The Whatever Files

Dark Lord Toby

The Dark Lord or Witch Queen are staples of fantasy literature. They provide the perfect antagonist. Terrible, in some largely undefined way, they are the ultimate evil. It is obvious to all, that they and their slightly less evil minions must be defeated so that all will be well in the world once again.

No one ever talks about what they have for breakfast.

His Supreme Malevolence, the Dark Lord Toby, was having soft boiled eggs, with soldiers. Picking up the newspaper he noticed the date and sighed. It was his anniversary. Forty-five years since that faithful day when he'd decided that 'Evil Dark Lord' was the right career for him.

Now he sat on his Dark Throne, (in general terms of course, and obviously not to eat breakfast, at present he was using a chair at a table like anyone else would), and wondered. What exactly had he achieved? Indeed, what had he actually hoped to achieve?

Oh sure, he had dominion over vast hoards of misshapen underlings, and a cadre, (was that the right word he wondered? Now he'd have to look it up later to be sure). A cadre, (possibly), of slightly less evil dark lords and ladies that he'd defeated on his way to the top, and now commanded. But what did he do with them? Or even want to do with them?

This was turning into a very existential crisis sort of meal he mused glumly.

Morosely he dipped a soldier, and scanned his newspaper, reading about a corrupt politician on a charge of sex crimes against minors, and rampant inflation, with soaring prices. No one ever asking, just who is getting rich off this? Who is top of the food chain?

Dark Lord Toby sighed and turned to the 'Entertainment' pages. Botox infected celebrity gets richer for some reason, and argues with another peculiarly disfigured creature over a block headed footballer's fickle affections.

He carefully folded the paper and set it aside for the recycling bin. It all seemed so futile. What, he had to ask, could he do to distinguish himself as truly evil in a world this maladjusted? He had to provide an alternative.

Sipping the last of his double espresso, Toby got up and retired to his lair, hoping for some inspiration, to fuel some serious plotting.

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