Interlude: Up Past Your Bedtime With Father
Up Past Your Bedtime With Father
It's practically surreal for you to step into what once had been the stronghold of your most hated enemy.
You recount the numerous times you had personally led your allies into the belly of the beast, fighting through winding corridors patched together out of sheet-metal, chewing gum, and wooden planks. While you had always hated the KND, and by extent, their obnoxious contraptions, you'd always held a begrudging respect for their moonbase - if only because of its staggering weaponry. It had taken nearly every ship Stickybeard could scrounge together plus the entire yearly budget of Adult Co.'s spaceflight R&D division to amass a force big enough to assault it with any hope of success.
The location of the Moonbase kept it safe from all but your most dedicated attacks, while conversely providing the KND with the ability to monitor and reinforce their assets in any part of the world as needed.
As for the base itself, it was a marvel of KND engineering, pushing 2x4 technology to its total limits. Entire looted greenhouses' worth of plants and O2 tanks provide oxygen along with hydromatic-rebreatherlyzers to constantly refresh the teeming hordes of hamsters on wheels that power the duct-tape colossus. Armories filled with fleets of vehicles and arsenals of soda-poppers, splankers, gumballers and more line the reinforced cardboard halls, capable of equipping entire legions of ankle-biters with enough ramshackle weaponry to overwhelm a thousand PTA meetings. Entire starports the size of minimalls were filled with S.C.A.M.P.E.R.S, C.O.O.L.B.U.S., P.I.P.E.P.O.D.S., and E.L.I.M.O.N.A.T.O.R.S. kept constantly fueled for emergency deployment. Not to mention research labs where the KND's nerdiest agents built new headaches for you to deal with, the training academies full of fresh faced first grade cadets, the hallowed halls of childhood memorials, and whatever other junk they came up with to fill space up here.
The Moonbase had always been a constant Splinter of Damocles that hung over you in the night sky. Every time you looked up at the moon, you felt a flicker of hate and another scheme brewing. Now it was plastered roots to trunk with kitschy posters of a lava man talk show host.
Or at least, what was left of it was.
You were dumbfounded for a moment upon arrival. Over half of it was missing. Only the stubby base of the tree remained. All that wreckage you'd been buried in made a lot of sense now.
So that was what they'd dropped.
What had once been a shining beacon of freedom to thousands of children, a monument that'd taken generations of KND to build, had been smashed down on your head like a big leafy missile.
And to top it all off, it still hadn't killed you. It hadn't changed anything. All that childhood whimsy weaponized for nothing.
That fact alone almost brought a tear to your eye, though smug satisfaction at the destruction of the moonbase vanished as Moltar's guest pod neared the docking port. Attached to the side of the building, and digging into the surface of the moon itself, were miles of construction scaffolding teeming with ant-like swarms of workers. An overwhelming construction project. Tunnels and chambers spread out across the surface of the moon, reaching out from the darkside like red and silver tendrils from a great shadowy beast, the yellow lights of facilities and gun platforms gleaming like hungry eyes of an alien beast.
Somehow, despite all its industrious activity, the moon looks empty. The hollow absence of the moonbase's brilliant branches made an annoying itch pop into the back of your head. All those years you spent trying to destroy it. All those schemes, those plots, those plans. The very emblem of the KND; reduced to a stump of its former self---and they'd done it to themselves.
A chill as cold as the void outside the vessel settled around your shoulders. Here you were, the KND's rightful archnemesis, getting antsy about them blowing up their stupid fort. You tried to brush it off, but the uncertainty still stuck to you, like a frozen wad of bubblegum in your hair.
Nestled deep within the ruins of the stump was your destination; a strange amalgamation of broadcast station and weapons platform, built directly into the remaining KND structures. No matter how many times you pester or demand, the diminutive agent piloting the modified S.C.A.M.P.E.R. only gave generic, polite responses. Either this kid had the patience of a saint, or something else was going on here. But it didn't matter. The vessel flew into the dock and you took a step out the door and onto a red carpet.
Everything looks different, just as it had on the outside. Except the interior remodeling was far from intimidating. It was almost… Tacky. No. No, it was definitely tacky. It was like someone had transformed a space drydock into a ritzy studio. Well, a studio from the 80s that someone had tried to make look ritzy. Posters of Moltar's bucket-mug-face lined the walls and dazzling lights guided you along your way to the front desk, where another child, this one a bit more nervous at the sight of you, signs you in. As she explains it, this area has been modified into a reception room intended to receive Moltar's guest stars. You couldn't help but feel a strange pit in your gut. Like looking at a familiar street that was in the process of being completely remodeled.
A handful of loose plyboards and chunks of random incorporated buildings betrays the place's KND origins. But most of the room was painted over in a mundane, if futuristic, shade of beige. Dusty old carpeting that'd probably been fancy at one point covered the floor. Where necessary, parts of the walls and floor had been patched up with new sheets of metal that still had a sleek, steel finish. Overall, the parts of the base you'd seen so far looks like the hodge-podge child architecture was being slowly tamed and built over to a standard fit pattern.
Sitting on a rather luxurious chair, you twiddle your thumbs and look closely around the room. No ice cream machines or candy bar vendors. In their place was a coffee machine dispensing an unfathomable array of caffeinated drinks. You could spot the old canteen around the corner, but from the signs you could read, they'd traded kiddy fare for a more… diverse selection. You watch a kid in a khaki uniform restock it with crates of granola bars, freeze-dried space squid, roast crickets, and dolphin-chow.
Confused as you are, you didn't dare make a ruckus, besides to say that the kid is doing a bad job. Gotta crush that spirit where you can, you know. Plus, without a spaceship of your own, your host could strand you up here in this warped funhouse mirror of the moonbase. It only took a few minutes for someone to finally arrive to properly greet you; and it was a good thing too, you were running out of Villain's Digest to read.
A child arrives, flanked by what you recognize as KND Elite Operatives dressed in space-age power armor and wielding heavy duty 2x4 weapons that made a M.E.C.K.S.I.C.A.N.N.O.N. look like a water balloon.
The head of the two elites was precisely as unhappy to see you as you were to see her. You nearly fail to recognise her under all that scary stormtrooper getup, but that stupid colander samurai helmet gives her dead away.
"YOU."
In an instant, you snap to your feet.
"NUMBUH 362. I should have KNOWN that this was a trap!"
Flames flicker into your hand. The guards tense up. But the young commander simply shook her head in frustration.
"This isn't a trap, Father."
You won't buy that line so easily. Numbuh 362 obviously sees that, because she keeps her finger on the trigger.
"Uh-HUH. Like I'm SUPPOSED to believe that?"
"I'm telling the truth. I'm only here to retrieve you for your segment on the show. Now, as Moltar's Second In Command, I'm gonna have to ask you to-"
You nearly choke on the laughter as it bursts out of you. Your sheer surprise leaves you doubling over for a hot minute before you can catch your breath again.
"Wait wait wait. WAIT A SECOND. YOU are telling me that you work for Moltar?"
Numbuh 362 grits her teeth, your reaction clearly isn't making it easier to admit.
"Yes. I work for Moltar."
She spits out the words with not a small amount of bitterness. That only makes your satisfaction greater.
"HA! Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"GEE, and here I was thinking you were all MIND-CONTROLLED or something! I thought, NEVER in a BAJILLIION years would the MIGHTY Kids Next Door, let ALONE their SUPREME Commander WILLINGLY serve an adult."
Numbuh 362 is broiling. Steam is practically pouring from the colander on her head.
"You're one to talk! I did what I had to do to protect the kids under my command!"
"OH, of course little MISS responsible as usual!"
The guards back away as Numbuh 362 steps forward, getting in your face in the way that only a girl who had to organize a global network of anti-adult agents could.
"You don't know the first thing about responsibility. Tell me, when was the last time you checked on your own soopervillians, huh?"
That put you on the back foot.
"Well, uh, I-"
"Oh, that's right! They were all left trapped under a moonbase worth of wreckage, leaderless and helpless! Unlike you, I didn't have the choice to pack up and take a vacation. Do you have any idea how hard it is to organize global supply lines without a credit card? Let alone get enough snacks and water up here every month for a thousand hungry kids!"
From the sound of it, it seems like she's never had a vacation in the first place. But she quickly regains control and turns to gaze out of a nearby window before letting out a deep, heavy sigh.
Silence fills the room before she begins to speak again.
"Following the defeat of Grandfather, the KND were in shambles. Communications were down, Treehouses were in ruin, and I'd just woken up surrounded by screams burning metal."
Her eyes land on the ongoing construction. Mechanical robots lug heavy materials, while both children and adults in space suits work, slowly welding fresh sheet metal over the skeleton of the treehouse.
"It took nearly a month to gather the agents I could find and scrounge up enough ships and supplies to try and make it back to what was left of the moonbase. We took as many as we could, but…" She trails off. "When Grandfather unleashed his hordes, he didn't care who went where, who did what. Agents from Sector G were in Sector A, Sector C in Sector L. It was more scrambled than a Lil' Yipper crossword puzzle. And all the while, all those new villains popping up were tearing us apart." She shook her head. "Black Hat, Jasper, Aku… They're not like you and your henchmen. They're dangerous… They…" Her voice hitches.
The room was as quiet as an empty airlock.
"We left so many behind…"
The gaze of Moltar, immortalized by a giant bronze statue, came into view as it was hoisted up upon the surface of the moon. Beneath the boot of Moltar, you could make out the likeness of other villains, all of whom are being crushed beneath his giant, metal heel, yourself included. As you follow the gaze of the great metal Moltar, you see its gaze locked onto Earth.
Well, that seems normal.
You feel like you need to say something. Maybe an evil laugh? Perhaps mock her? But you didn't. You rationalize that it probably wasn't good form to interrupt a stirring monologue. Even if it wasn't from a villain.
"When we finally got here, we found the Moonbase already under Moltar's control. What kids had remained in the lower decks were already working with him under threat of being returned to Earth, or worse. When he hailed us, he didn't hide that our ships were in range of his array. So we cut a deal. We work for him, and he protects the Moonbase and us from villains like you."
The pointed accusation, and Numbuh 362's pointing finger jab you in the chest, reeling you back to reality.
"Like ME? You're the one working with that TWO-BIT space-SHOW-host."
"At least Moltar is willing to be reasoned with. Sure, he's not the best boss. But I had to protect the KND. If that means cooperation with an adult, then I'll do what I have to."
"So you sold out, HUH?"
There is a pause. And then you watch as Numbuh 362 turns back to face you. Her B.O.P.S.I.G.N. is in her hands as fast as you can process it, and 362 looks like she's going to pounce you right there. But she doesn't. Instead she simply looks at you with fury in her eyes before holstering it again.
"The only reason I agreed to let you on this station was that Moltar agreed to…" 362 trailed off slowly, the fight dropping out of her. "Nevermind. I guess I shouldn't have expected you to understand."
"AND why's that?"
"Because as much as you make it sound like you're the ultimate adult, you never learned to grow up."
You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Before you can properly even respond, a claxon goes off. Numbuh 362 nods to her guards.
"Alright Father. Show time."
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Hey hey hey! Welcome boys, girls, men, women, and all other genders and creatures to the world's number one rated show!"
The lights were glaring, the intro-music was awfully loud and you swear that the kids with the boom-mike had purposefully been trying to hit you on the head.
"It's Moltar!"
"Coast!"
"To!"
"Coooooooooooast!"
Once again, the theme song blasts across the soundstage. While you had previous show production experience with the Villain's Choice Awards, you had never seen anything of this scale, nor had you ever done it in space. You were sitting in a small, uncomfortable wooden chair that was either positively murder on your back if you tried to lean back, or made you slouch like a school boy sitting in the principal's office.
Of course, the view was nice. A wide, panoramic shot of space with a captured planetoid hanging in the background. A real, honest-to-goodness space shot. Digging your feet into the well-groomed shag carpet, you try to keep your focus on the strange, looming man that was Moltar.
At least, you assume he was a man.
Standing nearly seven feet tall, encased in what seemed to be an armored hazmat suit, Moltar was an intimidating figure. While his voice had a certain gravely "boom" to it that left an impact, meeting him in person was a more unnerving experience. The way his body moved so smoothly it didn't feel human, but neither was it robotic. Meanwhile, the blank, unchanging gaze of his visor practically stripped you. You try to avoid eye contact for a moment, waving to the empty audience chamber before you, but you could never tell where he was looking.
"And boy, do we have a great guest today! None other than Mr. Father himself!"
His arms sweep over to you, unrolling like tubes of toothpaste in reverse.
"Uh, Tha-"
Moltar seemed to pause for a moment even as he actively interrupted you. "Oh, wait, my apologies. Just double checking, Father's still good right?"
You blink, caught off guard.
"Yes?" You confirm uncertainly.
Moltar leans back, as if he'd expected that. "Oh, cool, cool. Just wanted to check, because you know, words out that you go by a few other names. Heard Patriarch was the most recent one." He says mildly. "Anything to say about that?"
That name again…. Patriarch. That gosh-darn Sooper hero name that people gave you after your little escapade in the North, fighting against those aliens. Truth be told, the name itself wasn't so bad. But the thought of being a good guy left an awful taste in your mouth. Worse yet, you knew for a fact that somewhere out there, children were buying comics made in your likeness, plucking them off shelves right next to Dinobonoid Action Weekly, Major Glory, and that insufferably immortal Rusty Venture paperback.
And not only that.
They were buying them.
And enjoying them.
The thought made your stomach do a flip, and it was only when Moltar spoke again did you snap back to attention.
"Father. Yo." Moltar interrupts, waving a hand in front of your face.
"HUH?"
"You had some sorta… Mental cataclysm there. Sorta fell in on yourself."
"Oh. Uh. Sorry."
"Ahuh… Annnnyways, didn't get an answer there." He says, looking at you expectantly. Probably looking at you.
"Right, Father is fine."
"Ah, I should of figured. Anywho, lets get on with the show! So, Father, tell me about the great white north, that country which you love so dear, Canada? Last time I checked, you decided to go ahead and save it. Any reason why a villain like you did something so charitable?"
You pause, scratching your chin for a moment and chewing on your pipe.
"Well, MOLTAR I mostly did IT to show those punk gems WHO the BOSS is. After all, can't let those ALIENS think they can just go invading us and stuff." You say, smugly satisfied about your victory.
"Ahuh." Moltar replies unconvincingly. "Yeah, but what about those military guys?"
"The what?"
"Yeah, the military. You seemed like you were working with them a lot."
"Oh. Right. WELL, I guess I only worked with them to a degree. You know, good ol' UNCLE Sam."
That only receives a stare from Moltar, although his visor makes it impossible to determine what kind of stare it precisely was.
"I thought you were British."
"...."
"And like, a bad guy?"
"WELL of course I'm a bad guy!"
Moltar remained silent for exactly long enough.
"...Are you?"
"What do you mean by THAT?"
"Well, like, you're a bad guy."
"Yes."
"So… You worked with the government to save Canada and/or America?"
You pinch the bridge of your nose. This was not going as planned.
"YES. Wait, NO."
"So you didn't work with the government."
"Eh…"
"Would you describe yourself as evil?"
"WELL OF COURSE."
"Fair point. But, just out of curiosity…."
As Moltar spoke, he pulls a small set of glasses from his hazmat suit pocket. It was a familiar motion to you, an instant sign of an appraisal or revelation to come. Or, worse, judgment. Picking up a small stack of papers, Moltar looks across them. Studying them. Picking them apart, just as a warrior might arm themselves before battle. Where such a predatory view of such a simple motion came from left you stupefied, but preparing for what would come next.
"Right, so you fought the KND. Bunch of freedom fighting terrorist-tots. Well, I mean, if you call fighting against 'Adult Tyranny' a bad thing."
"IT IS."
"Oh, so they're the bad guys, huh?"
"...Come again?"
"I mean, come on. You just said. The KND are the bad guys."
"Right."
"So you're the one in the right."
"Correct."
"So you're the good guy here, fighting for adults."
"WELL OF- wait, wait, wait, I AM fighting for adults!"
Moltar folds his hands and rests his elbows on the desk.
"Ah, gotcha, so you are the good guy."
"NO!"
"Well, I mean, your track record says 'Bad Guy'. You do a lot of bad things. And I think that's pretty cool, all things considered. But now you're here saying you're looking out for adults."
"BECAUSE I am. I AM the correct one here."
"So you're the morally correct choice."
"That is correct."
"Because you are fighting to protect the Adult way of life… Whatever that is."
"THE adult way of life is making sure we get to tell those kids whatever it IS we want them to do!"
"Gonna ignore the potential weird interpretations there and push forward. So you're fighting in the corner of the adults. Champion of… Lets see, barbecues, coffee, doing your taxes, whatever. You're doing the right thing. But you say you're a villain. Can you like… Explain how that even works?"
"HOW what works?"
"How you're both a bad guy and a good guy at the same time. Seems kinda… Paradoxical by your views. Kinda like how you think the KND are both bad and good at the same time."
"They're NOT both bad and good, they're all BAD children."
"Then what, you're a bad guy fighting bad guys? Who also happens to moonlight as an alien defender."
Now you were starting to think. And thinking tends to make you angry. Who was this molten-moron to call you a good guy… Er, a bad guy. A good-bad guy? In either case, he was really pushing his luck too far. But now you couldn't really call yourself a good guy, right? You were a villain. For pete's sake, you sponsored the VILLAINS choice awards. How could you possibly be a good guy? But then again, if you were the bad guy, then that would make the KND the good guy, right?
"...Yes."
Moltar took in your increasingly smoldering complexion.
"Ahuh. Well, here, why don't we take some guest callers and see what they have to say while I put on some of your greatest hits."
Tapping a button on his desk, a small TV-Drone deploys, showing some of your greatest schemes. Things like hijacking a satellite network and the KND code module to turn all of the KND agents into animals. Or that time he became the Supreme Leader of the KND because of that time he became an animal only to betray them and try and make them eat broccoli. That time almost worked too! If only you had used the KND's foolish total loyalty and trust to accomplish something more concrete! It also turns out you can't patent vegetables in general. Oh, and not to mention all those times you kidnapped children to force them to watch your… "Children"… eat cake.
