Date: Mon, 5 Mar 2007 23:19:49 +0000 (GMT)
From: Nexis Pas <nexispas@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: Brighton Rock, Part 1

Brighton Rock (Part I of II)
Nexis Pas
(c) by the author 2007

(Note: When this story appeared on another website, there
were questions from readers about some of my references to
things British. Brighton is a seaside town on the English
Channel. It has a large gay population centred in the
Kemptown area and has long catered to tourists, day-
trippers, and pleasure-seekers, many of whom are gay.
Brighton Rock is a form of hard stick candy with brightly
coloured stripes running along the sides. Looked at from end
on, the word `Brighton' is visible in tiny letters arranged
in a circle around the perimeter. It doesn't matter where
you break the stick, the word `Brighton' is always there.
`Mod cons' are modern conveniences; it's house agent-speak
for indoor plumbing, hot and cold running water, a central
heating system, and the like. And, yes, I know that Graham
Greene wrote a classic novel with the same title, but I
didn't know until this story appeared that it was also the
name of a Canadian rock band, now defunct, I gather.
Needless to say, this is a work of fiction. All resemblances
to villains and superheroes living or dead are purely
coincidental. And finally, the story is dedicated to the
real-life models for Bert and Henry; they may not be
superheroes but they are both super and heroic.)

Part I

*
     `Sir Simon, so good to see you again. To what do we owe
this unexpected pleasure?'
     `I'm in the area to pick up some items for my
collections. Since I was here, I thought I would drop by and
chat.'
     Kenneth Brightman, the crime lord of north-western
England, gestured to the chair in front of his desk. `Sit
down, sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?'
Brightman hoped his face did not betray the churning in his
stomach that had started when he had learned that Sir Simon
Lucas had arrived at his headquarters. A visit from Lucas
was never good. Lucas did not pay social calls or drop by
for a chat. He nodded to his two bodyguards, who had
positioned themselves behind him when Lucas had entered.
`Shall I ask the boys to leave?'
     `What I have to say can be said in front of them, Ken.
They will find it . . .  well, let us say, they will find it
instructional.' Sir Simon Lucas sat down in the chair facing
Brightman and crossed his legs. He was a picture of casual,
confident elegance, elbows resting on the arms of the chair
and fingers steepled in front of this face. He sat without
speaking as he inspected the other man. Unlike Lucas,
Brightman had not aged well. Both men were in their early
30s, yet Brightman's body already betrayed his sloth and
inactivity. Brightman sits in his office and has other
people do the work, thought Lucas. That is always an unwise
policy. Far better to let the troops see you in action.
     Lucas remained silent for a moment longer while he
continued to scrutinize the other man. Brightman's attempt
to comb over his bald spot was becoming increasingly
desperate, he noted. It wasn't until Brightman had licked
his lips nervously for the fourth time that Lucas spoke. `I
have not been receiving the expected level of receipts from
you, Kenneth. Is there an explanation for the drop in the
amounts you have been forwarding to me?'
     `Hard times, Sir Simon. Unemployment is up. There isn't
as much money around.' The crime boss smiled ingratiatingly
and raised his hands and shrugged his shoulders in the `what
can you do' gesture.
     `But the same is true throughout the country, Ken, and
yet other regions are remitting even more to me. It seems
the unemployed want what we have to offer them, Ken.'
     `Perhaps people are more careful about spending here.'
     `No, Ken, I think there is another reason.'
     Brightman tried to regard Sir Simon with bravado. He
titled his chair backwards and crossed his arms over his
stomach. He was, after all, safe in his domain, surrounded
by his own people. `And what might that be?'
     `I think you have become greedy and are trying to
retain more for yourself. A little greed is permissible,
Ken. You wouldn't be where you are today if you weren't
greedy. But I wouldn't be where I am, if I weren't even
greedier.'
     `Well, you are brave, Simon. I will give you that. You
walk into my office and headquarters alone and accuse me of
stealing from you. I could have you taken for the long ride.
Our countryside is more deserted than the area around your
estate. We could drop your body where it would never be
found.'
     `Threats, Kenneth? How amusing, especially since I am
not here alone.'
     `According to my count, Simon, there are three of us
and one of you in this room. There are more of my men
outside'
     `No wonder you are having so much trouble sending the
correct amount, Ken. You can't count.'
     Brightman jerked his hands up and pointed at the
bodyguards and then at himself. `One, two, three.'  He
formed his hand into a pistol and sighted along the
outstretched finger at Sir Simon. `Ker-shoo.'
     Sir Simon smiled. `You are correct that the count is
three to one, Ken. You are wrong in assuming that it is in
your favour.' He nodded to the bodyguards. `Hold him.'  The
two immediately pinioned Brightman in his chair. One of them
crooked a muscular arm under Brightman's chin and held his
head up and rigid. Sir Simon watched with amusement as
Brightman struggled. `I will take only a few more moments of
your time, Ken, and then I will leave you.' He stood up and
walked over to Brightman. The guards turned the crime boss
to face Sir Simon. `This will hurt me far more than it hurts
you, Ken. I do not relish a closer acquaintance with your
mind.' Sir Simon reached out and placed his fingertips on
Brightman's head. He sent his mind tendrils deep into the
other man's head. `Yes, it is as I thought, greed and
deceit. You disappoint me, Ken. You do not live up to your
name.'
     Brightman slumped in his chair as his mind was invaded.
`You can let go of him now. I have him under control.' The
guards stepped back. Sir Simon closed his eyes and let his
consciousness invade Brightman. `So much deceit and
dishonesty, Ken. We cannot allow that to continue. You will
tell me the truth now. You will always tell me the truth,
Ken'
     `Yes, Sir Simon.'
     `Good. How much have you been skimming off the top?'
     `Seven percent.'
     `You will send the correct amount and an additional
amount equal to the amount you skimmed. Henceforth your
quota will be raised to 66 percent of your income.'
     `Yes, Sir Simon.'
     `And just as a reminder of what happens to those who
attempt to trifle with me, Ken, I am going to leave you with
a headache. A very bad headache. Every time you attempt to
cheat me or think ill of me or conspire against me, the
headache will return. And each time it will be worse than
the last time. The only way to avoid the headache is through
complete and utter obedience and loyalty to me.' Sir Simon
sent a charge of energy into the other man. Brightman
collapsed to the floor moaning and clasping his head between
his hands as if to keep it from exploding. He curled up into
the foetal position and writhed back and forth as pain
rocketed through his mind.
     Sir Simon's final remarks were addressed to the guards.
`You will tell others what you witnessed today. I want the
EMG's visit talked about.' He left without looking back.

*
     `Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mr Lomax.'
     `I wouldn't stay in business long if I didn't see
people.'
     `That's what we want to talk with you about, Mr. Lomax.
Your business.'
     `Well, son, you can begin by introducing yourself.'
     `My name's Henry Colson. This is my pal Bert Peters.'
     `Well, I'm a busy man, Henry. And I don't much care for
conversation. Let's get down to business. How much do you
and Bert need?'
     `Oh, we don't need any money, Mr Lomax. At least not at
the rates you charge. In fact, that's what we are here to
stop, Mr Lomax. That and your collection policies.' As
always, concentrated evil made Henry feel sad. It turned his
stomach really, but, he reminded himself, he had a job to
do. He was here to put an end to Lomax's activities.
     `You're a funny man, Henry. I'm a businessman, I charge
market rates for my loans. And sometimes it takes a little
force to remind debtors to pay up. "Pore incourage lays
oaters." That's French for "Here's what happens to people
who forget to make their payments on time".' Lomax chewed on
his cigar and regarded the two young men sitting in front of
his desk. It had been a slow afternoon. At least these two
would provide a little amusement. The bigger one, Henry,
looked like a bodybuilder. That chest couldn't have come
from anything but lifting weights. He seemed a bit thick.
Slow-witted, slow talking, as if speech was not something he
found easy. He was dressed like a plumber in white coveralls
over a tattered blue cotton shirt. There were grass stains
on the knees of his coveralls. Bert looked even smaller than
he was next to the big guy.  Much better dressed than his
friend, though. Wasn't afraid to wear a bit of jewellery
around his neck. If Lomax was any judge (and I am, he
thought to himself), Bert was familiar with the streets of
Kemptown. He also suspected that Bert was the brains of this
outfit.
     `I am truly sorry to hear that, Mr Lomax.' Henry closed
his eyes and concentrated his mind. He pictured Lomax frozen
in his chair. When he opened his eyes, the older man was
regarding him with panic-stricken eyes at his sudden
immobility. `I'm sorry that I have to keep you from moving,
Mr Lomax. What I have to do will only take a few minutes.
And then Bert and I will leave. Bert, perhaps you should
take the cigar out of his mouth to prevent an accident.
Smoking's a vile filthy dirty habit, Mr Lomax. You really
should stop. The air in this room is enough to give anyone
lung cancer. If you can't think of yourself, you should at
least have more regard for others. And you might open a
window occasionally. The bit of fresh air would do you good.
Now, I'm going to touch your head for a few minutes. It's
not something I want to do, but it's better to have physical
contact.'
     Henry shuddered as he placed his fingertips on Lomax's
forehead. How could anyone's skin feel so greasy? This was
the part of his work that he hated. Other people had such
dirty minds. What he found sometimes left him feeling
nauseous. He took a deep breath and focussed all his
thoughts. He probed deeply into Lomax's mind. `Oh, Bert,
this is terrible. This is the worst I've ever encountered.'
A twisted mind. Such a bad man. `You were right, Bert. This
is the right place to start our campaign.' Henry sent a
pulse of goodness into Lomax and attached it to his pleasure
centre. Everywhere he found evil and greed, he replaced it
with a love of goodness and charity. It took him ten minutes
to complete the operation.
     `There now, Mr Lomax. You're going to feel much better
now.' Henry removed his hands from Lomax's head and broke
the mind link. `Once you start doing good, you'll discover
how great it is.'
     `I feel better already, Henry. Thank you. In fact, I
feel great.' Lomax looked down at his desk and the account
book he had been scrutinizing with pleasure only a few
minutes before. `You're right, Henry. I haven't been a good
man. I will have to rethink what I have been doing. Loan
sharking. Oh, I've been so evil.' Lomax started to cry.
     Henry put an arm around the other man's shoulder.
`There, there. Everything will be fine now, Mr Lomax. You
can use all the money you have to do good and to improve the
world.'
     `I feel so guilty, Henry. All the misery and pain that
I've caused.'
     `You'll make up for all that now, Mr Lomax. Just try
it. You'll find that goodness is its own reward. It's much
better than evil.' Henry shook hands with Lomax and squeezed
his shoulder. `We're finished here, Bert. I'm thirsty. Let's
stop at the Mastiff for a drink.' Fighting evil always left
Henry with a raging thirst for a lemonade. He needed
something strong and sharp to get the bad taste out of his
mouth.

