Layers sloughed away.

Cerebral Assault (n.): Also known as Intellectual Assault or Rational Assault, Cerebral Assault is a sudden onslaught of words, pictures or ideas so mind-numbing and insipidly stupid that it causes the recipient to feel significantly less intelligent and unable to think clearly for a period of time.

Symptoms of victims of cerebral assault include: inability to spell correctly or form coherent sentences; mindless gibbering; crying; glassy-eyed wandering of the hallways, mumbling in dead languages; shallow breathing; and staring off into space awaiting (and possibly planning how to hasten) the inevitable demise of all humans as the dumbest multiply the fastest, crowding out any light of hope for mankind.

If you, or anyone else you know suffers from Cerebral Assault, call our toll-free hotline immediately. The call is free.

My throne for a non-turkey sandwich!

After a hectic holiday season, we're finally through and now, perhaps, I can get back to some regular postings... what? There's still...? Oh, Shiva be damned.

Heeeeeeeeeere's Johnny!

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Well, it's been nigh on four score and 6 days ago that I've written, and it's been a hell of a pair of fortnights. This day job thing has been keeping me busy, and asking ever more with ever less time and resources. If only I had my time machine functioning! Of course, when I should be tired and go to sleep, my brain Kool-aid mans through the wall of fatigue ("oooooh yeahhhh!") with a whole pitcher of thoughts in one hand and a rubber hose and syringe in the other. I feel wide awake and can't slow my mind down; invigorated until a slow slide towards exhaustion with a sudden crash at about four in the morning. So I program, play a game or three, try to club that baby seal-stream of random thought into submission (or a new pair of boots). So lately, I've been so tired when I normally write that the creative and evil energies are a bit low. Perhaps I'm simply falling victim to the propaganda that is thrust upon me by my situationally-temporary corporate masters. Seems to be a string of wake-up-go-to-work-slam-head-against-desk-to-dull-the-stupid-go-home-eat-numb-brain-on-computer-games-sleep-repeat. So, despicable reader -- it may be a bit before I'm writing witty, humorous, and cutting prose upon this hallowed page with any more regularity. However, use the "subscribe" link to the right there and you'll be amongst the first to know when I do. 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Entitlements (Specifically, Mine).

The life of a supervillain is generally a rewarding one, allowing indulgences and whims to be fulfilled on a regular basis with very few limits or drawbacks. Ergo, the temptation to grasp at the ripe, low-hanging fruit of a peaceful, placid¹and neighborly society will always eventually reach critical mass; a tipping point that upsets the face of order by introducing it to the highly-energetic cream pie of chaos. Nature² abhors a vacuum, and someone's eventually going to be the stone thrown from within that grimy glass house of complacency, shattering it into shards of opportunity and power that will be greedily clutched by those who are the fastest to leave brotherhood, ethics and often sanity behind.

Unfortunately, the time is past that a dishonest, hard-working individual or cadre of supervillains could make vague, open threats against a government (or group of governments) and expect a serious response and the monetary funds requested to continue his (or her!) nefarious work. Far too much competition from petty criminals and corporations has watered down the severity of such ultimatums to make them something that can generally be ignored as "somebody else's problem."

That added to the showboats of terrorist activity in roughly the past decade (the orchestrators, not the imbeciles they got to carry out the attacks) and the conveniently expensive paid-to-the-military-contractors inevitable response, public opinion has turned more towards a "shoot first, possibly ask questions of the corpse but it isn't necessary" response. This does not bode well for actually collecting on the money demanded, even if said government or corporate entity takes you seriously enough to pay out.

So! I've created KickStopper®, a new platform for CrowdForcing®! How does it work? Well, unlike the original KickStarter that only gets money if the entire project gets funded, KickStopper® takes the money immediately and offers the rewards to whomever has paid their share, all while offering a layer of obfuscation between the ultimatum initiator and the common vermin. It's win-win for everyone³!

So now, instead of moving in a seemingly endless progression of conceptualization, lab experiments, explosions, lack of funding/foiled by arch nemesis, and ultimately starting over, this should allow any aspiring supervillain that I allow⁴ to use the platform a way to raise those desperately needed funds.

