Issue #7

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"Radio City Murder Hall"

by Chuck Burke

The sun is setting over central New York as a dark-clad figure makes his way through the twisted streets of University Hill. On foot, he runs along at a marathon runner's pace, waving to the occasional on-looker. A newcomer to the city of Syracuse just five months earlier, he is now a familiar sight to the local populace. A welcome sight to most of the people, but one to be feared by wrong-doers. He is: the Wild-Cat!

"No! No! That's all wrong, Benny. Jeez, I thought you said you were a journalism major here. This reads more like something from an old pulp magazine!" Ted Grant runs a hand through his lengthening mop of black hair, shaking his head. "Besides, Wildcat is just one word, no hyphen. And that 'the' business is for DUH Batman! I'm just Wildcat, and if there's another Wildcat out there, I'm not gonna get all bent out of shape over it!"

"I was, Ted. For two whole semesters, a couple years ago, I was studying at the Newhouse School." Benny Jackson shrugs, not understanding his friend's problem. "What's the big deal? The final assignment in my Children's Literature class is to write a short story that dramatizes something that really happened. You told me I could use the story of you rescuing the lacrosse team captain from the fire in his apartment, remember?"

"Sure, I remember. But this makes me look like Adam West in that awful Crimson Avenger TV show from the sixties!"

"Hey, I love that show!" pipes up Toby Barnes from across the room. "Don't be putting down the Avenger, man."

"Not on your life, Tobes. But remember: I knew the Crimson Avenger, I worked alongside the Crimson Avenger, and Adam West was NO Crimson Avenger!" Ted smiles at his play on the old political joke. "Look, Benny, if you want to write it like a Doc Savage adventure, I guess that's up to you."

"Thanks, Ted. Hey, are you still good for Saturday?"

"I was gonna ask you about that. What kind of help are they looking for at the graduation?"

"Nothing major. Just ushers for the ceremony, or maybe people to help serve during the reception afterwards."

"Yeah, there's nothing to it," says Toby. "I helped out last year, and it was pretty cool. Even better, this time, cause we're working at the Newhouse graduation, and I can't wait to hear the guest speaker!"

"Who is it, Toby?" asks Ted.

"Sheldon Jibbett, from the New York Daily News. The only cartoonist who ever made it to Editor-in-Chief, as far as I know."

"Scribbly! Well, I'll be damned! I haven't seen him in years. I knew he went to the Daily when the Dispatch went out of business. Son of a gun, I'll have to see if we can get together while he's in Syracuse!"

"Umm, Ted, aren't you forgetting something? Will he even know who you are, now that you've lost half a century?" asks Benny, referring to Ted's youthful appearance despite his true status as an octogenarian.

"Well, Scribbly's been able to keep quiet about my secret ID for over fifty years, I think I can trust him with this one."

Both heads turn toward Ted. "Huh? He knows that you're Wildcat? How did that happen?"

"We met up during World War Two, but as for details, well, I can't get into it because while he's been keeping my secrets, I've been keeping a couple for him."

"Come on, Ted, you can't leave us hanging like that!"

"No can do. Tell ya what, though. If I get a chance to talk with Scribbly during the reception, I'll see if he'll let me spill the beans."

A week later, Ted, Benny and Toby are in full tuxedo dress, standing in the back of the Shine Center during the Newhouse School of Journalism graduation ceremony. On the stage, a short, thin man stands at the podium, his eyes bright behind thick glasses, his wiry gray hair sticking out despite his best attempts to plaster it down with hair oil, his hands punctuating each sentence.

"Ladies and gentlemen, graduating students, honored guests. I cannot begin to tell you how honored I am to be given the chance to give you young people your final send-off into the real world. For most of you, today marks the end of the toughest four, or even six, years of your life. At least, that's what you are thinking now. It wouldn't be fair for me to let that little bubble go unburst. After today, most of you will be going out to find jobs in what we laughingly call the real world. You're going to find out that all those stories your parents told you are true. You're going to find out that when some old sour grouch of an editor like yours truly tells you that he wants an assignment finished on Tuesday morning, you better have it finished on Monday! And when you show up on Monday with a hangover from partying all weekend, you can't expect any sympathy from him because he's probably nursing a worse hangover than you are!"