*
The thief inserted the duplicate electronic key the helpful
night clerk had provided into the slot. A touch on the
wrist, a thought tendril sent into the clerk, and the key
had been offered without demur. Another thought tendril and
the clerk's memory of the event was erased. So simple to get
what he wanted. But it always was. When the intruder pulled
the plastic card out, the red light began blinking green. He
gently eased the door open and quickly slipped into the
room. As befitted the reputation of the hotel for discretion
and attention to its guests' comfort, the door closed with
barely a sound. No one, neither the occupant of the hotel
suite nor those in the adjoining rooms, was disturbed by the
slight click of the lock engaging. He stood in the dark
entryway and waited until his eyes adjusted. The tight-
fitting door did not prevent a faint glow from the hallway
from entering the room, nor did the heavy drapes covering
the windows keep all light out. On the twentieth floor, the
noise of Manchester scarcely intruded into the room and
provided no cover for any sound he might make, but the heavy
carpet and his rubber-soled shoes would muffle his approach.
As long as he did not trip over a chair, he did not have to
worry about waking the occupant of the suite. His black
clothing and the thin black-nylon mask he had pulled over
his head before entering the room made him just another
shadow in the room.
     He knew from the floor plan of the hotel he had
consulted earlier that the bedroom lay beyond the sitting
room. When his eyes had adjusted so that he could see well
enough to avoid the furniture, he crossed to the door of the
bedroom. Through the half-open doorway he could hear the
sound of regular breathing. The occupant of the suite was
asleep. He pushed the door open. The sleeper was covered by
the bed sheet, his body a small mound at the right side of
the wide bed. He lay on his side, his arms wrapped around
one of the pillows. The intruder stepped into the bedroom,
careful to make no sound that might awaken the sleeper. He
removed the leather gloves that he wore so as not to leave
any fingerprints. Since everything that he would
subsequently touch in the room would leave with him, his
prints on the object he was about to steal did not concern
him. Any fibres and trace evidence that remained behind him
would be lost in the jumble of data in the hotel room. With
any luck, by the time the theft was discovered, the maids
would have cleaned the room and obscured any sign of his
entry.
     With his bare fingers, he reached out and touched the
object of his desire. It would be a showpiece in his
collection. It was as perfect as he had anticipated. Later
when it was secure, he would be able to inspect it in
detail. But even in this dark room, he could tell that
acquiring it was worth the risk. A pity that so few people
would ever know that he owned it.
     The occupant of the room dreamed of a hawk flying
through the night sky, gliding silently on the wind, its
presence felt only as a brief dark shadow. Something warm
and comforting touched him, and he fell even more deeply
into sleep. For a second there was a searing blast of
pleasure and then only oblivion.
     The thief pulled back the bed sheet. The man lay nude.
He touched the man again and sent his thought tendrils deep
into the sleeper's mind. The sleeper arose and accompanied
the intruder to the door of the suite. The intruder pulled
out a cell phone and keyed in a number. He disconnected as
soon as the phone on the other end rang once. The two men
waited by the door until there was a light tap from the
outside. Two of Sir Simon Lucas's guards stood outside
dressed in the uniform of the hotel porters and pushing a
large laundry basket. Sir Simon touched the latest
acquisition to his collection again, and the man collapsed
into the arms of the guards. They quickly lifted the young
man into the basket and closed the canvas cover. As quietly
as they had arrived, they wheeled the basket away and into
the waiting service elevator.
     Sir Simon permitted himself a brief smile of
satisfaction. The abduction had been faultless. Two of the
three goals he had set himself for the trip north had been
accomplished. If events were proceeding according to plan,
the third goal awaited him in his room. The elevator rose
smoothly up the six floors to the top level. The door slid
noiselessly open. Only three doors opened off the small
vestibule. Sir Simon inserted the key for his room and
stepped in. As he had expected, his "guest" was awaiting
him. `My dear, you have the virtue of punctuality. How
refreshing in this careless age.'

*
     `We need better outfits, Henry. All the other
superheroes wear tights and capes.'
     `Don't start on that again, Bert. I can't wear stuff
like that. It shows everything.'
     `That's the idea. We're supposed to show off our
muscles. Your mom's got some great ideas for costumes for
both of us, what with her background on stage and all. She
helped me design one out for myself. White tights with thin
red stripes, that will show off my legs--they're really my
best features. Well, maybe my buttocks. But those will be
displayed to advantage by the tights too. And a close-
fitting red jersey top that's a little lighter than the red
stripes in the tights with white trim along the collar and a
white stripe running down the shoulder and along the outside
of the arms, a matching red hood with white piping along the
eyes slits, all-black running shoes--it's very dramatic. I'm
going to look great in it.'
     Bert and Henry sat at a table in the Mastiff. Henry was
on his third lemonade. Bert was still sipping his first plum
brandy cream fizz. He loved the sweet syrupy drink, but he
had to watch his weight. Even an active day of being a
sidekick to the newest superhero wouldn't help him keep his
slim waist and trim figure if he took in too many calories.
     `Mum knows a lot about dressing actors for the stage,
but I'm trying to project a different image here.'
     `Even as we speak, your mother and your Aunt Lou are
out shopping for your costume. Promise me you'll at least
try it on. Your mom is putting a lot of effort into this.'
Henry sighed. Sometimes being a good son could be a burden.
`Promise me, Henry. Give it a try.'
     `Ok, ok, Bert. I wouldn't do this for anyone but you
and mum.'
     `Good, now about the car. The ministry has budgeted
enough that we can afford . . .'
     `I'm not buying a new car. There's nothing wrong with
the Mini Cooper.'
     Not for the first time, Bert sighed and despaired of
Henry. He was a nice guy, but he didn't appreciate that the
public expected superheroes to live up to a certain image.
     `It's just not suitable, Henry.'
     `What's wrong with it?'
     `It's not the Batmobile is what's wrong with it. Every
other superhero has a great car. Yours is in the shop half
the time. We can't keep taking a bus to work.' Bert rubbed
his leg against Henry's under the table.
     `Are you trying to use sex to persuade me again?'
     `You weren't complaining last night.'
     `We can't talk about that here. We're in public.'
     `Henry, the Mastiff's a gay bar. Everyone in here is in
heat wondering what it's like to have a superhero in bed.'
     `That's not true, Bert. I'd know if everyone were
interested. The correct figure is more like 62 percent. The
rest want to take you to bed.'
     `Really? Show me who. Point one out to me.' Bert
started to look around but he caught himself in time. It
wouldn't do to appear too eager. That would damage the image
he had carefully constructed.
     `See that black-haired guy two tables over with the
moustache. He's been undressing you for the last half-hour.
I'm too embarrassed to tell you what he wants to do with
you.'
     Bert casually looked around as if he were stretching a
sore neck. `Oh him, He's a lump in bed. Expects you to do
everything. Just lies there likes he's the eighth wonder of
the world.'
     Henry looked shocked. `I'm just kidding, Henry. Don't
know the man from Adam. Not that I'd wouldn't like to know
him better, mind you. He's got nice shoulders and arms.'
Bert directed what he knew from hours before the mirror to
be one of his high-wattage smiles at the man.
     `Bert, we have a city to save.'
     `We need to relax and enjoy ourselves sometimes,
Henry.'
     `Not until we've cleaned up Brighton. The Ministry is
counting on us.'
     `Right, a city to clean up. The Ministry is counting on
us." Bert sighed again. So much work to do. Well, he had at
least persuaded Henry to promise to try on the new outfit.
He would return to the theme of the car later, when he had
put Henry in a more receptive mood. "Uh, Henry, can I ask a
question? What you did to Lomax today, what does that feel
like?'
     `I don't know, Bert. I've never met anyone else who
could do it. I didn't know it was anything special until Mum
told me to stop it. That it wasn't nice. I didn't discover
until a couple years ago that I could change people. And
then the Ministry found out and recruited me. The rest you
know. They sent me to the Superheroes Training Centre, and I
met Stan and he, he . . .'
     `Now, don't start blubbering again, Henry. Stan put up
a good fight against the EMG. But he was outmatched. All
those knives and sharp edges he could make with his body
didn't do him any good in the end.'
     For a few minutes both of them sat quietly, lost in
thought about the inevitable coming battle with the EMG.
     `We'll just have to do our best when our time comes,
Bert. None of the other heroes the EMG has defeated had
mental powers. He'll be expecting some physical ability, and
I'll defeat him by surprising him with my mind-control
powers. As soon as we come near enough, I'll overcome him
with a burst of mental energy and then you can jump in and
cuff him.'
     `We need to practice that move, Henry. I volunteer to
play the EMG. You can try your skills on me.'
     `There are plenty of minor-league villains here in
Brighton that we can hone our skills on, Bert.'
     `Henry, I'm your sidekick. You can practice your powers
on me. Now, don't answer right away, but I was thinking that
when we were in bed, maybe you could . . . well, just give
me a jolt or something to spice up . . .'
     `Bert, that wouldn't be ethical. I can't use my powers
to influence you. You're my friend.'
     `It wouldn't have to be much, Just a little tickle.'
     `Albert Peters, I'm not that kind of guy. I would never
take advantage of you.'
     `Henry, take advantage of me, please. I'm begging you.
I'll be a much better sidekick if I know what you can do. In
fact, if you've finished that lemonade, we can go to my
place and we can take advantage of each other.'
     `Bert, you're making me blush.'
     `A guy sucking on a stick of Brighton rock makes you
blush, Henry.'
     `That's it, Bert. You're a genius.'
     `Well, yes, that's true, but what did I just say to
convince you?'
     `You gave me an idea for my name.'

