Issue 3 - The Case of the Missing Madman

The Plainsman watched as the police hauled Texas T-Storm away in what his grandmother would have called "The Paddy-Wagon".  Fortunately for him, the county hadn't changed his status as an active deputy, so shooting a firearm at a "suspect," even one obviously guilty, didn't earn him a ride downtown.  He would have to appear before a judge at some point, but he felt confident at least a dozen people would have video of the situation, and he was on solid legal grounds.  

Across the street, Dan saw Zorby looking around, confused.  Time for Dan to make a re-appearance and come up with some inane reason he had to duck out just as the action started.  One day, he thought, one of your friends is going to get wise to this Clark and Lois bullcrap you keep pulling and realize YOU are The Plainsman. Until that day, though, Dan would carry on the masquerade.  

A few minutes later, Dan ducked out of a burrito shop and waved Zorby down.  He'd have to look into whatever T-Storm was talking about later.  Maestro?  No way.  He'd already put him away!  

"Sorry, man," Dan said.  "Had to, you know..."  Zorby nodded acknowledgement, then suddenly looked concerned. 

"Hey, what's wrong with your eye?" Zorby asked.

Dan swore internally to himself.  He'd missed some face paint.  Nothing to do now but play it up.  

"Yeah, hurts like hell.  Restroom door hit me right there was I was walking in.  Lucky it didn't break my nose!" Dan said, rubbing near his eye and trying to avoid smearing the facepaint, lest he foul his lie.  

The two continued to converse as the walked into the sandwich shop and ordered their favorites.  For Dan, it was a Southwest Turkey sub.  Zorby had a Loaded Club, extra bacon.  Sitting in a cramped booth by the window, they continued their discussion as they watched the people on the avenue.  

"So, you and Leah were at the bar, then?" Zorby prodded.  

Dan took a big bite and muffled an affirmative.  He didn't want this line of questioning to continue too far.  What bar?  What night was that?  He didn't want Zorby to put that information together and come up with the fact that he, Dan Mitchell, was at the bar the The Plainsman had taken out The Maestro recently.  IF it was Maestro, Dan thought.  It was quite an uncomfortable idea.  Was Texas T-Storm mistaken, or was it NOT the Maestro he'd captured?  Dan felt sure he would have heard if the man he'd captured had escape.  No, he was still in lockup.  At least, Dan reflected, SOMEONE was.  

After dinner Dan dropped Zorby off at his car, and turned toward the Correctional Center.  While he would have loved to stop in and chat with Leah some more (and maybe gather some intel on the romantic competition), The Plainsman had work to do.  

Rain continued to pound down as Dan, in the cover of a building overhand, changed into his Plainsman costume and ran into the courts building.  He'd have to have legal clearance to talk to Maestro.  Obtaining it shouldn't be hard, unless...

Great, Plainsman thought as he read the name.  Judge Parrino.  Parrino was a hardliner on vigilante activity; he'd stood against The Plainsman's legal status as deputy in every possible way.  Just as Dan raised his hand to knock, Parrino opened the door.  Instinctively he jumped back a little; judges didn't generally have fans, and Parrino had less than many.  

The short man with tight cropped black hair and a dusky complexion relaxed, just a little, when he saw who it was. "Holy...What the hell do you want, Plainsman?"

"Judge, I need a favor.  It's important."  Dan tried to sound as respectful as possible, but he was betting the last couple syllables were a little aggressive.  

"Fine.  Make an appointment with my assistant and I'll talk to you then, just like any other taxpayer."  Parrino side-stepped The Plainsman and strode two steps toward the elevator.  

"It's Maestro.  I think the guy we have in lockup isn't him."  Parrino paused.  Maestro was a vile murderer.  He killed for fun.  Often, he didn't even care who died.  He had no cause.  He just loved death.  Even Parrino understood that.  The judge pivoted.  

"I'll ask you again, hero," he sneered that last part.  "What do you want?"

"I need to speak to the suspect," Dan said flatly, locking eyes with his erstwhile nemesis.  He was ready to give up when Parrino walked back into his office and flipped on the lights.  Dan's eyes opened wide in surprise.  He'd actually listened, for once.  

********************************************************************************************

Judge Parrino filled out the paperwork and made a quick call, and Dan was on his way.  He headed Northwest toward the Clay County lockup, and was there in less than twenty minutes.  Another ten minute wait and he was with "The Maestro" (along with two armed police officers) in an interrogation room.  The Plainsman was glad he'd been allowed to keep his firearm, owing to his special legal status.  If this WAS Maestro, things could go south at any moment.  