—-----------------------------
Today, Hank Hill had finally resolved to finally get a handle on just what it was his company did. He'd gotten by as CEO up until this point following his gut and his boss's lead, but if he was going to be a good CEO (and dang it, Hank was gonna do his best) it was high time he sat down and did some research on 'Supervillainy.'
He tried the world wide web at first. That's what Bobby suggested. But Hank must've been even less tech savvy than he thought because all he kept getting were wanted lists and a bunch of listings for some 'Guild' recruiting apprentice underlings.
He had a go reading their website, but between 'Arch' this and 'Antagonist' that Hank was pretty sure there was too much trade jargon for him to wade through. It seemed legitimate at least. From what Hank gathered, it was some sort of old time union. Maybe that explained why his boss kept throwing him inordinate sums of money on top of the included dental.
He clicked over to a page displaying a detailed flow chart full of earning brackets, share percentages, and 'Equally Matched Aggression Levels'(?) and stared at it for about half a minute before he gave up the ghost.
Maybe it was time to try something else.
Hank plopped himself down in his lazy boy in front of the break room television. Kicking up his boots, he turned it on. Where the internet failed, good old cable news would see him through.
He flicked through channels. Lots of new shows on these days. Pretty wild stuff. He looked for something conservative, trustworthy, Texan or better yet, all of the above.
When he tuned in to MoonTV, he found it was none of those things. But he couldn't bring himself to switch away. Hank did a double take. He was watching grainy footage of hundreds and hundreds of children pouring out of a river and into a giant cake bowl, the tubes, the water, the kids, and their innertubes all mixing together into a gloopy mess of batter. The kids panicked, clinging to the sides of the bowl and their rafts as they clambered over each other like crabs in a bucket.
He watched as a fire lit up under the bowl.
A big fire.
A big, roaring inferno capable of baking a massive cake.
Capable of baking a massive, screaming cake full of live children.
And in front of the giant cannibal-cake is a black silhouette.
A black silhouette laughing and flinging balls of fire from his hands, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"HA HA HA, BOY DO I HATE CHILDREN!"
Hank responded in the only way he knew how.
"BWAAAAAH."
—----------------------------
As the clipshow rolled to a close it began to occur to you that:
"Oh! Our first call. Fabulous."
Moltar calls out before pulling down a chunky, boorish lever, like the kind Frankenstein used to make his monster. The TV switches, and in its place, there stood a monkey. Well, not just any monkey.
He was a chimp, no less.
A green chimp with a massive, cylindrical helmet that was practically half his height. Pink-shot eyes and a scowl as cold as ice-cream peers beyond the TV before you. He was dressed to the nines, a blue tunic, white boots and gloves and armor, and a menacing purple cloak adorning his frame. He was an intimidating caller for sure, but what perplexes you was how cognisant he looked.
His eyes flicker about you, peering and pouring across your black silhouette, never stopping for even a second. It was like he was trying to decide what to look at- Or perhaps, he never needs more than a few seconds to come to a conclusion before looking elsewhere. Even while he looks you over, you could see his face change, a cavalcade of emotions and thoughts and theorems- yes, theorems- hidden behind that green mug. You wondered what that big brain looked like.
You didn't have to wait long, both because of his immediate tirade and because of the point near the end where he took his helmet off to scratch it.
The big brain, you mean. Completely exposed.
"I have identified you as Father also known as The Patriarch also known as an alias upon which I will tenuously not say live on a widely broadcasted television program out of part of my respect for the creed of Supervillainy. I shall identify myself as the one and singular genius known as Mooooojo Jojo. And I, Mojo Jojo have contacted you, Father, to identify and comment and criticize and demonstrate as towards your complete inability and lack of capability to properly enact, execute and perform adequately as a villain against a organization composed mostly of prepubescent children who are not old nor mature enough to mount a defense against a competent evil-doer such as myself."
"What." You reply, unable to even make it a question. Moltar for his part is leaning into the ongoing tirade.
The monkey-
"Mojo Jojo!" Mojo Jojo demands.
-Mojo Jojo decides to simplify slightly for your primitive brain. "That is to say your schemes are childish, immature, underdeveloped. Clearly, your talents seemed optimized and more suited towards, I don't know," Mojo says, clearly knowing, "...cooking and serving baked goods."
"DID THAT monkey JUST tell ME I'd be a better BAKER?"
"Yeah, pretty sure he did. Weird too, since I thought Black Hat baked all your cakes." Moltar says, nodding in confirmation.
"WHAT."
"He runs it in his ads. Shows you and the kids and everything." Moltar replies, pointing at the screen.
Before the monkey could interject once more, the screen swapped over to an advertisement for the Black Hat Organization's premium Villain Package. To your surprise, you saw… Yourself accepting a cake from a pathetic man wearing a brown paper bag and a strange blue bear.. Plant… Creature… Thing. You'd practically be incandescent right now in rage if it weren't for the sole fact that the blue-bear-plant-creature-thing was cuter than the most adorable Rainbow Monkey.
"THAT string beaned posh PENCIL-PUSHER"
The screen changes, back to the scowling monkey face.
"As I was previously stating, which is to say what I was saying before I was cut off by an advertisement, was that I, Mojo Jojo, have far more effective, concise and better plotted plans to ensure my dominance and power in conjunction with ambition far outpacing your own. Unlike you, Father, the person I am currently directing my voice towards, I have already created a self-sufficient, highly advanced, or in other words, incredibly sophisticated society, organization, community and group of apes like myself. Already, I have begun to construct a highly refined, complex and intriguing culture and belief-system which will remain under my command due to a personalized set of codes, created by I, Mojo Jojo, as well as my stranglehold over the chemical substance that allows for us to continue my new societies propagation across the world."
"THAT. All."
You say between gritted teeth, practically digging grooves through your pipe that if played on a pipe-shaped record player would sound like the blast of a supernova. The monkey pauses. He taps a finger to his chin, looking back.
"That summarizes it, yes."
"Great to hear," Moltar says, flipping the screen off, in the non-offensive way. "Because we have another Guest Caller!"
"Great."
The TV changes once more, and this time, you are met with another weirdly colored animal. For a moment, you just look at a bear. And the bear looks back at you. Sure, it was a purple bear, wearing a nice suit with a lot of expensive pins, but it was obvious that the bear was probably not aware of what he was looking at, and to be perfectly fair, you weren't sure what you were looking at either. Oh, aside from a purple bear in a suit that is.
"Hello? Is this thing on? Hello?"
A richly accented voice came through on the line, dripping with an indiscernible yet undeniable spanish accent and filled with the bluster of a major generalisimo. Moltar chuckles to himself in a knowing way.
"Moltar! You do this every time! Scar, bring the monitor up!"
"As you wish," said a voice off screen, practically built from the very bricks and mortar of disdain and tedium. With a straining grunt, you hear someone manually crane the viewing screen up so that you can see the owner of the voice. This time it was not an animal, but rather, a part of the animal. Well, parts, plural, of an animal. Afterall, you consider a brain and eyeballs to be partially separate.
"Father! There you are! I can see him now, Scar, thank you."
For a sec, you really did feel like you were gonna hurl. You power through it, because if a trip through G-force to the moon didn't crack your stomach, you weren't about to let a little organic matter suspended in green ooze looking at you from a jar bolted to the head of a bear get to you.
"Now then, I have called- Hey, look me in the eye when I am talking to you! And not the stupid bear!"
'ER, sorry."
"Do not apologize! What kind of evil dictator apologizes! That is a sign of weakness!"
"BOLD words from a brain."
Moltar leans forward in response to the brewing drama.
"I will not be insulted by a man who wears a yellow and pink robe!" the brain insists.
"Do not forget the fluff, sir." came the voice again.
"Ah, yes, a pink and yellow robe with fluff! In fact, what kind of evil overlord works with the United States? Well, except Noriega. And Pinochet. Ooh, and Trujillo, he was fun. But other than those guys!!!"
"Okay, maybe helping the United States isn't the best way to be evil. But just because I'm the bad guy doesn't make me a BAD guy."
"I think you'll find it does," says the brain.
"Hector's got a point, Father," Moltar points out, reclining back in his chair.
"OH, so the brain has a NAME."
"Sí. I am Hector Con Carne, Supreme Generalisimo and commander of the military forces of the Southern Hemisphere-soon-to-be-called-Hectorsphere. And I have called in to show you what real evil leadership looks like!"
"Ahuh."
"Yes. You see, it is all about responsibility! I am a very responsible person. For example, I am responsible for my threats. And my clones. And my underlings' pay. And for the people of my country. And for many, many, many terroristic activities that overturned the democratic governments of a dozen nations. See? Very responsible."
Your hands were beginning to clench the char so hard that the plastic began to crack, but your own ambient temperature was melting it fast enough to fuse the shards back together. You wonder if Moltar will send you a bill for it, which only makes you madder.
"Your problem, Father, is that you waste time on children! Bah, such a stupid idea. Why waste time on helping people when you can help yourself, eh? Adults, children, all ought to be equally oppressed, don't you agree? And forced to work in sweatshops making delightful little trinkets that I can sell you gringos to make fat stacks of cash for ME! Why waste time fighting for other people when you could be CONQUERING THE WORLD for yourself?"
"Oh, and don't forget your loyal servants! You can conquer the world for people you like.. Or… Maybe even love?" came a positively chipper and morbidly-optimistic feminine voice.
