We call them "laps," even though we aren't running around anything.

Jay Garrick, the first man to go by the name of Flash, and I are running side by side on two identical machines, two of Barry Allen's custom-designed treadmills to be exact.

Each time we pass a certain mark of distance "traveled" on the treadmill, it registers a completed lap.

If you've ever looked at what passed for exercise equipment twenty-five years ago, you can get a pretty good idea of what Uncle Barry's Cosmic Treadmill resembles.

The whole concept is pretty ridiculous, really, but like so many other things about my Uncle Barry, you couldn't limit him with physics and logic.

That's one of the reasons his death hit me so hard all those years ago. When a man is able to make things happen despite all the odds, you start to look at that man as being beyond simple human things like dying.

As I was saying, Jay and I are running side by side on the treadmills. Standing... rather, FLOATING off to the side is the Immortal Doctor Fate.

Jay and Doctor Fate have set me up with this crazy suit I'm wearing. The suit is supposed to help me with some problems I'm having with my powers.*

*see issue 5 for the details

Doctor Fate has this theory:

1. My powers are on the fritz because of a mystical spell.
2. This spell is like a parasite, taking the speed force energy away from me.
3. The spell converts that energy into a poison that would be killing me - if not for the suit.
4. If I can reach light speed, the spell would be overloaded with speed force energy and therefore, the spell would be broken.

I don't know if the Immortal Doctor Fate outlined it into a 4-point format or not, but that's how Jay Garrick had it written it down when I got back to S.T.A.R. Laboratories.

So, Jay and I are on these treadmills, running for broke.

Normally I'm quite a bit faster than Jay, but things haven't been "normal" for some time. Doctor Fate is using the speed force energy Jay's using to boost my performance. Half an hour ago I broke through the sound barrier, and my speed has been growing exponentially since.

The whole room is lit from the red glow of the suit. I glance at Jay. He's starting to get tired, but he's still giving it all he's got. Jay returns my glance, and I see him take it to another level. He's really giving me everyth -

I feel lightning slash through my veins and my head becomes a living battery. I see through my yesterday, and tomorrow is no more surprising than last week. I see Jay smile, and see his smile turn to shock, and then I don't see Jay anymore. I am a pinpoint of candlelight and the fury of the sun at the same time. I see all the colors of the spectrum, and more, I am all the colors, and also none of them.

I have broken more than light speed.

---

Faux DC presents
The Adventures of Wally West, The Fastest Man Alive

Issue # 7
"The Flashman Cometh"
By Doc

---

My reality condenses and explodes to a small, small sphere against a white cloth. I pick the sphere up, even though I have no hands or form or substance. I look inside the ball.

I am suddenly IN the ball, trying to look out, and failing that, looking further in. Suddenly, the ball breaks into countless pieces, each razored shard imbedding into the black walls of space.

I fall into the void, and slam into water. Instinctively, I swim to the surface and gasp for air. I open my eyes and look around.

The water is red, the sky is green, and purple birds fly overhead, their screeches are instead harp music and clarinets. Far, far in the distance, I see a lighthouse on a small patch of land.

Despite the feeling that I'm watching a television with a really bad tube, this all feels "right" to me, and I am not shocked by any of it.

I swim to the patch of land. I would just run across the water, but that would seem like cheating here, so I swim. With my speed, I am there in less than a minute.

Walking on the beach, I shake myself totally dry. I look down at the suit: All the hieroglyphics the Immortal Doctor Fate painted on the costume have vanished, and the black of the costume has been replaced with my trademark red.

Further up the beach, I see a man walking along the shore. I decide to ask him where I've landed, and in the blink of an eye, I'm walking beside him.

He's dressed in a poor-fitting suitcoat and a brown floppy hat. His pants are extremely baggy, and his plaid shirt is wrinkled so badly that his collar is all over the map, having a tough time deciding which direction to point.

"Excuse me sir," I begin to ask, but he raises his hand and cuts me off.

"Now-a Wally," he says, "I know I'ma bit more older than that last time we-a met, but don't you-a act as though I'm your grands-father," the man says.

