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  He was already running toward her again. Planting her feet, she hit him with a tremendous uppercut, sending him flying high up toward the mesosphere. Taking off into the air herself, she flew not after him, but across town. With a quick mental calculation to determine that she was in the right spot to intercept his downward arc, she looked up and waited for him. Behemoth was shooting toward the ground like a meteorite. With a roundhouse swing, All American Girl hit him once more, this time sending him flying over Lake Michigan. She took off again. She could only manage about three hundred miles per hour, but that was quick enough to follow him to his landing spot, just southeast of Sturgeon Bay.

  Stopping to stand in mid-air, All American Girl waited for Behemoth to surface, and he did, briefly, mostly just to gasp and gag before descending again. After another twenty seconds or so, he came up once more.

  “I can’t swim!” he shouted. “Help me ::gurgle::”

  Diving down, Stella found him about fifty feet below the surface, thrashing around for all he was worth. Grabbing him by the back of his collar she pulled him up until they were both above the surface of the water and she flew back to Chicago.

  “Thanks,” said Behemoth.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Are you taking me to jail now?”

  “Yup.”

  “Oh. Man, I was only out for a week.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I was going to use the money from the bank to get a couple of girls…”

  “Again—TMI.”

  “Oh.” The supervillain was quiet for a moment. “Would you send me one of your posters?”

  “Eww, No! I’ll tell you what,” said Stella. “I’ll make sure you get a poster of Skygirl.”

  * * * * *

  Chicago Apartment;

  West Madison Street;

  Stella stretched out across the white sofa and used the remote control to turn on the TV. The screen flashed the “scanning for channels” message before settling on the face of female anchor Tanya Everson.

  “… and in a related story, lawyers for photographer Sterling Walsh announced that they intend to file suit against All American Girl for threats made against his life.”

  The picture changed to a headshot of a pinch-nosed man in a suit, presumably Walsh’s attorney. He held up a picture of All American Girl hovering in the air and pointing in the general direction of the camera.

  “We have photographs of the event and numerous witnesses to threats that were made.”

  “All American Girl was unavailable for comment,” said Tanya, as her face returned to prominence on the screen.

  “That’s probably because she was busy capturing Behemoth,” said male anchor Bill Drake.

  “You could be right Bill,” Tanya said, smiling at him. “You could be right.”

  Stella thought Tanya had a thing for Bill, but he was married.

  The phone rang, this time sounding decidedly tinny, as Stella had taped its fractured parts together with duck tape. It was sitting on the arm of the sofa just above the broken remains of the end table.

  “Hello,” she said, after touching the speaker button.

  “Stella baby! Irving loves how you do your thing! Irving says go get a supervillain and what do you do? You go get a supervillain! Irving said it before baby, you got mad skills.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Irving just wonders if you could have waited for the news crew to get set up.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay baby. Just something to think about for next time. Irving couldn’t be happier.”

  “You’re not mad about me threatening that guy?”

  “Any publicity is good publicity,” said Irving. “Besides, no one really cares if you have to kill a few gunrunners or sleazy photographers.”

  “So, how is the magazine deal?”

  “Irving has a meeting at Hatchet the day after tomorrow. And get this, WEC called and they want to print up a new series of posters based on the pictures that yahoo photographer took. That’ll bring in 50K, minus Irving’s twenty eight percent.”

  “That’s good. I can buy a new end table.”

  “A solid gold end table, baby! Or you know, one with some gold on it—a little spot of gold. Is there anything else that you want Irving to…”

  Stella pressed the button to hang up the phone. Life was good. Too many supers had to work a day job. Between endorsement deals and posters, her income was going to top $250,000 this year. Not quite up to Captain Hero or Ultrawoman levels, but not bad. If she could only get a shoe deal, or breakfast cereal, that would be great.

  * * * * *

  Southside Office Building;

  Conference Room;

  Professor Destruction looked around the conference table at the five men facing him. They looked back with varying levels of interest.

