Confessions of a D-List Supervillain

by Bernheimer, Jim; Hsieh, Fiona

  Further Proof I’m an Asshole

  Taking a deep breath, I look at Stacy. She isn’t bothered in the least. It’s pretty silly for someone who’s faced the dangers that I have, but I’m nervous anyway. I feel naked and nervous without my armor.

  “It’s not too late to slip out and go watch a movie. We can say hello to all the nice photographers that have been tracking us like bloodhounds,” I say hoping she agrees.

  “Oh, it won’t be that bad. C’mon, I’ll prove it,” she says opening the door. “Mom, Dad. We’re here.”

  Great. Just flippin’ great. It’s meet the parents night. To make matters worse, mine are here too. I hadn’t seen them since shortly after I got out of prison and that went over so very well. A few months later, there were arrest warrants out for me, which made visits for the holidays somewhat difficult – not that I was interested in trying.

  People come into the foyer to meet us. Dad looks like he’s lost weight along with a bunch of hair and Mom looks smaller than I remember. The fact that she’s using one of those four-legged canes sends a pang of either guilt or remorse down into the pit of my stomach to disturb the butterflies currently there.

  Dad is beaming. I get a man hug, complete with a slap on the back. “Good to see you, son,” he says.

  “Nice to see you, too. Hello Mom.” I lean down and give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Neither is really returned.

  Me being a supervillain kind of put a negative spin on Mom’s active social life. The poor life choices I’d made impacted her standing in her gardening club, church, and just about everywhere else she went in my hometown. I didn’t encourage her to brag to everyone about my getting a full ride to UCLA or the job at Promethia. She’s was the one playing the “my son is better than your children” game with all the other women on her block. Suffice to say, there’s a bit of a grudge being held there. Being a supervillain means you never have to say you’re sorry, unless it’s to the judge or the parole board. Even then, it’s only an option. Odds are it won’t change what’s going to happen.

  Dad, after I was tossed into the slammer, never had any expectations. Apparently, I’ve exceeded his wildest dreams lately. The guys at the lodge and down at the bowling alley Dad manages are probably getting an earful now about how his boy is dating Aphrodite.

  Stacy’s parents are giving me a critical once over. Doctor Harrison Mitchell is tall, slender man who is a renowned physicist and author who usually spends half the year lecturing all across the world. I’m an electrical engineer, not necessarily in his league, but I can follow what he says. Then again, I might be out of touch when it comes to the latest views on superstrings, but I can build a powersuit. Can he?

  His wife is a lawyer and a lobbyist for green energy and definitely not your usual socialite and trophy wife. The father might have the brains, but the mother is the one with the killer instinct. I greet her with a polite handshake and the same with her father.

  The niceties last until just after I finish my dinner salad when Ophelia Mitchell asks, “So young man, I’d like to know why you turned to a life of crime.”

  “Dear,” her husband says, “Can your cross examination wait until dessert?”

  I clear my throat. “Bad decisions, Ma’am. There’s a long version, but in the interests of keeping it simple, it ultimately it comes down to a series of bad choices on my part.”

  “Well that leads to an interesting question. Does one good deed outweigh the sum total of one’s bad decisions? What do you think, Harrison?”

  “If life were an equation, so easily solved by balancing the good and the bad, the solution would have been reached a long time ago, dear.”

  It doesn’t seem like her husband is taking her bait. Suddenly, I’m liking the man more and more.

  “I’m just happy to see that Calvin’s making something of himself,” Dad chips in. “Never thought my boy would make the top ten list on The Late Show!”

  Considering the topic was Things People Can’t Remember About the Bug Invasion and a picture of me was shown with the caption of, “Proof that being one of the last available men on the planet can actually work!”

  The guy with the big chin on the other network wasn’t nearly as harsh. Here I thought people who get their fifteen minutes of fame are supposed to be able to enjoy the ride.

  “Yes, but it’s only a matter of time before he messes this up as well,” Mom contributes. Absolutely no bitterness there. My luck with the females in this room is limited to Stacy and we’re just doing “okay” at the moment.

