The Punching Bag

By James Couture

Michael Kading is an unsuspecting office worker living an anonymous life. With little warning, he is thrust into a world of criminally insane thugs, conspiracy, and even a domestic war zone as he becomes the indestructible superhero, The Punching Bag. Working for a clandestine organization and with a mysterious man gunning for his boss, is there more afoot here?

See The Punching Bag battle foes such as King No and Longball Lauer at the behest of the brilliant and mysterious Smart Alec. How does Tex Arkana fit into all of this?

A work of superhero fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Couture
• Release date: Nov 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301364046

James Couture

Hello. My name is James Couture. I am publishing a series of superhero novellas, beginning with The Punching Bag. Look for a prequel and a slew of sequels coming soon!

Book preview

The Punching Bag

A Novella

By

James E. Couture

Cover Art by

Turner Huston

Second Edition

Published by The Slim James on Smashwords

Copyright 2013, James E. Couture

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

His Spectacular Origin! Pt. 1

A heavy rain beat against a window within earshot of Michael Kading’s cubicle. The dreary weather outside underscored another listless evening as Michael was again staying late at the office to update another of his various spreadsheets, somewhere between going over his memos and filing his TPS reports. It’s what he did to get ahead, or at least what he told himself.

At least I’m not outside, Michael thought, a vain attempt at optimism. Unfortunately, this brought about a pendulum swing toward pessimism. That’s stupid, he thought. There are plenty of places on planet earth where I’d love to be that are both inside AND not work.

Michael typed away at his keyboard, clicking and dragging, pausing every so often to complain to himself about his boredom. After several more minutes of private consternation, Michael settled at the conclusion he always seemed to reach: that he was lucky to have a job ‘in this economy’, he was building toward something better, there’s more to life than what you do for…

Beep-beep-beep-beep! The ringing of his phone jolted Michael out of his introspective haze. His boredom was now replaced with mild panic. Who was calling him, especially after normal hours? He glanced at the caller ID: ‘x1004’. It was an extension, so it was coming from inside the office, but he didn’t recognize it. He picked up the phone with a trepidation he usually reserved for asking women out.

Hello, Michael? an unfamiliar voice asked.

Uh, yeah? Michael apparently asked back with his usual grace.

Could you please come down to my office? I have something I wish to discuss with you. It’s through the back door of conference room 1C. It’s the big one.

Um, to--to whom am I speaking? Michael asked, his nervous stammer rearing its ugly head once again.

This is Mr. Maelstrom, my good man. Could you please come down here? the voice replied, curtly.

Yes, sir.

Michael’s mind tried to digest what had just transpired as he got out of his chair, stretching out his now asleep left leg. Who was this guy? Where was this office again? Who refers to themselves as Mister?

As he got off the elevator, Michael’s feelings of suspicion began to grow. Few people knew he was in the office this late, fewer still were even left in the office, and he had never heard the name Mr. Maelstrom mentioned, even in passing. Granted, throughout the office there were various entities that were merely names to him; some just faceless recipients of emails, others nameless suits no doubt higher up the chain than he. Michael was sure the feeling was mutual, though; he often felt like just another face lost in the sea of cubicles around him. Off in the distance he could hear a vacuum cleaner and secretly hoped he wouldn’t bump into a maintenance person. The interactions were always so awkward.

Michael tried to focus as he made his way through conference room 1C, the big one. So many times he had stood or sat in there idly as higher-ups prattled on with presentations of subjects for which he had no real regard. He longed for such an innocuous meeting now. Instead he stood at the back door of 1C, his heart palpitating over all the unknowns. Yet, despite the fact that he wasn’t even really supposed to be at work now, despite the fact that he could probably just leave, run away, with little in the way of repercussions, despite the front of his brain screaming at him otherwise, Michael felt an innate compulsion to press forward to avoid ruffling any feathers.

Hello, my good man, come in, the apparent Mr. Maelstrom said as Michael knocked while peeking around the door. The office was medium sized and nondescript; the same could be said of Mr. Maelstrom. A pewter coif sat atop a well maintained face, complimenting his medium frame in a blue suit. He was, in Michael’s estimation, the cookie cutter executive.

You wanted to see me, sir? Michael asked.

Mr. Kading, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Now, I’m not one for small talk, so let’s get to it. There have been some personnel changes in an executive capacity, stock ownership changes, etcetera. Nothing that directly affects you, Maelstrom replied.

Um, then why--?

However, Mr. Maelstrom continued, a bit of annoyance seeping into his voice from the interruption, our military contracting division’s leadership has told me to personally recruit you to be an executive field VP in the experimental division.

