HOME | DD

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

THE PHANTOM PISTOLEER RIDES AGAIN, Part 2

by

Clyde Preston

The effect the trip had on Quincy was immediately apparent. A certain melancholic tension that had hung over her was gone. Questions had been answered, a closure that could only have come from seeing the changes that Time had wrought with her own eyes had left her able and willing to move forward.

An unanticipated and eye-opening by-product of the trip was the subtle but undeniable frostiness that Kate Five, an imposing Welsh woman whose body was host to a powerful alien symbiote, directed Quincy's way. This was most evident in reaction to any outward displays of Quincy and Centennia's greatly increased affection. A shared laugh, a touch on the arm, all garnered a withering look. This was clearly some sort of jealousy or possessiveness, but Quincy was still far too much of a newcomer to understand the particulars of Centennia and Kate's relationship, much less to interfere in same. But at some point, no doubt behind their bedroom door, Centennia must have straightened her girlfriend out, convinced her that she and Quincy had merely cemented a bond of friendship and nothing more, because a week later, Kate was the very model of delightfully bawdy camaraderie that she had been before. Sometimes, on her own and quite late at night, Quincy would imagine the various illicit means Centennia might have employed to placate her lover and prove her fidelity and ardor. Such thoughts were both shamefully inappropriate and shamefully pleasurable, but it was certainly hard to conceive of more delicious imagery to escort one into the arms of Morpheus.

Once returned to the Manhattan headquarters of The Odds, Quincy's ongoing education resumed, benefitting from the wide variety of specialties and knowledge possessed by her new teammates and friends.

Mysto the Space Wizard, not an official member of The Odds but a frequent ally, came by the HQ once a week to help Quincy understand and train her newfound ability to become intangible at will. He explained that she wasn't actually dispersing her molecules, but actually partially phase-shifting her physical self into the nebulous limbo into which she had been cursed over a century ago. With his help, Quincy was able to hone this skill, making the shift a nearly unconscious reflex action and, with practice, she also discovered the abilities to extend the shift to organic or inorganic material she was in physical contact with or to store objects, like her costume and guns, or people, like herself, in that limbo for later retrieval. White Wind, the Kapowapatchie shaman who had cast her into the void, had intended it as a form of punishment but Quincy found it ironic that doing so had actually resulted in making her a much more formidable force for good.

During those same months, Jung-La, former police sheriff turned urban jungle queen, encouraged Quincy to join her and Terry Tornado in exercise and combat training. In Captain Evening's state of the art gym/dojo, Quincy, who had only ever been an accomplished scrapper, was instructed in various fighting techniques from around the world. Though Terry, like Mysto, was not a member-in-standing with The Odds, she used her expertise as a super-strong fitness model and former champion wrestler to run the sessions. She worked them hard. Quincy learned quickly and was flattered by the praise offered by both women about her physical fitness. She explained with all due modesty, that simply living the life of a cattle rancher and masked crimefighter tended to keep one fit. She, in turn, praised Jung-La and the Captain for rushing into the fray without the benefit of super powers. Terry Tornado echoed the sentiment and commented that there were so many ways for those with a desire to do so to fight the good fight using whatever talents they might have at their disposal. Rodney, a humanoid rabbit with pink fur who seemed perpetually inebriated and who had been watching that day's session in mute appreciation, lifted a martini glass and piped up to say, "Amen to that. Glow-Nado, anybody?"

The reference was lost on Quincy, who noticed Terry blushing. Just as she was going to ask what that was about, Jung-La chased Rodney from the room, telling him in her noticeable Tennessee accent that the gym wasn't a peep show.

On a somewhat related note, one day when Quincy idly brought up the prospect of bringing her long-dormant alter-ego out of retirement - a possibility that was roundly encouraged by all those in earshot - the question of whether or not she should stick with the "classic" Phantom Pistoleer look or an updated version was bandied about. Dennis, the woman who had inherited the sword and soul of her ancestor The Blue Knight, voted for an upgrade. The irony of a heroine who outfitted herself in twelfth century plate armor suggesting she should go for a modern look was not lost on Quincy.

What surprised her most was the teammate who offered to design the new costume. Showing an unusual enthusiasm for the project, the short-statured Irish hellion named Aideen virtually demanded that she be the one to craft a new look for the Phantom Pistoleer. So she did. And when she had finished, Quincy was startled by the results. Reflecting that the costume had been designed by a girl who normally dressed like an s&m club rat and had the power to turn into a seven foot tall mythical Celtic warrior woman clothed in little but warpaint, the outcome perhaps shouldn't have been so unexpected. Expressing her thanks but with due trepidation, Quincy gratefully demurred from accepting the duds.

