Horn-Rimmed Glasses

Still on the Outs with Sandra

2009-06-26T06:54:00.000-06:00

"Noah, I don't want to talk to you anymore!" she yelled through the phone.

"But we've been over this," I continued to plead with her, "I thought you were a man, baby."

She would have none of it. I don't understand. Plenty of men get to rough up their domestic partners from time to time. They don't get kicked out. No. A real wife realizes it's just his emotionally-stunted way of saying "I love you".

But Sandra Bennet--or Sandra Rosenhopper, as I'm afraid she's reverted back to using her maiden name--is being unreasonable.

"So, I got a little rough," I explained. "You used to like that."

"I've had enough, Noah."

I didn't know what to say.

She continued, "You just can't lie to your wife for 15 years, erase her memory, sit on her precious prize-winning Pomeranian, think she's a man, attack her and forget your anniversary because of the new Star Trek premiere. We're through."

"But, you're the love of my life, the special sauce in my Big Mac. I can't do this without you. I need you. You're everything a mysterious man in horn-rimmed glasses could want. You are my hero."

I waited for a response. Nothing. I then realized she had hung up. My words were wasted.

I guess this means I'm dating again....a fate worse than death.

Update 1

2009-06-11T14:07:00.004-06:00

I know. I haven't been blogging. Well, you see the Internet went out at work. Then, shortly after that, work blew up.

"I can't blog anymore, Angela. My office looks like The Alamo."

"Sorry, Bennet. The days of Primatech are over," she replied. "Driver, stop here. I need socks."

So, being unemployed, I had no choice but to go job-hunting.

I decided I'd call up my old friend Michael Scott at Dunder-Mifflin.

Oddly enough, I was informed that Michael Scott left to start his own paper company. An interesting development. I quickly called him up at his new place of business. Surely he'd be needing a right hand man at the firm.

"How well can I catch cheese puffs in my mouth?" I repeated the question. Was this another one of Michael's silly jokes? I really didn't know how to respond. "Well, Michael, I don't eat cheese puffs. They're fattening."

"Sorry, Noah," he replied, "we've already got two employees, and that's all I can afford at the moment."

"Actually, you can't afford that," I heard a young boy say.

Michael shushed him and said, "Hey, but maybe in the future. We're sure to be a Titanic of industry soon."

And so, with my options exhausted, I turned to welfare. It was an odd feeling walking into the cold, dull government building. I looked at the long line of lifeless faces. After several hours, I made it up to the desk.

"Hi. I was recently laid off. I used to be a secret paper salesman."

"Hmmm..." the clerk said. "One moment." She clicked away at her computer for a few minutes, then said, "Yes, it looks like we've actually got an opening in a new secret government organization."

"Government?" I thought about how my skills would surely go to waste in such a menial position. But then I realized that with this economy, and the US on its way to socialism, a government job is the only secure thing right now. "Do we get Martin Luther King, Jr. Day off?"

"Yes."

"I'll take it!"

Time for Redemption

2009-06-03T00:06:00.002-06:00

I've been....not so good for pretty much my entire life. Sure, when I was at my evilest, my primary motivation was the safety of my family, but it's time for a new era: an era of redemption.

Sylar is dead after all. Totally dead. Beyond coming-back-from-the-dead dead. And so, with him finally (and completely and thoroughly) out of the way, I can finally relax my evilness and live permanently on the good side of the line.

So, as I watched Sylar's body (his real, actual body) burn away to nothing more than an ashy, Sylary skeleton, I decided to make a list of all the bad things I've done so I can make up for them one by one.

My List

#4. Broke Mohinder's Nose

#12. Sat on Mr. Muggles

#15. Manhandled Sandra when I thought she was Sylar

#23. Tricked Hana into thinking she was working for the CIA

#38. Caused the Travelocity Roaming Gnome to commit suicide

#42. Didn't share my Twix with The Haitian

#50. Killed Ivan.

#64. Pointed out Angela to the security guard when she was shoplifting socks

#67. Shot Elle in the butt

#72. Neglected my blogging duties

I didn't post the entire list. Some things don't need to be public. Plus, I'm still adding more to it as I remember. If I wronged you, feel free to let me know and I'll add it to my list.

Aside from making up for the bad things I've done, I'll have to be less mysterious. Where there's a cloak, there's a dagger. So, no more calling me Mr. Bennet. Maybe having people call me by my first name, like normal people do, would make me less mysterious and more good. I should probably get contact lenses too, but I don't think I'm ready to go that far just yet.

I'm just trying to be a better person.

My name is Noah.

The Greatest Post in the World

2008-11-05T10:39:00.002-06:00

The day's work began wearing on me. With Angela in a coma, many paper responsibilities fell to me. All the administrative work was much more stressful than simply shooting people. So, I as quitting time was approaching, I found myself very, very tired.

I trudged down a long and lonesome hall. All of a sudden, there shined a shiny demon in the middle of the hall. At first I thought I was hallucinating due to my exhaustion.

"You're not real," I said to the red creature from Hades. I grabbed a sheet of paper, crumpled it up and threw it at the beast. "See?" I said expecting the paper to pass through him. Instead, it bounced off his devilish chest and fell onto the floor.

"How dare you toss paper at me, mortal!" it cackled in a sinister voice.

I realized the demon was genuine and asked, "What do you want?"

"Your soul!" it replied and then burst out several vile guffaws.

"I don't have a soul," I replied. "Do I?"

His evil laughter stopped as he thought it over. Scratching his chin, he said, "Well, I never really thought about it."

"Okay," I replied. "It's almost quitting time. I still need to write a post on my web log, so if you don't mind..." I tried inching past the demon.

He pushed me against the wall with his demony claw and said, "A web log, huh?" His fiery eyes focused deep into my own and he said, "Write the best post in the world....or I'll eat your soul!"

I almost peed my pants! Not because I was scared, but probably because his paw was pressing right into my bladder. "Okay," I answered his challenge, "I just need to get to my computer."

He followed me to my office where I took a seat at my desk. I stretched out my arms, popped my fingers and shook out the tension from my shoulders, then placed my fingers on the home keys.

I began typing away the first thing that came to my head. It was as though God himself was inspiring my every keystroke. As the demon watched over my shoulder he began trembling in fear. He and I could both see what was happening before our very eyes. The blog post was coming together wonderfully, even perfectly. There could be no better words typed!

I wrote the best post in the world.

With a snort, he asked, "Be you an angel?"

"Nay!" I responded proudly putting my hands to my hips. "I am but a man in horn-rimmed glasses!"

Then, I proceeded to rock out on air guitar.

The beast was forced to let me go. He mentioned something about being bound by an honor code. In a puff of smoke, he disappeared.

Unfortunately, my Internet connection was down, so I wasn't able to save the best post in the world. I couldn't remember it either, but peculiarly it was nothing at all like this post. This post is just a tribute.

And once I get my Internet connection restored here at the office, I should resume regular posting.

Needing Something To Do

2008-11-02T14:26:00.004-06:00

I was bored. Bored out of my mind.

There were no more leads. No more villain trail to follow.

Knox is still out there somewhere. I'm afraid I'll have to go find him next. I mean, not afraid, but you know.

If only there was some evil organization harboring all the villains, one location that I could raid. I could wipe 'em all out with a single assault.

But surely these villains aren't that stupid. They know how incredibly effective I am. Standing together in one place would only make my job so much easier.

And why would villains unite anyway? I think if Jurassic Park has taught us anything, it's that once you turn off the perimeter fences separating the villains from each other, they'll go on to devour themselves, lawyers and us.

I think if I had a special power, I'd want to be a T-Rex. Or maybe a triceratops/velociraptor hybrid.

So, yeah....did I mention I was bored? There's nothing to do but sit here and speculate. Where might the villains be? What might they be up to?

I'm sure most have fled to Mexico. As for their plans...perhaps they're going to start a mariachi band. I don't know! Villains are unpredictable.

That's why I liked hunting Heroes. You always know what they're going to do. Something noble, no doubt. "Freeze! Don't shoot!" you yell at a Hero, and sure enough, they drop their guns and apologize for making a scene.

Villains, though, they have no respect for morality, for shame or guilt or any other social inhibitors. They just live all Willie Nelson.

"Willy nilly," The Haitian corrected.

Fine. They live all willy nilly. How am I expected to fight willy nilly? I don't know, but I manage. Willie Nelson, willy nilly...it makes no difference...I'm baggin' and taggin' it because that's what I do.

When I have something to do, that is. Until then, I'm just bored.

Photo Caption Results

2008-11-01T14:48:00.003-06:00

Well, the Photo Caption Contest was a complete success. We got a lot of great captions from all you Villains and Heroes out there.

Visit the Burnt Toast Diner

So, get on over to the cafe, order up some waffles and check out the winners.

Mission Seven: A Family Tale

2008-10-31T15:53:00.009-06:00

From The Amazing Mutant Race 4....

"Greetings, Mr. Bennet and Mr. Summers," one of the so-called Tree People greeted us.

"Please," I responded humbly, "Call him Scott."

"I am Palín, no relation," he said, "of the Tree People."

I sensed a trap. "Funny," I said coolly. "You don't look like a tree."

"Well, we're not trees," Palín explained, "we're people of the trees."

"So, why don't you just go with that?"

"Tree People is more marketable," he replied. "So, ready for the games?" he asked putting an arm around Scott and leading us up the treetop pathway.

Scott sighed unenthusiastically.

"Aw, what's the matter there, tiger?" Palín said stopping. He grabbed Scott hard around his bicep and said, "Cheer up. You were made for these games."

I explained how Scott had been upset because he was looking forward to the other detour challenge. "I want to be mutated into looking good in sweaters," he had whined. "Winter's approaching."

Fortunately, I'm the brains of this team, so when it comes down to the decision making, I get final say. The other option was a joke. Evolution? My home school biology book says no. And besides, where would I come up with ideas for evolutionary advantages that would be original? I don't want people to think I'm just ripping off some silly comic book.

So, that's how I ended up locked in a kitchen ducking behind the counter with a pen and shield in hand as two velociraptors chugged some lager.

"I don't get the point of this game," I whispered to myself.

"You just have to stop them from drinking," a voice said, "and don't die."

"Wh-where are you? Who are you?"

"It's me, Palín," he answered. "We wired you with an audio transmitter. It makes it more entertaining for the audience if we can hear your screams." In the background I heard cheering.

I peeked back around at the velociraptors. They were still lapping up the lager. I stood up and said, "I'm going to need to see some ID." Then approached the beasts.

They watched as I walked toward them. I had my shield raised, ready to push off an attack. Once in range, I kicked the glass of lager across the kitchen.

"Did I win?" I asked as one of the raptors jumped on me, knocking me to the ground. His enormous weight held me down. I lifted the pen up as high as I could and poked at its ankle.

The other raptor seemed to watch gleefully, until it was suddenly struck by a tranquilizer dart and fell to the ground unconscious.

The raptor standing on me soon followed.

I rose to my feet and saw Palín with two bamboo-wielding Tree People. "Yeah, you won," he said. "Nice job."

Palín took me back to where Scott was waiting.

"The next game requires you to swing across to that tree over there," he pointed, "using only your tail. No hands. First one there wins."

"Okay," Scott said approaching the starting line.

"Wait," I stopped him. "He said using only your tail."

"I know," Scott replied. "I'm not deaf."

"But...you don't have a tail."

"What?" he asked shocked. "Of course I do!"

I was quite confused. "Why do you have a tail?" I asked.

"Why wouldn't I?" he shot back.

"Um, well, humans don't have tails," I explained confoundedly.

"They don't?" he asked, then proceeded to pat me on the behind. "You mean...you don't have one?"

"No," I answered, "I don't."

Scott pulled a tail from out of his pants and asked, "So why do I have one?"

"How should I know? Just swing to that tree over there and be quick about it!"

"Fine."

But quick he wasn't. "Nice job, sport," Palín said as Scott returned. "I think you may have set a record. A record for optic blasting the competition, that is. You took a long time, but you're the only one that finished the race. You win. One more game to go...."

"Wait," Scott said. "I need to call my father."

"Hello?" I heard his father answer over the speaker phone.

"Hey, Daddy. It's me, Scott."

"That's Major Daddy, boy."

"Sorry, Major Daddy...I was wondering, um...did you know I had a tail?"

"Of course," Major Summers replied, "Why do you think I threw you out of an airplane as a boy?"

"Because we were attacked," Scott said.

His father corrected him. "No, boy. I found out that your mother was having an affair with a Tree Person, Pal-something or other. Hence your tail. I'm a good guy, a strong man, but I mean, come on...you had a tail. And you weren't even mine. Anyone would have done the same in my position."

"But what about Alex? You threw him out too."

"Yeah," Scott's father explained, "he was just ugly."

Scott was speechless. He stood there not saying a word.

So, his father hung up.

"Nice job!" Palín said coming closer. "I just overheard your conversation, and you just won the third game: Discover a family secret."

As we headed back, I thought it seemed suspicious how we managed to win all our games. I was rescued from the raptors just in time. Scott somehow wasn't disqualified for optic blasting away the competition. And that last game...well, I don't even know if that was a real game.

But the important thing is, we won. And a suspicious win is still a win.

Where's the Beef?

2008-10-30T14:47:00.005-06:00

"Okay," Tracy finally said after having it explained for the fifth time. "I've heard enough."

"So you understand now?" I asked.

"Yeah....Nathan's been with everyone and their twin, and you have his illegitimate daughter to prove it."

See? It's not that complicated. I decided to move on to the next step. Collecting evidence.

"Well, well, Mr. Cocoon Man," I said as I cut off part of his encasement. "Looks like you've made quite the mess." I dropped the sample of his cocoon into a plastic baggy.

Having collected the evidence, I grabbed Meredith, and we returned to the office. I pulled into the Primatech parking lot where we exited the vehicle.

"Hey, there!" I called to Meredith as she headed for her own car. "Aren't you going to stick around the office for lunch?"

"No, sorry," she replied. "I really want to get back and see Claire."

"Alright, suit yourself."

I knew the best part of working was lunch. There was no way I was going to waste it on some ungrateful daughter I see everyday. This was my one hour of complete freedom from the grind. I'm on my own time during my lunch hour. I can shoot whomever I want, without worrying about about getting a sexual discrimination lawsuit filed against me.

The Haitian joined me at our regular table. He, like always, had a couple twigs and three quarters of a fish head. "Well, well," I said reaching into my paper sack, "let's see what the misses packed for me."

"Yuck," The Haitian commented as I plopped the foul-looking pseudo-food onto the table. "What is it?"

"Hmm...looks like...an egg sandwich?" Sure, Sandra's cooking rarely looked good, but well, sometimes it tasted decent enough. And with the current economic situation, there was no way I'd be giving into the Dollar Menu.

I bit into the strange food. "Yum," I said, lying. Chewing was difficult, but I managed. I quickly finished the rest and washed it down with a glass of water.

The Haitian just finished his last twig and then said, "Back to work?"

"Yeah," I replied, scraping my tongue with sandpaper. "We've got some evidence for the lab to examine."

