Dr. D to the Mouse House, yo.
Food
Shego lets the door slam behind her, rattling the lair's windows and making him flinch. "Well, fine then!" he hollers at the door just in case she's still within hearing distance. "Be that way!"
No answer. Humph. He flops down onto the little squishy foot-propper-upper that sits at the base of his Thinking Chair and puts his chin in his hands. This has been a really, really, really awful day, the kind of day that would have been better if he spent the whole thing in bed.
And of course it ended with Shego and him having a fight. Not a fight-fight - she didn't punch him or zap him with her evil glowiness - but a very loud argument. Lots of screaming, and not just from him. He accused her of not supporting his evil plan, because she wasn't, and she said it was because his plan wasn't worth supporting. He said that didn't matter - and not to change the subject - and not to get all smart-mouthed with him.
Shego didn't listen to any of the above and said maybe he'd be a lot closer to taking over the world if he actually found out what government weapons did before he stole them. Doesn't she know he tries? It's not like you can Google those kinds of things!
Of course, maybe that wasn't a completely random thing to yell at him for. They'd just stolen a top-secret package being shipped to Fort Knox that turned out to be a coffee maker. A really shiny coffee maker with a lot more knobs than the ones they sell at Smarty Mart, but not the kind of thing that strikes fear into the hearts of the populace.
But Kim Possible still showed up and gave him a wedgie for his trouble - no one's done that to him since high school. And Shego wouldn't fix it no matter how much he begged her. He had to do it himself at home after an incredibly uncomfortable hovercraft ride back.
To top it all off, he didn't even get to keep the coffee maker. Shego said he's energetic enough without caffeine. Well, actually, the term she used was "hyper," which sounds like an insult. He ponders that as he jitters his feet against the ground to make his knees bounce.
They say things like, You'll never take over the world, you loser. Why bother? Or, Drakken, stop. Go home and quit trying to be something you're not. He hates both kinds equally, even if the second type is softer and not as nasty-sounding. If he listens to either of them, he'll never conquer anything, and that would be the worst thing of all.
So instead he tries to listen to one of the zillion other thoughts that bounce around his brain, plots that won't stay still long enough for him to think them through. Giant robots!
Dinosaurs!
Killer breath mints!
Evil lobster army!
Shrink the world -
Expand the world -
Control the -
No, blow up -
No, be more subtle.
Steal -
Invent -
Conquer, conquer, conquer.
Steal/invent a robot/Doomsday device/ super chemical that could peel paint off walls/ mind control chip -
Everything sounds better than the one before it, and it's hard to grab onto just one. So many times he's found himself knee-deep in blueprints with a migraine headache and no idea what he's doing.
So, yeah. Maybe he just needs some time to relax and let his poor, overworked body unwind. But there's nothing good on TV, and he's already read all his comic books and Shego's magazines (which make no sense to him whatsoever) and his back hurts too much for a game of Twister with the henchmen.
Cards! They could all play cards together.
He slips off the foot-propper-upper onto the floor and cranes his neck around the corner to see the henchmen's quarters. He sighs - nope, the lights are out, so they must have already gone to bed.
Solitaire? No. He's grumpy, and trying to match red cards to black cards and forgetting whether you're supposed to place fives on six or fours would only put him in an even worse mood. He scowls at the ceiling. This is all Shego's fault for not being a good supportive sidekick.
He gets up and wanders into the kitchen. Might as well see what they have in the pantry.
What he sees on the bottom shelf makes him grin from ear to ear. Cookies! A brand-new, never-been-opened box of sugar cookies, the kind with frosting and sprinkles.
Finally, something is going his way.
He yanks the box out of the pantry and rips the sticker off the opening with his amazing villainous strength. The lid opens automatically when he does that, and the cookie smell drifts up into his nostrils.
Ahh. He breathes in so deeply, even his lungs smell frosting. No mind-control chemical compound has ever smelled that good.
He puts the box down on the floor and examines it thoroughly before selecting the biggest cookie, the one with the most frosting and just the right amount of sprinkles. He plucks it out of the box, holds it up to his mouth, and takes a huge bite. The most wonderful bite in the world.
Ohhhhhhhhh, yeah. He feels better already. How can you not smile when your mouth is full of that sweet taste?
Some of the frosting falls out from between his lips, but his tongue catches it and sweeps it back into his mouth. Cool - kind of like his mouth is a dungeon and the frosting is a bunch of rebellious prisoners trying to escape. And his tongue is a ruthless guard!
Yes. That was a very evil thought, and he's proud of it. He sighs happily and takes another bite, chewing a little slower to savor the taste.
The moon shines in the kitchen window and makes a little square of light on the floor. Hmm - the moon. He licks his lips, getting more frosting off them, and thinks about that. The moon is awfully important. Maybe - maybe if he blew up the moon, people would finally see that he's a force to be reckoned with! (Whatever "reckoned with" even means.)
Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. Bite. Chew. Chew.
