Unbelievable. I spend months crafting a plan to destroy Hamish, to rip from him everything and everyone he loves and cares about, and he chokes to death on an olive pit.
Just- I just-
Why do I bother?
Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
A slight problem
No lesson today, my minions, just a little catch-up on my current schemes for Utter Domination, which have been set back just a scoch.
Immediately after returning from my, er, enforced vacation, I found myself spat out onto the Plain of Sorrow in an untidy pile of Gar pellets. The Plain is a place nearly as bleak and lifeless as the Abyss itself, and generally described as 'the ass-end of nowhere'. It says it on the map, actually, in parentheses. Good cartographers around here.
Anyway, through sheer force of will and a good deal of trial and error, I managed to reconstitute myself. There really is a place for everything, and everything really should be in its place. And I always thought my mother's little aphorisms were just her trite nature shining through.
I trudged my way out of the Plains, came upon a mud-walled village named Thrudd, subjugated the peasants there to my will, forcing them to clothe my sun-blistered body (no clothes in the Abyss, for future reference) , feed me from their pitiful stores of root vegetables and dried lizards, and give me their finest residence to sleep in (the mud hut that had moldy straw on the mud floor).
In the morning, after a nice bark-and-lizard soup flavoured with the ceremonial blessing of the entire village (apparently they spit in your food as a sign of respect, even awe in Thrudd), I continued my homeward journey, looking forward to finally arriving at my Dark Stronghold and reclaiming my rightful (or rather wrongful) place in the grand sheme. And a bath.
To make a long story short, it's gone.
That bastard Hamish tore it all down. I always thought the phrase 'leave no stone atop another' was just so much hyperbole. Apparently not. My Pit, my undead army, my poetry! All gone.
So. I find myself in the position that all Evil Overlords must inevitably come to at least once in their careers: Plotting my revenge.
That's all I have the heart to write tonight, dear minions. Rest assured, however, you haven't heard the last of me. Nor has Hamish.
Immediately after returning from my, er, enforced vacation, I found myself spat out onto the Plain of Sorrow in an untidy pile of Gar pellets. The Plain is a place nearly as bleak and lifeless as the Abyss itself, and generally described as 'the ass-end of nowhere'. It says it on the map, actually, in parentheses. Good cartographers around here.
Anyway, through sheer force of will and a good deal of trial and error, I managed to reconstitute myself. There really is a place for everything, and everything really should be in its place. And I always thought my mother's little aphorisms were just her trite nature shining through.
I trudged my way out of the Plains, came upon a mud-walled village named Thrudd, subjugated the peasants there to my will, forcing them to clothe my sun-blistered body (no clothes in the Abyss, for future reference) , feed me from their pitiful stores of root vegetables and dried lizards, and give me their finest residence to sleep in (the mud hut that had moldy straw on the mud floor).
In the morning, after a nice bark-and-lizard soup flavoured with the ceremonial blessing of the entire village (apparently they spit in your food as a sign of respect, even awe in Thrudd), I continued my homeward journey, looking forward to finally arriving at my Dark Stronghold and reclaiming my rightful (or rather wrongful) place in the grand sheme. And a bath.
To make a long story short, it's gone.
That bastard Hamish tore it all down. I always thought the phrase 'leave no stone atop another' was just so much hyperbole. Apparently not. My Pit, my undead army, my poetry! All gone.
So. I find myself in the position that all Evil Overlords must inevitably come to at least once in their careers: Plotting my revenge.
That's all I have the heart to write tonight, dear minions. Rest assured, however, you haven't heard the last of me. Nor has Hamish.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
You win when you don't lose
Generally speaking, I am against the use of foul language by an Evil Overlord. One should bring a certain level of class to the profession.
However, when your enemy banishes you to the Abyss/Null Space/Outer Void, 'never to return'; and you do indeed return, DESPITE the fact that your physical self had been broken down into particles no larger than an average raisin (if that), you are allowed and perhaps even expected to voice a few crudities.
So, to Hamish, Bringer of Light, I'd just like to say: SUCK MY EVIL, SWEATY, RECONSTITUTED BA%%S.
However, when your enemy banishes you to the Abyss/Null Space/Outer Void, 'never to return'; and you do indeed return, DESPITE the fact that your physical self had been broken down into particles no larger than an average raisin (if that), you are allowed and perhaps even expected to voice a few crudities.
So, to Hamish, Bringer of Light, I'd just like to say: SUCK MY EVIL, SWEATY, RECONSTITUTED BA%%S.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Evil Overlord Insomnia
It has been a considerable length of time since I last cast forth pearls of wisdom for you eager swine. I would apologize, if I could work up the insincerity. The truth is I am a rather grumpy Evil Overlord at the moment, and haven't got the energy to spare.
I've certainly been busy, what with the trammeling of peasants and the beheading of plotters, and usually a busy Gar the Pitiless is a happy Gar the Pitiless. But lately I have suffered from difficulty sleeping, and the lack of rest is telling on my generally cheerful disposition.
