Evil Genius (Part 3)

Chapter 2
Doctor Ivan Destructo was known in various circles as The Destructor, Ivan the Wicked, or often simply as The Doctor. For a brief time he himself had lobbied for the name Ivan the Terrible, only to be informed that he had been preempted by some 450 years by a Russian czar. What exactly he was a doctor of no one knew for sure. If anyone ever did know they had long ago been disposed of, and any that thought about him long enough to wonder about it knew better than to ask him. You didn’t ask The Doctor questions, he asked you. And when he did you had essentially two choices: 1) supply him with the answer he was looking for, or 2) attempt to fake an epileptic seizure. Option 2 was seldom very effective. There were whispers (and they were only very, very quiet and careful whispers) that he in fact was not a doctor at all, and had just taken the title himself, like a rapper. In actuality, technically he was in fact a real doctor. He had actually achieved his doctorate through a series of correspondence classes from a not-very-well respected community college. In botany. That he could scarcely identify a rose when he saw one should give some idea as to the credibility of the degree-granting institution.

To anyone who didn’t know him, and that was becoming an increasingly rare phenomenon lately, he would not have appeared to be anything out of the ordinary. To the untrained eye, he would appear to be nothing more than a bald man in his late 50s or early 60s with thick black-rimmed glasses which, one could imagine, were used chiefly to decipher today’s Wall Street Journal or perhaps the current issue of Reader’s Digest. And when it was his goal to not be noticed that is exactly how he behaved; watching at a distance while appearing to be buried in a newspaper or a novel. But when he wanted to shrug off the image of normalcy; when he wanted to let the unfortunate individual before him know that he was to be taken seriously, he need only perform the simplest of actions. He would smile. And if you were standing before him when he did, you felt physically transformed. A second before you might have thought you were speaking with a feeble, middle-aged man on the brink of senility, but all delusions of that simply melted away in an instant. It wasn’t that he did anything particularly unusual when he smiled, it was all in the quiet but absolute confidence that was portrayed.

And perhaps the most frightening aspect of this confidence was how justified it was. When The Doctor decided that he required something, he did whatever was necessary to obtain it. He didn’t waste his time or energy getting angry or planning elaborate vendettas – such petty emotions were beneath him. Obstacles were to be overcome, not stressed over. The words cold and calculating were never more apt, even if they inevitably fell short of truly encapsulating the true essence of the man.

He also had little interest in celebrating his victories, namely because he didn’t see them that way. Each was merely a stepping stone; one small part of the master plan. From his earliest days knocking over liquor stores and gas stations, to the multi-million dollar operations he now routinely pulled off (effortlessly, it seemed), it had all been building to something. Everyone around him seemed to sense this too, even if they could only guess what the end-game was. It simply wasn’t possible to operate with this much efficiency and calm amidst the chaotic and turbulent criminal world unless you knew exactly what you were doing, and exactly how to do it. It’s what made him perhaps the most intriguing criminal mastermind in the world, and certainly is what made him the most feared.

Chapter 3
Terry Graham, aka Captain Invincible, looked out the window nervously and brought the cigarette to his mouth, inhaling sharply. He needed to quit, he told himself for perhaps the thousandth time. Not for his health; his superhuman body was impervious to the harmful affects of tobacco. It was just that it was such a bad example to set for the kids. That’s what his friends kept telling him, anyway.

“Superheroes don’t smoke, Terry. It’s just not natural.”

That always gave him a chuckle. He was a man blessed with the strength of at least a hundred men. Hell, maybe even a thousand; his limits hadn’t ever been sufficiently tested. He also possessed lightning quick reflexes, x-ray vision, was impervious to fire, and on the rare occasion when he had been unable to dodge a bullet intended for him, they had stung with all the force of a small piece of hail before bouncing harmlessly to the ground. Yet despite all this, it was his smoking that was “not natural”. He had been intending to quit for years now, but had basically settled into the routine of only smoking in private, when the faces of the oh-so-impressionable young children were nowhere to be found. He tended to smoke more when he was nervous. And he was VERY nervous tonight.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Megan cooed to him as she put her arms around his shoulders.

“Nothing, Meg, just work stuff.” He lied, unsuccessfully attempting to derail the line of inquiry.

“It’s that business with the Doctor, isn’t it?” She continued, as she laid her head against his back. He could feel her blonde hair against his neck, and could smell her perfume. God, she smelled good today, and it was very distracting. He pulled away and turned to face her.

“Yes it is, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” He said, trying at the same time to convince both himself and her and failing at both.

“Of course you can handle it, dear. You can handle anything.” She tried to reassure him as she moved in closer again.

“I know that. It’s just that it’s different this time. He’s different, somehow. This plan of his is not like anything else he’s tried before, and it scares me. I don’t like surprises.”

“Well, talk to me then. We can work it out together.” She was in his arms now, with her head against his chest. He could see where this was going. Not that he was terribly upset that it was going there. He kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“OK. But not now. Later.” She looked up at him, and he kissed her passionately. Slowly, they made there way over to the bed without breaking, and made love for hours.

Chapter 4 (A Brief Aside)
This is probably a good time to mention the inherent difficulties involved with the sex lives of superheroes, particularly those, like Terry, who have been blessed with superhuman strength. With men in general, maintaining control during sex is always a dicey proposition, but with superheroes it is absolutely essential if massive injuries are to be avoided. As a point in fact, during Terry’s first sexual encounter he had momentarily got lost in the emotion of the moment, thrusted just a tad too hard, and consequently shattered the pelvis of his unfortunate partner in three places. The proceedings had ended rather abruptly then and not only was he not afforded the opportunity to redeem himself, he barely missed getting hit by a rather scathing assault lawsuit. Since that day he had always taken the utmost care to place the well being of his partner ahead of his own pleasure, with the end result being that although he still enjoyed the sexual act very much, he would have to admit that he had never really been completely fulfilled in his entire life.

And the problems were just as bad when he attempted a “solo flight”. During his early teen years, when he was just discovering the joy of artificial stimulation, one night he had gotten a hold of some particularly explicit material and had decided he was going to just let himself go and see what happened. The result of his orgasm can only be likened to a torpedo that caused such structural damage to his parents’ house that it eventually had to be condemned. As a result of both of those experiments gone awry, Terry had long ago accepted the fact that lack of sexual fulfillment was just going to have to be one of the few downsides to being a superhuman.

Just something to think about.