The Lavender Menace

by Tom Cardamone

  “Well,” Conduit answers. “There was this alien spaceship that had crashed, carrying a member of a force of galactic guardians. I came across the crash and went to help, but there was nothing I could do. He was dying.”

  “He gave me these Infinity Bands,” Conduit gestures to the glowing blue bands that he wears on his wrists, “and with his dying breath, urged me to use them to defend the powerless and mete out justice.”

  “And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since.”

  The Knights Nefarious

  Rod M. Santos

  Rod M. Santos was born in Manila, raised in the Bronx, and is currently lost in Yonkers. His work fluctuates between dark and lighthearted fantasy with frequent stops throughout the speculative continuum. His stories have appeared in Icarus magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Cinema Spec, Myths and Magic, and Skulls and Crossbones: Tales of Women Pirates. In 2008, he garnered an honorable mention in the Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror (Datlow, Link, and Grant) for his story “In Earthen Vessels” (Philippine Speculative Fiction, Vol. 3).

  Breaking into the Second Wind Nursing Home was easier than Muse expected.

  An old woman sat up in her bed, eyes widening with each blink. “Hello, dear. Is it time for my meds?”

  Muse was impressed—the sight of a man in a hematite half-mask and cobalt blue spandex hadn’t made her scream. He pulled up a chair. “I’m just here to talk.”

  He could, alternatively, have gone to a bar or park bench or anywhere with people willing to engage in conversation. But he remembered how lonely his grandparents had been when they were alive, and thought to give back a little… while getting what he needed, of course.

  The old lady looked at the back of her wrist. “Someone’s stolen my watch! I bet it’s that hag, Janet, across the hall. She huffs Ben Gay when she thinks no one’s looking.”

  Muse spoke soothingly. “No, no, your watch is on the nightstand. It’s a little after midnight.”

  She nodded absently while Muse laid a gentle hand on her arm and activated his powers. Tingling warmth passed from his fingertips into her body, travelling upward to fill the wellspring of her mind. For the millionth time, he regretted that he couldn’t use his powers on himself.

  Her sudden smile added wrinkles to her face. “What’s on your mind, dear?”

  “My friend’s thirtieth birthday is next month—well, more of a lifelong crush than a friend—and I’m not sure what to get.”

  “Well, what does she like?”

  Muse didn’t bother correcting her reflexive choice of pronoun. “That’s the problem. My friend doesn’t really like much.” Which was a nice way to say that he hated everything.

  “Ooh, I have an idea,” the old woman said. “What does she give other people for their birthdays? Usually you can tell what a person wants by the kind of gifts they give.”

  This made sense, but Dr. Schadenfreude was not known for his generosity. “He’s not the gift-giving kind. More like the ‘I will detonate a doomsday bomb unless all world governments bow before me’ kind.”

  The old woman laughed. “Well there you go, just get them to bow to your friend.” She paused, her brows furrowed, head bent. Muse waited patiently, until she started snoring.

  “Ma’am?”

  The woman woke and continued as though there had been no break in their dialogue. “Sometimes the best way to handle a problem is from the opposite direction. That’s what my husband, Lord-rest-his-soul, used to say. If you can’t give her what she likes, then take away what she doesn’t.”

  Muse rubbed his chin. That list ran as long as a ski slope. He had known Dr. Schadenfreude since junior high, a simpler time when Muse was just Malcolm and Dr. Schadenfreude was just Edward. Even then, there had been no shortage of complaints: cafeteria food (gray lasagna was a staple), dress codes (“neckties are nooses”), and, of course, the bullies that plagued their teenage years. The list had only lengthened with time. But after a moment’s consideration, Muse realized what topped all else.

  Captain Stratagem. Defender of the mundane, he of super strength, lightning intellect, laser eyes, and tireless ego.

  “He has a nemesis,” Muse said.

  The old lady patted his hand. “So why don’t you just rub him out, dear?”

  “This nemesis is… formidable. His mind’s like a computer, with a database of all known super vill—I mean super-powered folk. He always wins because he’s studied every known variable.”