"Aeaugh… Sure, I guess you can do that too. Not that I do, obviously, because love is a weak emotion. For the weak. Anywho, all I wanted to say is that you are weak. I will one day crush you. And also Moltar. Who still owes me an inter-"
"Oh, weird, strange, wow, the transmission cut out," Moltar said as he slowly pushes a lever forward. "Weird. Anyways, next guest caller! Normally I'd do the interviewing, but watching you seethe is entertainment all on its own."
"WATCH it BUCKET-head."
"Pfft. What are you gonna do, melt me?"
"Don't push it."
Moltar raises his hands placatingly. "Cool it hot-head. I think I've got enough for two more guests in me. Before you can debate it, he flips the screen again. "Let's see who the next caller is!"
The screen changes once more, and for a moment, you were afraid it was that loco-coco again or whoever. All you knew was that it was green, angry, and stunted. After a few moments, it begins to refocus, and presents you with someone semi-familiar.
"Greetings, Earth Clod."
She was a triangle headed, visor wearing, cape-adorned weirdo the color of mint ice-cream. She was also the commander of an alien invasion that had stripped most of Canada of life. She was also the person you specifically peeved off real bad by fighting her invasion and ruining her day on countless occurrences over the months.
"Hello Peri-DOT."
"It seems that we have finally come screen-to-screen at last. I believe your earthling designation identifies you as Father. Correct?"
"...Yes. Probably."
"Ha!" the green little gremlin snorted in a short victory. "You don't even know your own name for certain! You Earthlings are so easy to trick. No wonder you've stopped your assault. You know that if you were to continue your frivolous endeavors you'd still wind up losing!"
"I'm CERTAIN I kicked your green BUTT across THE GREAT white NORTH."
Peridot narrowed her eyes.
"I'll have it on the record that your boot was nowhere near my posterior during the entirety of your little escapade into Gem territory. So now you fabricate your achievements AND retreat. I'd ask why you don't pick on the ursine with a human cortex strapped to it, but I suppose anything involving brains isn't your specialty. It makes your pyrokinetic powers even more in line with my Human-Ruby equivalent theorem."
You were beginning to think Moltar was doing this on purpose, bringing a bunch of jerkish know–it-alls on the call to insult you. If he was, then it was rather hard to tell. Either way, you began to hate the callers more than you hate Moltar.
"I have BETTER things to do then BURN your pathetic little losers into POP-ROCK flavored ash. Maybe when you PROVIDE a more suitable challenge, I'll decide to allocate a little TIME for you."
"I will make you retract that statement and the carbon dioxide you emitted from your mouth you... you… TOTAL CLOD!"
There was a loud noise in the background. Peridot's bravado vanishes as she practically shrunk in her command chair.
"O-Oh, hello Jasper. Me? No, no- I was just using my… uh… commandeered transponder.. What do you mean you were watchi-"
In an instance, the view port drags away. It fumbles for a minute, and you and Moltar watch with confusion before a big, orange iris pops onto screen.
"Is this thing on?" booms a husky voice.
"Yes! It was operating perfectly until you snatched it from my hands. Besides, you're holding too close."
"Oh."
Pulling the screen back, you see a more familiar face. A face you had drop kicked. Also a face that had nearly given you a skull fracture.
Moltar kicks his feet up, his job done.
"Father."
"Jasper."
"I see you gave up on trying to fight us."
"It was beginning to get TIRESOME.."
Jasper snorts at that, but the sound of gritting teeth just barely makes it over the audio interface.
"Tiresome? Why don't you bring your inferior Earthling armies back and we'll have another go. Or are you gonna stick to softer targets? Like a moonbase full of runts?"
You narrow your eyes.
"I'll have you know, those kids are a BAJILLION times the menace YOU and your MOOD ROCKS could EVER be."
"Really? 'Cause I was watching that Moltorian's little clip show. Seems you only ever pick on earthlings weaker than you." Jasper showed all her teeth. "You're not a soldier. You're a bully."
"WHO gives a darn?"
You immediately blanch and turn back to Moltar.
"Am I allowed to swear on TV?" You whispered.
"Uhh. Sure." Moltar shrugs..
You snap back to Jasper.
"What's the difference? I still beat you, FAIR and SQUARE!"
Jasper folds her arms, her wolflike grin growing wider. "The difference, 'Patriarch', is that a soldier won't stop until she's strong enough to win. Maybe you think you're tough for beating up a bunch of brats, but I bet you've never actually had to fight for your life. Have you?" She laughs. "You're strong for an earth pest. Strong enough you caught me off guard. But what'll you do when I give you the first real fight you've ever had in your life? Will you still be so tough then? Or are you gonna run home for ice cream once I start giving you some bruises?"
"Oh, you want to LOSE again that bad?"
"No. I want another chance to smash your face in."
"AS if. If I bothered to come up to your little SNOWFORT again, I'd just whoop you again. No toys or gizmos would stop me from UTTERLY defeating you once more. Not like your weak little rock-heads pose much of a threat."
You can hear the screen crack in Jasper's hand, and for once during this interview, you begin to feel good about yourself.
"Then maybe I should make an excursion down south. I want a rematch, and this time, no annoying subordinates interfering."
"YOU think I need Izzy to beat you? What a posiTIVELY deluded belief."
"Fine by me. I can't wait to show exactly how weak you humans are. No matter what you can do, you're still a product of this world, and I'll shatter you like all the others."
"We. Shall. See."
"I'll be waiting. But not for long."
"Jasper, please don't break my-"
Despite Peridot's plea, Jasper crushes the transponder in her hand, ending the transmission as the screen blacks out. That leaves you alone with Moltar in the studio.
"Wow! Talk about a searing exchange!" Moltar laughs as you smolder. "Personally, Father, I always say you shouldn't let them get to you. After all, you're the bigger man, right?"
"YOU know MOLTAR, I think you have a point there."
Moltar nods at you for a moment, then tilts his head. "Oh, by the way, Mandark couldn't make it, but they wanted me to tell you his robot was bigger than yours."
"That LITTLE BRAT!"
Before your inferno can reach the ceiling, a gentle ring emanates from Moltar's desk.
"Huh. A call on the landline. Didn't even know that still worked."
He picks up the receiver, looking at it awkwardly and then placing it just as awkwardly against his massive, earless, dome-shaped head.
"Ahuh." Moltar says.
"Ahuh." Moltar agrees.
"Ahuh." Moltar elucidates.
Moltar nods with each 'Ahuh' before holding the phone out to you, leaning forward excitedly. Well, as excited a lava man truly can be.
"It's for you."
With that he passes it over, turning on the audio for everyone to hear.
"Mr. Father, that you?"
Oh. Finally. A friendly voice.
It was Hank.
He was probably going to be giving you some sort of business report, or some sort of update on a project and he was just too excited to wait for you to get back. You like that about Hank. Good Ol' Hank. Always with good news and a can-do attitude.
"Father sir… Why exactly do you hate children?"
Oh.
Ooooh no.
Well. This was it. The cherry on top of this garbage fire sundae.
How do you even respond to that?
You need to decide how Father will respond to Hank's Question. This will have impacts on Hank's relationship, as well as impact other's perceptions of you.
[X] DOUBLE DOWN
AND YOU'LL DO IT AGAIN
Kids. Are. AWFUL. Seriously. You hate children. You've always hated children. You hate everything about children. The way they eat, the way they walk, the way they blow bubbles with their gum and eat all the good ice cream. You despise the very concept of Children. Everything about them is an affront to you. The universes' greatest mistake was not popping out fully formed adults like a functional natural order would. Why do you hate children? Because they're not adults. Because they ruin the things you want. Because you were raised that way. Because they are not you. That is why you hate children, and you tell that to Hank with a fire in your voice.
[X] DENY, DENY, DENY
That was taken out of context!
Hank's question is not one you really wanted to hear. Why do you hate children? Finding an answer is very, very difficult. Well, difficult to do when you're already in a bad mood and afraid of scaring away one of your best workers. So, you do what you always did when you got caught red-handed. Deny it. You don't hate children. God that hurts to even think. Clearly, those children were… Intruding into a reservoir. OBVIOUSLY, you lie, there were signs. Them getting into the giant cake pan was no fault of your own and entirely unexpected. Infact... You were just having a… bad day. With all those children in your… reservoir. Anyone would have declared their undying hatred for all things childhood in such circumstances! Why, you were actually just trying to make a de-licious cake for your de-lightful children's birthday- speaking of which, if anyone has seen them, please, send all possible information to this extremely distracting phone number-
[X] DISOWN IT
We all do some things we eventually come to regret. Like filming it.
You'd… never do that to children… again… without a good reason…
Besides, you don't need to! With the war against children won, it's now time to focus on what really makes Adulthood worth adulting: soul-sucking corporate power structures and weekly barbeque supplies. Buy AdultCo! Every piece of coal and sheaf of paper bought goes straight to the war effort! The Canadian orphans will thank you! Everyone likes to see their hard work recognized…
[X] Write in…
Maybe you have a different idea… Note, I will dismiss anything Father would not say or that I think are supremely dumb or stupid or bad or lame-o.
