Blackjack Villain (2 page)

It caught him by surprise, slamming into his chest and knocking him over, pinning him long enough for me to reach him. I picked up the fridge and lifted it off his stunned and bloodied form; his eyes were filled with a mixture of rage and fear.

“Hey asshole,” I said, “Thanks for fucking up my house. Now I’m going to fuck up your face,” I said and slammed the heavy fridge down with my full strength back on him. I lifted it and pounded him once more with the shattered fridge, pulverizing the wobbly aluminum and plastic frame. Now it was my turn to rip through pieces of metal to get to him. And his turn to surprise me.

Atmosphero whipped back the remains of the refrigerator into me with his wind powers, sending me reeling a few paces. At the same time, he came to his feet and summoned a vortex of wind that spun around us, whipping up shreds and pieces of the destroyed home like a wall of metallic and wooden death.

“Time for you to learn a valuable lesson,” he said, spitting blood. Atmosphero slugged me across the face with more strength than I had imagined he had, but this was what I wanted: a standup fight.

The only problem was my body didn’t cooperate. My arms were heavy and useless, pinned to my sides and I stood there, semi-paralyzed, as he powered fist after fist into my face. I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t focus my thoughts. I could barely stand. He unleashed his full fury and the pain of each blow was intense. I staggered backwards a few steps then fell down on to my knees, receiving more and more punishment, blow after pummeling blow.

The rub is he’d get away with it because he was the hero and I was a scumbag villain.

Chapter 1

For almost two years Atmosphero had been tracking me down, following my every move. I must have made a mistake, or maybe he was casing the regular villain hang out joints, then followed me home.

Takes a special guy to motivate someone to spend so much time after you, takes a guy like me, and it might be because the first time we met, I gave him plenty of reason to be upset.

I was out for the first time as Blackjack though that once I was on the other side of the equation, listening to police scanners, trying to do something decent, trying to make a difference like some idealistic fool.

It was one of those golden LA days, almost too perfect. I should have been on a beach, drinking something cold, but I was possessed those days, eager to use my powers, hungry for action. A call came in over my police scanner, a bank robbery nearby. I’d chased down a few and never made it in time, but this one was a few blocks away, and I got there before the guys were out of the bank.

They were a rough crew, three guys wearing combat fatigues and dark masks, sporting high-caliber assault weapons. The fourth swung a large black SUV in front of his partners as they left the bank, stopping only long enough for his team to dump the bags into the open trunk and jump in for the getaway. Long enough for me to find a nice vantage point.

I was in an earlier version of my costume, all black, with a long cape slung around a shoulder mounted quiver, and an off the shelf compound bow I had barely even practiced with. And why practice, to be honest? My physical gifts made practice a formality. The real challenge was in the field. I’m a super, I’ll be fine.

I lined up the shot at their SUV as it rushed towards my position. The driver was skilled, driving fast, but not so much that the tires made any noise, nor did he drop the gear so far that the engine howled unnaturally. They were barely going ten miles over the speed limit, making my shot that much easier.

As the big black truck got closer, I released the arrow and it found its mark. My aim was perfect, but my calculations on the explosive arrowhead were way off. The truck didn’t come to a nice and clean stop, its engine dead, as I had expected. The thing actually blew twenty feet into the air, spinning backwards from the explosive momentum generated under the engine, slamming into an oncoming car and coming to a screeching halt, inverted and facing the opposite direction. The devastating explosion blew out the windows of every car and storefront within three hundred yards and several other cars swerved wildly, causing an instant traffic jam.

I must have been off at least decimal point on the Heptanitrocubane charge, because nothing was left of the front half of the smoldering SUV, and the driver and passengers were ejected out in separate directions by the severity of the charge. In a split second’s mistake, I had gone from a hero in the making to a possible murderer.

I rushed to the burning car, coming up to the first of the injured bank robbers, unconscious and covered in flames. Using my cape to wrap him up, the fires extinguished soon enough, and a cursory examination showed this fellow to be in decent shape. That wasn’t the case for the next man I reached. His body was covered in burns that had eaten through his clothing. Quivering in shock, suffering from horrible injuries, I jumped on him, trying to smother the fire, and lay him on his back. He needed immediate medical help, and I didn’t hesitate, digging into my pack for a cell phone.

Then a heavy breeze hit the area, and the temperature dropped dramatically. A caped figure flew over me, and before I could turn to see it, or cry out for help, the super raked my body with lightning, hurling me at the burning vehicle.

It was Atmosphero.

He landed as I rolled into the roaring inferno of the SUV, summoning up another powerful electric charge. But I drew an arrow and fired it without missing a beat. The concussion charge erupted only a few inches from his face, dropping him unconscious in an instant.

And there I was, surrounded by injured bank robbers, by a passed out super who saw me as the bad guy, and at my feet was a sea of green.

One of the money bags had ruptured upon flying out of the rear of the truck, some of the money landing in a pile, some of it floating in the air, like a rain shower of twenty dollar bills, and still more was now kindling for the flames surrounding the car. There must have been ten thousand dollars in the split bag, and four more bags stuffed with money lay at my feet.

* * *

Of course I took the money. I took the bags, and even stuffed several wadded handfuls of burned 20s from the spilled bag into my pockets. I’d gone out to try to help people, to try to do some good, and ended up almost killing them.

I didn’t blame Atmosphero for that. As much of a hard-headed asshole as he was, the guy saw a dude in black doing creepy shit and went to town. That’s how they are.

Now, these were a bunch of hardened criminals who tried to riddle me with bullets without even thinking about it. If not for Atmosphero, the police would have showed up, and I would’ve been a big hero, and that made no sense to me. At least one of those robbers was seriously burned, but the cops would have patted me on the back and sent me on my way. Maybe I would have gotten the keys to the city.

