Somebody, Save Me! Read online

  The next two plans went smoothly, too. I swiped the Jupiter Stone and Excalibur back to back. When the next fight came around, I went in without one of Maestro's plans, because I was pretty sure I could take Arthur and Doublecast if they didn't have their power sources.

  Well, spoiler. I did. Both of them folded like a stack of cards. I was ecstatic! The problem with that kind of thing, however, is that if you're not careful, it can make you stupid. Now, we're back to “evil is dumb” again. I was too busy gloating over Doublecast... No, let's be honest. I was busy monologuing over Doublecast. I didn't see Everlast until his fist informed my face in no uncertain terms that it (the fist) was displeased with my face's existence.

  I apologized to Maestro when I got back, but he didn't seem bothered. In fact, he was already working on his next plan. He promised this one would be even better, and make up for the fact that Everlast took back the Jupiter Stone and Excalibur after decking me.

  So, I waited. It took a month, but Maestro came up with a perfect plan. I was starting to think the stories about him getting thwarted were just that—stories. He just needed a push to get started again!

  Neither of us knew that not only was Galaxy Girl back, but her girlfriend came with her. Galaxy Girl, we could take. I took down Sunfist II and Doublecast by myself, remember? I'd never fought Andromeda Marie, though. I didn't even know anyone could throw that much energy around without burning up.

  Maestro did not take the news well. He'd been thwarted. He didn't really care that I had been beaten too, but it really hit him hard when his plan failed.

  The next plan took two months, and it failed too. That debacle was probably my most unhappy day because I woke up to Star Samurai and Fechtmeister kicking in my door. They didn't know Maestro was there, but Maestro froze up. Decision paralysis, it was. He didn't know which of his plans to fall back on.

  At any rate, I let him go, too. I think he's running a crooked horse race now.

  I went on vacation for a while after that. I think Captain Chaos and Matchstick Joe moved in while I was away, but that didn't really matter much. By the time I was ready to come back to villainy, you (specifically Kitty Chaos, because she was pissed that he tried to steal her name) locked Captain Chaos away, and Matchstick Joe left the planet to join some villain's league over on Zeta Aquilae.

  I'm sure Inferno would have appreciated the irony, but the power vacuum they left was pretty nice. I showed up, kicked some capes around, and generally had a good time of it. When the wins started getting harder, I thought now was the time to look for a henchman.

  Psi Shell made a good case for herself. She was smart and had common sense. She seemed to have just enough drive go out and be villainous, but not so much that I had to worry about getting my brain fried when my back was turned.

  We won the first battle hands down. Well, hands up, I suppose because I never actually had to hit anyone. Psi Shell walked all over Marxman, Everlast, Ironjaw, and Sunfist II. I don't think I'd ever seen anyone make such short work of an entire team of cape bruisers like that.

  She was poetry in motion.

  Then, a week later, I called her late at night because the McLorian Heist was going down ahead of schedule and she told me she didn't work off the clock.

  We still go drinking together.

  Two joined up next. I ran across my old friend Mister Sinister, and a week later Bluebird applied for work. Mister Sinister was pretty well known, especially since we used to run together, but he hadn't been active much at the time. Still, I was happy to have him on my team again.

  Bluebird was an odd pick, I have to admit. At first, I was sure his was a joke application. Bluebird is the kind of name you give a hero, not a villain. Turns out, like calling a mobster “Tiny,” Bluebird's name was a bit ironic. He wasn't exactly bloodthirsty, but, well, you know. Even I was surprised when he took out Card Trick and Mechano like he did.

  I'm going to cut straight to the chase on this one because Bluebird still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I still miss the others in their way, at least the ones I don't talk to anymore. In a way, I even miss Inferno. I suppose I could have gotten used to his incessant backstabbing eventually. When he wasn't trying to kill me, we wiped the floor with any cape we came across, and that's hardly a thing to scoff at.

  Still, Inferno got what he deserved for hitting me in the back. Maybe if he challenged me to my face, things would have gone differently, but they didn't.

  Bluebird, though. We barely got along, even from day one. There was something about him that even the other villains did not like. It didn't take me long to figure out what that thing was or why he always worked alone.

  See, I don't know if you guys ever realized it, but Bluebird liked killing. He wasn't in it for riches or power or even to have fun outside the law. I didn’t realize it at first, because he never used excessive force. No, Bluebird just wanted to kill as many capes as he could. I never did figure out why, even though I tried to ask one day. The only answer I got was a grunt and a half-explanation about injustice and an imbalance of power in the universe.

  I almost wonder if he wasn't an ex-cape who lost his mind. It would explain a few things he did that year.

  I'll reminisce about the others, because, like I said, in some way, I liked them. Not Bluebird. The only thing that really comes to mind when I think about Bluebird is the day he betrayed us.

  Mister Sinister, Bluebird, and I were out on a mission. We'd been tearing through your ranks for a while, and the further we went, the more Sinister and I had to rein in Bluebird's deadlier impulses.

  Along those lines, tell Torch I'm sorry for what happened to his hand and thank Silver Shield for being there to help us stop him.

