Mystery Men Role Playing Game: The Wrath of Pops Racecar!
To dispel any notion that in my free time between writing novels, I do anything becoming to a man my age, like reading Papal encyclicals, or translating Aristotle, or even ice fishing, I’d like to make it clear I have the same hobby as the nearsighted asthmatic teenager working in your local gaming store, to wit, I play role playing games. This is a game called Mystery Men, based loosely on the movie, based loosely on the comic book.
You play a squad of between four to six incompetent super heroes. Below is a description of my third turn. This should be the last entry in this particular line of posts for about a month.
Daisuke Mifune, also known as “Pops” Racecar, his huge arms folded over his brawny chest and massive belly, cap pulled low on his head and oil stains shining on his overalls, stood in the front door of the little split level suburban home which served as the workshop and headquarters of Racecar Motors, the stubbornly independent yet spunky family business.
Sprawled on the lawn before him were the limp forms of Bill Gates of California and Doctor Doom of Latveria. “GET OUT!” thundered Pops. “I am not selling my motor business for any amount of money! Not to no one, not no how!”
Doctor Doom’s gyroscopic carbon-titanium smart-armor righted itself with a hum of his atomic strength-amplification motors. “Now, then, be reasonable, sir. I represent a prestigious consortium you might find it to your advantage to…”
“Curse you, Pops Fast!”shrieked Bill Gates, waving a threatening, if somewhat small and veiny, fist in the direction of the large and ectomorphic form of the master mechanic. “You have thwarted me for now! But I solemnly swear you will pay for my defeat! If I cannot purchase your stubbornly independent yet spunky motor of revolutionary design, I will use my vast wealth to gather the Superhighway Race Car League of Outrageous Vehicles against you! And no one in your family will ever win a race again! Beware my vengeance!”
“Well,” said Doctor Doom mildly, brushing some grassblades off his voluminous green cape, “Come to think of it, I could have my ultrastratospheric superdreadnought direct a robot-controlled nuclear warhead at this area of Japan, and wipe out the whole countryside. I also have a time machine. I urge you to reconsider our lucrative offer, Pops…”
His eyes narrowed in dark and brooding anger, his teeth clenched, and a cold aura of offended majesty radiated from him. “No one talks to me that way in my suburban yard! The last time anyone DARED speak that way was the day my beloved son Rex Racecar died! You should not have made me angry!” And, using his vast muscles and vast skills as the only living remaining practitioner of Japanese Style Greco-Roman Wrestling, he picked up Doctor Doom by the ankles and clobbered the still snarling and moustache-twirling villain, Bill Gates, with him. “And STAY out!” He called after their retreating forms.
Aya Mifune, affectionately known as Mom Racecar, appeared in the doorway, peering over her husband’s brawny shoulder. She was wearing a pearl necklace, a frilly apron, and was polishing a china plate. “Was that that J.K. Rowling woman again? Or was it the Queen of England, again? You could tell her we do not need her money without actually punching her in the face, you know. I don’t want you setting a bad example Chim-Chim.”
“No,” grunted Pops with a massive shrug. “It was the head of state of some other nation, this time from Eastern Europe. With the Head of State World Rally coming up, all these monarchs and presidents and dictators of World Powers are desperate for a lightweight but powerful spunky engine. Little do they realize that I have placed the irreplaceable plans in the one place that is completely safe: I draw the motor blueprints in invisible ink mixed with lemon juice on the windshield of the experimental super-car I built for my son, Fast Racer.”
While the two were talking, Michi Shimura, daughter of the wealthy Mr Shimura of Shimura aircraft company, nicknamed Trixie (the daughter, not the father) landed in her cute pink helicopter in an uproarious roar of downwash, and came skipping over to join the conversation. She drew off the heavy aircraft helmet she wore and flipped her short, spunky hair, which she wore in a pageboy bob, and for some reason gave a wink through the fourth wall at the nonexistent viewing audience.
“Hi, Pops! What secret thing are you discussing?” she burbled with irrepressible cheerfulness.
