Ultimate Mid-life Crisis Read online

  Ultimate Mid-Life Crisis

  Adam Graham

  ~~~

  Smashwords Edition

  Laser and Sword Books

  Boise, Idaho

  Copyright © 2014 Adam Graham

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design ©

  Powerhouse Logo © 2010 Holly Heisey

  All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Previous Books Featuring Powerhouse:

  Tales of the Dim Knight (Splashdown Books)

  Fly Another Day

  Powerhouse Hard Pressed

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Attack of the Giant Lobster

  Giant lobster attacking the city. —Melvin

  Mild-mannered dad Dave Johnson stared at the text message on his business cell phone as he sat at his computer desk. On it lay manuscripts for his “Powerhouse Presents” comic books. He growled. He had no time for jokes. Melvin Stankewicz ought to know by now to only use this number for serious matters. Dave texted back. “Really?”

  The reply came at once. “Of course, really.”

  Melvin must’ve already written that message.

  Dave pocketed his phone. “This look like a job for . . .” He lowered his voice. “Powerhouse.”

  He zoomed up the basement stairs and out the kitchen’s exit into the backyard. Only lawn furniture was in the neighbor’s backyard. Coast was clear.

  He transformed into Powerhouse by superimagining himself into his silver armor, with his yellow lightning bolt crest on his chest. His matching motorcycle helmet obscured his face. He activated his rocket pack and soared into the sky. “Powerhouse away!”

  Several minutes later, he found the four-story-high crustacean crushing small boats and waterfront offices along the pier. The beast snapped its huge claws at Powerhouse.

  He dodged and superimagined Titanium bands restraining the beast.

  Powerhouse flew under the beast’s belly and pushed up.

  His muscles strained against the gargantuan crustacean’s underbelly. It barely budged. He turned his rocket pack to its maximum setting. The force thrust him up three hundred feet up in the air along with the giant lobster.

  It snapped its claws, but it couldn’t reach him.

  Powerhouse frowned. He couldn’t keep this up forever. What was he going to do with this thing?

  He glanced around the harbor. He couldn’t throw it into the city jail. If he threw it into the ocean, it’d just come back out. “Some days, you just can’t get rid of a seven-ton lobster.”

  What could he put it in?

  Of course. He superimagined a giant flying pressure cooker full of water into existence with the lobster inside of it.

  Powerhouse looked down at the boats. Time for them to get fixed. Every damaged boat in the harbor automatically reconstituted themselves.

  Time for to rebuild. He used his cell phone to look up on the internet a picture of the portion of town and visualized all the shacks and offices on the dock back in order in real life.

  Now what was he going to do with the lobster?

  A homeless man shuffled by.

  Ooh, that was it. Powerhouse speed dialed Big Gray.

  Big Gray answered the phone. “Powerhouse, what is it? I’m just flying back from Portugal. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

  “I need your help cooking a giant lobster.”

  “Oh, it’s been a while since I prepared one. It a seven-pounder?”

  “More like a seven-tonner.”

  “What?” Big Gray gasped.

  “I caught it attacking the city and put in a giant flying crock pot. Can you cook it?”

  “Of course, I can cook anything.” Big Gray laughed. “This lobster fry is perfect for my audition tape for the Food Network. I’d like to see Robert Irvine cook a seven-ton lobster.”

  “Maybe given enough time.”

  “Impossible. The human method for cooking a lobster requires eight minutes a pound. Cooking a 14,000 pound lobster would take 78 days. Most of the meat would go bad. With my vast knowledge of hundreds of cultures, and dozens of planets, only I can rise to this challenge. Only I am the Super Chef.”

  Powerhouse groaned. “You don’t want to rename your comic book?”

  “With my foes, it might not be prudent to go into battle as the Super Chef, but perhaps it could be a subtitle of the alternate nickname sort. Big Gray: The Super Chef. Can you take care of it with your executive position?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m an executive.” For a few more days anyway. “So, cooking the lobster.”

  “Find a suitable vacant lot and guard that lobster. It should still be alive when I get there to cook it. I’ll see you in an hour and a half.”

  “An hour and a half?” Powerhouse tightened his fist. “But I’ve got comic scripts I have to review at home. And I was supposed to take Naomi out later. What’s going to take so long?”

  “I apologize, but I have to obtain one half ton of butter and find enough ingredients to make a side dish you can only weigh at a truck stop.”

  Powerhouse sighed. Naomi wasn’t going to like this.

  Mitch Farrow stood at the window of his CEO office, staring over his city from a skyscraper’s top story. Somehow, even the Space Needle looked so insignificant. He could have anything he wanted—except to cure his daughter and ex-wife of AIDS. Nothing could help them.

  Not the news helicopter with the Dorado Communications logo on it.

  Not Dorado Incorporated’s hotel chain.

  Not the giant lobster rampaging near the waterfront.

  Giant lobster? What the heck?

