Showcase: The Beefeater
What’s Your Beef?
by Brian K. Asbury
“This is an absolute disgrace! How dare you treat me in such a manner, you jumped-up little civil servant? Typical! Absolutely bloody typical!”
“If you’ll just calm down and take a seat?” Detective Chief Superintendent Ken Hanson of New Scotland Yard indicated a chair with the wave of his hand. With his other hand, he pressed the secret button which would broadcast every word spoken in the office to six burly and well-armed constables who would burst in at any sign of violence and restrain his excitable visitor.
“Take a seat? Oh, yes, thank you very much. Are you sure that’s enough, though? Do you think it would be more appropriate for me to prostrate myself at your feet, perhaps? Or would you like me to strip naked and kiss your–?”
“That is enough,” said Hanson, much more firmly. “SIT DOWN!”
The tall, gangly man in the comic-opera costume sat down.
“Thank you,” said Hanson. “Now, about this request of yours…”
“Request, he calls it,” the other man said, apparently to himself. “And that’s it, isn’t it? I have to request an audience. I’ll bet Batman never had to request an audience. I’ll bet you’re the one sucking up to his bum, matey!”
“What was that?”
“Er… nothing.”
“I would hope so. And for your information, I have never met Batman, but if I did I would certainly not feel inclined to suck up to any part of his anatomy. And now, if we’ve got the hysterics over with, let’s discuss this request of yours. And I’m being polite here, because in my humble opinion it was phrased more as a demand. Or even as a threat.”
“Threat? Threat? Good God, no.” The costumed man abruptly switched to obsequious mode. “No, no, no, no. Not at all. The very idea of my threatening such a fine, upstanding servant of the law as yourself…”
“However,” said Hanson, steepling his fingers, “request, demand or threat, it makes no difference. Because I am not interested in making use of you in the department of Crimes Involving Non-conventional or Exotic Means or Abilities.”
“But that’s outrageous. Whyever not?”
“Because you are not a superhero.”
The other stood up again. “But… but… but… but… but I am! Look, man — can’t you see? I’m wearing a costume. And a mask. And I have a golden sceptre of power. I’m the Beefeater, defender of Albion’s Fair Realm! How can you sit there and say I’m not a superhero?”
“A silly name and an even sillier costume does not make you a superhero, my friend, and your antics so far have borne that out. You’ve had several outings in that get-up and each time you’ve done little more than make a fool of yourself.”
He sighed. “Look, I don’t mean to be unkind, but if you carry on like this you’re going to get yourself killed. You very nearly did when you tried to take on a Martian spaceship with a ‘sceptre of power’ that didn’t work.
“Ah. Ah. But you see, that was just a temporary glitch in the system. It’s been in for servicing since. It works perfectly now.”
“Please…”
“Look, you’ve got to take me for your team. Every team needs a patriotic superhero, and you can’t get much more patriotic than this can you? Hmn? Hmn?”
“Beefeater…”
“Besides, I’m carrying on a proud family tradition with this, you know. The staff of power belonged to my father. He was the first Beefeater, and he defended this blessed plot of land against the Nazis during the war. The Nazis? Remember them? Led by an ugly little chap with a silly moustache?”
He put his left index finger along the top lip of his mask in imitation of a moustache and proceeded to goose-step around the office, his right arm raised in a Nazi salute.
Hanson buried his head in his arms in despair.
“All right, enough!” Hanson said. He produced a file of notes from a drawer in his desk. “He fought alongside that great American hero General Glory, didn’t he?”
“Ah! Then you have heard of the glorious legacy of the Beefeater?”
“Oh, yes. Right here,” said Hanson, pulling an antique comic book out of the folder.
“Er… what’s that?” asked the Beefeater.
“A comic book,” said Hanson. “American. ‘General Glory, Defender of the Flag’. Cover date March 1943. Cover story ‘Enter… the Beefeater.”
“Y…esss,” said the Beefeater. Of course, that was the thing with the Yanks in those days. Make their heroes even larger than life by putting them in comic strips…”
“Not quite,” Hanson said. “This particular comic book wasn’t based on real life heroes. General Glory was a fictional character. And in this issue, his writers decided to send him to open up a second front in Europe and had him encounter his British equivalent. They had some batty idea that a patriotic English hero would sell more copies of their comics over here, so they created a ridiculous-looking character dressed up in a costume straight out of Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Yeoman of the Guard, gave him a golden sceptre of power and partnered him with their star-spangled General for a few issues. As a marketing ploy it didn’t work, so they dumped the character and he hasn’t been heard of since.”
