Almost Infamous: A Supervillain Novel (2 page)

Like anyone who ever attended a public high school, I first considered becoming a supervillain during a mandatory assembly on the dangers of peer pressure.

They’d promised us a superhero guest speaker this time, and not just some guy off the street in a cape and spandex suit who hangs around playgrounds (like last year), but a real one with powers and corporate sponsors who would offer us a truly “life-enriching experience.” Whether or not this was worth getting excited about was yet to be seen, but considering the fact that the last “life-enriching experience” we had came in the form of a guy in a bright green bunny suit rapping about saving the rainforest, we had reason for skepticism.

Still, when the lights dimmed and the stage curtains were raised to reveal a large, cardboard cutout of the Protectors’ logo and a banner that read
DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BE A HERO
?, most of the students in attendance sounded impressed.

Well, except for some junior in back who shouted, “YOU SUCK!”

The air fell still and, with a dramatic flourish, one of the windows at the side of the auditorium burst open. There were shouts of surprise and screams from the freshman girls, and almost as many cell phone cameras held in the air as there were people in attendance as a glowing, crackling ball of electricity floated in through the window and hovered above the stage. With a dramatic explosion and a roaring clap of thunder, the ball transformed into a muscular man clad in bright-green spandex, a flowing blue cape, and brighter blue, spiked hair. His eyes were hidden by a bright-yellow domino mask, but his smile was so broad and toothy and white that you could see it shining from the back of the auditorium.

“Hello, boys and girls and inter-gendered Lemurian residents of Hacklin’s Hall High School. I… AM… THUNDERHEAD!” he said with a dramatic flourish of his cape, surrounding himself with a shower of sparks. For emphasis, a curtain behind him was ripped aside, revealing a cardboard cutout of him and his Twitter handle (@YourHeroThunderhead).

He laughed heartily at the audience’s cheers, unaware that he had set his cardboard cutout and one of the stage curtains on fire. A couple of his personal assistants were quick to run from backstage and extinguish the ignited curtain before the sprinklers went off.

“I know that life today is tough for children like you. I know… I was a child once myself,” he said, giving us a knowing, sympathetic nod. “You are faced with daily challenges that are almost as great as the ones superheroes, like myself, fought against during the War on Villainy! Every day you are faced with gang violence, sexual assault, drug abuse, deforestation…”

Saying all that, I severely doubted he’d ever visited Hacklin’s Hall, Indiana. Our town was as innocuous as any American suburb in the country. You might find all of these issues in locations like on the eastside of Amber City or New R’lyeh or the Detroit Exclusion Zone, but not in Hacklin’s Hall.

Problems like those would make this town too interesting.

“… political dissidence, and genocide. But those are easy problems to fix—ones we superheroes strive to eliminate every day. There is one problem, however, that you face that takes everyday heroes, heroes like
you
, to fix: PEER PRESSURE!”

He paused for dramatic impact, letting the words sink in.

Again the junior in the back shouted, “YOU SUCK!”

Then a childish voice from off stage chimed in. “Golly, Thunderhead, what’s peer pressure?”

Thunderhead looked to the side of the stage with an exaggerated searching look. His smile broadened.

“Why if it isn’t my newly appointed sidekick: Iguana Boy!”

A spotlight shone on the curtain to his left, illuminating a small lizard that clung to it. With a dramatic leap, the lizard flew onto the stage, transforming into a teenage boy (he had to have been at most thirteen), dressed in a garish, green-scaled bodysuit complete with claws and a tail. The small microphone taped to his chest led me to believe his appearance was not as impromptu as Thunderhead had wanted us to believe.

He waved to us enthusiastically and barely flinched when the ball of paper chucked from the audience hit him in the shoulder.

“That is an
excellent
question!” Thunderhead said, slapping Iguana Boy on the back hard enough to knock him forward a step. “According to the fine people at Merriam-Webster, peer pressure is…”

“We know what peer pressure is,” Vic grumbled beside me. He had enough sense to be quiet about it, especially after the paper-thrower was escorted from the auditorium by several of Thunderhead’s entourage, with a few faculty following close behind.

