Prelude:

   Some background.

   <lecture> The contemporary American comic book is, by and large, a syncretism of two radically different media which were popular in the first half of this century -- the comic strip (indeed, the first comic books were essentially compilations of newspaper strips) and the so-called "pulp" magazine. From the strips, the comics recieved art and pacing (and a serial element which resurfaced in the seventies and eighties) while the pulp adventure provided many of the basics of character for hero and villain alike.

   Arguably, the most influential of the pulps on comic books was "Doc Savage Magazine", which detailed the career of one Clark Savage Jr., a jack-of-all-trades-who-has-mastered-almost-all-of-them-actually hero. His influence on Superman -- aside from first names, they shared character elements like a Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic and an equally talented female cousin (of whom more later) -- and Batman -- inarguably a syncretism of Doc Savage and the Shadow (whose greater influence on popular culture is more due to the radio show than his original pulp incarnation). "Doc Savage" ran from 1933 to 1949, only dying (as a magazine -- the character did not die in his final adventure) as the medium that had given him birth fell to the post WWII paper shortage.</lecture>

   In any event, during the 1970s, pulp heroes like Doc enjoyed a bit of a renaissance due to the fantasy boom of the '60s, and a movie was made based on the first adventure, "The Man of Bronze". It was eagerly anticipated by fans ...

   ... and why even try to put a nice face on it, it sucked. It sucked terribly. It makes the Flash Gordon movie that came a decade or so later look good.

   There are only three more things that you need to know about Doc Savage to understand this story, and both of them relate to Doc's official "biography", written by Philip Jose Farmer. One, like Sherlock Holmes fans, some pulp fans pretend that the stories were historical documents that have been ignored by "conventional history". Two, Farmer speculates that Doc and his cousin, Patricia Savage (whom I would argue was the prototype for many female adventurers from Modesty Blaise to Lara Croft) had a romantic relationship. And three, Farmer also speculates that Doc was related to or descended from many other heroic characters. If you want, I'll be happy to explain how this latter part relates, but for now, just sit back.

Tread Softly

New York City, 1979

    Despite its reputation, the flesh trade and its associated entertainment industries did not exclusively dominate Times Square. Here and there among the garish advertisements could still be found reminders of more innocent pleasures. The small cinema with its vandalized marquee had been showing movies in shades other than blue
for more than four decades, and so long as it provided a believable tax write-off for its owner, it would continue to show them.

    Past the enclosed ticket booth where an acne-faced film school student sat with his nose in a Henry Miller novel and his right hand on a sawed-off shotgun, a small concession stand stood. The pair of gender-indeterminate concessionaires busily tried to avoid each other's gazes while covertly keeping an eye on the man seated in the
lobby chair.

     Ostensibly, the lobby chair had been placed between the doors to the gentleman's and the lady's washrooms so that a gentleman could sit and wait while a lady completed her far more complicated washroom procedures. Since gentlemen and ladies were in short supply, these days the chair served the actual purpose of providing a place for the occasional inebriated transients to sleep it off without disturbing the cinema patrons with their snoring.

    The man seated in the lobby chair was no transient, however. Dressed in evening wear suited for a night out on a significantly better part of town than this, he had quietly bought two tickets for tonight's feature presentation, and escorted his companion into the theatre without even looking at the popcorn, drinks or candy. Half
an hour later he had exited the theatre and sat down in the lobby chair in a pose reminiscent of Rodin's /The Thinker/, save that his hand rested over his eyes instead of under his chin. Nor was his pose the only resemblance he bore to a statue, for he had not appeared to move a micron since he sat in the lobby chair, eighty minutes earlier, and his exposed skin was a tanned color which made him look only a
bit paler than bronze.

    Under almost any other circumstances, one of the concessionaires would have approached a conscious customer who had been sitting in the lobby chair for that long, politely stating that the lobby was not intended to provide a place for people to loiter. They had even been known to offer the occasional refund of ticket prices if the film had failed to satisfy a sufficiently irate customer. Yet they were ill inclined to approach the man currently seated in the lobby chair. He had shown no signs of awareness of their presence, let alone any evidence of hostility towards them, and yet had intimidated the concessionaire simply by the fact of his existence. So cowed were they, in fact, that they avoided meeting each other's gazes for fear that the other would see the fear in the one's eye, and suggest that the one should approach the man seated in the chair.

    At that moment, just as one of the concessionaires was about to suggest that they abandon their post and go watch the movie, an older man with slate grey hair and a firm jaw walked past the ticket booth, somehow escaping the notice of the acne-faced student. His suit also spoke of a higher social stratum than was normally found in this
neighborhood. He walked to an arm's length from the younger man seated in the chair, and stopped. "Hello, Kent," he said in a cool, crisp voice.

    The younger man's hand dropped from his face and his head snapped up at the sound of that voice. "Mr. Wayne," he said as he arose from the chair. Standing, he had perhaps an inch of height on the older man, yet from their respective postures one could tell that before him he felt small and insignificant. "Good evening. I wasn't aware that you were in town, or we would have called on you."

    "I only returned a few hours ago," Wayne replied. He looked towards the theatre momentarily, then returned his hardened gaze to the younger man. "Is she in there?"

    He nodded brusquely, his face clearly showing anger and distaste. "I had heard enough to convince me that I didn't want to see it, but when she heard that it was playing here she insisted. I couldn't take more than half an hour of it, so she told me to wait outside."

    Wayne released a weary sigh. "If nothing else, Kent, you ought to be proud that you could endure that much. I didn't even make it through the opening credits. And she's a strong woman, so you don't have anything to worry about."

