The Rules of Supervillainy (The Supervillainy Saga Book 1) (4 page)

Something about the manner the figure carried himself, however, told me that he was more than just dumb muscle. There was an elegance to him which contrasted to the simple kidnapping scheme I’d found myself caught up in.

“Hi.” I waved, weakly.

“Be silent.” The big man picked me up and slammed me down in one of the room’s easy chairs.

“Kay,” I answered, coughing. Clearing my throat, I looked up and got my first clear look at the penthouse and my opponents.

The room was creepy and archaic enough to be a supervillain lair. The curtains were drawn across the windows and the doors were barricaded with furniture. Everything had a pseudo-Victorian feel which made the place look like it had come straight out of a Gothic comic book. Someone needed to talk to Dudley Douglas about the décor for his hotels. This one was starting to spook me and I was a bad guy.

The Typewriter’s gang, by contrast, looked rather mundane. With the exception of the hulking man dressed like a demon, none of them were even in costume. They were just a bunch of generic thugs in suits. It seemed Typewriter was too cheap to spring for theme costumes. It made me wonder how he ever expected to make it in Falconcrest City.

The Typewriter himself, at least, tried to make up for their lack of showmanship by being dressed like a proper supervillain. I’d seen a picture of him once or twice in the papers, always being dragged into the police station by the Nightwalker, but none of the photos did him justice. 

He was much, much,
much
sillier looking in person.

The aforementioned 1930s business suit wasn’t so bad. He was wearing a pleasant looking pair of black slacks, a white silk shirt, and a red vest over the front with suspenders. However, topping the outfit was a typewriter. Literally, he’d arranged for a helmet made to look like an extra-large version of his namesake. It was the most impractical thing I’d ever seen.

Still, I couldn’t complain about the man’s competence too hard since he’d gotten the drop on me. His golden cane topped with a T was more than it seemed.

“Did you pay money for that outfit?” I couldn’t help but ask. “If so, you need to ask for a refund.”

The man in the demon mask pulled back his arm and slammed me in the chest with his fist, almost causing me to pass out from the pain.

“Oomph!” I eloquently replied. It seemed my superpowers weren’t enough to make punches not hurt like hell.

“Hi-too-ho, we’ve got someone new! HA-ha-ha-ha-ha!” The Typewriter laughed, shaking as if in ecstasy. It was such a bizarre sight, I was distracted from the fact my plan to deal with the gang and rescue the girl had gone awry.

“Are you okay?” I asked, perplexed by the man’s behavior.

The Typewriter jabbed me in the gut with the end of his cane.

Fool! You didn’t realize my Power-Cane possessed a transdimensional matter disruptor and stun beam! Any and all superpowers from the Nightwalker’s intangibility to Ultragod’s invulnerability are
helpless
before its power!”

“Wow. So that’s where your entire budget went. No wonder you couldn’t afford a decent outfit.”

The man in the demon mask gave me an uppercut across the jaw, sending my head spiraling backward. If he’d hit me with anymore force, he would have knocked my head clean off.

“Ow! I need those teeth!” My mouth was bleeding. Despite the pain, I grinned. “Where the hell did you learn to be a supervillain? You look like something out of the funny papers.”

The Typewriter was so ridiculous I couldn’t take him seriously even when he was capable of killing me on a whim. Even the Typewriter’s henchmen looked confounded by his behavior. The man in the demon mask, in particular, looked as if he was embarrassed to be here.

I didn’t blame him. He had a majesty the others lacked. In a way he looked as familiar as Cindy had, back at the bank. He wasn’t one of my old high school associates, however. They had been more into Live Action Role-Play than looking like a demon-masked Mafia don.

“Silence! You are in the presence of the great and powerful Typewriter!” The flamboyant supervillain began pacing around in a circle, talking to himself. “They said I was mad, mad I tell you! Well, who is the mad one now?”

“Did he just say the ‘who’s the mad one now’ line?” I asked, stunned by the man’s complete lack of dignity. “Cloak, didn’t that go out of fashion during the Forties?”

“
I think it’s even older than that
,” Cloak replied. “
I remember encountering it in 1932. Even then, it was stale
.”

“Just checking.”

The Typewriter kicked the air and spun around, pointing at me with his cane. “Do not think you can fool my genius-level intellect. Your youthful form does not fool me, foolish man! I’d recognize that costume anywhere: you’re the
Nightwalker
!”

I rolled my eyes. “Is this going to be a running theme? I’m getting sick of being mistaken for him.”

“
Well, I was a rather important part of his costume
.”

“Shut up,” I muttered at my costume. “I’m working an angle here.”

The man in the demon mask interrupted our debate. “It is not the Nightwalker. I fought him many times.”

The Typewriter wasn’t listening. “Once I slay you, I shall be acknowledged as the greatest of all supervillains in Falconcrest City!”

“Hey!” I interrupted him, pissed off. “There’s only going to be
one
‘greatest of all supervillains’ in Falconcrest City, and that’s me!”

Everyone looked at me.

“You’re a supervillain?” the Typewriter asked, poking my stomach with the end of his cane.

“Damned straight!” I proclaimed, blood dripping down my chin. “I am
Merciless
! The supervillain without a shred of mercy!”

They all looked at me like I was out of my mind.

“
Still redundant
.”

“Oh reeaaallly?” the Typewriter asked, snorting.

“The man dressed like... whatever the hell you’re supposed to be dressed as... should not be questioning my credentials.” I turned my nose up at him. “I mean, can you even see in that thing?”

One of the mobsters beside me looked nervous. “I think I saw this guy on the news. He killed the Ice Cream Man and robbed the First National Bank.”

“Thank you!” I said, trying to think up an excuse. “Uh, I killed the Ice Cream Man because he was moseying in on my action.”

“Moseying?” The Typewriter asked.

“Oh you are
not
going to comment on my way of speaking—after your intro,” I snapped.

“He has a point,” the man in the demon mask said.

“Silence!” The Typewriter turned to me. “You may be a supervillain but you have removed one of the greats of supervillainy. For that, I sentence you
to death
!”

The man in the demon mask grabbed me by the cloak, pulling me up before wrapping his arms around my neck.

“Meep,” I said, staring.

The man in the demon mask lifted me up, intending to either strangle me or break my neck. I wasn’t sure which. Remembering I could turn intangible, I slipped out of his hands and passed through the floor.

Levitating up behind him, I became physical long enough to punch the base of his spine…only to draw my hand back in agony. The man was pure muscle, not an ounce of fat on his body.

“Ow!” I hissed, shaking my fist in the air.

“
You don’t have super-strength, remember
?”

“I remember!”

The man in the demon mask spun around and punched me, sending me flying backwards into a nearby table. Thankfully, my quasi-invulnerability seemed strong enough so it just
felt
like every bone in my body was broken.

“Farewell, Sweet Prince!” the Typewriter shouted, aiming his cane at me.

“What the hell are you on?”

I jumped to the side the moment I saw him bringing the cane around. Its brilliant beam missed me by a hair’s breadth, striking the ruined table instead. The damaged piece of furniture disappeared along with a substantial chunk of the floor, leaving a gaping hole instead.

“It is just
wrong
a doofus like the Typewriter has a weapon like that,” I grunted, trying to find cover. A couple of the business suit wearing henchmen charged at me, perhaps intending to hold me down for their boss.

The Typewriter fired again, not bothering to aim, and hit one of his henchmen instead. The man disappeared in a flash of golden light, causing the other henchmen to back away. As I struggled to find a weapon that would give me an advantage against him, I remembered I had power over fire and cold.

“Idiot,” I cursed myself.

Lifting up a hand to set the Typewriter on fire, my wrist was grabbed by the man in the demon mask who started punching me with my knuckles.

Yes, I was being forced to punch myself in the face.

Each blow felt like a mallet, making my head spin and my vision blur. I couldn’t concentrate enough to use my powers, the pain was so intense. The man in the demon mask wrapped his arm underneath my neck and his palm over my forehead. The hold was so tight he’d just have to make the barest of motions to snap my neck.

“He’s yours, Typewriter,” the man in the demon mask said. “He fought well, give him a clean death.”

I closed my eyes and focused on causing the interior of the cane to freeze over. Hopefully, the Typewriter wouldn’t notice. If this didn’t work, I was about to have the shortest supervillain career of all time.

The Typewriter aimed the cane at me a couple of times before shaking it. “Hell in a hand basket, I knew I shouldn’t have bought this from the Electrifier without a guarantee!”

“I cannot believe I’ve been reduced to this,” The man in the demon mask whispered.

It hit me who the devil-masked henchman was. “Holy crap! I know you! You’re Diabloman!”

The man in the demon mask seemed surprised, twitching a bit. “I was... once.”

“You were, like, the biggest supervillain ever!” I said, choosing to talk instead of flee. “God, I remember the fights between you and the Nightwalker in the Eighties. I was a kid but you were a real inspiration. You even managed to have a few showdowns with Ultragod and the Society of Superheroes despite having no superpowers!”

Hell, he’d started the Grim and Gritty Era of Supervillains vs. Superheroes by killing the Guitarist!

“
The Guitarist was a good man. You should be ashamed for cheering his death
.”

“
Hush you
,” I mentally said to Cloak.

“That was... a long time ago,” Diabloman responded.

“What are you doing, working for an idiot like the Typewriter?” I asked, feeling a fanboy glee at getting my ass kicked by one of the premiere supervillains of recent history.

Diabloman sounded regretful. “It is... complicated. I must kill you now.”

“How much are you getting paid?” I asked, hoping to distract him from his current line of thought.

“Twenty-thousand.” Diabloman paused from killing me. “Why?”

“You realize he’s making, like, ten million dollars off this job, right?” I said. “I’ll pay you double if you smash him and his henchmen to pieces.”

“Kill him, you magic steroid-popping buffoon!” the Typewriter shouted, flinging his golden cane against Diabloman’s head. The thing bounced against him, landing off to the side.

Diabloman tensed up; looking at the Typewriter with such hate I thought he might launch himself at him. Instead, Diabloman hoisted me up into the air and said, “I accept your offer.”

Diabloman then tossed me at the Typewriter. I was sent crashing into the garish supervillain, and the two of us spiraled to the ground. All the while, I heard Diabloman grunting and the sound of painful Typewriters from the other henchmen. There was also the sound of gunfire.

I wasn’t the best fighter in the world but even I could beat up a rail-thin idiot like the Typewriter. After punching him several times in the face, I grabbed a lamp from a nearby table and smashed it across his face.

“I think that got him,” I said. “Is he dead?”

“
No
.”

“Pity.” I got up and started looking around. Across the room, I saw Diabloman had torn into the thugs with ruthless abandon. Their corpses were spread around the room in various unpleasant poses. I saw most of them had their legs and arms broken, a few had their spines shattered.

The fact Diabloman had done this despite being armed with nothing more than his fists, highlighted what a dangerous man he was.  At the other end of the room, I saw him dusting off his hands.

“Wow, he took the ‘smash them to pieces’ thing a bit literally,” I whispered before rubbing my head. I had a blinding headache from the earlier business of facing down Diabloman. “I need to handle this guy with a deft touch.”

“
Or you could set him on fire
.”

“Because that worked out so well earlier.”

“
Point taken
.”

Diabloman was over by my side in an instant, once more lifting me up by the cape and hoisting me in the air. “If you are lying about the payment, I will break you.”

“Nope, it’s real,” I said. I was about to say something else when Diabloman doubled over, clutching his chest. Concerned, I placed my hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“No!” Diabloman swatted away my hand. “I… I am sorry. I do not like people to see me like this.”

The Typewriter started to get up behind me, reaching for his golden cane to beat me over the head. I snapped my fingers and he caught fire. The flamboyant supervillain screamed, making terrible sounds as he burned.

“Is this why you’re no longer an A-list supervillain?” I asked, ignoring the Typewriter’s plight.

Diabloman did the same, giving a short nod. “The demonic cult which raised me covered me in black magic tattoos as part of my training. The tattoos allow me to take more punishment than a normal human being and give me the strength of ten men but such power comes at a price. Once I could battle my opponents for hours but now I cannot fight for more than a few minutes before crippling pain sets in. The human body withers when exposed to such evil power.”

“Geez, that’s rough,” I was sympathetic to the mass murderer and evil mystic. “No wonder your supervillain career tanked.”

“Indeed,” Diabloman said. His voice was resigned, heavy with the burden he was carrying. “The drugs were expensive enough, wiping out my personal fortune. The treatments to keep me alive afterward? Those were even worse. Now, I am forced to trudge along as a shadow of my former self. I need to take ten pills an hour to feel anything close to normal.”

“I’m sorry.” I meant it too.

“You may want to put the Typewriter out before the apartment catches fire,” Diabloman suggested.

