I'm pooped!
All this blogging and shooting people can really wear a guy out. As such, I'm going to be taking a break from the blogging for now. I may still post occasionally on Burnt Toast Diner. Add me to Google Reader or whatever it is you use so you can see when I update again.
For now, I'm going to relax.
After a tough first day being back with the company, I arrived home to enjoy Sandra's wonderful cooking. She had prepared a bucket of fried chicken, even printing an old man's face on the side.
"Delicious," I raised a drumstick to her.
The rest of the family stared at me. Their food was untouched. Finally, Claire spoke up, "Have a nice day at work, Dad?"
I didn't appreciate her tone. "I don't appreciate your tone," I said.
"I don't appreciate your ethics!" she replied.
Seeing as she was a cheerleader, I was surprised she knew what ethics were.
"Who," she asked accusingly, "did you kill today, Dad? Or did you bag and tag some first graders?"
"Oh, Claire Bear. I can't tell you who I killed. But it was fun...I mean, for the best. It was for the best."
"Oh, let's change the subject!" Sandra interrupted. "Say, Claire," she touched Claire's hand. "Did you see your bio-daddy on TV today? He is so handsome."
I glared at Sandra through my horn-rimmed glasses.
"Not as handsome as you, honey," she added.
Claire asked, "What was he doing?"
"Oh, I don't know. Some press conference, before he was shot."
I took a drink of tea.
"Shot?!?" Claire jumped up from her seat.
I quickly shot the tea out of my mouth. "Shot?" I said. "Well, I for one am shocked! So shocked I spit out my tea. Did you see how shocked I was?"
"Yes," Sandra replied.
"Haha!" Lyle chuckled, "You spewed all over Mr. Muggles!"
"It was you!" Claire said.
"Of course it was him," Sandra responded. "He was the only one that spit out tea. Who else would have spewed all over Mr. Muggles?" She picked up the terrified pooch. "Oh, you are a mess. We're going to need Mr. Muggles's doggie bath. Yes we are!" She poked Mr. Muggles on the nose and left.
Claire just stared at me.
I took a bite of my food and said, "This chicken is delicious."
Seeing as I've been granted a second life (and I don't mean that Sims ripoff kind of second life for the socially-impaired), I think I should set a new agenda for myself. Of course, my first priority is the same one from my old agenda: Protect Claire.
But what else can I aspire to?
I once had a dream that I would become an ice cream salesman. Ice cream is so fun and tasty. Not a thing like paper. So what happened?
I was three years into ice cream school when I discovered I was really good at shooting people. It all started during my final exam in Advanced Toppings.
"You may begin," the teacher instructed.
I started scribbling away, making it through the test with lightening speed. Then I came to a roadblock: "Which of the following best complements caramel fudge brownie?"
It occurred to me that the section of my textbook on caramel fudge brownie had been missing. I had noticed torn pages, but didn't expect their content to be crucial. Unfortunately, the following twenty questions were all over caramel fudge brownie!
I panicked. It was perhaps the worst moment of my life. It was then I realized I would fail the exam, and flunk out of ice cream school.
My sugar-filled dream of life in the ice cream business was over.
Having no other choice, I enlisted in the National Guard and enrolled in community college, majoring in business management. I learned a lot, but it wasn't my passion. In actuality, I told myself that with a business degree, I could start my own ice cream business. That plan never came to fruition.
I was called in to serve two weeks in the Guard. It was boring. My missions were nothing but household chores for the barracks. My skills as a trained killer and business man were going to waste.
It was during my short tour of duty that I decided to research into my Advanced Topping textbook's previous owner. I found him: A Mr. J. Perry Watson.
I visited his home, but there was no answer at the door. Then I heard an all-too-familiar melody approaching. A large white van with an ice cream cone on the side was coming down the street with a parade of children chasing after it. It came to a halt, and I bullied myself to the front of the line.
"J. Perry Watson?" I asked the cheerful driver/clerk.
"Yes. What would you like?"
"Revenge," was my cold reply.
"One scoop or two?"
I shot him. Children screamed. Ice cream cones hit the ground.
"You killed the ice cream man!" one child yelled.
"Ice cream man," I glared at the kid, "easy to become an ice cream man when you have the pages on caramel fudge brownies, isn't it?"
I thought maybe my new life could start fresh with a career in the ice cream business. Unfortunately, I'm back with the company. I don't really have a choice in the matter, but if I work my way back up to the top, maybe I can convince them to give the tasty foods business a try.
So, I'm back to my old life. Lots of mystery. Lots of intrigue. But best of all, I get to shoot people. I even got to shoot someone my first day! Sorry, can't say who it was.
I hope Sylar is back. If he was, then I'd be needed. Nobody rivals my Sylar-hunting skills. I once imaged that I tracked him into Mexico and killed him. Sure, it may sound like a silly notion. Sylar in Mexico, ha! That's like having Richard Simmons in a Flamenco contest. But it did prepare me, readied my mind for the day I would kill him for real.
And now, if he should miraculously reappear, I would have something with which to bargain. I could offer to shoot Sylar in exchange for my family's and my freedom.
Of course, that is assuming Bob would make a deal. It's impossible negotiating with a man who can turn anything gold. No matter what somebody offers, he can always buy it with enough gold. As a result, his Pokemon deck is unbeatable.
I have to escape this place, though. I can't be away from my family any longer. They need me! It's time to choose a briefcase and ask Bob, "Deal or No Deal?" He'd choose "No deal" because he hates NBC. Ever since they canceled Joey, he just hasn't been the same. He would have bought his own station and turned it into a 24-hour Joey network, but Angela Petrelli talked some sense into him.
Perhaps I could convince NBC to give Joey a second chance? I could likely put up with it if it means my family will be safe. But unfortunately, I have yet to bag and tag a TV executive. So, that is out of the question.
But there has to be something. Maybe I can't break Bob due to his negotiation immunity, but perhaps Elle or Mohinder have a weakness that can be exploited. That's one thing I can do, and I do it well and often.
If only Eden was around. She was more than just eye-candy. Her power could help me a lot right now. Since I don't have her power of persuassion, I'll have to use my own power of superior salesmanship and strike some kind of deal with the company.
The following is from Who Wants to be a Super Villain.
Finally, I'm presented with a challenge that may prove difficult. All the past ones dealt with one of my many areas of expertise. But this challenge is new grounds. I've never once built a Robot of Doom.
Mr. Bennet...uh, I mean, Mr. Butler....is up for any challenge this competition can throw at me. I'm driven by the desire to protect my family, and this game's perhaps non-existent prize could do just that.
"Let's win this one!" I shouted.
The girls broke out into cheers to lift our spirits. Once said spirits reached an appropriate altitude, I questioned The Haitian about a plan.
"Robots of Doom need massive firepower," he suggested.
Kandi added, "Like a big flame thrower and stuff!"
I was becoming concerned. This was already turning into an ambitious project.
"And a power source," The Haitian said.
"My god! You're a genius."
The power source would be the key to this challenge. While the other contestants slave away giving their robots an over-the-top arsenal, quirky personalities and benign pop culture references, I would create the most powerful Doombot of all!
I sensed an opportunity for a maniacal evil genius laugh and took it.
"That was a good laugh," The Haitian complimented.
"Really? You think so?" I asked.
"Indeed. Very evil; maniacal even."
I didn't want to overdo the moment (let's leave that to Nemonok), so the team and I set off in search of the ultimate power source.
"What's the most powerful thing on Earth?" I inquired rhetorically.
"Ummm....the orange dust from Cheetos?" Kandi asked.
"A thousand hamsters running in wheels?" The Haitian offered.
"No," I said. "God."
"Oh, like, duh!" said Kandi. "I totally learned that at Bible Camp."
I decided to use my recently acquired organization to help me harness the power of God. Consulting the Vatican's library, I found all the information on the Holy Grail.
"Oooh, cool. A cup!" Christina said enthusiastically.
"Better than a cup," I replied, "a woman!"
"In Haiti, women have no power," The Haitian droned.
According to the Vatican's secret files, Opus Dei had discovered that the Holy Grail is protected, guarded by the last remaining Knight Templar. It is said that he was given amazing powers by the Grail and uses them to defend her and the environment.
