Secrets of a D-List Supervillain

by Jim Bernheimer

  Holding up a pair of the rounds for her inspection, I gallantly offer to let her hold my balls.

  “Really,” she says and crosses her lovely arms. “You’re going there?”

  “It seems appropriate.”

  “And that’s why you are you,” she concludes. “Maybe later, I’ll try holding your balls, but you seem to be enjoying holding them right now.”

  “That’s not nice,” I protest.

  “Whoever gave you the impression that I was nice?”

  Even I have to admit that’s a good comeback.

  With a grin on her face and a wink, she continues, “One thing is certain; your balls hit harder than Bolt Action.”

  “I may have to use that line down the road. Actually not much harder,” I confess and explain. “The force is concentrated over a smaller surface area. Your typical shield generator is going to try and cover as much area as possible. Nothing Promethia puts out commercially would stop it.”

  “So, how do you defend against it?” Stacy inquires.

  “Well, duh, your best bet is to not get hit,” I quip.

  “Seriously, Cal,” she says. “I have a good idea how you think. You already know how to stop it, don’t you? Admit it?”

  “I could tell you, but why should I tell one of Unky Sam’s sanctioned superheroes how to stop my boomstick?”

  She sighs, which is somewhat distracting. “I guess it is time to set some boundaries. Outside, we can be Aphrodite and, is it Megasuit you’ve settled on? Okay, good. When we’re here, it’s your girlfriend Stacy asking. I disabled the GPS in the hoversled before I came here because I fully plan to protect your secrets. Does that sound acceptable to you?”

  I can feel some heat in my cheeks and realize I must be embarrassed. Odd feeling doesn’t happen often. “Yeah, I can work with that. To beat it with a shield generator, you’d need a narrow beam focused shield and a computer to calculate where to put it. If it were me, I’d tie Andy into my suit and let him run my shielding, like I did against Lazarus. Your buddy, Hera, or someone like General Devious could probably do it instinctively with a cylindrical shield or an angular one that would deflect it away. Even then, it still might not work. I didn’t build this to screw around, and if you ever see me pointing it at something or someone, it’s because I am fully prepared to obliterate my target.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” she says. “Frankie was joking that we need to find out what your weapon was and upgrade the defenses at Mount Olympus.”

  “How is Ares anyway?” I ask. Patterson’s pet atomic robot had curbstomped the God of War in San Francisco. I consider him to be one of the least annoying of my girlfriend’s teammates.

  “He should be back on the active roster in four weeks,” she said.

  “That soon?” I reply. “He looked pretty rough. I thought for certain he only had a fifty-fifty shot of making it to the hospital.”

  “It was touch and go for the first two days. First Aid showed up to do what he could.”

  “And to show that he wasn’t on Patterson’s side...”

  She nods. “Probably, but as soon as Frankie made it through the first forty-eight hours, I knew he’d make a full recovery. We heal fast. The powers that be almost decertified the West Coast Guardians after you faked your death.”

  It’s my turn to nod. “Wendy didn’t think it would amount to anything, even with her pappy leading the charge.”

  “No, there’s some fallout from all that. We used to have a total of two government liaisons. Now we have six and they are considerably more intrusive.”

  “They had one assigned to the Gulf Coasters. He was hardly ever sober enough to meet with us. I think he was somebody’s son and he had a bunch of juicy dirt on someone.”

  She doesn’t bother trying to deny this. “I heard he was replaced by three bureaucrats. And if they are anything like ours, they’re annoying and a hindrance.”

  “That’s why you should come over to the unsanctioned side of the tracks. We throw better parties!”

  She looks skeptical and I can’t blame her. Cracking under the weight of the stare, I stammer, “Truth be told, our parties are lame. Larry turns off the porn whenever Wendy is here, because he gets embarrassed. Bobby, as you can well imagine, has no problem with having it on all day. Hell, he wants me to invent LCD contacts that would allow him to watch porn whenever and wherever he wants.”

