Posts Tagged ‘Street Avenger’


I hate Killer Faces. They are the worst, its not just an intricate street gang, but one wrapped in a wanked out killer cult motif they try to tie back to weird practices of the occult and esoteric or so the revolving door of Killer Face Prime that leads them. I say it’s a revolving door because there is no way it is the same dumb ass running the show for over 30 years, but stranger things have happened.

The most twisted thing is that they pooled money and purchased a “temple” for their “services” where they gather to hear the gospel (keep in mind ancient word gospel was a political statement) according to K.F.P… The temple they purchased was a deconsecrated Anglican church. Which keeps its doors locked unless you have this week’s password. Which is why currently Kevin—sorry Mystery—an ol’ Shotgun are waiting outside.

They haven’t kept up well with landscaping, grass is so brown its blowing away in the dust, and five trees would have more life if they were driftwood.

Over the solid oak double doors is a cross that is stain glassed images of the stations of the cross. If I was a religious man this would be sacrilegious in my mind. Instead it is quite in genius for the scam, the members of the gang/cult unbelievably tithe to the temple so they are not only used as canon fodder, but also pay for the privilege.

Mystery is still trying to get a telepathic fix, but he is not a strong telepath, so its not the easiest thing to do. Part of me wants to knock and open and just see what happens. But, I also am not a young man, and I counted at least 50 inside and that was for the 20 minutes we were watching before service began. No telling how many may have arrived earlier.  Can’t believe this collection of idjits got the drop on Zed.

“Ready Kevin?”

“For the last time Shotgun, my name is not Kevin.” Mystery said.

“Oh right, sorry it’s Mystery.”

“No, you daft wanker, my name is Douglas, Kevin was my dad. What B.K.’s fist back in the day rattled your brain too much back in the day.” Mystery retorts. I can’t help the laughter escaping. Damn, he’s right. Kevin was entering retirement due to being crippled at the hands of K, and it was Doug that was the Street Avenger during the early days of Rick. The one that others believed was killed but no body was ever found. “Besides I wanted to use Enigma, but that was during Rick’s turn at being touch brooding mystery tech man. So, I took Mystery instead.”

I nod as the weird screamo wafts and hurts the ear drums out of the temple. “Why not use Street Avenger?” Valid question it being a family legacy name and all.

He dips his hat at me. I see a little flame crackle in the corner of his eye. “My nephew was the last Street Avenger. He gave his life and the lineage ended with him. I honour my family by continuing the fight, and letting a good, honourable death stand at the end of our legacy.”

Sometimes it is true, the heroes have darker souls than the villains.

But that spark.

“How strong of a pyro kinetics?

“Why?” His eyes follow mine to the cracked open windows around where the sanctuary would be. And I believe if this was a cartoon there would be a lightbulb going off above his head. If the temple is up to code he would set off the sprinklers, if not…well humans are resilient in survival.

Mystery floats up. His eyes look through the window. There is probably an altar with flammables, but I cannot speak to his theatrics or if he would just look for a sprinkler to light up…

When the wall explodes inwards sending sandstone and wood careening inside and the screamo music turns to screams.

Mystery lets out a cackle “for Zed.”

To be Continued…

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Gothic City, Alberta’s weather was always damp, it had meteorologically confused itself with Vancouver, B.C. Zed pulled a hood up on his robes to try and abate the rain on his bald scalp as he moved through the grave yard with McKay, the rain dripped off the brim of his black cowboy hat, the mud was outstripping the grass.

“Okay Zed we have seen the Katz’s’ tombstones, now what?”

Zed looked at the water soaked paper list. “The last active one was a Wulf.” Zed stated as the paper finally fell apart.

McKay flips the brim of his hat. “Here it is, Jack Wulf.”

Zed looked at it. “Then that is it. The lineage of the Street Avenger is gone.”

McKay’s eyes scan to a tree. He silently motions to Zed as there is movement a few feet away. Someone is watching them. McKay continues walking up the row of grave markers getting closer to the tree, the form tries to move.

A quick swipe of a saffron robed arm and the mysterious form lands squarely in a mud puddle, it goes to rise and a double barrelled 12 gauge is levelled in its face. A grey bearded face with wild hair and a grey trench coat. “Alright mate, stay down.”

Zed moves to stand beside McKay. “Who are you and why are you following us?”

The mystery man’s eyes bear confusion as he moves from the gun to the monk. He stammers, and stutters trying to find words, but how could he put his thoughts into words that these two would find believable.

