VILLAIN FOR A DAY
BY HALL & BEAULIEU
VILLAIN FOR A DAY
BY HALL & BEAULIEU
I just poured a cup of coffee. In Latin nations they call it cafe con leche. If a latino saw my cup they’d call it leche con cafe. It’s mostly cream. My name is Art Williams, they call me the Silver Serval, and this is how I became a villain…for a day.
I really don’t want to get ahead of the story, so I’m going to start at the beginning—which is a very good place to start. Here’s a little spoiler, I didn’t die, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to tell you this tale. Truth is, you’d be amazed how much suspense you could build telling any number of superhero stories, but I want you to know the truth upfront so when we get to the end you’ll trust me.
I’m going to need your trust when this is all over.
Unless you’ve been hiding under a chunk of ice in Antartica, you know who I am. You also know, by this time, that I just tried to take over the world, and succeeded. But it's important for you to know why I did what I did.
I’m writing this from the Oval Office. No matter what anyone tells you, this is the most powerful position on the planet, and it is now my home. I have suspended elections for the foreseeable future since I have recently come to realize that you, the people, have no idea what is best for this planet. But again, I fear I’m dwelling in the present and you need to know the past.
I got my first degree when I was six years old from a little school called Yale University. I was, without a doubt, the youngest student they or any other place of higher learning had ever had. But I’d always been advanced.
My mother gave birth to me in Manchester, Connecticut and I hit the ground running, literally. It took the hospital staff two hours to track me down and wrangle me back into my mother’s waiting arms.
She tried to nurse me—I bit her. Lucky thing we were already in a hospital. I know it’s difficult to fathom, but I can remember every single moment of those first hours of my life.
I spent the next couple of years in and out of laboratories. Really, the same story you’d hear from any super flying around these days. The thing that made my story unique…not special, just unique, was that I was told at the age of two that my mind was already as developed as a fifteen-year-old. And not just any fifteen-year-old—a really smart one.
I skipped grade school completely. Never even stepped foot through the doors. At three years old I sat under the tutelage of some of the brightest minds in the world. All this and more at the expense of the United States Government. If only they knew that someday I would be the president of the world! President might not be the right term…ruler? King? Lord? Lord. I like that.
I was a good kid. I fell in with a good crowd in college. I was valedictorian of my graduating class. They had to stack thirteen phonebooks for me to stand on in order to reach the microphone, and even then, I strained to see my comrades in the congregation. Six years old and I was told it was the most encouraging and well-spoken speech they’d heard in all the years. But I was humble—I still am…I know, I know, saying that you are humble is the opposite of humility but truth is important to me.
“You are a work in progress,” I said with the vocal cords of a boy barely out of diapers, “so don’t expect perfection. Even as a graduate of one of the greatest schools in this great country, you will not get everything perfect every time. Extend grace to others but most importantly, to yourself.”
It was true then and it is true today. For years, I fought for the good guys. I didn’t realize how even the phrase “good” was relative to the thought process of the individual. You must remember, this was the late 80s. It was years before every university in America elevated self-reflection higher than academics. I wasn’t taught that truth was relative and I still don’t believe it is. Truth is absolute. But perspective determines what you perceive truth to be, and perception is reality.
When I became a villain…for a day…I saw things from two opposite sides of the spectrum and quickly found the absolute truth. I had experienced both sides of the coin and realized that the best position a penny could be in was upright and spinning.
In addition to being inhumanly genius, I also happen to have certain…powers. These are, as yet, unexplained by even the smartest of scientists. Since I count myself amongst that lot, I can tell you—I’ve done all the research. There’s no explanation for why I have been able to run faster than Usain Bolt on a six pack of Red Bull. There’s no reason I can leap vertically several times my own height. Also, I’ve died—four times. By all accounts, I am a sort of a Catman. Not nearly as cool as my nocturnal counterpart, but way smarter and when you’re as smart as I am, you’re rich too.
A few years after I graduated from Yale, I decided my gifts should be used for something…something good. I’d met a handful of supers over the years—even befriended a few. But one thing was always common, they were dirty, thieving, greedy monsters. Even the nice ones.
Before you get the wrong impression, not everyone with super powers galavanted around town wearing spandex and a utility belt—but I did. I worked it too. I owned that look. Sparkling silver jumpsuit with body armor underneath to give the appearance that I was totally ripped. I wasn’t and I’m not. My chemical make-up doesn’t allow for it. My metabolism functions at such a high rate that I have to eat special food supplement bars slam packed with calories. I can barely keep weight on, much less muscle.
But that didn’t stop me from looking the part.
I was thirteen on my first night out on the prowl. It was actually my birthday. I figured I owed it to myself—like a rite of passage. I was becoming a man.
I relied completely upon my speed and reflexes, but didn’t consider the fact that I had no idea how to fight. I leaped down from my perch into an alley behind O’Shay’s Bar. I was responding to the desperate cries of a woman. Anger overcame me as I landed just feet behind a man who was struggling to take off his belt with one hand and hold the girl down with the other. I punched him as hard as I could in the small of his back and my hand crumpled like origami in the hands of a toddler. It was broken, and not just in one place.
