

DON Q. PUBLIC

by

John Opsand Sutherland

Copyright 2013 John Sutherland

Cover art by Alex Madrigal

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

Janitors have the power of invisibility.

Donald Queso Manchego rolled his trash cart along the gray carpet past the gray cubicles, each occupied by a gray suit. And Don, in his bright blue jumpsuit, went completely unnoticed by the gray world.

This was perfect; this was like magic. He could walk through the midst of them, his trash barrel filled with anything – _any_ thing – and they would never know.

He experimented with eye contact, looking directly at a stumpy man with a red necktie. It was as if he'd thrown out a force field, the man avoided his stare so pointedly. Don continued the experiment on several more of the white collars, varying the genders and body types of his subjects to keep his science thorough.

He could have been doing cartwheels while juggling fish. It just didn't matter.

If they had been able to see him at all, they would have beheld a gangly man of medium height, just past the age of 50, whose testosterone had thinned his hair more than it had bulked his biceps. His acquaintance with middle age no doubt added to his invisibility, for what self-respecting older man would still be working in such a profession? Certainly no one educated, or worthy of conversational engagement. To risk a friendly Hello with such a person might lead to the awkward clinging of a socially starved lunatic.

It was well after five o'clock, so the people left at the office were the ambitious ones, with something to prove to their masters. The sun was recently gone from the December sky, and the solstice darkness made the occasional string of Christmas lights in the office windows all the more festive.

He rolled his cart up to the large double doors that sealed off the executives from the lesser white collars. He pulled the zip line that held his access card to his belt and ran the card through the electronic reader. The lock clicked loudly in affirmation, and he pulled the handle to open the door, awkwardly pushing his trash cart through with his other hand.

The ability to walk through walls; that wasn't bad, either.

Some young vice president sat with his feet up on his large desk, crumpling sheets of paper into balls, and shooting them at the imaginary basketball hoop that was his wastebasket, an arena of cheering fans echoing in his mind, and escaping unconsciously through his mouth, every time he got one in.

Don shook his head. The rich believe they are independent, but most of them never will be. To be wealthy and to exercise privilege requires a servant class, even if it isn't called such a thing in America. To have a servant class is to have a gap in the golden armor of prosperity, and it was through that gap that Don strolled.

The access card would only get him so far. His ultimate destination lay beyond the official boundaries of Fifth Third Bancorp, here at Fifth Third Center at One Seagate. Don had always marveled at the coincidence of descending odd numbers here at the tallest building in Toledo. It must mean something.

At the end of the hallway, the steel security doors sealed off the rest of the building. It was dark, and the hallway turned three corners before he reached the doors. Don knew he could work patiently, in seclusion, because the security camera was disabled.

He had knocked out the camera the previous night. This was accomplished not with any high-tech fiddling with wires, nor with the placing of false images into the video feed, as one might see in a heist movie. It was good old black spray-paint on the lens. That, and his faith in human complacency. There had been, apparently, no response to this blackout of what was normally darkness anyway. No one cared about an empty hallway.

He set his flashlight at an appropriate angle on the edge of the cart so it would illuminate his small work area. He held his tension wrench in his left hand and his pick in his right, took a deep breath, and set to work imitating a key.

Lock picking requires a maddening amount of patience and concentration, two qualities that Don did not naturally possess in abundance. So what drove him to this? What gave him the inspiration to kneel by the dim light with his two tiny tools, to work the pins up, one by one, in a space that would drive a pediatric dentist to self-immolation?

The answer lies in the unsavory influence he had been subjected to since childhood: that most decadent corrupter of many generations of our nation's youth, the comic book.

Even those electronic forms of time-wasting, so recently born, may trace their dark roots directly back to this slippery devil's pulp. From these pages his mind was filled with images of the most unrealistic heroes, all seemingly taking the same brand of steroids, if their rippling triceps were any clue. They spoke inane lines of dialogue to villains who looked like stony burn victims interbred with fish, while maidens looked on, pinched at the waist so severely that their displaced body mass immediately filled out their breasts.

If only every industrial accident resulted in super powers instead of cancer and atrophy! If only there were gods and aliens from other humanoid worlds, set to saintly good works that inevitably involved fistfights!

And this was just the general picture; prolonged exposure to the minor details was enough to scramble any brain. There was a Nordic deity who kept proclaiming, "I say thee nay!" in order to prompt a reversal of fortunes in battle. A man who would be all-powerful had a deathly severe allergy to a glowing green rock, just so his evil antagonist would stand a chance. A man with bizarrely bendable limbs once announced, "And I shall be called Mister Fantastic." Mister Fantastic? How about "Stretchy" or "Elasto-man"?

And the Silver Surfer? _Why?_

And yet, these tales were Don's great love, inspiring him beyond appreciation, to the point of emulation. This was what gave him the patience to study, practice, and now execute the picking of complex locks as only a small part of his Master Plan. For to take such two-dimensional realms as one's intellectual fertilizer must lead to a brain addled with small frames bursting with color and improbability.

The last tumbler spring defeated, the steel door swung open at Don's push. He marveled at his own success, doubting it for an instant, and then poked his head through the doorway to view the forbidden stairs.

He stepped out of his janitorial jumpsuit, leaving himself in anonymous street clothes, and left the uniform on the edge of the trash cart that he would not be taking with him.

After what seemed like too many steps up, he opened the door to a splendorous sight, made all the more exotic by the illumination of the wintery moonlight through the abundant glass. It was the former executive offices of Owens-Illinois, which made the currently used suites below seem like paupers' shacks. The furniture was all gone now, but from his knowledge of the company's history, Don could picture the slabs of rare pernambuco wood and alabaster that must have filled these palatial spaces in the old days. Even for the most entitled corporate wastrel, these rooms were now considered too expensive to maintain. And no wonder. They had room here to breed elephants.

But the decadence of the past was not Don's objective. He needed a rooftop.

He pushed open the final door to the observation deck and felt the sharp, frigid bite of winter strike his face deliciously. It was from here that he would look out over the city. His city. His Toledo.

As he strode to the edge of the precipice, Don half-expected a swelling of soundtrack music. The vista he took in as he peered down was breath-taking. His breath having been taken, he backed up a step to re-gather it. He had not expected his visceral reaction to this moment to include vertigo.

Is there a way, Don asked himself, to use acrophobia to one's heroic advantage? He hadn't yet solidified his hero identity; this was all still in development, so the possibilities were wide open. So far, his official title was still "Janitor."

He sucked more cold oxygen into his lungs in case his brain needed an extra supply, and peered over the side again. Hmm, better this time, though still a little finger-tingling. Then an odd thought struck him: this place sure could use some gargoyles. He knew better, in his logical mind, than to expect such a thing on a modern glass-and-metal skyscraper, but still, he couldn't help his disappointment.

Don took another look over the edge and saw the bug-sized cars, the pin dots that were pedestrians. He'd seen heroes looking down on cities they protected from gargoyle-fringed skyscrapers, but he was sure they must have had a better view than this. And binoculars were so unseemly. But seriously, could he tell a burglar from a baker up here? His disappointment was flavored with a dash of panic. Was this all wrong? Had he taken all of this trouble to get to this height, only to have the real world crush his visions yet again?

Then Don did what he did best. He gathered these small let-downs from the outside world and washed them away with something greater: his own destiny. The rising tide within him, his own eternal spring, reassured him against all reason. This is what a true hero does, he told himself, no matter how harsh the reality. He exhaled in relief, holding his arms out to his sides and bounced on his toes, like a platform diver preparing for an Olympic triple flip.

Don didn't see the security guard until he was nearly upon him.

"Whoa!" said the guard, more in shock than in command. He leapt back when he saw Don, pointed his flashlight, and reached for his walkie-talkie as though it would protect him.

"And woe to you, sir," answered Don, turning. He wondered why security guards were either frail men in their 70s who looked like they should be helped across the street by boy scouts, or 19-year-old thin pale potential white supremacists named Wade.

This security guard was of the latter variety, and in fact, Don observed, his nametag said Wade.

"What are... what..."

"What am I doing up here?" Don offered helpfully. "Just watching over the city."

"Just watching... This is a restricted area!"

"Yes," said Don. "That would explain the locks."

Even in the relative darkness, Don could see the guard's milky complexion flushing with red.

"What do you want?" demanded Wade. "You a jumper?"

"Do you meet many jumpers up here?" asked Don.

Wade said nothing, from which Don drew a conclusion: "You've never seen anyone up here before, have you?"

"You don't know that," said Wade, effectively admitting the charge.

Don sympathized with the young man, and offered some comfort.

"Don't worry. I'm not a jumper," Don reassured him. "I'm a..."

Don almost said "hero," but stopped himself.

"I'm an ordinary citizen, just like you," he said instead.

Wade searched for the aggression that he daydreamed about so often. In those visions, he was taller, more muscular, and much hairier. He would bark from beneath the thick mustache he could not yet grow, throwing perps like this to the ground with one hand while drawing his heavy nightstick with the other.

But these dreams were only a long-term plan, and they had never been tested in the crucible of reality. This present situation, in which he found himself hotly frozen in panic, was not going well. He tried to pull himself together, to give himself courage with Nietzsche quotations. Yes, this would make him stronger, if he could only survive it. And he must learn, be better prepared for the next time. Yet the leg-melting continued, and perspiration all over. And he really had to pee.

Wade tried his best to ignore his failing body functions, and made a mental note to supplement his Administration of Justice courses with some physical conditioning.

While he focused on the need for survival to administer justice another day, a new possibility sprang to life in his head, one he hoped desperately could be true.

Don watched the gears whir in Wade's head, and then saw him cock his head to the right side like the RCA Victor dog, as though weighted with a lopsided idea. Don's head involuntarily cocked to the left, in mirror imitation.

"Are you from the firm?" Wade asked.

"I don't know what you mean," assured Don.

This was the giveaway Wade was looking for. He smiled, sure now that he was in on the trick. They both straightened their necks simultaneously.

"It's a test, I know," said Wade, with renewed confidence. "You're like a secret shopper, but without the shopping, here to see if I can follow procedure."

"Procedure?"

"Don't confront. Calmly redirect," Wade recited.

"Pardon me?"

"You seem to like tall buildings, sir. Might I suggest one that is almost as tall? The Fiberglas Tower, right over there. Behold, its magnificence."

Wade's arm sprang up as stiffly as his speech, as though released by a rusty switch, pointing in the direction of the other tower. That building was also a local legend throughout northern Ohio, with its deliberately incorrect brand-named spelling and its famous commercial failure. The awkward motion was a little too late to match his words, which had been spoken with the nasal timbre of a failed sales clerk. Don gave the youth credit for trying.

Also, he had a point about the Fiberglas Tower; Don might indeed want something not quite as tall. He thought of the moving specs that had dampened his morale only moments earlier, and realized that this Wade was actually an agent of destiny.

"Sir, you are a godsend," said Don. "I shall follow your advice."

Wade was stunned at the success of his technique. This being the first time he had tried it, he wasn't sure how it would go in the field.

Then he remembered: secret shopper from the firm. And he was less impressed with himself. He was relieved, all the same. His ordeal was essentially over. He fast-forwarded to his goals of weight-lifting and mustache-growing, and maybe getting more serious about his martial arts training, which had thus far been stalled at the stage of Chuck Norris observation.

"So, uh," said Wade, "now I just, I go back to watching the monitors? And you let yourself out?"

Don wasn't sure what to make of this. Did the guard recognize his hero identity, and that they were both, in their own ways, deputized officers of the law? Not that Don had been officially deputized, not yet. And Don wasn't in a hero costume.

And yet, to be recognized by a uniformed guard as someone with special status – that must mean something.

So it was true. Don was not a proud man, but obviously, some extraordinary quality must be emanating from him, enough to be recognized by a complete stranger.

A godsend indeed. This entire adventure, Don decided, was the unfolding of destiny.

He realized that he and Wade had been staring silently at one another for god knows how long. Don nodded, though he didn't remember the context of his own nod. Wade exhaled with relief and gave a hint of a wink before turning slowly and walking away.

Don turned in his turn, and walked back to the magic door from which he had emerged. This had been a productive climb. Brief, yes, but fate sometimes rushes headlong toward its ends.

The Fiberglas Tower seemed like a brilliant idea, the more he thought of it. It was the second-tallest building in the city, and having been abandoned by all corporate life years ago, it had a convenient population of zero. Once inside, he could work undisturbed. In fact, it wouldn't be a bad thing if he were occasionally spotted inside it, an enigmatic figure, a fleeting shadow, a living myth. The Phantom of the Fiberglas Tower. (Should he spell "Fantom" with an F, to tie the title together? No, that seemed a bit much.)

The descent down the stairs was light and electric. Don felt the crackle of possibility, the airy buoyancy of true vocation padding every footfall.

I'll work out the details later, he thought. It's the grand vision that's important.

Perhaps he would enlist the help of his inner circle, whom he would see tomorrow. But this trip had done its job. It brought him certainty, the purity of heart to will one thing.

Don was not so delusional that he imagined he had super powers. He was proud, in fact, that he had nothing to offer the city but his own deep humanity. But tonight, he knew things bigger than this mundane reality, the way one knows the reality of a dream, moments after waking. Tonight, he could conquer the world.

* * * *
Chapter 2

"I'm thinking maybe The Shepherd."

That was Don, and he was talking to his small circle of friends known as the Circuitous Reality Alliance for Zymurgical Endeavors. CRAZE met at El Sid's Comic Book Emporium every Tuesday at noon, so that even those members with day jobs could make it on their lunch hour.

CRAZE met in the back room, near the used comics, where musty, soiled, torn books were handled reverently by the wiser clientele, those who had respect for tradition, and to whom the very smell, like wet dust, was an aphrodisiac.

To Don, the olfactory sensations by themselves qualified El Sid's as a second home.

The furniture in this room also reflected the group's motley spirit. Arranged in a rough circle, no two chairs or couches were the same. All were worn, but in patterns of Rorschach singularity. Splotches of water-stained wood, diagonal lines of sunlight bleaching, permanent compressions of seat cushions, and the loving attention of cat claws were some of the most identifiable symptoms, but the rest would be classified under a column labeled What Happened Here?

The amoeba-shaped gathering was surrounded by classic superhero images, a combination of posters and cardboard standups, all featuring muscle-bound heroes in approximate life size (albeit in two dimensions), a warped circle of contrast to the unmuscled crowd of live participants. Spiderman, Batman, a shrunk-down Hulk, and smirking Tick seemed to look on in mockery, or perhaps pity.

"Why The Shepherd?" asked Felonious Monk, who in mundane life was an Episcopal priest named Stephen.

"Someone who watches over the city, like a flock," answered Don. The real reason was that he had been listening to Handel's Messiah on the way in, and had heard a lovely soprano voice in recitative, singing the sentiment he now paraphrased. It matched the image he had from the previous evening's adventure, looking out over the city, keeping watch over his flock by night. Even if his flock looked like pin dots.

"Yeah, I can relate to the flock thing," said Felonious, his pastoral nature surging to the foreground.

"That's pretty good," said Ricky Sanchez, who was inclined to be impressed with Don no matter what he said. All the members of CRAZE were misfits of a sort, which is why they were part of a club that read comic books and took on fictional names. But Ricky stood out, even from this group, not only because he was rotund, mustachioed, and a head shorter than even the women in the club, but because he wasn't really clear on the concept of CRAZE in the first place.

CRAZE had two ostensible goals, beyond the non-ostensible one of providing some social contact for people who tended toward isolation. One goal was to provide a discussion forum for true comic book fanatics; the other was to explore the inner identity of each member in the form of an original superhero or supervillain. (There was a third goal, which was to brew their own beer, but they had yet to accomplish this. That was mostly thrown in so they could use some form of "zymurgy" in their title.)

It was the "original superhero" part that threw Ricky, who usually went by his childhood nickname of Pancho. He claimed, every week, that he'd like to be the hero of the comic book he'd been paging through at the time.

"I think I'm The Green Lantern," he said one week, brandishing an outsized ring from with no magical shapes emerged.

"No," people would correct him, "you can't be The Green Lantern. There's already a Green Lantern."

"But I really feel like him," protested Pancho. "When I see him, it's like, I'm him. And I really, really want a ring that works like that."

It was the same another week with Hawkeye, another with The Black Panther, once with The Mighty Thor, complete with a tiny ball-peen hammer, and another week, perhaps most amusingly given Pancho's body type, The Flash.

"Maybe we should just call you The Chameleon," suggested Herm-Aphrodite, who had identity issues of his/her own.

"The Chameleon?" asked Pancho in earnest. "What does he do?"

Again, not clear on the concept, said the look on everyone's faces. Everyone, except Don.

"Probably an independent thing," reassured Don. "Maybe a one-off from Image Comics. But don't worry, little man. You'll find your calling." It was at that moment that Pancho had a spark that he was, perhaps, more sidekick than hero material.

Present at the current meeting, discussing Don's pastoral nature, besides the aforementioned Herm-Aphrodite, Pancho, and Felonious, were Special Ed and Bad Feng Shui, another supervillain. The choice between hero and villain was a morally neutral one in this club – the point was to form an identity that felt true to the person.

"Another possibility," said Don, "is The Phantom of The Fiberglas Tower."

"For mine?" asked Pancho.

"No," said Don, "we are back to discussing my identity now."

"Would you spell Fantom with an F?" asked Special Ed, who always wore his hair asymmetrically disheveled, and his glasses off of one ear, as though to give visual clues about his mental capacity.

"Thought about it," said Don. "That would be better than Phiberglass with a PH. But it still looks funny."

"Might be one of those things that's better pronounced than spelled," said Herm-Aphrodite, who would know. Herm was the most glaringly in-costume member of the club, always dressed in a vertical male-female split costume: a mustached, dark-haired, tuxedoed dandy on the right, and an elegantly feminine blonde woman in a white ball gown on the left.

Don always hoped he/she was really a woman underneath, if only to justify his attraction to his/her left half while avoiding any more disturbing internal questions about himself than he already had. This was Ohio, after all.

"Why the Fiberglas Tower?" asked Felonious.

"It's the second-tallest building in Toledo," answered Don, "and it's unoccupied. What better place to look out over the city?"

"You mean, you want to break in?" Felonious was aghast. "For real?"

"Not to do any harm," reassured Don.

"I've got a villain identity," observed Bad Feng Shui, "and even I wouldn't do that."

Bad Feng Shui was a woman in her early 20s, half Vietnamese, half white American euro-cocktail, the only one in the club besides Herm who would be considered conventionally beautiful. She brought the female contingent in CRAZE up to two and a half. (Crypta, the other female member, was absent on this day.) This meant that she got a lot of attention from the geeky guy majority in the club, who went out of their way to agree with her opinions. For Pancho, who agreed with everybody, the effect was exponential.

"Yeah," said Pancho. "I'd never do that."

"You know," said Felonious, trying to bring things back to a sensible level, "I think I like the Shepherd thing more than the Phantom thing."

The rest of the club nodded, more or less simultaneously. And Herm looked up and around the perimeter of the circle to confirm that El Sid hadn't wandered in.

Sidney Hammett, the shop's proprietor and therefore their host, was not exactly a member of the circle; he was more like a moon, orbiting close by. One might think that, as a responsible business owner, he would be the first to talk sense into any member who showed signs of getting delusional to the point of outside shenanigans, but nothing was farther from the truth. El Sid was always encouraging people to push the envelope, to meld their CRAZE personas with the mundane world, to take the role-playing to its illogical extreme.

Besides owning a comic book shop, he also wrote and illustrated comic books himself, and a cynical person might venture to guess that he was enabling the crazies to get material for his own graphic novel.

Herm suddenly had an inspiration.

"You know," Herm said, "your identity needs to say something about who you are inside. I'm not sure a reference to your building of choice, no matter how grand, is going to work."

"Hmm," said Don, considering the logic.

"Look at me," said Herm. They all did, focusing on the half of each individual preference. "Nobody really got my name until I started using the hyphen."

"I still don't get it," said Pancho.

Don didn't get it either, but that was partly because he was distracted by Herm's left leg, slipping as it was from its white satin cover to reveal a whiteness and smoothness that was even more glorious than its ballroom casing.

"The hyphen," explained Herm-Aphrodite, "is the key to the correct pronunciation, and the soul of its wit. Otherwise, it's spelled exactly like 'hermaphrodite'."

Before Don could confess his continued ignorance, Herm got to the point.

"You know who you are?" Herm asked rhetorically. "You're Don Q. Public. That's who you are. You're everyman. You're the hero of the commoner. I mean, you're a janitor, for gods' sake."

"I thought heroes were supposed to be a little more aspirational," said Don, who nonetheless felt a warm gratitude at having been dubbed with a new name, and with such sincerity.

"What's ass-per-nation-el?" asked Pancho.

"You know, someone to look up to," explained Don. "Someone who's not the same as everyone else. Empathy tinged with admiration."

"Oh," said Herm, "you're certainly not the same as everyone else. No worries there. And people will look up to you, if you handle this right."

"I look up to you," said Pancho.

"No shit," mumbled Special Ed under his breath.

Pancho's head swung near Ed, as if he'd just heard a bug buzzing in that general direction.

"You can take the powers of the common man," continued Herm, "and show everyone what extraordinary things can happen when you set yourself to a purpose."

Don liked the sound of that: set yourself to a purpose. It was up there on the profundity scale.

It was at that moment that Herm's name for Don took hold inside him, under its own power. Don did not consciously decide to agree with Herm so much as his inner self began to answer to the name Don Q. Public, as though that was who he'd been all along.

He breathed it in, deeply.

"Well," said Felonious, taking a deep breath himself, "it's almost one o'clock. Some of us have to get back to work."

"That would include me," said Bad Feng Shui, who worked as a florist.

Don stood up, a contented man, pleased that destiny had smiled on him so clearly again today. "Right," he said, "the Fiberglas Tower awaits Don Q. Public."

Pancho stood up, too, delighted at the prospect of adventure, and forgetting his earlier objection.

Felonious looked at Herm. Herm looked at Bad Feng Shui.

"What about The Janissary?" asked Special Ed, anticlimactically.

"The what?" asked Herm.

"Janissary," explained Ed. "Crack troops of the Ottoman Empire. Turkish ninjas. How cool is that? And it sounds like Janitor."

"Too late," said Don. "I've been dubbed already. But thank you for your efforts, my friend. And to all of you, good day."

He pivoted and walked out. He didn't notice that Pancho was walking right behind him.

"Oh boy," exhaled Felonious.

"Yeah, exactly," said Bad Feng.

"Nobody even listened to my idea," said Special Ed. But no one paid any attention to him now, either.

"I think we'd all better buckle up," said Herm. "This roller coaster just took a plunge."

* * * *

Chapter 3

A cat will give you solitude, thought Don, without abandoning you to loneliness. This was a generous thought to have at that moment, considering his cat, an enormous gray Maine Coon named Underfoot, was now curled up in the middle of his newly created hero costume, shedding pale hairs all over its recently pristine blackness.

No doubt the warmth of the freshly ironed-on letter Q was part of the attraction. But never underestimate the feline capacity for parking directly on the spot of the most pointed human attention, whether that be newly de-haired laundry, an urgently-read newspaper article, or simply the next foothold on the floor.

Don's tolerance of these inconveniences sprang from a deep well of affection he felt for his constant friend of ten years; he could not picture a time in his life when Underfoot was not underfoot. The cat was content in this dwelling, a studio apartment that would be described as spare, except for the stacks of boxes that broke up anything like open space.

It was not that Don had hoarding issues; it was just that he believed in preparation. That preparation included thirteen decaying boxes of Batman comics, from vintage 1960s cheese to Frank Miller's grim darkness; cascading stacks of Superman, invincible, dead, and resurrected; many marvels of Marvel, Spiderman of course, but The Mighty Thor and Black Panther among the favorites. Some of these heroes had superhuman powers. Some, like Batman or Iron Man, were regular humans who compensated with multimillion dollar budgets. But where were the heroes with none of these advantages? That was a gap he intended to fill.

The Toledo police band radio signal didn't come in very clearly through Don's computer speakers. The web page warned that "Periods of silence are normal." Even when those silences were broken every minute or so, the dispatches came through like auditory spittle.

Don had grown used to this; it was its own language, like listening to a pet robot.

Nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening in the city tonight, which was Christmas Eve. It might be a good time to investigate the Tower. He pictured himself alighting on its roof, dropping down the chimney it didn't have, like Santa Claus. He chuckled internally. I am, he thought, my own best entertainment.

He eased his new shirt out from under his slightly resentful cat, and held it out by the shoulders for examination. Sure enough, pale hairs were now a constellation on the black backdrop. Don felt certain, though, that no one would notice.

The Q looked good. Red on black; that was a classic design choice. And Q was the perfect enigmatic letter. It spoke as much of his mysterious character as it did of the middle initial of his new title. Don announced to Underfoot, "Q is the new X."

The headpiece was his favorite part. The thin silk ski mask would keep his identity secret, of course, but on top of that would rest not only a protective crown, but a charmed piece of his noble family heritage: his great uncle's old leather football helmet, its power evidenced by, and flowing directly from, its participation in the University of Toledo's magical 1924 victory over Bowling Green.

Don pulled the padded earflaps down on the sides of his head and smelled the dusty leather Americana, felt the comfortable invincibility. This was truly a helm of power.

Don went to the bathroom mirror, the only mirror in his home, to check his appearance. His face, in the ski mask, looked a little Al Jolson-ish, the blackness encircling his pale mouth. He had the fleeting thought that this might be ethnically offensive. No, he suppressed, no one will mistake my intentions that way. The first effect, it seemed to him on careful consideration, will be fright. I look a bit like a bank robber, he thought, or a kidnapper. But fright is a good thing, in certain situations.

The left earpiece of the helmet, however, stuck out awkwardly, perpendicular to his head. Don pressed it down. It popped back up. He pressed it down more firmly this time, holding it in place for a full minute before releasing the pressure.

Pop.

Oh well, thought Don. Helmets of power are inclined to their own whimsy. I am merely the bearer; it is not mine to question.

It was during this thought that the police dispatch voice came to life.

"All units, we have a 64g at the 7-11 at 3151 LaGrange Street, suspect fled on foot into residential area, possible juvenile hostage."

Don knew that 64g meant armed robbery with a gun. So somebody stuck up a 7-11 and needed a hostage to get away? He tried to picture the situation. How would that play out? Perhaps the perpetrator was surrounded, and needed the bargaining chip more than he needed speed.

But the particulars of this puzzle could wait. A child was in danger, and this was a wrong that must be righted. Blessed destiny, thought Don, this is my very calling.

There was no time to clean off the uniform. He pulled the shirt on, cat hair and all, replaced his helmet, and hurried down the stairs to his steed.

Nancy was a rather old bicycle, dusty rose in color, with thick tires and exactly one gear. It was a woman's bicycle, at least by the manufacturer's intent, with the swayed bar in front of the seat to accommodate riders with skirts. Nancy had no such rider, only one grateful for her solid reliability, especially when pedaling through inclement weather such as this.

The scene of the crime was not far, which was a good thing for Don, as he pedaled slowly through the slush that had collected on the side of the snowy road. The brown icy piles looked like a frozen confection favored by the pariah class of Hell. It shot up from Nancy's rear tire onto Don's back, while passing cars added further splotches by spattering Don's left side as they passed.

Among the rushing cars were several police vehicles, taking the All Units thing very seriously.

The robber had not gotten far from the 7-11, apparently. The police vehicles were surrounding the boarded-up green house that was practically next door. If a man with a gun had a child inside, Don would have to use his powers of invisibility to slip in.

But invisibility, as anyone who practices the art knows, varies by situation. Business executives cannot see janitors, but police officers have different blind spots. And frankly, Don thought, I don't know what they are.

It would have to be a matter of the correct angle. Invisibility could also be obtained by slipping between dimensions, and the dimension he had in mind involved East Park Street, and the back alley behind the house on LaGrange.

He continued riding Nancy around the block, giving the police a wide berth, before resting her in the darkness and proceeding toward the house on foot.

There were indeed police officers stationed around the house in back, but Don guessed they were looking for someone running out, not someone wandering in.

This was a foolhardy guess, as it turned out. A police officer in the dark alley tried to manage a shouting whisper, hitting that delicate balance between allowing the entering figure to hear him clearly, without alerting the criminal inside: "Hey buddy! What are you doing? Get out of there!"

Don realized that merely ignoring the officer would probably be the most effective strategy. For all his warnings, what could he do, really? Shoot him for his own safety? And destiny had brought him to this scene; destiny would also let him into the house.

What the cop _could_ do, it became evident, was stop him physically. Don heard the subtle but hurried footsteps as the officer left his hidden position in the alley and rushed toward him. Don had a fair lead, but it was going to be a tiptoeing race to the house, with neither party wanting the criminal to hear.

Don reached first, and felt quickly for an entry point. The back doorknob was locked, and there would be no time to pick it. He slid silently over to the nearest back window, and tested the bottom of the plywood with his fingers.

It lifted. This was, apparently, the standard entrance in the house's current phase of neglect.

As the pursuing police officer neared the house, Don took the leap of faith that he was not the first person to try to enter it from the rear; he lifted the wood and prayed there would be no glass as an obstacle.

He stepped through. Nothing crashed. Don took a moment to register his success, and exhaled in silent relief.

As he settled into the alternate dimension of the house's inner blackness, he heard a whispered "Damn it!" from the officer outside, followed by slowly retreating footsteps.

He could hear the officer talking into his radio while walking away: "Great. Some homeless guy just wandered in the back. Now we got two hostages. Yeah, I tried. Believe me. No, I didn't think anyone would be crazy enough to go _toward_ a hostage situation."

Homeless indeed, thought Don as he carefully replaced the plywood to make no sound. I happen to have a very happy home. Just ask Underfoot.

Don paused a moment to let his eyes adjust to the indoor darkness. Whatever light was in the house was a faint glow that edged down the hallway, probably the muted rays of the police spotlights that glared at the front of the structure.

There did not appear to be any furniture in the house. But as Don tiptoed toward the front, he could see what looked like a makeshift campground in one corner, with blankets, some flat cardboard on the floor for extra insulation, and the telltale empty bottles that betrayed the derelict nature of the resident as well as of the house. The camper was, blessedly, not at home.

In what was once a living room, a man with a handgun was pacing back and forth in front of the boarded front window, swearing to himself. Seated on the floor in the corner was a young girl, her face illuminated faintly by the thin line of spotlight residue that leaked into the room from the borders of the plywood.

Don fixed his gaze on the hostage. She had the face of an angel. She appeared to be about five years old, and had the distinct facial features of Down syndrome. She looked much calmer than Don would have expected her to be under the circumstances.

"God _damn_ it!" swore the kidnapper. "Motherfucking cops can suck my fucking _dick_!"

Don's dark anger rose. To use such language in front of an innocent! The scoundrel would pay for this.

Then, it seemed to Don, destiny played its ace.

"I have to take a goddamn piss," said the bad man, waving the gun in the face of the girl. "You sit right here and don't you fuckin' _move_! I got all kinds o' shit piled up against the door, so don't even _think_ about it."

It was true about the door, Don observed silently. There was an impressive amount of scrap wood piled up against it, probably the man's first task after entering the house. There would be no way to quickly, silently, take the girl out the front.

And the back window, the way he came in? He'd have to walk past the bathroom, holding the girl. That did not seem feasible; he could not both defend her and hold her.

