"Secret Government Headquarters," the battered and dented metal sign read. "No Trespassing." Duke Manfist climbed out of his enormous HUMWAY assault vehicle, pushed his 1980s-style Ray-Ban sunglasses up on his bullet-shaped head, and gave the sign an affectionate punch for luck. The metal rang like a gong. Without delay, Duke hurried through the giant clown face that was the entrance to the crumbling Fun House. Around him, the most disreputable looking amusement park ever to cover up a tragic series of Tilt-A-Whirl deaths eked out an existence by preying on visitors duped through outrageously low admission rates. As one of these, a fat tourist in a floral-pattern shirt, tried to enter the Fun House with Duke, Manfist turned and slapped the tickets out of the man's hand.
"Ride's closed, Nancy," he snarled.
The tourist hurried off. Once inside the Fun House, Duke Manfist punched the secret button located in the floor at the back of the giant clown face's tongue. The bristles of the tongue-shaped, tongue-colored floor mat felt greasy under his knuckles. He shuddered. Duke Manfist would never admit it, but he had found circus clowns creepy since he was a young boy. The first jaw he had ever shattered, in fact, had been that of a circus clown. He remembered his ninth birthday party fondly for that reason.
The concealed elevator creaked and squeaked and groaned open. Manfist's combat boots rang on the metal deck plates as the elevator accepted his two hundred and seventy pounds of mostly muscle. As the lift descended, he cracked his knuckles, a scowl creasing his impossibly strong-jawed face.
Duke Manfist was in a bad mood.
It was Monday, and Mondays always meant new partners. It was bad enough that Duke himself had to fill out the sympathy cards that Clerical bought for him by the case. It was worse that every Friday he had to drag himself down to Secret Headquarters to meet these partners.
His new partner was finishing orientation with Doctor Coplawyer when Manfist arrived on the Operations level of Secret Headquarters. Around him, men and women worked at computer terminals ringing the room, which was dominated by a gigantic flat-screen situation board. The board tracked the many national emergencies Duke Manfist and Secret Headquarters were called on to prevent. While Manfist himself answered to the Shadow President — the man behind the American presidency — there was, he had been told many times, no way he could expect to be effective without a support organization behind him. This was why Secret Headquarters had been founded. The men and women of Secret Headquarters had been getting in Duke Manfist's way ever since.
Coplawyer was dressed, as he usually was, in a three-piece suit, a bulletproof vest, and a white lab coat. He carried a briefcase and wore a Sam Browne duty belt bearing a holstered revolver. Over his bulletproof vest he wore a shoulder holster in which he carried a snubnose .38 Special. A stethoscope hung around his neck. His hair was perfect.
"…And this carefully selected, ethnically diverse support staff," Coplawyer said, spreading his arms to indicate the technicians working around the room, "provides Agent Manfist with everything he should possibly need while in the field."
"What do you do?" Manfist's new partner asked. He looked solid enough; he had that rumpled, not-so-fresh-from-the-academy look and wore a windbreaker over jeans and a t-shirt. His hair was a little scruffy, but you couldn't have everything. An automatic pistol was thrust casually in his belt. Duke noted the caliber: Nine millimeter. Well. There was no accounting for taste, especially among wusses. Manfist's own custom revolving shotgun pistol, which he called The Justifier, was tucked behind his back. There it made a bulge in his belt line roughly the size of a football helmet.
"I am Secret Headquarters' legal advisor," Coplawyer said. "I'm also the chief medical officer."
"You're a lawyer… and a doctor?" the new partner said.
"Yes," Coplawyer nodded vigorously. "I'm also a police detective, a licensed pilot, a Journeyman electrician, a member of the Screen Actors Guild, a certified welder, and a SCUBA instructor."
"I need a Notary for this paperwork," said Manfist's new partner, holding up a sheaf of legal documents.
"Sorry," Coplawyer said. "You'll have to go to the bank for that."
"I'm in a hurry," Manfist said.
" Ah, Duke," Coplawyer turned to him. "I have Ken's paperwork here. He's ready for you."
"About that," said Ken.
"Is there a problem?" Manfist asked.
"Oh, no, no, no," Coplawyer said. "Ken's a little reluctant, of course, but I explained to him that his name will only be legally changed to Ken Goodspeed for the duration of his assignment here. When that is concluded, I'll change it right back."
"Good," Manfist said. "'Cause I can't spend all my time learning new partners' names."
"Wait," Ken said. "How many partners–"
"Well," interrupted Coplawyer, "You'll find all the paperwork in order. It's the same boilerplate I used to change my name all those years ago."
"You changed your name?" Manfist asked.