Opus Dei agents, Duke Nukem and Looten Plunder, were each defeated by the green-haired guardian. But I had already defeated him myself. At this very moment he was being crushed by my garbage compactor.
"Um, boss?" Kandi said, "Mr. Planet, like, blasted through the wall."
"Blast that Captain Planet!"
Fortunately, before bagging him, I made sure to tag him. He'll lead us straight to the Holy Grail, and we'll know where to send the bill for repairing the hole in my lair.
The Haitian and I tracked his movements while the girls began putting together the Robot of Doom. He stopped off first at Starbucks, probably to fraternize with that pseudo-intellectual elitist stormtrooper. After that, he flew to the Democratic Debate. Could Hillary Clinton be the Holy Grail?
"More like the Anti-Christ!" I laughed.
"Huh?" asked The Haitian.
"Nevermind." I glanced at the tracking monitor. The blip had come to a rest. "There!" I pointed.
The Haitian did a quick Google search and said, "Jane Fonda's house."
"of course! She and her diabolical husband created Captain Planet. She's the Holy Grail!"
"To the Batcave!" The Haitian shouted.
A spinning logo and moments later we were at Fonda's FortressTM. With a series of kick-flips, the cheerleaders neutralized the guard dogs. The Haitian picked the lock, and we were inside.
"Oh, my!" Fonda cried. "Get out of my house, now!"
"I don't think so," I replied. "Have a seat."
"Planeteers! Help!" she called out in vain.
"Sorry, Ms. Fonda, but they're fish food now, eco-friendly fish food."
"Who are you?" she asked terrified.
"I'm the man in horn-rimmed glasses. You can call me Noah."
The Haitian used his crazy mental powers to knock her out cold. The logo spun again and we were back at the lair.
"Wake up, Ms. Fonda," I said as I waved a jar of ammonia under her nose. "There's a big day ahead of you."
"Wh...where am I?" she asked.
"You're inside my Robot of Doom." I replied. "All you have to do is run on that treadmill and you'll generate the energy I need. Energy from the Holy Grail herself! My Robot of Doom will be unstoppable!"
"You're mad!"
"I know. Now get to running, babe."
"Never!" she protested.
"If you don't run," I threatened, "I'll have my friend here put you in that blender. We'll grind you into a burnable oil. You know how much using you as that kind of energy source will pollute the Earth?"
"Alright! I'll run! Just promise you'll keep carbon emissions low."
She began running and the robot roared to life. The Haitian and I exited the robot to watch its first mission. Captain Planet arrived, right on schedule.
"Robot of Doom," I commanded, "Kill Captain Planet!"
And kill it did.
Well, as a show of good faith, Bob is taking me to Lubbock to see a play! It's called Jitters. I'm not one to enjoy artistic endeavors (if it can't be added or multiplied, then it makes no sense), but it'll be nice to get some fresh air.
Anyway, we're about to head out. I suppose I'll be locked up again when we get back, so I'll be able to write more then. He's already in the car honking like a frustrated step-dad.
So, sorry for the short post. As long as this isn't some elaborate execution plot, I'll continue to post later.
The drugs have worn off. I can think clearly, and the time has come to leave this place.
I devised a brilliant plan. All I would need is five bowling pins, a bucket of dried leaves and a llama.
"Bob! Bob Bishop!" I yelled.
He hurried in. "What is it, Noah?"
"I need five bowling pins, a bucket of dried leaves and a llama."
"And why might that be?"
He was on to me! I had underestimated his cleverness. If I had a gun, I would just shoot him right now. Instead, I had to think quickly. "To help with the boredom, I replied.
"Sorry, Noah. I'm afraid we don't have those items on hand."
I could see right through his lies. It's never been like Bob to lack such essentials. Any good paper salesman would have these items stored nearby. If it wasn't for me having a llama years ago, West might have flown away from me. But I knew a llama with expert spitting capabilities would prevent that from happening, and it did.
Bob left while I was questioning his response in my mind. It seemed I would have to make do without those much needed supplies.
I looked around the room....nothing. It was just a naked me, a bed and a sheet.
It seemed hopeless, until I realized that the bed had wheels! I could use it to create a battering ram.
I began slamming my bed into the wall. Bang! Bang! Clank! Boom!
It had worked! The concrete fell apart before my eyes. I was a free man. I began pulling off the chucks of concrete and tossing them onto my cell floor. Light was sure to be on the other side.
Or so I thought. After removing enough concrete, all that was revealed was a slab of iron. Iron is impenetrable. Not even Superman's X-Ray vision can get through it. It was indeed hopeless. If only I had a llama.
I don't know WHAT they did to me, but I like it. I can see so clearly now! Well, there's still a blurry vision because I have no new glasses yet. Mohinder you fiend!!!
But the colors....they're so bright. Mohinder you fiend!!
And all the animals in my room. It's like they enjoy my company. I'm just here, and they're there. And there their there they're dare!
I was wondering why Bob lost his hair. And then I realized he must have forgotten where he put it. "Where'd you put your hair?" I asked him.
"What hair?" he replied. Oh, he's such a silly, silly man.
I decided that I would form a search party for him. But he told me I needed to relax and just let the drugs run through my system. I don't have a system! Mohinder you fiend!
Lucky for me there aren't any turkeys at this paper company. Turkeys...always...make me....cry! I just don't understand why people have to be so mean. It's not like books are eating anyone. Why do we have to wear shoes on public buses anyway?
After these drug thingies wear off, I gots lots to do. Lots! People to go, places to kill and the peet! My god, the peet! One often wonders why camels would smoke cigarettes. That would be my last desire in a desert. I don't even smoke cigarettes underwater. Sometimes I eat Reese's Pieces, though.
Claire likes ninjas. Or is it Barbies? I bought her a ninja for Christmas. Don't tell her. Sandra and I hid it in our closet. But now I'm locked away! I really wanted to be there when that ninja came out of the closet. I have to escape! Escapade! Mohinder you fiend!
I can tunnel! I'll tunnel through to a gravy train. But then the cows will be expecting that, so I have to tip them or the waiter's union will strike. Nobody wants that.
Like I was saying, nothing says butter like an evil peanut from Venus.
I sense something, a presence I have not felt since....
"Hey, Bob," I said as he was adjusting some fancy medical doohickey. "You think Sylar may still be alive?"
"What?" he laughed. "No. How could he be? I mean, it's not like we revived him and isolated him in the jungle somewhere." As he was laughing, the medical doohickey turned to gold. "Oops. Let me just go get another doohickey."
While he was gone, I couldn't help wondering if Sylar could still be out there. I don't remember a funeral for him. I had been checking the obituaries every day so I could know where to go to urinate on his grave.
He never had one. I thought maybe it was a Jewish thing. Was Sylar Jewish? His nose was of normal size, but he did live in New York. But then, he wasn't too wealthy, so he couldn't have been Jewish.
Despite Bob's reassurance, I felt uneasy. It was as if Sylar was back, hunting my loved ones.
Bob finally came back in with a new doohickey. "I had to take this one away from a little girl with cancer," he said.
"It's worth it."
"Actually, it's not. You're perfectly healthy, except your vision. I'm not sure why the blood didn't heal your eyes. But you really don't even need this doohickey. You could walk out of here right now if you weren't being held against your will."
Bob left the room again. I was worried. Is Sylar out there? Could there be a bigger threat to my family? Will Bob at least bring me some Jello?
So many questions. So many desires I cannot fulfill. I have to get out of here. I have to protect my family and buy some Jello. It's time for Noah to take his life into his own hands. It's time for Noah to break out of this place. But first, it's time for Noah to stop talking in third person. Mr. Bennet makes a good point. HRG agrees.
Mohinder, that intellectual fool, brought me back to life! It was as I had suspected. His conscience got the best of him, as it always does. Unfortunately (but fortunately in this one case), his conscience is dumber than most jars of mayonnaise. It was his conscience that told him to pull the trigger in the first place, and now it conveniently undoes the damage to feel at ease.
But it won't feel at ease for long. As soon as I get my strength up, I'm leaving this place. Mohinder will have to answer for his constant stupidity.
For now, though, I'm trapped. I don't know what to do. There isn't much to do. I occasionally play Counter-Strike: Source. And when Mohinder or Bob come in to check on me, I cuss them out, threaten their family and sing annoying showtunes. If I had the strength to fling my own poo, I just might.
