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Authors: Andrew P. Mayer
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and it was time to take action.
But what should he do? He had already had a confrontation with one of the candidates today, and while it had ultimately resulted in a new Paragon, he felt no satisfaction from it.
The Industrialist couldn't confront every man who attempted to join them, but each word that came out of Clements's mouth only served to make him angrier. The White Knight's blow by blow description of an attack against unarmed men seemed intended to make a direct mockery of everything that the Paragons stood for—it undermined their most fundamental ideals.
Alexander Stanton was well aware that his temper was considered to be legendary, even though it was something he worked very hard to control. But in moments like this, his anger was like a caged beast inside of him—something that must be set free on occasion or the greatest victim of its fury would be himself.
And maybe, like King Jupiter, Clements would turn out to be a better man than he first appeared—someone who, when confronted, would give them a genuine display of both humility and power.
The Industrialist began to roll his knuckles back and forth against the granite table, the exposed metal tips in his gloves letting out a set of rhythmic tapping sounds. It must have been annoying, but it didn't seem to be loud enough to interrupt the White Knight's enthusiastic storytelling. “And that's when one of them pulled out a machete!”
“What's a machete?” Nathaniel asked.
“Well, son, it's a kind of jungle knife that savages use to cut off the heads of strong white men.” The White Knight said it so matter-of-factly that his ridiculous definition sounded like something he'd read in an encyclopedia.
“What it is,” Stanton mumbled, “is enough.”
When the White Knight turned to look at him, the cloth mask slipped over his eyes, and he had to readjust it to look through the holes. “What did you say, sir?”
Alexander raised his voice. “I said that we are done here.” He slowly placed both hands down on the table. “You can leave.”
The other man visibly stiffened, standing quietly for a moment. “That's not right! I'm not finished! I haven't even shown you my steel lasso!”
Stanton refused to make eye contact, instead concentrating intently on the table in front of him. “I've seen all I need to see. Thank you, sir, we're done. We'll let you know.”
Hughes's machine took a single clanking step, turning to face in Stanton's direction. “Alex…Industrialist, don't you think we should at least give this man a chance to prove himself?”
“I think,” he said, and then paused to take a breath. Perhaps he'd waited too long. His temper seemed poised to boil over, and every time he opened his mouth the anger inside of him seemed as if it were about to gush out. He needed to get it under control. “I think that this man is a hateful blowhard, a drunken buffoon, and an affront to everything that the Paragons represent.” Still, sometimes it felt good to let go.
Hughes knitted his brows together. “Well, you're not the only one making the damn decision here, Stanton!” It was good to hear some of the old fire back in Hughes's voice, but it wouldn't be enough to make a difference: the dam had burst.
“That's right. I'm not. But last time I checked, we needed to make a unanimous decision in order to induct a new member, and I wouldn't give this man a yay if he were the last hero left in the world. Which, incidentally, he isn't.”
Grüsser chimed in next, as he always did. “Industrialist, ist only fair to give ze man his say.”
“Thank you, Helmut. I'll take that under advisement.” He quickly rose from the chair. “Now, if you could kindly get the hell out of here, the Paragons will continue with the business of finding men of worth.”
The White Knight reached up and pulled off his mask, revealing a round, red face underneath. The hair on top was a blond thatch of thinning curls. His face was puffy and his eyes were
But what should he do? He had already had a confrontation with one of the candidates today, and while it had ultimately resulted in a new Paragon, he felt no satisfaction from it.
The Industrialist couldn't confront every man who attempted to join them, but each word that came out of Clements's mouth only served to make him angrier. The White Knight's blow by blow description of an attack against unarmed men seemed intended to make a direct mockery of everything that the Paragons stood for—it undermined their most fundamental ideals.
Alexander Stanton was well aware that his temper was considered to be legendary, even though it was something he worked very hard to control. But in moments like this, his anger was like a caged beast inside of him—something that must be set free on occasion or the greatest victim of its fury would be himself.
And maybe, like King Jupiter, Clements would turn out to be a better man than he first appeared—someone who, when confronted, would give them a genuine display of both humility and power.
The Industrialist began to roll his knuckles back and forth against the granite table, the exposed metal tips in his gloves letting out a set of rhythmic tapping sounds. It must have been annoying, but it didn't seem to be loud enough to interrupt the White Knight's enthusiastic storytelling. “And that's when one of them pulled out a machete!”
“What's a machete?” Nathaniel asked.
“Well, son, it's a kind of jungle knife that savages use to cut off the heads of strong white men.” The White Knight said it so matter-of-factly that his ridiculous definition sounded like something he'd read in an encyclopedia.
“What it is,” Stanton mumbled, “is enough.”
When the White Knight turned to look at him, the cloth mask slipped over his eyes, and he had to readjust it to look through the holes. “What did you say, sir?”
Alexander raised his voice. “I said that we are done here.” He slowly placed both hands down on the table. “You can leave.”
The other man visibly stiffened, standing quietly for a moment. “That's not right! I'm not finished! I haven't even shown you my steel lasso!”
Stanton refused to make eye contact, instead concentrating intently on the table in front of him. “I've seen all I need to see. Thank you, sir, we're done. We'll let you know.”
Hughes's machine took a single clanking step, turning to face in Stanton's direction. “Alex…Industrialist, don't you think we should at least give this man a chance to prove himself?”
“I think,” he said, and then paused to take a breath. Perhaps he'd waited too long. His temper seemed poised to boil over, and every time he opened his mouth the anger inside of him seemed as if it were about to gush out. He needed to get it under control. “I think that this man is a hateful blowhard, a drunken buffoon, and an affront to everything that the Paragons represent.” Still, sometimes it felt good to let go.
Hughes knitted his brows together. “Well, you're not the only one making the damn decision here, Stanton!” It was good to hear some of the old fire back in Hughes's voice, but it wouldn't be enough to make a difference: the dam had burst.
“That's right. I'm not. But last time I checked, we needed to make a unanimous decision in order to induct a new member, and I wouldn't give this man a yay if he were the last hero left in the world. Which, incidentally, he isn't.”
Grüsser chimed in next, as he always did. “Industrialist, ist only fair to give ze man his say.”
“Thank you, Helmut. I'll take that under advisement.” He quickly rose from the chair. “Now, if you could kindly get the hell out of here, the Paragons will continue with the business of finding men of worth.”
The White Knight reached up and pulled off his mask, revealing a round, red face underneath. The hair on top was a blond thatch of thinning curls. His face was puffy and his eyes were
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