"I will take it there immediately," he replied diligently.

"Here you-" I reached into my paper bag and felt around. "Well, that's odd...where's the-"

Our Chart

2008-10-29T14:56:00.003-06:00

"Why'd you bring her?" Nathan asked, nodding over toward my newest partner, Meredith. "I thought you were into talk, dark and handsome memory-wipers."

"Sometimes you gotta fight fire with fire," I replied.

Then, Tracy walked over to me excitedly and shook my hand. "Thanks for saving us, Mr..."

"Bennet," I replied. "Mr. Bennet. And it's very ice to meet you."

She seemed to blush.

Then, I pulled Meredith closer to us and said, "This is Meredith, an old friend of Nathan's."

"Oh, she doesn't look that old," Tracy replied.

Meredith's eyes lit on fire. I quickly explained the details of our relationships, to cool things down. "...and so, now Claire's mine."

Tracy seemed confused.

"It's simple really," I explained. "Nathan and Meredith had a baby. I adopted the baby with Sandra. My old partner, The Haitian, also helps protect her. My new partner is Meredith, Claire's real mom. Nathan's new partner is you, the twin sister of his old partner, Niki, who he thought was Jessica, which me met when he was married to Heidi."

She still wasn't getting it. So I drew a chart, like on The L Word. If it's good enough for Lesbians, it's good enough for me, I always say.

"See?" I said as she took in the visual.

Nathan was confused now. "What's with the X's on Heidi?" he asked.

"Oh, the X's mean the person's dead now."

"Heidi's not dead," he replied, "I mean, I don't think she is."

"Oh, well, you get the point."

Who You Gonna Call?

2008-10-28T15:16:00.006-06:00

Has anyone seen the electrifying blonde bimbo?

I left several voicemails for her, but no response. It's like she's avoiding me, or found another evil company to work for.

"Hello, Elle? It's Mr. Bennet. Look, I don't know if this is still your number or not, but it's all we had on file. Please, contact me as soon as you get this. We really need a new receptionist. Our current one is having hip replacement surgery, so we have to find someone to fill her shoes for a few months. You were the first person we thought of! So, give me a call."

I just left my last message for her when I got an important phone call from...Claire's Bio-Daddy!

Yes, if I had a mortal enemy (other than The Company, Mohinder, occasionally Claire, Sylar and all the other villains I've bagged and tagged over the years), then he certainly would be it.

Ever since the pajama incident, he and I just haven't gotten along.

"Those stupid-looking pajama bottoms make your butt look big."

Then, there's the whole family drama of having his and Meredith's daughter as my own.

"Hurry, Noah," he said over the phone. "There's something strange in our neighborhood!"

"Hey, I told your brother to call me Noah. It's still Mr. Bennet to you." I snapped at him.

"Whatever. Just get down here. Tracy and I are scared. Well, mostly me. Hurry! I don't want her seeing me like this. We don't know what to do!" Okay, maybe that wasn't his exact words, the details are fuzzy. The point is, I put our differences aside and went in to help him.

Meredith and I hopped into our pimped out Nissan.

I arrived, as I always do, just in time.

"I ain't 'fraid of no cocoons," I said as I fired my taser.

The cocoon man that was pretending to attack my friends (in the John McCain sense of the word, meaning people I haven't shot yet) was momentarily electrified long enough for them to escape its grasp. I remember the good ol' days when instead of tasers, I'd just give Elle a squeeze and she'd fire off a few rounds. We need to find that girl....

"Wow," Nathan's latest blonde acquaintance said, "that sexy man in horn-rimmed glasses just saved our lives. He's so mysterious."

Nathan rolled his eyes.

New Policies - Part 2

2008-10-27T14:32:00.001-06:00

Continued from Part One....

Finally, some good news.

Angela in a coma.

And with Bob dead....and Kaito dead....and Thompson dead....and Linderman dead....and Bernie Mac dead....

I'm now in charge of The Company!

The Haitian let out a hearty, "..."

"First order of business," I said, "Let's find Elle. Sure, I don't like her, but she still qualifies for our pension plan, and I want to make sure she earns it!"

The Haitian just nodded.

"Next, let's ban Peter from the premises. I'm really tired of that depressed whiner. The paper business is for real men only."

"Peter left," The Haitian informed me.

"Good. Then, let's move on to Sylar. I want him locked away and put into a coma until we find a way to kill him for good."

"Sylar is already locked up and in an induced coma."

Well, this Company running thing sure was a lot easier than I expected it to be. I think this could be a record profit-earning quarter for us. We just need a few more changes.

I needed to put the word out to my buddy, Shaq. So, I called him up.

"Ya?" he answered the phone.

"It's me, Noah. I need your help. I'm running the paper company right now, and well, quite frankly, we got a lot of fat losers on the staff. I need you down here to whip 'em into shape."

"Sure thing, man. That's what I do, you know, I just do things like that, you know, it's what I do, so Imma gonna do it, man."

He flew down within the hour and began training our sales team.

With our employees getting whipped into shape, it was time for me to whip up morale. The best way is with a mascot.

I call him Bready in Horn-Rimmed Glasses.

Finally, The Company was beginning to look like more than a simple front for a clandestine people-hunting organization. It was starting to look like a real company, one that would have family picnics for its employees (without radioactive tracking isotopes hidden in the food).

I sat happily in the big chair dreaming of our wonderful future. Perhaps I'll consider acquiring Dunder-Mifflin next quarter.

New Policies - Part 1

2008-10-26T15:23:00.007-06:00

"We need more men!" I screamed at The Haitian.

He replied, "..."

"I know, they're all dead!" I sunk into my chair. Things have been terrible in the paper business ever since the Level 5 incident. We've been going through agents faster than Ben Savage. It was definitely hindering our ability to sell paper and shoot bad guys.

I suppose we'd have to start recruitment.

If only West didn't disappear. That kid already started down the path toward becoming a Company Man.

Then, of course, there was Claire. She did surprise me with the way she got out of the huge mess she got into with Eric Doyle. But she's too young and too much my daughter. I would worry for her safety, even though ultimately I would be very proud to have my kid follow in my footsteps.

"What about me, Dad?" some whiny little boy asked.

"What are you doing here? Are you the new intern?"

"It's me, Lyle," the unfamiliar brat said. "I could be a paper salesman."

I just laughed and sent him back home.

This would have been much easier if we never had all those Level 5 villains escape. Stupid Elle. It's all her....

Elle. She's still on our payroll! She should be working for us!

I made my way to the boss's office to demand Elle's reinstatement.

"I know she's an entitled little bimbo, but gosh darn it, she's our entitled little bimbo!" I said as I knocked open the door.

Angela didn't reply.

Peter and Sylar stared at me, as though I had just urinated on their mother's grave or something.

"My mother..." Peter began to sob.

"Our mother!" Sylar announced.

"She has fallen into a cold, bitter state."

"Yeah, like that's a new development," I replied. "Look, I need a word with your mom. It's about Elle."

"She's in a coma," Sylar informed me.

"That's great!" I exclaimed. "That old hag has been running this paper company into the ground."

"Some studies suggest that coma patients can still hear," The Haitian said as he entered behind me.

"...uh, the ground is a great place for a paper company!" I quickly added. I grabbed The Haitian and darted out of the room.

In the hallway outside Angela's room, I said to The Haitian, "I think this makes me the boss."

"..."

"That's just what I was thinking!" It was time to make some changes around here.

To be concluded....

Internet Suggestions

2008-10-25T14:46:00.005-06:00

If you're like me, then when you're not out shooting people, you're online checking out all the great content this giant series of tubes has to offer.

I thought I'd go ahead and make things easier for you. Sure, Google has already made it insanely easy to find anything you're looking for, but what about the stuff you're not looking for? That's where I come in. Here are some things you should be doing on the Internet:

Of course, the first thing is to be reading my blog, which you're doing. So, good job! You'll make a great paper salesman someday, kid.

The next thing, which is almost as important as reading my blog, is to add me on MySpace. It's how I keep tabs on Claire and any other youth that may be experiencing odd symptoms. Visit my profile.

Since you like reading blogs so much, be sure to stop by The Burnt Toast Diner. I hear Adam posted today. I've been wondering what happened to him. I thought he was buried, or cremated, or something. Oh, well, maybe I'll stop by the cafe and see what he's up to these days.

And the next fun thing for all of you loyal paper-enthusiasts to do is check out the forums on Primatech's website. You can discuss all the happenings in our crazy world of paper! You'd be surprised at all the things there is to discuss: Who would have Sylar's baby? Is Obama REALLY a terrorist? Why is Mohinder still alive?

I'm sure you have a lot of Internet activities of your own, which is why you'll find text boxes above with image links that you can use. Post links on your own blog, or on your own MySpace profile. The Company keeps an eye on where our Internet traffic is coming from. So, if you link to me, or The Company or The Burnt Toast Cafe, maybe I'll stop by your Internet hang out in search of special people. Don't worry, I won't bag and tag you...more than once.

Mission Six: Seeing It Through

2008-10-24T15:40:00.003-06:00

I know you're all hoping I participate in a wet t-shirt contest some day, but I think this is as close as it will ever get.

The Sixth Leg of The Amazing Mutant Race 4

Water Boring

2008-10-23T15:48:00.004-06:00

I came across this artistic rendering in my Primatech files:

Apparently, there's a race of underwater creatures wanting to stab our children with over-sized forks!

Fortunately, I don't let my children go into the water.

"Geez, Dad! I'm totally hot," Claire would always explain to me, "and totally hot girls are supposed to go to the beach, so guys can, like, look at us and stuff. It's, like, feminist power or something."

Of course, I would never allow it. I still remember what happened the last time she went to the beach.

I've never been a fan of water. Sure, I'll drink it, but that's only to show it who's boss. I'm not going to carelessly throw myself into its cruel, wet hands by frolicking around in the ocean and calling it fun.

That's always when danger strikes, when you're having fun. Fun causes people to let their guard down. In my line of work, that's not an option.

Which is why I'm warning you all: Don't have fun!

If there is a race of underwater beings wielding large forks, then that's just what they're waiting for. If you have to go into the ocean, stay alert and watchful. Or at least carry a big spoon to defend yourself.

The Big Picture

2008-10-22T12:57:00.000-06:00

Anyone that knows me knows that I'm not a fan of the Big Picture. I prefer to see the world through my own horn-rimmed goggles. "Keep your eye on the prize," my father neglected to advise me when I was growing up.

That's how I live my life. One goal, one mission. For instance, I want to protect my indestructible daughter. So, naturally, nothing else matters to me. If I have to put Sandra's or that boy's life in danger, then so be it. Actually, that's probably why I can never remember my son's name. He's outside the scope of my vision.

See this?

I think that man next to me is a wanted terrorist. I could have bagged and tagged him, but I didn't. You know why?

Because of that smoothie.

The smoothie was my focus. I didn't even realize that man was there, though I do recall an odd odor. The point is, it never crossed my mind that something else, other than that smoothie, could be in existence around me.

And why should it?

If we focus on the Big Picture, then we miss out on what's really important.

It can catch up with you. This poor guy probably spent his entire life worrying about the Big Picture, and whatever the Big Picture was sucked the life right out of him. Metaphorically, of course. I mean, look how old he looks! I'd say he's coming up on 500, but he can't be more than 70 or so.

That's what happens to you. The Big Picture is too much for any one person to take in. Try to, and it will wear you out. So, my advice is to forget about the Big Picture. There are more important things out there.

Claire's New Daddy

2008-10-21T13:46:00.005-06:00

Sometimes it seems like Claire's got more father's than Anna Nicole Smith's daughter. There's me. Then there was Hank. Then, Nathan.

Well, there's a new man in my daughter's life. The Puppet Master himself. No, not Frank Oz. I'm talking about Eric "Lardo" Doyle.

He's a foul creature if ever there was one. Even without the power to manipulate people's movements, I could have had him locked up in Level 5 because of his hygiene.

So, I was quite upset when I found out that my Claire Bear flocked to him. I know I've been driving her away with my semi-evil ways. But that's no reason to run right into the arms of a mad man!

He even taught her how to fire a gun. That was supposed to be my job! I've been begging Sandra to let me take her to the firing range since she was three years old.

"You'll shoot your eye out, kid," Sandra would always say.

That's the best part of being a kid, risking one's vision in dangerous fun.

Since I couldn't give my Claire Bear everything that a father should give their indestructible daughter, it's no wonder why she left in search of this fat idiot. But he wouldn't be able to love her in that creepy, yet platonic, way that I can.

I was heart broken when I got the call from Sandra. It was devastating.

Fortunately, when I arrived, I found Eric Doyle lying on the floor dead.

"Good," I said, "he's dead. Now I'm back to being the only man in your life, sweety." I patted Claire on the head.

"Ugh!" She complained. "My hair was, like, so perfect and now it's ruined! Ruined!"

That's when Sandra informed me that Doyle wasn't dead. "Bummer," I responded. "Guess I better take him into the office."

"You know," Sandra continued, "Claire was the one that knocked him unconscious."

"Really?" I was stunned. My little girl already struck out at her new daddy. So, even though she stormed off in a silent, contained rage, I knew in my heart that she loved me and only me.

"Wow," I said to Meredith. "My little girl continues to amaze me."

"I'm amazed she hasn't knocked you unconscious yet," she replied.

"Me too," I said. "Me too."

Photo Caption Contest at the Burnt Toast Diner

2008-10-20T12:11:00.005-06:00

The Burnt Toast Diner is celebrating it's 400th post.

They're celebrating with a Photo Caption Contest. I suggest you people go give it a shot, maybe you could even win! If you do, I'll consider granting you a Get out of Baggin' and Taggin' Free Card. No promises, though.

Here's the link:
Photo Caption Contest at the Burnt Toast Diner

(P.S. I'm in two of the photos!)

I'm Not Overcompensating

2008-10-19T13:54:00.011-06:00

Seriously, I'm not.

Parenting: HRG Style

2008-10-18T12:19:00.005-06:00

"Wow, Mr. Bennet! You're such a great father!" All of Claire's friends are always telling me that. They see all the hard work I do taking good care of my little Claire Bear, and they can't help to feel jealous.

Claire never seems to mention it, but I think she has to feign embarrassment to maintain her social status in school. It's uncool to admit your dad is awesome.

"Isn't that right, Claire?"

"Uh, Dad, you're being creepy again....
Parenting can be hard, though. It doesn't come naturally. It takes a lot of work, a lot of dedication, a lot of ammo, and a Haitian.

Here's some advice from one parent to another:

Don't let your children go swimming in the ocean - One word: Sharks. Five more words: with lasers on their heads! And don't even get me started on the drowning possibilities. If you want your children to not die, whether they're indestructible or not, keep them out of the ocean!
Force-feed them vegetables - Everyone knows the importance of veggies when it comes to health. Now, I know, none of us adults bother eating vegetables unless they're sauteed in butter and served atop a quarter-pound all-beef patty. Our children, though, need vegetables. Don't buy a garbage disposal, just have children.
Allow the illusion of privacy - Never, ever, under any circumstances, let your children have absolute privacy. Utilize video and audio surveillance when necessary. Planting a spy in their inner-circle of friends is also effective. Just remind him to shave because a fourteen year old with a full beard just screams "narc".
Always know where your children are - It's ten o'clock, do you know where your children are? Yeah, well what about at 10:05? 10:07? 10:34? GPS tracking devices are a great way to monitor your child. And the best part is, anyone trained in basic surgery can insert the device into one of your child's vital organs.
Don't let them lick statues - This is perhaps the hardest activity to prevent. For whatever reason, adolescents, when confronted with a nude statue, simply feel the need to lick inappropriate parts of said statue.

Optional: Electroshock conditioning works well in deterring immoral statue-licking.
Hire a clone soldier escort - Clones are great. They're 100% loyal and obedient. They make great role models for your children, as well as protect them from rebels and religious fanatics.

Those are the most basic tips I have to offer you. Give it a shot, and when you're ready for more, just let me know. I'm a treasure trove full of great parenting gems.

Mission Five: Waterworld Domination

2008-10-17T14:16:00.000-06:00

From The Amazing Mutant Race 4....

"Gross!" Scott commented. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing!" I quickly replied. "I mean, I'm just researching...Atlanteans, for the challenge." Unfortunately, my research seemed to be a waste of time. All three minutes and forty-two seconds of it. I didn't discover anything about Atlanteans that I didn't already know. They're humany and live underwater. No big secrets there.

"Learn anything useful?" Scott asked.

I answered, "Oh, yeah. Loads."

"Good. Let's get going."

We squeezed into the one-man transport.

Xavier wasn't kidding when he said it would be a tight fit. The camera was right up in our faces the entire way to Atlantis. I was extremely uncomfortable, but Scott seemed to not mind it.

As soon as we docked at the oxygen decompression chamber, I quickly shoved Scott out of the transport.

After drinking the green liquid that would allow us to breath underwater, we went to the throne room to meet with this so-called Sub-Mariner.

"Oh, my God! It's really him!" Scott squealed as we were introduced to Namor. "I'm like your biggest fan ever."

"Thanks, you stupid air-breather," Namor responded casually.

"And I've heard of you," I added.

Namor unenthusiastically presented us with the two detour options.

"Games are a lot of fun," Scott said. "And I bet they'd play naked, like the original Olympics."

While the thought of underwater nude sports was mildly enticing, I decided to go with Maim. "I'm a brilliant strategist," I explained. "Coming up with a plan to conquer the surface-dwellers would be easy. They're all a bunch of morons."

Scott and I quickly discussed possible plans of attack. "Let's poison the water supply!" Scott offered.

"You fool," one of the war ministers replied, "We Alanteans live in water. That would indirectly kill us all too!"

"Oh," he said. "Would that not count as victory then?"

Eventually, we settled on a few plans to present to Namor.

Our first plan was a good one. I was sure he'd like it. "As luck would have it, a terrorist is currently running for the office of President of the United States," I explained. "We suggest you gather up many Atlanteans and have them work the phones for his campaign. Convince the voters to elect this secret Muslim, and once he brings about the destruction of America there will be no one willing to stop your invasion!"

Namor sat thoughtfully for a moment and then said, "How exactly is this secret Muslim planning to destroy America?"

"Well, you see," I continued, "he refuses to wear a flag pin. Can you imagine what would happen if the President of the US didn't wear a flag pin?"

He didn't seem impressed. "Got anything else?" he asked.

"Yeah," Scott answered. "There's also this old guy you could support for President. He wears a flag pin, though."

"I see," Namor said, "and how would his election help me conquer the surface?"

I answered, "Well, he'll destroy America through incompetence and failed political policies, rather than unpatriotic gestures."

"What about the other nations?" he asked.

"Oh, they're all pacifists," I answered. "Once America falls, anyone can take over any country they want and nobody will lift a finger to stop them."

I could tell we almost had him on that plan, but he said that he didn't believe in voting and preferred a less democratic approach.

So, Scott and I moved on to other plans.

Buy nukes from Iran. Too expensive.

Help spread AIDS. Too messy.

Raise the undead. Too smelly.

None of our plans so far impressed him. Scott even suggested poisoning the water supply, after I had told him to forget it. Unsurprisingly, Namor didn't like that one either.

But I had one last plan. "This plan," I began, "will definitely succeed."

Namor yawned.

"All you have to do is wait 300 years."

"Wait 300 years?" Namor repeated. "I don't understand, yet I'm intrigued. Go on."

I quickly set up my presentation materials and began explaining the plan.

"As you can see by my map, the Earth is getting warmer and the seas are rising. What lives in the seas?" I asked rhetorically.

Scott answered, "Fish!"

"You guys," I continued, pointing at Namor. "If we simply allow the surface-dwellers to continue to pollute the planet, the entire world will be covered with water, just like that Kevin Costner movie that I forget the name of."

"Dances with wolves," said Scott.

"I like the sound of that," Namor said. "All water. Interesting. But your presentation was....lacking."

"Can I have another shot?" I asked. "We'll definitely wow you."

"Go on."

"Alright, give me one minute," I said.

I raced to the nearest bar where I found an overweight and bearded Al Gore drinking double shots of tequila. "Come with me, Al," I commanded. As I shaved the former VP, I explained our situation. "You have to convince him Global Warming isn't a complete farce."

"It's not a farce," he said. "It's an inconvenient truth."

I laughed and said, "Yeah, sure." Then, I pushed him into the throne room saying, "Go do your thing."

After Al Gore's presentation, I took the floor. "As you can see," I said, "the surface will soon be completely flooded."

Scott held up my next visual aid.

I continued, "Once that happens, all you have to do is poke us with your pitchfork thingies and you'll win!"

"Good!" Namor clapped. "I look forward to the effects of Global Warming. You may now return to the throne room, the Pit Stop for this leg of the race."

"Isn't that where we are?" Scott asked.

"Yes, so hurry before the other teams beat you there."

"There? You mean, here?"

"Yes."

No! Bad Claire!

2008-10-16T14:38:00.003-06:00

Why is being a parent so hard?

You give them everything: a warm home, love, guidance, strict rules with no room for defiant behavior. And what do we get from them? Defiant behavior!

"Like, geez, Dad," Claire said cooly outside our home. "Take a chill pill."

"I can't have you going off hunting these villains, Claire," I explained in my parenting voice. "You're too young. You almost got black holed!"

"Gah, Dad! Like that would be such a big deal! People get black holed all the time."

I don't see how we parents can be expected to compete with forces like the media and peer pressure. "Go to your room," was all I could think to say. That's the only tool we parents have in this battle for control over the hearts and minds of our children. Until some Japanese company comes up with V-Chips that can be inserted directly into our children's brains, sending them to their rooms to think about what they've done is the best we can do.

Claire stormed into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

"I just don't know sometimes," I said to Sandra.

"I don't know either," she replied. "I mean, is Jello a liquid or a solid or what?"

"Not that," I glared at my mentally hopeless life companion. "I'm talking about our daughter. I just don't know what to do about her."

"Oh, well," Sandra said, "a girl's going to do what a girl's going to....oh, I forget the rest of that saying, but it's a good one."

It worries me to think about Claire's future, and where she may be headed with this reckless attitude of hers. Combine that attitude with indestructibility and you've got the ultimate recipe for a bad seed. I can tell you right now, I'm not going to be the one to plant that seed. I'm going to do whatever is necessary to stop her from becoming one of the bad guys, one of the villains.

"You know, maybe we should have Hiro teleport her into a coffin," I suggested, "for like a timeout or something." Spankings were pretty much useless now that she's lost all feeling. We were running out of options.

"Oh, but then she'll miss dinner!" Sandra pouted.

Then, I had a great idea. "Maybe we could get Meredith to help teach her not to go after villains on her own."

"That's a good thought, dear," Sandra said. "You're so smart!"

"I know." I called out for Claire's bio-mom, "Meredith!"

No answer.

"Meredith!"

"Oh, honey, she's out right now," Sandra informed me.

"Really? Where?" I asked.

Sandra answered, "She went out after some villains on her own."

Oh, great, so I guess this rebelliousness of hers is genetic! Sometimes, I guess Nature beats out Nurture. Luckily, though, I know a paper company that has done some amazing work in genetics. Maybe after we find Meredith I can splice some of Claire's genes so she won't grow into a troubled teen.

The Plan Sucks

2008-10-15T12:57:00.000-06:00

Also posted on Burnt Toast Diner....

Stephen Canfield thought he could ruin my plan to finally get rid of Sylar once and for all, but he underestimated my willingness to shoot my daughter.

He held her in front of him as a human shield, and I pulled my trigger.

Damn! The safety was on.

Suddenly, the vortex-making villain created a large, sucky hole in the hardwood floor. My gun, my lovely gun, was snatched away from me. I wanted so badly to follow it, but I had to think about what it would have wanted.

"Save yourself, Noah," I imagined it saying to me. "You can always get another gun."

"But the waiting period could be anywhere from 24 hours to 10 days," I explained.

"Just use the gun show loophole," it didn't call out to me as it faded away into some other dimension.

"I'll miss you!" I cried into the vortex as I grabbed tightly onto a nearby pillar.

"Like, Dad, stop whining about your gun!" Claire Bear yelled back to me. She was hanging onto some railing with her feet only inches (or centimeters for our foreign friends) away from the vortex. "I'm, like, so totally going to disappear forever if you, like, don't do something!"

I contemplated whether or not I could buy a daughter at a gun show too. I knew I would be able to, but doubted she would be indestructible. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do. If I let go of my pillar, I'd be sucked into that vortex too.

I couldn't let go of my pillar, my lovely, smooth pillar. As I caressed it slowly, as I do to all life-saving structures, I was reminded of my wife. It was so cylindrical and white, just like Sandra.

"Oh, Pillar," I whispered into its ears, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Then, Claire walked up to me and said, "Uh, Dad, like, stop. That's totally weird. Gah! You're such a dork."

I was surprised to see that my Claire Bear survived the vortex, which had seemed to go away during my conversation with my pillar.

"I, like, totally had to let creepy brain-eater here save me," she continued to complain.

"Yeah, Mr. Glasses!" Sylar cheered. "I think you like owe me a kid now, since I saved yours."

How dare he save my daughter! I suddenly remembered just how badly I wanted this reformed sociopath removed from this reality. "We have to find Canfield!" I yelled.

"Gah! Dad, just talk to him or something. He's, like, totally cool and all," Claire responded.

Eventually, I tricked the little fool into giving me information on where he was heading, and that's where I got the jump on him.

Luckily, there was a gun show on the way to the park. "Boo!" I jumped out and screamed.

"I'm not a murderer!" Stephen cried. "You people got me all wrong!"

"We can't have you making black holes everywhere," I said calmly, "even if it's just an accident."

"Oh, so it's a racial thing?" he replied. "So what if I was creating white holes, huh? Bet you people with your Company would be all fine with that, right?"

"Probably," I said. "I'm just middle management. I don't set policy," I explained. Then, I offered him a great deal: send Sylar away forever and don't get shot in the head.

He seemed to take my offer.

He began doing his thing.

The doorway to Sylar's new home was opening.

Soon, Sylar would be gone forever!

Hey, wait a minute....

....I don't think that's....

Well, that sucks.

The Man with the Plan in the Horn-Rimmed Glasses

2008-10-14T14:33:00.006-06:00

Hehehe!

What's got me so happy?

Well, I have the perfect plot to get rid of Sylar once and for all! That's right, no more Gabriel Gray/Petrelli.

I was looking through the files on the villains and came across Stephen Canfield. He's going to be my hero.

Stephen's special power is creating vortices. He can send anything (and anyone) to God knows where by sucking them up in one of his black holes.

And that's what's going to happen to Sylar. He's going to be vacuumed away into the netherworld.

"Stop touching that," I said to Sylar who kept changing the radio station.

"But I'm looking for The Beach Boys!" he whined.

"Well, maybe you should search for them in another dimension," I snickered thinking about my upcoming triumph.

"Ooh, that would be totally fun," he replied, "I'm picking up good, multi-dimensional vibrations!" he sang.

"Shut up and eat your apple," I said cooly, then added in a whisper, "it'll be your last."

"Mr. Glasses, like, I can totally hear whispers, silly," he said. "What do you mean it will be my last?"

I just smiled and stared straight ahead.

Then, he said, "Oh! Duh! Lol, cause it's almost winter!"

I drove happily to our destination, trying to imagine the horrors in store for Sylar on the other side of one of these vortices. It filled me with such pleasure, a feeling I haven't felt since I reported my one-armed algebra teacher for beating students with his hook. He had been immediately transferred to elementary school. I'm sure an alternate dimension would be nearly as bad and looked forward to sending Sylar there.

"Like, ready to do this or what?" he asked getting out of the car in a manner that could only be described as gleefully.

"I've been waiting for this my entire life," I replied, pulling my gun.

"OMG, Mr. Glasses! You're so bad ass."

"Yes. Yes, I am."

My plan was perfect. My life's work was about to be complete. Nothing and no one could stand in my way.

To be continued....

An Odd Request

2008-10-13T13:14:00.002-06:00

Those villains were no doubt wreaking havoc on the public, but I had other things to attend to, like watching me come in first place on the fourth leg of The Amazing Mutant Race. It was a fun moment to relive, and worth putting the villains on hold.

But they've been waiting long enough. It's time for me to do what I do best: bag and tag special people.

"I'm special!" Sylar called out from his cell.

He had been annoying me non-stop every since he learned that I'd be taking The Haitian with me on my next mission.

There was no way I'd be working with that murderous lunatic again. I told Angela that, I told Sylar that, I even told the cashier at McDonald's that when I got a Big Mac earlier.

"Do you want fries with that?" the overly-pierced adolescent asked.

"No, I don't want fries," I replied, "and I don't want to ever work with that murderous lunatic again."

Surprised, he then asked, "You worked with OJ?"

Once I cleared up the confusion, and he realized I couldn't get him Juice's autograph, he gave me my change, and I awaited the arrival of my Big Mac.

Then, back at Primatech, I had to go tell Sylar for the seventeenth time that he can't be my partner anymore.

"Oh, well can I have your toy?" he inquired.

"I didn't get a Happy Meal," I said, finishing the Big Mac I bought earlier.

"Gee, Mr. Glasses, you're such a bore!" He looked at me from behind his Plexiglas barrier and added, "But you're a very responsible and, like, mature bore. It's, like probably totally awesome having your life...a fun job, a daughter with a scrumptious brain, being old enough to have seen Grease at the drive-in."

This was that new side of Sylar again. It made me uncomfortable. I prefer shooting him, not listening to him try to be human.

Then, he asked me a very strange question, even by Sylar standards. "Could I have some of your sperm, Mr. Glasses? Lol, I mean like in a cup, silly. For later."

"Why would you want that?" I asked, stunned.

"Well, like, you know, if I can't have little watchmakers of my own someday...it's just that...you're such a family man and, like, I wanna be like you someday, you know, once I eat bunches of brains and finish being a hot child in the city and all. Like, eventually, I want to settle down in the suburbs, but I'm afraid all the brain-eating and DNA alteration may have turned my magic firecracker into a dud."

That was more information than I wanted to hear. "That's not gonna happen," I said. "You're a murderer, Sylar. You won't change."

"My name is Gabriel!" he cried. "I mean, uh...like, you can call me Gabriel if you want...or Sylar. Whatever."

"The answer's no," I told him.

"Think about it," he responded. "Mohinder could probably help me out with all the gooey medical details. Ewww, but then I'll get all fat and stuff! But after nine months, I'll give birth to a cute little Mr. Glasses Junior! I'd totally be like Arnie in that movie where he has a baby with Danny DeVito. You can be my Danny DeVito!"

Yeah, that will never happen. "Goodbye, Gabriel." I said and left Level 5.

Follow Me

2008-10-12T12:45:00.001-06:00

"Come with me if you want to live."

Yes, I do Arnold impersonations. It's just one of my many, many talents. My mysteriousness usually overshadows just how talented I am. People see me and they say, "Wow, he's mysterious," completely neglecting my talent.

But now you can love me for my talent, my mysteriousness and more! And not only that, you can show your love and admiration by following me. Thanks to Blogger's new Followers gadget.

From what I hear, it works a lot like (and in tandem with) Google Reader. You can subscribe to blogs and you add to their overall Follower numbers.

Burnt Toast Diner has added a Follower gadget, so if you read it, go add yourself to the list. Apparently it rotates pictures of the followers, which means some of our readers could see a tiny version of your head!

And who wouldn't want that kind of fame?

So, come follow me if you want to live...a good and harmonious Blogger life, that is. Whether you're Joe Six Pack or Miss Alaska you'll feel like a true patriot when you become a Follower of your many, many favorite blogs. See their Followers number grow and feel the pride in saying, "I'm one of those nameless supporters."

Wasted Time

2008-10-11T13:17:00.000-06:00

Well, I could have been out capturing villains, but no! Angela needed her dog groomed. She doesn't even have a dog!

After wasting hours upon hours running personal errands for the new boss at Primatech, I was finally ready to head out into the field.

"All done," I said.

"Great, Noah," Angela replied. "Now, go get those villains. Take The Haitian."

"I'm right on it." I was about to leave when I noticed another episode of The Amazing Mutant Race was on. "Right after this," I added.

Watch my performance on The Amazing Mutant Race....

Guest Poster: The Haitian - A Grave Mistake

2008-10-10T13:35:00.003-06:00

I like to keep my mouth shut.

My therapist says that I'm passive aggressive. He is imaginary. I made him up to cope with my many childhood problems: an abusive father, growing up in poverty, failing to "catch 'em all."

So, I am unable to let my employers know of my discomfort with my recent task. Luckily, Mr. Bennet is out running more personal errands for Mrs. Petrelli, so I can post on his blog about my problem.

"Take Hiro and Ando and dig up Adam," the old woman ordered me. I prefer erasing people's memories. It is a far less unholy act than digging up a grave.

"You will help us too?" the chubby one asked.

"..." I replied. The loud-mouth one had previously attacked me, and so I am enjoying their forced physical labor. And when the time is right, I'll smack him in the back of the head with something!

The two Japanese office workers began shoveling. They whined every step of the way. Typical of people from so-called "civilized" countries. Always so ungrateful. In Haiti, we would consider it lucky to be able to dig. Imagine all of the grubs one might find!

"Hey, you are wasting the grubs!" I said as I noticed them flinging the dirt to the side without care for the nutrient-rich creatures within.

"Um...Mr. Haitian man, we don't need grubs," Ando responded.

Like I said, ungrateful. I simply shook my head and allowed them to continue their wasteful ways.

Soon, they uncovered the coffin. I took the shovels from them as they opened it.

The evil man inside leaped out with the ferocity of a caged baboon and punched Hiro in the face while cursing.

Ando was startled by the rash action.

So, I swung a shovel into the back of his head.

"Ow," he said, then yelled at me in Japanese.

"We're even," I told him.

Now that we unleashed this Adam guy, I can hopefully start working with Mr. Bennet again and bring in some villains. I miss the old bagging and tagging days. If I performed well, Mr. Bennet would buy me ice cream. Mrs. Petrelli doesn't reward me for a job well done, but if I screw up, she disconnects the cable.

I've missed so many episodes of Project Runway, I don't know who to root for.

Now? How about now?

2008-10-09T13:17:00.002-06:00

I picked up Angela's dry cleaning and had returned it to her.

"There you are," I said tossing the clothes on Bob's old desk. "So, I guess the devil really does wear Prada."

"Ha ha, Noah. So very funny," she replied unenthusiastically. She examined the clothing and said, "Yes, well, that will do."

"So, can I get back to hunting villains now?"

She gave me a strange and creepy look (not that she has many others) and said, "I will send you out when the time is right."

"But it's 3:14!" I complained. "The time is right!"

"Hmmm...I'm not feeling it," she moaned in that dreadful old lady voice of hers.

"What about now?"

"Still no."

"Now?"

"No."

"How about--"

"No!"

I could tell I was wearing her down. Any minute now she would crack.

....THREE HOURS LATER....

"It's 6:15...that's gotta be the right time."

"It's not," she responded.

"Now?"

"No."

"How about now?"

"Still no."

"What about--"

"No!"

Out of the Office

2008-10-08T13:24:00.005-06:00

I know, I should be bagging and tagging, but Angela Petrelli sent me on a personal mission for her. I'm not one to turn down missions.

So, I'm out picking up her dry cleaning.

The good news is there's a frozen banana stand on the way!

The frozen banana is one of mankind's greatest invention. It ranks right up there with the telephone, indoor plumbing and peanut M&Ms. You can put a thousand monkeys in a room with typewriters for a thousand years and they'll never invent a frozen banana.

I just got an idea.

I wonder if a thousand monkeys with typewriters could hunt down villains?

Escaping Japanese

2008-10-07T13:21:00.001-06:00

This is just great.

I had finally finished watching several TV shows with Sylar and The Haitian and was about to head out to apprehend the next villain on my list. "Let's just switch the monitor back to security footage," I said turning the dial. "Oh, come on," I exclaimed, "they're escaping!"

"Not very good writing if you ask me," Sylar commented. "I see this plot all the time. It's the old belt in the air vent routine."

"Go take care of it," I said to The Haitian.

Meanwhile, I headed in to see Angela. "Hey, your worshipfulness," I said, using the title she chose for herself, "your step-son is escaping through the vents."

"Oh, relax, Noah," she casually replied. "You and I both know those vents won't allow for his girth."

"The Haitian is already seeing to them."

"Good. Have him bring them to me," she ordered. "I've got a special mission for the little nerds."

"If you need me," I said exiting her office, "I'll be out villain-hunting."

"Actually, Noah," she called to me, "before you do that, would you be a dear and pick up my dry cleaning?"

"Yes." I really miss Bob. He always bought a new suit each day on the way to work. No sense in dry cleaning when you've got unlimited funding.

"Yes, what?" Angela asked.

I sighed, "Yes, your worshipfulness."

I really miss Bob.

Next Villain, Please

2008-10-06T14:02:00.000-06:00

Just take a look at me. I'm obviously a man of action. I was meant to wield a gun, to shoot people and to bag and tag the rest.

So, naturally, my TV-viewing had to come to an end. There was still work to be done.

Places to go.

People to shoot.

It's a busy life, the life of a paper salesman. And I'm glad to finally get back to it. Don't get me wrong, television is great. If we didn't have guns, then I'm sure I would spend most of my time watching TV. Fortunately, we've got guns, and mine is aching for some action.

My first mission after being released from Level 5 myself was a complete success. Two of the villains died, which still counts as a bag and tag, and one escaped. But Mr. Flint, well, we caught him.

"I could do this every week!" I commented to Sylar as we took Flint on his perp walk back to his prison cell.

"Like, me too!" Sylar replied. "Being a Men in Black is so much fun!"

There's several villains still out there. That means I've got a lot of work ahead of me. I won't have to take Sylar anymore, hopefully. The Haitian is back, and we make a great team.

"Don't we?" I asked The Haitian.

"..." he replied.

I couldn't have said it any better myself.

Right now the two of us are waiting around. We're not really sure how to go about finding the next villains. Flint and the gang were dumb enough to get on the news, so it made my job easier. But now it seems I'm going to have to do some detective work. Luckily, I know a detective.

"Hello," Parkman's voice said over the phone.

"Parkman, it's Noah. I need your--

His voice continued, "Ha! Kidding. You got the machine." Beep.

"Stupid Parkman," I said and hung up the phone.

I can't believe he's not home. He's always home. He's nothing but a stay-at-home dad, Mohinder's little housewife. He must be having an affair!

Haha! An affair, yeah right. That guy couldn't even get the woman he was married to for so many years.

It is curious though. What could have happened to him? Has he gone native?

Oh, well. There was a mission waiting for me.

"Come on, The Haitian," I said to The Haitian. "We've got some work to do."

He asked, "Can I drive?"

"Don't be silly."

Is Mohinder There?

2008-10-05T13:09:00.000-06:00

Before heading out to capture more villains, I became distracted by the television. It started out with me watching my own performance on The Amazing Mutant Race, but then House came on.

"I'm right," the limping doc said to another character on screen.

"Um, no, you're not," the Black guy replied. "It's probably lupus."

"It's never lupus, and I'm never wrong," House retorted, "except when I'm not right, which is rarely and I'm still right in principle."

This was just too good to pass up. You never see writing like this on TV anymore, so I tuned in for the hour. After Dr. House went through about 20 diagnoses, he finally cured the patient of bloody diarrhea.

Then, I realized that these villains are a lot like bloody diarrhea. They're unnatural, they wreak havoc, they smell really weird, but perhaps they could be cured. And I just happened to know a doctor: Mohinder Suresh.

If he could whip me up a cure for these abilities, then I could use it on the villains and we wouldn't need Level 5 anymore. And the best part is that I could finally kill Sylar.

So, I called Mohinder.

"Hello?" a woman answered in a south of the border accent.

It was obviously the maid, so I said, "Shouldn't you be cleaning?"

She began crying and whined, "I tried everything! I used Holy Water and Dial antibacterial body wash, but it doesn't wash away the stink of sin from my flesh. I should have never acted on my inner desires. Es el diablo!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I explained. "My name's Noah. I used to work for Primatech Paper Company."

"Oh, sorry, I'm not interested," she said calming down, "we don't even have a printer."

Clearly the only way to get through to her would be speaking her language, but I have dignity. "Just put Mohinder on the phone," I said to her.

"He is locked in the bathroom," was her response.

It seems bloody diarrhea beat me to him. "Can you tell him that Noah's on the phone and that it's urgent."

I could hear her relay my message, then I heard Mohinder call back faintly in the background. I couldn't hear it all. "Tell him....indisposed....horrible condition....my father's research....or is it destiny....Kentucky Fried Chicken, original recipe....like a rabid Tibetan feline...."

Finally he finished and the girl repeated his message to me. "He says he is busy."

I asked her to have him call me when he could. Mohinder...busy? Something strange was going on. If only I knew what it was.

Mission Three: An Attempt to Ketchup

2008-10-04T13:49:00.001-06:00

Before heading out again to capture villains, I decided to watch some TV with Sylar.

"Gilmore Girls!" Sylar cried. "They talk about stuff that I don't understand, but they're funny anyway!"

"No," I replied, "we're watching The Amazing Mutant Race. I'm a contestant, you know."

And so we watched the new episode. See it for yourself.

Tutoring a Monster: Part 2

2008-10-03T14:07:00.000-06:00

Continued from Part 1...

"No, Gabriel," I explained, "a tutor doesn't necessarily toot."

He continued to giggle hysterically.

I decided it was best to move on to the lesson. "Now, Gabriel, listen to me," I said. "Your mom wants you to learn, so I'm here to teach you some basics."

"I don't want to go to school!" he whined. "I want to stay here and eat brains with you!"

"That isn't an option," I replied. "Now, listen to me. We have to work on your reading skills. Can you read, Gabriel?"

"Um...yeah, I think so," he answered.

"Good, then this will be easy," I assured him. I showed him a flash card.

"What's this word, Gabriel?"

He thought for a moment and said, "Unicycle!"

"Yes, that's right."

"Yay!" he cheered. "Can I have a brain now?"

"No, no brains," I said. "Next card."

Gabriel stared with his mouth watering.

"Can you read this word?" I asked him.

He struggled with it and finally said, "I don't know."

"It's brain," I answered for him.

"Not fair!" he cried. "You said there wouldn't be any brains!"

"None for you to eat," I corrected. "Now, what's this word?"

"Oh, my God! It's Arnie! I love him!" Sylar was really excited.

"Yes, it is, but what's the word on the card?" I persisted.

He made an attempt to pronounce it. "Shh...shh...shwaa...shwanazeeg....shwarnzeegar.....swranezager?"

"Close enough," I said. "Last one."

"Nucular!" he shouted.

"No, it's pronounced nuclear," I corrected him.

He repeated, "nucular."

"Nuclear," I said.

He said, "Nucular."

"Nuclear."

"Nucular."

"Nuclear."

"Nucular."

"No! Nuclear!" I shouted in frustration.

"I'm just kidding," he laughed. "I'm not a moron! Nuclear. See?"

Tutoring a Monster: Part 1

2008-10-02T14:16:00.004-06:00

"So, I've got a plan for catching the remaining villains," I said to Angela as I laid out my presentation materials on her desk. I rolled out a map of the US and continued, "As you know, the villains only want to destroy things, kill people, and get revenge on The Company." I picked up a Lego figurine and said, "This is me."

I placed my little stand-in on the map. "I will--"

Angela thumped Lego Me across the room.

"Well, I don't think that's a very good plan," I commented.

"Bennet, I need something from you," she told me.

I reminded her, "I'm married."

"Not that," she replied, "...yet. As you know, my baby Gabriel is locked up on Level 5. I'm worried about him. Being incarcerated means he can't get a proper education, and I don't want another retarded son." She looked me over and said, "You seem like a smart man, Bennet. I want you to teach my boy the basics: Reading, Writing and--"

"Suicide?"

"Arithmetic," she finished.

"Same thing."

I couldn't say no to the boss, so I went down to Level 5.

"Hello, Gabriel," I said through the super-strength Plexiglas barrier. "I'm your tutor."

He giggled.

To be continued...

Not My Fault

2008-10-01T13:25:00.000-06:00

"Sylar, don't you dare eat that brain," I said rather sternly.

But he ignored me. And now I have a mess on my hands.

"Me too!" Sylar giggled as he happily showed me his blood-drenched hands.

"You realize," I said to him, "Angela's going to throw you back into your cell for this."

"Mother would never do something like that. I'm her favorite!"

He is most likely indeed her favorite, but that's precisely why she locked him back up. She's always been a smotherer. That's why I didn't want her in Claire's life. She's over-bearing.

Sylar sulked inside his cell, "Aw, gee mom, you never let me go outside and play with all the other boys."

"That's because you're special," she replied moving closer to the glass wall separating them. "I want you in here with me, where you're safe."

"You should shoot him," I suggested.

"Oh, shut your trap, Bennet," she replied. Then, she reassured Sylar, "Don't worry about the mean man in the glasses. Nobody can take you away from me now. Nobody."

Later, the old windbag, as Kaito once referred to her (it sounds better in Japanese), called me into her (Bob's) office.

"You shouldn't have let him eat Jesse's brain," she said as I walked in.

I took a seat and insisted, "It wasn't my fault. I told you this would happen."

"Yes, I know. But I'm going to blame you anyway."

I was baffled. "Why?" I asked. "I operated one hundred percent professionally, as always."

"You did. But I'm the boss, and I'm blaming you," she replied.

I said to her, "You should blame Sylar."

"Oh, he's just misunderstood," she explained. "And besides, he's my son now. Hasn't Thompson or Elle taught you how important nepotism is to The Company?"

"I don't even work for The Company anymore!"

"Which is why I can't fire you. But watch yourself, Bennet. One more slip up like this and you could be on the streets looking for another secret organization with escaped villains for you to pursue."

She was right. I'd never get an opportunity like this again. There is still bagging and tagging to be done. "Fine," I said. "I'll take responsibility for Sylar's recent indiscretion."

"Good," she replied, "but I'm docking your pay."

"What pay?" I asked.

"Exactly."

Babysitting for Mama Petrelli

2008-09-30T13:23:00.002-06:00

Well, it seems we finally found out the true origin of Gabriel Gray. Someone that vile and disgusting could only have been the test tube love child of Angela Petrelli and a crazy snow globe collector. How exactly Mrs. Gray and Mrs. Petrelli created him, I really don't care to know. I'm sure it was despicable.

Regardless, Mrs. Petrelli now has a third son, as if the two others weren't enough trouble. We all remember what happened when I tried to bag and tag her eldest.

"Those stupid-looking pajama bottoms make your butt look big."

And Peter has always been nothing but trouble: whining about how we shouldn't kill ants because they too have souls, crying over spilled milk, complaining about being bitten by ants, whimpering over ants having drank all the spilled milk. His cry-baby tantrums are incessant.

But I have to say, the newest addition to the Petrelli Brats is by far the worst. I can put up with the cross-dressing. I can put up with the murdering. I can even put up with the Aqua music he plays constantly. But I can't overlook what he did to my Claire Bear!

That's why I was really upset that Angela tasked me with keeping an eye on her little baby.

"Oh, Bennet, he's just misguided," she insisted. "He never had the chance to suck at my teat of motherly love."

Holding back vomit, I said, "I'll catch these villains, but you have to never say anything like that again."

Continued at Burnt Toast Diner....

Rule of Two

2008-09-29T13:55:00.001-06:00

Even if I took on an alias and was cunning in my attack on the villains, it would still be a difficult task to take them down. That's why The Company always insisted on pairing up a human agent with a mutant agent.

"We're not mutants!" Elle cried. "We're human beings and we deserve respect! And access to the employee lounge! And Manolo Blahniks!"

I suppose I could ask her to help me take on these villains. Sure, she's an annoying, spoiled brat. But she can zap people. Plus, it's her fault they're loose, so maybe guilt would motivate her.

Or maybe Sylar. Sure, he's a turd of pure evil, but if I trick him into thinking he'll get to eat villain brains, he'd be more than willing to help me out.

Or Dick Cheney, but again, turd of pure evil and I'd have to offer him villain brains to eat.

If there's one thing watching the Star Wars saga bi-weekly has taught me, it's the importance of the Rule of Two. Sith and Jedi alike adhere to this fundamental law.

The best of the good guys work in pairs:

Ronald Reagan and The Pope

Chip and Dale

Superman and Spider-Man

And so too do the greatest of the bad guys:

Jafar and Iago

Simon and Paula

George Bush and The Easter Bunny

As you can see, being in a duo, whether ambiguously gay or not, is imperative. I'm going to have to take on a partner for this job.

"Bennet, my office, now," a cackling and sinister voice called out from Bob's old office.

I walked in to find Angela Petrelli seated in Bob's former chair, his corpse tossed onto the floor nearby. "You have to stop these villains, Bennet," she said, "and I've got just the partner for you."

Oh, boy! I hope it's The Easter Bunny.

Alias

2008-09-28T13:04:00.009-06:00

When I bag and tag, I don't bother hiding my true identity. The glasses make me mysterious enough as it is. Plus, nobody knows my first name anyway.

But these villains are going to be a bigger challenge than your average dyslexic fool. They're going to require more than simple shooting. They're going to require that I take on a secret identity and infiltrate their little criminal pack in order to bring them in. After all, they're armed with some of the most dangerous of superpowers. I've got a gun, two paperclips and my horned rims. I'll have to be extra cunning.

Plus, it's been a while since I've played dress up. The only question is, which alias should I use?

Power Ranger?

Love Boat Captain?

Iron-Rimmed Glasses?

One of those Japanese Fish Dudes from Star Wars?

The Messiah?

On The Tele

2008-09-27T14:22:00.007-06:00

I turned on the news to see if I could find a lead on where our villains might be. Sure enough, I found one.

"The remains of a woman who was burned alive were found at a local gas station. Authorities suspect she was protesting rising gas prices when something went wrong," the anchor announced.

Something went wrong alright. And it had to do with one of my villains.

Gun in hand, I headed for the door.

Suddenly, the theme song for The Amazing Mutant Race came on with Charles Xavier narrating. Normally, I wouldn't watch, unless Rob & Amber were racing. But this was a special season of The Amazing Mutant Race. Why was it special? Because I'm a contestant! The participation in this reality show was one of the reasons Bob locked me in a cell.

"We can't afford the publicity, Noah," he had said. "We're a secret organization, Noah."

This would have been my last reality show, but luckily Bob was murdered. I suspect Sylar wanted to ensure I would be able to return for Sylar's Bachelor 2.

Anyway, before I head out to bag and tag these villains, I'm going to watch this episode of The Amazing Mutant Race. I already know the outcome. Do you?

This is the second leg of a race around the world.

No More Gnome

2008-09-26T11:02:00.005-06:00

My new partner, the Travelocity Roaming Gnome, was not working out. We went out on a training exercise. The plan was to bag and tag a couple of local criminals, jewel thieves, nothing fancy.

I had them cornered. "Alright, do your job," I said to The Gnome.

"Most certainly," he replied.

Hours later I was waiting at my house for him to return. It should have only taken 20 minutes to hand them over to Primatech. I was starting to worry for the well being of my gnome when he finally arrived.

"What took so long?" I demanded.

The Gnome replied, "Their flight was canceled, but no worries! I notified Travelocity and had a new flight reserved within minutes. It was a later flight, so I waited with them just to make certain everything went well."

"Their flight?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, "on the way to the paper company, they mentioned how they had never been to Paris. I managed to arrange a lovely trip for them. Honeymoon suite, body chocolate, the whole package!"

"You were supposed to detain them at Primatech, not send them to Paris!" I was frustrated it. This wasn't the first time the little guy screwed up. It was clear he wasn't going to make it in this line of work. I decided to let him down easy. "Sorry, but you're just not cut out for the paper business," I said. "You're actually rather useless."

"I say! That is quite offensive."

"Offensive, but true."

"Well, then. I shall be on my way," he reached for his luggage.

"Not so fast. I can't exactly let you leave."

"Can't let me leave?"

"No. But we have accommodations prepared for you."

"Accommodations?"

"Level 5."

"Level 5?" He began to sob. "Will I at least have complimentary peanuts?"

I shook my head.

The Gnome cried out, "NooOoOocoOoOOO!"

And so now the little guy is locked away safely with The Company. It was unfortunate because I was counting on his travel discounts while tracking down these villains. Looks like I'll need to dip into my IRA now.

But I'm sure he's fine. He's a strong-willed little gnome. I bet he's handling solitary confinement incredibly well.

Preparing the Gnome

2008-09-25T13:58:00.003-06:00

I had replaced The Haitian with the Travelocity Roaming Gnome as my partner in paper sales, also known as bagging and tagging. Now, it was time for a trial run.

"Hey, Claire. You can't feel anything, right?" I said as I shot her in the shoulder.

"No," her body pushed the bullet out as she replied, "I'm completely dead inside."

"That's great!"

I gathered up my new partner and went over the gameplan. "Listen up, The Gnome, we're going to run you through a simulation to see if you have what it takes to hunt down these villains with me. This will be nothing compared to what you'll face out there." He began trembling in his pointy red hat. I continued, "The villains we'll be facing are mean, tough people. They'd kill their own mother's mother for a buck twenty-five. They won't hesitate to rip your gnomey little head clean off your non-existent neck."

"Oh, my!" The Gnome replied.

"Oh, your, indeed." I patted him on the back and said, "Let's do this."

"Must we?" he asked.

I drop-kicked him into the living room, where Claire was waiting. "Distract her while I move in for the kill!" I commanded as I snapped a new clip into my gun.

"I should have gone to med school!" The Gnome cried as he flew through the air with the greatest of ease.

Once he landed, my Claire Bear attacked. "Oh, my God, you creepy little perv!" she yelled. "Get out of here!" She kicked The Gnome right at me as I took aim. I fired my gun as The Gnome struck me and blasted a hole through the television set.

"I guess we won't be watching Lipstick Jungle," The Gnome commented.

Perhaps this wasn't the best choice for a new partner.

An Imitation Haitian

2008-09-24T13:43:00.001-06:00

Stopping these villains is going to be tough, especially without The Haitian. I may be able to find him, but if I don't, I'll need a back up plan.

That means I'll need a sidekick. Someone to distract the villains. Someone that can absorb their punches, their fire attacks, their kicks to the groin, while I manage to aim and shoot.

The Travelocity Roaming Gnome should work.

But I'll need to Haitian him up a bit. First, for my own comfort, I need him to smell like The Haitian. It helps me when I'm in a familiar environment. Haiti, as you probably know, is an island and fishing is a big deal there. So, naturally, The Haitian always smells like fish. You can take The Haitian out of Haiti, but you can't take the fishing instincts out of The Haitian. This was a problem at first. We'd bag and tag someone, toss 'em in the backseat and while heading back to the office they would ask, "What smells like carp?" It wasn't good for morale.

This fish would help, though. A rub of this and my little non-organic gnome will be practically an exact replica of The Haitian!

Unfortunately, even with the new stench, my gnome partner is lacking one of the most important qualities The Haitian had: intimidation. He could make anyone carp their pants with a single glance! Skills like that only come from years living in silence and being bald. Since I can't shave my gnome, we'll need a way to compensate for his apparent wussness. He can carry around this:

Now, anyone who sees a stinky little gnome with a canon like that will know we mean business.

Bring it on.

No Job is Finished Until the Paperwork is Done

2008-09-23T15:43:00.004-06:00

I had just finished up with some paperwork of my own and went back to playing bounce-the-ball-against-the wall when Elle came into my cell.

It was quite shocking. Not that she zapped me, I was just surprised to see her.

My imprisonment didn't last long. Which is a shame. I had converted a favorite game of mine, bounce-the-prisoner-against-the-wall, into a single player version. I was looking forward to playing my new game all day.

"Like, I am totally freakin' out, Mr. B," she said and tossed me a gun. Apparently her father was killed by Sylar and she wanted my help.

Long story short, I kicked Sylar's brain-eating butt. After that, I had a talk with Bob.

"So, Bob. We need to talk."

He was silent. Deathly silent.

I continued, "I know we had an agreement that I work with you and in exchange you stay away from Claire. But as it turns out, you guys just lost a ton of supervillains. They're all out on the loose, and I need to stop them. Now, now," I said before he could respond, "I know you don't like me and my so-called rogue behavior. But you know I'm the only man for a job this big. Those people are dangerous. I may not have any powers, but I'm good at shooting people. And to be honest, I've been dying for someone to shoot recently. I was excited when you offered me my job back. I thought you would send me to kill Nathan. I really think I was the man for that job, but hey, you went with some freelancer instead, that's fine. Who was it if you don't mind me asking?"

He didn't reveal that secret. Even in death he managed to keep so much from me.

"Alright, well I understand. My point is, it should have been me. And next time it will be. You've got a mess on your hands, Bob...and actually your face is kind of dirty too," I offered him a Kleenex. "But I'm going to clean up this mess. It's what I do. Those villains are on the loose, and it's my obligation as a father, as a paper salesman and as a person who likes to shoot people to see to it that they are stopped. You can't stop me, Bob, so don't try it. Someday, when you have a daughter, you'll understand."

I left dramatically without giving him a chance to respond to my eloquent monologue. It felt good. Good to have a gun in my hands. Good to know there are so many people out there waiting to be bagged and tagged. It feels like college all over again.

I'm No Villain

2008-09-22T10:19:00.000-06:00

I'm wearing pajamas. And not the fun kind with the butt flap. These are standard-issue prisoner pajamas that all the villains we lock up wear while being contained by The Company. Why am I in them? I'm not a villain. Sure, I'm villainous. People usually mistake me for a bad guy. I think it's because of the glasses. But I'm hardly worthy of villain pajamas.

In truth, good and evil can be complicated. That's why I never take sides. I mean, just look at my current predicament. I'm protecting my daughter, which is good, but I am working for a secret organization that bags and tags people, which is bad. But I also sell paper, which is good, but it's not necessarily recycled, which is bad. So what happens when an evil (bad) paper (good) company (bad) imprisons (bad) me (good/bad)?

It all gets rather confusing, and Mohinder isn't here to narrate.

"Actually, Bennet, I am currently in existence in this very same room as you," he annoyingly interrupted.

"Mohinder? What are you doing here?" I asked.

"It is my obligation to inform you that Mr. Bishop requests your company."

I was glad. Anything to get away from his incessant rambling.

I barged into Bishop's office yelling, "Now, look, I agreed to come back to work for you guys, but the current pension plan is not worth putting up with Mr. Philosophical Chatterbox in there." I pointed back with my thumb.

"You won't have to worry about Mr. Suresh anymore, Noah," Bob replied. He stood and approached me.

"Good," I said.

"You see, Noah," Bob said as he reached into his coat jacket. "We have a problem with our current arrangement, Noah." He pulled out a gun, which oddly was not gold, and aimed it right at me.

"What are you doing?" I was shocked. "You shouldn't be shooting anyone. You're a desk guy! Look, you don't even have hair." I pointed to his shiny, never-ending forehead.

"My condition is of no concern, Noah. It's come to our attention," he explained, "that you have been appearing on several reality shows, and continue to, Noah." With the gun fixed on me with one hand, he pulled out a remote control with the other. His thumb pressed a button causing the TV to turn on.

There I was, on the television, racing through the first leg of The Amazing Mutant Race.

