From the outside you would be forgiven for thinking it was just another retirement home. It looked pretty cosy, surely only for the well to do retiree, but nonetheless it was still just a retirement home. The name, “Smallville” was pretty odd, but not so much when you consider the original choice was “Dunflyin”, a choice the residents vetoed by hanging the manager from one leg at three miles up. These residents, you see, were not your average over seventies, content to play dominoes and break wind for fun and giggles. In Smallville the residents are more likely to wear capes and banish matron to a parallel dimension if she is over enthusiastic with the sponge bath. In Smallville, the residents were all once super heroes, but even heroes have to retire...

It was a very special day. The main hall was filled with more heroes than you could shake a stick at, and if you had tried there was still enough fight in most of the residents to beat the snot out of you if they should so choose. They were all gathered to celebrate the hundredth birthday of the greatest of them all – Captain Hurricane. Whilst on active duty, Captain Hurricane saved the world a staggering ninety six times. He claimed ninety seven, as one was in an alternate universe, but nobody will officially count that one because it would open all sorts of floodgates. He sat proudly at the head table, a few of his closest friends beside him. The rest of the hall was filled with men and women that at first glance might be mistaken for old farts, but on closer inspection would be seen to have more marbles than a kleptomaniac schoolboy in a KerPlunk factory. No matter how old they get, a super hero always retains that special aura, and these lads and lasses demanded respect without saying a word, despite the fact that some of them were dribbling down their sleeveless cardies.

Captain Hurricane stood up, slowly, and the noise in the room died down. All eyes, bionic and otherwise, looked his way as he drew a slow, deliberate breath.
“One. Hundred. Years.” he said, deliberately. His six foot four frame didn't look a day over fifty, his voice was as commanding as it ever was. His friends whooped and cheered in the slightly demented way of a game show crowd. “One hundred years, my friends,” he repeated with a smile full of dentures. “I've battled monsters, aliens, robots and evil geniuses. I've saved the world ninety seven times.”
“Ninety six!” shouted out Hydro Lad (who was seventy nine) to a general chuckling. From the other side of the room, Stretcho gave him a clout round the ear.
“Ninety seven,” Captain Hurricane reiterated with a wry smile, “and I don't regret a single moment.” Cue more applause, which he waved down. “I guess that the only enemy we can't defeat is time, except Immortal Lass, I suppose. Well, my friends, it's been a hundred years now, and he hasn't got me yet!” Again, the place went wild, and Captain Hurricane let them, placing his hands on his hips in the traditional style. When the whoops and hollers died down, he carried on. “In front of me I have a beautiful cake that our good friend Larry has made,” he gestured both to the cake and to Larry, the home's junior chef. Larry, who had worked diligently under head chef Mr Mobry for six years, nodded conservatively as another round of applause was directed his way. “Now you all know how great a cook young Larry is, so I'd like to make it clear that anyone who doesn't take a piece is gonna have a team up with my boot.” There was a little laughter at this, but they were all planning on having a piece anyway, because they were all fully aware that Larry made the best cakes this side of the Negative Zone. Captain Hurricane then proceeded to blow his one hundred candles out with a very carefully utilized Hurricane Breath (tm), and about five seconds later The Speedling had served everyone with a piece. Yeah, it would have taken him two seconds in his prime, but give the guy a break – he is eighty three.

After a few minutes there wasn't even a crumb left on any of the heroes plates, and the room was filled with the satisfied sighs of pure contentment. Well, there was one plate with cake still on it, but it belonged to MicroDot, who had shrunk himself down so he could enjoy it even more, one crumb at a time.
“Hey, Cap!” shouted out Electric Eel. “Give us a story!” The rest of the assembled avengers immediately seconded, thirded and thousandthed (in the case of Multiplex the Multiplier) the call, so Captain Hurricane rose once more and called for quiet.
“So which one do you want?” he asked. “How about the time I battled HydroPod on the deserts of Mars?”
“Heard it!” chorused the members of the Teenage Terror Tykes (combined age 263 between the four of them) with a laugh.
“Okay...” thought Cap, scratching his chin. “A Bodger Bill story?”
There was a round of applause and laughter at this suggestion. Bodger Bill stories were always good value.
"How about," said Captain Hurricane with a mischievous grin, "I tell you about the first time I met him?"
There was an enthusiastic murmur of approval at this suggestion, with the Human Matchstick getting so excited his head burst into flames, something he hadn't been able to do for six years now. Hydro Ponic doused him quickly whilst Thornado dried him off, after which Captain Hurricane was able to begin his tale.
"Let me take you back, oh, seventy years ago, I suppose it was," he began. "Now I was only a young man, but was in my heroic prime. I had muscles that could lift an elephant in each hand and my Hurricane Breath (tm) could topple a skyscraper if I so wished. On this particular day I was flying over Metropolam City and I heard a bank alarm going. Well, you know what it was like back then - any two bit thug with a daft costume would always start with a bank vault. None of these bozos ever thought to start small, they always went straight for the loot. I guess we should be grateful, I suppose, as it always made them easy to find. As far as I know, this was Bodger Bill's first go out, and he had dressed himself in some sort of Spanish armour get up, waving a spear about and shouting at people that he was the Conquistador and they'd better give him the cash. This was all with my x-ray vision and super hearing, of course, and he didn't have a clue that I was there. The bank staff didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so they had just activated the alarm, which just made him go even more potty. I could have just enjoyed it from afar, but he did have a sharp spear so I nipped in and bent it around his neck, leaving the point about an inch from his nose. He stopped shouting then.”
“I remember that!” shouted the Lump excitedly. “I saw it on the news, before I was The Lump. I nearly wet myself!”
“Do you actually pee any more, Lump?” said The Leech, snidely.
“Nah, but I don't sleep either, so I hear you going about six times a night!” retorted The Lump, which shut The Leech up right away.
“Speaking of which,” said Power Dude, whose once mighty muscles were more like bingo wings these days, “I made Bodger Bill wet himself once.”
The crowd begged for the story, which he happily told, and the next half an hour was spent reminiscing about surely the worst excuse for a super criminal ever to walk the Earth. It was all derailed a bit when, suddenly, the lights went out.

