“Listen up, people,” Green Arrow said loudly. “My friend and I have business with the Jade Spiders. No one else has to be involved. Anyone who doesn’t want to mix in it, there’s the door.”
Five or six men hurried out the door.
“What you talking about, Robin Hood?” A young tough in a sleeveless black T-shirt demanded. On his forearm, Red Tornado noticed the tattoo of the Jade Spiders. “You got no business with us!”
“I beg to differ,” Green Arrow said. “We can make this easy or hard, boys. Your call.”
“Man, these super-cats think they can come in here and get all up in our face whenever they want to!” cried another young punk with the Jade Spiders tattoo.
“Freakin’ pigs!” another yelled, and hurled a beer bottle. It shattered on Red Tornado’s chest, with no noticeable effect, other than to start a bar brawl in grand style.
“Pardon me, Green Arrow, but may I ask a question?” Red Tornado said as the two Justice Leaguers stood back to back, trading punches with the oncoming gang members and waterfront toughs.
“If you’re sure it can’t wait,” Green Arrow said, blocking a blow from a burly stevedore and getting in one of his own.
“I know how much you enjoy a fight,” Red Tornado said, letting a rusty box-cutter snap against his stomach. “But we do have to find the missing child as quickly as possible. Would it not be in our best interest to end this fight now?”
“Hell, yeah!” Green Arrow said, landing a punch in a gang member’s bread basket.
“Then please stand back,” Red Tornado said. Turning his back to the bar, the android spread his arms wide. His arms began to spin, churning up the air in the bar. Green Arrow grabbed the bar with both hands and dug in with his heels. In moments, the interior of the bar was a miniature cyclone; chairs, drinking mugs, and human bodies were thrown about like straws in a hurricane.
“Santa H. Claus on a bicycle!” Green Arrow exclaimed, impressed.
Finally, Red Tornado stopped his cyclone. The interior of the bar was a mess; everything was overturned, in disarray. Groaning bodies lined the floor.
“I believe the fight is over,” Red Tornado said.
“I don’t hear any arguments,” Green Arrow said. “Come on, let’s interrogate one of the Spiders, if any of ‘em are still conscious.”
Green Arrow and Red Tornado found two conscious Spiders and hauled them to their feet. One of them was the one who had first challenged Green Arrow.
“You ready to answer my questions now, cuddles?” the archer asked. “Or shall the Maytag Repairman here put you on spin-dry again?”
“Man, I’m tellin’ you, you got no beef with us!” the young punk avowed. “We haven’t been anywhere but here all night!”
“You’re saying you know nothing about a kidnapping?”
“Kidnapping?” the punk cried, his eyes wide with genuine surprise.
“Cindy Caldwell,” Green Arrow said. “Little girl, eight years old. Never made it home from school today.”
“Man, the Spiders don’t do that kind of stuff!” the punk swore. “Anyone said we do is lyin’! Kids, man! We don’t touch kids! I’ve got me a little brother, and anyone touches him answers to me!”
“You sound sincere,” Red Tornado said. “And yet an eyewitness described your gang tattoo on the kidnapper’s arm.”
“Hey, Lennie,” the other punk said to the spokesman for the gang, “what about Crispy?”
“Oh, man!” Lennie swore. “I knew that creep would get us into trouble!”
“Crispy?” Green Arrow asked. “Want to elaborate?”
“His name’s Chris Pulaski,” Lennie said. “Chris P, get it? He tried out for our gang, made it in, barely. But he was whack, man! This guy was freakin’ crazy! We kicked him out, told him not to show his face on our turf again!”
“He has the tattoo?” Red Tornado asked.
“Yeah, sure. Got it before we realized what a nut job he really is.”
“Crispy, he’s got bright red hair?” Green Arrow asked.
“Naw, man, he’s as bald as an eight-ball!”
“Right answer,” Green Arrow grinned. “Where can we find this Crispy?”
“Last I heard,” Lennie said, “he was livin’ in a boarded-up grocery on Morton Avenue!”
“Thanks,” Green Arrow said. “And, er, sorry about the shake-up.”
“Hey, it’s cool,” Lennie said. “Honest mistake. But when you find Crispy, you give him one for us, k?”
“K,” Green Arrow promised.
