by S. G. Browne
“I think you underestimate the power of our positive message,” I say.
“It’s an ADHD world, Lloyd,” he says. “And you’re nothing more than the latest distraction. Tomorrow everyone will have moved on to the next most interesting thing and you’ll be yesterday’s news.”
“What about you?” I say, taking one of his rooks with my remaining knight. “Won’t the public get tired of you?”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Blaine says, taking my knight. “Unlike you and your band of super losers, I don’t want people to know I exist. I want them to think they’re safe and that I was just something the tabloids used in order to sell some papers. You know that quote about how the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he doesn’t exist?”
“Yeah. Kevin Spacey says that in The Usual Suspects.”
Blaine shakes his head like a disappointed sensei. “The French poet Charles Baudelaire said it in a story he wrote back in 1864 about meeting the devil. Or he said something nearly similar, but the wording is inconsequential. The point is, no one’s going to think I exist, because they won’t remember me. I’ll be a forgotten memory, a figment of a dream that exists just beyond their grasp. After that, I’ll be able to do everything I’ve always wanted without having to worry about anyone catching me. Or even knowing I did it.”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”
“Everyone needs a hobby,” he says. “Mine just happens to be taking over the world.”
We keep playing, making moves and taking pieces. Whenever I feel my mind beginning to drift from the game, I think about baseball.
“Baudelaire also said that the unique and supreme delight lies in the certainty of doing evil, and that men and women know from birth that all pleasure lies in evil,” Blaine says. “That’s a philosophy I’ve learned to embrace, Lloyd. You’ll learn to embrace it, too.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I say. “We still have another match to play.”
When I called Blaine to convince him to meet me for a game of chess, I told him that if he won, I would join him in his pursuit of world domination. He said he didn’t work well with others, so I suggested I could be his personal minion, instead.
“Every supervillain needs a loyal minion,” I told him. “Bob the Goon. Mini-Me. Darth Vader.”
“I don’t think Vader is the best example of a loyal minion,” Blaine said. “He ends up throwing Palpatine into the Death Star’s reactor shaft.”
“I promise not to throw you into a reactor shaft,” I said. “Or any other shaft.”
We also agreed that if I won, Blaine would be my Boy Wonder.
“Just so long as I don’t have to wear a leotard and tights,” he said.
I think we both knew Blaine didn’t expect to lose. But then, supervillains never do.
“I’m not the bad guy,” Blaine says, taking one of my rooks. “I’m just the one who’s smart enough and has the vision to see which side is most likely to win.”
“I think I’ll stick with trying to help all of the people you seem intent on taking advantage of,” I say before I take his queen.
“Don’t paint yourself as some heroic white knight in shining armor,” Blaine says, returning the favor. “Darkness exists in all men. It’s their default setting, even if they don’t know it or won’t admit it.”
“That’s very nihilistic.”
“There are no heroes, Lloyd,” he says. “Only villains and liars. And if you ask me, the liars are worse. At least the villains are willing to own up to who they are.”
At this point we’re down to a skeleton crew of pieces, but soon the remaining pawns are gone and all that’s left are both kings, my bishop, and his rook.
“Looks like a draw,” Blaine says. “Shall we do this for real?”
“Ready when you are.”
As we reset the chessboard, I allow myself a quick glance around Union Square. The lunchtime crowd has thickened, the tourists and the locals out to soak up every moment of sunshine and warmth the day has to offer. A lot of people are wearing sunglasses. I don’t see any that are mirrored, but I know they’re out there.
“How about we make things interesting,” Blaine says. “Take off our sunglasses. Play it straight up.”
“You afraid you can’t beat me without being able to get inside my head?”
He stares at me and smiles. Or at least I think he’s staring at me. I can’t see his eyes behind his black lenses. But then, he can’t see mine, either.
“Have it your way,” he says. “But how about we up the ante?”
“Name your price.”
