by C. T. Phipps
“…”
“You think that’s a bad idea?”
“I live to serve, Master.”
“It’s amazing how you managed to make that sound like you’re telling me to fuck off.”
“Thank you.”
“Relax, I was joking.” I didn’t have enough skill with my fire powers to pull that off. “Okay, I have a plan but you’re not going to like it.”
“That’s my opinion of most of your ideas, Master.”
“Stop calling me that. We’re partners in this. Whether you like it or not.”
“Yes, Master.”
“You’re saying that sarcastically, aren’t you?”
“Of course not.”
“Jerk.”
Closing my eyes, I concentrated on becoming intangible and proceeded to descend into the city’s sewer system. Sewers were a lot smaller in real life than depicted on television. Intangibility made up for that problem, but I still had to pass through a bunch of pipes full of icky goop. None of the stuff could touch me but just passing through it made me feel unclean. I could feel that Cloak felt the same way, perhaps through some form of psychic feedback.
“You’re right, I don’t like this plan.”
“Oh be quiet, we’re not actually traveling through sewer water,” I grumbled before pausing. “Are we?”
“Your complete lack of knowledge regarding my capacities is frightening.”
“It’s not too late to find a wizard to pull us apart. Then, I swear to you, I will set you on fire.”
“Where would you find a wizard?”
“Superpedia.”
“I’ll be quiet.”
Eventually, we passed underneath the hotel entrance and levitated up into the laundry room. There, I was surrounded by hundreds of washing machines and dryers. The staff had been evacuated, and the room was empty. Checking my clothes, I was pleased to discover there was no raw sewage on them.
“Wow, my plan worked. You’re pretty useful.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
Taking a deep breath, I prepared to levitate up the penthouse. “Now I’ll levitate through the sixty or so floors above me. With the powers at my command, I will force the Typewriter to his knees!”
“Not to trouble you, but have you considered taking the elevator?”
I took a look at the elevator about three feet away from me. “I see. Are you sure I can’t levitate the last thirty or so floors?”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Yes. Yes, I am,” Walking up to the elevator doors, I muttered, “I swear, you take all the fun out of superpowers. I’d also like to register a complaint about the general crappiness of my abilities, too. This whole ‘no flying’ and ‘intangibility for thirty seconds’ isn’t doing anything for me. You said I could take more damage than a normal person. Am I at least bullet proof?”
“Mostly.”
“Do I want to know what you mean by that?”
“No. Try not to get shot.”
Well, no one said supervillainy was going to be easy. “I’ll try to remember that.”
After entering the service elevator I hit the button for the penthouse. The doors closed and I felt the elevator lurch and rumble as it started its way up. I wasn’t certain where Typewriter was but everything I knew about supervillainy told me he would be above everyone else. Supervillains liked the rich and glitzy lifestyle, the higher priced the better. At least, that was what my brother had told me. Stingray, sadly, never quite managed to make it into the big leagues.
“I must say, I am pleased by your efforts to help this young woman. It is a courageous use of your abilities to prevent an innocent from dying,” Cloak said about the time we passed floor thirty. “I believe, if you fight intelligently, you should be able to subdue the Typewriter without putting either her or him at risk.”
“I don’t intend to fight the guy.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m going to make an offer to split the half million dollars with him. Then I’m going to offer to help him escape the building in exchange for his assistance in a Supervillain Team Up to rob Douglas blind.”
“That’s...”
“Ingenious? Diabolical?”
“Stupid.”
“Spoilsport,” I said. I was about to say more when the doorway to the penthouse opened.
Preparing my dramatic entrance line, I turned intangible just in case they reacted to my presence with gunfire. I didn’t expect trouble but it was better to be safe than sorry. After all, there were plenty of old people and supervillains but very few old supervillains.
“Hi guys,” I said. “I am Merci—”
Instead of gunfire, I was hit by a weird energy beam. The blast smashed me against the back of the elevator, knocking the air out of my lungs; I slid down, collapsing on the ground. A look down at my chest told me a hole hadn’t been blown in it, which was good. Instead, it was like I’d been hit with a giant Taser.
