R. R. Knight

Malcolm Price woke up with a Post-it note on his nose and a headache so excruciating that he could feel it in his teeth. The only light in his dilapidated rental home came from his old CRT television. Its orange and red glow hung throughout the living room like a fog, and the Looney Tunes theme rolled through the air. Choruses of cheerful trumpets and ACME Boom!s and Bang!s pounded into his aching skull like a mallet. He peeled the tiny piece of paper off his nose and rubbed a bit of the sting from his eyes. “I can’t keep doing this,” Mal read aloud. “Get a handle on yourself or next time you’re going straight to the Black Box. -G.B.” He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. G.B. for Golden Boy, Mal thought. Hank won’t even sign a note to his own brother with his real name anymore? Mal crumpled the note in his fist. And why the heck is he threatening me with a prison for supes? I paid rent.

                Mal’s twin brother Hank, older by forty-two seconds, was one of the newest do-gooders in town. His augmented strength and speed were the result of a homemade super soldier serum which he swore up and down that he couldn’t recreate, despite his months of research and aggravatingly detailed notes. The augmented ego, however, Hank had from birth.

With a groan, Mal hoisted himself up off the creaky leather couch. He tried to stand but his feet caught on some kind of blanket and he flopped face-first onto his mustard yellow shag-carpet. He squirmed, attempting to wriggle his feet free, but the more he struggled against the blanket the more something around his neck tightened, strangling him! A chain?! He quickly hooked his thumbs beneath the metal chain, and managed to kick his feet free before choking himself out with his…cape? He didn’t own a cape.

He sat up and tugged at the chain around his throat, inspecting it. Despite how thin it was, it still managed to hold the heavy folds of black cloth in place over his shoulders. A sizable black hood draped awkwardly around his neck. Then, he looked down at what he was wearing. It was just as he feared: spandex. Baggy, ill-fitting spandex as black as his cape and cowl, with slashes of white that accentuated his xylophone ribcage and paper-thin legs. A pale silver skull belt buckle tied the ensemble together. Knee-high black boots with steel capped toes and elbow length black gloves with spiked knuckles were arranged neatly beside his cluttered coffee table. The costume’s metal bits flickered softly in the light of Bugs Bunny smacking Elmer Fudd around with a hammer. Mal massaged his temples. What the heck happened to me? And who dressed me like this?

A pile of newspaper clippings rested in a freshly cleaned spot at the center of the coffee table. Another Post-it sat atop them. Mal crawled over to investigate, pushing empty pizza boxes and whiskey bottles out of his way. Read these, the note said. His brother’s handwriting again.

“I don’t wanna.” Mal grumbled, flicking the Post-it aside. Ever since the Austin American-Statesman had laid him off, reading newspaper clippings was the last thing he felt like doing. It wasn’t his fault nobody wanted to read his ‘Villains Weekly’ column. Well, pay to read, more like. His target audience were, after all, almost exclusively criminals. He reached for his smart phone instead of the neatly piled articles. The call quickly went through.

“Hank—”

“Golden Boy,” his brother irritatingly corrected, for the umpteenth time.

Mal snapped, the full weight of his hangover crashing down on him all at once. “Dude, do you know how weird it feels to have a thirty-five year old man, let alone my older brother, insist that I call him Golden Boy?”

“Malcolm!” It came out as more of a snarl than his actual name.

“Especially,” Mal continued, “when I have fairly good reason to believe that you’re currently wearing a glittery golden body glove?”

“That’s it. I’m hanging up.”

“Oh, why?” Mal blazed. “Do you have the Forty-Pusher on the other line? Are you gonna name your new crime fighting duo Midlife Crisis?”

Click.

Mal pinched the bridge of his nose as the ‘Call Ended’ notification flashed on his smart phone. Being snippy wasn’t helping, but that Golden Boy routine was just so annoying. Mal let out a deep breath, idly fussing with the loose spandex at his chest. A sinking feeling told him that this costume wasn’t the result of some rowdy late-night party that his memory had blacked out. More than likely, it had something to do with the strange case of narcolepsy he’d developed over the past few weeks. The thought wasn’t comforting. He needed answers, and Hank had them–whether Mal liked it or not.