Dan couldn't believe how much this person looked like his old villain, but after a few words, he knew it wasn't him. From there, it was easy.  It took only a few minutes to convince the inexperienced petty criminal (down on his luck actor, as it turned out) to give up a location.  Chicago, Illinois, North side.  Minutes later, Dan was on highway 291, heading toward 70 west, which would take him to Interstate 55 at St Louis, and straight on to the Windy City.

               

Issue 2 - A Normal Day

Dan woke up with a start, certain he’d heard someone in the hall. It was still dark; the sun had not yet cracked the skyline. If someone was in here, they’d be in for a shock: Dan Mitchell had the entire layout of his downtown apartment memorized to the inch, and his tomahawk was already in his hand. After listening for a few more minutes, Dan decided it was nothing. Reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp, he set his weapon down on the bed, rubbed his face and eyes, and reached over to pet his savannah cat, Brushfire. Not the original Brushfire; she'd died while he was in his coma. The first thing Dan had done when he was strong enough to stand again was go looking for her. Instead, what he found was the agency that had taken her when they'd cleared out his apartment. And, she'd had a litter. Dan had adopted her son for moral support during his long journey to rehabilitation. Perhaps it was morose, but he couldn't help but naming the cub Brushfire, after his mother.  

Dan’s room was decorated sparsely with western and Native memorabilia, from a classic Johnny West doll from the late 70s to paintings by modern Native artists.  His window, currently tinted, had an amazing view of downtown Kansas City from the 10th floor. Having pulled the curtains closed, he knelt to pull a plastic box from under his bed, then set it on the bed and opened it. Brushfire immediately became interested in what was going on, and began sniffing in and around the box.

Dan pulled out his spare costume, identical to the one he’d been wearing when he'd been seriously injured that night, when his friend had died at his side.  The costume consisted of a brown leather jacket, his mask and face paints for accent, some black, leather-like pants, and a pair of short engineer boots.  There was also his belt, which had a holster for his pistol (kept in a drawer near the bed, not in the box) and his grapple gun, which had 100 yards of Spectra rope. Unable to stop himself, Dan reached in the drawer an pulled out his Navy pistol, holding it's familiar weight in his hand. The weapon hadn't tarnished or seemingly aged at all in 10 years, though that didn't surprise Dan. It was, after all, magic.  

Looking down at his arm and leg muscles, Dan realized he’d have to do a lot more working out, if he were going to take up this responsibility again. And from what he'd seen on the news the past several days, Kansas City needed him more than it ever had.  

Leaving the box on the bed, Dan stood up and looked out his window at the city below.  Maestro was behind bars now. Dan had stopped to watch the arrest on TV at a different bar further down the street, after he’d knocked Maestro out and diffused his bomb. Dan shook his head, realizing that the villain had been prepared to blow himself up in order to kill The Plainsman, a has-been hero of little danger to him. What a maniac. 

Distracted by a siren in the street below, Dan looked out to see several men turn down an alley across the street, avoiding detection of the police cruiser, which kept going up 13th. Who am I to argue? And he put on the costume once again, and grabbed his tomahawk and his pistol. Then, opening the secret panel he’d built into the wall of his bedroom, Dan took the makeshift ladder he’d built between the walls up to the roof, and out a hatch. Looking out over the city, he took aim with his grappler and fired at a lower building nearby. For the first time in years, The Plainsman was watching over Kansas City.

*********************************************************************************************************

Dan’s friend Zorby was an eclectic kind of guy.  Short for Zorbinsky, Dan had met Lee at a weekly poker game he’d been playing with some of the guys on the hospital staff during rehab.  Turns out Zorby was the step-son of one of the players who couldn’t make it that night.  He was much younger than anyone else at the table, early twenties.  And unlike most of the guys at the game, Zorby didn’t work at the hospital; he was a manager at a record store, KC Discs.  

That’s where Dan stood now, on a Friday afternoon.  “What do you mean, it DIDN’T come in?” Dan asked Zorby, frustrated.  Unlike Dan’s tall, well-muscled form, Zorby was short and stocky, with a goatee and flame-red hair.     

“Sorry, man.  Something about a train wreck or some such,” Zorby said as the door jingled.  

“Zorby, don’t be so cold!  You’re talking about Zeppelin’s alternate turquoise cover!  That thing is worth thousands!”

“Doesn’t stop a train wreck,” Zorby said, sighing.  Just then, a young Asian woman walked up to the counter.  “Oh, hey Leah,” Zorby nodded.  The woman circled around the counter and grabbed one of the store T-shirts they all wore, pulling it on over her own top.  As her black hair came through the top, Dan looked on, stunned.  It was her.

“Can’t believe the damned bus was 20 minutes late.  I didn’t even get a chance to grab lunch,” Leah said, walking to the computer/register to clock in.  The young Asian woman looked up and said a friendly “Hello” to the customer.  Leah’s eyes wrinkled for a moment behind her rectangular glasses.  

