By A. Lee Martinez
Intergalactic risk. Destroyer of Worlds. Conqueror of different Worlds. Mad Genius. Ex-Warlord of Earth.
Not undesirable for a man and not using a spine.
But what's a villain to do after he's performed . . . every thing. without new goals, he's satisfied to pitch in and remedy the power trouble or repel alien invaders may still the necessity come up, but when he had his approach, he'd like to be left by myself to discover the limits of harmful technological know-how. simply as a pastime, of course.
Retirement isn't effortless notwithstanding. If the boredom doesn't get him, there's regularly the Venusians. Or the Saturnites. Or the Mercurials. Or . . . good, you get the belief. If that wasn't undesirable adequate, there's additionally the assassins of a mythical demise cult and an up-and-coming megalomaniac (as extraordinary as he's bodiless) who've marked Emperor for his or her personal nefarious reasons. yet Mollusk isn't approximately to enable the Earth slip out of his personal tentacles and into the fewer able clutches of one other. So it's time to dirt off the outdated dying ray and are available out of retirement. other than this time, he's no longer out to rule the area. He's out to reserve it from the peril of THE SINISTER BRAIN!
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Extra resources for Emperor Mollusk versus the Sinister Brain
He joined the line. Karstetz moved back into the room and perched on the corner of a table, an unconscious echo of how Cabal had first seen the Count Marechal. But where Marechal had watched him closely, Karstetz only grinned amiably, looked around the room with little interest, and started to hum an unlovely melody for the tuba. Cabal found an antique high-backed chair and made himself comfortable. The crowd went deadly quiet as the emperor, Antrobus II of Mirkarvia, made his appearance. There had been plentiful rumours of his death floating about; despite Marechal’s threats and Karstetz’s enthusiasm, the imperial household leaked gossip like a buckshotted bucket.
The people had been half looking forward to a nice revolution. And now up popped Antrobus, quite spoiling things. Still, they gave a cheer. The beer and sausages were free and they didn’t wish to appear churlish. They’d let him have his say and then have a revolution next week, after a decent interval. They were a downtrodden mass, but they had been brought up nicely. Antrobus stepped up to the balcony rail and paused. And paused. The moment grew to impolite and impolitic length. The dignitaries in the line shot glances at one another.
First and foremost, he considered himself a scientist embarked upon a search for a cure for a terrible disease. Death. This would seem laudable if it were not for his methods, his manner, and his failed experiments, the latter tending to hang around the countryside, dismaying the yokels. Even this might have been forgivable—pharmaceutical companies have done worse—if it were not for the bad reputation that the more melodramatic necromancers have given the profession. Skeletal warriors are all very well when they’re chasing Jason and the Argonauts around on the silver screen, but when they’re battering down your door … Well, that’s a different matter altogether.