The cover shows a wooden tabletop up close, and on the table is a small blue booklet, about 3" tall by 4" wide to judge by the nearby items on the table. The cover shows a grainily-reproduced line drawing of a winking mysterywoman. An errant wind is starting to blow the cover open. ____________________________________________________________________________ .|, COHERENT An ASHistory Series --+------------------------------------------------------------------------- '|` SUPER STORIES #10 - Aunt Jane's Bible Featuring Red Widow copyright 2007 by Dave Van Domelen ____________________________________________________________________________ [Editor's Note: The subject matter of this story will drift into areas of prurient interest. While not graphically presented, certain parts may be inappropriate for minors or those of sensitive dispositions. One scene in particular, presented in script format, may bother some readers, who are invited to skip over it. While important to the plot, everything in that part that's vital should be summarized in the following scene.] ____________________________________________________________________________ [August 31, 1946 - Miami, Florida] Laverne strolled casually down the space between tables at the swap meet as the usual house-sized mosquitos flitted through the humid late summer air. She might've moved to Florida as a kid, but she didn't think she'd ever really get used to the way August went so muggy. Not a proper dry heat, like West Texas. Still, it was good to stretch her legs after a few hours behind her own table. Bill was watching the stuff for now, hopefully he wouldn't make too many bad deals. Laverne dearly loved her fiancee, but a ten-year-old could out-haggle the man. "Hey, Howie," she nodded as she passed a booth dominated by alligator leather goods. Probably obtained under shady circumstances, but she was hardly in a position to be ratting her fellow swappers out to the law. "Hey, Miz Bishop," the gator-tanner waved with a slightly gap-toothed smile almost hidden behind a bushy gray beard. Unlike a lot of the oldtimers at the swap, he'd never tried to put the moves on Laverne, something she appreciated. She never got unwanted attention twice from the same guy, but it was easier to work the swap meets when half the men in attendance *didn't* have old bruises and old grudges thanks to her. "Seen the new book guy?" he asked as she moved past. "Hm? Someone here got literary pretentions?" she asked. "Nah, he don't got any of that in stock, far as I can tell. Mostly funnybooks, old Geographics, a bunch of that scientifiction junk," Howie replied. She wasn't quite sure if he was joking about the first part, or if she'd simply been talking over the old-timer's head. Laverne chuckled, tossing her mane of red hair. "Thanks, I'll give it a look. Maybe find a little nostalgia." A few minutes later, she'd found the table Howie must've been talking about. Stacks of newsprint and magazines, cheaply bound paperbacks, and the usual assortment of random "out of theme" stuff that anyone who worked the swaps tended to pick up. It was a swap meet, after all, not a cash market. Some money changed hands, but most of the deals were barter. And almost no one stuck to just trading for what they wanted themselves...three, four or even seven-deep trades happened every day, eventually most of the stuff ended up with someone who wanted it, even if the original owner and the final owner never saw each other. Unsurprisingly, most of the people around the table were young men, jabbering about old stories and arguments about who was stronger, that sort of thing. Then something caught her eye. "The Red Widow - Bound For Trouble!" screamed the cover. Unlike most of the other books, it wasn't in color, or even very large. It looked like a couple pieces of typing paper run through a mimeo, cut in quarters and stapled together. Like a kid might make because he couldn't afford the dime for a real comic. Genuinely curious, she picked it up. "Whoa, who left that out?" the table's owner tried to snatch it away from Laverne, but she was too quick for him. She still had the touch. "I didn't know Red Widow made enough of a splash to rate a comic," Laverne smiled. "Although I guess it's just somethin' a local put together, or it'd be in color." One of the customers chuckled. "Oh, she made a splash," he leered. "Seriously, lady...you don't want to read that." "Why not? The art looks pretty bad, but no worse than any of the other stuff on your table. And pa always did call me a tomboy, it's not like I'm worried it's unlady...like...." Under her summer tan, her face went totally pale. "Um, I warned you," the owner muttered. "What. Is. This?" she demanded. "It's, um, called a Tijuana Bible. Guys make these under the counter, they're kinda illegal in most places." "It's disgusting!" Laverne sputtered. "And how!" another customer grinned. "I'm