Madness & Mayhem: 23 Tales of Horror and Humor

by James Aquilone

  He was thinking about the ticker-tape parade they were going to give him, when Madame Devastator zapped him with lightning from her fingertips.

  His body seized. His muscles felt as if they had been turned to stone. Then came the burning. Bernie screamed.

  At that moment, the sky darkened and the wind howled.

  Bernie was lifted high into the air and began spinning as thunder crashed around him and lightning cut through the darkness. He tried to get his equilibrium, but he was blind and disoriented inside the tornado.

  He couldn’t die like this before the world. It would be all over the Internet in seconds. In his panic, he pursed his lips and blew as hard as he could, hoping to jolt himself out of the twister. There was an explosion. He heard glass shattering and stone crumbling. He blew again. Another explosion. Screams. Car alarms blared. Still, he was trapped in the funnel. He blew straight down and kept blowing until he rose above the bad weather. He stopped blowing when he saw the sun and the bright blue sky. Then he was falling, his muscles still cramped from the lightning strikes. The roof of the American Museum of Natural History rushed up to the meet him and he crashed through it. He landed on a stegosaurus skeleton, which was now a pile of rubble.

  After a moment, his power returned to him and he shot through the hole in the roof. Madame Devastator was waiting for him in front of the museum. She looked tired, drained. The lightning flickered on her fingertips like a dying lightbulb.

  “You don’t have to fight me,” she said, gasping for breath. “We’re the same. In fact, we’re the only two of our kind. They”—she swept out her arms—”are our real enemies. You saw how they treated you when you tried to help them the first time.”

  “I’m a superhero,” Bernie said. “This is what superheroes do.”

  One moment Bernie was hovering in the air, the next he was behind Madame Devastator. He put her in a headlock. She barely resisted.

  “This ends now,” he said.

  “If you’re going to kill me, you could at least use an original line.”

  A small crowd watched from the park across the street. Someone yelled, “Finish her!” Another screamed, “We love you, Mr. Americana!”

  Bernie tightened his grip on Madame Devastator. Camera flashes, like bolts of lightning, ripped through the air. In minutes he’d be the champion of the world, his face on every TV screen, newspaper, and magazine. He was probably already trending like crazy on the Internet. Before he twisted his arch-nemesis’s neck, he whispered in her ear.

  Then Madame Devastator went limp in his arms.

  For a moment the city was silent. Bernie heard only his ragged breathing. Then there came an eruption of cheers and shouts. People began to appear from all over. They chanted his name and it echoed across the city. Bernie’s eyes moistened. He wished his parents were still alive to see this.

  As the crowd inched toward him, Mr. Americana, née Bernard Kowalski, flew off with Madame Devastator’s body in his arms.

  The yams were all gone, so he flew to Tokyo and got sushi. He didn’t even have to pay. Heroes don’t have to pay. It’s one of the many perks.

  Back on the island, he sat on the beach reading an English-language newspaper he grabbed along with his lunch. The front page showed him holding Madame Devastator. “Mr. Americana Saves the Day!” the headline blared.

  A few pages in, he found an editorial questioning whether Mr. Americana (the Pentagon had leaked the nickname to the media shortly after Bernie left for New York) was needed now that Madame Devastator was dead. He knew that would come. In time, they’d return to seeing him as a ticking time bomb. Weapons of mass destruction are only tolerated in times of war.

  “Did you get any sashimi rolls?”

  Bernie turned and watched as Hannah exited the tropical forest. Her blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail and her freckles stood out with sunburn. Without her costume, she looked like a typical college student.

  “Yeah,” he said, and handed her the bag of take-out.

  He never intended to kill Madame Devastator. Superheroes don’t kill. But it wasn’t until that day in New York that he realized how badly a hero needs a villain.

  She sat next to Bernie. “Doesn’t this get boring?” she asked. “Just sitting here.”

  “You get used to it. Have you decided where you’re going to make your reemergence?”

  “I was thinking Paris in the spring.”

