It was a check-cashing place in a bad part of town. He was Slither-O, former king of the Viperian. They were – and still are – an ancient reptilian-like species from caverns beneath the surface of the Earth. And while that might seem like little more than lazy exposition, it’s also why Slither-O had been left waiting at the counter for nearly twenty minutes.
“I’m sorry for the wait, Mister,” a voice called out from somewhere behind quite a lot of security glass, then pausing to ensure they were, in fact, reading this silly name correctly, “Slither-O?”
“Yeah-huh?” Slither-O sarcastically hissed.
A woman stepped out from the small cubicle where she’d been pretending to speak with someone else and approached the counter. “So, I spoke with my manager.”
“Here it comes.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we won’t be able to help you cash your check today.”
“And why the Hell not?” he spat with the flaccid fury of a middle-aged, former king having been forced to wait twenty minutes for an answer he did not like.
“Well,” the employee said, then said nothing at all as she desperately searched for something, anything at all, to say, but then settled on, “you are a, uh…”
“You know…” the employee said, trailing off in that way where one really, really, really doesn’t want to piss off the former leader of an entire society of subterranean serpents, but really, really can’t avoid doing so.
“No,” Slither-O snapped. “I don’t know.” He pressed his face and fangs against the grimy surface of the security glass, and glared into the employees eyes. “So, why don’t you tell me?”
The employee began to speak. “Because you’re–”
“A man-snake?” Slither-O interjected.
The employee waited, realized she wasn’t going to be interrupted a second time, then finished her thought. “A supervillain.”
“Anyway,” the employee continued. “Mr. Slither-O. Because of your, let’s say, history with our, and other – many, many other – financial institutions–”
“Financial institution? This is a check-cashing place in a stripmall.”
“True,” she agreed. “But you were the one who went around robbing us. And I do mean us – this location – specifically. On several occasions.”
Slither-O threw the equivalent of his hands into the air. “That was years ago!”
“Also true. But because of that very true history, you’re officially banned from this location.”
“You’ve gotta be shitting,” Slither-O sighed.
“And all our sister locations,” she added.
“This is ridiculous! I served my time!”
“Also, the whole ‘man-snake’ thing.”
Slither-O looked at the woman, and the fight left him. “Wow.”
“Do man-snakes even have a valid form of identification?”
“I gave you my driver license.”
“Yes,” she said, “but aren’t man-snakes from like, Mars, or somethin’?”
Slither-O writhed in pain and groaned a loud, frustrated groan. “My family and I are from Arizona,” he corrected the employee. Then added, “Well, the caverns beneath Arizona”
“Hey!” someone shouted from behind Slither-O. “You can’t call it that.”
Slither-O turned to find a graying, bearded man with a large tummy and skinny legs poking out of a very short pair of shorts standing close behind him. “It?” Slither-O huh’d.
“Snakemen,” the graying, bearded man said. “Not ‘man-snakes.’”
Slither-O looked at the man. “Can we go back to how you called me a fuckin’ ‘It’?”
And yet another voice thought it a good idea to open their damned mouth at the worst time possible. “Snake-people, Dear.”
The graying, bearded man turned to a graying, moderately fuzzy-faced lady. “What’s that?”
The graying, moderately fuzzy-faced lady repeated herself. “They prefer to be called, ‘snake-people.’”
“No,” Slither-O said. “We don’t.”
“Oh, right,” the graying, bearded man said to the graying, moderately fuzzy-faced lady, then turned to Slither-O. “Sorry,” he sorry’d. “Snake-people.”
Slither-O looked at the smiling pair of oddly shaped people in front of him. “I should have incinerated you people years ago.”
The employee gasped, and clutched at a string of pearls that were very most definitely not there, as later made clear by security footage. “Excuse me?!”
“Did he just threaten us?” the graying, bearded man asked of no one in particular.
“I think so,” the graying, moderately fuzz-faced lady shrugged.
“Fascist,” the employee hissed from behind all that security glass.
“What the Hell is happening?” Slither-O sighed. “Are you hairless apes serious right now?”
The hairless apes gasped a collective hairless, ape-like gasp.
“Racist,” the graying, moderately fuzzy-faced ape ook’d.
“Robberies are one thing to overlook, Mr. Slither-O,” the employee said. “But I will not tolerate racists in my financial institution!” And she slapped a big, red button labeled SECURITY ALARM.
As a high-pitched, rather annoying alarm shrieked and a group of hairless apes eyed the equally hairless Person of Scale, Slither-O considered bashing his skull against a wall until he no longer could. “What’s next? Is some caped-crusader asshole gonna show up and–”
“Pot today, Slither-O!” yet another voice still shouted.
But before Slither-O could even begin to respond to such a terrible, no good, damned awful pun, a big fuckin’ pot shattered atop his skull and he howled in excruciating pain.
“Everyone okay?” Slither-O’s assailant asked of everyone but Slither-O.
“Thank you, Gnatman!” they all replied in unison for some reason.
“I heard the alarm from the parking lot,” Gnatman started, then corrected himself. “I mean, my gnat-sense was, uh, buzzing.”
“Did you seriously just hit me with a potted plant?” Slither-O concussed.
“Stay down, Slither-O,” Gnatman ordered.
“I think I have a concussion.”
Gnatman laughed like a damned maniac. “Good thing they have a wonderful doctor down at City Jail!”
“This is such bullshit.”
“It’s true, Mr. Potty Mouth,” Gnatman chastised. “They keep Dr. Magician on retainer.”
Slither-O rolled his eyes. “Huzzah.”
“Though,” Gnatman added, “I think he’s technically a registered nurse.”
“I don’t care.”
“Anyway,” Gnatman continued. “The police will be here any minute to deal with you.”
Police sirens bleated as they pulled into the stripmall, and the little bell above the door tingled as some unseemly anachronism wearing a trench coat in the middle of a pleasant summer afternoon entered.
“We’re here to deal with Slither-O, Gnatman,” Detective-Man said.
“Detective-Man!” Gnatman gushed. “Just in time!”
“Me?” Slither-O squinted. “I was trying to cash my goddamn paycheck before The Craptacular Jack-ass here–”
“Hey!” Gnatman whinged.
Slither-O glared at Gnatman, then continued mid-breath. “–conveniently shows up ‘out of nowhere’ and assaults me!”
“Assault? You’re a supervillain.”
Slithero stomped what he called feat and screamed. “Retired! I’ve been retired for like, five years!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Detective-Man yeah-yeah’d and cuffed what he assumed were Slither-O’s wrists. “You can blog all about it while we process you down at the station.
As he was escorted out the door, Slither-O litigiously lobbied at the oblivious idiot flirting with the employee behind the security glass. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, Gnatman!”
“So, uh,” Gnatman uh’d.
“Yeah?” the employee replied.
“Slither-O did try to rob you, right?”
“Yes?” the employee lied.
Gnatman shrugged. “Good enough for me.”