sorry, lady, but I warned ya. And it's pretty tame as those things go, it's mostly tyin' up with her lariat and stuff. Whatcha so steamed about?" "Because that," she shook the pamphlet, "is ME!" It was like a bubble of silence formed in the middle of the noisy swap meet. A long moment stretched out, no one quite sure what to say. Finally, as such things always are, it broke. "Um, would you autograph it?" the stall owner asked. * * * * "Yes, I had to buy it," Laverne sighed. "Paid cash, even. Had to get it out of circulation." "Now what?" Bill asked as he helped pack the day's trades into the back of the truck. "Gonna burn it?" "I was gonna, but I realized when I cooled down that this is just a copy, burnin' it won't stop 'em from tradin' other copies. I wanna find the original artist and see if I can teach him a lesson about usin' someone's image and good name without permission." "The Red Widow rides again?" Bill smiled. "And here I thought I was gonna be the only guy to see you in that outfit anymore...." * * * * [September 3, 1946 - Miami, Florida] Laverne licked the envelope and smoothed the flap closed, then reached for the stampbook. "Paying the bills, honey?" Bill asked as he got ready to leave for work. Strictly speaking, the couple was living in sin since they weren't married yet, but they both figured that being engaged was good enough, and while two couldn't really live as cheaply as one, it did save money they'd need to buy a house big enough to have kids in. Laverne shook her head. "Writin' a letter to Lady Lawful, care of, um, the War Department. So who knows when it'll actually get to her?" "Other leads on your artist fan going that dry, then?" Laverne sighed and nodded. "Turns out 8-pager artists don't really want anyone knowin' who they are, given how this kind of stuff can get you tossed in jail most places," she patted a short stack of Tijuana Bibles. "I did some askin' around and found that, whoever the perv was, he only did Malscripto books, and stopped right after makin' the one with me in it." "So, you have the complete works there?" Bill grinned, reaching for the stack, only to have his hand swatted away. "Yes, and hands off. Lady Lawful's the one Malscripto goes after in all the other ones, and if I don't want you seein' *me* drawn naked, I sure don't want you seein' HER! Anyway, her bein' the usual star makes 'Bound for Trouble' even odder. I'm writin' Lady Lawful to see if she knows anyone close to Malscripto who might've made these. And, um, to warn her about the horrid little things in case she didn't know about 'em herself. No sense in lettin' a fellow hero have her own 'swap meet moment' like I did," she frowned. Bill scratched his head. "You know, if someone close to a guy like Malscripto was making these, and Malscripto found out..." "...that'd explain the sudden stop, yeah," Laverne nodded. "That's one of the things I asked ell-ell about. Did he have any henchmen who he offed personal-like." "Which, at least, would save you the bother of teaching him a lesson, I guess," Bill shrugged. * * * * [September 9, 1946 - Miami, Florida] The short stack of bluebooks stared back at Laverne from the kitchen table as she fussed over dinner preparations. She hadn't gotten anywhere on the mystery in nearly a week, and it was starting to bug her more and more. "I'm gonna have ta read you, ain't I?" she sighed, closing the oven on the roast. So far, she'd only skimmed the little booklets in search of a signature, or a publisher, or something she could use to track down the artist, avoiding as much as possible the actual "story" inside. Frowning, she sat down, mentally gritting her teeth and bracing for the task ahead. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Tijuana Bible - Cover and 8 single-panel pages - This is the scene we warned you about] Cover: Head and shoulders of Red Widow on a white background with a black triangle along the lower right that covers part of the figure. Title reads, "Bound for Trouble!" in the upper left. In the lower right is a random scribble in the place of a creator's name. 1. Red Widow enters a strangely-lit warehouse, pistol at the ready and lariat coiled at her hip. Her costume is a bit skimpier than what the real Red Widow wore. SPEECH 1 (Red Widow): Okay, Malscripto, time to ring down the curtain! SPEECH 2 (off panel): Now, my players! Enter stage right! 2. A trio of thugs swarms Red Widow, taking away her pistol and lariat. Her costume tears, revealing her left breast. SPEECH 1 (Red Widow): Oh! SPEECH 2 (Thug): Time for the casting couch, boss? 3. Malscripto stands before a tied-up Red Widow, apparently bound in her own lariat. Her costume is even more torn now, but her mask and boots remain in place. Malscripto is dressed in Shakespearean garb, but without pants. SPEECH 1 (Malscripto): The PEN IS mightier than the sword, my dear! SPEECH 2 (Red Widow): And me without my pen knife. 