Chapter 8: That's All Johnny Snow

Clark Butterfield tapped aimlessly at his keyboard. This morning had been grand. He'd finally pulled one over on Stinson before Stinson could pull another one of his disturbing tricks on him. He'd even happily gloated for a little bit, dancing like a fool at his cousin's sweet sixteen (not that that had actually happened). Clark had watched—via his own pair of binoculars—Stinson's friend bring him the contaminated cup, unconsciously setting his meticulous plan into action. He anxiously sat on the edge of his wheelie chair as he waited for Stinson to try and take a sip. The Styrofoam object seemed to sit on his desk for hours, rather than a mere minute or two. And then he did it. The moment had finally arrived. Clark laughed out loud as Barney's face contorted in confusion, and again when the pair of men leapt from their seats to spy on Butterfield. He had prepared a special dance for the occasion.

Clark had also briefly worried about the possibility of a meltdown before Stinson fell into his trap. But Johnny Snow was good at what he did. Real good. In fact, Clark now wondered why he had never thought of this prank before.

The wannabe hero's eyes suddenly fell longingly at the denied application occupying the corner of his desk. Oh, right, because heroes weren't supposed to use their 'gifts' or powers for personal gain. Selfish high school grade stunts weren't exactly considered noble or justice like.

But that document's arrival had prompted his out of character attack. He was just so fed up with the Guild's constant refusal of him. He needed to let loose a bit, to lash out. What better target than that corporate bully Barney Stinson? Sucker deserved it after all the revolting crap he'd put Clark through. What had he ever done to that jerk to merit that kind of treatment? So Clark decided that it was worth it, even if the Guild didn't approve. It was worth it just to see that confounded look on Stinson's mug. It's not like he knew anything about the Guild anyhow.

Then why did part of the Snowman still feel a pang of guilt for using his powers on a civilian? This was the part of him that hadn't boiled over with glee and danced the chicken dance. This was the part that tried to justify the act: Snow needed to stay sharp. He needed to practice his 'element of surprise' maneuvers. He couldn't allow himself to be caught off guard anymore. Dr. Horrible could launch another assault at any minute and he needed to be prepared to meet his nemesis. He was already kicking himself for missing yesterday's heist. Oh, and Stinson? Well Stinson was the perfect target because…because…just because. He was horrible. Clark knew his track record with women and his jackass personality thanks to the office rumor mills. Sometimes Butterfield pondered that Barney Stinson might be even more evil than—NO! That was silly. He was just a jerk. Nothing more.

Clark reread the Guild's disapproving scribbles on his application. "No foiled crimes thus far, no villains brought to yet to justice," HAG's leader had jotted, "give up on Dr. Horrible…and don't quit your day job." How could he give up on Dr. Horrible? The two had been sworn enemies since the day Goggle Face's blog first surfaced on the web. In two days flat the geek had already earned more hits than Johnny Snow's blog did in a month. After a few weeks Snow realized that as an aspiring hero it was only his duty to see what all the fuss was about. As he listened to the doctor speak, as he watched him fiddle with his goggles and bash heroes everywhere and praise Bad Horse like a thirteen year old ogles Zac Efron Johnny Snow knew, he simply knew, this man was born to play evil to his good, villain to his hero, fire to his ice, night to his day, dairy products to his lactose intolerance! This evil doer needed to be cornered and shut down before he could do any damage to the peaceful world around him! So Snow sent that first email. The email that requested the two do battle a week from Sunday to cease Dr. Horrible's crime spree before it had even begun. The villain accepted eager to wage a war against the forces of good.

Dr. Horrible never showed. Johnny Snow waited an hour and twenty four minutes before calling it quits. Did the evil doer chicken out? Did he pack up and run to avoid the confrontation with his self-proclaimed nemesis? No. Later that night as Clark surfed the web he came across an update on the doctor's blog.

"Captain Hammer," Dr. Horrible shook a fist at his webcam, grinding his teeth together as he chewed the name, "Captain Hammer! Who—" the doctor paused to inhale a frustrated breath, adjusting his arm captured by a sling, "who does he think he is, dislocating my shoulder! Come ooonnn! Play ground bully tactics much? Pssh!" Horrible tried his best for several long seconds to feign disinterest in the hero who had defeated him. The scientist finally bit his lip and came to a conclusion for the calculations racing through his brain, "You know what, 'Captain Hammer`" he made quotations with his fingers and sneered, "You wanna make me your nemesis? Fine! You'll be my nemesis, and we'll see whose left laughing in the end!" Dr. Horrible's voice had lowered into a menacing growl. He attempted a cackle that only resulted in a few weak coughs as he reached to switch off the webcam.