"Now-a if your grands-father is dead, and you-a needs a new grands-father, I just might be him after all. Especially if-a he had some money. Of course, I'da have to meet your grands-mother, which could sink the whole deal if she'sa either fat ora not able to cook or has a face like-a my brothers."

"Of course, if she's-a not fat, but there's-a no money, that means we'd-a have to live with you, which means you'd-a have to learn how to cook, because otherwise, how-a we supposed to eat?"

"So there you have it Wally, it looks like you're-a right, and I am your longs lost grands-father after all. I dis-spoke it earlier when I said you were wrong, it turns out you were-a right. I am your grands-father."

"What's-a for dinner?" my grands-fath.. I mean, "the man" says, finally pausing long enough for me to speak.

"You know me?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. For starters, and let me clear the air right now, this guy is NOT my grandfather, and I'm sure that if I ever met this man before, I'd remember it.

"Sure, sure I know-a you Wally," he answers. "We all know-a you. You're-a the famous hero, you're-a The Flash-a-man. When that Flash-a-man runs, he's-a Zoom! He's-a Zip! He's-a even the Zap! But he's-a notta the Zep, no, there's-a only ONE Zep, and you're-a not him."

"The Zep?" I ask, totally confused.

"The Zep, the Zep. He's-a my brother. Look, here comes my brother, now you canna learn about the Zep," he says, and using my speed-enhanced sight, I see an object - it's another man - traveling at about 850 mph and suddenly stopping alongside us.

He's as disheveled as the first man, but instead of wearing a floppy hat, he has a ridiculously-abused top hat on his head. Under the hat, a mess of blonde curls fights for exit, straying every which way.

"Are you 'The Zep'?" I ask.

"No, no, no, he's not-a The Zep," the first man says. "The Zep is my OTHER brother. This brother here, he doesn't say-a much. The Zep, now he's got-a plenty to say to YOU, that's for-a sure."

The brother wearing the top hat pulls out a ridiculously long air horn and presses the bulb, and a loud "honk" fills the air. As if summoned, I see yet another man traveling our way, at a steady clip of 900 mph. He stops on a dime right in front of me. Somehow, despite the speed of his approach, he smokes a cigar that has stayed lit. He is dressed in brown World War I infantry pants, a tuxedo coat, a wrinkled white shirt, and a thin red tie. He wears a safari pith helmet to round out his absurd ensemble. Glasses with thin gold frames can't hide his bushy eyebrows, and a mustache of equal thickness sneers at the other two men.

He takes a puff on the cigar, and begins to speak: "I see you've met the Fig Newton Boys here," he says, waving his arm at the other two, "Have they forced you to adopt them yet? One can always hope." With this, the other two men leave us, going north at about 810 mph and vanish from our sight.

"Are you The Zep?" I ask.

"Am I The Zep, am I The Zep..." he mumbles, as if taking offense. "No, no, I'M not The Zep. The Zep lives in that big hacienda at the top of the hill."

"I didn't see any hacien- " I begin to say, but there, where the lighthouse earlier towered, there was now a large hill with a sizable Spanish-style home at the top. "My mistake," I say.

"Not at all, boy, not at all," the cigar-smoking man says. "Happens all the time. Why, just last week - I think it was Popeye the Sailor or maybe one of the Doom Patrol folks - made the exact same mistake. Comes with the territory."

"What exactly IS this place?" I ask.

"Well, that's a tricky one," the cigar-smoking man says. "If you happen to LIKE this place, maybe you'd be interested in buying a patch of land here. I happen to be the sales manager for the real estate interests here, and have 25 plots of fine home-quality land available right now."

"I think I'd like to talk to this 'Zep' person first," I reply, and start to walk up the steep hill.

"Of course, m'boy, of course," he says, stopping me. "Let me send a message and we'll be on our way." With that, he opens the tuxedo waistcoat and produces a piece of paper and pen. He writes a quick note, and then pulls a carrier pigeon from the coat pocket. Tying the note to the leg of the bird, he tosses the bird in the air.

The bird flies south, away from the house to the north.

"What's wrong with the bird?" I ask.

"Absolutely nothing, m'boy, but if you think I'm going to WALK all the way up that hill, you're mistaken. I'm arranging for some transportation," he answers.