4. Red Widow is orally servicing Malscripto, still bound, although her hands seem to be struggling with the knots. SPEECH 1 (Malscripto): Crack winds, and BLOW thou HURICANOS! SFX 2 (Red Widow): glub SPEECH 3 (Thug): Looks like the boss is in the eye of the hurricane. 5. Red Widow's costume is now completely gone other than mask and boots, and she's been draped over a chair with an elaborate pattern in the upholstery that barely reproduces in the cheap mimeograph. Malscripto approaches her from behind. SPEECH 1 (Malscripto): I think I shall dip my pen in your inkpot! SPEECH 2 (Red Widow): Fair enough, I took a dirt road to get here too. 6. Red Widow gets loose from the ropes, posing dramatically to show off her well-toned body. The thugs gasp, mostly in fear. SPEECH 1 (Red Widow): You don't use ropes as long as I have without learning a few tricks, boys! SPEECH 2 (Malscripto): She's slipped the surly bonds! 7. Thugs run as Red Widow (still essentially naked) recovers her pistol and fires at them. Malscripto starts moving to sneak away. SPEECH 1 (Red Widow): Come on boys, the party's just getting started! SPEECH 2 (Thug): Z-Man didn't pay us enough for this job! 8. Malscripto is hanging by a rope from the rafters, the rope being connected to his privates. Red Widow is winking at the reader. SPEECH 1 (Red Widow): That about ties things up here! SPEECH 2 (Malscripto): Hoist by my own petard! ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- She was still puzzling over the odd choices of phrasing and design when the phone rang. "Hello?" she asked, putting the receiver to her ear. "Collect long distance call from...Lady Lawful," the operator said, more than a touch of disbelief in her voice. "Do you accept?" "Yes!" Laverne agreed. This was getting to be an expensive little investigation, but in for a penny and all that. "Connecting now." "Miss Bishop?" "Speaking," Laverne nodded, carefully enunciating the "g" that she normally clipped. "Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. I wasn't sure my letter would even get to you." Lady Lawful laughed. "It might not have, but the mailroom boy at the Pentagon is a fan of Mysterymen, and happened to recognize your name from the return address." "Wow, I sure made a big impact on people, considering I was only running around in that bathing suit for three months," Laverne goggled. "This has certainly been the month for finding delayed fame." "It might have had something to do with the bathing suit. But this is your dime, how's the hunt for your mystery artist going?" "I haven't really gotten anywhere since what I wrote in the letter. I was just buckling down and reading the awful little thing when you called, to see if I could find any clues in the, um, story. Did Malscripto have any henchmen who might've been the creator?" "He had a number of artistically inclined thugs, mostly to help him with set dressing and the like. Malscripto has a tremendous ego, but knows his craft, I'll give him that. And he knows that part of it is having professionals to help with the visuals. But there's one who might be your man, he went by the nom du crime of 'The Scribbler'. He did newspaper funnies, if you can believe that, and was sort of a spy in the newsroom for Malscripto for a while. Then he just vanished...I figured at the time that he might have tried to take over the gang and found that Malscripto wasn't quite as out of ink as he seemed." "Written out of reality? Brrr." "Exactly," Lady Lawful concurred. "It's a good thing for me that he's always been obsessed with besting or humiliating me, rather than killing me. With his ability to rewrite reality, he could be truly frightening if he didn't have some rudimentary code of ethics and fair play. But I suppose he wasn't so fussy about morality with underlings who tried to cross him. Come to think of it, though, it's sounding more like he found out about the Scribbler's little sideline, rather than fending off a power play. Being featured in an endless succession of smutty books would probably outrage Malscripto's authorial sensibilities to the point he'd use his powers to kill." "Well, not really endless," Laverne eyed the small stack on the kitchen table. "Five in total. Although I'm told they've been recopied quite a bit, since the quality is a lot higher than usually seen in an 8-pager." "Not about to do some comparison for yourself, I hope!" "Heavens, no!" Laverne gasped. "So, any clues in the story itself?" "I think so. There's at least one obvious one...a background thug says that Z-Man isn't payin' them enough for this job, but Z-Man doesn't show up anywhere else in the story, and I don't remember him ever tryin' anything down here in Florida. Then again, I don't remember seeing Malscripto around either." "Hmm," Lady Lawful pondered. "I know Malscripto takes on occasional jobs for whoever will pay him enough, or supply him with the rare