Pops growled, “The fact that every world leader from Putin to the King of Magical Australia has been dropping by my house trying to beg, borrow, or threaten the secret of my super motor out of me! They all want it for the Head of State World Rally! But I have cleverly hidden the plans by drawing them in visible ink on my son’s racecar!”
She blinked her overly-large yet charming eyes. “But — that car is constantly exposed to glass-smashing danger, from thrown gravel to machinegun bullets to laser beams fired by evil racecar driving cyborgs dressed as scarecrows or something. As absurdly dangerous as racecar driving is, he has now taken up superhero crimefighting, which is even more absurdly dangerous!”
Pops nodded grimly. “While it is true Fast Racer has recently taken up superhero vigilante work, which is absurdly dangerous, nonetheless, I have forbidden him to do any more superheroing, and he is not allowed to race in any more races. He is not experienced enough to race in the big leagues. So, by comic book logic, no industrial spy or racecar motor plans thief will ever think to look at the windshield of a car that is certain to be involved in car-wrecks and car-dogfights and car-gunfights! But they do not know that I have FORBIDDEN Fast to leave the house, making the windshield perfectly safe! Any questions?” Michi said, “Why are you standing in the front yard? If the Mock Mach Macht Schnell is safely in the garage, why is the garage door open and the car missing?”
“I have a question,” said Mom Racecar. “Why is it that our last name is ‘Racecar’ whereas his is ‘Racer’?”
Just at that moment, Kurio Mifune, sometimes called Spritely, appeared in the doorway, peering outward to see what the confusion was. He was sucking a lollypop, and was dressed in a baseball cap, striped shirt, and red overalls. With him was a freakish miniature apelike being of his same size and shape, also dressed in a baseball cap, striped shirt, and red overalls. The monkey was also carrying and licking a lollypop.
“I have a question!” chimed in the adorable if odd eight year old, “Why does a freakish apelike being who looks and dressed exactly like me live in our house, eat at the kitchen table with us, and sleep in my bed?”
Mom Racecar silently decided now was not the time to explain about her past indiscretions with Gorilla Grod of Ape City, or the nature of Soviet biologist Ilya Ivanovich Ivanov’s controversial experiments on creating human-ape hybrids.
Just at that moment, Sabu, affectionately nicknamed ‘Sparky’, the comedy relief sidekick and engineer who for some reason lived at the Mifune household, stuck his head around the door. He was wearing greasy overalls and a baseball cap on backward with a monkeywrench protruding from his overall pockets, just in case it was not clear that he was an engineer. “I have a question! Why do I live at your house? Do I have a last name?”
Just at that moment, the shining white length of the Mock Mach Macht Schnell, motors purring like a kitten and roaring like a lion, sped down the road like a glance of lightning, and with a squeal of tired, pulled into the driveway in a cloud of blue smoke.
“So,” said Michi, blinking. “Fast Racer ignored your commands and decided to go racecar driving anyway, or go fight crime as a superhero? That would seem to be a weak spot in your plan, considering that he disobeys your comically overbearing commands just about every three episodes or so.”
Pop’s face turned red as a beat under a stoplight at sunset covered in catsup. Steam leaked from his ears. “FAAAST!”
Unexpectedly, from behind him, came Fast Racer, Go Mifune, dressed in blue pajamas and wearing a red scarf. His Elvis style pompadour was mussed, and he was yawning. “What’s up Pops?”
Pops blinked at him, then at the figure which emerged from the motorcar. Mom Racecar said sweetly, “You father wanted to upbraid you for sneaking out to do race car vigilante work. You were seen fighting the evil Stonecutters along with—I think—a man dressed like Santa Clause and another man in a Barrel? It was in the news. ”
Fast had a look on his face that can only be described as slow. “But—I was home, taking a week-long shower and a nap.”
Michi exclaimed, “But is Fast Racer actually NOT Go Mifune in disguise? That was the lamest superhero disguise ever! Everyone knows Fast Racer is Go Mifune! He did not even take a secret identity as a dis-ad!”
