Current mood:	accomplished
Entry tags:	mr. evil, superfic, the rabbit, the team, uncle boffo, villains

Bring on the Bad
Introductions to some of the villains for The Team.


“Mr. Tourco, do you feel remorse for your crimes?”

The prisoner looked up and stared into the eyes of the middle-aged woman on the parole board.

“Remorse? I regret all the actions I took as VestMan. The time I wasted on petty crimes and petty grudges,” Tourco responded, “there were so many other things I could have spent my energies on. Bigger, better things.”

The prisoner almost seemed to glow as he spoke. His face was open and sincere as he pled his case.

“So you have no desire to go back to your criminal ways if released?” another board member asked.

“My TechVest was confiscated, most likely destroyed. And with all sincerity that I have no interest or desire to build a new one, “Tourco responded.

Tourco waited calmly and patiently in his chair as the board discussed his case. The group of bureaucrats clustered together, whispering and muttering to one another. Occasionally one would seem to make some reference to the prisoner’s file. But within a surprisingly short time they had returned to their original places facing the prisoner.

“Prisoner #780-543-7924 please stand, “a guard proclaimed.

As Tourco stoop up the board chairman looked him over again as if to judge him for one last time.

“Christopher Tourco, as you have been a model prisoner and as you have demonstrated a firm desire to reform, I am pleased to announce that is the board’s unanimous decision that you be considered rehabilitated and free to rejoin civilized society. Parole granted.”
Several weeks later, Christopher Tourco sat in a booth of a diner on the outskirts of New Neoappollis City. He sipped slowly at his mug of tea and looked out the window, reflecting on the events of a year previously that had led to his early release. It was almost difficult to believe that it had only been a year since the path of his life had changed forever.

He had been serving his fifth year of imprisonment after a failed crime spree. He had attempted a string of high-profile robberies that were foiled, as usual, by SpiffyMan. How it still galled at him. Not the defeats. No those could be taken as a learning experience. But to constantly lose to someone who was so obviously his mental inferior. He was not so arrogant as to claim that there weren’t others with intellects superior to his own. But the Mighty Bore was definitely not among their number. The advanced weapon and defense systems that he had designed into his TechVest had never been able to match the raw power SpiffyMan brought to their conflicts.

And so he had rotted in prison, trying to further his knowledge as best he could with the pitiful resources of the prison library. It was there that he had made a most fortuitous discovery. Hidden amidst the ancient magazines and out-dated text books had been the journal of Pateel Narveen, the Crime Swami. Narveen had been a brilliant, but twisted villain from the ‘40s. He’d used his vast knowledge of Eastern mysticism to great effect battling various capes of the so-called “Golden Age”. And Tourco had found what amounted to step by step instructions on how to attain those same abilities.

As Tourco secretly studied Narveen’s techniques something both terrible and amazing took place. When he mastered the meditations and exercises described in the journal, new and unexpected vistas in his mind began to open up. Abilities beyond those evidenced by the Crime Swami flowered in his mentality. The ability to implant subliminal commands in the minds of others. To travel outside his body in an invisible astral form. To manipulate objects remotely. To create and extinguish flames. To hear the surface thoughts of others. All this on top of the physical prowess and fortitude of a master yogi.

With these new abilities escape from even a maximum security prison like the Hardstone facility would have been easy enough. But an escape would only have led to pursuit and confrontation, either with the hated SpiffyMan or other capes. And it was too early for that situation to happen. Instead he had set upon a more subtle plan. With his new mental gifts it was not difficult to arrange for an early parole hearing, one that he could assure he would easily pass.

And it had even been necessary for him to lie about anything. He did regret the time spent as VestMan. If only he’d had the gifts he had know then, oh the things he could have accomplished. He was now able to play upon a whole new field. A fact that was reinforced when he was contacted the week before his release. His blossoming new abilities had not gone unnoticed.
Tourco looked back into the diner and saw that his appointment had arrived unseen. A short, swarthy man sat opposite him in the booth. He was dressed in garish, dark purple shark skin suit, complete with over sized fedora. The man flashed a sharp-toothed shark’s grin at Tourco.

“Well, VestMan, have you considered our request?” he asked.

“First off Fahrouk don’t call me VestMan, “Tourco said, as he took another drink from his mug. “What I told the parole board was true. VestMan is gone and dead.”

Tourco then smirked back at Fahrouk as his eyes shifted to a pure black, like twin holes into nothing. Around the diner the dozen or so patrons as well as the staff all froze in place. Their eyes continued to dart around in a panic, but in all other ways they were totally paralyzed. At the same time a gas main in the kitchen broke loose with a loud hissing.

“Secondly I am definitely most interested in taking the vacant seat. Consider this an initial payment on my membership dues, “Tourco said in a flat dead voice. At the same time the napkin dispenser at their booth caught fire. “And lastly the new name is Mr. Evil.”

“Excellent indeed friend, “Fahrouk replied as the pair of them faded away, just moments before the explosion engulfed the diner.

---

Sam ran, his lungs burned and his blood pounded in his head. His footfalls echoed from the empty streets. He stumbled to a stop against a still-working streetlight and looked around.

Shit, he thought, he was in D-Zone. He must have taken a wrong turn at some point. It was at least a mile towards anyone who might help.

“Oh God, “ Sam muttered as he leaned drunkenly against the lamp post, “this couldn’t be real.”

Sam stared down at his trembling hands and noticed the three small red spots on the back of one of them. Blood. Lisa’s blood. Sam shuddered and began to sob. He slid down the pole and sat on the ground. Then he clutched his face in his hands and continued to cry.