ingredients he needs for his magic ink. Usually little things, altering reality in stable ways that will benefit the person hiring him. He tends to stick with helping crime bosses rig the ponies, simple things where he doesn't need to use a lot of ink to make the necessary change. But he's never been particularly patriotic, and I suppose taking Nazi money would have been another way to poke me in the eye. But I can't remember Z-Man ever benefiting from any sort of reality rewrite. Anything else about the job? Was it about kidnapping you?" "Nope. Near as I can figure, the story starts with me having figured out the job off-screen and bustin' in to arrest him. They get the drop on me, tie me up, and, well...after a bit I break loose and leave Malscripto hangin'. Lemme pry off these staples and lay out the whole thing, see if I can pick up any patterns." "You might have to look pretty carefully," Lady Lawful cautioned. "Thinking back, I seem to recall the Scribbler was notable for hiding lots of little details in his newspaper cartoons, background jokes and the like." Laverne laid the pages out in a single long strip across the table. "I dunno. The printing quality's pretty bad, if the hidden...wait, something about the shadows. Lemme rearrange...oh my God." "What?" "I just put the cover and the eight pages in a three by three, and the shadows in the backgrounds make a big swastika. And some of the other details make an outline of Florida, as if the swastika is striking Miami!" "Like a hurricane?" "Oh, hell, that's exactly what it is. In the middle page, Malscripto's quoting that line from King Lear about huricanos, *and* the background thug is talking about the eye of the hurricane. Could Malscripto have written about a hurricane hitting Florida, and the Scribbler wanted to warn me?" "Maybe...but his powers don't work like that, not so far in advance. He could, I suppose, have made a hurricane happen at the time, but he has to concentrate on big things like that, and he's in jail at the moment, without his ink. If this is meant to be a warning, it'd have to be something you'd have a chance of stopping, or the Scribbler wouldn't have taken such a roundabout way of sending the warning. And, no offense, he probably would have contacted me or one of the other Mysterymen with powers." "No offense taken. I could barely keep up with unpowered criminals and Nazi spies, that's why I hung up the mask. Y'know, you might have a point about the small details thing, too. There's some weird upholstery on a chair in the fifth page, looks almost like a section of map. And there's a reference to a dirt road in that panel, so maybe it *is* a map. I'll need to do some checkin', get my hands on some road maps at the gas station or somethin'...I don't think I wanna bring this into the library to check the county maps." Lady Lawful laughed. "No, I imagine you don't." "Where can I call you later, once I find out more?" Laverne asked. "I'm not currently in a position to give you a number, sorry. I'll call back tomorrow, same time, is that okay?" "Should be." * * * * [September 10, 1946 - Everglades, Florida] Of course, it turned out not to be okay. The map had been a quick hit, copied from a section of a 1939 map of roads in the Everglades near Miami. But while she'd been out getting maps, she'd heard a hurricane warning. Sure, it was hurricane season. These things happened. But reports were coming in on the radio that this was a big one. Really big. And moving weirdly, to boot, as far as maritime spotters could tell. It was just too much of a coincidence. Maybe Lady Lawful was wrong about how Malscripto's powers worked, but Laverne had gotten a brainstorm: Z-Man was into all that weird future science stuff. What if he had a device that could act like a hurricane magnet? And just hired Malscripto to hide it in Florida? That would be the sort of threat the Red Widow could be trusted to handle...find a dingus and break it before it could do more damage. So, here she was, in costume and riding the old motorcycle down a rutted dirt road at the edge of the big swamp, ahead of what looked like it might be the biggest hurricane to hit Florida in years. "I am a total idiot," she muttered to herself for what had to be the tenth time that morning. Bill hadn't been around to restrain her burst of enthusiasm, and she didn't want to wait for Lady Lawful to call back. No, she'd dug out the costume, done a quick gassing up on the Indian, and headed out for adventure. Well, she'd left a note on the table for Bill, including the map, but that wouldn't help much if she were caught out when the storm hit! Nor did it really help that the clue in the Tijuana Bible only narrowed things down to a few acres, she still had to search those herself in the hours or maybe even minutes remaining.... * * * * "Nice handbags..." Red Widow said in her most "good doggy" tone as she slowly edged past