Connor was just walking home, minding his own business, when all of a sudden a great noise enveloped the street he was walking on. It was just one note; deep, resonating, and smelling faintly of sulfur. Connor screwed up his face, covered his nose, then went against all his instincts; he turned into the wind to investigate. Why is it always the good guys who get shit on?, he asked himself. He wasn't expecting an answer, as he'd never replied to his own questions before, so was understandably quite surprised when he got one.
"BECAUSE YOU MAKE IT SO DAMNABLY ENTERTAINING FOR US TO WATCH."
The words boomed out from within the monotonous noise, adding an extra layer to it that nearly knocked Connor off his feet from the added wind and smell. He continued on bravely though in the face of both seismic and psychic forces, once more the butt of a cosmic joke. His mind raced with thoughts - none of which were savoury enough for me to repeat, but all of which he was sure the mysterious booming wind-voice would hear.
"HEY, YOU LEAVE MY MOTHER OUT OF THIS!" The wind protested, and Connor's ranting fell off for a moment as he pondered whether or not they were talking about Mother Nature.
"THIS ISN'T WIND, YOU IDIOT. HAVE YOU EVER MET TALKING WIND BEFORE?"
Connor thought about the handful of politicians he'd met in his lifetime, along with a few guys he went to school with who'd always talked out of their asses.
"NO, GODDAMN YOU; I'M A SUPERVILLAIN. THE SUPEREST OF SUPERVILLAINS."
Connor misheard that as the sulfurest and was inclined to believe him. Alright then, so where's the villain angle in all this? What does stinking up the city get you?
"DUH. I'M TAKING OVER THE WORLD."
One shitheap at a time, right. So why the telepathy? How'd you do it, anyway?
"OH, THIS OLD THING? IT WAS NOTHING, REALLY." The wind hummed perceptively with that, obviously pleased with itself.
Oh, you're too modest, He thought at it, It must have been something.
"NO, REALLY. I JUST THREW THIS ON AT THE LAST MINUTE. IT ONLY WORKS ON THE CLOSEST SUPERHERO ANYWAY. WAIT'LL YOU SEE WHAT I'VE REALLY GOT IN STORE FOR YOU."
So long as I don't have to smell it. Connor thought, as he rounded the corner at the end of the street. The stench hit him like a brick wall and he stopped, clutching desperately at his face in an attempt to block it out. In front of him was what he took to be the supervillain; a towering monster of dung. The civilians in the area were running in every direction, some dropping like flies as he watched, their consciousness fleeing the stench. The actual flies were having a great time. I didn't have to wait to see this; I smelled it a mile off.
"THIS ISN'T IT EITHER. THIS IS JUST WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TRY TO BUILD A MONSTER IN RECORD TIME. HASTE MAKES WASTE, AS MY MOTHER ALWAYS SAID."
Smart woman. Connor pressed onwards against the wall of stench, finding it hard going, not least because his eyes had started watering. The smell was so thick in the air that the air itself was hard to move through.
"I DID IT, BY THE WAY. RECORD TIME."
They keep records on that kind of thing?
Congratulations. I hope the prize was worth the stench.
"OH, THERE'S NO PRIZE."
Then why did you do it?
"SHITS AND GIGGLES." The towering dung heap attempted to make a giggling noise, and succeeded in spraying shit around.
So what do you really have for me?
"OH, WELL, IF YOU'LL JUST COME INSIDE THIS TOWER, I'LL SHOW YOU."
The only time I voluntarily walk into a shit-heap is when I visit my Mom's house.
"AWW, GO ON. IT'LL BE FUN; I PROMISE. ANYWAY, IT'S THE ONLY WAY FOR YOU TO BEAT ME AND RESTORE ORDER TO THE STREETS. ISN'T THAT WHAT YOU HEROES LIVE FOR?"
Do you even know who I am?
"DOESN'T MATTER. I'VE GOT TRAPS FOR EVERY SUPERPOWER I COULD THINK OF."
Connor rolled his eyes and decided he'd had enough of this particular piece of shit. The name's Explosivo Connor, he thought, punctuating it by spitting at the dung-heap, and then running for cover before it detonated.
The sound was horrendous, the smell even more so, but what really got to Connor was the lack of the cheering crowd that normally followed his victories. Not that the crowd wasn't there; they just didn't particularly feel like cheering this time. Even the paparazzi were avoiding him, and he was normally their favourite.
Well fuck, He thought, I didn't mean for the shit to hit the fans.