The Devious, Despicable, Dastardly Dr. Doomsday

From the apex of the Doomsday Tower, an explosion thundered out over Cranhattan, over the skyscrapers glimmering red in the sunset. A cloud of smoke settled, and ash flurried down on Dr. Doomsday, whose shoulders slumped with defeat. He gaped at the decimated machinery—the twisted metal, the exposed wires sparking—the name “DESTRUCT-O-NATOR” in Impact-esque font melting off the side. Did Special Agent Double Eleven know how long it took him to hand-paint those letters? Perhaps that should have been a job for a minion, but Dr. D took pride in his craft.

Agent 1111 adjusted his bowtie, largely unaffected by the blast, aside from the ash salting his now-majestically-blown-back pepper hair. It only made him more debonair. Agent 1111 eyed Dr. D, who--covered in soot and hair frizzled out in all directions--looked rather like he’d just been struck by lightning.

“Don’t let it happen again, Dr. D.” Agent 1111 winked, then ran and dove out the window, arms across his chest.

How could Dr. D have forgotten the tiny switchblade that pops out of Agent Double Eleven’s watch that could free him from the rope binding his hands behind his back? Or the tiny grappling hook he could shoot out into the Destruct-O-Nator’s exhaust fan—which if didn’t run, would cause the elaborate and huge machine to hum louder and louder and vibrate faster and faster until it exploded into tiny, tiny pieces that rained down over him, showering him in failure?

Dr. D dusted the grey ash from the shoulders of his white lab coat and assessed the destruction of his laboratory. Everything coated in ash and soot, pieces of metal flung everywhere. Oh well, the minions would clean that up tonight, like they did after every fight. Dr. D gazed out the blown-out floor-to-ceiling window and took in the sunset. A gentle breeze stirred the ash around his feet.

***

After his failed attempt to blow up the world and suffering yet another humiliating loss at the hands of Double Eleven, Dr. D went to Sprouts Market to pick fresh vegetables for dinner. The sun had fully set now, and the parking lot was nearly empty. Overhead lights hummed and blinked, as bugs swarmed under them, throwing themselves helplessly at a bulb they’d never reach over and over.

Inside, Dr. D carefully inspected each zucchini, then cradled the approved one like a baby in his arms. He tucked a crown of broccoli into it for a rattle. He bounced through the store, the sanitized linoleum bringing him comfort. Maybe he could start by taking over a grocery store? A baby step to the entire world. He imagined himself sweeping the apples off their podium and climbing atop it while the employees kneeled before him, apples thumping and rolling past them.

Dr. D walked past the self-checkout to the only available cashier. Noticing him at the end of her lane, the cashier looked up from her phone with a sigh, and slowly stood up from her lean. Dr. D reveled in her annoyance, feeding a spark in his chest.

It wasn’t that Dr. D had too many items, wanted help with bagging, or disliked the shrill, robotic voice of the self-service checkout—he simply liked having someone work for him. Someone he could talk to who couldn’t just walk away from him, who must at least feign interest. He stood at the end of the conveyor belt and awkwardly hovered his upper body over it, before unfolding his arms and clumsily releasing all his produce.

He reached the cashier before the produce. She no longer looked irritated, but bewildered, ogling the white rings left behind by his goggles. He cleared his throat, and she shook her head to snap herself out of staring.

“Find everything you need?” The cashier grabbed a loose onion.

“Yes, thank you.” He squinted quizzically. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, sorry.” The cashier blinked a few times and looked down. She continued weighing and scanning, and spoke without making eye contact, “I’ve had a long day is all.”

“I’ve had a long day myself!” Dr. D exclaimed. “I’ve tried so many times, to no avail! The Crush-O-Tron, which Double Eleven rewired so that it crushed itself to smithereens—the Shrink Ray, which Double Eleven used to shrink me and keep me under a cup (don’t worry, he left a candy corn in there for me, which was huge in comparison)—and every time I create an Evil Clone, it tries to kill me and take over my life! Selfish.” He clicked his tongue. “Didn’t even need Double Eleven for that one. No matter what I do, it ends in failure.”

The cashier nodded as if anything he said made any sense and handed him his bag. “Cash or card?”

.

After unloading his bags into the trunk of his Fiat, Dr. D rattled through the parking lot. An abandoned shopping cart occupied the parking space right beside the cart return. A rage burned in Dr. D’s chest more intensely than after that pork vindaloo last week. Into the line of carts, he shoved his own.

“This is why I need to blow up this godforsaken planet,” Dr. D grumbled to himself, then returned the stray cart.

***

Dr. D finally sat down to dinner at 3am. Rather normal for him. Even on weekends, he tended to get so absorbed in playing his bagpipes and filling out his adult coloring books, that he’d forget to eat until bedtime, then would eat until his stomach ached and go to bed without brushing his teeth. But tonight, he took the time to prepare an actual meal for himself. Despite the disappointment of his earlier defeat, he felt a subtle pride.

Sat before him: a bowl of oily roast vegetables, spiced with Italian seasonings; a plain, skinless, baked chicken breast atop the veggies; and a tall glass of cold milk. Beside his bowl: a plate with an identical second chicken breast. Dr. D cut it into tiny pieces before touching his own steaming meal.

“This is perfect,” Dr. D pinched the meat between his fingers and reached down to give it to the cotton ball of a cat sat patiently beside his chair. “Isn’t it, Princess?”

“Mrrr. Wrow,” Princess politely agreed and took the chicken. She was always there for him at the end of a rough day.

On the day he’d decided to pursue his dream of becoming a supervillain, Dr. D’s first order of business was to go to the local shelter in search of a fluffy white cat, as he figured every great villain had one. He originally fantasized about executing the classic scene of spinning around menacingly in a big chair while stroking the cat. But by the time construction on his lair finished, Dr. D realized that Princess was too precious to risk taking into work. As, his lair seemed to blow up every other day.

The two finished their dinners and Dr. D brushed his teeth before laying down in bed. Princess curled up on his stomach. He scratched between her ears and stroked her back as his mind began to drift. He imagined beautiful scenarios in which he finally successfully trapped Agent Double Eleven, who would watch on in horror as Dr. D would activate his latest Doomsday Device™. The look on Agent Double Eleven’s face while he watches the world he knows and loves come to an end—priceless.

“One day,” Dr. D muttered quietly, his eyes fluttering closed. “One day, Princess, we’ll win.”

Between snores, a smile curled at the edges of Dr. D’s lips, as he dreamed up a flawless scheme.

***

The next morning at Doomsday Tower, Dr. D found his lab in the same disheveled state as yesterday. Did the clean-up crew not come last night? There was only one minion inside, standing amongst the wreckage. Greg. Ugh. And not even in uniform.

“Dr. D,” Greg scrambled up from where he sat crisscross applesauce on the floor. He unsuccessfully attempted to pat the ash off the butt of his khakis, and re-tucked his polo as he stood. “All the chairs are still in pieces.”

“Greg,” Dr. D said, the name like vomit in his mouth. “Where’s your leotard? Where is everyone?”

“Right, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Greg shook off his stutter under Dr. D’s sharpening glower, and shrunk into himself. “Everyone quit, Sir.”

“Everyone?” Dr. D exploded. He looked around wildly for something to break—but there was nothing left. He towered over Greg. “And they left you to tell me?”

“No, Sir!” Greg’s eyes went all sparkly, “I want to stay! This job means everything to me.”

Dr. D backed away and shook his head at the ceiling, allowing defeat to weigh down his shoulders. What’s a supervillain without their minions? And of course, out of all of them, he got stuck with Greg. No, no. He didn’t need any of those mutinous bastards.

“Go, get dressed,” Dr. D waved dismissively and covered his face with his other hand, so he didn’t have to see Greg’s stupid grin. “We have a lot of work to do.”

***

Many sunrises and sunsets poured in through the gaping hole in the side of the supervillain’s lair, as he and Greg worked to build his latest invention, the Destruct-O-Nator 2.0, his most innovative yet. Greg was honored at the opportunity to be of such great assistance to Dr. D, and performed his duties fervently. Though, this was also true when his duties consisted of running coffee orders for the other minions. Now, Dr. D still wouldn’t let him touch anything “too important”, but reluctantly allowed Greg to hand him tools while he worked like a surgical technologist.

Soon enough, time came for Greg to take the considerable electrical plug in both hands and plug it into the even considerable-r outlet in the wall. He didn’t have time to consider how or when Dr. D got it installed, as the immense motor whirred to life.

“We did it, Greg.”

Greg looked up to Dr. D with the eyes of a child bringing home a fridge-worthy report card.

“I mean—I did it,” Dr. D corrected himself and cleared his throat. “Anyway, does this sound good?” Dr. D flipped his phone around to show Greg the draft of a text message.

Dear Special Agent Double Eleven,

Global Domination will soon be mine!