"Hey, it's me!" I said, taking a seat in front of the TV. "I was wondering when it would finally air. I'd tell you how I did, but there's a lot of confidentiality agreements, you know how it is." I watched excitedly as I relived the Vision Quest detour in my head. "Do you have any popcorn? This would be good with popcorn."

"Shut up, Noah," Bob rudely replied.

"Oh, sorry. Here, I'll turn up the volume." As I reached for the controls, Bob blasted the TV screen with his Primatech handgun.

"We're not watching your little reality show, Noah. All this publicity is becoming a problem, Noah. We're a secret organization after all. Remember, Noah?"

Suddenly, I realized what was going on. The Company wanted to bag and tag me. And well, morally-speaking, that's where I draw the line.

"Hey, look! A seagull!" I pointed out behind Bob. As he turned, I jumped from my chair and ran out of his office, grabbing a banana from his fruit bowl on the way out.

I quickly made my way to the Company's tech department. Bob was no doubt close behind me. I didn't have a lot of time, so I quickly found Allan Arkush, Primatech's gadget expert. "Allan, I forgot where I left The Haitian, so I need something that can erase memories. Pronto!"

"Pronto?" he asked. It was clear he was high, as usual.

"It means quickly."

"Oh. I guess you should have just said that then. It would have been prontoer," he laughed.

I shook him.

He wept.

I stared.

He grabbed a slushi.

Bob entered.

I pushed Allan and the slushi outside.

"Allan, I need your help right now!" I yelled at him.

He handed me some sunglasses and said, "Put these on. That slushi is a flashy thing. Use it and--"

I don't know what I did, but as I was examining the pseudo-slushi it suddenly flashed a bright light.

"Does that mean it's on?" I asked. "How do I use it?"

Allan just stood there staring off into space.

Just then, Bob came outside. I didn't have time to figure out this fancy slushi gadget, so I dropped it and ran.

"Do you know where he's going, Allan?" Bob asked the bamboozled technician as I fled. "You're high again, aren't you, Allan?" Bob ran after me.

He didn't make it too far. After he had stopped, I called back to him and explained how he's just a desk guy. "After you lose that much hair, you just can't expect to run very far," I said. But before I could continue my fleeing, I was knocked unconscious by an unknown person.

I awoke to find one of my worst fears once again realized.

"Pee Wee!" I yelled. "Haven't I killed you? Several times?"

"Mayhaps!" he responded cheerfully as he turned to face me. "Now, let's get you into the proper prison attire."

"NoOOocoOoOOoOOO!" I screamed in horror.

Unfortunately, as Pee Wee was redressing me, I accidentally said "careful," as in "be careful down there," which turned out to be the secret word. Even with all my paper sales training, I found it difficult to make it through that situation alive.

At this point, it's anyone's guess what they plan to do with me. Maybe I can promise to re-assassinate a politician or something in exchange for my freedom. Or at least something other than these prisoner pajamas.

Magic Eye from a Yellow Henchman

2008-05-30T09:09:00.008-06:00

Storyline continued from Henchman's Tag...

So, while I was out and about bagging and tagging and other such things, I ran into a yellow henchman. It seems henchman are everywhere these days. They're all envious of me, middle management. It's the far-reaching dream of a henchman to one day ascend the career ladder and be put in charge of his own team of mindless henchman.

"Isn't that right, Haitian?"

"..."

"Hey, what's this?" I asked and picked up an odd little sphere dropped by the fleeing Henchman.

"He seemed to have dropped his marble," The Haitian replied.

I handed the marble to The Haitian while I observed my surroundings. The Henchman was long out of sight; there would be no returning the dropped object.

Then, I began to notice the impoverished state of this particular part of town. Shacks were everywhere, with the exception of one grand skyscraper in the middle. Before I could begin to ponder the strange contrast, I heard the thunderous sound of a an approaching mob.

"Get him!" someone yelled. "He's got all the loot!"

I drew my gun, ready to defend myself and, if I had to, The Haitian as well. But the mob circumvented us. They continued down the path after the strange yellow henchman.

"Looting? Wide income disparity? Angry mobs? Are we in Brazil again?" I asked The Haitian. I could have sworn our mission had us placed somewhere in Tennessee.

"I do not believe so," he replied. Handing back the marble.

He was right. We weren't in Brazil. There were way too many fat people in that slow-moving mob. We were still in America.

After a successful bagging and tagging of our target, I returned home, I placed the marble in my desk drawer, and there I forgot about it for months....

* * *

"Um, Dad?" a girlish voice called from the living room. "There's a floating eyeball talking to me!"

I ran in quickly, expecting Henry Gail, a former target of mine who had the power of having really big eyes (at least we think it was a power, maybe it was just genetics. But hey, that's why we capture 'em, right? To find out these things?)

But it was no Henry Gail.

"Shoot it, Dad!" a lanky boy screamed at me.

"Who are you?"

The eye began to speak.

"Not you," I said, "this little punk kid in my house. You can't just come in here bringing your big ol' eyeballs, probably getting cytoplasm-like goo all over my furniture."

"Dad, it's me, Lyle!" he replied.

"Oh, yeah, sorry...uh...you got a haircut, right?"

"No."

"Um, yeah, I don't have time for this dysfunctional family stuff," the eye spoke. "I'm a very busy eye."

"Well, what is it you want?" I asked the optical organ.

"I am a genie. You can have two wishes. Make 'em quick, though. You've had me in that drawer since Christmas. I'd like to get out of this place, maybe meet a nice girl eye or something."

"Wow, I get two wishes!" Lyle cried out.

"You mean you get to watch me make two wishes," I corrected him with a pat on the head. "Let's see. First....I want a raise at The Company."

"How much of a raise?" the eye asked to clarify.

"Um...ten percent?"

"Done!"

"Woo hoo!"

"Wish for a Cadillac, Dad! I'm so tired of Nissans," the kid pouted.

"Don't distract me, Kyle. I'm thinking." I wrinkled my brow hard as I considered my final wish. "I've got it! I wish for an action figure to be made after me. How cool is that, right?"

"Done!" the eye replied. "Now, can you pass me on to someone else please?"

I put the eye back in my desk drawer and went to my local toy store. "Check it out! It's me!"

The eye genie is still in my desk drawer waiting for Mr. Muggles, Lyle, or Claire to find it....

Mr. Bennet: Pepped and Ready

2008-05-13T12:12:00.002-06:00

You know what they say, the third time's a charm. I didn't win the first two Last Gladiator Standing competitions, but they were rigged, I tell you. I only lost the first one because I wasn't invited to compete. Then, I lost the second because Dark Jedi Kriss knew she couldn't win against me in the final two. But this time, I'm going to win.

How do I know? Simple, I'm now a staple of blog reality shows, and we in the paper business know the importance of staples. I recently won Sylar's Bachelor, and with it, I ate George Clooney's brain and now have the power of super stardom. It'll be just like Rob & Amber going on to the Amazing Race after kicking tropical butt on Survivor.

"What do you mean they lost the Amazing Race?" I threw a stapler at my publicist.

"Ow, I just mean that they came in second," he replied. The stapler that had struck him suddenly grew insect-like legs and scurried away.

"So are you saying fame doesn't win you reality shows?"

"Only American Idol, the rest require talent and skill." Then, my publicist was no longer my publicist. I mean, he was, but it was like he was my mom as well.

"Mom?"

"Oh, shut it, Noah. Get that loofa and have at my back," my publicist/mom shouted.

"We don't have time for your hygiene, besides you're still dead, remember? Ask Jesus to wash your back."

"You mean Buddha?"

Then, John Lennon walked up to me, placed a hand on my shoulder and said, "Mr. Bennet, you can't win this one with fame alone. You have to be the ball."

"But I'm famous, George Clooney famous!" I protested.

"So was he once," Lennon said before flying away on a yellow submarine.

This definitely threw a wrench into my plans.

"Mr. Bennet," I heard a voice calling out. "Mr. Bennet?"

I opened my eyes to find myself lying on the ground with an incredible pain in my head. "What happened?" I asked.

Find out what happened!

Press Conference

2008-04-22T11:53:00.006-06:00

Ah, Earth Day. By far the greatest day ever. It's the kind of day that makes a paper salesman proud to play his small role in making Earth a better world by ridding it of its malignant jungles, growing like a cancer on the weathered skin of Mother Nature. We, the paper industry, are a lot like chemotherapy for the environment.

I walked up to my podium. The solar panel was in place beside me, it alone will power over 0.004% of my office electronics.

"Greetings, fellow Earth-lovers and paper enthusiasts!"

The crowd roared.

"Today," I continued, "is Earth Day. It is perhaps the most important day in the world. Even the name suggests so. There's no greater earth on Earth than the Earth."

The crowd roared and seemed confused.

"My fame has been skyrocketing lately, and I know you all want more of me."

"I LOVE YOU, HRG!" a young woman cried out.

"And there will be more of me." I looked out into the hope-filled eyes of my audience. "Together we will make the world a better place. We will put an end to pollution. We will fight the impoverished..."

"BOO!" The crowd bellowed.

"I mean, we will fight poverty and help the impoverished."

"Yay!" The masses cheered.

"Now, I will be taking your questions."

The woman who had previously screamed out at me jumped at the usher. She took the microphone from him and said, "Hi, I'm Elizabeth. Is it nice to be so sexy?"

"I get asked this question often," I admitted. "It is nice. It is very nice. I feel so sorry for all those unsexy people in the world, like my good friend Matt Parkman. Just think how hard life must be for him. That is why we need these social programs in place to help people like Parkman. We sexy people have to use the fame our good looks can bring to speak out on their behalf, because nobody wants to hear them."

An usher approached a familiar looking man. It was Jon, the so-called intergalactic gladiator. I knew this question would be trouble, but with my George Clooney powers of fame, nothing could throw me off.

"If Primatech is just producing and selling paper and paper products," he asked, "why is their facility responsible for 96% of the pollution in Odessa, Texas?"

"That is a good question indeed. Today, we are here to address the concerns of pollution. Some of you look at this with a broad brush of disdain, not realizing the true complexities of pollution. It has such a negative connotation, yet some pollution, such as that created by Primatech, is genetically engineered to improve the environment. There is no question our Ozone is depleting. Think of Primatech Pollution as synthetic ozone with none of the helpful side effects."

"That doesn't really answer my question," he replied.

It was clear this would be the stubborn cynic my publicist warned me about. Luckily, I brought visual aids to help placate his inquiries.

I waved over a Primatech intern with pictures on poster board and said, "If I may draw your attention to this photograph..."

"...as you can see, that is a lot of toxic waste. Any paper production facility can be expected to have large quantities of such waste when they offer top quality products like we do. We maintain a large staff of over three bio-geneticists. Now, you may be wondering why we would need them. Isn't paper dead? Well, it comes from trees, living organisms. We lock special trees we find all over the world in specially formed tree-holding cells in our basement. Our scientists perform a wide range of experiments and genetic alterations on these people...excuse me, trees, and as a result, we put out a lot of CO2 emissions, radioactive sludge and that stuff they make Grammys out of."

Jon was clearly suspicious, but I moved on anyway.

"Show the next picture," I said to the intern.

"Already we have begun implementing ways to cut down on the harmful pollution. We've hired Captain Planet to work in our waste refinery, personally supervising what leaves our facility and enters your water supply. Believe me, he is very particular when it comes to pollution. He only lets the safest and most beneficial pollutions to contaminate our environment."

More questions followed and I answered them all with the rhetorical wit of a flabbergasted philosopher. Finally, as things were drawing down to a close, an usher approached a uniformed member of the armed services. It was my publicist's idea.

Private Hudson stood reverently as he was handed the mic. He held it sturdy and spoke, "Do you have Prince Albert in a can?"

"Not anymore, but we do have Queen Elizabeth in a tote bag," I motioned at the intern who flipped to the next image.

Call Me Sylar's Bachelor

2008-04-21T10:52:00.005-06:00

Winning Sylar's Bachelor has really changed my life. As part of the prize, I got to eat George Clooney brains, giving me the power of absolute fame.

As soon as I walked out of the mansion, the paparazzi were waiting.

"Mr. Bennet! What are you going to do now?"
"Will you be in Sylar's Bachelor 2?"
"Are you really Jaime Lynn Spears' baby daddy?"

The questions and camera flashes shot at me like Bosnian sniper fire, only more real and life-threatening, as I made my way to my Nissan.

I believe I ran over a couple paparazzi on my drive out.

As soon as I got back home, Sandra introduced me to my publicist, Justin Stauber. I swear he seemed drunk. He was certainly an enthusiastic drunk, though. Reminded me of Ivan.

He stood and shook my hand. "Hello, Noah. I'm Justin Stauber, VP of Marketing with Primatech."

"Yeah, I know you," I replied. "Didn't Sylar kill you?"

"Didn't Mohinder kill you?" he asked.

"Good point. But Sylar ate your brain."

"Yeah, well...I got better." He offered me some cantaloupe, which I declined. "You're the hottest paper salesman in the world right now, MB. The Company sent me here to help you capitalize on that fame."

"I like Capitalization," I said, making a pun only noticeable had I written it instead of spoken it orally to him. I'm sure he would have laughed.

"Exactly, and so that's why we have a five point plan lined out..."

"Hold on," I said. I started laughing. "You probably didn't notice, but I capitalized capitalization when I said it earlier."

"Huh?"

"Get it?" The joke clearly went over his head.

"Yeah, so as I was saying, we have a five point plan. First, we get you out there while keeping you hidden."

Sandra picked up Mr. Muggles and said, "Mr. Muggles, listen to this. This is how you become a superstar, yes you do."

"How exactly does that work?" I asked.

"We get you into movies, underwear ads, Dilbert calendars. Anything where people will see you, adore you superficially and beg for more. That's when we move to phase two, a press conference."

I nodded. I've been in the business since this kid's mom was buying him Primatech diapers from, you guessed it, me. I knew a thing or two about Capitalization. Ha! That kills me.

"How about this," I offered. "Let's do the press conference tomorrow."

He seemed nervous. "But Mr. B, my five point plan..."

"My plan has one point: me. Besides, tomorrow's Earth Day, and the people will love to hear from a paper company representative on Earth Day."

"I just think..."

"Get to it, Jason. This press conference has to be top notch."

"It's Justin."

"Yeah, that's not going to work either." I looked him over. "How about Larry?"

"I like Justin."

"Alright, Larry. Get started on my press conference. My public needs me."

"Yes, sir." He shuffled up papers into his briefcase and slammed it shut.

Sandra stuck Mr. Muggles in his face and said, "Mr. Muggles could use a five point plan! Yes he can!"

So, Larry and I set to work preparing for the big press conference. Got any questions for me? Comment them.

In My Down Time...

2008-04-20T11:10:00.002-06:00

Well, I guess I should start blogging again, eh?

First thing's first, though. I need to tell you what's been going on. As you know, I'm back with the Company. My first mission, after assassinating someone whose name I can't mention yet, was to apprehend Sylar.

He's always managed to elude even my most elaborate of traps.

So, I went on his reality show, Sylar's Bachelor to win his heart, and cage it in the bowels of Primatech.

