Post by Cain on Aug 11, 2012 23:58:54 GMT -5
This was a short story I wrote for a creative writing class this past spring...
April 24, 1902
PHILADELPHIA – The destruction of a Standard Oil pipeline supplying crude to the greater Philadelphia area was narrowly avoided last night when a man wearing a cape was able to divert the train’s path with only seconds to spare. The train, bound for Philadelphia, had its breaks disabled and was evidently steered on a collision course with the pipeline by a group of university students protesting the company’s coercive monopolization of the industry. It was only seconds before the train would pass the switch tracks that the vigilante in question, a man calling himself Rex Dynamo, diverted the course of the run-away locomotive from the pipeline and disabled the hijackers. The train instead crashed into a newly built orphanage. None were injured, though no word yet on where the children will sleep.
When questioned about his actions and the resulting destruction to the orphanage, Dynamo stated that, “There is no need to thank me for my heroic deeds. Your silent awe is reward enough.”
The only witness was unable to provide an adequate description of events to police, though he was more than willing to offer his thoughts on Dynamo himself. He described Rex as, “A man having been endowed with a moustache of unrivaled voluptuousness.” So captivating was the man’s follicular prowess that the witness would describe it as, “The sort of facial adornment that spoke not only to the quality of the man, but to the righteousness of his cause.” Though few could dispute the glory of the moustache, some would call into question his motives.
“Citizens are not encouraged to take the law into their own hands.” Superintendent of Police Harry Quick told reporters on the scene, “Vigilante justice will not be tolerated in the city of Philadelphia.”
____________________________________________________________
“Unbelievable!” Jon Brown shouted, slamming the morning edition of the rival newspaper down on the table, “some loony in a cape sends a train into an orphanage, and we don’t have a single reporter on the scene. How is the Public Ledger supposed to sell newspapers with crap headlines like...” Jon snatched up a copy of the Public Ledger, reading aloud the day’s headline, “Horse Throws Shoe, One Injured, Milk Payload Spoiled?”
“It was a lot of milk,” one of the writers seated around the table interjected in a sheepish voice, “and that man scratched up his arm pretty good.”
The others around the table nodded in agreement.
Jon shot them all a death glare before chomping off the end of a cigar, “This is not news, people! You call yourselves writers? We need to get in on this ‘Rex Dynamo’ clown. The Inquirer broke the story, now what we need is something exclusive. Maybe a catch phrase! He foiled a plot to destroy an oil pipeline at the expense of an orphanage. Any ideas?”
The writers around the table sat silent, pondering the question. Sam pondered alone, relegated to the corner of the room and removed from the conversation just as she always had been. A headline was on the tip of her tongue, but she was hesitant to speak. Time and time again Sam was reminded that a woman had no business even sitting in a work environment, let alone saying her piece during a writer’s meeting. She was only allowed to listen in because her father had reluctantly agreed to humor her.
With big blue eyes, Sam glanced up from her notes at her father. Standing over his writers, Jon struck a match to light his cigar when he noticed his daughter’s hand raise reluctantly at the far side of the room.
“Samantha,” he said with a sigh, “what is it this time?”
“Well, um… I think I have a good headline for this story,” she stammered.
Some of the men around the table chuckled. Jon shook his head slowly, “Samantha Brown, you’re twenty years old. I would have thought by now you’d have grown out of this obsession with becoming a journalist.”
“But Daddy, you’ve said yourself that I’m a good writer!” Sam protested, “Just give me a chance.”
Jon loosed another exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Fine, fine, say your piece and be done with it.”
Suddenly the piercing stares of two dozen skeptical eyes locked onto Sam. She shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I thought seeing as how he saved the property of an oil barren at the expense of orphans, you could say he takes from the poor and gives to the rich. Sort of like a… reverse Robin Hood.”
Sam’s suggestion fell on the room like a lead weight. The men around the room stared dull-eyed in her direction, their faces stretched long as if purged of any and all amusement.
“Well,” Jon said, finally cutting through the long, uncomfortable silence, “any other ideas?”
Annoyed, Sam slumped back in her seat. Shakespeare could have stood up on that table and written a sonnet, and if he were to have had breasts they would have all given him that same brain-dead look.
“Let’s go people,” Jon continued. “The Inquirer is kicking the crap out of us. If we’re going to start selling newspapers, this dandy is going to be our cash-cow. What we need is an exclusive interview, and there’s a big promotion in store for the reporter who gets it. Now get out of my sight.”
While the men filed out, Sam remained in her seat. She was going to get that interview, no matter what.
* * *
In the days that followed, Sam made little progress towards gaining an exclusive. Meanwhile, she and the rest of Philadelphia watched with fascination as Rex Dynamo’s antics continued. He rescued the Philadelphia Iron Works by intervening in a work stoppage being conducted by their labor union. Rex Dynamo personally shipped in over a hundred Irishmen willing to work for half the wages of the union workers in order to fill the labor needs. During his free time, Dynamo seemed to enjoy beating the homeless and Jehovah’s witnesses away from the homes of Philadelphia’s more affluent residents.
