How to Be a Supervillain

by Michael Fry

  “I do. It’s just not as secret as I’d like,” said the Smear.

  “Seriously? You live in an apartment complex?” I said.

  The Smear stared at me. “I said it’s temporary, and what did I say about asking too many questions?”

  Norman interjected, “Let’s talk about why we’re here… the battle? Now, MegaMole is the hero. Mr. Smear is the villain. We battle at the railroad yard. Three rounds. All action, including but not limited to punches, kicks, body slams, smear stains, detonations, aerial bombardment, and submarining, will take part within the yard.”

  I leaned over to the Smear and whispered, “Submarining?”

  The Smear pointed at MegaMole. “He likes to dig.”

  Norman continued, “Any damage to property or civilians comes out of your pay. First round to the Smear. Second round to MegaMole. Third round goes back and forth, with the Smear about to win, only to lose at the last second to MegaMole. No punches or stains below the belt. Any questions?”

  The Smear raised his hand.

  I put my hand out to the girl. “Hi, I’m Victor.”

  She glared at me. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

  “Octavia!” barked MegaMole. “That’s no way for an apprentice hero to behave.”

  “What. Ever,” said Octavia.

  MegaMole sighed, “This is Octavia Sparkle, my apprentice.”

  “Ah, the Sparkles’ daughter,” said the Smear. “Did that stain on your dad’s left elbow ever wash out?”

  Octavia glared at the Smear. “No.”

  The Smear grinned. “Too bad.”

  “Octavia has a bit of an attitude problem,” noted MegaMole.

  The Smear looked at me. “Then you two have a lot in common.”

  A couple walked up and pointed at MegaMole.

  The couple looked disappointed. The man said, “Oh, wait. Not the Woodchuck, the Beaver.”

  “MegaMole!” said MegaMole.

  “What’s your superpower again?” asked the man.

  The Smear smiled. “He likes to dig.”

  MegaMole glared at the Smear. “Subterranean ambush.”

  Norman broke in. “Excuse me, but we have business to conduct. I know how fans like to gawk, but supers are people too. They put their tights on one leg at a time just like you.”

  I raised my hand. “Actually, my parents put their tights on two legs at a time.”

  “Impressive,” said the Smear.

  The man smirked. “Freaks. You’re all freaks.”

  Norman stood up. “These gentlemen risk their lives for your entertainment. The least you can do is pay them the respect they deserve. Good day, sir!”

  The couple turned to leave, but not before the man mumbled, “Freaks in capes.”

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that, gentlemen,” said Norman. “Unfortunately, there’s a small portion of the public that is unappreciative of the sacrifices you make to maintain the status quo.”

  I said, “The Truce.”

  “Yes,” said Norman. “Do I need to remind everyone about the consequences of failing to maintain the Truce?”

  MegaMole and the Smear both looked down at their supershoes.

  “The Purge,” they both said at the same time.

  “Yes. That,” said Norman. “Stick to the script and all will be well.”

  I looked at the Smear.

  Was he listening?

  I couldn’t tell.

  “Is that really what they think we are?” I asked.

  The Smear said, “What?”

  “Freaks,” I said. “Those civilians called us freaks.”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  It was evening and we were at the staging area, preparing stains for the next day’s battle. It was hot and we didn’t want to stain our clothes, so we both stripped down to our underwear.

  “But we’re not freaks,” I said. “We’re just, you know, unusual.”

  “That’s the problem. We have skills and abilities civilians can only dream about. This gives them a choice. They can accept their inferiority, or they can choose to believe we’re freaks and therefore somehow less than human.”

  “But that’s prejudiced.”

  “Yes. Most people are suspicious and fearful of what they don’t understand.”

  “I wonder what kind of powers I’ll get?” I asked.

  The Smear said, “If it’s genetic or mutated, you won’t find out till after you come of age.”

  “When I’m wearing my black hat.”

  “Right. Yeah, it’s weird. I don’t make up the rules. Actually, I don’t know who made up the rules. Someday I’ll figure that out and let you know.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  The Smear continued. “And if you don’t get mutated powers, you can be superspecial, like me.”

  “Superspecial?”

  “You get to choose your superskills. Like making superstains, mind writing, electric eel flinging, ooze-spitting snails… anything!”

  I was confused. “What if I end up with some lame superpower? You know, like supersmell?”

  “You could smell danger,” offered the Smear.

  “Then what?”

  “Not warn others.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. We’re all making this up as we go along.”

  Yes. That. It’s all so random and unpredictable. And the unpredictability is the worst part. I’m not good with unpredictability. It makes me nervous. And when I get nervous, I get twitchy. And when I get twitchy, I get sweaty, and when I get sweaty, I get more nervous. It’s the Vicious Cycle of Victor. Seriously, it’s a thing. They’ve done studies. Look it up.

  The Smear watched me like he knew what I was thinking. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  “How do you know?” I said.

