Myke Phoenix #3

mykephoenix

The Strange Ultimatum

of Quincy Quakenbos

Prologue .................................................................. 5

1. Our Guest Today is a Terrorist ..................... 9

2. Panic Never Pays ............................................. 17

3. Peril at Quakenbos Laboratories ................ 23

4. Do Ducks Have Souls? .................................... 34

Epilogue ................................................................. 42

Myke Phoenix mailroom .................................... 44

MYKE PHOENIX, No. 3, March 2012. Warren Bluhm, editor and publisher. Published monthly by B.W. Richardson Press. Visit http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/wpbluhm or the Myke Phoenix blog, http://mykephoenix.blogspot.com, to learn more about this e-magazine and our fine paperback products. This magazine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivatives-Share Alike License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0. Phoenix image ©2008 Jupiter Images Corp.

Who is Myke Phoenix?

The universe shifted, and something dark burst

from a yawning crack in the nature of being.

Something dark and beyond reason was now part of

the very fabric of Earth.

But forces of good were also afoot, and those forces

worked together to ensure that the Soulkeeper of

Kiribati found its way into the hands of Paul Phillips,

reporter for WACR news-talk radio in Astor City. The

Soulkeeper was a talking vase, pale green, with glass

jewels — crystal, red and blue — arranged in rows

around its top and bottom and studded randomly

about. There was a crude painting of a phoenix on one

side.

It seems the mythical phoenix is not so mythical

after all, and on top of that, the noble bird had made

arrangements for Paul Phillips to exchange bodies

mystically with that of Mychus, a mighty warrior,

whenever evil threatened – and evil did a lot of

threatening in those times.

Not long afterward, Paul found himself in a

circumstance where the body he inhabited was no

longer the familiar one. In Paul’s place was a blond-

haired, blue-eyed Adonis dressed in white. There was a

red-and-gold bird emblazoned on his chest.

He was Myke Phoenix.

The Strange Ultimatum

of

Quincy Quackenbos

Prologue

“Quincy! My God — Quincy!! I can’t find the boy.”

Mother was beside herself.

“Now, now, Mother, where did you see him last?”

Father called across the beach.

“He was right here on the sand, playing with his

infernal duck, and now I can’t find him. We have to get

out of here. Quinnnnccccyyyy!”

“There, there, we’ll just search the atoll until we

find him. We have more time than you think before the

bomb goes off.” Father hoped his casual tone of voice

would calm Mother and mask his own fear. “It won’t

take long; he can’t have gotten far.”

The red-haired boy wished the big ships hadn’t

moved so far offshore. It was fun watching them, big

and gray shining in the sun. Hiding from Mother and

Father was fun, too, but the big ships had the giant

numbers on the bow and those big guns and the little

tiny people on the decks. Mother and Father were just

Mother and Father; there wasn’t as much to see.

“Hush, Quacky,” he whispered as Father strode into

view on the beach. His pet duck muttered in ducky

tones under his breath, but the waves of the Pacific

drowned out the sound.

He watched Mother and Father walking and

crossing the beach and crossing the beach and walking,

all the while calling his name over and over.

“Quincy! Quinnnnncccccyyyyy ... ! Come out here

right now!”

It was fun. As long as Quacky didn’t let loose with a

full-fledged honk, this hiding place could be good for

hours.

But then a million million light bulbs went off, and

Myke Phoenix | 6

a billion billion crashes crashed, and a zillion zillion

campfires burned his hair, and Quincy held Quacky

tight.

If Quincy knew what it felt like to melt, he would

probably say he felt like he was melting. It felt like

Quacky was melting in his arms, too.

And then Quincy knew what Quacky was thinking.

In fact, Quincy was Quacky. And Quacky was

Quincy. And then everything went quiet and dark for a

very long time. He could tell it was night, and then the

sun came up again. Instead of all the animal and insect

buzzy sounds from the day before, though, it was really

really quiet.

The first soldier who found Quincy screamed and

ran away.

The nice soldier who came later talked to him like

Dad did when he was tucking him into bed. “How are

you feeling, son?” he asked, soothing, comforting,

gentle; but he had a funny look in his eyes, too, as if he

Prologue | 7

was scared or something.

“You’re a pretty remarkable kid to be still alive, you

know,” said the nice soldier.

“Wak,” said Quincy.

Myke Phoenix | 8

Chapter 1:

Our Guest Today is a Terrorist

“So if I hear what you’re saying, Mr. Quackenbos,

the people of Bikini Atoll had every right to sue the

United States government?”

