by Paul Melko
“Yeah, well. It’s not a very . . . flattering story.”
“Like getting speared between the tits with a superconductive brick is. I thought we were sharing here. Just take me back to the Institute now, if that’s the way you’re gonna be.”
“No. Sorry,” he said. “I was drunk, okay. I don’t even know how it happened.”
“Oh, boy.”
“A bunch of us were out late the day after finals. We were drinking, then came back to the radiology lab. The last thing I remember is my buddy daring me to swallow the Strontium-90 sample. Then I woke up strapped to the x-ray machine with it pointed at my . . . er . . . gonads.”
“It was on?”
“They said they hadn’t turned it on. It was a joke. But it had been on all night. As near as the scientists at the Superhero Origins Facility can figure, the Rolling Rock and the Strontium were irradiated by the x-rays and started emitting s-rays that enhanced the fast-twitch muscle fibers in my body. I got super strength.”
“You do have nice biceps,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “So. How are the . . . uh . . . the little Mighties.”
“They’re fine, actually. As far as I can tell.”
“Well, that’s good. So you dropped out of medical school to be a superhero.”
“Yeah, everyone was real happy that it had happened to me.”
“Everyone?”
“You know, the school. They played down the beer part, and made it seem like they had a world-class superhero generation program or something.” He poked a dumpling with his plastic fork. “We never could figure out the exact sequence of events that created the superstrength. We went through a lot of mice and monkeys trying.”
She laughed, a maniacal, overzealous cackle that he found endearing. He actually felt better for telling this supervillain his woes. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t a mundane, who always thought it was the coolest thing to have a super talent, and she wasn’t a fellow superhero, who always seemed so on top of his emotions. If anyone could understand him, it was a supervillain. Supervillains had flaws; they appreciated imperfections and could sympathize.
“So,” Auntie said. “Maybe you could turn me in tomorrow.”
Doctor Mighty caught her eye, and his cheeks turned mighty red when he realized what she meant.
“I, uh, sure.”
*
They made love gently in a series of bizarre positions that limited the amount of time he was near her heat sink and kept all her parts away from his clenching fists when he orgasmed.
*
The next morning he dropped her off at the Institute. As the guards shackled her into a sauna jacket, they awkwardly stood together.
“Um,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said.
“I hope you get better.”
“Yeah.”
“You know, maybe we could . . . team-up if you switched sides,” he said. “Or something.”
“Likewise.”
“Yeah.”
As they were dragging her away, she turned and said, “You know, Mighty. You ever think you weren’t really cracked up to be a superhero?”
“Huh?”
“I know it sounds like a supervillain mind game,” she said. “But maybe you need another career.”
“I —”
“Thanks for the fuck!”
“I —”
“Thanks for not calling me frigid!” They dragged her around a corner.
Doctor Killdozer looked him up and down. “Perhaps you should join our superhero support group. Fraternizing is not a life-affirming action.”
*
Doctor Mighty started attending Guild meetings again. He was glad he’d spent time talking with Auntie Arctic. He was even glad they’d spent the night together, though he hoped it didn’t get out. There were bylaws that covered that. But talking with her had made him realize he spent too much time in the abandoned hospital. He made an effort to get out.
Guild meetings were weekly affairs at the Hall of Beer and Pretzels, more social than political. Sometimes they had seminars on the latest villain trickery or discussed some new tactics on making sure bystanders survived superbattles. Their Guild post had the smallest bystander death rate of any in the Midwest, just 713 so far that year. At the meetings, usually the heroes broke up into groups, along age lines, and bragged about their latest battles. For the geriatric superheroes, meeting night was a chance to get out of the old folks lair and talk about battles of yore.
“Once that Kneehigh Nazi had me tied between four circus elephants, one on each arm and leg —” the Bomber was saying as Curt walked in.
“That’s nothing. Evil Foo Ling Duck once hypnotized my sidekick to try to kill me with a poodle while I slept!”
