“Glad you could make it,” the Panther greeted Ultraman.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna show.”
“So what’s the deal, Panther? Why’s the wanna-be terrorizing town?” Ultraman asked.
The Panther then explained the situation. “Not a human clone, an android,” he replied. “Looks like someone’s got a hold of your DNA.”
“That’s impossible,” Ultraman responded, as he dashed towards his counter-self and lunged his fist forward into its metal, robotic jaw
After impact, the mindless android drone was forced backwards, with head bobbing.
“I always keep my DNA safe. No one could have gotten past me,” Ultraman thought.
The Panther folded his arms and looked up toward the stalwart figure.
“Are you sure about that? Do you remember any times when you were unconscious, in the care of unknown hands?” the Panther warily cautioned.
Ultraman floated in deep thought for a moment, then protracted a blast of red rays toward his automated opponent, which pierced and burned its metallic skin. His brows lowered in concerned thought.
“So you remember…” the Panther prodded.
In an uneasy tone, Ultraman revealed past memories that invaded his mind like sharp prongs splicing into the very depths of his epidermis.
“Well, there was that day, where I had an intensely dangerous allergic reaction to that Shrimp Creole from Che Gratin’s New Orleans Style Grill,” Ultraman reminisced.
“And someone had slipped you some Cajun.” The Panther deduced.
“Yes, but Che Gratin was only thanking me for saving him and his million-dollar invested restaurant from being destroyed by a potentially deadly fire.”
As the investigation continued, Ultraman’s counterpart rushed toward the scene once again, bringing a robust punch of his own towards Ultraman’s unguarded abdomen. He then proceeded to be hurled in a backward motion against a concrete wall on the side of a sound building, crumbling it to pieces. Quickly regaining his bearings, Ultraman darted from the gaping whole like a speeding bullet and struck the android in the chest with his very own head, plunging the robot to the ground below.
“Hmm, looks to me like this was a set-up.” he concluded.
As Ultraman was brutally battered by the bot behind the Panther’s field of vision, the detective declared, “Ultraman, I’ll be back. It’s time for me to pay a little visit to Cajun Town.”
Justice Union#1: Episode 5 – “The New Orleans Way”
The Panther’s panthrocycle revved through the asphault-ridden streets of the city. After passing through a few blocks, he halted his venture in front of a lone restaurant in the midst of tall, elegantly constructed buildings of an opulent district.
As the Panther opened the doors to the slightly lit food facility, a waft of fresh, Cajun-style scents billowed into his nostrils. The clanging of utensils against pots and pans reverberated into his eardrums, as well as the sound of dignified middle/upper-class businessmen and women. Everything seemed normal here. It was a wonder that none of the clamor of the battle could be noticed. As the Panther encroached into the view of the well-mannered productionists, a large mirror of blank stares came reflecting his way. A waiter holding a towel in his left arm approached the hero, with a perplexed and confused look about his face.
“Eh, excuse me sir. How many vill be joining your abnormally dressed presence today?” He asked the Panther.
“I need to talk to someone,” The Panther responded.
Hearing this, the waiter took out his list of guests and peered at the names.
“Ah yes, and vhich party vill you ve joining?” He inquired.
The Panther replied, “Che Gratin.”
The waiter then put down his guest list and held up his index finger, brandishing it in the Panther’s face.
“Ah I am zorry, zir. Che Gratin iz not here today…per…” At that sudden moment, the Panther grasped the waiter’s collar and portrayed a furious countenance.
“Listen, mac, don’t play any games with me here. I need to talk to Che Gratin or you will die.”
A series of gasps and shocked voices glanced over their way. The Panther looked at the audience, then back at the waiter.
“Let’s not make a scene, now Jeeves,” the Panther demanded, releasing his collar, and thrusting the weak and cowardly waiter backward.
“A…a…al…alright!” The waiter stuttered. “He’s upztairz in his main office. But only I can get you zhere,” he explained.
The Panther smirked a smirky smirk. “Then by all means, lead the way.”
After climbing a few steps, the pair came across an abnormally large door, with an intercom to the side of it. The waiter pushed the red button, initiating activation.
“Excuze me, zir!” The waiter alerted Che Gratin.
“What iz it!? What do you want!?” Gratin asked in a French-worthy accent.
“Zhere is a man here to zee you, and I must zay, he is shabbily dressed!” The Panther crumpled his brows in resentment.
“Just tell ze poor fool zat I am not here!” Gratin yelled back.
“Looks like I’ll just have to get in there the hard way,” suggested the Panther.
With that, he took off backwards, and proceeded to run forward in rapid motion.
“You might want to get out of the way,” the Panther said.
Heeding the words, the waiter squeaked like a frightened mouse and lunged himself to the side out of harm’s way, producing a powerful thud upon the ground. However, just a few feet away from the door, the Panther saw the door open, as Gratin, with his stumpy figure and large mustachio, appeared in front of it. He seemed to be in actuality an Italian, pretending to be French.
“Aczually Herman, why don’t you get me zome of zose…pistachio nuts I like zo…Aaaaaaahh!” Gratin screamed in girlish terror as he saw a large blue foot heading straight for his face.
Unfortunately for Gratin, the Panther couldn’t stop himself, and proceeded to imprint his boot in the chef’s face, forcing him a great distance in the opposite direction from which he was facing. A thunderous crash could be heard from the office, and the Panther stood in slight disarray.