It wouldn’t be unfair to say that Sam had almost instantly found Rex Dynamo to be perhaps the most pretentious human being on the planet, what with the way Rex stepped all over the poor along with the attention he reportedly paid to his grooming and wardrobe. The man was obviously a shameless egotist, but this character flaw was something Sam could use to her advantage. She sent a telegram to one of the wealthy industrialists Rex Dynamo was known to associate with, explaining that Dynamo was to receive the key to the city for his heroic efforts. Sam provided her own information as the contact information for the award, giving the name Sam Brown instead of Samantha of course. Given the disadvantages Sam already had being as a female journalist, she could see no harm in a bit of deception to help level the playing field. The response Sam received to her telegram was brief:
“Dear Mr. Brown,
Meet us at Hastings’ Hillside Haberdashery in Manayunk tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp. Come alone.”
Sam was amused by the effectiveness of her ploy. All too easy.
* * *
Sam awoke early the next morning just before sunrise. This way she would be able to leave before her parents could question her. Twenty years old, and Sam still lived at home. Most of the girls her age were already married, living with their husbands and raising families of their own. Sam wanted none of it. It was such a depressing life to be tied down, to one man, in one home, bleeding the precious few years of her young life away as little more than a maid or wet nurse. Sam wanted to write. She’d had that dream ever since she was a little girl. Her parents encouraged her at first, assuming that when she got older she’d grow out of it and raise a nice family like any other “respectable” girl. It wasn’t meant to be. Unabashed by her status as a bachelorette, Sam was determined to succeed.
With cat-like stealth, Sam snuck into her father’s bed chamber, retrieving a jacket, a pair of trousers and a brown derby from his wardrobe. Sam dressed herself in front of her own mirror. The men’s clothing was sufficiently roomy as to hide her more feminine features. Carefully she tied her long red hair up into a bun, concealing it beneath the derby. For a long moment she stared at her own reflection, studying her own face. She had pale skin with freckles sprinkled across the middle of her face from cheek to cheek, and eyes the color of a clear spring sky. Sam took a deep breath. She was uncertain as to whether her guise would hold up under scrutiny, but there was no turning back now.
Quietly, Sam slipped out of her home and made her way to Manayunk. She arrived at the meeting place just before seven in the morning. The sign hanging above the entrance read Hastings’ Hillside Haberdashery. Inside the large storefront window, a wide variety of men’s formalwear was on display, including coats and hats on wooden mannequins. Sam almost didn’t notice the man staring at her through the window, standing perfectly still between the rigid dummies. When the man suddenly blinked, Sam couldn’t help but let out a surprised yelp. Flashing a grin he jumped down from the display and waddled over to open the door.
Sam stood on the sidewalk somewhat dumbfounded. The person who now beckoned her forward was a short, stocky, homunculus of a man. He couldn’t have stood more than four feet off the ground and was just about as wide as he was tall. He was dressed in perfectly scaled down coat and trousers, but despite all of this the man’s most egregious features were thick muttonchops that extended from either side of the little man’s face like a second pair of arms.
Still in the doorway, the hairy little man waved his arm again, calling Sam over to him. She made a slow approach, not sure what to make of the situation. The man produced a copy of Sam’s letter from his pocket and pointed at her name, tapping the page to get Sam’s attention.
“Uh, um, yes, I’m Sam Brown,” she said with caution.
The man smiled and with a great deal of enthusiasm motioned for her to follow him inside. He led her behind the register to a wardrobe which opened up to reveal a hidden staircase leading down below the haberdashery. Sam followed down the winding staircase, stepping out into an absolutely cavernous cellar filled to capacity with all sorts of gadgets, gizmos and machines, each an increasingly strange hodgepodge of gears, pulleys and levers. It was a startling transition from the orderly haberdashery above ground, with its finely tailored suits and tranquil mannequins, to the controlled chaos below. Sam’s senses were overwhelmed by the mess of gadgets large and small that lined shelves and lay in pieces on worktables.
“Tee-Dubbleyu!” A man’s voice boomed over the hiss of steam and the churning of machinery, “Tee-Dubbleyu, what on Earth is the matter with you!” Rex appeared from behind one of the larger, noisier machines. Rex Dynamo was a tall, angular man. He was square jawed, with a deeply etched default scowl on his face. Rex wore all black with the occasional splash of red lining his coat, top hat and fine silk cape. The centerpiece was an absurdly large handlebar moustache, framed by thick stubble on the sides of his face and chin.
Hearing his name, the little man sauntered forward, tapping the letter and pointing back at Sam. Rex glanced up at the young woman in men’s clothing standing awkwardly among the machinery and raised an eyebrow. This close there was no way the disguise was going to hold up, so Sam slowly removed her derby, letting her hair down.
Rex scoffed, “Tee-Dubbleyu, you dolt, you can’t just go around leading any hermaphroditic vagrant you stumble across into our secret lair. Don’t you remember what happened in Boston with the mail man?”
T.W. hung his head, offering a dejected nod.
“Just be thankful they never found the body,” Rex said, glancing up then and addressing Sam, “I’m terribly sorry, sir... erm… madam. You will have to forgive my Welshmen. He’s not very bright. And as for you…” Rex snapped, snatching the letter from T.W.’s hand, “show the cross dresser out and bring Sam Brown down here when he arrives!”
Sam cleared her throat, “Excuse me. I am Sam Brown. Samantha Brown, that is. I’m a reporter for the Philadelphia Public Ledger. I was actually curious as to whether you would grant me an interview… Mr. Dynamo, is it?”