Doctor Mighty walked past the geriatrics and tried to find Steve the Intern, but he didn’t see his former sidekick anywhere. To hide his awkwardness, he ordered a Mxyzptlk at the bar.
He couldn’t help but feel that the other heroes were looking askance at him, but he never caught anyone whispering, or laughing, or even looking, except for the Human Frog who looked everywhere all the time anyway.
He hoped it wasn’t because he’d slept with Auntie Arctic. He knew that was against the bylaws, but he didn’t think anyone had found out. Would she blab? he wondered. Was she one to screw and tell? What would a supervillain do? He’d always thought they were predictable, but now that he had a relationship with one . . . Was it a relationship? No, it couldn’t be.
Gaseous Jorge had married his sidekick Flatulent Flo and the Guild had snubbed them; the two had had to relocate. What would the Guild do if they knew about what he’d done? Jorge and Flo had been on the same side.
It was enough to make him reconsider visiting Ms. Arctic at the Institute. He decided he’d better cancel the flower order too.
“Back in the saddle, huh?” asked the Yippee Ka Yay Kid, from the stool two down from his. He twirled his lasso, whipped it around, and caught his beer.
“What do you mean?” Doctor Mighty said, searching for sexual innuendo in the greeting. He scrutinized the Kid’s face under his wide-brimmed cowboy hat.
“You know. Back to fighting the bad guys instead of moping in your old mental asylum.”
“It’s an abandoned hospital, and I wasn’t moping.”
“So then you’re up for a wrangle with some of the Squid’s Tentaclemen who are roosted over at the docks?”
Doctor Mighty hated fighting the Tentaclemen. He always ended up with hickies all over his arms and legs. But he would look like more of a moper if he said no.
“Yeah, I’ll wrangle.”
*
They did find a clutch of Tentaclemen, unloading smuggled boxes of counterfeit comic books on a wharf next to a rusted freighter of Albanian origin. The fake books were easily spotted by turning to page twelve where the Gallant Ghost was shown with his utility rope on his left hip instead of his right.
“Your exploitation of young comic readers across the city is over, Tentacleboys!” Mister Suds shouted, shaking the soapy canister on his back and pumping it up with the plunger at his hip. A spray of sudsy water splattered the Tentaclemen, and one slipped on his back with a thud.
“Ow! You didn’t have to shoot!” the downed Tentacleman shouted. “It’s not like we have workman’s comp!”
Captain Corporeal, not to be outdone on slogans, warped through the solid freight container and substantiated his fist just as it met the jaw of another of henchman. “Copyright is sacred to a five-year-old, leech!”
Yippee lassoed two more with his rope and dragged them down the steps. Curt, watching from the back, flinched when he heard the leg of one them break. He shouldn’t have come, he thought. He didn’t like gang battles against henchmen. He poked his fingers in his ears as he saw the Screech advancing for his turn.
“Aaaaaaiiiiiieeeeeee!” the Screech yelled, and the henchmen who weren’t roped, unconscious, or laying with thrown-out backs, clutched at their ears as their dru
ms popped.
The four other heroes turned and looked at him. Curt shrugged and said, “I think you guys have it under control.”
“Thanks,” said the Tentacleman on his back. “We appreciate that.”
“Hahahaha!” The Squid’s laugh echoed along the wharf, and a heavy, wire mesh fell from a loading crane.
“It’s a trap!” cried the four superheroes. Doctor Mighty, because he had hung back, was the only one to escape as the net fell upon henchman and hero alike.
Blue fire raced across the wire mesh of the net; it was electrified. Curt backed away in shock as the heroes and henchmen jerked and twitched. The Screech’s cry drowned out the screams of the others.
He ran from the smell of burning flesh, dodging down the narrow passages between the shipping containers. He rounded a corner, and there were two henchmen guarding a flashing device; colored wires protruded along its length, solid carbon dioxide sublimed into cold fog, and a giant digital clock, mounted at its base, counted down to zero. All the signs said doomsday device.
