Villains Pride (The Shadow Master Book 2) Page 14

  Despite the apparent lack of filth, the Golden Age reflected the prime universe of the respective era. Post-WWII was seen as an age of rebuilding and “The Greatest Generation.” Well, it was for people like me. People who knew how to manipulate the system and abuse the foolish masses.

  You see, that era seemed like it was great. But I dare you to get your oldest relative drunk and ask some probing questions. Behind closed doors, drinking and family abuse was the norm. As long as no one talked about it, it didn’t happen.

  And outside the house? Hell, it was hilarious. Middle-class families emulated the rich, keeping their wives at home, reducing themselves to a single income. Which was frankly dumb, seeing as how women worked like men in all cultures through all of history. You think baskets and blankets got woven by themselves? Candle makers, artisans, washers, and cooks? You think the farmer’s wife didn’t work?

  So, take a repressed society high on their own importance, put people like me in control of industry, and BOOM—billionaires are born. People bought everything just to keep up with their neighbors. False smiles and fake memories were the marching cry of the stank-ass, baby-booming hippie generation that followed.

  Sorry if that offends some of you. Well, no I’m not. Your generation is where Prozac, Valium, and daddy issues were born.

  Well, at least the people of this era looked decent. People dressed up to go out of the house. They wore proper clothing and didn’t look like the college freshmen girl in her pajama pants and a hoodie. Seriously, people of Wal-Mart and Target, clean yourselves up. You look horrible.

  Men with sleeveless shirts do not belong in public. Women in sweatpants and flip-flops are the reason baby Jesus cries. And my god, most of the children I see running around look like dirty urchins. Worse still are the young girls with shorts so short they come to their vaginas, whose mothers act like “sisters” rather than being a fucking parent.

  Here’s a thought: How about you set your children up for success? Hmm? Instead of shackling them to manual labor and the life of being a baby-momma, you could, I don’t know, teach them to be better than you? Teach them to strive for more than the life they’re in, to shoot for the life they want.

  I couldn’t decide which I hated more. The “Golden Age”’s imposed morality, and its secret racism, homophobia, and xenophobia. Or the modern age’s corpulence, entitlements, sloth and overt racism, homophobia, xenophobia, and imposed morality.

  Fuck. This was one of the few times I rooted for the terrorists.

  The walk didn’t clear my head at all. I still had to figure out what I could do about the reboot and why Wraith Knight remained. Hmm, could it be . . .?

  I let a theory roll around my head as I got up and continued my walk. As if by accident, I found my way toward the coastal boardwalk of Dynasty City. People were enjoying the day, walking here and there, eating ice cream and hot dogs and just being all-American.

  I saw someone who caught my eye.

  Out of sheer curiosity, I made my way over to her. It was a black woman wearing sunglasses sitting behind an easel. It looked like she was doing portraits for people. And from the way she was not looking at her art while she was drawing, it was clear she was blind.

  When the chair was empty, I sat down. “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello, sir. Can I draw your picture? Only fifty cents.”

  “You’re blind.”

  The woman smiled. “Really? Wow, I didn’t know that.”

  I fished out fifty cents and dropped it into her cup.

  “Thank you. Now, would you please describe yourself? And be honest. If you don’t, you’ll be unhappy with the result.”

  “I don’t want you to draw me,” I said. “I want you to draw someone else for me.”

  “As long as you describe . . .?”

  “Her,” I added.

  “Her.”

  I lit a cigarette and let my mind drift. “Her name is Lydia. And . . . she’s great. Mostly.”

  The woman laughed lightly. “You’ll have to be a little more descriptive.”

  I smiled. “I guess I will. Let’s see. She’s not terribly tall. She is . . . woman-shaped.”

  “Honey, if you’re going to get this as a gift, then you might want to tell me a little more. Why don’t you close your eyes, see her, and just . . . tell me what you feel.”

  I eyed the blind woman. This was dangerously close to therapy, and as such, I was dangerously close to summoning Wraith Knight so he could get his vengeance all over again.

  But I did want this to be a gift.

  So I listened to the advice, and I closed my eyes and just thought of her.

  “Well, Lydia is . . . a huge pain in my ass. She’s cunning and dangerous and constantly undermines me. But it’s the challenge I like. It’s her spirit that makes me want to be around her. She’s short and curvy, and not afraid to eat a real meal. But she is also very active. She pushes her body and her mind to places most people can’t. When she sees a target, she hits it. She has this kind of twinkle in her hazel eyes when she’s dealing with a problem. When she’s frustrated, she bites her full bottom lip. When she’s acting bashful, she runs her hand through her light brown hair. And . . . she’s going to bear my child.”

  The woman’s hand was moving as I spoke. In a few moments, she plucked the paper from the easel and showed me.

  “How’s this?”

  I looked at the piece of art.

  Deep down, I was hoping it was terrible just so I could mock her. But it wasn’t. It was perfect. She captured my feelings for her on paper. My Lydia was right there. And there was the slightest swell at her belly.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I do, Ms. Cooper. Thank you.”

  “You know me?”

  “We’ve met,” I said as I accepted the paper and dropped an additional one hundred dollars in her cup. “Good luck to you. In this life or the next reboot.”

  I walked a while down the boardwalk and thought of Lydia. When I reached a spot where no one was around, I scribbled a little note on the paper that read “For you.” I summoned a portion of my power and sent it into the cosmos, knowing it would find her.

  I opened a portal back to my embassy, with a last look back at the Golden Age. Behind their smiling faces, I nodded.

  Yup. I was going to have to destroy them all.

  Oh, don’t look at me like that. In order to test my theory, I had to destroy this world.

  Duh.

  Once I stepped through the portal into my office, Lydia was waiting for me.

  “Jackson, we should talk.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Where I Talk, Smoke, and Let Blue Balls Get the Best of Me

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, lighting a black cigarette.

  “I got your gift. It was lovely and I needed to see you.”

  I exhaled a large cloud of smoke. “Am I allowed to come home yet?”

  “Have you decided to change?”

  I walked to my desk and crossed my arms, saying nothing.

  “I didn’t think so,” she said. “You are what you are.”

  “You didn’t mind that when we met,” I said, ashing my cigarette in my Grimskull ashtray. I sat on the edge of my desk and took in the measure of her. Short and curvy, with chin-length mouse-brown hair cut into a bob, and the beginning of her baby bump. Her chest had grown, as had her hips. Lydia was sexy and dangerous, and I felt for her now what I’d felt for her when we first met in Caledon.

  “Despite your inability to change, I need you. You know that, don’t you? And I need you to need me.”

  Lydia walked to me with a slight sway to her hips. I watched her. I watched her eyes looking at me. She looked down at my belt, then back up into my eyes. With a smile, she unbuckled the belt slowly, opening the front of my suit pants.

  Her left hand slowly caressed my stomach before her fingers opened, probing downward. I felt her hand rub the outside of my underwear. My erection grew as she continued to massage m
e.

  She leaned in to me, her lips finding mine. Her kiss was soft at first, then grew more passionate. As she did, her hand in my pants moved past my underwear, and I felt the skin of her hand touch my flesh.

  With her free hand, she took mine, moving them to her breasts. Her body pressed closer into mine, slowly moving in a rhythmic pattern.

  She broke the kiss, releasing me. Turning around, she pressed her backside into my groin, grinding into me, rubbing up and down. The sensation forced rational thought away. All thoughts of the comic universe were suddenly gone.

  There was only her and our need.

  I reached around her, cupping her breasts. She moaned softly, inviting me to go further. I kissed the back of her neck as she bent over, her body begging mine to join her.

  “You’re not Lydia,” I said in her ear.

  “Lydia” suddenly stopped and turned around. I adjusted my pants and lit two cigarettes, handing her one.

  “I told you, Myst, I am not your sex toy. Nor are you mine.”

  “Lydia” shifted into a cloud, reforming back into Myst. “And I told you, I sensed your pain,” Myst said, puffing her cigarette. “With your power in me, we are connected. I could find you anywhere you go. I can feel your emotions. I can feel your need. I thought her form would please you.”

  “It does not.”

  “Deny me with your words all you want. But I sense your hunger and desire. This is simply something I want to do with you. Nothing more.”

  “Nothing would please me more. But you overstepped yourself by taking the form of Lydia.”

  “I beg pardon, Master,” Myst said with a bow of her head.

  “I have a world to destroy.”

  “I understand, Master.”

  “Good.”

  “If I may ask, Lord, how did you know?”

  “What, that you weren’t her?”

  “Yes,” Myst said, taking another drag of her smoke.

  “That, for one. Lydia’s pregnancy nose could not abide the smell of cigarettes. No matter how turned on she was, she would make me shower prior to being together. And then there was the kiss.”

  “Do I do it wrong?”

  “Kisses are like fingerprints, sweet Myst. No two are the same. No matter how much information I pumped into your brain, you lack the real-world experience of being with different partners.”

  “It looks like I have work to do then if I’m to be your spy.”

  “It will come,” I said.

  “Anything else?”

  I smiled. “The knives. Lydia likes to feel dangerous when we are amorous. The first time we were together, she jammed knives alongside my throat while she orally pleasured me. If I thrashed too much in either pleasure or pain, I would’ve cut my neck open.”

  “Oh. Oh my.”

  “She’s one hell of a woman,” I said, thinking of the woman who carried my child. The woman who, in many ways, was my equal.

  Well, in the most loving sense of “equal.” The way people say it but don’t mean it when they call their partners “equals.” Let’s be honest—I’m a god, and she’s a county rogue from a knock-off D&D universe. While I cared for her greatly, the most impressive thing she ever did was . . . well, me.

  “Then it was foolish of me to try and impersonate her.”

  “Yes, yes it was. But in all fairness, I’m a unique creature. You’ll get there. Oh, how did you know about the gift?”

  “I watched you on the monitor, sir. You had the device out when you were scanning for Wraith Knight.”

  “I see. Well done.”

  “Thank you. So, what’s your next move, Master?”

  “I will have to do something to force a reboot. This universe is too old-fashioned for my taste. If I’m going to do something unique, and win this bet, then I will have to pick my moment.”

  “Do you have something in mind, sir?”

  “I always have something in mind. It’s part of what makes me charming and fun to read about.”

  Myst looked perplexed. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, taking the final drag from my smoke, placing the butt in the ashtray.

  “What will happen to me?”

  “If my theory holds, nothing.”

  “And if you’re wrong?” Myst asked.

  “Then it was actually an honest pleasure meeting you, Myst.”

  Myst nodded, contemplating a continued existence or possible oblivion. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing left to do but cause doomsday.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” I looked at her, and then looked away while my mind wandered for a moment or two. “Well, not exactly,” I said, my thoughts going to Sophia’s words about how Lydia was enjoying herself in other dimensions.

  “Well, if the offer is still open and as long as you can be professional about it, there might be a thing or two we can do.”

  Chapter Twenty and a Half

  Where I Do Not Care for Your Judgy Eyes

  Oh, the ending of that last chapter wasn’t an innuendo. We totally went to Bonertown.

  Don’t look at me like that. You think a little infidelity, or your judging stares, mean anything to me? I’m a villain. Besides, I know a few of you laughed when I took down those speedy heroes. You can’t laugh at that and judge me now, ya pack of cherry-picking hypocrites.

  Heh heh, the Zoom Crew and their bloody nubs, just kicking. Ahh, good times.

  And I know there are a few of you who are all, “Oh no, Jackson, no. What about Lydia? You guys are a great couple!” blah blah blah. Please. Lydia was the one who went to get her rocks off in a party dimension. Me, I just allowed two consenting adults to do what they wanted to do.

