How to Be a Supervillain

by Michael Fry

  I said, “I don’t know. It seems like—”

  Octavia interrupted, “Just think about it.”

  She took off and I was left wondering. Was I really supervillain material? I liked what the Smear was doing. I liked that he was standing up for villains everywhere. That was a good thing. From a bad guy. So did that make him good? I mean, he had a good heart.

  In there. Somewhere.

  We arrived in Sioux Falls the next morning and were met by a gaggle of strangely familiar fans.

  This was where we met the Smear’s number one fan: Alice Dupenski. How did we know she was number one?

  Pro tip: BEWARE your number one fan.

  The Smear was very nice to her. He signed her forehead and posed for a selfie. Then he turned to me and whispered, “Make her go away.”

  Fortunately, we had plenty of stuff to bribe her with. I gave Alice some hat pins and a stuffed Smear that talked when you squeezed its belly.

  She seemed satisfied.

  The next match was in a few hours at an abandoned rock quarry. Our next opponent was Professor Tuba.

  You think I’m making this stuff up. But I’m not.

  Professor Tuba used her modified instrument to blast super-low-frequency sound waves that would obliterate anything in their path.

  And if that didn’t work, she’d just throw the tuba at you.

  Again, she didn’t seem like too much of a challenge until the Smear told me otherwise.

  “She’s unpredictable,” said the Smear. “She doesn’t care about the script any more than I do.”

  “But you’re supposed to win, right?” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter. I dated her sister years ago. It didn’t end well. She’s never forgiven me. For her, this is all payback.”

  The Smear continued, “This’ll be the first real battle you’ve seen. I need you to keep down, stay dry, and for God’s sake, get out of the way of that sonic sandblaster.”

  First real battle? I wasn’t ready for this. It was one thing when it was all pretend. It was another when there was a real risk of being tuba-blasted to Victoreens.

  The battle started in the usual way, with some circling, followed by insults.…

  And then they got down to business.…

  Professor Tuba looked done for. There was only one thing she could do.…

  I looked for the source of the tractor beam.

  “Again?” cried the Smear as he struggled to get the tuba off his head.

  “What is going on?” yelled Professor Tuba.

  Just as the Smear removed the tuba, a sinister voice boomed from the shark-cloud space plane.

  The Smear looked shocked… and a little afraid. “I know that phlegm-clotted cough anywhere. That’s…

  Of course Dr. Deplorable would show up in his shark-cloud space plane and use a tractor beam to drop a tuba on the Smear and then blow us all to Victoreens and Smeareens and Tubaeens.

  Who didn’t see that coming?

  As the attacks from above continued, we took cover behind two large rocks. Our only advantage was that we were battling in a quarry filled with boulders to hide behind.

  “Why is he shooting at us?” I cried.

  The Smear yelled, “He’s mostly shooting at me!”

  “Okay, so if I run away from you, I’ll be safe?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with Dr. D.,” said the Smear. “He’s got a temper problem.”

  “Did you date his sister too?” Professor Tuba growled from behind a nearby boulder.

  “No!” said the Smear. “Remember? We were partners back in the day.”

  “Then why is he trying to kill you?” I said.

  “It’s pretty simple, actually,” said the Smear.

  He continued, “And with me out of the way, he’s free to…”

  “To what?” I yelled.

  The Smear stared at me. “We have to stop him!”

  Professor Tuba cried, “With what? Rocks?”

  Then suddenly everything began to shake and rattle. The ground started cracking and rising and forming into…what?

  “Hey, Smear,” said two rock monsters.

  “ROCK MONSTERS!” I screamed.

  “Relax. They’re on our side,” assured the Smear.

  “ROCK MONSTERS!” I screamed again.

  “Will you please stop saying that,” asked the Smear.

  “ROCK MONSTERS!” I screamed a third time.

  The Smear stared at me. “Now you’re just embarrassing yourself.”

  Before I could scream “rock monsters” a fourth time, Bob and Dave positioned themselves to take on direct fire from the shark-cloud space plane.

  “The blasts are ricocheting back at the shark cloud!” I cheered.

  It didn’t take long for the space plane to start taking fire. Realizing he couldn’t shoot his way out, Dr. Deplorable retreated. But not before issuing a final warning.

  And then he was gone.

  I said, “He should really have that cough checked out.”

  The Smear shook his head. “Doctors make the worst patients.”

  “Tickling?” I said.

  The Smear nodded. “Tickling.”

  “Dr. Deplorable’s secret weakness is that he’s afraid of being tickled?”

  “It’s his only weakness. It incapacitates him. And makes him laugh. He really hates to laugh.”

  I tried to keep a straight face. I failed.

  We both laughed. Hard. Like two friends sharing a secret are supposed to laugh.

  “And those rock monsters? What’s that about?” I asked.

  “Aliens,” said the Smear. “They missed their ship home. The Authority put them to work providing muscle.”

  “Their names are Bob and Dave?”

