Previous Post Part One is here. Twenty Years Ago, Give or Take: The room was old and caked with dust. The ceiling was low, and the support beams that held it up were visible. Its walls were the same brick and mortar as the secret door was. Other than that there appeared to be no visible entrances or exits, though there were a trio of heavy red curtains, that may have had something behind them. Similarly colored sheets hung over the furniture. Michael could make out a pair of couches, some high backed chairs, a roll top desk, two tables- one of which must have been for billiards given the rack of cues sitting beside it, a coat rack, and a bookcase. The light of the wall mounted lamps also showed the room had a dartboard and a glassed in trophy case. “Is this.... a clubhouse?” the young boy asked, before stepping forward and tripping on a spitoon, “Ulp!” “Indeed it is, Michael. Though that was not the room’s original intent. You’ve heard of the Underground Railroad?” Malcolm Wooster asked his son after helping him to his feet and brushing the grime from his knees. “Harriet Tubman used it to help runaway slaves. But it wasn’t really a railroad,” Michael answered, “just a route they followed to get away.” “Right. Well, your ancestors were against slavery, and they built this hidden room for escaped slaves to hide in as part of the Underground Railroad.” “Wow,” the boy was impressed. His mother Agnes always told him the Woosters were a notable, and noble family; now here was some proof, “I didn’t know they played pool back then.” Malcolm smiled and shook his head, “They probably did, but most of this furniture came later, after slavery ended.” “After the Emancipation Proclamation freed the slaves.” “Its a bit more complicated than that, Mikey,” his father went to the bookshelf and removed the tarp that covered it, sending a cloud of dust roiling through the room. He pulled a photo album from it and wiped his sleeve across the front. Opening it up he showed Michael a black and white picture of several young men dressed in summer suits, bowlers, and most amazingly, masks, “Most of the time this was a secret meeting place for the Wooster men and their friends. They called themselves The Order of the Red Velvet Masquerade.” Michael gazed at the photo intensely, “Why did they wear masks? Did they fight crime?” “Nope. At least I doubt it. These books here,” he tapped the shelves, “are the official minutes of their meetings. I haven’t read them all, but its safe to say they were in it more for the laughs than anything else. They had aliases, secret handshakes, the works. But they couldn’t really be called organized. I think the most ambitious thing they tried to do was steal an antique cow creamer from the Reed family’s summer home in Willingham. Er, well, that and the rum running, but that was mostly your great-grandfather.” “Rum running? Like during Prohibition?” “Yes. Sixty years ago the Order was temporarily disbanded so the Woosters could store liquor here they had smuggled in from Canada,” Malcolm explained, “Don’t tell your mother I told you: she likes to gloss over that part of the family history.” Michael stared up at his father, “It does seem to be a bad thing to do. Smuggling is breaking the law.” “Helping runaway slaves was breaking the wall as well. Sometimes, Michael, if things aren’t right, a person has to do something about it, even if that means breaking the rules. Understood?” The young boy nodded, “I agree, father, “ and he pointed. Malcolm Wooster turned and saw a pretty young woman in a nurse’s uniform come from behind one of the alcoves. She smiled and glided over to Michael, putting a milky white hand on his shoulder. “Michael, how could you?! Her kind shouldn’t be here!” Michael’s father grabbed a pair of pool cues and held them perpendicular to the other to form a makeshift cross. “Its OK, Dad: I invited her,” a much older Michael Wooster explained before baring his neck to the pallid ingenue. Grace O’ Mercy revealed her sharp canines and plunged them into his jugular. ****** Michael Wooster awoke and promptly fell off his couch onto the floor. He gazed about the room looking for any sign of his father or Grace before realizing he had just come out of a highly vivid dream. He lay sprawled on the throw rug for several moments, one arm over his eyes, groaning from the pain of his injured ribs. His other hand scrabbled across the end table in search of his cellphone. When he found it Michael made the discovery that it was out of charge. Stumbling to his feet Michael made his way to the light switch and then to the roll top desk where he had set his wristwatch. According to his Rolex he had overslept by forty minutes. Michael sighed and and went to the alcove that hid the water closet and claw tooth bath tub. He didn’t have time for anything more than the most rudimentary of ablutions. After brushing his teeth and running a comb through his hair he limped over to the coat rack where he hung his clothes. After donning his costume he slid on his white Oxford, his casual slack, and corduroy necktie. He eschewed his blazer but pocketed his domino mask. After checking the peephole to make sure no one was in the alley to witness his egress he opened the hidden door and dragged his satchel and bike into the alley. Then he gingerly mounted the ten speed, strapped on his helmet, and rode off as quickly as his injuries would allow. ***** “I... am.... Lichenius.... the Death.... that.... Creeps,” the two story mass of anthropomorphized moss announced to the people of Parodopolis, at least those stuck in commuter traffic at the intersection of Wein and Gerber. Alcheman stopped his ten speed bicycle and considered the giant. “Lichenius.... the.... Implacable...... Lichenius..... the..... Infester..... I will.... remake.... this world..... in.... my own..... fungal.... image,” opening his maw comically wide, Lichenius exhaled a huge cloud of white fibrous motes. Whatever came into contact with these strands quickly became overgrown with pale green plantlife, including th bystanders, who began to shamble towards any unafflicted person with obvious ill will. “My spores.... are.... irresistable...... Soon all... will.... bow..... before..... Lichenius,” the monster swung at a moss encrusted wall and sent it tumbling. Alcheman nudged aside a rubber necking commuter and grabbed hold of the falling masonry in his titanium steel form, “Please exit the area immediately, sir. I recommend heading for the Gerber Street subway terminal.” “What?! Oh, God!” the man turned to run but was caught by several lichen covered citizens. With a touch he was transformed into one of their own. “Lichenius, free these people!” the Molecular Marvel shouted up to the villain before hurling a huge piece of the brick wall at him. Lichenius swatted the debris aside and breathed another cloud of spores, this time directly at Michael. Soon Alcheman was cacooned in a mound of moss. The Elemental Adventurer transformed into napalm and burned himself free. Then he launched himself at his attacker, roiling over Lichenius like a wave of flame. The alien’s massive frame was rapidly immolated until nothing was left but his head. “No! This...... cannot.... be happening!” the Death that Could no Longer Creep attempted to roll away from Alcheman, but was stopped when the hero rested a heavy cast iron foot atop him. Michael bent down and picked up the remains of the would be world conqueror, “Now, how do I cure the people you infected?” “Destroy him!” was Lichenius’s only reply. Alcheman was soon attacked from all sides by the monster’s thralls. His mind raced to think of a way to stop the transformed citizens’ assault without harming them. The Chemical Crimefighter pushed his way free of the scrum and made his way over to a fire hydrant. Ripping free one of the seals, Michael pinched the valve so as to direct the torrent of water at the onrushing mob of mossed men. “Ha..... You think.... water.... can stop.... them?” the head of Lichenius scoffed from his position nestled in the crook of Alcheman’s arm. “No,” Michael punted the Death that Set into a public waste receptacle, then hit a sequence of tiles tattooed on his bicep: C, H, H, H, C, H, O, O, H. “However, acetic acid, when diluted with water, becomes vinegar; which is a potent and eco-friendly disinfectant,” were his last words before jumping into the hydrants’s spray. ****** “Here you go, ma’am,” Michael handed a blanket and a bottle of water to to another of Lichenius’s recovered slaves, a long line of whom were waiting to see the EMTs even though the battle had ended half an hour ago. Which meant Michael was now twenty five minutes late. His taped ribs had of course come undone during the battle, and he could not find either his bike or his carry all. He thought of calling ahead, but asking one of the victims of an alien body snatcher if he could borrow their cellphone seemed gauche. “Thank you, Alcheman. And thanks again for saving us.” “Yeah, using vinegar to stop an alien invasion. You’re like the Heloise of the superhero set.” Alcheman smiled to the crowd, “Heh. I suppose. If I hadn’t recently been forced to remove some stubborn mildew stains from my, ahm, secret hideout, the idea would not have come to me.” “What are they going to do with that thing anyway?” “Lichenius will be taken care of, I assure you,” the Atomic Achilles watched as the creature’s head was sealed in an airtight cannister and loaded into an armored van by Hazmat suited SPUD agents. One of them saw him looking and gave the hero a flippant salute before climbing into the vehicle’s passenger side and driving off. ****** Ilsa Rage, agent of Special Protocols Against Metahumans, removed her helmet, “OK, let’s get the head to the lab and see what the nerds can tell us.” “What was the salute for, ma’am?” her driver asked as they pulled away from the convoy of SPUD vehicles to take their own more circuitous and sinister route, “Was getting the subject’s attention part of the plan?” “Why does it have to be ‘for’ something? Can’t a show of respect just be a show of respect?” Miss Information chuckled, “So many questions.” To Be Concluded

You're really good at creating those lame villains who are just asking to be beaten.

Still curious about what kind of hidden motives the Order had, since they are in the title and not just a passing mention.