The auditorium echos with uneasy laughter.

"Folks, it's a twenty-four hour world out there, and it's not going to wait for you. Today, you go out to the reception hall and you have a nice time. Then, you go home, or out with some friends, or over to that casino in Verona, and you whoop it up! You've worked your tails off for years here, you deserve it! Then, come Monday, you be ready to start a whole new education, cause you are now officially enrolled in the University of the Real World!"

Sheldon Jibbett raises his hands in something like a benediction, then takes his seat as the room erupts in applause and cheers. As the Dean of the school starts calling off the names or the graduates, Ted, Benny and Toby slip out the door to make final preparations for the reception.

"Yep, that's Scribbly. Still got a bit of Ma's spirit about him." says Ted as they head for their posts at the bar.

"He knew your mother, Ted?" asks Toby.

"No, Ma was a friend of ours a long time ago." Ted looks up and away at nothing for a moment. "I wonder how she's doing these days? I'll have to ask him if I get the chance." he says quietly, to nobody in particular.

Twenty minutes later, the doors erupt and people crowd into the ballroom. Ted and his friends are busy pouring drinks for people, hardly noticing faces, when a familiar voice breaks Ted's concentration.

"Have you got a decent bottle of scotch back there for a thirsty man, kiddo?" asks a scratchy voice.

"Let me see what I have here." says Ted, checking under the table where the special request items were placed ahead of time. He finds the bottle and stands up, seeing who the speaker is for the first time. "Of course! I should have known!"

"How would you - Holy cats!" Sheldon Jibbett's eyes bulge behind his glasses in recognition. "How the hell did you get here, Ted? What's happened to you? Don't you read the papers? You're supposed to be dead!"

"Easy, there, Scribbly. It's a long story, though not as nice as the obituary you folks printed for me." says Ted as he pours a double shot of the double malt. "If you're free tonight, maybe we could get together and I can fill you in. Got a couple of boys who'd like to meet you. Not my own, mind you. But good kids, you know?"

"Sounds better than dinner with the Dean, but I better not skip out on that. I should be free around nine, though. I'm at the Sheraton, the Presidential Suite."

"There ya go, boys. If it ain't right, the bar's right over there. I only get the first one for you."

"Thanks, Mr. Jibbett." says Benny, Toby echoing him.

"Please, call me Scribbly. It's the only name I've gone by for sixty years now." says the one-time boy artist, taking a seat. "Ticked me off when the Daily News wouldn't put it on the editorial page. Now, Ted, I take it these youngsters know your story, so how about filling me in?"

Ted spends the next ten minutes explaining how he had his youth restored thanks to an explosion in a seeming fountain of youth, and updates his old friend on his new life as a college student.

"Seems to me you started out as a medical student, before your boxing career started, didn't you? About time you finished!"

"That's what I thought. Now, Scribbly, Toby here is a big fan of your work. When I told him that we were friends, he wanted to know how we met."

"Ah, ha! You didn't tell him, did you?"

"Of course not. Not without clearing it with you. You think Ma would mind?"

"Are you kidding? I think she'd be happy to have someone hear the tale, now. She's afraid nobody remembers her anymore. Go ahead and tell them. I'll just listen, fill in some gaps, and let them know when you're laying on the bull."

It was December of 1943, wasn't it? About a year after Pearl Harbor, and it had to be right around Christmas time. When we declared war, I was all set to sign up, but FDR himself sent me a telegram, exempting me from service. He figured that I could do more for morale back here at home, defending my heavyweight title and doing exhibition matches for the state-side troops. I came to New York thanks to Bob Hope. He was putting on a special Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall for the war bond effort, and asked me to be on it. Invited me on to the radio show too. I hit New York a couple weeks before Christmas, and started scouting for a boarding house to flop in for a few weeks. I was still in a hotel when I went for a jog through the Bronx one morning.

