the center of the frame was oval shaped and resembled a swirling ocean, but it was of a deeper blue and was spiked with electric current.  A small roar came from the spinning waves, adding to the effect.

    “How much longer?” he asked, his eyes darting to the monitors, showing the Authority beating the crap out of his men.

    “Almost ready,” replied Wiggins, his eyes glued to the readouts on the screen in front of him.

    “Good,” Myron Eugene Spazinski muttered.  

    He consulted his printouts for the umpteenth time.  There was another world, another universe very similar to this one. 
Super-heroes.  Super-villains.  He would search out the latter, make a pact on taking over all worlds in the multiverse, with him as supreme ruler over all.  That last part could be sorted out later.  He did a scan of all the super-villains on the world and after weeding out the ones who were no better than idiots (he used a ten-point scale), was left with two who could not only defeat the Authority, but – with his help – destroy their interdimensional counterpart.  

    For a while, Myron Eugene Spazinski debated over which one he could use to his best advantage; which could give him more bang for his buck.  Then, after making a few computations to a device he was secretly working on (always have to have a hand in), realized he could have his cake and eat it too!

    “We’re done!” announced Wiggins, breaking Myron Eugene Spazinski’s reverie.

    Myron grinned, his protruding teeth taking up much of his face.  He walked over to a black lacquer wardrobe, opened it and removed a blue lame' jumpsuit, then ducked behind a large screen, backlit to show his silhouette.  Myron Eugene Spazinski’s shadow took off one shoe and hopped on one foot, trying to remove the other.  He crashed into a table and righted himself.  He removed his pants, revealing a shadow of spindly legs, and donned the suit.  After several seconds of trying to fasten the rear opening, he dramatically slid back the screen to reveal his majesty.

    The suit was like a second skin, showing the world his lack of musculature.  The legs flared out at the upper calf and resembled riding jodhpurs.  What followed were highly polished black knee boots.  Around his waist was a gold metallic belt with several pockets.  His high black collar flared out accentuating the open necked V that ended just above the ridge of his second rib.  He also wore elbow length black gloves.  The only thing the costume lacked (thank merciful heavens!) was a cape.  Myron Eugene Spazinski had debated on that as well.

    “Thank you, Wiggins,” he said solemnly.  “This could never be done without you.”

    “Yes, my Lord,” Wiggins replied in the same tone.

    “And you’re sure they have the technology for me to build another portal to get back?” he asked.

    “That universe is technologically on par with ours,” answered Wiggins.
   
    “Good!” said Myron.  “Hold the fort and I will bring reinforcements.  Such like the world has never seen!  And all will bend low at the mere mention of Myron Eugene Spazinski!”
   
    “I think you need a code name,” Wiggins said.
   
    The light of triumph drained out of his eyes.  “Uh, code name?”

    “Yes,” nodded Wiggins.  “Something that not only inspires dread, but loyalty as well.”

    “What’s wrong with ‘Myron Eugene Spazinski’?”

    “Lacks the drama, my Lord,” Wiggins replied.

    “Well, if it’s drama you want,” sulked Myron Eugene Spazinski.

    “It’s not me, my Lord,” Wiggins said quickly.  “In order to, well, I guess, ‘rate’ (for the sake of a better word) with the villains in the other world, you’d need a code name.”

    “But one uses his real name!”

    Wiggins nodded patiently.  “Yes, but he’s had the time to perfect it.”

    “Maybe you’re right,” Myron Eugene Spazinski replied.  His watery eyes turned inward for a moment.  “’Doctor Doom’?” he suggested.

    “I see you’ve been reading the reports, my Lord,” said Wiggins smiling.  “It’s already being used in an alternate multiverse.”

    “But they won’t know that!”

    “You want to take the chance they do?” asked Wiggins.  “They’re not morons, you know.  Don’t get cocky and think that you alone invented multi-universal travel.”

    “Well, you have a point,” muttered Spazinski.  “’Red Skull’?”

    “Already used,” said Wiggins knowing Myron Eugene Spazinski hoped he did not know this information.  “And you’d have to change your costume.”

