The Villain Virus

He forced himself to think of other things. Chocolate-covered Easter eggs, marshmallow Peeps, Kool-Aid, maple syrup. That calmed him, and soon he fell asleep.

Unfortunately, in his dreams his happy thoughts were replaced with more frightening visions. Everyone was laughing at him. Everyone was conspiring against him. Even his friends and teammates were working on ways to keep him from achieving his full potential. In one particularly nasty nightmare, his teammates chained him to a wall in a prison cell and stood over him. He begged them to let him out, but they wouldn’t. Instead, they turned their backs and walked away. Suddenly, he heard the striking of a match and a tiny orange flame danced in the dark. In its faint light he saw a boy wearing a mask with a skull painted on it.

“Heathcliff!”

“No,” the figure whispered, then took the mask off. Flinch cried out. He was looking at an exact copy of himself.

“We are great, and they know we should be in charge,” his twin said. Then he blew out his match. Only the skull on his mask still shone in the dark.

OK, LET’S GET BACK TO YOUR PHYSICAL FITNESS TEST. THE FIRST ROUND WAS PRETTY IMPRESSIVE—FOR A BABY! NOW THINGS ARE GOING TO GET A LITTLE TOUGHER.

LIE ON THE FLOOR FACEDOWN, PLACE A BOOK ON YOUR LOWER BACK, AND GIVE ME TWENTY PUSH-UPS.

HEY, NO WHINING! THE PUSH-UP IS SORT OF THE INTERNATIONAL EXERCISE FOR TOUGH GUYS. SOLDIERS WHO SCREW UP ARE CONSTANTLY BEING TOLD TO DROP AND GIVE THE SERGEANT TWENTY PUSH-UPS. IT’S TRUE. IT HAPPENS IN ALMOST ANY MOVIE ABOUT A SOLDIER—SO THERE!

BUT THERE ARE A FEW THINGS THAT WILL MAKE THIS EASIER.

FIRST, STRETCH YOUR PECTORAL MUSCLES, BICEPS, AND SHOULDERS. SECOND, SEPARATE YOUR HANDS SO THAT THEY ARE EQUALLY DISTANT FROM THE CENTER OF YOUR CHEST. (TOO CLOSE TOGETHER WILL WORK THE TRICEPS, THE SMALLER MUSCLES, WHICH WILL MAKE THE PUSH-UPS HARDER. TOO FAR AWAY AND YOU WILL STRAIN YOUR SHOULDERS.) LAST, THERE’S A WAY TO DO IT IF YOU ARE A BIG CRYBABY: PUT YOUR KNEES ON THE GROUND.

WHEN YOU’RE DONE, WIPE YOUR SWEATY FOREHEAD ON THE SENSOR BELOW.

The Antagonist had a secret lair called the Fortress of Antagonism. He had a jet called the Antagojet. He had a motorcycle called the Antagochopper. He had a boat called the Antagoboat. He had a bicycle he called a bicycle (there wasn’t anything particularly evil about it, except for the jangly bell, so he didn’t think it warranted its own name). He had an army of goons and minions, a handful of henchmen, and even an evil assistant named Miss Information, all of whom he called the Antagonauts. An outsider might have looked at him and said, “Wow, that madman has everything!”

But the Antagonist wasn’t happy. Not happy at all! What was causing him so much grief? It seemed that every time he turned around he had to kill yet another one of his employees.

Every day, one of the hundreds of people who worked for him decided that they were smarter than he was and should be ru

At first he had blamed it on professional jealousy. But fending off fifteen murder attempts in a single week indicated more than just envy. Something was wrong. Unfortunately, the Antagonist could not quite put his hook on what it was.

The attackers seemed to be ordinary goons and henchmen, equally eager to push a hero into a volcano or go for coffee. But then all of a sudden they were wearing costumes, pla

But what was really frustrating about the entire situation was that Betty’s actions seemed to inspire the others to try to destroy him, too. That morning, he had stumbled upon three henchmen, wielding swords made of electricity, hiding in his private bathroom. Then, two more assassins dropped from the ceiling and another popped up from under his desk, all armed with poisonous blow-dart guns. He broke each of their necks and then picked up his phone.

“Maintenance, this is your lord and master,” he said. “I have some dead assassins in my office. Could you come up here and get rid of them? What? Yes, more dead assassins.”

He hung up the phone and returned to the executive bathroom, stepping over the bodies to get to the sink. He slipped off his skull mask and splashed cold water on his face. Then he looked at himself in the mirror. At first, he wasn’t sure he recognized the man staring back at him. He had a big, jutting jaw, a nose that had been on the receiving end of a few too many punches, and a brow that threatened to swallow his eyes. It wasn’t the face of a man with a superior intellect. Uncomfortable, he nearly put the mask back on, but then he stopped himself. His face might not look supersmart, but there was something else—it was fierce. It was a face good at frightening people into paying their debts.

And then he began to remember who he was. He was a goon—a professional manhandler. He was the star of his field, the most respected mauler in the industry. Not too long ago he was on the cover of Leg-breaker magazine as the year’s Sexiest Goon Alive. How could he have forgotten? How could his snow-white hair, acquired after being struck by a massive shock of electricity, slip his mind? Did he truly forget the milky-white left eye that sent trembles of fear into his victims? His mind was so full of anger and revenge that he was losing himself.

Why had he turned his back on all the knuckle breaking and intimidation to go into management? He had never wanted to be the boss—most of the criminal masterminds he had worked for were complete knuckleheads, too caught up in their own insanity to see the big picture. None of them truly had a chance to take over the world, but they provided the goon with steady work, which was all he had really wanted.

But then something changed. The day he got that terrible flu—that’s when everything went weird. That day, he felt smart. Really smart! And all he could see was weakness and ignorance in others. He was sure they were trying to keep him down—making him feel like a fool—laughing at him behind his back. And then the mask came to him in his dreams, the same mask the kid who kept trying to take over the world used to wear. The mask comforted him. If he wore the mask, gave into it, then he would have everything he ever wanted and the world would shudder for standing in his way. It was ghastly and horrible, but it was also threatening and manipulative. It was a sign of intellect used to frighten the simple.

There was a knock at the office door, so the Antagonist slipped his mask back on, left the bathroom, and crossed the office to open it. Before he turned the knob, he pressed his ear to the door and listened.