“Whoops,” he said in a dry tone.
“I can’t believe zhat you just did zat!” Gratin exclaimed as he rubbed his ailing face while parked in a heap of broken wood and furniture. The Panther lent a hand to help the ailing Italian up.
“An Italian who wants to be French who cooks Cajun food. Interesting combination,” the Panther said.
“Actually, if I may say so, Che Gratin was born in Vermont, and his parents are full-blooded American,” Herman the waiter explained.
With a puzzled look on his face, the Panther responded, “I don’t even wanna know…”
Just then an outburst could be heard. “Who do you zhink you are?! Waltzing in like zhis, with your blue foot kicking my faze!”
The Panther began his resonant chant once again. “I think you have some explaining to do.” He demanded.
“What are you talking about!?” Gratin interrogated.
The Panther crept closer to the shorter, less intimidating Gratin. “I think you know. You purposely slipped some Cajun in a certain hero’s Shrimp Creole some time ago,” He explained.
Gratin stepping backwards in fright, hesitantly said, “Zat’s…Zat’s prepozturous!” He yelled.
The Panther overbearingly explained further. “You intentionally set your own restaurant on fire to grab the attention of the hero. Why you did, I don’t know.”
The chef began sweating bullets as he was being backed up by the vicious interrogator.
“Why would I do zuch a thing? I would never do zuch a thing!”
It was inevitable, the chef found himself between a wall and the relentless Panther attacking his prey. The Panther then proceeded to undo the falsifications by retrieving some sound evidence from his utility belt. Beads of perspiration poured out of the chef’s pores like rain.
“These matches say you’re lying,” the Panther deduced. Nervously anxious, Gratin cried, “What!? How can zis be?!”
Sweating incessantly, Gratin took hold of the pack of matches. He gasped in frightened horror as he realized the startling truth. Inside the pack was written the very words: “You’re lying,” revealing the certainty of the Chef’s intent.
“Alright! Alright! I did it! Nothing can withztand zis evidenze!” Gratin confessed.
“Spill it, Gratin,” the Panther demanded. “Who put you up to it?” He inquired.
Whimpering like a puppy, Gratin explained everything. “It was Dr. Gear-o! Your old Nemesis! He offered me an offer I couldn’t refuse: Three million dollars in plundered gold and a year’s supply of pistachio nuts!”
“But you’re already rich!” The Blue Panther yelled, picking the short Gratin up by his collar and slamming him against the wall.
Frightened, Gratin said, “Yez, I know! I am a cad! I only did it becauze he added ze piztachios!” Gratin was still sweating like a pig.
“Let me ask you one more question. Why did he want you to do this?” the Panther asked.
Stuttering, Gratin answered, “Eh…uh…zomezing about DNA I heard. After Ultraman pazzed out, he did zomezing with hiz DNA!”
The Panther gritted his teeth in thought. “I knew it,” he said.
Chef Gratin was stupefied. “Well if you knew zat already zen why did you have to attack me for ze information!?”
The Panther slammed Gratin against the wall again, and the chef whinnied like an injured horse.
“You idiot! With that DNA, he’s created a super-powered android that’s destroyed half the city already!” The Panther chastised in fury.
“Well, it lookz like you zuperhero folk are going to have to do zomezing about zat now, eh?”
The Panther angrily brandished Gratin back and forth. “Where’s Dr. Gear-o now?!” He interrogated.
Sweating numerous amounts of pellets once again, Gratin replied, “I…I…I don’t know! It iz ze truth zis time!”
The Panther readied his right arm for a powerful punch. Gratin flinched in fear as the Panther raised his arm back, with knuckle enhancer equipped on hand.
“Let me ask you one more time. Where is Dr. Gear-o!?” He yelled.
Fearing immediate bashing of the brain, Gratin did what he could to detail. “I zink, I zink he works in zome underground laboratory…in ze zewers…on zeventh avenue!”
The Panther tossed Gratin to the side and put a hand to his chin in thought once again.
Suddenly, voices could be heard in the hall. “This is the police! Freeze, Scoundrel!”
Within a moment’s notice, the Panther was out the window with grappling gun in hand, swinging toward the vast depths of the city sewers.
Meanwhile Gratin was relieved at the sight of the police. “Oh zanks offizers! He went zat way!” He yelled in triumph, pointing toward the window. The police approached Gratin and handcuffed his arms together.
“What iz ze meaning of zis!?” He cried in outrage.
“Chef P. A. Gratin, you’re under arrest for arson. We received a distress call from some French waiter. Anything you say or do will be held against you in a court of law.”
Furious, Gratin cried out, “Herman you fool! You’re fired!”
Chuckling at the arrested criminal, Herman shot back in his traditional American voice and cried, “Hah! Not so fast! It looks like this here restaurant is gonna be Chef Herman’s House of Pancakes!”
As he was escorted by the “ever-diligent” police down to the station for questioning, Gratin groaned in anger and devilish defiance. However due to extreme dehydration, he passed out along the way, still dragging.
As Gratin was hauled through the city-wide sidewalks, faint voices could be heard among the policeman. “Uh, where was the station, again docs?” One asked in a stupefying utterance. “You know, I coulda sworn it was just across the street. You know, you can never really tell in such a big city like dis…” Another explained.
Meanwhile, outside on Seventh Avenue, a manhole cover could be seen with lid removed, and the tracks of a panther still fresh in its trail.
