A Notorious Villain Explains

It ain’t easy becoming notorious. Said notoriety implies being known and talked about, and the most successful villains are the ones no one knows or talks about. Anonymous like. 

So my becoming notorious took some missteps on my part. Made my name something to scare children with – I’m Abominable Fred Marker. “What am I ever going to do with you?” a mother might say. “Abominable Fred will be climbing through your window if you don’t go to sleep, you silly child!” 

 Abominable Fred I am I guess. Nothing against the little gits, so I hope it don’t scare children too much.

Every villain needs an origin story. Mine started with me wanting to get a pastry for my girl. No world domination here, just a simple father in chase of a pastry. I don’t live with my Sylvie but it was her thirteenth birthday – official it was she was a teenager. 

I had my eye on Justine’s Bakery. They had a treat Sylvie had admired before on a walk we took through the neighborhood, a very tosh eclair made in Paris and sprinkled with actual gold dust. Justine’s had something like this once in a bit, just class up the place. Anyway, why shouldn’t my Sylvie just once in her life dine on real gold? Well, short and only answer is because these went for a hundred quid each. 

I just do odd jobs, though, sweep the steps of some pensioner’s steps, rake some leaves, whatever I can, line up for my check when eligible, that sort of lifestyle. And perhaps I’ve nicked a thing or two in my time, but never any high crimes and misdemeanors, so to speak. I’m as penny ante as they come. Which means empty pockets more often than not for me, and empty they were just then. It’s hard to make a dishonest living if you’re not dishonest enough! How was I to afford an eclair that cost such a pretty penny? Ask them to scrape off the gold? 

I was discussing as much with one of my good mates, old Jerry, at the corner pub, The Olde Knight. The “e” added for color, or grandiosity, though there wasn’t much of that at the pub.

“So you see,” I was saying to Jerry, “I know she loves it. It would make her feel special, and you know how a young girl enjoys feeling special. It can be tough on ‘em, hoping the right lad notices them while usually it’s the wrong one that picks ‘em out.”

“Aye, aye,” sounding like a sailor even though he never got close enough to spit at the Royal Navy or any other branch. “True enough, a girl just turning teen would like feeling special. But how are you going to get the money for one of those overpriced biscuits? Seems to me that’s a sour pickle you’ve got. Can’t you just get her a doll or something?”

“She’s 13. Dolls don’t work.”

“Aye, aye,” he said, going sailor on me again. Now I was going to lay it on him.  

“Jerry, this ain’t the Tower of London. It’s a bakery. Why can’t I jimmy the lock, stroll in, and make off with one or two of those golden pastries?”

Jerry stroked his chin, a sign he was either thinking or confused. Call it fifty-fifty. 

“What if Justine’s has an alarm system?”

“I was waiting for you ask about that,” Jerry said. 

I leaned close, all conspiratory-like, and lowered my voice: “You told me about that time you broke into that convenience store. You cut the alarm line. Can’t you scout this out and tell me what to do?”

“Freddy, I cut the line but the alarm still sounded. I about wet my knickers and ran out. All I grabbed were three boxes of Juju Fruits. Some haul.”

“But you got in and out and to this day you are a free man. Why can’t I do the same? I don’t want to crack a safe. I just want a couple of pastries. In and out. That’s me.”

Time for more chin stroking from Jerry. “Well…I could stroll about and take a look. But –”

“But what?” 

“But I don’t want to be anywhere near it when you make your move. You are on your own, buddy boy.”

And so it was decided – the next night the pastry thief would strike!

***

I was nervous with excitement, and also with embarrassment. Jerry had talked me into disguising myself. 

“It’s the CCTV, Fred. You’ll be on multiple feeds. You need to not look like your husky self.”

Thank you Jerry for not calling out my pub belly. “But what do I do? Put on a mask? How can I walk down the street like that?”

Jerry didn’t even bother to stroke his chin. “I was watching an American movie on the telly last week, one with that comic that offed himself, Robin Williams. Mrs Doubtfire it was.”

