Epilogue

by Nick Piers

October 27th, 2003. 7:00 PM.
Dear Mom,

Well, I’m back in Halifax, Mom. I’m writing in a diary on a regular basis, now. The Farmer let me stay for two months and help him around The Ranch. You know what the funny thing is? I still don’t even know his real name. It’s hard to think of the guy as anything but The Farmer, now. In fact, after two months of hanging out with him and working with him, it’s hard to picture him ever being Lord Powerhouse. I’m glad you or Frank won’t tell anyone. The Farmer’s been through enough as it is; I think he deserves his isolation. I’m amazed at how willing he was, allowing me to send these letters to you.

He let me read some of the other diaries in the cellar, too. You should have read some of the things people have gone through. Heroes, villains, monsters, even ordinary people have all visited The Ranch. Members of the Shatterpack have visited. They knew who he used to be and still spent some time there. Gabriel, you know the guy with the black wings? The mystic expert for the Shatterpack? Gabriel even stayed here for a day. He once wrote in his diary that it was good therapy for The Farmer. It was like being in permanent solitary confinement of his own choosing. Some guy named Crusader, claiming to be part of another super team called The Symposium, said that The Farmer had no intentions of going anywhere. I guess in that respect, they were right.

I left all of my writings with The Farmer, maybe for other people to read, who knows. Hope you didn’t mind the photocopies of my original letters. I’m writing in a new journal book of my own that you sent me. I really liked the smell of the leather, even if it reminded me of the reins on Coletrain. Oh, Coletrain’s one of the horses that The Farmer let me ride.

It’s funny, I remember when I was young, and Dad tried getting me to ride a horse once. I can’t believe I remember freaking out about that. For years after that, I wouldn’t ride a horse. I just remember feeling the beast’s muscles around its midsection flex with every movement it made. For a five year old, that’s going to be a totally different feeling from a metal tricycle. But yeah, I remember I cried my eyes out, but Dad took me for ice cream afterwards, and everything was okay again.

Do you still think about Dad sometimes? I’ve been trying to remember little things about him all the time, now. Do you think you could send an old picture of him sometime? If Frank doesn’t mind, anyway. He and Dad were friends at one time, weren’t they?

I’m glad to know you weren’t disappointed to hear your son was a bad guy. You might be glad to know I’ve got an honest job now. It’s not much, but I’m working at the Y with some handicapped kids. It’s weird not missing the robotic arm or being XSF-44 anymore. That was a terrible name, anyway. The Tribunal hasn’t bothered me since they got their arm back. I hear that they were mighty pissed about having an Overbite suit trashed. Not sure what they’re going to do about it. I guess it’s The Farmer’s problem now, but I don’t think he breaks a sweat over anything.

Oh, here I am going on and on, but not telling you why I’m writing in the first place.

I went back to Castillo’s yesterday. You know, the bar where I found out about The Farmer in the first place. They were just cleaning up after a wrestling show that night. I walked right up to the bar, and ordered a bottle of Keith’s, just like last time. Some old fart was working the bar but I could see Tony was around, cleaning up.

“Good show tonight?” I asked the old guy. His nametag said “Norv”. Who the hell names their child Norv, anyway?

“Eh, it wasn’t so bad. The crowd loved the main event,” Norv told me.

“Cool.” I took a sip of beer. “Hey, is Tony busy at the moment?”

“Nah, we’ve got Eric doing a lot of cleaning.”

He nodded to a quiet teenager running around, doing various chores. I was surprised a kid that young could work in the bar. Then again, the police don’t normally come to the bar, unless it’s for the show, anyway.

Norv waved down Tony, who took over for the old guy’s bar duties. I noticed Tony was wearing a black and white striped referee shirt. He must ref some matches at the shows. Sure enough, I noticed in the background a couple of framed photographs from wrestlers and SPECs alike who were standing with Tony. The signatures all read “To the Greased Zebra”. I couldn’t help but snicker at that. His greased hair and referee shirt certainly gave that impression.

“You again?” Tony said with a raised eyebrow. “Look, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Not looking for any.”

I shrugged my right shoulder, showing the lack of a robotic arm. He eyed it for a moment and leaned in closer. “Helped you out, did he?” he asked.

I nodded, not really feeling like saying anything.

“How long were you there?” he asked.

“About two months. The place grows on you, I have to admit.” I took another swig of Keith’s.

“That it does.” He knowingly nodded.

“Wait,” I raised my eyebrows myself this time, “You’ve been there?”

“Sure, how do you think I knew where it was?”

Part of me couldn’t help but be surprised by that. He was just a lowly bartender, after all. Not to mention that he looked pretty well together.

“But, I mean, you look like you have it all together. What’d you need to go there for?”

“I lost my powers,” he said with a shrug.

“You’re a SPEC?”

“Was.”

“So, what was your other name?”

“Mutt. I had heightened senses like a dog or something. I could even talk to anything with canine blood, too. That was kinda fun. But I was more of a street-level hero. Maybe a level two SPEC at the most, if I was lucky.”

I can’t honestly say I’ve heard of him. But then, a lot of street-level SPECs aren’t well known. It’s those alien armada fighting heroes that make a lot of the news. The guys that bench press a bus are noticed more than the guys beating up thugs. Still, the idea of talking with dogs did sound kind of neat.

“How’d you lose your powers?”

“Oh, some magician took them for himself. I remember it had something to do with contacting an animal god of some sort. I’m kind of iffy on the details,” he shrugged, “He got himself killed a few weeks later, leaving me powerless for good.”

“Ouch. Sorry.” And I was. Having a robotic arm for a year as opposed to lifelong powers are two totally different things.

“Don’t be. But at the time, I was a wreck. I thought I didn’t have any senses at all. But then I heard about The Ranch. He took me in, showed me that ordinary human senses aren’t so bad.”

“Or relying on an artificial arm?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. Small world, huh?”

“Always has been, kid. Always has been.”

I finished my beer and left after that. I actually go to some of those wrestling shows once in awhile now, too. They’re pretty terrible compared to the stuff you see on TV, but they’re fun. Tony tells me about the “good old days” sometimes, just for the hell of it. Not that he had any big cosmic adventures or anything. He mostly just tells funny stories before, during or after a drug bust or something.

There’s another old guy here, Cadwell Warner that says he used to be a SPEC back in World War II. Now, he’s out of shape and dressing up in a stupid outfit, calling himself Captain Wonder. He’s a great guy and all, really. I shouldn’t really say anything bad about him. He tells some pretty good stories. He’s a funny guy. His wife even brings in a plate of cookies for the wrestlers.

Well, I should get to bed, Mom. I have to work in the morning. Tell Frank I said hi. Oh and here’s something I know I haven’t said to you in a long, long time.

Love you,
Christian