Art Pact 44

The problem with being so much shorter than everyone else, of course, is that crowds tend to be a huge forest of crotches, so I like to climb on tables and things wherever possible, get above what can seem like an endless array of more or less loosely packaged genitals. That's why my lair (which is not what I call it, by the way, you can thank Sgt. Johnson for that) is arranged the way it is - a sort of central pit around which there are ledges that allow me to walk around, sit down, so forth, without being at groin height. It's sort of like one of those film-set trenches, I suppose, that are designed to make the leading man look taller than his love interest, except that, as I keep trying to point out, I am not actually insecure about my height. I'm the right height for me. I made very sure that I got the ledges built at exactly the average height for a human, so that most people I'll be looking dead square in the eye (give or take). If people are taller than average - well, I get the same experience that everyone else does of them, it doesn't bother me. If people are shorter than average, I can sit down and get at their eye level and make them feel comfortable. It's all good.

I can't always be at home, though. I'd love that - it would be very convenient. Whenever I hear bellyaching from vigilantes about their "secret lair" being discovered by bad guys, I'm like what? You're complaining that you have to work from home? I know, I know, it's not quite that simple, but really - I mean, I have like all my gear hear. If I'm going to be able to defeat someone anywhere, home is the place. I get to see them coming on the cameras, I have everything handy, all laid out neat the way I like it, I've got the advantage of knowing the terrain and (if things do go wrong) the little escape routes. Which again - because I'm so small, that's another advantage. They're totally not going to be able to chase me down the air conditioning ducts, because an average-sized guy is going to get completely Pooh-Beared in the opening. So long, suckers!

Sadly, it's not to be. The sort of criminals I work with (you know the kind I mean) are smart enough to realise that there's no profit in robbing a weirdo like me. I've got some nice toys, but nothing they couldn't make for themselves if they wanted. The only thing I have worth stealing is my power, and since that's unstealable they stick to the things they really want - diamonds, gold, good-looking women and brainy scientists.

That's why when I got the alarm call I wasn't surprised that I'd have to get out of my pyjamas to deal with it, and why at seven thirty in the morning I was standing on the top of the central bank depository in comfortable clothing (and mismatched socks, annoyingly), and trying not to stare directly into Destruktor's armoured codpiece.

"So," he rasped, edging slowly around in a circle to keep facing me. "Midget, we meet at last."

"We met last week," I reminded him.

"That didn't count," he said. He was probably right. He was in his civvies rather than his armour, so I suppose technically he was just Alan Rutherford then. Don't get me wrong - I would still have punched the hell out of him whatever he was wearing, but I was dealing with Q-Bit at the time, and she can be a bit tricky to pin down. "What were you doing there, anyway?"

"Enough talk!" he yelled. He stepped forwards, but at that moment the head of one of his employees popped up through the hole Destruktor had punched in the bank roof.

"We need another five minutes, boss. The safe door's bigger than one the plans."

Destruktor waved him away.

"Alright," he conceded. "A little more talk."

But the distraction had been enough for me to make my move. As the word "talk" left his helmet's mouthpiece, I landed on his shoulder-armour. My nails dug into the titanium plating and I heaved, pulling up just one corner of it enough to jab the muzzle of my hypodermic gun in.

Destruktor's left fist performed a sort of awkward 180-degree hook and caught me in the side of the head, propelling me off my perch on his shoulder and into a chimney.

"You little prick," he said slowly, and his head described a stately arc as he toppled into the hole. I can't say I was entirely pleased - but Destrucktor was that kind of arsehole, the kind who'd steal your witticism and make it unfunny.

I picked myself up, brushed myself off, and jumped into the hole after him.

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