Podcast of a Teenage Super-Villian

Chapter One: The Superhero Who Isn't Faster than a Speeding Bullet

Song Selection: Viva La Vida—Cover by Future Idiots

Audio recording dated October 8th 22:38:14

I don't want to talk about what happened. All I want is to ask you this: Do you believe in good guys? Do you believe some people are destined for great things, for friends and fortune?

Do you believe you're one of those people?

I did.

I mean, I'm not going to tell you to stop believing in fate or superheroes. Why listen to me? I'm a supervillain. A kidnapper and a would-be killer and a sixteen-year-old to boot. There's nothing I can say that would make you like me or even believe me, and I don't want to talk about what happened because you're all right. I was evil. I was cruel.

But if you believe in good guys, do you believe in bad guys?

I mean, if destiny chooses some people to be heroes, then fate's gotta pick some people to be villains, right?

What if you're not part of the group destined for great things? What if you're destined for a pitiful life of regret after your own horrible mistakes?

What if you're destined to become me?

***

My father chose my middle name after the Confederate general, but it was my mother who named me Max. It was a sweet name, she said, silly and docile. Brought to mind Maxwell House, the coffee, and Maxwell Smart, the spy. Silly and docile, like the son I think she wanted, all throaty laughs and dimply smiles and 'Yes, ma'ams.'

Maxwell Lee Preston. The stupid spy and the Confederate General and my father's blood, all married in five syllables. Five syllables that have clung to me like chains all my little life, achy to wear and impossible to escape.

As I stare down at the quilt of shanty homes from the roof of my father's mansion, this is all I can think about. I repeat my name,  savoring the sting of each raindrop on my tongue. They taste like acid. Wires, glinting with rain, run out by the broken trees in the distance.  Hail whips against my skin and I clench pieces of ice in my fists, watching them melt on my cracked fingerpads. 

The police will arrive in minutes. As soon as he gets the call, my father will bust open a window with the barrel of his shotgun, have it pointed at the base of my spine with his expert aim. I can imagine his disappointment. His practiced smile replaced with bared teeth and a ground jaw, his nose wiggling with that rabbit-twitch he gets when he's gunning down deer or reporters.

Maxwell Lee Preston. The name doesn't make you think of a 5'4 teenager with his left arm pulverized to fine white powder, does it? The bones all up my left hand are obliterated after punching through layers of concrete at speeds of over two hundred miles an hour. My genius prison escape plan, everyone. My phone lies on my lap. A blue suede bag of clothes, bandages, and an aluminum candy can full of cash leans against my ribs. I'd packed it for a quick getaway, kept it under my bed. My phone finally rings. I pick up, my heart in my throat. "Chip!"

The end crackles with static. I've been desperate to hear that voice, so soft and low. When I was little, Chip told me he lived with his aunt because his parents "were in heaven," and I thought he meant that they were angels, and that he was an angel, too. Why else was his voice so pretty? Like he was a little jazz singer, I thought. 

"I'm not coming," he says.

Sweat drips from my matted hair. I can tell it isn't rain because its hot against my burning skin.