Power Squad!: From Henchforth

Now, your life does not absolutely depend on it, but I suggest you read the first installment of Power Squad! by clicking here.
If you have already, then jump right in!

NOBODY MOVE! This is a stick up!!”

The customers inside the bank took one nonchalant look at Chanda and then continued about their business. Chanda was baffled. Surely the mask he had crafted by cutting eye-holes into the oversized head-sock his grandma had given him last Christmas was menacing. It may have been bright and multi-coloured, but everyone knew that masks were meant to be menacing, didn’t they?

“I said, NOBODY MOVE!! This is a friggin’ stick—”

“Allo, boyi, this isn’t the time or the place for that nonsense.”

Chanda looked back to put a face to the voice that had interrupted him. The large security guard before him towered about 7 nephilim feet over him.

 His muscles bulged and stretched the fabric of his uniform shirt so tightly that if one of his buttons shot free, it could have taken somebody’s eye out. He was clutching a baton in his huge right hand and kept smacking it against his left palm in an intimidating gesture.

Chanda swallowed.

“Do you know how many masked maniacs we get here every day?” the guard continued. “And they at least have the decency to come with a real gun. Even the most bat-eyed customer here can spot that silly kindergarten paint on your BB gun.”

If Chanda hadn’t been frantically blinking and tearing up because of a stray strand of wool caught in his eye from his badly cut head-sock, he would have been looking down at his plastic gun in shame. It was a pretty pathetic paint job he had done, but he had to make do with half a can of black spray paint.

“This is one of the roughest parts of town, super villains bank here and every once in a while they try to start something.  Even the customers don’t take shit.”

“See that sweet old lady over there?” the guard said nodding his head in the direction of a prune skinned old woman standing at the ‘Customer Service’ counter. She looked like she had lived at least a century.

“Why, just last week that very same lady took down Doctor what’s-his-face and his über lazertron gun or whatever because he cut in line and tried to hold up the place.”

Chanda’s eyes twitched and blinked some more.

“So you see son,” the guard said almost empathetically, “if you’re going to rob THIS bank, come with some serious artillery and don’t leave your nuts at home. Now get out of here before I shove this baton down your throat.”

To say Chanda’s caper had failed terribly would be an understatement.  Forget bruised, his ego had been scraped with sandpaper and beaten with a standard issue security guard baton. He sat down on the ground outside the bank with his back against the wall and began to reassess his values. He started to listen to that inner voice that proceeds to beat down your self esteem after you have just received an emotionally scathing verbal thrashing.

 What were you thinking? The voice asked. You couldn’t have pulled that off if you had the devil himself's face for a mask, and a bazooka for a gun! Get real, you can’t make it out here. Grams told you to stay with her. But no, you had to go and move to the big city, didn’t you? You had to become a man. Tell me Chanda, do you feel like a man now? Are you blazing your own trail like you thought you would?

 Leaving everything he knew and coming to the big city was a tough decision for him. His Grandma had tried to convince him otherwise, but she realised it was something he felt he had to do.

“You go ahead and leave good ‘ol granny all on her lonesome,” she had said trying to make him feel a little guilt, “I’ll be fine. I just hope you will too. I’ve heard funny stories about the city. Flying men and scantily clad women are the norm according to the television. But I trust this desire of yours to move is embedded deep in your bones now. Just remember you’ll always have a home here,” she said, and then whispered, “As long as I’m alive.”

 Chanda asked his Grandma to dismiss that kind of talk and assured her she would probably even outlive him. He promised he would visit her often and even send some money every now and then, and then he hugged her.

 Heading back home seemed like a great plan right about then. Grams would probably poke fun at him and be a little cynical, but she’d definitely be glad to see him. She would probably prepare his favourite mash and ribs too. His stomach growled in agreement.

But this was not the time to be feeling sorry for himself, no! This was not the time to tuck in his tail, lick his wounds and cower in fear! It was the time to take action! A time to be proactive! He got up and dusted his rear end. He was going back to the drawing board.

 If luck and coincidence had a love-child, it would happen to manifest itself in the form of a marital squabble that broke out right across from where Chanda was standing. Of course this was no ordinary fight between spouses. Being the town that it was, two super villains were bound to break into a heated confrontation in the street. He would never have guessed that it would be between a married couple.

The two villains had been arguing violently from inside their car and had halted traffic in the process. You could see arms flailing and finger pointing from outside the car windows. When the argument had gotten intense, they both stepped out of their vehicle and began to hurl vulgar unmentionables at each other. But unmentionables were not all they would hurl.