[A picture of the intimidating, utterly evil, diabolical machine with “DESTRUCT-O-NATOR 2.0” painted sloppily on the side.]

Mwahahaha!!!!

Sincerely,

Dr. D

“Looks great, Sir.”

Dr. D smirked and pressed send.

The two stood side by side, facing the door, staring in silence. Dr. D tapped his foot. He pulled his phone back out to check the time. One minute had passed.

“Do you want to play rummy while we wait?” Greg held up a deck of cards and waved it enticingly.

“One quick game,” Dr. D said, snatching the cards. “But I’ll shuffle.”

.

Within the hour, Agent 1111 kicked in the front door, even though Dr. D left it unlocked for him, tired of having to constantly replace it.

“The Dastardly Dr. Doomsday! It’s time to meet your—” Agent 1111’s stentorian declaration dropped off as he looked around the laboratory.

Dr. D stood hunched, his fingertips pressed together, before a room in disarray. The glossy black surfaces were dull and streaked, the monitors on the back wall glitched frozen images across their cracked screens, and the floor-to-ceiling window had a giant tarp over it that flapped around noisily with every gust of wind. Giant bolts stuck out of the Destruct-O-Nator 2.0, holding together overlapping slabs of metal in patchwork colors-- a few levers looked non-functional and hot-glued on. And was that a minion peeking out from behind the trashcan, watching on as if he should have a bowl of popcorn in his arms? Minions were never present during fights, just the two of them.

“Is everything ok, Dr. D?” Agent 1111 asked, relaxing his fisticuffs stance.

Offense flashed across Dr. D’s face, before he returned to his familiar mischievous expression, and he resumed ringing his hands. Dr. D’s gaze flicked down to Agent Double Eleven’s feet, squarely atop the trigger tile outlined in obvious, bright red tape.

“Now, Greg!”

Greg sprung out from behind the trashcan, brandishing a remote with a single, large button that he bore down on.

Everyone waited for a moment, entirely still aside from their eyes darting around.

With the metallic thunk of an opening hatch, a pile of rope plopped down from the ceiling over Agent 1111, draping loosely around his shoulders.

Agent 1111 looked from the rope to Dr. D, to the pathetically constructed contraption, to Dr. D again, with concern in his brow and a slight squint in his eyes. He scooched out of the rope and let it slip to the floor, where it kicked up a cloud of dust and ash, still not swept up from the fight weeks ago.

“I’m just going to—” Agent 1111 pointed behind him with his thumb, and backed out the doorless doorway.

“Wait!” Dr. D called. He whipped around to Greg, “Stop him!”

Greg suppressed a squeal, realizing this was his big moment. This was everything he’d been waiting for, what all his hard work had been building to. He could catch Agent Double Eleven, prove himself to Dr. D, and finally gain his respect. Greg fumbled the remote and dropped it in his dash through the doorway. He returned seconds later, panting heavily.

“He–” –huff– “–got–”–huff– “–away.” Greg wheezed.

Dragging his feet behind him, Dr. D sulked over to the Destruct-O-Nator 2.0 and petted its bumpy metal as gently as if it were Princess. Behind him, Greg doubled over, violently shaking an inhaler.

“I’m sorry, Greg.”

Greg froze in place. He hit his inhaler. Then froze again.

“All I wanted was to destroy the world,” Dr. D brought his hands to his face and dramatically wept into them with howling sobs, heaving his entire upper body with each cry. “I’m sorry. I’ve let you down.”

“I know, I know.” Greg came up behind Dr. D and patted him on the back. “We’ll get ‘em next time.”

“Next time?” Dr. D looked down at Greg, his face horrendously wet with tears and mucus. “You mean, you’d still like to be my minion? Even though I’m a failure of a supervillain?”

“You’re the most nefarious, fiendish man in all of Cranhattan, Sir. I’m honored to be your minion. Or—partner?”

Dr. D furrowed his brows until they stood nearly vertical, flared his nostrils, and slowly craned his neck like a predator bird deciding which of Greg’s eyes to peck out.

“Or, minion! Of course.” Greg choked.

“Right. Greg, you’re a good minion.” Dr. D ruffled Greg’s hair. “How would you like to come back to my apartment for some ice cream, and to meet the sweetest creature to grace this wretched Earth?”

“Like a sleepover, Sir?” Greg beamed and held his fists up to his chin.

Dr. D rolled his eyes and turned to head for the door. “Come along,” he called over his shoulder. Only once his face was out of eyeshot, did Dr. D let a small smile creep across his face-- and Greg bound behind him like an excited puppy.