Michael was a bit incredulous as his mind flooded from what he just heard: Executive? Field VP? Experimental? His last review hadn’t been anything spectacular. Much as he wondered about Maelstrom, Michael was agog as to where was this offer coming from seemingly all of the sudden.

I-I’m a little surprised, sir, but it would--it would be an honor, Michael said. The response seemed to come off his tongue involuntarily, even if he stammered a little. The expected money and grandeur of the position outweighed any apprehension he had about the circumstances surrounding the offer, and he really had a hard time saying no to a boss.

Ah, very good. I’ll bet you’re quite excited about your first real leadership opportunity? Maelstrom asked of Michael.

Very much, sir.

Excellent, Mr. Maelstrom said as he took out a briefcase, I trust you’ll be able to start right away.

Absolutely. I mean, I think Shawn, my boss, will understand.

We‘ll get you the paperwork shortly, Mr. Maelstrom said, popping open the briefcase. This, he continued, is a polymerizer. It creates a very hard string of molecules out of existing molecular bonds, turning virtually any substance into a super durable polymer. He presented the item to Michael.

Whoa, Michael said, instantly regretting sounding like a surf bum, what do you do with that?

You tell me, Maelstrom replied, handing Michael the polymerizer, something resembling a classic chunky Game Boy. One of your primary duties will be to find new applications for our experimental products beyond military applications. The polymerizer’s current function would be to create jerry-rigged body armor on the fly in war zone areas. We need more revenue streams from our existing products, though. That’s where you would come in.

Oh…I see, Michael said awkwardly as he mulled over this device, this polymerizer as it were. His heart raced as he felt the pressure to perform in front of a superior. He fumbled with the device as his hands began to sweat. He looked over the buttons and a vent on the side when he saw a blinking light in the top right corner. He looked up at Mr. Maelstrom to offer an awkward smile, but was distracted when he began to hear a nearly imperceptible whining noise. Hey, is this supposed to be…. But the next words never came. A sizeable bang was the next noise Michael heard as he saw a brilliant white flash of light, then blackness.

Michael opened his eyes slowly. The room took several seconds to come into focus. He ached all over, stiffly turning his neck to look at the wall next to him. The grogginess clouded his focus, as the first thing that struck Michael was the odd décor of the room, rather than the fact that he didn‘t know where he was. The walls were a dark brown, though as he squinted his straining eyes he could see the faux wood grain repeating itself. The floor was carpeted, an inoffensive cream color. While this wasn’t particularly peculiar, it stood in contrast to the bed he was in, which resembled a hospital bed.

As the fog in Michael’s head lifted, he realized that accompanying the hospital bed were various monitors attached to his person. Panic began to set in, though Michael quickly asserted there was nothing intravenous inserted and calmed himself, if only slightly. Michael stayed where he was as the fight or flight survival mode instincts that often eluded him once again did not kick in. Rather, he laid in the mysterious bed and tried to remember how he could have gotten here. The previous evening seemed like a haunting dream, leaving many unanswered questions: Who was the mysterious Maelstrom? What was the field VP position he was talking about? What happened after that?

Several more minutes passed as Michael laid in anxious silence, trying to replay the whole scenario in his mind. Michael jumped when a door cracked open. A man walked in, bringing with him an odd smell of menthol. He was a doctor, or at least that’s what his coat would have one believe. His face was wrinkled, perhaps a bit prematurely, and a graying chestnut goatee complemented a rather obvious toupee.

Hello, Mr. Kading, I’m the doctor assigned to your case, Dr. Alec Breuer, Ph. D., the man said with a perplexing wry smile.

What happened? Where am I? Michael choked out.

You’re in a specialty care facility on the outskirt of the city. You were in a freak explosion, though you’ve suffered only superficial injuries. You will require one more minor surgery, however, to remove some particulate from your cornea, so you will need to be sedated. Oh, and the man in the explosion with you has already been released/ Nurse, prep him, Dr. Alec Breuer, Ph. D., said in a matter of fact monotone as he strode out of the room.

That was weird, Michael thought, as a nurse administered some nitrous oxide, it seemed like he had all the answers to my questions even before I asked them. I guess he‘s probably just your typical know-it-all jerk doctor. Tired as he was, Michael was in no place to resist, and in his stupor the answers the know-it-all doctor just provided were sufficient enough to go along with. He breathed in deep, scared of the unknown elements of this place, but aware he was physically unable to leave at the moment. As the room began to grow dark again, Michael thought briefly about how the doctor mentioned the other man in the explosion. Maelstrom?