  He nodded. “I just do.”

  Meanwhile, several vats of smear stains bubbled away. The Smear pointed to huge pot on the stove.

  I grabbed a pair of tongs and lifted the huge melon. It was covered in a golden-brown crust. It looked like a really fat corn dog.

  “What if we explain who we are to civilians?” I asked. “That we’re not dangerous, just… you know, different.”

  The Smear said, “If we’re not seen as dangerous, then we’re out of a job. No one would care enough to watch our battles.”

  I carried the deep-fried watermelon to the countertop. “So they love us for being freaks and they hate us for being freaks.”

  “Civilians—can’t live with them, can’t enslave them. At least not anymore,” said the Smear as he eyed me walking with the watermelon. “Careful now. That is a thing of beauty. My best yet. Come to Papa. Come to—”

  I started to lift the watermelon onto the countertop, when…

  I stared at the mess, afraid to meet the Smear’s eye. That thing had been deep-frying for hours. It was too late to start over. I’d screwed up big-time.

  I slowly looked up. The Smear wasn’t happy.

  But then something strange happened. Something I wasn’t used to.

  The Smear smiled.

  “It’s okay. Accidents happen,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no. It’s just that when I screwed up at home, I mean, I’d get yelled at.”

  The Smear shook his head. “Not with me, Victor. We’re in this together.”

  That was the first time he’d called me “Victor.” Not “kid.” And certainly not “Disappointment Boy,” like my parents.

  Victor.

  It felt good.

  “Wait,” said the Smear. “Before we clean this up, I’ve got something for you.”

  He went to one of his storage chests and opened it. He reached inside and pulled out the most wonderful thing I’d ever seen in my whole life.

  “Try it on,” he said.

  The next morning we arrived at the prebattle meeting, ready to kick MegaMole butt!

  While the Smear and MegaMole went over the script with Norman, I started
tidying up and organizing the Smear’s stain arsenal. I grouped the fruit stains together and separated them from the vegetable-based ones. I stacked the deep-fried stains neatly. I hid the pie-based stains for later. They’re super tasty.

  I turned around. It was Octavia.

  “Where’s your costume?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t be caught dead in tights and a cape.”

  I shrugged. “Then why are you here?”

  “What do you care?”

  “’Cause if I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be here,” I said.

  Octavia looked at the ground. “My parents made me.”

  “Yeah? Mine too. Sort of. It was my decision, but they really wanted me to.”

  “My parents are all superhero goody-goody and don’t understand why I’m not.”

  “That’s weird. My parents are all supervillain evil-evil and wonder why I’m not.”

  “I’m evil?” asked Octavia.

  “In a good way,” I said. “I mean, in a bad way. I mean… I don’t know what I mean.”

  “Why are you with a loser like Sir Spills-a-Lot?”

  I straightened up (as much as I could in spandex) and glared at her. “He’s not a loser. He’s a professional failure. There’s a difference.”

  “Victor!” yelled the Smear from across the railroad yard.

  “I gotta go,” I said.

  Octavia rolled her eyes. “Run along to your big, bad, scary master.”

  “He’s not my master. We’re in this together. He told me.”

  “Sure, Stain Boy. Tell yourself that.”

  The Smear yelled again. “Kid! Get over here!”

  I ran to the Smear. He was standing with MegaMole, Norman, and two super-old supers I didn’t recognize.

  “Kid, this is Lasso Girl and the Pollinator. They’re our referees.”

  “So polite. You’re sure he’s villain material?” asked the Pollinator.

  “We’re working on it,” said the Smear.

  “I think he’s cute,” said Lasso Girl.

  The Smear added, “We’re working on that, too.”

  He handed me two water bottles. “Your only job today is to keep these two hydrated.”

  “Hydrated? But what about the stains and the mice and, you know, watching your back?”

  “You gotta crawl before you can walk, kid. Let’s start small and work our way up.”

  This was not what I’d signed up for. I’d signed up to learn to be a supervillain. Supervillains wreak havoc. They spread chaos. And look cool doing it. Supervillains do not hydrate.

  I looked past the Smear to a sparse crowd in a roped-off area of the railroad yard. Mostly older people, retired, out of work, homeless. One guy looked lost.

  “Welcome to the big time,” said Octavia behind me.

  I turned. She was grinning from ear to ear.

  “You’re enjoying this,” I said.

  “Yes. Misery loves company.”

  “I’m not miserable. I’m just disappointed.”

  “Get used to it, dude. This whole superracket is on its last legs.” She pointed to the Smear and MegaMole. “It’s obvious. Obvious to everyone…

  I wasn’t going to admit it out loud, but she was right. All of a sudden this whole thing felt super lame. And I was a super-lame part of it. Good thing no one I knew could see me right now.

  “Victor! Yoo-hoo! Over here!” yelled someone who sounded suspiciously like…

  “Where’s your black hat?” asked Mom.

  “I have my own costume now,” I said.

