Franchise Man IV: The Fall of Franchise Man

We open the latest issue with a six-panel grid. ONE: we see the raucous crowd clamber into theater seats for even a peak of the screen. TWO: in glowing glory, floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall visuals of our caped heroes and villains, blazing blue and yellow attire, our beloved corporate titans mid-flight toward one another. THREE: we see them battling it out - odious gray OBSIDIAN AVENGER against the Day Glo yellows and blues of FRANCHISE MAN. FOUR: Alien explosions erupt on screen. Bullets whiz from beyond bloody Franchise Man’s flowing majestic cape. Otherworldly grenades bursting into plumes of mauve and black. FIVE: Our audience shouts in applause as the ticker tape in the bottom of the screen displays an increasing dollar amount. It’s down with Disney this time, a literal bidding war for intellectual properties among a tapestry of skyscrapers plastered in slogans and logos. SIX: Or so we thought. Down but not out, our hero, the fractured Franchise Man, billion-dollar dynamo, picks himself up from the rubble...

On the morning before the night of the announcement, Terrence Peck examined his hairline in the bathroom mirror with uncertainty. Fingering his locks to one side, he took the tweezers and plucked a stray hair from the outer edge of his forehead. Eyes looking aged, too, he thought. Too many long nights over too many years. Nothing a little stage makeup couldn’t fix. And some of those pills the doctor gave him. Not his doctor. One of the guys from creative’s doctor, but a doctor nonetheless. Taking a step back from the tall sink-to-ceiling mirror, attired in his silk robe, he reassessed. Pecs still in firm condition. A lot of guys start to sag at his age. 

Just the waking jitters. Shake it off. You’re still the man, T.

After masturbating briefly but furiously into the pristine porcelain commode, Terrence adjusted his posture and hovered over the hardwood flooring into the open living room, suspended motion lights illuminated as he passed beneath, walls decked in azure and gold to reflect his alter ego. It was a sunny day over Midtown. Through the panes of glass spanning the lengths his corner condominium, he admired the city called home. His city. A kingdom for his defense. 

Noontime, before a cavalcade of cameras, a slender woman in a summer skirt screams in shock as a lithe derelict snatches her purse, her phone, and her yoga mat from her shoulder and is nearly swallowed by a crowd of onlookers before his sprint is cut by an extended bicep of caution tape yellow collapsing his throat. The man hits the ground gasping. Playback footage includes audio of an onlooker shouting “World Star!” before focusing on the woman tearfully receiving her belongings from her hulking, spandex-clad savior. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Yellow from neck to boot with a royal blue F on his barrel chest, the only line of material demarcation at his waist: a belt featuring a large, plasma screen buckle covering his entire groin flashing what appeared, upon first look, to be random symbols. It wasn’t until focusing on the footage that one would see these symbols for what they truly were. This particular image featured a red and white-striped rectangular shape surrounding solid black block lettering: FRIDAYS. Stock footage might show a familiar green and white Starbucks siren. Or a blue globe dripping crimson red. They were sponsors.

What the film crews came to realize about him was that, while cameras were present, he never seemed to make eye contact with another human being.

“No need to thank me, ma’am,” looking directly into the lens, “None of this could have happened without you. Without all of us.” An arm gesturing to the crowd. 

Stepping forward, he planted his fists on his hips. His thick black hair flowed in the summer breeze over his black wraparound eye mask. Encircled by awestricken faces, he projected verbiage with stern authority.

“Together, you and Franchise Man, we can build a better society for a better tomorrow!”

Everything a photo op. Only a trained expert eye could spot the occasional tics, a spasm of the eyelid or the quiver of a lip. 

Lifting the semiconscious derelict from the gutter, two bicycle cops posed for photos, waving peace signs at the cameras with our hero, Franchise Man. Bearded and bedraggled, the veiny derelict sucked air like a clogged drain. Panning across the belt buckle was the Toyota Motor Corporation’s famous ellipses symbolizing the unity between the hearts of customers and the hearts of products. 

