12: Put Your Faith In a Loud Guitar (Caveman King)

Samantha Ross was tired.

Acid Magnet had been running auditions for a new lead guitar all day, and so far had no strong contenders. Sam had been up all day, she was feeling cramped by Alejandro's garage, and she'd definitely heard too many mediocre guitarists. “Who's next?” she grumbled.

Zoe Kenfield checked the list, then looked nervously at Sam. “Kevin Kingsley.”

Sam went from tired to angry in half a second. “Not him.”

Alejandro Calderon spoke up. “Sam, we need somebody. We don't know when Neil's coming back, if he does at all.”

“Not. Him.”

“Let's give him a chance,” Zoe pleaded. “We're running out of time before our next gig.”

Sam turned to the bassist, Sierra Harper, who only shrugged. “Fine,” Sam said in defeat. “But the first time he says 'bitches,' we kick his ass out.”

“Come on in!” Zoe called, and the man who walked in could only be a hair metal tribute...or parody. Wild hair tied with a leopard-print bandana, tight jeans with random holes, snakeskin boots, and a black leather vest with no shirt. He had a tattoo on one arm of a tyrannosaurus with huge, muscular arms; on the other, a brontosaurus in a cowboy hat.

“Name?” Zoe asked.

“Everyone knows the Caveman King,” he said.

Samantha fought the urge to be sick. “Don't you have your own band?” she asked—rhetorically, of course; Acid Magnet and Tyrannosaurus Flex had competed at countless shows over the last two years.

Kevin put a hand on his brontosaurus tattoo. “We lost Buster in the alien invasion three months ago. Decided to break it off.”

“I...I didn't know. I'm sorry.”

“It's cool. Mind if we get to it? Sonja needs her beauty sleep.” Kevin unslung his guitar; a red-and-silver Gibson Flying V.

“Go ahead,” Samantha said. Anything to get this over with faster, she thought. The last thing my band needs is his trash metal bullshit.

“Saw this in a movie once,” he said as he tuned his guitar. Sam rolled her eyes...until Kevin started playing.

“Is that...” Sam whispered.

“Paganini,” Alejandro replied. “Caprice Number Five.”

Kevin's fingers flew along the neck of the guitar with blinding speed and pinpoint accuracy. Every note was crisp and clean...and according to Sam's ears, he didn't miss a single one.

When he had finished, Sierra--of all people--was the first to speak. “Damn.”

“Third in my class at the Bachand Institute,” Kevin said. “Shoulda sold my soul to the devil; it would have been easier.”

“Bachand?” Alejandro asked. “Had no idea. T-Flex never sounded like that.”

“Wasn't the music we liked...and don't get me wrong, I love those guys--” he tapped the tattoo again-- “but they couldn't hang with it. So what...is this gonna be the greatest band of all time, or not?”

The others turned to Samantha. They all knew this was her show.

“Put on a shirt, and we'll talk.”

11: Escape Route (Trapdoor)

Spencer Owens had almost finished loading the money when the alarms started sounding.

“Won't be long now,” he said to nobody in particular. He knelt down, put his hand to the floor, closed his eyes...and remembered.

“Mister Owens, keep your eyes on your work instead of the window.”

“If I can't get a full day of work out of you, then why the hell don't I fire you?”

“I know it's hard, honey, but I need you to try and get along with them.”

“Would you put that book down and listen to me?!”

“Owens! Where's the report on the Perkins account? I needed that two days ago!”

“To the dance? With you? Oh, you're so funny.”

“As you can see by the graph, quarterly earnings are up this year by 0.7%. That's good, but not quite...”

“I can't believe she said that! Can you imagine? Anyway, then we went to the High Wire for drinks and the next thing you know...”

“AIR-BALL, AIR-BALL, AIR-BALL, AIR-BALL...”

“You know the problem with these kids today? They don't appreciate anything, they're lazy, they're entitled...”

“Can anyone name the third stage of mitosis...Spencer? How about you?”

Spencer opened his eyes, and saw the field of blue energy that now took up a large portion of the floor. “Time to go,” he said, and jumped in.

10: Take One, Two, Three and Call Me in the Morning (Doctor Suplex)

(Translated from Spanish.)

“Help! Help! There has been an accident!”

A little girl in a yellow sun dress and a red mask ran down Avenida El Santo, shouting at the top of her lungs. Slowly, the citizens of Ciudad Máscara poked their heads out of their windows, to see what all the commotion was about.

“Oh my God! Look at that car!”

Down at the end of the block, a car had run up on the curb and hit a building. Pinned underneath was a young lady, blood staining her blonde hair and white mask. A small crowd had gathered around the car; some were attempting to move it, but were having no success.

“Perhaps I may be of assistance?”

