Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Nemonok: Silent Night, Holy Terror

“Oh, Nemmy, wasn’t the party on the Enterprise wonderful?” Gun Nut interrupted my brooding as she threw her arms around my brain containment jar.

An evil mastermind such as me needs his brooding time. I find this new challenge is, for lack of a better term, challenging. Should I shoot Santa’s sled from the skies? Should I travel back in time to prevent the birth of this planet’s savior? Should I fly into the city and steal all the presents? All this seems too easy. I need something special. Something that will really put this planet on its proverbial ear.

“Not now, Gun Nut. Can’t you see that this is my brooding time? I have a challenge to prepare for.”

“But it’s Christmas,” she continued. “It’s the most magical time of the year! I even got you something. Here.”

I looked at the elaborately decorated box, then looked at my female companion, then looked at the box again.

“How am I supposed to open that?”

“Fine, I’ll open it for you,” she said still smiling. She tore the wrappings off and held up some sort of a control box in front of me. “It’s a Nintendo Wii! I stole it for you myself. These things are so much fun.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is, but how am I to play it? I cannot hold the controller.”

Gun Nut’s smile dropped and she looked at me. “Well it’s the thought, you know. For Christmas, it’s not just about what you get, it’s about what the giver gives you. One year, my dad gave me a pound of pork chops. They were delicious, even though that didn’t stop me from shooting him a few years later, I guess. It’s the thought.”

“Very well, thank you for your thoughtful gift. Now please give me a moment to ponder this challenge.”

“Ugh!” My maniacal, gun toting assassin threw the box down in an uncharacteristic fit of rage. “Do you even like me anymore? Sometimes I think all that you care about is your stupid plans. You’ve never even met my parents.”

“Of course I like you. When in your presence, my brain containment fluid temperature rises 6 to 9 degrees and the electrical activity of my brain itself increases 11 percent. Clearly that shows how I feel for you. Additionally, I cannot meet your parents; you killed them both years ago.”

“My mom’s still alive,” she sobbed and stomped out of my office, shoving past Apocalypto Pickle along the way.

“Hey boss, what’s with her?” he asked.

“Bah, women, you can’t live with them and you can’t remove their brains and force them to live disembodied in a jar of nutrients.”

“I know what you mean, boss,” he nodded and grinned. “I’ve pretty much given up on women myself.”

“Indeed.”

Pickle stepped out the door, but his image was replaced by a ghostly image of someone from long ago in my past. Someone who I thought that I would never see again as he appeared to be my former college professor and mentor. But he was long dead, wasn’t he?
“Dr. Nemonok, I would have a word with you,” the image spoke to me.

“Professor Kingsford J. Cerebelok, is that really you?”

“Indeed it is,” it replied. “Though I have gone on to the next level of existence, I have returned but this one time to see you.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Much,” it replied.

“Very well, be on with it then. I haven’t got all day.”

“Nemonok, I must warn you. I am forever cursed to wander the galaxy as penitence for what I have done. Do not follow my footsteps, be a better man. Er, disembodied brain in a jar. You do not have to be evil.”

“Is this all you have come to tell me? I will hear no more of it, I have work to do. Evil work.”

“Doctor, I must warn you, you can still escape this fate by the visitation from the spirits three,” Cerebelok continued. “They will see you here, tonight!”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall be going. I have important matters to attend to.”

I quickly gathered my four henches (Gun Nut begrudgingly came along, though she gave me the “silent treatment” for the entirety of the trip) and we flew to Washington DC in my Shadow Stealthship. Once at the capitol of the most powerful nation on this planet, my crew and I disembarked to speak with the evil Dick Cheney.

“You want to what?” he seemed shocked. “Wah wah.”

“I want to destroy Christmas. Please just send your troops and weapons to the North Pole and destroy it.”

“You can’t do that,” he spat. “It’s evil.”

“Yes, I know that. I’m evil, you’re evil. We’re all evil, so let’s just go destroy Christmas.”

“But Christmas is the one time of year where even evil gets a holiday,” he answered. “You can’t be evil on Christmas. You just can’t.”

“What’s goin’ on in here?” President George Bush walked in on our meeting. He took one look at me and my henches and did a double take. “Now, I’ve seen some weird ones in Austin, buncha dirty dang hippies, but this is the weirdest sight I ever did laid eyes on. Hey Laura, get a load a the brain ina jar!”