*
     `Punctual, Sir Simon? I do not understand.'
     `My dear, did you not receive an invitation to join me?
I must talk to my staff. This is a shocking oversight and a
breach of proper manners.'
     `There was a note saying that I could end the crime
wave that is threatening the social fabric of our land and
restore commonsense to the conduct of the commonweal if I
came to this room at 2:00 am.'
     `Precisely, my dear. That outfit becomes you, by the
way. Puce brings out the highlights in your hair. Your own
design?'
     `Yes, and don't change the subject.'
     `I wouldn't dream of it, my dear. What is your name
again? My secretary just pencilled in "encounter with
superheroine in hotel room, 2:00 am". Philip is very
efficient, but I'm afraid that he's becoming blas^Â about
superheroes.'
     `I am Abby Carfax, the Manchester Guardian, Sir Simon.'
     `That would explain the overdevelopment of your left
arm. One assumes that you can lift an impressive amount.'
     `Indeed, Sir Simon. If you will permit a moment of
levity, I represent the power of the press.'
     `Droll, most droll. May I offer you a drink?'
     `Perhaps some bottled water, if you have it. And what
peril, if you will permit me to ask, do you pose to the
peace of the paterland, Sir Simon?'
     `The hotel has provided both Perrier and Pellegrino. Do
you have a preference?'
     `Pellegrino, please.'
     `Excellent choice, my dear. The Italians seem to be in
the habit of outperforming the French. And to answer your
question, I am the EMG. I trust you have heard of me. Oh,
here, let me get you a towel. Well, at least water won't
ruin that costume of yours. Spandex was a wise choice.'
     `Bestir yourself to do battle, Sir Simon.'
     `How tedious. And just when we were becoming friendly.'
     `I could never befriend a fiend so foul as you.'
     `Oh, fairest Abby, we all have fiendish friends and
family. It's part of the calling plan. I would think that as
the Manchester Guardian you would know that a deprived
childhood led to my current depravity. I was destined from
birth never to know a mother's love. One would expect you to
show some understanding of my plight and the social forces
that moulded me. Who knows what is behind the evil that
lurks in my heart? And before you chastise me, shouldn't you
examine yourself? I daresay even you have done the odd bit
of evil in your time.'
     `Never, Sir Simon. My heart is as pure as I am
punctual.'
     `You never gossiped about your friends in school? Never
made cutting remarks about their clothing? Never
intentionally bruised an opponent's shin playing field
hockey?'
     `That would be a low blow, Sir Simon, and most
unsporting.'
     `True. But that never stopped me.'
     `Defend yourself, Vile Villain.'
     `Do watch your step. You could slip on all that water
on the floor.'
     `You are a gentleman at least, Sir Simon.'
     `Perhaps we should shake hands first and agree to a
fair fight.'
     `Yes, good manners are important.' The Manchester
Guardian offered Sir Simon her hand.
     `My dear, you should look after your hands. I suppose
the calluses are a result of the weightlifting but it is
inexcusable not to treat your cuticles with more respect.'
Sir Simon held the superheroine's hand gently.
     `Oh, Sir Simon, I simply feel stunned, I sense a need
to rest supine on this soft sofa. It's silly of me, I know,
but I feel quite giddy and light-headed.'
     `Yes, my dear. You do. Now go to sleep. That's a good
girl.' Sir Simon mentally blasted the Manchester Guardian
with one of his superhero punches. She would remain out
until his guards could deliver her to Dr Esterhazy for
preparation for his collection. Really she had been no
challenge at all. The Ministry of Superheroes was scraping
the bottom of the barrel if this was the best they could
send against him. Hardly worth the trip. He pressed a button
on his cell phone. `I have another package of laundry for
the truck south. Please pick it up immediately. I need to
sleep. It's been a long day.'

*
     `Just relax, Henry. You're so tense, today.' Bert was
attempting to massage a knot our of Henry's shoulders. `You
must not be exercising the muscles in your upper back
correctly. They're all tight. I don't think exercise is
supposed to leave your muscles this taut.'
     `I was digging in the garden earlier. Must have pulled
the muscle then. I think I'll get rid of the petunias and
put in asters for the fall. The petunias are almost done
for. That feels good, Bert.'
     `I'm rather good at this, Henry, if I do so say
myself.'
     `Mmm. Very good. Magic hands.'
     `Remember yesterday, how I helped you relax by talking
about floating?'
     `That was very nice, Bert. I enjoyed that. Plus  . . .
the other stuff. That was nice, too.'
     `Shall I do that again?'
     `Yes, please. I would like that.'
     `Ok, then let's begin. Just take a deep breath, Henry.
Breathe in nice and slowly. Fill your lungs. Now hold it for
a second. And then breathe out slowly. Empty your lungs of
all that air. And as you do, just relax your body. Relax
your mind. Breathe all the tension out of your body. Breathe
all the tension out of your mind.' Bert slowly talked Henry
through relaxing all the parts of his body, as he continued
to massage Henry's back.
     `Your body feels so light. Lighter than air. So much
lighter than air. It just floats on the air, Held up by the
air, like a glider on the wind. It feels so good to be so
light. Free of all restraints, free of all cares. Just
drifting along on my words. Just relax more and more. And
the more you relax, the better you will feel. It feels so
good just to relax and float under my control. Just relax.
Let Bert take care of everything. You're safe with me,
Henry. Just relax. Nothing to worry about. Just listen to my
voice and let me guide you. You like it so much when I guide
you, Henry. You feel so good when you follow my suggestions.
Nothing makes you feel better than following my suggestions.
We have been here before. Remember how good you feel when
you follow my suggestions. So good. So very good. Now,
without waking up, Henry, you are going to turn over and lie
on your back. Very good, Henry. Soon you will feel even
better than you feel right now. Now, I want you to remember
yesterday. We were talking just as we are right now. You
were lying on your back just as you are right now. And you
bent both of your legs and rested your heels on my
shoulders. You legs are rising up again. So much lighter
than air now, and you rest them gently on my shoulders.
Good, Henry. So good. You feel so good. You feel so very,
very good.
     `Now, Henry, remember yesterday, how you took me in
your hand and guided me into you. You want to do that again,
Henry. You will feel so good when I am inside you. It makes
you feel so good to have me inside you. That's right. Just
guide me into you, Henry. Just relax. Don't tighten up. This
will make you feel so very, very good.
     `There we are, Henry. Now you feel so much better to
have me inside you. You love this feeling. Just relax,
Henry, and follow along with what I am saying. Just listen
to what I am saying and do what I tell you to do. It will
make you feel so very, very good.
     `We are connected now, Henry. You feel so good and so
relaxed and so safe. The waves of pleasure fill your body.
Henry, you are so relaxed and so comfortable with me. I want
you to reach out with your mind and stimulate my body. Make
me feel so good, Henry. Imagine one of those thought lines
reaching from your mind into my mind. Find my pleasure
centre, the centre that . . ."
     Henry gently probed Bert's mind until he located the
pleasure centre. He sent the merest wisp of thought into
Bert, just a small stimulus of energy. He held Bert tight
and began licking his neck, that very sensitive spot beneath
the ear where the neck meets the shoulder. At the same time
he sent a stronger charge of energy into Bert. Bert slumped
forward onto his chest and lay still. Gradually it dawned on
Henry that Bert had stopped speaking and that he didn't seem
to be moving.
     `You're being very quiet, Bert. Bert? Bert? Oh my lord,
what have I done? Bert? Bert? Wake up. Oh, what do I do
now?' Henry looked down in horror at the supine body of his
sidekick and felt Bert's swollen . . . Bert's swollen thingy
within himself. It felt huge. Oh lord, he had maimed his
sidekick. What would the Ministry do when they found out he
had damaged Bert? He could never forgive himself. Weakness,
it was unforgivable weakness. Oh, he would never have sex
again if only Bert would just be ok.
     Bert moaned, and his eyes fluttered open. For a second
only the whites were visible, and then the irises and pupils
rolled back into place. His face was the picture of bliss.
`O Henry, do you think you could do that again if I, if I .
. .' Bert was not so stunned that he had forgotten how shy
Henry was about certain words. `If I continue doing what I'm
doing to you?'
     `Oh, Bert, I'm so glad you're alive. I thought I had
injured you. I won't do it again. I don't know my own
strength.'
     `You just have to learn to control it, Henry. Maybe
about a tenth of the strength of the last charge.'
     `I shouldn't do this, Bertie. I don't want to hurt
you.'
     `Just be careful, Henry. But, please, not too careful.
A little more. You can be a bit wild. A bit wild is good,
Henry. Ooooooooo, yessssssssss.'
     . . . . . . .
     Much later, Henry and Bert lay exhausted in bed, Bert
resting on top of Henry. It had been supersex, thought
Henry. But he shouldn't use his powers to manipulate Bert.
Bert was his pal, and he shouldn't be controlling him. His
mind-control powers should be reserved for fighting evil.
The Ministry of Superheroes and, beyond that, the country
were depending on him and Bert to bring an end to the reign
of the EMG. Pleasures like this could become addictive and
make them lose their concentration on their mission.
     "Henry? Are you awake? Listen to me, please. Don't get
me wrong. That was supersex, the best I've ever had. But I
don't think we should do that again. I'm not sure I like
having you inside my mind, controlling me. Even if it's just
in fun. And the Ministry and the country are depending on
us. We need to prepare to fight the EMG. We'll get
distracted if we get addicted to . . . whatever just
happened."
     "That's just what I was thinking, Bert." Henry gave his
sidekick a gentle squeeze and broke the link to Bert's mind.


