Читать книгу The Book Of Schemes - Marcus Calvert - Страница 4

Swallowing a valium, I stood backstage and watched five tuxedoed minions finish mopping up White Toast’s fresh blood from the stage. The chart-topping teen rockers were on their way to Paris when their private jet was hijacked and diverted to this undisclosed location. The five-boy band was selected to provide musical entertainment for the 97^th Annual Villain Awards. While they had to go before a packed house of super villains – at gunpoint, no less – they played their little hearts out.

But instead of applause, they were booed and subsequently gunned down before a brief intermission. Apparently, the tradition was to select the most sugary-sweet pop stars on the charts, force them to play, and then kill them off when they were done. I asked someone backstage why Britney Spears hadn’t been shot to death during her musical prime. Someone backstage told me she secretly ran a drug cartel out of Malibu. And, per the Villain Award by-laws, she couldn’t be killed because she was both quite evil and a card-carrying member in three of the five major super villain unions.

If I lived through this (and I doubted it), I’d have to murder my agent for securing this gig. Ever since my teen idol days, my career’s simply sat like a floater in an unflushed toilet. My made-for-TV movies and stand-up tours tanked. Any “grown-up” sitcoms I auditioned for didn’t want me. The best I could do was host those crappy “funniest home video/silly prank” shows. It paid the bills, kept my dealer/ex-wife happy, and left me in a third-rate sort of stardom.

Still, I felt cheated by life.

One of the backstage guys took away my martini glass, tossed me a breath mint, and signaled me to head out in thirty seconds. On stage, one of the minions tossed the drummer’s right ear into a bucket and bowed before the returning crowd’s hearty applause. As he left the stage, the canned music played and I returned to the stage with a small stack of white cue cards and sealed envelopes.

After having a comedic moment of silence for White Toast (which actually drew some laughs), I continued with the show. I passed out awards for Best Diabolical Monologue, Best Prison Escape, Best World Domination Scheme, Most Unique WMD, and Most Promising Henchperson. Like the Emmy Awards, the trophies were identical to each other. Unlike the Emmy Awards, these gold trophies were made in the likeness of blind Lady Justice … wrapped up in chains and hanging from a noose with a bullet hole in her forehead. Her sword and scales were still in her hands, albeit futilely.

Maybe it was the valium kicking in, but I was starting to have fun. The winners were all pretty gracious. And Nosferata Girl made people cry with her acceptance speech for Most Promising Henchperson.

Well, there was just one award left.

I ran it down for anyone in the audience who didn’t know what it symbolized. Villain-Of-The-Year went to the villain/villainess who performed the most dastardly criminal acts imaginable. The nominees were selected not just on the number of innocent civilians killed. Scheme sophistication, number of super heroes wasted, and overall criminal popularity were taken into account.

Like any film awards, politics also came into play.

There were backstage rumors that billions of dollars were being flung at the six-member Selection Committee. After all, whoever won Villain-Of-The-Year had a ton of street cred in the criminal underworld. It was like being the Godfather/Godmother of global crime for a year. Five possible nominees had already been killed over this thing. Every detail was carefully selected — even the trophy was different. While shaped like the others, it was made of pure platinum, covered with mystical glyphs, and would give the winner massive good fortune for the next 365 days.

Without further ado, I went over the three (surviving) finalists for this year’s Villain-Of-The-Year.

The first nominee was Lady/Killer, who was a finalist for the last six years in a row. The homicidal vixen had a serious hard-on for winning this award. The only problem was that everyone hated her. Unlike most super villains, she had no code. Even the most vile, cannibalistic, genocidal bad guys had a code of some kind (or so I was told): but not Lady/Killer. Her peculiar brand of madness resulted in her killing more super villains than super heroes. That kind of slaughter did not go over well with the Selection Committee.

Still, she kept making the finalist list. And this year, the psycho bitch had definitely done some impressive stuff. She set off bombs in every maternity ward in Florida (her home state) on New Year’s Eve, right at the stroke of midnight, resulting in a high-four-digit body count.

