The Price

            The Price

 

            Once upon a time, Big Boss frowned. Hands on hips, he glared upwards at the inert bulk of Turboencabulator #7. He sucked on his stogie. He blew out a cloud of smoke. He grumbled, “I’ve got no choice. Call Working Joe!”

            Big Boss’s minion Lackey texted Working Joe, and Working Joe flew right over. When he landed, Big Boss said, “Turboencabulator #7 broke in the super-fight last Tuesday. Can you fix it?”

            Working Joe inspected Turboencabulator #7. He used his vision, his X-ray vision, and his sonar. He scratched his head. Then he opened a flap on his utility belt and took out a hammer no bigger than his thumb. He got onto his knees, he crawled to the lower left rear corner of the huge machine, and he tapped it once with the tiny hammer.

            Instantly Turboencabulator #7 roared back into full operation. Working Joe crawled out, stood up, put away the hammer and said, “It’ll work fine now.”

            “Thank you, Working Joe. How can I ever repay you?”

            Working Joe said, “Easily,” and he handed over a bill.

            Big Boss read the bill and his face turned red. “A hundred thousand and one dollars?” he bellowed. “But you just tapped it once with a tiny hammer! A hundred thousand dollars for that?!”

            Working Joe said, “No. Only one dollar for tapping it with a tiny hammer. A hundred thousand dollars for knowing where to tap it.”

            Moral: Knowledge is the best merchandise.

Supply and Demand

             Supply and Demand

 

Big Boss and Working Joe were touring a car factory, to inspect a new line of welding robots. 

Big Boss joked, “You wondering how you’re going to get them to join the union?” 

Working Joe replied, “No, I’m wondering how you’re going to get them to buy cars.” 
 

          Moral: Give to get.

 

 

 

Super-Retort

             Super-Retort

 

            Once upon a time, Captain Blue was flying towards Big Boss’s mansion, to attend a big dinner-party. He looked down and he saw Working Joe, standing in a muddy ditch, using his heat-vision to weld a sewer line; for Working Joe needed the money.

             Captain Blue called down from the sky, “Poor Working Joe! If only he knew how to flatter Big Boss, then he wouldn’t have to weld sewer lines!”

             Working Joe replied to the sky, “Poor Captain Blue! If only he knew how to weld sewer lines, then he wouldn’t have to flatter Big Boss!”

 

          Moral:  Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.

 

Civic Fixture

             Civic Fixture

 

             Menace, one of the stupider supervillains, threatened Working Joe’s family. Working Joe went to Captain Blue for help, but Captain Blue said “Give up your day job, and come with me to fight crime.”

             Working Joe said, “I’m no trust-fund baby like you, I got a wife and kids, I gotta work for a living.”

             So Working Joe then went to Big Boss. He said, “I’m not asking you for anything, I’m just telling you I can’t work under these conditions, and I’m thinking of leaving town.”

             Big Boss said, “No, stay. Don’t worry about that moron. I’ll take care of him.”

             Working Joe said, “So what do I owe you?”

             “Nuthin’. You worth plenty as is.”

             And what do you know, the very next day it was Menace who suddenly left town.

 

          Moral: Follow the money.

 

Meet Working Joe

             Meet Working Joe

  

            My daughter Hannah and I have, between us, invented an alternate comic-book superbeing; “Working Joe”. He’s not a superhero, nor a supervillain; more like a super-worker. He has the usual superpowers, but he uses them strictly for heavy construction work. He’s the guy who cleans up the mess after the superheros and supervillains stop battling. Unlike superheros, he’s in it for the money; unlike supervillains, he wants only honest jobs.

             Working Joe neither fights crime nor commits it; he just works, very very hard. Don’t call him a superworker, he doesn’t like being set apart. He’s a Union man, of course. His contract with the Metroville Reconstruction Authority states that after a superfight, he does the heavy lifting and the dangerous labor, and the other Union people do detailing. What with all the superfights, all the time, it’s steady work.

             I envision an episode consisting of nothing but him cleaning up after an action-packed sequence, all off-stage; we see him pick up the pieces afterwards, commenting all the while on the super-fighter’s super-carelessness. After restoring the city to its pre-fight glory, Working Joe says, “Another job well done!” and flies home.