If I'm going to be trapped here at Primatech, I plan on making it an unenjoyable experience for my captors. Soon, though, I'll make my escape. As soon as I learn how to chew through concrete, I'm a free man. And what do free men do best? Kill other free men. I can't wait to get my hands on a gun!
As soon as I do, Bob better look out! His Midas Touch won't save him from death at my non-alchemist hands. These hands of mine are getting even more efficient at killing. You thought I was good with a gun before, just wait. I've put in many hours playing Counter-Strike while I fully recover. Sure, I do a lot of dying on the game, but just like in real life, I respawn.
With every new CS life, I get better. I improve. My aim is quicker; my strategies more cunning. It's the same outside of the virtual first person shooter. This new life of mine is an improvement on the old. I use each new breath to better myself.
Practice is the key. And grapes, maybe it's just an old wives' tale, but they say grapes help the brain to adapt and grow. Ancient Roman emperors ate a lot of grapes, and they got to rule the known world, so there must be something positive coming from them.
"Where's Mohinder? I need more grapes!"
You'd think sitting inside this dull cell all naked would be boring. And you'd be right. Luckily for me, I have Internet access. And luckily for you and me, Who Wants to be a Super Villain is still airing.
Go check out how I did in the fourth challenge here.
But if you want to see what being captured by Primatech has been like for me in the past, go here.
If you're super crazy, you can read both.
I posted on the Burnt Toast Diner blog. It's a special message for my special Claire Bear. 
If you're her, go here to read it. If you're an evil bad guy set out to destroy me and my family, then go here instead.
For years I've been unsure of my ethical standing. Am I a bad guy? Am I a good guy? Everything is so black and white, or at least it seemed so. How could I be a good guy when I shoot my partner Ivan? But how can I be a bad guy when the reason I shoot him is to protect Claire and save the world from an evil paper company?
It was quite a stressful life. So, in a way, it was good for me to die. I was able to put that all behind me. Now, I see the truth. I am the chosen one.
I realize that life isn't black and white. Even The Holy Bible, where most people get their morals, shows how God can be evil AND good. The key is to never admit to being evil. As long as I believe I'm good, then everything evil I do is a good thing. 
So now I'm ready to fulfill my destiny. I'm ready to go out into the world and do some evil good. I've got a prophecy to fulfill.
As soon as I find a way out of this place, I'll be able to begin my journey. Bob and Elle will have to die of course. As for Mohinder, I've already got a revenge scheme planned for him.
After all that evil good, I'll have to do some good good. While I was dead, I was thinking about how Claire can heal herself. If only there was a way to utilize her power on others. Think of all the people I could save! But how? Hmm....maybe it's just impossible.
But there's plenty of other good to do in the world, other than healing people. Sure, Jesus could heal the sick and unblind the sightless. I could always distribute Tylenol and bifocals. It's almost as holy a mission as his, and the product placement could gain me lots of cash.
I need my resurrection to be known to the world. I need Claire to know I'm still alive. But since I banned the Internet in our house (for safety reasons), I have no way of contacting her. I'm trapped here, in my tomb.
But where am I? It looks like one of my old paper storage rooms, but with better decor. Could the company have brought me back to life? Am I now a cyborg forced to do their bidding? Will I no longer require restroom breaks?
Nothing can be said for sure. I'm still too afraid to leave my bed and explore. I watched these movies about people who would awake in some elaborate trap. Some would be forced to saw off their own foot to escape, or even cut out their own eyes. Several of the victims made the mistake of rushing into things. As soon as I step off this bed, a timer could start, counting down to my death by squishing or something super bloody like that.
But if this is the company, then I don't think they'd do that. I'm not sure why they'd bring me back though. I've killed hundreds of people while working for them and not once did they bring anyone back. They never even regretted any of the killings. So why me?
Could it be that there's a meaning to my life that I haven't counted upon? I know my Claire Bear is special. She's been the subject of prophecy. And I've sworn to protect her. But all this time...could I have been the one needing protection? Is there a prophecy about me?
My only conclusion is that I am indeed being held by the company. The reason has to be that they've uncovered a prophecy about me. What could it be? What am I meant to do with my second life? And can I still collect my life insurance?
At the moment, I'm wondering where I am. However, that can wait. The more important thing is my plan for revenge.
Mohinder Suresh, shot me. He intended to kill, yet I survived because, for all intents and purposes, I'm Jesus.
And like any good Jesus, I have to plot out my ultimate revenge....an apocalypse, HRG-style. Mohinder will regret his lack of faith, his utter disregard for the power of Mr. Bennet. I'm running this show, and I don't take kindly to would-be assassins.
So what's first? Well, I'll begin by humiliating him. He's Indian, or at least brownish, so likely he has some sort of religious views about cows...or is it pigs? Hmm....let's check Wikipedia....cows it is!
I need to gather cows. Apparently, they're all of Mohinder's ancestors. His grandmother Madhuri, his great aunt Suravinda. And I'm sure there's an Uncle Nikunj or something. No Indian family is complete without an Uncle Nikunj.
I'll take my plethora of bovine and march them straight into his tiny New York City apartment. If his domestic partner tries to stop me, then he'll suffer the wrath of Noah as well.
What do I plan to do with all those cows? I'll do what any blue-blooded Texan would do: grill 'em up and serve 'em with Tabasco. 
Mohinder will personally eat (can you impersonally eat something?) every cow, every deceased relative in the herd.
I'll do this systematically to insure he suffers immense weight-gain. His obesity will then drag him into a horrible depression. He'll begin to ponder less about destiny and more about his own worth as a human being. Of course, society will let it be known that he's just a fat slob. Nobody will take his postulates seriously anymore. They'll be too busy laughing at his lardness.
Then, I'll buy an old TV monitor. Not one of those fancy LCD or plasma screens of today. I'm talking about the 1950's radiation-spouting boxes o' cancer. I'll force him to watch hours upon hours of Joey, which there may not actually exist hours upon hours of, so I'll supplement it with King of the Hill. While the stupidity drives him crazy, the bright glare will melt away his vision. He'll then be prescribed a thick set of glasses.
Only after he puts on his glasses will it be time to kill him. One shot, straight through his left eye. We'll see how he likes having his glasses destroyed.
But first...two questions: Where am I and am I on some sort of medication?
I died. It's hard to believe, but it's true. I was standing around, minding my own business, about to shoot Bob, and then....BAM! Life ended.
It was an odd experience, being dead. Sort of like using mouthwash, there was a tingly burning all over my body. The last thing I remember thinking was, "Oh, no! My glasses!"
Then, everything went fuzzy. Then, I awoke in a haze. God, as portrayed by Andy Griffith, was beside me. We were looking down on my dead body together.
"Am I dead?"
"Yes, Noah. You are dead."
"But," I complained, "what about all the stuff I still have to do? Copiers to sell, companies to destroy, Claire Bears to save?"
"Relax. I am aware of your responsibilities. That is why I'm sending you back."
"Back?"
"Yes. You must live, Noah, so that you may build an ark."
"Ark?"
"No, I'm only kidding. Do whatever it is you do."
And with that, I awoke. I was relieved I wouldn't have to build an ark. It had been a fear of mine my entire life. Children used to make fun of me in school. They'd say things like, "Hey, Noah. Where's your boat?" and "You forgot the unicorns." I always expected that, because I was named Noah, God would come to me and command me to build a boat. At the age of thirteen, I learned everything there was to know about gopherwood (it didn't take long considering there's no such thing).
Now, it turns out that Noah was the wrong Biblical name for me. I'm clearly more important than the savior of all life on Earth. I'm a more important savior: the kind that resurrects.
I had suffered for the sins of extraordinary people, but out of the love in my heart (mostly just dramatic hesitation), I refrained from unwarranted violence. I did not shoot Mohinder, or Bob. And I merely wounded Elle. Sure, this allowed me to be killed. But I was fine with that.
I fulfilled my prophecy without complaint. It was a good death. I could have lived with it. 
But you can't keep a good salesman down. I resurrected, and so I'm back. And that means there's going to be Hell to pay.
Mohinder??? Seriously, Mohinder???? Mr. Exposition pulled the trigger? Mohinder??
I have to say, this is why I don't have friends. People ask me, "Noah," well, most people don't know my first name. People ask me, "Bennet," actually lots of people don't even know my last name. People ask me, "Guy in Horn Rimmed Glasses, why do you always kill people?" Well, now they know!
