Hot Property

They stood before the suburban bungalow in expectant silence. A gaggle of giggling pre-schoolers careened chaotically past on either side, screaming and cutting deep gouges in the grass verge with their scooters. A gang of gossiping women were sipping coffee on a neighbouring patio, while another took hers like a shot of whiskey as she glared at the former from behind twitching floral curtains. Outside every house, on every lawn, a variant of the same middle-aged man mowed his own identical garden—and never seemed to stop. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, freshly baked pie, and waning masculinity.

“Well?” The henchman prompted, fairly bubbling with anticipation. He wore a shabby black suit, fingerless gloves, and a giddy grin like a blushing schoolgirl. He also clutched a clipboard (black) and several ballpoint pens (red), because one must always be prepared. He anxiously stroked his eyebrow, and then the other; they were the bushiest in all the criminal underworld, and he was immensely proud of them.

“Interesting,” his master mused, fondling his sleek goatee in a decidedly despicable gesture that made his sidekick swoon. “I’ve got to say, I’m… intrigued.”

The man in question was none other than Count Gustavo: the greatest super villain to have harassed the city since time immemorial. His black leather one-piece was utterly evil, his scar a terrifying token spanning cheek to groin, and his heels were Gucci. He tossed his cape over one shoulder with a flippant flick of his elegant wrist that, had he been directing it appropriately, could have knocked the socks of a cat from ten miles away. Kittens were his most fiendish target.

The sidekick puffed out his chest. “Just as I thought, your eminence! You see, it was actually quite a clever find, if I do say so myself. It’s—”

“It’s disgusting, John.” The henchman deflated at once, and proceeded to shrink with a slight wheeze as the Count continued callously. “It’s physically repulsive. I can only assume you bought it to deter prying eyes with that horrid shade of beige. I can hardly look at it myself without vomiting.”

“W-well, I-I mean, well… I suppose we could always add some paint…”

“Make it purple. Mulberry, mauve… anything but periwinkle.”

“Anything but… periwinkle…” The pen scratched frantically on paper. The henchman concealed a scowl; he had rather liked the beige…

The Count sighed emphatically. “Is there anything else you have to say for yourself, John? Honestly, I’m rather disappointed.”

“Y-yes, actually!” He snapped straight back to attention, fumbling through leaves of neat red notes with a gallant surge of optimism. “I didn’t get to my point, sir! See, I was on my way home one night when I became lost around these parts…”

“The point, John, not the scenic butter knife!”

“My point is that nobody will expect it!” He panted excitably. “The neighbourhood is quiet, respectable, and within fifteen minutes of the city centre! It even has public transport—direct.”

“That is good,” the Count grumbled reluctantly.

“Oh, and that’s not the least of it, my liege! This housing estate is humongous, and the houses practically identical! I tell you, sir, I’d like to see those goody-two-shoes Good Guys find their way through the trickiest maze in all of creation! And if they do? Hah!”

“Hah?”

He leaned within conspiratorial range, which wasn’t difficult; even in heels, Count Gustavo was half a head shorter than him, and all he had to do was straighten out of his obligatory crouch.

“They have a nightly neighbourhood watch. That's hundreds of henchmen, sir, and all without having to pay them a penny! And during the daytime? Housewives.”

“Housewives…?”

The henchman waved his hand dismissively. “I think you call them Karens.”

The Count grew tense. “Ah.”

“Take a look around. They’re everywhere, at every window, always watching, always on the cusp of sounding the alarm. Trust me—if those heroes come within a whiff of their stuck-up noses: BAM!” He said it softly, so as not to spook the women in question. “They’ll be wishing they were dead.”

“Yes, but what about us?” The Count looked apprehensive, eyes flitting between the speckless windows. “I don’t like the way they stare at me, John. Like vultures. To hell with the heroes—I’ll be scared to sleep!”

“Already sorted, master! I took it upon myself to infiltrate their ranks weeks ago. The trick lies in the hair, and in making a great quiche—”

“I don’t care about your quiche, John!” The Count exploded, attracting tuts and mutters from all across the development. “I care about my goddamn reputation! What will they say when they discover we’ve set up shop in a middle-aged Karen-Cult?”

The henchman cringed. “I daresay they’ll be even more terrified, my Lord…”

“They’ll call us soccer moms, John! Soccer moms! I’ll be ruined! I’ll never be taken seriously: not now, not a thousand years after I’m cryogenically frozen!”

“Yes, but… the garden’s rather nice, isn’t it?”

The Count looked fit to snap his fingers (an act more powerful than the wrist-flick, and infinitely more deadly), and the henchman felt something pleasantly warm leak down his inner leg. Time seemed to stop for a heartbeat, and his life flashed dizzyingly before his eyes; it was rather boring, actually. Was his life really that dull?

“I suppose it’s the inside that counts,” his master muttered unexpectedly, and he pried open his eyes to the happy revelation that he wasn’t dead. His master was also waiting with a cocked elbow, and the henchman hurried to take it delicately with his hand. “Show us around our new headquarters…”

It took a few tries, but finally the henchman managed to jiggle the keys just right to get it unlocked, and the door eased open with a smooth, soundless swing. The interior was largely unfurnished, but sumptuously spacious and flooded with an angry red light that throbbed like fear; the sidekick had already gone to the effort of fitting scarlet curtains that he thought formed just the right atmosphere of angst and promised pain. He risked a hopeful sidelong glance at his master, searching for a nugget of praise. The latter was frowning deeply at the walls, cloak in his hands, his mood darkening with every failed attempt to hang it up on something that did not exist.

“Where’s the cloak hook, John?” He murmured softly—as softly as a teddy with a switchblade. The henchman began to sweat.