  “Well, then you just keep surprising him. After all, birthdays are supposed to be full of surprise.”

  Overload him with surprises? Even so, the odds of success weren’t promising.

  And yet… he imagined presenting the hero, bound and helpless… the look on Dr. Schadenfreude’s face…

  Muse jumped up from his chair. “You’ve been very helpful. Maybe when it’s all over,”—if I survive–”I’ll come back and tell you about it.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

  “Oh, no, dear,” she said brightly. “Never on the first date.”

  The word went out, to every sleazy bar, back alley, sewer, and Tea Party convention:

  Super villains wanted.

  But not just any villains. Muse needed unknowns, those who had never made headlines or were only starting their careers. Criminals who lurked far beneath Captain Stratagem’s radar.

  For audition space, Muse broke into the now defunct Jean-Paul Sartre museum. The building had been closed down for safety violations when visitors could find no exits.

  The interview room was actually a backstage dressing room. The wall painting behind Muse displayed Don Quixote charging against a tilted windmill whose top was a lighthouse beacon. A single smiling moth circled it. Muse didn’t bother trying to interpret it, but he thought the lighthouse was handsomely painted.

  He scanned the list of applicant names and sighed at the selection. Captain Kookaburra? Dr. Oblivious? The Spinster?

  The first applicant walked through the door—literally—passing through like a wraith. A sweet sugary scent perked Muse’s appetite.

  In a thick accent, like Vincent Price playing a matador, the man announced, “I am El Fantasma que Sangra.”

  Muse rummaged through post-traumatic flashbacks of high school Spanish. “The fantasy who sings?” True, the man had a lithe physique and a handsome enough face—at least what could be seen behind his Zorro-esque mask—but it rang a bit egotistical to call oneself a fantasy.

  The man gritted his teeth. “The Ghost who bleeds.”

  “Much scarier,” said Muse. “But what do you do exactly?”

  He demon­strated by ooz­ing red through his cos­tume. “A psy­cho­log­i­cal tac­tic to unnerve the enemy. In real­ity, noth­ing can hurt me, for noth­ing can touch me.” The sweet sugary scent filled the room more strongly.

  “Why do I smell strawberry jam?” Not that Muse minded; he loved strawberries and everything that had them as an ingredient.

  “It is blood, Señor Muse. I assure you. It would be an honor to serve on your team.”

  The last words sounded sincere, but Muse was on guard against flattery. “Gracias. Please wait in the auditorium for my final decision.” The man bowed and disappeared through the door.

  Heavy, clanging footsteps heralded the next applicant. Titanium armor covered him from head to heel, power servos revving menacingly as he walked. He’d barely stepped into the room before proclaiming in a buzzsaw voice: “I am not a robot.”

  Muse looked at the list of applicants and nodded. “I see you call yourself ‘Armored Suit Man’–”

  “Yes! Yes, that is what I am! A man. In an armored suit. Not a robot.”

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  Glasteel eyes whirled, while an oval LED at his chest beeped and blinked. “I was manufactured circa
2051, before my lab-crèche exploded hurtling me back through time.”

  “Hmmmm.” Muse tapped his fingers on the table. “And your powers?”

  “Accessing database, please hold,” he said. After a pause: “Flight. Ability to press ten tons, extreme durability. Assorted arsenal, including lasers and flamethrower. Built-in GPS.”

  Useful. Strength and fortitude would definitely be needed against Stratagem. It may have been premature, but Muse made a decision. “I’d like to welcome you to the team.”

  “Fine,” sputtered Armored Suit Man. “If that’s your attitude, just because I look like a robot—which makes you a bigot—not that robots can help the way they were made—then you can take this job–”

  “I said, ‘Welcome to the team.’”

  “Computing.” A sound like a drunken fax machine echoed in the room. Then, “Thank you. I will make you proud.”

  Before the metallic footsteps faded, Muse was already having second thoughts.