“Oh, my, yes, Annette. The government literally

blew up their home and rendered it unsafe for human

life forever. Wouldn’t you say they had a right?”

It was hard for Annette McPhearson to look at the

person sitting across the table without staring and,

perhaps, giggling. There was the constant temptation

to reach over and tug at his face to see if it was a

Halloween mask. That would mean, however,

confirming that it wasn’t a mask, and that scary

thought was what kept people from tugging at the bill

of Quincy Quackenbos.

Smooth white feathers, not hair, lay on top of the

man’s head, framing his perfectly human ears. A long

duckbill emerged where his nose and mouth should

have been, and webbing linked his fingers. Anyone

who’d read about the duckboy of Bikini Atoll knew that

this now-grown man, under the designer suit, had

spindly legs that looked human but for the webbed

feet, and that feathers covered his body to his tail.

Everyone knew the story of Quincy Quackenbos, the

half-man, half-duck, but no one could look into the eyes

of the man-duck without sympathy. Some have

speculated that it was the constant exposure to well-

meaning people’s pity that drove Quincy to the mad

sort of behavior we’re here to tell.

“Oh, no, I agree they had a right to sue, which of

course they did in 1975,” Annette McPhearson said

with her deep, earnest voice exuding empathy. “What

I’ve never been able to figure out, frankly, is why you

yourself never took the government to court.”

“Wak, wak, wak!” Quincy Quackenbos laughed

heartily, a quacky wheeze of a laugh. “Ms. McPhearson,

I am a millionaire many times over because of my

books, my patents, my biotechnology firm, my lectures,

Myke Phoenix | 10

and my radio and TV appearances. Plus, the taxpayers

have already paid the cost of raising me in a

government facility from age 5 to 18. It would be

extraneous to sue the government and take any more

money from the good citizens of our fine nation.”

“The military set off a hydrogen bomb knowing full

well you and your parents were still on Bikini Atoll.

The bomb killed your parents and should have killed

you.”

“No, I killed my parents,” Quackenbos said sadly,

resignedly, “They were given plenty of time to get off

the atoll, but little me and my pet duck were hiding

from them, and no parents would leave their son

behind under those circumstances. I only wish I had

been old enough to understand what was about to

happen. I was just being a typical, self-centered,

playful, stupid 5-year-old boy with a pet duck, and we

ended up killing my parents.”

“You’re much too harsh on yourself,” Annette

McPhearson said mechanically. “This is Your

Afternoon Delight on WACR, the Voice of Astor City.

Our resident neanderthal, Hi Dawson, will be with you

Our Guest Today is a Terrorist | 11

90 minutes from now at 4:00. We’ll take your calls for

entrepreneur Quincy Quackenbos right after news with

Paul Phillips.”

“Myke Phoenix collars two hitmen — good

afternoon, I’m Paul Phillips,” intoned a voice from

another studio, and Quackenbos tilted his ear toward

the on-air monitor. He listened intently to the story of

the mysterious man in white who apprehended the

murderers.

“I’m very intrigued by this Phoenix fellow,” he said.

“He’s supposed to be bulletproof and very strong, isn’t

he?”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Annette McPhearson said

absently. “Sam, how many calls? Good.”

“He’s also solved a couple of odd cases that the

police set aside months ago as unsolved. There’s a

mind inside that remarkable body.”

“I guess. I’m sorry, I had some quick paperwork and

wasn’t paying attention. Do you want to comment on

Myke Phoenix when we get back from the break?”

“Wak! I was just going to ask if I could.”

“You’re the guest,” Annette said. “We’ll be back on

Myke Phoenix | 12

in a minute.” 65 seconds later as the music returned,

she chirped sweetly, “Welcome back to Your Afternoon

Delight. I’m Annette McPhearson and our guest today

is the multimillionaire man-duck — I hope you don’t

mind that description —”

“Not at all.”

“— Quincy Quackenbos, who told me off the air that

he’s fascinated by Astor City’s mysterious new

vigilante, Myke Phoenix.”

“Yes, I heard that news story that said he was back

in action earlier today. I’d love to meet him. No, that’s

not strong enough. Actually, I’d love to study him.”

“He has a lot of people wondering about his

background,” she agreed.

“No, you don’t understand,” Quakenbos said slyly. “I

mean, I’d like to study him.”

“Study him?” Annette McPhearson made a curious

face. “You mean, like a lab animal?”

