Would you describe your reaction to that scenario as being horrified? Shocked? Sickened? Well, that’s understandable. But if you don’t feel any of those things, if you feel your hair standing on end with excitement, your blood pressure rising, a demented smile creeping up on your face and a little bit of pee hitting your underwear as you read ever more details of Infinity Woman’s demise, then you’re just the type of sociopath who may be well into violence for violence’s sake. (Just keep it to yourself, OK? You kind of gross the rest of us out.)
For some villains, the ends of villainy really aren’t that complicated. There is one thing we love to see, and we love to see it as often as we can: the suffering of others. But we want more than the mere pedestrian carnage of blowing up an abortion clinic or tearing through a civic center with an uzi. That’s far too simplistic, and, frankly, quite uncivilized.
We need gigantic, Rube Goldberg-style death traps. We need to horrify and traumatize the innocents, and, most passionately, we need to build the anticipation to that sweet, sweet moment when the superhero’s head dips ever so gingerly into that giant pool filled with radioactive hammerhead sharks that you’ve had sitting around for the past several months.
Proving a Point
This goal is pretty similar to revenge, but with a twist. Rather than petty revenge or meaningless violence, you’re more interested in pettily proving that you’re always right about meaningless stuff. No unnecessary emotion or personal vendettas here.
But it’s not that sort of proving-them-right mentality that leads to the classic skewed sense of justice. This one’s different, in that it’s more about proving how beautifully sane you are, and how incredibly brilliant you’ve always been, than some kind of pedestrian crazy-man hand-of-God garbage.
Maybe they teased you at school. Or your boss pulled the plug on your ongoing research on how to cure your wife, who is terminally ill with a stab wound to the brain. Or they accidentally turned on the machine that makes people half guinea pig while you were still in there cleaning. Perhaps you are a leader among a special sub sect of human beings with special powers others shun and don’t understand. (Thanks for reading, Magneto.) Whatever the case may be, things would have been so much easier, and none of this would have ever happened if they had just listened.
Ah, but with your villainous schemes, you can make them listen. You can chain them to the wall and make them watch as you hold their families captive and play old footage of their mistakes. Or, you could hypnotize them into understanding. Either way, they will become believers.
Sexual Satisfaction
Hey, man, if the only way you can get your rocks off is to put on a cloak, stick your hand out, and monologue for fifteen minutes about dominions and hells on earth, then the priesthood or villainy are pretty much your only choices.
But at least we let you have actual sex, too, if you’re into that.
Branding Baseness: Nine Corporations To Emulate
You know who’s great at getting people to believe all the shit they tell them while still carrying on heinous deeds? Major multinational corporations, that’s who. Even I, the master of all villainy, could learn a thing or two from those guys, especially these nine, who have really taken evil PR to new levels.
McDonald’s
What they get right: Think back to when you were four years old. Where did you want to eat all day, every day? That’s right. Under those big yellow arches. So many impressionable children have been sucked in to the vortex of McDonald’s fat and sodium that it’s almost magical. And, as a bonus, creepy clown mascot! (And creepy purple monstrosity mascot and creepy perverted burglar mascot.)
What needs work: It’s great public relations, but really, McDonald’s did you have to go and start your own huge charity for kids? That ain’t evil, man.
Google
What they get right: In addition to creating web applications that invade just about every portion of users’ personal lives, from their phone messages to their website ads and stats to their travel, Google has also created the greatest database of private personal interests in history. Every search anyone types into their search engine is recorded and logged somewhere, and forever attached to that user. It’s a blackmail goldmine.
What needs work: The company is far too kind to its employees. Gourmet food? On-site recreation? Come on, Google. Much more of that and our henchmen are going to expect to be treated like human beings or something. They even have the motto, “Don’t be evil.” That’s prejudice.
Volkswagen
What they get right: Taking a car basically created by Hitler and making it trendy in the United States for like fifty years? Ballsy.
What needs work: Their unshakable connection to hippie-stink takes away a lot of their evil viability.
Apple
What they get right: They’ve littered the whole globe with tiny little portable machines designed to pump sound into people’s ears and track their movements. Loads of potential there. Also, they’re great at childishly assaulting their competition while still seeming to keep the high ground. It’s like a bully that quotes Proust while beating other kids up.
What needs work: They’ve done a great job of setting the groundwork, but it’s time to set the plan into action, Apple! Start pumping secret messages of anarchy into peoples’ ears already, guys!
Goldman Sachs
What they get right: They bet on the housing industry collapsing in 2008 and profited from it.
What needs work: The only problem? We didn’t think of that.
AIG
What they get right: Despite completely mismanaging themselves, greedily grabbing cash hand over fist and showing no concern for their clients, they managed to convince the government to give them billions of dollars. That’s the dream, folks.
What needs work: Why only rely on one government? It’s time to pick up, move to France, and start the whole thing over, AIG. That racket’s just too beautiful not to try again.
