Origins of a D-List Supervillain (8 page)

Kenneth was a bit of a drama queen, albeit, one with a decidedly nasty streak. Sure he had a classy air about him, but he was still a thug, who reminded me of the main character in
A Clockwork Orange
.

“I took some Tae Kwon Do, if you wouldn’t mind showing me a few things.” I left out the part where I took it to impress a girl I was tutoring in high school. Long story short, she wasn’t, and I abandoned it soon after.

“I was going to try and teach a class, like you do, but they already turned me down,” he said. “Something about not teaching anything violent to the rest of you bloody fools. They offered to let me teach yoga or Pilates.”

“You can teach those?” I asked.

“Certainly, but to do it to a class of only men seems a bit odd; but I can show you some of the basics of Judo. That said, it will cost you.”

“I can’t offer much more than pressing your coveralls.”

“You fancy yourself a master of gadgetry, yes?”

“Well, yeah,” I replied, wondering where he was going with this.

“When I fought against the Guardians, I found myself at a distinct disadvantage. If my mossions were better equipped, I might have been able to make good my escape.”

“That stands to reason,” I added.

“Indubitably,” he stated. “In return for my assistance now, I would like a future consideration.”

We haggled over the price and what he might theoretically want before agreeing that I’d do the work at cost, but he’d have to provide all the materials, and he’d have to give me a couple of contacts on the outside. Future favors were often bandied around as currency, because chances were that they’d never have to be carried out.

When our bargain concluded, he said, “I have the only name a gadgetman such as yourself, needs to know—her name is Victoria Wheymeyer and she can usually be found in Las Vegas.”

“What’s so special about her?”

“She’s a broker. She acquires weapons, people, and whatever else is required for one or perhaps several of the heavy hitters out there. Get on her good side and you’ll never want for steady work.”

“That sounds like a really good name to know,” I said, filing it away in my mental rolodex.

• • •

Time passed. Despite Kenneth’s tutoring, I wasn’t very good at martial arts. I’d say that I was a lover and not a fighter, but I really wasn’t much of a lover either. The meditation was nice though, I’d never done much of that before. I always used to study with loud music on. Growing up, there were dueling garage bands on my block; and in my late teens, I took up the drums and contributed to the noise pollution. Until my studies started taking up too much of my time, I played in a couple of cover bands during college.

Once I joined the real world, I never really had time for it anymore. Now, I had lots of spare time and they had a beat up drum kit in the rec room. It was something to do.

Kenneth listened to me do the drum solo from Golden Earring’s
Radar Love
, which always helped me blow off some steam. “You’re not half bad, Calvin.”

“I’m still shaking off the rust. It might be my only shot at real employment when I get out of here. Most bands would be willing to overlook a felony conviction. Their only real requirement is the ability to play. Of course, most bands treat their drummer like they’re part of the road crew. For some, it would probably be a draw—
Our drummer’s a supervillain! How wicked is that?
”

“Veritably,” he replied, always willing to use a five cent word when a two cent would do.

“You know I could teach you to play. You could make a cover band with your fungus creatures and be a Stones cover band.”

He laughed and said, “I suppose I could call it Moss on Rolling Stones.”

“See, now you’re getting the idea!” If I had his powers, I’d be looking for a way to cash in on them without ending up in prison. It would definitely have gotten me on Letterman’s Stupid Superhuman Tricks Segment.

“How long have you been waiting to use that, Calvin?”

“A few days now,” I admitted.

“I suspected that much. Still, even though I’d enjoy being a sideshow, novelty act, I’m afraid I have enough hobbies as it is, without taking up another.”

Smiling, I started into Bob Seger’s
Still the Same
, which lacks something when there isn’t a piano playing. The last band I played in had a guy who sounded a bit like the man from Detroit and we covered a whole bunch of his songs. We called ourselves The Silver Blanks instead of his Silver Bullet Band.

Despite my requests, we never did Biz Markie.