The lady opened the back door of their vehicle, pulled out an M1 bazooka and began to load it with a round. Her significant other guessed she meant business and fidgeted with his watch before it suddenly morphed and wrapped him in a suit of battle armour.

Divorce proceedings would not be necessary between the two, as they simultaneously blasted each other into oblivion within seconds. Their bodies became nothing but plies of human mincemeat with traces of nanobots and metal alloys. The lady villain’s bazooka remained intact. Chanda saw an opportunity.

He quickly ran toward the scene of the violent marriage annulment and picked up the heavy bazooka. It had a camouflage finish and looked like it could take out the hide of any tank. He then proceeded to the car of the now deceased couple to see if there were more rocket rounds. He found only one. It sat right under a diablo mask. How’s that for the devil’s face?

Chanda had to move quickly before the fuzz arrived on the scene, but he contemplated getting a little practice before he could return to the bank. This was no time to practice his marksmanship though, he only had one round. And besides, who could possibly miss their target if they were toting a friggin’ bazooka?

How’s this for serious artillery? Chanda thought as he remembered the words of the security guard. We’ll see who really left their nuts at home when I come knocking at your stupid bank door with this baby!

One or two people fled from Chanda’s path as they saw him walking across the street and struggling a little to lift the canon he’d just commandeered, but it was not unusual for someone to be flaunting heavy duty weaponry and wearing a devil’s mask in this town. It was not unusual at all.

Chanda stood a few meters away from the bank’s entrance and waited for his security guard friend to notice him from inside the glass doors. When they had locked eyes, he brought his bazooka up and flung its length onto his shoulder, mustered up the best Scarface impression he could and roared, “SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND!”

The rocket fired from the bazooka spiralled in a corkscrew motion and propelled itself toward the glass doors. The sinister shark head painted on the front end of the rocket made it look like it would chomp right through the glass and shatter it into a million pieces. But as fate would have it, luck had filed for a paternity test on that love-child it had with coincidence and it turned out that child did not belong to luck.

The security guard flashed a smirk as the rocket ricocheted off the glass doors with a ‘thump’, leaving only the faintest trace of a scratch. People would not usually flee from a madman with a bazooka in this town, but they sure as hell fled from a rocket fired from a bazooka. The missile flew wildly and spiralled out of control leaving a trail of smoke while missing a number of passersby and hissing toward Chanda with its menacing shark-toothed grin. He ran for his life.

The rocket exploded on impact and sent him flying across the pavement along the busy street. He landed with his head in between his arms and scraped his elbows as he slid across the ground. The bruises running down his forearms stung a little, but Chanda had expected to be in much more pain if he had been hit by a missile. But the missile hadn’t hit him.

When he got up to see what had happened, he found Captain Justice—the town’s self appointed super champion of justice, and leader of the Power Squad—floating above him. He had taken the impact and detonated the explosion from the rocket.

“You must be new around here son,” said Captain Justice, “everybody knows that those bank doors have reinforced fibreglass. Not even Doctor what-do-you-call-him’s mega lazertron gun or whatever could penetrate those doors.”

Chanda stood there in silence, sweating profusely under his mask.

“Now, regardless of whether you are new here or not, you do know that what you were trying to do is illegal, and you will have to face the full extent of the law?”

Chanda nodded. Perhaps he should have stayed back home with Grams. He had ruined his clothes, he would probably face criminal charges and worst of all, a superhero was carrying him by the scruff of his shirt and delivering him to a police car.

The large security guard slapped some handcuffs on his wrists as Captain Justice removed his mask. That self-esteem-beating inner voice began to speak again as he sat in the back of the police car but was suddenly interrupted by another voice coming from outside the car window.

“Hey, wait!” said the voice. Chanda looked outside.

A man in a perfectly fitting tailor made suit was doing an awkward trot up to the police car window.

“Hi kid,” the clean cut man said. “Looks like you’re in a bit of a fix aren’t you?”

“You think?” sneered Chanda.

“Do you need a job, kid?”

“Well, if you had come thirty minutes earlier, I might have said yes. But now it’s looking like I’m going away for a long time.”

“Not if I can get you legal representation,” said the man.

“Look, I don’t have any money and I don’t think I can afford to—”

“If you promise to work for the organisation I represent, I could get you out of this jam without any difficulty. You won’t even have to pay for a thing.”

Chanda knotted his brow, “Are you the illuminati?”

“Haha, hardly kid. But I would like a devil like you to work with us; we need people with your... tenacity.”

He thought about what the man was saying and weighed his options. What did he have to lose? “Can I at least think about it? I don’t even know what it is your organisation is into.”

