Villains Pride (The Shadow Master Book 2)

by M. K. Gibson

  “You murdered him!” she screamed at me.

  I sighed. “No, no I didn’t. None of you actually exist. You’re figments of my imagination. Thoughts and emotions given form while in my dimension.”

  “But, that can’t be true,” one of the writers (James . . . maybe? Jim?) stammered. “I—I have a wife, Kim. Two daughters, Laura and Marissa.”

  “No, I drudged you up from my subconscious. A lingering need for approval from a father figure, I suppose,” I told him.

  “What about me?” asked the blue-haired female.

  “Simple. You’re the manifestation of my begrudging respect for women, but though the filter of an egalitarian meritocracy, and wrapped in a new-wave, ‘safe space,’ virtue-signaling, outrage culture package.”

  “And me?” Blips asked.

  “A healthy chunk of self-doubt sprinkled with a competitive streak.”

  “But I have memories,” the blue-haired one said. “I had organic avocado slices on gluten-free quinoa bread for lunch.”

  “No,” I said with a shake of my head. “I have an active imagination, and that was the first douche-food pairing that popped into my head. Quinoa . . . gods above and below, people are complete idiots.”

  “If we’re not real, then why create us?” Grips asked.

  “Well, look at that. A legitimately good question. Considering you’re a fraction of me, I guess I should have expected it. Well, figments of my imagination, I need you fools to help vocalize my strategy. A sounding board, if you will. As you are reflections of me, I expect the answer should come easily.”

  “So, you like talking to yourself, but conjured us because . . . what? Doing it the old-fashioned way would make you look silly?” Snips asked.

  I snapped my fingers and the writer exploded in a flash of brilliant light and misty-pink viscera, coating the remaining writer-ghosts with his entrails.

  “Do any of you phantoms have something snarky to say? Hmm?” I threatened the remaining hacks. “Or do you have any legitimate ideas?”

  My office was silent. All eyes were on me. “Well, this was a waste of time,” I sighed, holding up my hand to snap my fingers.

  “Wait! What about superheroes?” another female writer yelled out.

  “What about them?”

  The writer looked at the others for help. They offered none, choosing instead to keep scrolling through their phones. Some looked at photos of children; others went though Amazon and Goodreads, looking at their precious reviews.

  Unlike blue-hair, this one was dressed simply, wearing a Wonder Woman t-shirt and jeans. I stepped to the writer, nodded my approval at her shirt, then leaned in towards her.

  “Explain.”

  “Well, superheroes are popular.”

  “For now,” I said, holding my thumb and middle finger in a snapping position next to her ear. “But they, like many things, are a passing fancy.”

  “But the rules don’t apply!”

  I smiled. “Go on.”

  “Superheroes and supervillains. The normal rules don’t apply. They flip-flop sides, reboot, retcon, and reimagine themselves constantly. If you want a challenge, then superheroes are that challenge.”

  I drew myself to my full height. “You know what? You’re right. Good idea.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at me.

  Smiling back, I snapped my fingers, and all the writers exploded at once in a glorious spectacle of blood and ink.

  Satisfied, I sat back down at my desk and began making the arrangements.

  Oh, do forgive me, dear readers, for not introducing myself at the beginning. I am Jackson Blackwell, Master Villain Adviser. Shadow Jack to some. And to others?

  The Shadow Master.

  Prologue

  (Yes, the real one this time)

  In the middle of all the known and unknown universes exists a singular point where the realities of all dimensions touch. It is known, in the lower tongue, as The Nexus Point. In the high tongue—well, it’s still The Nexus Point, but it sounds better. The accent is vaguely French.

  For some universes and dimensions, The Nexus Point exists as the tiniest pinprick, across the furthest expanse, in the most remote recesses of time and space. For a pocket dimension like mine, I can see the Nexus Point out of my back window. It’s big, shiny, and essentially what I use for the sun.

  The Nexus Point itself is the manifested, malleable will of The One. It exists simultaneously as infinite space and as a subatomic domain.

  Look, none of that poetic crap is really important. The real reason The Nexus Point is important is because that is where The Conclave of the Deities occurs every quarter. Usually on the second Thursday of the month.

  Or epoch.

  Time’s weird when you’re a god.

  But after the Conclave, if we’re lucky, there are light refreshments and maybe a rousing game of interstellar bingo.

  I was in attendance for the current Conclave meeting. I sat there, in The Nexus Point, during The Meeting of the Deities . . . at the godly version of the kiddie table.

  Seriously.

  My table was made of brightly colored plastic and had a wobbly leg. One of those toddler toys you find in doctors’ and dentists’ offices sat atop the table. You know the ones I mean. The toys with the different-colored wire loops and painted wooden blocks that were meant for kids to develop their gross motor skills by pushing a block from one side to the other.

  I suffered the indignity in silence.

  Despite my power and reputation, I was, sadly, only a minor deity of a very insignificant dimension. In fact, I was the most minor deity. I sat at the table, flicking my little wooden beads along the blue and red wires while the High Gods of their respective universes and dimensions conducted the meeting.

  Across from me at the godly kiddie table was The Deified Creator of Marvelous Imaginations Who Rides Upon a Dark Horse. Or King Stanley, for short. Stanley was the supreme being of one of the Prime Universe’s mirror dimensions. An entire universe infested with comic book superheroes.

  And I mean the word “infested” with all the disdain and condescension the three syllables could denote. As anyone with more than seven active brain cells and a degree that does not contain the words “community college” knows: superheroes are the lowest echelon of imagination and world crafting.

  And it was because of this reason that King Stanley was stuck at this particular table. Despite his universe’s vast size and scope, it was, after all, only comic books.

  But as gods went, King Stanley was . . . OK. In fact, he was almost kind of cute in a puttering grandfather kind of way. From his cardigan to his oversized black glasses, gray hair and beard, he radiated warmth.

  I was convinced he had hard candy in his pockets.

  And damn me, I wanted a Werther’s Original.

  But a piece of candy wrapped in crinkly plastic did nothing to get me closer to the big table. Aggravating as the situation was, I held my outrage in check. The power that controls The Nexus Point, The One, was only trying to be accommodating.

  It was impossible to truly see or describe The One. I can only say that it is the supreme source from whence all existence sprang. I wouldn’t call it “God,” exactly. More like . . . well, The One. And lucky me, ol’ Numero Uno seemed to like me well enough. I could tell.

  There were new crayons and coloring books at the table this month.

  To the other deities, I was only a child, a being that was never meant to be granted godhood. However, I was a god. Thus, my presence at the Conclave of the Deities was not only allowed; it was expected. My status as a god demanded it, and I embraced my responsibilities with grace, poise, and pride.

  Ooh! A periwinkle crayon.

  The Conclave conducted its business with exceptional fury and displays of power. The gods raved and ranted, accusing one another of deception, encroachment, and other territorial transgressions. When a sun went supernova in one of the bordering dimensions, I knew the meeting was coming to an e
nd. And that meant my involvement in the Conclave was just beginning.

  The power of The One resonated through The Nexus Point. “For the last point of business, Jackson Blackwell stands accused of conduct unbecoming of a god. Jackson, how do you plead?”

  “I don’t.” I smiled.

  “Do you see the contempt he has for this Conclave?” Khasil, Mistress of Darkness and Suffering from the realm of Caledon said, slapping her hand on the big-god table.

  “Are you still mad about our last meeting?” I asked, lighting a black and silver cigarette.

  “Jackson,” the power of The One echoed, “Khasil accuses you of subverting the rules of her realm for your benefit.”

  “That I did do.”

  “You destroyed one of her cults.”

  I waggled a finger. “Technically the forces of her champion, Grimskull, destroyed the cult.”

  “You then killed her champion.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said with a big grin and a chuckle. “But again, I didn’t kill him. I simply engineered events that caused him to break his contract to The Never Realm. The demon Yoll’gorath came to claim his body and soul.”