  “Sadly, I could see it,” my girlfriend admits. “So, did you?”

  “No,” I say. “The logistics proved to be too much of a problem, but I’m sure someone will do it in the next fifteen years. It’ll be a big seller.”

  I am also sure that when that happens, they’ll discover a patent I filed in Bobby’s name concerning flexible LCD screens inserted over each eye that allow for a full package of entertainment features. Bobby wants to call it Pornovision, but I’m still holding out for a better name. My fingers are crossed, concerning its approval.

  Being an Intellectual Property Slimeball might make a good backup plan if all this super powered business doesn’t pan out. Three cheers for being a Patent Troll! Where’re my licensing fees and my goat?

  “So, do you remember where you put them, or have you forgotten why you brought me down here?”

  Of course I had, but I’m not about to admit that! I roll my eyes and lean under a workbench and fish around. Pulling out a storage tub marked Cal’s socks and underwear. “Here it is.”

  She points at the labelling and I answer, “If you were stealing stuff from this base, would you bother with a bin that says this?”

  “Probably not. You win.”

  Those last two words mean a lot to me, and I begin pulling out the silver plates containing the ancient dinosaur magic spells. Spreading them out on the workbench, I call her over. Each of them is about seven and a half inches wide and fourteen inches long.”

  She leans closer and I hand one to her.

  “So you can really understand all this without the necklace?”

  “I had to make up some hand translation guides, but yeah. The one you have in your hands is a simple one for controlling other reptiles. It’s the first one I managed to cast.”

  • • •

  “Thanks for dropping in,” Bo said and pushed his wheelchair around the kitchen. It was a nice place, a French Colonial style from the Civil War era. Technically, it didn’t belong to his family. The city of Biloxi owned the property and let him and his family live there rent free. The more jaded side of my personality applauded his scam, while the other side knew that the man was far too gracious to take advantage like I would.

  The first time he had dragged me kicking and screaming for dinner at his house, I’d finally made the acquaintance of his lovely wife. Melinda was a kind-hearted soul with long blonde hair and eyes that had probably seen more than their fair share of sorrow. She greeted me with a big hug and said her man had told her that I saved the world. I shrugged my shoulders and replied that he was giving me too much credit.

  “Bo isn’t one to exaggerate. So, if he said it, I believe it. Besides, the way I see it, that pretty much squares the books on that time you almost killed him.”

  From that moment on I had a good idea that Melinda can always be counted on to say exactly what is on her mind. It was a refreshing quality to find in someone, when the majority of my days were spent with people capable of speaking out of both sides of their face at the same time.

  Today, she was picking their youngest son up from the airport and might have mentioned to me that her other half was in a bit of a funk. I’d been in a rut since my armor was destroyed, so I figured misery loves company, and told her that I’d be happy to come over and hang with him.

  “So, are you making any progress with the magical stuff?”

  Shrugging, I looked at him, and responded, “It’s tough. I can read the words, but sometimes it’s hard to understand the context. I was hoping it would be a little less complex and more along the lines of eye of Newt and so on.r />
  “So, it’s kind of like speaking a Cajun dialect of French, and then going over to Europe and being misunderstood.”

  “Pretty much,” I reply. “But it’s more like speaking English and then going back in time to the Ancient Rome and trying to hold a conversation, if you know what I mean. Now how about you? When are you going to be back on the active roster? I could use a patrol partner who doesn’t drive me up the wall.”

  “Sadly,” he said. “This old body just doesn’t heal as quickly as it used to. But you can bet that I’ll be serving up the stanzas of justice before too long.”

  “Sometimes Bo, it actually makes me physically ill to hear you speak like that! I’m still pissed that they wouldn’t send First Aid out here to help you.”

  “Now, Cal,” he began, and took on a lecturing tone. “I know you want to see a conspiracy behind every corner, but he does have other responsibilities, and he has a tremendous gift, and a terrible burden.”

