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THE PHANTOM PISTOLEER RIDES AGAIN, part 1

by

Clyde Preston

She had faced many an opponent in her relatively few years, vile men and women, wild beasts and worse, but this morning she was confronted by a new and perplexing foe: the microwave.

"Sweet sarsaparilla!" Quincy Burden exclaimed as the metal box puffed acrid black smoke and her breakfast sparked and crackled behind the glass door. Not sure what to do, she was getting ready to throw water on the thing, when a lightning fast hand reached for the cord behind the box and yanked it free of the wall plug.

"That would have been an unfortunate idea," the petite Japanese woman to whom said hand belonged spoke in an even tone, "Water and electricity are a bad combination."

Quincy, dressed in her brand new flannel pajamas, set her glass down. "Right. Okay. That makes sense. But I got no idea why the fool box went up in smoke when all I was tryin' to do was make some of that magic oatmeal like the Captain showed me."

Taki was garbed in a silken robe that draped her taut frame in a manner that made it obvious she was wearing nothing beneath it and Quincy tried to ignore the way it gapped at the front as the beautiful woman with the fascinating scars leaned forward to pop open the door of the microwave.

Inside the oven was a smoldering morass that was once instant oatmeal in a ceramic bowl...with a blackened formerly-stainless steel spoon sticking out of it. Taki pointed.

"Another bad match," she said without a smile, but the suggestion of amusement in her eyes, "microwaves and-"

"Metal!" Quincy said with her, exasperatedly stamping her foot. "Shoot! I knew that!" Then she laughed at herself, "Well, obviously I didn't."

"Do not fret, Quincy-san," Taki said with a slight bow of the head, "Together, we can do anything. Even fix breakfast." This time, she did smile but it was like a magician's trick how quickly it disappeared.

They set about making tea and toast with jam and ate together in a pleasant silence.

The microwave incident was only one small pebble on the rocky path that was Quincy Burden's adjustment to the 21st Century. Jumping from the Texas plains of 1886 to the concrete canyons of Manhattan circa 2016 had been an overwhelming transition, but Quincy took it day by day, aided and guided by the good people she'd landed amongst.

They were a unique band of individuals who used their skills and, in some cases, special powers, to fight crime and protect the innocent of New York City...and beyond. They called themselves The Odds and they, under the leadership of the perpetually-masked-man known as Captain Evening, were the most remarkable people Quincy had ever met. Not only had they welcomed Quincy into the present day, rescuing her from a formless limbo, but also into their headquarters as an honored guest. It seemed that Quincy's long-past exploits as The Phantom Pistoleer ("that shadowy rider on the trail of Justice" as the Captain would always recite for reasons that only became clear later) had not gone forgotten and The Odds treated her, still physically just a young woman of twenty-seven, as some sort of venerated elder, an inspiration to all the masked vigilantes that had followed.

But here, nearly eight months into her new life in the present day, while her friends The Odds had faced the most amazing challenges, individually and collectively, and had saved the entire world at least once, Quincy hadn't done so much as stop a jaywalker. Not that she was even familiar with the term or the crime itself.

And there was the problem.

Until she knew more about the America, much less the world, she now lived in, Quincy didn't feel confident that she had any business fighting alongside the heroes she shared a kitchen with.

They had all been, and continued to be, so patient and understanding with her, each contributing to her acclimatization in their own way. Foremost among them had been Centennia, the most powerful woman on the planet and, most probably, Quincy's biggest fan. Having been around since the late 19th century herself, Centennia was the closest thing Quincy had to a contemporary and it still boggled her mind that this woman who could fly and punch holes in mountains had grown up on stories of the Phantom Pistoleer's exploits. Centennia had been instrumental in helping Quincy deal with the biggest hurdle in coming to terms with her removal from her native century, namely, saying goodbye to the places, people and wife she had left behind.

After her first couple of weeks of tentatively sampling our modern world - short excursions out into the city alongside one or more of her new friends - trips in taxi cabs, clothes shopping, some ridiculous bout of pampering that Centennia's girlfriend Kate Five called a "spa day" - Quincy finally told her new friends that what she truly needed, more than another demonstration of a "smart phone" or another history lesson about some other damned war she'd missed, more than anything, was a chance to see where her love was buried. Centennia understood completely and immediately made plans for their trip to Oklahoma.

There was one small snag. Quincy refused to fly. She had coped with the existence of buildings ten times taller than any she had previously known, she'd even come to accept the preposterous idea that men had walked on the Moon, but, despite the patient explanations of everyone she'd met in this time, Quincy couldn't come to terms with the idea of putting herself in a winged metal can and hurtling thousands of feet off the ground. Catering to Quincy's apologetic demands, Centennia booked the two of them on a two day trip by rail.

