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evilchrisrusso
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Name: Evil Chris
Gender: Male
Interests: the forced enslavement of all mankind
Expertise: Diabolical laughter
Occupation: Dark Lord
Industry: World domination.
Message: message me
Member Since:
5/26/2006
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| I've been working on a short story...If one had been carefully watching the denizens of the Pub, one might
have noticed a new figure who had not entered in through the door.
(Though if one was clever one might have remembered that the window in
the Men's Privy was usually left open.)
He was fairly tall, and wore a high-collared cloak of black. Black was
his waistcoat, too, as was his shirt, his cummerbund, his trousers, and
his high leather boots. There was a bit of white lace at his throat,
and a thin silver lining on his tricorn hat, and the glitter at his hip
was a light cavalry saber (ostensibly pried from the hands of the
soldier who had once owned it). But nothing else relieved the darkness
that clothed him--as though the very Night herself was his covering.
He approached a table in the door-side corner, and the candles seemed
to dim, and the flames of the hearth quieted like a scolded dog. He
sat, and leaned his elbows upon the table. When the barmaid came, he
let fall two coins of aged silver upon the wooden surface.
"Blood," he said, in a whisper that seemed to fill the room. "Human blood."
"Here now, what sort of establishment do you think I'm running?"
demanded the barmaid in a loud voice. "This isn't Paris, you know.
There's no blood to be had here."
The Dark Lord rose slowly to his feet. He took the barmaid's hand in
his own and kissed it, lightly, on the back of her fingers. "Your own
will do," he said, barely audible.
The barmaid said nothing. Her eyes seem suddenly vacant, and her mouth gaped slightly.
"You will fetch me blood," he said to the hypnotised barmaid. "One goblet. More later if I require it. And--"
The tray, which the barmaid held in her other arm, slipped from her
suddenly lax grasp and clattered on the ground. The sudden noise woke
her from the trance or sleep or whatever she had been under. In one
motion she jerked her hand free from the Dark Lord's, and slapped
him--hard--across the cheek. His hat fell off.
"None of that!" she said, picking up her tray again and half-holding it
before her like a shield. "There's no call for mesmerification here,
and if you try it again I'll call for the constable. I say again,
there's no blood to be had!"
The Dark Lord looked taken aback. "Red wine, then," he managed to say after a long silence. "A Valpolicella if you have it."
"That's better," said the barmaid, and stormed away.
After a moment the Dark Lord sat down, picked up his tricorn hat,
carefully dusted it off, and set it back on his head. Then he went to
lurking at his corner table in an embarrassed sort of way, though his
eye kept watch on his fellow-patrons.
In the stables, a rather jittery stableboy curried the flanks of a
steaming hell-steed. The steed itself, once again horse-shaped, was
eying the boy in the sort of way that a lion eyes a three-legged
gazelle. | | |
| Eulogy for Ug...Ug fought valiantly. He stayed at his post when the spider-goats ran...
He stood by my side against the
Leet-speak invasion, and again on E-day (Evil-Day) when we liberated
my consort's blog. The Xanga site Jalix3 is now, once again, the habitation of my Dread Mistress now that the troll has fled--and in part it is thanks to Ug.
Together we drove Khan, the Leet-speaking troll, into the Outer Darkness of cyberspace, from which he will hopefully not return.
And now, as we stand over a coffin containing the partial and somewhat
mangled remains of Ug, I remember all the good times we had in the five
weeks since we thawed him out of the ice.
Ug made me coffee. Or at least something vaguely resembling coffee.
Ug helped to rebuild the East Wing of my Arctic Lair when I turned the heat on too high.
I once saw Ug kill a polar bear with his bare hands. Of course, his bare hands were holding a battle-ax at the time, but still.
Ug, you were my first Dark Lieutenant. And although your grasp of English and modern technology was somewhat slim, you were the best Dark Lieutenant a budding Evil Overlord could ask for. May the fiends bear you to a somewhat tolerable region of the nether realms.
Winge'd minions... SALUTE!
Spider-goats... Aim, FIRE! Aim, FIRE! Aim, FIRE!
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| Never AgainArctic Lairs are officially off my wishlist. You spend half your time trying not to freeze to death and the other half of the time trying to defrost your coffee. And just when you get the heat working, you realize you shouldn't get the heat working because the whole lair is MADE of ICE. (How I'm going to get all my clothing dry, I really don't know.) At least with Antarctic Lairs you can recruit hordes of killer penguins. Hordes of killer dancing penguins.
At least I finally got my Internet hooked up. My poor Neopet was starving, with no-one to feed him.
Coring has been proceeding on schedule. The winge'd minions managed to procure three confirmed mind-control space-worms that were frozen in the ice, and also a Neanderthal that we thawed out and hired on as my Dark Lieutenant. I call him Ug.
Soon I shall descend in a mad rush from the North, like a rushing northern descending thing, and fall upon the world of men! Not to mention on my consort's former Internet habitation, which apparently has been captured by that... thing... again.
But for now, I shall just sit and enjoy my coffee.
*clink*
Ug! Fetch me a microwave! No, no, that's a food processor. A microwave! You know, the box that makes things hot. Yes, yes, the microwave! No--Ug! That's the oven!
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| I can't believe they ran out. Ran out?! I need those Wiis. (Wiis? Wiies? Wie? Wiii?)
My only recourse is to find someone who bought a Wii, kill them and steal their identity.
...
The winge'd minions want to play Twilight Princess.
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| It was right in front of me all along, and yet I did not see it.
The Wii. The Wii is my path to world domination. Envision an army of minions, trained in the martial arts by martial art simulation...
I shall implant a mind-control device into every Wii console, so that the users will become slaves to my will! Every person who plays the console will have their willpower erased, with subliminal messages playing over and over in their minds while they shoot and slash at their virtual foes. They will become my soldiers, my shocktroopers, my... um... Honey? What's another synonym for minions?
Beware, foolish mortals. My dread army of Gamers will soon be descending on thee.
Very soon.
Hey! Hey, no cutting in line! I've been waiting here since yesterday night!
That's right, that's right, cower in fear.
...
Gosh, it's cold out here.
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