“Yeah, but there’s gotta be like, what, five or six people here who missed all the lectures? This assembly is for them,” I said, twirling a pen between my fingers, bored.

“This sucks balls, Aids.”

That’s Vic Benedict for ya, always the poet.

Vic had been my best friend by default, since we grew up on the same street. He said he called me Aids because it was easier to say than Aidan, but I think he just liked calling me Aids. I enjoyed hanging out with him because he was funny, sometimes, and occasionally got his hands on explosives. He claimed to like hanging out with me because he thought I was cool, but that was a bold-faced lie and we both knew it. The thing was, I didn’t really care because being best friends with Vic—even if he talked to my video games more than me—was better than being best friends with no one.

While we didn’t have much in common, the key to our friendship—at least for me—was that he didn’t care that my life was going nowhere. It was obvious to everyone (including myself) that my future likely entailed graduating high school the middle of Hacklin Hall High School’s Class of 2016, moving on to community college, then real college, as I would probably have no idea what the hell I wanted to do with my life. (Grad school was even an option if I so chose, as both my folks had met at one and always said how it changed their lives.) Then I would end up Aidan Salt, middle-manager of some low-level company that moved paper from one warehouse to another, had a wife that resented me, two-and-a-half kids who didn’t want anything to do with me, and a heavy drinking problem. He also didn’t care that I’d probably die at the age of fifty-seven from something like pancreatic cancer or a car accident or maybe just eating a bullet like my old Uncle Rex.

No, Vic didn’t care about much but what was right in front of him, and with graduation right around the corner, it was kinda nice to have one person who didn’t care about my future.

“They should’ve gotten El Capitán,” he said.

“They’d never get us El Capitán,” I replied.

“How do you know?”

“Well, first, El Capitán’s appearance fee has to be through the roof, and I don’t think our PTA is that generous. Second, El Capitán is ‘America’s Greatest Protector,’” I said, trying to add the emphasis they always put in El Capitán’s commercials.

“He did one for those kids in Somalia!” Vic said, defensively.

“They were refugees. He saved them.”

“Lucky bastards,” Vic pouted.

“And we’re nowhere near
that
lucky,” I said, tapping my pen on the chair in front of me for emphasis. “We’re lucky they even sprang for a Protectors reserve member. I was thinking they’d get someone from one of the satellite teams, or maybe one of those corporate heroes.”

“Captain Cola would’ve been cool. He’s a pretty kickass dancer.”

“Captain Cola versus Lemon-Lime Lad would have been better,” I said with a snicker.

“Yeah, but they’d still find some way of turning this all into an ad,” he complained.

“Like this one won’t?” I asked, trying to remember any of Thunderhead’s sponsors.

Vic raised an eyebrow. “Wanna bet on that, Aids?” He always liked making bets with me, mostly because he usually didn’t have money and I sucked at gambling.

“No.”

“Aw, come on, five bucks!” he pleaded.

“No.”

“A five-dollar bill! Minuteman’s face on a rectangle of green paper! Almost enough to buy a cup of coffee!” he continued.

“I don’t drink coffee”

“Almost enough to buy
her
a cup of coffee.”

Damn. He got me.

I fished through my wallet and found a five-dollar bill hiding between a couple of twenties and handed it to him. Minuteman’s face stared up at me solemnly from the bill, the tip of his tri-corner hat shading the eye he’d lost fighting during World War I. Vaguely, part of me wondered if he knew back when he first strapped on that star-spangled cape and chestplate that someday his sacrifices would immortalize him on the dollar bill that might finally get me into Kelly Shingle’s good graces (and, hopefully, her pants).

I’d like to think that would make him proud.

I checked the stage. Thunderhead was flying around, lazily punching cardboard cutouts of supervillains and making some long-winded point about how if unchecked, peer pressure would transform us into date rapists. Iguana Boy stood by raptly, asking enough dumb questions to keep Thunderhead talking.

“So I take it you bitched out and didn’t ask her out?”

I glowered. “I didn’t bitch out… but I didn’t ask her out either.”

“You bitched out,” Vic said, nodding.