*
     `Is there anything else, Philip?'
     `Yes, Sir Simon. Dr Esterhazy reports that the newest
recruit is almost ready and will be available for
programming after Tuesday night. You have two hours free on
Thursday morning, from 10 until 12. Shall I reserve that
time?'
     `Yes. My compliments to the doctor. The new recruit
will make an excellent addition to my collection.'
     `Very good, Sir, I will tell Dr Esterhazy to have the
subject ready for you on Thursday morning. Sir, there is one
more thing.'
     `What is it, Philip?'
     `Mr Adams reports that there are rumours of a new
superhero.'
     `Oh, good lord. Not another one,' sighed Sir Simon in
exasperation. `Really this is becoming too annoying. I just
eliminated the Manchester Guardian three weeks ago. I do
hope this one will be more of a challenge. The Guardian
definitely did not live up to her publicity. More sound than
substance there. Where's the new one operating and what is
he or she called?'
     `It is a he, Sir. He's working out of Brighton and
calls himself Brighton Rock.'
     `How sweet, how very sweet. Get me more information on
him, and then I will decide how to deal with him.'
     `Yes, Sir. I have prepared a dossier with all known
information on the Rock.'
     `I should have known you would display your usual
competence, Philip. Leave it here. I shall read it later.'
     `Sir, should I order another display cabinet? All the
cabinets in the trophy room are full, Sir, now that the
Manchester Guardian has been added to your collection.'
     `If this plague of superheroes doesn't end soon,
Philip, we will have to call the builders in to add another
room to the west wing. Let's wait a bit on ordering a new
display case. The last time I visited the trophy room, I
noticed that the Yorkshire Beef was looking overdone and
dry. If this Rock would make a better display, we'll hang
the Beef in cold storage and substitute the Rock for him.'
     `Very good, Sir Simon.'
     `Thank you, Philip. Now, please send the duty guard in
and hold all calls for a couple of hours.' He briefly
touched Philip on the shoulder and sent a soupcon of
pleasure to his mind. It was expedient to reward efficiency
in a subordinate. Philip halted in mid-stride and moaned
softly, as a brief look of sublime enjoyment flitted across
his face.
     Sir Simon Lucas stepped to the window and surveyed his
domain. The immaculately manicured lawns sloped down in a
series of terraces to his lake. Two of his gardeners were
weeding the lower flower beds, their well-muscled tanned
bodies gleaming with sweat in the sun. He thought he
recognized one of the gardeners from the curve of his back.
He was certain that one used to be a guard. Somewhere on the
other side of the house another gardener was mowing the
lawn, the only sound other than a few bird calls that
disturbed the silence of the countryside. Not for the first
time Sir Simon let this thoughts wander to the empire of
crime that allowed him this well-tended privacy. Would his
neighbours be so respectful of him if they knew that he was
the `mysterious crime lord' the newspapers had dubbed the
`Evil Mindwarp Guy'? It had taken him several years, but now
the entire country was his. Every criminal in the country
ultimately worked for him, and tributes from every nefarious
enterprise flowed upward to his hands. The only challenge to
his control came from this constant parade of superheroes.
Perhaps a few donations to the right politicians would put
an end to these pestiferous nuisances. He would have to look
into that.
     A knock at the door interrupted his reverie. The guard
who entered was one of the newer ones. He was still fresh
enough to amuse Sir Simon for a few more times. His youthful
body had that hardness Sir Simon prized, almost as if it
were made of thick rubber that had been inflated until it
was taut and pneumatic. This one had a swimmer's body,
muscled, lithe. The depilation had left the guard's body
hairless and totally smooth. Like all the duty guards, he
was dressed only in a black jockstrap. Sir Simon was a
connoisseur of the male form, but his guards did not display
their genitals before him. And the waistband of the strap
covered the small tattoo consisting of the label "PROPERTY
OF LUCAS ENTERPRISES," the Lucas Enterprises logo of a hawk
in flight, and the barcode used for inventory purposes.
Sometimes it amused him to pull the strap away from a
guard's body and look at the tattoo. If he did say so
himself, the design he had created was tasteful. The mark of
his ownership added enormously to the value of his
properties and his enjoyment of them.
     `A drink.' Behind him he heard the soft clink of the
glass stopper being pulled from the decanter and the splash
of the whiskey into a glass. The guard approached him and
held out a salver with the heavy glass, the dark amber
single malt refracted in its many facets. After Sir Simon
took the glass, the guard knelt at his side. His fingers
stroked the guard's head, and he let the tendrils of his
power penetrate the guard's mind. Good, there were no
thoughts in the guard other than adoration and worship of
him, nothing but submission and obedience and pleasure in
serving him. Sir Simon gently stimulated the guard's control
centre. From deep within the guard's mind, pleasure rippled
outward along his nerves and coursed throughout his body.
Sir Simon liked to remind his servants of the rewards to be
had from obedience and submission.
     As had Philip, the guard moaned. Sir Simon loved that
sound. He revelled in the power that gave him such control
over others. He could make anyone do anything. All it took
was the slightest touch and that gentle invasion, the charge
of energy travelling from his mind to the other person and
finding the spot within the person's brain that made him
want to obey and serve. He had never experienced it himself,
of course, but to judge from his servants' reactions, it was
addictive.
     Life was very sweet, thought Sir Simon as his eyes
again looked out the window. The guard knelt motionless as
Sir Simon continued to stroke his head and neck, the guard's
hair soft and silken as he drew his fingertips through it,
the skin of his neck so firm and tight--flawless. The
panorama visible through the window--the acres of dark green
lawn, the tasteful gardens with their disciplined display of
carefully chosen colours, the placid blue lake, the deep,
almost black woods surrounding Sir Simon's manor--meant
nothing to the guard. All he thought about was the Master's
touch upon his body; his only hope was that the Master would
find him worthy, that the Master would use him.
     Sir Simon sat in his favourite chair and motioned the
guard closer. As he pondered how best to gain control of
Parliament, he absentmindedly stroked the back of the
guard's smooth thighs. He was so intent on his own thoughts
that he failed to notice the look of ecstasy on his pet's
face.

*
     `Mum, I think these tights shrunk in the wash.'
     `No, I bought new ones in a smaller size. The last pair
I bought was too big.'
     `But, Mum, they're . . . well, they're too revealing. I
can't go out like this. It shows everything.'  Henry Colson
twisted around to look at his back in the mirror. The fabric
had been cut so that the seam in the rear nestled deep
between his buttocks, and the tights clung to his well-
rounded cheeks. As he shifted his weight from one leg to the
other, the muscles in his thighs and ass rippled and
stretched the tights. The front was even worse--the thin
layer of pink fabric over his groin left nothing to the
imagination. Even the veins were visible if you looked
closely. And you could count them, he thought. Both of them.
     `That's the idea. I was talking with Beryl, and she
said that everyone is saying that the Brighton Rock is too
modest. Those coveralls you want to wear don't present you
in your best light. Superheroes are supposed to reveal
everything, show you've got nothing to hide. You're too shy
for your own good, Henry. You could learn something from
Bert. He's not afraid to wear tight clothes.'
     `Bert would do better to keep his mind on our mission.
We're here to put an end to the EMG, to see that this wave
of crime is brought to an end and that truth and justice
prevail once more. Instead all he thinks about is finding
someone to go home with at the end of his `shift.' And
what's this shift business he's always talking about. We are
on duty 24/7/365. To hear him talk, you would think the
Ministry is supposed to pay us overtime if we work more than
eight hours a day. Where's the sidekick anyway?  He should
be here by now.'
     `I forgot to tell you. He dropped by earlier for a cup
of tea. He has a date tonight and won't be around.'
     `That's the second night this week, Mum. He's just not
reliable. Criminals don't take holidays. Nor can we. I like
Bert, but I need someone I can count on to watch my back in
tight situations.'
     `You're too hard on him, Henry. He's young, and, well,
he has needs, son.'
     `You know what I think, Mum. I think he's staying out
on protest. He was on about the car again, About how it
wasn't suitable for a superhero.'
     `He may have something there. A Mini Cooper is fine for
shopping and visiting Aunt Lou, but if you're going to make
a mark, you need something more showy, one of them flashy
foreign cars. Something that says a superhero is charging to
the rescue. I bet the EMG doesn't ride around in a Mini
Cooper. You barely fit into it anyway, you're so big. It
takes you five minutes to get and out of it. What you going
to do if you're chasing the EMG and have to get out and
pursue him on foot? He'd be ten miles away by the time you
got out from under the wheel.'
     `Mum, I'm trying to save the world here, not impress
it. Besides, the car is fuel efficient. It's important that
we make a statement to young people everywhere. We have to
be green.'
     `Leave that to Mr Planet.' Mrs. Colson sighed. Even
though he was her own son, she had to admit that Henry was
hopeless. He was a good boy, but he had no style. He would
rather potter about in the garden and deadhead the daisies
than go out for a bit of fun. Well, he took after his father
in that. A decent man without an ounce of excitement in him.
A crossword was his idea of a thrilling evening. Well, god
rest his soul. He had been a good husband, and Fridays, she
must admit, Fridays had been a treat. She smiled to herself
in remembrance.
     `Mum, did you buy a new top too!' Henry stared in shock
at the knit jersey. It encased his torso in gleaming flesh-
coloured fabric with lime-green candy stripes, the pink `R'
in the centre of his chest flanked on either side by his
bulging pecs. His biceps strained the cloth and distorted
the stripes, emphasizing the size of the muscle. His nipples
were positively perky as they poked up against the fabric.
Every nook and cranny of his body was visible. Nothing was
hidden. He might as well have painted the stripes on his
body.
     `I got a shorter cape, too. It will show more of your
lower body. The old one covered up too much.'
     `Mum, I won't be able to walk through Kemptown in this
     outfit.'
     `Now, son, trust your old mum. You're going to be an
inspiration to every young man in Brighton. They're going to
eat you up.'
     `That's what worries me.'
     `I've got to get ready. Ada is picking me in a few
minutes.'
     `Where are you off to?'
     `We're going to see the new show at the Dome. Elaine is
performing tonight. If you're taking the car, you'll need to
fill the tank. I didn't have time earlier after I finished
shopping for you.'
     The Rock pulled on his knee-high pink candy-striped
boots and adjusted the matching mask over his face. `I
shouldn't be driving with this on. It obstructs my side
vision.' From head to foot, he was covered in bright candy
stripes. `How am I going to drive without Bert watching for
cross-traffic?'  Another evening of fighting crime with no
one to relax with afterward, he thought sourly. He had so
looked forward to a long chat with Bert, the review of the
evening's action, the tallying of accomplishments, the
shared intimacy of two brothers battling evil. It was hard
enough being a superhero, but when he had signed on for the
job, no one had mentioned the loneliness of a superhero
without a sidekick to cuddle at the end of the night. Bert
had become rather distant since that day he had used his
mind-control powers on him. Well, it was the old story. One
partner always cared more than the other. It just wasn't
fair. Perhaps he should apply for a superdog.
     He shut the front door a bit harder than necessary.
Across Upper Crescent street, that nosey Mrs Parker drew
aside the curtains and peered out to discover which of her
neighbours was going out. When she saw the Rock, she called
her husband and her daughter to the window. As he turned his
back to them to open the car door, he felt exposed. He might
as well have been naked for all the concealment his costume
provided. As he manoeuvred his body under the steering
wheel, he could hear her talking about him through the open
window. `Joan, get back. Don't look. He's not fit to be
seen. James, you must have a talk with him. I don't care if
he is a crime fighter and a superhero. He can't walk around
a decent neighbourhood like this dressed liked that.' His
mood did not improve when he discovered that the car
wouldn't start. His mother must have been driving on the
fumes at the end.