Partners are always out to kill each other. It's just a matter of who pulls the trigger first. If it wasn't for that stupid flying brat, I could have blown Suresh's brain right out of that empty head of his. But, I had a momentary relapse into goodness. And it cost me.
But seriously, Mohinder?? I knew he was a loose cannon, an iffy pawn on the chessboard of destiny, as he might say. But I never thought he had it in him to shoot me. I mean, I'm Noah Bennet!
Now, I need to get my senses together. I'm still dealing with some post-traumatic stress. After all, I just died. Does anyone wonder what happens when you die? The rumors are true.
You really do meet Andy Griffith. While his theme song whistled in the background, he spoke, "Noah, welcome. Walk into the light."
"Screw you!" I said. "I have a daughter to protect."
And so, I'm back.....but where am I?
At the behest of Sandra, Claire and I went to see a psychologist. All this dangerous secret hiding and extraordinary abilities have started to strain our relationship. My Claire Bear was growing away from me.
Four months ago, nobody knew much about what was going on with the Bennets. That was how I wanted it. I didn't want anyone to remember a thing. So what was I doing? Well, I did go on a reality show, Who Wants to be a Super Villain?, which is now airing. On the show, I met a stuck up brain in a jar named Nemonok. Nothing says psychology like pretentious disembodiment. So, I gave my former rival a call and scheduled Claire Bear and me an appointment.
"Thank you both foro coming," Dr. Nemonok said inside his Earth office. "It was quite the lengthy commute for me, but the potential for progress is well worth it."
"Ewww! He's, like, a brain. Just a brain!" Claire observed.
"I told you to find yourself a temporary body!" I said to the brain.
"And I told you that such experiments have always failed in the past," it responded. "Communication is the only tool I need to work my mental magic. Shall we begin?"
"Uh, whatever," said Claire.
"Just pretend," I suggested, "that he looks like any other psychologist."
"Yuck! Ewer!" She turned up her nose. "With an icky beard and an awful comb-over?"
"Well, pretend he looks like whatever you want."
"She smiled and starred oddly into his Haitian-proof Plexiglas habitat.
"Now," Nemonok began, "what do you feel is the problem, Claire?"
"He, like, is sooooo mean to me. He treats me like a, like, child or something."
"You are a child!" I interrupted.
"God! See what I mean?"
The brain bobbed up and down and made a noise, "Mmmm hmmmm," then said, "Go on."
"Like, I had this totally hot boyfriend, like way hot, and we, like, even listened to music together and shared the earphones and everything. He liked me, and he was so sweet. And his hair! Okay, that could have used some work. But he did say he'd change it....for me! Did I mention he is so, like, sweet?"
"You did," said the brain.
"...And then Dad goes all ballistic, like always. Now I have to move again. Start all over! Gah! I finally find someone I like, someone I can scare cheerleaders with and Dad flips out. It's like he doesn't care about my feelings!"
"I see. And what do you think, Noah?"
"She's right," I replied. "I don't care about her feelings."
"I see. And how does that make you feel?"
"It makes me feel good."
"I see."
"Does that make me selfish? Am I over-bearing? I'm being too hard on her, aren't I? I'm so obsessed with my own lies that I'm neglecting the very thing my web of deception is meant to protect!"
"Like, duh, Dad!" Claire rolled her eyes.
"She just has to deal with it. We're moving, and that's final."
"But what about my feelings?" she asked.
"I don't care about your feelings. Haven't you been paying attention?"
"I think we've made great progress," Dr. Nemonok said. "Unfortunately, we are out of time. If you are still alive next week, I'd strongly suggest we reconvene to continue this session then."
We got home and greeted Sandra. She looked at us optimistically. "Did it work?"
"Yes," I replied.
Claire said, "No."
"It worked, Claire." I said, giving her the stank eye, with a touch of the crook eye. "Problem solved."
"No! You're still ignoring my, like, needs and stuff."
"I know. That's the point. I'm your father, remember?"
"Gah! You're not even my real father. Bio-Dad wouldn't be all self-obsessed like you!"
She went up to her room promising never to talk to me again. I sat down to check the classifieds for a new home.
"Now, see there?" Sandra said. "I knew therapy would work."
Continued from Part 1....
"Oh, my God, Dad. You totally just shot me!" Claire cried as she regained consciousness and the bullet wounds healed. "Now I'm going to have to, like, clean all my sheets."
"I can't believe you shot her!" Sandra said accusingly. "And neither can Mr. Muggles. Why, he's furious. Just look at his wittle beady eyes."
Bark!
"Oh, quit you're fussin'. She's indestructible anyway. Besides, I just shot the door; it wasn't like I was aiming for her."
"Yeah, cause if you were aiming for me, you probably would have, like, hit something else instead!"
That was my boiling point. I had been reasonably calm through all this crazy and dangerous stuff Claire has been doing, like scaring cheerleaders and dating. But now she had gone too far. Putting this family at risk is one thing, a definite no-no in my book, but if there's one thing worse, it's insulting my aim. I started marksmanship training when I was two and half years old. I would have had all my marksmanship badges in the Scouts if the stupid scout leader didn't step in front of my watermelon.
"We are moving, and when we get to our new location, you are grounded!"
"Why, Dad? Why?" She cried. "You are soooooo freakin' mean to me. It's not my fault all these evolved psychos are being all evil and stuff. I just want to be normal."
"You're not normal Claire."
"I am," Lyle said, entering the room. "What's everyone screaming about?"
"How'd you get in here?" I asked him.
"The door's been knocked off its hinges."
"Oh, yeah." I replied. "Well, go away. We're talking about evolved people stuff."
He protested, "But you're not an evolved people!"
"Yeah? Well, I'm involved more than any other non-evolved people are."
"Well, what about mom?"
"She's just following the dog."
Bark!
I continued, "Just go to you room, Lloyd."
"It's Lyle."
"Go to your room, Lyle." I watched him sulk as he left the room. Then, I glanced back to Claire, who already had little earphones lodged into her ears with the music so loud I could hear it. Sandra was dancing. "Turn that crap off!" I yelled.
She didn't respond, so I shot her iPod.
Mr. Muggles ran out of the room, frightened. Claire jumped to her feet and said, "Dad, you didn't just shoot my iPod!"
"Actually, I did. And I was even aiming for it. Guess I'm pretty good with a gun after all."
Claire started screaming at me. I raised my voice louder and yelled at her, laying down the law. She refused to listen and instead only screamed more.
"Quiet!" Sandra hollered. Claire and I looked at her. "I can't believe out of the three of us, it's you two that need some serious therapy." She looked at me hard, "Noah! I don't care if you have to erase his memory afterwards, but you find a family counselor and you and Claire go talk this out like a family!"
"Yes, Sandra," I said.
So, Claire and I stopped fighting and now I'm looking up psychologists instead of moving my family to safety like I should be doing. If this inefficiency gets us all killed, at least I can say, "I told you so!"
I think Claire hates me. After the whole, not Ukraine Ivan, I'm talking about our would-be mover, she really became upset. I knew being a parent would mean a lot of slamming doors, which is why I had all the hinges reinforced, but what Claire's doing is ridiculous.
SLAM!
"Stop slamming door, Claire!" I yelled.
SLAM! SLAM!
"I said stop!"
She yelled back, "I can't! How else can I let you know how mad I am?"
"I thought you weren't speaking to me?"
"Shut up, Dad!" SLAM!
I knew it was time for some heavy-duty parenting. Sandra walked in and said, "It's time for some heavy-duty parenting."
"I know, woman!" I told her. "I was already thinking that before you came in the room."
I made my way to Claire's room. A failed twist of the knob told me her door was locked.
"It's locked!" Claire shouted from the other side.
"I noticed!" I banged on the door with my fist. "Open this door now!"
"No!"
"I said now!"
I said no!"
I said, I said now!"
I said, I sa-"
I fired two gunshots into the ceiling. "Now, are you going to open it or not?"
"Not." was her rebellious reply.
I was about to shoot the lock and kick the door down when Sandra interrupted. "Oh, will you two stop? You're scaring Mr. Muggles. Just look at his fur. This is just too stressful a life for any Pomeranian. It's not healthy. Poor, Mr. Muggles."