  “Chicago’s very own super vixen has put our dear old friend Behemoth away,” he said. “It’s his third strike, so he’ll probably get life.”

  “Behemoth is a bloody idiot,” said Plague Drone, his British accent thick. “It is probably better for us if he’s off the street. At least that way he won’t be stumbling into our business.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” said Destruction, his voice silky smooth. “The point isn’t that Behemoth isn’t a complete idiot. The point is that All American Girl is a formidable foe. She’s more than a match for any of us.”

  “She’s more than a match for any one of us,” said Tiger Shark. “She’s no match for all of us put together.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Dark Energy. “We eliminate her and the entire Midwest is ours.”

  “You understand my plan,” said Destruction. “Once we are running the city, we set everything up just the way we want it. Long before the hero teams on either coast have a chance to dip their noses into our business, we’ll have our insurance policy in place”

  “The real question is,” said Dark Energy. “Which of us gets to do little Miss America?”

  “You can take charge of that,” said Destruction. “Who do you want to back you up?”

  Dark Energy looked from Plague-Drone who was picking his nose, to Magmaman, who was trying to get the melted chair unstuck from his backside.

  “I’ll take the Atomic Jack-o-Lantern.”

  The glowing, permanently grinning pumpkin head of the Atomic Jack-o-lantern nodded slowly. Though he never spoke, the creepy villain commanded a great deal of respect. Of all those at the table, he was the only one who hadn’t spent time in a maximum security cell.

  “Perfect,” said Professor Destruction. “You get rid of our hero girl. I can’t wait to see the headline: ‘Chicago mourns her own All American Girl’.”

  “While I’m getting rid of her, what are you going to be doing?” asked Dark Energy.

  “Oh, I have important work to do, implementing our aforementioned insurance policy. You see, through a bit of clever manipulation on my part, I’ve managed to liberate ten nuclear warheads in such a way that the U.S. Department of Defense isn’t even aware that they are gone. No superhero is going to risk a clash with us, with all of them placed strategically around the city.

  “Go ahead and play with your toys,” said Dark Matter, rising to his feet and signaling the Jack-o-Lantern. “We’ve got a superhero to kill.”

  Chapter Two

  “I want to get away. I want to fly awa-a-a-y. Yeah, yeah, yeah,” sang Stella, to herself. Not that anyone could have heard her. Stella O’Clare, better known to the world as All American Girl, was soaring through the skies over central Pennsylvania. Just below, she could see tiny little cars driving east and west on I-80. She loved flying. If it was for nothing but the fact that the cars looked like tiny little toys, she still would have loved flying. She was keeping an optimal altitude for looking at things on the ground—right around five thousand feet. Airline jets were well above her and birds, as it was not migration season, were well below her. The only thing she had to watch out for was the occasion
al small aircraft. She had passed one going in the same general direction that she was. She’d waved and the family inside; a man, a woman, and three children had all waved back. They probably didn’t know who she was. She had left her boots, gloves, and the rest of her star-spangled costume at home, wearing instead her little black dress and a sexy pair of black pumps.

  It was almost nine when she landed in Manhattan, setting down on west 47th street, a short block from Ditko’s. Ten or twelve pedestrians whipped out their cell phones and snapped pictures of her. They might not be too sure who she was without her costume either, but they knew she was a super. Spying a hot-dog vender twenty feet away reminded Stella that flying always made her hungry. In fact she was famished. She skipped over to the mustachioed vendor.

  “Eight dogs, no onions,” she ordered. “Just mustard, relish, dill pickles, cucumbers, chili peppers, and celery salt.”

  “I don’t got celery salt or cucumbers,” replied the man. “This ain’t Chicago, you know. Twenty four dollars.”

  Stella reached between her cleavage and pulled a wad of bills out of the little hidden pocket inside and just below the dress’s plunging neckline. She handed the man two twenties.

  “Oh, and give me an extra large papaya juice.”