Snow sent another email that night, demanding to know exactly why Dr. Horrible hadn't showed. Johnny Snow was supposed to be his arch enemy! Not Captain Hammer! Didn't Captain Hammer already have enough crimes to foil on his plate? Snow insisted upon a rematch. His reply from the doctor: "get a life."

Clark sighed, picking up his binoculars once more to check on Stinson's office. Empty. It had been empty since ten. Where was that jerk? Clark felt like rubbing his victory into Stinson's nose some more.

There was a sudden knock on Butterfield's office door that caused him to jump. The binoculars tumbled out of his clammy palms. They crashed onto his desk, sending his application fluttering to the ground. Clark's face snapped up, hoping that if he ignored the suspicious mess so would his visitor. His jaw nearly fell to the floor when he noticed whose figure it was that stood in the threshold to his office.

Barney Stinson leaned casually against the doorframe, his hands buried deep into the pockets of his expensive suit. What sunlight managed to sneak through Clark's window at this hour cast strange shadows surrounding Stinson's body. The gold light only illuminated the man's silk attire from the chest down, making his tie glow a bloody red. His face was completely shrouded in the faint darkness. Butterfield could tell Stinson's eyes were pinned to him and that the man scowled deeply. The shadow gave Barney's face such an evil expression. A slight shiver, and not the kind Johnny Snow would be used to, crept up Clark's spine. Stinson said nothing.

Butterfield gulped, working up the courage to speak. He reminded himself to remain confident. For all he knew, Stinson might just be here to admit his imminent defeat, "come to admit your defeat in person, Stinson?" Clark greeted the intruder loudly. He realized this was the closest he'd ever actually gotten to Barney in person.

"Over a frozen cup of coffee? Please," was Stinson's soft reply.

"Then why are you here?" Clark exhaled in agitation. This guy really was just a regular jerk, no matter how creepy the lighting made him look, "trying to give me some cryptic warning of your next attack? Thought coming over here in person would give it a little flair? I have work to do, man."

"Ha, right, of course," Stinson chuckled. His voice dripped with sarcasm and non-enthusiasm—a lethal verbal combination, "filling out that HAG application for the umpteenth time? That can be trying." The suited man rolled his eyes. Clark froze—no pun intended—how did Stinson know about that? He swallowed hard. Even in the shadows Clark could still pinpoint the icy blues that were his rival's irises. He never knew they were blue before.

Stinson carried on, "Or are you rescuing kittens from tree tops today? Oh, wait, what am I talking about, you're too incompetent for even that!" Clark's hands trembled. Fear of being discovered had overridden his anger at Stinson's comment. Something hidden behind Barney's eyes seemed to whisper 'harsh' in the brief second that he paused. "Honestly, how could you not have seen it? How could, after all this time, you have never once figured it out? Me? I never bothered to look, but you, heh heh, you had face to match up, and you never connected the dots? You really are dumber than even I thought you were."

"W-what are you talking about?" was all Clark could stutter. Stinson's low yet vicious taunting left him speechless and denial had always his best defense anyways.

A smirk gradually slid onto Barney's lips, tugging one corner of his mouth upward. His blue eyes sharpened themselves against Clark's itchy skin. "I'm sorry Johnny," Stinson apologized light-heartedly "was that just a horrible thing of me to say?"

Stinson took a calculated step forward. Clark immediately dug his heels into the carpet and launched his wheelie seat backwards, only stopping after he collided with the wall. Stinson lightly "tsk-tsk-ed" Clark. He then withdrew a hand from a silk pocket and reburied it into his jacket.

"D-Dr. Horrible?" Clark had finally managed to find his words, "you…Stinson, you're…you're?" Barney nodded, his steady eyes never leaving Clark's panicking ones, "what do you want?"

With a flourish of high-class fabric Stinson—Dr. Horrible— ripped the gun from his under his jacket. He aimed the black and red trimmed weapon at Clark's forehead as it began to whirr to life. Butterfield's limbs tingled with crippling fear as he watched red sparks jump about inside the machine.

"You want to kill me…" Clark Butterfield came to the sudden realization that those words would probably be the last he ever spoke. He cursed himself for not being able to work up enough energy or strength or courage to combat the evil doctor and fight for his life about to be terminated.

Dr. Horrible grinned that slimy, vile, evil grin of his, "That's all Johnny Snow," and pulled the trigger.


Author's Note: Dear Beth, If you were trying to send the direct link to your email via review, the website automatically erases said link, and I have therefore not received it. Sorry.