Strange Bedfellows

The setting sun washed the still-burning fields with autumn rays. The earth around us wore the scars of our final battle. In the distance, a crumpled mountain marked the spot where he’d slammed me into it. Catfish flipped themselves off the floor of a dried-up riverbed, evaporated by my inferno. A newly formed canyon lay testament to his strength after he tore a section of the ground out to launch at me. My splintered nose dripped blood on two sparring praying mantises.

It had been forty years since he first flung me from that bank vault through the fender of an armored transport in Omaha. I’d never seen a hero smile so wide during a fight. That night in Newark, he blundered through every trap I set for him, laughing all the while. So many nights wasted decrying myself for letting him go, but I was young. He did the same for me, like when I was pinned beneath that burning van in Cleveland. I thought it was over, only regretting that it wouldn’t be my counterpart to kill me. In fading consciousness, I glimpsed a blue blur. I woke up in the hospital three days later. No costume, no handcuffs, no cops.

For thirty years, mockery was our main form of communication. Until that fight in Pittsburgh. I miscalculated the knockback on the force blast and sent us both reeling into the clouds. I couldn’t fly, so I figured he’d let me fall and savor his victory. To my surprise, two large hands cupped my armpits, tickling a little and holding me in place. Well above the tips of the tallest skyscrapers we floated, the city line was more sprawling than I’d imagined. He was the first to speak.

“Can I ask you something?” he inquired, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic seriousness.

“Yeah,” I replied, as I wasn’t in a position to refuse.

“Why do you do what you do?”

“What do you mean?” I shot back, a hint of defensiveness creeping into my tone.

“I’ve fought many villains. Their motivations are usually pretty simplistic. They’re either egomaniacal, wanting to cement themselves as a true terror, or self-centered and greedy—the types that stick to robbing banks and working with mobs. But every so often, one comes along that I don’t fully understand, like you.”

“I guess I see myself as something you can’t be. You go after the villains people can easily see—the guys running down Main Street with masks blowing things up. And I hunt those that operate in the shadows.”

He furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

“Everyone knows that guy who robbed a bank is bad for society. But the executive who creates a market bubble that could cost half the nation their savings? He gets a pension and a promotion when the bank inevitably gets bailed out, with tax money from the same people who now have no retirement. I have to be a villain because the public perception is that I killed a successful family man for sport—a lie I can manage but would destroy your legacy.”

“So you’re not a villain,” he said, more a statement than a question.

“Well, I suppose I am, but a necessary one.”

From then on, we worked together in silence. He’d amuse and distract the crowds, in flight with my co-conspirators by their arms, their cheeks flapping against the rushing winds. Meanwhile, I’d terrorize a majority shareholder of a hedge fund who shorted businesses they’d cause to fail until he’d liquidated the company. Sometimes I’d keep the funds to entice the criminal element to follow me unwittingly. Sometimes he’d heroically confiscate it and donate it to teachers, Food Not Bombs, or other charities. Each time I’d barely manage to squeak away. Eventually, we’d have to make a show of confronting one another, and we’d have our battles in open fields outside city limits. He was the symbol of hope, an inspiring lie. I was the necessary villain, an inconvenient truth. Our battles became a national pastime, televised events with commentators remarking on our abilities and former encounters. We carried on like that for the better part of thirty years; our conversations consisted of winks and smiles between punches and incantations.

I dedicated my life to this dance and it has all ended in a flash. He’d taken that move so many times before. I never meant to kill him. Even now, as I sit next to his corpse, smearing his blood across my face, the media is probably writing headlines about ‘The Mystic’s Final Triumph’ and running ads for those god-awful little dolls of me. I kneel beside him, weeping, and kiss his forehead.

“Goodbye, old friend,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of my sorrow.