Saturday, January 31, 2009

The Robot-Pirate War for Super Island

WARNING: you are about to embark on a journey through layers of unadulterated corruption and unabashed drama. The story that is about to unfold requires a sturdy constitution and I ask that the weaker readers refrain from continuing.


The latest telegram! Anxiously, I crowded around the operator, pushing my fellow henchmen aside to get the first glance at the message as it was transcribed. Dot-dot-dot… dash…

“There was a downed communiqué-cable — a communi-cable — but we’ve got the gist,” Army Amanda (Colonel Chickenpox’s attaché) explained.

Pirates were always cutting the cables on us; we refuse to pay tribute. And yet the Spanish armada refuses to harry the scalawags from our waters, despite our redresses to the Colonel. Colonel Chickenpox was (in my opinion) the bravest shoehorn I ever met, but his administrative skills were stumblingly sub-par.

“Your task is to… ‘prevent the super-pets from reproducing’ using any means.”

I stoked my firebeard. “Travis. Have you ever seen one of these so-called super-pets?”

“Can’t rightly say I have,” said Travis. We both knew he was lying. He pulled a map out and laid it on the war room table. “But I’ve heard many legends during my time in Piratetown.”

“Tell us again how you escaped the infamous Captain Carrow?” Codex asked, barely looking up from the mangled telegram. I plopped down in the Colonel’s armchair, eager for a thumping good story.

“It was Tuesday,” he began. “The Colonel asked me to empty the tar traps. Not thinking much of it, I packed the canisters on a handtruck and wheeled them to the local disposary.”

Amanda disconnected the ringer and pulled up a chair. This story got better with every telling.

“I saw my friend Jack Robbins on the way downtown. ‘Mornin’, Travis!’ he yelled, ’cause I didn’t see him. ‘You’re off in a hurry.’ So I showed him the handtruck and explained about the tar traps. He said he knew a shortcut…”

“Aw, this is the good part,” I whispered.

“So Jack, my best friend since third grade, took me down a shady alleyway. ‘Jack,’ I said, ‘this doesn’t seem like a good neighbo-’”

SLAM! Travis pounded the sandpapered chestnut wall. Sawdust sparked off his fist.

“My good friend hi-Jack-ed me; knocked me out cold, and the next thing I knew, I was in irons in the belly of the Sea Kettle.”

He held his arms above his head. “I was a captive of none other than Captain Carrow, that crafty Caribbean cur! He’d built quite a reputation in the south as a hardboiled swordsman, willing to slit throats on a whim and strand his own men on deserted islands to settle bets.”

Lighting a hand-rolled Havana on my firebeard, Travis pursed, pensive.

“By capturing me, Jack had bought his own freedom. My hypnotic repertoire is legendary; Carrow gave Jack a motorized rowboat and a month’s supply of taffy and cut him loose. I haven’t heard from him since, but make no mistake—” he unsheathed his scabbard and waved it menacingly, “—if I ever see Jack Robbins again, he’s getting a permanent haircut.”

“So you were aboard Captain Carrow’s ship, the Sea Kettle? What was it like?”

“Smelly. Crowded. Disease spread rapidly. Society had broken down. Then we set sail from Los Angeles and conditions improved.”

Leaning back on his stool, Travis’ eyes jolted. He was nearing the crux of the story.

“Carrow threatened me with painful torture if I refused to teach his crew to resist hypnosis. Colonel Chickenpox says to hold out against torture for 24 hours, and I did — and all it bought me was a day in the shark tank.”

Travis rolled up his sleeve to show off the bite marks. “Was the Colonel asleep at the switch?” He snapped at Amanda. That was unfair of him, she had no control over the Colonel’s narcolepsy.

“…So I had a hammerhead under one arm while I fought off the Great White with my legs, kicking its stomach as it gnawed my free arm. Sharks are naturally immune to hypnosis, so it was an uphill climb.” He flexed ardently. “I sent ’em packin’ in tuna cans. But then Carrow sent in the dolphins.”

We all shuddered. Dolphins are the mortal enemies of hypnotists.

“Thursday was indoctrination day. I personally administered the oath of office to every member of the crew, Westminster style, and the training began.” He sighed.

It was one thing to use hypnosis for evil and personal gain. But to be used like a tool — like a 32b-bit adaptive coil handler — was plain humiliating.

“We landed at Piratetown after two weeks of hypnotherapy. We were stocking up on provisions for an antarctic voyage to parts unknown. Or at least, unknown to me.” He took a sip of water before continuing (even though there was iced tea right there), “Carrow wanted me at his side at all times, to counter any would-be hypnotic assassins. With his enemies and diet, it’s surprising he wasn’t already long-dead.”

I visualized the gritty scene in my mind: a dingy den of deceit, monkeybirds chained to their masters’ arms, gold-laden lamps caging blue-hot flames. An endless sea of graft, despair and opportunity. It was a place to which I could easily relate.