    Myron Eugene Spazinski looked down.  “Why?” he asked.  “Red goes with blue.”

    “Trust me on this,” Wiggins said.

    “’Punisher’?  ‘Dr. Polaris’? ‘Sinestro’?  ‘Parallax’?”

    Wiggins shook his head.  “All used,” he replied.  “And ‘Punisher’ wouldn’t wear blue.”

    “It’s a nice blue!” Spazinski protested.

    “Regardless,” sighed Wiggins.  ‘Dr. Polaris’?  Where’s the hook?  What do you do that affects polar anything?  ‘Sinestro’?  That name is known through several multiverses.  That last one is too . . . complicated.”

    “Complicated?  How?”

    “Too long to get into,” Wiggins said shaking his head.

    “Well, all the good ones have been taken!”

    “Don’t blame me for that!”

    “I’m not!” rasped Myron Eugene Spazinski.  His eyes lit.  “But maybe if I use my most hated nickname, it will incite fear, not derision!” He strode in front of the shimmering portal, his hands thrust on his hips.  “YES!” he cried.  “The world will tremble; the world will bow low to the might of their God!  Men will cower in fear at the slightest hint of my shadow and women will swoon at my prowess!  All will kneel before The Spaz!”

    Please insert that one chirping Warner Brothers cricket.

    “It doesn’t work for me,” Wiggins said flatly.

    Before the debate could continue, the wall to the laboratory was ripped away.  Three bodies flew through the opening, followed by the Midnighter.  Swooping in from above was Apollo.

    “It’s too late, Authority!” screamed Myron Eugene Spazinski and he touched a toggle on his belt.

    A force field covered Myron Eugene Spazinski and the portal.  Apollo fired solar beams at the yellowish glow, but they bounced off.  His fists pounded on the surface to no avail.  Midnighter began breaking things.

    Twin beams of light struck Myron Eugene Spazinski, sending him up on his toes in a shock of pain and surprise.  Midnighter and Apollo stared at the glowing form of Myron Eugene Spazinski and watched in rapt attention as the man began to vibrate.  Myron Eugene Spazinski’s body seemed to fold into itself for a second, then pulsed outward like a air filled balloon.  An arm separated itself from its existing appendage and flexed.  It then began to pull itself out of Myron Eugene Spazinski.  Soon a second body (equally garishly garbed) stood next to Myron Eugene Spazinski.  Both turned to the other and then grinned madly at the heroes.

    “YES!” Myron Eugene Spazinskis screamed in unison and began to simultaneously depress the keys on the keyboard.  The portal became amoebae-like and split into two shimmering ovals.  “When I return, there will be no force in the world to stop me!  And you will beg me for your miserable lives!  All will obey the Spaz!”

    Please insert that one chirping Warner Brothers cricket again.

    “’Spaz’?” said Midnighter.

    “You may want to reconsider your name,” suggested Apollo.

    ”I told you,” said Wiggins.

    “FUCK YOU ALL!” the Myron Eugene Spazinskis screamed.  His fingers tapped a series of keys and buttons.

    “Angie!” said Midnighter.  “We got a situation here!”  

    “And I don’t?” she replied over the remote.

    “The portal is active!” Apollo cried.  “The portal is active and this . . . these assholes are going to use it!”

    “I need you to patch into the thing and track where it’s going to drop this bastard,” said Midnighter.   He glanced at Wiggins, still adjusting the dials on the console.  “And knock out this force field, please.  Maybe we can disable it before fucknuts uses it!”

    Without an answer, the field shimmered brightly and began to fade.  Midnighter dashed through and dove at Wiggins.  Wiggins spun and screamed, “NOW!” a second before he felt his hip snap.  Then he just screamed.

    Myron Eugene Spazinskis paused to deliver their stereotypical fists-raised-over-your-head-in-triumph evil cackle and dove through the portals.  

    “Get him . . . them back!” snarled Midnighter, the man’s throat in his hands.

    “NO!” screamed Wiggins.  “Nothing will stop the Spaz!”

    “Do it!” said Apollo, grabbing the man by his jaw and applying pressure.  “There may be time!”

