Four
It was almost winter before the bandages were removed and in a mirror he saw the hideous mockery his face had become. His flesh was torn and scabbed, his hair missing and clumped in disgusting patches. Deep scars traced his face like the lines on a roadmap, and it was more than the proud Victor Von Doom could stand.
“God, I’m ugly—disgustingly ugly!” he cried, tears burning the welts that pockmarked his face. “What have I done to myself? What?”
A powerful fist smashed the mirror into a thousand cursed reflections, and blood ribboned down his torn hand. “It is too disgusting, too horrible. No other eyes must ever see my face again.”
He took to Asia and the mountains of Tibet. His mother’s diary told of an unknown sect of monks whose mastery of the Dark Arts made Cynthia’s knowledge pall in comparison.
The winter was especially harsh, bitter winds whipped around every peak, and Doom could only curse the gods for the freezing temperatures and the foul game that occasionally dared the icy snows. But Doom pressed on, remembering another wintry trek he had made with his father. He refused to be defeated then; nothing could stop him now.
The snow blinded him and for days he plodded forward, never knowing if his next step would take him toward his destination, or plunge him into a deadly crevasse.
His throat was parched, his muscles ached, and his bare skin would be cut and blood would instantly freeze to the wound. Hunger drove him mad and demons plagued his nights, yet nothing could stop him. He was Victor Von Doom. He would continue.
Until he dropped.
The snow was a warm blanket that gently covered his unconscious form. In his mind’s eye, he saw the seashore and proud horses, and Gypsies singing around the campfire. He saw his tall father holding his medicine bag tightly to his chest, laughing with the others, singing his bawdy songs.
And when the festival seemed to be at its zenith, he saw only blackness and he knew he was dead.
They spotted him in the snow, his bandaged face buried in a high drift, his parka ripped beyond usefulness, his provisions gone.
Four of them lifted him and brought him to their cave to be warmed by the fire. One robed figure motioned to the other: “Bring me the herbs and remedies.” He said nothing but was instantly understood. A third man removed his dark hood and sat cross-legged before the fire. The legends had foretold that one day “a faceless man will be your master.” Surely this man whose features had been ravaged was the man they had been promised.
For two months Doom slept in a coma; his pains had been eased by these strange, silent monks who prayed to the Dark Gods for his recovery. On Walpurgis Night, the day of Doom’s own birth, the fever which held him passed, and his eyes opened, and he picked himself off the straw cot and proudly stood before the monks, who bowed to him, chanting, “Master . . . master . . . master.”
Doom was satisfied. He was home.
A month later, he was strong. “There is much for me to learn. Your dark sciences and your most ancient secrets must be mine.” The monks bowed in acquiescence. They had awaited his coming for two thousand years. They were his to command.
By fall, there was nothing he did not know. He had mastered their sciences and sorceries with amazing ease. But something still nagged at him. The outside world had probably thought him dead. That insult could not be allowed. He had to return to life.
Then the awesome job began. Using the mouth of a giant idol as a makeshift furnace, the Gypsy son forged the most dreaded battle armor the world would ever see.
Within an unshatterable steel shell, he molded every weapon his mad mind could conceive. His servants took careful measurements: the arms, the legs, the chest . . . they all had to perfectly fit Von Doom.
Intricate computer circuitry was placed in the heavy iron glove, and on the right index finger a small ring was hidden which would unlatch the dreaded mask . . .
. . . that great gray skull-like face that would cover Doom’s own demolished visage.
“Does the armor pain you, Master?”
“Pain? That is for lesser men! What can pain mean to Victor Von Doom? Now—place on the mask!”
“But, Master, it has not completely cooled.”
“Say no more, monk.” Doom’s voice was seething with anger. “I will tolerate no further delay. I cannot wait a moment more.”
The great iron mask, still burning red with flame, was brought by heavy tongs toward Doom. His dark, brooding eyes glowed hungrily as it was placed on his face. “Never again will mortal eyes gaze upon the hideous countenance of Victor Von Doom. From this moment on, I shall be known as—DOCTOR DOOM!”
He stood tall and silent, a nightmare in gray, as a frightened monk approached him with the great green robe of Godhood, which he draped over Doom’s powerful shoulders. Gold-spun cord held by two golden disks fastened the flowing cape in place.
Yet even as he stood proud and regal as a King, Doom knew this iron armor was not yet enough. He needed power . . . the power of a country . . . to give him the immunity he required for his total scheme to be realized. And what better land to rule than the simple Bavarian country of his birth.
He had fled Latveria as a frightened child. But he would return as its absolute Monarch.
Years passed, and Doom gazed out the castle window watching his subjects scurry like mice far below him. They accepted him as ruler as he knew they would. His power assured that simple fact.
They were his people, and he treated them well, and he made their land more prosperous than it had ever been before. He asked little of them except total blind obedience, and his robot guard patrol would assure that.
Doom had his country, but he still wanted more.
“Tomorrow is the date, Master,” the old voice informed him. Doom turned from the window toward ever-loyal Boris. “Tomorrow is the date, sire.”
Doom’s own voice was deep and rumbling. “Yes, tomorrow the first step in realizing my true destiny will be taken. Prepare for my journey to America, Boris. I wish to arrive fashionably late for the festival.
“And I wish to see Reed Richards’s face when I do.”
With that, Doctor Doom threw back his great iron-clad face and laughed a cold, bone-chilling laugh.
To Be Continued...Monday at
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