Possibly Goldenmouth
by Andrew Farkas

“There will be no explanations.”

That’s what the Villain might have said, when the corpse of the Superspy lay sprawled out before him. That’s what he might have said, if he spoke at all.

But he doesn’t speak. Ever. 

And he definitely doesn’t explain.

If he were asked, the Villain might admit that originally, it’s true, he was overthinking things, was even primed to make the same mistakes others had made before him. The plans! Oh, the detailed, byzantine plans: to purchase large tracts of land, to hire architects and engineers who would design and oversee constructions of fortresses, underground lairs, medieval castles with science fiction interiors, space stations, all of which, following the blueprints, would be stuffed to bursting with elaborate death machines. 

But none of that, as it turns out, was necessary.

The Superspy, honestly, wasn’t especially super. The buffoon used his actual name. His own name! Can you believe it? He was even known for a distinctive way of saying his name. The police have a phrase, “Suicide by cop,” and the Villain is perhaps tempted to deem this, “Suicide by Villain.” Maybe. Or maybe he isn’t tempted in the least. There’s no corroborating witness or conversant accomplice. But to think, a spy with no cover! Or a cover so thin, even the spy himself isn’t dedicated to it. He was more dedicated to his vices. And as the Superspy goes, well, his vices were no secret at all.

So a gorgeous woman was hired and dispatched.

So drinks were made.

So the Superspy was rendered unconscious.

So the Superspy awakened in a modest, remote location procured by the Villain.

So the Superspy asked what he was expected to do.

So the Villain …

The Villain, even now, doesn’t call himself the Supervillain. It could be he doesn’t call himself the Supervillain in order to further debase the Superspy: “Your death was so easy to orchestrate, it wasn’t pulled off by a supervillain; it was managed by a plain old villain.” That doesn’t really mesh with the Villain’s personality, though. Too … verbose. It could be, then, the Villain doesn’t call himself the Supervillain because he leaves that title for those who came before, for those who unwittingly mentored him in villainy. More likely, yes. Still not quite right. So, it could be the Villain doesn’t call himself the Supervillain because he doesn’t call himself anything at all. That’s the ticket. 

Early in the going, did the Villain think about following in his forebears footsteps? Did he think about adopting a cartoonish name like Silencio Aurum (the Latin word for gold), Tacito Chrysos (the Greek word for gold), Goldenmouth (the obvious and conventional nod to Supervillains past), or did he at least consider calling his yacht Silence Is Golden? We have no evidence that he did; we have no evidence he didn’t. Fill in whichever story makes you feel better.

But here, if I may, I’d like to hazard a guess, an educated guess, as to what happened. Right before the Villain was set to make the same blunder past Supervillains had made, our crook had an epiphany. It is true, his predecessors were guilty of talking too much, of telling the Superspy their plans (all of their plans) when they should’ve just been killing him, but that was a symptom, not the disease. They were also guilty of inserting the Superspy into convoluted termination devices, but that was yet another symptom. The disease itself was this: along with money and power, the Supervillains wanted excitement. And so, they told the Superspy what evil machinations he’d be unable to stop because of the thrill it gave them; and so, they didn’t just shoot the Superspy because that would be, well, boring. Drab even. Anyway, who cares if the Superspy escapes? If he does, then there will be excitement galore into the future! 

This is where the Villain deviates from his brethren, though. Because the Villain is, we can say, more aligned with Woody Hayes, a legendary Ohio State coach who, when asked why he played such a bland style of football, said, “To hell with exciting. I’d rather be drab as hell and win.” That, I argue, is what the Villain wants. Not excitement. Not thrills.

He wants to win.

He wants his plans, whatever they may be (for, of course, he’s never described them to anyone), to be successful. Part of that success required the Villain to eliminate the Superspy. And so he did. No one was hired to carry out this execution. The Villain took care of it himself with a plain old pistol. Being villainous, it was really quite easy.

Of course, I’m sure you’re not happy to hear the Superspy, your hero, has been killed and so simply. Perhaps you imagine a time when you’re able to confront him, the Villain, there in the future, at last!, maybe on an exotic island, maybe in some secluded palace, maybe in the capital of a world power. You’ll rage. You’ll break things. You’ll talk to him as if he were an idiot, impugning his intelligence: “Didn’t you know your role? Didn’t you know what you were supposed to do? Do you know what you’ve done?” The Villain, I’m certain, will let you go on and on, waiting, waiting patiently for you to finally ask the question you really came to ask, the question he predicted would be leveled at him even before he killed the Superspy: 

“What do you have to say for yourself?!”

And then, the Villain, when he finally hears that question, having planned his response exactly, will smile. I know he’ll smile. Not a diabolical smile. Not a vindictive smile. Not a supercilious smile. Just a little and otherwise unidentifiable smile. And that will be all. 

Because what the Villain has to say to you, to me, to everyone, is nothing.     

Andrew Farkas is the author of The Great Indoorsman: Essays, The Big Red Herring (a novel), Sunsphere (stories), Self-Titled Debut (stories), and the forthcoming collections Are You Now, or Have You Ever Been? and Movies Are Fine for a Bright Boy Like You. He is an Associate Professor of Creative Writing at Washburn University and an editor at Always Crashing. He can be found at https://thegreatindoorsman.org/

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