I beat out many exceptional contestants and Adam Monroe.

It was a long and difficult journey in which I:

It was a fun experience, but the best part was winning, even if Sylar escaped.

Time to Relax

2007-12-06T13:46:00.000-06:00

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.

Family Dinner

2007-12-05T13:55:00.000-06:00

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."

Dreams for a New Life

2007-12-04T14:21:00.001-06:00

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.

Let's Make a Deal

2007-12-03T14:23:00.000-06:00

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.

Mission Five: Doombot

2007-12-02T12:18:00.000-06:00

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 Fortress^TM. 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.

Jitters

2007-12-01T11:02:00.000-06:00

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.

Escape Attempt

2007-11-30T13:55:00.001-06:00

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.

OOoOooh Morpheeen!

2007-11-29T13:56:00.000-06:00

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.

Sense of Danger

2007-11-28T14:35:00.000-06:00

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.

Practice Makes Perfect

2007-11-27T13:47:00.003-06:00

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!"

Holy Hyperlinks

2007-11-26T10:19:00.000-06:00

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.

Holy Word

2007-11-25T13:13:00.000-06:00

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.

Holy Prophecy

2007-11-24T09:43:00.000-06:00

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.

Holy Tomb

2007-11-23T10:28:00.000-06:00

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?

Holy Revenge

2007-11-22T09:40:00.000-06:00

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?

Holy Resurrection

2007-11-21T10:11:00.000-06:00

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.

Holy Shh......

2007-11-20T11:26:00.000-06:00

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?

Therapeutic Aid

2007-11-19T13:55:00.000-06:00

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."

Taking Care of Claire - Part 2

2007-11-12T14:40:00.000-06:00

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!"

Taking Care of Claire - Part 1

2007-11-11T11:42:00.000-06:00

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."

Moving Troubles - Part 2

2007-11-10T09:48:00.000-06:00

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."

Remember to check out Who Wants to be a Super Villain? and leave me some comments.

Moving Troubles - Part 1

2007-11-09T15:30:00.000-06:00

"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."

Mission Two: Papernapping

2007-11-08T12:08:00.000-06:00

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.

Safety Measures

2007-11-07T14:40:00.000-06:00

"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.

Risky Behavior

2007-11-06T11:47:00.000-06:00

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.

битися (That Means Fight)

2007-11-05T10:35:00.000-06:00

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!

Frightened Geneticist

2007-11-04T09:45:00.000-06:00

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.

Hire Me, NBC

2007-11-03T11:20:00.000-06:00

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."

Doesn't that just scream out, "Made for Television"?

Mission One: Henchleaders

2007-11-02T00:25:00.000-06:00

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.

"Like, oh, my God, you guys! Paper is way totally cool!"

"We work for the man in horn-rimmed glasses! Let's go girls, let's kick some asses!"

"His morals: questionable. You have been warned. Look out for large spectacles, with the rims horned!"

"One, Two, Three, Four, I'll eat your brain and ask for more. Five, Six, Seven, Eight, You can be my homecoming date!"

Impromptu Farewell Ceremony

2007-11-01T15:50:00.000-06:00

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?

Guest Poster: The Haitian - Scary Mister Bennet

2007-10-31T16:08:00.000-06:00

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

Hellbound

2007-10-30T10:39:00.000-06:00

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.

Telephone Memory

2007-10-29T13:18:00.001-06:00

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..."

* * *

I woke up in my hotel room bed in a puddle of my own drool. My head ached and I felt very groggy.

The Haitian was sitting, fully dressed, at the foot of the bed watching The Fairly Odd Parents on Nickelodeon.

"Haha!" I hollered, "You watch cartoons!"

* * *

"Hey, wake up," The Haitian shook me. My vision took focus slowly. He continued, "We need to get on with our mission."

"What happened to my pants?" I asked.

"What pants?"

Who Wants to be a Super Villain?

2007-10-28T11:19:00.000-06:00

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!

Ukrainian Politics: Part 3

2007-10-27T11:22:00.000-06:00

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."

Ukrainian Politics: Part 2

2007-10-26T17:24:00.000-06:00

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....

Ukrainian Politics: Part 1

2007-10-23T10:57:00.000-06:00

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....

Be a Cheerleader, Save your Dad

2007-10-22T13:59:00.001-06:00

My little Claire Bear is once again one of those shallow few that get all the young boys they want. No, not a priest. She's a cheerleader! An overly-enthused frolicker full of school spirit. Luckily for me, she won't get any young boys. Sure, there will be many staring at her panties as she jumps up and down to help the football team win. But starers won't shoot me!

I'm fully protected by my fool-proof plan.

"Guess what, honey?"

"A salad fork?" my wife replied holding Mr. Muggles.

"No! Even better. Claire won't date boys. She made me a deal."

"Oh, no!" She started crying. "My little girl is a lesbian! I knew she was too smart to be a cheerleader. She was only drawn by the enticing aroma of locker room possibilities. I've been there myself many years ago."

"Sure you don't mean eons?" I asked.

"What?"

"Nothing." I touched her arm gently. Mr. Muggles growled at me. "It's not that. I made her choose between cheerleading or boys. She took cheerleading."

Mr. Muggles started to whine. Sandra patted his little head and said, "And you believed her? You seriously know nothing about women!"

"I know they can be fixed with double fudge brownies and ice cream."

She glared. "No girl would take cheerleading over boys. I mean, look at me! I chose you over mental health."

"Oh," I said, pensively stepping away.

Mr. Muggles started licking Sandra's ear as she continued to talk. "She lied to you. I wonder which one of us she gets that from?"

"I see." I flopped down on the sofa and rested my face in my hands. Could I have been so blind? Do I need metaphorical glasses? I looked up at Sandra and said, "My God, you could be right!"

She started licking Mr. Muggles. "Of course I'm right. Mr. Muggles whispered the truth in my ear. He's always right. He so smart! Aren't you, Mr. Muggles? Yes, you are! You are smart! Woofy, woofy smart!"

Dateless Claire Bear

2007-10-21T17:10:00.000-06:00

Well, good news! My future death looks to be prevented. So I won't be needing my coffin:

That's a good thing. Death would end a very important part of my life, and it seems costly. I don't die though; I'm Mr. Benn..uh..Butler. Cunning. Ingenious. Handsome. Paperific! Death would have to be a finely-tuned killing machine to take me down...like a ninja or something. A Mexican ninja. Now, that would be a challenge.

But I could take him! I once killed an invisible man, ya know...well, so the story goes.

So, I'm not at all worried about this so-called prophecy. I may not have a super power, but I'm a Hero, like those mythological kinds...like Oedipus or something...and Heroes don't die. They can't die.

My fool-proof anti-prophecy life-plan is to hyphenate like a radical wheat monkey and not let Claire date. I've succeeded in both! Why can't Claire date? I'm sure you pervs are crushed, and quite frankly you're the main reason. (Yes, you!) But the not main reason, and probably more main in actuality, is that the killer was kissing her in the painting:

Now, I've long been against public displays of affection. The only thing worse than seeing a couple making out is being shot in the eye by them. Luckily, if Claire has no boyfriend, then this mysterious Claire-kisser can't harm me or my glasses. I'm safe!

Artistic Fright

2007-10-09T11:36:00.000-06:00

I don't like heroin addicts, never have. They paint too much. Other than being superfluous, art is highly unnecessary.

Before his death, Isaac "I'm High, Dawg" Mendez, painted several so-called masterpieces. The problem with his art is its unrealistic style. I mean, if I wanted to see comic-life drawings, I'd read the funny pages. But the other problem is the paintings are prophetic.

If Oedipus has taught us anything it is to be careful with the relationship between you and your mother. That's why I didn't get too close to mine; in fact it took me years to discover she had died. Oedipus also teaches us that you can't stop prophecy. I know. I've tried. Homecoming taught me a vicious lesson in prophecy and in pointless teenage culture. Fortunately the prophecy was misread.

This new painting can't be misread. Horn-rimmed glasses aren't like cheerleader outfits. This look of mine is one in a million. I'm not just any blonde bimbo, like my little Claire Bear and Jackie. Unfortunately my good looks prove that this prophecy is my death, or at least the loss of my left eye, which happens to be my favorite. (Stupid right eye!)

This is a prophecy I have to stop! But my extensive knowledge of mythology and literature make it obvious what will happen. My efforts to stop the prophecy will lead into its realization.

My first thought when I saw this painting was, "Oh, no! That's the shirt I'm wearing right now!" I wanted to rip it off and burn it, but I realized that by doing so, I would be trying to stop the prophecy, and it would come true. The minute I would have clenched the fabric to start tearing it off of me, I'd be shot. So I kept my shirt on.

Mohinder, however, was less calm.

"This recent artistic revelation has me feeling rather uneasy, a tad bit precarious."

"This changes nothing," I said.

"You have on more than one occasion implied that my own safety, my very well-being, perhaps even my life, was proportionately linked to your own perpetual animation."

"You'll be fine, Doctor." I tried to calm him. "We stick with the plan."

"I fear your approaching demise has itself limited my own existence."

"Well, yeah...there is that."

"In circumstances such as these, when my liveliness is in jeopardy, being threatened by the turmoil of social evolution, one can only incur an instinctual necessitation to protect Mohinder."

"It's prophecy, Suresh. You're Hindu or something, right? You of all people should know that when Jesus says something's gonna happen, that's how it'll be. You can't stop the Buddha from falling out of the Bodhi Tree."

"It is not the prophecy with which I have this cause for concern. Your death has been a fantasy of mine many times in the past. However, now it would have a rather unpleasant side effect, that being my own death. Something must be done to ensure my safety after your inescapable end."

"Alrighty, Mohinder. I'll get back to you on that." I hung up the phone.

Haitian Games

2007-10-05T08:58:00.000-06:00

The Haitian came bearing good news and bacon bits. He managed to obtain a bootlegged copy of Halo 3 while vacationing, or whatever he was doing, in Haiti.

"To the Bat Cave!" I shouted. The two of us ran to the Copy Kingdom back room where we had a TV and Xbox 360.

The Haitian was disappointed. "This is no Bat Cave."

I had to do some quick alterations to the Xbox to get around the licensing check some evil company man must have installed. After that, it was smooth sailing.

"You're going down!" I said to The Haitian.

"We are playing Cooperative Mode."

"I'm still going to win."

Then the manager walked in. "Butler! This is a violation of several store policies. First, no playing video games unless on break. Second, no friends in the back, especially..." he glanced at The Haitian, "...Black ones. We don't want to be robbed!"

The Haitian threw bacon bits in his face. "I am not Black. I am Haitian."

"Hollow him out!" I said. It felt so good giving that order again.

The Haitian took care of my boss and we started playing the game again, in peace. I blasted away alien scum all over the place! Aliens stand no chance against my robotic-like gaming capabilities. This is almost just like what I used to do as a living. They should have named it "Halo 3: Paper salesman of the Year".

Unfortunately, aliens have tanks! Dastardly evil tanks. I've been blown up more times than Mohinder's last girlfriend. (What I mean is she was a suicide bomber, not what you're thinking.) It looks like we'll be on this level a while. I've tried shooting the tank, grenading the tank, jumping on the tank...nothing worked. The Haitian even tried suppressing its ability, but it was no use!

I probably won't blog for a while as The Haitian and I have a very important mission: Destroy that tank!

(Strategy Suggestions are appreciated, but don't get snobby.)

The Fate of Douglas the Guppy

2007-10-04T11:48:00.000-06:00

Well, my last post I told you about the fish I once had and my efforts to find him after he was lost. I suppose I should finish up that tale.

You see, posting his picture on the back of a milk carton was a good start. I knew that would get the word out, and someone would respond if they had seen them. I mean, people in my household were always drinking milk. The late Mama Bennet was a big fan of cats, and growing up, I had quite a few. Cats need a steady flow of milk.

Speaking of pets, I have to say that they are all overrated. My mom had cats, and look how she turned out. Dead! And my wife has a dog and she's slightly retarded. Then there's Lyle. Since he has no super power like my Claire Bear does, he's pretty much a pet. And he's worthlesser than Muggles!

But perhaps my loathing of pets began with Douglas the Guppy. Though I did not loath him, in fact I adored that guppy, his fate tore my little, innocent heart to pieces. I picked up the milk carton and was about to put it back in the refrigerator when I saw this:

Oh, Douglas! Why did you have to leave me? There isn't a day goes by that I am not reminded of him and his guppy-like ways: swimming around, being underwater, acting all fishy. He was a good fish.

After the loss of Douglas, I filled my life with a new pet. A pet that would never die, for it was already a dead tree. And there was an endless supply of it. Yes, Paper! If you must have a pet, I suggest you go with paper.

I Had a Fish Once

2007-10-03T14:31:00.000-06:00

I was watching TV. It's something I do when I'm not busy weaving a web of deceit. A fish came on the screen. The fish swam onto the screen full of excitement. He dashed up and down, doing somersaults and drinking a martini while floating on its back. Needless to say, this was no ordinary fish! Aside from the fact it was animated, I noticed something peculiar about it, something...unnatural.

The fish had a hand shaped fin! Yes, that's right. It's fin had finger-like appendages at the end, even a thumb!

An eerie feeling poured into my soul. This fish is becoming human, I thought. It was like that taxi driver said, "All creatures are inherently destined, preordained by the gods themselves, to venture forth through evolutionary progression in search for the ultimate, and most beneficial, chromosomal tools of survival." I fell asleep after that first sentence. But I remember his words resonating inside my mind as I dreamed of origami swans electing me the King of Paper Land. Mohinder woke me up, "Mr. Bennet. We have at long last arrived at your dwelling. The fee for my transporation service totals to twelve dollars and eleven cents."

I was annoyed to awake realizing my dream to be so distant from the reality I found stepping outside his cab. I handed the professor a ten dollar bill. "Keep the change," I said.

He began talking, no doubt another philosophical rant, as I went inside my home, never thinking about those words we used to put me to sleep...until now.

Mohinder's words were not the only memories reawakened by this deformed cartoon fish. It brought back painful memories of my childhood friend and loyal companion, Douglas the Guppy.

One day, I came home to find Douglas the Guppy missing from his bowl. "Dougie!" I called out. There was no reply. Where could he have gone?

I checked the garage, thinking maybe he took the car out for a spin. But the Nissan was there, untouched. I looked all over my room for him, thinking he may have gotten lost in the clutter. But there was no fish to be found anywhere!

So, it became time to raise the alert level. I headed to the kitchen and opened up the refrigerator. I pulled out the milk carton and quickly filed a missing persons report on its backside:

Even to this day, I don't know what has become of poor Douglas. Perhaps one day I'll be reunited with him. Perhaps he now has opposable thumbs. Let's just hope he's not forced into doing animated TV ads to get by.

