The Return of Meteor Boy? Page 14

  “I’d like to welcome all you VIPs to this special sneak preview! And a big welcome to our fine city council members as well,” he added as he indicated the people in the reviewing stand. “It gives me great pleasure to be here today to help our fair city’s number one hero, the Amazing Indestructo, celebrate that legendary young hero of the past—Meteor Boy!”

  The crowd erupted into spontaneous applause . . . or at least I thought it was spontaneous until I noticed the giant flashing APPLAUSE signs mounted on either side of the platform. Melonhead flew in front of the banner, waving spastically to the crowd.

  “Look at me, I’m Meteor Boy!” he kept repeating over and over—probably because it didn’t require him to pronounce any s’s.

  “Now many of the older heroes among us remember the original Meteor Boy,” the mayor continued, “and the heroic sacrifice he made to save Superopolis, even as the Amazing Indestructo did everything in his power to shield the young tyke from danger.”

  Boy, was that a sugar-coated version of the truth! I thought. But then again, that was what Mayor Whitewash did best. And the crowd bought every word of it.

  “Thank you, Mayor, for those kind words,” AI said quickly, stepping in to take over. “I certainly appreciate you giving the crowd the famous Whitewash treatment when it comes to the story of the original Meteor Boy.”

  As my opinion of AI sank lower than I thought possible, Melonhead did something truly heroic himself . . . not that he intended to, mind you. But the result is what mattered. In the middle of AI’s speech, while attempting to do what I think was meant to be a midair loop the loop, the aerodynamically challenged melon-shaped moron smashed headlong into the main support beam of the platform holding the city council. It gave a sickening crack, and then before our very eyes, it collapsed with a thundering crunch of splintering timbers. The rest of the audience thought it was the planned end of the presentation and began to applaud wildly, even without the prompting of the APPLAUSE signs.

  “Come on.” I motioned my teammates toward the destruction. “People are going to need our help.”

  The Junior Leaguers swung into action like any good heroes would. Stench began lifting the beams of the scaffold out of the way, while Halogen Boy provided the light necessary for him and Tadpole to climb into the wreckage and look for people who might need rescuing. Plasma Girl reduced herself to a puddle of ooze and snuck into crevices that no one else would have been able to reach, directing Stench to clear the areas where people were trapped.

  With the help of other heroes in the crowd, it didn’t take my team long to get everyone freed. With no power of my own, I tried to just move among the victims and offer what help I could. Some were injured, with scrapes and bruises but nobody was seriously hurt. And then I stumbled upon the one exception—Melonhead.

  Don’t get me wrong, most of his physical injuries were minor, but his ego had been bruised beyond repair. The finishing touches of his humiliation were being applied by the Amazing Indestructo as I found them. AI had come down from the tower platform, but he wasn’t bothering to help with the rescue. Instead, he was pulling off the flying device that had been attached to Melonhead’s back. I actually felt sorry for the annoying, seed-splattering jerk.

  “Look, kid,” AI was saying, “it’s going to cost me most of the initial profit on this deal just to pay the city council’s hospital bills—not to mention what I’m going to have to contribute to their campaigns just to keep ’em happy after this little disaster!”

  “Pleath, thir,” Melonhead practically begged. “Jutht give me one more chanth.”

  “Sorry.” AI shrugged as he slipped the jet pack under his arm. “But you can keep the costume if you want, since you already paid for it.”

  “But it doethn’t fly anymore,” Melonhead added helplessly.

  “Them’s the breaks,” was all AI said as he turned to walk away. Unfortunately, that was the moment he spotted me.

  “You!” he said, but this time not quite so accusingly. In fact, I got the sense that the wheels were already turning in his head. “You know you’re still the perfect person to play this part.”

  “Why would I ever help you profit off the memory of Meteor Boy?” I responded matter-of-factly.

  Without warning, AI burst into tears.

  “I’ve felt so much guilt for all this time,” he blubbered. “And I finally thought I had come up with a way to make it up to the kid by letting everybody know his story. But now everything has been ruined.”