Tonight, I will present the very first⁵ KickStopper® ultimatum: mine⁶! Of course, this is only a screengrab; you'll have to go to the full site to actually pay your dues. I'm certain, however, after reading my complete case and the ultimate threat it represents, you'll be persuaded to turn out your pockets and give generously. And now, on with the show...

(click to aggrandize)

1. Boring.

2. As we all know, "Mother" Nature is one cold, heartless and unfeeling bitch.
3. Mostly me. But rewards are nearly instant for the common user, so... maybe 90-10 win-kinda win.
4. No others will be allowed.
5. ...and only.
6. It's a fascinating project, for certain.  Why only the northern hemisphere? Well, I need to keep someplace pristine so I can keep all my stuff there. I'm thinking Australia or Rio, though Rio seems somewhat of a party town, what with all the shanties and ghettos and rampant kidnapping and murder.

Catapostrophe.

It has been a nice (nearly) three week vacation¹ from you pestilent corpuscles, but now I have returned. I do hope you've enjoyed the respite you were granted, however brief, from the torturous, twisting words that my cognitive musings beget upon you, the reader.

While working on my most brilliant masterstroke to date, I've found that even with my incredibly advanced intellect and prescience of multiple plan outcomes, it's quite difficult to produce perfect grandiose schemes while under an external deadline for other projects. I'm definitely going to need to concentrate on that "pocket dimension time" project that I've procrastinated on for so long.

Projects are especially difficult to complete, however, when I'm often surrounded by imbeciles² and the public at large. Case in point: the way my entire being twists and rejects the notion of supposedly English-speaking people don't understand how to use apostrophes.

I was at the grocery store a short while ago, procuring provisions for this biologically needy form and found this abomination:

I'm not even going to go into the fact that the word is spelled "Entrée" as it is futile to complain that the menial laborer of average intelligence³ doesn't know a foreign word⁴; I can, however, deride them being unable to comprehend the basic syntax structure of their natural language that they grew up with and ostensibly went to school to learn⁵. Obviously, this sign should have been constructed without that poor, sad apostrophe. Look at it... Look at it... forced to stand curved-bit deep in its own humiliation, an enduring reminder that it simply should not be⁶ and proof that the collective intelligence of the average grocery store worker is still ever-so steadily declining; the mechanically lurching down escalator in a grey-matter rendering plant.

Even more sadly, this is in a more upscale store; that section itself recently remodeled. You'd think that they'd have someone in the advertising and signs department capable of proper language structure. After all, these are people who are hired specifically for their communication skills.

If one is going to summarily turn the proverbial pooch of one's language into one's prison bitch, as it were, one should at least be consistent. A few days later, I ran into the following in a store selling the goods of the Galactic Empire⁷:

Yes. That is a photo recording of three separate spellings of "boys" (with plural, possessive, and group possessive represented), all within visual distance of one another. Considering the common clientele of said warehouse of despair, I'd be surprised if they could glance up from their passel of genetic cast-offs long enough to notice.

I'm accelerating the plans to re-construct my doomsday device. Not a single one of these imbeciles deserve to continue polluting this planet.

1. A working vacation, yes... but as they say, make your vocation into your vacation! That's why "all the screaming", as it were.

2. The immediate circle at my "menial day job" is largely imbecile-free, thankfully. It's when that circle expands that they start slipping in, banana slugs to my creative energy's soft, succulent salad leaves.
3. Evidently, towards the lower side of that average...
4. Or an ASCII code and how to use one.
5. I might be willing to grant someone uneducated more leniency, but probably not. A completely uneducated bag of meat wouldn't be copywriting signs in a grocery store, they would be out filling their boots with gravel, or driving UPS trucks, or cooking digestible protein at one of your "fast food" joints, or going to tea party rallies, or standing around in the rain with their mouths open and drowning... whatever it is that uneducated people do for fun for their short, meaningless existences these days. I miss natural selection.
6. If you listen close, you can hear its quiet squeaking: "Kill meeeee..."
7. Logos do not lie. Observe.