“To tell the truth — I hope this doesn’t sound too

insensitive — that’s exactly what I mean. Why can’t

bullets hurt him? What makes him so incredibly

strong? How does he solve unsolveable crimes? He’s a


fabulous specimen, and I’d like to see what makes him

tick — short of dissecting him, of course.”

“Mr. Quackenbos, frankly, that sounds terrible!

Treating of him as a ‘specimen’ just sounds inhumane.”

“Oh so?” Quincy Quackenbos replied, and his voice

became a little higher and yes, a little duckier. “And

my 13 years of living in a science lab was humane, I

suppose?” After an awkward pause the duckman’s

expression softened. “Forgive me, Ms. McPhearson, for

twisting your words. I wasn’t speaking literally. Wak,

no, I’m talking about a series of simple medical tests,

not unlike a physical if you will, just to understand why

Myke Phoenix is, well, Myke Phoenix! In fact, I demand

that Mr. Phoenix appear to submit to these tests. Wak,

yes, I want him to meet me here in this studio before

the end of this broadcast!”

“What if he doesn’t want to be studied,” she asked

warily, feeling control of her program slipping away

slowly but inexorably. “After all, perhaps he has some

secrets he doesn’t want to share, secrets the tests

would unmask.”

“Let me put it another way,” he smiled. “If Myke

Myke Phoenix | 14

Phoenix won’t surrender to me by 4 o’clock, I will blow

up Astor City with the hydrogen bomb I’ve planted at a

secret location downtown.”

“Wha — Who —” for a moment it was Annette

McPhearson who sputtered like a duck. “Oh, I’m sorry,

Mr. Quackenbos, you had me going for a moment. I

thought you were serious.”

“I assure you, I’m utterly serious.” Suddenly the

human eyes above the impossible duck bill were cold

steel. “If Myke Phoenix refuses to come to my lab for a

simple examination, I’ll detonate the bomb that I’ve

planted here in the city somewhere. I promise no one

will be hurt unless he refuses — or, of course, if I’m

taken into custody for making this little proposal. I’ve

planned for its detonation under either of those

circumstances.”

“Let me get this straight,” Annette McPhearson

said. “You promise not to hurt Myke Phoenix, but

you’re going to set off a nuclear bomb if you don’t get

your way.”

“That’s a very good way to sum it up, Annette,”

Quincy Quackenbos said cheerfully.


“You made these arrangements not even knowing if

we’d talk about Myke Phoenix on the show?”

“Oh, come now, it’s a three-hour show and, as you

said before, I’m the guest. Of course there’d be time to

talk about Mr. Phoenix. Now, then, why don’t we take

some of those phone calls?”

Myke Phoenix | 16

Chapter 2:

Panic Never Pays

Paul Phillips was pretending to type a news story

at his computer terminal, but listening to the

conversation about Myke Phoenix, when the strange

ultimatum was delivered. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he

said to no one in particular. Station manager Bo

Ranfort burst into the newsroom seconds later.

“Paul! You know this Phoenix fellow. Get him on the

phone! Get him over here now!”

“He probably was listening to the broadcast,”

Phillips responded with some assurance. “I’ll bet he

gets here in no time at all.”

“My God,” Ranfort said, his usual concrete calm

cracked just slightly, “some nut blackmailing a city

with a leftover nuclear bomb. On our radio station!”

“Quincy Quackenbos is a pretty intelligent cookie.

He probably made the bomb himself, he didn’t need to

find leftovers in some terrorist network,” replied Paul

Phillips. “Relax, Bo. Myke Phoenix will be here soon,

and there has to be some reasonable explanation for

the way Quackenbos is behaving. I’ll go make sure

Myke is on his way.”

The D.S. Dunsmore Advertising Agency was abuzz

with activity, as always, for there were clients to call,

commercials to write and design, and files to file. Dana

Dunsmore was holding the phone away from her ear

but could still hear the shouting on the other end.

“I can’t call every radio station in town and tell

them to change your ads as of 6 o’clock this morning,”

she said firmly. “For one thing, it’s already 2:45 in the

afternoon and more than half your ads have already

run by now.” Someone was giving birth to a cow on the

other end of the line. “No, I can’t get them to run

makegood ads for a change you made this late in the

campaign. All right, all right, I’ll see what I can do, but

don’t expect a miracle — no, I don’t think you want to

do that. Another agency wouldn’t be this patient with

Myke Phoenix | 18

you.” As the phone landed on the hook, the birthing was

still audible.

