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How to get a superweapon

Intern's diary, part 1

Well, here I am. After a trip that took forever (crappy Tardis knockoff, just had to stop by every redneck backwater in the galaxy, I mean honestly) I've arrived at the headquarters of the Evil Coalition. I wouldn't normally take a job like this, 
but mom says it'll look good on my resumé when I run for office.
Consider what I've heard of this group - i.e. nothing - I expect to be running the place within a week.




Now let's see where I am...

... Hoth?



That's their Portal Of Doom?





AAAAAAH! What in the name of the glow-in-the-dark skull of St Patrick is that?


Once I got inside, I saw that my initial suspicions were correct:


Bunch of weirdos.

I thought I threw my coat onto a bean bag chair.

 I was wrong. 

Oddly, they didn't seem overwhelmed by my presence. 
Didn't the school tell them who I am? Well, they'll learn soon enough. 
Maybe they'll want me to use my awesome occult powers to -   
 

.. do the dishes? Are they freaking kidding me? This is a test, right?
"And may the forks be with you", someone called as I stomped into the kitchen. 
Great. Just great. 

"The children are our future"

The Coalition mulled this over for a few minutes. "Are you sure?", Scott asked doubtfully. " I thought robots were our future. Giant killer robots." "Wait, why do we need robots for killing giants? There aren’t that many, and according to the literature -"
Leo cleared his throat in that growly dinosaur way he was so good at. Damn, but they were good at derailing his train of thought… now what were they discussing again? Oh yes, the intern.

The message had arrived a few days ago, stapled to the back of an armadillo. Even for a non-reader like himself, the school’s distinctive crest had been immediately recognizable. However, it wasn’t the expected message of disapproval and threats that their evil plans would come to naught, and wouldn’t it be better for everyone involved if they would just see the light and use their powers for good (this being the gist of pretty much every piece of mail the Coalition had ever gotten ). Instead, the letter contained an interesting suggestion. Apparently, one of their students had begun showing signs of what was euphemistically called "antisocial behavior", building death rays in shop class, keeping a "people I want to kill, and how" list, and cackling maniacally at the slightest provocation. Clearly an evil genius in the making, and would they be interested in taking him on as an unpaid assistant? It didn’t say outright "we want the crazy bastard gone for good", but it was definitely implied. Sounded like a pretty good deal, he’d thought. Someone to do the dishes, bury the bodies, and generally boss around. And not being the youngest anymore, that was good too. Maybe they’d start taking him a little more seriously once they got real minions (well, a minion). And if it didn’t work out, well….

However, Leo had once again overestimated his audience. They couldn’t just agree on anything, oh no, it had to be discussed for hours, ideally with powerpoint slides. He glanced over at Darlene and saw that she was starting to draw a graph. "You want my opinion, it’s madness", she flatly stated. "It’s a well known fact that the one thing that can topple an evil scheme is a team of plucky, idealistic youngsters, and-" Mr Burns broke in. "He’s just one boy, what harm could he possibly do? And anyway, I feel it’s my duty to pass on my unique skills to future generations – I’m not getting any younger, you know." "Oh, please. You just want someone new to yell at." "Exactly! How are they going to grow into responsible adults without someone to tell them their clothes, music, speech and general behavior is unacceptable? Mark my words, in a few years people will be going completely pantsless and trampling all over people’s lawns, just because they haven’t been told not to!"
"Argle."
In the end, however, the "no dishwashing ever" argument was too tempting, and the armadillo returned carrying a note saying simply "ok" (as well as a not immediately lethal but highly contagious virus, just because they could).

Good help is hard to find

"Picture this", said a voice from within a thick cloud of cigar smoke. "A massive robot army, destroying everything in its path, with no inefficient human factor getting in the way. I'm picturing everything from tiny nanobots to huge, self-propelled aircraft carriers -"
"Picture this", replied a voice from the other side of the table. The room is very dark, but we'll assume it's equally smoke-filled all over. "Metal fatigue. Impossible-to-find replacement parts. Corrupt mechanics. Little IKEA doohickeys that're always getting lost. And need I remind my humble opponent of the price of robot fuel these days?"
The mumblings of agreement were heartfelt, though politely restrained.
"No", the second voice continued, "what we need is something sturdy. Something that will leave a lasting impression on the luckless human caught in its way. Moreover, we need something economical, cheap to make and maintain."
A third voice jumped in. "We need zombies!"
"The hell we do!" The second voice was so indignant it momentarily lost its detached sarcasm. "I have six thousand golems brought all the way from Xian, ready to terrorize the population as soon as you sign the contract. They're 100% maintenance free, have no moving parts, require no fuel, and -"
"- have all the terrorizing ability of their close relations, the garden gnomes. Zombies, now! Is there anything as frightening as having your formerly alive loved ones lurching after you, demanding your sweet, juicy Braaaaaiiinssss?"
"They're corpses! They decompose! My guys, now, you can bury them in the ground for a thousand years and they're good as new. Zombies rot."
"As my esteemed colleague points out", voice #3 smugly agreed, "zombies do rot. Leaving us with...?"
Oh damn. It had completely slipped his mind. "Skeleton warriors", voice #2 muttered weakly. "Very good! And they are?" "Awesome."
The chairperson's gavel finally succeeded in locating the table. "Very well, I've heard your sales pitches", she said and silently pushed the button opening the trap door and tipping speaker #1 (Robot Seller Guy. Really, imagine the carbon footprint.) into a vat of acid, "Of course there won't be a vote, we're not a democratic organization. So my decision is we, the Evil Coalition, make the zombies our Horde of Doom."

Nasty new year!

So... any new year's resolutions?

Leo:
When I've captured my adversary and he says, "Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?" I'll say, "No." and shoot him. No, on second thought I'll shoot him then say "No."

Scott:
My ventilation ducts will be too small to crawl through.

Mr Burns:
I will not include a self-destruct mechanism unless absolutely necessary. If it is necessary, it will not be a large red button labelled "Danger: Do Not Push". The big red button marked "Do Not Push" will instead trigger a spray of bullets on anyone stupid enough to disregard it. Similarly, the ON/OFF switch will not clearly be labelled as such.

Abdul:
When I employ people as advisors, I will occasionally listen to their advice

Darlene:
I will not fret over the comparative beauty of the Hero's True Love or any Beautiful Yet Innocent kinfolk. They may be attractive enough, as peasant wenches or quivering maidens go; but I am The Evil Empress, and there is no comparison.

The Groke:
Argle.




(If we weren't entirely too evil to express gratitude, we'd thank the masterminds behind the Evil Overlord list)