How to Be a Supervillain Read online

  I said, “So what you’re saying is that I should break the rules?”

  Mom shook her head. “Victor, rules are made to be broken. By supervillains! It’s the law!”

  She turned to Dad. “Is he really ready for this? It’s a bright, accepting world out there. A young villain could lose his way,” said Mom.

  Dad looked at me. “He won’t lose his way. Will you, son?”

  Mom stuck out her lower lip. “But he’s my little baby, and I just want the worst from him.”

  Then—

  We all went to the window. It was the Smear. In his Smearmobile.

  “I’m going to Des Moines in that?” I cried.

  “See, he’s not ready,” said Mom. “He still cares too much. How can we let him go? We don’t know what we’ll get back. Remember Mr. Sulfur’s son? He came back a librarian!”

  Dad raised his hand. “We have to let him try.”

  Mom looked at me. “You really, really want to do this?”

  I said, “I think so.”

  Mom looked at Dad and pointed at me. “He thinks so.”

  “It’s time,” said Dad.

  Mom cried, “A LIBRARIAN!”

  “It’s time,” repeated Dad.

  I grabbed my suitcase and we all headed downstairs. Part of me was screaming, NO! But other parts of me kept walking.

  I wasn’t sure this was what I wanted to do. But I wasn’t sure it wasn’t. I knew what would happen if I didn’t go. Mom and Dad would be disappointed. And I’d be disappointed that they were disappointed. But if I did go? What then?

  That’s when I remembered something Grandpa Spoil once said: “You miss one hundred percent of the eye gouges you never gouge.”

  So I kept walking out the door and toward the Smear. Walking toward what could happen. And walking away from what would happen.

  “Hey, kid,” said the Smear. “Ready to kick some MegaMole butt?”

  “I guess,” I said.

  Mom turned to Dad. “He guesses.”

  Dad insisted, “It’s time.”

  While the Smear threw my bag in the back, Mom cradled the air above my shoulders. “I only want to hear bad things. You understand? Make your mom proud.”

  Dad shook my hand. “Make us both proud.”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

  Mom closed her eyes and shook her head. “He called you ‘sir.’ We’re doomed.”

  We said our good-byes. I got in the car. The Smear put it in gear, gave it some gas, and… nothing happened.

  Dad made Mom put the trailer down, then whispered, “It’s time.”

  We weren’t halfway down the block before the Smear started my supervillain education. “Pay attention, kid. There’s a lot to learn.”

  I reached into my backpack and pulled out a notebook and pen.

  “What are you doing?” said the Smear.

  “Taking notes.”

  The Smear grabbed my notebook and threw it out the window. “First lesson: Supervillains NEVER take notes!”

  “How will I remember anything?” I asked.

  “You pay attention! With a fierce, burning passion to do evil.”

  “We’ll work on it,” said the Smear. “First, let’s talk stains.”

  He started by describing various custom smear stains and their effect on superheroes.

  “Can you pick up walrus warts at Costco?” I wondered out loud.

  “A little less talking and a little more listening,” he said.

  Then he turned to his patented stain delivery systems, including but not limited to Stain Soakers.…

  I said, “What about your eyes? Can you spray stains with your eyes?”

  “No,” he said. “That would be weird. And really unsanitary.”

  Then he described a Stain Bomber.

  “Yum. I’ll have some blueberry salsa,” I said.

  He shook his head. “No. We don’t eat the ammo.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  Next up was the Stain Mixer.…

  “Wouldn’t a flying dump truck be more efficient?” I asked.

  He said, “Where’s your sense of style? Anyone can make a flying dump truck.”

  Finally, he described a platoon of specialized, highly trained stain-throwing mice.

  “Trained mice?” I asked.

  The Smear gestured to the backseat.

  I turned back around and stared at the road ahead. “This is going to get strange, isn’t it?”

  The Smear chuckled. “You have no idea.”

  We continued down the road while the mice played solitaire in the backseat. I was beginning to feel more comfortable. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe this really would be fun.

  Meanwhile, the Smear turned on super talk radio.

  “Mr. Awesome’s on fire! No one’s going to stop him!” barked one of the hosts.

  “What about Dr. Deplorable?” asked another host.

  The first guy said, “Dr. D. is old news. I mean, how do you take him seriously with a wiener dog tattooed on his forehead?”

  The Smear smirked. “I did that.”

  “Hey, check this out,” said the first host. “The Smear and MegaMole are battling in Des Moines this week.”

  “The Smear?” said the second guy. “I thought he was dead.”

  “I’m not dead!” protested the Smear.

  The first guy said, “No. You’re thinking of the Squirm. He tripped and fell into his own piranha tank.”

  “Oh, right. I always get those two confused,” said the second guy.

  “Confused?” said the Smear. “The Squirm couldn’t hit the broad side of a volcano with a whale!”

  “Anyway, the Smear is still a major loser. Stains? WOOOO, I’m so afraid.”

