Faux DC Presents:

in “Who Do You Back?”
Written by Steve Seinberg

The car came through the wall of the hospital room with a resounding crash. It should have been the most frightening thing any of the room’s occupants had ever experienced – especially given that the room was on the fifth floor of the building, and should have remained well clear of even the wildest of auto traffic – but somehow the voice that followed it through the gaping new hole was much, much worse. It was a horrible voice, guttural and harsh, like heavy machinery chewing up petting zoo animals.

“Glory!” it demanded. “Get out here now!”

Heads poked hesitantly out of windows all along the hospital’s south face to see what the commotion was all about.

A huge, bald man was just moving from the side-street outside to stand in the courtyard down below the steaming wreckage of the Oldsmobile that was now protruding halfway out of that gaping new hole in the hospital’s wall. The man cupped enormous hands around his mouth and bellowed, making everyone wince. “General Glory! I know you’re in there for some stomach-turning publicity stunt! I won’t repeat myself! Get out here, or I’ll bring that building down on your head – I’ll kill you and everyone inside it, including the sick little ragamuffin you’re visiting, and then I’ll kill everyone in a ten-block radius of this place just out of spite! Do you hear me?”

“Well, hey there, young fella!”

This new voice was just as deep as the huge, bald man’s, but it was infinitely more pleasant. It was like the voice of Good Old Days that had never really existed, comforting and familiar somehow, and even soothing, despite the ominous possibilities raised by the presence of a foul-tempered brute close by on the grass who was capable of shot-putting family-sized cars. Heads turned toward this new voice.

A man had pushed up a window at the end of the same floor that now housed the beached Oldsmobile, and he was calling down to the foul-tempered brute.

“You could have just had me paged over the public address system, son! No need for commotion! I’ll be right down, and we can have a chat!”

The man hopped right over the windowsill, and plunged casually down the five stories that had separated him from his car-throwing petitioner, grinning a fabulous, sunny grin all the while. He landed nimbly, clearly unhurt, and then stood upright for a moment at his full height, hands balled at his hips, lantern jaw thrust out as though he were posing for a picture in front of one of those old-timey cameras that depended on a foot-high pile of flash powder and a photographer buried under a half-curtain. “Stars ‘n’ stripes, youngster!” he exclaimed. “All this fuss just isn’t right – this is a hospital, you know!” He was dressed in a fairly ludicrous costume that assaulted the eyes with all things “American”: his muscular frame bulged in all directions beneath skintight red, white, and blue, and a large golden eagle was emblazoned across his barrel chest, its outspread wings reaching from the outside of one bowling ball shoulder to the outside of the other.

“I know it’s a hospital, you imbecile! And they don’t have enough healthcare in the entire building to save you from what I’m about to do to you!”

“Well, now that seems downright unfriendly, son.” The man called General Glory frowned sincerely and rubbed his large chin with one big thumb. “Have we met before? I don’t quite recall. Have I wronged you somehow? We can certainly discuss it like civilized gentlemen.”

“I’m not civilized, and I’m not a gentleman,” the brute informed him. He moved in toward the General, his own chest, arms, and torso also bulging with muscle beneath a plain black, button-down shirt that struggled to keep his well-developed physique contained. “I’m an unholy terror like nothing you’ve ever seen, you prancing simpleton, and I’m about to end you. You should make peace with your gods, if you have any.”

“Why, son, that just wouldn’t be practical, now would it? Too many things to revere in this fine old world, don’t you think? God, mother, country...Lady Liberty... And you still haven’t told me what I did to offend you.”

“You exist, you half-wit. That’s enough.” His giant fist flashed out twice, three times, each punch firing like a locomotive. General Glory danced under, around, and past each blow, quick-footed and agile as a prize-fighter.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, youngster.”

“I’m not a youngster! I’m powered by ancient evil, you buffoon. I’m a vessel for history’s blackest souls. Why she assigned me an unworthy dolt like you, I have no idea...”

“’She?’ Wait – hold on a moment! I know who you are! I’ve seen your entry in the Justice League’s files! You’re that young fella they call Ibac! Just as you said: ‘history’s blackest souls.’ You get your name from four of history’s most infamous killers, isn’t that right? Ivan...Borgia...Attila...and Caligula. Their initials form your name, which is also the magic word you use to change back and forth from this form to your human shape, yes? So who is this ‘she,’ son, and why would she ‘assign’ me to you?”

“‘She’ is a witch named Circe. She gathered a group of us together and cast a spell so that if we all kill our opposite numbers, we’ll gain even greater power than what we already have. Greater power, and immortality. You wouldn’t understand. But I’m assuming that once I kill you as an appetizer, then she’ll send me after that infuriating Captain Marvel, who will be my true assignment.”