  It was really embarrassing. Thank goodness Whistlin’ Dixie came running up just as I thought AI was going to collapse onto his knees.

  “Thar, thar.” She wrapped her leather-fringed arms around him. “What’s the matter with my big buckaroo?”

  “Our launch is going to be a complete disaster because he won’t help us out,” he wailed in despair, pointing an indestructible index finger right at me.

  “Ev’rthin’ll turn out jes’ peachy,” she promised him. “Stop yer frettin’. Ah’ll handle this fer ya.”

  Dixie knelt down in front of me and took my hands in her own. She had never been anything but nice to me, so I felt compelled to listen to what she had to say.

  “Ah know AI hasn’t given ya any reason to trust him,” she began.

  “I’m still standing here,” he pointed out, but we both ignored him.

  “But this is ’bout more than jes’ him,” she continued. “Meteor Boy is gone, and this is the only way he’ll ever have a chance to be remembered.”

  I felt like telling her Meteor Boy was due back here in just forty-eight hours, but then thought better of it. It wasn’t the type of thing that anyone would believe, plus I didn’t want to look like a complete idiot on the chance I was wrong.

  “I know,” I fibbed, “but I hate the thought that AI is going to make money off Meteor Boy’s memory.”

  “He signed a contract,” AI began to protest. “I have it right here.”

  “Darlin’? Maybe ya should jes’ go get yerself ready.” She turned and motioned him away with a wag of her finger. “Ah’ll whistle fer ya if ah need ya.”

  The Amazing Indestructo lumbered toward a door in the base of the platform that surrounded the water tower, and Dixie continued her perfect pitch.

  “You and ah both hate that part,” she admitted, “but facts are facts. It’s the only way that li’l tyke is gonna get the recognition he deserves. Whether it’s right or completely wrong, this is how he’ll be known. Do ya want all Superopolis to remember him as the boy he was”—she paused before going in for the kill—“or as a flying watermelon?”

  As I began to visibly waver, Whistlin’ Dixie moved to cement the deal. She reached into her side saddlebag and retrieved the costume I had tried on this past Saturday.

  “Follow me, li’l cowpoke.” She tipped her hat and flashed me a smile. “It’s time to getcha dolled up.”

  I trailed after Whistlin’ Dixie as she led me through the same door that AI had entered a few minutes earlier. To my surprise there was an entire makeup room set up beneath the stage. There were barber chairs and mirrors and sinks and . . . sure enough, the Amazing Indestructo was already seated in one of the chairs having his face powdered by none other than Mannequin.

  “Dahling,” she was tsk-tsking him, “your pores are a disaster! And vhy are your eyes zo poofy and red?”

  “Uh, sinuses,” he lied.

  LI’L HERO’S HANDBOOK

  PEOPLE

  NAME: Whistlin’ Dixie. POWER: Can whistle in perfect tune. LIMITATIONS: Her power doesn’t extend to singing or humming. CAREER: Discovered in the chorus of the short-lived Amazing Indestructo stage musical by AI himself, Dixie has proven herself indispensable to the League of Ultimate Goodness. CLASSIFICATION: Her 222211 common sense keeps her perfectly in tune.

  “Yah, zee indestructible guy has bad sinuses,” she scoffed. “Tell me another von.”

  Dixie and I ignored him as she led me to a dressing room. Taking the costume from he
r, I went in and began changing my clothes. As on Saturday, the costume fit me perfectly. I discovered that it also had pockets, so I transferred the chunk of prodigium and the Oomphlifier from my jeans.

  I emerged to find none other than the Bee Lady waiting for me, jet pack in hand.

  “I always knew you were meant to wear this,” she rasped. “Try it on, kiddo.”

  I accepted the amazing gift with a silently mouthed thank you. Slipping it on from behind, I realized that it had almost invisible straps. Whistlin’ Dixie helped me fasten the straps across my chest in an X pattern. As they came to rest against my costume, they appeared to vanish.