And now, for a taste of things to come... *gong*

Well, last week turned into nearly an entire week of relaxation, without having to worry about deadlines¹ or laboratory mishaps². Don't you worry though, little reader, for I have something BIG planned soon, oh yes I do! You'll just have to wait and see...


Also, a quick report about the tents selling TNT. There was no trinitrotoluene to be purchased from the purveyors of the establishment, nor were there any blocks of C4, vials of nitroglycerin, miscellaneous rockets, plutonium-239, or any other explosive devices or compounds: mere pittances of colored gunpowder stuffed into little paper tubes, designed to light up and pop loudly when the detonator cord was lit. Nothing more than what the average four year old in my former island nation carried when leaving whatever passed for their domicile³ to scare away predators⁴, or used as playthings by infants.

I was disappointed.

However, aside from one of the hounds fearing the loud, sudden noises the explosions on the night of the 4^th were ... amusing.

More to come soon, mortal weaklings.

1. Definitely a change of pace -- I had nothing (and nobody) to ransom, so there was no time to expire and no evil obligations because of it.
2. I was rather upset at the abject failure of several minions, however.
3. ...for their shift in the coal mines.
4. This often did not work. Most of the predators were either top-of-the-food-chain, genetically-altered beasts or cyborgs that carried larger weapons themselves. The only things these devices would reliably scare away were the crazed hobo population, which became evermore curious to me for their resilience in the face of said predators in the latter days of my evil empire.

Ranter's Lament

Yesterday I wanted to relax a bit for my evening, and a bit turned into a lot. Later, I didn't feel like digitally archiving my thoughts, so you wretches get another special Tuesday bonus edition of Overlord in Exile¹ just like last week. Aren't you lucky. Don't come to expect it though.

I've been finding my undercover status... inconvenient, lately. My isolated fortress allowed me to avoid contact with the rabble, no matter how much they beat at the portcullis with pitchforks and torches². Unfortunately, with my current situation, I'm forced to do things such as "shopping" and "picking stuff up on my way home from drudgery." This leads to myself, omnipotent humble genius³, being thrust into close quarters with the great unwashed masses⁴. This inevitably results in chains of human detritus, sometimes attached by harnesses and sometimes free-floating, clustered around a shopping cart, blocking my path and generally making nuisances of themselves. They are often reminiscent of the cloudy stringers descending from the mother in a jar of vinegar, or the twisted mass of a jellyfish's tentacles, stinging and feeding upon the unwary.

While infuriating, this is not even the most bothersome part. Biological life is messy and, in truth, often causing inconvenient obstructions⁵. It tends to multiply uncontrollably, more so the less intelligent it is. While palpable, it is akin to despising the motion of the tides⁶. No, the inspiration for a loathing with the seething intensity of an Ebola outbreak in Manhattan is the inability of the (often massive) nucleus of such a cluster to fail to notice either the vile behavior of its spawn or the fact that I am... very patiently... waiting and trying to pass while it vacantly stares at the shelf, attempting to decide whether to purchase chocolate frosted sugar bombs for its hyperactive lineage or to go with the generic variety, saving a good portion of its annual income in the process. I know that I am in its peripheral vision, and that my cloaking generator is not on my persona⁷.

Normally, I would simply excite the chemical bonds of every atom in each of their impudent flesh until they burst into flame, or pull out a hyperneutrino phase-wave collapser and cause them to dissolve like a sugar cube in tea, or fold a U.S. one hundred dollar bill, fold it into the shape of an atmospheric dart assault craft and throw it into freeway traffic while they watched and let natural selection take its course. However, all of these admittedly tantalizing options would draw far too much attention to my presence and power, revealing me to my enemies.

So I stand there... staring... resisting the urge to open my mouth for fear of the obscenities that would pour forth, coating them in a sludge so viscous that they could not breathe; my hand twitches, resisting the impulse to lift their fully loaded cart over my head and bring it down upon them as a club, crushing them beneath it as flat as the final stage in the life cycle of a common opossum.

No, no... I wait, and commit each line and every fold of the foul creature's upper protrusion that can only be tangentially called a face to memory, assigning it a priority that rises the longer I wait, and plot my revenge.