  “Their real names can only be pronounced with a mouthful of peanut butter.”

  We laughed again. How much weirder could things get?

  Don’t answer that.

  “Dr. D. is up to something,” said the Smear. “Something that demands me, and now you, out of the way.”

  “Me?” I said.

  “I thought we were in this together,” said the Smear.

  I smiled. Together. That sounded good. Better than apart. And a lot better than alone.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Norman walked up, followed by the rock monsters.

  “This is all highly irregular!” cried Norman. “Dr. Deplorable was not scheduled to participate today. These changes to the script will not be tolerated.”

  “Maybe you should write a new script,” said the Smear.

  “And what would it say?” asked Norman.

  The Smear smiled. “Stuff happens.”

  Bob and Dave giggled.

  “Not funny,” said Norman. “Stuff does not happen unless it’s properly requisitioned and I approve! Got it?”

  “Good luck with that,” offered the Smear.

  Norman walked off, mumbling to himself.

  I said, “There must be a lot of money in socks.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said the Smear.

  We started to clean up. As we packed for the next gig, I realized something was bugging me. Here we were, fighting fake battles, giving the fans their money’s worth, and everyone was mad at us. Dr. Deplorable was up to no good. Norman was beside himself. Professor Tuba was sulking.

  “Why are we doing this again?” I asked.

  “You said I was making a difference,” said the Smear. “Standing up for supervillains everywhere.”

  “Yeah. I guess. It’s just that no one seems to appreciate it.”

  “That just means we’re doing it right.”

  “Huh?”

  “Victor, take a seat.”

  I sat down as the Smear pointed to what was left of the crowd. “You see those fans over there? Their lives are dull, boring, and predictable. No winners. No losers. Just socks. Lots and lots of socks.”

  I said, “Alice told me she makes garden gnomes for a living.”
>
  “You’re missing my point. What I mean is they need us. You were right. They need black and white. Good and evil. Light and dark. Real winners and real losers.”

  “And we’re the losers.”

  “No. Well, yes, sometimes. But in the grand scheme of things we’re mostly winners.”

  “How so?”

  The Smear stood up. “We supers perform a public service by distracting civilians from their dreary lives. It’s a noble cause.”

  “Wait. That makes us sound like good guys.”

  “Sometimes the bad guys have to act like good guys so they’ll turn out to be better bad guys. Two sides of the same coin.”

  I was confused. “Huh?”

  “We’re like a public utility,” said the Smear. “Like the electric company. The villains turn the lights off. The heroes try to keep them on.”

  I knew this one. “And what goes on in the dark…”

  The Smear smiled. “Stays in the dark.”

  “I guess that’s why we have to wear black all the time.”

  “Bad guys get to wear black. Good guys have to wear white.

  Fargo, North Dakota, is a long way from everywhere and everything. Like warmth and decent Mexican food.

  The Smear and I were seated at a booth in Fargo’s premier Mexican/Chinese restaurant, Taco Gong.

  “This is not a chalupa,” said the Smear. “This is soggy toast covered in spray cheese.”

  I said, “Put salsa on it. Salsa makes everything better.”

  “Because you can’t taste anything else.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So who are we battling today?” he asked.

  The Smear groaned. “I hate that guy.”

  “I think you’re supposed to. You’re mortal enemies.”

  “No, I mean I really hate him. He once shrank himself down, sneaked into my hotel room, and spit on my toothbrush.”

  “Gross!”

  “I know!”

  “How are you going to defeat him?”

  “What’s the script say?”

  The Smear frowned. “No. No one touches the face.”

  “I guess we’re going off script again,” I said nervously.

  The Smear smiled. “Relax. Find me a flyswatter and a vacuum cleaner and everything will be fine.”

  “No stains? What are you up to?”

  “If I told you, you might write it down, and then it would be scripted.”

  “Right. Can’t let that happen.”

  “Now you’re catching on.”

  I smiled. Here we were, just two bad bros hanging out over soggy chalupas and burned fried rice. With each passing day I felt more and more comfortable around the Smear. More comfortable than I ever felt back home.

  “Hello, boys,” said a familiar voice.

  I looked up and saw Octavia with her parents and MegaMole.

  “How’s the food?” asked Octavia.

  The Smear smiled. “¡Muy delicioso!”

  A waitress appeared and directed Octavia’s parents and MegaMole to their table.

  Before she left, Octavia leaned down and whispered in my ear, “I’m telling my parents to go home tonight. You know, less of a scene in a public place.”

  “Over here, dear,” said Octavia’s mom.

  I looked over at Octavia’s parents. They seemed so nice and supportive, with a super-positive vibe. Not like my parents.

  Octavia caught my glance. “Embarrassing, aren’t they?”

  “Right,” I mumbled.

  “Don’t forget our deal,” she whispered as she walked away.

  “What deal?” asked the Smear.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  I watched Octavia sit down. While MegaMole stuffed himself with chips, Octavia leaned in with the news. There was a moment of silence, followed by a sound like a cat in a blender.

