The Last Dastardly Tale of The Crimson Fowler

He slowly pulled into the empty lot and parked his deteriorating, used car; the finest a senior pension can buy. He sat in determined silence before holding his palms out and staring down at his old, wrinkled hands. It was these hands in their youth that almost conquered the entire world, these hands that brought fear to the people and left authorities trembling in their wake. As he took one last look at his hands, he tried with all his might to transform into the monster he once was, but it wasn’t the sight of his hands or the nostalgia: it was the failures that helped him transform. He curled his hands into fists of rage and went from being a reclusive old man to the dastardly supervillain known as The Crimson Fowler. He checked his utility belt, reached to the passenger seat, grabbed his walking cane and, slowly but still aggressively, got out of his car. Gradually shutting the door, he scowled at the large sign above him: Frozen Pond Aged Care.

He slowly hobbled into the entrance of the building. The sliding doors parted before him as he grinned sinisterly because it reminded him of his secret lair before he had it repossessed due to owing thousands in unpaid taxes. “Why should I have to pay taxes if I’m going to rule this infernal city?” he hears the voice of his twenty-seven-year-old self in the echoes of his mind. As he hobbled up to the front desk, he felt that evil confidence coming back. He stopped and looked down at his walking cane. “The Crimson Fowler does not need a walking cane” he thought and dropped it on the floor before adopting a forced, confident pace. The young lady at the front desk witnessed this and was completely expressionless; people like this were common to her line of work. When he finally reached the desk, he puffed out what was left of his chest and said, “I’m here to see Perfect Ma- Ben Sparks, please”. The lady rolled her eyes at this, “Another fan, huh?”. This infuriated him. He was anything but a “fan” of Mr Sparks. “I’m no fan” he said menacingly “I am The Crimson Fowler! Bringer of destruction- “; the lady went back to looking down at her phone “Down the hall, room 562”. The nonchalant audacity of this child completely cut him off, he was about to continue in fury but realised that what little energy he has left in his age must be preserved for his big confrontation. He hung his head reluctantly and thanked the lady for her information.

As he walked down the cold fluorescent hallway, he ignored the moans and cries of pain from the rooms he passed. He was completely lost in his own head because today would be his first victory. He would no longer be the butt of jokes made by late-night talk show hosts or walk past toy shelves to see that not one child had bought one of his action figures. No, today, victory would be achieved through revenge; because in his sixty years of being a super villain, he never once defeated his life-long foe: The amazing, the cherished, the incredible superhero known to the world as Perfect Man. Perfect Man is exactly as he sounds; horrible. Constantly foiling a lifetime of takeover attempts of The Crimson Fowler and being responsible for multiple embarrassing defeats in the eyes of the public and the supervillain community. Always shining in the sky as a beacon of hope for all to worship as some sort of Christlike deity who had countlessly saved the day many times; but today is different, isn’t it? The Crimson Fowler grinned ominously as he walked as quickly as he could, which could only be compared to the pace of diseased livestock, to have his final showdown with Perfect Man. Finally, he reached the room. Every evil attempt to take over the city, every embarrassing defeat and every concocted evil plan of destruction and doom had led to this exact moment. The final showdown. God and The Devil.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the room taking his signature stance. There was Perfect Man, sitting on the edge of his bed with his back to The Crimson Fowler, staring out the window in front of him. Suddenly, The Crimson Fowler realised he had forgotten one of his opening moves. He reached into his old utility belt and took out a smoke pellet that he used whenever he wanted to appear or disappear. He threw it at the ground as quickly and hard as he could hoping Perfect Man hadn’t noticed him yet. The pellet hit the ground but only a tiny stream of smoke slithered out followed by a cold silence. It finally occurred to him that he hadn’t updated or used his gear since Bob Hawke was in office. He shook off another failure and placed his fists on each side of his waste. So be it, if the pellet didn’t strike fear, it would have to be the stance. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old foe: Perfect Man! Just when you thought I’d never return, I have risen from the depths of darkness, and I have…returned!” He laughed maniacally, hoping that Perfect Man hadn’t noticed he screwed up his opening dialogue and the smoke pellet. He waited for Perfect Mans response but he still sat on the bed with his back turned, completely unfazed. The Crimson Fowler put his hands behind his back and began to stroll around the bed confidently. “Yes, it seems the tables have indeed been turned, my feeble friended foe because it seems that it is I who finally got the drop on you.” He boasted. This was in reference to the multiple times that Perfect Man had constantly flown through the ceiling or wall to catch The Crimson Fowler entirely off guard. It was something he truly hated, so being able to finally return the favour was all too satisfying. As The Crimson Fowler paced around the bed, he saw that Perfect Man still hadn’t move an inch.