Doctor Mighty landed two punches, breaking the jaws of the henchmen and regretting it. He studied the doomsday device for a moment, then yanked out the most crucial and removable component. As expected, the clock paused, at two minutes and twenty-five seconds, which was rather high by Guild standards; he should have let it run down a little more.
Doctor Mighty glanced around the shipping container, and there was the Squid, tentacles waving in the sky, gracefully sailing to the ground on the crane’s lowering hook. He was too far to hear, but Curt was certain he was lecturing the downed heroes on his current scheme to take over the world.
Curt took the doomsday device part under his arm and ran down the aisle of shipping containers, trying to double around so that he could free the other heroes. As he neared the Squid, he heard snatches of his speech.
“. . . totalitarian regime . . .”
“. . . meritocractic syndicate . . .”
“. . . Marx and Engel . . .”
At least the Screech had stopped screeching, though the Squid’s lecture was almost worse.
“Bring in the doomsday device!” he cried, then paused, waiting. “Loyal henchmen, bring in the doomsday device!”
Mighty listened to his heavy tread as he walked down the wharf.
“Curse you, Doctor Mighty! What have you done to my doomsday device?”
Curt felt the retort bubbling up inside of him, but he clamped it down.
“Give it up, Doctor Mutty!” the Squid yelled. “My Tentacles are homing in on you even as we speak.”
Doctor Mighty peered around the box he was hiding behind. No one. He had a clear line to the netted heroes, unconscious now.
“Here he is!”
A Tentacleman had snuck up on him from behind.
He kicked the sucker in the chest, cracking several ribs.
“Sorry.”
He dodged down a narrow passage toward the heroes and emerged in a cluster of henchmen. He was trapped!
“Not a step closer, or I crush the doomsday device!” he cried.
“No!” cried the Squid. “I worked years on that doomsday device. Where will I get another thousand myopic bumblebees?” His waving tentacles slurped at the air.
“Yes! Let the heroes go! Or I crush the device.”
“Never.”
“I’m crushing it.”
“Can’t we come to some agreeable arrangement?”
“Such as?”
“You and me, masters of the world. What do you say? We’ll split it fifty-fifty. A partnership.”
Mighty looked over at his unconscious brethren. He didn’t really like them that much. And, really, was good and evil diametrically opposed? If you squashed the axis of morality to a micron, superheroes and supervillains, ended up pretty close together.
“Okay.”
“I don’t know why I even ask, but still I ask. It’s in the villain bylaws — Hey, what did you say?”
“Okay. Fifty-fifty,” said Doctor Mighty. “But we have to let these heroes go.”
“Let me see your fingers.”
Doctor Mighty put the doomsday device down and wiggled his fingers.
“Really?” asked the Squid. “You want to be my . . . partner?”
“Sure.” He wasn’t sure why he’d said yes, but he knew he was tired of being a hero. And the Squid was revolutionary if nothing else, and revolution was something the world needed.
The Squid wrapped a rubbery arm around Doctor Mighty’s shoulder. “Excellent!” he said. “I’ve never had a partner before. I’m rather speechless.”
“I don’t want death and destruction,” Doctor Mighty said. “I want social reform.”
“Eggs and an omelette, don’t you know. But I agree, I agree. We must discuss the works of Marx and Engel. I have some very interesting ideas I want to bounce off you, Doctor Mighty.” The Squid paused. “That won’t do. You’ll need a new nom de guerre, of course. And new clothes.” He tugged at the shoulders of Curt’s hospital scrubs. “Practical, but not fashionable. As for a name, how about the Proctologist?”
“No. Too evil.”
“The Fearsome Forceps?”
“No.”
“Ah! The Sinister Surgeon!”
*
They took over all of Ohio and part of Indiana in a bloodless, Socialist coup involving a grass roots campaign and mind control devices. Curt had talked him out of using the cobalt bomb. The Squid handled the chortling and the brain wave devolver. The Sinister Surgeon made sure people didn’t get hurt and kept the superheroes at bay. It was relatively easy if you knew how a hero thought; feed the crime computers bogus info, distract them with kidnapped governors, and suddenly you were living in the Socialist Buckeye Republic.
For awhile, Sinister found the whole supervillain business fulfilling. Laws were easy to enact when the entire executive branch was he and a cackling cephalopod. He was changing society, forcefully and without democracy, true, but ultimately it was change, change, he thought, for the better. And he was helping the farmers and small townsfolk, while royally annoying the big businesses.
Hardly anyone got killed.
It was a good three months; at first, he was so busy with one-, three-, and five-year plans, that he didn’t notice the depression. He started ditching the goose-stepping parades and the book-burnings. The plan to take over Michigan by instigating the extreme right militias didn’t seem as fun as it had a month before. The cloning vats held no charm. The three hundred foot marble statues of him and the Squid overlooking the Squidopolis capitol didn’t gleam like they once had.
Something still wasn’t right with him.
He wished he had someone to confide in, someone who understood the frustration of being a supervillain. He certainly couldn’t confide in the Squid, who was alert for any sign of weakness. The common throng had no conception of his problems; all of them thought being a dictator was the end-all. The Sinister Surgeon had just spent several hours micromanaging the winter food shipments through the Ohio Valley, when he remembered other frozen foods.
He found Auntie Arctic in the gulag on Kelly’s Island where they’d sent all the insane people. She was sitting by the window of the woman’s hut watching the birds skipping across the waves. A line of drool rolled off her lip. She was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt even though it was a crisp March day.
He pulled down his mask.
She looked at Sinister for a few moments, then blinked and smiled.
“Hi, Doc.”
“Hi, Auntie.” The cold seemed to roll off her in waves. “How are you?”
She didn’t answer, and though he sat with her for half an hour, she didn’t say anything more.
Back in the capital, Squidopolis, he signed an edict closing the gulags. Then he drugged the Squid’s ink juice and shipped his body in a giant lobster cage to the Guild district office in Pittsburgh. He dropped his mask and surgical smock in a trash can and took a long vacation out west while their dictat
orship was slowly toppled and Ohio was reaffirmed into its place in the Union.
*
“I thought it was you,” the woman said. “So this is your secret identity.”
Curt looked at the pregnant woman in the wheelchair. Her hair was black and straight instead of the blue-black ringlets he remembered. She had put on a few more pounds and her face was rosy.
“Auntie?”
“Gwen Ka Yay,” she said with a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to blow your cover.”
He rolled her into an examination room and took her blood pressure himself instead of letting a nurse do it.
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“You lost your power too?” She reached out to squeeze his biceps.
“You don’t freeze anymore?” he asked, surprised. He stuck a thermometer in her mouth. Ninety-eight point six.
She shrugged. “I found a doctor who said he could remove the brick. It’s in my freezer now. We don’t even have to plug it in.”
“Where’s your —?” he pointed to her belly. “Mrs. Ka Yay? You?”
“My husband is the Yippee Ka Yay Kid. He’s parking the horse.” She blushed. “He was real nice to me once Sinister Squidtopia collapsed.”
“That’s good,” he said, his heart in his throat.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” she said. Curt noted the time of the contraction.
“When was the last one?”
“Ten minutes, maybe? The Kid was writing it down. We were at a park doing tricks for the kids. I was a cow and he would lasso me.”
“In your condition?”
“Well, I wasn’t a running cow, more of an ambling cow.” She laughed and rubbed both hands over her belly. “I’d rather be a supervillain sometimes than face what’s coming.”
“I think you’ll be a fine mother,” he said. “And the Kid will be a fine father.”
“I’m worried that I won’t know how to care for it. I’ve never really cared for anything at all.”
“That’s not true, and we both know it.”
She wiped her fist across her face and looked at him.
“I remember seeing you on the island. Geez. I remember seeing a lot of things come up that beach. The Titanic. Jim Carey. The USC Marching Band. But I remember seeing you too.”
