Before you overly-muscled, inadequatedly educated superhero types with your Messiah complexes look down your noses at me for being unrepetentantly wicked, perhaps you should consider that I am as much a product of my environment as you. Do you honestly think any of you would be protecting the rights of mere mortals if it hadn't been for some sort of traumatic experience in your youth? You, over there in the gaudy blue and red spandex, are you going to sit there and tell me that you'd be flying around protecting the weak if your planet hadn't blown up and you'd not been raised by a pair of republican farmers? And as for the rich gentleman with the rubber fetish and the utterly fabulous cape, do any of you honestly think he'd give up his life of luxury and garden parties if some common thug had not botched a robbery and whacked his parents?

My life wasn't all sunshine and lollipops either, although I suppose that none of you do-gooders had ever considered that. Sure, I grew up in a castle with hundreds of cowering servants at my beck and call, but where was the love? Mother, the Countess, was never home. She was always running around in those vinyl bodysuits blowing things up, seducing numbskull heroes, poisoning foreign dignitaries or stealing vital military technology from powerful governments. We were not without quality time; I still relish those moments Mumsy spent with me on the firing range, instructing me in the use of heavy artillery and those days we spent together learning the art of torturing political prisoners, (even now the memory of their screams delights me) but more often than not she was not home. So I was raised by a parade of unsmiling governesses who all loathed me and would have gleefully poisoned my morning oatmeal were they not afraid of seeing their entire families impaled on spikes and left out for the carrion crows to snack on.

And while I am grateful to my Father, (or Herr Doktor as he preferred to be called) for personally seeing to it that I received the finest education and instruction that money and terror could buy, he was always a harsh taskmaster. Once, when I was three, I misconjugated a verb while translating The Art of War from Chinese to late mycenaean Greek and Father became so enraged that he hung me upside down from my feet over a pit full of rabid chinchillas while forcing me to recite all of Hesiod's Works and Days from memory. I still have an aversion to rodents from that experience. And I could never make father happy; at the age of eight, I succesfully spliced the genes of a miniature porcine species with the south american condor to create a pig that could fly, my father's only response was, "At your age I'd already split the atom and discovered a way to reverse cellular mitosis in four species of plant".

Even when my family was all together, it was never a happy experience. Family dinners were always a tense affair held in the cavernous grand dining room and lit only by flickering torches. Father could never abide yelling during dinner, and since the table in the grand ballroom was 12 meters long and mother was a stickler for etiquette our distance from each other made conversation nearly impossible with father at the head, mother at the foot and I seated in the middle. Then there were the awful rows my parents frequently had. Mother would every so often get it into her head that she'd be more effective as a widow and try to assassinate father; Herr Doktor would inevitably retaliate by destroying something mother held dear. The Countess has still not forgiven Herr Doktor for the Louvre bombing of 1982.

At first, I thought University life would be my escape from the horrors of home; but I soon discovered how wrong I was. The other students made fun of my accent and called me Mr. Creepy, no girl would ever give me the time of day, and I frequently discovered tags reading "kick me" stuck furtively to my back. The quarterback of the football team was every bit as brutal and sadistic as my father, but without any of the creativity. In my sophomore year, the entire football team grabbed me, stripped me naked and made me dance in a field while they sang Whoomp, there it is and hooted at me derisively. Then they pummeled me into unconsciousness and urinated upon me while singing the school fight song.

I was embittered and emotionally scarred by my terrifying experiences and poured myself into my studies, vowing to learn enough that I would never have to suffer the depradations of cretins again. During my studying, at last I found love. Love, sweet love that might have brought hope of redemption to my tormented and twisted soul. Alas, my one true love perished in a horrible chemical fire that savaged the entire Science wing of my university. The fire was set accidentally by that same Quarterback who tormented me; he had never been one to pay attention in chemistry class. The quarterback survived the catastrophe, one of those dunderheaded flying types swept him to safety while leaving my beloved to gag on poisonous and noxious fumes.

So you see, had I not been dealt such a hand by the fates, I too might have turned my superior intellect and vast resources towards protecting the lowly crawling idiots that populate this loathesome planet instead of attempting to destroy them and make all bow in acknowledgement of my divine right to rule over lesser beings. Even now, I might be flying around with my underwear on the outside of my clothes, rescuing morons who foolishly put themselves in peril. Instead, I am forced by destiny to be the avenging blade of heaven and purge this world of idiocy and oppose your naive efforts to bring justice at every step.

Oh, and Superman? Be a dear and hold on to this nice green rock for me?


The Von Wicked Chronicles
by Excalibre and Evil Catullus

I remember when it was me who made you want to take over the world and enslave humanity
Latex. High heels. Knives. (Excalibre's writeup)
It's not my fault that I'm so evil
I was a teenage Overlord
Lady Deathblast's Lover
This little light of mine
The Thanksgiving battle
My funny villaintine
Robots and comic books
This wicked life
The education of little overlords
All things truly wicked
Darkness lights its own way
no rest
How it all began
Sometimes I think you love that doomsday machine more than you love me.
They are mine. They are dead.
There is a crack in everything

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