Faux DC Presents:

"They Just Don't Make 'Em
Like They Used To"
Issue 8.675309 (of 8)
Written by Dale Glaser

(Note: This story takes place between Extreme Justice #8 and Extreme Justice #8 ¾ (which would be #8.75, you see), but not immediately after #8, because obviously there are some loose ends in that story which, for purposes of this story, we are assuming have been satisfactorily wrapped up elsewhere.)

(Also note: if the continuity concerns of Extreme Justice in particular, or any fanfic series in general, really stress you out, you seriously need to think about stepping away from the computer for a while. We’re just sayin’.)

“Well, that about takes care of that,” Animal Man said, brushing the palms of his gloved hands against one another, despite the fact that there was no dirt of any kind on his gloves, or any other part of his costume. There was, in fact, no dirt in sight for as far as the eye could see, which, admittedly, was not very far, given the abundance of tall, line-of-sight blocking warehouses on all sides, and the asphalt covering the ground underfoot. All of which made perfect sense given that Animal Man stood in the heart of Detroit’s warehouse district – the asphalt, the warehouse, the lack of dirt, all of it. Perhaps there was some grit on his gloves. It was a gritty part of the city.

More probably Animal Man had brushed his palms against one another as a symbolic gesture, considering that he did so directly in front of an untidy pile of six henchmen, recently apprehended by Animal Man and his Extreme Justice teammates, Fire and Solomon Grundy. The six henchmen were in various stages of consciousness along the portion of the consciousness continuum ranging from “semi” to “knocked into next Thursday”. The henchmen were dressed in thematic costumes which had obviously been created at no small expense. They were form-fitting, lined with a Kevlar weave, and equipped with on-board computer systems for communication, tracking, and security system neutralization. They were also designed to evoke classic cars, with chrome grills across their chests, raised fins along their arms, paint jobs in cherry red and royal blue and mint green, and black rubber boots with fat white stripes. Five of them still had chrome hood ornaments standing up from their foreheads; the sixth and least-conscious henchman had lost his hood ornament, along with three teeth, in a head-on collision between his face and Solomon Grundy’s cadaverous fist.

“There’s something about this that doesn’t quite seem right,” Fire said, crossing her arms and looking over the classic car henchmen.

“Indeed,” Solomon Grundy nodded. “When will men learn that thievery and violence will never fill the aching void in their souls? That disdain for law and those who enforce it can only revisit misery upon them sevenfold? That crime, in fact, does not pay?”

“Um … yeah …” Fire agreed. “But, you know, I meant this specific crime seems even less right than most.”

“You mean the fact that the ringleader of this gang, Mister Vintage, got away?” Animal Man asked.

“Well, that’s part of it,” Fire shrugged. “But there’s something more …”

“The fact that we caught these guys in the act in broad daylight?” Animal Man asked.

“Also part of it,” Fire confirmed, “but still …”

“The fact that none of these goons are female?” Animal Man asked.

“Actually, that’s really not that unusual,” Fire pointed out.

“The statistical incidence of female lackeys for supervillains is well below what one would expect,” Solomon Grundy confirmed.

“Yeah but with this gang … I mean, come on, the potential for ‘headlights’ jokes alone …” Animal Man began.

“Ugh, Buddy, don’t be gross,” Fire rolled her eyes.

“And all guys think of their cars as ladies, don’t they?” Animal Man continued.

“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop,” Fire insisted. “Let’s just head back to the bunker and see how the rest of the team is making out.”

“So you stopped the robbery in progress, and rounded up the henchmen, but Mister Vintage got away,” Blue Beetle said. “I’d call that mostly a win.”

“But, Ted,” Fire replied, “isn’t this a somewhat troubling trend?”

“How do you mean?” Booster Gold asked.

“Mike, I’m the team leader, I’ll handle this debriefing,” Blue Beetle said sternly.