Because I was there.

“You were there!”

The room turned to face me. I arched my left eyebrow in mock shock. “Sí, yo estuve allí. Piratetown is one of the many places I frequent. There’s no law against piracy, is there?” I asked defiantly.

“Uh…” Codex shook his head. “What does any of this have to do with the super-pets? We’re supposed to-”

“You’re supposed to speak when spoken to, ingrate!”

I belted him in the face with my knuckle dusters on. He went down, and I kicked him in the gut. Then I apologized and we became the best of friends. I helped him move the following week, and we had iced cream and mine fell off the cone but he bought me another. But that was next week; this week we were at war.

“Colonel Chickenpox had just ordered a general holiday so he could have some free time to burn incriminating evidence regarding his purchase of a United States Senate seat. See, Jefferson Smith — the longest serving senator in history, and record-holder for the longest filibuster — had just kicked the bucket after serving for 79 years in the Senate. The Colonel wanted to get someone into office who was sympathetic to his pet cause: BANANA EXTINCTION.”

“So he concocted a scheme,” Travis added. “He sent this clown to Piratetown to rustle up some votes; pirates vote in a bloc, and most are fans of the banana anyway.”

“But the pirates were too riled up to think about politics,” I broke in, “because of those lousy super pets.”

“Then you’ve encountered the super-pets before?” Codex asked. “And where was I this whole time?”

“I don’t know… probably playing your Gameboy deluxe, advance, whatever the kids are — pocket — whatever they’re calling them today. And yeah, the super-twerps were part of the problem. Those do-gooders raided the raiders, throwing pirates in prison with their bare paws.”

“So, with my hypnotic prowess, I helped Captain Carrow and the other pirate lords and ladies broker a deal with the colonel’s proxy,” he gestured to me. “And thus the joint Pirate-Banana lobby was born.”

“The Banana-Pirate lobby. This was all before you were hired,” I told Amanda. “It also explains why we can’t go after the super-pets…”

“Dead. All of them.” Travis was, as usual, brutally blunt. “Colonel Chickenpox funneled experimental ‘toys’ to Piratetown through his cronies in the Pentagon. Those four lieutenants who got discharged after testifying before Congress last year? Patsies. Scapegoats. The DOD wanted that equipment tested under real world conditions, and if it meant turning over the top-secret location of the Island of the Super-Pets…”

“The whole island was torched,” I replied equally bluntly. “We watched from the captain’s lounge. Hypnotically-controlled androids bounded through the napalm, pre-programmed to kill. Pirates in Haz-mat suits sliced their quarry with Kryptonite blades.” I crunched the numbers. “And not one person lost a contact lens amid the horror. It was beautiful.”

“That was the end of the super-pets,” Travis said as he enjoyed a ripe Cavendish banana, thanks to the Colonel’s preservation efforts.

“All thanks to Mr. Jack Robbins,” accidentally burst past my lips as I took a sip of the iced tea Travis had coldly refused. Boy, did I have some explaining to do!

Travis blanched. “Wh-what?”

“Jack was a plant, yo! You were set up. Colonel Chickenpox played Carrow like a fiddle, and you were the bow!” I took pleasure in knowing I facilitated this realization. “One of Bush’s last official acts was to give Jack the presidential medal of freedom, which he wears quite well.”

SNAP! Travis was about to blow a gasket!

“I… fought sharks…”

“For your country.”

“Those animals…”

“Vigilantes unaffiliated with any nation.”

Travis slumped down. “WHAT WAS THE POINT?!”

I was perplexed by his reaction. “Why, to test Earth’s finest hypnotic weaponry against a genuine alien presence! The only issue in Washington that has real bipartisan support is intergalactic conquest. And, apparently, saving the banana from extinction.”

As Travis knelt and wept for the super-pets, brave soldiers with human names like “Lyndon” and “Mahathanashi” from places like “Pensitucky” and “Khorma” were already setting foot on Tau Ceti, armed to the teeth with hypno-beams, ready like all-get-out to unleash their fury on the murderous slugfolk.

And over the fray, despite the lack of atmosphere, their battle hymn carried all the way back home.

And those who remained on that rock died proudly, with their bananas in their hands.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Match neutering rampage of love

What's the worst thing that can happen to a young henchman on the go? When that henchman's girlfriend escapes from prison.

Fury, a clone made from Wonder Girl that the Agenda thought they were rewarding me with. I'll have my revenge one day. “We’re going to have along talk..." She starts.

“If it's about me hitting on other girls disguised as Superboy..."

“What? I don't give a damn about that anyone you seduce we can use for our own pleasure, then discard them. No you've been fouling up in the competition bringing a bad name to the Agenda. Now come on we're going to neuter some super pets!"