Ha! You wouldn't try that now, I bet!

Oh, the extra sparring practice might do me some good. Still, I must have run about two miles when I stopped to get a bottle of pop in a little corner store. That's when I met her. I walked into that store, and there she was, behind the counter. One of the most impressive dames I ever met.

Hooo, boy, that's one way of putting it! Impressive, right, I'll have to remember that one.

Hey, she impressed me. I walked in, and she had a crate of tomatoes on one shoulder, two big sacks of flour over the other, and the handle of a scrub bucket full of apples clenched in her teeth! Like a lady Hercules, working at her chores. She spotted me, shrugged those sacks off her shoulder onto the counter, grabbed the bucket, and wished me a good morning with that calm gentle voice.

Lemmee guess, something like "Mornin', bub. What can I do ya outta?", right?

Yep, with a voice somewhere between Lucille Ball and Gracie Allen. Man, that lady could bust windows with that voice, couldn't she? She slapped that crate down, and I saw her eyes light up. "You're that boxer fella, ain't you? Whatsisname, Grant!" I told her that she'd caught me, offered her my autograph. Let me tell you, she lit up like a damned firecracker! Took off through the door at that back of the store, and I could hear her running up the stairs, yelling that the champ was in her store! Next thing I know, I got half the neighborhood gathered around me in that little ten by twenty shop, wanting my autograph, wanting to shake my hand -

And you loved every minute of it, didn't you?

Of course I did! That's about the time you showed up, wasn't it?

Yep, just in time to hear you make the mistake of letting on that you needed a place to stay.

Oh, Lord, Ma wouldn't let me out of the store until I agreed to rent that room behind the store. She even sent one of her boys back with me to bring my stuff down. I moved in that afternoon, and then I went downtown to Radio City Music Hall to speak with the folks about the Christmas show. I was down there for a couple of hours, then I took the bus back to Ma's place. That's when I spotted the two mooks what was following me. I let them follow me as far as about two blocks from Ma's, then I ducked through an alley, over a fence, then up a fire escape. I figured that would keep them busy while I went back and got my costume. It took me less than five minutes, but by the time I got back, they were gone. I scouted around the neighborhood for almost half an hour, but I didn't find a sign of them. I made my way back to the store, and I was just about to slip back in the window when WHAM! Something smacked me in the head and sent me to the ground. I turned my head as I fell, but the only thing I saw was sunlight shining off something metallic before I blacked out.

Caught you a good one, eh?

Oh, yeah! Hit me like a ton of bricks! I came to a couple minutes later, and I'm still laying in that alley. I heard a voice, like a little girl, saying "Oh, you know who that is? We're gonna be in so much trouble!" I opened my eyes just in time to see a couple of kids running out the end of the alley. Seemed kinda weird at the time, it looked like they had these funny hoods on, like you see on pictures of court jesters. They were running like the wind as I got up. That's when I sensed someone behind me. I turned around, and I swore that the conk on the head must have really messed up my brain. Nobody, and I mean no-body, would wear an outfit like that!

Har! Had that effect on a lot of people, first time they met!

You know, Scribbly, I've worked with all kinds of costumed types. I worked with Robotman, I've hitched rides with Superman, I hang out with the old Green Lantern, and let me tell you, that man has got to be color blind! But none of them could ever match that outfit. Red wool long johns, with a white and yellow vest. A dish towel pinned to the shoulders for a cape. A pair of over-sized boxer shorts. Purple, or were they pink, oven mitts.

It all depended on what was available. Sometimes pink, sometimes purple, blue a couple of times. But you haven't told them the best part.

Like I could forget! A big, shiny soup pot, with a couple of eye holes punched in it, for a helmet. My first thought was to find an iron bar to pop it with, just to hear it ring. And this wasn't your typical mystery-man, either. I mean, I was a professional athlete, but most of the other masks were at least in decent shape. Not this one. Had to run at least two hundred and thirty pounds, and only standing about five foot-six. That poor vest looked ready to burst from the strain. Of course, it didn't help that this clown was backing off, still holding that damned two-by-four. "Oh, jeezum, Mr. Wildcat, I didn't realize it was you! I seen ya breaking into the Hunkel's store, and, well, I just did what needed doing!" The two-by-four dropped to the ground then as I brushed myself off and asked "And who the heck are you supposed to be?"

