By John Leatherman
A chill rattles my body, more than warranted by the crisp December air. There’s a widget heist in progress, I know it. I have an instinct for these things.
That and the twenty-foot section of chain-link fence flattened under tire tracks.
Giselle Gizmoskowicz, the Gizmo Wizard of Scare City, has long sought a gizmo-nopoly and secretly funded Gizmo Gangs to cripple her competitors—especially Adver City’s critical widget production infrastructure. With Worldwide Widget’s security staff furloughed for the holidays, the unenviable responsibility of protection has fallen on us superheroes.
Alert for widget filchers, I wander the shadowy labyrinth of metallic gray shipping containers around the loading dock. Through gaps between the stacks, I watch two thugs, squat and chunky in brown jumpsuits, prying open crates in the adjacent corridor.
“Remember, Thug Two, take four widgets out, put in a brick, and seal it back up.”
“Right, Thug One. The weight’ll be right, but the brick’ll crush the others during shipment.”
“Exactly, Thug Two. Then the boss can sell the good widgets at a markup!”
“It’s a great plan, Thug One. Why do we keep repeating it?”
Leaping around the corner, I confront the thugs, purple cape fluttering around my orange bodysuit. “Drop those widgets, you idjits! Or you’ll have to fuss with Super Gus!”
Thug Two scowls. “Super Who? I thought he was Gamma-Guy!”
“Nah, he’s purple with an orange cape.”
“Good, then this one’s not bulletproof!” Thug Two draws a gun and fires.
With a stinging impact, the .38 plows into my chest, propelling me backward into a stack of crates. Ow.
Where’d this bullet come from? And who am I?
I may be indestructible, but too much pain causes amnesia. Why do I always forget that?
Thug One groans. “Why’d you do that, Thug Two? The boss doesn’t like dead bodies. She’s gonna kill us!”
Thug Two shrugs. “Come on, you think I could kill Super Gus? I’m not that good a shot.”
That’s right, I’m Super Gus, alias Arnold Montes.
It’s called a secret identity for a reason.
Still tingling with pain, I brace myself against the bottom crate and struggle to rise.
Thug Two grins. “See? He’s going to push right through this.”
The damaged wood gives way, and the entire stack collapses onto me.
Thug Two corrects himself. “Or not.”
Though pinned under the wreckage, I still hear their conversation. A narrow gap between widgets gives me a limited view.
Thug One shouts into his radio. “Thug Three, abort, abort!”
The speaker crackles. “A board? On a loading dock? Big whoop. Are we alerting on any old thing now?”
Thug One starts to reply, but Thug Three continues.
“Thug One, a nail! A screw! A cobweb! There, how do you like it?”
“Thug Three, I said aborT! With a T!”
“Ooooooh, a BORT! Got it.” Thug Three pauses. “Now, I know what to do about a bort, of course, but I can’t just assume you do, so…”
“Cease all operations and evacuate!”
“Right! Good job.” Thug Three clears his throat. “But, uh, first get a good description of that bort.”
Thug One sets down his briefcase. “All right, that takes care of our crew, but the boss won’t want those widgets on the market. Time for the backup plan.” He punches a red button, and the briefcase pops open, revealing a metallic device sheathed in blinking lights and switches.
A calm, robotic voice emanates. “Thank you for activating the Widget-Whacker. You have five minutes until widgexplosion. Have a nice day.”
The thugs trot off, and a red-on-black digital timer screen counts down the seconds with pulsing tones.
While working my way out of the widgets, I struggle to recall Captain Combustible’s online bomb defusing course. How did that go? “Cut the red, and you’re dead.”
Or was it, “Cut the blue, and you’re through”?
Finally free of the widgets, I remove the access panel.
Great Gus-busters, all the wires are brown. How appropriate.
But I might have another solution.
Crouching over the bomb, I cover it completely. My cockrachium composition should contain the conflagration, channeling the explosive force straight up instead of outward.
The muffled robot voice chimes forth. “Thirty seconds to widgexplosion. If you need more time to evacuate, please download the app and use the pause feature.”
“The what?!”
“We hope you’ve enjoyed using the Widget-Whacker. Please visit www.wwww.wwwww.widgetwhacker.bomb/survey and share your experience.”
Oh, I will. Negative stars.
“It is now widgexplosion. Thank you.”
The blast hurts like a mother. A mother rhinoceros stomping on me. I black out.
***
I awaken atop a shipping container.
What happened? How did I get here?
The worse the pain, the worse the amnesia!
A female voice from below breaks into the delirium of discomfort.
“I’m Cindy Serendipity for Adver City Action News Six. We’re live at the Worldwide Widget warehouse, near the source of an alert from the National Widget-Whacker Warning Service.”
I peer over the edge of the container. On the ground, a young brunette woman with a microphone interviews a portly, white-haired man in a red business suit before a camera crew.
“With me now is Worldwide Widget CEO Williford Widgetzinsky III. Sir, what happened here?”
“This break-in was definitely the work of thugs, taking advantage of our lax security over the holidays. Which I probably shouldn’t mention on live TV.”
“And the thugs detonated a Widget-Whacker?”
“So says the NWWWS, but I haven’t found one widget whacked. Something must have contained the blast.”
Exactly. Now I remember.
I leap down from the crate. “Right! That something was me!”
Williford gasps. “It’s a widget miracle! You’ve saved my factory… my share price… my annual bonus!” Raising his arms, he shouts to the camera. “Merry Christmas, everyone! No layoffs till February!”
Cindy turns to me. “Adver City will have a jolly holiday after all, thanks to a new superhero—uh, what’s your name?”
I wince. “Hmm, good question!”
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Loading...ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Holy Heists, Super Gus. What an adventure!
Glad you enjoyed it!