“For years you have stood in the way of my conquest for world domination.” He said with malice as he raised his fists in the air. “I spent years toiling away in my lair using nothing but my intellect and technology to give me the powers of a god, but you’ve been born with a natural talent for that haven’t you?!”. Perfect Man remained silent and continued to stare out the window. “You, who was born with the strength, the speed, the looks.” He stated. The Crimson Fowler began to look at the palms of his hands again “I had to build everything I have! The rocket boots, the mechanical gloves of strength; It’s almost as if you were given the world on a silver platter from the day you were born.”. Suddenly, The Crimson Fowler became pensive. “Remember, the first time we clashed?” he asked, Perfect Man remained silent. “I was just a young man, no older than twenty-one” The Crimson Fowler began to stare out the window. “I was trying to rob a bank and had just made the police cease on their fragile attempts to stop me.” Suddenly, The Crimson Fowler hunched his shoulders in anger and frustration “Then YOU showed up. Busting through the roof like some holy force of the heavens. Everyone was trembling at my presence, but you didn’t, did you? You walked right up to me and didn’t say a word before you put me through a wall as if I were child’s doll that you had become tiresome of.” Perfect Man didn’t respond as The Crimson Fowler spun around in fury. “Then you handed me to the police as if I were a bad dog in need of euthanasia!” The Crimson Fowler took another step towards Perfect Man.

“Once you humiliated me in front of the world, I was jailed and labelled by the public as a monster. It was painfully obvious what my destiny was going to be. So, if that was how you and world wanted to see me, then fine! I’ll be the monster that you see me as, I will be the taker of life, the bringer of evil that seeps from the dark, black core that is my genius!”. The Crimson Fowler took another step towards Perfect Man, his voice starting to tremble, but he didn’t know why. “You didn’t even speak to me that first time we clashed, thinking that I wasn’t even worth your time…” The Crimson Fowler looked away coldly “or help.” He turned to face Perfect Man again “Do you know why I needed money so bad?” he asked. Perfect Man stayed silent. “Because I was dropped from my job. The government wanted my talents and creations to help lead them into a new world, a utopia. But when they thought they found something better elsewhere, they repossessed all my work. My work! The very thing I had dedicated my life to so I could make the world a better place.” He said bitterly. The Crimson Fowler became a little withdrawn at his own words “because that’s the catalyst for my life. You never asked me “why?”. In all the years we’ve battled against one another you never stopped to ask how I was feeling or why I was chasing world domination. You’d just swoop in and flick me away like my insignificance had no place in this world” The Crimson Fowler, as quick as he could, grabbed Perfect Mans dusty walking frame and, surprisingly, tipped it over with ease as if he had acquired the strength of his younger self. “Fool! You don’t know what humiliation is!” he roared. Silence.

The Crimson Fowler sighed in defeat and stared out the window before finally sitting next to Perfect Man on the edge of the bed. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, I just needed help and maybe…” as he began his confession, he shut his eyes in pain as he tried to stop the stream of tears making their way out. “Maybe, I just wanted someone to talk to. Someone to tell me that I wasn’t alone or that there was a better way than the path and label I had been so cruelly given. You were loved and favoured by the world while I became shunned and nothing more than a caricature of shame. I became cold and ruthless; I lived off my genius alone. But then one day, I looked at my hands, and they were old. I had fallen to a life of mediocrity after our last encounter because it became clear to me over time that I’ll always be chasing you, the gap never closing between us. Forever living in your shadow” The Crimson Fowler clenched his fists to try and contain his emotions. “But that isn’t the reason I came here.”

The Crimson Fowlers voice began to break “I wanted to tell you that I love you. I’ve always loved you, even when it seemed like I didn’t and when they called me and told me about your debilitative state, I had to come see you.” The Crimson Fowler slowly began to relax his body in defeat and in tears. “I just thought maybe if I saw you one last time, that it could bring you out of your dementia… because you’re the only person in my life I have left.” he confessed. What was left of The Crimson Fowlers heart had been put on the table. He cried quietly. His sobs falling on unresponsive ears. “Mother always liked you best” he finally admitted. Suddenly, Perfect Man gently began to rest his head on The Crimson Fowlers shoulder. The Crimson Fowler put one arm around Perfect Man and rested his head on his. For where two adversaries once were, all that remained were two brothers at the end of their time.