“Plan 2: we break into Superman’s fortress. That way we get a lair and an arch-enemy! It’s win-win!”
I stroked my beard wickedly. “Interesting... yes... yes! Yes! No wait, the Navens can’t take on Superman. We’d be up to our ankles in community service by next Tuesday.”
Another dream crushed thanks to those hapless haploids! If water finds its own level, these guys are deuterium.
“What was wrong with plan 1?”
She rolled her eyes. “Creating a subduction zone under the southern Atlantic to drag Antarctica north isn’t feasible.”
“But I have a flag ready! And a national anthem!”
“Why don’t we just stay here?” She asked, stretching her arms upwards at the great iron framework. “A mobile base would give us numerous tactical advantages.”
“Plus, we have squatter’s rights.”
The airship dipped left. Jalas and I were startled to see every Naven run to the left portholes, shouting like grendels. My curiosity finally got the better of me.
“Stand aside!” I pushed past them, trying to avoid direct skin contact. Navens are covered in thick brownish-orange hair — not fur, hair — and they often smelt of wet dog.
The porthole view was breathtaking! Mountains, purple in the distance! Deep shades of blue sky blending into bright turquoise ocean waves over an endless horizon, broken only by brilliant patches of orange and yellow sunlight.
Also, there was a man in a cape flying outside. Faster than a hummingbird can whistle Dixie, he tore the porthole off the wall and threw it into the ocean.
“Everybody get back!” I yelled. Any supervillain worth their salt would have ordered their henchmen to attack en masse, but this particular case was a cause for variation.
“How a-boot that? My greatest pupil — now my bitterest foe, eh?” the intruder snorted.
I clasped my hands and bowed, keeping my fists trained on him the whole time. “Has it come that far, Generic Canadian?”
Perhaps I should explain things a little more at this point.
Back when I was a youthful prototype, I was “liberated” from a top-secret military installation by Peta agents who thought I was a dog. Having proved them wrong by melting through their groovy van, I rocketed myself across North America, looking for a home. One day, I heard a rustling sound coming from just outside the Canadian parliament — all the way from Florida. My hearing has since degraded, but what happened that day will stay with me forever or at least until I get really old.
Apparently, a six-foot anthropomorphic octopus-like insect with a headband had planted a bomb in the parliament for no discernible reason. I managed to destroy the bomb by firing generic missiles at it, and the resulting explosion bathed the House of Commons in dangerous Generic Radiation.
While most of the members were protected by layers of incumbency, one MP received such a high dosage of the stuff that he became a superhero.
The Generic Canadian.
“I took you under my wing, eh, taught you how to fight evil an’ play bingo! And now you’re on the side of evil?” He slumped his shoulders mournfully at me. “Still, I know in my heart your goodness will win through. As they say in my country, there’s no such thing as a bad donut.”
“Well as they say in my country, you’re over international waters now. Your national powers can’t affect me here, you faceless bureaucrat!”
The front of his head contracted sharply. “That’s aboot as low as you can go! You know I lost my face in a silly putty accident when I was five.”
“Yes, I suppose I’ll have to face the music,” I jeered. Taunting (done with the right puns) is classic super-villainy, as my awesome great-grandfather used to say.
“Enough!” He instantly produced half a dozen steel maple leaves in each mitten. “I’ll do to you what I did to the American dollar! En garde!”
Shurikens of Saskatchewan! Twisty, tiny metal maple leaves left four of my furry flunkies buckling in agony; Jalas was nowhere to be seen, and the Navens that weren’t minced by my newfound nemesis were hanging their heads out the side of the blimp, panting like pigeons.
A spiteful sneer cracked through my joyous veneer. Grabbing a bleeding Naven by the ankles, I swung him/her like a bat. “Go back to your shadow puppet government and all its trappings!”
Before I could throttle my adversary, a sound not unlike the Voice of Zeus swept through the dirigible’s innards. “Attention all passengers,” the in-ship intercom buzzed, “As per the request of the McDermott Bagging & Airship Co. the United Nations has just declared this airbase an international embassy, conferring full diplomatic immunity on its registered owner — Kyle al Zabar.”
“That’s the fake name I used on the licensing papers,” exclaimed I!
The Generic Canadian fumed; steel maple leaves fell from his mitten, turned into crumpled, dried-out organic leaves and blew away. “Ballots!”
“Yeah. You can’t fight him here, he’s got diplomatic immunity!” laughed a balding Naven. Taking his lead, the others swarmed around me in a side-splitting filibuster. I can only assume they thought candy was in my pockets.
Humbled, Generic Canadian made a beeline to the damaged porthole and swung a leg outside. “You may have won this round, mon ami, but as they say, you must sleep sometime — in Canada.” As unexpectedly as he had come, the Generic Canadian vanished over the golden horizon, along the line where dark purple clouds bled into the sepia sea.
Politics took over then, and I shook the hand of every Naven but fortunately I didn’t have to kiss their babies; Jalas strode in ominously and surveyed the ravaged area.
“Skin the corpses and patch this hole,” she ordered. The Navens gleefully ran to obey.
“You’ll never guess who has diplomatic immunity,” I drooled. “I can park anywhere!”
“You don’t really have diplomatic immunity. That was me over the intercom. I was lying to get rid of that fool until we can devise a more... permanent solution.”
Sadness and Apprehension! “Won’t the Generic Canadian come back when he realizes he was tricked?! This is just the kind of thing he’d hate.”
“I doubt we’ll see him again for a while,” she shrugged. “He’s lost face.”