For now, I am off... there are curious... "tents" that have popped up at various locations all over town, advertising the free and open sale of rockets and trinitrotoluene by the barrelful. Evidently they take all manner of credit, as well. This merits investigation.


1. Now with 10% more snarkiness!
2. This stopped once I installed the automatic drawbridge. Amusingly, it had enough torque and tensile strength to actually catapault people on it when I'd shut it fast enough. Glee!
3. ...and Champion Supreme of footnotes!
4. And indeed, depending on the store, "unwashed" only begins to describe the stench.
5. The piled corpses of my slain enemies, for instance, can sometimes make it difficult for my chariot to pass. They also used to fill up the moat before I switched to the magma-filled model, solving the problem with the price of leaving a faint ashy residue about.
6. ...which can be changed, but you need a graviton mass displacement generator, appropriate feedstock (napkin-math says about 700 rabbits or 40 orphans will do) and about 4600 GW of electricity. Preferably provided by solar sources; I must think about my planet's overall health these days.
7. Having left it in the lab of my island fortress during the insurrection, and not having enough tellurium to build another... yet.

Inadvised Advertise.

So I've had these for a little while now, figured that since today I felt lazy, I could use them to fulfill my self-imposed requirement to write.

Hey everyone!  Who's up for a Clubb Massage??

Call Bill E. now to reserve your time!

While we're on the subject...

OF COURSE it's "real beef"...

...except that 12% mysterious "signature recipe". Which, incidentally, might actually be a finely-chopped, signed paper recipe¹.

1. Yes, the photo quality is terrible. I took it while going through the drive through².
2. You might be asking yourself, "Self? Why was he going through the drive through?" Your self would answer "I don't know, sheesh! Now concentrate on driving before OH SHIT LOOK OUT!" Of course, your sad, distracted mind couldn't know that I was there to make a delivery. I mean, what else am I going to DO with all that failed genetic experimentation³? Taco Bell takes it all and doesn't ask questions. Just the way I like it.
3. The genetic experimentation is on Lettuce. Sometimes tomatoes. Nothing that would constitute the 88% "premium⁴ ground beef".
4. "Premium Ground Beef" takes on a much darker tone when you realize it was probably first said in the Taco Bell context as "Preemie... uhm... 'ground beef'."⁵
5. Inappropriate quotation marks for the win!

Hell hath no wrath...

So. It's a late post, again... but I also have a good excuse. Not that I need to explain myself to you parasites.

I've been rather... irritated all day at myself.  After having blood siphoned out yesterday, I was rather light-headed. So when I left my menial job for my current lair, I left my cell phone behind.

I noticed immediately after entering my domicile and dealing with the hounds. Knowing there is a mere 15 feet from the door of my work to my vehicle, it was covered in concrete, and nigh-silent that time of the evening, I would have heard and noted any out-of-place sound, particularly one of the cell-phone-falling-to-the-ground variety. So it was very likely that the phone was either still on my desk, or in the restroom on a shelf (where I stopped momentarily on my way out). I resolved to live without my personal electronic device¹ for the entire evening and get it tomorrow when I arrived at the salt mines. I called a trusted co-worker that arrived earlier than I did to check if he saw it when he got in in the morning.

It appears Underestimating the foulness of the sad, mostly-fluid sacks of human detritus that inhabit my place of employment after-hours.

My phone was nowhere to be found in the morning, and I checked with the front desk to see if anyone had turned anything in. I sent out a department-wide electronic communique. The janitorial service was called.

Nothing.

The janitorial service was going to "check with their night crew" but never got back to my contact in the happiness-suppression part of my day. However, little do the thieves know... I have tracking software installed on my phone. When I arrived home, my system pinged with 4 hits, near a university's hall, near to my place of unenjoyment. The signal was weak, only getting within a mile of certainty before the battery went out and the phone shut off again.

This effectively eliminates me dropping it in the office.

If it is not returned in the morning, I will be rather... upset. Sadly, I didn't finish my electroshock application², so direct action is not possible. However, I can track the thief down when the phone is again charged and cause it to emit a loud screeching sound, locating them effectively. Then I can vaporize them with extreme prejudice.

