Wombat Rising
The bank’s front door burst open as the supervillain, cackling madly, came running out. “So long, suckers!” he yelled over his shoulder. “And when the police come, tell them that-”
The bank’s employees never heard what they were supposed to tell them as the ground suddenly buckled underneath the supervillain’s feet, knocking him off-balance. He felt to the ground, dropping the bundles of money he’d been carrying. For a terrifying instant he thought an earthquake had struck the city, then he saw that a new hole had opened up in the asphalt. From it, wiping dirt and bits of rubble off his uniform, rose the Wombat.
“Okay, you,” he said, “Now, hand over the money or else-”
“Or else what?”
“Or else I hit you really hard, or I use one of these,” the Wombat said, holding up a small cube-shaped object. “You don’t want to know what this does.”
“It blows up, doesn’t it,” the supervillain said resignedly. “Fine, I surrender.”
“How’d you know it would blow up?” the Wombat asked as he fussed around in his utility belt for the zip-ties he used in these situations.
“What else would it have done? By the way, have we done this before? I have the feeling we’ve done this before.”
The Wombat shrugged. “I dunno. I don’t remember you, but I don’t really keep a list. What’s your deal?”
His prisoner looked stricken. “I’m Crudmuffin! The Terror of Tortes! The Pariah of Pastries! The-”
“I get it,” the Wombat said. “Your shtick is baking. Beats Dung Beetle Dude.”
Crudmuffin snickered. “As if. And it’s more than a shtick, if you must know. I have melded the traditions of baking and the methods of crime into a true art, a masterwork of menace and meringue, a-”
“Yeah, yeah,” the Wombat said. “Anyway, no, sorry, I would’ve remembered meeting you before. Believe me, I would’ve. I’m partial to a good donut myself, I gotta say.”
“Philistine,” Crudmuffin said.
“Right,” the Wombat said, attaching the last zip-line to a nearby streetlight. “Anyway, the police should be around in a sec, they’ll take you from there. Bye now.”
He disappeared into the hole, which closed up behind him. Crudmuffin shook his head in bewilderment. They had burrowers now. Burrowers. He wouldn’t have thought it.
This story inspired by
‘s prompt:
Edison is a strange place...