Why not she's been busting my balls ever since she got out of the bacta tank. We jump on the hover bike, we fly over to Titan's Tower, and are ready to snip Krypto when Kon-El catches us.

“We have Krypto! And there is no way you're gonna stop us from cutting off his family jewels !" I gloat.

" Go Ahead. That mongrel humped Starfire's leg and got me in trouble here lemme hold 'em for ya."

Me, and Fury looked at each other “this is no fun if he's just going to let us" I groan

“I know let's go."

It took us a while to find a new target. The X-men's pet Wolverine.

Fury tried seducing as pretending to be Wonder Girl but unlike Colossus he doesn't like them young. Well not illegal young anyway so we spiked his beers with enough Cyanide to kill a herd of elephants. That didn't do anything. Damn healing factor

We got sick of being subtle and beat the crap out of him then snipped the bastard. When we get back to the hotel Henchy says. “While fuzzball is funny he don't count as a pet. sorry you're going to have to go for another one.

Next stop was Gotham City. it was easy to snip Ace the Bathound while the Batkids were fighting the battle for who got to be Batman. Just for the hell of it we also de balled the Joker's hyenas, fury got a little carried away and snipped the Joker himself.

" Why so serious freak!" She screams as he howls on the ground only to be dragged out by that clown girl Harley something.

When we get back we're told that’s still not right since Ace is technically not "super". So i do what most of us do when I can't find something. I call the Calculator the supervillian, ( and henchman) 411.

He directs us to the Pet Care Spa of Justice in Happy Harbor. It’s guarded by the Super friends kids they’d be easy to defeat, a six year old with a slingshot can and probably has defeated them.

the place might as well not be have been guarded, the Wonder Twins were well being disgusting.

Marvin and Wendy weren’t even a fight. So we hit the mother load of superpets. Gleek the space monkey.

These man eating kittens.

Those must be the Punisher's.

A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle


Supergirl's creepy horse that turns into a guy and tries to sleep with her.

Guess he won't be doing that anymore, and finally Marvin.

That was mostly because Fury didn't want there to be a chance of him reproducing, not that he really had all that much of a chance to begin with. I personally think Fury just likes using the blades on testacles. I'm frankly a little scared. Especially since her technique is to grab on and pull 'em with her hands not the scalpel. Think I'll sleep with my eyes open from now on.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator: Remember, Bob Barker wants you to spay or neuter your superpet


I have a special place in my heart for anthropomorphic animals that hang around a hero for comedy relief purposes.

A dark place full of anger.

Of course, my Junior Intergalactic Gladiators are all familiar with my animosity towards Monkeyboys, but it isn’t just them. I hate all those sidekicks: that stupid Trollan magician who’s always screwing up his tricks, that stupid space monkey with the stretchy tail, the nerd with the browline glasses who’s always shooting people and hanging out with that cool Haitian. I can’t stand any of them.

Yeah, I’ll like this challenge.

For this one, I have to think big. Real big.

OK, maybe not that big. I wouldn’t consider Godzilla a superpet, plus who knows what genitalia he/she has where. I’m on the right track, though.

I head to a school that’s in a city that looks like any city in the US and bust into a hidden attic. There was a cool thunderstorm and it really added to the effect. I startled the lone occupant inside.

“Wh—who are you?” he asked feebly.

“Beat it, squirt,” I answered and shoved his face away with the palm of my hand. The ole pieface gets them every time. It was like one of those cool heel moves that wrestlers do when they push away a smaller opponent. Yeah, I’m playing the heel here I guess. Boo hoo.

The kid tumbled over backwards and landed with a thud. A small cloud of dust kicked up where he landed.

“What are you doing with that book?” he winced.

“Look kid, you don’t understand what you’re dealing with here,” I growled back. “This isn’t just any ordinary book, you know. It’s more like a portal between two realities.”

The kid stared at me with a blankly sacred look.

“Ah, never mind,” I dismissed him. “I’m a Universal Lynchpin and it’s my duty to understand this sort of stuff, your childish and feeble mind could never comprehend dimensions and portals and things with… uh, molecular structures.”

I thumbed through the book until I came to the chapter that I needed.

“Oh look, there they are flying around,” I smiled. “Isn’t that sweet?”

With a little concentration, I imagined myself in the story. I pictured myself weaved into the events of this magical land. I soon felt myself being pulled down, down, into the land of Fantasia.

“Who are you?” asked a child warrior. “Are you here help us against the Nothing?”

“Shut up,” I answered as I sprayed him in the face with a shot from my knockout gun. “I’m here for you, Fuzzy.”

“What do you want with me?” it rumbled with a laugh. “Perhaps you would like me to bring you some luck?”

“Hah, no,” I replied as I pulled out my giant scalpel, making a sharp metallic zing along the way. “This is going to hurt me more that it’s going to hurt you. No wait, no it’s not.”

