myke phoenix The Strange Ultimatum of Quincy Quakenbos Prologue .................................................................. 5 1. Our Guest Today is a Terrorist ..................... 9 2. Panic Never Pays ............................................. 17 3. Peril at Quakenbos Laboratories ................ 23 4. Do Ducks Have Souls? .................................... 34 Epilogue ................................................................. 42 Myke Phoenix mailroom .................................... 44 MYKE PHOENIX, No. 3, March 2012. Warren Bluhm, editor and publisher. Published monthly by B.W. Richardson Press. Visit http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/wpbluhm or the Myke Phoenix blog, http://mykephoenix.blogspot.com, to learn more about this emagazine and our fine paperback products. This magazine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivatives-Share Alike License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0. Phoenix image Š2008 Jupiter Images Corp.
Who is Myke Phoenix? The universe shifted, and something dark burst from a yawning crack in the nature of being. Something dark and beyond reason was now part of the very fabric of Earth. But forces of good were also afoot, and those forces worked together to ensure that the Soulkeeper of Kiribati found its way into the hands of Paul Phillips, reporter for WACR news-talk radio in Astor City. The Soulkeeper was a talking vase, pale green, with glass jewels — crystal, red and blue — arranged in rows around its top and bottom and studded randomly about. There was a crude painting of a phoenix on one side. It seems the mythical phoenix is not so mythical after all, and on top of that, the noble bird had made arrangements for Paul Phillips to exchange bodies mystically with that of Mychus, a mighty warrior,
whenever evil threatened – and evil did a lot of threatening in those times. Not long afterward, Paul found himself in a circumstance where the body he inhabited was no longer the familiar one. In Paul’s place was a blondhaired, blue-eyed Adonis dressed in white. There was a red-and-gold bird emblazoned on his chest. He was Myke Phoenix.
The Strange Ultimatum of Quincy Quackenbos Prologue “Quincy! My God — Quincy!! I can’t find the boy.” Mother was beside herself. “Now, now, Mother, where did you see him last?” Father called across the beach. “He was right here on the sand, playing with his infernal duck, and now I can’t find him. We have to get out of here. Quinnnnccccyyyy!” “There, there, we’ll just search the atoll until we find him. We have more time than you think before the bomb goes off.” Father hoped his casual tone of voice
Myke Phoenix | 6
would calm Mother and mask his own fear. “It won’t take long; he can’t have gotten far.” The red-haired boy wished the big ships hadn’t moved so far offshore. It was fun watching them, big and gray shining in the sun. Hiding from Mother and Father was fun, too, but the big ships had the giant numbers on the bow and those big guns and the little tiny people on the decks. Mother and Father were just Mother and Father; there wasn’t as much to see. “Hush, Quacky,” he whispered as Father strode into view on the beach. His pet duck muttered in ducky tones under his breath, but the waves of the Pacific drowned out the sound. He watched Mother and Father walking and crossing the beach and crossing the beach and walking, all the while calling his name over and over. “Quincy! Quinnnnncccccyyyyy ... ! Come out here right now!” It was fun. As long as Quacky didn’t let loose with a full-fledged honk, this hiding place could be good for hours. But then a million million light bulbs went off, and
Prologue | 7
a billion billion crashes crashed, and a zillion zillion campfires burned his hair, and Quincy held Quacky tight. If Quincy knew what it felt like to melt, he would probably say he felt like he was melting. It felt like Quacky was melting in his arms, too. And then Quincy knew what Quacky was thinking. In fact, Quincy was Quacky. And Quacky was Quincy. And then everything went quiet and dark for a very long time. He could tell it was night, and then the sun came up again. Instead of all the animal and insect buzzy sounds from the day before, though, it was really really quiet. The first soldier who found Quincy screamed and ran away. The nice soldier who came later talked to him like Dad did when he was tucking him into bed. “How are you feeling, son?� he asked, soothing, comforting, gentle; but he had a funny look in his eyes, too, as if he
Myke Phoenix | 8
was scared or something. “You’re a pretty remarkable kid to be still alive, you know,” said the nice soldier. “Wak,” said Quincy.