The two men were silent, their eyes very slowly shifting towards one another. When at last their gazes locked, both Rex and his stubby sidekick burst out laughing.
Sam frowned, “What the devil is so funny?”
Mid giggle-fit, Rex was too preoccupied to respond, instead mocking her between bursts of laughter, “She… she’s a reporter? She’s even got the hat! No, no! It’s too much!”
Sam grumbled audibly, her hands balling up into fists. Without thinking she grabbed the nearest device off one of the shelves beside her and held it up as if threatening to smash it. Immediately the two chattering men were struck silent.
“Be careful with that thing,” Rex warned. “It could drive a hole through a brick wall the size of a grapefruit.”
Sam paused for a moment before pointing the gizmo at Rex, doing her best to play along and mask her confusion. Both men raised their hands skyward.
“All I want is an interview,” Sam explained. “It won’t take long.”
“Fine, fine,” Rex replied, “Just put the steam-powered perpetual-motion projectile stimulator down.”
“Uh… all right, then.” Sam placed the device back on the shelf and both men let out a sigh of relief.
“Very well, madam,” Rex said in a gruff tone, wiggling his moustache, “I shall play along with this little charade of yours for the time being. Speak.”
Sam’s expression switched from annoyance to excitement. She pulled a notepad and pen from her breast pocket and eagerly began to take notes, “Well, I suppose my first question would be ‘why’? Why does Rex Dynamo do what he does, where did he come from, what are the origins of Rex and his, uh… partner.”
“Hmph!” Rex snorted, “Me? I was bitten by a rabid industrialist.”
“Wha… really?”
“No, but it sounds better than the real story. So print that.”
Sam sighed, “But I need the REAL story. What about your little friend here?”
“You mean the Welshman?” Rex asked, turning toward his small, spherical sidekick, “Well, I came across him after returning from a business trip to Wales, you see. I found him with my luggage after we docked in New York. The little rascal had gotten in there and eaten all the cheese,” Rex said, playfully poking the Welshman in the belly causing him to wriggle with delight.
“I said I needed the REAL story!” Sam complained.
“That is the real story.”
“Oh… well, what about his name?
“What do you mean?” Rex asked, confused, “He’s Tee-Dubbleyu. The Welshman.”
“He never told you his name?”
“Tee-Dubbleyu doesn’t speak.”
“I see. Is he mute?”
“No, just an idiot.”
Sam looked to T.W. who nodded vigorously.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss, it’s about time for breakfast,” Rex interjected. He led Sam over to a giant machine that would have easily filled a normal sized living room. Rex grabbed a hold of the winch and turned it hard, visibly straining against the crank. A jet of steam shot out from one of the exhaust pipes with an ear-piercing whistle. The machine chugged and chugged, slower and slower until finally falling silent. A tray was dispensed from inside the contraption once it had finished. Neatly arranged on the tray were a pile of bacon and a stack of pancakes.
“Bacon?” Rex offered.
Sam didn’t register the offer, still staring at the convoluted mechanical monstrosity in front of her. “What is it?” she asked, struggling to understand the purpose of everything she’d just witnessed.
“This? Why this is the steam-powered electro-motorized bacon infuser. Would you like some?”
Sam just blinked, “No thanks, I’m not much of a meat eater. I am hungry though. I suppose I wouldn’t mind some pancakes.”
“I should warn you, madam. The pancakes contain an extremely, perhaps irresponsibly, large amount of bacon. As does the bread… and the milk.”
“What? How is that even… don’t you have anything to eat around here that DOESN’T contain bacon?”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Rex answered, stone faced.
“Ugh. Nevermind.”
Breakfast was interrupted by the loud chime of a fire bell installed on the far wall. Upon hearing it, both Rex and T.W. straightened up and sprung into action.
“Tee-Dubbleyu! Quickly!” Rex shouted, grabbing a belt adorned with gadgets and fastening it about his waist. After the bacon, Sam couldn’t even begin to guess at the purpose of any of these gadgets, say for the pistol holstered over Rex’s right thigh.
Sam’s head was spinning. Everything was happening so fast she could hardly keep up. “What now?” She asked.
“There’s trouble!” Rex announced, “The Council of Real Americans has summoned us. Come quickly!”
Sam sighed, following Rex through the cellar and back up another spiral staircase into the haberdashery’s rear storehouse. Here was stored yet another strange machine, “It’s an automobile…” Sam whispered. She had never seen one before, not this close at least.
“Quite,” Rex responded, “Hop in.”
The Welshman was already in his seat, garbed now in an absurd skintight lavender outfit, complete with a mask which had holes for his eyes, nose, mouth, and of course, muttonchops.
* * *
Rex, T.W., and Sam arrived downtown minutes later after a death-defying ride weaving through the streets of Philadelphia. Their destination was a five story brick office building in Center City. The headquarters of the Council of Real Americans stood festooned in gold and marble on some of the most expensive real-estate in Philadelphia. It was a true monument to avarice. There, Rex led them up to the office of the so called Real Americans. They were a collection of the city’s most wealthy and affluent men, ten in all. Rex stood before them, his back arched and his fists placed firmly on his hips. The Welshman stood beside him, carefully mimicking Rex Dynamo’s mannerisms. And then there was Sam, watching from the doorway.