The night had started so well. He had waited until his parents had been asleep for an hour before he snuck out to meet up with Lisa, her sister Chloe and Chloe’s boyfriend Aaron. The four of them had gone to a warehouse party where Asphalt Suicides had been playing. And then the four of them had hit Denny’s to unwind.

It had been wonderful. But any time he got to spend with Lisa was wonderful. It didn’t matter that his parents thought she was a bad influence on him. She was just so beautiful. If it weren’t for her he would have just been another “Hot Topic” mall-punk. And even though she was a year younger than him at fourteen, she had seemed so much older.

Fuck, he thought, past tense. That couldn’t be right. None of this could be true. He must have had something slipped in his drink at the party. That was it. He was just having a bad trip. Aaron and Chloe were fine. Lisa was fine. Everything would be ok. Any minute now he’d come out of it. And after that he’d give up the booze and the weed like Lisa was always hinting at. Whatever she wanted.

Because if, no when, he came down it would mean the scene outside of Denny’s had never happened. The thing they had mistaken for a junkie at first wouldn’t have come lunging at them from the shadows. Yelling some kind of gibberish at them. And then the grabbing of the others. The tearing and snapping noises. None of that would have happened. It couldn’t have happened.

Sam slowly stopped sobbing and leaned back against the pole. He just had to wait. Any minute now he’d snap out of it. And then he saw It again. Sam froze up as It moved towards him, still with that jerky, halting manner as before. As It closed on him, Sam could see It more clearly. See the matted fur and the long ears, the blood-shot black eyes and the jagged teeth. And of course the blood-caked clawed hands.

“No,” Sam said in denial as it stalked closer. If It was real, then the rest was real. Aaron was dead. Chloe was dead. And Lisa?

Please God no, Sam prayed, as It reached down for him. Lisa couldn’t be gone. Sam began to weep again as It lifted him up and muttered something at him. Was it the same thing It had said before? Sam thought it was. But he still couldn’t understand.

“I don’t,” Sam started to say.

“” It yelled at him as It shook him violently.

Sam closed his eyes as It grew angrier and It’s claws dug in. He’d be with Lisa soon enough now…

---

Eddie paced back and forth, taking short drags on his cigarette. Every few moments he would glance up at the clock at the wall and then down at a pentagram drawn in blood and salt on the floor.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered as the clock ticked slowly along.

As he finished his cigarette he flicked the butt aside and wiped a sheen of sweat from his head. Eddie looked down at his hands and saw them covered in streaks of white greasepaint.

“Shit,” he muttered softly to himself, “forgot to take off my makeup again. No time now. Any minute, any minute now.”

Eddie reached into the pockets of his over sized, baggy pants and pulled out a new pack of cigarettes and a lighter. As he continued to stare at the wall clock he lit another smoke. And as the hands slowly revolved and approached twelve he reached into his pocket again and pulled out a scrap of paper. As both clock hands hit twelve he began to read from the paper.

“Iusto at blandit augue nostrud magna nonummy, enim nulla consequat ullamcorper odio, in exerci, ullamcorper molestie, duis wisi delenit feugait suscipit.”

As Eddie settled into the rhythm of the repeated stanza the pentagram began to fill up with smoke. Eddie’s eyes shone with excitement as the greasy, black smoke swirled around. As the tendrils of smoke spun faster and thicker within the pentagram a shape emerged.

As the smoke settled the shape was revealed as short man dressed in a garish dark purple sharkskin suit. He stood calmly with hands in his pockets and his hair slicked back and dark with oil. He grinned at Eddie with slightly too sharp teeth.

Eddie clapped his hands together and danced around, overjoyed at the success of the ritual. As Eddie, still in his clown makeup, capered around the room the summoned being grinned even wider. Seeing this Eddie calmed himself and frowned. He spun a chair around and sat facing the pentagram and its occupant.

“You’re Fahrouk aren’t you?” Eddie asked as he lit another cigarette and took a long drag.

“That’s me chum, “the being replied,” granter of dark dreams and fulfiller of unspoken wishes.”

“I want,” Eddie began.

“I know what you want pal,” Fahrouk interrupted, “you want it all back. The fame, the love of the kids and the sweet money that big time sponsors can bring. Am I right or am I right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie muttered, “all that.”

“Well your best buddy Fahrouk is here to make it happen. Just sign on the old dotted line and Uncle Boffo will be back to being a household name. Number one in the mornings, in the afternoons and from there? Who knows? The sky isn’t even close to the limit with my help.”

As Fahrouk finished his spiel a small table materialized in front of Eddie. A large sheaf of papers and an old-fashioned ink pen sat on it. The entertainer nervously reached for the contract but then stopped with the pen just above it.

“And I won’t have to pay you my soul for all this?” Eddie asked.

“Of course not buddy, “Fahrouk replied, “the sacrifices you’ve made ensure that.”

Eddie hurriedly scribbled his name on the heavy contract and smiled in anticipation. A smile that suddenly became a grimace of agony as black light began to radiate from his body. As Eddie collapsed to the ground, bending almost in half, he managed to turn his head enough to stare plaintively at Fahrouk. As he stared in confusion and fear the pentagram holding Fahrouk faded away, allowing the demon to slowly walk over to the fallen clown. The gaudily dressed demon crouched down beside the slowly dying Eddie.

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. You’d think someone with your years in show business would know to read a contract before signing it. Of course given the lawyers we have on call that probably wouldn’t have helped you catch the traps in it anyway.”

As Eddie convulsed again, his bones snapping under the pain spasms, Fahrouk caressed his brow.

“And why would we want to buy your soul pal? You sacrificed a child to cast this summoning. Why buy something you were so willing to just give away. But don’t fret buddy, Uncle Boffo is going to be everything you wanted and dreamed. Everything I promised. Its just we don’t need you to play the part anymore.”