I created a race of atomic supermen. They were all dicks. I couldn't stand them. So I ordered
them to destroy the lair of Dr. Argos, at the bottom of the Kilauea caldera. I was sure they
would be destroyed in the venture. There is, of course, no lair, no Dr. Argos. The atomic
supermen were very pissed to find that out, and stood angrily outside my window for weeks.
Eventually they drifted off, found work. Except for one, Steve, who I talked into building a
shed for my riding mowers.
I created a race of atomic supermen. Oops -- forgot the atomic superwomen! They terrorized
the nearby town; even the smooth-faced undergrads at the boys' school on the hill were not
safe. I drifted off, found work. Alas, in my megalomaniacal folly I had stamped property of
Shadrach Mephistopheles on each buttock. I remembered that detail ruefully when the frowning
men in fedoras with bulges under their coats showed up at the YMCA looking for me. But since
that was my "evil genius" name and the one on my license was Jim Mellish, they sniffed and
moved on to the next cot.