Normally, my patience would be wearing very thin by now, but for some reason I find myself so entertained by this place I haven't the heart to get angry.

Within seconds, I see a group of three men carrying long sticks and safari animal skins heading our way at 700 mph. They stop a few feet in front of us, quickly work with the sticks and animal skins and construct a carrying litter.

"Where's the fourth man?" my cigar-smoking escort asks the three men.

One of the three men comes forward, and speaks in a language I cannot understand. The cigar-smoking man begins to speak:

"Oh, he's on strike, is he? That's a sad, sad reflection of our dimension's little work force, let me tell you. What am I supposed to do now - turn this thing into a tricycle?"

The leader of the three men speaks some more of his language, and points a finger at ME.

"Hmmmmm..." the cigar smoking man says. "Wally, I'll tell you what - you do me a little favor, and I'll give you a personal introduction to The Zep."

Two minutes later, I was carrying the back left corner of the litter, with the three other men handling the other corners. The cigar-smoking man sat in the litter above us, wearing his safari pith helmet and swatting files with a kitchen spatula, like some "great white hunter" from a Kipling story.

"So Wally, I hear tell you're having some trouble with your speed," the cigar-smoking man says.

"That's right," I say, "how do you know about that?"

"I know quite a bit about you, Wally," he answers. "I know you miss your Uncle Barry, but you don't idolize him the way you once did. I know you and Linda are having problems finding time for each other these days. I know labor unions are making their headway into my little dimension here, and I can't get a decent cigar for under a buck-fifty anymore. That's part of the problem with unions, you know - higher wages mean higher prices, most of the time, anyway - "

"How do you know so much about me?" I ask.

"Because you're The Flashman. Everyone knows about The Flashman, isn't that right, fellas?" he asks, and the other three men - though I still can't understand the language - make sounds of approval.

We reach the top of the hill, and still carrying the litter, we enter the house. All of the furniture is in the grand art deco style with ornate frames and large, wide columns. We carry the litter down a massive staircase. At the bottom of the staircase, a man waits for us.

The man is dressed in horseriding clothing - as though he just returned from a fox hunt, like one sees in paintings now and again in fancy restaurants.

We reach the bottom of the staircase, and we lower the litter to the ground. The cigar-smoking man hops out, and turns to one of the three men.

"How much will that be, then? he asks

The man speaks some words in his language, gesturing - I think - the path we took to get here.

"Why, that's outrageous! That's highway robbery, that's what it is! First, we have to run on that flat tire," he says, pointing at me, "and then, you miss the exit off the turnpike and take me through town to boost the mileage! Here's a fin - and be happy with that, or I'll make it a point to contact your shop steward about your membership, you criminal! Turn around and let me see your license plate, you worthless -"

The man in the horseriding outfit taps me on the arm. He is younger than the cigar-smoking man, and his features are much more chisled. He is impeccably groomed, his hair combed back from his forehead and held in place with a generous amount of brylcream.

"He may be at that for quite some time," the man says, smiling, and leads me into another room. The room is a massive library. Books fill tall shelves on each wall of the room, and smaller bookshelves make their appearances here and there in things like the coffeetable and lampstands. There are two chairs facing each other in the center of the room, and the man gestures for me to have a seat. After having carried the cigar-smoking man for an hour, I gladly accept the offer.

"Drink?" the man offers. I wave the offer away, but then reconsider.

"Do you have any orange juice?" I ask.

"Certainly," he says, and hands me a tall glass. I didn't even see him prepare it - it's as if it had already been in his hand.

"Maybe you can help me," I begin to say.

"Look no further, Wally. I am The Zep," he says, leaning back into the other chair, drinking some beverage in a tall glass with one of those little umbrellas sticking out of the top.

"Good," I say. "Then maybe you can tell me just what is going on around here."

"I can do better than that, Wally. I can tell you lots of things - about this place, about your speed problems, about everything you and Max and Jay have tried to find out about the source of your powers," this man called 'The Zep' says.

"Really?" I ask, somewhat bewildered. "How do you know so much about me?"

"Oh, that," he says, "Simple." and he pauses to sip his drink, and then continues:

"Because I am the speed force."

- TO BE CONTINUED -