Whereas most evil overlords regarded a deathray as old-fashioned, Lord Kell had a soft spot for the classics, as evident by the giant deathray mounted on his flagship. Besides, ‘Feel the wrath of my deathray’ just slipped off the tongue like silk on marble.

A slight vibration rocked through the craft upon landing, just enough of a disturbance to create a tiny ripple through Lord Kell’s wine. He stared down at his goblet and sighed, good help was so hard to find. A snap of his fingers brought a shuffling of feet and the assembly of several guards.

A Sergeant stepped forward and saluted fist over heart, “Lord Kell?”

“The landing was unacceptable. Take the pilot to the dining mess and have him eat both of his hands,” the overlord said in a velvety voice that was as proper as it was deadly.

“By your command.” The guard saluted, about-faced, and marched off with his detail following him in formation. As they passed through the chamber’s door, a hooded figure entered and bowed.

“Lord Kell, Voltaire’s Fortress has been secured,” the Prime said with a flourish. He continued, “Captain Hoard only had to kill three guards and two servants, apparently, they weren’t moving fast enough.”

Lord Kell took a sip from his goblet, “Tell Voltaire to scrounge up thirty or so virgins for Captain Hoard’s amusement; otherwise, we’ll be knee-deep in blood by the time we get there.” Lord Kell set his goblet down, stood up, and began walking towards the launch chamber, “You know how he gets once he gets started.”

The Prime laughed, “The man loves his work. Speaking of which, here is your schedule for the day.” The Prime withdrew a holo-tablet from his pocket and cycled through several floating glyphs and item details, “The Sol sector campaign hit a snag so I had to move the Jelobian genocide to six O’clock. And Kurge the Scourge heard about the consultation you’re given Voltaire and is begging for one as well...”

Lord Kell rolled his eyes, “Do one or two consultations and every small sector sadist starts having visions of ruling the galaxy.”

The conversation paused as they entered the launch chamber. A luxury aerocar and several escort craft were hovering a few inches off of the ground, ready for take off. A guard held the door of the aerocar opened and saluted as Lord Kell entered and sat down.

“Take care of Kurge, I don’t want to hear from him again, and keep me apprised of the Sol sector situation.”

“As you command,” the Prime said as the door closed and the luxury craft took off.

***

The aerocar and its fifteen escorting vehicles arrived at Voltare’s fortress and proceeded straight to the receiving hall. There, Lord Kell and his entourage left their vehicles and entered the main chamber.

The chamber was a bee hive of activity as hundreds of campaign workers ran to and fro. The walls were decked with many of Voltare’s public relation ads:

A picture of a snarling Voltaire ripping the throat out of a citizen framed the caption, Vote for Voltaire the Vicious.

Another poster showed a purple ape wearing an apron and washing dishes with a slogan that read, Are you really afraid of this?

A floating chart kept real-time statistical data that currently read, 52% More Malicious than Izy, that silly purple monkey.

A glamour shot caught Votaire in mid-roar with light glistening off of his fangs, You Deserve the Very Worst.

Lord Kell took note of the surroundings as his entourage led him through the chamber to the seven-foot-tall feline standing underneath a countdown hologram. It showed thirty-two days until the terror vote, a fact confirmed by the hundreds of campaign workers running amok

An anxious-looking Voltaire sheathed and unsheathed his six-inch claws--a habit owed to his feline evolution. Voltaire was dressed in a metallic leather outfit bristling with spikes and hard edges that were shined to a finish. His twenty bodyguards wore similar outfits that were in stark contrast to the more streamlined armor of Lord Kell’s Imperial guards.

Voltaire tilted his head down and to the side, “It is such an honor to meet you, Lord Kell, I’m humbled to be in the presence of the Master Overlord.”

Lord Kell waved his hands in a dismissive gesture, “Yes, yes, of course you are. Let’s get on with it, I have the Jelobian genocide at six o’clock and you know how punctual those little bastards are, it would be rude for me to be late.”

Voltaire nodded, “As you command, my lord.”

He led Lord Kell to his main campaign area which was surrounded by several holo-screens. Various charts and graphs detailing the latest polls and voting districts showed Voltaire in a statistical dead heat with his rival, Izy, the purple Simian from Gieka-7.

Lord Kell looked at the various figures and shook his head, “This is pitiful, that big purple Ape barely has ten massacres to his name. And wasn’t he a dishwasher at Spargox?”

Voltaire let loose a blood-curdling growl, a deep gravel-filled wail that sent several of his underlings cowering for cover. “I know, that’s why I need your help,” Voltaire replied before raking one of his assistants across the face with his claws.

The man hit the ground screaming until Voltaire stomped on his neck, ending the shrieks with a crunch-squish. Voltaire continued, “If only I were half the evil bastard that you are my lord.” He hung his head down, “I’m so ashamed, you should just kill me and be done with it.”

Lord Kell ran his hand through Voltare’s fur, “Now now, none of that. If I didn’t believe you had talent, I'd be wearing your pelt as a coat. Now, let’s take a look at your PR campaign.” Lord Kell snapped his fingers and held out his hand. An underling scrambled from behind the counter and produced a holo-tablet.

Lord Kell cycled through the various glyphs, “The more feared you are the easier it is to conquer, so let’s evaluate your latest hoax.” A myriad of different icons flashed by, but one in particular caught his eye: Lucky Lotto. He clicked on it and the tablet showed a real-time view of a Voltiare lottery claim center.

#

Stolen novel; please report.

A frail-looking human with a receding hairline tentatively entered the building and headed to a smiling receptionist.

“Can I help you sir?” she asked as he approached..

