A Golden Age

A short story

Once again our good friend

Frank Theodat

helps us start the week off right by blessing us with a short story. It’s got diners, cigarettes, military, superheroes and all of the other essentials that you need to create a good old fashioned piece of proper pulp fiction.

Of course, we wouldn’t expect anything less from the man who founded the outstanding

Pulp, Pipe, & Poetry

.

Enjoy.

TJB.

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Mickey's Diner was the last place on earth for an old-fashioned, American breakfast.

The kind where the eggs are cooked in tubs of butter and bacon fat and the overweight cook knows you by name; a small enough hole-in-the-wall to keep the riff-raff and tourists at bay, the kind where the menu is written out by hand using a cheap BIC pen on paper snugged in a clear, plastic sleeve. The last place to enjoy a cigarette in peace.

Mickey’s Diner was the place where a crime-fighting super-soldier and his longtime, arch-nemesis could grab a cup of coffee and not be disturbed.

“Late again are we, Major?” The words uttered were harsh and rocky as they ruptured behind an unfolded copy of the Boston Globe.

The old man with the cold tone placed his newspaper on the table next to his coffee, keeping his bitter, brown eyes on his pocket watch, offering a few complimentary sounds of “tsk, tsk” to his overdue guest, Major Jack Storm, formerly America’s Super Trooper.

He took his seat at the booth. Storm fit perfectly into his green bomber jacket, his face tan and worn, a powerful jaw that could withstand the strongest sucker punch, light blue eyes, and scarred hands of a fighter.

No one called him by his army rank or monicker anymore. He’d retired his shield and cowl long ago and was collecting his pension.

Being a superhero was a young man’s game and even the World’s Mightiest Soldier could not escape arthritis and bad knees. Now at seventy-two, he traded in his costume for a quiet life of occasional fishing, reading vintage crime novels, and keeping up his monthly coffee chats with an old friend.

“Sorry Doc,” Storm said as he adjusted his oversized glasses. “Had an appointment that ran over this morning. Did you order?”

Dr. Miles Montgomery del Rey, formerly known to his enemies as Doctor Heat, always came in a tailored, three-piece suit. His sunken eyes carried a raging fire that could scorch a man’s soul. Combined with his thin lips, sharp cheekbones, and crooked teeth, his scowl often struck an uneasy tension in his enemies.

“Two coffees and a Mickey Special with chocolate chip pancakes,” the Doctor said in a typical stuffy, academic fashion. “You keep up this artery-clogging diet of yours and soon enough I’ll be coming here solo.”

“I thought you were a shrink, not a dietitian,” the Major smiled as he brought his mug to his lips for a slow sip.

“Coffee’s gone cold.”

The Doctor let out a small sigh as he reached out in front of him to grab the Major’s cup. His thin fingers wrapped around the white ceramic mug, covering the diner logo of a cheeky hog in an apron. Hot steam rose from the brew. The Doctor barely blinked as he returned the mug. Storm took another sip and nodded.

“Thanks,” the Major said. “Who needs the waitress at this point, huh? You should be back there cooking up sausages with Mick.”

The Doctor remained unimpressed with the hero’s sly quips even after suffering them for nearly forty years.

“Hmph,” he reached into the breast pocket of his blazer for his cigarette case. “I must say, your witticism is not as…sharp…

as it once was.” He retrieved a small, black holder from his pants pocket.

Major Storm continued anyway, “The only bastard I know who still smokes using a damn cigarette holder. You’re like Burgess Meredith from the Batman show, all you need is a purple top hat and a monocle to complete the look. Besides, I always imagined you with a pipe.”

The Doctor, ignoring the personal attack, flicked up his thumb and sparked a small blue flame to light up.

“Enough of the banter, please. Have you read this?”

The Doctor tossed his copy of the Globe in front of him. Major Storm got out his microfiber cloth and rubbed the lenses of his glasses before grabbing the newspaper that was folded to page 6.

The section titled, ENTERTAINMENT, read:

LADY LIBERTY OF LIBERTY LEAGUE ANNOUNCES MEMOIR

The Major chuckled and slid the newspaper back to his former rival and took another sip of his coffee.

“You find this amusing, do you?” The Doctor said snatching the paper away.

He read aloud: “Jessica Rodriguez, known to the public as Lady Liberty will tour around the nation to promote her new book detailing accounts of her life from childhood to crime-fighter, after signing with Simon & Schuster...”

“She’s a kid,” Storm said. “She’s just looking for extra cash is all.”

“They all are,” The Doctor slowly pushed smoke out through his lips. “Every cape and cowl-wearing icon is looking to cash in almost daily. Disgusting.”

Major Storm rolled his eyes and scoffed, “C’mon, now. Times are different, Miles. We can both sit here and judge these young bloods till the sun goes down. Nothing wrong with earning a living, especially these days, given the economy.”