  “Perfect. That will be well after my ticker-tape parade. I’ll give you a two-hour head-start.”

  “That should be enough time to destroy the Eiffel Tower.”

  “No, don’t do that. I’ve always wanted to chuck the Eiffel Tower like a javelin. I saw it once in a comic.”

  “OK. That might be cool. I’ll take out the Arc de Triomphe with a tornado then. Meet me in front of the Louvre. We’ll give them a good show. But this time, why don’t I pretend to snap your neck?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  A superhero, Bernie lamented, has no place in the real world. Not unless he creates one.

  The League of Lame Superheroes

  (Originally published in the Third Flatiron Anthology “Astronomical Odds”)

  Conference Room 3, Hilton Garden Inn, Staten Island, New York

  “Guys, I’m not going to sugarcoat things,” Harold said, opening the twelfth annual meeting of the League of Superheroes. “We had a terrible year—even by League standards. According to my records, we failed to save the world seventeen times!”

  Harold hoped for a response along the lines of “Holy cow, we suck” or “We’re so ashamed of ourselves, Harold, please forgive us” or “Seventeen times? Really? Maybe we should try harder before we all become Professor Edison’s mindless slaves.” But as usual the League disappointed him.

  “Woo-hoo! A record!” Steve shouted, lifting both his arms straight up over his head like a referee signaling a touchdown.

  Jesse smiled. “Boy, we’re damn lucky the All-Star Champions of the Multiverse are around. Remember when Mr. Superlative lifted the Chrysler Building and flung it like a spear at Edison’s mechanical Cthulhu?”

  “While I don’t often agree with their crude hero ethos, I have to admit the All-Stars are awesome,” Veronica added, gazing at Harold with the scrutiny of an X-ray machine. It made him feel weird.

  “They are not awesome!” Harold shouted, and slammed his fist down on the table. After picking up the notes that he’d knocked to the floor, Harold said, “The All-Stars are a bunch of over-muscled, over-hyped freaks. I can’t believe they’re considered the good guys. I’m pretty sure they take hero-enhancing drugs.”

  Harold shook his head. Seven years as the League’s leader and every meeting went like this. No wonder they never saved the world. “I really can’t believe this, guys. We could save the world. We’re heroes too, you know?”

  “Lame heroes,” Steve said. “That’s what everyone calls us, including my wife and kids. It’s embarrassing. I don’t even tell anyone I’m a hero. I say I’m a telemarketer.”

  “Maybe they will call us something different—when we save the world—once—just once!” Harold stopped. He loosened his tie and began fanning himself with a sheet of paper.

  “Drink something,” Jesse said.

  “I’m sorry, guys.” Harold took a sip of water. “But I know we can be awesome, too. It’s all in my notes.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said, “but our powers just aren’t—”

  “—powers,” Jesse finished.

  “The All-Stars have real abilities. We have weird quirks.”

  “Powers are overrated,” Harold said.

  Sure, their abilities weren’t as flashy as the All-Stars’, but they were still useful. There was Jesse, Likeable Jesse: Every person who ever met Jesse adored him. Harold thought it was the kid’s smile. It was a really nice smile. Steve, The Lucky Dog: He had a mysterious knack for not having to do anything he didn’t want to do. Usually it was something like mowing the lawn or doing the dishes, but some
times it got him out of some tough binds. Veronica, The Noticer: The newest member of the League noticed things no one else did. She kills at “Where’s Waldo?” And then there was Harold, The Boss: His entire life people put him in charge of things—student councils, home-owners associations, bake sales.

  “Then why haven’t we ever saved the world?” Veronica asked.

  “Because we’ve been going at it the wrong way. My new three-point plan will turn things around. Belief, Teamwork, Knowledge. I call it BTK.”

  “Wasn’t that the name of a serial killer?” Steve said.

  Harold glared at Steve and then he began his pitch. “One, Belief. Being a hero is all about confidence, right? We need to believe in ourselves. Two, Teamwork. On most of our missions, you guys act like orphans in a bouncy house. We need to work as a team. Three, Knowledge. We need to learn from the All-Stars. I know I don’t care for them, but they’ve saved the world countless times.”

