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ASTONISHING ADVENTURES MAGAZINE
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ow: “Tell us a story, Uncle Lou…we want a story!” “Oh now, you don’t want to hear the ramblings from this old man’s noggin’ do you?” The children’s bright faces lit up. “We want a story. We want a story!” “Okay now. Let me see… no, not for this crowd. Maybe… no that’s not right either. Save that one for another time. Hmmm...Yes. Tell me children, have you ever heard of someone by the name of Buster Bullet?” The hushed tones told the old man that they had indeed heard of the man called Buster Bullet, and a slow smile curled the edges of the old man’s mouth. He looked out amongst their bright shining faces as they moved in closer, their eyes betraying their eagerness to hear his tale. “Everyone gather round and get settled in. Quiet now or you children won’t hear. Can everyone hear me? Come close. Good. Now then, once upon a time…” Then: “So, kid. Do we have a deal?” Buster Bullet, Ace of the Stratosphere could barely hear the soft-spoken, nearly kind words. His ears were still ringing from the barrage of punches that swelled his lobes into the size of potatoes. His eyes fared no better as he was nearly blind from the repeated hits that made his orbs black and blue pockets of blood. The only thing on his body that didn’t hurt was his left arm, bound tightly as he was to the rickety chair in the middle of the abandoned warehouse. His right shoulder lanced pain up and down his side dislocated as it was. Then, the soft-spoken voice leaned in close. Buster tried blinking the blood out of his eyes so he could see the face of his tormentor, but all he was able to discern were the hazy outline of a gray old man. If he had been able to clearly see he would have taken in the rough lines of
age across the man’s features, the long gray coat which perched around his shoulders and the silver cane he used to support his thin, stooped body. But all Buster saw of him was a patch of gray and that haunting voice. To him he was a ghost - a vengeful spirit - that struck with such precision as to invoke the most terror. In every way Buster was the opposite of his tormentor‘s ghostly silhouette. Thick, beefy with a fireplug of a body. With his flight helmet on Buster Bullet was aptly named. His massive frame was the only one that had been capable of supporting the experimental jet pack integrated into his uniform. But now, here he was - the “Ace of the Stratosphere” as the Mayor had called him - strapped down like a lab rat for dissection by this little man. Buster felt every ounce of helpless as he slowly tested the bonds holding him with his left arm. If only he could summon the strength to break the cords holding him he could activate the jetpack’s ignition sequence. Then he would show this enigma why the newspapers ran headlines of his crime-fighting exploits! The little man leaned in even closer, placed his hand on Buster to steady himself, and whispered those soft, kind words that finally made Buster Bullet tremble… “Come on, son. Those ropes aren’t going anywhere, and I can keep this up all night.” Buster knew and it was with this that a small, blood soaked whimper escaped the jet-propelled adventurer’s mouth. He was surprised as anyone that he cracked, but there it was. Tears mingled with blood and ran down his face, dripping on his radar goggles still cradled around his neck. His jaw was broken, and his voice was wet with blood, but the word the gray man was looking for finally appeared. “Yes,” Buster spat out, lip quivering, defeated. “What was that, son? I didn’t quite hear you…” “Yes! We have a deal! I’ll tell you everything.