“Debriefing?” Booster Gold repeated, cocking his head to the side. “Bea came in and told you what happened, you summed up what she said and declared it ‘mostly a win’. How is that a debriefing?”

“It’s … I … you … How do you mean, Bea?” Beetle said, wheeling suddenly on Fire.

“Well, Mister Vintage and his guys dressed up like classic cars …”

“His classic car-my,” Booster suggested helpfully.

Fire ignored him. “No one’s ever heard of them before, right? They just kind of showed up out of nowhere.”

“Well, not nowhere,” Beetle equivocated. “Supervillains have to come from somewhere. And the so-called trend of new supervillain masterminds showing up is one that’s been going on for a long time, since, like …”

“1938,” Booster again suggested, extra-helpfully.

“Not that long,” Beetle shook his head.

“Feels like it,” Booster insisted.

“Says the man from the twenty-fifth century,” Beetle countered.

“But!” Fire interjected forcefully. “Doesn’t it seem like they’ve been coming on fast and furious, in Detroit in particular, in recent weeks? This week it was Mister Vintage. Last week it was The Wad, and his henchmen in sticky suits that looked like chewed-up bubble-gum …”

“Yeah, that guy was weird,” Booster said.

“The week before that it was Cap’n Saicin, who dressed up his henchmen like chili peppers, and the week before THAT it was that case you wouldn’t even let me go on …”

“Boombox Man?” Beetle asked. “Hey, I had a very valid reason for sending the Wonder Twins and G’Nort with Ray on that one …”

“I seem to recall that I was in the bunker, balancing my checkbook, which you saw as unimportant enough to interrupt, but only because you wanted me to find the Twins, who were downstairs doing their mandatory Absorbascon session, and because you wanted me to get hold of G’Nort, who was chasing butterflies …”

“Well, strategically …”

“On another planet!” Fire huffed. “You had me call in G’Nort from a neighboring galaxy, instead of just sending me!”

“But Bea, for all we knew, that Boombox Man guy might have taken one look at you and decided to stop the robbery and kidnap you!” Booster pointed out. “His henchmen all looked like dancers from 80’s videos!”

“So?” Fire asked, bracing her green fingerless-gloved hands on her bare waist, just below her day-glo lime green tube top, and cocking her hip to the side, causing her oversized, overlapping belts to jingle against her day-glo lime green spandex pants, which matched the jingle of her large, dangly earrings, while her arched eyebrows caused her day-glo lime green headband to rise ever-so-slightly, as she tapped the toe of one of her day-glo lime green high-heeled crumpled leather boots impatiently.

“So … um … nothing,” Booster said, looking away innocently.

Fire charged ahead, not physically but in attempting to cite examples, “And before that it was … it was …”

“I’m pretty sure the week before that was Mongul,” Booster suggested, trying once again to be as helpful as superhumanly possible. “An oldie but a baddie. And he certainly brought the small army of henchmen … large army, actually. Not sure you can call them themed henchmen, unless the theme was just ‘aliens that hate Earth’, but that’s just what they are, not some dress-up costume that Mongul gave them …”

“Still,” Fire cut in. “Four brand new masterminds in a month. All in Detroit. And all attacking very distinctive targets.”

“Distinctive?” Beetle blinked.

“Yes, Ted,” Fire sighed exasperatedly. “Boombox Man and his dancers tried to destroy the new MP3porium, the one that has the giant, three-dimensional, rotating MP3-player above its front doors. Cap’n Saicin tried to steal the world’s largest habanero pepper from the special exhibit at the Natural History Museum.”

“How did they even think they were going to transport that thing?” Booster wondered aloud. “Must have been, like, a thousand pounds …”

“And The Wad and his gang tried to ruin that billboard out by I-94, you know, the one for Willoughby’s Wigs with the gigantic mannequin head with long fake blonde hair? They tried to put a million pieces of gum in the hair …”

“That was pretty juvenile,” Booster said. And laughed, just thinking about it.

“Then finally, today, Mister Vintage attacks a Family Eatery Décor LLC warehouse,” Fire concluded.

