Secrets of a D-List Supervillain Page 3

  “You used to work with him,” she growled, as I noted that if she pulled that gauze any tighter, it would either rip or crack her poor patient’s skull.

  “And now I work with you. The only difference I see is that Bobby never led me into a trap where I was almost killed. You, on the other hand, did it tonight, and don’t think I haven’t forgotten about your part in Patterson’s little ambush, Sheila.”

  “You know damned well I didn’t know anything about that!” Dozer was angry that her leadership skills almost killed us all tonight. It might be wrong to push that button, but the way I saw it was I could see her guilt and insecurity, and raise her three destroyed sets of custom crafted powered armor and a statue of Andydroid.

  Poor Andy was petrified, just like my gear. Both the Bugler’s legs were broken. Sanford’s containment suit was in tatters after Rex transformed him into a velociraptor, and he was leaking his paralyzing juice all over the place.

  Not exactly one of our most stellar outings, even if we did sort of win.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m also looking around and seeing what happens when you do know something. Makes me think ignorance is actually bliss.”

  “Get out of my sight, Stringel! Don’t let me catch you helping my cousin out, either.”

  “Nothing would make me happier, fearless leader. And don’t worry, if I do help Bobby out, I’ll be sure to make certain you can’t catch me.”

  My statement might have been too harsh, but only because it was true.

  My mom used to keep all my report cards; she probably burned them after our falling out, but I did recall reading my first grade one where it said I had problems “Playing well with others.”

  Not much had changed.

  • • •

  Wearing a borrowed set of coveralls from the ambulance Swamp Lord provided, I’d been pressed into EMT duty and my patient was none other than Bo Carr—the Biloxi Bugler. In my zeal to help the man with two broken legs, I might’ve given him a bit too much painkiller, because he became kind of giddy and chatty. In my pocket was the magic necklace that allowed Bo to assume a man-bat form. All the doohickey did for me was let me read and understand languages.

  It was just another way to ruin my night.

  “You should probably try and get some rest, Bugler,” I said, and then asked the woman driving the ambulance how far we were from the nearest hospital.

  Her answer didn’t exactly fill me with joy.

  “We’ll get there when we get there,” Bo said.

  “Do you need anything?” I offered, and held up a small pillow. “This?”

  “Nah,” the older man said, and gave me the thumbs up gesture. “I’ll bounce back in no time. It takes more than this to keep a good man down. Heck, I remember when you hurt me worse.”

  Naturally, he was right about me putting him in the hospital back in the day. I’d broken several of his ribs and forced him to hang up the spandex until the bugs showed up.

  He yawned loudly and said, “Melinda is going to be ticked.”

  The Bugler’s wife was his biggest supporter and critic. Given my track record with women, I couldn’t comment on the matter with any authority.

  Instead, I made my own assessment. “Maybe it’s time to ride off into the sunset with her? If not, I can start building your mechanized assault wheelchair.”

  Exactly when did I start getting soft on the old coot?

  “Nah, Calvin,” he slurred. “Not my speed.”

  “Fair enough. It’s going to take me time to get a new set of armor together.”

  “If you’re so keen on putting me out to pasture, you could always become the next Biloxi Bugler.”

  What the...?

  “That must be some serious happy juice you’re on Bo. Thanks, but no thanks. I’m too much of an armor guy.”

  He could have told me that he was an alien or my real father at that moment and it would have been less shocking.

  “You’d make a good Bugler,” he proclaimed.

  “I think you meant to say burglar.”

  Mr. Carr gave me a look of sincerity, the kind only the drunk or stoned are capable of, and said, “Nah, you’re smart and think on your feet. There’s more to you than just the tech. Maybe it’s time you start realizing that.”

  When I didn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, reply. His head lolled to the other side and he muttered, “For all its power, your armor can be a crutch. Gotta learn to stand tall on your own. Say, did I ever tell you how I knew you’d be at that bank all those years ago?”