He began circling the General once more, his fists balled up and hovering, ready to strike again.

“Now why Captain Marvel, son? He’s such a nice young lad. Has he done you wrong?”

“Let’s just say his purity offends me, and leave it at that. He nauseates me, truth be told, but if anyone is my opposite number, it’s ‘The World’s Mightiest Mortal.’”

He suddenly bent, plunging his stiffened fingers into the ground, and scooped up huge clods of turf, flinging them at General Glory’s face in an effort to momentarily blind the hero. Once again, though, the star-spangled adventurer was too quick, easily bobbing down under the fresh earth and sod, and dancing to his right.

“I’m sorry to have to shatter any illusions you might have here, young fella, but I’ve met the Captain, and you’re just not in his league.”

“What are you talking about? Each of us is the mightiest mortal on his side of the moral fence. Each of us is empowered by forces that can only be described as ‘mystic.’ Each of us has our two forms we shuttle back and forth between, using our incantations to make the change. Of course we’re counterparts!”

“No, I don’t think so. That Black Adam fella – now he’s the Captain’s opposite number. Look at the two of them: like peas in a real contentious pod! They’re both big, strapping, handsome, ‘leading man’ types...they dress alike, aside from their color schemes and the Captain having a cape...and they both fly like Superman. You? You’re built more like a bit of an ogre, son, you don’t dress quite as snappily as they do (although that shirt is plenty sharp) and you can’t fly. Also...you’re not as mighty as you think.”

His own fist finally went flashing out, cobra-quick. He tagged the hulking brute called Ibac three times in rapid succession, snapping back his great dome of a head. The crowd watching from the hospital windows ooh-ed and aah-ed. Ibac snarled.

He rushed the General, who hopped aside like a matador, Ibac rushing by.

“You really don’t understand why this Circe gal picked me as your assignment?”

“No.” Ibac was looking murder at the gaudy champion. “But I intend to ask her in very painful ways as soon as I see her again.”

“Now, son, that’s no way to talk about treating a lady! And she picked me for you because it’s you and me who are the counterparts, not you and the Captain! I’m not a tune-up fight for you – I’m the main event! Isn’t that obvious?”

“You and...? You’re not serious.” He laughed, and it was equal parts puzzled and grotesque.

“Well of course I am: you’ve got your opposite sides of the moral fence: look here, at us right now, one of us attacking a hospital, while the other one defends it...we’re both empowered by ‘mystic forces,’ as you put it...we both have two forms we shuttle between, using our ‘incantations.’ By the way, incantations is a terrific word, son! That’s just well done. But we’re exactly counterparts!”

“That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard – and I have Caligula in my head!” The brute rushed General Glory, bellowing his rage. Making it look like he somehow had all day to perform this trick, the General calmly and efficiently took hold of Ibac’s right wrist with one hand and a fistful of shirt with the other as the monster came on, and he whirled on his feet, catapulting Ibac past him and on into the large modern art sculpture that sat in the middle of the courtyard, demolishing it in a scream of metal.

“We’re exactly counterparts, friend. You’d do well to accept that. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

Ibac pushed himself up from the ruins of the statue, grabbing hold of a length of metal pipe from the shattered innards of the sculpture as he rose, and then advanced on the General swinging it like a baseball bat. It whistled through the air with the force of the swings, but as had been the case all through the encounter, the General dodged the blows without seeming to even need to consciously try, the very soul of athleticism.

He continued speaking as if they were sitting down to coffee together instead of trading savage blows. “There’s only one real difference between us that I can see, actually! Well...aside from the moral quagmire you find yourself in.”

“Find myself in?” More swings with the pipe, and more misses. “I chose this path, freely and of my own will, you dullard. Moral quagmire?”

“That’s right, son: moral quagmire.” That quick jab again: one, two, three. Ibac twitched with pain as his head snapped back again, and he dropped the length of pipe in a clatter. “I don’t think you chose your path at all. I think you’re just a poor, misguided lad, and it chose you.”

“No. What would you know of it?” Ibac readied himself for another charge.

“I know you’re lazy, son. An underachiever. A non-achiever. The path of least resistance. I’m sorry to have to say it in front of all these fine folks watching, but it’s true. You say your name, your magic word, and you live as this big, strong, young buck because it’s the easy way out. You don’t care for your real self, and you live as him as little as possible, isn’t that so?”

“And you don’t? You don’t stay strong and young as often as you can? You don’t put off returning to your fragile little human self as much as possible? I don’t believe that.”