“Have you no honor? Hmm? You’d gladly watch these little caps sell their souls?”

"You’re one to talk. I seem to remember, you making quick work of the local banks back in the old days.”

The Doctor leaned in closer, “I’m reformed. Ten years now. My days of crime are long gone. Besides, why knock down a bank when you can sell your life rights to producers in Hollywood?”

A petite woman in an apron, with gray streaks in her hair held by a scrunchy strolled to the booth carrying a hot plate.

“One Mickey Special. There you go, hun,” she said, sliding the pancakes and eggs to the Major.

“Look,” Storm said, prepping his knife and fork, “If the next generation wants to go out and make some pocket money here and there, then why shouldn’t they?”

“Movies, memoirs, reality television, and speaking engagements are far from...pocket money.”

The Doctor’s thin fingers grabbed the sugar for his coffee and poured.

“In the old days, you knew where a man placed his allegiance. It was different then. Now everyone seems to pledge their devotion to licensing deals and merchandise contracts.”

Major Storm laughed off the comment and dug into his breakfast. Watching the flood of maple syrup wash over the Major’s pancakes was enough to make the Doctor’s stomach turn to jelly. Another smoke would help to ease it he thought.

As he flicked his thumb to light, his eyes gravitated to the thin TV set perched in the diner's corner. Though the sound was low, he saw an elderly couple, their faces painted grim and frazzled as they rummaged through mountains of paperwork on their dining room table. The husband on the TV buried his face in his hands in despair.

A warm, reassuring voice spoke.

The flame of the Doctor’s thumb went out as he nearly dropped his cigarette out of his mouth.

Into the center of the frame, walked Major Storm in his green bomber jacket, speaking with a gentle tone towards the camera discussing reverse mortgages for retirees looking to stay in their homes.

The Doctor sat frozen and dumbfounded. He watched the commercial until it finished. Major Storm continued eating his breakfast unmoved by the Doctor’s reaction.

“Well,” said the Doctor, keeping his eyes locked on the pancake-loving, sellout in front of him. “It seems your honor is for sale after all.”

Major Storm wiped his mouth with his napkin and sighed.

“What’s the problem, Miles? It’s a commercial for chrissake. A silly commercial.”

“Is that why you were twenty minutes late? For your close-up?”

Storm kept his face down in his food. Not a chance in Hell would he be lectured by a “reformed” criminal over his means of earning a living.

"I've got my set of problems to deal with," Major Storm pushed his plate away from him, his fists now clenched. He looked as though he was ready to launch himself at the Doctor. "The last thing I need right now is you to lob complaints and shame down from your godddamn high horse."

The Doctor said nothing. He just stared at Storm with chilling eyes of contempt. Silence took its seat at the booth with the old men.

Storm took hold of his fork and drove it hard into his pancakes, now fully absorbed in the thick syrup. Doctor Del Ray poured more sugar into his coffee, still coldly staring. The sound of his spoon stirring in his mug hit the right note of slow torture.

Clink

Clink

Clink

The petite waitress returned with a fresh pot of brew. “You want a refill, hun?”

“No,” was the Doctor’s soft reply. “The check will do, please.”

There sat two old men, formerly bitter rivals, over greasy diner breakfast and stone-cold mugs. No one said anything even after the bill came to the booth. Doctor Del Ray signed the merchant copy and left his usual hefty tip while Major Storm sat still, with eyes gazing out of the window next to them. The Doctor stood up, grabbed his fedora and trench coat, and made his way to the door.

“Same time next week, then?” said Storm. There was no reply. He heard the bell above the door chime and he knew he was alone. Storm pulled out a thin white envelope, in it a green cheque with a company watermark, made out to the sum of $35,000. He stared at the numbers and thought about the chilling words of Del Ray’s comments, specifically one word: Honor.

---

That thought swirled in his head for the past six days and was costing him sleep. After the routine bathroom check at two in the morning, he’d park his rear in his big leather chair and switch on the TV.

Commercial after commercial after commercial polluted the airwaves. He recognized many of the actors, all retired caps doing their little song and dance for Corporate America.

Mr. Supreme sinking his pristine teeth into Quarter Pounders and giving that All-American salute to trash fast food. Luxury, euro cars driven hard and fast by Baron Von DoomsDay. Magic Misty’s sultry voice selling expensive cruise line trips to Latin America. Trailers for romantic comedies starring former members of the Liberty League and Terrible Ten; Storm rolled his eyes at that last one. Of course, those silly infomercials for cheap household goods peddled by the Wonder Wizard became unwatchable.

After twenty minutes he switched off his set and tried to sleep again. He’d repeat this routine until Sunday.

In the morning, he’d walk from his downtown condo toward Mickey’s. The chill, Boston breeze would jump-start his day and the brownstones that occupied miles down the street would welcome him. Still, the taste in his mouth was bitter and his neck was sore from all the tossing and turning of the night before. He held on tightly to the white envelope in his pants pocket as if every stranger that passed him by knew he was carrying a fat cheque.