Oh, that was the wrong question. By that time, everyone in New York knew that costume!

Yeah, well, this dingbat straightens up and declares "I'm the Red Tornado, of course!" I recognized the name. The Atom had told me about the Tornado crashing the first meeting of the JSA a couple years earlier. "What are you doing around here?" I said I'd spotted a couple of suspicious looking joes, and I'd been following them, but they gave me the slip. I figured that was close enough to the truth. "I'll keep an eye out for them on my regular patrol tonight, then." Yeah, sure, you do that, I figured. Still, maybe metal-head could get lucky. We shook hands, and I took off up a fire escape. Last I seen, the Red Tornado was jogging down the alley, and I was thinking to myself, "Man, if I ever look like that when I'm running, I hope somebody shoots me!"

What, ain't you gonna tell them?

Not now. I didn't find out for a couple of weeks myself. Meanwhile, I was settling into life in the Hunkel household. I was splitting most of my time between the gym and Radio City. I tell ya, I had no idea how much work goes into one of them radio shows! I mean, I knew they had scripts and stuff, but Mr. Hope, he liked everything rehearsed, over and over, so it would go right when we did the show. I spent some of my nights prowling around in the union suit, too. I even joined some of the guys from the All-Star Squadron for a case while I was in town. But mostly, I was looking for those joes who had been following me.

It was about a week after I'd moved into the Hunkel's store when they popped up again. I was down in the basement of Radio City, helping one of the old stage hands find some extra stands for the microphones. I was lugging a couple of them through an old dressing room when I heard the sound of a blackjack hitting a skull.

You can actually recognize that?

You can if you've heard it as often as I did. I turned around, and there's this big ox standing over Jimmy. He starts moving toward me, and I start backing away. I feel something press into the middle of my back, and I stopped. "Guten morgen, Herr Grant," I hear from behind me. Great, he's speaking German, I thought as I raised my hands up over my head. "I'm afraid we missed meeting you last week." I look back over my shoulder to see this little pipsqueak wearing a black overcoat and a black fedora, holding one of those Luger pistols in his left hand.

"Gee, that's a crying shame now, ain't it? So whaddaya want, an autograph?" I see the big guy getting closer, and he's still got that sap in his hands. "Why, no, Herr Grant, we want you. Specifically, we want you dead, while participating in this show. See, we hear how so many of your verdamnt American GI's admire their so-called world champion, even though you've never been up against a proper son of the Fatherland. And so many of them admire this radio entertainer, this Bob Hope. So, we are going to strike a double blow for the Reich, by killing you and destroying Herr Hope's show."

Hey, Teddy, do all the bad guys tell the hero their plans? Is that required by law, or something?

Nah, it's just an ego thing. So I ask him "Do you think anyone will believe Bob Hope shot me down here? He's not even in the building." That last was a lie, Hope was right upstairs. "Oh, no, Herr Grant. You will simply be an unfortunate casualty when that beam over there collapses over you and your associate there, with a little help from Gunther, of course. That should be sufficient to shut down the show, destroying the morale of thousands of American soldiers who sit, panting like the dogs they are, listening to the radios in their camps." I figured I'd heard enough. Gunther was closing in to knock me out, so I just raised a leg up, planted my foot on his upper leg, and shoved myself backwards. Old schnitzel-for-brains and I hit the floor, him on the bottom. He was squirming, so I twisted around and grabbed the gun in my right hand, while I planted a left cross on the side of his head. I flung the gun back, hoping to hit the big goon. I swung myself off the gunman, and turned to face Gunther.

Did the gun hit him?