Falkor yelped and then bared its fangs at me. I see that this isn’t going to be easy, so I shot it in the face with a little knockout gas as well.

“Your gas won’t work on me,” it replied as it blew green mist back out of its mouth.

“I guess we’ll have to do this the old fashioned way!” I leapt up onto his back and dug into his sides with my boots. “He-yeah!”

The dragon launched itself into the sky, swooping around in circles and loops. Diving low and crashing through trees. He tried in vain to shake me off as I held on for life.

“Seriously, how could there be two sequels when it’s the Neverending Story?” I asked. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m not answering you!” it shouted back as it bucked and jerked through the skies.

Hours must have passed as I wondered how much energy this fracking thing had. Eventually, he slowed and I could hear him begin to huff.

“Just land,” I said. “I’ll make this quick and as painless as possible.”

The creature replied by doubling its efforts to shake me. Twisting and turning, spinning and diving. Finally though, it seemed to have spent its energy as it crashed to the ground, throwing me into the bushes in the process.

I stumbled back to my feet and lurched towards the dragon.

“Kids, don’t try this at home,” I said to the creature. It howled in reply at the procedure.

Well that’s over, I guess the only thing I can say is that I’m glad they didn’t ask us to do this the traditional way.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Challenge # 3

Ladies and Gents,

First of all congrats Bennet. Now, because the drop out of two contestants. This round is a non elimination round .

Time for you next challenge. Spade and neuter a Superpet.

Why do you do you ask, Because Krypto bit me in the ass while I was on a job. Now I want them all fixed. Streaky the supercat, Lockheed the lame ass dragon that hangs with the X-men. Any Superpet of your choice.

Find them, kidnap them and fix them, for good.

To hunt them down, you all are given hover bikes.

Winner of this round gets to keep the Hoverbike.

Dental for All.

Raptor Jesus rules.

Final countdown.....

3, 2, 1....... and thats it.

Such a pitty that we have to say goodbye to two this week. So really there's not that much to say.

Cyclops nice work a bit more comic violence and you'd have been the clear winner. Not! Kicking a Texan while he's down may seem fun but after playing all the flash games including the one where you kick George all the way to Texas (man that was so funny for like 20mins then meh!) I'm over all the Bush bashing. Its too damn easy to go for George. Use your brain next time. Favourite line - "Uh, well it's like this Doom. I was talking to Bush and he told me that, uh, he was actually part of a, um, plot to, uh, kill you. Yeah, that's it. He was an assassin! So I blasted him."

Gyrobo your back!!!! Its kind of hard to work out the stooges that you hang around with but after the last challenge I think I'm getting to know them a bit better. Travis and Codex seem like good henchmen but when Travis' mantra is “I am not a chicken, I am not a chicken, I am not a chicken…” there's that usual Gyrobo chaos. I'd like to see you cut hair but maybe not mine. What about Jon IG's that'be fun. I still beleive you can win this.

Bennet what is going on in that balding head of yours? Are your glasses stopping the blood flow to your brain? If thats whats happening then keep it cause that lack of oxygen could find a mine of genius that you have yet to tap. Your choice of heir was different yet it showed you were thinking the way I like my henchmen to think. Utterly Politically incorrect.
"Now, the first thing any good bad guy needs to know is that women are meant to be objectified,"
Thats just too good a line to ignore. Oh and killing Brad Pitt an added extra. If Gyrobo looses his flava then your next in line.

Jon IG, you had a grumpy nanny robot a fat hyperactive heir and a terrorist plot. Ingredients that should make for a good tale. Yet it didn't end in disaster did it, NO! You fixed it all up and Doom was so happy he's scheduled you in for every saturday night for the next 2 years. Bad fat jokes and a slight at the UN are not what a Henchman does. If there had not been 2 late commers and Match you'd have lost this round.

Ah! Match. I didn't like it like Jon IG there was enough to work but something didn't work for me. Again with the Kyptonite its like everyone's got some of that stuff. Maybe you should find out who's selling it. Maybe you should wait a bit longer to post this early posting has worked for you this round you've been lucky.

Ok now for some critical commentry on all of you.
Your choices for Doom's heir were lacklustre excpet for Bennet. Mowgli was a good idea. In fact corrupting any disney character is very much and indication of Henchman material. Other choices you could have used...

Stewie Griffen

Baby Sinclair from Dinosaurs

Hillary Clinton - think about it makes sense.
Thats just three ideas off the top of my head. You could have used Dr Smith from Lost in Space, C3-PO, Christopher Walken, Donkey from Shrek. Such a waste to not use them.

The winner for this round is........

I can't believe I'm doing this, but it was the best.

Bennet you win. You do have experience in turing innocent ones to evil.

Just a reminder people.....