The man turned around and grabbed me by my throat. As he thrust me headfirst into the side of a dumpster, with more force than I could imagine, the young lady had her wits about her enough to run.
“I’ll be back for you, ya little queer,” the man growled at me as he tore off after his would-be victim.
As I lay on the ground, my eyes pooled with blood. I suspect the creep came back to finish the job, but he would have found nothing but a young boy, wearing what was little more than a dance costume, dead in the alley. As I’ve mentioned, I’ve died a few times since then, but that was my first. It was special. I like to believe I have nine lives but I don’t really want to find out.
When the jarring experience of my spirit re-entering my body was completed, I found myself running home at full speed. When I reached my driveway, I sensed something was wrong. Then I saw the lights flashing through my parents’ upstairs window and I knew something was wrong.
I threw the front door open and came face-to-face with a woman who appeared to be about forty years of age. Her hair was trimmed into a tight, grey pixie cut, and she wore brown leather. If I wasn’t so terrified, I’d probably have been aroused. We locked eyes and a strange dullness overtook me. Suddenly her presence there became completely normal as if she’d lived there all my life.
I tossed a hand into the air and said, “Hi.” She smiled and continued right out the door without giving me a second glance. By the time I’d come back around, she was gone and a feeling washed over me like I’d just eaten a pound of dog crap. My stomach churned and ached. I knew what I was going to find upstairs, but I didn’t want to.
From that day forward, the night my parents had been brutally murdered was referred to only as “the incident.”
• • •
After that night I wiped the stupid off my face and got training. B
etween the jujitsu, judo, kung fu and taekwondo I’ve learned and the billions of dollars I’ve invested in equipment over the last decade I can promise you that no force alive will be able to tear me from the White House. I know the truth and the truth has made me free. I am free to run this planet the way I know it needs to be run. And I need you to trust me.
It wasn’t long after "the incident" occurred that nine and eleven were no longer just numbers separated by ten. When the dust had settled, literally, and the terrorists had been captured, I was faced with a choice.
The phone call came in around midnight. At the time, I was living in England studying Muay Thai—not quite as interesting as if I were in a remote temple in Asia somewhere, I know, but world-renowned Ajarn Thoy spent time there during the Thai civil unrest. The world was a mess at the time. America had suffered the greatest on-soil attack since Pearl Harbor, much of Asia was in turmoil, but no one who knew was willing to say why. All media outlets were down for the count and Europe was in another period of the dark ages after the financial fiasco that occurred when the Vatican went public on the FTSE MIB—the European stock market. Jesus would have rolled over in his grave if he’d still been there.
“Hello?” I answered. I wasn’t asleep. I rarely was at that time of night. I preferred short cat naps at various intervals throughout the day. Kept me alert, spry.
“Art, we need you.” It was the voice of the President of the United States. I would know his stunted speech pattern anywhere. It was like Christopher Walken and Ronald Reagan smashed together into a mind-numbingly frustrating staccato.
It’s not like I’d had a lot of contact with the President. We weren’t best friends or anything, but every American—everyone in the world, really—knew that voice. Plus, you don’t graduate from Yale at six years old without meeting every President on several occasions.
“Mr. President,” I said, “how can I help you?”
“In the famous words of our great former President John Fitzgerald Kennedy, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.’”
“That is,” I said after a long pause on his part, “exactly what I just asked.”
“Oh yes, yes. We are assembling a team of the world’s sharpest and brightest. And you, son, are the world’s best hope for survival. We want you to lead a small team in an effort to clean up the state of the earth.”
At that point I think I was so quiet he asked if I was still there. I answered with an ambiguous response and before I knew it I was packed and moving to what is now called Bunker Base Bravo. You may know it as the Silver Sanctum—what am I saying? Of course, you know it as the Silver Sanctum. The whole world does.
I arrived shortly after daybreak the next morning, without a clue where I was. All I knew was that it was in North America because we hadn’t flown over any large bodies of water. I assumed we were in the United States because it wasn’t the Canadian Prime Minister who made the phone call.
As the jet landed on a runway that appeared only just long enough to entertain the stop, I peered out the window and saw the snow covered grounds. It was beautiful but it looked unforgiving. I stepped out into the bitter cold and my fears were realized. Have you ever seen a cat curl up in a ray of sunlight? Whether or not I can explain it, that is how I am as well. I do not like the cold. Not one bit.
I followed a small cavalcade to the hidden entrance and thought about the mystery of it all. I knew there were supers out there, but I’d never met one. Most of them were in some high security prison for using their powers for personal gain. I wondered for a moment if that was what this was? Some elaborate ruse to get me to willfully commit myself to imprisonment. Had I done something to warrant arrest? I thought back at the last few days. Nothing. But over the years, one could argue that my riches were gained because of super-brain. Is that a thing? We still don’t know.
