Previous Post “One More Dilemma” They say my father was insane…. That was an exaggeration. A bit off kilter, certainly, but nowhere near as mad as the proverbial hatter. More eccentric than anything else. Still, that was enough to get him killed, immolated when his rocket cycle crashed after attempting to leap the length of the QE II. It was a foolish stunt, done for no other reason than to garner attention and tempt fate, and now, as I sit sprawled in my wheelchair soused on a potent cocktail of tranquilizers and muscle relaxants, I wonder if my decision to become a superhero will amount to nothing more than the same thing: a flight of fancy that will doom me and hurt my family. I was put in this predicament by an enemy, Baron Ottokar Zemo, for reasons I imagine are tied to his relationship with my mother, and my obvious disapproval of it, as Zemo is, in fact, an evil spectre and a former member of the Third Reich, conditions that would make him unsuitable as a paramour for even Agnes. He used some manner of mind control to make it appear I had lost my faculties at my wedding rehearsal dinner (which, truth be told, may have happened anyway if Zemo hadn’t chosen to stick his ethereal nose in my business) and then used a malefactor of his acquaintance to have me committed. This ner-do-well, disguised as a physician, is the one keeping me so potted I cannot tell the world the circumstances behind my condition, or even reach up to my biceps and touch one of the tattoos that allow me to transform into one of the 117 elements of the Periodic Table. All in all, a cunning plan, and one that has served to cut me off from any source of possible release. Constance, my fiancé, certainly wants nothing to do with me after the spectacle I made of myself at the dinner, my mother has a pathological aversion to hospitals, and thus also stays away, and my sisters, who do visit me weekly, lack the requisite astuteness to see through Zemo’s ruse. However, that does not mean my siblings would attempt to bring about my rescue, in a manner most extraordinary. ***** “This is boring,” Trudi Wooster announced as she watched her fraternal twin poke another spoonful of butterscotch pudding into their brother’s ill-shaven and non-responsive jowls. Her sister, Jenni Wooster, turned to give the most irked expression, “What a horrible thing to say! You know Doctor Pfeffercorn said we should maintain a positive attitude around Michael to help with his recovery,” she wiped a dab of the orangish glop from his chin and moued, “Don’t listen to mean ol Trudi, Michael. She’s just sore because at a certain celebrity sports figure’s mea culpa press conference, hers was the only name he went out of his way to categorically deny ever, eeeeever, having been in the clinch with, despite rumors to the contrary.” “No, that’s not it,” the smaller, more cherubic of the twins said grimly, “though that was hardly the highlight of my week,” she held up a clipboard, “I have been perusing our brother’s chart, specifically the dosage of anti-psychotic drugs he’s been administered, and its clear the staff has been placating us.” “What do you mean?” “They don’t want us to know this, but they don’t think Michael will ever recover from his current sorry state.” “Oh,” Jenni said meekly, before turning away to wipe at her eyes, “Maybe, maybe we should see about getting Michael a second opinion?” Trudi stood up and took hold of the handles on her brother’s wheelchair, “That’s precisely what I intend on doing. Go bribe the orderly, Jenni. I’m taking Michael to look for the Hooded Hood.” ***** Wait. What? ***** The wheelchair, its passenger, and its pilot had long steered away from the façade that was The Herringcarp Institute for the Emotionally Exhausted. They had now found the bowels of the Asylum, or perhaps the reverse was true. “This is scary,” Jenni whimpered as they made their way down the gaslight corridor, he hand clamped down on her sister’s shoulder. “You should have stayed behind then,” Trudi hissed back, “all you were needed to do was distract the orderly.” “Which I did, spectacularly I might add. But I wasn’t going to desert you and Michael. You might need my help.” The three traveled the winding, seemingly incomprehensible halls of Herringcarp, having lost all sense of direction and time. “Trudi, why do you think the Hooded Hood will help Michael? Or that he’s even alive? Remember, he got blown up during the Parody War.” Trudi set her jaw, “Because the Hooded Hood is known for two things: coming back from the dead and making Faustian bargains. I’m betting on the ‘Cowled Crime Czar’ doing both those things today.” “And if you’re wrong?” Jenni stopped in her tracks as a large rat scuttled across the cobblestone path in front of them. “I just told you I’m not wrong!” “I know, but what if you are?” “Then I suppose I’ve made a bit of a boo boo,” the Wooster girl shrugged, “Right or left, Jenni?” The willowy blonde squinted at the fork in the hallway that seemed to have materialized just moments before, “Left. I think I can hear the sound of the ocean coming from that way.” “Even if that were true, what possible difference would it make? Do you expect the Hooded Hood to be sunbathing while he’s plotting the downfall of all mankind?” Trudi rolled her eyes. “Why not? That’s what we do.” Trudi steered the wheelchair to the left, “Fair enough.” ***** This would be an excellent example of my sisters’ impetuousness. To go meandering down the darkened passageways of a meta-architectural mental institution, in search of the greatest villain in all the Parodyverse, to cajole him into helping their brother who would sooner crawl across broken glass then be indebted to another criminal, takes a certain amount of wrong-headedness. And pluck too, I suppose. But assuming if even the best happens, and they do find the Hooded Hood, and convince him use his powers to remove me from my current predicament, after all they have done to try and help me, can I truly say no? The Hood is the Master of Retcons, and could conceivably wipe away the knowledge of my secret identity in addition to reversing my embarrassing outburst at the rehearsal dinner, which would mean I would still be engaged to Constance Blott, and while that in itself is a scenario I do not wish to revisit, it would provide me the opportunity to strike back at Baron Otto without fear of reprisal from him or any other criminal who knows I am in fact Alcheman. Such a retcon could even wipe the knowledge of my double life from my family. This Faustian Bargain could very well also be Hobson ’s choice. Or perhaps it’s Morton’s Fork. My knowledge of Old English ethical epistemology is a tad shaky. At any rate we have finally come to a door, the first in what seems like hours. I can hear classical music being played on the other side. Mahler, perhaps? Again, I am out of my element. Jenni, bless, her shakes off her qualms and goes to turn the handle, as I sit here unsure what I want to find on the other side. Is the Hooded Hood the Lady, or the Tiger? ***** Sir Jay Boaz looked up from his book and nodded to the trio who had just entered the plush sitting room,”Hello, Miss Wooster. Miss Wooster,” he greeted the two young women he knew all too well, and even then it wasn’t as much as either would have liked. Hatman gave the man they wheeled in to the parlor a quizzical gaze, “Thank you for bringing Alcheman to us. The Lair Legion needs him for what lies ahead.”

I guess rescues can come from the strangest places. Fortunately, nobody would ever suspect it coming from Trudi and Jenni.