  “Sure, he’d have to sit around with broken legs for a day. Tremendous burden? I heard about his deal. If you’re lucky enough to see him for a serious disease, and he heals you, you have to sign a contract donating ten percent of your income to his foundation for the rest of your life.”

  Bo scratched his neatly trimmed beard and said, “I’m not talking about that, besides his foundation helps people all over the world. Frankly, it’s a way to have the rich donate ridiculous sums of money. First Aid’s healing powers make him live under constant threat. If it’s not some desperate parent taking hostages to try and cure their child, it’s cultists who either want to sacrifice him or worship him as the next prophet of the Almighty. He’s been abducted by his own bodyguards twice in the past decade.”

  “Want me to get you a drink from the fridge?” I offer, changing the subject. I was supposed to come over here and cheer him up; not let him rain on my parade. Someone like First Aid—everybody wants something from him. I’m kind of on the other end of the spectrum.

  “Sure, I’ll take a can of diet soda. There’s no beer, if that’s what you’re looking for. Melinda’s worried that I’ll put on weight during rehab and that it would bring back my Type Two diabetes.”

  “Yeah, you don’t want to play around with that crap,” I answered, and pulled a couple of aluminum cans from the refrigerator. “So, did you ever give any thought to my improved helmet design? Since I can’t scrounge up enough synth to create a suit, I need to improve my ManaCALes equipment and a cut down version of your design would work decently. Heck, we could even go into business and make tactical helmets for the military and the police when you decide to hang it up for good.”

  Mentally, I patted myself on the back for my own personal development. A few months ago, I’d have just taken the design and run with it. Unfortunately, that meant that I was growing fond of this man. The thorax piece of my destroyed armor was a bigger, badder version of the design I’d sent him.

  “I think it will work, but you’ll be operating at less than peak output because of the space constraints. As for your other idea, I don’t think I’d like to see my invention mass produced and put in just anyone’s hands.”

  There was a point to be had in his argument. “Still, sonics, as a weapon, are tamer than plasma and is better for something like crowd control than Tasers. You have to admit that. Some governments are using cheap versions already; maybe it’s time to cash in on your design?”

  Bo shook his head while taking a drink. “Cal, it’s not about the money. Look at your nemesis, Lazarus Patterson. He has more money than some countries. It doesn’t seem to make him any happier or a better person.”

  “I’m beginning to miss the days when you were my nemesis,” I replied. “Things seemed simpler back then.”

  “Ah, the good old days... was your getaway driver really a blow up sex doll, or am I thinking of someone else?”

  “Yeah, that was me. I had trust issues, back in the day. Not too long ago I also had a suit. Now, I’m looking forward to a sonic upgrade to my helmet.”

  “Well, you were pretty good with your floater and roller,” Bugler offered. “If you can’t get the materials to build a new suit, why not build more drones? You don’t need synthmuscle for them. I was impressed by your floater.”

  “Cal Stringel—The DroneMaster? Nah, how about TechnoDrone? Has a decent ring to it. Naturally, I’d have to figure out how to work a name with Cal in it, for old time’s sake. Meh, maybe I could make it work. Wait a sec! Does that mean you really didn’t like Roller?”

  “Oh, that one was a brute to be sure, but the hover drone, now that was a piece of art and precision engineering. Your Roller was good enough in a scrap, but remember when you used Floater to track down E.M. Pulsive? Once you knew where he was, you called in Zeus and took him into custody without a fight. Sheer strength alone doesn’t always win the day.”

  “Damn, Bugler! Are you sure there’s nothing in these sodas? You’re making too much sense.”

  We spent the rest of the day going over potential drone designs. I especially liked the one that took Roller and made three times bigger, adding a control chair inside of it for me to command my platoon of drones.

  It wasn’t going to compare to having a real suit, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to fly, but it would definitely increase my prospects of living until I could build a replacement suit.