Major Storm arrived about 5 minutes early at Mickey’s.

His watch read 7:55 AM when the petite waitress brought over two steaming white mugs.

No food was ordered, though the smell of eggs and bacon tempted him. Storm had no intention of staying long.

He pulled out the cheque from last week, uncashed. He would triumphantly tell his old friend, his only friend, that he was above the petty cash grabs of his peers.

No Mega Corporation was going to put a price tag on Super Trooper, Major Jack Storm!

As soon as Del Ray arrived, he’d ask him to use his heat vision to burn the cheque in a small, celebration. No, was Storm’s answer to the Doctor,…his honor was not for sale.

Five minutes became ten.

Ten minutes became fifteen. Then half an hour went by in a flash.

Two hours later, Major Storm realized his coffee chats with Doctor Del Ray ended six days ago - for good it seemed. He sighed, put the cheque in his jacket pocket, and stood up from the booth.

That’s when he saw him. On the TV in the corner.

The news camera was trying to focus, but he recognized the flamboyant blue and red costume and cap better than anyone. Standing high above the Bank of America Building just ten blocks from Mickey’s was the Doctor, overlooking a crowd of curious citizens down below with their smartphones out, recording the dastardly, formerly reformed supercriminal known to the city as Doctor Heat.

The banner just below the broadcast gleamed across the set with words that Storm did not want to read.

The reporter on the screen levied words and phrases like “police on the scene” and “demands” and “hostages”.

That was enough. Storm needed to get to Del Ray now.

He couldn’t fly and had long sold his Honda Fury. Running was an option, but he feared his bad knees would give out. Still, he’d have to try. But ten blocks?

Then the slim phone on the diner wall rang.

The petite waitress grabbed it off the hook. Storm sweated as he watched his old friend take on a bank building of hostages.

Doctor Heat returned with a vengeance. His fists tightened and his mind scrambled for a way to get to the Doctor.

The petite waitress waved to Storm trying to knock his attention away from the TV.

“Jack, honey, it’s…for you,” she said.

“Me? I don’t—”

“I think,” her voice cracked as she shook. “I think it’s your friend?”

Storm could hear the beams of his sweat streaming down his cheek. He rushed to the phone though he felt sluggish. He gulped and said, “H-hello? Miles?”

A familiar voice howled through the phone, but it wasn’t stuffy or slow or academic. It was shrieking.

“Late once again Major!” cried the old voice.

“Wh-what? Miles?”

“You’re a crafty old fool, but you again try my patience with your tardiness!”

“Miles…what are you—”

The shrieking voice continued to ascend higher and higher now. A throaty cackle took hold of the line and said, “You think playing dumb will save these poor retches, but you can’t fool me…Super Trooper!”

Storm nearly let the phone slip from his hand. The old bastard was out of his mind. What was he playing at?

“Miles…come to Mickey’s. Let those poor people go. I don’t understand why——”

“And let my sly arch-nemesis save the day? Never! Doctor Heat will have the last laugh!” The Doctor was hysterical, a madman with his finger on the trigger.

“Please, Miles. Please. This isn’t like old times anymore. Just let them———”

The shrieking voice mellowed a little. There was a pause. The Doctor cleared his throat and said, “You greedy, fucking bastard. You’re no different from these so-called heroes. You traded in your cowl for coin and comfort! I’m not going down like this Jack. Retirement is a death sentence. ”

Storm said nothing. He couldn’t. Doctor Heat returned, and he camped it up.

“What will it be Super Trooper? Will you risk the lives of these innocent people? Or is there still honor in you to fight?!”

As Doctor Heat continued his speech, a great boom echoed in the background. Rifle shots rang throughout the line along with over a dozen yells and screeches.

The line went silent.

“Miles? Miles!” Storm called out, but he watched the broadcast with the banner below cycling through the video:

SUSPECT DEAD

The slim phone fell from his fingers as it yoyoed from the cord to the floor.

Not a word was uttered and not a sound could be heard.

Major Jack Storm, America’s Super Trooper, had no clever one-liner for his old foe-turned-friend. He sat there, eyes wet, staring at the TV in disbelief and confusion.

He reached for the green cheque, looked at it one last time, and ripped it apart with all the bile, disgust, and shame he had left in him. Little torn-up paper fell softly on the checkered floor of Mickey’s Diner; the last place on earth for a good old-fashioned American breakfast, where a former crime-fighting super-soldier and his longtime, arch-nemesis could grab a cup of coffee and not be disturbed.

Where two old guys could sit together, chow down greasy diner food, and talk about the old days of their youth, their adventures, their mistakes, and the age of heroes in flamboyant costumes, cowls, and capes.

It was a golden age.

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