Super Man and the Bug Out | Page 8

the building. The man was only doing his job,
though. "Look, it's payday. I have to go see the Minister of Defense.
I've been doing it every month for years."
"I know that sir, but today is a special day. Perhaps you could return
tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow? My rent is due today, Sergeant. Look, what if I comm his
office?"
"Please, sir, that would be fine." The Sergeant looked relieved.
Hershie hit a speed dial and waited. A recorded voice told him that the
office was closed, the Minister at a special session.
"He's in session. Look, it's probably on his desk -- I've been coming
here for years; really, this is ridiculous."
"I'm sorry. I have my orders."
"I don't think you could stop me, Sergeant."
The Sergeant and his troops shuffled their feet. "You're probably right,
sir. But orders are orders."

"You know, Sergeant, I retired a full colonel from the Armed Forces. I
could order you to let me past."
"Sorry sir, no. Different chain of command."
Hershie controlled his frustration with an effort of will. "Fine then. I'll
be back tomorrow."
#
The building super wasn't pleased about the late rent. He threatened
Hershie with eviction, told him he was in violation of the lease, quoted
the relevant sections of the Tenant Protection Act from memory, then
grudgingly gave in to Hershie's pleas. Hershie had half a mind to put
his costume on and let the man see what a real super was like.
But his secret identity was sacrosanct. Even in the era of Pax Aliena,
the Super Man had lots of enemies, all of whom had figured out, long
before, that even the invulnerable have weaknesses: their friends and
families. It terrified him to think of what a bitter, obsolete,
grudge-bearing terrorist might do to his mother, to Thomas, or even his
old high-school girlfriends.
For his part, Thomas refused to acknowledge the risk; he'd was more
worried about the Powers That Be than mythical terrorists.
The papers the next day were full of the overnight cabinet shuffle in
Ottawa. More than half the cabinet had been relegated to the
back-benches, and many of their portfolios had been eliminated or
amalgamated into the new "superportfolios:" Domestic Affairs, Trade,
and Extraterrestrial Affairs.
The old Minister of Defense, who'd once had Hershie over for
Thanksgiving dinner, was banished to the lowest hell of the back-bench.
His portfolio had been subsumed into Extraterrestrial Affairs, and the
new Minister, a young up-and-comer named Woolley, wasn't taking
Hershie's calls. Hershie called Thomas to see if he could loan him rent
money.

Thomas laughed. "Chickens coming home to roost, huh?" he said.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Hershie said, hotly.
"Well, there's only so much shit-disturbing you can do before someone
sits up and takes notice. The Belquees is probably bugged, or maybe
one of the commies is an informer. Either way, you're screwed.
Especially with Woolley."
"Why, what's wrong with Woolley?" Hershie had met him in passing at
Prime Minister's Office affairs, a well-dressed twenty-nine-year-old.
He'd seemed like a nice enough guy.
"What's wrong with him?" Thomas nearly screamed. "He's the fricken
antichrist! He was the one that came up with the idea of selling
advertising on squeegee kids' t-shirts! He's heavily supported by private
security outfits -- he makes Darth Vader look like a swell guy. That
slicked-down, blow-dried asshole --"
Hershie cut him off. "OK, OK, I get the idea."
"No you don't, Supe! You don't get the half of it. This guy isn't your
average Liberal -- those guys usually basic opportunists. He's a zealot!
He'd like to beat us with truncheons! I went to one of his debates, and
he showed up with a baseball bat! He tried to hit me with it!"
"What were you doing at the time?"
"What does it matter? Violence is never an acceptable response. I've
thrown pies at better men than him --"
Hershie grinned. Thomas hadn't invented pieing, but his contributions
to the art were seminal. "Thomas, the man is a federal Minister, with
obligations. He can't just write me off -- he'll have to pay me."
"Sure, sure," Thomas crooned. "Of course he will -- who ever heard of
a politician abusing his office to advance his agenda? I don't know what
I was thinking. I apologise."

#
Hershie touched down on Parliament Hill, heart racing. Thomas's
warning echoed in his head. His memories of Woolley were already
morphing, so that the slick, neat kid became feral, predatory. The Hill
was marshy and cold and gray, and as he squelched up to the main
security desk, he felt a cold ooze of mud infiltrate its way into his
super-bootie. There was a new RCMP constable on duty, a turbanned
Sikh. Normally, he felt awkward around the Sikhs in the Mounties. He