Dustin
Chapter 1
Valencia Martini rushed to the small station at the bank to sign his paycheck, in his haste, he pushed past an elderly woman almost knocking her to the ground. He turned and sneered, he was, after all, a villain—at least he wanted to be one. Working your way up to full-time villainy was a long process and Valencia didn’t exactly have the work ethic. Plus, gigs had dried up, making it harder to put in the hours.
He signed the check, the first one he’d gotten in nearly six weeks. Henchmaning wasn’t paying the bills so he had turned to professional hostaging to bridge that pay gap, which wasn’t panning out for Valencia either.
Ever since the emergence of superheroes and megavillains, the downside had always been collateral damage. Particularly that of the human population. Civilian casualties had been the downfall of The Slovakian, who had been a hell of a megavillain but was executed via planet ejection after his actions indirectly caused the death of roughly 14 million people.
The megavillains were then forced to call a time-out and meet with many of the current superheroes in order to hash out an agreement on how to proceed.
“You could just turn a new leaf,” said The Honorable Chief Justice. Chief Justice was the newest superhero to join the Super League, donning long black robes and for some inexplicable reason, a barrister’s wig.
“I’ve got knives from the elbow down,” said Knives Akimbo, motioning toward his knives from the elbow down. “Anybody who hires me deserves to get robbed blind.”
“Because,” Bat Ma’am chimed in, “if these idiots aren’t out doing megavillainy, how do we get to do superhero stuff.”
The room was quiet.
An agreement was arranged, a set of leagues, guild really—basically unions—would be set up. One for superheroes, which would issue patrolling licenses, gadgets, or sidekicks, everything your average superhero would need and one for megavillains that roughly did the same thing.
Anytime a major act of megavillainy should be committed, then permits should be issued through the Hall of Megavillainy and Mild Annoyances, shortened by most to HMMA, or simply the home. The HMMA would review the megavillain’s plans and then suggest changes and ensure that it fell within all the necessary guidelines to keep the megavillain from being launched into outer space like what had happened with The Slovakian, who was seriously, a hell of a megavillain.
After all the paperwork had been filed, the HMMA would make an assessment of what the megavillain would need to pull the job off and issue any permits, persons, and equipment.
Once the approvals from the HMMA’s upper echelon, retired megavillains, and gangsters, had been completed, the megavillain who made the request was called into the home offices to go over any changes. If all parties were in agreement, equipment would be signed out to the megavillain along with however many bad guys the HMMA determined the job would need. Bad guys came in three tiers: thugs, goons, and henchmen. Thugs were the typical low-level street enforcer who typical would run away when or if superheroes showed. If they didn’t run away, they were dispatched quickly. Goons stuck around and fought it out even though they had little chance of actually beating the superheroes. Henchmen were where the money was. To be a henchman, one had to pose a serious threat to a superhero. The money was good, but the benefits were really what made it a primo gig.
And Valencia wanted that henchmen gig. He had a sore tooth that had been bothering him for some time and was really ready to get it taken care of. He had a good spot on the crew of Incognito, the megavillain whose camouflage ability had been impeccable, but kept putting off a visit to the dentist and when the gig ended, he started kicking himself immediately.
But here Valencia was, standing in line in the downtown First Bank of Whatever to put a meager $318.22 into his meager bank account from a professional hostage job he had the week before.
Hostage had become a quick and easy way to get league points. If a megavillain planned a robbery that would require hostages and the paperwork was submitted and approved, then the HMMA would notify the banks or what have you in advance and supply hostages. The profession hostages would receive a small portion of the take, or $500 whichever was greater. But after HMMA’s cut and dues, state and federal taxes, Social Security, and pension, all that was left was $318.22.
Valencia stepped to the teller. He was wearing his HMMA uniform which instantly made the teller nervous.
“It’s okay,” Valencia said in a high voice that made him sound like the villain from some 80s action kid’s cartoon. “I’m just here to deposit…my check.”