***
Weisinger’s Grocery had been a focal point of what was once a thriving neighborhood. In recent years, big supermarket chains and a rapidly declining neighborhood had forced the tiny mom-and-pop grocer out of business; the store stood boarded up and empty now, like a monument to a dead era.
Green Arrow and Red Tornado stood across the street from the grocery, keeping to the shadows.
“Two-story building,” Green Arrow said. “Here’s the plan. You can fly, so you go in through a window on top level. I’ll break in the front. We’ll catch Crispy between us, if he’s in there.”
“A good plan,” Red Tornado said. “When shall we execute it?”
“How long you figure it’ll take you to get to the top floor window from here?”
“Approximately six point zero nine seconds, allowing for the wind.”
“Right. Yeah. Well, on the count of three I’m going to fire a smoke-arrow through the front window, then rush the door. When I reach the door, you take off. Got it?”
“I have it.”
“One, two, three!”
With a barely audible twang, the arrow flew from the bow. It crashed through the front window, flying unerringly into a small gap between two boards. Instantly the front of the store was filled with thick, choking smoke. Green Arrow reached the front door and kicked it open with one mighty kick. He nearly ran headlong into a fleeing youth, bald and wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. His forearm showed the Jade Spiders tattoo.
Chris Pulaski took one horrified look at Green Arrow, then spun on his heel and bolted back into the smoke. The archer followed him into the blinding cloud, heard the pound of his feet on stairs. Then he heard a scream of horror and grinned to himself; the fleeing kidnapper had met Red Tornado. More pounding feet above; the young punk trying to run. Suddenly there was a crash, and amid a shower of plaster and splintered wood, Pulaski’s body fell through the ceiling and landed on the floor of the main storefront with a loud thud.
Red Tornado flew down through the hole, his whirling body dissipating the smoke. Green Arrow was kneeling over Pulaski’s body.
“He ran from me,” Red Tornado said, “and he plunged right through the floor upstairs.”
“Must have been rotten from years of disrepair and bad weather,” Green Arrow said grimly. “The punk broke his neck in the fall. He’s gone.”
“That is extremely unfortunate,” Red Tornado said. “If Cindy Caldwell is not here, he cannot tell us where she is.”
“I know,” Green Arrow said grimly.
Green Arrow stood in the middle of the abandoned store, staring grimly down at the body of the kidnapper. Cold, impotent rage was written large on his bearded face.
Red Tornado flew gently down the stairs. “I have searched the entire building for the fourth time,” the android said. “Cindy Caldwell is nowhere to be found.”
“Figures, doesn’t it?” Green Arrow said bitterly. “He’s dumb enough to snatch the wrong Caldwell girl but smart enough not to stash her where he crashes. She could be anywhere in the city. She could starve to death before we find her. And I promised her parents!” The archer shouted the last sentence, as he whirled around and put his fist through the rotting, crumbling wall. He withdrew it and, massaging it with his other hand, turned to see Red Tornado examining Pulaski’s shoes.
“What are you doin’, Tobor?” he asked.
“Do you see these blue spots on Mr. Pulaski’s footwear?” the and
roid asked without turning.
“Yeah, blue paint,” Green Arrow said. “Not much of a lead. There’re probably six dozen places in the city where he could have picked up blue paint stains.”
Red Tornado stared intently at the blue stains. “My computer brain is performing a spectrographic analysis of the paint,” he said. “Unless there is a serious GIGO error in my information, it is the type of paint used for automobile bodies.”
“Auto paint?” Green Arrow asked, snapping to attention. “Hey, there used to be an auto detailing shop about three blocks from here!”
“Indeed?” Red Tornado asked, rising to his feet.
“Yeah, it went out of business about three, four years ago,” Green Arrow said, creasing his brow in thought. “Let me see, the name of it was…” A broad grin spread across the archer’s face. “Pulaski’s Custom Auto Shop!”
***
“Cindy!” Mrs. Caldwell screamed with delight as her little girl ran into her arms. She hugged her daughter tightly to her, not wanting to ever let her go again.
“Sirs… Mr. Arrow… Mr. Tornado,” Caldwell stammered. “I-I don’t know what to say! There just aren’t words — if you only knew — I don’t–”
“I get it, Mr. Caldwell,” Green Arrow said, smiling warmly. “We’re glad to be of service. I tell you, I get fifty times as much satisfaction from cases like this than I do from punching out jerks in Halloween costumes.”