Fast Racer looked nervous. “You’re just kidding, right? You guys don’t actually know that I am secretly the superhero Fast Racer?”
“We all know,” said Michi, Pops, Mom, Spritely, and Sparky in unison. “Ook! Ook!” observed the monkey.
“But wait!” said Spritely, “If Fast Racer is HERE — then who is that THERE?!” For a moment, a tall and ominous silhouette loomed in the cloud. The blue smoke from the tailpipe of the Mock Mach Macht Schnell finally cleared away. There was a man dressed in Fast Racer’s signature jacket, but his face was covered by a black hood adorned with a large white X.
“Ook! AWK!” exclaimed the monkey in surprise.
“It is Chauffer X! THE HARBINGER OF BOOM!” shrieked Spritely. “RUN!”
Chauffer X, that mysterious figure who haunts race car driving circuits, periodically smashing car-napping crime rings and fighting evil racecar driving cyborgs dressed as scarecrows or something, was well known for his reckless but bold and fearless style of driving. He was also the chauffer of the White House Limo for the President of the United States, James Norcross.
“It is I, Chauffer X,” intoned Chauffer X. “I am sorry Fast, but I had to borrow your car and assume your identity to stop the Stonecutter’s gang. While their activities have nothing whatsoever to do with car racing, the International Outrageous Vehicle Automotive Racing Association’s international secret police division head, Inspector Detector, asked me to look into it.”
Fast said in confused anger and angry confusion, “Hold it! You stole my car? Is that not a crime?”
Chauffer X nodded to another man, who emerged from the racecar. It was a guy in a hat. “My name is Inspector Detector. As you know, according to comic book logic, international car racing is perfectly within its right to have a special secret police force to stop race car crimes. And, by comic book logic, our undercover officers are allow to steal your car without permission, and do anything else required when the writer is feeling lazy, to keep the plot moving.”
Michi said, “Is this sort of like the International Secret Police squad that Marineboy and Aqualad serve on, to help stop whale-related crimes? That makes sense! We LIKE comic book logic!”
“Exactly!” said the secret police inspector of the international car-crime organization. “For the same reason, we secret police officers approach civilians on the front lawn of their suburban homes, and ask them to join us in dangerous suicide missions, even though, from a legal point of view, sending a civilian into harm’s way, especially one with no training in police work, is dubious.”
Chauffer X said, “What Inspector Detector is telling you, Fast, is that the Man Eating Cow is missing. The supervillain Bombastro is attempting to organize all the street gangs of Champion City into a powerful force for evil.”
“Glork! Glork!” intimated the monkey knowingly.
“Wait a moment!” Chimed in the eight year old, who, as was only proper for comic logic, was part of the conversation about police work and spies taking place among adults. “Are we talking about the Champion City in Latveria, of the other one?”
Inspector Detector shook his head. “No. The Lateverian version is a lifesized mock up peopled entirely by robots. We are sure Dr Doom has constructed it for some legitimate and peaceful use.”
Pops looked annoyed. “Which Champion City is the other one? Not the one in Argentina?”
Spritely spoke up. “Champion City is part of New Delaware, which is the 57th state of the United States of America, on the continent of North America, in the Western Hemisphere. The chief export of Champion City is fermented footwear, now that the downtown district lost the Baryon-Barium Distillation Plant which one employed thousands. The local school curling team, the Baryon-Barium Barons, came in first in the regional’s. There are rumor that the evil sports villain Sportsmaster interfered with the judging in the event.”
Michi said, “And … we live in Japan. Why should we be concerned with street gang violence there?”
Inspector Detector said, “We are afraid that Bombastro may branch out to street racing, in which case, the illegal cars used may not be safe.”
Fast Racer said, “But—do you have any evidence that Bombastro even drives a car? All the newspaper said is that he said CAN YOU DIG IT?”
Inspector Detector said grimly, “While we have no evidence whatsoever that there is any street racing involved, I did see the movie The Fast and the Furious3: Tokyo Drift last week, and so there may be a connection between street racing and smuggling.”
