FFM 4: Villainy

I read the note on the door twice to make sure I wasn’t missing a joke or something, and stormed into the apartment on numb legs.

“What the fuck is this?!”  I stammered, holding up the paper in a clenched fist.  Morton just peered over the top of his laptop.  “Where’s Alma?”  He shrugged.  “There was a ransom note hung on our door!”

“Oh yeah,” he murmured.  “I thought I heard some rustling around this morning, but I figured it’d be better not to investigate too much, y’know?”

“What?!”  I could feel my voice reaching a cracking point.

“What?  If I’d checked, I would be just as fucked as her.  Do we have enough to pay the ransom?”

I double-counted the zeroes.  “Fuck no, we don’t!”

“Man.  That sucks, I’m gonna miss her a lot.”

“Are you shitting me!”  I couldn’t even raise my tone at the end to properly turn it into a question.  “This is not okay, dude.  They’re going to kill her!”

“And?  Who’s going to stop ‘em?  I mean, I’ll call and tell her parents if it’s too hard for you, but..”

“Who--!?”  Words escaped me.  I threw the balled up note at my worthless roommate.  “I’m going to stop them,” I growled.

“Whoa, easy there Joe.  You’re starting to sound like a hero or something.”

“I’m going.”  He continued his argument, but the sound of the door slamming did a good job of blocking him out for me.

Ducking under the perpetual rain, I dashed towards the first car I saw with my pocket tool-kit in hand.  The lock on the door took less than a minute to pick, and I had the thing hotwired within another two.  I’ve always been good with locks and mechanisms.  Pulling out onto the road, I floored it through a red light and in the direction of the bank where Alma worked.

At World’s End Road, I swerved around a pile of burning bodies and sped between a pair of bullet-ridden cars idling in the middle of the street.  I floored it through the tunnel in the Hoffstradt Building, one of the best shortcuts in town since The Despicable Void had blown a hole through the old office building in the 90’s.  They really didn’t make villains like that guy, any more.

Two blocks before the bank, I passed under the latest propaganda billboard and momentarily realized how crazy I was being.  The billboard showed a pop-art rendition of that classic image when Dictator Death crushed The Golden Ranger’s skull under his boot.  Below it, the gore spelled out ‘DON’T BE A HERO!’  The Ranger had been the last, and that was around the Vietnam War.  I blocked out the thought and slammed down on the gas.  

The front of the bank was primarily glass, and I braced for my grand entrance.  I hit a lot harder than I had expected, and stars danced in front of my eyes as the stolen car rammed through the inch-thick reinforced panes.  Instead of screeching to a stop in the middle of the bank like I had expected, I jerked abruptly with the tail end of the car sticking out the window and pulled myself out with the help of a marble column that separated the panes of floor-to-ceiling glass.

Dozens of hostages laid face down on the floor, while Alma hung suspended from the ceiling by a chain.  A squad of henchman had been working their way throughout the bank with burlap bags, but each of them had frozen exactly where they were when the car came through, each pointing a gun in my direction.  The big boss himself stood on a marble counter in the center of the bank, arms folded over the expansive black field of his chestpiece.  His cape rustled around him majestically, rippling with each crackle of discharging electricity that ran down his body.  This guy was going for all the dramatics he could muster, here.  

“Joe!”  Alma shouted, though it sounded more like “Hnnfh!” through the rag in her mouth.

“Terrorvolt, I assume?”  I tried to sound cool, supporting myself against the column still.  Car accidents look a lot easier in movies, lemme tell ya.

“You had better have some ransom money with you, boy.  Or you’re going to regret all that nonsense.”  I couldn’t see his face through the solid black mask, but he had a voice like a bad Vader knock-off.  I hate it when they use stupid voices.

“Just gimme my girlfriend back, okay?  You’ve got all the bank money, you’ve got all these chumps.  And you know damn well I don’t have that kinda money.  She’s a bank security guard, how much do you think we really have in our account?”

“Then she dies.”  He intoned.

“Not today, she doesn’t.”  I straightened.  

“Oh, we have a hero, then?  Trying to save the day?”

“Nope,”  I smirked.  “All the heroes are dead.  I’m just an asshole who wants his girlfriend back.”  I slammed down the fire alarm on the column, and alarms screamed overhead, engaging the fire sprinklers.

I don’t know if Terrorvolt could actually produce a teravolt, but I do know that a tremendous amount of electricity was suddenly given a lot of room to play when pools developed on the marble floors.  Minions and hostages alike jolted and writhed as the current tore through them, while Alma dangled six feet above.  I had banked on the fact that this Terrorvolt guy probably had a device, and not some magical powers--this isn’t the comic books, kids--and I was right.  His suit did a good job of insulating, but not once he was soaked like a cat in the rain.  His voice modifier crackled and screamed in a million comical voices while he cooked, and finally squelched and fell silent.  

In the still that followed, I gave Alma a bright smile.  Spitting the rag out, she grinned back dreamily.

“My hero,” she gushed.