Seeking to distance herself from the spectacle, Carly Foresight sidestepped the crowd. Urgently skipping entire segments of sidewalk and dodging foot traffic, she headed toward the underground subway. A wave of relief washed over her as she saw the orange M and the glimmering rocket train come shrieking to a brief halt. 

From behind her a voice called out, “Miss?”

It was him but not him. Different. He looked softer in the eyes. Eyes enfolded in darkness with a little light shining through. His voice softened, too, more unsteady.

“Miss?”

She heard the voice inside the train. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.” And then it was gone.

“I wanted to speak with you before you ran off.”

“I’m sorry,” she tried to explain. “I don’t like crowds.”

Strange, she thought, seeing him smile like that. Like he knows something I don’t.

“Nor did I at first. You get used to it.”

“Thanks again for saving my stuff.”

“No thanks needed, ma’am. Just being a good citizen. Besides, there’s a greater crime at work! Franchise Man 3: Regional Expansion is smashing box office records! In theaters now!” he chuckled, his cleft chin moved robotically.

Young Carly Foresight cocked her head slightly. There was something about his eyes. She couldn’t quite place it. A spokesman once said Franchise Man doesn’t wear a mask because he is a new kind of hero. A hero in a world that demands transparency. For that reason, everyone knows Terrence Peck is the super powered individual that wears the costume. It’s always the iconography, not the individual, that sells.

“You said you wanted to speak with me?”

From a clip on his belt, he produced an iPhone. There were keyboard clicks as he thumbed through passwords and apps.

“Licensing,” he handed her the iPhone. “FM Inc. is interested in incorporating your experience. Isn’t that exciting?” 

He nodded, a bounce in his feathered black hair. An old sales trick. Positive body language begets positive response from your mark. His white, filed teeth lit up the dimness of the subway platform. His breath added a chill to the thick summer air. She could feel it on the curve of her neck.

Carly examined the illuminated texted further. An MTA security officer patrolled the area and the white beam of an oncoming train appeared in the distance.

“You want to purchase the rights to my life?”

“Not your life,” Franchise Man explained. “Just a piece of it. Imagine, your very own—what’s your name?”

“Carly.”

“Carly—”

“Carly Foresight.”

“That’s a good name. Carly Foresight, imagine yourself on the big screen with a multibillion dollar hero. Imagine the children, young girls longing for inspiration, playing with the exclusive Carly Foresight action figurine by Hasbro. No? Don’t forget the Carly Foresight spin-off four-issue comic book series!”

She winced and jerked a step back.

A light approached.

“I don’t think so.”

Carly turned toward the newly arrived train with it’s open doors welcoming her.

Franchise Man stared into the iPhone, cradling it in his hand. Her words echoed in his mind. I don’t think so. I don’t think so. I don’t think so. Tears welled up in his eyes cracking the thick layers of Esteé Lauder. I don’t think so. I don’t think so. Flaring nostrils inhaled the piss stink of the Manhattan terminal. I don’t think so. The large woman in the security outfit caught his bloodshot glare. She smiled.

“Hey, Franchise Man! One of us is all of us. Better tomorrow, right?”

I don’t think so.

PAGE SIX

PANEL ONE

Inside the subway car, New York commuters look at their cell phones or find a smudge on the Trojan condoms advertisement and try against all cosmic possibilities to stare it clean. Whatever it takes to be somewhere else. 

PANEL TWO 

A teenage kid in Nikes is rapping himself into a trance. An orange vest construction worker scowls at the ceiling. Between them, Carly Foresight sits texting her mother about the strange afternoon she’d had.

PANEL THREE

Close up of thumbs pressing the message into the screen: Out of nowhere guy steals my purse

SFX: EEEEEEEEE

PANEL FOUR

Wide shot here of an enraged Franchise Man tearing through the wall of the subway car like paper, opening it up like French doors. His teary eyes have turned bloodshot. He is heaving through clenched teeth. His belt features the Delmonte fruit logo. 

FRANCHISE MAN: You!

PANEL FIVE

Franchise Man is face to face with Carley Foresight. She is pale, shaken and afraid. There is no more wall for her to back into. 

FRANCHISE MAN: You don’t refuse me. I saved your life. I’ve sold out theaters for months. They write books with my face on the covers. Lunchable snacks. Alpo dog food. Me. 