  Mitch spun around to his marble-topped desk, opened the top right side drawer, and checked his whiskey bottle. Only half-empty. I’m not hallucinating, so who’s got the means, motive, and opportunity to disrupt my nice, cynical reality with a hokey comic book plot?

  “Varlock!” Mitch stormed towards his private elevator.

  His cell phone buzzed.

  He glared at his calendar app. “Stupid G-8 summit!”

  Why had he agreed to do a teleconference with the world’s leaders?

  Varlock would have to wait to get his.

  Hours later, the force of Mitch’s pent up anger propelled him up the stairs to Varlock’s office. He pounded on the door.

  Its computer beeped and said in a male voice, “After hours, there’s only admittance with musical knocks.”

  Gritting his tee
th, he knocked to the tune he sung to himself, “You may be right, I may be crazy.”

  He glowered. Varlock had some nerve to assign him that tune. Though, he’d made out better than the musical knock Fournier had gotten stuck with.

  The door opened, and Farrow blazed in and slapped his fist on the desk.

  On Varlock’s floating, circular, overhead TV screen, a male national news commentator smiled. “Thanks to Powerhouse, the giant lobster’s rampage is over, the waterfront has been saved, fifteen thousand people have enjoyed a free lobster meal, and $50,000 was raised in support of Seattle food banks.”

  Farrow groaned. The stupid national media was so biased. All that was missing was Powerhouse’s secret identity giving a cheesy wink to the camera. Not that anyone would recognize him.

  “Is Fournier here yet?”

  Varlock waved dismissively. “We can start without him. What does he ever accomplish?”

  Outside the door, Fournier knocked to the tune of the Lollipop Guild song. He came in, butter on his chin, and singing softly, “We wish to welcome you to Munchkin Land.” Otherwise, he almost looked dignified in his pink bowtie and lab coat. “That lobster feed was good. Whatever else you want to say about him, the Big Gray knows how to cook.”

  Mitch glared. “You didn’t give money to charity, did you?”

  Fournier wrinkled his brow. “No, the cost of the meal was a free will donation, which I believe is Christianese for the meal is free.”

  “Then I don’t care.” He turned toward Varlock. “Did you bring that lobster here?”

  Varlock licked his nose with his frog-like tongue, “I was scanning the bottom of the sea and found a seven-ton lobster. I thought, ‘why not release the lobster into Seattle and see what happens?’ So I did.”

  Mitch folded his arms, “Did you forget you’re not allowed to implement any anti-Powerhouse plans without my approval?”

  Varlock waved his tongue. “This was a whim. I wondered what would happen if Powerhouse fought a giant lobster. Now I know.”

  “You really expect me to buy that lame excuse?”

  Fournier adjusted his bowtie. “However crude his method, his idea has some scientific merit. With an opponent like Powerhouse, sometimes the only way to find out if something could hurt him is to try it. Now we have a result.”

  “Don’t defend me!” Varlock jutted his nose out towards Fournier. “In this organization, you’re what your people call, ‘the weakest link.’ It is your fault we’ve not succeeded. You waste time rather than attacking Powerhouse.”

  “I’m a scientist, sir.” Fournier straightened his bow-tie. “It’s not my job to run experiments that achieve your desired results. It’s my job to obtain valid results. I’ve run a hundred experiments this month, testing items Powerhouse had created from mental energy expenditure, probing their molecular structure for weakness. I’ve examined the high and low points of his energy patterns.”

  “You’ve wasted time!”

  Fournier glared at Varlock. “I’m not finished! As I was saying, I’ve also run simulations to assess the strength of his armor and his personal shield. I’ve done small scale tests, microscopic analysis, and run thousands of computer simulations to uncover a way to attack Powerhouse that has even a 50.1% chance of success. I’ve drawn plans for weapons systems and redrawn them based on better information. I’ve obtained an encyclopedic knowledge of all that can be known of Powerhouse backwards and forwards, and I’ll continue to study him and experiment to find weaknesses we can exploit.”

  Varlock licked his cheeks. “In the time you’ve wasted on nonsense, you could’ve created four dozen monsters to attack him. I expect one every week.”

  “This is not a cartoon!” Fournier waved his fist.

  Never thought I’d hear my resident mad scientist say that. Mitch put his hand on Fournier’s shoulder. “We know real science takes time. He’s just trying to pick a fight with you to avoid responsibility.” Mitch glared at Varlock. “It won’t work. You’re the reason Powerhouse got international headlines for saving Seattle from a giant lobster. Whether you call it a plan or you call it a whim, I want approval from myself or King Bel.”

  Varlock stuck out his tongue. “Very well, but I shall get a plan approved by King Bel, then I won’t tell you the details. You or your so-called scientist.”

  “Yeah, that’ll happen.” Mitch snorted and spun toward the door. “Come on, Fournier. We’re leaving.”

  Varlock said, “You should’ve asked my permission to leave, but I want you to go, so go.”