Another masked individual arrived on the scene. Unlike the others who wore normal clothes apart from their masks, this man entered in full regalia: his mask, trunks, elbow pads, and boots were all the same shade of light blue; the only other covering he had was a white lab coat. He had a stethoscope around his neck, and a head mirror secured to his mask.

He strode up to the car, and addressed the trapped woman. “Don't worry, miss. We'll have you out of there in no time.” He grabbed each handle on the driver's side, planted his feet, and with a mighty roar, lifted the car into the air! He arched his back, dropping the car on its roof in the middle of the street. Other citizens grabbed the woman and took her to safety.

“Thank you, Médico!” the little girl said, and gave a big hug to the man's muscular leg.

He replied, “All in a day's work,” but his smile was only for show. Something was very unnerving about all this. For starters, the driver was nowhere to be seen...

He dared not say the name aloud, but he knew who was behind this. The fact that this accident happened to Dama Relámpago, sister of the disgraced and exiled Milagro...that was no accident.

09: Eight Second Ride (Hoss)

The service elevator doors opened, and four people walked into the hall. Three of them wore all black clothing and gloves, the standard uniform of a henchman. The last wore a pair of gray, grease-stained coveralls, identifying him as Milo Hewitt, a.k.a. the vehicle-obsessed villain, Joyride.

“Dunno how smart it is, breaking into the Cowboy Museum. It's only been open, what, three weeks?” one of the henchmen griped.

“Want to get to the top?” Milo asked, but did not wait for an answer. “Gotta start early. Let's roll—we got twenty minutes with no alarms.”

They made their way through the winding halls, past countless displays and statues, until they came upon their destination: a large, round room, with ropes surrounding the center.

“There she is, gang,” Milo said. “The piece-de-goddamn-resistance. If you're going to steal some wheels in this town, there's only one choice.”

Milo pointed past the ropes and the large signs reading “DO NOT TOUCH,” toward the item in the center—a one-of-a-kind motorcycle; a work of art in steel and chrome. For years, the Cowboy himself rode it into battle. His faithful steed, Hoss.

Each member of the group took up a position around the metallic beast. The moment Joyride stepped on the other side of the rope, he heard a low but fierce rumble.

“What was that?” a henchman asked.

“Imagination,” Hewitt whispered, and got closer.

They crept a few feet closer, and heard a much louder rumble. “I don't like this, man...”

“Don't bail out on me now,” Joyride whispered. “Too late to go back. It's now or never, and I pick...now!”

All four of them jumped toward the motorcycle, and it immediately roared to life. Within seconds, it was at top speed, tearing down the hallway.

“Let go of the throttle!”

“I'm not touching the throttle!”

“Then grab the brake!”

The criminals screamed as it spun around in another circular room, and one of them was sent flying. Joyride tried to assert control, but had no luck. He couldn't slow it down, or even steer it. Meanwhile, the other two goons lost their grip and tumbled away.

With a bit more room to maneuver, Joyride pulled himself into the seat. “Easy, girl,” he shouted, trying to hear himself over the roar of the engine. “Not gonna hurt you...”

Hoss gave off a strange noise. It couldn't have been what it sounded like, because everyone knows machines can't laugh.

Joyride tried everything he could imagine, but to no avail—Hoss was still going at top speed, and heading for a wall. He covered his face with his arms...and just then, the bike screeched to a halt, sending the villain sailing through the air.

He was still unconscious when the police arrived on the scene. Hoss, meanwhile, was back in its normal spot, snoring happily.

08: Objection! (Sheila Okabe)

The doors of the Fourth Precinct opened up, and a small parade came in—six police officers, a mariachi band in handcuffs, and Beacon City's own villain-turned-hero, Punchline.

“Morning, Sergeant Hamed!” Punchline called out, and waved at the desk sergeant.

“We're not friends,” William Hamed replied. “You personally knocked me out four times.”

“Don't be that way, Sarge. I brought you a present!” Punchline pointed at the freshly-arrested Murderachi.

“You brought me more paperwork, you mean.” Sergeant Hamed poked at the keyboard on his desk, bringing up the proper forms.

“Caught these goofs trying to shoot up a benefit breakfast. Good news, only one injury, and it's not life-threatening.”

Anna started shouting at Punchline in extremely broken Spanish. The hero responded by tearing off her fake mustache.

“You three aren't even Mexican. C'mon, guys. Cultural appropration is wrong.”

Without looking up, the desk sergeant added, “Also, murder.”

“Also murder. Good news is, with all the practice time you're about to get, you won't be committing any more crimes against music.”

“I don't think so!” a new voice shouted. All heads turned to see the face of Sheila Okabe, the famous defense lawyer. “This is a gross violation of my clients' rights as defined by the Ostrander Act!”

A collective groan went through the station. Only Punchline seemed glad to see her; after all, she'd kept him out of prison a few times with her legal prowess.