Ok most of you have posted, which is great and gives you a chance to possibly continue in this game. However, 2 of you have not and I'm going to have give an absolute deadline of.........
8:30pm NY time Monday 26th January.

Yep. If you post later than 8:30pm (and thats your posted FINISHED challenge not a draft or when you started) you will be disqulaified and loose the round.

It doesn't matter if your post is the best YOU WILL BE DISQUALIFIED.

This is my first and only warning.

After this the deadline will be 8:30pm NY time every Monday UNLESS NOTIFIED BY MYSELF OR HENCHY.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Cyclops, the Baby-Sitter

"Come on, Gustavo! Baby-sitting?? I can't do that!"

"And why is that, Mr. Cyclops?"

"Because I hate kids! Professor Xavier has a whole bunch of them running around the mansion all the time. Those little turds are always eating all my cookies and peeing in the pool. I can't stand them!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but the challenge has been set for this round. There is no alternate. This is not that Amazing Race show you mutants do."

"Well this sucks. Where's Doom? Maybe I can talk some sense into him."

"The Master has already departed. Shall I tell him you forfeit?"

" . . .(sigh) . . . no. Fine. I'll do it. But I'm not going in the pool with him. Where is he?"

"Actually the Master has several heirs, just in case. The others have already been spoken for. The only one left is there . . . in that room."

"Alright, let's see who I'm stuck - AAAGGHHHHH!!!!"

"Hey! What's with the crazy glasses, Four Eyes? Are they like X-Ray specs or somethin'? Can you like see through babes' clothes? Heh heh heh. That would be pretty hot, man."

"George Bush? I have to babysit George Bush? Aren't you, like, 60 or something?"

"Hey man, you are only as young as your feelers, you know what I mean?"

"Er, no. Say, where did Gustavo go?"

"It's just your and me, Four Eyes. Mano a mano. Just like me an Sadam Whosey-whats-it. Man, I kicked that guys ass. That sure felt good. I got the video here on my Ipod. You want to check it out?"


"Ooh, then let's watch Sponge Boob. I love that show. I got 'em all on Blue-Ray. That Patrick just cracks me up. Reminds me of myself."

Uh, no thanks. Let's go out for a little trip. I'll bring a camera and take some pictures."

"That sounds great! Let's go to Hooters. I love their chili cheese fries."

So I took Bush out to see some sights -

First I took Bush to the Latverian Burger King. He just loved that paper crown. He told me he collects them.

Bush ate like four hot cherry pies. He cried like a little girl when I told him he couldn't have anymore.

In the parking lot some creepy old guy tried to lure Bush into his limo. He said he could have a puppy if he came with him. I let them make out for a few minutes and then pulled Bush away.

I told Bush he had to give the puppy back but he gave me the finger.

I took Bush back to Doom's castle. He was still on such a sugar high that he fell out of the car.

Bush ran straight to Doom's laboratory and started throwing switches on an experimental device. It took an hour to get him back to "normal".

I told Bush it was nap time and he gave me the finger.

I blasted the turd into powder. Just then, Doom returned.
"Where is my heir?" he roared at me, his voice coursing with anger.
"Uh, well it's like this Doom. I was talking to Bush and he told me that, uh, he was actually part of a, um, plot to, uh, kill you. Yeah, that's it. He was an assassin! So I blasted him."
"Oh. Well done then, Cyclops."

Friday, January 23, 2009

Splitting Heirs

“I’m ready!” I shouted, kicking the door open with a brush in one hand and a bottle of conditioner in the other. “We’re gonna take such good care of Doom’s hair—”

“Heir. Not hair, his heir. His protégé,” Codex whipped. He was at the far corner of the study, staggering studiously over a stuffy scroll. Good thing for him, I’d’ve cold-clocked him for that. He really dodged a bullet there.

Travis was busy making small talk with the lad. First time I’d seen a baby with a 5 o’clock shadow. All those growth hormones in the milk, I say!

I’d hoped to make up for being four hours late by dazzling the good doctor with my fascinatingly, titillatingly scintillating hair ministrations. But now I was apparently charged with cutting his heir’s hair.

That’s when I noticed a familiar glimmer in the boy’s upper left eye.

“Hold him still, but quick,” I ordered solemnly, pulling out my portable guillotine. “I have a barber-ous reputation to maintain.”

The baby giggled. Travis, on the other hand, freaked out. “Give me that!”

“You’ve never given a baby a haircut before, have you?” Codex clucked. Finally! Someone who could understand my predicament.

“Listen to me!” Travis and I both looked sideways. I pulled up his already comically high collar. “I didn’t want you to find out this way, since you’ve already bonded with the child, but…”

He looked down at Baby Doom. Although the child was kicking around some building blocks, the stubble and occasional lapses in demeanor cracked (what to me was) an obvious facade.

“Travis, the child is possessed.”

