The foyer of a super-secret, skull-shaped island headquarters. GIRWIN, a schlubby middle-management type, speaks to a TOUR GROUP of new recruits.
NARRATOR: (voice-over) Sometime before lunch next Tuesday, in the sunlit foyer of a giant skull carved from the lone mountain on a small island in the Pacific…
GIRWIN: And that, my sweet, supple henchmen–
JEFF interrupts with some grotesque, phlegm-clogged bleating.
GIRWIN: My apologies. (starts over) And that, my succulent, savory hench-persons, concludes our tour. I hope you found today’s experiences not only enlightening, but informative, as I would hate to have to kill any of you before your ninety-day review. But more importantly, I want to be the first to welcome you to the E.V.I.L family!
Girwin leads a flaccid round of applause.
Now. Are there any–
Jeff enthusiastically raises a hand.
JEFF: Excuse me, Girwin?
GIRWIN: (frustrated sigh) Yes, Jeff?
JEFF: It’s pronounced “Jeff.”
GIRWIN: What did I say?
JEFF: (considers this) I forget.
Girwin reaches for the company-provided emergency DISINTEGRATOR RAY strapped to his hip.
GIRWIN: Well, Whoever-You-Are. Would you like to get to your question before I shoot you dead in front of all your soon-to-be former colleagues?
JEFF: (considers this) Yes, I think I’d like that.
Girwin looks on at this artistic display of intellectual failings with a delightfully fruity cocktail of confusion, contempt, and subconscious positioning of his hand in such a way that he, more or less, now touches and/or holds the aforementioned company-provided emergency disintegrator ray.
GIRWIN: Care to give us a hint, then?
JEFF: Oh, right. It’s about the company mission statement.
GIRWIN: And what of it?
JEFF: (confused) Oh. I thought you were going to guess.
Jeff pulls out a mangled, dog-eared copy of the E.V.I.L. HANDBOOK from somewhere.
Well. It says right here… (reads) “E.V.I.L. seeks one goal, and one goal only: world domination.”
GIRWIN: (disappointed) Oh. You’re not one of those soft, tender-loined liberals, are you, Jeff?
JEFF: (laughs) No-no-no. I’m a real cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch, Sir.
Girwin’s fingers trace over the slick chrome casing of his company-provided emergency disintegrator ray.
GIRWIN: Such a shame I have to kill you after this.
JEFF: Agreed. But, “world domination” does seem a bit vague and open-ended.
GIRWIN: Is that right?
JEFF: Yes. Sounds like a hassle, really.
GIRWIN: (genuine interest) What do you mean?
JEFF: Well… If Adjunct Professor Conniption already has the technology to access alternate realities and create parallel worlds, why doesn’t he just, I dunno, go to some perfect world of his own making instead of resigning himself to a life of micromanagement?
Girwin and the group deeply consider this for a moment, talking among themselves in hushed whispers.
GIRWIN: You know what? To Hell with this.
Girwin casually shoots, disintegrates Jeff right where he stands.
GIRWIN: (to group) Are there any other questions?