the nest of gators. On the one hand, they could apparently sense the storm coming and were just looking for a bolthole. On the other hand (the hand in danger of being bitten off by a territorial alligator), Malscripto had written the hurricane magnet's location into the middle of their favorite bolthole. So, while not really looking for trouble, the gators didn't really want her going where she needed to go, either. The first drops of rain started to fall as she eased her .38 revolver out of its holster. "Just let me past, boys, I don't wanna get violent. I just need to get to that hatch over there." Her boots squelched in the boggy ground, and she knew they were pretty much goners at this point. Red patent leather didn't really care for swampwater. In response, one of the alligators hissed and snapped its jaws open and shut. Red Widow glanced at the branches overhead. They seemed sturdy enough to let her get a rope around one and just swing over the gators, but even if the dogged-down hatch wasn't locked somehow, it'd take her several seconds to open it, seconds that would be more than enough for an angry gator to come have toothy words with her. She might have to just start shooting and hope there were no more than six gators lurking in the area...she wouldn't have time to reload. Wind plucked at her sweat-damped hair, mixing in the increasingly heavy rain and turning it into a sodden, unruly mop. Any more rain, and the road flares she'd brought along wouldn't help deter the scalies. She inched a little closer to the hatch, the only thing she'd seen in the whole area of the hidden map that might conceal a Nazi vengeance weapon. "Come to think of it, you boys look pretty lean and hungry," she muttered under her breath. "Did Malscripto write it so you'd have to hang around here and protect the entrance, so you couldn't go huntin' anywhere else? Wow...what a jerk!" Almost there. The gators hissed their warnings even more loudly, but she couldn't turn back now. If things were getting this bad here, miles inland, the shore must be getting pounded by storm surge already. One last step.... And then she was atop the concrete cap, a good foot above the water of the swamp. But once the surge made it inland, the whole thing would probably be underwater for hours or even days. Maybe. She didn't really know exactly how the swamp reacted to hurricanes, she had the sense to stay indoors during Mother Nature's hissy fits. Well, she *usually* had the sense to do that. A gator made a half-hearted lunge, but didn't get within range of a booted kick. "A lock. Of course," Red Widow sighed, holstering her gun. She'd tried shooting a lock off once, and the ricochet had nearly hit her. Fortunately, the hairpin trick worked a lot more like in the movies than the gun trick did, and she fished a pin out of her now-soaked hair. A minute or so of cursing and fiddling as visibility dropped and the wind threatened to hurl her into the gators, and she had the padlock open. Then, with a wrenching against the rusted mechanisms, she had the hatch open and dropped inside, closing it behind her and sealing it. She didn't need a gator deciding to follow! It was dark, naturally. Pulling a flare out of the oilskin bag hooked to her gunbelt, she snapped it open before continuing down the ladder, and saw that the bunker was small and shallow, the ladder only going down about ten feet to hit floor level. When she reached the bottom, the flickering red light revealed a strange, humming device connected to some sort of lead box. Maybe it was powered by one of those atomic piles she'd read about...made sense, really. If you wanted a vengeance weapon to operate undetectably, hooking it into the city power mains wasn't a great idea, and a gas-powered generator would run out too quickly. Batteries went flat, but atomics kept on going. Of course, that also meant it might go up like an atom bomb if she did anything wrong. "Terrific," she sighed, then started examining the device more closely, hoping to find an obvious switch or dial or something. Then something hit her. Other than the rain she'd brought in with her, it was awfully dry in here. Even concrete or cinderblock usually let in a little moisture, especially in a swamp like this. But it was bone dry, to the point that her skin was no longer damp after only a few minutes inside. Maybe they needed to keep the machine dry, or it'd break? She climbed back up the ladder and undogged the hatch. It felt sluggish, though, and when she tried pushing it open she met resistance. "Ah, hellfire and damnation," she swore. "I guess storm surge does effect the swamp, at least today. Underwater already." For Lady Lawful, this wouldn't be a problem. She could shift a ton or more, and the water couldn't be so high yet that it'd be heavier than that. But heavy enough to give the Red Widow a problem? Sure, easy. Worse, the systems that kept the