“What?! Preposterous! You nonsensical coxcomb, if you lay one misbegotten finger on that child’s head—”

I slapped him. “Are you that easy to brainwash? What happened to the master hypnotist, wanted worldwide, from the sultans of Microstan to the Haraguaian junta?” I pulled up my shirt — Travis had hypnotized me into making a relief carving of his GENERIC hometown on my own metallic torso. “What about the people of Anytown, USA? If they could see you now. Tut tut.”

Collapsing in a heap, Travis recited the Hypnotist’s Credo, as all hypnotists do when questioning their own sanity:

“I am not a chicken, I am not a chicken, I am not a chicken…”

“And not a peep out of you,” I scowled at the baby what caused this situation. He grinned evilly, or perhaps gasilly, and drooled like an infant. “I’m onto your game, kid.”

Codex put down his engrossing scroll and glossed over to us, agitatedly. “Could you two keep it down? Doctor Doom has some amazing ancient texts that can help prove my thesis.”

“I thought you forswore writing your thesis until you solved your parents’ murder?”

He stared at me blankly. Some day I would trick him into revealing his past. It was more fun than a thousand Googles.

Travis composed himself enough to ask a thunderously idiotic question. “Can anything be done to save this wretch?”

“Not only can something be done, but in the future it has already been done! Hold the child close to you — we’re going to conduct a highly unorthodox exorcism.”

Travis cringed. “How will it differ from an orthodox exorcism?”

“I was taught the ‘traditional’ exorcism by a heretical bishop, but he had a stroke halfway through. So I added in all his spasms and whatnot, and I’ve been doing it that way ever since. Now…” I kicked off my shoes. “Make sure to hold his mouth open the whole time; if you don’t, the pressure imbalance will cause immediate organ collapse.”

“Should we not, good sir, ask the child’s legal guardian before performing a religious ceremony on him?”

“Sure. And maybe I should bring all the children of the world PRESENTS every year on Christmas eve, flying through the sky on a SLED pulled by gravity-defying reindeer. Ain’t. Gonna. Happen.”

I squeezed the hairbrush; the bristles instantly perked up, transmogrified to hardened Aluminium™, the wondrous new metal that will change the face of industry by 1960.

Imagine it: a world of sandwiches wrapped in an Aluminium™ foil. Houses constructed with Aluminium™ beams and pipes. Aluminium™ telephone rotors that never rust.

Truly, whichever superpower harnesses the awesome potential of Aluminium™ first will become the defining force of the 20th century.

The force I now wielded in my right hand.

“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” We cleared a circle around the accursed heir. I got my groove on. “All right, let’s clean out his spiritual P-trap. Codex! The electric razor! Travis! Forty gallons of mousse, quickly! We’ve not a moment to—”

“I’m home,” a voice echoed just outside the study, smacking of familiarity.

“Okay, if you guys could just unpack the groceries, I’ve got your money— hey! YOU!”

“You’re off your rocker… I’ve never seen you before…” My eyes darted for a blunt object as Doctor Doom advanced on my position in his casual wear.

“You were here months ago with that alpha-flight whatsit.” His nostrils flared. “You broke my time machine! And the second storey of my castle has been completely inaccessible since that time!”

“Serves you right for not using Aluminium™!” Codex piped, engrossed with the scroll and his own arrogance.

I equivocated. “Things were said and done that cannot be undone… but… Travis here has something that will abate your anger and put you in a happy place!”

Taking my lead, Travis Read with rife speed attended my need for a hypnotic deed.

“Watch me watch you watching my watch,” he bobbed, lobbing the slob to the Land of Nod with a flick of his wrist and a twist of his bod.

Incidentally, Doctor Doom soiled himself. I promised myself I wouldn’t tell people, but it’s not only a funny story — it’s historically accurate.

“I’d say we’re pretty much done here,” Travis announced, sidestepping the prostrate form that once threatened to sue me. “Should we make tracks back—”

“Did I die and leave you in command? Because I thought—” I touched my face, “I thought I was very much alive and in charge of this mission. Underling! Minion! Cretin! We’re done upon my assent! Now… being henchmen, it is our sacred duty to commit crimes, of which we have not done enough. So while I pack up my styling supplies, you two grab everything that isn’t bolted down.”

They saluted me (in my mind) and set off to cavort and caper about the castle. I turned my attention downward, curler in hand.

“Now then, you rascally demonspawn… how do you want your bangs?”

Mission Two: The Heir Necessities

Ugh! Babysitting. It seems no matter where I seek employment, my advanced combat training and superior paper knowledge is always overlooked and I'm relegated to the menial task of babysitting.

"Alright," I said to the plethora of heirs before me, "Raise your hand if you're potty-trained."

Prince didn't raise his hand.

Arafat didn't realize that was something people were.