Not only was such a journey something of a nostalgic treat for the superheroine, it also felt somehow appropriate considering whom she traveled with. Riding the rails with the only person alive who had personally fought train robbers thrilled Centennia and she encouraged Quincy to while away the time with tales of her adventures in the true West. The two women bonded during their time on the train and their stay on the Oklahoma reservation where they sought out and found the small, unremarkable grave of Thirsty Faun At Morning.

In a secluded and long-unattended section of the cometary, on a crisp morning, Quincy laid a hand on the grave marker, seeking whatever echo, whatever faint vibration that might connect her with the woman she had claimed as wife under the night stars of more than a century past. But all she felt was cold stone.

Quincy's fingers traced the engraved letters of her wife's name and the numbers beneath, 1862-1947. "Eighty-five," she said quietly. "I hope they were good years, love." Then, her voice cracking and thick with emotion, Quincy said one more endearment in Kapowapatchie before finally dissolving into tears.

Centennia, a woman who had seen many friends and loved ones age and die during her unnaturally extended life, held her wordlessly as she cried. It was a new and powerful connection these two had made in a relatively brief amount of time. Friends before, but now more like sisters.

So close had they become over the course of their trip, that Quincy even allowed Centennia to lift her into the air for a few short flights culminating in a side-trip "via Air-Centennia" to Quincy's long-ago hometown, the birthplace of the Phantom Pistoleer, Ghostwood, Texas.

Just like the rest of the world, nothing about Ghostwood looked the same. There were occasional gaps in the telephone lines and billboards that allowed Quincy to make out the slope of a familiar hill, but the woodlands were gone. This was just another little town along the interstate, another collection of fast food joints, gas stations, a bank and a church. The patch of land that had been her family's ranch, that spot so coveted by the Western-Central Railroad a century or so before, was now home to an outlet mall. The only acknowledgment of Quincy's own legacy was an enormous fueling station for long-haul truckers called The Pistoleer Pit-Stop with a large neon sign in the shape of her masked alter-ego endlessly waving a gun back and forth, calling the weary in off the road for "breakfast all day," "twenty-dollar rooms" and "free cable." This all saddened Quincy nearly as much as her visit to Thirsty Faun's grave and, after just an afternoon's sightseeing, she asked Centennia to take her back "home." There was nothing here to say goodbye to.

So anxious was she to leave, she let Centennia book them for a return flight on a commercial jet. Though nervous, she ended up enjoying the flight and, surprisingly, greatly looking forward to getting back to New York and The Odds.

To be continued....

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

THE PHANTOM PISTOLEER RIDES AGAIN, part 1

by

Clyde Preston

She had faced many an opponent in her relatively few years, vile men and women, wild beasts and worse, but this morning she was confronted by a new and perplexing foe: the microwave.

"Sweet sarsaparilla!" Quincy Burden exclaimed as the metal box puffed acrid black smoke and her breakfast sparked and crackled behind the glass door. Not sure what to do, she was getting ready to throw water on the thing, when a lightning fast hand reached for the cord behind the box and yanked it free of the wall plug.

"That would have been an unfortunate idea," the petite Japanese woman to whom said hand belonged spoke in an even tone, "Water and electricity are a bad combination."

Quincy, dressed in her brand new flannel pajamas, set her glass down. "Right. Okay. That makes sense. But I got no idea why the fool box went up in smoke when all I was tryin' to do was make some of that magic oatmeal like the Captain showed me."

Taki was garbed in a silken robe that draped her taut frame in a manner that made it obvious she was wearing nothing beneath it and Quincy tried to ignore the way it gapped at the front as the beautiful woman with the fascinating scars leaned forward to pop open the door of the microwave.

Inside the oven was a smoldering morass that was once instant oatmeal in a ceramic bowl...with a blackened formerly-stainless steel spoon sticking out of it. Taki pointed.

"Another bad match," she said without a smile, but the suggestion of amusement in her eyes, "microwaves and-"

"Metal!" Quincy said with her, exasperatedly stamping her foot. "Shoot! I knew that!" Then she laughed at herself, "Well, obviously I didn't."

"Do not fret, Quincy-san," Taki said with a slight bow of the head, "Together, we can do anything. Even fix breakfast." This time, she did smile but it was like a magician's trick how quickly it disappeared.

They set about making tea and toast with jam and ate together in a pleasant silence.

The microwave incident was only one small pebble on the rocky path that was Quincy Burden's adjustment to the 21st Century. Jumping from the Texas plains of 1886 to the concrete canyons of Manhattan circa 2016 had been an overwhelming transition, but Quincy took it day by day, aided and guided by the good people she'd landed amongst.

