Villainy 101-Lesson One: Gloating

Welcome, errant readers, to Villainy 101!!!!

...Sorry, you're going to have to imagine the suspenseful organ music playing in the background.  It's kind of hard to convey via writing.  Especially since I don't have a link to it-

Anyway.  My name is-oh, like I'm going to tell you what it is.  As will be mentioned in a later lesson, one of the most important rules of successful villainy is figuring out the level of trust to place in others, and frankly I don't trust any of you potential villains out there not to try to steal my identity, or try to track me down or whatever diabolical scheme you might be hatching.  It has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I haven't come up with a good alias.

Lately I have been thinking it over, and realized that the problem with villains nowadays is that they make mistakes which are, to put it bluntly, stupid.
I wondered for ages why this is, and realized they just haven't been taught appropriately.  Which is ridiculous; you'd think, with all the role models out there showing the right (or wrong) way to act, they'd see all the flaws and act accordingly.
But no.
The heroes keep saving the day, and we keep losing.

So I have decided to try to teach any of you villains out there who need help, whether you're willing to admit it or not.
Think of this as "How to become a successful villain in four easy steps."

Lesson One: Gloating

Don't.
I cannot emphasize this enough.
Do not waste your time gloating, laughing or being self-congratulatory, no matter how tempting it may be or how in-reach your goal is.
Do you know why?
Because whenever you do that, something bad is going to happen.
The hero will jump up and destroy your weapon of mass destruction/save your captive/shoot you in the face/whatever is required to foil your plan.
Save celebrating for after you've finally succeeded-but even then, be on your guard.  Infinitely smarter villains than you have died ignominiously, or ended up in prison or whatever, because they thought they could finally relax.

The same rule applies for dealing with heroes: unless it is absolutely imperative that you keep them alive for some reason, just shoot them.
Don't put them in an elaborate trap, no matter how impossible it might seem for them to escape from it.
Don't try to convince them to join your side, unless you know absolutely that A) you can do so and B) there's no way they will back out later.
Don't try to get them to marry you, no matter how attracted to them you are.
If you have no reason to keep them alive, don't.  Kill them, and do so as quickly and efficiently as possible.
In the words of Tuco from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly: "When you have to shoot, shoot!  Don't talk!"

"Why?" you may ask.  "If I've finally caught them, why can't I take the time to humiliate them and rub it in their face?"
Dude, don't you ever watch any movies?
Heroes have sidekicks (their word for minions; somehow it's more heroic) and allies who will come to rescue them.
Heroes can produce elaborate gadgets made out of dental floss and paperclips that will help them escape.
Heroes, if given the time to talk, will try to weasel their way out of being killed by you, by trying to convince you that they have the MacGuffin or that if you kill them, it will be the worse for you.
You can worry about that when the time comes-letting the hero live is just going to come back and bite you later.

Coming up next, Lesson Two: Image.

The End of Cake

Today, March 12 (sob!) is the anniversary of the death of Terry Pratchett, one of the best satirical writers ever to come out of England.

He wrote over 41 books, most of which were in the Discworld series, about a world that rests on the backs of four giant elephants, which in turn stand on the back of a giant turtle which swims through space in an endless journey.  It is one of my favorite series ever.  I love the humorous footnotes, the sly social commentary, the hidden pop culture references, and the surprising philosophical turns taken by some of the plots.

If you feel interested in reading the series, the best place to start is probably either Mort or Guards! Guards! because that's when he really got his ideas organized.  I didn't hate the previous books like some people do, but still.
Both books start two of my favorite sub-series, though between us, the latter is probably my favorite because it's about the Night Watch, led by Samuel Vimes.  If you want more information, you will have to start reading.
...Of course, you could also cheat and look it up on the Internet or ask a friend, but that would be unsporting.

Sir Terry (he was made an actual knight!  How cool is that?) died at age 66, of Alzheimer's, in 2015.  

Thank you for all the stories you wrote, Sir Terry. Many will miss you.  To quote Death in Night Watch, THERE IS NO MORE TIME, EVEN FOR CAKE. FOR YOU, THE CAKE IS OVER. YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF CAKE.

Drama in the Beginning

I just finished reading the book of Genesis, and noticed some things that are kind of interesting-or depressing, however you want to look at it.