“But… that’s just what everybody was supposed to think. The Beefeater was real, though. He fought the Nazis alongside General Glory, and he was my father.” The Beefeater held up his sceptre. “For God’s sake, man, where do you think I got this from? Woolworth’s? Oh, yes, I could just see me walking up to the hardware department and saying ‘have you got any sceptres of power in stock’?”
“I don’t know where you got it, Mr. Fecktiffe, but…”
“What did you call me?”
Hanson sighed again. “All right, there’s no point in hiding the fact any more. I know exactly who you are. It’s all in this report.” He patted the file.
“That’s impossible!”
“No it isn’t.” Hanson opened the file. “Your name is Michael Douglas Fecktiffe, and you run a small hotel in Brixham, Devonshire, helped by your wife Lisa and a Portuguese waiter.”
“How… how could you possibly know that?” spluttered a nonplussed Beefeater.
“Well, you remember a couple of weeks ago when you tried to gatecrash the Conservative Party Conference?”
“It wasn’t gatecrashing! I wanted to offer my services to Mrs. Thatcher. Our greatest leader since Winston Churchill needs a superhero bodyguard.”
“Possibly, considering all the enemies she’s made,” said Hanson, a sardonic grin playing about his lips. “But in lieu of getting one, what makes you think she’d settle for you?”
“What? I–”
“Never mind. The point is that after you were thrown out, you were seen sneaking back into the hotel where you were staying, still wearing that costume.”
“Er… so?”
“So you had to collect your key to get back into your room. As you were checked in under your real name, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out the obvious.”
“Ah. Typical. Bloody typical of hotel staff these days. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that little bitch on the reception desk with keeping quiet. I’ll bet she was from Barcelona…”
“Anyway, having done a considerable amount of research on you, I know now that your father, far from being the Nazi-smashing hero you claim, joined the Army Catering Corps in 1940 and spent the duration of the war in the cookhouse at Aldershot — right here in England.”
“I do know where Aldershot is. But it doesn’t mean…”
“Mr. Fecktiffe, your father was not a superhero. You are not a superhero. And that sceptre is probably a prop left over from your father’s amateur dramatics days.”
“But… but… but… but… but you don’t understand. The golden sceptre of power is real! Honest! Allow me to demonstrate.” And he pointed the sceptre straight at Hanson.
“I should warn you,” Hanson said, “that if that reject from a souvenir shop really does fire anything in my direction, I’ll have you in a cell so fast that you’ll think you really are a superhero — the Flash!”
The Beefeater lowered his weapon. “I am a superhero, you know. I really am. For God’s sake, man, give me a chance. I know you’ve only got a couple of people for this team you’re forming. You need me!”
Hanson raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t really have to tell you this, Mr. Fecktiffe, but there isn’t a team as such, yet.”
“But there is going to be one?”
“Yes. I hope so. But I want real heroes, not people who think they’re comic book characters.”
“You still refuse to believe my father was the Beefeater?”
“Watch my lips. The Beefeater was a fictional character.”
“Ah. Ah. But that’s where you’re wrong,” said the Beefeater, pacing up and down. “And I can prove it.”
“Can you? This should be good.”
“Right. Right. We’ll see who’s right, then, Mr. Clever Clogs. You think the original Beefeater didn’t exist, just because he appeared in a comic strip, yes?”
Hanson nodded.
“Ah, well that’s where I’ve got you. Because whose comic did he appear in? General Glory’s, that’s whose.”
“So?”
“So General Glory was real. Look, you can’t deny it, man. It was in all the papers, just a few months ago. General Glory came back and joined a Yank superteam called the Conglomerate.”
“I see. And if General Glory was real, then so was the Beefeater, right?”
“Well, what else do you think I bloody well mean? Look, the comic book was a front to cover up for what was really going on. Nobody thought they were real, because they were comic book characters. It was the perfect cover story.”
“Of course,” said Hanson, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Just one problem with that argument…” He reached into his desk drawer once more and pulled out a file marked ‘Conglomerate’. “Read this,” he said, opening it to a particular page. He passed it to the Beefeater. “It says there that the so-called General Glory who appeared a while ago was some strongman that Max Lord found and dressed up in the costume.”
“Er…”
Hanson stood up. “Look. Why don’t you just go home to your wife? She’s probably wondering where you are, and…”
“That’s it! That’s it!” shouted the Beefeater, scattering the contents of the file. “I’m not going to take any more blithering crap from the likes of you. I don’t pay my taxes so that jumped-up little civil servants like you can tell my beloved father wasn’t the Nazi-smashing hero that I know he was. It is true and I’ll prove it!”
