The Greater Good

At a remote secret training installation, tough, grizzled drill instructor Rufus Downhillski of the Federal Police Corps put the elite hand-picked superteam through their paces while General Blunderbuss and the others looked on. Joining the Council this time were Lex Tortion the IRS Czar; Buck Fiat the Monetary Czar; Arthur Ponzerelli the Social Security Czar (his friends called him “Ponzi” for short); and Frederick DeFraud the Supreme Court Czar. Jake Hornswoggler’s assistant, vice-president of the Generic Broadcast Service, Miss Leeds, was also in attendance. “Start with that one,” Blunderbuss said, chomping down on his cigar. “What’s his story?” A killer robot trudged across the testing ground. The individual in question—a wiry young Rasta wannabe with dreadlocks, glasses and a pocket protector—snuck up behind the robot and jumped onto the back of it, pulling his slung laptop case around for easy access. “Mobetter Dweebins,” replied Elsa Von Branefuq. “Code name: Magic Token.” Magic Token found the Master Access Panel on the back of the killer robot and opened it. “He can hack into anything, anywhere,” Elsa continued. “He can develop a Trojan Horse virus in a matter of seconds.” Magic Token found an ethernet port inside the Main Access Panel and connected his laptop to the robot with a crossover cable. “He can sit down at a password-protected desktop, hack past any combination of firewalls, take over a computer with an operating system he’s never heard of, and infect it with Microsux Winblows Eight within nine keyboard strokes.” The others whistled. That was almost too ruthless a tactic, even against their enemies. Magic Token opened his laptop and pecked at the keyboard. “In fact,” Von Branefuq went on, “he can even connect his laptop to an alien spacecraft using made-on-Earth Cat5 wire, access their extraterrestrial ship computer, and within minutes, save us from alien invasion.” The killer robot jerked to a stop. Magic Token put away his sophisticated equipment and jumped down. Those in attendance clapped. “That took you 20 stinking seconds!” barked D.I. Downhillski. “You’re moving like pond water! Drop and give me 60!” Magic Token swung his slung laptop case around to his back, fell forward and began knocking out push-ups. Blunderbuss nodded his approval. “He has additional, secondary skills we’ve been honing as well,” Von Branefuq said, “including pseudo-intellectual banter, and exposing racism within the subconscious of hate-sleepers.” “’Hate-sleepers’?” Chairman Schmuckafeller asked. “Those who’ve never actually said or done anything racist, but obviously are racist since they oppose our vision of progress,” Dr. Seikobabel clarified. A Crash Hawk helicopter flew over the training ground and hovered. “And in upholding our multicultural imperative,” Jacob Hornswoggler said, “we recruited this next team member from across the pond.” The door slid open and a rope tumbled out. A muscular figure in dark cerulean Spandex appeared in the door. “His name is Blanco Chevalier,” Hornswoggler said. “Code name: the Masked Mangina.” “’Mangina’?” DeFraud repeated, wrinkling his brow. “What’s that?” “I think it’s French for ‘ideal male’,” Elsa replied, licking her lips as she studied his flexing glutes through the Spandex. The Masked Mangina clipped his carabiner onto the rope and Australian-rappelled down from the chopper. “He’s been trained as a covert assassin by a secret brotherhood from the orient,” Hornswoggler announced. “Incorporating acrobatics, mixed martial arts, and expansive weapons proficiency.” The Masked Mangina performed a backflip off the last ten feet of rope while nocking an arrow and drawing a compound bow in mid-air. He landed on the ground flat-footed while the chopper flew away behind him. “You mean ninjitsu?” asked General Blunderbuss. “He’s a ninja?” “No, of course not,” Jacob Hornswoggler replied. “It’s a secret brotherhood of oriental assassins that’s not a household name depicted in movies, comic books, cartoons and action figures. So secret that I dare not even mention it out loud.” The masked Mangina released the bow string. His arrow flew straight and true, punching right through the mannequin mock-up of a home-schooler holding her child domestic terrorist with a hostage. “His weapon of choice is the bow,” Hornswoggler said. “And as you can see, he’s quite deadly with it, up to a range of 100 meters.” General Blunderbuss bellowed cigar smoke. “A bow and arrow? Why in the world would he choose archery when I could set him up with a rifle that has ten times the range and 20 times the rate of fire, that’s more compact and easier to use?” Chester Snaykoil sighed and rolled his eyes. “Obviously you haven’t been meeting your quota of pop culture education, General. Puncturing a living being’s vital organs with a ballistic lead projectile is downright immoral, if not monstrous. Puncturing a living being’s vital organs with a wooden or fiberglass shaft is heroic.” “Of course,” General Blunderbuss agreed, remembering. “Of course; you’re right. With the exception of government agents greasing American citizens without trial, obviously.” “Hey, obviously,” agreed Ponzi, giving the thumb’s up and whipping out a comb to run through the wisps of greased, grayed hair still atop his head. Another killer robot plodded onto the testing ground. The Masked Mangina somersaulted forward, then sprang through the air backwards, firing an arrow in slow motion. “How does he do that?” wondered Chairman Schmuckafeller aloud. “It’s like there’s an invisible trampoline and …time-space continuum messer-upper or something.” Chester Snaykoil smirked. “That’s nothing. Just wait until you see the next team member.” The arrow struck the robot in its serial port, short circuiting its hardware. The killer robot fell over, jerking and twitching. The Masked Mangina cartwheeled to a graceful landing, then did the splits while launching another arrow—this one with an incendiary tip. It thwanked home right on target, and flames quickly engulfed a copy of the United States Constitution some obsolete, meaningless document. “Keep in mind,” Dr. Seikobabel said, “he has family members who are vulnerable to potential criminal retaliation, so it’s crucial that his secret identity be guarded at all costs.” “What’s his secondary skill?” asked Buck Fiat. “Removing his mask in public,” Dr. Seikobabel replied. “And performing the splits for no apparent reason,” Jacob Hornswoggler added. D.I. Downhillski checked his stopwatch. “You’re not breaking any records, numb nuts.”