    "I'm not worried about her," the younger man contradicted his elder. "Or rather, I am worried for her, but not exclusively. More than anything else, I am concerned that --"

    The doors to the theatre swung open as the first few cinema-goers began to make their way out over the sounds of the march played during the closing credits. Wayne and the younger man turned to look at the exiting patrons. After only a minute or so, their flow slowed down to a trickle, and then stopped altogether.

    Perhaps a moment after that, the woman who had accompanied the younger man into the theatre some hours previously slowly walked through the doors. Her face was calm and unruffled underneath the excellently coiffured white locks of her hair, and unless one looked deep into her amber eyes or noted the stiffness of her movement, one would never have guessed that she was furiously angry.

    "I want to kill George Pal," she announced conversationally.

    The younger man half-turned to look at Wayne and raised an eyebrow that she wouldn't see, as if to say that this was what had given him cause for concern.

    Without giving any sign that she had noticed the gesture, she continued. "It may not be fair to kill him alone, however. The director, perhaps the writer ... certainly the majority of the actors also deserve as much. But the producer bears the lion's share of the blame, I think." She let out a long breath, and appeared to notice the older man present. "Bruce," she said in a pleased tone. "It's good to see you again." She turned to look at the younger man. "Kent, please go get the car."

    He nodded shortly, and bowed in a gesture of utmost respect to Wayne before turning and heading out through the marked exit.

    "It's been so long since I was in New York, that I'd forgotten how bad the traffic can be. We had to park /miles/ from here --" she blathered.

    "How bad was it?" he asked, sounding oddly gentle.

    She stopped in mid-blather, closed her eyes and gave a shuddering breath. "Horrible," she whispered. "Just horrible. If I had any faith left, I'd thank God none of them lived to see /that/."

    He nodded. "I understand."

    Her eyes snapped open. "You don't understand. How could you under--" She stopped suddenly, and her face twisted in a sick smile. "Oh," she whispered. "Yes, I suppose that you /do/ understand, at that."

    "At least, I think that I understand a part of it," he clarified. "I could tell myself that /that/ wasn't me, that it wasn't Dick, that it wasn't Junior. I imagine that it was worse for Junior, since he was a teenager at the time. But I also suppose that it would have been worse if any of us hadn't lived to see it, and the survivors had to watch someone prancing around in a pair of pyjamas on television like that."

    She nodded wearily. "That's the worst part, yes. Knowing that they /can't/ speak for themselves anymore, can't protest the insult. And knowing --" She broke off for a moment, and tears began to glisten in her eyes. "Bruce, they were so much more than that thing showed them to be! Dent and the others managed to show that there was more to
them than a pile of schticks and gadgets, and they were writing for fifteen-year old boys! This movie seemed like it had been made for people /half/ that age. Even the scene where 'Monk and Ham make up their differences' was more cloying than believable." Her face grew tight and pinched. "Is that what they want from their heroes these days, Bruce? Schmaltz and schtick?"

    He shook his head soberly. "I don't understand what people want any more than you do, Patricia. Sometimes I think Brecht had the right idea." He pulled a handkerchief from his lapel pocket. "Come, dry your tears."

    She took it, patted around the edges of her eyes. It was fortunate that she wore no make-up, but then, she needed no make-up. "Thank you, Bruce. You're a good man."

    "I've tried to be," he acknowledged. "Sometimes, I've succeeded. But I had good examples."

    "So did they men who made that thing, and look where it got us." She sighed one last time. "Let's get going. Kent's probably starting to worry about us."

    "Probably," he replied as he took her arm. "He's a good man, Patricia. Clark would have been proud of him."

    They headed towards the exit, but she paused before they reached it. "Bruce, do you mean what you said? About Brecht, I mean. Not 'Unhappy the land with no heroes', but 'Unhappy the land that /needs/ heroes'?"

    He considered his words carefully. "There are many ways to consider that saying. A land that needs heroes, but doesn't have them, will certainly be unhappy. But if he meant that heroes don't actually inspire others, but keep them from achieving on their own ... I don�t know. I'm too close to the subject. All I know is that we have to do
what's right when we do it ... and I think we've done that, many times over."

    Patricia nodded, wearily. "So we have. I just wish /that/ could be our legacy, instead of things like that film."

    They stepped out through the door of the cinema, just as a car screeched to a stop by the curb. The young man poked his head out the side window, his face showing a concerned expression. "Mother, there's a situation developing down in Jersey. It might be the Russians, but it could be something /much/ worse. Buckaroo's already been called in, but so has Bolan and his crew, and you /know/ that lot will end up making a hash of it if someone doesn't go in to hold them back. I hate to leave you in the lurch like this, but --"

    She was smiling for the first time in nearly two hours. "Go on," she said softly, peering into the car. She relaxed a bit as she saw the driver's face. "Hello, Joel. It's good to see you again. Take care of my son, will you?"

    The driver flashed a quick smile at her, the smile that was the only gift he'd inherited from his father. "I'll do my best," Joel Kent promised.

    The car pulled away at a speed just a bit above the speed limit, and they stood watching it bear the two young crusaders into battle.

    "/That's/ our legacy, Patricia," Bruce said quietly.






    Dedicated to those at work on the pre-production of the forthcoming "Doc Savage" motion picture starring Arnold Schwarzenegger.

    Title from "Aedh Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven", by William Butler Yeats.

    This story, while incorporating characters held under
copyright by Conde Nast Publications, Time-Warner Enterprises, Twentieth Century Fox and Pinnacle Books, is copyright 1999 of Chris Davies. The author extends permission for it to be freely printed or transmitted, so long as its body and disclaimer are unchanged.

    Nobody Sue Me Okay?

Chris Davies, Advocate for Darkness, Part-Time Champion of Light
"I am officially dumbfounded ..." -- Lina Inverse, Slayers Next #36
Homepage: http://www.fortunecity.com/tattooine/banks/277/index.html
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