And so saying, he pointed his golden staff of power at Hanson once more and fired!
>Click<
Nothing happened.
“Surprise, surprise,” muttered Hanson.
The Beefeater stared at his weapon in numb astonishment for at least a second. “Rrrrright! That’s it!” he growled. “That is most positively it! You’ve done it now! You’ve let me down for the last time.”
“Beefeater… will you–”
“I’m going to show you who’s boss, you miserable excuse for a sceptre!” the Beefeater screamed, pushing buttons on it frantically. Suddenly there was a loud ‘doiing!’ sound and it tripled in length, shooting out and hitting the Beefeater on his own foot. He began to hop around in pain.
“That does it,” said Hanson. “I’ve had enough of this.” He jabbed the hidden button again.
The Beefeater, meanwhile, was becoming even more hysterical, if that were possible. “I told you!” he screamed at the sceptre. “I told you if you did that again, you were for it! Right! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” He began to slam the sceptre repeatedly on Hanson’s desk.
Six armed-response constables burst into the room. “Don’t just stand there,” shouted Hanson. “Grab him!”
They did so. The sceptre clattered to the floor and sprang back to its normal length. The Beefeater struggled but to no avail. “You can’t do this to me, you bloody hooligans! Don’t you know who I am?”
“Show this — gentleman — off the premises,” said Hanson, gritting his teeth. He picked up the sceptre and handed it to one of the officers. “And please inform the front desk that I intend to petition the Home Secretary to bring back the death penalty for anyone who lets him back in again.”
“But… but… but… this is outrageous! I shall complain to my MP. I shall complain to Mrs. Thatcher. I shall…”
“You shall shut up if you know what’s good for you,” said Hanson. “Look, if you really want to become the bodyguard of a political party leader, try that new Monster Raving Loony Party. I’m sure their leader, Screaming Lord Such, would love to have you. Now goodbye.” And he slammed the door after them.
“God,” he muttered as he regained his seat. “What next? Ambush Bug?”
*
“And stay out!”
Rough hands pushed the Beefeater out onto the patio, and the door closed behind him. Seconds later it opened again and the same constable roughly shoved the golden sceptre of power into his hands.
“You can’t treat me like this,” he muttered. “This is England, not bloody Soviet Russia. I’ll have you know, I’m a personal friend of the Mayor of Brixham — well, the wife is, anyway…” His words tailed off as he realised that the constable had gone back inside.
He turned over the sceptre in his hands. “This is all your fault,” he scolded. “You and that stupid bitch-queen I married. I told her. Didn’t I tell her? I told her not to put you in the dishwasher! But would she listen? Oh, no. ‘If you must make a fool of yourself, Michael, at least make sure that toy of your father’s is clean.’ Clean? Clean? For God’s sake, woman, did General Glory make care if my father’s sceptre was clean when he was rescuing him from Hauptmann Über and his marauding Panzer Maidens?”
He made his way down the steps, pausing at the famous rotating ‘New Scotland Yard’ sign and aiming the sceptre at it.
<Click>
“Typical. Absolutely bloody typical. It’s probably half full of bloody Fairy Liquid!” He shrugged and carried on down to the sidewalk, still ranting.
This did not go unobserved. A man swaddled in a voluminous raincoat and leaning against a lamppost a little way down the street visibly started as he saw the costumed man coming down the steps from the Yard.
“What the hell?” he muttered, backing off involuntarily. His heart sank. This couldn’t be happening. A new country — a new city — new cops to confound with his ingenious taunts — and no superheroes. NO SUPERHEROES.
“This is crazy. There aren’t supposed to be any superheroes in London. No Batman, no Green Arrow, no Justice League — just a lot of dumb cops.”
The costumed man was definitely coming towards him and seemed to be shouting. He looked ridiculous as hell, but he’d just come out of Scotland Yard and that golden stick he was waving about seemed to be some sort of weapon. And what was he shouting? “I’ll get you! See if I don’t! I’ll make you pay!”
“Geezus H. Christ!” swore the man in the raincoat. “He’s recognised me. But how? I’m not even wearing my mask!”
Even as it occurred to him how stupid that sounded, he made up his mind. However this weirdo Limey superhero had recognised him, he wasn’t just going to hang around and be picked up. He started to back away in the direction of Northumberland Avenue… then he decided discretion was the better part of valour and broke into a run.
“Yes! You wait and see! I’ll melt you down into scrap, you worthless geegaw. God, I’d be better off carrying a broken bloody bottle as a weapon — hello?” The Beefeater caught sight off the running man. Had the fellow took flight at his approach? It seemed so.
