*TRANSMISSION BEGINS*
Two years... two years, people.
Seven hundred and forty nine days, to be precise.
The last time I was out of the loop this long, the minions ended up chewing through their own legs to escape the restraints.
Good thing I clamped explosive collars on all of them in advance, though. Loyalty... where's the loyalty. Good peons are hard to clone these days, I tell you.
My plans upon return:
1. Ship the damn Westbotronbot back to the White Skull, or Jason Gormally, or whatever shell he's inhabiting these days.
2. Catch up on all these new villains... there's over 9,000 of you and I'm not looking forward to wading through you to figure out who's legit and who's not. Do yourselves a favor and send your resumés to the Nematower, Sub-basement 3, legal department. Don't make me have to come after them myself.
3. Holy crap the black guy made it alive through his first term in office. Way to go, America! You didn't tear yourselves apart while I was gone! (Less of a to-do, more of an observation.)
4. Beach BBQ with the few remaining peons that survived. I understand that cannibalism is a hell of a thing to come back from, fellas, but I'm here for you. NOW STOP POUNDING ON THE GODDAMN DOOR, YOU'RE NOT GETTING IN HERE!
6. Find out what the hell happened to 5.
7. Build a sub-sub-sub-sub-basement. It's getting cramped in here and I wanna put a pool in. It's surprisingly warm this far down in the mantle.
8. Get---oh, shit, they got in the door. Where'd I put that axe-handle?
GET BACK, YOU HEATHEN SAVAGES! NO NEMA-MEAT FOR YOU TO--
*TRANSMISSION ENDS*
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