  I feel the heat on my face, but I work through it and just keep eating. Looking at Mr. Mitchell, I ask, “So what was Stacy like as a child?”

  “Very happy and mischievous,” he answers. “She had a way of doing things that made it impossible to stay upset with her. I just wish Hannah and Nikolai were able to be here this evening.”

  Somehow I doubted Stacy’s siblings would help the already charged atmosphere, but as an only child, I couldn’t be sure.

  Dad tries to get a thought in. “Calvin here was a real pistol, always taking things apart so he could see how they worked. I used to go to yard sales just to buy broken electronics so he’d stay away from the vacuum cleaner and the VCR.”

  “So you’re saying he had a pattern of disregarding other people’s possessions?” Ophelia comments.

  “Mother,” Stacy says in an emotionless tone. “Your disapproval is duly noted, but this is dinner and not an inquisition.”

  I force a smile and offer, “If you’ve got an inkblot test, I’d be happy to take it after dinner. It would probably be more fun than Pictionary.”

  If she actually took me up on it, I’d have to tell her that the first card looks like her daughter’s vagina. That would go over well.

  “Are you trying to be clever, Mr. Stringel? If so, you’re failing.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Ma’am. I’m just trying to get through the night without any major incidents. Nothing I can do or say tonight will change your opinion of me. I’m something of an acquired taste. My decisions were bad, but if you’re looking for me to apologize for them,” I pause for effect before concluding, “you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “I see,” she says, conceding. “Perhaps we should discuss something else. I’ve heard Promethia is moving forward with their combined solar and wind initiative in California and they’re going to absorb the costs of any budget overruns. Yet another instance of generosity from Lazarus.”

  I give her credit. She does go for the throat. “I’m sure the profits from his military robotics division will offset any potential loss for the shareholders of his company.”

  Of course, I could counter her argument by saying that Ultraweapon’s one “bad” decision caused the bug invasion and in addition to all the blood on his hands by virtue of his military hardware that he’s also at least partially responsible for roughly a half a billion dead people worldwide. But, it’s all good because some tree huggers are happy! What do I know?

  The rest of the meal continues on the same theme. Mrs. Mitchell looks for avenues to needle me while her husband does his level best to recuse himself from the festivities. Mom joins in at odd intervals to emphasize how she can’t trust me anymore after I’ve made her bitter. Dad eventually surrenders and stops trying to offer anything helpful about me. He’s outmatched by this crowd and stabs at his entrée and dessert with disinterest. For her part, Stacy stands by me, but I’m not certain whether it is for me or to spite her mom. I do my best to keep things civil, but I’m almost glad the two mothers came with their mental pitchforks. I don’t mind people being angry or disappointed by me. It’s when people are being too damn nice that I get uncomfortable.

  Good times. I just love ‘em. I should have gone on a riot patrol instead. At least then, I would have been able to knock a few heads around or tear gas a group of people just because I can.

  • • •

  Riding the hoversled back to MountOlympus, Stacy says, “I�
�d expected my mom to be on her worst behavior. I’m sorry that turned out so badly. Our dates don’t seem to be going all that well so far.”

  “There was no bloodshed, so it wasn’t that bad,” I say dismissing the evening. “I’m guessing you didn’t enjoy yourself.”

  “Not really,” she answers. “Did you?”

  “It was a date with you. I’m not complaining.”

  “That’s sweet,” Stacy says. I don’t tell her that I’ve had that line ready for the past eight hours. I didn’t need any kind of precognition to know how the evening was going to turn out.

  “Thanks. Your parents weren’t going to like me. You’ve got a pretty good idea what mine think of me. Now we have an excuse for not doing that again for at least six months. How about our next date we just take a boat out on the Chesapeake Bay and get away from the photographers, the parents, the other superheroes, and everything else? Do you like to fish?”

  With her driving, I can’t see her face, but she says, “No, but I like relaxing in the sun. It’s funny. I almost didn’t go on that cruise in the Mediterranean. My parents were supposed to take me to Australia instead.”

  I hadn’t heard this story before. “What happened?”

  “Some legislation was put on hold in a committee in Congress. Mom cancelled to go do her lobby thing and Dad didn’t want to go without her. So, I managed to get on that yacht at the last minute. Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I didn’t make it. Would they have still taken me from wherever I was or would somebody else be Aphrodite? What about you, Cal? Suppose Promethia never came after you with that no compete clause. Would you have been happy at Ubertex?”

  “I used to think I would, but now I’m not so sure. I was an arrogant sonnuvabitch. I’d have probably stayed there a year and looked for the next big raise. Either way, it didn’t happen. That’s for the best. Otherwise the bugs might not have gotten stopped. I don’t have any regrets. You in a hurry to get back?”

  “Not particularly. My shift in the chair doesn’t start for another four or five hours. If I’m late, Mather can just deal with it.”

  I don’t have an issue with her sticking it to that rat bastard. “Why don’t you land on one of the rooftops? We’ll just hang out and watch the stars.”

  “Last time I did that, a group of Rigellians landed.”

  “Were they trying to take over the planet?”

  “No, just bounty hunters looking for Gravmatar.”

  “Wrong continent.”

  “I didn’t say they were good bounty hunters,” she responds and laughs while landing on an apartment building.

  Looking out over the DC suburbs, I get my hopes up that something can be salvaged out of this train wreck of a night. For thirty seconds, it seems like it just might happen. Then, the wind shifts direction.

  Stacy coughs a little and my eyes tear up. The stench is overwhelming.

  She finishes and says, “I hope they start picking up the trash soon.”

  “Yeah, that’d be a nice start. I’m guessing the GulfCoast is in even worse shape.”

  “Did we ever go to a junkyard?” Stacy asks out of the blue.

  “That was my first base. It was destroyed. Are you getting some memories back?”

  “Just a flash. Maybe it was the smell that reminded me of it. Was it a dive?”

  I get over the unintended insult and admit, “Actually it was better than my other base.”

  • • •

  One month later, after a quick stop by my secret lair – I upgraded it since I’m supposed to be “one of them” now and hideouts are for criminals – to pick up some supplies, I’m passing the outskirts of New Orleans and in sight of the Gulf Coast Guardians’ headquarters. Last time I was here, I didn’t have time for sightseeing. I was just here to steal … liberate their jet and lead the attack on DC.

  I think I’ve said it before, but I always looked down on the GCGs. Some of the solo heroes down this way command more respect. It was the last of the Guardian franchises to be established and it shows. The fact that this team was essentially mothballed during the crisis with just a couple of heroes left to lend a hand while everyone else was pulled to the East and West Coast teams probably won’t be forgotten anytime soon by the region.

  But now, we’re “reopening.” I’m sure they’re waiting with open arms. Open palms is probably more like it.

  WhirlWendy wants to turn it all around and show everyone that she can be a leader. Good luck to her. I don’t intend to mail in my performance, but I’m not jumping for joy and looking to make an impact just yet.

  The mansion is a converted high school that was shuttered in the late seventies, used by the National Guard as an armory in the mid eighties and occupied by the GulfCoast team in the late nineties. Warm and friendly are not words used to describe this place. The chain link fence topped with barbed wire is knocked down in places and still hasn’t been put back up. Several windows look like they were busted out, probably by looters. My sensor array spots four Type A’s walking inside the perimeter. Yeah, like those will stop anyone!

  Frankly, I’m in a bad mood. My relationship with Stacy is stuck in neutral. Other than the occasional flash of a memory, she still hasn’t been able to reconnect the dots. My date on the bay ended up being spoiled by cloudy skies and some industrious photographers in a rented helicopter, who were tipped off by the place we rented the boat from. Stacy wasn’t impressed when I started suiting up to chase them off. The picture of me flipping them off looked nice on the three heavily trafficked websites that bought it.

  “Cleared for landing on the helipad. Boss lady wants everyone in the briefing room,” José, or one of his clones informs me. He sounds bored. I can’t say I blame him.

  The only good thing about the response to this crisis is that it’s making everyone forget how badly everyone flubbed it during Katrina. The bugs relocated most of the populace, which was why I liked it during the early days of the invasion. Obviously, the bugs didn’t want to build in places that were technically below sea level. Maybe they were onto something.

  The helipad is on the roof of the main building. Both helicopters are missing. I look over at the airstrip that was built where the football field once might have been. The main hanger is still half-collapsed from my last visit here and the fight with the few active robots that tried to prevent our little grand theft airliner. The place needs some work. Hopefully, Wendy will let me put in some gun emplacements and replace those tired ass Type A robots with some less tired ass Type B robots that I might be able to locate if there are any left in those other bunkers that used to belong to the Evil Overlord.

  I leave my belongings in the cargo elevator and walk toward the conference room. “Time to make nice and play well with others,” I say to no one in particular.

  The door opens and I feel like it’s the first day of school. The table is rectangular with a view of the digital map of New Orleans and the surrounding area on the plasma screen.

  “Mechanical,” Wendy greets me. “I’m glad you’re here. We’re already up to our necks in problems. You and I are the only two heroes that fly. The Navy has one of their USNS ships coming in this morning. They can’t pull pier side. There is nowhere to put them even without the rioters. Their helicopters are down with engine problems. Until they’re back online and the pier situation is under control, we’re going to need you to unload it and fly the pallets into the warehouse. José prime and two of his clones will hold down the fort and the rest of the team will be there to provide security at the distribution center.”

  I look around and see casual indifference from Chain Charmer. His main weapons are six magical chains of various lengths wrapped around his body. Occasionally they rustle and the ends rise, giving the appearance that they are alive. He uses them like extensions of his arms and can use them to propel himself around and encircle his enemies. Charmer is shorter than me, with jet black hair and no shave anytime in recent history. With his normally boyish Asian loo
ks, he now reminds me of a bad guy in one of those cheap martial arts movies. He’s skinnier than I’d seen in pictures on the internet and looking kind of gaunt. There’s little doubt this is due to the death of his spouse, Grey Logger. Their wedding was televised on one of the cable channels.

  I still have my faceplate closed and nod to him. Seated to his left is Dozier. Sheila is a big, intimidating Amazonian at least six foot six and the only hero to return from the previous lineup. It’s probably just as well. I didn’t have nearly the level of interaction with her as I did with some of the others. The bags under her eyes make me wonder when the last time the blonde got any sleep.

  Five of the six José’s are in the room. The other one must be on monitor duty. That’s got to be depressing! Does he get six votes or just one when we have to decide on something?

  Between a pair of clones is Anemone, a Manglermal created in Doc Mangler’s lab. Old Doc had himself a super soldier program funded through DARPA turning volunteers into hybrids with increased strength, speed, and other benefits. I wouldn’t have minded giving it a whirl, but it turned out that there was a sixty percent mortality rate among the volunteers and the reversal process never did quite reach the production phase. The Doctor was able to successfully bury those minor details for a brief time, but eventually he lost his big fat Uncle Sam contract and was forced to go into hiding. The Improved Humans Program was phased out and replaced with the automated soldier project headed up by Promethia and other competitors.

  It didn’t stop Mangler. If anything, his bottom line improved once he hit the black market. The criminal underworld didn’t really care as much about their foot soldiers. It was one of those “can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs” things.

  Anemone’s dark skin secretes a powerful paralytic and, according to Wendy, was one of the few that the bugs couldn’t get at because of that fact. Supposedly, the Jamaican gangbanger hid out on a derelict oil platform off the coast of Mexico until the threat was eliminated.

  He wears a protective suit that collects his juice and allows him to spray it in a pressurized mist or stream. The downside is that his dates have to wear these full body condom things or get off on being paralyzed. From what I understand, it’s not pretty. The upside is that he’s a natural – if that’s the right word – at crowd control! He’s working off three grand larceny convictions and numerous lesser offenses – criminals of the world unite!