"Look, Quincy," Aideen replied, "it ain't eighteen-bleedin'-whenever. Ye don't haveta go about in drag anymore! Th' days of hidin' yer fockin' tits has passed! Halleigh-fockin'-looyah, yeah?"

When Quincy still seemed sunsure, Aideen put a hand on her shoulder, "Tell ye what, howabout ye try 'em on just this once - see how they feel."

Thinking that was a fair way to put the matter to rest, Quincy agreed.

She retired to the large communal showers and changing room and put on the costume - what little there was of it. The interesting part of Aideen's design was how much of it was the Pistoleer's same old gear. Her boots were the same well-broken-in black leather cowboy boots, the same trail gloves and wide-brimmed gray Stetson. The mask was now an abbreviated affair that only concealed the area around her eyes and was able to be tied in such a way that allowed her long chestnut hair to hang loose. But it was the rest that made Quincy so unsure. For a top, there was only the Pistoleer's charcoal twill vest with no shirt or undergarments. And for trousers - well, there were no trousers. What remained was a pair of drastically minimized dark denim shorts that appeared to have been raggedly trimmed out of a full pair of pants. They hugged Quincy's slim hips and rear-end in a manner wholly unfamiliar to the woman from the 1800s. Taken together, it hardly seemed like a proper outfit at all, much less sufficient cover, but Quincy would go ahead and humor her feisty friend. No harm in trying the clothes on. If nothing else, there was a certain thrill in donning such a daring ensemble. The feel of the vest's satin lining brushing against her unprotected nipples made them stiffen.

Mask on and hat in place, Quincy strode back out of the changing room, announcing to Aideen as she did, "Land sakes, girl, I think even the soiled doves of Fort Worth wore more than this in my day an'-"

But she soon discovered that her audience of one had multiplied. Waiting just outside the showers, in addition to a wickedly grinning Aideen, were Centennia, Kate Five, Jung-la, Ionic Angel, Dennis and Taki. There was a general intake of breath as they absorbed Quincy's new look and the shock of the surprise almost sent the Phantom Pistoleer vanishing back into the safety of her private limbo. Instead, in that pause, she froze - a full-body blush radiating from her cheeks to her brazenly exposed knees.

It was Centennia who spoke first, exclaiming, "I love it!"

"Really?" Quincy responded, self-consciously crossing her arms in front of her chest and clutching her biceps.

"Hell yeah," Jung-La added, moving forward to force Quincy's arms down, "You're hot, girl!"

Quincy ducked her head, looking bashfully up from under the brim of her hat, "If anything, I'd say I was a mite chilly." This elicited a round of laughter. Even Taki, who hadn't said a word, lit up with one of her rare, fleeting smiles and when Quincy's eyes caught hers, the Japanese woman blushed as deeply as Quincy herself.

Their reactions had stunned her. Taken objectively, it was a fine costume; it offered a freedom she'd never known and was still more conservative than Jung-la's tiger-skin bikini or Kate's symbiote-mesh bodysuit, but could Quincy actually wear such clothes in public? She was unsure about that, but Aideen's words about the time of disguising her sex, her self, under layers of men's clothes having well-passed had sunk in.

Around this same time, a very specific form of education came courtesy of her host and the leader of this disparate group of heroes, Captain Evening. Months into her association with the man, living under his roof and eating his food, Quincy still knew little about him. For all she knew, he had been christened "Captain Evening" at birth. And he never removed his blue and gold face mask, even when lounging about the HQ in t-shirts and shorts - or, er, less. There were mysteries upon mysteries where the Captain was concerned, but Quincy couldn't help but like, respect, and trust him. He had treated Quincy with excessive patience and gentility, walking her through various unstructured lessons in history, day-to-day living, and culture. And, finally, he was the one who taught her all she needed to know about The Phantom Pistoleer.

One night, in the Odds HQ's spacious entertainment center, Captain Evening held up a thin shining disc. "You remember what this is?" he asked.

Quincy had long moved past feeling condescended to by such questions; in fact, she appreciated the impromptu quizzes. "A dee-vee-dee disc for watching your television entertainments," she answered.

"This is actually a blu-ray, but close enough," Captain Evening replied, "Good job. But what this is specifically is disc one of the first season of The Adventures of the Phantom Pistoleer."