  “And here are the controls,” the Bee Lady explained as she ran two fine adhesive wires along each of my arms and attached them to small devices she clipped to the inside of my sleeves. “There are switches that slide forward into the palms of your hands. You’ll see how easy they are to operate the first time you try them.”

  “And now fer the final touch,” Whistlin’ Dixie said, handing me a pair of gold mirrored goggles.

  I quickly slipped the goggles over my eyes and turned to face Dixie and the Bee Lady. I also caught the attention of the Amazing Indestructo.

  “Wow!” he said. “He sure looks better for the part than the flying melon.”

  “Can I try out the jet pack?” I eagerly asked Dixie. “Can I?”

  “Not yet, kiddo.” She waved her finger. “After today’s li’l fiasco, Ah think we gotta keep ya under wraps ’til Thursday. But hang ’round a mite ’til the mess out front is cleared up, and we’ll let ya take a test spin. Fer now, jes’ sit tight ’til ah give ya a holler.”

  I couldn’t have been more disappointed, but I did as she instructed. I left the dressing room (since the last thing I wanted to do was be anywhere near AI) and walked back up onto the platform. The shroud covering the tower was right in front of me, and I was reminded of my original reason for coming here. Villains were plotting to hijack Crispo’s new project, and someone had to warn the famous artist. Looking around to see that no one was watching, I ducked underneath the enormous sheet.

  The first thing that struck me was how much the tower resembled the Tipler I had seen in MagnoBox’s rebroadcast, complete with a floor-mounted lever and a digital number panel. The second thing was the realization that the three giant metal cones were already in place high above my head and the upper portion of the tower appeared to be rotating slowly. But the strangest thing of all was the fact that standing right in front of me was Professor Brain-Drain himself, looking very much alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Artistry of Evil

  For someone who had been incinerated in the flames of an erupting volcano just last week, Professor BrainDrain looked remarkably good. The funny thing was, he looked at me as if I was the one who had just returned from the dead.

  “I wasn’t expecting you for another forty-eight hours,” he finally said. “And where, pray tell, is my meteorite?”

  Then it dawned on me. Not only had he just confirmed my suspicions about Meteor Boy’s fate—he thought that I was Meteor Boy! I decided to play along.

  “Uh . . . that’s right,” I stuck my chest out. “I’ve come from the past to administer the justice that’s been due you all this time.”

  I don’t know if I didn’t sound like Meteor Boy or if I just wasn’t a very good actor, but Professor Brain Drain tilted his head and stared at me as if I was the phoniest phony he’d ever seen.

  “Of course not. It’s too early,” he muttered to himself. “You’re not Meteor Boy. But there is something very familiar about you.”

  I backed away as he approached me. Sniffing the air around me, he slowly raised one of his creaky arms, his finger moving toward me like a divining rod toward water.

  “You’re that boy who paid me a visit last week,” he quickly deduced.

  “And you’re supposed to be dead,” I pointed out. “I saw you and your blimp go up in flames.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” he admitted, “my beautiful blimp. Do you have any idea how long it takes to have a new one built? It will be months before my order is filled.”

  “But how did you survive?” I blurted out in frustration.

  “I didn’t,” he replied enigmatically.

  “Huh?!” I said, thinking I had misheard him.

  “Rather, I should say my duplicate did not survive.”

  “What?!” I said in disbelief. “That doesn’t make any sense!”

  “Doesn’t it?” he said. “Think about it. You’re not a stupid boy.”

  And then it hit me. The last people to see Professor Brain-Drain before he went on his ill-fated blimp ride were me . . . and the Multiplier.

  “The Multiplier made a duplicate of you,” I said, barely believing what I was saying.

  “Exactly,” he said. “And what a discombobulating experience it was! The Multiplier was only able to accomplish it because of the power boost from the Oomphlifier. Without it, the best he could have done on his own would have been a duplicated liver or lung sac or something unpleasant like that. But with the power boost he was able to produce a full duplicate. By the way, I hope he doesn’t still have the Oomphlifier. He’s really far too dense to be trusted with it.”