Chapter 1: Our Guest Today is a Terrorist “So if I hear what you’re saying, Mr. Quackenbos, the people of Bikini Atoll had every right to sue the United States government?” “Oh, my, yes, Annette. The government literally blew up their home and rendered it unsafe for human life forever. Wouldn’t you say they had a right?” It was hard for Annette McPhearson to look at the person sitting across the table without staring and, perhaps, giggling. There was the constant temptation to reach over and tug at his face to see if it was a Halloween
mask.
That
would
mean,
however,
confirming that it wasn’t a mask, and that scary thought was what kept people from tugging at the bill of Quincy Quackenbos. Smooth white feathers, not hair, lay on top of the
Myke Phoenix | 10
man’s head, framing his perfectly human ears. A long duckbill emerged where his nose and mouth should have been, and webbing linked his fingers. Anyone who’d read about the duckboy of Bikini Atoll knew that this now-grown man, under the designer suit, had spindly legs that looked human but for the webbed feet, and that feathers covered his body to his tail. Everyone knew the story of Quincy Quackenbos, the half-man, half-duck, but no one could look into the eyes of the man-duck without sympathy. Some have speculated that it was the constant exposure to wellmeaning people’s pity that drove Quincy to the mad sort of behavior we’re here to tell. “Oh, no, I agree they had a right to sue, which of course they did in 1975,” Annette McPhearson said with her deep, earnest voice exuding empathy. “What I’ve never been able to figure out, frankly, is why you yourself never took the government to court.” “Wak, wak, wak!” Quincy Quackenbos laughed heartily, a quacky wheeze of a laugh. “Ms. McPhearson, I am a millionaire many times over because of my books, my patents, my biotechnology firm, my lectures,
Our Guest Today is a Terrorist | 11
and my radio and TV appearances. Plus, the taxpayers have already paid the cost of raising me in a government facility from age 5 to 18. It would be extraneous to sue the government and take any more money from the good citizens of our fine nation.” “The military set off a hydrogen bomb knowing full well you and your parents were still on Bikini Atoll. The bomb killed your parents and should have killed you.” “No, I killed my parents,” Quackenbos said sadly, resignedly, “They were given plenty of time to get off the atoll, but little me and my pet duck were hiding from them, and no parents would leave their son behind under those circumstances. I only wish I had been old enough to understand what was about to happen. I was just being a typical, self-centered, playful, stupid 5-year-old boy with a pet duck, and we ended up killing my parents.” “You’re much too harsh on yourself,” Annette McPhearson
said
mechanically.
“This
is
Your
Afternoon Delight on WACR, the Voice of Astor City. Our resident neanderthal, Hi Dawson, will be with you
Myke Phoenix | 12
90 minutes from now at 4:00. We’ll take your calls for entrepreneur Quincy Quackenbos right after news with Paul Phillips.” “Myke
Phoenix
collars
two
hitmen
—
good
afternoon, I’m Paul Phillips,” intoned a voice from another studio, and Quackenbos tilted his ear toward the on-air monitor. He listened intently to the story of the mysterious man in white who apprehended the murderers. “I’m very intrigued by this Phoenix fellow,” he said. “He’s supposed to be bulletproof and very strong, isn’t he?” “That’s what I’ve heard,” Annette McPhearson said absently. “Sam, how many calls? Good.” “He’s also solved a couple of odd cases that the police set aside months ago as unsolved. There’s a mind inside that remarkable body.” “I guess. I’m sorry, I had some quick paperwork and wasn’t paying attention. Do you want to comment on Myke Phoenix when we get back from the break?” “Wak! I was just going to ask if I could.” “You’re the guest,” Annette said. “We’ll be back on
Our Guest Today is a Terrorist | 13