Whoomp, There He Is

2007-10-02T13:40:00.000-06:00

Recent events can best be summed up by an exert from a poem I first heard back during my company days:

Tag Team back again check it top
Wreck it - let's begin
Party people let me hear some noise
DC's in the house jump jump and rejoice
There's a party over here
a party over there
Wave your hands in the air
Shake the derriere

Whoomp, there he is! The Haitian is finally back in my possession, an occasion truly deserving of ample derriere-shaking. Now the party can begin. Together we'll cause so much short-term memory loss it'll make Animal House's toga party look like a meeting of a quilt club. No party is complete without wide-reaching memory gaps. I rate all my parties based no the crazy stuff I can't remember doing, and let me tell you, soon, Primatech is going to have a killer party!

Of course we couldn't go right into bagging and tagging like the good ol' days. There was so much catching up to do.

"So, what have you been up to, my friend?" I asked him.

"..." he stared at me blankly.

"Oh, don't give me that again! I know you can talk."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry," he said. "I have just been working in the shipping business until I got deathly ill."

"Well, I see you still have a flair for dressing exquisitely."

"Thank you. I see you still have a flair for boring paper stuff."

"It is my passion. So did you catch Saturday Night Live over the weekend?"

"No. In Haiti, I do not have cable. I was too ill to watch it anyway, though they say laughter is the best medicine."

"SNL wouldn't have helped, then. It's for the best you missed it."

Then a customer walked into Copy Kingdom looking as though he just escaped prison. "Yo, man!" he hollered at me, "I needs me some invitations for my girl's birthday party."

I called for Mike to help him out, but the guy noticed The Haitian and said, "Hey, man! When did you get out?"

"..."

"Sorry," I said to the man, "he doesn't speak."

"Aw, no way! They do that to you in the joint?"

"..."

"Oh, yeah, you don't talk, huh?" The man looked at me, "They do that to him in the joint?"

"He's never been in prison," I answered.

"Right, man. Whatever." Across the store I noticed a uniformed police officer watching the man carefully. The man noticed him too. "Hey, man, I gots to run. Nice seeing you D.L." and the man left the store.

The Haitian looked annoyed. "Why do people always think I'm D.L.?" he asked.

"It's probably the eyes," I answered, trying to avoid awkward racial tension. I added, "I think he's dead, though."

"Is he?"

"I think so. I could care less, but I guess you know that about me."

He laughed. "Yeah, you never were one to care about the well-being of others."

The conversation continued on for what seemed like hours. The Haitian had done so much in four months, he even had a Brazilian wax. Aside from having to put up with constant boasting about his totally hairless body, having The Haitian back has been great. I can't wait to start up our devious ways again. Hmm...Who can we hollow out first?

Makin' Copies

2007-10-01T13:54:00.000-06:00

Ah, Copy Kingdom. It isn't much, but it pays the bills (which mostly consists of beauty products for Mr. Muggles).

I've been at this job for a while now and despite the mundanity, it is rather enjoyable. I made a pinky promise with my boss, or I guess I nearly broke his pinky, and so now he doesn't bother me. Which is good because there's a lot of work to be done!

My name may be Mr. Butler now, but I'm still the man in the horn-rimmed glasses; and that means I can't be a total bore and work a pointless 8 to 5 job like you probably are. I need action. I need mystery. I need secrets. And I could use a Haitian (Has anyone seen him?).

My good friend, and by good friend I mean person I decided not to bag and tag, and I have a plan. I did most of the thinking. Between the two of us, most people would think he'd be the brains, but his philosophical fiddle-farting gets us nowhere. I am a born leader. And thanks to me, Mohinder and I will soon bring down the company!

Step one is to infiltrate Primatech. I used Mohinder as bait. I'm actually getting really good at using people. Soon Mohinder will be deep inside the organization.

Step two takes advantage of my new job. Since I enjoy a nice lack of supervision now, I have a lot of free time on my hands. And this time is spent plotting! Here's my plotter:

Step three takes advantage of my plotting. I take the poster that I printed out and copy it. I do one copy every two hours and thirteen minutes, so I don't attract attention. Soon I'll have a ton of copies and I'll mail them to Suresh disguised as research materials. He'll take these posters and plaster them all around his place of employment. The posters will have a drastic effect on the company men and women. Their morale will plummet. They'll lose the very will to live. And the company will crumble!

If you happen to be an employee of the company, or know someone who is, and would like to help out, you can. Just print out the poster below and post it everywhere people tend to look, like the backs of bathroom stall doors or Peter's hair. You can even post them where people don't look, like the CBS Evening News or on your local marching band.

Here's the poster:

Church

2007-09-30T13:12:00.000-06:00

Things have been going wonderfully for the Butlers, other than one minor situation. It's clear that the Big Man is watching over me.

Yes, Andy Griffith. He's watching down from Heaven, protecting me from the evil paper company where I was once employed. He even helped me get a nice severance package...well, that was more Matlock than Andy.

In honor of this divine intervention in my life, and despite my non-belief, I decided to take Claire on a trip to an old church here in Costa Verde. What better way to start a new life than with a cleansing religious journey and a couple hotdogs from a street vendor?

"Greetings, my children," the priest said to us as we stepped into the cathedral. "Sorry, you can't bring that inside."

I looked at Claire.

"No, not her. The hotdog."

I stuffed the last bite in my mouth and said, "Nnhmm kkkinnn aaeee?"

"Come on in," he replied. Claire and I walked inside. The priest left to his rectory. I looked around at the magnificent artwork: religious murals, sculptures of people doing stuff, wooden seating things. It was an amazing sight! If only The Haitian was here, I thought. He was always such a spiritual fellow. Plus that hotdog was rather disgusting and I could have used him to forget this aftertaste.

Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne blasted out of Claire's cellphone. She flipped it open and said, "Oh, my God, it's like Sarah! I bet she totally wants to tell me about how awesome my new shoes are." She stepped into the confessional to answer the call. I could hear the muffled sounds of teenage girl talk echoing throughout the chamber.

Then, a light caught my eye. It seemed to call me toward it. The light was mystically shining through a high window, the beam visible in the dusty atmosphere of this medieval building. "A Jesus light!" I gasped and made my way toward it.

Then I saw him! He was a tad transparent, but I could see his face clearly. And he saw me.

"Noah," he said, "A flood is coming!"

In a panic I jumped on top the nearest pew, so as not to get my feets wet.

"No, no, no," Andy said, "Not that kind of flood. It's a metaphor, my son. You are the only one that can save humanity. You must build an..."

"Ark?" I interrupted.

"Now what good would a big wooden boat be against super powered humans?"

"Hmm..."

"No! You must build an army. Unite your friends together, turn your enemies into fellow combatants. The evil you will have to face is too strong for any one man."

"I understand," I replied. I started to cross myself out of respect, but forgot the motions.

"Now, do you have any questions of me before you go?"

"Well, I want my family to be safe. And for some strange reason, I have the feeling we're being watched. I covered my tracks well. The company doesn't know where we are. But I still feel someone is watching us. Is the company on to me?"

"Noah, relax. The company is no threat to you."

"What about Gabriel?"

"His name is Sylar!" Andy corrected in a sinister manner.

"Sorry," I said, "What about Sylar? I think he's dead, but someone online is pretending to be him. Could he have survived? I had a conversation on AIM with someone claiming to be Sylar. And it seemed like him too! All the girly mannerisms came out in his typing. Is it really him? Is Sylar still alive?"

"This you must discover on your own, Noah."

Suddenly, Claire was yelling in my ear, "Daaaaaad!!! Hello???"

I turned.

"Gah! You were like totally spaced out or something. Can we like go now? I want to go lie on my bed and fiddle with my hair."

"Sure," I said. I turned back to Andy, but he was gone. I put my arm around Claire and walked toward the exist. "Didja ever get the feeling you was being watched?"

"Uh, like, duh! I'm all hot and stuff."

As I walked out of the church, I couldn't help feeling like someone was watching us. Could it be the company? Could it be Sylar? Or even something worse than either of them?

"Take picture, five dollar!" a man called out to me.

"What do you say, Claire Bear?" I asked. "Should the Butlers start on a new photo album?"

"No way, Dad. That's so gay."

"Come on. It'll be fun. A beautiful church. Let's get our picture."

I managed to hold what may look like a smile, but as I posed I couldn't shake the feeling someone was watching me.

A Situation - Part 2

2007-09-29T12:34:00.000-06:00

Continued from part one.

"Don't move or the airhead gets it, man!"

My Claire Bear was in danger. This crazy liberal environut was threatening her life right in front of me.

"Now, do exactly as I say, Mr..." the environut leaned in to read my name tag, "...Butler. How appropriate? Your name is Butler, man, and you have to do what I say, man." He burst out in laughter.

Mike, Jennifer and Chuck, the former Copy Kingdom employees that turned coat and joined Environut, all stared blankly at the man.

"See, man, it's funny cause a butler is a servant, man. And I tell him what to do, man. So he's like a butler, man, my butler, man, and his name is Butler. Get it, man?"

"Not really," Jennifer said. She came over and stood beside me.

"It's kind of lame," Mike said, following Jennifer.

"Cheese is fun," Chuck said, coming over to our side.

The formerly former Copy Kingdom employees were back on my side. It was a good thing too. I could hear our manager crying from the back room.

"You all are fools, man!" the environut said, "You're all pawns of the Man, man. Don't let him control you, man! Only you can prevent deforestation!"

Jennifer said, "Yay, trees!" and went back to the environut.

Mike asked what deforestation was. I answered and he said, "Right on, dude!" and gave me a high five as he left to join Environut.

"Ghost hotdogs live in my pancreas," Chuck said, changing sides.

I was once again outnumbered. But I had a secret weapon. "Claire," I said, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to let the man paper slice your throat. Before you die, though, can I see you do some crazy cheerleading stuff, for old time's sake?"

"But, like, Dad, yesterday you were all "Don't cheerlead no more Claire. We're Butlers now and we have no physical agility," and stuff like that."

"Trust me, Claire." I winked at her and nodded to the environut.

"Oh, I like totally get it now!" she said. Her foot shot into the air and kicked Jennifer in the face. Then, she shot her arms out sharply punching Mike and Chuck in their noses."

"My nose says owie!" Chuck said and fell to the floor.

Then, with a quick jerk of his wrist, the environut gave Claire a huge paper cut across her jugular.

"NooOOOoocooOOoO!!!" I hollered. Claire fell to the floor.

"Should have saved the trees, man," said Environut.

"That's what you think. All that was a distraction so I could break out the origami!" I hurled a sharpened paper airplane at the man, impaling him in the chest. He grasped at the wound as he fell to his knees. Claire stood up, perfectly healed.

"Go home, Claire," I said, "I'll take care of this."

Jennifer and Mike apologized for their treachery. Chuck said something about radical wheat monkeys, which I took as an apology.

"Let's go tell the boss," I said. The four of us headed to the back room. Chuck got lost on the way.

Jennifer, Mike and I entered the back room. "Boss?" I called out. Mike walked around the table when he suddenly flipped and fell. I looked down to see he had stepped in a yellowish puddle. Kneeling, I put my finger in the puddle, then tasted. "Urine," I said, "Likely from a nine year old girl with asthma." Then I noticed the pee owner trembling in the fetal position under the table.

"Come on out, boss," I said to him, "The situation has been taken care of."

A Situation - Part 1

2007-09-28T14:40:00.001-06:00

California. A place where dreams come true and crazy liberal environuts run amok. In Texas, they'd be kept on a short leash, hanging from a tree, if Texas still had trees that is.

For some odd reason, people here don't realize that paper is merely the next natural stage in the life cycle of a tree. "Trees are people, too!" they cry. Well, that just means paper is old people.

One particular environut came into Copy Kingdom today.

"Trees deserve civil rights, man!" he shouted, kicking over boxes of my favorite glossy photo paper. The box's contents scattered all over the floor.

I didn't suspect his display to be very effective. Imagine Martin Luther King demanding rights for African-Americans, then kicking an elderly Black woman out of her wheelchair.

But he gained a large following! Over two Copy Kingdom employees rallied behind him.

Out of habit, I pulled my Primatech gun from its holster. But I forgot that instead of a holster, I now wore a fanny pack. And instead of a Primatech gun, I pulled a stick of gum.

"Care for a chew?" I asked, concealing my embarassment.

"No, thank you," the environut replied. "Bad breath is kind of my thing, man. It goes with my neo-hippy virtues."

"Right," I said and took a seat.

Then my boss walked in from the back room. "Butler! Have you seen my..." He froze, noticing the tiny riot on his hands.

"We have a protestor," I said, "and three of our people joined him." I pointed at Jennifer, Mike and Chuck. "He's not armed nor dangerous, but he kicked over those boxes."

My manager screamed a high pitched wail. My horn-rimmed glasses would have broke had I not recently reinforced them in preparation of such an event. The store manager turned and ran to the back room, crying and flinging his arms about. I heard the deadbolt close. It was clear. I was on my own.

I was about to make my brilliant move, but Claire entered. "Like hey, Dad! What's up? I was totally just walking by after buying these awesome shoes and, like, there was Copy Kingdom and I was like, "Oh, my gosh, my dad totally works there and stuff!" and I totally wanted to stop by and say hi, so...uh, like hi, Dad!"

Suddenly, the environut grabbed her and put a sheet of paper to her throat. "Stay back, man! Make one move, man, and she dies from the evil you created, man! Man, man, I'm serious, man!"

TO BE CONTINUED....

New New Job

2007-09-27T17:33:00.001-06:00

So my new job with Dunder-Mifflin didn't last long. The first day at work, things started poorly.

"Yo!" some crazy guy called out to me, he looked a lot like Ed Helms. I immediately took offense at his attempt to be hip and pushed him into a coat hanger.

Then, things got a little weird between me and the secretary. She was always staring at me! Come to think of it, most of my colleagues were staring at me. Don't these people have better things to do than stare at each other???

All in all, it was a horrible job. Being on the run from the company was no paper picnic. I had planned to stick it out anyway for the love of my family and paper. We needed the cash, and Scranton was a good place to hide. But for some odd reason, the branch I was working at is part of a TV documentary. So, I had to leave. They were about to start their new season and I didn't want any over-zealous paper enthusiasts recognizing me.

Luckily, I found a new job at Copy Kingdom, which is where I'm writing from now. The job is totally unrewarding. I rarely get to kill anyone, and the last guy I bagged and tagged demanded a refund (which came out of my paycheck). But I'm hidden, and that's what counts. Plus I get a lot of free time. The manager is an idiot, and I laid the law down. He knows now not to interrupt when I'm reading my daily Dilbert.

Too prove how much of an idiot my new boss is, check out his reaction to this Mutts comic:

This is used without permission from the original author to show you how stupid Mutts comics really are.

It's a disgrace that this comic is put on the same page as Dilbert! Such disregard for genius is to be expected in California though, which I regret to say is my new home state. I miss Texas so very much!

And now look how my idiot boss responded to the Mutts comic:

Laughing???? He's LAUGHING! What's wrong with this man?

I really hope I can find some normal people around these parts. Where are the intellectual assassins for hire? Where are the emotionally-distant control freaks? Where's FoxNews? California is definitely a big change for me. But I'll manage. I'm nothing if not wily.