The Croque d’Or was a five star hotel and casino located in Parodopolis’s Sheldon District. Only the polloi most hoi could legally afford to indulge in its amenities. But there were others that made up the resort’s clientele.

“Tail me, babe,” Simon Maddicks drawled. The big man was lying on a heated Corinthian leather massage table. Tilting his head to one side, the Butcher Bird opened his mouth to accept the butter soaked hunk of lobster flesh his barely clad server offered him.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Good Schtuff,” he said as he chewed. Cricking his neck back to acknowledge the other woman who attended him, he complimented, “Yeah, that’s good. Work the lower back. I think I pulled something the other night.”

The green hued damsel’s eyes lit up in concern, “I hope it was not I and my sister that injured you, Master.”

“What? Nah, nah. You gals did fine. As always,” the Butcher Bird smirked. He moved his head once again, this time to rest it on his folded arms, “Couldn’t ask for a better pair of wrasslin’ partners.”

The first woman, whose skin was as olive as Simon’s masseuse, dabbed at his lips with a cloth napkin, “Nor we with you, Master. You are the greatest of lovers, a skilled swordsman with a weapon unmatched in all the Parodyverse.”

“I am the shit, aren’t I?” he agreed.

The twins nodded in unison before returning to their duties. As one continued to knead out the kinks in Simon’s Latissimus Dorsi, the other went to gather up the appropriate tools for Shrike’s manicure. After a few minutes of pleasurable primping that almost allowed Simon to drift off to sleep, a loud beeping sound emanated from the other room.

The women shot one another concerned glances. From his supine position Simon gave a grunt of displeasure.

“Every flippin’ time!” he slid off the massage table and stomped starkers to his suite’s office. Grabbing up and donning his cowl, Simon sat down in front of his computer work station, and after adjusting the web cam so it would only show him from the neck up, answered the call.

“This better be good,” he warned whoever was on the other line.

“Watch your tone, Shrike! I am not one of those lickspittles in the Powwow of Perfidy!” the whirring of Fan Face’s rotating blades could not hide the outrage in his voice.

“Only because we rejected your application. Now, what do you want?”
The oscillating crime lord seethed, “I had visitors earlier, to my supposedly secret lair; those three idiots you dragooned from THE Moderator.”

Shrike was aware, “Right. And?”

“They told me in no uncertain terms to abandon my plan to steal the Unbelievium Isotope.”

“Right. And?”

“HOW DID YOU KNOW ABOUT MY PLAN TO STEAL THE UNBELIEVIUM ISOTOPE???!!!”

The Avian Assassin shrugged, “Trade secret.”

“That is not an answer I am willing to accept!”

From under his helmet Simon rolled his eyes, “Suit yourself, Fanny; just as long as you follow orders. The Unbelievium is off limits.”

“Why? Because you want it for yourself?!”

“No. I got no use from an experimental metatextual particle that can hypothetically throw a cosmic-sized monkey wrench into any environment it’s introduced to. The Powwow of Perfidy is a tight ship. We try to keep the McGuffins to a minimum.”

“Then why?” Fan Face wheedled, “My agent is ‘this’ close to getting an invite from the Harper brat for a tour of EEE’s firehouse. Once they’re inside it will be child’s play to shut down the lab’s security and lay siege to it.”

Simon absently stroked the topknot to his mask, “Yeah, about that; the little romance you were trying to set up between Kara and your stooge? That’s over. Hypno Jenna put the kibosh on that.”

“WHAT??!!! HOW DARE YOU INTERFERE WITH MY PLANS?!?!?!”

“Shut up,” Maddicks cut him off. His jawline hardened and his voice became very grim, “Remember who you’re talking to, Fan Face. I am the Parodyverse’s greatest villain. The archest of the arch. I’ve spent the past five years eliminating the competition and strong arming the rest to serve me. My talons are sunk deep into every criminal enterprise on this planet and beyond. I only call myself Killer Shrike out of nostalgia. You, and every other scumbag in the criminal class, should call me King Shrike, because I rule your collective asses. And if you really want to test me by going after Extraordinary Endeavour Enterprises despite my order not to, go for it. But after you fail I will personally lop off that pinwheel you call a head and leave the rest of you to dangling from a hook. Savvy?”

There was a long pause. Finally Fan Face answered.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, King Shrike.”

Simon Maddicks nodded and cut the feed. He then removed his helmet and slumped down in his chair. He rubbed his temples and sighed. It wasn’t always like this, he thought. It used to be harder.

Rising from his seat he strode back into the suite’s private spa to speak to his attendants, “I’m going out.”

The emerald colored ladies bowed, “How may we clothe you, Master?”

“Casual. Red ringer. Jeans. And my Army jacket.”

After being dressed by the pair Simon gave his next order, “Powersave On.”

The Caphan Compandroids did as commanded, shutting down all their higher functions and entering Rest Mode. Their prefect chins fell forward onto their equally exquisite bosoms. Simon left them standing where they were and left.

He took his private elevator down to his personal garage, but none of the vehicles stored there were suited for where he was planning to go. Instead he found a taxi outside the Croque De’ Or to take him to his destination: a homey little café just outside of Parodopolis Plaza. Simon grabbed a paper off an un-bused table and found a seat at the counter.

“What’ll you have?” the waitress on duty asked.

“Coffee, black,” he said before inquiring, “You know how to make it Greek style?”

“Greek style?” the woman shook her head, “This is just plain ol’ coffee.”

Simon seemed disappointed.

“Ok.”

“You still want it?”

“I said ok, didn’t I?!”

The woman glared at him for a moment, clearly biting her tongue, but then turned to fill his order. When she returned to fill his cup Simon interrupted her pouring by reading from the paper’s headline. He slapped the paper with the back of his hand and said in a voice filled with disdain, “You see this? The Wooster Foundation is donating one million dollars to update the Zero Street Mission’s gymnasium. Why? So all those juvenile delinquents to be can improve their cardio? That place is just going to become a breeding ground for Olympic level criminals. Who needs that?”

His server gave a non-committal shrug, "I don't follow the news," she said in response, and then moved to where there were no customers. There she produced a smart phone and began pressing buttons. Simon watched her go. He took a sip of his coffee. It was good, in its own way, but he knew he had had better. Back when things were different. Back when things were harder.