Valencia’s voice had been something he cultivated in his early days of villainy, but now it was proving to be more of a hassle than anything. Especially during his personal times when he was doing everyday things like grocery shopping. Anything he asked for it also sounded slightly murderous. “Came you tell me where I can find the Boric acid,” he said and the clerk’s alarm bells would suddenly go wild, “I’ve got…a bit of moth problem.” The dramatic pauses didn’t help either, but Valencia came from the method school of villainy.
The clerk took Valencia’s check and deposit slip and punched a few keys on a computer. She said nothing, but Valencia could feel her silently mocking the number in his bank account. He forced a smile.
“I know. Hard times…so to say.” He looked upward theatrically before returning his eyes to her. The teller looked at the ceiling to see what Valencia had been looking at, sighed loudly, and then returned to clickity-clacking the keyboard.
“Want a receipt?” She asked dryly.
“Please.” He answered.
If Valencia had been paying a little more attention, if he hadn’t been so focused on putting that $318.22 in his bank account, and if he hadn’t been distracted by trying to find the right megavillain name for his ultimate ascension, he might have noticed the four men that were casing the building.
The introduction of the guilds had certainly done a number on crime. There simply wasn’t as much of it. The punishments for committing a crime without HMMA approval was harsh and not really worth the trouble.
To most people anyway.
There will always be a subset of the population who are either too smart or too dumb to make it. The four gunmen casing the joint were too dumb.
“Everybody on the ground. NOW!”
Valencia turned to see the gunmen.
“I didn’t see a sign posted,” he said and then turned to the teller, “are you…scheduled for a robbery today?”
The teller dropped to the ground.
“Guess not,” Valencia said.
“I said get on the ground.” One of the gunmen said, not the gunmen who had actually made the announcement inviting everyone to get on the ground, Valencia noted.
“Okay, okay,” Valencia said as he was getting poked in the back with the muzzle of an assault rifle, which had been banned in armed robbery per HMMA bylaws that came about after the Armed Conflict Agreements between both guild houses. Stun weapons were the only official HMMA weapon that could be used. Funnily enough, the agreement didn’t bar the use of laser or alien weaponry which were seeing an uptick in availability.
“I’d like to see your permits,” Valencia said as he tried to find a sitting position on the ground that wasn’t hard on his bony butt.
“Permits,” laughed the gunman who had lied about telling everyone to get on the ground. “We don’t need no permits.”
This is going to get ugly Valencia thought and begin a mental list of superheroes he thought might try and break up the party. Bat Ma’am primarily only came out at night, which was a good thing. Bat Ma’am intimidated Valencia to no end. She was definitely the toughest of the superheroes, in his opinion.
The fact that the robbery was on land highly ruled out Aqua Marine, but you never could tell when that dude was going to show up anyway. He half-hated Landers, as he called them, but also frequently showed up at their aid and when would talk about how it was such a predicament that he was in, always having to save the Lander’s ass and whatnot despite their treatment of oceans and his kind. Valencia thought he was kind of a douchebag, especially since Cityton was landlocked.
The Honorable Chief Justice was the likely candidate. Showing up in his judge’s robe and barrister’s wig and swinging that giant gavel of his. Kicking in the door of the bank at any moment and offering up one of those dumb sayings of his: “Get ready to be spanked by the Hands of Justice.” Something along those lines. Valencia thought that The Honor Chief Justice was a bit of a loose cannon since he was fairly new to the world of superheroes and megavillainy, he was always trying to prove himself.
Valencia thought there was a chance that Rubbermaid or whatever she was going by now, could show up, but since she had lost her lawsuit to Rubbermaid for copyright infringement, little had been seen of her. The problem when becoming a superhero or megavillain is that by the time that people started actually turning superhuman, all of the good names had been taken by comic books, tv shows and movies so there was little for a new superhero to choose from. The Slovakian had played it safe, he just went by the region of the world he was from—The Slovakian wasn’t actually Slovakian. He was really from Plainsbury, Ohio and his given name was Peter Sites.
Valencia was thinking that maybe things would work out so he wouldn’t spend most of his day at the bank. Maybe the robbers would be able to get in and out before any real response could be made. And maybe, he could get home, heat up a frozen burrito, and study for the villainy test needed to promotion from thug to goon. That was the thought in his head when the first police car pulled to a halt in front of the bank.