“You look familiar.  Have I met you before?” she asked.  

Dan tripped over his tongue.  “I...No, don’t think so.  I’d remember you,” he said.  

“You’re kind of a sweet talker, aren’t you,” she joked.

“Guilty as charged,” he laughed.  

“Hey, hey, you guys done?” Zorby broke in.  “I need to bug out.  Dan, grab a bite?”

“Sure, man.  Nice meeting you, Leah.  I’m Dan by the way,” Dan said.  And Dan and Zorby walked out into the evening.  

“Zorby, that’s the girl!” Dan said a few yards away.  

“What, where?” Zorby looked around.  

“No, you idiot.  Leah!  She’s the girl at the bar I told you about!”  The two paused in the street at a don’t walk signal.  

“Oh!” Zorby said, thunder rolling in the distance.  “Well, tough luck on that one, then.  She’s taken.”

The two crossed at the light.  “Taken?  What?  You?” Dan asked.

“Pshh, no, not me,” Zorby literally brushed his hand through the air as if pushing the thought away.  “Some guy, student at Welmount.  Sciency guy of some kind. Besides, isn't she kind of young for you?”

"No comment," Dan said sullenly. Well, he thought to himself, That’s a disappointment, but at least she’s not dating Zorby.  I don’t think I could take that. Dan kept his comments to himself as the thunder rolled closer.  

“Pizza?” Zorby asked.  

“No, had it for lunch.  Deli?” Dan countered.  

“Sure.  Jimmy B’s?”

“Sounds great.  Good potato salad.”  A lightning strike nearby made both of them, and everyone else on the street, jump.  An instant later, the front of an electronics shop shattered, and something zipped inside at high speed.  

“What the heck was that?” Zorby asked.  But Dan was gone.  

On the street, people were looking into the shattered remains of the plate glass window.  From inside, another lightning bolt shot out, hitting one of the pedestrian gawking in and knocking her into the street.  

Then, from above, a man in black and brown, his face disguised in a mask and war paint, swung down on a wire.  Landing just to the right of the shattered window, The Plainsman drew his gun. Pushing the onlookers out of the way, he glanced in quickly.  Yep, just as he suspected.  Texas T-Storm, his old super-speed foe.  Must have just gotten out of lockup after the last time he busted him eleven years ago.  

Dan heard the mumbling behind him as he prepared to make his move.  “Hey, it’s the Plainsman! Thought he was dead!” “I thought he retired.”  “What’s a Planesman?” Etc.  Nice to know they remembered him.  

Leaping onto the window’s edge, shattered glass all around his feet, Dan scanned the area down the barrel of his shaman-blessed revolver.  Where did that...there!  Dan fired, but too late.  The blue and black garbed villain known as Texas T-Storm zipped past him, knocking him out the window and onto the concrete, tailbone first.  

Dan winced, but quickly recovered, swung his gun arm around, and fired at the sky.  Fortunately, the pistol had a special power.  It never missed.  Even a clumsy attempt at aiming, such as the one Dan just made, was guided by ancient mystical forces, and hit its mark.  From the sky, several yards in the air, came a scream of pain, and Texas T-Storm crash-landed on a two story building across the street.  

Dan could hear the police cars coming; someone in the crowd had probably called them.  Pressing his advantage, the Plainsman sprinted across the street, pulling himself on to a retail awning, then manually tossing his grapple to the roof.  He hauled himself up as quickly as he could, flipped over the side and dropped four feet to the roof below.  His shoulder ached now, but not as much as his face would have if he’d simply stuck his head over the edge: a bolt of energy flew directly past him, so close the hairs on his arm stood up.  

Dan drew his tomahawk and moved in quickly.  At range, T-Storm had an advantage.  But while he was very fast, he was not hand to hand trained.  The villain struggled to get to his feet with the bullet wound in his side, but Dan swept him from behind as he butted the villain with the blunt side of his axe-head.  

The thunder continued to roll in, but Texas T-Storm fell back on his elbow.  Beside him was a bag of “loot” he’d stolen from the electronics store.  Odd target for a supervillain, Dan thought.  

“Please,” the defeated T-Storm begged.  “You’ve got to let me go!  He’ll kill her!”

“What?  Who?” Dan asked suspiciously, tomahawk still prepared to strike.  

“My...niece.  He’s got my niece.”

“Slow down, Tex.  Who has your niece?”    

“Maestro.”

Issue 1 - The Return of The Plainsman

Daniel Mitchell drained the last of his tall glass, and gently tapped it on the bar to get the bartender's attention.

“Another round, hon?” the young woman asked. She was a beautiful, if somewhat lanky, Asian American woman. Daniel's eyes lingered a moment on the scripted tatoo on her shoulder.