in a minute.” 65 seconds later as the music returned, she chirped sweetly, “Welcome back to Your Afternoon Delight. I’m Annette McPhearson and our guest today is the multimillionaire man-duck — I hope you don’t mind that description —” “Not at all.” “— Quincy Quackenbos, who told me off the air that he’s fascinated by Astor
City’s mysterious new
vigilante, Myke Phoenix.” “Yes, I heard that news story that said he was back in action earlier today. I’d love to meet him. No, that’s not strong enough. Actually, I’d love to study him.” “He has a lot of people wondering about his background,” she agreed. “No, you don’t understand,” Quakenbos said slyly. “I mean, I’d like to study him.” “Study him?” Annette McPhearson made a curious face. “You mean, like a lab animal?” “To tell the truth — I hope this doesn’t sound too insensitive — that’s exactly what I mean. Why can’t bullets hurt him? What makes him so incredibly strong? How does he solve unsolveable crimes? He’s a
Myke Phoenix | 14
fabulous specimen, and I’d like to see what makes him tick — short of dissecting him, of course.” “Mr. Quackenbos, frankly, that sounds terrible! Treating of him as a ‘specimen’ just sounds inhumane.” “Oh so?” Quincy Quackenbos replied, and his voice became a little higher and yes, a little duckier. “And my 13 years of living in a science lab was humane, I suppose?” After an awkward pause the duckman’s expression softened. “Forgive me, Ms. McPhearson, for twisting your words. I wasn’t speaking literally. Wak, no, I’m talking about a series of simple medical tests, not unlike a physical if you will, just to understand why Myke Phoenix is, well, Myke Phoenix! In fact, I demand that Mr. Phoenix appear to submit to these tests. Wak, yes, I want him to meet me here in this studio before the end of this broadcast!” “What if he doesn’t want to be studied,” she asked warily, feeling control of her program slipping away slowly but inexorably. “After all, perhaps he has some secrets he doesn’t want to share, secrets the tests would unmask.” “Let me put it another way,” he smiled. “If Myke
Our Guest Today is a Terrorist | 15
Phoenix won’t surrender to me by 4 o’clock, I will blow up Astor City with the hydrogen bomb I’ve planted at a secret location downtown.” “Wha — Who —” for a moment it was Annette McPhearson who sputtered like a duck. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Quackenbos, you had me going for a moment. I thought you were serious.” “I assure you, I’m utterly serious.” Suddenly the human eyes above the impossible duck bill were cold steel. “If Myke Phoenix refuses to come to my lab for a simple examination, I’ll detonate the bomb that I’ve planted here in the city somewhere. I promise no one will be hurt unless he refuses — or, of course, if I’m taken into custody for making this little proposal. I’ve planned for its detonation under either of those circumstances.” “Let me get this straight,” Annette McPhearson said. “You promise not to hurt Myke Phoenix, but you’re going to set off a nuclear bomb if you don’t get your way.” “That’s a very good way to sum it up, Annette,” Quincy Quackenbos said cheerfully.
Myke Phoenix | 16
“You made these arrangements not even knowing if we’d talk about Myke Phoenix on the show?” “Oh, come now, it’s a three-hour show and, as you said before, I’m the guest. Of course there’d be time to talk about Mr. Phoenix. Now, then, why don’t we take some of those phone calls?”
Chapter 2: Panic Never Pays Paul Phillips was pretending to type a news story at his computer terminal, but listening to the conversation about Myke Phoenix, when the strange ultimatum was delivered. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he said to no one in particular. Station manager Bo Ranfort burst into the newsroom seconds later. “Paul! You know this Phoenix fellow. Get him on the phone! Get him over here now!” “He probably was listening to the broadcast,” Phillips responded with some assurance. “I’ll bet he gets here in no time at all.” “My God,” Ranfort said, his usual concrete calm cracked just slightly, “some nut blackmailing a city with a leftover nuclear bomb. On our radio station!” “Quincy Quackenbos is a pretty intelligent cookie.