I am an institution. Who the fuck are you to say no to me?

OFF PANEL: Franchise Man?

PAGE SEVEN

PANEL ONE

The passengers are looking on at the carnage caused by Franchise Man. They bear witness to the invasive scene. Their cell phones, too, capture this live. A little boy holds an action figure with the hero’s familiar placid expression.

BOY: Franchise Man?

PANEL TWO

Rage fades into panic as Franchise Man realizes what’s happened. We see his shoulders slump and sweat on his forehead. In the corner of the panel, Carley Foresight is still trying to make herself small. 

The release of Franchise Man 3: Regional Expansion coincided with a marketing partnership with Coca-Cola which featured the titular character emblazoned on the aluminum can giving a thumbs up with a word balloon near his face that read: “Franchise Man is everyone and everyone enjoys Coke!” Shortly after the MTA footage found its way onto YouTube, cans were recalled and a tweet was issued on the brand’s corporate Twitter account: “Coca-Cola has been made aware of actions by Terrence Peck also known as Franchise Man. We do not condone these actions and will be conducting discussions examining the future of our partnership.” It was the Coca-Cola logo that had flashed across the belt buckle as Franchise Man fled the MTA terminal, though due to the legal limbo of the tweet and the event, any recreation of the event featured the Delmonte fruit logo. It is still possible to access YouTube video uploaded by individual users and see the Coca Cola logo. During the period in which the even occurred, Franchise Man still held licensing rights to the Coca Cola logo and because Franchise Man has always been marketed as an everyman hero, his likeness does fall into a sort of IP grey area, not exactly public domain but FM allowed free usage so long as one wasn’t profiting from their creation. For that reason, any attempts by Coca Cola to remove these videos would inevitably be dismissed. 

Winston Dominik, FM Inc. publicist, close friend of Peck, scrambled to perform damage control and establish some line of contact with Peck himself. Marching down the infinite hall with Bluetooth engaged, his dark forehead beaded white with sweat under the fluorescent lights. 

“No. We have no idea what happened.”

Dominik loosened his salmon tie, his svelte form filling out the navy Brooks Brothers suit. 

“Video footage shows him screaming at a young girl, yes. That much is evident. I, we, are not denying this. We don’t know if he is under foreign influence. He is a powerful figure and he may have been compromised. There will absolutely be an investigation but I can’t damn well do that if I can’t reach him and I can’t reach him if I’m explaining myself to you on the phone.”

Dominik stopped before the oak doors. Pressing a fingertip to his ear, he disengaged the earpiece and pocketed it. Gripping both brass handles, he pushed himself inside. 

Three men occupied a conference table. Twelve chairs remained emoty. The lights dim, incandescent, they smiled at him. Luminous New York City shimmered alive like the rich had brought the stars down to them.

“Emergency measures, Dominik.”

“Yeah.” 

Winston shook his head and sat down. 

Meandering through the streets, Terrence Peck found himself unable to avoid the gazes and glares of other pedestrians. Confusion, fear, and giddy, star struck smiles of those that hadn’t yet heard the news.

Passing an AMC cinema, he saw himself exploding off a three-sheet poster with the cirrus skies behind him seemingly shaped by his flight. Midtown Comics was featuring a combo-deal that included a 7-inch action figure with the purchase of the film companion comic book. Or maybe it was the comic book with purchase of an action figure. He couldn’t remember. It wasn’t his job to know. He was supposed to play the role on and off the page as dictated to him until he could no longer maintain the physical standards of the role. In the storyline of the film advertised on the AMC poster, Franchise Man goes to fictional Tyrgistan, a surrogate Middle East, where he distributes his own brand of justice. Through sheer force of spectacle, and a small financial tribute, he guarantees to free the masses from the banality of the quotidian. World peace through purchasing power. 

