7:30 a.m.
The bleeding sun spills through my pulchritudinous nation’s ancient and desolate streets, releasing a vast exhale that washes onto my castle. The autumn leaves prance their way off my cracked and cold cobblestone floors as I make my way to the balcony. I see the pitiful creatures I call my citizens begin their daily futile routines to create something meaningful out of their lives. At this moment, I think of Richards. And how across the Atlantic Sea, in the United Kennel of America, I know he sleeps next to that golden-haired pet of his while his infant daughter, his monster, and his impudent brother-in-law snore down the hall. For him, the arrival of a new week begins in approximately twelve hours. I shall begin my plans to ensure that these forthcoming days have their proper dose of DOOM.
9:43 a.m.
At my throne, I flip through my hell-banished mother’s grimoire codex, searching for that ancient mind-swapping spell. For Monday, perhaps I shall temporarily transport his puny and primitive mind into my body while my glorious mind transfers into his. Teaching myself how to replicate his insipid manner of speaking will be a trying task, but one worth the effort as it will validate my masquerade as that vainglorious maladroit. Once I have succeeded, I will effortlessly swat away his family of cretins as if they were idiotic gnats fluttering in my way. At that precise moment, he will be strutting in my pristinely built body with the grace of a baboon, forced to see how meager and ill-witted his little inventions are compared to mine. At last! He will finally see how marvelously my creations make mockery of the word “impossible.” Attempting to explain my brainchildren to him would be like trying to explain particle physics to a fly.
11:32 a.m.
Desiring recreation, my beloved Valeria and I have our way with each other. To this day, she is the only soul who has had a glimpse of the grotesquely scarred demon-touched flesh under my iron mask. It is only during our fornications where I dare to take it off for her. For as I incessantly penetrate her on my throne, she furiously grasps my bare skin skull with both her hands as she pierces her nails into my scars upon climax. I stare up into her eyes to see the depths of my effects on her, effects that are well beyond the talents of any normal man—most certainly Richards.’ Perhaps when I trade bodies with him, I shall take it as an opportunity to show his blonde pet what a real man is capable of.
11:35 a.m.
After our coitus, I look into Valeria’s eyes as she nudely rests on me. I am not met with her beauty nor her intelligence. All I see is emptiness. I know she is just another one of those feeble-minded creatures. I tear through her meek body as easily as paper, revealing her robotic and wiry innards to the rest of the pitch-black room. Countless hours of work in my laboratory, all destroyed for a few seconds of pleasure. I lie to myself and say I’ll never build her again.
11:48 a.m.
In the underground dungeon of my castle, nearing the end of my incineration of Valeria’s scraps, I feel a little too mortal. I consider sending one of my Doombots out to Doomstadt to collect one of their crude sex workers. The idea is undoubtedly enticing. Nevertheless, despite how despicable and mad my half-witted imbecile enemies claim me to be, giving hush money to one of Latveria’s citizens is far below the likes of DOOM.
1:28 p.m.
My throne, I review every incantation ever documented based on interference with time dilation. For Tuesday, perhaps I shall teleport myself to the front steps of Richard’s abhorrently alliterated little home. Unfortunately, I must travel to that odiously urban cesspool he calls a city for this scheme to succeed. But once I’m there, I’ll chant to him and his bumbling pack of fools— pushing them backward through time. Destination: Bristol, 1715. They shall be captured and tortured by the infamous Blackbeard. Richards will inevitably find a way to escape, of course. He always does. He may be a scrawny little effort of a man, but at least he’s the only other person on this planet who understands that a madman is nothing more than a broken genius. And none come more broken than a man who stretches himself dangerously thin by attempting to help the pitiably inept. Because of this, he has simply become a silicon relic in a post-electronic world. He knows this. And he knows of my prowess. He knows I am what he cannot be.
3:10 p.m.
My balcony, I focus on the rain-filled gray gutters down below, washing away the city’s tears. A crow appears next to something resembling a little round rug made of ground meat. I believe it used to be a starving Manx before two dozen cars pulverized it. The crow starts picking at her dinner as I calculate and assess a plan that is beyond description in any human language. Richards doesn’t deserve this much exertion. But mother does. Every year, for 48 hours, I must battle the one whom mortals have named Mephisto to try and save my mother’s soul from eternal damnation in the 9th circle. It’s a tradition of ours. Therefore, Richards’ droll comeuppance on Wednesday and Thursday must be somewhat rudimentary. First, I shall program one of my Doombots to sniper a shrink ray at him and his freakish family. Next, I shall have another Doombot plant my nanotechnology micromagnets underneath their home and on the moon’s far side. Precisely at midday, their house will fly and crash into our natural satellite. Ha! Behold! The moon shall now have a nose.
5:29 p.m.
My laboratory, I unlock and remove my helmet so I can sit back and comfortably sip my linden tea. I observe my multiscreened supercomputer slave away at its latest task I programmed for it: creating the most authentically erotic images of that flattop super mermaid Richard’s pet seems to adore so much. It is one of civilization’s great mysteries why that gorgeous creature doesn’t disappear from that plastic man’s grasp and be the much-desired queen for that fish man. Perhaps privately flicking her bean to the thought of him during shower time is simply enough for her. Nevertheless, for Friday, I shall spam her phone with these images of the great pornographic prince. She’ll certainly attempt to hide these images from Richards. And he’ll, of course, eventually find out what she’s hiding, creating a kernel of mistrust in their so-called relationship. One that’ll undoubtedly grow into irreversible damage that no amount of couple’s counseling will ever solve. At the very least, it’ll certainly be a gracious gift of damn good television for my dull-minded citizens.
6:47 p.m.
The shrinking sun flees away, taking not only its vexatious heat with it but all the thick-headed drivel that oozes out of this city’s mouth. That is, except for the weeps that are spewing out of the orifices of some of these children I have lying before me. Children, I asked my Doombots to intercept—children of citizens who desire some liberty from their taxes. I once again search through my mother’s grimoire, looking for a rather elementary curse I shall use for Saturday’s scheme. I must ensure that everything goes according to plan. After all, every artist needs a signature, just as every child needs its first word. And since Richards’ infant has yet to say hers, I’ve decided to assist her in saying the simple word of …“DOOM.”
7:30 p.m.
Curses! Even the brilliant mind of DOOM is not immune to occasionally experiencing some ever-so-minor lapses and overlooks. What of Sunday?
***
Eureka! At midnight, I shall send some weaponized Doombots to Richards’ residence as he pitifully attempts to fornicate with his fantastically limp third leg.