“What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?” Rex asked, adding bass to his voice for effect.
“I’m afraid it’s serious this time, Rex Dynamo,” a little old man with wispy white hair lamented in a squirrelly-sounding voice.
“It’s Trust Buster,” crowed an angry looking man with intense, wild eyebrows, “he’s broken into the meat packing facility and is issuing health and safety violations!”
“The FIEND!” Rex shouted.
“Yes,” the little old man added, “I shudder to think what he might find in that sausage factory. Looks like it’s all real beef from now on. There goes my third yacht.”
“What!?” Rex gasped, “No hoof, no snout? That’s un-American! I won’t stand for it!”
* * *
Sam felt that the meeting with the Council had gone well enough. She had made sure to wear her derby and stay far behind so as not to draw attention to herself. Up to this point the entire experience had been like spending a day in an insane asylum. Sam went over her notes in the back seat of Rex Dynamo’s automobile as they sped towards the meat-packing district. Welshmen, bacon infusers, a Council of Real Americans… what could possibly be next?
The answer would come as the vanguard of cultural vigilantes arrived at the meat packing district just in time to find a man who Sam could only assume was the “Trust Buster” character. He was slapping a health violation onto the door of a local butcher when Rex’s automobile pulled up.
“Stop right there!” Rex called out, bringing the automobile to a screeching in the middle of the street.
The man turned slowly. He was a portly fellow with a shirt two sizes too small, leaving his gut to hang out over his trousers. He also wore a thin mask with a pair of holes cut into it over his eyes. Sam could only guess this was to conceal his identity, or something stupid like that. In his arms he carried a stack of health and safety violations as well as a large wooden club.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Rex Dynamo,” Trust Buster said in a small, almost feminine voice, “the soulless embodiment of predatory wealth in America.”
“Trust Buster,” Rex snarled, “Keep your government hands off my meat.”
“No such luck, Dynamo!” the rotund man harped back. “The industry must be regulated. There’s nothing you or your dimwitted sidekick can do about it this time!”
“Where does it end, Trust Buster?” Rex asked, “Sure, now it’s just the meat, but what comes next? Baseball? Apple Pie?”
Trust Buster huffed, “No, I believe I’ll start with you and your ridiculous facial hair.”
Rex’s eye began to twitch, “Good sir,” he began, straining to contain his rage, “it is one thing to impugn my Welshman, but it is quite another to speak ill of my moustache.”
“Moustache? Ha!” Trust Buster laughed, “A more likely explanation for that tuft on your upper lip would be that you’ve bonded a wild invalid to your face with some manner of industrial adhesive.”
Rex gasped, “Sir! I can simply tolerate your gaudy behavior no further. I challenge you to a duel. Tee-Dubbleyu! My dueling gloves.”
T.W. nodded, scurrying quickly from the sidewalk back to the automobile in the street before returning with a pair of formal white gloves and handing them over. Rex strode slowly but purposefully toward Trust Buster and struck him across the face with his glove. The two men stood, staring each other down, their faces not a foot apart.
“A duel it is then,” Trust Buster retorted, producing his own white glove and striking Rex with it.
“Ten paces. One round each,” Rex said, never wavering.
“Of course,” Trust Buster answered.
The pedestrians up and down the street scurried out of sight like roaches into homes and back alleys at the mention of a duel. The two men glared at each other while clutching their weapons, both pistols holstered at their hips. With the street silent both men spun around. Back to back, they began to count out paces. Sam sunk down behind the door of the automobile where she had sat watching the entire encounter. She didn’t want to see what would come next, though still she poked her head up over the door.
“…Seven!... Eight!... Nine!...”
At the count of nine, Trust Buster spun on his heel, his gut rippling hypnotically as he wrenched himself around to take aim at Rex Dynamo.
BLAM!
Trust Buster stumbled and clutched his side, a stupefied look on his face as he pulled his hand away from his body to see it painted red. He glanced up at Rex who was holding a smoking pistol and still standing in the same spot he started, waiting for Trust Buster to turn.
“You…” Trust Buster gurgled, only able to choke out a single word before collapsing forward.
Finally able to exhale, Sam jumped from the automobile and ran over to Rex. “That was more dramatic than it had to be,” she said between breaths. “If you were going to stand there the whole time and watch him count out paces, why didn’t you just shoot him while his back was still turned?”
Rex raised an eyebrow and shot Sam a sly smile, “My dear, what exactly do you take me for? That would have been frightfully impolite.”
* * *
That evening word had already reached the Public Ledger of Rex Dynamo’s deadly duel with Trust Buster in the meat packing district. To Jon Brown’s chagrin, once again there was no reporter from the Ledger on the scene. He entered the writer’s room fully prepared for yet another vein-popping meeting. Jon burst through the doors, already in mid rant, “Totally unacceptable! You’re all fired! Maybe I can go down to the docks and find some immigrants who will give a damn! I can’t believe we didn’t have a reporter on the scene AGAIN!”
Jon was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Behind him was his daughter handing Jon a stack of papers.
“Now, now, Jonny,” one of the men seated at the table said, “That’s not entirely accurate.”
A look of amazement on his face, Jon read the headline on the story in his hands. “Rex Dynamo: The Man, The Myth, The Bacon by Samantha Brown”
The Philadelphia Inquirer
April 24, 1902
EXTRA!