  “Four hundred and seventy-two times, to be precise,” Veronica said.

  “That’s why I invited a guest speaker to join us today.”

  “Oh, you didn’t invite that lunkhead Mr. Superlative, did you?” Veronica asked. “Or Barbara Bombshell? She’s set womanhood back a thousand years. I swear her body is structurally unsound. And, please, someone buy her a pair of freaking pants.”

  “It better not be Ultra-Violent Boy,” Steve said. “That kid’s unstable.”

  “It’s not anyone from the All-Stars,” Harold said, and removed a round metal device from his briefcase. He placed it next to the complimentary glazed donuts in the middle of the conference table. He pressed a stud in its side and a three-dimensional hologram of Professor Edison flickered to life.

  “Greetings, lame heroes!”

  Steve jumped out of his seat. “Edison? You invited the most dangerous man on the planet to our secret meeting? What were you thinking?”

  “First of all, it’s a hologram,” Harold said. “Second, the meeting was not a secret. I posted it on Facebook. Third, he promised no funny business. Sit down, Steve.”

  “Great move, Harold,” Steve said, as he sank back into his chair. “This is why we’re lame.”

  “Not lame, just unsuccessful. We need to take drastic measures. Edison promised—and I believe him—that he only wants to talk about the All-Stars. I think we can learn how they’ve been so successful.”

  “Not successful—lucky,” Edison said. The supervillain stood barely five feet tall, but his shiny black boots gave him another six inches. He wore a dark blue cape and a white porcelain mask. “Your leader is correct. I mean you no harm. And taking our past run-ins into consideration, you mean me no harm.”

  “Not nice, man!” Jesse said.

  “My apologies, Jesse. I should reserve my ire for the All-Stars. They have been quite a thorn in my side. Still, they don’t deserve the respect lavished upon them. Their PR department should get the credit.”

  “I know we aren’t getting the full story from the media,” Harold said. “Any insider stuff you can share with us would be great. For instance, how did they stop your army of killer robot marmots?”

  “There was an unforeseen vulnerability in their design that those do-gooders stumbled upon. Thousands of the creatures were burrowing through all the major cities of the world. The All-Stars could never have stopped each individual robo-marmot. But they were all connected to a network. The All-Stars needed only to destroy the server, and all the marmots were rendered inoperable. That’s what you get when you hire minions from Stanford.”

  “And your Moon of Doom?” Veronica asked.

  “Budget issues defeated us, not the All-Stars. We were already five trillion dollars into the project when we began to run low on funding, so we skimped on the shielding for the core reactor. The Stanford guys said don’t worry about it, it’s all good. Yeah, right! All it took was one lucky blast and the entire thing blew up.”

  Suddenly Edison stopped, threw open his cape with a flourish, straightened, and, in a booming voice, said, “Does anyone know what time it is?”

  “Good thing you brought that up,” Harold said. “We probably have to give up the room soon. It’s 2:46.”

  “Splendid. If someone would be so kind as to check the news on his or her smartphone. The story should be out by now.”

  Veronica was the first to find it. “Holy jeepers! The All-Stars are gone!”

  “It says they were killed during a rescue mission in Siberia!”

  “By an anti-matter bomb!”

  “Edison!”

  Edison shrugged. “That is the true reason why I agreed to come today. I wanted to be with you when the news broke.”

  “To gloat?” Harold asked.

  “No, to rejoice. I know you hate the All-Stars as much as I, and that is because I was once one of you. Behold…” And with that Edison swept off his mask, revealing a scarred and twisted face.

  “Little Eddie Kline? We thought you died when your artificial sun exploded in your grandmother’s garage!”

  “Though my me-maw nearly killed me, I was just left horribly burned. My inventions, though brilliant, always caused harm. As a lame hero I was one of the lamest, but as a villain I reign supreme. I destroyed the All-Stars! Join me. We can show them all what a bunch of lame-o’s are really capable of!”