Sarah Palin raised her hand.

"Good," I said, but before I could make my decision, a little boy spoke up.

"She's lying!" the scrawny little foreigner stated.

"Aw, gosh darn!" Palin exclaimed. "Ya got me!"

I was intrigued by this little tattletale. He seemed so innocent, so morally-certain, so malnourished. I'm sure Doom would want to fix that.

"Alright, you, boy. What's your name?"

"Mowgli," it replied with a smile and a salute. "Are you my babysitter?"

"Think of me as your life coach," I said with an evil grin as I thought about how I would turn this boy into a worthy heir by the time Doom gets back from his shopping excursion

Hours went by and the little boy did nothing but sit quietly and occasionally read a book on organic chemistry.

"You're a really good boy," I commented.

"Thank you, sir."

It was looking hopeless. This kid could not be any nicer. "Let's go do something about that. Do you like breasts?"

"I cannot eat chicken," he replied.

Moments later we arrived at the Bada Bing.

"Now, the first thing any good bad guy needs to know is that women are meant to be objectified," I explained to my new protégé. "Then just view the rest of the world like that. Once you realize everything and everyone is here only to fulfill your basic desires, you'll be on the right track."

"Like the bare necessities?" the boy asked as I slipped the bouncer a c-note.

"Sure, whatever."

While we pushed our way inside, Mowgli began singing. "Look for the bare necessities, the simple bare necessities. Forget about your worries and your--"

"Can it, kid!" a heavily-tattooed man yelled while making a threatening gesture toward Mowgli.

"I think I will not sing in this place," he whispered to me.

I patted him on the head and set him down near the stage. "You'll get a good view from...stop that!" I slapped his notepad out of his hand. "You don't need to take notes, just watch."

Unfortunately, Britney Spears was stripping tonight. I guess that's to be expected at the Latvian Bada Bing. If you can't meet the standards of American strip clubs, then you end up having to perform in some obscure European nation. (Speaking of which, is Latvia even on the map?)

Despite this minor setback, I think the boy benefited immensely from the experience.

"Wasn't that entertaining?" I asked once we returned to the castle.

"Did somebody say entertainment?" Brad Pitt walked out smiling. "Just give me a few seconds and I'll put on the orangutan outfit. You like that right? You like Mr. Orangutan."

Mowgli just cheered.

"Mr. Orangutan?" I asked.

"Yeah," Brad replied. "His dad hires me to entertain from time to time. The kid likes monkeys."

"Hold on a while," I said to the overly-attractive actor. Turning to Mowgli, I said, "You know what would be really fun? Firing that stupid actor and insulting his career."

"Really? Is that...appropriate?" Mowgli asked.

"Of course! It's what Daddy Doom would do." I pushed him forward and said, "Give it a shot."

"Umm...Mr. Pitt," Mowgli said softly. "Your services are no longer required."

"What?" Brad Pitt screamed. "Are you kidding me? You're kidding me? You're kidding me, right?" He pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial number. "Babe, this kid is firing me. No, he's kidding me. He has to be kidding me. You're kidding me, right, kid?"

Mowgli glanced back at me for advice. I just shook my head.

"No, sir. I do not kid you," he said.

"You little jerk!" Brad Pitt said still on the phone. "No, this kid. He's like three years old. No you can't adopt him! I don't know. I guess I'll just have to do another George Clooney movie. Well maybe you could stop buying so many clothes!...."

"Go on, insult his career," I encouraged.

Mowgli let out a nervous cough before stuttering, "L-legends of the was very long. I fell asleep during it, sir."

Suddenly, Brad Pitt flipped out.

He struck poor Mowgli with the phone. I took advantage of the moment. "Say the word, and I'll shoot him," I offered.

Mowgli replied coldly, "Do it."

I fired three shots into his torso.
"Why?" Brad Pitt screamed out before falling to the floor, dead.

"Good," I said, helping Mowgli back up. I think you're going to make a good super-villain yet. Say, how would you like to sit in the throne while the old man's away?"

"Will you be my orangutan?" he asked.

I thought it over and then answered, "Sure. Every good super-villain needs a henchman."

I'm sure Doom would be proud.

Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator: to Heir is Human...

I got to the castle and the Doom Nanny showed me to the nursery.

“The Heir is in here,” the robot said monotonally.

“I hope so, I need it to breathe, ha ha get it?” I laughed and slapped my knee at the super funny joke.

The Doom Nanny stared at me blankly.

“Oh yeah, you robots aren’t programmed with a sense of humor are you?” I asked.

“Thankfully no,” it replied dryly. With its finger, it punched the code to open the nursery.

“Hey 1-2-3-4, that’s the combination some idiot might put on his luggage!” I called out ecstatically.


“Hey, remind me to have the code changed on my suitcase,” I added.