So her heart was already pounding when the

intercom beeped. “Dana?”

“Have you been listening to the radio?”

“I know, I know, the Gaffney ads are all wrong; she

just called.”

“No, it’s about Paul’s station.”

The last time Dana Dunsmore heard something had

happened at her boyfriend’s radio station, her

boyfriend had been caught in a bomb blast and turned

into a superhero.1 She didn’t have fond memories of

that day. Dana’s heart began to pound.

“What about Paul’s station?” she managed.

“Somebody’s talking about setting off an H-bomb

unless Myke Phoenix surrenders to him.”

The last time Dana Dunsmore had heard what was

going on at Paul’s radio station, she’d run out of the

building in a panic to make sure Paul was all right. A

lot of business needing her approval didn’t get

approved that day, and she had promised her

1 It happened back in Myke Phoenix #1. - wpb

Panic Never Pays | 19

employees she’d never leave them in the lurch like that

again.

So much for promises.

Dana canceled her appointments for the rest of the

afternoon and ran out of the building. She nearly

literally jumped into her car, turned the ignition key

and closed the door in one smooth motion. WACR was

already tuned in on the radio.

“How dare you scare us with that stupid comment

about nuclear bombs,” a voice was shrieking on the

radio. “Why can’t you just ask Mr. Phoenix for his help

politely, like a normal human being?”

“Alas, I’m not a normal human being,” a ducky voice

replied. That’s right — Paul said Quincy Quackenbos

was going to visit the station today. “I’m a freak of

nature — well, no, that’s not quite correct, either.

Humanity, meddling into the forces of nature, created

me; science gone mad created me. Now, I’ve decided to

go a little mad myself. Do you know how silly it is to be

half-man, half-duck, and not insane? No, no, the time

has come for me to lose my mind, and therefore I’m

going to blow up the city if Myke Phoenix doesn’t

Myke Phoenix | 20

surrender to me. You might say I’m quacking up,” he

said with a chuckle that was a little too forced to be

sane. “It all makes common sense, don’t you think?”

No, it didn’t, but Annette McPhearson was doing a

good job of sounding calm despite what must be

growing panic. “Let’s take another call, shall we? Good

afternoon, you’re on from the east side.”

“I’d like to know if Mr. Quackenbos considers his

threat an existential scream for light in the otherwise

absolutely black darkness of life in our contemporary

society,” a man’s voice said.

The question remained unanswered, for better or

worse, because at that moment there came another

voice from off-mike.

“Hi, everyone,” the voice said cheerfully. “I’m Myke

Phoenix.” There was a long, lingering pause, and then

he added, “Well? I understand you want me to take

some tests.”

“Mr. Myke Phoenix,” Quincy Quackenbos’ voice was

positively gleeful. “This is truly a pleasure. Come, come

young man, we have much work to do. Forgive me or

leaving early, Ms. McPhearson, but I have assistants

Panic Never Pays | 21

making my labs ready for us. Thank you so much for

having me on your program today.”

“PAUL!” Dana Dunsmore screamed as she drove

along Astor Boulevard. “What are you doing, you crazy

LOON!?” She screeched around the next corner and

pointed the car toward Quackenbos Laboratories.

Myke Phoenix | 22

Chapter 3:

Peril at Quackenbos

Laboratories

The building was low to the ground and sprawling;

it occupied 20 acres of the Astor City Industrial Park.

It was a granite building with big, smoky-black

windows covering the upper half of each wall. On the

facade next to the entrance was a huge silver “Q” with

a huge silver “L” next to and slightly below it. From the

outside, Quackenbos Labs seemed like any other

business.

It appeared to be a plain old square building from

the street, but once inside with his host, Myke Phoenix

saw that it was a weird labyrinth of corridors, none of

them especially long. Some hallways were straight and

narrow; some curved around glass-walled labs that

afforded no privacy to the researchers at work; some

jagged along walls made of concrete with vault-like

doors that towered over everyone. Myke knew he’d be

hard-pressed to find his way back to the entrance on

his own, should it be necessary.

“It was nice of you to surrender so promptly and

peacefully,” said Quincy Quackenbos. “You’ll find that

I’m a man of my word — this won’t hurt you.”

“You’ve said that a couple of times already,” said

the man in the white suit. “Since you’re a man of your

word, I assume you really intended to set off that

nuclear bomb, and that would’ve hurt a lot.”