“Ha ha, sure kid. Give me a call when you’re in and I’ll explain everything.”

And with that, the clean cut man handed Chanda a business card and left. It read:

‘YOSA GRANDMAN YOSA- LEGAL REPRESENTATIVE  HENCHMAN INC.’

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

 

Wicked art by my cousin Mutale, alias Styles. He came through and saved me with this one!

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A Short Story: Of Men and Sore Thumbs

As a boy he always had a remarkably active imagination. He always thought there had to be more to his mundane existence. He believed he was meant for a greater purpose. To save the world. To change the world. Or even to destroy the world.

It was no coincidence then that he stood out. Like a sore thumb surgically grafted from the hand of some grotesque creature onto the flawless hand of a fair princess, he stood out.

When the other children dared each other to touch frogs and kiss little girls, he would disembowel frogs and lick the little girls; wondering what lay inside one and what the other tasted like; sometimes alternating between the two desires.

As a man he always had a wonderfully warped imagination. He was certain that there was more to this mundane existence. He KNEW he was meant for a greater purpose. To save the world. To change the world. Or even to destroy the world in his efforts.

It was no coincidence then that he stood out. Like a sore thumb severed from the hand of an angel and stitched on to the paw of a deathly devil, he stood out.

When other men shuffled their feet to the rhythm of the societal chains that shackled them, he would shuffle his feet to the rhythm of the voices in his head and strangle men with their chains; wondering when those that spoke inside him would leave and what the other tasted like; often times succumbing to his cannibalistic desire.

As a monster he could not distinguish between reality and his imagination. He was no longer certain of even his own existence. He had misplaced all sense of belief or purpose. And in his twisted quest to save or even to change the world, he had destroyed his own.

Terrible art done by myself...

Power Squad!

It was the wee hours of the morning, around 3AM to be specific. Stronghold was still wide awake and waiting on the repeat of a basketball game. He downed his eleventh can of beer and then violently crushed it against his forehead, letting it fall to the floor with the rest of the crumpled pile. For some reason that was probably scuffle related, the light bulbs in Stronghold’s roof were either broken or flickering like a faulty neon sign above a Peepshow entrance. The primary source of light in the room was coming from the television, and one would have to squint a little, but it wouldn't be difficult for them to see that Stronghold was living in filth. He couldn't have cared less. The carpet had crusty stains from various foods and snackage, and was littered with corpses of cans and a colourful array of bottles. Generations of rats and cockroaches had made Stronghold's living room their playground.
"C'mon! Start the game already!" he yelled at the T.V, "I'm running out of beer here!"
The commentary from the sports programme yelled back at him, rambling on about some new sports sensation and stats that even most sports enthusiasts wouldn't care to remember. There are few people in the world with more enthusiasm and energy in their speech than sports analysts and professional wrestlers. Their energetic rants rose above the eerie near-morning sounds that came in from the living room window. Somewhere in the room, deep within a pile of dirty laundry; a cell phone rang. Stronghold muted the sound from the T.V and cocked his ears to listen.
"Oh shit! My chicken is gonna burn!" he panicked, referring to the sound of the chicken popping and sizzling in the microwave in his kitchen. He clearly had not heard his phone ringing.
On his way back from the kitchen, Stronghold stumbled over his pile of clothes as he greedily munched his chicken. His phone lay on the floor and he noticed its display had lit up.
"Oh snap, this thing was ringing?! Must have been on vibrate!" The display read, '5 missed calls from Cap'.
"Boy, is he going to be mad" said Stronghold as he clutched the cell phone between his shoulder and his ear.
"Hey Cap’, sorry 'bout that. Couldn't hear--"

"STRONGHOLD! I've been trying to reach you! Why did you not pick up!?" blared the voice on the other end.
"Well, I'd left my--"
"No excuses, Stronghold! We have a duty to the people! Keep your phone on you at all times!"
"StupidCaptainHighAndMightyThinksWeAllHaveTheTimeTo--"
"What was that? Speak up, I can't hear you!"
"I said, I'll remember that next time, Captain!" replied Stronghold.
"Good! Now, we have a situation! There's a family held hostage in your sector, very close to your residence actually! I need you to restore order there, FAST!" said the voice.
"Aw man! Can't Nightfire or Sonic handle it? I'm 'bout to catch last night's game and I'd missed it coz I was on another mission."
"STRONGHOLD!! WHAT KIND OF A SUPERHER--" Stronghold had to hold the phone away from his ear to prevent himself from going deaf. The voice went on about duty, honour and their immeasurable rewards; about how those were his own trophies and they were worth more than any sports cup or ring.
"Yes Captain. Alright Captain....I hear you....Yes. Alright Captain Justice, I will go over there and stop those bastards."