  “No,” I said, suddenly curious.

  “I got a postcard a week before. One of those, ‘Wish you were here’ ones with a picture of the Grand Canyon on the front and a California postmark. On the back was the name of the bank, a date, and a time. I’ve heard other supers talk about getting messages like that from Prophiseer.”

  “It couldn’t be,” I protested. “The Overlord killed him years before that happened. And I’ve heard several occasions where villains have used that as a ruse to lure a hero into a trap.”

  “So, were you trying to lure me in to a trap?”

  “Uh...”

  “Yeah, didn’t think so,” Bo seems more than half asleep now. “Anyway, those cards supposedly show up when it’s something important.”

  “I hardly think I rate that.”

  “Way I see it; you beat the bugs, and who knows how out of control things would have gotten tonight. Chew on that and get back to me.”

  Mercifully, he passed out shortly after that. I was left stunned, and wondering if I should inject some of the drugs he was on.

  • • •

  Stacy looks up from where she’s using a cloth to wipe the applesauce dribbling from my daughter’s mouth. “We’ve gotten those postcards before. Always the same thing, a date, time, and location. They’re always important, too.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. I looked up all the instances in the Guardian’s database after that. Still, it got me thinking about the mess that was HORDES. I heard the Overlord brag that before he killed Prophiseer, the fortuneteller said that Ultraweapon would die at the hands of another man in armor.”

  Frowning, Stacy wrestles with her feelings for me and the things that I’m capable of. Internally, I scold myself. I shouldn’t bring things like that up if I want to avoid an argument.

  Stacy finishes whatever internal debate she was having and says, “You know, I’m picturing you in a Bugler costume right now.”

  “Please, don’t,” I plead.

  “I have to,” she replies. “I’m so going to get you one.”

  “You’re going to make me say a bunch of bad words in front of my daughter.”

  “Oh, come on, you dress up as the Bugler and I’ll be, let’s see, how about... Blazing She-Clops and you can capture me.”

  “...and try to bring you over to the side of righteousness? You’d totally rock the eye patch, but I don’t think so.”

  The Love Goddess smiles and I wonder how she’s going to talk me into playing dress up. As long as the costumes come off at some point I can deal with it, but then she frowns.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I think she needs a change.” She hands me my daughter and the smell follows. It reminds me of Swamp Lord. “Maybe she got the super flatulence you wrote about.”

  “Cute,” I say. “Why don’t you go in the other room and relax? There’s no need for both of us to suffer, and I might need you to send in a hazmat suit. Gabby usually goes down for her nap about now.”

  Stacy leaves, and I begin the time honored tradition of being amazed at the smell an offspring can produce. So far, the first full day of our reunion was going well. After Lazarus mindwiped her, I’d struggled to relate to her, and everything fell apart. I’m the same person and, quite frankly, it’s difficult picturing me ever changing. So the real question becomes whether her recovered memories are enough to keep her interested in me.

  “There are worse problems to have,” I inform Gabby. She smi
les at me and then scrunches her face.

  “Again? Where do you put it all? Well, you are definitely my child. This is going to take longer than I thought.”

  Chapter Three

  Louisiana Stringel and the Temple of Humiliation

  “Sorry,” I say, entering Central Command and addressing my guest. “Gab-Gab took longer than usual to fall asleep.”

  “Probably me,” Stacy confesses. “My presence has been known to make children hyper. My sister hates it when I come around; her twins get so spun up. I always try to keep my visits short.”

  I notice she’s looking around at the rather drab décor in the base. I stress usefulness over attractiveness, but could see where things were lacking.

  Some plants would be nice and liven up the place, but I’d need grow lights and if I install grow lights, I have a good idea what type of vegetation Bobby would start farming. Better say something before it gets awkward!

  “So you’re better around kids than you are around their parents; good to know. Want to grab something to eat? We actually feature more things on the menu than frozen waffles. How about pancakes?”

  This piques Ms. Mitchell’s interest. “Made from scratch?”

