M Is for Mama's Boy

“What?” the Creature said defensively.

Aiah continued, “And an English muffin. It’s a simple pleasure, Duncan. I don’t think we need the full budget of the United States government to make him some breakfast.”

Duncan frowned. “I guess the RZ-481 Bread Warmer is out, then? It toasts both sides simultaneously using diamondtipped lasers. It’s state-of-the-art.”

Aiah shook her head. “A ten-dollar toaster from the appliance store works just as well.”

Duncan sighed. “Would you like me to ride a dinosaur to school while I’m at it?”

There was a honk outside.

“There’s Aunt Marcella and you aren’t finished eating. Hurry!”

Duncan cringed. Watching the Creature eat was enough to give a kid nightmares. There was so much crunching and grunting, you couldn’t help feeling sorry for the cereal. He hopped up from his seat.

“Any big missions, today?” Aiah said as she gave him a hug. There was a hint of worry in her voice.

“Heaven forbid,” the Creature said between bites. “If the world is dependent on chubby, we’re all doomed.”

Duncan ignored his sister and put on his jacket. “Sorry, Mom, but you don’t have clearance high enough for that information. But I promise I’ll be careful.”

Albert Nesbitt was not a typical superhero. For one, he was not a muscle man with a steel jaw. In fact, he was five foot seven and easily a hundred and fifty pounds overweight. He had a bad complexion from eating too many snack cakes, and his long, stringy red hair hung down his face like wet ivy. He was also thirty-seven years old.

He had no superpowers to speak of, either. He was not faster than a speeding bullet. He was not more powerful than a locomotive. He could not leap tall buildings in a single bound. He could barely hop out of a chair.

He also lacked a secret headquarters. He had no Hall of Justice, no Fortress of Solitude, no Batcave. All he had was his mother’s basement, which contained a rather funky smelling recliner, empty bags of cheese puffs, laundry stacked waist-high, a leaky inflatable mattress, old pizza boxes, an exercise bike where he hung his shirts, and a ping-pong table with no paddles.

But he did have a couple things going for him. He had a supercomputer—hand-built from discarded computers he rescued from the town’s landfill. Albert had a knack for seeing how things worked and improving on them. His computer was the fastest in the country.

The other thing he had that all do-gooding superheroes need was a secret identity. You see, Albert Nesbitt, thirty-seven-year-old shut-in, living in his mother’s basement, was also the shadowy nightstalker of the Internet known as Captain Justice. From his recliner he surfed the Web looking for computer-based crime. So far, he had stopped a gang of international ATM bandits and put down a Nigerian credit card scam without leaving his basement. Sure, swooping in through a window and punching a criminal in the jaw sounded great, but Albert had to be practical. He wasn’t in the kind of shape to smash through a window, and until he finally kept his New Year’s resolution and signed up for that membership at Owen’s Muscle House Gym, he’d continue to lurk in cyberspace, stopping electronic crime wherever it reared its ugly head. The downside, unfortunately, was that the bad guys never got to see his supercool costume: a black-and-green latex getup complete with boots, gloves, cape, and mask. There was even an arrow-shaped cursor on his chest.

Now his computer buzzed with activity. The security system of a nearby bank had been breached and a silent alarm had been tripped. But by the time Albert pinpointed the location of the bank, the alarm was turned off again. Odd. Albert turned on the police radio he had bought at a recent auction. He heard someone a

Still, something seemed off. With a few keystrokes, Albert hacked into the bank’s main server. Soon, he had taken control of the bank’s security cameras, and what he saw was very strange indeed. A child with enormous buckteeth was robbing the bank. . . with the help of a team of squirrels. The furry felons were holding out sacks as frightened tellers filled them with cash. The bank’s security guards stood by, watching the whole event without lifting a finger to help. Albert had never seen anything like it, but he knew one thing for sure—this was a job for Captain Justice. He unplugged his phone and hooked it into the back of his computer. He pressed a button that linked the phone to the Internet, then pushed another to scramble the signal in case anyone might be tracing his call. Then he dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” the operator said.

“Hi, I’m at South Arlington National Bank and it’s being robbed,” he said. He could hear the faint clicking on the line that told him he was right to be worried. The police were trying to trace the call. Albert told them everything he saw on the cameras and hung up. Five minutes later, he watched the boy throw down his bag of money and gather his hairy gang. They ran out of the bank moments before the police stormed inside. The robber had escaped, but Captain Justice had foiled the crime.

Feeling proud, Albert turned off his computer and spent the next twenty-five minutes trying to get out of his costume. Latex had been a bad idea.

When he was in his street clothes at last, he climbed the basement stairs to the kitchen. Mama was cutting coupons at the table. She was a short, stocky woman who wore high heels and tons of gold jewelry at all times—even to bed. She had a bun of red hair and smelled of cabbage soup. When Albert saw her, he forced a smile, then turned and locked the padlock on the basement door.

“Good to see you have returned to the land of the living,” Mama said. “You know it’s nearly eleven thirty.”

Albert frowned. Mama could be very critical. “I’m going out.”

“Where?” she cried.

“Big Planet.”

Mama produced an orchestra of sighs. “More of those stupid fu

“They’re called graphic novels, Mama.”

Mama rolled her eyes. “They’re called a waste of time.”

Albert didn’t argue with her. He had done something good that day. He was a real hero and he didn’t want his mother to ruin it for him, so he kissed her on the cheek and headed outside.

“Be back by six. We’re having cabbage soup for di

“It’s no good hot,” Albert said under his breath as he rushed out the back door. He was soon whizzing down the sidewalk on his rusty red scooter to the taunts of the children in the neighborhood. Albert didn’t care about their hurtful insults. It was comic book day at Big Planet and comic book day was his favorite day of the week.

Big Planet Comics was a world of Pows! Zaps! and Bangs! Every shelf was the home of good guys and bad guys—all in full color. There were war comics, superhero comics, horror comics, sci-fi comics, romance comics. There were comics based on classic novels like Moby-Dick and Heart of Darkness, and even comic book versions of the lives of Jesus and Buddha. And that wasn’t all. Big Planet had everything a fanboy could ever want—action figures, posters, games, toys, scale models, replicas, T-shirts, and most importantly, people, just like him. When Albert stepped through the doors of the shop, he was surrounded by people who loved, lived, ate, and breathed comics. These were his people.

But that day there was a black cloud over Big Planet. A strange man lurked among the shelves. He had slicked-back hair and a nose that looked as if it had been slapped around by a hockey stick. His arms were as thick as railroad ties, and on his left hand, or rather, lack of one, was a silver hook. He looked as if somewhere there was a comic book missing its villain.