He cocks his head and appears to think it over a moment, though I get the feeling it’s just for show.
“In addition to having you as my minion,” he says, “I get to erase your girlfriend’s memory of you and make her my personal sex slave.”
I know he’s just trying to bait me, but I remind myself that it doesn’t matter what we wager. This game won’t reach its conclusion. And even if it does, I don’t plan on living up to my end of the bargain.
“All right,” I say. “And if I win, you give yourself up. Turn yourself in to the police.”
“That seems like an awful lot for me to risk over a game of chess,” he says. “But sure. Why not?”
It’s his arrogance I’m counting on to make this work, and Blaine doesn’t disappoint. Now all I have to do is keep his focus on the game so he won’t sense what’s coming.
“And just to make sure we cover all the bases,” he says, “what if it’s a draw?”
“Then things stay as they are and we see who ends up being the last man standing.”
“A gentleman’s agreement.” Blaine sticks out his right hand. “Or should I say, a guinea pig’s agreement.”
When we shake, I have a moment to wonder if Blaine has somehow manipulated me into grasping his hand because he’s developed the ability to read minds through touch. Then the moment passes. Still, I can’t help wiping my hand on my pants before I move the pawn in front of my king out two spaces.
“You’re so predictable.” Blaine moves the pawn in front of his king out a single square. “It’s like you learned how to play chess from a YouTube video for beginners.”
“Maybe I’m just baiting you,” I say. “Making you think I’m predictable when I have some new moves you haven’t seen.”
I bring my queen-side knight out to protect my pawn.
“I doubt that.” Blaine counters by bringing his queen out beside his pawn. “The only new moves you’re likely to have are the ones you’re going to want to take back.”
I can’t threaten his queen, so I move my bishop two squares forward next to my knight. I glance at my watch.
“Someplace you have to be?” Blaine asks as he brings out his bishop.
“No,” I say, moving my knight to threaten his bishop. “This is exactly where I need to be.”
“Then why don’t you stop worrying about the time and start thinking about the expression on Sophie’s face when I’m fucking her like a monkey?”
“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?” I say, trying to keep my focus on the game.
He moves his queen forward and takes the pawn in front of my bishop. For a moment I don’t understand what he’s doing, why he’s sacrificing his queen, until I realize his queen is protected by his bishop. There’s nowhere for my king to go.
“That’s checkmate,” Blaine says. “You really are easy to read, Lloyd.”
I stare at the board, trying to see my way out of this, but there’s no denying that Blaine just managed to beat me in four moves.
“You didn’t really think mirrored sunglasses would keep me out of your head, did you?” he says.
I look up at Blaine and realize I just might have underestimated him.
“I told you before that you had no idea who you were dealing with,” he says. “I’ve taken so many drugs for insomnia and anxiety that my powers have g
rown exponentially. Nothing can stop me. Not even you and your band of mystery misfits. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to.”
Blaine stands up and turns to his right, his finger pointed at Vic, who stands near the corner of Fourteenth Street. I’m expecting Blaine to start vomiting or at least dry heaving but he just stands there with his index finger leveled at Vic, whose face turns from surprised to blank to slack in a matter of seconds.
Everything’s happening too fast and I don’t have time to give the signal to Frank and Randy, so I access my trigger, my lips turning numb and a yawn working its way into my jaw. In my peripheral vision, Frank moves toward us from the direction of the Hare Krishnas, lumbering against his own inevitable gravity. The next moment, Blaine swings around toward me and shouts in a voice that sounds like thunder.
“We have an agreement!”
I’m about to unleash Dr. Lullaby when Randy grabs Blaine from behind in a full nelson and twists him away from me toward Fourteenth Street. I redirect my superpower to avoid hitting Randy and a woman walking past on her cell phone drops to the ground in an unconscious heap. An instant later, a guy playing chess at the table next to us lets out a shout of surprise as he inflates like a balloon.
Then Blaine starts screaming.
