Altered Ego

Dr. Bernard Willison's three o'clock shuffled into the office. He was a large, powerfully built man who contrived to seem smaller by hunching his shoulders. He limped along on a shabby cane and moved like an ungainly child in overlarge shoes.

"So good to meet you, Dr. Willison, I'm Hector Diaz," said the big man, pumping Willison's hand vigorously.

"The pleasure is mine. Won't you have a seat, Mr. Diaz?" said the doctor, sighing inwardly. This one probably still lived with his mother.

Diaz glanced at the closed office door behind him. He made no move to sit.

"Are you expecting someone, Mr. Diaz?"

Diaz turned back to the psychiatrist, and all at once seemed to be standing at his full height, chest out, stomach in, dark hair crowning his head like a black halo.

"Let's get some things out of the way shall we?" said Diaz in voice full of command.

"What things?" asked Dr. Willison, feeling suddenly uneasy. In fifteen years dealing with the psychologically injured, underdeveloped, and even maimed, Dr. Willison had never felt so instantly threatened. There was something powerful about this man.

"I'm Spectacle," said Diaz.

"As in the superhero? That Spectacle?"

"You don't believe me and I don't blame you."

We had a teenage Jesus Christ in here last week, Dr. Willison almost said, but elected to hold his tongue. Instead he said, "I've heard hundreds of stories. And I want to hear yours."

"Lucky for both of us, I can prove it."

Diaz lifted Willison's coffee table – thirty-five hundred dollars and imported from Spain - by an exposed edge. With no apparent effort, he held it at head height with one hand. Not one magazine moved.

"Wow." It was all Dr. Willison could think to say. Of course, he had seen exceptionally strong, psychotic patients before. . .

Diaz replaced the coffee table. He smiled and began to rise towards the twelve-foot ceiling.

"The fan's a bit dusty," he said from above.

"I'll – I'll have the service clean it."

Diaz landed next to Willison. Red beams of light issued from his eyes, setting the doctor's apple – Willison's lunch – aflame. Then frigid air poured from his lips to freeze it in place. The scent of roasted apples filled the office.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Spectacle?"

"First, keep my secret."

"I'll never tell."

"Second, help me destroy my nemesis."

"Whu-?"

"I'll try to explain this in a breath."

Willison retrieved a pen and legal pad from his huge desk. "I'm listening," he said.

"Okay, remember when you were a kid, there's a point where you decide what you will become?"

"A fulcrum point."

"Yeah, so, for a kid who can fly and lift a tractor, well, that point generally involves choosing to be either a superhero or a villain. You smile, but it's true. True as life."

"You chose hero."

"I never chose. I couldn't."

"And I take it your non-choice somehow has brought you here?"

"I became Spectacle in college, but I also became El Catceps."

"Should I know that name?"

"Probably not. He was always a petty criminal – I never used my powers as El Catceps. He was a joy thief. He never hurt anyone - not really. He stole and he cheated and he lied. He was my outlet."

"What happened?"

"A few months back I started losing track of time."

"Blacking out?"

"Yes."

"El Catceps?"

"I think so. And I think he has discovered our super powers."

"Why do you think that?"

"He's a petty hood, but with super powers he can steal a lot of petty crap. My apartment is filled with jet skies and skateboards and Spectacle comics."

"Mr. Diaz, what you're describing is serious mental illness. I may not be the best –"

"You're all I've got, sir. All I've got. Please help me stop him."

"There's no quick fix. You can't just rip your alter ego out of your body and choke him to death."

"Then what can I do?"

Something niggled at the back of Dr. Willison's brain. What had Diaz said about the junk El Catceps stole?

"Did you say El Catceps took Spectacle comics?"

"Oh yes. He's always covering our bedroom with posters and 3-D lithographs. It's embarrassing really."

"He's a fan," said Willison in a whisper, more to himself than to Diaz.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Bring him here. Now."

"I don't know, Doctor. He might be dangerous. I can't control him."

"Do it."

Diaz cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowed and his posture relaxed.

"Who're you?" he said in a thick Spanish accent.

"The doctor."

"What'choo want?" said El Catceps, lifting his chin.

"To introduce you to someone."

"Who?"

"Spectacle."

Diaz's eyes grew wide. He looked around the room. "No one here, but us, Doc."

"Spectacle, I know you're there. Come out and meet your biggest fan."

Diaz stood taller and his body seemed to expand.

"Did you defeat El Catceps?" he asked in a deep, manly voice.

"Better. El Catceps, meet Spectacle."

For a moment Diaz stood still, his eyes glazed. Then he drew breath and El Catceps said, "Madre de Dios, it IS you!"

"El Catceps," said the voice of Spectacle.

"Si how you know my name? You're famous. I read all your comics."

"We need to talk, El Catceps. And we better bring Hector along too."

"I'm here," said the ineffectual voice of Hector Diaz.

"Does that window open?" asked Spectacle.

"Oh, ah, yes, yes it does," said Willison.

Diaz opened it, tossed his cane aside, and then turned to look at the doctor.

"Thanks, gracias, your help is much appreciated," said the thief-cum-everyday-joe-cum-superhero in each of his ego voices. "I'll make certain you're bill gets paid."

"Thanks," said Willison, shocked out of his wits.

The tri-souled hero flew up and away.

Find more by David Alan Jones in the Author Index.

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