“Right,” Beetle said, pointing his finger at Fire for emphasis. After a moment, in which some kind of decisive statement would have been appropriate, came and went, Beetle said, “Remind me again what Family Eatery Décor LLC is?”

“They design, build and sell the props that go up on the walls at chain restaurants like T.B.D.Weekenders and O’Flippy’s Burgers.”

“And Planet Krypton!” Booster suggested, giving two thumbs up to further underscore the fact that he was, inarguably, the most helpful conversationalist in Extreme Justice.

“No, Michael,” Fire groaned. “Family Eatery Décor LLC makes things like fake road signs and pseudo-1940’s-era gas pumps and replica antique farming equipment. You steal stuff like Beppo’s super diapers from the closet of the Justice League trophy room.”

“I’m just saying my restaurant idea is as good as O’Flippy’s,” Booster sulked. “Better, even.”

“But Mister Vintage wouldn’t be interested in your souvenirs, now, would he?” Fire demanded.

“I’ve got a scale-model of the Arrow-mobile,” Booster muttered diffidently.

“THE. POINT. IS!” Fire shouted. “The Family Eatery Décor LLC warehouse has an oversized, glass globe gas pump on its roof. That’s what finally struck me. Do you know how many other warehouses in Detroit’s warehouse district have novelty props on their roof?”

“Not … many?” Beetle ventured a guess.

“None,” Fire answered. “Or, none other than Family Eatery Décor LLC. So, one.”

“Fine,” Beetle said. “We’ve had more than our share of new villains lately, who all seem to enjoy dressing up their henchmen elaborately and staging elaborate crimes at high-profile locations.”

“Hey, you know who that reminds me of?” Booster snapped his fingers. “Batman! Back in the old days, right? Joker with a bunch of clowns, Catwoman with a bunch of cats, Riddler with a bunch of guys dressed up as clues from the Gotham Gazette Sunday Crossword Puzzle? Am I right? Maybe we should give Bats a call!”

“Actually, I’m one step ahead of you there,” Beetle sucked in his gut and puffed out his chest. “I thought about Batman and his expertise on museum heists after the Cap’n Saicin case. I contacted him.”

