Submitted by Informal_Ad_6157 t3_z76hqs in WritingPrompts
mywaphel t1_iy8m1ql wrote
Reply to comment by mywaphel in [WP] You're a 'comically incompetent' supervillain for a group of C-List heroes. They are no real threat to you, so you endure their childish speeches. However, when the heroes raid the civilian business you run on the side and injure your employees, you decide to take yourself seriously for once. by Informal_Ad_6157
I actually wrote two, the one below I wrote first but I liked that other scene so much I wanted to send it first. Here’s the other scene:
My arm ached with a deep thrum that kept time with my pulse. The burn ran deep, but I wouldn’t let the paramedics touch me. Let it burn. It would serve as a reminder of what they’ve done. I sat on the curb as the firefighters worked, hoping they wouldn’t put the fire out in time to save the building. Let it come down, let me start fresh. I could see my wig in the entrance, the bright green reduced to a dull gray. I hadn’t even realized I’d lost it. I fought back flashes of an hour ago. The window fully ablaze, mannequins melting against the blackening glass. The screams from inside.
I was interrupted by a reporter, ambling over notebook in hand. “Excuse me, Mr. Ulavale, I’m from the times. I’m so sorry about your store, would you mind talking with me? I heard you single handedly rescued some of your employees, what happened?”
“Fuck off.” I flicked my cigarette at him half heartedly. Without my face, or my hair, I didn’t have the energy for anything more.
“Ok, I’m not trying to harass you, I’m sorry.” He started to walk away, but paused at the corner. “You’re a hero, you know.” I felt a surge of rage.
“The fuck did you just call me?” I ran after him, but the little fucker was quick. He had a point, though. Heroes were murderous, selfish little cowards, and here I was. Hiding behind my mild mannered alter ego. Wading in self pity. I was acting exactly like a hero. Id never killed anyone before, but it was high time I learned how.
Back at my house I worked to become myself again. The grease paint slid on like a second skin, cool and comfortable. I took my time painting on my mouth, making it deeper and redder than I ever had before. I slid into my shoes and pulled the suspenders tight over my shoulders. I took a deep pull from my pocket flask, let the cheap vodka make my insides match my outside with a deep burn.
No more ruining kid’s birthday parties. From now on, Bobo the Clown was coming for blood.
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