They were a unique band of individuals who used their skills and, in some cases, special powers, to fight crime and protect the innocent of New York City...and beyond. They called themselves The Odds and they, under the leadership of the perpetually-masked-man known as Captain Evening, were the most remarkable people Quincy had ever met. Not only had they welcomed Quincy into the present day, rescuing her from a formless limbo, but also into their headquarters as an honored guest. It seemed that Quincy's long-past exploits as The Phantom Pistoleer ("that shadowy rider on the trail of Justice" as the Captain would always recite for reasons that only became clear later) had not gone forgotten and The Odds treated her, still physically just a young woman of twenty-seven, as some sort of venerated elder, an inspiration to all the masked vigilantes that had followed.

But here, nearly eight months into her new life in the present day, while her friends The Odds had faced the most amazing challenges, individually and collectively, and had saved the entire world at least once, Quincy hadn't done so much as stop a jaywalker. Not that she was even familiar with the term or the crime itself.

And there was the problem.

Until she knew more about the America, much less the world, she now lived in, Quincy didn't feel confident that she had any business fighting alongside the heroes she shared a kitchen with.

They had all been, and continued to be, so patient and understanding with her, each contributing to her acclimatization in their own way. Foremost among them had been Centennia, the most powerful woman on the planet and, most probably, Quincy's biggest fan. Having been around since the late 19th century herself, Centennia was the closest thing Quincy had to a contemporary and it still boggled her mind that this woman who could fly and punch holes in mountains had grown up on stories of the Phantom Pistoleer's exploits. Centennia had been instrumental in helping Quincy deal with the biggest hurdle in coming to terms with her removal from her native century, namely, saying goodbye to the places, people and wife she had left behind.

After her first couple of weeks of tentatively sampling our modern world - short excursions out into the city alongside one or more of her new friends - trips in taxi cabs, clothes shopping, some ridiculous bout of pampering that Centennia's girlfriend Kate Five called a "spa day" - Quincy finally told her new friends that what she truly needed, more than another demonstration of a "smart phone" or another history lesson about some other damned war she'd missed, more than anything, was a chance to see where her love was buried. Centennia understood completely and immediately made plans for their trip to Oklahoma.

There was one small snag. Quincy refused to fly. She had coped with the existence of buildings ten times taller than any she had previously known, she'd even come to accept the preposterous idea that men had walked on the Moon, but, despite the patient explanations of everyone she'd met in this time, Quincy couldn't come to terms with the idea of putting herself in a winged metal can and hurtling thousands of feet off the ground. Catering to Quincy's apologetic demands, Centennia booked the two of them on a two day trip by rail.

Not only was such a journey something of a nostalgic treat for the superheroine, it also felt somehow appropriate considering whom she traveled with. Riding the rails with the only person alive who had personally fought train robbers thrilled Centennia and she encouraged Quincy to while away the time with tales of her adventures in the true West. The two women bonded during their time on the train and their stay on the Oklahoma reservation where they sought out and found the small, unremarkable grave of Thirsty Faun At Morning.

In a secluded and long-unattended section of the cometary, on a crisp morning, Quincy laid a hand on the grave marker, seeking whatever echo, whatever faint vibration that might connect her with the woman she had claimed as wife under the night stars of more than a century past. But all she felt was cold stone.

Quincy's fingers traced the engraved letters of her wife's name and the numbers beneath, 1862-1947. "Eighty-five," she said quietly. "I hope they were good years, love." Then, her voice cracking and thick with emotion, Quincy said one more endearment in Kapowapatchie before finally dissolving into tears.

Centennia, a woman who had seen many friends and loved ones age and die during her unnaturally extended life, held her wordlessly as she cried. It was a new and powerful connection these two had made in a relatively brief amount of time. Friends before, but now more like sisters.

So close had they become over the course of their trip, that Quincy even allowed Centennia to lift her into the air for a few short flights culminating in a side-trip "via Air-Centennia" to Quincy's long-ago hometown, the birthplace of the Phantom Pistoleer, Ghostwood, Texas.

Just like the rest of the world, nothing about Ghostwood looked the same. There were occasional gaps in the telephone lines and billboards that allowed Quincy to make out the slope of a familiar hill, but the woodlands were gone. This was just another little town along the interstate, another collection of fast food joints, gas stations, a bank and a church. The patch of land that had been her family's ranch, that spot so coveted by the Western-Central Railroad a century or so before, was now home to an outlet mall. The only acknowledgment of Quincy's own legacy was an enormous fueling station for long-haul truckers called The Pistoleer Pit-Stop with a large neon sign in the shape of her masked alter-ego endlessly waving a gun back and forth, calling the weary in off the road for "breakfast all day," "twenty-dollar rooms" and "free cable." This all saddened Quincy nearly as much as her visit to Thirsty Faun's grave and, after just an afternoon's sightseeing, she asked Centennia to take her back "home." There was nothing here to say goodbye to.

So anxious was she to leave, she let Centennia book them for a return flight on a commercial jet. Though nervous, she ended up enjoying the flight and, surprisingly, greatly looking forward to getting back to New York and The Odds.

To be continued....