Valencia cursed out loud.
It didn’t take long for the police to surround the building. It took less time for them to cut the power to the building.
The air in the bank was growing stale and stuffy. The HMMA uniform that Valencia was wearing wasn’t exactly clean. The fabric, mostly wool, clinched to the smells coming from the clothes like Lois Lane hanging on to Superman during a flyby through Metropolis.
The four gunmen were arguing among themselves when the teller, who had been repositioned next to Valencia, raised her hand. She cleared her throat when the hand raising didn’t get their attention.
“Bathroom?” One of the gunmen barked.
“No. Can I move?” She said. Confusion washed over the gunmen. The teller nodded toward Valencia and then waved her hand quickly in front of her nose.
“Hey,” Valencia said, then lifted the collar of his shirt and took a whiff. He tried not to shudder from the smell but his face betrayed him.
“See.” She said.
Valencia sat—knees up with his head between his legs, looking as pathetic as he felt, alone on one side of the bank lobby, while the rest of the hostages sat on the other side. He was sure he had hit rock bottom if it wasn’t rock bottom, he didn’t want to know how much worse it could get.
Several hours had passed and all Valencia could think about was the $318.22 he wouldn’t be making from this hostage situation. He would have to see the HMMA tomorrow and make an appeal for lost wages.
“When do you think we’ll be rescued?” One of the hostages asked.
“Any minute now.” Another answered. “They’re probably on the way.”
The conversation turned to times the hostages had seen some of the various superheroes around Cityton doing various charitable acts that were required for Super League membership.
Valencia thought about telling the hostages that this was a non-sanctioned robbery and the wheels of superhero bureaucracy moved slowly under normal circumstances and there was no telling what kind of paperwork went into assigning a superhero to a non-sanctioned robbery. Even a superhero that was on patrol would have to call in and get clearance for something this big. He should have told them too, if for nothing more than to make them feel worse than they already did—just to get that extra little bit of villainy—but instead, he stared at the floor.
Something hit Valencia on the head. It landed on the ground next to him and rolled around. Valencia watched the small object for a second and then realized what it was. A screw. He looked up.
There was a vent directly above him and then he realized there was a person in the vent. He cocked his head from side to side. The vent was slowly pulled away. Valencia knew what was coming next. He scooted away. He didn’t want to be in the path of anything, or anyone that fell from it.
In an instant, there was a body standing, dressed in black and armed to the teeth.
“Guilty.” The figure growled in a low, gravely voice that barely registered above a mumble and took aim. “Sentenced to death.”
He shot a grenade at the gunmen who Valencia had decreed a liar, who then splattered into the wall behind the teller station.
There was a volley of gunfire and the remainder of the hostage takers was strewn about, emptied of most of their internal organs and bodily fluid.
Valencia looked up to the rescuer and recognized Judge, Jury, and Executioner.
“Judge,” Valencia said and nodded.
“Valencia.” He pointed at the bodies on the ground. “You apart of this?” Valencia shook his head. “Good to see you then.” With that, Judge, Jury, and Executioner was gone.
Judge, Jury, and Executioner was the only superhero who wasn’t a member of the Super League, which paradoxically made him a criminal. It was the very thing he despised the most, but the dramatic irony was lost on Judge, Jury, and Executioner.
Normally, the sight of Judge, Jury, and Executioner would have caused Valencia to shit his pants, him not abiding by guild rules and all and having no qualms about shooting the organs out of any advisory with the stupidity to poke his head around the corner when Judge, Jury, and Executioner was just around it, but today was a welcome change.
Valencia spent the rest of the evening talking to the police, which is never a fun activity to do when you are in am HMMA uniform and sound like fucking Star Scream.
Feeling pathetic and defeated, Valencia walked toward his small efficiency apartment—only marginally bigger than the average prison cell. Thinking that the night couldn’t get any worse, Valencia opened his apartment door, hoping to heat up a frozen burrito in the microwave only to discover that the electricity to his apartment had been turned off.
“Damn the torpedo!” He said dramatically, a thing he said often hoping to set him apart, but usually resulted in mockery.