*
Sir Simon closed the file folder with the dossier on the
Brighton Rock. There were some interesting twists to this
superhero's modus operandi. For one thing, the Rock seemed
bent more on reforming criminals than on putting them in
jail. In the week or so that he had been active, he had
somehow convinced old Wiley Lomax to give up loan sharking
and devote his talents to raising money for orphans. And
Tommy Hobbes had apparently abandoned his cross-channel
smuggling operations and was now using his fleet of small
boats to give senior citizens free trips to the Channel
Islands. Sir Simon's income would suffer if this continued--
which it would not, of course. He made a note on the folder
telling Philip to clear his appointments for the weekend.
Unfortunately he could not trust his subordinates to deal
with the superheroes. Only he had the powers to do that. And
it was best to nip these heroes in the bud (or with some of
them, he smiled to himself, in the butt) before they got too
active and began giving people the idea that they could get
away with being good.
     He would have to travel down to Brighton after tending
to the new addition to his collection on Thursday. A day or
two should be enough to deal with the Rock. He made another
note to Philip to order a new plaque for the display case.
`The Brighton Rock.' He checked Sunday's date and added
`July 8, 2007.' Best not to assume the Rock would be a
pushover. It was wiser to allow two days, perhaps use the
opportunity to drop in on his troops in the south. A pat on
the back or a tightening of the screw--it never hurt to
remind them that the boss was watching. Yes, the sea air
would do him good. But not, he shuddered at the thought, in
Brighton. He added a note to Philip--reservations at the
Carleton Crest for the weekend for himself, Philip, two
guards, and his driver. And book a table at that restaurant
in Pyecombe that dear Geoff FitzMorac had been raving about
in his last review. The one that had the toad-in-the-hole
made with certified nonorganic eggs and farm-factory pork-
part chipolatas and boiled sprouts with genuine margarine
and the super spotted dick pudding with artificial soy-based
clotted cream substitute. Giles's review had had his mouth
watering. He could taste the feast already. Perhaps if he
asked ahead of time, they would make boiled cabbage as well.
He would need extra energy this weekend.
     He opened the dossier again and idly leafed through the
photographs of the Rock and his sidekick. The duo was so new
that the sidekick was still nameless. Bert, just plain Bert,
for now. Perhaps he should be called "Candy Wrapper." Well,
he would be out of business soon, and then he would need no
name. For some reason, the Rock looked familiar. He couldn't
quite say why, but definitely someone he had seen before. He
would ask Philip in the morning. Philip had a good memory
for faces. And he must say that the Rock had a superb body.
Much better than the usual run of heroes he had been
encountering lately. In fact, perhaps the Rock would make a
good guard. He could have the doctor prepare him for service
rather than display. It was something to think about at
least. Mentally Sir Simon stripped the Rock of his costume
and dressed him in a black jockstrap. Oh, definitely
something to think about. Much bigger than his usual guard,
but for a change, that might be welcome. The sidekick wasn't
bad either. Both would be excellent additions to his
collections, either as guards or as displays. He took a sip
of his drink and savoured the bite of the smoky whiskey on
his tongue.
     The thought of the two superheroes under his control
aroused him. He closed the folder. Who should he have
tonight? The pictures of the Rock had made him hungry for
something in a large size. He mentally reviewed the roster
of his guards and then picked up the phone. He rather
fancied the all-beef paddy special. `Prepare Sean and send
him to my bedroom at midnight.'

*
It was nearly nine-thirty before the Rock got the car filled
up. There was no point in driving now. Every parking space
would be taken. He had made the mistake of calling a taxi to
take him to central Brighton and had to endure the driver's
curiosity. `Oh, so you're the new superhero. What're are
those clothes made of? Looks like rubber or latex. Wait
until I tell the wife who was riding in my cab tonight. Can
I get a picture of the two of us?  My phone has a camera
built in. It won't take a second.' A passer-by had agreed to
take the picture on the condition that the driver then take
his picture with the Rock. So the Rock had posed with his
arm around the  driver's shoulder. Long-time mates, on the
strength of a cabride. Same with the passer-by.
     Soon there was a queue of eager posers, all of them
wanting a picture. Each of them found it necessary to grasp
the Rock firmly on some portion of his anatomy. One of the
kids had hands sticky from an ice cream treat. A chocolate
paw print marked each place he had touched the Rock's
thighs. In the end, he had had to be quite firm in reminding
his fans that he was there to prevent evildoers from taking
over Brighton before he could get away. And then it was not
without complaints from those remaining in the queue. `Just
because 'e's a super'ero 'e thinks 'e can be rude.'  `The
Margate Mongoose was ever so much nicer before the EMG got
him. A proper gentleman he was. He gave Gran his autograph.
She still has it framed above the mantle.'  Those were the
quotable remarks. Some people just couldn't fathom that he
had feelings even if he was a superhero. Couldn't they see
that he was trying his best? He wasn't doing this for
himself after all.
     And then there was all the pointing and sniggering
behind his back as he walked. He tried to stride
purposefully through the crowds, ever alert to the
radiations of evil that marked the habitual criminal, but it
was hard to take his mission seriously when he couldn't walk
five feet without someone patting his rear. A couple of the
lads even pinched it. He could feel his buttocks straining
the fabric with each step he took, the seam disappearing
into the crack. He could even picture how it looked, the
glut tensing and riding up as he took a stride and then
rolling down as the other one moved up with the next step,
the motion of the muscle inviting one's hand to touch it. He
became lost in a reverie for a second as he recalled the
feel of a hard muscle bunching under his palm, Stan looking
around with a smile as he realized that Henry was shyly
touching him. Stan had been a work of art. His mentor at the
Superhero Training Centre in Hampstead, he had helped Henry
overcome his inhibitions and grow in so many ways. Henry
would be eternally grateful. If he closed his eyes, he could
feel Stan's arm around his shoulder, the feel of Stan's body
in bed, the surprising softness of Stan's lips against his
throat. He felt the familiar stirring in his groin as he
thought of Stan. He barely registered the camera flash as
someone took his picture. All he was aware of was the empty
feeling as he thought of Stan's brief career as the
Sheffield Knife before he was knackered by the EMG.
     His daydream was interrupted suddenly as he felt an
emanation of evil from a  side-street. A lost tourist had
wandered down the wrong path, and two miscreants were about
to accost her. The Rock hurried down the dark street after
her, his thoughts reaching out to the two would-be muggers.
One of them was about to snatch the woman's purse when he
stopped in mid-thought. `Ma'am, do you need help finding
your way?'
     `Oh, yes, I thought this would be a shortcut back to
Lewes Road, but I seem to have taken a wrong turn.'
     `Brighton can be very confusing, ma'am. If you'd like,
we'll show you the way.'
     The three walked past the Rock, paying him not a
second's notice. At least he had done one good thing
tonight, he thought. Oh, if he ever found Bert, he would . .
. In fact, why didn't he find Bert? Bert could earn his pay.
He probably was ensconced in the Mastiff, trying to impress
some visiting tourist.
     The Rock trudged back to St James Street. The Mastiff
was crowded with its customary mix of locals and visitors.
Luckily, Mike was behind the bar. If any knew where Bert
was, he would. `If it isn't the Rock come to visit us now.
Taking a break from being a hero? Must be thirsty work. Your
usual, Rock?' Mike paused long enough to look the Rock up
and down. `Hmm. Nice. Didn't know you were cut, Rock. Some
people favour that.'
     `Mum thought this outfit would improve my image.' For
once the Rock was glad of the mask. It hid his blushes.
     `Your mother is a wise woman, Rock. Must be her
background on the stage, makes her know how to show off your
. . . better points. Takes balls to wear those tights,
though.' Mike smiled at the Rock as he slid the pint of diet
lemonade across the bar.
     `Have you seen Bert tonight?'
     `He was in here earlier. Talking to some guy about a
car. He left with him.'
     `What guy?'
     `Not a local. Never saw him before. He was asking a lot
of questions about you and Bert earlier, and when Bert
walked in, he cornered him. They sat at that table for a
couple of rounds and then left together.'
     `You don't know where?'
     `None of my business, Rock, what Bert gets up to on his
day off. You'd better drink up. I'm about to call time.
Early closing tonight.'
     The streets were crowded with people leaving the pubs,
and he couldn't get a taxi. He had to walk home through a
light rain. His mother was still out having fun with her
friends when he got back. He climbed the stairs to his room.
He stripped off his costume and put it in the laundry
basket. It smelled. He suspected that he smelled as well. He
took a quick shower in lukewarm water so as to conserve
energy, brushed his teeth, put on his flannel pyjamas, and
lay down on his bed. He had slept in the same bed his entire
life and had outgrown it several years before. Now his arms
trailed on the floor, and his feet extended beyond the
bottom. The light from the streetlamp outside shone through
the thin curtain. He put on the eye mask Aunt Lou had given
him years ago when as a boy he had complained about the
light. He quickly went to sleep.

*
Sir Simon lay face down on the massage table as Sean gave
his entire body a deep, penetrating kneading. The aroma of
the scented oil perfumed the air. The soft light of the
candles flickered on the walls, the shadows magnifying
Sean's size. When he felt thoroughly relaxed, all the
tension removed from his body by Sean's hands, he sent a
thought tendril up through Sean's arms and into his mind. He
found the proper spot and gave it a light tap, just enough
to make Sean receptive and turn his mind toward another form
of satisfaction. He felt his servant pause for just a moment
as he switched gears and his libido took over. Another tap,
and Sean moaned with desire. Sir Simon rolled over and sat
up. Sean was licking his lips, his eyes anticipating the
pleasures of Simon's body. Simon moved to the bed and lay
down on his back, his head and shoulders propped up on
several pillows. The freshly laundered and ironed silk
sheets felt cool beneath his body. There were some who said
that money couldn't buy happiness. What fools, he chuckled
to himself. It might not be happiness, but it was far from
misery.
     Sean stood beside his bed waiting for further
instructions. Simon stroked the inside of Sean's thighs, his
hand gliding over the smooth flesh, his thoughts reaching
into Sean's mind. Sean bent low over Simon's groin and took
Simon into his mouth. Simon stroked his hair, murmuring
encouragement and adjusting the tension of Sean's lips and
cheeks and the length of the strokes. Just enough to keep
him rigid. He traced the column of Sean's backbone down
until the flesh parted at the buttocks. His fingers probed
between them. Sean began to moan more loudly and to pant.
Simon liked to see one of the lads get excited. He sent
another thought into Sean's mind. Sean gave a final long wet
lick and then smoothly impaled himself, his face filled with
the ecstasy of pleasing Simon. Sean's tight butt fit itself
closely around Simon, and the straps of Sean's jockstrap
pushed against his groin as Sean pressed his body down.
     Sir Simon motioned for his servant to lean forward. He
pinched Sean's nipples gently between his fingers and sent
pulses into the guard's body. With each pulse, Sean rose up
slightly and tightened his muscled ass, gently squeezing
Simon. Simon calibrated Sean's motions until both of them
were just at the edge of orgasm. Simon held himself at that
point, but he built the pressure in Sean's mind until the
young man began begging him  for more. Simon thought a
little amusement would suit him better. He reached into
Sean's mind and imaged a glittering ice sculpture, true in
every detail, very cold, very hard, inside Sean. Sean
shrieked in pain as the cold stabbed through his body. But
the guard could not stop riding his cock, taking it deeper
and deeper inside of him, shivering and trembling as his
body froze. Gradually Simon changed the column of ice into
gleaming steel, just as cold and just as hard. And the
harder Sean rode it, the hotter it became. Not too hot,  he
decided. After all, he wasn't a sadist. Just hot enough to
make Sean groan so delectably. Sean loves the burning pain,
he thought. "Oh, yes. Make it hotter. Please make it
hotter," moaned the doll on the end of his cock. Control was
so erotic. He would toy with Sean as long as he could, he
decided, and then make his puppet faint from the pleasure of
an anal orgasm. The explosion in his ass would obliterate
him. Simon thrust upward into his willing servant,
calculating the exact degree of pleasure that would torment
Sean most.

