Thrall – “Slave To Justice”

All of the cashiers of the first national bank on Adamson Avenue had seen a bank robbery before but never one in which the contents of their strong room stole themselves.

 

And yet, as they stared with disbelief, that is exactly what happened; first the combination lock on the door of the strong room started to crack itself, its dial spinning left and then right and then the rooms 12 inch steel door swung wide open, clanging into a wall; then all the safety deposit boxes and bags started leaping down from its shelves like enchanted objects in a fairy tale and marching, in single file, like some mad, miniature parade, out of the strong room and then, hurdling nimbly over the cash desk, moving towards the doors at the front of the bank.

 

“Some one stop them, please”, said the pinstripe suited bank manager in an anguished voice as he saw all the money escaping but then his own stripy tie reared up and began hissing and bobbing from side to side like a snake charmers cobra before striking and stuffing itself into his screaming mouth.

 

Even the bank security guard in the corner near the door was helpless as his revolver, revolving in his hands to face him, shot his peaked cap off of his head and then, leaping from a hook on his belt, his own steel handcuffs snapped themselves securely around his wrists.

 

But then the large double doors of the banks entrance opened themselves wide and then all within the bank saw the reason for the money’s mutinous behaviour.

 

“Don’t be alarmed, ladies and gents”, said a bizarre looking man that seemed to be made entirely out of blue modelling clay before smiling and taking a dramatic bow, “Your bank has just been robbed by the greatest criminal mind since Moriarty; you may call me The Animator”.

 

However, just as the clay faced crook was opening a sack for the animated deposit boxes and jingling money bags to leap into like performing rabbits, he suddenly heard a deep growling voice from behind him.

 

“And you may call me Thrall”, said the voice.

 

But then, looking round, the clay criminal only saw a large steel gloved fist heading towards his face which then pounded a large hole through the middle of his cookie dough soft head.

 

“Really?”, said the animated man, filling in and smoothing over the hole in his face with a sculptors hands, “And what kind of name is that for a superhero?”.

 

But then the customers in the bank saw the clay man yanked up into the air by the strong right arm of a grey skinned but herculean man with long steel chains wrapped around his waist and rippling torso.

 

“It means Slave”, explained the grim, golem like superhero, “My power comes from the chains I wear but as long as I wear them I am bound to serve justice”.

 

The grim heroes eyes becoming distant as he recalled a scene from long ago in a land called Armoria; a proud, tyrannical young prince who had ruled over his people with an iron fist, killing anyone who dared get in his way until one day a beggar woman, approaching him upon the steps of his palace had held out a wooden begging bowl to him, and flying into a rage he had beat the beggar severely with his wooden staff, breaking it over her head and shattering the bowl on the ground but then the beggar had revealed herself to be the blind goddess of Justice and, pointing a finger at him condemned the Prince to wander the Earth for eternity, never knowing rest until he had paid the price for his sins by serving justice and helping the powerless.

 

“You will not be a Prince anymore”, she had said, “You will be a slave, a slave to me, Justice and you will be bound by the chain of justice, each link upon the chain a crime that you have committed but like a slave that is strong you will be powerful in the service of Justice”.

 

The hero’s  thoughts returned to the present and he saw a broad red plastiscene grin spread out across an animated criminals clay features.

 

“How bizarre. Power without freedom”, said the Animator, “Why would anyone want that?”.

 

The chains that bound the superhero, glowing with an ethereal light, uncoiled themselves from round his body and, snaking outwards towards the clay crook tangled themselves tightly around both his arms.

 

“Because”, said Thrall, “Power is a dangerous thing if it is not controlled”.

 

The clay criminal oozed out of the chains becoming a large round, boulder like lump of plastiscene before expanding and remoulding himself back into his original form.

 

“Well, some people like being tied up, I suppose but not me, no one’s going to put me in chains”, said the animated man pointing a stubby clay finger towards the marble tiled floor beneath the heroes feet and making it soften and melt like quicksand so that, startled, Thrall began sinking downwards fast.

 

“Ha! Chainman”, said the clay bank robber, grinning with glee as he watched Thrall floundering, up to his waist in the melting bank floor, “You look more like the weakest link to me”.

 

But then, swinging one of his chains up towards the ceiling of the bank, Thrall latched onto a large chandelier and then, with only one firm tug, pulled himself swiftly upwards and out of the strange quagmire.

 

“I’ll admit, your pretty powerful, Gumby”, said Thrall, “Able to animate non-living objects as well as twist your body into all kinds of shapes but you’ve forgotten what happens to clay when its exposed to heat”.

 

Thrall whirled his chain above his head so fast that it looked like a miniature steel tornado before lassoing the malleable misfit and, just as The Animator was trying to ooze free again, the power that coursed through the grey skinned champion of justice flowed into the chains heating them until, glowing, they became red hot and so hot infact that, in only a matter of seconds, the body of The Animator started to become as brittle as a baked clay pot.

 

“No, no”, cried the bankrobber, small plastiscene tears crawling down his cheeks as his arms started to crack and then crumble and shatter, “It’s not possible”.

 

“Like I said”, Thrall replied, “Your very powerful but, in the end, it looks like you were just putty in my hands”.

 

But then Thrall heard the wailing of police sirens coming from outside the bank and a minute later saw men in badges and light blue uniforms come rushing in through its entrance.

 

“Thank goodness you got here first, hero”, said one of the police officers happy to see him, “We never would have been able to apprehend that slippery, shape shifting crook on our own”.

 

“No”, said Thrall, “I thank you. I must do my duty because of these chains of power that bind me but you do what you do out of choice which makes you the real heroes”.