“I mean, bzzzt, Doc,” said André. “Look, I’ont know about them fools, but fuh real, the King was the shit, knawm sayn?”
“So…you disliked him, then?”
“Naw, Doc—the shit, see, that means ‘good’—”
The Flying Squirrel: “Then for the love of Greenspan, could you simply goddamned say that?”
“Festus, please. André, continue,” I said. “You were saying that in your view, Hawk King was ‘the shit.’ ”
“Damn skippy, Doc,” he said. “I was actually blessed to meet the King when I was just a shorty, like, back in ’82? I was one of twenny-fi schoolkids—our class won a contest for essay writin—‘Why would you like to meet Hawk King?’, you knawm sayn? I mean, he’d already been up in his self-imposed exile an shit for, like, seven years by then—ain’no kids getting to go t’see the King no how, but, like, we was, son. Just about to turn thirteen, an I get to meet the King!
“So us an Miss Jackson, we take the ferry over to Sunhawk Island, his Ka-Sentinels guiding us through the gates, then through the portal of the Blue Pyramid, down the shafts, up the shafts, right up into his Celestial Chamber…all them turquoise hieroglyphics on them black-silver walls, movin like they alive, like they talkin to each other an the stars.
“An he sittin there right in the middle, right on his Sapphire Star Throne, like a sunrise in space, knawm sayn? Golden beak, black body, hands holdin on to his maces an shit…but the eyes. Never forget them eyes. Whole room was hummin, vibratin, an them eyes, like radio transmitters beamin inside my spine.
“Changed my life, dawg, goin there. I still dream about it, every week since I was a kid for like thirteen-fourteen years, of havin the chance, the blessin, you knawm sayn? to go back. But…y’know, thangs don’always work out how we want.”
He cleared his throat.
“Anyway, I made up my mind right then—” he said, crackling an electrical charge between his antennae for emphasis without even saying bzzzt!, “I was gon be a superhero. Man changed my life. I owe him. We all owe him.
“An now…he’s dead. An my aunt, she’s, she just—look, it’s like, after my…my uncle died…the King was the one thing in the world she could count on that would always make things right, knawm sayn? But now she caint stop cryin. You hear me?”
He shook his head, then jutted one antenna each in the directions of Flying Squirrel and X-Man.
“An these two fools is gon sit here ying-yangin bout some muhfuckin unknown, unknowable, invisible ‘conspiracy’? King’s body ain’even cold, funeral still three days away an them superbrains caint shut up outta respect for a coupla kot-tam hours? Tryin t’get my grieve on here, knawm sayn? Should be honorin his life, not squawkin like vultures over who gets to autopsy the muhfuckin corpse!”
Kareem shifted forward, facing his younger teammate.
“Listen…André.” I’d never heard Kareem’s voice contain such—I won’t say gentleness, but—lack of antagonism for André, or for anybody else. “It’s absolutely essential that right now, we—”
“No, you listen, dawg,” said André, standing up and shouldering his thick, lobed, translucent wings behind him. “The man aint no ‘debate topic,’ knawm sayn? People die. You got that, son? They just die. An aint nuthin you can do about it, not with all your theories an your Afro-ballistics an your muhfuckin maãxeru magic words, knawm sayn? So stop stickin an stabbin the man’s body with your Detecto-Junior Crime Kit an let im have some muhfuckin dignity, my ‘brutha’!”
Kareem’s jaw muscles bunched.
“André,” he gritted, “we’re all. Tense. Now. So I’m gonna let that—”
“Whatever-whatever, Mista Mystery. Right now whyonchu let us feel the sadness and regret we all gots to feel. Specially since y’all don’know the meaning of the words!”
At that, André unfurled his proboscis, snapping at the rotating rogues gallery, and three of the Superheavyweights smashed into obsidian shards. Then André hopped over to the window and proceeded to tap-tap-tap his head again and again against the glass.
After Festus finally suggested wielding a can of Raid against the noise, André stopped, putting his hands and feet against the wall and with a splippetty-splabbatty sound, crawled up toward the ceiling and stuck himself, glowering down through his two complex and three simple eyes.
Kareem whispered, and the shadow-sculptures of Gil Gamoid, the N-Kid, and the remaining rotating supervillains and the shards of André’s tongue casualties dispersed into dark mist and disappeared.
Wally excused himself to go to the restroom.
I suggested we move on. “Would others like to discuss their own experiences of Hawk King?”
Syndi snapped her gum, raised her hand halfway.
“Like, I didn’t really know Hawk King? An like, hello-o, I get it: ‘sad!’ But does the whole city have to go spaz-mode? Like, I couldn’t even get a table at Chez Guevara because they closed early last night? And I was gonna take my crew to Dance-Tronics, but, yeah, clo-osed!”
I asked her how she spent her night in lieu of her usual frolicking.
“I, like, stayed home, cut that Hawk King single, and answered fan mail.”
“You—!” choked Iron Lass. “You awnser fan mail vile all uff Midgard cries out viss agony unt tears?”
“Like, no-o. I had my PA do it. I am so like stressed, you know? So I got Brianna to do me—you know, massage? But now, today, the stress is all back! Thank God for André’s strawberry tarts—they’re better than Prozac.” She craned her neck and smiled up at him sweetly. “Thanks, P-Dawg.”
“Babydoll, when ain’nuthin funny, eat what’s sweet. That’s my philosophy,” said André from overhead. “Glad everybody liked em. Cept Kreem, who aint tried pastry-one. Shoulda made him suh’m with cherry, chocolate, an kiwi. Only red-black-and-green for the great Marcus Garbage. My man wouldn’even dream of eatin no angel food cake, knawm sayn?”
Kareem reached for the plate, popping into his mouth a piece of crystalized ginger covered in nougat and chewing defiantly.
“And yet, Syndi,” I said, “despite listing rather trivial issues such as answering fan mail or being denied