I held back my desire to shoot the dog right out of her hands and said calmly, "I just want to have a talk with her."
"Well, I don't want to talk to you!" Claire screamed.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Three shots through the door. I kicked it, and it flung open.
Claire was lying on her bed, drenched in blood.
"Well, no wonder she's so moody," Sandra said, "she's on her period."
Continued from Part 2....
I helped the mover to his feet and introduced myself as Mr. Butler.
"Actually, tha-" Sandra started. The Haitian put his hand over her mouth and she soon forgot what she was about to say.
"Nice to meet you," the mover said. He followed me inside and began bringing out our junk."
The Haitian followed me into the kitchen, so that we could discuss our super secretive plans.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said.
I replied, "Not so fast. Stick around."
"I did my job. I want to get out of here before you change your mind about me helping you move furniture."
"Oh, nonsense. We have a mover to help do that. I need to talk about our super secret plans with you."
"What plans?"
"I can't tell you. They're a secret."
"Thief!" Sandra shouted from out on the lawn. She ran after the mover, who was carrying a lamp, and beat him over the head with Mr. Muggles's chew toy. He dropped the lamp on his foot.
"Ow!" he cried. "I'm the mover, ma'am."
She stopped hitting him. "Oh, you are?" she looked puzzled. "Well, so you are. I am so sorry about all that. I thought you were a thief." She chuckled.
The mover smiled and said, "Don't worry about it."
"Well, let me get some muffins to make it up to you, Mr...I'm sorry. What's your name?"
"My name's Ivan."
From the kitchen, I quickly pulled my gun and shot it out the window. The bullet made its way straight through the mover's head. The Haitian looked at me oddly.
"Oops!" I shrugged, "Reflexes."
Sandra screamed. "Oh, Ivan! Don't die," she pleaded holding his already dead body. "You still need to try my muffins."
I looked at The Haitian. "After you take care of Sandra, I'm going to need your help with the couch."
"Danger, Will Robinson!" my robot would have shouted, had I owned one and had Will Robinson been my name. The Butlers were indeed facing a dangerous situation. And it's all Claire's fault.
"If only we had a robot," I said.
"You're a robot!" someone called from the sky. I looked up to see nobody. Perhaps I was hearing things.
"Relax, Dad," Claire said. "You're like freaking out for no reason. All I did was scare a snooty cheerleader, like, out of her mind. So what if it's in the paper. She was so totally drunk; nobody will believe her."
"Have you learned nothing from Men in Black?" It was a required film for all members of this household. "Crazy news articles are how all secret organizations find their bag and tag victims. It's even how Sylar found you in Odessa!"
"But like, the company knows me as Claire Bennet. They won't be looking for an article about Claire Butler. There's no way anyone could figure out that's me, not even an evil paper company.
"Do not underestimate the power of the Dark Company," I warned. "We're moving, Missy. And that's final!"
Sandra looked confused. "Who's Missy?" she asked.
I called the movers who arrived shortly with a large truck.
"Hello, Mr. Butler," the mover said, shaking my hand.
"No, no," Sandra interrupted. "We're the Bennets. That's just our cover name. Would you like some muffins?"
I grabbed the tray of muffins from Sandra and swung it into the mover's face.
"Oh, my god, Dad! Why do you always do that?" Claire stormed off.
I quickly called The Haitian. "Hey, I need a memory wipe for someone."
"I'm on my way. Who's the target?" he questioned.
"He's our mover."
"Will I have to load furniture?"
"No, just the memory wipe."
"Promise?"
"Yeah."
"That's what you said last time."
"Yeah, yeah," I said, "Just get over here pronto."
The Haitian arrived as the moving man regained his consciousness. The Haitian put his hands on the man's forehead.
"What am I doing here?" the man asked.
"Helping us move," I said. "We had a coupon for one free move, remember?"
"No."
I glared at The Haitian. "Great! I thought you were more precise than that? Now I'm going to have to pay the guy."
This is the second challenge from Who Wants to be a Super Villain, the new hit blog reality series taking the world wide web by storm! Read it, comment and check out how I do by tuning in to Who Wants to be a Super Villain. Now, let's watch....
"Sorry," I said to The Haitian. "You'll have to refrain from participation in this. You may arouse suspicion."
"Because I'm a Black man?"
"Uh...no, it's...your...uh...shaved head! Yes, that's it. Your shaved head. Shaved heads are notorious for robbing banks: Lex Luthor, Charlie Brown, Natalie Portman."
"Okay," he said, "but take this, just in case." He handed me a smelly fish with a redish hue.
"Uh, thanks," I said putting it in my inside jacket pocket.
The cheerleaders and I arrived at the bank, ready to go. "Just like we rehearsed," I said. We went inside the bank and took our positions.
"Ready?" Christina cheered rhetorically, "OK!" The girls and I, not so much I, started flipping around and jumping onto shoulders while saying in unison, "One, two, three, four! Everybody get on the floor! Five, six, seven, eight! We are here to rob your bank! Go robbers! Go! Go! Go robbers! Goooooooooo robbers!"
Several girls were thrown up in the air toward the tellers and security guards. They landed on their shoulders, legs around their necks and performed the patented Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders' Bank-Employee-Neck-Snap Maneuver. Just as we had rehearsed at the Stars Hollow Senior Citizen Center, there wasn't enough time for them to hit the alarm.
I quickly grabbed the manager's keys and entered the vault. "Ah!" I smiled, beholding the incredible sight of capitalistic greed, "My favorite kind of paper, money!"
Holding all that money in my hands, I understood the reason for Two-Face's schizophrenia. But before I could flamboyantly go giddy with financial dominance, the vault door slammed shut with a loud....fart?
"Whoopee cushion! Haha!" Pee Wee Herman screamed tossing it to the side.
"You!" I said. "Still working for the company, eh?"
"AAAAAAH!!" Pee Wee ran around the vault yelling like the idiot he pretends to be. "You said the secret word!"
"Are you with the company?"
"AAAAAA-"
"Shut up, you fool and answer me!"
"No," he smiled, "I don't work for the-"
"Say it and I shoot you!"
He giggled and said, "A brain hired me."
"A brain in a jar?" I asked. My stomach sunk and I took a seat. So this is it? Done in by a loony sexual deviant working for a pickled encephelon. Somehow, I always knew it would end like this."
"Ha! Ha!" Pee Wee shouted, turning away from me. "I'm not here to kill you! I'm going to...drive...YOU.....CCRRRAAAZZY!!" Pee Wee turned back to face me and said, "then you'll have no choice but to pay my boss $200/hour to talk about your mother!"
"Oh, yeah?" I said. "I don't enjoy your company!"
As Pee Wee began his familiar shenanigans, I shot him and left the vault with the money.
I rejoined my cheerleaders, bags in hand. "Alright, let's go!"
"Not so fast," Erica said, pointing out the window. "We've got company!"
"Aaaa-ugh...aaaaah!" screaming and moaning erupted from inside the vault. "You...said...the...secret..."
"I'll take care of him!" Kandi volunteered and ran inside the vault.
Outside, the street was was lined with police. "Now's maybe not the best time to say this, Mr. Butler," Erica said, "but you seriously reek!"
I sniffed my armpit. Seaweed. Rotting fish. A New York subway. "Aha!" I said and pulled the red herring from my pocket. "I've got an idea." I tossed the fish out the front door. The fuzz rushed in on it.
"Freeze, punk!"
"Hands in the air!"
"You are one smelly perp!"
While the police were distracted, my team and I sneaked out the back with all the money. Kandi came running out with brain juice dripping from her mouth. "Way to send Pee Wee's boss a message," I congratulated her.
"What are we going to do now?" I asked Sandra.
"Oh, we'll just skip to my lou with Mr. Muggles. Won't we, Mr. Muggles?" She kissed him on his wet, little nose.
"But what about Claire? She can't have a boyfriend! She's too young."
"Oh, nonsense. A tub of macaroni is just as cheesy as a vat of applesauce."
It was clear I"d have to handle this parenting thing on my own. Apparently, Sandra's still suffering from her run ins with The Haitian. Though, in his defense, she wasn't much smarter than mayonnaise before.
