by Ben Bequer
Serpentis took of her glasses and regarded me for a moment. I’ve never liked thin girls, but there was something so attractive about her. Perhaps it was her flawless, pouty mouth and full lips that she nibbled on as she watched me. Or maybe it was her big, dark brown eyes, studying me with a sultry look that both sized me up, and let me know she was interested.
“Yeah, I was going to say that ‘Dale’ was a shitty super name,” she sneered, raising one eyebrow.
“That’s the thing,” Razor shot in. “We gotta help this dude.” He rubbed his hands and smiled, but he was only able to spread his lips only so wide, into a strange, crooked grin, more menacing than friendly. “I do love it so,” he announced.
“Love what?” Serpentis wondered, already returning to her PDA.
“Helping people find names.” Razor got serious. “I’m real good at it, you know? The name thing.”
“That’s all fine and good,” Delphi said, eager to play the role of mediator. “Maybe Dale can tell us what he does. What his skills are.”
I shrugged, not knowing where to start. “Well, I’m pretty strong, and tough. I got shot doing an armored car job and...” I rolled up the black t-shirt I wore to reveal my midsection and a small red welt six inches above my navel.
“Armored cars? You have to be-” Serpentis scoffed, coming up from her Blackberry and stopped mid-sentence when she caught a look at my muscular stomach. I saw her eyes widen and the corners of her mouth flinch in a controlled smile. Oh yeah, she liked what she saw.
“Let me see,” Razor said leaning over and getting a good look. “Bet it hurt like a sonofabitch.”
“I bet,” Delphi said with a smile on his face as he noticed the expression on Serpentis’ face. He was actually getting a kick from seeing his girl attracted to another guy, and was completely unthreatened by my muscular abdomen.
“Wasn’t too bad,” I said rolling my shirt down.
“She’s right, though,” Razor started. “Armored cars are shit. They’re traps, man. They’ve got them all hardwired to a central system that warns nearby supers. What’s that thing called?”
“ELINK,” Delphi told him.
“Yeah, that.”
“I read about ELINK,” I said, shrugging and taking a long drag from my Jack Daniels whiskey, draining the drink. The waitress was going by and I motioned for another and she came closer.
“Oh, hey guys. Anyone want anything?”
Delphi ordered another vodka tonic, Serpentis asked for a diet soda, Razor wanted an iced tea and I tapped on my now-drained glass of Jack. She made a mental note of all the drinks and ran off to the bar.
“Anyway,” I continued. “I had some trouble on the first job, but it wasn’t with the ELINK system. I didn’t factor the charges right on my arrows.”
“You’re a bow guy?” Razor said, and another crooked smile crept on his face.
“Yeah, an archer,” I corrected.
“So go on, go on. You were saying you fucked up the charges,” he prodded, entranced with my story.
“I had the route mapped, everything set. I did my research on how armored cars work. The ELINK system,” I motioned to Razor. “But I was low on cash so I couldn’t really practice with the explosive arrow heads, so I was way off on the explosive payload and instead of knocking the car on its side, I flipped the damned thing over like five times.”
Razor guffawed, slapping me on the shoulder. Delphi laughed as well, but Serpentis smiled and shook her head at me, like I was a foolish rookie. I couldn’t help but also laugh with them, because she was right.
“I had spent so much time preparing too. Like two months to get everything ready. The thing that took me the longest was setting up the micro circuitry in a tiny explosive package to fit on an arrowhead. And that doesn’t speak to the trouble I had reducing the weight of the whole thing so the arrow was still aerodynamic. I mean, none of this stuff exists even in theory. I basically had to develop the whole technology.”
I looked around and could see that I had lost them.
“See, an arrow doesn’t travel a direct line to its target. Arrows flex after they’re fired from a bow. You actually have to adjust for this and aim off to the side, and the whole process goes to hell if the arrowhead weighs too much.”
“Damn, you sound like you know your shit,” Razor said, half-impressed, half-bored.