Seeing as she could naturally release pheromones capable of turning anyone (male/female) into a potential love slave, Lady/Killer seduced the Secretary-General of the U.N. and secretly filmed their four-day fling. I hear the six-set DVD was more popular than Paris Hilton’s sex tapes. His heart exploded during Disc #5. And she didn’t even notice until halfway through Disc #6.

But what put her into serious contention was when the Heroic Nine cornered her during a Federal Reserve Bank heist in New York, this past summer. A super-large HD screen came down behind me and showed security footage of the encounter. The Heroic Nine mistakenly thought she was just a psycho-genius with pheromones. Each of the nine-member hero squad had a stylish gas mask on when they swooped in. After they beat up her minions, Lady/Killer surrendered with a sweet little smile.

It should’ve been just another easy takedown for the world’s mightiest super team.

But, as they moved in to cuff her, she “Hulked” out and sprouted an extra 200 pounds of muscle. Apparently, Lady/Killer had just gotten her DNA “tweaked” to the point where she could safely bench eighty-one tons and skinny-dip in an erupting volcano without a scratch. Their strong guy had enough time to look shocked before she ripped his lungs out one-by-one. She then turned on the other eight heroes, ignored their attacks, and beat seven of them to death with her bare hands.

The last surviving member of the team, Psi-Lad, huddled in a corner with tears in his eyes. I explained that the poor fool had tried to get into Lady/Killer’s head and psionically stun her. Unfortunately for the telepath, walking through Lady/Killer’s mind was like walking through a minefield. In the end, something ruptured in his brain, blood came out of his nose, and the glorified sidekick died giggling.

The screen then switched to real-time and showed Lady/Killer in her balcony seat, in a lovely black-and-white gown. Six of her henchmen holstered their machine pistols long enough to join the audience in a round of applause. At present, the lovely forty-something villainess was normal-sized and easy on the eyes. After blowing a kiss to the cameras, she made a muscle with her skinny right arm and smiled her perfect runway smile.

I waited for the applause to die down and then went on to the second nominee: Psi-Metal. The one-time Turkish super hero was adored since he decided to join team evil. What made Psi-Metal so damned dangerous was the fact that he could turn his flesh-and-blood body into pure PS-9, a super-dense organic metal capable of augmenting any psychic energy that went through it. Without the metal, he could send his mind out and remote view anyone within six miles of him. With the metal, he could target anyone on the planet. Worse, the PS-9 did wonders for his telekinesis, allowing him to pick up skyscrapers like they were loaves of bread.

Never stable to begin with, Psi-Metal was so powerful that he got bored with saving the world (analysts claim it became just too easy). Annoyed with the bureaucracy of his own government, Psi-Metal merely destroyed the lab where he was enhanced and killed anyone who knew how to stop him. So far, he had earned quite a reputation during his four-month stint as a super villain. First, he went to the mountain villa of Baron Despotic, swatted aside the baron’s defenses, and ripped him (vertically) in half. Then, he simply claimed Despotic’s syndicate as his own. Seeing as Baron Despotic had won a Villain-Of-The-Year award ten years ago, such a feat alone was impressive enough to be considered for this year’s award.

But then Psi-Metal started breaking super villains out of prison. That made him really popular and earned him a swarm of loyal super minions. The rules of his new outfit were pretty simple. Once in a while, he’d give one of his crew an order – which he expected to be obeyed without fail. The members of his syndicate could do anything to anyone except for fellow syndicate members and folks under his protection. They were actually encouraged to engage in mayhem and anarchy. And, should they be arrested, he would break them out again. Lastly, 10% of any profits they made went to him … or else.

Naturally, any crook with half-a-brain either worked for him or paid him for protection. I heard that even some super heroes paid this guy protection money! Even Lady/Killer paid Psi-Metal. While she probably wanted him dead, even she wasn’t crazy enough to go to war with someone who could kill her from half-a-world away. Besides, other crooks had been stupid enough to try to take out Psi-Metal in the past (for whatever reason). In the end, their mutilated remains always ended up on the evening news. The funny thing was that Psi-Metal could lose his powers right now and no one would be in a hurry to mess with him.

Why?