Caldwell smiled, on the verge of tears. “We’ll never forget you, either of you. You’ll be in our prayers forever.”
“Well, thanks,” Green Arrow said. “I could use all the help I can get.” He held out a green-gloved hand. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Caldwell.” The happy father gripped the hand and wrung it exuberantly. He repeated the gesture with Red Tornado, who returned his smile.
The Caldwells insisted on Green Arrow and Red Tornado staying for coffee and cake, which Red Tornado declined. The android did, however, allow Cindy Caldwell to sit on his knee as she told the story of her kidnapping and rescue to her parents. It was nearly midnight before Mrs. Caldwell finally took Cindy upstairs to bed; the little girl protested, but her father’s assurance that Santa wouldn’t come unless she was in bed persuaded her.
On their way out, Red Tornado turned to his comrade. “May I ask a question, Oliver?”
“Shoot,” Green Arrow said.
“Twice tonight, you defended me. Once to Captain Monahan and once to the inebriated gentleman in the bar.”
“Yeah, so?”
“May I ask why?”
Green Arrow stopped dead in his tracks. “Huh? Why? What kind of question is that?”
“You are always making humorous references to my android existence,” Red Tornado pointed out. “Using epithets like rust-bucket, Tin Man, et cetera. I gathered from that, that you found me offensive.”
“Whoa!” Green Arrow snapped. “Why didn’t you ever mention this before?”
“I am acclimated to mistrust and prejudice against me due to my android status,” Red Tornado said. “I don’t let it bother me anymore. But your actions tonight indicate that I may have prejudged you.”
“I’ll say!” Green Arrow said. “Reddy, that’s just the way I am! I call Hawkman buzzard-beak and feather-brain, but we’re still buddies! I just have a big mouth, that’s all. You’re a damned sight more human than some flesh-n’-blood folks I’ve met; Pulaski back there, for example.”
“I take your point,” Red Tornado said. “Oliver, I believe we have reached a new understanding.” The android held out his golden-gloved hand. “Friends?”
Green Arrow took the hand firmly and shook it. “Friends, Reddy.”
“Thank you… beard-face,” Red Tornado said. Green Arrow goggled at him and burst out laughing.
The End
Karate Kid
Times Past, 1981
An Old-Fashioned Christmas
A Calendar of Super-Spectacular Disasters story
by Martin Maenza
When Val Armorr spends the holidays in the twentieth century, he is given one of the greatest Christmas gifts of all when he receives some surprise visitors — a few members of the Legion of Super-Heroes! But as Karate Kid and the other Legionnaires paint the town red, they end up running into trouble in the form of the Toyman! Can they put a stop to this bad Santa before anyone is hurt?
Author’s note: This story is inspired by the DC Super-Heroes 1978 calendar entry for December by Bob Rozakis, James Sherman, and Jack Abel.
Chapter 1: Karate Lessons
Chapter 2: Unexpected Visitors
Chapter 3: Santa Claus Attacks
Karate Kid: 1981: An Old-Fashioned Christmas, Chapter 1: Karate Lessons
by Martin Maenza
Charles Brewer carried a large parcel under his arm as he walked up the Manhattan sidewalk toward the brownstone where he lived. The man whistled as he walked with a pleasant look on his face and a friendly greeting for those he encountered. The man was heavyset, but the walk from the subway station to his home when the winter air had a bit of a chill was invigorating. A few flakes of snow started to fall from the sky, and that made him smile. He truly loved the holiday seasons.
After climbing the six steps to his stoop, he noticed a small, brown-papered package waiting for him. “Oh,” he said with some surprise, “I wonder what that can be.” He placed the large parcel down while he unlocked his front door. Then he picked up both packages and carried them inside.
Once inside, he put the larger box down on the couch with the mystery package next to it. He then fetched a letter opener from the desk and began to cut into the taped top of the newly arrived box. “Perhaps someone sent me a holiday present,” he mused, looking for some kind of familiar return address. None was evident. Once a large slit was made, Charles put down the opener and peeled back the two ends of cardboard.
