Villains Pride (The Shadow Master Book 2)

by M. K. Gibson

  Provided Lydia didn’t throw a wrench in my plans.

  When The Night Watchman moved in, I suddenly wasn’t there. Instead, I was sitting back at my desk. I lit a cigarette, puffing a little from the exertion. Instead of pouring myself a new drink, I simply took the one I set out for him. I then picked up my desk’s phone.

  “Lydia. I will talk to you later.”

  “Whatever,” she said and the line went dead.

  Isn’t love grand?

  “Teleporting without shadows?” The Night Watchman said. “How?”

  “Hmm?” I said. “Oh, yes. Out there, in the world, I have a certain power set I must adhere to. But we’re not out there. We’re here. In my domain. Now SIT,” I commanded.

  Instantly, the Watchman was across the desk from me. He could not move unless I chose.

  “How? Your . . . limitations,” The Night Watchman grunted in confusion.

  “I’ll get to that, Malcolm.” I smiled. “I must confess, I could have ended this much sooner, but I just had to fight you. You know what they say about not knowing a person until you fight them. Even if my angered beloved weren’t distracting me, it’s clear you’re better than me. Oh, please stop chanting under your breath. Your magic will no longer work here.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A cosmic transient,” I said. “I come from another reality. Another universe. And due to my love life complications, of which you are now clearly aware, I am here. You see, where I am from, I help other villains. But you want to know something? My job sucks most of the time. The vast majority of the known and unknown universes operate on certain fundamental principles. Key to most of them is that the good guy always wins. So as a villain adviser, I know my clients are doomed to fail. Over and over. I get rich while they inevitably fail. Sad, really.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.”

  “Not yet I’m not.”

  “You should be nicer to your wife.”

  “Girlfriend,” I corrected him. “But back to my point. Here, in this universe, the same rules don’t necessarily apply. The villain can win. There is a constant back and forth, sure, but I can feel it. This universe has different operating characteristics that I can use to bend reality into what I see fit.”

  “That night on the docks, you did something to the other Shadow Master. The one you now call Wraith Knight.”

  “You were watching? Bravo,” I said with sincerity. “You, dear Malcolm, are an anti-hero. And anyone who knows me knows I hate anti-heroes more than I hate pineapple on pizza.”

  “Disgusting.”

  “I know, right?! People always force you to order Hawaiian pizza in group settings, but they’re always the last to be eaten. I wish people would just admit it sucks and move on with their lives. But, no, they dig in their heels. As if a steadfast conviction to an inferior product somehow makes one socially superior. Wait, what were we talking about?”

  “Anti-heroes,” The Night Watchman said. “And that you’re a bad boyfriend.”

  “Yes, right. Thank you for the first part, and mind your fucking business concerning the second.”

  I took another sip of my drink and calmed myself. Clearing my anger and latent thoughts of Lydia, I addressed The Night Watchman.

  “You, dear vigilante, enjoy causing fear in others. You enjoy inflicting pain. You enjoy operating outside the law. Well, so do I. I too am an orphan who dedicated himself to something bigger. So, what separates you and me?”

  “I fight for good. I’m not afraid of using dark tactics against dark people.”

  “You know,” I started, looking directly into his white eyes, “if you lie to yourself enough, you actually begin to believe the lie. Just like liking pineapple on pizza. You are a villain. You’re just too afraid to admit it. No good person takes pleasure in the pain of others. You wrap yourself in a blanket of lies so you can justify breaking bones of henchers who have no marketable skills in a ruthless job market. Those men and women you cripple and maim on a nightly basis? They have no other way to feed their families. And when the night is over, you get to crawl into your plush bed in Flynn manor. Meanwhile, the henchers pay incredible emergency room fees and their families starve. I wonder, do you ever give a second thought about them? Hmm? All the hungry, poor families out there who continue to be hungry and poor. Because of you.”

  The Night Watchman said nothing. But for the briefest of moments, I saw his Adam’s apple spasm. He was fighting back emotion, as he always taught himself. Well, as I was taught, kick a man while he’s down.

