The History of Superheroes in America: 1936

In 1936, American Justice caught the break that would propel him into national status.

Jack "Machine Gun" McGurn was being hunted in Central City. The G Men were cracking down hard on gangsters and bank robbers in the city, and the heat was on for McGurn. After 1931, when Al Capone went down for tax evasion, McGurn had been left out to fend for himself, which was something he found difficult in the crowded market of Central City. So by the time 1936 came around, he was finding getting by to be something of a challenge.

McGurn headed to New York, hoping to find a fresh start. But what he ended up finding was a rude awakening.

The fact is, what happened on February 3rd, 1936 was absolutely accidental. But by the end of the day, it didn't matter how it happened.

McGurn's hands were shaking, but just barely. The muzzle of his Thompson submachine gun wavered, but held firm at the bank teller's head. The bank teller, a young blonde man, was breathing hard. Hands shaking, he stuffed the money into the burlap sack. McGurn flashed him a quick smile as he took the bag away. He kept the muzzle trained on the man as he backed away from the counter and through the revolving doors.

And from the revolving doors, he ran straight into American Justice.

Cyrus had brought American Justice out to the bank that day so they could both see the bank manager in person; he had been working on a deal to get the bank to hire American Justice as a guard a couple times a week. Good for the bank, good for American Justice (not to mention, good for Cyrus Foley). What they didn't expect was to run smack into one of America's most wanted.

McGurn's head bounced off the metal chest plates and from there, he slipped and fell down the steps of the First Bank of Brooklyn, his gun clattering into the street. The pedestrians around the bank flew into a panic at the sight of the gun. Which was good for our hero, because no one heard the frenzied hiss of Cyrus Foley (who was nothing if not a self described opportunist). "Get him, Justice!" And with a shove, American Justice was bounding down the steps, hot on the trail of McGurn, who was busy scrambling for his gun.

A strong right hook later, McGurn was out cold. The police arrived soon after (with the press hot on their tail), and by the end of the hour, American Justice was well on his way to becoming a bona fide sensation. The front page of the New York Times on February 4th, 1936 read "Super Hero Nabs Central City Mobster" and featured a smiling American justice holding up the unconscious Jack McGurn.

American Justice had arrived.

The next few months were a blur for both American Justice and Cyrus Foley. As Foley writes in his memoirs,

"After McGurn went down, 1936 became a blur. All of a sudden, everyone in the world seemed to want a piece of American Justice. Every newspaper, every radio show, even [New York mayor] Fiorello La Guardia wanted to meet the big guy. And of course, I was more than happy to take whatever windfalls came out of that. Wherever the big guy went, I was right behind. People'd see him, and see me right behind. Hear his name, but hear my voice (I was doing all the speaking for him then).

The big guy was a little camera shy, but he had more than enough money to buy presents for the kiddies, new dresses for the wife. Me on the other hand, I spent most nights out in the city, becoming a regular barfly. Most places I'd go, drinks'd be comped (everyone liked havin' a celebrity in the bar). Women'd come up; attention like I'd never had. It was a hell of a ride for those months.

Of course, in those months we also got soft. We were in the gym once a week at best. Spent more time publicizing and enjoying ourselves and less time out on the street. If we'd have paid more attention...if we'd have been on hour toes...things on July 4th would probably have turned out different."

But things were not different. And they were not prepared. And July 4th took them, and everyone else, by complete surprise.

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Almost seven months previous to that date, a young man was standing in a beautifully decorated, leather lined office, fighting for his livelihood.

He was tall and lean. Not spindly, but thin enough that he was called Ichabod in his youth. When looking at him, one could not help but be drawn to his eyes. A pale blue, almost gray, they burned like a wildfire, engulfing all he gazed upon. His long fingers, nails bitten to the quick, were pressed hard against the back of the chair he was leaning on. His usually well styled hair was now standing in a tussled mop, the stress of the situation seeming to scream out of him in all directions. He was lean, fit, and intense. His name was Gerald Bryce.

Gerald stared at the man across from him, Harold W. Dodds, president of Princeton University. There was a long, angry silence. No words crossed the oak desk that Woodrow Wilson had bought during his time as president of the university. Neither man was quite sure what to say, though the issue that brought them here was incredibly clear:

On the last day of the previous semester, Professor Gerald Bryce, during the final class session of his Economics 101 class, had given an incredibly simple exam. It had but one question: Why doesn't capitalism work?

After the winter break, Gerald had been asked to not return to his post. Which quickly brought him to the office of the president. Which quickly brought him to the current stalemate he was facing. There was no winning this battle. Gerald knew it before he even walked through the door. And now, with angry tears welling up in his eyes, Gerald gave the statement that would, many years from then, be inscripted on his gravestone:

"You can kick me out. But that doesn't mean I'm not right."