McKay study’s the darting mixed colour green blue eyes. His mind flashes back to earlier days, of fun and laughter, when he was the darkest bad ass. The days between Kevin Katz as Street Avenger, and Jack Wulf as Street Avenger, when Kevin’s son, and Jack’s uncle. “Doug is that you?”

“Mystery tis a mystery what darkness lurks in the soul of man and heart of woman.” Stated the mixed coloured eye man.

Zed notes underneath the black trench coat is a red kerchief like some 1930’s pulp fiction knock off of the Shadow. “Is not, who knows what evil lurks in the heart of men?” Zed dictates in his best radio announcer voice.

A crackle of blue energy around his eyes as he tries to rise from the mud. The air shifts, McKay tries to pull the trigger but flies backwards and slams hard into a fir tree. As the man in the trench coat floats up and the mud slides off. “I am Mystery. Alpha and Omega.”

McKay picks his hat up off the ground and puts it back on as the sky crackles with lightning. He had forgotten that the Street Avenger was a telekinetic, and depending on the age of the new generation the powers grew exponentially. A powerful burst like that was reminiscent of his fights with Doug. But Doug was supposed to be dead.

Though it would not be the first time a Supra did not die, or died and came back. Zed was keeping Mystery distracted, either this was a Street Avenger, and needed help and would eventually join the G.C.F. for the mysterious time to come that MacCurtis kept alluding too, or he was some newbie that needed to be put down and placed in jail.

Zed raises his hands palms up towards Mystery causing the floating man’s gave to follow the damp saffron robes. McKay pumps the shotgun, aims… “Hey fuck you Mystery!” The floating man turns and the buck shot explodes feet away slamming into Mystery’s face and neck twirling him around to a roundhouse from Zed and putting him down in the mud unconscious.

McKay nudges the unconscious body with his cowboy boot, and notices a chain tied to a wallet in a back pocket. Zed reaches down and pulls it out, flips it open and looks at the provincial identification card.

“Doug Katz. What happened to my friend?” Zed asked.

McKay looks down at the crumpled body of his one-time foe, with a fractured mind now. “That is a good question.” McKay taps his ear piece, “Eh Agent Regis, yea we got the target, we need extraction.”

Thunder rumbled masking the sound of the helicopter landing in the cemetery.

To Be Continued


A Chinook had rolled through, it is a unique phenomenon to explain to those that do not experience them like happens in Calgary or Dusseldorf, it is caused by proximity to the mountains and allows for in the midst of the harsh winter climate of the prairies to leap up into the positive Celsius. It was one of these breezes blowing through downtown Calgary that was causing melting, and with it bringing out of the shadows those with nefarious thoughts, and ill will in their hearts. But gone is the fun lovingness of the late Twentieth century that saw colourful villains and four colour heroes battle it out in what amounted to a game. Gone is the fun loving feeling of life and love.

The era of the “Super Hero” or “Supra” as the Canadian Intelligence community had dubbed them, had ended, many of those gifted young adults had retired into suburbia or urban life. Taking time to raise a family, and enter into new vocational pathways. Gone from the headlines are the heroes: Bionic Knight, Speedster, Johnny Power, Street Avenger, and Zed. They have faded and a darker light has cast a shadow over the nation. Their adversaries, K, Killer Face, Ionic Knight, Shotgun McKay, and others have gone onto retirement homes as legacy heroes and villains were silenced by what the perceived public outcry of co-opted Judeo-Christian ethos in public life demanded, and that was blood.

A new line of defence arose for the citizenry. A new brand of hero that would terminate the villain, a deathly vigilante that was the juxtaposition of Canadian judiciary and life, but embraced by the public for creating the illusion of safety on the streets for the common citizen to finally feel safe as they reported. It was on these streets when the alarm sounded, and men with guns in the heart of downtown Calgary just off the train line saw five open fires on a rush hour crowd awaiting the Number 1 bus to Forest Lawn. Hooded, they cat called with glibness about redemption and hell fire for the sins of a city.

Emerging from the shadows came a newer hero, only a year old on the scene, but one that had replaced the city’s normal protector, The Bionic Knight, for the Knight had vanished many years ago. This new one, called PenDragon smiled showing dagger teeth, his cloak flapped open to reveal shadow monsters that grabbed the gun men and all that was heard was screams as sirens came on. Smart phones captured video of the new hero as steam emerged from the C-train tracks, sparks crackled in the Chinook air.

