Stand Tall: Origin of a Supervillain
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 2: Help Wanted
Stan sits in his underground workshop, scrolling through his laptop with a scowl that’s become permanent over the past few months. The space—carved out beneath Santa’s main facility with Mrs. Claus’s reluctant assistance—hums with Kryptonian technology. Sugar Mama’s holographic interface flickers across multiple screens, displaying schematics for weapons, battle sleds, and various implements of holiday domination.
“Stanley, bubeleh,” Sugar Mama’s voice emanates from the speakers, warm and concerned, “you can’t do everything yourself. Even Superman had the Justice League. Well, until they got tired of him too, but that’s another story.”
Stan grunts, typing another line into the Craigslist ad. “I’m not looking for a team, Sugar Mama. I need henchpeople. Muscle. Someone who can handle themselves when things get messy.”
“So hire already! What’s taking so long? You’ve been staring at that ad for twenty minutes. It’s not the Gettysburg Address, it’s a job posting.”
Stan reads aloud: “Wanted: Henchperson for revolutionary holiday-related enterprise. Must be willing to engage in morally questionable activities. Combat experience preferred. Competitive pay. Dental included.”
“Dental is good,” Sugar Mama says approvingly. “See? You’re learning. A good benefits package attracts quality candidates. Though maybe mention the 401k? No? Fine, fine, post it already.”
Stan clicks submit and leans back in his chair. “Now we wait.”
“Now we wait,” Sugar Mama agrees. “In the meantime, you should eat something. When’s the last time you had a proper meal? And don’t tell me ‘you’re okay,’ because I can monitor your biometrics and you are definitely not fine.”
Three days later, Stan stands in the training area of his underground base—a large, open space with reinforced walls and floors designed to handle significant punishment. Five candidates mill about, eyeing each other with varying degrees of hostility and bravado.
The Abominable Snowman takes up the most space, naturally. Eight feet of white fur and muscle, hunched slightly to avoid scraping the ceiling. He cracks his knuckles, producing sounds like breaking ice.
Two thugs probably brothers, by the look of them, with matching tattoos flex for each other. They’re big, human-sized, and covered in scars that suggest they’ve survived more than a few fights.
The fourth candidate catches Stan’s attention because he seems so wildly out of place. An old man, probably seventy, sits calmly on a folding chair in the corner, sipping iced tea from a thermos. He wears a cardigan. A cardigan. His eyes are half-closed, like he might drift off to sleep at any moment.
“Sugar Mama,” Stan mutters, “did we get the addresses mixed up? Is that guy supposed to be at a senior center?”
“Nope, he filled out the application correctly. Name’s Harold. Former professional fighter, according to his resume. Retired twenty years ago. Says he’s bored.”
“He’s drinking iced tea.”
“Stanley, don’t be ageist. It’s not becoming. Besides, his references checked out. Broke a man’s arm in a bar fight last month. The man was forty-two.”
Stan sighs and steps forward, his red and white striped hood pulled back to reveal his pointed ears and perpetual scowl. “Alright, listen up. You all applied for a position as my henchperson. This isn’t a normal job. This is about taking over the holidays. All of them. Starting with Valentine’s Day and working our way through the calendar until Christmas reigns supreme.”
The Abominable Snowman grunts approvingly. The brothers exchange excited grins. Harold sips his tea.
“The tryout is simple,” Stan continues, crossing his arms. “You fight. Last one standing gets the job. Think of it as a battle royale, except with better dental coverage.”
“That’s it?” one of the brothers asks. “Just beat everyone up?”
“Just beat everyone up,” Stan confirms. “Sugar Mama will monitor for any lethal strikes. I need a henchperson, not a corpse. Begin whenever you’re ready.”
For a moment, nobody moves. Then the Abominable Snowman roars, and all hell breaks loose.
The brothers go for the Yeti first—a strategic move, taking out the biggest threat. They’re coordinated, working together, one going high while the other sweeps low. It doesn’t matter. The Abominable Snowman swats one brother aside like he weighs nothing, sending him crashing into the wall. The second brother manages to land a solid punch to the Yeti’s ribs before getting grabbed by the throat and lifted off his feet.
Harold continues sipping his tea.
Stan leans against his workbench, watching with clinical interest. The Yeti is impressive, certainly. Raw power, decent instincts. But sloppy. He’s relying too much on his size advantage, telegraphing his moves.
The first brother recovers, shaking his head. Blood drips from his nose. He charges again, this time going for the Yeti’s legs. Smart. Cut down the big ones by removing their foundation. He manages to wrap both arms around the Yeti’s knee, pulling hard.