Hmmm...How do I break up those two? That is the question. To know the answer, I have to understand boys. What do boys want? Pizza...baseball...nudity. Other than that, I'm not sure they desire anything. So, I instituted a pizza ban, canceled my ESPN subscription and bought Claire lots and lots of new clothes, clothes so stylish she'd keep 'em on at any cost.
"Hey, thanks, Dad!" she said before biting into a slice of cheese pizza. I slapped the pseudo-Italian pie out of her hand. Mr. Muggles excitedly ran to eat it off the floor.
"There is to be NO pizza in this house!" I commanded.
"Gah! You're such a nerd," Claire ran to her room and slammed the door.
Now, that little punk won't come anywhere near our house ever again. But just in case my plan fails, we're moving away, and I've got my gun. Nothing says good parent like a concealed handgun.
I shoot one Ukrainian and the world falls to pieces! Mohinder is seriously freaking out on me. Claire is scaring drunk cheerleaders with her death-defying routine. Mr. Muggles has stopped using his potty box. But worst of all: Claire has a boyfriend!
"We knew this day would come," Sandra told me.
As if her virginity matters to me. She can regenerate! The problem I have is that she's dating a bifocal killer. How could I have raised a girl with such disregard for absolute efficiency? It makes no sense. Efficiency is key, at any cost, be it emotions, hygiene, or even human life. That's why I sleep in a suit. Bud does Claire? No. She wears pajamas! And what's worse, she showers in the morning and at night. And she conditions her hair! What does that even mean?
I knew this day would come, it's true. As much as I tried to shield her from all this special ability hoopla, I knew she'd eventually be tossed into it. But I thought I prepared her better than this!
I blame cheerleading.
I taught her to conserve her energy; cheerleading taught her to jump around like a lunatic for no reason while screaming. I taught her to remain inconspicuous; cheerleading taught her to jump around like a lunatic for no reason while screaming. I taught her not to jump around like a lunatic for no reason while screaming; cheerleading taught her to spell 'wildcats'.
At least I did a perfect job on Ivan. There will be no way the company traces his death back to me. If only Claire Bear could be as careful as me.
Have you ever been sitting quietly in your hotel room when some kind of strange, and violent, donnybrook broke out in the hallway just outside, causing you to turn up the television's volume because you can no longer hear Rory Gilmore's fast-paced dialogue full of cultural relevancy only to find that the show is so much better when you can't hear a word the girls are saying?
I walked outside to thank the brawlers for giving me this revelation, but they didn't take kindly to what they perceived as American interference in their affairs.
"You tell us what to do?" one man asked accusingly.
"No, no. You misunderstood me. I wanted to thank you for..."
"What you mean, misunderstood? We no misunderstood. You misunderstood."
"Um, yeah," I replied. "Well, anyway, I just wanted to..."
"What you mean, you want? We no care what you want! America no tell Ukrainians how to live lives."
"Uh," I said.
"What you mean, uh? Ukrainians no uh. You uh!" And the two men charged at me. Before I could pull out my non-Primatech gun, I was knocked to the floor. Fortunately, the two men were still more peeved at each other and were absorbing most of the punches themselves. Thinking quickly, I tossed my glasses to safety.
Before I knew it, we were inside the elevator. "How'd we get here?" I asked amid the turmoil.
"What you mean, here? Ukrainians be here first."
I tried to get to my feet, but I was stuck in the madness. Limbs were flying every which way and I did my best to duck them. A Ukrainian foot managed to hit an elevator button and a few seconds and a ding later, we were in the lobby.
"Hey!" I yelled, "Somebody call the cops."
"What you mean, call?" the front desk manager said, "You no tell Ukrainians how use phone. We use phone on your head." He leaped over the desk, switchboard in hand, and fell onto the three of us.
Enthusiastic Ukrainians in the lobby started jumping in as well. I could no longer tell what was going on. I could feel myself rolling around, like I was in a dryer. There were no openings for me to see the outside world, just an endless sheet of jean-laden limbs. I began to worry about my oxygen supply.
Through all of the Ukrainian cursing, I could hear car horns. We were outside! More people seemed to be joining in. Then I heard whistles. It was the police and they yelled in Ukrainian to break it up. And that we did. It took a few minutes, but everyone calmed down, or at least stopped attacking each other.
I got up and looked around at the mayhem. Smashed Nissans. Flattened cats. Flaming people.
The cops rounded us all up and took us into court.
In Ukrainian, the judge asked, "What happened here?"
I spoke up, "I was just trying to watch The Gilmore Girls when..."
"What you mean, Gilmore Girls?" he said, pounding his gavel. "You come Ukraine to watch America TV? Ukraine TV better than Gilmore Girls!"
NoOOOocoOOOoOO!
As if I don't have enough things to worry about, Mohinder calls me up complaining that his new partner is a crazy, murderous psycho. You'd think that would make him feel better. They're good to have on your side. But apparently this one is strong-arming him into giving up his morals. She already made him eat a cheeseburger!
I've tried to advise Mohinder. I told him to find a way to manipulate her. Everyone has a weak spot, find hers. I think it is no secret that mine is Claire. Maybe her weakness is her child. I'd do anything to protect my little Claire Bear. Maybe she'll do the same for her little weenie boy. But apparently Mohinder has some problem with child kidnapping. I'll have to make a few threats to motivate him. He's such a pushover.
"Just kidnap her little weenie boy!" I said.
But Mohinder wouldn't listen. He's got so much going on in his life, it's like watching a bad soap opera. If it's not problems with his new company partner, it's his fear for Molly's life. I told him not to hand her to the company. Kids are weaknesses! I know this. That's why I know Micah is Niki's.
I finally got him to consider the kidnapping. He said he'd have to talk it over with Matt, though. They don't make any big decisions on their own anymore. Speaking of Matt, Mohinder is worried about him. When he's not cowering about Niki, he's sobbing about Matt being gone longer than expected. I reassured him that Matt is a good cop and can read minds. He'll be fine.
Mohinder just needs to man up. I've never met such a wimpy Hindu. Can you believe this is what I have to bank my future on?
I'm tired of being surrounded by fearful idiots. It's as if I'm the only one who's ever had covert operation training. I'm starting to miss Ivan. If I knew how incompetent everyone around me was, I'd have coerced him into joining me. Niki, if you're reading this, make Mohinder into a man. I hear that's your specialty, that and intestinal spillage. Do whichever works.
I panicked when The Haitian flipped on CNN in our Ukrainian hotel room. I expected reports of hunger in third world countries, violence between religious sects in the Middle East, melting ice caps. But the news was worse than anyone could imagine.
A potential writers' strike. Yes, that's right, a writers' strike. This could be the worst thing to happen to TV since Bob Saget. If no deal is reached, all my favorite non-reality shows could go off the air!
There is some good news, this blog is a non-union job, so you don't have to worry about anything here, other than me just getting bored and lazy.
That gives me an idea!
I've got a blog. I spend time writing. It's an easy job to do after all. There's no reason I can't be a copy salesman, destroy an evil paper company and write for a couple of TV shows at the same time. How hard could it be? I'm sure I could find the time to write something with at least as much sense as LOST. TV writing is like abstract art for literature. Just grab some cats, dip 'em in paint and throw them at the blank canvas. A masterpiece! I could carry around a notebook and jot down great ideas here and there, in between killings and espionage.
So, consider this my resume, big shot TV people. All writers need three things: an insatiable ego, self-proclaimed stylish glasses, and paper. Could I be any more qualified?
Just check out this excerpt from the novel I've been working on in my spare time:
Fountains of the Abyss
Chapter Three Excerpt
"Help!" Bethany screamed, as she dangled by her semi-see-through nightgown from a tall, vibrant, tree-like bush. The cold night air dampened her cries, but from inside his hotel room, Doug heard her yell through his open balcony door.
He dashed outside and immediately extended his hand, just as the nightgown ripped and she began to plummet. Her hand gripped his tightly and she swung into the plexiglass window of the room below. Her body bounced off the glass-plastic hybrid and using the momentum, Doug pulled her up onto his balcony.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine," she said, "now."
"What happened?"
"It's your father. He took everything! He took all of my jewelry, even the pearls my grandmother left me, and then he pushed me off the balcony and left."
This is from Who Wants to be a Super Villain?, the reality show I participated in. Tune in to see how well I do. 
