The Rules of Supervillainy (The Supervillainy Saga Book 1) by C.T. Phipps

the elevator to the penthouse was coming up with what I presumed to Chief Watkins and Dudley Douglas with my money. Either that or a group of cops interested in shooting us to death for being, well, criminals attempting to profit from another criminal’s crime.
    I’d gotten Diabloman some bottled water from the penthouse fridge and he was taking his pills while Cindy sat beside him, watching HBO. Amanda Douglas was sitting beside me on a finely appointed couch, looking positively mystified at the insane situation she’d found herself in.
    “So, let me get this straight. You’re supervillains my father hired to rescue me from other supervillains?” Amanda asked, sipping her diet soda.
    “That’s about the size of it,” I said.
    “That’s cool,” Amanda Douglas said. “My dad is kinda supervillain-ish. He holds the black masses to his dark god on weekends. I never get to see them.”
    “ You should ask about that ,” Cloak suggested.
    “Someone else’s problem,” I muttered then clasped my hands together and spoke in a normal voice.  “I hope you don’t blame me for any trauma you may have suffered being surrounded by a half-dozen dead hoods.” I gestured to the carnage around us. “I wanted to do this without violence.”
    “Oh, don’t worry about it,” Amanda said. “It gives me something to talk to my therapist about.”
    “ This situation has gone so far past the point of insanity it’s come around and become mundane again ,” Cloak observed.
    “You noticed that too, huh?” I smiled. “I think she has an excellent career in supervillainy ahead of her…or corporate finance.”
    Seconds later, Chief Watkins and Dudley Douglas arrived with a trio of police officers behind them.
    Chief of Police Watkins was a gray-haired man in his sixties who resembled Sean Connery. He was wearing a beige trench coat over a pair of brown pants and a white shirt with a brown tie. Chief Watkins looked a lot more dashing than he was, given the city was suffering its worst crime rate in eighty years.
    Dudley, on the other hand, looked very much a Japanese man trying to look like a Texas oil baron. He wore a ten gallon hat, a ten thousand dollar suit, and a smile which looked like it came from a plastic surgeon. Dudley was carrying a duffel bag over his left shoulder, which I hoped contained half a million dollars.
    “ You do realize they’re going to try and arrest you, right ?”
    “Don’t worry. I have a plan.” I raised my hands into the air as if surrendering. I had no intention of doing so, though.
    “ How reassuring.”
    I stood up, pointing my fingers at both of them. “I know what you’re going to say, Chief. I didn’t mention I robbed a bank earlier this morning and sort-of, kind-of, killed someone. Then, of course, you walk into this hotel room and you discover about a half-dozen more bodies and you think you’re dealing with a homicidal lunatic. Well, I’ll have you know, you’re incorrect. Homicidal lunatics kill for no reason, I kill people for money .”
    Thank you, John Cusack.
    Before they had a chance to respond, I continued, “The important thing to understand is everyone here who died... had it coming . I know; who are we to play judge, jury, and executioner—but the answer is: the people who have to deal with these psychos. The Nightwalker did a great job; I’m starting to understand what the man went through, having a magical cape talking to him day-in and day-out. However, let’s face facts, he’s not coming back. You’re now two supervillains down at the cost of a mere five-hundred-fifty-thousand or so dollars. How many supervillains are active in Falconcrest City, thirty? Forty? One hundred ?”
    “Four hundred and eighty-nine,” Chief Watkins said before looking down at the corpse of the Typewriter and giving it a light kick. “Four hundred and eighty-eight.”
    “What do you people even do at police headquarters? Keep tally of the dead?” I asked, looking at him