The first handful of nights, I shrugged it off, owing to recent stress involving certain difficulties renegotiating a contract with beings from the nether plane. But even after the dispute was resolved (satisfactorily, I might add; these infernal creatures care mainly about quantity, not quality in regards to souls, and I've got absolute scads of villages under my domination, filled with the useless elderly and infirm, nearly all of them with perfectly servicable souls), I have had great difficulty in getting a good night's rest.
I swear, without a decent night's sleep I just feel less than human in the morning. And all the wailing and hair-pulling and heaping-of-ashes and the banging outside my Stronghold gates, from the relatives of the villagers I sacrificed to Hoth the Devourer, simply isn't helping matters. You'd think they'd have a little human decency and keep it down in the wee hours of the morning, at the very least.
I mean really. It's not like their dear old Granny or whomever is dead. She'll be perfectly fine up until the moment she keels over. Certainly, once she dies she'll experience an eternity of torment in the gullet of a demon, but it's not as if her relatives are going to get postcards from the afterlife explaining all that she's going through. Honestly, these peasants have no sense of proportion.
Well. I can't say that I've necessarily passed on any advice that will further your designs on Total Domination tonight, but the writing of this has passed a half hour that I would otherwise have spent staring up at my bedroom ceiling, so I suppose it was worth it. Now to test out the boiling oil I had my troops install at the Stronghold gates this afternoon. It had better be flammable. I specifically told them to make it flammable.
I've certainly been busy, what with the trammeling of peasants and the beheading of plotters, and usually a busy Gar the Pitiless is a happy Gar the Pitiless. But lately I have suffered from difficulty sleeping, and the lack of rest is telling on my generally cheerful disposition.
The first handful of nights, I shrugged it off, owing to recent stress involving certain difficulties renegotiating a contract with beings from the nether plane. But even after the dispute was resolved (satisfactorily, I might add; these infernal creatures care mainly about quantity, not quality in regards to souls, and I've got absolute scads of villages under my domination, filled with the useless elderly and infirm, nearly all of them with perfectly servicable souls), I have had great difficulty in getting a good night's rest.
I swear, without a decent night's sleep I just feel less than human in the morning. And all the wailing and hair-pulling and heaping-of-ashes and the banging outside my Stronghold gates, from the relatives of the villagers I sacrificed to Hoth the Devourer, simply isn't helping matters. You'd think they'd have a little human decency and keep it down in the wee hours of the morning, at the very least.
I mean really. It's not like their dear old Granny or whomever is dead. She'll be perfectly fine up until the moment she keels over. Certainly, once she dies she'll experience an eternity of torment in the gullet of a demon, but it's not as if her relatives are going to get postcards from the afterlife explaining all that she's going through. Honestly, these peasants have no sense of proportion.
Well. I can't say that I've necessarily passed on any advice that will further your designs on Total Domination tonight, but the writing of this has passed a half hour that I would otherwise have spent staring up at my bedroom ceiling, so I suppose it was worth it. Now to test out the boiling oil I had my troops install at the Stronghold gates this afternoon. It had better be flammable. I specifically told them to make it flammable.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
On the hiring of anyone with the appellation "Mad": Just don't.
While there may well be uses for the insane in some (very) specialized organizations, I have yet to discover one in my own. This includes the criminally insane. Essentially, the point to be made here is when you hire/intimidate/blackmail someone into performing a task for you, what you want is results - predictable, calculable results that you can plug into your grand scheme. What you get, when hiring unhinged loons (and they all are, your Evil geniuses, Mad Scientists, Crazed Sorcerers et. al.) is chaos.
And anyway, why would you want to hire a mad scientist when there are so very many sane scientists out there willing to invent and improve upon the most heinous technology, and for nothing more than a decent wage and modest benefits? Sure, the mad scientist or crazed magician may be willing to work for free, just to prove his theory correct. But you have to remember two things here:
1) By and large, you get what you pay for, and
2) he or she is not working for you , or to advance your interests, but to prove their mad theory correct. He/she is in the grip of an obsession. And he/she is bug-f*ck crazy.
You do the math. Cutting corners is a bad idea.
A final thought: If you simply can't help yourself and decide to take a chance on the Mad Alchemist of Prrng or whomever, make sure you give him or her a research facility, far, far away from anywhere you might mind seeing turned into slag. It also wouldn't hurt to name the facility after a dead relative of your worst enemy, e.g. "The King Gustus Memorial Institute for the Advancement of Magics" or the like. That way, when things inevitably go spectacularly wrong, public backlash is channeled ina useful direction.
And anyway, why would you want to hire a mad scientist when there are so very many sane scientists out there willing to invent and improve upon the most heinous technology, and for nothing more than a decent wage and modest benefits? Sure, the mad scientist or crazed magician may be willing to work for free, just to prove his theory correct. But you have to remember two things here:
1) By and large, you get what you pay for, and
2) he or she is not working for you , or to advance your interests, but to prove their mad theory correct. He/she is in the grip of an obsession. And he/she is bug-f*ck crazy.