The basketball game was just beginning when Stronghold switched off his T.V set. He grumbled to himself as he put on his boots and grabbed a black t-shirt to wear. Uniforms and costumes never sat well with Stronghold. He always wondered how his team mates could wear spandex, tight leather or underwear over their pants. The rest of The Power Squad donned their uniforms with pride. He however hated the garb. ‘Uniforms are for cops, the military and prostitutes. I’m not wearing that mess.’
Stronghold generally did not have a problem with authority, but Captain Justice usually got on his nerves with all his righteousness and holier-than-thou attitude. 'I mean let the cops handle a couple of situations!' He thought to himself. 'At the end of the day, we usually save the world or whatever! Damn Cap always breathing down my neck!' He started to jog to the address Captain Justice had sent him to and before long he was gasping for air like he would never breathe again. Stronghold looked like a cross between a bodybuilder and a sumo wrestler; part muscle and part fat but all strength. He hated jogging. He could bench-press two buses, but he hated jogging. He could even put his fist through thick concrete or titanium walls, but he HATED jogging. Or any form of running for that matter, but Captain Justice had always advised him to jog every morning that he was not on duty. Not to mention that Cap would be angry with him if he did not hurry to answer that distress call.

The hostages and their home weren't exactly located near Stronghold’s; Captain Justice had a tendency to make hills out of mountains (and vice versa). Stronghold bent over, clamped his hands above his knees and breathed heavily. A woman suddenly ran past him, throwing her spaghetti-like arms in the air and screaming for help. Not far behind were two rugged hoodlums chasing after her. She turned into an alley and the two were still at her heels like rabid Doberman Pinschers.
"Typical, civilian behaviour! They always turn into alleys when they're in trouble!" said Stronghold as he walked toward their direction. Just as he got to the entrance of the alley, the two perpetrators bolted out.
"Please," the woman said, "they have my purse!"
Stronghold looked ahead and saw that the two goons were gaining distance.
"Aaaaah, I don't have time for this," he sighed. And with that he raised his huge fist and brought it down with a thundering that would make Zeus himself flinch. The seismic slam rippled into cracks that shook the ground beneath the thieves’ feet and had them on their backs. Stronghold grabbed the lady's purse and slapped up the goons, sending them off running. He then walked back to the woman and returned her purse adding, "Please don't let the police know about this, I don't think our insurance can cover anymore damage to the city."
Before the woman could reply, a heavily customised vehicle zoomed past them like a mechanical spectre. Its engine was virtually quiet, only a faint whistling followed a fading trail of light.
"Aww man, not HIM!" Exclaimed Stronghold.