"What's that now?"

"A popular television show that ran from 1951 to 1957, starring Ben Westmore as Clinton Albright - also known as The Phantom Pistoleer."

Centennia had explained this to Quincy almost immediately after rescuing her from limbo, that, in the years since Quincy had ridden the land as the Pistoleer, the American populace had raised her to legendary status. And, never discovering the Pistoleer's true identity, had long ago laid that distinction on the most likely candidate, her old friend and shooting instructor Clinton Albright. There had been books and songs and radio shows and moving pictures all based on this erroneous assumption that Clint, a dear man and ardent pacifist after the Civil War, had been the face behind the mask of the Phantom Pistoleer.

And now, here was Captain Evening, grinning like a boy as he put the disc on the machine, saying, "For a lot of the country, myself included, this show was our favorite representation of the Phantom Pistoleer. I loved it, watched the reruns all the time as a kid. And I thought you might like to see who it is everybody thinks you were - er, are."

He joined her on the couch just as the first episode was queued up. Quincy was still getting used to the very concept of recorded and broadcast theatricals - flat, moving people beaming out of flat, dark window boxes - but she had at least stopped talking back to the actors onscreen or constantly asking just how such a thing was possible. The TV show began and Quincy nearly elbowed the Captain to make sure he was aware that something must be broken in his machine, since the picture she was looking at was devoid of color and just a monochromatic, gray depiction of mesas and canyons that belonged to land far from the North-Eastern corner of the great state of where her home of Ghostwood resided - when the music began, and the voice dramatically intoning:

"This is Texas of the old days, where hard men preyed on good folk and the law was secondary to a fast draw. But one man was unafraid to fight the good fight. Out of the night he came, that shadowy rider on the trail of Justice, the masked man called The Phantom Pistoleer!"

"Goodness!" Quincy exclaimed.

And she watched in fascination as a handsome actor who looked nothing like him, played her friend Clint, then played as Clint playing the Phantom Pistoleer, a role he'd never assayed in real life. And there was a young girl playing her! Or a prim, pretty little version of Consequence Burden who didn't rate much time in the story, because history barely recalled that the Pistoleer's career began with the murder of the Burdens and the takeover of their ranch. But here it was in a simplified form, a real "rip-snorter" of a melodrama, and all over in twenty-six minutes. Without a word between them, the Captain let the next episode play, an episode that introduced the character of Thirsty Faun At Morning, portrayed by a beautiful white actress in a terrible long, black wig. When they came upon a scene of "Clint/Pistoleer" kissing "Thirsty Faun," Quincy asked Captain Evening to stop the show.

A sudden insight lit the Captain's eyes behind his ever-present visor. "Oh - oh, I'm sorry, Quincy. I didn't think how distasteful this might be for you."

"Aw, that's okay, Captain," Quincy assured him, "It's just passin' strange is all. They got some of the names right, but, otherwise, there isn't a lick of truth in any of it! It all looks so fake an' so - so clean! People gettin' shot don't just grab their bellies an' fall over, I'll tell you that much. And where do they think Ghostwood is? New Mexico?"

"It must be jarring to see your life turned into fiction," Captain Evening said, "But that's a tribute to the mark you left, that your persona and your acts lived on to be built up, interpreted and reinterpreted by the generations that came after. Like a myth."

Quincy rose from the couch and went to the shelves set into the wall on the side of the enormous TV. She found the box set of The Adventures of the Phantom Pistoleer (and, while seeking it out, happened to spy a DVD with the title Glow-Nado which rang a bell - she'd have to check that out later). As she looked over the box with the cover art of the actor Ben Westmore in Phantom Pistoleer garb with six-shooters drawn, she replied thoughtfully, "Yes, well... It's like you and Centennia have been tellin' me, the world's got no idea of who I really am or what really happened back then. And maybe they don't want to know, maybe this is what they want. It begs the question, should I decide to try my hand at heroing again in this nonsensical time I've been plunked down in, whether or not I should even bother going by my old name. Might end up that my worst enemy is my own legend."

In the disarming manner the Captain broached nearly every topic in the spaces between battles, he said to her, "Well, that's for you to say, surely. But if anybody out there had the right to call themselves 'The Phantom Pistoleer' it's you, Quincy."

Quincy had no response to that, but the Captain had given her a lot to think about.

She didn't sleep well that night and it had nothing to do with the sounds of the vigorous and varied couplings occurring throughout the Odds' penthouse headquarters.

