Source: Comic Book Movie
He smiled warmly at the memory.
Of course that was back on the farm and this was the big city. Things were different here, he noted, yet he felt it important that he keep such life lessons close to heart no matter where he was. After all, his body may have been here, but his heart was always within his body.
Fleischer paused at the thought, raising an eyebrow quizzically. He wasn't sure himself what that meant, not that such confusion had ever caused him more than a moment's pause in the past, so there was no reason it should now.
He cleared his throat a second time in the hopes of attracting the attention of the tall man in the long black coat and large hat that stood there, his back to him. "Excuse me, sir," offered Fleischer. "While I recognize your God-given right of Freedom of Expression, I'd like to ask you to reconsider your actions as they seem to be having a slightly disturbing effect on the good people of Generic City."
Fleischer sincerely hoped the man would comply. And quickly. The smell was starting to get to him. It wasn't so much the scent of burning buildings or flaming vehicles that was so bothersome, but the aroma of charred flesh that seemed to be coming from everywhere. He'd always found that particular smell icky at best.
Without turning to face him, the man responded, his voice having a bit of a metallic reverberation to it. And, no, the words "metallic reverberation" did not hold any meaning to Fleischer.
"Afraid not, son," he said. "I've got a job to do."
He has a job to do? Fleischer bristled ever so slightly at that. After all, why did the man think that Fleischer was standing there in his standard red and blue spandex, the blue pants coming down just past his knee, red cape hanging from his shoulders, red bloomers holding lil' Fleischer in place, and fluffy red slippers keeping his tootsies warm? They all had a job to do.
Fleischer was momentarily distracted by a tap to his shoulder. He turned to see a man standing there. "Have you seen my arm?" he asked. Fleischer shook his head no, making a mental note that there should be an ordinance somewhere prohibiting this man from spilling so much blood on a public street, but Fleischer was too busy to recall it at the moment. "Please move along, citizen," he said. "There are other matters at hand."
A look of outrage passed on the man's face as he raised the stub that had been his arm. "That's not funny," he said, abruptly turning away and slipping slightly on the pool of blood that had formed by his feet before balancing himself again and continuing.
Fleischer turned back to the tall man. "Sir," he said, a bit more sharply, finding it increasingly difficult to act as if the carnage around him wasn't taking place. "Ignoring my request is rather rude. I think I'm going to have to insist on compliance... As a matter of fact, I'm sure of it."
Fleischer Panel 3
Finally, the man - an Artificial Bionic Exoskeleton, dubbed "ABE" by his creators - turned to look at him. Fleischer was immediately struck by the familiarity of his face. Granted that the right side of it was metallic, robotic looking, reminding him of the Arnold Schwarzenegger Terminator character, but that wasn't it. It was the left side that wanted to jumpstart his brain.
"And as I have told you, sir," ABE replied, "I have a job to do and will not leave until I have done so."
ABE stared at him a moment as internal sensors came to life, locking on to Fleischer’s frame and providing a series of readings — among them the diminutive size of his brain — which reinforced that this was the intended target. At the same time this was happening, a goofy smile crossed Fleischer's face. Of course, that was it! He reached into the tiny man purse attached to his waist and removed a $5 bill. He looked at the image of President Abraham Lincoln that adorned it, then shifted his eyes to the man before him. His eyes moved back to the bill, then to the man. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth as though he were watching the tiniest tennis match ever played.
Yep, he finally thought to himself, same guy. Take away the metal side of his face and you've got....oh my God, half a face!!! He threw up a little bit in his mouth, but swallowed it again before anyone noticed.
Fleischer panel 4
"Wow, Mr. President," Fleischer continued, having already forgotten about making himself sick. "It's a real honor to meet you, sir." He held up the $5 bill between both hands. "Hey, will you sign this for my collection of dead people autographs?"
Cyber-Abe (as Fleischer had instantly nicknamed him, not exactly knowing where he'd gotten the word "cyber" from but confident he just made it up) abruptly had a look of sadness on his face as he looked upon the $5 bill; the image there stirring something in his subconscious. "That man is dead," he said with finality as his right eye glowed red and emitted a thin laser that struck the currency, causing it to burn.
Fleischer Panel 9 Fleischer Panel 10
Fleischer felt his face flush with anger. He didn't like the feeling. "Flushing is for terlits," Pa would say. And he was right. He tried to compose himself before speaking, though anger was definitely getting the better of him. "Defacing currency is a Federal crime, sir," he snapped, "and you will be held accountable... Besides, do you know how many windshields I have to clean to earn $5?"
Cyber-Abe returned Fleischer's stare. "I know not of windshields, sir," he replied. "Only that it is you who shall be held accountable."
"Hey," Fleischer felt defensive. "I didn't do nuthin'."
Without warning, Cyber-Abe threw a left-handed punch towards him, which Fleischer effortlessly caught mid-air. "I don't think so," he smiled with no small amount of arrogance.
Instantly, Cyber-Abe swung out with his right, bionic fist, which connected with Fleischer's face, sending him reeling. "Think again, Son," the man said while doing so.
Fleischer staggered back a few steps, being sure to spit out the two dislodged teeth to avoid swallowing them — a trick he'd learned as a youth. Let's face it, repeated hits to the back of the head with a frying pan will occasionally result in some loose teeth.
Fleischer Panel 11
He turned to face Cyber-Abe again, when he was abruptly kneed in the crotch by the man. Fleischer's own knees came together as he fell to them, his eyes, now stinging with tears, crossed in pain. Somewhere in the haze that had enveloped him, Fleischer heard Cyber-Abe say, "My programming tells me that the North and the South shall not be reunited as long as Fleischer lives."
"That ain't right," Fleischer managed through gritted teeth. "They were reunited...like 40 years ago or something."
As his vision began to clear, Fleischer noticed some little kid in a red baseball cap and carrying an iPhone, run up to him. The kid turned the phone around so that the screen faced the wannabe hero.
"Mr. Fleischer," offered the kid, "according to Wakipedia, the Terminator dude is right."
Fleischer looked at the screen and the article within Wakipedia that said, "Fleischer must die if the North and South are to be reunited."
"Holy baloney," Fleischer replied, eyes widening, oblivious to the fact that in his mind he was spelling bologna wrong. "If Wakipedia says it, it must be true."
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He paused, his wowsa-hearing picking up the sound of metal unhinging, followed by some sort of motorized gizmo coming to life. While his instinct was to massage the pain out of his crotch, he elected not to, knowing full well the looks that such an action sometimes garnered from onlookers.
"Time to die, hero!" he heard Cyber-Abe say.
Fleischer tensed, taking his time to formulate an instant plan of action. "You forget one thing," he said, before actually doing anything.
The sound of a small rocket engine came to life. Instinctively Fleischer knew that Cyber-Abe was launching a missile of some sort from his chest cavity. Finally he went into action, reaching out and grabbing the kid, whose eyes went wide as his iPhone clattered noisily to the ground. Fleischer stood, whipping the kid in front of him just as the missile found its mark.
"A hero never dies!" he declared triumphantly through the smoke in the missile's aftermath. Smiling like the oaf everyone perceived him to be, Fleischer threw the vaporized kid's arms on top of the sneakers he had whipped him out of, making a mental note that he would have to clean up the mess he'd made once he was finished with Cyber-Abe.