20 HOUR MORATORIUM
It's practically surreal for you to step into what once had been the stronghold of your most hated enemy.
You recount the numerous times you had personally led your allies into the belly of the beast, fighting through winding corridors patched together out of sheet-metal, chewing gum, and wooden planks. While you had always hated the KND, and by extent, their obnoxious contraptions, you'd always held a begrudging respect for their moonbase - if only because of its staggering weaponry. It had taken nearly every ship Stickybeard could scrounge together plus the entire yearly budget of Adult Co.'s spaceflight R&D division to amass a force big enough to assault it with any hope of success.
The location of the Moonbase kept it safe from all but your most dedicated attacks, while conversely providing the KND with the ability to monitor and reinforce their assets in any part of the world as needed.
As for the base itself, it was a marvel of KND engineering, pushing 2x4 technology to its total limits. Entire looted greenhouses' worth of plants and O2 tanks provide oxygen along with hydromatic-rebreatherlyzers to constantly refresh the teeming hordes of hamsters on wheels that power the duct-tape colossus. Armories filled with fleets of vehicles and arsenals of soda-poppers, splankers, gumballers and more line the reinforced cardboard halls, capable of equipping entire legions of ankle-biters with enough ramshackle weaponry to overwhelm a thousand PTA meetings. Entire starports the size of minimalls were filled with S.C.A.M.P.E.R.S, C.O.O.L.B.U.S., P.I.P.E.P.O.D.S., and E.L.I.M.O.N.A.T.O.R.S. kept constantly fueled for emergency deployment. Not to mention research labs where the KND's nerdiest agents built new headaches for you to deal with, the training academies full of fresh faced first grade cadets, the hallowed halls of childhood memorials, and whatever other junk they came up with to fill space up here.
The Moonbase had always been a constant Splinter of Damocles that hung over you in the night sky. Every time you looked up at the moon, you felt a flicker of hate and another scheme brewing. Now it was plastered roots to trunk with kitschy posters of a lava man talk show host.
Or at least, what was left of it was.
You were dumbfounded for a moment upon arrival. Over half of it was missing. Only the stubby base of the tree remained. All that wreckage you'd been buried in made a lot of sense now.
So that was what they'd dropped.
What had once been a shining beacon of freedom to thousands of children, a monument that'd taken generations of KND to build, had been smashed down on your head like a big leafy missile.
And to top it all off, it still hadn't killed you. It hadn't changed anything. All that childhood whimsy weaponized for nothing.
That fact alone almost brought a tear to your eye, though smug satisfaction at the destruction of the moonbase vanished as Moltar's guest pod neared the docking port. Attached to the side of the building, and digging into the surface of the moon itself, were miles of construction scaffolding teeming with ant-like swarms of workers. An overwhelming construction project. Tunnels and chambers spread out across the surface of the moon, reaching out from the darkside like red and silver tendrils from a great shadowy beast, the yellow lights of facilities and gun platforms gleaming like hungry eyes of an alien beast.
Somehow, despite all its industrious activity, the moon looks empty. The hollow absence of the moonbase's brilliant branches made an annoying itch pop into the back of your head. All those years you spent trying to destroy it. All those schemes, those plots, those plans. The very emblem of the KND; reduced to a stump of its former self---and they'd done it to themselves.
A chill as cold as the void outside the vessel settled around your shoulders. Here you were, the KND's rightful archnemesis, getting antsy about them blowing up their stupid fort. You tried to brush it off, but the uncertainty still stuck to you, like a frozen wad of bubblegum in your hair.
Nestled deep within the ruins of the stump was your destination; a strange amalgamation of broadcast station and weapons platform, built directly into the remaining KND structures. No matter how many times you pester or demand, the diminutive agent piloting the modified S.C.A.M.P.E.R. only gave generic, polite responses. Either this kid had the patience of a saint, or something else was going on here. But it didn't matter. The vessel flew into the dock and you took a step out the door and onto a red carpet.
Everything looks different, just as it had on the outside. Except the interior remodeling was far from intimidating. It was almost… Tacky. No. No, it was definitely tacky. It was like someone had transformed a space drydock into a ritzy studio. Well, a studio from the 80s that someone had tried to make look ritzy. Posters of Moltar's bucket-mug-face lined the walls and dazzling lights guided you along your way to the front desk, where another child, this one a bit more nervous at the sight of you, signs you in. As she explains it, this area has been modified into a reception room intended to receive Moltar's guest stars. You couldn't help but feel a strange pit in your gut. Like looking at a familiar street that was in the process of being completely remodeled.
A handful of loose plyboards and chunks of random incorporated buildings betrays the place's KND origins. But most of the room was painted over in a mundane, if futuristic, shade of beige. Dusty old carpeting that'd probably been fancy at one point covered the floor. Where necessary, parts of the walls and floor had been patched up with new sheets of metal that still had a sleek, steel finish. Overall, the parts of the base you'd seen so far looks like the hodge-podge child architecture was being slowly tamed and built over to a standard fit pattern.
Sitting on a rather luxurious chair, you twiddle your thumbs and look closely around the room. No ice cream machines or candy bar vendors. In their place was a coffee machine dispensing an unfathomable array of caffeinated drinks. You could spot the old canteen around the corner, but from the signs you could read, they'd traded kiddy fare for a more… diverse selection. You watch a kid in a khaki uniform restock it with crates of granola bars, freeze-dried space squid, roast crickets, and dolphin-chow.
Confused as you are, you didn't dare make a ruckus, besides to say that the kid is doing a bad job. Gotta crush that spirit where you can, you know. Plus, without a spaceship of your own, your host could strand you up here in this warped funhouse mirror of the moonbase. It only took a few minutes for someone to finally arrive to properly greet you; and it was a good thing too, you were running out of Villain's Digest to read.
A child arrives, flanked by what you recognize as KND Elite Operatives dressed in space-age power armor and wielding heavy duty 2x4 weapons that made a M.E.C.K.S.I.C.A.N.N.O.N. look like a water balloon.
The head of the two elites was precisely as unhappy to see you as you were to see her. You nearly fail to recognise her under all that scary stormtrooper getup, but that stupid colander samurai helmet gives her dead away.
"YOU."
In an instant, you snap to your feet.
"NUMBUH 362. I should have KNOWN that this was a trap!"
Flames flicker into your hand. The guards tense up. But the young commander simply shook her head in frustration.
"This isn't a trap, Father."
You won't buy that line so easily. Numbuh 362 obviously sees that, because she keeps her finger on the trigger.
"Uh-HUH. Like I'm SUPPOSED to believe that?"
"I'm telling the truth. I'm only here to retrieve you for your segment on the show. Now, as Moltar's Second In Command, I'm gonna have to ask you to-"
You nearly choke on the laughter as it bursts out of you. Your sheer surprise leaves you doubling over for a hot minute before you can catch your breath again.
"Wait wait wait. WAIT A SECOND. YOU are telling me that you work for Moltar?"
Numbuh 362 grits her teeth, your reaction clearly isn't making it easier to admit.
"Yes. I work for Moltar."
She spits out the words with not a small amount of bitterness. That only makes your satisfaction greater.
"HA! Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"GEE, and here I was thinking you were all MIND-CONTROLLED or something! I thought, NEVER in a BAJILLIION years would the MIGHTY Kids Next Door, let ALONE their SUPREME Commander WILLINGLY serve an adult."
Numbuh 362 is broiling. Steam is practically pouring from the colander on her head.
"You're one to talk! I did what I had to do to protect the kids under my command!"
"OH, of course little MISS responsible as usual!"
The guards back away as Numbuh 362 steps forward, getting in your face in the way that only a girl who had to organize a global network of anti-adult agents could.
"You don't know the first thing about responsibility. Tell me, when was the last time you checked on your own soopervillians, huh?"
That put you on the back foot.
"Well, uh, I-"
"Oh, that's right! They were all left trapped under a moonbase worth of wreckage, leaderless and helpless! Unlike you, I didn't have the choice to pack up and take a vacation. Do you have any idea how hard it is to organize global supply lines without a credit card? Let alone get enough snacks and water up here every month for a thousand hungry kids!"
From the sound of it, it seems like she's never had a vacation in the first place. But she quickly regains control and turns to gaze out of a nearby window before letting out a deep, heavy sigh.
Silence fills the room before she begins to speak again.
"Following the defeat of Grandfather, the KND were in shambles. Communications were down, Treehouses were in ruin, and I'd just woken up surrounded by screams burning metal."
Her eyes land on the ongoing construction. Mechanical robots lug heavy materials, while both children and adults in space suits work, slowly welding fresh sheet metal over the skeleton of the treehouse.
"It took nearly a month to gather the agents I could find and scrounge up enough ships and supplies to try and make it back to what was left of the moonbase. We took as many as we could, but…" She trails off. "When Grandfather unleashed his hordes, he didn't care who went where, who did what. Agents from Sector G were in Sector A, Sector C in Sector L. It was more scrambled than a Lil' Yipper crossword puzzle. And all the while, all those new villains popping up were tearing us apart." She shook her head. "Black Hat, Jasper, Aku… They're not like you and your henchmen. They're dangerous… They…" Her voice hitches.
The room was as quiet as an empty airlock.