Nah. I never could throw worth a damn. He had tucked the blackjack into his pocket, and he's standing there, standard boxing stance. That's a mistake lots of people make with me when I'm not in the costume. They assume I'm gonna stick to boxing, and fight fair. Sorry, but my Dad taught me better than that. He always told me that when you're fighting in the streets, the first and only rule is that there ain't no rules. So Gunther's standing there, looking like an illustration out of the Queensbury rulebook, and I haul off and kick him right in the shin. That gets him jumping around, and that's when I paste him with a right hook, left uppercut combo. I'll give the kid credit, he stayed on his feet, but he couldn't do much in the way of defending himself after that. He tried a couple of weak jabs, but that's about it. I was all set to put him away when his buddy got up on his knees and threw a knife right into my calf. I dropped to the floor, and I saw Jimmy, the stage hand, starting to move. They must have seen it too, cause they made a beeline for the stairway that led up to the door into the alley. Gunther hit that door like a ton of bricks, and the wood flew all to flinders. I could just see up past them, and what I saw just made my day.

Yeah, like the cavalry showing up on their horses, when you're sinking at sea!

Aww, Scribbly, it wasn't that bad. I saw old tubby in the red longjohns up there in the alley, and I figured that he'd at least be able to delay these mooks long enough for me to change into my costume and limp up the steps. I stripped my clothes off, pulled my mask up over my head, started up the steps, and I heard someone holler "Hey, he's got one a dem loover pistols! He must be a Nazi!", followed by another voice yelling "Get 'im!" Then I see my buddy with the gun tackled by a couple of little gomers in clown costumes.

Those weren't clown costumes! They were modeled after the jester's motley, from the Middle Ages!

Yeah, right, whatever you say. Anyways, these little clowns tore into him, pummeling him like he was a piece of cheap beef. Meanwhile, the Red Tornado hopped up and grabbed a fire escape to keep from getting run over by Gunther. He ran right underneath, and got clobbered by a barrel that the Tornado's jump knocked loose from the platform above. He couldn't have had much in the brains department, cause even that wasn't enough to knock him out. I caught up just as the Tornado dropped to the ground, and we double-teamed the guy. Tornado whacked him over the head with a board and I caught him with a two-handed punch in the face.

Geez, Ted, you make it sound like Reddy pulled that stunt with the fire escape on purpose!

As far as I'm concerned, that's what happened. The Cyclone Kids, that's what the little punks went by, they scrounged up some rope to tie the Nazis up with. The Tornado looks at me through the holes in that soup pot, and somehow I just knew there was a big grin under there. "I figured we'd meet again, Wildcat. Glad you could pitch in and help round up these here sab-o-to-ers." The kids were yammering away a mile a minute, too fast for me to figure out what they were saying. I heard a police siren, and figured Jimmy must have found a phone inside. We didn't say anything more, we just took off down the alley together. Me limping along with a bleeding leg, and the Tornado kind of bouncing along. The kids took off ahead of us, like a couple of PT boats. looking for trouble.

The end of another successful case for the Wildcat, eh?

Look, Scribbly, I just broke Benny over here of putting that 'the' in front of my name. Don't you start. And, no, it wasn't the end, as it turned out, and you know it. I limped back to the Hunkels' place, changed in the alley, and slipped into my room. I was bandaging up my leg when Ma and Hunk, her husband, knocked on the door. She made a big fuss over it, after I told her I'd slipped and landed on a broken bottle at the theater. Still, she did a good job of wrapping it up, and I was doing great the next morning. Five days later, the night of the live show, I rode down to the theater with the Hunkel family. Mr. Hope had given me a half dozen tickets, and since I didn't have any family left I figured Ma and the gang would enjoy the show.

Oh, lordy, you trusted your life to that old Model T? You're braver than I though, Ted!

Hey, you never had to take a trip in the Star Rocket Racer! Still, I probably would have gotten there quicker on foot. Still, we did get there in one piece even if Gus did have to get out and crank the motor five or six times. Ma let me off at the stage door, dropped the others off in front, then went to park the car down the street. I went in, and got ready for the show along with everybody else. When it came time for me to come on-stage, they thought it would be fun if I came in at the back of the theater, and walked down the center aisle in my trunks, boots, robe and gloves, they way we did for the big boxing matches. They even had a dummied-up boxing ring on the stage, and I was gonna box a couple rounds with a local boy. I came down through the joint, right past the Hunkels. They were all whooping and hollering, but I noticed that Ma wasn't there.

