It's been hours, and I've gotten nowhere. Well, almost nowhere. I found a man convulsing on the pavement, screaming. He had no eyes.
I called him an ambulance and snuck away before they showed up. I have a reputation after all, but I had to keep moving. If no one else had seen the man with all his yelling, I couldn't have been far behind.
While moving through the dimly lit streets and alleyways trying to not bring attention to myself, a thought bores its way into my skull: I'm looking for someone who most likely hates me, who I have reason to believe stole both of a random man's eyes. I can't grasp that part; why both?
I'm starting to become delirious. I'm not thinking quite as clearly, and I've moved slower these last few blocks. I speak with few people, and make even less progress. Another thought intrudes, that most other villains might do horrible things to get the information they need. I'd just begun to consider it, when the cold hit me. I'm glad I grabbed my jacket before coming out here. At least I won't freeze before I lose my mental faculties.
I turn a corner and come upon the aptly named drinking establishment exclusively for this city's criminals: Behind Bars. Most people avoid this place, besides the people who underestimate this city's criminals. There's usually one or two of those every night, and the bar has a perfect record of every one of them ending up in the dumpster out back. Based on the smell, I just missed the show.
This is my stop.
I walk in, and take a look at tonight's menagerie. There's a few antiheroes sitting alone in opposite corners, some capes with a gimmick making a lot of noise and fuss, and a whole lot of henchmen. Some recognize me, and I realize too late that this was a mistake.
The first, a man with a plumber's mustache, moves in front of me and grabs my shoulder a bit too firmly. I don't wince, of course. I'm a boss, not a grunt.
"Good evening, Doctor. What a pleasure that you would be here tonight," he says dryly.
"Bit late on the payments, Doc," says a second from behind, his taller stature and deeper voice more menacing than the first.
"Settle down, boys," I hear from my right. This one isn't a goon, but one I recognize.
Dipstick. He likes cars, so he dropped out of college and made a full time thing of it. Fastest getaway I've ever seen, clocking in at less than 35 seconds from setting off the alarms to disappearing like a ghost. I'd call him a savant, besides the assumed brain damage all those fumes must cause.
Best roommate I've ever had.
"Doc! Haven't seen you in this place in a long time. How've you been? Still workin' on that..." he pauses, preparing a terrible impression of my lecturing voice, 'perfect genetic structure the likes of which this world and its mindless inhabitants have never even conceived of'?"
I laugh. "Your impression is getting better! You haven't changed a bit, Dipstick. Still huffing motor oil?"
He throws his head back with a hearty guffaw. "HA! I've missed you, you crazy son of a bitch."
He turns his attention to the pair keeping me in place, and his expression sours. "Are you gonna let my friend go any time soon, Mario Brothers?"
They scowl at him, and head back to their drinks. I allow myself a wince now, as I'm positive I saw someone slip something into their glasses.
"Come on Doc, let's catch up," Dipstick calls, waving me over to the seat he's opened next to him. I hesitate, and instead approach the pair.
"Haven't your mothers told you not to leave your drink unattended?" I slap down a hundred dollar bill. "Here's an advance."
YOU ARE READING
Synthetic Violet
General FictionA hero shows up at a villain's doorstep one night. Dazed and bleeding, they look up at the villain, mumble "...I didn't know where else to go," and collapse. This is the story of Phillip and V.