  How else do you plan on winning?

  “When I help a villain, I do so that as few people suffer as necessary. I do it by installing a power base that, while villainous, prevents unnecessary suffering. Don’t you do the same? You allow one drug dealer on the streets instead of ten. The one you can control. If you eliminated them all, you would create a power vacuum. I do the same, as I did tonight, with your help. Only I do it with villains. Make no mistake, you are mine now. You are not facing a madman, or a crook with a gimmick.”

  “I’ll never serve you.”

  I reached into my desk and pulled out a file. I set it calmly on the desk and opened it.

  “You were beaten ten minutes after you first arrived here, ‘Trent,’” I said, pushing the file forward.

  “My non-disclosure form? What makes you think I’d honor that? I am The Night Watchman. Your lawyers have no jurisdiction on a vigilante.”

  “No, they don’t. But the great detective didn’t read the fine print. This NDA is also a binding-soul contract,” I said, waving my hand over the form. The white paper vanished and in its place, a parchment-like form appeared. “And right here, signing this, regardless of the name given, binds the soul of the signee, you, and all they possess, to the master of the contract, me, for a period of ten years.”

  I watched the blood drain from The Watchman’s face.

  “Now Trent, be a good lad and clean this place up,” I commanded, adding power to my will. “Tomorrow, we’re going to Flynn Enterprises and you are signing over your majority shares to me.”

  Through gritted teeth, The Watchman whispered, “Yes . . . Shadow Master.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Where I Confront Rich Heroes, Toast My Success, and Exploit the Help

  From my time in the comic realm, I learned that when facing a small team of powerful superheroes, picking your battleground is key. Just as when I conducted my operations in the fantasy realms, I used the terrain to my advantage. So when I chose to take on five powerful superheroes, I made sure the battle was on my terms.

  “Those are my terms,” I said. “They are non-negotiable. Do you accept?”

  Across the ridiculously long and ornate executive boardroom conference table, my enemies conferred, unsure of what I was planning. I lit a cigarette and sipped my drink, smiling as I watched them squirm. I liked making billionaires uncomfortable. Some sick perversion in me, I guess.

  The bonus was they were all superheroes.

  I mentioned this earlier, but the trope is trope for a reason. In comics, pretty much every super-rich person is a hero or villain. I guess when you have that much cash and entitlement, one needs hobbies.

  But why go that route? Couldn’t they be happy with things like—I don’t know—making snuff films, hunting humans for sport, continuing to keep poor people poor while claiming to care about them? Or at least cocaine and three-thousand-dollar-an-hour Las Vegas hookers? I mean, if you have the funds, I highly recommend all of those.

  Especially mocking the poor. I know hookers can be fun. Hunting them as well. But the look on a poor person’s face as they trudge about their miserable lives . . . man, it just gives me the giggles.

  I really like to randomly give them really expensive sports cars, knowing they can’t pay the tax on them. Ha! Good times.

  In the last three weeks since defeating The Night Watchman and taking over Flynn Enterprises, I’d managed to acquire several companies (read: as in
hostile takeovers with an emphasis on “hostile”).

  All the companies I acquired were owned by covert heroes and villains. This particular quintet of snobby pricks represented the last of my affluent prey. After today, my final move to solidify my economic hold on Dynasty City would be complete.

  Princess Malia was African royalty, the living goddess from the Sovereign Nation of Ka’tswaana.

  Yeah, I know Ka’tswaana isn’t a real place. I’ve been to Africa many times, the last time being when I shot Cecil the Lion in Zimbabwe and blamed it on that doctor chap.

  The point is, in this universe, Ka’tswaana is known for its advanced robotics, rare metals, and rarer vegetation, which is key to life-saving medicines. Personally, I think Princess Malia was from Chicago and made up the country in order to get diplomatic immunity. I know I would.

  As Princess Malia, she had clout and political power. As the Golden Lioness, her physical power was nearly unmatched. The armored battle suit she wore was cutting-edge cybernetic and gave her incredible strength, speed, and flight. Who knew a fictitious country was such a one-stop shop of wonder and perfection? It’s almost like it was written to be a utopia by a writer plagued by white guilt.

