Villains Pride (The Shadow Master Book 2) Page 4

  With a grumble, I stepped through the portal.

  Sigh. Into world full of fucking superheroes.

  Superhero Fun Fact #1

  In Batman: The Widening Gyre #6, Batman admitted that he once peed himself during an explosion.

  Many nerds rebelled against this revelation and chastised Kevin Smith for writing it. But at the time, DC said it was canon.

  HA HA! Batman wet his tights!

  Chapter Three

  Where I Re-Introduce Myself, Suffer SUV Trauma, and Juggle a Three-Way Conversation

  Allow me this moment to re-introduce myself. I’m Jackson Blackwell, The Shadow Master. I am a villain. It is important that you know this fact up front.

  No matter what, do not for a second believe I am anything but a villain. No matter how charming I seem, no matter how endearing my actions seem, no matter how many times you sympathize with me, know that I am the villain. I do what I do because I can. And I like it. I like pitting myself against others and seeing whose conviction wavers. The mortar of my empire’s foundation is mixed with the blood of those who flinched first.

  You’ve been warned.

  My villainous predilection aside, it is important to note that up until a few moments ago, I was a powerful man. And only a few months ago, I was your normal, run-of-the-mill genius who achieved godhood by inhabiting his own dimension. You know, that old chestnut.

  From my place of power, I advised villains from across the known and unknown realms. I was vastly wealthy because of my knowledge and ability to be the premier villain. How, you ask? I learned and bent the rules to my benefit. Sounds easy, but trust me, simple reader—it isn’t.

  And yes, I think you are simple. This garbage book doesn’t speak to a person with the highest mental acumen. But my disdain for you and all of those with average minds aside, please allow me to continue.

  As the Shadow Master, mortal puppets danced to my whims while gods trembled at my name. So, what happened?

  Sigh. . .

  Feelings. That’s what happened.

  I have personal rules I live by, a set of Villain’s Rules, if you will (cough cough . . . shameless plug . . . buy my first book . . . cough cough). I do not have time to list all the villain’s rules to you, but one of the premier rules clearly forbids personal attachment. If you have feeling towards a thing—or worse, a person—then you are subject to confusing emotions with success.

  Several months ago, I was duped (yes, sadly that happens). I was trapped in the fantasy realm of Caledon by a coup of conspirators consisting of a former client, traitorous employees, and worst of all, family.

  In order to defeat my foes, I did what no one expected, and enlisted the aid of heroes. By bending the rules, I forged this group, wrapping the universal narrative around myself, making me the protagonist. As such, I won.

  Naturally.

  During that adventure, I met a former thieves’ guild leader named Lydia, whom you’ve already met. Our attraction, both mental and physical, was undeniable. And, I am loath to admit, I felt something for her. In the end, it was my feelings for her that propelled me from protagonist to become the “hero” of the story. Setting aside my villain’s pride, I assumed the hero’s mantle, because of Villain’s Rule #1.

  For the uninitiated, the rule is very simple: The Hero Always Wins.

  Which was why I was normally a villain adviser, rather than an active participant. I gave poor, lesser chumps new paths to success, if only temporarily. I knew that, ultimately, the flow of any story would lead to the villain’s downfall.

  But hey, at least I got paid.

  After defeating the cabal who orchestrated my capture, I returned to my realm with Lydia and conducted business as usual. I advised villains, I was paid, I made Lydia a goddess of my realm, and all was well. And in a moment of foolishness, I assumed I could let my guard down and ignore the villain’s rule of personal attachment.

  Then those goddamn pregnancy hormones kicked in.

  Look, I am aware of biology and what it does to women. But I refuse to yield to matriarchal nonsense of worshiping at the uterus-altar of an impregnated woman.

  If these are truly the days of equality across the varied genders, then special treatment to pregnant women should be on the list to abolish, along with male privilege.

  Ironic, if you think about it. Despite the progress of women in the last hundred or so years in the prime universe, there is still a strong belief that the pinnacle of being a woman is pregnancy.

  As if becoming a success in career, education, and life means nothing compared to the “success” of marriage and childbirth.

  Now, why is all this rambling about my villainy and motherhood important?

  Because I just got run over by an SUV.

  As it hit me, I saw a woman driving. As I tumbled though the air and over the vehicle, I could clearly see the little stick-figure family on the rear window right next to the 13.1 and 26.2 stickers.

  ********

  “Sir? SIR!”

  Sophia’s voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. I was on the ground, my cheek against asphalt. I hurt all over, but I wasn’t dead.

  “SIR!” Sophia’s voice screamed in my ear again.

  “Mmm,” I managed to grunt while I counted my teeth with my tongue. When I was satisfied with the number, I hazarded opening my eyes.

  Everything was blurry at first. I heard people and vehicles passing, along with the nonstop background chatter of city life. When my eyes came into focus, I saw brilliant blue skies above towering skyscrapers.

  I sat up, putting my back against the black SUV that hit me and taking in my new surroundings. People were gathered around me, asking me if I was OK. A woman was next to me with her cell phone repeating back questions the 911 dispatcher fed her.

  I ignored them all.

  There was something odd about this place. It was old. Very old. I sensed it through my godly awareness. But everything seemed to be clean. Not just orderly, but a level of clean one sees in a magazine, or on a TV sitcom. I’ve been in many major cities in many realms, and I know one thing: Cities are cesspools of filth.

  Every major city has garbage in the streets and garbage people everywhere else. Members of these disgusting congregations feign social importance as they step over the homeless. They shove others out of their way, all the while updating their social media accounts about the evils of Republicans and the virtue of overpriced local markets.

  Not that I care about the homeless—it’s their fault, after all. Nor do I care about the self-appointed guardians of progressiveness and social justice. They’re often great clients. I mean, who else can you sell back gentrified neighborhoods to? These upwardly mobile yuppies love to buy real estate under the guise of urban charm, provided overpriced fusion food was available on every corner.

  Ahh, liberals . . . so quick to part with their money under the illusion of a global connection.

  But to be fair, I robbed from and abused the political right as well. I am, after all, a fair and balanced villain. They’re just less fun to mock because . . . well, just look at them. But I digress.

  Everyone around me was a perfectly blended mix of all genders and all races. They were clean, with white teeth, wholly bland, and completely forgettable. Like extras in the movies. Nothing about their appearance said they belonged in a real city.

  “SIR!!” Sophia screamed again.

  “WHAT?!”

  “Oh, there you are. Glad you’re alive, sir.”

  I held back my anger with three deep breaths. “Sophia, apologies for my outburst, but I was run over by a truck.”

  “I know, sir, I was watching. But let’s not be hyperbolic. It was an SUV, not a truck. You were hit by a soccer-mom-mobile. I may have more sympathy if it were a mini-van.”

  “Sophia,” I growled.

  “Excuse me, mister. Are you OK? Can you hear me?” The SUV driver asked me. “I think he’s in shock. He’s talking to himself.”

&n
bsp; I glared at the driver while she relayed her observations to the 911 dispatcher. “I’m having a conversation. Do you mind?”

  “Sir, I have King Stanley on the line. Should I patch him through?” Sophia asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Go ahead what? Do you want me to help you up?” the SUV driver asked.

  “Jackson! Hope you aren’t causing too much trouble yet,” King Stanley said with a pleasant tone.

  “Will you please shut the fuck up!” I yelled.

  “Excuse me?” King Stanley and the SUV driver asked in unison.

  Sigh. “Not you, Stanley,” I said, then turned to the driver. “You. Shut up, or I will shut you up.”

  “Oh, I see you now,” King Stanley said. “Ouch. Looks like when you came through the universal gate it left you a little disoriented. Wow, run over by a truck.”

  “SUV,” Sophia corrected.

  “ENOUGH!” I roared as I stood up, shoving away the hands of people who were trying to help me.

  Out of frustration, I kicked the SUV. To my surprise, the vehicle sailed through the air as if it had been launched by a cannon.

  Well, that was odd.

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you,” King Stanley said in my ear. “Due to you being a god, in this universe you’re a superhero. Or really, a supervillain. I’ve allowed it so that you have access to the power of your dimension, so no need to carry a totem. If you want to expand your abilities, go for it. Have your assistant log them in my database. Just keep it within your theme. I do hate powers and abilities that don’t blend with a character’s motif. So for now, you have the normal fare via your god status: super strength, limited invulnerability, a healing factor. You know, the normal base stuff. So whatever you do, and whatever power set you go with, just do it cool.”

  “How?” I asked, somewhat perplexed at the situation. “Why?”

  “Call it a gift. Like I said before, go nuts. Shake things up. Really . . . really explore the space, ya dig? My realm has become so stagnant and repetitive it could use a hard reboot in the ass. Have some fun. Vent some frustration. When you get settled, create yourself a lair. I’ll empower it to be an embassy of your realm with all the godly power it entails. After you set up shop, I’ll come visit.”

  “Is that even fair?” I asked. “As a god, even with only less than half my power, I’m still a god.”

  “Villain, please,” King Stanley laughingly scoffed. “I have cosmic beings traveling the multiverse consuming planets while beings of pure matter and anti-matter collide constantly. There really isn’t anything you can do that would cause any lasting damage.”

  A bolt of energy struck me in the side, knocking me back to the ground, hard. I shook my head and looked up to see several costumed heroes flying towards me.

  “Ouch,” Stanley remarked in my ear. “You, on the other hand, can be hurt by these beings since they are empowered beings you don’t own. So, you’ll want to get your head in the game.”

  “What is going on?” I asked, shaking clear the cobwebs from my head.

  “Well, you did just punt an SUV across the downtown region of the city. And, you accosted a helpless citizen,” the god mused. “You’ve officially thrown your hat in the supervillain ring. Welcome to Dynasty City. Have fun!”

  Chapter Four

  Where I Scold A Faded Beauty and Ponder the Aerodynamic Impracticality of Giant Wieners and Big Boobs

  “Halt!” seven voices called out in perfect unison. From high above the street, seven figures floated in midair.

  “No,” I yelled at the brightly-colored-spandex-clad clods. Turning my back to them, I addressed the SUV driver. “Hey! You! Get back here!”

  The woman rounded on me, wide-eyed, a canister of pepper spray in her hand. “You kicked my car!”

  “Because you hit me with it!” I yelled back at her, then blinked. “Wait, are you one of those people? Do you seriously have the audacity to get mad at me for yelling at you, when you’re in the wrong? What kind of entitled adult are you?”

  “Halt!” the seven voices commanded once again.

  “Do you mind?” I said, admonishing the flying heroes. “I’m in the middle of scolding a middle-aged child with a superiority complex. Wait your turn.”

  “I do not have a superiority complex!” the woman said.

  “Yes. Yes you do.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  I looked her over from head to toe. “Uh huh,” I muttered.

  Caucasian female in her mid 40’s. Her augmented chest wasn’t even old enough to vote. Her painfully colored, patterned stretch pants reeked of overpriced comfort gear, and she wore a low-cut performance top beneath her black fleece. The uniform of a “basic bitch.”

  I think that’s what they call it.

  The entire look bespoke a woman who enjoyed flaunting her body at the gym for attention. But that was not what set me off.

  It was those goddamn back-window stickers.

  Gods above and below, I hated all those idiotic 13.1, 26.2, Spartan Race, and Tough Mudder stickers.

  Seriously, what kind of idiot pays money to run when you can do it for free? Those stickers were the plumage of a douchebag peacock. The pathos of those who sported those “look at me” stickers was the reason I believed eugenics to be a viable option.

  “You run, right? Marathons?”

  “Yes?”

  “You feel accomplished, right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Then why put up the stickers in your car?” I asked.