“I’m not liking where this is going, Jerry,” I said.

“Where it’s going is your pretty face not ending up on CCTV. You need a disguise. Why not go as a woman?”

While I wanted to argue, I knew what he said about the CCTV made sense. I would likely be on the tape, so better I don’t look like myself. But looking like a woman? I’d look like a man in drag. If I ran into the wrong people I might be in for a bit of a thrashing. Tolerance wasn’t always on the menu. Still, the thought of those pastries and my girl’s face lighting up was enough to move me. I did love my dear Sylvie. 

So there I was at Jerry’s, putting on a dress with tropical fruit on it. “I got it when me and Mabel were on that cruise in the Caribbean. Later she ran off with some lad working in Manchester, but she left me this dress. And some of her cosmetics.”

Mabel had been bigger than Jerry so the dress sort of fit. “Ok, maestro, get on with it and do my makeup. Did I mention this is some right bollocks, you know.” I was already in the dress and some shoes, flats that she also left behind. They didn’t fit well and had slick bottoms. 

Jerry said: “Quiet you. I’ll make you beautiful, a veritable Mona Lisa.” He grabbed something and went straight for my eyes. 

“Hey – “

“For horses, mate. This is eye shadow. It’s for pretty girls.”

I was not relieved, but I held still for him to continue. “Eye shadow,” I muttered

“Aye, aye.”

When he finished I said, “Is that it?”

“Oh no, lad. We have to put on foundation, to clear up all your blemishes. You want to look pretty, don’t you?”

I let out a few choice words that ended with the last thing I wanted was to be pretty. “Skip the foundation!”

Jerry sighed. “Very well. Can I at least put some blush on you to add a bit of glow?” I grunted my assent. I wasn’t getting out of here unless I let him do a few finishing touches. He was enjoying this.  

Then the topper. “Time for some lipstick, mate.”

“Oh god.”

“Oh good, you mean. It will finish you off!” Then he unscrewed the cap and went for my lips like a Christmas elf putting the final touches on a toy doll. 

I saw myself in the mirror. My lips were bright red. “What circus did this come from,” I asked?

“Um, let’s see.” He looked at the lipstick. “It’s called…lipstick on a pig.” And then he laughed, of course he did. 

“Old joke, Jerry.”

And then it was done. Jerry backed away and looked at me. “A fine job if I do say so. Give me a few more pints in me and I’d be sweet talking you back to my place or yours.”

I was saving my energy so all I gave him in answer was a scowl. I waved and left. I heard Jerry murmur something as I walked away:

“It’s the pretty ones that are the most dangerous…”

***

The walk to Justine's wasn’t far. I did run into one drunken sod who was crossed-eyed and stumbling, and as you might expect he thought I was some flash girl who’d be a prize to take back to his flat. 

“Hey, pretty lady…let’s have a kisssss, shall we?” 

“Hey, screw off.”

“What’s that you high and mighty skirt-wearing…um, what are you, trans? Hey, I don’t discriminate!” He grabbed my arm as I was passing by. I was not in the mood. I gave him my best right cross and he snapped back, stumbled, and fell. 

He may have said something as I walked away, but a girl learns when to ignore a fella. 

***

When I got to Justine’s it was of course dark. It had been closed for several hours. I had a pair of wire-cutters in my dress pocket. I looked about, saw no one looking, and walked around to the back. I did have a purse Jerry had given me. I thought that was enough to hide two of those ridiculous eclairs. 

When I got around back I saw the wire Jerry told me to cut. It was the yellow wire. The problem was there were another six wires. When Jerry had done his own wire cutting the alarm had still gone off. I wasn’t bubbling over with confidence that he knew what he was doing, but I didn’t have the resources of a large criminal organization behind me. All I wanted was a special eclair for my special daughter. So with a sigh I cut the yellow wire. 

