THE NEFARIOUS DR. WILHELM SKREEM’S MALICIOUSLY MACHO MUSTACHE!

Bwah-ha-ha, and bwah-ha-how you doin’? It is I, the most loathsome ladies man, the sinister swain, the bad, boorish boyfriend, the Nefarious Dr. Wilhelm Skreem, or as the ladies liked to call me, the Lotharious Dr. Wilco Suave. Steel yourself as I give my smoldering gaze! Swoon as you place your eyes on my pukka shell necklace! Stare longingly at my mischievously exclusive Member’s Only jacket. I like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain- the acid rain! Yes, I was named Most Scrumptious Scientist by Creeple magazine, the official magazine of evil. But those days are long gone now. Let me clarify this.

It was about a fistful of fortnights ago that I perfected the Fuzz-E-Lip Serum, designed to provide an instant mustache for my embarrassingly unadorned upper lip. I’d been feeling increasingly inadequate about my lack of facial hair. I longed for the day I’d have a pencil-thin mustache to twirl as I laughed maniacally at my evil schemes. I needed some tra-la-la to go with my bwah-ha-ha. Alas, my own facial follicles fail me, forcing me to mix up a mustache Miracle Grow. And thus, the Fuzz-E-Lip Serum was concocted, inoculated and voila! Instant Mustache! The only problem was that my Instant Mustache was not the pencil thin, wax and twirl type I had so dreamed for. No, it was a big bushy caterpillar of a soup catcher which sprouted below my nose. It would have been perfect for playing baseball in the Seventies or solving crimes in Hawaii, but as an evil mustache it was an abject failure. However, it did have a very interesting side effect. Let me clarify this.

I have never been what you would call a natural around the lady gender. Most females I’ve approached to ask on a date have rebuffed my advances forcefully across my fiendish forehead. I’ve never been seen as the strong, silent type. I’m more the meek, malevolent type. But all that changed with my macho mustache, which I nicknamed Morty. I was out shopping for a hair-raising Henna tattoo at the Mall Where Pigeons Go to Die when something happened that had never happened before. Ladies were paying attention to me. Female ladies. Attractive female ladies! These AFLs were really giving me the eye, and not the usual stink-eye. No, they were gazing at me with pleasantly aromatic eyes, and some even engaged in conversation with me. They asked if I lived around here often, and said if they could rearrange the alphabet they would put me and them together. They all noted the conspicuous absence of a ring, though that’s only because they couldn’t see the camouflage ring on my pinky finger, which, when turned counterclockwise alternates the frequency of my voice so I can speak to dogs and hummingbirds.

Pretty soon, I was getting more numbers than a Chinese phone book and I decided, why not join the club I had until recently been beaten about the head with? I was seeing so many Attractive Female Ladies, it was hard to keep track. But what a delightful discombobulation! The soundtrack to my life before had been Beethoven’s 5th Symphony, and now it was Bega’s Fifth Mambo. I had my little black book to keep all my phone numbers in, and it looked from the outside that Morty and I were as happy as a clam and his mustache. But then, the illusion came crashing down before me like some sort of singing Spiderman. Let me clarify this.

I was out on the town with Lucinda, enjoying a chocolate malted, two straws, and we had slurped the contents of the cup until our straws made that gurgling sucky sound. I bid adieu to Lucinda, ready to dine and dash and ditch her for Tiffany who was awaiting Morty and I at the drive-in, when whom should walk through the Soda Shoppe door but my old flame, Emma Cemetery. The girl who shattered the two way mirror of my heart into a million little pieces like a falsified memoir, leaving me cold and shamed, lying fully clothed on the floor. I ached for her. I despised her. And thanks to Morty, I could easily entrance her. I sidled to her side suavely. “Why, if it isn’t Emma Cemetery?” I said, in the deepest voice I could muster. “What is a sweet thing like you doing in a sweet shop like this?” Emma turned to me, paused, and then spotted Morty. And then she did what no other woman to date had done. She laughed. She laughed right in my face, spitting sinister spittle all over my manly mustache. It was mortifying for me and for Morty. I fleetly flitted the scene, not needing to defend myself against someone as uncouth as Emma, and also so she wouldn’t see me cry.

And so, I shaved Morty the mustache, and shelved the little black book. My days as the Lotharious Dr. Wilco Suave are over, for the time being. My life’s work must be done, anyhow. Soon, I shall conquer the world, and then, Emma Cemetery; we will see who laughs at whose mustache! Bwah-ha-ha! That’s right; I will be laughing at yours! Mustache. Because you will have one. I’ll… give you one. Or something. Let me clarify this.

Begone!

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