“I have no time for this. Bob, fire the Hypnoray.”

“With pleasure, boss.”

With these mindless fools under my control, I quickly sent them to the television broadcast room to send a very important message to the people of this nation.
“My fellow ‘Mericans,” Bush spoke somberly. “We have a saying in ‘Merica, I know we say it in Texshush, I think you all say it in ‘Merica: Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, uh, I won’t get fooled again.

“My job is a decision-making job, and as a result, I make a lot of decisions, and for too long, the freedom lovin’ people of this nation and of this world have been living in fearful rule of one man. All of us in America want there to be fairness when it comes to justice, and this one man has been living beyond fairnessness and justice for too long.

“These are big achievements for this country, and the people of ‘Merica ought to be proud of the achievements that they have achieved, but in achieving those achievements there is an achievement that we have yet to obtain. Santa Claus has been conducting a one man campaign against the morals and decency of God-fearing ‘Mericans for too long.

“My fellow ‘Mericans, I'm pleased to tell you today that I've signed legislation that will outlaw Santa Claus forever. We begin bombing in five minutes. For all who love freedom and peace, the world without Santa Clauses’s regime is a better and safer place. Thank you and good night.”

And with the order from my brain dead puppet, the American Military forces deployed a carrier group to the North Pole. Jet craft carpet bombed Christmas Village and ground forces rushed in to capture Saint Nick, who was quickly found hiding in a spider hole. President Bush quickly flew to the aircraft carrier and delivered a “Mission accomplished speech” to raise morale of the troops.

“We have brought in a special CIA operator and master interrogator the Warrior, Dr. Nemonok,” Dick Cheney told me as I surveyed the sight from the comforts of the White House strategy center. “We’ll have that fat goose singing like a canary in no time, wah wah.”

“Splendid. A merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night, indeed.”

Monday, December 3, 2007

Challenge 6

Challenge Number 6

Ok now there's only 3 of you left.

Tak - Hey what happened to Gyrobo you said you were going to throw him off the top of those towers?

Nemonock - Yes I wish to know what happened there as well.

Buttler - Who cares. Its no longer relevant to the show.

The bespeckled one is right it doesn't matter what happened to Gyrobo.

Tak - Awww!

Ok you next and second last challenge is to.

Destroy Christmas!
I personally hate this annual travesty of greed and kindness and happiness to all. In fact of all days this as a super villain should be the worst day of the year. Good tidings and joy to all th world are not what we want. We want to bring fear and hatred and chaos to the world.
Work out the best way to ruin this most horrid of days.

Let the chaos commence!

Challenge 5 - The verdict

Well it is with a tear in my eye that I say this.

This one I thought truly had the ability to go all the way. He was crazy, unhinged, some might even call him schizophrenic. I call him a friend and a mentor in the ways of villainy.

-sniff!-

Gyrobo

-choke!-

You are not a super villain!

Its just so sad.
It shouldn't have happened.
Travesty.
You uncouth slack jawed yokels.
You don't see genius when it sits on your face and makes a paper crane out of your own dired snot.
Your not worth this treasure.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

THE VOTE - Challenge Number 5

Ok Mr Buttler got immunity.

Good for him.

Also well judged Onieda you did great.

Everyone give her a round of applause.

Just for you we've gotten these little children to send you off with flowers and a farewell song.

What your not Syrian? Whoops!


Ok now on to the voting. There are only three of you to choose from since Mr Buttler has immunity. Ha! fight among yourselves to see who stays and who we let go from 30,000 feet atop the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpar, Malaysia.

I love asian nations they let you do anything for the right amount.

Oh well here's your voting card. Get cracking.

Who's getting let go?
Nemonock
Gyrobo
Tak
pollcode.com free polls

Judging

Well that was certainly enlightening. I was thinking I’d see more of a Mechastreisand type of evil robot, but I’m willing that evil comes in many sizes.

Tak: I liked your plan, but I think it falls into the devious category more than the evil category. I think your Girl Scout is too much Donld Trump and not enough Kim Jong-Il. To add a bit more evil, perhaps think about adding some toddler stomping and lost pants into the coffee/dry cleaning idea.