“Sorry,” I said, turning around and freezing the villain’s body. Walking over to Diabloman, I gave him a pat on the back. “Listen, I’m just starting out this whole supervillain thing—”

“Obviously,” Diabloman replied.

I ignored that. “I could use someone to show me the ropes. How about I throw in an extra ten thousand to your forty-thousand dollar fee as a retainer? You could be my number two and mentor!”

“
Please tell me you did not suggest to a seasoned supervillain you want to hire him as a career counselor
.”

“He’s Diabloman! The Monster from Mexico! The Genius Bruiser who can speak forty languages while throwing you just as many feet! He deserves respect!” I said to Cloak, revealing my habit of talking to him. Looking at Diabloman, I said, “There’s an explanation for why I’m talking to myself.”

I just needed to think of one.

“Your cloak is magical and sentient,” Diabloman said. “You haven’t learned to talk to it with your thoughts. Therefore, you speak to it aloud and look like a lunatic.”

“Fair enough,” I replied, giving a triumphant shake of my fist. “Glad to know we’re on the same page. So, what do you think?”

“I think you have some very strange ideas about how supervillains work,” Diabloman said. “However, it is the best offer I have heard in some time. I will share what little wisdom I’ve gained.”

“Hell, yes!” I gave a fist pump. “Where’s Miss Douglas?”

Diabloman gestured over to the bathroom, grunting as he got up from the floor. “She’s in there, with the last remaining member of the Typewriter’s gang.”

I shouted to the bathroom. “Hey! Come on out! We’re not going to kill you... probably!”

Seconds later, Cindy Wakowski walked out in a new outfit. This time she was wearing a woman’s pin-striped suit, a cute beret with a tiny typewriter on top, and a flame thrower pack.

Cindy was escorting a twenty-something, almond-eyed girl with shining black hair I presumed to be Amanda Douglas. The latter was wearing clubbing attire which was way too short and way too low for a girl her age, or maybe I was just getting old.

Amanda Douglas wasn’t beautiful but was pretty. She was also athletic-looking, being more substantial than the stick figures which passed for attractive nowadays. I suspected she either worked out or played heavy sports, not something you expected from a billionaire’s daughter.

Amanda took one look at the corpses and said, “I see that the criminals here show their usual amount of loyalty. Just so you know, when I get out of here, I’m going to hire some people to train me in how to hunt your ass down.”

“Charming,” I said, turning to Cindy. “What the
hell
are you doing here? Don’t you have tests to study for? I mean, I just saw you a few hours ago! In another supercrook’s employ!”

“I was double booked for tonight.” Cindy sniffed the air. “Anyway, I’m done with medical school. I’m shopping around for a good residency program. These jobs help pay off my enormous student loans.”

“I take it you know this woman?” Diabloman asked.

“You could say that. I let her go after killing her last employer.”

“He’s killed two in a row!” Cindy kicked the Typewriter’s still frame. “I haven’t even been paid yet!”

“Are you sure he’s dead?” I asked, looking between Cindy and the Typewriter.

Cindy responded by blasting the Typewriter’s corpse with her flame thrower. There was no movement from the figure burning on the ground. “Yep.”

I laughed.

“
That was abominable.”

I stopped laughing, still smiling. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Diabloman looked at me, a strange expression on his mask-covered face. “Did you feel anything after killing these two people?”

I thought about it, gauging how I felt about killing two people. After a few seconds, I came to terms with how I felt. “No. Is that bad?”

“It means you might have a chance of becoming a supervillain.” Diabloman pointed at my chest. “Conscience is the enemy of our profession.”

“Oh good. Your praise fills my Grinch-sized heart with spiteful glee.”

“Yay for sociopathy!” Cindy shouted, smiling like a lunatic.

I thought about that before saying, “Am I a sociopath if I only kill bad people?”

“It depends on your definition, I suppose,” Diabloman said. “Sociopath is clinically meaningless, unlike psychopath.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” I said, not at all concerned. If I was a sociopath, I’d been one for my entire life. Besides, whatever it was that allowed me to kill with impunity didn’t keep me from loving Mandy.

Amanda started to look afraid. “Oh Christ, this is bad. I’m in the hands of
actual
supervillains now.”

“You’re darn tooting. However, I’m not here to do you harm. Yet.”

“You’re not?” Amanda asked.

“Nope, sorry. I’m here to return you to your father in exchange for an insignificant part of his fortune, but a not-so insignificant amount of money to me. Cindy, you work for me now.”