  “Hardly,” I answer. “But if it will help the process, I’ll scratch something while opening the box. I’ve managed to learn how to read directions and I’m told that most of the things I make are edible. Anything beyond that is not going to happen.”

  “In that case, I’ll take the pancakes and you can skip the scratching part.”

  As I head for the kitchen and beckon her to follow, I say, “But I’m a guy. We’re trained from birth to be scratchers. Chocolate chips in your pancakes, or are you a heathen?”

  “Can a goddess even be a heathen? Normally, I’d go with the chocolate, but after last night, I will pass.”

  “Suit yourself. More for me.”

  “So, the other two are fishing and Wendy’s gone, where’s Andy?”

  “Downstairs running the suit and running in-place upgrades. Two of the shield generators are showing wear and they need to be replaced. It’s pretty simple when there’s no one inside. Why? Are you intending to seduce me in the kitchen?”

  The nice part about her baggy and ill-fitting coveralls is that they would come off really fast.

  “No. I think we’ve tried mixing food and sex enough for the time being. Let’s just stick to the bed, or I suppose I could be talked into the shower again. I was just surprised that you’re not down there supervising,” she comments, while I get a mixing bowl and a frying pan.

  Looking over my shoulder at her, I reply, “Something more important came along. Andy’s got this.”

  Her expression is worth the knowledge that I’m still going to double check those replacements at some point. Otherwise, I might have to turn in my Mega OCD membership card.

  “Do you still want me to go on, or is it as boring as it sounds? Honestly, I’d rather not talk about what comes next.”

  “It’s anything but boring, Cal,” she says, leaning against the counter. “I’m all ears.”

  “While I do enjoy your lovely ears, I’m glad you’re not all ears.”

  As she shakes her head, I decide that I’m on a roll. “Hey, if I ever do write another book, I should use that line and make me sound like a Casanova. Music, play Levert, Casanova.”

  We bob our heads to the opening beats as she says, “If you do write another book, not only are you getting in that Bugler outfit, but you’ll have to make another sex tape.”

  She brought that up? Wow! If Stacy is joking about our taped escapades, I must be doing something right.

  “You could call it ‘Blow My Bugle.’ We’d need to send a complimentary copy to Bo. That’s most of the reason people are always trying to find this place, to find that video. It’s become the modern day Holy Grail.”

  “You ever watch it?” she asks, as I watch the pancake batter bubble in the skillet.

  “Once,” I reply.

  “Once a day is more like it,” she accuses, before seeing whatever sour expression just crossed my face. “Oh, I guess so.”

  “Yeah,” I confess. “Didn’t want to torture myself like that.”

  We’re stuck in an awkward moment for a few seconds before I change the subject. “Anyway, this place is going to become much more difficult to find soon enough.”

  “Why is that? I know you called it a pig farm and said it was by the Mobile River, but someone could still put it all together.”

  “Two weeks from now, the renovation begins up top. James and Flora are moving in. They’re a couple of crazy kids who are getting out of the California rat race, and turning this old run down place into a rustic Bed and Breakfast.”

  “Actors hired by Wendy I assume?” she asks.

  “Two modified Type A robots in costume,” I correct her. “Andy wants to practice his ‘pretending to be human’ skills. Gives us a way to hide some guard bots in plain sight, and allows us to use the land up top. We can’t really expand this base much more. Unless Andy is downright horrible, the locals will pass it off as a couple of crazy west coasters.”

  “Makes sense. Clever idea.”

  “I try,” I smile, and flip the pair of flapjacks. “The silo is coming down and will be replaced by James’ garage; the guy is a real car nut. The horse stables will house our Type B bots.”

  “Any real horses?”

  I shrug. “I believe so. Andy was telling me that Flora wants to breed those miniature ponies or something like that. If you want to know what I think, Andy wasn’t allowed to have pets before and now he’s overcompensating, but it’s cool he has hobbies. Just don’t be surprised if it turns into a petting zoo up top. Wendy thinks Crabby Gabby will want to learn how to ride at some point. She even has this crazy idea of letting anyone stay here. I think we should just add more Type A bots as guests.”