  With her in the boardroom, in a final show of financial force, were the other billionaire heroes. Villain-turned-superhero Robert Barron, a.k.a. the Highwayman; Macy Ling, the Chinese superhuman known as Dragoness; Curtis Brand, the Variant-born hero Imprint, with the power of vocalized psychic domination; and lastly, Christopher Conrad, the retired hero Augment, whose cybertech creations equipped superheroes with the latest tech, gadgets, and orbiting bases of operations.

  “We do not care for your terms,” Princess Malia declared, speaking for the group.

  “Hmm.” I nodded, placing my elbows on the rich, dark wood of the table and interlacing my fingers. “Interesting, interesting.”

  “Your rise of power has been noted, Jackson Blackwell,” Malia said in a (I swear) fake African accent. “But you will not succeed. We hold enough economic power to end your succession.”

  I nodded at her, saying nothing but looking at her with intense concentration.

  It was the same look I gave Lydia when she droned on about . . . hell, I don’t know what. Whatever she deemed important that clearly was not. Otherwise, I would pay attention. Unfortunately, one’s partner does not take kindly to being told that their idea of what’s interesting is quite boring.

  Go ahead and try tell your better half they’re boring. Go ahead. You’ll be fine, I swear.

  “Here’s the facts, Jacky-boy,” Robert Barron said with a sneer. “You’re good, no doubt. But even during my day, you didn’t compare to my exploits. You think no one’s tried this before? Please.”

  “He’s right,” Christopher Conrad added. “I tried something like this as well. Granted, it was for more altruistic means.”

  “Nothing to say?” Curtis Brand asked. “I could make you forget this entirely. But I prefer not use my powers like that.”

  “Can we finish this now?” Macy Ling said to her allies. “Let us just take him to jail. Or better, let me eat him. The Dragoness hungers.”

  “Macy, that is enough,” Princess Malia said with a terse edge to her voice.

  “That’s it!” I said, snapping my fingers. “Halle Berry! That god-awful accent she did in the first X-Men movie, then dropped for the rest of sequels! That’s who you sound like. Gods above and below, that’s been bugging me.”

  “Mr. Blackwell . . .”

  “Trent?” I said, tapping the intercom’s touchscreen interface.

  A moment passed before a defeated voice answered back. “Yes, Shadow Master.”

  “Trent, now, we’ve talked about this. We’re in mixed company.”

  “My apologies. Yes, Mr. Blackwell?”

  “Better. You’ve been listening, haven’t you?”

  “Of course, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “You did hear me say, ‘Those are my terms, and they are non-negotiable,’ didn’t you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Huh. Interesting. And at any point did I say, or give any indication, that I gave a flying fuck about anything they said, unless it was a yes or no answer?”

  “No such thing was heard, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “That’s what I thought. Thank you, Trent.”

  “You’re welcome. Sir.”

  “Now, do me a favor. The champagne, please.”

  Trent sighed. “Of course, sir.”

  “Good lad, Trent,” I said, turning off the intercom. “So, shall we celebrate?”

  Princess Malia exchanged looks with the other members before looking at me quizzically. “We did not agree to your terms.”

  “Shh, just wait. You will.”

  The office doors opened to my right and Trent walked in carrying a large silver platter with six fluted glasses, a bottle of champagne, and a silver saber. Trent set the tray before me, then took two steps back, standing slightly behind me and to my right.

  “Is--is that Malcolm Flynn?” Princess Malia asked, confused.

  I looked back at Trent, in his Victorian style butler’s uniform, and shrugged. “Technically . . . yes? But I like to think of him as Trent.”

  “Mr. Flynn, why are you working for this man?” Robert Barron asked.

  “I signed a deal,” Trent said.

  “Indeed he did,” I said with a chuckle while I picked up the champagne bottle and the silver saber. “I have to admit, I’ve always wanted to try this.”