Myke Phoenix | 18
He probably made the bomb himself, he didn’t need to find leftovers in some terrorist network,” replied Paul Phillips. “Relax, Bo. Myke Phoenix will be here soon, and there has to be some reasonable explanation for the way Quackenbos is behaving. I’ll go make sure Myke is on his way.” The D.S. Dunsmore Advertising Agency was abuzz with activity, as always, for there were clients to call, commercials to write and design, and files to file. Dana Dunsmore was holding the phone away from her ear but could still hear the shouting on the other end. “I can’t call every radio station in town and tell them to change your ads as of 6 o’clock this morning,” she said firmly. “For one thing, it’s already 2:45 in the afternoon and more than half your ads have already run by now.” Someone was giving birth to a cow on the other end of the line. “No, I can’t get them to run makegood ads for a change you made this late in the campaign. All right, all right, I’ll see what I can do, but don’t expect a miracle — no, I don’t think you want to do that. Another agency wouldn’t be this patient with
Panic Never Pays | 19
you.” As the phone landed on the hook, the birthing was still audible. So her heart was already pounding when the intercom beeped. “Dana?” “Have you been listening to the radio?” “I know, I know, the Gaffney ads are all wrong; she just called.” “No, it’s about Paul’s station.” The last time Dana Dunsmore heard something had happened
at
her
boyfriend’s
radio
station,
her
boyfriend had been caught in a bomb blast and turned into a superhero.1 She didn’t have fond memories of that day. Dana’s heart began to pound. “What about Paul’s station?” she managed. “Somebody’s talking about setting off an H-bomb unless Myke Phoenix surrenders to him.” The last time Dana Dunsmore had heard what was going on at Paul’s radio station, she’d run out of the building in a panic to make sure Paul was all right. A lot of business needing her approval didn’t get approved that day, and she had promised her 1
It happened back in Myke Phoenix #1. - wpb
Myke Phoenix | 20
employees she’d never leave them in the lurch like that again. So much for promises. Dana canceled her appointments for the rest of the afternoon and ran out of the building. She nearly literally jumped into her car, turned the ignition key and closed the door in one smooth motion. WACR was already tuned in on the radio. “How dare you scare us with that stupid comment about nuclear bombs,” a voice was shrieking on the radio. “Why can’t you just ask Mr. Phoenix for his help politely, like a normal human being?” “Alas, I’m not a normal human being,” a ducky voice replied. That’s right — Paul said Quincy Quackenbos was going to visit the station today. “I’m a freak of nature — well, no, that’s not quite correct, either. Humanity, meddling into the forces of nature, created me; science gone mad created me. Now, I’ve decided to go a little mad myself. Do you know how silly it is to be half-man, half-duck, and not insane? No, no, the time has come for me to lose my mind, and therefore I’m going to blow up the city if Myke Phoenix doesn’t
Panic Never Pays | 21
surrender to me. You might say I’m quacking up,” he said with a chuckle that was a little too forced to be sane. “It all makes common sense, don’t you think?” No, it didn’t, but Annette McPhearson was doing a good job of sounding calm despite what must be growing panic. “Let’s take another call, shall we? Good afternoon, you’re on from the east side.” “I’d like to know if Mr. Quackenbos considers his threat an existential scream for light in the otherwise absolutely black darkness of life in our contemporary society,” a man’s voice said. The question remained unanswered, for better or worse, because at that moment there came another voice from off-mike. “Hi, everyone,” the voice said cheerfully. “I’m Myke Phoenix.” There was a long, lingering pause, and then he added, “Well? I understand you want me to take some tests.” “Mr. Myke Phoenix,” Quincy Quackenbos’ voice was positively gleeful. “This is truly a pleasure. Come, come young man, we have much work to do. Forgive me or leaving early, Ms. McPhearson, but I have assistants
Myke Phoenix | 22
making my labs ready for us. Thank you so much for having me on your program today.” “PAUL!” Dana Dunsmore screamed as she drove along Astor Boulevard. “What are you doing, you crazy LOON!?” She screeched around the next corner and pointed the car toward Quackenbos Laboratories.