  “Thanks again for that!” Yoll’gorath waved at me from the big table. “His suffering soul is delicious.”

  I snapped and pointed twin finger-guns at the demon prince. “Got yer back, Yolly.”

  Once more, The One resonated through The Nexus Point. “How do you plead?”

  “Fellow gods and deities, I am but a humble man,” I began.

  “Bullshit,” Executivita said. She was from the realm of Harrowing Banality Ordeals, a premium pay-to-watch universe where a lot of other realms go to get publicity.

  “I’d watch yourself,” I told Executivita. “Lest a little mischief maker like me come to your realm and point out all the piss-poor endings and the lagging plots the bulk of your adventures suffer from.” I sighed. “Like the mafia thing you did. A fade to black? Really? You’re the worst.”

  “Jackson,” The One boomed.

  “Yes yes yes. Look, I have clients in many of your realms. I offer advice and take payment in service. That breaks no interdimensional law under the Rule of Religion. In this particular case, I was invited into that realm by a mortal, with no malicious forethought on my part. I was then double-crossed and trapped within said realm. Yes, my presence unbalanced the cosmic narrative, but I was given the silent consent by Valliar, High God of Justice. Through Valliar, I became the—yuck—

  hero of the tale so I could defeat my nephew Randy Blackwell. After which, as his elder, I willingly gave Randy to Valliar as a form of punishment. Valliar removed the Blessing of the Avatar from Lydia Barrowbride and placed the mantle upon Randy. Once my quest was complete, I departed the realm.”

  Yup, that pretty much summed up the last book.

  I looked around, trying to peer up at the big table. “Hey? Where is Valliar? He can back up my story.”

  “Valliar, of Caledon, High God of Justice, is not in attendance,” The One clarified.

  “He took one of my mortals,” Khasil said, bringing attention back to herself.

  “Mortals? You mean Lydia?” I asked. “Technically, by your realm’s old-fashioned rules, after we . . . mated, she became my betrothed and under my influence.”

  “He admits his transgressions.”

  “Khasil, you are such a pain in the ass,” I said, rubbing my face in frustration.

  “Fellow gods, I have provided services to many of you in addition to your mortals. I’ve kept your realms from becoming stagnant. Well, except yours,” I said, pointing to the deity that vaguely looked like a middle-aged housewife dressed in vampiric garb. “Nothing can really be done about you.”

  “Enough,” The One boomed. “Until the matter can be settled, and a formal investigation conducted, it the ruling of the Conclave that Jackson Blackwell may NOT enter any realm or universe in the known or unknown without the unanimous approval of each respective dimension’s ruling high gods.”

  “What?!” I barked. “How long will an investigation take?”

  “As long as it takes,” The One responded.

  “What about my business?”

  “Consultation is permitted, provided they come to you. But neither you nor your vassals may enter any realm under the outlined conditions. This Conclave is adjourned.”

  I slumped into my discolored plastic chair, dumbstruck. The Nexus Point flashed with multi-colored lights as the various deities departed. I just sat there uncomfortable with the feeling of being . . . defeated.

  By Khasil? What the shit?

  “Aww, poor Shadow Master,” I heard the goddess say from over my shoulder.

  In The Nexus Point, we were contemporaries. Away from our respective universes, we were just “people.”

  And I hate people.

  “Fuck off, Khasil.”

  “How’s married life? Baby on the way, I hear. Isn’t that exciting?”

  “Where’s Valliar?” I asked. “He could confirm my actions.”

  “Valliar is preoccupied.” Khasil smiled over my shoulder.

  Getting eerily close to me, the goddess whispered, “Little mortal, I am going to destroy you for what you did. I will claim your dimension as my own. I will dismantle your business, piece by piece. I will—”

  “Chew on a stick of gum?” I inserted. “Your halitosis is enough to make me concede defeat. Now leave me. King Stanley and I were having a conversation.”

  “We were?” the god looked up from his crayon drawing, surprise showing through his oversized tinted glasses.