His Spectacular Origin! Pt. 2

Michael Kading awoke to the familiar sound of his alarm clock going off. He struggled to open his eyes; his entire body felt unnaturally heavy. Michael was profoundly stiff and groggy, as if he had slept the past two days and could probably try for three. As he slowly stirred to silence his alarm, Michael had a sudden realization: he was home? He tried to recall what had happened in the previous day, or possibly two, between the mysterious meeting with Mr. Maelstrom and the surreal hospital room. The images briefly and hazily flashed in his mind like a sort of montage. He wondered if it had all been a dream, a view through the looking glass, the byproduct of too much working and not enough drinking. In his current state, trying to pore over these would-be-memories was tantamount to playing telephone with his own brain. Perhaps, he thought, a shower could get the engine running.

Michael stepped into his dingy bathroom and looked in the mirror, checking for any signs of the hospitalization that may have taken place. He found none. Moreover, his skin looked impeccable, virtually blemish free where mild acne once resided, and possessing an odd dull sheen. This odd, but slight, transformation would normally perplex Michael to no end, as he often fretted over even minute changes to his person; however at the current juncture he was more concerned with pinpointing whether any of the events he thought he remembered actually happened. Michael turned on the water in the shower, full blast on hot to give him a kick start to the day. He stepped in and …it felt as warm as water he had swished around in his mouth.

Gross, he mumbled flatly.

After a brief scrub, Michael emerged from the shower fully awakened if not exceedingly refreshed. He went out to the kitchen and poured himself some cereal as he tried to piece together this mental mystery. He racked his brain trying to understand the promotion he thought he had received, though Michael also remembered not truly understanding it at the time. He remembered Dr. Alec Breuer, Ph. D., but also remembered his explanations of the situation came inexplicably quickly. The memories began to pull at one another, some contradicting each other, until he could take no more. Michael put his palm to his face, looking down at his meager kitchen table. Michael knew the best way to deal with this would be to try and achieve a little normalcy in the day, and so, looking at the time on the microwave clock, he realized he’d have to go back to the source, back to where it all began and where it’d probably end, back to where he went seemingly every day. He’d have to go back to work.

Michael attempted to slink past his boss’ door en route to his cubicle, but, alas, the door was ajar. Michael dreaded having to explain any absence to his boss, as he couldn’t quite explain it to himself.

Michael, come on in here for a sec, Shawn, Michael’s boss, said.

Uh, yes sir?" Michael reflexively replied. Rats.

I received an interoffice memo from Lynne Morris-Miller in H.R. Apparently congratulations are in order! I understand you’ve been promoted to an Executive Field Vice President. Here, take this laptop, he handed Michael a small notebook, it should be all set up and apparently, if I understand the memo correctly, your assignments and duties will be emailed to you. They tell me that now you can work from home, you lucky son of a bitch.

O-oh, Michael stammered, shocked doubly by both the confirmation of the promotion he had been confused about receiving and the apparent awesomeness of said promotion. Thank you sir, did--? Michael trailed off, wanting to ask about Maelstrom, but sensing it would be fruitless. Was there an…uh…explosion here last night?

Uh, not to my knowledge…why? Shawn asked with furrowed brow.

Oh, well…um…this promotion’s the bomb! Michael said, attempting to cover with a joke, though his comedic timing, and punch lines, left much to be desired.

After his brief foray into the office, Michael returned home, and was once again at his kitchen table, now typing away at his laptop, setting up his computer with the various advanced programs and VPN’s he’d need as an Executive Field VP. However, a sensation came over Michael, or rather, a panic at the lack of sensation he was feeling. He felt as if he were wearing rubber gloves while he was typing. He touched his hand to his face, and it reminded him of going to the dentist’s and being on Novocain. He could feel pressure, but the true feeling on his fingertips and his face was muted. Immediately he thought of the explosion in the office, or whatever that bright flash of light was, the hospital bed, all of those swirling memories. Perhaps the explosion or ensuing treatment, or whatever had been done to him in that hospital, had left him with some sort of neurological affectation.

For a few minutes, Michael sat at the table, shaking with nervous energy. His eyes darted as he contemplated his next step. Hospital, a real hospital, maybe? Police? Michael thought only of the worst case scenarios, be it paralysis, multiple sclerosis, some sort of palsy. Michael bit at his own thumb a little, trying anything to stir feeling into the digit. Then a window popped up on his laptop. Its title was simple: Direct Message, its sender Maelstrom, M. This sent a shiver through the already trembling Michael. He stared at the message for a few minutes, debating whether he should open it or not. The realization that this may be his only chance to contact someone with knowledge of this incident