INTERLUDE #5
All’s Rash That Ends Rash
Randy stands on the sidewalk in front of Whole Foods across from Union Square, smoking a cigarette and watching Lloyd and Blaine, waiting for the signal. He checks his watch. Five more minutes. If Lloyd doesn’t give the signal by then, they’re supposed to abort. Walk away. Regroup and try this another time. But Randy has already decided he’s not going anywhere.
Today is the day and it will never come around again.
For most of his life, Randy has been a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, living in the moment and not worrying about tomorrow. He just took what life gave him and made the most of it, choosing to act on impulse rather than thinking about any potential consequences. This philosophy led to more than a few uncomfortable situations, most of them involving women who had thought they were going to have a relationship with Randy that would last more than a single night.
Randy has never considered himself a player, more like an opportunist. And when it comes to women, there are plenty of opportunities to be had if you know what to look for. And Randy always seemed to have a knack for looking.
But over the past couple of months, Randy has had a chance to reflect on the path he’s chosen and the decisions he’s made, which has caused him to come to the conclusion that he’s more or less wasted the past ten years of his life. He’s willing to give himself a break about the one year of high school included in that period because as far as Randy is concerned, high school is a waste of everyone’s time. Even if you were a jock or a rah-rah or one of the popular kids, going to high school is like eating a bag of popcorn.
It has no nutritional value.
But the nine years he’s spent as a legal adult could best be summed up as self-indulgent and aimless. At least until recently.
He looks across the street from behind his mirrored sunglasses as people walk past and glance his way, and he thinks about how the past few months have given his life a sense of purpose beyond getting laid. He just hopes he can find a way to make up for lost time.
Randy takes another drag on his cigarette, wondering what compelled him to pick up this habit again after nearly a decade. The strange thing is, while smoking has helped to calm his nerves and keep his mind focused, it has also seemed to have an effect on his superpower. Each time he inhales, he can almost feel something igniting inside of him.
He takes a final drag and exhales, watching the smoke disappear like a phantom in the winter air, then he drops the cigarette to the sidewalk and crushes it beneath the toe of his Doc Martens. Vic would probably give him shit for using the sidewalk as a cigarette-butt depository, but Randy isn’t concerned about his douche-bag status at the moment. His attention is on Lloyd and Blaine as he channels his superpower, turning up the flame on the heat that is burning inside of him.
He can feel his ability simmering just below the surface, building up energy, waiting to boil over. He takes several deep breaths, using the meditation techniques Vic taught him to help keep his superpower under control. But this feels different than the other times he’s summoned the Rash. That was just training camp and preseason. Today there’s more at stake. Today they’re playing for real. Today is when everything matters.
Randy stares across the street, watching Lloyd and Blaine, trying not to think about what he’s going to do or how he’s going to do it, but trusting that he’ll know what to do at the time it needs doing. Then the M14A bus pulls up at the stop in front of Whole Foods, temporarily blocking Randy’s view of Union Square.
He glances at his watch. Two minutes until Lloyd is supposed to give the sign. The bus should continue on its route before then, but Randy senses that if he doesn’t act now it’s going to be too late. And if there’s one thing Randy has learned over the years, it’s to trust his instincts.
Randy leaves the shadows and runs around the back of the bus, checking to make sure he’s not going to get flattened by traffic before he runs across Fourteenth Street. Even before he reaches the sidewalk, he knows something has gone wrong.
Blaine is standing up and pointing at Vic, who is frozen in place, like he and Blaine are playing a game of Red Light, Green Light. When Blaine spins away, Vic looks around, his eyes blinking like he just woke up. Then Blaine shouts something at Lloyd about an agreement, his voice filled with rage, while Frank struggles to move his overburdened frame through the lunchtime crowd.