Chapter 3: Peril at Quackenbos Laboratories The building was low to the ground and sprawling; it occupied 20 acres of the Astor City Industrial Park. It was a granite building with big, smoky-black windows covering the upper half of each wall. On the facade next to the entrance was a huge silver “Q” with a huge silver “L” next to and slightly below it. From the outside, Quackenbos Labs seemed like any other business. It appeared to be a plain old square building from the street, but once inside with his host, Myke Phoenix saw that it was a weird labyrinth of corridors, none of them especially long. Some hallways were straight and narrow; some curved around glass-walled labs that
Myke Phoenix | 24
afforded no privacy to the researchers at work; some jagged along walls made of concrete with vault-like doors that towered over everyone. Myke knew he’d be hard-pressed to find his way back to the entrance on his own, should it be necessary. “It was nice of you to surrender so promptly and peacefully,” said Quincy Quackenbos. “You’ll find that I’m a man of my word — this won’t hurt you.” “You’ve said that a couple of times already,” said the man in the white suit. “Since you’re a man of your word, I assume you really intended to set off that nuclear bomb, and that would’ve hurt a lot.” Quackenbos waved a webbed hand. “Oh, that,” he said with a wak. “There was no nuclear bomb. Mere dramatic license. It would be too much bother for me to actually build one.” Myke Phoenix eyed his odd little host carefully. “So I’m free to go anytime?” “Wak, wak, wak. I didn’t say that.” “If there’s no nuclear bomb, what’s keeping me here?” “The conventional bomb in WACR’s basement, of
Peril at Quakenbos Laboratories | 25
course,” Quackenbos replied with a ruffle of his head feathers, “the one I’ll detonate and blow your friends to rubble, if you leave prematurely.” “If your first bomb threat was a fraud,” Myke Phoenix said as Quincy Quackenbos disappeared momentarily around a sudden corner, “why should I believe this one?” “Good question,” the manlike, ducklike voice said as thick glass slabs suddenly dropped from the ceiling, surrounding Myke Phoenix, “and here is your answer.” Something dropped from the ceiling into our hero’s hands. He had only enough time to see that it was an electronic device wired to a puttylike substance before it exploded, hurling him against the glass and leaving acrid smoke hanging in the small enclosure. As the smoke was cleared by a fan in the ceiling, Quackenbos stepped back into view, and his eyes widened in obvious pleasure. “Why, your body doesn’t seem to be damaged in the least. Amazing! Can you get out of there?” Phoenix coughed twice. “This glass appears to be bombproof, and you want me to try punching my way
Myke Phoenix | 26
out?” “Well, that’s one thought. Perhaps I’ve left you an alternative.” Quackenbos raised his eyes. Myke looked up at the ceiling, where a small red button was visible just inside the glass. He knew he could reach it with a standing jump; no ordinary man could. Instead he punched the side of the enclosure with all his might, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Quincy Quackenbos jumped. “Well! That was impressive,” he said. “Why didn’t you try the button?” “Maybe I couldn’t reach it,” was the reply, “or maybe I could reach it but don’t want you to know the full extent of my ability; or maybe I figured there was no proof that pushing the button would release the glass walls.” “Aha. A good answer, although not an especially cooperative one.” “I said I’d take your tests,” Myke said with a trace of annoyance, “I don’t recall saying I’d cooperate.” “I see: If I tell you to jump off a cliff, for example, you won’t, necessarily. Yes, yes, a wise course.”
Peril at Quakenbos Laboratories | 27
“All right, Quackenbos. What’s next?” “Well, when you coughed a moment ago, you determined what’s next,” the manduck said, reaching into his pockets to take a small plastic mask in one hand and a grenade-like object in the other. Myke Phoenix took a deep breath as his host held the mask over his bill and dropped the grenade. Sure enough, a sickly green gas flooded the corridor. Still holding his breath, the man in the white suit stalked toward the duckman. The tingle in his nostrils told him it would be unpleasant to inhale. His intention was: He would pick up his host and rip off the gas mask, with a comment to the effect of “I’m tired of these games, Mr. Quackenbos.” What actually happened was: He walked toward his host and fell through a trap door, plummeting about 50 feet in darkness. His actual comment was to the effect of “Yikes!” Myke Phoenix landed on his feet on a dirt floor, but the momentum of the fall forced him into a tumble. The good news was he was inside the body of Mychus, an invulnerable ancient warrior, and so no bones were
Myke Phoenix | 28
broken or separated from their rightful place. The bad news was he looked pretty ridiculous; it was not at all a graceful tumble. There was what at first appeared to be further bad news, as dim lights along the wall revealed the presence of two timber wolves in the corner, pawing at the soil. The walls seemed to be made of poured concrete. “Hi guys,” said Myke as the wild canines inched toward him tentatively. “Now wait a minute, fellas, everybody knows that wolves don’t attack people unless they’re provoked.” At that, the big silver beasts leaped. Myke Phoenix resisted the temptation to throw his hands up defensively or strike at them. This was a good decision, because the wolves stood on their back legs with their front paws against his massive chest, licking his face. “Hey, cut that out!” he giggled. “We still have to find a way out of here.” As if to accentuate that point, a vague “kaCHUNK” sounded somewhere in the distance, and