  I ran the saber across the bottle, slicing the glass as the cork flew. “First try,” I applauded myself. I poured each a glass, then set the bottle down on the table. Lifting my glass in my right hand, I toasted the heroes.

  “Here’s to a new future.”

  “I repeat myself, Mr. Blackwell,” Princess Malia said. “We have not accepted your terms.”

  Her accent was slipping as she got mad. I smiled.

  “And I repeat myself, Princess. You will.”

  I took a sip of the champagne. “Mmm, good. Trent. Would you be so kind?”

  Trent sighed behind me. “Yes, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “Oh, with what’s about to happen, you can go ahead and use my professional name.”

  “Yes, Shadow Master.”

  Trent spoke a single magical word. A swirl of purple-black smoke billowed up around Trent. As it dissipated, he was no longer my simple servant in his garish garb. In his place stood The Night Watchman.

  The room gasped as the great mystery of The Watchman’s identity was solved. My thrall looked back at me and I nodded.

  “Sic ’em.”

  Superhero Fun Fact #5

  X-Men’s Professor Xavier killed his twin sister in the womb.

  Until she reemerged years later, having hid her psychic presence in his DNA where she reformed as Cassandra Nova.

  Uh, yeah. So, that’s a thing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Where I Compare Combat to Sex, Mock White Guilt, and Perform a Callback

  If you ever have the opportunity to watch a master at a craft perform, be it a hibachi chef, painter, or porn star, I highly recommend it.

  Yes, porn is a master craft. Trust me, what you see on camera is nothing compared to what goes on in their personal lives. And it is infinitely better than the sixty-nine, missionary, doggy, and cowgirl acts you cretins hump, grunt, and repeat as you breed dumber and dumber, entitled children whose only success in life will be fixing my car and serving me cheeseburgers.

  Even if you’re young, or highly sexual, and think you’re great at your libidinous activities, you’re only kidding yourself. While you’re reading this crap, porn remains a billion-dollar industry despite the advent of the internet.

  What was I originally talking about? Oh yes, masters of their craft.

  Watching The Night Watchman fight, with all restraint and mercy removed thanks to my influence, was just like watching those beautiful masters of their pubic craft. I know it seems odd to juxtapose
a comic book hero fight with some serious oiled and sweaty hardcore fucking, but trust me, it’s more similar than you think.

  The Watchman dove onto the polished boardroom table, twisted onto his back, and used his forward momentum to snap the heel of his boots and kick Princess Malia in the face, knocking her backwards. A quick kip-up and the Watchman was on his feet.

  I sipped my champagne, watching. “You see, ladies and gentlemen, you really don’t have a choice. With The Watchman on my side, I have the greatest weapon against you.”

  Macy Ling shifted into her reptilian dragon/human hybrid form, swiping at the Watchman with her talon-like claws. The aggressive woman’s attack met only empty air as The Watchman palmed a small device from a belt pouch, flipped over Dragoness’s attack, and landed beside the real threat, Curtis Brand, a.k.a. Imprint. Before Imprint could speak a word of command and impose his psychic will, The Watchman slapped the device on Imprint’s bald head, punched him in the throat, and rolled away to a corner of the office, waiting.

  “Now that little device on Imprint’s head is a nifty piece of tech. It is a universal language translator. Once affixed, it accesses the linguistic portion of the brain, allowing for real-time translation. I’d like to take credit for it, but sadly I did not invent it. I did, however, figure out how to weaponize it. It would be foolish to give Imprint access to every language for his psychic command. However, this one is set only to ancient Etruscan.”

  Imprint coughed on the floor, still reeling from The Watchman’s strike. He pulled at the device on his head, cursing in a long-dead language none of us could understand. Therefore, we could not obey any of his commands.

  “Now, for the rest of you. Watchman, if you would be so kind?”

  Watchman threw a small ampule at Dragoness’s head. She blew her dragon’s breath at the vial, shattering it.

  Exactly what The Watchman wanted.

  The chemicals were ignited by the fire, causing a small explosion of gaseous, freezing napalm to roll over the lizard woman. Her cold-blooded biology instantly went into near shutdown from the frigid temperature.