Quackenbos waved a webbed hand. “Oh, that,” he

said with a wak. “There was no nuclear bomb. Mere

dramatic license. It would be too much bother for me to

actually build one.”

Myke Phoenix eyed his odd little host carefully. “So

I’m free to go anytime?”

“Wak, wak, wak. I didn’t say that.”

“If there’s no nuclear bomb, what’s keeping me

here?”

“The conventional bomb in WACR’s basement, of

Myke Phoenix | 24

course,” Quackenbos replied with a ruffle of his head

feathers, “the one I’ll detonate and blow your friends to

rubble, if you leave prematurely.”

“If your first bomb threat was a fraud,” Myke

Phoenix said as Quincy Quackenbos disappeared

momentarily around a sudden corner, “why should I

believe this one?”

“Good question,” the manlike, ducklike voice said as

thick glass slabs suddenly dropped from the ceiling,

surrounding Myke Phoenix, “and here is your answer.”

Something dropped from the ceiling into our hero’s

hands. He had only enough time to see that it was an

electronic device wired to a puttylike substance before

it exploded, hurling him against the glass and leaving

acrid smoke hanging in the small enclosure.

As the smoke was cleared by a fan in the ceiling,

Quackenbos stepped back into view, and his eyes

widened in obvious pleasure. “Why, your body doesn’t

seem to be damaged in the least. Amazing! Can you

get out of there?”

Phoenix coughed twice. “This glass appears to be

bombproof, and you want me to try punching my way

Peril at Quakenbos Laboratories | 25

out?”

“Well, that’s one thought. Perhaps I’ve left you an

alternative.” Quackenbos raised his eyes.

Myke looked up at the ceiling, where a small red

button was visible just inside the glass. He knew he

could reach it with a standing jump; no ordinary man

could. Instead he punched the side of the enclosure with

all his might, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

Quincy Quackenbos jumped.

“Well! That was impressive,” he said. “Why didn’t

you try the button?”

“Maybe I couldn’t reach it,” was the reply, “or maybe

I could reach it but don’t want you to know the full

extent of my ability; or maybe I figured there was no

proof that pushing the button would release the glass

walls.”

“Aha. A good answer, although not an especially

cooperative one.”

“I said I’d take your tests,” Myke said with a trace

of annoyance, “I don’t recall saying I’d cooperate.”

“I see: If I tell you to jump off a cliff, for example, you

won’t, necessarily. Yes, yes, a wise course.”

Myke Phoenix | 26

“All right, Quackenbos. What’s next?”

“Well, when you coughed a moment ago, you

determined what’s next,” the manduck said, reaching

into his pockets to take a small plastic mask in one

hand and a grenade-like object in the other. Myke

Phoenix took a deep breath as his host held the mask

over his bill and dropped the grenade. Sure enough, a

sickly green gas flooded the corridor.

Still holding his breath, the man in the white suit

stalked toward the duckman. The tingle in his nostrils

told him it would be unpleasant to inhale.

His intention was: He would pick up his host and

rip off the gas mask, with a comment to the effect of

“I’m tired of these games, Mr. Quackenbos.”

What actually happened was: He walked toward his

host and fell through a trap door, plummeting about 50

feet in darkness. His actual comment was to the effect

of “Yikes!”

Myke Phoenix landed on his feet on a dirt floor, but

the momentum of the fall forced him into a tumble.

The good news was he was inside the body of Mychus,

an invulnerable ancient warrior, and so no bones were


broken or separated from their rightful place. The bad

news was he looked pretty ridiculous; it was not at all

a graceful tumble.

There was what at first appeared to be further bad

news, as dim lights along the wall revealed the

presence of two timber wolves in the corner, pawing at

the soil. The walls seemed to be made of poured

concrete.

“Hi guys,” said Myke as the wild canines inched

toward him tentatively. “Now wait a minute, fellas,

everybody knows that wolves don’t attack people

unless they’re provoked.”

At that, the big silver beasts leaped.

Myke Phoenix resisted the temptation to throw his

hands up defensively or strike at them. This was a

good decision, because the wolves stood on their back

legs with their front paws against his massive chest,

licking his face.

“Hey, cut that out!” he giggled. “We still have to find

a way out of here.”

As if to accentuate that point, a vague “ka-

CHUNK” sounded somewhere in the distance, and

Myke Phoenix | 28

Myke Phoenix heard a low hum and an odd scraping

sound. “Hokey smokes!” he muttered as the walls to

the small dungeon began to move toward him. He had

a pretty good feeling the walls would break against his

indestructible body; his two furry companions would

not be so fortunate.