  Aaaand boy, did we. You know what the best part of having sex with a shapeshifter is? Like, all of it. She was Myst, then she was Lydia. She took the guise of famous women. She changed from black, to white, to Asian, to Hispanic, in every body type. Hell, at one point she had six breasts!

  And, ahem, briefly a penis.

  Oh, oh, get this. I showed her a photo of Jessica Rabbit and she turned into a nearly eight-foot-tall version!

  What can I say? Sometimes I like to be the little spoon.

  We did things to one another that are illegal in several dimensions and a few U.S. states. Even in the super-liberal, douchey ones (I’ll let you figure out which ones). After all my time being in a comic universe, I needed that. And after a lifetime of repression, so did Myst.

  Sex, the great release.

  So naturally, nothing bad could come of it, could it? Turn the page and find out! Or if you’re an audiobook listener, then we’ll get there in three . . . two . . . one . . .

  Superhero Fun Fact #7

  In Nightwing Vol. 2 #93, female superhero Tarantula forced non-consensual sex on an exhausted and injured Nightwing, atop a building.

  Not quite the mile-high club, but hey . . . nothing wrong with a rooftop screw. Unless one of the people says “no,” which he did.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Where I Joyfully Wallow In Post-Coital Fluids, Chat with Lydia, and End the World

  I stretched in my bed, waking up with a smile. Having gotten a few solid hours of sleep following my sexual decathlon with Myst, I felt like a new man.

  Well, a sticky, filthy, and completely rank new man. The things performed last night required copious amounts of lubricant, chocolate, hot wax, and antibiotic cream. Cuffs and restraints chafe. After all, safety first.

  I reached over to the nightstand adjacent to the right side of my bed and lit a cigarette. Myst was lying on my left, still asleep. She lay under the sheet on her side. Her red hair fell about her, a tangled flow of beauty and residual fluids.

  A quick finger comb though my own hair revealed trace elements of last night’s dalliance . . . and honey? When did we use honey? Oh, right. After the mid-air suspended bondage spankings, but just before the furry costumes. In hindsight, perhaps it was a mistake?

  No, not the sex. That was honestly in my top five memories of all time. A
nd believe me when I tell you my top five memories are far better than yours. I’ve played strip poker with three deities, a sentient planet, and the female personification of death. Have you?

  The mistake was obviously using the honey before the furry costumes. Damn things were hell to get off, and when we did, we were sexually tarred and feathered. Actually, did we use tar and feathers? It’s all a blur of lowered inhibitions and curiosity.

  “Morning,” Myst said, opening her eyes. The rope burns on her throat were still visible and the chains around her ankles rattled as she rolled over.

  “Morning to you as well. Even if there is no real time cycle in my embassy.”

  “Shut up and pass me a cigarette.”

  I frowned at her until she added “Master.”

  I smiled, obliging her. Lighting the cigarette and passing it to her, I said, “While I am loathe to say such things, I thank you for last night. It was exactly what I needed.”

  “You may be the Shadow Master, Master, but little tip: Never thank a woman after sex. It makes her feel cheap. Sex isn’t a gift. But I understand your meaning. You’re welcome. So, what’s on today’s agenda? Ending the world?”

  I took the tablet from my nightstand and began typing out some commands. When Trent was working for me, he had some very salient points about automation. As this was a reflection of my own universe, and therefore I had complete control over it, it stood to reason that I could enact many plans simultaneously with but a few icon taps.

  “Yes, ending the world. I need to see if my theories hold.”

  “What are they, may I ask?” Myst said, rolling onto her back and feeling a new wet spot in the bed. “Damn guacamole. Whose idea was this?”

  “Yours, I believe,” I told her. “It was when you were in the form of Margarita Neri, with the crisscrossed bandolier across your naked body, swinging that bloody machete.”

  “Oh, right. Well, authentic, that’s me.”

  “I wasn’t complaining,” I said with a grin. “But my theory will be tested if I can force another reboot.”