“I was into archery at school when I was a kid. Before..I had some problems.”
“Some problems,” Razor laughed, easing back as the waitress brought our drinks. “I’ve had that a few times. Serpentis too, right?” he motioned to her, but from her facial expression Razor quickly caught on that she didn’t want to talk about it.
“The only guy that’s never been pinched is Delphi here. Guy’s a ghost, man. Nothing can touch him.”
I nodded, noting a funny smile on Delphi’s face, and started to grow worried. What did he know about me, about my past, and why was I bothering to share with these strangers? Sure, there had to be some sort of camaraderie amongst villains, right? But how much could I trust these guys?
“So then what happened?” Delphi asked.
I looked at him a bit confused, not sure what to say.
“With the armored car,” he explained putting me at ease as he sipped his iced tea.
“Well, my idea was to use two arrows of differing explosive charges to, first, immobilize an armored truck, then to blow off the back door.”
“Sounds good,” he said. I looked around, wondering if I was boring them, but apparently the story was somewhat interesting. Serpentis had put down her PDA and was looking at me intently.
“I thought it was pretty simple,” I continued. “Wait till the truck makes its rounds so it’s loaded up, and blow the whole thing on its side. Then pop the back door and run off with the loot. I figured the two guards wouldn’t grow a pair when facing a super with a long bow.”
“More like shit a brick,” Serpentis said, sipping her soda through a straw.
“You’d think so,” I said. “So I take the shot and the truck was like nothing.”
“What?”
I didn’t want to explain my previous screw up with the bank robbers and how apparently I had overcompensated from the experience. I didn’t want to share that I was actually on the other side of the law that one time.
“Yeah, nothing. The explosion doesn’t even stop it. So I grabbed a more powerful arrow and shot that, and again, nothing.”
The second arrow had been a double charge, but for all the flame and smoke that erupted beneath the armored car, all it did was warn the driver of the attack, and get him to punch it.
“Told you they’re shit,” Serpentis said, shaking her head.
“Yeah,” I continued. “I got pissed and pulled out the next biggest explosive arrow, and I blew the truck like thirty feet in the air.”
Razor roared with laughter, slapping me on the back again. Serpentis giggled, almost dripping soda through her nose. Delphi also chuckled at my misfortune.
“The worst part is that now the truck’s on its side and the gas tank’s ripped open, because there’s gasoline all over the place.”
The laughter grew, led by Razor, whose face got so red I started to get worried about him.
“I couldn’t fire another arrow to open the back in fear of blowing up the whole car, so I ran up to it and heaved on the back door. And it didn’t budge.”
“Ah,” Delphi remarked.
“I could probably pick up the armored car and toss it into a lake, but I couldn’t open the door for some reason.”
“They got those special magnetic doors now,” Delphi said.
Razor, still laughing, said, “I bet you were like ‘WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?’ and trying to pull the door open and nothing.”
I smiled as they laughed, nodding.
“Then, out of nowhere, I get shot in the stomach.”
“The guards,” Serpentis says.
“Yeah.”
�
�Did they have one of those new laser guns?”
I shook my head.
“You’re lucky,” Razor said.
“So what did you do?” Delphi asked.
“I took off,” I said, shrugging, and they laughed even more.
I guess he thought I was starting to get upset, because Delphi toned down the laughter waving his hands down.
“I’m sure I would’ve done the same thing,” he said.
“No shit,” Razor agreed, finishing his tea and crunching on his ice. “No shame in running at all. Now getting caught? That sucks. Take it from me, I’ve done two stints. One in that new prison they built in Antarctica that’s-”
“The Atlantic,” Delphi corrected.
“The what?”
“The Utopia prison is in the North Atlantic, Razor,” Serpentis said.
“That’s what I said. And trust me, if you can get away to fight another day, I highly recommend it.”
He stood suddenly.
“I gotta take a shit,” Razor said, ambling out of the booth.
“Too much information,” Serpentis scoffed, disgusted.
