D: Red Goblin Saves the World

My name is The Red Goblin. I travel the world battling capitalism.
The media calls me a super-villain but I consider that to be capitalist
propaganda.

One day, about a year ago, I glided into Hollywood on my red
broomstick-glider. I passed a baby in a stroller sucking on a
lolly-pop. I thought about turning back to steal the lolly-pop but I
had more important things to do.

I always enjoy stealing candy from babies. Candy rots their
teeth.

But today I was going to steal bourgeois morality from teenagers around
the world. Comic book heroes and cheesy movies about them were the
number one symbols of bourgeois morality and tacky capitalist
taste.

My mission was to destroy Chez E. Moneymaker Films, Inc.., a
multi-billion dollar company that made horrendously campy films based
on old comic book heroes. For a resourceful super-villain such as
myself, this would seem to be an easy task.

Unfortunately, in order to take out Money Maker Films, I'd first have
to destroy their super-heroes, who would be out millions in royalties
if I took out money-maker films.

I flew to a local high school and landed on the roof. I quickly
assembled a bomb out of some gadgets I had on me.

Then I pulled out my cell phone. Through brilliant technology, I was
able to interrupt a local radio show and announce that I was about to
blow up the high school. I added that if anybody tried to leave the
building, I'd blow the school up before they could get away.

Then I waited.

In no time, the black Chiroptera-Mobile came screeching into the
school parking lot. In no time, Chiroptera Man was out of the
car.

Chiroptera Man wore a black bat suit with two long horns on his head.
In his hand, he held a pistol so large that one of it's bullets must
have been about the size of an average human penis.

In no time at all, he sent out a hook with a rope on it and climbed
the building.

So there Chiroptera Man and I were, face to face on the high-school
roof. He was pointing his pistol at me and I was holding a remote
control that could blow up the school with the push of a button.

He pointed his pistol at me and said, "Hands up, Red Goblin," said
Chiroptera Man.

I smiled and said, "Drop the gun or I'll blow up the school right
now."

With a weary, heroic look in his eye, he dropped the giant
pistol.

"Kick it over to me," I added. He kicked over the gun.

Then I simply picked up the mammoth pistol and blew him away. "You
really need some smarter script-writers," I said as he fell off the
building.

In the movies, I'd seen so many super-heroes give up their guns to
villains who made stupid threats that I had to see if it really
worked.

I'd always wondered how the public could continue to root for
super-heroes who did such stupid things. It seemed to me that an
intelligent person would root against a super-hero once he proved to be
an insufferable idiot who wasn't fit for survival.

Arachnid-Man was my next target. Arachnid Man was a wiry, red
super-hero who could spin webs and shoot them out of his hands.

Jumping on my broomstick-glider, which represents the endless labors
of the common man, I sped off to kidnap Racy Gwen, the beautiful
red-head who Arachnid-Man desperately loved but was too much of a pussy
to hook up with.

I walked into Gwen's apartment. She was in her bathroom, moaning. I
decided I could wait a few minutes. But after about half an hour, I
decided to go in and kidnap her, which I did.

Then I handcuffed her to her bed posts and waited.

It was a long wait. I'm a goblin but I enjoy nothing more than taking a
dip in a human gene pool. Let's just say Gwen and I had a little fun
together. We were interrupted by a phone call. I let it ring. The
message machine came on.

The caller said, "Hi, it's Peter Blocker. I'm just calling to make sure
you're okay. You don't have a boyfriend over, do you? I'd hate to come
over... uh, I mean, have Arachnid-Man come over and beat him up. Pick
up th..."

I picked up the phone and said, "Hi Arachnid-Man. It's the Red Goblin.
I've kidnapped Gwen and will kill her if you're not here in five
minutes." Arachnid Man hung up.

I pulled a Tommy-Gun out of my pocket and stood in a corner, waiting
for Arachnid-Man. "This is gonna be fun," I thought.

But Arachnid-Man was much tougher than I'd counted on. After just a
few minutes, a red arm broke through the wall behind me and got me in a
headlock. My Tommy-Gun fell useless to the floor.

"I've got you now, Red Goblin," said Arachnid Man as he broke through
the wall. He then threw me on to the ground and gave me a beating that
would have killed any human or even your average goblin.

Arachnid-Man picked up my Tommy-Gun, aimed it at me and said, "Say
your prayers, Red Goblin."

"Religion is the opiate of the people," I replied.

"Then say hi to God for me once I shoot you up," said Arachnid
Man.

He was about to pull the trigger when Gwen blew him away. You see, I'd
handcuffed her to the bed. But watching Spider Man knocking the crap
out of me, she'd struggled desperately to free herself. With the
incredible strength of deprived female hormones, she'd broken the
handcuffs and pulled out a gun that she kept under her mattress.

"Just because you won't have me doesn't mean no one else will, Peter
Blocker," Racy Gwen said to Arachnid Man's corpse.

After a brief and rejuvenating rest, I was on my way to take out
Superb-Man, a tough black-haired super-hero. I suspect that Superb-Man
may be gay because he always dressed in a blue, red, and yellow spandex
suit.

As a daytime job, Superb-Man worked as a reporter so he wasn't too
hard to find. I found him hiding in a tree in the yard of Britney
Speared, a beautiful blonde pop-star. He was taking pictures of her
going to the bathroom.

Drawing a pistol, I unloaded it into his back. Unharmed, he just
hopped out of the tree.

"So it's you, Red Goblin. How could you try to kill me after I wrote
so many articles for your commie bosses?," he said as he tore his three
piece suit off, revealing his traditional super-hero outfit.