Vigilante Diverts Runaway Train
Vigilante Diverts Runaway Train
PHILADELPHIA – The destruction of a Standard Oil pipeline supplying crude to the greater Philadelphia area was narrowly avoided last night when a man wearing a cape was able to divert the train’s path with only seconds to spare. The train, bound for Philadelphia, had its breaks disabled and was evidently steered on a collision course with the pipeline by a group of university students protesting the company’s coercive monopolization of the industry. It was only seconds before the train would pass the switch tracks that the vigilante in question, a man calling himself Rex Dynamo, diverted the course of the run-away locomotive from the pipeline and disabled the hijackers. The train instead crashed into a newly built orphanage. None were injured, though no word yet on where the children will sleep.
When questioned about his actions and the resulting destruction to the orphanage, Dynamo stated that, “There is no need to thank me for my heroic deeds. Your silent awe is reward enough.”
The only witness was unable to provide an adequate description of events to police, though he was more than willing to offer his thoughts on Dynamo himself. He described Rex as, “A man having been endowed with a moustache of unrivaled voluptuousness.” So captivating was the man’s follicular prowess that the witness would describe it as, “The sort of facial adornment that spoke not only to the quality of the man, but to the righteousness of his cause.” Though few could dispute the glory of the moustache, some would call into question his motives.
“Citizens are not encouraged to take the law into their own hands.” Superintendent of Police Harry Quick told reporters on the scene, “Vigilante justice will not be tolerated in the city of Philadelphia.”
____________________________________________________________
“Unbelievable!” Jon Brown shouted, slamming the morning edition of the rival newspaper down on the table, “some loony in a cape sends a train into an orphanage, and we don’t have a single reporter on the scene. How is the Public Ledger supposed to sell newspapers with crap headlines like...” Jon snatched up a copy of the Public Ledger, reading aloud the day’s headline, “Horse Throws Shoe, One Injured, Milk Payload Spoiled?”
“It was a lot of milk,” one of the writers seated around the table interjected in a sheepish voice, “and that man scratched up his arm pretty good.”
The others around the table nodded in agreement.
Jon shot them all a death glare before chomping off the end of a cigar, “This is not news, people! You call yourselves writers? We need to get in on this ‘Rex Dynamo’ clown. The Inquirer broke the story, now what we need is something exclusive. Maybe a catch phrase! He foiled a plot to destroy an oil pipeline at the expense of an orphanage. Any ideas?”
The writers around the table sat silent, pondering the question. Sam pondered alone, relegated to the corner of the room and removed from the conversation just as she always had been. A headline was on the tip of her tongue, but she was hesitant to speak. Time and time again Sam was reminded that a woman had no business even sitting in a work environment, let alone saying her piece during a writer’s meeting. She was only allowed to listen in because her father had reluctantly agreed to humor her.
With big blue eyes, Sam glanced up from her notes at her father. Standing over his writers, Jon struck a match to light his cigar when he noticed his daughter’s hand raise reluctantly at the far side of the room.
“Samantha,” he said with a sigh, “what is it this time?”
“Well, um… I think I have a good headline for this story,” she stammered.
Some of the men around the table chuckled. Jon shook his head slowly, “Samantha Brown, you’re twenty years old. I would have thought by now you’d have grown out of this obsession with becoming a journalist.”
“But Daddy, you’ve said yourself that I’m a good writer!” Sam protested, “Just give me a chance.”
Jon loosed another exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Fine, fine, say your piece and be done with it.”
Suddenly the piercing stares of two dozen skeptical eyes locked onto Sam. She shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I thought seeing as how he saved the property of an oil barren at the expense of orphans, you could say he takes from the poor and gives to the rich. Sort of like a… reverse Robin Hood.”
Sam’s suggestion fell on the room like a lead weight. The men around the room stared dull-eyed in her direction, their faces stretched long as if purged of any and all amusement.
“Well,” Jon said, finally cutting through the long, uncomfortable silence, “any other ideas?”
Annoyed, Sam slumped back in her seat. Shakespeare could have stood up on that table and written a sonnet, and if he were to have had breasts they would have all given him that same brain-dead look.
“Let’s go people,” Jon continued. “The Inquirer is kicking the crap out of us. If we’re going to start selling newspapers, this dandy is going to be our cash-cow. What we need is an exclusive interview, and there’s a big promotion in store for the reporter who gets it. Now get out of my sight.”
While the men filed out, Sam remained in her seat. She was going to get that interview, no matter what.
* * *
In the days that followed, Sam made little progress towards gaining an exclusive. Meanwhile, she and the rest of Philadelphia watched with fascination as Rex Dynamo’s antics continued. He rescued the Philadelphia Iron Works by intervening in a work stoppage being conducted by their labor union. Rex Dynamo personally shipped in over a hundred Irishmen willing to work for half the wages of the union workers in order to fill the labor needs. During his free time, Dynamo seemed to enjoy beating the homeless and Jehovah’s witnesses away from the homes of Philadelphia’s more affluent residents.