  It's laughable now, but like so many things, that itself should have been obvious enough, but it wasn't. I took Silver Shield's assistance as a necessity because Bluebird was going rogue. He was endangering my mission. It didn't even occur to me that she was helping because it was the right thing to do, or that I was actually helping her.

  Like I said, evil is dumb.

  Of course, I have to applaud Manyface. His trap was excellently crafted and sprung, worthy of the best villain's lair. Bluebird got away from us, and Manyface separated me from Sinister by pretending to be Mister Sinister. Sinister told me later that he thought he was following me at the same time.

  You know, I gloated at the start of this letter about how strong I was, and about how I'd defeated a bunch of capes in single combat, but it turns out that when Manyface locks you in a mirrored box and Doublecast and Sunfist II pour energy into the only opening in that box, that all the bluster in the universe won't get you very far.

  I thought I was done for, to be honest. Then Bluebird smashed Sunfist II against the wall and broke his ribs. He tore open the box Manyface locked me in, then realized Doublecast was still on her feet.

  And Bluebird just left me there.

  I think I would have taken it better if he'd pulled an Inferno and tried to actively kill me. But, no, he just turned tail and ran. I got lucky that Manyface doesn't know me as well as he knew Mister Sinister, and we got out of there before Doublecast could lock me up.

  So, anyway. That's my version of all those times you capes got the better of me, and the bulk of the reason why I started this letter in the first place.

  After I recovered from that fight, Sinister and I got to talking, and it took us to where we were when I sat down to write.

  Evil, we agreed, was dumb.

  Even if we don't see eye to eye with you capes, I'm sure that could change in time. I'm just fed up with the status quo, fed up with one incompetent henchman after the other, and figure it's time for something new.

  Congratulations, United Justice Society, you are that something new.

  Can you trust me? We'll see. That's part of what makes this all so exciting and different.

  Maybe I'm just playing you all. Maybe it's just an alliance of convenience because Bluebird is still out there and I'm pret
ty sure he's going to come back and try to finish what he started six months ago.

  Perhaps I have not put enough thought into this endeavor, and I will simply elect not to show up, deciding instead that such a dramatic and unplanned heel-face-turn is not in my best interests.

  Maybe I'm being honest right now, but I'm just so evil that I won't be able to help myself one day and I'll revert to supervillainy right in front of you.

  Or maybe not.

  Exciting, isn't it?

  Sincerely,

  Lord Damage

  Your New Best Friend

  P.S. Tell Captain Courageous I could tell it was him behind that mask all along.

  P.P.S. This wasn't actually a request. Minster Sinister and I will be arriving approximately thirty-six hours after the delivery of this letter. You decide how you’re going to greet us. A fist? Or a handshake?

  A Word From Thomas A. Farmer

  This story started out from a late-night discussion with a friend about how incompetent cartoon villains were, even when they were supposed to be incredibly fearsome. Megatron, the Stormtroopers, Mum-Ra, and so on. Even when they won, they always lost. What would happen, we asked, if a villain got “genre savvy” and realized that they were going to continue losing just because they were the “bad guys” and the bad guys never won?

  Originally, I envisioned this as a series of vignettes ending with the villain surrendering to the heroes and asking to join them, but it obviously never went anywhere. It was flat, and kind of boring. Writing this as a letter provided a way to make it more interesting (I hope!) by getting into the villain’s head.

  So, enjoy! This will be my third published short story. It’s provided a nice mental break away from working on my current project “Scourge of Gods,” which is shaping up to be a 300k+ trilogy.

  When I’m not writing, I’m usually teaching people to swordfight. You can find my other books and stories on Amazon or Facebook under “Thomas A Farmer,” and you can look at the sword things I do by looking up “Knoxville Academy of the Blade.” My podcast, titled “Authors in Abstract” is available on most platforms as well.

  Facebook Links:

  www.facebook.com/TAFarmerAuthor, www.facebook.com/KABFencing, www.facebook.com/AuthorsInAbstract

  Who Will Save Them When I’m Gone?

  By Noel Martinez and Christopher J. Valin

  When I open the door, the first thing I notice is the smell. Even breathing through my mouth doesn’t help. It grabs hold of my throat and doesn’t let go. I’m convinced I taste it. With a handkerchief over my nose and mouth, I stumble in the darkness of the living room, feeling around for a light switch. Despite my intimate acquaintance with this residence, the smell disorients me. I trip over boxes haphazardly scattered about the penthouse. I want only to retreat to the relative freshness of the city outside. I hold back this impulse long enough to locate a lamp in the center of the room, but it’s no use. There’s no power. I continue toward what I imagine must be the source of the smell. In the bedroom, I see bottles of pills and an empty glass. Then I notice what looks like a bundle of clothes heaped in the center of the bed. But my eyes, having adjusted to the scant light, confirm what my other senses already know. It’s not a heap at all—it’s him.

  I pull my phone out of my back pocket and dial the number I hoped I’d never have to use. I hear four rings followed by a click.

  “The Black Harrier is dead,” I speak into the receiver.

  There is only silence on the other end, just as I was told there’d be. Then click.