“I never lie, son. Lying makes Lady Liberty sad. I put in time in both forms. I work to improve both. I live life as both. Can’t fully appreciate the one form without the other. And I make choices, even if they’re not so easy. That’s the real difference between us, lad: I do the hard work, and you don’t. You can’t cop out, youngster, don’t you know that?”

Ibac slammed both fists into the ground, and the General executed a perfect, Olympic-caliber back-flip, avoiding the shockwave as it swept by beneath him. He landed neatly on his feet, grinning that infectious grin again.

“For all your physical strength, you’re still weak inside. This Circe gal is right about us being counterparts, but I’m sorry to say you’re not making a very good accounting of yourself. You’re empty, don’t you know that? What do you believe in, son?”

“I believe in death, you antiquated stooge. I believe in pain and anguish and dismemberment. I believe in hate and bereavement.”

“Empty sloganeering, lad! What do you believe in? Do you like music? Do you appreciate art? Do you vote in elections? Do you follow sports teams or have a favorite gal? Who do you back, son?”

“What?”

The General finally went fully on the offensive, and the people watching from the hospital actually leaned forward out of the many open windows to see things more clearly, feeling the breezes caressing their open faces. The General whirled, dispensing a flurry of roundhouse kicks, punctuated with the occasional jab or uppercut. Ibac grunted and gasped and hissed with the impacts.

“I asked who do you follow? Who do you like? Who do you back?”

Ibac snarled, and charged yet again, like a bull leaving the china shop with angry purpose. General Glory dodged him again, but this time brought both of his own not inconsiderable fists crashing down on the brute’s back, sending him flat onto his face. Some of the watchers cheered, and a couple even razzed the bald and raging creature.

“Take a stand, son! Believe in something beyond just your general ‘evil.’ That’s just a cop-out! Be specific and stand up for something! Do you back the Republicans or do you back the Democrats? Do you back the National League or the American League? Do you back your new friend Circe, or do you back someone else?”

Ibac levered himself to his feet, and the General darted in and treated the furious giant to a barrage of open-handed slaps across the face.

“Come on now, you have to actually believe in something! If you love evil, then which flavor do you favor? Do you back the Nazi party? Do you back those Ku Klux Klan fellas in their sheets? Who do you back? Son? Who do you back? Who do you back?”

Ibac screamed.

“Enough!! That’s enough! I’ll tell you who I bac—” ‘Who I back,’ he meant to say, and ‘I back no one but myself!’ he would have added. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t get that far.

As soon as he got out the critical syllables “I bac,” a huge gout of reeking, green, mystical flame belched upward from out of the ground, engulfing him, swaddling him in pyre, and an acrid, brimstone stench. The General could see the brute’s eyes, gone wide through the fire, with shock and disbelief.

Ibac, he had said, although he hadn’t meant to. His name. His magic word. The green flame crackled, and danced, and roared, and then it was gone. As quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, leaving behind a blackened circle of charred grass and scorched earth where he had stood, greasy green smoke uncoiling on the breeze, and where moments before there had been a twisted giant, there was now a small, pot-bellied, unremarkable, middle-aged man, swaying on his feet. The General knew from his own experience that the longer one of them remained in their “higher,” augmented forms, the more of a toll it took when they returned to humanity, the more weak and disoriented the transformation would leave them, and the longer it would take before they could once again return to their mightier forms. Ibac’s weak, sad, pathetic real self stood smoldering in a shallow crater, goggling at General Glory, who suddenly dwarfed him.

“You tricked me,” the little man whispered. “You...you tricked me into saying my name.”

“That I did, youngster. I had to give you a chance to learn from your poor choices. You’ve been keeping ill-advised company. We’ll see to it that you get some rest and some counseling, and in the meantime, I have a friend named Zatanna who might be able to talk some sense into this gal Circe that sent you over here. You take a seat, son, and we’ll get you some help.” In a gesture that was almost gentle and almost apologetic, he backhanded the sad little man before him across the chin, and the sad little man went down in a heap.

The General looked up at the violated hospital, and the onlookers cheered with great zest.

“And after that,” the General said to himself, “why, we’ve got a hospital to fix. The good work is never done – not for Lady Liberty, and not for her favored son.”

He waved at the crowd, called his Justice League connections for assistance, kept one eye on Stanley Printwhistle, the human form of the sometime brute called Ibac, and he began picking up the debris of the shattered modern art sculpture, and he did it all at the same time, while grinning that big General Glory grin.

“It surely is a fine day to be alive,” he told no one in particular, and as he went on with his work, he began to whistle a merry tune...

THE END