"We left so many behind…"
The gaze of Moltar, immortalized by a giant bronze statue, came into view as it was hoisted up upon the surface of the moon. Beneath the boot of Moltar, you could make out the likeness of other villains, all of whom are being crushed beneath his giant, metal heel, yourself included. As you follow the gaze of the great metal Moltar, you see its gaze locked onto Earth.
Well, that seems normal.
You feel like you need to say something. Maybe an evil laugh? Perhaps mock her? But you didn't. You rationalize that it probably wasn't good form to interrupt a stirring monologue. Even if it wasn't from a villain.
"When we finally got here, we found the Moonbase already under Moltar's control. What kids had remained in the lower decks were already working with him under threat of being returned to Earth, or worse. When he hailed us, he didn't hide that our ships were in range of his array. So we cut a deal. We work for him, and he protects the Moonbase and us from villains like you."
The pointed accusation, and Numbuh 362's pointing finger jab you in the chest, reeling you back to reality.
"Like ME? You're the one working with that TWO-BIT space-SHOW-host."
"At least Moltar is willing to be reasoned with. Sure, he's not the best boss. But I had to protect the KND. If that means cooperation with an adult, then I'll do what I have to."
"So you sold out, HUH?"
There is a pause. And then you watch as Numbuh 362 turns back to face you. Her B.O.P.S.I.G.N. is in her hands as fast as you can process it, and 362 looks like she's going to pounce you right there. But she doesn't. Instead she simply looks at you with fury in her eyes before holstering it again.
"The only reason I agreed to let you on this station was that Moltar agreed to…" 362 trailed off slowly, the fight dropping out of her. "Nevermind. I guess I shouldn't have expected you to understand."
"AND why's that?"
"Because as much as you make it sound like you're the ultimate adult, you never learned to grow up."
You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Before you can properly even respond, a claxon goes off. Numbuh 362 nods to her guards.
"Alright Father. Show time."
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Hey hey hey! Welcome boys, girls, men, women, and all other genders and creatures to the world's number one rated show!"
The lights were glaring, the intro-music was awfully loud and you swear that the kids with the boom-mike had purposefully been trying to hit you on the head.
"It's Moltar!"
"Coast!"
"To!"
"Coooooooooooast!"
Once again, the theme song blasts across the soundstage. While you had previous show production experience with the Villain's Choice Awards, you had never seen anything of this scale, nor had you ever done it in space. You were sitting in a small, uncomfortable wooden chair that was either positively murder on your back if you tried to lean back, or made you slouch like a school boy sitting in the principal's office.
Of course, the view was nice. A wide, panoramic shot of space with a captured planetoid hanging in the background. A real, honest-to-goodness space shot. Digging your feet into the well-groomed shag carpet, you try to keep your focus on the strange, looming man that was Moltar.
At least, you assume he was a man.
Standing nearly seven feet tall, encased in what seemed to be an armored hazmat suit, Moltar was an intimidating figure. While his voice had a certain gravely "boom" to it that left an impact, meeting him in person was a more unnerving experience. The way his body moved so smoothly it didn't feel human, but neither was it robotic. Meanwhile, the blank, unchanging gaze of his visor practically stripped you. You try to avoid eye contact for a moment, waving to the empty audience chamber before you, but you could never tell where he was looking.
"And boy, do we have a great guest today! None other than Mr. Father himself!"
His arms sweep over to you, unrolling like tubes of toothpaste in reverse.
"Uh, Tha-"
Moltar seemed to pause for a moment even as he actively interrupted you. "Oh, wait, my apologies. Just double checking, Father's still good right?"
You blink, caught off guard.
"Yes?" You confirm uncertainly.
Moltar leans back, as if he'd expected that. "Oh, cool, cool. Just wanted to check, because you know, words out that you go by a few other names. Heard Patriarch was the most recent one." He says mildly. "Anything to say about that?"
That name again…. Patriarch. That gosh-darn Sooper hero name that people gave you after your little escapade in the North, fighting against those aliens. Truth be told, the name itself wasn't so bad. But the thought of being a good guy left an awful taste in your mouth. Worse yet, you knew for a fact that somewhere out there, children were buying comics made in your likeness, plucking them off shelves right next to Dinobonoid Action Weekly, Major Glory, and that insufferably immortal Rusty Venture paperback.
And not only that.
They were buying them.
And enjoying them.
The thought made your stomach do a flip, and it was only when Moltar spoke again did you snap back to attention.
"Father. Yo." Moltar interrupts, waving a hand in front of your face.
"HUH?"
"You had some sorta… Mental cataclysm there. Sorta fell in on yourself."
"Oh. Uh. Sorry."
"Ahuh… Annnnyways, didn't get an answer there." He says, looking at you expectantly. Probably looking at you.
"Right, Father is fine."
"Ah, I should of figured. Anywho, lets get on with the show! So, Father, tell me about the great white north, that country which you love so dear, Canada? Last time I checked, you decided to go ahead and save it. Any reason why a villain like you did something so charitable?"
You pause, scratching your chin for a moment and chewing on your pipe.
"Well, MOLTAR I mostly did IT to show those punk gems WHO the BOSS is. After all, can't let those ALIENS think they can just go invading us and stuff." You say, smugly satisfied about your victory.
"Ahuh." Moltar replies unconvincingly. "Yeah, but what about those military guys?"
"The what?"
"Yeah, the military. You seemed like you were working with them a lot."
"Oh. Right. WELL, I guess I only worked with them to a degree. You know, good ol' UNCLE Sam."
That only receives a stare from Moltar, although his visor makes it impossible to determine what kind of stare it precisely was.
"I thought you were British."
"...."
"And like, a bad guy?"
"WELL of course I'm a bad guy!"
Moltar remained silent for exactly long enough.
"...Are you?"
"What do you mean by THAT?"
"Well, like, you're a bad guy."
"Yes."
"So… You worked with the government to save Canada and/or America?"
You pinch the bridge of your nose. This was not going as planned.
"YES. Wait, NO."
"So you didn't work with the government."
"Eh…"
"Would you describe yourself as evil?"
"WELL OF COURSE."
"Fair point. But, just out of curiosity…."
As Moltar spoke, he pulls a small set of glasses from his hazmat suit pocket. It was a familiar motion to you, an instant sign of an appraisal or revelation to come. Or, worse, judgment. Picking up a small stack of papers, Moltar looks across them. Studying them. Picking them apart, just as a warrior might arm themselves before battle. Where such a predatory view of such a simple motion came from left you stupefied, but preparing for what would come next.
"Right, so you fought the KND. Bunch of freedom fighting terrorist-tots. Well, I mean, if you call fighting against 'Adult Tyranny' a bad thing."
"IT IS."
"Oh, so they're the bad guys, huh?"
"...Come again?"
"I mean, come on. You just said. The KND are the bad guys."
"Right."
"So you're the one in the right."
"Correct."
"So you're the good guy here, fighting for adults."
"WELL OF- wait, wait, wait, I AM fighting for adults!"
Moltar folds his hands and rests his elbows on the desk.
"Ah, gotcha, so you are the good guy."
"NO!"
"Well, I mean, your track record says 'Bad Guy'. You do a lot of bad things. And I think that's pretty cool, all things considered. But now you're here saying you're looking out for adults."
"BECAUSE I am. I AM the correct one here."
"So you're the morally correct choice."
"That is correct."
"Because you are fighting to protect the Adult way of life… Whatever that is."
"THE adult way of life is making sure we get to tell those kids whatever it IS we want them to do!"
"Gonna ignore the potential weird interpretations there and push forward. So you're fighting in the corner of the adults. Champion of… Lets see, barbecues, coffee, doing your taxes, whatever. You're doing the right thing. But you say you're a villain. Can you like… Explain how that even works?"
"HOW what works?"
"How you're both a bad guy and a good guy at the same time. Seems kinda… Paradoxical by your views. Kinda like how you think the KND are both bad and good at the same time."
"They're NOT both bad and good, they're all BAD children."
"Then what, you're a bad guy fighting bad guys? Who also happens to moonlight as an alien defender."
Now you were starting to think. And thinking tends to make you angry. Who was this molten-moron to call you a good guy… Er, a bad guy. A good-bad guy? In either case, he was really pushing his luck too far. But now you couldn't really call yourself a good guy, right? You were a villain. For pete's sake, you sponsored the VILLAINS choice awards. How could you possibly be a good guy? But then again, if you were the bad guy, then that would make the KND the good guy, right?
"...Yes."
Moltar took in your increasingly smoldering complexion.
"Ahuh. Well, here, why don't we take some guest callers and see what they have to say while I put on some of your greatest hits."
Tapping a button on his desk, a small TV-Drone deploys, showing some of your greatest schemes. Things like hijacking a satellite network and the KND code module to turn all of the KND agents into animals. Or that time he became the Supreme Leader of the KND because of that time he became an animal only to betray them and try and make them eat broccoli. That time almost worked too! If only you had used the KND's foolish total loyalty and trust to accomplish something more concrete! It also turns out you can't patent vegetables in general. Oh, and not to mention all those times you kidnapped children to force them to watch your… "Children"… eat cake.
—-----------------------------
Today, Hank Hill had finally resolved to finally get a handle on just what it was his company did. He'd gotten by as CEO up until this point following his gut and his boss's lead, but if he was going to be a good CEO (and dang it, Hank was gonna do his best) it was high time he sat down and did some research on 'Supervillainy.'