  • • •

  “C’mon!” I muttered in frustration. The little caged gecko wasn’t going over to the twig like I wanted it to. Instead, it sat there, mocking me and basking in the light of the warming lamp. I’d been losing this particular exercise for the better part of eight days, with nothing to show for it.

  This was my feeble attempt to cast one of the first spells I’d managed to translate from the collection of plates that I loosely termed Rex’s spell books. There were sixty-three of those, but some covered more than one of the plates. The rest of them consisted of his long winded biography and manifesto—at least I was pretty sure that’s what it was.

  I didn’t find the “pull an asteroid out of orbit and smash it into the Earth” spell, which meant he was either a braggart with a keen sense of astronomy, or perhaps he didn’t want to leave something that destructive lying around for any potential enemies. It was difficult to say. Me? I was having enough trouble convincing a tiny lizard to go check out a twig.

  Asserting your dominance over the lesser species is a necessary skill. Superiority opens the pathways to much greater manipulation.

  “It sounds less like a magical system and more like installing a rootkit in a network,” I muttered and stared at the uncooperative animal. Reaching into the leather sack, I pull out the petrified carcass of a bat. This thing cost me four large from a bokor that Swamplord considered mostly trustworthy—or at least the voodoo priestess was too afraid of Hooch to screw over one of his friends.

  As augments go, this was supposed to produce a threefold improvement over whatever innate magic I had in me. In other words, three times almost nothing might equal something.

  I attempted the incantation again. Wait is it moving? No. It just reacted to the sound of my voice.

  Then again, maybe it doesn’t’ mean crap.

  “What am I doing?” I shouted in defeat. Futility was an old familiar friend I’d grappled with on many occasions. This time it looked as if it had the better of me. I looked at the rough drawings of the drones I’d put together with Bo. Instead of wasting my time with this I should be working on my squad of drones—the little tracked guy with the forty millimeter grenade launcher and eighteen round capacity, would pack a decent punch and wouldn’t set me back an arm and a leg. I had a spare grenade launcher back with Bobby in Alabama and could use the targeting system from a Type A robot. There would still have enough space to mount a forward facing shield generator.

  Yeah, I guess I should be doing that instead. My awesome magical talents don’t seem to be getting me anywhere.

  Glancing over at the statue of Andydroid, I tried
to tell myself that if I started the whole drone project, I’d never come back to this. Lying to myself was easy. Hell! I could be a prodigy when it came to that.

  Frustrated, I walked over to Andy and put my hand on his shoulder.

  “If I give up now, I’m pretty much writing you off, pal. You know how stupid I can be; despite not having any real magical abilities, I wouldn’t let that stop me! But maybe it’s time I face the facts—I’m just not cut out for this. I’ve taken pictures of each plate and added my translation to them and put it into a database. Maybe down the road I can hire someone with more magic to try and tackle this.”

  The expression on Andy’s face didn’t change and I tried to determine what he would say and knew, deep down, that he wouldn’t be angry with me, just slightly disappointed. Even turned to stone, Andydroid was probably ten times the hero that I could ever be.

  “Sorry, Andy. Bo was telling me the other day that strength alone can’t solve everything, but you have to have something to start with.”

  Like the idiot I was, I looked for reassurance from Andydroid. Finding none, I wanted to be angry. He was the last witness to the one great thing I did in my life. Even if Stacy got her memories back at that very moment, I doubted that we’d ever be the same again.

  “This sucks giant donkey balls,” I told the statue. “But I can’t help you. That sonnuvabitch had more magic in his little toe than I’ll ever have.”

  When the words came out of my mouth, it was like the light had been shined in my eyes after weeks of blundering around in the dark. I looked at Andy, and said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? I might not have his little toe, but I do have one of his clawed fingers!” I stared down at the shriveled up bat I’d still been holding and chucked it on the workbench. Digging through the items in the small dorm room fridge next to my bench, it took me a solid five minutes to find where I’d put that thing. José had laughed when I took it, and joked about making it into a necklace or something to commemorate my victory, and to be honest I’d forgotten I’d even had it.