He took a deep breath, and redialed his brother.

After what felt like an eternity, the call finally connected. His brother didn’t speak.

“Alright, Golden Boy,” Mal acquiesced, “will you please tell me what the heck is going on?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that, Malcolm.” Golden Boy didn’t try to hide his disappointment. “What have you done to yourself?”

“Why’s it always gotta be my fault?!” Mal flared. He was a child again, shouting at his brother over broken toys. It didn’t matter what he’d done.

“Are you telling me that you started transforming into that…that Thing totally out of the blue? You had nothing to do with it?” Golden Boy’s voice rang with contempt.

“What Thing?! Is that why I’m wearing this freaking outfit?!” Mal’s fears started to confirm themselves.

“Did you read the newspaper articles I left for you?”

“No, I figured you were trying to remind me how unemployed I was.”

“Why would I do that, Malcolm?”

“Because you’re a humorless dick,” Mal sniped.

Mal could feel Golden Boy give him ‘The Stare’ through the phone. “You really don’t know what’s been happening to you, do you?”

“No, of course I don’t know!”

“Just read! God, Mal, why are you always like this?!” The façade of the ‘Golden Boy’ dropped, and Hank finally emerged.

Hearing Hank’s voice (annoyed though it was), free from the forced ‘perfect diction’ and fake basso of the hero persona, was comforting. Mal scooped the pile of newspaper clippings up from his coffee table. “It’s a little brother’s duty to be obnoxious at all times.” Mal smiled.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” Hank was beginning to calm down.

“Impossibly handsome, maybe,” Mal mused, rubbing the stubble of his gaunt cheeks. Hank snorted. Mal flicked through the neatly cut newspaper articles, glancing at photographs and headlines. The first few were mostly graffiti; the word ‘Switch’ messily tagged on a wall, trap doors painted in alleyways with uncanny detail. One tag stood out from the rest though—a painting of a tunnel on the outer wall of a bank, depicting the empty inside of a vault. The detail was exquisite, even in newspaper black-and-white, though only one empty paint can and one large brush laid on the ground next to it. Had the artist been chased off by the cops before they could grab the rest of their gear? “Ya know, whoever’s doing these tags is pretty darn good. Especially this bank vault one.” Mal mused.

Hank didn’t say anything. He’d always hated street art, preferring instead to call it ‘vandalism’ or ‘throw-ups.’

Mal turned to the next clipping. When he saw the picture, his jaw dropped. The cloaked stranger in the photograph was wearing the exact same costume that he’d woken up in! The billowing hood and cape hid nearly every detail about the person’s body except for a big, sneering grin, but from what Mal could see—a leg here, an elbow there, it was clear that the costume fit this person perfectly—as though it were made for them. A burlap sack with a dollar sign spray-painted on its side was slung over the stranger’s shoulder. The headline read, “Switch Strikes Again!!” Mal looked down at his loose spandex then back up at the photo. His stomach knotted. “Oh, Christ…”

“Did you read?”

“Is that…me?”

“Mal, are you reading it?”

“What was in the bag, Hank? The one with the dollar sign sprayed on it.”

“Not what you think, I can tell you that. That photo was taken when Switch first appeared in costume, a week or so after the bank job.”

“So…not money?”

“No, not money,” Hank sighed. “Kittens and marzipan.”

Mal blinked. “Wanna run that by me again?”

“That Thing you turn into, Switch, stole kittens and marzipan, posed for a photo, then pulled a grapnel gun out of Its pocket and went swinging away.”

“Dude, I have a grapnel gun?!” Mal tossed the bits of newspaper back down on the coffee table and excitedly started pawing around his baggy costume. His eagerness fizzled when he made a saddening discovery. “Uh, Hank? I don’t mean to be that guy or anything, but this costume doesn’t have any pockets. Plus, I don’t see any particularly villainous gadgets lying around my living room.”