Not a sight many were used to when PenDragon would react and execute. It was new. In the centre of the street a man in shimmering silver armour with a long sword, glowing red eyes, rising up to a standing position of over six feet tall, an electrical crackle to its voice as it whispered. “Gerklyn what has this merger done.” Cellular phones snapping pictures, as older pedestrians gasped. There was recognition on their faces. PenDragon’s smile broadened as his cloak fluttered open again and he stepped from the shadows. A foe truly worthy of his power had finally arrived within the city.

PenDragon’s voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard as he speaks to the newly arrived foe. “And do I get the pleasure of your name before you die?” His shadow creatures and tentacles lash out to latch on to the new armoured form. For those watching, gasps again as the shadows latch on and drag him into the cloak. What is heard is a mechanical cackle.

PenDragon’s grin gets wider as the power of the being becomes one with him, for you see the shadows subsume the life force of those they bring into the cloak and it is this life force, like and energy vampire, that keeps PenDragon alive. One senior lowers herself onto the seat of her walker. “The Ionic Knight, but that’s impossible.”

Police cars surround PenDragon with guns drawn; EMS is helping those injured by the earlier gunfire. The new heroes may be liked (or feared) by the public, but by the governance they are seen as worse evil than that which they stop. PenDragon is floating back towards the shadows from whence he came. He stops unable to move. The cloak ruffles and what sounds like a churning stomach echoes above the calls of the Calgary Police Service, the sirens, and the sounds of the injured.

PenDragon’s feet touch the asphalt and he begins walking back towards the centre of the street as media arrives and begins filming and the talking heads begin their commentary. As in a blink shadow fragments splatter across the street and people like blood splatter, an unearthly death scream erupts as PenDragon ceases to be. The armoured figure glows red hot burning away the shadow remnants, it sheaths its broadsword and looks to the sky.

He turns to a Canadian Broadcasting Corporation camera and speaks very slowly and methodically. “This false hero is not whom I seek. This city is mine. I have returned from the void to claim my kingdom.” With that the armoured figure took flight.

An adolescent skater girl looks to the senior who had spoken earlier. “What the fuck just happened?”

The senior looks up and to the young girl. “True evil just came home, and our heroes are gone.”

To Be Continued…

Next: Who is the mysterious armoured figure? Who are the missing heroes it seeks?


Yup, for the past well over a year I had placed the adjective “used to” or “retired” in front of writer. Why? I simply needed to distance myself and rest, to rediscover the glimmer of joy as writing when done at a publishing level can sometimes sap a lot out of an individual (I find especially in smaller markets where money is not enough to live on) and when I let the project not the market shape my work.

Yet, I am slowly moving back into writing and speaking on my own terms, a little as my home church, Centennial Presbyterian, has invited me to take 2 services this summer, but also in part to the Calgary Public Library where I have been on a retro reading kick rediscovering the comics that shaped my fiction writing in my teens.

Currently rediscovering James Robinson and Tony Harris’ Starman run. The story of Jack Knight really aided me in reshaping the super hero universe I had been spinning stories out of for my friends since late elementary school, and became known as “The Verse” in High School where friends would eagerly await each new chapter (and even say a short story banned from publishing as a winner of a short story contest for the CBE due to LGBTQ content–a bi-sexual monk of all things).

Yes, the stories that saw characters that stayed with me well through college years and were a great stress release.  Some rejuvenated and in e-books shared on this sites, others lost to the mists of time. Ah technologies dying and losing saved files, hard copies vanishing there’s only so much one can save when they could write the equivalent of a book a month when one had free time when work was not 40 hours a week, when a term paper could easily be distracted from by pounding out another epic chapter…before the layers of life… for non-fiction writing when A&W still had an excellent and cheap breakfast before the advent of microwave bacon and the doubling of price…when there was space for quietness and reflection.

But life story morphs and as one reflects on building the writer’s space renewed in one’s home, family crisis leads to the space evaporating to aid an individual.

Now though, as I continue down the retro train, and rediscover old interests I ponder a renewal of the work.  Maybe not “The Verse” (for the longtime fan out there know it eventually got dubbed “The TyVerse”; ah the era’s of Johnny Power; Bionic Knight; Street Avenger and Hacker such wonderful times that the stories were told, and as any good story not to be revisited but for a few).

Where will this renewal lead, I do not know, but it is time to first work on discovering/crafting the space to create, to research, to spread out and be…

Thank you my loving wife for supporting the renewal of interest.