Myke squinted in the semidarkness, searching for a

seam that would reveal a possible opening. The walls

eased closer.

“This won’t hurt you,” Quackenbos had said. He

hadn’t said anything about whether it would hurt

anyone else, like two poor wolves.

One of the animals began to howl, and it was only a

moment before they began to harmonize. Myke turned

and turned, seeking, seeking a way out. The walls were

closer still.

He hauled back and punched the side of one wall

with the force of five sledgehammers, but the walls

kept moving, untouched. The concrete might yield to

repeated blows, but there was no time. Then the

proverbial light bulb flashed in his mind.

“The dirt floor,” he whispered excitedly, fell to his


knees, and began to dig. The wolves joined in the game,

although their big paws were not able to move as much

soil as their companion’s huge hands.

He had only enough time to dig a shallow pit, but

there was room enough for him to wrap his expansive

arms around the two wolves and pull them down to

safety. The converging walls met above them with an

authoritative THUNK. All was still.

“We’re OK for now, kids,” Myke Phoenix told his

companions gently, “but I have to tell you — stop

squirming! — we’re trapped 50 feet underground with

two big concrete walls overhead. I think I could lean up

and get them to break, but chunks would fall on top of

us. I’d be OK; you wouldn’t. Any suggestions?”

The only response was quick canine breathing from

both sides of his face in the dark. At the rate the

wolves were panting, the oxygen wouldn’t last very long.

Myke Phoenix considered telling the animals to calm

down, but he was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic

himself.

After a minute there came another distant “ka-

CHUNK” and Myke felt the concrete sea above him

Myke Phoenix | 30

begin to part.

As the walls returned slowly to their original

positions, he heard a now-familiar wakking sound

above. “Magnificent! Wak, wak, wak,” said Quincy

Quackenbos, “simply magnificent! You’re all I heard

you would be.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” said Myke Phoenix as he

clambered to his feet with the wolves next to him. He

brushed soil off the front of his uniform and looked

straight up. Quackenbos was leaning over the edge of

the precipice, 50 feet up. “What was the point of all

this?”

“The bomb, to test your indestructibility,” said the

man-duck. “The gas, to see if you were bright enough

not to breathe and, if you were, to test your lung

capacity. The pit, again to test whether your body can

be broken. The wolves, to try your compassion. You are

really too good to be true, my friend. You passed every

test with flying colors.”

“Frankly, I’m not sure we qualify as friends, Mr.

Quackenbos,” said Myke Phoenix, gathering the two

wolves under his arms, dipping into a deep knee bend


and leaping the 50 feet back to the corridor.

Quincy Quackenbos blinked in amazement. “My

word,” he said, flabbergasted. “Nobody can jump like

that!”

“Just call me nobody, then,” came the reply as the

wolves scampered away, “but I prefer Myke. Now, I

think I’m finished here. Let me go, before I —”

It was really a bad time for Dana to burst into the

room, followed by a secretary saying frantically, “I’m

sorry, Mr. Quackenbos, she just burst in and I couldn’t

stop her.”

“Dana, what are you DOING, you crazy LOON?”

Myke said.

“You have no business calling anyone a loon,” Dana

shot back. “How can you just waltz into danger after

this maniac threatened to blow up the city?”

“At least I can’t be hurt — but this maniac could do

things to you to force me to —” Myke Phoenix stopped

in mid-sentence and glanced at Quincy Quackenbos

with an expression that could only be summed up with

the word, “Oops.”

A little leer played at the corner of Quackenbos’ bill.

Myke Phoenix | 32

“Soooo — this lady means something to you, does she,

Phoenix?”

“Err — well, she’s in the advertising business,”

Myke ad-libbed. “She’s helping me develop my public

persona.”

“A superhero with a marketing specialist, eh?”

Quackenbos said. “Very interesting, but not terribly

convincing. I’d say she has a personal stake in your

well-being, the way she burst in. Ms. Hughes, show this

woman — Dana, was it? — into Conference Room B

and lock her in. Gently, please.”

“Go with her, Dana. I’ll be OK.” Myke Phoenix

watched helplessly as Ms. Hughes escorted Dana out of

the room. “I’m telling you, if you harm one hair on her

head, Quackenbos, I swear I’ll —”

“Blood tests. Stress tests. A lock of your hair. A

little aerobic exercise. That’s all we have left,” the

duckman said, holding his hands in front of his chest,

palms facing out, to calm his reluctant guest. “Then I’ll

have the bomb deactivated.” Watching Quincy

Quackenbos approach him gingerly, expectantly, Myke

couldn’t help but think of a vulture circling its prey.


