The Lavender Menace
Page 1
The Lavender Menace: Tales of Queer Villainy!
Edited by Tom Cardamone
Book design by Charles “Zan” Christensen
“The Ice King,” by Tom Cardamone, was previously published as “The Ice King Cometh” in Unmasked II” by Starbooks Press, 2010.
“The Origin of the Fiend,” by Hal Duncan, was previously published in Icarus, The Magazine of Gay Speculative Fiction, issue #14, 2012.
The stories in this volume are ©2013 the respective authors. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author, except for short excerpts for the purpose of review where appropriate credit is given. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The Lavender Menace: Tales of Queer Villainy!
ISBN: 978-1-9387202-3-9
To Leo,
my heroic villain,
my villainous hero.
—Tom
-this thing of darkness I
Acknowledge mine.
—Shakespeare,
The Tempest
Introduction
Tom Cardamone
Our bikes dropped on the front yard, more dirt than grass, as we bolted onto the sagging porch to rifle through my best friend’s comic book collection. We were in elementary school but old enough to have some freedoms and bold enough to taste and test their boundaries: one was riding our bikes to the limit (the limit being major highways), the other getting our hands on any comics we could find. This trip was special because it was my first sampling of another’s accumulated knowledge. We were building personal libraries, developing truths and secrets and my friend was about to share one of his: a dog-eared issue of The Uncanny X-Men, issue 120. Their plane crashes in Canada. Aliens in a hostile land, their complexities share the same genesis: they were born this way.
He was proud to introduce me to this new title to which I was eminently addicted. The attraction was primal—I was a neophyte at the dawn of a post-nuclear mythology, new, wet and full of fission. Comic books were maps with which I ran the cosmos and rushed the future and the only family tree I ever bothered to climb was my own imagined lineage of mutants. Call it escapism and I’d wholeheartedly agree. I escaped with relish. What were my alternatives? This was the early 80’s: the era of Reagan and caviler Cold War rhetoric. I was obsessed with Nostradamus, the coming nuclear winter and studied any and all Mad Max VHS cinematic scenarios I could get my hands on for survival tips. All I was able to discern about being gay was categorized as either a “phase” or a “disease.” As a comic book fan, I also read the morning newspaper (and get this, the soon-to-cease evening edition, which was worthwhile as it had a whole set of different comic strips), trying to pull as much mystery and adventure from “The Phantom” as I could while I equally coveted the science fiction and horror movie ads (the “R” rated films were especially alluring forbidden fruit). It was at the breakfast table, sharing the paper with my family that I first read about “gay cancer.” AIDS darkened the back pages only, with a supple subtext of sin. Fast forward to now: why gay super villains?
Because my closeted-self didn’t see what the big deal was with the effeminate serial killer in The Silence of the Lambs. Even hiding in the corner of my soul, I possessed enough awareness to know that demanding only positive portrayals of gays was ludicrous. Sure, after decades of negative cinematic stereotypes, enough is enough. But not with this film. Here, the villain just happened to be gay. There was no pigeonholing –his sexuality was an accoutrement and not the cause of malevolence –and irony of ironies, Hannibal Lecter proved to be the intellectual dandy of the decade. Queer kids identify with the monsters in the movies, empowered outcasts, bogeymen bursting out of the closet; villains are cool. They wear their shadows well and if you’re going to be expelled into the darkness, you might as well flaunt it.
Now, how did I go about decorating this Hall of Doom? I stayed close to home and queried authors I knew (Lee Thomas and Rod Santos, and Rod introduced me to Damon Shaw), and then I asked Lethe publisher, Steve Berman, if he had come across any likely lads while editing his magazine, Icarus (Jeffrey Ricker, Stellen Thorne and ‘Nathan Burgoine), and he’d recently published a novel, Queeroes, by Steven Bereznai, so naturally I reached out to him. I also contacted writers I’d read (Hal Duncan and Marshall Moore). I’ve published a few stories featuring gay villains and heroes, and in reviewing the table of contents of one such publication, Unmasked II (featuring a version of my own story here, The Ice King), thought fellow contributor Jamie Freeman would fit right in. Other formidable foes were found online. Charles “Zan” Christensen, and Matt Fagan had profiles on prismcomics.org, a fantastic resource for queer comics and proof that putting yourself out there can catch an editor’s eye.
That all of the contributors to this book are gay men is no coincidence. The forum of comic books (and Dungeons and Dragons and certain video games and films, those shared imaginative universes kids live and adults fetishize) among pre- and early-adolescent boys was probably the last time we were on completely equal footing with our straight friends while maintaining an enthused discourse. The emerging erotic energy that would propel us in opposing directions had yet to surface, and for some it would deepen our commitment to the cult of outcasts, that colorful and dangerous mutant menagerie. The boys in the majority grew into to a world that was made for them, reflected them, greeted them with opportunities mostly available to all, just that for them it was reflexive (cue the Bowie song, Boys Keeping Swinging, with the insurmountable lyric, boys always work it out). Thus our shared mythologies developed starkly different meanings.
We can’t just be heroes and victims—that would create a fictitious reality, one where we are more vigilant in our denials than in our quest for equality. Gays can be just as bad as the bad guys, and denying that weakens our ability to deal with the real world. I was lucky enough as a kid to find something to hold onto, but there wasn’t any way to share it. So in a small way, this book corrects that. And it also recognizes that what we sometimes share, we do so masked, in the dark, at the tip of a knife, and though the characters here are queer, caped or clawed—their actions are undeniably human.
Light and Dark
Damon Shaw
Damon Shaw lives in the Canary Isles, fifty miles off the African Coast. He has sold stories to Daily Science Fiction, Flash Fiction Online, AE, and Bull Spec. He also has stories in several Lethe Press anthologies. Follow him at damonshaw.livejournal.com. He wrote “Light and Dark” in Autumn 2010 when his partner, Angel was gravely ill with cancer. Angel passed away in January 2011. Damon would like to dedicate this story to him.
“Who is the fairest?” Armeggon tucked in his bat-wings and dropped into a cumulus cloud.
Somewhere high above the suburbs of London, Mirror clutched his master’s broad back and wrapped his legs tighter around Armeggon’s waist. He closed his eyes. It didn’t help. “While admiring your agility,” he said, “your superior musculature, stamina and cunning, I have to say Lightnore is still the ladies’ favourite.”
Armeggon grunted. He spread his wings and jerked to a stop within the grey cloud. “And the gents’?”
“Um, them too, sir.”
“What, even with his black eye?”
“I cannot lie,” said Mirror. “It makes him more butch, more battered, less–”
“Bugger,” said Armeggon. “Won’t I ever be fairer before the end?”
He sounded so wistful. Mirror relaxed his grip and patted him on the shoulder.
“It might
not end tonight, sir.”
“Everything has led up to this,” said Armeggon. “Only he and I remain.”
“I’m here, sir.”
“Yes, Mirror mine.” The Dark One laid a metal clawed hand on Mirror’s own. “But you are witness, not participant. Tool, not user.”
Mirror nodded. Part of him wished he was witnessing from further away, from a bunker say, deep underground. He could always communicate his super-knowledge by mobile. But his gift brought pleasures, too. Clutching the Dark One’s muscular back, his cheek pressed against Armeggon’s neck, while Lightnore’s eyes sent silver beams through the clouds around them, there was nowhere he would rather be.
The cloud lit up for a moment, sprays of droplets glistening like diamond dust. Mirror held his breath, hoping the beam would pass on, but instead it brightened.
“Curses, he has found me. Hold on, my Mirror.” The Dark One wrapped his bat-wings about them as a shield, and they plummeted.