Peril at Quakenbos Laboratories | 29
Myke Phoenix heard a low hum and an odd scraping sound. “Hokey smokes!” he muttered as the walls to the small dungeon began to move toward him. He had a pretty good feeling the walls would break against his indestructible body; his two furry companions would not be so fortunate. Myke squinted in the semidarkness, searching for a seam that would reveal a possible opening. The walls eased closer. “This won’t hurt you,” Quackenbos had said. He hadn’t said anything about whether it would hurt anyone else, like two poor wolves. One of the animals began to howl, and it was only a moment before they began to harmonize. Myke turned and turned, seeking, seeking a way out. The walls were closer still. He hauled back and punched the side of one wall with the force of five sledgehammers, but the walls kept moving, untouched. The concrete might yield to repeated blows, but there was no time. Then the proverbial light bulb flashed in his mind. “The dirt floor,” he whispered excitedly, fell to his
Myke Phoenix | 30
knees, and began to dig. The wolves joined in the game, although their big paws were not able to move as much soil as their companion’s huge hands. He had only enough time to dig a shallow pit, but there was room enough for him to wrap his expansive arms around the two wolves and pull them down to safety. The converging walls met above them with an authoritative THUNK. All was still. “We’re OK for now, kids,” Myke Phoenix told his companions gently, “but I have to tell you — stop squirming! — we’re trapped 50 feet underground with two big concrete walls overhead. I think I could lean up and get them to break, but chunks would fall on top of us. I’d be OK; you wouldn’t. Any suggestions?” The only response was quick canine breathing from both sides of his face in the dark. At the rate the wolves were panting, the oxygen wouldn’t last very long. Myke Phoenix considered telling the animals to calm down, but he was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic himself. After a minute there came another distant “kaCHUNK” and Myke felt the concrete sea above him
Peril at Quakenbos Laboratories | 31
begin to part. As the walls returned slowly to their original positions, he heard a now-familiar wakking sound above. “Magnificent! Wak, wak, wak,” said Quincy Quackenbos, “simply magnificent! You’re all I heard you would be.” “I’m glad you liked it,” said Myke Phoenix as he clambered to his feet with the wolves next to him. He brushed soil off the front of his uniform and looked straight up. Quackenbos was leaning over the edge of the precipice, 50 feet up. “What was the point of all this?” “The bomb, to test your indestructibility,” said the man-duck. “The gas, to see if you were bright enough not to breathe and, if you were, to test your lung capacity. The pit, again to test whether your body can be broken. The wolves, to try your compassion. You are really too good to be true, my friend. You passed every test with flying colors.” “Frankly, I’m not sure we qualify as friends, Mr. Quackenbos,” said Myke Phoenix, gathering the two wolves under his arms, dipping into a deep knee bend
Myke Phoenix | 32
and leaping the 50 feet back to the corridor. Quincy Quackenbos blinked in amazement. “My word,” he said, flabbergasted. “Nobody can jump like that!” “Just call me nobody, then,” came the reply as the wolves scampered away, “but I prefer Myke. Now, I think I’m finished here. Let me go, before I —” It was really a bad time for Dana to burst into the room, followed by a secretary saying frantically, “I’m sorry, Mr. Quackenbos, she just burst in and I couldn’t stop her.” “Dana, what are you DOING, you crazy LOON?” Myke said. “You have no business calling anyone a loon,” Dana shot back. “How can you just waltz into danger after this maniac threatened to blow up the city?” “At least I can’t be hurt — but this maniac could do things to you to force me to —” Myke Phoenix stopped in mid-sentence and glanced at Quincy Quackenbos with an expression that could only be summed up with the word, “Oops.” A little leer played at the corner of Quackenbos’ bill.
Peril at Quakenbos Laboratories | 33
“Soooo — this lady means something to you, does she, Phoenix?” “Err — well, she’s in the advertising business,” Myke ad-libbed. “She’s helping me develop my public persona.” “A superhero with a marketing specialist, eh?” Quackenbos said. “Very interesting, but not terribly convincing. I’d say she has a personal stake in your well-being, the way she burst in. Ms. Hughes, show this woman — Dana, was it? — into Conference Room B and lock her in. Gently, please.” “Go with her, Dana. I’ll be OK.” Myke Phoenix watched helplessly as Ms. Hughes escorted Dana out of the room. “I’m telling you, if you harm one hair on her head, Quackenbos, I swear I’ll —” “Blood tests. Stress tests. A lock of your hair. A little aerobic exercise. That’s all we have left,” the duckman said, holding his hands in front of his chest, palms facing out, to calm his reluctant guest. “Then I’ll have
the
bomb
deactivated.”