When Stronghold got to the address, the souped up vehicle was parked awkwardly inside the large living room window. It looked like it had crashed in at high speed and was now see-sawing on the ledge. The car looked something like a throw away Batmobile and was laden with as many sponsorship stickers and logos as a NASCAR vehicle, some of which had been badly scratched by the crash through the house. The lawn outside had muddy tire tracks forming a stretched 'S' leading to the window. A few policemen were scattered outside, and some would leave and enter the house in more of an effort to kill time than to do any real police work.
Stronghold walked up to an officer and panted, "Offi--Officer, what’s the situation here?"
"Jeez Stronghold, you missed it! Turbo came in and smashed into the window with his Turbo-mobile and jumped those scum bags before they could say 'Gee willikers!' It was amazing!" said the officer with the enthusiasm of a giddy school girl.
"Oh, Turborrific! Cap’ is goin’ to have my head for this!"
Stronghold entered the front door of the house and what he saw disgusted him. Turbo had tied up the hostage takers hog-style and had his personal photographer taking pictures of him striking different poses. The family of three that had been held hostage were almost literally kissing Turbo's feet. The couple was thanking him for saving their lives and their child was trying to sneak into the impromptu photo shoot. Before Stronghold could walk up to them, a small T.V crew rushed in through the entrance like a tiny tornado and gathered around Turbo.
"Mr. Turbo, I'm Mandy Mwape from Muvee T.V news! Could you please tell us what happened here?" A lady reporter said thrusting a microphone into the Superhero's face.
Turbo grabbed the microphone from her and placed one foot on the chest of one of the hogtied criminals.
"Well Jenny, I received a distress call from my penthouse headquarters and I had to rush here as quickly as I could!" he blurted with feigned finesse. "These FINE people had to be saved from the terror brought on by these VILE monsters!" he said clenching his fist and shaking it for emphasis. Stronghold was sick to his stomach.
Turbo was the poster child for superheroism. He had sold out to all sorts of corporations and gained sponsorships and endorsements from wherever he could. Like his car, his uniforms all had emblems and logos of different commercial organisations. He wore them according to his mood or which corporation had paid him the most at that particular time. An energy drink company today, a sports utility tomorrow, an I.T start-up the next month....he had no dignity. But who needed dignity when you had millions of dollars in endorsements? Turbo sickened Stronghold, but Stronghold secretly envied him. He wondered why The Power Squad didn't charge fees for their services.
'I mean after all, we are more capable than this buffoon,' He said to himself.
"...So I had to use my ultra thinking powers and the element of surprise to get the jump on these thugs!"
Mandy the reporter's eyes lit up, "You have ultra thinking powers?"
"Why yes," replied Turbo with a wink, "Along with many other ULTRA abilities!"
"If your thinking is so 'ultra', why do you drive a car when you can fly?" interrupted Stronghold.
"I beg your pardon?" replied Turbo.
"You heard me."
"Hah! Don't hate the player Strongy, hate the game. It’s not my fault you Powerpuff Girls can't afford a sweet ride."
"What did you call us?"
"POWER-PUFF-GIR---"
Before Turbo could finish his sentence, Stronghold had rammed into him with a huge shoulder and sent them crashing into a table. The Muvee T.V News crew scrambled for safety but the cameraman couldn't scramble too far because he had to film all of it. It’s a shame no one ever remembered fellows like him when they got hurt in the line of duty.
As he sat up on the floor, Turbo grabbed a wooden dining chair with one hand and violently smashed it on Stronghold's head. Splinters from the broken chair flew in all directions spraying jagged toothpicks everywhere. An ordinary man would have fallen, but Stronghold stood firmly and threw down a succession of crushing blows into Turbo's chest and stomach. The punches to Turbo’s chest thumped like a deep drumming. The man and his wife gasped when Turbo then hurled Stronghold out of the broken window with his feet, sending him crashing through his car. Everyone in the room rushed outside as Turbo flew out of the window and landed a right hook into Stronghold's hardened jaw. The two metahuman's engaged in a vicious brawl exchanging several blows. The policemen and a few people that had heard the commotion in the small suburb gathered around the two to watch the slugfest. An officer was about to start taking bets on who would win the fight, when Captain Justice flew onto the scene.
"STRONGHOLD! What is the meaning of this?!" he exclaimed as he descended down from the air.
"I'm sorry Cap, but I couldn't take this sell-out’s insults to the squad any longer," Stronghold said wiping blood from his lower lip with his wrist.
"But I've told you time and again Stronghold. Power Squad Members do not belittle themselves by getting into petty squabbles!"
"I see you called in Blossom to come and help you, huh Buttercup?" said Turbo, "Well C'mon, I'll take you both on!"
Captain Justice had to struggle a little to hold back Stronghold as he tried to lunge at Turbo. All he wanted to do was wring the sell-out’s neck. Turbo's photographer, who also doubled as his personal assistant trotted awkwardly up to Turbo and whispered in his ear.
"Oh, ok," said Turbo to his assistant. "And how much are we charging them?"
The assistant whispered some more.
“Good! Okay, apparently I can't spank you Power dweebs! I might lose lucrative endorsements" said Turbo. "Maybe some other time!"
He turned and walked to the hostage couple.
"So the rate for hostage rescues is fifty per rescued person....umm, I'll send you a quotation for the damage to my car. You can get my account details from Skippy here."
"Yes, yes. We will do that. Thank you so much mister Turbo!" said the man, “We will forever be in your debt!”
"And you," Turbo said pointing at the camera man, "we need to edit that footage and make me look good! Come!”
"The nerve of this guy!" exclaimed Stronghold, "Even charging them for the damage HE caused!"
"Come now, Stronghold," said Captain Justice as he patted Stronghold’s back, "ours is not to concern ourselves with the dealings of mister Turbo, but to protect the good people of this city from evil doers. Let us go, I will buy you a few beers."
"Can we walk? ‘Coz I hate it when you carry me."
"Hehe! Sure, old friend!" chuckled Captain Justice.
"And Cap’? Did you record last night's ball game by any chance? I missed the repeat as well."
"Ha-ha, Stronghold, you know I haven't paid my subscription in months!" replied Captain Justice.
"Yeah, I know. Was hoping maybe you had..."

                                                                        ****

This brilliant art is by my buddy Jarell Thompson

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