Dr. Nemonok: Your robot had potential. But providing young boys through-out the country with jeans that are hard to take off, you only protected them from the creepy older men by providing more coverage. That’s a good thing, not an evil thing.

Gyrobo: I’m glad you’ll have a nice big robot, but his components make him sound somewhat flammable. A successful evil robot can’t have obvious flaws that are easy to exploit, and your evil machination is one flaming arrow away from disaster. Might I recommend a flame retardant for future models?

Mr. Bennet, excuse me, Mr. Butler: Using the power of God to run your monster is a great idea. The only possible downside could be if the world turned atheist and God ceased to exist. But I digress into silly philosophical issues.

I know that everyone was worried that I’d be biased and have my favorites *pats Tak fondly on the cheek* I didn’t let that affect my decision.

The winner of the ‘build a robot of doom’ segment of the contest is


Mr. Benn…ulter, Mr. Butlet, lets try that again…




Mr. Butler is the winner with his Capt. Planet stomping Jane Fonda powered robot.

Mission Five: Doombot

Finally, I'm presented with a challenge that may prove difficult. All the past ones dealt with one of my many areas of expertise. But this challenge is new grounds. I've never once built a Robot of Doom.

Mr. Bennet...uh, I mean, Mr. Butler....is up for any challenge this competition can throw at me. I'm driven by the desire to protect my family, and this game's perhaps non-existent prize could do just that.

"Let's win this one!" I shouted.

The girls broke out into cheers to lift our spirits. Once said spirits reached an appropriate altitude, I questioned The Haitian about a plan.

"Robots of Doom need massive firepower," he suggested.

Kandi added, "Like a big flame thrower and stuff!"

I was becoming concerned. This was already turning into an ambitious project.

"And a power source," The Haitian said.

"My god! You're a genius."

The power source would be the key to this challenge. While the other contestants slave away giving their robots an over-the-top arsenal, quirky personalities and benign pop culture references, I would create the most powerful Doombot of all!

I sensed an opportunity for a maniacal evil genius laugh and took it.

"That was a good laugh," The Haitian complimented.

"Really? You think so?" I asked.

"Indeed. Very evil; maniacal even."

I didn't want to overdo the moment (let's leave that to Nemonok), so the team and I set off in search of the ultimate power source.

"What's the most powerful thing on Earth?" I inquired rhetorically.

"Ummm....the orange dust from Cheetos?" Kandi asked.

"A thousand hamsters running in wheels?" The Haitian offered.

"No," I said. "God."

"Oh, like, duh!" said Kandi. "I totally learned that at Bible Camp."

I decided to use my recently acquired organization to help me harness the power of God. Consulting the Vatican's library, I found all the information on the Holy Grail.

"Oooh, cool. A cup!" Christina said enthusiastically.

"Better than a cup," I replied, "a woman!"

"In Haiti, women have no power," The Haitian droned.

According to the Vatican's secret files, Opus Dei had discovered that the Holy Grail is protected, guarded by the last remaining Knight Templar. It is said that he was given amazing powers by the Grail and uses them to defend her and the environment.

Opus Dei agents, Duke Nukem and Looten Plunder, were each defeated by the green-haired guardian. But I had already defeated him myself. At this very moment he was being crushed by my garbage compactor.

"Um, boss?" Kandi said, "Mr. Planet, like, blasted through the wall."

"Blast that Captain Planet!"

Fortunately, before bagging him, I made sure to tag him. He'll lead us straight to the Holy Grail, and we'll know where to send the bill for repairing the hole in my lair.

The Haitian and I tracked his movements while the girls began putting together the Robot of Doom. He stopped off first at Starbucks, probably to fraternize with that pseudo-intellectual elitist stormtrooper. After that, he flew to the Democratic Debate. Could Hillary Clinton be the Holy Grail?

"More like the Anti-Christ!" I laughed.

"Huh?" asked The Haitian.

"Nevermind." I glanced at the tracking monitor. The blip had come to a rest. "There!" I pointed.

The Haitian did a quick Google search and said, "Jane Fonda's house."

"of course! She and her diabolical husband created Captain Planet. She's the Holy Grail!"

"To the Batcave!" The Haitian shouted.

A spinning logo and moments later we were at Fonda's FortressTM. With a series of kick-flips, the cheerleaders neutralized the guard dogs. The Haitian picked the lock, and we were inside.

