Podcast of a Teenage Super-Villian

Chapter Eighteen: Mirror, Mirror

Max. 

What a beautiful ranch. 

Gideon's old family property has shattered windows, spray-painted obscenities on the walls and an inch of water in the soupy, vinyl floors. But there's a skeleton of what was once beautiful; big arches for doorways, the jewel-less, sad arms of a full chandelier in what has to be a dining room. Under it,  a long mahogany table stretched out and etched with drawings of saints, angels, and devils.

My hands are full. Of alcohol. Now, I won't say I robbed a store. I won't tell you that I strolled in, punched a hole in the cash register, watched the lady's mouth fall open, and asked her if I could help myself to her merchandise. And if I did say I did that, I'd mention that she nodded, and so as far as I'm concerned, it's not robbery, gentle reader. Or, well, maybe it is. But this is how superheroes lie, so let me lie like them.

Now, I did buy the three or so strobe lights. With my own money. So that's a point for me. While I unload my cases, I think about his pretty ranch. 

There were so many houses I'd use for my nefarious purposes. I live in a country filled with millions of empty houses. Taken away by banks to sit with no one in them, or shifting, dangerous houses the city has forgotten to demolish. But this ranch has a soul. Like I can hear the laughter of the family inside it, can see Gideon's shadow flickering like the wings of a happy bird. Hear the family's melodic prays and the pouring of warm liquid into icy glasses.

And then the first couple of kids shamble into the old home. I flick on the moody lights, toss them a lager, take a swig of something that I know I won't be able to stomach. My buddies can drink, watch the world spin and spin, laugh and climb rooves and vomit. I can't. 

 Percy would say something about moderation and I would see my dad, quietly drinking in the middle of the night. Would see him scribbling in his notebook, his eyes watery and shifty. Something scary, something dangerous. And I see that while I take a too-long swig of rum. See him while I choke on it and it burns down my throat. 

"Supers," I say, as more people trickle in. I kind of didn't have a plan? I just figured, you supply alcohol and a place for people to destroy, that they would have to like you. Kind of like you feed a pet in a video game and they follow you around the whole time. I guess that's what I thought would happen. "They're kind of authoritarian figures, aren't they?"

Someone in a cut-off vest turns to me and gives me something between a glare and a considering glance. More and more people crowd in, lobbing together in what's becoming a crushing horde, and I remember that I don't have a speech. My heart is pounding. I take another swig of rum. 

And then someone screams. 

Kids are gathering, circling something. And I can't tell what. "Excuse me, excuse me!" I push and prod, duck under arms and press against ribs.

There's this dude, his hair's white; his eyebrows, slight scruff, it's all white. He's half-collapsed on the ground. Legs stretched out on the ground, waist sticking straight up. There are two things sticking up from his head, white, fleshy mounds. His eyes are blue. And I don't mean like blue eyes, normal, handsome blue eyes. I mean there are no whites. Just blue with black slits in the middle. Some kind of inhuman sound wells up out of his throat.  His big friend grabs his shoulder. "Gats? Gats buddy?"

I'm still holding the rum bottle by the neck. "What a fucking freak." I can't help it. Or maybe I can and I choose not to. It's all starting to swim. The room, the people, the guy, who probably fell into a big bubbly vat of some super-inducing-toxic-waste-thing. And I'm starting to like saying what I want to say, not worrying about what it means and if I'm being an asshole. The guy looks at me and his inhuman eyes narrow. He tries to say something and it comes out this mangled, high-pitched sound.