I don't know how many of the other contestants have raised an indestructible cheerleader, but I certainly have. For our first challenge, it was clear what I had to do. I needed cheerleaders. There's no stronger force than a cadre of females chanting and moving suggestively in unison. Growing up in Texas, I've seen many a football game. And while, yes, I myself am a Cheesehead, I couldn't help notice how remarkable the Dallas Cowboys are. All the crazy Texans around me, which I don't necessarily like to associate myself with, devoted their lives to cheering on America's Team.
And the Team did well, very well. Why? Simple, the most important factor of any good sports team: cheerleaders. How could anyone expect to throw a ball without feeling the rush of spirit provided by bouncing pom-poms and enemy-crushing rhymes? It can't be argued that the best in the business are the beautiful ladies in blue and white.
Now...how do I acquire these women? It was a familiar task. I was reminded of my high school years, all that time wasted in a futile pursuit of unobtainable women. If only I had my Haitian back then.
Luckily, I have him now. Every good super-villain needs an upper-tier henchman, and with the power to suck memories from people's minds, The Haitian makes a pretty good squad leader. I quickly put him to good use on this challenge. After all, delegation is the reason for henchmen in the first place.
"Go find Jerry Jones," I ordered him. "Bag him, tag him, bring him to me."
The Haitian left. While he was gone, I ordered take-out and watched The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Finally, The Haitian arrived with a duffel bag. He tossed it onto the floor and said, "Here he is."
I unzipped the duffel bag, and out popped the meanest oil man I've ever met.
"What the Hell is going on here?" he asked in a flustered fit of rage.
"Look here, Jerry. You deserve far worse treatment for firing Tom Landry, but I'm willing to let you off easy with a simple deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"I want your cheerleaders."
"In what capacity?"
"Full capacity. For as long as I need them."
"I'm no pimp," he stated and attempted to walk away. The Haitian stepped in front of him.
"Now, now," I said, "I know you're no pimp, but you're a business man. I can pay you handsomely."
"I'm listening." I could see the dollar signs in his eyes.
"Two billion."
After some tough negotiating, I got him to call up the girls and get them headed out here. As for the payment, he talked me up to $3.5 billion and seven color copiers. I decided to let The Haitian handle his "payment".
The girls arrived, and were disappointed by the Motel 8. I've never known Texas girls to be so picky. I quickly got them motivated by explaining the complexities and importance of the paper business. They were ready to bag and tag.
You know, I didn't necessarily plan to kill Ivan. I had considered other options: memory wipe, blackmail photos, Cabbage Patch dolls. If we could have found a reasonable way to incorporate Cabbage Patch dolls, I think we would have went with that. But it just happened that his death was totally necessary, like peanuts on an airplane. I mean, what's a trip without them, right? When I worked for Primatech, I sometimes flew places where I had no mission just to eat peanuts. And sometimes I meet people just to shoot them. Peanuts...murder...they're so alike. As for Ivan the Terrible Peanut, he was assaulted, and it's just best that way.
After his death, I did feel personal loss.
"Ivan..." I said remorsefully. "I'll never forget the time we spent out on missions, and celebrating at strip joints afterwards. That's where I got the name Claire...a delightful woman in Kiev."
The Haitian nodded empathetically as I continued, "His words, they were the true gift of my training. Ivan was such an intelligent man, a philosophical sort. "I do the job so the job won't do me" he used to say to me. It was his motto." I almost began to cry, but my masculinity, combined with the company's anti-tear surgery, prevented it.
The Haitian put his hand on my shoulder and said, "What's a motto?"
"I appreciate your concern," I told him. "I'll be fine. I just need some time. How do you deal with loss?"
He replied, "In my country, when someone dies we have a party so big that Cuba files a noise complaint. And the drugs...well, they make all the problems go away."
"That's ingenious. I think I know what to do. We need to have a ceremony...like a funeral, but without the dead body. Right outside at the train yard, it'll be perfect. Can you do an English accent?"
"..."
"I need Claude to attend the funeral. It won't be right without him. He's invisible, so I can just pretend, but I need you to do his voice."
"This is why I never talked."
The Haitian and I are getting things set up. If you happen to be around Odessa, stop by and say a few words about Ivan. Bring some vodka! It's what Ivan would have wanted. I wonder if Claire still works in Kiev?
Friends,
I am worried for Mister Bennet. He is such a good, kind man. Well, he sometimes is. Okay, occasionally he says "good morning" to me, but other than that, he really has no manners whatsoever.
Despite his shortcomings in politeness, he is devoted to fighting the evil paper company he once worked for. Killing his old friend, Ivan, was just part of that fight. I am concerned, though, that he enjoyed it more than he should have. He is going to Hell!
It's a place I have been before. My daddy, Old Haitian, was a mean old man, but wise and powerful. Growing up under his rule during a Haitian summer really felt like Hell sometimes. Plus, we had no television. I was denied my Saturday morning cartoons and instead had to rely on rabbit skinning for entertainment.
But I am not here to talk about me. Mister Bennet has been good to me. In some ways, he is very much like a father to me, but better. Sometimes, if I'm good, he'll let me drive the Nissan. And he always takes me for ice cream after a successful bag and tag. Yet, now it's been a long time since we've had ice cream together. He is a changing man. It's almost as if the idea he had devoted his life to had suddenly turned out to be a lie. He has lost his faith.
I tried saving him by clapping. It works with dead fairies.
"Stop that," he would say, "I'm trying to sleep."
"Sorry."
As he lied his head down on his pillow, I would begin clapping again.
"Stop!"
It was no use. My father, he was a shaman. I'm sure he would know what to do. When he was upset with someone, he would give them diarrhea. So, I tried sneaking laxatives into his food. But amazingly they had no affect on him! It's amazing what the company can teach.
I fear there is no hope for Mister Bennet. He is a good man, but he does evil things. I think it will only get worse as time goes on. Perhaps the bullet in the glasses is the only thing that can stop his ruthlessness. Or perhaps its just a midlife crisis. Maybe it will pass?
-The Haitian
Well, I guess Who Wants to be a Super-Villain? didn't get all of the evil out of me because you'll never guess what I just did.
I'll give you a hint: It involved killing an old friend and mentor.
Give up?
I killed an old friend and mentor! Yep, poor little Ivan. His days of Hopak dancing are no more. Though, I may still attend his funeral. He'll be buried inside a casket inside a casket inside a casket inside a casket. Such was his wishes.
But it wasn't all for nothing. He told me where I could find the set of 8 Mendes paintings I've been looking for. They were here at this company warehouse in Odessa. I don't know why I didn't think to start here. I mean, it's the company's Odessa warehouse. If paintings aren't on the wall, they're in storage, right?
Another consequence of my actions is that I pretty much sealed my fate as a truly evil person. I did it all for Claire, though! I'm serious. Protecting that little indestructible cheerleader is my obsession. It's like trying to hide an invisible man. Or trying to lose to a mind-reader in a game of What Number Am I Thinking Of? It's a lot harder than you'd think!
And if eternal damnation is the price of protecting my Claire Bear, so be it. I'd do it for any of my family memebers...well, except Logan...or Larry? Loyd? Whoever he is! Claire Bear is the important one. Save her, save the world. Sandra and that other kid are just home decor, and potential decoys (that's why I tailored a cheerleading outfit for my son).
Hell won't be too bad though. Most of my friends, and all of my enemies will be there. Maybe Thompson will hire me to work at Hell's paper company? Even Hell needs quality paper and paper products. I'll finally get to see the true love of my life again, Eden McCain. I wonder if she remembers me? It's a shame she'll be there; she was such a nice young girl. Paper is an ugly business, but somebody has to do it. She knew that going into it. And, hey! Maybe Sylar and I can play on Hell's bowling league.
The phone rang in our hotel room. Since The Haitian was still in the shower, I had to interrupt my Lifetime Original Movie to answer it.
"Hello?" I said.
The cold female voice on the other end replied, "Noah."
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Oh, you can't be serious. You poor, moronic fool."
"Angela?"
"But of course!"
"How'd you find us?"
"Oh, can it Bennet. Let me talk to The."
"The?"
"The Haitian. You two have worked together for so long, yet you still refer to him by his full name? How pedestrian!"
"The is in the shower. I'll tell him you called."
"Oh, Bennet, you certainly are quite the..."