  The Smear clicked off the radio. “Jerks,” he grumbled.

  “Um, Mr. Smear?” I asked. “I’ve been wondering?”

  The Smear sighed. “Always with the questions.”

  “I was wondering about the stains. I mean, it’s just a stain. How is a stain going to stop a superhero?”

  The Smear didn’t say anything. He shot me a look. Not a That’s an excellent question look. More like a Who just farted? look. Then he shouted…

  “Right. I get that,” I said. “But, you know, a stain is not exactly dangerous. Annoying? Sure. Messy? Of course. But taking out a superhero? I don’t think so.”

  The Smear stared at the road ahead. He breathed a deep sigh. Then he spoke very slowly, “My stains… are feared… across seven continents.”

  “You’ve fought in Antarctica?”

  “Don’t interrupt. My stains don’t just stain, they stick… they goo… they get in your hair and between your teeth… in your ears, your eyes…

  “Everywhere?” I asked.

  The Smear nodded. “Everywhere.”

  “I guess that would be annoying.”

  “And the worst is yet to come.”

  “The worst?”

  “Batch number 487B. A superstain…

  My eyes went wide. “Whoa.”

  “I’m making a batch back at my secret lair. All I need is the secret ingredient.”

  “Like eye of newt?”

  “That’s weird, no.”

  “Spleen of newt?”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Elbow of newt?”

  “Stop talking. The secret ingredient is—”

  The Smearmobile skidded to a halt.

  “What the…?”

  The sudden stop sent all the mice from the backseat into the front windshield (so much for seat belts). I had to wipe a few away to see.…

  The Smear turned to me. “I did not sign up for this.”

  “We have something for you!” said Mom. “We forgot to give it to you before you left.”

  I said, “You couldn’t have just sent it to me?”

  “Oh, no,” said Dad. “Not something this important.”

  Mom said, “It’s been in the family for generations. It’s a very spec
ial hat.”

  “Special?” I said.

  “You know how when you come of age, you find out what your superpowers are?”

  “If you have the mutated kind, that is,” said Dad. “Or you could be like us and have to come up with your own.”

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “How did you think you find out if you have mutated powers?” asked Dad.

  “I don’t know. Radioactive worm bite? Leaky microwave? One of Mom’s special smoothies spiked with a superpower secret formula?”

  “No!” said Mom. “That’s silly!”

  “The black hat is how you find out,” said Dad. “When that special time comes and you put it on, your superpowers will be revealed.”

  “Sounds complicated,” I said.

  “Not at all,” said Dad. “It’s spooky and mysterious.”

  “And a little silly,” I added under my breath.

  Dad tried to smile (which was difficult for him, since he hardly ever uses those muscles). “Besides, every supervillain starts out with a black hat.”

  “What are you really doing here?” I said. “Are you checking up on me?”

  “Oh, no. Of course not,” said Mom.

  “You know how your mother worries,” said Dad. “‘Is he getting enough sugar? Is he remembering to forget to floss? Is he staying up late enough?’”

  Mom flashed Dad a look. “You were the one who called Anvil Head.”

  I looked past my parents. Sitting in the middle of the road was a space plane. Standing next to it was our neighbor Anvil Head.

  Anvil Head is very generous with his space plane.

  “This isn’t about the hat, is it? You’re spying on me,” I said.

  “We’re not spying, we’re just monitoring you from afar,” said Mom.

  “Spying,” I said. I put my foot down (softly). “I’m not a little boy anymore. I’m fine.”

  Mom turned to Dad. “Look at him. He’s almost angry!”

  Dad tried to smile again. “It’s a start.”

  “Please go away,” I pleaded.

  Mom frowned. “Please?”

  Dad shook his head. “Ruined it.”

  The Smear walked up and put his arm on my shoulder. “Mr. and Mrs. Spoil, your son has a lot of potential. I think he’s going to make an impressive supervillain someday.”

  “You do?” asked Mom, Dad, and I all at the same time.

  “Yes,” the Smear said, nodding. “Your son has already demonstrated the number one attribute for success as a supervillain: a healthy lack of respect for authority.”

  “My,” said Mom.

  Mom and Dad stood there for a second, not sure what to say next.

  “We should go,” said Dad.

  “Yes,” said Mom. “Of course.”

  Mom gave me another awkward air hug, while Dad hovered his hand over my shoulder. “All we ask is you do your worst.”

  They walked off toward Anvil Head’s space plane.

  When they were out of earshot, the Smear whispered, “Something to remember: You’re not always closest to the people you’re related to.”

  We watched my parents board the plane. Anvil Head started up the engine. The plane rocked back on its rear wheels until it pointed directly up to the sky. Then it took off.

  Sort of.

  We were back on the road. Des Moines was still a day or so away. All I had was my phone and a bunch of questions. First I checked my messages (six from Mom and Dad), then my e-mail (a Nigerian prince invited me to invest money in his ostrich farm), and then I played Zombie Crush until I helped a zombie out of a bear trap and it bit me (I never win at Zombie Crush).