Wish me luck, and pray that my wrath does not make me alter more of the city.

1. It makes phone calls, keeps my schedule straight, and contains the encryption algorithms for the nuclear launch codes. It's fun dialing the system and entering them, and watching from the built-in cameras as cardiac arrests occur from the system control operators. Oh, yes, it also has iWeight installed! From AlyredCorp© - Nanoforging a better tomorrow using raw nature today®.
2. I never got around the power-to-shock-value issue. I could either do a 10 second 5v shock or a .001 millisecond 23,000 volt shock before the battery would die. Yes, even with the extended-use one. The only solution so far was to have a 40 kg battery attached by belt, effectively eliminating the usefulness of a shock-app except for a fun joke to play on friends.

Letters from the dungeon.

(play the above while reading, and thanks for the idea, Daily Blink!)

To my dearest whoever is reading this,

I can only hope this letter arrives to you complete and in good time. Soon, I shall again leave to travel to a pit of misery to have a phlebotomy, where this body's tortured whimpers will plaster the walls thick with despair. I am, however, resolute in my quest. This must be done, for God¹ and for Country².

It's been nearly a month since my last journey to have my mortal form heated, prodded, and stabbed (repeatedly) for its lifeblood. I have already suffered greatly at the hands of these monsters, and God³ willing, I'll survive with only bruises and other minor injuries to make the journey again a minimum of two more times.

Indeed, it is for all the iron in my blood that it must be drawn, to thin it back to normal "human" levels. Sadly, it fights for long, drawn out sessions to remain within me: clotting immediately, shutting off in the vein, squealing and snapping as the disparate alien symbiote it was designed⁴ to be; fighting for self preservation against the sharp needlepoint invading its oxygen-rich pathways. The back of the hand seems where it is to be the weakest. Must remember to tell the mistress of agony to try there first. Hopefully I shall get the same one as last time, as I do not wish to go through the same dance of a someone new thinking that my veins are like everyone else's, and they are better than those that came before them. Their tears are bitter but delicious to behold, though I am still left with bruises and extra pinholes in my arms.

It was suggested I get a tap, or shunt of some sort installed. I'm quite certain it will be pushed out and rejected by the self-defense systems.

Wish me luck, and should the worst come to pass, I shall see you on the other side. God⁵ bless you.

1. Me.
2. Also me.
3. Me again.
4. When I originally created this form, it was a cold-weather survival system.
5. Your lord and savior, you all know and love him... nah, me yet again. Hah.

Oak it all in...

Healing is proceeding well from the poison oak mishap. The itching and burning, while still significant, has lessened considerably each day that has passed. I have developed an intimate relationship to Calamine lotion.

Operation: Oakmageddon is on track for a Friday completion. Unfortunately, I am... apparently unable to recall all of the locations that the poison oak was planted. The front grounds showed no sign of additional oak leaf-shaped shrubbery, so it IS possible that the genetic tweaking I performed on it has made it ambulatory¹. I napalmed it from orbit²... it was the only way to be sure³. This still leaves the possibility of it being in the other half of the grounds, colloquially known as "the backyard." I wasn't out there, but the patrol hounds might have brushed against it and brought it inside. Time will tell.

At the menial technical cover job, we were notified that we will be moving upstairs soon. Specifically, the first of July. We were allowed to design our new cubicle layout, and the habitrail overhaul is moving along. However, I do not think that my suggestion of a taco bar and mountain springwater tap was taken in the spirit intended⁴. Yesterday, I noticed the plan had been amended to include "Unicorn Storage". I suspect a jealous co-worker⁵.

1. And carnivorous. Possibly self-aware. It's anyone's guess, really.
2. Actually, the front porch, since my orbital weapons platforms are still offline.
3. ...of catching the groundskeeper currently tending it off guard. The hilarity of watching him run around with Kermit-arms was too much to resist.
4. I believe "or else" is a good description of this spirit.
5. Perhaps one who is a unicorn meat aficionado?