It wouldn’t be unfair to say that Sam had almost instantly found Rex Dynamo to be perhaps the most pretentious human being on the planet, what with the way Rex stepped all over the poor along with the attention he reportedly paid to his grooming and wardrobe. The man was obviously a shameless egotist, but this character flaw was something Sam could use to her advantage. She sent a telegram to one of the wealthy industrialists Rex Dynamo was known to associate with, explaining that Dynamo was to receive the key to the city for his heroic efforts. Sam provided her own information as the contact information for the award, giving the name Sam Brown instead of Samantha of course. Given the disadvantages Sam already had being as a female journalist, she could see no harm in a bit of deception to help level the playing field. The response Sam received to her telegram was brief:
“Dear Mr. Brown,
Meet us at Hastings’ Hillside Haberdashery in Manayunk tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp. Come alone.”
Sam was amused by the effectiveness of her ploy. All too easy.
* * *
Sam awoke early the next morning just before sunrise. This way she would be able to leave before her parents could question her. Twenty years old, and Sam still lived at home. Most of the girls her age were already married, living with their husbands and raising families of their own. Sam wanted none of it. It was such a depressing life to be tied down, to one man, in one home, bleeding the precious few years of her young life away as little more than a maid or wet nurse. Sam wanted to write. She’d had that dream ever since she was a little girl. Her parents encouraged her at first, assuming that when she got older she’d grow out of it and raise a nice family like any other “respectable” girl. It wasn’t meant to be. Unabashed by her status as a bachelorette, Sam was determined to succeed.
With cat-like stealth, Sam snuck into her father’s bed chamber, retrieving a jacket, a pair of trousers and a brown derby from his wardrobe. Sam dressed herself in front of her own mirror. The men’s clothing was sufficiently roomy as to hide her more feminine features. Carefully she tied her long red hair up into a bun, concealing it beneath the derby. For a long moment she stared at her own reflection, studying her own face. She had pale skin with freckles sprinkled across the middle of her face from cheek to cheek, and eyes the color of a clear spring sky. Sam took a deep breath. She was uncertain as to whether her guise would hold up under scrutiny, but there was no turning back now.
Quietly, Sam slipped out of her home and made her way to Manayunk. She arrived at the meeting place just before seven in the morning. The sign hanging above the entrance read Hastings’ Hillside Haberdashery. Inside the large storefront window, a wide variety of men’s formalwear was on display, including coats and hats on wooden mannequins. Sam almost didn’t notice the man staring at her through the window, standing perfectly still between the rigid dummies. When the man suddenly blinked, Sam couldn’t help but let out a surprised yelp. Flashing a grin he jumped down from the display and waddled over to open the door.
Sam stood on the sidewalk somewhat dumbfounded. The person who now beckoned her forward was a short, stocky, homunculus of a man. He couldn’t have stood more than four feet off the ground and was just about as wide as he was tall. He was dressed in perfectly scaled down coat and trousers, but despite all of this the man’s most egregious features were thick muttonchops that extended from either side of the little man’s face like a second pair of arms.
Still in the doorway, the hairy little man waved his arm again, calling Sam over to him. She made a slow approach, not sure what to make of the situation. The man produced a copy of Sam’s letter from his pocket and pointed at her name, tapping the page to get Sam’s attention.
“Uh, um, yes, I’m Sam Brown,” she said with caution.
The man smiled and with a great deal of enthusiasm motioned for her to follow him inside. He led her behind the register to a wardrobe which opened up to reveal a hidden staircase leading down below the haberdashery. Sam followed down the winding staircase, stepping out into an absolutely cavernous cellar filled to capacity with all sorts of gadgets, gizmos and machines, each an increasingly strange hodgepodge of gears, pulleys and levers. It was a startling transition from the orderly haberdashery above ground, with its finely tailored suits and tranquil mannequins, to the controlled chaos below. Sam’s senses were overwhelmed by the mess of gadgets large and small that lined shelves and lay in pieces on worktables.
“Tee-Dubbleyu!” A man’s voice boomed over the hiss of steam and the churning of machinery, “Tee-Dubbleyu, what on Earth is the matter with you!” Rex appeared from behind one of the larger, noisier machines. Rex Dynamo was a tall, angular man. He was square jawed, with a deeply etched default scowl on his face. Rex wore all black with the occasional splash of red lining his coat, top hat and fine silk cape. The centerpiece was an absurdly large handlebar moustache, framed by thick stubble on the sides of his face and chin.
Hearing his name, the little man sauntered forward, tapping the letter and pointing back at Sam. Rex glanced up at the young woman in men’s clothing standing awkwardly among the machinery and raised an eyebrow. This close there was no way the disguise was going to hold up, so Sam slowly removed her derby, letting her hair down.
Rex scoffed, “Tee-Dubbleyu, you dolt, you can’t just go around leading any hermaphroditic vagrant you stumble across into our secret lair. Don’t you remember what happened in Boston with the mail man?”
T.W. hung his head, offering a dejected nod.
“Just be thankful they never found the body,” Rex said, glancing up then and addressing Sam, “I’m terribly sorry, sir... erm… madam. You will have to forgive my Welshmen. He’s not very bright. And as for you…” Rex snapped, snatching the letter from T.W.’s hand, “show the cross dresser out and bring Sam Brown down here when he arrives!”
Sam cleared her throat, “Excuse me. I am Sam Brown. Samantha Brown, that is. I’m a reporter for the Philadelphia Public Ledger. I was actually curious as to whether you would grant me an interview… Mr. Dynamo, is it?”