He tried the world wide web at first. That's what Bobby suggested. But Hank must've been even less tech savvy than he thought because all he kept getting were wanted lists and a bunch of listings for some 'Guild' recruiting apprentice underlings.
He had a go reading their website, but between 'Arch' this and 'Antagonist' that Hank was pretty sure there was too much trade jargon for him to wade through. It seemed legitimate at least. From what Hank gathered, it was some sort of old time union. Maybe that explained why his boss kept throwing him inordinate sums of money on top of the included dental.
He clicked over to a page displaying a detailed flow chart full of earning brackets, share percentages, and 'Equally Matched Aggression Levels'(?) and stared at it for about half a minute before he gave up the ghost.
Maybe it was time to try something else.
Hank plopped himself down in his lazy boy in front of the break room television. Kicking up his boots, he turned it on. Where the internet failed, good old cable news would see him through.
He flicked through channels. Lots of new shows on these days. Pretty wild stuff. He looked for something conservative, trustworthy, Texan or better yet, all of the above.
When he tuned in to MoonTV, he found it was none of those things. But he couldn't bring himself to switch away. Hank did a double take. He was watching grainy footage of hundreds and hundreds of children pouring out of a river and into a giant cake bowl, the tubes, the water, the kids, and their innertubes all mixing together into a gloopy mess of batter. The kids panicked, clinging to the sides of the bowl and their rafts as they clambered over each other like crabs in a bucket.
He watched as a fire lit up under the bowl.
A big fire.
A big, roaring inferno capable of baking a massive cake.
Capable of baking a massive, screaming cake full of live children.
And in front of the giant cannibal-cake is a black silhouette.
A black silhouette laughing and flinging balls of fire from his hands, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"HA HA HA, BOY DO I HATE CHILDREN!"
Hank responded in the only way he knew how.
"BWAAAAAH."
—----------------------------
As the clipshow rolled to a close it began to occur to you that:
- All of your plans typically revolved around the KND.
- You really picked on children.
- Your plans might have deserved another looksie or two.
"Oh! Our first call. Fabulous."
Moltar calls out before pulling down a chunky, boorish lever, like the kind Frankenstein used to make his monster. The TV switches, and in its place, there stood a monkey. Well, not just any monkey.
He was a chimp, no less.
A green chimp with a massive, cylindrical helmet that was practically half his height. Pink-shot eyes and a scowl as cold as ice-cream peers beyond the TV before you. He was dressed to the nines, a blue tunic, white boots and gloves and armor, and a menacing purple cloak adorning his frame. He was an intimidating caller for sure, but what perplexes you was how cognisant he looked.
His eyes flicker about you, peering and pouring across your black silhouette, never stopping for even a second. It was like he was trying to decide what to look at- Or perhaps, he never needs more than a few seconds to come to a conclusion before looking elsewhere. Even while he looks you over, you could see his face change, a cavalcade of emotions and thoughts and theorems- yes, theorems- hidden behind that green mug. You wondered what that big brain looked like.
You didn't have to wait long, both because of his immediate tirade and because of the point near the end where he took his helmet off to scratch it.
The big brain, you mean. Completely exposed.
"I have identified you as Father also known as The Patriarch also known as an alias upon which I will tenuously not say live on a widely broadcasted television program out of part of my respect for the creed of Supervillainy. I shall identify myself as the one and singular genius known as Mooooojo Jojo. And I, Mojo Jojo have contacted you, Father, to identify and comment and criticize and demonstrate as towards your complete inability and lack of capability to properly enact, execute and perform adequately as a villain against a organization composed mostly of prepubescent children who are not old nor mature enough to mount a defense against a competent evil-doer such as myself."
"What." You reply, unable to even make it a question. Moltar for his part is leaning into the ongoing tirade.
The monkey-
"Mojo Jojo!" Mojo Jojo demands.
-Mojo Jojo decides to simplify slightly for your primitive brain. "That is to say your schemes are childish, immature, underdeveloped. Clearly, your talents seemed optimized and more suited towards, I don't know," Mojo says, clearly knowing, "...cooking and serving baked goods."
"DID THAT monkey JUST tell ME I'd be a better BAKER?"
"Yeah, pretty sure he did. Weird too, since I thought Black Hat baked all your cakes." Moltar says, nodding in confirmation.
"WHAT."
"He runs it in his ads. Shows you and the kids and everything." Moltar replies, pointing at the screen.
Before the monkey could interject once more, the screen swapped over to an advertisement for the Black Hat Organization's premium Villain Package. To your surprise, you saw… Yourself accepting a cake from a pathetic man wearing a brown paper bag and a strange blue bear.. Plant… Creature… Thing. You'd practically be incandescent right now in rage if it weren't for the sole fact that the blue-bear-plant-creature-thing was cuter than the most adorable Rainbow Monkey.
"THAT string beaned posh PENCIL-PUSHER"
The screen changes, back to the scowling monkey face.
"As I was previously stating, which is to say what I was saying before I was cut off by an advertisement, was that I, Mojo Jojo, have far more effective, concise and better plotted plans to ensure my dominance and power in conjunction with ambition far outpacing your own. Unlike you, Father, the person I am currently directing my voice towards, I have already created a self-sufficient, highly advanced, or in other words, incredibly sophisticated society, organization, community and group of apes like myself. Already, I have begun to construct a highly refined, complex and intriguing culture and belief-system which will remain under my command due to a personalized set of codes, created by I, Mojo Jojo, as well as my stranglehold over the chemical substance that allows for us to continue my new societies propagation across the world."
"THAT. All."
You say between gritted teeth, practically digging grooves through your pipe that if played on a pipe-shaped record player would sound like the blast of a supernova. The monkey pauses. He taps a finger to his chin, looking back.
"That summarizes it, yes."
"Great to hear," Moltar says, flipping the screen off, in the non-offensive way. "Because we have another Guest Caller!"
"Great."
The TV changes once more, and this time, you are met with another weirdly colored animal. For a moment, you just look at a bear. And the bear looks back at you. Sure, it was a purple bear, wearing a nice suit with a lot of expensive pins, but it was obvious that the bear was probably not aware of what he was looking at, and to be perfectly fair, you weren't sure what you were looking at either. Oh, aside from a purple bear in a suit that is.
"Hello? Is this thing on? Hello?"
A richly accented voice came through on the line, dripping with an indiscernible yet undeniable spanish accent and filled with the bluster of a major generalisimo. Moltar chuckles to himself in a knowing way.
"Moltar! You do this every time! Scar, bring the monitor up!"
"As you wish," said a voice off screen, practically built from the very bricks and mortar of disdain and tedium. With a straining grunt, you hear someone manually crane the viewing screen up so that you can see the owner of the voice. This time it was not an animal, but rather, a part of the animal. Well, parts, plural, of an animal. Afterall, you consider a brain and eyeballs to be partially separate.
"Father! There you are! I can see him now, Scar, thank you."
For a sec, you really did feel like you were gonna hurl. You power through it, because if a trip through G-force to the moon didn't crack your stomach, you weren't about to let a little organic matter suspended in green ooze looking at you from a jar bolted to the head of a bear get to you.
"Now then, I have called- Hey, look me in the eye when I am talking to you! And not the stupid bear!"
'ER, sorry."
"Do not apologize! What kind of evil dictator apologizes! That is a sign of weakness!"
"BOLD words from a brain."
Moltar leans forward in response to the brewing drama.
"I will not be insulted by a man who wears a yellow and pink robe!" the brain insists.
"Do not forget the fluff, sir." came the voice again.
"Ah, yes, a pink and yellow robe with fluff! In fact, what kind of evil overlord works with the United States? Well, except Noriega. And Pinochet. Ooh, and Trujillo, he was fun. But other than those guys!!!"
"Okay, maybe helping the United States isn't the best way to be evil. But just because I'm the bad guy doesn't make me a BAD guy."
"I think you'll find it does," says the brain.
"Hector's got a point, Father," Moltar points out, reclining back in his chair.
"OH, so the brain has a NAME."
"Sí. I am Hector Con Carne, Supreme Generalisimo and commander of the military forces of the Southern Hemisphere-soon-to-be-called-Hectorsphere. And I have called in to show you what real evil leadership looks like!"
"Ahuh."
"Yes. You see, it is all about responsibility! I am a very responsible person. For example, I am responsible for my threats. And my clones. And my underlings' pay. And for the people of my country. And for many, many, many terroristic activities that overturned the democratic governments of a dozen nations. See? Very responsible."
Your hands were beginning to clench the char so hard that the plastic began to crack, but your own ambient temperature was melting it fast enough to fuse the shards back together. You wonder if Moltar will send you a bill for it, which only makes you madder.
"Your problem, Father, is that you waste time on children! Bah, such a stupid idea. Why waste time on helping people when you can help yourself, eh? Adults, children, all ought to be equally oppressed, don't you agree? And forced to work in sweatshops making delightful little trinkets that I can sell you gringos to make fat stacks of cash for ME! Why waste time fighting for other people when you could be CONQUERING THE WORLD for yourself?"
"Oh, and don't forget your loyal servants! You can conquer the world for people you like.. Or… Maybe even love?" came a positively chipper and morbidly-optimistic feminine voice.