             No secret identity for him; but he has a wife and kids (all of them super) so he can’t afford to antagonize anyone. He’ll do honest work if the pay is good. So Working Joe moonlights as an independent contractor, building fortresses for both superheros and supervillains! The superheros look down on him for his mercenary streak; the supervillains despise him for his habitual honesty; he consoles himself that they need him more than he needs them.

             Wife and kids also have superpowers. The wife is Home-Maker. She has super-endurance, she can read minds, and she can see out of the back of her head. The boy is Hyper; he has superspeed and ADHD; the girl is Goth; a moody teen with the power of invisibility. Raising superkids is super-expensive - so many home repairs! - so that’s why Working Joe has that mercenary streak. Part of the hidden joke of the comic is that he always needs money. He has wealth-creating superpowers, yet the system is rigged so that he constantly has to keep hustling.

             And how did he get those superpowers? His origin story is that his maternal grandmother was not only an alien, she was an illegal alien!

             Other characters in Working Joe’s Metroville: GoodCop/BadCop, Bankster, Suxel, and supersalesman “Bob”.

             Once Working Joe met a boyhood hero of his; Fireman. Working Joe stammers his admiration, Fireman graciously returns the compliment. “Who built all the firetraps I rescue people from? Guys like you! Who do I rescue from those firetraps? Guys like you! Who pays my pension? Guys like you!”

             I visualize Working Joe as wearing denim overalls and a helmet, and drawn in angular buff Socialist Realist style. Something like Spain’s “Trashman”.

 

 

Three Berkeley Trips 3

       Three Berkeley Trips 3

    

          Trip 3, by Abstinence

        Or: Planet of the Boobs

         

          The nurse said, “You need to schedule another blood test next week.”

          I shrugged. “OK.”

          “And to test hormone levels,” she continued, “you’ll have to abstain from all sexual activity.”

          “All sexual activity? For a week?”

          “Mm-hm.”

          “Including masturbation?”

          “Mm-hm.”

          I shrugged. A week without masturbation sounded easy enough. We scheduled the blood test, I went home and put away my one-hand magazines. (These were in the days before the Internet.)

          A day came and went without inconvenience, then another. But on the third day something odd happened. I was walking down Telegraph Avenue, and I noticed that every woman on the street had unusually large breasts. Not just some of the women; all of them. This strange change in half the human population of Berkeley persisted all day, and I realized that it wasn’t them, it was me.

          My perceptions were distorted, due to hormonal imbalance. Every woman’s breasts weren’t really bigger than before; they just seemed that way to me. I was hormone-addled, and seeing things strangely; I knew this, but the knowledge did not decrease the perceptual distortion effect. 

          The effect increased on the fourth day. Every woman, everywhere, had an amazingly ample bosom. I knew that was an illusion, but it was a very convincing illusion. I tried not to look, or seem to notice; but my judgment was probably as impaired as my perception; so if you noticed, then please forgive my peeking, dear women of Berkeley!

          By the fifth and sixth days, I was adrift in an impossible parallel universe of fantastic mammary antigravitation. I knew that I was hallucinating, but still I saw the mirage as plain as day. I was amazed how clear, specific and florid the hallucination was; and as before, knowledge of illusion did not dispel illusion.

          On the seventh day I went to the clinic and gave a blood sample. Then I went home and got out the one-hand magazines.

          The next day, every woman’s breasts were back to normal size.

 

Three Berkeley Trips 2

        Three Berkeley Trips 2

    

Trip 2, by Sleep

        Or: Which was the Dream?

 

          I was sitting up in bed, reading a book. It was late, I was tired. Then I noticed something odd; the words of the book were changing and shifting. But why? Then I noticed something even stranger; my eyes were shut. I felt my eyelids firmly sealed together; yet I could see. But how?

I realized that I was asleep and dreaming. Within that lucid dream, I looked up from the book and scanned the room. There was the bookshelf, there were the knick-knacks, there was the couch, there was the computer desk, there were the windows and shades… all dreams.

          Then I willed myself awake. I opened my eyes, and the first thing I noticed was that I was slumped over. I sat up, closed the book, and looked around. Same bookshelf, same knick-knacks, same couch, same computer desk, same windows and shades.

          The two rooms were identical.