Safety Measures

"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

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)

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

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

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

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

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?