“What... the hell... was that?” I coughed out, unable to move.
“Uncertain super-technological properties in action. Funny, that beam shouldn’t have been able to hit you.”
“No kidding!” I shouted, struggling to get up.
A hulking figure wearing an elaborate horned devil mask and a business suit pulled me out of the elevator and dragged me to the center of the penthouse. He was almost seven-feet-tall and possessed muscles on muscles.
Something about the manner the figure carried himself, however, told me that he was more than just dumb muscle. There was an elegance to him which contrasted to the simple kidnapping scheme I’d found myself caught up in.
“Hi.” I waved, weakly.
“Be silent.” The big man picked me up and slammed me down in one of the room’s easy chairs.
“Kay,” I answered, coughing. Clearing my throat, I looked up and got my first clear look at the penthouse and my opponents.
The room was creepy and archaic enough to be a supervillain lair. The curtains were drawn across the windows and the doors were barricaded with furniture. Everything had a pseudo-Victorian feel which made the place look like it had come straight out of a Gothic comic book. Someone needed to talk to Dudley Douglas about the décor for his hotels. This one was starting to spook me and I was a bad guy.
The Typewriter’s gang, by contrast, looked rather mundane. With the exception of the hulking man dressed like a demon, none of them were even in costume. They were just a bunch of generic thugs in suits. It seemed Typewriter was too cheap to spring for theme costumes. It made me wonder how he ever expected to make it in Falconcrest City.
The Typewriter himself, at least, tried to make up for their lack of showmanship by being dressed like a proper supervillain. I’d seen a picture of him once or twice in the papers, always being dragged into the police station by the Nightwalker, but none of the photos did him justice.
He was much, much, much sillier looking in person.
The aforementioned 1930s business suit wasn’t so bad. He was wearing a pleasant looking pair of black slacks, a white silk shirt, and a red vest over the front with suspenders. However, topping the outfit was a typewriter. Literally, he’d arranged for a helmet made to look like an extra-large version of his namesake. It was the most impractical thing I’d ever seen.
Still, I couldn’t complain about the man’s competence too hard since he’d gotten the drop on me. His golden cane topped with a T was more than it seemed.
“Did you pay money for that outfit?” I couldn’t help but ask. “If so, you need to ask for a refund.”
The man in the demon mask pulled back his arm and slammed me in the chest with his fist, almost causing me to pass out from the pain.
“Oomph!” I eloquently replied. It seemed my superpowers weren’t enough to make punches not hurt like hell.
“Hi-too-ho, we’ve got someone new! HA-ha-ha-ha-ha!” The Typewriter laughed, shaking as if in ecstasy. It was such a bizarre sight, I was distracted from the fact my plan to d
eal with the gang and rescue the girl had gone awry.
“Are you okay?” I asked, perplexed by the man’s behavior.
The Typewriter jabbed me in the gut with the end of his cane.
Fool! You didn’t realize my Power-Cane possessed a transdimensional matter disruptor and stun beam! Any and all superpowers from the Nightwalker’s intangibility to Ultragod’s invulnerability are helpless before its power!”
“Wow. So that’s where your entire budget went. No wonder you couldn’t afford a decent outfit.”
The man in the demon mask gave me an uppercut across the jaw, sending my head spiraling backward. If he’d hit me with anymore force, he would have knocked my head clean off.
“Ow! I need those teeth!” My mouth was bleeding. Despite the pain, I grinned. “Where the hell did you learn to be a supervillain? You look like something out of the funny papers.”
The Typewriter was so ridiculous I couldn’t take him seriously even when he was capable of killing me on a whim. Even the Typewriter’s henchmen looked confounded by his behavior. The man in the demon mask, in particular, looked as if he was embarrassed to be here.