“Were I programmed to appreciate your inane comments, I assure you that I would. This way.”

I stepped through the doorway and my jaw dropped when I saw what I was looking at.

“What the hell are you looking at?” the fat kid growled at me.

“Er, you, obviously,” I replied. I then turned to the Doom Nanny. “He’s huge.”

“It’s glandular,” the kid snorted back.

“I bet,” I replied. But the kid didn’t say anything in return; he just ran up and started sniffing the cargo pocket on my pant leg.

“What th--? Hey kid, don’t be creeping up on me like that, yo.”

“Do you have any foodstuffs on you person?” the robot let out a robot-like sigh.

“Yeah, I have this Snickers bar here.” I pulled it out of my pocket. “Normally I don’t carry candy bars around in my pocket like this, you know, ‘cuz I try to keep in fighting shape on account of I’m an intergalactic gladiator and all, but I didn’t get to my breakfast this morning because, well, let’s just say that Cyclops gets a little gassy when he has mushroom omelets, OK?”

“Gimme gimme gimme!” the fat kid yelled. With a shrug, I handed him the bar.

“No, don’t!” the robot warned but it was too late as the Heir scarfed it down. Suddenly, his eyes glazed over and he let out a horrendous cackle.

I looked at the Doom Nanny and then back at the kid.

The kid leapt up and tore around the room laughing maniacally and tearing down the tapestries, upsetting furniture, and breaking anything fragile in his path.

“You should not have fed the Heir the candy,” the robot said dryly. “He suffers from Hyper Glucosemia.”

“Suffers from it?” I asked. “Looks more like he’s enjoying it. I’m surprised someone that fat could move that fast.”

“I’m not fat!” the kid yelled as he sped past a chair, knocking it over. “I’m retaining water.”

“Yeah, retaining water in his fat cells,” I muttered. The kid didn’t hear me as he sped past and the robot appeared to have ignored my comment.

“More more more!” The kid ran up to me and held out his hands. He was panting and his eyes were glazed over.

“Sorry kid,” I shrugged. “I’m all out. I think there’s a snack machine down the hall, though.”

The Heir laughed and sped down the hall.

“If the Heir of Doom comes to any harm, I have been programmed to disintegrate you,” the robot announced casually.

“Now you tell me,” I said as I chased after the fat kid.

I rounded the corner and skidded to a halt. The fat kid was held in the clutches of two gunmen.

“Hi,” I said. “And you are--?”

“We are the Latverian Liberation Army and the Heir is ours!”

“You’re the what?” I asked. I looked back down the hall and saw the robot trundling towards us. Something tells me that I have to end this confrontation fast before that thing turns us all into smoking pile of ash.

“We are the Latverian Liberation Army!” the man repeated. “We have a list of 28 grievances against Dr. Doom and his rule of evil!”

“Take it to the UN,” I snapped back.

“We have,” the woman answered. “They said they’d get back to us in 8 to 12 weeks. That is why we are kidnapping fatty here until our demands are met!”

“I’m not fat I’m big boned!” the kid screamed.

“Shut up tubbo!” the man growled.

“Look, we don’t have time for this,” I explained. “There is a robot coming down the hall that will disintegrate us if that kid is in jeapordy.”

Their only reply was to level their weapons at me and start dragging the kid backwards and away.

I cursed under my breath and gassed the three of them with my knockout gun. They slumped to the floor just as the robot turned the corner.

“The Heir is damaged,” it said and weapons immediately popped out of its arms and from around its back.

“Wait wait!” I waved my arms. “He’s OK, just knocked out!”

“You will be deleted.” The Doom Nanny trained the weapons on me.

“Wait wait!” I yelled.

“You will be deleted!” it repeated.

Much later, I was sitting at a desk reading (you know, looking casual and stuff) when Dr. Doom strode in.

“Where is the Heir of Doom?” he demanded in a metallic rasp.

“Right in here,” I punched the code to the room. The door slid open and the fat kid was lying in bed, breathing deeply in sleep and letting out an occasional rumbling snore.

“Doom must change that code,” he sighed. “But Doom is pleased that the Heir looks well. He did not cause you any trouble?”

“Oh no, the kid was great,” I smiled and shrugged innocently. “He’s just so tuckered out from running around all day. I do have to report, however, that the Doom Nanny doesn’t work anymore, a little, uh, unfortunate business with an electromagnetic pulse.”

“That is unfortunate,” Doom said. “But what is the worth of a machine when the Heir is treated so well?”

“Oh I agree, sir,” I nodded. “Oh yeah, also, I captured a couple of members of the Latverian Liberation Army. They’re in the dungeon right now, I was going to torture them myself but I figured you might want to be hands on with this case and all…”

“Doom is very pleased,” the monarch said with a bit of admiration creeping into his voice. “Tell me, are you available to babysit the Heir this Saturday night?”