Sharing my first drafts with the world


It was a beautiful day in Citysville. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, and Dr. Malados, Master of Poison and Disease, was about to rob a bank. Glancing down at a pocket mirror, the Doctor checked his appearance. His dark green lab-coat-shirt-and-pants ensemble was precisely smeared in stains of indeterminate origin and was perfectly covering up his combat exoskeleton. His goggles, freshly shaved head, and equally freshly waxed moustache were all in order, reflecting so much of the daylight outside the Citysville bank that one could have mistaken him for an over-dressed street lamp.

  Malados snapped his mirror shut and nodded to his Nurses. Malados would’ve loved to call his henchpeople by name, but with their body shape-hiding scrubs and face-dissimulating surgical masks, they all looked the same. He may not have been able to name all of them, or any of them, really, but Malados’ green outfit complimented the Nurses’ purple ones perfectly, and that was enough. A cacophony of mechanical Click-Clacks resounded from the alley the Nurses were hidden in, and they emerged, all wielding variations of Doctor Malados’ Patented Toxin Spewers™. The weapons may have looked like children’s water guns, all spheres of toxins and brightly coloured plastic, but the devastation they produced was anything but. As his accomplices crowded around him, and civilians on the street began to dial the police, Malados kicked the door in.

The alarm blared as the Nurses spewed into the building, firing blasts of corrosive goo into the walls and onto the floor as they went. It didn’t take long for panic to spread. Men and women threw themselves to the floor, cowering before the doctor’s maleficent might. Malados examined the crowd of cowering civilians; average age in the mid-forties, majority men, but only slightly, mainly rich. This was the job for script 16-gamma.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, stepping up on to a teller’s desk “I do not believe introductions are necessary, but they shall be in order nonetheless. My name is Dr. Alphonse Malados, Master of Poisons and Diseases in all their forms, so-called ‘supervillain’ and nemesis to the alleged ‘superhero’ Sandwich-Man. This is a robbery, as I’m sure you’re all aware, and my very friendly Nurses are currently making their rounds around the bank. If you are calm, peaceful, and ever so generous with them, I guarantee that you will all go home safe and sound tonight. Oh, and one more thing. Please don’t try to be heroes, there’s already one on his way.”

Behind his goggles, Malados closed his eyes and listened. The sound of cash and valuables quickly moving from sweaty palm to awaiting burlap sack was music to his ears. His plan was finally coming to fruition. Tantalizingly soon, Sandwich-Man would be no more.

Minutes passed, and the symphony of crime came to an end. Everything of value in the bank was now in the hands of his Nurses. Dumping all their sacks into the middle of the room, they assembled in front of their boss,

“Alright now, you know the drill. Chop-chop!” said Malados, poorly snapping his rubber-gloved fingers together.

With practiced precision, the Nurses swiftly gagged all the hostages, and then, much to the hostage’s confusion, each other. Once gagged, the henchpeople stripped down and changed into quite possibly the least interesting clothes Malados had ever seen. 

Professionally silent as ever, the Nurses quickly spread themselves among the crowd of terrified hostages in a wave of beige. Everything in place, Malados strolled to the front doors of the building. As if on cue, a scratchy, megaphone-enhanced voice cut through the blare of police sirens surrounding the building,

“What are your demands, Malados? How much money do you want for the hostages?”

“Foolish police commissioner,” Malados replied, his voice dripping with as much malice and condescension as he could muster, “I have no need for anything as meaningless as currency. What I require is far more valuable…. The defeat of Sandwich-man!”

“Um…. And what do you want us to do about that?” replied the commissioner.

Malados sighed, there was no point with these amateurs. All evil gone from his voice, he said,

“Send Sandwich-Man in alone, and I’ll release the hostages, alright?”

“To be honest, we were gonna send him in once you released the hostages anyway,” the commissioner said.

“I know, but I’m a busy megalomaniac, and I have things to do. So quickly now, or some faces are going to get melted.”

With that, Malados turned sharply and slammed the door shut. As he waited for the signal from the police, Malados realized something: he had fought Sandwich-man dozens of times, and before every battle, he would be a ball of nerves. This time was different, though. He was serene. Everything was going according to plan, and if it stayed that way, Sandwich-Man would be no more by day’s end.

It didn’t take long before the commissioner’s megaphone screeched to life once more,

“Malados, Sandwich-Man is here! Release the hostages!”

Upon hearing this, the Doctor pulled a small, pistol-sized version of his Toxin Sprayer from his lab coat and fired a shot at the crowd’s feet,

“You heard the lady, run! As fast as you can!”