There was packing material on top, the Styrofoam popcorn kind. He reached between the material, rummaged around for a few seconds, and then found the item inside. Charles lifted it out, spilling the Styrofoam to the floor, to reveal a porcelain ballerina atop a small ornate box. “Oh, my,” he said with a smile, “how pretty.” He gave the little brass key in the back a few turns, then set the item down on a flat surface and bent over it to get a better view.
A little musical tone played I’m Dreaming of A White Christmas while the ballerina spun slowly on the platform. As she performed her dance, her arms raised and lowered in a mechanical way. Charles smiled even more so. “Very nice. I wonder who…?”
Before he could finish his words, a stream of gas shot out from the sculpted girl’s fingertips, enveloping Charles’ face in a cloud of noxious fumes. The man clutched his throat, but for naught. He fell back on the hardwood floor with a loud thud.
After a moment, the front door latch clicked, and a stocky man with long brown hair slipped into the home. He turned and entered the front room where Charles lay unmoving on the floor. The music box finished the last of its tune and stopped. The newcomer smiled, picked up the music box, and said, “A wonderful job, my dear.”
He then turned to the couch where the other package was. Lifting the lid, a red suit with white trim was visible. There was also a floppy hat that matched, dark boots and a belt, and a fake white beard and wig. “Excellent,” the man said, closing the box again. “Just what I need.” He reached down and fished the wallet out of Charles’ pants pocket. It included about thirty dollars in assorted bills, a driver’s license, and a store identification card. “Excellent.”
The man tossed the wallet and the music box into the box with the suit, then closed the box and picked it up. “Don’t worry about a thing, Charlie, my boy,” the man said as he stood over the fallen body. “I’ll make sure your commitments are kept. After all, we can’t disappoint all those kids who want things from Santa, can we? Ha-ha-ha-ha!” The man with the brown hair and glasses locked the door to the brownstone behind him as he left. If things worked out right, it would be after the New Y
ear before anyone found the late Charles Brewer. That would give him ample time to enact his plan.
***
With less than a week before Christmas, the Big Apple was feeling very chilled. Some snow accumulations were visible between the sidewalks and the street. Despite the weather, a young man with wavy brown hair and broad shoulders walked along the west side of the city without so much as a coat, hat, gloves, or scarf. He was dressed in black pants and a white short-sleeved shirt with a high yellow collar and a black T-shirt underneath. A black belt and brown wristbands completed the outfit.
Folks he passed by gave him second glances, more so wondering why he wasn’t bothered by the icy cold chill than why he was dressed so oddly. He didn’t concern himself with the looks he was receiving, because he was focused on the building numbers as he moved up the block.
“Twenty-one thirty-three should be near here,” he said to himself. Finally, he noticed the number 2133 beneath a hanging sign with the image of a sun peering over the horizon. It hung before a stairwell leading to a second-floor business. Karate Kid climbed the stairs two at a time with a quick step of his white boots.
At the top, he found a glass door and opened it slowly. Inside was a large room with mirrors on two sets of the walls and a large series of mats that covered a good portion of the floor. On the mats, an oriental man stood in front of a group of men and women of varying ages; he was dressed in a red top and black pants, while they wore white. All were barefoot.
Val Armorr bowed his head slightly, mostly out of habit, as he entered and then quietly found a seat along the wall. He noticed the trophies along the shelf near the back, along with a folding screen with an ornately painted design that separated the office area from the main instructional area. Kwai Chang’s, he thought to himself. Why didn’t she tell me?
Leaning back, Val watched quietly as the teacher went through his instruction. The man was teaching the group a series of kicks: front, side, and round, with more complex combinations for the higher-ranking students.
Inevitably, Val’s mind wandered back to his own youth, growing up in Japan. But, in fact, his past was not back but actually forward in the future: the thirtieth century, to be exact.
Val Armorr, born the son of Valentina Armorr and Kirau Nezumi, a master criminal known as the Black Dragon, was raised by another man when his mother died. The man who raised him, a man he knew only as Sensei, was more than just his teacher in the martial arts. Val learned from Sensei to appreciate peaceful pastimes such as sculpting and painting, and how to draw upon his own inner strength through cleansing meditation and spiritual enlightenment. Val was an eager student but eventually grew restless.