Recently the nice folk at the very excellent House of Mystery Radio interviewed me. The interview is still up and can be streamed online HERE.
I'm hoping to have the second WORKING CLASS HERO ready for publication very soon. In just a few weeks (knock on adamantium). So I'm posting a sneak preview here. The working title for it is: BILLY B VERSUS THE TROUBLE BOYS. As with the first book, I'm having a blast writing it. Superhero comics plus pulp fiction...a match made in Heaven.
BILLY B VERSUS THE TROUBLE BOYS (sneak preview)
By James Robert Smith
It was roughly ten in the morning. The sun was out. The air
was cold and a wind was blowing. That wind was especially rough where I was
standing on the roof of the Drake Building in midtown, thirty stories above the
street. I had managed to scramble to the top without entering the building at
all, having made my way from a seventh-floor parking deck to a section of wall
that was uniquely suited for a man with super-strength to make his way up,
floor by floor, leaping like an impossible red ape along the rough concrete
exterior.
I’m sure some people must have seen me, but if they had I
was such a boring sight these days that no one had appeared on the roof to
bother me or to ask for an autograph or to take my photo or to ask me not to
freaking do that anymore.
And so, of course, idling away the minutes and just standing
up there watching the flow of traffic below, I was actually surprised enough to
flinch when my best hyper-friend Shylock Holmes spoke up from behind me.
Have I mentioned that he has perhaps the most gratingly
annoying voice known to humankind? Well, he does. It’s like a staccato assault
of gravel fired from a machine gun directly into the ear canal. Keep in mind
that I hear about fifty times better than the most gifted of people.
“Figured I’d find you on a mountaintop,” he said, voice like
a teenaged girl’s fingernails across dry slate.
“Goddamn it, Shylock,” I said, turning to face him. I stuck
a gloved finger roughly where my ear would be if I hadn’t been wearing that
helmet with its space-age amazing perforated fabric allowing egress to all
sounds, especially his monstrous voice.
Whenever he did that I always expected him to apologize, but
he never did. I think he likes doing it; scaring arguably the toughest hyper
between Atlanta and the Big Apple. But, old Shylock didn’t decide to gift me or
surprise me with the apology then, either.
He was baiting me, so I waited before asking him why he’d
appeared once more in such a way as to get the maximum rise out of my hyped-up
sneakers. A few seconds passed. The wind blew. I wondered if I’d grab a
sandwich later. I blinked.
“Okay. You must have some nugget of wisdom to impart, or
else you wouldn’t have come up here to startle me.”
He drew in an audible gasp of pure sarcasm. “Oh! Did I
startle you? Heavens! It was not my intention.”
For a guy with borderline Asperger’s Syndrome, he had a
pretty good grasp of cynicism and humor. I waved him off.
I knew he was smiling beneath that ridiculous mask of his.
“I just figured you’d like to know that they’re bringing in some new talent,”
he said.
We had all wondered about that. We figured that they would.
Gila had been killed. Amber Ember was in Denver gestating a baby courtesy of me
in an episode of bad judgment by way of (apparently) an honest-to-Jovian god’s
asshole assistant. Flitter had pretty much filled the empty peg left by Amber,
but the folk who paid us would also want us to have someone to serve in place
of poor, departed Gila.
“So…what are you hearing?” I asked him. The thing about
having Shylock for a pal was that there wasn’t much that got past him. Because
of the nature of his hyper abilities, he was a pure conduit for the answers to
mysteries that hadn’t crossed our minds yet. And if someone was hiding
something, they’d better hide it pretty damned well or he would show up with
the solution in his pocket.
“What I’m hearing is Fido and Timmy,” he said.
“Fuck me,” I replied.
“Well, when you figure…we had a guy like Gila…they’re going
to give us something similar.” He began to sing that old Sesame Street tune.
“One of these things is not like the other. One of these things just doesn’t…”
“Enough!” I held my left hand palm out. He thankfully shut
the fuck up.
“Look at this way, Billy. Gila was a nine-foot tall beaded
reptile in roughly human form who had to be kept inside most of the time
because he was just too damned scary-looking for the hoi-polloi. The Agency has
a number of hyper-folk around who are similar to our old pal, and they need a
place to store them.
“We had one that we were taking care of for them. And now we
don’t have one. So…” He left it hanging.
“We get two for the price of one.” I sighed in resignation. Because I was the
one who would have to deal with them whenever there was some action. Also, I
had always been the man to talk with Gila, to do my best to make him feel
better about his situation. Because they need a man with Level Seven strength,
speed, and durability to serve as a sounding board for a half-ton lizard with
armored skin who can lift an Abrams tank and toss it across a parking lot. I
was their lion tamer.
“Fido and Timmy are…different,” Holmes said.
I looked down at him. He was now sitting on the edge of the
cover to an air vent. It was pretty much the right height to be a chair for
him. “I met them once. About two and a half years back. Right before you came
to head the team here,” he reminded me. “They work so closely together that
it’s hard to figure out where one of them stops and the other starts.”
