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.