*
Henry awoke to the sound of his mother singing one of her
old show tunes in the kitchen. He hadn't heard her sing like
that since his father had died. It was one of the happy
memories of his childhood. Every Friday evening his parents
had gone out to the pub with their friends. When they came
back, they always brought him chocolate and sent him to bed.
The next morning his mother would be singing as she prepared
breakfast. His parents had so loved their `Friday night
treat,' as they called it. Well, it was good to see his
mother get out again. He hadn't even heard her come in last
night. For all that he knew, she had just arrived home. She
was thoughtful that way, careful not to disturb his sleep.
She had mourned his father too long. Perhaps he should
suggest that she could start dating again. Mr Turner down
the street had asked him how his mother was doing the other
day. He might make a good partner for her. It was time he
did something for his mum; she would never date if left to
her own devices.
     When he came downstairs, his mother set two sausage
rolls, a fried tomato, and two slices of thick fried bread
onto a plate and handed it to him. `Don't know why, but I
feel ravenous this morning. Eetabix just weren't enough. For
some reason, sausage rolls popped into my mind as the proper
breakfast today.' She burst into song again as she fix a
plate for herself.
     `Good show, Mum?'
     `The best. Elaine just put me in the mood for fun. Ada
and Lou and I went out afterwards to the pier. Haven't been
there in years. I had forgotten how much I enjoy a bit of
nonsense. Did me good to get out.'
     `Just the three of you then?'
     `Well, we met some people Ada knows from work. They had
a friend visiting from up north, and we all went out
together. We closed the place down and then went back to
Ada's house for a drink. It was quite late when we broke up,
and I walked the visitor back to his hotel.'
     `It's good to see you enjoy yourself again, Mum.'
     `What about you, Son? I haven't read the story in this
morning's paper about you. Who did you reform last night?'
     `It was a slow night, Mum. Didn't do anything worthy of
note.'
     `But you're on the front page.'
     She handed Henry the paper. There from the front page
he strode toward the camera, apparently lost in thought,
`Local superhero on patrol in Brighton.' The flash from the
camera illuminated all of the Rock's assets. Through some
trick of lighting, he appeared to be naked below the waist.
A carefully positioned star burst kept the paper from an x
rating. Suddenly Henry lost his appetite for sausage rolls.
The phone began ringing with the first of the calls from the
media.

*
The headline `Member for Netherende calls for investigation
of Superhero scandal. "Does the Brighton Rod have a place on
our streets?" Parliamentary inquiry of Ministry of
Superheroes demanded' greeted Sir Simon as he unfolded the
newspaper over breakfast on Thursday morning. If things
continued in this manner, he thought, he would not need to
deal with the Rock personally. Protestors from the League of
Public Decency, the Mothers for Modesty Campaign, and the
Bishops' Boys Foundation were picketing the Rock's house and
calling on him to turn in his cape and retire. Sir Simon's
wish exactly. Yesterday the Brighton Rock had been greeted
with catcalls when he emerged for an evening of heroic
daring-do and had been forced to retreat into his house and
change into coveralls. They were not, to judge from the
picture, a success.
     `Philip, does the Brighton Rock remind you of anyone?
His face looks familiar.'
     `Yes, Sir Simon, I noticed the resemblance immediately.
You see a similar face every morning.'
     `But he looks nothing like you, Philip.'
     `No, you mistake my meaning. He looks like you. Same
build. Same nose. Same chin. If the uncensored pictures on
the internet are any guide, he also is like you in another
respect.'
     Sir Simon cocked an eye at his personal assistant as he
buttered a bun. Philip pointed to the picture in the
newspaper. `I refer to the part covered in that photo.' By
now, it had been reproduced hundreds of time, and the
original was widely available on the internet. The Rock had
become the punch line of a thousand jokes, many of them
focussing on the size of his equipment. Rumour had resulted
in overnight growth of the object in question to truly
superheroic proportions.
     `It will be interesting to see it in person.'
     `We are still going to Brighton, then?'
     `Yes, as soon as I finish at Dr Esterhazy's.'
     `Our undercover agent has made contact with the no-name
sidekick. They have met twice already and have arranged to
meet again tonight. We have also infiltrated someone into
his family circle.'
     `Good work, Philip. Arrange suitable rewards for our
men in Brighton.'

*
     `I can't leave you for a minute and you get into
trouble. Let me see the outfit your mother bought.'
     `It's in the top drawer. I think it shrunk in the
laundry when I cleaned it.'
     `I bet you used hot water again, didn't you? How many
times have I told you these fabrics are delicate. They have
to be washed at low temperatures, no bleach, no strong
detergents, soft soap only. This is it?' Bert held the
garments up against his body, measuring them for size.
     `Yes, the jersey and the cape match the tights.'
     `Your mother gave you these to wear?' Burt licked his
lips. `They would be tight on me, let alone someone as big
as you. In fact, Henry, can I have these? I can put these to
good use. I've met this great guy. He'll really like me in
these.' Burt smiled in anticipation of a repetition of the
previous night's acrobatics.
     `That's another thing, Bert. I thought we were a team,
and now you're seeing someone else.'
     `Henry, Henry. I told you right from the start, an open
relationship. Didn't I tell you an open relationship?  I
never promised you would be the only one. We have an open
relationship. Superhero and sidekick with benefits. William
is fun, and he takes me to expensive places. He makes me
laugh. He makes me feel, I don't know, like there's sparks
flying between us. Do you know what I'm talking about?'
     `That's how you make me feel.'
     `Oh, Henry. What am I going to do with you?' Bert
regarded Henry with tolerant amusement. `Come here, big guy.
Let Bertie work a little magic.'
     `No, you've got William to do for you now.'
     `Henry! Come here. You know you want it. Come on. Sit
down on the bed where I can put my arms around you. That's
better. Now lie back. Relax. Just let Bertie take care of
everything.' Bertie sighed to himself. It took so much
energy just to keep Henry fired up and the Rock in action.
No one at the Training Centre had told him that Henry had
self-esteem problems. If he had known what it would be like,
he would have accepted the position with the Huntington Fox.
God, the legs on that guy. Of course, the Fox hadn't lasted
long against the EMG. A short chase, a few jumps, and the
EMG had his tail. But he had opted for Henry because he
wanted the Brighton lights. Henry was a good lad, his heart
was in the right place, and he did have the power (and the
other evening had been stupendous), but he was a bit naive
and simple. Wouldn't last a minute on his own without Bert
to look after him.
     `There, now, doesn't that feel good?'
     `It's ok.'
     `Just ok? To judge from the bulge, you seem to be
enjoying it. What if I do this?'
     `Hmmm.'
     `Just relax, Henry, just close your eyes and relax.
You're safe in Bertie's hands now. Just relax.'
     `Oh, Bertie, that feels so good.'
     `Just relax, Henry. Remember last time, and how you
relaxed so completely and then I gave you the deep, deep,
penetrating massage. Would you like me to do that again?'
     `Please, Bertie.'
     `All right, Henry. Good, you fixed the squeak in the
bed. You won't have to worry that we're disturbing your
mum.'
     `Arghhhh.'
     `Henry, if you roar like that, the whole neighbourhood
is going to be disturbed.'
     . . . . . . . .
     `See, you enjoyed yourself. You feel better now, don't
you?'
     `How can you tell?'
     `You're singing. You always sing when you've had a good
time.'

*
     `Ah, Sir Simon. Everything is ready for you.'
     `Thank you, Doctor.' Sir Simon watched the trainee
through the observation window. The newspapers were no
longer giving the story front-page treatment, but they still
occasionally ran a story on the young man's sudden
disappearance.  Perhaps it had not been wise to abduct
Antonio Arcangelo, the sensational new striker for the Loch
Nessies. There had been a lot of publicity. But the moment
he had seen that boyish look, those curly black locks draped
artlessly over his forehead, the firm mouth, the supple
athletic body, he had lusted to harvest the lad. And he was,
after all, the EMG, and he got what he wanted, always. The
police had confessed that they were baffled by the lack of
evidence. Antonio had gone missing from his hotel room the
night before the big game with United. The absence of the
teams' star was not noted until several hours later when he
failed to show up for the game. An added bonus had been the
Nessies' loss to Unified. Sir Simon had made a lot of money
on that game. It had looked as if the Nessies would win
against Unified on the strength of Antonio's skills, and the
betting had run heavily in their favour.
     For the last three weeks, the doctor had been
subjecting Antonio's body and mind to chemical stimulants
designed to lower his resistance to the barrage of
suggestions that filled his ears during every waking moment.
Now, the trainee lay in a stupor on the examination table,
waiting for the conversion. His entire body felt heavy, too
heavy to move. Even his thoughts felt heavy and sluggish.
His past was dim. Antonio felt that something important was
about to happen, but he couldn't seem to focus on it very
much. The images flickered in and out of his mind. The
moment he caught at a thought, he slipped away into a
dreamless state, where shadowy white-clad figures glided in
and out of his sight. When he could arrange his thoughts in
some sort of order, he suspected that he had been injured in
a game and was being treated in hospital.
     A dark figure came into his field of vision and blocked
most of the light. It felt good to be out of the harsh
light. Antonio was dimly conscious of hands reaching out to
his forehead and cool fingers rubbing the areas beside his
eyes. A calming circular motion. All he wanted to do was
just to relax. It felt so good just to relax and close his
eyes. He took a deep breath, the muscles of his stomach and
chest swelling, and then he let it out slowly and relaxed.
His eyelids were so heavy, all he wanted to do was close
them and just relax and go deeper and deeper. Down further
and further. His entire body floating, weightless, stripped
of all concerns, so warm, so comfortable, so safe, so
relaxed. Feelings of peace and serenity filled his mind. He
felt so good. He had never felt better in his life. The more
he relaxed and opened his mind, the better he felt. And he
felt so good. And he felt better and better the more he
relaxed and opened his mind.
     There was a chalkboard filled with the details of the
life of someone named Antonio Arcangelo. The dark figure
picked up an eraser and slowly erased all the writing on the
chalkboard. Then he took a wet cloth and wiped away even the
dust of Antonio's life. Antonio had ceased to be. The
chalkboard was empty. He felt so much better now freed of
all of burden of the past, empty, the chalkboard pristine,
waiting to be written on. He just let go. No more Antonio.
No more anything. Just empty and obedient.
     Obedient to Sir Simon. Tony was Sir Simon's servant.
Tony had always been Sir Simon's servant. It felt so good to
be Sir Simon's servant. He existed to serve and please Sir
Simon and only Sir Simon. Totally obedient to Sir Simon. It
felt so good to serve and to please Sir Simon. Sir Simon was
the centre of his life. Sir Simon was the master, the owner,
Sir Simon's pleasure the sole concern of his life.
     Sir Simon was deep inside his mind, and Tony felt so
good. He had never felt better. He felt even better when Sir
Simon controlled him and reached inside his mind and made
him feel so good.  The power of Sir Simon's orgasms, the
pleasure that only Sir Simon could bring him. Now he must
sleep. Sir Simon wanted him to sleep. He must sleep, and
when he awoke, he wouldn't be sick any more. He would be
back to normal, and he would return to his duties as Sir
Simon's servant. He had always been Sir Simon's servant,
proudly wearing Sir Simon's livery of a black jockstrap.