I didn’t blame him. He had a majesty the others lacked. In a way he looked as familiar as Cindy had, back at the bank. He wasn’t one of my old high school associates, however. They had been more into Live Action Role-Play than looking like a demon-masked Mafia don.
“Silence! You are in the presence of the great and powerful Typewriter!” The flamboyant supervillain began pacing around in a circle, talking to himself. “They said I was mad, mad I tell you! Well, who is the mad one now?”
“Did he just say the ‘who’s the mad one now’ line?” I asked, stunned by the man’s complete lack of dignity. “Cloak, didn’t that go out of fashion during the Forties?”
“I think it’s even older than that,” Cloak replied. “I remember encountering it in 1932. Even then, it was stale.”
“Just checking.”
The Typewriter kicked the air and spun around, pointing at me with his cane. “Do not think you can fool my genius-level intellect. Your youthful form does not fool me, foolish man! I’d recognize that costume anywhere: you’re the Nightwalker!”
I rolled my eyes. “Is this going to be a running theme? I’m getting sick of being mistaken for him.”
“Well, I was a rather important part of his costume.”
“Shut up,” I muttered at my costume. “I’m working an angle here.”
The man in the demon mask interrupted our debate. “It is not the Nightwalker. I fought him many times.”
The Typewriter wasn’t listening. “Once I slay you, I shall be acknowledged as the greatest of all supervillains in Falconcrest City!”
“Hey!” I interrupted him, pissed off. “There’s only going to be one ‘greatest of all supervillains’ in Falconcrest City, and that’s me!”
Everyone looked at me.
“You’re a supervillain?” the Typewriter asked, poking my stomach with the end of his cane.
“Damned straight!” I proclaimed, blood dripping down my chin. “I am Merciless! The supervillain without a shred of mercy!”
They all looked at me like I was out of my mind.
“Still redundant.”
“Oh reeaaallly?” the Typewriter asked, snorting.
“The man dressed like... whatever the hell you’re supposed to be dressed as... should not be questioning my credentials.” I turned my nose up at him. “I mean, can you even see in that thing?”
One of the mobsters beside me looked nervous. “I think I saw this guy on the news. He killed the Ice Cream Man and robbed the First National Bank.”
“Thank you!” I said, trying to think up an excuse. “Uh, I killed the Ice Cream Man because he was moseying in on my action.”
“Moseying?” The Typewriter asked.
“Oh you are not going to comment on my way of speaking—after your intro,” I snapped.
“He has a point,” the man in the demon mask said.
“Silence!” The Typewriter turned to me. “You may be a supervillain but you have removed one of the greats of supervillainy. For that, I sentence you to death!”
The man in the demon mask grabbed me by the cloak, pulling me up before wrapping his arms around my neck.
“Meep,” I said, staring.
Chapter Four
Where I Recruit My First Henchpersons
The man in the demon mask lifted me up, intending to either strangle me or break my neck. I wasn’t sure which. Remembering I could turn intangible, I slipped out of his hands and passed through the floor.
Levitating up behind him, I became physical long enough to punch the base of his spine…only to draw my hand back in agony. The man was pure muscle, not an ounce of fat on his body.
“Ow!” I hissed, shaking my fist in the air.
“You don’t have super-strength, remember?”
“I remember!”
The man in the demon mask spun around and punched me, sending me flying backwards into a nearby table. Thankfully, my quasi-invulnerability seemed strong enough so it just felt like every bone in my body was broken.
“Farewell, Sweet Prince!” the Typewriter shouted, aiming his cane at me.
“What the hell are you on?”
I jumped to the side the moment I saw him bringing the cane around. Its brilliant beam missed me by a hair’s breadth, striking the ruined table instead. The damaged piece of furniture disappeared along with a substantial chunk of the floor, leaving a gaping hole instead.
“It is just wrong a doofus like the Typewriter has a weapon like that,” I grunted, trying to find cover. A couple of the business suit wearing henchmen charged at me, perhaps intending to hold me down for their boss.