And I hung up the phone. It was exhilarating! Far better than sex with Sandra.
(Note to Sandra: Just kidding. I love sex with you. I just wish you wouldn't insist on including Mr. Muggles.)
Finally, The Haitian came out of the restroom in a towel.
"You had a call," I said annoyed.
He ignored me.
"It was Angela Petrelli."
The Haitian started flexing his pecks, alternating between the left and right. "Watch this," he said.
"Don't change the subject! I won't be distracted by your strong, manly, dark and bouncing man-boobs again. Why did Angela call?"
"Uh..."
So, The Haitian and I checked into our hotel room and started preparing for our big mission. He had to shower first, so that meant I had 3 or 4 hours to waste. Time to surf the net!
That's when I saw me, the wonderful man in horn-rimmed glasses.
Yep, it was that reality show I did a while back. I needed the prize money (I thought there was going to be prize money), so I signed on. Plus, I have a tendency toward being evil, so it was good to get it out of my system in a productive way.
Of course, I'm still evil when times call for it. Oh, well.
Anyway, tune into the reality blog show and cheer me on. I've had two posts so far:
Horn-Rimmed Villainy
Mingling Madness
Other contestants include and may be limited to:
TX - A cyborg assassin from the future.
Army of (Cl)one - A stormtrooper with a personality.
Bruce Cain - A man...uh...I really don't know what he is.
Magneto - A metal-obsessed evil-doer with a goofy helmet.
Gyrobo - A crazy little robot who invented the two party system.
Dr. Nemonok - My shrink's brain in a jar.
The judges or whatever are:
Capitan Koma - He's sort of like an evil Peter Petrelli in a purple hood.
Deadpool - I think he's like Spider-Man without the webby stuff.
Henchman 432 - Your typical stooge.
Synth-Lin - A synthetic Lindsay Lohan (I competed with her in Last Gladiator Standing 2).
Will I win? Will I be the greatest super-villain the world has ever seen? Will Mohinder and Sylar ever be reunited? Find out by watching Who Wants to be a Super-Villain!
Continued from Part 2....
And then I was squished by the giant McDonald's sign and died.
Kidding. I narrowly escaped death! That's sort of my thing. I'm always narrowly escaping death, be it from Sylar, Primatech or giant McDonald's arches. Yep, nothing on Earth can kill me. Telekinesis, ha! Bullets, ha ha! Advertising, ha ha ha! Yes, I laugh in the face of my would-be killers. I'm the unstoppable man in the horn-rimmed glasses, after all.
So what really happened about the falling McDonald's sign? Well, it came crashing down around me. I remained standing safely inside the gap of the left arch. The crazy Ukrainian mob went even crazier. They started jumping up and down in excitement from having seen the symbolic fall of their corporate enemy. They yelled things like "ми переміг!" which means "we won!".
Hey, I know Ukrainian? That's odd. I guess Primatech trained me in it back in the day. All this time I thought those guys were talking gibberish.
They were so proud at the havoc they wreaked that I couldn't help joining in on the enthusiasm. I hopped around with them chanting "Boo, Ronald McDonald!" in Ukrainian.
"Haitian," I said to my companion, "You going to celebrate with us?"
"No. I am erasing this man's memory, like you asked."
"Oh, yeah. You do that."
Down the road, I could hear and see the поліцiя coming (that means police). They were whistling their whistles and waving their hands. At first, I thought they were celebrating the destruction as well. I high fived the first one to arrive.
He pulled a gun on me. I had no choice but to pull mine on him. We had a classic Ukrainian showdown on our hands.
Then the crazy mob attacked him! They just stampeded him. It was so fast, I couldn't tell what all happened, but when the cop got back to his feet, he was in nothing but his boxers and is whistle was in his ear. "Poor guy," I said.
All this hoopla was making me uneasy. I'm in the Ukraine for a top secret mission, and here I am being distracted by local struggles. I thanked the crazy mob for the entertainment and said, "поздороаляю! я залишати тепер."
They waved bye and The Haitian and I walked off, dragging Mr. Smarty Pants Ukrainian with us.
"What are we going to do with him?" The Haitian asked.
"I promised the wife I'd bring home a souvenir."
Continued from Part 1...
The protesters stared at me. They could obviously tell my nationality, even before I called them loony foreigners and advised them not to mess with Texas (though they probably didn't understand a word). They could smell America on me, the unwavering patriotism pumping through my veins, the dripping sweat from a hard day's work in a commercialized dead-end job. Like primal beasts, they could smell the ferocious, yet righteous, dominance of the greatest country in the world!
"You smell like burnt cheese," one of the protesters shouted out with a heavy accent.
I sniffed myself and said, "That's no reason to protest!"
Another guy spoke up, "Ignore him. That's the only English he knows. We are protesting the globalization of American junk food franchises."
"Hey, you're kind of smart," I said. "How'd you learn those big words here in the Ukraine?"
"I studied US Politics in school."
"They have schools here?" The Haitian started coming out of the McDonald's, "Hey," I said to him, "did you know they have schools here?"
"Yes. We have them in Haiti too." He replied.
"No way! But these are third world countries!" I shot back.
"Thirdish," the Ukranian smart guy corrected. "I think you'll find that most countries you know nothing about are as civilized as yours, probably more so."
"I don't know about that. We're pretty civilized."
"Ever have a female leader?"
"Ha!" I laughed. "I said we're civilized, not brain dead."
"How's crime in your country?"
"It's doing great!" I smiled. We definitely had this snooty Ukranian beat in that area, some thanks to yours truly.
"That is a bad thing," The Haitian rained in on my parade.
"And what about health care?"
"What about it? We have it, most of the time the problem is cured or successfully ignored."
"And this is free?" he asked.
"No, but if they kill you, you can get a huge settlement!"
Suddenly, I heard a horrible sound of ripping metal. I turned to see the other protesters pushing over the giant McDonald's sign with a bulldozer.
"You!" I yelled at the smarty pants Ukranian. "Were you just distracting me this entire time so your friends could perpetrate democratic justice?"
"Yes."
I punched him in the face. "Hollow him out," I told The Haitian, "Give him a Big Mac obsession. We'll see how much he hates America when he's a fat food-addicted slob!" Then I turned to deal with the bigger problem. The protesters had nearly succeeded in destroying an icon of America's dominance: the McDonald's golden arches.
"Stop!" I yelled at them. Unfortunately, it was too late. The signpost had snapped at the bottom and the once beautiful glow went dim. The tall trademark began to plummet toward me.
"AAAAAARRRRRCH!!!!!"
TO BE CONCLUDED....
This place reminds me of Claude. He may have been British, but he drank like a Ukrainian. But it does smell better, at least.
"So, uh...we're here," I said. The Haitian just stared at me. "What do we do now?"
"You're the boss."
"That I am, but this was your idea."
"Oh, yeah."
"So, what do we do?"
"I don't know."
"Why'd we come here?"
"I don't remember."
"Did you touch yourself again?"
The Haitian pointed toward a building. "There," he said.
"Wow," I replied. The glow from the bright yellow arches was mesmorizing. "They really do have McDonald's everywhere."
We went inside and walked up to the counter.
"Yak blah blee blah ta tre?" the counter man said, or so it sounded.
I turned to The Haitian and whispered, "This is why we need to require immigrants learn English before seeking employment."
"We are the immigrants."
"Ha! Funny." I turned to the counter guy. "You know, I used to be like you, minus the funny talk, before I discovered paper. See?" I pulled a picture out of my wallet and pointed at the youthful me.
"Buddha llama cha cra suzzie Q," the guy said.
"Thanks," I replied.
"He wants our order," The Haitian interrupted.
We managed to relay our order to the hairy little fellow. A few minutes later we were sitting down enjoying our bounty. The Haitian was playing with his Happy Meal toy, when I noticed a horrific sight outside. A group of people were protesting! What's worse is they were protesting The US of that other letter. If there's one thing I hate more than freedom of speech combined with assembly it's America-bashing! I slammed my fist on the table, crushing The Haitian's toy. He shed a tear. I was impressed by his patriotism for his adopted nation.
"Hey, you loony foreigners!" I shouted storming out of the McDonald's. "Don't mess with Texas!"
The protesters stared me down, and I stared right back. Things are about to get ugly, cross-cultural ugly.
TO BE CONTINUED....