Well, first off, Psi-Metal avoided the spotlight. He normally kicked back in one of his hidden, heavily guarded, nuke-resistant bunkers around the world. His most trusted lieutenants would rather endure a decade of torture than betray their very sadistic employer. Also, anyone lucky enough to kill him would have hundreds of pissed-off super villains out for blood.

Psi-Metal was in his own private balcony, which was shielded by a bluish telekinetic force field bubble that he easily sustained. He didn’t have any minions in his immediate vicinity. But rumor was that they were scattered throughout the building. Psi-Metal made so few public appearances that they feared someone would try to kill their beloved leader this very night.

Some had even urged him to stay home and have someone else claim the award. But the by-laws of the contest required finalists to be present or be disqualified: with the only exceptions being death or imprisonment. Covered head-to-toe in bronze-hued PS-9, he stood up in his black tux and waved. The audience gave him a super-long round of applause. Odds were that he’d either win this award or steal it from the winner’s broken corpse.

Once the applause died down, I introduced the final nominee: Mr. Coin. Born in the Zinothian netherworld, the wealth demon had almost god-like powers: which were based solely on the presence of money. If all he had to work with was a penny, he could only cast simple magicks (like lighting a cigarette). Leave him with a few million in cash and he could burn down half a city with a glance. The only problem was that whenever he used money as a mystical power source, it burned away like wood in a fireplace. So when he stumbled upon this world last year, Mr. Coin became one of the best thieves in history.

He’s stolen everything from military secrets to priceless works of art, only to fence them to the highest bidder for straight-up cash. What made him popular was that he’d do the occasional “errand” if the money was right. Pay Mr. Coin a ton of loot and he could work miracles. I then ran over the list of his most artful crimes, which easily made him a worthy contender for Villain-Of-The-Year.

Six months ago, a client hired him to drive all nine Supreme Court justices insane. The next day, all nine justices went on a cross-country killing spree: complete with judicial robes, hockey masks, and assorted sharp objects. Mr. Coin made them super strong, very tough, and cheetah-quick as part of the curse. As of yet, they still haven’t been caught. Three months ago, he made the President of the United States grow humongous boobs during a speech condemning gay marriage. The Commander-in-Chief had to get breast reduction surgery, much to his downright humiliation.

But last week’s caper really made headlines.

The Money PeakCasino/Hotel was celebrating its Grand Opening in Las Vegas. It was simultaneously hosting a massive law enforcement convention, which resulted in the hotel being overbooked. Over a thousand police officers, from around the nation, were going to be in one place. When Mr. Coin heard about this, he did what any civic-minded super villain would do. First, he pulled off an ingenious daylight heist of the casino itself (worth roughly $90 million in cash). Then he piled the stolen loot around himself and used it to teleport the entire building away from him and into the bottom of the South Pacific.

The big screen flashed to show underwater camera footage of the Money Peak at the bottom of an undersea trench, crushed by the pressure of the darkened deep. Applause broke out as interior camera angles showed drowned corpses being feasted upon by sharks as they floated about lifelessly. Finally, the screen flashed over to Mr. Coin, who sat in a third balcony. The slender, granite-hued demon rose and bowed deeply in his crimson tux before throwing an armful of gold coins into the audience. As the crowd erupted into applause, Psi-Metal and Lady/Killer glared at Mr. Coin from their respective balconies.

It was time to announce the winner.

As the drum roll began, I noticed a small green laser dot on my torso. I pulled the tiny card (with the winner’s name) out of the envelope and looked up to see one of Lady/Killer’s minions aiming a high-powered rifle at me. Then, I felt an invisible grip firmly wrap itself around my still-beating heart. I didn’t need to look up at Psi-Metal to realize the nature of his handiwork. Lastly, something felt like it was inching out of my wallet, which was full of twenty-dollar bills. I stayed in character, unsure of what to do, as I felt razor-sharp spikes gently poke through my tux and prick the small of my back. Mr. Coin did have a flair for the dramatic.

I wished that I could have had a good chance to kill my agent for landing me this gig. Ah well, they were probably going to kill me anyway, seeing as I wasn’t truly evil or anything. Taking in a final deep breath I uttered the words…

“And the winner of the 2007 Villain-Of-The-Year Award is …”