  On to the questions.

  “So what’s the secret ingredient?” I asked.

  “What?” asked the Smear.

  “For the super soul stain. The secret ingredient.”

  The Smear paused. Then he looked down at me somberly and said, “Tears of true sorrow.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Tears of true sorrow.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “What?”

  “That is seriously lame.”

  The Smear hit the brakes again.

  This time the car and trailer jackknifed. Fortunately, there was no traffic. We spun around and came to a halt in a ditch. I immediately checked the mice in the backseat.

  The Smear glared at me. “You think it’s lame?”

  “Pretty much,” I said.

  “You think all of this is lame!”

  “No. Well, yeah. Some of it is pretty silly.”

  “Silly?”

  “Tears of sorrow? Superstains? Um… you know, you wear a cape.”

  The Smear turned away and stared at the cornfields. “It used to be an honor to be a super. We had a calling. We were part of something bigger than ourselves. Back in the day we really were super.”

  “Before the Truce.”

  “Before the Truce we fought for honor, glory, and…

  “I’ve always wondered about that. Why take over the world?”

  The Smear stared at me for an uncomfortably long time. Then he asked quietly, “Is that a trick question?”

  I shook my head.

  The Smear’s face was beet red. The veins on his forehead pulsed. He looked furious. He looked dangerous. He looked like a supervillain. A scary, power-mad, soul-staining, evildoing SUPERVILLAIN! Suddenly, being his apprentice seemed like a very, very bad idea.

  I took out my phone and was about to call for help when…

  It was an explosion that rocked the Smearmobile like a toy. We were under attack!

  “What was THAT?” I yelled.

  The Smear yelled, “GET DOWN!”

  The Smear smiled. “Someone doesn’t want us to get to Des Moines.”

  “What? Who? Why? I thought all this was fake!” I yelled as a half dozen mice cowered in my lap.

  I turned to look for the Smear, but he was gone. I took stock of the situation. I had myself. I had a cell phone. I was covered with terrified mice. My situation was clear.

  Then the strangest thing happened. I looked outside and couldn’t believe my eyes. That dumpy, grumpy, middle-aged fake supervillain had suddenly transformed into…

  On second thought…sweet cape.

  I’m the son of supervillains. I’ve seen some stuff. Some posturing. Some scowling. A little finger jabbing. And lots and lots of monologuing.

  Monologuing is basically a supervillain’s way of saying in fifty-seven words what you could say in three.

  Anyway, I’d seen a lot, but I’d never seen this.…

  All lameness went out the window. Suddenly the Smear was…

  … pretty darn awesome.

  All the firing was coming from a cloud in the sky.

  A cloud shaped like a shark!

  The Smear commanded the scene. He didn’t hesitate. He took action. He was surprisingly limber for a large man.

  He was everything I wasn’t…

  … and wanted to be.

  It was over. Whoever, whatever, it was, the Smear won the day.

  I freaked out. Superbattles were supposed to be fake. None of what just happened was fake.

  I cried, “Those were real explosions! A real shark-cloud space plane! They were really trying to hurt us!”

  “Most likely,” said the Smear.

  “Who was that?!” I yelled.

  “No idea,” said the Smear.

  “But you were yelling at him as though you knew him.”

  “Standard supervillain patter,” he explained. “Pretty common in all situations, whether the opponent is known or not.”

  Clearly, there was a lot I didn’t know about being a supervillain.

  The Smear scanned the sky. “I’ve never seen that type of space plane before. The weapons aren’t familiar either. Someone doesn’t want us to get to Des Moines. Someone who isn’t worried about the Purge.”

  “Right. My parents told me the Authority uses the Purge as a punishment for the su
pers. They can catapult you into space if you threaten the Truce.”

  “You don’t die. But you wish you had.”

  “But so long as we maintain the Truce, we can still have fun, right?”

  He took a long look at me. “Fun? Sure. Let’s have fun. As long as everybody has fun.”

  We got into the Smearmobile. I made sure the mice were belted in. The Smear hit the gas. We headed down the road.

  I stared at the Smear. Ten minutes ago, I had been ready to bail. But now? I mean, he was amazing. Sure, it had been scary, but somehow the Smear made it less scary. Something changed. Something important. Something weird. It was like there was a fork in the middle of the road, and we took it because…

  “MegaMole versus the Smear,” chirped Norman as his eyes darted back and forth between the contestants.

  We had finally made it to Des Moines and were sitting in a booth at Benny’s (Wham Slam Breakfast!) for a prebattle orientation with Norman from the Authority.

  Next to MegaMole sat a girl my age. She didn’t look too happy to be there. She didn’t look too happy to be anywhere.

  “So, Smear,” said MegaMole. “You still headquartered at the Willows of Forestbrook?”

  “It’s temporary,” replied the Smear.

  “Wait,” I said. “I thought you had a secret lair.”