Flight of the Dictator

So I had one of those dreams last night... you know them, the ones where you remember flying? Ah, the freedom. It felt so real. Perhaps it was the way I could again feel the wind whipping by, or the hum of the lightweight power pack feeding the anti-gravity boosters. Perhaps it was the screaming intruder alert sirens or the bullets bouncing off of my densiplast outfit as I made off with the kilogram of weapons-grade plutonium.

Whatever it was that made it so surreal, it's funny the tricks the mortal mind plays when sleeping.

To be truthful, I'm happy to get sleep at all the last few days. Evidently, "poison oak" is not just a scary-sounding name, and one should not plant it deliberately for defensive purposes.¹ Sadly, despite my genius, I triggered one of my own traps², and the allergic reaction I mentioned in a previous posting has turned into a full-blown rash and skin inflammation of epic proportions over a matter of days.

Now normally, when my corporeal form has been compromised, I simply discard it and transfer my consciousness to a new clone or bio-droid (or if I've become attached to that particular one, repair it and put it back in stock). Unfortunately, I no longer have access to the machinery required to do this³, so I'm forced to stay in this form and heal it the "natural" way, despite its flaws.

As you might have guessed, I something to say about this.

AAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGH this itches like hell! It burns! I will destroy every poison oak, oak, or oak by-product I come across⁴. You will feel my wrath, oaks of the forest. I shall also offer a bounty on all oak-shaped... things. My maniacal laugh will echo through the rough stone of my new fortress as each burns in my vast fireplace.

Enjoy my calamine-aided rest, foul toxicodendron and quercus (etcetera). I shall return, with torches and chainsaws -- and I shall be 'itching' for revenge!


1. Surprisingly, the land mines and punji spike traps are quite effective in preventing the local religious missionaries and travelling house-paint vendors from reaching my door. For some reason, they are not as wary as the ones I am accustomed to.
2. I don't know what's wrong; I have certainly never had that happen to me before. Ever.
3. Thank you SO much, peasantry of my former island nation. Remind me to send a gift basket made of explodium.
4. From a distance.

Yardwork - the broken magnetic resonance generator to this body's plasma coil.

Curse this corporeal form!

One of the things I'm learning to deal with is the prevalence of these so-called "allergies". To maintain my cover tonight in this sleepy, unsuspecting suburban enclave, I was forced to do yardwork on the previous evening. If I hadn't, the city would have come along and fined me for allowing "noxious weeds" to grow. Little do they know what grew in my greenhouse of evil back in my island fortress.

At any rate, anything short of negating the atomic bonds that hold their molecules together and causing a cascade disintegration leaves behind evidence, and since I was forced to leave the portable version of that weapon behind I must comply to avoid suspicion (for now).

The mowing and weeding itself isn't that difficult, though why anyone would voluntarily keep "grass" is beyond me. Broken rock and the skulls of my vanquished foes was always enough for just the right atmosphere back at the lair. It's the pollen in the air and the cut grass. These mortal lungs have difficulty after even a short time, and it just builds up to be worse until breathing is a chore and my eyes are watering. I rushed to finish and then got inside to the micro-lab and mixed up some Albuterol with an inhalant vector, took a dose, and it was quite a relief. Additionally, sitting in front of the air conditioner was helpful as well.

So it's well known that these allergies bother multitudes of people. Why haven't they figured out a way to fix it yet? Knowing my former "peers" (many of whom run drug companies), it's because it's far more profitable to make quick fixes. This may not even be intentional: why bother looking for more permanent fixes while your drug is selling well? The thing that I don't understand is why they don't develop something that works better? Many people would pay much more for a more effective solution... even sell their own souls, if I properly overheard some of the mutterings of allergy sufferers. Or is it a question of capability? Note to self: develop new better working and more complete daily allergy relief medication for ordinary humans.

I'm assuming that my cover is good enough that my enemies will not connect the writer of this weblog to my real identity. They'd know to develop weapons based on this newly-discovered allergy weakness. Perhaps I'd best hurry developing my anti-allergy defenses, at any rate.

Have a nightmarish day, foul followers.

The Sound of Gnomes Screaming

Me: I should record these sounds of gnomes screaming as you roll the fusion ball over them as a ringtone.
Wife: That's terrible.
Me (thinking): The Screaming Gnomes is the name of my ICP cover band.