“Really?” Fire asked. “How did it go?”

~~~~~~W~A~V~Y~~~B~O~R~D~E~R~E~D~~~F~L~A~S~H~B~A~C~K~~~~~

Darkness filled the communicator viewscreen, the darkness of a subterranean cave filled with dark, malevolent rock formations that cast darker, malevolent shadows. In the depths of the darkness and shadows, inky black wings fluttered darkly. Presumably those were bats. But it was hard to rule out the possibility that they were purely dark, malevolent, flying shadows. Of darkness.

Two piercing, glittering eyes were centered in the darkness, floating above a just-barely-recognizable-as-human jawline. They had been floating in the center of the darkness, unblinking, for the entire time that Blue Beetle had recounted Extreme Justice’s latest case, the full twelve minutes and forty-seven seconds required to explain how Goldstar and Jonni Thunder had responded to an alarm at the Natural History Museum and discovered a man dressed in a screamingly orange military uniform leading a small cadre of mercenaries dressed in the same shade (except for green stem-topped berets) and equipped with mace-spraying wrist-blasters and gas masks, attempting to liberate a gargantuan habanero pepper approximately the size of Cinderella’s coach (a comparison Goldstar had made and which Blue Beetle had only dutifully echoed, certainly not having any particular affinity for Disney princesses ((although he did cry at Pocahontas, every time)), because it seemed an important detail), and how Goldstar had been able to use her power suit (which she had recently become quite adept with) to both protect herself and Jonni via forcefield and disable the gas masks of the thugs via forceblasts in such a way that ultimately the only ones to be affected by the gallons of mace sprayed into the air in the Hall of Horticulture were the thugs themselves.

The piercing, glittering eyes centered in the on-screen darkness narrowed, and Blue Beetle could tell that their owner was about to ask a single question. The Dark Knight Detective would no doubt cut directly to the heart of the matter, providing instantaneous insight into the sudden upswing of bizarre criminal activity in Detroit. Blue Beetle awaited the incisive inquiry.

“Kord,” Batman said in a raspy growl, “how did you get this number?”

Blue Beetle opened his mouth, realized the question was rhetorical, and slowly brought his lips together again.

“Never call the Batcave again,” Batman warned. “And tell Carter that if he doesn’t return the Bat-rollerskates he wandered off with, he will pay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~C~O~O~L~~~H~U~H~?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Yeah, not so good,” Beetle admitted. He turned to Booster and added, “And remind me later to remind you to find the Bat-skates.”

Fire’s head was low between her shoulders, her eyes shut, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. She took a deep, steadying breath. “Look, if Batman won’t help us, then we’ll have to do our own detective work. Let’s start with some research, look into the records of the sites that have been targets, find out if there were any past threats or shady business dealings that might lead to someone looking for revenge …”

“Research?” Booster asked skeptically. “That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“It’s more fun than getting kicked in the shin,” Fire pointed out.

“Yeah but that’s not saying much …”

Fire kicked Booster Gold in the shin.

“Ow! All right!”

Archibald Zigerbrüt sat behind his desk in the largest corner office of the top floor of a fifty-story skyscraper, the corporate headquarters of Corp-U-Corp, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that gave view on the Detroit skyline. The intercom on the CEO’s telephone suddenly buzzed to life: “Mr. Zigerbrüt, you have a few visitors.”

“Have them make an appointment, Gladys,” Zigerbrüt barked.

The double doors to his office suddenly burst inward, clattering across the floor in splintered chunks and causing Archibald Zigerbrüt to shriek like a terribly frightened little girl. Blue Beetle, Booster Gold, Fire, Solomon Grundy, Animal Man, Goldstar, Jonni Thunder, the Wonder Twins and G’Nort all strode through the space where the doors had formerly been.

“We don’t have a very flexible schedule, Archie,” Booster Gold grinned. “So how about we do this meeting right now?”

“What is the meaning of this?” Zigerbrüt demanded, his voice only cracking girlishly on every second or third syllable.

“This is about a few things we recently uncovered, Mr. Zigerbrüt,” Blue Beetle announced. “There seems to have been a bit of a crimewave hitting the city recently, and imagine our surprise when we realized that the targets – the MP3porium, Willoughby’s Wigs, Family Eatery Décor LLC – are all subsidiaries wholly owned by Corp-U-Corp.”

“Not to mention the fact that the world’s largest habanero pepper is part of a collection endowed by the Corp-U-Corp Philanthropic Board,” Fire added, as she wandered around the office admiring the high-end furniture and artwork.

“Are you saying some criminal is carrying out a vendetta against Corp-U-Corp?” Zigerbrüt asked.