RJ Reynolds
What they get right: Continuing to sell cigarettes that are known to cause cancer while trying to excuse it by making half-assed anti-smoking ads? That’s slimy with a capital S. And brilliant.
What needs work: Cigarettes are great and all, but why not develop something that kills people more quickly? Like, maybe a little stick that sends thousands of tiny man-eating gorillas down someone’s throat?
News Corp
What they get right: The company that owns the Fox networks and several right-wing newspapers manages to constantly criticize our trash culture while simultaneously contributing to it more than just about anyone else. Obviously, this is a plan to confuse the populace into submission.
What needs work: Couldn’t you guys get a better spokesman for your world takeover plot than Hannity?
Blizzard
What they get right: World of Warcraft is the finest evil plot ever concocted. It makes people inert, suggestible and unproductive. And it’s been doing it, without interruption, for years now.
What needs work: Not a thing.
Power
For some, being in charge is what it’s all about, and politics involves too much baby kissing and pretending to care about what the public wants. Supervillainy presents a more direct approach:
1. Build gun that freezes rivers.
2. Alert people that you have such a gun.
3. Assume the throne of power.
Of course, there’s the sneakier way of going about it, too:
1. Stage an alien invasion.
2. Swoop in and kill the alien “leader,” who is actually one of your own henchmen.
3. Live in a castle.
However you take over, there’s a really nice feeling that comes from wearing the crown (I know, I’m a king) and being able to crush just about anybody you want under your big, regal thumb. But remember, if power’s your thing, we’re going to impose some standards on you.
• Want to take over a city and rule over it with an iron fist? Go for it.
• Cities too small for you? You need a whole U.S. state? Take your pick of any Dakota.
• Countries more your speed?
You could pretty much walk into any place that ends with “-stan,” and they’d probably ask you to be in charge.
But if global domination is your thing—and I can’t stress this enough—it’s our thing, too . . . and we’ve got way more genetically altered mutant monster men on staff than you can even imagine.
Mischief
I’ve been going on and on about greed and violence and grasping your hatred—harming the body and the wallet— but that doesn’t always have to be your goal. If you want to simply drive some unsuspecting soul mad through soul-crushing psychological torment, have at it. But it’s tough. It takes a light touch. The best example of that technique is the story of an oddly-named villain who dedicated himself to creating mayhem for one of the ancestors of the guy who would eventually become the hero Super-Slug. It’s been passed down through the villain generations, and we share it with you here.
Mr. Fairweather Butterscotch sat in his study, preparing for a relaxing evening of sitting quietly and speaking to no one, when he heard a violent crash outside his window.
Mortified, Mr. Butterscotch slid into his robe and stumbled out into the garden, a lit candle his only light source in the nearly impenetrable darkness. He called out into the night, morbidly curious as to the motivations of this sudden visitor.
“Hello?” he asked to no one in particular. “Is someone there?”
Mr. Butterscotch scoured the grounds, oh so familiar from his childhood days of play and laughter, when this house was his father’s and his only cares were those of any other young boy, so very innocent: diabetes, obesity, and peripheral artery disease.
He checked the greenhouse, the stables, the croquet course, and the servants’ quarters—emptied for a sure night of lower-class rambunction, and found little more than the usual faunae and florae, maintained so wonderfully by the staff.
As his apprehension and his candlewick began to dwindle, a quietly falling rain began to float languidly from the clouds, aimless and lazy, in no real hurry to meet with the ground below for its evening slumber. Satisfied that his search had all been for naught, and perhaps his imagination had finally taken hold of his mind, Mr. Butterscotch began his deliberate walk back toward the main house.
Mr. Butterscotch dug in his pocket for the main house key, wondering to himself whether he was more prone to spend an evening in quiet contemplation or silent introspection. Before he had a chance to come to his decision, though, he caught the sight of a spectre out of the corner of his eye, moving quickly across the yard.
“Who’s there?” he whispered.
As if on cue, a dark figure stepped out into the light. Mr. Butterscotch identified it immediately. He knew this was coming eventually, even though he had prayed that it never would. He swallowed his fear and addressed his assailant.
“Arrhythmia,” he gulped. “We finally meet.”
The apparition did not respond, motionless and silent, standing prone, as if waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The standoff continued, the moments passing like decades, until Mr. Butterscotch could no longer stand the torture.
“What do you want, you vile creature?” he asked.
And before he could stop it, before he could move, Arrhythmia had pulled Mr. Butterscotch’s underwear over his head, drawn a mustache on his face and scurried right off with his wallet, (with his credit cards and pictures of his dog in there and everything).
“Damn you, Arrhythmia!” Mr. Butterscotch cried into the rainy night sky, his knees crashing into the mud beneath him, the elastic of his tighty whities digging into his forehead. “Damn youuuuu!”