*
     `I thought we could go for a drive this morning. Help
me take the top off the car.'
     `Super, William. It will be nice to get away from
Brighton for a change.'
     As Bert had anticipated, William had been appreciative
of the Rock outfit when he had put on it the night before.
Most appreciative, in fact.
     `We can drop in on a friend of mine who's staying at
the Carleton. I'm sure Sir Simon will invite us to lunch.'
     Bert liked the sound of `Sir' Simon and lunch at the
Carleton. He was sure that on what the Ministry paid him, he
couldn't afford to order a glass of water at the Carleton.
The wind blowing through the car made it impossible to talk,
but he loved the way it ruffled his hair. He was sure that
he would look even more alluring than usual when they
arrived at the Carleton. The dishevelled hair, the dark
stubble on his unshaven face. The slightly dissolute pout he
had practiced for so long in the mirror that added a slight
threat of menace to his boyish looks. His dancer's body with
its agile promise. If Sir Simon was an friend of William,
perhaps they shared certain interests. A meal ^Å trois at the
Carleton. He could grow accustomed to that.
     And, in the event, it was more than he dreamed
possible. Simon had been so friendly and made him
immediately feel at ease. He reminded Bert of someone else.
Not in manner, but in looks. He couldn't figure out who
Simon looked like. He certainly didn't know anyone that
suave and elegant.
     Simon ordered lunch for the three of them and had it
served on the balcony of his suite on the top floor of the
Carleton. The balcony looked out over the sea, and they had
complete privacy. After the waiters cleared away lunch, Bert
leaned on the parapet and gazed out across the Channel. It
was a perfect day. The blue sky was mirrored in the great
grey-blue ocean, the French seacoast was a dim brown and
green smudge on the horizon. A few white puffy clouds
floating in the distance were echoed in the white sails of a
boat that skimmed along offshore. When William excused
himself to make a few phone calls, he was left alone with
Simon.
     When Simon stood next to him on the balcony, he could
almost feel the heat from his body. It was so flattering to
have such a handsome, obviously successful man interested in
him. Bert subtly shifted his weight so that his buttocks
jutted out at what he knew was an attractive angle. When
Simon touched him on the wrist, Bert felt a wave of pleasure
flow up his arm and then through his body. `I could use a
bright, good-looking lad like you in my organization, Bert.'
     `I've already a job, Sir Simon.'
     `Simon, just plain Simon. No need for formality. Come
inside and we can discuss this. I'm sure I can make you an
offer you can't refuse.'
     Bert sat next to Simon on the couch. Simon gently
stroked the back of his neck. `William tells me that you are
the Brighton Rock's assistant.'
     Bert felt so warm and comfortable. `Yes, he depends on
me. He's a bit of a duffer.'
     `I wonder how much job security there is for you in
working with the Rock. He hardly seems destined to last
long, given all the negative publicity he's been attracting
lately. You don't want to be associated with someone like
that. It could affect your future job prospects if an
employer thought you were a participant in his perversions.'
     Simon's touch was so wonderful. Just that light
stroking of his neck, that wonderfully sensitive spot
beneath the ear. No one had ever touched that spot with so
much finesse. It felt as if his entire body was floating in
the air. He had never felt so aroused yet so light.
     `It's an important job, though. At the Ministry of
Superheroes, they are relying on the Rock to bring the EMG
to justice.'
     Simon smiled. It was such a lovely smile. Bert would do
anything for another one of those smiles. `But how much time
does the Rock have left? The EMG has defeated every
superhero the Ministry has sent against him. He has a room
filled with the trophies chronicling his victories over
them.'
     `How do you know that?' Bert had never felt so certain
that the Rock was doomed. He was hopeless. Better to get out
while he could. He didn't want to end up a trophy in the
EMG's collection.
     `I've seen it. I can show it to you. You will enjoy
seeing it.'
     `Yes, I would like that.'
     `You will enjoy it very much. It will be the greatest
pleasure in your life.'
     `Yes, the greatest pleasure in my life.'
     Simon placed a hand on either side of Bert's face and
drew him close. Bert's lips parted as Simon kissed him and
sent a wave of oblivion through his mind. Bert would float
in a sea of wonderful dreams during the entire trip to Dr
Esterhazy's laboratory.
     Simon smiled again as he surveyed the sidekick's limp
body. He loved his life. No other profession offered such
rewards. Whatever he wanted was his. Tomorrow, he thought.
Tomorrow, I will add the Rock to my collection. Today, he
would treat himself to Philip and the two guards, perhaps
even the chauffeur, and then a swim in the ocean before
dinner. It would be the perfect start to the weekend.

*
     `Mum, they've got Bert. The EMG has got Bert.'
     The Rock held up a piece of paper that had been lying
on the floor of the front hall. Someone had stuck it through
the mail flap during the night. In letters cut out of
magazines, it proclaimed in lurid type: `If you want to see
Bert before I warp his mind, be on the beach at Selsey at
midnight. Come alone. Do not alert the police. Follow
instructions or Bert will suffer the consequences. The EMG.'
     `Ignore it, Henry, it's just a joke. Some kids pulling
your leg. Bert will show up any moment.'
     `He didn't call yesterday. I didn't hear from him. Mum,
the EMG has kidnapped Bert. I've got to rescue him.'
     `Bert's not reliable. You said so yourself. He's
probably taken off for a long weekend with this new friend
of his. This William, he was telling me about. He's very
keen on his pleasures, is our Bert. In any case, how do you
know the note is real? It could just be a hoax designed to
lure you into danger or some newspaper's stunt to get more
pictures.'
     `I can feel the evil in the note, Mum. It's got the
aura of evil, it's got the bad vibes, the malevolent
emanations. Only the EMG could leave so much evil in a piece
of paper.'
     `Son, if the EMG has Bert, he would have one of his
many minions prepare the note. You wouldn't sense anything
but servitude. The EMG's too important to waste his time
cutting letters out of magazines. You're imagining things.
That's your problem. Too much imagination. Not enough common
sense.'
     `Fine. Don't believe me. At least I thought I could
count on you, Mum. Everybody is deserting me and turning
against me.'
     `Son, I don't like your tone. You're not too old for a
spanking. I still have your father's belt.'
     As always, Henry felt contrite at upsetting his mother.
`I'm sorry, Mum. I've just been under a lot of tension
lately. What with the press bothering me and the pickets
outside the house and all.'
     `That's no excuse for such behaviour, Henry. To think
that at my age, my own son would accuse me of deserting him.
Your father and I worked hard all our lives to provide for
you, and this is the thanks I get.' His mother slammed her
cup down so hard on the table that tea splashed the
tablecloth. `Now look what you've made me do.'
     `I'm sorry, Mum. You're probably right. It's just a
hoax.'
     `Probably? I am right,' Mrs Colson declared fiercely.
`You mark my words, Son. Bert will turn up tonight, singing
his head off. Now lift your plate and glass of milk so I can
remove this cloth. I want to soak it before those stains
set.'

