It has been asked of me before—by paragons of justice, mind you, not only the meanest ambassadors of journalistic integrity—what I meant to accomplish by taking over the world. And when I was asked, prior to realizing said accomplishment, I would usually counter with a maniacal laugh and the press of a button—favoring the large, red, and bulbous variety. I suppose that is what you would call artistic license, or obfuscating theatricality. Thereby I managed to avoid the direct response for many years. But then I did take over the world, so now I am obligated to deliver.

The most cynical answer I could render to the reading public (and can you imagine the hisses and boos if I made such a statement on primetime) is that I intend to change the order of things not one whit—save my post at the pinnacle of the totem pole—merely to emphasize to the little people how bad they really have it. When you occupy the top .0000000001% the concerns of the poor, huddled masses makes no nevermind. Those who slave away in poverty to provide for undereducated families, the dwindling middle-class suburbans whose apolitical desires range as far afield as a yearly vacation, the rich and the super-rich who diddle each other with jet ski smoothies and pay for and participate in and win your cyclical, monotonous, hate mongering elections, all will be allowed to go on as if I were as fictional as Santa Claus. Ha, ha! But no, even I am not so malign.

I shall bend the populace to my will in the creation of war machines and great fat laser cannons and moon bases that rain terror from the stars (for those who balk at such lyricism, forgive the celestial paradox), and make this planet a nightmarish hell house within which no hope may spring—and yes, I promise I will get to it eventually. For now, I think I will take a few weeks’ off in my defeated adversary’s elaborate Antarctic fortress, catch up on my reading, and give my robot drones a much needed tuneup. Can you believe I still have them running on Windows Vista? It’s criminal, I know.