#149: Hypothetically Speaking

The day before the Hypothetics conference, I got a small package in the mail. It was from Gene. The note read, “Consider this a belated birthday gift”—he’d missed it back in February—“and a congratulations on your presentation, which I’m afraid I’m also going to have to miss. About the gift: Whatever you do, don’t point it at your eye. Good luck.” Inside the padded envelope was a small, silvery, pen-shaped cylinder.
        “It’s too small to be a vibrator,” I said.
        “Get your mind out of the gutter, Sissy,” said Avie, who was reading a textbook for school. “It’s obviously some kind of writing instrument.”

#147: Deep Throat

“You’ve composed a fine paper,” said my thesis advisor, Dr. Dolores Finch, smiling amiably behind her desk stacked with books and various research projects in progress. “You’ll certainly give those Hypothetics people something to chew on.” She handed back my paper, with several Post-It notes covered in red pen attached. “I’ve made a comment or two for you to consider, but they’re neither here nor there; they’re mostly cosmetic. I think you’re good to go.”

#145: Fusion Jazz

Clarissa’s first-person narrative resumes …
        “You expect me to believe the Quantum Quest Quartet became the Megatropolis Quartet simply because all four people temporarily forgot their team name on the Fourth of July, 1976?” I said. “I assume they later recovered their memories. Why didn’t they go back to the original team name? Had they already filed paperwork that prevented them from changing it back or something?”

#143: The Bicentennial Battle of the Millennium!

Trent Phloog’s third-person flashback continues … (Part 5 of 6)

The Marketable Universe, July 4, 1976

The City Room of The Manhattan Project, nerve center of that great daily newspaper, was empty on the sweltering summer afternoon except for the lone figure of Trent Phloog. The unpaid cub reporter, his padded Robert Mitchum suit soaked in perspiration, snoozed at his desk, his snores in concert with the rattling sounds of the window fans and the smooth murmur of ceiling fans, neither of which did anything to combat the sultry New York City heat.

#141: The Manhattan Project

Trent Phloog’s third-person flashback continues … (Part 3 of 6)

The Marketable Universe, May 1976

Trent stopped on the busy midtown street and looked up at the granite office building. “It’s the correct address, all right,” he said, checking the street number against what was written on the back of the #10 envelope he pulled from his inside breast pocket. “But for some reason, these aren’t the offices of the Daily Polis, like that nice Mr. Greeley described.”
        Instead, the bronze plaque read,

The Manhattan Project
Est’d 1941
Most of the News We Can Fit, We Print

        “Woo!” said Trent. “Must have been one of those media mergers!”

#140: Cross Under at Manhattan Transfer

Trent Phloog’s third-person flashback from 1976 continues (Part 2 of 6):

A young, long-haired conductor sidled up the aisle, smirking. His uniform was ill-fitting and unkempt. He tapped a more senior conductor on the shoulder.
        “Get a load of this, old-timer,” said the younger man. “It’s a train schedule from 1931!”
        The older conductor, his uniform neatly pressed and immaculate, turned around, annoyed; the rookie was continually pestering him with observations on the peculiarities of passenger rail travel. With a ticket puncher in one hand, he unfolded the brittle, yellowed brochure.
        “Where’d you get this? I haven’t seen one of these since I was your age.”

#139: Flashback to Microville

Editorial Note: We interrupt our regularly-scheduled first-person narrative by Clarissa James to bring you this third person (omniscient) flashback from the life of Trent Phloog. Enjoy! (Part 1 of 6)

The District Universe—May 1976

Golden afternoon sunshine spread across the verdant cornfields surrounding Microville Senior High School as their Bicentennial graduation ceremony came to a rousing conclusion. There was hardly a dry eye as the sixteen-piece Mudcat marching band offered a very out-of-tune rendition of “Pomp and Circumstance” while a score of administrators, faculty, and other dignitaries filed off the plywood platform set up in the Mudcat’s football field—actually, a pasture behind the school building surrounded by cornfields. These joined the crowd of a hundred or more family and friends who were still congratulating their twenty-three members of the Class of ’76, a bumper crop for the rural school district, arrayed in their navy-blue robes and mortarboards.

#138: The Dreaded Conference Paper

Rather than think about the upcoming spring semester and the courses I’d be taking or teaching, I spent the evening pondering the conference paper I promised myself I’d write, the abstract for which had to be submitted by the end of January if I wanted to be included in the program at the end of March. My thesis advisor, Dr. Dolores Finch, had recommended the opportunity to me back in August, but I had procrastinated on the extracurricular project all semester, though it lingered in the back of my mind like a sword of Damocles over my head. Now with the semester and my foray in the Civilian Reality over, I finally had some free head space; it was now or never.

#137: Trading Places

After a night a passion with the overly-muscled Mr. Megaton, Stella reluctantly administered the Mega-Soldier Syrup antidote to Trent, who reverted to civilian form, so he could resume his role as Simon’s normal father and fit in Gene’s white van for the road trip home. By the time we all gathered in the Doomsday Factory pantry for breakfast, Trent, Stella and Simon appeared as one big, happy Nuclear Family. But Trent, again a normal looking man, seemed more than a bit wobbly, not only from his epic battle with Bad Guy but also presumably the unexpected barrage of carnal desire from his usually platonic parenting partner.

#135: Night Flight

“Hey, wait a minute!” Kozmik Kat protested, his paws flailing about, as he tried to wriggle free from my grasp. “My powers are no good in a fight scene, Ms. Megaton.” But it was too late; we were already far out over water and ascending rapidly in the frigid night air.

