wildcat

Another pervert suit operation, poisoning the city's precious, precious water supply. Drive them crazy with dangerous narcotic hallucinogens, sending a few of them tumbling off roofs in drug-addled situationist nightmares. Did it really mean anything, though, or was he just going through the psychopathic motions? Would he get enough of a giggle from it, would he guffaw, or was he just aiming to spread mayhem and death because that's what's expected of him? Maybe he just pulled on the scaly green tights that evening because he thought he had to, regardless of the awkward crotch bunching and uncomfortable way they clung to his hips. And he pulled them on knowing, really, how the night was going to end.

Red feather boa rustled in the breeze while he worked away at the trigger mechanism for the last poison-tank. Designed to drain directly into the reservoir at the appointed hour, which he'd probably set for midnight. Dramatic purposes. He brushed the long boa out of his face and fussed with the wiring. Almost impossible to do cleanly with the stupid gloves on. The poison would mix evenly into the water for the appropriate effects thanks to the schools of mechano-fish he'd dump in earlier.

She was going to come, of course. His opponent. He'd left enough clues, as was part of their dance. She was a smart woman, she'd follow the trail, she'd track him down, and then they'd have to deal with each other. She'd coming stalking from the skies in that sexy little jetpack number of hers.

His mask itched, and he worked a finger underneath to scratch at the blob of spirit gum holding it on. He could have been spending the evening guzzling martinis and yelling at his henchmen while assembling giant robot duplicates of himself back at the warehouse. Not programming finicky triggers that she'd just smash anyway, no matter the cost. Only they were caught in this ridiculous routine and he had a megalomania to feed...

Here she came. He didn't have to look up; there was the thrum of engines and the stink of gasoline. He couldn't help the cold sweat. She'd dump him in jail almost immediately, and he'd have to escape again. At least a month spent calculating prison guard shifts and amassing secret weapons. "The old poisoned water supply bit?" She scraped something off the heel of her boot and circled him. "It is a classic, I admit." He hated himself for it, but he was going to be bloodied by morning and smiling with a fat lip all day. He prepared something suitably evil to say.

© Ben Rawluk, 2008, all rights reserved.