Black Doggerel

Macro by http://www.lovemanythings.net/blog.html

The very last entry! I love you all SO MUCH. I love everybody who sponsored me, I love everybody who's commented over the last twenty-four hours, I love everybody who let me murder them, I love everyone who talked to me on IM and I love my fellow sleep-deprived charityfreaks on the Blogathon IRC channel. I want to do every single one of you, separately and together. I LOVE YOU!

We have achieved the impossible and that makes us mighty!

From the Blogathon IRC chat:

"Voldy has no nose."

"How does he smell?"

several people in unison: "TERRIBLE!"

"Ah, nothing says sleep deprivation like Voldemort humour!"

...or not.

ONE HOUR TO GO!!!!

I HAS A COOOKIE!

BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAINS!!!!

*gibber*

It seemed like a perfectly ordinary fungal fruiting body. Perhaps cottonmanifesto and urbpan should have been more alert; perhaps they should have noticed the pall of silence that surrounded the sickly purple slimy thing in the woods, the telltale absence of birds, other wildlife or any growing thing within two hundred yards of it. Perhaps they did; but they couldn't resist the chance to sneak close and photograph it anyway. And thus sealed their own doom!

It had taken me decades of patient genetic tinkering to produce the thing, and I must say, I surpassed even myself. A cunning recombination of material from as near as Greenland and as far away as Omicron Persei VIII, the purple orb sensed the intrepid pair's approach with its motion-sensitive cilia just in time to explode, enveloping them both in a cloud of rampantly infectious spores!

The Health Department and the Center for Disease Control (Extraterrestrial Division) did their best, but the spores proved resistant to all their best efforts. In a last-ditch effort to contain the infection, they made the decision to put both of them in cryogenic suspension... and there they wait, alive yet not alive, frozen solid for eternity or until an antidote is found. Whichever comes first.

Little did pointyhairedone know, as he merrily stumped his way down to the pigsties, that the innocent-seeming farm animals amongst which he spent his bucolic days were harbouring a deep, dark secret.

The secret? Faithful, hard-working sheepdog Jet had been lured away in the night by a drugged sausage cunningly disguised as a rock, and in Jet's place now lurked an evil-eyed ringer, a sociopathic shark-toothed substitute with murder on his mind!

Any Border Collie is a master of the hypnotic arts, of course. It's in the breed standard. But only a Border Collie belonging to Pointy's arch-nemesis, good old supervillain ME, would ever stoop to using the breed's superlative mental powers for the cause of chaos, evil and destruction.

And make no mistake, Master Spike was a pretty damn good supervillain in his own right. Pointy never suspected, as the first wave of sheep bore down on him, that every single one had been convinced overnight that it was an obligate carnivore. Poor lad, he never stood a chance.

I'm sure I had an idea, back there. And then I glanced at toft_froggy's journal for ideas about how to kill her wittily and topically, and got hopelessly distracted by Trajan's honking great column. I'm fickle that way. A really impressive great column can often keep me distracted all day.


...where were we? Ah yes. Impressive great columns. Specifically, emails about impressive great columns, ostensibly from fetchingly-named people such as Pentagram L. Waterproof, Windmill K. Verbiage, Autumn V. Parham and Carla Couch. What poor toft_froggy didn't know was that all of those were cunning aliases for Ruthless Archvillain Me, and that as she chuckled over the silly names in her spam folder, the subliminal messages embedded in the subject lines were working away in the parts of her brain so obscure that they don't yet have scientific names. Yes, I'm that good. And I won't go into details, in case of upsetting the sensitive (is anyone sensitive still reading this?) - but her death by combined hoodia, revolutionary new herbal supplement and cialis overdose, in combination with the contact poison from the forty-eight replica Rolex watches... well, let's just say it wasn't pretty.

Wooo! Only three hours to go, people! And my eleven o'clock victim is none other than the lovely vatoengland.

She thought she'd been so careful. So foresighted. She never left the house without first scanning for alien technology, never ate or drank anything she hadn't synthesised herself, didn't even go to sleep without switching on the motion detectors, calibrated to pick up and alert to anything from nanogene-sized upwards.

...Anything, that is, except for the familiar members of her own household. Little did she know she was harbouring, in her own hearth and home, something quite other than the friendly, clownish multicoloured kitten she'd grown to love. Little did she know that said kitten had been implanted with elaborate post-hypnotic suggestions from the day of her birth, awaiting the day she'd be given the signal to act on those fiendish, subconscious impulses she didn't even know she carried.

Everyone was baffled to find vatoengland stark and cold, with just the yarn tail of the catnip mouse still dangling from her lips.

Next up: bloolark. In a departure from my usual elaborate methods, she'll be simply shot, stuffed and mounted in a large display cage. The fiendish part comes afterwards, when I take her to the nearest pet store and cunningly hypnotise the owner, who will be entirely unable to avoid speaking the words I put in his mouth.


( It'll go something like this... )

P.S. And I'm stealin' yer pretty black lory. XD

My next victim is my adorable jhovall. For this execution I'll be using a variant of the super strong pheromone spray seen (I think) in the first episode of Torchwood. I'll slip it into your drink, suspended in slow-release gel microcapsules, and once you've swallowed enough of it for the effects to be irreversible, that's when I slap the preloaded vortex manipulator onto the back of your hand.

You will be instantly teleported into the audience at a huge performance of the most popular boy band in the world. Do not presume to ask me which boy band - I do not pollute my brain with nasty modern Terran pop culture. I have highly-trained ruthless minions to deal with that sort of little detail. The important thing is that you will arrive in the midst of the crowd just as the pheromones reach critical mass and start oozing irresistible attraction out of your every pore - whereupon you will be torn to messy shreds by twenty thousand lust-crazed rampaging teenaged girls.

And now we come to grimprime.

I don't really like to repeat myself, but I think my perception filter generator (with added morphic resonance modifiers) is too good an idea not to do to death repeatedly. So, once I've rescued it from the trodden-mud of some Australian rugby pitch, I shall rinse it off, modify its parameters, sneak up behind you in a bus queue and stick it onto the back of your jacket.

You will then immediately be mistaken for... one of those little toys that turn into other little toys. I will leave you in the waiting room of the nearest doctor's surgery filled with small child patients, where you will be pawed and dribbled on by a number of sickly snotnosed toddlers. Eventually, though, the coup de grace will arrive when a slightly older child will find you; one who understands how to change your assumed form from one thing to another. Unfortunately, your human body won't be able to survive having its legs wrenched round behind while its head is folded into its chest.

I'm not well enough up on the lore of transformy things to decide which would be worse; to have you assume the form of a teribly expensive limited-edition collector's item one that becomes worthless when ripped out of its packaging and snotted-on, or a cheap knock-off version of the ones you like, with a deliberately-misspelled name and your decals on crooked. I rather fancy the latter, myself.

It was either that or Reavers, anyhow. But this makes for a longer entry.