“Well, erm, if you follow me into the master bedroom, you’ll find a walk-in wardrobe that I absolutely adored—”

“What use is a walk-in wardrobe, John, if I have to carry my cloak all the way through the house to get to it? I just want something to hang my cloak on at the door after a hard day’s work, is that too much to ask? I don’t want to have to traipse over to my wardrobe every time I find myself in need of my cape!” A vein was bulging on his peaked temple, and the henchman took a timid backwards step. After a few careful breaths—the yoga sessions had been working wonders for his blood pressure—Count Gustavo settled slightly and, tautly, clipped the cape back around his neck. The henchman swayed in relief. “It’s alright. It’s no matter. Just show me to the Evil Lair, if you will. Where is it? In the basement? Where’s the secret elevator?” He peered around suspiciously, then sniffed the air. His hands curled into petit fists and he eyed the henchman pointedly. “Why does it smell like old lady, John?”

He uttered a silent prayer, briefly closed his eyes, and took a steely breath.

“Well, erm, you see… there is no secret elevator. This is the Evil Lair.”

The silence was so toxic you could have poisoned a rattlesnake with it, then two more and an elephant on top. Count Gustavo, for all his knowledge of yoga, looked beyond the aid of mellow meditation. The scarlet tint of the room made his face a livid shade of rage, and his goatee was trembling like a new-born guineapig; one that would live to purge the world with flame.

“B-but you’ll adore the features, my liege! The kitchen appliances are top of the range, the wallpaper is strawberry scented, and the bath—you’ll love this—has a jacuzzi setting!” The henchman gibbered, his grin a petrified grimace. “Isn’t that neat?”

“I think I’m about to faint,” his master whispered, and indeed he had to steady himself on the wall as he staggered woozily against the red-lit paper. He sniffed sharply: strawberry scented. His scar glimmered, queasy pale. “Bring me my Mastermind chair, John,” he wheezed. “Quickly. I need to sit down.”

The henchman hurried like the wind (a partially asthmatic one), returning a minute later with a simple wooden Windsor. He slammed it down behind his master, drawn and breathless, but took care to plump up the luxury velvet pillow before backing respectfully away. His master sunk into it with a restricted sigh, only to seize up upon contact. His head snapped downwards. His fingers curled around the rim.

“What the hell is this?” he hissed, mortified. The henchman’s heart was back to running laps.

“Th-The Mastermind Chairs were all out of s-stock, sir.” He swallowed painfully and licked his lips with reptilian quickness. “This was all they had at short notice… I-It’s Art Deco. I thought the design was… practical.”

“It doesn’t even swivel!” Count Gustav wailed thinly. He seemed one more fright away from the grave, and the henchman scurried forward to fan him furiously with his clipboard. “What about the minions? Please tell me you considered the minions when you bought us this… this…”

He failed to find the word.

“Atrocity? Abomination?” The henchman suggested weakly.

“No. Worse.”

The henchman gulped. “Erm… what about the minions, my lord?”

“Where will they sleep, John? In the basement?”

“Well, erm, I thought maybe, erm… in the garage? It’s a double.”

“The garage?” The henchman slunk savvily out of striking distance; Count Gustav’s nails were a weapon all of their own. “And where do you expect the helicopter to go? In the shed? Have some self-respect, John! After all those minions have done for us, and you expect them to sleep in such squalor?”

“Well, erm, I suppose it does have three spacious guest bedrooms…”

“What?” The Count snapped, even more appalled. “You think I’m handing over a perfectly good bedroom to some slimy minions?”

Sweating profusely, the henchman ducked his head under the pretence of scribbling down more urgent notes. “I’ll begin preparations for the extension of a secret cave immediately, sir.”

The Count’s fist slammed against the wall. “It’s not good enough, John! I left our relocation down to you because I thought I could trust you above all others to get it done! That’s right—I trusted you, John! I thought you knew me!”

The henchman’s stomach twisted with a stab of despair, and he dropped the clipboard at once. “But I do know you, Count Gustav, I do!”

“Being the Bad Guy is hard, John! It’s really, really hard! It’s like you don’t understand how much stress I’m under right now! Do you know how many grey hairs I found just this morning?”

“Three—”

“Three! Three grey hairs! I’ve had to start using dye, John! I mean, I was using it anyway, but now I actually need the damn thing! It’s downright demeaning!”

His voice cracked on the last note. The henchman stepped forward with an irrepressible pang of pity, but the Count turned his head away, raising a hand to shade the greys in shame. The silence wore on, but this time it was tearing them both apart.

At last, a faint rustle by his side attracted the Count's attention, and he cast a forlorn look over his shoulder. His brow creased minutely, and then he straightened and turned. His eyes widened, still wet with tears.

“Is that…” he whispered, incredulous.

“Creed Aventus Eau De Parfum,” the Henchman clarified. “In a spray bottle.”

Removing the cap, he tentatively raised it in offering. The Count, still speechless, gave a dazed nod of his head and elegantly raised his chin. The henchman gave it a few small spiffs. They both took a tantalising breath.

“With top notes of pineapple, apple, bergamot and blackcurrant,” the Count sighed. There were fresh tears in his eyes, but not from despondency. “You do know me.”

“I’d be dead if I didn’t,” the henchman replied, fighting back tears of his own.

The two hesitated, then came together in an impassioned embrace.

“After a long, evil day, I’m sure you’ll be glad of the jacuzzi setting on the bath, my Lord,” the henchman breathed gingerly, enwreathed in the musk of fruity cologne.

“I’m sure I will,” he agreed, taking a moment to appreciate the feeling of selfless compassion. “Oh, and you’re fired.”