Short Story: Dr. McMillan

Hi, y'all. In lieu of a regular update today (because really, nothing even remotely interesting happened between Monday and today), I'll show you the beginning of this short story I'm writing. Actually, it'll probably end up being quite a long story in the end. This is just the very beginning, after all. It's about a mad scientist who can never quite get his plans for world domination off the ground, until he discovers something that may yet help him...
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As was often the case with Dr. Maximilien McMillan, his inspiration was their expiration.

People who barely knew him often commented on his unusually repetitive name. People who knew him well never did, as there was so much else comment-worthy about the man. For Dr. McMillan was a Mad Genius, an Evil Scientist with Ambitions and Plans to Wrest the World from the Clutches of the Foolish Masses and Usher In a New Reign of Terror and Destruction, and all that sort of thing. At least, that was how he thought of himself. Dr. McMillan had a poetic heart, albeit that of a rather bad poet whose idea of dramatic flair was capitalization.

Privately, Dr. McMillan rued his parents for being so idiotic as to lumber him with the rather lackadaisical name of Maximilien McMillan. As far as villainous monikers went, “Dr. McMillan” didn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of his enemies; and should he succeed and become ruler of all he surveyed, “Lord McMillan” was not a title that could be taken seriously.

Dr. McMillan had given thought on occasion to changing his name to Dr. Terror or Dr. Oblivion or something rather more fitting to his role in the villainy business, but always ended up dismissing such thoughts. Had he not worked his way through eight years of graduate school to earn the right to be called “Dr. McMillan”? Was that not the name on his diploma? Any fool could get a haunted castle or a doomsday device and call himself “Doctor,” and nothing annoyed Dr. McMillan more than people who titled themselves “Dr.” who had not earned it. He considered using his real name to be proof that he really was a doctor, for what villain would possibly endow himself with a name like “McMillan”? And furthermore...

And so on. Dr. McMillan was given to long stretches of thought along the most basic of lines, which was one of the reasons he had not previously amounted to much as a villain. While he was an extremely able scientist, and a fair magician in the bargain, he was a bit of an incompetent when it actually came to wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting citizenry. He had only tried to complete his grandiose plans a total of twice, and both times, had failed miserably.

The first time, he had set up a massive floating fortress and sent it hovering outside Albenon, the capital city of Uthrect, the country he hailed from (and now terrorized on an infrequent basis). Dr. McMillan had not announced his plans for domination, reasoning that to take people by surprise with a show of overwhelming force would be more shocking. Later, when the smoldering ruins of civilization were spitting off their last sparks, he would stride into the spotlight and take credit, and all would know and fear the name of Dr. McMillan.

Sadly, this was not to be, as he had not even reached the city gates before a group of heroes teamed up and destroyed the fortress utterly. Dr. McMillan swore thunderously as he saw, through internal cameras, the heroes dismantle his beautiful creation from the inside out. He still cherished hope, though, that one of them would see his insignia and, horrified, whisper to the others “This is the work of Dr. McMillan!” Ideally, then, the others would gasp while someone dramatically scratched a record to a halt. But they had left without even considering who might have sent such a monstrosity. Indeed, from what the heroes said as they fought, it was obvious that they did not regard it as any kind of challenge and that it did not matter who sent it, as he was no threat.

Stung by this rebuke, Dr. McMillan went on to employ his second plan several months later. Using a combination of magic and technology, he had set bombs at crucial positions underground underneath the palace, main bank, and the three largest military installations in Albenon. This got people’s attention, right enough. Dr. McMillan gleefully straightened his tie and reflexively squirted breath freshener into his mouth as he gazed upon his viewscreen, just moments prior to addressing Baron Chauncey, Albenon’s ruler.

But the drama of the moment was rather spoiled. It had begun well, with Dr. McMillan cackling out his grandiose threats (and twitching very slightly when he saw one of Baron Chauncey’s court giggling at his name) and proclaiming that he was unstoppable, but his momentum had faltered when he saw the reception his comments were getting. The Baron and the members of the court were not gazing on him with terror and just a touch of admiration, as he had hoped. They were looking at him as one might look at a chained poodle yapping and growling defiance – bewilderment and annoyance.

Another handicap Dr. McMillan had was his appearance. True, the dress code vis-à-vis evil scientists was a bit lax, but he was fashion-ignorant to the point of being actively offensive. A plaid lab coat over a striped shirt and green shorts was his usual attire, and the polka-dot bow-tie had not done anything to increase his prestige this day. His physical appearance was also not what might be called intimidating, or awe-inspiring. The only thing Dr. McMillan’s appearance usually inspired was pity. A balding head of grayish hair, a truly ludicrous goatee, overlarge glasses that continually slipped down his nose, all united to make him seem more comical than terrifying.

“Doctor,” the Baron interrupted in mid-rant. “Doctor, I have to ask,” (in a tone, Dr. McMillan couldn’t help noticing, that seemed more bored and resigned to an irritating situation than anything else) “you make these threats and posture, but for what? What are your demands?” This question froze Dr. McMillan in place, his eyes darting back and forth in panic. He had been so worked up about finally completing a plan that he had completely forgotten to think of any. True, had he issued demands, they would have only served to keep the authorities busy while Dr. McMillan dispatched any would-be heroes attempting to stop his plan, prior to him detonating the bombs anyway and blowing the whole city sky-high, but it was more the principle of the thing than anything.

Dr. McMillan was barely able to croak a few last threats before he disconnected the viewscreen. Such was the humiliation that for ten minutes he paced and paced, thinking of demands that were suitably grandiose and difficult to fulfill, to further instill a sense of hopelessness and despair on the part of the Baron. By the time he reactivated the viewscreen, however, his delay had given the very same heroes from before a chance to reach and disarm his bombs. Humiliated, Dr. McMillan disconnected the screen and slunk back to his laboratory in shame.

All these failures were in the past, however. The inspiration, as was previously mentioned, had just recently hit him. He knew what he was doing, this time. No more would Dr. McMillan not be taken seriously. He had an idea. He had a plan.

He had the List.
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Those readers who were around for a certain discussion I had a few weeks ago with my family and friends know, of course, what List this is in reference to. For those who weren't...well, you'll see in the next part of the story, when I post it. Which I will.

REPLIIIIIIIES!

Steven: Well, far be it from me to continually pander to you, Steven, but I felt that the time was ripe for me to actually fulfill the purported purpose of this journal. Yes, the band carried through, but I am uneasy to think about how we seemed in front of all those immensely talented other bands. Brawl will come out when it comes out, but that won't stop me from really wanting it more. As for your last sentence...*shakes fist*

Jake: No. No, it is not wrong. Perhaps a tad excessive - why destroy a perfectly serviceable building when you can just pummel the guy inside of it? - but not per se wrong. And your last comment was correct. Almost.

Vic: I only used veto power once, and that was to stop from giving money to a known traitor to this country. And I went along with a movie for you...Yes, it makes me feel old. It doesn't make you seem old, though. It's just one of those odd little psychoses that I have. And fine, I won't. Furthermore, no, it should not be "BOA?" See our earlier conversation.

Dad: I thought so. So did my friend Aaron to whom I related the conversation. Yes, I know, we've talked, but even so. You know how it is.

Mom: Yes. That was in fact Steven Nebb. Could it be any other Steven? And you think I'm TRYING to spend this much money? I'm paralyzed because I can't spend a dime without fretting over it. Yes, Staney is indeed the man. And I can hold my breath for about a minute and a half.

Steven (again): *shakes fist again*