And he left.

He spent the end rest of the winter months in a deep depression. In the office that day he had been firm and resolute. Now, sitting in his bare flat, he realized that that job had been one of his defining features, like a cheekbone or a dimple. How do you get along with cheekbones?

He pined for a month. Sat gloomily as the snow whipped around outside. It was hard enough finding a job for men who were big and strong and willing to work. Much harder to find a job with a strong mind, but a weak body. What was he going to do?

By the end of January, he was still out of work. Worse yet, his savings was beginning to dwindle. A few months and he'd be completely broke. He had no direction, no guide. No purpose whatsoever.

That is, until February 4th, 1936. "Super Hero Nabs Central City Mobster" read the front page of the Times. And there he was. A big smile. Bright eyes. Draped in the stars and stripes. The big, stupid, ugly grin of Capitalism splashed across the front page. And all of a sudden, there was purpose.

By the end of February, the plan was drafted. He thought long and hard about the idea behind American Justice. About the entire package. American Justice used his brawn to spread the ideals of Capitalism and the American way. So what about the opposite? Someone who abandoned strength in favor of intelligence, to present a view to counter the capitalist fat cats that were running the nation. Someone who favored the people and favored benefiting everyone as opposed to throwing people behind bars.

It started with something Dodds had said while Gerald was being fired. He had tried to brush him off, saying that they needed the classroom to be converted into a chemistry lab. That they had already begun the conversion. Gerald searched through the boxes he brought home from his office. And found what he was looking for.

He opened the door quietly, slipping the spare key into his pocket. It was a Saturday (February 22nd by that point), and the chances of anyone finding him were slim, but he still didn't want to take any chances.

True to his word, Dodds and the university had already converted his old classroom for a new batch of chemistry students. The tables and chairs had been replaced by lab tables, equipped with gas nozzles, with cabinets underneath. A trip to the library a week before had told him what he required. Hands shaking, he looked through boxes and bottles, searching for the chemicals he needed.

His hands didn't stop shaking till he was back at his apartment. He carefully set the box of chemicals down on his kitchen table. And from there, the work began.

Gerald refused to ever detail what chemicals he used or what process he undertook in order to make the explosives. But by the middle of March, he was finished, and able to move on to the next phase of his plan.

He bought almost and entire bolt of fabric to build the costume, and it took him almost a full month of work to complete it; he had never touched needle to thread before and his fumbling hands were unready for the difficulties that making an entire suit brought. At the end of the month, he tried it on. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry; the suit fit so badly, the seams were jagged and crooked, and one sleeve was half the size of the other.

The next day he brought the remaining fabric to a seamstress that lived in his building. A few extra bills assured her silence, and two weeks later, the suit was ready.

On April 12th, he was able to wear the suit for the first time. As he described it in his autobiography, "Battling the Gods of Capitalism":

"The suit was absolutely magnificent. A deep red from tip to toe. Red shirt, red pants (loose enough to move in of course). Red gloves. Matched with boots I bought and a mask Mariska [the seamstress] made me (just an eye mask like Douglas Fairbanks as Zorro). I could feel the power coursing through my veins just wearing the suit. I felt powerful. Brilliant. Magnificent. Menacing. Menacing. That was it. The perfect word for all of it."

The final step in the plan took place at the the New York County Courthouse. The most important part of the plan was, in fact, the easiest. The clerk smiled, slightly bored, and was more than happy to hand over the original blueprints to the First Bank of Manhattan. Gerald sat and studied them for a full day, making notes and plans. The clerk read a novel.

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July 4th was incredibly humid day. The mercury wasn't much above 80, but with 90% humidity, the city felt like a pressure cooker, ready to explode.

Trying hard to ride on the coattails of the new upswing of patriotism American Justice had brought to the Burroughs, the city decided that a Fourth of July parade was the perfect idea.

Thousands of people turned out to line up along the parade route that wound its way through the streets of Manhattan. American flags waved in nearly every hand; children sat on the shoulders of their parents, watching as huge balloons and floats passed by. And at the back of the parade was a huge red, white, and blue eagle with American Justice perched on top.

Cyrus Foley watched in awe from his spot at the bottom of the eagle float, waving a huge American flag and looking out over the crowd. Never in his life had he achieved such incredible success. Never had he been in a position of such power. He was in the prime of his life and his career.

So he thought.

Half way through the parade route, a large balloon was casting a shadow over the First Bank of Manhattan. The bank was closed for the holiday, and to any passers-by that might look in, the bank was truly closed for business. However, inside the doors, the bank was bustling with activity. A solitary man, dressed from head to toe in bright crimson, was busy in the basement, carefully unpacking a dozen duffel bags onto the stone tile floor.