TWO PAGE SPREAD PAYING HOMAGE TO THE CREATION OF ADAM: FRANCHISE MAN IN FLIGHT OVER A MUSLIM CHILD, PREFERABLY FEMALE TO APPEAL TO OUR READER’S SYMPATHIES. SHE REACHES OUT DESPERATELY. FRANCHISE MAN, LIKEWISE REACHING, HIS BICEP A FOCAL POINT, IS GIVING HER A PAIR OF NOVELY MICKEY MOUSE EARS. HIS TRADEMARK TRADEMARK BELT™ FEATURES THE BASS PRO SHOPS LOGO. THE WAR RAGES AROUND THEM, FLESH MELTING FROM CHILDREN’S BONES, SOLDIERS MISSING LEGS CRAWLING OVER THEIR BROTHERS ON BLOODY STUMPS. (Look, the editors and the folks at Bass really want us to ramp up the Christian imagery on this one. This is the one bone we’re throwing them.)

All of that was over now. Nearby a group of couples dining outside witnessed him and said nothing. In front of him a man wore the yellow t-shirt with a blue F across the chest. His eyes were commanding eyes, militant. Eyes that could minimize a man. 

“I haven’t been home to change yet.”

“What?”

“Once I get home to change this fucking t-shirt, I’m going to burn it.”

“I made a mistake.”

Realizing his presence, a crowd began to gather and the man and his eyes were swallowed up by the throng. Panic. Drowning in the wall of screams. I need to escape them. Be free from their view. As they moved in and encircled him, he thrust himself in flight over the rooftops. 

What would they have done if they’d gotten me? They know I could kill them all. I could flatten them in minutes. Leave these streets a bloody mess of fabric and death.

Charlie Rose once had Franchise Man on for an exclusive interview. This was during the first marketing phase, when sequels hinged on unpredictable returns, before everything was an interview and nothing was exclusive. When no one up top knew for sure a brand explicitly based on homogeneity and genetic manipulation could truly work. Franchise Man sat with unblinking gaze fixed on the viewer never taking stock of Rose’s face contorted in confusion. 

“Now tell me about the slogan. Was is it again? ‘Spreading ideas for a better society for a better tomorrow?’ Is that it?”.

He spoke to us with confidence. Rote lines heavily rehearsed.

“Charlie, great question. See, when you go on vacation and you find a restaurant you know from back home, you feel comfort in that familiarity. Those golden arches, the Colonel, when all is uncertain, these things mean hope. Franchise Man is replication of that hope on a spiritual level. One movie ticket, action figure, one person at a time, we are comforting our fanbase. With each fantastic tale told, we inspire, influence, and uplift humanity.”

“They do love you, the fans. They take it personal.”

“And it is personal. Its more than a brand. We don’t have fans, Chuck. We have family.” 

No one was immune to the pitch. It was too pure, too optimistic. Nowadays, there was a Franchise Man’s Secret Hideaway in every major city. The name alone connoted exclusivity. Children and adults alike habitually purchased the newest ephemeral trinkets with their favorite Franchise Man’s likeness. There were dozens, after all. The stores became hosts to Fran-Con, a convention where likeminded devotees to Franchise Man could dress like the hero, show off their collections, and bask in general love of the character.

“You’re asking me to betray my friend.” 

Two of the three white smiles across the table turned down slightly. The third was nodding into a headset, scrawling notes on a pad.

“Let’s remain calm, son.”

This one, the largest of them, had a gravelly voice and an old pug nose like it’d met some hands early on in life and wasn’t afraid of returning the message. Next to him, Winston saw thin, weak lips. All of this—the three white men of varying statures, the dark room on the top floor over Manhattan—all of it, Winston knew, was entirely crafted by a focus group. A surrogate board design to intimidate him. Had anyone seen the real board? Does it exist?

“On the surface, technically speaking, Mr. Peck’s behavior does appear to be a violation of our code of conduct.”

“Let’s just face it, Dominik. This is a long time coming. Your boy, he’s become a slouch.”

Mounted high on the wall behind the old boxer was an enormous gold placard etched with the code: With each fantastic tale told, we inspire, influence, and uplift humanity. For each of us. For all of us. Spreading ideas for a better society. For a better tomorrow.

Dropping the headset onto the oaken table, the third man held the pen quivering in hand. Illegible totals were written in black silk.