“I was there, Mal. I know what I saw.”

“I think I would know if I was sitting on a freaking grapnel gun, Hank! Spandex doesn’t exactly cushion the behind!”

There was a long pause. Hank must have been thinking. “That’s impossible,” Hank muttered. “I’ve seen Switch pull everything from a tommy gun to giant hammers out of Its pockets. The pockets are there, they have to be! Only, hidden somehow!”

Mal tugged at his hips. “Sorry man, these are just stretchy pants. No pockets, no utility belt, no nothing. Just a skull belt buckle that’s somehow sewn on.”

“Poke it.”

“Hell no, I’m not gonna poke it!”

“Seriously, Mal. Poke it. It might do something.”

“That’s EXACTLY why I don’t wanna poke it!”

“Ugh!” Hank groaned. “C’mon, you chicken!”

“YOU come poke it, Hank! You’re the hero! I’ve seen the kind of stuff Lord Vile’s gadgets can do, there’s no way I’m touching this thing.”

“How would you know what Vile’s gadgets can do?”

“The, uh,” Mal hesitated a little too long. “The News! I reported on villainous stuff, remember? I know these things.”

The Golden Boy was back. “Malcolm.”

“Well…” Mal bit his lip. He could feel his brother giving him ‘The Stare’ again. Mal bristled. “Well, you’re the one who wouldn’t repeat that stupid experiment so I could have powers too!”

“Damn it, Malcolm! Like I told you, I couldn’t do it because it was too dangerous! There was no way to predict how the serum would have affected your DNA!”

“We’re identical twins, you ass!”

“I’m older! I don’t know what difference those forty-two seconds could have made!” Always ‘those forty-two seconds.’ Ever since they were kids, it had been ‘those forty-two seconds.’ They were why dad left, they were why mom died, they were why Hank was better at everything and Mal had always fallen flat on his face. Those damned forty-two seconds.

“You can shove your forty-two seconds!!” Mal erupted. “Don’t try and act like you know better than me just because you’re a stupid geneticist, Hank! I know identical twins have the exact same DNA, I Googled it! The serum would’ve worked on me too, but you didn’t wanna share any of the glory!”

“What. Did. You. Do?”

“I…” Mal reigned in his anger. “I made a deal.”

“With who?”

Mal gulped. “Commander Havoc.”

Golden Boy exploded. “WHY WOULD YOU EVER ASK THAT PSYCHOPATH FOR ANYTHING?! He’ll kill you as fast as look at you, and you’re making deals with him?!”

“He’s not so bad, man. We all went to high school together, remember?”

“Yeah, sure, I remember that. The problem is that I also remember him throwing me out of a third-story window less than a month ago, alongside a primed freaking grenade! What possible deal would he make with you?”

“I gave him some info, and he set up a meeting for me with MadSpark.” Golden Boy was silent, so Mal kept talking. “Havoc said MadSpark had a new super soldier formula that he wanted to try out, and since their usual test-guy was, uh, indisposed, I volunteered.” Still, Golden Boy was quiet. Mal instinctively fell on the defensive. “All it made me do was keep passing out in weird places! I never woke up in costume before! I just thought I had super narcolepsy or something, how was I supposed to know that I was transforming into a supervillain?!”

“What was the formula called?” Golden Boy asked with brittle patience.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because,” Golden Boy said, with straining composure, “if I know what you’re infected with, I might be able to make a cure. MadSpark may be a big bucket of psycho, but he’s still a scientist. The formula’s name might give me a clue as to what it was made with.”

“I think it was, uh,” Mal tried to remember. “J-3KL, or something. I donno, man.”

Mal could hear his brother scribbling the letters down over the phone. Hank always had a heavy hand. Golden Boy paused after he’d written the name down. “Jesus, Malcolm…”

“What?” Mal’s heart was in his throat.