Was that what it was to be a hero? Was that what I wanted?

Not really. But even then, there wasn’t a seminal moment when I had the epiphany to go bad. It wasn’t like that at all. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be a villain. It was a series of small steps, each one leading you farther down the downward spiral. I doubt the real bad guys, the monsters the whole world fears, started much different than I. One mistake, then another, and before I knew it, I was the bad guy.

I’d failed out of the system. None of my gifts, intellect, or aptitude could make up for the shortcomings of the world around me. They weren’t willing to accept me; there was always a rule or an angle in place to dull my edge. High school was bullshit, full of idiots and cowards, so easily intimidated by my potential. I never studied in high school and every one of my teachers knew it. There was a very quiet push to get me chucked from the advanced placement program my senior year, but it never materialized. When that failed they decided to override my grades, not enough to fail me, but enough to keep me out of the better schools. I aced every class my senior year but ended up with a report card full of “C’s.” my first thoughts were uncharitable to say the least, but instead I sent out my college applications, my perfect SAT scores pinned to them, and included a three hour video of me disassembling and reassembling every appliance in the house. That was the hardest work I’d ever done.

Needless to say, some dean saw the talent and accepted me. College was the first time I cracked a book, mostly because I had to pay for them. There were some challenging classes, but I excelled. It took three semesters to get kicked out. The same bullshit as high school, except there was no law forcing them to keep me. That couldn’t keep me down, though. I managed to get a job, a friend of a friend needed an idea guy in his engineering lab, and I was his guy. He used the words “limitless potential.” What’s the point of limitless potential in such a limited atmosphere? Meetings led by bags of hot air whining about missed deadlines, blind to the time they were wasting. And the emails? Who would’ve thought something as simple as the freedom allowed by email could be so easily perverted into a tool chaining you to a desk? In the end they fired me rather than accept that their company had more chores than work. If they’d unshackled me, given me the money and time to work, we’d all be billionaires. Instead, they told me I wasn’t a team player, not a good fit for the working environment, and sent me on my way. The pink slip was taped to one of the walls of my lab.

I was destitute, no degree, no prospects save shady ones, and to tell the truth, the whole situation pissed me off.

One night, soon after the bank robbery debacle, I was at some dive near my East Hollywood apartment. I was drinking some Jack Daniels when this guy walked into the bar, opened up a splitting fat wallet and dropped a hundred on the bar for a few drinks for him and his date. I sat there watching him out of the corner of my eye, watching that fat wallet almost bursting out of his back pocket.

He was in his early-30s, way out of shape, wearing a suit pant two sizes too small. His watch was an Omega Seamaster Planet Ocean worth at least three grand and his girl was decked out in gold and pearls. He was about my age and had everything I didn’t have; the sweet life I lacked.

I was tempted to reach across the bar, right there in front of everyone, and shake the shit out of the guy. To take his stuff, his girl and ride off in whatever fancy car he had parked outside.

But it wasn’t that simple.

Committing a crime wasn’t that easy, especially since I had never really done it. My previous criminal act hadn’t been premeditated, a foolish decision made in a moment of weakness. Hell, I’d gone out with the idea of becoming a hero, so this was really the first real consideration I was giving the whole idea of going the other way. It was funny, I had the strength to bench press the bar and everyone in it, but I couldn’t manage the courage to do this one thing. I figured to leave before temptation got the best of me, and decided to hit the bathroom and roll out the backdoor.

But wouldn’t you know it, I was halfway done when the whale walked into the bathroom, gave me a “heya” nod and slipped into the bathroom’s only stall. I didn’t realize it, but I must’ve walked over to the door and stood there long enough to make him nervous.

“Can I help you?” he yelped from inside and repeated it again before it even registered.

I thought about tearing the door down and ripping off all his stuff. I mean, he must’ve had a few grand in that wallet. The watch alone would pay the rent for six months. I could’ve taken everything and slipped out the back door without anyone knowing anything. By the time they found him, I’d be clear across town.

It should’ve been easy for me. I mean, I had taken four bags of money from a bunch of assault weapon-armed bank robbers and dropped a hero to boot. What harm was there in jacking some kid a few thousand dollars? With that money, and the money from the bank, I could afford parts, equipment, maybe even a half-assed lab. Anything to get me on my feet again.

But something held me back. Maybe it was the same thing that had kept me from opening the bags of money that now lay hidden in my apartment. At first, I was afraid to touch them, in fear they might have dye pack. After a while, they represented something that was so easy, so available, and so frightening.

Standing in front of that stall I pondered all the alternatives and possibilities, but they all ended with me in jail.

Finally the guy opened the door with a mixture of fear and anger across his face.

“What is your problem?” he snapped.

I think I smiled because he got real worried.

“You two fags?” a third voice interrupted, before I was even able to respond, and we both turned to see a newcomer by the bathroom door. He was dressed in black leather jacket and pants, with biker boots and a dark mask concealing his face. The black leather was trimmed with orange flames and his eyes glowed with fire.

The rich guy nervously eyed me and the newcomer, taking a half-step back into the stall.

“Who are you?” he managed.

“I’m Fireblaster,” the new guy said proudly. “Give me all your shit and no one gets hurt,” he added, stretching his arms out and engaging a fire aura that encompassed him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the rich guy said.

“You’re kidding, right?” I said, taking a step closer to Fireblaster.

“Easy big guy,” the fire man said, raising his right hand at me and focusing the flames around his fist. “I don’t want to have to-” he managed, but I was on him before he could finish. I grabbed the wrist of his extended hand, pulling him towards me, and threw a savage elbow that caught him in the face. The flame aura fizzled out and he fell to the floor, unconscious.