“That was Chicago. They say their Franchise Man’s been pelted with loose change.”

“Oh, don’t gimme that,” Winston said, protesting. “He’s invulnerable.”

“That’s not the point, Mr. Dominik.”

“It’s degrading is what it is and no man should have to tolerate it.”

The third man nodded in solemn agreement. 

“A symbolic act for a symbolic hero. Blatant capitalistic endeavor met with symbolic rejection of capitalistic endeavor.”

“We need to make this go away. Even in a short news cycle the financial toll would be ruinous to a company our size.”

“Easy. Use the tastemaker powers—the Sphere of Influence. Set a new trend.”

“The world wants transparency. Honesty,” the third executive was no longer smiling. “Without it, the trends won’t take.”

“We can say it was mind control. It’s believable.”

“Maybe,” the boxer clasped his hands, his cheeks pulled upward. “Maybe before we do anything we find this girl, figure out what was said that made him go berserk.”

“Maybe use the Sphere on her. Persuade her to issue a statement.”

“Regardless, Peck is a loose cannon. We need to consider what’s on the other side of this thing.”

Winston stood up and unbuttoned his collar and looked out over the city.

Carly Foresight could not bath away the filth, the invasiveness of it all. With the lights down in her small Jackson Heights apartment, she sat under a duvet in contemplation of her life from here. She was marked almost immediately after the footage went live. Perry, her tomcat, traced the perimeter of the living room, his serpentine tail at attention, feeling his way toward her and hopped affectionately to the futon. The yoga mat and the purse on the coffee table served as mementos of the person she’d been just hours before. Her cell phone had to be turned off. A furious anxiety had seized her chest with each illuminating vibration. There were calls of concern from friends and relatives but the few of that nature were lost among the myriad threats and suggestions for this life into which she’d been involuntarily thrust. 

Terrence Peck could feel Winston occupying the condo when he stepped inside. Before flipping the light switch he could see the silhouette illuminated by the city lights like a white fire from below. Once he hit the lights, whiteness flooded the room contrasting the darkness of the window. Winston stood at its center. His collar opened. Tie clenched in his fist.

“Winston.”

“Terry.”

Winston sighed.

“Been lookin’ for you.”

“Figured. Drink?” Peck was already pulling warm Chivas from the cellaret.

“Suits are pissed, man. They want you to step down. Make a public apology and resign. They’re talking about a reboot.”

“Come on, man. A fucking reboot?”

Winston raised a hand in refusal. 

“It wasn’t my fault, Winston. You gotta believe me.”

“You mind explaining what happened? MTA’s got you on video tearing a hole in the train. That’s some scary shit, T. This is millions and more if she sues. If I can’t smooth it over with her.”

“She refused my pitch.”

Mouth going slack, Winston fell back into the leather easy chair. 

“Shit,” he muttered. “Your one weakness.”

“Now you understand.”

Terrence took a chair parallel to his friend. In the great windowpane he saw the glare of his bright yellow suit and the blue F. He saw the sweaty spandex gripping to the folds in his skin. His jowls. The Baskin Robbins logo flashed across his belt. 

“I’m starting to look like my father.”

“You look fine, man. Same as you always did.”

Terrence shook his head stubbornly. 

It was bullshit anyway. Winston knew it. The blotched face in front of him was not the square jawed hero they once knew.

“He told me. He said, Terry boy, you ain’t shit and you ain’t never gonna be shit.”

Winston bit the inside of his lip. This nervous breakdown, whatever it was, was going to topple the empire. Everything they’d worked for, everything they put on his shoulders, responsibilities they’d saddled him with, would be for naught. When it gets as big as this, as far as they’ve come, livelihood is beyond friendship. 

“Look man, don’t gimme that. We all got daddy issues. My daddy died in the bottle. Beat my moms. Took off. Welcome to the club. Look at me. He don’t exist. Think I give a second thought to a ghost?”

“There’s still a pain, Win.”

“Fuck that. I’m tryna be better.”

Terrence Peck found himself staring down his reflection, crawling toward it, examining it. He fingered the deltoid striations visible through the yellow spandex. Winston noted the empty orange bottle on the kitchen island as he made his way to the door. For one last time, he turned to his client.

