The Great Powers Outage Read online

  New and Improved?

  The look of annoyance in my father’s eyes couldn’t have been plainer. His team’s big debut had been spoiled by the Amazing Indestructo. The Great Garbanzo was even more peeved.

  “Let me at dat so-and-so,” he cursed. “If he’s here to push his own line a snack cakes at da expense a mine, I’ll break botha his legs and den his arms just ta make soiten he gets da message.”

  “But, boss,” said the guy in the broccoli suit, “he’s indestructible.”

  “I’ll shows youse indestructible,” he said as he barged past the broccoli, knocking him to the ground.

  My dad and his teammates hesitated for a moment but then followed the fuming legume. After all, he was their new boss. The Great Garbanzo was the owner of the Maximizer Brand Snack Cake Company. Stench and I went along, too.

  LI’L HERO’S HANDBOOK

  PEOPLE

  NAME: Great Garbanzo, The. POWER: High in protein. LIMITATIONS: Low in flavor. CAREER: When his line of hummus breakfast products failed miserably, the dispirited Garbanzo abandoned all his strongly held beliefs on healthy eating and started the Maximizer Brand Snack Cake Company. It was an immediate success. CLASSIFICATION: A sugary triumph has only led to a sour disposition.

  As we walked across the parking lot the throng continued to grow. AI’s ability to draw a crowd went far beyond that of the New New Crusaders’, and he stood silently, basking in the admiration, atop a makeshift stage that had been built for this appearance. Lined up behind him were six of the ten members of the League of Ultimate Goodness: the Crimson Creampuff; Featherweight; Moleman; the Human Compass; Cap’n Blowhole; and my personal favorite, Whistlin’ Dixie.

  As soon as Dixie started whistling the Amazing Indestructo theme song—perfectly in tune, of course—the crowd quieted to a low murmur. AI waited a moment or two longer and then began to speak.

  “I know that you, the good citizens of Superopolis, expect nothing but the finest when it comes to products bearing the Amazing Indestructo name,” he began in a serious tone. “I take great pride in the restraint I’ve shown throughout my career in not releasing just any old merchandise for the sake of a quick buck.”

  A mocking snort erupted from deep inside me. People nearby turned and glared, but my dad gave me an approving pat on the shoulder.

  “Which is why,” AI continued, oblivious to my editorial outburst, “I am proud to announce that, after more than a decade in development, Indestructo

  Industries has produced a potato chip worthy of the Amazing Indestructo name!”

  I think he was expecting a massive roar of approval from the crowd, but all he got was a stunned silence. He plowed ahead anyway.

  “Superopolis, I’m proud to present to you the Amazing Indestructo’s Amazing Pseudo-Chips!”

  We all watched in astonishment as four enormous cylinders rose from each corner of the stage. They were designed to look like canisters of AI’s Amazing PseudoChips, and each bore the tagline “Every Chip as Perfect as Him!” No one in the crowd had ever seen anything like this before—with the exception of me.

  Less than a week earlier, I had not only gotten a sneak peek at these odd looking potato chips that stacked in a can, I even used the can as a component in the fully functional time machine I created as a science fair project. I should have known it was only a matter of time before the Amazing Indestructo attempted to launch them as a new product line. But even he faced an enormous hurdle in making them a success.

  “Potato chips?” I heard someone mutter. “Why would we buy any chips other than Dr. Telomere’s?”

  Similar comments were filtering through the crowd when the tops of the four enormous canisters exploded and potato chips—make that Pseudo-Chips—began raining down on the startled spectators. People frantically tried catching the crispy projectiles, and those who were successful popped them into their mouths. Meanwhile, the members of the League of Ultimate Goodness had moved to the forefront to perform their individual parts in this crass, commercial enterprise.

  “There’s only one direction to follow for true potato chip–like flavor, and that’s to AI’s Amazing PseudoChips,” proclaimed the Human Compass.

  “They’re plum gar-un-teed to leave ya whistlin’ fer more,” Whistlin’ Dixie said, tipping her rhinestone-studded cowgirl hat.