Besides, this man must be confronted not only for his crimes, but for insulting this young lady. The police, for all their blue knighthood, did not care for actual chivalry.

He tiptoed into the living room to reassure the girl. He held his finger to his lips to indicate the necessity of quiet, and the angel-faced lass imitated his gesture, conspiratorially.

Don then retreated to his jousting position, just outside the bathroom door. The right moment, he thought. Everything depends on the right moment.

That moment seemed to take forever to arrive. As he waited for it, a very similar scene from Don's childhood played out in his mental theater.

The only boy in his family, bracketed on both sides by sisters, Don had not, he admitted to himself, always been a chivalrous sort. His favorite prank involved just this sort of darkened hallway outside a bathroom. When his sisters were inside, he would lurk, waiting for them to emerge.

He almost always provoked a scream of some kind. Anything short of that would be considered failure. But in the best of circumstances, they would have to turn around and use the toilet again.

Would this work on a hardened criminal? This was different, of course. He couldn't wait until the man was finished. This was a completely new experiment in so many ways. Perhaps his cause was hopeless. But it was likely to be the only moment when the man was not holding his gun.

At the moment he heard the stream of urine hit the basin, he suppressed all doubt and sprang.

His battle cry, which he meant to be "Excelsior" or some such noble word, came out as a high-pitched scream as he flew across the small room for the tackle.

The criminal answered with an even higher-pitched, and much more effeminate, scream of his own, much to Don's surprise. The man fumbled for the pistol he had stuck in his belt, while Don's arms locked themselves around his body, restricting his movements to the flailing of a flightless baby bird. The gun landed in the toilet with a splash, while newfound contents of the man's bladder sprayed the wall and floor like a fire hose.

Don felt his grip breaking, and worried what his next move would be if the criminal recovered his wits.

The kidnapper, however, had only a few moments of consciousness left, and those were filled with supernatural terror. A dark, screaming bird of prey had just flown in from another dimension, apparently out of the bathroom mirror, to claim him, body and soul. He wished he had given himself up to the police, who, for all their faults, weren't nearly this creepy.

Bathrooms are full of hard surfaces, and one should never engage in vigorous physical activity of any kind in such dangerous spaces, especially when the surfaces have recently been wetted.

In his panic, the criminal slipped in a puddle of his own making, and went down hard, his head striking the porcelain rim of the toilet.

Don stood over the motionless body, disbelieving that so much flurry could suddenly come to so much stillness.

Victory. This new reality settled on him. The man below him would not be any more trouble. Don could now leave this scene in safety, and care for the girl.

He went back to the front room and gathered her up in his arms; she seemed to know he was a friend. They looked over at the debris that covered the front door.

"Well, that's inconvenient," Don said to his young charge. "Shall we make a dramatic appearance?"

The glassless living room window space, covered only by the plywood nailed on from the outside, looked vulnerable enough.

Don gave it a kick just above its center, and the board fell from the top, opening like a landing craft ramp. The spotlight filled the room. The police were confused at the sight, but confusion can be good, if it causes snipers to pause.

The bright lights in Don's face stunned him a bit, and the visual wall of white amplified the chaotic mix of sounds that came from the police and the gathered crowd.

"Is that him?"

"He didn't have that mask on before, just a nylon stocking."

"He's surrendering!"

"We have a clear shot."

"Wait, it's..."

"Looks like the second hostage."

"The what?"

"The guys around back called in a second..."

"The homeless guy?"

"Does he have a gun?"

"I repeat, we have a clear shot."

"Where's the..."

Don stood there with the girl like a clay figure in an elementary school diorama before he could see well enough to step through the window frame.

As he walked down the stairs to deliver the child, she spoke her first words in his presence: "Do you have a cat?" She was looking at his chest, and all its feline evidence.

"Yes," said Don, "I do. And he's an excellent cat. You would like him."

Her mother was hysterical, as any parent should be under the circumstances.

The police decided that Don was not the assailant, and did not cuff him as they began their rough questions. The SWAT team members entered the house, still exercising an impressive amount of caution and standardized training as they passed into each new room, gun-first.

"You will find your perpetrator," Don informed the officers, "on the bathroom floor. He's quite harmless now, I assure you."

The police seemed less than grateful.

"Look, buddy," said the man who seemed to be the officer in charge, "you're lucky I hate paperwork, and you're a little hard to classify. But don't ever – _ever_ – enter a crime scene like that again. You just got lucky this time."

Don nodded solemnly. It was not worth debating with someone who clearly did not understand the forces of destiny. Lucky? There was no such thing as luck. The officer must be insane.

When the police felt they had detained him long enough for proper intimidation, Don was released to a freedom of complete engulfment in a sea of aggressive reporters.

If he had chosen quiet restraint when communicating with the police, Don lost his tongue almost entirely with the journalists. This was perhaps because of the nature of their questions. The police had wanted facts about the crime; the reporters wanted the deep story of himself, his costume, his activities, how he came to such adventures – in short, things Don was not prepared to tell.

"I am," he managed feebly, "Don Q. Public."

More questions came in like riptides, eroding what little focus he had left. All he could do was repeat his statement of identity, his breathy reply coming out weaker every time.

I must escape this legion, he thought. He saw what looked like an opening in the crowd, and stepped into it. The bodies and microphones filled in around him. This was a reversal he hadn't expected. Victory tonight was no longer assured.

After what seemed like an eternity, the throng began to thin enough so that Don could make his way toward his bicycle. Upon later reflection, he would decide that the mob had thinned because he wasn't telling them anything; a predator will always be practical about food sources, and move on. By the time he reached Nancy's reassuring rosy frame, there were only two reporters still following him, speaking their babel in New York accents.

As he wobbled Nancy's thick tires through the slush to get home, these last two persistent ones followed slowly in their cars, hoping perhaps for information by deed if not by word, and it was only the impatiently honking horns behind them that forced them to give up and drive into the night, splashing Don as they accelerated past.

Don was very glad to be home, to get out of his cold, muddy clothes, to feel the warm water of his shower, to see his reliable friend, Underfoot, and tell him of the adventure. The cat merely pushed his face toward Don to be scratched, and did not show the slightest interest in the tale.

* * * *

Chapter 4

Don woke up on Christmas morning feeling in some ways like a new man, and in others, like a very old one. He was sore, seriously sore, from last night's adventures. His aching joints assured him that it had not all been a dream.

But so many things tingled with new hope. There were simple things, like being clean and warm after the night of, among other things, a great deal of frozen mud. Also, he didn't have to go to work. He could simply enjoy dwelling in the identity of...

It occurred to him suddenly that he was not entirely free today. He had volunteered to hand out presents at the Sisters of Healing Toledo America Hospital. He would be trading his helm of power for a Santa hat with a fluffy cotton ball dangler.

An equally noble cause.

The Sisters of Healing Toledo America Hospital was so elaborately named because it was founded by a Spanish group of nuns, based in Castile-La Mancha, who were called Las Mujeres de Sangre, but a direct translation, "The Women of Blood," sounded too much like a cult of vampiresses, so they took a more palatable name in America. They first thought of "Sisters of Mercy," but that name was already taken, and "Sisters of Comfort" made them sound like a bordello. And the "Toledo America" bit came from the attraction the sisters had to an American city named Toledo (since they had one of their own in Spain), and at the same time, their need to distinguish between the two. Hence, S.O.H.T.A.H.

But before I go, thought Don, I must attend to family. Underfoot was still asleep (or rather, he had woken, eaten, and retired again), and was unaware of the significance of the day. Don fetched the catnip-filled cloth mouse he'd kept hidden away in a Zip-loc bag, and dangled it in front of the cat's face.

"A merry Christmas to all," said Don cheerfully, "and that means you, my friend."

Underfoot opened his eyes at the smell, and pulled his face back abruptly. It was potent stuff, apparently. He looked up at Don, a little dismayed, as though he'd just been offered pot brownies for breakfast. But he went with it. He batted the mouse with one paw, and held it against his forehead, rolling over and rollicking in the intoxicants. Don gave his newly exposed furry belly a good rub, and the cat lightly batted Don's hand with his rear paws.

Don left him to his pleasure and looked out the window at the alternately pristine and violated snow. He had some time before he had to be at the hospital. It was a good day to walk.

A fresh inch of snowfall had magically descended on Christmas morning, as though to cover the night's adventures with a powdering of amnesia. The more travelled roads still showed their uniforms of dirty brown, but the less popular streets remained disguised for the moment.

Elsewhere in the city, Don imagined, the residential neighborhoods were likely crackling with the sounds of children delightedly befouling the white morning with sleds, and malicious mittens forming rough spheres of ammunition. But here in the business district, where there only lived apartment dwellers like himself, it was blessedly quiet. This was not an early rising demographic on holidays.

Here, the snow lay softly on the parked cars, the hydrants, the coin-operated newspaper vending machines.

Don stopped and turned back toward the news stand. Did he want to look? He felt he shouldn't want to. He wanted to do right for the sake of right, not for any public glory. But he was curious, rightfully curious, how (or if) the reporters who had swarmed over him would describe the night's adventures.

It was then that large doubts descended on him. Had the adventures of last night been real? The evidence of his sore joints said Yes, but perhaps something else had caused that. Maybe, thought Don, I'm having a midlife crisis, and it's taking the form of superhero delusions that have floated through my mind since childhood. They've risen to the surface, because I've snapped. I could have fallen down some stairs, and told myself I rescued a little girl, because I'm stark, raving mad.

Now he _had_ to look at the newspaper.

He walked back to the stand, fumbling for coins in his pocket. He looked, at first, through the little window of the machine, at the front page.

No, he wasn't there, not above the fold on page one, anyway. Those were all the preplanned stories about Christmas around the world, with photographs of celebrations from Bethlehem, Moscow, Oslo, and summer Christmas in Melbourne.

He put in the correct change, and pulled the paper out. Having already seen the top half, he quickly flipped the paper over to see the front page below the fold. More Christmas stories, obviously preplanned. No real news.

He shook the paper open, and scanned page two. And there it was: "HERO" SAVES GIRL. The three words he was hoping to see, along with a small black and white photo of him, in costume, with a caption: _The man who calls himself "Don Q. Public."_

So it was real. Not just to him, but to the outside world. He made a vow to himself, then and there, that he would never doubt his mission, his vocation, his true calling.

His whole life fell into a funnel-shaped map leading to this point in time. All of the setbacks, the rebuffs, the stones of Sisyphus rolling over him, those were all just Life saying, try harder, aim higher. And now, validation.

There would still be rebukes and difficulties, he knew. Those would never stop. But they would not cause him to be dissuaded from his mission: to guard the innocent, to face down evil, to be a righter of wrongs, a knight who casts a bright light on the darkness of this city.

As he stood there in the snow, awakening to his mundane surroundings, a few people drudging by and crunching the ice around him, another revelation grew to life inside Don. He watched as one of the people, another middle aged man, bought a newspaper from the same stand, opened it up, and kept walking as he read. Then another did the same.

The revelation was this: Don was anonymous. These people could look right at the story of him in the paper, and not realize they were walking by the very hero of whom they read.

As a lifelong fan of superhero comics, Don had always accepted the notion of a Secret Identity as an article of faith. But it had never occurred to him until this moment just how valuable this was. Last night he had been pressed on all sides by a legion of interrogators, but today? Blessed anonymity.

Yes, this was worth something. Don made a second vow: to preserve this secret. The members of CRAZE knew him in his true guise, but they were the only ones. They would be his inner circle.

The hospital was only seven blocks away. The pace of activity on the street increased as he approached the building. He was passed by two emergency vehicles, one private ambulance, one Toledo Fire Department Paramedic truck, both of whom were flashing their emergency lights, but with no sirens. Not enough competition in traffic to require noise, Don thought. He sent up a little prayer for the occupants of each vehicle, both rescuers and victims. It cannot be joyful to be rushed to the hospital on Christmas morning.

Don passed through the automatic sliding glass doors and received instructions from a receptionist in a bureaucratic dialect of English that he didn't absorb at all. He nodded politely and walked in the direction she was pointing.

Hospitals seem designed to prevent escape, or even orientation. Their labyrinthine halls have some arcane order, but one that defies the logical mind. Eventually, Don found the volunteer area by following the trickle of Santa hats. They were a motley gang of unlikely elves, most of them plump older women, with a few accomplished-looking upper middle class men. Don guessed that he was the only non-mortgage possessor in the bunch.

He felt some disappointment at not being assigned to the pediatric wing, where all of the presents were going, color-coded as they were with pink and blue ribbons, so that a little girl did not end up with both a serious illness and a toy truck. Don had pictured handing out toys when he signed up for this duty. But the adults, as it happened, would all be receiving poinsettias.

The plants were all lined up neatly on hardened plastic carts, not unlike the wheeled trash carts Don used in his janitorial job, but with two flat surfaces, upper and lower floors, and no cutout for a barrel. Each pot was wrapped in a bright red aluminum foil that outshone the red of the flowers, and they all managed to have bits of potting soil leaking in dark crumbs on the cart.

The patients to whom he gave the plants (and his own Christmas cheer) were alternately grateful or unconscious. The handing out of pots became a routine he fell into quickly, with a rhythm all its own, not unlike the over-familiarity of his janitor job. And it was out of this briefly developed humdrum that he was jolted when he saw... _her_.

The loveliest woman he had ever seen was there before him, asleep, her cherubic face at rest, framed by short blonde hair that was not mussed by the pillow. There was a peace about her that defied the surrounding machinery. She was not smiling, exactly, or was she? Yes, Don thought, she is, ever so slightly, wisely. She couldn't be sick. She is not even of this world, much less subject to worldly maladies.

She might be 45 or 55 years old, but he imagined that her beauty had only increased through her years.

If only she were awake, Don wished. If only I could meet her. Would I tell her of my heroism, so that she knew she was admired by a man of some accomplishment? This was not the dilemma of the moment, unfortunately.

Don entered the room and carefully placed the flowerpot on a side table. He hoped she'd wake, but not from anything he did. He was extraordinarily careful not to disturb her.

He found ways to linger for a few moments, for he wouldn't want to be gone if she were about to open her eyes. He did a visual scan of the room. She had a lovely balcony outside her room, and he hoped she was able to free herself from her tubing and go out to breathe the fresh air sometimes. It was, he also noted, a very fortunate thing that she had a private room. He wished so many good things upon her: good health of course, but also every convenience, every blessing that occurred to him.

When he left her room, he noted the name on the door: Dolores Grito. He would be back to check on her, somehow. This was his third great vow of the day.

* * * *

Chapter 5

The next gathering of CRAZE got a little ugly. Bad Feng Shui was clashing with Special Ed from the get-go.

"Why is it," she interrogated, "that your hero name makes fun of retarded people?"

Ed sat up straight. "I don't mock the afflicted," he insisted. "I honor those people whose inefficient gifts are not valued by our industrial culture."

Everyone stopped for a moment, arrested by the fact that Ed had put this much thought into his name. It had never come up before, and everyone, not just Bad Feng, assumed he was just making fun.

"Look who's talking," Ed counterattacked, "You've picked a Chinese name, and you're, what, half-Vietnamese? Isn't that offensive, just lumping all Asians together?"

"You're accusing me of being offensive to Asians?" gasped Bad Feng. "Wow. Didn't see that coming."

"Why are you guys at each other?" asked Crypta, who once considered spelling her hero name with a K, but didn't want to be confused with the substance that kills Superman. "Did something happen at the meeting I missed?"

" _Which_ meeting that you missed?" snapped Ed. "You've missed most of them."

"Hey," protested Crypta, "I have to work through lunch, like, a lot."

"I think you _like_ being chained to your screen," accused Ed, sounding with every word more like an abandoned spouse. "Tester boys slip you pizza and some nice, chilled Mountain Dew, and you're in Geek Grrl Heaven."

"You're just jealous of C-Plus-Plus people, Visual Basic Boy."

The others decided this must be some supreme tech insult, because Special Ed looked crushed.

"The thing you missed," Herm told Crypta, "was Don's discovery of his hero identity."

"You mean, _you_ told him," observed Felonious Monk.

"I made a suggestion," said Herm.

"An excellent suggestion," offered Don. "You were the voice of destiny."

"I don't care if Herm's the voice of the freakin' Cleveland Indians," said Crypta, "why are we _at_ each other?"

"You didn't see the news?" asked Felonious Monk.

"I'm trying not to web surf at work," explained Crypta. "I have an addictive personality."

"I'll send you a link to the story," offered Ed, "though you probably have an auto-rule that trashes all my email."

"Bottom line is," explained Herm, "Don's famous. Like, as a superhero. In real life."

"So I guess we're all tearing at each other from jealousy?" asked Bad Feng.

"You were tearing at _me_ ," said Ed, "in the beginning."

"I don't think I started all this," said Bad Feng.

"Whoever smelt it, dealt it," pronounced Ed.

"What?" said Bad Feng. "What? You really are retarded, aren't you?"

"Okay," said Herm. "I may have to sit between you two." And Don was hoping she would, with her female half toward Bad Feng, for the symmetry it would create among the three of them.

"Is it fair to say," offered Felonious, "that we're _all_ a bit on edge because of Don's success out in the real world? I mean, let's not blame individuals. Let's take this on as a group."

"Everything's therapy to you, man," said Ed.

"I was mostly trying to help _you_ , ingrate," hissed Felonious.

"I'm happy about it," said Pancho, smiling eagerly. He had been unable to participate in the argument portion of the discussion, having nothing contentious to contribute, and so enjoyed inserting himself here.

"Why would that put us on edge?" asked Crypta.

"Because," Herm, the one with the Master's in Psychology, explained, "we all have this secret, or not so secret, desire to be real heroes in the real world. And now Don has gone out and done it. You don't think there's any jealousy?"

"Jealousy!" dismissed Ed. "Pffft!"

"Whoever smelt it, dealt it," poked Bad Feng.

"I do not wish," said Don, "to be the source of conflict among my friends."

"Of course not," said Herm.

"Look," Felonious said, "this is a one-off, right? I mean, Don doesn't have any super powers. It's not like he's going to make a career out of this."

"Bruce Wayne doesn't have any super powers," observed Ed.

"Bruce Wayne has a billion dollars," counter-observed Crypta. "Don has nothing."

"Nothing, exactly," agreed Don, "which is part of my calling."

"Yeah," El Sid chimed in. "Don has a calling. He really feels it. That's cool."

The others didn't know Sid had been listening. They thought he was just sketching away in the corner at something unrelated.

But Felonious Monk changed the direction. "I know people are proud of you, Don, and some people might feel a little envious. But I've got to tell you, I'm worried. This one came out okay, but come on. The guy had a _gun_. And you had, what, your _calling_? You could have been killed."

"Hey, don't knock the calling, man," said Sid. "That's some powerful shit, if you believe in it."

"But at least," said Felonious, "he could make some changes to his costume? Like, include a bullet-proof vest?"

"Come on," said El Sid, "that doesn't make a very good story. Might as well change his name to Cautious Clay."

"Who cares about the story?" demanded Herm. "We just want Don to be okay."

"Yeah, sure," Sid backed down a little. "I just want him to be happy."

"You speak of me," said Don, "as though I were not in the room."

"Sorry, man," said Sid.

"Well, I'll come out and say it," said Ed. "I think Don has gone nuts. And I don't think we can blame over-exposure to comic books for addling Don's brain. I mean, we love comic books, too, and look at us." They all did look at Ed, and noticed that he appeared to have quite an addled brain himself.

"Yes," said Felonious, "anyone who suggests that comics have driven Don over the edge is an idiot. But I share Ed's concern. In my line of work, I've seen people who are desperate enough for a purpose, they'll eventually find one, for good or ill."

"You mean, like a 50 year old guy who hasn't accomplished anything yet in his life?" said Ed. "Wait, Don, I didn't mean that as harsh as it sounded."

"Gawd, Ed," said Bad Feng.

"Sorry," said Ed, possibly to Don or possibly to Bad Feng. He was looking at the floor at the time, so it was hard to tell.

"Yeah, sorry," said Felonious. "We're just feeling protective, is all."

"I think Don is protected by something higher," said Pancho, in a moment of self-assurance so rare that it got everyone's attention.

Sid latched onto this: "Yeah, man. I think that the Christmas Eve adventure is proof of something just like that. A higher power, divine protection. Don took a leap of faith, and now he knows it's real."

"Thank you," Don said, "for understanding. I have come to the same conclusion."

"And next time," said Pancho, "you won't have to do it alone."

Everyone, including Don, wondered what he meant by this. Then Don thought... but no. How could Pancho know about Dolores?

* * * *

Chapter 6

Don awoke late on New Year's Day, after dreams of laundry coincidence. He hadn't slept well. This was not as the result of his own revelry, but from that of his neighbors. By his auditory analysis, as he lay wide-eyed in his bed, there had been at least three separate celebrations raging into the night, just on his floor.

But laundry did need his waking attention as well, particularly his hero shirt, which was growing increasingly rank and beginning to lose its Q.

The iron-on solution, he thought as he examined the article, may not be the most permanent one. I may have to resort to needle and thread reinforcement. But not until after the washing.

The coin-operated Laundromat was two blocks away. His apartment building was not so posh as to have machines within it. Don was careful to prebundle the hero shirt in with the other dark clothing, so that it was not exposed in public to prying eyes.

The entire bunch went into the large drawstring cotton sack, which he threw over his shoulder like a tardy Santa Claus of stink.

"Underfoot," he announced, "I am going out. Even heroes must have clean clothing." Underfoot did not lift his head or open his eyes.

It was then that Don noticed the cold on his feet. Socks would be a good idea in this weather. He had a clean pair, fortunately, and pulled them up, making his sweatpants into unwitting knickerbockers. He slipped into his galoshes, scooping quarters from the coin jar, and jingled out the door with no further announcements.

The swinging door at the Laundromat scraped metal on metal at its base as Don pushed it with his whole body, entering the whitened room of evil fluorescent lighting. He found two machines that were both adjacent and available, and loaded in his darks and whites.

One of the uncomfortable plastic chairs was empty, with another next to it for a social buffer, and so Don moved to it rapidly, holding his downtime entertainment, Alan Moore's _Top 10_ , in one hand.

No sooner had he backed onto the plastic than his social buffer was filled with a slightly familiar-looking woman.

"Iris," she announced.

"Pardon me?" said the disoriented Don.

"Iris," she repeated, "Iris Green. I live in the same building as you."

"Ah," said Don, "nice to meet you."

"Haven't met you yet," she pointed out.

"Oh, terribly sorry. My name is Don."

She extended a fleshy hand for him to grasp. He did, as briefly as possible.

Don looked up for the first time in the conversation. Iris was an attractively plump woman, an unnatural blonde, older looking, which (judging by his previous miscalculations) probably meant she was ten years younger than he was.

And her irises were, in fact, green. Was Iris Green her hero name?

"You do your laundry here all the time," said Iris. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes," said Don. And then, sensing it was still his turn to speak, found himself with a wordless mouth.

He had reasons to hesitate. He was unsure of himself around extroverts, female extroverts in particular. And the part of the graphic novel he was reading was a bit ribald. And constantly, in the back of his mind, he felt the tension of guarding his hero shirt from view. What if this woman got too close when he transferred his dark clothes?

"So," Iris jumped into the gap, "do anything special for Christmas?"

"I volunteered," said Don, "at the hospital."

This was the wrong thing to say in this situation, for it was very successful. Iris, who would have settled for a man who was merely nice, decided she had come across one who was downright saintly. Also, such an activity on a major holiday implied he had no family attachments to complicate things.

Don, for his part, was thrown into a reverie about that hospital visit, and the beautiful sleeping Dolores.

"That's so great," said Iris. "It must be very satisfying."

"Oh yes," said Don, "and you meet wonderful people."

"Meeting wonderful people is good," said Iris, "one of my New Year's resolutions, in fact."

"I don't believe," said Don, "I've ever made a New Year's resolution."

"Oh, you should," said Iris. "I'm fulfilling one now." And she winked, or possibly, thought Don, she had a thing in her eye.

"I shall think about that seriously," said Don, not sure what she meant by Fulfilling One Now.

"Told myself," explained Iris, "that next time I saw a fella who looked nice, I'd make sure we met."

"And did you?" Don asked, sincerely.

Iris laughed at his dry humor. Don wondered if he had missed something.

But it was good advice, he thought, that resolution stuff. He envisioned the sleeping Dolores, how she had never seen him, how she _must_ see him, and see him as a hero. It was destiny, perhaps, that caused her to sleep on his Christmas visit. He did not want her to think him ordinary, and she had been shielded from seeing him in his ordinary guise.

"It's important," Don said aloud, "to make a good first impression."

"That's what I thought, too," said Iris.

"Sometimes," Don said, "it's just a matter of working up one's courage."

"Exactly!" said Iris.

"And then," said Don, "when you've made that leap, the rest is easy."

"Gettin' easier by the minute!" Iris was exuberant.

Don thought it was very sweet of her to be so encouraging. And to him, a stranger. This Iris was like an angel, sent to deliver the message Don was too thick to realize on his own.

"I must go back to the hospital again," said Don.

"Well, then, back you go!" said Iris, who was about to be crowned Miss Positive Thinking. "Why do good things just once a year?"

"Precisely," said Don. "But my wash cycle has ended. Excuse me."

Don hoped Iris would not follow. She didn't, for the moment, so he quickly gathered the wet clothes in one large wad and moved them to the dryer. The hero shirt was safely scrunched in the middle.

He set the clothes to their tumbling in the hot cylinder, and returned to his chair, where Iris was waiting like a faithful hound.

"Saved your seat," she said, unnecessarily.

He gave a politely smiling nod of gratitude.

"So," she probed, "what do you do for work?"

Don immediately became conscious of the humble nature of his livelihood. Why is that? he wondered. There was no reason for shame. Would he feel the same if he weren't talking to a woman?

"I am," he said, "a janitor. At the Seagate Tower."

"Oh," said Iris. And there was a silence.

Uncharacteristically, Don filled it: "And you?"

"Editing," said Iris, but now she was looking down at the floor, not smiling. "Freelance. Brochures, mostly."

"Ah," Don said, and then did not try to break the silence that followed.

After several minutes of looking at the floor between her feet, Iris got up and walked away, not looking at Don as she addressed him: "Well, I gotta go. Nice to meet you."

Don could not identify the Something That Was Seriously Wrong, and so he added this mystery to all those others under the classification of Woman.

At least, he thought, I won't have to be so careful of my hero shirt when it comes out of the dryer.

When Don got home with his warm, static-filled clothing, the sun was already setting, and the Q had come nearly all the way off his shirt. Needle and thread it is, thought Don.

Would tonight be the best time to return to the hospital? he thought as he stitched. It had been exactly a week. He didn't want her to think... Wait. She thought nothing. She had never seen him. His mind returned to the pure logistics of the question while he pulled the thread taut and turned on the police band radio dispatch.

He couldn't very well walk into the hospital, fully clad as Don Q. Public, and then just take the elevator up to the second floor, while everyone gaped. He would be in hero garb, yes, but it would have to be a private appearance, just for Dolores. She had a balcony. He would climb to it.

Somehow.

The dead tone of the dispatcher's voice leapt to life, and Don's ears pricked up. A security guard at Reynolds Corners shopping center had requested Toledo Police help with a couple of shoplifters. That was all the way on the other side of town, past the University of Toledo. There was no way Don could get there to help. There was no Don-mobile, after all.

The practical limitations on his heroism struck Don at that moment with a great deal of discouragement. He did not wish to be a person who had gotten lucky once, to assume the attitude of the police on the night of his first sally. Dolores would not respect that. Nor could he, internally.

He breathed deeply, hoping to ease the cramp on his soul that this thought had caused. Underfoot interrupted his reverie by insisting on a face-rub against Don's ankle.

"I must have courage," Don told the cat, "and not give in to despair. For if it is truly destiny that calls me, it will call again. And this time, it will be close enough to reach, practically."

Underfoot meowed, as though to say, "Come on, my back isn't going to scratch itself."

Don obliged his friend with a proper feline massage, head to tail, the loose hairs floating to form a small cloud around him.

The dispatcher's voice came to life again, coinciding with the sirens Don heard racing by outside his window. Don's heart leapt up in hope, as Underfoot leapt up in alarm. The sirens stopped very short after. Blessed hope, Don thought: it must be only blocks away. Don recognized the Four One Seven K radio code as a person with a knife, but he could hear no other details.

"Well, that certainly resolves the question about my hospital visit," Don said aloud to Underfoot. "Duty first."

He pulled the newly repaired shirt on. It looked even more glorious without cat hair, though as he smoothed it down, his hands managed to apply some of Underfoot's residue. He ran out the door, immensely pleased not only that the scene of the showdown was so close, but that he knew a back-alley shortcut to get there.

The journey was, nonetheless, exhausting. Don made a mental note to work aerobic training into his hero development schedule. But his entrance to the crime scene made the sprint worthwhile.

He looked down into the alleyway as a man with a large knife stood defiantly below him, cornered by two policemen, their guns drawn.

He would not be so defiant soon, vowed Don.

"Miscreant!" came the shout from above. The knife-wielder and the policemen looked up in surprise. "Surrender to these officers, or face Don Q. Public!"

And with that bold cry, he dropped to the ground, turning his ankle and letting out a yelp of pain.

"Hey!" the criminal shouted to the officers, "You can't shoot now. You'll hit this crazy guy!"

One of the officers had a thick, strawberry blond mustache, which he practically spat into. "What are you doing?!" His face reddened as he raged.

The other officer, clean-shaven and calmer, almost smiling, took the analytical approach: "Now, sir, you've made things a little more complicated for us."

"Just offering my support," said Don, testing to see if he would get any support from his injured ankle. "Part of my duty."

"We had a clean shot!" fumed the mustachioed officer. "This was a straight mop-up!"

"Help me, mister!" the knife man pleaded suddenly, "these fascist cops, they were gonna just shoot me down! You heard that guy!"

"Now hold on," said the good cop, "that's not what my partner said."

"Citizen," said Don, "I will hear your entreaty. How did you come to this regrettable state?"

"Just move your ass to the side!" shouted the strawberry-mustache cop.

"You hear that?" said the knife man. "He _totally_ wants to kill me. And me, just trying to make a living."

"No small task, in these difficult days," commiserated Don.

"Sir," interjected the good cop, "this is a police matter. If you could just remove yourself from the line of fire..."

"Listen to that!" said the knife man, "Even Dudley Do-Right wants to shoot!"

It was then that Pancho stumbled into the alley, breathless.

" _There_ you are!" he exclaimed. "You're hard to keep up with. I had to drop my stuff, or it would have taken me even longer."

Pancho was wearing a bright green baseball hat, and sweating through his t-shirt, making his fat shine through the translucent garment.

"Pancho," inquired Don, "what are you doing here?"

"I was coming to see you," explained Pancho, "and then you ran off, like a crazy man, and I was just trying to keep up."

"Great," said strawberry-'stache, "now we've got too many loonies for one squad car. We're gonna need backup."

"Sir," said the good cop, "may I ask who you are?'

"I'm the Chameleon," said Pancho, proudly. "See my hat?"

"Your hat says 'XBOX'," pointed out the officer.

"Yeah, but it's chameleon colored," protested Pancho.

"Don't chameleons change colors to blend in?" asked the knife man.

"Yes!" said Pancho, very pleased with the attention to the details of his character.

"You kind of stick out, man," the criminal critiqued.

"Wait," sputtered the Bad Cop, "is he supposed to be a hero, too?"

"Sidekick," clarified Pancho.

"You," said Don, "are _not_ my sidekick."

"Aw, come on," Pancho went all droopy. "Every hero needs a sidekick."

"Statistically," said Don, "that is largely untrue. Most heroes work alone. And working alone is very much part of my particular temperament."

"Better make that backup call," the good cop said to his partner.

"Pancho," said Don, "I must warn you, you've put yourself in a dangerous situation."

"You know," observed the good cop to Don, "that's what we've been trying to tell _you_."

"With me," said Don, "it is different. I have a hero's calling."

"Woo hoo!" said the bad cop, twirling a finger near his ear.

The knife man grabbed Pancho from behind, holding the blade to his throat. "Yeah? Heroes? Well, back off, all of you, or I cut the fat guy."

Pancho squealed like a pig, terrified his bacon would be sliced.

"What is this betrayal?" exclaimed Don to the hostage-taker. "A moment ago, you sought a hero's protection. Now you turn on my friend with threats of violence?"

"Hey, we can see how well _that_ was working," explained the criminal. "Gotta do whatever it takes. Tell those cops to back off, wouldjya?"

The good cop remained as calm as ever with this turn of events. "Now look, sir, we're trying to get you to act in your own self-interest. You can't get out of this alley, and even if you had a clear path, taking a hostage would only slow you down."

"Yeah," said the bad cop, "Tubby there ain't exactly gonna move like the wind for ya."

Perhaps because Pancho was highly suggestive and heard the word "wind," he let loose with a pocket of percussive, moist flatulence.

The criminal, who was the most direct beneficiary, formed a look of utter disgust. "Oh! Oh, that's terrible, man! I should cut you just for that."

Pancho began to wriggle in panic, thinking an actual change of plan had been announced, and burst forth with another, longer series of explosions, strung together like gaseous pearls.

The criminal struggled to maintain control of Pancho's slippery corpulence in the eye of this stink-storm. Don saw his chance.

As the man waved the knife around to remind Pancho of its existence, Don flew at them, meaning to put himself between the weapon and his friend. Instead, his injured ankle gave way, and he fell headfirst into Pancho's exposed belly, surprising everyone involved, including himself.

Don cursed his fate. His plan had gone so horribly awry. As he tumbled to the ground, he felt his failure more than his corporeal gravity. He tried to look up at his ill-fated friend, also tumbling, and doomed. Poor Pancho! He never should have gotten in over his head. And perhaps Don should not have, either, for it was his miscalculation that was the most immediate.

As Pancho lost his balance completely, he felt a mighty burst of gas forced from his abdomen, and rolled back onto his assailant's knee, bending it rather awkwardly in the way it often takes NFL quarterbacks a year to recover from. The knife man became the knifeless man as he fell backward, gripping his greatly pained knee, the steel utensil clattering on the concrete.

Pancho went sprawling sideways, and the squeals he let out from both ends were more pronounced in his dizzy liberation than they had been in his captivity.

Don couldn't believe his eyes. Even this, a horribly botched operation, bore the blessing of destiny! How could he have doubted it?

The police officers pounced quickly, and had the man in cuffs, while he spurted a stream of language that seemed harsh even for a trash-filled urban alley.

Don saw that Pancho was unhurt, as his plump friend sat against a wall, slowly coming to the same realization himself. Don then turned to the policemen, as they lifted their human baggage, and prepared him for back seat shipping.

"No need to thank me," said Don, sincerely.

"Ya got that right," barked the bad cop, just as sincerely, as he hauled his catch toward the squad car, ignoring the injured criminal's protestations of the pain in his knee.

"Been a pleasure, officers," said Pancho.

"You're lucky three won't fit in the back seat," the cop barked again, shoving the criminal's head roughly down through the car's doorway. "Especially with fatty there."

Pancho smiled, pleased with any kind of attention.

"Listen," said the good cop, approaching Don and Pancho, "I think we should have a little talk."

"Certainly," said Don.

"Sure!" said Pancho, now on his feet, trotting over to join the circle of confidentiality.

"So," said the good cop, "you probably follow our calls on the police radio band, right? That's public knowledge, important to democracy and all that. But let me tell you a secret: the real arch-criminals, the ones you're really after, they follow the police band, too. And when they hear us going after the small fry like this guy, they go somewhere else, so they can operate without cops around, see?"

Don nodded. It all made sense.

"So what I'd do, if I was a hero," the cop continued, "is I'd keep listening to the police band, and then I'd go to those places where the cops _aren't_. You see? That way, we're a real team, and we've got the whole city covered."

"That," said Don, "is wonderful advice." It was more complicated than that, of course, thought Don. This officer did not understand the frustrations of listening to the police band, powerlessly, when the acts of crime were across town. He would love to be able to cover the whole city, but he could only do his small, humble part.

"Okay, good," winked the cop. "I thought a couple of crackerjack heroes like you would understand."

"Yeah," said Pancho, nodding enthusiastically.

"All right," said the cop, "I've gotta rejoin my partner over there. You guys keep up the good work."

The officer walked away, and then the police car vanished into a whiff of exhaust, and the two friends were left together in the alleyway.

"Are you all right, Pancho?" asked Don.

"Yeah," said Pancho, "but I'm still a little shaky. I don't like knives. It's like I'm allergic."

"Well," said Don, "I suppose we should head back to our homes."

"Actually," said Pancho, "that's what I was coming to talk to you about."

"Do talk," said Don, "but let's leave this alley by the civilized walking route. Why are you going back toward the fence?"

"That's where I dropped my stuff, when I was trying to keep up with you," said Pancho. "Can you give me a boost?"

It took several minutes of flailing, and Don nearly despairing in the attempt to get Pancho's flapping flesh over the fence. They finally managed to use the fence top as a fulcrum to tilt Pancho over the top. Pancho was sure the painful indentations in his stomach would never go away. They were much worse than anything he had experienced in the recent combat.

Don, too, found that climbing the fence out of the alley was much more difficult than climbing in. They were both glad that no one else was around to witness the lengthy awkwardness.

When they got to Pancho's "stuff," Don was surprised at the quantity: he had two bulging duffel bags and one broken rolling suitcase.

"So," said Don, "this was not just a trip to the grocery store. These seem to be all of your worldly possessions."

"That's the thing," said Pancho, "I was coming to your place to see if I could sleep on your floor. I had to move out, as of January First, which is the same as New Year's Day. I'm not working right now, you know. I don't know if being a sidekick pays anything, but I thought I'd ask."

"I believe I was clear," said Don, "that I work alone. I'm not the sort of hero who has a sidekick. Though I'm sure your talents at sidekickery are considerable."

"Thank you," said Pancho, latching onto anything that might be praise. "So are you saying I can stay?"

"If I am to consider myself a righter of wrongs," said Don, "I cannot very well turn out a friend on a cold winter night."

"Awesome!" Pancho practically shouted. "I'll just sleep on the floor, and I don't eat anything expensive. I practically live on cans of beans."

"Yes," said Don, "there is some evidence to support your claim."

Don lifted one of the duffel bags to relieve Pancho of part of his burden, but Pancho still had plenty to carry, his remaining luggage dangling and flopping from his body like he was a pack mule.

He was most dismayed to learn that Don's apartment was on the third floor, and that there was no working elevator.

* * * *

Chapter 7

If Don thought that all the gas had been knocked out of Pancho in the evening adventure, he was grossly mistaken. Or at least, he should not have underestimated Pancho's capacity for remanufacturing a new supply.

All night, as Don attempted to sleep, Pancho wheezed and belched, sputtered and putted, becoming such an infinite source of noxious output, Don theorized that if the hoses were connected correctly, he could power the city of Toledo in perpetuity.

This phenomenon was encouraged by the large meal of beans and rice that Don had prepared for both of them, only to have Pancho mistake the serving dish for his own, devouring the entire contents in short order, pausing only to add dots of habañero sauce. Fortunately, Don had yoghurt as a ready backup for himself, and so did not go hungry.

Don spent the morning preparing himself to go off to his janitorial job. He tiptoed, at first, around the bellows that was his friend Pancho. Then he relaxed when he realized that nothing would wake Pancho before he was ready.

When Pancho finally awoke, near noon, he was very cheerful and excited, as though the night's near-mishaps had opened up a bright new world of adventure for him.

"What are we going to do today?" he chirped.

"I," said Don, with much emphasis on the singular, "must attend to my paying job, or we will both be living in a snow bank."

This deflated Pancho, but only a little, and only for a moment.

"Then what?"

"Then," Don answered, "I shall need to attend to some private business."

Pancho got a sour look on his face. "You just want to go on a hero adventure without me, because I'm not your sidekick."

"I'm glad you acknowledge that reality," said Don, "though I know it's difficult for you to accept. But I assure you, what I have in mind does not involve my crime fighting duties."

"Oh, okay," said Pancho, somewhat consoled that he wasn't being left out of any immediate action.

"May I ask," inquired Don, "how you came to this current state of unemployment?"

"I ate too much," said Pancho.

"I can't imagine," said Don.

"Oh, it wasn't against the rules or anything. At Taco Tiempo, we're allowed to have a free meal with every shift we work. They just weren't counting on anyone having as big a meal every time as I did. But I didn't do anything wrong. It's really not fair."

"I agree," sympathized Don, "and I'm very sorry you were a victim of injustice, my friend. They did not appreciate that eating was your superpower."

"Thank you," brightened Pancho, encouraged suddenly on multiple fronts.

"And now," said Don, "I must go clean privies, among other humble activities."

And with that, he departed his friend's company and made his way toward One Seagate Center.

One advantage of a job like Don's was that he could occupy his mind as he pleased while performing all necessary duties. And having left the new roommate stresses behind him for the moment, Don found himself spending his work hours playing through the scene as he imagined it might unfold that evening at the hospital, puzzling through practical problems and enjoying grand outcomes.

In order to reach Dolores's balcony, he would have to do some wall-scaling. He did not have any specialized equipment for this, nor indeed for anything. But equipment was not what Don Q. Public was about. He was about throwing himself into the realm of uncertainty, about facing wrongs simply because they must be righted, about climbing a wall, because love depended on it. In short, he would find a way up.

And when he reached the balcony, he would land upon it gracefully – he began to rethink his rejection of capes – and if she were awake, she would see a hero, her hero, framed gloriously in the glass of the sliding door.

Would she invite him in? Perhaps. Or perhaps she would be too modest.

No, Don corrected himself, she is a strong woman. Whatever health struggle has led her to this state of physical frailty, it has given her inner boldness, fearlessness.

She would beckon for him to come inside. Would she offer him a seat for some civilized conversation? Would she order tea? They had significant stories to exchange: how she became ill, how he became a hero. She would laugh when he told her of how destiny had brought them together on Christmas Day, and she did not even know it for eight days.

Then it came to him, a simple pair of lines, appropriately enough, a heroic couplet:

Like Romeo with balcony above,

He could not help but rise up to his love.

He looked around desperately for a writing instrument. He had been unaware of his surroundings while his daydream progressed, but it was still working hours, and the people who found him invisible were quite present in his immediate vicinity; they might not find him so invisible if he were to grab a pen from one of their desks. He had to make it to the stationary supply room, and quickly, before the couplet left his mind.

He made it there just in time, like a man desperately seeking the sanctuary of a lavatory. And he spilled the lines onto a larger sticky-note pad just as another couplet came to him:

As nimble cats will land without a sound,

His noble feet alighted on the ground.

Hmm, thought Don, examining the lines so far. Others might doubt their quality, but he could objectively argue for the perfection of the rhymes, as well as the scanning of the pentameter. The fact that no one wrote this way any more just made the form more appealing to Don. And he liked the word "alighted." It spoke to the physical grace that every hero should possess.

The sticky note pad and the pen were compact enough that they would fit neatly into the other contents of his trash cart. He could keep them handy for the rest of his work shift, jotting the lines as they came to him, two by two. And for the remaining hours, gradually, with great care, Don began to compose his own legend.

When evening fell, and Don was released from his duties, he fairly trembled with the promise of the night's adventures. On the bus ride home, however, he had a disruptive thought: Pancho would want to go along. The perils of having a roommate were striking multiple times in the first twenty-four hours.

On his arrival home, however, Pancho seemed anything but eager for adventure. In fact, Don wondered if his plump friend had moved beyond the circumference of three feet since he left him at midday.

"I wish you had a TV," Pancho remarked. "I tried to figure out how to watch shows on your computer, but I really don't know how to use a computer for anything."

"I can show you how to emulate a television on the computer," said Don. "But what, may I inquire, did you do all day?"

But the rearranged stacks of comic books should have told him that without asking. Pancho just nodded his head sideways in their direction.

"You read?" asked Don. "Is that all?"

"Well," answered Pancho, "looked at pictures mostly. That's what I love about comics. You can really get the important parts without reading. I mean, I read a little, but that's not my favorite part. I know how to read. If that's what you're asking."

"That was not at all what I was asking," assured Don. "Why didn't you take a walk, get salutary effects of the outdoors?"

"Why would I walk if I'm not going anywhere?" wondered Pancho. "I've never understood why someone would walk around and then just come home again. That's just silly."

"But," objected Don, "you'd get fresh air and exercise."

Pancho looked confused. "I don't want cold air. The warm air is way better. And as for your exercise, I don't know what that's for, except it makes you better at getting more exercise."

"You know," said Don, "if you ever want to become a sidekick, you're going to have to move around a little more."

Pancho brightened. "I get to be your sidekick?"

"I was speaking generally of your aspirations," Don pointed out, "not of myself as the object of them."

Pancho's brightness faded. "But I don't want to be someone else's sidekick. And I don't know about all this moving around."

"Well," said Don, "no matter. I haven't the time to debate your sidekick training program. I have a mission tonight that I must pursue alone."

"I didn't mean it about moving around," Pancho recanted quickly, hopping up off the couch to prove his mobility. "I can move. I've got all my energy stored up. Let me go with you!"

"You are, my friend, a very model of energy storage," said Don. "But even if you were as lithe as the Black Panther, this is not a crime fighting mission. I must do this alone."

"If this isn't a crime fighting mission," asked Pancho, "then why are you putting on your hero costume?"

Don paused, his Q shirt halfway on. He did not wish to explain himself to Pancho, but he knew he must in order to avoid a straggler.

"I must appear as a hero," he explained, "for entirely personal reasons."

"Fashion show?" Pancho would admit, if pressed, that this was a wild guess.

"There is a certain lady," began Don.

"O-o-o-oh, o-o-o-okay," said Pancho.

And that was as much explanation as either man would give or receive.

It was a matter of efficiency that Don's old leather helmet doubled as a bicycle helmet, and a matter of faith that he was sure no one would notice. Bicyclists also have the power of invisibility, often to their peril. To mitigate this, Don clipped a battery-powered red blinking light to the back of his helmet, all the more necessary since he was riding at night.

There had been no new snowfall in January, and the weather had remained mild enough that the road slush had receded. Don was grateful that he was able to arrive at the Sisters of Healing Toledo America Hospital without being completely caked in mud.

As he approached the side wall of the ex-hotel, he realized that not only did he not have a clear plan for scaling the wall, but that he could not even be certain which balcony was the correct one. Why could these buildings not have distinctive expressions flowing from each room? A patient-initiated decorating contest would be so advantageous, for Dolores's balcony would then certainly be the most beautiful.

But for now, his venture up the wall would be a combination of calculation and faith. For the calculation part, he walked through, in his mind, his past steps through that building. After he'd gone to the central poinsettia area, he'd taken the cart up the elevator to the second floor, and the elevator was just to the left of the central reception area, and Dolores's room was, what? The fifth room down that row? The seventh? He settled on the seventh, it being a charmed number. And along the side wall, on the outside now, he counted balconies, and parked Nancy on the wall as he prepared for his ascent.

The wall itself was remarkably free of convenient hand- or foot-holds. There were the window frames of the first floor rooms, which he was avoiding in the interest of stealth, but very little else in the way of chinks or protrusions. He spent several moments of flailing in that two dimensional plane, and one moment of sheer terror when he tried to stand on the seat of Nancy, who wished to roll out from under him and break his neck, before he concluded that he needed a Plan B rather urgently.

The new plan unfolded so elegantly in his mind, it lifted his spirits above all discouragement. It fell into two parts: Reconnaissance and Gravity.

For the Recon portion, he removed his helmet, kept his mask tucked away, and left the Q on his shirt covered. Thus disguised, he walked in the front door.

He felt shaky as he approached Dolores's room. Sure, the object of this part was just to note her room number, but it also meant glimpsing his True Love, and perhaps, of her glimpsing him.

It was Room 227, and yes, she was awake, though not looking toward the doorway. He felt the urge to go in, to speak to her, to explain her place in his life. And yet he felt a terror of the very things he wished for. How curious women and their effects could be.

Perhaps it was just the reality of his heroic moment actually approaching. Or perhaps it was more fundamental than that. He was facing, after all, the greatest moment of panic a comic book geek can ever face: talking to a girl. Give him deadly green rays of Kryptonite, give him the fury of Juggernaut, but do not expect him to have a calm, relaxed conversation with a member of the female species.

Don took it as a blessing of divine providence that Room 327 was unoccupied. All doubt and fear vanished, and none of the setbacks of wall-climbing seemed to matter now. He meditated on the power of Love, and its frequently misunderstood nature. It is not that it magically causes you to float up the sides of walls; it is simply so determined to have its happy outcome, that it will essay every angle on the problem until it finds purchase. And in this case, the solution was a vacant third room floor, and gravity, which had so recently been his foe.

The sliding glass door opened with only initial resistance, but as he stepped out onto the balcony, a new wave of doubt swept in. The view over the side, even from the third floor, was terrifying. He had to lean far over the edge in order to even get a glimpse of the balcony that was his target.

But he knew better than to doubt the destiny that he had so recently been granted. And the donning of his mask, the redonning of his helm, and the exposure of his Q restored his courage.

He dropped his overcoat to the ground below for later collection. On the balcony of Room 227, he would be all hero, with no extra baggage.

The process of lowering himself from his present position was more gradual than graceful. Inch by inch, he worked his body over the side rail and down, unable to see his destination. Why, he wondered, were balconies not staggered outward in their depth? Why could not second floor balconies extend farther than third floor balconies? It was a palatable aesthetic, pyramid-like in its lines, and heroic entrances would be so much easier.

These moments of facing the world as it stubbornly is, in spite of how it should be, did not please Don. Particularly not now, as he dangled in mid-air, feeling around in vain for the rail below with his foot.

I will not find it in advance, he thought. The distance is too great. It was then that he contemplated one of his favorite theological points: that faith is actually the opposite of belief, though religious people of every stripe often believed the two were interchangeable.

Belief holds on; faith lets go.

This was a much more pleasant abstraction to contemplate over tea. But here, hanging as he was by his fingertips, was where he needed this wisdom the most.

I have passed the point of no return, he thought.

And that absence of alternatives lent him the final determination for his next action. The key was not to miss the balcony entirely. And so, he took a deep breath, and swung himself outward so he could swing back inward. Praying for a conclusion that involved the bottoms of his feet, he let go.

It was not the landing he had pictured. In fact, Don landed squarely on his fundament, and felt the pain shoot up from his tailbone, while all four limbs did their best to absorb the shock, splayed in all directions as they were, like a crab.

He looked up, and saw Dolores jump with fright.

He did not know a sick woman could move so fast. She fairly clawed all of the sheets in her way to get to the red button that was suspended from a white cord by the side of her bed. Don struggled to his feet, fighting through the pain and stiffness of his landing, and waved his hands as though trying to say, No, no, don't call for help! I'm a friend!

He immediately had another person to whom he needed to communicate his message. The floor nurse, a stout, stern looking woman, came running into the room, and when Dolores pointed at the balcony, the nurse grabbed the room telephone and barked something into the transmitter.

She was, no doubt, calling Security, and Don understood that this would be too difficult to explain to whatever guards would arrive. If it were just Dolores, he would stay and proclaim his love. His devotion would be instantly lost on these outside parties, however. His private affair was becoming less private with each speeding moment.

As Don made his exit from the balcony, he barely glimpsed the portly security guard coming into the room with his walkie-talkie melee weapon. There might be another step to this, as the security guard then called a real cop, but there was no use in waiting. He felt the thrilling whoosh of air on the way down, and then a sharp pain in his ankle that had not yet healed from his previous adventure.

It would take them a while to catch up with him by the conventional route, but his time was not unlimited. He looked around for Nancy, and wondered for a moment if she had been stolen. He was greatly relieved to find that she had merely been parked five rooms down. His estimate, it seemed, had been well off target when he had first attempted his climb. Plan B was looking better all the time.

He picked up his overcoat and returned to his somewhat normal guise. Then he mounted his steed, and with the faint yelling of law officers near the hospital entrance fading into the background, Don rode off into the night.

* * * *

Chapter 8

It was nearly two weeks of calm before Don's next adventure, a period of time he needed badly for the healing of his twice-twisted ankle.

"So," Pancho said one morning, unprompted, "you were talking about the Fiberglas Tower before, like you were about to go there, but I don't think you ever actually went."

"You're too right," said Don, who had been feeling overly idle. "I'm grateful that you brought this up. In fact, I think I'll seize the moment and go right now."

"And I can come, too," perked Pancho, "since I thought of it?"

"I'm afraid," said Don, "that would establish a bad precedent. Please accept my gratitude, but please also remain behind."

"I don't know about the bad president," said Pancho, "but I know I want to go with you. You should really give me a chance, you know, before you decide you don't want a sidekick."

"Too late," said Don. "That decision is in the past."

Pancho looked sunken, and Don's heart went out to him. But Duty cannot accommodate all desires. He had to make sacrifices, just as Pancho had to. And with that thought, Don decided there was no more to say, and he left the apartment.

Pancho showed up at the bus stop a few minutes later.

"It's pretty hard to ditch someone," he observed, "when they know exactly where you're going."

A fair point, thought Don. He could not forbid another person to board a public bus. Downplaying the adventure seemed the best strategy.

"This is merely surveillance and reconnaissance, you understand."

"I think I understood the first word," said Pancho, "but not the second one."

"REE-con," translated Don.

"Oh, okay," nodded Pancho gratefully.

The bus arrived, splashing slush onto their ankles. Pancho was too fat for one seat, so it was fortunate there was a double available, where Don could sit across the aisle.

But there was not much to say on this ride. Don wished to practice kindness with Pancho, but he still resented his tagging along.

Their arrival at the famous Fiberglas Tower came with some surprises. Don's initial intent had been merely to observe the nature of the security doors, which had been in place for years to guard the vacancy, but he was surprised to find a bustle of activity around the building, including people going in and out of it.

"This," said Don, as the two of them stepped off the bus, "is not at all what I expected."

The swarm of worker-bees they beheld were dressed in that combination that Don had always found so odd: neckties and hard hats. In and out they buzzed, holding clipboards, unrolling blueprints like ancient scrolls, speaking White Collar White Male to each other.

"Shall we go in?" Don asked Pancho.

"I don't see why not."

But the reason Why Not presented itself as soon as they reached the temporary fence around the area. It was guarded by a large man armed with a communication device and an air of intimidation.

"Sorry," he said. "Authorized personnel only."

"How do you know," inquired Don, "that we are not authorized?"

"Okay," said the guard, still confident in his foregone conclusion, "let's see your badges."

Pancho was tempted to go into the no stinking badges routine, but didn't quite feel the confidence to do so in this situation.

"Ah," Don conceded, "you mean authorized in _that_ way."

They smiled politely at the hulking guard, and started to walk away.

"Oh, one thing," said Don, coming back a step. "It does seem this great building of our city is to have a new tenant." The guard chewed gum, straight-faced, neither confirming nor denying.

"So," continued Don, "who is the fortunate occupant?"

"Sorry," said the guard, already saying more than Don expected him to, "that's confidential until the announcement."

"And that announcement will occur... when?"

"Check tomorrow's paper," said the guard. "That should make you happy."

"Thank you, sir," said Don. "I respect your sense of duty, and your courtesy."

As they walked away, Pancho asked, "What now? We break in the back way?"

"No," said Don, "we wait. Or rather, I wait. If this building is to have residents, my entry strategy may change."

"Change how?" asked Pancho.

"Whoever they are," said Don, "they will certainly need janitors."

But the question of the mystery tenant burned in both of their minds all night. Don served his shift at the One Seagate tower, while thinking of the other tower the entire time. And Pancho, as he made his way through the many pictures in Don's comic books, felt that adventure awaited him, too, despite his friend's refusals.

Both of them rose earlier the next morning than normal, and both of them hurried out to the news stand to have a look at The Blade.

"BreezeGiant," announced Don, as he peered through the glass at the headline.

"What's BreezeGiant?" asked Pancho.

"Let's find out," said Don, putting coins in the machine.

"We could have just checked the internet," observed Pancho, shivering in the morning breeze.

Don made no comment, though privately he kicked himself for not having thought of this, as he pulled the newspaper out of the metal box.

"Windmills," he said. "They make windmills."

"I didn't think anybody made windmills any more," said Pancho.

"Not the old Dutch kind from the pictures," explained Don. "These are the modern, efficient, wind-energy engines of the future."

"Is that what it says there?" asked Pancho.

"Not in those exact words," said Don. "It says that BreezeGiant is the leader in urban wind turbine technology."

"Urban?" asked Pancho.

"Apparently, that's their twist," said Don, still squinting at the newspaper to squeeze all the enlightenment out of it. "They don't put them in fields, like most wind energy companies. They put them on the tops of buildings, right in the middle of the city."

"I guess they can make their wires shorter, and just go straight to the buildings with their electricity," analyzed Pancho.

"That could be," acknowledged Don. "and they seem to have one more twist: their energy output is one hundred times that of normal wind turbines."

"A hundred," nodded Pancho. "That's pretty good."

"So not only does Toledo get a huge, new employer," said Don, "but they're a green company that offers to solve our energy problems in miraculous ways."

"Wow," said Pancho. "That sounds too good to be true."

"Yes," said Don. And then he thought to himself, they are BreezeGiant. And I have always been wary of giants. Corporate giants in particular.

Then a completely different, disturbing, invigorating thought came to Don. "Pancho," he said, "when you reminded me of the Fiberglas Tower yesterday, did you know there would be so much activity?"

"Nope," said Pancho.

"And yet," observed Don, "you brought up the subject on a most providential day, out of the blue."

"I don't know," Pancho pondered. "Maybe there was something in the news, and I just forgot, and it stuck in the back of my head."

"But there was nothing in the news," said Don. "The news only came out today."

"Well," theorized Pancho, "maybe I know more than I know I know."

"Very interesting," said Don, "that one could be unwittingly prescient."

"My way of saying it is less confusing," said Pancho.

"A matter of opinion," said Don.

"If you say unguenty president, no one will know what you mean," observed Pancho.

"Then I shall be certain never to say such a thing," said Don.

And with that, they were able to abandon their fragile disagreement.

* * * *

Chapter 9

Don had much more sympathy for Pancho's ambitions than he ever expressed aloud, but nature had decreed that his plump friend could not keep up with a hero's pace. It was one thing to catch a bus and ride to a surveillance site; going on night patrol in the city, mounted on his faithful Nancy, was quite another.

And yet, he knew the question would arise.

"So," began Pancho, as Don pulled on his Q shirt.

"I'm afraid not," anticipated Don. "I really don't think you could keep up."

"Let me try," said Pancho. And Don was prepared for this.

"Certainly," said Don. "I'll be going now."

Pancho could hardly believe his good fortune, not having really played out this scenario with any projected accuracy. He put on his shoes and tied the laces quickly as Don wheeled Nancy awkwardly out the door and toward the stair well. Following, at that point, was no problem.

But Pancho was mightily offended when Don mounted the bicycle and began riding at a normal bicycling pace.

"Wait!" Pancho shouted. "Can't you go a little slower?" He was huffing and puffing already.

"Keep up if you can," Don shouted over his shoulder. It was a harsh lesson, he knew, but he also understood the necessary bite reality takes out of the ideal pictures we all form of our own lives.

The last thing Don heard Pancho say was, "Fat and slow can be powers, too!" And while he honored this sentiment in the larger spectrum of the diversity of talents, he had to recognize that not keeping up meant, simply, not keeping up.

The slush had mostly melted, so the cruising bicycle wheels glided cleanly on the pavement. Surrounded only by strangers, he felt comfortably alone, and this reinforced his decision to remain so in his heroic life. Even the pointing and gawking of children, and the hastily averted stares of adults, could not disturb this comfort. Perhaps they had never seen a hero before. Indeed, many of them may not know that heroes actually exist in this age, or even outside of the realm of colorful fiction in any age.

But most of the people he saw walked in their own isolation on the city sidewalks, a thousand pedestrians with a thousand sets of personal worries.

One pedestrian, in a floppy hat and a long, dark, feminine, ankle-length overcoat, had a gait that looked distinctively familiar to Don. He slowed Nancy to take a closer look.

"Herm?" he ventured.

Herm looked up and met Don's eyes. The mustache, or demi-mustache, was gone, making Herm's face look entirely feminine. The fact that it was clearly a woman's hat and a woman's overcoat reinforced this direction.

"Don," Herm said, "nice to see you. You're in costume."

"And you are not," observed Don.

"Well, actually..." corrected Herm, opening the overcoat like a flasher. And there it was, the bi-gender getup Don knew so well. And he could see, now that he looked closely, that the blonde locks tumbled from beneath one half of the hat.

As Don examined the situation, Herm tried to excuse Hermself.

"You have yourself a good evening," Herm said, beginning to step away.

"Are you coming to the CRAZE meeting tomorrow?" asked Don.

"Yeah," said Herm, "pretty sure."

"The mustache," said Don. "Everything is under wraps, but the half-mustache is gone."

"Yeah," said Herm, "it's removable. Sometimes this all just gets tiring, you know?"

There was a sadness about Herm that Don now felt acutely for the first time. He also felt some remorse for prying.

"I'm sorry, Herm," said Don. "I feel I have invaded your private space."

"No worries," said Herm. "You're definitely one of the good guys, Don. It's not you, really."

And Herm's face then looked close to tears.

"If you ever need anything, my friend," said Don, "know that I am at your service."

"Yeah," said Herm, now rushing toward a loss of emotional control, "thanks." That was the word that could escape to the surface. Don detected that speech was no longer possible for Herm, and so he offered the hasty release he knew Herm desired.

"Well, good night," he said, and allowed Herm only a nod in reply.

A fresh lungful of night air and a little push with his left foot set Don to coasting. He began his slow pedal, unable to stop thinking of the turbulence that must have been brewing for his friend.

Herm was normally so _out there_ , so extroverted, no one really ever had a chance to ask any personal questions at all. And perhaps that was Herm's intention, defense by friendly assault.

Don was so wrapped up in this ponderance that he rolled past the corner where he meant to turn, and coasted out into the traffic with its honking horns and screeching brakes.

When Don had regained his composure and returned to a safe, sensible patrol path, the world felt orderly again. Don pondered that feeling using those very words, and then focused on the question of the word "orderly," and how a perfectly functional adverb could have come to be a job-title noun for a worker in an asylum.

In danger yet again of getting lost in thoughts about his own thoughts, he heard a scream.

It came from a tall, handsome young woman who wore a business suit of the tweed-blazer-and-skirt variety. The source of her distress was plain to see, as a rough-looking young man fled from her location, holding in one hand a red leather purse.

Don pressed down hard on one pedal, then the other, and accelerated Nancy to pursuit speed. The purse-snatcher was speeding through the crowd, sometimes knocking people aside, but mostly plunging through the empty spaces provided by those bystanders who were unwilling to confront a criminal, or even slow him down.

And this, thought Don, is why we need heroes.

The victim was making an attempt at a chase herself, but her designer high heels made the attempt a failure before she began.

Don sped along the curb, gaining momentum, keeping the perpetrator in sight, and closing the gap.

At the street crossing, Don entered the sidewalk at a wheelchair access point, and closed in for the end game.

The young criminal still had an inspiring amount of energy. He began to notice Don, and laughed a little, which slowed him slightly. Hubris, thought Don; now is my chance.

The flying tackle was impressive. A tribute to Don's willingness to try untested moves in the field of action, passersby were no doubt amazed at the nimbleness of a middle aged man, leaping from the side of a speeding pink bicycle, spreading his body fully outward, each of his four limbs pointing to a different hemisphere as he hovered parallel to Earth all too briefly, before falling flat on the concrete, missing his intended target entirely.

A true hero thinks first of the job at hand, not of his own pain. The primary sensation in Don's mind was of the footsteps, of the man getting away, of the amusement in the voice of the criminal that broke into unabashed hilarity. Only secondarily did he think of which body part was in the most agony.

He struggled to lift his abrased face (a strong candidate for most pained body part) from the ground, and saw the bad man still running, looking back at him gleefully.

And that was when Pancho stepped out onto the sidewalk with his nachos.

The collision did not hurt Pancho, Don believed. His shape was too round, and when the purse-snatcher ran smack into his belly, both men bounced backwards. It did not go well for the nachos, which exploded into widely dispersed fragments.

The purse-snatcher hit the back of his head on the concrete with a dull, mashing thud, and did not move for a moment.

Don struggled to his feet, feeling sharp pains in places he didn't know were places before. He knew he was in worse shape than the criminal, and would be too slow to apprehend him, even now.

"Pancho!" he managed to say. "Sit on him!"

Pancho, despite his surprise, had merely rolled backward and was now back on his feet, like a weighted punching bag. He seemed surprised at the instruction, but complied eagerly.

"Hey!" objected the purse-snatcher.

"I have the powers of fat and slow," announced Pancho, "and they have saved the day."

"Just get off me, you fat freak!" screamed the voice beneath him.

The owner of the purse, her heels clicking with rapid inefficiency, arrived.

"Oh thank you," she panted.

"Not at all," assured Don, handing her the purse.

She reached into the purse, grabbed the pepper spray, and shot it point-blank into her assailant's helpless face. He screeched in agony and humiliation.

"Never really thought about how having pepper spray in your purse doesn't help with purse-snatchers," she said.

"Though you seem to have some cathartic vengeance, ex post facto," said Don, understanding.

"Yeah. Anyway, thank you again. And it's nice to see a little flamboyance from back home."

"And where," inquired Don, "is back home, for you?"

"Oh, The City," she replied, as though he should know. And then she accurately read the pause in the conversation as Don's perplexity. "Aren't you from San Francisco?"

"No, madam," said Don. "I am a proud native of Toledo."

"Oh, wow," she said, "my respect for Toledo just went way up. I thought it was such a straight town. Glad to see it has people who are so flamingly OUT."

"Out?" asked Don. "Out where?"

The woman laughed. "And so deadpan! Look, I'm really grateful for what you and your partner did." Partner? thought Don. Why did people always assume that Pancho was his sidekick?

She continued: "Y'know, I've got the cool professional exterior thing going now? But really, that was super traumatic." She pulled a pill bottle from her purse, rattled one into her palm, and threw it in her mouth, as though to punctuate the trauma she claimed. "I suppose I should call the cops," she concluded cheerfully, pulling the phone from her purse.

"Excuse me," beckoned Don, "but I think you might be misunderstanding something about me."

"You're a guy riding around in tights on a pink girl's bicycle, with a big Q on his chest. I mean, come on, there's only one conclusion here."

And Don watched her fall into the conversation with the 9-1-1 people, bemused at how curious the perceptions of a stranger could be.

* * * *

Chapter 10

As Don made his way to El Sid's Comic Emporium, his primary thoughts centered around his physical pain: the bone-aches on the inside, the abrasions on the outside, and the deep bruises that connected the two. Between his sore joints and the rubbing of his clothing on the newly scraped flesh, walking seemed like a completely unreasonable thing to do. He would need a little time off from his hero duties to recuperate, more than he had with the mere ankle-twist. If he hadn't suggested to Herm the night before that he would be present at this meeting, he probably wouldn't have gone.

The meeting was already in full swing when he pushed in through the door, and all heads swung in his direction. Where they swung from was Pancho, who stopped himself suddenly in mid-flail, apparently at the height of a very animated narrative.

For that moment, everyone was frozen except for Sid, who was scribbling madly on a pad of paper, as though his hyperactive muse completely missed the cues in the room.

Herm was there, demimustache restored, mood entirely composed, and said: "Pancho was just telling us about last night. Must have been right after I saw you."

"You saw Don last night?" asked Pancho.

"It hardly seemed the important part of the story," said Herm.

"More like, no one could get a word in edgewise," said Special Ed.

"Well, do continue, Pancho," said Don. "I'm curious how your retelling matches my experience." Or doesn't, he thought.

"What happened to your nose?" Felonious Monk asked Don.

"I just told you," said Pancho, "what happened to his nose."

"You said he frightened the criminal into the trap you set up," said Felonious.

"Well," said Pancho, "he may have bumped his nose as he was frightening the purse snatcher."

"How do you bump your nose by frightening someone?" asked Crypta.

"I don't think that's the important part of the story," said Pancho.

"I think the way you're telling it is just great, Pancho," said Sid, pausing his scribbling only briefly.

"Don, maybe you should have a seat," said Herm.

Don nodded gratefully, and then limped over to an empty chair. No one said anything about Don's obvious state of full body pain, not having gotten very far on the nose question.

"Then what?" asked Crypta, who sat beside a woman Don did not recognize.

"That's pretty much it," said Pancho. "Don leapt up from where he scared the guy into our trap, and gave me the secret word, so I knew to sit on him."

"What's the secret word?" Special Ed was desperate to know.

"Then it wouldn't be..." Felonious began, obviously, before stopping himself out of good taste.

"And then it was over?" asked Crypta's friend, a friendly-looking woman with slumping posture who hadn't spoken since Don's arrival. She was in full traditional hero costume, the only one so clad, unless you included Herm, and the emblem on her chest bore the letters MC, separated by a lightning bolt.

"Yeah," said Pancho, "it was pretty much over at that point."

"You forgot," said Don, "to tell about the arrival of the victim."

"Oh yeah," said Pancho, pleased that Don would cooperate with his telling in any way. "When the lady got there? She took out some spray from her purse, and just got the guy, right in the face."

"While you were sitting on him?" asked Felonious. "But he was no longer a threat."

"She needed the catharsis," pronounced Crypta's friend with the MC costume. She spoke as though she'd been in that situation before.

"She took back the night," Don nodded. "We were proud of her."

"This is all sounding very right-wing," protested Felonious, who apparently disapproved of such things.

MC's face began to flush. Even as she understood her position as a guest at that gathering, she evidently had some stronger opinions that were bursting to come out. Don could see this without further verbal explanation.

"Well," disarmed Don, "I apologize for being late. And I'm sorry I missed most of Pancho's raconteuring."

"You were there in person," said Special Ed. "That's even better."

"Don't be so sure," cautioned Don.

Pancho briefly had a worried look, like Don might correct the historical record, or once again disavow him as a sidekick, but none of that happened, and a few moments of silence later, the anxiety passed from his face.

"Snacks?" prompted Felonious.

"Definitely," said Herm. "Crypta and her friend brought some excellent stuff."

"Don," said Crypta as the group stood to mill about and eat, "this is my friend Mary Catherine."

"Ah," said Don, "that's what the MC stands for."

"Actually no," corrected MC gently, "it stands for MagnifiCat."

And only then did Don notice the faint drawing, with eyebrow pencil, of feline whiskers on her cheeks.

"Wonderful," said Don. "Is it meant in a purely animal way, or is there some Catholicism thrown in?"

"All of the above," said MC.

"I have always found the text of the Magnificat to be a revolutionary anthem," observed Don.

And with that, MC looked at him like she'd found a new best friend.

"He has scattered the proud in their conceit," she quoted.

"He has cast down the mighty from their thrones," answered Don, "and has lifted up the lowly."

"I think I'll leave you two alone," said Crypta, who then walked toward the hummus.

But alone with a single female was not a comfortable position for Don, even if (especially if) that female was a kindred spirit. He looked down and stammered a bit, and MC did no better. Both were grateful for the connection. If only now they could learn the art of making conversation.

The moment of geek heterosexual awkwardness was redeemed when Pancho had a parallel conversation nearby with Sid.

"So, I sat on your little postage scale? Because I wanted to see how much I weigh, in ounces? And it made kind of a crunching sound, so... I don't know. It might be okay."

Sid just smiled, apparently not upset at all, and patted Pancho on the shoulder with reassurance, before picking up his sketch pad and scribbling again.

"That Pancho!" said Don, still uncomfortable.

"Your sidekick certainly makes for some good stories," said MC.

"He's not..." began Don, but he didn't continue.

"The others told me your hero name before you arrived," said MC. "I really like it."

"Thank you," said Don. "It would appear we have a similar emphasis. Though mine is a bit more secular."

"Common people is common people," said MC, flaunting grammar with such confidence that Don was not tempted to nitpick. "You wanna get coffee some time?"

Don's mind rushed over all the implications of this, but he could not process them now. "Sure," he said.

And then he nodded, blushing, by way of taking his leave.

"Pancho, shall we go?" Pancho had his face full of food.

"Mmmph," said Pancho, which Don took as assent.

He hooked Pancho's right arm and dragged him toward the daylight.

As soon as they were outside, Don began his inquisition.

"How much do you know about dating?" he demanded.

"What? What'd I do?" protested Pancho.

"No, this is not about you. I just want to know, is coffee more or less serious than lunch?"

It suddenly struck Pancho that he was being asked for his wisdom and experience, and this was a rare enough occasion, he decided he'd better fake it.

"I think it depends on the time of day," said Pancho, touching his chin with his knuckles the way a wise person might. "The later in the day, the more inclination toward romance." After this came out of his mouth, Pancho thought it sounded so good, it might just be true.

Don also found the logic persuasive.

"Ah," said Don, "so if it's a mid-morning coffee, it could be merely a friendly gesture. But an _afternoon_ coffee is stimulating the senses for the evening?"

"The chemicals don't lie," said Pancho.

Don looked very concerned. "If Dolores could see this, she'd be heartbroken."

"If Dolores could see this," said Pancho, "she'd wonder, Who the hell is this guy?"

Don rounded on Pancho furiously, like he had half a mind to pummel him. "How dare you? How _dare_ you?!"

"I'm just saying," Pancho backpedaled, "she hasn't really seen you yet. I'm sure it's meant to be, and all that, but the one time she laid eyes on you, you were wearing a mask and she called the cops."

Don stopped and took a deep breath. Poor Pancho, he thought. No vision at all.

"It's not your fault," Don pronounced. "I would not expect you to understand how True Love can overcome Time, and how her eternal spirit knows mine, no matter where we are in the continuum of history."

Pancho shook his head and pounded it twice on the side with his palm. "You're right," he said, "I would totally not understand that."

Both men were relieved that they weren't fighting, and they walked silently toward the bus stop. Don remembered he had to work that day. Pancho forgot his earlier intention to look for a job.

But the primary thing that Don could not escape in his heart was the uncomfortable fact Pancho had raised: that he had been avoiding a real meeting with Dolores since his earlier disaster. This was something he must overcome. MC was only in his life as a wakeup call. And Pancho, in his simple way, was a beacon of light, shining brightly on an inescapable truth. This was another wrong to right.

* * * *

Chapter 11

Don regretted the practical fact that he had only obtained one copy of the Christmas newspaper, which contained good tidings of the great joy of his heroism. And yet, standing in the hospital hallway, waiting for his moment, it seemed an appropriate sacrifice – his only copy was tucked into his coat, ready to be presented to his true love.

It had taken hours for her to go to sleep so he could enter the room without alarm, and the trick on that visit had been to wander the halls anonymously without arousing suspicion.

He had felt even more self-conscious on that mission because he carried with him something that could not be safely tucked into his coat: a fragrant damask rose.

One had to hunt these days for roses with any smell at all, bred as they were for visual appearance only, but Don believed in his heart that the old style, with smaller, rougher blooms (but very pleasing to the nose and the soul), were far superior. And he believed that Dolores would also flaunt the current fashion and agree.

He had made so many tense passes by her room, and on the one before he was ultimately successful, he was tempted to rip the blossom off the top and present the newspaper with a sprinkling of petals, which would also be romantic in its way.

But his opportunity did come. He had the newspaper folded open to the page of interest, and laid the rose stem across it at a pleasing angle on her rolling food table, tucked under the corner of her used dinner tray.

There. The deed was done.

Even after that mission was completed, Don understood that there was no guarantee of success. What if a helpful hospital worker took the paper and the flower away with the dinner tray?

And what if Dolores saw the paper, but rejected his image as nightmarish, having frightened her before?

He had to trust in powers higher than himself. She would see the paper, and know that she had been visited by a hero.

He would find all of that out on his next visit, which was today.

His anxiety was understandable, but it drove him to do something he almost never did, which was to spend too much time in front of the bathroom mirror.

Don had originally grown his thin, wispy beard not with any illusion of its current or potential fullness, but because the precise adjustment of sideburn length is an exercise from the devil.

Nonetheless, he ventured to keep his prematurely graying chin hairs trimmed neatly.

Especially today.

Perhaps Dolores would not see him. Perhaps he would gaze on her, unnoticed, as she slept, as he had the first time. But if she did see him, and did not panic, he did wish to be a presentable hero.

The notion that she would not sound the alarm again seemed fairly idealistic, even for Don. Would a newspaper clipping and a flower be enough to tell her that he was a friend? What if she needed more convincing? Shouldn't he have a way to communicate with her quickly, in her panic, to calm her fears? He concluded, as he always did, that the answer would come to him when the time was right.

What preparations he could make, he had made. Now, he was in the hospital again for his grand entrance, his all-in, to see whether the newspaper ploy had worked, to see if his true love would recognize him as such. He carried with him the room number for his launch, and a rope to improve his descent. This time, he would have a graceful, truly heroic entry.

The rope wound neatly over his shoulder, easily hidden under his coat. He tried not to be too paranoid about the hospital staff recognizing him as he made his way to the third floor. For all his internal visions of this hospital, and the scenarios he had dreamt on its stage, he had only been here physically a handful of times, certainly within the norm for a person visiting a sick friend. They suspect nothing, he assured himself.

Standing in the sickly-lit elevator with three strangers, two of them medically clad, he walked himself through the upcoming scene. He would change into his costume quickly in the vacant room 327. Then, attaching the rope to the leaning rail that topped the balcony, he would lower himself gracefully to her terrace, avoiding any unwelcome crashes or pelvic landings. She would turn to him, demurely but with confidence, and beckon him inside with a single finger. He would enter, introduce himself formally, declare their destiny together, and they would sit and tell the stories of their lives, like two old familiar souls who had regular meetings for tea.

The doors opened at the third floor. It was time.

What is it, he thought, about those moments where one cannot escape the present tense? Don's truth was that he preferred to dwell in memories, or better yet, in dreams of the future, or better still, in stories that were on a different track of reality entirely.

We are always in the present tense, of course. Unless we cannot be.

Breathe, Don commanded himself, and then followed the instruction. You've been here before, old boy. You've had your test run. You've ironed out the kinks, and everything has now been arranged for your success. And don't forget, destiny has brought you here. Go forward.

Thus concluding his internal lecture, he strode with shaking confidence toward 327. Was it... no, it was the other direction. Yes, it was coming back to him now. He counted the odd numbers down the hall until he arrived at...

There was someone in the room. He checked the number again. 327, yes. Had he remembered it wrong? No, he was sure that was it. Someone had moved in. Now what?

He checked 329, next door. Also occupied. Then he crossed back to 325, on the other side of his target.

No one was there. He still had hope.

He could not lower himself directly. This would be an adventurous landing. He tried to think through the logistics as he changed into his hero garb. The best he could come up with was a sort of diagonal swing. He could picture it in a comic book, but after his last trauma, he doubted that his approximation of the physics would turn out well.

But he had to do this. No turning back.

He affixed the rope to the railing, feeling very hopeful, though people tying ropes to ledges are likely to be people who have given in to the ultimate despair. He hadn't really pictured this swinging around bit as part of his hero practice, but the angular approach might actually be more aesthetically pleasing.

He tried not to overthink it this time. Trust in destiny, he told himself. All will be well. He gripped the rope tightly with both hands, climbed over to the outside of the balcony, and jumped.

He didn't get far. The length of rope between his hands and the balcony was ridiculously short, and he found himself dangling off the edge, kicking his feet in the air, trying to find purchase on the vertical stucco.

When he had succeeded well enough at becoming a wall-walker, he looked at the angle of the rope and felt great disappointment with his planning. He must let out a much greater length before swinging out again. As he made his visual calculations, he realized he was becoming adept at moving about on the wall. Perhaps this would become part of his hero practice after all. Blessed destiny, which puts us in uncomfortable positions only to teach us better things in life!

His new approximations made, he prepared to swing over with much less anxiety than his first attempt. Yet another reason for his providential failure! He nimbly made a few side steps away from his target, and then moved decisively, newly baptized vertical hero that he was.

And it was enough. He swung over the railing of 227 and let go of the rope, landing mostly on his left foot, his other three limbs windmilling in the air, as he tried to suppress a verbal _Whoa Whoa Whoa_ and struggled to regain his balance.

But there were no crashes. And he managed not to fall down all the way. And he saw Dolores jump.

Not the alarm, he thought, he begged. Please, don't sound the alarm.

For a moment, neither of them did anything but look at each other. Then Don raised one hand halfway, and gave a very tentative, sheepish wave.

Dolores waited a moment, then raised a hand herself, and waved slowly in return. Then she turned her hand to give a beckoning gesture, still cautious, but also unmistakable.

Don slowly reached for the handle of the sliding glass door, and pressed to the side with his fingers. It didn't budge.

Still trying to maintain what little heroic composure he had left, he pressed harder, trying not to let any strain appear in his face.

Dolores started to get out of the bed.

No, thought Don, I mustn't let her do that. Even if the door is locked, there must be some way to spare this good woman a painful walk across the room, wheeling an IV pole all the way, tubes dangling.

He pressed harder, with both hands now, risking comedy.

The door was firm. It's on a track, he thought. If perhaps I can lift it, change the angle, surprise this inanimate obstacle...

The door lifted just enough to clear its latch. Roughly, it submitted to a sideward slide. Dolores stopped her progress, impressed with Don's prowess (or so Don hoped). She returned to the relative comfort of the hospital bed, as he stepped cautiously, chivalrously, into the room.

"Please," she said, "pull up a chair, since you've gone to so much trouble."

Her voice was not quite what he had pictured in his auditory imagination. It was in the low alto range, with a bit of gravel. But, come to think of it, he hadn't imagined the sound of her voice at all. Strangely, all his scenes of her were mute, as though when she spoke, it was all at a distance, or part of a pantomime. What a curious thing the imagination is, thought Don. It certainly makes its own theatrical rules.

But he did find her voice beautiful, if a little rough.

"You might want to close the door, if you don't want people seeing you in that get-up," she suggested.

"That's very thoughtful," said Don, "thank you."

He closed the door and pulled up the chair near the bed, where she had settled back in.

And so, though nothing in the scene had thus far played out like it had in Don's daydreams, they sat together, and told the stories of their lives, like two old familiar souls who had regular meetings for tea.

* * * *

Chapter 12

Because he was a man of empathetic spirit, Don tried to picture what all this had been like from Dolores's point of view.

No doubt, he thought, her first impression must have been that I was some kind of stalker, for there is a fine line between a man of wicked intent and a masked hero who alights upon a woman's balcony. And the sad commentary on our present world is, the masked hero is by far the rarer case.

The two of them discussed a curious phenomenon around her initial reaction to his first appearance: that her instinct to survive (before she understood the chaste purity of his motives) would still be so strong, even when her survival had been pronounced a hopeless pursuit.

Metastasized ovarian cancer was the specific pronouncement. She was admitted to the hospital for surgery on December 20th, to remove a lump that she hoped was a benign cyst.

"Oophorectomy" should win an award as the most comical-sounding word for the least comical event. Dolores awoke from her surgery in horrible abdominal pain, despite the defense from her medications, to the news that she was going to die.

Don's heart rushed to surround hers when she told him that news. He did not think his love for her could increase beyond its extreme, but it did at that very moment. He held her up in his heart with all the energy he could project, so that she would not fall into despair. I shall certainly have my own grief with this, Don thought, but for now, I am needed. My strength is needed. Destiny has, once again, sent me to a place that requires extraordinary measures.

He was surprised to learn that Dolores was nearly alone in the world. She had no siblings, and her parents were no more. Her husband fled the marriage six months ago when her health showed suspicious signs of something amiss.

"I guess," she said aloud to Don, "he was right to think I was damaged." This pierced Don's heart. The husband was fearful, yes, and he found a younger, healthier woman to comfort him, what he apparently required to bolster his inner weakness.

"But this was no reflection on you," Don told her, "and does not vary from the larger truth that we are all damaged."

Her friends were a select few. Her closest one, Sharon, who had given her a ride to the hospital, seemed from Dolores's description to be the hyperactive sort who could not find time to visit.

So, it occurred to Don, perhaps this relationship we have embarked upon means different things to Dolores than it does to me. I am, after all, a realist. And I am not so controlling that I would insist on anyone taking my point of view. She may just be glad for some company. She may be amused with my eccentricity.

He believed, however, in his core, that she was his true friend.

Don had never felt so at ease with a female outside of his family.

They spoke with such ease, such openness. Don did not have to worry about what cue in the female language he might be missing. He did need not speculate about what comes next.

He knew very well that nothing came next. They could just be.

Perhaps, thought Don, our connection springs from our shared struggles against the impossible. When he compared their battles, however, he felt humbled by the contrast. His foes had not been so daunting.

He vowed to raise his aspirations, to take on something more worthy of her.

And in this way, the meeting with Dolores exceeded Don's expectations. He had arrived hoping for a lady whose courtly kerchief he could hold near his heart on his adventures. But destiny had led him to the living muse who would guide him to his ultimate heroic fulfillment.

She was not merely his love; she was his guide. She was his Beatrice and his Virgil all in one. Any Inferno he might face would be nothing.

He touched only her hand, lifting it lightly with his, and venerating it with the briefest brush of his lips. He knew he would probably never touch any other part of her pained body. And yet, when he looked on this extraordinary gift, he was more than content.

* * * *

Chapter 13

The night Don visited Dolores, he returned home a deeply contented man, and had the most satisfying sleep his life.

When he awoke, it was already mid-afternoon. This did not bother him in the slightest. His spirit was buoyed in ways he had never felt before.

Don explained to Pancho the revelatory nature of his visit with Dolores: that no element of her reality had dissuaded Don from his ideal image of her, even when they were in apparent conflict. Her voice was not what he had expected, and some of her opinions were surprisingly pointed. But she was, as he had always known, a good person with a warm heart and a graceful intelligence. And he loved the reality of her all the more.

Her acceptance of his company was an even greater affirmation of heroism than he had ever received before.

This must have been apparent to Pancho, though the particulars of the story seemed to be lost on him. All the smiling and nodding did not hint at deep comprehension. But Pancho listened patiently before replying, "Are you feeling so high that you'll actually apply for that janitor job at the Fiberglas Tower?"

This deflated Don considerably. He was well prepared for heroic missions around the Tower, but the mundane business of a job application depressed him. Love is like this; it feels so impossibly grand that one has little tolerance for the humdrum realities of normal life.

"Are you one to speak of job-seeking?" replied Don.

"I was just trying to help," said the sheepish Pancho. "I know you've been meaning to do that. Maybe you don't want to anymore."

"I am still divining my strategy," answered Don. "It may be advantageous to remain a complete outsider when I patrol that area. Besides, it's too late in the day. My nocturnal adventure has set us into the late afternoon."

"Okay," said Pancho, shrugging, "you can do it any way you want."

But inside, Don did not believe himself. His heroic euphoria, he realized, made him impatient with his janitorial job, and interviewing for a new one required a type of energy that he could not summon.

"I may need to patrol the Tower area today," said Don. His heroic energy needed an outlet to distract him from the glum feeling of gray necessity.

"Can I come?" perked Pancho.

"If you can keep up," said Don.

"Maybe I could keep up better," said Pancho, "if I had a bike."

"Perhaps," nodded Don.

"Except I never learned to ride one," said Pancho.

Don could not hide his surprise. "I didn't think it was possible," he said, "to grow up an American child and not learn to ride a bicycle."

"Yep," said Pancho, presenting himself as an example of this, with his arms outstretched, "it's possible. O' course, I didn't know I'd be a sidekick later on."

Pancho saw Don's scowl, and understood that it was a mistake to address this sidekick question directly. At least Don was no longer at the phase of outright rejection, and had moved into tacit nonresistance. But it was best not to push it.

"Maybe something with three wheels," diverted Pancho.

"Yes, that may be a solution," agreed Don, wheeling Nancy toward the door and leaning her against the wall.

Pancho wanted to get up out of his chair, but Underfoot had settled onto him, having discovered this great new source of perpetual warmth.

As Pancho struggled with feline logistics, Don assembled his hero costume around him. He would not apply his mask or reveal the Q on his chest until they were some distance from the apartment, of course. It would not do to have a neighbor see the great Don Q. Public emerging from his apartment door.

Pancho converted his hands into the world's most subtle forklift, and tried to move Underfoot's curled-up body without disturbing him. The effort failed less than halfway through the motion, though, and the cat resentfully leapt down from Pancho's hands.

When they finally found themselves sufficiently assembled to trundle out the door, they were met on the stairwell by a familiar face. Familiar to Don, anyway, or to the vague cloud of his memory.

"Iris Green," she prompted, when she interpreted Don's look as confusion. "We met at the Laundromat."

"Yes, of course," said Don. "Hello."

Iris's green eyes darted briefly to Pancho, and then back to Don. She seemed full of tidings, some message she had saved up to the point of bursting.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot," she said to Don, as though the two of them were alone. "I was thinking I shouldn't really worry about the janitor thing. I mean, you're a nice guy. That's all that should matter, right?"

The notion that she might be seeking a courtship was news to Don, though he now realized that it would explain some of the strangeness at the laundromat.

Thus enlightened, he decided to clarify things gently.

"You would have no way of knowing this, good Miss Green," he explained, "but I am already attached."

Iris's eyes darted to Pancho again. "I can see that," she said.

Truly? thought Don. She can see the glow of love around me? And she, nearly a stranger. This is still more evidence that Dolores is a gift from above.

"I was just thinkin'," Iris continued, "if you ever wanted to try the other side..."

Don's face returned to its confused posture. Other side? Whatever could she mean? And then he concluded that he didn't actually want to know.

"Well," said Don, "we have a fairly urgent errand."

"Oh, don't let me keep you," said Iris, standing to the side.

And the two men bumped their way awkwardly down the stairs past her.

"This ain't over, Sport," Iris murmured as Pancho passed, "not by a long shot."

Pancho smiled and nodded goofily, unaware of what was not over, or even that something had been started.

The outside air was a relief. "Well, that was strange," observed Pancho.

"Yes," said Don, "but reaffirming, in its way."

Pancho had no idea what Don was talking about, but he was used to this state of affairs. He concentrated on keeping up a moderate trot as Don mounted Nancy and pedaled to a slow roll. They had adjusted to each other's pace over time, though sheer mutual will. Don was able to balance his steed as it wobbled slowly, and Pancho was able to emulate a winded, ambling burro.

The trip was one of the most pleasant they'd had yet together, with Don not objecting to Pancho's company, and Pancho glowing from the implied acceptance.

When they arrived at the Fiberglas Tower, it was a minute or two after five o'clock, and workers poured out of the building like they had all lined up at the starting gates of a horse race. And the horses wished to be watered, apparently; most of the workers made straight for the happy hour at several of the chic bars that had come to life in this recent economic renaissance.

In the flood of white-collar workers, Don noticed a strange young man who was dressed quite differently from the crowd. The chaotic swirls of color on his tie-dyed t-shirt were a great contrast to the multitude of button-down collars, and the unkempt hair and faint wisp of a youthful beard indicated cultural roots more in the state of Oregon than Ohio. Don expected to see Birkenstock sandals when his eyes reached the young man's feet, but instead, there were torn cloth sneakers, which conflicted with the patent leather shoes that surrounded him.

The young man was certainly out of place, but he did not seem to be lost. Rather, he studied the crowd around him, as though waiting for someone or something specific.

That someone and something appeared a minute later, in the form of a suited man with a brown briefcase. This man fit in with the crowd in most superficial ways, but also stood apart, his energy exuding an aggressive alpha-male vibe within this herd. The other button-downs parted and made a path for him to march through.

The tie-dyed youth, whose eyes had been shifting broadly to cover the entire field of view, now focused exclusively on this one man, and began to walk in his path, as though determined to give him an important message.

"I wonder," Don said aloud, "if that young man is a delivery boy of some kind."

"He's the only one who looks like he should be working for a company that makes green energy," observed Pancho, "and he probably doesn't."

The next event proved Don to be partly correct: he was a delivery boy, but the sort who was picking up, not dropping off. A few steps behind the man with the briefcase, the tie-dyed boy broke into a run, and carried the case with him like a relay runner would take a baton. The owner of the briefcase took only a split second to fly into a sputtering purple rage. He shouted unintelligible curses, and began an incompetent pursuit of the young thief.

"Cover me!" shouted Don, and Pancho, fumbling for the meaning of this order, spread his arms as wide as he could in front of his friend. This was accidentally the right thing to do; Don ducked behind Pancho's girth, and slipped his helmet off briefly so he could slip on his mask. The helmet returned, the Q revealed, he pressed the pedals on his bicycle and rolled into pursuit. Pancho followed as quickly as he could, but allowing him to keep up was no longer Don's priority.

The thief dodged fluidly, flexibly through people, making only the narrowest rivulet of a path for Don to follow in. Thus it was an entire block's distance before Don could get full speed from Nancy. Even then, the young man was surprisingly difficult to keep up with. Don panted with the immediate fatigue of his age as he exerted himself. What could I have done, he thought, if I had begun my heroic journey thirty years earlier? But he dismissed that notion, remembering the role destiny was playing in all of this.

Suddenly, the thief pivoted nimbly and turned a sharp corner into an alley. Don had to hit the brakes to make any kind of turn, and very nearly slammed into the far wall while attempting the maneuver. There were advantages to being on foot, and the thief seemed determined to use all of them.

It took Don a moment to get up to speed again, and by then the thief had turned out onto another street. So he wanted to play zigzag, did he? Don would have to raise his game, and take faster, riskier turns.

The briefcase-bearer was not out on the open street for long before he ducked down another alley. Don saw it, aimed for the dark opening, and bent Nancy to the proper sideways angle for speeding around the corner into the shadows.

The shadows, it turned out, contained a protruding set of buttocks. The young man, apparently thinking he had finally lost Don, stopped to catch his breath, and as he stood there, panting, his hands resting on his knees, was surprised to find the front tire of a bicycle colliding with his posterior.

The force and strategic placement of the blow vaulted him over the briefcase that he had placed on the ground only a moment earlier, and after a short flight, face-first onto the ground.

The surprise of the situation stunned Don as well, and it took him a few seconds to adjust to this new slapstick reality and to realize he should pick up the case that was right in front of him.

"Ow," said the thief, examining his scraped palms after their rough slide.

"You should not take what is not yours," pronounced Don.

"Tell that to the giant," said the injured young man, trying to rise to his knees.

"To the what?" asked Don.

"BreezeGiant," answered the youth. "You might think you're doing a good deed, but you have no idea what these guys are up to."

"And who are you," pressed Don, "to be passing judgment on these people, so that you've resorted to common thievery?"

"EarthOmega," answered the young man.

"Earth who?"

"EarthOmega. We've been tracking these guys since before they moved to Toledo."

They could both hear a new set of shoes running in their direction.

"Look," said the young man, "I'm outta here. Just look inside that briefcase. Get it to the press. Then contact us if you can. We're on the Internet."

Sure enough, the footsteps proved to be those of the briefcase's owner, who was perspiring and red-faced with exertion and anger, after sprinting several blocks in Italian designer dress shoes. He saw the case-snatcher fleeing at the far end of the alley, and Don, holding the prize.

The sight did not appear to cause the man any relief. His anger was bursting out of his eyes and through his clenched teeth.

"Give it," he demanded and Don suddenly had the feeling that giving it was not a good idea.

"After I have gone to the trouble of recovering your property," said Don, "you could at least be polite, if not outwardly grateful."

The businessman's rage rose from high to boiling over. "Give me the fucking briefcase, NOW!" he shouted, as though this were an improvement in his etiquette. He also seized the handle of the case, which Don still wrapped in his arms and held flat against his chest.

The businessman tugged mightily. Don held on.

"ALL... I'm ASKing..." said Don, the tugs pushing extra accents out of his lungs, making strange beatnik poetry out of his common words, "is for YOU... to ASK... NICEly..."

On this last word, the briefcase was finally wrenched from his grasp, his hands abrased from the forced exit.

"Goddamn freak!" screamed the businessman. And, to Don's great surprise, the man struck Don on the side of the head with the case. Don's helmet rolled a few feet away on the alley floor with the force of the blow, while Don watched it in disbelief.

The man's hatred was not yet spent. The case came down on Don's now-unprotected head, again and again, while the assailant spewed enough vile language to offend a sailor in a brothel.

Don, blinded and in shock, could do nothing but crumple to the concrete.

He did not have a clear sense of time then. He had no idea whether hours or seconds had passed when he heard Pancho's voice.

"Don! You okay, man?"

"I think I am," replied Don, though this came out more slurred than he had intended.

"Looks like you must've caught the guy and gotten the briefcase back," said Pancho.

"Yessh," said Don, who then made a more conscious effort to focus on his verbal articulation.

"That guy," said Pancho, "I saw him with the case, but I have to say, he didn't look as happy about it as I thought he was gonna."

"No," agreed Don. "The situation may be more complicated than we had anticipated."

"Tell you the truth," observed Pancho, "the guy looked like kind of an ay-hole. I mean, talk about grump-EE!"

"Maybe," said Don, "it's time to visit the other ay-holes."

And once again, Pancho had no idea what Don was talking about.

* * * *

Chapter 14

After what felt like ten years, the clanging in Don's head had calmed to a minor throb when he sat up in bed. Despite his physical discomfort, his spirit was undaunted, and when a friend from CRAZE would visit him, he spoke increasingly of a return to his heroic mission as soon as possible.

It was precisely this positive attitude that caused nearly unanimous concern among his friends. Every week, the main topic at the CRAZE meetings was how to keep Don off the streets so he wouldn't get himself killed.

Pancho, however, had an entirely different message for Don. It came in the form of a colorful paper booklet, neatly packaged in a clear cellophane sleeve.

"Look," exclaimed Pancho, "it's us!"

Don sat up suddenly at these words, causing a riptide of internal blood to slosh at the front of his cranium.

There it was: _Don Q. Public_ , the comic book, Volume 1, Issue 1. He was pretty sure this was not a dream. His head hurt too much.

"Someone has written of me?" Don was incredulous.

"I'm in it, too," said Pancho. "Sort of. Doesn't look anything like me."

Don slid the slim book from its protective covering, looking at the image on the front. That was supposed to be him? The figure was built with rippling muscles up the V-shaped torso, but it did have the telltale Q on the chest. The helmet was much more stylized, and the artist had somehow gotten the earflap not to pop out. Ah, art! thought Don. You fashion the things this world may only dream of! The gray briefs over the black leotards, and the calf-high, form-fitting boots were nothing like what Don really wore. And this character had a cape.

"Who," Don demanded, "has done this?"

"I was hoping you could read me the names," said Pancho, "and the rest of the book. I'm not so good with spelling."

"As in, reading spelled words?" pressed Don. But he had clearly touched a nerve with Pancho, as he divined from his bashful, squirmy reaction, and so he traded his irritation for some remorse.

"There are no names here I recognize," said Don, returning his gaze to the comic, "but you never know. People use pseudonyms all the time."

"I have a clue," said Pancho, "and probably so do you."

"I assure you, I do not," said Don.

Pancho looked at the concern on Don's face, and thought it best not to delve into his long sessions with El Sid, and what they may have produced.

"Well," said Pancho, "probably something dreamed up by one of your fans. Price of fame, y'know."

"Or the cause of it," said Don, still looking baffled.

But despite Don's consternation, the scene that followed was a happy one for both men. Pancho perched on the side of the bed, staring at the comic book, while Don, feigning reluctance and disapproval, read the entire 22 pages aloud to him, as though Pancho were an eager boy about to be tucked in for nap time.

The most shocking thing to Don was that, discounting the overblown depiction of cliché comic book images, the content was mostly accurate. Eerily so.

"How," inquired Don, "did the author know of these things? Very little of this was published in the papers. For the rest, you'd have to be a fly on the wall to know of it. These are events that only you and I witnessed!"

Pancho just shrugged.

"I like the part," Pancho said, "where I have the power to blow myself up like a ball and roll around. I wish I could really do that."

"The entire thing," said Don, "is an uncanny mix of frightening accuracy and ridiculous flights of fancy. The body shapes are just the beginning."

"He really made MagnifiCat look good," Pancho said. "She was all shapely, like Cat Woman."

"The more important point there," interjected Don, "is that the author implies she is my love interest. Which she certainly is not."

"No," agreed Pancho, "but maybe – the Arthur – he doesn't know about Dolores."

"That would seem to be true," said Don.

"I mean, I hardly know about Dolores, either," said Pancho. "I hear you talk about how she's so lovely and perfect, and it's like she came from a dream."

"I assure you," said Don, "Dolores is absolutely real. This is easily proven."

"Oh no, I believe you," said Pancho, "I didn't mean it that way."

"Nevertheless, I shall demonstrate to you that my faculties are in perfect order. We shall go to the hospital together, and you will see the most beautiful woman in the world."

"I would like to see the most beautiful woman in the world," Pancho admitted, "but I already believe you. You have to believe me in my believing."

Pancho wasn't sure he'd phrased that correctly, but decided he probably couldn't improve on it.

That was when they heard a knock at the door. Pancho looked at Don, to see if he were suddenly well enough to hop up and answer it, but failing that miracle, he accepted his duty, and began to struggle to his feet.

It took long enough for Pancho to get up that there was a second round of knocking before he arrived at the door.

He opened it to find a good portion of the CRAZE crowd: Herm was there, and Felonious Monk, and Bad Feng Shui, holding flowers. Dragging behind, like a lugubrious caboose, was Special Ed.

Don was very pleased to see this group of his friends all at once, though he'd seen several of them individually during his convalescence. Underfoot emerged from the shadows, and began to rub his face against Ed's ankle. The feline welcome only seemed to make Ed more uncomfortable.

"It's so good of you all to come," said Don.

"How are you feeling?" asked Herm.

"My head still throbs, but I'll be back on my feet, protecting the city, in no time," assured Don.

Herm and Felonious exchanged a glance then that made Don wonder if he had said something wrong.

Bad Feng Shui held the flowers straight out in front of her. "Where should I put these?" she asked.

"Oh, that is a puzzling question," said Don. "Thank you for bringing such lovely flowers from your shop. But I'm afraid I don't own a vase."

Herm, ever the fixer, turned to Pancho and said, "Why don't you poke around in the cupboards and see if you can find a jar or a pitcher or something. Just has to be large-ish and capable of holding water."

"I'm glad you're resting," said Felonious Monk, who was wearing his clerical collar.

"Yeah," agreed Herm, "resting is... good."

"Oh, come on, guys," grumped Special Ed from the back of the group, "why don't you just come out and tell him why we're _really_ here?"

"Listen to you," Bad Feng Shui shot back, "it took a team of horses to drag you here at all."

"Did it?" asked Don, fascinated by the possible literal truth of this.

"Yeah," snarled Ed, "everybody's supposed to be here for the intervention. Well, I'm here. But Crypta isn't. And her fat friend isn't. And Sid isn't."

"Sid's an enabler," Felonious pointed out. "He shouldn't be here."

"This was all I could find," said Pancho, holding out a souvenir beer stein that was in a pseudo-Bavarian style that said "Kentucky" on it.

Bad Feng Shui took the opportunity to break from the group and fill the stein with water in the kitchen sink. She stuck the flowers in and then arranged them with unnecessary care for the next few minutes, keeping her back to the crowd.

Herm turned to Don. "We're just concerned about you," Herm said. "You got seriously injured, and this was by a respectable businessman with no criminal record and an improvised weapon."

"We really think you should give up these adventures," said Felonious. "You're gonna get yourself killed. The hero identities in CRAZE weren't meant to go this far."

"But who will protect the city?" protested Don.

"How about the freakin' Toledo Police Department?" snarked Ed. Everyone looked back at him, regretting that they'd pushed him into coming.

"And Dolores," continued Don, "she expects me to be a hero."

"And who's Dolores?" asked Herm.

"My true love," answered Don, as though this fact should be plain without explanation.

"And this Dolores," asked Felonious, "she's a real person? Not someone you... invented?"

"Why would you ask such a thing?" Don said, offended, and wondering why this had been questioned twice in a matter of minutes.

Herm and Felonious looked at Pancho for verification. Pancho shrugged. Don saw the shrug, and scowled.

"Maybe that's not important," said Herm. "The important thing is your safety. Now, you know you don't have any super powers, right, Don?"

"You are correct," said Don. "I have never pretended any such thing."

"So there's really nothing to protect you in these dangerous situations," said Felonious.

Don nearly raised the point about his helm of power, but that having so recently failed him, he thought better of it.

"My destiny," he said. "I am protected by my destiny. I have had many confirmations of this."

"And what makes you so sure?" pressed Felonious.

"It is difficult to explain," said Don.

"Yeah, it sure is," muttered Ed. Bad Feng Shui, overhearing from the kitchen, moved from a policy of Never Have Sex With Ed to Really Really Never.

"We care about you," said Herm. "We just want you to be safe. You understand that's all we want, right? We're not trying to get in the way of your destiny."

"Thank you, Herm," said Don. "I have always been grateful for your understanding."

"Aren't we supposed to confiscate his helmet or something?" said Ed. "I mean, if this thing is going to have any teeth to it."

No one said anything for a moment. Herm looked at Don, and saw genuine terror in his eyes.

"I don't think that will be necessary at this time," said Herm. "I think Don understands how concerned we are. Don't you, Don?"

"Yes," said Don, "I do. And I appreciate the purity of your intentions."

"Thank you, Don," said Herm. "I'm glad we understand each other."

"He hasn't agreed to anything," said Ed.

Herm turned back to Ed. "Trust is very important," Herm said. "And now I think Don needs his rest."

Ed knew that if he said anything else, at least one of the others would clobber him. He held his tongue until they were outside the apartment.

"You don't just trust someone in general," protested Ed, "you trust them to keep a promise they've made. And Don didn't promise a thing. Gawd, you guys _never_ listen to me!"

"We heard you, Ed," said Felonious with a very unpriestly impatience. "Now shut the fuck up."

"Like Father Felonious said," agreed Bad Feng Shui.

"Look, gang," said Herm, stopping their group walk, "I wasn't just being naïve in there. I could see that we were using the wrong tactics in there. But I have an idea."

Ed seemed to lose his cynicism for a moment. "Tell us!" he begged.

"Well," said Herm, "I don't think the standard intervention will work for Don, since, as Ed pointed out, it would have to be something he'd agree to. I think..."

Herm paused, as though picturing the thought playing out. Nobody else breathed.

"I think I know the one thing that can work."

* * * *

Chapter 15

The entire time he was interviewing at BreezeGiant, Don wondered if he would see his briefcase berserker. He did not think it likely, in his rational mind – the man did not seem the type to be interviewing janitors, nor to have anything to do with that department – yet he thought he saw his angry face in passing about a dozen times that day on a dozen different incorrect people.

The woman who did interview him was, he decided, the most freakishly friendly person he'd met since Iris Green. "Margaret Lamm, Human Resources," she introduced herself, hand extended.

Don shook it gently and did not kiss it.

"Now Mister Manchego, it looks like you have quite a bit of experience. And is there a reason you're making a change from your current company?"

"I like the emphasis on ecology," explained Don, "and your company seems to have a bright future."

This was apparently the cue that Margaret Lamm, Human Resources, needed for her speech. Her eyes took on a robotic glaze, and at the same time, grew large with excitement, a combination Don found difficult to reconcile.

"Ecology, yes!" she launched in. "Here at BreezeGiant, not only do we provide green wind energy to cities, but we do it locally, and with a patent-pending technology that yields one hundred times the energy output of a standard wind turbine."

Don nodded, genuinely impressed by this figure.

Margaret Lamm continued, her hair seeming to rise now a little from the top of her head. "And not only that, the exponential energy output process uses spent fuel from other industries, so it's recycling at the same time!"

Her voice was rising as she spoke. It looked to Don like she was heading for a scream.

"And so we have recycling, renewable energy, and independence from foreign oil, along with efficiency and profitability!"

She was now standing, wild-haired – had her blouse been unbuttoned to that level before?

"It's the perfect company!" she shrieked. "And employees will have the first crack at the Initial Public Offering of stock! Toledo is just a test city! Today, it's proven here! Tomorrow, the world!"

She was a levitating harpy now, eyes on fire, her hair ready to metamorph into Medusa snakes.

Don heard a noise behind him, and turned to see a short Asian janitor wheeling a trash cart similar to his own.

"Viet, this is Don," Margaret Lamm said calmly. "He's going to be joining us."

"Am I?" asked Don.

"Why, yes," said Margaret Lamm, "we're in a pretty big growth spurt right now. All aboard!" Don looked back at her. She was sitting now, cheerful but collected, her hair smoothed, her eyes the color of human eyes.

"Well, show him around, Viet," concluded Margaret Lamm.

Viet gave a friendly nod to Don. "Viet Nguyen," he said, extending his hand.

"Don Manchego," returned Don, "pleased to meet you."

They rolled the cart down the hall together, away from the enchantress. "You've done this kind of thing before, then, Don?" asked Viet.

"Yes," said Don, "I'm currently employed at Fifth Third Bank at One Seagate."

"You're currently employed here," smiled Viet.

"Yes, you're right. I have not yet adjusted to that fact. I didn't expect things to happen so suddenly."

"Crazy place," said Viet, "but people seem to be happy here. I think it's because they think they're all going to be rich."

"That does tend to cheer many people," said Don. "What do you think? Are they?"

"I'll believe it when the check clears," said Viet. "That's my policy about everything. Until then, it's just a job."

"That's quite sensible of you," said Don.

"This'll be mostly a building tour," said Viet. "I don't think I need to show you how to throw away the trash."

They rolled into an empty office with four clearly marked containers: one for aluminum cans, one for white paper, one for non-white paper, and one for general trash that did not fit into any of the previous categories. Viet picked up each one and dumped it into the one trash can he had on his cart.

"One moment," said Don. "I don't mean to question your professional duties, my friend, but should not these things, so carefully separated by the office workers, go into separate receptacles?"

"You'd think so," admitted Viet, "but that's not the job. It's all going to the dump."

"So," calculated Don, "the employees only _think_ they're recycling at this green company."

"You got it," said Viet. "Crazy, huh?"

He punctuated this craziness by dumping a bucket of ordinary trash that included apple cores and coffee grounds on top of a pristine bed of white paper that awaited just such deflowering in the big barrel.

Don couldn't believe his eyes.

"But it's a good job," reassured Viet. "The benefits are crazy good, too."

"Oh," said Don, "my last job didn't even have insurance."

"This is great insurance here," said Viet, "no need to pay anything for prescriptions or nothin'."

Impressive, thought Don. That would produce a certain loyalty.

Other loyalty-inducing measures were in evidence around them. Elaborate platters of hors d'oeuvres lay on the tables in every break room, and refrigerated cases of every conceivable soda pop stood open for anyone to drink their fill. Many souls have been purchased with the promised of unlimited free sodas, thought Don.

They had to stop the progress of their rolling cart to give the right of way to a much larger rolling object, what looked like an enormous sideways bathtub, of luxurious onyx-colored marble, on an industrial-strength dolly.

Six strong men wheeled it carefully into a large elevator that stood apart from the rest of the elevators. Its doors opened, revealing opulent wooden paneling inside, and overhead lights that looked like they were designed by a Broadway tech theater wunderkind.

"I didn't notice that was an elevator until the doors opened," said Don. "I rather thought it was just part of the wall."

"It doesn't open very often," said Viet. "It's not part of the original tower. Goes straight to the top."

"To the observation deck?" asked Don.

"There is no more observation deck," said Viet. "That's where the executive penthouse suite is now."

Don remembered his original plan of using the observation deck for his own purposes, and thought of just how much had changed since then.

"So somebody lives up there?" Don asked.

"No, I think it's supposed to be just an office."

"An office with a bathtub?"

"Hey, that's a new one on me, too," said Viet. "But the big cheese does have a reputation for... entertaining."

Whenever there is such a pause before a word, thought Don, what will inevitably follow is a euphemism.

"How nice for him," was what Don said out loud.

He tried to focus on the job at hand, avoiding the distractions of decadence, as he and Viet moved from office to office. Each time Viet would dump the papers into the barrel, Don would cock his head sideways, as though trying to read each piece on its way down.

This will never do, he thought.

"How about," Don said, "if I were to get another barrel, put the paper into it, and see to the recycling myself?"

"Wow," said Viet, "that's some initiative you're showing on your first day. You must be quite the corporate climber."

I have been called many things, Don thought, but never that.

"Don't see why not," said Viet. "I'll show you where the barrels are."

"I will also need a room," said Don, "to separate the white paper from the other paper. The recycling processes are different."

"Yeah, no problem," said Viet. "Let me show you where we've got some space in the basement."

When Don was completely set up for his Herculean labor, with barrels full of papers and private space to sort them, Viet left him alone, with an encouraging but puzzled smile, saying "Knock yourself out." The very suggestion made Don's head throb a little extra as he thanks his new friend for his good wishes.

He started reading the papers, slowly and carefully at first, not wanting to miss any evidence of malfeasance on the part of his new employer. But as he progressed at the pace of a crippled snail, he realized that there were trigger words he could scan for more quickly that might indicate the smoking gun he sought.

Soon, he was an optical analysis machine, rapidly covering the content of many memos, slamming each one into the barrel of white paper as it failed to impress him.

Pleased as he was with this rare efficiency, he knew that the process would still take him all night. Pancho might be worried. That would be, thought Don, if Pancho managed to stay awake at all. And thus comforted, Don removed all distractions from his mind, made pure now by the pursuit of justice.

* * * *

Chapter 16

Don arrived home in the early morning light to find Underfoot and Pancho in perfect slumbering symbiosis. The cat was centered on Pancho's belly, and each mammal was warming the other, as well as providing reassuring vibrations in the snoring-purring exchange.

The door slammed, not through Don's intention, sending all four limbs of each sleeping creature outward to the four corners of the room, and transforming eye slits into round saucers of alarm.

"I've found it!" proclaimed Don.

"Wha?" snorted Pancho.

"The smoking gun," said Don, "or more accurately, and disturbingly, the smoking mushroom cloud."

The mention of mushrooms made Pancho hungry, and curious. "Did you just get here?" he asked.

"While you slumbered," said Don, "I have been as diligent as a colony of ants. Nocturnal ants, at that."

"That doesn't make things any clearer," said Pancho.

"I went through stacks of papers at BreezeGiant," explained Don.

"Oh yeah," remembered Pancho, "how'd your interview go?"

"Pish," said Don, "we are well beyond the interview. Though it went well enough, as destiny would have it."

"So," said Pancho, "keep in mind I haven't seen you for a while."

"You're too right, my friend," said Don. "It's just that... well, I got the job immediately, much to my surprise, and in getting the tour from Viet, another janitor..."

"What's the part about mushrooms?" interrupted Pancho.

"You see? That's it!" said Don. "I was able to peruse a large stack of memos under the guise of recycling them, when I had a moment of Eureka!"

Pancho's blank stare spoke volumes.

"I've found," explained Don, "that BreezeGiant is using nuclear materials in its windmills! They mean to blow up Toledo!"

Pancho, normally the credulous one, just shook his head. "That doesn't make any kind of sense," he said.

"It does! It must! This giant is evil, I tell you!" protested Don.

"They're not that kind of evil," said Pancho. "That's, like, terrorist evil. They're more money-grubbing evil."

"And what documentation do you have to support your analysis?" Don waved a fistful of papers to demonstrate the thorough substance of his own position.

"Just a feeling," Pancho shrugged.

"A _feeling_?" Don emphasized the word, sardonically.

"You know, maybe you should get a second opinion," offered Pancho. "Someone who knows about stuff. Someone you trust."

"That's not a bad idea," said Don. "But who?"

"Maybe Herm," said Pancho. "He's really smart. Or she is."

"And I do trust her," said Don, "or him."

Both men were pleased that tensions between them had faded. They did not enjoy being in conflict.

"So," said Pancho, "you must be tired."

"I'm as giddy as a schoolgirl," assured Don, which only served to confuse Pancho further.

"Hey!" said Pancho, as though a light bulb went on over his head, "Does Dolores know about science?"

"I hope," said Don, "that you do not say that to mock me."

"No," assured Pancho, "I just don't know anything about her."

"You shall," announced Don, "when you meet her face to face."

"When's that?" asked Pancho.

"Right now," said Don. "I have learned anew that there is nothing like immediate action."

"It's pretty early still," said Pancho. "Most people are still asleep. Couldn't we go after breakfast?"

Don checked himself, and checked the clock, and nodded. "You are right once again, my friend," he admitted. "I have been in eternal daytime, and that is not the normal state of the world."

And so they settled down to a pleasant breakfast of cloudy eggs scrambled with mushrooms, and onions thrown in for piquancy. Don told Pancho the whirlwind tale of his new employment, the hypocrisy and decadence he witnessed inside, and the joy and horror of his ultimate discovery.

When both men were refreshed and refueled, they prepared for the short bus ride to the hospital. That seemed more humane to Don than riding Nancy and having Pancho gallop along behind.

Before they left the apartment, though, Pancho raised one of his simple, yet disturbing, questions: "Are you going in your hero mask, or just as your regular self?"

Don sighed deeply. "She has only seen me in my mask, so far," he said. "I know she must see my entire face eventually; that would be the natural thing for one's true love. I just didn't think it would be this soon. But it wouldn't make sense for me to be masked, and have you there bare-faced. So I suppose I must unmask myself for her today."

"Okay," said Pancho, "that would make it a easier in a lot of ways."

"Such as?" asked Don.

"Didn't you have to swing in from the balcony before?" asked Pancho. "I don't think I could do that."

"That would be a lot to ask," agreed Don.

So, thought Don, this is to be a big day in more than one way.

When they arrived at the Sisters of Healing, Don admitted to himself that it was quite a relief not to deal with the mask, the ropes, or the balcony. Yet, at the same time, the anxiety he felt about Dolores seeing his unmasked face was growing by the minute. Would she even recognize him, much less accept him?

Don paused before the entrance and took a deep breath. Pancho paused with him, and also took an audible breath, as though this were a ritual one must indulge before entering a hospital.

"In we go," said Don. "She's on the second floor."

The elevator seemed to ding with extra meaning on their short ride one floor up. Don took one more deep breath as the doors opened, but tried to be quieter about it this time to avoid more imitations by Pancho.

"Room 227," said Don, "this way." And they walked down the hallway to the left.

It was a surreal shock to Don when they found Room 227, for it had no occupant, and no name on the door.

"Something's wrong," said Don, staring at the empty name card on the wall, as though his eye-beam rays had the power to make the correct name appear.

Pancho watched him focus, and internally cheered for his apparent act of conjuring.

"Maybe she moved to a better room," Pancho suggested.

"I don't know why she would do that," said Don, relieved all the same that there might be some commonplace explanation for her absence.

"Should we ask?" Pancho said.

"Ask?" said Don. "Yes, of course. We shall ask."

And they walked down the hall to the nearest official-looking person at a desk with a computer. The young woman was absorbed in something on the computer screen, and her spectacles were filled with the pale reflection of playing cards.

"Excuse me," Don said to the young woman, "I am looking for a patient I have visited here before. Her name is Dolores Grito."

The young woman looked up, and took a tiny earphone from inside her head. A small, tinny version of loud rock and roll leaked from it.

"Sorry," the young woman said, "can I help you?"

"Dolores Grito," repeated Don.

"Naw, I'm Tiffany," corrected Tiffany, pointing to the plastic name badge that was pinned to her shirt.

"We're looking for a patient," clarified Don, "named Dolores Grito."

"Oh, right," said Tiffany, "hang on one sec."

Several secs later, she had shrunk her current playing-card screen so the reflection in her glasses showed instead the green boxes of the hospital's database.

"The name again?" asked Tiffany.

"Dolores Grito," said Don more slowly, in case that might match Tiffany's brain speed.

"Daloras Greeto," repeated Tiffany as she typed the name in. "Nope. No one here by that name."

"She's checked out, then?" asked Don.

"Never been here," said Tiffany. "No record of a Daloras Greeto ever here. I mean, I'm, like, new here? But computers don't lie."

Don did not know what to say. He had thought he would prove her existence to Pancho, but now he could not prove it to himself.

"Are you sure you're at the right hospital?" asked Tiffany, attempting to be helpful.

"Quite certain," said Don. He felt he had to get away from this desk, this machine, this young woman, and out of this building. He needed to think, to focus.

"Thank you for your help," he said briskly to Tiffany, and marched toward the elevator. Pancho trotted after him.

"Maybe the computer lost her," comforted Pancho.

"The problem is," Don said, " _I've_ lost her. I don't know where she is. I don't know how to get ahold of her. I don't know..." Here he paused, almost unable to say it: "...if she is alive or... not."

Pancho could not think of the right thing to say, so he patted his friend on the shoulder.

As they walked outside into the daylight, Don turned toward Pancho and said, "I spoke to you of her _before_ I was struck in the head with the briefcase, yes?"

"Oh yes," said Pancho, "it was way before that."

Pancho could see Don checking a possibility off of a mental list, with some relief. But he could also see that his friend was still deeply disturbed.

Don took Pancho by both shoulders and looked him directly in the eyes and said, "She exists."

"I know," said Pancho.

"It doesn't matter what computers say," said Don. "It doesn't matter what the world says. There are some things I just know to be true."

* * * *

Chapter 17

Talking with Herm was always a pleasant, enlightening experience for Don. They met at the café that adjoined El Sid's shop, and while Herm drew stares from onlookers, or rather Herm's bi-gendered costume did, Don remembered his question about the subtext of coffee dates with MagnifiCat, and hoped Herm was not suspecting illicit motives.

He need not have feared. Herm was, as usual, a comfort and an inspiration, deflecting the stares of strangers with a self-confidence that was as good as a force field.

Herm did seem to be a little distracted, though, possibly by something unrelated, a far-off thought.

"Thanks for getting me these papers in advance," said Herm. "It was quite a lot to read."

"And I appreciate the attention you've given them," said Don. "Nuclear physics is not my specialty."

"Nor is it mine," said Herm, "but there's enough here for a generalist. Fortunately, most of these memos are directed at executives, so they had to be dumbed down a bit."

Herm paused, suddenly aware of the implied insult to Don, but the eager look on his face betrayed no slight.

"Well?" said Don.

"The documents are interesting," Herm said. "They definitely seem to be using spent nuclear material as part of their process."

"But why," asked Don, "would they want to blow up Toledo?"

"Oh, I don't think they do," Herm laughed. "There's not much money in that. There are other uses for this stuff, and other problems to go with it."

"Problems?" asked Don.

"It's hard to say from this," said Herm, "but if they're getting their big boost in energy from spent fuel rods, I'd hope they're encasing them in some leak-proof way. In any case, they're taking an awful risk of radiation poisoning in the neighborhoods where they're placed."

"So," Don tried to wrap his mind around this, "it's dripping poison."

"Not dripping, probably," explained Herm, "but there's a possibility that it's emitting rays of radiation into the air."

"Rays?" Don clung to the word. "It's a Death Ray?"

"Well, that's a dramatic way of putting it," said Herm, "but yeah. It's really pretty reckless of them to put it into a residential area, no matter how they're insulating it."

Then Herm looked like a far-off thought came suddenly closer.

"You know," Herm said, "a Death Ray sounds kind of super-villain-ish. As a hero, I can see where that would concern you."

But Don was lost in his own thoughts. "Radioactive rays can cause cancer, can't they?" he asked.

"Yes," Herm said, "that's true. The cancer rates around the Chernobyl accident were off the charts."

Don thought of Dolores, of her weakness and pain, of the wrongful death she faced in her relative youth. What kind of fiend would expose people to this deliberately, just to make money?

"I heard a rumor," said Herm, "about a pretty bad villain who's coming here."

"Coming to Toledo?" asked Don.

"Just arrived," said Herm.

"Just arrived," pondered Don. "Just like BreezeGiant."

"No," said Herm, "I mean a real villain. Guy's name is Doctor Shock."

"That does sound like a villainous name," said Don. "Does Doctor Shock sound like someone who would have a Death Ray?"

"Sure," said Herm, "sounds like it to me."

"Which would mean it's the secret identity of someone at BreezeGiant," said Don.

"I don't know if you can be sure of that," cautioned Herm. "Might just be a coincidence. Doctor Shock just sounds like a real arch-villain, no corporate sponsorship needed."

"A real arch-villain? Not just someone exploring an identity, like Felonious Monk?" asked Don.

The mention of Felonious seemed to fluster Herm for half a second. "Um, no. I mean, definitely not Felonious. Some other guy, totally."

This was not precisely Don's question, but he chose to move on.

"Perhaps you are right," said Don. "I shouldn't jump to conclusions prematurely. Still, this is a compelling enough coincidence to warrant investigation. I shall look into it immediately."

He stood to take his leave.

"Wait!" said Herm. "Don't go yet. There's another thing... in these papers..."

"Then I shall stay and listen," said Don, sitting. "And let me reiterate how grateful I am that you've helped me in this way. I trust you like I trust no other."

Herm's face reddened with humility, or perhaps with something else.

"Hang on," Herm said, looking down at the stack of memos, riffling through them chaotically. "There was something..."

It was at that moment that Pancho burst in through the door, waving a small piece of paper.

"Don! Don!" Pancho shouted. And then, calmly, "Oh, hiya, Herm." He stood next to their table, perspiring as though he'd had the workout of his life.

"Don, you've been challenged!" said Pancho. "There was this terrible voice!"

Don and Herm were grateful for his short stature, for it meant they didn't have to look up far from their seated positions to see his face, as his stubby, sausage-like arms gesticulated around his spherical body.

"Calm down, my friend," said Don. "What about this voice?"

"Oh, it was awful!" said Pancho, with genuine terror in his face at the memory of it. "It came through the door at home. It sounded like Darth Vader, but without the breathing thing. Actually, not like Darth Vader at all. Just really low and electrical, like a really low-voiced robot or something."

"What did it say?" asked Don.

"It said," and here Pancho put his paperless hand over his mouth, to imitate the voice, "Don Q. Public, you must meet the challenge of Doctor Shock in three days' time, or be considered a coward and not a hero through all of Toledo! Behold, the details of my challenge, which I shall now slide under the door!"

"He slid a challenge under the door?" asked Don.

"Oh yeah," said Pancho, remembering the pertinence of the paper in his hand, "here." He handed the message to Don, crumbled, smeared, nearly repristinated back into pulp by Pancho's sweaty grip.

The message was still legible enough, a simple computer printout in the ugly Times Roman font, with the date, time, and location of the proposed battle: in a warehouse near Maumee Bay, and indeed, in three days.

"This voice," said Don, "was it entirely disembodied, or did you see anyone?"

"I didn't see Doctor Shock," said Pancho, "but I know what he looks like."

"And how is that?" asked Herm.

"Well, no way was I going to open the door," said Pancho, "but after the paper got slid under, then Underfoot got curious and started sniffing and clawing, trying to pull the door open. I just squeezed my eyes shut, so he wouldn't let the voice inside."

"And did he?" asked Don. "He's such a clever cat."

"Well," said Pancho, "that was the scariest part of all. I think the door wasn't closed all the way, because when Underfoot pulled on it, it swung open."

"And you saw..." prompted Don.

"Felonious Monk," said Pancho.

"You saw Felonious there?" pressed Herm.

"Yeah," said Pancho, "I asked him if he'd seen anyone by the door, and he said he just got there, but there was some guy in a yellow suit running away."

For some reason, Herm looked relieved at this answer.

"So, the voice came from a man in a yellow suit," said Don. "Did he get a look at the face?"

"No," said Pancho, "it was the kind of suit that covers the head and everything. Felonious told me when I asked if the suit came with a tie. I guess he didn't mean that kind of suit."

"So Doctor Shock wears a yellow suit," said Don, trying to create the picture in his mind. "Did he say anything about a Death Ray?"

"No," said Pancho, without much confidence, "or at least I don't remember that."

"Maybe you should bring the Death Ray up at your meeting. I mean, your _battle_ ," said Herm. "You know, make it a condition of your victory."

"How do you mean?" asked Don.

"Well, the way these things usually work," explained Herm, "is that each of you puts something valuable on the line, something you'll give up if you lose."

"And I could force Doctor Shock to give up his Death Ray?" asked Don.

"You sure could," said Herm, "and also to give up his evil ways, just in general."

"What would Doctor Shock ask from Don?" Pancho wanted to know.

"Oh, it probably doesn't matter," said Herm, "Don doesn't plan on losing, do you, Don? You could put anything on the line, if destiny is on your side."

"I appreciate your confidence, my friend," said Don.

Herm smiled, a little ambivalently.

"Is there a way to respond to the challenge?" asked Don.

Herm, who seemed to know all about these matters, said, "I think you just show up."

* * * *
Chapter 18

The period that followed for Don was not without flashes of fear, but those moments were overcome by the whelming warm blanket of destiny. Don's thoughts only rarely went to the terrors of the largest combat of his career; more often they went to the perfect falling of puzzle pieces in his life, like a divine game of Tetris.

If Don was slightly ambivalent about the battle with Doctor Shock, Pancho was extremely so. He wanted to ask Don directly if he could attend as an official sidekick, but the mission sounded so dangerous, a big part of him wanted the answer to be No.

He found that the best approach to the subject was sideways.

"You know," said Pancho, "I wonder if I should have more of a costume when I'm being The Chameleon."

"You have your bright green finery," said Don. "Do you feel you need more?"

"I don't know about this Chameleon thing in the first place," said Pancho. "I'm not sure how it got to be my name."

"By accident," said Don, "or destiny, like my name."

"Yes, but how do you _know_?" asked Pancho.

"You do," said Don, "or you don't. Apparently, in your case, you don't."

"I think I should remain open to the possibilities," said Pancho.

"That seems sensible," agreed Don.

"Maybe another four days," said Pancho.

"Interesting," said Don, "that you are suddenly so specific. Why is that?"

This was Pancho's golden opportunity to address his concerns directly, and so of course he remained indirect.

"Nothing," said Pancho. "So, are you doing any special training for your big battle?"

"Preparation," said Don, "is a constant process. I must trust that whatever forces called me to this state will also guide me through each dark valley."

"You're very brave," said Pancho, while wishing very hard that he himself could also be brave.

"I appreciate your support," said Don. Pancho took this as a hint that this may be all of the support that was required of him. Or was this a hint in the other direction, that his support was assumed in all events?

"What about the police?" asked Pancho, trying yet another angle.

"I'm afraid I must face Doctor Shock alone," Don said.

These words brought Pancho both relief and disappointment. "Alone" meant no police, but possibly also no sidekick.

"I mean," said Pancho, "about the memos from BreezeGiant. Don't you think you should tell someone about the Death Ray?"

"Pancho, your advice is invaluable!" said Don. Pancho wasn't sure about that word. Don seemed to be using it in a positive way, but it sounded like he meant "not valuable." English is weird, Pancho thought.

"I strongly suspect that this Doctor Shock is connected with BreezeGiant," continued Don, "but whether or not he is, the defeat of this arch-villain and the exposure of this corporate plot are two separate battles, and must be waged on their own fields."

Don leapt up off the sofa, his body indicating that his mind was springing into action.

"The exposure of this plot," he said, "should be our mission while we await Doctor Shock."

Pancho was confused. "So, we're calling the cops?"

"A simple phone call to the police might be ignored," Don speculated. "What we need is to shine a bright light on this present darkness."

"You mean like bringing it up at the City Council meeting today when the Chief of Police will be there to deliver his annual status report?" asked Pancho.

Don looked as though he'd just seen an okapi for the first time. "Pancho," he said, "how did you know that?"

"I watch a lot of TV when you're gone," said Pancho.

"When is the meeting?" asked Don.

Pancho looked at the clock on the wall, and did some calculations in his head. "Oh, not for another hour," he said.

Don made the rapid decision that his appearance at the meeting should be in costume. Otherwise, he told himself, he would be appearing as an employee of the company, and may well lose valuable access to the building. But the notion that the costume was more dramatic did not evade him entirely.

There was security at the entrance of the municipal building, so Don decided it would not do to be wearing a mask at that point. But he had become adept at quick transformations. Less than a minute in a public bathroom was enough to pull down his mask, replace his helmet, and open his jacket to reveal the heroic Q.

The meeting was already in progress when Don and Pancho arrived and cracked open the door, a living blanket of collective murmurs wafting over the room while someone read out an agenda from a microphone in front. There was certainly some formal procedure here, a municipal government's set of longstanding rules and customs, and though Don did not know what they were, he was sure he would be violating them.

It was this negative assurance that Don transformed into certainty as he stepped into the middle of the room after the woman at the microphone had finished. A complete hush fell over the event as the people took in Don's appearance. Pancho, lurking near the edge of the audience, had a bad feeling.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Don began in his usual anachronistically courteous way, "as you are no doubt already aware from my previous adventures, I am Don Q. Public."

His words echoed in the complete absence of response. Don soldiered on.

"A matter of grave concern has come to my attention, and I think it only right that it should also come to yours, both you, the City Council, and the honorable Chief of Police."

The only sound was the scribbling, off to one side, by a diminutive young red-headed woman with a steno pad. It reminded Don of the scribbling El Sid would do at CRAZE meetings.

The Council members looked at each other nervously, but no one moved or spoke. It was unclear to all of them whose job it was to deal with superheroes who dropped in on meetings unannounced.

Don cleared his throat for his bombshell.

"It is my duty to inform you that our latest corporate citizen, BreezeGiant, which now occupies the Fiberglas Tower, is not the ecological boon it pretends to be."

Now there was the sound of whispering to accompany the scribbling. Was this young red-headed woman a stenographer? wondered Don briefly. No, of course not. Then she'd have one of those minimalist typewriters. But don't be distracted, he told himself. Focus. Focus.

"In fact," his voice cracked a little here, to his instant chagrin, "they have active plans to poison our fair city with their Death Ray!"

"Um," interjected a middle-aged woman on the Council, "is this... what's the right word?... some kind of performance art?"

"I assure you, madam, that I am here only to defend Toledo as its sworn superhero."

Laughter, in groups of people, is an interesting phenomenon. It can start as a few simultaneous background chuckles, but then it may spread like an auditory contagion. Once it reaches that level, nearly everyone in the crowd is infected, whether they wish to be or not.

Don protested this jocular tidal wave as strenuously as he could. "You don't understand!" he shouted, his self-control slipping away like a lump of pork fat, "I have reason to suspect that BreezeGiant is linked to my arch-enemy, Doctor Shock!"

A new wave of laughter now drowned Don's voice. He moved his mouth soundlessly against it; gesticulating his arms only made him feel more pathetic. It was a terrible feeling for Don: throwing himself and his ideals against the world, only to be drowned by the riptide of ridicule. In that instant, he doubted everything.

The woman who had been scribbling now popped a flash bulb in Don's direction, mid-flail. Don knew immediately that it would not be a flattering photograph.

He let his arms go limp to the sides, and sought out Pancho in the crowd, certain that he would be the only friendly face. It took half a room of horizon-scanning to find him, and the look of utter sympathetic horror and sorrow on his friend's face moved his heart. Here is a man who will stand with me in my darkest hour, Don thought. And this helped lighten that hour a little. There was nothing to do, however, but for both of them to walk away.

Pancho waited until they were completely away from the noise of the laughter. Then he took Don by the elbow and looked at him with deep sincerity, and said, "Something good will come out of this."

"Thank you, my true friend," said Don, "but mockery on that scale is difficult to take. I'm usually able to deflect it, but now..."

"Forget them," said Pancho. "You were trying to save them. They don't deserve you."

"And yet," said Don, "I must remember my duties, even in the face of ingratitude."

"I think the missing Dolores thing doesn't help with how you're feeling," said Pancho.

Don stopped and looked at Pancho in astonishment. "You are wise beyond your appearance, my faithful friend," he said, "for you have named the other great chasm in my heart, and perhaps the source of my vulnerability to this public ridicule."

Pancho was at a loss for new words, so he used old ones, if only a few minutes old: "Some good will come out of this."

And something good did come – if by "good" you mean a lion.

* * * *

Chapter 19

Uncaged lions have the power of force fields, even greater than the force of Herm's self-confidence. This particular lion, wandering in the streets of downtown Toledo, was throwing out his force field very effectively, repelling crowds of people in every direction.

The group that ran past Don and Pancho nearly trampled them, but once past, left the two men with a clear view of the beast.

It was a full-grown male African lion, its mane impressively grown out, if a bit unkempt.

"From the zoo?" speculated Don.

"The zoo's, like, five miles away," said Pancho, "but I know there's a circus in town. I was gonna take you to cheer you up from the Dolores thing. But I didn't have any money."

"What a lovely thought," said Don. "Now I wonder what we should do about this lion."

Don took two steps toward the animal when Pancho grabbed his arm.

"Wait," said Pancho, "don't you think we should go the other way? Maybe there's someone we can call."

"Everyone else has gone that way," said Don. "I choose to go this way. And with all of those fleeing people, I'm certain that every possible agency that can be called, has been. Authorities will be arriving momentarily. The window for heroism is narrow."

"Look," said Pancho, "I know the City Council thing was hard. And the thing about not finding Dolores makes everything bad for you. But I'm starting to think you don't want to live."

"Quite the contrary," said Don, "I wish to live fully. And life is risk."

While Pancho tried to puzzle out what Don meant by this, he found himself standing flat-footed, watching Don march directly toward the lion. Pancho found that his feet could not move. He only hoped that the authorities would arrive soon, and that the lion had already eaten.

Don stopped about three feet from the lion, and commanded it to lie down. The lion did, whether from obedience or coincidence, first turning in a circle three times, like a dog.

"Now," said Don, "I wish for you understand that I accept the nobility of your station, and sympathize with the plight of your humble employment."

The lion looked off in the opposite direction. Don could not tell if he was listening.

"I have heard horrific tales of how circus animals are treated," Don continued, "and I can only hope that your experience has been more life-affirming. It must be a very difficult thing indeed for a creature such as yourself to experience confinement, when all of your nature calls you to roam the land freely. I have felt out of place with my nature as well. You must believe me."

The lion still did not respond, or even make eye contact.

"Your present location," Don said, "through no fault of your own, is within the city I have sworn to protect. And while it would be completely within your natural desires to eat the citizens of this place, I must request that you refrain from doing do."

The lion swung his head lazily around to look at Don, and opened his huge jaws. But it was not a roar that came out, only a yawn. It was then that Don noticed the lion was entirely toothless. He also noticed that his breath was terrible.

Don began to speculate, from the lion's lackadaisical manner, that the beast had not escaped from the circus in any frenzied desire for freedom; more likely, it had wandered off out of boredom.

And just as he became conscious of his disappointment in the lack of threat from this animal, Don reminded himself that the lion was toothless, yes, but his strength was still enormous, and one swipe of the paw could do plenty of damage. This was still grave danger he was facing.

"Whoa, mister!" an alarmed male voice shouted behind him. "You crazy? Back away from that thing!"

Don turned to see two Animal Control officers in their white uniforms, one holding a tiny tranquilizer pistol, while the other carried a pathetically undersized net. Did they intend to catch butterflies?

"Hey, Scott," said the one with the tranq gun. He's bigger than I thought."

"He's a lion, Bob," said Scott, who, standing there with his tiny net, had no right to judge his colleague's underestimation. "Of course he's big."

"So," said Bob, "doing the math, if one tranq dart is good for a raccoon, how many is good for this guy?"

"I dunno," said Scott, "maybe he's big as a hundred raccoons? How many darts did you bring?"

"Including in the truck?" said Bob. "Seven."

"And even if we had a bunch," observed Scott, "we'd have to shoot 'em in one at a time."

"So the lion would have, like, fifteen minutes to get pissed and come kill us," said Bob.

"I think we should let the cops handle this," said Scott.

"Cops," said Bob. "Definitely."

It was fortunate for the lion that the cops were not the next party to arrive, as their approach would certainly involve lethal firearms. The next arrival was, instead, the circus truck. It honked its horn persistently, as it tried to inch through the thickening crowd of gawkers. When it finally made it through and into the clear space around the lion, two men emerged from it, one a very tanned bleached-blond dandy, and one decidedly not.

It was the blond man who introduced both of them, with some flair.

"I am Giorgio," he proclaimed in an Italian accent to anyone who would listen, "and this is my assistant, Frank."

Frank rolled his eyes as he set to work arranging the back of the truck for the lion's entry. "Don't worry, he said over his shoulder to Don, as he worked. "He's not really dangerous. Blondie here just likes to pretend he is."

"I could have you replaced," said Giorgio, dropping his Italian affectation and slipping down to his native Yonkers accent.

"No you couldn't," Frank said. "Nelson doesn't listen to you."

"The lion is named Nelson?" asked Don.

"Yeah," said Frank, "as in Mandela. Real peacemaker. Gets bored, though." Don smiled inwardly to hear his hypothesis confirmed.

The police sirens were slightly more effective at getting vehicles through the crowd, but not much more. And the noise seemed to agitate Nelson, who half-stood with his front paws to see where the high-pitched sound was coming from.

The first two officers arrived with guns drawn. "Step away from the animal," said the one with the pistol. Don assumed he was talking both to him and Frank, who were the closest.

"I have a clear shot," said the cop with the rifle. His voice sounded vaguely familiar to Don.

Frank stepped in front of the lion, as though to take a bullet for him. "Whoa whoa whoa," he said to the cops, "I've got this. You guys can stand down."

"Not till the area is secured," said the one with the rifle. Don wondered if he was more interested in public safety or in military conquest.

"Just give me a minute, okay?" said Frank. "I've done this a thousand times."

Giorgio had come off his high horse and was putting a dish of meat loaf into back of the truck to attract Nelson.

"He ain't hungry, Giorgio," said Frank. "He wants his cushy."

Giorgio stood up straight and looked disappointed, like he'd been given a Herculean labor. Then he sighed and went to the front of the truck, returning shortly with a huge, floppy purple quilt that defied manipulation by one person.

Frank joined the effort to wrestle the cloth landmass up the truck ramp. The two of them arranged it on the floor in some prearranged pattern that mystified Don.

"Naw," said Frank, "it's not right yet." And he fine-tuned the folds and wrinkles until they met his satisfaction. Then Frank walked back down to the lion and spoke in his ear.

Nelson seemed to understand, and rose with a bit of effort (Don guessed that the old lion might be arthritic as well as toothless) and walked slowly into the truck, once again turning three times before he lay down on his cushy.

When Frank walked down to close the truck door, Don noticed a pronounced scar across the right side of his face.

"An indiscretion from the king of beasts?" Don asked, pointing.

"What, this?" Frank pointed to the scar. "No, that was from an ostrich attack. Never turn your back on those suckers."

The police, to everyone's relief, had put away their weapons and limited their role to crowd control.

Don bade farewell to his new circus friends and wandered back to find Pancho. He did find him, standing next to a young woman with a somewhat familiar face. It took him a minute to place it, but he realized that it was the red-headed scribe at the City Council meeting earlier in the day. She had already been talking with Pancho for a while, from all indications.

"You were awesome in there," she said to Don, and then thought to introduce herself. "Marjorie Westfal," she said, extending her hand, "but people call me Scoop."

"Pleased to meet you, Scoop," said Don, momentarily considering kissing the small hand, but ultimately shaking it instead. "And thank you for the compliment. The lion, it seems, was quite tame."

"Oh," said Scoop, "I meant at the City Council meeting. Though you were awesome with the lion, too."

"Really?" said Don. "I had the distinct feeling that my appearance at the meeting did not go well."

"That took balls," said Scoop. "No one took you seriously, but you just did what you had to do, in the face of all that."

"Thank you," said Don, wondering a bit at the propriety of this young woman who made casual references to testicles.

"Look," said Scoop, "I'll come to my point. I'm pretty much straight out of journalism school, and I've been assigned to cover City Council meetings for the Blade. Do you have any idea how mind-numbing those things are? When you're not there to liven things up, anyway. Which is almost all the time."

Don could imagine. It sounded pretty bad.

"I mean, I could just photocopy the minutes and add better grammar, and I get the same results," she said. "So I've got an idea. I'll help you, and it'll help me, too."

"Do tell," said Don.

"Okay, you let me do a human interest story on you, and I'll also do some investigation into BreezeGiant. If they're up to something bad, I'll find out. We both win. Deal?"

Don wasn't very keen on the human interest part. He would rather not be a specimen of any experiment, even a journalistic one.

But the offer felt genuine, and might benefit the citizens of Toledo. Don thought it best to be humble, for the greater good.

"Yes," he said. "I think that would have a significant public benefit if we can apprehend them in their corporate malfeasance."

"He just talks like that sometimes," Pancho apologized on Don's behalf.

"Awesome," said Scoop. Don theorized that this was her favorite word.

On the way home, Don and Pancho encountered a small gray schnauzer who was wandering the neighborhood without a leash or owner. Without warning, the dog jumped up and bit Don on the left breast. It hurt a lot.

* * * *

Chapter 20

The dog bite took two days to stop hurting. Don did not mention the dog, or the upcoming battle with Doctor Shock, to Scoop. Some affairs are best left out of the published narrative.

On the morning of the scheduled conflict, nearly noon again, when Don and Pancho awoke, there was an unspoken tension that each man carried within him. Don had his doubts about this battle, but did not wish to submit to fear. Pancho wanted to reassure Don and bolster him, but he didn't know the right words. It was Don who always had the right words.

"How would I tell you," asked Pancho, "that you're going to be fine?"

"You would just tell me, I suppose," said Don.

"But I might do it wrong," said Pancho. "How would I use the right words, and not screw it up, so you'd be really brave tonight?"

"You wish," said Don, "for me to compose an epigram of encouragement to myself?"

"See what I mean?" said Pancho, seizing on the evidence at hand. "Those words were great. I don't even know what they all mean, and I feel better anyway."

Don found that avoiding words altogether for the next few hours suited him best. His thoughts went to the great comic book rivalries, as he tried to gain wisdom from his heroic forebears.

Batman always had The Joker, even before he became Batman. Talk about family baggage; how many supervillains extended back to one's childhood?

Lex Luthor was a hard one to figure out. Sure, he was smart, but how does a normal bald guy go up against a hero who's practically omnipotent? It must have been the restraint of Superman's virtue that prevented Luthor from being crushed or immolated. A genius I.Q. will only take one so far in the face of world-crushing power.

He realized that, though he knew of Doctor Shock's Death Ray threatening the city at large, he had not much idea what the fiend's portable powers were for one-on-one combat. He could deduce from his name that he had some sort of electrical charge, perhaps blue bolts he could shoot from his fingers. How would I combat those? Don thought. Perhaps by an abundance of caution. Or, at the other extreme, boldness.

The risk would be worth taking, in the name of the poor, the commoners of his city. To rescue them from a weapon of evil would be the apotheosis of his destiny.

Don was not ignoring all of the practical parts of this important day. There was, for example, public transportation to calculate.

"Pancho," said Don, "by my analysis, it will take us two busses to get to our destination by the lake. It is too far to bicycle, and you have no bicycle anyway."

"You want me to come?" squeaked Pancho, delighted and terrified. "I thought you said you had to face Doctor Shock alone."

"I shall face him alone," said Don, "but you must be there as my second."

"Your second what?" asked Pancho.

"I have never known," said Don. "I believe 'second' functions as the noun in this case. Anyway, it is the custom with duels. I am certain Doctor Shock will do the same."

"So I'll need my Chameleon outfit?" asked Pancho.

"Yes," said Don, "or whatever you choose in your rolling identity derby."

Pancho seemed very pleased by this turn of events: full inclusion, except for the combat. What could be better?

For the entire bus trip, it was the 1960s Batman TV series that filled Don's mind, particularly because the battle sequences included such striking visual comic book words to accompany each blow. Sock! Pow! Zok! That was how each episode opened, with cartoon representations of the Caped Crusader and the Boy Wonder dispatching thugs. The later pugilistic noise words were even better. Smash! Biff! Zowie!

Don understood this is not the way combat really played out. None of his combats ever had. Yet the overwrought scenes would not stop in his internal theater, and they were a comfort, in their way.

The scene they arrived at, however, was all Dark Knight, the very platonic form of a Christopher Nolan Batman movie set. The rusty, abandoned warehouse by the lake shore was the perfect incarnation of gritty. The warehouse was certainly worn and dirty enough. There were puddles on the ground, and things dripping from the roof, and the sound of chains slowly swinging and clinking.

Don and Pancho stepped inside the dark warehouse and were met with the flash-thud of a bank of spotlights in their faces.

The two men threw their hands up reflexively to shield against the light when they heard... was it soundtrack music? It was exactly that: deep, minor-key melodrama, with strings, brass, and pipe organ, if Don's ear was accurate at all. "This Doctor Shock certainly has a flair for the dramatic," Don said aloud to Pancho, over his shoulder. But Pancho was no longer directly behind him; he had made the swift tactical maneuver of covering the rear exit from the possibility of a sneak attack.

Then, through the vibrant electrical aura, he appeared, glowing in a yellow haz-mat suit, just like the description from Felonious via Pancho, but taller. And the more Don looked, the more odd Doctor Shock's legs seemed, like they had an extra joint, or he was walking on construction stilts. He must have robotic parts, thought Don, evidence that he has sold his humanity for a perceived mechanical advantage.

Pure humanity, thought Don, will overcome this, and Doctor Shock shall rue the day that he sold his fleshy mammal appendages.

"DON Q. PUBLIC," said an electronic voice, "PREPARE TO TASTE DEFEAT."

Mechanized as it was, Don thought the voice sounded somewhat familiar. But that was impossible, this being his first encounter with Doctor Shock.

"Your defeat," answered Don, "is inevitable. For I have been brought here by destiny, which shall not be denied."

"A WAGER, THEN," said the robotic Doctor Shock. Don thought upon how inhuman he must have become to have even his voice replaced by machinery. "IF I DEFEAT YOU, YOU MUST GIVE UP YOUR HEROIC MISSION AND RETIRE TO MUNDANE LIFE."

"And when I defeat you," said Don, "you must give up your evil ways, including your Death Ray, with which you threaten the poor of this city."

"AGREED," said Doctor Shock, "THOUGH THAT HALF OF THE BARGAIN IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE, FOR YOU CANNOT WITHSTAND MY SHOCK RAY."

Don hoped this was not related to his Death Ray, but then he saw the small, pink device that appeared in Doctor Shock's hand. The pinkness of the weapon did not work well with the bright yellow of the suit, Don thought, though he had never been one to be concerned with color coordination.

Doctor Shock held the demure weapon out at arm's length toward Don, and paused in that position, as though he expected something to happen. Don contemplated the wisdom of tackling the mechanical legs. Doctor Shock waited some more, frozen like a statue.

As he faced the Shock Ray, Don wished that he were in a stronger moment of his life. Even the mockery of the City Council meeting would have been less devastating if he hadn't lost track of Dolores.

Where could she have gone? If he had anything from her, the smallest token of reassurance, this battle would be easier to face. He suddenly understood the importance of a lady's handkerchief for a knight of old. The knights were not merely humoring the ladies; there are some foolish activities, like the facing of a deadly foe, that need love to inspire sufficient courage.

Sure, he'd had the success of the lion incident, but that felt cheap. His greatest danger was Nelson's halitosis. And, though he could never admit this to Pancho, when he first approached the beast, before learning of its dental impotence, he truly did not care if he lived or died.

And was that nihilism at play here, now, as he faced down Doctor Shock? Possibly. Destiny seemed a flimsy defense against the very real weapon aimed at him, despite its ridiculous color. He did not think he could laugh at it while screaming in pain from its effects. And once again, he doubted everything.

Doctor Shock shook the Shock Ray a few times with small movements, still holding it toward Don. Then he withdrew the pink thing to examine it, and began addressing it in less dramatic, though still robotic tones: "DAMN IT. WHY WON'T IT... HENCHMAN! HENCHMAN, COME HERE! I THINK IT'S..."

And that's when the Shock Ray went off. An extended pair of springs emerged from the pink weapon and planted their probes in Doctor Shock's left thigh. The villain, whether felled by the Shock Ray or merely by surprise, tumbled off of his mechanical leg extensions and fell to the ground, convulsing and making inhuman gurgling sounds through his robo-voice.

Was that it? Don thought to himself. Was the battle over already? Doctor Shock continued to twitch for a full 30 seconds before he lay in a limp heap of semi-human weakness. Don approached him and shared some good advice.

"It seems," said Don, "that destiny has spoken once again. I now require of you to keep your part of the bargain, and give up your Death Ray. For as you have seen, your own weapons may turn upon you if your cause is not just."

Pancho now emerged from the doorway they had originally entered.

"Did you beat him already?" he asked.

"I must give credit to the higher powers that watch over my fate," said Don.

"Good job," said Pancho. "I was right behind you."

Doctor Shock began to convulse again.

"We had better not touch him," said Don. "The electricity could be dangerous. And I heard him calling to his henchman, just before his fall, so I'm sure he'll be taken care of."

"Okay," said Pancho, "does that mean we can leave?"

"Yes," said Don, "our mission is accomplished. The city will be safe now."

And with that, our hero and his friend walked out into the night, into the sleeping city that remained unaware of its savior.

* * * *

Chapter 21

"You'll never know I'm there," Scoop promised Don. He was a little nervous about letting her attend the CRAZE meeting. A human interest story on him felt risky enough; he didn't want his friends exposed to public gawking, even if Scoop had the best of intentions. But she had assured him she would not be writing about the others without their explicit permission.

Scoop had already proven to be true to her word. She had published two pieces in the Blade that involved Don, and in both, she had been very generous.

Her coverage of the City Council meeting had maintained the bland tone of any other meeting, even while it reported the impromptu visit from a concerned citizen regarding some questionable documents that had come to light concerning local company BreezeGiant. There was no talk of laughter or humiliation or Death Rays. Not even of hero costumes. The photograph she had taken was not published. Don's dignity was entirely preserved, and an average reader perusing the news might even be concerned about these BreezeGiant documents, and hope for further investigation.

The second article was the first installment of the human interest pieces Scoop had spoken of. It was not difficult to convince her editors to run this piece, since at the center of the story was an irresistibly compelling news item: man defeats lion.

The other members of CRAZE had also read this story, and thought it disastrous. All they needed was for someone to take an interest in Don continuing his dangerous adventures for the sake of public spectacle.

This fear was largely behind the icy reception Scoop received from the membership when she was introduced. Scoop, whose intention it had always been to sit outside the circle and be ignored, didn't notice anything awry when this exact thing happened.

Don was pleased to see that MagnifiCat was there, but then remembered the uncomfortable question of coffee, and felt his pleasure tinged with dread.

It was an odd sensation for everyone, having two scribblers on the periphery: Sid scribbling his fiction, Scoop scribbling her non-.

Pancho did most of the talking. Everyone was already familiar with the lion story, but Pancho elaborated anyway, adding bits where the lion leapt into the middle of the street, and Don did the High Noon showdown walk, facing him down like a western gunfighter, including the unlikely chink-chink of spurs that Don wasn't wearing. Don no longer tried to keep Pancho in the realm of truth. It might have been worthwhile if he were even close, but with the bit about the flying tackle around the lion's mane, and riding the lion like a bucking bronco, Don had to trust that the audience would take Pancho's hyperbole with the appropriate caution.

When he got to the part about the Doctor Shock battle, an entirely new set of reactions emerged from the audience. Herm seemed to be hiding Herm's face, and Scoop, who had promised not to interrupt, pushed at the edges of that promise with her eyeballs bursting at Don, as if to say, _Why didn't you tell me anything about this?_

It was destiny, or perhaps divine cruelty, that had Felonious Monk walk into the meeting late, in the middle of this story. He was limping, and looked as if he'd had each muscle individually extracted from his body, run over with a truck, and then replaced in the incorrect position.

"You okay?" asked MagnifiCat, who had not been in on any of the scheming.

"Slept funny," said Felonious, hoping that would end the topic. Herm turned an even deeper shade of red.

Pancho's account included an improvised mirror-shield that Don had fashioned to send the Shock Ray back at the villain. The narrative's increasing distance from reality visibly comforted Herm and Felonious.

The story built up to an enormous dramatic payoff: not only did the hero turn the ultimate weapon against his assailant and wrap a cord around his mechanical legs with a boomerang, but all of the neighbors had gathered around the two of them at the end, lifting Don and Pancho on their shoulders, declaring them the heroes of the city and the immediate lakefront neighborhood.

Then he added a dénouement that made Sid's interest perk up. The crowd had declared that Don was the champion of the city, and that his sidekick, Pancho the Chameleon, was to be the special protector of his own block, where there happened to be a good variety of restaurants that would all show their gratitude with the bounty of culinary delights.

Pancho thought this idea, that he had made up himself, made perfect sense. Don's deputy should be trusted with at least one small proportion of the city that he defended.

After the meeting concluded, MagnifiCat approached Don, and prompted in him the fear he had feared he would fear. He made tense conversation with her on a superficial level, and then was relieved that he had then to face Scoop's anger as a convenient distraction.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a major adventure?" Scoop hissed through her teeth. "I thought we had an understanding! You help me, I help you!"

"I am sorry," said Don, "but I didn't fully understand the details of our agreement. And I feared this encounter might be dangerous."

"More than a lion?" said Scoop. The young woman had a point, thought Don.

"Forgive me," he said, "I was not at my best when I entered that conflict."

"Maybe," said Scoop, "I should just follow you. That way, you don't have to tell me anything."

"Please don't be angry," said Don.

"Sorry," said Scoop, "takes me a while to calm down when I get riled up. It's a red-head thing."

"I can see," said Don, "where you might use your riled-up powers for good."

"They do come in handy, investigating things," said Scoop.

Don and Scoop were both pleased that they had speedily reached an understanding.

"Oh," said Scoop, "I got a text message on my phone from the office during the meeting. Someone has been trying to get ahold of you through the paper. Something about the feature article."

"Oh no," said Don, imagining some unhealthy form of hero worship now loosed on the public.

Scoop looked at her phone, reading. "You know anyone named Dolores?"

* * * *

Chapter 22

Don was pleased that the hospice facility to which Dolores had moved was much more a home than an institution. Her previous abode was actually not bad for a hospital room – it helped that it had been a non-hospital before – but this was still an improvement, a one-story bungalow, with a total of three residents, and lots of privacy.

The building appeared to Don much as she had described it on the phone: a plain, pale green house with a nice patio around the back, which was handy now that the weather was warming up.

Don had made an important decision, and one that still felt right as he prepared to enter the house: he would not wear a mask. Even though he had made this decision once before, when he ultimately did not find Dolores, this time still felt momentous.

He was perhaps even more nervous than he was when preparing for the battle with Doctor Shock, but just as certain that destiny was providing all the right answers.

"Come on in," she said when she saw him. "Looks like we're both unmasked now."

"Both?" asked Don.

"Nothing drops a mask off like a fatal disease."

"Wise words," said Don. "It is very good to see you."

They entered what looked like a normal suburban living room when Dolores suddenly put both of her hands on the left side of her stomach, trying to capture a sharp cramp. "You might not like what you see," she said, through a groan of pain. "I'm not having a very good day."

"Do you have good days?" Don asked.

"Not really," she said, "but some are worse than others."

She punctuated this by holding up one finger by way of excusing herself, and limping back to the bathroom. Don heard the sounds of food being rejected by a contracting stomach. This lasted a couple of minutes, and was followed by the mild sound of sink water gently attempting a recovery.

Dolores walked slowly back out to Don. "Now," she said, "where were we?"

"I repeat, with renewed sincerity," said Don, "that it is good to see you. For it truly is."

"You're from another time," observed Dolores.

"Thank you," said Don.

He extended his hand, which held a fragrant pink old world rose. She took it with minimal fingertips, and breathed the perfume in deeply.

"I love these," she said.

"I'm glad that you do. I love hunting them down for you," Don said.

"I know, they're not easy to find, right?" said Dolores. "I mean, the ones with the smell."

"Makes it more of a quest," smiled Don.

But suddenly it seemed Dolores was not quite finished with her involuntary expulsions. She dropped the rose on a countertop and ran back to the bathroom, unable to excuse herself with any semblance of politeness this time.

Don wondered what to do. Give her space? Go back and help?

He poked his head into the bathroom doorway, where Dolores strained over the open toilet to empty her stomach. Not much was coming up, but her face was red and ravaged from her body's contractions, giving birth to nothing.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" asked Don.

Dolores looked up sharply, surprised to see him. The pain that wracked her body then took control of any social reaction she might have. One more contraction spewed a small amount of pungent stomach acid out of her mouth. She felt like a hideous space alien. As she waited for the next wave, she panted with exhaustion, and a line of saliva descended from her lower lip like a yoyo string. The next wave was not coming, or it was luring her into false confidence for the moment.

Don took one step toward her, and thought of putting his hand gently on her back to comfort her. He chose not to. Any touch might be an irritant.

She caught her breath and turned to Don.

"If you had me on some kind of pedestal," she said, "I think I must have fallen off of it now."

"You know," said Don, "an idealized love for another person is often described in those terms, and it is often advised against, simply because real people cannot live up to the ideals in someone else's imagination."

Dolores nodded. This made sense so far.

"And yet," Don continued, "if there is an affection that is inspired by an ideal, it can also remain in its lofty place, in spite of any earthly events below it. If it is true, that is. It does not alter when it alteration finds."

"I'll take your word for it," said Dolores, lowering the toilet lid so she could sit and rest, "but I don't really get it."

"I'm saying," said Don, "that if I have you on any kind of pedestal, it is the kind that protects you from mundane reality, not the kind that can be destroyed by it. In other words, in my mind, you can never fall off. No amount of vomiting or illness or even death can touch what I feel for you."

He wondered if he should have spoken the word "death." It was the first time he had ever said it in her presence, and it felt wrong to say it in her direction.

Dolores sat quietly for a minute before speaking. "Let's get out of this room," she said. So Don walked, and Dolores limped, back to the living room.

"Tell me," she said, reclining on the couch, "what's been going on with you."

"Well," said Don, "something very important has arisen."

Don told her all about the challenge from Doctor Shock, the battle, and how it felt to him going into such a thing, not knowing where she was. Dolores smiled warmly at this part. But she also spoke with a gentle concern.

"You know," she said, "you shouldn't get too dependent on my presence. There are some practical arguments against that strategy."

"Ah," said Don, "I understand what you mean, seeing as how we are sitting together now in a hospice facility. But that's not quite what I meant."

"Having me permanently gone will be easier than having me temporarily gone?" she asked.

"That is not quite what I meant," said Don. "I must admit, I don't know how I will react when I cannot see you any more. I haven't arrived there yet."

"I don't mean to press that point," said Dolores. "It's just that I do care about how you feel. And I don't know how I can help." She paused, looking at a far-off place. "Perhaps it's best not to dwell on it in advance."

"You may be right," said Don. "Worries are debts we pay double."

Don continued for another ten minutes about his other large, unresolved concern: how to confirm that the Death Ray threat was actually eliminated, having only the vow of a villain to go on so far. Dolores listened with an open mind. But it was also clear her energy was fading.

"Listen," she said, "I've been making plans for when... you know. When I'm gone, I'm just gonna be cremated, and my ashes are going into the lake. My friend Sharon is gonna take care of it. I just thought you should know what the plan is."

"No marker?" asked Don. "No place for... loved ones... to visit?"

"You'll have the whole lake," said Dolores.

"That's a pretty big marker," Don nodded.

"Just..." she began, "I mean, it won't make any difference, because I won't be able to smell anything, but these roses you've brought me..."

She looked as though she couldn't physically speak, even if she knew the right words.

"Perhaps the petals would look nice floating on the lake," suggested Don.

Dolores relaxed her lungs and her back, and sank deeper into the couch. "Thank you," she said. "I know it's not rational."

"So much of life isn't," said Don.

"I'm so tired," she said, "but I don't want you to leave yet. Maybe I can just close my eyes and you can keep talking to me? Tell me some true stories. Not a lot of girls get that."

Don did not know if she meant _his_ true stories or just true stories in general. Perhaps truth itself from men was in short supply.

And so he began to tell her stories that were both wild and true.

She listened, or did not listen, with her eyes closed. But she began to breathe more deeply, and her pummeled body relaxed. Merely the sound of his voice was enough of a warm wave for her to float upon.

As he spoke, Don thought, if stories do no other good in the world but relieve pain, they have accomplished a nobler mission than most other endeavors. My stories are true, but even that doesn't matter.

And the river of his voice flowed gently, and he spoke of being a lone prophet, and then quickly qualified this self-important sounding notion with proper humility, but how that is truly difficult, and how one discovers new friends in hopeless circumstances, and what it's like to speak to a lion, and the difference between the times before and after Doctor Shock, and how protected he felt by destiny during the actual battle, but how he missed her when he could not find her, and how grateful he was for Pancho's true friendship, despite his tall tales, and how he believed his CRAZE friends were concerned for him and how she might also be concerned for him, but how his mission to protect the city, and particularly the poor of the city, who have no voice, was of the utmost importance, even if his own voice was mocked and derided in the process, and he was so glad to have found her again, and that she meant the world to him, and that she was part of his foundation, and how she enabled him to do brave things, but by the time he got to this part, she had fallen all the way into sleep.

Don knew it was a good thing that she did not concentrate on the content of his words, but on the comfort of his voice, because that's the way stories work when narrating someone off to the kingdom of dreams.

Don excused himself from the house silently. She was at peace. This was good enough for him.

* * * *

Chapter 23

Communing with Dolores brought a peace to Don that was something like invulnerability. It was not that he felt he could never be harmed, only that there were more important considerations. He believed that if even certain death could not prevent their affection for one another, there must certainly be nothing to fear in life. He had often heard the proverb that love was stronger than death; now, he felt he understood it for the first time.

Things in life that were weaker than love, however, still nipped at his sphere of protection. There still had been no public reversal of BreezeGiant's Death Ray program, despite Don's resounding defeat of Doctor Shock. He wondered if a fresh approach would be required to keep the people of Toledo safe.

And Pancho had been out of sorts ever since Special Ed had pointed out that The Chameleon was already claimed as an identity, in a villainous, albeit very minor way: some cousin of The Red Skull in an old issue of Captain America. This sent Pancho back to the drawing board on the identity question, though at least now he had an actual desire for originality. This, in its way, was progress.

Pancho's identity crisis was assuaged somewhat by his own appearance in the latest issue of the _Don Q. Public_ comic book. This edition, which featured Doctor Shock standing eight feet tall on the cover, wearing silver instead of yellow, and sending electric bolts in every direction, also had green-capped Chameleon running around the borders of the action, his stubby legs following faithfully the orders of his muscular master Don Q.

The real Don still disapproved of the comic twisting of truth, but that did not prevent him from reading the entire thing to Pancho, just as he had the first issue. And now, after his time with Dolores, the experience of telling a story to another had taken on new weight.

Pancho particularly liked the way it ended, when he was given custody of a block as his reward after the Doctor Shock battle. And this block happened to have on it a teriyaki stand, a taqueria, a burger joint, and an old-fashioned diner that specialized in 1950s-era greasy breakfasts.

Adding to Pancho's joy was the correlation between this block of restaurants and a real one that actually existed in Toledo, so it was a place Pancho could actually go and eat. Perhaps it was the amount of time he had spent around Don, but for Pancho, the borders between reality and fantasy began to fade. Or maybe it was just about the food.

But even Pancho was concerned when Don began to speak of a renewed battle with Doctor Shock "in his other guise."

"I don't know what he means by that," Pancho said to Herm, to whom he felt duty-bound to report.

Felonious Monk, who was also in on the conversation, went a bit pale and looked at Herm, who responded with a quick negative shake of the head.

"I have an idea what he means," said Herm, "but I don't like it."

This threw Pancho into a brief panic, but then he was perversely pleased. "So it's a good thing I came and talked to you, huh?" he smiled.

"Yes, Pancho," said Herm, "it's a very good thing."

The received approval allowed Pancho to get back to his panic: "So what's going to happen?"

"Not sure," said Herm, giving a reassuring look to Felonious. "Don and I had a conversation about the possible identity of Doctor Shock." Felonious didn't get where Herm was going with this, but figured they could have the fully annotated discussion after Pancho left.

"Just be on the lookout," said Herm to Pancho, "for any plans Don might be making that involve our respectable corporate citizens."

"Okay," said Pancho, still not really getting it. "I guess I should go, then."

"Yeah," said Felonious, a little too eagerly.

After Pancho left, Felonious asked, "Did that mean what I thought it meant?"

"Depends on what you thought," said Herm. "He's not coming after you, if that's what you're afraid of."

"Was at first," said Felonious, "not now."

"It's not generally a good idea to attack someone at your new place of employment," observed Herm.

"Yeah," agreed Felonious, "BreezeGiant could be an uncomfortable workplace if we can't find a way to reign this in."

"The good news is," said Herm, "it's probably safer than wrestling a lion, and less embarrassing than disrupting a city council meeting. Though that last one's a judgment call."

"I don't know," said Felonious, "we all hope the next thing will be the anticlimax that'll fizzle his hero phase. But he's managed to get himself hurt before with just a briefcase."

"So comforting," said Herm, "thanks for that."

"At least Pancho's being a good spy," said Felonious. "We've got that going for us."

Felonious might not have expressed such confidence had he been able to view the scene at Don and Pancho's headquarters a short time later. When Pancho arrived back at the apartment, Don was still curious about his strange departure, and so asked where he had gone.

"Nowhere," said Pancho, wracked with guilt, "not to see Herm and Felonious, that's for sure. And we didn't talk about you."

It did not alarm Don at all that his friends would speak of him. Rational man that he was, he understood that they would be concerned for his well-being. It was like having an adopted passel of parents, they worried so.

"You are all," said Don, "like family to me, in all possible ways."

"Wha?" said Pancho, who was inclined to miss Don's meaning under normal circumstances, and more so when Don was speaking aloud the continuation of his internal thoughts.

But Pancho's guilt subsided, and the exotic thrill of the spy role began to rise for him. Don would, on occasion, catch Pancho staring at him across the room with one eye through a rolled-up sheaf of paper, as though this gave it telescopic properties.

"What," Don asked, "are you doing?"

Pancho would take the paper roll and swat at imaginary bugs, once accidentally coming close enough to Underfoot's nose that he earned a _mrowl_ of resentment. Pancho hoped the swatting action would be enough explanation, so that he would need no words.

Once, when Don was speaking on the telephone, Pancho put a glass against the wall on the opposite side of the room, and put his ear up to it, as though this would help him eavesdrop better than just walking closer to Don. Don did not see Pancho doing this, which Pancho thought was a good thing, since he did not have any idea what innocent gesture to use to cover for this.

He was in the midst of this wall-glass maneuver when there was a knock on the door, which frightened him enough to prompt a yelp, a jump, and an extreme uptick in his heart rate. Fortunately, these reflexes also got him away from the wall before Don could look up. He fumbled to keep the glass behind his back, which was a long way around, while Don concluded his phone call.

Pancho, side-stepping his way across the room to keep his front to Don, worked his way to the door to answer it. When he was sure Don was not looking, he set the glass down on a table and opened the door.

It was Felonious Monk, dressed in his black shirt and white clerical collar again, but this time, without an intervention crowd.

"Hey, Felonious," said Pancho, grinning hugely and winking several times.

The expression Felonious gave Pancho in return stopped all of the winking and smiling. His blushing horror said clearly, What are you doing? This is not a game! And even Pancho understood.

Don hung up the telephone receiver and approached his guest. "Felonious!" he said. "How very good of you to visit."

"Hello, Don," said Felonious, "how about if you just call me Stephen for now. Or Father Stephen, if you'd prefer my more formal title."

Both Don and Pancho were confused by this, and their befuddled faces said so. "If you would prefer," said Don. "I was just speaking with Herm on the telephone, and she... Herm was expressing some concern for me. Perhaps you are here to do the same?"

Felonious looked like he wasn't sure whether to be threatened or relieved by Don's directness. While he was deciding, he turned to Pancho and said, "Pancho, would you excuse us?"

"Certainly," said Pancho cheerfully. He kept smiling and did not move an inch from the spot where he stood.

Felonious did not know whether to clarify or just continue.

"Pancho," intervened Don, "perhaps this would be a good time to visit your block of restaurants."

"I am hungry," said Pancho, "now that you mention it."

When Felonious had his solo audience with Don, he got right to the point. Or points.

"I think, Don," said Felonious, "that there might be a combination of things happening in your life right now that might be affecting each other."

Don smiled patiently, wondering if this was coming to any substance.

"I know you're concerned about your friend Dolores, and it's perfectly natural to engage in risky behaviors when a loved one is... gravely ill," said Felonious. He was right; he was being Father Stephen now.

"You know of Dolores, through..." prompted Don.

"Pancho may have mentioned something," flushed Felonious. "He's concerned, too."

"And these risky behaviors you mention..." said Don.

"Don," said Felonious, "you tried to wrestle a lion."

"And you believe this is related to Dolores?" asked Don.

"I run into this in my work all the time," said Felonious. "One of the most common things that happens when a loved one dies, or is going to die, is that those close to them want to join them in death."

"Oh," said Don. "Well, I promise to keep my distance from lions from now on, if that will help."

"It's not just that," said Felonious, "it's... other things you've done."

"Like the Doctor Shock battle?" inquired Don.

"Yeah," said Felonious, avoiding eye contact, "like that."

"I cannot promise," said Don, "that I will keep my distance from that nefarious wastrel."

"See?" protested Felonious. "That's the thing. You got lucky in your first battle, and now you're talking about what? About getting to this guy in his other guise?"

"Again," said Don, "I'm not sure I've discussed this with you before. It seems you have been talking amongst yourselves."

"That's not important," insisted Felonious. "What's important is that you're possibly going to confront an innocent citizen over something he may know nothing about, and you're repeatedly putting yourself at risk."

"Be assured," said Don, "that I shall only confront the guilty. And risk is not something anyone can avoid. I only go into these situations with the shield of destiny."

"The shield of what?" Felonious was flabbergasted.

"I will attempt to explain," said Don. "I have developed, at this stage of my life, a way of settling on an inner certainty about things."

"An inner certainty?" asked Felonious, with outer incredulity.

"Yes," said Don, "and while it is not infallible, the best way to live one's life is to choose a direction and pursue it, without too much hesitation. I have my doubts, but I will not let them keep me from acting."

Felonious found this argument more persuasive than he wanted to admit. Was he spending too much time with Don, so he was drinking his kool-aid? How could he convince Don of anything now?

"So you're telling me," said Felonious, "that you're _not_ trying to kill yourself with all this?"

"Not that I know of," said Don.

The phone rang.

"Why don't you let your answering machine get it," said Felonious.

"I own no such machine," said Don.

"Or voice mail. Or whatever," said Felonious.

"I am technologically conservative," said Don, rising, "and I'm expecting a call."

Felonious tried to deduce everything he could from the half of the phone conversation he could hear.

"Yes? Oh, I'm glad it's you. No, not yet. I have a guest at the moment. No. Yes. The plans are still forming. I'm not sure when. I am attempting to discern between action and patience, that most underrated virtue in our time. Yes, I promise you would be the first to know. No, I will certainly not do this without you. Yes. Cross my heart, indeed. Goodbye."

"Herm?" guessed Felonious. Don shook his head briefly to indicate the negative.

Pancho banged the door against the wall as he flung it open, rushing inside. Both Don and Felonious jumped at the noise.

"Help!" said Pancho.

"With what?" asked Don.

"He's after me!" said Pancho.

"Who?" asked Felonious. "I don't see anyone."

"The teriyaki guy!" shrieked Pancho.

There was no one else around, no one who seemed to be following.

"Teriyaki Guy?" asked Don. "Is that a new villain?"

Pancho paused a moment to consider this. "Maybe," he said.

"Just tell us what happened," said Felonious.

"Well, I went down to my block to get some food, and the teriyaki guy totally didn't understand the arrangement, and he started yelling and then he chased me out of the restaurant with his cleaver," said Pancho, getting more hysterical as he relived the trauma.

"How far did he chase you?" asked Don.

"I don't know," said Pancho. "I didn't want to look back. I never ran so fast in my life."

Don made a mental note of this, in case he needed to motivate Pancho in the ways of land speed later on.

"Pancho," said Felonious, holding on to his chubby arms to calm him, "there's no one following you now. You can relax."

The gesture made Pancho feel confined, and he struggled against Felonious's grip.

"You didn't see how angry he was!" protested Pancho.

"No," said Don, "nor can we now. No one is here."

Pancho did not wish to be talked out of his terror. He struggled mightily, and Felonious wrapped his arms completely around his girth to provide him with a virtual swaddle, or perhaps a straightjacket. Pancho just squealed all the more, and flapped his forearms like a baby bird trying to escape a predator.

"So," said Iris Green, who had suddenly appeared in the open doorway, "you like to watch? With a priest? Is that it?"

Her comment seemed to be addressed to Don. All three men looked over in alarm at the uninvited guest.

"I'll give you something to watch," said Iris. And she began to unbutton her blouse.

Don's eyes grew wide, and he dove for the door. He closed it harder and louder than he meant to. It only then occurred to him that it might have hit Iris's face, but he did not wish to open it again and check.

"What was that about?" asked Felonious, who had released his grip on Pancho.

"There has been a misunderstanding," said Don, "and in truth, I do not understand it myself."

"Maybe it's the building," said Felonious. Both Don and Pancho looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

"Both of you guys seem to be delusional," blurted Felonious, "and from the type of people who show up in your doorway, maybe it's just something about this building that has driven you all bonkers."

"Do your pastoral visits always end so harshly?" asked Don.

Felonious was embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he said, "I've been losing my patience a lot lately. I'm just afraid we've all been too polite, walking on eggshells around you. And I'm not sure that's doing you a favor."

"Your forthright opinion is respected here," assured Don. "I know that you have the best of intentions."

"I'm sure you do, too," said Felonious. "I can only tell you what I see. I can't physically control what you do."

"You try to, sometimes," said Pancho, who did not enjoy his recent embrace.

"Look, guys," said Felonious, "I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow. But think about what we talked about, okay, Don?"

"I always listen to you carefully," assured Don.

"What did you guys talk about?" asked Pancho.

Felonious wanted to tell Pancho to just shut up, but stopped himself, shrugged, and went on his way.

* * * *

Chapter 24

The meeting the next day was well attended. Even Crypta was there, along with MagnifiCat, who was not in costume this time. She approached Don as soon as he entered.

"Hey," she said, "how about if we get that coffee right after the meeting. I'd love to talk more with you."

Don froze for a second, his mind racing over Pancho's morning-versus-afternoon advice. "Not in the afternoon," he said, his voice tight. "No coffee in the afternoon."

"Oh," said MC, "caffeine keeps you up if you drink it too late in the day?"

Don did not wish to lie.

"Morning is better," he said.

"Okay," said MC, "how about an hour before the meeting next week? That might be convenient for both of us."

"Certainly," said Don, who for some reason still felt a nudge against his conscience. Even a morning coffee felt a little like infidelity, though he could not say exactly why.

"Cool," said MC. "The café next door?"

Don nodded. He had met Herm there for coffee, and it felt fine. So why was he concerned about meeting MagnifiCat?

Felonious approached him then, before he could sit down. Don wondered if he was in for a series of meetings with each individual club member before the group affair even began.

"Hey," said Felonious, "about yesterday, I'm really sorry I handled that so awkwardly. I'm still concerned, but..."

"Of course you are," acknowledged Don.

"I wonder if you can try something during the meeting today, just in your own mind," said Felonious. "Try thinking of yourself as regular old Don Manchego. And when you look around the room, just think of everyone without their hero identities, okay? I mean, I'm just Father Stephen, and Bad Feng is just a florist named Jennie, and Herm is... whatever Herm really is. Can you do that for me?"

"I will try to keep that in mind," said Don.

"And remember," said Felonious, "life is good. Doesn't matter what's happening, even the really sad stuff. Life is good. Tell yourself that, like a mantra."

"All right," said Don.

Felonious gave Don's arm a little squeeze of pastoral assurance. He then tried to give Pancho a friendly pat on the shoulder, but Pancho leapt to the side, fearing he would be constrained again.

As the gaggle of geeks settled into their seats for the meeting, Special Ed raised his hand immediately.

"What is it, Ed?" asked Herm.

"Can we let this meeting be about something besides Don?" requested Ed. "I mean, no offense to you, Don. It's just that the whole focus of the club feels like it's shifted."

Don smiled at Ed, understanding. "I would be very happy," he said, "if the focus of attention were elsewhere."

Scoop came in just at that moment. "Sorry I'm late, guys," she said.

"She can focus on Don," said Ed, "so we don't have to." Scoop got a confused look on her face, guessing there was some context she had just missed.

"So, what do you want to talk about, Ed?" asked Bad Feng. "We could talk about you."

Ed blushed, unable to make peace even with his own direct desires.

"I think Ed makes a good point," said Felonious, "that things have gotten out of balance here. That's not fair to Don, and it really throws the group off kilter."

It had been a while since Felonious had agreed with Ed about anything, so the group took a moment to absorb that.

"Why don't we just go around the room," suggested Herm, "and make sure everyone has a chance to speak. Not to put you on the spot, Ed, but do you have something to say?"

"Now it feels like kindergarten sharing time," protested Ed. "I don't like this, either."

"Okay," said Herm, "someone else can go."

"No, hang on," said Ed, "give me a chance." Everyone was confused by whatever process Ed was working through.

"I met someone," blustered Ed ungracefully. "She's a tester, like me. She said I should be more positive. So I'm trying."

"Like, starting tomorrow?" shot Crypta.

"Working on it," said Ed. "Give a guy credit for trying."

"That's nice, you met someone," said Bad Feng.

"That can make all the difference," said Don. "No life is complete, otherwise. I did not know this before, but I certainly know it now."

They all turned to Don, as though they expected him now to talk at length about the love in his life. But Don said nothing more. He just lowered his gaze to the floor, waiting for the next person to speak.

Felonious took advantage of the gap for his own purposes.

"I was just talking to Don yesterday," he said, "and I think we should all talk about this, how the costumed hero thing can really get out of whack in the real world."

El Sid spoke from outside of the circle. "Come on, man," he jabbed, "where's your sense of adventure?"

"Some adventures," said Felonious, "are unhealthy. Some can get you killed."

"Nobody's doing anything like that," said Sid.

"Don has," said Felonious.

"Oh no," said Ed, "here we go."

"Very positive," said Crypta, "nice job."

"Look," said Felonious, "I'm not trying to make this the Don show. I'm just saying, we all need to remember that we're all just normal people here, and the costumes are not for acting out destructive impulses."

"Killjoy," accused Sid.

"What kind of destructive impulses do you mean?" asked Bad Feng. "Like, if Don thought he was more powerful than a locomotive, and tried to stop a train with his body, I'd be worried."

"I assure you," said Don, "I would never attempt such a thing."

"There are other dangerous things," said Felonious, "that are less dramatic, and they're more dangerous because they're less obvious. Sometimes a personal grief can be a subtle killer, and the destructive acts can be so sneaky, even the person acting on them might be unaware of what's going on until it's too late."

Everyone was quiet. No one was really enjoying this lecture, but they all knew that Felonious had professional training as a counselor, and he might know what he was talking about. And they really didn't want anything bad to happen to Don.

It was Don who broke the silence. "At the risk of redrawing the focus to myself," he said, "I would like to say something."

All eyes were glued on Don; even Ed's, reluctantly.

"I have been considering, for a number of reasons," said Don, "the possibility of retiring from masked heroism."

If such a thing were possible, the silence became more silent. Regardless of the conflicting hopes of the individuals in the group, none of them could believe what they were hearing. Even Don paused to take in the reaction.

"I have two primary reasons. First, if Doctor Shock keeps his oath, and discontinues the Death Ray that threatens this city, I think my career can be called a success at a major level. I will have accomplished a feat I am unlikely to replicate."

Felonious was impressed with the sense of balance and realism Don had, even in his delusions.

"Second," continued Don, "I have had the most extraordinary communion of souls with my special friend, Dolores. She is now in a hospice facility, and has seen me without my hero costume for the first time. This, to me, has been a revelation and a comfort. So it is not that I wish to give up heroism entirely, only that I wish to engage in a more humble, unmasked form of it. I wish to comfort the sick, Dolores in particular, for the time being."

"That sounds very Franciscan," said Felonious.

"I do not mean to impinge upon your monastic identity," said Don.

"Oh, no," assured Felonious, "I approve. Heartily."

"I must say," said Herm, "I will be glad you'll be safer."

Don's reasons did _not_ include comforting his friends who feared for his safety, but he did not wish to say so explicitly, so he just nodded politely at Herm's comment.

Sid could not hide his disappointment. "Aw, man," he said, "just like Yoko Ono."

Don did not understand this, because he was not even a musician, much less a member of a famous band.

But the surprising thing to many of the members of that circle was the extent to which they shared Sid's disappointment, even those who had hoped for this outcome. It was, for better or worse, the end of something remarkable.

* * * *

Chapter 25

Don, meanwhile, embraced his new mission with all the thorough preparation one would expect of a hero. He knew he could not visit Dolores every day, for he had her energy to consider.

Perhaps three days a week? Two? Should he bring one of her favorite flowers each time, or would that make them less special? On the other hand, he did not wish to neglect an unspoken duty.

This re-opened up an old category for him, the Obvious To Females category, one that would forever remain a mystery to the male gender. And yet, in the case of Dolores, this confusion did not cause him the angst and paralysis it had caused with every other woman in his life.

Pancho observed Don in his planning phase, and was amazed at how similar it was to Don's previously abandoned plans for a siege on the Fiberglas Tower. His work area was covered with yellow sticky notes with every detail of the plot, and Don moved them from place to place with great precision.

"I thought maybe you'd get boring when you gave up the mask," Pancho said, "but here you are, lively as ever."

"One cannot change one's ways too much," said Don. "My destiny has taken me a different direction, but it is still a noble cause that must be taken on with care."

"So when are you going?" Pancho asked.

"That is what I am attempting to determine," Don said, a little defensively.

"Looks like your bad habits are still around, too," remarked Pancho.

"Speaking of bad habits," returned Don, "how goes your search for employment?"

Pancho was embarrassed. It wasn't that he'd had bad luck with the job search, more that he'd forgotten about it altogether. With Don's apartment to sleep in and a block of restaurants to eat at (that hadn't completely worked out yet, but it would), he'd been feeling like the ruler of his own island of safety. A simple man needs no more.

"I'm going to eat something now," said Pancho. "It's what I do best." He did not slam the door or protest in any other way. There was enough truth to what Don said that he did not want to strike back.

Don, for his part, felt internally admonished as Pancho left. His preparation was, truth be told, procrastination in full wallow. When would he learn to seize his opportunities with Dolores and not treat her like a fragile idol placed on a porcelain pedestal?

In the midst of his reverie, the phone rang. Don, who resented all trivial interruptions, answered it with some impatience.

"Hey, Don?" said a female voice.

"This is he," said Don.

"Um, this is Sharon, Dolores's friend? We've never met, but maybe she told you about me?" The voice was chirpy, hyperactive. Every sentence ended in an interrogative upward flip. Perhaps, thought Don, she was from southern California, or just some place with a shopping mall dominant in its culture.

"Her friend who took her to the hospital, yes," said Don, "I'm grateful for all you've done for her."

"Well," said Sharon, "I have some bad news? Like, Dolores died? Last night?"

Don was silent at first. So that was it. But, as good a friend as Sharon was to Dolores, this was the wrong voice to be delivering such solemn news.