"Oh, my!" Fonda cried. "Get out of my house, now!"

"I don't think so," I replied. "Have a seat."

"Planeteers! Help!" she called out in vain.

"Sorry, Ms. Fonda, but they're fish food now, eco-friendly fish food."

"Who are you?" she asked terrified.

"I'm the man in horn-rimmed glasses. You can call me Noah."

The Haitian used his crazy mental powers to knock her out cold. The logo spun again and we were back at the lair.



"Wake up, Ms. Fonda," I said as I waved a jar of ammonia under her nose. "There's a big day ahead of you."

"Wh...where am I?" she asked.

"You're inside my Robot of Doom." I replied. "All you have to do is run on that treadmill and you'll generate the energy I need. Energy from the Holy Grail herself! My Robot of Doom will be unstoppable!"

"You're mad!"

"I know. Now get to running, babe."

"Never!" she protested.

"If you don't run," I threatened, "I'll have my friend here put you in that blender. We'll grind you into a burnable oil. You know how much using you as that kind of energy source will pollute the Earth?"

"Alright! I'll run! Just promise you'll keep carbon emissions low."

She began running and the robot roared to life. The Haitian and I exited the robot to watch its first mission. Captain Planet arrived, right on schedule.

"Robot of Doom," I commanded, "Kill Captain Planet!"

And kill it did.

Saturday, December 1, 2007

Angus McGriddle, Doctor of Robots!

Stained clock faces with bent hands hung on the to-do wall. There were black cast-iron barrels full of 5-cent odds and ends, though at least one must have served as a wastebasket. The only source of light were bright LED bulbs that hung from elegantly retrofitted Victorian chandeliers and wall scones. Dusty posters of obscure and just plain awful films suffocated the varnished mahogany.

Santa Claus vs. the Martians

A lab coat was carefully folded over the back of an efficient Scandinavian chair by the door. This must belong to the good doctor, I thought. Hanging over a broken-in workbench under a blackened window was a corroded fume hood; thick ionic smoke wafted up into it. Pausing hesitantly to wipe his bald head, Doctor Angus McGriddle of the San Serriffe Font Foundry labored away on his latest calligraphic robo-strosity.

“They say you make a pretty mean killer robot.”

McGriddle flinched, then grabbed his hand. Thankfully the thick work glove absorbed most of the diamond cutter’s brunt. “How did you get in here?”

“I checked myself in,” I grinned, showing him the library card I’d won off Hermann Zapf. “Now, shall we rock or shall we roll?”

He flipped the diamond cutter to off mode nonchalantly. Bushy eyebrows connected thoughtfully over his protective goggles, and I briefly wondered whether he had laser vision.

“Look kid, I don’t know what that loon told you. Angus McGriddle doesn’t do pro bono.”

“Naturally we’d be willing to compensate you for you trouble,” I purred, opening a crate of plastic eggs behind me. “This is just the down payment. You’ll get the rest later.”

“No deal. We moved off the plastic egg standard when General Pica was hung by his pinkies from the palace walls.”

“Then what? Liposuction?”

“No! This is all muscle!” he resolutely resisted, manhandling his love handles. “I want revenge against McDonald’s. After their McGriddle breakfast sandwiches came out, I had to stop selling the McGriddle 2000™—something I’d spent the better part of the last decade developing.”

“What was the McGriddle 2000™?”

“Highly concentrated pancake-sized chlorine tablets. A single puck could kill an African elephant. The lawsuit would’ve forced me to make them unscented, take the word ‘flavor’ off the packaging, and stop advertising using cartoon characters. I refused.”
Back to formula!

“I remember those! They were delicious!”

Jalas’ leafy voice tore through the laboratory. “Exactly. So they did the only thing they could: embrace, extend, extinguish.” She swung down from the chandelier, bouncing off the chemical hood and landing gracefully on a small stack of MAD magazines.

“Have you spies everywhere?” McGriddle croaked.

“Jalas, I’m videoconferencing in person. What gives, yo?”

“Navens are raiding the Foundry.”

Even though I couldn’t remember ordering my henchmen to raid the facility, I couldn’t rule out the possibility that some higher power had acted on my behalf.

“Do they claim to have received a divine missive?”