  Featherweight stepped forward and raised a finger as if he were about to speak, but then a stiff wind caught him and whipped him into the air.

  “They’re as light and crispy as . . . ,” I think I heard him say before the breeze whisked him—and whatever his analogy was going to be—out of earshot. His teammates carried on without missing a beat.

  “Aaargh, mateys!” agreed Cap’n Blowhole as a plume of water shot out of the top of his head. “Discovering Pseudo-Chips is like finding buried treasure . . . except you’ll find them aboveground . . . and they’re not really made out of gold.”

  “Regular, boring chips contain only potatoes, oil, and salt,” the Crimson Creampuff informed the audience. “But the Amazing Indestructo’s Amazing Pseudo-Chips contain dozens of ingredients, most of which are unpronounceable!”

  “They have an earthy flavor . . . like something that’s just been dug from the ground,” announced Moleman, as everyone on the stage, including AI, turned and glared at him. “I meant that as a compliment,” he added meekly.

  But the crowd was having none of it. We had spent a lifetime eating Dr. Telomere’s potato chips, and anything else seemed like heresy. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought that I was witnessing a monumental financial defeat for the Amazing Indestructo. He had finally pushed his luck one chip too far.

  He realized it, too. In a panic, he turned to another figure on the stage who I hadn’t noticed until now. It was an older man dressed all in red, and AI ushered him up to the microphone.

  “And here to speak about yet another of the tremendous benefits of AI’s Pseudo-Chips is our official spokesman, Comrade Crunch.”

  There was something about the intensity of this silver-haired old man that made the crowd go silent. He strode purposefully to the microphone, and his gaze washed over us. For a moment it felt like his eyes had focused on me, and me alone. Instinctively I knew that every person standing here had experienced the same sensation. Then he began to speak.

  “Comrades,” he began in an aged yet powerful voice. “A new day is upon us. For decades we have been told what we like and what we don’t like when it comes to salty, fried snacks. A force beyond our control has guided us down one particular path, telling us that there is only one choice when it comes to something as important as potato chips.”

  The crowd was hanging on every word. In fact, so was I. His statements sure felt compelling, but what was he really saying? It was difficult, but I forced myself to focus on Comrade Crunch’s message rather than on how it was making me feel.

  “But now, at long, long last, we have a choice. Open your eyes! That single path has finally reached a fork in the road. Will you continue down the path to the right? A path that has been laid out for you as if you had no mind of your own? Or will you take the path to the left? This is a new path, an exciting path! A path you choose for yourself. Are you ready to try a new kind of potato chip?”

  “YES!” the audience erupted in unison.

  “Are you ready to take a new path?” Comrade Crunch shouted even louder.

  “YES!” the crowd exploded in response, including my dad and Stench. What was happening here? That speech had made no sense!

  “Then express your collective will,” the old man in red built to a crescendo. “And take that path to the left. Amazing Indestructo Pseudo-Chips were made just . . . for . . . YOU!”

  As if they had one mind, the crowd expressed their preference by turning en masse to the left and toward the grocery store. The Mighty Mart was about to sell a whole lot of potato chips, but they weren’t going to be Dr. Telomere’s.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A New Day Dawns
r />   I came downstairs the next morning to find my mom and dad quarreling. It didn’t take a genius to know what the argument was over. It had begun the moment Dad and I returned home from the Mighty Mart the day before.

  “What got into your head?” Mom asked yet again as she gestured at the sixty or so canisters of Amazing Indestructo Pseudo-Chips that were stacked on every counter in the kitchen.

  Normally, when Mom gets this mad, Dad immediately apologizes—even if he doesn’t really think he’s done anything wrong. That strategy has kept them together for years. But in the case of the Pseudo-Chips, he just wasn’t budging.

  “These chips are the future,” he insisted. “We’ve been forced to eat one brand our entire lives, and now we finally have a choice.”

  “But we’ve always loved Dr. Telomere’s chips,” my mom pointed out. “You used to work there! Why do you suddenly think there’s something wrong with them?”

  “It’s not them,” my father insisted, “but rather the opportunity to take a new path; to try something different.”

  He was parroting exactly what Comrade Crunch had said.

  “They don’t even taste good,” my mom said in frustration as she sampled one of the chips.

  I grabbed one of our remaining bags of Dr. Telomere’s potato chips and headed for the TV room. I turned on the set and plopped onto the couch. The latest episode of The Amazing Adventures of the Amazing Indestructo (and the League of Ultimate Goodness) was on, but I had no intention of watching it. I no longer had any respect for AI and refused to support him in any way.

  I flipped around and finally stopped on a channel running a Sunday morning news show. The banner across the bottom of the screen identified the program as The Great Superopolis Mayoral Debate. The announcer was in the process of explaining the setup.

  “. . . and with the election now only sixteen days away, we’re proud to be hosting the first in a series of debates. On your right is the incumbent candidate, Mayor Whitewash.”

  The camera turned to a podium where the mayor stood. He was smiling in his usual forced-casual sort of way and waving to the TV audience.

  “And since the mayor is once again running unopposed,” the announcer continued, “we’ll represent his opponent in this debate with the prize-winning pumpkin from the recent Carbunkle County fair. We’ve even carved a face on it to increase the level of tension between the two debaters.”

  This was quite possibly the stupidest thing that I’d ever seen on TV, and that was saying a lot. I mean, there was no mystery why Mayor Whitewash was unopposed. Take a look at his entry in the Li’l Hero’s Handbook and you’ll see why.

  A general sense of agreement was usually all it took for people to cast their votes for Mayor Whitewash. Of course, to actually force people to go out and vote for him would require a much stronger power—like the one I witnessed from Comrade Crunch yesterday. If the mayor had had that kind of ability, there would have been no need to stage a debate between him and a carved pumpkin.

  “To get things started,” the announcer continued,

  LI’L HERO’S HANDBOOK

  PEOPLE

  NAME: Mayor Whitewash. POWER: The ability to make people agree with him. LIMITATIONS: Just because they agree with him doesn’t mean they’ll get off their butts and go vote for him. CAREER: Despite a formidable handicap in his first election, Whitewash has gone on to twelve consecutive terms as mayor. CLASSIFICATION: Utterly incompetent, yet highly electable.

  “I’m pleased to welcome our guest moderator and member of the League of Ultimate Goodness—Mannequin!”

  There was a weak smattering of applause from the tiny studio audience as Superopolis’s greatest super-model made her appearance. She was clearly perturbed by the mediocre response.

  “Zank you for zat vonderful reception,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  She stalked over to the table facing the two podiums and took her seat with all the flair one would expect from a fashion model with zero journalistic credibility.

  “Zee first question is to you Mayor Vhitevash,” Mannequin began. “As vith makeup, a good foundation is ezzential for good government. Vhat have you done vhile mayor to create such a foundation from vhich beauty can flourish?”

  The camera switched to Mayor Whitewash, whose expression showed he clearly had no clue what Mannequin was asking. But like any good politician, that didn’t stop him from answering.

  “Why of course, madam moderator,” he said with a courteous bow. “But first, I must tell you how beguiling you look this morning.”

  Despite the mayor’s ability to make people agree with him, his power wasn’t necessary in this case. Mannequin had no doubt that she was beguiling.

  “In answer to your question,” he continued. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I’m certainly beholding it now.”

  Mannequin blushed, completely ignoring the fact that he hadn’t answered her question at all. She turned next to the carved pumpkin.

  “Ze question I have for you, Mr. Pumpkinhead, is more zerious,” she said in her zerious tone of voice. “How can von be avare of zee importance of beauty if von . . . vell, how does von say it? . . . if von looks . . . like a pumpkin, and not a very attractive von at that.”

  The camera turned to the pumpkin, which, not surprisingly, said nothing at all—although it did appear to have a hurt expression carved on it. The camera remained fixed on it for the full two-minute response time. As this silent mockery of broadcast journalism continued, my parents entered the room.