1. First of all, several of the women in there really get the short straw out of life.
Zilphah and Bilhah, the handmaids of Leah and Rachel-they get caught up in the sisters' petty squabble for Jacob's affection, having to bear his children while Leah and Rachel claim them as their own.
I doubt anyone asked them if they wanted to.
And poor Hagar-she goes to bed with Abraham because Sarah can't have children, and gives birth to Ishmael.  Then, when Sarah is able to conceive, and has Isaac, Hagar and Ishmael get kicked out into the wilderness, and even though they survive and Ishmael gets his own line of people, from then on God refers to Isaac as Abraham's only son-it's like even He forgot about Ishmael.
Again, I doubt anyone cared what Hagar wanted.
And this serves as a perfect transition to my second observation.

2. Genesis, or at least the family of Abraham, has a family tradition of the firstborn children getting passed over in favor of the younger ones.
First Ishmael gets replaced by Isaac, and in fact is basically disowned.
Then when Isaac is grown up and marries Rebekah, they have twins Esau and Jacob.  Esau, the older is the favorite of his father, but Jacob is Rebekah's favorite, and he steals Esau's birthright and father's blessing.
Rachel is the younger sister, and Jacob loves her more than he does Leah.
Joseph and Benjamin, Jacob's youngest sons, are the ones he seems to love more than the others-possibly because they're the sons of Rachel, his favorite wife.
After the selling-Joseph-into-slavery fiasco, when Jacob is dying he has Joseph bring his two sons Manasseh and Ephraim to his bedside-guess which one he gives a special favor to?  That's right: Ephraim, the younger one.
Even many generations later, Moses, the younger brother of Aaron and Miriam, is the one chosen by God to save the Israelites from slavery.

I'm not trying to be blasphemous or disparage the scriptures.  I'm just providing some interesting food for thought.

Attack of the Octo-Purse

Many of you most likely don't know this, but I love to crochet.  It's one of my favorite hobbies, to the point where I have developed calluses on my fingers.  I am also left-handed, meaning that when my mother, who is right-handed, tried to teach me how to crochet, I was forced to develop my own technique for holding the hook, moving the yarn into position, etc.  As a result, some of my projects don't turn out quite the way I expected...

Take, for instance, this last Christmas.  My sister, whom I was going to visit during the holidays, had told me and my siblings that she would like more warm clothes for her daughters, because apparently they didn't have enough for where they had recently moved.  So, I decided to put my skills to use, and throw together some hats.

I did an owl hat, a dragon hat, and a baby elf hat, all of which turned out fine.  But the gift for the oldest girl, Alice, presented more of a problem.
It was apparently what is known as a Hockey Fan Crochet Hat, the pattern for which can be found at redheart.com.  I thought it looked quite cute, with the little socks at the top, and hopefully nice and warm.  So I gathered my yarn and hook, and began trying to put together the striped version.

I don't know what happened; as I was trying to attach the socks to the bottom, in such a way that they could be tied in a knot at the top like in the photo, I realized that the opening had become far too small for the head of a baby, much less Alice's.  More than anything, it now resembled an ovular blob with two long stripes hanging from it and a hole in the bottom.  Dejected, I gave up hope of trying to make it into a hat, and wondered what to do now.
Should I discard it, and start making a new hat?
But I'd spent so much time on it, and tried so hard...
Maybe I should figure out something new to make of it.

Looking at the monstrosity I had created, I had a sudden inspiration.  I had made stuffed animals before; and looking at this now, I realized that I could make it into some kind of animal.  Why not...an octopus?  The shape was just about right.
Then my roommate, who I shared the idea with, went one step further and said that it could be a purse.  Putting the two ideas together, I had an epiphany: why not both?

I attached a button to one 'tentacle,' and a loop onto the other; this way, when it was held upside down they could be connected and make the purse's strap.  Then, just to be fanciful, I added two miniature tentacles to the back of the octopus (technically this makes it only a quadropus, but my fingers were tired).  Finally, I created two eyes, attaching them onto the front of the creature.

I now had a creation that was basically an octopus when held one way, but when turned the other way, became a useful and adorable handbag (the extra tentacles, being hollow, could serve as handy pencil holders).  And when I showed my creation to some other people in the ward, one of them coined the phrase 'octo-purse' (making me feel silly for not thinking of it myself).

Sadly, I do not have any pictures of Alice with it; however, after she received it, she kept walking everywhere with it over her shoulder, carrying useful items such as books and pencils and American Girl doll earrings inside.  Looks like my creative mistake paid off after all.