As the parade was half way through, a beat cop named Timothy Moen was walking by the First Bank of Manhattan. He had passed by the bank several times that day, as it marked the northern border of his beat. He of course knew that the bank was closed, so he hadn't paid much attention to the lobby (which he usually did on normal days). But as he passed by the final time, something caught his eye: strapped to all of the marble pillars in the bank lobby were very large, overstuffed bags. Timothy had just long enough to formulate the question in his mind before his world went dark.

The giant eagle was just passing the large glass doors of the bank when they exploded. The bombs ripped through the lobby of the bank, sending a fine mist of glass raining over the crowd. But what followed the glass was a complete surprise: money. The sky above the crowed was completely darkened by thousands of bills of all denominations. The crowd was scrambling over each other, fighting to stuff the bills in their pockets. Police were scrambling, trying to control the crowd while fighting them to get to the gaping doors of the bank. A solid five minutes passed before the police finally pushed the crowds away from the door, and only after almost fifty uniformed policeman came to the scene.

When the bombs went off, the concussion knocked American Justice off his perch and on to the floor of the float below. Cyrus rushed to him, frantically trying to get him back on his feet. A few fretful moments passed with American Justice almost unconscious, but finally he was up and on his feet, leaping off the float and making his way for the doors.

An ambulance arrived by the time there was a group ready to enter the bank. Six hesitant policeman drew their guns and entered the bank, lead by American Justice (with Cyrus Foley at the rear of the group).

As they passed through the doors, they noticed the strange amount of smoke that had filled the room. It was far more than the bomb could have possibly made, and the amount was growing. The officers coughed and covered their faces, but American Justice pushed on, trying to make his way through the smoke.

"Stop!" cried a voice in the haze.

They froze without even thinking about it.

"Who are you?" shouted American Justice.

"You'll know soon enough! All you need to know now is that if you follow what I say, no one gets hurt."

"How do you know someone hasn't already been hurt?"

American Justice listen intently in the gloom, trying to find the source of the voice. He inched his way forward, trying to be as quiet as possible.

"I told you to stop!" The voice shrieked.

Everything was still and quiet for a long moment; only the smoke moved, slowly twisting in the choked sunlight.

"I have sat by for too long," the voice continued, "watching the capitalist pigs bleed the populace of this nation dry, crushing the soul of the proletariat under an iron fist. But today is the day that everything changes. Today is the day that the common man takes back his life. Today is the day that the people become truly free. The day they take their money and their livelihood away from the politicians and back where it really belongs: the hands of the people! You'll know soon. You'll understand. You're all to blind to see it now. But soon your eyes will be truly open and you'll join me in the cause! Today, the citizens of America gain back their freedom from the cruel tyrant of capitalism and take back what is rightfully theirs. Today, is our Independence day!"

The smoke began to clear, and the group was surprised to find a thin man in a large red cape standing in front of them. The police drew their guns back into position, but in an instant, another explosion ripped through the lobby, sending smoke and debris everywhere. The group made their way back to the entrance as the sound of crumbling stone sounded all around them. A scream was heard as the pillars collapsed, filling the lobby with rubble.

As the dust settled, the group sat, dazed, on the sidewalk. The police counted their number, and all were accounted for. American Justice kneeled on the curb, trying to catch his breath. His eyes still clearing, he called for Cyrus. But no one responded. Panicking, he jumped back to his feet. He looked around and, not finding Cyrus anywhere, rushed back into the bank.

He barely heard the policemen calling to him as the blood rushed through his ears. He pushed aside the large stones that had once been ceilings and walls, trying to find his friend. He screamed Cyrus' name over and over, pushing handfulls of gravel and rock back towards the entrance. Finally, he kneeled, looking into the smoky darkness of the bank, defeated.

"Is anyone there?"

The voice was small and strained, but American Justice knew it immediately. He bolted deep into the lobby, and after some searching, found Cyrus. He was covered in dust and dirt and on the edge of consciousness, but alive.

At the end of July 4th, half a dozen people ended up in the hospital, with injuries ranging from minor to critical. Timothy Moen, the beat cop that had witnessed the blast, suffered a severe concussion when his head struck the pavement. He died of a cranial hemorrhage a week later. Out of the survivors, the most severe injury was a patient with a broken spine who ended up as a permanent paraplegic.

That patient was Cyrus Foley.

On July 4th, 1936, the world changed yet again. Till then, people had witnessed the actions of a superhero against a normal world. But after the bank robbery, something completely new entered the fray. From then on, we would see the development of a completely new breed of human; the perfect foil to the completely idealistic superhero. For Independence Day of 1936 gave birth to the supervillain.