Watching
Quincy
Quackenbos approach him gingerly, expectantly, Myke couldn’t help but think of a vulture circling its prey.
Chapter 4: Do Ducks Have Souls? “This is the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen,” said the man in the white coat as he struggled over Myke Phoenix’s arm. “It won’t go in.” “What do you mean, it won’t go in? Why won’t it go in?” “Well now, that’s the question,” the doctor said, pulling the syringe back. “See here? I can find the vein in the crook of the arm, but look here, when I try to take the blood sample —” he pushed and poked and prodded with the needle, but Myke Phoenix’s skin would not yield. “Gimme that,” Quackenbos said loudly. He grabbed the syringe and pushed it against the meaty arm with all his might. There was a popping sound and Myke Phoenix said,
Do Ducks Have Souls? | 35
“Ouch!” Quincy Quackenbos stared at the now needle-less tube. The needle itself rolled on the floor briefly after ricocheting off the ceiling and wall. Myke Phoenix rubbed the spot where his host had been pushing; it was red, but there was no puncture wound. “If it makes you feel better, that hurt,” Myke said with almost a whine in his voice. “Incredible,” Quackenbos breathed. “Wak! This is incredible. The man is bulletproof and can’t be cut. Dr. Simpson, do we have a bazooka?” “Now hold on just a New York minute,” Myke protested as the doctor nodded and began to back out the door. “I will not stand in front of the business end of a bazooka!” “Ah ha! So you do have limits,” Quackenbos exclaimed. The doctor paused by the door. The truth was that Myke didn’t know whether his marvelous body could withstand a bazooka shell, but he wasn’t about to find out by letting his odd host try it. “Let’s just say I don’t care to be shot at today, OK?” “No. Not OK.” The expression on the peculiar duck
Myke Phoenix | 36
face darkened. “You’re not leaving until I get into your bloodstream.” “Why? What do you need my blood for?” “Nothing,”
Quincy
Quackenbos
blurted,
as
if
something private had slipped out. “That is to say, there’s no one on the planet with abilities like yours, and I want my people to determine if something in your blood gives you this power.” “He means to kill you.” “SIMPSON!?” The doctor stepped forward. “I couldn’t say anything because I was afraid, but I think I’m safe while you’re here, Mr. Phoenix.” Quackenbos lunged at Dr. Simpson; Myke Phoenix grabbed his arm. “Quincy, I’m sorry, but you can’t go through with this.” “Go through with what?” Myke asked. “He wants to kill you and then use whatever he finds in your blood to produce a serum to make more of you — a personal army of super-powered beings, if you will. He — Urk!” The odd gurgle at the end of the sentence was caused by Quincy Quackenbos’ springing out of Myke’s
Do Ducks Have Souls? | 37
light grip and getting his hands around Dr. Simpson’s throat. “You fool! You’ve
ruined everything!” he
quacked. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” Myke Phoenix clawed at the duckman’s hands, but there were several seconds of extreme discomfort for the doctor before Myke succeeded in freeing him. “You’re stronger than you look,” Myke said. “I’d hate to get into a fist fight with OOLGH!” The fowl blow to Myke Phoenix’s solar plexus was entirely unexpected and caught him off guard just long enough for Quincy Quackenbos to run away. From his office window Quincy Quackenbos could see the red and blue flashing lights of the Astor City emergency response unit’s squad cars. If he had thought of installing a secret exit to the labs when he built them, now would have been a good time to use it. He hadn’t been that clever. If he were evil enough, he could waddle down to Conference Room B, unlock the door, and use that woman, Dana, as a hostage to break to freedom. Right now, he didn’t feel that evil.
Myke Phoenix | 38
“This is the end,” he said out loud, and he was surprised at the despair in his voice. Deep inside the duckman’s breast, Quacky wanted nothing more than to fly away to the nearest wetlands, find a hen and swim around with her for the rest of their lives. Quincy wanted to hide in the bushes, but that was how their mutual troubles had begun. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk. There, settled next to his appointment book and an unopened tin of sardines, was an automatic pistol. He picked it up and examined it, holding it in one webbed hand. Strange how such a small metal device held the power to perform the huge task of evicting the very soul from his body — or both souls, as the case might be. “Do ducks have souls?” a TV interviewer had asked him once when he described how he and Quacky occupied the same body. Of course ducks have souls; he felt Quacky’s presence always; he was Quacky. Enough reflection. Quincy Quackenbos held the gun’s barrel against the side of his head and pulled the trigger.
