SO CRAZY IT MIGHT WORK

By Aaron Stanley and Hunter Lambright

Marcus was really starting to enjoy working on the Raft. He’d gotten into a routine these last few months, and was generally enjoying his duties week to week. He relished the walk from his apartment to the ferry every morning, seeing the other denizens of New York City that did the majority of their work before the sun rose. It was a New York that not many people saw. He saw the same people most mornings on his route to work. The delivery driver and the slinger that dropped off newspapers at convenience stores and newsstands, the street sweepers on Thursday, and as he got closer to the docks, other personnel from the Raft. On Monday’s, John and Marcus had begun the habit of getting together for coffee twenty minutes before the ferry loaded up and left.

As Marcus boarded the ferry, he bumped into a few guards he’d only met in passing. Jonathon had told him to keep away from them as best he could, mostly because they weren’t the friendliest, according to the older guard. Marcus had his own suspicions, but he kept them to himself, seeing as he was the new man on the block, and didn’t want any trouble. He looked out the window at the pre-dawn darkness, and he revelled in the smell of the water as the tug started to move. He looked back at New York City as it began to come awake. He relaxed for the rest of the trip to the super-max penitentiary, and got in line as they disembarked.

After a recent bust by some of the guards of a large amount of narcotics in a prisoner’s cell, the prison was on lockdown. In an effort to bust the smuggling ring, even the guards were being searched again, very thoroughly, as the practice had become very routine. Marcus didn’t really care, he was clean, and he had no plans to smuggle any drugs or other contraband into the prison.

He moved through the line, was patted down, x-rayed, and wanded,xthen allowed to continue into the prison. He meet up with John Forrester after the briefing. They’d been teamed up off and on for Marcus’ entire stay.

“How are you, John?” he asked, getting a cup, and pouring a cup of coffee. The briefing was still a few minutes away, as the guards for C block were still being screened.

“Not good. Remember that thing with Coyote?’ John asked the younger guard, referring to an incident in which he’d been approached by an organization to smuggle drugs.

“Yup.”

“Well, a drug similar, called Kick, is inside the prison, and we can’t find the source. The riot in the yard a few months back didn’t help. Was talking to the other chiefs, and if things don’t pick up, the Raft’s going to be put on permanent lockdown.”

Marcus shrugged. “Isn’t that a good thing. That’d stop the drugs, right?”

John nodded. “Yeah. But we can’t operate like that, the prisoners will eventually riot, full-on.”

Marcus looked right at the older man, a veteran of many riot at the Raft. “So, what are you saying John?”

“We’ve been asked, me and you, to find the drugs, and get them stopped, or there’s talk about cleaning this place up, and closing it down.”

Marcus thought about it for a few moments. “Okay. So how?”

“Well, I have a very good idea. Actually, I’ve got some very basic information. Had a con who was helping me with information but he’s dried up, been cut from the loop. What I have seems to indicate that it’s primarily one gang that’s getting the drugs in, and all the rest are getting the drug in trade. The biggest problem is that the con, who I think is the one in charge of the smuggling, is being released today,” John said. He started leading Marcus down the hallway, toward the small office for the chief guard.

“Can’t we stop the parole?”

“Unfortunately, no. Unless he commits a crime, or a small offence, he’s free,” John continued.

Marcus didn’t say much, as he followed Forrester into the small office. He looked around, and saw a few pictures on the wall. He pointed at one.

“Isn’t this a guard?”

“Yeah. I think he’s the one doing the muling. I took a hard run at him, asked some questions, but unfortunately, unless it’s an official investigation, I’m only able to do so much, and it can’t be an official investigation, or he’ll be tipped off,” John said, looking at the picture. “Lucas Brown is his name.”

C-block, cell 512

As he was being spoke of, Lucas Brown approached the cell of Clay, the man who was in fact spearheading the smuggling operation. He saw the guard, and went to the bars.

“What do you want, shit-head?” Clay asked the guard, who was looking around and seemed to be sweating profusely.

“I…Clay, they’re searching everyone, coming in and going out. I can’t keep doing this, they know, they know,” he whispered.

Clay smiled. “They don’t know. Just keep quiet, and everything’s going to be ok. I get out today, once I’m gone, they don’t have anything.”

Lucas looked around. “Clay, I have to tell them. I confess, then I can get a deal, I…” he began, but was cut off as Clay grabbed his neck, reaching out of the cell.

“You rat, and you’ll be dead in a week. I’ll tell the other gangs that you’re going to cut them off, and then tell the warden you’ve been muling. You’ll never be safe in here, and go to jail somewhere else. And cons will just love you, won’t they?” Clay said, smiling.

Every day held something new for Maureen Lyszinski.

On her first day, she had counseled a woman with extendable limbs and an insistence on continuing a behavioral path that had proven to produce an inferiority complex. On the second day, she had talked to a man with fins instead of feet who had to be rolled into her office in a tank of water and a speaker-box translator as his words bubbled soundlessly to the surface. On the third day, she had been given special earplugs that would react at the first sign of an intense volume shift, just in case a sonic-powered villainess’ power-dampener malfunctioned during therapy.

Today, they brought in an adamantium chair and handed Maureen a fire extinguisher as they brought the man called Slag into her office in handcuffs. “Watch out for this one,” the guard said, hooking the cuffs to the chair. “We’ve got a dampener on him, but there’s a volcanic reaction powering his heart. Can’t turn that off unless we wanna kill him.”

Maureen nodded in silence, staring at the man in front of her. His patchwork, rocky skin rippled with every breath, and molten rock flowed between the patches. “Slag, right?” she asked, pulling out a fresh notepad and pursing her lips.

“Right.”

“Your file says that you’ve maintained your innocence ever since you got here,” Maureen noted. “Why is that?”

Slag growled. Thick, black smoke poured from his mouth and nostrils. “Because I am,” he muttered. “First night out with these powers, thought I’d be a vigilante. Stopped a bank robbery. Then bam! Police have me with the moneybags when I’m trying to return them.”

“Let’s say that this is how it went down,” Maureen said. “Why didn’t you leave the bags with the criminals?”

“Spider-Man has webs to tie ‘em up, so even if they wake up after he’s gone, they’re stuck until the police show up. I don’t. If they woke up, they’d walk off with the sacks of money. And besides, I was going to stick around, give my statement. Spidey screws it all up. Whenever there aren’t witnesses, the guys he ties end up going free,” Slag said. “All I wanted to do was be a better hero.”

“You want to be a hero, but your time here directly interferes with that. Still, you have a shortened sentence with the rising super-criminal incarceration rates since yours was a minor offense,” Maureen said, poring over the file. “But if that’s the case, why do you seem so down?”

Slag looked at her through volcanic, glassy eyes. “Because the longer I’m in here, the more I’m afraid I’ll become like them.”

“Them? Who’s them, Slag?”

“The villains. The real ones. Purple Man. Doctor Octopus. I don’t want to be the guy that I started out trying to stop,” Slag said, a trickle of magma sliding down his cheek from his tear ducts. “Can you help me, doc?

“All I wanna do is be a hero.”

“You want to pull conversion therapy to make these guys into heroes?”

The Redeemer stared at Mr. Think open-mouthed. “This was not what I intended when I threw in with you, Mr. Think. Being a hero is just as bad as being a villain. How often have heroes created the villains that they fight?”

“Too often,” Mr. Think responded. “But do you remember when the new, mech-Rhino showed up and caused a stir? Someone put him in here, but it wasn’t Spider-Man. We’re getting to a point with heroes who have been around so long that they can’t even take care of the foes that supposedly belong to them. And heroes are lauded here. Don’t these people deserve appreciation for their abilities?”

The Redeemer waved a hand across the Yard. “Look at them! Do you really think the Dementoid will ever be accepted as an Avenger? That Haymaker will ever be considered for the Medal of Valor? You have a responsibility to your friends. Don’t fill them with delusions.”

“I don’t think they’re delusions,” Mr. Think said. “Demolition Man is a viable superhero. So is Captain Ultra. If they can make it as vigilantes, at worst my friends can find jobs with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Redeemer balled his hands up into fists. “I can’t support this. I won’t support this. You and I will be finding ourselves in direct opposition to each other, Mr. Think.”

Mr. Think nodded. “This collar doesn’t dampen my intellect, Redeemer. I expected as much.” He sighed as the Redeemer stormed off across the yard in an almost comical fashion. “You will make the most delightful of arch-nemeses, my friend.”

Jerry Dahl wheeled the book cart down the special accommodations cell block, ready for his daily conversation with the Hippo. He whistled as the cart’s wheels rattled slightly on the concrete floor. He had loaded the cart up with a new selection of books and periodicals. This was the job he considered of utmost importance at the Raft. If the incarcerated couldn’t educate themselves, what hope would they have once they stepped outside their iron bars?

When Jerry reached the Hippo’s cell, he brought the cart to a screeching halt. “Hello?” he called into the dark cell, but it was a silly gesture. There was no way that the Hippo could be hiding his girth anywhere in the cell. Wherever he was, he wasn’t home.

Jerry’s heartbeat picked up. He looked at one of the inmates across the hall. “Hey, what happened to the Hippo?”

“Oh him? Warden came today. Had them lead him out of his cell. Packed his bags and everything,” the inmate said, a snide grin tracing its way up his cheeks. “Whassa’ matter? Nobody’s gonna miss that sack of lard in here, Jerry.” The inmate drew his name out a few beats too long.

“Screw you, jerk,” Jerry said. He rushed the cart of books down the hall, failing to stop at any of the cells. Whatever had happened to the Hippo, Jerry would find out.

The Warden sighed, staring into the hot cup of tea he had just brewed. Fifteen minutes. That was all the time he had to himself today between the time he got into work and the time he got out. He had grown accustomed to eating whatever fast food or takeout was ordered for him while doing the necessary paperwork and muting his chewing while making the necessary phone calls. His job was a necessary one, and he considered what little downtime he got all that much more necessary because of it.

In the same vein, unexpected interruptions and nuisances were also a necessary part of life, and today’s nuisance came in the form of Jerry Dahl.

“Warden, I need to speak with you now,” Jerry said, panic riding at the edge of his voice.

Julie, the secretary, was just a foot behind him, looking particularly harried and worried. “I’m sorry, sir, but he just ran right past me!”

The Warden set his teacup down, sighed once more, and indicated the empty chair in front of him to Jerry. “Go ahead, but be quick.”

Jerry remained standing, putting his hands on the back of the chair. “What happened to the Hippo?”

“Released this morning,” the Warden said. “I’m not entirely sure what about a routine prisoner release would cause so much chaos in your day, Mr. Dahl.”

“But…how? He still had another year, even with good behavior.”

The Warden chuckled. “You may get a kick out of this. It was all because of PETA.”

“PETA?”

“Yes, PETA. Their argument was that, because he was originally a hippopotamus, despite the fact that he has an essentially human intellect and has been given the rights that come with it, he is still an animal. They took custody of him earlier today and…well, it appears it was one of their more radical factions. They set him free. And a federal judge is backing them on this. It’s a damn shame, really, after all the effort we went to just to get a cell for a man of his, ah, talent,” the Warden said.

“So…that’s it, then? The Hippo is free? He’s just…gone?”

“That’s right, and if you’ll excuse me, my tea’s getting cold.” The Warden began to take a sip, but stopped as he saw the empty look in Jerry’s eyes. “Look, son. On your way out, talk to Julie. I’ll have her give you contact information.”

Jerry nodded, still grimacing. “Thanks, sir.”

The Warden checked his watch. He still had three minutes to enjoy his tea before the necessary functions of the prison took back over. So, of course, he spilled his tea down his front and spent those three minutes getting intimate with a wad of paper towels. Such was the life of the Raft’s warden.

The Yard

“So this is it?”

“This is it,” Mr. Think confirmed, looking at the ragtag group in the Yard. There were the ones he had expected, such as his friends Doctor Everything, the Dementoid, and Haymaker. There were those for whom the idea should have appealed naturally, like the vigilante who claimed he was wrongly imprisoned, Slag. And then, there were those who came out of right field, like Man-Bull and General Wolfram. Mr. Think knew he would need to find a way to infiltrate or set up a proxy in the women’s wing as well, but for now, he had a start.

“This may be more difficult than you thought.”

“Redeemer, my friend, if we work together, we can weather any difficulties,” Mr. Think said. “I’m glad you came around.”

“Someone had to stop you from sinking the Raft,” the Redeemer said, crossing his arms as he pouted.

“You can’t be all that mad,” Mr. Think said. “After all, I would hate to tell you that it’s only optimism that is keeping us afloat.”

“I instantly regret the metaphor,” Redeemer said, sighing.

Mr. Think shrugged, unable to hide his wry grin. “What can I say? I would continue, but I’m afraid I’d water down its potency.”

“They’re waiting on you,” the Redeemer said. “This is the informational session, like rushing a fraternity. These guys want to know what they’ll get out of being your new band of brothers.”

“Then that’s exactly what I’m going to give them,” Mr. Think said. He stepped forward, smiling. “You gentlemen have come here because you’ve heard that I have a plan, that I have a stay-out-once-you’re-out plan. This is true.

“Now, many of you may not like this plan,” Think continued, “but I consider it of the utmost importance that you think about it very carefully. I have given it much thought, as is my nature, and I can see nothing more inevitable than that which I am about to give you.

“Together, we will become among the richest and most famous. We will be the ones they fight to keep out of jail.” Think paused to look each man in the eyes. “We will be the heroes of a world that does not yet know how much it loves us. No one here is living a life he cannot change. All of us are here for small crimes. We can change—and not just for ourselves. The Avengers have insurance and salaries. We can do that. But it starts here.

“Who is with me?”

Dementoid’s eyes widened as he slowly turned his back and wandered back toward the Yard. Wolfram snarled and slunk off in the same direction. Haymaker commented about being too old for nonsense, coughing and hacking his way toward one of the benches near the fence. Man-Bull grunted incomprehensibly, loping away after the others.

“I am sorry, my friend, but if it were this simple, I’d have teleported us out of here already,” Doctor Everything said, placing a hand on Think’s shoulder.

Think stepped back. “You could do that?”

Doctor Everything smiled knowingly. “Nothing is beyond me. It is a matter of deeming it anything less than futile.”

Within seconds, Mr. Think stood with only the Redeemer at his side. He looked down. This experiment of his had been a colossal failure. Think was a lifer. He should have known his place was always going to be right where he already was. He should have known that stepping outside the system would get him crushed. He was the nail that stuck out, and reality had hammered him down.

“Uh, Think?”

“Don’t bother me, Redeemer. You were right.”

“No, I think you need to see this.”

Think looked up. For every one who had wandered off, each had returned with another inmate to listen to him talk. Doctor Everything stood at the back of the gathered group, smiling.

Redeemer patted Mr. Think on the small of his back in encouragement, as high as the diminutive man could reach. “I…I think they want to hear it again.”

So Mr. Think began to speak.

To be continued!