place dry probably didn't care about keeping the air breathable, so she could suffocate in here even if she found another way to turn the thing off and save the day. She tried again, bracing against the ladder. "There!" she gasped, as it opened a crack. Water only trickled in, rather than flooding, so the hatch wasn't underwater. No, it must have been under-GATOR. "Move it, suitcase!" she shouted through the crack, hammering on it with the butt of her pistol. There was an angry hissing and growling, but then she felt the burden ease and shoved the hatch open. Rain started to cascade down the hole, and the flare she'd left on the floor hissed and spat as angrily as any gator as the water came in. "Now I just have to avoid being drowned or eaten and hope the damn thing doesn't explode like a Hiroshima bomb...." * * * * [September 11, 1946 - Miami, Florida] It has been a very unpleasant midday out in the swamp, and at the worst of the storm she'd been forced to tie herself to a tree to keep from being blown away by the winds, but unpleasant was all it had been. The gators had actually crawled into the bunker to get out of the storm, and then been electrocuted for their troubles when the water finally rose high enough to short out the device. No earth-shattering kaboom, though, and the wind was enough to keep the stink of roast gator away. The Indian had been a loss, smashed against a tree by the storm, so Laverne had been forced to hoof it back to a main road, where she hitched a ride back into Miami. Being soaking wet and dressed in a torn bathing suit probably helped her hitch that ride. She'd briefly told Bill about what had happened, then collapsed into bed. Now morning had come and almost gone, and there was a knock at the door. "I've got it," Bill called out from elsewhere in the house. Laverne groaned and sat up in bed, feeling all sorts of aches and pains she knew would take a couple of days to fade. Normally, he'd be at work on a Wednesday, but either the storm closed down the shop, or he took the day off to keep an eye on her...how sweet. "Is Miss Bishop in?" an unfamiliar male voice asked. "I'm afraid she had a rough day yesterday, got caught out in the hurricane. She's still in bed," Bill demurred. "No, I've slept in enough," Laverne called back. "Gimme a minute to get decent!" She could hear Bill leading the visitor into the living room while she stripped off the remains of her costume, giving a wry smile to the thought that it had stood up to a lot more abuse without completely falling apart than the Scribbler had given it credit for. She grabbed a clean slip and a housedress out of the closet, slid on some slippers, and headed out. Her hair was a total wreck, so she just wrestled it back into a sort of bun while she walked. Bill was sitting with a nondescript man who she felt she'd seen before, but maybe he just had that kind of face. "Good day, Mister...?" she extended a hand. "Doe. John Doe," he replied, taking her hand and nodding over it, but not going all old fashioned and kissing it. "I'm here about yesterday's events." "You with the weather bureau?" she asked. "Not exactly. To be more specific, I'm here about the hurricane magnet that you managed to disable, Red Widow." His use of her codename was totally matter of fact. Of course, she'd let any number of people know who she was back when she officially retired, but aside from things like the other day at the swap meet, she didn't generally noise it around. "I'm currently attached to a top secret project devoted to studying superhuman powers and advanced technologies for the government, and we're interested in having a look at that machine now that it's no longer calling a chain of hurricanes to the peninsula." Laverne blinked. "A chain?" Doe nodded. "Spotter planes out of Fort Lauderdale identified at least three more hurricanes, easily as strong as yesterday's, forming in the Atlantic and lining up to strike Miami. But today they're either losing strength or drifting off on other courses. You probably saved southern Florida from annihilation, Miss Bishop." "Wow," she sat down with a thump on the sofa. "Those Nazis don't kid around." "Indeed. After Lady Lawful contacted me two days ago, we interrogated Malscripto and found that he'd been hired to use his powers to hide a vengeance weapon. It was expected to take two years or so to build enough power to go into operation, and Hitler felt that that if he hadn't turned the tide and conquered America by then, he wanted no one to have Florida. Malscripto didn't particularly care, being based in the Chicago area and paid quite well in money and materials for his work. In any case, could you lead me to the machine?" Laverne let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Whoof. I don't know, really. I could get us in the right general area, but the storm's bound to have messed up a lot of landmarks. And it'd be underwater