    “Nothing will make me disobey the Spaz’s orders!” Wiggins cried as he felt his lower jaw dislocate.

    Midnighter’s face soured.  “He picked that name, right?” he asked.

    “Against my better judgment,” sighed Wiggins.

    “Dick,” sighed Midnighter and he grabbed Wiggins by the sides of his head and turned it sharply on an angle.  Wiggins' eyes bulged and he made a croaking sound, then slid slowly and noiselessly to the floor.  Midnighter joined Apollo by the twin portals.

    “Angie?” said Apollo.  “Can you get him back?”

    “No,” said her voice.  “He’s already through.  I can’t track him.”

    The portals began to shake like gelatin.

    “Then track us!” he barked.  “We’re on his ass!”

    “What’s happening?” called Midnighter.

    “It’s merging!” said Apollo.

    Both men shot a look to each other.  “We’re going in!” said Midnighter.

    “We’ll try to stay in contact,” said Apollo.

    Both men shot each other another look, this time with a touch of worry in their eyes, and jumped through their respective portals...

    He was about to fly off when a brilliant flash of light that came from downtown Metropolis caught his eye, turning him in that direction.  He glanced at the time again and groaned.  Maybe a large bottle of perfume, he mused.

    A second flash of light appeared on the roof below him and his first thought was What is Bruce doing here?  Realizing he had mistaken the trench coat for a cape, he dove into the shadows.

    Midnighter’s hands were held out in front of him defensively as his eyes went back and forth, scanning the rooftop.  Seeing no one, he ran to the edge and looked over.

    And saw a giant teddy bear on a flatbed truck.

    “Can I help you?” said a voice from over his head.

    Midnighter went into a forward roll and came up several feet away, looking up and seeing nothing.

    “Who are you?” said a voice over his shoulder.

    Midnighter spun and shot out a fist that would have connected with (and most likely shattered against) the Man of Steel’s iron hard jaw if the Superman in question did not move back five inches at the speed of light.  Sensing another blow, Superman sidestepped to Midnighter’s left.  Due to his enhanced senses, Midnighter, also sidestepping to the left, grabbed onto Superman’s wrist, twisted and threw him over his shoulder.  The Man from Krypton flew through the air and landed heavily on his back.  He then felt his jersey being grabbed by two gloved hands and savagely raised upward.  He saw the masked face only inches from his own.

    “Okay, asshole!” snarled Midnighter.  “Where the fuck am I?  Who the fuck are you?  And did you see a mother fucker in a shiny blue suit go by?”

    Superman stared at the masked man and blinked several times.

    Batman crouched on the corner of a building in Gotham City, watching the police carry the unconscious street gang members into a wagon.  The Evil Eyes, composed of the sons of Italian gangsters (all low-level mobsters), felt that the South Side of town was theirs, due to the overly simplistic fact was that was where they grew up.  They had chased out all the drug dealers and extortionist and replaced them with their own.  Jack Cleese, who ran the local 24-hour store, rebelled against the amount of money he was now paying for protection and his store was firebombed.  The Evil Eyes dragged Cleese from the ruins and was about to add injury to arson when the Dark Knight arrived.  There were a dozen knife wielding, gun toting thugs against one Batman.

    The odds were immensely uneven.

    Batman tapped his cowl and listened to the police band for any fresh crimes reported in his city.  There were gunshots on Kane and Finger.  He prepared to fire a grappling hook at the roof across from where he stood when a burst of light lit the shadows below him.  He toggled his infrared lenses and saw a tall thin man wearing a shiny jumpsuit run into a shadow between buildings.  He was about to drop to the street when a similar illumination flashed above him.

    In the blink of an eye, Batman’s hand filled with a batarang and prepared himself to throw it if whatever filled the glow represented a threat.

    An angelic image of white and gold filled his eyes and Apollo stared down at Batman.  He pointed a finger at him and Batman flung the weapon.  Twin beams of white light came from Apollo’s eyes and disintegrated it in flight.

    “Sorry, bitch!” snapped Apollo.  “No time for foreplay.  You see a tall skinny guy in a blue jumpsuit run by?”

    Batman’s lip curled and he growled.

To Be Continued…