*
     Luckily, Mrs. Colson had arranged to show the visitor
from the north around Brighton on Saturday evening, and
Henry had been able to leave the house without her quizzing
him about where he was going. His mother had taken the car,
however, and he had had to take the bus to Selsey. The
village of Selsey was almost surrounded by beach, and he had
no idea where he was supposed to wait. So at 11:55 he stood
near the tip of the peninsula. The lights of Selsey
shimmered in the water, and he could hear an occasional
burst of laughter from someone's television. The slap of
waves against the moored boats only served to emphasize the
silence. A few late revellers walked the beach, and a
friendly dog had approached him for a sniff. He opened his
mind and searched for the sensation that he felt whenever he
was in the presence of evil. There was nothing. Perhaps his
mother had been right. At 12:30, he abandoned the effort. It
had been a hoax. At least he wasn't dressed in the Rock
costume. The newspapers wouldn't have a picture of him being
embarrassed.
     The last bus had left hours ago. He could either walk
to Bognor Regis and try to find a  room at this late hour or
spend the night on the beach and return in the morning.
Somehow the thought of being alone seemed preferable. He
hoped the police didn't check the beach at night. He'd
better find a sheltered spot.
     `Good evening.'
     Henry gave a start. He hadn't heard or felt the man
approaching. That in itself was unusual. Usually he felt
something from everyone he passed. He must have been so lost
in thought that his antennae were turned off.
     `Hello.' Even in the dim light on the beach, it was
apparent that the man was attractive. He was almost as large
and tall as Henry. For once Henry was not looking down at
the person he was talking with. There was, he discovered, an
unfamiliar feeling of pleasure from looking another human
being directly in the eye. The other man's dark hair gleamed
in the moonlight, and his eyes flashed as they caught the
light. At least it wasn't the EMG. There was nothing but
goodwill and kindness emanating from the stranger. `A nice
evening for a walk on the beach. Do you come here often?'
     `No, it's my first time. And you.'
     `My first time also. I am just visiting the area and
thought a walk in the night air would help clear my head.
I'm staying at the Carleton Crest.'
     `Never been there. A bit above my means.'
     The stranger smiled. `My name is Simon Lucas, by the
way. If you don't mind some company on your walk, perhaps I
could accompany you for a distance.'
     `Henry Colson.'
     `Your face is familiar, Mr. Colson. Have we met
before?'
     Henry stared at Simon Lucas as the two of them walked
close to a light on the pier. `You also remind me of
someone, Mr. Lucas. I can't quite think who.' Henry was very
conscious of the stranger's closeness, the way his muscular
legs stretched the fabric of his jeans, the easy fit of his
coat over his wide shoulders. Simon Lucas smiled and offered
Henry a hand as he stepped up onto the seawall.
     When Simon sent a small tingle of pleasure into Henry,
his intent was to lull Henry and begin the seduction that
would end with Henry in his bed at the Carleton and then
under transport to Dr Esterhazy's. Henry reacted without
thinking to the invasion. He sent a wave of pleasure back
into Simon.
     The two of them gasped in surprise. It was the first
time in their lives that either had experienced the
sensations they could cause in others. Simon looked
quizzically at Henry. The two were still holding hands. He
send a stronger wave of pleasure into Henry, and Henry's
response left him gasping.
     `You . . .'
     `I never . . .'
     The two embraced in a frenzy of delight. Each sent
energy into the other's pleasure centres, in an escalating
orgy of sensations. It wasn't until every dog in Selsey
began barking that they became conscious that they were
standing on a public street. Already householders were
beginning to turn on lights and pull back curtains to see
what was upsetting the dogs.
     `We are causing a disturbance in the farce. My hotel is
just a few minutes' walk.' Simon pointed eastward along the
beach. Henry could only nod his assent. He felt so short of
breath and dizzy. He followed Simon along the cliff path. To
his right, the waves from a distant storm far out in the
Atlantic began pounding the beach and roared over the
shingle, disturbing the quiet of the peaceful English
countryside. The foam glittered white against the shale as
it surged up the beach and then retreated. Henry was dimly
conscious of entering a brightly lit area and then getting
into an elevator with Simon. When they were alone in the
elevator, Simon touched him and they exchanged sparks,
laughing with their newfound delight.
     Simon locked the door after them. The two tore off
their clothes and began exploring each other's body, testing
the pleasures only each could give the other. When Henry
formed a mental image of a column deep in Simon's mind and
began sending concentric bands of energy up and down it,
Simon knew that at long last he had found his superhero.
     Hours later, as they lay exhausted in bed, Simon idly
explored Henry's mind. It was an ineffable pleasure for
Henry to open his mind with complete trust and let Simon
wander through it. The two of them were locked in a mind
meld.
     `You have very strong feelings for your mother.'
     `Yes, she's a wonderful woman.'
     `I never knew my mother. She died when I was born. I
was raised by my father.'
     Henry suddenly felt all of Simon's loneliness and knew
the pains of a small, unloved child brought up in a cold
household.
     `But that's terrible.' Thoughts of his own loving
parents arose in his mind.
     `Oh, that is so wonderful. I had no idea. I would like
to meet your mother.'
     `I can't wait to introduce you to mum. She'll be so
pleased that I finally found someone.'

*
     Sir Simon's Rolls Royce blocked the entrance to Upper
Crescent street. It was too wide to make its way down the
narrow street. The arrival of the expensive motorcar had
attracted immediate attention, and curtains had twitched as
people had peeked out at the distinguished-looking stranger
the Colson boy had brought home. The residents of Upper
Crescent suddenly found reasons to be in the street and to
stroll slowly past the Colson home.
     `Henry, I need you to run to the store to get milk.'
     `We've got milk, Mum.'
     `Henry, I want to talk to our guest alone. Run, no,
don't run, walk to the store to get a pint of milk. Take the
money from my purse. Take your time. I need an hour to speak
with Simon.'
     She and Simon waited without speaking until they heard
the door close behind Henry. Mrs Colson stood up and watched
him walk down the street.  When Henry turned the corner, she
pulled the drapes and sat down opposite Simon. `Was your
father Sir Henry Lucas?'
     `Yes, but how do you know that?'
     `Do you have a port-wine birthmark shaped like a dagger
on the inside of your right thigh?'
     `I used to. I had it removed by laser surgery.'
     Mrs Colson gasped, and her eyes watered. She reached
beneath an end table and pulled out a photo album. `In my
youth, I was a singer. I performed at several clubs in
London, appeared in reviews, that sort of thing. I never
became famous, but people were beginning to notice me.' She
opened the album and quickly thumbed through the pages.
`This is your father and me.' His father had his arms around
a scantily clad showgirl that was obviously a younger
version of the woman seated opposite Simon.
     `Your father and I were close friends for a while. Very
close friends. Then something happened, and I had to quit
the stage for several months. Your father took care of me
and arranged for the hospital and everything.'
     `What happened?' Simon had begun to suspect the answer.
     `I became pregnant. I only saw Ralph, that was what I
called the baby, briefly. Your father told me that he had
arranged for an adoption, and the baby was taken away from
me after a few days. But apparently, he decided to raise
Ralph himself. You must have seen the resemblance between
Henry and yourself.'
     `My name is Ralph? Henry and I are brothers? But Dad
told me, he told my mother had died giving birth to me.'
     `Half-brothers, you would be. . . . Tell me, do you
have certain mental powers?'
     `Yes, I'm just like Henry. I can reach inside other
people's minds and influence them.'
     `Oh, son!'
     `Mummy!'
     In his excitement, Simon let loose a great burst of
energy. To his astonishment, the woman he had just
discovered was his mother deflected the burst and sent it
back against him. `You, too?'
     `Well, neither of you inherited your powers from your
fathers. Both of them were nice men, but not particularly
talented. Well that's not quite right. They were not
completely untalented.' She smiled to herself before
gathering herself together again. `Now see here. Henry
doesn't know about me, and you are not to tell him. Your
powers and Henry's were diluted by your father's genes. I
have the powers in full. I've hidden my abilities from him,
so that I could protect him without injuring his pride. It
would destroy what little self-confidence he has if he found
out that half the superheroic deeds he's performed have been
my doing. So you keep your mouth shut about it or I'll give
you whatfor. Now, does Henry know that you're the EMG.'
     `How did you know that?'
     `Son, a mother knows. Now you and Henry have a bit of a
thing going, don't you? What's the matter? You look
shocked.'
     `Oh no, I just realized. We committed incest. I thought
I had found my soul mate and instead I shacked up with my
brother.'
     `Well, at least you won't have to worry about the
children being born with two heads.'
     `But why didn't you and my father get married?'
     `We came from two different worlds. Could a chorus girl
from Brighton find happiness as the wife of the rich and
titled Sir Henry Lucas?  NO, no, your father and I agreed
that it was better to part.' She raised a hankie to wipe a
tear from her eye. `Is that your car down the street?' The
sudden shift to her adamantine mode stunned Simon. He nodded
yes, unable to speak. `I want you to get into it and drive
away. I'll tell Henry a story. And you're to send that fool
Bert back unharmed. I need some time to think how to handle
this.'
     `But now that I've found you and Henry, I want to be
with you.'
     `Oh, I'll be in touch, Ralph, or Simon, or whatever you
call yourself. You can be sure of that. We just need to step
back and think how best to proceed. Henry's belief in
goodness won't survive finding out that you are the EMG, and
I can tell that you would be unwilling to give up your posh
lifestyle and settle down in Brighton. Now go. I want you
out of Brighton before Henry comes back.'
     Suddenly she turned the full brunt of her
protectiveness of Henry upon Simon. He fled.

*
     Simon was in the mood for a dark and stormy night.
Nature, however, was not cooperating. He stood on the
terrace that ran along the back of his house. The perfect
reflection of the moon in the waters of his lake was
unruffled by the faint cool breeze scented with the smell of
new-mown grass. In his forest all was calm, even the night
hunters were quiet. Predators and prey seemed wrapped in a
unnatural truce. In the distance a lamb baaed for its
mother. What a pathetic fallacy, he thought. Fallacy led by
a short route to phallus. He couldn't get Henry's image out
of his mind. Everything reminded him of his newfound
brother. And Mommy dearest, he mustn't forget her. She had
abandoned him seemingly without a second's thought when he
was a week old. Now all she could think about was Henry's
happiness. What about his? Did he mean nothing to her? No
wonder father had not married her. Probably discerned the
cold-hearted gold digger beneath those overdeveloped--well,
at least he knew from whom Henry had inherited his pecs.
Those luscious, ripe, hard . . . oh, god. He was the EMG, he
couldn't fall for the first superhero to come along with
mental powers equal to his own. Come--oh how Henry had
gushed. He had thought the man would never stop. That shy
little smile. That cute little dimple on his left cheek that
had appeared whenever he shifted his weight onto that leg.
     Did life hold no more pleasures for him?  Was evil no
longer to be his good? Could he, the vilest, most malevolent
criminal mastermind ever to own the United Kingdom, not to
mention Calais and the historic duchy of Brittany, several
islands in the Caribbean, and a complete collection of all
the Toby mugs ever manufactured, find happiness only in the
arms of a superhero from Brighton? The trust with which
Henry had let him roam through his mind. He had had no
shields. It was so seductive to be trusted so utterly. To be
exposed to so much goodness. He could have crushed Henry
then. Ground the Brighton Rock into a powder. But he had
held back. Was he developing a sweet tooth? Was he being
tempted by Henry's elemental goodness? Was the EMG's career
over? Would he devote the rest of his days to good works to
make amends for all the misery he had caused? Rushing home
at the end of the day to spend the evening in the arms of
his beloved superhero in a rose-covered shepherd's cottage
on a country lane, with no mod cons?
     A smile played across Sir Simon's mouth as surveyed the
superb scene before his eyes. Not likely, he thought. Not
bloody likely. He must remind Philip in the morning to order
a new plaque for the display case. For a moment he thought
about waiting until after his victory over the Rock to
inscribe the date. But that struck him as a cowardly
admission that the Rock's defeat could ever be in doubt.
     Next Sunday's date would do, July 15. With the dawn
wind, the hawk would rise into the air, circling about,
until it spotted its prey. The hunter would plummet through
the air, grasp the fluffy little pink bunny wabbit in its
razor-sharp talons and soar into the sky, the rising sun its
sole companion in the blue empyrean.
     He would set up the meeting. The sidekick could be the
messenger after he had finished programming him.

(to be continued)