I had little choice in the matter. The door was opening and there was a warmth emanating from within that drew me like a junkie. I needed that warmth and I took it. I even believe I pushed past a couple of suits in order to get in. It felt so good I could’ve purred.
“Boss,” I heard a voice call out from across the room, “Jamal Fredrick, U.S. Agent reporting for duty.” It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. That moment came when he was standing less than a yard away with his hand to his forehead, saluting me like I was some army general.
“At ease?” I said it like a question. I was surrounded by blinking lights and computer screens. But remember, I’m a genius. I knew what every last thing in the room did and it didn’t take long for me to comprehend the vastness of the situation.
“Agent Fredrick, what are we doing here?”
The look that washed over him could only be described as utter dismay. “I was hoping you’d know. We were told to prepare for a secret mission. All we knew was that we were being led by the Silver Serval. Big, big fan, sir.” He said the last words with his eyes on his toes.
I was curious as a cat. Pun fully intended. I didn’t have time to respond before the bunker door slid open again. I shuddered as the cold air hit me for the second time in as many minutes. The sunlight reflected off of the snow and made looking outside difficult. The figure of a man cut a silhouette, followed by several more. It was immediately apparent who the shadow belonged to.
“Art!” the President exclaimed. “I trust your flight was comfortable?”
I never cared about secret identities. Truth was—and I love the truth—I wanted people to know who I was.
“I prefer the safety of the ground regardless of the comfortability of the flight.”
“Ah, well, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Where is ‘here,’ exactly?”
“Bunker Base Bravo,” he said with so much pride I felt like I could reach out and grab it from the air. “Your new operations headquarters.”
“So what is this all about? The terrorists? The 9/11? Europe? Asia?” I kept rattling off world events and my stomach began to sink as the realization hit that the world was knee-deep in used kitty litter.
“Ding, ding! Letter D. All of the above.” For the leader of the free world and the most influential person alive, the President was always light-hearted. I even remember as a kid, when I met him for the first time, it was a thing that stood out. He was a senator, or a governor, or some other important somebody at the time. He was one of the few that understood my…special condition. He never treated me like a child. He knew that my twenty-something year old mind was just wrapped in the body of an adolescent.
“Here’s the truth, Art,” he continued. “The world is up a creek and we need you to come back. I know what you went through was difficult and we don’t want you to ever feel that kind of pain ever again.”
I shifted uncomfortably and probably noticeably. I pushed the thoughts of blood and gore—his head lying several feet from his body, and her body lying bloody, broken and indecent. A child should never have to see his parents in that state.
“But without you…” he paused, “just look at this place, Art. Honestly, nothing even makes sense anymore. Most of Europe has digressed into a state of depression. The unemployment over there is, like, 88%. And the 12% that are working are likely in the red district—the only people working are pimps and dealers.”
He put his arm around me and led me deeper into the complex.
“Asia…Christ,” he touched his head and torso in the shape of a cross, “the whole continent is in civil unrest. That’s putting it lightly.” He pulled me aside to where no one else could hear. “You know who Genghis Kahn is?”
“Well, he was the founder of the Mongols.”
“No, he is alive again. Resurrected along with Hitler and Stalin. We can’t understand it, their bodies should be long decomposed, but by all accounts they are alive and working together.”
I looked around in my mind for a place to file this information but had trouble locating one.
“Here’s the worst p
art of it all.” He motioned for me to take a seat on a long semi-hard bench in what appeared to be a waiting area. “We think it’s her again.”
That stomach-sinking, throw-up-inducing sensation poured over me again, but this time I had to actively choke back vomit.
“Her?” I said, knowing exactly who he meant.
“The Voltress is back and we believe she is stirring the pot—causing chaos on a mega scale.”
I bowed my head and cursed.
“How do we stop her?”
“We believe we’ve located her. We’ve received word from our contacts in Egypt. We believe she is…listen, this is going to sound crazy…we believe she is planning to use the pyramids as some kind of conduit to extend her psionic abilities.”
“Yeah,” I said with a laugh, “you’re right. That sounds crazy.”
The President stood up and so did I. “We don’t have a lot of time. I’ve called together a team of supers who haven’t gone rogue—ones we know we can trust. They are waiting for you in your new office—just beyond that door.”
• • •
Here’s the scenario: Ten years ago you tell me I’d be seventeen years old, leading my own team of supers—I’d call you insane. But here I am.
I spent several hours getting to know each team member and learning their abilities. These guys and girls were serious freaks of nature. Admittedly, they were far beyond my amazing feline powers—unquenchable thirst for dairy products or always landing on my feet. The whole nine lives thing is a contender though.
To be really honest with you, none of their names or powers are pertinent to this story. At the moment I write these words they, along with more than half of the world, are dead. Their powers did nothing to save them, and this might be a potential warning to the other half: no matter how powerful you are, there’s always someone stronger. No matter how smart you are, there’s always someone smarter. That might be true—for most. But I am the smartest person alive. Of this, I have no doubts.
World Domination Page 3
