i was just wondering if you had a theme song every great super villain has a theme song so what is yours? if you don't have one i suggest jimmy the squid or please god no by Darkest of The Hillside Thickets. this is a band that plays Cthulhu based music. i think that would be ironic.
p.s. your fiction piece was very good
First and foremostly, I appreciate your appreciation— albeit belated— of my modest fictional attempt of nigh unto a year past . Like all great artists, I humbly appreciate the fawning of my fanbase. Thank you kindly.
But I feel that this is something of a Pyhrric victory as your complement is embedded within a framework-of-admiration that I find, at best, left-handed to my own conceiving of myself. To whit: Do my readers find me to be villainous (let alone superlatively so)? Disturbing this is, indeed. A brief squirt through the dictionary shows me three prominent definitions for villain, none of them flattering:
1) The lowest class of tenant farmer; a serf or slave.
2) a bafoon or clown
3) a vile and wicked person, extremely depraved
Is this how I am considered? A clown! Highly unforseen, I shall tell you as much. In my initial shock, I could simply this not believe."Rob, dearest, am I villainous? Super villainous?"
"Well . . ." he evaded for a time, wishing his washing, step from foot to the other. Twice he looked at his wrist— as though he owned a wrist-chronometer— and attempted to formulate time-based excuses necessitating his immediate egress. Finally, upon pressure from my leftmost pincering mechanical manipulator, he revealed: "Listen, Lord Architeuthis, dude; I totally wouldn't call you a super villain. I know that you're just an extraterrestrial scientist sent to comprehend a world he never made. I totally dig that. But, I mean, dude!, you're like this giant fucking mechano-monster! You talk! You yell a lot and eat dogs and make really gutter jokes about people's moms and species and shit. I mean, I don't know how folks handle the social graces and shit back on Tremulon-4 , but most of that shit doesn't play well here. You're totally not a super villain, but you're definitely a prick."
Like an iced blade, this cut me!
"So I am a clown, then! Here only to gamble, twirl and pratt fall for your amusements! Perhaps a red orb should be mounted upon the razorish tip of my beak?!? Should I not circumscribe my mantle with the traditional ruff of orange-ish false-hair! Or is the rainbow 'afro' more appropriate? But then it might retard my progress in juggling the creamed pies— whatever shall a clown do!?!?"
"What the fuck are you talking about? You're like a ten armed Hannibal Lecter, not Bozo. You're a fucking maddog butcher! Did you get some dog blood in the Universal Translator or what?"
And then it dawned upon me: I was not being viewed as a clown, nor worse yet as a yeomen farmer, but as a moral pervert extremis! Matters progressing from bad to worsened, as the waters do roll over the Falls Niagral!
"Sang! Sang!" I yelled, attempting to draw him from the adjacent lab, "Come at once! I need you! Am I super villainous?"
Sang stood in a moments quiet reflection, and then opened wide his grunt hole: "Yes. But you progress. You were far more villainous a year ago."
"And by villain, you refer not to my recent fantasies of operating a garden?"
"Like a hydroponic setup?" Rob asked, his sliver of curiosity piqued.
"Shut up, Rob!"
"No, sir; I refer to your extreme depravity."
"Excellent." I barked, releasing my pincers, allowing Rob to fall soddenly to the floor. Sang bowed, as he does now when particularly annoyed, and swept out of the inner lab to his office station.
Everyone hates me, I thought. How shall I ever come to understand you all?
Rob rolled over onto his back, his shodden feet splaying outward, his hands flat against the metal floor.
"Dude, this floor is, like, so relaxing. It's just the right kind of cool— like the other side of the pillow. You know that?"
"Are you quite all right, Robert?" Sang called from the next room. There was a snide tone to his voice which I noted, but which the Rob seemed not to hear or heed. Rob raised an arm up, closing his hand into a fist and extending his much vaunted opposable thumb.
Then he just let his hand hang in the air, the fingers falling out like the calyx of a sea anemone.
"Like, your blood really does have to work harder to flow upward," he said. "My hand is getting all cold and weird and shit."
I had been prepared, upon Sang's most sour pronouncement, to swirl away into the dark depth of my tank beyond the reach of the laboratory light, to sulk and to click my beak. Villainous, indeed.
Rob let his arm fall to the floor with a heavy smack.
"Ow," he muttered, but in a distracted sort of way. "Hey, Lord Architeuthis, does, like, your tentacle get all tingly sometime 'cause of blood flow? Like, if you sit on them too long?"
He sat quickly up before I could answer. His arms outstretched, he hopped up to a crouch and giggled, then fell over on to his left side. "Woah," he moaned with a touch of glee, "head rush."
Finally he stood upright, his face blotchy, a smirk flickering on his lips like the distant visual tickle of a cuttlefish in heat.
I tell you, Scott, I heard Sang sigh then, but a calm had already settled over my tentacles and arms and eyes and beak.
Rob stumbled from the room and down the hall were I heard him clatter into a desk, and then a bucket.
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson