“...Ah don't ask for much. Just a wee bit o’ icin’ every now and then without bein’ looked at like some kind o’ freak!”
“Guys.”
“Or, better yet, we could construct some card-board cut outs of ourselves and while the management attempts to reason with our lifeless twins, we make good our escape!”
“Why ye gots to laugh at me? Who doesn't like icin’? What about the Golden Goon over there? ’Oooh, lookit me! Ah’m Nuklear Man! La-dee-dah!’ Ah was bustin’ up villains back when he was still in diapers! Back when ye did it for the chance to break things, not for merchandisin’! But
no
, ye gots to laugh at ol’ Angus! ’Lookie at the midget freak! Hey freak, ye want some icin’? Aye? Well too bad! Ye be too short for icin’ folk! Let’s go and buy some Nuklear Man T-shirts!’
Bah!”
“Guys!” Atomik Lad banged his fist on the table and clattered the plates.
“Can I get you gentlemen some dessert?” Rachel asked pleasantly as she loaded her arms with the used plates.
Nuklear Man quickly rummaged through his pockets and whipped out his birthday card. “Your finest free birthday cake, Miss Rachel.”
She glanced at the card, “Oh how sweet, your father still sends you birthday cards. I'll be right back with that cake, sir.” She whisked herself off to Kitchen Land.
“Nuke! I told you not to order the cake!”
“It's free. What're they gonna do? Make us pay for free?”
Angus did his best to approximate something almost resembling a smile, but found the practice too taxing and gave up with an annoyed huff.
“Besides,” the Hero said. “The bird seems sweet on you, Sparky. Maybe we could bag us a free meal if you talk the talk with the skirt.”
Atomik Lad stared at his mentor for a moment. “Why are you talking like that?”
“It's jive, baby. We're on the lam, we gotta start talking jive, get used to it.”
“We are not ’on the lam.’ Besides, you don’t have the jewelry to talk jive.”
“Phooey.”
Rachel popped out of the kitchen door. She was holding a silver-ish tray in her hands. She displayed it as a squire would his master's favored blade.
“Cheesit, it's the fuzz,” Nuklear Man hissed as he tried, in a very pathetic and unconvincing manner, to look as though nothing was wrong.
“Nuke, what did I just tell you about the jive?”
“What in Sweet Margaret’s Hurlin’ Pole are ye two talkin’ about?” Angus roared. Nuklear Man was talking crazy talk and nothing angered Angus more than crazy talk.
Except for people making fun of his height.
“Angus,” Atomik Lad said.
Or his beard.
“Angus?”
Or his affinity for frail icing flowers.
“Angus!”
“What!” he responded with a tiny jerk that took him from his thoughts but not before he added,
Peeople who interrupt me thinkin’
to his list of Aggravatin’ Things.
“The cake. Remember? It's here.”
Rachel pulled out a small harmonica from one of her many apron pockets and gave it a toot. Three generic waiters appeared as if they'd merely been hiding behind several molecules hovering idly in the air.
The four sang in a slightly off key unison like they'd been hypnotized into reciting the song on command.
“Here's your free birthday cake,
Even the preservatives are fake.
It’s been known to cause intestinal distention
So to our legalese please pay attention:
Take to heart
That the party of the first part,
Upon ingestion,
With no chance of contention,
Agrees that the party of the second part
Is not responsible for the effects of this slipshod tart.
All arguments otherwise
Made by you guys
Shall be rendered incongruous
In short: you cannot sue us!”
The three generic waiters vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.
“Happy Birthday, sir. May you have many more.” She leaned in close to Nuklear Man and whispered, “Especially if you don't eat the cake.” Then she too disappeared to attend to her other waitress duties.
Atomik Lad poked at the cake with his fork, “Is it edible?”
“We won't know until we eat it!” Nuklear Man reasoned.
Angus felt there was something wrong with that logic but dismissed the thought in favor of the cake's sweet promises of sugar overload.
The Golden Guardian and Surly Scot devoured the free birthday cake as though they had not just eaten nearly twenty plates of lobster mere minutes ago. Angus took particular pleasure from the excess sweetness of the little icing flowers. Atomik Lad merely watched and worried about the bill. “How are we going to pay for everything?” he asked.
“Simple,” Nuklear Man answered through a mouthful of cake. “You distract Rachel, Angus and I run for it, then you excuse yourself to the bathroom and squeeze out the window.”
“Aren't we supposed to be paragons of justice and honor and all that jazz?”
“Honor always gets in the way o' bustin' up things, if’n ye ask me.”
“Well, this is different.”
“How?”
“Er. You'll understand when you're older.”
“Nuke, that might have worked when I was ten, but it really didn’t because I could outwit you just as fast then as I can now.”
“Shucks.”
“Guys, why don't we just explain the problem? Angus could stay here with the bill and you could go back to the Silo to get our credit card.” The thought of entrusting Nuklear Man to make a round trip and remember its purpose struck Atomik Lad with all the force of a galactic collision. “Make that, you and
I
could go back to the Silo to get the credit card.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Angus said.
Nuklear Man fidgeted. “Well. Er, I uh, um. I sort of ah...maxed out the credit cards.”
“That does it. V-Chipsville, Population: Overmart Shopping Network.”
Nuklear Man grimaced.
“Here comes Rachel,” the Hero observed. “Hush up and let me do the talking.”
“Are you sure?”
“Hey, I know what I'm doing.”
“
Really
sure?”
“I don't tell you how to sidekick and you don't tell me how to Hero.”
“All right, just checking.”
Rachel returned to collect the dessert plates. “Is there anything else I can get you gentlemen? Some coffee perhaps?”
The Hero looked her straight in the eyes and confidently blubbered, “We can't pay the bill! It's so much money and we don't have enough because those little ceramic rabbits were so cute and on sale for only two more minutes. It’s not my fault! I bought thirteen sets in case one broke in transit!” he stopped to breathe.
“So you can't pay your bill?” Rachel clarified.
“No we can't,” the Hero answered. He was ashamed even to exist.
“I'll have to speak with the manager, excuse me.” She trotted back to a door marked “Employees Only” and stepped inside its forbidden depths.
“’Hush up. Let me do the talking. I know what I'm doing. I don't tell you how to sidekick and you don't tell me how to hero.’ Pathetic.”
Angus snorted an agreement, “Ah seen haggis with more backbone than that. Literally.”
“Heh, good one,” Atomik Lad said.
“Ah’m serious. Little chunks of ‘em.”
“Excuse me, sir?” said a man looking remarkably like a manager who spontaneously appeared next to their table.
“Bwah!” Nuklear Man decided the generic waiters had learned much from the manager.
“I am Mr. Manager, the manager. I understand that you are unable to pay your bill. I believe we can work something out,” he motioned to the door leading to the kitchen.
“Oh no,” Nuklear Man said with apprehension. “This Hero ain’t getting’ no dishpan hands.”
Mr. Manager tossed him a pair of kitchen gloves. “You’re right. Now get to work, boys. Rachel?”
She smiled her waitress smile to him.
“You've got the rest of the day off.”
“Thank you, Mr. Manager.” She took off her apron, tossed it on Atomik Lad, gave him a wink and walked out the door whistling to herself.
The Heroic trio groaned in unison.
__________
Issue 7 – Food Fight
“Attention!” Mr. Manager roared in his best drill sergeant voice.
They stood shoulder to shoulder to shoulder once Angus hopped onto a tabletop. Mr. Manager paced in front of them. He trod back and forth he trod while peering at the ground. His hands were clasped behind his back and tightly wrenching one another.
“
You
, Pretty-Boy!” he barked.
Nuklear Man uttered a quiet “Meep” to himself and jerked to such a degree of attention that it would’ve shattered any normal human spine.
“You're on kitchen duty. You've got a mess back there that makes the Dragon’s Strike look like a tea party.”
“Yessir,” the Hero obediently responded before scurrying into the kitchen.
A feminine shriek split the ambiance like a supernova crackling against the night sky.
Mr. Manager closed his eyes with a distinct air of impatience that was evident only to those who put that much attention into eye shutting, “That’s the
women’s
restroom, you dolt!”
Nuklear Man backed out of the door clearly marked “Women” while failing to defend himself against a young lady who expected between zero and no perverts to be involved with her average visit to the bathroom. She battered the Golden Guardian about the head with her purse while screaming, “You brute, you brute, you terrible brute!” She huffed at Mr. Manager and stormed out of the building.
“
You
, Kid!” Mr. Manager barked at Atomik Lad.
“Hey, I'm almost twenty.”
“Hey, I almost care. Help out Pretty-Boy. He makes one slip up and I'm holding you responsible.”
Atomik Lad dragged Nuklear Man into the kitchen.
Mr. Manager spun on Angus, “
You
, Shorty!”
Ordinarily the Iron Scotsman would have chosen this time to demonstrate how effective the business end of his Surprisingly Wieldly and Concealable Enemy-B-Crushed named Bertha was when used properly and how very properly it could be used on people who called him Shorty. But something about the manager's manner forced compliance even out of the Surly Scot. “Aye?”
“Those two got the kitchen, so you're stuck with waitering.” He tossed Rachel's discarded apron on Angus. It covered him like a sheet.
__________
Two figures of purity stood near the entrance to the dark depths of the kitchen. Neither wanted to leave what little light was provided there by the luminescence that peeked out from the lobby through the kitchen doors.
Nuklear Man whistled innocently to the best of his ability. This involved more than a little spitting. He faked a yawn, stretched, and reached behind his sidekick with a mighty hand to push him forward into the darkness.
Atomik Lad deftly dropped to his knees as the pressure was first applied to his back. This evasive maneuver caused the Hero to lose his balance and topple into the inky void beyond.
“Guess you volunteered to tackle the stuff in the storeroom,” Atomik Lad said. “I'll just be up here in the kitchen mopping and washing dishes,” he gloated happily.
“Best two out of three?”
“Sure.”
Nuklear Man walked back into the light and basked in its brilliance once again. Atomik Lad snatched a mop that was leaning on the counter next to him and tripped his mentor into the darkness with it. The Golden Guardian lay sprawled on his belly.
“Best three of five?”
“Get back there.”
“Nuts.” He walked apprehensively into the bleak unknown.
“Mr. Manger said he was going to hold me responsible for anything you screw up, so no horsin' around back there, got it?”
“I never get to have any fun.” His pout sounded like it was uttered from across a vast, empty and unlit stadium in the dead of night.
__________
Angus was having a rough time. Mr. Manger scolded him for marking up the tabletops with his Iron: Battle Boots and ordered him to clean them ASAP. This was easier said than done. In order for Angus to clean a table, he had to stand on it. This caused him to scuff up the table which had to be cleaned which scuffed up the table which had to be cleaned into forever and ever. To make matters worse, he didn't know what an “ASAP” was, what it might look like, be used for, or where to find it anyway. He hoped Mr. Manger wouldn't notice.
__________
Atomik Lad washed dishes with the kind of pleasure one typically finds in those who have other people wash dishes. But the sidekick treated every dish, platter, cup, bowl and piece of silverware as though the quality of his soul would be judged on the quality of the gleaming shine he gave each piece.
__________
The rubbery kitchen gloves slid over his skin and golden spandex as though they'd been waiting their entire existence to shield Nuklear Man—AND NUKLEAR MAN ALONE—from this tepid wasteland. He thrust his armored hands skyward, “I dub thee, Excalibur!”
“Nuke, stop goofing off. And don't break anything.”
“Just suiting up,” he called back. The hollow echo of his own voice gave him a chill, but the warmth of his kitchen gloves kept his blood hot for adventure!
__________
The bell attached to the Benny’s entrance signaled to Angus that a customer had popped in. He kicked at the table he had been cleaning for what seemed like hours but more resembled minutes. This left a fresh scuff mark. “Son of an Englishman!” he cursed. The Iron Scotsman hopped down to the floor and trotted to the entrance grumbling about how the feeding frenzy had already left his tiny gut with an empty feeling. He staggered back a step as he rounded the corner. His beady eyes widened, his tight fists clenched, his scowl scowled like it hadn't in years. “Ah don’t believe it.”
An emerald green suit of armor fashioned in the likeness of a charming leprechaun stood toe to toe with Angus’s iron gray armor that resembled a raging Scottish warrior circa the 14th century.
The armored duo was locked eye to eye.
“That’s right, me boy-o, Seamus O’Riley, the Steel Irishman.”
“Ye, ye, ye,” Angus stammered angrily.