  Dad said, “But black goes with everything.”

  “Forget the hat!” I shouted. “What are you doing here?”

  They looked confused.

  “Miss your superdebut? Not a chance,” said Mom. “Though I like the irritation I’m seeing.”

  Dad said, “Hold on to that. You can never be too irritated.”

  “I’m irritated because you’re here,” I whispered. “Not because… oh, never mind.”

  They weren’t listening. They never listened. They saw what they wanted to see, and if what they wanted to see was a nasty, mean, rotten kid, who was I to disappoint them?

  “Oh, my… chills!” whispered Mom.

  Dad added, “Almost like he means it.”

  “Knock ’em dead, son,” said Dad. “Well, not dead. We don’t do dead anymore. But, you know, knock ’em… um, down.”

  “Down is good,” said Mom.

  Like I said, hopeless.

  “Hey, kid!” yelled the Pollinator. “I’m thirsty.”

  And with that my great career as a supervillain’s apprentice began. Not with a bang, but with a slurp.

  I watched the Smear and MegaMole stand at the center of the railroad yard.

  The announcer boomed, “Today’s match pits the subterranean savior MegaMole versus… wait, who? I thought he was dead. You’re sure? If you say so. MegaMole versus the S’more!”

  “Smear!” yelled the Smear.

  “Sorry. Smear,” corrected the announcer.

  And we were off to a great start.

  As I stood there, water bottles in hand, I realized I was stuck. Stuck between my clueless, pushy stage parents and a tragically lame supervillain sideshow.

  What to do? Disappoint Mom and Dad, or stay with Lord Splatterfest and learn the smear stain potential of rotten avocados? Run away and make socks? Or just stand there and do nothing and see what happens?

  I liked that list. You can’t make a wrong decision if you don’t make one at all. Indecisive Boy to the rescue!

  Lasso Girl walked up. “Water me, sweetheart.”

  I gave her a bottle. She took a long swig, then looked me hard in the eye. “You know, just because it’s all fake doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “You’ll see.”

  The battle began and I did see. I saw a lot.

  I saw it all.

  Round one began.

  Sort of.

  Superbattles involve a LOT of circling.

  Followed by insults…

  The referees stopped the battle.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” shouted the Pollinator. “That was a cheap shot.”

  “What?” protested the Smear. “Parentage isn’t off-limits.”

  “Parentage, spouses, kids, aunts, uncles, first cousins are all off-limits,” said Lasso Girl.

  “Since when?” asked the Smear.

  The Pollinator said, “Since the 2016 Amended Supers Agreement. Don’t you read our e-mails?”

  The Smear shook his head. “What’s next? Pets?”

  Lasso Girl nodded. “They’re under consideration with the Rules Committee.”

  “This isn’t a superbattle, this is a pillow fight,” growled the Smear.

  “We just want to establish a safe space,” said MegaMole.

  “This is a superbattle!” cried the Smear. “There’s no safety in superbattles!”

  “No arguing with the referee,” said the Pollinator. “Now get on with it!”

  And… they circled some more.

  I watched as Norman checked his script. “We circle. We insult. We circle some more. And now…

  And boy, did they fight. They fought on the ground.

  They fought from the air.

  They fought underground.

  They were really fighting. It didn’t look fake. It didn’t looked staged. It looked serious.

  It looked awesome!

  And I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Most of the crowd was really into it. I mean, mostly.

  Okay, okay, at least they were awake.

  There was one fan who was a bit too into it.

  The crowd didn’t see two slightly paunchy old men. They saw two superhuman gladiators fighting for glory or world domination or bragging rights at Benny’s.

  Lasso Girl pointed to the crowd. “You see? It’s real to them.”

  She was right. Sure, I’d been to battles with my parents. But I guess I wa
sn’t paying attention. The fans saw exactly what they wanted to see.

  It made me wonder.

  What did I want to see?

  Round two. The first round had been scripted so that the Smear would have the upper hand. Now it was MegaMole’s turn to even the score.

  Here’s what was supposed to happen.…

  What really happened was…

  Followed by an aerial strike… er, dump from the flying Stain Mixer.

  Then, with MegaMole pinned down, the Smear called in Mouse Team Six to go all trampoline on him until he gave up.

  That was when Norman from the Authority started freaking out.

  It was only the second round, and MegaMole looked done for. The Smear was smiling. Okay, sure, it’d been twenty years since he fought. And that’s a long time to go without a win, but he was scripted to lose this round. He had to lose! What had happened to protecting the Truce? What had happened to playing within the rules?

  Suddenly MegaMole was gone. One second you could see him struggling under the weight of all those stains and jumping mice. And the next second he disappeared.

  For a few seconds nothing happened, then there was a low rumble that got louder and louder and…

  … LOUDER!

  MegaMole was tunneling back and forth underneath the Smear. Faster and faster and faster he dug. The ground under the Smear started to boil.