I suppose, at first, it was simply a case of bare lust. The men in this town are reknowned for their dumpiness, bland ployester-centric dress sense and excruciatingly suburban auras. I could so easily wax lyrical about bronzed Nordic demigods with scrumptious broad shoulders and quirky smiles, because that is exactly what flipped my way. I knew right from the offset that I wasn't in with a chance: not only was he out of my league in the courtship pecking order, but he gave the very definite impression of being into skirts. The first few points of resentment were very quickly chalked up. (I suppose it's quite sad, really, that my starved libido would jump up at the first glimpse of a desirable mate. I've since been wrestling with the damned thing, trying to beat it back down to its earlier torpor.)
So, he was just another braindead, lamentably yummy jock. Perhaps he was a somewhat unusual specimen of the breed— his posse consisting of grubby, bouncy rugrats was certainly unusual, but what of it? I assumed he would still boast all the typical coarseness and crude pathologies. I grimly predicted it would not be long before I found myself being beaten senseless by this brawny brute while his pint-sized cheer squad applauded him.
Villainy was never a conscious, independent choice for me, no matter what those idiots in town may tell you. It was the role I fell into, first as a measure against his father, and secondly as a means to defend myself from him. I suppose "delinquency" is a better term to describe my activity in the first round. As a lanky, unhappy teenager, I was stuck between my own abusive father (I don't shy away from confessing this) and a local superhero who looked down on me as one of the reject kids— one of the dregs of weirdos, dweebs and fatties who always got picked last in team sports. Inventive acts of vandalism and angry-young-man style misdemeanours were my way of avengeing my dismal position.
Respite came when Jock the Elder retired and my father got the prison sentence he richly deserved (only for the heinous practices of his research, mind you— no-one cared that he beat his son). A much-needed silence settled upon the town, helping me to deaden the parts of myself that had been bleeding.
So, if you look out over the streets now, you can see one of the reasons why I am so opposed to the presence of Jock the Younger. Ladies milling about the shopping arcade exchanging gossip. Couples disturbing the peace of the once overgrown park with leisurely strolls. And worst of all, children. PLAYING. The town has been given the kiss of the blue elf prince, roused from its long slumber, while I continue in my cold state of living death. My existence in this place has come full circle: once again the young ones and their superhero playmate have recognised me as being different from everyone else, and have taken pleasure from my pain.
My efforts to banish him and return the town to silence have earned me a new career path, and a new adversary. But in the first few weeks of his being here, I began to notice a glitch in the system. Superheroes are intended to despise their rivals. Violently so. I kept on expecting the inevitable assault from the muscle-headed elf, a very sick part of me even hoping for it. It's not like my complex methods of tormenting his charges and attempting to run him out of town aren't deserving. But nary a harsh word has ever been flung my way. Always, always, a gentle shake of the head, that quirky smile emerging in a most handsome way, and a breathy, softly chiding utterance of my name.
It's enough to drive you crazy.
At first I thought it was his way of undermining me: make the villain think he is no threat to you, that his efforts are of no consequence. Wear down his morale until he gives up on you. This seemed like a comfortable enough conclusion, one that aroused my pride and my intention to not back down. But after becoming more acquainted with him— his unreserved openness and childlike naiveté— it dawned on me that he was far too simple, far too transparent for such mind games. How could I expect him to be able to think like me? After all, I'm a genius.
Slowly, agonisingly, I have begun to acknowledge the fact that he does not, after all, hate me. He barely even dislikes me. What am I to do with this unsettling situation?
It has shaken beliefs that I have clung to for years. First of all, that antagonism is the inevitable state of things. How can it be when he is so sanguine about EVERYTHING? Second, that I am naturally unforgivable, odious and inspiring of hatred. This is not as miserable a belief as it may seem— every time he knocks it down with those soft little smiles and that melodious, mirthful laughter, I feel hideously exposed.
His juvenile sidekicks seem to be gradually following suit in this attitude towards me. The little dancing girl who so lovingly emulates him has been approaching me of late, without a single shudder of fear or tension in her step. She attempts small talk and offerings of outdoor activities, probably motivated by some deluded notion that she can convert me to the hackneyed, corn-fed way of life that her hunky hero has inspired. After spending so much time cultivating the image of a fearful, unapproachable beast, it seems I have been demoted to the role of a harmless local curiousity in the eyes of even the smallest townspeople. Such ignobility!
But this is all far from the worst of it.
In my zeal to have him exiled, there has been many a time when my plans have gone awry, and the results are not as I hoped. In a nutshell, the danger I pose to others has been known to ricochet back my own way. I have been at the mercy of malfunctioning inventions, six-year-olds with vendettas, and general acts of fate and gravity. I suppose it's natural to attract these things as an agent of chaos. This is not something I admit to easily, but in my recent expolits, I should have died many times over.
And he has always been there, hand outstretched, to save me.
It just doesn't compute. Heroes do not rescue villains. No matter how mellow their attitude. They do not rescue villains. Shouldn't it be his objective to see me wiped out once and for all? What possible motivation could he have to ensure my safety? Insult to injury, the great oaf has no clue just how much I detest his "assistance". The way that my fear for life crashes to a halt like breakers on the shore, while my heart keeps pounding frantically, his hot breath grazing my skin. The feeling of utter weightlessness as my sense of gravity struggles to right itself. The fact that I could, and have, drifted to sleep in his arms, the pacific rhythm of his own heart reaching my ears. The horrible, horrible thought that such a sound is worth tolerating the incessant squeals of young children at play.
And the crushing ache of acknowledging that I, Robbie Rotten, am in love with Sportacus.