“Article 4, Section 12, Paragraph 3: law enforcement officials are not allowed to remove a suspect's mask at any time during their arrest, incarceration period, or in a court of law.” Sheila held up an accusatory finger at the strip of felt in Punchline's hand.

“But it's not a mask! It's a mustache!”

Okabe gave a grin—the same grin that saved Punchline's bacon many times, when he was on the other side of the law. “HA! United States vs. Yarborough clearly states that a mask is considered any and all clothing or costume items worn specifically during the perpetration or prevention of a super-crime.”

“You've got to be kidding me. Look, Sheila, can't you help me out for old time's sake?”

Sheila leaned in closer. “Sorry, doll,” she said. “You don't pay the bills anymore. I expect my clients to be released immediately.”

All three members of the Murderachi held out their cuffed hands expectantly. Punchline felt the glare of every cop in the room...in fact, he could have sworn more cops had rushed in, just to glare at him.

“Whoops.”

07: Unreasonable (Andrew Riesen)

Andrew Riesen nodded at his producer, who pushed a button on a console. “Next caller!” Andy said.

“Hello, Mr. Andrew. It's Tim.” The producer rolled his eyes and tried to dump the call, but Andrew waved him off.

“Ah, Mister--”

“NO LAST NAMES!”

“Of course. What's on your mind, Tim?” Andrew asked.

“I want to make sure the other real Americans know about the secret programs run by the government!”

Andrew nodded. “They sure do. You know, I'm sick and tired of Uncle Sam taking our hard earned money, just to give it to foreign interests and welfare freeloaders!”

“That's small potatoes, Andrew! I've got evidence linking NASA with Planned Parenthood!”

This time, Andrew had to stop himself from laughing on the air. “That doesn't surprise me. The conspiracies formed by these liberal sickos run deep.”

“You don't know the half of it! I've seen pictures! They're not performing abortions, and they're not decommissioning space shuttles! All this can only mean one thing!”

“What's that?”

“Don't you see? THEY'RE SHOOTING BABIES INTO SPACE!!”

“...”

That call prompted the longest stretch of dead air ever heard on the Voice of Riesen. The producer dropped the call and cued up the next commercial break.

At last, Andrew recovered. “We've got to take a break. Give us your thoughts on this, or anything else—the number is 555-TRUE. We'll be right back.”

As soon as the break began, the producer charged right into the booth. “Seriously, Andy. You gotta stop putting that guy on the air.”

Andrew shrugged. “He gets ratings, Tony. Hell, even people who hate me love it when that guy calls in.”

Tony swept a stack of papers off of Andrew's desk. “God dammit, Andy! You're better than this! You're better than acting like a barker for a bunch of sideshow freaks! You used to be one of the most respected guys in radio, and now this show is a joke!”

“Kid,” Andrew said, “you'll find out sooner or later that paying the bills is the only thing that matters. Causes are great and all, but they don't put food on the table.”

Tony looked crestfallen. “You used to be a fighter, man. You used to look for the truth. What happened to you?”

Andrew didn't say anything, but he definitely knew the answer.

What happened to looking for the truth?

I found it.

And if that truth ever got out, his lack of credibility was the only thing that might save Andrew Riesen's life.

06: Stuck With It (Mike Milligan)

Mike Milligan stood in the alley, looking at the building that held his target. “This is stupid,” he said to nobody. “I'm going to get arrested in five minutes.”

He removed his overcoat, and stood in the alley wearing only his new super-suit. It was specially tailored for his powers, with porous material on the fingertips and toes. It was surprisingly comfortable, too. All in all, it was perfect...except for the color. That couldn't be helped, though...he couldn't afford a new one, and anyway, it wasn't like the manufacturer had a return policy.

“Well...here goes nothin'.” Mike ran across the street and, after reaching the curb on the opposite side, jumped into the air. Just before hitting the wall, he put his hands and feet out in front of them...and the moment they made contact, they secreted an adhesive jelly, strong enough to hold him in place. Mike was now three or four feet up the wall, and started climbing toward a window.

He had almost gotten there when he found himself framed by a flashlight. “Stop right there!” someone said.

Mike tried to scramble for the window, but he was cut off by a gunshot. The bullet grazed his arm—not lethal, but enough to make him lose his grip. Milligan fell to the ground...and before he could recover, he found himself surrounded by police officers.

“Bet you feel pretty stupid now, huh?” one of the officers asked.

“No kiddin',” another chimed in. “What kind of idiot pulls a midnight robbery in a bright yellow suit?”

"Didn't have a choice," Mike grumbled, not that the cops were listening. They just loaded him into the car and drove off.

It took another fifteen minutes for the press to arrive at the scene of the crime. With Mike in the middle of being processed, they were left to their own devices on what to call this new supervillain.

Thus, the Yellow Stickie was born.