* * *
“Excuse me, waiter?”
“Yes, sir, how may I be of service to you?”
“I don’t mean to complain, but I believe there may be an angina pectoris in my soup.”
“Oh dear, Mr. Butterscotch, I am so terribly sorry! I’ll be having a word with the chef about this!”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s necessary . . . ”
“Oh, sir, it most certainly is! I’ll bring him out here so we can both talk to him! You just wait here!”
“But – wait! I don’t –”
“What’s all this about my soup having a symptom of myocardial ischemia in it?”
“Um . . . actually, Mr. Chef, I didn’t mean to make a stir, I just . . . wait a minute. You look a bit familiar. Do I know you?”
“Perhaps, Mr. Butterscotch, you do! Hahahahahaha! And away I go!”
“What – what is this? Underwear . . . pulled over head! Mustache . . . drawn on face! Wallet . . . gone! I don’t . . . Arrhythmia! Oooooh! I’ll get you!”
* * *
Heart Murmur Township Police Department, 10/31, 3:32 p.m., Official Report of Events
A middle-aged gentleman in a three-piece suit, claiming to be Mr. Fairweather Butterscotch of 3313 Mitral Valve Prolapse Lane, enters station, asking to speak with someone in charge of heart disease related assaults. He tells the presiding officer, a Sergeant, about a series of pranks/attacks that have been allegedly perpetrated on him over the past several weeks, all of which he reported having resulted in codes 301(a) {wallet theft}, 1201 {vandalism by mustache drawing}, and 19(p-16) {underwear pulled over head}. The sergeant takes down all of Mr. Butterworth’s information, assures him that someone would look into the case and files a report. He then performs a 301(a), a 1201, and a 19(p-16) on Mr. Butterscotch. IAD and the attorney general’s office are looking into the incident and how Sgt. A. Rhythmia was hired.
* * *
The Journal of the Illustrious Fairweather Butterscotch, Esq.
November 12, Thursday
Dear Journal,
I have done something today of which I am less than proud.
Under great duress from the recent harassment a certain unnamed party has decided to continually and unfeelingly impinge upon me, I took my troubles to a seller of sexual release, or, in more pedestrian terms, a prostitute.
In any other circumstance, it would be anathema for me to procure such services, but with these recent troubles, I have yet to find any other way to ameliorate my considerable stress and trauma. And so, it was with a heavy heart that I called a number I found in the yellow pages that claimed to discreetly send a “companion” to my abode.
She arrived promptly, and I must say she was very becoming and professional. Before any other words were exchanged, she laid down the ground rules for our encounter: no bruising, no intimations of anything beyond business, no going back on what is decided beforehand, etc. I agreed to them.
I asked her name, which she told me was Reynaudse Syndromme – her parents hailed from Paris, and I welcomed her to my home with a glass of my finest ‘68 Cabernet Sauvignon, which we both enjoyed greatly.
As we sipped the vintage, we began to negotiate the details of what would occur during our encounter. I made several very specific requests, and once we were satisfactorily finished with our beverages, we entered the bedroom to complete our transaction.
She left silently, as I had requested, and I thanked her for her compliance with all my admittedly unusual specifications. As she walked down the drive to her car, she glanced back at me and smiled, playfully holding up the wallet that I had asked she take with her.
I smiled back, my underwear pulled nearly to my eyes, a mustache drawn to such detail on my face that it almost fooled me in the mirror later that evening. It was the first genuine smile I had managed in weeks.
I wonder if I shall see her again.
Training Exercise 2: Knowing Your Desires
You may think you know what you want the end result of your evil exploits to be, but will those goals stay with you once you put your dastardly devisements into practice? Put yourself in the following scenario. Based on how you react, you may want to re-think your ultimate ambitions.
; Along with a small group of villainous colleagues, you break through the defenses of the do-gooder stronghold Superhero Tower and enter. Once inside, you . . .
A. . . . head straight for the heroes’ conference room, dispatching anyone who gets in your way. You use the cosmic wishing machine you brought with you to clear the room of all the heroes huddled within it. When the room is emptied, you recline in the seat at the head of the conference table and claim the building for your own.
B. . . . attempt to kill everyone and everything in sight, including the other members of your invasion force.
C. . . . find the superhero who, years ago, beat you out for the lead in your middle school’s production of Our Town. Upon coming face-to-face with the object of your life-long hatred, you say, “Now I am the Stage Director, and you, fool, are Farmer McCarthy,” before grabbing him and teleporting him to a theater where he is forced to stand onstage while a robot audience shoots lasers at him.
D. . . . use the power of magi-science, a combination of wizardry and physics you advocated in college and which led to your being laughed out of school, to alter the molecules of the tower’s bricks and make the entire building collapse on itself. (It just so happens that Super-hero Tower is right next to where you went to college, so everyone there sees it happen.)
The Supervillain Handbook Page 4