  The man handed her back fourteen dollars, one of which she tossed into a large tip jar on top of the cart. Then she started down the street with a paper cup of papaya juice in one hand and a pyramid of hot dogs balanced in the other. By the time she reached Ditko’s, she had finished the entire meal and tossed the trash into a bin.

  Half a dozen spotlights were shooting up into the sky in front of Ditko’s, the hottest superhero nightclub on the east coast. Dozens of paparazzi were out front shooting pictures of everything they could, which wasn’t much. It was way too early for anyone who was really anyone to show up. Stella cut across the street and then back the other direction to do a little shopping. It wouldn’t do to be one of those who arrived before eleven. When she did finally return to walk across the red carpet, past the throngs of rubber-neckers and photographers, she had purchased a very nice necklace and a dozen pairs of shoes, all of which she had ordered shipped home.

  The bouncer at the door was nearly seven feet tall and five feet wide, and he looked like he was made of muscles and more muscles, with a few muscles thrown in. Stella could have crushed him with one finger and the look that passed across his face told her that he knew that too.

  “Good evening, All American Girl,” he said, as he pulled the rope aside and let her pass. Casting a quick look over her left shoulder at the line of people waiting to get in, Stella could make out half a dozen C and D grade supers mixed in with the normals.

  The throbbing music and flashing strobes made stepping into Ditko’s like stepping onto a spaceship. Stella threaded her way between those people who were trying to dance, those people who just wanted to be near the people who were trying to dance, and those people who were trying to hump the people who were trying to dance. It was tough going, and then some idiot stomped on her foot. And he was wearing his costume. Wearing his costume to a club. Lame, lame, lame. Stella grabbed him by the chin and pulled him close, squeezing his cheeks between her fingers.

  “Stay off my foot, Maxipad.”

  “That’s Maximan,” he said indignantly.

  “Whatever.” She tossed him aside, not stopping to watch him crash through a table, and then she continued to the bar.

  “What will it be?” asked the bartender when she got there.

  “A Manhattan—and don’t overdo the vermouth.”

  “Regular or super?”

  “Me or the drink?” she asked.

  “Either, um both.”

  “Super.”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  Stella looked the bartender over as he set about preparing her drink. He was a good-looking guy, no doubt about it, but she had always considered it too much trouble dating a normal. It might start out fine, but as soon as things moved into the bedroom… Who wanted to stay in control all the time? Clench your thighs together or thrust at the wrong moment and somebody was in the hospital, or worse. Of course supers always used the line “I don’t want my enemies to find you.” It wasn’t really true though. It just sounded better than “I might accidentally fracture your pelvis or break off your penis during foreplay.” Skyman had managed a relationship with Doris Drake for forty years, but that was the exception. Even so, they had never had a child, so who was to say just how intimate they were.

  “Here you go,” said the good-looking bartender, setting a martini glass the size of a small sink on the bar. It had a dozen cherries and a whole orange at the bottom.

  “Thanks,” said Stella, daintily picking it up and taking a drink.

  As she sipped, she felt a hand roughly fondling her ass. Without turning around, she threw her elbow back, hearing a satisfying crunch and feeling a body tossed across the room. But as she sat the massive drink back down, she felt a hand, and she could tell it was the same hand, on her ass again. This time she reached down and grabbed the wrist, and then turned around. She was holding the wrist and the hand was right there, but the person it belonged to wasn’t. The long noodle-like arm stretched across the room, winding in and around the club patrons. Pulling hand over hand like she was hauling in a rope, Stella dragged the owner of the elastic arm to her. He had a bright green and pink costume with the letters RSG in a circle above his heart.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Really Stretchy Guy.”

  “Hey, All American Girl. I didn’t recognize you with your street clothes on. You are looking mighty fine. It’s been what? Two, three years? At the international conference, right? Right? We were both on the natural disasters panel?”

  “Keep your hand off my ass.”