To be continued....

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

THE PHANTOM PISTOLEER RIDES AGAIN, Part 2

by

Clyde Preston

The effect the trip had on Quincy was immediately apparent. A certain melancholic tension that had hung over her was gone. Questions had been answered, a closure that could only have come from seeing the changes that Time had wrought with her own eyes had left her able and willing to move forward.

An unanticipated and eye-opening by-product of the trip was the subtle but undeniable frostiness that Kate Five, an imposing Welsh woman whose body was host to a powerful alien symbiote, directed Quincy's way. This was most evident in reaction to any outward displays of Quincy and Centennia's greatly increased affection. A shared laugh, a touch on the arm, all garnered a withering look. This was clearly some sort of jealousy or possessiveness, but Quincy was still far too much of a newcomer to understand the particulars of Centennia and Kate's relationship, much less to interfere in same. But at some point, no doubt behind their bedroom door, Centennia must have straightened her girlfriend out, convinced her that she and Quincy had merely cemented a bond of friendship and nothing more, because a week later, Kate was the very model of delightfully bawdy camaraderie that she had been before. Sometimes, on her own and quite late at night, Quincy would imagine the various illicit means Centennia might have employed to placate her lover and prove her fidelity and ardor. Such thoughts were both shamefully inappropriate and shamefully pleasurable, but it was certainly hard to conceive of more delicious imagery to escort one into the arms of Morpheus.

Once returned to the Manhattan headquarters of The Odds, Quincy's ongoing education resumed, benefitting from the wide variety of specialties and knowledge possessed by her new teammates and friends.

Mysto the Space Wizard, not an official member of The Odds but a frequent ally, came by the HQ once a week to help Quincy understand and train her newfound ability to become intangible at will. He explained that she wasn't actually dispersing her molecules, but actually partially phase-shifting her physical self into the nebulous limbo into which she had been cursed over a century ago. With his help, Quincy was able to hone this skill, making the shift a nearly unconscious reflex action and, with practice, she also discovered the abilities to extend the shift to organic or inorganic material she was in physical contact with or to store objects, like her costume and guns, or people, like herself, in that limbo for later retrieval. White Wind, the Kapowapatchie shaman who had cast her into the void, had intended it as a form of punishment but Quincy found it ironic that doing so had actually resulted in making her a much more formidable force for good.

During those same months, Jung-La, former police sheriff turned urban jungle queen, encouraged Quincy to join her and Terry Tornado in exercise and combat training. In Captain Evening's state of the art gym/dojo, Quincy, who had only ever been an accomplished scrapper, was instructed in various fighting techniques from around the world. Though Terry, like Mysto, was not a member-in-standing with The Odds, she used her expertise as a super-strong fitness model and former champion wrestler to run the sessions. She worked them hard. Quincy learned quickly and was flattered by the praise offered by both women about her physical fitness. She explained with all due modesty, that simply living the life of a cattle rancher and masked crimefighter tended to keep one fit. She, in turn, praised Jung-La and the Captain for rushing into the fray without the benefit of super powers. Terry Tornado echoed the sentiment and commented that there were so many ways for those with a desire to do so to fight the good fight using whatever talents they might have at their disposal. Rodney, a humanoid rabbit with pink fur who seemed perpetually inebriated and who had been watching that day's session in mute appreciation, lifted a martini glass and piped up to say, "Amen to that. Glow-Nado, anybody?"

The reference was lost on Quincy, who noticed Terry blushing. Just as she was going to ask what that was about, Jung-La chased Rodney from the room, telling him in her noticeable Tennessee accent that the gym wasn't a peep show.

On a somewhat related note, one day when Quincy idly brought up the prospect of bringing her long-dormant alter-ego out of retirement - a possibility that was roundly encouraged by all those in earshot - the question of whether or not she should stick with the "classic" Phantom Pistoleer look or an updated version was bandied about. Dennis, the woman who had inherited the sword and soul of her ancestor The Blue Knight, voted for an upgrade. The irony of a heroine who outfitted herself in twelfth century plate armor suggesting she should go for a modern look was not lost on Quincy.

What surprised her most was the teammate who offered to design the new costume. Showing an unusual enthusiasm for the project, the short-statured Irish hellion named Aideen virtually demanded that she be the one to craft a new look for the Phantom Pistoleer. So she did. And when she had finished, Quincy was startled by the results. Reflecting that the costume had been designed by a girl who normally dressed like an s&m club rat and had the power to turn into a seven foot tall mythical Celtic warrior woman clothed in little but warpaint, the outcome perhaps shouldn't have been so unexpected. Expressing her thanks but with due trepidation, Quincy gratefully demurred from accepting the duds.

