Clad in his best white tuxedo, Dirk Smegma strolled through the Imperial Honcho’s foyer, nibbling on a cheese ball he’d stabbed with a plastic toothpick and sipping on a glass of complimentary champagne. As he surveyed the room filled with the world’s most dastardly super villains dressed in their best finery, he took the sights on some of the pieces about to be auctioned.
“Will you bid on this fine panda, sir?” a henchman asked as he pointed to a cage filled with large, adorable black and white panda bear.
“Please,” Dirk said. “I have three already.”
“What about this fresh jar of endangered whale testicles?” a second henchman asked as he held up a jar, the contents of which appeared to be quite disgusting.
“No thank you,” Dirk replied. “I can’t say I’ve ever acquired a taste for those.”
“Sir,” a henchman said as he popped a briefcase up onto a table and opened it up, only to reveal a computer filled with numerous blinking lights. “How would you like to be the proud owner of your very own dirty bomb?”
“Hmm,” Dirk said as he stroked his chin. “How dirty is it?”
“It can take out all of Scranton,” the henchman said.
“Meh,” Dirk said as he shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve seen dirtier.”
Dirk walked past an enormous Harrier jet. “Add to your personal air arsenal, sir?” a henchman asked. “It’s only been flown by a little old lady who dropped bombs on a church on Sundays.”
“No thanks,” Dirk said. “When it comes to aircraft, I go brand new or I don’t go at all.”
“Sucker,” the henchman said. “You know they lose half their value as soon as you fly them off the lot.”
“I know,” Dirk said. “But I just love that new aircraft smell.”
Dirk bellied up to the bar, where a hunchback with two great big, bugged out eyes was washing a glass. “Good evening.”
“Holy shit!” Dirk said as he looked away from the hunchback’s eyes. “I mean, hello, how are you?”
“I’m fine sir,” the hunchback said. “Thank you for inquiring as to the well-being of a lowly dog like me. Might I get you a drink?”
“Sure thing, Igor,” Dirk said.
The hunchback smiled a toothless grin. “How did you know my name?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dirk said. “Let’s just call it a…hunch?”
Both men laughed maniacally. “Muah ha ha!”
“What will you have?” Igor asked.
Dirk ran his hand through his perfectly coiffed, chestnut brown hair. “Rum and Generic Cola. Stirred, not shaken, because, you know, if you shake a soda it will blow up.”
“I’m aware, sir,” the hunchback said as he prepared the drink. “I passed eighth grade science class.”
As Dirk waited for his concoction, Herr Dudenflinger sauntered up to the bar. The German took one look at the incredibly handsome American and put out his hand.
“Guten Tag,” the German said. “I am Herr Dudenflinger of the evil organization known as Das Worldenshtuppen. Our motto? Shtup the world before it shtups you. And you are?”
Dirk grasped the German’s hand with a powerful grip. “Smegma. Dirk Smegma.”
“A distinct pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smegma,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “I don’t mean to brag, but parties such as these bring out the worst in me and my evil organization has been up to so many naughty activities as of late.”
“Is that so?” Dirk asked.
“It is,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Did you see on the news about all of the children’s cereal boxes that were contaminated with flesh eating bacteria?”
“No,” Dirk said. “That was you?”
The German threw up his hands. “Guilty as charged. And we are also working on a special ray gun that will warp a man’s mind until he becomes so greedy that he will be willing to push his own grandmother down a flight of stairs for a penny.”
“That is evil,” Dirk said.
“Did I mention that we are also working on a machine that can cause tidal waves?” Herr Dudenflinger asked.
“You didn’t,” Dirk said.
“Yes,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Soon, we will be able to drown entire cities with the push of a button.”
“That’s absurdly evil,” Dirk said.
“Yes,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “But I am so proud just the same.”
Igor popped a drink on the counter. “Your Rum and Generic Cola, sir.”
“Thank you, Igor,” Dirk said as he picked up the drink and sipped from a crazy straw that swirled all over the place.
“But enough about me,” Herr Dudenflinger said. “Tell me, Mr. Smegma, what line of work are you in?”
“I’m a network television executive,” Dirk Smega said.
The German choked on his drink and sprayed a fine mist into the air. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m a network television executive,” Dirk said. “Yeah, I’ve been forcing all sorts of artists to abandon their creative visions in favor of brand and predictable, formulaic tripe for years now.”
Herr Dudenflinger spashed the remainder of his drink in Dirk’s face. “You sir, make me sick!”
“Aw, come on!” Dirk said. “Network TV isn’t that bad!”
“Good day, sir!” the German said as he walked away.
“Come on, Fritz!” Dirk said. “I want to hear more about that tidal wave contraption!”
“I said, good day!” the German said.
Soon, and without warning, a pair of tiny hands were massaging Dirk’s temples.
“Igor?” Dirk asked. “What are you doing?”
“I am attempting to dry your magnificent hair, sir,” Igor said. “I apologize. Insignificant speck of filth that I am, I neglected to stock up on cocktail napkins this evening, so my wretched hands will have to do.”
Dirk closed his eyes. “Is it weird that it feels good?”
“Only if you make it weird, sir,” Igor replied.
Dirk enjoyed the temple massage for awhile, but was soon interrupted by the voice of a Russian female. “If you think that feels good, just wait till you see what I can do.”