  “I will leave you, Jackson. But before I go, I have something for you to ponder.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your woman, the Barrowbride.”

  “What about her?”

  “Curious, don’t you think? Seeing as she was in my cult when you met her. You never found it odd that she was so quickly enamored by you? How she went from cold to hot so swiftly? Or did your ego convince you that you were just so alluring and so powerful that all people bent to your presence? Hmm. Just curious is all. Farewell, Jackson. Enjoy your solitude.”

  Khasil retreated from my presence with a cackle of mirth, vanishing in a crackle of godly power.

  I snubbed out my cigarette on the plastic table, silently gnashing my teeth.

  “You know, you could always visit my universe,” Stanley said, finishing his crayon drawing of an overly muscular superhero in tights. “I could use the shake-up. Things have grown stale, and readership is down. I’m sure The Shadow Master could teach a few of my villains a thing or two. Here, take my card.”

  Stanley pushed the card across the table at me. With half a glance I looked down at it. The card had his smiling face with two thumbs up and a word balloon that said “Exposition!”

  “Stanley?”

  “Yeah, bud?”

  “Piss off.”

  Chapter One

  Where I Counsel Cthulhu, Procrastinate, and Entertain the Thought of Killing Dr. Phil

  In the blackness of formless void, a pocket dimension existed. Somewhere between the real world and the realms of myth and legend, and slightly above the dimension where your thoughts go when you walk into room and wonder “Why did I come in here again?”, existed the executive office of The Blackwell Corporation, Evil Consulting Agency.

  Jackson Blackwell, CEO and High God of the leased pocket dimension, ruled supreme. Following the exploits of his previous adventure, he settled back in to consulting villains for profit.

  However, the Shadow Master found that his heart just wasn’t in it. It could have been the ever-growing tension between him and his new romantic partner. A baby on the way, a normally joyous event, had caused a rift between them. That rift prevented him from concentrating on tasks at hand.

  Especially when the task at hand was a mind-altering eldritch being of tremendous power and influence.

  And whose stench reeked like the rotting blowhole of an aborted sea cow.

  **
******

  “You don’t understand how bad it is,” the ancient being said from across my desk.

  Well, it didn’t say as much as it gurgled and slobbered. Cthulhu didn’t exactly have the physiology to make human-sounding words. As this was my realm, I ensured his aquatic braying was understandable by people who didn’t speak fish.

  Cthulhu was depressed, so I passed him his favorite drink: liquefied human suffering, Dr. Pepper, a splash of rum, and Clamato juice in a commemorative mug I’d picked up from The Nexus Point’s gift shop. His tentacle-like mandibles slurped the drink eagerly.

  “Look, Lou”—his preferred nickname—“I warned you what would happen if you entered the public domain. But did you listen?”

  The Cosmic Horror shrugged his shoulders, causing his vestigial wings to flutter. “I thought it would be, you know, empowering.”

  “You thought that being the whipping boy of hack writers and every greasy, weak-chinned fanboy with a laptop and time on their hands . . . would be empowering?”

  Cthulhu nodded. “I thought it would push my name to the furthest reaches of mankind’s mind. I would be known and feared across the darkest places in existence. The power would fuel me and I would enter any dimension, prepared to consume my hapless followers.”

  “And what did you get instead?” I asked, letting Lou come to the conclusion.

  “Plushy toys, socks, knit caps, bad books, and tabletop RPGs,” the Cosmic Horror said with regret.

  He wiped at his face in disgust and put the empty cup on my desk. I just shook my head at him.

  “Gods above and below, look at what you’ve become. Your name is slapped on every form of schlock and then crammed down the throats of eager consumers.”

  “I know.” Cthulhu sighed.

  “Is that what the Elder Gods want? Or the Great Old Ones? Cosmic . . . thing. Hey, seriously, which is it, by the way? I’ve always been confused by that.”

  “Oh, who the hell knows!” Cthulhu said with a dismissive wave of his webbed hand. “We made it up as we went along. When we used HP as our prophet, he got most of it wrong anyway. Damn drug-addled racist.”