Randy doesn’t think about what he’s doing—he just sprints toward Blaine and grabs him from behind, slipping his arms under Blaine’s armpits and clamping his hands behind his neck, then spinning him away from Lloyd in a single move. It’s something he learned in wrestling during his phys ed classes and put to good use during his nights as a bouncer, though he never thought he’d use it in a situation like this. Turns out high school wasn’t a complete waste after all.
Blaine struggles against him, twisting and squirming, elbows pistoning into Randy’s ribs, hitting their target, but Randy is bigger and stronger and he doesn’t let go. He can’t let go. If he does, he knows Blaine will win.
Nearby a woman on a cell phone stops talking and collapses to the ground, her head hitting the concrete with a hollow thunk, while a guy playing chess cries out and turns into a sumo wrestler. In the background, the Hare Krishnas chant and play their drums and cymbals while accompanied by the mournful wail of bagpipes.
Deep inside of him, Randy’s superpower continues to heat up, hotter than it’s ever been—like a geothermal geyser. Or a volcano about to erupt.
This time when he releases his superpower, Randy is pretty sure it’s going to cause more than just a rash. And it’s not going to be temporary.
Blaine continues to yell and thrash against him. For an instant Randy thinks about all of the things he’s done wrong in his life, the mistakes he’s made and the regrets he’s had and the women to whom he wishes he could apologize. But mostly he thinks about Charlie and how he wishes he could take back his criticism of his friend’s resolve.
Then it’s all wiped away in a searing flash as he unleashes his superpower.
It starts out as a rash, red and angry, but quickly turns to boils that erupt and explode on Blaine, causing him to scream out and thrash harder. Except it’s not only Blaine who’s affected. Randy can feel his own skin burning, the flesh starting to bubble, and it’s all he can do to hold on.
Blaine’s shrieks of pain and anger fill Randy’s ears, mixing in with his own screams, but Randy doesn’t let go. His hands dig into the back of Blaine’s neck, his fingers fusing with Blaine’s flesh, the two of them melting together. Randy has a moment to wonder how long this is going to last and if his soul will be linked with Blaine’s in the afterlife.
Then
he and Blaine both burst into flame.
From the front page of the New York Post:
UP IN SMOKE!
SUPER HOLIDAY SPECTACLE AT UNION SQUARE
The lunchtime crowd at Union Square bore witness to a spectacular and deadly exhibition yesterday as New York’s newest superheroes descended upon Manhattan’s iconic intersection to do battle. Two innocent bystanders caught up in the preholiday showdown experienced the telltale side effects induced by Dr. Lullaby and Big Fatty, while two others burned to death in what several witnesses described as spontaneous combustion.
Ben Vincelette, a Boston native spending the holiday in Manhattan, was playing chess next to one of the men.
“This guy stands up and yells something at his playing partner, then this other guy runs up and grabs the first guy from behind,” Vincelette said. “Next thing I know, the guy I’m playing chess against blows up like a puffer fish and the two guys wrestling each other go up in flames. Strangest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”
Although neither of the two men who died in the unexplained fire has officially been identified, the popular consensus among those interviewed is that the Rash was one of them.
Greg Magill, a retired firefighter from Queens, was an eyewitness.
“I saw the two guys wrestling from the start,” Magill said. “The one holding the other from behind in a full nelson started glowing, and the guy he was holding broke out in hives, as if he was suffering the mother of all allergic reactions. A few seconds later, they both turned as red as lobsters and started peeling and blistering. I never seen anything like it. But that was the Rash. I know it was, God rest his soul.”
John McCormack, an off-duty police officer from the Bronx who arrived at Union Square moments before the two men burst into flames, believes the other man involved in the human conflagration was none other than the infamous Mr. Blank.
“I talked to at least a dozen people who were frontline witnesses,” Officer McCormack said. “Half of them couldn’t remember what happened. Others couldn’t even remember what they were doing there. Now I don’t know for sure what happened, but having that many people unable to remember anything . . . Let’s just say it’s out of the ordinary.”
