“Goddammit, Hans!” Kemper shouted. “You can’t do this to us!”
Hans ignored him and placed the device in the center of the table. It began to beep in a slow, ominous tone. Kemper’s eyes widened and he stared fixated on the device.
“What the hell is that thing?” he shouted, his voice shaking with a mix of fear and anger. “Answer me you bastard!”
Hans stood up from his chair and slowly approached Kemper. His footsteps echoed in the tense chamber.
“How long have you been with us, Kemper? Six years? I’m sure you’ve spent a lot of that time hating me, thinking how I’m just another rung in the ladder of executives for you to climb over on your way to the top.” Hans put his hand down on the table and leaned in close to Kemper. “I want you to know what a waste of time that was.”
Hans turned and headed for the door. The beeping from the device increased in tempo and pitch, setting the tension in the room to greater heights. Hans patted Triceratop’s arm on his way out.
“Don’t let them leave,” he said.
Hans left the conference room and shut the door behind him. He tapped his gloved robotic hand onto a sensor by the door and it locked. Then, he stepped back and stared at the men through the glass.
“Fuck this!” Kemper screamed. “I’m getting out of here!”
Kemper jumped out of his chair and over the conference table toward the door, but Triceratop was faster. He grabbed Kemper by the back of his collar and slammed him down into the table. There was a loud CRACK and Kemper stopped moving.
The other board members rose up to make a dash for the door while Triceratop was distracted. They yanked on the door handle but it wouldn’t budge. They slammed their fists and threw chairs, but the blast-resistant glass didn’t even scratch.
Triceratop roared and the board members turned to face him. They had no choice but to try and fight back. They threw their chairs, drinks, pens, anything they could find, but it all bounced harmlessly off Triceratop.
The beeping from the device was ever-increasing. It escalated to the point where it sounded like one long note.
Triceratop continued to fight. He swung his fist back into the portly board member. The man’s chest exploded out of his back and he flew into the wall in a bloody heap. A board member jumped onto Triceratop’s back while another leapt onto his side, attempting to drag the supervillain down.
Triceratop calmly reached back, gripped the woman’s head, and squeezed. It popped like an egg in a microwave. He grabbed the second board member by the neck and lifted him up off his shoulder, holding him away at arm’s length. The man squirmed in Triceratop’s grip, pounding at his bulging forearm.
The beeping reached an apex. Then, the device exploded.
In a fiery blast, the man in Triceratop’s grip disintegrated. The table, television, chairs, drinks, and remaining board members blasted into the conference room walls in a sooty, bloody spray. The resilient glass withstood the impact without a shudder or sound.
When the smoke cleared, Hans saw that the only thing left standing was Triceratop. He hadn’t even moved an inch from the blast. However, he was now covered head to toe with black char and red viscera. He turned to Hans, blinked daftly, then headed to the door.
Hans held down the intercom next to the door and sneered, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Triceratop stopped.
“I don’t want you dragging your mess around my building. Clean yourself up.”
Hans turned and walked away to the elevator, leaving Triceratop alone in the destroyed conference room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Terry, Glenn, and Harold stood side by side facing a small mom-and-pop styled storefront. The shop was no larger than a studio apartment and was painted in a light turquoise with pink window shutters. Above the door, “Buzzard Carpets” was spelled out in bold, protruding letters. If one were to see this store while walking downtown it wouldn’t have even warranted a passing glance, except it wasn’t downtown and the henchmen certainly did more than glance. The henchmen were frozen in place, dumbfounded, staring above the store with their mouths gaping.
The quaint shop was attached to the front of an immense hangar deep in the Los Rebeldes Industrial District by the port. Nearby, colossal shipping vessels were being dismantled by dozens of workers while the recycled materials were loaded into the rear of the hangar by an armada of forklifts and trucks.
Terry looked from the small shop, up to the towering hanger, then back to the shop.
“Anyone else getting the feeling that Buzzard Carpets is a front for something?” he asked.
“Nah, man,” Glenn replied. “You know how much recycled steel goes into carpets.”
Terry took a deep breath and opened the door to the shop. The three henchmen entered and were immediately greeted with an overwhelming stench of sulfur. They coughed and looked around. There were only a handful of carpets on display and they were all the same eggshell white. Along the walls were photos paired with unfitting inspirational quotes. A cat hanging from a tree displayed, “Dance like nobody’s watching.” A man running through a finish line stated, “Genesis 16:8.” In the corner was a framed photo of a sunset with the quote, “‘Translate server error.’ - Confucius.”
Terry spotted a bell near the bathroom door at the rear of the shop. He approached the bell and tentatively rang it. Almost immediately the bathroom door burst open in a cloud of black smoke. The Buzzard emerged, wearing the sad excuse for a bird costume they had seen him in from his commercial. However, unlike his goofy persona he portrayed in the commercial, the Buzzard was a grizzled, mean-looking old man.
He quickly slammed the door shut behind him and waved away the smoke.
“What do you want?” he grimaced.
Terry stepped forward and stammered, “W-we’re uh, we’re looking for some carpets.”
“And?”
There was silence as Terry turned to Harold and Glenn, befuddled. He shrugged and turned back to The Buzzard.
“Well, you sell them, right?” he asked.
The Buzzard glared at Terry and asked, “Why didn’t you go to our store on Sunrise and Lowland?”
“We did. There was a sign up that said ‘out to lunch’ but it was eight in the morning. We asked around. Apparently, it’s always closed. So we thought we would come here to buy some carpets straight from the manufacturer.”
The Buzzard squinted menacingly at the three men. He spent a long time looking at each one separately, sizing them up. It was much too long of a lapse in conversation and Terry was beginning to squirm.
Suddenly, The Buzzard scoffed and said, “We’re sold out.”
He turned his back on them and opened the bathroom door. Another plume of black smoke flooded into the room. Glenn could see through the smoke that the door led into the hangar behind the shop. It was cloudy, but he saw rows of fighter planes in various stages of construction being worked on by dozens of soot-covered henchmen in feathered outfits.
Glenn shouted after The Buzzard, “Hey, wait! We aren’t really here to buy carpets. We’re henchmen.”
The Buzzard stopped and slowly shut the door. Glenn coughed through the smoke and attempted to wave the overwhelming black cloud away from his face. His eyes watered but he stood his ground.
“My name is Glenn. This here is Terry, and the old guy is Harold.”
“Hey!” Harold retorted.
Glenn continued, “I actually interviewed for your crew once back in the early eighties.”
The Buzzard finally turned around. He stepped forward, grimacing, and locked his eyes with Glenn who laughed awkwardly.
“Yeah, the interview went about as well as this is going. But anyway, that’s not why we’re here. We’re here because we work with Deimos.”
The Buzzard spat on the ground, narrowly missing Glenn’s shoes.
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“Deimos is dead. There aren’t villains anymore, kid.”
“That’s what they say. However, that operation you’ve got going out back tells me you know different.”
“I got no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Cut the crap, man!” Harold shouted. “Deimos is alive and he needs your help.”
The Buzzard growled and turned his menacing gaze to Harold. Terry stepped between them with his hands raised, attempting to mediate the situation.
“We’ll get to the point,” Terry said. “That spy who killed all those villains back in eighty-nine is Hans Goenn, the CEO of Crymson Tech. He’s been using his company to secretly create genetically modified supervillains. That giant dinosaur man that’s been all over the news today is just one of them. We have no idea how many more there are, but he said he’s building an army.”
The Buzzard dropped his tough expression for one of fear as realization dawned on him. He turned his back to the men and his bird costume flopped pathetically.
He mumbled a string of inaudible obscenities under his breath before saying, “There’s nothing I can do for you.”
Terry stepped around The Buzzards trailing felt feathers to position himself in front of him.
“Please!” he implored. “There’s only five of us and we have no one else to go to!”
“Goddammit, boy, I said there’s nothing I can do for you,” The Buzzard hissed, getting in Terry’s face. He glanced around as if looking for something then whispered, “At least not right now.”
Terry looked up at him hopefully.
“You think I didn’t know something big was coming?” The Buzzard confessed. “I knew all those villains getting killed off was just setting up for something else down the road. Hell, I helped this country do the same shit with foreign leaders back when I was half your age. But unlike your Nancy-boss Deimos, I haven’t been wasting my time hiding. I’ve been getting ready.”
“If you’re so smart, why do you have commercials essentially telling everyone you’re still a villain?” Harold asked, offended.
The Buzzard laughed and shook his head.
“You henchmen never see the big picture, do you? Those commercials serve two purposes—to make people think I’m insane, and to let any other villains out there know I’m still alive and fighting the good fight. Normal people always ignore the crazies. Makes ‘em uncomfortable.”
“That doesn’t answer why Hans hasn’t come for you yet,” Glenn said. “You’re the only public villain alive right now.”
The Buzzard ruminated on this.
“You know what, it makes sense now, but someone did come. Years ago, some slimy lawyer type came by saying Crymson Tech wanted to buy us out. He was persistent but like I said, crazy makes normal uncomfortable.” The Buzzard leaned his head back and laughed. “I think I ended up shitting my pants to get him to leave. Never heard from them again. Probably told his boss I wasn’t a threat.”
Harold sighed, “I wish I had that kind of control over my bowels.”
Terry spoke up, “I’m sorry, but that still doesn’t help us. Hans could come for Deimos any day and we need to increase our numbers. Please, is there anything you can do to help us?”
The Buzzard scratched his chin vigorously. Flakes of black soot flew off his scruff and onto the floor.
“My henchmen have been talking about a new girl on the scene. A social media singer chick, some shit that I don’t understand, but apparently she’s a real badass bitch and has thousands of die-hard followers all over town. I’ll bet if you can get her on your side you’ll get the numbers you need.”
“What’s her name?” Glenn asked.
“Eve. But that’s all I know,” The Buzzard replied.
“Thank you, Buzzard sir,” Terry said.
The Buzzard waved him off.
“Look, if Hans has an eye out for your boss then he’ll be looking for you too. So stay the hell away from me and my henchmen. If I see any of you without you hearing from me first, I’ll kill you. Got it?”
The henchmen nodded their heads vigorously. The Buzzard squinted at them sternly for a moment longer. Then, he turned hurriedly and exited back through the bathroom door in a cloud of black smoke. Terry immediately pulled out his phone and began looking up Eve.
“We should head back,” Harold said. “See what we can find out about this Eve person.”
“Jesus, man, how old are you?” Terry asked, holding up his cell phone. “We don’t need to go to some command center for research anymore.”
Harold rolled his eyes as Terry pulled up Eve’s Wikipedia page. She was a stunning, twenty-three-year-old blonde bombshell. In the photo, she stood proudly, her arms crossed, with a look of ferocious intensity. The first entry was about Eve’s climb to fame, starting with her posting videos of her music online. Further down the page it went on to note her latest record-breaking headlining concert. In her personal info, it stated that Eve was a Los Rebeldes native and was prone to getting into fights downtown along with her posse.
As Terry scrolled through Eve’s bio, Deimos’ name popped up on his phone. He was calling from work to check up on them. Terry promptly answered the call on speaker.
“Perfect timing, boss. We’ve got some good news for you.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Deimos was sitting alone in his office break room eating a sandwich. He had the news on the TV and turned down the volume when Terry answered his call.
“Oh yeah?” he questioned, his mouth full of sandwich. “Hit me, what’s the update?”
“First off, The Buzzard doesn’t want anything to do with us right now.”
“That’s not good news at all.”
“But I think we can count on him further down the line,” Terry continued. “You should see his lair, boss. It’s huge. He’s definitely been preparing for something.”
Deimos put down his sandwich and sighed.
“I miss having a lair.”
“The good news is that he had some information for us. There’s a girl named Eve, twenty-something, living in Los Rebeldes with a seemingly endless supply of henchmen and a bit of a mischievous streak.”
Deimos smiled. He had hoped his henchmen would be able to wrangle up a couple villains from the old days, but someone entirely new might be even better. His current crew was leaning toward a certain demographic and a fresh face could bring in a younger crowd of supporters. That and the thought of limitless henchmen was too good of an opportunity to pass up.
“Text me whatever you’ve found so far, but go ahead and scope her out. Don’t try to talk to her, keep your distance. We don’t want to-” Deimos suddenly stopped talking. He was fixated on what was transpiring on the television.
“What is it, boss?” Terry asked.
“Goddammit!” Deimos continued. “Twice in one day? I am so sick of this melodramatic cliché of us finding out shit on some news broadcast. From now on, nobody watches TV. Cell phones and laptops only, is that clear?”
“I got the info about Eve from my cell phone!” Terry proclaimed.
“Very good, Terry,” Deimos prided.
“What the hell are you talking about, Deimos?” Harold interjected. “What’s on the news?”
“Oh, right,” Deimos said, taking another bite of his sandwich. “Hans is hosting a press conference.”
Deimos turned up the volume to the television.
◊ ◊ ◊
A sea of reporters were waiting patiently in the Crymson Tech courtyard. A lone podium stood in front of them with microphones from the top news channels sticking out of it like an orgy of robot penises. It wasn’t far off from a dream Terry had the night before where Deimos constructed an army of animatronic dicks to fight Hans’ supervillains.
Hans stepped out through the main doors of Crymson Tech and approached the podium. Hundreds o
f flashes from dozens of cameras went off as every moment of his approach was captured. He walked the short distance and stood alone at the podium, holding his hands up to silence the murmuring among the crowd. When he was satisfied, he lowered his hands and gave the reporters a look of solemn recognition.
“Thank you all for being so patient,” Hans began. “I know something strange occurred yesterday and you deserve answers. A video has been circulating, one in which the subject has been seen in person by hundreds of Los Rebeldes citizens across the city. I am aware there have also been reports of what the news cycle has referred to as ‘The Monster’ being seen entering Crymson Tech. I am here today to tell you that these reports are one hundred percent true.”
There was an audible gasp from the crowd but Hans spoke over them, undeterred.
“For starters, I want you to understand why you haven’t heard from me until now. Yesterday afternoon, someone very important to me was taken. My fiancée-” Hans gripped the podium dramatically, “-was held for ransom by villains! Villains who wanted to use the technology we develop at Crymson Tech for evil.”
There were thousands of camera flashes as reporters attempted to shout out their questions.
“You heard me right!” Hans pontificated. “Villains! Apparently there are still insane individuals out there following that barbaric cult and they chose me as their target. I must admit, when I first found out my fiancée had been kidnapped I was terrified, too afraid to call the police for what those animals might do to her if I did. That was when a very dear friend of mine decided to risk his life to save the love of mine.”
Hans turned to the doors behind him and extended his hand.
“Ezekiel, would you please come out?”
The doors opened and Triceratop stepped into the light in full costume, spotlessly clean and not showing a drop of executive blood. He was greeted by loud gasps, a few audible screams, and the firing of more cameras. He slowly and awkwardly sidled his way to the podium. Hans looked up at Triceratop and smiled warmly. He patted him on the shoulder, which hung right above his head.
Villain (Book 1): Villain 1 Page 11