You do the math. Cutting corners is a bad idea.
A final thought: If you simply can't help yourself and decide to take a chance on the Mad Alchemist of Prrng or whomever, make sure you give him or her a research facility, far, far away from anywhere you might mind seeing turned into slag. It also wouldn't hurt to name the facility after a dead relative of your worst enemy, e.g. "The King Gustus Memorial Institute for the Advancement of Magics" or the like. That way, when things inevitably go spectacularly wrong, public backlash is channeled ina useful direction.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
The Last Evil Overlord List You Will Ever Need
It has come to my attention that there are several lists advising prospective Evil Overlords on what/what not to do (here, here and here being good examples). All of these lists bear a suspicious resemblance to one another.
Being magnanimous as well as pitiless, I thought I myself would write write down a concise, thoroughly original list on what to do to become a successful Evil Overlord:
1. Do whatever Gar the Pitiless says I should do.
2. Do not do anything Gar the Pitiless says I should not do.
How simple I make things for you, and how little you appreciate it.
Being magnanimous as well as pitiless, I thought I myself would write write down a concise, thoroughly original list on what to do to become a successful Evil Overlord:
1. Do whatever Gar the Pitiless says I should do.
2. Do not do anything Gar the Pitiless says I should not do.
How simple I make things for you, and how little you appreciate it.
Evil Opportunity Employer
It is with no little contempt that I view those who aspire to Total Domination who, through an accident of birth or fortune, already hold high position in life. You know the sort. The Parricidal Princes, The Grand Viziers, The Dowager Empresses. For some reason we are supposed to applaud their 'cunning', when they've done the political equivalent of stepping from a scented bath into a warm robe held out by a servant. Bah.
Myself, I come from a long line of dirt farmers. Literally. Our lands were cursed, and could grow nothing. We also had a good sideline in stones. Due to the curse-induced seismic and meteorological activity, however much we dug out of the frozen, snow covered ground the day before, more was there the next day, awaiting the pick axes and shovels.
Being the youngest of thirteen, it was decided I was to have an education. Which was better than wielding a shovel, but also meant that, due to the curse, I had to walk ten miles to school and back each day in the snow, uphill, both ways. I like to think the experience toughened me for the travails inherent in the uphill climb towards Total Domination.
The point here is that Evil, unlike 'Good', is egalitarian and meritocratic. It cares nothing for birth, lineage, station or fate. Your typical hero? A handsome prince or feisty princess, or the same robbed of their birthright, or some pig farmer 'destined' to fulfill a prophecy (and incidentally, found a new lineage of handsome princes and feisty princesses).
Such is the modus operandi of the opposition. You'll find not a homely or overweight one in the bunch. It sickens me, it truly does. My own policy on the hiring and advancement of staff is strictly merit based. They are all self-made men and women. Literally, in some cases.
At the end of the day, I couldn't care less how many tumors or buboes your face may harbour, though I might politely request you sit at the other end of the table when it comes to organization-wide meals. You say you're the twisted offspring of a cannibalistic she-troll and a dark sorcerer? I say you've got the best of two worlds. Leprous seers, corpse-eating ghouls, swamp witches with the evil eye, they've all got their place under the vast umbrella of evil, because what matters at the end of the day are results.
Just remember who you work for, I remind them periodically. Or else.
Myself, I come from a long line of dirt farmers. Literally. Our lands were cursed, and could grow nothing. We also had a good sideline in stones. Due to the curse-induced seismic and meteorological activity, however much we dug out of the frozen, snow covered ground the day before, more was there the next day, awaiting the pick axes and shovels.
Being the youngest of thirteen, it was decided I was to have an education. Which was better than wielding a shovel, but also meant that, due to the curse, I had to walk ten miles to school and back each day in the snow, uphill, both ways. I like to think the experience toughened me for the travails inherent in the uphill climb towards Total Domination.
The point here is that Evil, unlike 'Good', is egalitarian and meritocratic. It cares nothing for birth, lineage, station or fate. Your typical hero? A handsome prince or feisty princess, or the same robbed of their birthright, or some pig farmer 'destined' to fulfill a prophecy (and incidentally, found a new lineage of handsome princes and feisty princesses).
Such is the modus operandi of the opposition. You'll find not a homely or overweight one in the bunch. It sickens me, it truly does. My own policy on the hiring and advancement of staff is strictly merit based. They are all self-made men and women. Literally, in some cases.
At the end of the day, I couldn't care less how many tumors or buboes your face may harbour, though I might politely request you sit at the other end of the table when it comes to organization-wide meals. You say you're the twisted offspring of a cannibalistic she-troll and a dark sorcerer? I say you've got the best of two worlds. Leprous seers, corpse-eating ghouls, swamp witches with the evil eye, they've all got their place under the vast umbrella of evil, because what matters at the end of the day are results.
Just remember who you work for, I remind them periodically. Or else.
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