Exhibit A: the Octo-Purse in cephalopod form

Exhibit B: the Octo-Purse in handbag form

Exhibit C: The joining mechanism

Exhibit D: The purse, held aloft

Season of the Witch ending

“You know-” Calla gasped as we ran faster- “I think I had-a dream about this once.”
“Really?” I puffed back.
“Yeah.  When I was-maybe five.  I don’t remember everything-just being chased by the house.”
“Did it have chicken legs?”
“Yeah.”  Her eyes widened.  “Maybe-an early vision?”
I shrugged, wincing at my already-aggravated broken wing.
“Wouldn’t-be surprised.”
I awkwardly pulled the towel out of my shirt,* and threw it over my shoulder.
“What’s that for?” Calla yelled.
“Is it doing anything?” I yelled back.
There was a gasp.  “Yes!”
Just in case, I looked over my shoulder.  And yes, just as I’d hoped, it had become a vast, glassy lake, right there in the forest.


Why Baba Yaga kept items in her hut that could be used against her, especially in easy reach of others, was anybody’s guess.  And you’d think she’d have learned from previous times dealing with people who used the same trick.  But maybe it was for the same reason that she wanted to steal the sword.  Arrogance.  Or following the proverb of “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
It slowed her down as we kept running; Baba Yaga couldn’t swim, and as I suspected, she didn’t have the patience to go around.  So I saw her forcing the hut to wade into the lake.  The hut didn’t like it; it squirmed, and shook, and finally jumped out of the water and refused to go back in, water dripping from the floorboards.


“You okay?” Calla suddenly asked.  Since the witch was briefly inconvenienced, we were going a bit slower-though not slow enough to be overconfident.
“...You’re asking this now?”
“You look pale.  And I’m not having to struggle to keep pace with you.  Tristan, I think your wound’s worse than you’re acting.”
“I’m fine, kid.  I’ve got my adrenaline-”
Which is when I started to see colored spots before my eyes.  Because whoever is control of these things loves their moments of irony.


Calla muttered something that was almost a curse, but not quite, and then grabbed my arm, draping it over her shoulders.
“That’s gonna slow you down,” I protested.
“I’m not leaving you.  Xen would never forgive me.”
“Better get this out, then.”  I fumbled around until I got the comb.  “Lake’s probably not gonna hold her for long-”
Sure enough, we heard the sound of the mortar riding the wind across the lake.  I didn’t bother to look this time, focusing on running.
Calla said indignantly, “It flies far better for her than it did for me!”
“Well-” I gasped- “it is her mortar.”


Time for the comb.
I tossed it, just long enough to see it starting to grow into a giant impenetrable forest,** and kept going without looking back.

***

Much to my relief, Baba Yaga did not continue chasing us.  At least, not that I could sense, even though my abilities were a little off par at the moment, so she could have flown past us dressed as a belly dancer playing an accordion, and I might not have noticed.


Eventually we made it into a town with a teleportation mirror, and took the first opportunity to get home.  We materialized in the kitchen...where I’m ashamed to admit that I promptly passed out.
Hey, it had been a long week for me, okay?  And I’d just gone through a lot of physical exertion while suffering from severe blood loss; don’t judge me.


My last conscious thought was, Well, I can add this to my list of Times Tristan felt Useless.
It seemed like all I’d done the entire time was be captured/at the mercy of more powerful beings, and rely on others to do things for me.  I mean, it’s not that I wasn’t grateful to Xen, Morgan and Calla for finding out what I wanted to know, or the vodyanoy-duck for leading me to where the soul was kept...I just felt like I spent more time being acted upon than doing any acting of my own.  Definitely not my finest hour.


I regained consciousness to find myself in bed.  My limbs felt heavy, making me realize after a moment that Xen must have bitten me to keep me paralyzed for some reason.
How long have I been here?
My eyes slowly flicked open, and caught sight of Xen sitting by the side of the bed, glaring at me in a way that made me nervous.
Seeing I was awake, before I could even try to speak, she leaned down and kissed me.  Which felt wonderful, after everything I’d been through.
When she finally stopped, I gasped, “For a moment I thought you were going to hit me.”
“I did consider it.  But decided I’d rather do this.”
“Is there a reason why I’m paralyzed?”
“So you stay in bed until your blood cells have sufficiently multiplied.”
“Geez, doc, you’re taking your practice very seriously.”
She glared at me again.  “You have a bad habit of underestimating the extent of your injuries.  While that can be an admirable quality, it also makes me occasionally want to strangle you.”


“...How’s our son?” I asked.
Xen finally smiled.  “Waiting for his daddy to get better.  He keeps wanting to come in and play with you.  I had to be firm and tell him to let you sleep.”
My throat constricted.  “Well...can I at least see him before bedtime?”
“Of course.  Until then, go back to sleep.”
“Yes, boss,” I sighed.