"Yes," Coplawyer said. "I wasn't born Doctor Coplawyer. My middle name used to be 'Moses,' if you can believe it. But Doctor was my grandfather Coplawyer's name, so of course I had to keep that."
"Wait," Ken said. "You’re actually… 'Dr. Doctor Coplawyer?'"
"Dr. Doctor Gary Coplawyer, to be exact," Coplawyer said proudly.
"If you Nancies are done bonding," Manfist said, "there's justice to be… justiced."
"I have your first assignment of the week," Coplawyer said. He turned and uttered a series of clicks and pops with his tongue. A seven-foot tall male African warrior, dressed in a frilly yellow sundress and wearing a floppy woman's hat, unfolded his legs and climbed out from behind his woefully cramped terminal. He handed an index card to Coplawyer.
"Thank you, Mtumba," Coplawyer said. Mtumba looked at him quizzically until Coplawyer repeated the words in Mtumba's native tongue.
"We're pretty sure he doesn't speak any English," Coplawyer said to Goodspeed.
"Why was–" Ken started.
"Don't ask," Manfist said. He looked down at the card. "Killer robots?"
"The Pentagon's representatives will be on hand for a demonstration by Zodiac Corporation at the fairgrounds this morning," Coplawyer explained. "It's called the KLR Robot, in fact. It's short for Killer Laser Robot, I think. I'm afraid it's not terribly imaginative."
"Wouldn't that be 'Killer Laser Robot Robot?'" Ken asked.
"Okay, seriously," Manfist said, "you're going to need to shut the hell up before I beat you… WITH MY–"
"Duke!" Coplawyer interrupted. "Remember your diversity acceptance and anger management classes."
Manfist glowered. He looked down at the card again and then shot Ken Goodspeed a withering glare. "Come on, Nancy,"
"Oh, by the way," Coplaywer called after him. "Ken's fresh from being burned out with Drug Enforcement, and he's dangerously suicidal from bitterness over the death of his young, attractive wife. Be mindful of his feelings!" Coplawyer's voice echoed up the shaft as the elevator took Manfist and Goodspeed to ground level.
"You are?" Manfist asked.
"I am," Goodspeed said sheepishly.
"Pansy," Manfist said.
They rode in awkward not-silence to the Fairgrounds, stopping only twice to put gas in the Humway. They arrived late, mostly because Ken had to ask Manfist to stop every few miles so he could get out and stare wide-eyed into traffic while holding his gun under his chin, breathing menacingly and declaring to passing drivers that he was on "on the ragged edge."
"Come on, damn it!" Manfist said at one point, leaning out the window and honking the Humway's horn. It sounded like a tuba had been connected to an air compressor and then dropped out of a plane at high altitude. "We're going to be late!"
"I'm on the ragged edge!" Ken shouted back. "I'm on the RAGGED EDGE!"
Duke Manfist sighed. It was going to be a long morning.
When they finally arrived at the Fairgrounds, Manfist took out his gun. Ken was already holding his. Ken looked over, curious. "Are you on the ragged edge, like me?" he asked. "Do you need me to stop you from killing yourself?"
"No," Manfist said. "I want you to help me stop the killer robots from killing everybody."
"How do you know they'll do that?"
"They're killer robots," Manfist said. "Not once has a killer robot ever not attacked all humanity. I've seen the science fiction channel."
"That's fair," Ken said.
The pair climbed out of the Humway and made their way to the exhibit hall. Sure enough, the sound of sizzling lasers and the screams of the dying could be heard from within.
"I hate it when I'm right," Ken Goodspeed said dramatically.
Manfist paused, turned slowly to stare at him, and then, with great deliberation, turned to look back at the building.
Duke Manfist sighed again. Then he charged, his Justifier in his right fist, his tree-trunk legs pumping beneath him. When he lowered his mighty shoulder and smashed his way into the exhibit hall, he was greeted by a scene of metallic carnage rivaled only by the Ferris Wheel outside Secret Headquarters.
The robots were… killing people.
"Let's kill those killer robots right back… for justice," Duke said.
"I'm on the ragged ed–" Ken said, as a laser beam split his skull open. His almost-decapitated corpse hit the blood-soaked floor.
"Not my fault," Manfist muttered to no one in particular.
As a second hot-pink laser beam cut through the air, headed straight for him, Duke Manfist braced himself. In the strangely interminable moments before the beam, traveling at the speed of light, struck his body, he had time to yell, loudly, a declaration of manly defiance:
"I'll see your laser beam and raise you an ass-kicking," he vowed, "…WITH MY FIST!"
TO BE CONTINUED…
Copyright League Entertainment 2011. All Rights Reserved.
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