“This isn’t working,” said Glen.
“Do you think you can get him to talk?” asked the American.
“Just give me a few minutes and I’ll get everything you need.”
The American gestured for the door. Glen entered as the two men looked up.
“You can go now,” said Glen.
Jordan arose and closed the door after him. A tendril of hair whipped from Glen’s head, tearing the chair out from under Politically Correct. He expected to see the villain drop, suspended by his handcuffs. Instead, he remained leaned forward, unfazed as Glen’s hair receded into normality.
“Criminals like you don’t get to sit down. They call me Weird Beard.”
Politically Correct smiled wryly from the side of his mouth. Without warning, his foot snapped out, turning Glen’s head on impact. Four tufts of hair appeared simultaneously. Two snatched hold of Politically Correct’s ankles, as the other two began clubbing him around the face. His actions halted when the American pounded on the two way mirror.
“That’s enough Weird Beard!” shouted the American. “This is to be a legal interrogation! Either question the prisoner without violence or get out of there!”
Glen looked randomly into the mirror.
“Mick, what do I do?”
“No violence, Glen. We’ve got to do this legally.”
Sneering, Glen worked his lips silently.
“Wait a minute. Can you help me?” he said.
By his tone of voice and the fact that he no longer stared at the mirror, Mick assumed Glen spoke to someone else. His atomic fleas streamed from his beard and hovered as a glowing cloud. They split evenly and streamed under Politically Correct’s armpits. He smiled at first, then began to laugh.
“Now talk,” Glen demanded, withdrawing the fleas.
The fleas returned. Politically Correct broke into hysterical laughter. He tugged on his handcuffs and shifted his feet to deal with his uncontrollable mirth. When Glen recalled his fleas, the supervillain slumped, with tears in his eyes.
“So; will you talk now, or do I have to tickle you to death?”
“Weird Beard!” bellowed the American.
“I wasn’t actually going to kill him.” For a moment, Glen fumed, screwing his face. “Oh look, you’re ruining this. Wait a minute! I have another idea.”
The fleas split again and funneled into Politically Correct’s nostrils. He jolted with a shocked expression, then worked his nostrils before sneezing violently.
Politically Correct sneezed twice. Glen elected not to withdraw his allies.
“You think (Sneeze) have (Sneeze) got the (sneeze) better (sneeze) of me?”
“I can keep this up all day. I’ll make you sneeze within an inch of your life.”
“How (sneeze) fiendish (sneeze) you are. (sneeze) You’re meant (sneeze) to be (sneeze) one (sneeze) of the (sneeze) good (sneeze) guys.”
“Tell me what I want to know! Where’s Shotgun hiding?”
“(sneeze) Alright! (sneeze) I’ll (sneeze) tell (sneeze) you. (sneeze) Just (sneeze) call them (sneeze) off.”
“No! Where is he?”
“Hidden (sneeze) in an a… (sneeze) bandoned mine. (sneeze) I’ll tell (sneeze) you where. (sneeze) Please (sneeze) make them (sneeze) stop.
The fleas returned to Glen’s beard, before facing the two way mirror.
“That’s how you get information,” he said.