Prometheus was the next Superbud to enter the basement after the robbery/kidnapping/whatever.
“I’m telling you, Cuba’s where the action’s at!” He shouted into the cell phone, as was his way. “The Cuban debt ship has sailed, and we never really had a chance since I’m an American. You figure they could cut me a goddamn break because of slavery. Yeah, Tony, I’m bringing up slavery again! Your ancestors enslaved my ancestors! It’s kind of a big fucking deal!”
Prometheus shook his head, continuing, “How about nightclubs? Can we get a Cuban to buy land for us, then we can open a club? There’s gotta be a club scene somewhere.”
As he talked, he made a beeline for the Magic 8-Ball. He knew precisely where it was — he barely registered the rest of his surroundings.
“Perfect,” he said. “No, not you Tony, you’re a shit stockbroker and a shit friend. I’m talking about something else. Can you hold for two goddamn seconds, you small-dicked fox-fucker?”
He smiled, holding the Magic 8-Ball in his hands. There was power here. It’d come from a real idiot supervillain — a poor sap who’d actually called himself ‘Magic 8-Ball’.
His gizmo worked, it really could predict the future, but for some reason he’d decided to use it to rob a bank. As it turns out, the Magic 8-Ball had been right. The guy had managed to take the money out of the bank, just like the Magic 8-Ball had said he would.
What he didn’t count on was the superheroes who caught him as soon as he stepped out of the bank.
“Should I invest in Cuba?” Prometheus asked. He shook the ball.
“Without a doubt,” he said.
Prometheus laughed, putting the Magic 8-Ball back where it belonged. Then he went back to his phone, taking Tony off hold.
“We’re investing in Cuba, motherfucker. My only question is, how?”
With that big smile on his face, he climbed back up the basement stairs.
He, too, didn’t notice that The Golden Man had left.