The Typewriter fired again, not bothering to aim, and hit one of his henchmen instead. The man disappeared in a flash of golden light, causing the other henchmen to back away. As I struggled to find a weapon that would give me an advantage against him, I remembered I had power over fire and cold.
“Idiot,” I cursed myself.
Lifting up a hand to set the Typewriter on fire, my wrist was grabbed by the man in the demon mask who started punching me with my knuckles.
Yes, I was being forced to punch myself in the face.
Each blow felt like a mallet, making my head spin and my vision blur. I couldn’t concentrate enough to use my powers, the pain was so intense. The man in the demon mask wrapped his arm underneath my neck and his palm over my forehead. The hold was so tight he’d just have to make the barest of motions to snap my neck.
“He’s yours, Typewriter,” the man in the demon mask said. “He fought well, give him a clean death.”
I closed my eyes and focused on causing the interior of the cane to freeze over. Hopefully, the Typewriter wouldn’t notice. If this didn’t work, I was about to have the shortest supervillain career of all time.
The Typewriter aimed the cane at me a couple of times before shaking it. “Hell in a hand basket, I knew I shouldn’t have bought this from the Electrifier without a guarantee!”
“I cannot believe I’ve been reduced to this,” The man in the demon mask whispered.
It hit me who the devil-masked henchman was. “Holy crap! I know you! You’re Diabloman!”
The man in the demon mask seemed surprised, twitching a bit. “I was... once.”
“You were, like, the biggest supervillain ever!” I said, choosing to talk instead of flee. “God, I remember the fights between you and the Nightwalker in the Eighties. I was a kid but you were a real inspiration. You even managed to have a few showdowns with Ultragod and the Society of Superheroes despite having no superpowers!”
Hell, he’d started the Grim and Gritty Era of Supervillains vs. Superheroes by killing the Guitarist!
“The Guitarist was a good man. You should be ashamed for cheering his death.”
“Hush you,” I mentally said to Cloak.
“That was... a long time ago,” Diablom
an responded.
“What are you doing, working for an idiot like the Typewriter?” I asked, feeling a fanboy glee at getting my ass kicked by one of the premiere supervillains of recent history.
Diabloman sounded regretful. “It is... complicated. I must kill you now.”
“How much are you getting paid?” I asked, hoping to distract him from his current line of thought.
“Twenty-thousand.” Diabloman paused from killing me. “Why?”
“You realize he’s making, like, ten million dollars off this job, right?” I said. “I’ll pay you double if you smash him and his henchmen to pieces.”
“Kill him, you magic steroid-popping buffoon!” the Typewriter shouted, flinging his golden cane against Diabloman’s head. The thing bounced against him, landing off to the side.
Diabloman tensed up; looking at the Typewriter with such hate I thought he might launch himself at him. Instead, Diabloman hoisted me up into the air and said, “I accept your offer.”
Diabloman then tossed me at the Typewriter. I was sent crashing into the garish supervillain, and the two of us spiraled to the ground. All the while, I heard Diabloman grunting and the sound of painful Typewriters from the other henchmen. There was also the sound of gunfire.
I wasn’t the best fighter in the world but even I could beat up a rail-thin idiot like the Typewriter. After punching him several times in the face, I grabbed a lamp from a nearby table and smashed it across his face.
“I think that got him,” I said. “Is he dead?”
“No.”
“Pity.” I got up and started looking around. Across the room, I saw Diabloman had torn into the thugs with ruthless abandon. Their corpses were spread around the room in various unpleasant poses. I saw most of them had their legs and arms broken, a few had their spines shattered.
The fact Diabloman had done this despite being armed with nothing more than his fists, highlighted what a dangerous man he was. At the other end of the room, I saw him dusting off his hands.
“Wow, he took the ‘smash them to pieces’ thing a bit literally,” I whispered before rubbing my head. I had a blinding headache from the earlier business of facing down Diabloman. “I need to handle this guy with a deft touch.”