“Written down in front of me, it’s as plain as day. Especially given the… symptoms.” Golden Boy sounded eerily clinical. “I have a feeling J-3KL might stand for Jekyll, Malcolm. As in, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Either MadSpark has a sense of humor or he was serious when he named it, and I don’t know which would be worse.”

“Oh, God…” Mal’s stomach knotted. “Switch is…”

“Switch is your Mr. Hyde.”

The cheerful chorus of a new Looney Tunes episode burst to life on Mal’s janky television. In a panic, Mal threw an empty whiskey bottle straight through the screen; happy trumpets interrupted by a blast of broken glass and sizzling electronics. The ensuing silence was tangible.

“How did you find out I was Switch?” Mal asked.

“I knocked Switch unconscious and It turned back into you in a puff of smoke and confetti.”

“How did you beat It?” Mal, feeling more violated by the strange entity inside of him with every passing second, adopted his brother’s lingo.

“Figuring out how to stop It wasn’t easy. Fighting Switch is like looking into the face of pure madness. It never spoke to me, just…giggled. Giggled, and blew things up. It threw a car at me once too, but I guess It prefers giant hammers. If one size hammer didn’t work, Switch would just pull out a bigger, angrier looking one from Its pocket until one did the job. I can’t even imagine what’s going on in that Thing’s mind.” Golden Boy let out an exasperated breath. “Eventually, all of Switch’s nonsense gave me an idea: fight crazy with crazy. So, giving into one of the most insane ideas I’ve ever had, I held up my hand, pointed my fingers at Switch like a gun, and yelled Bang!”

“…Seriously?” Mal was incredulous. “Did that actually work?”

“Like a charm. Switch fell over, pulled a single tulip out of Its pocket, crossed Its arms over Its chest, and hummed Chopin’s funeral march. Then, poof. There you were, wearing Its costume. Imagine my surprise.”

“And then you took me back here.” Mal swallowed hard. “Protected me.”

“Against all of my better judgment, yes. You’re welcome, by the way.” Golden Boy finally asked the question Mal was afraid of. “What information did you give Havoc, Malcolm?”

Mal didn’t answer–didn’t want to answer.

Hank asked again, “What did you tell them, Mal?”

Mal choked, stifling a sniffle. “…You’re in danger.”

“You didn’t…”

“I’m sorry, Hank.” Mal wiped a tear away. “T-Telling them who you were was the only way to get the formula!”

Golden Boy, Hank, was speechless.

“I’m sorry!! I’m so sorry! I—”

His brother cut him off, voice icier than Mal had ever heard it before. “I hope it was worth it, Mal.” Then, Hank hung up.

Mal melted down. He’d betrayed his own blood for a shot at power. Power he didn’t even get to have. Instead, he’d just gotten a psychopathic stranger living beneath his skin. He’d turned on Hank out of jealousy, and Hank had protected him out of love. Mal was absolutely gutted. Hank deserved to be the hero. And Mal? Mal deserved this.

He flung pizza boxes and hurled empty bottles at every bit of tacky 70’s décor his rental home had to offer. He was a disgrace. A traitor, a coward, and he hated himself for it. In a rage, he planted a bare heel on his coffee table and sharply kicked it over. Newspaper clippings flew everywhere, scattering across his shaggy carpet. His eyes flickered over them, picking up more and more headlines.

‘Switch Drops Anvils from Rooftop, Seven Injured!’

‘Switch Reduced to Pile of Ashes by Tesla Boy, Blinks Twice, Regenerates?!’

‘Switch Transforms into Donkey, Taunts Golden Boy!’