  “Pool?”

  “Off the chain,” I say. I don’t let her see the frown. Unconsciously, the pool I’d submitted looked like a scaled down version of the pool from the estate belonging to the Overlord in Branson, Missouri. I’d tried to get them to let me change it, but was too chickenshit to tell them it reminded me of Vicky. This would also be a real shitty time to bring that up as well.

  “Do you like your pancakes crispy?” Stacy asks and I realize that I let the pancakes burn.

  “Nah, just got distracted thinking about the structural requirements to make certain the pool never floods this place. Let’s try this again with a new set of candidates.”

  Stacy accepts my lame excuse as I scrape away the first attempt and start over. Minutes later, we both had a short stack of tasty, buttermilk goodness.

  “So, what happened next? You still didn’t know Wendy was pregnant at this point, did you?”

  In retrospect, Stacy is right; the chocolate chips seem like overkill. “All right, I’ll tell you, but no laughing. Wendy was still on her personal leave of absence. Next, I guess would be me and a couple of José clones going to recover all the goodies from Tyranosorcerer Rex’s lair. Looting sounds like such a bad word.”

  “Why José and not one of the others?”

  “I figured if there were any traps, José could always grow new clones. Plus, he lost as much as I did when Patterson, or one of his flunkies, used that Robodestroyer suit to get rid of our robots in Florida. In fact, if you make some cosmetic adjustments to the Protector armor that Promethia put on the West Coast Guardian’s to replace Patterson; it might match the profile of Robodestroyer.”

  “Strange coincidence,” Stacy comments, and twirls final bits of pancake in the syrup on her plate.

  “Yeah, I thought so, too. Is it my old pal, Joe Ducie, in the armor or is he pulling the strings behind the scenes?”

  “I don’t think so. The West Coasters have closed ranks lately. Athena thinks it might be Tape Delay inside the suit now.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A Canadian named Amanda Rae Westfal, who can see s
even seconds into the future. She’s a very limited precog. Not an awesome ability by itself, but add a set of powered armor to it and it’s a potent combination. Word is Promethia is using her to soften their image. They’ve also put First Aid into a set of armor as well.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, and make a note to update the rest of the team. If that is the case, I could see Tape Delay could be a problem, even if the armor she is wearing is far outclassed by Mega. “Anyway, so I guess it starts with me figuring out where Rex’s lair is, but I’m serious, no laughing.”

  “I promise,” she says. I don’t believe her because I know what’s coming.

  • • •

  “I don’t think there’s anything you can do for him,” one of Jose’s clones said to me. We stood in front of the stone statue that used to be one of the most intricate pieces of technology in the world—Andydroid.

  I scraped a sample off of the back of Andy’s wrist and prepared it to go through a molecular analyzer to see if there were any signs that the process was reversing itself.

  “I have to try,” I said. Many people, and that used to include me, don’t give José any credit. His power allows him to grow five copies of himself. At just shy of six foot and two hundred pounds, the Mexican kept himself in good shape and knew a decent amount when it comes to both martial arts and firearms, but he wasn’t super strong or durable. It was more like having a small group of highly trained individuals who worked together so closely that they knew what the other one was thinking... except in Jose’s case, they actually did. That’s why I’d hoped to get him in my cheap sets of armor. Even those substandard suits, combined with his groupmind ability, would be a formidable combination.

  “Why?” the clone asked. “His inventor said he’d just rebuild him and restore from the last time he was backed up. It’s like me. If this body dies, I’ll just make another one.”

  “It’s not quite the same,” I countered. “Yeah, I was there when the good doctor briefed us. His last complete backup of Andy was about ten weeks before the bugs showed up. That new Andydroid would be a stranger to me. This one is my friend.”