Broadstrike saw a bowl of shelled pistachios and helped himself to a handful.
“So, what are you gonna do now?” Huey asked as he finished his beer.
“I suppose I’ll find some mastermind with deep pockets and be his chief enforcer.”
Huey nodded agreeably.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”
To be honest, Broadstrike wouldn’t. He liked running solo and beating down anyone in his path. Before prison, he only teamed up with villains of his high caliber and enjoyed the rush of utter freedom. He stole, wrecked, and did whatever he wanted. Working for some arrogant prick – especially a plain old human – just didn’t appeal. While in the Shell, his fellow convicts all bragged of getting good, steady “evil minion” gigs when they got out. But Broadstrike knew that he was far too rebellious to enjoy such work. But he wasn’t up for his pre-prison, highly-chaotic lifestyle either.
Four-plus years in prison had aged his soul a bit.
“What do you think I should do?” Broadstrike impulsively asked.
“What do I think?”
Huey shrugged and thought it over for a moment as he refilled his glass halfway.
“Why not take my place?”
Broadstrike started to laugh at the notion … only to stop. It would be an interesting challenge. But he’d still be broke. Being a super hero rarely paid anything unless said hero worked for someone, which (again) wasn’t his style. Plus, he was also an escaped felon. Huey glanced Broadstrike’s way and seemed to read his mind. After a brief pause, he reached under the bar and tossed Broadstrike a red velvet bag. The super villain opened it up to find a sizeable pile of diamonds inside.
“Occasionally, I skimmed a few of the bad guys’ profits when I busted up an operation: strictly for a rainy day, you understand.”
Broadstrike eyed his former enemy with renewed respect.
“How much are these worth?”
“Beats me,” Huey admitted. “But it should cover your start-up costs. I could point you to a few vacant lairs in Pillar City. And if you were to save said shithole from its criminal element, I could call in a few favors and get you pardoned.”
“You’d do that?”
“Why not? Just return the favor by occasional saving the world – with me on it.”
“I’d make a lot of enemies …” Broadstrike mused aloud.
The only thing super villains hated more than super heroes were fellow villains who “sold out” and became super heroes themselves.
“But you’d also get into a lot more interesting fights, now wouldn’t you? Not to mention the fame, adoration, and swarms of hot women trying to rip off your tights.”
“Really?” Broadstrike asked. Getting laid was something he had somehow overlooked after getting out of prison. His desire for vengeance had been too strong.
“I could tell you some interesting stories.”
“Hmm,” Broadstrike tucked the diamonds into a belt pouch and eyed the beer taps. “Maybe I could use a beer after all.”
BEERGUT MALLOY
My cousin Tony was living proof that Fate’s a funny bitch. A boxing trainer for over fifteen years, he never missed a fight. When his first ex-wife was in labor with twins, Tony was in Pummelin’ Ray Gibbs’ corner. When his dad was being buried in Philly, Tony was in New Orleans yelling at Mighty Vin Rooks to keep his guard up. I figured that nothing short of The Apocalypse would keep the old man from a scheduled match.
But to everyone’s amazement, it was a ruptured appendix that finally put him down.
I happened to live an hour out of Vegas, so he called me from the ambulance. He begged me to drop whatever I was doing, get to Vegas, and back his fighter, an aging has-been who fought under the name of Louis “Beergut” Malloy. I promised I’d help out where I could. Tony gruffly thanked me and made me swear to call him right after the fight.
Tony taught me everything I knew but I was only in the biz for three years. I didn’t have enough wrinkles, ulcers, and winning fighters to earn respect – yet. Joey “Redhammer” Conroy, an up-and-coming middleweight with a mean left hook, was my only fighter. At twenty-two, he had a bit too much sass for his own good. But with a bit of time and wising up, the kid had potential. When I told Joey about Cousin Tony’s predicament, he wanted to tag along.
So I picked up Joey and we drove the uneventful miles to Vegas. Neither one of us had ever seen Beergut fight. Rumor was that everyone called him “Beergut” because he was a chubby guy with a huge gut. The odd thing I heard was that even though he was forty pounds overweight, he kept up with his training regimen and dieted like a fiend. But the weight just never went away.
Tony once theorized that it was a matter of bad genetics. Beergut’s old man was also a fat bastard – and a mean drunk to boot. Part of the reason for Beergut’s nickname might’ve been his long-standing reputation for avoiding alcohol. He’d never been known to even take a sip of champagne after a fight. In bars, he’d either have cranberry juice or ginger ale. They said he was afraid of ending up a fuck-up of a drunk like his old man, who ran his car into a ravine and died in the subsequent explosion.
Still, somehow, Beergut had managed to be a pretty good fighter in his younger days. He was 30-and-8, with 20 wins by knockout. Some say he retired because he gave up after taking 8 straight losses. That kind of losing streak would be hard for any fighter to get over. But Tony told me that he heard different. As far as he was concerned, Beergut was actually good enough to be a contender, even now, especially when he was motivated to win.
Back then, Beergut had a brother who was sick with some kind of bone cancer and he took up boxing to cover his brother’s medical bills. Things were great, at first. Those 30 wins he had were in a row – something virtually unheard of. He wasn’t that quick or that powerful, Tony explained. He just wouldn’t fall down. In the end, he’d win fights just by pummeling the other guy for nine or ten rounds. But on the night of the 31st match, his brother died in the hospital. From then on, Beergut simply lost the will to fight and went through the motions.
That was sixteen years ago.
Now, Beergut had to be forty-five years old and way out of shape. Tony took him in out of pity, probably figuring that Beergut had come back to prove something to himself. While Beergut didn’t explain exactly why he came back, he stubbornly got himself reinstated and relicensed. He ignored the reporters who called him a “relic.” He trained relentlessly for five months then he beat the living shit out of six younger opponents in a row – all by knockout. He was being compared to Rocky in the sixth movie. Fans and bookies alike started taking him seriously.
Then, Beergut demanded a shot at the number one contender, Carlos Trivera. Trivera had crippled three guys in the ring so far. He was 40-and-1, with 24 wins by knockout. Not to mention that he was also twenty-one years younger than Beergut. I’ve seen Trivera fight and watched some damned-good fighters drop at his feet in under a round. I figured I could do right by Tony just to keep poor Beergut in the fight for one or two rounds.
Anything beyond that would’ve been a miracle.
Joey and I made it to the arena and signed in. We found Beergut in his locker room with a mostly-empty, half-gallon bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand – less than three hours before the fuckin’ fight! Oddly enough, he wasn’t so fat any more. In fact, his abs were rock-hard, his arms solid, and his chest looked pretty good. While he had some love handles and a poorly-aged face, Beergut looked like he had some mileage left in him. Too bad he was stone-drunk and passed-out. It took a few minutes of me slapping him around before he came to.
Then