Fast Racer said, “What kind of smuggling? And wouldn’t that be a matter for the American police?”
Inspector Detector said, “Not if it was time travelers from the mutant-infected world of the far future back into our segment of the time stream!”
Fast Racer stood blinking in confusion. “And—is it time travelers from the mutant-infected world of the far future back into our segment of the time stream?” Inspector Detector said, “I have no idea what kind of craziness Steve Johnson might come up with. But YOU, Fast Racer, are the only man with the particular skills who is in the right place and time to run in Bombastro’s evil backstreet race car rally, and save the Man Eating Cow!”
Fast Racer said, “I don’t know. I think my Pops wants me to stay home. Besides, there is a world racing rally with all the world leaders later this week, being held on Danger Island, or Ape Island, or Robot Island, I forget which, and…”
Chauffer X said, “I hate to say this to you, Fast Racer, but you have no choice. This—” and he pulled out an official document signed with the Great Seal of the United States, “—is your draft notice. The President himself signed it! You are now a member of the International Secret Police, Special Motorized Car Crimes Division!”
Michi said, “Wait a minute. Even by comic logic, that makes no sense. Go Mifune is a subject of Japan, not an American citizen. And the President cannot just draft people, and, even if he could, he cannot make them join international secret organizations. Can he?”
Chauffer X said, “He can if he first passes a law saying he can!” Mich said to Spritely, “You’ve studied American history in school. Can the President pass laws all by himself, without their Congress?”
Spritely nodded, “In comic book logic, that is the way it works. The President can bypass Congress if he has a pen and a phone. Or, at least presidents who work by comic book logic can.”
Pops said grimly, “Fast!”
Fast Racer said, “My name is actually Go Mifune, father…”
“Fast!” continued Pops, speaking over him, “I do not want you to go into danger, but you have been drafted by a piece of paper written in a language we cannot read, and, so , by comic logic, you must go!”
After he had driven off in a swirl of blue smoke, and used his jumping jack-pistons to drive over the neighbor’s houses, Mom Racecar turned suddenly to Pops, “Why, Oh why did you not tell him about the secret plans inscribed in invisible ink on his windshield!”
Pops shook his head curtly and said in heavy sorrow, “I dare not! If he knew those precious and irreplaceable plans were there, he might get nervous, and lose the race! And then Bombastro might get away! And what would happen to the Man Eating Cow?”
Mom said, “That is the stupidest thing I ever heard. What if the windshield gets smashed?”
Pops said, “It will be alright. I have them all memorized in my head, with perfect photographic memory, so smashing the windshield can take place at a dramatic moment to prevent the industrial spies and motor engine thieves from getting the plans!”
Mom said, “But logically, that means that not only are the plans are NOT irreplaceable, there is no reason whatsoever to write them down anywhere, much less in invisible ink on a windshield except to lure thieves into attacking our son for no conceivable reason. Besides, what it not already established that the windshield is bulletproof and unbreakable? That makes no logical sense!” Pops nodded sagely. “By logical rules of logic, you’d be right. But this is comic book world logic, so we are hoping the young readers will forget about that particular plot point before the climax.”
Michi said, “But, Pops, how does comic book world logic differ from ordinary logic?” Pops said, “It involves something called hypertime.” Just then, a motorcade of twenty motorcycles and five armored limousines pulled up in front of the house. James Norcross, President of the United States, stepped out of the last car. “Pardon me, is this the Mifune residence? I am here to speak with Fas— I mean, with Go Mifune. He and I are not both members of any superhero team, nothing like that. I just would like to speak to him, ah, in absolute privacy, um, about some innocuous topic…”
Pops grimaced at him. “As I told that last head of state who was here, I am NOT selling my motor!”
President Norcross did not reply, for Pops Racecar had punched him hard in the stomach, doubling him over.
About John C Wright
John C. Wright is a practicing philosopher, a retired attorney, newspaperman, and newspaper editor, and a published author of science fiction. Once a Houyhnhnm, he was expelled from the august ranks of purely rational beings when he fell in love; but retains an honorary title.