“I didn’t! I froze up! Talking to girls isn’t easy!” I said, my voice getting higher with every word.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes it is. All you have to do is say, ‘Hey, beautiful. Here are some flowers. Wanna go out sometime and give each other hand jobs?’”

“I don’t think it’s called a hand job when you do it to girls.”

“Semantics,” Vic said, waving off my comment. “Or you can show her your new trick! That’ll get any girls’ loins aquiver!”

“Do you even know what any of those words mean?”

“Mostly,” he said with a shrug.

“I’m not showing her my trick,” I said. “It’s… not ready.”

“See, that’s your problem! You just need confidence, and then you’ll be on easy street!”

Confidence. Easy street. Right.

Vic could say that because he had confidence to spare and was moderately good-looking. Sure, he may have been dim and poor, but he stood out from the crowd just enough that he had no trouble getting first dates.

I, on the other hand, was the utter definition of nondescript. Brown hair, average appearance, below-average height, average clothes… the list went on and on.

I’d never get Kelly Shingle. She was the hottest, sweetest, smartest girl in our senior class. We were never friends, but she talked to me if we passed each other in the halls or when we shared classes. She was always nicer to me than she had to be. I knew that if I could just find some way to stand out that she might go out with me. Maybe I’d impress her with my trick, and then maybe she’d take off her top and let me touch her boobs.

Several actors in cartoonish, black-and-white striped shirts and masks had joined Thunderhead and Iguana Boy onstage. They had attempted to peer pressure Iguana Boy into jumping off of a bridge because it would be “groovy,” and when he said no they had tied him up and were preparing to throw him off while Thunderhead ran around the stage, inconsolable.

“I cannot take on the forces of peer pressure alone! Tell me, are there any heroes in the audience who can help me save my sidekick?”

Almost every hand shot up. Very few of them could have qualified as superheroes. Sure, there was Jim Abernathy from my trig class, who could move metal objects with his mind, that sophomore girl who could enhance the smells of whatever she was looking at, or those three scaleface juniors (
Lemurians
, the politically correct part of my mind reminded me) whose names I couldn’t pronounce. They might have been able to put up a fight against the forces of villainy and, who knows, maybe even peer pressure, but they couldn’t make it as superheroes.

Vic raised his hand, and then looked to me. “Why aren’t you raising your hand?”

“Not interested.”

He smirked. “Worried they might find out your—”

I punched him in the side, hard, hissing, “Shut up!”

He laughed. “Fine, fine, whatever.”

Naturally, Thunderhead picked three of the cutest girls he could find from the audience, and one freshman boy with a leg brace to prove he was equal opportunity. He taught them, and us, several silly catchphrases we could use to fight peer pressure in our everyday lives. Most of the audience shouted them back obligingly, and he had his volunteers scream them loud enough to knock the cartoon thugs away from Iguana Boy, who sprung to his feet, hugging each of the girls who had “saved” him, copping a feel on at least two of them.

Smart kid.

I must have dazed off, because when I stopped twirling my pen and looked around, I realized that everyone’s attention was on the stage. It was still public, and I knew this was stupid, but also couldn’t help myself.

The trick was like a new toy, and I couldn’t help playing with it.

I looked at the pen.

Focus.

Jerkily, it hopped out of my hand and hovered a few inches above my palm. It took some effort, but it began to spin.

I then tried to focus it back into my hand.

The cheap pen crushed into a tiny ball in midair, splattering ink all over my face and shirt. I dropped my focus—and what was left of my pen—as I looked frantically to make sure nobody had seen me.

They hadn’t.

Phew.

This power was unexpected. Most superpowers are supposed to develop right around puberty, but mine decided to hit me just slightly after my eighteenth birthday.

Dad always said I was a late bloomer.

I’d have to report this soon, too, because there are nothing but horror stories out there about people trying to hide their powers from the Department of Superhuman Affairs (DSA), but for now I liked having it as my little secret. (I shouldn’t have told Vic, but I was excited that first night when I accidentally blew up our mailbox and had to tell someone.)

And then I saw something that pushed all thoughts of responsibility aside.

Thunderhead took a wrong step in his fight choreography and tripped over one of the cartoon thug’s legs, falling flat on his face.