  “Right. Sorry. No hard feelings. Well, not many hard feelings. Semi-hard, I’d say. What do you say we get out of here? I’ve got a little place five minutes away. I mean, you know, five minutes for you, as the very hot chick flies.”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? I’m very limber. I stretch. All of me. Every single part.”

  “If you don’t get away from me, I’m going to tie your single part into the Gordian knot. And I know how to do it, because I went back in time once and saw the original.”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re stalking Perihelion, right? I heard he was going to be here tonight.”

  “Tonight? Here?” Stella’s stomach was suddenly turning over in her abdomen. “No, no, no.”

  “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know. Oh hey, there’s Robotica 17. I wonder if she’s as slutty as Robotica 16.”

  Stella didn’t hear any more. She was already winding her way back toward the door. She almost made it. She was just inside the front entrance, when he walked through the doorway, almost bumping right into her.

  Perihelion was the perfect specimen of a male superhero. He was tall and handsome, with perfect wavy blond hair, sparkling blue eyes and a chiseled jaw, and a muscular but not bulky body. He looked like he was made for that baby blue Italian suit he had on—of course that’s probably why he was their spokes-model.

  “Stella,” he said, startled.

  “Um, hello Perry.”

  “Um, how are you?”

  “Fine. I’m fine. You?”

  A heretofore unnoticed figure cleared her throat.

  “Oh, you know Meg, don’t you?”

  Forming the third corner of a now awkward triangle was a tall, lithe goddess. An enormous head of golden hair, not golden blond but golden, fell to an inch above the floor, and pupil-less golden eyes stared down unmercifully. Even more striking than either of these features was her silver skin, so smooth and so perfect. And either she was completely naked, or the clothing she had on was the same exact shade of silver as her skin and was so tight that it made no difference.

  “Hello Omega Girl,” said Stella.

  “A.G.” replied the silver goddess without enthusiasm. “And it’s Omeg
a Woman now. I just turned twenty one. Didn’t you see my double issue?”

  “No.”

  “It’s on every newsstand. It’s the number four magazine now.” She turned to Perihelion. “I see Dina over there. Meet us when you’re through.”

  “Dina?” wondered Stella, after Omega Girl… Omega Woman… had walked away.

  “Oh yeah. We’re supposed to meet Dynagirl and her new boyfriend. I keep forgetting his name.”

  “Black Comet. I saw a picture of them in Modern Protector, coming out of Studio DC.”

  “Oh yeah.” He smiled. “You still read that rag?”

  Stella shrugged.

  “You’re not leaving are you?”

  “I was just on my way out, yeah.”

  “Well, it was good to see you.”

  “Yeah.”

  As Stella stepped outside, the cameras began to flash, but she hardly noticed. She took a quick leap up into the air and was gone. Her head was spinning and it wasn’t from the Manhattan. Why tonight? Why did she have to come to New York tonight? Why did he have to be there tonight? She tucked and rolled and landed ten miles away in an ugly part of New York City, she didn’t know exactly where. There was a bar open thirty feet away. She stepped inside.

  The place was dark and dingy. There were two patrons, both staring down into their drinks, not looking up when she entered. The bartender was middle-aged, thick around the middle, but with the remains of a once good-looking face. He nodded bruskly to her.

  “Bourbon, straight up,” said Stella, taking a barstool. “Super-size it.”

  “We don’t do that here,” said the bartender.

  “Alright, then give me… um.” She fished a couple of Franklins from her cleavage. “Seventy-two of them.”

  “Seventy-two?”

  “Um, yeah. Or as many as this will buy.”

  The bartender unscrewed the cap from a bottle and set it in front of her. Stella picked it up and looked at the label. Old Hickory Bourbon. The face of the 1920s super Old Hickory, who had replaced Andrew Jackson on the label in 1937, grinned at her. She tilted the bottle back and gulped down the amber liquid, her eye catching the image on the TV as she did so. She recognized the face on the screen. It was Tanya Everson from Chicago TV News.