“I don’t dig you,” I admitted. I shifted and little rocks
crunched under my feet. A 737 roared overhead on its way out of Douglas
International toward some point west.
“Well, there’s a mental connection going on with them. I
mean…one of them is like a bull mastiff that stands ten feet at the shoulder,
and the other one is a little kid who looks like a real-life version of Dennis
the Menace.” He paused. “He even has a slingshot in his back pocket. Did you
know that?”
I shook my head from side to side.
“I saw him use it once. Knocked that chick…” he snapped his
fingers a few times, reaching for a name. “Bella Bella, that was her. He cocked
back with that crazy slingshot and bounced a rock off her skull at fifty
meters. Knocked her out. Cold. Game over.” He was grinning under that plastic
mask.
“Okay. What was your original train of thought?”
“The kid. Timmy. Overalls. Sneakers. Slingshot. Blonde hair.
Freckles. Ten years old, maybe.”
I motioned with my hands, drawing for more information and a
little faster, please.
“Those two are bound, Billy. I mean, they are so tight that
I can’t really read either of them. I probe at their minds and they’re almost
merged completely. Not exactly. One of them is thinking and making plans and
formulating tactics. And the other one is mainly just some basic emotions and
wants and desires without much in the way of complications.” He seemed to be
finished.
“Okay. One’s a giant dog and one’s a kid. So?”
“So I can’t read either of them the way that I should
because they’re telepathically communicating with one another so well that I
can’t really get inside. I’m stuck talking to the kid the way I would if I were
anyone else.” Meaning, of course, if he couldn’t read minds and influence
enemies where those two were concerned.
“I’ve never met them,” I said. “But I’ve watched video. Fido
is just fucking scary. Looks like he could bite through concrete.”
“He can.”
I nodded, believing. “And the kid…Timmy. It’s like you said.
He looks like Hank Ketcham drew him or something.”
“He never ages, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. He’s been around now…what? Twelve years? He
was a ten-year-old kid when they found him, and he’s still ten years old.” I
shivered.
“They’re not sure Fido ages, either,” Shylock said. “He
carries a few scars, but pretty much seems the same elephant-sized canine who
walked up being led on a rope leash in Timmy’s hand over a decade back. “He
gets testy when they get too close to him with probes and needles,” Shylock
added. “So they’ve been willing to let him ride.”
There had been other animals that had been victim to AOHD.
Of course with animals they called it Adult Onset Mammalian Hyper-Development
Disorder. They settled on AOMD for the sake of simplicity, having chosen not to
want to add too many letters to the anagram. But there had been only a few
examples of it and most of those creatures had either been captured and penned
up, or had died quickly because they burned themselves out, or had been killed
by The Agency or the military.
“The AOMD…do you think it effects anything besides mammals?”
I was curious what my all-seeing friend thought. “You ever see anything that
made you wonder?”
“Billy…since the first of us appeared some time back, the
whole world wonders. I know you think I’m an extra smart guy, but I’m here to
let you know that I’m not as sharp as all that in matters animal, vegetable,
and mineral. Yeah, I know some basic chemistry and can crunch numbers better
than some, and you know I love history. But genetics….who the hell knows? We
have seen some strange shit.”
“Yeah…look at poor old Gila. He was about one quarter human
and three fourths reptile.”
“And Gorilla Jack,” Shylock reminded me. “You went toe to
toe with that guy. Looks more ape than human. And yet…human he is.” He slapped
his hands on his knees and stood, his deerstalker cape rolling with the motion.
“You never know. It gave us some false human/animal hybrids, and a mutated dog.
Maybe there are hyper-birds up there.” He pointed into the clear, cold,
February sky. I looked up. “And the ocean is a mighty deep place, too. It may
be that there’s stuff swimming around in it that has been affected. We’ll just
have to wait and see.”
“So. Tell me,” I said. “When are our two new playmates
supposed to arrive?”
Down on the streets far below, something was going on. I
could hear horns blaring and even from almost thirty stories the voices were
coming to us loud and clear as men yelled and women screamed.
“Right about now, I’d say,” Shylock told me. By then my back
was to him and I was standing on the edge of the roof looking down.
The street was now home to a monstrous dog roughly the size
of an Indian elephant who was strolling down the right hand sidewalk and
clearing a path through the intimidation of sheer, hairy mass. In front of the
beast, holding a length of what I knew was a flimsy hemp rope was a kid, maybe
ten years old, maybe seventy pounds, leading that monster canine. Some people
were cowering aside, cars were honking their horns, other people were running
from the scene, and, I knew, a lot of Charlotte folk were soiling themselves.
“Time for me to do my thing and maintain order,” I told
Shylock as I turned to address him.
But of course the asshole was gone.
Until the new volume is published, you can get your WORKING CLASS HERO fix at Amazon. Available in ebook, paperback, and audiobook. Just click HERE.
WORKING CLASS HERO: The Autobiography of a Superhman.