  “Why is there a pumpkin on the screen?” my father asked.

  “I think it’s running for mayor,” I responded. “What’s up?”

  “I’d like to know what you think of these chips, OB,” my mom said. “I don’t know why your father is obsessed with them. Maybe if he hears your opinion he’ll realize he’s been brainwashed.”

  “I don’t get them, either,” I agreed, “but I told him that as he was clearing them off the shelves at the Mighty Mart along with the rest of the mob. He wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Just then the pumpkin’s two minutes ended, and the announcer used the opportunity to cut away to a commercial. I sat up with alarm when the face of Comrade Crunch appeared on the screen.

  “Perfection is at your fingertips, Superopolis,” he began. “Who wants to deal with the sloppiness of potato chips that all look different from each other? Chips like that are drains on our society, competing with one another for attention instead of focusing on the common good. But I’m pleased to announce this potato chip problem has finally been fixed. Just like the hero himself, every Amazing Indestructo PseudoChip is a paragon of preformed perfection. No greasy textures. No wasted packaging. NO INDIVIDUALITY! Each chip works in unison with every other for the common, crispy goodness of all! What’s more, they’ll make you smarter and better looking!” As he concluded, his voice rose to a crescendo. “This is Comrade Crunch telling everyone to go forth and buy the Amazing Indestructo’s Amazing Pseudo-Chips in place of any other potato chip brand!”

  For a moment I felt dazed. Then I had an overwhelming desire to shove aside my bag of Dr. Telomere’s chips. But I shook myself free of that thought.

  “This guy is dangerous,” I said as I turned to look at my parents. The expressions on their faces were as blank as could be.

  “I see your point, dear,” my mother responded without even looking at Dad. “We do need to buy more of these chips. They’ll even make us more attractive.”

  “And smarter,” my father added dully.

  Before I could get a grip on what had just happened, my parents bolted from the room and then from the house. Despite the sixty cans of potato chips already sitting in our kitchen, they were heading out to buy more! What had gotten into them? With worry welling up from the pit of my stomach, I turned back to the TV just as the grinning face of Comrade Crunch vanished from the screen.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Curious Case of Comrade Crunch


  Something was horribly wrong. Crazy, illogical behavior from my father wasn’t anything unusual. But from my mother, it was a different story. She almost always kept her cool, as one would expect from a hero named Snowflake. And she never willingly went along with Dad’s nutty ideas. But that’s exactly what had happened today.

  I glanced at the clock. It was just about time for the regular weekly emergency meeting of the Junior Leaguers. There was something fishy about Comrade Crunch and I was going to need the help of my friends to figure out what it was.

  When I arrived at our headquarters—the tree house in Stench’s backyard—my friends were already gathered. Surrounding them were dozens of canisters of Amazing Indestructo Pseudo-Chips.

  “I know we aren’t supposed to be doing anything to support AI,” Plasma Girl said with a guilty shrug as she misinterpreted the look of concern on my face, “but we couldn’t help ourselves.”

  “I think we should make Comrade Crunch our new favorite hero,” Halogen Boy suggested. “You know . . . instead of AI.”

  “These chips are fantastic,” Tadpole agreed. “How do you suppose AI managed to outdo Dr. Telomere’s?”

  That’s what I wanted to know. These chips weren’t “fantastic.” They didn’t taste bad, exactly, but they certainly didn’t taste like real potato chips. And even if they had, it didn’t explain this sudden mania that had gripped everyone.

  “What made you guys go out and buy all these chips?” I asked.

  “It was Comrade Crunch,” Halogen Boy explained as his natural glow began to brighten. “He was on TV all morning talking about them.”

  “It’s true.” Stench nodded. “He was talking about how Pseudo-Chips can enhance our powers.”

  “What made you believe that?” I pressed. “Was it just because he said it?”

  “It must be true,” Hal said quietly. “It was on TV.”

  “I thought we had figured out that most of what’s on TV isn’t true by the time we were ten,” I sputtered.