  The door opened, and Fournier accompanied Mitch out into the hall.

  Fournier sneered. “I’m beginning to doubt there’s intelligent alien life.”

  In her basement, Naomi Johnson sat on her husband’s brown leather couch. He was on the phone and still in his superhero costume as he sat in his titanium Powerhouse Chair.

  She smoothed her purple knee-length skirt, tossed her shoulder-length brown hair, and sighed as she eyed the couch’s duck-tape patches. They were bigger every time she was down here. Why couldn’t he let the last piece of junky furniture in the house go?

  Well, their bed was getting old, too, but surely it was still in as good of condition as it’d been in on their wedding night. She bit her lip. Perhaps he’d accept a compromise and agree to simply reupholster his couch.

  Powerhouse roared. “No, that’s not acceptable. I sent back your script last week with revisions, and you’ve completely ignored my changes.” He tilted his head a moment. “No, this is an all ages title. You don’t put that in there.”

  After the next reply, he frowned. “You don’t work for Amazing Comics. If they jumped off the top of the Space Needle, would you do it too?”

  Naomi half-smiled. Well, girl, you got what you asked for. You’re no longer married to a janitor. Now, you’re the wife of a big executive who has spent the last two hours tracking down a comic book artist and writer who disobeyed his commands. That’s after he spent an hour and a half playing guard dog to the world’s biggest sea food dinner.

  Powerhouse growled into the phone. “If you want to do things the way Amazing Comics does things, go sign with them.”

  Naomi yawned. This was just how she’d wanted to spend her evening, watching Dave gripe at his employees for dressing a superheroine like a hooker when she was supposed to be a positive role model for young girls.

  She pursed her lips and stared at the ceiling. If she couldn’t be out with Dave, he could at least stop pretending they were going out any minute now and give her a chance to sneak out to ride Cyrus. Her horse never made her sit here only weighing down office furniture. Her horse appreciated her, maybe more than some people.

  “I want the revisions in my email box by noon my time, and that’d be Pacific. Have a good evening.” Powerhouse hung up the cell phone, stood, and shape-shifted into the muscular, black-haired Dave Johnson. “Sorry, honey. Dinner and a movie is pretty well shot, but we could get ice cream.”

  “That’d be nice.” Naomi stood.

  Powerhouse’s cell phone rang.

  Naomi sighed. “There goes the ice cream.”

  “Sorry.” Dave took the call, using Powerhouse’s voice. “Hey, Roy, it’s been a long time since I’ve heard from the best detective/trucker around.”

  A few seconds later, he grinned and put his hand over the phone. “They have a lead on the location of Major Speed’s nurse!” He returned to his call.

  After thirty seconds, he spoke in a tone that indicated he was speaking for her benefit. “So she hitched ride, and she got off in . . . um, Roy, could you say it again? I need to write her location down.” Dave squinted as he created a piece of paper out of nothing. “New Braunfels, Texas. Okay, I’ll check it out. Thanks for the tip.”

  “Done so soon?” She winced at her sarcastic tone. “Who is she?”

  Dave put the phone away and smiled at her. “The nurse who notified us about Major Speed’s kidnapping was spotted hitchhiking several weeks back,
and she ended up in a city in Texas. It’s eight here, so it’s six there.”

  Naomi shook her head. “You’ve got that backwards. It’s ten there.”

  “Then there’s no point in going tonight. So, tomorrow, I will descend on New Braunfels, Texas, and the villains who captured Major Speed will beware the might of Powerhouse.” Dave slapped his fists together and smiled. “So, what type of ice cream do you want?”

  In his hospital bed, Major Speed reached for the IV filling his body with the poison. He grasped the needle stuck in his left arm and pulled it out. The machine by his bed beeped wildly. Focusing, he willed his metabolism to speed up the process of burning the remaining poison from his system. He vibrated faster and faster until he was sure it’d worked.

  He wobbled to his feet.

  Karen had done a good job exercising his legs. He took a step and then another. Soon, he’d be ready to rescue Karen. The Pharaoh and his commie friends would regret the day they’d decided to tangle with Major Speed.

  Footsteps came down the hall.

  Speed hid beside the door.

  One of the Pharaoh’s guards entered. “Hey, what’s—”

  Major Speed delivered a left cross to the guard, who sprawled onto the hospital bed. He snatched away the guard’s AR-15 rifle. “Remove your work pants and your undershirt.”

  The guard took off his jeans, his t-shirt, and a tank top.

  “Good.” Major Speed inserted the IV into the guard’s vein.

  The guard screamed.

  Major Speed covered the guard’s mouth until the guard drifted off into unconsciousness.

  The alarm stopped beeping.

  Major Speed put on the guard’s jeans and his undershirts. Don’t know why so many people dress like cowboys and workmen in the 21st Century, but I’d rather fight in this than my hospital nightgown. Bet it will handle better with me running. He held the gun tight and ran down the hall at a normal pace. Have to find Karen.