Mal stomped on a headline reading ‘Switch Shot Point Blank, Heals Hole in Chest by Blowing on Thumb?!’ and twisted his foot. There was a pattern. A pattern to Switch’s powers that none of these reporters, not even his brother, had seemed to notice. Switch was acting like a cartoon. A living, breathing, demented Looney Tune. That’s why the costume had no pockets—Switch didn’t need them. The pockets existed whenever Switch felt like they should, and they held whatever Switch wanted them to hold. Mal remembered some of the things Bugs Bunny had pulled out from behind his back, and cringed. Just what mayhem could Switch cause if It could pull a two-ton hammer out from behind Its back at a whim? Not to mention an exploding cigar, spiked boxing gloves, bundles of dynamite or even a freaking bazooka?! People had already been hurt. It was only a matter of time before they were going to get killed.

Mal knelt down and skimmed the bank job article. ‘Unknown robber(s) clean out entire vault,’ Mal kept reading. ‘There were no signs of a break-in, and no violence. Just mysterious graffiti on the alley-side wall. No fingerprints recovered from paint can or brush.’ One can, and one brush. At last, it clicked. There was only one can of paint because Switch only needed one. Cartoons didn’t need more than one color. Switch had painted the tunnel, walked straight through the wall into the vault, and cleaned it out—likely all with one massive sack. So why kittens and freaking marzipan for the next heist?

Unless…

“Of course!” Mal tossed the clipping aside, thinking aloud. “Cartoons don’t need money! The first heist was too boring! Switch only cares about mayhem and getting a good laugh! It’s not the money, it was never the money. It probably just burned it all after the heist was finished! Switch only wants an audience!” He snatched up the boots and gloves from the floor, scattered by his fit. “Well, I’ll give you an audience, you little body-snatcher. You can have all the surveillance you want—in prison!”

Mal was going to put a stop to this madness. He owed at least that to his brother, not to mention all the people Switch had hurt. Hank was right. Switch was out of control, and needed to be locked up inside the Black Box. This is how he’d make it up to Hank. Turning himself in, and getting a rising villain off the streets. Maybe this way Mal could be a hero too.

He suited up.

The gloves were too snug, making the spiked knuckles stick out at awkward angles, and the boots fit too narrow. Plus, the heels were awkwardly raised—but then, wearing almost exclusively Converse high-tops, any form of heels or arch support felt strange to him. He glanced at himself in his hallway mirror on his way out the door. “I’m turnin’ you in, Switch,” he said to his reflection, in his best deputy impression. Filled with pride, he drew the big black hood up over his head and went out the door.

Texas heat wasn’t kind to heavy black cloth, and he was sweating by the time he reached the end of his block. Thankfully, the hood kept the sun out of his eyes. The Austin police station wasn’t a far walk from his rental home, but all the strange looks and guffaws he was getting on his way down 8^th street made the trek feel quite a bit longer than it was. He didn’t know if his cheeks were flushed with heat or if he was just outright blushing.

Finally, he reached APD headquarters. With a woosh of his cape, he bounded up the stairs and threw open the front doors. The officer at the front desk instinctively reached for his gun, then paused and stared quizzically at the costume-clad Mal. The other people in the lobby, mostly civilians, jumped or flinched at the surprisingly loud bang of the lobby doors.

“Officer,” Mal trumpeted as he rested his fists on his hips, cape settling around his ankles, “I’ve come to turn myself in! No doubt you’ve heard of me; the notorious Switch!” He struck a pose.

The officer bit his lip, trying to hide his smile. “Uh, sorry, sir. I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

“Preposterous!” Mal boomed, suddenly understanding why Hank had a ‘Golden Boy’ voice. It somehow made wearing spandex in public less awkward. “I am Switch! Taker of kittens, and wielder of large hammers! I demand to be locked up in the Black Box immediately!”

“Sir,” the officer said patiently, “You aren’t Switch.”

“Yes I am!” Mal boiled. He was too Switch! His own brother had watched him transform! “I’m telling you, I’m Switch! Just look at my costume! Arrest me!!”

Some people in the lobby snickered. One whispered to another, “More like a big camp looney.”

“I am looking at your costume, sir,” the officer offered, “and while I appreciate your, um, enthusiasm, I can say with utmost certainty that you aren’t her.”