The lights in the nearby house went off. Oh dear. The lights in Justine were still on. Cut another one, I guess. More cuts, more lights going out, but not the light I wanted to go out. Finally, the fifth wire blacked out Justine’s

Now time to use the crowbar Jerry had hidden hear the dumpster. I retrieved it and then pried open the back door. I can’t say I was quiet. The door opened with loud noise like I was tearing off pieces of timber. But it did open. 

“Wish I could see something,” I said, sotto voce, as I entered the premises. It was dark inside, and all my wire cutting had darkened nearby lights. And then I heard the alarm go off. 

“Oh blimey! What a cock-up!” I thought for just a moment and then decided that a grab and run was my best bet. Grab the silly eclair and run like Johnny Copper was right on my arse. Grab! Run! Remember, I had on slick women’s shoes. I really needed Michael Jordan’s. 

So I ran and crashed into a shelving unit, because I couldn’t see. Something spilled all over me, drenching me. It felt sticky. No idea then what it was, so I kept running. I crashed again and now something else spilled over me, something almost like feathers. Whatever. Get to the display, fool, and get your prize! 

So I got to the display and…it was empty! That damned Justine, or someone, had put the eclairs away for safe-keeping. Oh, this was a tale of woe unfolding, no doubt. And I was the woeful one covered in…I didn’t know what. 

Then I thought I heard distant sirens. It was flight or fight time, and what do you think I chose? Yep, I scooted. 

***

As I was trotting away I stuck a finger onto my chest to wipe up a bit of the sticky stuff, and then put it into my mouth. I think…I think it’s honey? Yes, I think so. And then I plucked one of the little feathers sticking to me and tasted it as well. Coconut flakes? Maybe. Probably. 

I was honeyed and filigreed with an immense amount of coconut. 

I realized I had to hide, and clean myself. I still heard the sirens. I thought maybe I could break into a nearby house and shower quickly. Yes, I know that’s crazy, but so is the idea of walking a dozen blocks in London looking like a giant chicken, which is what I imagined I looked like. I’d be picked up on suspicion alone if spotted. 

So the nearby house had a ground floor window and went up to it to see if someone was there. Unfortunately, there was an old pensioner in the room, and I got close to the window he turned and saw me and clutched at his chest and fell. 

Dear god, I’ve killed him, I thought. Now they’ll get me for some kind of wrongful death charge. 

So thinking he needed help I broke into his house, found him still alive, and called for emergency services. They told me to wait with him, and after I hung up I thought bollocks, I’m not waiting, but then I saw the flashing lights outside. The police had arrived. Resigned, I sat down and waited. 

***

“So you’re telling us you broke in to steal a pastry? Really?”

“Yes, it was for my daughter. A hundred quid for one, but she had fancied it. I don’t get many chances to impress her and you could turn my pockets inside and out a dozen times and not find a hundred quid.”

I went on. “I’ll pay for the damages. I’m sorry of course. It was a bad idea. How is the elderly gentleman?”

“Word is he will be alright. You gave him a dreadful fright. He kept calling you abominable. He had been watching a documentary about legendary creatures on the telly until his power went out. You may have had something to do with that?”

I shrugged. No need to give away the entire Kit and Kaboodle so soon. 

“Anyway, he said the Abominable Snowman was at his window. I guess that’s you, Fred, Abominable Fred. You are quite a sight.”

***

And you can imagine it. First honey, and then coconut flakes. I must have looked like a feathered fiend, and of course I know I did, because the papers all printed my photo. Now I scare little children. That’s my origin story. 

Sylvie, good Sylvie, has forgiven me. She may not have ever even blamed me. She is old beyond her years. This is what she told me before they took me away to prison to serve my 14 month term, out in eight if I behave. 

“It’s ok dad. I’m only 13. You’ll be out in plenty of time to host my Sweet Sixteen party” 

She smiled, little imp that she was and always will be. “And why not pick up some tips from the other criminals in prison while you are there? I’ll need you to save up for my wedding, too.”

“Love you, I think,” I said. 

“You love me and you know you do. Love you too.”

You can’t argue with women, you know.