What happened, she forget to save her own ticket when she handed them to Hunk?

No, I'd made sure that she kept one out. I didn't have time to worry about it, though, 'cause I had to get up on stage. Folks all over the place were cheering and calling my name, it was almost like a fight night. I got to the stage, and that's when I saw they'd switched my opponent.

Yeah, I remember hearing about this. They even asked me to draw up a cartoon of it for the paper!

Let me tell you, this wasn't the way we'd rehearsed it. Instead of Petey Floyd, I get up there and find myself facing that big red doofus with the soup pot again! "Champ, I hate to break it to you, but all the local boxers just didn't have the nerve to face you tonight. We did the best we could, though, and found a local mysteryman for you to go up against tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce tonight's challenger, the Reeeedd Toomaaatooo!" says Hope. The Tornado turned to him and mutters "That's Red TorNAdo, buster! If you weren't so famous, I'd like to pop you one about now!"

Ted, you gotta tell me. How did they get the Tornado to show up like that?

Beats me, Scribbly. Probably like I met up with the nutjob, collided in a street somewhere. I thought it was a joke, but they started lacing up a pair of gloves, and we climbed into the ring. The bell rings, and my mind snaps into the usual ring routine. I'm just about to lay into the Tornado when I realize that I don't dare throw a full punch. From what I've seen on the streets, I'd like as not have a one-punch knock-out, if not some serious injuries to contend with. Instead, I start throwing some light jabs, hearing them ring off that stupid kettle. The crowd gets louder and louder, and when it reaches a good loud roar, that's when the mook leaps at me and grabs me in a bear hug. "Look, I need your help. I know you're Wildcat, and those guys we bagged last week were skulking around behind the theater again. I think they're up to something."

Had you all figured out? Who'da thunk it?

Tell me about it. I freeze up. This was the first time that anyone figured out who Wildcat was, and I was torn between trying to figure out how this clown did it, and trying to figure out how we can slip out of the ring to take care of business. I figured slipping was as good a plan as any, so I let my foot slide over the mat and I took a fall, right into the Tornado. We fell in a heap, and when we got up, I was limping and indicated that I was hurting too much to go on. Mr. Hope actually lifted the Tornado's hand to signify the winner of the match, and thanked me for being a good sport about it. Seemed to take forever before we were able to make a break for the dressing rooms. I ducked in long enough to change to my costume, then we hit the alley behind the joint. Sure enough, there they were, ducking behind some trash cans. They started to run, but I caught up to them and grabbed them by the collars of their coats. Tornado caught up, and we slammed them together like a pair of cymbals. They dropped to the ground, though the little guy was still conscious. I grabbed him again, and growled in his face, asking what they were skulking around for. He told me they'd planted a bomb in the basement, and they wanted to see it go off.

Heh, I'll bet a certain pair of red longjohns turned a nice shade of brown about then.

Hell, we were both sweating. It was actually Tornado who dashed toward the building first, while I slugged my Nazi friend to knock him out. Crashed through that basement door like a train hitting a haystack, and rolled down those stairs. I got there just in time to get rammed by that soup pot, as the mook ran back out carrying a bundle of dynamite and an old alarm clock. When I got back to the alley, the Tornado was looking around for someplace to toss the bomb, but that thing was pretty long. There was a fence at our end, and the opening to the street was a couple hundred feet away. "It's about to go off, I think! We gotta get rid of it." I saw a couple of boards, and I had an idea. I grabbed a barrel, and a long board, and set them up. Told the Tornado to put the bomb on the end of the board, and climb up on my shoulders. The idea sunk in, and I was only standing there for a second or two with all that weight before I felt those chubby legs bend, then push off of me. I had this sudden thought of all that weight snapping the board, but thankfully, it survived, and our makeshift catapult launched the bomb up and over the fence into a vacant lot before it blew.

