the heroes and emerged in a cluster of henchmen. He was trapped!
“Not a step closer, or I crush the doomsday device!” he cried.
“No!” cried the Squid. “I worked years on that doomsday device. Where will I get another thousand myopic bumblebees?” His waving tentacles slurped at the air.
“Yes! Let the heroes go! Or I crush the device.”
“Never.”
“I’m crushing it.”
“Can’t we come to some agreeable arrangement?”
“Such as?”
“You and me, masters of the world. What do you say? We’ll split it fifty-fifty. A partnership.”
Mighty looked over at his unconscious brethren. He didn’t really like them that much. And, really, was good and evil diametrically opposed? If you squashed the axis of morality to a micron, superheroes and supervillains, ended up pretty close together.
“Okay.”
“I don’t know why I even ask, but still I ask. It’s in the villain bylaws — Hey, what did you say?”
“Okay. Fifty-fifty,” said Doctor Mighty. “But we have to let these heroes go.”
“Let me see your fingers.”
Doctor Mighty put the doomsday device down and wiggled his fingers.
“Really?” asked the Squid. “You want to be my . . . partner?”
“Sure.” He wasn’t sure why he’d said yes, but he knew he was tired of being a hero. And the Squid was revolutionary if nothing else, and revolution was something the world needed.
The Squid wrapped a rubbery arm around Doctor Mighty’s shoulder. “Excellent!” he said. “I’ve never had a partner before. I’m rather speechless.”
“I don’t want death and destruction,” Doctor Mighty said. “I want social reform.”
“Eggs and an omelette, don’t you know. But I agree, I agree. We must discuss the works of Marx and Engel. I have some very interesting ideas I want to bounce off you, Doctor Mighty.” The Squid paused. “That won’t do. You’ll need a new nom de guerre , of course. And new clothes.” He tugged at the shoulders of Curt’s hospital scrubs. “Practical, but not fashionable. As for a name, how about the Proctologist?”
“No. Too evil.”
“The Fearsome Forceps?”
“No.”
“Ah! The Sinister Surgeon!”
*
They took over all of Ohio and part of Indiana in a bloodless, Socialist coup involving a grass roots campaign and mind control devices. Curt had talked him out of using the cobalt bomb. The Squid handled the chortling and the brain wave devolver. The Sinister Surgeon made sure people didn’t get hurt and kept the superheroes at bay. It was relatively easy if you knew how a hero thought; feed the crime computers bogus info, distract them with kidnapped governors, and suddenly you were living in the Socialist Buckeye Republic.
For awhile, Sinister found the whole supervillain business fulfilling. Laws were easy to enact when the entire executive branch was he and a cackling cephalopod. He was changing society, forcefully and without democracy, true, but ultimately it was change, change, he thought, for the better. And he was helping the farmers and small townsfolk, while royally annoying the big businesses.
Hardly anyone got killed.
It was a good three months; at first, he was so busy with one-, three-, and five-year plans, that he didn’t notice the depression. He started ditching the goose-stepping parades and the book-burnings. The plan to take over Michigan by instigating the extreme right militias didn’t seem as fun as it had a month before. The cloning vats held no charm. The three hundred foot marble statues of him and the Squid overlooking the Squidopolis capitol didn’t gleam like they once had.
Something still wasn’t right with him.
He wished he had someone to confide in, someone who understood the frustration of being a supervillain. He certainly couldn’t confide in the Squid, who was alert for any sign of weakness. The common throng had no conception of his problems; all of them thought being a dictator was the end-all. The Sinister Surgeon had just spent several
“Not a step closer, or I crush the doomsday device!” he cried.
“No!” cried the Squid. “I worked years on that doomsday device. Where will I get another thousand myopic bumblebees?” His waving tentacles slurped at the air.
“Yes! Let the heroes go! Or I crush the device.”
“Never.”
“I’m crushing it.”
“Can’t we come to some agreeable arrangement?”
“Such as?”
“You and me, masters of the world. What do you say? We’ll split it fifty-fifty. A partnership.”
Mighty looked over at his unconscious brethren. He didn’t really like them that much. And, really, was good and evil diametrically opposed? If you squashed the axis of morality to a micron, superheroes and supervillains, ended up pretty close together.
“Okay.”
“I don’t know why I even ask, but still I ask. It’s in the villain bylaws — Hey, what did you say?”
“Okay. Fifty-fifty,” said Doctor Mighty. “But we have to let these heroes go.”
“Let me see your fingers.”
Doctor Mighty put the doomsday device down and wiggled his fingers.
“Really?” asked the Squid. “You want to be my . . . partner?”
“Sure.” He wasn’t sure why he’d said yes, but he knew he was tired of being a hero. And the Squid was revolutionary if nothing else, and revolution was something the world needed.
The Squid wrapped a rubbery arm around Doctor Mighty’s shoulder. “Excellent!” he said. “I’ve never had a partner before. I’m rather speechless.”
“I don’t want death and destruction,” Doctor Mighty said. “I want social reform.”
“Eggs and an omelette, don’t you know. But I agree, I agree. We must discuss the works of Marx and Engel. I have some very interesting ideas I want to bounce off you, Doctor Mighty.” The Squid paused. “That won’t do. You’ll need a new nom de guerre , of course. And new clothes.” He tugged at the shoulders of Curt’s hospital scrubs. “Practical, but not fashionable. As for a name, how about the Proctologist?”
“No. Too evil.”
“The Fearsome Forceps?”
“No.”
“Ah! The Sinister Surgeon!”
*
They took over all of Ohio and part of Indiana in a bloodless, Socialist coup involving a grass roots campaign and mind control devices. Curt had talked him out of using the cobalt bomb. The Squid handled the chortling and the brain wave devolver. The Sinister Surgeon made sure people didn’t get hurt and kept the superheroes at bay. It was relatively easy if you knew how a hero thought; feed the crime computers bogus info, distract them with kidnapped governors, and suddenly you were living in the Socialist Buckeye Republic.
For awhile, Sinister found the whole supervillain business fulfilling. Laws were easy to enact when the entire executive branch was he and a cackling cephalopod. He was changing society, forcefully and without democracy, true, but ultimately it was change, change, he thought, for the better. And he was helping the farmers and small townsfolk, while royally annoying the big businesses.
Hardly anyone got killed.
It was a good three months; at first, he was so busy with one-, three-, and five-year plans, that he didn’t notice the depression. He started ditching the goose-stepping parades and the book-burnings. The plan to take over Michigan by instigating the extreme right militias didn’t seem as fun as it had a month before. The cloning vats held no charm. The three hundred foot marble statues of him and the Squid overlooking the Squidopolis capitol didn’t gleam like they once had.
Something still wasn’t right with him.
He wished he had someone to confide in, someone who understood the frustration of being a supervillain. He certainly couldn’t confide in the Squid, who was alert for any sign of weakness. The common throng had no conception of his problems; all of them thought being a dictator was the end-all. The Sinister Surgeon had just spent several
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