Mirror inhaled the smoky musk of his master as the darkness brightened and Lightnore approached. He gripped tighter, praying the Lord of Light’s impact would fall on Armeggon and not himself. Out of all the henchmen, only Mirror survived. He had not dared ask himself why. Lightnore smashed into them at the speed of a flying bullet. Perhaps only the smallest fingertip grazed his leg, but Mirror heard bones snap, felt a sudden deadness—an aching, hissing rush that promised agony to come. He heard Armeggon grunt, and lost his grip as they spun away from the blow. He hit the elastic steel of the bat-wing pod, his leg doubled under him, and the pain roared up from his shattered shin-bone like a red train—crushing him into a dark place, where someone screamed a lot, and blows rained against the Dark Lord’s shield-wings like thunder. There came an impact greater than any other, perhaps they hit the ground, and Mirror shattered into unconsciousness.
He woke alone, on a ledge of a ruined skyscraper in the centre of London’s Docklands. He was healed, of course. These days Armeggon could do that kind of trick with a twitch of one immaculate eyebrow. Mirror stretched his limbs, feeling a low ache that faded even as he stood. Armeggon had written, “Trafalgar Square - Keep Him There - * 3 2 1 *”, in neat letters on the ledge, probably in Mirror’s own blood. The second asterisk had extra lines radiating outwards and was much bigger than the first. What Armeggon meant by it, Mirror had no idea. He peered downwards, but the sheer face of the building offered no handholds. The brown scrawl of the Thames river bed steamed far below. Even up here, the stink was awful. Flaize, one of the last heroes, had boiled the river dry to stop Mr. Ice using it as a frozen runway for Armeggon’s flying death-ray machine. Instead, the machine smashed into Tower Bridge at supersonic speed, crushing both Flaize and Mr. Ice in a twisted mass of steel and ancient stone. Those were the days. Mirror sighed. The snag-toothed skyline and empty streets showed how far they had come since then. Most Londoners had been recruited and had fallen with their super-commanders. He doubted three thousand still scrabbled for survival in the ruins. Everything had to end.
The building trembled under his feet. Somewhere Armeggon and Lightnore fought on. With a spray of bricks and broken glass, Lightnore burst out of the face of the skyscraper, some twelve floors below. Mirror smiled. The Dark One could still pack a punch. The building shook in earnest, and Mirror felt a repeated, shuddering crash through the soles of his feet. He looked up to check the top storeys were not falling on him, then realised Armeggon had smashed his way up through the centre of the skyscraper. With a shout of power, the Dark One burst into the sunshine. A pale, daytime crescent moon hung, framed between his outstretched wings.
Mirror’s heart melted. He was glorious.
Shards of glass and office furniture fell all around. The building swayed. Mirror leapt for something, anything solid, as the ledge fell away under his feet.
“Help,” he screamed. He knew Armeggon heard, but not whether he would decide to save him yet again.
It seemed not. Mirror tumbled. Air shrieked and tore at his clothes. A chunk of plaster the size of a car was falling only a foot away. Mirror lunged, grabbed and pulled himself above it to give Armeggon a clear line of rescue. But Armeggon did not come. The ground roared up towards him. Mirror leaped from the lump of rubble, hoping to slow his fall by some minuscule amount. The chunk dwindled away. He saw it shatter—just as strong arms swept him from the air. Lightnore. His blond hair whipped in the wind. The black eye made him older, more dangerous. His jaw was clenched, his mouth bleak. Lightnore had not smiled easy since the first innocent bystander had been killed.
Mirror hung in his arms, like a barmaid rescued from a pub fire. He didn’t mind. He hardly dared breathe as the super-hero spoke his famous lines.
“You’re safe now.” His voice buzzed, warm in Mirror’s chest. He smelled of peppermint. “Where would you like to go?”
He remembered the message on the ledge. “Um… Trafalgar Square? I, ah, fancy seeing the lion statues.”
Lightnore stared at him with a look of deep, understanding pity. “As you wish.”
Mirror felt dirty, but guessed that Lightnore did that to everyone. Unlike Armeggon’s juddering wing beats, the Lord of Light soared smoothly between the pillars of black smoke rising from the ruins. They swept along the course of the Thames, the sun glinting off the scattered puddles of green water below. Mirror counted off the stumps of ruined bridges; Tower, London, Southwark… The Millennium Bridge still swung, absurdly slender over the cracked, orange river bed, but Blackfriars and Waterloo Bridge had both disappeared. Mirror couldn’t remember how, but felt guilty all the same.
All too soon, Lightnore set them down between two scarred, bronze lions, near the broken off stump of Nelson’s Column. Mirror staggered out of the hero’s arms. Well, he was here. What did Armeggon want him to do next? He turned to see Lightnore tense, ready to leap into the sky.
“Wait!”
Lightnore paused. He stood out against the background ruins like a vintage special effect. His beauty left Mirror breathless.
“Could I… Would you–”
“I’m sorry.” Lightnore’s mouth curled up but his eyes were sad. “I’m not that way inclined.”
“What? No!” Mirror’s cheeks burned. Lightnore had a tradition of kissing every woman he rescued, full on the lips. In the old days it had rained secretaries. “I meant—Could I have your autograph?”
“Do you have a pen?” asked Lightnore.
Mirror sighed. “No.”
He thought Lightnore would fly away then, but instead his broad hands fumbled at his silver power-belt.
“Here.” He unbuckled his sword and held it out. “Take this, son.”
Mirror blinked. He worked his jaw but no words emerged. His finger floated up and touched the carved hilt. A spark leaped from the white metal. Forged from meteorites, able to slice through any armour, priceless to a collector. . . Hell—priceless to anyone.
“Wow.” He took the heavy sword while the Lord of Light re-clipped his belt around his abs. “Thanks. Um, won’t you need it?”
Lightnore’s steady eyes shone, ice-blue. “I should have passed her on a long time ago,” he said. “You’ll know what to–”
A flash of light cast sudden shadows on the paving slabs around them.
Shit, thought Mirror. Three. Two. One. He dropped the sword and ducked.
Light roared soundless from the sky. Mirror clapped his arm over his eyes. His hair crisped. The back of his neck sizzled like bacon. He saw the bones of his forearm through his flesh. Then darkness. Around him, stonework cracked and boomed. Rubble spattered his back and the air filled with dust. Above the thunder of falling brickwork, a howl lifted, filling Mirror’s chest, spearing him with grief.
“My eyes!” Lightnore cried. “My eyes!”
Mirror straightened. His skin crinkled like a crisp bag. He lowered his hands, hissing at the pain. Throu
gh a haze of dust, the sun shone in a midnight blue sky. Where the daytime moon had hung, a smear of white slowly faded. Lightnore stood, powdered with cement, but sturdy and solid. Pain stretched his face into an enduring grimace. His blue eyes had turned milky and opaque. “I’m blind.”
The laughter began far away but dopplered closer, building in volume and manic glee until Armeggon landed in a thump of dust, screaming his joy to the sky. More buildings crumpled under its onslaught.
“Well done, my Mirror.” Armeggon wiped his forehead and cleared his throat. He healed Mirror’s burns with a wave of one hand. “The focus of the explosion was very tight. It would have been wasteful to miss.”
Mirror picked up Lightnore’s sword, fighting the urge to hide it behind his back. “You blew up the moon?” he asked.
“I had help of course.” Armeggon waved a hand in the air. “All those stockpiled weapons just lying around. Someone needed to use them up.”
“But how…?”
“Details, details.” Armeggon chuckled. “Tell me, Mirror mine. Who is the fairest now?”
Mirror looked from one to the other. His super-calm shivered through him like smoke, and the answer came. Lightnore may be blind but he wasn’t beaten. He vibrated with steady conviction. His white eyes gave him a tragic grandeur. This was his lowest point, but watching him, Mirror was still somehow convinced he would climb back up to a glorious victory. But Armeggon was equally charismatic. He crackled with power. He left purple after-images on Mirror’s retina. His powers had grown in recent months. He filled the taut fabric of his costume with dark purpose and his certainty thrilled Mirror to a Machiavellian future of pain and pleasure.
“It’s closer,” he said, “but he has the awww factor now.”
Armeggon’s mouth twisted. “He’s still fairest?”
“I’m afraid so.”