Do Ducks Have Souls? | 39
Nothing happened. “The safety,” he muttered, and pushed the little button just as the phone beeped. It was Quincy Quackenbos’ private line. There was only one person who could be on the other end of that line. He looked at the gun and considered which alternative would be better: the bullet or answering the phone. However, the beep of the telephone had distracted him long enough to remember that as long as he was alive, there was hope. He picked up the receiver. “Quackenbos.” “From what I hear on the police scanner, you’re to be arrested shortly,” said the voice at the other end. “Yes,” he said solemnly. “Come, come, come. Cheer up, Quincy. And for goodness sake, put that gun away.” Quincy Quackenbos looked around the room, looked at the gun. “What gun?” he lied. “Dear fellow, I didn’t come this far by not knowing the people who work for me,” the voice said with a trace of bemusement. “You’re feeling extremely depressed
Myke Phoenix | 40
right now, or my name isn’t — well, anyway, I need you, Quincy. You won’t be in prison for such a very long time — after all, there were no bombs really, were there?” “No.” “There! It’s just a tiny little extortion charge, perhaps simple assault. And when you come out, we’ll have much to do together, Quincy, you and I.” “Yes,” Quincy Quackenbos said sadly. “Thanks to you, we’ve learned many things about this Phoenix person,” the voice reassured him, “and by the time you get out, we’ll have all the information we need to exterminate him and get on with business. Now, put down the gun.” Myke Phoenix slammed open the door. “It’s over now, Quackenbos. Put down that gun!” “Wak,” Quincy Quackenbos chuckled, and suddenly found hilarious the fact that his mysterious ally and the superhero demanded the same thing. “Wak! Wak! Wak! Wak! WAK! Wak!” The strange little man-duck placed the receiver gently back in its cradle, eased the pistol onto the desk, and settled his head in his hands. It was impossible to
Do Ducks Have Souls? | 41
say whether he was giggling or sobbing; perhaps both. Ducks have souls that are designed for flying, you see, and this one was about to be caged.
Epilogue “Don’t do that again!” Dana Dunsmore told Paul Phillips as she hugged him for all her life. “How could you just waltz in and surrender to that man?” “What choice did I have? He said he was going to blow up the city. I couldn’t take the chance he was bluffing. And what do you mean, don’t do that again? What were you doing there?” “I just wanted to help, honey,” Dana said. “I know, I know, I just made it worse.” “Oh, I really don’t think Quackenbos would have hurt you, and Myke didn’t get hurt, either. Of course, I made a point of refusing to let them try the bazooka.” “The bazooka!” She searched his face to see if he was kidding and decided he wasn’t. “I don’t think I want to hear anything more about it.” “Deal,” he said. “So — what do you want to do
Epilogue | 43
tonight?” “Tonight? Hadn’t thought about it. What do you want to do?” He drew her close and nibbled lightly on her neck. “Oh! You may do that again!” Dana Dunsmore told Paul Phillips, as she hugged him for all her life.
myke phoenix mailroom Send comments to warren@warrenbluhm.com Two things to know: Watch for the cover of Myke Phoenix #3 to change from what you see as this edition is released on March 15, 2012. That’s all I’m sayin’ for now. Also: April will bring something new. If you’ve followed the adventures of Myke Phoenix so far, you know that these first three issues have been essentially the same stories that appeared in the now out-of-print book The Adventures of Myke Phoenix. From now on, it gets more interesting. Be around on the Ides of April for the first completely new Myke Phoenix story in, well, 20 years: “The Decline and Fall of Alan Pinkstaff.” If it doesn’t rock your proverbial socks off, well, then. And
remember
you can
purchase
an
authentic,
collectible dead-tree edition of the first three stories in Myke Phoenix Quarterly #1, available for the ridiculously low price of $7.99 plus shipping at this unwieldy but otherwise effective address: http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/myke-phoenixquarterly-%231/18926259 Remember: You don’t want to miss Myke Phoenix #4. A mere 31 days from March 15.