  “We will never join you,” Harold said. “We have all made a pledge to defend the weak and the innocent, a pledge we mean to keep. And nothing will—”

  Just then the hotel manager popped his head into the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to need this room for the Girl Scout meeting at three. If you can start clearing out now, that would be swell. Feel free to take the donuts with you.”

  “Sure,” Harold said. “We’re done here.”

  The manager gave a thumbs-up and left.

  “Regretful,” Edison said as he placed his mask back on his face. “But before I go, I will give you one more piece of information. My latest invention is called The Negatron. It is a marvelous application that will broadcast a very nasty piece of audio to every electronic device, television set, radio, etcetera, etcetera. Anyone who hears it will be instantly seized by the deepest, darkest depression. Sadness will spread across the planet like a virus. None of my test subjects lasted more than two minutes before committing suicide. The Negatron goes live in one hour. So long, lame asses!”

  Edison’s image flickered and went out.

  “Time to save the world, guys,” Harold said, rising. “Now does anyone know where Edison’s lair is?”

  Underneath the New York Public Library, Midtown Manhattan

  The subway tunnel was dark and stank like pretzels and falafel covered in garbage. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, Harold thought.

  The League stood before a steel door, holding up their cellphones for light. Veronica examined the door with unblinking, Arctic-blue eyes. Then, suddenly, she said, “There’s a tiny stud on the wall.” She pressed it and the door swung open.

  “Good noticing,” Harold said.

  Finding Edison’s lair wasn’t difficult. Steve had roomed with Eddie at his underground pad when they were both in the League. But Eddie kicked Steve out when he refused to put the cap back on the toothpaste after brushing his teeth. Fortunately, Eddie didn’t change his address.

  They stepped into a narrow, musty tunnel. The sound of dripping water echoed against the stone walls and rats squeaked in the dark. Harold was feeling pretty satisfied with the team as they marched down the passage. This was already the closest they had ever come to saving the world. Usually by now someone would have stubbed a toe or lost his wallet or broken down in tears, and they’d have called it a night.

  “Where do you we go now, Steve?” Harold said.

  “The layout’s been changed,” Steve said. “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s just keep moving. Hopefully we get lucky.”

  When they entered a dimly lit room cluttered with wooden crates and discarded electronic equipment, V
eronica stopped and held up a hand.

  “Someone’s coming,” she whispered.

  They ducked behind a stack of gutted Commodore 64s and iMacs.

  Footsteps rattled in the distance. They grew louder, and then stopped.

  “Whoever’s here, I have a pulse gun!” a voice shouted.

  “Jesse,” Harold whispered, “work your magic.”

  Jesse stepped out from behind the crates and approached Edison’s minion. He immediately raised his pulse gun.

  “Freeze!”

  “Hey there, bro,” Jesse said, and flashed a smile.

  “Oh, hey.” The minion lowered the gun a fraction, and returned the smile. “Are you lost or something?”

  “Or something. I don’t want to bother you—nice uniform, by the way—but do you know the way out of here? I’m trying to find the Number 7 train.”

  “You must have taken a hell of a wrong turn.”

  Jesse’s chestnut-brown eyes lit up. “Wow! Is that a real pulse gun? I’ve only ever seen them in comic books.”

  The minion grinned. “Pretty cool, huh? You want to check it out?”

  “Oh, man, I don’t know.”

  “No, go ahead. You seem like a nice guy.”

  The minion handed over the gun.

  “Sorry about this, bro,” Jesse said, and pointed the weapon at him. “All clear!”

  The rest of the League instantly appeared behind Jesse.

  “Where’s Edison?” Harold asked the minion in his best tough-guy voice.

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “Where’s Edison?” Harold asked in his second-best tough-guy voice.

  “I’m not going to tell you just because you asked me twice. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “Jesse?”

  “Where’s Edison, bro? We just want to talk to him. It’s cool.”

  The minion’s stern expression melted and a smile slowly spread across his face. “OK, I’ll take you to him.”