The two men were silent, their eyes very slowly shifting towards one another. When at last their gazes locked, both Rex and his stubby sidekick burst out laughing.
Sam frowned, “What the devil is so funny?”
Mid giggle-fit, Rex was too preoccupied to respond, instead mocking her between bursts of laughter, “She… she’s a reporter? She’s even got the hat! No, no! It’s too much!”
Sam grumbled audibly, her hands balling up into fists. Without thinking she grabbed the nearest device off one of the shelves beside her and held it up as if threatening to smash it. Immediately the two chattering men were struck silent.
“Be careful with that thing,” Rex warned. “It could drive a hole through a brick wall the size of a grapefruit.”
Sam paused for a moment before pointing the gizmo at Rex, doing her best to play along and mask her confusion. Both men raised their hands skyward.
“All I want is an interview,” Sam explained. “It won’t take long.”
“Fine, fine,” Rex replied, “Just put the steam-powered perpetual-motion projectile stimulator down.”
“Uh… all right, then.” Sam placed the device back on the shelf and both men let out a sigh of relief.
“Very well, madam,” Rex said in a gruff tone, wiggling his moustache, “I shall play along with this little charade of yours for the time being. Speak.”
Sam’s expression switched from annoyance to excitement. She pulled a notepad and pen from her breast pocket and eagerly began to take notes, “Well, I suppose my first question would be ‘why’? Why does Rex Dynamo do what he does, where did he come from, what are the origins of Rex and his, uh… partner.”
“Hmph!” Rex snorted, “Me? I was bitten by a rabid industrialist.”
“Wha… really?”
“No, but it sounds better than the real story. So print that.”
Sam sighed, “But I need the REAL story. What about your little friend here?”
“You mean the Welshman?” Rex asked, turning toward his small, spherical sidekick, “Well, I came across him after returning from a business trip to Wales, you see. I found him with my luggage after we docked in New York. The little rascal had gotten in there and eaten all the cheese,” Rex said, playfully poking the Welshman in the belly causing him to wriggle with delight.
“I said I needed the REAL story!” Sam complained.
“That is the real story.”
“Oh… well, what about his name?
“What do you mean?” Rex asked, confused, “He’s Tee-Dubbleyu. The Welshman.”
“He never told you his name?”
“Tee-Dubbleyu doesn’t speak.”
“I see. Is he mute?”
“No, just an idiot.”
Sam looked to T.W. who nodded vigorously.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss, it’s about time for breakfast,” Rex interjected. He led Sam over to a giant machine that would have easily filled a normal sized living room. Rex grabbed a hold of the winch and turned it hard, visibly straining against the crank. A jet of steam shot out from one of the exhaust pipes with an ear-piercing whistle. The machine chugged and chugged, slower and slower until finally falling silent. A tray was dispensed from inside the contraption once it had finished. Neatly arranged on the tray were a pile of bacon and a stack of pancakes.
“Bacon?” Rex offered.
Sam didn’t register the offer, still staring at the convoluted mechanical monstrosity in front of her. “What is it?” she asked, struggling to understand the purpose of everything she’d just witnessed.
“This? Why this is the steam-powered electro-motorized bacon infuser. Would you like some?”
Sam just blinked, “No thanks, I’m not much of a meat eater. I am hungry though. I suppose I wouldn’t mind some pancakes.”
“I should warn you, madam. The pancakes contain an extremely, perhaps irresponsibly, large amount of bacon. As does the bread… and the milk.”
“What? How is that even… don’t you have anything to eat around here that DOESN’T contain bacon?”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Rex answered, stone faced.
“Ugh. Nevermind.”
Breakfast was interrupted by the loud chime of a fire bell installed on the far wall. Upon hearing it, both Rex and T.W. straightened up and sprung into action.
“Tee-Dubbleyu! Quickly!” Rex shouted, grabbing a belt adorned with gadgets and fastening it about his waist. After the bacon, Sam couldn’t even begin to guess at the purpose of any of these gadgets, say for the pistol holstered over Rex’s right thigh.
Sam’s head was spinning. Everything was happening so fast she could hardly keep up. “What now?” She asked.
“There’s trouble!” Rex announced, “The Council of Real Americans has summoned us. Come quickly!”
Sam sighed, following Rex through the cellar and back up another spiral staircase into the haberdashery’s rear storehouse. Here was stored yet another strange machine, “It’s an automobile…” Sam whispered. She had never seen one before, not this close at least.
“Quite,” Rex responded, “Hop in.”
The Welshman was already in his seat, garbed now in an absurd skintight lavender outfit, complete with a mask which had holes for his eyes, nose, mouth, and of course, muttonchops.
* * *
Rex, T.W., and Sam arrived downtown minutes later after a death-defying ride weaving through the streets of Philadelphia. Their destination was a five story brick office building in Center City. The headquarters of the Council of Real Americans stood festooned in gold and marble on some of the most expensive real-estate in Philadelphia. It was a true monument to avarice. There, Rex led them up to the office of the so called Real Americans. They were a collection of the city’s most wealthy and affluent men, ten in all. Rex stood before them, his back arched and his fists placed firmly on his hips. The Welshman stood beside him, carefully mimicking Rex Dynamo’s mannerisms. And then there was Sam, watching from the doorway.