“By God, he’s wearing some sort of costume under that mac,” he said out loud to no-one in particular. Indeed, as he ran, the back of the fleeing man’s raincoat flapped up, revealing that he was wearing boots, and that tucked into them were spandex leggings.
“A super-villain!” the Beefeater gasped. “And I’ll bet he was hanging around to launch an attack on the police. Well, Mr. High and Mighty Bloody Hanson, we’ll see who isn’t a superhero. No evil-doer is going to escape from me. This is a job for…” He posed dramatically. “…the Beefeater!”
The fugitive ran around the corner, tugging at his coat in desperation. Oh, hell, he thought, why did I have to buy a coat with so many goddamn buttons? He looked around for somewhere where he could duck out of sight long enough to stop and remove it. If he could only get it off, he could reach the weapons attached to his costume underneath. But without them, he was helpless!
Meanwhile, the Beefeater had also broken into a run. He had no idea who the other man was, but that scarcely mattered. No normal person wore spandex under a raincoat. And the fact that he was running away spoke volumes. All right, so he hadn’t been committing any obvious crime, but if he was running away it stood to reason that he was guilty of something, didn’t it?
For the first time today, Michael D. Fecktiffe was enjoying himself immensely.
*
And meanwhile again, back in his office in the New Scotland Yard building, Ken Hanson was watching the street from his window. “Sergeant Harris,” he said to the man who had just brought him the report on the recent shootings at Heathrow Airport, “it looks as if our loonytunes Beefeater is chasing someone.”
“Sir?”
“Take somebody from Uniform branch and find out what he’s up to, will you?”
“Righto, sir.”
*
Elsewhere, the running man glanced over his shoulder. His costumed pursuer was just rounding the corner and shouting for him to stop. No way, he thought. I’m not giving up that easily. Ahead of him on the next block were some shops, and between them a narrow alley.
OK, he thought. That’s where I’ll make my stand. That costumed clown will regret the day he took on — the Cluemaster!
Cluemaster raced into the alley, tearing at his coat. “C’mon, unfasten, you goddamn cheap rag. Oh, for Christ’s sake, if I’m beaten ’cause I can’t undo a few buttons I’ll never live it down!”
At last the buttons came free and he practically ripped the raincoat from his back, only to hear: “Right. Don’t move, you, you… you villain, you. And put your hands up.”
“Put my hands up what?” Cluemaster said, slowly turning.
“That isn’t funny, you Colonial nitwit. Raise your hands above your head!”
“OK, OK. I just wanted you to say ‘please’. I thought you British were supposed to be polite.” Raising his arms above his head, the costumed villain completed his turn and found himself looking down the end of a hollow golden sceptre. “Uh… is that thing loaded?”
“It certainly is,” said the Beefeater. “Now, who are you?”
The Cluemaster was nonplussed. “Who am I? Don’t you know?”
“Just answer the bloody question, you scurrilous knave!”
“It’s the mask, isn’t it? The outfit isn’t complete without it. Look, can I just put it on, so…”
The sceptre twitched. Geez, thought Cluemaster. This guy’s edgy. But maybe I can use that to my advantage. If I can just rattle him long enough for me to reach one of my sleep gas capsules, it’ll be Goodnight Vienna and I can high-tail it out of here.
“Anyway,” he said. “Never mind who I am. Who are you?”
The Beefeater spluttered with rage. “Who am I? Who am I? You bloody ignorant Yank, who do you think I am? Look at the uniform. Who the hell else do you expect to be dressed like a Yeoman of the Guard? Does Batman wear blinking Tudor roses on his boots? Eh? Does the Flash wear a red hat with flowers round it?”
The Cluemaster shrugged.
“Oh, I see, that’s the score, is it?” growled the Beefeater. “I’m not good enough, eh? Perhaps you were expecting Superman, were you? Or Green Lantern? I know, I tell you what — I’ll let you go so you can wait for the Legion of Superheroes to arrive from the 30th Century and battle you. Would that be more to your taste?”
“I only asked who you were,” said Cluemaster. “C’mon, gimme a break here. I’m just a confused tourist from the other side of the Atlantic. I’m clearly no match for your superior British intellect. You want to give me a clue? I’m good at clues…”
“A clue? Look, chummy, I’m in no mood to play games. You’re face to face with the Beefeater, all right? The Beefeater — defender of this sceptre’d isle, this blessed plot, this Earth, this…”
“Sceptered isle — sceptre. Yeah. Not much of a clue, but I’ll buy it. I’m the Cluemaster, pal. Nice to meet you…” Cluemaster started to lower his hand to offer it in greeting.