Chapter 4:

Do Ducks Have Souls?“This is the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen,”

said the man in the white coat as he struggled over

Myke Phoenix’s arm. “It won’t go in.”

“What do you mean, it won’t go in? Why won’t it go

in?”

“Well now, that’s the question,” the doctor said,

pulling the syringe back. “See here? I can find the vein

in the crook of the arm, but look here, when I try to take

the blood sample —” he pushed and poked and prodded

with the needle, but Myke Phoenix’s skin would not

yield.

“Gimme that,” Quackenbos said loudly. He grabbed

the syringe and pushed it against the meaty arm with

all his might.

There was a popping sound and Myke Phoenix said,

“Ouch!”

Quincy Quackenbos stared at the now needle-less

tube. The needle itself rolled on the floor briefly after

ricocheting off the ceiling and wall. Myke Phoenix

rubbed the spot where his host had been pushing; it

was red, but there was no puncture wound.

“If it makes you feel better, that hurt,” Myke said

with almost a whine in his voice.

“Incredible,” Quackenbos breathed. “Wak! This is

incredible. The man is bulletproof and can’t be cut. Dr.

Simpson, do we have a bazooka?”

“Now hold on just a New York minute,” Myke

protested as the doctor nodded and began to back out

the door. “I will not stand in front of the business end of

a bazooka!”

“Ah ha! So you do have limits,” Quackenbos

exclaimed. The doctor paused by the door.

The truth was that Myke didn’t know whether his

marvelous body could withstand a bazooka shell, but

he wasn’t about to find out by letting his odd host try

it. “Let’s just say I don’t care to be shot at today, OK?”

“No. Not OK.” The expression on the peculiar duck

Do Ducks Have Souls? | 35

face darkened. “You’re not leaving until I get into your

bloodstream.”

“Why? What do you need my blood for?”

“Nothing,” Quincy Quackenbos blurted, as if

something private had slipped out. “That is to say,

there’s no one on the planet with abilities like yours,

and I want my people to determine if something in your

blood gives you this power.”

“He means to kill you.”

“SIMPSON!?”

The doctor stepped forward. “I couldn’t say anything

because I was afraid, but I think I’m safe while you’re

here, Mr. Phoenix.” Quackenbos lunged at Dr. Simpson;

Myke Phoenix grabbed his arm. “Quincy, I’m sorry, but

you can’t go through with this.”

“Go through with what?” Myke asked.

“He wants to kill you and then use whatever he

finds in your blood to produce a serum to make more of

you — a personal army of super-powered beings, if you

will. He — Urk!”

The odd gurgle at the end of the sentence was

caused by Quincy Quackenbos’ springing out of Myke’s

Myke Phoenix | 36

light grip and getting his hands around Dr. Simpson’s

throat. “You fool! You’ve ruined everything!” he

quacked. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

Myke Phoenix clawed at the duckman’s hands, but

there were several seconds of extreme discomfort for

the doctor before Myke succeeded in freeing him.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Myke said. “I’d hate

to get into a fist fight with OOLGH!”

The fowl blow to Myke Phoenix’s solar plexus was

entirely unexpected and caught him off guard just long

enough for Quincy Quackenbos to run away.

From his office window Quincy Quackenbos could

see the red and blue flashing lights of the Astor City

emergency response unit’s squad cars.

If he had thought of installing a secret exit to the

labs when he built them, now would have been a good

time to use it. He hadn’t been that clever.

If he were evil enough, he could waddle down to

Conference Room B, unlock the door, and use that

woman, Dana, as a hostage to break to freedom. Right

now, he didn’t feel that evil.


“This is the end,” he said out loud, and he was

surprised at the despair in his voice. Deep inside the

duckman’s breast, Quacky wanted nothing more than

to fly away to the nearest wetlands, find a hen and

swim around with her for the rest of their lives. Quincy

wanted to hide in the bushes, but that was how their

mutual troubles had begun.

He pulled open the top drawer of his desk. There,

settled next to his appointment book and an unopened

tin of sardines, was an automatic pistol.

He picked it up and examined it, holding it in one

webbed hand. Strange how such a small metal device

held the power to perform the huge task of evicting the

very soul from his body — or both souls, as the case

might be.