"Look, Quincy," Aideen replied, "it ain't eighteen-bleedin'-whenever. Ye don't haveta go about in drag anymore! Th' days of hidin' yer fockin' tits has passed! Halleigh-fockin'-looyah, yeah?"

When Quincy still seemed sunsure, Aideen put a hand on her shoulder, "Tell ye what, howabout ye try 'em on just this once - see how they feel."

Thinking that was a fair way to put the matter to rest, Quincy agreed.

She retired to the large communal showers and changing room and put on the costume - what little there was of it. The interesting part of Aideen's design was how much of it was the Pistoleer's same old gear. Her boots were the same well-broken-in black leather cowboy boots, the same trail gloves and wide-brimmed gray Stetson. The mask was now an abbreviated affair that only concealed the area around her eyes and was able to be tied in such a way that allowed her long chestnut hair to hang loose. But it was the rest that made Quincy so unsure. For a top, there was only the Pistoleer's charcoal twill vest with no shirt or undergarments. And for trousers - well, there were no trousers. What remained was a pair of drastically minimized dark denim shorts that appeared to have been raggedly trimmed out of a full pair of pants. They hugged Quincy's slim hips and rear-end in a manner wholly unfamiliar to the woman from the 1800s. Taken together, it hardly seemed like a proper outfit at all, much less sufficient cover, but Quincy would go ahead and humor her feisty friend. No harm in trying the clothes on. If nothing else, there was a certain thrill in donning such a daring ensemble. The feel of the vest's satin lining brushing against her unprotected nipples made them stiffen.

Mask on and hat in place, Quincy strode back out of the changing room, announcing to Aideen as she did, "Land sakes, girl, I think even the soiled doves of Fort Worth wore more than this in my day an'-"

But she soon discovered that her audience of one had multiplied. Waiting just outside the showers, in addition to a wickedly grinning Aideen, were Centennia, Kate Five, Jung-la, Ionic Angel, Dennis and Taki. There was a general intake of breath as they absorbed Quincy's new look and the shock of the surprise almost sent the Phantom Pistoleer vanishing back into the safety of her private limbo. Instead, in that pause, she froze - a full-body blush radiating from her cheeks to her brazenly exposed knees.

It was Centennia who spoke first, exclaiming, "I love it!"

"Really?" Quincy responded, self-consciously crossing her arms in front of her chest and clutching her biceps.

"Hell yeah," Jung-La added, moving forward to force Quincy's arms down, "You're hot, girl!"

Quincy ducked her head, looking bashfully up from under the brim of her hat, "If anything, I'd say I was a mite chilly." This elicited a round of laughter. Even Taki, who hadn't said a word, lit up with one of her rare, fleeting smiles and when Quincy's eyes caught hers, the Japanese woman blushed as deeply as Quincy herself.

Their reactions had stunned her. Taken objectively, it was a fine costume; it offered a freedom she'd never known and was still more conservative than Jung-la's tiger-skin bikini or Kate's symbiote-mesh bodysuit, but could Quincy actually wear such clothes in public? She was unsure about that, but Aideen's words about the time of disguising her sex, her self, under layers of men's clothes having well-passed had sunk in.

Around this same time, a very specific form of education came courtesy of her host and the leader of this disparate group of heroes, Captain Evening. Months into her association with the man, living under his roof and eating his food, Quincy still knew little about him. For all she knew, he had been christened "Captain Evening" at birth. And he never removed his blue and gold face mask, even when lounging about the HQ in t-shirts and shorts - or, er, less. There were mysteries upon mysteries where the Captain was concerned, but Quincy couldn't help but like, respect, and trust him. He had treated Quincy with excessive patience and gentility, walking her through various unstructured lessons in history, day-to-day living, and culture. And, finally, he was the one who taught her all she needed to know about The Phantom Pistoleer.

One night, in the Odds HQ's spacious entertainment center, Captain Evening held up a thin shining disc. "You remember what this is?" he asked.

Quincy had long moved past feeling condescended to by such questions; in fact, she appreciated the impromptu quizzes. "A dee-vee-dee disc for watching your television entertainments," she answered.

"This is actually a blu-ray, but close enough," Captain Evening replied, "Good job. But what this is specifically is disc one of the first season of The Adventures of the Phantom Pistoleer."