Let me guess, you called it a Wildcatapult, right?

Har, har, har. We were more concerned with making sure the police held on to those Nazi finks this time. I didn't even take a chance on the local cops, I went into the theater and called the FBI. They came and picked up the garbage, I went back inside and ditched the costume, and the Tornado and I were back on stage for the show's finale. That was the end of it until later that night. Back at the Hunkels' place, I was just about to change for bed when there was a knock at my door. As I kind of figured, it was Ma.

Hey, Ma was never that kind of woman, Ted!

Eagh! Thanks, Scribbly, now even my heebies have the jeebies! No, she said she had something she wanted to tell me. I looked to make sure it was just her, then I said, "Sure, what is it, Tornado?" Heh, that got her. I wish I'd had a camera to catch the look on her face. "Look," I said, "I figured it had to be either you or Hunk, cause you both knew about my leg getting hurt, and the Red Tornado saw that. And Hunk was sitting in the theater - you weren't." She just looked at me, this big goofy grin on her face. "You won't let on to anybody, will you? The only ones that know are Sisty and and her friend Dinky." I figured they were her kid sidekicks, and I just shook my head. "Hey, I always figure the country needs more mysterymen. Or women, as the case may be." I put out my hand, she grabs it, and we shake on it. After all, she did save my hide, and it sounded like she was doing some good around there.

Oh, she did, all right. She told me a bit about this story years later, when I found out that she'd been the Red Tornado all along. And of course, you and I put together the rest of the pieces when you were living in New York, didn't we?

Toby and Benny had been quiet throughout the story, except for when the laughter couldn't be held back. "I don't get it, Ted. Are you telling me that just anybody could dress up and beat up the bad guys back then?"

"Pretty much. Depended on where you lived, but in New York, they were used to masks running around. Ma was just one of the crowd, and she never strayed much outside of her own neighborhood. By the way, Scribbly, how's she doing these days?"

"She's got a little place down on the Jersey shore, my brother and Sisty have been looking after her. I'm heading down there for a clambake next month. She makes a mean chowder, even after all these years!"

"Tell her I said 'hi', would you? Maybe I can get down there over the summer break."

"Man, things have really changed, haven't they?" asks Benny.

"I wouldn't say it's changed all that much. There's still new folks putting on costumes everyday." replies Ted.

Meanwhile, downtown in the Public Safety Building, Lieutenant Abby Walker reviews a folder of police reports detailing a series of robberies at the Carousel Center with a fellow officer.

"Cosmetics. CDs. A couple of laptop computers from Best Buy. Jewelry. This would all seem like kid's stuff, except for the way it's being taken. Witnesses claim they've seen the stuff flying out of the store, towards a girl who puts it in her pockets. The security guards and police pick her up within minutes, and she's got nothing." She lets the papers fall to the desk. "Weird, Anderson. Positively weird."

"No, probably just some prank by a couple of mall rats. Some of these kids are pretty good at passing stuff off. We'll catch them soon enough."

"I hope so."

I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into Wildcat's past, and a look at one of the (near) forgotten Golden Age *ahem* greats!

Before you get much further, hop over to the Swap Month page here on the FauxDC site and check out Dale Glaser's take on Wildcat. Those who have followed Dale's work, especially his bang-up job with his original team of heroes, Bad Blood, should find it nice to see how he handles a down-to-earth hero without earth-shattering powers. You'll find that even a humble boxer cand handle some pretty dangerous events!

Speaking of Swap Month, I'll be contributing a Hawkman story for FauxDC's "big summer event", so keep an eye open for that as well! You'll want to catch it, for it introduces a character who will appearing in the next issue of Wildcat, as well.

Next issue, Wildcat faces off against the menace of the Mall Rats! Don't miss it!

As always, any questions, comments, complaints, offers of bribes, or other random thoughts can be sent to me at cjburke@technologist.com. Whether its praise or (the thankfully rare) criticism, I enjoy hearing from folks, so keep it coming!

Till next time,

da 'Cat!