***

So far there have been no nasty repercussions from Baba Yaga or Koschei the Deathless.  But we’ve been on alert, just in case.  And trying our best to recuperate.  Xen’s had me on a lot of bed rest while my blood cells regenerate and my broken wing finishes healing.  Phil plays with me as often as he can, and hopefully soon I’ll be strong enough to carry him on my shoulders again.  Calla’s been very quiet and thoughtful about whatever the witch told her.  I haven’t pushed about it, figuring she’ll tell me if she wants to, but I am undeniably curious.
For now, though, I’m trying to enjoy life with my family until some new catastrophe hits us.

* Snapping off a button in the process; dang it.
**Which, if the story was correct, she wouldn’t be able to go through, and every time she tried to fly over it it would just grow higher.  And trying to chop down the trees with her iron teeth would just result in splinters in her mouth.  Hopefully she wouldn’t try her magic instead; I wasn’t sure if it was resistant against that.

Season of the Witch part 22

To my relief, we appeared right at Baba Yaga’s front gate.  Also to my relief, my stomach had not revolted much during the last two trips.  Maybe it was just too tired for its normal nausea; I didn’t dare to believe that it was developing a tolerance for teleporting.
Wearily hefting the sword, I set down the vodyanoy, and cracked open the gate.  Then, from above and behind me, a voice called, “Tristan?”
It doesn’t sound like she’s gotten older...but you can’t be too careful about these things.  It doesn’t prove anything anyway, since she ages so slowly.  She could be any age, she could-
A mortar flew over our heads, landing in the yard.  And out climbed Calla, looking fresh as a daisy-if a bit dark around the eyes, which were moistening as I looked.  She stumbled forward, and wrapped her arms around my waist, burying her head in my chest.  With my free claw I rubbed her head.
“How...long?” I asked, fearing the answer.
“Two days left,” she murmured.  “You’re ahead of schedule; usually the hero shows up at the very last moment.”
“Well, you know me.  I’m no hero.  I don’t believe in following conventions.”
Calla snorted.


Baba Yaga looked extremely disappointed when Calla and I showed up with the sword.*  However, a bargain was a bargain, so she sighed and took Kladenets from me.
“Very good, Chernobyl,” she said begrudgingly.
“Thanks.  We’ll be going now,” I said, also returning the pack of supplies.  She barely noticed, instead smugly running her long hands over the blade.  I had a feeling she was trying to find out what it did.  And something told me when that happened, she would be most displeased.  So it was probably best to get going now.
On one of the shelves by the fireplace, I noticed a blue towel and fancy wooden comb laying side by side.  Remembering an aspect of one of the tales of Baba Yaga, I inched my way over and picked them up, tucking them into my shirt.  Since I’d foolishly forgotten to ask Koschei to heal my broken wing, and Calla’s healing skills were erratic at best, we were probably going to have to run soon.


The witch turned to stare at Calla.
“Remember what I told you, myshka.  I mean it.”
“Yes ma’am,” she whispered, averting her eyes.
I was curious, but now wasn’t really the time to ask.  I caught Calla’s arm, and quickly pulled her out of the house as the witch went back to the sword.
“What’s the rush?” she asked, tapping the door frame; as she did, the house lowered itself, and we jumped out onto the lawn-much better than my previous experience with the place.
“She’s probably about to find out that the sword does nothing but make good borscht,” I explained.  “We need to get away before that happens.”
Her little jaw dropped, and she covered her mouth after a second with a slightly hysterical giggle.  “Really?”
“Yeah.  It’s not our fault, but she might try to take it out on us regardless.  Go faster.”


We had barely made it into the woods when I heard a horrible, ungodly screech, followed by the thuds of giant clawed feet thumping across the ground.
Shoot.  The whole house is coming after us.
Calla gasped.
I risked a glance; if you’ve never seen a house on giant chicken legs chasing after you, it’s hard to imagine.**  A little wobbly at first, probably from not having to move so much in such a long time, it thudded after us, giant claws scraping the ground and leaving ditches in their wake.  Baba Yaga stood in the doorway, hair blowing back, eyes of fire burning even from this far away.  And I could see that her pale face was twisted in a fury that gave me an adrenaline rush.

*The vodyanoy had been returned to the lake, and his true form-though he still disliked the rusalki, he figured it was safer than being somewhere closer to Koschei’s influence.  Calla promised to keep in touch somehow, and has even been considering introducing him to the world of the Internet, if she can create a spell to make a computer waterproof.
I asked her later why on earth she made him a duck, of all things.  She explained that she’d been trying to make a firebird, for dramatic effect, but his watery nature kept struggling against it, and finally it seemed easier to just make him something actually connected with water.  Besides, they were on a tight schedule.
** Unless you have a very creative imagination, or have seen it happen in a movie with very convincing CGI or something.