  I put the phone back in my pocket and open the french doors to the balcony, greedily gulping the fresh air.

  Leaving the doors open to help air out the place, I head over to the desk to search for anything that might help me remember the man he was and not the shell of a man he had become.

  I pick up a frame and hold it close to my eyes. I remember this picture. I can’t help but smile as memories wash over me. It’s me—I can’t be much older than fourteen or fifteen. I’m holding up one arm, showing off what passes for a bicep. Next to me, stands the towering predecessor to the emaciated corpse currently occupying the bed.

  The picture was taken more than twenty years ago. It might as well have been a lifetime.

  I put the frame down and look back at my once great mentor. What happened? The look frozen on his face is disconcerting. I study it for clues that might reveal what thoughts floated through that once-brilliant mind before the end.

  But all I see is fear.

  “The key,” he told me years ago, “is to make them fear you.”

  “But how? How am I supposed to do that?” I asked naively. “I’m smaller than most everybody—even guys my own age. Heck, even some girls look more intimidating than I do.”

  “So use that to your advantage. When they underestimate you, exploit their expectations.”

  He was full of sayings like that. I would roll my eyes, but he was never wrong.

  “Keep your center of gravity low. Rely on your speed. You take two of them out quickly, and the rest will likely run. Criminals are a cowardly lot.”

  Then he turned his back, ready to tackle other matters. This was the way he was. Distant. Detached. Aloof. He was the master teacher; I was the novice pupil. Normally, I would accept this. Not this time. I needed more.

  “Why do you do all this?” I called out.

  He paused, surprised by my break in decorum. He didn’t turn to face me right away.

  “Do what?” he asked over his shoulder.

  I knew he understood the question. Maybe he hoped I’d lose my nerve. I didn’t.

  “All this,” I repeated, waving my arms as if to include everything around me in one sweeping gesture.

  He finally turned to face me, chest out, head held high. He stepped toward me and stood less than an arm’s length away. His hulking frame occulted the solitary light fixture that hung limply from the ceiling, casting a shadow over me. He did not speak immediately.

  “I do this—” he began hesitantly, “I do all this because they need me to.”

  For him, this seemed to be enough of an answer.

  I persisted. I was younger then—brash.

  “But why can’t you leave it up to someone else?” I asked. “Why does it have to be you?”

  He studied me carefully. “No one can do what I do,” he said. His answer was so succinct and matter-of-fact that I found myself unable to argue.

  “Then why me?” I managed to ask. “Why do you need me?”

  He rested a heavy hand on my shoulder. I looked into his face in search of an answer, but his features were obscured by darkness. However inscrutable he usually was, that day I swear I saw a trace of a smile.

  “Who will save them when I’m gone?” he asked simply.

  I have to leave the room. In my line of work as a detective, I come across many bodies at various stages of decomposition, but nothing could prepare me for the rush of feelings that sweep over me this time. I head out of the room for a smoke, but in the living room, I am reminded of the boxes scattered about. Curiosity gets the better of me. I hold off on the smoke.

  I take a seat on the sofa in the living room where I can rifle through the contents of the boxes more comfortably. I hesitate, but I am eventually overwhelmed by the feeling that I’m supposed to open them. When I do, that chapter of my life I sealed so carefully is torn open.

  I had no idea he kept any of this. He didn’t seem the type. I guess underneath that stoic facade, he was human after all. I pull out yellowing strips of newsprint, some cut into perfect squares, others cut into asymmetrical pieces. Newspaper clippings—reminders of yesterday’s triumphs and tomorrow’s promise.

  I’m taken back to a distant past. In those days, I believed one man could make a difference. But things change. The headlines captivate me the way they must have captivated millions: Mystery Man Saves Couple in Alley. Caped Crimefighter Catches Culprit. Evildoers Beware: The Black Harrier Strikes Again.


  The Black Harrier. My mentor. The corpse in the bed. All one and the same.

  I find the first picture taken of him. It’s not much. Some two-bit thug shot it from his phone and had it confiscated when the cops took him in. I remember when I saw this in the paper all those years ago. It was blurry, pixelated, dark—and yet, never before had I felt such a clear sense of justice. The look on the face of the thug he was thrashing was pure fear. That was something I could understand. After what happened to my parents, I wanted more than anything to see that look on their killer’s face.

  I continued to read: The Black Harrier Flies Solo No More. Introducing the Red Kite.

  How strange that sounds—no one has called me that in years…

  “So that’s it then?”

  “It’s for the best.”

  He stood with his back to me, continuing to tend to the calibration of his equipment in the Aerie. He had just told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was to move on—that my services were no longer needed. He showed no sign of regret.

  “I don’t have a say in this?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I was at a loss. This—whatever you want to call it—was my life. Who was he to take it away from me?

  “What happened to all that ‘who will save them when I’m gone’ business?” I demanded.

  “I was wrong to put that on your shoulders.”

  “No—you weren’t,” I insisted. “I wouldn’t have agreed to it if I didn’t want it for myself.”

  “Even so.”

  His short answers were infuriating. The ease with which he dismissed me called into question my years of unwavering devotion. Had I merely wasted all this time? What had been the point?