“What seems to be the trouble, gentlemen?” Rex asked, adding bass to his voice for effect.
“I’m afraid it’s serious this time, Rex Dynamo,” a little old man with wispy white hair lamented in a squirrelly-sounding voice.
“It’s Trust Buster,” crowed an angry looking man with intense, wild eyebrows, “he’s broken into the meat packing facility and is issuing health and safety violations!”
“The FIEND!” Rex shouted.
“Yes,” the little old man added, “I shudder to think what he might find in that sausage factory. Looks like it’s all real beef from now on. There goes my third yacht.”
“What!?” Rex gasped, “No hoof, no snout? That’s un-American! I won’t stand for it!”
* * *
Sam felt that the meeting with the Council had gone well enough. She had made sure to wear her derby and stay far behind so as not to draw attention to herself. Up to this point the entire experience had been like spending a day in an insane asylum. Sam went over her notes in the back seat of Rex Dynamo’s automobile as they sped towards the meat-packing district. Welshmen, bacon infusers, a Council of Real Americans… what could possibly be next?
The answer would come as the vanguard of cultural vigilantes arrived at the meat packing district just in time to find a man who Sam could only assume was the “Trust Buster” character. He was slapping a health violation onto the door of a local butcher when Rex’s automobile pulled up.
“Stop right there!” Rex called out, bringing the automobile to a screeching in the middle of the street.
The man turned slowly. He was a portly fellow with a shirt two sizes too small, leaving his gut to hang out over his trousers. He also wore a thin mask with a pair of holes cut into it over his eyes. Sam could only guess this was to conceal his identity, or something stupid like that. In his arms he carried a stack of health and safety violations as well as a large wooden club.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Rex Dynamo,” Trust Buster said in a small, almost feminine voice, “the soulless embodiment of predatory wealth in America.”
“Trust Buster,” Rex snarled, “Keep your government hands off my meat.”
“No such luck, Dynamo!” the rotund man harped back. “The industry must be regulated. There’s nothing you or your dimwitted sidekick can do about it this time!”
“Where does it end, Trust Buster?” Rex asked, “Sure, now it’s just the meat, but what comes next? Baseball? Apple Pie?”
Trust Buster huffed, “No, I believe I’ll start with you and your ridiculous facial hair.”
Rex’s eye began to twitch, “Good sir,” he began, straining to contain his rage, “it is one thing to impugn my Welshman, but it is quite another to speak ill of my moustache.”
“Moustache? Ha!” Trust Buster laughed, “A more likely explanation for that tuft on your upper lip would be that you’ve bonded a wild invalid to your face with some manner of industrial adhesive.”
Rex gasped, “Sir! I can simply tolerate your gaudy behavior no further. I challenge you to a duel. Tee-Dubbleyu! My dueling gloves.”
T.W. nodded, scurrying quickly from the sidewalk back to the automobile in the street before returning with a pair of formal white gloves and handing them over. Rex strode slowly but purposefully toward Trust Buster and struck him across the face with his glove. The two men stood, staring each other down, their faces not a foot apart.
“A duel it is then,” Trust Buster retorted, producing his own white glove and striking Rex with it.
“Ten paces. One round each,” Rex said, never wavering.
“Of course,” Trust Buster answered.
The pedestrians up and down the street scurried out of sight like roaches into homes and back alleys at the mention of a duel. The two men glared at each other while clutching their weapons, both pistols holstered at their hips. With the street silent both men spun around. Back to back, they began to count out paces. Sam sunk down behind the door of the automobile where she had sat watching the entire encounter. She didn’t want to see what would come next, though still she poked her head up over the door.
“…Seven!... Eight!... Nine!...”
At the count of nine, Trust Buster spun on his heel, his gut rippling hypnotically as he wrenched himself around to take aim at Rex Dynamo.
BLAM!
Trust Buster stumbled and clutched his side, a stupefied look on his face as he pulled his hand away from his body to see it painted red. He glanced up at Rex who was holding a smoking pistol and still standing in the same spot he started, waiting for Trust Buster to turn.
“You…” Trust Buster gurgled, only able to choke out a single word before collapsing forward.
Finally able to exhale, Sam jumped from the automobile and ran over to Rex. “That was more dramatic than it had to be,” she said between breaths. “If you were going to stand there the whole time and watch him count out paces, why didn’t you just shoot him while his back was still turned?”
Rex raised an eyebrow and shot Sam a sly smile, “My dear, what exactly do you take me for? That would have been frightfully impolite.”
* * *
That evening word had already reached the Public Ledger of Rex Dynamo’s deadly duel with Trust Buster in the meat packing district. To Jon Brown’s chagrin, once again there was no reporter from the Ledger on the scene. He entered the writer’s room fully prepared for yet another vein-popping meeting. Jon burst through the doors, already in mid rant, “Totally unacceptable! You’re all fired! Maybe I can go down to the docks and find some immigrants who will give a damn! I can’t believe we didn’t have a reporter on the scene AGAIN!”
Jon was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Behind him was his daughter handing Jon a stack of papers.
“Now, now, Jonny,” one of the men seated at the table said, “That’s not entirely accurate.”
A look of amazement on his face, Jon read the headline on the story in his hands. “Rex Dynamo: The Man, The Myth, The Bacon by Samantha Brown”