"Thank you for letting me know," said Don. "I'm sorry to hear this. And my condolences to you, in the loss of your friend."

"Um, thanks?" said Sharon. "It's really hard?" She began to cry, strangely without changing the tone of her speech. What an odd affliction, Don thought.

"Is there..." began Don.

"There's no funeral?" said Sharon. "Dolores didn't want one?"

"Yes," said Don. "That was her leaning when last we spoke."

"But, like, I think you meant a lot to her?"

"Thank you," said Don. "I cannot tell you how grateful I am to hear that."

After he hung up, there was an extra silence in the room that hadn't been there before.

Pancho sensed this as he flung the door open and heard its bang echo in the room. Apparently, he had changed his mind about food. Don said nothing aloud; he only spoke with his solemn face. Pancho read that face, and froze in the doorway.

He couldn't hold that freeze for long. "What?" said Pancho.

"Dolores is gone," said Don.

"Again?" said Pancho. "Where'd she move to this time?"

"The beyond," said Don. "The hereafter. Heaven."

It took Pancho a moment before his face animated and he said, "She died?"

Don could only nod, his speech paths now clogged.

"Oh!" said Pancho, and he ran off again, as though he needed to report this new development quickly.

Don was glad his friend had not stayed and done some proper act of condolence. He knew the next part would be undignified, unseemly to share even with a close friend like Pancho.

He walked over to the open door and closed it, also not wishing to share this with Iris Green or any other neighbor, and sat in the big stuffy chair with his head in his hands.

The convulsive sobs came on their own, and Don did not resist them, nor the unheroic tears and their attendant viscosities. He hoped that Pancho did not remember something and return. Underfoot nudged closer and rubbed the sides of his face on Don's calf. That much company was perfect, Don thought.

He wanted Dolores to be out of pain. She was in a place worthy of her goodness and beauty now. Don could now idealize her without interruption, safely place her on that pedestal she had talked about, the perfect love for a heroic knight.

And Don realized just how much he didn't want any of that. Selfish as it was, he just wanted his friend back. She was the only woman he ever felt completely comfortable talking to, the woman who looked at him with warmth and understanding, the love that was assigned by the universe to him and to no one else, so briefly.

More waves of sobs came with each thought, as though the litany of sorrows had its own set of liturgical movements inside his body, to dance around his undefended heart, to distract and acknowledge it, all of his other cells hurling themselves into the solidarity of his heart's grief.

He did not know how long that lasted. He found himself on the floor, not remembering how he got there. The ceremonies of his body were apparently intolerant of any position but prostrate. Each time he thought a wave would be finished, another one would take over.

Then there was quiet, stillness, and the practical thought of tissue for his nose. He dragged himself back to crawling position, and then up, awkwardly. After many tissues, he washed his face in the bathroom, and saw his dripping, ravaged visage in the mirror.

In the harsh light that glared from the naked bulb above the mirror, Don looked at his broken life. A bit of jowl was becoming prominent, forming a new line with his chin. Had that been there before? What else had he not seen?

What he could see clearly now was a ragged man, one who could not be loved without the aid of great pity, one without strength of any kind, inner or outer.

What had he done with this life? For most of it, nothing, which was terrible. And in his recent adventures, he had embarrassed himself in the most unretractable ways, which was worse.

The unforgiving light showed, ultimately, a pathetic creature who could not find a reason to continue. He had made his dreams come true, but now concluded that they were all for nothing.

* * * *

Chapter 26

Don's absence from the CRAZE meetings was glaring. As much as Special Ed had resented the focus on Don's adventures, he secretly would give anything to make that the new central focus of the meetings now.

The group relied, of course, on Pancho for much of their information about Don.

"He's pretty much a wet rag," was Pancho's assessment. "It's like all the life is gone out of him. I mean, he still goes to his job, but lots of guys with no life go to their jobs."

"Good thing he's a janitor," said Ed. "Maybe no one notices."

"Ed!" accused Bad Feng.

"What?" said Ed. "I'm just saying janitors can get away with being slow and lifeless. More than, say, pro football cheerleaders."

"The way you think," said Crypta, fragmentally.

"It had to happen sooner or later," said Felonious.

"Yeah," said Pancho, "if he'd lost to Doctor Shock this would've happened then."

Felonious and Herm shared a guilty look.

"Well, we can't just let him go on like this," said Bad Feng. "I mean, he's our friend."

"He's grieving," said Felonious, "It's a natural process. I'd rather he slowed down like this than did something rash and dangerous, the way he was doing. I tell you, I'm relieved."

It only took a few seconds for the room to turn on him.

"You did this," said Ed.

"I killed his girlfriend?" said Felonious.

"No, you talked him out of the one thing that gave his life meaning," accused Ed.

"Then, when his girlfriend died, he didn't have anything to help himself," Crypta jumped in, not even thinking of how she was agreeing with Ed for the first time in the history of time.

"Most people throw themselves into their work," said Bad Feng, "but that was his work. His day job is, like, boring."

"I think we're being a little unfair to Felonious," interjected Herm. "I know I was relieved, too, when he hung up the mask. But none of us knew he would react like this to Dolores's death. I mean, for a delusional guy, Don's always held a pretty even keel."

"Well, okay," said Bad Feng, "maybe it's not Felonious's fault. But we have to fix it now. Don't you think?"

"Well, I'd really like to help Don any way I can," said Felonious. He meant this in a large, abstract, non-committal way, a general statement of goodwill toward a friend. But the group jumped on this, too.

"Awesome," said Ed, "because you've got counseling experience."

"Whoa, hang on," Felonious waved his hands, "I didn't volunteer for anything."

"You kind of did, bud," said Herm.

"So," said Felonious, "you want me to just talk to him? I'll talk to him, see how he's feeling."

"Cool," said Ed. "Can you go now?"

"Pretty sure he's still home," said Pancho.

It was in this way that Felonious Monk felt the force of destiny pushing him along, just as surely as Don had felt it. In this case, though, destiny pushed him to Don's apartment for a bit more one-on-one counseling. The others wished they could wait outside for some smoke signal of good news, as though for a papal election.

They could not, though. They had to move on with their lives and wonder at the results of Felonious's visit. They each hoped someone would send word, though no one made arrangements for this to happen.

Felonious felt a knot in his stomach as he overcame his hesitation and knocked at Don's door. But at least the others weren't here, with their unhealthy agendas. He could handle this in his own way.

Don did not answer. Felonious knocked again and called to him, thinking he might respond to a familiar voice.

"Don? You in there?"

"Who's there, please?" said Don's feeble voice.

"Stephen."

"Stephen?"

"Felonious."

Don opened, the door. "Father Stephen," he said. "Do come in."

Felonious look at Don, and saw the most sorrowful face he had ever seen. Don's effort at mustering cheer was evident, but it took all of his energy to produce even a damp spark of light.

"Thank you," said Felonious, entering. He looked around the room taking in the stacks of comic book filled boxes, scattered laundry, dirty dishes. If he had not known better, he would have read these signs of neglect as emotional despair, but it was not appreciably different than the last time he was here. If Don went to seed, how could anyone tell?

Felonious was startled slightly by the feeling of fur rubbing against his ankle. For a fraction of a second, he feared rodents, but he looked down to see Underfoot using him as a face-scratching structure.

"I... we've been missing you at the CRAZE meetings," said Felonious, as he made a sideways, cat-avoiding limp toward a chair so he could sit down.

Don sat on the couch to maintain an equivalent eye level. "I've missed all of you, too," he said. "I see Pancho going off, and I have a great desire to follow him. But I cannot summon the energy. It's difficult to explain."

"What you're describing is actually quite normal," said Felonious. "The larger process you're going through is grief, of course, but there are lots of little segments within that, and one of them is depression. That's what's keeping your energy down."

Don's spark seemed to swell almost to candle-flame size. "Your analytic powers are quite impressive," he said. "Your parishioners are very lucky to have a wise shepherd like you."

"Thanks," said Felonious. "I'm wondering what would be the most helpful thing for you at this stage. Do you want to talk about Dolores, about how you're feeling?"

"Not really," said Don. "I don't think I have words for that now."

"That's okay," said Felonious, "talking it out doesn't work for everybody. But the important thing..."

Felonious paused, and Don could see he was being very careful with his next words.

"The important thing is to have something of interest, either a new thing or an old thing, but just some activity that reminds you that life is good."

Don nodded, agreeing with the wisdom.

"You mean like comic boo..."

"No!" Felonious cut in quickly, as though he suspected what was coming. "I mean, reading comic books is fine. Just don't get carried away, know what I mean?"

"I do know what you mean," assured Don.

"Sorry," said Felonious, "I didn't mean to react like that. It's just that I'm still scared you might choose risky behavior. And this is the most dangerous phase of the grief, Don. Even more than the last time I talked to you about it."

Don nodded, but didn't say anything. That just made Felonious more nervous. He slapped his own thighs, and used the apparent leverage to stand and pace the room in a jittery shuffle.

"You know," he said, "let's not talk about potentially lethal mistakes here. Let's keep it positive, shall we?"

Don found his friend's behavior puzzling, but still said nothing. Felonious walked over to the bookshelf.

"Besides comic books," he chattered, "how about _real_ books? How about this Cervantes here? That could be something you might relate to."

"A bit long, for my taste," said Don.

"Well, are there any books here you really love? What's a favorite?"

"My attention span," confessed Don, "was never long enough for books of any great thickness. The ones you see on the shelf belonged to my father. They have great sentimental value."

"Okay," said Felonious, "never mind the books. Other projects? Hobbies?"

"Wait," said Don, suddenly glowing a bit more, "you've reminded me of something."

"What?" asked Felonious, briefly relieved of his exasperation.

"A book," said Don.

"A book?" Felonious was confused, and his exasperation returned immediately. "You just said you didn't read books."

"This one I didn't read, exactly," said Don. "It was read to me by my father."

"Read _to_ you," echoed Felonious.

"Repeatedly," said Don.

"Okay," said Felonious, hoping for more detail.

"It's a slim volume on that shelf, very near where you were looking. I would lie on the couch and close my eyes, and my father would read me the whole story."

"Sounds wonderful," said Felonious.

"It was this very couch," said Don. "It's quite old, as you can see."

"And what was the story called?" asked Felonious.

"It's called _The Alabaster Jar_ ," said Don. "I believe it is based on a Welsh fairy tale, though I'm not certain of that."

Then there was an awkward silence. Don could not bring himself to ask, though Felonious already knew the request.

He thought about it. He didn't really want to. But he had no scheduled obligations for the next few hours, and really, what had he come here to do? He wanted to cheer Don, to move him toward healthy interests. Reading a book is an intimate act, but he was a friend, and a priest. He must. He would get through it, and he would be glad.

"How about," asked Felonious, "if I read it to you, right now?"

"Would you?" said Don. "It would be a great favor."

"Sure," said Felonious, "let me see if I can find it over here."

He was glad to see it was a thin book, as Don had promised. The world needs more good thin books.

Don took his place on the couch and closed his eyes, as he always had.

Felonious was also glad, when he sat back down and opened the book, that the pages were old and musty, with the soft, durable feel of old paper that was mostly cloth, the kind of paper that would outlast the newer types. The typeface of the print was pleasing to his eye, and he fell at once into the lilt of its narrative when he began to read aloud.

"Once and once in very old times," he began, "the spirit of a beautiful young maiden was captured in an alabaster jar by an evil king. The king had sought the womanly favors of the maiden, who preferred death to the king's unloving touch. His final revenge was to capture her soul in the vessel, so it could not go to heaven. He locked the jar in a dark tower, which was unassailable, except by a true hero..."

As soon as he got to the part about the tower, and the hero, Felonious realized this had been a mistake. But at that point, he had no choice but to finish the story, and hope that Don's fevered imagination would not do too much with it.

* * * *

Chapter 27

Don felt more unease with this operation than he ever had with any mission before. He felt especially unprepared for this, off balance, and all of his self-lecturing about his talent for improvisation in previous adventures did no good. Was it that he had laid down the mask for a time, and was unexpectedly picking it up now? Or was it a memory of the future that shook him so?

And that was when he began to review, with a newly harsh light, the history of his adventures. How many times had he really been completely successful? Sure, these things had their ways of working out, but his falling into Pancho in the alley, his flying leap from his bicycle onto concrete, his thumping at the hands of the angry businessman; all these made him wonder if he were getting himself into more trouble this time than he could reasonably, or even unreasonably, escape from.

Perhaps it was just the setting. He had never been comfortable on the home turf of the privileged class. And besides being a luxurious office suite, this was the headquarters of his archenemy, and there may be much more weaponry this time than a mere malfunctioning Shock Ray.

He took a deep breath as he looked out the window at the fading light. The time was almost upon him. Dolores would be with him. Or was her absence too distracting? The question seemed irreverent, but at the same time, practical.

"Why," he asked himself aloud, in the solitude of his room, "am I questioning my resolution? I am not considering another alternative. All is arranged. I must go now."

And why, he then considered internally, was he speaking to himself aloud when he was alone? Only crazy people do that. And here he was, perfectly sane.

He gathered all of his equipment, and placed his helmet on his head, so that he would have both hands free to bump Nancy down the stairs.

Once outside, he mounted his bicycle and glided down the street toward his target. The motion did not stop his earlier contemplation, but it made the thoughts feel calmer. What is it about physical movement that affects the mind so? Considering he was about to spring into action, this was a notably pensive ride.

As he approached the Tower, he could see the penthouse lights, even from the ground level, flashing from the top floor – active, moving colorful lights, not mere security beams. It looked, even from a distance, like the executive suite turned into a discotheque after dark. The fancy women he had seen (different ones every night, always in pairs) who entered the exclusive elevator after hours were the crowning proof that the top floor would be occupied by Doctor Shock, that profligate, at the time of his arrival. As he entered the building with his janitor's access card, he was sure the women were already up there.

He calculated that if he rose to the top at the beginning of the night shift, he would catch the evil Doctor in mid-decadence.

And now, it was time. He entered the elevator a mere janitor, and would exit a hero. The doors closed with heavy finality, and when he entered the code (which he had gathered by employing his powers of invisibility), the metal box took off for the heavens with alarming speed. The elevator ride was just long enough for Don to don his mask, his helm, his Q.

The velocity of the elevator must have come from the request of the pampered executive, Don thought, but even at that speed, it was still a long way up. As he assembled himself, he tried to mentally assemble the puzzle of how the suites would look, based on the pieces he had seen go up the elevator in previous months. He got no clear single picture in his mind.

He would have only seconds to wait for the real thing. The doors opened to a polished walnut wood façade directly in front of the elevator doors, with a small black rock fountain at its base. The entrance to the room was to either side of this barrier, and its décor a mere foretaste of the splendor inside.

And splendorous it was, as Don witnessed, stepping to the side to take in the full view. It was decorated in neo-Caligula, an extravagance that even he had not put together in his imagination. It was... familiar. Where had he seen these pictures before? Then it occurred to him: it was a near-replica of the grotto of Hugh Hefner's Mansion. He had not seen this in Hefner's own magazine – Don idealized women in an entirely different way – but perhaps one of the mainstream photographic magazines of his youth: _Life_ , or its imitator, _Look_. Why would a grown man go to all the effort and expense to replicate what was a teenage boy's fantasy world? Never mind that this world had been created by a grown man originally.

Don shook his head and marveled at his ability to distract himself at inappropriate times. And look who was talking about replicating boyhood fantasies, he reminded himself, conscious of his comic book appearance.

"Hey!" came an angry voice from across the room. "Who the hell are you?"

Don looked at the source of the voice and was shocked to see the same man who had attacked him with the briefcase. He was just as angry now, but less dressed, sitting in the black marble hot tub, with a young blonde woman to one side, and a young Asian woman to the other. If either of them were wearing clothing, it was not visible above the surface of the water.

"You must be Caesar MacArthur, CEO of BreezeGiant," said Don, "or as you are sometimes known, Doctor Shock!"

"Okay, you're about half right," said the angry man, "but let's get back to who the hell are you."

"Maybe you should call security, Caesar," said the blonde woman.

"Technically, the two of you _are_ my security detail," said Caesar. "But I can handle this guy."

"It is true, you have assaulted me before," said Don, "surprised as I was in the act of insisting on mere politeness as I returned your property to you."

"You're the guy who stole my briefcase!" Caesar shouted, reddening again.

"Did not," corrected Don, "recovered it on your behalf, in fact."

"Whatever," said MacArthur.

"But I have already had my vengeance for that," said Don, "when I defeated you in your guise as Doctor Shock."

MacArthur turned to the Asian woman and made a twirling motion with his finger near his temple, indicating his assessment of Don's sanity.

"Do not deny that I defeated you," said Don, "and you have failed to honor your agreement by discontinuing your Death Ray."

"Okay, Mister Looney Tunes," said MacArthur, rising from the tub and grabbing a towel, "it's time for you to go." MacArthur did not have the extended robotic legs on now, just the normal legs of a normal man. Don also noted to himself that he did not speak with a robotic voice, either, just his angry human one. The robotic bits, concluded Don, must be detachable.

"I have seen the memos," said Don, cutting to the chase. "Your windmills get their extra energy from spent nuclear fuel. The materials are quite hazardous. You are putting the lives of Toledo's citizens in grave danger."

"Oh, that," said MacArthur. "Bravo. What are you, the tree-hugger police?"

"I am an advocate for the common person," said Don, "I fight against giants like you. And you are poisoning a residential area."

"It's not a residential area," said MacArthur, "it's just a housing project. Residential areas have yards."

"People live there," Don pointed out.

"Nobody that matters," countered MacArthur.

"They may not matter to you," said Don, "but do you know what it's like to have someone you love suffer from cancer? Try to think of your own wife with this devastation, which ever of these women is your wife. I realize they cannot both be, given our laws on monogamy."

MacArthur guffawed at this, which actually seemed to make him less angry. "My wife is a bag," MacArthur said, "and I never let her up here. If she had cancer, it would make it a lot easier for me to get rid of her without involving lawyers. So maybe pick a better example. Oh wait: just get the hell out, crazy-pants."

"You are a cold-hearted, evil man," said Don.

"And you're a nut case," said MacArthur. "No one's going to listen to you about any of this."

"That's what you're relying on?" said Don. "That I'm perceived as a lunatic, so you can go ahead and poison the poor?"

"Whatever works," said MacArthur. "You obviously don't know how this country operates."

"This country will always have bad people who wish to control its wealth and power," said Don. "It will also have individuals who will stand up to them, and shine light on their darkness."

"You flatter yourself," said MacArthur.

"No," said Don, "I flatter my friend Scoop, who now has a very interesting story."

Scoop stepped out from behind the façade, holding up her phone as though using it as a video camera, which she was.

"Yep," said Scoop, "I think I've got all I need."

"Who are you, the Girl Wonder?" shouted MacArthur.

Don and Scoop looked at each other with expressions that said, Sure, we'll go with that.

Scoop got out a silver camera and held it up, while still dual-wielding with the phone in her other hand. "I've got all the important data on video," she said, "but let me get a nice hi-def still photo for the paper, since this is quite the visual here."

Her flash bulb's white light filled the room as the two women instinctively struck alluring poses near MacArthur. For him, this was public relations doom, but they both sensed reality-TV contracts in the making.

"Get offa me!" yelled MacArthur, throwing the women aside with his elbows. He looked at Scoop. "And gimme that camera!" he commanded.

"Um, no?" said Scoop.

MacArthur reached under the wet bar and pulled out what appeared to be a World War II era German Luger. He leveled it at Scoop. The two escorts gave little bimbo-screams when they saw the gun.

"Give. Me. The camera."

"Okay," said Scoop, who then dropped it on the floor in front of her. It broke into several pieces.

"That's fine," said MacArthur, apparently contented with the destruction of the camera, though his voice sounded anything but contented. "Now the phone."

"I'm kind of attached to this phone," said Scoop. "And besides, it's too late. The video feed already went straight to YouTube."

"I don't care!" screamed MacArthur. "Drop it! Throw it into the tub!"

Don stood up straight in the path between MacArthur and Scoop.

"Do not dare to threaten the young lady," he said.

"What, you think bullets bounce off you?" leered the red-faced MacArthur.

"I think no such thing," said Don. "My power comes from the fact that I know I am vulnerable, and I can still choose to stand in harm's way."

"I guess suicidal is a power," said MacArthur.

"Don, don't," said Scoop. "I was just trying to call a bluff. I can get another phone."

"This bad man must be confronted," said Don. "He has had people giving in to his aggression for too long now."

"It's not worth getting shot..." Scoop began, but she was interrupted by a sharp BANG.

Everyone in the room was surprised, including MacArthur, who looked at the smoking pistol in his hand like someone had swapped his squirt gun for a firecracker.

Don's hands clapped over his lower abdomen, on his right side near his pelvic bone. The hands were aware of the wound before his conscious mind, hands always being the agents in charge of healing. He looked down to see the blood spreading between his fingers. Then, after a moment, he felt the sharp pain, and the weakness in his right hip. His leg buckled, and he sat down awkwardly on the floor, in a half-collapse.

Scoop used the phone, and the distraction, to call 9-1-1. "Need an ambulance, and some cops," she said. "We've got a gunshot wound. Perp is still armed. Top of the Fiberglas Tower, in case my GPS isn't picking up on your map."

"It was a souvenir," protested MacArthur. "I had no idea there were bullets in it. I was just trying to get a little leverage."

Scoop ignored MacArthur as she scrambled to help Don. She tried to pry his fingers off of the wound to see it, but his hands wouldn't budge.

"Don," she said, tears involuntarily butting into her tough exterior, "you okay?"

"I'm really not sure," said Don, his eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. "Am I bleeding much?"

"Fair amount," said Scoop.

The Asian escort screamed and pointed at MacArthur. Scoop looked up.

MacArthur was pointing the Luger at his own head. Oh no, thought Scoop, wincing and bracing for another messy bang. But it was just an empty click.

MacArthur, whose anger had changed to catatonic curiosity, looked at the Luger as one might look at an interesting sedimentary rock. "Just one, I guess," he said.

Scoop tried to lift Don a little off the floor so she could see his lower back. Yes, there was an exit wound. Good and bad news, she thought.

"The bullet's not in you, I'm pretty sure," she said to Don, "but I think the main danger is gonna be blood loss."

"Okay," said Don, maintaining his open stare upward.

Scoop took off her cloth jacket and balled it up. She lifted Don again as well as she could, slipping the cloth ball underneath him, hoping his body weight would be sufficient pressure on the wound to slow the blood flow.

"You keep your hands on the top one, just like you've got 'em," said Scoop. "I'll help. We've got an ambulance on the way." She pressed down on his hands with her own.

The paramedics came in only after the police, who had their guns out at full caution, expecting a still-armed suspect. MacArthur had not moved from the spot where he stood since his inept suicide attempt. The police nevertheless shoved his face to the floor and shouted many instructions, though he was now pliant as a heated Gumby doll.

Don received much more effective bandaging from the professionals before being hoisted onto a rolling stretcher for a trip back down the elevator.

There was a crowd gathered outside the Tower entrance, with the flashing lights and the yellow police tape having drawn the attention of people, whom it then kept back. At the front of the crowd were Pancho and Herm, who had come down when they had heard about the commotion, fearing the worst.

They greeted Don on the stretcher like a parent would greet a prodigal child, with anger overwhelmed by relief and love.

"Don!" Pancho was crying. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," said Don. "Scoop saved my life."

"Don saved _my_ life," protested Scoop, following close behind.

"Hey, buddy," said Herm, hanging onto Don's hand as the paramedics paused to load him into the ambulance, "I just have to ask this directly. And I mean this with no judgment at all. Just tell me the truth. Is Felonious right? Are you trying to die?"

Don's glazed look melted away, and he smiled up at his friend.

"I'd rather not," he said.

* * * *

Chapter 28

Don woke up in the hospital. It did not look like the same hospital Dolores had been in. This one was not as nice; it was much more hospital-like. As his eyes adjusted to the blaring fluorescent lights, it occurred to him that he was probably only able to be here, ironically, because BreezeGiant had health insurance.

Herm peeked in from the door.

"He's awake," Herm said.

In a ragged single-file line, the members of CRAZE entered the room. Everyone was there; even El Sid. And they were mostly in costume, even the ones who hadn't really worked out their costumes before. Crypta was wearing a sweatshirt with a 0 and a 1 on it, to indicate the binary nature of her powers. MagnifiCat was with her, and Don was very glad to see her, the romantic tension having been mostly diffused by the drama of a gunshot wound. Surely she could not insist on their coffee date now.

A thought suddenly occurred to Don, one that was accompanied by a feeling of dread. He reached up and touched his face. "Have I been unmasked?" he asked in horror.

"Everybody knows anyway," said Special Ed.

"I know _you_ know," said Don, "but the medical staff, members of the public..."

"Yeah," said Ed, "nobody was surprised."

The others all gave Ed that sharp look. "What?" he said. "You know it's true."

Ed had augmented his costume (which normally consisted of unkempt hair and crooked glasses) with an asymmetrically buttoned bright green cardigan sweater, in a rare display of team cooperation. Still, he managed to piss everyone off.

The only people not really attempting a costume were El Sid and Bad Feng Shui, who just carried some cut flowers, which were bad feng shui.

But what really drew Don's attention was Pancho, who was dressed as a brightly colored bird. It was a little disturbing that he was holding his own bird-head under his arm.

"You like it?" asked Pancho, his arms out in ta-da position.

"Pancho," said Don, "you have a new identity."

"I'm Muddy," said Pancho.

"Perhaps you should have wiped your feet, then," said Don.

"No," said Pancho, semi-crestfallen, "Muddy's my name. I'm the Mud Hen."

"Well," said Don, "I don't think that's taken. At least not in any comics I've read."

"No, I'm the Toledo Mud Hen," clarified Pancho. "I got a job as a mascot."

"Minor league baseball," annotated Herm, "for those of you who don't follow local sports."

"Ah," said Don, the light breaking through to this new area of his mind, "you got a job!"

"Plus," said Pancho, "Sid arranged it so I really could eat on my block for free and not get arrested like last time."

"Arrested?" asked Don.

"Long story," said Felonious, sporting a brown Franciscan robe and a black burglar mask, "it's all good now."

"The food's in exchange for the mascot appearances," explained Sid. "Marketing, baby."

"I can afford to get my own place now," said Pancho proudly. "Though I liked living on your couch. I hope I can visit you and Underfoot."

"Of course," smiled Don.

"Sorry about the mask," said Herm. "It was an emergency situation. It was still on when you entered the ambulance, and that's when the journalists were there. I'm sure the damage isn't too great."

"You know," said Don, "perhaps it's for the best. Maintaining a secret identity is lunacy, when I think about it. In fact, this whole hero costume thing..."

Herm looked hopeful that he would continue in this vein. But his eye was caught, then, by all of the costumes in the room. It did not seem to be a good time to forswear heroic costumery.

"You all look wonderful," said Don. "The sweater is a nice touch, Ed." Ed blushed and looked at the floor, unused to compliments.

It was then that a familiar shock of red hair nudged its way through the crowd. "Sorry, guys," said Scoop. "I hope this wasn't an official meeting. I just needed to tell Don the good news."

"We saw," said Herm. "Nice article."

"Thanks," said Scoop. "I think the viral media push from the video helped get my article on the front page. Picked up by AP, on all the newswires."

"So BreezeGiant has been defeated?" asked Don.

"The giant has fallen hard," assured Scoop. "Not just MacArthur, but the whole scheme."

"You've saved the city," said Pancho, wide-eyed. It was difficult to believe that his hero-worship could have increased, but there it was.

"Oh, and I brought the mail," Pancho continued, flipping effortlessly from the grand to the trivial, and holding forth a chaos of envelopes.

Don's eye immediately went to the one personal-looking letter, hand-addressed in blue ballpoint pen. He lifted it out of the stack, and looked up at his friends. He had a strange feeling about the letter, as though it had leapt up at a divining rod.

"I want you all to know how much I appreciate your visit," Don said. "A man never had better, truer, or more motley friends than you. Now I'm feeling tired, and I hope you'll understand and give me a little time to rest."

"Of course," said Herm. "We just wanted to say Hi, and Get well, and all that."

"It means the world to me," said Don.

As the others filed out, Herm lingered behind. "You know what I'm going to say, don't you," Herm said.

"I would not presume," said Don.

"Just... I know you're going to do what you need to do, regardless of how I feel about it," Herm said. He had not seen Herm so emotional since the night of their accidental meeting on the street.

"If anything happened to you, and you were... gone..." Herm could not quite say _dead_ or _killed_. "It would hurt me a lot. That's me speaking for me. I can't speak for you. But I hope you hear me."

"I do hear you, fully," assured Don, "and I never wish to cause you pain. That would not make the world better."

Herm smiled through wet eyes, and once again, could not speak.

After Herm had disappeared from the doorway, Don worked his finger under the edge of the envelope flap, making a rough rip at the top. He pulled the small, tastefully tri-folded stationary paper out, and opened it to see the elegant penmanship.

_Dear Don_ , it began.

You've just been here to see me at the hospice house, and I don't know if it's the last time I'll see you. I know I was asleep when you left, but drifting off to your voice was quite a luxury, and I confess I'm not sorry I indulged myself.

I think I have some time left, but I've learned that things can turn suddenly, so the time to tell you what I need to tell you is now.

This illness has been a strange journey for me, but the brief part where I've gotten to know you has been deeply wonderful. Not a lot of women get a hero of their very own, or even a good-hearted man who accepts where they are in life and asks for nothing in return.

I admit I get nervous when hearing about some of your adventures, because I don't want you to get hurt. But I also know that through your risk-taking, you've already had an impact on people's lives. So many people are just doing nothing, or spending their time making the world worse.

I don't know how your grand schemes of saving Toledo will come out, but the city is lucky to have you taking care of it. That's the truth, whether or not you're wearing a hero's mask when you do it. If people all put their hearts out there, just like you do, we'd all be better off.

I'm not saying the world needs more masked heroes – that could get a little crowded. But it certainly needs more unselfish love.

So wear the mask, or don't. The point is to encourage people, to help them be their best, brightest selves. And if it's more likely that people will imitate a masked man than an ordinary unmasked man, by all means, go with the mask.

Regardless of what you accomplish for the city, you have accomplished much for me. I thought that the platonic, chivalrous kind of love died out with an earlier age, but you've proven that it's still possible. And now, I feel sure it's the kind of love I can continue to give back to you, even after I'm gone.

The fact that such a miracle is possible gives me hope in the face of catastrophe. This is what the world needs, Don: hope, thrown at catastrophe, no matter what the consequences. I've never known anyone who does this as well as you. Keep throwing hope. Throw it at everything.

All my love,

Dolores

Don closed the letter briefly, then opened it again to look at the beautiful lines of the handwriting. This was his inheritance, an object worth keeping, his mythical kerchief to fold into his mythical armor, his constant inspiration.

Wear the mask, or don't. Pretty open advice, thought Don. His friends would be asking him to explain his intentions. If he had ready explanations, he would be happy to pass them along to his friends, but his destiny did not keep him so well informed.

He would do today what felt right for today. And now, it felt right to rest. When the time came to act, he would know.

###

About the author

John Opsand Sutherland has had a varied writing career so far. He has published short fiction, poetry, and screenplays, as well as book-length fiction, while making his living as a writer and story consultant in the video game industry. He lives with a tolerant woman and demanding cats in Seattle.