  “He doesn’t have it,” I said, resisting the urge to touch the pocket that held it.

  “Good, good,” he answered pleasantly. “Anyway, I sent my new duplicate off on the blimp because things had begun to go awry, in large part thanks to you and your friends, and I sensed things could get even worse. By the way, did you think the duplicate was the real thing?”

  “Yes,” I admitted. “He was acting and talking just like you.”

  “Interesting,” pondered the Professor. “I had no sense what he was up to. He was truly a wholly independent new entity. It’s probably good he was destroyed, since he would have eventually come after me.”

  “Why would he have done that?” I asked, mystified.

  “Because that’s what I would have done,” he replied matter-of-factly.

  Whenever I began to think Professor Brain-Drain actually sounded somewhat sane and reasonable, he managed to come up with a statement that was truly twisted.

  “But that’s all in the past, now, isn’t it?” he said as he absentmindedly licked his lips and edged closer. If I didn’t change the subject fast, I got the distinct impression that my intelligence would soon be a thing of the past as well.

  “What have you done with Crispo?” I demanded.

  “Oh, he’s perfectly fine.” The Professor chuckled.

  “In fact, he’s just about ready to make an appearance.”

  Then to my utter shock, Professor Brain-Drain slipped off his white lab coat and reached for another that had been draped over a chair. This one was covered in multicolored spatters of paint. Then he picked up what looked like a shower cap from a countertop and proceeded to slip it over the entire shiny, stainless steel colander that sat atop his head. I had never seen a picture of Crispo, but I found it hard to believe that in the past two decades, no one had seen through such a flimsy disguise.

  “It’s not possible,” I said, dumbfounded. “You can’t be Crispo.”

  “And why not?” he replied, clearly insulted.

  “Crispo is a talented artist, while you’re just an evil genius,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound as inane to him as it did to me.

  “Thank you for the compliments.” He chuckled. “Both of them. But I am, in fact, Crispo.”

  “That’s impossible,” I protested. “Crispo creates, while all you do is destroy.”

  “Even destruction can be creative,” he stated. “I imagine. I invent. I destroy. They are all part of the same process, and I pursue whichever strikes my fancy at a given moment.”

  LI’L HERO’S HANDBOOK

  PEOPLE

  NAME: Crispo. POWER: An ability to create amazing works of art—also sometimes known as a talent. LIMITATIONS: His creations are usually limited only by b
udget. CAREER: After exhausting the subject of potato chips as art, Crispo has lately been focusing on huge, spectacular projects that encompass everything but subtlety. CLASSIFICATION: After earlier, harsher art historians mysteriously vanished, Crispo was declared Superopolis’s greatest artist by a new crop of critics.

  “What about when they contradict each other?” I asked accusingly.

  “Do you never hold contradictory thoughts in your head?” he responded with a sly grin. “Only the truly dim think one way and only one way, their minds never changing. And you, my boy, are not dim.”

  Once again he began moving toward me. Instinctively, I backed as close as I could to the base of the water tower.

  “But why invent another identity?” I asked.

  “I created the persona of Crispo a generation ago in preparation for this very moment. I’ve kept his reputation pure and unsullied so that no one would be suspicious as I prepared for a project I began over a quarter of a century ago and will finally complete this coming Thursday.”

  “I know it’s a time machine,” I revealed as I backed against the lower, stationary portion of the water tower’s enormous main cylinder. It clanged dully as if it was hollow, and my hand reached back for what appeared to be a door handle. Just four feet above my head the upper portion of the cylinder continued to spin slowly.

  “You’re one hundred percent correct. Very good!” he complimented me. “I call it the Time Tipler! I’m testing its rotation right now. Can you also tell me how it works?”

  “This,” I said, pointing at the screen panel mounted above a number pad, “indicates the number of years either forward or backward in time that the machine will send you. Whether it’s forward or backward is determined by which direction this central lever is switched.”

  “That’s right.” He beamed. “In fact it still shows the number the machine was set on the last time it was used.” The number on the screen was 25—the number of years that Meteor Boy was flung into the future.