The Abominable Snowman stumbles. His grip on the second brother loosens. The brother drops, gasping, and immediately drives his elbow into the Yeti’s stomach.
“Not bad,” Stan mutters. “They’re working together.”
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” Sugar Mama says. “Though in this case, it’s a nightmare work. Holiday domination and all that. Still, the principle applies.”
The Yeti roars again, angrier now, and brings both fists down like hammers. The brothers scatter. One isn’t fast enough. The blow catches him across the back, driving him face-first into the concrete. He doesn’t get up.
Harold sets down his thermos and stands slowly, stretching like he’s just woken from a nap.
The remaining brother realizes he’s now alone against an eight-foot monster and an elderly man who hasn’t done anything yet. He chooses the logical target and rushes the senior citizen, probably hoping to take him out quickly.
Harold moves.
One moment he’s standing by his chair. The next he’s behind the Abominable Snowman, moving with a speed that seems physically impossible for someone his age. The Yeti turns, confused, raising his massive arms to strike.
Harold ducks under the swing, steps inside the Yeti’s guard, and drives a palm strike directly into the creature’s solar plexus.
The Abominable Snowman’s eyes go wide. All the air leaves his lungs in a single whoosh. He takes one stumbling step backward, then another, then topples like a felled tree. The impact shakes the floor.
“Oy gevalt,” Sugar Mama breathes. “Did you see that? Stanley, that old man just dropped eight feet of pure muscle with one hit. That’s not normal. That’s not even a little bit normal.”
Stan straightens, suddenly much more interested.
The remaining brother freezes, staring at Harold with obvious fear. The old man doesn’t look winded. He doesn’t even look particularly interested. He just stands there, hands at his sides, waiting.
“Well?” Harold says mildly. “You going to fight, or are we done here?”
The brother looks at Stan, then at Harold, then at his unconscious sibling and the knocked-out Yeti. “I’m ... I’m good, actually. I think I’m good.”
“Smart boy,” Harold says. He returns to his chair and picks up his thermos. “That was a nice warm-up. Gets the blood flowing.”
Stan opens his mouth to declare Harold the winner when he hears it—a polite, almost hesitant knock at the metal door of his base.
He frowns. “Sugar Mama, scanners. Who is it?”
There’s a pause. Then Sugar Mama’s voice returns, confusion evident. “Stanley, you’re not going to believe this. It’s a teddy bear. A cute little teddy bear. Female, I think? She’s holding a snow cone. Four feet tall, fuzzy brown fur, button eyes. And she has a black belt around her waist. An actual martial arts belt, Stanley.”
Stan stares at the speaker. “A what?”
“A teddy bear! You know, fuzzy, adorable, probably should be at a picnic somewhere. And she’s holding a snow cone, Stanley. A blue raspberry snow cone, if the scanners are reading the dye correctly.”
“Is this a prank?”
“No prank. She looks very determined. Very polite. But very determined.”
Stan walks to the door and opens it.
Standing in the corridor is, indeed, a teddy bear. She’s four feet tall, brown and fuzzy, with large button eyes that somehow manage to convey both innocence and focus. A black martial arts belt—an obi—is tied around her waist. In one hand, she holds a snow cone that’s already starting to drip blue syrup onto the floor.
“Hi!” she says brightly, her voice chipper and feminine. “Are these the henchperson tryouts? I’m so sorry I’m late. I had teddy bear stuff to do. You know how it is. Picnics don’t plan themselves. But I’m here now!”
She waddles past Stan into the base, looking around with obvious interest. Her button eyes land on Harold, who’s just settling back into his chair.
Harold freezes, thermos halfway to his lips. His eyes widen in recognition.
“Bella?” he says, genuine surprise in his voice.
The teddy bear turns, and her button eyes somehow brighten. “Harold! Jesus, I didn’t know you applied for this too!”
“Jesus,” Harold mutters, shaking his head with a slight smile. “Bella. Small world.”
“Looks that way,” Bella says cheerfully. She walks closer, snow cone still in hand, studying the unconscious bodies scattered across the training floor. Then she looks back at Harold. “Well, you know what? I guess it’s past time we find out who’s the best between us. People have been asking that question for quite a while.”
Harold sets down his thermos and stands, that same slight smile on his weathered face. “Yeah. Looks that way.”
Stan watches this exchange, utterly baffled. “Wait, you two know each other?”
“Professional circuit,” Harold says simply, not taking his eyes off Bella. “Word gets around when someone’s good. And Bella here is very good.”
“Nothing personal,” Bella says, her voice still bright but carrying an edge of seriousness now.
“Of course not,” Harold replies, moving to the center of the training area. “We’re professionals.”
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