Most of the heroes had night vision, so there wasn't really panic, just mild confusion as it had never happened before. Just as suddenly, a single light was activated, and Larry the junior chef stood bathed in the light.
“Larry?” said Captain Hurricane. “What's going on?”
“Can I just ask, first” said Larry calmly. “Who here didn't have any of the cake?” No one replied, and Larry grinned an evil B-movie grin. “Excellent. Please allow me to introduce myself...”
“You're Larry, we know that,” came a voice.
“Yes, yes... I am Larry, true,” he confirmed. “Larry Portinski!” He put great weight behind the last word, but the only effect was a sea of blank faces. “Son of William Portinski?” he offered, to no better result. “Bodger Bill Portinski!” he tried, and was relieved at the sight of many pennies dropping, like a Gamblers Anonymous visit to the arcade.
“Is this a joke?” asked The Jesterman, upset that if it was he hadn't thought of it first.
“This is no joke,” said Larry in a low, sinister voice he had been practicing for years in his room. “For forty years you guys beat up, shamed and humiliated my Dad. He died a failure whilst you all lord it up here and tell stories about him.” He wiped away a tear. “Okay, so maybe he wasn't a great villain, but he was my Dad, and here is where he finally gets revenge.” He tried an evil laugh, but it didn't quite come off.
“Poisoned cake?” came a voice from the darkness. It was The Revenger. “That's how I'd have done it. Am I right?”
“W-what?” stammered Larry, thrown off guard a little. “Um... yes. Yes, I poisoned the cake. It's a special poison of my own devising, hidden within the chocolate frosting. It will kill every single one of you, even Immortal Lass, leaving me to gloat over your pain racked, twisted bodies.” He tried another laugh, putting his hands on his hips for effect, and was pleased to see it come off as a little sinister.
“Are you absolutely sure?” asked Doubting Thomas. “I mean, I don't feel poisoned. Is this a joke?”
“No joke!” snarled Larry, pulling a button from his pocket. It was a splendidly evil looking button with gold leaf and an air of malevolence that all evil buttons really should have. Before anyone could react, he pressed it. “That button press will have activated the deadly nanomites, and you should all start dying in three... two... one... NOW!” Nobody started dying, so he pushed the button a few more times. Eventually, he just put it back in his pocket and stood there sheepishly, waiting for a good pounding.
Instead of beating Larry to a pulp, Captain Hurricane stood up and started to clap, and gradually everyone else joined in. When the noise subsided he spoke to his peers.
“Now that,” he said, beaming. “Was bloody brilliant after dinner theatre. Did you think that up all by yourself, Larry?” Larry, knowing when he was onto a good thing, nodded and looked modest, even venturing a shrug of his shoulders. “Well, I've got to say, lad, that it was the icing on the cake, for my party!” There was much laughter at this terrible pun, and Larry Portinski, son of Bodger Bill Portinski, slipped out unnoticed to the kitchen, where Mr Mobry, the head chef, was waiting.
“So, lad, did they like the cake?” asked Mr Mowbry with a kindly smile.
“Um, yes. They loved it.”
“I forgot to tell you, Larry, I had to ditch your chocolate frosting earlier. The stuff just didn't smell right, so I whipped you up a fresh batch.”
“Oh,” said Larry. “Um... thanks, Mr Mowbry”
“No problem, lad. Those heroes sure do like their cake, eh?”
“Yeah...” said Larry, deep in thought. “Mr Mowbry?”
“Yes?”
“When's SuperbMan's 100th birthday party? I have a great idea for a dessert...”

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