We proceeded to fist-fight, my taking by far the worst of it. Soon I
was lying on the ground, bleeding and he said, "Well, I suppose I
should break your neck, now. But I can't seem to do it. I mean how can
a journalist kill a fellow commie? Oh, well, I guess it's the age of
The O'Reilly Factor," Superb-Man said as he put a bulging arm around my
neck and pulled me to my feet.

"Wait, Superb-Man. I've got a secret to tell you before I die," I
cried.

"Okay, hurry up. What is it?," he growled.

"Your real creator was a German philosopher named Frederick Wilhelm
Nietzsche. He created you to destroy Christian Morality. You've been
incredibly influential in turning the best and the brightest of mankind
against morality. Hitler was even a big fan of yours," I said.

Superb-Man dropped me and started sobbing. "Oh, my god, it's true. I
remember it all now," he said through his tears.

I reached in my pockets and dusted my hands with Kryptonite. And then
I proceeded to give Superb-Man a bitch slapping.

Once he was unconscious, I pulled out a copy of Nietzsche's "Thus Spake
Zarathustra", a book so heavy I could barely hold it. It only took a
few well aimed blows to make sure Superb-Man would be in a wheel-chair
for life. It wouldn't do to kill a fellow commie.

Now there was nobody to stop me from punishing the corporate board of
Moneymaker Films for the countless hours of corny-action-torture I'd
endured in movie theaters across the world.

I simply walked into the thousand story building that was Moneymaker
Films' headquarters. I took an elevator the thousandth floor. I was
about to walk into the board room and dispatch the board when somebody
hit me over the head. I turned around only to take several vicious
blows from an electric guitar.

My attacker was a short, thin man with long, oily blonde hair and a
beautiful face. Once I was on the ground, he smashed the guitar to
pieces on my helpless body. Once he was done, he took out a giant
syringe and started shooting up heroin.

I looked up at him and said, "Who are you?"

"I'm Kurt Blow-brain, Money Maker Films' new super-hero. I had to stop
you from killing the board because then they couldn't make their movie
about me and my widow couldn't exploit my artistic legacy for
millions," Kurt explained.

"But Kurt, these rich, tasteless movie executives are exactly the kind
of people you wrote songs against," I pointed out.

"Yeah, once my widow gets paid, I have kind of a mind to take them out
myself. Or maybe I could just steal their luxury cars. That would be
more fun," said Kurt.

"What's your super-power?," I asked.

"Here let me show you. I can put ten fatal doses of heroin in my body
and then blow your brains out with my shotgun," Kurt said
nonchalantly.

Fortunately for me, a beautiful blonde college intern was walking
through the hall at that moment. I grabbed her and held a gun to her
head.

"I'll kill her if you don't give me your shotgun," I shouted.

"Oh, that's okay. Go ahead and kill her. I'll be done shooting up in
just a minute and then I can get to you," Kurt mumbled, still pumping
heroin into his arm.

"No. Take a good look at her," I said. Kurt looked up,
glassy-eyed.

"Golly gee whiz," he said, "Look at the tits on that one. I'll have
to... uh... rescue her," he said, dropping his syringe and pulling out
a knife, which he prepared to throw at me.

"A super-hero after my own heart," I thought.

With my goblin strength, I threw the girl across the hall and through
the thousandth story window. Kurt dropped the knife and pulled out a
tube of roll-on glue. He sniffed it furiously and then flew out the
window and caught the girl before she hit the ground. He floated up and
laid down with her on a nearby cloud. I figured he'd be busy for a
while.

Victory was mine at last. I knocked down the door to the Chez E.
Moneymaker Films Inc. boardroom. About twenty rich old men looked up at
me. One absent minded old fogy was saying, "And then the dog will jump
up and bite the bad guy in the ball..." Nauseated, I terminated his
sentence with a bullet.

"As for the rest of you, your days of making money by underestimating
the intelligence of the American people are over. I'm going to make you
rich old fogeys, who've never worked an honest day in your lives, do
menial chores while I watch," I said in my most devilish
goblin-voice.

Chez E. Moneymaker himself was seated at the head of the table. He
grabbed a phone and said, "Security...".

With my long tail, I grabbed the phone out of his hand and, perfectly
impersonating his voice, said, "We'll be needing some cleaning supplies
for... uh.. props. Bring them up immediately." After the security guard
assured me it'd be taken care of, I hung up the phone.

For the next couple of hours, I made these witless aristocrats
needlessly scrub, mop, and sweep the boardroom. My grin was as wide as
a barn-door. Their groans and tears were delicious.

I only spared one board-member from doing these chores. This was Chez
E. Moneymaker himself, who used his inherited billion dollar fortune to
found Chez E. Moneymaker Films. This single man, through his movies,
was responsible for the plummeting intelligence of the world
population. I suspect that the movie company was part of his scheme to
dumb down humanity and then take over the world.

So I guess you could consider me a sort of super-hero. Grabbing a
sponge and a plunger, I led Chez E. Money maker to a nearby men's room.
Pushing him in, I said, "Clean the toilet."

"I won't do it. It's beneath my dignity," he protested.

I shoved him into a stall and after I made some un-publishable
threats, he agreed to clean the toilet. The toilet door was closed so I
couldn't see him working but I heard the vigorous splashing of
water.

After a few minutes, I opened the door to see how he was doing. He lay
on his knees, head deep in the toilet. He'd drowned himself in the
toilet rather than bend his aristocratic pride and clean a
toilet.

The world was saved.