“D-don’t move, you… you… you…” The Beefeater fumbled with his sceptre, almost dropping it. As he tightened his grip, he accidentally pressed the trigger button.
<Click>
The two men stared at each other.
“Gaaaaaaaah!” screamed the Beefeater, throwing the sceptre into the air in frustration.
That’s it, he’s lost it! thought a delighted Cluemaster. He scrambled to pull one of his sleep gas capsules from the Velcro which secured it to his costume. Say goodnight, Gracie, he thought.
The sceptre, meanwhile, struck the wall of the alley, just below the rainwater guttering at the top, startling an elderly pigeon which had been taking a nap on the roof.
The pigeon took flight, dislodging an old tennis ball which had been lying in the gutter for several days.
The ball tottered out of the gutter and fell two storeys to the ground.
It hit the floor of the alley and bounced…
…right into the face of the startled Cluemaster…
…who dropped his sleep gas canister at his own feet!
“Oh, my God! NO!” he howled, backing off and trying to hold his breath. However, it was too late. Having already taken in some of the gas, he slowly keeled over backwards among a pile of garbage.
The Beefeater also backed away from the spreading cloud, straight into Sergeant Harris and a uniformed constable. “What’s going on here?” demanded Harris.
The Beefeater drew himself up to his full height. “Just doing my job,” he said haughtily. “Another sneaky American evil-doer brought to justice by the might and cunning of England’s greatest defender — the Beefeater!”
“And pigs’ll fly,” muttered the constable.
“What was that?”
“Is that some sort of gas?” said Harris.
“Looks like it’s already dispersing, Sarge,” the constable said. “Want me to investigate?”
“All right,” said Harris. “But be careful.” The constable started forward.
The Beefeater waved a hand in front of Harris’ face. “Excuse me? Excuse me? Am I actually here or is this a red kryptonite delusion? I have apprehended this felon, you know. Or would you have preferred Superman to do it? God, what does one have to do to get any respect around here?”
“Yes, yes, all right,” said Harris. “Well done, OK? But just tell me one thing — who have you actually caught?”
“I think I can answer that one,” said the constable, who was dragging the fallen villain into an upright position. “I recognise this bloke’s outfit from the ‘wanted’ files. He’s the Cluemaster. He fought the Batman.”
“Oh. That’s all right, then. Well done, constable.”
” ‘Well done constable’?” spluttered an outraged Beefeater. “And what about me? What about the hero who actually caught this dastardly rogue, eh?”
“Er… yes, all right,” said Harris. “Well done you, too.” He helped the uniformed man to get the groggy Cluemaster, who was already coming round, to his feet.
“D’d anybody get the number ‘o that uru hammer?” slurred the half-conscious villain drunkenly.
Harris handcuffed him. “Come on, let’s get this clown back to the Yard. The Super will be pleased about this.”
“I should think so too,” smarmed the Beefeater. “I’ll come with you. I’ll enjoy rubbing this in his face.”
“Uh-huh,” said Harris. “Sorry, mate, but the Super has threatened to chuck anybody who lets you back into the Yard into a pit full of live scorpions.”
“Well!”
“I’ll put in a good word for you, though,” said Harris, as he and the constable departed with their prisoner.
“Bloody cheek!” said the Beefeater, to no-one in particular. “However…” he added. “I did it! I took on a perishing super-villain and I beat him. Me. All by myself!” He jumped up and punched the air.
“Now, where’s that blasted sceptre of mine,” he said, suddenly remembering that he’d thrown it away. He looked around and found it a few yards down the alley. “Hmmm… dented a bit, but not too much the worse for wear.”
He picked it up and peered down the barrel. “If only I could get the confounded thing to work,” he muttered, fiddling with the controls…
*
Some time later, Tommy O’Devlin wandered down the alley from the opposite direction, looking for somewhere to bed down for the night. Tommy was a well-known figure on these streets and well-respected among London’s homeless, as he had been sleeping rough since long before Margaret Thatcher’s government had made it fashionable.
He suddenly caught sight of an object lying on the floor of the alley. Bejesus, he thought, ’tis me lucky day. I could use a new shoe.
He meandered over and picked it up. Well, maybe he wasn’t that desperate. The shoe looked as if it would fit him, but it was bright red and had a Tudor rose attached to it. It also smelled strongly of smoke. He felt inside. Yeuk! There were bits of a scorched white sock in there.
Nah! he thought. He tossed the shoe aside and wandered back to the garbage in search of a good, warm cardboard box.