  “Well, because . . .” she started to speak, but I cut her off. Clearly she didn’t know the question was rhetorical.

  “You put them up so you can look down on others. A way to feel superior. They’re a sign to others saying ‘Look at what I did,’ and by association, ‘What you didn’t do.’ I bet you drop how often you run into almost every social conversation you have, hoping that someone says ‘I just don’t have the time,’ only so you can respond with some smug line about ‘making the time, if it’s important.’”

  “That’s . . . that’s . . .” the flustered women sputtered.

  “One hundred percent true,” I finished for her. “You need to put those stickers up. You need others to look at them and feel somehow less than you. If the race, or the marathon, was truly your accomplishment, then any trophy or plaque would be on display in your home for you to look at.

  “But no,” I continued, “you desperately need the world to see them. Because you have no internal sense of identity, and crave the approval, or in actuality the envy, of others. Who are you as a person if not for the desire of others? Which also explains those ridiculously large implants, and why you style your hair and wear makeup to go to the gym.”

  “Step away from the woman!” the voices said.

  “One sec, I’m getting to the good part,” I said over my shoulder to the heroes, then turned back to the woman.

  “My guess is once your twenties were over, and your looks were fading, people stopped giving you free shit. You probably thought the world changed. The truth is, you never actually took the time to develop a personality. Instead of being a person, you chose to be an object. An object fewer and fewer people wanted over time.

  “So, go on being the center of attention at the book club or whatever sports bar you go to. But I think we both know, deep down, you realize that you’re nothing. Every year you get older and less desirable. Hell, I’m willing to bet you hear how people laugh about you behind your back. About your desperate attempts to cling to youth.”

  Pausing my rant for dramatic effect, I leveled myself so we were eye-to-eye. “You’re not special. Your cats will eat you when you’re dead. You . . . are pathetic.”

  The woman burst into tears.

  I smiled.

  People on the street gathered around and booed me, calling me cruel, and suggested I performed physically impossible sex acts upon myself.

  Sigh.

  Moronic masses unable to accept the t
ruth. Such was my burden—to suffer the sub-100 IQ’s of those who patronize chain restaurants. We, the exceptional, must endure the hissing and gnashing of the mediocre.

  “Greek Chorus, help!” one of the gathered people in the crowd called out. “This guy’s attacking a woman!”

  “To be fair, I am only talking at her,” I corrected. “The fact that she is a female is irrelevant. If it were a man, I would tell him the same thing. Only with more erectile dysfunction suppositions. And what the hell is a Greek Chorus?”

  “Stand back,” the seven voices commanded the crowd as each of them raised a hand, releasing a blast of concussive energy and driving me into the ground. The blasts hit me so hard, the street cracked beneath me.

  Oh, that must be a Greek Chorus.

  “Do you feel better, sir? Berating that woman while taunting the heroes?” Sophia asked over the earpiece.

  “Slightly, yes,” I croaked.

  “Good. I do so hate pretentious assholes like her. Imagine what your bumper sticker would read. ‘My other car is a pocket dimension, so go fuck yourself’?”

  I forced a weak smile. Two concussions in less than ten minutes. That cannot be good for a person. It was worth it, I said to myself as I pushed myself up to my feet and got my bearings. “So . . . what’s the status?”

  “King Stanley patched my computer into his network. I am getting massive data dumps on everything. It’s a veritable Who’s Who on the heroes and villains who dwell there.”

  “Great,” I said, jumping aside as another volley of blasts streaked by me.

  The Chorus broke formation in perfect synchronicity. One of the heroes flew to flank me on my left, firing another beam of energy.

  I grabbed the SUV woman and used her as a human shield. “The brazenness to attack me is astounding,” I said from behind the woman, not ashamed in the least.

  “I hope they kill you,” she screamed.

  “You’ll go first,” I replied. “At least this way, you’re good for something. Well, something more than being a gay man’s beard and getting free margaritas.”