The cookie's soft. Warm and soft in a way that makes him feel safe somehow. There must be some scientific explanation to that - it's stimulating something in his brain - somewhere - but he doesn't care right now. He doesn't feel safe often, and he's lovin' it.
Swallow. Bite. Chew. Chew. Chew. Munch. Gulp. Gobble.
So, once the moon has been reduced to space dust, maybe Shego will finally respect him. He takes an even bigger bite in his excitement. Yeah. Maybe she'll finally stop telling him that he's acting like a moron.
She told him that just today and it made him feel like she kicked him. She's not supposed to use you-messages like that, he remembers from his college psychology class. She's supposed to use I-messages.
He told her that, because he was sure once she knew that, she'd be able to communicate her feelings to him without hurting his. It was a brilliant idea, but Shego just rolled her eyes and said, "Well, you use you-messages all the time."
"See, that's another you-message!" he cried. Why wasn't she getting the point? "Just try an I-message. You know - I feel. . . when you. . ." See, he gave her a starting place and everything.
Her reply? "Okay, okay. I feel like smacking you up the side of the head when you act like a moron."
That might have technically been an improvement, but it still seemed rude.
Swallow. Chew. Bite. Lick off icing. Crunch sprinkles. Yep. He's definitely going to have to do a scientific study on the effects of cookies on happiness. Maybe he'll find something no one else has never noticed before - and he'll get famous - and respected - and he won't have to take over the world after all -
He pauses halfway through licking frosting off his index finger and shakes his head. He cannot believe he just thought that. The world, Drakken. The power. The control. That's what matters.
The little itch in his chest gets even itchier. He needs another cookie.
Munch. Munch. Swallow. Ahhh. That's better.
There was a message on the answering machine from the doctor's office when he got back to the lair tonight, after the coffee maker incident. It was a you-message, as in, you-have-an-appointment-in-two-days-because-it's-almost-flu-season-and-you-need-a-shot.
He grimaces around his mouthful of cookie. He hates shots. Hates them with a burning passion (definitely a phrase he likes; it sounds so wicked). It's not that he's scared of them, exactly. They just. . . hurt, and he doesn't like to hurt.
Who does?
Gobble. Scarf. Swallow.
Of course, if he doesn't get the shot, he'll get the flu, guaranteed. It's a scientific fact - every year, Dr. Drakken will wake up exactly two weeks into flu season, just like clockwork, and feel like he accidentally used every single Doomsday device he's ever created on himself. And it's incredibly annoying, because he's too tired to conquer the world, and last time Shego dragged him to the hospital just because he was running an itty-bitty 102-degree fever.
He drags his finger along the ridges inside the box where the cookies used to be to get the extra frosting and sprinkles and pops it into his mouth. It's halfway back out when he suddenly realizes exactly what he just did and freezes.
Except for a few globs of frosting and a bunch of stray sprinkles, that brand-new box of cookies is empty now. He did it again. How many were there? Six? Eight? Twelve?
Dizzy, he lowers himself to the ground - yeah, that's better - and lays down on his back, holding the cookie box up in the air to examine it. "Eight sugar cookies," says the label. Luckily, the nutrition facts were on the sticker that sealed the box - the one he tore off and threw away. That way Shego can't rattle off how many calories he just consumed and then stomp off in disgust muttering that it's a miracle he doesn't weigh four hundred pounds considering he eats like he's trying out to be the next host of Man vs. Food.
Yeah. She'll probably still yell at him if she sees the box. He needs to get rid of it, but his arm won't stretch all the way to the trash can, and he doesn't especially feel like - urp - getting up right now.
Mustering all his strength, he lifts his head and shoves the cookie box under it. There. Now he at least has a pillow. And it's surprisingly comfortable.
He yawns then, watching in fascination as his mouth stretches almost off his face. His belly doesn't hurt,exactly, but it's very full and very warm. And his eyes feel really, really droopy, like someone put magnets on his eyelids. He doesn't happen to have a Doomsday device that can fight magnetism yet.
You know, he probably shouldn't destroy the moon, considering it controls the tides and stuff like that. He doesn't particularly want to rule a flooded planet. Maybe - maybe if he shrinks the moon and holds it hostage - refuses to give it back and set the tides right unless the world is handed over to him.
Yeah. Sounds good. He even had a shrink ray once, before Commodore Puddles decided to use it for a fire hydrant. (Well, use it the way dogs use fire hydrants, which is very different from the way people use them.) He's not sure if it's fixable or if he'll need to make a whole new one.
Get up, Drakken. Go check. The world's not gonna conquer itself.
He raises his head all of two inches, but it flops back down onto the cookie box. Ohhh. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.
Maybe - maybe he can close his eyes just for a minute. His vision goes blurry as his lids lower. Yeah. Just a minute.
The moon will still be there when he opens them again.
NOTE: Yes, I got the "shrink-the-moon" idea from Despicable Me. Which you must see. Now.
(It's an awesome movie, it's very cute, and you'll probably love it if you like Drakken. Thus ends the shameless promotion.)