“Not a vendetta, exactly,” Beetle said. “Imagine our surprise when we realized …”

“Ted, you already used the ‘imagine our surprise’ line,” Booster whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Imagine our even greater surprise,” Beetle corrected himself, “when we realized that the subsidiaries had all only recently been moved. The MP3porium was attacked shortly after its grand opening, the Family Eatery Décor LLC warehouse was hit while the paint on its custom roof decorations was still wet …”

“Son, what exactly are you implying?” Zigerbrüt sighed.

“Yes, tell him what we’re implying, Beetle,” Fire said, as she lingered in front of a huge rosewood armoire.

“You, sir, have been hiring supervillains to attack your own properties!” Beetle proclaimed triumphantly. “And might I add, you have a knack for finding villains whose motifs happen to coincide perfectly with the things you want them to attack. Most criminal kingpins aren’t that detail-oriented.”

“He didn’t have to go very far to find them,” Fire said.

“Huh?” Beetle said.

From microscopic size, the Atom grew to a height of approximately nine inches tall, standing atop Fire’s shoulder. “Go ahead, Bea, show them,” the Atom said.

“Our little friend just had a peek inside here, Mr. Zigerbrüt,” Fire said, tugging at the door handles of the armoire. They were locked. Fire’s hands blazed with green flames, melting the handles, and the armoire doors sprung open. Out tumbled the steel-plated tuxedo of Mister Vintage, the lumpy biosuit of The Wad, the screamingly orange military uniform of Cap’n Saicin, and the cybernetic woofer-and-tweeter-embedded armor of Boombox Man.

“Huh?” Beetle said, again.

“Archibald Zigerbrüt is all of the supervillains involved in the crimewave!” Fire threw up her hands, accidentally knocking the Atom off his perch. “He moved holdings around and had things built, then assumed identities antithetical to those items and made showy attacks on them! All he needed was goons willing to wear his thematic costumes!”

Archibald Zigerbrüt slowly stood up, frowning intensely, as if ready to defend his good name. Then he darted around the corner of his desk and dove for the chaotic heap of supervillain costumes lying in disarray before the armoire.

The Wonder Twins reacted quickly, touching knuckles and shouting in unison, “Wonder Twin powers, activate!”

“Shape of … a Daschund!” Jayna cried.

“Form of … heavy mist!” Zan bellowed.

Jayna transformed into a small brown wiener dog and sprinted for Archibald Zigerbrüt’s ankles, tripping the CEO as he lunged toward the armoire. Zigerbrüt fell into a tangle with his villainous costumes.

Zan floated quickly through the air and suffused the pile of costumes. The moisture caused electrical shorts in the Mister Vintage tuxedo, the Wad biosuit, the Cap’n Saicin uniform and the Boombox Man armor. Black smoke belched forth from the Mister Vintage tuxedo’s silk boutonniere; the mimetic goop coating the Wad biosuit melted; the mini-stinger missiles loaded in the Cap’n Saicin uniform’s epaulets exploded in their racks; and the speakers in the Boombox Man armor gave a deafening burst of static, synthesizer and drum machine. Archibald Zigerbrüt lay dazed in the middle of the pile, ears ringing, one arm scorched by malfunctioning stinger missiles, the other arm coated in goo, his face smudged with black smoke residue.

“Huh?” Blue Beetle said, hoping things would finally make sense on the third try.

The Atom, having recovered from falling off Fire’s shoulder, and also having grown to his normal height, squatted in front of Archibald Zigerbrüt and his pile of costumes. “Why did you do it, Zigerbrüt? Was it for insurance money? What was your angle?”

“I … just … koff, koff … I just wanted to … show everyone how it used to be done … in the good old days,” Zigerbrüt choked out. “When I was growing up in Gotham City, Calendar Man would rob greeting card factories with giant animated valentines on their roofs … or Kite Man would plunder the Asian kite collection at the Gotham kite festival … it was thrilling to behold! I miss those days!”

“See, what did I tell you?” Booster Gold beamed. “Old-school Batman territory! We should totally call him and tell him!”

“We should escort Mr. Zigerbrüt to the police,” Beetle declared, reasonably decisively. He looked around at his team. “G’Nort, do you think you can handle it without getting yourself in too much trouble?”

“I’ll go with him,” Goldstar offered. G’Nort saluted happily, pointed his knock-off ring at Archibald Zigerbrüt and bubbled the CEO in a globe of green light, then flew out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, shattering it. The members of Extreme Justice winced as Goldstar hurried into flight on G’Nort’s trail.

The rest of the team began to exit the office, except for Booster Gold, who approached the pile of villain costumes, and Blue Beetle, who watched him.

“Mike?” Beetle said. “What are you doing?”

Booster picked up one of the Boombox Man armor’s graphic equalizer gauntlets. “This might look pretty good in a Planet Krypton display case … urk!” The gauntlet fell to the carpet as Beetle yanked Booster away by the collar of his costume.

THE END