4

"This weapon fires your only weakness: moon rays!" you say.

Matchless Man lets out a hearty laugh. You stand there, making a face someone without a tortured soul would call "grumpy." Matchless Man continues to laugh. You continue to make your face. It is a wicked stalemate of conflicting emotions.

Matchless Man wipes a tear from the corner of his domino mask. He shakes his head.

"I have no weakness," he says. "How could you possibly think otherwise?"

How do you know moon rays can harm Matchless Man?

You learned through great trial and error that the fact that your battle took place on St. Patrick's Day had nothing to do with it.

And you are 67% certain it wasn't because it was past his bedtime.

You knew that the only way to ensure Matchless Man's defeat was to go big. So, to make your secret weapon truly effective, you set the moon ray to bombard Matchless Man with ten trillion moon rays every second.

Matchless Man raises his hands in that mocking way, like when someone says, "Don't shoot the messenger." He laughs again, which means you only grimace harder, and your henchmen try to avoid your line of sight out of sheer embarrassment.

"You know what?" Matchless Man says. "Let's see what this thing can do. Go ahead, shoot me."

He Is the Boss

You pull the trigger, and a beam shoots out of the cannon of the ray gun directly into Matchless Man's chest. The smirk does not disappear from Matchless Man's face. But it is clear in seconds what effect the moon ray has on him. His spandex becomes loose and full of folds. His face becomes gaunt, and his enormous jawline shrinks. The light in his eyes that screams justice, America, and baseball fades to a dull sparkle. He drops to his knees. The smirk is gone.

Matchless Man is powerless before you.

Matchless Man is powerless before you!

Finally, after so many losses, defeats, and Pyrrhic victories, you can now say that you have won against your nemesis!

Matchless Man tries to pull himself up. But the power of the moon rays has left him weak and too scrawny to hold up the heavy fabric he wears. He glares at you.

"What made you like this?" he whispers, his voice hoarse. "What made you so cruel?"

It is a lame appeal for a psychological advantage in this fight. But, no matter what he tries, Matchless Man is at your mercy.

"All right, everyone," you say to the henchmen. "Do whatever you want with him."

Among wolves, there is a certain admiration lesser wolves have for the alpha wolf who shares their kill.

Actually, you made that up. But whatever admiration your fake analogy has, you see it in the eyes of your henchmen. They surround Matchless Man. There is a whispered discussion of what sorts of vengeance they could inflict on their foe. They discuss chainsaws, then hacksaws, then fire, then shooting, then pummeling, then inducing heart attack, then carbon monoxide poisoning, then death by old age. The more they talk, the further from Matchless Man they get.

"So, what are you going to do?" you say.

There are several scattered affirmatives, but now the henchmen are fifteen feet away from Matchless Man. You put your hands on your hips. Finally, the smallest henchman of them all, Tin-E Tam, runs over and kicks Matchless Man in the knee. This is somehow enough to make him suddenly fade out of existence, leaving behind only his cape.

What the hell happened? Is he dead? Has he just vanished? Is this one of his amazing powers?

Did you just accidentally abet murder?

I Never Said to Kill Him.

Matchless Man is dead, the employees are out of the bank, and you have a bunch of henchmen at your disposal.

"We need to get going, everyone," you say. "Grab every dollar you can. But don't wait around for a cop to come grab you!"

From then on, taking the money from the vault and loading it into the Night Wolf is a piece of cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles on it.

On the way out of the bank, your Night Wolf barrels past dozens of police cars and reporters. Even though you have made your escape, none of them even glance at you. They all focus on the building you have left in your dust, with Matchless Man's cape lying on the floor. Perhaps, in time, this bank will close and become a national monument. They will build a statue of their hero, as they wish to remember him. But you know that below his twenty-foot-tall statue, the placard will read:

"The Mighty Matchless Man, murdered by the most malevolent malfeasant in the world."

With no costumed hero to stop you, what sort of amazing mischief could you get up to now?

Next Chapter

There are parts of the Earth mapmakers know nothing of, distant lands even they do not look upon. There are sections of the planet that make the Bermuda Triangle shudder, where planes and ships disappear, only to land on your doorstep. In this forgotten part of the world, you have carved your throne. Here, no pesky costumed hero can find you, no military can march through your land, no IRS tax collector can send you a letter. Best of all, your secret island lair is in one of the most mysterious locations in the world.

You have built your lair on an island hidden in the middle of the:

Your island lair resides in the largest of Earth's oceans. Because of the sheer size of the ocean you reside in, most airplanes and ships unintentionally avoid your island. Just as well. The weather in the Pacific is balmy and temperate, meaning you are rarely ever uncomfortable. The monsoons bring much-needed rain to your island, though the frequent cyclones cause moderate damage to your facilities. Best of all is the inclusion of a volcano, which, thanks to your nifty lava-powered generator, powers your entire lair.

The few smugglers who know the location of your island bring you soybeans, meat, and poultry from the western coast of North America; sugar, bananas, and corn from the western coast of South America; integrated circuits, crude oil, and digital devices from the east coast of Asia; and wheat, sheep meat, and cow meat from the eastern coast of Australia.

There is a nearby atoll, which the famed explorer Alexandra Hoomdabull discovered. Since she never set up residence there, you figured it was yours for the taking. The Indigenous tribe living there repelled your henchmen effortlessly. You sent the natives a message in a bottle in return: "I'll send not for Hoomdabull Atoll. The atoll's for thee."

Where Work Is, There Is Life