#134: Mr. Megaton

I hadn’t seen exactly what Stella had done, as my grandmother had been intentionally shielding Stella from the view of the Megatown Mobster guarding us. He wasn’t paying any attention to us anyway; he was too flabbergasted at the transformation of his boss—the President-Elect of the United States, Bartholomew Gamble—into the purple-clad megavillain, Bad Guy.

#133: Rex, Rose, and Mega-Bad Guy

We were screwed.
        Stella quickly slipped the unopened jewel case containing syringes and vials of Mega-Soldier Syrup back into her windbreaker; Avie and Seedy both rolled down their sleeves. No one, it appeared, was going to be transformed into a megahero.
        “You want I should grab their guns, Rose?” said one of the Megatown Mobsters.
        “No need,” said Rose Shark. “This is just a friendly visit. Besides, our next President of these United State believes in fostering the most deadly proliferation of firearms our nation and the world has ever seen.”

#132: The Megatown Mob

“Stella, what are you doing in Bayonne?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you drove ten hours straight all the way from Ann Arbor.”
        “Of course not,” Stella replied. “We flew.”
        “Flew? But Stella, you guys can’t fly. In this reality, you’re civilians, not megaheroes.”
        “On a plane, silly,” she replied.

#124: Melody Chrysanthemum

I supposed Preston’s last remark was intended to end our conversation, because he returned to his work stocking the bookstore shelves with an air that he was going to ignore me until I went away. I didn’t know what else to say, although I didn’t turn away immediately. But then I heard some familiar voices from behind me.

#119: I Lost My Powers In This World

“Oh, great,” said Preston Percy, snuffing out his unfiltered cigarette under the toe of his shoe on the pavement of the driveway. “Don’t tell me America just lost her New Nuclear-Powered Hero!”
        The secret agent walked out onto the lawn where Mama and Avie were propping up Clarissa Too.
        “Can you still fly?” he asked.
        “I can barely walk,” said Clarissa Too. “I feel like I did before I got my Megapowers, like in my Civilian reality.”
        “Try lifting that stack of firewood,” said Preston, pointing to the short stack of timber against the garage. “Wait; that’s no good. It’s not heavy enough. Try lifting the car.”

#118: Never Even Kissed a Girl

Back at the apartment, I showed my sister Avie all the clippings Virginia had made for me concerning the other Ms. Megaton Man’s exploits. “Look at all this incredible stuff I’m doing, Avie—I mean my Counterpart is doing, the other Ms. Megaton Man; Frankly, she’s making me look bad—teaming up with the likes of the Doomsday Revengers and Megatropolis Quartet and battling Megavillains on the East Coast, breaking up subversive, insurrectionist militias in Maryland, battling more robots in Troy with the Troy+Thems. Good Lord, I’ve even been to Chicago and Wisconsin by now—only I’ve never once been to Chicago or Wisconsin in my life—battling evildoers. How will I ever live up to her tireless heroism and courage once she’s gone? When all I’ve done in the meantime is grade a few papers? And I’m still behind on my own submission for the upcoming Hypothetics conference!”

#112: Postmodern Sleeping Arrangements

“Say, what are you doing for Halloween?” asked Trent when I answered the phone. Stella had some academic thing all night, he explained, and he needed me to take Simon Trick-or-Treating while he stayed home and dispensed candy. “I can’t very well have Simon collect a bag of goodies while our house is the only dark one on the street—the other parents in the neighborhood would ostracize us for a year.”

#98: George Has a Gun

“Comic Coo-Coo Boo,” said Simon, who had been making Jackson Pollock compositions on the stainless-steel tray of his high chair with his noodles and spaghetti sauce. He was the only one of us able to gaze directly at the Cosmic Cue-Ball with his cyclopic, red-lensed goggles, while the rest of us were practically blinded.
        The incandescent orb looked just the way it was drawn in the comic books, but instead of harsh, black outlines, it burned as brightly as tungsten. The Orb of Great Power, as I’d heard it once described, hung in mid-air over us only briefly before it darted through the kitchen toward the open back door, stopping at the screen. Duchess, barking, chased after it; leaping up, her front paw came down on the handle of the screen door. Her weight carried her out of the house and onto the patio, and the Cue-Ball, sensing an opening, darted out into the back yard.

#97: Secret Identity

Daddy backed his red pickup into the driveway of the Ann Street house. I opened the passenger door, careful to unload my crutches first, then let myself out gently. My balance seemed much improved and my leg felt better, although something told me that if I tried to walk I’d still be rather lame.
        It was clear my perceptions had skipped forward in time once again. Judging from how the leaves on the trees and shrubs were turning, we were in the latter half of September now, at least.

#96: How We Lost the Farm

Let’s just say I half-convinced my grandmother, Dr. Mercedith Robeson-James, I was telling the truth. Of course, I couldn’t prove I was Ms. Megaton Man in some other reality, because in this one, I was only civilian Clarissa James. As such, I couldn’t fly or do anything megaheroic to demonstrate I once possessed megapowers. In fact, with a rod in my thigh bone, I couldn’t do much more than spin around in my wheelchair with my one good leg. But my knowledge of her own past as one of the thirteen Doomsday Factory scientists that had worked on the Atomic Soldier seemed to convince Grandma Seedy the alternate reality I described was at least theoretically plausible.
        She didn’t think I was completely crazy, in other words.