The Exploding Detective by John Swartzwelder Page B

worried about a government attack.
I’m sure a real super villain would have known exactly what to do - who to
kill, what cities to target for annihilation, what threats to yell over a
bullhorn, and so on. I didn’t know any of that stuff. So I figured I’d better
pack.
    Before I could
get the first Rembrandt smooshed down into a suitcase, the fortress began to
shake and plaster started falling from the ceiling. I ran to the nearest window
and looked out. The island was being pounded from all sides by federal gunboats
and police cruisers. They were really socking it to me. Even worse, almost
every shot was blowing up something I had just gotten repaired at great
expense. It would take weeks to get repairmen out here to fix them again. I
found myself muttering kill maim frighten destroy under my breath.
    I used a
signaling device to contact the fleet and let them know that there was no need
for all the fireworks. I told them I wasn’t Overkill, and anyway I was
quitting. They responded that I certainly was quitting. “Quitting to prison.” I
signaled back that they should get some new writers.
    The shelling
increased. I kept signaling frantically and with growing incoherence,
suggesting a truce, a peace conference, an armistice, every euphemism for
surrender I could think of. I even, in my desperation, advanced the idea that
maybe if the U.S. government’s theme song were combined with mine into one beautiful
song, then maybe we could be friends. Or maybe if I married the government’s
daughter, it would unite the two warring sides forever more. They ignored these
signals, and by this point I wasn’t paying much attention to them either. When
I noticed that I was signaling that the attacking ships should go screw
themselves, I stopped signaling entirely. Those kinds of signals don’t solve
anything. They just make things worse.
    Since they didn’t
want to talk, and there was nowhere for me to run, it looked like I was going
to have to fight. Fortunately, I had thousands of Unholy Army men at my
disposal.
    After a brief
strategy conference with Napoleon #47 and U.S. Grant #6, I ordered my fighting
forces out into battle, for the glory of good old Unhappy Island, or whatever
the hell it was called.
    This is when I
found out that I was supposed to be regularly maintaining my troops. The ones
that ran on batteries shuffled out of the fortress to do battle, rather than
charge. And many of them just stood there and made clicking sounds. Some of the
steam powered ones had clogged pipes and blew up when they were switched on. A
great many of the wind-up ones had misplaced their keys, and lied to me about
it, saying they had never been issued keys. And I lost track of how many vital
rubber bands had snapped through neglect.
    I could see why
Overkill had wanted to get those advanced fighters from the future. They were
self-maintaining, and… you might think me dense, but it wasn’t until I was
thinking about this that I remembered The Time Nozzle, and the future fighters
waiting to be transported to the island.
    I raced into the
laboratory where The Time Nozzle was located and turned it on. Overkill had
told me that the machine was already set to receive a half million fully armed
fighters as soon as he agreed to the health and pension benefits the fighters
were demanding, so I looked around for an “I agree” button on the console. This
was no time for economy. I’d screw them out of their pensions later. I couldn’t
find a button that said “I agree,” so I just started hitting every button in
sight that had an agreeable look to it.
    Nothing happened.
Fortunately, I know how to handle balky machines. First you say “Aw, come on!”
then you bang on the controls, then you throw small objects at the machine,
then you give it a good swift kick in the slats. Then the machine is repaired.
    I had to hurry
though. The government troops had landed and were making rapid progress across
my lawn. So I banged on the controls