Mal froze. “…I’m not what now?”

“Switch is a girl, dumbass!” someone in the lobby shouted.

“A-A what?” Mal stammered.

“Switch is a woman, sir.” The officer said. “A petite woman with fluorescent red hair.” The officer spoke as if he were addressing a child. “And well, sir, you…aren’t. You’re a man. A bearded man, with brown hair. I know she wears a domino mask under that hood and all, but a mask sure doesn’t hide your, um…” the officer cleared his throat.

Mal quickly covered up with his cape, blushing fiercely. A girl? Switch was a GIRL?! Is that why Hank kept calling Switch an ‘It,’ because he didn’t want to deal with the fact that his little brother turned into a sociopathic cartoon LADY?! Is this why his costume fit wrong? Because he was in DRAG?! At the damned POLICE STATION?!

“Seriously buddy,” a man called out from a nearby seat, “don’t you read the papers?”

“Not now, man!” Mal shouted, throwing his hand up toward the stranger. “I am sorting out some serious shit over here, OKAY?! GIVE ME A MINUTE!!”

“Are you alright, sir?” the officer asked, rising slightly from behind the desk. “Your face is turning colors.” The look on the officer’s face was nothing compared to those of the other people in the lobby.

Mal met the officer’s eyes. “Can’t I have just one thing?”

“I’m…sorry?” the officer asked, concern deepening.

“Just one thing?” Mal continued. “Sure, I sold out my own brother. Sure, I turn into a psychotic cartoon character whenever I fall asleep. Sure, I don’t even get to enjoy my own freaking powers. But now I find out that I’VE GOTTA TURN INTO A GOD DAMNED GIRL WHENEVER I–” his voice caught in his throat. “…Do you hear that?”

“Hear…what?”

“That,” Mal said, looking around suspiciously. “Sounds like…trumpets.”

“Sir, maybe you’d like to sit down—”

Mal shushed him with a finger, listening. Realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. He recognized that cacophony trumpets, warped though the chorus was. “No…” he muttered. “No, no, no…” he tried to turn, tried to leave, but couldn’t move his feet. Something held him in place. His eyes snapped back to the police officer in a mad panic. “You have to run! Have to get out! Everyone, get out of here!!”

The twisted version of the Looney Tunes theme rattled louder and louder in Mal’s brain, and a hideous smile forcibly wrenched itself across his face. His bones snapped and popped as his body began to change. A veil of messy, neon red hair fell across his eyes, and the cold rubber of a domino mask wrapped itself over his face like living ink. Suddenly, his gloves fit. His boots didn’t hurt. The spandex wasn’t so loose on his hips or chest. The theme echoed in his mind like a corrupt symphony, swelling with every repetition of the chorus. Switch began to giggle. Mal was only distantly aware of the officer screaming, of the people’s panic, as they watched him change.

No, Mal pleaded to Switch in his mind, not while I’m awake. Not while I can see…

Hush, silly! Switch answered cheerily, her voice replacing his own thoughts. Don’t you wanna join me? Come and play!

Switch reached into her pocket and pulled out a can of paint. Mal watched her paint a fully detailed tunnel on the lobby wall in four quick strokes of an oversized brush. Then, she painted train tracks. Immediately, the distant, thundering boom of an oncoming locomotive’s horn echoed through the packed room. No, Mal begged her. Please, no! Please, God, no!! You need to stop, you’re gonna kill all these people!!

Blah blah blah, Switch giggled. We don’t need to stop! What we need is a lil’ bit of PANIC!!

Switch, and a horrified Mal, watched a thick trail of black smoke begin billowing up over the painted horizon, writhing like a headless serpent. A rogue train was coming. It was going to run rampant through the police department, and Mal couldn’t do a single thing to stop it.

Had this been Switch’s plan all along?

Had she wanted him to try and turn himself in?

Her giggling turned into a demented cackle, and Mal’s vision faded to black.