1966.

The chrome skull on its hood gleamed in the afternoon sun as the Crimson Roadster roared into Titan City. with the Scarlet Stranger at the wheel of the cherry red convertible and Wiley Wisp at his side. They had precious little time to thwart the Troubador’s plan to deface the Spirit of Prosperity, and midtown traffic threatened to slow their progress. Luckily, Detective Harlan Goodman pulled up beside the crimefighters.

“Sorry to miss the excitement this morning,” he called out from his window. “I take it you are on the Troubadour’s trail right now? Care for a police escort?”

“That would be ideal, Detective Goodman. We know just where he is headed, and we haven’t a moment to lose!”

“Right away, Crimson Wraith!” said Detective Goodman, and he started up his siren.

With Goodman’s cruiser at their side, the Crimson Wraith Roadster sped through every stoplight, picking up three more police vehicles on its journey toward Keaton Park. When they arrived at the feet of the Spirit of Prosperity, they found the Troubadour’s gang standing guard at the entrance at the statue’s pedestal, armed with Tommy guns. 

Looking up, the Crimson Wraith, Wily Wisp, and Detective Goodman saw a hastily constructed pulley system slowly lifting the largest nose they had ever seen toward the statue’s angelic face. 

The Wily Wisp whistled, “Check out that honker, would ya?”

Detective Goodman shook his head, “The Troubador simply does not take civic pride seriously.”

“And he would make a mockery of it for all,” said the Crimson Wraith. “Detective, if you would, please, distract his henchmen. Keep them talking but do not fire. We don’t want anyone getting hurt. Wily Wisp, you and I will make our way around back.”

“But how will we make it up the statue?” asked the Wily Wisp.

The Crimson Wraith answered, “With care, dearest friend, and with the help of the Crimson Grappling Cannons.”

From the back of the Crimson Roadster they pulled two rocket launchers, painted red and armed with grappling irons. Each placed a cannon on their shoulder, aimed high, and fired. Their grappling irons flew, carrying lengths of rope behind them, and took hold in the angel’s wings.

When they had climbed to the top of the statue, they found the Troubadour  with two more henchmen, standing on the slim walkway along Spirit of Prosperity’s arms, from which visitors could view Marshall Bay.

“Twice in one day, Crimson Wraith?” said the Troubadour. “People will say we’re in love!”

The Crimson Wraith shouted back, “No one could love a criminal like you unless you ceased your wicked ways and became a productive member of society!” 

“Oh, but I am quite productive, Crimson Wraith. I produce the most important thing there is, the only thing that makes life worth living — art!”

“You sure have funny taste then,” said the Wily Wisp.

“No true genius is understood in his time.”

“And your time is up!” said the Crimson Wraith.

He launched into battle with the first henchman as the Wily Wisp took the other. Blows were exchanged before the masked vigilantes wrapped each of their opponents in their capes and swung them crashing into each other. The two henchmen slumped to the floor, unconscious. 

They then turned their attention to the Troubadour, who had unsheathed a fencing sword. “Leave him to me!” the Crimson Wraith called to his sidekick. 

“Such a gallant gesture!” said the Troubadour, “No wonder all the ladies are so fond. But now I must bid you goodnight, sweet prince! And flights of angels send thee to thy rest!”

The Troubadour charged with a vicious sneer, perhaps truly intending to kill, but the Crimson Wraith sidestepped the blade with a flourish of his cloak, like a matador in the bull ring. The disoriented Troubadour lost his bearings, and momentum made him tumble over the side of the railing. 

The Troubadour’s blade shattered upon the concrete below, but the body of the Troubadour did not follow. He had grabbed the edge of the walkway and held himself suspended over the fatal drop by just his fingertips.

Bracing himself against the railing, the Crimson Wraith reached out to the Troubadour. “This need not be your final act! Let me help you!”

The Troubadour looked down at his feet dangling in empty space over a dizzying drop. Behind his Capitano mask, the Troubador’s eyes bulged in fear. “The better part of valor,” he said with fear quaking in his voice, “is discretion.” 

Taking the Crimson Wraith by the hand, the Troubadour allowed himself to be pulled back up to safety. He was immediately handcuffed, as were his unconscious henchmen. Then, once they had descended via the spiral stairwell within the Spirit of Prosperity, the Troubador and all his gang — whose Tommy guns had never been anything more than theater props — were turned over to Detective Goodman.

“Good work, Crimson Wraith,” said Goodman. “Once again, you’ve successfully thwarted this performance art prankster. The Spirit of Prosperity can show her face again, and once the giant nose gets returned to Napier’s, the citizens who were robbed this morning can be repaid.”

“If only the Troubadour understood,” said the Crimson Wraith, “that the Titan Endowment for the Arts will gladly support the work of those whose creativity uplifts the people of this great city. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have to go to illegal lengths to acquire his funding.”

“He’ll have plenty of time to think about that behind bars,” said the Wily Wisp.

“Yes, he will, dearest friend. And let us hope he turns his creative talents to a new theme — rehabilitation.”