Season of the Witch part 21

Koschei was bored.  He’d been waiting for almost a full day, and there was no sign of “Mr. Tolstoy.”  Not that he expected him to actually find the right tree.  He just hoped he’d come back and concede defeat, so he could find something more fun to do with him.  The hot blood of gargoyles was said to give them a high tolerance for cold temperatures; it would be interesting to find out just how cold.  Or see how strong their tough skin was when faced with the opposite extreme of intense heat.
Koschei had won yet another game of chess played against his oldest and most loyal manservant, Igor.  The man had some talent, yes, but he was only a hundred and fifty years old, and his opponent had centuries of experience ahead of him.  If he did say so himself, Koschei viewed himself as a chess master.
Sometimes he wondered if he could ever persuade Baba Yaga to play with him again.  The crone so hated to lose at anything, and hated even more to admit how talented he was, but they had enjoyed a few games together in their lifetime.  Maybe if he gave her the sword willingly, she’d be willing to join him for a few rounds…


The Deathless One sipped thoughtfully at his vodka.  There was another day and a half yet; he had plenty of time before-
His body jerked violently, spilling vodka all over himself, staining the fur of his robe.  Koschei leaped up, spluttering and cleaning himself off.  He’d felt something strange in that moment-something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time…
“Sir?” Igor asked.  “Are you all right?”
Before Koschei could answer, his arm moved on its own, and he found himself casting a spell.  A spell that opened a portal.
Before he could try to close it, a gargoyle-bedraggled, pale, with one wing dragging broken at his side, covered in mud and blood, and carrying a very ugly duck under one arm-stepped through.  In one claw he clutched a golden egg.

***

Believe it or not, getting ahold of the soul was the easiest part of my trip.  Because yeah, I broke my wing and lost some blood I couldn’t afford to lose fighting a giant rabbit-duck automaton that sprang out of the chest when I opened it, but the solution for that was simple: destroy it before it could destroy me, then remove the egg from its innards.
Oh, sorry, were you actually interested in reading about that part?  About the big, dramatic action scene?  So you like reading about me getting beat up by some eldritch abomination and having to scramble frantically to a position where I can dig my claws into its belly and rip it open and pull out its wiring, getting myself splattered with oil and grime and being generally crushed and tossed about the whole time?  What kind of monster are you?!


Hefting the egg, I said, “Found it.”
Koschei glared at me.  “So you did.”
“Now give me the sword, before I smash it.”
With a world-weary sigh, the sorcerer handed it over.  Then he asked, “Out of curiosity, how did you find it?”
I nearly said A little bird told me, but I didn’t want him exacting retribution on the innocent creature, so I said, “Just lucky, I guess.”
His eyes strayed to the duck anyway.  And he realized, as I did, that it was under a spell of some kind, and his face twisted with a kind of dark hatred.  “You!”
Whatever connection he had with it escaped me, but I quickly stepped back and brandished the egg.  “You’re not allowed to do anything to hurt this creature, in duck form or whatever its original form is.  Or come after me, or my family or friends.  Promise you won’t do any of those things, and you can have this back.”
Koschei blinked.  Then he said, “Then why bother returning it at all?  It’s nothing short of foolish.  And you could have all you want and more if you just keep my soul.”
Meaning he’d be my servant, like the Dark One’s dagger.*  But I just said, “I don’t think I’m qualified to bear that kind of responsibility.”  Then, more firmly, “Deal?”
He sighed.  “Deal.  I will not do anything to harm you, those you care for, or this-” his lip curled- “vodyanoy.”
So that’s what it is.
“You also need to promise not to entice anything to harm any of us, or act in any way, shape or form that will do so.”
Maybe I should have created a contract.


Looking exasperated, Mr. the Deathless agreed to all my terms.  Once I was sure that the bases were covered, I started to place the egg in his hands.  But then I hesitated.
“One more thing.  What’s Kladenets do?”
He grinned mirthlessly.  “It gives the bearer the gift of making very excellent borscht.  Nothing else.”
You have got to be kidding me.
“Is that the truth?”  I jiggled the egg a bit.
Koschei flinched, but told me, “I swear it on the souls of my ancestors.”
Dramatic, but I decided to believe him.  I placed the egg in his arms.  And for a split second, I saw a bit of a change in him.  The washed-out-ness faded a bit, and I saw something more...human** in him.  Then he glared, and opened a new portal, which swept me and the vodyanoy-duck away.

*From Once Upon a Time, a human TV show that was good, but sucked after season 3.
** For lack of a better word