  So much for not making a scene.

  Octavia cried, “This is exactly why I don’t want you around! You’re smothering me!”

  “Honey, we just want the best for you,” whispered Octavia’s dad.

  “What’s best for me right now is some space,” said Octavia.

  Octavia’s mom managed a smile. “Sweetheart, you’re too young to be on your own.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll be with MegaMole. What can go wrong?”

  MegaMole started breathing again. Meanwhile, my appetite crawled in a little hole and died.

  Octavia’s dad glared at Octavia. “We’re not going anywhere, young lady.”

  “Noooooo!” whined Octavia.

  “No arguing,” said Octavia’s mom. “This is settled.”

  “You’re so mean,” said Octavia.

  “Yes,” said her dad as he led Octavia out of the restaurant. “Sometimes the good guys have to act like bad guys so they’ll turn out to be better good guys.”

  The Smear versus Micro-Mike battle was set to take place in an empty parking garage that allowed for multiple levels of combat. Or vacuuming. Or whatever.

  As I was getting the mice ready (foot rubs, tail curls, nose buffing), the Smear walked up. “I’m not going to need them tonight,” he said.

  The mice were bummed.

  “I got what you asked for,” I said as I handed him the flyswatter and the vacuum cleaner.

  “Thanks. This shouldn’t take long,” said the Smear as he entered the battleground.

  Suddenly I got a strange feeling…

  … that things were about to get strange.

  It was over in about twenty seconds. In the first round! Or was it?

  He lost. The Smear lost.

  Wait. Maybe he was supposed to lose. I looked over to Norman.

  Nope. Not supposed to lose.

  I went to the Smear. “You lost!”

  “I know,” said the Smear.

  “On purpose?”

  “It sets up the rematch with MegaMole. Now I’m angry, desperate for a win. Everyone will be rooting for my comeback.”

  “You’ve done this before.”

  “Not my first puppet show, kid. Now excuse me while I snarl and grumble for the fans.”

  Okay. Messing with the script and Norman was all fun and stuff, but the problem was that the Smear was supposed to lose the rematch with MegaMole. I wanted to believe he knew what he was doing. I wanted to believe he was going to lose as planned, even though I knew he didn’t want to.

  Seriously, I really, really wanted to believe.

  I just wished he wouldn’t make it so hard.

  Before we started packing up, I decided to try the black hat again. I just wanted to be prepared in case my superpower turned out to be lasers shooting out of my butt.

  Norman walked up.

  “Smear, I need you to come to my office.”

  “Why?”

  “Just business,” said Norman. “I need you to fill out a W7-a43 for this venue.”

  “I already filled out the W7-a43,” said the Smear. “In triplicate.”

  “Well, now they want it in quadruplicate,” said Norman.

  “But your office smells like old socks and cheese,” said the Smear.

  It’s true, it does.

  Norman pleaded, “It’ll take twenty seconds. Tops. Please?”

  “I’m going to hold you to it,” said the Smear. Then he turned to me. “You’re coming to keep time.”

  “Do I have to?” I asked.

  “Victor, supervillainy isn’t all world domination and pie. There’s paperwork. There’s always paperwork.”

  We followed Norman to his trailer. He flung open the door, and we suddenly realized there was no paperwork. And that this meeting was going to take a lot longer than twenty seconds.

  “Wow,” I said. “Just like in school?”

  “This isn’t necessary,” said the Smear.

  “It is,” said Smelly Feet. “You’ve been a bad boy.”

  The Smear rolled his eyes. “It’s my job to be a bad boy!”

  “But it’s not your job to put the rest of us in jeopardy,
” said Worm Boy.

  “So I’ve gone a little off script,” said the Smear. “It’s no big deal. The battles end the way they’re supposed to.”

  “You’re playing with fire. The Authority is paying attention. You don’t want to be Purged, do you?” said Joe Toxic.

  “And it won’t be just you knitting socks in space,” said Anvil Head. “We’ll all be knitting socks in space.”

  “No one’s going to be knitting space socks,” said the Smear. “I know what I’m doing.”

  I wondered if that was true. I knew in my heart he wasn’t a bad guy. But I wasn’t sure what he knew in his heart. He would never risk all the supers by bringing on the Purge. I was sure of it. Pretty sure. Mostly sure. Kinda sure.

  Okay, I had no idea.

  “What about Dr. Deplorable?” asked Smelly Feet. “He’s attacked you twice now. What did you do to get his tighty-whities in a twist?”

  “Nothing,” said the Smear. “He was born with his twisty-tighty-whities.”

  “He could come back,” said Mr. Beet. “It seems like he really means business with that shark-cloud space plane.”

  “Not with Dave and Bob around. We’ll be fine,” said the Smear.

  Worm Boy said, “I don’t know, Dr. D. is a psychopath. His feud with Mr. Awesome ended up destroying our way of life and subjugated us all to this charade of fake posturing and phony battles.”