“I’m too old to give a shit, when I have to take a shit,” Razor said, fidgeting with his waist band, and strolled off with a smile on his face, pleased at his attempt at poetry.
“Cute.”
“So a name,” Delphi said, leaning back and looking at the ceiling.
“The problem with archer guys is that everything is taken,” Serpentis said pausing to sip her soda. “Red Archer, Blue Archer...hell, every color’s taken.”
“Could use ‘Mauve’,” Delphi joked.
“Shaft is taken, Bowyer is taken,” Serpentis continued, ignoring his joke. “Broadhead is an archer term, right?”
“Yeah,” I told her. “It refers a type of arrowhead.”
She blushed, “Good because I always wondered, you know?”
Serpentis and I shared a laugh.
“So maybe go with something that suits your style,” Delphi oblivious and uncaring to the obvious attraction between his girlfriend and I.
“Maybe no super name,” Serpentis said, drawing a strange look from Delphi. “Why do we even need these stupid names? It labels us.”
“Part of the secret identity, my darling, is to keep your REAL identity hidden from the world,” Delphi said dismissively. “Besides, it’s a persona; it’s a way to become something else. You have a nickname? Something they used to call you as a kid?”
I shrugged. “Come here you little fuck?” I said, blushing partially for trying to make a bad joke, and also for partially telling the truth. Delphi laughed, and she giggled, but I could tell that Serpentis was growing frustrated by the naming game so I figured I’d tell them the truth. “My old man used to call me Jackie. My middle name is John, and it was my dad’s name, but they used to call him Big Jack.”
Delphi nodded, working hard to put it all together. This was serious stuff to him.
“What’s your costume color?” Serpentis asked. “Let me guess, all black.”
“Yep,” I said, enjoying seeing her flustered. “Big black cape too.”
Delphi smiled, as if he had figured out, and then looked down at my drink.
“Black, huh? And you like Jack Daniels?”
I nodded.
“Blackjack,” he said.
Serpentis squirmed, “Oh, that’s awful.”
“I like it,” Delphi said. “And there’s no one else with that name that I can think of.”
“Because it sucks,” she continued, shaking her head.
But it didn’t sound bad. It had nothing to do with my powers, or what I did as a villain, but I liked that Blackjack tied somewhat to my old man’s nickname.
Then Razor came back, a befuddled look on his face.
“That was fast,” Serpentis said.
“Where’s my magazine?” Razor asked.
“We found a name for Dale here,” Delphi said, ignoring his question. “Blackjack.”
But Razor grew more confused.
“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked.
“See what I mean?” Serpentis said, feeling victorious.
“It has nothing to do with anything, Razor. But do you like it?” Delphi said growing annoyed with Serpentis.
“Blackjack,” Razor said, letting the word roll slowly from his lips, and after a moment smiled. “Hell yea, I like it. It’s sexy. ‘Who kicked your ass, Lord Mighty?’ they’ll ask him and he’s sitting there holding a nasty shiner,” Razor said, acting the whole thing out. “And he’s like crying; ‘it was BLACKJACK that kicked my ass,’” he finished, pretending to be the hero, crying, before exploding with laughter. Then he shook it off completely and was serious in an instant.
“I’m not kidding,” he said, pointing at us. “Where’d you guys put my magazine?”
Chapter 2
After meeting Delphi, Serpentis and Razor, something clicked, everything turned around and for the first time in my life, I had unmitigated success. With the tips and advice I got from the guys in the following weeks and months, it all began to make sense to me. Maybe it had to do with working alone, relying on only myself, but it felt great to finally put it together, to finally be good at something.
And once the money started rolling in from bank robberies and armored car jobs and jewelry exchange heists, I was able to spend on better lab equipment, better gear, and with practice came facility. I mean, I had it down to a science, a process of variables to account for and once I learned to control them all, the rest was exerting a bit of effort, and finding a good attorney to launder the money. Serpentis came through in spades there, though she was long retired, referring me to the best guy in the West Coast.