The man looked around at the empty room, satisfied, he then took the last few steps to her counter. “According to this ticket,” he placed a square-shaped piece of plastic on the counter, “I won a million credits.”

She took the ticket from the man, sliced it in two with a letter opener, then held both ends up to the light while tilting her head. “Yep, it’s a real ticket,” she said before entering in the ticket number into her computer. A few beeps and chimes proceeded her smile. “Congratulations Mr. Robert Boswell. Would you like the money zapped to your account or would you prefer a briefcase full of credits?”

He looked over both of his shoulders, then returned his attention to her. “I’ll take the briefcase full of cash if you don’t mind,” he whispered.

“Certainly sir.” She disappeared behind the counter and then returned with a grey case. She slid it to him.

He accepted it with a smile. “This is the best day of my life,” he said while hugging the case. He looked up at her, “Is that it?”

“Almost, there’s just one more thing.”

“Sure what—“

He was cut off mid-sentence as she plunged the letter opener into his throat. A geyser of blood squirted from his neck. She grabbed him by the collar and stabbed him in the chest.

“Thank you”

Stab.

“For playing”

Stab.

“Voltaire’s Lucky Lotto”

Stab. Stab. Stab.

He hit the ground with a solid thump.

The receptionist quickly dropped the letter opener, grabbed a tablet, and then jumped over the desk landing right at his side. “Before you bleed to death, would you like to fill out a terror survey?”

#

Lord Kell shook his head and clicked off the holo-tablet. “God that was awful.”

Voltaire smiled, “Really Lord Kell?”

“Not awful good, awful bad. Horrible in fact.”

Voltaire growled again and clawed another underling, “I know I know, I told you I’m hopeless.”

Lord Kell twisted his mustache, “Look, it's not just about being mean and cruel. Hell, any politician can do that. It’s about being evil.”

“I’m evil.”

“No, no you're not. You’re just a cruel, sadistic bastard.”

Lord Kell gestured to the charts, graphs, and campaign ads that decorated Voltare’s lair. “It’s not about terror indexes, terror surveys, or terror ratings. Evil is not a science, it’s an art. There is a beauty, no, a poetry to it.”

Lord Kell activated the holo-tablet and cycled to the lotto incident. He rewound to just before the man was stabbed in the neck then paused the image, “Now, the problem with this hoax is that you were not honest.”

Voltaire’s face wrinkled in confusion, “But I’m trying to be evil.”

“Precisely, that is where the art comes in. In order to be evil, you must be honest.”

“So I should have let him live?”

“Of course not! But you should have paid him before you killed him. Or better yet, killed him with the payment, you know, bury him in a million credit chips.” Lord Kell steepled his fingers together, “Yes…Now that would have been something.”

Voltaire stroked his chin, “I think I see what you’re getting at. I have to be more-- artistic?”

“Precisely.”

Voltaire snapped his fingers and pointed to the holo screen, “Bring up the torture chamber.”

There were a series of clicks and clacks as an underling interfaced the computer and brought the room up on the main holo-screen.

The screen showed several rows of prisoners chained to the wall.

Voltaire pointed at the screen, “These were the latest group of rebels captured by my forces.” The image cycled back and forth between the torture chamber and an arena filled with Zetraka beasts-- nightmare amalgamations of tooth and claw.

Lord Kell threw up his hands and sighed, “What a cliché. Oh! Let’s throw ‘em in a pit with eight-foot tall armored razor beasts. How original.”

“So what would you propose?”

Lord Kell spoke into his scepter. “Captain Hoard?”

A few seconds passed until a projection shot out from the scepter. The hologram resolved into a man with a goatee in the sleek white armor that was the trademark of Lord Kell’s Imperial guard. The man saluted fist over heart, “Yes Lord Kell?”

“There are some prisoners in the torture chamber that require your specialized attention,” the overlord said.

Captain Hoard smiled, “What did you have in mind?”

“Go through the suburb districts and requisition a few thousand kittens.”

“Kittens my lord?”

“Yes, kittens, and make sure they are extra fluffy.”

“Kittens! Extra fluffy! Right away sir!” the Captain said before storming off.

The projection faded and Lord Kell looked up at a confused Voltaire.

Voltaire’s nose twitched, “My Lord, I’m not quite sure I understand.”

Lord Kell put his arm around Voltaire’s shoulder and walked him towards the exit, “First, you starve the kittens for a couple of days while your mad scientist,” Lord Kell paused, “You do have a mad scientist don’t you?”

Voltaire nodded, “Yes, yes of course.”

“Good, have him whip up a catnip hemoglobin cocktail. Then, inject that into the rebels and throw them into the arena with the kittens,” Lord Kell said.

Voltaire’s nose twitched for a few seconds before he broke out into a feral grin. “The rebels will think they are being fed to Zetraka beasts but will then be relieved to see a pit full of cute fluffy kittens. The starving kittens will be drawn to the rebels and it won’t take long for the scene to turn into a bloodfest feeding-frenzy orgy of violence!

Voltaire began to purr, “Oh, by the black heart of space, that is evil. Really really evil. I see what you mean now.”

An aid approached Lord Kell and saluted fist over heart. “My lord, we’ve broken through Sol sector defenses.”

Lord Kell turned to Voltaire, “I have a matter that needs my personal attention, think you can manage now?”

Voltaire snarled, “Yes, thank you, Lord Kell. You won’t be disappointed. I won’t let you down. This sector will be under my control in no time and I’ll feed that purple monkey to my Zetraka beasts.”

Lord Kell frowned.

Voltaire shook his head. “No--no--I’ll--I'll chain him to my kitchen, hook his gonads up to a power generator, and force him to wash dishes for the rest of his life.”

Lord Kell tilted his head back and laughed, “Yes, that's more like it.”