“Do ducks have souls?” a TV interviewer had asked

him once when he described how he and Quacky

occupied the same body. Of course ducks have souls; he

felt Quacky’s presence always; he was Quacky.

Enough reflection. Quincy Quackenbos held the

gun’s barrel against the side of his head and pulled the

trigger.

Myke Phoenix | 38

Nothing happened.

“The safety,” he muttered, and pushed the little

button just as the phone beeped.

It was Quincy Quackenbos’ private line. There was

only one person who could be on the other end of that

line. He looked at the gun and considered which

alternative would be better: the bullet or answering the

phone.

However, the beep of the telephone had distracted

him long enough to remember that as long as he was

alive, there was hope. He picked up the receiver.

“Quackenbos.”

“From what I hear on the police scanner, you’re to be

arrested shortly,” said the voice at the other end.

“Yes,” he said solemnly.

“Come, come, come. Cheer up, Quincy. And for

goodness sake, put that gun away.”

Quincy Quackenbos looked around the room, looked

at the gun. “What gun?” he lied.

“Dear fellow, I didn’t come this far by not knowing

the people who work for me,” the voice said with a trace

of bemusement. “You’re feeling extremely depressed


right now, or my name isn’t — well, anyway, I need you,

Quincy. You won’t be in prison for such a very long time

— after all, there were no bombs really, were there?”

“No.”

“There! It’s just a tiny little extortion charge,

perhaps simple assault. And when you come out, we’ll

have much to do together, Quincy, you and I.”

“Yes,” Quincy Quackenbos said sadly.

“Thanks to you, we’ve learned many things about

this Phoenix person,” the voice reassured him, “and by

the time you get out, we’ll have all the information we

need to exterminate him and get on with business.

Now, put down the gun.”

Myke Phoenix slammed open the door. “It’s over

now, Quackenbos. Put down that gun!”

“Wak,” Quincy Quackenbos chuckled, and suddenly

found hilarious the fact that his mysterious ally and

the superhero demanded the same thing. “Wak! Wak!

Wak! Wak! WAK! Wak!”

The strange little man-duck placed the receiver

gently back in its cradle, eased the pistol onto the desk,

and settled his head in his hands. It was impossible to

Myke Phoenix | 40

say whether he was giggling or sobbing; perhaps both.

Ducks have souls that are designed for flying, you

see, and this one was about to be caged.


Epilogue

“Don’t do that again!” Dana Dunsmore told Paul

Phillips as she hugged him for all her life. “How could

you just waltz in and surrender to that man?”

“What choice did I have? He said he was going to

blow up the city. I couldn’t take the chance he was

bluffing. And what do you mean, don’t do that again?

What were you doing there?”

“I just wanted to help, honey,” Dana said. “I know, I

know, I just made it worse.”

“Oh, I really don’t think Quackenbos would have

hurt you, and Myke didn’t get hurt, either. Of course, I

made a point of refusing to let them try the bazooka.”

“The bazooka!” She searched his face to see if he

was kidding and decided he wasn’t. “I don’t think I

want to hear anything more about it.”

“Deal,” he said. “So — what do you want to do

tonight?”

“Tonight? Hadn’t thought about it. What do you

want to do?”

He drew her close and nibbled lightly on her neck.

“Oh! You may do that again!” Dana Dunsmore told

Paul Phillips, as she hugged him for all her life.

Epilogue | 43

myke phoenix mailroomSend comments to [email protected]

Two things to know: Watch for the cover of Myke

Phoenix #3 to change from what you see as this edition is

released on March 15, 2012. That’s all I’m sayin’ for now.

Also: April will bring something new. If you’ve followed

the adventures of Myke Phoenix so far, you know that

these first three issues have been essentially the same

stories that appeared in the now out-of-print book The

Adventures of Myke Phoenix. From now on, it gets more

interesting.

Be around on the Ides of April for the first completely

new Myke Phoenix story in, well, 20 years: “The Decline

and Fall of Alan Pinkstaff.” If it doesn’t rock your proverbial

socks off, well, then.

And remember you can purchase an authentic,

collectible dead-tree edition of the first three stories in

Myke Phoenix Quarterly #1, available for the ridiculously

low price of $7.99 plus shipping at this unwieldy but

otherwise effective address:

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/myke-phoenix-

quarterly-%231/18926259

Remember: You don’t want to miss Myke Phoenix #4. A

mere 31 days from March 15.

Myke Phoenix #3

Documents

Transcript of Myke Phoenix #3