(Iglesia is a serialized novel, published ….rarely these days!…on Tuesdays and Saturdays at midnight ET, you can read all of the episodes by clicking on the tag.)
Mr. Diamond looked out through the rain from the hooded, hidden window of his mountain stronghold. When he heard those words in his head, he smiled. He had waited all of his life to have a mountain stronghold. He had, in fact worked incredibly hard and waited all of his life to be the kind of stupendous bad-ass evil villain ….who had a mountain stronghold. That had an army of assassins at his beck and call. That had the power of life and death over virtually everyone on the planet. He had waited all of his life…and now finally…it was all his.
And unlike in the storybooks and the movies, where the villain was unsatisfied with the power that he had ended up with, he was very satisfied. There was no man he could not kill. There was no woman that he wanted that he could not have. He had read all of the stories and seen all of the movies and he had made sure that beyond any shadow of a doubt…that he. was. a. villain.
Otherwise, what was the point?
The fact that he had worked hard enough at villainy, hard enough to become powerful enough to make the alliances that he had, to serve the powerful people that he served, to achieve the heights of malice that he had achieved, that he, in point of fact, was in this mountain stronghold, made him happy. Happy through every mephistophelian fiber of his carefully crafted evil being.
His mountain stronghold after all was the same mountain stronghold that had spawned the very word “assassin.” When he had told the anonymous, shadowy, people that he toiled tirelessly and sinfully for that he needed a mountain stronghold to train his army of assassins, and they had then obtained for him the very mountain of the Hashishin, he had literally quivered with nefarious delight. Of all of the people that he looked down upon, which was everyone, otherwise again, what was the point? He looked down upon those movie villains who had expressed regret or remorse the most. He looked at their subconscious sanctimonious internal rejection of the very principles of evil as a blatant weakness, not as some namby pamby chance at redemption as it was portrayed in the morality tales of Hollywood.
Idly, he picked up a dart from his desk and thoughtlessly tossed it, barely hearing the strangled cry of the bound and blindfolded minor politician in the dark corner of his mountain stronghold that it. Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle. He thanked the sublimely evil gods that he worshiped yet again for his lack of morality. His gleeful malevolence was, however, interrupted by the only sound more evil than even he … as his computer said to him “You’ve Got Mail!”
He pressed the button and his ill humor was replaced once again by wicked glee when he saw the one word message “GO.” Instead of typing the word himself, he copied and pasted it into a new email and sent it off, setting in motion yet again more mayhem and death.
Then, as he sat back and looked once more through the window at the sheeting rain falling on the once fertile plains below, he realized that he did have one regret, and he smiled at the cliche of not having an adversary worthy of his malevolent attentions.