now anyway...I stopped it by just lettin' the swamp in to flood it. They didn't provide a convenient 'OFF' button. Oh, and there's probably some alligators down there with it." "Hm. Not a rush, then, if it's already as disabled as it's going to get. It can wait until you're more fully recovered," Doe shrugged. "Oh, and I have one other thing to ask of you. I know you haven't exhibited any superhuman powers, but would you be interested in coming to work with my organization? We've been trying to recruit retired Mysterymen to help us try to understand how the whole phenomenon worked." Laverne shook her head. "I'd say I was hangin' my costume up for good, but I think it's just going to have to go in the trash after yesterday. I never fought anythin' too weird, and you're right about me havin' no powers. Frankly, I hadn't even thought about the whole Mysteryman thing until it got dropped in my lap last month...I'd rather just lead a normal life." Doe stood. "Very well. But the offer remains open in case things drop in your lap again," he pulled out a business card and laid it on an end table. "I'll be in touch some time later in the month to see about that little tour of the swamp. Good day." Bill stood as well, and showed the government agent out. When he returned, he found Laverne slumped back in the sofa. "So, you really gonna toss the suit in the trash? With the hurricane damage, it was starting to get really interesting," Bill grinned. "Tell ya what, sport," Laverne winked. "If you can figure out how to get the swamp stink out of it, maybe I'll wear it on our honeymoon...." ============================================================================ Next Issue: A hero of the First Age inspires one who felt the call to action in the interval between the Second and Third, in "Minutes of the Man"! ============================================================================ Author's Notes: You know, I originally conceived of this as a backup story, something of about 100 lines to tack onto another piece. I didn't expect it to hit 530+ lines on its own...but that just sort of happened as I looked for ways to make it more than just "Heroine finds Tijuana Bible, is shocked". The red widow spider's taxonomic name is Latrodectus bishopi, making Laverne Bishop a typically punnish name. There's plenty of widow-spider- themed golden age heroines (Black Widow, Spider Widow), so what's one more? The red widow is native to Florida, hence Laverne's choice. It doesn't actually have an hourglass pattern, but her costume does anyway. http://www.eyrie.org/~dvandom/ASH/gallery/redwidow.JPG shows our heroine. *In* costume, of course. Contrary to the name, Tijuana Bibles were not generally from Tijuana, odds are the term was just an association with the kind of vice commonly found in border towns. _Tijuana Bibles_ by Bob Adelman (1997) is a good primer on the little 8-page feeelthy comics, with an educational introduction by Art Spiegelman. It has the looks of a coffee table book, although not a lot of coffee tables *I* know of would display it. :) It cheerfully admits that while scholarly validity is all well and good (and it does have a fair amount of that), sometimes "appealing to the prurient interest *is* a socially redeeming value" (as Spiegelman quotes Paul Krassner). Tijuana Bibles largely died out in the 50s and 60s, although I can attest to the fact that they lived on as a fannish underground minicomic thing well into the 1990s (i.e. the somewhat skeevy comic shop I went to early in grad school had plenty, starring both American charcacters and anime/manga stars, plus I'd see 'em at conventions every so often), blending seamlessly into the seamier side of doujinshi. These days, though, people just go straight to the webcomic format when they want to create slash or 'ship of a visual and explicit sort. But if you think slash is relatively new, keep in mind that the Tijuana Bibles back in the 1930s had things like a threesome with Popeye, Olive Oyl and J. Wellington Wimpy.... And yes, I will cop to some inspiration from the denounment of Watchmen here. I'm pretty sure Watchmen was my first exposure to the term (and idea of a) "Tijuana Bible," in fact. Finally, I don't plan to actually draw "Bound for Trouble!" and I hope none of you do either. Pervects. ============================================================================ For all the back issues, plus additional background information, art, and more, go to http://www.eyrie.org/~dvandom/ASH ! To discuss this issue or any others, either just hit "followup" to this post, or check out our Yahoo discussion group, which can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ash_stories/ ! There's also a LiveJournal interest group for ASH, check it out at http://www.livejournal.com/interests.bml?int=academy+of+super-heroes ============================================================================