“They claim they haven’t eaten since our airship took on several thousand refugees—I mean, displaced persons—so I sent them on a... fact-finding mission. They got past the Foundry’s high-tech security system in under ten minutes.”

“Implausible! I designed that security system—with my bare hands,” Angus anguished. “What about the sonic turrets outside the cafeteria?”

Jalas donned her most sympathetic game face. “I’m afraid the Chef’s Special today is Lasagna with a side of shrapnel.

Sweet Electron of the Rubicon! Why? Why?!” he asked feebly, teetering backwards over the workbench. “That lasagna could have been yours.

“We’re merely taking what we need to survive; you should appreciate that, having been cast to the sidewalk yourself. Join us,” I offered. My hand hyperextended in a magnanimous display of contortionism. “Let’s build that robotic hover-bridge to the 21st century.”

“It already is the 21st century,” the decorated doctor demonstrated, diligently drilling his diabolical day-planner.

“Then we’re almost eight years behind schedule. Look, you want to sell chlorine tablets outside restaurants? I can make it happen. You want to poison African elephants? I can do that, too.”

“African elephants were only a metric, I have nothing against the gentle giants.”

My second-in-command unsheathed a broadsword with the head of a chameleon for a hilt. “I’m going to go stop all the looting and violence now.”
Go to your angry place!

“Bring me back a liver,” I urged laboriously. “Now, Angus-”

“Doctor McGriddle, please.”

A silence overtook the room following Jalas’ departure. I felt I could finally strike a deal with the amorphous substrate.

“Caramel apple?” I held out a tray.

“I’m going to want more than that. Like I said, Angus McGriddle don’t work for free. You want Angus McGriddle? You want a giant robot?” He threw down his gloves. There were four gnarled fingers on one hand, and six on the other. “It’s going to cost you.”

“No problem! We recently robbed a bank, and have about ten times that much!”

“I never... mentioned a number...”

“Fine. You can have the crate,” I conceded, passing him the large box of plastic eggs. They were clearly well aged, and some Serriffian collectors would surly still find them valuable.

My eyes wondered around the old scientist’s room. There was a rack up against one wall, several shelves, full of action figures and masks. Photos of celebrities shaking hands with various people, and several of Ronald Reagan with the eyes cut out. There was no carpeting (this was a workroom, after all) and a double helix scar etched deep into the concrete. What from, I could only speculate.

“You enjoy working here, don’t you, Angus?”

“It keeps me busy.”

“Would you like to work on some of the bigger budget stuff?”

“I’m already the lead roboticist...”

“Work for me and I’ll make you the lead roboticist of the entire Earth,” my cape flapped behind me. “Or turn from me, and I’ll feed you to my pet hydra.

“With friends like you, who needs anemones?”

“That’s a good one, doc,” I affirmed as he packed a ratty old suitcase. “Keep up the puns... you stuffed pig.”

“What?”

“I said ‘puffed jig!’ We’re gonna do a puffed jig when we get back to Skylair One!”
***
“That’s a pretty swanky killer robot.”

“It’s mostly cardboard and newspapers.”

Angus was competitively humble. In truth, the automaton was so huge that he could only work on the head onboard. The rest of the body would have to be completed at the Foundry by unskilled laborers.
Build the Face!

“Is it going to cost a lot to get the body completed? We’ve got a lot of people working overtime.”

“Don’t worry, lad. There’re no labor laws on San Serriffe. About two years ago, the leader of the Labor Party, Antonio Bourgeois, was asked by a rookie journalist during a routine interview if he was in Labor. When Bourgeois said ‘yes,’ the reporter asked how far apart the contractions were. That was the day the labor movement died.”

“Aren’t most of San Serriffe’s workers pregnant women?”

“Politics be a strange art,” McGriddle gritted, squeezing the blowtorch handle. “Finito!”

“It’s done?”

“The head part of it, anyway. It still needs the body for power and awesomeness.”

Featureless and rational in every respect, the face basked in our pride. Its eyeballs were cannons, the nose shot heat-seeking missiles, and the mouth could projectile vomit burning oil. Surely, this was the pinnacle of form, the apex of function, the convergence of everything simple and beautiful and evil and good.

“Put some flaws in so people will have a reason to buy a new one in five years.”