Post by The Wonderful Wachter on Jun 28, 2011 20:41:38 GMT -5
Henchmen United #1
Gotham Graffiti
Gotham Museum
Chester Honeywell was not a name any respectable henchman should claim. You need something tough sounding like Brock or Boone. At the very least, your name should reflect your boss’s or be a number. Chester simply wasn’t henchman material. Yet that was his name. Chester. Honeywell.
This was his first time working for the so called Cluemaster; a man with the brass balls to dress up in a brilliant red suit, a bandana across his face, and of all things, a flat cap atop his head instead of a proper Stetson. One would almost expect him to add a bowtie to the absurd ensemble yet for whatever sane reason he went tieless. It was gaudy. It was attention grabbing. Nevertheless, beneath that jacket, Chester knew the Cluemaster hid vials and capsules containing a wide range of things from smoke pellets to stink sap to even some sort of ice grenade. Some obviously attached to his vests, others not so obviously beneath sleeves and in pockets.
It was also his first time working for someone the Planet had declared a costumed or a themed or even the modern term of super villain. Surprisingly disappointing in his opinion. Chester had heard some gave their minions matching uniforms like Captain Cold doling out hockey masks and parkas depending on his mood. But here he was, in his own red windbreaker – total coincidence – and a ski mask that had come out of his own pocket. Even had to provide his own gun.
The Cluemaster was cheap and Chester didn’t know why. His boss supposedly worked for big names down in Bludhaven who paid top dollar for these heists. So if that was the case then why did he force his goon squad to fend for themselves?
“Gotta love Gotham, eh kid?” a fellow ski masked Henchman asked. “Only here and the ‘Haven can you commit crime like this in the broad daylight and not get caught.”
Knowing the man’s history, Chester had to goad him. “What about Metropolis?”
“Don’t,” the man almost forgot they were supposed to be watching the huddled hostages, “mention Metropolis. I still have nightmares of Superman. Damn bastard won’t let the working man commit an honest day’s crime under his watch.”
It was a relatively easy heist. Nobody ever expects a museum take to happen during the day. Even less expect one to happen on a day when security had been more than tripled because a special artifact was on display. The guards went down without a fight. Chester never had a chance to fire a shot before his comrades had taken out the security. Only Cluemaster didn’t go for the kill. Two guards lay on the ground, stuck in material that reminded Chester of a roach motel. A third was frozen in ice.
The fun part happened immediately afterwards, rounding up terrified civilians, calming them down, and then locking the place up. Hectic work, sometimes more difficult than fighting guards, yet it had to be done. Needed to be done so Cluemaster could work the display’s security.
Chester glanced over his shoulder, away from the crying children there to see the shoes of the former man who held the title of Fastest Man Alive. “What was his clue this time?”
“Hmm?” The other gunman kicked the teacher away from her students, getting a rise in Chester’s bloodpressure. “Oh. That. I hear he mailed Jay Garrick a sock. Can you believe that? A sock. Should have been obvious what we were after.”
“Know why he wants the shoes?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. Just like the pay.”
“Hey, tell about the clue before that!” yelled another member of the crew on look out.
“Right. right. Gave ‘em one of those cyclone things you make in,” he kicked the teacher again, “what grade do you teach?”
“Second,” she cried as she tried to shield herself from the blows.
“Right. One of the cyclone/whirlpool things you make in second grade by taping two 2-liters together. Brilliant it was,” he shook his masked head in amazement. “Cluemaster may be crazy but you can’t fault his sense of humor.”
“Your voice echoes, you know!” shouted the man in question, the display open and shoes in hand. “Now which of you fine killers know how to write legibly?”
Three out of the five crew members raised their hands.
“You, newbie, you haven’t done anything today. Get over here.”
Chester looked around before realizing Cluemaster meant him. “Yes sir?”
“Ah, manners. Rare among your type,” Cluemaster handed him a red can of spraypaint. “Need you to spray the words of Of Metal minds and men on the floor going that way. Make sure the N in men lines up with that column holding the Maryland flag.”
“Isn’t that closer to a riddle?”
“No,” his boss bopped him on the head like he was a child. “It’s a clue. I’m not asking for an answer, just leaving behind a hint. Now remember to line up with that column. Ruins the whole thing if you don’t.”
“Upper case or lower?”
“Hmm. Go with lower. That should make it more obvious.”
Chester didn’t know what he was trying to make obvious but he knew how to follow directions. Carefully he began spraying the paint, starting with the N in men and working backwards. Above him loomed a giant lightning bolt and banners holding an image of Jay Garrick posing with his thumb held up or else running. The giant words The Flash ran across the ceiling. He wondered how he could go from a little boy who thought Jay Garrick was the most awesome thing in the world, wanting to be an adored hero, to this.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and especially you children of young ages,” cried Cluemaster, grandstanding and holding the shoes aloft. “I sincerely offer you my apologies for ruining this lovely day of yours and no doubt causing you years of debt because of therapist rates. Why I remember my first trip to the museum. It was in the second grade too,” he added looking at the students. “Learned all about the Manhattan Project and those involved with it. Enlightening experience. Made me want to go home and invent a way to fly without a plane but alas fickle fate gave me a different sort of genius.”
The criminal mastermind reached into his coat, an act that caused a shifting among the hostages and his own men to raise their weapons. “I’d also like to apologize for what I’m about to do. You see, I can’t have you give your statements to the police and the FBI and I think even Interpol is after me too soon.” A silver capsule was in his hand, no bigger than his ring finger. “But remember that though the press has dubbed me a more feminine Carmen Sandiego, those words are hurtful. I cannot help it if she has broader shoulders than me and I have frail wrists. I was born this way and I look good in red. So please leave that insult out.”
There was the sound of a smile beneath the bandana.
“Today’s lotto numbers are 4-1-2. Take that knowledge as compensation for my actions here.” He tossed the capsule to the floor just as Chester finished. “Let’s go gentleman.”
The other five members of the crew tossed their own pellets, slowly making a colorless yet not odorless gas rise from the floor. The hostages drifted off to sleep unburdened by dreams before the door had ever closed behind the successful Cluemaster and his henchmen.
~~~
“Were the lotto numbers true?” Chester asked hours later, back at the warehouse base of the Cluemaster
The still masked mastermind nodded, his attention focused on comparing his shoe size to that of Jay Garrick. “Uh huh. It’s rigged. Has a very elaborate pattern I cracked years ago. Play it any time the missus wants a new purse or pair of shoes so I don’t have to waste my own money.”
Funneled light shifted in through the windows high above, blanketing them in shadows instead of the other way around. The other crewmembers were sitting around in the empty warehouse on unopened crates. Their masks were off. Their fingers counted the payout.
“Smart man.”
“That I am,” Cluemaster looked up, blue eyes meeting Chester’s green for the first time. There was something knowing behind that gaze, as if he knew exactly who Chester was behind the ski mask. “Going to stay with the crew or run with the money?”
Unconcerned, the henchman revealed his face to his boss in one quick pull, letting wavy black hair drenched in sweat drop and showing a closely cropped goatee/mustache combo. He was young. Far younger than the rest of the crew. Almost a boy still. “I think I’ll stay.”
Gotham Graffiti
Gotham Museum
Chester Honeywell was not a name any respectable henchman should claim. You need something tough sounding like Brock or Boone. At the very least, your name should reflect your boss’s or be a number. Chester simply wasn’t henchman material. Yet that was his name. Chester. Honeywell.
This was his first time working for the so called Cluemaster; a man with the brass balls to dress up in a brilliant red suit, a bandana across his face, and of all things, a flat cap atop his head instead of a proper Stetson. One would almost expect him to add a bowtie to the absurd ensemble yet for whatever sane reason he went tieless. It was gaudy. It was attention grabbing. Nevertheless, beneath that jacket, Chester knew the Cluemaster hid vials and capsules containing a wide range of things from smoke pellets to stink sap to even some sort of ice grenade. Some obviously attached to his vests, others not so obviously beneath sleeves and in pockets.
It was also his first time working for someone the Planet had declared a costumed or a themed or even the modern term of super villain. Surprisingly disappointing in his opinion. Chester had heard some gave their minions matching uniforms like Captain Cold doling out hockey masks and parkas depending on his mood. But here he was, in his own red windbreaker – total coincidence – and a ski mask that had come out of his own pocket. Even had to provide his own gun.
The Cluemaster was cheap and Chester didn’t know why. His boss supposedly worked for big names down in Bludhaven who paid top dollar for these heists. So if that was the case then why did he force his goon squad to fend for themselves?
“Gotta love Gotham, eh kid?” a fellow ski masked Henchman asked. “Only here and the ‘Haven can you commit crime like this in the broad daylight and not get caught.”
Knowing the man’s history, Chester had to goad him. “What about Metropolis?”
“Don’t,” the man almost forgot they were supposed to be watching the huddled hostages, “mention Metropolis. I still have nightmares of Superman. Damn bastard won’t let the working man commit an honest day’s crime under his watch.”
It was a relatively easy heist. Nobody ever expects a museum take to happen during the day. Even less expect one to happen on a day when security had been more than tripled because a special artifact was on display. The guards went down without a fight. Chester never had a chance to fire a shot before his comrades had taken out the security. Only Cluemaster didn’t go for the kill. Two guards lay on the ground, stuck in material that reminded Chester of a roach motel. A third was frozen in ice.
The fun part happened immediately afterwards, rounding up terrified civilians, calming them down, and then locking the place up. Hectic work, sometimes more difficult than fighting guards, yet it had to be done. Needed to be done so Cluemaster could work the display’s security.
Chester glanced over his shoulder, away from the crying children there to see the shoes of the former man who held the title of Fastest Man Alive. “What was his clue this time?”
“Hmm?” The other gunman kicked the teacher away from her students, getting a rise in Chester’s bloodpressure. “Oh. That. I hear he mailed Jay Garrick a sock. Can you believe that? A sock. Should have been obvious what we were after.”
“Know why he wants the shoes?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. Just like the pay.”
“Hey, tell about the clue before that!” yelled another member of the crew on look out.
“Right. right. Gave ‘em one of those cyclone things you make in,” he kicked the teacher again, “what grade do you teach?”
“Second,” she cried as she tried to shield herself from the blows.
“Right. One of the cyclone/whirlpool things you make in second grade by taping two 2-liters together. Brilliant it was,” he shook his masked head in amazement. “Cluemaster may be crazy but you can’t fault his sense of humor.”
“Your voice echoes, you know!” shouted the man in question, the display open and shoes in hand. “Now which of you fine killers know how to write legibly?”
Three out of the five crew members raised their hands.
“You, newbie, you haven’t done anything today. Get over here.”
Chester looked around before realizing Cluemaster meant him. “Yes sir?”
“Ah, manners. Rare among your type,” Cluemaster handed him a red can of spraypaint. “Need you to spray the words of Of Metal minds and men on the floor going that way. Make sure the N in men lines up with that column holding the Maryland flag.”
“Isn’t that closer to a riddle?”
“No,” his boss bopped him on the head like he was a child. “It’s a clue. I’m not asking for an answer, just leaving behind a hint. Now remember to line up with that column. Ruins the whole thing if you don’t.”
“Upper case or lower?”
“Hmm. Go with lower. That should make it more obvious.”
Chester didn’t know what he was trying to make obvious but he knew how to follow directions. Carefully he began spraying the paint, starting with the N in men and working backwards. Above him loomed a giant lightning bolt and banners holding an image of Jay Garrick posing with his thumb held up or else running. The giant words The Flash ran across the ceiling. He wondered how he could go from a little boy who thought Jay Garrick was the most awesome thing in the world, wanting to be an adored hero, to this.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and especially you children of young ages,” cried Cluemaster, grandstanding and holding the shoes aloft. “I sincerely offer you my apologies for ruining this lovely day of yours and no doubt causing you years of debt because of therapist rates. Why I remember my first trip to the museum. It was in the second grade too,” he added looking at the students. “Learned all about the Manhattan Project and those involved with it. Enlightening experience. Made me want to go home and invent a way to fly without a plane but alas fickle fate gave me a different sort of genius.”
The criminal mastermind reached into his coat, an act that caused a shifting among the hostages and his own men to raise their weapons. “I’d also like to apologize for what I’m about to do. You see, I can’t have you give your statements to the police and the FBI and I think even Interpol is after me too soon.” A silver capsule was in his hand, no bigger than his ring finger. “But remember that though the press has dubbed me a more feminine Carmen Sandiego, those words are hurtful. I cannot help it if she has broader shoulders than me and I have frail wrists. I was born this way and I look good in red. So please leave that insult out.”
There was the sound of a smile beneath the bandana.
“Today’s lotto numbers are 4-1-2. Take that knowledge as compensation for my actions here.” He tossed the capsule to the floor just as Chester finished. “Let’s go gentleman.”
The other five members of the crew tossed their own pellets, slowly making a colorless yet not odorless gas rise from the floor. The hostages drifted off to sleep unburdened by dreams before the door had ever closed behind the successful Cluemaster and his henchmen.
~~~
“Were the lotto numbers true?” Chester asked hours later, back at the warehouse base of the Cluemaster
The still masked mastermind nodded, his attention focused on comparing his shoe size to that of Jay Garrick. “Uh huh. It’s rigged. Has a very elaborate pattern I cracked years ago. Play it any time the missus wants a new purse or pair of shoes so I don’t have to waste my own money.”
Funneled light shifted in through the windows high above, blanketing them in shadows instead of the other way around. The other crewmembers were sitting around in the empty warehouse on unopened crates. Their masks were off. Their fingers counted the payout.
“Smart man.”
“That I am,” Cluemaster looked up, blue eyes meeting Chester’s green for the first time. There was something knowing behind that gaze, as if he knew exactly who Chester was behind the ski mask. “Going to stay with the crew or run with the money?”
Unconcerned, the henchman revealed his face to his boss in one quick pull, letting wavy black hair drenched in sweat drop and showing a closely cropped goatee/mustache combo. He was young. Far younger than the rest of the crew. Almost a boy still. “I think I’ll stay.”