“Yeah, keep 'em coming,” he said. This was his third beer. Well, third rather large beer. Daniel was here today because his friend, Doug, was dead.  Ten years now.  And even Daniel Mitchell, the Plainsman, the "World's First Super Hero", hadn't been able to stop it.'

Dan stared at his image in the mirror before he took a drink. He was old. There were wrinkles, his brown hair was starting to recede, and his muscles were still thin and weak, despite a year of rehab. That was all part of the price he had paid, the night Questmaster had killed his friend with one of those damned exploding dice of his.  A dead friend, a ten year coma, and the end of the great Plainsman, master of unarmed combat, wielder of a shaman-blessed Colt Navy pistol from the 1850s, World's First Superhero.

Dan knocked back the beer and ordered another, watching the Royals on the tube in the bar as the bartender cleaned up some dinner dishes, cheese fries or some such, left by the last customers to leave.

A young woman entered; Dan perused her cursorily, but then she walked around into his range of vision. It was an Asian woman, probably Chinese, heavier and more full figured than the bartender. She walked up and gave the woman a hug. Sisters, Dan though to himself. They immediately began chatting to themselves, with the newcomer taking a seat at the end of the bar.

Somehow, Dan couldn't take his eyes off the young woman who just walked in. She seemed so much more real than her probable sister, much more approachable and honest. He knew that judging the bartender for being thin and lively wasn't a righteous or good thing to do, but his human instincts just made Dan want to believe the best possible of this newcomer, this chubby Asian woman in glasses. Oh, he thought to himself as the young woman caught his eye. Busted.

The bell of the door opening distracted him. Looking over, he saw a large man entering; Dark skin, dreadlocks. Dan went back to his beer. This guy was okay; Dan could tell by the way he carried himself.  Then he heard the footsteps behind the man. Small, shallow but purposeful. Dan glanced over his shoulder, and almost spit out his beer. It was him. His oldest opponent.  The Maestro. 

He wasn't wearing his costume, just a trench coat. But Dan knew it was him. He'd seen the small man's narrow face a hundred times in waking life, and a hundred more in his nightmares.  He knew his purposeful march. And he knew something was coming. Some evil gimmick. Gas? Poison darts? Dan had no idea. He found out soon enough.

The barrel of...something was pointed at his neck. “You lose, Plainsman,” was all the Maestro said, and he whispered that. Dan glanced over. The bartender and her sister thought it was two friends screwing around. The tough guy wasn't paying attention at all. But Dan had been ready.

Dan knew the barrel of the weapon was aimed at such an angle that it wouldn't hit the women. It would pass over their heads by a good amount. Using his skills at the martial art known as Okichitaw, Dan dropped his chest to the bar, while at the same time hitting his opponent behind the knee. The dart (I knew it! Poison darts! Dan thought) flew into the ceiling as the Maestro lost his balance. An instant after that, Dan was dropping his entire weight onto the small man, driving him to the floor.

The Maestro, evidently, had expected the out of shape hero to be easy prey. Dan was half-shocked himself at the result.  But the Maestro weaseled out from under the erstwhile Plainsman, and stood to reveal a very complicated bomb under his jacket.

“Well, Plainsman, it seems you've forced me to call on 'plan B',” the evil little man cackled.

Dan felt ashamed that he hadn't realized someone as diabolical as The Maestro would have a 'plan B', but there was little to be done. If he hadn't survived, he definitely couldn't have stopped it, and Maestro was not known for being merciful to witnesses. Time to succeed or just suck, Dan thought. Flipping to his feet faster than Maestro could react, Dan reached out and grabbed a central circuit, ignoring all the wires. Pulling it, the readout on the bomb switched the “ERR”.

Dan had taken a gamble that the wires were for show, and that the bomb was a simple electronic model. Once it no longer had a processor to send commands, the explosives were useless without an old fashioned fuse, and there was none attached.

Maestro backpedaled. “Time for plan C,” he said. But it was too late. Dan had incapacitated the villain before he could flee, holding him in an old fashioned headlock. Applying pressure to the neck, it took only a few seconds for The Maestro to pass out, and Dan was a hero. Again.

“That was sooo cool,” the bartender said as she called the police. “Was that Tae Kwon Do?”

“Okichitaw,” Dan said. The bartender stared at him. “Native American kung fu,” he explained.

The larger man nodded respect to Dan, who nodded back. Feeling good about himself and the attention he was getting, he turned to look at the other Asian woman, the sister. She was paying him no attention at all. Figured.

Dan dropped a $20 on the counter, easily enough to cover his bills. Fortunately, this was his first time here. He had to take off now if he had any hope of securing the identity of The Plainsman. He'd gotten lucky, but he wasn't about to waste the opportunity. The Plainsman was back!