"What's that now?"

"A popular television show that ran from 1951 to 1957, starring Ben Westmore as Clinton Albright - also known as The Phantom Pistoleer."

Centennia had explained this to Quincy almost immediately after rescuing her from limbo, that, in the years since Quincy had ridden the land as the Pistoleer, the American populace had raised her to legendary status. And, never discovering the Pistoleer's true identity, had long ago laid that distinction on the most likely candidate, her old friend and shooting instructor Clinton Albright. There had been books and songs and radio shows and moving pictures all based on this erroneous assumption that Clint, a dear man and ardent pacifist after the Civil War, had been the face behind the mask of the Phantom Pistoleer.

And now, here was Captain Evening, grinning like a boy as he put the disc on the machine, saying, "For a lot of the country, myself included, this show was our favorite representation of the Phantom Pistoleer. I loved it, watched the reruns all the time as a kid. And I thought you might like to see who it is everybody thinks you were - er, are."

He joined her on the couch just as the first episode was queued up. Quincy was still getting used to the very concept of recorded and broadcast theatricals - flat, moving people beaming out of flat, dark window boxes - but she had at least stopped talking back to the actors onscreen or constantly asking just how such a thing was possible. The TV show began and Quincy nearly elbowed the Captain to make sure he was aware that something must be broken in his machine, since the picture she was looking at was devoid of color and just a monochromatic, gray depiction of mesas and canyons that belonged to land far from the North-Eastern corner of the great state of where her home of Ghostwood resided - when the music began, and the voice dramatically intoning:

"This is Texas of the old days, where hard men preyed on good folk and the law was secondary to a fast draw. But one man was unafraid to fight the good fight. Out of the night he came, that shadowy rider on the trail of Justice, the masked man called The Phantom Pistoleer!"

"Goodness!" Quincy exclaimed.

And she watched in fascination as a handsome actor who looked nothing like him, played her friend Clint, then played as Clint playing the Phantom Pistoleer, a role he'd never assayed in real life. And there was a young girl playing her! Or a prim, pretty little version of Consequence Burden who didn't rate much time in the story, because history barely recalled that the Pistoleer's career began with the murder of the Burdens and the takeover of their ranch. But here it was in a simplified form, a real "rip-snorter" of a melodrama, and all over in twenty-six minutes. Without a word between them, the Captain let the next episode play, an episode that introduced the character of Thirsty Faun At Morning, portrayed by a beautiful white actress in a terrible long, black wig. When they came upon a scene of "Clint/Pistoleer" kissing "Thirsty Faun," Quincy asked Captain Evening to stop the show.

A sudden insight lit the Captain's eyes behind his ever-present visor. "Oh - oh, I'm sorry, Quincy. I didn't think how distasteful this might be for you."

"Aw, that's okay, Captain," Quincy assured him, "It's just passin' strange is all. They got some of the names right, but, otherwise, there isn't a lick of truth in any of it! It all looks so fake an' so - so clean! People gettin' shot don't just grab their bellies an' fall over, I'll tell you that much. And where do they think Ghostwood is? New Mexico?"

"It must be jarring to see your life turned into fiction," Captain Evening said, "But that's a tribute to the mark you left, that your persona and your acts lived on to be built up, interpreted and reinterpreted by the generations that came after. Like a myth."

Quincy rose from the couch and went to the shelves set into the wall on the side of the enormous TV. She found the box set of The Adventures of the Phantom Pistoleer (and, while seeking it out, happened to spy a DVD with the title Glow-Nado which rang a bell - she'd have to check that out later). As she looked over the box with the cover art of the actor Ben Westmore in Phantom Pistoleer garb with six-shooters drawn, she replied thoughtfully, "Yes, well... It's like you and Centennia have been tellin' me, the world's got no idea of who I really am or what really happened back then. And maybe they don't want to know, maybe this is what they want. It begs the question, should I decide to try my hand at heroing again in this nonsensical time I've been plunked down in, whether or not I should even bother going by my old name. Might end up that my worst enemy is my own legend."

In the disarming manner the Captain broached nearly every topic in the spaces between battles, he said to her, "Well, that's for you to say, surely. But if anybody out there had the right to call themselves 'The Phantom Pistoleer' it's you, Quincy."

Quincy had no response to that, but the Captain had given her a lot to think about.

She didn't sleep well that night and it had nothing to do with the sounds of the vigorous and varied couplings occurring throughout the Odds' penthouse headquarters.

To be continued....