  The next few candidates proved less than stellar—a satanic mime, a lady who called herself the Butterfly Whisperer, among others. Muse wrote big X’s next to all their names.

  The following applicant entered whistling Puff the Magic Dragon. Middle-aged, a few pounds shy of portly, thick brambly beard to offset a balding pate. He wore a tan trench coat—with no hint of shirt or pants underneath. Muse sighed and rested his chin on steepled fingers. “Before we start, you understand that exhibitionism is not a power?”

  The man grinned and shrugged. “Depends what’s on exhibit.”

  Muse hoped he wouldn’t need an eye-scrub after this. “A work of art, I’m sure.”

  “Because I dig your groovy vibe, I’ll let that slide. From the looks of those other dudes out there, I’m guessing I’m the only one here that’s done hard time. Three months. Indecent exposure.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t say concealed weapon.”

  The man snickered. When asked about his powers, he said, “Name should give you a clue.”

  Muse glanced at the list. “Flash Forward?”

  “Time for show and tell.”

  Before Muse could avert his eyes, the man threw open his trench coat with practiced ease. Three impressions assaulted Muse: wanton, hirsute, and jelly-baby.

  Then something weird happened.

  Light flickered across the man’s body, skin like a movie screen. Kaleidoscopic visions shimmered like a first class acid trip. Images leapt off, more striking than any 3D movie because they incorporated all the senses. In one scene Muse saw himself walking on a Peruvian beach, arm in arm with a handsome, somehow familiar stranger. A second image showed Dr. Schadenfreude, face contorted in anger, screaming at… him? A third vision nearly overwhelmed Muse: he was alone, fleeing through thick vegetation from something—someone—far more powerful than he.

  Mercifully, Flash Forward closed his coat. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to awe you so much.”

  Muse loosened his death grip on the table’s edge. “What was… that?”

  “Your future. Likely parts, anyway.”

  Muse’s mind continued to spin. “How reliable are the visions? And when does the vertigo stop?”

  “It’s major mojo. Years ago, I flashed a grumpy, old gypsy woman. She said she’d make me truly revealing, but no one would care about my body because they’d see more important stuff instead. It stings, you know? People not seeing you for yourself.”

  “You can’t just turn it off?”

  “Nope, it’s in my skin. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. One thing you should know though. The things you saw—could be years from now, so don’t lose too much sleep, capeesh?”

  “I w-won’t,” Muse said, still frazzled. Dr. Schadenfreude mad at him? Perhaps his friend was just having one of his cranky days. Muse hardly noticed when Flash Forward excused himself out.

  A young Asian man wearing a brown bunny suit hopped into the room. He looked around, tentatively.

  “So… would you like to tell me about yourself?” Muse asked.

  “I was bitten by a radioactive chocolate bunny.”

  “A chocolate bunny? But they don’t have teeth.”

  The man paled, his reply a choked whisper. “Radioactive ones do.”

  “Ah, and can you tell me why you’re here today?”

  “My therapist said to be more sociable. Join groups.”

  Muse was still feeling sour from Flash Forward’s visions. “So… what’s your power? Melt in the sun? Have your ears bitten off?”

  “I create chocolate bunnies. The regular kind, not radioactive ones.”

  “Naturally.” Muse tried to imagine some possible utility for the power. Fending off starvation, perhaps. “Well, thank you for coming today. I don’t want to waste any more of your time, so–”

  The man thrust his hand out and a dark blur bulleted from his palm at supersonic speed. A podium near Muse exploded. Sawdust and the scent of chocolate filled the air.

  “Ahhhh,” said Muse.

  Chocolate Bunny Boy nodded, and then hopped out the door. Muse drew a smiley face next to the applicant’s name.

  A short parade of colorful but useless candidates followed. Eventually, thankfully, the last applicant entered.

  Light slid from beneath the door, and Muse sat at attention. When the man came in, Muse had to remind himself it was impolite to drool. A silver-lined toga swathed the applicant’s chiseled physique. A laurel of ivy crowned luxuriant brown hair.

  “W-welcome,” Muse said. “Would you like to sit down?” Or stay standing. Perhaps turn around a few times, then touch your toes. Muse noticed that the man was not on the list. “May I ask your name?”

  “I? I am Robigus. I am a Roman god.”

  Undeniably. “And why are you interested in joining a team, Robigus?”

  “I’m immortal. I’m bored.”

  “Ah, well, I’ll definitely do my best to keep things exciting. What sort of abilities do you have?”

  The god showed his first sign of hesitance. “I’m… a protector.”

  “And what do you protect?”

  He scratched his nose, mumbling behind his hand. Muse was certain he heard wrong. “Did you say ‘grain’?”

  “Yes. My favorite crop is corn. A pity the Empire never grew it.”

  “Corn? As in ‘on the cob’?”

  “Yes,” Robigus said, more loudly.

  “What do you protect it against?”

  “Mostly diseases, but also weevils, aphids, and vagabonds. Anything really.”

  “Orville Redenbacher?” Muse quipped.

  The lights of the room suddenly flickered, and the temperature plunged twenty degrees. Robigus’s face twisted with rage. “Never again will you utter that name in my presence!”

  Muse swallowed and shrank back. Some part of his mind wondered how Captain Stratagem would cope against this level of fury.

  “My apologies. And my sincere gratitude for coming today. If you’d like to take a seat in the auditorium, I’ll be out shortly.”

  Muse’s gaze followed the god as he left, admiring the view. He wasn’t entirely sure how a deity of corn would help, but at the very least he would be good for morale.

  The applicants fidgeted in their chairs as Muse took the stage. The final roster had been easy to pick, and after thanking all for attending, he called out the names of Robigus, Chocolate Bunny Boy, Flash Forward, Armored Suit Man, and El Fantasma que Sangra.

  Grumbling rose immediately. One reject jumped up. “You will rue the day you denied me! So swears the Numerologist!” Muse dismissed the threat. The man’s sole power was to guess what number you were thinking.

  “Those who were chosen, please come up.” The five super villains gathered as the rest shuffled out the exit with mutters and rai
sed shaking fists.

  A large folding table had been set up on stage. Not exactly the war room in Dr. Schadenfreude’s subterranean fortress, but it would serve.

  “So what’s our first mission?” asked El Fantasma.

  “We could knock off a liquor store,” Flash Forward suggested.

  Armored Suit Man’s chest light blinked. “Or pillage Best Buy.”

  “Or plant corn,” Robigus said, oblivious to the confused stares of the others. When he finally noticed, he flexed his chest muscles at them.

  Muse shook his head. “I’ve already decided our first undertaking. We’re going after Captain Stratagem.”

  Silence fell over the group.

  “Dude, undertaking is right,” Flash Forward said. “As in undertakers, who we’ll need after the fight.”

  Chocolate Bunny Boy raised his hand. “My therapist told me suicide is permanent and that things do get better if one stays positive–”

  Muse glared. “This isn’t suicide.”

  Gears whirred from Armored Suit Man’s direction. “My databanks indicate Captain Stratagem has bested such foes as Hades, King Catastrophe, and the entire Venutian space armada.”

  “Only because he’d studied their powers and tactics. He’ll have no clue what we’re capable of.”

  “With all due respect, Señor,” El Fantasma said. “We don’t know what we’re capable of.”

  Muse had had enough. “I know I didn’t pick a bunch of cowards. And I don’t think any of you signed on to rob lemonade stands. We’re going to make history by taking down one of the most prominent heroes of all time. The decision has been made, done, finito. If the thought of fighting him makes you uneasy, you can go home now.”

  When nobody moved, Muse restrained a sigh of relief. “Good. And don’t worry. We’ll have at least a week to learn each other’s powers and practice attacking in concert–”

  “We must attack tomorrow,” Robigus announced.

  Everyone’s head turned. Dr. Schadenfreude would have fumed at the interruption, but Muse was too taken aback. “Why tomorrow?”