“I do hope you bury whatever shit bubbling up in your brain so we can make some money.” And the image of rippling yellow triceps fades, forever sealed behind the fortress door. 

In the elevator, Winston watched each descending number flash until he reached the G. A hero depowered, reduced to an addict crawling around like a goddamned dog. When he thought about it, that’s all Terrence Peck was. It’s all he saw of himself and all he wanted to be. We need someone who wants more. 

A late-night announcement was posted via the official Franchise Man Twitter feed: 

FM is bigger than one man. We at FMHQ find the actions of our New York representative to be reprehensible and not reflective of our core values. An internal investigation is ongoing. We offer sincerest regrets to all of our followers.

It was a lie, of course. There would be no legitimate investigation. There was nothing to investigate. Peck was simply forced to resign. The costume, the condominium, all of it repossessed and his severance direct deposited. 

Some months pass. With no sign of New York’s Franchise Man, lack of visibility creates a short-term lull in sales. Timing is imperative. When it appears the hero may have gone underground for good, there is a slight boom from the collector crowd before slowly fading. The nostalgia bump. Just when all the casual fans have forgotten and the diehards begin to wonder if their hope is worth holding onto.

Then came the billboards. Electric blue signage plastered with vague phrases: 

Tomorrow has arrived.

Uptown. 

Bank alarms trill in the distance as police make chase behind a sleek black Caddy. Hanging a sharp right, a cruiser in pursuit collides with a smart car. Clutching his rifle, the nylon-masked thief in the backseat emits a raspy laugh. 

“I think we got ‘em.”

“We ain’t home yit.”

“But thinks we gonna.”

“Shut up and sit back.”

Swallowing hard, the shrouded thief in the driver’s seat slams the brake.

“What in the hell is this?”

Men May Fall but Franchises are Forever

PAGE TWENTY-THREE

PANEL ONE

In the final full-color splash panel of this issue, from the backseat of the Caddy, we see the hands of the driver clutching the wheel and the passenger bracing a palm the dashboard. Before them, through the windshield: a massive audience of spectators, vendors selling t-shirts and action figures to young fans of the newest hero in town, people of all ages dangle from fire escapes, bicycle police performing crowd control pushing back anyone getting too overzealous. A public stirred by an inspiration not seen in years—though it’s been months. Heroes are borne of necessity, not of desire. In the center of the street, face-to-face with the grill of the Caddy, facing us down, stands Carly Foresight taut in electric blue yoga pants, combat boots and gloves forged in twisted steel. She’s untouchable now. Determined, standing before the great crowd of mad New Yorkers stands our hero with pure, undaunted pride. On her chest plate is a bright, flashing yellow F.

CARLEY [THE FRANCHISEE]: Corporate can’t save you, boys. The Franchisee is selling out!

As the test footage finished rolling, the conference room slowly illuminated. Winston scanned the eyes of the executives across the table. The small man picked up a cell phone and held it to his ear and turned away. 

“Thoughts gentlemen?”

“It’s very progressive,” the thin-lipped one said.

Winston kept eyes on the old pug. Bad cop. The one he wanted to win. The smaller man turned from his phone call and then turned away again. He didn’t appear to be contributing to the call.

“She still needs work but the public loves that shit.”

The old pug leaned forward. Aggression permanently fixed in his eyes. 

“Dominik, I must say, I’m impressed. I see money on this screen.”

“Thank you, sir. All of you, sincerely.”

The third man hung up the phone. He nodded.

“Winston,” the pug began, “have you considered your future? Where you want to go with the company?”

He felt easiness in his breath. 

“Sir,” he met the old man’s eyes. “I’d like to meet the board.”

Terrence Peck woke with a coughing fit and a throbbing beneath his eye socket. This was a new understanding of pain. He could smell the bile before it hit his throat, like it’s taken residence in his nostrils. Sitting upright he pressed his bare feet to the cold hardwood. In the cramped damp bathroom he found the orange bottle and emptied its remaining contents into his mouth. He bent and examined his bruised face in the mirror. 

You’re still the man, T.