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It made me feel… inadequate.
But whenever I slipped into such periods of e
As the Righteous Brothers-the musical group, not that trio of do-gooding idiots with the fake Spanish accents-once put it, she was my hope, my inspiration. Elsinore had seen me through the good times and the bad, the highs and the lows, the victories and the lengthy prison sentences. And not once had she ever complained-not during that (I now admit) crazed period when I insisted she wear pink thigh-high boots, hot pants, and sheer blouses, and not that time I ordered her to shoot my former second-in-command for betraying me to the authorities. No greater love had a woman ever shown for a man then when she executed her own father while he begged for mercy.
Dear, sweet, raven-haired Elsinore. I miss her so, these days-the touch of her skin, the sweet taste of her lips. How I wish it hadn’t been necessary to strangle her as she drifted off to sleep, but after a year in this underground hell, what little stale, recycled oxygen remains is a precious commodity. And yet, I’ll always have that last night of passion to remind me of the love we shared. That, and the terrified look in her dimming eyes as she desperately clawed at her pillows, only to realize I’d already removed the gun she kept under them. Sometimes, late at night, I can still feel her lying beside me in bed, her warm body quivering against mine as the garotte tightened around her slender throat; can still hear the almost sensuous whisper of her death rattle as she struggled to draw that one final breath past the cord that had closed off her windpipe.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Once I was satisfied that my latest idea hadn’t been duplicated, I sat down with my trusted advisers to discuss how best to implement it. Krayle normally handled the tactical aspects of the operation, hiring any dimwitted, strapped-for-cash “muscle” needed to replace those lost in the last debacle, then working with me on agent positioning, contingency plans, and escape routes-one never knew when a hasty retreat might have been required. In this case, however, I was working with a much smaller canvas: the operation only required a single synthadroid placed in the heart of the city. Smythe was in charge of intelligence gathering, using my global network of undercover agents, computer hackers, and surveillance satellites to provide me with all I needed to know about the chosen target area: traffic flow, law enforcement presence, average number of city dwellers on the streets at a certain hour, etc. Alessi ran accounting, making sure we never went over budget, even when it came to some of the more… esoteric items I often required. (You couldn’t just go down to Costco and pick up a cold fusion reactor, after all.) I must say, he was quite pleased with this small-scale project-at least at the start. And Gillian…
Gillian was no different from other children her age. Happy and playful, inquisitive and devilishly clever, sweet as a gumdrop yet incredibly advanced for a child still finding enjoyment in endless repeat viewings of Snow White and Shrek on DVD (I still have trouble getting that damn Monkees song out of my head at times). No doubt that heightened intellect came from the genetic material on my side of the family-that boorish lout Sie
Gillian was my fail-safe, my logic being that if a child could pick out the faults in my plan, then so could any of my enemies (even the dullards who failed their advanced algebra classes back in high school). On more than one occasion had Gillian spared me the indignity of a failed operation by assessing the initial plan and reaching the conclusion it was a load of “poopie.”
Poopie.
From the mouths of babes, indeed.
What I came to call the “April Retribution”-although, in hindsight, “Judgment Day” might have been a far better sobriquet-passed the Gillian Test with flying colors. She even giggled when the three-dimensional computer simulation depicted just how widespread the devastation would be… although I equated that more to her enjoyment of video games and their colorful graphics than out of any sociopathic desire for bloodshed. Still, my spirits were buoyed by her enthusiastic reaction. Now I was certain it would prove to the citizens of Amicus that Professor Josiah Plum was a man to fear-and assure a highly intelligent little girl that not all of “Uncle Josie’s” plans were steaming piles of excrement. That the old boy still had it.
In retrospect, of course, I shouldn’t have been so focused on further inflating my already sizable ego. Years of experience should have taught me that, but no upstanding member in the brotherhood of villainy had ever gotten anywhere by listening to the voice of reason. And I was as guilty as the next in allowing my actions to be directed less by common sense and more by sheer arrogance. And arrogance could sometimes be such a costly-and u
Former profession, that is.
Ah. My title. Not quite the sort of name you were expecting from a criminal mastermind of my caliber, I imagine. Professor Plum-sounds as though I’ve escaped from a game of Clue (and yes, I’ve heard that more times than I care to remember). Why didn’t I go by a flashier name, like “General Malpractice” or “The Biochemist,” is that it? Well, to quote the Bard, “What’s in a name?” In my… former profession, noms de guerre and gaudy costumes were a dime a dozen, and Professor Plum had better things to do with his time than dig behind sofa cushions looking for spare change. And honestly, no one wearing enormous metal shoulder pads, waving around a gun the size of a missile launcher, and calling themselves “The War Machine” ever struck fear in the hearts of the average citizen. As those of my generation well knew, it was the deeds that made a villain, not a ridiculous code name-a fact that was unfortunately lost on our younger, fashion-challenged brothers and sisters. More importantly, it was the amount of creativity one exhibited in carrying out a criminal act that often determined the level of respect one received from one’s peers. Blow up a tank or police car? Extremely commonplace, and the sort of distasteful, over-the-top showmanship most self-respecting intellectuals abandoned immediately after their first public appearance. Level a building? Dramatic, to be sure, yet lacking any real style. But cut off the satellite feed to a Super Bowl or the Academy Awards, and the world erupted in chaos. There were few as creative as I in those days, and the majority of the recidivistic community greatly respected my ingenuity. As for those members who refused to acknowledge my artistic superiority… well, they weren’t around long enough to make the same mistake twice.
But I digress.
Krayle, Alessi, Smythe, and Elsinore all agreed with Gillian’s approval of the plan, and “April Retribution” was placed on the fast track for implementation. I’d been out of the public eye for eighteen months-having faked my own death for what must have been the twenty-fifth time-and was eager to show the world not only that I’d returned from the grave (again), but that I was ready to pick up where I’d left off. Looking back, I realize I should have done a bit more pla