Fast forward two years (two good, successful years,) and I would need my attorney’s services in a different way, as Atmosphero came knocking. For a special prize, I got a one way trip to the L.A. County lockup to one of the special holding cells that sported a power dampening field. I didn’t know where they had the device hidden, but I could feel the waves undulating through the room, through my body, ripping at my insides. It was like having your testicles removed with a pair of pliers, like someone boring through your guts with their bare hands without anesthesia. And at the same time it was draining, exhausting, like at the end of a marathon, that almost drowsy euphoria that threatens to wash over like a wave on the ocean.
Then there were my actual injuries. My body was enhanced, genetically or otherwise, and I could take a beating, but Atmosphero had spent his time with my unconscious form, leaving warm, lumpy bruises and dried, flaky blood coating my face, which was a swollen, bulbous mess. My chest ached with every breath and my midsection felt as if on fire, and that was before they threw me under the dampeners. My left arm was near broken, and my right knee felt dislocated but despite all the injuries, they weren’t going to bother with medical attention or due process.
I was a villain, I got what I deserved.
* * *
“Quit glaring at the judge,” my attorney told me for the third time, but I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. I must have been doing it inadvertently. I’d been in jail a month. I wanted to hate someone.
My lawyer was called Sandy Hamlin, but he was known as “The Killer” and Serpentis said I was lucky to have him. The world according to Sandy was all wine and roses, and in his professional opinion, there was no chance I was going to jail.
It was easy for him to be so calm, so damned smug. The guy was rolling in money, wearing a $10,000 Fioravanti custom-made suit and Berluti shoes that go for a thousand a pop. I couldn’t see his belt, but I bet it was worth more than every last red cent I had left, after Atmosphero blew up my house, car, and the stash of money I had hidden in the attic.
I didn’t know how I was going to pay for his services, since they ran $1,000 an hour, and even though he kept telling me, “don’t sweat it, kid,” I had plenty to worry about. The money I had went to buying that house, all my furn
iture, my collection of Disney movies, and the Bentley Mulsanne that Atmosphero rolled down the hill as he was leaving, a goodbye present. It was all gone.
Across the aisle, the prosecution attorney beamed with confidence. And he had a flock of a dozen assistants and helpers preparing all his papers.
Sandy was all by himself.
A month had passed since the Atmo beating, and we were before the judge on a hearing about Sandy’s motion to dismiss, a motion that in theory would send me home this very day. Except Sandy wasn’t talking. Instead of even focusing on the case, he was doodling a picture of me in full Blackjack costume, while at the same time doing something weird with his mouth and lips as if they were part of the drawing process. Sandy wasn’t a half-bad artist, truth be told, but the quality of his drawing didn’t ease my nerves, or settle the burning anger in my belly. The fact that he was drawing Blackjack, right in front of the court, a few yards from the prosecutor’s buzzing hive belied either a lasses-faire attitude about my plight where he was happy to collect as much as he could until my inevitable incarceration, or he was openly mocking the proceedings, which I’m sure would bode well for me when the time would come for the Judge to decide on the motion.
“Dude,” he said, noting my anxious demeanor. “Will you relax?”
The prosecution attorney wasn’t a local, D.A., and neither was the judge a local guy, even though they were borrowing a run of the mill court room in downtown Los Angeles. No, these guys were big time, sent across the country to deal with villains like me.
Aaron Blackwell served the National Supers Agency, a small division of the Department of Homeland Security, specifically designed to handle super-powered beings and their activities. This guy bounced around the country prosecuting idiots like me that got caught breaking the law.
Blackwell, as a strategy, referred to me only as “Blackjack” drawing a smile from the corners of my face every time I heard the word, as did the hard swallowing apprehension of any person in the gallery I was fortunate to have eye contact with. Blackjack was responsible for all my successes; he was the reason for this whole proceeding, for the disapproving eyes, and the frightened glances. He was the only thing I had going.