As the hostages stampeded down the steps of the building, Malados checked his pockets, sleeves, pants, and goggles. Everything was perfectly functional. It was time. As soon as the sounds of the civilians stopped, a new sound reached the Doctor’s ears. It was a high whistle, the sound of a cape slicing through the air like so much deli meat.

The Doctor turned to the door and had only to wait a moment or so before a colorful blur slammed it open, blowing the reinforced steel straight off its hinges, and sending it crashing into the empty room.

Sandwich-man hovered a few inches above the ground, basking in the light of the noon-day sun, mere feet away from his arch-rival. Sandwich-man looked, well…. like a sandwich. His handsome, chiseled face was in sharp contrast to his outfit. The hero wore a cap in the shape of a slice of bread and a shirt that shone like newly-spread mustard. His leggings were as red as the freshest tomato ever sliced, and his lettuce-cape fluttered in the wind of his entrance.

 “Hey there, Malados! Want a knuckle sandwich?”

Hearing his enemy’s classic line, Malados lept back, his legs powered by his patented Poison-Hydraulics Exoskeleton™. As he flew through the air, he fired his pistol. The poisonous goop struck true multiple times, each one sending up a cloud of green smoke. Malados landed and waited until the smoke cleared, revealing Sandwich-man, untouched. In his hand, he held three slices of toasted bread, now thoroughly drenched in poison.

“Nothing soaks up liquids like a good ol’ bread sandwich,” Sandwich-man said, grinning.

The hero crouched, discarding the toxin-soaked toast, and sprung towards Malados, throwing his ham-sized fist into the Doctor’s stomach. His exoskeleton absorbed part of the impact, but much of it went through, launching the villain into a far wall with a massive crash and a cloud of dust.  

“Come on, Malados.” the hero said, looking pitifully at his obscured enemy, “We both know my sandwicomancy is more than enough to take on whatever it is you can throw at me. Why don’t you just turn yourself in and tell me where your henchmen are.”

They always stare at the dust, Malados thought as he powered up his exoskeleton legs, having successfully flanked his archnemesis. In a plume of green steam, the Doctor shot towards the strangely-dressed hero and grabbed him by the throat, tackling him into a teller’s desk.

Wordlessly, Malados raised his wrist-sprayers for a fatal blast of his most potent venom. His moment of triumph was cut short, however, when his weapon rattled and farted out a thimble’s worth of light orange mist.

“Oh, shi-“

         Before he could even finish his sentence, Sandwich-Man headbutted his opponent with such force that it sent him through a countertop, shattering it into a thousand pieces.

The battle raged on for what felt like hours, but was only minutes to the admittedly bored police waiting outside. Blows were exchanged, poison was sprayed and dozens of sandwiches were materialized from thin air, until all that remained was a battered, bloodied Sandwich-Man holding a defeated Malados aloft by the throat.

“Why do you keep fighting Malados,” the hero said, gasping, “This fight was over the second I entered the building.”

“Do you really want to know?” The doctor said, his voice ragged. His eyes were unfocused. Blood dripped from his nose and a dozen other wounds.

The hero nodded, and Malados turned to stare at him with a defiance that had not been there a second before. His voice as clear and full as when he entered the bank, the Doctor said,

“To make sure my new concoction had enough time to take effect.”

Sandwich-man opened his mouth, his mind filling with witty retorts, but was met only with a cough, then another, and another after that. With every cough, Sandwich-Man grew weaker. The hero’s sight blurred, and the world began to swim as he doubled over, letting go of the spindly scientist.

“You people always forget that I’m not just the poison guy, I call myself the Master of Diseases for a reason, you know,” Malados said, leaning over the fallen hero.

“What did you do to me….” Sandwich-man croaked between coughs.

“You’ll see soon enough,” the Doctor said, and Sandwich-man’s vision went dark.

Malados went through his checklist one last time before Sandwich-Man woke up. Setting everything up just right had been a pain in the indeterminately-stained backside and he wanted to make sure nothing went wrong: Entirely empty room save for a single hanging light bulb and a wooden chair to which the buffoon was tied? Check. Perfectly cleaned bay window overlooking a skyline that would later be used for dramatic purposes? Check. Bloodied and battered hero, about to be defeated by his archnemesis? Check.

Malados tossed his clipboard into a nearby corner, before turning on his heel and skulking towards the unconscious Sandwich-Man,

“Mikey…… ohhhhhh Mikeyyyy,” he trilled, his voice thick with contempt.

Sandwich-Man let out a snore.


Another snore.

Malados frowned. He opened his mouth to speak but paused.

“Oh, fuck it,” mumbled Malados, Master of Poisons and Diseases, before leaning back and smacking Sandwich-Man right in his deli-meat-coloured face.        

The hero groaned, stirring,

“Where…what…. What happened?”

