Read Online Origins of a D-List Supervillain by Jim Bernheimer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim Bernheimer
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sleep with me once like all the rest.”
“Why’s that?”
“My power makes fungus grow in most any damp and moist place I come in contact with. I am guessing you can imagine the problems that might create.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s nasty. Well, at least you get to the point where you’re sleeping with them. I don’t even get that.”
He got a good, hearty laugh out of that, disposed of his moss down the water fountain drain and said, “So, I shouldn’t expect to see any love letters from Aphrodite anytime soon.”
“No, she just shows up for the conjugal visits,” I said sarcastically.
Me and Aphrodite, as if that would ever happen.
• • •
Naturally, I was plotting how I could make my own powersuit through all this. Annoying my parents, the teaching, and even the drums were just a front for the good doctor and whoever else might be watching me. I became even more conscious of this as the months ticked away and the date of my first parole hearing drew closer.
That’s me—Cal Stringel, model prisoner.
Unfortunately, I could only picture much of my suit design in my mind. With no access to computers, and anything I put on paper closely scrutinized, I couldn’t really make much headway in that department. So, I did my best to commit the main system designs to memory and decided what I couldn’t make, I’d just steal from the people who have made it already. The one downside of having a near photographic memory was that it was a near photographic memory and not a completely photographic memory. My plan was one part efficiency and probably two parts laziness.
Then again, Lazarus had entire teams dedicated to each section of his armor. Even if I had The Gardener’s powers, I wouldn’t have enough manpower to match that. So, I decided to cut corners everywhere I could get away with and focus on my specialty of weaponry. Overcharging the force blasters would mean more downtime for repairs, but a greater ability to deliver damage. The trick was to figure how much I could get away with, and not risk blowing my arm off.
There’s a joke in there about being attached to my arm, but I’m not going to bother with it.
Sitting on my bunk, nervously waiting for the summons to the elevators to go to my parole hearing, I reflected on how twenty-six months could pass inside this artificially-lighted hole in the ground and what changes they wrought in me.
Was I a better person?
No. It’s made me a better criminal and drummer, I suppose. I know the players who operate on my level and have a few contacts on the outside, but I don’t really think I’m a better person for it.
Am I ready to get out of here?
You betcha!
Is it going to happen?
Snowballs in hell have better odds.
“You look like you’re ready to bounce off the walls,” Kenneth said, I thought he’d been in a deep meditation.
“Sorry, if I’m interrupting,” I said. “I just want it to get over with already and hear them say that we’ll see you in a year. It’s just one big tease.”
“Well,” he said, standing to stretch. “It’s going to be a busy day up there, with your parole hearing and all. If you’re open to some advice, just keep a level head and open eyes about the whole experience. You never know what might happen up there today, Old Bean.”
I was in the middle of preparing a suitably impressive answer when Mr. Big Voice came over the intercom and requested my presence at Zone A and our cell door rolled back. It was still ten minutes before the rest would open. Some of the jackasses jeered me as I did the early morning perp walk to the elevators
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, laundry man!”
“Don’t get your hopes up! You’ll be back down here soon enough.”
I did my best to ignore them and made my way to where the two Pummeler suits waited to take me up. They scanned me and searched me before they would let me board the elevator. When the lift began its upward climb, I’d sensed the movement, and it
“Why’s that?”
“My power makes fungus grow in most any damp and moist place I come in contact with. I am guessing you can imagine the problems that might create.”
“Oh,” I said. “That’s nasty. Well, at least you get to the point where you’re sleeping with them. I don’t even get that.”
He got a good, hearty laugh out of that, disposed of his moss down the water fountain drain and said, “So, I shouldn’t expect to see any love letters from Aphrodite anytime soon.”
“No, she just shows up for the conjugal visits,” I said sarcastically.
Me and Aphrodite, as if that would ever happen.
• • •
Naturally, I was plotting how I could make my own powersuit through all this. Annoying my parents, the teaching, and even the drums were just a front for the good doctor and whoever else might be watching me. I became even more conscious of this as the months ticked away and the date of my first parole hearing drew closer.
That’s me—Cal Stringel, model prisoner.
Unfortunately, I could only picture much of my suit design in my mind. With no access to computers, and anything I put on paper closely scrutinized, I couldn’t really make much headway in that department. So, I did my best to commit the main system designs to memory and decided what I couldn’t make, I’d just steal from the people who have made it already. The one downside of having a near photographic memory was that it was a near photographic memory and not a completely photographic memory. My plan was one part efficiency and probably two parts laziness.
Then again, Lazarus had entire teams dedicated to each section of his armor. Even if I had The Gardener’s powers, I wouldn’t have enough manpower to match that. So, I decided to cut corners everywhere I could get away with and focus on my specialty of weaponry. Overcharging the force blasters would mean more downtime for repairs, but a greater ability to deliver damage. The trick was to figure how much I could get away with, and not risk blowing my arm off.
There’s a joke in there about being attached to my arm, but I’m not going to bother with it.
Sitting on my bunk, nervously waiting for the summons to the elevators to go to my parole hearing, I reflected on how twenty-six months could pass inside this artificially-lighted hole in the ground and what changes they wrought in me.
Was I a better person?
No. It’s made me a better criminal and drummer, I suppose. I know the players who operate on my level and have a few contacts on the outside, but I don’t really think I’m a better person for it.
Am I ready to get out of here?
You betcha!
Is it going to happen?
Snowballs in hell have better odds.
“You look like you’re ready to bounce off the walls,” Kenneth said, I thought he’d been in a deep meditation.
“Sorry, if I’m interrupting,” I said. “I just want it to get over with already and hear them say that we’ll see you in a year. It’s just one big tease.”
“Well,” he said, standing to stretch. “It’s going to be a busy day up there, with your parole hearing and all. If you’re open to some advice, just keep a level head and open eyes about the whole experience. You never know what might happen up there today, Old Bean.”
I was in the middle of preparing a suitably impressive answer when Mr. Big Voice came over the intercom and requested my presence at Zone A and our cell door rolled back. It was still ten minutes before the rest would open. Some of the jackasses jeered me as I did the early morning perp walk to the elevators
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, laundry man!”
“Don’t get your hopes up! You’ll be back down here soon enough.”
I did my best to ignore them and made my way to where the two Pummeler suits waited to take me up. They scanned me and searched me before they would let me board the elevator. When the lift began its upward climb, I’d sensed the movement, and it
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