Saturday Night Fury
Sinister’s usually did good business on Saturdays. Supervillainy rarely went well on weekends.
The machine, who went by Kiv (short for “Kill Vehicle 9000”), sat on his usual stool, drinking his usual drink – 190 proof alcohol. A few minutes later, someone took the seat next to him.
“Scotch,” he said, his voice quivering with fury. “Quickly.”
Kiv glanced over. The Mentalist’s face was bruised, his green tailcoat rumpled and dirty, and most disturbing, his brown hair was tousled and frayed.
Though Kiv didn’t have much in the way of facial articulation, he managed to look amused.
“Didn’t go well, did it?”
He shot him a look that would have made anyone else crumple to the ground.
“I told you it wouldn’t.”
“I loathe you,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Kiv’s photoreceptors twinkled. “What kind of idiot tries to kidnap the mayor of this town?”
The Mentalist stood, shaking his fist. “It would have worked if it hadn’t been for those damn kids and their dog!”