See, plotting to take over the world is not that difficult. I could create a virus that turns everyone into zombies just like that. You’d be surprised how much your government is willing to pay for that sort of thing. Something about ultimate weapons and such; those details, I don’t get into them. I could also unleash an evil monster that threatens the existence of every living person on this planet.

 

 

That’s the side that gets all the press, but in my opinion, the day to day is far more interesting. And that’s what this is about -- my way of getting through the work day. Waiting at the top floor for some tights-wearing, blue-haired freak who’s trying to save the day can get quite boring at times.

 

Good help is key. So I take out an ad in the local paper and conduct meet and greets (I learned long ago the word “interview” scares off the type of people I’m looking for). It’s important that these underlings are no smarter than a high-school dropout; I can’t have them asking morally gray questions, now can I? I also prefer to get them in packs, so twins, triplets, and quadruplets are ideal.

 

Matching outfits is a must (they are a team, after all), and of course, a chip on their shoulders is practically required. That’s why I only hire thugs with names like Nails and Slag. These particular individuals are so angry at the world. They’re willing to punch anything and anyone that stands in front of them.
 

Enough about them, though, because I’m the one who does most of the work. I’m the one that sends the threatening letters to would-be heroes. I kidnap girlfriends and princesses and generally provoke everyone I can...all by myself.

 

 

Who do you think prepares all those whole-turkeys dinners? My men have to eat. When my henchmen are gathered, hidden in a dark alleyway (in strict, single-file formation, of course), waiting...and waiting...and waiting for anyone with a head to punch, they get very hungry. So I hide turkeys and burgers in trashcans, mailboxes...basically, anything that can be smashed into oblivion at a moment’s notice. I can’t make it too hard for my guys, though -- you know, high school dropouts and all that.
 

So you see, the food is for them, not Johnny Square Jaw. Yet they never manage to find it themselves. Sir Saves-a-Lot usually comes and takes all the food for himself.

 

This, as I’m sure you can understand, gets quite old; you can see why I try to handle things myself when I can. How do you think I got this body? I’ve had to work at it. I’ve trained myself to be the ultimate killing machine. I’ve practiced and perfected a strategy that tires my opponents while I stand there with practically double their health. I have this amazing front kick that can destroy anything in it’s path. After about three vicious front kicks and a short spray of bullets from my rifle, I usually call in some guards to tire this Joe do-gooder out a bit while I rest and regain my strength.

 

Once I’m at full health again (or close to it) I go back to my devastating, unstoppable attack of kicks and bullets; a few rounds of that always does the trick. I know what you’re thinking, what happens if I fail? What happens if some no-name schmuck with an unreasonable amount of lives and hair trigger special attack were to take me down?

 

Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t worry about those things. See, I’m a 16-bit boss, and there’s always a sequel.