As I played, he made a pair of miniature moss soldiers and had them doing some kind of waltz, as I cut into Seger’s version of
Little Drummer Boy
, while wondering if The Gardener had to learn the female steps too in order to make his constructs perform.

Kenneth wasn’t our only Eurotrash. We had a Frenchman, whom everyone avoided, named Simple Simone. He had this annoying field of mental energy around him that made it difficult to concentrate. When he focused it on someone, they’d turn into a gibbering idiot until he stopped.

As bad as the bleached smell of my prison cell was, I’d still take The Gardener over that guy any day.

“From the amount of energy you’re expending, I take it you didn’t receive good news from home?”

“Dad finally wrote back to basically tell me to stop writing them.”

“I assume that you intend to keep writing them?” he asked.

“Every stinking day now! At least until I get a fan club like yours.”

It was true; Kenneth had good looks and an English accent going for him and got a ton of women writing him. I’d never understand it.

“True,” he replied. “I had two marriage proposals last month. Things always pick up around the holidays.”

“The brunette with the fuzzy dice tattoos looked like a keeper.”

He shrugged and made a dismissive gesture while saying, “Doctored, I wager both the picture and the body. She’d sleep with me once like all the rest.”

“Why’s that?”

“My power makes fungus grow in most any damp and moist place I come in contact with. I am guessing you can imagine the problems that might create.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s nasty. Well, at least you get to the point where you’re sleeping with them. I don’t even get that.”

He got a good, hearty laugh out of that, disposed of his moss down the water fountain drain and said, “So, I shouldn’t expect to see any love letters from Aphrodite anytime soon.”

“No, she just shows up for the conjugal visits,” I said sarcastically.

Me and Aphrodite, as if that would ever happen.

• • •

Naturally, I was plotting how I could make my own powersuit through all this. Annoying my parents, the teaching, and even the drums were just a front for the good doctor and whoever else might be watching me. I became even more conscious of this as the months ticked away and the date of my first parole hearing drew closer.

That’s me—Cal Stringel, model prisoner.

Unfortunately, I could only picture much of my suit design in my mind. With no access to computers, and anything I put on paper closely scrutinized, I couldn’t really make much headway in that department. So, I did my best to commit the main system designs to memory and decided what I couldn’t make, I’d just steal from the people who have made it already. The one downside of having a near photographic memory was that it was a near photographic memory and not a completely photographic memory. My plan was one part efficiency and probably two parts laziness.

Then again, Lazarus had entire teams dedicated to each section of his armor. Even if I had The Gardener’s powers, I wouldn’t have enough manpower to match that. So, I decided to cut corners everywhere I could get away with and focus on my specialty of weaponry. Overcharging the force blasters would mean more downtime for repairs, but a greater ability to deliver damage. The trick was to figure how much I could get away with, and not risk blowing my arm off.

There’s a joke in there about being attached to my arm, but I’m not going to bother with it.

Sitting on my bunk, nervously waiting for the summons to the elevators to go to my parole hearing, I reflected on how twenty-six months could pass inside this artificially-lighted hole in the ground and what changes they wrought in me.

Was I a better person?

No. It’s made me a better criminal and drummer, I suppose. I know the players who operate on my level and have a few contacts on the outside, but I don’t really think I’m a better person for it.

Am I ready to get out of here?

You betcha!

Is it going to happen?

Snowballs in hell have better odds.

“You look like you’re ready to bounce off the walls,” Kenneth said, I thought he’d been in a deep meditation.

“Sorry, if I’m interrupting,” I said. “I just want it to get over with already and hear them say that we’ll see you in a year. It’s just one big tease.”

“Well,” he said, standing to stretch. “It’s going to be a busy day up there, with your parole hearing and all. If you’re open to some advice, just keep a level head and open eyes about the whole experience. You never know what might happen up there today, Old Bean.”

I was in the middle of preparing a suitably impressive answer when Mr. Big Voice came over the intercom and requested my presence at Zone A and our cell door rolled back. It was still ten minutes before the rest would open. Some of the jackasses jeered me as I did the early morning perp walk to the elevators

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, laundry man!”

“Don’t get your hopes up! You’ll be back down here soon enough.”

I did my best to ignore them and made my way to where the two Pummeler suits waited to take me up. They scanned me and searched me before they would let me board the elevator. When the lift began its upward climb, I’d sensed the movement, and it felt foreign—like I was some two dimensional character who could only move on one axis.

The ride itself was monotonous. The elevator was built to move up slowly and down quickly. I looked at the guy in the nearest Pummeler suit and said, “Did they have to cut out the Muzak?”

“Funny prisoner,” the man said and flexed the oversized hands on his powersuit. “How about you just keep your mouth shut? Otherwise, your teeth might decide they should be anywhere other than in your mouth. I’d be the one serving as their travel agent.”

I took him up on his kind offer.

• • •

“Mr. Stringel,” the woman on the other side of the table addressed me. “We’re here today to assess whether you are ready to return to society.”

Bobby’s words about how no one ever makes parole on their first board weighed heavily on my mind as I regarded the two women and three men on the other side of the table from me. None of the five people introduced themselves, and I figured that was probably so people couldn’t come after them when they finally did get out.

It makes sense. I wouldn’t want anyone knowing who I was. Besides, who in their right mind would tell a villain their name?

“We’d like to start with your thoughts on the Promethia Corporation,” the man at the end began. I wondered which one of these people was in Patterson’s pocket. This one had sunken eyes and male pattern baldness.

Since he immediately jumped on that, I pegged him for the person who’d ensure I wouldn’t be leaving North Dakota anytime soon. Of course, F. Randall Barton could easily afford more than one stooge.

“Well, I don’t like Promethia,” I said, trying to channel my best
Shawshank Redemption
style honesty. “I doubt I will ever like Promethia, but I’m willing to walk away from my feelings for that corporation. In all likelihood, I’ll never hold another high tech position again, so I think it’s time I put all that behind me.”

“Do you really believe you can put that behind you?” the man redirected.

“I fought them in court and lost. I tried becoming a criminal and lost. Somehow, I don’t think the third time is going to be the charm.”

“How can we be certain you’re not lying to us now? You could always submit to a telepathic scan.”

Almost no one ever does that!
“No, I’d prefer not to have someone messing around in my mind.”

Fortunately for me and just about every other criminal in here, after numerous abuses, deep telepathic scans were considered illegal search and seizure by the Supreme Court. There were also enough public stigmas attached to them that even using it on known criminals wasn’t very popular.

I was certain that they still happened, but just went undocumented.

“So, assuming you were to leave here today, Mr. Stringel,” the forewoman took over. The man who’d been questioning me looked annoyed at being cutoff. “How would you get your life back on track?”

“I’ve been working on getting a teaching certificate. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get a job in that field, but it’s worth a shot. Other than that, I’ve dusted off my skills as a drummer and figure I can make ends meet that way while I figure out my next move.”

“Where would you go? Back to Mississippi or perhaps your parents in Nebraska?”

“Neither, I’ve got a friend in Miami, so maybe there, but most likely Los Angeles, if I want to catch on with a band.”

The questioning continued for almost another hour. One thing I noted was that the other woman never asked me a single question. She hadn’t said anything since I came in the room and it was rather disconcerting.

What’s her deal, I wondered.

“I think we’ve heard enough, Mr. Stringel,” the woman heading the panel said.

She turned to the other female who had been creeping me out and said, “What is your opinion?”

The woman in question was a light skinned black woman or perhaps Latino. It was really hard to tell. Other than her silence, the thing that bothered me the most was her piercing blue eyes that seemed to stare right through me.

“I don’t believe the prisoner is telling the truth and I think it would be ill-advised to allow him parole at this time.”