“You lost, that’s what happened. You lost and now everything is going to get a whole lot worse for you.”

Ignoring the grade-A villainy that Dr Malados was performing, Sandwich-Man began to weakly thrash in his bonds, to no avail.

“What the hell did you do to me, Malados?!”

“It’s quite simple, Michael my dear boy. I used prototype nanomolecules as well as a sample of your genetic material extracted after one of our bouts. I combined those two using the Morzachter technique and the Von Halderburg procedure, which resulted in a brand-new affliction with symptoms that include drowsiness, mild irritation, superpower loss, erectile dysfunction, and jaundice. I mixed that with a simple soporific solution, turned the whole affair into mist and sprayed it straight in your moronic face.”


Malados took a deep breath and gave Sandwich-Man the most withering look he could muster, before saying:

“I made a disease that turns your powers off and used a poison to knock you out, Michael.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“’Cause it’s your name, you imbecile! Michael Malloy, Blood type AB-, age 34, one wife, no kids, one dog, lives on 368 12th avenue in apartment 3C. My men tell me your wife is quite the beautiful woman.

Sandwich-Man’s blood went cold:

“How did you find that out, you monster,” he growled, barely concealing the fear in his voice.

“I found that out incredibly easily, Michael, you barely hide it after all.”

“Bullshit. Not everyone is a mastermind like you, Malados. My identity is well-guarded.”

“You’re right, my intelligence is unmatched, but I wasn’t the one to figure out your identity.”

“What kind of crooked detective did you hire, villain.”

“I hired an intern, Michael. She’s 23 and figured it out the day after I told her to.”

“wha- how!” spluttered the hero, his bravado failing him.

“For starters, Michael Malloy owns a sandwich cart that has been at the scene of every single one of Sandwich-Man’s appearances, and always arrives about 3 minutes before Sandwich-Man does.”

“That doesn’t mean anyth-“

“FURTHERMORE,” Malados interrupted, “Michael Malloy is built like a brick shithouse. The exact same brick shithouse Sandwich-Man is built like, all the way down to the dimple in their chins.”

Sandwich-Man sat back, his mouth agape. Malados bent over and stared at the catatonic hero, before quizzically asking,

“Oh come now, don’t go into shock just ye-“

“Don’t hurt them,” Sandwich-Man mumbled, cutting Malados off.

“What’s that?” Malados asked, an evil grin spreading across his face.

“Don’t hurt my family, Malados, I don’t care what you do to me but they’re innocents.”

Malados’ grin spread so wide his skin seemed fit to split,

“Oh, don’t worry Mikey, I won’t hurt them. In fact, I’m not even going to hurt you. Not physically at least.”

Sandwich-Man stared, dazed, and said,

“What’re you talking about?”

“Mikey, do you know why I do this?” Malados asked,

“You’re greedy, same as all the other villains. You scum exploit the hard work of others for your own gain, leaching from the citizenry and taking what doesn’t belong to you,” Sandwich-Man hissed, voice dripping with malice.

“You done?”


“Mikey I have 6 PHDs and an MD. If I wanted to, I could work at any biolab research facility I wanted and make oodles more than I do in this racket. I antagonize you for one simple reason: I hate you.”

Sandwich-Man sat there in shocked silence.

“You are an arrogant, meat-headed imbecile who takes the law into his own hands with no thought for those you harm with collateral damage and no thought for oversight or accountability. You are more dangerous than a rogue nation and I’m including the ones with nukes.”

Michael Malloy said nothing. 

“I know I’m not strong enough to kill you, by God have I tried. But I also know that if you are driven by one thing, it’s pride. So I figured I’d hit you where it hurts.”

Malados tossed the seated Sandwich-Man straight into his pre-prepared dramatic window, before picking up the bloodied hero and pressing his nose down onto the glass, making him look down towards a nearby office building,

“See that? That is the corporate headquarters of Sandwich-Man’s Sandwich Shop. See those protestors? See how there are several thousand of them?”

“What have you done, Malados?”

“I had my lovely Nurses hard at work putting terrible strains of toilet-clogging diseases into your supply chain at every level. I’ve also had them hard at work sending proof to every news source they could find that you and your business are corrupt, and that Sandwich-Man and Michael Malloy are one and the same. I’m honestly surprised by just how easy it was for them to start hating you.”

Malados plopped Sandwich-Man down, giving him a perfect view of the world crumbling around him. Before Malados’ very eyes, Sandwich-Man began to weep,

“You’ll never win, you bastard. I’m Sandwich-Man, you animal. You’ll always be a villain, a monster and a lunatic.”

Malados grinned and simply said,

“You forgot one thing: I never needed to win. I just needed you to lose.”

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