"Aeaugh… Sure, I guess you can do that too. Not that I do, obviously, because love is a weak emotion. For the weak. Anywho, all I wanted to say is that you are weak. I will one day crush you. And also Moltar. Who still owes me an inter-"
"Oh, weird, strange, wow, the transmission cut out," Moltar said as he slowly pushes a lever forward. "Weird. Anyways, next guest caller! Normally I'd do the interviewing, but watching you seethe is entertainment all on its own."
"WATCH it BUCKET-head."
"Pfft. What are you gonna do, melt me?"
"Don't push it."
Moltar raises his hands placatingly. "Cool it hot-head. I think I've got enough for two more guests in me. Before you can debate it, he flips the screen again. "Let's see who the next caller is!"
The screen changes once more, and for a moment, you were afraid it was that loco-coco again or whoever. All you knew was that it was green, angry, and stunted. After a few moments, it begins to refocus, and presents you with someone semi-familiar.
"Greetings, Earth Clod."
She was a triangle headed, visor wearing, cape-adorned weirdo the color of mint ice-cream. She was also the commander of an alien invasion that had stripped most of Canada of life. She was also the person you specifically peeved off real bad by fighting her invasion and ruining her day on countless occurrences over the months.
"Hello Peri-DOT."
"It seems that we have finally come screen-to-screen at last. I believe your earthling designation identifies you as Father. Correct?"
"...Yes. Probably."
"Ha!" the green little gremlin snorted in a short victory. "You don't even know your own name for certain! You Earthlings are so easy to trick. No wonder you've stopped your assault. You know that if you were to continue your frivolous endeavors you'd still wind up losing!"
"I'm CERTAIN I kicked your green BUTT across THE GREAT white NORTH."
Peridot narrowed her eyes.
"I'll have it on the record that your boot was nowhere near my posterior during the entirety of your little escapade into Gem territory. So now you fabricate your achievements AND retreat. I'd ask why you don't pick on the ursine with a human cortex strapped to it, but I suppose anything involving brains isn't your specialty. It makes your pyrokinetic powers even more in line with my Human-Ruby equivalent theorem."
You were beginning to think Moltar was doing this on purpose, bringing a bunch of jerkish know–it-alls on the call to insult you. If he was, then it was rather hard to tell. Either way, you began to hate the callers more than you hate Moltar.
"I have BETTER things to do then BURN your pathetic little losers into POP-ROCK flavored ash. Maybe when you PROVIDE a more suitable challenge, I'll decide to allocate a little TIME for you."
"I will make you retract that statement and the carbon dioxide you emitted from your mouth you... you… TOTAL CLOD!"
There was a loud noise in the background. Peridot's bravado vanishes as she practically shrunk in her command chair.
"O-Oh, hello Jasper. Me? No, no- I was just using my… uh… commandeered transponder.. What do you mean you were watchi-"
In an instance, the view port drags away. It fumbles for a minute, and you and Moltar watch with confusion before a big, orange iris pops onto screen.
"Is this thing on?" booms a husky voice.
"Yes! It was operating perfectly until you snatched it from my hands. Besides, you're holding too close."
"Oh."
Pulling the screen back, you see a more familiar face. A face you had drop kicked. Also a face that had nearly given you a skull fracture.
Moltar kicks his feet up, his job done.
"Father."
"Jasper."
"I see you gave up on trying to fight us."
"It was beginning to get TIRESOME.."
Jasper snorts at that, but the sound of gritting teeth just barely makes it over the audio interface.
"Tiresome? Why don't you bring your inferior Earthling armies back and we'll have another go. Or are you gonna stick to softer targets? Like a moonbase full of runts?"
You narrow your eyes.
"I'll have you know, those kids are a BAJILLION times the menace YOU and your MOOD ROCKS could EVER be."
"Really? 'Cause I was watching that Moltorian's little clip show. Seems you only ever pick on earthlings weaker than you." Jasper showed all her teeth. "You're not a soldier. You're a bully."
"WHO gives a darn?"
You immediately blanch and turn back to Moltar.
"Am I allowed to swear on TV?" You whispered.
"Uhh. Sure." Moltar shrugs..
You snap back to Jasper.
"What's the difference? I still beat you, FAIR and SQUARE!"
Jasper folds her arms, her wolflike grin growing wider. "The difference, 'Patriarch', is that a soldier won't stop until she's strong enough to win. Maybe you think you're tough for beating up a bunch of brats, but I bet you've never actually had to fight for your life. Have you?" She laughs. "You're strong for an earth pest. Strong enough you caught me off guard. But what'll you do when I give you the first real fight you've ever had in your life? Will you still be so tough then? Or are you gonna run home for ice cream once I start giving you some bruises?"
"Oh, you want to LOSE again that bad?"
"No. I want another chance to smash your face in."
"AS if. If I bothered to come up to your little SNOWFORT again, I'd just whoop you again. No toys or gizmos would stop me from UTTERLY defeating you once more. Not like your weak little rock-heads pose much of a threat."
You can hear the screen crack in Jasper's hand, and for once during this interview, you begin to feel good about yourself.
"Then maybe I should make an excursion down south. I want a rematch, and this time, no annoying subordinates interfering."
"YOU think I need Izzy to beat you? What a posiTIVELY deluded belief."
"Fine by me. I can't wait to show exactly how weak you humans are. No matter what you can do, you're still a product of this world, and I'll shatter you like all the others."
"We. Shall. See."
"I'll be waiting. But not for long."
"Jasper, please don't break my-"
Despite Peridot's plea, Jasper crushes the transponder in her hand, ending the transmission as the screen blacks out. That leaves you alone with Moltar in the studio.
"Wow! Talk about a searing exchange!" Moltar laughs as you smolder. "Personally, Father, I always say you shouldn't let them get to you. After all, you're the bigger man, right?"
"YOU know MOLTAR, I think you have a point there."
Moltar nods at you for a moment, then tilts his head. "Oh, by the way, Mandark couldn't make it, but they wanted me to tell you his robot was bigger than yours."
"That LITTLE BRAT!"
Before your inferno can reach the ceiling, a gentle ring emanates from Moltar's desk.
"Huh. A call on the landline. Didn't even know that still worked."
He picks up the receiver, looking at it awkwardly and then placing it just as awkwardly against his massive, earless, dome-shaped head.
"Ahuh." Moltar says.
"Ahuh." Moltar agrees.
"Ahuh." Moltar elucidates.
Moltar nods with each 'Ahuh' before holding the phone out to you, leaning forward excitedly. Well, as excited a lava man truly can be.
"It's for you."
With that he passes it over, turning on the audio for everyone to hear.
"Mr. Father, that you?"
Oh. Finally. A friendly voice.
It was Hank.
He was probably going to be giving you some sort of business report, or some sort of update on a project and he was just too excited to wait for you to get back. You like that about Hank. Good Ol' Hank. Always with good news and a can-do attitude.
"Father sir… Why exactly do you hate children?"
Oh.
Ooooh no.
Well. This was it. The cherry on top of this garbage fire sundae.
How do you even respond to that?
You need to decide how Father will respond to Hank's Question. This will have impacts on Hank's relationship, as well as impact other's perceptions of you.
[X] DOUBLE DOWN
AND YOU'LL DO IT AGAIN
Kids. Are. AWFUL. Seriously. You hate children. You've always hated children. You hate everything about children. The way they eat, the way they walk, the way they blow bubbles with their gum and eat all the good ice cream. You despise the very concept of Children. Everything about them is an affront to you. The universes' greatest mistake was not popping out fully formed adults like a functional natural order would. Why do you hate children? Because they're not adults. Because they ruin the things you want. Because you were raised that way. Because they are not you. That is why you hate children, and you tell that to Hank with a fire in your voice.
[X] DENY, DENY, DENY
That was taken out of context!
Hank's question is not one you really wanted to hear. Why do you hate children? Finding an answer is very, very difficult. Well, difficult to do when you're already in a bad mood and afraid of scaring away one of your best workers. So, you do what you always did when you got caught red-handed. Deny it. You don't hate children. God that hurts to even think. Clearly, those children were… Intruding into a reservoir. OBVIOUSLY, you lie, there were signs. Them getting into the giant cake pan was no fault of your own and entirely unexpected. Infact... You were just having a… bad day. With all those children in your… reservoir. Anyone would have declared their undying hatred for all things childhood in such circumstances! Why, you were actually just trying to make a de-licious cake for your de-lightful children's birthday- speaking of which, if anyone has seen them, please, send all possible information to this extremely distracting phone number-
[X] DISOWN IT
We all do some things we eventually come to regret. Like filming it.
You'd… never do that to children… again… without a good reason…
Besides, you don't need to! With the war against children won, it's now time to focus on what really makes Adulthood worth adulting: soul-sucking corporate power structures and weekly barbeque supplies. Buy AdultCo! Every piece of coal and sheaf of paper bought goes straight to the war effort! The Canadian orphans will thank you! Everyone likes to see their hard work recognized…
[X] Write in…
Maybe you have a different idea… Note, I will dismiss anything Father would not say or that I think are supremely dumb or stupid or bad or lame-o.
20 HOUR MORATORIUM
Last edited:
