by M. K. Gibson
Chapter Five and a Half
Where I Make An Impression
“Um, no you’re not.”
“Yeah, The Shadow Master’s in Far Haven, and you don’t look anything like him.”
“Yeah, he’s black. You’re brown. . . ish.”
“He has, like, this kinda lame costume. But you’re kinda like, just a guy in a business suit?”
OK, maybe this would be a little more difficult than I originally thought. Well, best to make an impression.
“Quick question: As this place is a mirror of The Prime universe, have any of you people seen the movie The Human Centipede?” I grinned wickedly, floating high above.
Superhero Fun Fact #2
When the X-Men Character Nightcrawler teleports, his *bamfs* have been noted by other characters as smelling of “brimstone”. Or, in other words, like sulfurous farts. That’s because when Nightcrawler teleports, he is taking a shortcut through the Brimstone Dimension and bringing a whiff of it with him.
So, some writer created a demonic land of farts. Huh.
Chapter Six
Where I Set Up Shop, Vomit Forth Some Good-Natured Misogyny, and Make a Bet
I placed the broken blade of Excalibur on the mantle behind my new desk, then lit a black cigarette, stood back, and admired the piece. That particular addition to my collection made me smile.
I didn’t draw it from the stone, nor waylay another dimension’s Arthur and take it, I’m sad to say. No, the Lady of the Lake was an old drinking buddy of mine. She explained it to me once that she used to go from dimension to dimension, passing out weapons like Excalibur. The Lady has an entire closet full of such trinkets.
The way she tells it, after dispensing such items of power, she would then embolden, empower, and task sage-like beings with grand, sweeping plans. She did it knowing full well it would result in false hope, false peace, and ultimately, despair.
You see, The Lady loved to give the people the barest glimmer of a perfect society. A peek at a Utopian ideal that seemed attainable if all mankind would band together, reach out, and make it happen. But she knew mankind for what it was. As such, the quest for ultimate peace and prosperity would be ripped away and end in ruination and sadness.
Damn, she had a gift for villainy.
She gave me the sword as a thank-you for a job I did with her a while back. I keep it, like all my trophies, to remind myself of why I do what I do.
Villainy is so much fun.
I, and The Lady, knew that with just the right nudge, we could collapse societies and worlds.
“Let the posturing badasses and warlords practice the scorched-earth method. Isn’t that right, buddy?” I asked aloud while I flicked the ash from my cigarette into my Grimskull-skull ashtray.
I smiled, looking at the ashtray.
Yolly gave me the skull. Another special keepsake of mine. According to the Never Realm demon, the good Baron—how did Yolly put it?—no longer . . . needed it.
And no, Grimskull wasn’t dead. He simply no longer had the top of his skull. Yolly had removed it from his upper teeth to just over his ears. Yolly emailed me a selfie he took with the Baron immediately following the demonic procedure.
The image depicted the corpulent Yolly with his arm over Grimskull’s shoulder, flashing a wide, toothy smile and throwing up a peace sign. Grimskull, though, looked thoroughly unhappy, with only a brain, spine, eyeballs (still attached along the optic nerve) and tongue flopping about.
The picture was currently my smartphone’s wallpaper.
That’s why I kept my office items and had many of them shipped here from my dimension. They reminded me of what someone with a sharp mind could accomplish if he paid attention, learned the rules, and of course, suspected everyone.
Huh.
I looked at Excalibur, then Grimskull’s head ashtray, then back at Excalibur.
Note to self: Take out the Lady of the Lake. I don’t care for competition. And she is no doubt planning on doing the same to me when the time is right.
With the finishing touches in place, my new office looked every bit as frightfully uninviting as my old one.
Only Sophia was missing.
Shame I couldn’t bring her here. But one doesn’t let a genie out of a bottle, or in my case a Djinn out of her pocket dimension prison, and expect good things to happen.
Besides, who would do my paperwork?
“Sir.” Sophia’s voice came over the intercom.
Speak of the devil.
Well, demonic cousin, but whatever.
“Hello Sophia,” I said. “I was just thinking of you.
“Sir, I was calling your name for the last few moments.”
“Oh, yes. My apologies, Sophia; I was ruminating. You were saying?”
“Ass to mouth, sir?”
“Are you making me an offer, Sophia?” I mused.
“You wish, sir.” Sophia laughed. “No, I am simply giving you credit, Sir. Sewing the remaining corpses of the Greek Chorus to the screaming civilians ass-to-mouth and leaving them in the ruined street was a great first impression. Making a video of it and uploading it to social media and YouTube was just the icing on the cake. You’re trending on Twitter.”
“Thank you,” I told her while I lit a black cigarette and sat in my new chair. “Heads on spikes hold a traditional sense of value; don’t get me wrong. But stuffing a screaming civilian’s tongue up the sphincter of a dead superhero, then fusing it all together? Well, that has just the right amount of gallows humor and malevolence to represent the Blackwell brand.”
“Bravo sir, bravo,” Sophia congratulated me. “So, will you be looking for an on-site secretary?”
“Do I hear a note of jealousy?”
Sophia scoffed in my ear. “Sir, please. We both know that if you ever tried to replace me, I’d feed you your own intestines.”
She meant it too. I saw her do it once.
Shortly after opening our agency, I offered to bring in additional help. Sophia smiled, opened a portal to an alternate reality, summoned another me, then proceeded to disembowel the poor me. True to her word, she forced him/me to eat his guts as he bled out. Afterwards I granted her a two-hour dimension pass and she took me out to dinner at Applebees. Two tortures back-to-back.
That was an odd birthday. But I digress.
“I will need an assistant for some of the work,” I admitted.
“Of course you will,” Sophia agreed. “You have my permission to hire a temporary assistant.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, sir, I have a call coming in from King Stanley. He’s requesting permission to enter your office.”
“It’s his universe,” I noted.
“True,” Sophia agreed, “but you are in an embassy of your dimension. So, rules are rules.”
“Of course.” I nodded. “Please, extend him my invitation.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Nice office!” King Stanley announced as he shuffled into my new temporary domain. “Where is this exactly? I’m having a hard time locating it, and I own this dimension!”
“Trade secrets.” I smirked. “I’ve set up several front offices as gateways which lead, with my permission, to this true location. But where we really are is not important. One of my personal beliefs is to never let an enemy know exactly where it is you lay your head at night.”
King Stanley cocked his head in puzzlement. “Whom do you consider an enemy?”
“Everyone,” I told the god, lighting another cigarette. “Even Sophia doesn’t know this exact location.”
“Why?”
“Wonderful as she is, and an important person in my life, she will eventually try and kill me. While in my own universe, she cannot harm me.”
“I’m gonna get you one day, sir!”
“You will try, Sophia. You will try.” I smiled.
“You are seriously messed up,” King Stanley said, taking a seat by my desk.
“You have no idea. So, what can I do f
or you?”
“Business can wait a moment,” Stanley said, removing his oversized glasses and wiping them clean on his cardigan. “I know the other gods don’t take me seriously, comic book universe and all. But one thing I do have is a rather keen eye for humanity. Did you know that this realm is a near-perfect reflection of the prime universe?”
“I’ve noticed,” I said, wishing Stanley would get to some semblance of a point.
“Because of which, I’ve become an expert on humanity,” King Stanley declared. “The highs, the lows, the beauty, and the terrible conflict of it all. You, my good Jackson Blackwell, are suffering. Would you like to talk?”
“King Stanley,” I said with a sigh, smoking my cigarette, and choosing my words carefully, “I appreciate your realm’s hospitality, granting me temporary asylum while I am in a transitory state due to my romantic complications. However, please do not attempt to psychoanalyze me, nor equate me to a base ‘human’ for observation.”
I had to keep my normal acerbic nature in check. Stanley may be a doddering dolt, but he’s a god nonetheless.
And worse, I needed him.
That admittance aside, I refused to be debased to the level of a common person. One who was measurable and observable. One of those weak-willed simpletons who lowered themselves by sharing their petty problems to a medical school dropout.
Therapists . . . the junior varsity of the medical profession. Too afraid to live without Mommy and Daddy’s money, not skilled enough to be a real doctor, and too proud to be a dentist.
I know King Stanley was attempting, in his grandfatherly way, to establish a bond between us and salve some phantom wound he believed I had because of Lydia. But the Shadow Master has no such desire to bare one’s soul.
He is made of sterner stuff.
King Stanley steepled his fingers under his chin and looked directly at me. “Kicked out of your own dimension. It’s not fair, is it?”
“Not one fucking bit!” I practically yelled, the pent-up emotion pouring out of me in a flood. “That was MY goddamn dimension! I worked my ass off to get it and to build my empire. And I was kicked out for what, telling the truth?! It IS just pregnancy.”
All the things I, and many people of the world, were dying to say, but aren’t allowed because of “baby fever” and motherhood, came gushing out.
“Gods above and below, the way the world bends over backwards for pregnant women is repugnant and sexist. A woman breeds, so what? Does she get a shower for getting a Master’s degree? No! Does she get a parade in her honor for STEM work? Nope. But spread your goddamn legs and play host to a fucking parasite and you’re suddenly a holy temple of womanhood, praised above all others!”
“I see,” Stanley said, leaning back.
“And let’s put things in perspective,” I said, leaning forward, lowering my voice to just above a growling whisper, “when you eat a delicious cake, you thank the chef who whipped up the batter, not the bloody oven that cooked the damn thing. The damn world acts as if the father was never involved or even has feelings. Sexism, I tell you, pure sexism! Where’s my fatherhood parade? Nowhere.”
“I understand,” Stanley said. “Do you feel better?”
“Slightly,” I sighed. “My apologies, King Stanley. I don’t like people seeing me like that. I guess I had to get that off my chest.”
“Happens to the best of us, even gods,” Stanley said with a squinty-eyed smile.
“If you were human, I would be forced to kill you, or at least rip out your tongue, cut off your fingers, and gouge out your eyes.”
“Naturally,” Stanley concurred. “You should have seen me when a spectacularly beloved, amazing hero of mine made a deal with a devilish figure, retconning miles of character development. I was a blubbering mess.” Stanley laughed. “But now on to business. While you’re here, I want to you to really try and break this place.”
“Why?”
“Since the prime universe draws its superhero inspiration from this plane of existence, I need new ideas and new conflict to trickle into the minds of those creators,” Stanley explained. “And boy, we’ve been in a bit of a rut lately.”
“Your movies are profitable,” I noted.
“Yes, yes they are,” King Stanley agreed. “But the quality of some greatly outshine the limping mediocrity of others.”
I smirked. I had an in with some studio types back in the prime universe. I made sure one particular company consistently put out sub-par films, while simultaneously fueling the online civil war that resulted in my lucrative producer credits.
Plus, I really like seeing grown adults cry and pout like children. Come to think of it, I don’t mind seeing children cry either. I’ll be a great parent.
“So, you want me to do what, empower your villains?”
“Empower villains, destroy heroes, build heroes up, crush them all over again, whatever you like. There is nothing off limits. My realm needs a good rogering, and I think you’re the chap to give it the what-for.”
“You’re playing to my baser side,” I said with a smile. “I approve. But, ‘rogering’ and giving anything the ol’ ‘what-for’ is kind of what got me into this predicament.”
“OK, I’ll sweeten the deal,” Stanley said with a fox-like grin on his wrinkled face. “You do something that has never been done before, and I’ll grant you a reward.”
“What kind?” I asked, intrigued by the gentleman’s agreement. Considering what was going on with Lydia, I could use the distraction.
“Depends on what you do.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll owe me a favor, from one god to another.”
I thought about it. With me out of my main office and the rest of my business on hiatus, I was stuck here until Lydia allowed me back. Possibly until the baby could consent, seeing as it would be a god of my realm as well. The future was murky, while the present at least presented options I could turn into a net gain for myself.
“Deal,” I said.
“Excellent,” Stanley smiled, reaching out his hand to shake on it.
I took it, and quirked an eyebrow. I smiled at Stanley as an idea crossed my mind. Several ideas, actually.
“What’s your first order of business?” Stanley asked.
I sat behind my desk, lit a smoke, and sipped at a tumbler of scotch. “I’m getting my goddamn name back.”
Chapter Seven
Where I Fume About App Functionality, Pitch a TV Cancellation, and Meet a Man Named Wendell
Have you ever noticed in the superhero genre, be it movies, TV, or comics, that the “old abandoned docks” are always a hotbed of illicit activity? Well, possibly you haven’t noticed, seeing as you’re reading a book and have better things to do with your life. Good for you!
Hmm. But considering you’re reading this book, my guess is you have intimate knowledge of the local comic shop and have an MMO or tabletop game preference. I take it back. You’re most likely a geek.
Well, my dear nerd, as I said before, the docks at night are always filled with low-life thugs, villains, and predatory vigilante heroes. From my elevated position atop a shadowy, nearby warehouse, the trope stood firm. The “abandoned docks” of Far Haven were anything but abandoned.
This particular burrow seemed to attract a lot of street-level supervillians and heroes. The landscape of Far Haven was dark and brooding, thanks to the tall skyscrapers and industrial bilge being pumped into the sky.
Using my godly senses, I was aware of all types of activity along the foul-smelling coastal import/export stations. And thanks to the nifty app Sophia installed on my phone, I could pull up action-pose splash pages on this universe’s characters.
A mile or so down the way, I sensed a grizzled veteran vigilante with animalistic proclivities and a penchant for smoking cigars while talking about himself in the third person. Usually about how good he is at doing . . . whatever. Cross referencing that, I saw he was the Variant known as Timber, and he was stalking
a group of low-life thugs who hunted Variants for fun.
(Oh, for your edification, a Variant is this world’s version of those born with powers though genetic abnormalities. I know there is a more common term, but one does not tempt the corporate copyright lawyers of the big-eared, high-pitched rat.)
A mile in the other direction, I sensed at least three abandoned warehouses that served as hideouts for villains and their gangs. Not exactly original, or even tactically advantageous, but the warehouse setting had a place in the annals of villainy.
Any proactive hero or law enforcement agency with access to a drone and a cluster of hellfire missiles could really clean up if they simply bombed all abandoned warehouses.
Hmm . . . considering that nearly every billionaire industrialist was either a hero or a villain, the destruction of the docks could remove unwanted competition while also proving lucrative. Provided they secured the rebuilding contract, they could take care of two birds with one stone.
Note to self: Secure additional stock in urban combat drones and negotiate first-right rebuilding contract bids.
I saw a nimbus of energy zip by in the night as the galactic law enforcer known as Hardlight searched the warehouses for his quarry. According to my app, the villain Tectonic and his gang, the Movers and Shakers, were in the area. Gods above and below, I wish these people had better names.
But I was not here for any of them. I was here for one person: the other Shadow Master.
Down below, I saw a black man in midnight-blue spandex, black boots, and a sleeveless top allowing his muscled arms to be free. He wore a cape, and a mask that covered his face but allowed his chin-length white hair to hang free.
He had a cadre of henchmen with him, dressed in a more generic version of his costume. They were working under the cover of night to steal some kind of merchandise from a large metal shipping container. The . . . sigh . . . Shadow Master kept watch while his henchmen loaded the stolen goods into the back of several nondescript white vans.
